Die of Shame (28 page)

In a noisy Thai restaurant on Chiswick High Road, Robin nods at the man opposite him, half listening; sitting at a large round table with six or seven others from the meeting, waiting for the mixed starter to arrive.

Each of the meetings Robin attends has its own post-session ritual. These people always come to the same restaurant and order the same starter to share, while those at a different weekly meeting in Camden go to a café that serves a full English breakfast twenty-four hours a day. On Monday nights, of course, after Tony’s group recovery session, it’s the Red Lion in Muswell Hill.

Just a few days now, until Robin will get his chance to confront Heather.

The man sitting opposite says something. Robin leans forward because he can’t hear properly.

‘It was good tonight,’ the man says again.

Robin says, ‘I needed it.’

The man reaches across to lay a hand on Robin’s arm. ‘You need to stay strong.’

At the meeting, Robin had stood up and talked about what was happening to him in another group. The threat from one of them to expose his history with addiction; the danger of losing his job if he refused to comply. Almost everyone who spoke after he had finished had expressed their disgust and sympathy and had urged him to stand up to his blackmailer.

A blackmailer who had now sent a second demand.

‘You’ve come too far to lose everything,’ one had said.

‘Fuck the scumbag, whoever he is.’

‘Addiction is nothing to be ashamed of.’

They were right, Robin knows that, and their support is like oxygen. Whether the blackmailer calls his bluff and goes to the police or Robin reports what is happening himself, he will, in all likelihood lose his job, but so what? Yes, it will be tough financially, but he has learned how to tighten his belt before. He survived the pasting he took during the divorce, so he tells himself that he can do it again. He has a little money put away and he is only a few years from retirement anyway, so what does it really matter?

And the truth is, he is ready to stop.

He is tired.

Physically, he has been feeling his age for a while and his exercise-free lifestyle is not exactly designed to slow that process down. His arthritis is getting worse by the day. He seems increasingly prone to infections and both eyesight and hearing are deteriorating alarmingly fast.

The creeping failure of precious mental faculties, though, are, for him, far harder to live with than dodgy knees.

He knows ex-addicts a lot younger than he is, whose brains are so scrambled that they can barely remember their own names any more, and up until recently, he had thought he had got away with it. Now, memories are starting to scatter; the synaptic connections sporadic, like an unreliable phone signal. The remembrance of certain events he had thought were safely filed away for ever have become like the disconnected fragments of a dream.

Much of his time at university, a holiday in France with his ex-wife, treasured moments shared with his son.

He had talked about Peter too, at the meeting.

The waste and the blame.

The stupid, senseless death that had never been paid for.

‘Finally,’ says the man opposite.

Robin looks up as the food arrives and is laid down, and the volume of conversation drops a little as people dig in.

Within a few minutes of starting to eat, Robin can feel the heat spreading through him, but he has eaten here often enough to know that it is not the spring rolls or the spicy Thai fishcakes that are causing the sweat to prickle on his back or the blood to rise to his neck.

The validation he is getting from those all around him is firing him up, he is sure of it, allowing free rein to a powerful anger he has been struggling to keep in check. That has not surfaced again since that evening in the Red Lion with Chris.

Back when he thought Chris deserved to be the target of it.

No, he will not let… whoever is responsible for these threats get away with it. They must not be
allowed
to get away with it.

Losing his job or, worse, being struck off, is simply unacceptable. His professional reputation has been hard earned and he will not sacrifice it. As far as the money goes, who the hell does he think he is trying to kid? The nice cosy pension will go as well as the salary and it is simply idiotic to think he can easily recover from a financial hit like that. It’s bad enough living the way he does now, like some student in that poky flat. He will not take a step down from there.

His mind is racing as he eats, as he nods along and pretends to pay attention to the chat around him.

Perhaps the answer is a counter-threat. All he needs to do is find something that his blackmailer would prefer to keep secret. If it is Heather, he doesn’t doubt that there will be something there to find. There has to be a solution that doesn’t involve… the kind of thing Chris accused him of, that he believes him to be capable of.

People cannot threaten and harass with impunity. They cannot behave in such a way and not accept that there will be consequences.

‘You all right, Robin?’

He looks up at the man who is now pointing and grinning at him from across the table.

‘Looks like you’ve eaten a chilli, mate.’

Such things have to be paid for.

Chris must have said something or made a noise; a low moan or a grunt of frustration, something. The boy, sitting shirtless on the floor, turns from the vast screen on which Nazi zombies are being ruthlessly dispatched and says, ‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake. He’ll be here in a minute.’

‘It’s been hours.’

‘It’s been twenty minutes.’

‘Look at you.’ The boy turns back to his game. Woody, whose contact details Chris had wiped from his phone a long time ago because he was told to. Whose number it had taken him many hours to track down the night before, when the idea had first taken hold and quickly become something stronger.

When the niggle had become a need.

Walking and walking, waiting for Woody to call back, and all the while the memory of so many similar moments flooding his mind with all the things that would inevitably follow. The need to get high again. The urgency to find the money and all the things he will do to get it, so that he can get high again after that, and again, and on and on. The bed he will be refused at the hostel and the tiredness and the cold streets. The look of disgust he will get from others and from that thing with eyes dead as buttons and see-through skin when he stares into a mirror.

That was then, before the itch became something he knew he would have to tear into hard, and now he’s sitting on this ratty sofa, his belly drum-tight, rubbing then scraping at his arms and his nails aren’t long enough and the flesh feels like chickenskin.

‘Have that, you fucker,’ Woody shouts at the screen.

Chris thinks he’s been in this room before, but he’s not sure. He wonders if Woody’s redecorated, then laughs because it’s such a stupid idea.

‘What?’ Woody turns round again.

Chris shakes his head, gets up and begins to walk around the room, from wall to wall.

Woody laughs. ‘Same as you always were.’

‘What?’

‘Gagging for it.’

And Chris isn’t sure if it’s Woody saying that or Heather and the noise of the explosions and gunfire from Woody’s game is deafening, so he tells Woody to turn it down because they might not hear the doorbell. Woody swears and tells him that he hasn’t missed this shit. He says that the other side of Chris’s face is going to get messed up if he doesn’t put a sock in it, but the instant he nudges the volume of his game down the bell goes; screams.

‘Fucking told you,’ Chris says, running for the door. ‘Christ knows how long he’s been out there…’

The two of them are scrabbling for the cash as they open the door and, in the minute or so the whole business takes, the only word the dealer utters is ‘Nice’, when he sees what level Woody is at in his game.

As soon as the dealer is gone and the door is closed, the two of them retreat to opposite sides of the room.

Animals with meat to protect.

Now, it’s just the ritual, and the sense-memory of pain – the cramp in his stomach, the stinging on his skin – miraculously vanishes as he takes out the spoon; the lighter and the cigarette filter and the vinegar to help the mix.

Didn’t Heather say something about this, a few Mondays back?

Fucking Heather. He remembers saying her name as he’d walked and walked the night before. Shouting it out loud and making a woman who was passing jump back into the road.

Being scared of showing who you really are is what leads to all the lying.
 

Is it, Heather? Fucking
is
it?

The syrupy smell as the brown liquid bubbles in the spoon makes him forget every single one of those stupid… consequences. The hostel and the money and the looks of disgust. They do not matter any more and he is certain they never really did, because now there are other thoughts that need to be wiped away.

Bunk beds and bedtime stories. A locked bathroom door and his guts running out of him like water.

The blood blossoms in the syringe and when he pushes, and pulls and pushes, it’s instant. A murmur, and then the roar of it coming and a surge of sweet who-gives-a-shit that is over him like a wave.

‘Yeah,’ Woody says, hoarse and slow, from a long way away.

And Chris is already in that wonderful place, where he doesn’t have to think or pretend, to feel anything.

Somewhere he’s perfectly alone and empty.

There’s not a great deal of light in the small alleyway, though business is still brisk on Gerrard Street; in the restaurants and supermarkets of Chinatown, from whose back doors and greasy windows the smell seeps like smoke. Roasting meat, fish and hoisin sauce.

The stink that will linger in their clothes for days.

Tony says, ‘I want to get high with you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I won’t… but right now, I feel like I really want to.’ Tony pushes his tongue back into Heather’s mouth, his fingers a little further inside her knickers.

The metal fire exit clatters when Heather leans back against it. They freeze, just for a second, as something skitters behind one of the bins a few feet away. Tony’s left hand is moving slowly inside Heather’s bra, the fingers of his right still working as he tries to ease the material of her jeans away. Heather’s palm moves up and down the length of his erection and she stops only when her fingers flutter to feel for the zip.

‘This is pretty fucking close though,’ Tony says.

They kiss again, hard and wet, then stop to suck in a fast breath, their faces pressed together. ‘To what?’ Heather asks.

‘To being high. To not… Jesus…’

There are voices from the street just thirty feet away, shouting and laughter, but still the sounds the two of them make seem loud; lips pushed against ears inside the dimly lit doorway. Tony’s low moan. Heather saying, ‘There’, and the high gasp that follows.

Tony adjusts his stance, spreading his legs so that Heather can take his cock out, and as soon as she has she lets go of it to push her jeans down across her skinny hips.

‘We could go somewhere,’ she says.

Tony takes her hand and puts it back, moves it for her.

‘We could go to my place.’

‘No… this is good,’ Tony says.

For a few minutes they work at one another, quick and rough. They do not stop at the sound of a doorway opening further down the alleyway, and the footsteps have not yet faded away when Tony leans forward to brace himself against the metal door and Heather sinks slowly to her knees.

Tanner was talking to Diana Knight in the station’s reception area when Caroline Armitage walked in. The detective enjoyed the look of surprise and confusion, of something that might have been panic on each of their faces when they saw one another.

‘Oh,’ Knight said. ‘I hadn’t realised.’

‘I thought it might be useful,’ Tanner said. ‘If there’s two of you, you might help one another remember things. That’s all.’

‘Doing us both together?’ Armitage asked when she reached them. She smiled as she wiped a forearm across her forehead and Tanner thought she could detect something salacious in the girl’s tone; a suggestion that she’d got Tanner’s number, in one way at least. Tanner had no intention of acknowledging it.

‘So, you understand that you’re going to be interviewed under caution, this morning?’ As per procedure, each woman had been sent a letter requesting her attendance.

‘Actually, I’m not sure I do understand,’ Knight said. ‘Not unless we’re actually suspects.’

‘I suspect there are still things you haven’t told us,’ Tanner said.

‘Because we couldn’t.’

‘You know why,’ Armitage said.

‘Yes, but still, I’m entitled to interview you under caution if I believe that doing so might reveal further lines of inquiry.’ Tanner reeled it off with a degree of relish; content and confident in her enforcement of interview guidelines. ‘If it gives me the chance to gather information I can’t get in any other way, which may prove relevant to any subsequent prosecution.’

‘Well, if that’s what you think,’ Knight said.

‘I think that one or both of you, unwittingly or not, may have been involved in a major offence. Either way, I’ve reason to think that offence was committed by someone in your group.’ Tanner looked at the two women. Knight was dressed immaculately, muted tones and expensive fabrics; her appearance exuding confidence, even though, of the two, she seemed to be more nervous. Armitage wore a voluminous grey shirt over leggings and dirty trainers. She looked like she didn’t give a toss. ‘Interviewing the two of you formally might also bring home to you how seriously I’m taking this. The therapy group.’

‘Yes, well, someone was murdered,’ Knight said. ‘I do understand that’s quite serious.’

‘Are you waiting for legal representation to arrive? I hope you understood that you’re entitled to it.’

‘I didn’t think it would be necessary.’

‘I didn’t think about it at all,’ Armitage said.

‘Right. Well, I appreciate you coming in.’ Tanner had one hand on her lanyard, ready to swipe her ID and go inside. She looked at Caroline Armitage. ‘And I’m sorry if you’ve had to take time off work.’

‘I got sacked.’

‘Ah.’

‘Oh, that’s awful,’ Knight said.

Armitage was still looking at Tanner. ‘Down to you, according to my boss. Not good for business when the staff are questioned by the police on company premises.’

‘She can’t do that,’ Tanner said.

‘Oh, I’ll pop in and tell her, shall I?’

Tanner watched Diana Knight reach across to rub the younger woman’s arm as though she were comforting a distressed child.

‘Right, let’s get this done, shall we?’

In the interview room, which Knight said was marginally nicer than the first one she’d been in, Chall prepared the recording equipment while Tanner ran through the women’s rights. She told them they were being interviewed in accordance with Code C of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She made the usual speech about not having to say anything, the possibility of silence harming their defence, anything they said being used in evidence. She made sure they knew that the interview was to be recorded on both tape and DVD and that they were free to leave at any time.

Free to leave, but she would want to know why.

Once the familiar tone had signalled that things were officially under way, Tanner formally introduced herself and Dipak Chall. She reminded her interviewees of their right to seek legal advice, then asked each woman to state her name, address and date of birth. She thought Knight winced a little at revealing her age and told herself not to smile.

‘I’m not going to waste time asking again about what exactly was said and by whom during the session on March the twenty-second. Mainly because you’re both still within your rights to refuse to tell me, but also because I now have a reasonable idea, having seen Mr De Silva’s notes.’

Tanner was expecting a pause, and got one.

‘He gave them to you?’ Armitage asked.

‘He had no choice.’

‘You twisted his arm.’

‘The court did.’ Tanner leaned forward, keen to move on. ‘So, instead let’s talk a bit about what everyone’s mood was like that evening. Before the session, I mean.’ She looked from one face to another, picked. ‘Diana?’

Knight stared at her.

‘Do you mind if I call you Diana?’

She said no, but looked as though she minded a great deal. ‘All right… I think it would be fair to say I was ready for some support that night. Actually, I still am, which is why I’m so grateful that Tony’s starting the group up again.’

‘Really?’ Tanner glanced at Chall, who, in accordance with her instructions, had sat there looking serious and said nothing. ‘The Monday night group?’ She was genuinely surprised, and interested. De Silva had given her no indication that he intended getting them all back together so soon.

All bar one, of course.

‘Yeah, week after next, I think.’ Armitage rolled her eyes. ‘Should be… interesting.’

Tanner was sure that it would be. She looked back to Diana Knight. ‘So, March the twenty-second? You needed some support…’

‘Yes… I’d been going through a difficult time,’ Knight said. ‘Things weren’t exactly helped by my ex-husband’s girlfriend popping in to see me.’

Now it was Armitage’s turn to wince, rather more theatrically.

‘Can’t have been much fun,’ Tanner said.

‘That’s putting it mildly. Why on earth would anyone do that?’

‘I know.’ Armitage nodded, enthusiastic. ‘It’s against the rules.’

Knight evidently caught something in the other woman’s tone and turned to stare hard at her.

‘Come on, that’s definitely against your rules, isn’t it?’ Armitage looked at Tanner. Said, ‘She’s got rules.’

‘Right,’ Tanner said.

‘About other women and how they’re supposed to behave as far as other men go. Older men, that’s a definite no-no, and married men, bang out of order. Married
and
older’ – she pursed her lips and sucked in a breath – ‘that’s rule number one.’ She leaned towards Tanner and mock-whispered, as if it was no more than a silly joke. ‘That one gets her really riled up.’

‘You’re being unfair,’ Knight said.

‘Come on —’

‘You try going through it.’

‘I’m only messing around.’

‘They’re not rules.’ Knight adjusted the thin scarf at her throat, used the few seconds to calm down a little. ‘They’re standards.’

Tanner had guessed there might not be too much love lost between these two very different women. At worst, she knew they would have almost nothing in common, save the reason they were there. She had not expected conflict to surface quite so soon, but now that it had, she was hoping it might shake a few things loose.

She looked to her left, watched the digital display count the seconds. She said, ‘What about you, Caroline?’

Knight looked at Armitage, happy that it was the younger woman’s turn.

‘Well, look at me. Laugh-a-minute fat lass, happy as a pig in shit. Right?’

Tanner waited.

She shook her head. ‘Wrong. Trust me, when I get a cob on, I really get it on.’ She nodded towards Knight. ‘And as it goes, she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t in the best of moods that night.’

‘Because?’

Armitage smiled and closed her eyes just briefly, as though anticipating the reaction to what she was going to say; as if she couldn’t quite believe how good it was. ‘Well, whose fault is it we’re here?’

‘I’m not sure I —’

‘You mean
Heather
?’ Knight looked shocked.

Armitage looked at Tanner and reddened a little. ‘I don’t mean “fault”, that wasn’t what I was trying… but yeah. She was the reason I was so pissed off that night.’

Knight was still staring at her. ‘What did Heather do?’ Her voice fell a little when she mentioned the dead woman’s name and it was hard to tell if the small show of respect was involuntary.

‘More like
who
did she do.’ Smiling again, Armitage reached for the bottom of her shirt, lifted it and flapped as though she was feeling the heat. ‘I met up with her the day before and she was full of it. Walking around like a dog with two dicks, I swear.’

‘Why were you so angry with Heather, Caroline?’ Tanner asked.

‘Because of what she’d done.’ She glanced across at Knight. ‘You are really going to love this. Talk about your rules.’

‘What?’ Knight asked, a little impatient.

Armitage took another second or two then turned her eyes on Tanner, and suddenly she was dead serious.

‘She’d broken every bloody rule in the book.’