Open Your Eyes Page 4

  She wore her hair in its natural grey – short, tidy, pushed neatly behind her ears – and aside from that, the only real telltale signs of ageing were the two heavy bags sitting beneath her eyes. They spoke of cumulative late nights, of ploughing through case files, of a dedicated police life.

  ‘What happened this afternoon,’ Inspector Ledecky said, when still I hadn’t spoken, ‘was incredibly traumatic. I’d wager that this is probably the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to you?’

  I nodded. Each time I thought about it I felt as if I’d walked into a plate-glass window.

  ‘With that in mind then,’ she went on, ‘I want you to know there are no rights and wrongs here.’ Her voice was low and level. ‘I know you’re traumatized, but this is a safe space in which you’re free to talk. You’re certainly not being judged as to how good a witness you are. For the moment, I’m simply here for support. Anything you can tell me as to—’

  ‘I’m scared Leon won’t get through this,’ I blurted.

  I’d been holding this inside since arriving at the hospital, unable to voice my fear in front of Gloria, Juliana, Meredith.

  ‘How is Leon doing?’ Inspector Ledecky asked. ‘Do we know if he’s stable yet?’

  ‘He’s alive, but only just. That’s all we’ve been told.’

  ‘It’s an induced coma, as I understand it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Any indication of when they’ll bring him out of it?’

  ‘They didn’t say. They don’t want to say much really. I suppose they don’t want to get our hopes up. His mother is with him. She sent me home to see to the children. I really didn’t want to leave him but … the kids … I had to come back and I’m scared to be alone here,’ I told her, panicked. ‘What if … what if the person who did this comes back? What if he comes back and hurts the kids?’

  I’d been asked if there was anywhere else I could go. Anywhere I’d prefer to spend the night. But I’d shaken my head numbly at the time because I hadn’t been able to think through what spending a night here, alone with the children, would actually mean. I hadn’t considered how utterly vulnerable I was.

  ‘I can’t talk you out of worrying about your husband,’ Inspector Ledecky said. ‘But I can offer you complete assurance that there is nobody outside your house tonight. We have a uniformed officer at the front. You and your children are very safe.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’ I said. ‘What about the night after that?’ I started to shake. ‘I can’t just go on as if nothing’s happened.’

  ‘Let’s worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ she replied gently. ‘For now, tell me more about Leon.’

  I tried to get control of my breathing.

  ‘Tell me about the two of you,’ she coaxed.

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘Anything. Anything at all. What’s your marriage like?’

  ‘It’s good … we’re happy. We like being together.’

  ‘No small feat,’ she said. ‘Is it always like that between the two of you?’

  ‘Mostly. But we’ve been together a long time, and we have Jack and Martha to take care of, so it’s never going to be all hearts and flowers … Leon’s job can be stressful sometimes, so sure, there are days when we probably both want to kill each other, but we’re united. We’re strong together. We really love each other, you know?’

  She nodded as though she did, and this made me tearful again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not really sure what else you want me to say.’

  ‘Tell me about the small stuff,’ she said. ‘Whatever pops into your mind. It’s good for me to get an idea of who Leon is … Often, as investigations progress, there isn’t time to talk about the details, to gather the facts that make up a person … How about you start by telling me how you met?’ She fixed me with a well-meaning smile.

  I told her I met Leon eight years ago through Frankie Ridonikis. I was thirty-one at the time. ‘If you’re a reader,’ I said to her, ‘you might have heard of Frankie,’ because he too had made a good career from writing novels.

  ‘I’d gone to a book signing,’ I told her, ‘a joint book signing between Frankie and Leon, but because Frankie’s queue snaked out the door and along the street, I ended up chatting with Leon.

  ‘Anyway, that’s where it started,’ I said. ‘I think part of the reason I fell for Leon originally was because I wanted to be a writer so badly myself.’

  ‘That still the case?’ she asked.

  ‘Up until today, yeah. Hardly seems relevant now though.’

  I glanced towards the back door. It was around nine and the last of the day’s sun was fading. Moths and midges circled the outside lamp.

  Fear rose up again as the image of Leon with a nail gun held to his head flashed into my brain.

  Suddenly, I heard a noise from somewhere inside the house. ‘Can you hear crying?’ I asked the detective.

  She craned her ear in the direction of the hallway. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I stood. We both waited, listened. I took a mouthful of water from the glass on the table. It was over-chlorinated, and it burned the back of my throat.

  Then there was a bang. And a wail.

  DI Ledecky said, ‘That, I heard.’

  Martha’s room got the evening sun and so I’d put her to bed earlier in just a vest and nappy. Now, when I reached the top of the stairs, I could hear her sobbing softly. She’d climbed out of her crib and was sitting, her back up against it, her small legs straight out in front of her. She held her nappy in her hands. She did this sometimes. Took the nappy off in her sleep, and then woke when her bed was wet. Her skin would be chilled and clammy like freshly dug clay.

  ‘Hey, baby, let’s get you sorted out.’

  She was almost three so I was trying to wean her off the milk before bed. Then we could do away with nappies entirely and we wouldn’t have this problem. Martha didn’t want to wear the nappies, but she didn’t want to give the milk up either. ‘A bottle,’ she said, hiccuping with tears.

  On another night, I would have stood firm. I’d have said, ‘We’re done with all that, sweetheart. You’re a big girl now,’ but as I carried her into the bathroom, wiping her down with a clean wash cloth, I whispered, ‘Won’t be a minute and Mummy’ll fetch your milk.’

  Back in the bedroom, she was already limp with sleep. I pulled the curtain aside slightly, checking outside for any signs of movement, anything lurking in the shadows. Was he out there? Whoever he was, was he out there, watching, waiting? Was he waiting for Leon to come home so he could finish what he’d failed to do on the first attempt?

  I changed Martha’s sheets. She rested on her tummy on the rug, her knees tucked under her, her tiny bottom stuck up in the air. She looked like a snail. She was so small. So unprotected. I dressed her in a onesie (harder to get the nappy off again) and lifted her, thinking that the milk probably wouldn’t be necessary now, when she murmured, ‘Bottle … bottle,’ and began to whimper. It was the kind of whimper that could go either way, so I bundled up the bedding and told her I’d be back.

  Downstairs, I threw the sheets into the machine and poured out a few ounces of full fat milk into a bottle. Then I set the microwave for fifteen seconds.

  ‘Have you got kids?’ I asked Inspector Ledecky as I watched the numbers count down.

  ‘A daughter.’

  ‘Close by?’

  ‘Woolton,’ she said. ‘She married a footballer.’

  ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘He plays for Tranmere, so probably not.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Probably not.’

  I returned to Martha’s room and pushed the teat gently into her mouth while guiding her hand around the bottle. She gave three half-hearted sucks before her mouth went slack and she turned her head away. A fine line of milk ran from her lips down on to the pillow. I removed the bottle, kissed her on her tummy, and pulled the door closed. Please sleep through, I willed. Please. Just tonight. Sleep through,
sweetheart.

  Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn’t.

  The children hadn’t asked where Leon was when I returned home from the hospital. It was as if the events of earlier had been wiped clean from their memories and by the time I got in Jack was bursting to tell me what they’d been doing with my friend and neighbour Erica all day. ‘We made bread!’ he announced proudly.

  Erica said, ‘Play dough. But we pretended it was bread. It’s wrapped in cling film if they want to play with it again tomorrow.’

  That’s when I told her Leon had been shot in the head and Erica’s hand flew to her mouth and she made a sound as if she’d been bitten.

  ‘What did they tell you?’ she said. ‘Who did it to him? Christ, that means whoever did it is …’ and her words trailed off as she thought about her own family’s safety.

  This was Liverpool, yes. People occasionally got shot in some gang-related matter. But not in this area. Not on our street.

  Erica grabbed her bag. She was a big-boned woman of fifty-four with a shelf-like bosom and square hips. Usually, she was unflappable. Usually, her easy approach to life had a calming effect on those around her, but right now, she started to ramble.

  ‘They had beans on toast for lunch. Hope that’s OK. I knocked up some macaroni cheese for tea. Tried my best to get some broccoli into them …’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘I was glad to do it,’ she said quickly. ‘Now, do you need anything else before I leave? Have you eaten? I made extra pasta just in case … Jesus, I can’t believe he’s been shot … I can’t believe that could happen. Here. Of all places.’

  She kissed me on the forehead and when she’d left I could smell the scent of her perfume lingering on my clothes.

  Detective Inspector Ledecky gestured to the kitchen window. ‘Your cat wants to come in.’

  Bonita was there, attempting to meow, but she had a huge Magnum P.I. mouse moustache and couldn’t generate sound.

  ‘She a keen mouser?’ Inspector Ledecky asked, and I wondered if this was a genuine enquiry or just a veiled attempt to keep me calm and focused on the ordinary.

  ‘She kills everything,’ I said. ‘Not just mice. Chicks, frogs, moles. It’s because she’s a rescue.’

  DI Ledecky raised her eyebrows as if to say why would that matter.

  ‘At her last home she had three sets of kittens back-to-back, which stunted her growth,’ I explained. ‘Well, that, and the fact that they never fed her. She came to us half-starved.’

  I reeled off this explanation whenever Bonita came home with something she’d caught and we had company. So sad. So full of neglect. Whether her previous life accounted for all of the killing she did, I wasn’t sure. I think it may have been simply in her. She was a small killing machine and if she didn’t get her fix she’d stand on the kitchen windowsill making loud, strangled-sounding mewing noises, almost clutching her little throat with her paws.

  ‘Your neighbour mentioned a cat,’ Inspector Ledecky said neutrally.

  ‘Lawrence?’ I said, taken aback, and she nodded. ‘I’m surprised he told you about that.’

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because they were arguing about her. Just before it happened. He was the last person to see Leon. Well, you already know he was the last person to see Leon, I assume.’

  Inspector Ledecky nodded again. Her expression remained impassive.

  ‘They were having cross words about Bonita and sometimes their conversations can get a little heated. Well, more than a little heated. Leon and Lawrence don’t really get on,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  I exhaled. Why does anyone not get along with their neighbours? Small things turn into big things. Things that wouldn’t ordinarily bother a person needle away until such a state of irrationality is reached, someone blows.

  ‘It’s all over nothing,’ I explained. ‘To start with, we had parking issues. Now Lawrence doesn’t like our cat going in his garden, and Leon doesn’t like Lawrence’s creepy son coming around here bothering me when I’m dealing with the kids.’

  ‘This is Glyn Williams we’re talking about?’ she said. ‘Does he live with his parents?’

  ‘No. But he’s there a lot. And creepy’s probably unfair. He’s harmless really.’

  ‘Why does he come over?’

  ‘He dabbles in a bit of short fiction. Horror, mostly. He likes to talk about it sometimes. Leon hasn’t got time for him, so I end up listening, but Glyn doesn’t always pick up on the normal social cues, and he can be pretty awkward to talk to. I’m sure Leon wouldn’t mind him as much if he wasn’t related to Lawrence.’ I was about to say more but I stopped. ‘Are you considering Lawrence a suspect?’

  ‘Right now, everyone’s a suspect. So, yes, my colleagues are with Lawrence Williams … Did you witness the entire argument between Lawrence and Leon?’

  I shook my head. ‘I came inside to get something.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Beer. Leon wanted beer. He wanted to take it to his mum’s house. It was his birthday. Is his birthday,’ I corrected.

  DI Ledecky delayed responding; she seemed to be processing her thoughts. She looked across to the stacked bookshelves which ran along the opposite wall in the dining area of the room. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘did your husband ever have problems with fans coming to the house? Anyone ever bother him at home?’

  ‘By fans, you mean readers?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Readers don’t tend to do that sort of thing … They’re generally a very well-behaved bunch. They contact Leon via his author page, via Facebook and Twitter. Most of the correspondence is nice: “Love your work”, “When’s the next book out?” That sort of thing.’

  ‘Most?’ she said.

  ‘Well, you’re always going to get the odd nutter.’

  ‘I see. But has anyone ever tried to track him down?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, and I’m sure Leon would have said if …’

  I paused.

  My thinking stuttered for a moment and Inspector Ledecky frowned a little as she waited for me to go on.

  Eventually I said, ‘Look, I really don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase with this.’

  ‘But the occasional goose pays off,’ she said.

  She was watching my face intently. Waiting for me to say more.

  The subject was something I rarely spoke about and she seemed to sense my unease. She stayed motionless. When I still didn’t answer, she relaxed her face into an expression that seemed to say, It’s OK … we’re all friends here.

  ‘There’s a guy,’ I said.

  She waited.

  ‘Sometimes he turns up at readings,’ I said. ‘Sometimes he comes to events, and, well, he can make a bit of a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘He heckles Leon?’

  ‘He has done. Though that’s since stopped. He did it once when Gloria, that’s Leon’s mother, was in the audience. She’d taken some pals along to watch him speak at the Manchester Literature Festival and the guy, Alistair Armitage, began shouting stuff from the stalls.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Accusations. Expletives … Apparently, Gloria marched over to him and insisted he stop at once. When he told her he had every right to say what he was saying, she ejected him from the theatre herself.’

  ‘Has Leon mentioned Alistair Armitage recently?’

  ‘Not that I recall. But I’m not sure if Leon would tell me even if he had turned up again. He found the whole thing rather unsavoury. It was embarrassing, distressing, and when I tried to talk to him about it, when I said perhaps we should get the police involved, he always told me no. He said if it got any worse he would do something about it himself.’

  ‘Do you think Leon did do something about it himself?’

  I thought for a moment. It was possible. Leon could be a secretive sod when he wanted to be, and, of late, he’d been more distracted, more short-temp
ered, than was usual at this stage of the book. He was on the opening. The part he usually loved to write. Once he got to thirty thousand words he would have a wobble, think every word he’d written was drivel, and would require huge amounts of persuasion to continue.

  Had Alistair Armitage been bothering him again?

  ‘My instinct says no,’ I said finally.

  ‘But you can’t be sure.’

  ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘What exactly was Mr Armitage so upset about anyway?’ Inspector Ledecky asked, by way of an afterthought.

  I swallowed more water.

  ‘He said Leon was a liar and a cheat and he accused him of stealing his book.’

  ‘A book?’ she replied, confused. ‘That doesn’t sound like something to warrant such a reaction.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not a book. His own novel,’ I explained, setting down my glass. ‘Alistair Armitage accused Leon of taking his ideas. He accused Leon of stealing his work.’

  5

  The following morning, they found the weapon.

  A DeWalt heavy-duty cordless nail gun. Later, I would look it up online and find it to be a monstrous, evil-looking piece of equipment. Something capable of inflicting a staggering amount of damage.

  It had been discarded in a privet hedge further along the street and initial analysis showed there were two sets of fingerprints on it. As well as another, partial, smeared print. I agreed to have my fingerprints taken readily, although I did tell the police it was pointless as I had never seen that gun before in my life.

  I thought about what it would take to pick up a weapon like that and aim it at someone’s head and my insides went slack.

  We were at the hospital when DI Hazel Ledecky called me with more news. My phone rang at just about the worst time as, minutes earlier, we’d been told that even though Leon was initially stable after his surgery, his brain was now beginning to swell.