Cry for Help (3 page)

The warning bells sounded louder now.

'Where are you?'

'I'm in Staunton. I've been here a couple of days. They sectioned me.'

'What happened?'

'It was Eddie.'

Without thinking, I picked a coin off the computer table and began palming it. It was a repetitive motion to keep myself on a level: I used my middle finger to slide it down my thumb and into position, held it for a second, then dropped it into my curled fingers and started again. Coin work has always been something to occupy my hands. To help me keep calm.

'Tell me.'

She did. Tori's latest boyfriend, Eddie Berries, was a skinny little guy with long brown hair. He played music, but seemed to think that getting a job while waiting to be discovered was beneath him. He did drugs, acted flaky and for some unknown reason thought he was very important - the sort of vaguely artistic type that feels the world owes them a living and then laughs at it behind its back. But Tori had always loved 'creative' guys. They were a weak spot for her.

If it was just that, I might have put my dislike down to jealousy, but something about Eddie had bothered me from the beginning. I'd only met him a couple of times and couldn't put my finger on what it was, but it started when I saw him drape his arm proprietorially around Tori - as though she was a possession that was his by rights. Right then, I'd figured he wasn't good for her. She looked too desperate to please him, and he seemed as though he liked that.

But he appeared to make her happy. Of course, I didn't know what she was telling me now - that Eddie had been losing it for quite some time. His drug use had escalated, and he'd unravelled and become increasingly unstable, exerting more and more control over her life. Tori took medication daily, but - in his wisdom - Eddie had decided that was bad. It was a weakness, he said, to rely on pills, and he'd eventually persuaded her to abandon lithium and battle through her illness 'naturally'. Since then, there'd also been arguments and intimidation. Eddie kept putting her down: letting her know all the things that were wrong with her, all the ways she didn't measure up to being with him. How lucky she was to have him. As a result of all this, having her self-image knocked from side to side like a mouse between a cat's paws, Tori had descended into mania.

Their life together had come to a head last Wednesday, when Eddie had lost it completely and beaten her up. Tori had been taken to hospital for an overnight stay. The next day, she was sectioned for her own safety and taken to Staunton.

Despite occasional detours and distractions, the story came out simply and quickly. By the time she finished, I was still palming the coin and my face felt like it was made of iron.

'Are you okay?' I said. 'Physically, I mean.'

'My face is purple.' She laughed. I didn't.

'What about the police?'

'They're looking for him. He's disappeared off somewhere.'

I put the coin down. 'How long do you think you'll be in hospital?'

'I don't know. Until they decide I can go. At least a week.'

'Right.'

'I can have visitors, though. If you fancied coming to see me? It's so boring here.'

The computer screen had gone to screen-saver. The half-finished article was only a key-press away, but it wouldn't take long. Aside from that, there was Emma to think about. But she still had a key, and maybe it would be easier for both of us if I wasn't here when she picked up her stuff. I'd probably only make some misguided attempt to cling on to her - the relationship equivalent of throwing yourself onto a coffin.

'What time?' I said.

'Between two and five. You don't have to stay all that time. It would just be . . . nice to see someone.'

'Okay. I'll be there.'

'That's so brilliant! Thank you.'

I tried to smile. 'No problem.'

'You're such a good friend, Dave. Honestly.'

I wished that was true. I didn't feel like a good friend.

'I've got to finish something off,' I said. 'I'll see you soon.'

Chapter Two

Sunday 7th August

It was his son's birthday and Sam Currie was on his way across town to see him. Which meant that when his mobile rang, there was no way he was going to answer it.

No work. Not today.

Even so, he kept one eye on the road and picked up the mobile, just to check who was calling. When he saw it was James Swann, he immediately wished he'd left the damn thing on the seat. Swann wouldn't be phoning unless something had come up at the office, and Currie knew he should take the call. Whatever it was, it would be important.

His mind threw up unwanted snapshots of his son's childhood birthday parties. Neil, in a conical hat with a string round his chin, blowing out candles. Dressed as a cowboy, playing on the lawn - or with that tooth missing, posed on his red bicycle.

In the earlier photographs his son was always smiling, but as he hit his teenage years, he began to glower more. The only real constant over the years of photos was Sam Currie's absence from them. Work had always come first, and that had been a mistake - but you couldn't change the past, no matter how much you might want to. There was only this. Neil was twenty-one years old today, and Currie had booked the day off, and he was going to share a drink with his boy. It was what his father had done with him at that age, and it was one thing he could say with absolute certainty he'd been looking forward to since Linda had fallen pregnant, accidentally, all those years before.

He cancelled the call, then replaced the phone on the passenger seat, next to the bottle of Scotch.

Work was work. But a promise was a promise.

And yet . . . as he turned the steering wheel gently and eased the car up Bellerby Grove, Currie found he was already beginning to make the familiar compromises. Deep down, he knew he had to return the call, but if he could delay it a while, at least he'd have time to say 'happy birthday' and have a quick drink with Neil. His son was old enough to understand that now. In fact, he'd probably expect it.

Why didn't I switch the thing off?

The weather had turned out nice, anyway, even if everything else now felt a little darker. Currie squinted overhead through the windscreen. It had been grey and overcast earlier on, but now, coming up on midday, the clouds were gone and the sky was bright and clear. A good, clean day. The sun was beating down; skewed yellow squares rolled along his brawny forearms as he drove. The houses here had long front gardens, and he could hear the swish-swishing of lawn sprinklers and the buzz of strimmers as he passed, breathing in the aroma of cut grass that wafted in through the open window. It was tranquil, and he was glad. Over the years, Neil had made his home in far worse neighbourhoods than this.

Currie parked up just inside the gate. When he killed the engine, the world outside was quiet, broken only by birds and the peaceful rush of distant traffic, like water in the pipes.

The car beeped twice as he locked it. Then, bottle in hand, he began the long walk up the drive. The breeze rolled warm air against his face. It hit the trees to one side a second later, and they rustled quietly together, then became silent again. When he reached the top of the steep hill, he was out of breath. Nearly forty-five now, he reminded himself ruefully. Time got away from you. He'd put some gym work in store in his teens and twenties, but that had all gone out of date by now. The promises to get back to it . . . well, he never seemed to find the time. And anyway, at this point it was all catch-up, wasn't it? He'd broken the back of life, and it was all downhill from here.

This week, he thought. Some time.

A few paces away from the path, he found his son.

Currie stepped carefully around.

The stone was arched and plain. The inscription, simple: Neil S. Donald - his wife's maiden name - and two dates that book-ended a shade over nineteen years of life. There was a spread of fresh flowers on the grave, no doubt left by his wife and her brother earlier in the day. It was what they'd agreed, but it still bit him slightly that Linda had got here first.

A few brief words were carved into the stone.

Beloved son.

At last you are at peace.

Stay safe.

Other snapshots occurred to Currie as he read that, but he put them out of his mind. None of that mattered now, because the only truth that mattered was in those words. At last, you are at peace.

His phone went again. This time he answered it, watching the grass waver slightly in the breeze.

'Currie,' he said.

'Sam? It's James. I'm sorry to phone, but we've got a major incident here and I thought you'd want to know.'

'Who?'

'A female in her twenties.' Swann paused. 'It looks like she's been tied up and left to die.'

That pulled him up slightly. He hadn't been expecting that.

'Like the one in May?'

'Yeah.' And the one last year.

'Give me the address.'

Swann did.

Currie resisted the urge to ask the usual questions. Swann had been his partner for over ten years now, and he'd already have the scene contained, everyone moving.

'Give me half an hour.'

'Sam - I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. I'll see you soon.'

Currie hung up, then turned the cap around on the bottle of whiskey: click, click, click. The smell rose in the air and he took a long swig, allowing the liquor to burn into his tongue and the sides of his mouth, branding them with the silky taste before he finally swallowed. Immediately, his throat burned bright, followed by his chest.

'Happy birthday, Neil.'

He left the bottle closed and almost full, resting out of sight behind the headstone. Someone might take it, of course - either a groundsman or a derelict - but that was all right. In fact, it was probably what Neil would have wanted.

Half an hour later, Detective Sam Currie was standing in the doorway of a hot bedroom to the south of the city centre, looking at the body of Alison Wilcox.

She had been found by her ex-boyfriend, Roger Ellis, earlier that morning. Ellis was back at the department now, awaiting further questions, and Currie imagined the man would probably be suffering from what he'd experienced. He'd attended two scenes like this himself in the last year and a half, and the sight of the bodies still shocked him. Police work had brought him into contact with a great deal of violent death, but in this case it wasn't the assault that appalled him so much as the indignity and inhumanity of what had been done. And perhaps what hadn't.

Alison Wilcox's body looked thin and wasted, her skin slack and yellow. Her hands and feet were bound to the bedposts by thick coils of leather - and the hands in particular were dreadful: bent at the wrist and frozen into waxy claws. But if the case was like the others, they would find little actual violence had been done to her once the attacker had subdued his victim. The bindings had been all that was necessary to kill her.

Behind him, scene-of-crime officers were moving slowly through the house while, in front, the pathologist, Chris Dale, was squatting on his haunches beside the bed, tilting his head as he examined the body. A bluebottle landed on her thigh and Dale brushed it away. It settled a moment later on the side of her face, and began rotating slowly.

Standing beside him, James Swann popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and then offered Currie the packet.

He took one. 'Thanks.'

'No problem.'

'Looks the same as the others. You were right to call me.'

Swann didn't reply for a second, then said: 'Sad to think of her, isn't it? Alone like that.'

Currie nodded. Other detectives might have frowned on such an emotional statement, even delivered in such a controlled way, but it was one of the reasons he and Swann had lasted so long as partners. And it was sad. Assuming they were dealing with the same killer, Alison Wilcox had been tied up and left here to die slowly of thirst.

There was some controversy within the medical field about what that was actually like. Some said the body produced pain-numbing chemicals after the first day or so, while others maintained it was a hellish way to die. What wasn't in doubt were the physical consequences and processes. As Alison Wilcox's body dehydrated, she would have lost the ability to sweat, and her body would have heated up intolerably. Her mouth, tongue and throat would have become agonisingly dry; her skin would have cracked like parchment. Any urine she managed to pass would have been increasingly concentrated, becoming so hot it burned her. At some point, as her brain cells dried, she would have grown feverish and confused. Eventually she would have fallen totally unconscious. It could have taken her anywhere between a few days and two weeks for her organs to shut down - blinking out like lights - and for her body finally to die.

And throughout that time, nobody came.

Because of the anniversary, Currie thought about Neil again. When he'd stood outside his son's house on the day he found him, he'd noticed the building seemed darker and more potent than those around it. The sun beat down on the neighbours' houses, while Neil's was in shadow, and everything had been too still. As he'd opened the gate and walked through the litter-strewn garden, a part of him had already known what he was going to find inside.

Now, he wondered whether anyone had felt something similar as they walked down the street outside this house. How could they not? It seemed impossible. There was a pocket of sadness around the whole scene. Her death was nothing short of an accusation.

Swann's mobile went then, breaking his thoughts, and his partner moved back down the landing to answer it, muscles bunching beneath his pale-blue shirt sleeves.

Dale, the pathologist, stood up.

'It's certainly consistent with what we've seen before,' he said. 'Difficult, in these circumstances, to determine the actual cause of death.'

'Dehydration?'

'Yes. It's likely to be organ failure, but it's possible her throat was so swollen that she was unable to breathe any longer.'

Currie chewed the gum slowly. His own mouth felt dry.