Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘For you or for me?’

‘For both of us.’

As she opens the door, I see Annie Robinson on the doorstep about to ring the bell. Her eyes go wide and she rocks unsteadily on her feet.

‘Oh!’

‘I’m just leaving,’ says Julianne. ‘Annie, isn’t it?’

Annie giggles nervously. ‘I’m sorry - I laugh when I get embarrassed. It also happens when I drink.’ She leans forward and whispers, ‘I’ve been to the pub.’

‘That’s OK,’ says Julianne.

Annie looks at me accusingly. ‘I left messages for you.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.’

‘Were you busy ignoring me or just beating up Gordon Ellis? I was coming round to slap you in the face, but now I’m too drunk.’

‘I wasn’t ignoring you.’

‘Maybe I’ll just puke in your garden instead.’

Julianne looks even more uncomfortable.

Annie stumbles slightly and Julianne has to steady her. Annie apologises. ‘Don’t mind me - I made the mistake of fucking your husband.’

Julianne flinches.

Annie giggles. ‘This is pretty surreal, isn’t it?’

That’s not the word I’d use, but I’m not going to quibble. Succumbing to the pills and booze, I can barely keep my eyes open.

Julianne steps around Annie and hurries down the street, disappearing quickly from sight.

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ I ask.

Annie’s nostrils flare and her voice changes. ‘You’re an arsehole!’

‘I’ve been told that already today - or maybe I was an idiot. I can’t remember now. I’m just so tired.’

‘Are you still sleeping with your wife?’

‘No.’

I can’t see Annie clearly any more. She says something about feeling ashamed and humiliated.

‘I only came round to give you some information.’

‘Information?’

‘About Gordon Ellis - we were at university together, remember? I was looking through some of my old photographs and I found something.’

I’m reading her lips.

‘There was someone else in one of the photographs. I only recognised him because he’s been in the papers. He was one of Gordon’s mates. They shared a house.’

‘Who?’

‘Novak Brennan.’

The South Bristol Crematorium and Cemetery is perched on a ridge overlooking Ashton Vale where rain clouds are threatening. Umbrellas hover above the mourners and beads of water cling to the panels of the hearse like costume jewels stuck on a black dress.

Ray Hegarty has a guard of honour and six police pallbearers. Ronnie Cray is among them, resplendent in her full dress uniform, sitting alongside the Deputy Chief Constable and a handful of other top brass.

Some of the regulars from the Fox and Badger have come to pay their respects, including Hector the publican and his daughter Susanne. The villagers are sitting together behind Helen, while the other side of the chapel is taken up by retired or serving police officers. Annie Robinson is also here, looking hung-over despite the dark glasses and bright lipstick.

Helen Hegarty is just visible in the front pew, between Lance and Sienna, who has been allowed out of Oakham House for the funeral. Zoe’s wheelchair is partially blocking the central aisle, squeezed between the coffin and the pews.

Watching Sienna through the bowed heads, I can tell she’s lost weight and isn’t sleeping. She knows that people are staring at her, wondering whether she killed her father and why she did it. Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, she sinks down, trying to disappear completely.

The silence is a miasma, weighted with the inaudible breathing. I wish someone would play some music. Anything would be better than shuffling feet and seats creaking beneath buttocks.

High above us a tiny bell jangles once, twice, three times and the music starts. A hymn sung by a Welsh choir, played through the sound system.

I don’t like funerals. I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s not because of the bleedingly obvious. Whenever I come to a place like this I can’t shake the idea that death is something that can be transmitted like a disease or inhaled like a spore. What if it sprouts inside me like that Russian guy who inhaled a seed and had a fir tree growing in his lungs? What if I’m witnessing a dress rehearsal of my own fate?

When the service is over, the pallbearers carry Ray Hegarty’s coffin through a guard of honour to the graveside. Draped in a flag, it bears a framed photograph of a young man in a PC’s uniform, clear-eyed, square-jawed, ready to take on the dark side.

Sienna follows the coffin, glancing up occasionally as though looking for someone among the mourners. She makes eye contact with Annie Robinson and looks away.

Helen Hegarty moves with sure steps and dry eyes. Perhaps she is saving her tears for a less public occasion or has shed enough by now. Her long hair is unpinned and I notice how grey she has become and how the twin notches between her eyebrows have grown deeper.

The wind has sprung up, slapping the artificial grass against the side of the coffin. Words of comfort are ripped away and carried across the cemetery. Hats are held in place. Coats flap against knees. In a different part of the cemetery I spy a couple crouching to replace flowers at a child’s grave. A vase and a picture frame are cemented to the base of the headstone to stop them blowing away. A favourite toy has been pinned beneath wire like a butterfly in a display case.

Afterwards I intercept Ronnie Cray as she walks towards the parking area.

‘I want to apologise for my conduct the other day.’

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are stained by the wind.

‘I feel as though I’ve let you down,’ I add.

Still she doesn’t speak.

‘I guess this is a bad time.’

She sighs. ‘You’re one of the good guys, Professor, but you’re heading for a serious fall. I can’t afford to be associated with someone like you.’

‘I understand.’ I feel like I’ve swallowed a bubble of air. ‘Can I just ask you one question - is there a link between Novak Brennan and Ray Hegarty?’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Are you suggesting Ray was bent?’

‘No.’

‘Why ask the question?’

‘I saw Lance Hegarty outside the Crown Court. He was with Brennan’s supporters.’

‘I guess the lad is entitled to have his opinions,’ she replies. ‘Is that all you want to ask me?’

‘Gordon Ellis went to university with Novak Brennan.’

‘That’s a statement not a question.’

‘Ellis got into trouble with a bookmaker. Owed him a lot of money. The bookmaker sent someone to remind Gordon of his responsibilities. The messenger spent three months in hospital and now talks through a hole in his throat.’

‘Gordon Ellis beat him up?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the man who did. He’s been looking after Rita Brennan during the trial.’

‘The sister?’

‘Yes.’

I describe the tattoos on his cheeks, like black tears. Cray seems to be sucking on the information like it’s one of Ruiz’s sweets.

‘Is that it?’

‘I think it’s worth investigating.’

‘First you were trying to convince me that Sienna was the intended victim. Now you’re telling me that Novak Brennan organised a hit on Ray Hegarty. Why would he do that?’

‘I just want you to keep an open mind.’

‘Oh, I know all about keeping an open mind, Professor. Yours is so open that all your ideas fall out. I’ve just got to be careful not to step in them.’

The funeral is over. Mourners are blown back to their cars by the wind. No wake has been planned. Ronnie Cray and her colleagues will no doubt retire to a watering hole and raise a glass to Ray Hegarty - swapping anecdotes about him and contemplating their own mortality.