Bleed for Me (47 page)

There were thousands of photographs amid the wreckage of the caravan, mostly of young girls, bound and gagged, suffering various indignities. How many other victims were there?

Perhaps Natasha was one of them. And what of Caro Regan? Coop and Philippa may never learn the truth their daughter’s fate unless the wreckage of the caravan yields some clues.

The ICU nurse speaks to me. ‘You can sit down if you’d like.’

She has a northern accent and eyes that shine green, reflecting the neon display panels at her fingertips.

‘I didn’t real y know him,’ I reply.

I wished him dead. I almost killed him.

‘I don’t know any of them,’ she says, ‘but I keep talking. I tel them about the weather and what’s on TV. Sometimes I read to them.’ She holds up a tattered romance novel.

‘I’m sure you have a nice reading voice.’

‘Thank you.’

She moves around the bed and reattaches the piece of tape holding a tube against Gordon’s forearm. ‘Was he a good man?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I guess not.’ She blinks at him sadly. ‘Sometimes I wonder how much control we have over what happens to us, or if our lives are simply a chain reaction. One crash after another.’

Walking along the corridor, I push through the doors into the A&E department. A handful of people are standing below a TV on a pil ar. I catch a glimpse of the news banner rol ing across the lower screen: RACE HATE TRIAL ABANDONED.

A reporter is standing outside Bristol Crown Court.

The trial of Novak Brennan, Gary Dobson and Tony Smith was abandoned in controversial circumstances today amid allegations of jury tampering and corruption.

In a morning of high drama, Judge David Spencer told the court that a member of the jury had complained of being approached and threatened by a third party outside the court.

Judge Spencer announced that the risk of intimidation was too great for him to ignore. He excused the five women and seven men of the jury, before ordering that the three
defendants be retried at a later date.

Lawyers for Novak Brennan and his fellow accused immediately applied for bail, arguing their clients had already spent eight months in custody . . .

My mobile is vibrating.

‘Did you hear the news?’ asks Julianne. She’s speaking from somewhere outdoors.

‘I just heard.’

‘Poor Marco.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘I’m meeting him in a few minutes. I’m taking him shopping before he catches the train to London.’

‘How is he?’

‘I don’t think he real y understands. I thought jury tampering only happened in the movies.’

‘You’l have to explain it to him.’

‘Maybe you can help me.’

I hesitate and she picks up something in my voice. ‘You knew! That’s why you asked me about the judge.’

I don’t reply, which simply confirms her suspicions.

‘What happened, Joe?’

‘I can’t tel you.’

Before she can ask me another question she interrupts herself: ‘There’s Marco. I’d better go.’

I don’t get a chance to say goodbye. I want to ring straight back and hear her sweet voice.

A cab has pul ed up outside the main doors. Natasha El is emerges, clutching Bil y’s hand. The young boy is wearing his school uniform and has Tigger tucked under his arm. Natasha doesn’t acknowledge the cab driver as she pays. Her eyes are bloodshot and she seems to be moving from memory, unable to process what’s happened.

Dr Chou col ects her while a nurse takes Bil y to a play area with toys and colouring books. I stand for a long while watching him leaning over a drawing, furiously moving his pencil.

Twenty minutes later Natasha reappears, wiping her eyes and struggling to focus. Bil y begins tel ing her about the drawing. She nods and tries to listen but struggles to hold on to his words. She sees me and a new emotion ignites within her.

Spinning to confront me, her left hand swings from the waist, striking me across the face, raking her nails across my cheek. The slap echoes through the waiting room and my eyes swim.

Her face contorts in grief and rage. ‘You did this!’

I touch my cheek where her nails have broken the skin. My thumb and forefinger slide together, lubricated by a droplet of blood.

She tries to hit me again, but this time I catch her by the wrist and hold her until I feel her energy dissipate and her shoulders sag. Having surrendered, she lets me take her to a chair where she stares blankly at the far wal , taking short, sharp breaths.

‘Is there someone I can cal ?’ I ask. ‘What about your parents?’

Natasha shakes her head.

‘I can get a victim support officer.’

She doesn’t reply.

‘Or I could cal a friend . . . You real y shouldn’t be alone right now.’

Taking a deep breath, she looks at me imploringly.

‘Why couldn’t you leave us alone? We were fine. Happy. Don’t you see it was her fault? She was to blame.’

I don’t reply and hatred blooms in her chest again. ‘You’re no different from Gordon - he was besotted with that little slut. She fooled everybody, but not me. I found her earring in the bedroom. Gordon tried to lie about it, but I’m not stupid. I knew what he was doing with her.

‘I fol owed them one day. Gordon borrowed my car and picked her up after school. He took her to Bradford-on-Avon and bought her an ice cream. They were sitting by the river. I watched him feed it to her. She opened her mouth and he teased her, pul ing the spoon away from her lips and offering it again.’

Natasha wipes her eyes. ‘Gordon said I was being paranoid about Sienna. He said my jealousy made me ugly. He said he stil loved me but I had to stop smothering him . . . If that little tart hadn’t tried to steal him . . .’

The moment passes and she shrinks away, diminished.

‘What happened to his first wife?’

Natasha doesn’t look at me. ‘She ran away.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘Gordon said he wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘You’ve seen what he’s done.’

Her eyes meet mine, clouding.

‘He’s not a monster. He loved me.’

52

Outside in the weak sunshine, looking across the hospital grounds, I watch a mower creating verdant strips of green on the turf, light green and dark green. A curtain of rain is hanging above the horizon as though unsure whether to spoil the day. It creates a strange light that might please a painter or a photographer, but there’s nothing I find comforting or appealing about the scene.

I touch my cheek again. The scratches are weeping. Natasha El is struck me with her left hand, unleashing al her grief and fury. She has lost her husband. Lost the life she fought so hard to protect. This is the detail I failed to notice. I didn’t comprehend how far she’d go to save her marriage. The sins she’d overlook. The risks she’d take.

I have a missed cal on my mobile. Ruiz. I cal him back.

‘Have you heard?’ he asks. ‘They abandoned the trial.’

‘I just saw the news on TV.’

‘Looks like Ronnie Cray pul ed it off. Does she stil have a job?’

‘Far as I know.’

He asks about last night and why I didn’t come back to the terrace.

‘I stayed with Julianne.’

‘Real y?’

‘Nothing happened. I slept on the sofa.’

‘Maybe she wanted you to storm her bedroom and ravish her.’

Do people ‘ravish’ each other any more?

I tel him about the booby-trapped caravan and my helicopter flight to the hospital with Gordon El is.

‘So he’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Caro Regan?’

‘Maybe the debris wil yield some clues.’

Ruiz is silent for a time, thinking about Coop and Philippa Regan and their mausoleum-like flat in Edinburgh and their funereal existence, wondering what happened to their daughter.

‘Where are you now?’ he asks.

‘Frenchay Hospital.’

‘You need a lift?’

‘If you’re offering.’

‘I should have been a minicab driver.’

‘More money.’

‘Better hours.’

He hangs up and I walk across the road, feeling the turf beneath my shoes. I am closer to understanding things now. I know why Ray Hegarty was murdered, why Annie Robinson was poisoned and why Sienna was framed.

Not everything makes sense. If there’s an exception to every rule, then that rule itself must have an exception. Novak Brennan tried to corrupt a judge. Sway a jury. Secure a verdict. Yet so much of it depended upon factors that he could never ful y control. A majority verdict to acquit required ten jurors - a huge ask. By blackmailing a judge the only thing he could completely guarantee was the col apse of the hearing and a retrial with a new jury and a new judge. Novak must have known this.

I glance towards the hospital and see my reflection cast back at me from the doors. I am a man standing alone in a field. Some things we have to do alone. Birth. Death. Sitting in a witness box . . .

Uneasiness washes over me, inching upwards, lodging in my throat. Fumbling for my phone I cal Julianne. Her number is engaged. I start over. This time she answers.

‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.

‘He went to buy me a present.’

‘Does he have a number?’

‘He doesn’t have a phone.’

She’s at Broadmead Shopping Centre, which is fifteen minutes away.

Julianne senses my fear. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You have to find him. Get him out of there.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not safe. Find him and cal me.’

Ruiz has pul ed up outside the hospital. I try to run but suddenly freeze and stare helplessly at my legs, tel ing them to move. I direct al of my concentration to just my left leg, tel ing it to step forward. It must be like watching a man step over an invisible obstacle. Once I get a degree of momentum, I’l be fine. One leg wil fol ow the other. Walk and then run.

I pul open the passenger door and tumble inside, tel ing Ruiz to drive, tel ing him that Julianne’s in danger. Without hesitation, he accelerates, weaving between cars, demanding answers.

We’re on the M32. Middle lane. Passing the concrete towers, shuttered shops, factories, pawnshops and ‘For Lease’ signs. There are hookers walking up and down Fishponds Road: women who are women and men who are women and crack-heads who wil be anything you want.

‘When you were fol owing Carl Guilfoyle - you said it was strange, you said he seemed to know he was being tailed. Maybe we were
meant
to find the photographs.’

Ruiz looks at me askance and back to the road.

‘Why?’

‘Novak couldn’t guarantee an acquittal, but he could guarantee what happened today.’

‘You’re saying he
wanted
the trial abandoned?’

‘He needed more time.’

‘More time for what?’

‘To silence Marco Kostin.’

‘I thought he was under police guard.’

‘He was until this morning.’

Traffic lights. Amber then red. Ruiz brakes heavily.

My mobile chirrups. Julianne.

‘I’ve seen him.’

‘Marco?’

‘No, the man with the black tears.’

My heart lurches.

‘I saw him outside WHSmith.’

‘Was he fol owing you?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t find Marco.’

I tel her to stay calm. ‘I’m going to hang up now and cal the police.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Where were you going to meet Marco?’

‘At Brasserie Blanc.’

‘Go there. Sit outside. Somewhere public.’

My heart is banging in my ribs. Cray’s number is engaged. I try again. Monk answers. I tel him to get the boss. It’s an emergency.

The DCI replaces him.

‘Carl Guilfoyle is going after Marco Kostin. They’re both at Broadmead Shopping Centre.’

‘Is anyone with Marco?’

‘Julianne is looking for him. We’re almost there.’

‘Don’t approach Guilfoyle. Get them out of there.’

The lights are green. Ruiz accelerates. Seventy miles an hour. Chasing tail lights and leaving them behind.

My mind is zigzagging ahead, like a smal furry creature darting through undergrowth, fol owing a scent, switching direction, moving away from me. We’re going too slowly.

Ruiz leans on the horn as we get caught in traffic on the Old Market Roundabout. He swings across two lanes, braking hard, the tyres screeching. We almost sideswipe a lorry and he wrenches the wheel, correcting twice. The pine-scented air-freshener swings violently from the mirror.

We’re in Quakers Friars. Ruiz pul s over. Hazard lights flashing. I’m already out the door and running across the flagstones, dodging pedestrians, shoppers, office workers.

Julianne is standing alone outside the restaurant in her buttoned-up trench coat and the boots she bought in Milan. Nearby there are children running in and out of water jets that spout like molten silver from the slick pavers.

‘We were supposed to meet here,’ she says, wide-eyed, anxious.

‘Where did you see him last?’

‘In Merchant Street.’

‘How long ago?’

‘He should have been back by now.’

Ruiz arrives. We’l split up and search. Somebody should stay here in case Marco turns up: Julianne.

‘Cal if you see him.’

I start moving, my scalp itchy and damp. There are hundreds of shops over almost six blocks and three levels - department stores, boutiques, speciality shops, restaurants and cafés -

the biggest retail centre in Bristol. As long as Marco stays somewhere public. As long as he’s in the open . . .

Weaving through the crowd, I keep looking at the faces, expecting to see Marco or Carl Guilfoyle. There are too many people. He could walk right past me and I might not see him.

Pushing through the doors of BHS, I jog up the escalator and weave between racks of clothes. The window overlooks the intersection of Broadmead and Merchant Street.

I scan the crowd. Young mums with prams, joggers in Lycra shorts, a hooded youth with a skateboard, an elderly couple, hunched arthritical y, moving in slow motion. A juggler in a clown’s hat has drawn an audience by tossing coloured bal s in the air and bouncing them off the pavement.

There are so many people, a sea of moving heads. That’s when I see Marco on the edge of the crowd watching the juggler. He’s wearing a red basebal cap and carrying a glossy carrier bag.