Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

As he shut the doors, Billy noticed the clock. Nine thirty-three. Was that all? He sat down on his chair again. His left arm ached where that vicious dwarf had fractured it with a karate kick back in the early eighties; if he felt the chill of the mortuary anywhere, it would be there. Unscrewing his Thermos, he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was strong, with plenty of milk and sugar. He took a sip and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Ah, that was good. Now for some paperwork. He picked up his pocketbook and leafed through the pages until he found his notes on the community-centre break-in that had happened the weekend before last. The culprits were two fourteen-year-olds, Darren Clark and Scott Wakefield. They hadn’t stolen anything, but they had caused a fair amount of damage, smashing windows, covering the walls with graffiti and urinating on a piano. Since it was a first offence, he thought it unlikely that they would go to court. Instead, they’d probably be cautioned by an inspector, in the presence of their families. All the same, there were at least three forms to be filled out. Drawing his chair up to the table, he began to compile his report.

It was just a laugh, really, Darren had said at one point. Something to do, you know? We didn’t mean nothing by it. When Billy first started out in Widnes, in 1979, he might have thought he could steer a boy like Darren back on to the straight and narrow, but from long experience he now knew that very little could be done. In all his time as a police officer, there were only one or two teenagers whose lives he could honestly claim to have changed for the better. It wasn’t much of a return on twenty-three years’ work.

How many more times in his life would Darren Clark get into trouble and then try and make light of it? Pen poised above the paper, Billy stared into space, reminded once again of the afternoon when he and Raymond broke into the old couple’s house. He would have been Darren’s age, give or take a few months. Was that what he had thought — that it had all been a bit of fun? Before, perhaps, but not when it was over. No, from his point of view it had left a sour aftertaste. Something so exciting at the beginning — the hot weather, the walk up to the park, the vodka — and then something he wished he hadn’t been part of, something he would rather have forgotten.

There was a sudden, prolonged buzz from the door-bell. Billy glanced at the clock — nine forty-five — then went over and undid the locks. Standing in the corridor was the constable who had been on duty by the main entrance.

“Your wife’s here,” he said.

Billy stared at him. “What?”

“Your wife, Sue. She’s in reception.”

“Is she all right?” Billy said.

“I don’t know. She just asked if she could see you.” The man stepped into the room and stood by the stainless-steel sink in the corner. He rubbed his hands together. “Cold in here.”

“Would you mind taking over?” Billy said.

“No problem.”

Billy signed himself out, making a note of the time, then watched as the constable signed himself in. His name was Fowler.

“I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” Billy said. “That’s if I don’t get lost.”

“Bloody corridors,” Fowler said.

After eight o’clock at night the main entrance was locked, and the only access to the hospital was through Accident and Emergency. As Billy followed the signs, hurrying now, he was still thinking about that afternoon in Weston Point. They had cycled back along the brow of the hill, a dense yellow haze hanging over the Mersey. The river had a sweaty gleam to it, more like skin than water. Billy had hoped Amanda might still be sunbathing in the garden, but when they got to Raymond’s house she’d gone indoors. On his way home, Billy ate some grass to disguise the smell of alcohol, and Mrs. Parks, their neighbour, saw him do it. He’d felt bad about the break-in. At least he hadn’t taken any of the money, though.

When Billy reached A and E, Sue was sitting on a chair with a copy of the News of the World lying unopened on her lap. Inwardly, he was already groaning. What had happened this time? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait till morning?

As soon as she saw him, she stood up, the newspaper splashing to the floor.

“What is it, Sue?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

He watched her pick up the paper and put it on a small formica table. Looking away, he caught the eye of a constable stationed by the entrance. The man’s expression was one of mild commiseration.

Billy turned back to Sue. “How did you get here?” he said. “Where’s Emma?” He stepped past Sue and peered through the glass door, as if his daughter might be out there somewhere, in the dark. She could never be left alone, not even for a moment. She was always wandering off. She had no sense.

“She’s asleep,” Sue said. “Jan came over.”

Janet Crook lived two doors down, next to the Gibsons. Her husband had left her three years ago. There had been talk of a younger woman.

“I borrowed Jan’s car,” Sue said.

Billy was aware that both the constable and the two volunteers behind reception were listening to their conversation, though they were pretending not to.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

His arm round Sue’s shoulders, he ushered her through the sliding door. Reporters instantly closed in, their faces blank, insistent, and Billy had to remind himself of one of Phil Shaw’s directives: as regards the press, he should do his best to be patient and friendly.

“Could you leave us alone, please?” Billy said. “This is a private matter.” He spoke more bluntly than he’d intended to, but his annoyance had spread rapidly and would now, he felt, include almost anyone he came across.

He walked Sue to the left, past the locked main entrance, then down the slope towards the building where the nurses lived. They found a picnic table set in among some trees and sat down side by side, facing out, like people on a bus. Though there was no moon, the tree-trunks glinted. Silver birches. He stared upwards through a tangle of bare branches. The yellow car-park lights made the pieces of sky that were visible look blue.

“Do you love me, Billy?”

Billy sighed. “Is that what you drove out here for?” Leaning forwards, with his elbows on his knees, he looked straight ahead. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for this. “For God’s sake, Sue, I’m working.”

“I was worried,” she said. “I don’t know. I just got worried.” Lines appeared on her forehead. “Will we be all right, do you think?”

His voice softened a little. “Of course we will.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it seems so difficult.”

“I know,” he said. “I know it does.”

“Maybe we could go away for a bit.”

“You mean a holiday?”

“We could get a ferry over to Holland. We could drive around like we used to — stay in places…”

He lifted his head again and looked at the silver birches, the bark peeling back in delicate scrolls to reveal dark patches underneath. We could drive around. With Emma, though? In late November? Sue’s wishes were becoming more and more fanciful. It was as if, in having failed to take her to India or Thailand when she was young, in having persuaded her into a different life, one that was more pedestrian, he had accrued a debt. The tasks she set him now would be harder to fulfil — and yet he owed it to her, didn’t he, to try?

“I’ll be home in the morning,” he said. “We’ll talk about it then.”

Sue was reaching into her pocket. “I nearly forgot.” She took out a black stone on a thin leather cord and passed it to him. He held it in the palm of his hand. The stone gave off a dull, dark gleam, but seemed oddly difficult to see. Like a piece of the night itself. “It’s jet,” she said. “It will protect you.”