Death of a Murderer Read Free Page A

Not that some of them hadn’t tried, apparently. One tabloid journalist had offered a nurse several thousand pounds in cash if she would smuggle him into the mortuary. They were after trophies, of course—a photograph of the corpse, a ring, a lock of hair. They wanted some kind of physical contact with the famous child-killer. They wanted to sense the power, the horror. They wanted a direct line to the unknown.
    As Billy stepped out of his car, his foot caught in something and he looked down. The remains of a home-made placard lay on the ground, and though the soggy cardboard had dirt and tyre-tracks on it, the message was still legible. burn in hell.
    Locking his car, he straightened his uniform and then began to walk towards the hospital entrance. Faces swung in his direction as he approached. Microphones appeared. A TV camera was pointed at him, its tiny red light glowing. At that moment his mobile bleeped, telling him that he’d just received a text. It was from Sue.
Please come home billy.
The fact that she’d used his name meant her anger had died down, but there was still nothing he could do. He switched the mobile off and slid it into his pocket. Ignoring the questions he was being asked, he pushed through the crowd. He didn’t open his mouth at all except to say “Excuse me.” One scrawny man in a parka took hold of his arm, but quickly let go of it again when Billy turned and stared at him.
    On entering reception, Billy saw Phil Shaw talking to a woman in a pale-grey suit. Phil was wearing a suit as well, navy-blue, with a white shirt and a purple tie. There were dark smears under his eyes, and his skin looked blotchy, porous.
    “You have any trouble out there, Billy?” Phil said.
    “No, not really.”
    “People seem to be behaving themselves—so far…”
    Phil introduced him to the woman. Her name was Eileen Evans, and she worked for the hospital as an operations manager. If for some reason Phil was called away, she would be available to deal with any problems or enquiries. Billy felt Eileen’s cool grey eyes move evenly across his face.
    A pass had been organised for Billy’s car, and he went outside and placed it in his windscreen. When he returned, Phil nodded at the constable on duty by the main entrance, then put a hand against the small of Billy’s back and steered him down a long, bright corridor. They passed a snack bar, then a lift. The walls were white, with just a tinge of pink to them. Sometimes there was a row of plastic chairs. The air seemed taut, almost rigid, as if the entire hospital had taken a breath in the early hours of Friday morning and was still holding it.
    A garden appeared on Billy’s left. Built in an internal courtyard, Oriental in style, it had a pond with a miniature stone temple and a red wooden bridge. He wondered what Harry Parsons would make of it. Harry was a retired plumber who worked on the allotments behind Billy’s house. If Billy ever found himself at a loose end, he would go and see whether Harry was around. They’d talk about rainfall or the absence of skylarks or what a disaster the railways were—anything, really. Emma called him “Parsons.” “Morning, Parsons,” she would say, and he would tip the brim of his flat cap.
    “You been keeping well?” Phil said.
    “Fine thanks, sarge.”
    “Sue all right?”
    “She’s fine.” Billy paused. “The winter always gets her down a bit.”
    Phil nodded, as if he, too, found winter difficult. “And your little girl? How’s your little girl?”
    “She’s eight now.”
    “Is she really?”
    “It’s still hard work, though. We have to watch her all the time.”
    Phil nodded, his eyes on the ground. “Sorry about the seven-to-seven, Billy,” he said. “There wasn’t anyone else I could call on, not just at the moment.”
    “That’s OK.”
    Or it would have been, Billy thought, if only Sue had let him have his nap. After their argument at lunchtime, he had gone back upstairs, hoping to get