Someone Else's Skin (37 page)

For this familiar house to have a different ending.

Ahead of her, lights went on, sending shadows running for the walls.

They’d found the women. Toby Graves was talking in the sitting room. A low, professional patois. Appeasing.

Marnie moved to the doorway, looking into the room.

Hope Proctor and Simone Bissell were huddled together on the floor, so close it was hard to tell where one woman ended and the other began. There was blood, but not as much as Marnie had feared. She stayed long enough to be sure both of them were alive, then followed the PSU team to the front of the house.

‘Simone . . .’ The echo of a shout, ragged, from the ground-floor bathroom.

Marnie beat the PSU to it, punching her fist at the light switch outside the door, tripping over the suitcase by the bath, ending on her knees at Noah’s side.

‘Noah . . .’ She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

His hands were over his head, tied to the steel underside of the sink with blue rope. He’d flayed the skin at his wrists, trying to get free. More rope tied his ankles. His feet were bare. Sweat glazed his face, and his breathing was tortured. She turned her head and shouted into the hall: ‘I need help in here!’

Noah shuddered, blinking wet from his eyes, trying to get a fix on her face. She was near enough to feel the wave of relief that went through him.

‘Where’re you hurt, and how badly?’

‘Simone . . .’ He spoke in gasps. ‘Where’s . . . Simone?’

‘She’s safe.’ His pulse was thready, fretful under her fingers. His skin was clammy, cold. ‘Tell me how bad it is.’

‘Ribs . . . broken.’

She glanced down his front, her eye catching the dull gleam of a kettlebell placed two feet from him on the tiled floor. She stripped off her jacket and laid it over his chest, grabbing a handful of towels from a rail and covering him before curling a careful hand to the side of his face. ‘Okay, it’s going to be okay. Ambulance’s here. You’re okay now.’

‘Hope . . .’

She waited to see what he’d say, but the words died in his throat. ‘Noah, I need you to stay awake.
Noah
.’

‘Yes . . .’ He unstuck his eyes obediently. Blinked at the ceiling.

A fuss of noise in the hall. Marnie moved aside for a female paramedic. ‘Broken ribs and he’s dehydrated.’

The woman nodded at her, crouching by Noah’s side, checking his vital signs.

Marnie sat on the edge of the bath, feeling like a fifth wheel. What was happening in the next room, with Hope and Simone? She didn’t move from the bath; she wanted to be able to tell Dan Noys that she’d stayed with Noah, the whole time.

‘How were these ribs broken?’ the paramedic asked.

‘Kettlebell—’ Noah jumped under her touch, the word bitten short.

‘Sorry.’ The medic moved her hands more cautiously over his chest.

He gave a vague nod, his eyes stuttering shut until he remembered to open them again, moving his gaze feverishly across the ceiling.

A second paramedic was in the doorway. There wasn’t enough room for three bodies in the bathroom. Marnie stood up, light-headed for a second. She moved aside to make way for the people who could help Noah.

Standing in the doorway, keeping watch, she heard voices again, from the sitting room. Toby Graves, asking questions.

Paramedics had separated Simone and Hope; she could hear the overlap of the medics’ voices as they treated the damage she’d yet to see. Even at this distance, Ed’s silence was a comfort. Marnie leaned into it instinctively, wondering which – if either – of the women in the other room was doing the same.

Outside, on the gravelled drive of the house, she called the number in Westbourne Grove. ‘It’s Marnie Rome. He’s here. We think he’s going to be okay. We’re taking him to St George’s Hospital, in Tooting.’

‘I’ll be there.’ The relief in Dan Noys’ voice was sharp, staggering. ‘Thanks.’

An ambulance took Noah Jake to St George’s. Paramedics would follow with Hope and Simone in separate cars. Ed had elected to go with Simone. Marnie and Toby Graves intended to go with Hope.

A paramedic held Hope’s left arm elevated, for a defensive stab wound. There was a matching wound on her right arm, not as deep but still serious. She would need stitches, and possibly a blood transfusion.

The Bissells would need a new sitting room carpet.

The paramedics were still washing the blood from Simone, but so far they’d found no cuts on her. One of the PSU team had bagged a kitchen knife at the scene. After taking it from Simone’s hand.

Hope kept saying, ‘It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault.’ She was crying as she said it.

Simone wasn’t saying anything, dry-eyed, her gaze going beyond Hope. Beyond everyone. Whatever she’d witnessed, whatever happened here, she wasn’t capable of telling.

Too late
, Marnie thought again.

In front of Graves and the others, Marnie spoke the words she should’ve spoken days ago, at the women’s refuge in Finchley: ‘Hope Proctor, I’m arresting you for the assault and attempted murder of Leo Proctor.’ She paused, looking straight into the woman’s wet blue eyes. ‘And for causing grievous bodily harm with intent to Noah Jake.’

Hope wept until her shoulders shook. To Simone, Marnie said gently, ‘I have to caution you, until we know what happened.’

The PSU officers were watching her. She could hear Welland’s voice in her ear, speaking of past mistakes. ‘Do you understand?’ she asked Simone.

Simone looked straight through her, to the wall behind.

Marnie recited the caution, then turned to Ed. ‘Stay with her, will you?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

DC Abby Pike joined them at St George’s. Marnie briefed her on the charges against Hope. ‘Make sure you stay with her. And handcuff her, as soon as the doctors say it’s acceptable to do so.’

Abby nodded. ‘How’s Noah?’

‘They took him into surgery. Unless they find internal bleeding, his chances are good. Great, even.’

Marnie left Abby with Hope, going through the hospital’s reception to the main entrance to wait for Daniel Noys.

The sun was struggling up, shining from the roofs and windscreens of cars. It had rained at some point in the night; the tarmac held skinny pockets of shimmering water. Too early for the sun to offer any warmth, but she turned her face towards it anyway, towards the pale orange push at the horizon.

She knotted her hair blindly, wondering if the night’s excitement had written itself all over her face, the way the stab vest had left welts in the front of her shirt.

She listened to the sound of the hospital at her back, the buzz of bodies moving, the sound-confetti of doors shoving open, swinging shut.

After a minute, she took out her phone and rang Paul Bruton, at Sommerville, listening to what he had to say, holding his words at a distance from her new mood.

31

A flat slant of light lay over Noah Jake. He was conscious of its angle and heat on his face, but he couldn’t open his eyes to identify its source. There was a pressure on his eyelids, like a blindfold. Drugs? Drugs.

Every inch of his chest felt raw. Surgical stitches, each one a separate and distinct pain, pulled at the skin over his ribs. His temples burned. He stayed still, breathing through his nose, wary of deep breaths, knowing his ribs were broken. He’d better be awake, for DI Rome. She needed a statement.

‘Hey.’

Dan? Dan.

Noah hoped his smile made it past the drugs, on to his mouth. ‘Hey . . .’

Dan leaned his forehead to Noah’s, staying that way until Noah could feel the beat of Dan’s heart against his shoulder. He missed the next words. Felt them as breath against the bridge of his nose, the brush of lips. ‘What? Dan. I can’t . . .’

Dan’s kiss was bitter black coffee, tasting of sleepless nights and stress.

‘Sorry . . . Ruined . . . your plans. For Friday night.’

‘For a whole month of Fridays,’ Dan said. ‘Unless the doctor can recommend a good position for broken ribs.’

‘Not . . . on the NHS.’

Dan pressed the ball of his thumb to Noah’s brow bone. ‘Damn . . . You do know you nearly killed me.’

‘Said . . . sorry.’ He wanted to reach up and thread his fingers through Dan’s fringe, pull him close. He settled for turning his head to kiss the inside of Dan’s wrist. They stayed like that, a long time.

‘Time’s up,’ Dan said, at last.

‘What?’

‘They gave me five minutes. Time’s up. You need a lot of bed rest.’

‘Rather do . . . tequila body-shots.’

‘Hold that thought.’

‘You too . . .’

Noah moved his hand for Dan’s, then realised he was already holding it, weightless, the same body temperature as his own.

32

Hope Proctor sat behind one-way glass, her mouth lush with silence. An alibi of bruises on her body, and now these cuts, deep, on her arms.

Victim, written right through her.

She’d lied to Toby Graves, and to Ed Belloc. In a minute, she would begin lying to Marnie Rome. She lied fluently, with her whole body. Her heart-shaped face lied, and her blue eyes. The bloody, bandaged mess of her arms and the thin stoop of her shoulders lied. The tears she could turn on at will, as if grief was a faucet.

Kenneth Reece would have been proud of his tough nut.

His survivor.

Ed was waiting up for Marnie, wearing the clothes he’d worn to the hospital, his shirt cuffs rusty with the blood from Simone’s hands. Marnie wondered if she looked as bone tired as he did. They went through to Ed’s living room, with its welcome chaos of books and CDs, the place she’d come to associate with peace and quiet.

‘Coffee?’ Ed offered. ‘Or I’ve got Peroni.’

‘Peroni sounds good.’

Ed brought two bottles and a bottle-opener, snapping the caps and handing a beer to Marnie. She tapped its neck to his bottle. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Ed perched on the arm of the sofa, five feet from her.

‘Seriously?’ she said, gesturing at the distance between them. ‘Only I could use a shoulder. Not to cry on, just . . . to mark my place.’

Ed scooched over.

‘Better.’ She leaned into him, gratefully.

They drank in silence. Until she said, ‘So, the girl who raped Stephen? Slit her wrists. She’s okay, they found her in time, but she’s on suicide watch. Bruton says Stephen hadn’t been near her since the assault.’ She drank another mouthful, the lager crisp on her tongue. ‘Bruton didn’t sound convinced.’

‘How about you?’ Ed asked.

‘Am I convinced? I don’t have enough relevant information to make an informed judgement.’ She tipped her bottle to his. ‘Spoken like a proper detective, see? I can still do it, when I have to.’

‘Will you go and see him?’

‘In a few days, perhaps.’ She’d lost the nagging edge of urgency about Stephen. ‘There’s no rush. He’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.’

Ed propped his head on his hand. ‘Can I ask what’s going to happen to Simone?’

‘I don’t know, not yet. She isn’t talking, and neither is Hope.’ Marnie thumbed the neck of the Peroni. ‘We were too late, Ed.
I
was too late. Again.’

‘Not too late for Noah.’

‘Too late to know what happened in there. With Hope and Simone.’

‘Simone will get better,’ Ed said. ‘It might take a while, but she’ll get better. She’ll tell you what happened. You weren’t too late. Noah’s alive. And Simone.’

Marnie rested her head on his shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t too late, for Stephen. Her parents had wanted to rescue him. Maybe that was what she should be trying to do – honour their memory by honouring that hope. Optimism.

‘Rome . . .’

‘Mmm?’

‘You can stay, you know. I have a bed.’

‘I thought we were on the bed.’

‘Another one,’ Ed said. ‘Cleaner. And bigger.’

‘In that case, yes please.’

In the half-dark of his bedroom, she stripped and stood under the light.

Ed’s eyes moved down her body, reading.

‘Wow. Rome.’

‘You can touch,’ she said, keeping still.

He took her face in his hands, carefully, and kissed the skin under her eyes, then the skin at the edges of her mouth, and finally, warmly, her mouth.

33

‘It was my fault,’ Noah said. ‘I told Simone to get the knife. I called her Nasiche.’

Marnie sat by his hospital bed, knotting her hair. ‘I was going to talk to you about guilt. But I got a really good night’s sleep, so I’m shelving the lecture for another time.’

Not just sleep, Noah guessed. She was lit up inside.

‘Simone was bringing the knife to cut me free,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what Hope did, to end up like that. Simone said Hope wanted her to cut her.’

‘Hope wanted Simone to cut her?’ Marnie frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘That’s what she said. I told her Hope needed help. I told her to get the knife, to cut me free. I don’t know what Hope did . . . I couldn’t see what was happening.’

‘You didn’t hear anything?’

‘I heard . . . screaming . . .’

Marnie watched his face. ‘What kind of screaming? Fear, or anger?’

‘Both. They were . . . both screaming. Scared and angry.’ He shifted against the pillows, wincing. ‘I couldn’t see what was happening.’

The pain was worse this morning. He knew it meant he was mending, but it got in the way of understanding what Marnie had said. She’d told him about Leo, the yellow roses brought to the refuge because Hope knew what they’d trigger in Simone. Kenneth Reece’s careless attitude to his daughter’s psychosis, his drinking, his contempt . . .

From the adjoining room, the low chatter of the hospital radio ratted at Noah’s concentration. He tried to block it out, so that he could focus on what mattered. ‘Simone attacked Hope. That’s what happened?’

‘That’s how it looks. Simone won’t speak to anyone, not even Ed. I don’t trust a word coming out of Hope. No independent witnesses, but Hope’s the one with the defensive wounds. Simone doesn’t have any physical injuries.’

‘She said . . . Hope wanted to be cut, that she wanted Simone to cut her.’ Noah fingered the bandaging at his wrists. ‘Have you seen her scars?’