The Blissfully Dead (36 page)

Chapter 60
Day 15 – Patrick

P
atrick parked outside Mervyn’s house and pressed the buzzer. The gates clicked open and Hammond’s voice crackled, very faintly, over the intercom: ‘I’m in the old barn.’

It was a miserable afternoon – the air cold and damp, the kind of weather that penetrates the skin and seeps through to the soul. Patrick headed towards the barn and knocked on the barn door. Mervyn called, ‘Come in.’

The light was poor in the barn, gloomy, filled with shadows. There was a distinctive smell in the room: petrol. Patrick clocked the model railway that filled almost all the floor space, three
locomotives
gliding slowly around the network of tracks, the
little
houses. There was something off about the display and it took
Patrick
a moment to notice what it was. All of the tiny figures – the passengers at the plastic stations, the conductors and guards and engineers, the trainspotters – were lying down.

‘Mr Hammond?’ he called.

‘I’m round here.’

Something was very wrong here. Patrick walked slowly around the edge of the model railway, noticing a small group of plastic female figures, four of them, lying at the edge of the display. They had been doused with red paint, like they were lying in a pool of blood. And another female figure stood close to them, gazing down on them.

Patrick stepped around the corner and froze.

Hammond was tied to a chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, ankles tied with rope to the legs of the wooden chair. He was dripping wet and, sniffing, Patrick realised immediately that the liquid that soaked Hammond’s clothes and hair was not water.

It was the petrol he’d smelled when he’d entered the barn.

Hammond looked up at Patrick, a desperate look on his face. He was pale, shivering, suddenly appearing twenty years older, an old, frightened man. ‘You need to do what he says,’ Hammond whispered.

Graham stepped out of the shadows. In his hand he held a large box of matches, the kind used by chefs.

‘Do you have a weapon?’ Graham asked in a calm voice. He was dishevelled, his hair sticking up in tufts, stubble darkening his face. He looked like he’d slept rough and Patrick guessed he’d walked all the way out here, knowing the police would be looking for his car.

Patrick shook his head. ‘No, Graham. Why don’t you put down the matches? Then we can talk.’

A small smile. ‘No, we’re going to talk anyway.’ He coughed. ‘You think I’m a murderer, don’t you?’

Patrick didn’t respond. He waited.

Graham pointed a finger at him and Patrick noticed that it was shaking, his body betraying his nerves, the tension. ‘I’m not a murderer. Not a criminal. I killed those girls, sure, but it was justice.’

‘Because of Melanie,’ Patrick said gently.

‘Yes! Those bitches
. . .
those fucking little bitches murdered
her
.’

‘She killed herself, Graham. I understand how hurt you must have been. Your friend.’

‘She was more than my friend! She was my soulmate’ – he laughed crazily – ‘my whole
world
. I promised her that I’d always protect her.’

‘You didn’t do a very good job, did you?’ Mervyn said.

Graham swung around, pulling a match from the box. Mervyn shrank away. ‘It wasn’t my fault. She didn’t
. . .
She never told me what was happening.’

Guilt. That was what was driving this, Patrick realised.
Graham
knew he should have been aware of what was happening on the forum that he managed. He wondered if there was more to it, if Melanie had only been into OnTarget because her boyfriend worked for them.

‘It was those little bitches’ fault,’ Graham hissed, turning back to Patrick. ‘The things they said about her
. . .
She was so sensitive, so vulnerable. She couldn’t take it. She was a beautiful person. I looked out for her at St Mary’s. And afterwards, I always kept in touch with her, helped her, even when
. . .
even though we couldn’t be together anymore.’

‘Why not?’ Patrick asked in a soft voice. ‘Why couldn’t you be together?’

‘Because she didn’t want me anymore. She wanted them. Those fucking . . .’ He breathed deeply. ‘OnTarget. She retreated into a fantasy world, thought that Shawn and the others were in love with her, that they were going to save her. Suddenly, I wasn’t good enough anymore. I stopped going to see her for a while. It all seemed so cruel. It was me who got her into OnTarget. Me who was supposed to run the forums she was so interested in, that she spent all her time on. I didn’t look at any of her posts on the forum for weeks because it made me feel too sick, knowing she was on there talking about her new great loves.’

Patrick was surprised. After talking to the staff at St Mary’s he had assumed that the love between Graham and Melanie had been one-way: the boy who longed to be wanted loving the
attention
he got from the vulnerable girl who worshipped him. But it seemed that Graham loved Melanie too. It made sense. Graham had been abandoned, thrown into the care system. He had been
vulnerable too.

But that didn’t mean Patrick felt sympathy for him.

‘You tried to frame Shawn, didn’t you?’ Patrick said. ‘Asked Hattie to tell me about him and that Irish girl.’

Graham didn’t reply. He just smiled slyly.

‘And then you tried to frame Mervyn, leaving the underwear at his house, calling us.’

Another smile.

Burns still hadn’t told Patrick what he wanted and why he had brought him here.

‘Let’s talk,’ Patrick said. ‘Tell me how I can help you.’

Graham gathered himself, but still held the match between his trembling fingers. ‘I want the true story made public,’ he said. ‘My side of the story. Melanie’s story. I need him to call his friends in the press, make it happen. I want a full interview, front pages, my words with no censorship. I want the world to know that Mel
anie – t
he real Melanie, the one who loved me – was pure and innocent, and that I was only granting her dying wish: retribution against the bitches who killed her. Justice. Melanie’s soul is in
torment
right now. I can
feel
it. I thought that the only way Mel could find bliss in death would be for her tormentors to suffer and die. But if that can’t happen, if one of them lives, then the only way to stop her suffering is to make sure the world knows the truth.’

‘I can do that,’ Mervyn said. ‘Just give me my phone back and I’ll call the editor of
The Sun
right now.’

‘But why do you want me here?’ Patrick asked, having a horrible feeling he knew what Graham was going to say.

‘You’re going to vouch for me, back up my story. Speak to the journalists, tell them I’m not guilty of any crime. You need to tell them I did
the right thing
.’ He shouted the final words, his face
contorted
. ‘And you need to arrest Chloe Hedges for murder.’

Patrick kept his voice even, neutral. ‘I can’t do that, Graham.’

Graham took a step towards Hammond and placed the head of the match against the side of the box.

Hammond struggled on the chair, rocking from side to side, almost tipping it over. Patrick moved towards Graham slowly. Could he grab him before he struck the match? It was too risky.
Better
to talk. It seemed pretty clear that Graham hadn’t thought this through. Not unless he planned to keep them here all day
and night until he saw a copy of the next morning’s newspap
er. A
nd
how was Patrick supposed to arrest Chloe, while he was stuck in a barn full of petrol?

‘Graham,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘We can get you help. Maybe
. . .
maybe we can help organise a memorial for Melanie. Set up a foundation in her name against Internet bullying. Whatever you want. But Chloe Hedges is innocent, just like Melanie was. And what about Nancy Marr? You killed her too, didn’t you?’

Graham’s eyes flashed. Did he think he’d got away with that one?

‘What happened, Graham? Did she find Melanie’s body? And the suicide note?’

The other man clenched his jaw.

‘And you decided on the spot to kill Nancy because you didn’t want anyone to know why Melanie had committed suicide, so you could get revenge without anyone seeing the connection between the victims?’

Graham’s silence told Patrick his theory was correct.

‘And you practised your torture method on her . . .’

‘She told me it was my fault!’ Graham yelled. ‘That I should have been keeping an eye on Melanie, should have known what was going on. She was an interfering old bitch, just like all the interfering bitches at St Mary’s!’ Spittle sprayed from his lips. ‘I’m sick of this!’ he roared and it was as if something snapped in his head, the final thread of self-control. He loomed towards Mervyn.

‘Don’t do this, you’re my son!’ Mervyn yelled.

Graham stopped, the unstruck match only inches from Mervyn’s skin. Patrick was terrified the petrol fumes would ignite. He couldn’t wait. While Graham was momentarily distracted,
Patrick
launched himself at him, knocking him down, both of them falling to the ground, which was slick with petrol. Graham jumped to his feet and as Patrick tried to stand he slipped and fell to his knees. Graham stepped forwards and kicked Patrick in the face, the explosion of pain sending him reeling.

‘You’re lying,’ Graham said, producing another match from the box. ‘Always lying. It’s what you do for a living.’

Patrick sat up. His clothes and hands were covered with petrol. Graham was holding the match but was shaking so hard now that he couldn’t strike it, cursing and muttering with frustration while Hammond begged him not to do it.

Patrick needed to get Graham away from Mervyn.

He stood up. ‘Your girlfriend deserved to die,’ he said.

Graham’s head whipped round towards Patrick, mouth opening, eyes flashing with shock.

‘She bullied those girls – Chloe and Jade and Rose and Jess. She got what was coming to her.’

‘Don’t. Say. That.’

‘I’ll say what I like, Graham. I don’t give a toss if you turn Mervyn here into a human flambé. He’s a scumbag. Go ahead, torch him. Do the world a favour. But after you do I’m going to tell the whole world what Melanie was really like – a girl in her twenties who was obsessed with a fucking boy band. An ugly, weird freak.’

‘Shut up!’ Graham screamed, running at Patrick, who sidestepped, leaving a leg trailing so Graham tripped and fell hard to the floor. As he pushed himself up, Patrick moved past him towards the door, drawing Graham farther away from Mervyn. The PR man was out of sight now, around the edge of the model railway, but Patrick could hear him sobbing.

‘I bet all that stuff on her Facebook page was true. About how she liked shagging dogs . . .’

Graham threw himself at Patrick, his face twisted with fury, and Patrick braced himself, ready to fight. But then Graham stopped.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

He smiled like he was oh so clever and pulled another match from the box, turning to walk back towards Mervyn.

He struck the match.

The flame shot up his petrol-soaked arm. Patrick jumped away from him and Graham screamed, pulling open his jacket, popping the buttons and throwing it to the floor just as the flames rippled across the entire garment, consuming it. Patrick held his breath, convinced the fire would spread, that he and Graham had left a trail of petrol droplets across the floor. But the jacket blazed in
isolation
, for the moment at least. Patrick looked around frantically and
spotted
a bottle of mineral water on the model railway’s control panel. Snatching it up, he doused the remaining flames.

Graham was making a terrible noise, breaths coming quick and shallow. He held up his arm, his face contorted with agony. The fire had eaten through the sleeve before he’d torn off the jacket and his arm was black and pink. Patrick could smell burning meat.

‘Help me. Please.’

Patrick grabbed hold of Graham’s other arm and yanked him towards the exit, pulling him out into the open air. But Graham broke free. Patrick chased after him, but realising Graham was heading towards the fish pond, he slowed to a walk.

There was a part of Patrick, a dark part, that wished Graham Burns
’
s whole body had been wet with petrol, not just his arm, that the flames had engulfed him. That Graham had died in unspeakable pain, his punishment for what he’d done, the torture he’d inflicted on those girls, the lives he’d ended prematurely, including Wendy’s.

Especially Wendy’s.

Instead, Graham would go to prison, or a secure hospital, the kind of place they sent the criminally insane, and he would probably spend the rest of his life there, living and breathing, fed and looked after. Graham talked about justice, but the justice he believed in was an eye for an eye. Not justice, but vengeance.

We’re better than that
, Patrick thought as he strode after
Graham
, watched him plunge his arm into the cold water of the carp pond, up to the elbow. Graham lay still on his front, his arm hanging in the water, his cheek against the concrete. His face appeared to
glisten
with tears, but perhaps it was only water from the pond.

Patrick took out his phone and called Carmella.

‘We’ve got him,’ he said. ‘I need back-up and an ambulance.’ He sniffed the arm of his jacket, could feel the petrol soaking through to his skin. ‘And a change of clothes.’

He sat on the damp lawn, realising he ought to go back and release Mervyn, but he wasn’t going to let Graham out of his sight this time. He took his e-cigarette out of his jacket pocket and took a long drag, watching Graham and feeling thankful that he didn’t smoke real cigarettes anymore.

Epilogue

It was the third encore, ‘Boys Don’t Cry’, and Patrick sneaked a look at his wife, standing beside him, mouthing the words along with the singer on stage. She looked about eighteen, with her long hair tied back and minimal make-up, the heat and excitement giving her cheeks a pink flush.

‘My God,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘I haven’t seen you smile like that for years!’

In reply, she slipped an arm around his waist and hugged him. He’d almost forgotten how much of a Cure fan she was too, how that was the first thing that had bonded them all those years ago when they met.

It had been in the function room of a pub down by the river in Hammersmith, a mutual friend’s thirtieth birthday party. Pat had turned up not knowing anyone except the birthday girl’s fiancé, and he’d been on the verge of going home again when suddenly ‘Just Like Heaven’ came on over the PA and Gill, sitting at a table nearby with a bunch of mates, had started to sing along, her lips moving in perfect synch with every syllable an
d phrase.

Patrick hadn’t wanted to go home again after that. And when he did, eventually, it was with Gill on his arm, and they’d been almost inseparable from that point on. Until . . .

Well, no need to think about that. Not tonight, he thought, with Bonnie safe on a sleepover with his mum and dad, a nice three-pint beer buzz on, his wife’s arm around his waist and his idol, Robert Smith, on stage.

It had been a tough month, one of the toughest, especially Wendy’s funeral last week. Patrick and Suzanne had driven up to
Wolverhampton
together to represent the MIT, their faces rigid with the effort of not displaying the emotion they felt, surrounded by Wendy’s weeping family and friends. It seemed unthinkable that Wendy was no longer on the planet, her chirpy presence and eager voice gone forever – particularly because Pat felt so responsible. Suzanne had been great – quietly supportive, surreptitiously putting a hand on his arm during the funeral when she felt that he was about to lose it – and he had been grateful to her.

He’d been anxious about spending so much time with her that day, just the two of them, but the gravitas of the situation had instantly and utterly expunged any hint of romance. Suzanne had been warm and kind, but, to both their unspoken surprise, there hadn’t been a trace of flirtation or any of their prior longing glances. Perhaps Wendy’s death was the stopper that had crammed that particular genie firmly back in its bottle before it escaped
altogether
.

It was a relief. Patrick hadn’t realised how much added pressure it had been putting on him, the possibility of something
happening
between him and Suzanne, and the inevitable nightmarish
ramifications
of it.
Keep it simple, stupid
, he muttered to himself. That would be his mantra from now on. ‘Simple’ was the simplicity of the
family
unit, the absence of choice, the embrace of
commitment
. Him and Gill and Bonnie; that was all that mattered.

At least that’s what he’d thought until Suzanne texted him halfway through the gig. He pulled out his phone and surreptitiously read the message:

HOPE YOU’RE LOVING THE GIG. YOU DESERVE A BIT OF FUN! MISS YOU. SX

Miss you?
He deleted the text without replying, but he could not delete the feeling that it left inside his head and in his heart. She had never said anything so overt to him before, and he felt a flash of anger at her choosing to do so now.

He would still ‘keep it simple’, he decided – but those few words on his phone’s screen made him aware of how difficult it would continue to be. You couldn’t just switch off your feelings for someone, no matter what the circumstances were.

He tried to look at the positives. At least he still had a family, a career, his life – unlike Wendy, who had nothing and who’d been killed for nothing.

Patrick felt again the sting of how senseless her death had been. DI Strong’s team, working with the Global Sounds IT department, had traced a deleted conversation between Wendy and Graham, posing as a user called Mockingjay365. Graham had clearly been worried that Wendy had found out something that would get him arrested, but in reality Wendy’s theory didn’t exist. Graham had had no reason, even following his own twisted logic, to kill her.

It was a sickening waste. And Patrick would always feel partially responsible.

The final triumphant guitar chord of ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ rang out and the band bowed and smiled through the cheers.

The house lights came up and the crowd started shuffling out, streaming down stairs and through the venue’s reception, ready to do battle with the knock-off merchandise sellers and overcrowded Tube trains.

‘Best birthday present ever!’ Pat said as they pushed through to the exit. ‘Thanks, angel, I loved it.’

‘I could tell!’ Gill laughed, and kissed his cheek. ‘So did I.’

They were almost at the door when someone caught Patrick’s arm. ‘Mate!’ said a man. The man was young, muscular and very familiar-looking, although Patrick couldn’t place him. The fact that he wore mirror shades and a huge woollen fashion-victim cap did
n’t help.

Patrick and Gill stopped, jostled on all sides by the departing crowd. ‘Yes?’ Patrick said suspiciously.

The man lowered his shades and flashed a smile at him. ‘It’s me – Shawn.’

Gill made a strange sound in her throat and started subconsciously fiddling with her hair. She’d recognised him before even Patrick had.

‘Shawn
Barrett,
’ he hissed. ‘Sorry about the shades, but you know . . .’

Patrick raised his eyebrows. Shawn Barrett. He remembered
then that Shawn was a Cure fan too, via his grandfather.
His
grandfather
, for fuck’s sake!
he thought.

‘Quick word?’ Shawn dragged them to one side of the reception area. It was astonishing that nobody seemed to recognise him at all, but he guessed it was because most of the audience here were at least twenty years older than Shawn’s ‘target’ market.

‘This is my wife, Gill,’ Patrick said, grinning at Gill’s star-struck face as Shawn shook her hand. She wasn’t remotely a fan of
OnTarget
, but Shawn Barrett was a very good-looking bloke.

‘Awesome gig, wasn’t it?’ Shawn said, pulling at a tuft of facial hair under his lower lip. ‘Anyway, mate, just wanted to say good job, like, for catching Graham Burns and getting Mervyn off the hook. He can seem like a right twat, but he’s got a heart of gold, that one. And as for Burns, fucking hell, what a number. Doing that shit to those poor girls. Unbelievable! If I’d had any idea what he was like . . .’

Patrick couldn’t help but remember Carmella’s account of little Roisin McGreevy and how Shawn Barrett had ruined her life. And how ‘heart of gold’ Mervyn Hammond had had no qualms about buying her silence.

Still, he thought. Nothing was ever straightforward, was it? He had a brief flash of memory of Suzanne in the park, in her running gear . . . Fifty shades of grey, indeed. Wasn’t everything, where morals were concerned?

‘Hey, is it true?’ Shawn whispered. ‘That Mervyn is Graham’s dad?’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’
Patrick
replied.

‘Ha!’ Shawn grinned his famous grin.

But it was true. Mervyn Hammond was Graham Burns
’
s father. After the ambulance had turned up and taken Graham away, under police escort, Patrick had gone back into the barn and released Mervyn, who sat shivering and snivelling on the chair. Patrick had a feeling Mervyn would never be the same after this.

‘It’s true, what I told him,’ Hammond had said as Patrick struggled with the wet rope that bound Mervyn to the chair. ‘He is my son. It was a long time ago, when I was just starting out and did the PR for this little club in the East End. I’ve never been, ah, a very sexu
al person.’

Patrick had wondered if he really wanted to hear this, but
nodded
for Hammond to continue.

‘But Sandy, that was her name, she had this magnetic
quality
. A seductive quality. We did it once, in a dressing room, thirty seconds of fumbling, and three months later she told me she was
pregnant
. I’m ashamed to say that I freaked out. I really didn’t want kids, and Sandy had a reputation . . . I accused her of lying, said she couldn’t know who the dad was because she slept around so much. She went away and I forgot all about it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Made myself forget about it.’

‘But Graham ended up in the care system?’ Patrick had asked.

‘Yeah. But I didn’t find out about that for years. It was about ten years later, when I was starting to get pretty successful. I bumped into an old mate from the club who asked me if I’d heard about what happened to Sandy. He said she’d had the baby but hadn’t been able to cope, was still going out, taking drugs, sleeping around . . .
leaving
her son at home alone. Social services had intervened and taken the baby into care.’

Patrick had removed the rope, freeing Mervyn, but he remained
in the same position, his head hanging low.

‘I knew the baby would be, what, nine or ten by this point. And I started to wonder . . . was he my son? My own dad had just died and I was feeling vulnerable, thinking about family and the meaning of life, all that shit.’ He laughed without humour. ‘So I decided to track down Sandy’s little boy, spoke to some social workers . . . greased a few palms. And there he was, at St Mary’s. They told me he had a lot of behavioural issues, that they hadn’t been able to place him in long-term foster care or find anyone to adopt him because he was too difficult.’

Mervyn had pushed himself to his feet, bones and joints cracking. He
’
d drifted over to his model railway, watched the
locomotives
running
round the track, a faraway look in his eye.

‘I still didn’t know if he was my son . . . until I saw him. The second I laid eyes on him, I knew. He was my flesh and blood. But . . . I didn’t have room for a kid in my life. I was so busy,
travelling
here, there and everywhere, working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. I thought he was better off where he was. The solution, I thought, was for me to start visiting St Mary’s, under the guise of a mentor, helping coach the troubled kids. I mean, I still do it now. I enjoy it. It makes me feel like I’m atoning for my past mistakes, for all the bad stuff I’ve done.’

Patrick had nodded.

‘But I kept a close eye on Graham. Him and his little girlfriend, Melanie. They were inseparable, you know. If anyone did anything to hurt her . . . well.’

‘He’d hurt them?’

‘I never knew what he did. But whatever it was, the person who’d upset Melanie never went near her again.’ Hammond had fiddled with the controls of his train set. ‘I didn’t even know he was still in touch with her, after they left St Mary’s. I thought she was off the scene. Because I took him out of that world, got him jobs, helped him – like an invisible, guiding hand. A guardian angel. That’s what I thought anyway.’

Mervyn had looked like he was on the verge of passing out.

‘Funnily enough, I mentioned Melanie to Graham the other day, asked him if he was still in touch with “that weird girl” he used to be so crazy about. He snapped at me, said she wasn’t weird. But I didn’t think anything of it.’

‘When was this?’

Mervyn had gone quiet and Patrick had thought he’d slipped into shock. But then he
’
d said, ‘Monday. The day before the party.’

At that point, more paramedics had arrived and taken Mervyn out to an ambulance and to hospital to be checked over. Patrick had stood in the converted barn for a while. He expected this would all come out at the trial. Mervyn Hammond’s career would be ruined. And Patrick wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He thought about Mervyn mentioning Melanie to Graham. Was that why Graham had chosen to frame Mervyn, because he was angry about him
calling
Melanie weird? Patrick had wondered why Graham had left more than a week between targeting Rose and Jess and then Chloe and Jade. This was something he intended to ask Graham, but his guess was that Graham had been scared after the police
visited
Global Sounds, decided to lie low. Maybe Mervyn had stirred up Graham’s anger again, prompting him to finish what he’d started sooner rather than later.

An examination of Graham’s phone had answered the final question. As Peter Bell had predicted, a cache of photos Graham had sent to the girls through Snapchat had been stored in a folder on the phone. They knew exactly how he’d lured them to their deaths. The evidence against Burns was rock solid. Even if he had the best lawyer in the world, he was going to prison probably for the rest of his life.

‘So what are you boys up to these days?’ he asked Shawn now. ‘New album in the pipeline?’

Shawn looked surprised. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ He sounded slightly outraged. ‘OnT have split up. This thing with Burns was, like, the final straw, but I’ve been thinking about going solo for quite a while, you know, be a real musician. No more of that manufactured shite.’

‘Oh right,’ Patrick said politely, declining to add that he’d been rather too busy attending court as a witness for the prosecution of a serial killer to have noticed that Britain’s favourite boy band had gone their separate ways.

‘Speaking of real musicians, I’m just on my way backstage now to meet Bob and the lads,’ Shawn said casually. ‘I remember you mentioned you’re a fan. Want to tag along? I can get you a couple of these, no bother.’ He stuck out his hand to show off his Access All Areas wristband.

Gill’s eyes opened wide as saucers. Patrick smiled at her, then looked back at Shawn Barrett; little more than a kid with muscles, really, he thought. A very rich kid with muscles.

‘Very kind of you,’ he said. ‘I’m tempted – but to be honest we need to get home. Send him my best, though, won’t you?’