Authors: Kate Rhodes
Crossbones Yard (21 page)
By now Angie and I were starring in our own version of
Groundhog Day
. I had chosen my usual breakfast of fruit with Greek yogurt, and she was piling through a mound of fried bread, eggs and sausages.
Groundhog Day
. I had chosen my usual breakfast of fruit with Greek yogurt, and she was piling through a mound of fried bread, eggs and sausages.
‘This’ll set me up,’ she said.
There was something irresistible about Angie. She did everything with gusto, from enjoying each mouthful, to the minute details of her job. I was lacklustre by comparison, and time had gone into slow motion, every action taking aeons to unfold.
The receptionist beckoned me as I crossed the foyer after breakfast.
‘Some post for you, Dr Quentin.’ She shunted the envelopes across the counter without making eye contact. Maybe she had chosen today to take a holiday from all forms of politeness.
Hari had forwarded my mail from work. Warwick University had sent me an invitation to speak to their students about clinical treatments for patients with a history of violence. And AstraZeneca were advertising a new generation of anti-anxiety drugs. No side effects, the leaflet announced smugly, as though worry would soon be a thing of the past. I almost missed the small white envelope at the back of the batch. This time I knew better than to open it, handling it gently, like a faulty grenade. Angie was by the entrance, chatting to
Alvarez. She loitered there when he walked over. Maybe she was hoping to win more brownie points from Burns. Alvarez looked more energetic than the day before. Either the run or the heavy-duty flirtation had done him good. I waved the envelope at him in greeting.
Alvarez. She loitered there when he walked over. Maybe she was hoping to win more brownie points from Burns. Alvarez looked more energetic than the day before. Either the run or the heavy-duty flirtation had done him good. I waved the envelope at him in greeting.
‘The guy doesn’t give up, does he?’ he sighed.
We sat at a table in the empty dining hall. Everyone had finished their breakfast, apart from a straggle of tourists filling up on croissants before pounding the streets. When he opened the letter, the black writing was just as neat and controlled as before.
Dear Alice,
It’s time for you to stop fighting. We need to be together. But when I came for you, you ran from me. I saw you jump from the balcony, but you won’t always be able to escape. Any day now I’ll catch you, and you’ll tell me what you’re really thinking, because pain makes people honest. Soon you’ll be transparent, Alice. I’ll see right through you.
‘Jesus,’ Alvarez whispered. His frown had reappeared, colour draining from his face, as if the threats were addressed to him. ‘Thank God he doesn’t know you’re here.’
‘Doesn’t he?’
He waved the envelope at me. The letter had been forwarded from the clinic at Guy’s.
‘That’s one good thing, I suppose.’
His eyes settled on my face, judging my reactions. ‘You’re going to have to settle here, Alice. You understand that, don’t you? He’s not making it easy. And you can’t go home till he’s caught.’
‘Fuck that,’ I muttered. Locked inside my immaculate beige hotel room, whole seasons could slip by without me noticing.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll liberate you now and then.’ For a second it looked like he might smile, but it was just a trick of the light. ‘What is it that upsets you so much about being cooped up?’
‘Everything. I should be at work, worrying about other people going mad. And my chances of a night on the town are less than zero.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ He traced my cheekbone with his forefinger, then sealed the letter inside a plastic bag. ‘Come on. You never know, your brother might feel like talking today.’
Miracles can happen, I thought, but on such a grey day they seemed unlikely. It began to hail as we got out of the car on Great Maze Pond. Hailstones stung the back of my neck as we raced across the quadrangle. They were big enough to hurt, thousands of tiny meteorites pelting us from on high. I must have looked like a drowned rat by the time we got inside. And the one person I hated seeing me in a mess was lurking in the corridor.
My mother surveyed my dripping hair and faded jeans with distaste. ‘Alice, darling, why aren’t you at work?’
My mother prided herself on never having missed a day at the library. It was her salvation. While she could stagger in and do her duty, normality reigned, and chaos was someone else’s concern.
‘I told you, Mum. The police want me out of things for the time being.’
Her attention had already shifted to Alvarez. Her pale eyes made a set of swift calculations. Apart from his dishevelled hair, he met her selection criteria perfectly. His coat was well cut and expensive, and his shoes were acceptable too, black leather Oxford brogues.
‘And who might you be?’ She held out her hand.
‘Alvarez.’ He held her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. ‘I’m really sorry about your son, Mrs Quentin.’
He had made a direct hit with my mother. Clearly she would have preferred to stand there making eyes at him, instead of dealing with the business in hand.
‘Have you seen Will yet, Mum?’ I asked.
Her attention drifted back slowly, as if I had spoiled a romantic moment. ‘No, dear, someone called Dr Chadha is meeting me at ten o’clock.’
‘Then you could have a long wait, I’m afraid. Hari’s never on time.’
‘Why not come with us, Mrs Quentin?’ Alvarez was still on his best behaviour, inclining his shoulders towards my mother, like he was preparing to bow. ‘It must be upsetting for you to see Will on your own.’
She gave a martyred smile. ‘He’s in so much pain. It’s dreadful not being able to help your child.’
I resisted the urge to slap her. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that my brother had been in pain for years, but she hadn’t exactly dashed to the rescue.
Angie had arrived before us. She was perched on the chair by his bedside, alert as a pixie sitting on a toadstool, taking care not to miss anything. Her presence obviously hadn’t disturbed Will. He was fast asleep, face whiter than the pillowslip, black hollows scored around his eyes. A nurse had removed his bedding to keep him cool. His left leg was trapped in plaster from ankle to thigh, the other exposed to the air, metal pins fusing the bones in place. The skin was shiny and taut, purple bruises blossoming under the surface. My mother’s smile vanished instantly. For someone so squeamish it must have been horrifying to see so many wounds. I felt a flicker of sympathy for her. Some mornings
before I went to school I’d see her standing by her bedroom mirror, undoing the buttons of her nightgown to inspect the previous night’s damage, ripe bruises blossoming across her chest and shoulders. No wonder she couldn’t stand the sight of someone else’s injuries.
before I went to school I’d see her standing by her bedroom mirror, undoing the buttons of her nightgown to inspect the previous night’s damage, ripe bruises blossoming across her chest and shoulders. No wonder she couldn’t stand the sight of someone else’s injuries.
Alvarez pulled back the curtains and a shaft of light fell across Will’s face. My brother blinked rapidly, and when his eyes opened fully he seemed to be coming round. He glanced from my mother’s face to mine, then something startled him. Maybe it was the unexpected light, or Alvarez’s hulking presence in the corner. His eyes snapped wide open, every muscle straining in his thin face, and then the screaming started. His arms flailed, as though he wanted to break anything within reach.
Angie looked up at Alvarez. ‘Something set him off, boss. He’s been quiet as a mouse till now.’
‘Too many of us probably.’ He stepped away from the bed.
‘Calm down, darling,’ my mother cooed.
She touched Will’s arm but he shrugged her off. His screams had risen to a roar. I forced myself to wait, because sooner or later the hysteria would die down. A safety mechanism gets tripped and the level of cortisol falls, before rising again, panic surging through your system in waves.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘You’re safe, I promise.’ I said it more to reassure myself than him, but maybe he heard. The yell thinned to a whimper, and he reached for my hand. He squeezed my fingers so hard that my knuckles throbbed. It was a relief when he let go.
‘You don’t know what I’ve seen,’ he whispered.
‘What did you see, Will?’
He whimpered to himself, eyes shut, as if he was afraid to remember.
‘You can whisper, if you like,’ I said.
After a few seconds he said something too quietly to be heard, but when I moved closer his mumbling became clearer.
‘The devil,’ he muttered, then his eyes turned towards the window. ‘All the angels have disappeared.’
‘It’s just the drugs you’ve taken, darling. You’re safe here, honestly.’
I stared out of the window. The low roof of the mortuary was almost hidden by trees. At that moment there was more chance of getting an explanation from the victims lying in the freezer than from Will. My mother was in the same position as before, frozen by the wall, her face even more mask-like than normal, smothered in make-up. She must have stood in her bathroom that morning, painting on a smile. Maybe I should have comforted her, but I couldn’t muster the energy. Alvarez was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to fetch a nurse when Will began to scream. Angie was keeping a low profile in the corner, and Will was ignoring us all, chattering to himself, hands cupping his eyes, as though he was playing hide and seek.
Hari arrived an hour late, but for once my mother kept her mouth shut. Only doctors and lawyers had that effect on her. She treated them with unquestioning respect, as if they were minor royalty.
‘How are you?’ Hari’s chocolate-brown eyes studied me. I would have given anything to turn the clock back and sit in his office, eat a plateful of the sticky cakes he was addicted to.
‘Bearing up, Hari. It’s my brother I’m worried about.’
‘That’s why I’m here, to see what I can do.’
Alvarez loitered by the door. It seemed odd that he and Hari had become friends, hard to imagine them finding any common ground. But it was typical of Hari to reach out to someone in need of support, and his calmness seemed to slow Alvarez down. Certainly he had that effect on Will. He seemed more relaxed, but his eyes were still fixed on the open window, tracking spectres across the sky.
‘Hello, young man,’ Hari murmured. ‘You’re nice and quiet today. That’s a good sign.’
‘He was screaming his head off a minute ago,’ I commented. ‘Don’t you think he needs chlorpromazine?’
‘We can’t rush him, Alice.’ He leaned down to touch Will’s forehead, chatting to him as though they were old friends. ‘Come back at your own pace, young man. We’ll start you on some valproate in a few days, see how that goes.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Alvarez snapped. ‘Don’t you know this is urgent?’
Will reacted immediately to the anger in his voice, or maybe it was just a problem of scale. We must have looked like a family of giants, looming over him. He clapped his hands over his eyes again, and his chattering escalated to a loud whimper.
‘Why don’t we go outside?’ Hari suggested.
Alvarez was ready to explode as soon as he got into the corridor. ‘He’s made no progress whatsoever.’
‘Because he’s very sick, Ben,’ Hari said. ‘He needs time to heal.’
Alvarez gave a curt nod. ‘Healing’s great, but without his story, we’re fucked. He’s part of a team, and another girl’s gone missing.’
By now Hari’s smile had been replaced by the expression he wore at department meetings, to warn us about budget cuts. ‘The thing is, he’s taken a whole cocktail of psychoactive drugs, on top of his illness. There’s no antidote. We just have to bide our time.’
Alvarez nodded impatiently. ‘You’re telling me there’s nothing you can do.’
‘No. I’m saying you have to be patient. Right now Will thinks he’s a caged bird. He’s not going to snap out of it immediately, is he?’
A muscle ticked in Alvarez’s cheek. ‘You need to understand the urgency, that’s all.’
‘I do, and I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can.’ Hari shot me an apologetic look, then he kissed my cheek. ‘Everyone’s missing you upstairs, Alice.’
He drifted along the corridor, back to the world I used to inhabit, full of appointments and prescriptions, things you could control.
Alvarez clasped his hands behind his neck. ‘That’s all well and good, isn’t it? But it tells us fuck all about how two dead girls found their way into your brother’s van.’
‘There must be other ways to find out.’
His frown cut a valley between his eyebrows, deep enough for a river to run through. He insisted on walking me to Tooley Street, and when we got to the corner his gaze drifted to my mouth, like he intended to kiss me, in plain sight of Angie’s car waiting across the road.
‘Better not,’ I advised.
He kicked at the hailstones still scattered on the ground. ‘It’s always better not with you, isn’t it?’
‘I’m just thinking of your job, that’s all.’
‘Maybe I’m sick of the fucking job.’
‘Because you’re working too hard, that’s why.’
His mouth almost formed a smile. ‘Someone’s got to.’
‘I’ll call you tonight,’ I said.
He walked away so slowly he seemed to be dragging an invisible weight.
Even the bitter cold had failed to reduce Angie’s perkiness. Her elfin haircut made her look like a street urchin from
Oliver Twist
.
Oliver Twist
.
‘The boss man’s got a soft spot for you.’ She monitored my reaction from the corner of her eye.
‘Nonsense. He’s just doing his job.’
‘He’s a heart-throb down at the station, you know.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Not that there’s much competition. Most of the blokes make DCI Burns look like a lightweight. But you should hear the girls going on about Alvarez since his wife died.’
I wondered if Alvarez knew that he had a troop of obsessive fans. We were heading south along Southwark Bridge Road.
Within minutes the hotel walls would be folding around my ears again, like a piece of prizewinning origami.
Within minutes the hotel walls would be folding around my ears again, like a piece of prizewinning origami.
‘Go left at the next junction, can you, Angie?’
‘Why?’ She looked irritated. Unlike Meads she hated doing anything off plan.
‘It won’t take a minute, I promise.’
Angie tutted under her breath as we pulled into the cul-de-sac.
The memorial garden was easy to miss. There had been an article in the paper when it opened. Relatives hated it, and I could see why. They thought the artist hadn’t done justice to the victims’ lives. Certainly the garden was a tribute to minimalism. Circular flowerbeds and eight flat stones were scattered across a paved area, where the Bensons’ hostel had stood before it was pulled down. The marble stones looked like huge coins, dull white under the overcast sky, like skin that hadn’t seen the sun for decades. Angie peered at the list of victims’ names. One of the memorial stones had already been tagged. It was only a matter of time before every stone was drenched in fluorescent graffiti.
When I closed my eyes I saw Michelle’s permanently unfocused eyes, as though she couldn’t picture a future for herself. With any luck nothing had happened to her. Maybe she was safe in another city, starting a new life. When I glanced back Angie’s head was down, lips moving silently. It surprised me. Prayer didn’t fit her streetwise image. Afterwards she looked embarrassed, as if I’d caught her with her hand in the biscuit jar.
‘Come on then,’ she said briskly. ‘No point in hanging about.’
A bunch of carnations lay beside one of the stones, and I thought about the five girls who had never been found. There was nowhere for the relatives to lay their flowers when
birthdays came around. But at least it was better than the prostitutes’ cemetery. This was luxury, compared to the filthy, weed-strewn asphalt that sealed the hundreds of unmarked graves at Crossbones Yard.
birthdays came around. But at least it was better than the prostitutes’ cemetery. This was luxury, compared to the filthy, weed-strewn asphalt that sealed the hundreds of unmarked graves at Crossbones Yard.
The hotel’s one saving grace was that it had wi-fi. If the worst came to the worst I could stare at pictures of empty landscapes, imagine myself running for hundreds of miles. When I logged into my work email the unanswered messages had risen to three hundred and ten. A vaguely familiar name appeared at the bottom of the first page. I decided to accept the invitation before I had finished reading it. In a few moments the phone call was made and we had arranged where to meet. Then I broke the bad news to Angie.
‘I have to be in Brixton for six thirty,’ I announced.
She carried on studying photos of bridal veils. ‘I don’t fancy the sound of that.’
‘No, I didn’t think you would.’
‘It’s harder keeping an eye on you outside.’
‘I promise to move slowly at all times.’
‘Brixton, for God’s sake,’ she moaned.
‘We’ll probably get kidnapped by yardies and sold as sex slaves.’
Angie’s dark eyes fixed on me. ‘You can laugh, Alice. But some psycho’s out there, hunting for you.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Believe it or not, that fact hadn’t actually slipped my mind.’
She was still sulking when we left.
‘I am grateful for what you’re doing, you know,’ I said quietly.
‘Are you?’ She stared at the chain of cars backing up from Lambeth Bridge.
‘It’s just that I’m used to being in charge, that’s all. It’s a shock to my system.’
Angie’s good humour returned the minute I apologised, and the car swung south, joining the flood of commuters rushing towards leafier suburbs.
Brixton was the same as always. Rastas sporting red, green and gold, hanging around street corners despite the chill, selling weed to anyone who passed by. We parked outside a launderette. Two beautifully dressed African women were piling sheets into huge industrial cylinders. Evidently they were not prepared to sacrifice style for the sake of their careers.
We made our way towards Starbucks. I’ve always hated coffee chains. There’s something disturbing about the way the lattes always taste exactly the same, dozens of identical leather chairs trying to look homely. But at least they’re easy to find, round signs on every street corner, the same dirty green as a US dollar.
Angie seated herself at a table in the corner, within spying distance. Gareth Wright-Phillips was already halfway down his cappuccino. He was less relaxed than I remembered him being at Rampton. For some reason the prospect of our meeting seemed to worry him more than visiting the most prolific female serial killer in Britain.
‘I hope it was okay to contact you.’ He smiled cautiously.
‘Of course. Anyone can be found these days, can’t they?’
He seemed incapable of hiding his emotions. They travelled across his face like a weather system through an open tract of sky. I found myself admiring his turquoise-blue eyes again.
‘So you don’t just work at Rampton?’ I asked.
‘No. The prison service gets its pound of flesh.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Two days at Wormwood Scrubs, then Rampton and Brixton for a day each, which leaves Fridays to finish my staggeringly original second novel.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve got the energy after all that.’
He shrugged. ‘The job’s great for my writing; not many people get to hear killers tell their stories every day.’ He seemed to be trying to decide whether he could speak freely. ‘The thing is, Dr Quentin—’
‘Alice.’
‘The thing is, Alice, I don’t know how to say this.’
His gaze jittered across the table, observing the mess of cups, spoons and spilled sugar.
‘Take your time,’ I said.
He drew in a breath. ‘I’ve stolen something.’
He pulled a wad of papers from his briefcase. I glanced at the handwriting, the scrawled words eliding, as if the writer couldn’t get their thoughts down fast enough.
‘Who do those belong to?’
‘Marie Benson.’ He looked nervous. Maybe he expected to be arrested there and then. ‘When she realised she was going blind, she started writing. I think she wanted to get everything out of her system while she had the chance.’
I glanced at the frantic scribble of drawings cascading down the margins of each page.
‘And she doesn’t know you have these?’
Wright-Phillips shook his head. ‘I took them from her room a few weeks ago.’
‘To use in your novel.’
He studied the dregs at the bottom of his cup.
‘I don’t blame you. Everyone wants to know what she’s been hiding all this time.’
‘It was a bit disappointing actually – some mawkish poems, and reams of self-pity.’
‘Can I borrow this lot?’
‘Of course, but there’s one more thing.’
‘Sorry, I’m rushing.’ I perched on the edge of my seat. ‘That’s rude of me.’
‘You won’t tell her, will you?’ he stuttered.
When I looked again I saw that his eyes were aquamarine, not turquoise, glassy with fear. Marie Benson might be half-blind and kept under lock and key, but he was still afraid that she would come after him, and exact her revenge in the middle of the night.
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