Bedlam (19 page)

“That’s not all the SOCOs lost.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was evidence removed from the viaduct crime scene, after the photos were taken.”

“Evidence?”

“A charm.
It linked Kit to Nell.”

Dennis shook his head. “Look, I know you’ve had issues with Contrary Mary in the past, but I’m going to put this latest paranoia down to the meds currently running through your veins and the fact that two days ago you died in a derelict warehouse, and a freak from the twilight zone brought you back to life. So, naturally you believe you have a connection, empathy. You don’t, Joey. Believe me, you really don’t.”

“It was on the photo. It wasn’t booked in.”

“So why didn’t you tell me about it when I sat in your flat and asked if there was anything you wanted to share?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t worked it out in my head.”

“And you’re sure now?”

“No.”

“Okay, where’s the photo?”

McNeil faltered, “I can’t remember. I had it … before … in the car with Nell.”

“You gave crime scene evidence to a suspect?”

“Shit, Dennis, I can’t fuckin’ remember.” His heart rate escalated, frustration and anxiety getting the better of him.

“Well, don’t try too hard, Joey. You’ll have a
bleedin’ coronary and we’ll be back to square one. You’ve just got things mixed up in your head, that’s all. I’m not surprised your memory is shite. You’ve had a hell of a hiding, and if that knife had been an inch lower, you’d have been pissing through a tube for the rest of your life.”

“And if it hadn’t been for Nell, I wouldn’t even be here. She could have run but she didn’t. She waited with me, kept me alive.”

“Yes, well there’s that. Like I said before, you’re both even now. Forget Nell. Remember the good times with Kit, and for pity’s sake, Joey, move on.”

McNeil scowled his response.

“Harsh I know, but you’ve spent too long hankering for the past, Joey. You’re a young man. It’s time to look to the future.”

“The future?”
McNeil raised his head from the pillow and took in all the monitors and tubes that were currently feeding, oxygenating and keeping his pain level bearable. “My future is with Kit, and as soon as I’m out of here, I’ll keep searching, with or without your help.”

Dennis sighed. “You know I’ll help you any way I can, Joey. I’m just not sure that helping you to prolong the agony of losing Kit is what a good friend should do.”

“And you’re a good friend?”

“You know I am.”

“Then help me.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Clarissa Temple thought she’d pulled a fast one. McNeil could tell by the way she offered a smug smile as she brushed past him in to the flat. In reality it was the other way round and Ms. Temple was about to work harder for her money than she realised.

“DS McNeil? Clarissa Temple. Pleased to meet you, honey.”

McNeil shrugged his own greeting and stood back watching as she quickly scanned the hastily tidied room, processing, making assumptions, more than likely writing a by-line in her head while she spoke. She extended her hand aggressively and he took it. Dry wrinkled skin, liver spots and oversized rings. They could inflict far more damage than the skull ring worn by Curtis, should she ever have occasion to land a punch. Her grip was firm and self-assured. Judging by her journalistic reputation, he reckoned her for a scrapper, and that’s exactly what he needed, someone who would do whatever was necessary to get to the truth.

“I do appreciate you granting me this interview, honey, but I have to confess to some curiosity.” Her husky voice hinted at a forty-a-day habit and a touch more than the recommended units of vino.

McNeil reached out and took her coat, throwing it carelessly over the back of a chair. “I told you on the phone I couldn’t discuss details of the current case.”

“Yes, of course.
Absolutely. That goes without saying. I fully understand.” She was lying but that was okay, he expected it. She placed her bag on the coffee table and pulled out a Dictaphone. McNeil eyed it suspiciously. “We wouldn’t want to prejudice any court proceedings, but of course anything you might mention in error would be off the record. The public naturally wants to know what happened to you. You’re a hero, honey, and right now Bedlam needs one of those.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Right place, wrong time, that’s all.”

“Hey, take it while you can. Next week we’ll be hounding someone else with a zoom lens.”

McNeil nodded. “Yeah, last week you couldn’t wait to stick the knife in.”

“That’s journalism for you, honey. It’s nothing personal. Last week we did it verbally, this week somebody did it for real.” She smiled shrewdly. “It makes for a damn good story … when you’re ready to tell it, of course. The human interest, what makes a good copper risk his career, hit the bottle and slide off the rails. Your story. Your words. If you don’t, someone will just make it up, and you wouldn’t want that.”

“I told you …”

“Yes, yes you can’t discuss the case. I’m not talking about the case. I have people sitting in on your department’s press conference as we speak. I already have enough on the vagrants. I know there are currently four youths being held in connection with the murders and your attack. I’m talking about
you
, detective. About your life, what makes you tick and why you continue to stand up against the establishment, and more importantly, your friends? My experience suggests you have a story that will sell newspapers. My intuition leads me to believe that you want to tell it. I also assume DCI Mather warned you away from me completely, and that’s why I’m intrigued.”

McNeil shook his head. “No, he was the one who suggested I provide you with an update.” That wasn’t entirely accurate. The latest events had rather superseded Mather’s intention to have him recite a specially prepared statement. If Mather knew that he’d invited the black widow herself into his home, he reckoned Mather would be a very unhappy DCI.

“Right, and you thought you’d meet me here in your flat rather than at the station?” Clarissa’s arched brow revealed that she was one step ahead.

He smiled. “It’s more private.”

“Detective, either you have an unhealthy interest in older women or you’re up to something you don’t want your boss to find out about. Knowing your recent history, I’m staking my career on the latter.”

McNeil decided he liked Clarissa. He wouldn’t want her for a mother-in-law, or a boss, but reckoned she could probably keep order at
Minkey’s. “You could be right. Are you going to stay and find out?”

He gestured to the sofa, blinking away an image of Nell curled up in the corner, his football top pulled down to cover her knees, a cushion clutched to her breast. Four days since he’d last seen her, since she’d saved his life. It seemed like an eternity. He still didn’t know where she was being held, which meant he was no nearer to finding Kit, and the pain of that was far worse than the pain from the knife.

“Can I get you a coffee?” he murmured softly, so easily distracted despite his resolve.

“Can you manage?”

McNeil’s lips twitched. He could, but he chose to prolong the picture of the selfless cop cut down in the line of duty a little longer, so he made a big deal of limping to the kitchen one hand pressed to his side and Clarissa raised one of her pencilled-in brows sceptically and came to his aid.

He’d been up and about for a couple of days, albeit slowly and painfully, but physically he wasn’t as wrecked as he could have been or indeed was making out to be. Weed, it turned out, was crap with a knife, and although the blade had cost him a few pints of blood, it had miraculously missed all his vitals and the wound was healing. The broken ribs would take longer, and
there wasn’t a great deal he could do about that but grit his teeth and get on with it. He’d ignored medical advice and discharged himself the day before, and once he’d done his deal with the self-appointed ‘Queen of the Broadsheets’, he was ready to hit the painkillers and the road, and find Kit.

She’d been notably absent since he’d got back to the flat. Not a breath or a whisper, and he worried at that. He missed her reassurance, her hand in his. Instead, it seemed her place had been taken by a little girl with violet eyes. He felt her anticipation, her held breath. She was there now, in the corner, waiting. He suspected she’d been there all along and he’d just failed to see her.

McNeil shifted his gaze to the photographer who’d accompanied Clarissa. He was sprawled in the armchair, surly expression, camera in hand. Was it the same man whose camera he’d broken? McNeil wasn’t sure but the man was itching to get a shot of him while he still had some visible battle scars to add drama to the article. He’d already had the police photographer taking snaps of all his wounds - the stitches, the abrasions, the colourful contusions and the six inch abdominal knife wound, all neatly logged as evidence along with his blood-soaked clothes and his phone that had conveniently stayed open throughout his ordeal. He hadn’t heard the recording of what happened after he lost consciousness. He didn’t need to. He’d heard Nell’s howl of despair and he’d heard her beg for his life. He wasn’t sure which side he’d heard it from, but he’d clung to it like a lifebelt in a stormy sea. He would never forget either.

Now he needed information that would lead him back to her, back to the beginning, and finally back to Kit.

He inclined his head toward the man. “He can take his photos and then he has to leave. Our conversation is confidential and has to stay that way until I say otherwise. You understand that, don’t you?”

Clarissa
tutted loudly and nodded her agreement.

“I need to hear you say that or our deal is off.”

Clarissa tapped at her nose conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve been in this business long enough.”

He smiled. That was exactly why he’d chosen her and, similarly, why he didn’t trust her.

The photographer subsequently took his fill of monochrome moody shots that made him look less like a hero and more like a villain, and left him with more than an inkling of the type of article Clarissa intended to write. He needed to ensure the balance of power between them was equal or run the risk of his flirtation with the press turning into a kiss and tell. “So, Clarissa,” he said eventually, “what’s the story with you and the DCI?”

Clarissa narrowed her eyes over the rim of her coffee cup. “I’m not here to talk about Frank. It’s old news.”

So it was ‘Frank’, not ‘DCI’ or even ‘Mr. Mather’. Naughty Frank. It was always worthwhile having something on the boss. “My news is pretty old, too. Just like treasure, the longer it’s buried, the more valuable it becomes.”

“How valuable?
We haven’t discussed money but I suppose we should.”

“I don’t want money.”

Clarissa’s surprise was quickly replaced by suspicion. “What do you want?”

“Merely your co-operation.”

“Go on.”

“Ladies first.”

“Such a gentleman, but I’m afraid my history with Frank is nothing that would interest you.”

“Try me.” McNeil smiled, though he knew no amount of charm would work on the woman. Apart from the fact that she was old enough to be his mother, she could have read him chapter and verse on the art of prostituting oneself for one’s art. The only thing that would turn her to putty in his hands would be the seduction of an exclusive. If she was willing to take a gamble, he would give her one.

She studied him for a long moment, and although he recognised it as an attempt to unsettle him, he was happy to allow it. For the first time in over a week he was focused. Physically and mentally he might still be a wreck, but there was something about coming back from the dead that gave him an advantage, he thought wryly. Maybe it was the acknowledgement that death wasn’t necessarily the final step, not when there was business to finish up. Nell had given him a second chance. He had to make the most of it.

He met Clarissa’s gaze steadily.

“Okay,” she finally conceded. “Frank and I had a disagreement many years ago.”

“Over?”

“Ethics.”

“A journalist with ethics?
Sorry, but I find that hard to believe. I’m a detective, remember. I interview and interrogate on a regular basis. I’m used to hearing all kinds of fiction but that’s a new one on me.”

“I was young and idealistic at the time. We had an affair. It was ill-conceived and headed for disaster. It didn’t last.”

McNeil struggled with the image of Clarissa, woman about town, who was striking at sixty and would have been stunning at twenty, and Mather, the guy who needed a shoehorn to get out of his own chair.

Clarissa caught his look. “It was a long time ago. Not something I like to dwell on.” She picked up her bag, rifled in it and pulled out a flattened pack of cigarettes. She gripped one fiercely, and when she sought his permission to light up, much
to her chagrin, he declined with a shake of his head. He was in a delicate enough state without adding nicotine to the cocktail.

“Right.
So you made out, then you fell out, and that’s justification for a thirty year feud?” He was a little disappointed. He’d hoped for something he could use as a lifejacket when he started making waves in the department.

“There was more to it, as you might imagine. But that’s none of your concern. You invited me here to write your story, not mine.”

“I need to know I can trust you. You give up a few secrets and I’ll give up some, too.”

“Are you trying to get something on Frank?”

“Not especially.”

“You’re lying, detective. You blame him for mishandling the investigation into your girlfriend’s disappearance and now you want him to share some of your pain. It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because Frank doesn’t have a conscience and he’s adept at covering his tracks.”

“It’ll work if you help me.”

“Honey, I rattle other people’s skeletons, expose the dirty laundry of the masses. I keep my own neatly pressed and out of sight. I won’t expose myself or my career to help you. Why would I?”

“Because I don’t think the case was merely mishandled and I think, secretly, you’d like to get one over on Frank, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mistakes were made, procedures not followed, evidence lost. There are too many coincidences, and Mather is currently swinging between having me diverted or discredited by this kind of crap …” he gestured vaguely to her reporter’s paraphernalia on the table “… the interview, the whole good cop / shite cop routine, or by direct threats to have me sacked.”

“To be honest, and coming from one who’s been riding the train to rebellion since before you were born,” she paused for a hacking cough, “if your antics last week are anything like the norm, honey, I’d say you’ve been giving Frank every good reason to sack you. For a detective, you haven’t been playing a very clever game so far. You have an almighty chip on your shoulder and the weight has you bent in two, looking straight down at the gutter. You look at it long enough, you start to think you belong there yourself, and let’s face it, the law-abiding public, even here in Bedlam, prefer their policemen fresh, not pickled.” She picked up her coffee and drained the last dregs before narrowing her eyes and leaning in toward him. Her voice dropped an octave from lecture theatre orator to confidante. “Rumour has it you’ve also been spending time on the couch, and I don’t mean the casting couch, honey.
Psychiatric counselling? Are you sure this isn’t all just a conspiracy theory playing hopscotch in your head. Love is a funny thing. Lost love isn’t funny at all.”

“I’m sure.” He was far from sure, but the more he discussed it out loud and the longer she listened, the more convinced he became that the events leading to his hospitalisation were not merely random acts precipitated by his own recalcitrant behaviour but connected in some bizarre way by Kit and Nell, the two women in his life.