The Carrier (47 page)

‘But?’ Sam said.

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t planning to join. Like you, I came in to ask about this.’ Dan held up the poetry book. ‘Spur of the moment, I thought, why not? When Tim’s back at home, we can come here together, for lunch.’

‘Without Kerry?’

‘No, all of us. Of course.’

‘But until then, you’d rather come here alone?’ Sam persisted.

‘I needed some space,’ Dan’s voice dropped from quiet to barely audible. His face coloured. Did he imagine that the elderly couple by the window were listening avidly? They were doing a convincing impression of two people who had no interest in other human beings, least of all one another.

‘I suppose I was trying to test out what it might feel like to be Tim,’ Dan said. ‘To sit here reading. Thinking the kind of crazy thoughts only Tim would think. Wondering if any of them make sense, when you really examine them.’

Sam wanted to know more, but his instincts told him he’d do better if he changed the subject. ‘Can I see the book?’ he asked.

Dan handed it to him. ‘It’s the last poem you’re after. “Sonnet”, it’s called.’

‘How do you know what I’m looking for?’

‘How do I know Tim gave you a copy of that poem and asked you to pass it on to Gaby Struthers?’ Dan answered with a question.

‘That too,’ Sam said. He flicked through
The Jupiter Collisions
. The sonnet was where Dan had said it would be: at the end. There was no message for Gaby Struthers tucked between the pages, though of course Dan would have got to it first and might have removed it.

Highly unlikely.
Sam had always thought so. And having the idea in front of Simon, as Charlie had suggested, had achieved nothing as far as Sam could tell. Simon had grunted non-committally and walked away.

‘I know because I let Tim down,’ Dan said. ‘That’s why he had to ask you to give Gaby the poem – because I hadn’t done it. He asked me the first time I visited him in prison. He’d written the poem out by hand. For Gaby. I promised I’d give it to her, but when I told Kerry about it she said no, I mustn’t, it would be the worst thing I could possibly do.’

‘Why?’

Dan sighed. ‘It’s complicated. The last time Tim sort of sent Gaby a love poem, everything spiralled out of control. Tim ended up trying to take his own life. I think Kerry didn’t want to risk that happening again. I’m sure she was right, even if I couldn’t follow the logic myself.’

Sam couldn’t either. ‘So you came here . . . what, to see if you could find the poem?’

Dan nodded. ‘I thought there was a reasonable chance, since I knew the poet’s name.’

‘I didn’t,’ Sam told him. ‘Luckily, the librarian seems to have committed to memory every poem that’s ever been written.’

‘I thought I might copy it out, since there’s no photocopier here,’ Dan said. ‘Make sure Gaby gets it this time. Or at least try to work out my own opinion, instead of obeying Tim or obeying Kerry. Use my judgement for once.’

‘Only about the poem?’ Sam asked.

The answering silence lasted nearly ten seconds. Then Dan said, ‘No. About everything.’

Sam waited. The words he heard next sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to his heart.

‘We’ve been lying to you. All of us.’ Dan flinched as if at bad news. ‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, am I?’

‘No.’
Not yet.

‘We all knew what Jason had done to Gaby on Friday night. Sick bastard. We always wondered about him and Lauren, what went on between them, but . . . Look, you have to believe that Kerry and I would never have given Jason an alibi if we’d thought there was even a fractional chance he’d get away with hurting Gaby. Since he was dead—’

‘How did you know that?’ Sam interrupted.

‘We knew.’ The shut-down expression on Dan’s face told Sam not to push it. ‘I don’t want to lie to you any more. That means I’m not going to be able to answer every question you ask me.’

Then you’re still lying. How’s it any different?

‘Who killed Francine?’ Sam asked, struggling to contain his disappointment.

Silence.

‘Was it Tim?’

‘I didn’t witness Francine’s murder,’ Dan said, after giving it some thought. ‘So all I know is what I’ve been told. One of the things I’ve been told is that we all have to lie, and keep lying. I’ve been told that by more than one person. At first I thought it must be true. Now I’m not so sure. I doubt very much that Gaby Struthers would agree, and she’s certainly the cleverest of everyone involved, if we’re talking intellect. Or is that too elitist a way to look at it?’

Sam’s phone had started to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.
Sellers
. ‘Dan, I’m grateful for any honesty I can get, but if the only truth you’re willing to tell me is that you’ve been lying, that doesn’t really help me. Excuse me, I have to take this call.’ Sam hurried out into the corridor with the mustard-coloured rope, wondering how long it would take Dan Jose to progress beyond the stage of suspecting that Gaby Struthers would want the truth told to the crucial next stage (without which all the others were sodding pointless, frankly) of actually telling it.

‘Sorry,’ Sam said to Sellers, instead of ‘Hello’.

‘I forgive you, Sarge. You still at the library?’

‘I am. I can’t really talk.’

May Geraghty had appeared at the far end of the corridor and was peering at Sam disapprovingly.
Oh, get a life, you old bat
, he thought, knowing that if he said it out loud he’d be plagued by remorse for months.

‘You can listen, though, right?’ said Sellers.

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve been to Wayne Cuffley’s work. They can account for his whereabouts for the whole of 16 February, so he’s ruled out for Francine Breary. I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to check on his wife’s alibi too, since she helped him dump Jason Cookson’s body.’

Good thinking
.
Never hurts to be thorough.
Sam would have said so if he hadn’t been subject to May Geraghty’s Trappist restrictions.

‘Lisa Cuffley’s a nail technician, works at a place called Intuitions in Combingham. It’s a right dive. I’ve just been there.’

And?

‘Lisa was at work on 16 February too – all day. Sarge, I don’t know what made me think of it, but I asked about Friday and Saturday nights just gone, not really expecting anything, and guess what? On Saturday night, Lisa Cuffley had a private booking she’d taken via the salon – a hen party in Spilling, all the girls wanting their nails done and a lesson on how to do it themselves. Obviously she could have been mistaken, but Lisa’s boss reckons Lisa was at this party on Saturday from nine till after midnight.’

And therefore not available to give Jason Cookson’s dead body a lift to the police station.

‘Did you talk to Lisa about it?’ Sam asked Sellers. ‘Was she there?’

‘Not yet. Yeah, she’s there now, but I wanted to tell you first, see what you thought.’

‘Get back onto Wayne Cuffley’s work, ask them about Friday and Saturday nights too,’ Sam told him. He turned his back on May Geraghty’s glare of profound and enduring disappointment, pleased to be able to demonstrate that he could withstand a stranger’s disapproval in a public setting for up to ten seconds.

‘Cookson’s blood’s all over Cuffley’s house and car,’ said Sellers.

‘So he was probably killed in one, and transported to the nick in the other, but let’s not take anything on trust,’ Sam said.
Ever again
, he added silently. ‘If Cuffley’s lying about Lisa being with him when he dropped the body, what’s to say that anything he’s told us has been the truth?’

Knocking. Loud. Tim would never knock like this. Which means this can’t be him, so I might as well stay where I am: lying on the bed in my hotel room with the curtains shut and the TV screen flickering mutely from its wood veneer cabinet. At least I can’t hear the drivel I’m watching.

If I loved Tim less, I’d be working now. Doing something important. I can’t imagine ever again being able to concentrate on anything apart from him. It scares me.

More knocking.

I haul myself off the bed, gearing up to yell at another member of hotel staff. Most of them seem to think my ‘Do Not Disturb’ request applies only for a limited period; that it’s impossible for anyone to want to be left alone for as long as that sign’s been hanging from my door. I haven’t moved from the bed for nearly eight hours.

The maid would only be disappointed if I let her in. There would be nothing for her to do. I haven’t had a bath or a shower, no room service, no cups of tea or coffee. I’ve barely disturbed the bedclothes; the outer cover is still in place, uncreased. I’ve hardly slept, apart from when I’ve lost consciousness, fully dressed, for the odd half hour here and there. Each time, I’ve woken with my heart pounding and Jason Cookson’s sickening voice in my head.

Tim’s fault.

No. That’s not fair. I mustn’t let myself think that.

The knocking has developed a threatening tone. Best Western housekeeping wouldn’t be so confrontational. I open the door half an inch and see a thin tear-streaked face.

Lauren.

Fear surges up inside me, all the way to my throat.

He can’t be with her. He’s dead.

She starts in on me from the corridor. ‘What the fuck are you playing at? Is this some kind of joke? You tell me to come here and then you won’t let me in?’

‘I’ll let you in.’
Just not yet. I’m not ready.
I stand in front of the door so that she’d have to knock me over to force it open any further. I’m heavier than she is, even after three days of near-starvation. She’d never manage it.

I’m having difficulty believing she’s here. I did as Simon Waterhouse asked and delivered my letter to her first thing this morning, but I never thought she’d respond. I added my new contact details thinking I was safe: hotel name, address, room number.

She ran away from me. And now she’s back.

Ready or not, I need to talk to her. I have to let her in.

I open the door fully and stand to one side. ‘Come in. Sorry. It’s . . . I didn’t think it’d be you.’

‘Well, it is.’ The door swings closed behind her, taking with it the light from the corridor. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Gaby, are you going to open the curtains or what? I can’t see a fucking thing.’

Should I give her a hug? The idea embarrasses me. She’d probably punch me in the face.

‘I’ll open them,’ I say. It’s true: I would, if I could move. I’m trying to understand why having Lauren here is making me feel so churned up. Nearly as bad as when I first saw Tim in prison. It doesn’t make sense: she’s nothing to me. She should mean nothing.

I watch as she walks over to the window and yanks open the curtains as if she’s trying to rip them off the rail. ‘Jason’s dead,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘I know.’

She picks up the remote control from the bed, turns off the TV. ‘Who told you? The police? They tell you who did it?’

Do they know?
Obviously they do.

‘My dad’s turned himself in.’

I look at her ‘FATHER’ tattoo, then quickly look away. I want to ask all kinds of questions. Should probably wait. Express sympathy first. ‘Lauren, I . . . I don’t know what to say. That’s terrible. Are you . . .’ No. Of course she isn’t okay.

‘I’m fine.’ She wipes her eyes.

‘I’m not close to my family, and I’m not married, but if my father killed my husband . . .’ Once upon a time, I would have been confident that that sort of thing would happen in someone like Lauren’s world, but never in mine.

‘I begged him not to do it.’

‘You were there?’ Jesus Christ, did FATHER kill Jason in front of his own daughter?

‘Course I was there. I begged him to stay out of it – Lisa did too. He ignored us both. Said he was doing it for me, but I didn’t want him to. No one cares what I want – ever. No one listens!’

I stand and watch helplessly as she works herself up into a state.

‘I don’t want my dad going to prison, Gaby! Another innocent man in prison – I don’t want that!’

‘What do you mean “another innocent man”? If he killed Jason—’

‘Killed Jason?’ Lauren laughs bitterly through her tears. ‘He didn’t. He’s
saying
he did, the fucking . . . stupid lying bastard! Haven’t you been listening?’

I freeze, my breath suspended in my chest, Lauren’s words going round in my mind. Yes, I’ve been listening. But not understanding. Not until now.

Course I was there.
I begged him to stay out of it.

‘You begged your dad not to take the blame,’ I say.

Lauren nods frantically. ‘At first he was on about burying the body – that was okay, I was all right with that. But then he started saying I’d worry myself sick if Jason stayed missing for long, wondering if he was dead, and some shit about turning himself in so’s the police don’t suspect me. Don’t ask me what the fuck he was on about!’

‘Did he mean that was what he could tell the police?’ I ask. That’s the only way it makes sense.

And it can only mean one thing.

‘It’s fucking daft if you ask me,’ Lauren says. ‘I wasn’t worried, was I? I knew Jason was dead.’

She doesn’t get it. No surprise there.

‘And you knew who killed him,’ I say. ‘Who killed Jason, Lauren?’

‘Me! I killed him!’ Her voice rocks as if someone’s shaking her body.

‘Did you . . .’ My throat closes on my words, choking them off. ‘Did you do it because of what he did to me?’

‘No. Not everything’s about you, you know. I did it for Francine, and Kerry – and for me, mainly, because I was fucking sick of the bastard, all his shit I’d put up with for years. Maybe a bit for you,’ she adds grudgingly. ‘You were the lucky one last Friday – I got the worst of it in the car, once he’d finished with you.’

‘What do you mean you killed him for Francine? She was dead long before last Friday night.’

‘Nothing,’ Lauren mutters.

‘Revenge?’ It’s a guess, nothing more.

For Francine, and Kerry.

‘Did Jason attack Kerry?’ I ask.

Lauren stares at me as if I’m deranged.