Reprobation Page 17

  ‘Who’s this then?’

  ‘Hello, Mr. Killy. Detective Constable Colette Quinn.’

  ‘Nice. Very nice.’ As he looked her up and down, Quinn remained tight-lipped.

  Killy suddenly softened his expression and stepped back jovially, creating a sort of performance space for himself.

  ‘This lad,’ he wagged his finger at Darren while addressing his entourage, ‘this lad was a pain in my arse when he was in Drugs Squad. Like a dog with a bone, he was. A terrier.’ He over-enunciated the word ‘terrier’ and pushed Darren’s shoulder in a faux-friendly gesture, which caused Darren to stumble backwards slightly. Killy suddenly laughed manically and entreated his entourage to do the same. ‘I told Canter, I said “This young fella, he’ll go far”.’

  He approached Darren again and said in a stage whisper, ‘Sorry to hear what happened to you down in the Met. If anything like that happens up here, you let me know, lad. I’ll fuckin’ lay waste to the bastards. We don’t have that up here.’ He emphasised the word ‘waste’ with gnashed teeth.

  But Darren was tiring of this charade now. ‘Mr Killy, do you know Andrew Shepherd?’

  ‘Nope. Never heard of him.’

  Darren ignored the answer. ‘Was Andrew Shepherd indebted to you for some reason?’

  ‘I told yer. Never heard of him.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to Stuart?’

  ‘I sent him a text when he got out of prison. And that’s it. Look, Darren. Detective. The Killys have got nothing for you on this. Stuart is me nephew, God love him, but the lad was fuckin’ useless. And apparently he went religious when he was in prison. Half of them do, and they’re lost to us after, honest to God. Anyway, d’you really think he’d be working for us while tagged?’

  Colette decided to speak. ‘Mr Killy, you live in Formby, and we know you do a lot for the community. Do you know the Sisters of Grace, at Argarmeols Hall? Ever help them out with anything?’

  Killy didn’t even look at her. He approached Darren again, this time so close that his sweat brushed onto Darren’s suit lapels. ‘Listen carefully. Yous are barking up the wrong tree, coming here. There’s nothing going down at the moment. But me sister is off her head with worry, and the talk is he’s been kidnapped by the LaLa Mob. So find me nephew before you make the Killys a laughing stock. Otherwise I’m gonna have to kick off just to save face. D’you know what I mean? And by the way, does Canter know you’re here?’

  At this point he signalled to the man in the office cubicle, who came out saying with a smile, ‘OK officers, I think we’re all done for today?’

  ‘Unless you fancy going a few rounds? No? How about you then, queen?’ Killy began his punching and kicking routine again and laughed at Darren and Colette until they left, with as much dignity as they could muster.

  ‘My God, he scares the shit out of me. He seems almost unhinged,’ she said on their way down the stairs.

  ‘I’d like to tell you his bark is worse than his bite. But it wouldn’t be true.’

  ‘What happened in London then? And how does he know?’

  ‘Long story. For another time.’

  ***

  In a dim basement under a house, there are no windows and all the lights are off, but the whirring refrigerators and monitors give off enough blue and red light to make out shapes. A baby lies sleeping in a Moses basket. Arms and legs splayed, tiny fists lightly clenched. In a white babygrow and with white blankets it could be a boy or girl. The baby’s breaths shorten and become audible, as it emerges from the depths of sleep to a light doze, eyelids fluttering. Its facial muscles begin to twitch, lips smacking, and the little fists go to the mouth, which gnaws from one hand to the other. Leisurely at first, then frantically. The baby is awake and hungry now, and its whimpers crescendo into screams. There is a determined rhythm to it now, as the screams alternate between anger and desperation. Legs kick and head tosses from side to side, and the baby’s contortions will not fade until exhaustion hits yet another time, and the screams will subside to whimpers again. This time they have left her too long. A baby without sin can still cry. The baby’s cries drown out the whir of the refrigerator, and also the cries from the other side of the room. Here there is another figure contorting, twisting, this time a large man on a hospital bed. He is in agony, his face in a permanent grimace, his clenched fists pounding the mattress. One set of knuckles is tattooed with letters that spell ‘LOVE’; the other ‘HATE’. Only three of the four shackles are needed for his limbs, and he has twisted himself as far as his body will stretch in order to try and face the baby.

  ‘I can’t help you, queen, sorry, they’ll be back soon. Please stop crying. For God’s sake please stop crying, I can’t stand it.’ He wishes they had just locked him in to the room, allowed him to move freely so he could at least feed the baby. Cartons of formula lie tantalisingly close by. His remaining foot points and flexes as fresh waves of pain hit, and then he breaks down into a coughing fit. He is wearing only a hospital gown, his blanket having fallen onto the floor, and the baby has kicked off her blanket too. But the cold temperature of the room is the least of their problems.

  Above the prisoners, the roar of daytime traffic on the M6 continues.

  16.

  It was still dark as Swift ran through Crosby towards the sea; down South Road with its discount stores, still shuttered but ready to do a roaring Christmas trade that day; past St Wilfrid’s church where Chelsea McAllister’s body had been found, through the deserted marina car park. This was his usual route, and he loved the way it toyed with his sense of scale. As he jogged along the marina path towards the beach, the docks to his left were already at work, lights twinkling atop the giant blue cranes as they swung containers through the air, gantry levers cranking and the occasional shout of a hard-hatted worker. To his right the marina lapped against its stony shore, and tiny sailing boats tied up for the winter tinkled as their masts knocked against each other in the wind.

  Winter had properly arrived now and it was bitterly cold. Swift wished to God he had put on gloves and a hat. He couldn’t seem to do anything right at the moment, and he knew he was missing something. Something to do with religion, genetics, hunches, things that weren’t in the Police Investigators’ Manual. All he could see in his head was that incident board; that mess of characters, leads, tangents, possibilities. And all he could feel was a profound unease. He really needed this run to clear his head before work, because if he couldn’t focus in on anything, how on earth could he lead his team? He was hanging on to this case by a thread, and knew that the moment he asked Canter for help, it would be taken away from him. Where are you, Shepherd?

  As he approached the beach, a very faint dawn light began to appear, and Swift prepared for that moment of exhilaration when the vast plain of sand would be ranged out before him. And there it was, space to think. The wind hit him too in a welcome icy blast, flapping his grey tracksuit behind him, freezing his ears. The tide had not long gone out, and each footstep was a slap on the wet sand. It was hard to see in the almost pitch dark, his only guide being the lights from the exploratory oil rig out in Morecambe Bay, and at one point he almost crashed into one of the Iron Men. He cried out in shock and backed away with palms up, as if apologising to the peaceful figure.

  He passed the place where Jason Hardman’s body had been crucified, and by now it was light enough for him to see the hundreds of bouquets of flowers that had been tied to the promenade barrier above. It was really time to turn back now, get to work, but it was so hard to resist the daily allure of that horizontal plain, as if the whistling wind was a siren imploring him to keep going. Past Hightown, and the dune cliffs of Formby were visible now in the dawn light. It was misty, and the wet sand was quickly becoming sprinkled with a layer of frost. Through the mist, Swift thought he could make out a ghostly figure coming towards him. It didn’t seem to have a shape but glided along, flapping grey in the wind. As the figure came closer, he laughed at the moment of terror
he had felt, because he saw it was a woman wearing a long grey skirt and a shapeless grey coat, the hood of which was pulled over a veil. It was that nun, Dr. Hope. He slowed down and they approached each other warily, both unsure of the etiquette. There had been no contact between them since that day in the convent chapel, when he had been rather harsh with her.

  ‘Hello, Detective,’ said Helen, holding her hood on and wincing into the wind.

  ‘Sister Helen,’ he nodded, catching his breath. ‘Come here often, do you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I walk on the beach all the time. I do my best thinking here. More and more so recently.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said Swift, looking around him, wondering if this was completely against protocol.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about that poor girl in the church, how terrible. And now that missing man. I suppose there was a part of me that half-hoped you would come and ask for my help again. It was exciting, in its way. But I suppose I did make a nuisance of myself last time. Silly.’

  ‘No harm done. It was good of you to try and help. And we did ask you.’ He was about to take his leave, but she began to say something else.

  ‘How is the case going? Any closer to finding Andrew Shepherd?’ She was wondering if she should tell him about going to visit Clancy and Baptiste. Of course not, Helen, you’re in enough trouble already.

  ‘I can’t talk about the case, sorry. But thank you for the help you gave us. It was… really interesting to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. Don’t discount the religious aspects of the case, Detective. I know you don’t believe, yourself, but sometimes belief is more important than truth. Because people act based on what they believe.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He jumped up and down, blew warm air into his sleeves where his red-raw hands were hidden. ‘Well, anyway. No more heavy metal concerts for you then?’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘No, no. That was an… odd interlude in my life. But there might be some changes to come. This murder case – it did spark off a… an unusual chain of events for me. It has tested my faith, in ways I never imagined possible. So I have to thank you for that.’

  ‘It’s testing mine too, to be honest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean by that. Faith in meself, maybe.’ At that moment the phone in his pocket started ringing, and he was glad of the convenient end point to this uncomfortable exchange. ‘Well, have a good Christmas then.’

  ‘Goodbye, Detective, good luck.’

  They both turned around.

  ‘Yeah. Swift.’

  ‘Boss, it’s Dave.’ He sounded anxious.

  ‘You’re in early. Go on, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Shepherd. They’ve found his body.’

  ‘You’re joking…’

  ‘Sorry. Not his body. Shepherd – he’s alive. But he’s in a coma. Jumped off the Runcorn Bridge.’

  Swift turned around a few times on the beach, as if unsure which direction to go in. Then he set off at a fast jog back towards the marina.

  ***

  Superintendent Liz Canter and Swift sat in the intensive care ward waiting room at Halton Hospital, watching a laptop which was balanced on Canter’s knees. The video they were watching, over and over again, showed the relevant CCTV footage from the Runcorn Bridge. It was unequivocally a suicide attempt; as a transport hub the place was crawling with CCTV cameras and Andrew Shepherd had made no attempt to hide his climb on to the ramparts. A camera positioned halfway along the bridge, capturing traffic heading in and out of the Ethelfleda castle, had caught him in the corner of its screen. The zoomed, slowed-down footage was grainy and Swift and Canter found it somehow hypnotic, to watch a man as he prepared to kill himself. They watched him clamber up with purpose, then stand calmly, eerily, on the edge, light up something and watch it burn. Then he fell forward neatly, as if executing a perfect slow-motion dive. It was clear that he jumped and was not pushed.

  He appeared to have been sleeping rough nearby; underneath the bridge in fact, inside the castle-like structure on the Liverpool side. Down here he had been out of the reach of security cameras, and Swift and Canter had not seen the moments when he expertly smashed his laptop; only the wreckage had been found, of circuit boards and broken shards of screen, plastic letter keys.

  Shepherd had been put in a private room, from which a doctor slipped out into the hospital corridor, nudging the uniformed officer out of the way and making it clear that no-one was to enter. Swift and Superintendent Liz Canter stood up quickly and went towards him, expectant.

  ‘He’s in a coma but stable,’ said the doctor. ‘Hypothermia, broken leg, pelvis and clavicle.’

  ‘When do you expect him to wake up?’ Swift peered past the doctor, trying to see through the blinds into the room.

  ‘Look, detectives, I can’t guarantee that he will wake up. It could be weeks, if at all. And if and when he does, he may not be in a fit state to talk to the police.’

  Canter said, ‘This man is wanted in connection with two murders, particularly horrible murders, and he may know the whereabouts of at least two missing persons. So I’m sure you can understand our concerns.’

  ‘Of course. I don’t suggest you stay though, it could be a very long time. It’s really impossible to say how long. We’ll call you, of course, with any changes.’

  Swift and Canter sloped to the hospital café for a coffee. The lovingly-decorated Christmas tree near the till only served to highlight how depressing this café was, filled with people dealing with their own varying levels of nightmare. Outside it was pouring with rain, which had caused the windows to steam up completely. At the table next to them, against the window, a toddler was gleefully drawing shapes in the condensation with his finger, standing on a chair, while his mother and grandmother spoke in hushed tones. Swift and Canter both turned their cups round and round on the table. Swift felt empty in a way he couldn’t define. Canter looked at him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I suppose we found our man then.’

  ‘Yep. Looks like it. Look, Darren.’ She leaned forward and touched his arm, tried to meet his gaze. ‘I know it doesn’t feel satisfying. But these things never do, honestly. Even when a case has been properly cracked. The main thing is, we’ve got him. He’s safe here. He did it.’

  Swift was tutting, shaking his head and tapping the table with his finger nails. ‘There are just so many questions though. We still don’t know how he did it. Where he did it. Where is Stuart Killy? Where’s that baby?’

  ‘If and when he wakes up, he can tell us what the bloody hell he was up to. And in the mean time we’ll keep looking, of course, although between you and me it’s very likely they are dead. If Shepherd was sleeping rough all that time, it’s very unlikely he had a proper lair. The rest will come.’

  They were silent for a minute, and continued to turn their coffee cups. The toddler who was drawing on the window teetered too far and the plastic chair tipped over. He banged his head on the table as he fell to the floor, then erupted into screams. The mother dragged him up off the floor, tutting and comforting, berating the boy, berating herself, while the grandmother remained staring at the table, unmoved. Swift and Canter sat watching as this miniature family drama played out, and the boy was eventually bundled into a pushchair and the family made their way to the elevator. The rain was coming down even heavier now, and in no time the boy’s drawings had been re-steamed.

  ‘Look, Darren, you did good police work, you really did. You should be proud of the way you led the team, it’s a great start.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘It’s true, really. Nobody could have handled it any better. But, look. To be perfectly honest this case was always outside of your jurisdiction, and we’re going to transfer the next stage to headquarters. There’s a huge case to build now.’

  Swift began to protest, but she wouldn’t let him, saying kindly, ‘So the Crosby team can get back to local policing. You know it must be piling up… It’s Christmas, and you�
�ve been working on this 24/7 for six weeks. It’s time to let go, just a little. When we’ve finished here you can go back and tell the team. It’s been a great experience for everyone.’

  ‘Just let me keep going on Killy, on the baby. Give me another week. There are still leads we’re working on, still things we haven’t tried.’

  But Canter was firmer now. ‘To be honest, Darren, it’s not as simple as that. Nobody has championed you more than me, you know that, and it hasn’t changed. But you know the Killys – so you know they’ve been working with Titan since last year. We’ve made a decent deal; they give us information on the Albanians, the Triads, things going down, all sorts, and then we… well, you don’t need to know the details. Anyway now they’re kicking off big time about their nephew Stuart, accusing us of not doing enough, of incompetence, of leaving it to local police on purpose. They’re threatening to go vigilante. The last thing we need is them coming down here and causing trouble. And by the way I know you went to see Meathead.

  ‘Now you and I both know they didn’t give a shit about their precious nephew when they stitched him up to do four years for them. This is all just posturing, so they don’t look weak. The poor bloke, apparently he only had two weeks left with that ankle bracelet.’

  Swift shook his head and tapped the empty Styrofoam cup repeatedly on the table. ‘I’ve just got this feeling Stuart Killy is still alive. Jason Hardman was taken somewhere before he died, possibly for several weeks. And Shepherd—’

  Canter interrupted. ‘Darren. Feelings, hunches, that’s all good, I’ve told you that. But pick your hunches. And pick your battles. This case is bigger than you now, it needs a full Murder Squad team, and the decision has been made to hand it to DCI McGregor. You’ll come back to Canning Place and transfer to another case.’ Darren rolled his eyes in frustration, but Canter continued.

  ‘If Stuart Killy is going to be found, McGregor will find him, in no small part thanks to your work. Another big case will come, I promise. The Crosby lot are exhausted and in over their heads; let them get back to local policing.’