Rabbit Hole Page 28

  ‘I know. Sorry . . .’

  I hear my dad mumble something. He’ll be heaving himself over in bed about now and asking my mum who’s calling, even though at this time of night there really aren’t that many candidates. She mouths my name. Now he sits up and mouths something back. Something like is everything OK? She shakes her head, I don’t know, and takes a deep breath.

  ‘So, how are you, love?’

  ‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘Not sleeping too well, which is why I, you know . . . why it’s so late.’

  ‘Only Sophie called us yesterday and she sounded a bit worried.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Some conversation you’d had with her. I don’t know.’

  All those knives and coffins and things. ‘Oh, she’s just being daft,’ I say.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘How’s Grandma?’

  My mum clears her throat. She’s probably plumping up the pillow behind her. ‘Well, I called her the day before yesterday and she’s . . . much the same. She asked how you were doing.’

  I doubt that. Last time I saw my grandmother, she hadn’t got the foggiest who I was. Probably best, I reckon.

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Mum says. ‘I think I just said something . . . vague.’

  ‘Well, next time she asks . . .’ she won’t, ‘. . . tell her I’ve been promoted to sergeant, will you? That’ll perk her up. Or you could always just rattle out the appendix story, like you did with Jeff and Diane.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, love . . . that just came out.’

  ‘Unlike my appendix.’

  ‘We didn’t know what else to say.’

  ‘I’m kidding, Mum . . . it’s fine. Just hope they never ask to see the scar.’

  My mum laughs. It’s a bit nervous, but still, it’s not something I’ve heard for a while. ‘We were thinking we might come down again and see you one day next week. Well, I was.’

  What am I supposed to say? ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘It’s fine, honest. I know it’s no fun for you.’

  ‘I’m not coming because it’s fun,’ she says. ‘I’m coming because that’s where . . . you are.’

  I don’t say anything, because I can’t, and I know that Dad is looking at her again, wanting to know what’s going on. What I’m talking about. My mum’s probably shaking her head at him again or, if she’s in the mood, mouthing shut up, Brian . . .

  ‘Is there any particular day that’s best for you?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘What about a time, then? Dad says that when he came in on Wednesday you were a bit . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, I wasn’t at my sharpest. Look, it doesn’t make any difference what time you come.’ I’m being honest about that much, at least.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she says. ‘Well, I’ll call beforehand, anyway. See if there’s anything particular you want me to bring . . .’

  We talk for quite a while after that, twenty minutes, maybe. About if the biscuits my dad brought in last time were the right ones, and the problems he’s having with his back, and the day when Jeff and Diane’s grandchildren came round for tea.

  ‘I made a Victoria sponge,’ she says.

  My mum’s always had that kind of soft voice. The sort that makes you feel things will get a bit better, even when there’s no chance of that happening. I find myself getting sleepy, which is good, because I’ll need to be on the ball come the morning.

  ‘Listen, Mum, I’ll let you get back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m wide awake now, love. Anyway, you still haven’t said why you’re ringing at half past stupid?’

  That’s my mum for you. Always the one to ask the awkward questions.

  ‘I was just ringing for a natter,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

  How can I tell her that I’m calling to say goodbye?

  FIFTY-SIX

  It’s the second day running that I haven’t eaten any breakfast, but this time I don’t even bother going to the dining room to not eat, because I want to be ready and I’m guessing they’ll come good and early. It’s what I would do. I have a conversation which I’ve already forgotten with Femi at the meds hatch, then another with Donna as I take the bottle of water and step away to swallow the multicoloured contents of the paper cup.

  The anti-psychotics, the mood-stabilisers and whatever the new ones are.

  Then I wait.

  It feels strange around here this morning, though I’m well aware that could just be me. Projecting, I think it’s called. The members of staff I’ve run into since I got up definitely seem a bit tense, though, and I can’t help wondering if they’ve been pre-warned. It would make perfect sense and again, it’s what me or Banksy or any detective with a bit of nous would have done. So the arrest team have the ward set up just the way they want, before they come steaming in.

  Two, possibly three of them.

  An extra person in handcuffs with them when they leave.

  Marcus is still around. I’ve never seen him here on a Saturday and a Sunday and although I’m guessing they’re still short-handed, because it doesn’t look like Malaika’s back yet, it might just as easily be because he knows what’s going to be happening.

  I step in front of him when he emerges from the toilet.

  ‘When are they coming?’

  ‘When’s who coming?’

  It seems convincing, so I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, and, of course, there’s one very good reason why the members of staff might not know anything about it. Why the last thing the police would do is pre-warn them. Because perhaps the person they’re coming here to arrest is a member of staff.

  Fuck’s sake, Al. Keep it together . . .

  My voice or Johnno’s. It’s hard to be sure any more.

  It’s only fifteen minutes since I took them, but it looks like the drugs are muddying up my thinking already, because I know exactly who the police are coming for.

  I take up my position on a chair at the airlock and I’m relieved to see that Tony hasn’t decided on an early-morning vigil today. I really don’t need any company. I look out through the two doors towards the lift, same as I did yesterday when I was here talking to Banksy, and I think about the couple I saw on their way to the ward opposite this one.

  A journey they did not want to make.

  They were late thirties, tops, so who were they going to see? It might have been a sibling or maybe a parent, but they looked so bloody nervous that I can’t help but imagine they were visiting their own child. A teenager, if I’m right. Even if I don’t always behave like an adult, does the fact that I’m so much older make things any easier for my mum and dad? It doesn’t take long before I decide it’s probably the exact opposite. That teenager might recover, with his whole life still ahead of him, while my best years – such as they were – are only visible in a rear-view mirror.

  I stare at those lift doors and wait for them to open.

  How the hell are my mum and dad going to cope with . . . this?

  They will, of course, because back when I was having those good years, I saw it too many times to count. Parents standing by their children, no matter what. Bravely, stupidly. I was always kind of . . . impressed, even if I couldn’t quite understand it. Some of the things their kids had done that they were happy to overlook. You can’t understand it, that’s what Johnno said, not until you’re a parent yourself.

  This was back when he was all set to become one . . .

  I’m guessing that particular ship has sailed for me now, but there was a drunken evening when Andy and I talked about what it might be like and, for about five minutes, I even thought about doing it in here, if you can believe that. Maybe asking one of the ward’s many eligible gentlemen to do me a favour, donation-
wise, then borrowing a turkey-baster from the kitchen. I think I was well off my tits at the time—

  The lift doors open and out they come.

  Three of them, I was right. Two uniforms – a man and a woman – and a second bloke I’m guessing is the DI. Fifty-something, with a brown leather jacket over his shirt and tie like he’s ten years younger and fitter. As they walk towards the door, I watch him put on a lanyard that’s definitely not rainbow-coloured, turn his ID card the right way round and exchange a few words with his colleagues.

  Words of caution, probably. A request for those less ex­perienced than him to stay calm, no matter what they might have to deal with.

  Bear in mind what this place is . . .

  I stand up when the detective rings the bell and our eyes meet through the glass, but then Marcus appears, moving quickly towards the airlock with his keys at the ready. Yeah, he definitely knew to expect visitors.

  He asks me if I’d mind moving away from the door a little.

  So, I do, but not far.

  Once the doors are locked again and the officers are inside, there are handshakes and mumbled introductions. Marcus holds out an arm as if to guide them to a pre-arranged room, which is when I step forward.

  ‘Alice, please—’

  I ignore Marcus and step close to the man in the leather jacket. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

  ‘That’s a bit tricky at the moment,’ he says.

  He takes half a step past me and I go with him. ‘I’m ex-Job,’ I say.

  Marcus is ready to intervene, but the DI stops and looks at me. ‘OK. I know who you are.’

  Of course he does.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

  The detective nods at his uniformed colleagues to let them know I’m not dangerous – at least not right this minute – then at Marcus. He says, ‘It’s fine,’ and while the two uniforms stay by the door, me and the detective follow Marcus towards the MDR.

  It feels like a long walk, suddenly.

  Donna is already on the march and stares as she passes. Clare and Colin stand together and watch from the dining room doorway. Bob is gawping outside the nurses’ station and, from wherever he’s lurking, Ilias gleefully shouts, ‘Someone’s in trouble.’

  For once, he’s spot on.

  Marcus shows the detective into the MDR, allows me to follow, then before he steps out and closes the door, gives me a look that would normally shit me up for the rest of the day. A warning look, that tells me he’s got my number and that I should really think carefully before I do something stupid.

  Right now, though, I don’t even blink.

  The desk is in position, so I’m thinking there must have been a tribunal in here recently, or maybe there’s one arranged for later in the day. I stand and watch the DI walk behind the desk, take off his leather jacket and toss it across the chair. He sits down and invites me to do the same.

  ‘I think you spoke to my . . . partner,’ he says. ‘Dr Perera?’

  ‘Right.’ So he’s the one. I look at him and I think, yeah, definitely punching above his weight.

  He introduces himself, but like a few times recently, the name doesn’t stick. It’s simple enough, but it’s . . . gone as soon as it’s arrived. It doesn’t matter, because I know that by the time this is all over, it’ll be a name I’ll probably never be able to forget.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, I know why you’re here,’ I say. ‘I know how these things work, so I thought I’d save you some time.’

  ‘That’s always good.’ He waits.

  So, here we are, then . . . and suddenly all those things that once mattered so much seem very far away and utterly unimportant. Like minor bits of mischief and silliness. Masks and the scars on my arm and the clunk of a wine bottle against a skull.

  Oh, just bloody say it, Al . . .

  My voice or Johnno’s. It really doesn’t matter. There’s no accent, otherwise it could just as easily be a woman bleeding out on a toilet floor.

  ‘My name’s Alice Armitage,’ I say. ‘And I murdered Debbie McClure.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The detective says nothing.

  I stare at him. It’s not a hard face, but it looks . . . lived in. There’s a thin, straight scar running across the bottom of his chin which, for some reason, makes me trust him a bit more than I might otherwise, and his hair is greyer on one side than the other. I can sense that he’s definitely not stupid and, unlike his girlfriend, I’m guessing he’s rather more interested in facts than feelings.

  When it comes to what he makes of my confession, though, I can’t read him at all.

  Is he waiting for me to carry on? Surely it’s his turn.

  I can hear muffled voices whispering outside, then Marcus very much not whispering as he tells whoever’s eavesdropping to move away from the door. Ilias and Lucy is my guess. I wonder what the two uniforms are doing. If they’re clever they’ll be drinking tea in the nurses’ station or, if they’re not, they’ll be learning a few lessons I never got taught at the training college just a mile up the road. I almost feel sorry for them, backed into a corner somewhere by a small but well-practised mob, to be mercilessly eyed up, sworn at, sung to . . .

  ‘Why are you telling me that?’ the detective asks, eventually.

  I’m a bit thrown by the question, you want to know the truth. I’ve sat where he is now – not the MDR, but you get the idea – and listened to a fair few suspects spill their guts over the years, and why are you telling me that? was certainly never my first thought. I was always too busy thinking of the work me and everyone else on the team had been saved. My modest shrug at the heartfelt congrats from senior officers, even if the confession was freely offered and I just happened to be the lucky cow in the interview room at the time. The smiles in the office and the pats on the back and all the lovely drinks I wouldn’t have to pay for that night.

  I’m confused, because I’ve slapped it on a plate for him, but maybe he’s just one of those awkward bastards. Every team’s got one.

  ‘Sorry . . . what do you mean, why?’

  He sighs, like he’s just figured out this might take a bit longer than the few minutes I’d promised. ‘OK, a different question, then. How about starting with why you murdered Miss McClure?’

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m damn sure he knows all of this, but I get it because these days the job is all about ducks in a row, making everything watertight before you take your case to the CPS. A pain in the arse, but you know . . . fine.

  So I tell him all those things that his girlfriend had gently suggested as we sat in the sunshine just three days before. Things she would subsequently have passed on to him and that I’d heard from others several times since.

  I didn’t want Debbie to get away with killing Kevin.

  I wanted to see some kind of justice done.

  I couldn’t stand feeling ignored.

  I feel a few warning stabs of panic as I’m running through my motives for murder again, so I tell him not to worry if I have to stop for a bit and do some funny breathing. He tells me it’s fine and to take as long as I need, but in the end I just about keep it together. Actually, considering where we are and what I’m telling him, I’m amazed that I’m managing to stay as relatively calm as I am about all this. As matter-of-fact.

  I suppose because that’s what it is.

  When I’m done, he asks if I’m all right to carry on.

  I tell him that I am.

  ‘So . . . can you take me through exactly what happened last Sunday? I presume you followed Miss McClure into the toilets . . . or maybe you were in there waiting for her, I don’t know. Tell me what happened once the pair of you were in there together.’ He sits back and folds his arms. ‘Tell me about killing her.’

  For the half a
minute or so it takes me to say anything, I’m hoping for some kind of medical miracle, perfectly on cue. For the fog to lift suddenly, like it would if this was a TV thriller, CSI or some shit. Obviously, it doesn’t.

  ‘I’m not sure I can tell you exactly,’ I say.

  ‘Well, maybe not every detail then, but . . . did you come at the victim from behind?’

  He waits and I say nothing.

  ‘Did you stab her in the neck first or in the stomach?’

  He waits and I say nothing.

  ‘Did you carry on stabbing her once she was on the floor?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ I hadn’t wanted to raise my voice, but it happens anyway. ‘Fair enough?’

  He nods, like this is exactly what he was suspecting and isn’t he just the best detective in the fucking world, but it’s ridiculous, because this is surely something else his girlfriend would have told him. Work-related pillow-talk, whatever. Because I was a suspect . . . the obvious suspect . . . Perera would definitely have been in regular touch with Bakshi and Bakshi would have told her all about the memory blips, the PTSD, all of it.

  ‘I’ve been having these blackouts,’ I say. ‘You can check because it’s all in my notes and it’s all perfectly normal. I can’t remember exactly how I did what I did . . . it’s like I just woke up suddenly and I was in there and she was on the floor with blood everywhere. But I know I did it, isn’t that enough? I must have done it, any idiot can see that. I discovered the body, I knew what she’d done, I had a motive.’ I’m tired, suddenly. ‘I’m not sure how much more you need.’

  I don’t know what the hell’s happening now, because when he looks at me he’s calm, like he doesn’t need anything.

  ‘Everything you’ve said may be true,’ he says. ‘But it doesn’t change one very important fact.’ He sits forward slowly and rubs a finger along that scar on his chin. ‘You didn’t kill anyone, Miss Armitage.’

  The look on my face is definitely not one I’ve practised. Christ knows what it is, but I see him clock it and suddenly it’s like he’s my best mate.