Authors: Kate Rhodes

Crossbones Yard (18 page)

BOOK: Crossbones Yard

4.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

It felt like flight. I travelled across seven or eight feet of winter air, nothing below me except the pavement and a thirty-foot drop. My hands grabbed the railing of the balcony of the flat next to mine and I hung there, legs swinging, like it was a playground adventure. My fingers were losing their grip on the metal bar, but I couldn’t look down, too busy trying not to fall. Then a hand closed around my wrist and a man’s voice cursed. He hauled me over the railing and I lay on the decking, gasping for breath, too exhausted to say thank you.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ The man who saved my life must have been in his early twenties, wearing nothing except a pair of boxer shorts and an outraged expression.

‘Call the police,’ I whispered. Then the fog closed in out of nowhere, and I forgot to breathe.

The young man was dressed by the time I came round, and his girlfriend was hovering over me. After they recovered from the shock of finding me dangling from their balcony, screaming my head off, they dealt with the situation brilliantly, providing biscuits and sympathy until the police arrived. The girl looked like a china doll, with perfect skin and corkscrew ringlets.

‘You mean someone’s been stalking you?’ Her eyes were round with amazement.

I nodded. ‘Except I’ve never seen him. God knows what he looks like.’

‘Must be someone you know,’ she said confidently.

‘Why?’

She looked at me kindly, as if I was a slow learner. ‘He had a key, didn’t he?’

It took a few seconds for the idea to register. She was right, of course. Whoever it was had let himself in. But no one had a key to the flat except me, Will and Lola. Sean had suggested once that we should swap keys, but I had conveniently forgotten to get one cut.

Two uniformed policemen arrived while I was finishing another chocolate digestive, trying to restore my blood sugar. They looked like extras from
The Bill
, tired and middle-aged, desperate to retire on their fiftieth birthdays. They sat on my neighbour’s black leather sofa, looking sceptical. Maybe they thought I was making it all up just to inconvenience them. After a few minutes the older one excused himself and stepped out into the corridor, muttering into his walkie-talkie, asking for an identity check. He was shamefaced when he came back, the radio on his lapel spluttering like a badly trained parrot. But I didn’t blame him; in his shoes I’d have done the same. My life was beginning to sound like something you couldn’t make up, yet for some reason I felt elated. Maybe it was simply relief at being alive, rather than scattered in bits across the road.

Police officers were buzzing around my flat like bluebottles when I was finally allowed to return. One was working on my front door, applying dust to the lock with a large brush. Two others were crawling all over the hall. Burns arrived while I was resisting the urge to shoo them out, counting to ten under my breath. His eyes were as tiny as currants in the pale dough of his face.

‘You again, Alice.’ He looked disappointed, like his favourite pupil had let herself down, but he still listened patiently while I explained what had happened.

‘So you thought you’d do your own stunts, did you? Get yourself ready for the next James Bond.’

‘There wasn’t much choice,’ I protested.

He gave a concerned frown. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’

I shook my head, but my palms were beginning to tingle. They had been grazed raw during my adventure. Shock must have stopped the pain from registering.

‘Your friend Lola’s got a key to this place, has she?’

‘Yes. I should call her and Lars, let them know what’s happened.’

‘Lars?’ Burns’s small eyes snapped open, like a camera’s aperture.

‘Lola’s boyfriend.’

‘What’s his last name?’

‘Jansen.’

He scribbled the word in his bulging notebook.

‘But it’s not him, for God’s sake. Lola only met him a few days ago.’

The sofa groaned loudly under Burns’s shifting weight. ‘Someone got into your flat, Alice.’ He spoke so slowly, he might have been explaining something complex to a child. ‘So they either borrowed a key, or they stole one.’

‘Well, you can forget about Lars. He’s as laid back as they come.’

‘And so are you.’ He frowned. ‘You’re too bloody calm for my liking, Alice.’

‘Disassociation.’

‘Sorry?’

‘People do it when they’re in denial. It keeps anxiety at bay, you intellectualise things, instead of panicking.’

Burns took off his glasses and his face briefly came into focus. He must have been handsome once, back in the days when his cheekbones were still visible. ‘But you should be panicking. Without your flying circus trick, you’d be in the boot of his car by now, and the next thing you know, you’re at Crossbones, wrapped in black plastic.’

It was easy to imagine what kind of father he was: protective to the point of smothering. Something had sent his guardian instincts into overdrive.

‘But there’s no point in being scared, is there? All I can do is keep my wits about me.’

‘Jesus.’ Burns gave a low whistle. ‘You should jack in psychology. They’d love you in the commandos.’

‘Thanks for the careers advice. So, what should I do about the key? I need a locksmith, don’t I?’

Burns blinked at me. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Of course I am. I can’t stay here until the locks are changed. He can get in any time he likes.’

‘You can’t stay here full stop,’ he said firmly. ‘From now on, you’re under full police protection.’

After a while I gave up protesting. Burns had made up his mind, and the more I argued, the more dogged he became. He waited while I packed a bag, a serious expression on his face, like he was taking a dangerous criminal into custody.

‘By the way, we talked to your ex today.’

‘Sean?’

‘For a couple of hours down at the station, then we let him go again. He’s a proper gent, isn’t he?’ Burns’s mouth puckered in disgust.

‘Is it his charm that offends you?’

‘Smarmy. We’ll be keeping an eye on him.’ The maniacal look was back on Burns’s face, his eyes round and focused, like a child in a sweetshop, trying to taste everything at once.
For some reason I didn’t try to plead Sean’s case. While I was with him he had seemed so well adjusted it was frightening, but nothing made sense any more. I kept picturing him outside Vinopolis, hands shaking, so enraged I hardly recognised him. All I’d wanted to do was jump on my bike and put a safe distance between us.

Burns watched me climb into the back of a squad car. Maybe he was afraid I’d wrench open the door while we were in transit and make my escape. The policeman didn’t say a word, probably conserving his energy in case I misbehaved. It was dawn by the time he escorted me up the steps of a large, corporate hotel called the Regency, in Bankside.

The officer checked me in under an assumed name, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing. Maybe it was the combination of shock, hunger and disbelief, but none of the day’s events seemed real. My nightcap with Alvarez could have happened years ago. I was too tired to protest about using the lift to the fifth floor. The usual surge of panic washed over me when we stepped inside, but fortunately the lift shot upwards quickly, and I kept my eyes firmly closed. As soon as we got to the suite the officer installed himself on the sofa and began to explore the satellite channels on the flat-screen TV. He seemed perfectly content. Anything must have been preferable to another cold night patrolling the freezing streets, looking for miscreants to arrest.

I bolted the bedroom door behind me. It was just a reflex reaction, but after what had happened there was no way I could sleep in a bedroom without a solid lock. London was already waking up, as if nothing unusual had happened. To the east the sky was turning pink over Canary Wharf. From that distance the skyscrapers looked like an illusion, as thin as gravestones. The cupola of St Paul’s was visible through chinks between the buildings. I wondered what advice Christopher Wren would
have given me. None, was the likely answer. He wouldn’t even have looked up from his desk − too busy finishing a drawing, flogging himself through another twenty-hour day. I sent Lola a text, then closed the curtains, ignoring the tremor in my hands, and climbed into bed for the second time that day.

Burns’s idea of full police protection meant a complete denial of privacy, and keeping me indoors at all times. In the morning my bodyguards changed hands. The world-weary copper from the night before was replaced by a perky young woman who resembled a pixie. She was even smaller than me, with a delicate face and cropped strawberry-blonde hair. It was a surprise every time she spoke, because she had a gruff east London accent. Her name was Angie, and she traipsed down the stairs behind me with surprising goodwill. On an ordinary day I would have warmed to her, but two hours’ sleep and an overload of worry had cancelled my sense of humour.

‘Don’t you do lifts then?’ she asked cheerily.

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘Bet you’re not mad on the London Eye, are you?’

Angie carried on gushing, like a tap with a faulty washer. By the time we reached the ground floor I knew all about her dad’s sciatica, her mum’s desire to live in Cyprus, and her belief that the force was no place to work if you wanted kids. She was keen to join me for breakfast, but I told her politely that someone was meeting me. She looked horrified. Maybe she hunted down a companion for every meal, so conversation could flow seamlessly from dawn till dusk.

The hotel dining room was cavernous. It looked like an aircraft hangar, which someone had tried to humanise by hanging dubious artworks on the wall. The breakfast buffet
was languishing on hotplates, getting more desiccated by the minute, but I was too hungry to refuse. I loaded my plate and headed for a table by the wall. Angie loitered a few metres away, yammering happily into her mobile phone. Fifteen minutes later, Lola made a dramatic entrance, Pre-Raphaelite curls flying.

‘Sorry I’m late, Al.’ She threw her arms round me. ‘They’ve got Lars at the police station. That fucking detective pitched up at seven this morning.’

‘Which one do you mean?’

‘You know, the big thug with the wedding ring.’

‘Alvarez.’ I took a bite of fried bread and tried not to meet her eye.

Lola leaned across the table, as though she was about to share a state secret. ‘Anyway, he may be God’s gift to women, but he’s also a complete shit. He’s been grilling Lars for hours. DNA sample, phone calls to Sweden, you name it.’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘It’s a disaster. I’ve got a huge audition, and they won’t even let me collect my clothes from yours.’

It was an effort not to smile. Lola had been exactly the same at school: an even mix of kindness and self-interest, with no grey area in between. In her eyes missing a showbiz opportunity was worse than a psychopath arriving in your bedroom in the middle of the night, or your boyfriend getting slammed in jail.

‘Have you seen Will?’ I asked.

Lola’s expression changed immediately, as if she’d clicked back into reality. ‘He’s not good, Al. The poor thing’s spouting all this weird stuff about heaven and hell. He’s even more paranoid than before.’

‘It’ll be a rough few months,’ I said quietly.

‘And the fucking police have been hassling him too.’

I was beginning to lose patience. ‘What are they meant to do, Lola? It’s their job to ask questions. They don’t do it for fun,’ I snapped.

Her lip was trembling again, which was always a sign that the full waterworks could start at any minute.

‘Look, you stay there, Lo. I’ll get us some coffee.’

She had collected herself by the time I got back, and the double espresso improved her mood immediately. She dashed away as quickly as she’d arrived, in search of someone to lend her dance gear for the audition. For the time being everything else was put on hold, while she pursued her theatrical dream.

At least the walk back to the suite was quieter than the descent. Angie tried to keep the conversation going, but by the third floor she was struggling for breath. When we finally got to my suite she needed a cup of tea to help her recover. Even with floor to ceiling windows, the room felt airless. The ventilation system wasn’t doing much, except shifting stale air from room to room. I went into the bedroom to escape Angie’s wedding plans. Apparently the bridesmaids had chosen midnight-blue satin, and they were looking into the cost of hiring a Rolls-Royce. Outside the window a family of pigeons were admiring the view past St Paul’s to Bishopsgate, as fat and satisfied as old women at a bus stop. They looked happy to sit on the ledge all day, but I was going quietly mad, aching to break the rules and go for a run. Overnight I had gone from complete independence to having to justify everything I did. I couldn’t even leave the hotel to buy a newspaper without someone tagging behind. My mobile rang just as I was plotting my getaway.

‘PC Meads here, Dr Quentin. I’m your driver for the afternoon.’

The promise Burns had squeezed out of me had completely slipped my mind, but the idea seemed more appealing now.
Anything was better than spending the whole afternoon indoors, kicking my heels. PC Meads turned out to be the baby-faced plod who drove me home from the station after I found Suzanne Wilkes’s body. He was as monosyllabic as ever, his uniform two sizes too big, as though he was trying on a fancy dress outfit for a party at school. But at least it would mean a break from the hotel. A view of the streets racing by was preferable to four walls closing in on me.

Alvarez called just as we were crossing London Bridge.

‘Sorry, I can’t speak to you,’ I said sharply. ‘Lola says you’re giving her boyfriend a hard time.’

‘A hard time?’ Alvarez sounded incredulous. ‘I could have unscrewed the light bulb and refused him food.’

‘I thought as much.’

‘Why didn’t you call me last night?’ His voice was different on the phone, deeper and more guttural, like he might break into Spanish at any minute.

‘Believe it or not, I was quite busy, trying to stay alive.’

He exhaled loudly. ‘I knew I should have taken you back to mine.’

‘Missed your chance, didn’t you?’

‘There’ll be another.’ His tone was completely confident, as if no logical argument could be made. ‘Listen, Alice, I need to know where your brother keeps his key to your flat.’

I thought for a moment. We were driving through Stoke Newington, past parents corralling their kids towards Clissold Park, chivvying them to keep up.

‘In his pocket normally. He hasn’t got many other places to hide it. Why?’

‘Someone handed in a bag last night. It was in some bushes, near where he was found.’

My heart turned over in my chest. ‘Grey canvas, with his name inside the flap.’

‘That’s the one. And the thing is, Alice, we found a weapon in it.’

I took a deep breath. ‘A flick-knife, with a silver handle.’

‘You knew.’ Alvarez cursed quietly under his breath. ‘Who in their right mind would let someone as sick as your brother walk around with a weapon?’

‘What was I meant to do? I tried to take it off him, but he grabbed it back.’

‘Bullshit,’ Alvarez muttered. ‘You were too scared to follow through.’

There was no easy reply, so I switched off my phone. The car was chasing north through the suburbs now, past chains of down-at-heel terraces. Alvarez had hit the nail on the head. Fear had stopped me from helping Will. There had been so many days when I booked hospital appointments and tried to make him go. Coaxing, cajoling and bribery had all failed. Maybe I should have stood my ground, but he could flip without any provocation. Suddenly he would be uncontainable, beating the wall with his fists, calling me every name under the sun. The echoes of my father’s behaviour terrified me. His illness made him react in exactly the same way. Our childhood must have been a training ground. Countless times Will had cowered in the living room, watching my father lose control. When he was drunk the violence began for no reason, in the blink of an eye. He needed Will to understand the enjoyment he got from hurting my mother and me. I rubbed my temples, trying to remove the disloyal thoughts from my mind. After all, none of it had been Will’s fault. A twelve-year-old boy couldn’t have fought a grown man, but it was still hard to understand why he didn’t even try.

The hinterlands disappeared as we joined the A1. My brain seized the chance to make up its sleep deficit, and I woke up
to hear Meads telling me we were nearly there. I peered out of the window. Rampton hadn’t changed since my visit three years before, when I interviewed a team of psychiatrists on their methods for treating aggression in psychotic patients. From the approach road it looked more like a holiday camp than a secure mental hospital, low-rise buildings scattered across acres of open land. But the entrance gates were like Checkpoint Charlie. Eventually we were waved through and entered what looked like a village.

When the place was first built, all the staff lived on site, walking across the green from their pleasant villas to work at the bedlam every day. The governor spoiled them. He built a swimming pool, dance hall, tennis courts. He even paid for a bowling green. The inmates were kept in padded cells, in isolation much of the time. Hardly any treatments were available apart from dopamine, lithium and ECT. In the seventies the place nearly closed, because inspectors said the regime was barbaric. They made sure that all the staff perks were removed. Even the swimming pool had been filled in, replaced by a garden for the inmates to tend.

Meads looked even more like an anxious choirboy when he got out of the car. Maybe he was afraid someone would run out and straitjacket him.

‘What’s this place for, anyway?’ he asked.

‘It’s a cross between a prison and a hospital. There’s a mix of men and women. Some of them are criminally insane, and others are kept under the Mental Health Act.’

‘Lovely.’ His eyes widened. ‘They’ve got that bloke here, haven’t they? The one who killed the two little girls.’

‘Ian Huntley. Not any more, he’s at Wakefield Prison, overweight and smoking himself to death.’

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke,’ Meads muttered. ‘Who else is in there?’

‘They had the most dangerous man in the UK for a while, Charles Bronson. And Beverley Allitt. The tabloids called her the angel of death.’

‘How come?’ He was hanging on my every word. Maybe he dashed home from work every night to pore over true crime magazines.

‘She was a pretty blonde nurse, but she killed four of her patients. She tried to finish off a lot more, but they caught her on video.’

Meads was wide-eyed with amazement. ‘Isn’t it asking for trouble, keeping a load of nutters in one place?’

‘Not really. There are four members of staff to every inmate, and they get assessed all the time. There hasn’t been any bother here for years.’

Despite the reassurance Meads was reluctant to come inside. His skin looked waxy as he struggled to breathe. People often react like that. They’re afraid to come into contact with madness, in case it’s infectious, or the sight of it is damaging in some way. Meads traipsed along the corridor, trying not to look right or left in case a lunatic appeared in his line of vision. On the surface the place was like any other hospital, with blank magnolia walls, tasteless patterned curtains. The only difference was that the windows were sealed, reinforced-glass doors clicking shut behind us. A kick of adrenalin stirred under my ribcage. If the place went into lockdown, no one would ever escape.

Eventually we arrived at a door with a small glass window. Marie Benson was deep in conversation with someone. She looked different from the last time I’d seen her, rejuvenated, lips parted in her trademark gap-toothed smile. Her grin stayed put for several minutes. The man was doing a good job of keeping her amused. Whenever she spoke he listened attentively, then scribbled on a clipboard. Eventually he stood
up to leave, and Marie looked crestfallen. I couldn’t guess who the man was, but his jeans and corduroy jacket were too relaxed for a psychiatrist. He paused in the corridor, smiling and holding out a hand for me to shake.

‘Marie’s expecting you,’ he said. ‘I’m Gareth, her writing tutor.’

He lounged against the wall, as if he could have chatted all day. Thank God Lola wasn’t there, she would have fancied him immediately. He was tall and rangy, with one of those mobile faces that change all the time, switching from joy to despair in a micro-second. His eyes were the type of blue I longed for as a child, so vivid they were almost turquoise.

‘Must be a challenging job,’ I commented.

He laughed. ‘That’s one way to describe it. It’s pretty intense. Most of my work’s one to one.’

‘What kind of writing does Marie do?’

He hugged his clipboard closer to his chest. ‘This year it’s poems, but last year she was working on short stories.’

‘And you help her improve them?’

‘Most of the time she’s pretty sure about what she wants to say. I’ll scribe for her then read it back, until she’s satisfied. I’m sure she’d be happy for you to see some of her stuff.’ He nodded earnestly.

It was hard to imagine the tales Marie would dream up. Probably not ideal bedtime reading for your kids.

The man smiled again. ‘I’d better get moving. Another student to see.’

BOOK: Crossbones Yard

4.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads