Split Second (22 page)

‘Garrington, Gazza, he’s here. He’s still here, at his house. They’ve not done anything.’ His words were spilling like skittles. ‘Why haven’t they arrested him, they know it was him, they’ve had the name two weeks, what the hell do—’

‘Where are you?’ she demanded.

‘Outside his house. Ten minutes’ walk. I’ve just seen him, Louise, large as life—’

‘Where? What’s the address?’

He told her.

‘Don’t move.’

She was there in no time at all. Pulling up and waiting while he opened the door and got in. Then driving away, crunching through the gears in a way that told him she was livid even before she spoke.

She stopped the car alongside the park; the street smothered in fog looked empty. She snapped off her seat belt. ‘What the hell were you playing at?’

‘The police have done nothing.’

‘Oh, and you were going to, were you? What? Thump the guy? Put a brick through his window?’ She was quivering, her eyes bright and intense.

‘He killed my son,’ he said tightly. ‘And he’s not even been picked up.’

‘And he put my lad in a coma.’ She rounded on him. ‘What happens when he is arrested and it comes out you’ve been stalking him?’

‘I wasn’t stalking.’

‘Intimidating a suspect, interfering with an inquiry. You could mess it all up.’

‘But—’

‘I want them sent down, I want them punished. I want justice, not some middle-class prat like you ruining everything. Playing at terminator. What makes you think you know better than the police?’ She was trembling with fury, spittle at the side of her mouth, which she swiped away. She hit at the steering wheel. ‘What if he’d seen you, legged it?’

‘He didn’t see me,’ Andrew said, his mouth dry and palms clammy. ‘And I wouldn’t have done anything.’

‘Just being there was doing something.’

‘Why is it taking so long?’ he burst out.

‘I don’t know!’ she yelled back. She closed her eyes. Silence stretched between them. He looked out at the huge poplars, bare branches shrouded in fog. He heard the slam of a car door, the cough of an engine.

She spoke. ‘Swear to me that you won’t go near that house again, you won’t try anything else.’

He took a breath. ‘I promise.’

‘I never should have told you, I thought you could be trusted. You acted like we were on the same side.’

‘We are.’ He was desperate to reassure her, redeem himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You wanted to hurt him?’

‘Of course, but only in my head.’

‘We’re better than them,’ she said quietly. ‘Jason was better than them, my Luke . . .’ In the quiet he heard her swallow, heard the ticking of the car as the metal cooled.

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, screwed his eyes shut tight.

‘I’ll take you home,’ she said.

‘I can walk from here.’ He opened the door. ‘Thanks.’

She looked at him but didn’t speak. She looked so tired; worn out but not defeated.

He watched her drive off until the red rear lights had gone. Then he turned for home.

The phone went at seven, waking him. His thoughts flew to Jason, something wrong . . . then he slammed into the truth, a brick wall of pain – Jason’s gone. Amended his fears: his father, perhaps? He hurried on to the landing, snatched up the handset.

It was Martine. She didn’t waste time on small talk. ‘Andrew, we arrested three people this morning.’

His knees went weak. ‘Who?’

‘I can’t give you names at the moment.’

He heard Val. ‘What is it?’

Martine went on, ‘They match the descriptions. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more. Would you like me to come round?’

Val was there, eyes puffy from sleep, her hair tangled.

‘No thanks. We’ll be fine.’ He put the phone back. ‘They’ve arrested them,’ he said.

‘Oh God.’ She swayed, put a hand to the wall to steady herself.

‘Three of them – that’s all she could say.’

‘Oh God,’ she repeated, covering her mouth. ‘So have they been charged?’

‘I don’t think so. She’ll ring later.’

Val nodded slowly. She seemed to reach some sort of decision. ‘Good. It’s good.’

‘Of course, yes.’ But it was unnerving, too. ‘Shall we stay home? I don’t know how long . . . don’t know if I could concentrate.’

‘And the press might be back.’

‘Yes. We’ll stay here.’ He shuddered, goose flesh on his arms. Outside it was lashing rain; he could hear it slapping the windows, hear the wind buffeting the house. He moved to hold her. His arms went round her and he felt her tense, withholding the full embrace he longed for. He stepped away. ‘You okay?’ Though that wasn’t the question he wanted to ask.

‘Fine,’ she said. The lie between them like a line in the sand. A border between alien territories. ‘I’ll get a shower.’

Above him, around the roof, the wind howled.

Louise spent the day on pins, checking her phone every ten minutes. Losing track at work so she almost gave Miriam two lots of her lunchtime tablets. Smoking too much even when her mouth tasted foul and she was behind on her schedule.

It poured down all day, sullen clouds dumping bucketfuls of rain over and over, the wind hurling it sideways, so she had to try and smoke in doorways, even in a bus shelter at one point, to avoid getting soaked through. She wouldn’t break her rule and smoke in the car, but boy was she tempted.

She’d not slept the night before, too wound up about Andrew’s vigilante stunt and what it might have led to, and about the papers. Not only what they’d written about Luke, but also the way they’d conned Sian, who wasn’t the brightest button in the box. They’d preyed on her goodwill, her friendship with Luke’s family, to get hold of the information, then warped it as much as they could. Louise had got out of bed in the end, wrapped herself in layers and a blanket against the cold in the house and done some sewing until her fingers went numb.

When the phone went during breakfast she had expected the agency with a change to her visits, but it was the police. The news made her physically sick, the shock of it.

Now she was waiting for more. She had called at the hospital straight from work. Aware with each visit that she was avoiding Dr Liu, not ready to face any more discussion about moving Luke or the impossible decisions she might be forced to make after that. She bathed Luke and brushed his teeth. The dressing on his head had been removed and his hair was growing back, dark fuzz, the texture of hair on a kiwi fruit. The scar looked livid, pink and lumpy where they had operated. Fee had given her some aromatherapy oil, a mix of basil, bergamot and peppermint. She massaged him with it, his torso, arms and legs, gently round his neck, his feet. The scents, peppery and fresh, filled the room.

‘Do you like the smell, then?’ she said. ‘Meant to help your memory this, stimulate the brain.’ When she’d finished, she drew the sheet over him and sat and held his hand. ‘They’ve arrested them, Luke. The three that hurt you. They picked them up this morning.’ She watched for the slightest twitch, saw only the steady pulse in the side of his neck, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

She reached and tapped the side of his face. ‘Luke, wake up now. It’s Mum. You can wake up now.’ She pressed a fingernail into the sole of his foot, her eyes fixed on his face. Altered her tone: quick, instructive, ‘Luke, wake up!’

There was nothing.

‘Ring them, Mum,’ Ruby said again.

‘I’ve told you, they’ll ring me.’

‘What if they’ve forgotten? Or think it’s too late?’

‘Then I’ll kick up a stink,’ she said.

‘What if they let them go?’

‘Then they’ll tell us.’

Ruby looked so worried.

‘Why would they let them go? Look, you’re getting me all stressed now. Haven’t you any homework to do?’

‘Done it.’

The phone rang. Louise snatched it up. Ruby stared, shoulders hunched, her eyes huge.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Louise: DC Illingworth.’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth was dry; she strained for a clue in the way the woman spoke. Good news, bad? She nodded to Ruby, reached out a hand. Ruby took it.

‘The three people we arrested this morning have now been charged with the murder of Jason Barnes and the attempted murder of Luke.’

Louise gasped, felt dizzy, as though she’d topple over.

‘One of the three has made an admission of guilt, a confession, and that’s enabled us to bring charges more quickly than we’d anticipated.

‘Oh God.’ A confession!

‘What?’ Ruby was mouthing, slicing her free hand with impatience.

‘The people involved are Thomas Garrington aged eighteen, a seventeen-year-old woman who cannot be named for legal reasons and Conrad Quinn, aged eighteen.’

She unscrambled the words, struggled to take it all in: the numbers, the unfamiliar name. ‘What legal reasons?’

‘Under eighteen.’

‘What happens now?’ Louise asked.

‘They’ll appear in the magistrates’ court in the morning, and then next week there will be a plea and case management hearing in the Crown Court. That will set a date for the trial.’

‘Thank you,’ said Louise, her voice breaking.

‘I think I can speak for the whole team when I say how pleased I am that the individuals have been apprehended and charged. I’ll be in touch soon. You are entitled to attend any of the court hearings if you wish.’

Did she want to? The thought of seeing them made her stomach turn.

‘I’ll call tomorrow,’ the detective said.

‘They’ve got them,’ Louise told Ruby. ‘They’ve charged them all.’ And she started to cry.

She showed the letter to Laura at work. Laura scanned it. ‘You’re going to be a witness?’ She glanced at Emma.

Emma nodded, miserable. ‘I wish I didn’t have to.’

‘It might fall through,’ Laura said. ‘It’s months away. I know someone who had to go, about their neighbours: the bloke had attacked his wife. Anyway, when my friend got there, all hyped up, they said it was off. The bloke changed his plea.’

Emma considered this, but knowing her luck, the thing would go ahead and she’d have to appear.

She’d had to go in to the police station, once they’d arrested the suspects. The police had called at work and she’d had to go and ask Gavin for the time off. He had no problem with it but she half hoped he might have some reason to refuse.

The people weren’t lined up like on telly. She just had to look at videos of different people and pick them out. It was easy, really. The Gazza guy with his red hair and staring blue eyes, the other one with that tattoo and his pokey face and the girl prettier than all the other girls in the clips shown to her.

Now, with it all being reported in the papers, Emma knew their names: Thomas Garrington and Conrad Quinn. The girl was just called Girl A because she was under eighteen. Conrad Quinn had confessed, he’d pleaded guilty so he’d be a witness like Emma.

‘Might be exciting,’ Laura said.

She doesn’t understand, thought Emma. Emma wanted to do the right thing – she still felt a sting of shame when she thought back to her silence on the bus – but she was bound to freeze up or get tongue-tied and make a fool of herself.

That weekend she went home to celebrate her mother’s birthday. They were having a meal on the Saturday evening. Emma had bought Mum a necklace, lovely rose-coloured beads interspersed with pearls, which would go with some of her clothes.

The restaurant overlooked the river and they had a table in the conservatory right next to the water. Emma waited until they had finished the meal, and she’d had three large glasses of white wine, before telling them about the witness summons. Her dad was on it like a hound on an injured fox.

‘You a witness! God help the prosecution. Tell them to give you a megaphone or no one will catch a word you say.’

‘Roger,’ her mum chimed in, on cue.

‘Well,’ he leaned back, belched softly, ‘you know what she’s like. Whispering Winnie.’ He made stupid sibilant sounds, angling his head to and fro, some ghastly impersonation, malice flickering in his gaze.

Emma dug her nails into her palms, felt the hate for him black in her heart. ‘Why do you always put me down, Dad?’ The directness of her question startled Emma as much as it did her parents. Her mum shifted and laughed awkwardly and her father stopped still.

‘Any more coffee?’ her mum said.

‘I asked you a question.’ Emma forced herself to keep looking his way, even though her face was aflame with heat.

He leant forward and lowered his voice. His eyes glinting. ‘You will not ruin your mother’s special night out with this silly attention-seeking claptrap.’

‘Roger . . . Emma . . .’ Her mum was flustered.

Emma pushed back her chair.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ he snapped.

‘Toilets,’ Emma said. ‘Something’s made me feel sick.’ As she turned, she caught her foot on the chair and stumbled.

‘Hah hah!’ he cackled, delighted. ‘See that! Hah! Nellie the Elephant.’

‘Oh, Roger,’ her mum said sadly, ‘that’s not fair.’

Emma didn’t cry; she wouldn’t cry. Nellie the Elephant, Whispering Winnie. Hateful. And what hurt worst of all was that he was right.

They had to set off early to allow for the traffic. Ruby was wound up with anxiety, chewing at her nails. ‘Stop it,’ Louise told her. ‘If you have to chew something, chew some gum.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ Ruby retorted.

‘In the glove compartment.’ Louise’s stomach was fluttering too – like a bird had got trapped in there – but she tried to act calm for Ruby’s sake.

Ruby fiddled with the radio, tuned it into Radio 1 Xtra. She sang along to the tunes she liked.

Louise concentrated on the road, negotiating the slew of commuter cars and heavy goods wagons. It was sleeting and the wipers were going at full tilt to clear the windscreen.

She hadn’t told Ruby about Dr Liu’s plans to move Luke from the hospital; hadn’t told anyone. Nothing would happen yet anyway. ‘In the next couple of months,’ she’d said. That could be March. They could get Ruby settled into a new routine by then. Travelling to Liverpool early on a Monday, back Friday night. They should be able to get help with her travel expenses.