Death of a Murderer (7 page)

Billy shook his head. “You’re all right.”

“Sure?” Raymond said.

Billy was looking back over his shoulder. “They were mad.”

“They were just old,” Raymond said.

That night, when Billy was cleaning his teeth, a tiny triangle of misty glass fell out of his hair and landed in the sink. He kept it in a matchbox for a while, not because it was precious, but as a reminder of something. He couldn’t have said what exactly.

He didn’t see Raymond after that, not for several weeks, and when school started again they both avoided each other. That year Raymond went around with an older boy called Derek Forbes. Billy took up judo.

He dreamt about Raymond, though. All the time.

13

On first arriving in the mortuary, Billy had had the impression of an orderly, efficient space, but the longer he spent in the room, the more damage and neglect he noticed. The shell-shaped doors were set in a plain wooden frame that was badly scarred, especially at a point about three feet off the floor. The doors themselves were marked as well: there were dozens of little dents, all in a cluster, and all roughly the same diameter. There were similar marks on the fridge doors, and at a similar height. He thought he knew why, and a brief inspection of the trolley at the far end of the room confirmed his suspicions. Its leading edge and sharp corners lined up perfectly with most of the marks and dents. Clearly the porters were none too careful when it came to wheeling bodies about. The work wouldn’t exactly be well paid, of course, but that was only part of the story. If you had a job in a hospital, you couldn’t allow yourself to be disturbed by all the illness and disease surrounding you. You had to go to the other extreme, affecting indifference at the very least, and, from the outside, that could look insensitive or even callous. Similar strategies came into play if you worked for the police. Walking back to the entrance, Billy touched the dents in one of the doors. Maybe, after all, he had something in common with that surly young porter. He still felt like thumping him, though.

He moved to his left, passing shelves of neatly folded shrouds. In the gap between the main bank of fridges and a fridge marked police bodies he found a mop, a bucket, two rolls of pale-blue paper towels and a yellow-plastic pyramid that said wet floor. There were also a couple of empty card-board boxes, one of which had the words return to mortuary scrawled across it. Here too there was evidence of carelessness or haste. All the various items had been piled on top of each other, higgledy-piggledy, and Billy imagined, for a moment, that his neighbours, the Gibsons, had been involved somehow. Their back patio was always a jumble of toys, most of them broken. In the garden a swing lay on its side, grass growing over it; the sandpit was half-full of rain-water, and green with mould. The Gibson family: they weren’t actually criminal, but they didn’t seem to know how to clear up after themselves, and they never showed any respect for anything—and then they went and got their knickers in a twist about a wind-chime…

Rounding a pillar, Billy found himself facing the fridge where the woman’s body was being kept. At some subconscious level, perhaps, this had been his intended destination all along. Now that he had arrived, though, he didn’t know why he was there, or what it was that he wanted to do. At last, he reached out and tested the handle, just as the sergeant had done a few hours earlier. It was still locked, of course. How could it not be? All the same, a flicker of disappointment went through him.
She looked old. Older than sixty.
Was he becoming morbid, voyeuristic, or was it his own sense of dislocation that he was grappling with? Ever since he had been left by himself in the mortuary, he had felt a little as if he were guarding a phantom, or the figment of someone’s imagination. He didn’t quite believe she was there. Perhaps he needed something that would anchor him in the experience, make it tangible. But wasn’t that exactly what all those journalists outside were saying? In the end, he didn’t think his urge to look in the fridge would bear too much examination.
Do your job,
he told himself.
Just do your job.
With the murderer’s head behind that sheet of metal, only inches from his knuckles…He remained motionless for several seconds, and then stepped back, the cold shape of the door-handle imprinted on the inside of his fingers.

14

Billy passed the narrow door that led to the toilet and shower room. On the wall was a cooling control panel and a boxed first-aid kit. Someone had added an “s” on to the end of the word “aid.” There was nothing precious about a mortuary. The only concession to feeling was the chapel of rest. Directly linked to the mortuary through the bare wooden doors behind his chair, it could also be accessed from the corridor outside, which allowed members of the public to avoid the unsightliness, the ruthless practicality, of death. He pushed the doors open and peered in. A simple icon hung near the bed where the deceased would be laid out. Close by was an orange settee with arms of pale wood. The walls were orange too, though lighter. For all its warm colours, the chapel of rest was as functional as any other part of the mortuary. You came here to pay your last respects, or sometimes, even more distressingly, to identify your next of kin. In this room people’s worst fears would become a reality, and the air was petrified, stale, glassy with shock. For many, this would be where the suffering began.

As he shut the doors, Billy noticed the clock. Nine thirty-three. Was that all? He sat down on his chair again. His left arm ached where that vicious dwarf had fractured it with a karate kick back in the early eighties; if he felt the chill of the mortuary anywhere, it would be there. Unscrewing his Thermos, he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was strong, with plenty of milk and sugar. He took a sip and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Ah, that was good. Now for some paperwork. He picked up his pocketbook and leafed through the pages until he found his notes on the community-centre break-in that had happened the weekend before last. The culprits were two fourteen-year-olds, Darren Clark and Scott Wakefield. They hadn’t stolen anything, but they had caused a fair amount of damage, smashing windows, covering the walls with graffiti and urinating on a piano. Since it was a first offence, he thought it unlikely that they would go to court. Instead, they’d probably be cautioned by an inspector, in the presence of their families. All the same, there were at least three forms to be filled out. Drawing his chair up to the table, he began to compile his report.

It was just a laugh, really,
Darren had said at one point.
Something to do, you know? We didn’t mean nothing by it.
When Billy first started out in Widnes, in 1979, he might have thought he could steer a boy like Darren back on to the straight and narrow, but from long experience he now knew that very little could be done. In all his time as a police officer, there were only one or two teenagers whose lives he could honestly claim to have changed for the better. It wasn’t much of a return on twenty-three years’ work.

How many more times in his life would Darren Clark get into trouble and then try and make light of it? Pen poised above the paper, Billy stared into space, reminded once again of the afternoon when he and Raymond broke into the old couple’s house. He would have been Darren’s age, give or take a few months. Was that what he had thought—that it had all been a bit of fun? Before, perhaps, but not when it was over. No, from his point of view it had left a sour aftertaste. Something so exciting at the beginning—the hot weather, the walk up to the park, the vodka—and then something he wished he hadn’t been part of, something he would rather have forgotten.

There was a sudden, prolonged buzz from the door-bell. Billy glanced at the clock—nine forty-five—then went over and undid the locks. Standing in the corridor was the constable who had been on duty by the main entrance.

“Your wife’s here,” he said.

Billy stared at him. “What?”

“Your wife, Sue. She’s in reception.”

“Is she all right?” Billy said.

“I don’t know. She just asked if she could see you.” The man stepped into the room and stood by the stainless-steel sink in the corner. He rubbed his hands together. “Cold in here.”

“Would you mind taking over?” Billy said.

“No problem.”

Billy signed himself out, making a note of the time, then watched as the constable signed himself in. His name was Fowler.

“I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” Billy said. “That’s if I don’t get lost.”

“Bloody corridors,” Fowler said.

15

After eight o’clock at night the main entrance was locked, and the only access to the hospital was through Accident and Emergency. As Billy followed the signs, hurrying now, he was still thinking about that afternoon in Weston Point. They had cycled back along the brow of the hill, a dense yellow haze hanging over the Mersey. The river had a sweaty gleam to it, more like skin than water. Billy had hoped Amanda might still be sunbathing in the garden, but when they got to Raymond’s house she’d gone indoors. On his way home, Billy ate some grass to disguise the smell of alcohol, and Mrs. Parks, their neighbour, saw him do it. He’d felt bad about the break-in. At least he hadn’t taken any of the money, though.

When Billy reached A and E, Sue was sitting on a chair with a copy of the
News of the World
lying unopened on her lap. Inwardly, he was already groaning. What had happened this time? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait till morning?

As soon as she saw him, she stood up, the newspaper splashing to the floor.

“What is it, Sue?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

He watched her pick up the paper and put it on a small formica table. Looking away, he caught the eye of a constable stationed by the entrance. The man’s expression was one of mild commiseration.

Billy turned back to Sue. “How did you get here?” he said. “Where’s Emma?” He stepped past Sue and peered through the glass door, as if his daughter might be out there somewhere, in the dark. She could never be left alone, not even for a moment. She was always wandering off. She had no sense.

“She’s asleep,” Sue said. “Jan came over.”

Janet Crook lived two doors down, next to the Gibsons. Her husband had left her three years ago. There had been talk of a younger woman.

“I borrowed Jan’s car,” Sue said.

Billy was aware that both the constable and the two volunteers behind reception were listening to their conversation, though they were pretending not to.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

His arm round Sue’s shoulders, he ushered her through the sliding door. Reporters instantly closed in, their faces blank, insistent, and Billy had to remind himself of one of Phil Shaw’s directives: as regards the press, he should do his best to be patient and friendly.

“Could you leave us alone, please?” Billy said. “This is a private matter.” He spoke more bluntly than he’d intended to, but his annoyance had spread rapidly and would now, he felt, include almost anyone he came across.

He walked Sue to the left, past the locked main entrance, then down the slope towards the building where the nurses lived. They found a picnic table set in among some trees and sat down side by side, facing out, like people on a bus. Though there was no moon, the tree-trunks glinted. Silver birches. He stared upwards through a tangle of bare branches. The yellow car-park lights made the pieces of sky that were visible look blue.

“Do you love me, Billy?”

Billy sighed. “Is that what you drove out here for?” Leaning forwards, with his elbows on his knees, he looked straight ahead. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for this. “For God’s sake, Sue, I’m working.”

“I was worried,” she said. “I don’t know. I just got worried.” Lines appeared on her forehead. “Will we be all right, do you think?”

His voice softened a little. “Of course we will.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it seems so difficult.”

“I know,” he said. “I know it does.”

“Maybe we could go away for a bit.”

“You mean a holiday?”

“We could get a ferry over to Holland. We could drive around like we used to—stay in places…”

He lifted his head again and looked at the silver birches, the bark peeling back in delicate scrolls to reveal dark patches underneath.
We could drive around.
With Emma, though? In late November? Sue’s wishes were becoming more and more fanciful. It was as if, in having failed to take her to India or Thailand when she was young, in having persuaded her into a different life, one that was more pedestrian, he had accrued a debt. The tasks she set him now would be harder to fulfil—and yet he owed it to her, didn’t he, to try?

“I’ll be home in the morning,” he said. “We’ll talk about it then.”

Sue was reaching into her pocket. “I nearly forgot.” She took out a black stone on a thin leather cord and passed it to him. He held it in the palm of his hand. The stone gave off a dull, dark gleam, but seemed oddly difficult to see. Like a piece of the night itself. “It’s jet,” she said. “It will protect you.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Wear it. You can put it round your neck, under your uniform.” She smiled at him. “No one will know it’s there.”

“All right.” He passed the cord over his head.

“It doesn’t absorb the bad things,” Sue said, “it repels them. It doesn’t let them get too close.”

“OK,” he said.

As he tucked the stone down inside his collar, he was reminded of something he had read about the early years of the woman’s imprisonment, in Holloway. Apparently, the guards used to argue over who was going to take her meals in to her. No one wanted to do it. They didn’t like the idea of being near her. They weren’t physically afraid of her; the fear was spiritual.

“One more thing.” Sue brought a second stone out of her pocket. “You’ll need to carry this as well.”

He took it from her. It was lighter in colour, and much smoother. More pleasing. “What’s this one?”

“Celestine. It complements the jet. It will put you in touch with the purest part of yourself.”

He slipped the crystal into his breast pocket. “I hope you haven’t got any more,” he said. “I’ll never be able to get up off this bench otherwise.”

“No,” she said, almost jaunty now, “that’s it.”

He checked his watch. “You should get back, or Jan will worry.” He took his mobile out. “Why don’t you give her a call and let her know you’re on your way?” Punching in the number, he handed her the phone. The moment she said, “Jan? It’s me,” he stopped listening.

The wind picked up; trees shifted overhead. He thought about the guards, and how they were believed, at times, to have drawn lots outside the woman’s cell. He wondered what they’d used. Matches, perhaps—or keys. Yes, keys. And the tray set down on the floor, the food going cold…Had the woman known what effect she’d had on those around her? What would it be like to know that?

Once Sue had finished with the phone, he walked her back to Janet’s car. Even in the short time it had been standing there, condensation had formed on all the windows, and he went round with a packet of tissues, making sure that Sue would be able to see out. Ever since her accident, he worried when she got behind the wheel. She had crashed into the playground wall at Emma’s school, knocking down a twenty-foot section, the car rolling over and then sliding, upside-down, on to the road again. Only when he saw the car the next day, in the scrapyard, its roof savagely gouged and crushed almost to the level of the steering-column, did he realise how lucky she had been, not just to have escaped uninjured, but to have survived at all.

“Take care on the road,” Billy said. “I should be home around eight.”

She looked up at him through the half-open window, her lips black in the dim light. “Sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said, then her face seemed to clear and she gave him a mischievous grin. “At least I can still surprise you.”

“I love you,” he said. “Drive carefully.”

He watched the tail-lights until they disappeared behind the trees, then started back towards the hospital. He had been firm with her. At the same time, he had tried to tell her what she needed to hear, and she had gone away happier. But he should take her somewhere. She had a birthday coming up. Maybe then.

Will we be all right?

There are things you don’t forget. You can’t wipe them out, or pretend they never happened. You wish you could, though. God, how you wish you could. Some of them seem fairly innocuous, and yet they stick—Newman’s jibe about him lacking commitment, for instance—but others take place at the very centre of your life and alter every atom, every thought. Like the spring evening when he held his baby daughter’s hand for the first time.

Looking at her tiny red palm, he noticed a line that ran across it from one side to the other. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but he knew enough to suspect it wasn’t normal. Then the doctor told them.

A slow smile spread over Sue’s face. “Oh, that’s a shame,” she murmured. “What a shame.”

Almost before he was aware of it, Billy had risen to his feet and turned away.
How can you be so fucking stupid?
Sue, he meant. And for a moment he was afraid that he had said the words out loud. Just to have had the thought was shocking enough, though, and he stared blindly into the corner of the room. He was feeling so many things at once. Most of all, he wanted desperately to be somewhere else. A pub where no one would talk to him, or even realise that he was there. A pub where he wasn’t a regular.

“Billy?” The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder.

The air blurring around him, Billy muttered “toilet,” then he left the room.

But he hurried straight past the toilet and down the stairs. One flight, then another, legs chattering like teeth. A wonder he could walk at all. He didn’t stop until he reached the road outside the hospital. He stood on the kerb; a cold wind cut through his shirt. April the 4th. He looked at the brown sky and saw a plane up there, bits of cloud sucked into its landing lights like flung rags. He could hear the uneven rumble of the engines. “Don’t let this happen,” he was whispering to himself. “Oh God, don’t let it happen.”

He was behaving as if it were all just a remote possibility. He was acting as though he had a choice. But the world had already made up its mind.
Here. This is yours.
He was thirty-seven, almost thirty-eight. Sue was thirty. They’d been trying to have a baby for years.

A bus went past, its wheels surging through a deep puddle. Dirty water splashed across his trousers. Standing at the edge of the main road, he watched the water dripping off him and began to laugh.

When he walked back into the delivery room, he made sure there was a smile on his face.

“That’s better,” he said.

He leaned over Sue and kissed her. Her forehead was clammy, sour.

The doctor spoke about the baby’s heart. Billy kept on smiling. It was as if he were being photographed. Not just once, though. Again and again.

During the days that followed—and they were long days, the longest he had ever known—he thought that it was all his fault. There was something not quite right about him. A lack of clarity or definition. He locked the bathroom door and put his face close to the mirror. He studied himself for minutes on end, trying to catch a glimpse of it. The weakness, the ugliness. The fatal flaw. It must always have been there, he thought. Other people had seen it, perhaps. If they had, they’d said nothing: it wasn’t the kind of thing you could talk about. It had taken the birth of a child to establish it beyond all doubt. To bring it out into the open.

After a while, though, the blame spread sideways, and he began to see the damaged baby as a verdict on their marriage. They couldn’t have been intended for each other. They had made a terrible mistake. They’d flown in the face of nature. The sense of familiarity that he had felt at the outset had been a trick after all, a trap, and he had walked right into it, fool that he was. Or perhaps he was being punished for all the things that he had done and hadn’t done…He would wake in the night, and the heat coming off him was unbelievable. On his side of the bed, the sheets would be soaked through.

It was Sue who put an end to these morbid imaginings. Not that she said anything. No, it was all in her manner, her behaviour: the way she knuckled down.
We’ve been chosen to look after this little girl,
she seemed to be telling him,
so we might as well get on with it.
This was a side of Sue he hadn’t seen before, this practicality, this grit. Full of admiration, humbled by her, in fact, he began to try and follow her example. Still, there were times when he wished it was just a bad dream and he could wake up and it would all be over. No baby—or a different baby. A baby that was ordinary, not special.
Oh Billy, Billy,
he would whisper to himself in some damp church.

During this time, he became more than usually sensitive to his surroundings, and everything he noticed appeared to be commenting on his predicament, not only songs on the radio, but newspaper headlines, fragments of overheard conversation, even the names of racehorses. It was, ironically, like being in love. Once, scrawled on a wall in a nightclub toilet, he saw a piece of graffiti that said simply lamentations 3:7. Lamentations—well, that, too, was obviously for him. The word was enough in itself, but when he got home he couldn’t resist looking up the reference.
He hath fenced me about, that I cannot go forth; he hath made my chain heavy.

He was determined not to leave, though. He didn’t want to do what his father had done, even if it was in his blood. He had felt the urge, not in the delivery room, but on the road outside the hospital. To run, and keep on running. To hide. To die, even. Every muscle in his body braced for flight. But he remembered the promises that he had made. For better or for worse.

For worse, he thought.

He had drawn the short straw. The chickens had come home to roost. It was a bitter pill to swallow. There were a hundred little phrases to describe him now, and none of them were cheerful.

What he dreaded most were visitors. The way they went all soft and holy when they saw the child. Fake soft, though. Fake holy. And the way they looked at him—with sympathy, or with a kind of heartiness, as if they wanted to jolly him along. He knew it was difficult for them, but he just couldn’t take it. He told black jokes—the blacker, the better—and watched their body language change. They weren’t sure whether to laugh or disapprove.
It’s all right for you,
he wanted to shout, his spit landing on their faces.
You don’t have to live with it.

What a relief when Neil Batty came to stay. Neil waited until Sue had left the room, then he turned to Billy and said, “Well, this is a right fucking mess, isn’t it?” He could have hugged Neil for that. Neil who had joined the force at the same time as he had. Neil who had been his best man the year before…