Neil White - Beyond Evil

He looked towards the window again, just to focus on something different, to clear his mind. How did he get here? He couldn’t remember leaving The Old Star. He had a drink with Ted Kenyon, and then another one after that. Were there more? As he looked towards the window, he saw that the cord for the blinds was now stained with the blood from his hand.

Charlie was fully awake now, adrenaline chasing away the hangover. He rushed out of his room and into reception, where Linda spent her days. Had someone been into the office? He looked down the stairs, towards the door that came from the street, a wooden panel door with a glass porthole. It was locked. He could see the latch. No one had broken in and placed the knife there.

He went back into his room, unsure what to do. He had to think rationally. What could it mean? Had he found it and brought it with him, out of some kind of drunken curiosity? But why would he do that? He’d never done anything like that before. Was it a discarded butcher’s knife? Could it be animal blood, something left out by the kebab shop downstairs?

Then he thought about Julie and her message the day before. Had he called her? Worse still, had he gone round? Oh fuck, what had happened?

He checked his watch again. He couldn’t hang around, Amelia liked early starts, but what should he do with the knife? Discard it? Except being caught throwing it away would almost be as bad as being caught with it. No, he had to conceal it somewhere until he could work out what was behind it all.

Cleaning it was the first job though.

He rushed into the kitchen, nothing more than a small space with a couple of cupboards, a small fridge and a kettle. There was a sink, and so he ran it under a tap, the water turning pink as it swirled into the sink. Once the water ran clear, he dried it on a towel and then looked around for a bag to carry it in. He would wash the towel too, just to get rid of any traces, but before he bagged it up, he wet it to rub against the blood on his shirt. It made the stain a little paler but didn’t remove it.

He bundled the knife and towel into a plastic bag he found under the sink and then fastened his jacket to conceal the stain. He checked his reflection in the chrome of the kettle. His eyes looked wild and scared, and that’s how he felt, his heart drumming fast against his ribcage. His jacket was dishevelled. He ran his hands down it to straighten it out, and he even tried out a smile, but it looked forced.

Then he noticed a red mark on his face, over his cheekbone. He touched it and then he winced. It was another graze. When he brought his fingers down, there was more blood on them. This wasn’t good, he knew that.

There was a noise coming from the bottom of the stairs. It was the sound of a key in the lock. Amelia or Linda coming into work.

Charlie froze, unsure how to react. He listened as the door pushed against the post on the mat and then watched as the sliver of light that came in through the doorway expanded, before Linda’s familiar silhouette came into view.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she jolted and put her hand to her chest.

‘Oh, you surprised me,’ she said, laughing to herself. ‘You’re here early, Charlie.’

He put the bag containing the knife into his jacket and then shrugged, unsure how to respond at first. ‘I came to get the court files. I’ll go home first. You’re early too.’

‘I know, but I’ve got some post to get out today. It was supposed to go out yesterday, but you know how it was, with the burglary.’

As Linda walked to her desk, she wrinkled her nose and frowned. She looked at Charlie suspiciously, and he realised why she was doing that. Charlie could taste the booze on his breath, and he guessed that the office smelled like a wino had been dossing down in there. Which, of course, was true.

She went to her desk and handed him three thin files. He took them from her and was about to go down the stairs, when he stopped.

‘I was looking for a sharp knife before, but I couldn’t find one,’ he said. ‘I thought we had a carving knife in the kitchen.’

Linda shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Why did you need a knife like that?’

‘I just did. I’m sorry. I thought we had one.’

‘What’s happened to your face? Your cheek. It’s grazed.’

‘I tripped,’ he said, and then turned away, walking quickly down the stairs, not wanting the same discussion with Amelia, who was due into the office at any time.

Charlie grimaced and shielded his eyes as he went onto the street. Someone shouted his name. He looked over. It was one of his clients waving at him.

He turned away. He wasn’t in the mood to be pleasant. The plastic bag with the towel and the knife was clasped tightly against his chest, and so he put his head down and walked as quickly as he could.

He needed to work out what had happened.

Chapter Twenty

Sheldon stared out of his windscreen at the brick wall of the police station. The skin underneath his eyes felt sore. He looked into the mirror and saw dark rings. It was late, almost nine o’clock, and he was angry with himself. He had wanted to be the first one in, but images of Alice Kenyon had taunted him as he tried to sleep, of the swirl of her hair in the water, and the post mortem photographs he had copied, kept securely in a metal box that he hid under the bed, fastened shut with a combination lock. He had looked through them again, once more hoping to find that elusive answer. He had turned in his bed for hours and then drifted off as the first licks of daylight painted his room soft blue.

He remembered reaching out to the empty side of the bed when he finally stirred, as he did most mornings. His wife had left him six months earlier, because she hadn’t understood about Alice. Neither had Hannah, his daughter. Like Alice had been, she was at university, but they didn’t speak anymore. His family didn’t understand that it wasn’t just Alice. It was all of them. The victims. The forgotten ones.

He climbed out of his car, feet crunching on loose stones on the tarmac. There was a police officer standing by a patrol car. He seemed to be looking over but pretending not to be. Sheldon tugged on his cuffs and headed for the entrance.

The corridor was quiet as he got inside, although he heard low rumbles of conversation as he got closer to the Incident Room. The talking stopped when he walked in and everyone looked round. It was the detective sergeant, Tracey Peters, surrounded by a small group of detectives.

Sheldon smiled, but it felt strained. ‘Good morning. Nice to see you keen.’

There were some mumbled greetings but nothing more than that.

There was a newspaper on one of the desks. It was open at the Billy Privett story, a picture of Alice Kenyon prominent, Jim Kelly’s by-line at the top. Sheldon turned away. He didn’t want to know what the press were saying.

‘Anything come in overnight?’ he said.

It was Tracey who spoke. ‘We did the calls to the neighbours last night, like you said, and guess what; someone went out in Ted Kenyon’s car the night Billy was killed. He remembered because it was late, past eleven o’clock.’

‘So Ted lied about staying in?’

Tracey nodded. ‘Is it enough to bring him in on?’

Sheldon thought about that for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘We need more than that, and if news gets out that we’ve arrested him, people will think the case is closed and stop calling with information. But I want to know why he didn’t tell us the truth.’

He turned towards the board at the front and looked at Billy’s body, the face missing, so that he looked anonymous, and the very essence of him taken away at the point he died. It wasn’t how Sheldon remembered him. The Billy Privett he knew was bullish, had a swagger, the knowledge that Sheldon couldn’t touch him. The Billy in the pictures was different to that. He was a victim. Helpless.