As the three of us stood there, arranged in a triangle, each trying to make sense of the new facts that kept popping up like lottery balls, the study door pushed open. It took my brain a few seconds to work out what my eyes were seeing. My skin goose-bumped.
‘Col.’
He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before. I wondered whether he ever slept. He flashed his police badge at Wilkins. ‘I can take over from here,’ he said.
I tried to wipe the smile from my face. His baggy blue jumper was too long in the sleeve, so came down to his knuckles, leaving just his fingers exposed.
‘What are you doing here? I thought …’
He crossed the room towards me, kissed me on the cheek, like we were an old married couple and he’d just got in from work. He slipped the Glock from my fingers.
‘I was worried,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t fair of me to let the two of you handle this on your own.’
I shook my head, realized Col had some catching up to do. ‘He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill his wife.’ I turned to look at Wilkins who had returned to perching on the desk. The old man had his arms folded again, his shirtsleeves pushed up his forearms. ‘And if he didn’t kill Jayne, why would he kill Megan?’
‘Who’s Megan?’ Nick Wilkins asked.
Col ignored him and spoke to me. ‘That can’t be, Lee. He paid the ransom. Men like him don’t hand over that kind of cash unless they’ve got something to hide.’
‘He thought it was Jack.’ I glanced over at Jo. Why wasn’t she saying anything?
Col kept the Glock trained on Wilkins. ‘Let’s go into the front room. See if we can sort this out. It’s comfier in there.’
Jo got up from her chair, still without speaking, and led the way across the hall. I followed, Nick behind me. We were like school children, allowing ourselves to be herded. Col brought up the rear, still holding the gun. Once we were all in the front room, he closed the door behind him.
‘I don’t buy it,’ he said.
Jo retrieved her roll-up from the ashtray on the coffee table. She lit it again and retook her place on the settee. Wilkins returned to his armchair.
‘What kind of car do you drive?’ he asked Col.
‘I don’t,’ said Col. ‘Prefer public transport.’
‘You lied about Karen,’ Jo said. I hated her for pointing that out. I scrambled for explanations. Maybe there were two Karens. It was feasible. Col pulled at a stray piece of wool from the sleeve of his jumper.
‘Where’s the rest of the team?’ asked Wilkins.
‘He’s dying,’ I said. ‘Jo’s seen his medical notes.’
‘Never known a copper come to a bust single-handed.’ Nick crossed to the window and flicked back the curtain. I wondered who’d drawn them. They’d been open the last time we’d been in this room. I realized it must have been Col. ‘Didn’t hear any cars pull up.’
‘I guess you could call me off-duty,’ Col said.
‘That a fact?’
‘Wanted to keep an eye on these two. See, they thought they could handle you. Get a confession, get you behind bars, where you belong.’
‘You’re being set-up,’ Nick said to me and Jo.
Still Jo didn’t say anything, but from the expression on her face she didn’t have to.
‘I know a copper gone bad when I see one,’ Wilkins continued.
I glanced at Col. ‘You mean—?’
‘Ignore him,’ said Col. ‘We’re not listening to the word of a man who killed his own wife.’
‘I can prove I didn’t.’
‘He’s got her suicide note,’ I said. The curtains made no sense. Why would Col draw the curtains?
‘Faked.’
‘I’ve got dozens of letters she wrote me, her signature on the deeds of the house, our marriage certificate, a couple of her diaries. Forensics will prove it’s her handwriting.’
My mouth had gone so dry my teeth stuck to my lips. I tried to align myself with the new facts. Jayne killed herself, Karen wasn’t dead. That left me with two pieces of jigsaw that didn’t seem to fit with the new picture. I stared at Col, remembered standing so close to him last night.
‘Who killed Megan?’
‘You’re looking at him,’ said Jo.
I kept my eyes on Col. ‘Am I?’ I asked him.
Col sighed. ‘I knew this was too good to be true.’
‘What was?’ asked Wilkins.
‘Thought my luck had turned. If they could prove you’d killed your wife, this would be plain sailing. But you couldn’t pull it off, could you?’
‘Because he didn’t kill his wife,’ muttered Jo. She stood up, moved towards the coffee table; I think to flick the ash from her roll-up into the ashtray.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ I said. I sat down in the armchair, because all of a sudden, I wasn’t sure whether my knees would hold me up. ‘You killed Megan.’
‘Luckily, there is a plan B.’ Col moved the Glock to his left hand and, with his right, pulled a second gun out of the inside of his jacket pocket.
‘That’s my gun,’ said Nick.
‘You can have it back, soon as I’m finished with it.’ Col turned, raised his right arm, extended it forward and shot Jo.
That moment is preserved in slow motion in my brain, like a clip from a film. I can replay it over and over, a millisecond at a time. I can see everything. The confusion on Jo’s face as Col points the gun at her. Her step backwards which knocks her into the coffee table. Her stumble, the bloom of red on her shoulder. Her fall to the ground. Nick’s roar that reverberates as the scene plays out. I can see the whisky bottle on the coffee table. It tips but stays upright. I watch Nick catapult himself out of the armchair and across the room. He launches himself horizontally towards the gun, while my brain scrabbles to reclassify Col as bent cop. Cold-blooded killer.
Jo hit the floor, her body twisted at an angle that was just plain wrong. Nick was too slow, too old, but I was amazed by his fearlessness. He struck Col with all his body weight – charged him like a battering ram. Col toppled backwards, trying to keep Nick back with his right arm. He dropped the Glock, and it hit the carpet. I saw Col kick at it, and it disappeared under the sofa. I think I remained seated, frozen, my brain stretched with the effort of keeping up with the pictures in front of me, the two men grappling like sumo wrestlers. Nick had the size and height advantage, but Col was younger, fitter.
Then something snapped.
I fired from my chair. Rage, like rocket fuel, propelling me forward. I hit Col from the rear, kicked him in the ribs, low enough to hurt his liver. I saw Nick’s gun drop to the floor, and I managed to get a foot to it, kicked it backwards along the carpet, out of the immediate area. Nick was on top of Col now and I crumpled with them, my left leg trapped under Col’s body.
I think I took an elbow to the face. I shut my eyes to block the pain. I heard a shot, and I wondered how. I’d seen both guns leave Col’s hands. Nick slumped, became a dead weight. The pain in my left leg got worse. I felt the warmth of wetness seep into my jeans.
I grabbed the armchair leg and tried to extricate myself, my mind only on Jo. I had to get to her, help her, make sure she was all right. But I wasn’t quick enough, because Col grabbed me by the throat.
‘Not so fast.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ I screamed. ‘If you’ve—’
He pulled his arm back and slapped my face. So hard I felt my teeth move. He spoke slowly. One word at a time. ‘Shut. The. Fuck. Up.’
He was on top of me, but the lower half of his body was still underneath Nick. He struggled to push Nick’s body off him, and he crawled his way off me. He pulled himself up to standing, and I saw the gun in his hand. Another gun? I couldn’t keep track. I sat up, the left-hand side of my face burning.
‘You’ll never get away with this.’
‘Only one way to find out.’ He grinned at me. In that moment he was the most beautiful ugly man I’d ever laid eyes on.
‘You’re going to kill me?’ OK, I’d cottoned on to the fact he wasn’t the man of my dreams. Hell, I’d even reconciled myself to it. It’s not like he was the first man to not live up to expectations. But had I got last night that wrong?
‘I didn’t kill you,’ said Col. ‘He did.’ He used his gun to point at Nick’s lifeless form. ‘I came to your rescue, soon as I got wind of your plan. But, sadly, I was too late.’ He took one of the fags that Nick had left on the coffee table and lit it. I thought I noticed a tremble in his hands, but it may have been me. ‘Tragic. But at least a murder got solved.’
‘Which one?’ I’d been right. Knowing you’re about to die is liberating.
‘Good question. Four murders got solved. Four for the price of one. Jayne, Megan, your good friend over there, and last but not least, you.’
‘What about Jack?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Who gives a shit? He’s a junkie. No one cares.’
‘Karen?’
‘Sorry.’ He paused to take a drag on his cigarette. ‘I told a lie.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Thought you’d like it, given your history.’
I glared at him.
‘I checked you out, Lee. Know all about your shitty family. You can run, Lee, but you’ll never hide.’
‘You utter bastard.’
‘Not me, him.’ He gestured at Nick’s corpse. ‘Brute of a man. Getting away with murder all this time. I’m the hero. Tragically a bit too late to actually save anyone, but still a hero for trying.’
‘Why’d you kill her?’
‘Why d’you think? Come on, you’re the fucking investigator.’
‘She was on to you. Knew you’d got involved in something.’
‘There you go. Not just a pretty face.’
‘She was going to turn you in.’
‘And you are, Lee. You know, not pretty, a stunning face. Was looking forward to watching you suck my dick. Bet you’re a fighter in the sack.’
‘Now you’ll never know.’
‘That’s the worst of it.’ He half-laughed.
I felt my lips with my forefinger. ‘Always had lousy taste when it comes to men. Can I have a fag?’
He sat down in the armchair and crossed his right leg over his left. The gun pointed at me, resting on his knee. ‘Get up off the floor.’
I did as he said. Hauled myself up, unsure whether my knees would obey the messages my brain was sending them.
‘She found out you’re bent. You’re dealing.’ I dropped myself into the second armchair, thought of Brownie and what he’d told me at Bernie and Duck’s house. And the truth smacked into me. ‘You’re T.’
‘You see, you go into the police force believing that crime doesn’t pay, that the good guys always win. You start hanging out with the bad guys, and you realize they aren’t so bad after all. They like the same things you like, football, having a laugh, a beer after work. Then you see the cash – more cash than I could earn in ten years as a cop. Ten years of putting my life on the line. No one gives a fuck. OK, they give you a decent funeral, but who really cares? After you’re gone? They leave your wife with a pension and some vague notion that her husband was a hero. How does that help a 6-year-old kid?’
‘“Six-year-old kid”?’ I wasn’t following the story. My eyes alighted on the whisky bottle Nick had brought with him when he first came through the living room door. Still holding its own on the coffee table. ‘Fancy a drink?’ I pointed. ‘Bet it’s the good stuff.’
‘No chance.’
‘Come on, live a little. I need to numb the pain. You need Dutch courage.’
I reached across for the bottle and retrieved Nick’s glass from the floor. I crawled back to my armchair and filled the glass. ‘So you are married.’
I held the glass out to him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not me.’
‘You said a 6-year-old kid?’
‘Not mine.’ He took the glass from my hand.
I didn’t react, didn’t move a single muscle, just kept staring at his green-brown eyes, the ones that reminded me of something, someone, some part of me.
‘Who you talking about then?’
He drank the whisky down in one gulp and put the glass down on the coffee table. I hadn’t had a drink for four months and twelve days. I sniffed the bottle that I still held in my right hand. My taste buds dampened. I swallowed the surplus saliva, put my lips to its neck. Stopped, made myself pause, inhaled first, drank second. The liquid burned the back of my throat, making my oesophagus come to life. I could feel every cell stir as the liquid seeped down my throat, telling me not to worry, reassuring me that everything would be OK, that the pain wouldn’t last. I might have closed my eyes for a brief moment.
‘A woman who appreciates her alcohol,’ Col said.
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘That’s the best ever.’
‘See? Crime does pay,’ said Col. ‘He’s living proof … Well, when I say living.’ He trailed off for a moment as he glanced across at Nick’s inert body on the carpet. I couldn’t let myself look in Jo’s direction. ‘But you know, he lives in a mansion and drinks whisky that probably costs more for one bottle than I make in a month. How is that fair?’
‘Maybe he worked hard.’
‘Maybe he didn’t.’
I shrugged. I learned a long time ago to let karma take care of what’s fair and what isn’t. ‘He’s got cancer.’
‘We all die, Lee. Sooner or later.’
‘Maybe it’s about dying with a clear conscience.’
‘Because?’
‘Depends whether you believe in an afterlife.’
‘I don’t,’ said Col.
I helped myself to another swig from the bottle. The alcohol didn’t burn as much this time, leaving my taste buds to dance in the dusky taste. I leaned across and refilled his glass, despite him holding out his hand to say no.
‘I believe in 6-year-old kids that don’t deserve to have their dad taken from them before they’re old enough to really know who their father was.’
‘Whose kid?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Matters to me.’
‘My mate. Lewis.’
‘A copper?’
He nodded and picked up the second glass.
‘He died?’
‘Car chase.’
‘I’m sorry.’ And I was.
‘Stupid kids high on glue, nicked a car, and Lewis is the one that pays.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
‘I’ve got to crack on,’ he said. ‘Time of death – they’re shit-hot on that kind of thing.’
‘You’re forgetting something,’ I said.
‘I know, the wire. Don’t worry. It’s bust. Something wrong with the transmitter.’
Fucker. I kept my face neutral. ‘Something else.’
‘The suicide note. I’m going to go through this place—’
I shook my head.
‘What?’
‘That.’ I nodded towards the piece he held pointed at me. ‘It’s not Wilkins’s gun.’
He grinned. ‘You could have been good.’ He stood up, moved a step closer to my armchair, the one that Nick’s gun was underneath.
I got to my feet and placed myself between him and the armchair.
‘You can’t kill me with that. Would really fuck-up the forensics, wouldn’t it? Let me guess, you’re going to say we came here looking for Jack. And because we’re young and stupid, we brought a gun with us, the Glock, that you planted here and told me where to find. So we tried to force Nick to confess to killing his wife—’
‘Or his son.’ Col shrugged.
‘But because we’re female and stupid, Nick overpowered us, grabbed his own gun,’ – I waved towards the armchair Nick’s gun lay under – ‘which you stole at the same time as you planted the Glock.’
‘Very good.’
‘And then you burst through the doors to rescue everyone, kill Nick, but too late to save my life. Or Jo’s.’
‘I found out about your plan, drove here hell for leather, heard the first gunshot … I broke the window but by the time I got in he was standing over your body just about to fire a second shot. Jo was already dead. I fired, hoping the first shot hadn’t killed you, but alas…’
‘I’m truly moved,’ I said. The whisky made me brave. ‘But none of that stacks up if you kill me with your gun.’
I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet. Shook out my hands so that the alcohol bled to the ends of my fingers. I swear I could feel the heat radiate behind my fingernails.
‘Don’t be a dickhead,’ he said.
I went to kick him, but he pulled his gun back and hit me across the face with it. Stars burst across my vision. He hit me again. I crashed to the floor. My vision blurred. I could just make out him ducking to his knees and putting an arm under the chair, feeling for Nick’s gun. I closed my eyes. Earlier Nick had said there was nothing like knowing you were going to die to bring clarity and focus. And I had clarity.
I knew, in that moment, I’d been kidding myself.
I hadn’t ever stopped drinking, I’d just been holding off, waiting. I love alcohol more than I love anything or anyone. Even as I waited for the shot that was going to kill me, the thing that fucked me off the most was that I couldn’t finish the bottle.
The shot came. There was a warm wetness. My eardrums burst. Still the monster inside me demanded another drink. Just one more. More. The curse of the addict. There’s never enough.
Time went funny. My vision went. I thought my eyes were open but all I could see was black. I don’t know how long I lay there. I knew Col wouldn’t be calling an ambulance and that I was destined to bleed to death, however long it took. Col was probably out the window by now.
Death. Funny how scared we all are to die and yet, in that moment, I didn’t feel fear. I felt nothing but rage. Pure, white, blind rage.
‘Lee?’ I heard a voice that sounded like Jo’s screech through my burst eardrums.
‘More,’ I said, but no words came out. ‘More.’
I waited for the bright lights I’d read about but instead Jo appeared on my screen of vision. The once-white bits on her T-shirt were now blood red. She held the half-empty bottle of whisky to my lips. I felt it drip down the sides of my neck. The best anaesthetic in the world. No pain. They talk of my drinking but never my thirst.
Tears plopped down Jo’s pale cheeks.
‘I love you,’ I said. At least I thought I said it, but I couldn’t hear my own words.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I felt peaceful. Like everything made sense and it was all OK. None of it mattered, not really, not at the end of the day.
‘Help, Lee. Please. Shit. Shit.’
The pain in my leg lessened, which wasn’t how I thought dying would go. Maybe it was the whisky. You see it’s not all bad. People only tell you the bad stuff. But there’s positives in everything. I kept closing my eyes thinking that this was my last moment, but the lights never went out. I replayed Jo’s last words in my mind.
‘What?’
‘Oh my God,’ said Jo. Her face was whiter than I’ve ever seen it, and that’s saying something. I knew her during her Goth phase.
‘I need another drink,’ I said, but she wasn’t listening to me. Her attention was elsewhere in the room. I pulled myself up by the arm of the chair and slouched against it. Jo was on her knees. I could see her flesh torn at the top of her left arm. It looked like raw liver: dark, blood red, almost black. I forced myself to look somewhere else. And it was then I saw the Glock hanging from her fingers.