The Love of the Dead (16 page)

But then he got to thinking about a dead deer outside Beth’s door late at night, when Mooney reckoned Sawyer was already dead. He didn’t know the timing of it, but Sawyer sure as hell wasn’t hiding in the dark at Beth’s and dying in a house in Norwich at the same time.

He ate pasta, washed it down with tea. The pasta was disgusting. Like worms might be, should he ever be hungry enough to eat worms. He ate and thought. Thinking was hungry work.

It could just as easily be two men working together, but it didn’t feel right, and it didn’t stop him thinking about putting a woman’s word over his duty. Trusting Beth enough to forget his obligations as a police detective. He didn’t take his job lightly. He might take a bung from time to time, but never when it mattered. He’d never turned his back in a pinch. He’d never let anyone walk he shouldn’t have.

Could he trust Beth’s word on this? A woman’s word wasn’t always the best, he figured. He’d trusted his wife, when she said until death do us part...

“Fuck.”

He forgot his tea and rushed into the tattered office at the back of the station. He dialed a number by heart.

Someone groggy picked up and mumbled into the phone.

“The boss there?” he said.

“Coleridge?” Finch’s missus. She’d had a few late night calls over the years. Shit, early morning. Two o’clock now. Where the hell had the time gone?

He’s going to be pissed. More so than usual.

“Yeah, it’s Coleridge. It’s urgent.”

“He’s sleeping. He didn’t get home ’til late.”

“What about if I talk really loudly?”

“Alright, alright. Dave. David!” Sounds of bed sheets rustling. Probably some really comfy quilt. Nice and warm. With feathers in it.

He heard a mumble, then his name, then Finch came on the phone.

“Coleridge. You better have a fucking great reason for waking me up at...” There was a pause. “Two o’clock. Fuck, Coleridge, I’ve got a press conference at seven.”

“It can’t wait.”

“Oh, fuck it. I’m awake now. Go on. You got news?”

“Yeah. I had a call from him tonight.”

“What? Fuck. When?”

Coleridge heard Mrs. Finch in the background, asking if he had to swear quite so much. Coleridge smiled, even though his heart was pounding because he’d been busy eating while he should have been calling in the cavalry.

“A couple of hours ago,” he said.

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. Can’t be, right? It stinks, Finch, to high heaven. Look, I’ve been busy. The thing is, he’s threatened my missus. It couldn’t have been Sawyer, but it was someone, and he wasn’t fucking about.”

“Okay.”

Finch was a bastard, but he knew his job. He didn’t fuck about, and when it came down to it, Coleridge was a bastard, too.

“Understand?”

“I’ll get on it. You want to get off the phone?”

“There’s more. I’ll call you back in a half hour or so.”

“Get off the fucking phone, then.”

“Boss?”

“What?” Impatient. Knowing he had a job to do. Getting ready to do it.

“Cheers.”

“Right. Half hour.” He hung up.

Coleridge stuffed a biscuit in his mouth. He was a bastard alright. A psycho threatens your wife and you eat biscuits instead of calling out some protection, you qualify as a bastard.

He picked up the phone again and dialed his ex’s number.

“Hello?”

“She there?”

“What do you want?”

“It’s important. Put her on.”

The painter and decorator muttered a bit under his breath, but after a minute or so she came to the phone.

She’d always slept naked. He wondered if she was naked now. He bit into a biscuit while he was wondering.

“Coleridge, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What is it?”

“Don’t have a fit, but you know this guy that’s been killing mediums? Killed a cop yesterday?”

“I heard. Anyone you knew?”

“Barely. But listen, the thing is...” He didn’t really know where to go with that sentence, so he started again. “Look, things have gotten a bit crazy over the last day or so, and he’s losing it, OK? I don’t want you to worry, but some policemen are going to come over. They should be there pretty soon. I’m fairly sure they’ll only need to stay the day, maybe the night, but then it’ll be over, right?”

“What are you saying? We’re in danger?”

“Not the painter.”

“Terry. His name is Terry.”

“Whatever. Just listen to me. Do what they say, alright? No work. Call in sick, you know, women’s problems if you have to. It’s just for twenty-four hours.”

“What’s going on?”

“I haven’t got the time to explain. It’s probably nothing, and the police are just a precaution. They’ll know what they’re about, so do what they say.”

“Coleridge, is he coming here?”

Maybe, he thought, but he didn’t say that. What would be the point? He was a bastard, but he’d never been cruel. Even now, listening to her voice, imagining her naked with the painter listening in, he didn’t want to hurt her.

“It’s just a precaution. And it’s only for twenty-four hours, max. No big deal. Just being careful.”

“Is he after you?”

A little pity might not hurt. “He reckons so. I’m a big guy though. I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can, but be careful, won’t you?”

A smaller man might have asked why, or asked if she did care after all.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got to go.”

“There’s lights outside.”

“That’ll be them. Don’t worry, OK? It’s probably nothing, but they’re insurance, just the same. I’ll check you later.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Bye,” he said. “Love you.” Shit. Reflex. He hung up before he could hear whether she returned it or not. Either way’d suck.

Coleridge checked his watch. 2:25 AM. Close enough. He put his fingers into the biscuit pack and came out empty. Looked at his tea. He’d drunk it.

He picked up the phone and got on with it.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Coleridge called his station in Norwich. Got Feargus on the phone. Poor bastard had pulled nightshift. Fuck, probably every cop in the county was on overtime except for this little piss pot station.

“Feargus, it’s Coleridge. Harvey there?”

“Harvey?”

“Don’t fuck about. Harvey. Weak chin, shitty little goatee. He in?”

“Yeah, but, where the fuck are you? The boss has been trying to get you all night. What’s going on with Elizabeth Willis? I heard she was attacked.”

“She was, but she’s all right. Boss’ll fill you in. I’ve got to call him in.” Coleridge checked his watch. “Shit, three minutes ago. Come on, put Harvey on.”

He heard Feargus shout across the room, the clatter of the phone as he put it down and transferred it. Harvey picked it up.

“Harvey.”

“Right, you cunt. I know it was you who snitched to Sam Wright.”

“What? I don’t...”

“I ain’t got the time. You want to make it right?”

“You’ve got some fucking balls, Coleridge.”

“Big fat ones. Boss is going to be calling in some help today. You get on to the press. Clearly, you’re good at that. I want a call put out, get it? I don’t want it in the paper. The deal is the press get there, they get their shots. Video, whatever you call it nowadays with those fiddly little cameras. I don’t care. Nothing goes live until the boss gives the say so. I want cameras everywhere, you understand?”

“No. I haven’t got a fucking clue. What are you on about?”

“There’s going to be a siege at Elizabeth Willis’ tonight. He’s a bastard, this one. I don’t know what’s up with it. I just know I want eyes. The boss is bringing the police. I want eyes everywhere. Night vision, recording. It’ll be after dark. I’m covering the bases. I’m going to be in there with her, but if he gets in, gets out, I want his face. Understand?”

“But didn’t you hear? We got him.”

“A dead man. A dead man who left a present for Beth Willis tonight on her doorstep. Sound like you got him?”

“Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Coleridge. “Cameras. Everywhere. Got it?”

“I got it.”

“Good. Now move your ass.”

He hung up.

Now, what else?

Oh, yeah.

He picked up the phone again. Called from memory. It was picked up on first ring.

“You’re late,” said Finch.

“Love you, too,” he said. “Here’s what I need.”

“You better tell me what the fuck’s going on before we go anywhere.”

Coleridge checked his watch. 2:40 AM. He ticked it over in his head. Now that he’d had a snack he could think again. Phone Beth?

No. Let her sleep. Nothing was going to happen until tonight. Was it?

No. He was sure of it. You don’t phone a policeman and offer him out like that on a whim. The bastard was showing off. He’d be there when dark fell. Not before.

“Coleridge? You jerking off?”

He needed to get to Sawyer’s house, and he had a long drive ahead of him, but he couldn’t just blow off his boss.

“Just thinking. Same thing, maybe,” he said, shrugging even though Finch couldn’t see him. “OK, here goes,” he said, and gave the boss the biggest pile of bullshit he’d ever spouted in his life.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Peter Willis sat up on the bed and saw he was still dressed from the night before. He looked around at a standard motel room. Patterned wallpaper, patterned carpet, patterned curtains. TV in the corner, a small kettle.

Not his house. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, his jaw cracking.

It took him a while to figure out where he was. Leeds. Conference. Why was he wearing his clothes?

He saw the key ring still on his finger and remembered. The news, the worry. A policeman killed in Norfolk, not far from Beth’s. He’d tried to call her.

He tried again, but Beth’s phone was still dead.

What about Beth?

He phoned for the number to the local police, got the operator to put him straight through, but all he got was a busy signal. Call back when it was less busy.

Out of desperation he called 911. Got another operator.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“I’m worried about my wife. My ex-wife.”

“Do you need the fire department, an ambulance...?”

“Police. Put me through to the police.”

“Hold, please.”

He held. It didn’t ring again; he was put straight through. He imagined someone answering the phone, wearing a headset, sitting in front of a computer.

“Hello?” asked a businesslike voice, calm and assured. She probably took a hundred calls a day, trained in how to deal with distraught people. Peter just wished she’d get her finger out of her ass. He tried to speak faster, to transfer some of his fear to her. Get her to move quickly.

“I’m worried about my wife. I called last night. Someone said they’d call back. They didn’t.”

He felt like an asshole. He was trying to get the woman on the phone to move quickly, and he’d fallen asleep when he should have been doing something about it. Beth was all he had left of his family, and he’d let her down. She’d let him down, so many times, but he couldn’t leave her hanging. He could never do that.

“Can you tell me the reason for your concern?”

Because her phone’s out of order, he thought. Why didn’t he call the phone company, get them to check the line?

Because there was a serial killer hunting mediums in Norfolk and his ex-wife was a medium, and she was in Norfolk, and she’d seen him. He’d seen her. He knew her.

He’d fallen asleep. He needed to move, not be wasting time on the phone.

But they could get there quicker than he could.

“Look, my ex-wife’s name is Elizabeth Willis. She goes by Beth. She’s been helping the police investigating the killings in Norfolk. I can’t get in touch with her. I’m worried about her, OK?”

“Hold on, Sir.”

He held on. Paced with the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. Aware of the cheap plastic clock ticking away on the wall. Aware of the sun working its way around the earth. A man with black raven wings...

“Sir?” The woman came on the phone and the vision fled. Peter tried to hold onto it, but he couldn’t.

“Yes?”

“Our records show that there was a call out to Elizabeth Willis’ home last night. I can tell you that as of last night she was fine. No charges are pending, so I...”

“Can you tell me if she’s all right
now
?”

“I can put you through to the Norfolk police.”

“Do that.”

“I’m transferring. Please stay on the line.”

He paced some more while he waited. A raven watched him from the windowsill outside. For some reason he didn’t like it. Creepy fucking birds. He pulled the curtains and heard it caw even through the glass, like it was angry.

Another operator came on the line.

“How can I help you?”

Jesus, he thought. Why couldn’t they talk to
each other
?

He sighed, began thrusting things into his bag while he was on the phone. He ran though his speech again, this time quicker. Feeling something pulling at him, urgent, and getting further away with each minute he was on the phone. He realized what it was. Beth, receding. Leaving for good. Dying.

“Sir?”

He’d stopped talking, staring into space.

“Sorry...” he said. He tried to remember how far he’d gotten in the speech, what he’d been saying, but he couldn’t.

The feeling was getting so strong he couldn’t concentrate. He had to move. Something was calling him. A pull, toward Beth, and he couldn’t deny it.

“Sir? Are you there?”

He hung up the phone without replying. He picked up his bag, leaving two suits in the room’s cheap wardrobe, yanked the door open and marched down to the elevator. Went straight past reception without paying.

“Excuse me...” someone said behind him, but he was already in the parking lot, into his car. He drove a company car, and it was reliable. It started the first time, and he pulled out onto the street without checking to see if anyone was coming.

The motel’s slip road led straight onto the highway. Five-thirty in the morning, the roads slick and the sky still dark, speeding as fast as he dared. He could feel that sense of doom growing with each passing mile. Something was coming for Beth. It was a premonition. It was such a powerful feeling, and he’d never felt anything like it. This must be how Beth felt all the time.