(1998) Denial (46 page)

Pressing down as hard as she could with her hands, and taking her full body weight with her arms, she heaved herself up, her legs kicking out against the bare stone wall for a purchase. But as she tried to push her head into where she thought the opening was, she cracked it painfully on the edge.

Dumb. Stupid. So dumb bloody stupid
.

All she had thought about was getting the grille off. She hadn’t considered how, without a decent foothold or handhold, she was going to be able to get up and into a space that was only two feet wide.

I need a fucking ladder
.

She stood up, then staggered sideways, feeling sudden nausea from her splitting head.
Maybe I should ring room service for paracetamol
.

And a Bloody Mary
.

And a ladder
.

Her head felt like an axe blade was stuck in it.

Fuck you, Michael Tennent
.

Fuck room service. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you
.

Get me out of here
.

Calm down
.

Think
.

Improvise
.

She didn’t want to think about it too much, she didn’t have the luxury of time or the guts to think about it. She got up, made her way carefully through into the next chamber, found the corpses, knelt down and put her hands around the dead woman’s ankles. Gripping them tightly, and using all her strength, she hauled the corpse through into her own chamber and laid it against the wall beneath the shaft.

Then she repeated the process with the male corpse, and
hauled it on top of the woman, in reverse position so that her head was locked between his legs, and the stumps of his arms were interlocked with her thighs.

Close to exhaustion, she pulled the mattress up over the male corpse’s back and tucked it firmly down the other side, making a bridge. Then she climbed carefully onto the mattress, feeling her way up the wall with her hands. It worked! Her face was now level with the shaft.

Reaching forward as far as she could, she explored the space with her hands. There was no resistance. Just more fluff and droppings. Her knees bashed against the sharp edge, her shoulders jammed against the sides, then she was inside the shaft.

Shaking. Heart punchballing her chest. Squeezed on both sides, her head rubbing the ceiling, her shoulders just able to make it along the sides. Breathing sharp, rapid gulps, the dry smell of dust in her nose, and another faintly sour, rancid smell with it, she felt her way forward, horizontally, with her hands.

Aching with hope, she inched onwards, one knee ahead, now the other knee, terrified that at any moment she was going to hear a voice, see a flashlight beam, feel a leg being pulled back. She had her right knee ahead again. Then the left. Her hands touched something metallic, like an exposed girder. She stopped and traced it up. It was like a porthole, several inches narrower than the shaft.

She felt through it, and on the far side, the shaft curved sharply upwards. Vertical!

She tried to put her head through it, but that did not work. She tried her right arm first, then her head. The metal pressed against her back, scraped down her T-shirt. Then she wedged, half in, half out.

Perspiration sloughed down her face and her body. She struggled, all the time wedging herself tighter.

She had no idea how long it would be before Michael came back down and saw the grille missing. She just had to keep going somehow.

Then suddenly she was free, through the hoop. She moved on forward, her waist going through, now her
knees. As the shaft curved upwards, she started to stand. Her shoulders still wedged against the walls when she let herself expand. It was a vertical climb now. She pushed her shoulders out, her legs out, and managed to get some kind of a purchase on the coarse texture of the concrete.

Concentrating hard, desperate not to slip back, using every ounce of her strength she wormed her way several feet up the shaft. Her fingers touched something metallic.

Desperately, she eased her legs further up the wall, then raised her body. Now she could feel what this metal was more clearly.

It was one of the blades of a turbine. Part of an extraction system. The metal was as thick and heavy as the blades of an aircraft, and blocked the shaft above her.

Crying with frustration, she dropped back down until her feet were back on the level part. Then she stood in the blackness shaking with utter terror. It felt as if every bad fear she’d ever had in her life had been stored away in some compartment inside her, waiting for this moment to burst out and engulf her.

She now felt sure that she was going to die.

A grim South London high-rise, the lower floors daubed in graffiti. There might have been a front door once, but not any more.

Michael stood in the lobby, the beat of rap music resonating down the bare walls, and glanced at his Volvo parked out on the street, wondering, in this rough neighbourhood, how much of it would still be there when he came out.

He took a large lift up to the eighth floor and emerged into a narrow, dark, uncarpeted hallway that stank of boiled potatoes. Through a wall he could hear a baby crying and a demented-sounding woman screaming at it.

Flat 87 had a blue door, with a frosted-glass window, like all the rest, and a small plastic bell-push with no name. Music was playing inside. He pressed the bell and heard a feeble rasp. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

No response.

He rapped harder, then harder still, and suddenly his fist went clean through the glass.

For an instant he stood still, in shock. Then he felt the sting of the cut and saw a band of blood appear across the back of his hand. Carefully he withdrew it, picked out a shard embedded in the skin, then sucked the wound. The music was louder now. A woman singing, a tune familiar to him, but only a few words, then they repeated. She was singing English words in a German accent. She sounded like Marlene Dietrich.

No other doors opened. The mother and baby were still hammer and tongs at each other.

Shit
.

Two youths came out of the fire exit at the end of the corridor, eyed him, then stopped nonchalantly outside a door and rapped on it. Michael continued to watch them. The door opened, they said something to the occupant and within seconds it was closed again. They moved to the next door, glanced at Michael again, then rapped. Both wore sneakers, one was in a shell suit, the other in jeans and a bomber jacket, carrying a hold-all.

Michael knew exactly what they were doing, and what would happen when they reached this door with no glass in the window and the occupant out.

‘Falling in love a . . . falling in love a . . . falling in love a . . .’

The sound was scratchy. A record stuck in a groove? Michael pressed his face close to the gap in the broken pane and called out, gently at first and then more loudly, ‘Mr Dortmund. Herr Dortmund!’

No answer.

He tugged free the remaining shards to avoid cutting his hand again, then reached in and groped for the door latch. He found it after a few seconds, a robust mortice, and gave it a tug.

The door opened.

He let himself in, calling loudly now, ‘Mr Dortmund! Hallo! Herr Dortmund!’

The song continued.

Uneasy, he closed the door behind him. He was in a tiny hallway, barely larger than a cubicle, most of it taken up with a Victorian coat-stand, on which hung the elderly Nazi’s herringbone tweed overcoat, mackintosh and brown trilby. The fine coat seemed oddly incongruous; it was too elegant for this poky space, and stood in stark contrast to the unremitting ugliness of the building beyond.

He walked a few feet down a passageway carpeted with a threadbare runner, past a couple of framed prints of rural Bavaria, and entered the sitting room.

And stopped in his tracks.

It was a sad little room, with net curtains obscuring a view of an identical tower block only yards away, and furnished like an impoverished student’s lodging. Two beat-up armchairs, a meagre rug, an old radio and an even older hi-fi, on which a record was spinning, the arm of the stylus bobbing, a fan heater against the wall.

But it was none of this that he was taking in. It was the oil painting on the wall, in pride of place, presiding over the room, dominating it. A portrait of Adolf Hitler, in uniform, standing in front of a swastika, his arm raised in a salute.

Michael turned away, repulsed at the thought that his patient, who had come to him in search of redemption, was still under his idol’s spell. He went back out into the passageway and called out again, ‘Mr Dortmund? Hallo? Herr Dortmund?’

There were three further doors, one wide open, two ajar. He peered in through the first door, which opened into a bedroom. A stark, lonely-looking room with a narrow single bed, tidily made up, and which, like the rest of the flat, smelt of old age. Underwear was neatly folded on the one chair; carpet slippers beneath it.

He went to the next door, which opened into a tiny, old-fashioned kitchen, with a grimy gas cooker, and a small Formica-topped table on which lay a German newspaper.

Back in the passageway, he noticed an old, frayed flex, plugged into a wall socket, running into the end room. His unease deepening, he called out once more, ‘Mr Dortmund?’

He waited. Knocked on the door, then pushed it open.

He’d been expecting something like this, but it was still a shock.

Herman Dortmund’s pitifully emaciated body lay naked, motionless, partially immersed in water in his narrow green bathtub.

His eyes were wide open, staring unblinking ahead in an expression of surprise. His mouth was open also, his jaw jutting forward, his lips forming an almost perfect,
agonised circle. Michael saw that his eyebrows were singed. And he saw, clutched between the German’s bony hands, and submerged in the water between his splayed open thighs, an ancient electrical heater to which the flex was connected.

He stepped back out of the room, and jerked the plug out of the wall socket. Then he went back in and touched Dortmund’s face. The flesh was cold, he had been dead for a while. Even so, he checked the man’s pulse, but it was a formality. There was nothing he could do for him.

Leaving him as he was, he went back into the sitting room in search of a phone. Marlene Dietrich still sang the same words over and over on the turntable. He wondered whether to switch off the machine, but decided he should leave everything as he had found it.

Then his eyes fell on the only object of beauty in this room, a roll-top writing desk, on which, next to the telephone, four addressed envelopes were neatly laid out, almost as if they had been left on display.

He went over and glanced down at them out of curiosity. One, in shaky handwriting, was to a firm of solicitors in Croydon. One was to a woman in Bonn. The third was to a man in Stuttgart. The fourth letter was addressed to himself.

Probably paying his bill, Michael thought. But out of curiosity, he picked it up and opened it. There was a note inside, in the same neat, shaky handwriting. It said:

Dear Dr Tennent,

For me, the time has come to stop my pain and torment. For you, this torment called life must continue.

With reference to my concerns at our recent sessions, and these psychic abilities that are unwelcome to me, I have recently been receiving the name
Dr Goel
in connection with you.

Goel is a Jewish name. This man, Dr Goel, is a Jew. You would be advised to acquaint yourself with knowledge of Hebrew. Among the ancient Hebrews the
goel
was the next
of kin whose duty it was to redeem wrongs done to a kinsman.

The
goel
, Dr Tennent, in Hebrew mythology, was the
Avenger of Blood
.

Glenn Branson was melting in the heat. He was standing on a carpet that was sticky with spilt beer, in the packed upstairs room of a pub somewhere in North London – he wasn’t sure where – surrounded by a hundred or so boisterous police officers, who were cheering loudly.

The object of their exultation was the retiring Detective Inspector Dick Bardolph, for whom this celebration was being held and who at this moment had his tie off, his shirt unbuttoned and his face buried between the naked breasts of a grossly well-endowed blonde stripagram girl.

Glenn was leaning over the counter, trying to catch the eye of the solitary, harassed barman, carrying a list of eight drink orders in his head. He had seen enough demeaning behaviour to women in his night-club bouncer days. He didn’t like stripagrams. He didn’t like large crowds of drunken men. And he wasn’t in a party mood tonight. He’d seen his share of dead bodies since he’d joined the force, but nothing had disturbed him as much as Cora Burstridge’s last week and the one hauled out of Shoreham harbour this morning. The images of the skull sticking from the leather jacket and the bloated body, the terrible smell, were still with him now, and three pints of lager hadn’t dimmed them. Nor had they dimmed his anxieties about Cora Burstridge.

It was her funeral tomorrow. There was a finality about that which scared him. Sure, there was still the inquest to come, but with her body cremated, if any new evidence did come to light, it was going to be even harder to get to the truth of what had happened to her.

Fleetingly Glenn caught the barman’s eye, but he turned
and served someone else. He wondered how long the evening would go on: there was talk of a Chinese meal after this, but he was tired. He would be happy to get home and not have too late a night.

Mike Harris, who had brought him up here, had been looking after him well, introducing him to several good Metropolitan Police contacts, but the noise level from the music and the general hubbub meant that all conversations had to be shouted. Still, he had collected a few impressive cards: a deputy chief constable, a chief superintendent, two detective chief inspectors were the prize trophies so far. As with any organisation, promotion in the police depended in part on whom you knew.

Someone was jostling Glenn, trying to elbow his way up to the counter beside him. Glenn moved over to make space and glanced round. He saw a huge bear of a man, with a bull neck showing through his open-throat shirt, a hefty rugger-player’s frame and a baby face, his fair hair cropped to a fuzz. The man, who was sweating profusely, gave him a friendly nod, and shouted, ‘Just got here, I need to catch up!’