Warhol's Prophecy

‘You sacked her from her job. You ended your affair with her. It’s possible that her brother, in some kind of twisted way, thought he was protecting her by attacking you. It’s unlikely she knew anything about it. However, it also gives you motive.’

‘For what?’ Rob asked.

‘For killing him. He was murdered last night.’

‘And you think I did it?’

‘No, Mr Gibson, I don’t. Just as I don’t think, for one minute, that you killed Sandra Bennett. But I’ll ask you anyway where you were last night.’

‘Here, with my daughter,’ said Rob.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time.’

‘Do you think the same person killed them both?’ Hailey wanted to know.

‘It’s more than likely. I can’t say any more.’ Again the policeman smiled.

‘I’ll see you out.’ Hailey followed him towards the door.

Tate paused on the doorstep.

‘I’m sorry I had to drag up your husband’s involvement with Sandra Bennett,’ he told her apologetically.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hailey replied, forcing a smile. ‘I know you’re only doing your job.’

‘Thank you for your time,’ said Tate, and set off back to his waiting car.

She closed the door behind him and leant against it for a moment.

Her smile grew broader.

99

‘I THOUGHT YOU were going to burst into tears when he told you,’ said Hailey acidly.

Rob merely shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said quietly.

‘What? That she’s dead? Or that it hurt you so much to hear it? You still care about her, don’t you?’

‘Jesus Christ, Hailey, she was fucking stabbed to death,’ Rob snarled angrily. ‘How am I supposed to react? It was a shock hearing it. Whoever it was, I would have felt the same.’

‘But the fact that you knew her so intimately just made it worse,’ Hailey said, her voice heavy with scorn. ‘And she’d even kept some of your letters – how touching. And gift tags? What kind of presents did you buy her, Rob? How much money did you waste on that fucking slag?’

‘You’re glad she’s dead, aren’t you?’

‘I won’t shed any tears over her.’

Rob shook his head. ‘I don’t expect you to.’

‘She had it coming,’ Hailey said flatly.

‘You’re a cold bitch sometimes.’

‘Perhaps it was someone else whose marriage she’d ruined. She seemed to make a habit of that. Who else had she fucked other than you, Rob? How many other married men had she used?’

‘Give it a fucking rest, will you?’

‘Why? Is the memory painful?’

‘It was over between us, Hailey – you know that. How would you feel if some copper walked in here and told you that your friend Adam Walker had been murdered?’

‘There was nothing between us.’

‘I’ve only got your word for that.’

They regarded each other angrily for long moments.

‘I’d have thought you’d have been pleased, too,’ Hailey exclaimed. ‘I mean, if she thought that much of you, why did she get her brother to beat you up and nearly kill you?’

‘You heard what Tate said. He didn’t think she knew anything about that business.’

‘He didn’t think she knew.’

‘Perhaps he was the one who tried to run me off the road that night.’

‘And the one who pushed dog shit through the letterbox? And slashed your tyres? And broke into the house?’

Rob shot her an angry glance.

‘What are you talking about? What break-in?’ he demanded.

She told him about the dolls.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about that?’ he rasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

Go on: tell him the truth. At the time you thought it was Walker. You were protecting him, weren’t you?

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Hailey said. ‘He’s gone too. They’re both out of our lives. That’s all I wanted.’

‘Well, you got your wish, didn’t you? I hope you’re happy.’

‘You don’t know what he might have done next, Rob. What if he’d attacked Becky? Or me?’

Rob exhaled wearily. ‘Well, we won’t know now, will we?’

He glanced at his watch.

‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be late. You don’t want that, do you?’

She put a hand on his shoulder.

‘What happened to her, and to her brother,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s for the best. You’ll see.’

‘Are we sending flowers to the funeral?’ he said flatly.

Hailey smiled humourlessly.

‘That isn’t funny, Rob,’ she told him.

She left him sitting alone.

100

IN THE MORTUARY the smell was always the same.

The pungent odour of chemicals, mingled with the more caustic aroma of antiseptic.

And the heavy, cloying stench of death.

It was a smell that DC Tate had come to know well, but one that he’d never got used to. Never would get used to either, he told himself.

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly into the large, high-ceilinged room. It was painted a uniformly dull green: the same colour as the smocks of those who worked within. There were two or three smocks also hanging on pegs on the far wall.

Four mortuary slabs.

Tables, the staff liked to call them, but to Tate they were slabs, pure and simple. Stainless steel with a gutter and a number of strategically placed holes, for drainage.

Beyond them were the lockers where bodies were stored for various reasons.

Some corpses were awaiting examination. Some were waiting to be removed – perhaps for burial. Others would remain there for months. Unclaimed. Unwanted.

It was a storehouse for sightless eyes.

There was a small office just beyond, its door firmly closed. It bore a sign saying PRIVATE.

A small trolley stood beside one of the slabs, a linen cloth hiding the gleaming instruments it carried.

Tate wondered if another body was about to be brought in. No one had mentioned it to him.

He crossed to the closest slab and leant against it, feeling how cold the metal was beneath his palms. The temperature was kept at a constant fifty degrees, which chilled the metal even more.

It chilled his blood too.

He crossed to the lockers and ran his gaze over them.

The contents of numbers four and five concerned him.

They concerned him greatly.

He reached out to touch the handle of number five.

‘We can’t keep you away, can we?’