The Killer Inside (12 page)

At five o’clock that afternoon Megan boarded a train bound for Manchester Piccadilly. Ronnie had invited her to stay the night, promising her dinner and a look at Patrick Ryan’s file. The train was packed, and as she squeezed into one of the few remaining seats the ring tone of her mobile sounded. She scrabbled to retrieve it from her bag but by the time she’d located it the ringing had stopped. She looked in ‘Missed Calls’. Damn. Private number. She wondered if it had been Carl Kelly’s girlfriend. She could have picked up that email by now. If she was in a hotel abroad somewhere she’d be calling through a router, so nothing would show up.

A couple of minutes later she heard the beep of a voicemail message coming through. It wasn’t Jodie Shepherd: it was Jonathan. He had tried to call her from his office, whose switchboard always withheld its number. His message was short and businesslike. He thanked her for last night in the kind of voice he might have used to thank a waitress for bringing him a meal. There was no warmth; no intimacy. Perhaps there were other people around when he sent it, she thought. But if that was the case, why had he mentioned last night at all? She thought about Nathan’s card lying face up on the doormat. Was that the reason for Jonathan’s frostiness? Or had he simply picked up the vibes she was giving out?

Although she felt guilty about the way she’d been with Jonathan she couldn’t help contrasting his voice message with the affectionate way Dominic had said goodbye a couple of hours ago: he had laid his hand gently on the bare skin
above her wrist as he wished her luck. It was as if he sensed the loneliness that hovered beneath the surface of a life that was so full of other people. This thought stayed with her as she drifted into a doze, lulled by the heat of the carriage and the motion of the train. In the chaotic dreams that followed, the central character was Dominic. Scenes from the prison, the university and her past were all jumbled together but he was always there in the background, a soothing, guiding presence: guiding her to what she didn’t know.

She awoke with a start as her mobile beeped again. It was a text from Delva: “Mo’s dad’s name is Ron,” the message read. “Middle name Aaron. Birth cert gives job as army. That was 1960 so he cd hv joined cops l8r – will check.”

“Thanx Del,” she texted back. “Am on my way to M’chester 2 check poss linked death. Spk soon, Meg.” Pressing send, she glanced out of the window and spotted the floodlights of Old Trafford in the distance. She thought about Delva’s theory. Patrick Ryan: that was a very Irish-sounding name. What if he was one of the others? One of the three who had gone to take revenge on Moses Smith?

The train slowed but even before it came to a stop people were scrambling to get off. The man wedged into the seat next to her plonked his size eleven boot on her toe as he struggled to get out. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘these carriages are like bloody cattle trucks.’ She was about to echo the sentiment when her phone went off again.

‘Damn!’ She scrabbled in her bag, trying to get it before the voicemail cut in. How many times had she promised herself she’d sort out the junk she lugged around with her? And why did they make phones so small these days, anyway? ‘Hello,’ she barked, expecting to be too late.

‘Meg?’ It was Delva’s voice. ‘Can you talk? You sound a bit hassled.’

‘It’s okay – I’m just getting off the train.’ She squeezed into
the space between her carriage and the next one, flattening herself against the door to the toilet as a tall girl hauled a huge rucksack onto her back, oblivious of those behind her.

‘Come on, tell me more, then.’ She could hear the excitement in Delva’s voice. ‘What’s this about another death?’

She wondered if Delva could hear the hubbub going on around her. ‘To be honest, I don’t know much more than I said in the text – can I call you back in ten minutes?’

It took longer than that to get a taxi. By the time she got through the ticket barrier there was a queue snaking all along the front of the station. Three-quarters of an hour later she was finally out of earshot, safe behind the glass partition of a black cab, on her way to the hotel where she’d arranged to meet Ronnie. But Delva’s phone was switched off. Megan glanced at her watch. She was probably on air. She sent a message giving what little information she knew, with a promise to call back as soon as she’d found out more.

She flicked down the cover of the phone and leaned across to open the window. It was good to feel the cool night air after the stifling heat of the train. As the taxi pulled up at traffic lights she glanced into the window of a house a few feet from the pavement. The light was on and she could see a man and a woman, about her age, sitting at a table, eating. There was a bottle of wine between them and as she watched she saw the man raise his glass, as if in a toast, smiling at the woman as he spoke. She felt a twinge of something in that fleeting moment before the taxi pulled away. Envy? No – it wasn’t that. To her surprise she realised that what she’d experienced was a sense of relief; that she would be spending the evening with Ronnie rather than Jonathan.

If someone had told her a few days ago that she would feel this way, she wouldn’t have believed them. At the beginning of the week she had been looking forward to spending
the weekend with Jonathan; planning what they might do. But last night had changed everything. It would have been almost unbearable if he had stayed longer; if she had had to go through the motions of a relationship that was…what?
Stillborn
. The word jumped into her mind. With a shudder she shut the window. Where had that come from? Her thoughts switched immediately to the baby in the mortuary. But it was true: that word exactly described her relationship with Jonathan. So much promise at the start but starved of the vital elements it needed to thrive.

It wasn’t that she blamed him for spending the weekend with his daughter or for having a job that took him all over the world; but those two things together, coupled with the fact that he and she lived more than a hundred miles apart meant there simply wasn’t enough
time
for the relationship to develop. With Laura at school in Cardiff Jonathan wasn’t likely to want to relocate to Birmingham, even if his university would allow it. And, as a head of department, for
her
to move to Wales was out of the question.

You’re talking yourself out of it, aren’t you?
That was her mother’s voice. If only you were here, Mum, she thought. So many times over the past three years Megan had wished she could pick up the phone and talk things over with her mother. When she was in her twenties it had never occurred to her that she would lose both parents before she turned thirty-four. What on earth would Mum make of the dilemma she was in now?

The taxi drew up outside
The Midland,
forcing her back to the present. As she stepped onto the pavement she glanced up at the hotel’s Edwardian façade, impressive in the early evening light. It was a welcome sight. It felt good to be away from home, if only for twenty-four hours. She was glad that tonight she would not be sleeping in her own bed; on sheets that would still smell faintly of Jonathan. Tomorrow she
would change the bed; would think about returning his call; would face up to what she had to do.

As she reached the entrance to the hotel she spotted Ronnie waiting in the lobby, a briefcase at her side. Patrick Ryan’s file would be in there. Megan was desperate to know what it might contain. But she hadn’t seen her friend for more than two years. To launch straight in would be plain rude.

On seeing Megan, Ronnie rose to her feet and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking great, Meg,’ she said approvingly.

Megan rolled her eyes. ‘D’you think so? I must have put on two stone since I last saw you. It’s giving up the fags – I’m starting to look like a little Buddha.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Ronnie laughed. ‘And anyway, I hope you’re not thinking of dieting tonight – I’ve booked us a table at a Spanish tapas place on Deansgate for later. I don’t know about you, but after the day I’ve had I could eat a horse – didn’t even have time for one of those shrivelled sandwiches from the canteen.’

With a shock Megan realised that nothing bar a Starbucks double espresso had passed her lips since the banana she’d grabbed from the fruit bowl for breakfast. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel all that hungry – even the packet of prunes in her bag had remained untouched. Perhaps her body was finally learning to do with less food. ‘Well, I must admit I avoided the British Rail catering on the way up,’ she laughed. ‘The damn train was so packed I didn’t dare leave my seat. But how about a couple of Margaritas to warm us up? Do you think you can still handle it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I haven’t quite got the staying power I used to have. So perhaps something
non-alcoholic
to start?’

As Megan followed the sober-suited Ronnie to the bar she
smiled at the thought of her friend, the legendary university party animal, becoming the abstemious deputy governor of one of Britain’s biggest jails. They’d both been high octane as students: she remembered the time they went on a whim to get their noses pierced after downing a bottle of tequila the day their finals ended. Ronnie had let hers heal up; she had toned herself down a lot since those carefree college days. As well as losing the nose stud she had let her hair – once dyed a vivid magenta – return to its natural brown. The style she wore it in now was a short, no-fuss cut. As a woman working in a men’s prison it didn’t do to stand out in anyway. Megan had learnt that lesson a long time ago.

As the Margaritas arrived – one alcohol free – Ronnie beamed at Megan across the table. ‘I’m really glad we’ve been able to get together tonight – even though it’s not for a very nice reason – because I’ve just had some really good news.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

There was a brief pause. Ronnie, still smiling, was blushing.

‘Come on,’ said Megan, ‘What is it? You look like the cat who got the cream. Don’t tell me you’re going to be a governor at thirty-seven?’

‘No, much better than that – I’m pregnant.’

‘God, Ronnie…’ Megan was suddenly lost for words. This was the last thing she’d expected. She’d always had Ronnie down as the archetypal career woman – someone who was determined to make her mark in what was still a man’s world. She distinctly remembered a conversation they’d had as students, when Ronnie had forcefully made the point that women having it all was a fallacy. She had cited her own mother as a perfect example: an Oxford law graduate trying to combine a career as a barrister with raising three children. In the end she had given up, Ronnie said,
because she couldn’t bear the fact that if they were ill or upset they called for the nanny, not her.

‘Well, aren’t you pleased for me?’ Ronnie’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘Sorry, of course I am.’ Megan made herself smile. She was pleased but she was also as envious as hell. ‘I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all,’ she said, swallowing hard.

‘Don’t worry – so was I! I never thought it was going to happen for us.’

‘When… er… when’s the baby due?’

‘The beginning of October, according to the scan.’ Her face suddenly changed, as if she’d read Megan’s thoughts. ‘Anyway,’ she said briskly, ‘enough of me for the moment – what about you? Anything happening on the romance front?’

Megan grunted. ‘No one that you might describe as a “significant other”.’

‘Ah!’ Ronnie gave her a sideways look. ‘So there is someone, then?’

‘Well, there
was
. I’m not sure the present tense is still appropriate.’

‘You’ve dumped him?’

‘Kind of.’

‘What do you mean, “kind of”? You either have or you haven’t, I would have thought.’

‘I suppose I have in my head,’ Megan shrugged. ‘I think I’ve only just realised myself that there’s no future in it – it’s kind of complicated.’ She wasn’t going to tell Ronnie how complicated, or confess to her feelings for Dom Wilde. She could imagine Ronnie’s reaction if she knew she was even contemplating breaking one of the cardinal rules of prison ethics.

‘He’s married?’

‘Let’s just say he’s not available, full stop. So there you
have it – my boring but tangled life,’ she said with a wry smile. She drained her glass. ‘God, that cocktail’s gone straight to my head. I’d better have a look at that stuff you brought before I get I get completely ratted.’

‘Sure.’ Ronnie glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got another ten minutes before the table’s booked.’ From her briefcase she pulled the standard-issue buff-coloured inmate file and handed it over. ‘I’ve taken a look myself but I didn’t see anything unusual or particularly interesting. ‘You said on the phone you thought the look on his face could have been caused by strychnine but our doctor said tetanus causes that.’

Megan nodded. ‘That’s what they thought at Balsall Gate until the toxicology report came through.’

‘Hmm.’ Ronnie rubbed the stem of her glass between her finger and thumb. ‘Well, I think whoever brought the drugs in must have been a visitor – we’ve had a big clampdown in the last couple of months on screws bringing stuff in.’

‘What sort of visitors,’ Megan asked as she opened the file.

‘Quite a few, actually in the last few days before he died, but most of them were official: his solicitor, a probation officer and the chaplain. He didn’t get many personal visitors.’

Megan was confronted by an aggressive-looking face framed with a shaggy mop of red hair. The photograph of Patrick Ryan didn’t do him any favours. He had small, mean-looking eyes and a clutch of freckles spreading from the middle of a snub nose. She would have guessed that he was in his mid-to-late forties, but she was wrong about that: his date of birth was down as the third of June 1967 – which made him a couple of months short of forty-one when he died – four years older than Carl Kelly.

Her eyes moved down the page to Ryan’s conviction details. ‘Oh,’ she said suddenly, bending her head closer to
the page to make certain she’d read the words correctly.

‘What?’ Ronnie peered over her shoulder.