The Yeare's Midnight (2 page)

The bathroom light clicked on. He heard the sudden, brisk rush of the shower. A very bad sign. She had taken a shower before she went out. ‘Why would she have two showers in a night?’ His thoughts were spiralling and they kept spinning back to the same sharp, uncomfortable point. Underwood tried to block the thought from his head. He would not allow himself to think like that.
Two
plus
two
does
not
equal
six.
Do
not
pass
go.
Do
not
collect
two
hundred
pounds.

The shower stopped. Julia opened the bedroom door, ever so quietly. She fumbled for her nightdress at the foot of the bed and cursed softly. Underwood could smell wine. He tried to breathe in and out with studied regularity. The bed creaked slightly as Julia slipped under the duvet. Then she lay, still as a corpse, until she was convinced that Underwood’s breathing pattern was authentic. Satisfied, she finally let her body relax. Underwood’s stomach had curled into a tight ball of frustration. His wife was playing games with him. And she smelled like a stranger. He was thirsty again but knew that reaching for his can would rupture his tactical advantage. Instead, he half-opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on the random collisions of raindrops against the black glass.

Breakfast was strained. Underwood savoured the bitterness of an instant coffee. Julia hid behind the
Telegraph.
He knew it was just a matter of time now. The clock was ticking on their marriage. What would he do then? He felt like a wounded animal: he wanted to crawl away and embrace the comfort of oblivion. The idea seemed increasingly appealing.

‘So when did you get in last night?’ He tried to make his opening salvo breezy. There was a brief pause. He sensed his wife collecting her thoughts behind the newspaper.

‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Quite late. Maybe half-one, two o’clock.’ That was clever; use a small admission of guilt to mask the bigger lie. Give the interviewer what he thinks he wants to hear and defuse the situation. Smart. He’d heard it a thousand times before, from more accomplished liars than his wife. Still, he had to concede that she was getting more adept by the day and this had been going on for weeks.

‘Hmmm … late one. You must be knackered. Where did you get to?’

‘Madeleine and I went to the Haydn recital at St Peter’s: the Bellini Piano Trio. We had dinner at Marco’s at ten and then went for a bottle of wine at her place.’ Julia lowered the paper and looked straight at him. ‘We both got drunk and fell asleep in the living room.’

It was undeniably plausible. Madeleine certainly liked a drink. Julia’s deliberate eye contact was calculated to convey sincerity. The sequence of events was a bit too ordered, though. It reminded Underwood of the well-thought-out, unrealistically symmetrical alibis offered by novice criminals. He hoped he was wrong. In the terrible chaos of life, he knew that guilt usually cowered in the details.

‘What did you have for dinner?’

The phone rang. Julia jumped slightly.

‘Fusilli Alfredo.’

Had she answered too quickly? Underwood’s train of thought had been derailed. He stood up. Julia seemed to breathe a silent sigh of relief. He was aware of her gaze trailing him across the kitchen, like that of a nervous cat tensing itself in anticipation of an attack. Acid fizzed in Underwood’s stomach. He picked up the receiver.

‘Double six two four.’

‘Sir, it’s Dexter.’ DS Alison Dexter had a sharp, loud London accent. Underwood winced slightly. Bad news coming.

‘Morning, Dex. What’s up?’

‘Shit start to the day, sir. We’ve got a stiff.’

Underwood was too tired to make the obvious joke. Besides, he knew that you didn’t flirt with DS Alison Dexter; it was like falling into a thorn bush. In any case, a flirty joke with his assistant would have ceded some of the moral high ground to Julia and he wasn’t prepared to do that. This was the endgame of their marriage. Tactics were all that remained.

‘Male or female?’

‘Female. Mid-twenties.’

‘Sex thing?’

‘Not sure yet.’ She paused. ‘You should come quickly, sir. I think it’s that Harrington girl.’

‘The swimmer?’ Underwood groaned inwardly. He had read the papers. New Bolden’s local heroine was fast becoming a national celebrity. This was going to be a nightmare.

‘Yeah. Someone really messed her up.’

‘OK, Dex. Seal the place off. Get Forensic out there. The press will be all over this like shit on a bed sheet. Try and keep a lid on it.’

‘That’s going to be difficult, sir. They’re already here.’

Underwood took down the address and grabbed the heavy blue jacket that he wore for work. He downed the remains of his coffee and turned to face Julia. She still hid behind the
Telegraph,
wide-eyed, not reading.

‘Three-seventeen,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Me too.’

She watched him leave. A bitter tide of guilt and frustration
surged within her. She no longer had the energy to swim against it. Julia Underwood was exhausted.

Hartfield Road snaked out of the richer suburbs of New Bolden into Cambridgeshire’s cheerless flat countryside. A cold mist hung over the Fens. Underwood drove north towards Ely, trying to block the previous night from his thoughts. His chest felt tight. The damp didn’t help.

The journey to Fawley Close took him ten minutes. The four old cottages nestled at the southern edge of Fawley Woods. Previously occupied by farmworkers, a forward-thinking landlord had renovated the cottages a few years previously. They had been sold to young couples; mainly office professionals and teachers who worked in New Bolden or Cambridge. Lucy Harrington with her lottery grant cheque had been a recent arrival.

A police squad car blocked the entrance to the cul-de-sac, its blue lights twirling hypnotically. A few spectators had gathered nearby. Underwood parked on the main road. He could see DS Dexter outside one of the cottages; her dark hair was severely cropped. She seemed to bristle with authority. Dexter dealt in certainties. Underwood envied her.

The unforgiving air slashed at his lungs as he approached. There were puddles and, at the roadside, leaves crushed brown with mud that softened underfoot. Underwood coughed painfully as he approached.

‘Sounds nasty, sir.’ Dexter’s bright green eyes were watery with the cold.

‘It is, I’m getting old.’

‘You already are old.’

Underwood appreciated the joke despite his discomfort. Maybe it was an intimacy. ‘Thank you, sergeant. What have we got, then?’

‘A mess. A journalist at the
New
Bolden
Echo
got a call at
7.30 this morning. Man’s voice told him that Lucy Harrington was dead and gave him this address. Journo called our duty sergeant.’

‘Did the guy have an accent?’

‘Nothing obvious. The journo’s over there if you want to speak to him.’

‘I’ll see him later. What else?’

‘We got here after eight. Her car’s in the drive.’ She gestured at Harrington’s Fiat. ‘Tried the door and called her phone. No reply. So we went in.’

‘Any signs of a forced entry?’

‘None. Apart from ours, of course. New Bolden CID – interior devastators.’

Underwood smiled. Dex was a live wire. The Met had been right about her. She continued, encouraged: ‘Inside is horrendous. The body is in the bathroom. Forensic are up there now. There’s blood everywhere. It looks like a slaughterhouse. The killer left the bath taps running, so the whole place is awash. Upstairs is flooded. Getting decent forensic evidence is going to be a nightmare.’

‘Clever if he meant it.’ said Underwood thoughtfully. Dexter seemed uneasy.

‘There’s something else, sir.’

Ten
miles
away.
A
small
terraced
house.
There
are
flowerpots
outside
but
the
flowers
are
withered
and
dead.
The
curtains
are
drawn
for
privacy,
respect
and
celebration.
Crowan
Frayne
sits
on
the
patterned
carpet
in
the
living
room.
He
sits
cross-legged
like
a
child.
There
is
a
plaster
under
his
left
eye.
He
still
has
blood
under
his
fingernails.
He
will
need
another
bath.
He
is
tired
but
quietly
triumphant.

In
front
of
him
is
a
photograph
of
an
old
woman.
She
is
smiling.
Her
band
rests
on
the
shoulder
of
a
small
boy
who 
might
be
Crowan
Frayne.
Next
to
the
photo
frame
is
an
African
violet.
Its
flowers
are
richly
coloured.
He
has
nurtured
it.
Some
of
the
flowers
have
fallen.
There
are
violet
petals
on
the
carpet.

From
his
inside
coat
pocket,
Frayne
takes
a
small,
polished
wooden
box.
There
are
small
brass
letters
screwed
onto
the
lid.
They
spell
out
‘V.
A.
Frayne.’
He
places
the
box
carefully
on
the
carpet.
Slowly,
and
with
curious
respect,
he
opens
the
box.
It
has
a
purple
silk
lining.
It
holds
Lucy
Harrington’s
left
eyeball.
There
are
two
remaining
spaces
in
the
box.
Frayne
is
satisfied.
The
back
and
sides
of
the
eyeball
are
damaged.
His
forceps
have
gouged
unsightly
scars
on
each
side.
An
occupational
hazard.
His
first
operation.
Next
time
will
be
tidier.

He
closes
his
eyes.
He
is
on
the
desert
planet
where
he
likes
to
hide.
Sand
is
all
around
him,
sand
and
mountains,
rocks
and
sky.
The
sand
is
black
and
the
mountains
have
eyes:
the
rocks
talk
when
the
sky
replies.
Ahead
of
him,
lying
on
the
sand,
is
a
giant
mathematical
compass.
Its
pointed
steel
legs
glitter
though
there
is
no
sun.
He
climbs
over
the
compass
and
walks
to
the
giant
flea
that
winks
within
him.
It
is
as
high
as
a
building,
purpled
and
turgid
with
the
blood
of
a
billion
innocents.
The
flea
belches
blood.

‘
Marke
me,’
says
the
flea.

The
flea
jumps
over
a
giant
grand
piano
that
changes
colours
like
the
sand.
The
piano
stool
is
two
metres
high.
Frayne
climbs
up
and
stands
on
the
white
keys
that
soften
like
glue.
The
lid
is
heavy,
so
heavy,
like
lifting
an
ocean.
Eventually
he
moves
it
and
looks
inside.
A
billion
souls,
stretched
and
screaming,
sing
their
agony
and
absurdity
back
at
him.
The
lid
smashes
shut.

He
is
back
in
his
living
room,
Lucy
Harrington’s
eye
in
his
hand.
He
licks
its
smooth
surface
as
if
it
were
a
highly
polished
jewel.