Authors: Kate Rhodes
Crossbones Yard (20 page)
‘I thought I was going mad.’
Alvarez shook his head. ‘It’s Burns who’s losing it. Everything has to be open and shut with him, no grey areas in between.’
His eyes were so dark it was like staring into a well, the water so far down that no light was ever reflected. He massaged the back of his neck hard, as if all his tiredness was stored there. ‘The thing I can’t figure out is who persuaded your brother to lend them his van.’
‘That’s the problem. Will never lets me meet his friends. I’ve seen people hanging around, druggies mainly, but he won’t tell me their names.’
Alvarez scowled in frustration. ‘We need him to recover, so he can tell us everything he knows.’
‘Forget it. That could take months.’
His hand settled on my shoulder but I folded my arms. One crying jag was enough for the day. ‘Don’t be nice to me please. It’s too much.’
‘When can I see you?’ he asked.
‘You know where I am. Stuck in my ivory tower with hermetically sealed windows and shit food.’
‘Tomorrow then,’ he said. ‘We’ll have dinner.’
I rested my head on his chest for a second. He smelled of musk and citrus and it was a relief to feel his arms close round me. When the door creaked open we sprang apart like guilty teenagers. Angie was waiting in the doorway. When I
glanced back Alvarez had already forgotten about me, sifting the evidence from the Benson case as though he was panning for gold.
glanced back Alvarez had already forgotten about me, sifting the evidence from the Benson case as though he was panning for gold.
It was seven o’clock by the time we got back to the hotel, and Angie handed me over to a middle-aged policewoman I hadn’t met before. Mercifully she seemed happy to flick through a magazine and give me a minute on my own. I ate my grey hotel dinner from a tray in my bedroom, picking at a limp chicken Caesar salad. At least I had a view of the floodlit dome of St Paul’s. I hadn’t been to the Whispering Gallery since I was a kid, but I could still picture the visitors in the nave below, small as matchsticks, and the apostles’ faces picked out in gold. They seemed to be eavesdropping on the sightseers’ conversations. Each sentence reverberated for minutes afterwards, bouncing back and forth between the circular walls.
Before I could finish my meal the policewoman knocked on the door and announced that my visitor had arrived. Lola sprang into the room like an over-excited red setter, but I could tell from her expression that she wasn’t having a good day.
‘There you go.’ She thrust the usual two bottles of red wine into my hands. ‘Where’s the corkscrew?’
I knew better than to ask what was wrong until she’d knocked back her first glass.
‘Things aren’t perfect in your world, are they, Lo?’
‘Too fucking right.’ She burst into theatrical sobs, then buried her face in her hands. ‘It’s Lars.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Fucked off back to Sweden.’
I put my arm round her shoulders. ‘He’s mad about you, that can’t be right.’
‘The police ran a check on him. He’s conned loads of girls into giving him money to open a bar. One woman even remortgaged her house. I can’t believe I was such a mug, Al. He’s a confidence trickster, for fuck’s sake.’ Tears coursed down her cheek, forming a puddle on the bedspread.
‘But did he ever ask you for money?’
She shook her head.
‘There you go then. You were the exception, the one he fell for.’
She blew her nose loudly into a hotel napkin. ‘Maybe he was just biding his time.’
‘No way,’ I protested. ‘He was nuts about you.’
After two more glasses of red wine Lola was beginning to cheer up. ‘At least I’ve experienced the best sex on the planet.’
‘And that’s worth something, isn’t it?’
‘God, yes,’ she sighed.
‘How did the audition go, anyway?’
She gaped at me in amazement. ‘Didn’t I tell you? They loved me. I’m starting Friday night.’
‘That’s brilliant. What’s the part?’
‘Chorus line in
Chicago
. It’s only Equity basic, but it’ll go on for months, and all that hoofing should shift some of this weight.’ She looked down and inspected her imaginary spare tyre.
Chicago
. It’s only Equity basic, but it’ll go on for months, and all that hoofing should shift some of this weight.’ She looked down and inspected her imaginary spare tyre.
Lola stayed until after eleven. She lounged on the bed, in a nest of cushions stolen from the hotel chairs. By the time she left she’d given me an in-depth account of Lars’s sexual skills, her costume fitting and her mother’s ecstatic reaction when she found out her daughter was going to be in a West End show. It seemed to have slipped her mind that I was being held in captivity, in case someone decided to kill me.
‘I’m staying on Craig’s sofa. He’s a darling, but I’d rather be with you. When are they letting you out anyway?’
‘God alone knows.’
‘We’ll have a party when you get home.’ She rose to her feet unsteadily. As usual she had downed three-quarters of the wine by herself. ‘Better go. Big rehearsal tomorrow. And remember, steer clear of that Spanish bastard. Cross the street if you see him. He’s a complete and total shit.’
‘Will do.’ I bit my lip. I was going to have to pick my moment to confess about my nights out with Alvarez.
Maybe it was the wine that made my mind race. When I turned the lights out ideas were bouncing off the walls like I was back at St Paul’s, yelling my fears into the silence. If Will was innocent, why had both the murdered women spent time in his van? I pictured my mother wagging her finger, telling me I’d failed to keep him out of mischief. And Michelle kept reappearing too. It was hard to believe she’d only been twenty-seven. She could have been ten or fifteen years older, her drug habit sending the ageing process into overdrive.
Eventually I fell into an uneasy sleep, but I woke at six thirty, struggling for breath, desperate to be outside in the city air. It might be polluted, but at least it hadn’t been recycled a hundred times. I fished in my bag for the photo I’d stolen from the Benson archive. Sooner or later I would have to tell Alvarez, or replace it when no one was looking. God knows why I’d taken it. Maybe it was my way of rescuing Will from the Bensons’ orbit.
The faces of the residents had something in common; they were all outsiders. A group of misfits huddling together for comfort − badly dressed, acne-scarred, too fat or thin, too shy to look at the camera. All of them the butt of someone’s joke. Will was pale and preoccupied, already more interested in the conversation inside his head than the ones going on around him. By contrast Morris Cley looked relaxed, hand fluttering in a jubilant wave. He must have felt at home for the first
time in his life, surrounded by people who knew about loneliness. Suzanne Wilkes was beaming at the centre of the crowd. She seemed to have found her niche, shepherding lost souls, oblivious to the danger she was in.
time in his life, surrounded by people who knew about loneliness. Suzanne Wilkes was beaming at the centre of the crowd. She seemed to have found her niche, shepherding lost souls, oblivious to the danger she was in.
Fortunately Angie was nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t in the mood for non-stop chit-chat over breakfast, or being advised on how to spend my time. PC Meads was my bodyguard for the day, but it was hard to imagine he’d be much use if the chips were down. He had the anxious look of a boy about to start his first day at secondary school when he collected me from the hotel dining room.
‘I’ve got some errands to run,’ I told him.
Meads looked relieved. He always appreciated being told what to do, in case he made a mistake. I looked at the address I had scribbled down from the Benson archive. Burns would be incandescent if he knew who I was intending to see.
‘I have to visit an old friend,’ I said. ‘It’s not far.’
He scuttled off to get his car and before long we were heading east along the river. As we waited in the traffic on Bankside I watched a huge freighter loaded with containers pass under London Bridge, bound for America or the Caribbean. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine weeks on open water, with nothing to worry about except storm systems and tides. We headed deeper into Bermondsey, past housing estates still waiting to be gentrified, every tree tagged with graffiti, burned-out cars littering the car parks.
‘You can wait here,’ I told Meads.
He pulled up obediently in a side street off Jamaica Road. Net curtains twitched in the windows of run-down terraces, the whole neighbourhood wondering whose son or husband was in trouble again. I sauntered round the corner to Keeton’s Road. It was a narrow street of 1970s low-rise flats, close to Bermondsey tube. A hundred metres away four lanes of
traffic roared towards Elephant and Castle. The house had seen better days. The safety glass in the plastic front door was cracked, and frost had killed every plant in the tiny front garden, apart from a thicket of brambles that almost blocked the path. I clutched the aerosol in my pocket and felt my heart rate quicken as I pressed the bell. If he reacted badly I could always spray him in the face and make a dash for it. The door opened a few centimetres and a pair of misshapen grey eyes peered out warily.
traffic roared towards Elephant and Castle. The house had seen better days. The safety glass in the plastic front door was cracked, and frost had killed every plant in the tiny front garden, apart from a thicket of brambles that almost blocked the path. I clutched the aerosol in my pocket and felt my heart rate quicken as I pressed the bell. If he reacted badly I could always spray him in the face and make a dash for it. The door opened a few centimetres and a pair of misshapen grey eyes peered out warily.
‘Hello, Morris.’
He scrabbled at the security chain. Morris Cley was still the opposite of God’s gift to women. His grubby blue cardigan had seen better days and his mouth hung open in permanent amazement.
‘Alice Quentin.’ He said my name rapturously, as if he’d been expecting me for weeks.
‘Can I come in?’
The first thing that hit me was an overpowering sweetness on the air, perfume or air freshener. A large bowl of potpourri was standing on the hall table, two more on the coffee table in the living room. His mother must have used them to disguise the smell of damp while she was alive. The place looked like an old lady still lived there, and she had just popped out to fetch her knitting. Crocheted arm covers adorned the sofa and chairs, lace doilies on the dining table. For some reason the old-fashioned clutter prevented me from feeling afraid. Cley was fidgeting on the edge of his chair.
‘I’m sorry about the other night.’ His voice was raw with tension, eyes lingering on my breasts rather than my face.
‘That’s okay, Morris. You didn’t mean any harm.’
His shoulders lowered, as though he’d been given a reprieve.
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions though. Is that okay?’
Cley nodded. This time his gaze swept down to my legs and I was grateful I’d worn trousers.
‘You knew Ray and Marie Benson, didn’t you?’
He nodded again. ‘Neighbours.’
‘Were they?’
‘They lived across the way. Marie took Mum to bingo.’ He sneaked a sidelong look at me.
I blinked. Bingo isn’t the kind of leisure pursuit you expect mass murderers to indulge in. ‘And you kept in touch after they moved to the hostel?’
‘We got the bus up there for tea on Sundays. They let me help around the place. Ray did Mum’s garden sometimes.’ Cley smiled when he spoke about the Bensons. Maybe their killing spree had been too complex to take on board.
‘I’ve got a photo here.’ I placed it on the coffee table in front of him and watched him peer at it. He ran his finger across the row of faces, studying each one.
‘Can you tell me their names?’
‘Maybe.’ For the first time his eyes made direct contact with mine. He surveyed my face, trying to work out how much the information was worth.
‘I can’t stay long, Morris. Are you going to help me or not?’
‘If you give me something I will.’
‘What?’
‘A kiss.’ He rubbed the flaking skin above his upper lip. ‘Jeannie used to kiss me sometimes.’
I glanced at him. His frizz of grey hair radiated from his skull, cloudy eyes staring back at me. ‘If you won’t tell me, I’ll leave. My friend’s waiting outside.’ I stood up and began to button my coat.
‘All right, all right.’ He held up his hands in defeat.
I shoved the photo back towards him. ‘Tell me who you remember.’
Cley concentrated on the image again. He smiled as he identified Marie Benson, like she was his favourite auntie. ‘Ray, Bill, Suzanne, Laura.’ His finger hovered over Will’s face and I saw him recoil.
‘Did you know him, Morris?’
‘No.’ He shook his head vigorously.
‘You didn’t like him?’
Cley bit his lip. ‘Gave me the creeps. Snooping about, watching people all the time.’
Suddenly Cley grabbed the photo and turned it over, weighting it with the palms of both hands. He pressed the faces into the grained wood of the table, and held them there for a long time, as though they were kittens he needed to drown.
‘You will come back, won’t you?’ Morris Cley hovered over my chair, wringing his hands.
It was hard to tell if he was smiling or grimacing when he bared his discoloured teeth at me. Maybe he already knew that he’d never clap eyes on me again. I was like all the other social workers and probation officers, making their quick official visits, then vanishing into the ether. I led the way along the hall, anxious to avoid a rerun of our last meeting. My left hand clutched the aerosol in my pocket.
‘I could give you the bus fare.’ He fiddled with the buttons of his cardigan, a thick rime of dirt trapped under his nails. ‘I gave Jeannie my benefits sometimes. She said it helped with the rent.’
The smile disappeared from his face when he thought about her. Part of me knew I had nothing to fear, but my fingers closed tightly around the handle of the front door.
‘What happened the last time you saw Jeannie, Morris? You can tell me the truth you know, I won’t mind.’
‘Nothing.’ The fidgeting started up again. He twisted the frayed collar of his shirt, as if it was too tight. ‘I wanted to stay over, but she wouldn’t let me. She said someone else was coming round.’
‘What did you do when you left?’
‘Kissed her goodbye, like this.’ He lunged towards me, but I twisted away just in time. His lips left a cold trail of saliva across my cheek.
I jerked the door open and stepped out on to the path.
‘And that was all you did?’
His silence went on for a beat too long, but I could guess what he’d done from his body language. The hand-wringing had stepped up a gear. One palm rubbing across the other, removing an invisible stain. My heart rate shot up as I took a hasty step backwards.
‘Goodbye, Morris.’
When I glanced back, Cley’s eyes were brimming. He was locked in a 1970s time warp, silhouetted against a background of orange flowers, the blue carpet swirling at his feet. It took half a dozen deep breaths to clear my lungs of the smell of potpourri, sexual frustration and despair. A dull headache pulsed behind my left eye.
All the visit had done was remind me that I was out of my depth. Some human rights lawyer had spent a lot of time and taxpayers’ money liberating Cley from prison for a crime he had definitely committed. The expression on his face gave more than enough evidence. When Jeannie Anderson rejected him, he would have been unable to stop himself. The one woman who had ever let him touch her was turning him away, to be with another man. And he was stronger than he looked. It would have been easy for him to overpower her, hold a pillow over her face for as long as it took. God knows what he must have felt afterwards. Relief, probably. He couldn’t have her, but neither could anyone else.
I walked to the end of Keeton’s Road and sat down on a low wall to calm myself. If my instincts had been so wrong about Cley, what else had I missed? Maybe Burns was right about him being part of a group, intent on reconstructing the Bensons’ crimes. Obviously he wasn’t capable of carrying out a complex attack, but he could be valuable for other reasons. Maybe his friendship with Ray and Marie gave him a special
kudos in their eyes. I could see the logic, but the idea of a gang didn’t convince me. For some reason I felt sure the killer was acting alone, on his own obsessive mission.
kudos in their eyes. I could see the logic, but the idea of a gang didn’t convince me. For some reason I felt sure the killer was acting alone, on his own obsessive mission.
I dragged in a final gasp of clean air and headed back to the car. I still had no idea why the sight of Will’s face had scared Cley so much. All I could do was pray that Burns didn’t get wind of my visit. If he did, he would stick me in a holding cell for weeks, on a diet of gruel.
Meads looked disappointed when I asked him to take me back to the hotel. Maybe he fancied an afternoon of freewheeling, but he seemed happy enough once the TV was switched on. By the time I had made myself a cup of tea he had found the American wrestling channel, his eyes wide as saucers while huge men with glistening orange tans threw each other around the ring. I wanted to explain that the moves were choreographed, no one ever got hurt, but it would have spoiled his fun.
I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. Through the door the wrestlers carried on shrieking in pretend agony. When I woke up, it was pitch dark outside. The guilt of allowing a whole afternoon to evaporate hit me as I sat up, but at least my headache had eased. A conversation was going on in the room next door, Meads’ thin squeak blending with a familiar soft baritone. I inspected myself in the mirror, my eyes still puffy with sleep.
There was a knock on the door before I could finish combing my hair. Alvarez was wearing a dark grey tracksuit. He looked like a football manager, itching to get back on the field.
‘I thought you might fancy a jog,’ he said.
I suppressed a laugh. ‘You hate running.’
‘I said a jog, not a run. You won’t be going at your normal Olympic pace.’
‘Better than nothing.’
The door closed again and I got into my running gear. The prospect of escaping the hotel’s stale air made me rush to lace up my shoes. Meads had disappeared by the time I came out, and Alvarez was lounging in the doorway, arms folded, like he’d been waiting for hours.
‘Ready?’
I nodded. ‘How was your day?’
‘Don’t ask,’ he groaned. ‘It’s been non-stop since the crack of dawn.’
When we reached the street he set off at a slow pace, without looking back, heavy shoulders flexing with each stride. It looked as though he was conserving his energy, but I could easily have outpaced him if he turned on the speed. It took five minutes to reach the river path, the cold air chilling my mouth. A dredger fought its way upstream, its sides yellowed with rust, a barge clinging to its wake. We headed west towards Battersea and Alvarez shifted up a gear, from a jog to a run. Not enough to raise a sweat, but he looked steady, like he could keep going for days. Banks of ugly modern flats towered over us, fifteen or twenty storeys high, thrown together at the height of the last property boom. The endorphins were already kicking in. Maybe Alvarez felt invincible too, the smartest person in the world, ready for crusades. I sprinted past him and heard the heavy pounding of his feet as he battled to keep up.
‘Let’s see what you’re made of,’ I muttered.
Lambeth Bridge vanished behind us. I don’t know how long we sprinted, but we raced until a stitch twisted in my side. There was no sign of Alvarez slowing down. The wealth of the Square Mile had disappeared by now, lines of laundry freezing on tiny balconies, ground-floor windows locked behind metal grilles. His hand closed around my wrist.
‘You’re killing me,’ he gasped. ‘I’m too old for this.’
‘I don’t think so. You could last longer than me, I reckon.’
‘You’re kidding.’ His breathing was steadier now. He stood by the handrail, his eyes as black as the river. ‘Come here,’ he said.
The kiss was greedy and forceful, because he knew he wouldn’t be refused. He grabbed my hand and pulled me down a set of stone steps I hadn’t noticed before. The river lapped at our feet. In the dark the Thames looked like a torrent of oil, not water, reflecting light from the opposite bank in yellow flickering pools. The smell was overpowering: brine and waste, the sweetness of decaying fruit. Alvarez’s hands tightened around my waist. He buried his face against my neck, pressing me against the cold wall, bricks icy against my back. Maybe it was the endorphins performing their magic, but I could have undressed for him there and then, taken a dip in the freezing water afterwards to cool off. But footsteps were rattling along the path. Someone laughed and then walked on again. Anyone could be watching us. Alvarez kissed me more urgently, his hand parting my legs. I let out a long breath.
‘We can’t,’ I whispered.
‘Why not?’
‘Imagine the headlines if we got caught.’ I held him at arm’s length. ‘Burns wouldn’t be impressed.’
He pressed his mouth to my ear. ‘I couldn’t care less, but you love tormenting me, don’t you?’
‘The novelty’s wearing off,’ I laughed. ‘Take me back to the hotel. Finish what you started.’
We jogged back more slowly, past a glitter of traffic on Waterloo Bridge, tail-lights sending red sparks across the river’s surface like it was bonfire night.
The hotel foyer was bustling with tourists, waiting in a disgruntled queue to be checked in. Alvarez jogged beside me up the stairs, his hand on my shoulder blade. He kissed me again as I fumbled for the key to my room. All I wanted to do
was lie back, watch him peel off his clothes. But someone was waiting for us on the other side of the door.
was lie back, watch him peel off his clothes. But someone was waiting for us on the other side of the door.
‘Hi there,’ Angie said breezily. ‘I came early, boss. DCI Burns thought you might want an evening off.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There’s a psychological syndrome that depressives suffer from, called delayed fulfilment. Everything gets put on hold. They make themselves wait for holidays, to change job or find a partner, because they don’t believe that they deserve happiness. Alvarez moaned quietly, as if fulfilment had already been postponed for longer than he could bear.
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