Tell Him He’s Dead

TONY PARSONS

TELL HIM HE’S DEAD

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Epub ISBN: 9781473554764

Version 1.0

Published by Cornerstone Digital 2018

Copyright © Tony Parsons, 2018

Extract from Girl On Fire © Tony Parsons, 2018

Cover © Archangel/Getty Images

Tony Parsons has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Cornerstone Digital

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents

About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
One: Unwanted Contact
Two: I Was ‘Officer A’
Three: Guy Walks Into a Barbell
Four: Prisoner of the Past
Five: Murder in Slow Motion
Six: No Face, No Case
Seven: Belmarsh Boys
Eight: The Recycling Men
Nine: The Girl Car
Read More

ONE

UNWANTED CONTACT

In the ten years since I had last seen Echo Halstrom she had acquired a child and a tattoo.

Her child was a boy, a good-looking lad of maybe three, just losing the exaggerated roundness of his toddler years, and he was sleeping soundly on Echo’s lap as she spoke to the young uniformed policewoman standing before her.

The tattoo was on the bicep of Echo’s left arm, just visible below the sleeve of a grey T-shirt that said Pineapple Dance – Survival of the Fittest, and it was in the shape of a heart.

Echo was always a romantic.

It was one of the many things that I had loved about her.

The young uniformed policeman who had opened the front door murmured apologetically.

‘It’s just a domestic, sir,’ he said. ‘Apparently the lady’s former partner has been cutting up rough. They haven’t actually seen him, but the tyres are flat on her sister’s car. That yellow Beetle outside? Freshly slashed, looks like. But we don’t even know if he did it. I told her you’re Homicide and not domestic. She wouldn’t listen.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘We’re old friends.’

From the doorway I looked back at the street. The car parked outside was the same one that her sister had driven when Echo and I were together all those years ago: a yellow VW Beetle with what were meant to be elaborate eyelashes – actually long, shiny strips of glossy black plastic – attached to its headlights.

‘Because it’s a girl car, stupid!’ Echo always used to tell me, with one of her lopsided smiles.

But she wasn’t smiling now.

I could not tear my eyes from her. I took a long moment to understand what had changed about her and what would never change. Her father was originally from Stockholm and there was a fresh-faced Scandinavian beauty about her, which was misleading as Echo had always loved her nightlife. She was more of a dancing shoes kind of girl than a hiking boots kind of girl. There was a pained sweetness about her face, like a young Ingrid Bergman, but an Ingrid who was always about to say goodbye to Humphrey Bogart at the airport in Casablanca.

Ten years on and still a knockout, and she was one of those women who would always be beautiful. At seventy she would still be distracting drivers from their Highway Code. Or maybe I was still a bit in love with her.

‘The lady had your number from somewhere, sir,’ the young copper said, still apologetic for bringing me here. ‘Insisted on calling.’

‘I’m glad she did,’ I said.

I glanced back at the car. Her sister’s VW Beetle, sagging on its slashed tyres, had other, much older scars, the multiple scuffs and scrapes on its yellow paintwork of a decade in city traffic. The long black plastic eyelashes did not flop with quite the coquettish abandon that I remembered. The Beetle had a few more miles on the clock now. I guess we all did. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of all that time gone, and then I went in to talk to the first girl I had ever loved.

‘Echo,’ I said.

I sat down beside her on the sofa, close but not touching. The boy stirred in his sleep and she ran her fingers through his dark hair. Her hands were shaking.

‘Max,’ she said, and her smile was the same. Ten years gone, but she was still Echo.

‘And who’s this handsome fellow?’ I said, smiling at the boy.

‘This is Little Bill,’ Echo said, the pride rising.

We sat in silence. The policewoman who had been talking to Echo turned away and spoke to the uniform who had let me in. Echo and I smiled at each other and, almost immediately, I saw the tears fill her eyes.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong, Echo?’

‘He’s out,’ she said. ‘My ex. Wayne. Out of jail. And he was here. Tonight. In the street, with a knife, with my sister’s car. I didn’t see him but I know it was him. Who else would want to do such a thing?’

‘You were married to this Wayne?’

She nodded.

‘He was my first real boyfriend,’ she said. ‘After you.’

‘Is he Little Bill’s dad?’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But he doesn’t believe it. Wants a paternity test. Says I messed around with other men. Says he hates Little Bill …’

The words choked in her throat. I gave her a break to find her breath. Then I nodded.

‘Tell me,’ I said, and she did, and all the stress and the sadness and the terror came out in a breathless torrent.

‘Wayne did time,’ she said. ‘After he put me in hospital with a broken arm. Three years for ABH in Belmarsh. Because he hurt me.’

‘Because that’s what Wayne Milk enjoys,’ said a familiar voice, coming into the room. ‘Wayne likes hurting women. Especially my sister. Hello, Max. Never thought we would see you again.’

Suze Halstrom, Echo’s older sister, looked at me with no warmth. They were clearly siblings, but there was a hardness about Suze. Or perhaps that was just because she was looking at me.

Because Suze Halstrom had never forgiven me for breaking up with Echo.

‘Suze,’ I said. ‘How are you?’ I looked beyond her, as if her mother and father would surely be close behind, offering me tea and biscuits, as if all those years had really not passed at all. ‘And how are your folks?’

‘Mum and Dad?’ Suze said. ‘They’re long gone. Five years back. Breast for Mum and prostate for Dad. Those hormonal cancers will get you every time. Within twelve months of each other.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear it.’

‘It’s just the three of us here now. Me, Echo and Little Bill. And Wayne bloody Milk, of course. That bastard will never leave us alone.’

‘How long were you married to this guy?’ I asked Echo.

‘They were married for less than two years and now they are going to be divorced forever,’ Suze said, answering for her. She lifted her chin at Echo. ‘Look at her! She’s a nervous wreck. Remember that girl you dated, Max? That smiling, dancing girl? She’s gone. Wayne Milk killed her.’

‘Suze,’ Echo said. ‘Please.’

‘She jumps every time the phone rings. Every time the doorbell goes. He swears he will never be out of her life. And I believe him. One minute he’s sending a dozen roses and the next he’s threatening to throw acid in her face.’ Suze glared at the two young coppers with withering contempt. ‘When will you lot do something? When she makes the papers as another murdered woman?’

The two young uniforms stirred uneasily.

‘Have you reported this to the police before tonight?’ I said.

Echo nodded.

‘Thirty-one times,’ Suze said. ‘I counted.’

‘Every time I spoke to a different person,’ Echo said. ‘Every time I had to start again. Every time they told me it was nothing. Just a domestic. Just a lover’s tiff, one of them called it.’

‘How did he make these threats to you?’ I said. ‘Verbally? Text messages? Phone calls?’

‘Every way,’ Echo said. ‘And it’s like Suze says – one minute he’s telling me how much he loves me and the next he’s threatening to ruin my face to make sure nobody ever wants me again.’

‘Show me your phone, Echo,’ I said.

‘I deleted the messages. They were horrible.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I know it’s bad. But you have to keep this stuff.’