Grave Doubts (9 page)

The sight of the Demon King in crude black plastic had brought tears to his eyes. It was so grotesque, as if his own weight-gain had blurred the shape of his alter ego. He had stared at the figure, detesting it, before collapsing onto his bunk in a black mood. For the first time the idea occurred to him that he might indeed spend his life in this cell as the judge had intended. When he woke before dawn, the depression was still there and he contemplated suicide for the first time.

It was ironic that he had mimicked a self-destructive motivation before without any intention to do himself harm. Now the authorities were more relaxed, convinced by his play-acting that he was beginning to accept his fate, yet for the first time the idea of death appealed. There was comfort in the idea that he could kill himself, and the intellectual challenge of working out how would keep him occupied. He still had no belt or braces, and his uniform could not be torn. No sharp instruments were allowed anywhere near him. Perhaps if he could feign illness they would take him to the hospital and an opportunity would present itself.

He was practising expressions of intense agony when a warning rattle of keys announced an intruder. He expected to see Saunders, it was his shift, but instead another guard jerked his thumb at the open door.

‘Your shrink’s here. Get a move on.’

Batchelor was waiting for him wearing that sports jacket again, the one that looked mouldy, and there was a spot of dried food on his woollen tie. He hid his contempt behind a half smile.

‘Dr Batchelor. How good of you to come and see me again.’

‘Are you keeping well?’

Thoughts of suicide, the infirmary, perhaps even escape whirled in the prisoner’s head. Did he want to die? He wasn’t sure. Best to keep his options open.

‘So, so. I keep getting this twisting pain in my stomach. It doesn’t last long but it’s uncomfortable.’

A look of immediate concern showed on Batchelor’s face.

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Only you.’

‘I meant a physician.’

‘No, haven’t asked to. I’ll see how it goes. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

The conversation drifted into the usual psychobabble that passed for analysis. Now that he knew he wouldn’t be granted further access to a personal computer, the prisoner saw little purpose in these conversations. He was placid and formless yet never out of control. In order to prevent the doctor from becoming too frustrated he would throw in a fit of gloom or introspection that kept him coming back.

An unwelcome thought ambushed him. Today he had no need to fake his depression.

‘…you’d be interested.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I said I spoke to DS Nightingale.’

He felt as if he had been struck a blow to the chest. For a fraction of a second he didn’t know how to react then he realised that the shock must have shown in his expression. There was a brief look of satisfaction on the bastard’s smug face. Griffiths felt tricked, outsmarted by a quack, and his self-esteem shrank even further.

‘Why did you do that?’ Griffiths was proud that his voice was level.

‘Oh, a chance conversation. I thought you’d be interested.’

He said nothing. When it was obvious that he was going to remain silent Batchelor tried his next move.

‘I can see why she took the role of Artemesia. She’s almost the perfect huntress, don’t you think?’

Griffiths said nothing. Anger smouldered inside, banked up against the future.

‘What was her best score against you?’

‘27,500.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Almost the best.’ He would not meet the doctor’s eyes.

‘Are you enjoying the board game?’

How he would love to have said that he hadn’t even opened it, to thrust the shiny plastic bundle back into Batchelor’s arms, unborn. But that wasn’t true now.

‘I haven’t played it. There’s no excitement without competition.’

‘Why?’

Here we are again, he thought, back with the same inane questions. These he could parry for as long as he liked. With a smile Griffiths went into his routine.

Back in his cell, after hours of agonising over the decision, the prisoner finally re-opened the box and unpacked its contents. The six main characters stood three inches high, their acolytes a mere one-and-a-half. As well as the Demon King, which was black with highlights of red and silver paint, there was the Sorceress – blue and silver, and the Knight, a laughable character, all blond hair, white armour and golden weaponry. Every male newcomer to THE GAME wanted to be the knight. Most of them ‘died’. He was brave, courageous, honest and thus easy to defeat. Whatever he said had to be true as laws of chivalry bound him. On average the Demon King triumphed over him three times out of five but one hundred percent of the time whenever Griffiths had played.

The Mercenary was a more interesting challenger. He frequently teamed up with the Sorceress, although his loyalty could never be relied upon. And the Maiden – ah, Griffiths loved her, as did the Mercenary. One could never be sure whether he would follow the rules of money or love, but capturing the Maiden was usually a successful way to neutralise his skill.

He fingered the white plastic dress and long blond hair. She carried a spray of red and white roses, symbols of her maidenhood and vulnerability. She never attacked, but if rescued in the wrong way she absorbed the strength of her would-be saviour. Griffiths thought her the most corrupt of the characters. Whenever he caught a Maiden he used them as bait before killing them; not against the rules exactly but always a shock to the other players.

He picked out Artemesia. For some reason her features were finer, better articulated then all the others. The modelling of her weapons – bow, arrows, knife, and spear – was detailed and precise. He stared at her for a long time.

She was wearing a long, green Grecian-style tunic, slashed at both thighs. It flowed around her as if blown by a phantom wind, moulding her breasts and pelvis like Botticelli’s Flora. He imagined warm flesh hiding beneath the thin material and grew excited. He placed her down gently and sorted out his drawing materials.

Despite the growing pressure inside him he followed his ritual. Paper set exactly in the middle of the tabletop; chalks and eraser to the right; water-colour pencils and a small plastic bowl of water to the left. With a fine piece of chalk he started to sketch the figure. His lines were long and fluid, gliding easily over the smooth paper. He drew in the bitch’s face exactly, but the body beneath was more voluptuous. In his drawing, he stripped her of her robe. The breeze had raised her nipples to hard pink points; her sex pouted, pretty as a kiss beneath luxuriant pubic hair the colour of aubergines. Looking at her made his breath come in short gasps and he forgot about his drawing.

When he climaxed he cried out – a growl, a name, he didn’t know, but the release was exquisite. For once he was oblivious to the peephole in the door as he sprawled back in the chair, exposed. He hadn’t felt like this since…well, in a long time, before that bitch had ruined his life.

He washed fastidiously. When he was quite clean he bent to pick up his latest drawing, to slip it into his scrapbook. The paper was torn. In his ecstasy he had stabbed her. A great gaping red wound had ripped apart her paper breasts and throat. He stroked the drawing with his fingertips, lingering over the face and crimson tear.

It would have to go. The guards searched his cell regularly and Batchelor insisted on looking through his scrapbook, yet he couldn’t face the thought of simply screwing up the picture and throwing it away. It had become a totem, a promise of something beyond the prison cell. The idea that he could always draw another didn’t appease his desire to preserve this one. He wanted to sleep knowing that he had it, to wake and be able to unfold it secretly and remember the taste of her tears. He would be revenged for this imprisonment. A promise had been made and he knew it wouldn’t be broken, it was only a matter of time. Meanwhile the picture would be a talisman.

He looked for a hiding place. His gaze was drawn to the game, lying scattered on the floor. The laminate on the glossy moulded board had split, peeling away from the cardboard backing. He picked it up and with a long fingernail began to prise it apart. The drawing folded once, slid neatly between the plastic surface and card backing. He squeezed the board together again. No one would notice the damage.

Instead of packing THE GAME away he started to read the rulebook. After his evening food he began to play, throwing the elaborate set of five varicoloured dice with increasing dexterity. He memorised the possible combinations and the implications of each score. There were tens of thousands of variations, even in this non-computerised version. With a small grunt of pleasure, he pulled his paper and charcoal towards him and began to note down his first ideas for mastery of this new Game.

Parklea Estate had been built late enough in the 1970s for there to have been no excuse for the mistakes of design. The towers rose sixteen stories, with half-covered walkways joining them in an ugly concrete spider’s web. They criss-crossed above long-dead patches of lawn, casting shadows and providing a perfect launch-pad for the missiles that were cast down by the younger generation on the old.

On Monday morning the estate was dry, hot and airless. The stench of urine and dog or human excrement from numerous hidden corners made the officers concealed in flat 6B Compton gag. Past tenants had run ahead of eviction and trashed the place. The Council had not bothered to repair the damage and it had become a squat then a doss-house for down and outs. After a fire had threatened to spread to the occupied part of the block, the Council finally took steps to secure the premises. They had been empty ever since.

Unfortunately, 6B was the perfect location for police surveillance of the open ground that lay between the towers, half in shadow, the other half burnt white. DS Nightingale was on first watch, her partner wore his undercover five-day growth of beard and long greasy hair with pride. He was currently in a café on the other side of the estate buying breakfast.

DC Rike had taken one look at her designer jeans and freshly laundered T-shirt and suggested that she should stay concealed until the end of their shift. So she was condemned to this stinking cell for another six hours and twelve minutes exactly.

Tomorrow she’d remember to bring some bin liners to sit on but right now she had the choice between enduring the discomfort of remaining standing or the horror of being contaminated by whatever had been smeared on the walls or deposited on the floor. She chose pain.

The door banged open and she jumped. It was Richard Rike, returning with hot drinks for them both.

‘Jesus it stinks in here!’

‘I hardly notice it now. They say that after about twenty minutes the olfactory system adjusts, neutralising the odour.’

‘You what?’

He handed her one of the cups and she lifted the lid from the Styrofoam to reveal a weak, milky drink. She had asked for her coffee black, no sugar. She took a sip. It was lukewarm, and sweet.

‘Your nose doesn’t smell anymore – the brain sort of blocks out the stench.’

Rike looked at his watch.

‘Only nineteen minutes and thirty seconds to go then. I couldn’t remember whether you said you wanted tea or coffee so I got you tea, just how I like my women: white with two lumps.’ He grinned in anticipation of her disapproval.

Nightingale kept a straight face.

‘Pity, I’d asked for coffee, just how I like my men: black and strong.’

He barked with laughter and threw one of the bags at her.

‘What’s this?’

‘An iced doughnut. They’re yesterday’s. The van with the fresh stuff hadn’t arrived, but they’re OK. I’ve had one.’

Nightingale looked at the sugar-coated wedge of greasy dough and tried to feel hungry. She’d only had an apple for breakfast and that had been two hours ago.

‘You going to eat that?’

‘Not if you’re still hungry. You have it.’

He demolished the cake in three large bites, cramming them in with barely a pause. It was gone in thirty seconds. She tried not to stare and looked away from the goo-covered teeth of his triumphant smile.

‘Fastest in the canteen,’ he spluttered proudly.

‘I can believe that.’

The conversation proved to be the high point of their day.

They were relieved from duty at four o’clock and Rike went off to deliver their brief report to Blite.

It was gone half past four by the time she reached home. She padded up the stairs to her flat in socks. As soon as she was inside, every stitch of clothing went into the washing machine with an extra load of powder. For once she didn’t care if her T-shirt and underwear turned blue, she just wanted them clean. She showered twice.

There was a pub opposite the park and she decided to go out for her wine instead of staying home. That way she could pretend that she wasn’t a solitary drinker, honest. It was turning into a glorious evening, cool after the heat of the day. She’d almost walked to her destination when she cannoned into a good-looking man who stepped out in front of her.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘That’s OK.’ She moved to walk around him but he spoke, preventing her.

‘You wouldn’t know of a place where I can get a decent drink would you?’

He had amazing eyes, a charming smile and looked vaguely familiar so she took the time to answer, although part of her thought it odd that he should ask so close to a public house.

‘This place is pretty good.’

He looked around as if surprised to see the swinging sign above his head.

‘I hadn’t even seen it! You must think I’m stupid. Is this your local? If so, can I buy you a drink in apology for being dumb?’

Nightingale was almost tempted but she was saved the problem of giving an answer by a shout from across the road. She recognised the familiar voice.

‘Hello, Sarge.’ Cooper dodged the slow-moving traffic and joined her. When she turned to speak to the mystery man he had already melted away into the evening. She shrugged and forgot him.

‘I was on my way home. Dot has me walking it at least once a week, says it’s healthy. Fancy a quick drink now that we’re here?’

‘Well I…’

‘Come on, the Dog and Duck does a good pint and the wife tells me the wine’s quite decent.’

Despite the temperature he was wearing his customary tweed jacket. It had to be quite new as the elbows didn’t yet display leather patches. His face was glowing as they entered the beer garden, a cobbled yard into which trestle tables and benches had been squeezed between tubs overflowing with geraniums. They chose a table in the shade by the wall.

‘What’ll it be?’

‘A glass of white wine please, and a still water if that’s OK.’

He was back quickly, carrying their drinks on a round tin tray promoting the last surviving local brewery. There were two packets of crisps wedged between the glasses.

‘There you go. Plain or cheese ‘n’ onion?’

‘I’m not…’

‘Plain it is then. Go on, eat them. I bet you didn’t have a proper lunch.’

She couldn’t argue because he was right. As she opened the packet, the smell of salt, potato and fat made her mouth water.

Cooper told her about his last case, then about his daughter and her baby that was due any day. He followed up with news about his son’s job, his wife’s garden and the diet that she had put him on. At the end of a quarter of an hour he stood up suddenly and went to buy fresh drinks. Nightingale waited, feeling surprisingly relaxed by his easy chatter.

All the tables had been taken and there was a pleasant buzz of conversation. She tuned out of it and stared over the post-and-rail fence to the cars parked beyond. A silver Saab pulled into the car park and her stomach lurched at its familiar shape. Fenwick stepped from the driver’s side and went round to open the passenger door. She recognised the woman’s reddish brown hair and the profile was familiar but a name escaped her. She said something that made Fenwick laugh and Nightingale had to look away.

‘There you are another glass of Chablis, some more water and these.’ Cooper passed her a plate of sandwiches. ‘Smoked salmon on brown bread with lemon, no mayonnaise for you, and roast beef and mustard for me,’ he paused, frowned suddenly at his presumption, and said, ‘unless you want to swap. This is only a snack before dinner.’

‘You shouldn’t have, Sarge.’

‘Don’t be daft. You need to eat. You’re skin and bones these days, although I’m probably not allowed to say that. I bet you’ve nothing but rabbit food in your fridge.’

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it quickly with a wry smile. He was right. Cooper grinned and arranged the plate and paper napkin in front of her. He was about to demolish a quarter of his own sandwich in one bite when the sound of a familiar voice made him twist and look over his shoulder.

‘Evening, Bob.’

‘Evening, sir.’ Old habits died hard where Cooper was concerned.

‘Relax, don’t get up. Hello, Nightingale, how are you?’ He sounded happy.

‘Fine, thank you.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘Have a pleasant evening, both of you.’ He turned away to join his companion who had been waiting at the door.

Cooper put his sandwich down untouched.

‘Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!’ He took a sip of beer and shook his head at the closing door. ‘I hadn’t expected to see him out like that so soon. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, mind.’

‘So soon after what?’

The Sergeant stared at her in surprise.

‘You haven’t heard? His wife died. She’d been in a coma for years, of course, but she’s passed away at last. It was a blessing really.’

He took another sip of beer and looked at her with concern.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I…I hadn’t heard.’ She blinked a few times and looked down at her wine as she sipped. It was impossible to meet his eyes.

Cooper held his silence but she could feel him watching her as he munched steadily through his sandwich and washed it down with beer.

‘Would you like another?’

She stared at her empty glass in surprise.

‘No thanks. I really ought to be going.’

‘You should eat something.’

‘I’m not hungry right now. Can I take them home with me?’ She was already wrapping the sandwiches in a paper parcel, folding the edges precisely.

‘Just promise me that they’re not going to end up in the dustbin.’

Her fingers hesitated for a moment.

‘I promise. I must go. Thanks for the drink, it was very kind of you.’

Inside her flat she was greeted by a soft whirring from the fridge as it pumped out hot air in an effort to chill its contents. She opened the door and changed the temperature setting, confused as to why it should have been on fast freeze in the first place. Had she done that this morning? A shrill bell sounded as she locked the front door. Instinctively she checked the smoke detector but it was silent. As she pushed open the bedroom door it grew louder. Baffled, she silenced the alarm clock and studied the time it had been set for, seven-twenty, yet that morning she’d had to be on duty by seven.

The skin between her shoulder blades prickled. She was sure that she hadn’t re-set the clock. There had to be a logical, non-threatening reason for the change in time but she couldn’t think of one. Her hands were shaking as she replaced the clock on the bedside table. If she hadn’t reset the fridge and alarm clock then someone else had and that person could still be in her flat.

She slammed the door of the bathroom back hard. The handle hit the wall with a thud and bounced back. The shower was on full but no one was lurking behind the curtain. The spare bedroom was empty, the built in wardrobe crammed so full of clothes that there was no space for someone to conceal themselves. That left her sitting room.

Nightingale took a large knife from the wooden bloc in the kitchen and checked that no others were missing. Forcing her breathing steady and silent she crept towards the partially open door. She bent down and looked through the gap along the hinges. When she was sure that no one was hiding behind the door she moved into the room, aware that sweat on her palms was making the knife handle slippery. The sofa was in its normal place, flush to the wall. That left the curtains on the two picture windows. One faced south, the other west. The curtains had been pulled closed. Had she done that this morning to keep the room cool? She didn’t think so and her hands started to shake. It was almost impossible to keep her breathing under control, her throat was tight and her heart was beating so hard that the blood in her ears deafened her.

Nightingale switched the knife to her other hand and dried her palm on her shirt before gripping it again even tighter. In self-defence class she had been taught to move surely and only to carry a weapon if she was confident that she would be able to keep control and use it. She took a long, silent breath and frowned. Which window? Choose the wrong one and she would present her back to the intruder.

She was about to choose south window when the right hand curtain in the west window twitched. It was the faintest movement. When she blinked the material was hanging still again but it was enough to decide her. In one fluid run, she reached the drapes and yanked them back, her right hand raised to strike.

There was an awful shriek and a massive black cat twisted towards her, arching its back and spitting in fury, as ready to attack as Nightingale had been. She jumped away in shock and checked the other curtain quickly to confirm that nobody was there. The cat regarded her with pure hatred, its claws gouging great tufts of wool from her cream carpet.

At first she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, then she found that she was doing both. Whoever had set this practical joke, for that is what it had to be, couldn’t have known of her childhood fear of cats, particularly black ones. Her mother had had a cat very like this, a malignant animal that had hated her for no reason. One day it had lain in wait on the stairs for her to pass below and had laced its jealous claws beneath the skin of her scalp.

It had to go. With this creature in the flat she couldn’t think straight. Yet it stared up at her, confidant and quite at home. Nightingale edged back towards the hall where she had left her bag without taking her eyes from the cat. She opened the clasp and pulled out her wrapped sandwich, wrinkling her nose in displeasure at the smell of the warm smoked salmon. There was a click of claws on wood as the cat walked into the hall, nose and tail twitching in time. She threw a piece of salmon and it took a few steps forward watching her with deep suspicion. She backed off towards the front door, giving the animal more space. It settled into a preparatory crouch. Nightingale waited, hoping that greed would overcome distrust. Minutes passed then its hindquarters shivered and the tail flicked, just as her mother’s monster had done as it stalked baby birds. Another quiver and it finally pounced.