LOST SOULS
Pete stormed off and headed back into the house.
‘Where are you going?’ It was Mrs King, running to catch up. Laura followed.
‘To search your son’s room.’ Pete began to look around him when he reached the hallway, deciding where to go. ‘Are you going to show me where, or do I have to go through every room?’
Laura saw how Mrs King looked dejected for a moment, an instant of weakness that passed in a second, and then she hurried after Pete, catching him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘I’ll show you Luke’s room,’ she said quietly. Laura noticed for the first time that the rims of Mrs King’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and she detected a tremor in the woman’s hands.
As she passed through the hallway behind the others, Laura saw that there were no other family pictures on the wall, and as she glanced into the rooms she couldn’t see any in them either. There were some country views, a hillside and a lake in one, an old hunting lodge in another. It seemed like the family didn’t celebrate the ordinary things, the laughs, the unexpected moments. It all seemed too orderly. She could hear Jimmy King hissing into a telephone.
Pete and Laura followed Mrs King up the stairs. As they got to the top, Laura looked out of a large window. She saw Danut staring up at the house.
‘What are we looking for?’ whispered Laura to Pete.
‘Last night’s clothes, if we can find them, and check out the sheets and towels. Bag them and tag them.’
‘Anything else?’
Pete almost smiled. ‘Don’t forget we are missing two eyes and a tongue. They would be useful.’
As Mrs King opened the door to Luke’s room, she stepped to one side.
‘Do you want to keep an eye on us, to make sure you’re happy with what we’re doing?’ asked Pete. It was partly a dig, but Laura wasn’t sure Mrs King got it.
Mrs King shook her head and stepped away, looking at the floor.
‘No, go ahead.’
They walked into a room that seemed to belong more to an adolescent than someone Luke’s age. There were posters on the wall, some rock bands Laura didn’t recognise, with a large television in one corner and a games console underneath, along with game boxes scattered on the floor. Next to the television was a cabinet filled with DVDs. Laura cast a quick eye over the titles, but they seemed mundane. A few slasher movies and Far East martial arts titles, but the rest were recent classics and Simpsons box sets.
They carried on looking, going through drawers and bookcases. There were computer disks and comics, and science fiction figures all around the room. They found diaries, and those were bagged up along with the computer disks. But nothing unusual.
Laura stood by the computer. It was on, a screen-saver showing a series of Star Wars images in a constant loop. She jiggled the mouse and was greeted by the welcome screen, partially obscured by the password box.
She looked over at Pete, who had his hands in a drawer.
‘Anything yet?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing, but maybe he keeps things hidden.’
‘Any sign of girlfriends in here?’
‘Not a thing. No porno, but no photos or love letters. You’d expect one or the other.’
‘Don’t judge everyone by your standards.’
Laura looked out of the window and saw Danut still looking up at her. She stopped for a moment and studied him, trying to work out his interest. He noticed her looking and turned to walk away. As he went, his head was down, his pace slow and deliberate. Laura made a mental note to find out more about him.
She turned around when she heard someone else come into the room. It was Jimmy King, and he had a telephone in his hand and a smirk on his face.
‘It’s your inspector,’ he said.
Laura and Pete exchanged glances before she took hold of the phone. ‘Hello. DC McGanity here.’
‘This is DI Egan.’
Laura pulled a face at Pete.
‘You have to leave the King house now,’ continued Egan.
‘But sir, you gave us consent,’ Laura protested.
‘It’s withdrawn.’
‘What about the things we’ve collected?’
‘Anything incriminating?’ When she didn’t answer immediately, he barked, ‘Leave them,’ and then the phone went silent.
Laura handed the phone back to King, who smiled at her. And she knew what it meant, that he had the power.
Pete almost knocked King into the doorframe when he walked out of the room. King glared at him angrily. Laura smiled now. She knew that the best weapon was patience. If Jimmy King’s time was due, then it would come.
I scanned the grounds with my camera, said a silent thanks for zoom lenses, and I saw why the garden looked so good. As I looked through the lens I watched a young man walk across the garden. He went towards some concrete outbuildings at the end of the lawn. When he got there, he had a look back towards the house and then slipped into a garage-type building, rectangular pale concrete, with green double doors at the front. I got some shots and then turned back to the house.
I was starting to feel stiff when I saw movement by the front of the house. I raised the camera and zoomed in. It was Laura again.
I saw Jimmy King walk with them. It seemed like he was making sure they left quickly.
I took pictures until Laura left, and then I checked my pocket for the number I had jotted down. One call to some old contacts at the local paper had got me Jimmy King’s home number.
A woman answered. She sounded terse.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I’m Jack Garrett, and I’m a reporter. Do you have any comment to make on the arrest of your son?’
There was silence. And then the phone went dead.
I jumped down from the tree and started to walk back to my car, feeling pleased with myself. Even no comment is sometimes worth reporting.
Chapter Fourteen
As Pete swung the car into the police-station yard, he muttered, ‘Today is turning into a fuck-up.’
‘Two suspects,’ sighed Laura. ‘One we can’t find, and the other is about to walk.’
‘Bad management,’ said Pete, and he started to smile. He brought the car to a halt in front of the station and jumped out. ‘C’mon, bring your rags with you.’
Laura followed Pete towards the back entrance of the station, holding two large clear exhibit bags, one containing old valeting rags, the other filled with the tissues used to wipe clean the car interiors. It had taken a few circuits of town to find the car valeters, but then she had seen the Audi parked on the street. The owners of the firm were more than happy to help, although the way some of the valeters melted into the spray mist made her think that not all of them declared their earnings. She didn’t ask any questions. That was a fight for someone else.
Just before she got to the door, ready to swipe her way in, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. When she checked the display she saw that it was Jack. That made her nervous. She was on the first day of a murder investigation, and he was calling far more than usual.
‘Hello,’ she snapped.
Pete raised his eyebrows as Laura listened, and he saw how she softened during the call. She was smiling when she snapped her phone shut.
‘Good news?’
‘It was Jack,’ she said. ‘He’s bringing Bobby down to meet me after work.’
Pete winked at her. ‘Maybe the day isn’t turning out that badly.’
They walked to the Incident Room together, and they detected a sombre mood.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Laura.
‘The preliminaries have come in from the post mortem,’ someone said, an eager young detective.
‘Go on.’
‘Jess was tortured. She was alive when she lost her eyes and tongue.’
Laura took a deep breath. ‘So more than just trophies.’
‘Seems that way. They were taken out by something sharp, though, almost surgical. There were nicks on the bone around the eye-socket where the blade scraped it.’
Laura winced. And she guessed that her time with Bobby would be briefer than she’d hoped.
‘She hardly cried out.’
The voice woke Sam up quickly. He must have fallen asleep. He looked around, scared for a moment as he wondered where he was. Then, as it came back to him, he rubbed his eyes.
He was in a cell with Luke, as they waited for Egan to decide what he was going to do. Sam could have waited outside, or even back at his office, but he knew how cops like Egan operated. He knew there were too many casual conversations with prisoners, just little asides, hints that their lawyer might be wrong.
It had been a long wait, though. The paint on the walls, grey and grim, matched the toilet in the corner. He hadn’t used it yet, but that moment might come soon. It was the lack of good light that struck him the most, the windows frosted and small, but it was the smell that Sam knew would linger.
The cells in Blackley police station had a smell all of their own. The police station was over a hundred years old, and the cells felt more like cellars, with little natural light and a position below ground level. A century of damp had seeped into every piece of brickwork, the smell broken by disinfectant and whatever had been left by their occupants, all those weekend drunks, drug addicts sweating their way through withdrawal, old feet. Sam knew it would stay in his clothes and in his hair for days.
‘What did you say?’ asked Sam.
‘She hardly cried out,’ Luke repeated.
Sam stood up and stretched. ‘Don’t say any more.’
‘No, I want to tell you,’ Luke continued. He was obviously enjoying himself.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Sam replied, although it wasn’t his conscience that made him say it. There was a corridor full of empty cells, and Egan had marched him past all of them to get to the large one at the end, where there was room for a few prisoners. Sam couldn’t see the microphones, but he knew one of the cells was bugged. It had been done a few years ago, when one of the police-station runners was suspected of smuggling drugs into the cells. At first the police had thought he was just providing a good service, when bringing his clients chocolate or sweets. But they’d soon begun to notice that his clients stopped being as eager to get out. So the police bugged a cell. Not to use in court, just for intelligence gathering. They were in the bugged cell, Sam was pretty sure of that.
Luke smiled and sat back, his head against the white tiles.
‘Oh come on, you do. You must have wondered what it would be like to kill someone.’
Sam turned towards him, his anger starting to surface. ‘I’ve never wondered that, because I have never wanted to kill anyone. But stay quiet in here because if you talk, they might listen.’
Luke whistled, his eyes wide. He looked around. ‘Wouldn’t that be fun.’
His smile shut off at the sound of a key in the lock. It was Egan, his jaw set firm and angry. Sam wondered if someone higher up had told him to release them.
Sam had to squeeze past him to get into the tight corridor. He blinked at the bright light, and then felt himself pulled to one side.
‘The dead girl’s mother is in the waiting area,’ Egan hissed. ‘Maybe you’ll want to look her in the eye on the way out.’
Sam jerked his arm away. ‘I’ll tell her how you can’t catch her killer, Egan,’ he said angrily, and then cursed himself for losing his temper.
Sam didn’t wait for permission from Egan. He started to lead Luke away, but he was angry with himself. He was baiting Egan to make himself feel better. Sam had gone into a police station with someone who’d said he had killed and would kill again. Sam had done what he could to get him out. What kind of person did that make him?
Egan glared at Luke all the time he was being booked out of custody. As they went through the waiting area, Sam saw a woman, sitting at the back, a tissue clenched in her fist, her chin puckered, her eyes red. Luke looked away, but Sam saw her watching them, her eyes getting wide, her mouth opening.
Sam looked away and left the station, with Luke at his shoulder.
I was back in Blackley when Sam Nixon came out with Luke King. The best reporting involves patience, although I could tell that the news was already beginning to spread. There was a reporter from the local paper there too, along with a cameraman and a young woman with a microphone.
I saw Sam mutter ‘shit’ to himself as he came out of the door. He glanced back at the station, but the only way was forward.
I moved forward as the cameraman went towards Sam, who tried to push past, Luke tucked in behind him. The court stragglers spilled onto the pavement and watched the excitement. I thought I heard somebody cheer.
Suddenly Terry McKay appeared in front of Sam. He swayed towards Luke King, his finger in the air, waving in jerky movements.
‘You’re a fucking wanker,’ he sneered, his teeth bared, brown and jagged, spittle landing on Sam’s suit.
Sam tried to move forward, tried to push Terry out of the way, but Terry just pushed back.
‘They catching up with you?’ he continued, shouting now.
Terry turned towards the camera, to make sure he was being filmed, and Sam took the opportunity to slip past him, Luke keeping up with him. The cameraman stepped in front of McKay, leaving him alone on the pavement, confused and angry.
As Sam walked off, he tried to step up the pace, but the cameraman was quicker, blocking his path. Sam realised that he had lost the option of silence, so I watched him as he licked his lips and swallowed. A microphone and my voice recorder were pushed in front of him. He cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed.
‘As you might know, the police have been speaking to my client in relation to a murder that took place last night. My client would just like to say that he is mystified as to why the police wanted to speak to him.’
His voice sounded strong, assured.
‘He knows nothing about the unfortunate woman who was found dead last night, but hopes that Blackley Police find whoever committed this awful act. He hopes sincerely that the police are now able to devote their time to finding the killer, and that they stop trying to achieve quick publicity by pursuing an innocent young man just because he happens to have a well-known father.’ Sam smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s all.’
And with that, he walked away, Luke close behind.
I watched them go, noticing how Luke kept his eyes down, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze. I thought about Sam and the few conversations I’d had with him. Did I know him well enough to get the inside track?
I checked my watch. I still had some time before I had to collect Bobby. And I wouldn’t know until I asked.
I had some research to do first, though.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam didn’t pause in reception. The seats were full of people ignoring the no-smoking sign, but he couldn’t face seeing any clients. Let the caseworkers speak to them. They spent their days working the files, visiting crime scenes, seeing witnesses, harassing the prosecution. And when the prosecution ignored the letters, they harassed them some more.
Sam wouldn’t ask the Crown Court runners to speak to anyone in the office. They weren’t employed for the daily grind. Harry recruited them for the flash of their legs, nothing more, to brighten the lives of prisoners and take notes in court. The word soon got around the pubs and estates in Blackley that if you wanted to see a pretty girl when you were stuck in a prison cell, you went to Harry Parsons & Co.
When Sam got back to his office, he sank back into his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. It was the old moral question, the one he tried to avoid. How could he defend a killer? The answer was easy: the judicial process would decide how to treat him. It was a cop-out, an excuse, but it was the only thing that helped Sam sleep. When he ever did.
But what happened when his client said he would do it again? That wasn’t in the script. Sam had the power to stop it. The Law Society rules allowed him to breach client confidentiality if someone’s life was at stake. He rubbed his hands over his face. He knew he couldn’t do it. Luke King wasn’t an ordinary client. And that sickened him.
Sam still had his eyes closed when he heard his door click open. When he opened them, he saw Harry standing there.
Sam wasn’t surprised. Although Harry never came to his office—he called Sam to his—Sam guessed that Luke’s case might make a few things different around here.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Sam.
Harry shook his head. ‘I was just passing when I saw you.’ He tried to look casual, but Harry Parsons didn’t do casual. ‘How did it go with Luke?’
Sam saw Alison looking into the room.
‘He’s still got his liberty, if that’s how we measure these things,’ Sam said.
Harry didn’t answer, so Sam played him at his own game. A few seconds passed before Harry spoke.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Sam sat forward and rubbed his eyes, and then he told Harry all about Egan getting frisky, seeing a big name, a headline.
‘So is he out now?’ Harry asked.
Sam nodded. ‘He’s got to go back, but he knows that Egan will be watching him.’
Harry stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes down, thinking, and then he nodded. ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ he said, and then turned to walk away.
As Harry was about to leave the room, Sam shouted after him. ‘If he is taken in again, I don’t want to act for him.’
Harry turned back round, and Sam noticed that his cheeks were flushed. ‘Why ever not?’
Sam tried to think of a way to answer that sounded reasonable, but there wasn’t one.
‘I just don’t, that’s all.’
Harry was about to respond when there was a light tap on the door. It was Karen, Sam’s secretary. She looked nervous.
‘Excuse me, Mr Parsons,’ she said, her voice quiet. ‘Sam, there’s someone to see you. He’s in reception.’
‘Has he made an appointment?’
She shook her head. ‘He says it’s urgent. He’s been hanging around the office all day.’
Harry turned to walk out. ‘Stick with it, Sam,’ he said quietly, ‘for all our sakes.’
And then he left the room. As he went, Sam saw that Alison was still outside his office, but as Harry passed her, she turned and walked away.
For all our sakes. What the hell did he mean by that? Sam didn’t know, but he was sure he had seen something in Harry’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. Fear.
Chapter Sixteen
The old man had been seated in a room by the time Sam got there. It was one of the older interview rooms, with woodchip and ancient desks, not for the best clients.
Sam was hit by the smell as soon as he walked in. It was as if the old man had slept in his clothes for days, a musty mix of sweat and damp. From the back, Sam saw straggly grey hair over a dirty old grey overcoat, tide-marks along the collar. As he went around the desk, Sam recognised him straightaway. It was the old man who had been staring up at his window that morning.
Sam sat down in front of him.
The old man was in a chair without arms, and he looked vulnerable, scared. His knees were together, his hands over them, and he looked defensive. Under his coat he wore a shirt, but it looked creased, as if he had found his only clean one under a heap of others and made a special effort. There was a film of grey bristles over his cheeks, and his dark-rimmed glasses were held together by tape over the bridge. His eyes had once been bright blue, Sam could tell that much, but now they looked tired, ringed by dark circles.
Sam didn’t try to put him at ease. The old man had been watching him all day, and Sam wanted answers, although he wondered now how the old man had ever made him nervous.
‘Hello, my name is Sam Nixon. How can I help you?’ It came out brusque, unfriendly.
The old man looked surprised. He watched Sam for a moment, and then looked down. Sam realised that he’d just ruined the prepared speech.
‘My name is Eric Randle,’ he said quietly, his voice sounding hoarse, ‘and I have dreams.’
‘We all have dreams,’ Sam snapped back. He looked at his watch. At the moment this was all free of charge.
The old man ran his finger around his collar, and then said, ‘I dream of the future, and it comes true.’
Sam started to twirl his pen between his fingers, a habit he had when he wasn’t sure what to say.
‘I paint them,’ Eric continued. ‘My dreams, I mean.’ He shifted in his seat. Sam didn’t say anything. He just looked at the old man, let him talk.
‘I’ve always painted, since I was a child,’ Eric carried on, leaning forward in his seat, ‘but then I started getting these dreams, strong, vivid, violent dreams.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I knew they meant something, but I didn’t know what.’ He shrugged. ‘So I started painting them.’ He sat back and smiled, a nervous smile. ‘I paint my dreams, and then they come true.’
Sam tried not to smile with him. ‘What, you influence the future?’ He put his pen down. ‘I saw it in a film once. Richard Burton. Medusa something.’
‘No, no,’ Eric said, his eyes wide now. ‘You don’t understand.’ The old man took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. ‘These aren’t normal dreams. These wake me up, and I’m crying sometimes. I know I’ve seen something terrible, something that will kill people, but I can’t do anything about it.’
‘What kind of things?’
Eric began to clench his jaw, his eyes distant. ‘Disasters, murders. I’ve seen plane crashes, earthquakes, bombings. And I can’t do anything about it, because I don’t know when it’s going to happen, or where.’ He looked back at Sam, his eyes almost pleading. ‘Sometimes I’m too scared to go back to sleep. So I get up, no matter what time of night it is. I get up and paint my dreams. And then they come true.’ He wiped his eyes. They looked damp, his lip trembling. And I know all the time that I could have stopped it, if I’d just known more.’
Eric looked at Sam expectantly, as if he suddenly thought that Sam might have an answer. But Sam had his mind on something else.
‘Why have you been following me today?’ asked Sam.
Eric sat bolt upright and wiped his eyes, looking more focused. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a roll of paper. ‘I painted this a few months ago,’ he said.
He passed it over, barely rising from his seat; Sam had to lean over the desk to get it.
Sam unrolled it carefully. It wasn’t cheap paper. It felt thick, luxurious, not the glossy white of office paper. It seemed completely at odds with the man’s appearance.
It wasn’t a painting as he expected it. It was more of a collection of jottings, of images. There was no structure, no form, but the images immediately got his interest. Sam could tell the old man had talent. The human figures were drawn with swift lines, almost scribbled, and the colours overran, but the figures had astonishing movement, action.
It was the image in the middle that drew Sam’s attention. It came at him like a shot of adrenaline, recognisable straightaway. It was a woman, petite, young, tied to a chair. There was something hanging from her neck, like a rope, and her chest and face were painted bright red, with crosses over her eyes. Sam hadn’t seen the pictures from the scene of the murder, but he had heard Egan describe it over and over during the interview as he tried to rattle Luke.
Sam looked up at the old man, who smiled, just a nervous flicker of his lips.
Sam looked back at the picture.
There was more in the picture, and when Sam saw his own name scrawled across the top corner he felt his chest tighten. There were two people painted underneath his name, standing in front of a statue, of some old Victorian dignitary on a six-foot plinth. Sam recognised it. It was a statue near the court. The faces of the people in front of the statue were empty, but Sam could tell it was two men from the width of the shoulders and the suits.