Six Dead Men (14 page)

Not everything she says makes much sense but she's so calm about it all - talking about spirit guides and the paranormal as if they really exist. Well, they do for her. At least she believes me. I thought I'd made the worst mistake ever when I told Father Andrew. And now here I am staying with a friend of his. Imagine, a priest having a psychic for a friend. And why not? I really hope she can help me. I don't want to think about what will happen if she can't. So good though, just to have someone to talk to at last. I think I might actually have a decent night's sleep.

Sylvie’s hand paused inches from the phone.
It's too late to call Andrew. It will have to wait till morning.
She turned from the telephone and began her bedtime routine: moving continuously in a well rehearsed pattern between her bed and her en-suite. She carefully removed her wig and hung it over the knob at the end of the bed. She glanced at the wig critically.
Must book you in for a wash and reset.
Her false teeth came next. The Steredent tablet went into the half filled glass and bubbles rose to the surface in a gentle swirl. Finally the teeth, just five teeth from the top, thank heavens it wasn’t a bottom set too. Sylvie listened to the clink of the enamel against glass as she removed the day’s make-up with care and concentration. She looked at her naked image in the mirror. As she smoothed her wrinkle cream into the skin of her face and neck Sylvie considered the message she had received during her sitting with Madie.
Frowning like that Sylvie makes the use of this cream pointless.
But the message had been a troubling one.

The scales are balanced
. The words had bounced around in her skull and were then followed by a very clear image of Lady Justice with her balancing scales held high. Behind Lady Justice a long line of dead men stood as though waiting in a queue. Above all this was a bubbling cloud mass with rays of light slanting down at sharp angles and lighting the scene in an almost blinding light.
That blinding light, I've seen that before. It means only one thing.
Not for the first time, Sylvie wished she was an artist. The image she had received cried out to be put down on paper.
Poor girl, what a role to have placed on her shoulders. Why does it have to be her? Well, why does it have to be anyone? It's very Old Testament. I wonder how Andrew will take this?

Ensconced in fleecy pyjamas, Sylvie checked to see if her electric blanket had warmed the bed to the heat she desired. Satisfied, she reset the dial to zero and slid between the sheets, slammed her fist two or three times into her pillow to make it conform to the shape she wanted, lay back and clapped her hands twice to turn off the bedside lamp.

London (ii)

They were in bed. Madi was snuggled up against Robert, her head resting on his chest. She was snoring lightly, her lips slightly parted. His fingers trailed cautiously through the riot of her tangled curls and caressed her scalp gently. Her small hand rested on his torso in a relaxed curve. Carefully withdrawing his hand from Madi’s curls, Robert closed the biography he was reading, tucked it under his pillow and brushed his lips against her forehead. Her lips twitched into a smile and she turned over. He let himself drink in every aspect of her sleeping form. The sun of their Italian honeymoon had bronzed her skin. It appeared to glow against his tanned but much lighter arm. He let his thumb graze the goldfish tattoo above her right shoulder blade which had been an unexpected but pleasant surprise. His physical heart beat with a steady rhythm but some other part of him, deep at the core of who he was, trembled at the enormity of having her here beside him. Robert stretched out an arm to switch off the bedside lamp then turned to nestle himself against her. They lay curved into each other and his breathing deepened as he sunk into an untroubled sleep.

These dreams were a frequent occurrence. They all hinted at a piece of tranquillity that could have been. He loathed them but felt bereft if he woke without having had one. Whenever he woke from one of these dreams Deed was visited by a sharp sense of loss.

Are they the part of my subconscious reminding me I've put my career on the line? Written down in black and white what I know to be a lie... for a woman I barely know. There's no evidence though. Nothing substantial to say she killed her boyfriend because she kissed him. She didn't actually confirm the fact she kissed those men. I read something in her eyes is all. Something I didn't even think about until the Italian on that train. Now here I am wondering if she's up in Manchester kissing men indiscriminately and killing them just for the fun of it. How could I be so right and so wrong? I knew there was something about her from the start. Just like I always know. What is it about her that has me so rattled? I hardly know her. Why would I want to protect her? Maybe it's something about her - pheromones perhaps. Maybe that's how she does it, draws men in and then...

In an old shoe box, in a corner of his wardrobe, out of reach of both daylight and artificial lighting, was a sealed envelope. Inside the envelope was the audio tape of Madi’s strange confession told to him in his office. Alongside this slim black rectangle of slumbering words lay his notes of that interview. He had not touched the contents since he put it in that darkened topmost corner, but the after image of the words he had written on the final page on his return from Manchester still glowed on his retina whenever he allowed himself to think about it. Even as he had written the words he had been amazed at the steadiness of his hand and the unwavering aspect of his handwriting. But the contradictory words he wrote afterwards in his final report snaked across the page, taking on the mesmerising quality of a cobra rearing to strike.

*****

"The coroner's report on the Burry case came back Sir.
Death by natural causes.
Are we going to add him to your dead men files?”

"No." The dead men files were consigned to the back of his filing cabinet. He hadn’t gone near them in over a month. "I'm not working on those cases anymore Johnson."

"Right sir. Any particular reason? I thought you found them rather entertaining."

"Just not for me any more." Deed avoided Johnson’s eyes, believing this perceptive young policeman would read the lies which lay hidden behind his pupils. "I'm thinking of taking some extended leave."

Johnson looked surprised. "You never take time off sir, not even when your father was ill."

"Yes, well, maybe I should have." He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell the younger officer he was thinking of moving on. He liked Johnson but realised he’d never really spent much time with him. More and more recently he’d been wishing he’d made different decisions about the way his life ran. He especially wished he’d not chosen such a solitary lifestyle. Inspector Deed had many admiring colleagues but the man Robert Deed could count none of them as friends. And suddenly he found he wanted, more than anything, to have someone to call friend.

Hesitant but resolute, Deed took his first faltering footfalls into the murky world of friendship. “Martin.”

“Yes Sir.” Johnson’s eyes were round with amazement and no wonder. Deed could not recall ever addressing him by his first name in the two years of their working together.

“Do you fancy a drink later on?” Deed waited for the negative reply.

Johnson’s eyes widened then his mouth spread in a smile. “I’d like that Sir.”

Deed found himself returning the smile.
He’s actually pleased I asked him. “
Is The Lantern alright for you, or do you prefer The Bull?”

“The Lantern’s good Sir. Nice grub in there too.”

Deed nodded “Yes, the food is good.”

“Right Sir. Later then.”

“Later then Martin.” Deed pretended to focus on the file in front of him as Johnson left his office. The pleasure his invite had obviously evinced in Johnson had taken Deed by surprise. It was all well and good to like someone but there was never any guarantee you’d be liked in return. It was a heartening feeling to know he provoked an ember of friendly emotion.

*****

When Deed saw the job advertised on the message board he thought it was a joke. The words
Psychic Division: Liaison Officer
were book ended by images of a haunted house.

The guys in charge of the online message board sometimes put little jokes in to brighten people's day. It was frowned upon by higher up but generally accepted as harmless fun. As he glanced at the advertisement a cartoon ghost with a speech bubble containing the word Whooooooo! materialised from the background of the job specification.

Deed found himself chuckling.
How did the IT guys get away with that?
Shaking his head he continued the job search he was undertaking. He consciously avoided any jobs advertised in the North of England. They always caught his eye none the less: an opening in Sheffield, two in Leeds and another in Liverpool. Pulling his eyes from these positions he continued his trawl of local jobs in his pay scale.

*****

As soon as he walked into the pub he wanted to walk right back out. The room was crammed with people. An umbrella of smoke hung over everyone.
Urgh. I’m going to reek of it.
He thought about heading out to the beer garden but worried Martin would not realise he was there. So he opted for staying where he could see the door. And the noise of the place astounded him. The endless babble of voices swelling and falling was punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Were pubs always this noisy? And what were they all talking about?
What do they all get out of this ritual? And when did I forget how to be a part of it all?
He thought back to the last time he had been in a pub on a regular basis. It went back to the days when he was a lit student. He’d never found socialising easy. Being an only child made him prone to seeking the company of a good book before looking to human contact. But at least at uni he’d seen the inside of a pub.
I’ve slipped back — Mr Hermit Crab.

Feeling exasperated with himself he turned to the bar and ordered a malt. The scent and colour of the liquid lifted his spirits. His eyes lifted from the whisky to see Martin scanning the room for him. The natural thing to do would be to raise his arm. He found himself hesitating. But then Martin spotted him and waved a hand in greeting.

Martin was breathless. “Sorry I’m late Sir.”

“My fault entirely Martin. I keep you far too busy.”

Martin stood wedged between a member of the public at the bar and Deed’s stool. He brushed his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head.

Deed coughed lightly and turned to catch the eye of the bartender. “What can I get you Martin?”

Smiling brightly Martin pointed to a fridge behind the barman. “A Belgian fruit beer Sir.”

“You can’t spend all night calling me Sir. It’s Robert.” Even as he said the words Deed knew he sounded officious. He was trying to relax but was feeling ridiculously nervous.

Still smiling Martin nodded but Deed thought he spotted a glimmer of disappointment. Martin thanked the bartender by name then spoke to Deed. “How about going outside? It’s not as crowded.”

“Yes. Definitely.” The fewer eyes on this meeting the better. There were several other policeman in the pub and he didn’t want other members of the team thinking they could pally up as and when they liked.
Robert Deed. That’s a terrible thing to think.
Why did this environment make him so uncomfortable? He couldn’t keep blaming his only child status. Deed followed Martin out to the walled garden.

The first hint of autumn suspended Deed’s breath in the air. Two garden heaters gave off enough of a halo of warmth so it was still pleasant out. They found a vacant spot near the far wall. Martin settled into a slouch where the wall partly supported his frame, the bottle of fruit beer hanging at his side, hooked between fore and middle fingers.
He looks so relaxed, at home even. Why didn’t I order a bottle of something? So much easier to hold onto when you don’t have a table at the ready.
He realised Martin was talking to him and caught the word “rugby”. “Don’t know much about it Martin. Always felt I should learn the rules.” He felt foolish and unable to continue.

“What’s your game then Sir? I mean Robert.”

“Snooker. Learnt to play when I was at university.”

Martin began bandying a list of names and scores around with some relish. Deed caught two or three names which sounded familiar.
Shit, this is my punishment for not signing up for those interdepartmental socials. I have to say something.
“I rarely watch the game anymore Martin.”

He also didn’t like to mention he mainly played alone because he went down to the club at ridiculous hours in the morning when most people were still catching their REM sleep. It was his thinking mechanism — when he was working on a difficult case it helped him sort out fact from fiction. Sets of dashed white lines would emerge from the baize to suggest possible shots and angles. The order of it calmed him. If he did not control the cue ball then the other balls on the table controlled his every after action.

There was a blank look on Martin’s face.
I am the only man on God’s green earth who knows less than the contents of a postage stamp about sport.
He and Martin lived in different worlds.