Death of a Murderer (23 page)

40

Trevor was high above him in a half-built house, busily hammering a nail into a rafter.
Trevor?
he called out.
What are you doing?
Trevor looked down, his body foreshortened, as if he were bearing the full weight of the bright-blue sky and it was crushing him. Billy wanted Trevor to join him on the ground, but he couldn’t seem to make Trevor understand. Trevor didn’t even glance at him again, let alone speak. The hammering went on and on—endless nails being driven into endless wooden beams.

Billy’s eyes opened. In a panic, he looked around. He’d forgotten something—or he was late for something. No, wait. He was in his car. Though all the windows had steamed up, he could see somebody peering at him through the glass. His body stiff with cold, he reached across and wound down the window on the passenger’s side. A wide face, corkscrew curls. It was the woman who fed the swans.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I must have nodded off, that’s all.”

“Your lights are on.”

“So they are.” He switched them off. “Thank you.” He yawned, then sat up straighter in his seat. “What time is it?”

“About nine.”

“Is it? God.” He rubbed his face with both hands. It felt rubbery and slack, and he needed a shave. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he said. “I thought you only came down in the afternoons.”

“Normally I do. Today my son’s in a concert, though. At school.” She looked past him, into the back of the car. “Is she dead?”

He glanced over his shoulder. On top of the pile of papers from the weekend was Saturday’s
Telegraph,
the famous picture of the murderer occupying half the front page.

“She died on Friday,” he said.

“I had no idea.” She shook her head. “So terrible, what she did.”

He nodded absently.

“People like that,” she said, “I think they do deals.”

He stared at her with her frizzy hair and her face all spread out like a house with its windows flung wide open. “What do you mean?”

“They go further than anyone else, and they have to pay a price for that.” Her eyes moved to the picture behind him. “That’s why she’s got that look.” Turning to Billy again, she smiled almost sadly. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Maybe I’m still half asleep.”

She gave him a steady, slightly patronising look that told him tiredness had nothing to do with it.

When she had driven away, he reached over into the back seat and got hold of the paper. Propping it up against the steering-wheel, he scanned the article on the front page. There was nothing in it that he didn’t already know. The facts of her death, a description of the tape. A brief account of how the murderers behaved in court.
Sullen, defiant. Passive.
In his memory, it was this apparent passivity that had upset people most of all, since it had been seen as a form of arrogance, a clear indication that the couple in the dock were not only unrepentant but contemptuous, both of those who sat in judgement over them and—far more shocking, this, if true—of those who had suffered at their hands.
Do what you like,
their silence seemed to say.
It makes no difference to us.

His eyes lifted to the woman’s face. That gaze, always described as empty. The black mouth curling a fraction, as if suspecting the photographer of weakness or inferiority. And now, suddenly, he had an inkling of what the swan lady might have been getting at. The woman and her lover had gone where no one else could follow. They probably thought of themselves as mavericks, dare-devils—pioneers. They were special, in other words. Unique. But then to be arrested, charged, held under lock and key…It would all have seemed so humdrum. Pathetic, really. No wonder they had joked about it when they wrote to each other from their separate cells. What did it mean to be put on trial? What did that have to do with anything?

He ought to be heading home, he knew that, but there was something he had to do first. Folding the
Telegraph,
he stepped out of the car. A still grey morning, sky the colour of an unlit light-bulb. The mud-flats glistening. Down by the river’s edge gulls glided through the air, their wing-tips seeming to clear the land by no more than a few inches. He opened the back door and gathered up the rest of the newspapers, then he locked the car and set off along the grass verge. This wouldn’t take long, he thought. Apart from anything else, it would warm him up. Get his circulation going.

The road snaked right, then left, then right again before it slid beneath the bridge. On one of the bends was a red house that stood alone, with fir trees in the garden, and just beyond it, if he remembered correctly, was a bus stop. He walked fast, facing the oncoming traffic, the papers wedged under one arm. He kept his eyes on the ground. Though the grass verge was raised, it hugged the road, and sometimes the slipstream from a passing vehicle would push him sideways. He saw a powder-blue Cortina parked in front of a white wall. He saw a boy’s head sinking below the smooth, dark water of a reservoir. He saw a woman in a black wig, smoking. All these images were linked.

Once, he glanced over his shoulder. His car had shrunk to the size of a toy.

Before he even reached the house, he came across a tall grey wheelie bin. Positioned at one end of a lay-by, it had been fastened to a metal post with a padlock and chain. The words printed on the lid—
NO GARDEN WASTE
—were partially obscured by bird droppings. This wasn’t the bin he remembered, nor was it where he had expected it to be. Given its location, he could have driven. Oh well. Lifting the lid, he peered inside. Big Mac cartons, a Kit-Kat wrapper, the remnants of a Happy Meal. A crushed Coke can. The nation’s diet in a nutshell.

When he heaved his stack of newspapers into the bin, Saturday’s
Telegraph
stayed on top. The woman’s face stared up at him, stubborn, provocative, daring him to act. Flipping the paper over, he pushed it as deep as it would go, then closed the lid firmly and stood back.

He looked around.

The day was grey and glassy, as before. Traffic roared over the great arc of the bridge. In front of him, perhaps a hundred yards away, a yacht swung slowly anti-clockwise on the water. The man who dug for ragworms and razorfish had told him what that meant.

The tide was on the turn.

41

A Mercedes flashed past, one glimpse of the young blonde woman behind the wheel enough to convey her style, her wealth, her sense of purpose. Billy glanced at his watch. It was nine thirty. Five minutes back to the car, then a fifteen-minute drive. He could be home before ten.

As he hurried away from the lay-by, his left foot caught in a dip in the grass verge, and he fell sideways, then tumbled down the bank, landing awkwardly at the edge of the river. He hadn’t hurt himself, but his trousers were covered with mud, and water had seeped into one of his shoes. He was still sitting there, unable to believe what had happened, when his mobile rang. Even without looking, he knew it was Sue. She would have taken Emma to school, and then returned to an empty house. She’d be wondering where he’d got to.

He took the phone out of his pocket with his left hand, which wasn’t quite so muddy. “Is that you, Sue?”

“Billy,” she said, “where are you?”

Climbing to his feet, he shook his head. “I’m on my way back.” And then, before she could speak again, “Listen, did you get my message?”

“No.”

“I sent you a text—last night…”

“I haven’t checked my mobile yet. What did it say?”

“I was hoping we could have breakfast together,” he said.

“You’re not too tired?”

He smiled. “No.”

“How long are you going to be?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

Once Sue had hung up, he wiped the mud off his phone and pushed it back into his pocket, then he looked down at his trousers. What a mess. He would have to take his uniform to the dry-cleaner’s later on. Still, at least he didn’t have to go to work till Sunday. Four days off—and he needed it as well. Maybe at the weekend he could drive Sue and Emma to the village that perched right on the tip of the peninsula. There was a pub out there—the something Arms. They could have lunch. He could already imagine it: the smell of the wooden furniture, waxy, slightly sweaty, almost human, the pints of beer and plates of battered cod, the cloudy, grey-green water just beyond the door. Afterwards, they would walk along the beach, perhaps, and if he looked hard enough, if he was lucky, he might see a redshank or a godwit, and it would surprise them that he knew the name of a bird. Well, it would surprise Sue, anyway. Emma’s reactions were less easy to predict. He wondered what she would say if she could see him now.
Mucky.
The word would be delivered at top volume. Her head would be tilted at an aggressive angle, and her hands would probably be on her hips.
Mucky pup.
He found that he was laughing.

On Sunday evening, he had left Emma in the bath while he went downstairs to check that their supper wasn’t burning. When he was in the kitchen, though, he panicked, imagining that she might be drowning, and he ran back up the stairs and burst into the bathroom.

“Quiet,” Emma said in that toneless voice of hers. “Too noisy.” Without her glasses, she was very short-sighted, and her eyes had a blankness to them that could seem cold, almost hostile.

Grinning, he apologised, and sat down on the floor beside the bath.

“That’s better,” she said.

Later, when he pulled out the plug, she turned round so that her head was near the taps. Lying on her stomach, she watched the water disappear down the plughole. She was leaning up on her elbows, with her face propped on her hands, and her air of concentration was intense, as if she were studying some rare phenomenon.

She would never study anything, of course.

He had wondered then what would become of her. What would he and Sue decide to do about her future? Would she always live at home, with them? Who would care for her when they were dead?

Or would she, with her damaged heart, die first?

He laid his forearms along the edge of the bath and rested his chin on top. He too watched as the bath slowly emptied itself. He noticed how her head revolved ever so slightly, echoing the miniature whirlpool that formed in the water as it was sucked down the hole. The strange noises that it made, all squawks and cackles…

At last Emma peered up at him.

“Gone,” she said.

Looking at his daughter stretched out in the bath, he noticed how strong her body was, and how well made, her skin so sleek and rosy, so unblemished.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

She climbed out of the bath and stood on the mat in front of him, arms held away from her sides.

“Dry me.”

How she loved to issue commands! He reached for the towel that was warming on the radiator.

As he knelt in front of her, rubbing her legs, she placed one hand on the top of his head, then she leaned down and looked right into his face.

“Daddy,” she said.

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to the staff of the West Suffolk Hospital in Bury St. Edmunds, and to various police officers at the Suffolk Constabulary and the Cheshire Constabulary, and to the staff of the Cambridge City Crematorium, without whose patience, cooperation and expertise this book could not have been written.

ALSO BY RUPERT THOMSON

Divided Kingdom

The Book of Revelation

Soft!

The Insult

Air & Fire

The Five Gates of Hell

Dreams of Leaving

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright © 2007 by Rupert Thomson

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Hornall Brothers Music Ltd. for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Wonderful Life” by Colin Vearncombe (
www.colinvearncombe.com
). Reprinted by permission of Hornall Brothers Music Ltd.

Originally published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing

Plc, London.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of

Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Thomson, Rupert.

Death of a murderer / by Rupert Thomson.—1st American ed.

p.   cm.

1. Police—England—Fiction.   2. Psychological fiction.   I. Title.

PR6070.H685D43 2007

823'.914—dc22         2007017732

This is a work of fiction. While Myra Hindley existed and was involved in the Moors Murders, all other characters and all incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

eISBN: 978-0-307-26705-4

v3.0