The Sinner Page 9

  Would you like to tell him yourself, sir? thought Sheridan. But he said nothing. Instead he stood up, knowing he was dismissed. ‘Right sir. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good.’ Harmer gave a smile. It was the kind Pontius Pilate would have made.

  Blake was already out of the door and on the way back to her desk. Sheridan watched her go. He went back to work. Knowing that the next phone call he made to Killgannon he might be sentencing him to death.

  17

  Tom had tried, with his limited phone time, to contact Sheridan again but there had been no reply. It was like he was holding his breath. He was still here, in the cell with Cunningham, waiting for Foley to act. Waiting for Cunningham to talk. Waiting for something to happen.

  Dinner time came and he and Cunningham queued up alongside everyone else for beige carbs. They stood with their plastic trays, plastic mugs. Not speaking to each other or anyone else. His senses were heightened because he knew what was about to happen. It was risky, but he felt he had no choice. He needed to demonstrate to Cunningham that he was on his side. That he could be trusted. And this seemed like the most direct way. And all it would cost him was a packet of Marlboro. Tom didn’t smoke but he always carried a few packs with him. They were valuable currency in prison.

  Darren came charging out of nowhere, swinging for Cunningham. This wasn’t the kind of prison fight in films or TV. There was no warning, no build up. One second he wasn’t there, the next he was. And he wasn’t backing down. It was the prison way: get as many hits in as possible until everyone else stops staring and catches up, takes action against him.

  The suddenness even took Tom by surprise. And he was expecting it.

  Darren’s fist connected to the side of Cunningham’s head. Cunningham, almost too surprised to scream, held his arms up. Darren kept hitting. One side, then the next, not pausing for breath. Getting as much hurt in as he could.

  Cunningham went down, curling into a foetal ball, whimpering. Darren stepped in to follow up. He brought back his fist, ready to transmit as much energy as he could down the knotted muscle of his arm and into his fist. And on, to Cunningham’s head.

  Everyone else, those in the queue, those serving, the officers standing around, stared, too shocked to move. Tom was the first to regain his composure. He stepped up to Darren as fast as he could, grabbed hold of his swinging arm, forced it down by his side.

  Darren looked at him, confusion on his face, about to speak.

  ‘Changed my mind,’ said Tom, so low only Darren could hear, if the blood hadn’t been pumping in his ears so much.

  Anger blazed in Darren’s eyes. He tried with his other arm to swing at Tom. But Tom was ready for him. He placed his foot behind Darren’s heel, pushed him backwards. He was in mid punch, his body not expecting the sudden change of direction. He stumbled, fell backwards. Went sprawling on the floor.

  Tom turned to Cunningham, tried to pick him up. ‘You OK?’

  Cunningham looked terrified, didn’t seem to trust himself with words.

  The guards had come to life and were piling on the prone body of Darren. Tom helped Cunningham to his feet.

  ‘He needs medical assistance. Now.’

  Guards escorted Cunningham away, found a seat for him to sit on, assess the damage. Tom held his hands up, he was no threat. The two men were hauled off separately, Darren kicking and screaming, swearing and cursing in Tom’s direction.

  Tom gave no resistance. Allowed himself to be led away.

  That went about as well as could be expected, he thought.

  *

  He was taken to one of the wing classrooms, questioned by staff. He could hear Darren’s cries echoing off the walls as he was led off the wing.

  ‘What happened?’

  Tom shrugged, made out he was as surprised as they were. ‘Don’t know. We were just standing in line and he comes straight for Cunningham. Starts hitting him. Hard. So I just . . .’ Another shrug. ‘Pushed him away.’

  The officers stared at him, before going back to their office to check the CCTV, then their bodycams. Everything supported Tom’s version of events. He asked what had happened to Darren. He had been sent to the seg – the segregation block. A spell in solitary might calm him down, they said. Eventually they allowed Tom to go back to his cell.

  Cunningham was curled up on his bunk. He jumped when the door was opened.

  ‘Only me,’ said Tom, as the door closed behind him.

  Cunningham slowly sat up. Looked down at Tom. The left side of his face was swollen and red.

  ‘Have you had that seen to?’ asked Tom.

  Cunningham nodded. ‘They said it would be fine. But it’ll hurt tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘Hurts now.’

  ‘They given you painkillers?’

  Cunningham nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Tom sat down on his bunk. ‘Well that was a bit of excitement, wasn’t it?’

  Cunningham nodded. Still shaken.

  Neither man spoke.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cunningham said eventually, voice small and whispery.

  ‘No problem,’ said Tom, aiming for lightness. ‘What friends are for?’

  Cunningham moved about as if agitated. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re stuck in here, with each other. We have to make the best of it. And that means being friends. Don’t you think?’

  Cunningham didn’t answer straight away. The bunk started to move. Tom knew he was crying.

  Tom lay back. This is what he was again, how he had to act, to live. He had used Darren, lied to him, given him extra, unnecessary hardship to contend with. And now he was lying to Cunningham, all to gain his trust and then drop him afterwards when he had what he wanted. Yes, Cunningham was a child murderer but he hadn’t started out that way. His life had been shaped and twisted until he had become that. If someone had intervened earlier he might have been stopped. And now here Tom was, the latest in a long line of people letting him down when he needed help.

  This wasn’t who Tom wanted to be anymore. Years of being undercover had taught him to weaponise his humanity. Make friends, take lovers. Fake sincerity. Be liked by the right people. Like them in return. And then betray them. Walk away. Tell yourself it didn’t affect you. Keep telling yourself that. Then do the whole thing again. And again.

  He could truly hate himself for doing this again if he allowed himself to. But he had to keep going. Tell himself – as he so often had in the past – that the end justified the means. Try to believe it this time.

  ‘She’s an angel,’ said Cunningham, breaking his reverie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your niece. She’s an angel. I’m just looking at her picture now.’

  He felt something inside him curdle. Swallowed it down. He hated to use the photo of Lila but if it got Cunningham talking, especially now, then he would. And worry about how it made him feel later. ‘Is she now?’

  ‘Yes. She’s pure. Her hair, like angel dust . . .’

  ‘And you like purity, Noel? Yeah?’

  ‘Yes . . . purity. Children have it. It’s . . .’ Tom felt him moving about on the top bunk, getting in to his story. ‘Fleeting. You have to catch it, capture it. Then it’s gone. So fleeting. But beautiful while it lasts. Oh yes, beautiful . . .’

  ‘And what happens when it’s gone, Noel?’

  Silence in response. It went on so long that Tom thought he had asked the wrong question. But Cunningham had been weighing his words carefully. ‘It’s gone.’ His voice had changed. Empty of creepy passion, devoid of anything approaching common humanity. Like a different person had entered the room. ‘Gone. And you have to dispose of it. You see, you take that purity, keep it, let it nourish you and then . . . it’s no good. You have to get rid of it.’ He laughed. ‘I can tell you this, now that you’re my friend. You can understand.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘And that’s what you did, yeah? Got rid of the purity?’

  No reply, but from the rocking of the bunk Tom could f
eel Cunningham nodding. Or at least he hoped that was what he was doing.

  ‘And where did you do that?’

  Cunningham gestured towards the window. ‘Out there . . .’

  Tom felt something shift within him. Like he was on to something. ‘Where in particular?’

  Silence. Tom waited.

  A sigh from the top bunk. ‘I’m tired now. Want to go to sleep. Thank you for being my friend, Tom.’

  And that was as much as Tom could get out of him.

  18

  Night in Blackmoor. And again Tom couldn’t sleep.

  The sounds of unhappy men drifted along the wing, slipping under the heavy metal door like ghosts on wires. Wailing, crying. Sobbing. Pleading. Other sounds too, harsher ones: calls to shut the fuck up, threats of what would happen if they didn’t. Back and forth until they tired themselves out, wore themselves down until some form of sleep claimed them. At least some of them.

  Tom didn’t scream, didn’t shout out. He kept his fear locked up inside. Now it was around two in the morning. Cunningham was engaged in his usual nighttime activity. Crying. Tom didn’t need to hear the rest of the wing, there was noise enough in this cell. Cunningham had the same dream, or a variation of it, every night. Always apologising to someone for something. Sobbing that he was sorry. Tom knew he had a lot to apologise for.

  ‘I’m sorry . . . sorry, I . . . I won’t . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’ Then breaking down once more.

  All night, it seemed like. Every night.

  Driving Tom mad.

  Cunningham’s constant confessing was getting to Tom in other ways. It made him think of apologies he wanted to make but knew he never could. Especially to Hayley, whose death he would always blame himself for.

  His niece, the daughter of the sister who had brought him up in their mother’s absence, had started running with a bad crowd, thinking it was an easy way out of her impoverished background, getting involved with a local drug dealer. One who worked with Tom’s then target, Dean Foley. And it all came to a head the night that Foley had finally been arrested. Hayley had been where she wasn’t supposed to be and had paid the ultimate price. And Tom, knowing it was his operation, blamed himself for her death, even though he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

  He hadn’t been able to contact his sister during or after the trial; it was too dangerous for her. Foley’s men were hunting him and he knew they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if it meant getting to him. So he stayed away. And now he was in Witness Protection. He had never spoken to her since. Something else to hate himself for.

  It was a part of the reason he had taken Lila in when she was in trouble. Trying to avoid another death, another lost soul. But no matter how many people he helped, it would never remove the guilt. And Cunningham pulled that guilt into focus once more.

  Tom tried to push it all to one side, concentrate on his mission. Tried to square the crying with what he knew of Cunningham’s past.

  ‘No, please, I . . . I . . .’

  Tom sighed and swung himself out of bed. Enough.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, touching Cunningham on the shoulder, rocking him gently and trying to wake him. ‘Hey.’

  Cunningham jumped, startled, almost banging his head on the wall. In the darkness, lit only by the perimeter lights, Tom could see Cunningham staring ahead, eyes fixed on something he couldn’t see.

  ‘Cunningham . . .’

  Cunningham jumped once more at Tom’s touch. Kept staring ahead.

  ‘Give it a rest, mate,’ Tom said, not knowing what other words would reach him. ‘I’m trying to sleep down here. Yeah?’

  Cunningham didn’t blink, just kept staring.

  ‘You OK?’

  Cunningham raised a pointed finger, aimed it at the shadowed corner of the cell. ‘There they are . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There, in the corner . . . can you see them?’

  Tom turned. He could make out shadows on the wall. They were substantial, they had depth. It looked like two figures, one standing in front of the other.

  ‘You can see them can’t you? The choir?’

  Tom blinked. The figures disappeared. Saw only the silhouettes of the chair and the desk. The outline of the TV against the wall. Cunningham’s grinning, eyeless angels. He blinked again. The figures didn’t return.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night. Your mind’s playing tricks on you.’

  Cunningham turned his head towards Tom. His eyes were lit by a strange, penetrating light. For the first time since he arrived, Tom was afraid of what his cellmate might be capable of.

  ‘You saw them,’ Cunningham said. ‘I know you did. You saw them.’ He pointed again, his hand shaking. ‘They’re here all the time. With me. They hide in the day but come out at night. They sing to me. My requiem. I can never get rid of them. Never. They won’t go away . . .’

  He screwed his eyes tight shut. Tom saw tears squeezing from the corners. He looked again into the corner of the cell. Saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘Hey mate,’ he tried again, ‘get some sleep. You’re not alone here and they won’t get you while I’m here.’

  Cunningham slowly turned to look at him once more. A desperate kind of hope in his wet eyes. ‘You . . . really? Protect me?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Tom hoped he wouldn’t regret what he was saying. Knew he was taking a chance doing this. Didn’t know which way it could go. ‘Go to sleep. I’m here.’

  ‘Thank . . . thank you . . .’ Cunningham’s words sounded so pathetic. He laid himself down again, breathing heavily. ‘You don’t know what this means to me . . .’

  ‘Just go to sleep.’

  It took a while, but Cunningham eventually did. Tom lay there, feeling revulsion at having befriended the man, or having pretended to. But he had done it for the assignment. And more importantly, so he could get a good night’s sleep.

  Except he couldn’t. He lay there listening to Cunningham snore, staring at the corner, watching until those shadows dispersed in the pale morning light.

  Trying not to let his own ghosts haunt him.

  19

  Quint could see why Tom had chosen the house he lived in. It had good vantage points on all sides, anyone approaching it would be seen. If they were watching.

  Nestled in a bay beside the village of St Petroc, the house was one of a few dotted around a shingled slope that led down to the water. The bay itself was quite narrow, curving out to the sea, not wide enough for surfers, barely deep enough to launch any craft. A winding, steep, switchback road led to the cliff top. Anyone approaching came down very slowly.

  The other houses were mostly summer holiday lets, appealing to urbanites who wanted the pretence of being cut off from civilisation for a week, the inconvenience of getting supplies in and the novelty of terrible wifi. They were empty at this time of year, adding to the haunted, desolate feel of the bay. The only house with any lights on was Tom’s. The last house on the bay.

  Quint had thought long and hard about how to approach it. He thought covert surveillance best, only to find precious little in the way of camouflage. He was sure his motorbike’s engine would alert the house’s inhabitants. So instead he stayed at the top of the hill, looking down, a discreet pair of binoculars pointing towards the house.

  Dawn struggled to rise and the light within the house was a boon for him. He saw silhouettes move behind windows. Caught glimpses of two different bodies, making their separate ways sluggishly from room to room. He guessed they would be Lila and Pearl. The names in the file. They moved in together while Tom was away. That made sense. Quint could see why Tom would do that.

  The front door opened and a figure emerged. Young, female, blonde. Lila, he thought. He looked round for somewhere to hide, realised there wasn’t anywhere. He was exposed. If she looked up he would be seen. The girl began to walk towards the road.

  He stowed his binoculars in a leather saddlebag, readied himself
to put the bike into gear, ride away. Then looked down again. She had disappeared.

  He checked on all sides. No sign of her.

  Panic rose in his chest. An unfamiliar sensation. Usually he was the one that induced panic in others. Among other emotions. He thought quickly, tried to reach a decision. He would have to go. Come back later, find somewhere he could hide – construct it if necessary – and observe the house more fully. He still had his tent pitched on Blackmoor, perhaps he could bring everything over here and camp out? Would that be more or less conspicuous?

  He didn’t get any further in his thinking. Because there, right in front of him, was the blonde girl. Walking towards him. He immediately put his head down, trying to hide his identity from her, make out there was some mechanical fault and he couldn’t get his bike moving.

  She paused in her walking, looked at him. ‘Trouble with your bike?’ she said.

  He looked up, couldn’t avoid it. He had the visor of his helmet up. She saw his face and he saw hers. She was wary of him, suspicious even. He had to do something to counteract that, prove he was no threat. Act.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m camping down the road, I just came for a ride, was looking for shops, stopped for the view . . .’ He gestured over the bay where the sun was rising. He shrugged. ‘Then this happened. Must be the cold, or something.’

  ‘Right,’ Lila said. Her voice still unsure but giving his story the benefit of the doubt. ‘You want to give it another go?

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. He took her in from the corner of his eye. Dressed in a parka and boots, a bag slung over one shoulder, files and books poking from the corner. College. Another quick glance round showed him the stepped footpath, cut into the side of the rock, the lonely looking bus stop she was headed to. ‘I’ll just . . .’

  He put his foot down. Hard. The bike sprang into life.

  ‘There you go,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He smiled.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll be off, then.’

  ‘Right.’ She still hadn’t moved.

  He put the bike into gear, rode away.