The Blood That Stains Your Hands (23 page)

And I know nothing of her husband.

'No idea,' I say. 'Need to speak to them again.'

'Right, you and I are going round there now. You know where they live?'

Nod. Almost blurt out that the husband is still in Bishkek. I mean, really. I want to sound like I know what I'm talking about, like I have information. That's what being a police officer's all about, isn't it? Information. However, I see sense, keep my information to myself.

'Let's go. Morrow,' says Taylor, 'make some enquiries about Mr Cartwright's family. Don't speak to him yet.'

*

I
'm nervous going to Philo Stewart's house. Barely pay attention to the football on the radio. Thistle getting slaughtered 4-0. Doesn't seem to matter. Relieved when we approach and there are no lights on. Getting dark. She's not at home.

We stand on the doorstep ringing the bell, where I stood the previous afternoon. Another life ago. That other life which is threatening to come back, whatever happens. It could be that someone is killing all the people on that list, or that one of them is the killer. So far, however, I've been treating Philo Stewart as someone on the periphery of the investigation, someone with whom it was almost conscionable to have sex. (The married thing notwithstanding.) Now, however, she's been plunged bang, smack into the middle of it.

'Saturday afternoon,' says Taylor. 'Could be they have a life.'

I'm looking down over the town, and on to the hills beyond. The lights are coming on as dusk encroaches. Don't reply.

Taylor knocks this time, but he knows there's no one there.

'Any idea where we can find them?'

Check my watch.

'She does Bible study group on a Saturday evening. Not sure where, but I expect we can find out from someone at the church.'

'Right, come on. We need to find these people as quickly as possible. If this list goes beyond coincidence, then either they're involved or their lives are in danger.'

He stops on the stairs and looks at the houses on either side of this one. 'We need to check out the surrounding area, see if there's anyone else from around here goes to the church. Might be piggybacking onto their router.'

He glances at me. I say nothing. He walks down the steps and gets into his car. For a moment I stand and watch the dusk. Night is coming, after such a short day.

––––––––

A
nd there it goes. Fought off the advance of darkness as long as possible – largely through wilful blindness – but now the darkness has won, and the feeling I had earlier is gone.

What would you call it? Contentment? Serenity? Happiness?

Serenity. That's the one. Everything seemed all right. Or seemed that it was going to be all right. It felt so all right that I didn't even see the warning signs. I didn't even stop to think, hang on a minute there, Buck Rogers, don't you be getting carried away with yourself. The minute you think everything's going to be fine, then fucko, Bucko, you're screwed.

Didn't think that. Everything seemed fine. The problems that were bound to arise seemed distant. Wasn't going to have to worry about them for some time yet.

Sex addiction? Alcoholism? Really? They both just vanished. For a few short hours, I was addicted to nothing. I knew I wasn't drinking tonight. No reason to. I knew the casual sex was gone. Just like that. I was waiting for Mrs Philo Stewart and the length of the wait wasn't an issue. Six days. Six weeks. Six months. Didn't matter.

There was a light, that was all. She was a light. That was all I needed. Someone who was going to understand me.

Fuck. Back to normal. Can't think thoughts like that without self-loathing cascading in like a putrid, fucking chemical waste spill.

Who the fuck was I kidding?

It's not that far a walk from the station down along Main Street to the halls behind St Stephen's where they hold the Bible study group, but the rain is teeming down. Taylor is driving, Bob's on the CD player. Oh Mercy.
What Good Am I?
Ha! How appropriate is that? Jesus, they're all appropriate on that album. Every fucking song, every song wrapped in darkness, ripping through my fucking head.

Jesus. The drive's only two minutes. We won't even get as far as
Disease of Conceit
, although just the thought of it starts it off in my head, like a knife slamming through my brain, jabbing into my head, slashing and stabbing.
How dare you think everything was going to be all right, you fucking bell-end?

There's still that little glimmer, the voice that says,
Hey, Sergeant, chill out, dude
. (Yeah, the little voice that doesn't exist is as American as Morrow.)
Relax, man. You know her. You know she's got nothing to do with this. In all likelihood this is either someone next door using her router, or it'll be her husband, and in that case the guy is either going to get murdered, or you guys'll get him for murder, and then she's all yours.

Along Main Street, the rain hammering down. Going to get soaked walking from the car to the hall, even if we manage to park five yards away. A few cars dotted around when we arrive. We park about fifteen yards away. Taylor cuts the engine, doesn't immediately get out. Watches the rain.

'Guess we're about to get the answer to one of modern life's great mysteries,' he says.

Slowly pulled from the pit, I turn and look.

'What kind of person goes to Bible study group?'

He says it grimly, but it was supposed to get a reaction. I just stare at him. Can feel myself shutting down. I know how it works. I need to withdraw, retreat to the crappy equilibrium that counts for ordinary in my head, and then normal service can be resumed.

'Having a bad day?' he says.

Shouldn't let them notice.

'Sorry, just distracted,' I say, finally engaging. 'Come on, let's go and meet the freaks.'

I know she's not going to be here. I can feel her lack of presence.

I get out of the car, step into the deluge. Stop for a moment, feeling the full force of the downpour, and then follow Taylor as he runs to the doorway.

'Fuck,' he mutters as he stands in the small awning, opening the door. We both shake ourselves like dogs, and then walk inside. Immediate warmth. A small entrance hall.

Voices from behind a closed door straight ahead. Taylor gives himself another shake then steps forward, opens the door and we walk in, dripping water as we go.

There are seven people sitting in chairs in a small circle. We enter as one woman is saying, '...but you can't get the eggs...'

She stops talking. They all turn. Around the seven of them we get a range of looks from disappointment to curiosity to annoyance.

'We're looking for Mrs Stewart,' I say.

'Who are you?' says a middle-aged guy, getting to his feet. The words
the fuck
are missing from the middle of the sentence, but he nailed the tone.

I just think,
fuck you, dickhead
, but don't say anything. I've said my few words, and now Taylor can take over, as usual.

'DCI Taylor, DS Hutton,' says Taylor, stepping past me, ID in hand. 'This is the study group that Mrs Stewart runs?'

There are a couple of nods. The guy stands there for a moment or two, no doubt wondering whether he should call a lawyer, or maybe the bastard is a lawyer and is wondering how far to try to push us, so that he's got more to go on when he takes us to court for having the utter balls to barge soaking wet into the middle of their precious Bible study group.

Coppers Disrupt Bible Study In New Outrage! God Seriously Fucked Off!

Eventually he lowers himself into his seat, but you can see he's doing it in a way that implies he's doing us a favour by giving us the floor.

'We're still waiting for her,' says one of the middle-aged women in the middle. The one in a blue cardigan.

'What time is she supposed to be here?'

Three of them check their watches.

'Forty-five minutes ago.'

Taylor looks around the room, contemptuously almost, as though it's the fault of these people that she's not here.

'Have any of you heard from her? Did you expect her not to be here?'

A few head shakes. No one says anything.

'Bollocks,' mutters Taylor, which will probably offend a few of this brigade, but none of them are speaking. They are all, it would appear, rightly intimidated by having the fuzz barge in on them.

'Is anything the matter?' asks one of the women.

'We can give you her phone number, although we've tried it and there's no answer,' says another.

'Tony, her husband, he usually comes too, but he's away this week. Travelling.'

'Where?' asks Taylor.

A few blank faces. Keep my mouth shut. Finally the only other bloke there says, 'Bishkek,' without looking at us.

Taylor looks around the small, reluctant collective.

'We do need to find Mrs Stewart. Does anyone have any other information that could help us?'

Blank Faces 'R' Us. Taylor gives them a few seconds, then nods a grudging acknowledgement, turns and leaves. I don't look at them, but feel their eyes on my back as I leave too. Close the door behind us, stand briefly in the small entrance hall looking out at the rain.

'Bishkek?' says Taylor eventually. 'Is that a real place?'

'Kyrgyzstan,' I say.

He looks at me in that way of his, the one that seems surprised that I might actually know something other than how many times Bob's sung
Workingman's Blues
in concert.

'Huh,' he says. 'Come on. We better go back to their house, and if there's no one in...'

He clicks the car door open from the hall, takes a moment, and then opens the door on the deluge.

*

S
tanding on the doorstep, the house still in darkness. Lights on the houses all around. A regular November evening. Not raining up here, on the other side of town. Taylor's rung the doorbell twice, but we know there's no one there. Or if there is... well, trying not to think about that. Trying to keep my head empty. Not clear and focussed, there's so little chance of that. Just empty. If I could shut the thing down entirely, then I would.

That will be for later. And not much later. Already nearly eight. Go home. Get drunk. Fall asleep.

Taylor glances over his shoulder, looks up and down the street. No one around.

'Look, we'll go round the back,' he says. 'Don't want to get anyone around here peeing in their pants.'

And back doors are always easier to open.

Round the side of the house, no gate. There's a modern conservatory, but next to it is the old wooden door, old-fashioned window split into small frames beside it. It's overlooked by the house next door, but there are no lights on in any of the windows. We should be able to go about our business without anyone calling the police on us.

'Sergeant,' he says.

I don't even give him the usual eye-rolling routine. Pick up a small stone from the edge of the garden. If there's no key in the lock, then this is a waste of time, but people are careless. Better to try this first than put your shoulder out senselessly banging into solid wood.

I stand waiting for a moment, and then as a car goes past the road at the front of the house, I quickly knock the glass and the small window breaks. Smooth out the edges as well as I can, hand through, fumble about at the lock at the back of the door, fingers on the key, and we're in.

Push open the door. It goes an inch and then jars against the chain that's been placed across it.

'Fuck.'

'That's what your shoulder's for,' says Taylor.

Half a minute later we're walking to the kitchen from the small vestibule at the rear of the house. Lights on. Look around the kitchen. An empty coffee mug beside the sink, the cafetière over by the kettle. Lots of gadgets, lots of utensils in modern, chic colours. Doesn't smell like anything's been cooked in here recently. Of course, she ate takeaway Thai last night.

Neither of us bothers shouting. Why are we here, after all? The husband is abroad, probably on a plane by now. The wife? She's not where she's supposed to be. She's not answering her phone, she's not answering her door. Either she's taken to bed because she's ill – although even then, presumably, she would have called someone from the Bible study group to let them know – or there's the other thing.

The other thing is what we're not talking about.

'Tell me about the fourth beast,' says Taylor.

He walks out into the hall, turns on the light.

'What?'

'We've had the wings and the ribs in the mouth, and the more wings, albeit that was a botch-job... What was the principal feature of the fourth beast?'

Stairs on our left, two doors on the right. He opens the first one, turns the light on. We look in. The dining room. Very elegantly furnished, minimalist, but not bare. A dining table with space for six. Modern art on the wall.

I think about the fourth beast. The very thought of it, of what we might find, has my stomach careering up into my mouth.

God, stop it. It's not that. It won't be that! She's not dead, for God's sake. There are all sorts of reasons why someone doesn't answer their phone. There are all sorts of reasons why people fall off the grid for a few hours. They don't need to have been murdered for it to happen. They don't need to have been turned into the fourth beast...

I don't answer. Can't talk. He glances at me, shakes his head at my silence, and then opens the door to the front sitting room, turning on the light. The room where I spoke to Philo Stewart for the second time. The room where we laughed over flapjacks.

She's sitting on the same sofa in the same position as when I spoke to her in here previously. Resting back, her body upright. As we walk in we're slightly behind her, but there's no question of her being alive, no question that she's fallen asleep, no chance that we can assume everything's all right.

What's been done to her is obvious from the second we enter.

––––––––

W
hat was it I was thinking when I slept with Philo Stewart last night? That it was a little bit wrong, because I was getting involved with someone on the periphery of the investigation. The periphery, Sergeant? This is what you call the periphery? That is some tight-ass, incredibly focussed investigation, if that's the periphery.