Shaun Hutson - Heathen/Nemesis

‘Then why have their photos taken in the first place?’ Donna asked challengingly.

‘Do you recognise the other three, the younger ones?’

Donna shook her head.

There were so many questions. She sifted through the pictures again, checking through both sets, looking for even the minutest difference, but there was none. The shots of Ward and the five men were identical in every way.

‘Perhaps they were the ones that killed him,’ Donna said finally.

Julie shook her head.

‘For Christ’s sake, Donna,’ she snapped. ‘The police said it wasn’t murder.’

‘I know what they said,’ she responded angrily.

Julie studied her sister’s features for long moments then broke the silence again.

‘Did he have any enemies that you knew of?’

‘He’d been threatened before while he was working on other books. Not threatened with murder but, well, warned off, I suppose you could say.’ She glanced down at the pictures. ‘He wrote a novel to do with loan sharks a couple of years ago, how some of the big Security Companies were in business with them. The security men would act as strong-arm men for the loan sharks. Chris was told he’d be beaten up if he published the book.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Nothing ever came of it, thank God.’ Donna swallowed hard. ‘When he wrote about the porn industry he lived in digs in Soho for a week; he worked in a peep show to get information. He used a false name, of course. When the owner of the club found out he was getting information, he thought he was an undercover policeman. Chris said they wrecked his room one day while he was out. They left a dead dog in the bed with a note stuck to it saying he’d be next.’

‘There must be easier ways of earning a living,’ Julie said.

‘He used to call it the Method school of writing,’ Donna said, smiling at the recollection. ‘You know how actors like Robert De Niro research their parts, live them? Chris was the same with the characters he wrote about. He never knew when to stop pushing.’ She looked at the photos again. ‘Perhaps this time he pushed the wrong people.’

‘If you think there could have been a link between Chris’s death and the men in these photos, you should tell the police,’ Julie urged.

Donna shook her head.

‘What difference would it make? They’ve already decided it wasn’t murder.’

‘And what if they’re wrong?’

‘You’re the one who keeps telling me they’re sure.’

‘That was until I found out about Chris’s research,’ Julie said. ‘These pictures could be evidence, Donna.’

‘No. The police said the crash was an accident. They have no reason to think otherwise, Mackenzie told me that.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think. I just want to know who these men are and why Chris and she had photos of them.’

‘Then tell the police, let them find out.’

‘What am I going to tell them, Julie? “My husband and his mistress had identical pictures of five unidentified men. Could you track them down for me, please?” Something like that?’

‘So what’s the answer? How do you find out who they are?’

‘I have to find out what he was working on. Find out if these five men,’ she tapped the picture, ‘were anything to do with his new book. I have to find out who they were, but I’m going to need some help.’

‘You know I’ll help you,’ Julie said.

Donna smiled.

‘I know. But there’s someone I have to speak to first.’

Twenty-Two

The banging on the door woke him up.

At first he thought he was dreaming, next that the racket was coming from the television, but then Mercuriadis realized that the incessant thumping was on his own door.

As he hauled himself to his feet he glanced across at the clock on top of the TV set and groaned when he saw it was well past two in the morning. He had, he reasoned, fallen asleep in front of the screen - something he’d been doing quite regularly lately. It irritated him, and when he got to bed he always had trouble sleeping properly. Better to doze in the chair, he told himself.

When his wife had been alive she had always woken him if he’d dropped off. Woken him with a cup of warm milk and reminded him that it was time for bed. He thought fondly of her as he moved towards the door. The loud banging continued. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d shared his life and he sometimes found it difficult to accept she’d been dead nearly twelve years.

‘All right, all right,’ he called as he approached the door, anxious to stop the pounding. He slipped the chain and pulled the door open.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ snapped the tall, dark-haired man who confronted him.

Mercuriadis eyed the man inquisitively, irritated by his abrasiveness. It was too early in the morning for profanity, the older man thought, although he was only too aware of this particular tenant’s penchant for it.

Brian Monroe stood before him in just a pair of jeans, fists clenched and jammed against his hips.

‘I’m trying to fucking sleep and someone’s creating merry hell in the room next door. In number six,’ Monroe persisted angrily, rubbing his eyes. He looked as tired as his landlord.

‘What’s going on, Mr Monroe?’ asked Mercuriadis.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ the younger man told him, running a hand through his short hair. ‘I’m trying to sleep and there’s banging and crashing coming from the room next to me. I’ve got to be up early in the morning; I can do without this shit.’

‘Noise coming from number six?’ Mercuriadis said, his brow furrowing. ‘But that’s, that was Miss Regan’s room. It’s empty.’

‘Well, there’s some fucking noisy mice in there then, that’s all I’ve got to say. Are you going to check it out?’

‘I’ll get the key,’ the landlord said, taking a bunch from a drawer in the bureau behind him. ‘Is the noise still going on?’

‘It finished about five minutes ago,’ Monroe told him. ‘I’ve been banging on your door for two minutes at least.’

Mercuriadis selected a key from the ring and followed his irate tenant along the hall towards the stairs to the first floor landing.

‘Perhaps one of her bloody relatives had a spare key,’ Monroe said, stalking up the stairs two at a time.

‘Keep your voice down, please, Mr Monroe,’ the landlord asked, climbing the steps after him. ‘Think of the other tenants.’

‘Fuck the other tenants. I should think they’re all awake by now, anyway, if they heard that bloody banging,’ Monroe snapped, reaching the first landing.

Mercuriadis shook his head reproachfully and glanced at Monroe’s broad back. Such profanity. It was difficult to believe the man was an employee of one of the City’s top accountants. The landlord wondered if he spoke to his clients in the same way.

They began ascending the second flight of steps, the older man wheezing slightly as he struggled to keep up.

As they drew closer to the top of the stairs the landlord cocked an ear for any sound but he heard nothing.

Monroe was standing outside the door of number six.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ he snapped. ‘I might get four hours’ sleep if I’m lucky.’ The door to number five slammed shut behind him and Mercuriadis found himself alone on the landing, the key to number six in his fingers. He inserted it gently into the lock, alert for any sounds or movement beyond.

Banging and crashing, Monroe had said. Could it be burglars? He paused, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier just to go back downstairs and call the police. His heart was already pounding from the climb but it seemed to speed up as he thought of the possibility of a break-in. If the noises had stopped five minutes ago, it should be safe to investigate. He pushed the door a fraction, still listening.