Damaged Goods (12 page)

Over supper the previous evening Hermione had spoken of her desire to keep the marriage alive.

‘Surely we can continue as we have always done?’

Barrows had nodded vigorously. ‘Most definitely.’ He speared a piece of salmon and held the coral flesh in front of his mouth, its smell reminding him of that singular and monstrous attempt at cunnilingus.

‘In fact,’ he added, ‘things will be better.’

‘How so?’ Hermione asked.

‘There will be no deceit between us.’

He blocked off his nose, swallowed the salty fish and looked deeply into his wife’s eyes.

‘I love you dearly, Hermione, and it has been unbearable to have this huge dishonesty between us.’

‘Why did you never tell me? Homosexuality is hardly a crime.’

I never thought of it, you stupid bat. In fact it’s such
a good idea it’s really quite shocking that you thought
of it before me
.

‘For fear that you would leave me, of course.’ He put down his knife and his eyes filled with tears. ‘That was something I could never have lived with.’

She put her hand over his, and her palm felt cool, almost cold. ‘We are a good team, you and I, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t remain that way.’

His eyes filled again with what Barrows hoped looked like something akin to gratitude. Hermione coughed as if embarrassed by the emotion of the moment and turned her mind to practicalities.

‘Our situation isn’t uncommon and we should be able to manage it with some delicacy.’

‘I agree,’ he said.

‘The onus will be on you to behave with absolute discretion. I want to know nothing.’

‘I would never want to hurt you, my dear.’

Hermione pushed away her plate, her appetite clearly gone. ‘Sod that, William, if this comes out I’m in the clear and you’re on your own.’

As he remembered her parting shot he was once again surprised by how calculating she could be, but he was too elated by his good fortune to dwell on matters further. He was free to lead a double life and he would never have to have sex with his wife again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday, 14 September

White light, hard and sharp, filled the room. Lilly felt feverish but staggered from the sofa.

Under orders to keep her throat dry for at least a week she abandoned a shower and made do with a strip wash with a damp flannel. Her mother had called it top-and-tailing and they had often resorted to it when Lilly was a child and there was no money for the immersion heater. Sniffing her armpits, Lilly acknowledged today what she had always suspected. It didn’t get you clean.

Sam brought a glass of orange juice to the bathroom. He looked pale with concern. Lilly ruffled his hair and took the glass.

‘I’m okay, big man.’

‘Should I call Dad?’ he asked.

Lilly spoke too quickly. ‘No, no, no.’

‘Why not? He could come over.’

‘He’s busy with Cara.’ Lilly swallowed the juice. The acid burnt her mouth. ‘She’s not very well.’

Sam sniffed. ‘No one’s tried to chop her head off.’

‘And no one’s tried to chop off mine. Now go and get ready for school, we’re late as it is,’ said Lilly.

Unconvinced, Sam sloped off to his room.

Lilly got dressed without looking in the mirror, afraid of what she might see.

When Lilly arrived at Manor Park she checked in the boot for her ‘safety bag’, an old plastic carrier that contained an emergency stash of stationery, a spare pair of shoes and an umbrella. It was gone, yet she couldn’t remember taking it out. Since none of the doors locked properly it was more than likely someone on the Clayhill had helped themselves.

Suddenly, she realised she had left the car outside Grace’s block. So how on earth had it appeared outside the cottage this morning? Jack must have got someone to collect it for her. She smiled to herself, saw she had a full pad of paper on the back seat, looked into the cloudless sky and decided everything would be fine.

She dropped Sam into his classroom and avoided the enquiring looks from the other mothers. She wished she’d worn a scarf, too tired for explanations today. She almost sprinted to her car but was dismayed to see a gaggle of women congregating around the car next to hers.

Snakelike, she slunk past them and opened the driver’s door.

‘I think that MP’s got it right,’ said Luella. ‘We can’t let people do what they want just because they’re poor. If someone commits a crime they should be made to pay, whatever their circumstances.’

‘I agree,’ said another. ‘The girl shouldn’t be let off the hook just because she’s had it a bit tough.’

Penny’s tone was soft. ‘I think she had it more than a bit tough.’

‘Whatever,’ dismissed Luella. ‘These days people think being underprivileged excludes them from all social responsibility.’

To Lilly’s surprise Penny held her ground. ‘No one’s saying that, but there seems to be little evidence that the girl actually did anything. The police have only pursued it because of the pressure from Hermione Barrows.’

‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ said Luella.

Lilly had hoped to sidle into her car unnoticed during the exchange, but had somehow managed to drop her car keys under the passenger seat. She leaned over the gear stick, arm outstretched, and felt a stab of pain in her neck.

‘Shit!’

The neighbouring group turned as one towards Lilly, who gave them a weak smile. The women exchanged embarrassed glances and dispersed. Only Penny was left. She opened the passenger door, picked up the keys and handed them to Lilly.

‘Don’t mind them, they wouldn’t understand the concept of justice if it dressed up as Brad Pitt and bit them on the bum.’

Lilly pushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to laugh, but she was too exhausted.

‘Frankly there’s more chance of Brad Pitt biting them on the arse than Kelsey seeing any British justice,’ she said.

‘Things not looking good?’ asked Penny.

Who could say? Lilly thought. Maybe Jack had already charged Max, and Kelsey would get a foster family to love her by the end of the week. There again, maybe not.

‘I’m on my way to the station to try to persuade the police to see sense,’ said Lilly.

‘If anyone can do it, you can,’ said Penny.

‘I wish I shared your confidence in my abilities.’

Penny shrugged and smiled shyly. ‘You care about this girl, and people who care always make a difference.’

‘Not always,’ Lilly murmured.

Penny waited for Lilly to continue but she didn’t have the energy.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m having a little gathering at my house and you must come.’

Right now Lilly couldn’t think of anything worse. ‘Thanks.’

‘Nothing fancy.’ Penny’s tone was bright. ‘A few glasses of fizz and some nibbles.’

Lilly could just imagine the banquet that would be laid out on a pristine linen cloth.

‘Oh, and a lady’s coming over to do our colours.’

Lilly frowned. ‘Colours?’

‘You know,’ said Penny. ‘She’ll advise on our skin tones and what suits us.’

Instinctively, Lilly checked her reflection in the mirror. Her mood darkened when she saw the pallor of her skin. Even her lips were white. Worse still, the wound on her neck had torn and a few drops of blood had trickled down to her breastbone, its path a violent scarlet against her translucent flesh. There was no other way to describe it: Lilly looked like hell.

Penny’s laugh tinkled like wind chimes and she offered Lilly a tissue for her throat. ‘I think we could all use a little help.’

The place was a mess, the air thick as syrup. Max kicked the takeaway containers across the floor. Days-old jerk chicken and rice scattered around the room and landed among the discarded Coke cans full of cigarette butts. It was disgusting. Like some lowlife junkie lived there.

Everything was getting out of control. Last night had been a disaster. Max had only intended to warn off the redhead but she’d put up a fight. When she’d tried to escape he’d lost his head and had been ready to finish her off. Then out of nowhere McNally arrived. Man, that was some fucked-up scene. Max had hidden under the bed and listened to Jack whispering into the woman’s ear,

‘Please don’t die, please don’t die.’

When the paramedics arrived, Max had been sure someone would search the place, but the electricity was off so everything was in darkness – and McNally, well, he was away with the fairies.

Max had slipped away as they were getting the woman into the ambulance, but it would only be a matter of time before she identified him to the police.

Should he run? He needed to think straight, and reached for his pipe.

* * *

Max ground his teeth as he exhaled the last of his third rock. Everything was clear now and he knew exactly what he had to do.

He smiled at his pipe like an old and trusted friend. People like Grace who let the drugs take over were losers. LOSERS. The creative ones, like himself, those with vision, knew that narcotics were a tool to set the mind free. Think John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix. And what about those old poets, Shelley and Byron, weren’t they all dope fiends?

When he heard the police ram the door, Max merely smiled.

Jack led Lilly through the bowels of the station to the canteen, where a styrofoam cup of coffee awaited her.

‘You look okay,’ Jack lied. ‘Considering.’

‘I look like an extra from
Night of the Living Dead
,’ she answered, and fell upon the coffee.

He smiled to himself. Actions could speak louder than words.

‘But it’s under control,’ she said. ‘I’m having my colours done.’

What was she talking about? Maybe the loss of blood had affected her brain.

He changed the subject. ‘You’ll be glad to know we nicked Hardy this morning and he’s in custody.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Here?’

He could see that the thought of Max in the same building unnerved her.

‘In the cells.’ He swept his arm to the side to emphasise the distance and nodded in the direction of a smiley twenty-two-year-old with shiny hair and a healthy smattering of freckles. ‘WPC Spicer will take your statement.’

Lilly rubbed at the dried blood on her throat with the now disintegrating tissue. ‘Can’t you do it, Jack?’

‘I’m a witness myself, so I’d better not. I don’t want any smart-arse lawyer pulling it apart later,’ he said.

If Lilly had understood the joke she didn’t react.

Jack softened his voice. ‘You were attacked, Lilly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

He saw the surprise in Lilly’s eyes when she registered he understood, so he topped his rendition of all- round good guy by pulling from his pocket not flowers but a king-size Twix. This emotional empathy thing wasn’t so hard after all.

‘You on a promise?’ asked the custody sergeant, picking the wax out of his ear.

‘Behave yourself,’ answered Jack.

‘Well, something’s put a smile on your face, cos let’s face it, you’re usually a miserable bugger.’

Jack shook his head and wrote his suspect’s details on the whiteboard.

NAME CELL TOA OFFENCE COMMENTS

Max Hardy 4 9.22 hrs Attempted Interviewing

murder in video suite 

He ignored the sarge, who was whistling ‘Always look on the bright side of life’, and collected the paperwork.

He opened the door to the video suite and beamed at Max, who was straddling a chair like a cowboy in an old film, all swagger and attitude. To his left sat Ben Dunwoody, the young duty solicitor who was evidently intimidated by both his client and the gravitas of the crime with which he had been accused. Jack estimated he was around twenty-four and had never been on the sharp end of anything more serious than an ABH.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Jack.

‘Top o’ the morning to ya, Paddy,’ answered Max in a poor imitation of Jack’s accent.

Jack chuckled. ‘I’m from Northern Ireland, Max, but well tried anyway.’

Max smirked in return but Jack knew he had expected a greater reaction. He turned on the video recorder and explained the procedure for the interview.

‘What camera is that, man?’ asked Max.

‘I forgot you were into films, Max.’ Jack turned to the solicitor. ‘You may not be aware, Mr Dunwoody, that your client is involved in the film industry.’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ the young man stammered.

‘Pornography, mostly,’ said Jack.

Dunwoody’s eyes were as round as saucers.

‘Ain’t no crime in that,’ shouted Max.

‘Maybe we should get on,’ suggested Dunwoody. The poor kid was desperate to get this over with.

Jack shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Tell me about last night, Max.’

It was Max’s turn to shrug.

Dunwoody coughed. ‘Perhaps it would help if you were a little more specific.’

Jack nodded thoughtfully, as if it was an excellent idea and he was carefully weighing his words. ‘Tell me about the attempted murder of Lilliana Valentine.’

‘I didn’t attempt to murder no one,’ spat Max.

‘You might know her, Mr Dunwoody, she’s a solicitor with Fulton, Carter and Singh. She represents children in care, very worthwhile stuff,’ said Jack.

Dunwoody blushed. ‘I think I’ve heard of her.’

‘She’s an excellent lawyer, one of the best,’ Jack added needlessly.

Max, as Jack anticipated, couldn’t bear the lack of attention and exploded.

‘I don’t care who or what she is. I didn’t try to kill no one.’

Jack remained calm, his voice low in stark contrast to his suspect. ‘You cut her throat and left her to bleed to death, what was that, a birthday present?’

Max smiled and wagged his finger at Jack. ‘You’re good, McNally, you always were.’

‘So let’s stop pissing about and tell me what happened last night,’ Jack said.

‘I was round Gracie’s flat,’ Max replied.

‘Why?’

‘I’m keeping an eye on it.’

‘Very public-spirited of you,’ said Jack.

‘Yeah, well. There’s a lot of junkies on that estate and I don’t want them nicking her stuff.’

‘She’s dead, so I can’t see it matters.’

‘The girls might want something. It’s their right.’

It always irked Jack when people like Max talked about their rights, but he refused to bite and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You’re the guardian of Gracie’s children now? Quite the hero.’

Max jabbed his thumb in his chest. ‘Those kids are like family to me, I just want to see they get what’s theirs.’

Jack motioned for Max to continue.

‘Like I said, I was keeping an eye on the flat when I sees someone breaking in.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ asked Jack.

‘It would have taken them half an hour to get there. The estate’s very low on their priority list, according to Hermione Barrows.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you were into politics, Max.’

‘The woman chats sense,’ he said. ‘You must have heard what she’s been saying about you lot.’

The two men stared at each other across the table in an uncomfortable silence. It was Max who broke first.

‘I went up there myself to take a look. I went into the hall and shouted that whoever was in there had better get out.’

‘Did anyone answer?’

‘Not a word, which gave me a bad vibe. I’m thinking a junkie would have just legged it. So I opened the bedroom door and I saw a shape.’

‘A shape?’

‘The electricity were cut off and the curtains were shut so it’s like pitch black in there, and all I could see was this shape coming at me.’ Max slapped the side of his head. ‘Then it hit me.’

‘The shape?’

‘Nah, the idea of who it was. Just like a light bulb going on, I think to myself it’s Gracie’s killer.’

Jack could see where the story was going but tried to sound incredulous. ‘And why would you think that?’

‘You’re a copper, man, you’re supposed to know what murderers do.’

‘Enlighten me.’

Max spoke slowly as if explaining a difficult concept to a child. ‘They go back to the scene of the crime. It gives ’em a buzz to, you know, relive it. Some of ’em, serial killers and that, take whatsits, hair or fingers.’

‘Souvenirs.’