The Helper

‘I. .’ she starts, and Doyle catches her glance at one of the doors. Unlike the other doors, this one is firmly shut.

Cindy’s bedroom, he realizes. She probably can’t bear to go back in there. She has cleaned every nook and cranny in this apartment. But not in there. Opening that door breaks the spell. Shatters the illusion that Cindy is still in there, listening to music or reading a book. Or just being alive.

‘She writes,’ says Mrs Mellish. ‘Wrote. A lot. Ever since she was little. Always scribbling in her notebooks. Poetry mostly. Some stories. But a diary. .’

Doyle waits. Part of him wants to ask if he can search the room. Another part insists this is bullshit. This is all a part of the killer’s sick game: sending him here to push this poor woman to her breaking point.

‘If you want to take a look,’ she says, ‘it’d be okay. If you think it’ll help. Just. . don’t mess it up, okay?’

He nods. ‘I’ll be careful.’

When he moves toward the room she doesn’t follow him. When he opens the door, he hears her footsteps moving away. She doesn’t want to look in here. Not yet.

It’s a cozy, welcoming room. Tidy but full. The bed is made, and a baby-pink dressing gown lies along the bottom of it. A white bra hangs from one of the bedposts. There is a table with a mirror and a large array of make-up items. On one side of the room is a line of cheap white storage units. They comprise a tall closet and a row of low-level units interrupted by a recess with a chair pushed into it. The counter running above these units supports a music system and speakers, racks of CDs and DVDs, lots of cuddly toys, a hairdryer, straightening tongs, a stack of magazines, an electric fan. On the wall above are several posters of actors and pop stars. On the other side of the room is a row of bookcases. Cindy Mellish read a lot of books.

Doyle takes a deep breath. He can smell perfume. He wonders why it’s familiar, then realizes it hung on the air in the bookstore too.

He moves closer to the bookcases. Fiction, poetry and biography mostly. Nothing trashy. No bodice-rippers for this girl. On the bottom shelves are Cindy’s notebooks. All different sizes, different colors. Doyle sits cross- legged on the thickly carpeted floor, pulls out the first book, and turns the cover.

What he sees on that first page is a poem entitled ‘Life Without End’. He starts to read it, but gives up after six lines. He turns the page, finds another poem called ‘Nobody Hears Me’. Doesn’t bother to read this one. He flicks through the rest of the book, finds more of the same. Occasionally a doodle leaps out at him, but to Doyle’s eye the artistry is as bad as the poetry. He wonders whether it’s him just not getting this arty stuff, then decides no, it really is that amateurish.

He moves on to the next book, then the next, and the next. More poetry, more doodles. He chances across a short story called ‘Freud’s Ghost’, reads the whole thing through and decides that either it wasn’t finished, or else it was finished and the point of it has totally escaped him.

He speeds up his search then. Pull out a book, riffle through its pages, put it back. He gets all the way to the end of the shelf. Nothing. No diary. Nothing whatsoever about the events of her life save for what may be lurking in the depths of her prose and poetry. And he’s already decided it’s beyond his ability to tease that out.

He gets to his feet. He scans the spines of every book on the shelves, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He goes to the storage units and opens each one. He finds clothes, bags, shoes, more cuddly toys, but no diary. He tries all the drawers of the make-up table. Hair pins, jewelry, perfume bottles, tissues, shopping receipts, tampons.

But no fucking diary.

Doyle takes another look around. He tries the not-so-obvious places. Under the pillow, under the mattress, under the bed. Behind drawers. Inside bags and purses. Slipped behind other books.

Nothing.

And now he’s pissed off. Now he feels like he’s being jerked around.

He leaves the bedroom. Mrs Mellish is sitting at a table, doing nothing. She stands when she sees Doyle.

‘I think you were right,’ he tells her. ‘I can’t find a diary.’

He is convinced he sees disappointment on her face. When he abandons her in this apartment she will have nothing but her grief again. He starts to reach into his jacket for a card with his number on it. ‘I tell you what-’

The phone rings then. Mrs Mellish says, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and goes to answer it. Her conversation is brief, and then she turns to Doyle.

‘It’s for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. A man. He says he’s got that help you wanted from him.’

SEVEN

When he takes the phone he tries to remain calm. He wants to scream obscenities into the mouthpiece, but he also doesn’t want to alarm Mrs Mellish. He turns away from her, tries to keep his voice low.

‘Doyle.’

‘Hello, Cal. How’s the search for the diary going?’

‘How’d you know I was here?’

‘Actually, I didn’t. But it seemed like a good bet. I thought once you heard about what happened to that nurse last night, you’d be keen to check out the diary. You’re starting to trust me now, isn’t that right, Cal?’

‘I don’t trust you as far as I can piss. How’d you get this number?’

‘Have you ever heard of the phone book, Cal? It’s a way of finding out somebody’s phone number. So have you found the diary yet?’

‘There is no diary. I looked everywhere. It’s not here.’

‘You’re not looking hard enough. It’s there, all right. Use your eyes, and think about what you see.’

‘I looked. It’s not here. You made a mistake.’

A sigh of exasperation. Then: ‘Do I have to lead you by the hand, Cal? Are you really that helpless? Come on, then — back into the bedroom.’

He says this as though he’s indulging a young child. Doyle bites down on his bottom lip. He wants so much to tell this sonofabitch to shove his phone up his ass.

He lowers the phone, looks across at Mrs Mellish.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mellish, but my colleague has just given me a few more ideas about where I might search for the diary. You mind if I take one more quick look?’

He can tell she’s unsettled now. And he can’t blame her. He’s not acting like a cop should. She’s probably wondering if he even is a cop.

‘I. . all right.’

He flashes her his most comforting smile and heads back into the bedroom. He pushes the door to but doesn’t close it. That would be just too suspicious.

‘Okay,’ he says into the phone. ‘I’m in the bedroom.’

‘Well done, Cal. At least you’ve managed to find something. Now all you need is the diary.’

‘I told you, I’ve looked. It’s not here. I’ve looked on every shelf and in every drawer and closet.’

‘You are so behind the times, Cal. Think like a teenager. The answer’s right there in the open.’

Doyle scans the room. What the hell is this freak talking about? How can it be right here in front of me? I’ve looked everywhere. What could I have missed?

His eyes alight on each group of objects again. The make-up. The cuddly toys. The CDs and DVDs. The magazines. The. .

Wait a minute. Rewind.

He steps toward the row of cabinets. The counter they support is covered in items. Every square inch is occupied by something. Except. .

Except where the chair is, pushed into the recess. In front of the chair is the only space in the clutter. Just a couple of square feet, but a space nonetheless. Doyle tries to imagine Cindy sitting on this chair. She would reach