The Death Collector (31 page)

Sam jerked awake. He groaned. His legs were twitchy from fatigue.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. When he answered, it was Alice.

‘Hi,’ he said, his voice husky.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘Just keeping an eye on things down here,’ he said. ‘Has there been anything on the news yet?’

‘It’s on the radio but only a brief report on the television.’ A pause. ‘You need to come home, Sam.’

‘I can’t yet. Not until I’ve seen it through.’

‘You need to stop doing this.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Pushing yourself so hard. I can hear it in your voice. Let other people take over. Please, Sam. You’ll just wear yourself out one day. And the girls want to see you.’ She must have heard the reluctance in the long pause, as she said, ‘Meet me later. Just have a break.’

He rubbed his face to take some of the sleep away. ‘Okay. But I’ve got to speak to Joe as well. He’s got some information on the case.’

Alice went quiet for a moment. ‘Don’t just fit us in,’ she said. ‘That’s not fair. We’ll still be here, needing you when this case is done and finished. Just remember that. It’s just another case.’

Sam closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingers. He wanted to say that it wasn’t just another case, that every victim deserved his efforts, and the memory of seeing David Jex’s laminated badge wouldn’t leave him. Someone just like him, taken away and perhaps never meant to be found again. Until now. But why?

But she was right. He needed to see Erin and Amy too. Every day that he couldn’t kiss them goodnight was one he knew he would regret.

But until he found out the reason behind it all and was able to tell Lorna Jex the truth, Sam knew he wouldn’t rest.

Joe took his car home and walked to his office, enjoying the few extra moments where he wasn’t cooped inside, dodging the attention of the senior partner. It was always good to feel the warmth of the sun, a pleasant break from the indoor office routine, although the memory of Mary Molloy hung heavily. Aidan had become more than just an old case.

His phone rang in his pocket as he strolled through the small park near his office, glancing across at Monica’s bench, as always.

It was Sam.

‘So you’re speaking to me now?’ Joe said, remembering how he had been cut off earlier.

‘I’ve just had your client’s mother here,’ Sam said, his tone sombre.

Joe closed his eyes. He’d hardly thought of the impact on her. It had become all about the case.

‘Lorna, how is she?’ Joe said, although he didn’t need to be told that she was distraught.

‘As you might expect,’ Sam said, and added, ‘We need to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Your case. About Carl. Everything seems linked somehow.’

‘All right,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll give you a call to let you know when I’m free. I’d rather do it informally.’

‘So you can deny the confidentiality breach later?’

‘Something like that,’ he said, and clicked off the phone.

He clinked through the small gate and walked quickly for the last few yards to his office, trudging up the pale stone steps. As he got inside, the reception desk was unmanned, Marion elsewhere. There was laughter along one of the corridors, and as Joe got closer he couldn’t stop his smile. He recognised Hugh Bramwell’s low boom.

As Joe went through the door towards the sounds of conversation, Hugh was talking to Marion and some of the secretaries and for a moment Joe saw some of the old flirt, the friendly old man whose spark had been extinguished by his wife’s death.

Hugh turned as Joe got closer. He beamed. ‘Hello again, Joe. How’s your head?’

‘Was foggy this morning,’ Joe said. ‘Just passing?’

‘No. I’ve come to see you.’

‘Me? So soon? People will talk.’

‘It’s about what we discussed last night.’

Joe caught the interested glances of Marion and the secretaries, so gestured for Hugh to follow. As he set off walking, their laughs faded as Hugh parted with one last flirt before he caught up with Joe.

‘Thank you for last night,’ Hugh said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just talking about the old days again. Or at least a case. I’ve missed it.’

‘You said you didn’t.’

‘I was a lawyer for nearly forty years. It was a big part of me.’

‘And you got home and thought just about the good parts and fancied some more of the action?’

They turned into Joe’s office. Gina was at the end of the corridor watching as Joe closed the door.

‘Some of that,’ Hugh said. ‘But the house is lonely and empty. I know that’s partly my fault.’

‘For your wife dying? Hardly.’

‘No, for the fact that it fell so silent when she went. I’ve got two grown-up children, but they don’t stay in touch that much. I feel like I’m the man they don’t really know, because I spent too much time here. I dressed it up as putting food on the table or getting them nice things, but it wasn’t. It was all about being here. Fighting cases. This was where the planning was done, the strategies, the groundwork. The courtroom was all about the battle, the punch and counter, the misdirection, the fake punch to disguise the body blow. I gave up my family for it. And I miss it.’

‘That makes me sad,’ Joe said.

‘Me too, but it’s all I have left. The family battle is already lost.’ Hugh looked over to the desk. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course,’ Joe said, and gestured with his hand that Hugh could take another look around.

Hugh ran his fingers over the wood and the green leather inlay and smiled nostalgically. He sat down and turned the chair so he could see out of the window, his enjoyment of the familiar creak obvious on his face.

‘It hasn’t changed,’ he said, his voice distant.

‘I used to like it for the same reasons you do,’ Joe said. ‘Not for much longer though.’

‘I know. The world changes. People of my generation milked the system for too long, and you’re getting the rebound.’

‘Milked?’

‘It wasn’t hard to make a good living from legal aid, but some got too good at it. Calling lawyers greedy is easy, so we were always going to be the first to suffer when the money got tighter.’ He leaned forward, Joe sitting in the client’s chair, a wide wooden seat with leather pads to match the desk.

‘So is this just about nostalgia?’ Joe said.

Hugh looked up. ‘Not really. I want in.’

‘In?’

‘Yes, I want to help, in Aidan Molloy’s case. Be involved again. Think about it, Joe. I know more about the case than you do. You’ve read a file, spoken to a few people, but you know that a case is more than what is written down. It’s also about impressions and people and rumours and sometimes what you think is the real truth, that middle ground between what the statements say and what the client tells you, and none of that comes from those dusty pages.’

‘We can’t pay you.’

‘I’m doing it for me, and for Aidan. I don’t need the money.’

Joe grinned. ‘Welcome back.’

Hugh sat back and clapped with delight. ‘Right. What have we got so far?’

Joe told him about the change in the vehicle seen up on the moors, pulling away.

‘So what’s next?’

‘The three young girls who said they’d overheard Aidan threatening to kill Rebecca. I’m going to see them.’

Hugh grimaced. ‘You need to be careful with those three.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were stroppy little madams. They enjoyed the limelight, and they won’t take kindly to you saying they got it wrong. And anyway, does it matter? So what if Aidan threatened to kill her? It doesn’t mean he did. What will you gain if you speak to them? A complaint to the police and for no real advantage, that’s what.’

‘But they might admit being pressurised into saying what they did by Hunter. One more strand of evidence gone.’

‘They won’t. I saw how they were.’

Joe frowned. ‘Only one thing for it then. The most difficult visit of all. Rebecca Scarfield’s home.’

Hugh was surprised, his eyes wide. ‘His victim?’

Joe nodded. ‘We need to speak to her husband.’

‘You have her address?’

‘No, but I know a woman who will.’

Hugh jumped to his feet, dangling his car keys. ‘I’ll drive.’

He clutched his head and looked down. He threw his phone across the desk. He was getting updates on what was happening, but they just made the vibrations stronger. People were looking at him, he could tell. Every time he looked up, he caught the quick movement of people glancing away.

‘Are you all right?’ a voice said.

He looked up. ‘Just a migraine,’ he said, and tried to focus once more. But he couldn’t escape the pounding sound, like a steady thump, thump.

He tried to focus on something else. Something ordinary that would calm the noise in his head, but his mind went back to Emma. He tried to think of happier times, when they had been close, but every thought took him back to the night before. The feel of her throat under his hands, the sound of her feet on the floor, kicking and struggling.

But she hadn’t struggled. No, that was someone else. He grimaced as the memories came back.

His parents. That’s who it always came back to. The arguments, the drinking, but that night had been more than that.

It had started as an argument, his mother drunk, his father shouting. He had stayed in his room and put his hands over his ears. But it didn’t end the usual way, with the sound of his mother’s cries as his father beat her, his fists raining down in some blind-drunk fury. There had been a scream, as always, but it was cut short. Then the sound of furniture being knocked around. He thought he heard a table knocked over, a vase smashed, but there were no more screams.

He had tried to stay away, not because he was scared of his father’s rage turning on him, but because he couldn’t bear the shame in his mother’s eyes whenever it happened. Why should she feel like that? But the silence had gone on for too long.

He had crept down the stairs and slowly pushed open the living-room door.

He flinched as the memories came back to him. His mother’s feet sticking out from behind the sofa and kicking against the floor. His father over her, saliva hanging down from his mouth, his teeth bared, sweat glistening from the glow of the fire.

Then her feet had stopped moving and the room fell silent.

He had listened for a sound that told him everything was all right, that it was just another fight. He had been desperate to hear her scream, to strike back, to cry out at the weight of his fist, just anything. There was nothing.

His father came towards him and he had braced himself to be hit, but his father just walked past and went upstairs.

When he was alone in the room, he went to his mother. As he looked down, he saw how she had died. Her blouse was torn in the struggle, but already there were bruises on her neck.

He lay next to her, his head on her breast and his arm across her, not long enough to reach all the way.

All she’d had to do was leave.

He opened his eyes quickly. His heart was beating fast and there was sweat around his collar. His life became a lie from then on. His mother had gone missing, or so the story had gone. His father had provided the narrative – she was an alcoholic, had been depressed, and one day she left the house and never came back. That was what he was told to say, and he couldn’t afford to lose both his parents.

The young man in his cellar had made everything different. He had to plan the rest of his day. He had made some preparations, knowing it would come eventually, but still it was hard to think that he’d be leaving the house. So much had happened there.

There were still things he had to do first. He reached for his phone and went to his contact list. He dialled. When he heard the familiar voice, he said, ‘I need an address.’

When he said whose address he wanted, there was silence for a few seconds, and then agreement, quiet and sullen.

He tapped his cheek with his phone when he hung up.

Those who hurt him got hurt back. That was how it worked.

Hugh and Joe headed out of the city, on their way to see Rebecca Scarfield’s husband. Joe had spoken to Mary, and she’d told him that he worked for a car dealership. Joe had called ahead, to make sure he was there.

As Hugh drove, Joe turned to him and said, ‘Hunter is a dominant figure in all of this.’

They were in Hugh’s old champagne-coloured Mercedes coupé, a relic from the eighties that he had clung onto for no other reason than it had never let him down, with cream leather seats and a polished walnut steering wheel. No iPod docks or Bluetooth.

Hugh didn’t respond at first. He just gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windscreen.

Eventually, he said, ‘Hunter was a big part of the case. They used him in all the press conferences and reconstructions. He liked the cameras, and the attention. I think he fancied himself as someone the television people would use when he retired, like some kind of consultant.’ He frowned. ‘I remember one television reconstruction where he strode across some wasteland towards the camera, in a black shirt and long black trenchcoat, as if it was an audition, not an appeal for information.’