The Sinner Page 4

  ‘Come and join us,’ said Tom. He smiled but it dissipated quickly. ‘I wanted you here as well.’

  ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘OK, then.’ He looked between the two of them. His gaze settled on Lila. ‘I’ve told Pearl about this. Now it’s your turn.’ He sighed, hesitant, as if his next words would make something notional real. Both to them and himself. ‘I’ve got to go away for a bit.’

  It looked like something had juddered to a halt inside Lila. ‘Why? Where?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ He leaned forwards, concentrating on his hands rather than looking at either of them. ‘You know who I am. Or who I used to be.’ Lila looked like she was about to be told a loved one was terminally ill. Pearl looked like she’d just received the same information.

  ‘I thought this might happen. I dreaded it, to be honest. And it seems I’ve got no choice.’

  Lila stared at him. ‘They’re making you work again, aren’t they? They’ve got you a job.’

  He nodded. ‘Undercover.’

  ‘But you’ve retired. You told me that.’

  ‘Yeah, I have. But I also told you that I have to be available when they want me. Price I pay for being left alone. After what happened here.’

  ‘That’s not fair. Tell them no.’

  ‘I wish I could. I can’t, it’s not like that.’

  ‘Just tell them . . .’ Anger and sadness fighting it out with Lila. It looked like a part of her was detaching, drifting away. Tom found it heartbreaking to watch.

  But you’re coming back, aren’t you? It’s not going to be for long.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Believe me.’

  ‘For Christmas?’

  ‘A long time before then.’ Hopefully, he thought.

  ‘So where you going then?’

  He told her. Everything he had just told Pearl. In as quiet and reasonable a voice as he could manage. Pearl watched Lila, checked her responses. Concern in her eyes.

  Time passed. Eventually Lila looked up. ‘They won’t let you in without a cover story. Have you got one?’

  ‘He has,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s me. A customer overstepped the line and Tom had to put him right.’

  Anger rose again in Lila. ‘When did all this happen? When did you decide this and why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘Pearl’s just found out now. I had to check with her first, make sure she was OK with it.’ He glanced across at her. There was something heavy in that look. ‘Not everyone would have agreed to it. Thank you.’

  She shrugged, returning a gaze full of unsaid words.

  Tom sat back. Looked at Lila. Reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. You don’t get to do that yet.’

  ‘D’you want to ask me anything?’

  Tom could see Lila was angry that he had told Pearl before her. Even if he did need to discuss it with her first. And annoyed at him keeping secrets from her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘It only happened this week. The plans were advanced before they brought me in. The cover story was already there. They just needed me and Pearl to fit round it. And I wanted to tell you in a place where no one could overhear. Both of you.’

  Lila tried to take it all in. Didn’t reply.

  ‘You’re still going to be safe, still living in the house. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Maybe I could move in as well,’ said Pearl. ‘Girls together. Might be fun. Or at least company. We could—’

  Lila stood up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Shut up,’ she said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just shut up.’ Tears welled in her eyes. She looked angry with herself for allowing that to happen. Tom knew she had felt safe, secure with him. For the first time in a long time. Possibly for as long as she could remember. And now, to her, this safety was gone.

  Tom stood up too. Reached out to her. ‘Lila . . .’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  She turned and ran back towards the village, stumbling as her tears blinded her.

  Tom and Pearl watched her go.

  5

  Quint stepped back, admired his handiwork. The tent looked sturdy. As deeply pegged as he could manage, it wouldn’t take off at the first gust of wind. It might even keep out some of the cold, and the inevitable rain. It was the first time he had pitched a tent for years and he was rather proud of himself.

  Slaughter Tor was near the south east of Blackmoor, all open land, rough rocky outcrops and at least one standing stone. Quint was always surprised when he encountered something like that. A part of the past intruding into the modern world, reminding people that for all their wifi, electricity and vehicles their lives were brief. But stone, that would endure. Or maybe it was just him. He didn’t get out into the country much.

  Not that there was much in the way of wifi or electricity where he was. Quint felt more alone than he had done in ages. He knew people came to the country for a break, for contemplation. But he couldn’t have cared less. This wasn’t a holiday, it was work. And until it was completed that was all he would focus on.

  He had read up on Blackmoor in advance. On where and when he could camp and park. Campsites were to be avoided. The sight of a single black man in a tent was liable to arouse suspicion, if not at the time then afterwards. It was the way of remote places, of the kind of people they attracted. Hikers and campers liked camaraderie. Drinks and shared dinners, swapping stories. And they would overcompensate because of the colour of his skin against theirs, try to be extra chummy, show they weren’t racist by inviting him to join. They wouldn’t keep in touch, though. Holidays were one thing, the rest of their lives quite another. He had experienced it before, the casual racism of the middle classes.

  So he kept himself to himself. It suited his temperament, suited his needs. Suited the work. He wouldn’t crop up in the memories of other campers. He had enough provisions for a few days. He had pitched his tent well away from the roads, out of most people’s sight. He could be alone and wait.

  Quint walked up to the brow of the hill he was camped under, put his binoculars to his eyes, looked around. Smiled.

  There it was. In the distance, but not too far away.

  The prison.

  6

  ‘Killgannon. Get your things together. You’re moving.’

  Tom had barely slept so the words didn’t wake him. As soon as he lay down on the narrow, uncomfortable bed the room seemed to get even smaller, the walls closing in. Fears ran round his head, fears he hadn’t expected to experience.

  The door is locked. What if there’s a fire? Or some kind of catastrophe and I’m locked in here for ever? What if they don’t let me out? Or I’m rumbled and they decide to teach me a lesson?

  On and on, his doubts spiralling and deepening, until he stuffed the thin, lumpy pillow into his mouth and stifled a scream.

  Everyone has a fear, a defining phobia. Heights, snakes, spiders, illness, whatever. For Tom it was confined spaces. Closed, locked spaces. He’d been claustrophobic ever since he was a small boy. When his sister had taken him on shopping expeditions into Manchester city centre he had hated getting into department store lifts. Expecting them to break down and become suspended tombs as the air ran out and no one came to save them. Crowding on to buses, trams or tube trains had been an ordeal, closing his eyes and holding his breath, blocking his ears and pretending to be anywhere but there. Even taking dares from other kids, to explore old, abandoned pipes and factories, in the wasteland beside the estate where he grew up. He’d always avoided it. But he didn’t want anyone else to know, to see it as weakness, so he hit the first person to question his bravery, ensuring that no one else would.

  Although he had tried to conquer his fear as he got older, his commando training brought it all back to him. On exercise with a full pack, trying to pull himself through caves and tunnels that he was barely able to squeeze inside withou
t the pack. He tried to channel that fear, use it to motivate him, and hide from the others how terrified he was. Be a leader. And it had worked. This had taught him a valuable life lesson: no one knows what they’re doing. Everyone just hides their fear and keeps going.

  But now, after one night, those fears had returned. He wished he had never agreed to do this job. No matter the consequences.

  It was too late for that now. As the prison officer stood at the door waiting for him, Tom struggled off the bed, his muscles aching from the prone calisthenic workout he had given his body instead of sleep.

  ‘Get your stuff.’

  ‘Where am I going? I only just got here.’

  ‘This is the induction wing. You stay here till you’ve been properly allocated. Come on.’ Sighing as he spoke. Just one more thing on his to do list.

  Tom complied, gathered up his meagre belongings into bin bags once more, followed the officer out. Relieved to be stretching his legs, if only temporarily.

  On the wing, the rest of the inmates were already up. Clad in regulation blue tracksuits, they were being herded to the kitchen to queue up for what smelled like the poor relation of hospital food and looked like slabs of beige stodge designed to keep them full, placid and pliant. Or that was the theory. Once served their meal they would take their trays back to their cells to eat. And wait to see whether they would be allowed out for the morning jobs or education.

  Tom looked at the queueing men but didn’t make eye contact with any of them. He didn’t want to be seen as issuing a challenge. The men came in all shapes and sizes, mostly with short hair, some with arms and faces full of spidery, home-made tattoos. Drug-sunken features, always-alert eyes, fear hiding behind the threat of violence in every movement.

  Tom was led off the wing and through the prison, pausing at every gate, facing the wall and waiting while the officer unlocked and then re-locked as they went. He walked along corridors in silence, the officer’s attitude discouraging him from questions or small talk. He used the time to process as much about his surroundings as possible. Orient himself.

  His training kicked in: mentally checking for angles where he could be attacked, hallways where he wouldn’t be safe, vantage points where he could defend himself if he had to. Committing the layout to his memory, or as much as he could manage.

  As they walked the prison became older, like travelling back in time. Walls turned from painted plaster to old brickwork. Light fittings and power points looked less integral to the architecture, more like later additions. The caging and gates they walked through looked over-painted, layered up to disguise and discourage any rust. Cell doors were heavily riveted, reinforced, immovable.

  The officer led him up some metal stairs. Tom looked down to the level below. Netting partially obscured the view but he could see one or two tracksuited prisoners carrying buckets and mops, pretending not to be interested in this new arrival.

  ‘Here we go.’

  The officer stopped before a cell door, took out his keys. Tom glanced at the cell’s whiteboard telling the name and number of the occupant.

  ‘Cunningham.’

  Really? Was it that simple?

  The officer opened the door. ‘Stand up, move away from your bed. Got some company for you.’

  Tom was ushered into the cell.

  ‘Your new home,’ announced the officer.

  Cunningham was on his feet. ‘I said I didn’t want to share. Want to be on my own.’

  ‘And I want Beyoncé waiting for me when I get home. Can’t always get what you want.’

  Anger blazed in Cunningham’s eyes. ‘But I said—’

  ‘Take it up with the Governor.’ He walked back through the door, closed it behind him. The sound reverberated away to nothing.

  Tom tamped down the rising fear inside him. Locked up again. He turned to Cunningham who was still staring at him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  7

  Cunningham’s fists were clenched, rage flaring. He was big, bulky. Thick arms, stout legs, but from the way his stomach undulated a few seconds after the rest of him, Tom guessed he hadn’t been keeping up his exercise routine. His face was round and red, purple-veined, hair clipped short, stubbled chin, eyes black, deepset. Like an angry gooseberry past its best.

  ‘I wanted to be on my own, too,’ said Tom, unmoving, ‘but here we are.’

  Cunningham took a step towards him. Tom remained where he was. He was in better shape than Cunningham but didn’t have his rage. In a confrontation that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. For emphasis he flexed his biceps, his chest. Cunningham didn’t move.

  The two stared at each other, Tom breathing quietly, Cunningham raggedly, wheezing. Maybe he’ll die of a heart attack before he gets the chance to confess, thought Tom. Or even speak.

  ‘Don’t think we have much say in the matter,’ he continued.

  Cunningham didn’t reply.

  ‘But I’ve just arrived and I’ve been put in here. I’m on Enhanced. I worked hard for that. And I’m not going to lose it for anyone.’ Tom opened his arms. ‘So give it your best shot, big boy. Here I am.’

  Cunningham stared, but Tom’s words had penetrated. The fire burned out of his eyes. He looked away, round the cell. Trying to find some way to back down yet still save face.

  ‘Just . . . stay away from me.’ The words gurgled out quietly. Drained away. Cunningham’s mood seemed to have changed completely. Where there had been anger, all Tom could see was wariness, fear perhaps.

  Tom regarded him quizzically, noting the change. As if Cunningham’s anger had been a learned response from being inside. If in doubt, confront.

  ‘But I still have the top bunk.’ Sullenly, like a stroppy child.

  Tom didn’t want to argue. ‘Your shout, mate. You’ve been here longest.’

  Cunningham nodded, honour seemingly satisfied.

  The Choirmaster Killer. That’s what the tabloids had dubbed Noel Cunningham. And they had played that up in every photo they printed. Round faced, cherubic, like the stereotype of an overgrown choirboy. Living with his aged mother. Dressed and groomed by her, by the look of him. Pudding basin haircut and bow tie. Photographs published and studied. Everyone looking for evil behind the jowls.

  Tom didn’t recognise his new cellmate from the person the tabloids claimed he had been. It was as though being caught had stripped him of whatever camouflage he had used to exist in the real world, sloughing that skin, revealing the pathetic individual underneath. More damaged than dangerous.

  He had started by abusing boys in a cathedral choir in Devon. A figure of respect in the local community, an odd one, but nevertheless thought of as harmless. Then children in the area started to go missing. The children were never from the choir. Too dangerous for him to do that. Too many questions asked. But the church did outreach in the local community. And that involved taking underprivileged kids away for weekends and during school holidays. Usually camping on Blackmoor. That was when he had first met them, sized them up. Moved in with a predator’s cunning. Picked off the weak, the fragile, the not easily missed. From there, simply befriend them, see them back in town, tell them about other trips to Blackmoor if they were interested. Then take them away with him. Never to be seen again.

  The local police eventually put together a pattern that trapped Cunningham. He admitted his crimes, confessed easily, but still refused to say where the bodies were. Or how many there were. But he had always tried to be friendly with men who fitted Tom’s description. Tall, rugged.

  ‘Always looking for a father figure, according to the psychological profile,’ Sheridan had told Tom. ‘To replace the one he never had. You fit the bill. You should be just his type, so to speak.’

  The tension in the cell had eased. Tom placed his bags on the floor, pointed to the wall. ‘This shelf mine?’

  Cunningham shrugged.

  Tom opened his bag, began to unpack. It didn’t take him long. Clearly Cunningham was on Enhanced t
oo, having the privileges that came from playing along with the rules. Colour TV. Play Station. A shelf of toiletries. A framed photo of an older woman, smiling.

  ‘That your mother?’ said Tom, unpacking his own toiletries.

  Cunningham nodded, grunted.

  ‘She looks happy.’

  Cunningham didn’t reply. He had decorated the area round his bed with pictures torn from magazines and newspapers. They were all of beautiful boys who seemed younger than eighteen. Apart from their posing and pouting they had two other things in common. They had crude, swan-like wings drawn on their backs. And their eyes had been clipped out. They looked like dead-eyed angels.

  Unnerved, Tom looked away, unpacked a couple of books, placed them spine out next to his toiletries. Took out some underwear, spare joggers, the shirt and suit he had been wearing when he entered the prison. Folded them all up, found a drawer for them. All the while Cunningham affected not to watch him.

  Finally he took out a framed photo of himself and Lila, placed that on the desk by the bed. Cunningham became interested then, couldn’t help himself. Tom saw him staring at the photo, unblinking.

  ‘Who’s that? Daughter?’

  ‘Niece,’ said Tom. ‘She lives with me.’

  ‘Does she now.’ Cunningham didn’t – couldn’t – hide the leer on his face.

  Tom stared at him. ‘Yeah. She does.’ The tone of his voice warned Cunningham not to pursue that train of thought. Cunningham complied. At least outwardly. Tom sat down on his bunk. ‘How long you been here?’

  Cunningham grunted. ‘Six months. She looks very young.’

  Tom ignored the comment. Wondered instead about the etiquette of asking other prisoners what their crime was. Before he could speak, that decision was taken away from him.

  ‘What you in for, then?’ Cunningham leaned forwards.

  ‘Actual bodily harm.’

  ‘How come?’ Cunningham’s expression changed. Like he was waiting to be told a story.

  Tom obliged. ‘I work in a pub. Punter got too handy with my boss. Had to be taught a lesson.’