Waking Broken (14 page)

In the past, Harper had felt a mixture of envy and admiration for the man. Now, seeing Cash in close proximity to Rebecca, he felt slightly sick.

Thursday, 9.15am:

The blue and white tape sealing off a section of Smith Street had already attracted a number of onlookers. Small groups of residents stood at either end of the police cordon, gawping eagerly as they waited to see what the fuss was about. There was also one reporter from the local radio station; acting on a tip-off, the journalist was trying unsuccessfully to attract the attention of anyone who would talk to him.

Robert Glasgow ducked quietly under one corner of the tape and made his way towards the tent erected on the pavement. A uniformed officer moved to halt him but stopped when he recognised the inspector.

The constable gave a respectful nod. ‘Sir.’

Glasgow ignored the young policeman and approached the group standing outside the tent. ‘Jim, what’s up?’

The bald man at the centre of the gaggle turned. ‘Hey, Rob. I was hoping you’d be here soon.’

‘What have you got?’

His colleague shrugged. ‘A puzzle, that’s what we’ve got.’

Glasgow frowned. ‘What kind of puzzle?’

Jim Stanley exhaled slowly. ‘Best thing is if I show you. But, before we take you down, I’ll fill you in on the background.’

Glasgow nodded. His eyes moved around the other members of the group. Smith was a detective inspector from the city’s eastern beat, covering the area around the train station and the streets to its north. Although including some commercial businesses, the district was mainly residential: a lot of it made up of old terraced housing yet to be gentrified. Many of the houses were bedsits and flats. The area contained large numbers of students but also a fair number of those who lived off one form of benefit or another.

Stanley had his sergeant with him. Sharon Redman was as tough as nails, one of those women who had seen enough of life’s seamier side not to have any illusions left. A slim blonde with not unattractive features, she matched her police uniform with precision make-up. The appearance was deceptive; Glasgow had seen her lay out a drunken football hooligan twice her weight and pin him to the ground.

Sharon Redman gave Glasgow a curt nod.

The other three were strangers. Glasgow knew they were not police. From the look of them, he guessed they were either from the council or some similar body: petty functionaries of one kind or another.

Jim Stanley took Glasgow’s arm and steered him to one side. The older man frowned, running the palms of his hand along the sides of his leathery skull. He had been coming to the end of his shift when the information reached his office. Now he was frustrated as well as tired.

‘We had a caller last night,’ he began. ‘He wanted to tell us where there was a body hidden.’

Glasgow nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Yeah, right so far. Couldn’t tell us a name but said the deceased was probably a prostitute. Killed in the last few months, he reckoned.’ Stanley shrugged. ‘That’s why I called you, remembering what you were asking about the other day. Wondered if you were on to something and whether this might tie in.’

Glasgow raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘Caller told us to look in a section of the main sewers here under Smith Street. Said we’d find the victim hidden behind a wall. Reckoned part of the sewer had been blocked up and the woman’s body would be inside. ‘Sealed up like a tomb’ were his words.’

Stanley paused and Glasgow waited for him to continue.

‘Well,’ the older man said eventually, ‘it’s probably simplest if you come and see what we found.’

It was a warmer day than of late and the sunshine slanting in through the tent made it almost seem like spring had finally arrived.

Glasgow looked at the open manhole cover and the grubby metal rungs leading down the stained concrete shaft. He took his jacket off and laid it carefully over an electrical cable looped through the frame. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sharon Redman watching him, the hint of a sarcastic smile tugging at her lipsticked mouth.

‘You been down there, sergeant.’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said deadpan. ‘A couple of times.’

Jim Stanley stepped past Glasgow and lowered himself into the hole with a weary groan. ‘Here we go again.’

Glasgow followed him down. The shaft only dropped about fifteen feet. At the bottom was a small concrete chamber with an opening leading into the main sewer. A cable had been run from above and lights positioned at strategic intervals. Out of the sunlight it was suddenly cooler again, the damp air in the tunnel helping sap the warmth from his body. Glasgow shivered then nodded curtly at his colleague. ‘Let’s go.’

Stanley led the way and Glasgow followed cautiously. The main sewer was built of brick but stained shades of grey, green and brown. A steady current of water flowed along the main channel but it did not smell too offensive. Glasgow surmised it was probably mainly rainwater coming in through soakaways and storm drains. He kept his smartly polished brogues well away from its edge nevertheless. ‘So what can you tell me about the caller?’

‘Not much,’ grunted Stanley. ‘Wouldn’t give much detail. Wouldn’t say how he knew about the body.’

‘You hear the tape?’

‘Yes.’ Stanley came to a halt. They had reached a fork in the tunnel. A board lay across the channel.

Glasgow let the other man cross, watching to see whether the temporary bridge sagged. ‘Any thoughts on the caller then?’

Stanley shrugged. ‘Nothing too concrete,’ he said, turning to watch over his shoulder as Glasgow followed him into the left-hand fork. ‘Youngish, thirties I’d guess. Fairly standard speech, educated but not overly. Probably not local though, accent wasn’t quite right for that. Wasn’t giving much away. Seemed a bit agitated but no more than normal.’

‘Any name?’

‘Wouldn’t give one to begin with. When pressed, said to call him ’Dusty’.’

‘Dusty?’

Stanley stopped again. ‘Yeah, like Springfield. Anyway, we’re here. End of the line.’

The older officer turned a corner and stepped into a short section of sewer that ran about twenty feet before stopping at a solid concrete wall. Glasgow looked around. An arc light had been positioned at the side of the tunnel, shining towards the wall. There was no sign of a body or evidence there had been one.

Stanley laughed. ‘Looks innocent doesn’t it. From here, you’d think it was a wind-up: someone yanking our chain.’

Glasgow registered his colleague’s choice of words but did not pursue them straight away. He frowned. ‘I thought you said the informant reckoned the body was behind the wall.’

‘He did but it’s certainly not behind that wall,’ said Stanley. ‘We’ve had the guys from the water company and the council down to check. There’s a section of old Victorian sewer beyond here that used to lead through where the Kent Street car park was built. When they excavated the basement of the multi-storey, the water company put in new drains and blocked off the old sewer. These guys swear that’s the wall that was put in twenty years ago.’

‘You sure there’s not another way in? What if the body is on the other side?’

Stanley grinned. ‘Oh, don’t worry. We did make sure. One of the bods from the council drilled a hole and put a fibre optic through.’

‘Nothing there?’

‘Just a dark, empty hole. Not even any rats.’

Glasgow stared harder. He began to walk towards the wall. He stopped when he was about ten feet away. An unaccustomed chill ran down his spine. ‘Fuck.’

‘Quite,’ said Stanley.

Two metal manacles had been bolted into the wall at shoulder height about four feet apart. Another pair had been fixed into the wall just above ground level.

Glasgow bit at his lip. He stepped slowly up to the wall then turned. He stood with his back to the wall and lifted his arms.

‘Fuck,’ he repeated. ‘It’s a fucking crucifixion.’

Thursday, 9.20am:

Rebecca stepped forward as the taxi door opened then stopped again, hesitant. Last night the wine had released her tongue. Laying out the facts for Paul Cash had brought to the surface the more intangible aspects of the affair, breaking down a dam that held back a confusion of emotion. The process was gradual, the rising levels of alcohol washing away the inhibitions on her words. At first the feelings that clogged up her mind emerged in a trickle but, as the night went on, they came rushing out in full spate.

She had not yet had time this morning to remember everything that she told Cash, let alone appreciate the cathartic effect of her confession. But Harper’s unexpected arrival was triggering an even more important revelation: she was suddenly aware of the huge hole left in her thoughts by his absence.

A smile lit up Rebecca’s face as Harper clambered out of the taxi’s back seat. But it dissolved to dismay as she caught sight of his features. ‘Danny! What’s happened to you?’

Harper grimaced. ‘It’s a long story.’

He looked at Rebecca with a mixture of relief and longing as he closed the car door behind him and moved towards her. Without apparently thinking about it, he stepped close and put his arms around her in a tight hug. ‘Ah, Becca, you don’t know how good it is to see you.’

Rebecca felt herself go stiff as Harper’s hands rested on her shoulder and ribs, drawing them together. Although seconds ago his arrival had filled her with a warm glow, to now have him holding her body against his was too much of a jump. But it was weird the way he did it. He held her so naturally: as if it was something he did every day.

Harper became aware of her resistance and started to pull away. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…’

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and once again she found herself staring into his eyes but closer than before. She was conscious of the cut above one eyebrow and the bruising that had spread across the side of his face. More than that though: she saw the weary sadness in his expression, a longing that touched her deep inside.

Harper shook his head as he slowly, reluctantly released her and withdrew a step. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have done that. I forget… It was just… good to see you.’

Rebecca lifted her hands to his shoulders and squeezed them. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I mind.’

A tentative smile curled the corners of Harper’s mouth. ‘Well, if you really don’t think you do then that’s the best thing I’ve heard for days.’

Rebecca smiled back as, beside them, the taxi pulled away. The movement jolted her back to where they were and made her conscious they were not alone. She released Harper and turned, indicating her host with a slightly embarrassed gesture. ‘Danny, this is Paul Cash.’

The artist stepped forward, a sardonic glint in his eye. ‘Mr Harper, I’m delighted that you could make it.’

Harper let himself be guided into Howarth Manor. Rebecca walked at his elbow. She seemed pleased to see him but subdued. Cash, however, appeared bright and breezy. A niggling little demon made Harper wonder if something had happened between the two of them last night but he tried to bury the idea.

The lord of the manor led them through a couple of rooms and into a large kitchen with a low, beamed ceiling and flagstone floor. The artist gestured to a big wooden table in the centre of the room. ‘Please, take a seat.’

Cash wandered over to a line of ramshackle cupboards built of oak so old that they looked black. From inside one of the compartments he produced a bottle of whisky and three crystal tumblers.

After placing the bottle and glasses on the table, Cash pulled out a chair opposite his two guests and sat down. Harper followed suit slowly. Being back in the same room as Rebecca felt like a relief but he was wary about the reason behind his invite to the manor and the other man’s intentions for both of them.

Harper watched as Cash silently pulled the stopper from the single malt, poured out a healthy slug and pushed it across the table. He hesitated. ‘It’s a little early for that.’

Cash shrugged. ‘Says who? Besides, you look like you need one.’

Harper nodded reluctantly. ‘Yeah, I probably do.’

He picked up the glass and twirled it in his hand, watching the viscous spiral of the whisky as it followed the crystal round. The sharp aromas of peat, old oak and Scottish lochs eddied up towards his nostrils. He inhaled slowly, watching Cash, who made no attempt to fill the other glasses.

The room was silent for a while.

Rebecca, who had been standing, pulled out the chair next to Harper and sat down. She rested one hand on his arm and gave a friendly squeeze. Harper blinked, sensing a prickle of tears in his eyes: a combination of exhaustion and over-emotion.

Cash was leaning back in his chair, watching them both through narrowed eyes, a faint smile on his lips that betrayed many possibilities. After a long and unproductive hiatus, the artist reached forward, poured himself a small whisky and took a sip. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I must say you don’t look quite so on form as last time I saw you, Mr Harper.’

Harper frowned. ‘When was that?’

‘Last summer,’ said Cash. He waved around the kitchen. ‘I wondered if you might recognise the room… though… on the other hand, maybe not.’

Rebecca looked surprised. She glanced quickly from one to the other. ‘You didn’t say you knew Danny.’

Cash smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him. I’ve met him.’

‘No,’ said Harper. He shook his head doggedly. He looked down at the table then around the room, awkward and uncertain.

‘Actually, I’m not surprised you don’t remember it,’ said Cash. ‘It was quite a shindig even by my standards. I recall that you and your friend Brendan made quite an impression. A dance routine I seem to remember.’

Rebecca smiled uncertainly but Harper shook his head again. ‘When was this supposed to be?’

Cash rubbed his chin. ‘Let me see. Last June? It was after the Picnic in the Park event. You were backstage when everyone came back here for a party. That was on the Friday. I think you were one of the last to leave. I didn’t clear everyone out until Monday.’

‘No,’ repeated Harper slowly. ‘I do remember the concert and I was there but it wasn’t with Brendan.’ He glanced sideways. ‘I was with Becca and her cousin Suzie. We did come backstage and, in fact, I remember seeing you but we didn’t go to any party. Suzie was a big Black Dove fan and I’d promised to get her backstage so she could meet the band. She was upset because she’d broken up with her boyfriend and we were trying to cheer her up.’

Rebecca gave a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes widened and her grip tightened on Harper’s arm.

Cash took in her expression. ‘You were with your cousin?’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I was.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I hadn’t seen her for a few years and she suddenly turned up to see me.’

Harper smiled. ‘About eleven o’clock at night if I remember.’

Rebecca blinked. She stared hard at Harper, staring into his eyes as if trying to draw out the essence of this other life. ‘But we weren’t backstage,’ she said slowly. ‘Suzie is a fan of Black Dove but we were out in the park with everyone else.’ She turned to look at Harper. ‘How could you know about Suzie?’

Cash snorted. ‘I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, my dear. Knowing who you were with that day doesn’t prove much.’

Harper set his whisky glass down on the table, still untouched. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything.’

‘No?’ said Cash.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything because I can’t. All I can do is say how I remember things.’

‘Handy isn’t it,’ said Cash calmly.

‘What is?’ said Harper.

‘Having a… what shall we call it… story? Condition? You’ve got memories, or so you say, of events that don’t match with anyone else’s recollection of the truth. But we can’t say you don’t have these memories because no one can read your mind. So, in a sense, we can only argue about the facts, we can’t dispute your belief. Just like religion really.’

Rebecca shook her head and held out her hand to stop Harper before he could speak. ‘But that’s only part of it. What about the things he knows?’

Cash shrugged. ‘What things? The story of your virginity?’

Rebecca gave a gasp. She stared at Cash, her astonishment turning to anger.

Harper’s eyes narrowed. He looked in surprise at Rebecca then Cash, wondering what other confidences these two had shared.

‘That’s out of order,’ Rebecca said coldly.

Cash looked unabashed. ‘Or are you talking about the fact he knew you were with your cousin? How difficult is that to find out. The man is obsessed with you. He sees you at a concert; of course he’s going to notice who you’re with.’

Rebecca face flushed with anger. ‘I hadn’t seen her for years,’ she snapped. ‘No one else in this place knows her. Even if Danny had seen me with Suzie, how would he have known who she was? And, even if he did find out, how the hell would he know what time of night she turned up?’

‘Easy,’ said Cash. ‘One overheard conversation. That’s all it takes. Are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t bump into anyone you knew that day? That you didn’t introduce your cousin, joke about how she’d appeared out of the blue, that you were taking her to see a favourite band?’ He leant forward, pale eyes fixed on Rebecca. ‘And if he is a psycho, some kind of stalker, can you be certain he wasn’t watching your house when your cousin arrived? He might even have been listening when you spoke to her on the doorstep.’

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed and she glared at Cash but Harper smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry?’

‘No. He’s trying to provoke me.’ Harper sighed. He picked up his whisky and took a gentle taste, rolling the liquor around his tastebuds. ‘Your friend here is trying to test me. And I don’t mind. It’s fair enough. I’d probably do the same in his place.’

Harper set the glass back down. ‘The thing is: there’s part of me that welcomes it. The whole thing doesn’t make sense to me either. I don’t understand what’s going on so it’s no surprise that Mr Cash here is suspicious. And part of me would be quite glad if he could find a hole in my story.’

He spread his hands. ‘What if I am mad? If you could prove that I’m mentally ill, it would be a relief in some ways. I mean: I don’t want to lose my memories of you. On the other hand, if it’s all some weird fantasy maybe it would be better to know, get some treatment and stop all this madness in my head.’

Rebecca looked at him aghast. ‘You don’t mean that.’

Harper smiled sadly. ‘Not really, no. Maybe it’s just a symptom of my madness but whatever anyone else may say: I know that everything I’ve told you is true. I remember everything. I remember meeting you for the first time. I remember our life together. I remember Suzie turning up at your door, all dressed in black, with mascara running down her face because she’d cried all the way here on the train. I remember making her bacon and eggs for breakfast and then finding out she’d become a vegetarian since you’d last seen her.’

He sighed. ‘I remember everything: most of it good.’