Keeping (18 page)

“Take him away,” he said, maintaining eye contact until Fairbrother and Higgings marched him down the path to a waiting, unmarked car.

“You all right?” he asked Villier, resting his hand on her forearm.

She stepped forward to click her fingers, and he took his hand away, feeling she hadn’t liked him touching her—showing compassion in front of any hidden officers watching. Jerry gamboled out of the car then sat at her feet, looking up and waiting. Villier huffed out an unsteady laugh, reaching into her pocket to produce a treat. She fed the dog, hunkering down, and wrapped her arms around its neck. Tears fell then, a couple of sobs erupting, and Langham had the grace to turn away, to give her time to process what she’d actually done—how things could have gone a totally different way. She was shrouded by the car, no one else would see her meltdown, and he felt oddly glad about that. At one time he’d have wished she’d had witnesses.

Oliver stood staring at the pavement, hands in his jeans pockets, scuffing a few small stones with his foot. He looked so vulnerable, so like he’d been when Langham had first fucked him, a far cry from the person he’d become lately. Oliver’s recent strength seemed to have deserted him, leaving him bewildered and unsure.

Langham went up to him and touched his arm. “They’ll be all right now,” he said.

Oliver glanced up, his eyebrows pulled together at the bridge of his nose. “I think I ought to go and see them anyway, see my mum.” He scuffed at the ground again. “You know, just to see if…”

Langham sighed. “Yep, I know. We’ll get this shit wrapped up then go, yeah?”

Oliver nodded. “You coming with me?”

“Yes. If you want me to, that is.”

“Yeah. I want her to meet you. To see…that it isn’t as bad as she thinks.”

“What, being bent?”

“No, not in that way. Being me, that’s what I meant. That it isn’t bad being me.”

* * * *

With the Fiat towed away complete with evidence, and David Courtier’s flat being searched for more, Langham just about had things sorted for now. Yes, there was a lot of paperwork to be done, a lot of interviewing, and many visits to the dead women’s families to let them know their daughters’ killer had been caught. It wouldn’t bring the women back, wouldn’t take away the heartache, but at least it would give them some measure of relief, some closure.

He sat at his desk, his interview with David over, frustrated as hell because the man hadn’t told him anything except that he was looking for his real mum. The bloke had serious issues, was a fuck-up, no getting away from it, and maybe a psychologist would fare better with him. David may or may not open up, but the evidence in the Fiat alone was enough for a conviction. He’d had a call from Higgings, who had opted to join those at the flat gathering evidence, to say they’d found a diary that Langham ought to read.

He was waiting on its arrival now, drinking coffee that tasted like gnat’s piss—not that he’d ever tasted any to make that comparison—and munching on one of his cookies. Oliver had gone home after the arrest, and with him out of the way, Langham could concentrate on the tasks at hand. With Oliver around he found it difficult to do his job sometimes, worrying how things affected him, how Langham’s work persona affected him. He shouldn’t fret about the latter. Oliver had at first known him as a somewhat caustic copper, was used to the way Langham went about things, but now they were a couple, Oliver’s perception of him mattered more.

After getting up, he stretched, the muscles in his back protesting, his bones doing the same with audible cracks that made him aware he was getting on a bit. Not that nearing forty was getting on, but it bloody well felt like he was older than he was at times. Like now, having had little sleep and wanting nothing more than his bed but knowing he couldn’t have it for a few hours yet.

He left his office and went out into the car park for some fresh air. It woke him up a bit, shook the fog from his mind and invigorated his heavy limbs. It was daylight again on a Sunday morning that he should have sodding well been enjoying at home, lazing about in bed with Oliver, knowing he didn’t have to return to work until the following day. He didn’t have another weekend off until a fortnight’s time, but he’d sleep the sleep of the dead tonight, he knew that much.

Not a good choice of words there.

If he smoked he’d enjoy several cigarettes before he went back inside to have another crack at Courtier. The man had been asleep in a cell the last time Langham had checked, and he envied him the oblivion. Did he sleep well? Who the fuck knew, but he dreamed, that much was certain. His eyelids had flickered, rapid movements, and Langham had walked away, shaking his head and wondering just what the fuck was going on inside that man’s head.

* * * *

David was standing in his childhood living room again, facing the bogey woman. She didn’t look very pleased, as usual, and he watched her, wary, unsure of whether she’d spew her litany of abuse or get up and drag him into his room for a beating.

He wanted to shrug again—why did he always get the urge to do that when with her?—but resisted, clasping his hands behind his back, holding tight as though one hand belonged to someone else. Someone who gave a shit and had reached out to give him comfort. It was better than the truth, pretending like that, helping him in the calm before the possible storm.

She eyed him with that look of hers, the one he feared the most. It meant she was about to do something horrible and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Meant he’d have to either leg it and hide or stand there and take whatever she dished out. That look had different degrees of scariness, and he’d learnt early on to gauge which one meant which thing. This one inspired all-out terror. He wouldn’t be running and hiding. He didn’t dare.

“You fucked up good and proper this time, didn’t you?” she said, bouncing one leg over the other again. Her red high-heeled shoe came loose, dangled on her toes and flapped with her movement.

He waited for it to drop. Wondered why she always dressed as though she were going for a night out on the town. Dad had told David once that she’d worn normal clothes when he’d met her, casual things that made her just like everyone else, but when David had been born she’d wanted to…well, she’d changed, hadn’t she.

And it was his fault she’d become like she had.

His personal journey had come to an end and he still didn’t understand how the second Cheryl had been taken away from him like that. How the police had been right there as soon as that ugly dog had bitten his arm. Mr Clever hadn’t said a word since he’d encouraged David to approach Cheryl in the field, and he felt lost without the guidance. Abandoned. Uncared for, again. That voice had been with him for so long that the absence of it felt alien.

“Where is Sally, David?” Mother asked.

David darted his gaze around the room, then released his hands to check he didn’t grip Sally’s hand in his. The doll wasn’t there. Reality further mixed with his dream world and he knew the police would have Sally now. She’d be frightened with strangers in the flat, unknown hands picking her up and inspecting her mangled face. And that reminded him of his mask, how, when he’d been taken into the police station, they’d asked him to empty his pockets and he’d laid the mask on the desk. The officers had glanced at one another, nodding, grim smiles stretching their faces into weird shapes, and one had said, “Fucking got him.”

“Of course they got you, David. How could you have thought they wouldn’t?” she asked. “It’ll all come out now, about me, you’ll see. Maybe they’ll finally find what’s left of me in that stream.”

Bones. Just bones.

She rose, that look darkening, and David braced himself for the first impact of fist on cheekbone. Then the second, fist in his stomach, fists every-fucking-where.

He crumpled to the carpet, letting her do her thing.

“Sally,” he whispered. “I want Sally.”

* * * *

Oliver raised one hand then knocked on the door of his childhood home. Langham stood beside him on a large patio slab step, way beyond knackered, running on fumes. He didn’t think it wise for Oliver to be here—he was inviting a shitload of hurt—but it was his choice and something Langham knew he just had to do. Not something he fancied himself on a Sunday afternoon, but there it was.

The blue door swung open and a woman—Mrs Banks, Langham presumed—stood in the doorway, her mouth dropping open. Her cheeks, bearing the ruddiness of a drinker, flared redder, and her eyes darted about, the woman clearly checking up and down the street. She had a red apron on over a flowery dress, dusted with flour and what appeared to be cookie dough, making a mockery of what a mother was supposed to be like as in reality she was far from that.

Langham disliked her more already.

“What do
you
want?” She focused her attention on Oliver. “I told you when you left I didn’t want to see your sorry arse again.”

She reminded Langham of David’s description of
his
mother—that diary had answered all his questions and he’d almost,
almost
felt sorry for the man. To realize that David was the David who Conrad Leddings had mentioned as being the man he met with for breakfast most mornings had come as a shock.

“I just…” Oliver shifted from foot to foot. “I just came to see if you were okay.”

“Of course I’m okay, you weird bastard. Why wouldn’t I be?” She narrowed her eyes and shifted her gaze from Oliver to Langham. “Ah, so you’ve brought your faggot with you.”

Langham bit back the urge to laugh. It wasn’t a situation that warranted mirth. Her obvious hate shone through so brightly it made him see, once again, that some people thought, no matter how nice a person was, if they were gay they were scum, devils in disguise. His need for laughter was more from exasperation than finding what she’d said funny. No, she wasn’t funny at all, but after years of dealing with people like her, he’d learnt to accept that even though times were changing, some folks would never be accepting.

She was clearly one of them.

“Look,” she said, curling her top lip as she gave Langham the once-over, “you ought to sod off. I have neighbors who could see you.” She stared at Oliver again. “Bad enough the pair of you are in the bloody paper, flaunting your faggotness for all to see, let alone being on my doorstep.”

She was a bitch and half, this one, but Langham would let Oliver lead, would stand beside him as support until his lover decided it was time to go. In Langham’s book that time was now, but Oliver didn’t look as though he planned on walking away yet.

“How’s…?” Oliver began.

“Your sister? She’s fine, no thanks to you.” She rammed her podgy hands onto her hips. “Do you
know
what you did still upsets her? Do you
know
that you telling me she’d been sleeping around as a kid still follows her? That people give her funny looks even after all this time?” She snorted, her nostrils flaring, hazel eyes widening. “Some psychic you are. And them police believe you? Jesus wept.”

“I wasn’t…it wasn’t a psychic thing with that,” Oliver said. “I told you that.”

She crossed her arms over her stomach, propping her ample bosom on top. “Yes, well, you told me lots of things—lies, all lies—and I don’t believe you. Didn’t then, don’t now.” She glanced up and down the street again. “Look, just fuck off, will you? Fuck the hell off!”

She stepped back then slammed the door. The sound made Langham jump—his reaction severe from lack of sleep—and he clamped his lips closed, resisting the need to smack the side of one fist on that door until the nasty bitch opened it again. He wanted her to apologize, to wipe that stricken look off Oliver’s face.

To make him smile.

Oliver let out a shuddering breath. “You told me so, yeah, I know.” He turned. Brushed past Langham. Walked down the path to the car parked at the curb. Waited at the passenger door.

Langham clicked his key fob and Oliver got inside. Belted up. Langham was unsure whether to leave him be for a minute or two, or just join him and drive off, not saying a word. It was a difficult call. And Oliver’s words hadn’t stung like they might have done to anyone else. It was their thing, the way they were with each other, banter spewing out, saying the first thing that came to mind. It was Oliver’s way of letting Langham know he should have listened to him, that was all, then maybe he wouldn’t be so crushed now, wouldn’t look so damn dejected sitting there in that car.

Langham sighed and got in the car, starting the engine and peeling away from the curb. He wanted to tell Oliver that woman was the biggest cunt he’d ever come across, that sometimes you encountered them in life and they amazed you with how cuntish they could be. That she wasn’t worth wasting time and energy over—emotions over.

“That told me, didn’t it?” Oliver said, chuckling.

Relief poured into Langham. Oliver was taking the shrugging-it-off route, then. “It did. Told me and all. Who knew there was such a word as faggotness?”

Oliver laughed harder. “There isn’t. It’s just the way she is. Jesus fuck, whatever made me think she’d changed?”

“Hope,” Langham said. “It’s strong in all of us. Even people like David Courtier. His diary…well, let’s just say it would ring some bells for you.”

“Takes people differently, though, doesn’t it?” Oliver said, reaching forward and popping open the glove box, taking out two cans of Coke Langham hadn’t even been aware were there. He opened one and put it in the cup holder for Langham, then opened the other and took a long sip. “I mean, we’ve probably had similar childhoods and he’s fucked up—I’m not. I don’t think.”

“You have your moments,” Langham said, easing into a steady stream of traffic heading toward their home.

“Fuck you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you wish, but I’m shattered. I might be going home to bed at seven-thirty in the evening, but sleeping’s all I’m doing in it.”

Chapter Fourteen

Turned out Langham was wrong.

It was clear right from the second the front door had closed behind them with a resounding thud that Oliver had no intention of letting Langham sleep. Langham could have protested, could have said he was too tired once their coats were off and he’d hung them up, their shoes placed in the rack beside the door. And although he
was
tired, he didn’t have the energy to even say so.