The Telling Error (43 page)
I wish I were at home with my family. I was wrong to think that Bartholomew Gardens and Spilling could never be home. This room, this hotel, contains all the ‘not home’ that exists in the world. If I get out of here alive, I’m never coming back.
I hear a creaking noise coming from nearby. My body stiffens. Is it him?
I lie still. One by one, the seconds stretch out and then contract, my imagination racing to the end of each one and back again.
‘Don’t move,’ says a man’s voice. ‘Say nothing. Don’t touch the blindfold. Keep your hands where they are, by your sides.’ There’s a
thwack
as the door closes.
I’ve never heard the voice before.
Nobody I know from my real life
.
Thank God.
Though I never allowed myself to fear the worst, I’m relieved to know for sure.
I’m pleased to have heard King Edward’s voice, finally. When he and I met here in February, we’d made a pact of silence. He didn’t utter a word.
I keep completely still. I’m willing to stay silent for the time being because I want to listen. What’s he doing? I can hear movement. Some kind of tape, a cutting sound, whimpering …
Was that a woman? Has he brought a woman with him?
Tape.
Damon Blundy had a knife taped to his face. His wrists and ankles were taped together, round his chair …
What’s King Edward going to do? Now that he’s here, my conviction that he won’t hurt me has grown stronger. So has my fear, which has turned into terror. I don’t think I could move even if I decided I wanted to.
The whimpering stops – not a clean stop, but a muffling. More tape-pulling sounds, and cutting.
There’s definitely someone else in the room. King Edward’s put tape over her mouth. I inhale hard, filling my lungs with as much air as I can.
‘Don’t worry, Nicki,’ King Edward says. ‘You’re afraid I’m going to hurt her, but I’m not. I’m not going to hurt anyone. If you want her to, she’ll walk out of this room alive and unharmed once we’re done here.’
‘Done doing what?’ I ask, my voice so hoarse I almost don’t recognise it. ‘Tell me what I want to know – everything.’ I pull off my blindfold and see him as a moving shadow in the semi-darkness. And a chair, with someone in it …
‘Put that back on,’ King Edward snaps. ‘You agreed to my conditions.’
‘And you told me you were Damon Blundy, you stupid piece of shit! Give me one good reason why I should keep any promise I ever made you.’ I would have, if he hadn’t brought a woman with him. Her presence – the danger she might be in – has broken his hold over me.
I reach for the metal chain dangling from the lamp attached to the wall by the bed, and pull.
At first, his face is like pieces of a jigsaw assembled in the wrong order: flashes of familiarity not quite adding up to a recognisable picture. Then my brain catches up and it makes sense. I know who this man is. I know what he’s capable of.
Pain. Unimaginable agony.
I know I’d be safer if he were someone else, anyone else …
He’s moving towards me with the tape in his hand.
I open my mouth to scream.
Tuesday 9 July 2013,
Daily Herald Online
Disgraced sprinter Bryn Gilligan, 28, took his own life today. His body was found by his mother, Jennifer, 56, when she returned from her health club to the home she shared with her son in Norwich. An ambulance worker who attended the scene claimed to have seen a suicide note in which Gilligan confessed to the murder of
Daily Herald
columnist Damon Blundy.
Blundy, a prominent supporter of Gilligan’s right to race again, was found dead in his home in Spilling on Monday 1 July. Police are investigating his death. DS Sam Kombothekra of Culver Valley CID said, ‘It would be premature to comment at this early stage.’ DS Kombothekra wouldn’t confirm or deny that Gilligan had left a note containing a confession.
Gilligan’s suicide came after a heated exchange on Twitter during which detractors accused the former athlete of being ‘worthless’, ‘scum’ and ‘a waste of skin’. Norfolk Police said Gilligan had swallowed several tablets of a powerful painkiller before lying down on the kitchen floor, where he was found.
When his mother tried and failed to wake him, she contacted emergency services. ‘Bryn’s laptop computer was on the kitchen table,’ she said. ‘On the screen was a tweet from a stranger accusing him of having “zero integrity”. I think it was that tweet that pushed him over the edge, so that person’s got blood on their hands.’
Mrs Gilligan said, ‘I blame heartless online bullies for my beloved son’s death. Bryn knew he’d made serious mistakes, but he deserved a second chance. Everyone deserves another chance, don’t they?’
Gilligan was banned for life from competitive sprinting in 2010, after it was revealed that he had taken prohibited performance-enhancing drugs over a period of years. In September 2011, his appeal to have the ban lifted was rejected by the Court of Arbitration for Sport.
‘That was the beginning of his downward spiral,’ said his mother. ‘He had nothing to look forward to, so he lived via the Internet. And the Internet was full of people who kept telling him they hated him. How could they hate him? They didn’t even know him. And now, thanks to them, and thanks to the likes of Keiran Holland, who had a powerful voice in the media and had nothing but condemnation for Bryn, I’ve lost my only son.’
Gilligan isn’t the first victim of online bullying to commit suicide. His mother said, ‘Twitter and Facebook have to do something so that this doesn’t keep happening. It’s my son this time, but next time it’ll be someone else’s son or daughter.’
As yet, there has been no response from Twitter or Facebook to the news of Gilligan’s death.
Tuesday 9 July 2013
‘There you are,’ said Charlie, as Simon landed in the CID room like something dangerous that had been thrown from a distance. He’d disappeared briefly.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘This Bryn Gilligan shit’s causing no end of aggro.’ Sam, Gibbs, Sellers and Proust moved out of his way as he marched towards Charlie. ‘Get someone from London who knows what they’re doing to room 419 at the Chancery Hotel straight away. King Edward’s going to kill Nicki in that room if we don’t get there first. Once you’ve done that, get down there yourself. I’ll follow as soon as I can.’
‘You can’t just—’ Charlie started to protest.
‘I have to. I need to explain to the others, and with this Gilligan business too, I’m needed here. Look, you’re the only one of us who shouldn’t be having anything to do with the Blundy murder – there’s no reason why you can’t go to London.’
‘“Shouldn’t be having anything to do with the Blundy murder”,’ Proust repeated. ‘Is that a euphemism for “Shouldn’t be posting details of the crime scene on a dating site without permission”, I wonder?’
‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Charlie snapped at him. To Simon, she said, ‘Yeah, me not being CID means you shouldn’t ask me to do
anything
. It doesn’t mean you get to send me to London whenever it suits you! Who’s King Edward?’
‘Did he murder Damon Blundy?’ Gibbs asked. He sounded nearly as desperate as Charlie felt.
‘Go,’ Simon told Charlie. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll tell you everything later. I haven’t got time to explain it all now.’
‘Oh, fucking … All right! I’m going.’
‘Faster,’ Simon shouted after her.
Charlie swore to herself all the way back to her office. Dictatorial, infuriating arse-wipe! Didn’t he realise how arrogant it was to be unwilling to share any information at all simply because you don’t have the time to give your usual detailed presentation, in the order that most suits you? Simon wouldn’t dream of revealing only the who without the why, the how, the how-the-hell-did-you-work-that-out? And, as he’d so kindly pointed out, Charlie wasn’t part of his team. Whenever he felt like excluding her, she had no official right to object.
How would it have compromised the case in any way if he’d answered her question before sending her packing? How long would that have taken? First name, last name: three seconds, maximum.
Bastard.
He could have given her a name. Unless he wasn’t certain yet. Maybe he wanted to talk it through with …
Charlie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, interrupting her speculations. It was a text from Simon. A name. Followed by the words ‘explanation to follow’.
‘Wow,’ Charlie whispered to herself. ‘So that’s who King Edward is.’ She thought: ‘If Damon Blundy were still alive, he would write
such
a brilliant column about his own murder.’ It didn’t make sense, but she knew what she meant.
She understood why Simon had texted the name after refusing to tell her. He hadn’t wanted to blurt out the identity of King Edward in front of the others; they were going to get the explanation first and then the name. Wherever possible, Simon liked to do things in the correct order.
‘Right,’ said Simon, putting his phone back in his pocket. ‘Are we all agreed: Bryn Gilligan didn’t murder anyone?’
‘I am,’ said Sam.
‘Me too.’ Sellers glanced nervously at Proust as he spoke. ‘It’s clear what mood Gilligan was in when he wrote that letter. Suicidal, playing the martyr. He obviously trawled the Web for unsolved murders, picked a few at random and decided to confess, since he was confessing to Blundy’s anyway.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Gibbs. ‘Why confess to four murders you’ve not done?’
‘Three reasons,’ said Simon. ‘One, it’s a statement: “You all think I’m such a bad person? All right, then, have it your way. I must have killed Damon Blundy, mustn’t I, if I’m the monster you all think I am? And even if I didn’t, I might as well say I did, since you couldn’t think any less highly of me.” The spirit of “You bastards made me do this.” And maybe also an element of “You’re all determined to believe I’m a pathological liar? Fine, then let me confess to a murder – see if you’d rather believe I’m evil or believe I’m a liar. Which is it, since I can’t be both?”’
‘I need an aspirin already and he’s only just started,’ Proust muttered to Gibbs, who was standing next to him.
‘That’s Blundy’s murder covered, but why add three others to his slate?’ Sellers asked.
‘For reason number two,’ said Simon. ‘Contrary to what all the vindictive dicks on Twitter and Facebook believed, Bryn Gilligan genuinely wanted to be a better man. He wanted to prove he was a good guy. He must have known there was a strong chance his confession’d leak to the press, and that we’d establish pretty quickly that it wasn’t true. I think he wanted everyone to find out he’d tried to take the blame for four crimes he didn’t commit. The more he confessed to, the more heroic he looked. He wanted the world to know he was prepared to make the biggest sacrifice of himself that he could – to atone.’
‘Oh, to
atone
?’ said Proust in his red-flag voice. ‘This detective lark is easy, isn’t it, when you don’t have to worry about logic, motive or evidence? It’s as easy as joining some words together.’
‘But it wouldn’t make anyone think better of him, would it?’ Gibbs asked Simon. ‘Perverting the course of justice in four serious crimes, on top of doping before races – it makes him look like even more of a twat. To me, anyway.’
‘That’s not how he’d have seen it,’ said Simon. ‘In his eyes, confessing to four murders he hasn’t committed is bringing himself lower than even his worst enemies ever wanted him brought. Throwing himself onto the burning pyre. Turning his ambition, which once made him want to soar to great heights, in the opposite direction: a gruesome drive to claim the depths—’
‘Is this a free-form poem, Waterhouse? Is the end in sight?’
Simon felt his face heat up. He resolved to stick to simple language. ‘Just one thing to add,’ he said. ‘Maybe he—’
‘One thing to add to reason number two?’ Proust cut in again. ‘If only we had a printed order of service.’
‘No, this is a fourth possible reason, one I’ve just thought of: he liked the idea of newspaper headlines saying, “Bryn Gilligan Not Guilty of Any Murders, Despite Confessions.” If we look into it and find he didn’t do any of the four, he gets to be found innocent four times. Might make a nice change after being found guilty for the drugs thing, having first insisted he was innocent. Kind of like a reversal. The general public gets a vague sense of “Oh, that guy wasn’t guilty after all.”’
‘And the cruelly overlooked third reason?’ Proust asked wearily. ‘He wanted to practise his cursive handwriting, and it takes longer to write four names than one?’
‘Third reason: he knows what it’s like to do something stupid and be vilified for it. He knows exactly how shit that feels. By trying to take the blame for these four murders, thinking he might succeed in getting them attributed to him, he’s protecting the four real murderers from similar vilification. He’s going to kill himself anyway, so he’s got nothing to lose and plenty to gain. He’s noble – the patron saint of sinners.’
‘See my earlier point,’ Gibbs said. ‘A twat.’
‘No, you don’t get it. He doesn’t want to help them to escape justice so that they can kill more people. He wants to help them so they’ll think, I’ve got a real chance here – to live a better life, stay out of trouble.’