Picking her way through the mud, Mairéad puts that awful scar in the earth behind her and follows a trail of limp firehoses back to DS Halley’s car.
Her thoughts turn to Kyle North. Immediately after his arrest, the man retreated into himself, refusing to answer even the most basic of questions. Losing patience, she asked her West Mercia counterparts to transport him by van to Shrewsbury.
It’s her next destination.
II
The station’s custody block is a modern facility comprising sixteen cells. Kyle North is housed in number three. Scowling, Mairéad peers through the viewing window. ‘What happened to his face?’
Beside her, Halley glances at DS Roebuck from the West Mercia force.
The other officer lifts his chin. ‘Bit of a scuffle getting him into the van.’
Mairéad fixes him with a stare.
‘Just a black eye,’ he adds, his expression flat. ‘It’ll heal.’
‘I’m counting on you to ensure he receives no other injuries.’
She’d like nothing more than to see Kyle North taken outside and beaten with bats and poles, but if she can’t return Elissa Mirzoyan to her family, at the very least she needs to secure a conviction. This case has affected all who’ve worked on it; she won’t allow a few hot tempers and quick fists to derail what comes next.
Inside the cell, North sits on his bunk and stares at the wall. He’s a slothful-looking giant, but when required he moves with a sly grace. His skin, greasy and yellow, reminds her of pork-belly rind. There’s even a score line in the flesh, an ugly scar that connects his left temple to his chin. His sloping breasts push against his paper suit. Two circular sweat marks make it appear that he’s lactating. There’s no stubble on his cheeks, no curl of hair at his wrists. As Mairéad considers him, she can’t help recalling his awful falsetto voice.
‘How old, do you reckon?’
‘Thirty?’ Halley ventures. ‘Thirty-five? Difficult call – he could be older or younger by a decade.’
It’s an exaggeration, but not by much. ‘Let’s get him to an interview room,’ Mairéad says, and then she bends double, unable to suppress a groan.
‘Boss?’ Halley asks. ‘What’s wrong?’
The pain hits again, worse this time. It cleaves a path straight through her abdomen. She pivots and lurches up the corridor. Halley calls out behind her. With a shake of her head, she dismisses him.
Hold on, please hold on, stay with me, please don’t go.
But her plea is worthless, and she knows it. Somehow, during this week-long investigation, the destiny of the life she’s been carrying has become inextricably entangled with Elissa Mirzoyan’s. Mairéad failed one of them, and now she’ll fail the other.
She staggers into the toilets, barricading herself in an empty cubicle. Pain lashes her. Air hisses between her teeth.
She tugs down her trousers, her underwear. There’s blood everywhere, bright and wet and accusatory. Mairéad kicks off her heels, quickly strips off her clothes. Lifting the toilet seat, she straddles herself across it. Her breath comes in staccato bursts. She should be at home, in the privacy of her own bathroom, surrounded by familiar things. Instead she’s two hundred miles away, locked in a cramped police station toilet within spitting distance of a child killer. But the location doesn’t matter. Not really. Right now, she could be anywhere on earth and she’d still be alone.
The pain intensifies. For a while, it’s all there is. And then, finally, it begins to ebb.
When Mairéad stands, the evidence of her loss is stark and unequivocal.
How dismal, this. How particular the grief.
Her fingers grope for her wedding band. She needs to speak to Scott, tell him what has happened. But she can’t, not yet.
Mairéad opens her bag and searches through it. At least she came prepared. Inside there are wipes, sanitary pads, leggings and fresh knickers. Carefully, she begins to clean herself. Her grief is a boulder rolling towards her, so heavy and sluggish it’ll take a little time to arrive. Unbidden, a memory surfaces: Lena Mirzoyan, six days ago, sitting in the manager’s office of the Marshall Court Hotel: I know you’ll try. All of you – I know you will. But you’ve got to succeed. You’ve got to bring her back. Promise me you will. Promise.
Mairéad flushes the toilet. She leaves the cubicle as fast as she can. In front of the mirror, she tries to make herself look human. Does she serve Elissa best by handing the interrogation to someone else? Crazy to believe that she can walk out of here and straight into an interview room.
Or is it?
Perspective, right now, is impossible.
She knows what a court would think, should she choose to question Kyle North. She knows what her chief constable would think. But a court will never know, and neither will her boss. She’s so invested in this, so invested in Elissa.
That boulder of grief is gathering speed, but it’s still some way behind. She can outpace it, dance before it, do what needs to be done.
Jesus.
Kyle
I
At first, being locked up isn’t as bad as I feared. The cell is clean, and although the bunk is hard, there’s a mattress coated in blue plastic and even a matching pillow. I’d prefer dimmer lights, and the bleach smell is unfortunate, but you can’t have everything.
On the floor is a tray of food, now cold. I don’t deserve to eat, not after what I did. Every time I close my eyes I see choking black smoke, so instead I stare at the wall. I wonder how many of my Memory Trees have burned. I wonder if Bryony’s yew is gone, and Mama’s oak.
I think of Kyle, and what will become of him. Then I remember that my brother is dead – that I killed him long ago – and that he wasn’t Kyle at all but Elijah, the name I took as my own. Strange how, over time, the stories we tell ourselves come true.
It’s quiet right now. I should try to savour the peace. I know what they do to people like me. My black eye in the police van was just the start. After this I’ll go somewhere filled with Men Who Do Bad Things. Magic Annie told me all about them – about what they do to you, what they put in you. My tummy clenches. I feel that wall inside my head tremble, as if an earthquake is shaking the corridors of my mind. Being alone like this is bearable, but the thought of prison empties my lungs. I should probably kill myself before I have to face it, but I can’t even work out how. Hugging my legs to my chest, I hear commotion outside the cell. My ordeal’s about to begin.
II
The interview room isn’t the same one as before, but that was a different police station and they were different officers. This room is far smaller. Even on my own, it feels like a tight squeeze.
My hands are cuffed. Every time I look at them I think of Gretel and that awful injury on her wrist. I’m pretty sure she was dying, even before the fire – her arm had swollen up like a sun-ripened pumpkin. The pain must have been horrendous, but she never complained. Not like Bryony, whose whining became a bit much towards the end.
Two video cameras bolted to the ceiling watch everything I do. Funny, really. In a way, it feels like I’ve traded places with those I used to visit.