62
The service lift rises from the lower basement through the floors. A light floats through the numbers on the panel.
It is 5.10 a.m. and the corridor is deserted. I tug at the sleeves of my jacket. When was the last time I wore a suit? Months ago. It must have been when I visited the army chaplain because my wife had been to see him. He told me that I could have all the love in the world but without trust, honesty and communication a marriage wouldn’t work. I asked him if he’d ever been married. He said no.
‘So God didn’t marry, Jesus didn’t marry and you’ve never been married.’
‘That’s not the issue,’ he said.
‘Well, it fucking well should be,’ I replied.
He wanted to argue. The thing with chaplains and priests and religious fuckers is that every lesson you get is about marriage and the importance of family. You could be discussing artificial grass, global warming or who killed Princess Diana and they would still bring it round to some crazy lesson about family being the bedrock of domestic bliss, racial tolerance and world peace.
Turning into another passageway, I notice the emergency door and check the stairwell. Empty. At the far end of the passage there is a small lobby where the main lift doors open. Two armchairs are arranged one each side of a small polished table with a lamp. A detective is sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a magazine.
My fingers slide easily into the loops of a brass knuckleduster in my trouser pocket. The metal has grown warm against my thigh.
He looks up as I approach and unfolds his legs. His right hand is out of sight.
‘Long night.’
He nods.
‘Is she ready?’
‘I was told not to wake her.’
‘Boss wants her at the station.’
He doesn’t recognise me. ‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Sergeant Harris. Four of us drove up last night from Truro.’
‘Where’s your badge?’
His right hand is still hidden. I drive my fist into his throat and he subsides again, sucking bubbles of blood through a crushed windpipe. I slip the knuckleduster back into my pocket and take his gun, tucking it into the waistband of my trousers.
‘Breathe long and slow,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll live longer.’ He can’t speak. I take the radio from his pocket. He has an entry card for her room. A weak groan and brittle breath signal unconsciousness. His head drops. Opening the magazine, I rest it over his face, crossing his legs again. He could be sleeping.
Then I knock on the door. She takes a moment to answer. The door opens a crack. She is silhouetted against a haze of white light from the bathroom behind her.
‘Mrs O’Loughlin, I’ve come to take you to the station.’
She blinks at me. ‘Has something happened? Have they found her?’
‘Are you dressed? We have to leave.’
‘I’ll get my bag.’
I hold my foot against the door to stop it closing as she disappears, her bare feet making little slapping sounds on the tiled bathroom floor. I want to follow her inside to make sure she isn’t calling someone. I glance up and down the passage. What’s taking her so long?
She reappears. Little things about her appearance show that she’s struggling. Her movements are slow and exaggerated. Her hair hasn’t been brushed. The sleeves of her cardigan are stretched and bunched in her fists.
‘Is it cold outside?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She looks at me. ‘Did we meet yesterday?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I hold the lift door open for her. She glances at the sleeping detective and steps inside. The doors close.
Holding her handbag to her stomach, she doesn’t look at her reflection in the mirrored walls.
‘Has he called again?’ she asks.
‘Yes, he has.’
‘Who did he call?’
‘Your husband.’
‘Is Charlie all right?’
‘I have no information.’
We emerge in the hotel foyer. I hold my right hand an inch from the small of her back and point my left hand towards the glass revolving door. The foyer is empty except for a receptionist and a cleaner who is polishing the marble floor with a machine.
The Range Rover is parked on the corner. She’s moving too slowly. I have to keep stopping and waiting for her. I open the car door.
‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your voice sounds very familiar.’
‘We may have talked on the phone.’
63
Trinity Road police station sleeps with one eye open. The lower floors are deserted but the lights remain on in the incident room where a dozen detectives have worked through the night.
Veronica Cray’s office door is closed. She’s sleeping.
It’s still dark outside. I woke Ruiz and told him to bring me here. First I took a cold shower and put on my clothes and took my medication. It still took me twenty minutes to get dressed.
The death photos of Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness are watching from the whiteboards. There are aerial photographs of the murder scenes, post mortem reports and a tangle of black lines drawing links between mutual friends and business contacts.
I don’t need to look at the faces. I turn my head away and notice a new whiteboard, a new photograph- this one of Charlie. It’s a school portrait with her hair pulled back and an enigmatic smile on her face. She hadn’t wanted the photograph taken.
‘We get one every year,’ Julianne had said.
‘Which means we don’t need another one,’ countered Charlie.
‘But I like to compare them.’
‘To see how much I’ve grown.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you need a photograph for that?’
‘Where did you learn to be so sarcastic?’ At this point, Julianne had looked at me.
Monk arrives with the morning papers. There’s a picture of me on the front page, holding my hand up to the cameras as though reaching to rip it from the photographers’ hands. There’s also a picture of Charlie, a different one, taken from the family album. Julianne must have chosen it.
Someone has ordered croissants and pastries. The fresh coffee smell is enough to wake the DI, who emerges from her office in rumpled clothes. Her hair is cut so short it doesn’t need a comb. She reminds me of a carthorse, heavy footed, slow to anger but immensely powerful.
Monk briefs her on what happened at the cottage. It doesn’t improve her mood. She wants the house searched properly this time, every cupboard and crawl space in case there are more surprises.
