My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (14 page)

She checked her watch as Coker looked round at the
coughing guard, aware that they had just fifteen minutes of access time left and that this woman might be their final chance to glean some useful information about Sam. Compared to their earlier interviewees, Jean Coker was Reid’s only suggestion of someone Philips might have trusted, to however small a degree.

Hawkins watched her flick ash in the tray. ‘Sam was mixed up in some fighting a while back, and we’d like to know who was involved.’

Coker’s brow contracted, and she was silent for a moment before she asked, ‘Why?’

‘We’re investigating how she was treated during her time in Holloway.’

Mischief flickered in Coker’s expression. ‘Bollocks.’

Hawkins didn’t reply.

‘She’s fucked off,’ Coker said. ‘Hasn’t she? That’s why you’re here.’ She jabbed her cigarette at them in turn. ‘You, Miss Pakistan and the counsellor. Either she’s cracked another skull or she’s given your parole monkeys the slip, and you want to know where she’s gone. So which is it?’

Hawkins sighed internally. The other convicts they’d spoken to already had all been intellectually limited enough to answer questions without firing any back, all more concerned about being in line for a reduced sentence than why they were being asked. But that tactic wouldn’t work here.

‘She hasn’t disappeared.’ Hawkins clung to her strategy. ‘We know exactly where she is.’

Coker frowned. ‘What is it, then?’ She looked around from face to face. ‘Come on. You lot ain’t interested in that fair-treatment crap. You wouldn’t be here unless something big had happened, and you think I know stuff about Sam that’ll help you sort it out.’

Hawkins ignored her prompt. ‘Apparently, she took a pasting not long before she was released. We want to know who did it and why. Forget about us; you’ll be helping Sam.’

‘Nice try, darling’ – Coker leaned back in her chair and winked at Reid – ‘but I don’t feel like talking at the moment. And, by my calculations, you’ve had about nineteen of the thirty minutes you’re allowed to keep me in here, so if you want some decent answers you better tell it straight.’

Hawkins conceded; they’d get nothing from this woman unless they levelled with her. And, she reasoned, Coker would learn of Philips’ murder as soon as she was released from solitary confinement anyway. So there wasn’t much to lose.

She left a long, thoughtful pause, catching Coker’s eye before she spoke again, purposely composing her short, incendiary phrase.

‘Sam’s dead.’

The cigarette between Coker’s lips dropped slightly at Hawkins’ statement, and for the briefest moment her swagger faltered, revealing a mother hen who couldn’t usually afford to show her softer side.

Coker stared at her. ‘What?’

‘Sam was murdered,’ Hawkins said. ‘Two days ago.’

‘That’s what I thought you said.’ The convict’s eyes dropped. ‘Fuck.’

Hawkins continued. ‘Now you know. So who had reason to hurt her?’

Coker slowly rested her hands back on the table, apparently no longer interested in the diminishing cigarette. ‘How’d they do it?’

‘Blow to the temple. A hammer, we think. She died instantly.’

The convict nodded.

‘Help us out here, Jean.’ Hawkins watched their subject closely. ‘Who had a problem with Sam? It wouldn’t have to be anyone obvious; maybe somebody she only mentioned in passing.’

Coker shrugged.

‘Someone with contacts on the outside,’ Hawkins pushed. ‘Or cash.’

Silence.

‘You’ll be doing Sam a favour.’

Coker’s head rose suddenly. ‘You ain’t listening to me, darling. I don’t fucking know, okay? I liked her. Why would I lie?’

Hawkins leaned closer. ‘What was she fighting about?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Everyone fights in here, all the time; that’s how it is.’

‘Who else was involved?’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Coker rubbed the backs of her thumbs against her forehead in apparent frustration. ‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘What about gangs? Was she a member?’

‘This ain’t a fucking library.’ The convict stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Far as I could tell, she stayed clear.’

‘You must know why she didn’t get involved with the gangs. I hear it’s the best way to survive.’

‘It is,’ Coker said, ‘but Sam had no time for all that. You know, properly didn’t give a shit. I know it don’t make sense to you people, but that can happen to the girls who’ve done the worst stuff; killing or abusing or whatever. Lights were on, but no one was home. Sam did what she was told, just about, but she never went out of her way to stay the right side of anyone.’

Hawkins nodded. Frustrating as it was, Coker’s words only confirmed what other inmates had already said. Samantha Philips had been as reckless in prison as she had on the outside. Anyone capable of cold-blooded murder, regardless of their reasons for it, spent very little time worrying about what was best for them in the long run, which meant Sam wouldn’t have cared about upsetting the undesirables she’d encountered on a daily basis here in Holloway. But reputation was often more important to the discerning criminal in jail than it was on the outside, and if Philips had upset the wrong person, she might have been marked at any point during her sentence. The list of potential contractors for the hit would be long.

If the fight in which Philips sustained her injuries had been a failed attempt on her life – and especially if she’d come off better than her assailant – that might explain why the instigator had waited for Sam to be released before exacting revenge via proxy.

Granted, the number of prisoners with opportunity and resources sufficient to contract out such a hit would be limited, but Hawkins would have to rebook with the prison and come back another day in order to speak with any of them. That type of operation was labour intensive and, considering that they had other lines of inquiry to pursue, it was probably best left for now.

Hawkins ended the session, resigned to the fact that they’d learned everything they were going to learn from this inmate about Sam, and also wary of breaching the allowed interview time. That sort of thing might lead to inconvenience later on, should certain convicts see potential for crying harassment in court.

Pierce Reid passed Hawkins a business card before exiting with the two guards and Coker, who collected her newly acquired cigarettes on the way out. The door closed, leaving the two detectives alone in the small room.

‘Well,’ Yasir said after a moment, ‘that went pretty well.’

Hawkins ran a hand through her hair, fighting exasperation. Amala’s boundless enthusiasm, not to mention her unshakeable faith in her chief inspector,
was invaluable in some situations, woefully misplaced in others. ‘ “Pretty well” is stretching it.’

‘You extracted vital information,’ Yasir ploughed on, ‘from a difficult source.’

Hawkins shot her a look. ‘If that’s the best we can do, Amala, we’re in trouble.’

She nodded towards the door, indicating that it was time to go, ignoring the confounded expression on the sergeant’s face. Despite an intense day of prising open her past, Samantha Philips remained a mystery.

25

The stranger approached in broken, disjointed jumps, the way something appears when it moves under thick ice. A flicker, then a jerk, then a second of smooth progress. The man was heading straight for Bull, but it was hard to judge his size and weight. Or his intent.

Don’t get caught out.

Bull slowed; they were less than ten yards apart. He sniffed hard, trying to taste the freezing air as it entered his body.

He swallowed as the gap disappeared, telling himself not to reach for the wall that was right next to him, or a memory from eight years ago.

He’s not your enemy.

And suddenly the stranger was there. Beside him. Bull flinched, but only inside. The stranger had stepped off the pavement to give him space, even appeared to nod as he passed. Bull didn’t respond, and his guts stayed twisted for a long time afterwards.

He was outside,
in public
, and the glitch his eyes developed during daylight was worse than ever. Everything looked wrong. He would have been used to it by now, except it kept changing. Today, objects that should
have been distant sprang out, while a hand held in front of his face seemed far away. Sounds were confusing, shapes messed up, his breathing loud in his ears.

But none of it was real.

That’s why he kept on dragging himself out here, during the day. Stumbling around, confused.

Looking for normality.

Bull dug his hands in his pockets. The coat was heavy and warm. Too warm: but he wore it because it was three below zero. Otherwise, people stared.

Check out the guy in the T-shirt.

He hadn’t felt anything as ordinary as temperature since the day he came home.

He turned a corner, seeing his destination.
Not far now.
But he noticed the truck as it entered the road up ahead. His pulse leapt, and sweat broke out on his skin. He focused hard, picking out the bright colours, the brushes underneath. It was sweeping the streets.

Nothing more.

But the noise triggered memories, their static ringing in his ears.

He gagged, sensing the hardness of the wall as he fell against it, just managing to right himself. His senses turned inside out, the flashbacks burning his mind, but he kept going, head down. There was the gate.

He reached out, relieved to feel the metal, distant under his palm, as he pushed through to safety, a rapid heartbeat filling his brain. He’d made it.

It took a minute longer for the panic to ease, but when he was calm enough to look around he saw empty paths both sides in the place he came to right his mind.

The park.

It was a short walk from his house, although recently even that distance felt like miles, thanks to his fucked-up mind. But that’s why he kept coming back: to fight the damage done by his past. There was calm and beauty here; happy people, kids. He needed that stuff in his head. If he gave in, let himself turn towards home, terror won.

Bull read stories on the internet about others like him, who needed help even leaving the house once they were free. They didn’t eat or sleep; they just wasted away. But he wouldn’t end up like that. Every day he forced himself to eat, though it didn’t matter what. His sense of taste, even for the hottest spices, had gone. Then he came to the park.

To think a nice thought.

That was the plan, and he had to stick to it. Holding on to the smallest shred of innocence would stop evil owning him.

Because, if that happened, he really was fucked.

He checked his breathing. It was almost back to normal, so he moved away, heading deeper into the park. Soon he reached the playground, his usual bench just outside. His timing was good. Two kids, maybe brother and sister, were playing together on the slide, while Mum watched them from a seat next to the swings. She was smoking, but that was okay. Not
evil
, just bad.

He focused on the kids.

The boy was about five, with lots of energy and hair. He wore a puffy red jacket and one glove. The girl was younger, maybe three, and she kept wiping her nose on the fluffy sleeve of her pink duffel coat. She had trouble keeping up with her brother on the steps, down the slide, and back around. The boy kept catching up and passing her on the way to the stairs, using the slide twice as often as her. But both kids were enjoying the game, shouting at Mum to watch when they got to the top, laughing as they slid down.

Bull shut his eyes and concentrated, letting the sounds echo in his head, build into a positive thought. Yesterday had been hard. It had rained. There had been no kids, and the time of year meant no flowers in the beds. But he’d managed a nice thought then, about the morning his parents had taken him to the zoo on his eighth birthday, and he could feel another good memory building now.

The girl screamed.

Bull’s eyes flashed open and he saw her lying on the ground by the slide. Her brother was on the steps above, looking down. Then he laughed and began to climb, ignoring his mother’s shouts as she rushed to her daughter.

He knew what had happened. The boy had caught her on the ladder, wanted her out of the way.

Bull buried his head in his hands, feeling the positive thought die. Evil took hold, even here, with
kids
. It tore
people apart, causing pain that would stay with these children for ever.

He couldn’t stand it.

He stood, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Suddenly he was holding something inside his coat. The hammer. What was it doing here? He hadn’t meant to bring it. No one in the park deserved to die. His mind was crashing, but he knew what to do.

He stumbled off along the path, hoping that he was going the right way. Still the girl’s cries reached him. Then a familiar voice drowned them out.

‘
What’s wrong with you, boy?
’ it screamed. ‘
Don’t you see, this is how the world is? We’re all evil. You, me, everyone. Man up.
’

Bull kept his head down; moved on. The voice wasn’t there;
couldn’t
be.

‘
Don’t ignore me!
’ it shouted. ‘
I’ll end you!
’

The voice was so clear, so real.

He brought his head up and looked around. No one was there, but he caught sight of another man approaching, his shape swimming in Bull’s messed-up sight.

‘
That man’s a fucking rapist!
’ The voice yelled. ‘
Take him out!
’

Bull veered away.

‘
Drop him. Now!
’

Bull fought on, past the man, letting him go. He saw the toilets up ahead. Had to get there.

He reached the doorway, bursting through into the
cold, stone block. He scanned the room, shattered vision moving past open cubicle doors thick with graffiti. But no one was there.

‘
What are you doing, chump?
’

Bull found an empty section of wall and lined himself up. His guard came up, fists clenching, and he drove a punch into the tiles. The ceramic cracked.