Truth or Dare (12 page)

M
arina hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night. At first she thought it was because she was spending her second night in an unfamiliar bed away from home but that hadn’t been it. She had missed Phil. She always did. His presence was a comfort, his six-foot frame reassuring for her to reach to, to touch while she slept. But it wasn’t the absence of her husband. It was her dreams.

When she had closed her eyes, slipped away, Fiona Welch had been there. Sitting in her room, looking at Marina, smiling. Just as she had been the previous afternoon. Her thoughts dancing behind eyes that held secrets. Terrible, dark secrets. In her dream, Fiona’s hair had been different. Darker, curlier. More like her own. And her clothes had been different, too. Less like she had been wearing, more like Marina’s own. She didn’t say anything in the dream, or nothing that Marina could remember. But she had communicated something. Almost telepathically. Something about Phil wanting a younger woman. About Marina being too old for him, about how she, Fiona, was the one he wanted.

She had woken after that, unable to get back to sleep for ages.

That was when she phoned Phil. Marina felt a pang of guilt at waking him but it was important to speak to him. Having Phil in her life made her able to confront the day-to-day darkness she dealt with. And she knew she was the same to him. It was more than just a marriage. They had both looked into the abyss and had the abyss look into them. It was their mutual love that held the other back from stepping over the edge.

His voice was sleep-bleared when he answered. ‘Hello…’

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the time.’

She heard a shuffling from the other end of the phone as he checked what the time was. ‘’S okay.’ She heard him rouse himself, sit up. ‘Where are you?’

‘On the way to Finnister. Something came up.’

‘Yeah. I got your voicemail last night. Sorry, I was too tired to reply.’

Marina had phoned Phil to tell him she was staying over at Anni’s, contrary to what she had told him earlier. She knew that Eileen, Phil’s mother, would be looking after their daughter Josephina so that was one less thing to worry about.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be asleep. I just wanted to let you know what was happening. What you up to?’

‘Was just about to get up. Had a late night. There’s a… oh, you don’t need to know.’

‘Can I help?’ She had desperately wanted to talk to him about her situation but knew his would be just as important too.

‘Maybe later. Someone got away from us last night. I’ve got to get back on that horse. Catch him.’

‘You will.’

‘Wish I had your confidence.’ Silence on the line. ‘What’s up?’

‘Well…’ Now that she was speaking to him it seemed slightly ridiculous to be bothering him. Then she thought of her dream, the last words of the woman calling herself Fiona Welch. Continued. ‘There’s a bit of a situation developed here. You know how Anni and Mickey called me in to give a psychiatric assessment of this patient?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s more complicated than that.’ She paused, took a deep breath. ‘There’s a woman here who thinks she’s Fiona Welch.’

Phil was suddenly wide awake. ‘What? Fiona Welch? You sure?’

‘I mean, it’s not her. Definitely not her.’

‘Not unless she’s come back from the dead. I saw her die. Watched her fall to her death.’

‘I know. But she’s… spooky. Uncanny. No one knows where she’s from, who she really is. They’ve looked into her background, found nothing. All they know is that she’s persuaded two young men to kill their girlfriends.’

‘Jesus.’

Marina stopped talking. Phil sensed there was something more. ‘And?’

Another deep breath. ‘And the dead women all looked like me, apparently.’

‘I…’ Phil was lost for words.

‘I know. And she claimed to know you as well.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Yes, I know. And it all sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud. But then I think about it, about her, and it’s not. She gave me the creeps. Seriously.’

‘Is that your professional opinion?’

‘It’s the only opinion I could have. And she said something else. To tell you one word. Justice.’

Silence on the line once more. The electronic static turned to ice.

‘Phil?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Justice? That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’ Marina sighed. ‘Phil…’

‘What?’

‘Am I too old for you?’

‘What?’

‘Do you want a younger woman?’

‘What’s – where’s this come from?’ He tried to laugh off her words.

‘Fiona Welch. Sorry, the woman calling herself Fiona Welch. See how easy it is to believe it? She said it. Said you were… that I was too old for you.’

‘Bullshit. She’s just trying to mess with your head, whoever she is. Don’t let her.’

Marina felt relieved. She knew it was a stupid thing to say, but the woman’s words had upset, unnerved her. ‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t need to thank me. You just need to find out who this woman is.’

‘We’re working on it. But there’s also been a suicide last night. The woman Anni wanted me to profile. That’s why I’m still here.’

‘Oh, Jesus – doesn’t rain but it pours.’

‘Tell me about it. I’ll get this sorted then come home.’

‘Good. Look, don’t worry about the Fiona Welch impersonator. She’s stuck in Finnister. She can’t do any more damage now.’

‘I know.’

‘But?’

‘Yes there was a but. But she makes me feel… I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry about her. Mickey and Anni’ll deal with her. They’ll find out who she is.’

‘I know.’

‘Just come home soon. I miss you.’

Marina smiled, felt Phil smiling in return. ‘Miss you too.’

‘I’ll see you later.’

They made their goodbyes and hung up.

Marina was glad she had phoned Phil. She felt better just talking to him. More secure. And yes, the woman who called herself Fiona Welch unnerved her. Scared her, if she was honest. But she had the strength to cope with her.

Or at least she now hoped she did.

She got ready, left for Finnister.

M
orning had arrived but the sky hadn’t got the memo. Dark, storm-rich clouds hung heavy over the East Anglian countryside, hastening day to premature evening, sucking whatever joy could usually be found from the hours, leaving depression in their stead. Imminent bursts threatening to turn the day to monochrome static.

Marina drove back towards Finnister House, not wanting to be stuck in the impending downpour, hoping the clouds wouldn’t break until she got there. As she approached, it no longer seemed to be the place it had been the day before, a state-of-the-art secure hospital. It was now a brooding, Gothic pile, a bleak house with more than one madwoman in more than one attic.

Marina had been excused from her university work for a few days. They didn’t mind as a rule – the department regarding it as quite prestigious that a member of their staff should be so in demand for consultancy work. A vindication that they had chosen the right person to teach the course.

She parked the Prius. Already the car park was host to police cars and tactical support units. She hurried to the entrance. Anni and Mickey were already there. She had followed them from Colchester. As soon as they saw her approach, they surreptitiously dropped their held hands. Back on duty.

Anni and Mickey were now officially an item. The short, mouthy black girl with the blonde spiky hair and the shaven-headed burly bloke with the warm, intelligent eyes. They had spent a long time dancing around each other, hesitantly trying to get together, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. They were worried it would jeopardise both their working relationship and their friendship but once the relationship had happened their friendship had only gone from strength to strength. They were also stronger colleagues as a result. Relationships between those working on the same team were still officially frowned upon but Mickey and Anni had successfully managed to compartmentalise their official and private lives to the extent that their work was never compromised, so a blind eye had been turned.

Marina couldn’t have been happier for them; they were two of her dearest friends and favourite colleagues. But for now they all had work to do.

Anni turned to her as she joined them. ‘Good job you changed your mind and stayed over.’

‘Like I must have known,’ said Marina.

‘Spooky,’ added Mickey. ‘Like working with Derek Acorah.’

Marina looked up at the sky. The air had turned colder, sharper, rain now a loud, angry threat.

‘Let’s get inside,’ she said.

Once they had passed through security they found a woman waiting to greet them. Small, dark hair tied back into a neat ponytail, clothes functional yet stylish. Her expression said that she was a capable woman doing a difficult and demanding job to the best of her abilities. But that today was severely testing her.

‘Carol Blakemore,’ she said, extending her hand and shaking each of theirs in turn. ‘Director of Clinical Care. We didn’t have a chance to talk yesterday.’

Marina introduced herself. ‘I’m here in an advisory capacity only,’ she said. ‘I won’t be part of the investigation.’

‘At the moment,’ said Anni, glancing at Marina, then back to Carol Blakemore. ‘Are the local force here?’

‘They are,’ said Carol. ‘Been here since first thing this morning. They’re handling things well and in these instances it’s their jurisdiction but obviously since you were here yesterday we thought you’d want to be informed.’

Anni nodded.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’ said Mickey.

Carol Blakemore puffed out her cheeks, expelled air as if she was slightly tired of repeating the same words.

‘Please,’ said Anni, ‘I know it’s difficult, but we’ve not heard it before. Just try to tell us as if it’s the first time you’ve said it.’

Carol looked slightly shamefaced. ‘Well, as I told the other officers, we unlocked Joanne’s room this morning and found…’ She paused, reliving the experience. ‘We found her on the floor. Her wrists… blood everywhere.’

Anni nodded. ‘Can we look at the room yet?’

‘Er, yes,’ Carol said, as if waking from a particularly unpleasant dream. ‘This way.’

She gestured them forwards down a corridor. They retraced the route they had taken the previous day. The hospital now had a wholly different atmosphere. The previous day it had been light, airy. The blond wood and white walls had reflected the sunlight coming in from the glass ceilings, the building busy and bustling with patients and staff. Now it seemed like a desolate, depressing place. The lighting seemed flat and depressing, conspiring with the oppressive overhead clouds to create long shadows, grey walls. The patients had been confined to their rooms, the staff all taken for questioning.

They reached Joanne Marsh’s doorway. Access had been blocked by two-colour crime scene tape. On the other side of the threshold, a team of paper-suited SOCOs were working diligently, trying to pick up any clues they could.

Mickey turned to Carol. ‘So you unlocked Joanne’s room this morning and found her body on the floor.’

‘Right.’ She was trying not to look in the room again, studying an abstract painting on the far wall. ‘I should say, we did everything we could. Everything. Proper procedure was followed at every turn. It always is. I’m a stickler for it.’

‘We’re not doubting it,’ said Anni. ‘And it was definitely suicide?’

Carol frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Was she alone? Was anyone else with her? Did anyone else have access to her room during the night?’

‘Well, the staff, obviously. But yes, she was alone. And when it was lights-out last night the room was checked. She was in there on her own. No one else.’

Anni nodded. ‘What about the knife?’

‘The knife?’ said Carol. She nodded absently. ‘Yes. She had a knife. A dinner knife. We don’t know how she got it. We counted them all out last night, as usual, then we counted them all back again. As we do every night. The porter was adamant he took her cutlery from her last night after dinner. Adamant.’

‘Okay,’ said Anni. ‘So you have no idea where she got the knife from?’

‘No idea. None at all. We can’t understand it. We’re looking into it, obviously. Checking back.’ She looked shamefaced once again. Her professional reputation on the line.

‘Of course,’ said Anni. ‘Did no one check on her during the night? What would be the procedure there?’

‘Just regular checks, nothing out of the ordinary. She wasn’t on suicide watch, wasn’t considered a particular risk for anything. We’d done a thorough risk assessment on her when she came here, as we would any other patient. She hadn’t exhibited any signs. Nothing jumped out at us. Nothing…’ She tailed off, disbelieving.

Marina had been silent, listening. ‘Carol,’ she said, ‘did Joanne have any visitors to her room last night? Before the doors were locked.’

‘Visitors? I… don’t know. She had some, probably. Everyone does. They can come and go freely. I’ve already been asked that. We’ll be trying to find out for definite. We’ll be cooperating fully.’

‘Good. Can I just ask you…?’ said Marina again. ‘Just an idea. One of her visitors wasn’t Fiona Welch, by any chance, was it?’ She was aware of Anni and Mickey looking at her.

‘Fiona Welch?’ Carol nodded. ‘Yes, I think she may have been. She’s certainly a name that’s come up already.’ Carol looked between the three of them, concern etched on her features. ‘Are you suggesting…?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Marina, ‘just asking.’

There was a crack of thunder. Marina jumped.

The storm had broken.

M
oses opened his eyes. The daylight was grey and weak, filtered through curtains that were also grey and weak, making the morning doubly depressing.

He rolled over, the movement making him feel like he was on a small raft in a large sea. Christ, what had he drunk last night? Smoked, even? His mouth and throat felt like it had been pebble-dashed and sanded, his head like it was a kids’ merry-go-round.

He put his arm out. Felt flesh. Warm, soft. Recoiled from the shock. And with the touch, he remembered.

Letisha Watson. Lying there, her back to him, naked, snoring softly.

He lay on his back, coaxed his memory to return. He had gone to see her after his brief had got him released from the law.
His brief. The law
. The words sent his mind off at a tangent.

He had hated himself for the way he had behaved, both in the studio and in the police station. Like some angry street gangsta. But that was how they made him feel. As soon as the police questioned him he became aggressive, antagonistic. Like the years of education and cultural achievement just fell away and his diction, his attitude regressed to what he used to be. It shamed him to behave that way but he couldn’t help it. It was a conditioned reaction, his background kicking in once more, turning him into that frightened little kid with a problem with authority. He knew that no matter how far he went from the street, the street would always be in him. A part of him would always be held down, held back. And that was a painful admission for him to make.

He tried to clear his mind of those thoughts, concentrate instead on why he was where he was.

He had needed to talk to Letisha. And they had. Talked. But it hadn’t been about what he had intended it to be about. It had been talk that had led them to the bedroom. To here. Now.

He moved his head, slowly this time, looked at the woman. He loved her skin. Had always loved her skin. The soft, smooth, delicate feel of it beneath his fingers as he had stroked and caressed her. And he knew she liked him doing that. Had said so.
You’re not just some wham-bam merchant, are you?
she had said once when they were in another room, another time.
Nah, I ain’t,
he had replied.
Got to take it slow with beauty. Treat beauty right an’ beauty will reward you.
He’d used that line before. But it hadn’t been a line with her. He had meant it. At the time. She had laughed then.
Oh, you think so, do you?
But she had rewarded him. And then some.

And now this. Again. Last night. Her skin not quite as soft as it used to be. A little rough in places, hard edged. A little too soft in others. But it was still her. And he was still him. Maybe not the person he used to be, maybe not any more. Maybe just a version of himself. But one she still recognised.

But she still had beauty. Inside and out. When the pain and the strain dropped away from her he had seen it. And he had responded to it. Over and over again. A need in her meeting a need in him. They knew there would be consequences but they both had enough alcohol and weed in their systems to ensure they didn’t care about them then. And wouldn’t till later. Much later.

Like now. Moses looked around the room. He had missed the squalor the night before in his rush to get with Letisha. But now he took it in. A small mountain range of soiled laundry on the floor. The bed sheets filthy and stained. Dust almost the thickness of the carpet pile. The naked bulb overhead, like an interrogation room or a prison cell. And the token curtains at the window. Too thin to hold anything in or keep anything out.

He looked again at her skin. Saw now that it didn’t hold the usual sweet, coffee tones that he loved. It had been muted by the room’s dead light to a zombie grey.

He shook his head. Slowly. What rooms like this – lives like this – did to beauty. That old familiar burning sensation welled up inside him: depression and anger, but no longer in equal measures.

He threw back the onion-skin-thin sheet and tried to rise to his feet. The room became volatile and liquid and he felt nauseous once more. He lay back down again.

He had to leave. Before Letisha woke up. The postponed shame of the night’s action was beginning to get a grip on him. And there was something else along with it, something equally familiar: fear. He had to leave.

He tried once again to get up, managed it this time. He stood on his feet, naked, finding his balance, and looked down at Letisha. She really was beautiful. The scars her life had left couldn’t hide that. Not completely. He hoped they never would. But he was a realist. He knew better. He’d seen it happen too many times before. It was what happened. It was life.

She stirred, looked up at him. Smiled. And that smile belonged to a totally different room, a different girl in a different life.

He knew she was taking in his body. Knew she liked what she saw. His body was his diary, the map of his life. Every fight he had ever been in, every mark, every scar, every knife wound, it was all there. The patchwork man.

He used to be proud of his body when he was younger, when he was gangsta. It was his calling card. Showed his street value. But when he turned away from all that he grew ashamed of it. Now, he had tried to make peace with it. It was what it was. And he had to live with it.

But Letisha was the only woman who had ever looked at him and loved him for it. Not because it made him seem street-hard, there had been plenty who got their kicks from that. No. Because she understood pain. She understood healing. And he had never felt more naked with her, more vulnerable.

More alive.

‘Morning, handsome,’ she said.

Her voice was low, smoke-husky. He liked it.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said in reply and almost instantly regretted it.

Their old greetings. Call and response from a gig that had long since finished.

She giggled. Happy to hear the words.

Letisha lay on her back, exposing her body to him. ‘You getting back into bed?’

He was tempted. So very tempted. He had never been able to resist her. Even now, even here. Even after everything that had happened. But he had to.
Had to.

‘Nah, I got… got to go. Things to do.’

Disappointment crept into her eyes. And hurt.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he said. ‘Got to.’ His voice sounded small, the words weak and unconvincing.

She sat up. Her small, perfect breasts drawing his eyes. He felt himself getting an erection, began searching for his clothes.

‘Stay,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘Can’t, babe,’ he said, making a point of not looking at her. He located one sock, another. Began putting them on. ‘Got to go. Busy day.’

She got up, stood in front of him. Completely uninhibited about her naked body. She placed her hand on his chest. Fingers tracing scars. ‘Come on, baby,’ she said, ‘don’t be like that. You came to see me last night. And it was…’ She shook her head, smiling at the memory. ‘Brilliant. Best night I’ve had in years.’ Her hand began moving over his chest. ‘Don’t make it just a one-off. Please.’

He wrenched his body away from her, pulled on his T-shirt. Shook his head.

‘Moses…’

His clothes were all there. He sped up, dressed as quick as he could, ignoring the nausea, the headache.

‘Please, just… just wait. Spend the day with me. Just the day. Please.’

He was fully dressed now. He turned to her.

‘I can’t.’

‘You can.’

‘No. You know. We can’t.’ Fear was back in his eyes. He couldn’t hide it from her. Had never been able to hide anything from her.

‘Please…’

‘We shouldn’t.’

Letisha grabbed on to him, digging her fingers into his skin. ‘Which one is it?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Which one? Can’t or shouldn’t?’

‘There’s no difference.’

‘Moses, there’s a huge difference. One means never, the other means…’

She couldn’t finish.

‘Means what?’ He asked the question despite not wanting to hear the answer.

‘Hope,’ she said.

‘I’ve got to go.’ He sighed. ‘It was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come around last night. It was… more than just, just what happened. You know that.’

She smiled. It was tinged with his fear, her sadness. ‘I’m glad you did.’

‘Just…’ He didn’t know what to say. Just as there was a difference between can’t and shouldn’t, there was an even bigger difference between what he wanted to say and what he had to say.

‘I’ll see you. Remember what I said last night. Remember.’

He couldn’t reach the door quick enough.

His head was upset, his stomach was upset, his heart was upset.

He didn’t know which one hurt the most.

He was lying to himself. He did.