Waking Broken (11 page)

Wednesday, 8.43pm:

As they sat in the bistro, the two men worked their way through Harper’s early years without much trouble; nothing he said conflicted with the stories Brendan had heard from his alter ego. Next, he related his decision to leave home and get a job as a trainee journalist on a small paper in Oxfordshire. A few jobs followed, each for a slightly bigger newspaper.

‘I didn’t have any real career plan,’ said Harper. ‘I never really considered where I wanted to end up. I never cared about working on the nationals or moving into TV. I suppose I used to just work somewhere until I got bored with the place or something else came up.’

He paused to top up their glasses with the last of the second bottle. It was far more than he had drunk for a long time but the alcohol did not seem to be affecting him anything like he would have expected. He did not think much about it; putting his feeling of relative sobriety down to the drink being absorbed by the amount of food he had eaten.

‘I remember when I took this job it was because I was approaching thirty and I’d never worked on a daily. I always remember thinking that daily paper journalists used to act as if they were a bit more special. I suppose I thought I’d see whether it was any different.’ He grinned. ‘And I still reckon the only real difference is you have to work twice as hard for hardly any more money.’

Brendan nodded. ‘True enough. They certainly expect us snappers to be in at least two places at the same time.’

Harper shook his head. ‘I suppose what shook me out of my rut was when my dad died.’

Brendan did a double take but Harper wasn’t looking at his friend’s face. ‘We’d never been really close when I was growing up and I always thought I was a bit of a disappointment to him. I never did that well at school or went to university. I always had this feeling that whatever I did it wouldn’t match up to his expectations, so it was easier not to try. Either that or do the opposite of what he wanted.’

Harper stared ruefully into his wine. ‘I guess I only really appreciated him when he died. I suppose it made me grow up seeing him lying there in hospital. Made me realise that you don’t have forever. It’s easy to drift through life and I started to wonder what kind of person I would be by the time it was me lying there in his place, what I would have achieved.’

‘But Danny…’

Harper shook his head. ‘Seeing him lying there with tubes going in his mouth and all the monitors around his bed and stuff is something I’ll never forget. I’d always been a bit scared of him and suddenly he looked all pale and frail, not so big somehow. I talked to my mum loads over the next few days and it was her that made me realise that my dad didn’t look down on me. It was because he loved me that he pushed me. He couldn’t put it into words in some modern touchy-feely way. He saw being a father as a duty and that included…’

Harper fell silent. His mouth opened again and his eyes widened. He stared across the room then glanced around, looking to see the reactions of the other people in the room.

‘Danny…’

Harper held his hand out to silence Brendan without looking at him, his gaze still fixed on the other side of the bistro.

‘My god!’ he hissed.

Brendan frowned and twisted round to look. ‘What is it?’ he said softly.

Harper looked agitated. ‘What the hell’s he doing in here?’ he said in an undertone. ‘How did he get out?’

‘Who?’ Brendan turned his head, unable to work out who was the sudden focus of Harper’s attention.

Harper leant forward.

‘Sat to the left of the bar,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t see him before. There was some couple sitting in the way.’

Brendan looked confused. ‘Who are you talking about?’

Harper leant across the table and directed one finger in a pistol aim across the room, guiding Brendan’s eyes to a lone diner on the other side of the bistro.

‘There. Van Hell.’

‘Who?

‘Van Hell.’

‘Van Hulle? The developer?’

Harper nodded, eyes fixed on the seated figure.

‘What about him?’ said Brendan.

‘What’s he doing out? They can’t have let him out on bail, surely?’

Brendan shook his head and turned back to face Harper. ‘What are you talking about, boy? What’s the man supposed to have done?’

Harper looked baffled. ‘Don’t you know what…’ He stopped as a kind of comprehension dawned. He turned and stared at Brendan, who raised his eyebrows. Harper leant forward and put his face in his hands. ‘Oh shit!’ he muttered.

Brendan gave a light chuckle. ‘Come on, boy. It can’t be that bad surely.’

‘Bad?’ Harper’s expression was one of queasy disbelief and Brendan’s eyes widened. He leant forward into a conspiratorial huddle.

‘What on earth is it?’ he asked. ‘What do you think he’s done?’

Harper looked up. ‘Murder.’

‘Murder? Holy mother of god!’ Brendan tensed. ‘Who?’

‘Not who.’ Harper shook his head and gave an empty laugh. ‘You should be asking how many?’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But Danny.’ Brendan leant forwards. ‘He hasn’t killed anyone I know of. What’s he supposed to have done?’

Harper shook his head. He had been jolted just to see Van Hulle sitting across the room; to realise the man was walking around free seemed too much. There was enough wrong with the world without this. He swallowed and screwed his hands into his hair, staring intently at Brendan as if willing his friend to wind back the clock and change the night’s events.

‘Oh Christ, Brendan. You don’t know? Nothing?’

His friend shook his head. ‘I know who he is.’ Brendan paused and shrugged uneasily. ‘I’ve taken his picture a few times. He’s a bit of an odd one if you ask me but I don’t know about anything like murder. What’s he done? Who’s he killed?’

‘Women, a number of them.’

‘Jesus!’ The photographer looked horrified. ‘How many?’

Harper shook his head uncomfortably. ‘I’m not exactly sure. This only happened last week but I know the police were saying there were a number. They weren’t being too precise. There were at least three dead though and the suggestion was that was just the start.’

Brendan looked pale. ‘What the hell is he, some kind of Jack the Ripper?’

Harper shrugged. He looked uncertain, trying to remember the details. ‘I don’t know but, whatever he is, it isn’t pleasant. The story only started coming out at the beginning of last week. It all began after they found the first body at the Kavanaugh Centre.’

Brendan looked confused and Harper waved his hand. ‘That’s another story. But this woman’s body turned up and she’d obviously been murdered. Turns out she was some kind of high class call girl and then, the next thing is, these other stories start to come out about all these other women going missing. Mostly prostitutes but not all. Then the police find a link with Van Hulle and he’s arrested.’

Harper shook his head slowly. ‘It was the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on. We’ve had all the nationals down here covering the story.
The Sun
christened him ‘Van Hell’. All kinds of rumours were coming out about what he’d done.’

‘Like what?’ Brendan’s tone had a kind of shocked fascination to it.

‘Well, you know he always came across as a bit of a religious nut?’

The photographer nodded.

Harper exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know the facts. It was only the end of last week that he was arrested. I’m not sure he’s even appeared in court yet. But, the first woman they found, she’d been buried alive inside a concrete wall.’

For about the fiftieth time, his eyes flicked nervously to where Van Hulle was sitting blandly drinking coffee. ‘The police were looking at a whole load of other sites. They had forensic teams all over the city.’

Brendan’s face was pale. ‘You seriously reckon this has really happened? He’s done these things?’

Harper closed his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

He looked again at Van Hulle. ‘Maybe I should go and ask him.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Brendan looked horrified. ‘What if he’s innocent? I mean, nothing has happened here.’

‘No.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Not as far we you know. But I think I know why.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Harper. ‘But just because no body’s been found doesn’t mean he hasn’t done anything. But you’re right. I can’t simply go up to him. Even if I catch him by surprise, he’s hardly going to suddenly confess is he?’

‘So what the hell are you going to do?’

Harper leant back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes wide. He shook his head as if clearing his mind. ‘I’m not sure. Tip off the police somehow? But what do I tell them?’

His eyes narrowed as he considered the problem. ‘The first body certainly won’t be in the same place but the other places… he might still have used them. And… I could try and find the woman, the first one, see if she’s okay, whether anything has happened to her.’

Wednesday, 9.32pm:

Paul Cash leant back. His pale eyes were wide and a smile played around the corners of his mouth. He picked up his wine glass and rolled the drops around inside, idly watching the play of light in the purple dregs.

‘Well, that was wonderful.’ The artist shook his head. ‘No question about it. That’s far and away the best story I’ve heard in a very long time.’

After a meal cooked by Cash, they had taken their current bottle of wine through into a huge lounge. Around the room’s stone walls hung a mixture of ancient flags and ethnic hangings, plus some antique-looking maps that looked suspiciously like flagrant works of fantasy. Now, the pair of them sat ensconced in wing-backed leather armchairs to either side of a roaring log fire.

‘You don’t believe it?’ she asked.

‘No. I don’t think I do,’ said Cash slowly. ‘On the other hand, I wouldn’t say I disbelieve it.’ He paused and then shrugged lazily. ‘On the face of it, the facts are incredible. I’m sure many people would say that what you’re suggesting just isn’t possible. But… let’s just say… not everything in this world obeys the rules like it’s supposed to.’

He laughed. ‘And we shouldn’t forget our old friend Mr Holmes.’

Rebecca squinted at Cash. Telling the story had taken time and considerable intensity. On finally reaching the end, she slumped back in her chair, relief overcoming her as she realised she had said everything needing to be said. Now, Cash’s words were forcing her reluctant brain to work again. As she tried to make sense of the comment, it occurred to Rebecca that focussing across the fireplace seemed to have become a little tricky. ‘Mr Holmes?’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Sherlock Holmes? What about him?’

Cash smiled. ‘What was it he said? “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remain — however improbable — must be the truth”.’

‘Hmmph.’ Rebecca frowned. She wrapped a lock of dark hair around one finger as she considered the comment, before giving up and shaking her head. ‘Sorry. Don’t understand. Explain.’

‘Well,’ said Cash. ‘Your Mr Harper appears to know things he shouldn’t. Including things about you. Correct?’

‘Yup.’

‘And these things, I presume we’re talking about the kind of secrets perhaps only you and one other person would know about.’

Rebecca nodded cautiously.

Cash gave a wicked smile as he saw Rebecca shuffle uncomfortably. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t be so sordid as to ask for the details. And believe me, whatever it is, I’ve probably done far worse.

Rebecca pulled herself back upright. She gave the older man a haughty glare. ‘Hey. I never said I’m talking about anything I’m ashamed of.’

‘No,’ said Cash. ‘But you’re not admitting what it is either.’

‘No, but…’

‘Anyway, as I was saying, the details aren’t actually important. What matters is that this fellow Harper knows your secrets. Not just one of them. Several.’

‘Umm. Oh… I don’t know.’ Rebecca shook her head. The whole thing was too confusing, particularly at this stage of a long evening. ‘Maybe he does. Yes. He does. Too many things. Yes.’

Cash smiled. ‘And my point is that from what you’ve said it’s highly unlikely he could have found out any of this information in any normal way. So unless, he’s some kind of really devious Machiavelli the chances of him having learnt all your secrets is so unlikely it’s as good as impossible. Which brings us back to the other possibility; that he’s telling the truth. He got them from you.’

Cash shrugged and shook his head. ‘Like I said, I don’t believe or disbelieve it but it’s an amazing story.’

They were both silent for a while, lost in thoughts, eyes drawn to the hypnotic flicker of flames licking up from the fire’s golden heart. Rebecca sensed her eyelids drooping but found herself powerless to fight the inexorable downwards pull. Her head tipped back and the arm with the wineglass slumped to the floor, spilling the last of its contents across a Moroccan rug.

Cash smiled as he watched her succumbing to sleep. The combination of wine, food and a warm fire was having a soporific effect on him as well but his mind was too busy for him. Besides, he had reached the age when sleep seemed much less necessary. And, although she had not noticed, he had drunk far less than Rebecca.

The painter watched his guest for a while, storing the image away amongst the many potential canvases in his mind. After a few minutes, he slipped out of the room; there were things he wanted to do before he went to bed.

The thud of another log being thrown onto the fire, sending a stream of sparks up the chimney, jerked Rebecca back to consciousness. She sat up with a start. Cash smiled back at her and returned to his seat.

‘Oh god. Did I fall asleep?’

Cash shrugged. He picked up his empty glass and began to twirl it in his hands. ‘Just for a while. It doesn’t matter. I take it as a compliment if my guests feel relaxed enough to go to sleep on me.’

Rebecca lowered her eyes. She felt a little embarrassed but also surprisingly at ease considering both what she had been told about Paul Cash and how little she knew him. ‘Well, I’m sorry. It doesn’t seem much of a compliment to me. Particularly seeing as I’ve eaten all your food, drunk your wine and then made you sit through my mad stories.’

Cash shrugged. ‘Strange but not necessarily mad.’

Rebecca sighed. ‘No, at least I hope not. He doesn’t seem mad. Strange yes, and sad but… I don’t know.’

Cash raised his empty glass to Rebecca. ‘I’d love to meet him.’

‘What?’

‘I’d like to meet him.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. Whatever the explanation, the story makes the man an absolute must. It’s possible he’s a complete rogue, some kind of obsessive with an instinct for the fantastic. Alternatively, he’s a fairly normal man who’s experienced something completely bizarre. Either way, I want to meet him.’

‘Yeah?’ Rebecca raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay.’

‘Give him a call.’

‘What, now?’

‘Why not?’ Cash shrugged. ‘By the sound of it, I’d guess he’s desperate to hear from you. Ring him. Invite him over.’

Rebecca looked at her watch. ‘You want him to come over now?’

‘Sure. Tell him to get a taxi.’

She smiled. ‘Out here? At this time of night? That’ll cost a fortune.’

‘I’ll pay for it.’

‘Okay.’ Rebecca fished down by her side for her bag. Inside it, she found her mobile and a piece of paper with Danny Harper’s number scribbled on it. She entered most of the number and paused, then handed the phone to Cash as she connected the call. ‘You speak to him.’

Cash dialled the number and listened for a while before closing the phone. He handed it back to Rebecca. ‘Shame. He’s not answering.’

She gave a wry smile. ‘So much for being desperate to hear from me.’

Cash shrugged. ‘More wine?’