The Sister(190)
Chapter 148
S-shes b-broken your head! His father’s voice ridiculed him from where he hid in the dark recesses of his mind. Won’t be long now, son, and you’ll be stood before your maker. Remember who that was? Yeah, that’s right, me. And I’ll judge you. I ain’t forgotten what you did to me…
Boyle lurched the last few yards to where he’d left the car. He had trouble unlocking it. Once inside, he settled into the back of his seat. You’re concussed, don’t go to sleep. She’s stoved your head in. His fingertips gently traced the source of the pain; an area of his skull felt dished. Maybe it was always like that. He couldn’t be sure. The sticky dampness of his fingers confirmed what he’d already guessed; he was bleeding. Got to get out, got to keep moving… Starting the engine, he drove carefully to his lock-up situated in a quiet and respectable part of town.
The drive took a matter of minutes. He clambered from the car and opened the garage door. Once inside he stripped his outer garments leaving him wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He threw the gasmask and the suit into a corner and then wheeled his motorbike out. Somewhat revived by the crisp night air, he scanned the windows of nearby houses, absently wondering if the pounding in his head could take the pummeling of a lengthy motorcycle ride. Just got to do it. He put the car away, shut the doors and donned his crash helmet, flinching as the inner lining scraped over his wound. He turned the key and pressed the starter button. The engine purred into life and then he roared out into the night.
The motorcycle’s steady drone did nothing to ease the throbbing pain in his skull. He summoned thoughts to take his mind off it. Amidst the myriad of memories to choose from, one kept returning. He couldn’t shake it out. After his mother’s funeral, he’d left home, but returned a few days after to see his father…
I was thinking about the other day—
Why do you always speak wit' anyone else’s voice but your own? Fucks me off something chronic the way you do that. You ashamed of your voice, sonny, is that what it is?
I’m g-going f-fish-fishing. D-down C-Cornwall f-for a f-few days. C-Camping out. I-I t-thought y-you m-might l-like to c-come—
What, wit' you? I don’t think so!
On the long drive down, his father didn’t stop babbling on at him. A couple of times he pulled over to check the boot, make sure he hadn’t come back like Lazarus.
He humped him all the way down the hill from the barn at the top, down to the pond. In the early morning mist, visibility was down to twenty yards. The dew clung to his clothes and sparkled like diamonds. He wrapped him up and weighed him down. Smoked a last cigarette in his company and then heaved him into the black water. The font of all his dark obsessions gone, he wondered if he’d ever be free.
A couple of hours later, in the countryside not far from where he was born, he followed a footpath for a short distance, until he came to a fence with a stile. Crossing over the top, he veered immediately to his right, into a row of bushes at the top of a deep ditch, exactly five paces from the style. Lighting a smoke, he inhaled deeply, and then used the lighter to locate the protruding head of a tent guy pin pushed deep into the ground. He withdrew it and with it dug out a buried biscuit tin. The metal had started rusting, but the plastic sandwich box within was intact. The waterproof container held the only tickets he needed to start a new life, a new passport and driving licence, a razor for shaving his head and a blonde moustache. Peeling the lid off, the orange glow of his cigarette tip revealed other contents. His fingers found five slim bundles of fifty-pound notes and lingered over a well-wrapped gramme of heroin. He thought about his head and grinned as far as his lips would allow. Another drag revealed something else in there, too. Forty cigarettes, he’d thought of everything.
Chapter 149
Eilise struck the intruder with such force it opened up a gash in the back of his head, which bled profusely. When they checked the blood against the national database, the DNA wasn’t a match for that previously left by the Gasman. Tanner immediately thought there was a copycat on the loose. He thought about Kennedy. It was a significant piece of evidence, but not conclusive. He still might have a copycat on his hands. When Kennedy dropped off the face of the earth, and with everything else stacked against him, it seemed his guilt was assured. Yet something niggled at Tanner; he’d never really believed it was Kennedy enough to take it further. He didn’t report the case to his superiors.
Half an hour later, a contact of his in the Forensic Science service called him.
‘We’ve got a match for that sample. It’s a match for DNA recovered from a rape, which took place in Cornwall in 1991. It’s quite incredible really as we’ve only just reviewed that particular evidence using the new technology—’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘No, it’s unidentified.’
‘I’ve got to go. Ping me an email with the details you do have.’
Tanner was in a contemplative mood; he pondered on how Kennedy’s fate had been hastened and sealed by wrong assumptions and bad decisions. If he hadn’t allowed the blind desire for Theresa and the resentment of Kennedy to get in the way, he might have handled things differently. Although he knew self recrimination would make no difference, he couldn’t shake its heavy mantle from his shoulders.