The Mercy Seat (26 page)

He luxuriated. Felt the best he had in months, if not years.

His concerns over the missing children had receded. Peta was right. They had handed a murderous child abuser over to the police. And that, once he had passed through his barrier of tiredness, had given him a high he didn’t think he would ever come down from. But nearly three
hours of giving his statement had convinced him otherwise.

He had wanted to contact Maria, share the news with her. Fall asleep in her arms, wake up next to her. But she probably wouldn’t have taken kindly to being disturbed. So he would let her sleep, tell her in the morning. There would be other nights. He knew there would.

He had slept as soon as he crawled on to the bed. A deep, dreamless sleep. Peaceful. Other troubles would take care of themselves.

Tomorrow.

He had woken, felt the night’s ache settled in to his body, decided to run a bath, ease it out.

Phone room service for breakfast.

Get Maria to share it.

There was knock at the door.

Donovan brought up his submerged head, blew trapped water from his nose and mouth, pushed his hair back off his face.

‘Just leave it outside,’ he called. ‘I’ll get it in a minute.’

A pause, then another knock.

Donovan sighed. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

He pulled himself out of the bath, grabbed a white towelling robe and, dripping, made his way to the door. He pulled it open.

‘I said just leave—’

And stopped.

He knew they were coppers, even without the warrant cards thrust in his face. One was female, mid-thirties, short blondish hair and plain-looking from features to suit. The other was slightly younger; monochromatic from hair to suit to tie. The woman spoke.

‘DI Nattrass.’ She gestured to her male companion. ‘DS Turnbull. May we come in, please?’

‘I gave a statement last night,’ said Donovan. ‘What more d’you want?’

‘Could we come in, please.’ Nattrass’ voice was flat, impassive.

Donovan stood aside to let them in, closed the door behind them, looked at them.

Turnbull was scanning the room, making swift value judgements on its inhabitant. Not positive judgements, if the sneer on his lip and the cold cast to his eye were any indication. Nattrass was standing in the room by the mirror, waiting for Donovan to join them.

‘May we sit down?’

Donovan cleared old clothes from the bed, pulled the duvet up.

‘Thank you,’ Nattrass said, and sat. Turnbull did likewise.

It was clear that Nattrass wasn’t going to speak until Donovan had sat also, so he obliged, taking the chair in the corner.

‘Mr Donovan,’ Nattrass began, her voice low and calm, ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you.’

Donovan opened his mouth to make a weary quip, but the expression on Nattrass’ face stopped him. Her eyes were professionally void. He began to feel uneasy.

‘It’s … Maria Bennett. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

Donovan felt his heart lurch in his chest.

‘Dead …’

He looked between the two police, faces both stone flat.

‘But … dead …’

His head, his heart, couldn’t accept, process, the information. He felt like his body was spiralling into a steep, dark vortex while his head was being stretched in the opposite direction. Both snapped back together. He felt suddenly nauseous.

He shook his head to clear it. Felt worse.

‘She … she was …’ He pointed numbly towards the door. Shook his head. ‘No …’

The two police looked at each other, waited.

‘How did … how did … it … happen?’

‘She was murdered,’ said Turnbull bluntly.

Donovan looked at him as if not seeing clearly. ‘Murdered … who by?’

‘That’s what we were hoping you would tell us, Mr Donovan.’

Turnbull’s attitude brought Donovan sharply back into focus. ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Donovan sharply.

‘What DS Turnbull means,’ said Nattrass, throwing a look of admonishment towards her junior colleague, ‘is that we have found a body answering Ms Bennett’s description and carrying her documentation.’

‘And you need me to make an identification of the body.’ Donovan’s voice was hollow.

‘I’m sorry to ask you this,’ said Nattrass.

Donovan rubbed his face. ‘Oh God …’

Nattrass stood up, followed by Turnbull. She turned to him, eye to eye.

‘We really are very sorry.’

Donovan nodded.

They left, promising to wait for him downstairs. Donovan sat back down on the chair, stared straight ahead.

Thoughts tumbled through his head like slo-mo acrobats; emotions ran through his heart like runaway trains.

It felt like the world he had been constructing for himself on waking had disappeared. A fragile world of hope and straw, blown away by a dark, truthful wind.

He felt alone again. Bereft.

He felt …

Like he had done when David disappeared.

He sat there.

Room service came. Knocked. Knocked. Left.

He sat there.

Eventually he remembered the two police waiting for him in the lobby. He stood up, made his way into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

It was only when he saw how wet his face was that he realized he had been crying.

‘I suppose I should tell you that Maria and I …’ Donovan paused, sighed, ‘are lovers.’ Another sigh. ‘
Were
lovers.’

Nattrass nodded, as if his words confirmed something she had known or expected.

‘I’m sure that must make it doubly difficult,’ she said.

Donovan hunched forward, elbows on knees, cat’s-cradled his fingers into ineffectual, insubstantial patterns. He sighed. Words, inadequate forms for articulating his emotions, had deserted him.

They sat next to each other on moulded-plastic chairs in a strip-lighted, anonymous corridor that seemed to be purgatorially unending; Donovan in his own world, Nattrass waiting for permission to enter.

The Royal Victoria Infirmary. Mortuary.

Donovan had been guided through doors and down corridors, the arteries of the building, heat steadily falling away until the final set of double doors swished slowly and steadily shut behind him, leaving him sealed in the chill heart of the mortuary.

Before him was a series of stainless-steel tables, edged and inset with drainage gullies. On the table lay a covered body. Turnbull crossed to a blue-suited lab technician, pointed back at Donovan. The technician moved forward, folded back the sheet.

Donovan was shaking, head down, staring at the floor. He had rehearsed this moment over and over in his mind:
the sheet pulled back, a look at the body, the question asked, confirmed.

‘Yes,’ he would say, ‘that’s my son. That’s David.’

Then the pain would build, find release and with that release would come a sense of hideous calm and the foundations of a kind of closure.

But this wasn’t David.

It was Maria. Eyes closed, dark hair splayed out behind her head. Her finely featured face peaceful, like the night before when he had watched her sleep.

The ragged gash on her neck, already purpling, reminded him she was beyond sleep. Beyond everything.

‘Yes,’ he said, nodding, ‘it’s her.’

And turned away, tried to wipe that image from his memory. Knew it would be there for ever.

Another loss.

Another ghost to haunt him.

‘Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mr Donovan?’ Nattrass again.

Donovan shook his head.

‘Anyone connected with a story you were working on?’

Jamal, Donovan thought, then dismissed it. Shook his head.

‘What was that, Mr Donovan?’

‘No, I don’t know.’

‘What story were you working on? What were you both doing here?’

Donovan looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘Please … look, I know you’ve got your job to do, and I want her killer caught as well, but … I can’t …’ He shook his head.

Nattrass nodded, sat silently back but didn’t rest.

Turnbull chose that moment to return, walking up the corridor with two plastic cups. He handed one to Donovan, who looked at the contents wonderingly.

‘It’s tea,’ said Turnbull.

Donovan gave a vague nod of thanks, placed the cup on the floor, his shaking hands creating a microcosm of ripples, whirlpools and tidal waves on the surface. They quickly vanished and all was calm. Donovan sighed.

Turnbull sat at the other side of him. Donovan looked up.

‘Where was she found?’

A look passed between the two police: Nattrass nodded, Turnbull spoke.

‘At the flat of Caroline Huntley.’

Donovan frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Caroline Huntley,’ said Nattrass. ‘Daughter of Colin Huntley.’

Something small and electric – a weak signal, a last spark – snapped across Donovan’s memory, then disappeared.

‘Colin Huntley?’ he said.

‘The missing scientist,’ said Turnbull, scrutinizing Donovan’s reactions.

‘You must have heard of him,’ said Nattrass. ‘It’s been all over the media. Lot of coverage, lot of bodies out hunting.’

‘Lot of overtime,’ said Turnbull. Nattrass ignored him.

‘I’ve been out of circulation,’ said Donovan.

Nattrass explained about Colin Huntley’s disappearance. Donovan listened, nodding.

That must be where he had heard the name, he thought. The papers. TV. But something persisted, niggling and fizzing at the back of his mind …

He looked up. Nattrass had asked him something.

‘Sorry? What?’

‘Her notebook, Mr Donovan,’ she said. ‘Ms Bennett had a full account of the disappearance of Colin Huntley in her notebook. We’ve checked with the
Herald
, and they’ve confirmed the time she phoned for information.’

‘When you were in Byker,’ added Turnbull.

‘She then went up to Jesmond to see Caroline Huntley. A neighbour phoned 999 at roughly ten thirty last night to say there was what sounded like a fight taking place in the upstairs flat.’

‘Caroline Huntley’s flat,’ said Turnbull.

‘And what does Caroline Huntley say?’ asked Donovan.

‘Nothing,’ said Nattrass. ‘She’s disappeared.’

Donovan looked between the two of them. ‘What?’

Turnbull took out his notebook. ‘At approximately ten forty-five,’ he said, ‘this same neighbour saw a lone figure carrying what looked like a heavy carpet, leave the flats, deposit this item in the boot of his car, a Vauxhall Vectra, and drive away.’

‘Licence number?’ asked Donovan.

‘Didn’t get it,’ said Turnbull. ‘Didn’t think it important at the time.’

‘We checked Caroline Huntley’s flat,’ said Nattrass. ‘It would appear that a large rug is missing from the living room.’

‘So that was her,’ said Donovan.

‘We think so,’ said Nattrass. ‘We’re trying to get the neighbour to come up with an e-fit of the man she saw. It could be a major breakthrough. And the car, too, although we’re less hopeful about that. Vectras are very common. But we think that this is the man who took her father. Why, we don’t know.’

Turnbull turned, looking Donovan square in the face. His features had a default neutral setting, but his eyes were intense.

‘So,’ he said, ‘any ideas?’

Donovan matched his stare. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

‘Would you go and get Mr Donovan another drink, please, Paul?’

‘I just got—’

‘I don’t think Mr Donovan cares for it. Now, please.’

The look Nattrass gave him was designed to brook no argument. It worked. Turnbull rose reluctantly to his feet, stomped off. Nattrass watched him go, then turned to Donovan, a sympathetic smile in place.

‘I must apologize for my colleague’s attitude, Mr Donovan. In his zeal to see justice done he can sometimes be … confrontational.’

Donovan nodded, said nothing.

‘Mr Donovan,’ she said, ‘I realize this may not be the best time to talk.’ She produced a card, handed it to him. ‘There’s my number. If you think of anything, anything at all, please get in touch. I’m sure you want to see the murderer caught just as much as we do.’

Donovan pocketed the card, nodded.

‘I’m going to be frank with you. I’m not one of those detectives who believe the press and police should be at each other’s throats. We’ve both got our jobs to do, and sometimes those jobs can work out mutually beneficial to the other.’

Donovan narrowed his eyes. ‘How d’you mean?’

Nattrass allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think you know what I mean. You help me on this, and I’ll help you.’

Donovan nodded. That old game. Journalists and their sources.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Deal.’

Nattrass smiled. ‘Good.’ Then her eyes hardened. ‘But no playing cowboy. That won’t help anyone. Least of all you. Clear?’

‘Crystal.’

Turnbull returned with a cup and a scowl.

Nattrass stood up. ‘Thank you, Paul, but I’m afraid we’re going now.’

Turnbull, scowling at Donovan, upended the cup into a nearby bin.

‘Can we drop you anywhere, Mr Donovan?’ asked Nattrass. ‘Your hotel, perhaps?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Donovan. ‘I think I’ll walk.’

They saw him to the door, went their separate ways.

‘We’ll talk soon,’ said Nattrass.

Outside, another day was in full swing. The sky electric Edward Hopper blue, nearby Leazes Park a riot of autumnal red and gold. The sun was shining, life was going on. The kind of day that would make most people glad to be alive.

Donovan walked away, tried to ignore it.

The walk failed to sort anything out. He eventually reached the hotel.

‘Oh shit,’ he said out loud and stopped.

Cameramen were camped out in front, a TV news crew. All waiting to talk to the other journalist, no doubt. All waiting for him.

Before they could see him he ducked round the side of the building, looking for another entrance. He went right round the hotel, coming out by the back door to the restaurant’s kitchen. He nipped inside. A chef looked up quizzically at him.

‘Environmental Health,’ said Donovan. ‘Better get tidying up if I were you.’

No one else challenged him.

He walked right through to the foyer, tried to creep into the lift, but the receptionist saw him.

‘Mr Donovan, Mr Donovan …’

Sighing, he went reluctantly across, keeping out of sight of the main door. She held up a stack of paper big enough to reforest Cumbria.