Cry for Help (10 page)

'He didn't. Just the phone number.'

Mary nodded to herself. So that was it. She was annoyed with him for giving away her privacy so easily: he should have known better. But she didn't want to talk about that with Currie.

'You said you followed up the information I gave?'

He nodded once, rolling the mug between his hands.

'Yes. We went round to see your father. After looking through the file, I can completely understand why you thought what you did.'

What did it say in there? she wondered.

Did he completely understand how it felt to be tied to a bed and deprived of food and water for two days? She imagined he didn't.

'But?'

'After thoroughly investigating the matter, we had to release your father. I'm sorry, but he's not responsible for these crimes.'

You have to try.

'You must have missed something.'

'I'm sorry.'

'He's sending a message to me. You don't realise it because you didn't . . . live through what I did. With him. You don't know what he's like.'

Currie frowned. 'Have you seen him since his release?'

Even the thought of it sent her pulse racing.

'Of course not.'

'Well, your father's a broken man, Mary. I'm not saying that means anything much, but he can barely cross the room without a walking stick. I've seen the picture of him when he was arrested, and he's changed a great deal. He isn't the man you remember.'

Could that be true?

No. He must have seen what her father wanted him to.

'People always underestimated him,' she said. 'My father could tear you to pieces if he wanted. If he looks weak and fragile now, then it's an act. Trying to . . . throw you off the scent. He's the one who's killing those girls.'

She paused, aware that she was on the verge of babbling. Currie was looking at her with sympathy now, and she didn't like that at all. She didn't care what he thought of her, but it was the face of a man searching for a way to let her down gently. She couldn't bear it.

'Please.'

'I shouldn't go into detail,' Currie said. 'But I will, if only to set your mind at rest. Your father is electronically tagged, Mary.'

'What?'

'It was a condition of his parole. He is not responsible for these murders. It simply isn't possible.'

No.

Mary blinked at him, her mind processing the information, and what it meant. Electronically tagged? She'd been prepared for the fact they didn't have enough evidence to charge him, or that he'd managed to dredge up a fake alibi from somewhere. But not this. It simply isn't possible.

'He's got around it somehow.'

'No. We have a complete record of his whereabouts.'

'Then he must have taken it off somehow. You don't know how clever he can be.' She thought of something, and desperately seized at it: 'Or maybe he's still got friends in the police. Someone faking it for him.'

'I'm sorry. I can see why you thought it might be him, but it's not the case.'

'It is.' She wanted to beat her fists against something until he believed her. 'I know it is.'

Currie shook his head and didn't reply. He was still trying to be kind, but he didn't understand. Mary wondered how she appeared to him right now. Just another damaged person, probably. Handle with care. But still, she couldn't stop.

'I wish you hadn't come here.'

He looked perplexed. 'Why?'

'Because he might have followed you.'

'Your father? I don't think you need to worry.'

Everything got the better of her then.

She said, 'You have no idea what I need.'

'Mary . . .' He struggled. 'People don't follow police around. They just don't. And anyway, it was last week when I saw your father.'

'You think he wouldn't do it? That's nothing to him. He'd follow you for a year if he thought it would help him find me. For the rest of his life. In his head, I'm all that matters.'

'I understand why you're concerned.' Currie looked awkward. 'But for your sake you have to keep a sense of perspective.'

'Do I?' Her throat was tight; she was going to cry. 'You don't know anything about my father or what he's capable of.'

'I know he was a dangerous man, but--'

'No, you don't know the half of it. It might say he was a policeman, but it won't say he was a criminal too. That he ran the whole neighbourhood.'

'Mary--'

She rested her elbows on her knees and pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. Hard.

'When I was eleven,' she said, 'two men came to the house. They were drug dealers; I know that now. I guess they wanted to send a message to my father because he was moving too far into their turf. Expecting too much of a cut. They underestimated him. People always did that.'

The sound of her father's gun exploded briefly in her thoughts. At the time, she hadn't known what the sound was, just that it meant something bad was happening. But John, only eight at the time, had run through.

'He shot one of them in the kitchen. That man was already dead when I saw him. The other, my father just knocked him down. And then he turned on the stove.'

The tears came then. Two weeks of panic and fear welled up from inside her, and spilled out. While she could still speak, she said:

'That's one of my earliest memories. There are many more if you'd like to hear them.'

'I'm so sorry,' he said quietly. 'I can't imagine what it must have been like for you.'

She wanted to tell him everything else. About the policemen she would hear laughing downstairs in the lounge while she sat in the corner of her bedroom. The way people slapped her father on the back and sucked up to him, either because they were frightened of him or because they needed something. Those little words people had in the street about this or that, and the way he'd nod and say, 'Don't worry, I'll take care of it.' Good Officer Carroll. Hard yet fair. Nobody dared speak out about him and the things he did, but they all knew.

But what was the point? The hope she'd dared to feel when she saw Currie outside had been utterly crushed; it felt like she had a dead baby still inside her. She could tell him all those things, but what did it matter? People heard you but they didn't listen. You stood in front of them, screaming for help, and they stared right through--

'You won't believe it until he comes for me.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Just go. Please.'

He stood up. She heard the floor creak as he walked across the room. But not the stairs. She opened her eyes to see that he'd paused in the doorway.

'I've got to ask you something,' he said. 'I saw it when I came in.'

He gestured at the door handle.

'What?' she said.

'There's blood on it.'

What more did he want from her? She looked at him through her tears for a few seconds, considering it, and then reached down and pulled the leg of her jeans up. Showing him the scars on the back of her calf. They'd healed now, but they still showed up nicely in the light. She hoped he liked them.

'You did that?'

'Yes,' she said. 'It helps.'

Currie stared back at her for a second, and his expression seemed overburdened with sadness. But even so, she thought he understood. Maybe he didn't have scars of his own, but he had something. He nodded to himself.

'Thank you for your time, Mary. Take care.'

As she heard his footsteps on the stairs she allowed the material to fall back to her ankle. The front door opened, closed, and then - as she should have always known would happen - Mary was left entirely alone.

Part Two

Chapter Nine

Sunday 28th August

On a first date with someone, there are two questions I know I'm going to be asked. After getting through a thoroughly respectable pasta dish, most of a bottle of red wine and the whole 'isn't it weird meeting people off the internet?' conversation, a girl called Sarah Crowther asked me the first.

'Will you show me a magic trick?'

'It'll cost you,' I said. 'A guy's got to eat.'

She smiled. 'You've just eaten, remember?'

'And fine food it was too.'

'It was, but my point is, that excuse doesn't work.'

I'd brought her to Al Bacio, my favourite Italian restaurant. Even though it was in the city centre, it was nearly always dead, a well-kept secret that the Italian family who ran it would no doubt have preferred to be a little less secret. The waiter kept hanging outside the door, smoking, which probably didn't help, but the food was great and the kitchen was open-plan, so you could smell your dinner cooking well before it arrived. I came here a lot.

Sarah and I had a table for two over in one corner, with a single candle burning to one side that made her eyes sparkle. Although I knew a fair amount about her (twenty-three years old, social drinker, social smoker, atheist, currently two years into a Fine Art PhD) and had obviously looked at the photo on her profile, this was the first time I'd seen her in the flesh. That afternoon, Rob, who was always disdainful of my occasional forays into the internet dating thing, had counselled me to expect an enormously overweight social misfit with an ice pick in her handbag. Or possibly a man.

In reality, he would have been kicking himself. Sarah was smart and attractive, with dark blond, curly hair hanging around a friendly face. She was wearing a neat black shirt, and tight, dark jeans. In one of our flirtatious email exchanges I'd asked her to describe herself in two words, and she'd said 'giggles' and 'curls'. So far, the description was spot on, and I was having a lovely evening. There was still time for an ice pick to emerge, of course, but at the moment I'd die a happy man.

'Go on,' she said. 'I can tell you want to.'

'Okay. Take that ring off and pass it to me.'

She did. I placed it on the table and then smiled at her, allowing a moment of silence to pan out.

'More wine?' I asked.

She grinned. 'You're stalling. But yeah, go on.'

I shared the end of the bottle out between us, then cleared my throat, made a show of loosening my fingers. My right hand had healed better than I'd expected, but it still felt slightly strange.

'Pay close attention.'

I slid the ring towards me and picked it up in my right hand. Showed it to her briefly. Passed it to my left and closed that hand around it, then stared at my fist, both hands held out in plain sight. There was a look of concentration on my face: I'd seen it in the mirror a thousand times before. Somewhere around the five-hundred mark, it had started to get convincing.

'Nearly . . .'

I closed my eyes, grimaced and--

--then relaxed totally: it wasn't going to happen.

'I messed it up.'

I placed the ring back on the table. Sarah looked at me, amused.

'Sorry,' I said. 'It's been a while.'

'Well, I can't imagine why you stopped.'

'So it's to be sarcasm?'

I feigned annoyance, enjoying the easy flirtation between us. After that night out with Tori, I'd been unsure whether to take time away from the whole dating thing. Right now, I was glad I'd decided to dive straight back in.

'Okay, let me try again.'

I slid the ring towards me again and picked it up. Same as before: first in the right hand, then passed to the left. I stared at my fist for a few moments before closing my eyes, imagining the ring was burning me slightly as it disintegrated. Becoming more and more painful . . .

I'd like to thank the Academy . . .

. . . and then opened my eyes, pleased with myself.

'Gone.'

I uncurled the fingers of my left hand to show it was empty.

This time, Sarah looked impressed.

'Very good.' She tapped my right hand. 'So what about that one?'

I opened my right hand as well. Empty.

The expression on her face changed slightly. Now, she looked confused as well as pleased. I could imagine what she was thinking: she'd seen the ring in my right hand after I'd picked it up; both hands had stayed in full, open view, and my shirt sleeves were rolled up. Whatever I'd messed up the first time had been while I was holding the ring. So how on earth had I done it?

'That's very clever.' She frowned. 'So where is it?'

I sipped my wine innocently. 'It'll turn up.'

She looked like she was about to press it, but I was saved by the waiter.

'Everything all right with your meals?'

'Lovely, thanks.'

I put my napkin on the plate and he began clearing the table. Sarah narrowed her eyes. 'I'll get the truth out of you.'

'Is that a promise?'

'It's a threat.'

'I'll look forward to it.'

She sipped her wine. 'So how long have you been doing that?'

'What, anticipating threats?'

'No, magic.'

'Since I was twelve.'

'What, like a conjuror set for Christmas?'

I shook my head. 'It all started when my father tried to get me to bend a spoon.'

Sarah laughed. 'And did you?'

'Er, funnily enough - no. He'd seen someone on television do it, and I was too young to know any better. He was disappointed in me. So I learned how to do it just to show him it was a fraud.'

'How do you bend a spoon, then?'

'Lots of boring ways. That's the thing about magic - it's amazing what people won't see if they don't want to. My parents were convinced I'd done it for real. When they found out I hadn't, they still carried on believing in the TV guy anyway. Go figure.'

'People are strange.'

'They are.'

The story was basically true, although I'd softened it slightly. I hadn't told her about the vindictive way I'd done it - the fact that, at the time, I'd taken a cruel pleasure in trying to dispel my father's beliefs. It wasn't something I was proud of, but I was twelve.

After Owen died, my parents never met a New Age belief they didn't love, and had a particularly strong love affair with spiritualism. They became entirely different people. They went to mediums who told them everything they wanted to hear - that Owen still existed; that he was smiling at them; that he was happy now. Frauds and conmen, basically, who siphoned off their money and alchemised it into false hope. I was angry at them.