Day 23
3,648 words tonight / 38,022 words total
69. Appeal
On Sunday afternoon, the four bereaved children of murdered Valerie Barrett were sitting in a television studio, behind a desk with Jenny McElroy and the man who was heading up their case, DCI Banks. Behind the cameras were what appeared to be a number of work experience kids in oversized headphones, some middle aged pot-bellied men with big beards looking at little screens and Janice, who was there ‘to offer support’.
Camille had finally agreed to do most of the talking, when the time came. Sara had refused flat-out; Jim had been keen—no doubt to impress Jenny—but he was dissuaded by the others, he was prone to bucking under pressure; and no-one had even considered asking Rowan. It came as a surprise to all of them that he even turned up. Jenny had suggested that maybe he should sit it out, but he refused. “Is he a loose cannon?” Jenny asked Camille, clearly concerned. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Sara, who wasn’t really too bothered what he did. In fact, Sara thought it might be quite funny if Rowan did loose the plot on national television. It would certainly teach Jim a lesson for forcing her in front of the camera against her will.
“A week ago today, at a little before one in the afternoon, a terrible crime was committed,” DCI Banks began. Camille and Sara cast each other an uncertain look. Neither had much confidence in Banks from the start, and his opening in this press conference did little to reassure them. “Valerie Barrett was murdered in her own home during a burglary. There were three men involved, one of them died on the scene along with Mrs Barrett. It would appear there was some kind of struggle at the top of the stairs. The assailant, who we have identified as Sean Sutton, died along with Mrs Barrett in the subsequent fall.
“Janice Pine, a family friend, arrived at the scene at this point, around 12:50 pm. She found her friend Valerie and Sean at the bottom of the stairs. The two other men were also upstairs, and, evidently shaken by the turn of evens, ran down, pushed past Mrs Pine, and ran down the street, in a southerly direction. Mrs Pine has been working with our e-fit team to produce the images of the two men you are seeing on your screen now. We believe them to be Steven Slater and Simon Sanders, two known associates of the deceased, Sean Sutton.
“If you see these men, do not approach them. They are considered armed and highly dangerous. This was an horrendous crime that resulted in the death of a dedicated mother of four. If you witnessed anything on that day, not matter how trivial you might think it is, let us know. If you have any idea about the whereabouts of these men, please let us know. You can call with any information on the number on the bottom of your screen now. Thank you.”
Addressing the family, someone from behind the camera asked, “Is there anything you would like to add?”
Camille cleared her throat and did her best to look sombre. The genuine sadness she had felt the other night at the loss of her mother was gone now; and it wasn’t something that could easily be turned on and off. She thought back to the week before, to practising the facial expressions required for just this occasion. She allowed her cheeks and jaw to relax, to slump a little. At the same time she furrowed her brow a little, as if in morbid introspection. The whole experience was a farce, she knew, but instinctively she felt the right thing to do was to conform to the situation. What was the alternative? Stand up and walk out?
“My mother,” she began, “was a peaceful, religious woman, who wouldn’t have harmed a fly. These men broke into her home, when she was there alone, preparing a family meal—that we were all very much looking forward to—tried to steal the few things she had managed to acquire through her difficult life as a single mother, and, when confronted, murdered her in cold blood. From what DCI Banks has told me, these men are wanted for a number of other crimes too, so please…” At this point, she took a deep breath, as if forcing back some tears. “Please, if you know anything, anything at all, call the number and let the police know.”
“I’d like to say something,” Rowan blurted out. Nobody had been paying him any attention for a while, but it was clear when everyone looked round that he had lost it: his eyes were wide, his forehead sweaty, his cheeks red. Off-camera, Janice suggested to a cameraman that he might want to stop filming; on-camera, Jenny widened her eyes and looked determinedly at the same cameraman, trying to get across the same thing. The cameraman either didn’t see the point, or didn’t care, and continued filming.
The next thing the nation saw was Rowan leaping over the desk at which the others were sitting, putting his face right up to the camera and yelling, “I’m after you, fuckers! I’m going to hunt you down!”
Jenny and DCI Banks put their heads in her hands. The press conference had certainly not gone as well as they had hoped.
70. Simon and Steve
The two surviving members of the three-man gang that had lived off a series of crimes, culminating in the burglary and murder of Valerie Barrett watched Rowan’s outburst the next day with interest.
They were in a hotel room they had paid for with someone else’s credit card, using someone else’s name.
“Are you worried?” asked Simon.
“About him?” said Steve, pointing at Rowan’s face. “No!”
“Did the other one look familiar to you?”
“Who?”
“The other bloke, the son.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I recognised him.”
“Maybe you saw a photo of him, you know, in the house.”
“Maybe…” agreed Simon. “Well, whatever way you look at it, we’ve got a problem.”
“There’s no problem,” said Steve. “Fuck that guy, he won’t do anything.”
“Not him,” said Simon. “The police.”
“We’ve got away with worse than this before.”
“But this fucking guy Rowan… going crazy on TV… it’s no good. It means people will pay attention to it—it’ll be on the news and everything, I’m sure: ‘Son of murdered woman goes crazy on TV’. That means our pictures will be all over the place.”
“That one looked nothing like you…”
“It was close enough,” Simon said. They looked at the still of Rowan’s face on the television screen for a moment. “And the one of you was spot on,” he added.
“So what do we do? We can’t just stay here… And we can’t leave the country…”
“I might have idea. I’ve got a cousin. We could stay at his for a while.”
“You got a phone number?”
“I’ve got a work on somewhere…” Simon rummaged around his wallet. “Here. Give me your phone.”
Simon dialled, and waited. “Hi, guess who?”
“S—Si? Is that you?”
“Right in one! You’re going to do me a little favour, dearest cousin of mine.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Meet me in Swan Park in an hour. Alone.”
“Please… call someone else… I—I can’t, I’m at work…”
“You’ll be there,” Simon said firmly. “You would never let family down, would you?”
“Who was that?” Sara asked. “Is everything okay?”
Mark put the phone down shakily. “Everything is fine,” he said. “Listen: I’ve got to pop out for a while…”
71. Jill Jenkins
Having been confused and a little insulted by Rowan, Jill Jenkins, daughter of the late Dr Jenkins—the man who treated Rowan and more recently Jim, when he was attacked—bought some cigarettes and went home. Her mother Estelle was waiting for her when she got back. The old lady was so choked with tears she could barely speak.
“Mum?” Jill said. “Oh mum, let me get you a tea or—”
“They think the men who killed dad are the same as the ones that killed that poor woman.”
“What?”
Jill’s mother pressed play on the answer phone. It was a message from the police, confirming what Jill’s mother had just told her. The old woman looked at her daughter, horrified. Jill had never seen her mother like this before. She had always been so bright, so lively. She looked dead inside now, as if she had been somehow extinguished. It was as if she had aged thirty years overnight.
The relationship between Estelle and Dr Martin Jenkins had was exceptionally close. Jill, who was their only daughter, couldn’t remember ever seeing them apart for more than hours at a time, other than during the working day; certainly never for an entire night, or anything like that. For Jill, the priority was to see her mother through this time. So far, she had hardly had a moment to think about her own grief.
She pressed delete on the answering machine. “He has gone,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how, or who did it, or what the details are; it might seem like it matters, but it doesn’t.”
“It’s all I have of him…” Estelle said.
“What do you mean?” said Jill, shocked.
“When they talk about who killed him… It means they’re still saying his name, Jill. It makes it sound like he—like he is still alive.”
Jill held her mother’s hand and led her to the sofa, where they both sat. “But he isn’t still alive, mum…”
“I know,” Estelle said.
But she didn’t, not really.
72. Sara’s Return to Work
A short while before his cousin Simon called, Mark Selywn arrived at work, and was shocked to see Sara already there. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” he said. She looked at him briefly and shrugged, turning back to her computer. “I thought you would have more time off,” he added.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Well, just take it easy, okay?”
Sara nodded and continued typing. If she were being honest, she had surprised herself coming into work today. She didn’t think she wanted to be there. And it wasn’t like she had done any work since arriving; mostly she had surfed the internet and stared blankly at the screen. It was the first time in a long as she felt directionless. She was used to feeling out of place, or like she wanted to be somewhere else—but this was different. It felt as if everything was out of her control: the murder, the television appeal, the funeral arrangements, all of it.
A while passed, with Sara aware of Mark looking over at her every few minutes. “Will you please stop that,” she said finally.
“What?” said Mark.
“Looking at me; feeling sorry for me…”
“I wasn’t, I—”
“I saw you Mark, I know what you’re thinking.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think you do.”
Sara turned back to her screen.
“It’s just that Barrett is quite a common name,” he said.
“Obviously,” she replied. “But what has that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” he said, with a sigh. “It’s just—well, I didn’t see the resemblance before, but now I know, I can see—”
“Mark! You’re being weird…”
“A while ago I dated your sister, Camille.”
“What?!”
“I didn’t know…”
Sara burst out laughing. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. I bet she ate you for breakfast!”
“Is she—I mean, um, I don’t know how to put this: is she unwell in some way?”
“Not as ‘unwell’ as our brothers,” Sara replied. “Did you see this,” she added, opening a video clip on the internet. She started it at the point that DCI Banks was talking about the order of events on the night her mother was killed, “…Mrs Pine has been working with our e-fit team to produce the images of the two men you are seeing on your screen now. We believe them to be Steven Slater and Simon Sanders, two known associates of the deceased, Sean Sutton.“
Mark’s face went white. The video continued, climaxing in Rowan’s outburst. “See?” Sara said. “Nuts!”
Just then, the phone rang. Mark’s face dropped. “S—Si? Is that you?”
Sara looked on, curious. She hadn’t seen Mark like that before.
“Leave me alone! Please… call someone else… I—I can’t, I’m at work…”
“Who was that?” Sara asked. “Is everything okay?”
Mark put the phone down shakily. “Everything is fine,” he said. “Listen: I’ve got to pop out for a while.”
“Where?” Sara asked.
“Just an errand. Stay here, will you? I’ll be back before you know it…” He was gone before Sara could say anything more.
Mark couldn’t believe the series of coincidences that had led him to be where he was right then: the woman in his office was the sister of the psycho who had practically stalked him, then demeaned him in a way he barely knew possible; and now it turns out his cousin murdered their mother. And all he wanted—all he desired from life, was simplicity. A decent, respectable job; or, alternatively, no job at all. Either way would be good. A wife, perhaps. It seemed ridiculous that he had thought once that Sara might have been a realistic option. How now?! He had dated her sister and was no doubt about to aid and abet her mother’s killer.
The park was deserted. Mark sat for a while on a bench, by the ducks. He couldn’t enjoy it, though. His eyes darted anxiously around. He knew at any minute Simon would appear from somewhere. They hadn’t seen each other in years—how many? Three, maybe five. Maybe even more. Mark didn’t have much family, and those he did have, he avoided.
“Hello Mark,” came a voice behind him. He turned round. There were two men: Simon, and a man he didn’t know. It was Simon speaking. “This is Steven,” he said. “Steven, this is my cousin Mark. We’ll be staying with him for a week or two.”
Mark opened his mouth to protest, but it was quickly shut again by a jab from his cousin’s fist. “There can be more where that came from,” Simon said. “If you want there to be…”
“N-No,” Mark said.
“Keys,” Simon barked. Mark handed them over. “Number twenty-three, isn’t it?”
Mark nodded.
“Tell you what, Marky-boy,” Simon said, slapping his cousin jovially on the shoulder. “You get yourself back to work, and I’ll have dinner ready when you get back.”
Steven gave Mark a thumbs up and turned towards the park exit. Simon moved to follow him, but thought better of it, having something to say before he went: “Mark, I want to tell you something,” he said, “and I mean this from the bottom of my heart: if the police ever, ever turn up when I’m at your place, I will kill you. I will kill you until you are so dead, it’ll be as if you were never alive. I will kill you slowly, and painfully…”
Simon carried on talking, but Mark tuned out. He got the point.
73. Vigilantism: Rowan and Rod Clean Up London Town
“Fucking justice,” Rowan said. “That’s what I am all about. Fucking justice.”
He was wondering the streets at a little after midnight, wrapped in his warmest coat, warmest scarf and warmest gloves. At his side, Rod nodded. Rod wasn’t really there, of course, he was simply a figment of Rowan’s growing madness.
“You’re an arsehole,” said Rod.
Rowan nodded. The little flame-haired fellow had a point.
Two men were arguing outside a pub. One was shouting, the other was shouting back. People around tried to ignore it, but Rowan couldn’t let it go. “Justice!” he said. Rod shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.
Rowan pulled his scarf over his mouth and pulled a short club out of his pocket, that he had bought earlier in the day just for this kind of purpose. He ran towards the two men, who paid him no attention whatsoever: they were completely wrapped up in their own argument.
Considering that at this time, Rowan was completely crazy, what he did next was extremely impressive. He leapt through the air, and in one motion cracked both men in the head with his club, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Standing over both of them as they held their heads and cried out in pain, Rowan shouted, “There will be no more violence in this city!” People looked on, flabbergasted, but no-one confronted him. “Right,” he said. “Good. I’m off. Come on Rod, you fucker!”
And with that, the masked vigilante and his invisible sidekick ran off into the distance.
74. Jim Puts His Heart Where His Mouth Is
“Any news?” Jim asked.
Jenny shook her head sadly. I’m afraid not. But I’m still confident they’ll turn up. They can’t leave the country and someone is bound to see them at some point.”
The two were alone in the Barrett’s kitchen, at the table. Jim poured some tea. “It must be depressing, all this,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“Well—your job. Dealing with people who’ve had a relative murdered or raped…”
“Oh, you get used to it. I’d like to think I’m doing some good—”
“You are!”
“…It’s nice to know I can help people. But yeah, some cases can really get to you.”
Jim stirred some sugar into his tea. “I don’t suppose you get much time to yourself.”
“No,” Jenny said. “I can keep some odd hours.”
“Hmm,” said Jim, nonchalantly. “I bet it’s hard to socialise. I had a friend in the police,” he lied. “He was always saying how hard it is to hold down a relationship.”
“Ah, well that’s the truth!”
“He said that the police often dated other police… because they understood each other, or something.”
“It does happen quite a lot,” Jenny agreed, sipping her tea.
“So um, is your boyfriend a policeman.”
“Boyfriend?!” Jenny said, laughing. “You must be kidding. I haven’t had one of those in years!”
“Really?” said Jim, as calmly as he could. He realised something then he had never even considered before: he could be social. “It must be difficult to work all day in something like this and go home alone at the end of it…”
“People are in a lot worse situations than me,” Jenny said. “That’s what I learn from my job.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Jim said. Jenny nodded. “Do you think you’ll catch them—the men, Simon and Steve?”
“Yes,” Jenny said.
“What would you say the odds are? You know, as a percentage?”
“That we’ll arrest them?”
“Yeah.”
“Ninety percent? Ninety-five, perhaps?”
“As high as that?”
“I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up unduly, but I wouldn’t want to lie either. The more we know about the criminals, the greater the chance of catching them. In this case, we know everything, so there is a very high chance they’ll be caught.”
“Hmm,” said Jim.
“But you have to remember what it’s really about: Catching a criminal is down to high-quality police work, not probability.”
Jim laughed and shook his head. “No, Jenny,” he said, unintentionally patronising her. “You’re quite wrong there: Everything is down to probability.”
75. Jill and Estelle Jenkins: One Version of Events
Estelle Jenkins didn’t just wish her murdered husband was still alive, she genuinely believed him to still be alive. This posed problems for her daughter Jill who was simultaneously trying to deal with the murder of her father, and look after her mother who seemed to be losing her mind. It didn’t seem to matter to Estelle how often Jill said, “He’s gone, mum,” or how frequently people called to pay their condolences, Estelle simply would not accept he was gone.
One evening Jill got home to find her mother sitting in a dining table chair in the hallway, about three metres from the front door. “What are you doing mum?” she asked.
“Oh, just waiting for your father,” she said.
It was hard on Jill, seeing her mother like that, and she didn’t know what to do to help. As time passed, Estelle grew to be more and more dependent on her daughter to do everything. Estelle lived increasingly in her imagination, a way of life that did her body no good at all: her imagination didn’t need food or sleep or external stimulation. Slowly, she began to slip away from Jill altogether.
Then, one day, without warning, Estelle committed suicide. She left a note for Jill explaining that her life couldn’t give her what she needed: her husband. She wasn’t religious, but she said she had tried to think logically about it, and it seemed to her that if she died, she would either simply cease to be, or, if the religious types were right, she would be reunited with Martin. Either option was better than living.
Poor Estelle!
Jill went on to follow in her father’s footsteps. She studied medicine and became a GP, caring for hundreds of people on a daily basis. At the age of fifty, she participated in some groundbreaking research that eventually led to the cure of a series of diseases including all brain tumours.
She was so well revered that they hung a painting of her in the National Portrait Gallery.
Good for Jill!
76. Jill and Estelle Jenkins: Another Version of Events
Estelle Jenkins didn’t just wish her murdered husband was still alive, she genuinely believed him to still be alive. This posed problems for her daughter Jill who was simultaneously trying to deal with the murder of her father, and look after her mother who seemed to be losing her mind. It didn’t seem to matter to Estelle how often Jill said, “He’s gone, mum,” or how frequently people called to pay their condolences, Estelle simply would not accept he was gone.
One evening Jill got home to find her mother sitting in a dining table chair in the hallway, about three metres from the front door. “What are you doing mum?” she asked.
“Oh, just waiting for your father,” she said.
It was hard on Jill, seeing her mother like that, and she didn’t know what to do to help. As time passed, Estelle grew to be more and more dependent on her daughter to do everything. Estelle lived increasingly in her imagination, a way of life that did her body no good at all: her imagination didn’t need food or sleep or external stimulation. Slowly, she began to slip away from Jill altogether.
But Estelle was determined not to give in.
Good for Estelle!
She fought back from the brink psychologically, but sadly became very ill physically. For the next decade, Jill cared for her mother, but ultimately Estelle passed away. The type of brain tumour she had simply would not respond to treatment. She lost all of her faculties before she died. Jill found her one morning lying in a pool of her urine in bed, quite dead.
Jill decided she wanted to become a doctor and began training. But the past ten years caring for her mother had really taken it out of her, and she simply couldn’t find the focus. She dropped out after resitting and failing her first year exams three years running.
She spent the rest of her life as a cleaner, sweeping between the paintings in the National Portrait Gallery.
Poor Jill!
