Marked

TWELVE

He frightens her, this man Doyle.

It is not just his physical presence, although he is a big man. He is tall and broad and carries himself with an air of confidence that suggests he is afraid of no one.

Nor is it the fact that he is no stranger to violence. The slight bend to his nose from an old break attests to that, and the massive swelling on his left cheek suggests that he still doesn’t go out of his way to avoid it.

Nor is it merely his eyes. Those startling emerald-green eyes that are the first things everyone must notice about him. You cannot help but be drawn to them, and they in turn seem to penetrate beyond mere flesh and bone, and drill deep into your very thoughts.

No, what it is about Doyle that disturbs Nicole Hamlyn so much is that she gets the unshakeable feeling that he is an iceberg. What she sees in front of her now is merely the tip. There is much more that is hidden, that will probably remain hidden. Things he has seen. Things he has done. Things he can never talk about. She does not know quite why she senses this about him, but she knows she is right. She would bet on it.

And yet. .

And yet, despite the aura of danger and dark, unimaginable happenings, she feels that this is a man you want on your side. This is a man who will never give up. He will always uncover the truth, whatever the cost to himself.

She wants — needs — that to be so about Doyle. And as she realizes that, she starts to wonder whether her needs are distorting her reality. Maybe Doyle is nothing special, after all. Just another regular cop.

But she doesn’t think so.

She allows him into their home again. He comes alone this time, and he is wet again, but not as soaked as last time.

She touches her fingers to her own cheek. ‘What happened?’

He looks puzzled at first, and then he understands.

‘Oh. This. Occupational hazard.’

And that’s it. That’s how lightly he dismisses the violence that left this imprint on his face. Nicole has met many men who would have been severely traumatized by such an act. And others who would be seething with anger and a self-destructive need to exact dreadful revenge. Steve falls into the latter group. He would neither forgive nor forget. He would seek retribution.

She wishes that Steve could be more like Doyle. She wishes he could allow himself to process the grief in whatever way he needs so that they can prepare to move on.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Take a seat. I’ll fetch Steve. Can I get you tea or coffee?’

‘No,’ says Doyle. ‘Thank you.’

She walks through to the kitchen and then to the door that opens into the garage. She can hear clattering and banging on the other side. It’s been like this all morning.

She opens the door and steps into the garage. Steve is bent over a cardboard box, hauling things out of it and tossing them onto the concrete floor. The whole of the floorspace is covered in items that were previously tidied away in crates.

‘Steve,’ she says, and when he doesn’t hear her, she shouts, ‘STEVE!’

He pauses and looks across at her. ‘Why did we keep all this junk? What the hell were we thinking?’ He grabs an object from the box. ‘Look at this. A clock with no hands on it. Why the fuck did we keep a clock with no hands? What possible use could it be?’

He hurls it away from him. It hits the wall and shatters. Pieces ricochet across the garage.

It occurs to her to remind him that the clock was a family heirloom passed down to her by her mother. The missing hands were taped inside the casing. Steve had put them there with the intention of restoring it one day. All of this occurs to Nicole, but she says nothing. She just stares down at what is left of the clock, now damaged beyond repair. Perhaps like their marriage, if they do nothing to stop it fragmenting.

‘The police are here,’ she says, fighting to disguise her sadness. ‘Detective Doyle. I thought you should know.’

‘What does he want? Have they caught the guy yet?’

‘No. I don’t think so. I think he just wants to ask us some more questions.’

‘Then you don’t need me. I got nothing more to say.’

She thinks, Nothing to say? Your daughter has been murdered and you have nothing to say?

He turns away from her and starts rummaging in the box again.

‘Steve?’ No answer. ‘Steve, please!’

He stops again. Looks at her with more than a hint of annoyance. Stands up.

‘Five minutes,’ he says. ‘I’ll give him five minutes.’

Thanks, she thinks. For your precious time.

She lets Steve push past her without a word, then follows him into the living room. Doyle is looking at her. He knows something is up, she thinks. She gives him a smile that is meant to say, No problem. We’re all pulling together here. But she knows he’s not deceived.

They all sit down. Nicole takes the sofa. Doyle takes the chair opposite — the same one he sat in last time. She hopes that Steve will come and sit next to her, but he doesn’t. He perches himself on the arm of another chair. A clear signal that he doesn’t intend to hang around.

‘First of all,’ says Doyle, ‘I just want you to know that we’re working flat out on this case. It’s our top priority.’

‘I should think so,’ says Steve. ‘A young girl hacked to pieces like that, why wouldn’t you pull out all the stops?’

Nicole glances at Steve, but he seems not to notice. She wonders if she did the right thing, bringing him into this room.

She shifts her gaze back to Doyle. Searches his face for signs of irritation. She is relieved to find that he seems unperturbed.

Don’t ruin this, Steve. We need this man.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ says Doyle. ‘It’s a natural assumption. Why wouldn’t we want to catch this lunatic? But I also know that most families of victims don’t want to be left alone to assume things. Sometimes they like to hear us put it into words.’

There, Steve. See? They’re doing their best. Don’t give him a hard time.

‘We don’t want words,’ says Steve. ‘We want action. We want you to get the bastard.’

Shut up, Steve. Shut up! You’re not helping.

‘Of course you do,’ says Doyle. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you? Then you’ll understand if I don’t want to answer any more questions. I already told the cops everything I know. It’s all in your files. Go read them, catch the guy, then you can come back.’

Steve pushes himself up from the chair’s arm. Nicole thinks he’s about to escort Doyle to the door, but he doesn’t. He disappears into the kitchen again. She hears the slam of the door to the garage.

She looks at Doyle. ‘I’m sorry. He’s. . he’s not dealing with this very well.’

Still Doyle does not appear concerned. ‘It’s okay. You’ve both been through the worst kind of ordeal. Different people react in different ways. Give him time.’

She blinks. Give him time? The advice surprises her, but maybe he’s right. Megan’s body has only just been discovered. Steve needs time to come to terms with that.

‘Do you. . do you have any news? On the investigation?’

‘Nothing significant yet. We’re looking into all the possibilities. The reason I came here, I want to be sure I got all the facts right.’

‘Okay. Sure. What can I tell you?’

‘According to the Missing Persons report, Megan told you she was going out with some friends of hers last Saturday. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Three of her girlfriends from school. She said they were going to see a movie.’

‘But the girls never saw her on that day?’

‘No. They didn’t even know about any arrangements to meet up.’

‘You spoke with them?’

‘Yes. I met with each of them, and their parents.’

‘And did you believe them? You don’t think they were trying to cover anything up?’

She blinks. The thought has never occurred to her. She has met the girls countless times. They seem like good girls. What would they be covering up?

‘No. Why do you ask? Do you think they might be?’

‘I don’t think anything, Mrs Hamlyn. I’m just filling in all the gaps. We’ll talk to the girls ourselves. I just want to know what your thoughts are.’

She wonders then about the nature of Doyle’s job. He’s a cynic, because he wouldn’t be doing his job if he wasn’t. He’s trained to be suspicious of everyone, to question everything. It must be hard to live like that — in constant distrust.

‘I don’t think the girls were lying.’

‘Did Megan often lie to you?’

She wants to take offense at this. She opens her mouth, ready to ask him what the hell he means by making such an accusation. She stops when she sees on Doyle’s face that there is no spitefulness in the question. He’s calling it as he sees it. Megan said she was going to the movie theater, and she didn’t. It was a lie. No other word for it.

‘Do you have any children, Detective Doyle?’

‘Yes. A daughter.’

‘How old?’

‘Only seven.’

‘Does she ever tell lies to you?’

She sees a small smile of recognition tug at the corner of Doyle’s mouth. ‘Sometimes. She’s not very good at it, though.’

‘She’ll get better with practice. Kids always lie to their parents. Or they simply withhold information. It’s part of growing up. It’s their way of rebelling, of gaining independence. Didn’t you lie to your parents?’

She gets another smile, and presses on: ‘Of course you did. We all do. We mean no harm by it, and usually no harm is done. But sometimes, just sometimes, there are consequences that go way beyond what we can imagine.’

‘Tell me about the tattoo,’ says Doyle. ‘Did you argue about it?’

‘We had some conversations about it. Occasionally it got a little heated. Megan had wanted a tattoo ever since she was thirteen. We told her she was too young, and that if she wanted one she would have to wait until she was eighteen.’

‘How’d she take it?’

‘Not well, but we thought she’d accepted it. We thought she’d wait.’

She watches Doyle as he thinks about her answer.

‘You keep coming back to the tattoo,’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘It was done during her disappearance. Whoever did it saw her after you did and before the killer did. There could be something important there.’

‘But you don’t know who made the tattoo?’

‘Not yet, but we’re looking.’

There’s something in the way he says those words that don’t quite ring right to Nicole. There’s something there he’s not telling her.

‘Do you have any suspects yet?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. But it’s early days.’

Again, something in his voice. She can’t put her finger on it, but it’s there, and its presence irritates her. Makes her question the faith she has placed in this man.

Or is it because he is so committed to this case and this family that he is unable to keep his suspicions buried as well as he should? Maybe that’s it. He desperately wants to tell her something, but his job doesn’t allow it. Maybe she’s not wrong about him at all.

Before she can pursue it, Doyle changes the subject: ‘Was Megan in the habit of going to the East Village on her own?’

‘No. I don’t know that she ever went there before.’

‘What about Manhattan generally?’

‘Not on her own. With friends or with us, sure.’

‘But once she was there, did you ever let her off the leash? Give her some space to do her own thing?’

‘Well. .’

‘Go on.’

‘Steve, he’s an accountant. He’s based here in Queens, but sometimes he goes to meetings at the head office in the city. Now and again, Megan would go with him. She would go shopping, then they would get together after his meeting and he would bring her back.’

‘Okay.’

‘I. . It was shopping. For a couple of hours. That’s all.’

‘It’s all right. I’m not judging you, okay? I’m just trying to work out how she ended up where she did. Maybe she went there, maybe someone took her there. Maybe she had no intention of even going to Manhattan when she left here. If I can figure that out, then maybe I can get a handle on how she met the tattooist.’

Nicole nods. She understands now. She can start to see how Doyle’s thought processes are working. He really isn’t here to pass judgment. He simply wants answers. And it seems to her that all his questions are the right ones to be asking right now. She trusts this man.

‘How will you know? I mean, how will you be able to figure out where she went and who she met?’

‘From talking to people. From studying camera footage at the subway stations and so forth. It’ll take time, but we’ll do what we have to do.’

She nods again. ‘Thank you.’ She pauses for a long time, then says, ‘Did. . Did they find any more? Of Megan, I mean.’

‘No. We’re still looking, and not just in the East Village. A bulletin went out to all precincts. We’re checking the rivers, construction sites, derelict buildings — any place we can think of. We’re even going through the garbage in the landfill sites. But, well. . a place like New York, you can’t freeze it for long while you search it.’

‘I understand,’ she says. And she does. New York isn’t a huge area, but it’s tightly crammed and intensely busy. Constantly shifting and changing. It’s amazing they found what they did. But three pieces. It’s nothing. Somewhere out there is more of Megan. Undiscovered, unclaimed. She deserves better. She deserves to be brought home.

Nicole feels herself filling up again — when will this crying ever stop? — and says, ‘It’s just that. . The burial. You understand? We’d like to be able to bury Megan. I mean. . all of her.’

She sees Doyle’s discomfort, and realizes she is putting him in an impossible situation. How can she expect him to answer that? He’s doing what he can for us. Let that be enough.

And yet. . If he really wants to help. .

‘There’s something else,’ she says. ‘Maybe you can’t answer it, but I’d like to know.’

Doyle studies her for a while, then nods. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Was Megan. . Was she. . I mean, did the killer. . did he interfere with her?’

There. A tough question to get out, but she did it. And now it’s out there, hanging around for a response, she’s not sure she’s done the right thing. She’s tempted to reel it back in.

Doyle looks at her again, long and hard. He chews on his lip, as though he’s debating what to do with this big fat question mark being dangled in front of him.

Finally, he says, ‘There is evidence of sexual assault, yes.’

She knew this. Not definitively, but in her heart. She tried to prepare herself for the confirmation when it came, but still it seems to slice deep into her gut. The tears that had welled up in her get squeezed out with the pain. As they roll down her cheeks, she keeps her gaze fixed on Doyle. And as he stares right back, she senses something from him. Defiance. Not of her, but of whatever constraining forces are being applied to him. Screw the rulebook, he seems to be saying.

‘You weren’t supposed to tell me that, were you?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to do.’

She nods her gratitude. Any other cop would have refused to answer. Would perhaps even have lied. Doyle won’t lie.

She says, ‘Whoever did this, he’s a monster. He’s evil. Megan was a child. She was my baby. How could anyone hurt a child?’

‘I don’t know. And I can’t imagine your pain. Just thinking of this happening to my daughter makes me sick to my stomach.’

She blinks in surprise. Should policemen say such things? Aren’t they supposed to remain detached and objective? He’s full of surprises, this one.

She finds herself relaxing in his presence a little. He has that effect. A calming influence. She feels as though she could talk to him about anything, no matter how personal. She gets another jolt when her next thoughts of Megan do not involve death and agony, but instead are fond memories stretching back in time. Of Megan as a child, a toddler, a baby.

‘Megan could be hard work, you know.’

There is a slight smile on her face as she says this, and Doyle reflects one back at her.

‘Mine too.’

‘Right from birth she was determined to be a troublemaker. Ripped me to pieces so badly I can’t have any more kids.’

‘Yeah?’ says Doyle. ‘That happened to my wife too. At one point I thought I was gonna lose both of them.’

She narrows her eyes at him. What is this? Whatever happened to Just the facts, Ma’am? Where’s his little notebook, into which he jots down times, places, names? The uniformed cops weren’t like this. The Missing Persons cops weren’t like this either. How is it possible for this man to let his humanity through like this when he has to deal with murderers, rapists and other scum? How can he shoot the breeze about his wife’s pregnancy while contemplating how he’s going to catch a man who has just raped a teenage girl and cut her into little pieces?

Her voice becomes bolder, less mired in intense sadness. Like it’s the first normal conversation she’s had in days. ‘You should have heard me in the hospital. I thought I was going to be all calm and collected. The model mother-to-be. You know what I do for a living?’

‘No, I don’t think I saw that in the files.’

‘I’m a midwife. I’ve lost count of the number of babies I’ve delivered. I’ve seen every complication there is. The only thing that worried me about giving birth to my own child was that I would try to tell the other staff how to do their jobs. But boy, once I got my feet in those stirrups it was a totally different story. I lost it. I forgot everything there was to know about midwifery. I just lay there and screamed.’

She sees that Doyle’s smile has broadened, and realizes that hers has too. And it feels okay. It doesn’t feel disrespectful, because it’s about Megan. It’s about celebrating who she was and how she did things. And that’s fine. She’s allowed to do that. In fact, she believes that the only way she’s going to get through this is by holding on to the happy moments, even though she knows it won’t always be possible.

‘That’s what I don’t get,’ she says.

‘What is?’

‘I bring life into the world. It’s what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid. I get a huge kick out of it. New life — there’s nothing more sacred than that. But this man, whoever he is — this murderer — he enjoys raping and torturing and killing and dismembering. How do such opposites get to exist in the world? How is it possible for a person to enjoy such things?’

And now Doyle’s smile has gone, and she regrets the fact that she has soured the atmosphere again.

‘Because he’s not really a part of this world,’ says Doyle. ‘He’s sick, and I don’t think he can be cured. That’s why he needs to be removed from it.’

She listens to his words, and it seems to her that Doyle could be talking about a specific person rather than some unknown killer he has never met.

‘Can I ask you something else, Detective?’

‘Sure.’

‘Could you remove this man from our world? Permanently, I mean. Not prison.’

When Doyle says nothing for a couple of seconds she adds, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking-’

‘If it were up to me?’ says Doyle. ‘In a heartbeat. No doubt about it. If I was sure I knew who had done this to your daughter, and the law allowed me to do it, I would put a bullet in this scumbag’s brain without hesitation.’

‘And if the law said no, but you thought nobody would ever find out?’

She sees the muscles twitch in Doyle’s jaw. It’s a tough ethical question, but she genuinely wants to hear his response.

‘I’m a cop,’ he says finally. ‘I have to uphold the law. Otherwise what am I doing in this job?’

The right answer, she thinks. But the expected answer. She’s not certain that it accurately reflects his position. She knows what Steve would do. Steve would hunt this man down and make him endure as much pain as possible before killing him as slowly as possible — that’s what Steve would do.

And I bring forth life, she thinks. That’s what I do. That’s what is right.

‘Mrs Hamlyn, I should go now,’ says Doyle.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Call me Nicole.’

He nods, then stands up. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done.’

She shows him to the door. When she opens it, the noise of the rain suddenly intrudes. They both look out at it.

‘You think it’s ever gonna quit?’ Doyle asks.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘In time.’

Then Doyle steps into it and is gone.

He drives just far enough to be out of her view, then pulls the car over.

Damn!

Why did I even come here? For all I’ve learned in this meeting, wouldn’t a phone call have been just as good?

And why did I let her get to me? Why do I always have to get so fucking involved?

Telling her about how we can’t have any more kids. Letting her know that I’d happily cap the sonofabitch killer of her daughter. What the fuck was that about?

And, to top it all, the lies. Telling her there were still no suspects, when the one and only suspect is sitting at home in his crappy apartment, laughing his ass off at the failure of the police to nail him.

Doyle sits there for a full five minutes, working through his anger, berating himself for his stupidity.

But he knows why he came to the Hamlyns’ house. He came because he cares. He cares about the Hamlyns and he cares about their daughter and he cares about finding her killer. He cares far too much, in his opinion. It’s a fault which always tears him apart, and he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

It’ll be the death of me, he thinks.

Stanley Proust stands naked in front of his bedroom mirror. His shoulders are slumped slightly because he cannot straighten up. It hurts too much.

He has managed to staunch the flow of blood from his various cuts, but he still looks as though he has been hit by a train. There are marks and swellings all over his body. His face looks like that of the Elephant Man. One eye is so puffed up it’s difficult to see out of it. His ribs in particular feel like a hot poker is being inserted between them when he breathes. He has taken some strong painkillers, but they don’t seem to be making much difference.

He puts his tongue in the gap where his tooth used to be, and pushes gently on the cap of congealed blood. Shame to lose a tooth, but he can always get a false one put in.

But what an experience!

He has never been through anything like that before. The last time he was punched was in a fist fight in middle school that lasted barely five seconds. He didn’t even get a bloody nose on that occasion. Since then he has often wondered whether it would toughen him up to get involved in a proper no-holds-barred brawl — to find out what it’s really like to absorb a barrage of stinging blows. But he has always been too scared. He has always backed down from any confrontation that has threatened to become physical.

Well, now he knows. He understands. The pain is nothing. He can transcend the pain.

And he could go through it again. Now that he has done it once, he could do it again and again. Whatever Doyle throws at him, he can take. And that means Doyle can never win.

Proust drops his eyes to the tattoo on his chest, still clearly visible behind the bruises. He looks at the image of himself, clawing its way through his flesh.

That’s me now, he thinks. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.

I am reborn.