All the Empty Places Page 6

  But we were waltzing towards our doom like two dancers on the edge of a precipice that they cannot see, until one day in early August, the lip of the precipice crumbled and everything went into free fall.

  It was a Saturday, and Sheila had had to work late the previous evening and I’d been doing one of my rare jobs so that we hadn’t seen each other since I’d stayed over on the Thursday night and we’d parted on Friday morning. It was the longest we’d been apart since we’d got serious about each other.

  It was a simple job, delivering a summons for an old client who couldn’t catch the recipient of the summons at home. Whenever my client’s man went round, whoever answered the door denied all knowledge. I phoned the bloke’s number and got a woman on the line. I told her I was a rep for one of the companies punting digital TV and that the gentleman concerned had won a wide screen telly that was ready to receive every channel under the sun. All he had to do was to sign for it. She fell for it hook, line and sinker, admitted that she was the summonsee’s, if that’s a word, wife, and told me he’d be in that very evening at seven. Then I went to my local TV shop and gave the kid who ran it a tenner for an empty cardboard box that had once held just such a television set. I stuffed a load of old phone books into the box until it had some weight and staggered up the bloke’s garden path that evening at seven-fifteen, having parked the Mustang out of sight. I could actually see the curtains twitch as I made a big production of fumbling with the latch on the front gate, and the geezer opened the door with a big smile on his clock and was only too pleased to confirm his identity. It was the same as the name on the summons that I slapped into his hand. I dropped the box and its contents, and legged it before he decided to get physical, leaving him with just a dream of unlimited episodes of The Simpsons for the rest of the new millennium.

  All in all an easy two ton plus expenses earned for a couple of hours’ work. I went home, collecting an American with onions and garlic from Pizza Express on the way, and slobbed out in front of my own, admittedly narrow screen, television for the rest of the evening with my dinner, a couple of cans of lager, and the new Lawrence Block paperback for company.

  Oh happy day. It was to be the last for a long time.

  I got up early the next morning, sang in the shower, got all spruced up and sauntered round to Sheila’s all ready to go out and spend the dosh I’d earned the previous evening. By that time I had a key to her flat and she to mine. We’d talked about moving in together permanently, but that would’ve meant selling one of the properties and it was just too much hassle. Besides, it was only a few minutes walk between the flats and it gave us our own room within the relationship.

  But I didn’t need the key. When I got there the house door was open, which was unusual, but I imagined that the downstairs tenant had just slipped out somewhere for a minute. I went inside and left it on the jar behind me, then walked up the two narrow flights to Sheila’s flat. That door was open too. Just an inch or so, but it was the kind of inch I’d hated for a long time.

  I stood outside for a minute and thought about other doors that had been left open for me and the horrible surprises that had often been behind them.

  Then I shrugged off the thought. Hell. Maybe she’d lost her keys and had gone out for some cigarettes leaving the doors open behind her. But then she was always so conscious of what could happen in that lovely part of town to people who did stupid things like that.

  So I just pushed the door open gently and stuck my head round the jamb. It had been bright outside, with the hot August sun bouncing off the windows of the houses and the metal of cars, and my eyes had not got properly adjusted to see clearly in the gloom of her hallway.

  ‘Sheila,’ I called as I blinked, then saw what at first I didn’t believe. There were dark streaks on the wallpaper that I’d never seen before, and the black and white checkered floor covering was spotted with more of the same.

  Dark spots the colour of dried blood.

  I still didn’t believe it. Like I was hallucinating or having a bad dream. But I knew I was doing neither.

  Without touching the door with my fingers, I pushed it open all the way and silently stepped into the hall. Outside I could hear birds singing, children shouting and the sound of the bass bin in a motor going by outside. But inside the flat all was silent. The bathroom was on my right, door open, empty. The kitchen was next to that. Ditto. The living room door was opposite the kitchen and open maybe a foot. I peered round it. The place looked like it had been spun. Sheila wasn’t the tidiest of women but I’d’ve bet a tenner she hadn’t left all the drawers in her tiny sideboard pulled out. There were more spots of blood on the carpet. The bedroom door was to my left. It was firmly closed. I walked quietly across the carpet, avoiding the mess, and with a tissue from the open box that lay on the sofa I turned the handle and pushed. The door swung away from me gently. Inside it was quiet except for the buzzing of a fly or bluebottle, and I wrinkled my nose as I smelled the stink of blood. The bedroom curtains were drawn as usual and the room was very dark. But for all the darkness I could see her white body lying across the burgundy coloured duvet that we’d slept under so many times. The whiteness only interrupted twice by the twin bands of her usual black underwear.

  She was very still. ‘Sheila,’ I whispered. There was still no sound in the room except for that damned fly. No sound of breathing or the heartbeat I’d heard against mine so many times.

  I took the few steps to the bed that felt like a thousand miles. I leant over and tweaked the curtain to allow the sunshine in and I winced. In the light I could see the blood that puddled on the duvet and was almost the same colour as it was. And I saw the cuts and slashes on her hands and arms where she had defended herself against whoever had attacked her. And worse, I saw the other mouth that had been cut in her throat and had dribbled her life force onto the bed.

  I felt for a pulse but there was none. I sat down next to her and looked into her open, green eyes that were already glazing over as she stared into eternity.

  I held one of her hands and the blood was still sticky. I closed her eyes with my fingers and sat there in that room of death with her as the golden slice of sunlight moved across her body. I must have sat there for an hour or more, holding her hand, until more flies attracted by the scent of her blood began to settle and feed and I could sit there no more. I was cold sitting there. Cold and shivery, even on that hot August morning that I’ll always remember until the day I die. All kinds of emotions passed through my mind as I sat there. Mostly a terrible sorrow about what had happened. But I never cried once. In fact my eyes were so dry that I could hardly blink.

  I spoke to her of course, but what I said was just for the two of us and no one else will ever hear the words. She was in a state of grace by then, far removed from earthly things.

  Eventually, when I could sit there no longer I went into the living room and tapped out three nines on the phone, just holding the receiver by the very tips of my fingers.

  It wasn’t because I was afraid of leaving my fingerprints that I didn’t touch anything. Rather it was that I was afraid of disturbing any forensic left by whoever had killed her. I mean my prints were all over the place, and I was well known by the neighbours, and I suppose that if she had left any dirty knickers lying about my DNA would be all over them.

  When the exchange answered I asked for police. I told them that there had been a murder.

  Then before I went out into the fresh air to have a cigarette and wait for the coppers to arrive, I went back into the bedroom one more time. I didn’t know if I’d be able to see her again after. I didn’t know if I’d have the nerve.

  And as I looked down at her for the last time I realised with certainty that there were some lines that once drawn and crossed could never be re-crossed.

  That there were some words that once spoken could never be unspoken.

  And more importantly that there
were some deeds that once done could never be undone.

  Then I said goodbye.

  15

  I was just finishing my cigarette when the first police presence arrived in the shape of a crime car with blue lights flashing but no screamer on. Maybe they thought the noise would wake the neighbours, or frighten away the bad guys. Bit late for that I thought.

  I dropped the cigarette, ground it into the pavement with the sole of my shoe and walked to the kerb to meet them. This was going to be just dandy.

  Inside the car were two beefy uniforms I’d never seen before, so alike they could’ve been twins. They got out and converged on me. Close up the only difference between them was that one’s cheeks were dotted with acne scars. ‘Did you dial nine nine nine, sir?’ Acne Scars asked me politely.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What appears to be the problem?’

  Problem. I ask you. The problem was that my life had just turned upside down. ‘I told them on the phone,’ I said. ‘My girlfriend’s been murdered.’

  ‘You’re sure of that, sir?’

  What a fucking clown. ‘No,’ I replied as calmly as possible. ‘She always lies around on a Saturday morning with her throat cut,’ and I clenched my fists so tightly I could feel my nails cutting the skin of my palms.

  ‘I see, sir.’ But of course he didn’t.

  ‘And you are?’ The other one asked, straightening his hat and ignoring my sarcasm.

  ‘My name’s Nick Sharman.’

  Acne Scars started writing in his notebook.

  ‘And her name?’

  ‘Sheila. Sheila Madden.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  I pointed behind myself at the open door of the house. ‘In there. Two flights up. The flat door’s open. She’s in the bedroom. That’s through the living room.’

  ‘OK, Ken,’ said Acne Scars to his mate. ‘You take a look. I’ll see to Mr Sharman here and call in.’

  Ken went down the path and into the house. I followed him with my eyes and noticed that the curtains in the houses around were starting to twitch. Acne Scars bent down into the car, keeping a careful eye on me, and whispered into the radio. I knew what he was doing. He was informing the CAD room to alert the troops. CID, SOCO, forensic, the ambulance service and the coroner’s office. The lot. And then they’d do a PNC check on me. Should make interesting reading.

  Ken came back out as Acne Scars finished. He looked a little pale and nodded to his mate. I lit another cigarette. I was glad he was pale. I wanted him to puke all over his shiny shoes.

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Acne Scars.

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I guess a few hours before I found her. She was beginning to stiffen.’ I couldn’t believe I was talking like this. So calmly, when the world had just stopped turning.

  ‘And when was that? When you found her I mean.’

  ‘A bit ago. I don’t know.’

  ‘And when did you call in?’

  ‘A few minutes before you arrived. You were very prompt. The operator will have the time.’

  ‘But you didn’t call in straight away? The minute you found her? Or an ambulance? Why was that?’

  ‘She was dead. There was nothing anyone could do. I wanted to spend some time with her.’

  They looked at each other then as if I was some kind of necrophiliac nutter, but I didn’t care. Neither of them would know how it felt until God forbid it happened to one of them. As we were speaking a crowd began to gather and gawp, and a Panda car arrived, driven by a WPC. Acne Scars told her to get the crowd back and she did.

  ‘The paramedics might’ve been able to do something,’ Ken said, when Acne Scars got back to us.

  ‘Ken,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you Ken, but I don’t know your other name. I used to be in the Job. I’ve seen some dead bodies before. She was past any help in this world and I wanted a few minutes with her. I’m sorry if that offends your sense of what’s correct under the circumstances, but that’s what happened.’

  ‘And that helped her killer get away.’

  ‘Is that right? She’d been dead some time when I found her. He was hardly going to be sitting down to tea and toast in her kitchen. He was long gone.’

  ‘In your opinion.’ Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was dead. The rest could take care of itself.

  ‘It was the only opinion that mattered at the time,’ I said. ‘I found her.’

  There was really no answer to that and we all knew it.

  Then an unmarked saloon arrived and stopped behind the Panda. Two more men got out. I didn’t know them either. I’d been out of the Job a long time. One of the new arrivals was middle-aged, wearing a jacket that was too warm for the weather, over a suit, the other in a leather blouson and jeans. ‘CID,’ said Acne Scars, closing his notebook with a snap. ‘I’ll get on.’ And he went into the car, rummaged round in the glove box and came out with a roll of blue and white tape to mark the perimeters of the crime scene.

  Ken waited for the two CID officers to get to us and told them who I was. They pulled him aside and had a whispered conversation I couldn’t hear. I could just imagine what was being said. ‘We’ve got a right one here. You want to watch him. He probably did for her himself.’

  After a minute Ken went back to his mate and the CID men came back to me. The middle-aged man flashed his warrant and said, ‘Detective Sergeant Blackford, Denmark Hill. This is DC Hawes. Mr Sharman is it?’

  I nodded.

  He didn’t seem to know me either. That would soon change, but right then it was a blessing. ‘What exactly has been happening here?’ he asked.

  I reiterated my story and the two plainclothes coppers left me in the capable hands of Ken whilst they went inside and had a gander.

  By the time they came out more cars and vans and the ambulance had arrived with the technical teams, and the crowd had got bigger, and the day had got hotter, and I was running out of cigarettes.

  ‘Mr Sharman,’ said Blackford. ‘I think we should continue this down at the station.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’ I asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Hawes. ‘Whatever made you think that? Just a few questions.’

  ‘I think I need my solicitor,’ I said as we walked to their car.

  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Blackford mildly. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong have you, sir?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’d just feel more comfortable with him around.’

  ‘Then you can call him from the station.’

  ‘I don’t have his home number. And it’s Saturday.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sharman,’ said Hawes as he opened the back door of their car so I could get in. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out. And mind your head now, sir.’

  At least he was still calling me sir.

  16

  We rolled into Denmark Hill police station at just a few minutes before ten o’clock that interminable morning. It was a Victorian building, built like a Noddy house out of brick with a slate roof that gleamed dully in the sunshine. An old-fashioned blue lamp hung outside the front door, and there were even hanging baskets of flowers to soften the harsh lines of the place. But I knew that the windows were bulletproof glass, the front door had been strengthened with steel, and inside it would still smell of bad coffee and human misery like every other police station I’d ever been inside.

  There had been no conversation on the short car ride there. Not between me and the coppers or the coppers between themselves. I sat in the back of the motor and looked out at all the people getting on with their lives, when as far as I was concerned they should’ve stopped. Should’ve covered their faces and mourned for Sheila. But to them she was nothing. A footnote in the evening news. Maybe a moment of frisson, a few
words of shock and horror that a young woman had been brutally killed and then back to the film.

  And I looked at the two police officers who were transporting me. I’d like to say they both had bad breath, dandruff, grey skin, spots, any of the things that make for villainous cops in story books. But they didn’t. They were just two blokes doing a job of work, which this morning involved me. How little real life is like a story book when it comes right down to it.

  We parked out back and walked to the door that I’d been through before on occasion. Blackford punched in the security code and they took me through to an interview room. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Hawes asked. ‘You’ve had a rough morning.’

  So he was going to be the good cop.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  He went off to get it and Blackford sat opposite me and said nothing. Bad cop.

  When Hawes came back with a Styrofoam cup he was accompanied by another detective. This one I knew. And he knew me.

  ‘Sharman,’ he said nastily. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Sergeant Lewis,’ I said. ‘Long time.’ It had been a long time. Years. When I’d known him last I’d been a DC at Kennington, he’d been a DS. A nasty little fucker who liked to throw his weight about and bully his subordinates. By the looks of things time hadn’t mellowed him. Ladies and gentlemen, meet worst cop.

  ‘Inspector now,’ he corrected me. ‘But I knew we’d meet again on the rocky road through life,’ he said.

  ‘Just our luck.’

  ‘I thought it might be you,’ said Lewis. ‘When I heard your name.’

  ‘And you just couldn’t wait to put out the welcome mat, is that it?’