Two-Way Split (23 page)

The shock of waking up next to what he'd assumed was a dead woman, the savage headache induced by the pistol-whipping – these events were more than enough to send the average brain into systematic shutdown. He could use that. Robin would sympathise. Perfectly reasonable that Don would be a little confused. Then when Don explained Eddie's role in the set-up, Robin wouldn't be able to refuse assistance without admitting that he was the killer. He would be safe, or at least, he would think he was safe. No reason to suspect Don of anything. Which would mean that Don could monitor Eddie's activities from the safety of Robin's home. Once he'd found out where the money was stashed, he could then decide what to do with the pair of bloody buffoons.

Heavens, it was good to be back in charge.

The door buzzer interrupted his thoughts. He froze. After a short while it sounded again: loud. Again: urgent. Again: insistent. Quiet seconds dragged by. He heard the sound of a buzzer in a neighbouring flat followed by the remote hum of the main door unlocking. He heard footsteps in the stairwell. Voices echoing.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. Someone banged on it. He remained still. More banging. He glanced at Carol. Pale and carved. Looking lovely. Back at the door. Was that Eddie outside? Could he have arrived already? No, he hadn't had time.
Don't move
. Stay quiet. Whoever it is, they'll realise no one's home and go away.

A voice said, "Open up." Paused. Then said, "Police."

Shit.

11:26 am

Bloody traffic. He'd be better off walking.

Eddie wrenched the gear stick and accelerated. His hand still throbbed where the beautiful mad bitch had burned it with her cigarette.
Please let her be okay. Please.
She hadn't answered the phone. He was worried. She'd told him Don was dangerous and he'd left her there with him.
Idiot.
He got out his mobile and tried her again.
Come on.
No answer. He chucked the phone onto the passenger's seat and turned the corner. He hoped nothing had happened to her. After all, he hadn't even found the money.

PART THREE

11:26 am

 "Anybody home?"

Don's heartbeat accelerated.

"This is the police."

The sitting room door was wide open. He stared through the doorway at the white door at the end of the corridor. As he watched, a splash of light burst through the vertical slit of the letterbox and hit him between the eyes. Head raging with pain, he flung himself against the wall, a split second before a new voice blasted through the opening: "Hello." Don looked at Carol. The voice came again: "Hello!" Her body was safely out of the policeman's line of sight. The bell rang seemingly endlessly. "Open up." The letterbox clattered shut and a while afterwards the bell stopped ringing.

For a moment Don succeeded in ignoring his headache and tried to figure out how the police had arrived so quickly. It must have been Eddie. Somehow he must have discovered something in the flat. Then he'd phoned the police, informing them of his suspicions (of what, though?) and letting them know that his girlfriend, who, incidentally, wasn't answering her phone, was last seen in Don's presence.

All of which left Don trapped.

What could he do? Well, he could give himself up and confess everything. But, despite the headache, he was having too much fun. What, then? He could hardly toss Carol's body into the garden below. Could he jump out the window? Not without injuring himself. Perhaps he could hide the body, pretend he was a flatmate of Carol's and invite the police into the flat. He didn't like that idea either.

Unfortunately, it was the best plan he had. A number of factors counted against it, though. The flat wasn't designed for hiding dead bodies and even if he found a suitable place to stash it, the police would want to look around and, inevitably, they'd locate Carol stuffed in the linen cupboard or wherever.
Fuck this headache.
The police would want to see some identification. They'd want proof that he lived here. And if, miraculously, he got away with everything up to that point, Eddie would arrive and screw things up.

So. He had to stick with his original plan. Get to Robin and use his money. Don pressed his fingers against his temples and moved the skin in circles. It didn't help. The pain was getting in the way. He had to get rid of it.

Carol's handbag lay on the coffee table. He opened the clasp and raked around inside. An address book, nail varnish, three tampons, two packs of cigarettes, three hairbrushes, four combs, tweezers, lip gloss, more nail varnish, another comb, pencils, pencils, pencils, a couple of buttons, cotton buds, plasters, nail clippers, nail file, hair band, spool of black thread. Balls. You'd think a woman with her mental history would have the decency to carry some drugs in her bag.

He closed the bag gently, and put it back on the table. As he started towards the bathroom, he trod on a creaky floorboard. He held his breath, but there was no acknowledgement from the policemen outside. No shouting. No cries of, "We know you're in there." It probably wasn't that loud. After all, how loud can a floorboard creak? Nonetheless, he walked the rest of the way as if broken glass layered his shoes.

In the bathroom cupboard he found a packet of Nurofen caplets. Just in time. A pair of thumbs was trying to scoop his eyes out from the inside. He swallowed four of the pills and pocketed the rest. Treading carefully, he made his way back to the sitting room.

It took almost a minute to slink along the length of the sitting room wall. He paused for a moment before poking his head around the frame of the doorway. At the end of the corridor the letterbox was a closed dark slit in the blue-white door. He took a deep breath, placed one foot over the threshold and stepped into the corridor. A pale golden light leaked through the frosted glass panel above the door. Creeping along the carpeted floor, he heard muffled voices. As he drew closer he held his breath. From here he could distinguish the odd word. Two more steps. Better. They were discussing a television program one of them had watched last night. Loud and clear now. He flattened himself into the corner and listened.

"This guy's a member of SO10, right, undercover, posing as a money launderer for the IRA. He's liable to drop one in his pants, 'cos he just found out last night that the guy picking him up at the airport in Belfast is a multiple murderer who's just got out of the slammer. So, the guy's there, waiting for him, card with his name on it and all that crap. Big guy, shaven head, goatee. Prison tatts on his arms, backs of his hands, neck. The undercover cop's a bit unconfident, you know. I mean, this guy's killed people. Loads of them. So he gets in the back. Car drives off. After a while he realises IRA's heading in the wrong direction for the meeting. He leans forward and taps him on the shoulder. Asks where they're going. IRA tells him there's been a slight change of plan. Nothing to worry about. Still, SO10's starting to panic. He's thinking somebody's talked, the game's up. He's going to be kneecapped, done over with a baseball bat, executed. He's wondering if he should dive out of the car or stick with it. Either way it looks like he's a goner. Anyway, after an age the car slows down and pulls into the gravel driveway of this isolated country cottage. Car stops. IRA gets out. Opens the door for him. SO10 gets out, clutching his little briefcase and quietly praying that he doesn't shite himself.  IRA unlocks the door and steps into the cottage. Invites SO10 inside. SO10 enters the sitting room. It's covered in tapestries and paintings and stuff. Hardly an inch of wall space. IRA says, 'You look like a cultured gentleman. Thought I'd show you my work.' He's got a big proud grin on his face. He says, 'You wouldn't be interested in buying one at all, would you?'"

Don wiped his forehead. His hair was damp. The knuckles of a baby's fist were twisting in his brain.

"So he does. SO10 buys a painting from him. They haggle a bit over the price and eventually settle on a hundred quid. Turns out IRA developed a taste for art during his last stretch inside. IRA drives SO10 and the painting to the original rendezvous. And everything goes really smoothly. After what he's just been through, the meeting's a doddle. SO10 doesn't even break sweat."

Don wondered how long he could wait here. In fact, he wondered what he was waiting for. The end of the story? It was over. SO10 didn't break sweat. Great. That was it. Well then, what exactly
was
he waiting for? Maybe he should just open the door and turn himself in. The cops might be here all night, regaling one another with tales of police courage in the face of criminal adversity. They all so badly wanted to be heroes.

He had to make an effort.

Back down the corridor and into the sitting room. If only Robin was here to appreciate this. What a man will do for his brother, even if his brother refuses to acknowledge his existence.

She said, "LOVE". She would always say, "LOVE." He smiled at Carol's corpse.
This is love, Carol, and don't you forget it.

Sometime in the past, a fire. Fast forward. Play. Ten years old. A winter morning in school. Power cut. Dark so deep you can bite into it. Miss Holt moves past him. He stretches out and grabs an arm. When she stops to see what he wants, he slides his other hand under her skirt. She jumps. Screams. Keeps screaming, reminding him of the pitiful wailing of his poor frail mother. Fast forward. Play. Thirteen years old. Camping. Razor blades in Ruth Harris's sleeping bag. Sliced the soles of her feet. Fifteen. Razor blades left in a napkin after he and mum dined at a cheap restaurant. The manager complained, said that it wasn't the first time. Sixteen. A question mark cut into a whore's cheek with a Stanley knife. Seventeen. An L carved into his girlfriend's stomach while she was asleep. She woke up screaming. He carried on. Couldn't stop. Lots of blood. Ambulance. Police.
Since he died, I – I need help. A nightmare. I didn't know what I was doing. The trauma of my brother's death. Seeing it all. I can't control myself.
Smart boy. Cautious, thereafter. Keeping it inside. The tension building up for the last ten years.
They took me away. My father drove me there
.
Left me to rot. For my own good. Because he loved me. Nothing can hide the truth. Killers kill. It's what they do.

Fast forward. Stop.

Don plucked the knife out of Carol's naval.

11:30 am

He peered through the keyhole. Feet apart, hands behind their backs, the two policemen stood with their backs to the door. Bored now, presumably. Run out of stories to tell each other. Just doing their jobs, standing guard in front of an obviously empty flat where no sign of anything untoward had taken place. Yet another hoax call they'd had to check out. One of a dozen or so they probably got every week. And now all they could do was await further instructions. Or was it? Had they received those instructions already? Had they been asked to wait until Eddie arrived?

If it wasn't for Eddie, Don could have waited them out. But Eddie had eliminated that particular option, damn him.

So. Nothing for it but to face the music.

When Don turned the latch, he tensed, but the anticipated click never came. He relaxed. A modicum of good fortune was a prerequisite of every successful venture. He opened the door a fraction and sized up the two policemen through the crack. One was a six-footer. The other was a couple of inches shorter. Don heard radio static. Perfectly normal. At least, neither of the policemen acknowledged it. The taller one rolled forward slightly on the balls of his feet.

Don opened the door wider, just enough to squeeze through the gap. He slid behind the smaller of the two policemen, slipped the knife under his chin and whispered, "Stay still."