The Descent (Detective Louise Blackwell) Page 31

  It was hard to ignore the irony of her mother going down the same road as Paul, but what could Louise say? Her parents had never said anything, and she couldn’t imagine they ever would, but she was sure they blamed her for not rescuing Paul. They would deny it, might not even know for sure they felt that way, but Louise didn’t have any doubts. It was the way she felt, so why shouldn’t they?

  Louise handed her father a coffee and stood by the glass door in the living room that led to her small paved garden. She waved to Emily, who was playing with numerous garden gnomes left by the previous occupant. Her niece looked up but didn’t reciprocate the gesture.

  After lunch, Louise drove them into town. They parked in the shopping centre and crossed the road on to the promenade. Now more than ever, Louise felt conspicuous in the small seaside town. She was currently on enforced leave and wouldn’t return until after Christmas. Thomas had taken over as interim inspector in her absence. Robertson had said it was to give her time to come to terms with what had happened to Paul, but Louise suspected otherwise. She was still waiting to be summoned before the chiefs and her future was unclear; the fact of Chappell’s arrest, prosecution and subsequent three life sentences was the only thing going in her favour. She’d let personal matters affect her work, and depending on who was making the decision that could be unforgivable.

  ‘Can we go on to the pier?’ said Emily.

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Louise, so pleased to see a hint of happiness on her niece’s face.

  They still didn’t know how much Emily had seen of her father’s murder but she’d been by his body when Joslyn found him. Emily had been in counselling ever since and the long-term effect was unclear. She’d been withdrawn over the last three months but that was to be expected. She was going to school and they thought she was getting on well, but Louise could see the change in her and it was the most frightening part of everything that had happened. Every time she had to read about one of Chappell’s victims, it was like seeing a glimpse of Emily’s future. With the exception of Nicole, Amy’s friend who’d been a last-minute addition to Chappell’s little group, all of the victims had been parentless or abandoned by their parents at an early age. It was a comparison Louise couldn’t yet deal with. She couldn’t contemplate Emily being an orphan for more than a few seconds without breaking down. She was her responsibility now, her only real purpose in life ironclad: to make sure her niece didn’t end up like one of Chappell’s poor victims.

  Not that they were seen as victims in all quarters. Chappell had his supporters, despite the verdict and the reopened cases both in Portugal and the UK. So much nonsense was plastered over the Internet that she’d long since stopped looking. To some, Chappell was a messiah-like figure who’d been trying to save those women; a story he’d stuck to at the trial. Louise wondered how many of his sympathisers would have felt the same way if they’d been on the pier that night, if they’d endured the smell of burning flesh.

  After Emily had exhausted herself on the rides and machines, they bought ice creams and walked to the back of the pier. It was a clear bright day, reminiscent of the glorious summer the town had experienced. The brown sea was in and lapped at the girders beneath the pier.

  Louise gazed out on the Bristol Channel, to the islands of Steep Holm and Flat Holm. To her right, she made out the remains of the old pier. The taste of smoke filled her mouth and she turned back and felt a tug at her hand.

  ‘Thank you for the ice cream, Aunty Lou,’ said Emily, slipping her gloved hand into Louise’s.

  Her mother had witnessed the exchange and turned away, her eyes full of tears.

  Louise gripped her niece’s hand, fighting her own tears. ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said. From her pocket she produced the toys she’d purchased earlier from the pier shop. Two miniature plastic soldiers, each with a parachute attached to their bodies. ‘Your daddy used to love these toys,’ she said. ‘Shall we?’

  Together they launched the toys off the end of the pier, the breeze lifting the tiny men for a time until they dropped slowly towards the muddy abyss.

  Amy’s pay was at least forty pounds short. She counted it out in front of Keith and glared at him for an explanation.

  ‘What can I tell you, Amy? Times are hard. You know as well as I do that the winter is a bad time for us,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been here every day this month. Give me what you owe,’ said Amy, but there was little conviction in her words. Keith held all the cards. As he was at pains to point out to her on a daily basis, he didn’t have to give her the job back. After the night at the pier the police had interviewed her extensively. There had been a huge possibility that she would be charged as an accessory to Jay’s crimes. Once, eventually, the possibility of charges had been dropped – the CPS reluctantly accepting that Jay had held an unnatural hold over her – Keith had agreed to give her the job back subject to a twenty-five per cent drop in her hourly wage. ‘You think you’ll get another job in this town?’ he’d said, and she’d had to concede that she wouldn’t.

  Keith stood, his fat chin thrust out in defiance. ‘If you want to come back next week, accept this and get out,’ he said.

  Amy snatched the pay packet and stepped out into the swirling wind. She was underdressed for the late autumn afternoon, her coat threadbare, her grey jogging bottoms flapping in the wind as she made her way to the high street.

  If people recognised her they didn’t say anything. It had been big news in the town and still was – the majority of the building on Birnbeck Island had been destroyed, and the case had been national news. But whereas Jay had become famous, a modern-day cult leader, Amy had soon been forgotten, as had all of Jay’s other victims.

  Amy stepped inside the discount bookstore to get warm. She was glancing at the crime and romance titles when she saw her. Nicole had her back to her. She was looking at the stationery, accompanied by her parents. Amy froze. She hadn’t seen her since the court case, and even then they hadn’t spoken – Nicole’s parents making sure of that.

  It was Nicole’s mother who spotted her first. It was like she’d seen Jay himself, her face morphing into a mixture of rage and fear as she instinctively placed her arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

  Nicole turned and Amy was so thankful that she didn’t mirror her mother’s look of distress. ‘Amy, how are you?’ she said, shrugging off the arm draped around her.

  ‘Nicole, I don’t really think—’ began her father, but Nicole cut him off.

  ‘Please wait outside. I’ll only be a few moments,’ she said. Her parents exchanged worried looks but relented, leaving Amy alone with Nicole.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. They’ve been a bit overprotective since—’

  ‘Of course, I understand.’

  ‘So how have you been keeping, Amy?’

  ‘So-so. And you? Are you back at uni?’

  ‘I’m taking a year out. They’re letting me defer until next September. I’m pretty sure my mum wouldn’t let me go even if I wanted to. I’m not sure she’ll want me to go next year,’ said Nicole, with a smile.

  Amy shook her head, her chest tight. ‘I’m so sorry I got you involved in all this,’ she said. ‘I truly am.’

  ‘Amy, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re just as much a victim as I am. I made my own choices. You didn’t introduce us, in fact you tried to keep him away from me.’

  ‘But that day, I should have made you go home.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been able to. You saw me. I was infatuated. Please don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ shouted Nicole’s dad, causing a number of shoppers to look their way.

  Nicole moved towards her and they embraced, the first proper human contact Amy had experienced since that night. ‘You look after yourself,’ said Nicole.

  ‘You too.’

  The journalist was waiting outside her block of flats. ‘Amy, how are you?’ said Tania Elliot, getting out of the car and taking off the over-lar
ge sunglasses that had shielded her heavily made-up eyes.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ said Amy.

  Tania had started bothering her a few days after the night at the pier. Initially she’d told her she was writing an article on Jay and wanted her viewpoint, but the newspaper articles had come and gone. Now she was writing a book and according to Tania, Amy was the central character.

  ‘I’ve money for you,’ said Tania, removing a wad of fresh-looking notes from her long coat like a magician creating an illusion.

  ‘I told you, I don’t want your money.’

  Amy had learnt over the last few weeks that Tania didn’t like being told no. ‘Maybe I should give this to your friend Nicole. I’m sure she would appreciate it.’

  Amy laughed. ‘You could try.’

  ‘Come on, Amy. Don’t you want people to hear your side of the story? You know what the general feeling is about you in the town.’

  ‘The general feeling?’

  ‘You know what I mean. The stories about you and Jay working together; that you recruited Nicole for his little group.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Tania, you’re one of the people who spread those rumours.’

  ‘Then let me put that straight. Let me tell the people what really happened.’

  Amy moved towards the front door. ‘I have to be perfectly honest with you, Tania. I don’t think you even care about the truth.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said the journalist, but Amy was already walking upstairs, Tania’s voice an incoherent noise echoing against the walls of the building.

  And if I’d told her my side of the story, what would she have said, thought Amy as she ate her dinner of pasta smothered in ketchup.

  Would Tania, and her audience, have liked what she had to say? That she wished she’d died that evening on the pier. That she still believed in Jay, however erratic he’d become in the last few weeks they’d been together; even after she’d discovered most of what he’d told her had been a lie. That his trip to the Amazon was fictitious. That he’d subsequently changed his name and killed his first girlfriend, and three others, in Portugal. How would that play out to Tania’s readers?

  Yes, Amy appreciated everything the brave policewoman had done for her and was so thankful that she’d saved Nicole. But she couldn’t say with any certainty that what had happened to Beatrice, Rachael and Lisa that night was a mistake. They’d wanted to move on as had Megan and the others. The method had been hideous, but it had been what they’d wanted.

  Jay had tried to explain at the trial but he was dismissed, both by the authorities and those reporting the case. It wasn’t a surprise. As he’d said, you couldn’t understand the effect of DMT – she hated to hear it being called a drug – unless you’d tried it.

  And Amy had one stash left, long ago given to her by Jay in case of emergency. Amy had hidden it at work and was glad she had, as twice the police had ransacked her place.

  She brewed the tea now, wanting to keep enough connection with her body for her to do what had to be done. She wrote two notes – one for Nicole and one for the policewoman who’d saved her life – before drinking the Ayahuasca.

  What did she have left? Jay was in prison, Nicole wasn’t allowed to speak to her, and Megan was elsewhere. But this wasn’t about them, it was about her. One way or another, everyone in her life had failed her. She could see that clearly now. She understood Jay was a charlatan, but whether by design or mistake he’d introduced to her the one precious thing she had left: a way out.

  She let the drug hit her bloodstream and moved her shaking body to the landing outside her front door. She thought about Jay and hoped he would find his own way out soon. She thought about Nicole and wished her a full and happy life.

  Finally she thought about her son, Aiden, and, closing her eyes, let herself fall.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to everyone who has helped me complete this book. My agent, Joanna Swainson, for her comments and advice; Jack Butler and everyone at Thomas & Mercer for their continued support and help in making this series the best it can be; and Russel McLean for his invaluable insights and suggestions that are always so helpful.

  Huge thanks also to everyone who has already supported the series, with a particular thanks to the wonderful readers and book bloggers who have taken the time to review it.

  Finally, thank you to all my family and friends for their continued enthusiasm and support. Special mention goes to my sister, Claire, for lending me her middle name for Louise Blackwell, and to Alison, Freya and Hamish for being my inspiration and my strongest supporters.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2019 Lisa Visser

  Following his law degree, where he developed an interest in criminal law, Matt Brolly completed his Masters in Creative Writing at Glasgow University.

  He is the bestselling author of the DCI Lambert crime novels, Dead Eyed, Dead Lucky, Dead Embers, Dead Time and Dead Water, and the Lynch and Rose thriller, The Controller. In addition he is the author of the acclaimed near-future crime novel Zero. The first novel in the Detective Louise Blackwell crime series, The Crossing, was published in 2020.

  Matt also writes children’s books as M. J. Brolly. His first children’s book is The Sleeping Bug.

  Matt lives in London with his wife and their two young children. You can find out more about him at www.mattbrolly.co.uk or by following him on Twitter: @MattBrollyUK.