The Murder Code (21 page)

‘Have you got kids, Detective?’

Tony Wilkinson’s question was like a slap. I thought of Rachel again, and almost said
yes
. But she was at the same stage of pregnancy as Marie had been. Given what had happened, and how I felt about my own upcoming fatherhood, it didn’t seem like a good thing to mention.

‘No.’

‘Well I do.’

‘I know.’

And I wanted to tell him that it was something to cling to. He had lost his wife, yes, and in the most horrific of circumstances, but he had not lost his son: the paramedics at the scene had managed to deliver Jake. The little boy was now under twenty-four-hour care in the special baby unit of the hospital.

And that really
was
something. But it was not what Tony Wilkinson needed to hear right now. That it
could have been worse.

I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have no idea.’ This time the anger in his voice was undeniable. ‘Why did this happen to us? You can’t even tell me why, can you? I’ve seen you on the news. Why haven’t you caught this fucking bastard yet? Why is …’

But then the words collapsed under him.

‘We will,’ I said. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’

Wilkinson shook his head and looked down at the floor for a moment. At the neat, plush carpet that I knew was designed to give an illusion of comfort to the interview suite because it might remind people of home. After a moment, without looking up, he said:

‘Do you know what Marie used to tell me about Jake?’

I waited.

‘She used to say that she couldn’t wait to meet him.’

I wanted to close my eyes. Instead, I forced myself to meet Tony Wilkinson’s gaze as he looked up at me. His face crumpled as he burst suddenly into tears. It was an awful sight and sound. The sobs seemed to rack him from head to toe, from the top of his soul to the very bottom.

‘And she never got to. Oh God.’

He could barely even get the words out. Laura and I sat very still.

‘She never got to meet him.’

I
N ONE CORNER OF
his shop, Levchenko keeps a small television on a stool, where he can see it from his seat behind the counter. He is sitting there now, his elbows resting on the counter, watching the press conference unfold live on the twenty-four-hour news channel.

There has been a steady stream of customers and browsers for most of the afternoon, but for the moment the shop is empty and he is alone. Jasmina is in the back room, tidying his pans and polishing away dabs of spilled wax from the gas burner. She is more fastidious than he is. Occasionally, it drives him to distraction, but he also knows it is one of the things he would miss most about her if she was gone: that ultimately we love the rough edges of people more than the smooth surfaces. He also knows that for her, cleaning has become a way of erasing thoughts, of keeping them at bay. For him, in some strange way, it is the opposite. But they are both coping strategies. One removes; the other attempts to ignore.

Regardless, he is glad she is otherwise occupied right now.

That she does not have to see this.

But then he senses Jasmina emerge from the room behind the counter. Instinctively he picks up the remote control and turns the television off, making it as natural a gesture as possible. His wife bustles past him without noticing.

‘You are running low on pellets,’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘And red dye too. Mind you …’ she gestures around the empty shop with a flap of her arms, as though the lack of customers is another black spot she would like to clean, ‘it is not like there is any urgency.’

‘No.’

He is still staring at the silent television screen. On the surface, his mind is equally blank, and by a similarly deliberate act of will. Like the television, it would take very little effort for him to bring his thoughts back to life.

‘Are you all right?’

Jasmina is staring at him with a curious frown. He blinks at her and, for a moment, has no idea how to answer. It is suddenly as though this woman is a stranger to him, a person he has no idea how to communicate with. The press conference on the television—the sight of the detective—has taken him back to a time when they might easily have separated, and accelerated him forward on the path they did not take, a path where she would not be here.

He shakes his head, dispelling the image. This is his wife.

Despite everything, they have weathered their lives and managed not to come apart. His heart—his whole chest—fills with love for her, like blood spilling back into a numb arm. He smiles.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, my love. I was wool-gathering.’

She harrumphs. But the look on her face says she can believe it, and that, while it drives her to distraction, it is a rough edge of his that she loves him for in return. In such ways, he realises, do relationships grow over time. We begin by looking for perfection; we end up by loving flaws.

‘I am going out for a while,’ she says, smiling. ‘Since you are ignoring me.’

He smiles back. ‘Very wise.’

‘That is why you love me.’

‘One of the many reasons,’ he says. ‘Still.’

‘Still.’

Her smile takes on a slightly different character now, one that warms him. Most of the time, the love he feels for her is so intense it is a physical thing in the room between them. When they are separated, the thing blurs and doubles, one part with each, so that they remain together. It really is something, he believes, to have shared your life with someone for so very long. Even a life touched by tragedy. As though there are other kinds of lives.

‘I won’t be long,’ she says.

‘You take care.’

‘And you. Be careful with all this hard work.’

The bell tinkles as she opens the door—and then Levchenko is alone once more.

He switches the television back on. Jasmina is sensitive. Reports such as this one, on crimes such as these, would only upset her. They would bring back memories. She might even recognise the detective from his name.

As the press conference reaches its conclusion, Levchenko watches Detective Hicks and remembers. It is a name—and a face—that he will never forget. And just as he has returned the television to life, so he allows his thoughts and emotions to rise to the surface too.

What does he feel now, looking at the policeman? It is difficult to describe in words. Difficult to quantify and weigh.

Hate?

No, he thinks. Not that.

Hate is not strong enough.

‘D
O YOU WANT TO
talk about it?’ Rachel said.

I was home for five hours, tops, and no, I didn’t want to talk about it. What I wanted to do more than anything else was catch up on some sleep—or at least lie in bed vaguely hoping to do so. My head was so full of horror that it would be difficult, but still. I needed to try. I couldn’t run on vapours.

‘Not really.’

‘Maybe you should.’

I didn’t reply.

She said, ‘I saw the news. The pregnant woman.’

I nodded. I wished she hadn’t seen it.

‘Andy?’

For a moment, a part of me wanted to lash out. I wanted to tell her that if I needed to talk about it, there were the usual police psychologists—the ones that flitted in and out of the department from time to time, the ones detectives were encouraged to share their traumas with. And as aggressive as that might have come across out loud, I wouldn’t have meant anything bad by saying it. I wanted to keep Rachel safe from the grim details. There was no reason for both of us to carry them.

But …

He doesn’t talk to me any more.

I said, ‘Marie Wilkinson.’

‘Yes. That must have been horrible.’

‘Horrible.’ I nodded again. ‘Yes. And I spoke to her husband too. He wasn’t good—obviously he wasn’t. Maybe that was even worse, in its own way, because Marie Wilkinson is gone now; she’s not suffering any more. But his whole world is gone, just like that. Jesus. There was nothing left of the guy.’

‘Except the baby.’

‘He has the baby, yes. Perhaps, anyway; that’s still touch and go. But not her. He doesn’t have her, and she never had the baby she wanted.’

Rachel nodded. Her hands were over her belly, subconsciously protecting our unborn child. Perhaps she was trying to imagine what Marie Wilkinson had gone through, or what it would be like for me and our child if anything happened to her. Because she sensed it, probably: how little I wanted this child. Or at least I was sure that was what she thought.

‘What happened,’ I said. ‘Neither of them could ever have seen it coming.’

‘Does anyone?’

‘Yes. Everyone. Not so they can avoid it maybe. But it always makes sense, at least. There’s always a reason for it.’

‘Are you really so sure about that?’

‘Yes. Murder’s not like being hit by a truck or having a heart attack or anything. It’s not some random natural disaster. People are killed for reasons, even if they’re stupid reasons. Looking at the wrong person for too long. Sleeping with people they shouldn’t. Pissing someone off. None of it’s
right
, but it always makes some kind of sense.’

Rachel didn’t reply.

‘But there’s no sense to what happened to Marie Wilkinson. We’re sitting there, and her husband asks me
why
, and I can’t tell him. I can’t fucking say anything. And it’s the same with all of them. They were killed for no reason at all. Not that I can tell.’

‘No reason?’

‘They weren’t robbed. They weren’t sexually assaulted. There’s no connection between them. The bastard doesn’t even seem to get any enjoyment from it.’

‘He must be doing it for some reason.’

‘Yes, he must. He is. We just can’t see it yet. If we take him at his word, he’s testing out a pattern to see if we can crack it. These people mean nothing to him. Literally. They don’t matter at all.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes. Tell me. Please.’

So I did. The whole time, she listened carefully, not taking her hands from her stomach once. By the end, she was rubbing it gently.

‘You think he deliberately targeted a pregnant woman?’

‘Yes.’ And I thought, but didn’t say:
yes, that does mean it could maybe just as easily have been you.
‘The victims mean nothing to him, but they represent something. He has a reason. It’s just a different kind than I’m used to. It’s a …’ I fumbled for a way to describe it. ‘It’s a dark-room crime.’

‘A what?’

‘A dark-room crime.’

She looked at me blankly.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s just … it’s
evil
.’

‘I don’t believe in evil.’

‘Me neither. Or I didn’t use to. Maybe I’m starting to.’

‘Well I’m not. I’m a scientist.’

‘You were, yes.’

‘And will be again.’ Her hands stopped moving. ‘You don’t want this, do you? The baby? You don’t need to answer that. I know you don’t.’

I looked at Rachel. She looked back, waiting.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

And here, at last, we stood on the brink of the thing I couldn’t tell her. My words teetered on the edge, but wouldn’t go over, not all the way. Not far enough to fall all the way down to the truth.

‘I’m scared,’ I said. ‘I’m scared about our child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About keeping him safe.’

‘Oh.’ She shook her head.
What—is that all?
‘You know, I think about that every day. I worry about it more than anything. I think everyone does, don’t they?’

‘Probably.’

‘But the thing is, we can. Keep him safe. Most children are safe, aren’t they? Even without parents as good as we’ll be.’

I started to say something, but she interrupted.

‘As good as
you’ll
be.’

‘But I can’t protect him,’ I said. ‘Nobody can. It’s not possible, is it? There are no guarantees.’

‘No. There never have been. But the odds are good. You know that better than anyone, right?’

She had me there. Yes, the probability was that our son would be just as happy and protected as any child could be, and that nothing bad would ever happen to him. The world can be a good place as well as a horrible one. Many people experience the former with only brief, bitter tastes of the latter, and there was no reason to think our son would be any different.

Rachel said, ‘Your job …’

‘Makes me see the worst.’

‘So you have a skewed sample to work from.’

‘And it blinds me. I know that.’

I nodded, because she was right in what she said. Yes, I could keep my son safe. I could teach him how to defend himself and the kind of people and places to stay away from. Rachel looked relieved. She thought I was finally talking to her about what had been on my mind all these months. It was only a small part of what had been bothering me—the safe part, perhaps—but because this sudden bridging of the distance between us felt so good, I found myself staying there.

‘I do know it,’ I said again. ‘But it’s still hard for me. I’m scared. Even knowing all that, I’m still scared.’

‘Yes. And that’s why you’ll be a good father.’

‘Will I?’

‘Yes. Because you’re a good man.’ She stared at me, long and hard, then sighed. ‘Do you know, that’s the most you’ve said to me in months?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t need to be. I’m glad—well, I mean I’m glad you finally did. But look, we’ll be okay. You have to believe that, Andy. I have faith in you.’

‘Do you?’

‘Always have. Don’t see any reason to stop now. Well, I see a few, but maybe now they’re not quite as big as they were. Thank you.’

I smiled at her, and she smiled back. As nice as it was, at the same time it made me feel guilty.

You’re a good man.

No, Rachel. No, I’m not.

And I almost said something—about Buxton, perhaps, or about Emmeline Levchenko—but at that moment she stepped forward and embraced me. After a second, I hugged her back, as fiercely-gently as I could manage, and whatever I’d been about to say dissolved in the feel of her, the presence of her. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d hugged so easily. She felt at once like a stranger in my arms and someone achingly familiar.