Cry Baby (27 page)

‘No, I haven’t killed her.’

Something in the way he says that.

‘Then… what? What have you done to her? She’s just a baby.’

‘I told you I would punish you, Erin.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Let’s just say that there is a lot less of
Georgia than there was before.’

Oh. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God, no.

Images flashing before Erin’s eyes. Gruesome imaginings of sawn-off body parts and a child who cannot comprehend why this world is so painful and cruel.

Erin
opens her mouth, but the words won’t come. They are replaced by primitive spasmodic sounds of extreme loss and horror and disbelief.

‘I tell ya,’
says the voice,
‘that kid really knows how to fill a diaper.’

At first the comment seems such a non-sequitur that it just sits on the fringes of
Erin’s consciousness, unable to push through the barrier she has put up against further demolition of her fragile mind. But gradually she becomes more aware of it, senses the importance of it.

‘What?’

‘There must be a gallon in there at least. That’s what I was saying. About there being less of her now.’

She rolls this around in her mind, examining it in minute detail for a catch. What is he saying? That it was just a joke? That
Georgia is still whole and perfect and unharmed?

‘You haven’t… you haven’t hurt her? She’s okay?’

‘She’s fine, Erin. I haven’t hurt her.’

‘Why? I mean, thank you. But why?’

‘Because I knew you’d be back. You don’t need threats from me anymore. You know what you need to do, and you’re too close to give up now. One more killing, that’s all. And then you and Georgia can be back together again.’

So it was a joke. A twisted prank
, about which she should be spitting fire. She should be ranting and raving and filling the air with curses that would make a trooper blush. But she isn’t. She’s grateful, so grateful. He could have hurt Georgia so badly. He had the perfect excuse and he chose not to exploit it. Bizarrely, she feels she owes him something. Even after all he has done to her, she feels somehow owned by him now.

He says,
‘Would you like to hear your baby? She’s making some cute noises right now.’

It’s the first time he has offered anything like this. The first time he has been… well,
nice
. The contrast with his previous manner strikes her so hard it causes tears to form. She should tell herself to stop it. She shouldn’t fall into this emotional trap he has created. But she can’t even think about resisting. She has no willpower left. She will do whatever he asks.

‘Yes, please,’ she says.

And as she listens to her baby one more precious time, she tells herself that this will not be the last of it. It cannot be the last. They will be reunited soon.

Just one more death.

That’s all it will take.

9.55 PM

He plays it safe with a burger and fries. A plain burger. No mayo, no dill pickle, no tomato, no lettuce, no cheese, no nothing. Just a burger. With fries.

To Doyle’s relief, Albert seems happy with the choice. He takes a huge bite out of the burger, then puts his finger in the box of fries and swirls them around.

‘What are you looking for?’ says Doyle.

‘Ketchup.’

Doyle reaches into the paper bag for some sachets. ‘You want ketchup? I got ketchup.’

‘No. I’m checking there’s no ketchup. I don’t like ketchup on my food. Ketchup is made from tomatoes, which are technically a fruit. Why would I put fruit on potatoes?’

Yeah, thinks Doyle. How stupid am I? Ketchup is for fruit salads, right?

He allows Albert to eat for a while, then says, ‘What’s your favorite meal, Albert?’

‘Lasagna. I like lasagna.’

‘Yeah? Do you buy it in, from the supermarket, or does your mom make it?’

‘My mom makes it. Nobody else can do it like my mom.’

‘I’ll bet. She’s a real good cook, huh?’

‘The best. She can do cakes and pies too. And ice cream. And toast.’

‘Toast, huh? That’s pretty good. What else does she do for you?’

‘She washes my clothes. She helps me to read books. Lots of things.’

‘Sounds like a wonderful woman. Sounds like the perfect mother.’

‘She is. And her birthday is on the seventeenth day of the eleventh month. Those numbers are both prime.’

‘Even better. I don’t believe there are many mothers who could be all those things.’

‘No. She’s special.’

Doyle smiles and nods along. Sorry, Albert, he thinks, but I have to do this…

‘So why would you kill her?’

Albert halts in mid-chew. He sets down the remains of his burger on its greaseproof paper. Then he reaches into his mouth and takes out the partly masticated sphere of food and puts that on the paper too. It’s as though he has suddenly lost all appetite, as if the very thought of food is enough to make him balk.

Doyle knew what he was doing. A standard interrogation technique. Take the suspect along a comfortable path, something about which they are happy to wax lyrical. Get them into a steady flow. Then suddenly throw in a curve ball – something that comes so hard and fast they are unable to make the mental adjustments required to deal with it. That’s when they slip up.

He had taken Albert into the zone. The poor guy couldn’t even see beyond the present tense that Doyle insisted on using. Far as he was concerned, his mother was still on this earth, still tending to his needs, still loving him.

And then the whammy. The big fat reminder that she has gone. That, in fact, her absence is down to him. This is all his fault, and what has he got to say about that?

Doyle sees how the shock has registered with Albert, and he hates himself for taking such an advantage of the guy. But this is a last-ditch attempt. These are emergency measures. Sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.

And so he presses on: ‘Tell me, Albert. Please, explain it to me. You’ve told me nothing bad about your mother. Everything you’ve said about her makes her sound like a saint. She did everything for you. She cooked for you, cleaned for you, helped you to learn stuff. Why would you hurt someone like that? What possible reason could you have?’

It starts then. The flitting gaze, the tapping fingers, the scratching behind the ears. Doyle finds himself growing irritated. He knows he shouldn’t allow that to happen. Albert can’t help it. And yet the actions are starting to feel like those of an annoying brat who sticks his fingers in his ears and sings loudly to avoid having to communicate.

‘Did you really kill your mother, Albert? Really? I don’t think so. I don’t think you did it. I don’t think you’re giving me the full story, are you?’

Albert is humming now. Muttering. Legs trembling.

‘Why don’t you just end this now? Tell me your real name. Tell me where you live. Tell me what really happened to your mom.’

‘I… I told you what happened.’

‘No. No, you didn’t. Not in any detail. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. But if your mom is hurt, don’t you think we should go to her? Don’t you think you should tell us where she is, so that we can help her?’

Albert starts slapping his head. ‘It’s bad, it’s bad. She’s dead. You can’t help her. Nobody can help her. I killed her.’

‘How, Albert? How did you kill her? What did you do?’

‘I-I-I-I…’ he says, as if stuck in a loop. And then the ‘I’ sounds become longer, more drawn out. They turn into whines, and then cries of pain. Something is boiling up inside him that threatens to explode.

Enough. Doyle resigns himself to the fact that this isn’t going to work. It was his final attempt, and it hasn’t worked. Today ends with another failure in a long of string of them.

What a shit day.

‘All right, Albert. No more. I’m not going to ask you about it again. I can’t make you tell me what you refuse to talk about. We’re done here. Okay?’

Gradually, Albert calms down. His tics recede. He finds some peace in his tortured mind. Doyle observes the settling of these troubled waters and finds it strangely soothing himself. He is drained, and watching the extreme agitation leave Albert makes him crave the relief that sleep offers him.

Doyle stands. Grabs up his paperwork. He still has a DD5 to finish typing up. LeBlanc had offered to do it, but Doyle told him to go home. Still, it won’t take long. And then to bed. Oh, yes.

And then something occurs to him.

What the hell, it’s worth a try. What harm can it do?

He opens up his manila folder. Slides out a sheet of paper.

‘One thing, Albert. Before I go. You mind if I ask you something?’

He gets a grunt from Albert that could mean anything. Yes, no, go fuck yourself – anything. But Doyle has no inclination to clarify the meaning. He’s going to ask it anyway. He’s got nothing to lose. It’s not like there’s a risk of destroying any kind of trust-based relationship here.

He places the sheet in front of Albert.

‘Do you know what these numbers mean, Albert?’

He doesn’t expect much of a response. He got little last time, and will probably get the same now. A simple no, perhaps, or a shake of the head. Maybe a quick glance at the sheet and then a comment on a totally unrelated topic. Nothing useful.

So it surprises him when Albert starts rocking. Starts scratching and humming again.

‘Albert? What’s the matter? These numbers mean something to you?’

The anxiety building. Albert folding and unfolding his arms.

‘They mean something, don’t they? What do they mean, Albert? Please. I could really do with your help here.’

No answer. Not in words, anyway. But the body language says everything. Albert sees something in this pattern of numbers. Something nobody else has seen.

‘Albert. What is it? What’s in the—’

‘You lied!’

The accusation is flung in Doyle’s face, before Albert turns his face away again. Doyle tries to make sense of it. What has he done to upset the guy?

‘Lied about what, Albert? What did I say?’

‘You said… You said you wouldn’t ask me any more questions about what happened. But now you’re trying to trick me. You’re trying to catch me out. So you’re a liar, that’s all. Pants on fire.’

Doyle replays their conversation in his mind. What am I missing? These are two separate things. Albert and the serial killer aren’t connected. They can’t be. So how do these numbers relate to my questions about what happened to Albert’s mother? What possible link can there be?

Gotta play this carefully.

‘I’m sorry, Albert. I just had to ask, ya know? The numbers were on my mind. I got talking to you, and that just made me think of them again, so I had to ask. Numbers like these, they’re everywhere, right? We can’t get away from them.’

He sees that Albert is starting to relax again, but he leaves the sheet of paper on the desk in full sight.

Come on, Albert. Reach out a little. Pull me out of this quicksand I’m flailing about in.

‘I had no idea it would upset you so much. The numbers, I mean. I shoulda thought about it more. I shoulda been more considerate. Of course it would upset you. These numbers… your mother…

Pick up, Albert. Take up the thread. Show me where it leads.

‘I should’ve realized the connection. You saw it straight away, didn’t you? Of course you did. Even when I only had three of the numbers, you saw it for what it was. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m just a dumb cop. It wasn’t obvious to me.’