Heathen/Nemesis

‘No. The police said the crash was an accident. They have no reason to think otherwise, Mackenzie told me that.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think. I just want to know who these men are and why Chris and she had photos of them.’

‘Then tell the police, let them find out.’

‘What am I going to tell them, Julie? “My husband and his mistress had identical pictures of five unidentified men. Could you track them down for me, please?” Something like that?’

‘So what’s the answer? How do you find out who they are?’

‘I have to find out what he was working on. Find out if these five men,’ she tapped the picture, ‘were anything to do with his new book. I have to find out who they were, but I’m going to need some help.’

‘You know I’ll help you,’ Julie said.

Donna smiled.

‘I know. But there’s someone I have to speak to first.’

Twenty-Two

The banging on the door woke him up.

At first he thought he was dreaming, next that the racket was coming from the television, but then Mercuriadis realized that the incessant thumping was on his own door.

As he hauled himself to his feet he glanced across at the clock on top of the TV set and groaned when he saw it was well past two in the morning. He had, he reasoned, fallen asleep in front of the screen - something he’d been doing quite regularly lately. It irritated him, and when he got to bed he always had trouble sleeping properly. Better to doze in the chair, he told himself.

When his wife had been alive she had always woken him if he’d dropped off. Woken him with a cup of warm milk and reminded him that it was time for bed. He thought fondly of her as he moved towards the door. The loud banging continued. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d shared his life and he sometimes found it difficult to accept she’d been dead nearly twelve years.

‘All right, all right,’ he called as he approached the door, anxious to stop the pounding. He slipped the chain and pulled the door open.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ snapped the tall, dark-haired man who confronted him.

Mercuriadis eyed the man inquisitively, irritated by his abrasiveness. It was too early in the morning for profanity, the older man thought, although he was only too aware of this particular tenant’s penchant for it.

Brian Monroe stood before him in just a pair of jeans, fists clenched and jammed against his hips.

‘I’m trying to fucking sleep and someone’s creating merry hell in the room next door. In number six,’ Monroe persisted angrily, rubbing his eyes. He looked as tired as his landlord.

‘What’s going on, Mr Monroe?’ asked Mercuriadis.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ the younger man told him, running a hand through his short hair. ‘I’m trying to sleep and there’s banging and crashing coming from the room next to me. I’ve got to be up early in the morning; I can do without this shit.’

‘Noise coming from number six?’ Mercuriadis said, his brow furrowing. ‘But that’s, that was Miss Regan’s room. It’s empty.’

‘Well, there’s some fucking noisy mice in there then, that’s all I’ve got to say. Are you going to check it out?’

‘I’ll get the key,’ the landlord said, taking a bunch from a drawer in the bureau behind him. ‘Is the noise still going on?’

‘It finished about five minutes ago,’ Monroe told him. ‘I’ve been banging on your door for two minutes at least.’

Mercuriadis selected a key from the ring and followed his irate tenant along the hall towards the stairs to the first floor landing.

‘Perhaps one of her bloody relatives had a spare key,’ Monroe said, stalking up the stairs two at a time.

‘Keep your voice down, please, Mr Monroe,’ the landlord asked, climbing the steps after him. ‘Think of the other tenants.’

‘Fuck the other tenants. I should think they’re all awake by now, anyway, if they heard that bloody banging,’ Monroe snapped, reaching the first landing.

Mercuriadis shook his head reproachfully and glanced at Monroe’s broad back. Such profanity. It was difficult to believe the man was an employee of one of the City’s top accountants. The landlord wondered if he spoke to his clients in the same way.

They began ascending the second flight of steps, the older man wheezing slightly as he struggled to keep up.

As they drew closer to the top of the stairs the landlord cocked an ear for any sound but he heard nothing.

Monroe was standing outside the door of number six.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ he snapped. ‘I might get four hours’ sleep if I’m lucky.’ The door to number five slammed shut behind him and Mercuriadis found himself alone on the landing, the key to number six in his fingers. He inserted it gently into the lock, alert for any sounds or movement beyond.

Banging and crashing, Monroe had said. Could it be burglars? He paused, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier just to go back downstairs and call the police. His heart was already pounding from the climb but it seemed to speed up as he thought of the possibility of a break-in. If the noises had stopped five minutes ago, it should be safe to investigate. He pushed the door a fraction, still listening.

The silence was total.

All he could hear was his own breathing and the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

He pushed the door open, reaching for the light switch.

‘Oh my God,’ he murmured.

The room had been ransacked.

Everything it was possible to smash had been smashed. Damage of some description, it seemed, had been done to every single object in sight. The sofa was torn apart, the stuffing spilling from it like entrails from an eviscerated corpse. Chairs had been overturned. The television lay in the centre of the room, its screen shattered and holed, as if a heavy object had been thrust into it. Cupboard doors had been torn off their hinges, their contents scattered across the floor. Shattered. Destroyed.

Records had been pulled from their sleeves, the black vinyl broken and scattered amongst the other debris. The video lay ruined against the opposite wall, as if thrown there with great force. The plug it had been attached to was still in the socket. The stereo too had been smashed, the turntable itself prized out and hurled to one side. CD cases, tape cases, videos and even books had been torn open. Mercuriadis could scarcely move without treading on some broken object.

His heart pounded harder, his head spun. As he looked around it became obvious that nothing had been taken.

The object had been destruction pure and simple, not robbery.

He felt a cold breeze against his hot cheek and realized that the bedroom door was open a fraction.

With infinite slowness he moved towards it, prodding it open slightly, just enough for him to slip inside. He fumbled for the light switch but when he flicked it nothing happened. Looking up, he saw that even the lightbulb had been smashed.

The duvet had been ripped to shreds; the pillows, too. Wardrobe doors, those that hadn’t been simply torn from their hinges, hung open revealing the devastation inside: clothes torn and ripped, pulled from their hangers and tossed into the centre of the bed. A framed photo of Mel Gibson had been pulled from the wall and smashed, the picture snatched out, the frame smashed. Drawers had been upended, their contents dumped on the floor.

Mercuriadis felt a growing tightness in his chest, a sickly clamminess closing around him. He tried to control