Seagulls soared over Empire Dock. They cried out loud, but weren’t mourning Tom Gunter. Nor was Harry as he limped back to his car, trying to get his head round what had happened.
Tom must have tired of the waiting game and decided to make a break for it. Perhaps he was past caring what happened next. The moment he ignored the police warning, he was doomed. If he hadn’t killed himself, they’d have done the job for him. Harry remembered the final scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a favourite film. He hummed the poignant melody that accompanied the last frozen frame.
What should he feel – relief, satisfaction, pleasure? Kay had been avenged, justice done. Gunter was callous, and the world better off without him. Yet he could not delight in the death of another human being.
And what of Ceri, might Tom’s death break her heart?
At the door to the underground car park, he whipped his mobile out of his pocket on an impulse and dialled her number. Straight to voicemail. She sounded calm and in complete control.
‘This is Ceri Hussain. Please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’
No time to compose an elegant message. He found himself gabbling like a teenager on a first date.
‘Ceri, this is Harry Devlin. I have to tell you, Tom Gunter is dead. The police cornered him and he committed suicide.’
Like Ricky Hussain, he thought, as he switched off the phone. Frustration gnawed at him like a hungry rat, nibbling his stomach. He wished he’d not been so abrupt. He didn’t want to speculate about how she would take the news. One thing was for sure; no way would she conduct Tom’s inquest.
‘Heard the news about Tom?’ he asked Carmel as he walked into the waiting room at the General.
She nodded. ‘I’ve just come off the phone. Good riddance. There has to be an inquiry, but the officers should be in the clear. From what I hear, we carried out a textbook operation.’
‘I suppose it’s for the best.’
‘Too right, after what he did to Kay Cheung…’
‘We’re absolutely certain that he did kill her?’
‘The footprint evidence is strong, but there’s more. The CSIs have linked him to Lee Welch.’
‘What?’
‘Yep. They’ve finally recovered a fingerprint from her skin using superglue. It matches with Tom’s records.’
He stared. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well…’
Her expression said it all. It didn’t matter whether he understood. All that counted was the evidence.
‘Tom was in a relationship with Kay. She said in her email to me that he was sick of her. It might have suited him to kill her and hope that the case was linked to a murder that he couldn’t have committed. But what connection did he have with Lee?’
‘That’s for the investigating team to figure out. Remember, he’d used prostitutes in the past. My two cents is, he hired Lee and then they fell out. Perhaps he decided not to pay for her services.’
‘Denise Onuoha was killed in the same way as the other two. Strangled, tongue cut out, body left on a beach or a river bank. Yet Tom had a perfect alibi. He couldn’t have killed Denise.’
‘From the look in your eye, I deduce you have a theory.’
‘I hope I’m wrong.’
‘That’s not like you. Are you going to share your ideas?’
‘Not until I’ve had a private conversation with someone.’ He folded his arms. ‘So how do you explain it all?’
She gave him an exasperated look. ‘It’s not my job to explain it, Harry. Thank God I’m just a humble lawyer. Now, are you ready for a word with Jim?’
They set off down the corridor that smelt of antiseptic. Jim was tucked up in bed in a small private room with a picture of Coniston Water on the wall. His head had been shaved and his skin was the same dull shade as the sky outside. He seemed shrunken and old, but he was alive, and nothing else mattered. Although his lips were pale, a faint smile played on them.
‘Harry,’ he said in a thin voice. ‘Why aren’t you minding the shop?’
‘It’s Saturday.’
‘What sort of excuse is that?’
Harry sat by the side of the bed and clasped his partner’s hand. ‘You had me worried there.’
‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘The doctors said you might undergo a personality change.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up. I still keep the parking space.’
‘Attention deficit syndrome, it’s common enough after a blow on the head.’
‘I’m not bothered. You’ve suffered from it for years.’
‘So how does it feel, having a near-death experience?’
‘Remember when we were at the College of Law, listening to endless lectures on the law of landlord and tenant? They were ideal preparation.’
‘He looks good,’ Harry said when they were back in the little room.
‘Relatively speaking.’ Carmel was fighting to keep her emotions in check.
‘It’s going to be OK.’
‘I think so, Harry.’
As she hugged him tight, he said, ‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘You can always ask.’
‘I want to find out something about Lee Welch.’
‘Go on, break it to me gently.’
‘Did she ever work as a cleaner at the Coroner’s Court?’
Her lips compressed into a thin line. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Call me when you find the answer. Please?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I told you, I need to talk to someone.’
Outside, the hospital car park was jam-packed as usual. Dodging between the vehicles that circled, vulture-like, in search of a free space, he switched his phone back on. Better see if Ceri had called while he was inside with Carmel and Jim.
Sure enough, she’d recorded a message.
‘I’m so sorry, I’ve ruined everything. Please don’t think too badly of me. Everyone else will.’ She sounded weary and beaten. ‘Thanks for your kindness, Harry. I wish I hadn’t put myself out of reach.’
Hands shaking, he rang her number.
‘This is Ceri Hussain. Please leave a message…’
Shit.
He raced to his car.
‘Ken Porterfield.’ The coroner’s officer sounded stern. Probably Harry had interrupted him in the middle of sinking a pre-lunch pint.
‘Listen,’ he hissed into the mobile, ‘have you spoken to Ceri Hussain today?’
‘No, but why do you ask? Is anything wrong?’
‘Can you tell me Ceri’s home address?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I want you to meet me there.’
‘At the coroner’s house?’ His tone suggested that Harry was proposing a ram-raid on the Vatican. ‘What on earth for?’
‘I’m worried sick. I think…something may have happened to her.’
Carmel called as he queued at the lights at the end of Jericho Lane.
‘Culture City Cleaners has a contract to clean the Coroner’s Court.’
He swore in fury. Never had he been so sorry to solve a mystery.
‘What’s wrong, Harry?’
‘Everything.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Later. What about Lee Welch? Did she work on the contract?’
‘Yep, you were spot on. She was on the evening shift there for a few weeks earlier this year.’
He gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘What does this all mean?’
‘Trouble,’ he muttered, as amber turned to green and he turned in the direction of Sefton Park. ‘Big bloody trouble.’
Ceri Hussain’s house was a smart detached at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Pleasant, nondescript, the sort of place where nothing bad ever happens. Ken Porterfield lived on the far side of the park, a five minute stroll away. He had already arrived by the time Harry turned into Bullough Walk. Although it had stopped raining, a grey mackintosh was draped over his bulky shoulders. As he peered at a ground floor window with its curtains drawn, he looked more like a nosey neighbour than a one-time vice cop.
‘You’d better not be having a laugh.’ For once there was no hint of amusement in Ken’s voice. ‘It’ll be more than my life’s worth if you’ve brought me out on a wild goose chase. If the coroner turns up and catches us prying…’
‘Listen to this.’
Harry put his mobile to Ken’s ear and played back the message that Ceri had recorded. As he listened, Ken’s face crumpled like a used crisp packet.
‘Bugger me, Harry. It sounds like…’
‘Goodbye?’
‘Well…I mean, what is going on?’
‘It’s a long story. First things first. We need to find her.’
They followed the brick path that led around the house. In the neat garden at the rear, hydrangeas bloomed, pink and blue. Ivy and a deep purple clematis scrambled up a freshly painted white trellis. A sparrow supped at a bird table carved from stone, reached by stepping stones across a square of lawn. There were hanging baskets filled with lobelia and petunias. All very ordinary, an English suburban garden. The only sound came from a distant hedge trimmer. The house was silent. Ceri might be having a well-deserved Saturday morning lie-in, but Harry doubted it. His stomach felt queasy, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something rotten.
‘We have to break in.’
Ken puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can’t do that, Harry. The coroner’s house? We’d need a bloody good reason to smash her back window in.’
‘If the shit hits the fan, you can blame me.’
‘I’ll blame you anyway.’
‘That’s settled, then.’
‘She might have gone shopping.’
Harry nodded towards the gabled garage. Through its back window he made out the sleek contours of Ceri’s red BMW.
‘On foot?’
‘Why not? She’s not a bloody invalid.’
‘You don’t really believe she’s out shopping. She’s not answering her mobile, yet she once told me she keeps it switched on 24/7.’
‘It comes with the territory, when you’re City Coroner. An unexplained death may occur at any time of day or night.’
‘Ever known her blip off the radar like this before?’
Ken shook his head. ‘She’s obsessive about making herself available, I never knew a woman so committed to her work.’
‘Well, then.’
‘Hold your horses. Her mobile might be malfunctioning or out of range.’ Ken shifted from foot to foot. ‘What if this turns out to be a false alarm?’
‘What if we forget about it and go back home, and then it turns out this wasn’t a false alarm?’
‘Speaking of alarms, suppose we set off her security system and the police show up?’
‘I’m a defence lawyer and you have more mates on the force than the Chief Constable. If we can’t talk our way out of it…’
Ken weighed this up. ‘All right, you silver-tongued bastard. You win.’
Harry pointed to a kitchen window. It didn’t seem completely shut. The sash had stuck.
‘Reckon that’s the best bet?’
‘You should have been a burglar.’
‘Maybe one day, if staying on the right side of the law doesn’t work out.’
Ken shook his head. ‘I really don’t know what to make of you.’
‘Just get us inside the house, mate, I’ll jump on the psychiatrist’s couch later.’
‘It’s going to be tight.’ Ken patted his stomach. ‘I wish now I’d said no to that second helping of steak and kidney pud last night.’
It must have been imagination, but Harry thought he could hear the relentless tick, tick, tick of his own wristwatch.
‘Let’s do it.’
It took Ken less than thirty seconds to force open the lower window. So much for home security. First he helped Harry climb up and haul himself inside, and then with much grunting and swearing he managed to squeeze his own bulk over the sink and granite-topped breakfast bar and into the kitchen.
‘Just don’t have a heart attack,’ Harry muttered. ‘It’s not a good time.’
‘No way,’ Ken panted. ‘I’ve not got round to changing my will since Elsie left me and I moved in with Sharon. I’m buggered if I’m going to keel over and let that old battleaxe inherit.’
Everything was tidy. No unwashed breakfast things, no lingering smell of bacon or coffee. Spice jars were arrayed in a rack, a telephone sat in its cradle. On the wall was a photograph in a chrome frame of a couple of newly-weds outside a registry office. Ceri was kissing a self-consciously handsome man with a carnation in the buttonhole of his three-piece suit. His arm was draped around her, his demeanour possessive.
Ricky Hussain in happier times. Years before someone else had photographed him, taking Denise Onuoha into the Adelphi.
Next to a cork notice-board, half a dozen keys were arrayed in a rack. No spaces remained for any that Ceri might have taken with her. It looked as though she hadn’t left the house.
No time to lose.
‘Ceri!’ he bellowed. ‘This is Harry Devlin!’
‘If she is in here, you’ll frighten the poor woman to death,’ Ken grumbled as he dusted his trousers.
Harry wiped his brow. He was sweating hard, and not just from the exertion of clambering in through the window.
‘Frightening her is the least of my worries.’
The internal kitchen door was shut. He threw it open and hurried into the hallway. The first door he opened was a walk-in cupboard. The second gave on to the living room. Someone was lying on the sofa. He glimpsed dark, familiar hair and bare feet hanging over the arm-rest.
‘Ceri!’
He ran in and crouched on the carpet beside the sofa. His knees still hurt, but it didn’t matter. She was wearing a claret and blue striped rugby shirt and black corduroy jeans. Her feet were slender, her toenails unpainted. Her eyes were closed and for a sickening moment, he thought she was dead. But she was still breathing, though it was a rough and laboured sound.
He seized her wrist. In his hand it seemed so fragile, it might break at any moment.
‘Wake up! Wake up!’
She groaned, and saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. He’d never before seen her without a dab of lipstick. But you wouldn’t bother with lippy, would you, the day you meant to kill yourself?
Ken’s heavy tread came up behind him. ‘She’s taken an overdose. The silly cow, what’s going on here?’
Harry glanced up at a couple of empty packets of pills on a coffee table near the sofa. There was a bottle of whisky, too, and an empty tumbler. He could smell the drink on her. She’d swallowed the tablets and alcohol, then lain down on the cushions, waiting to die.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he snapped. ‘Dial 999.’
Colour had drained from the big man’s face. ‘Right you are.’
As Ken headed back for the kitchen, Harry hooked his arm round Ceri. Cradling her, he choked back a sob.
‘Talk to me.’
Her head moved, as if in a feeble gesture of dissent, and her eyes opened a fraction. Her gaze lacked focus and he wasn’t sure if she was seeing him, or some horrid image from a nightmare. Harry heard Ken bellowing into the phone. He shut out the noise. He must keep Ceri awake until help arrived.
‘Please, say something.’
The pale lips twitched. She’d tried to speak, but he couldn’t catch the words. He bent closer.
‘What is it? Tell me.’
Her skin was puffy. He’d never seen her look her age before. As he held her tight, he felt her breasts against his arm. What wouldn’t he have given for such intimacy a couple of nights back? But never like this, when she’d chosen death instead of life.
‘It’s Harry. Come on, everything’s going to be all right, I promise.’
He uttered the lie without a second thought. But a lie it was. Ceri’s life would never be all right again.
Her lips moved again. ‘Mur…’
‘What?’
‘Mur-murder.’
So this was it.
She wanted to confess.