A Cry in the Night (24 page)

‘Why did you move?’

Ricky’s hands paused at this, then continued. The tell was obvious. Sam pushed for an answer but Ricky just fiddled with his papers, then lit his cigarette and let his head rest against the back of the sofa.

‘It was a nice place. Seems a shame to have moved from there to here,’ Sam said.

A shrug of the shoulders, but nothing more. Sam asked him more questions, but only ever received the same dull avoidances. He was used to this – this type of regressive, failing man who hides behind a veneer of boredom. He just had to break through the facade.

‘I bet you’re surprised to see me here. I imagine you thought we’d never find you again.’

Ricky glanced nervously at him and Sam knew he was getting there.

‘No one can hide from us, Ricky.’

The trucks below made the window frames shudder. They gave off an ominous rattle and hum each time.

‘Did Helen tell you different?’ Sam asked.

Ricky gave him a tiny glance, but nothing more.

‘I know why you’re here, Ricky. I know what you saw.’

‘Saw nothing, say nothing,’ Ricky muttered, as if by rote.

‘Did you see a boy die, Ricky? Is that right?’

Ricky closed his eyes again, as though he was trying to lock the memories away.

‘A boy, trying to defend himself, yes? And a woman grabbed him, didn’t she? She grabbed him and tried to drown him. And then, when she couldn’t manage it, she hit his head against the sink. Beat the little boy’s skull to pieces.’

A truck rumbled below and they both shook with it.

‘You saw that, didn’t you?’

‘How did you find me?’ Ricky asked.

Sam finally felt as though he was opening him up.

‘You witnessed the murder of a little boy and then you ran away.’

‘I didn’t, I didn’t run, I didn’t see anything.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because of her.’

‘Who?’

‘Her. Mrs Seymour.’

Ricky closed his eyes again, but Sam forced them open, snapping his fingers. He had her.

‘Tell me about Helen.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes you can.’ Sam leant over him.

‘I can’t,’ he said. And then he repeated it over and over again. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. He shook his head, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

Sam cleared a space next to Ricky and sat down close to him. He soothed him with false promises and offers of support. He was a mate, a bloke, a mensch. Slowly, he tried to get Ricky to confirm what he had seen. But whenever he got close, Ricky would wriggle away from the subject. Whenever pushed, he always retreated to the same line.

‘I didn’t see nothing.’

‘Why are you scared of her, Ricky? I’m not scared of her.’

And this got a proper reaction. ‘Well you should be.’

And there was the fear again. The fear Sam had felt in those little boys, the surge of dread he’d felt when Sarah had smiled at him outside her bedroom before she fell silent, the same fear now rising like steam off Ricky, like the morning mist at Lullingdale Water.

Sam stared at the table and a freshly used needle, a trace of blood on the tip. Anything could be bubbling in this man’s mind, true or false.

The window frames rattled again.

‘Why are you scared, Ricky?’

‘I need a hit. I gotta have another hit. You’ve got to go.’

His body shook slightly and Sam felt a similar tremor echo within himself.

‘What is it about Helen that makes you so scared, Ricky?’

‘Not just her, is it?’

The thin curtains bathed him in a bloody half-light and Ricky started to roll up his sleeve, patting his arm and reaching for a shoelace, a makeshift tourniquet. Sam pushed his arm down.

‘Not yet.’

‘I have to.’

‘Tell me what you meant. Who is else is there, besides Helen?’

‘Oh, copper, there’s a whole bloody army of them. Can’t you see that?’

Blood-red windows shuddered and shook. Sam saw the murderous women’s faces from his file, staring bitterly out at him.

‘We all know how the world really works,’ Ricky said. ‘We all know. We just like to close our eyes and pretend it’s nice and sweet and kind. But it’s not. You know it’s not, don’t you?’

Hundreds of cases told Sam he was right. The withering flowers on Andrea’s grave confirmed it.

Ricky reached for the tourniquet again and this time Sam didn’t stop him.

‘We think we’re special, we think we’re the ones in charge,’ Ricky said, pulling the lace tight then reaching for a lighter and silver foil. ‘You think you’re a lion,’ he said, and shook his head at how wrong Sam was.

He heated the heroin and they both watched as it melted and then started to boil.

‘The world is upside down, copper. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’

The syringe sucked the demons up off the foil.

The room reverberated again.

Sam imagined Helen and her army. He heard the man next to him gasp and sigh, and when he looked at him, Ricky’s eyes were half-closed, a blissful smile of escape on his lips.

Sam stood, accidentally knocking over the coffee table. The detritus crashed to the floor, but Ricky didn’t notice.

‘Did you see that boy die?’ Sam asked, more frantically this time.

A grin and a sigh.

‘Did Helen force you to move?’

Ricky’s tongue slipped onto his top lip and his eyelids flickered.

‘Who does she work with? Please, Ricky, who is she doing all this with?’

But Ricky was far away now. Somewhere where neither Helen or Sam could get him. He slid onto the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest in a foetal position.

Sam wanted to grab him and drag him back to Manchester, but he wasn’t sure that a word he’d said was credible. But the man was scared of Helen. She had control over people in an extraordinary way. She, and others, had scared him so badly that he’d been reduced to this pathetic husk. And Sam felt the fear by some sort of osmosis. He didn’t understand it and didn’t know how to fight it. He just felt it seep into his bloodstream, pumped in by an invisible syringe. It rendered him dumb and forced him to leave Ricky where he was. He slipped down the stairs, scared of making a noise for no reason that he could fathom.

When he got outside, he looked around at the grungy traffic and tried to claw back his senses. The sky was still a dull grey, cars drove by as usual. A flashing light above a shop offered kebabs and fried chicken. The world was just as it always was. But then Sam saw a young woman in a suit stride towards him and he felt the fear surge up again. He turned to her, waiting for the conflict, but then felt stupid as she strode past, unaware that he was even there. Angry with himself, he went back to the car with heavy steps, trying to remind himself of who he was and what he could do. The fear retreated. But it swam in tiny circles somewhere in his
gut, a cold tickle, ready to come back when the time was right.

*

It was swimming idly in his stomach, twisting in serene arcs, when Sam got home that night. Magda opened the door to him as he approached. She was dressed differently – gone were the sweat pants and baggy T-shirt and she wore tighter, more revealing clothes now. His eyes took them in and then he felt guilty for doing so, especially when he caught her eye and saw that she was pleased he had done so.

‘Hi, Magda.’

‘Mr Taylor.’

‘You’ve dressed up. Are you going out tonight?’

‘No. I just like to dress nicer sometimes.’

‘Well, you look … swell.’

Sam stepped awkwardly around her and fled to his bedroom.

He read the files again, checking details he already knew by heart. Issy came to the door but Sam couldn’t talk to her. She shouted at him but he ignored her teenage tantrum and ran himself a long bath. He stared at the steaming water and imagined he was Arthur in the lake. He held his breath for as long as he could, then breathed out and watched the bubbles pop the surface. He imagined delicate female hands pulling him down and holding him there.

Later, dry and dressed, he stepped quietly through the
house. Everything was quiet now. The lights were out. He peeked into his mother’s room. She was asleep and he sat by her side, watching her the way he imagined she would have done him, when he was her little boy. Her mouth was agape and she shifted uncomfortably in her sleep as though she was in pain, as though she were fighting something. Old age was cruelly dragging her down too.

Issy was on the computer, headphones on and her back to him, and although Sam wanted to make peace with her, he also didn’t have the energy. Jenny’s door was closed and he let her be.

Magda’s door was ajar. He’d never been in her room, not since he showed it to her after giving her the job. Sam noticed that a light was on inside. He didn’t go in, but he had to pass it to get to his own room. As he approached, he saw the young woman appear in the shadow of the door. She wore a long shirt, undone and revealing, and nothing else. She stood there and stared at him. Sam stopped when he saw her. He couldn’t avoid the provocation: her near-nudity, the stare, the time of night. But he didn’t go in. He walked past, entered his bedroom, shut the door and wished that there was a lock to keep her out.

Three young cops, fresh-faced in their neatly pressed uniforms, were waiting for Zoe when she returned to the station later that night. She’d managed to stay away from the station all day with various chores and non-urgent duties, but she had to come back at some point. They stood in a line, arms folded, a barrier between her and the station’s entrance.

‘I’ve done the report, alright? Done it, handed it in, so get off my fucking case,’ she snapped. They were only there because Malcolm had told them to be, but their bovine obedience was pathetic. She pushed through them, her elbow connecting hard with one of them. He jolted back and said something she didn’t catch but also didn’t quite have the nerve to question.

When she reached CID, she was informed that Mr Frey, the Chief Superintendent, wanted to see her.

‘Who’s been a naughty girl then?’ came the teasing call as
she turned tail and marched up the six floors to where the top brass lived. It was quieter up here. She passed only one other person as she made her way to his office.

She was shown in and stood awkwardly in front of his desk. Mr Frey was on the phone and didn’t look at her as he continued to talk. It was all ‘I see’ and ‘very good’. After a few interminable minutes, he hung up and looked at her with a serious face.

‘DC Barnes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There was an incident, I hear. A young man was hurt.’

Oh shit, it’s got all the way up here, she thought.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You witnessed it.’

‘Part of it, sir.’

‘I have a statement from Sergeant Malcolm Cartmell.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He’s a good man, Sergeant Cartmell. Excellent officer.’

Right. So that’s the message.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there anything that I should worry about?’

‘Not that I know of, sir.’

He gazed at her, and somehow she felt that it was the same leery gaze he would fix on a stripper in a club.

‘Good girl.’

She realised that this was her cue to leave.

‘Do send my best to Sam when you next see him.’

‘I will, sir. Thank you, sir.’

And with that she was done. She headed back downstairs, glad to be out of his gaze. Soon, she knew, they would discover that she hadn’t completed the report as she’d claimed and then the monster would come back at her. Emails, texts, abuse in the corridor and worse. But somehow it seemed less scary than that cold man on the top floor and his idle, cruel manner.

Helen Seymour’s chambers sat in the corner of a wonderful old city square. Every building had the same black brick facade and on several were light-blue plaques that commemorated famous artists who had once lived there in centuries gone by. In the centre of the square was an iron-fenced park, for residents’ use only. Passers-by would gaze in longingly at the perfectly manicured lawns and plants that blossomed in their liberation from children and ball games. As Sam arrived and walked towards her offices, he admired his surroundings. It was a far cry from the places where Helen’s clients lived and worked.

He rang at the door and was ushered inside by an eager clerk, a lad in his twenties in a cheap suit who seemed thrilled to be there. Inside, much had been made of the building’s history. The rooms were oak-panelled, with a thick blue carpet that made the place look like an old-time gentlemen’s club. Sam sat on a plush armchair and
waited his turn, declining a tea or coffee. Fancy broadsheet newspapers and magazines were neatly laid out in front of him, but he didn’t touch them.

A few minutes later he was led upstairs. He looked around him as he went, seeing suited men and women digesting massive law books at heavy desks. The clerk led him along the corridor to the far end where he knocked twice, opened the door and ushered Sam inside, shutting the door behind him.

Helen Seymour sat at the far end of her expansive office behind an antique partner’s desk with a green leather top (although you could only just make this out, as the desk was covered in papers). Behind her was a large window that looked back down onto the square. The surroundings dwarfed her.

‘What a place,’ Sam said with a whistle.

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I think you need a cigar and red braces to work in a room like this. Makes me feel like a bit of a fraud.’

She offered her hand in that same modest but tenacious manner and gestured for him to sit in one of the two armchairs that faced her desk. He was too big for it, but tried not to let her see his discomfort.

‘So, Detective Inspector, what can I do for you today?’

‘I wanted to thank you for not causing a stir with Sarah Downing,’ he said. ‘I thought I was for the high jump there.’

‘Oh?’

‘You know, performance tables, arrest rates – it’s all about results these days.’

‘Join the club, Inspector.’

‘Sam, please.’

She leaned back in her desk and waited. Half-librarian, half-wolf.

‘May I ask you how you came to represent Mrs Downing?’