Bedlam (6 page)

Chapter Eleven
 

By the time he reached the lift he was sweating. He knew he needed to get as far away from Nell as he could but had no real idea why. Dennis had said that there was something strange about her, and although McNeil agreed, he reckoned Dennis was merely sounding off, providing excuses to cloak his frustration. If Nell had tried it on with Dennis as she had with him, McNeil knew that Dennis would have had her transferred to a psyche ward or doubled the guard outside her room. She was crazy - there was no getting away from it. He wondered why she’d decided to lavish him with her psychosis.

He pressed for the ground floor and waited impatiently, pacing back and forth like a prize fighter limbering up for the starting bell. When it passed his floor and continued up, he cursed, slammed a flat hand at the brushed steel doors and made for the stairwell instead. He descended the stairs two at a time, stumbling, heavy-footed,
hanging onto the handrail to prevent going headfirst.

He paused in the lobby to get his bearings, remembered that he’d arrived in Dennis’ car and pulled out his phone to call a taxi. His heart pounded and he tried to slow it. Someone called at him to switch off his phone, drawing his attention to the many signs which indicated the same rule, and he muttered an apology and headed for the main door.

Head down, he was oblivious to the throng of people attempting to enter the building as he made to exit, until he was pushed to one side by the mêlée. Football fans and uniformed police jostled for position. The rival supporters shouted threats at each other across the expanse of the lobby, while harassed police tried to keep order.

Of course, it was Sunday - match day. McNeil recalled his time in uniform, standing in the cold, back to the pitch, scanning the crowds for known troublemakers. He had no desire to relive that segment of his career, so he kept his head down and forced a path through them. More than capable, and certainly willing, to deliver a well-aimed elbow as required, he was however substantially outnumbered, and as the majority had come via the pub, he received a few blows himself before being jostled out of the throng and into the path of a well-dressed man. The man reached out and steadied him with a hand at his shoulder. McNeil pulled back, muttered an apology and the man stood a moment blocking his way. His lips parted in a curious half-smile.

“Bad day?”

“You could say.” McNeil attempted to sidestep him, but the man stepped the same way and more liveried fans spilled into the lobby. He closed his eyes briefly to avert a wave of dizziness. When he reopened them the man was still watching.

“Do you need help?”

Oh, sure, he needed help but there was only one person who could give it, and she was long gone.

“No,” he replied bluntly, and the man merely nodded, studying him with narrowed eyes as if he could see beneath the outward mess, the wrinkled suit and the two day shadow, to the even bigger tangle below. McNeil felt his hackles rise, inordinately irritated not only by the man’s scrutiny but at the fact he still blocked his path.

He cocked his head insolently and stared straight at him. “Excuse me,” he said, suddenly and inexplicably spoiling for a fight. The man merely smiled benignly in return and stepped aside, parting the red sea of supporters with a raised hand.

McNeil hurried past and forced his way through the revolving doors, relieved to finally get outside. He stood a moment, hands on his knees, head bowed, and breathed in all the exhaust-laced oxygen he could. He didn’t understand what had just happened. The lobby had been oozing male testosterone and his fuse was all but lit, but he’d been ready to punch out a total stranger. He unclenched his fists and tried to relax.

He guessed by the wary reaction of people stepping around him that he looked a mess. He was shaking, sweat poured out of him and blood from his head wound had dried on his shirt. Concussion, withdrawal or
virus were all likely candidates for the way he felt, but he dismissed them with a scowl.

All he needed was Kit. All he could think about was Nell. She’d hexed him, jinxed him,
done something, he was sure of it, though he had no idea what.

He cast a quick glance back the way he’d come. The lobby was still full, the man no longer visible. He tried to recall what he’d looked like, started to wonder if he’d actually been real when he couldn’t remember a thing about him.

He dragged his fingers through his hair desperately. Maybe Dennis was right and he did need professional help. He thought of the card that still lay on his kitchen table untouched. Defiance rather than common sense had left it face down on the melamine surface but Kit’s gentle scolding in his head had prevented him from tossing it in the bin. Maybe he would keep the appointment, if only to prove to himself that he wasn’t going mad.

Collapsed in the back of the taxi, his thoughts strayed back to Nell and her demand to go with him. She’d assumed his agreement, and he almost had. For a fleeting moment with her hand on his heart, it had seemed to him the right and only thing to do, to ignore procedure and protocol, take her from that room, and run far away, as if they were co-conspirators in a plot he knew nothing about. He felt misgiving creep over him, settling deep in his stomach, quite at home amongst the rest of the black things. She’d freaked him out, there was no denying
it, and he’d fled when he should have stayed, but no way was he going back, not until he understood what was going on.

All the same, as the taxi pulled out of the hospital grounds and into the flow of traffic, he felt a shiver of something nasty slither in to accompany the doubt. If the PC on duty at the nurse’s station did his job, there’d be nothing for McNeil to worry about. It was a big if and McNeil wasn’t entirely convinced, but for now it would have to do. The PC could babysit the witness and Dennis could find the killer. He had something far more important to do.

He pulled out his phone and brought up Minkey’s number. It was first on his list of contacts, ahead of work and the local takeaway, which said something about the current state of his life.

“
Minkey?”

“Joey.”

McNeil scowled at the sharpness in Minkey’s tone. He didn’t have any energy left for contrition but accepted he had ground to make up if he was to get what he wanted. It was time to make amends for Friday night.

“How’s things?” he asked warily.

“You have the soddin’ nerve to ask me that? Ask my insurers when they get through sorting out my claim.”

“Your claim?”

“Don’t play the bloody innocent, Joey. You’re barred, for your own good as well as mine.”

McNeil grimaced. “Hey, come on, I’m your best customer.”

“Not any more. You wrecked the place on Friday night. I’ve got the man from the brewery down here right now shaking his head and thinking I can’t control the punters. As a purveyor of the finest alcoholic beverages, I never thought I’d say this, Joey, but you need to kill the booze, before it kills you.”

“Finest beverages!”
McNeil snorted. “You forget the blind eye I’ve been turning to all the dodgy crates you have stacked in the cellar? I bet the brewery ayatollah would be very interested in that.”

“Piss off.”

“Gladly.”

“Hey, you’re not the only bent copper I know. Ten a penny, you are.”

“Bent?”

“Too right, bloody dented out of shape, you are.”

“Do one, Minkey. I’m not in the mood today. I’m just sayin’ people in glass houses ...” He sighed heavily. This wasn’t getting him where he wanted to be. He steered the conversation back. “Anyway, on this occasion I’m not after a drink or a fight. I’m turning over a new leaf, doctor’s orders. I’m after information instead.”

“Glass houses, eh?”
Minkey wouldn’t be steered. “Be careful you don’t go and cut your own throat with that sharp wit of yours. Never mind barring you, I should be charging you for the damage.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Bad enough, and here’s me thinking a copper would have more self-restraint. You need to go back to school, Joey.”

“Huh?”

“And learn to count to ten.”   

The taxi slowed amid more match day chaos. Fans heading home weaved their way between the traffic. The driver muttered under his breath, one eye on the clock as it ticked another pound. McNeil scowled. It would’ve been quicker and cheaper to have caught th
e bus.

“Hey, I’m doing that as we speak … eight … nine … ten.
So, information?”

“Information about what?”

“There was a bloke in the bar on Friday, not a regular, covered in tattoos. Any idea where I could find him?”

“The bruiser who laid you out cold?”

McNeil winced. He vaguely recalled some altercation that had erupted following a spilled drink. Maybe that was where the girl with the ample cleavage had come into it. He had an image of glistening breasts … “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I’d leave that alone if I were you, Joey. You were lucky to get out in one piece. Curtis is not one to mess about, and if you want my opinion, copper or not, you pretty much got what you deserved.”

McNeil wasn’t sure what they’d been fighting over. He still had some way to go before he recovered the whole episode.

“Don’t worry about me,
Minkey. I just need to know where to find him.”

“His cousin runs a tattoo parlour down the back of
Minchem Road, somewhere past the Indian takeaway. You may have met him. Archie Pollack.”

McNeil smiled. “Yeah, I know Archie. I thought he was inside?”

“He is. Curtis is looking after the business for him. Up from London, so I hear. As if we haven’t got enough crazies of our own. Like I said, Joey, you should leave well alone. He’s got a reputation.”

“A reputation for what?”

“Not for me to say, but word is he’s connected, and he’s
got some unsavoury mates.”

“Worse than him?”

“Much worse.”

“I should fit right in, then.”

“Nah, Joey. I’m being serious. He’s out of your league. With or without a badge, he’s not going to take favourably to you knocking on his door. What do you want him for anyway?”

McNeil could hear the sound of the espresso machine in the background.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, get used to that sound, Joey. That’s all I’m prepared to serve you in the future. Stupid little shit, you’ll end up getting yourself killed if you’re not careful, and I’ll bet none of your high and mighty copper mates would give a damn.”

McNeil smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s one in particular would just love to see me tagged and bagged.”

“See, that’s what I mean.
Law unto themselves, bloody coppers.”

“You forget I’m one of them.”

“Yeah, but you don’t behave like one. You’re okay, Joey. You just need to sort yourself out.”

McNeil shrugged. If enough people said it out loud maybe it would happen. “I don’t suppose you know how I got home the other night?”

Minkey laughed. “Last I saw, you were being hauled out from under by some old bird with a hell of a right hook. She nigh on took the back of Curtis’ head off with one of my chairs. ‘Course he was so tanked, he barely felt it. I thought they left together, but maybe she hoisted you over her shoulder and took you home herself.” He paused shrewdly. “Who’d you wake up next to, Joey?”

McNeil ignored him. “
Minchem Road. I’ll drop by later and see if Curtis is home.”

“Just don’t go after dark.”

“Why not?”

“Some funny buggers hang out down there. I’d hate to read about you in the obituary column. Not while you still owe me for damages.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take a torch.”

There was a pause, filled only by the noise of the taxi indicating
as it drew in alongside the kerb.

“Hey, Joey,” continued
Minkey, “are you okay? You sound … different. More messed up than usual, or maybe just sober?”

McNeil reached across and paid the driver. As he slammed the door and watched the vehicle pull away, he turned his attention back to
Minkey.

“Having a bad one,
Minkey, and just working my way through it. Sometimes it’s hard. Today it’s a killer.”

“Yeah, well, hang in there, Joey, and like I said, watch your back.”

Chapter Twelve
 

It had to be there somewhere. He’d kept all her things carefully, just as she’d left them, waiting for her return, but now they were scattered all over the bedroom floor, clothes abandoned along with their hangers, shoes missing their pairs, thrown to one side as he upended every box and pulled out every drawer from bottom to top. He dropped to his knees, frustration getting the better of him. The need for a drink had him sweating. The need for the truth outweighed even that.

“Please, Kit, you have to help me here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I can’t do this on my own. I can’t work it out. I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.”

He didn’t expect a reply, but when even her soft voice in his head remained silent, he lashed out at the night stand, smashing the flimsy wood and opening up the old wound across his knuckles. He swung his gaze dispiritedly from his bloody hand to the wrecked cupboard. Amidst the splintered wood was the box he’d been looking for.

He smiled sadly. The small pine box had seen better days.
Chipped paint and a crooked hinge. The engraved flowers on the lid were worn to the point where they could barely be seen. He’d tried to surprise her with a new one, but she’d declined the gift with a soft smile and a gentle kiss that he could still feel, warm and fleeting, as if she’d brushed past and pressed a smile against his lips. A childhood gift crafted by an uncle, the box was as much a part of her past as the memories inside. It had meant so much to her, he couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten its location. He was doing a lot of that lately - forgetting. So distraught at her loss, so intent on finding her, he was starting to lose sight of what they’d shared. Overcome with sudden self-doubt and weary resignation, he leaned back against the bed and opened the lid.

Once, when new, the little ballerina inside would have danced. Now the mechanism was tired, the key lost and the ballerina remained in the prone position. He knew how that felt. It was some time since he’d been fully wound and ready to go.

With some reluctance, he pulled out the contents, a mixture of cheap jewellery and keepsakes that meant a lot to Kit but very little to anyone else. A first concert ticket, a wrist band from a music festival, earrings in the shape of tiny stars, a button from her favourite coat, the first brownie badge she’d ever earned and a small collection of photos - photo-booth snaps of them both acting the fool. He recalled the occasion vividly and smiled at the memory. On the back she’d written, 'Kit loves JoJo xx.'  

Kit was the only one who’d called h
im that - until today. No one else would have dared. She had gotten under his skin and had a way of whispering it that made his heart quicken with anticipation.

He dug deeper in the box. He wasn’t looking for memories, he was looking for the charm bracelet she always wore, the bracelet that had found its way back to him in an evidence bag, blood-stained and broken, the only thing left from that fateful evening.

Holding the fragile chain up to the light, he studied the broken links. It had been assumed the bracelet had snapped as a result of some kind of struggle, that someone had grabbed Kit by the wrist and the bracelet had come apart. McNeil held the two ends together and it was immediately apparent that something was missing; it couldn’t have spanned Kit’s wrist in its current length. He counted the charms slowly: a silver heart for Valentine’s Day, a miniature violin, a mortar board to celebrate her graduation and a hedgehog. There were others, a total of nine. The tenth, the one he particularly wanted to find, was missing. It had not been found at the scene or returned in the evidence bag. McNeil suddenly realised how important it was to find out why.

He pulled himself up off the floor and slowly scanned the room. It was a mess, and had been before he’d decided to turn everything upside down searching. He was meant to be taking things easy, not making things worse. He pushed the headache and nausea to the back of his mind and glanced down at the broken bracelet in his hand. He’d been waiting twelve long
months for a break and yet it had been here all along. It was time to get a grip and let go of the paranoia.

It was time to find Kit.

*  *  *

It was a desolate spot, the place where Kit had stepped away from his life. An overgrown mineral track hugged the shoulder of a forgotten waterway. Both canal and train line had once been vital to commerce in the days when heavy industry fed and housed the populous. The tracks had long since gone to smelter. The water lay heavy and stagnant, thick with pollution and neglect. McNeil hadn’t been back since the operation to dredge the water. He’d known they wouldn’t find her, knew it as surely as if she had stood next to him and placed her hand in his, but even so he had been in torment as he’d awaited the diver’s verdict. Dennis had dragged him away. Mather had pulled rank, insisted that he go home and leave it to the rest of the team. He couldn’t be part of the investigation, he’d realised that, particularly as he’d been listed as a suspect from the outset.
Protocol and procedure - necessary evils. But he hadn’t gone home. He had stood in the exact spot where he stood now and looked on impotently as his world collapsed around him. Now he stood in silence and relived it all.

Where had she gone? Why had she gone? Twelve months later and he was still asking the same questions.

The afternoon was drawing to an early close. The sky had that heavy feel, pressing down on everything below it. Perhaps the rain would turn to snow and disguise the ugly landscape beneath a pristine white blanket. McNeil sighed, not entirely convinced at the logic of deceit, however well-intentioned. The truth would always out, eventually. The light was fading, due more to the season than the hour, shorter days the drawback to all winter investigations. Although it made his search more difficult, it was somehow fitting. This fleeting time between day and night was how he visualised Kit, trapped somehow between one place and another, just waiting for a new dawn. First, though, he had the night to get through, and it seemed he had been struggling in the dark for far too long.

He couldn’t understand what had brought Kit down to this desolate place, and yet this was where her car was found. The investigating team had theorised and decided she must have picked up her killer, given a lift to the person who would ultimately take her life. McNeil didn’t buy that. Kit wouldn’t have picked up a stranger, and she wasn’t dead. She was just waiting somewhere to be found.

The team had tried to link her disappearance to others spanning several years. In some cases a body had been found, in others the families had been left in limbo, their daughter, mother, wife or lover lost forever. McNeil didn’t buy that either. In his mind he couldn’t accept that Kit was just one in a list of many. She was far too precious for that. He had subsequently discounted every theory put forward as each one resulted in the same conclusion. Kit was dead. And that couldn’t be right, because he knew deep inside that she wasn’t.

He closed his eyes and visualised the scene. The car nosed into the scrub that edged the track. Passenger door open, engine still running when first discovered. That’s what hurt the most, that they had been so close to saving her. There was blood, traces not pools, on the ground adjacent to the open door and on the nearside wheel arch. Her bracelet had been found in the long grass after an extensive search of the scene. He turned his attention now to that area.

The grass in winter dormancy lay long and flattened against the earth. In poor light, and without tools or indeed a discernible plan, he had little chance of finding anything. He didn’t accept the investigating team’s conclusions, and he didn’t trust their SOCOs, and essentially that was the cause of his bust-up with Mary Cameron. He just couldn’t believe she’d done her job properly. If she had, she would have found something that would have resulted in Kit’s recovery. If he were being honest, he’d been looking to blame someone and Mary had fitted the role, but if the missing charm had not been located during the search, then it was elsewhere, perhaps taken by Kit’s abductor. Nevertheless he dropped to his haunches amongst the weeds and ineffectually teased aside the damp and lifeless mass with his fingers.

He was overcome with sudden melancholy, unsurprised when thoughts of Kit brought a strange tightness to his chest. He massaged the numbness with a trembling hand, but instead of Kit’s sweet face bringing comfort, an image of Nell slid broodingly into his head, violet eyes instead of blue. He stilled his hand in the same spot where she had laid her palm. His fingers spread wide as hers had done, and he felt her coolness against his skin.
Get a grip
, he muttered as he yanked his hand away. He dragged in a breath, exhaled slowly and felt the pressure ease. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned back to assess the scene.

“I will find you,” he whispered, and he felt Kit’s smile, gentle against his cheek.