30 Days in June Page 4

  This is a joke, of sorts, but it puts me out of sync. There is some logic in the madness of his statement, but really I am the literal opposite of a celebrity. I am a complete enigma.

  "Before we get the ball rolling here, I just want to apologise on behalf of the force for the way you were treated all those years ago. We do not see the likes of DCI Baldwin any more. Our recruitment and training programme has seen to that. Thankfully, the force has progressed..."

  DCI Baldwin. I divert my eyes. I dig my sharp nails into the palm of my hands. It has been a long time since I heard that name. DCI Baldwin is part of my past life, the life I escaped from.

  "Is DCI Baldwin still alive?"

  "Just about. Apparently, he is a reformed man, too. He lives a quiet, civilised life with his wife. Hard to imagine, isn't it? Of course, he is a man of advanced years now."

  "I am glad DCI Baldwin is well," I say, looking away.

  "I know that you didn't come here to just have a chat, Marcus," DCI Reeves says. "The short notice is quite ironic, isn't it? How long has it been since you were attacked, now?"

  "Thirty years," I reply. "The 30th June 1988, to be exact."

  I want to be exact, because the date feels relevant.

  Reeves flicks through a slim paper file. I presume that he has printed off some basics from the system: I'm sure there must be an office brimming with files on the case somewhere, unless it has been transferred onto a computer. This is a digital age we live in. "Thirty years, and we haven't heard a word from you. Nobody has heard a word from you. We've heard more from Lord Lucan than we have from you. You’re a ghost. This was quite advanced witness protection for the time-"

  "It wasn't witness protection. I decided to change my identity, to move away. It wasn't really because of protection."

  His eyes widen. "Of course," he says, "back in those days witness protection was the responsibility of the local police force. Things would have been much more official and stringent these days. I don't know the exact details, but it makes sense you changed your identity and moved away, regardless of why you did it. After all, you were the only witness, the only one who could give a description. I understand you've been a considerable success in the city? Quite astonishing, really..."

  "It depends on your definition of success," I say. "Of course, I never made it to university. My life was all set up for that life - it was in the script - but then, of course, it happened. But I don't think it mattered really, not as much as it would now, anyway. There were more opportunities for lads like me in those days-"

  "Lads like you? There weren't many like you out there..."

  "The world was less censored. So long as you were willing to work hard then there were plenty of companies willing to give you a chance. These days you need a diploma before you're allowed to cut hair. I got in with a firm as a junior, passed the exams I needed to and, before I knew it, I was a trader. I didn't have a clue what I was doing but - luckily - neither did half the other people out there, but we sort of worked it out as we went along. I made it to partner, which I thought was hilarious. They trusted me to be a partner! But I lived that life for long enough. I deliver workshops now. It suits me much better."

  Reeves raises a single eyebrow and then smiles from the corner of his mouth. "And you got married? You have a daughter? This was more surprising, considering the circumstances of how you were found..."

  This is a dig. I don't mind that and, to be honest, I quite enjoy the challenge. Ducking and diving is all part of the fun and it is one of the reasons I enjoy my hobby; sorry, this is one of the reasons I enjoy my job. Having a go at Jenny is fair enough; she brought some of it on herself. There is no need to bring my little girl into this, though. Emma is the one innocent in this whole saga. Two can play at that game, I think. I wasn't necessarily intending to be difficult, but sometimes it is just much more fun that way.

  I casually slide a cigar from the chest pocket of my polo shirt. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  Reeve's eyes widen. He leans forward, close enough for me to smell his minty breath. "Smoking is illegal in public buildings, Mr Clancy," he states. "This is a police building. So, not surprisingly - yes - I do mind if you smoke."

  "What are you going to do?" I ask. "Arrest me?"

  He smirks. "I see what you're doing here," he says, playfully wagging a finger at me. "You're keeping me on my toes. So long as you don't start crossing and uncrossing your legs then we aren't really going to have a problem here. We'll keep this between ourselves, shall we?"

  You rebel, I think. I protest my innocence with a smile. I put my cigar safely away in my pocket. I don't even fancy a smoke, not in the confined, stuffy surroundings of an interview room."What is life if you can't have a little fun, Inspector? But to answer your question: I’m divorced now. It’s been five years. Everything surrounding the split and the divorce wasn't much fun, particularly - as you quite rightly pointed out - there was a child involved. It is fair to say that I’ve had more than one monumental transformation in my life. Everything changed - yet again - with that divorce."

  “Quite.” Reeves nods his head but then he quickly glances at his watch. "So why exactly are you here, Marcus?"

  That, right there, is the correct question. "Friday afternoon I was delivering a workshop in an office in Monument, so smack bang in the middle of the city. This building has eighteen floors. My workshop was held in a board room on the eleventh floor. I've only ever been to this building a few times before, and I've never held a workshop in this particular room. In essence, I don't have a fixed place of work, DCI Reeves, and I haven't for five years now, but even if I did then this monstrosity of a building would not be it. There was no reason why anybody, apart from those connected to the workshop, would expect to find me there. And yet, just before five in the evening, after the session has finished, and as I'm waiting for a lift, somebody in the lift said to me, 'have a nice weekend, Jeffrey Allen...'"

  DCI Reeves thinks about this for a moment. I can tell that he is thinking about it because he makes a big show of thinking about it: he puts his granite chin in his hand and then he rubs it with his thumb. It is as if he is doing an impression of Socrates, although I'm pretty sure the only Socrates this goon is aware of is the Brazilian footballer. "At least he was polite with it," DCI Reeves finally says, smiling. He looks at me for a reaction and, when I deliberately don't give one, he says, "Asking you to have a good weekend, you know?"

  Kind of ruins it when you need to explain it, I think. I'm tempted to tell him that he is a proper comedian, that Frankie Boyle had better watch out, but I resist. It just wouldn't be constructive. "Do you know how long it has been since anybody has called me that?"

  DCI Reeves apparently does know how long it has been since anybody called me that. "I'm imagining," he says, "that from the way the question is worded, you haven't been called Jeffrey Allen since you changed your identity and started calling yourself Marcus Clancy. So I'm fully aware that it must have been a shock. I sympathise with you. Did you get a view of the person in the lift?"

  I'm encouraged. Slightly. Maybe he is taking me seriously? The question, though, isn't one I can properly answer. "Unfortunately, no. The lift doors were closing just as the person uttered the words. But I'm sure that was the plan. There was no coincidence here. He wanted to scare me. He didn't plan to engage in conversation with me-"

  "Quite," DCI Reeves interrupts, with a knowing chuckle.

  "I followed him out of the building and onto the tube, but he was wearing a cream raincoat that deliberately covered his face, and so I did not really see him."

  "How did you know that the guy in the raincoat was your man?"

  "It was the 1st June, and it wasn't raining. It was a hot day. The city of London wasn't exactly overloaded with people in raincoats. More significantly, I'm sure I saw an outline of his coat in the lift, just before the doors closed. I've been thinking about this over the last day or so, and I've concluded that he wore the coat because he wanted me to p
ick him out. He wanted to be seen. He wanted me to chase after him."

  "The 1st of June?" I can see that Reeves is counting down the days in his head. It shouldn't be this difficult: it was only three days ago. The penny finally drops.

  "Yes," I say. "The date of the first murder."

  He smiles at this. "John and Valerie," he says, shaking his head. "Two of life's unfortunates." His mind drifts. He reins it back in. "As I said, I appreciate that this must have been a shock for you, especially after all of these years. And completely out of the blue. But the fact that you are sat here now indicates to me that you are more than shocked. What is it exactly that you are worried about?"

  "He is a serial killer," I reply. "He has already tried to kill me once. What the fuck do you think I am worried about?"

  Reeves apparently thinks I am joking, for he breaks into a belly laugh. The guy doesn't understand my sense of humour, or lack of. He has a prominent Adam's Apple. Momentarily I think about strangling him.

  "So you think it was him then? You're in London now. He only killed in Wales. We haven't heard a thing from him in thirty years. Why should it be him?"

  What? Is he looking for a rise? I count to three before replying. I am quietly confident, from his general demeanour, that he wouldn't respond well to being told to go fuck himself. I need to be more calculated than that. I decide to play him for the fool. "You don't think he could have a fucking Oyster card? You know how dumb that sounds?" I smile. His feathers are ruffled. "Listen, I have a fake identity. Nobody knows who I am. That is the whole purpose of the fake identity."

  Reeves raises an eyebrow and holds my gaze for a moment, like he is sizing me up. "Oh come on, Marcus; you are an intelligent man, and I'm sure you can't be that naive. The news of your attack caused an international news frenzy. At the time, people were scared to leave their homes. The country hadn't seen anything like this since the Yorkshire Ripper. Only, Peter Sutcliffe targeted prostitutes. This guy wasn't so particular about who he targeted, was he? There are hundreds of books on the subject, not to mention that phenomenon that is social media. You can't possibly imagine that, just because you changed your name, lost some poundage and grew a beard, somebody couldn't work out who you really are if they wanted to? You're smarter than that; I'm sure of it. There are obsessive people out there. There are trolls. It could be the person who sits next to you on the train or the person who lives next to you. It could literally be anybody."

  That was reassuring then, wasn't it? Maybe this guy had missed a training course or two? I was concerned when I entered his room, but I am petrified now.

  "Is there anybody you have pissed off? Anybody you can think of who might want to rattle your cage?" he asks.

  I think about this. I've met plenty of potential oddballs over the years, but I can't remember any I majorly pissed off. That person would need to care enough to actually find out who I was. They would need to have a reason to suspect I was once Jeffrey Allen. I tried to stay away from social media as much as I could, but sometimes our paths inevitably passed. Even I knew that it offered an endless avenue for crackpots. If this person wasn't him then it was most likely to be some obsessive from the internet with a penchant for serial killers.

  I tell Reeves that there is nobody.

  "Has there been any contact from this person since Friday, since 1st June? Anything that doesn't quite seem right?"

  I shake my head.

  He softens his tone. He probably has a form to fill in about my visit; I assume he relishes admin. He needs to tick all the boxes. Reeves pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. Clearly, he isn't going to get a result from me. It is best to get me out of the door as quickly as he can so he can concentrate on hitting his targets.

  "Is the murder enquiry even open?" I ask.

  "This was a very serious murder enquiry, involving a serial killer," Reeves says. "This wasn't just a domestic incident that went tragically wrong. I assure you that the enquiry will most likely always be open. We actively follow up any leads that we find."

  "So South Wales Police are still busy on the case then?"

  "As far as I'm aware, there haven't been any real leads for a long time. So I don't think they are actively doing anything on the case. But as I said, they will if they are given a lead."

  "Hmmm."

  "Listen, I do appreciate you coming here, and it was the right thing to do. At the moment, though, we have nothing to go on. This person hasn't committed any crime. He didn't threaten you and he didn't harm you. It was probably absolutely nothing, just some sad case who got a kick out of scaring you. You'll probably hear nothing again and it will all blow over. If you do hear anything - anything at all - then you promise to call me, you hear? I do hope I never speak to you again, though," he says, grinning. "And I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course."

  Fuck you. He probably uses the line with every poor soul he wants to see the back of. I nod my head and join in with the joviality, thanking him for his time, for seeing me at short notice. I stop as I reach the door, though. I think I can hear him sigh. I know what he's thinking. Oh, for fucks sake. He thought he'd got rid of me. I have one final question. It has been playing on my mind, vying for attention with all the other unwanted thoughts.

  "So why don't you think it is him, then? After all, he was never caught. Why can't he still be out there? Why can't it be him?"

  DCI Reeves takes his time before answering. He proudly pumps out his (substantial) chest. I half expect a button to pop off. "As a detective, you get a hunch for these things. Call it intuition. Rest assured, Marcus, I'm quite certain we will never see the likes of him again..."

  DAY FIVE

  5TH JUNE 2018

  Normally I take in the world around me as I go out and about on my travels to destinations unknown. Follow my nose. Deliberately slow things down, you know. Make a conscious effort, just as I'm told to by Richard. I spent so many years in the fast lane, imperiously busy and yet utterly oblivious to everything that was going on outside my tiny bubble that I sometimes felt the outside world just passed me by. Now, though, I'm living in my mind, which is completely against doctor's orders. I took a stroll, just to get away from the boat, but as I head back, I'm aware that I've taken nothing in.

  I know that what DCI Reeves said makes sense. Of course, he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty unless he absolutely had to. The police force has been cut to shreds: they don't have enough numbers to deal with real crimes, let alone imaginary ones. I had the same thoughts before I even set foot in the interview room; I just tried to ignore them. It could have been absolutely anyone in that lift. In this technological age it is possible to be a ghost. Maybe it was one of the delegates from the workshop? Perhaps the person has been following my every move and footstep for years? I should be counting my blessings that a serial killer might not be hunting me down after all - but really - what sort of consolation is that?

  Reeves was in a hurry to make it clear that he, and the rest of the force, had nothing to do with the way I was treated thirty years ago. I had to smirk at that. Talk about not wanting to be tarnished by association.

  I can still smell the hospital, like the scent has never fully washed away, like it will always be part of me. They placed me in a single room, away from the media attention and the prying eyes. I drifted in and out of consciousness for days. My dreams were bleak, and they were torrid, and I'm certain my desperation to escape them helped me to wake up. I first realised I was awake - and alive - by the foul, acidic taste in my mouth, like I'd been sucking on a battery. The sensation was so vivid that I knew it just had to be reality.

  People were around me, moving quickly, acting with purpose. My hands tugged at the bed sheets, then gripped the metal bars that surrounded the bed. A refreshing breeze flowed through the open window. Traffic passed on the streets below, somewhere in the distance; occasionally a horn beeped. I spotted a fruit bowl and a plastic jug of water on a square table at the foot of the bed. Somebody tenderly b
rushed their hand through my hair. Was it her? I pushed the thought out of my mind: it couldn't be her. My neck creaked as I looked up. No, it wasn't her. It was the one person I wanted to be sat at my bedside more than any other.

  "You've had a bit of a bad time, my dear," Mum said, squeezing my limp hand. "You're going to be just fine, though, there is no doubt about that. No doubt whatsoever."

  "I'm sorry, Mum," I said, aware my cheeks were puffy, my face was wet.

  "What on earth have you to be sorry about?"

  I looked away, didn't answer.

  Mum was by my side when I fell asleep, and she was still there when I woke up. Mainly our conversations comprised of checking I was comfortable, that I wasn't hungry or thirsty. I was comforted by the repetition, by the predictability. She never, ever asked what happened, why she was visiting her only remaining son in hospital.

  Most of my stay was a blur. The blue, green and white of the uniforms merged into one. Voices began to sound the same. I clearly remember seeing him through the square window of the door, though. His body was not visible, but I could tell just by his immediate presence that he was a large portly man, shaped like a barrel. His black hair was plastered down to his scalp, and his bloated lips could barely conceal his wet tongue. His movements were sharp and erratic. I knew who he was from the newspaper articles I'd devoured, from his occasional, awkward television interview. I knew why he was here: he wanted to get to me, and he would push down the door if he needed to.

  Three things cannot be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.