Stephen Booth - One Last Breath

‘Yes. And I knew what you’d do once you were out of prison.’

‘Of course you knew. You’re just like me.’

‘Like you? The hell I am.’

Cooper began to edge cautiously towards the voices. He mustn’t be too hasty, or it could be disastrous. If he was heading towards the entrance of the cavern, then somewhere ahead of him would be the slippery limestone floor and ice-cold pools of Roger Rain’s House. He didn’t want to die face down in water with tiny, blind shrimps in his hair.

‘Yes, you’re just like me. Except that you really are a killer.’

‘What? You’re kidding.’

‘They shouldn’t have let you out. They kept me inside for years, but they let you out.’

‘A few months in that place was enough for me. There’s no way I’m going to end up like you, Quinn. I’m not going to spend half of my life inside, the way you did.’

‘Not much chance of that, Alan. You aren’t going to live that long.’

The voices were louder now. Cooper couldn’t tell if it was because he was closer to them, or because the two men were getting angry, or both. Groping his way round an angle of rock, he felt the first spatter of water in his face. Damn the sheep urine. This time it felt good — it meant he knew where he was at last.

Then Cooper’s foot slipped on the wet surface, and he hit the ground hard. He felt his ankle twist, and his knee cracked against the sharp point of a rock. He lay still, winded for a moment. In total darkness, the fact that he was lying on his back made almost no difference to how he felt. Except for the pain in his leg.

‘Are you threatening me, Quinn? You’re an old man now. Prison has destroyed you. I can see that in your eyes. You’re frightened — terrified of your own shadow. Why else would you be hiding down here? Hiding away from the light.’

And suddenly Cooper recognized the second voice. It was the last word that did it — that final ‘t’ spat out like an audible exclamation mark. As if there were always an apple pip stuck between his teeth.

Diane Fry had pinned Raymond Proctor against the wall of one of the cottages. A couple of vehicles went past her towards the cavern, lights flashing and engines groaning in low gear up the slope.

‘Alistair Page — ’ said Fry ‘- is your son, Alan. He changed his name, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Proctor.

‘I suppose he didn’t want people reminding him of his mother’s murder all the time? Understandable, considering he was responsible for it.’

Proctor said nothing. He wasn’t paying full attention to her. She could see his eyes wandering towards the cavern entrance and the activity around it.

‘Ten years ago,’ said Fry. ‘It was ten years ago that Mansell Quinn started telling the prison authorities and his fellow prisoners that he wasn’t guilty after all. That was a stupid thing to do — it could have been a factor in his parole hearing. Suddenly, a third of the way through his life sentence, Quinn was in denial. You see, it’s usually the other way around — when prisoners change their story, it’s to admit their guilt. Showing remorse helps them get parole.’

‘I know all that,’ said Proctor.

‘Of course you do. But it didn’t make sense to me. At first, I thought it was because Quinn had found out that Simon wasn’t really his son, and he wasn’t going to take the blame for another man’s child. But Enid Quinn put me right on that. Simon is Mansell’s son, and the DNA test proved it.’

Proctor shook his head. ‘What’s that to me?’

‘It wasn’t Simon who killed Carol, was it, Mr Proctor?’ said Fry. ‘That was what Mansell found out somehow, ten years ago. And he was pretty much the last to know, wasn’t he? No wonder he’s so angry. He’s spent more than thirteen years in prison. I’d be pretty bloody angry with people who did that to me.’

Proctor heard her out with a puzzled expression. But he didn’t ask what she was talking about. He had his own concerns.

‘Where’s Alan?’ he said.

Fry drew in a long breath. ‘I don’t know, Mr Proctor. But we’re going to find him. Let’s hope nobody else has suffered to protect your son.’

‘He isn’t my son,’ said Proctor.

‘ What ?’

‘Alan is Mansell’s son. I’ve known that for a long time. All the gossip about Rebecca and the stuff about paternity tests, it made me laugh. Mansell was worried that he had no son, but he has two. I’m the one that has no son.’

Fry stared at him. She could see that Proctor was sweating heavily from fear or anxiety, or both.

‘So why did you protect him?’

‘I’d lost Carol. In fact, I’d already lost her before she died. I may not have any real family now — but Alan is the closest thing I’ve got.’

Proctor tried to move away then, but Fry took his arm.

‘Does Alan know who his real father is?’

‘Yes,’ said Proctor. ‘I thought he ought to know, so I told him when he was eighteen. It didn’t do any good. We were really close until then, but it seemed to destroy our relationship. I never understood why, exactly. I mean, you can be close to somebody without being related by blood, can’t you? Blood doesn’t always have to be thicker than water.’

‘And Quinn? Is he aware that Alan is his son?’

Proctor shook his head. ‘Not unless Alan has told him.’

Mansell Quinn’s hand shot out and grabbed Alan Proctor around the neck, forcing his head back. If Alan had expected him to move more slowly, he’d been wrong. Prison hadn’t destroyed Quinn physically, at least. He threw his weight forward, and Alan crashed backwards, his head hitting the water of the pool.

‘You stupid bastard. Get off me!’

Quinn plunged Alan’s head back into the pool. He kept it under for a few seconds longer this time, watching the other man’s face disappear in a swirl of silt from the bottom. When Alan came up again, he was coughing and spitting out streams of brown water. Quinn waited until he opened his eyes. He read the fear in them, the knowledge that the next breath Alan took could be his last.

He tightened his grip on a handful of collar.

‘You’re mad,’ said Alan. ‘Let me get up.’

Quinn heaved him up on to his knees then and stood back, bringing the crossbow smoothly over his shoulder.

‘You deserve everything that’s coming to you. Don’t you think so, Alan? Do you think you should get away with it completely? You killed Carol. For God’s sake, you killed your own mother.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re mad.’

Quinn sneered. He pulled a bolt out of his rucksack, cocked the bow and loaded it. ‘I suppose you think you’ve suffered,’ he said. ‘Did you spend years expecting the police to come for you? Even after I went to prison, were you convinced someone would realize there’d been a mistake? Did you think there’d be a knock on the door one night, or somebody would be waiting for you when you were called out of class? If a car you didn’t recognize was parked on the road, did you believe it belonged to somebody who was watching you? I hope so, Alan.’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ said Alan. ‘When I heard you coming home that night, I ran out of the house. I was in a panic, not thinking about anything except getting away. It was only afterwards I remembered I’d left the Coke bottle on the table and a tape in the cassette player. Simon had bought The Joshua Tree that week. It was still playing when I left the house. I can still hear it now, when I think about it. It was either “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” or “With or Without You”. It was playing, right there in the house. You must have noticed. There are some things you can’t help but notice.’