Someone Else's Skin (11 page)

They’d been so happy to have a child in the house again. Marnie hadn’t been a child since she was eleven, and not much of one then, independent even at that age, happiest in her own company. Solitary, the way she’d thought Stephen was when they first met.

Marn, this is Stephen.

She’d held out her hand for his, because it seemed to be what he wanted, what he was. His hand had been cold, and soft. His eyes were cold too, but there’d been nothing soft about his stare, like the diamond head of a drill.

He’s such a little boy, Marn, and he’s had such a hell of a life. We’d like to make it up to him, just a little.

Great, that’s great.

Had she been jealous? She was twenty-two when Stephen moved into her parents’ house. She’d been living in London for three years, priding herself on having made a clean break. Not like her friends or flatmates, who went home every reading week and for the holidays, coming back with gifts of food, meals for the freezer, home-made cake, like children from a party. Not Marnie Rome. She was done with all that. Put childish things away. A card at Christmas, a present of books, proof of her taste and intelligence. On her way to being a detective, single-minded, not missing a trick. Free from all the mess and fuss of family life, from the ties that bind.

Until the phone call in the middle of the morning. The afternoon at the house, stretching into evening, night. She’d begun to think – for the second time in her life – that she’d never get out. Away.

Remembering that night was like turning the pages in a flicker book, its details blurred and jerky. She remembered the smell, and the way her shoes stuck to the floor in the kitchen . . .

Heat shivered behind her eyes. She lifted her arm, sniffing at her sleeve.

The smell of the secure unit was in her clothes and hair. She’d be carrying it on her skin for days, like prison ink. No escape.

Her phone buzzed at her hip. She pulled it from her pocket and peered at the display.

A text, from Ed:
Here if you need me.

She bent her forehead, pressing it to the phone’s small screen. She’d made a promise to herself five years ago that she wouldn’t reach for Ed until she was sure it wasn’t panic or despair making her reach. More than once she’d come close to inviting him in, for more than coffee. He liked her; she knew that. It wasn’t ego on her part, and anyway it was mutual. She was attracted to him. Right now, if she made a move, it would be a smash-and-grab one-night stand. It wasn’t worth ruining their friendship, to satisfy her skin’s aching for someone else’s touch.

She stood and straightened all the cushions on the sofa, shaking and knocking the shape of her body from each square in turn, before putting it all back in place. By the time she was done, she was out of breath. When she switched off the lights, shadows stole back the living space. She moved through the flat soundlessly, undressing and standing for a long minute in front of the wardrobe mirror.

No mythical creatures. No pierced hearts, or entwined roses, or barbed wire. Just words. Because words hurt. Specifically, they hurt when inked across your ribcage and at the sharp points of your eighteen-year-hips.

Shall I kill myself, or make a cup of coffee?
Two lines, parallel, across the last two ribs on the right side.

On the other side of her ribcage:
An invincible summer.

Places of exile . . .
across her left hip.

And curved around the bony jut of her right hip,
I had the whole sky in my eyes, and it was blue and gold.

Pretentious, post-teen genuflection. The invincible summer when she read too much Albert Camus, and decided to make a statement on her skin. That should’ve been the end of it. But after Stephen Keele stabbed her parents to death, she found herself craving the peculiar, indulgent torture of the tattoo parlour. Like being punctured by a pencil lead, over and over again. The tattooist keeps wiping away ink and blood with a sterile cloth, which hurts even worse than the needle itself, as if he’s scrubbing a freshly skinned knee then skinning it again, scrubbing it, skinning it, over and over. Each stage of the process has its distinct pain. The needle. The scrubbing. The day when the bandages come off, and the ink begins drying under the skin and it starts to feel like slapped sunburn. She had to treat her skin like a baby’s: washing it and keeping it moisturised. Keeping clothes away from it. Not scratching, that was the hardest part of all. Scratch and you end up pulling the ink right out of the skin, so the whole thing’ll have been for nothing. Religiously, she scooped soft water over the tattoos, day and night, patting them dry with more tenderness than she’d shown her body before or since, lavishing lotion, blowing cool air like kisses.

Of course, it was about punishment. She’d never bothered denying that. Except for that first time. At eighteen, it’d been about rebellion, a shocking secret she was keeping from Greg and Lisa Rome, the hidden skin she brought to the family dinner table, under layers of dark clothes. She liked the ritual of it. The lesson in accepting – relishing – small amounts of pain. An exercise in self-control. More than that, it was her insurance against intimacy. No casual sex, unless she wanted to explain the tattoos. She tried to imagine Ed’s reaction to the neat lines of ink that ran coyly across her hips, emphasising their narrowness, her lack of curves. She couldn’t come close to imagining his reaction, drawing a blank that matched the pale spaces between the lines of text.

How did Hope Proctor feel, facing her skin each morning? The tattoo which matched Leo’s, embellished by the bruises he’d branded on her with his fists.

Marnie turned from the mirror and switched off the light, finding the bed, its pillows unnervingly soft under her head. She didn’t set the alarm clock, not wanting the sudden noise snapping at her in the morning. Instead she told herself, ‘You need to wake early. Six o’clock.’ Her subconscious, more reliable than any alarm, took custody of the instruction.

I had the whole sky in my eyes, and it was blue and gold.

She’d been twenty-six. He was twelve. Stephen Keele. Watching her undress, in that house, on a rare visit home to her parents and their new foster son. Two years before the murders.

She shivered at the thought of Stephen’s eyes reading her skin. She was afraid to dream, in case he was waiting for her. She could feel his stare, crouching in the corner of the room. Watching.

Her phone woke her from semi-sleep, red whorls in the blackness, at 5.25 a.m.

‘You asked for news of Leo Proctor’s progress.’ It was the doctor from the North Middlesex. ‘He’s conscious. By the time you’re at work, he should be fit to answer questions about what happened.’

‘How’s Hope?’

‘Comfortable. We haven’t told her the news about her husband. Hard to say how she’ll take it. I thought you might like to be the one to break the news.’

23

Row after row of windows, scalded by pollution, stared out from the brick facade of the North Middlesex hospital.

Noah Jake climbed from the Mondeo with Ed Belloc and Simone Bissell while Marnie Rome drove away from the main entrance, in search of parking. A thin rain was spitting, cold and spiky. Simone didn’t have a coat, just a shoulder bag, soft cloth printed with sunflowers. Ed took her inside. Noah followed.

A sleek desk formed the front line for the hospital’s Information Centre. Severe strip-lighting, the visual equivalent of nails across a blackboard, cross-hatched the ceiling. Simone pushed her hands into the sleeves of her jumper. ‘I need the bathroom.’

The woman at the desk pointed her to the left.

Ed Belloc touched a hand to Noah’s elbow. ‘You okay?’

Noah glanced at him in surprise. ‘I’m fine.’ He realised he was squaring his shoulders, and that his nose was pinched shut. He relaxed. Smiled. ‘I was thinking about Ayana. This business with her brothers . . .’

‘You’re asking her to give up her hiding place,’ Ed said. ‘The first place she’s felt safe. That’s not going to be easy for her.’

‘I understand that, but I want them punished for what they did. Nasif and the others.’

‘It’s a natural reaction.’ Ed hadn’t stopped watching the bathroom door, on the lookout for Simone’s return.

‘I could go and see if she’s okay,’ Noah offered.

Ed’s eyes travelled past him, to the main entrance. ‘Rome’s here,’ he said with relief. He smiled at Noah. ‘Best if she does it.’

Marnie returned from the lavatory with Simone. The four of them went on foot to the third-floor ward, where beds were separated by limp curtains on metal rails. In the bed next to Hope’s, a huge woman with a sunken face was moaning over a crossword. An oxygen mask made her eyes misty. Her breathing was scruffy, difficult.

DC Abby Pike was seated at a discreet distance from Hope’s bed. She stood up when she saw DI Rome, coming across to meet them.

‘How’s she been?’ Marnie asked in a low voice.

‘Quiet. Sleeping, mostly. Worried about how Leo’s doing.’

‘Why don’t you take a break? We’re going to be here a while.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ Abby gave Noah and Ed a big smile, a softer version for Simone, before leaving the ward.

Simone sat on the chair next to Hope’s bed. A blue Aertex blanket covered Hope’s legs. They’d propped her upright with pillows. The effect was of a rag doll artfully arranged.

Ed and Marnie stood at the foot of the bed, not moving any closer. Simone drew Hope’s hand from under the sheet and held it. The two women spoke in whispers, just loud enough for Noah and the others to hear.

‘I’ve missed you,’ Simone said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m all right.’ Hope’s hand was loose and unresponsive in Simone’s grip.

‘Detective Inspector?’ A doctor beckoned from two beds down.

Marnie left Ed’s side and walked over to where the man was waiting. The doctor told her something, too quietly for Noah to catch the words over the hospital radio that was streaming music into the ward. From her bed, Hope Proctor watched them with an intensity that made Simone turn her head to see what was going on.

Marnie’s mouth had pressed shut. Noah knew that look, it meant trouble. The doctor turned and walked back down the ward, without looking at any of the patients. Marnie nodded at Noah to come with her. Ed didn’t need a prompt to stay with Simone and Hope. Noah and Marnie followed the doctor out of the ward.

In the corridor, Noah said, ‘Hope seems a little better.’ It wasn’t strictly true, but he wanted to get Marnie talking.

She shot him a look. ‘She’s a mess.’ She didn’t stop moving, following the doctor up a flight of stairs.

Noah had to lengthen his stride to keep up. ‘Are we going to charge him?’

‘We need her to give evidence. You heard what Ed said about these women. The longer the abuse lasts, the less chance of the victim pressing charges. You can get used to anything, apparently.’

‘But if
she’s
facing charges over the stabbing . . .? What will it be, attempted murder? Manslaughter? She could go to prison, for years. Won’t her solicitor persuade her to give evidence against Leo, as part of her defence?’

‘He’ll try. We’ll all try. You saw how quick she was to take the blame, back at the refuge. Entrenched victim mentality.’

The doctor had gone ahead, but he came to a halt now, waiting for them.

Marnie told Noah, ‘Leo’s awake. Let’s see what he’s got to say.’

24

She was here, in the hospital. He’d seen her, he’d fucking
seen
her.

Sweat crawled all over his body like a rash. He sat doubled up at the wheel of the car,
I
♥
London
cap pulled low, heart punching in his chest.

This was it. This—

From the back seat, the sound started up, as if it’d been waiting for him to get this near, as if it
knew
.

A thready whine, like a fly on loudspeaker, sounding like you could mute it with a swat of your hand, but you couldn’t. You could only make it worse.

He swung round in the seat anyway, furious because
she was here
.

This was his chance, maybe the only one he’d get.

The whine climbed higher, scraping at the inside of his skull.

‘Shut up,’ he threatened. ‘Shut up or she won’t be the only one getting what she deserves.’

25

Leo Proctor looked less sick than his wife did, despite the trauma of surgery to repair a hole in his lung. The blood transfusion had left him flushed, pink-cheeked. He was bigger than Noah remembered, with the look of a one-time sportsman run to seed. A pad of fat sat under his chin, jowls waiting in the wings of his face. Watery eyes, pale brown, fixed painfully on Noah and Marnie.

Marnie showed her badge, standing by the side of his bed.

Leo shut his eyes, then opened them again. ‘Where’s Hope?’ he whispered.

‘She’s safe,’ Marnie said. ‘She’s with a doctor.’

The cool tone she used underlined the implication:
We know what you did
.

Leo wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Is she . . . okay?’

‘She’s exactly as you left her.’

Noah took a step back, as discreetly as he could, in order to get a better perspective on Marnie and the man in the bed. ‘She didn’t mean to do it,’ Leo whispered.

‘
She
didn’t mean to do it?’

‘The knife . . .’ Leo wet his lips again.

‘Hope didn’t mean to stab you. Is that what you’re saying?’

It took Proctor a moment to process the acid in her voice. His eyes slid away, staying down. He closed his hands into fists. His head bent forward, his mouth drooping at the corners. A caricature of shame. He knew that they knew.

Marnie said briskly, ‘There’s some confusion over the knife.’ Leo didn’t look at her. ‘Did you take the knife into the refuge?’

Noah hid his surprise by pretending an interest in the chart at the foot of the bed. If Proctor made a confession under these circumstances, the CPS would almost certainly discount it. He was in pain, on medication, in a hospital bed. It was a measure of Marnie’s bad mood: asking questions that might muddy a conviction. Until they could prove otherwise, Leo Proctor was the victim here.