Cry for Help (16 page)

On the surface, he was trying to make sense of what was there; deep down, his thoughts were occupied with other things.

Since his encounter with Mary Carroll last week, the things she'd said, the way she'd reacted - they kept coming back to him. He hadn't expected it to go well, of course: he'd known enough about the case in advance to appreciate there was no 'good news' he could take that would provide any real comfort. But, perhaps stupidly, he had wanted to reassure her a little. To let her know that whatever her father had done in the past, and as repulsive a man as he might still be, he was far less of a threat than she obviously imagined.

His visit had only made things worse, and it still bothered him. Even knowing Frank Carroll had been electronically tagged, and that it was impossible for him to have committed the crimes, she'd been adamant that he was responsible. On one level Currie understood it; he'd seen what she'd done to her leg, after all. The abuse she'd suffered might have ended ten years ago, but it was never a finite thing: not a case of stop and start. It was ever-present. And so it was entirely natural for her father still to loom large in her mind. A broken old man casting a huge shadow through a trick of perspective. But . . .

You have no idea what my father is capable of.

That was true.

He tapped the pencil against his teeth a couple of times - then swivelled the chair round to the desk and slid out the details he'd printed from Frank Carroll's online case file. Skipping past the photographs of Mary and Frank, he looked for the contact number for the detective who'd handled the investigation. There it was. Dan Bright. The area code was for Richmond.

He dialled it now, then glanced at his watch as he waited. The chances were slim, but--

'Richmond PD. How may I help?'

'Hi there,' he said. 'I was hoping to speak to Detective Dan Bright. Is he available?'

'No, I'm sorry. Dan's gone home for the day.'

Dan's a lucky man, he thought.

'That's okay. Could you ask him to call me back, please? It's Detective Sam Currie.' He gave her the number. 'It's nothing urgent. Tell him it's in connection with Frank Carroll.'

'Will do.'

So that was that. He didn't know what Mary's father was capable of, but he could find out.

And in the meantime, the one thing you do know is that Frank Carroll has no connection with this case.

That was true as well.

Currie stared at the whiteboard a little longer, until he felt both his eyes and his thoughts begin to blur, and then he stood up and put his coat on.

Currie had lived in the same house for nearly thirty years, and the changes within it mirrored the path his life had taken over the course of that time. At first it was simply his, and then Linda had moved in, bringing her things and mixing them with his own. All the furnishings and belongings that were theirs had been slowly added, item by item, as the years passed. Neil was born, and an extension appeared on the side of the building. As their son grew up, he gained possessions of his own, and they mingled with those of his parents. It had become impossible, amongst this mess of life, for Currie to see clearly what had been his.

And then suddenly, it had been revealed again. Linda had taken her things when she left, of course; Neil's had been boxed up and put away in the attic. All that was left now was him, spread in a disordered, random fashion around a house that was too large for him, too full of conspicuous gaps and absences that he was only slowly becoming used to.

Currie turned the lights on in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, but left it on the counter for the moment. Instead, he went upstairs to the landing. He pushed the trapdoor in the ceiling - click - then lowered it gently, bringing the old ladder down with it. There was a shriek of metal as he slid it down to the floor.

He didn't have to go up into the loft properly, as the box was at the nearest edge; he just brought the whole thing down and brushed the cobwebs off the top. Sealed with parcel tape. He fumbled for a minute, then gave in and used his house key to slit it open. The cardboard ripped back with a hollow echo.

Neil's old books.

Currie took a few out, smiling at the covers one by one, and then found the one he was looking for.

The Knight Errant. Mary's favourite book. He'd recognised it when he was at her flat, and remembered reading it to Neil when he was a little boy as well.

Currie took it downstairs now and sat in the armchair in the corner of the lounge, beneath the soft glow of the standing lamp. As he flicked through, memories seemed to solidify inside him.

Most of the pages contained large watercolour illustrations of the knights and soldiers and fair maidens that populated the tale, and then a few lines of text that explained what was happening. The first letter of each paragraph was italicised and ornate: swirling gold on a red background, like some kind of medieval heraldry.

The heroine of the tale was a peasant girl called Anastacia. In the first few pages she fell in love with a boy named William, who went off to become a knight and had many adventures. She found it difficult to be away from him, but accounts of his heroism reached as far as her hamlet, and she was proud of his deeds. When he returned to her, revered throughout the land and laden with titles and money, she couldn't have been happier.

After the lovers were reunited, however, an army descended on the land from the east, and word was sent from the king himself for William to join the legions defending the country. Anastacia begged him not to leave her again, and at first he resisted the calls to battle. But they came ever stronger. As the story went on, his titles were revoked, he was mocked in the streets, and people began calling him a coward and decrying his good name. William was torn. Eventually, driven by pride and a sense of duty, he relented and went to fight, leaving Ana with a broken heart - and a sharp dagger with which to defend herself from the invading hoards should he fail to return.

But upon reaching the front line, William realised he was there for all the wrong reasons. Everything he'd done when he was younger had been motivated by his love for Ana, and now he found that she was all he wanted; the glory and acclaim suddenly meant nothing. To universal derision, he turned tail and rode home - where he arrived to find his true love with the knife he'd left poised over her broken heart. He grabbed her hand before she could kill herself . . .

And they lived happily ever after.

Currie sipped his wine as he turned the pages. On a subconscious level, he knew what was going to happen in the story before he got to it. He must have read this to Neil a lot when he was younger, and reading it again now was like rediscovering paths he used to walk down every day in a place he'd forgotten even existed.

The illustration on the last page showed Anastacia and William embracing in their small, thatched cottage, tears rolling down her perfect face in happiness.

I failed my duty
, William told her, because I had to.

No, she replied, you have faced the only challenges that mattered,
and you came back to save me
.

The End.

At the time, he remembered, he'd thought the moral of the story was simplistic. And it was, of course. Who was fighting that invading army? Because someone had to stand up and protect people, didn't they? There would have to be knights and soldiers manning that front line, and sacrifices made. It was absurdly idealistic to think that love conquered all.

But sitting there now, the cover creaking as he turned the last page and closed the book, he could see the appeal. It was a world where people followed their hearts and did what they thought was right for those they cared about, no matter what the consequences for themselves. A world where the hero always arrived to save the day, and always in time.

Chapter Fifteen

Thursday 1st September

When we'd arrived at the theatre it had been a cold, clear evening; by the time we left, at quarter to nine, it had started to rain. As we emerged down the front steps I felt the first few drops hit me. The change in weather summed up the way I was feeling quite well. Everything had felt so promising two hours ago. Now, it all seemed to be balanced on a knife-edge.

'Fuck.' Sarah grimaced at the sky and pulled at her velvet coat. 'I wouldn't have worn this if I'd known it was going to rain.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Hey, it's not your fault.'

'But we could have stayed to the end,' I said. 'Maybe it would have stopped by then.'

'No point, though. You've got what you came for.'

She put her arm in mine and we walked in the vague direction of the taxi rank. Where before it had felt comfortable to walk like this, now there was a little tension between us. Perhaps that was just my imagination: my emotions were all over the place. One second I felt outright panic, the next, calm, rational anger at myself for how I'd let the performance back there get to me.

Sarah leaned against me.

'So,' she said, 'are you going to tell me who Tori is?'

I tried to smile. 'That obvious, huh?'

'Uh-huh. You practically went green.'

As soon as Thom Stanley had said her name, I'd felt something lurch inside me - a wave of nausea. I'd let go of Sarah's hand as though I was afraid of her.

She's coming through a little strangely, I remembered now. I don't even know if it's someone who's passed.

A few people were waiting for taxis, and we joined the queue. There was a drunk-rowdy group of lads in front, huddled up against the weather and complaining. Further down, a taxi pulled out

'Tori,' I said carefully, 'is a friend of mine.'

'Just a friend?'

'We went out briefly, but it was a long time ago.'

'Okay.'

Sarah didn't say anything else, but we both took a step forward. The queue was moving quickly. It wouldn't be long until we were at the front, and I had a feeling I needed to handle this conversation well before we got there. Avoiding it wasn't an option after the way I'd reacted. If Sarah had gone pale after hearing an ex-boyfriend's name, I wouldn't exactly have been overjoyed either.

'It just threw me,' I said. 'Him saying that. I know he's a fake, but at the same time, it's not exactly the most common name in the world.'

'That's true.'

'Which is why he used it.' I'd realised this as we left at the interval, and wanted to kick myself. 'Obviously, nobody wants to think their dead relatives are horrible, and so he picked something unlikely.'

'Why do that at all?'

'So he could put on more of a frightening show, I guess. Add a bit of power and depth. A bit of edge, you know?'

If anyone does know her, I think she might be in trouble.

'And for a second you believed him?'

'Yeah. For a second I did.'

We took another step forward.

'Why, though? You'd just seen what a fake he was.'

An image of Julie flashed into my head and I forced it away.

'The thing with Tori is, sometimes she gets sick. And when he said her name, I suppose it just made me realise I hadn't spoken to her for a while.'

'Okay.'

Don't ask me how long, I thought. It was only a few weeks. Rationally, I knew there was no reason whatsoever to think she might really be in trouble: it was only because of what had happened with Julie. But even so, I kept remembering Tori's phone call from Staunton, and the guilt I'd felt at not being there when she needed me.

I could explain a little of that.

'Something happened a few weeks ago,' I said, 'and she ended up in hospital. I felt pretty bad about the whole thing. Guilty, you know? Like I was a bad friend. And what he said in there just made me think about that. It's only a coincidence, but it pushed the buttons. I'm fine now.'

I couldn't think of any other way to explain it. The drunken group in front of us clambered into a five-seater. We stepped forwards.

'Well . . . why don't you text her, or something?' Sarah said. 'If you're worried.'

'Yeah, that would be the sensible thing to do.' I took a mental sigh of relief. 'I didn't mean to upset you.'

'Why would I be upset?'

'I don't know. I suppose I went a bit strange there.'

'Yeah, but you're going stranger now.' She laughed and tightened her arm in mine. 'It's okay, Dave. Part of what I like about you is that you obviously care about people. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't going to be a problem.'

'It won't.'

'Just don't run off with her, okay? Friends I can deal with. Baggage, of course . . . that might be a different matter. I don't handle that quite so well.'

'You're not a baggage-handler?'

'That's right.'

She smiled, but I got the feeling she was also assessing my words a little more seriously than she was letting on, and I felt annoyed with myself again. Rob had been right. Damn him.

'Honestly,' I said. 'You've nothing to worry about. It was just a stupid show.'

'Well, then, that's okay,' she said. 'Let's go home.'

We spent the taxi ride quietly holding hands, both of us staring out of our respective windows. Simple contact, but important. Even if we were both a little preoccupied, at least we had that connection. For my part, I was just glad she'd been okay about my reaction. I would text Tori at some point, but there was no urgency because nothing was wrong. It was more important to keep myself focused on Sarah.

When we reached my flat, the taxi driver pulled in between parked cars. I rounded up the fee then climbed out after Sarah, while the driver counted up, the engine grumbling to itself.

The rain was spitting down, but it didn't seem to matter so much anymore. I walked over and unlocked the front door.

'Hey hey.'

A car door slammed behind me. I turned, the keys in my hand. Choc and Cardo were walking towards me.

Something inside me collapsed at the sight of them.

They'd been waiting for me.

Choc was smiling, but not in a friendly way. It reminded me of a schoolyard bully sidling up to you like a friend, all okay - then going for you when he gets in close enough.