The Killing House

32

Entering the dining room, Fletcher was pleased to find Gary Corrigan conscious. The man’s head bobbed and swayed from side to side, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear away the pain, tried to focus.

Fletcher picked up the small kitchen torch sitting in the centre of the table. A press of a button and the bright blue flame ignited, parting the gloom.

Corrigan sat up, his back ramrod-straight against the chair, his eyes as wide as the saucers decorating the splendid table.

‘ “By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,” ’ Fletcher said, lighting the first of four candles wedged in delicate crystal blocks. ‘ “Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” ’

The man didn’t answer — couldn’t, even if he had been so inclined, due to the dishcloth stuffed in his mouth.

‘The last lines from William Cullen Bryant’s poem “Thantopsis”,’ Fletcher said. He lit the final candle and returned the torch to the table. ‘I doubt you’re praying to God right now, Mr Corrigan, but at the moment you may lack perspective.’

Corrigan’s licence picture showed an older man with a sagging chin and a bloated face. The man strapped to the chair had noticeably different features. In addition to a subtle facelift, he had gained muscle mass. In the flickering candlelight Fletcher could see the thick fibrous muscles flexing and moving beneath the pale skin. Show muscle. Lots of low reps with heavy weights, their bulk and definition aided by steroids. The diminutive size of the man’s testicles proved he had been on the juice for quite some time.

Sensing the man’s embarrassment at having his genitalia on display, Fletcher pushed the chair up against the table until the lip of the linen tablecloth covered his lap.

Fletcher took the chair next to Corrigan. ‘Do you own this house, Mr Corrigan?’

Vigorous shaking of the head: No, no, no, no.

‘I thought not.’ Fletcher picked up a coffee cup painstakingly decorated with hand-painted violets and vines and, turning it over, read the writing printed on the bottom: ‘Haviland Limoges. I’d compliment you on your excellent taste, but I suspect you had nothing to do with the purchase. A man who could afford Limoges china and the antique luxuries inside this house certainly wouldn’t scrimp on his clothing, would he? Your Hugo Boss suit and Hermes overcoat are clearly knock-offs. You can tell by the inferior stitching.’

Fletcher leaned forward and pulled the cloth from Corrigan’s mouth. The man’s chest heaved as he sucked in air. Inbetween the rapid breaths Fletcher heard the ticking from the antique grandfather clock sitting in the room’s corner. Corrigan glanced at it as he spoke.

‘Who are you?’ He had a light and airy voice. Educated. ‘What do you want?’

‘As for who I am, think of me as a borrowed angel — your borrowed angel, Mr Corrigan, sent from on high to unburden you of your sins. Now let me explain what I want.

‘The path to salvation can be very straight and narrow, but I should warn you, I’m someone who finds dishonesty unspeakably ugly. Please bear that in mind before you answer my questions. If I feel you’re lying to me, I’ll use this on your fingers.’ Fletcher tapped the meat cleaver resting on the man’s dinner plate. ‘If that doesn’t help clarify your priorities, I’ll move on to the more sensitive items residing a few inches south of your navel. Do we have an understanding?’

The man nodded, swallowing.

‘Good.’ Fletcher leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He draped his arm on the table, resting his fingers next to the handle of the cleaver. ‘We’ll start with an easy question. The gentleman tied up in the upstairs bedroom: what’s his name?’

Corrigan swallowed. ‘Timmy.’

‘Does Timmy have a last name?’

‘I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it.’

‘And why, pray tell, is Timmy hooked up to an IV?’

‘He’s dehydrated. Some sort of stomach flu.’

‘He has a number of needle marks on his arms.’

‘He’s a junkie,’ Corrigan said. ‘Heroin, I was told.’

‘Told by whom? The woman who owns this house?’

‘What woman? What are you talking about?’

‘The one with the black hair pulled back into a bun. The one with the fur coat. Where is she? What’s her name?’

‘I don’t know anything. This is my first time here.’

Fletcher sighed. ‘Does Mr Jenner live here?’

Corrigan went a little pale.

Fletcher held up the man’s iPhone. ‘I examined the call log,’ he said, and then placed the phone on the table. ‘Over the past three hours I noticed seven incoming and outgoing calls between you and someone named Jenner. I checked your contacts and saw a listing for Jenner but no first name or address, just a cell-phone number. Enlighten me.’

‘I don’t know if Jenner is the man’s first name or his last.’

‘Is this his house?’

‘I don’t know.’ Corrigan stole another glace at the clock. ‘Whatever this is about, I’ve — ’

‘Why did you tie your patient’s hands to the headboard?’

‘Jenner did that. He didn’t want Timmy to rip the IV out of his arm. I had to get fluids in him. He called me — Jenner — he called and asked that I come over to treat Timmy.’

‘You inserted the IV?’

Corrigan paused a beat, considering the question. ‘I was a nurse a long time ago.’

‘Why did you give it up, Mr Corrigan?’

‘It gave me up. Cutbacks. The economy.’

‘I see. And when did you give up practising surgery?’

‘I don’t know what — ’

‘Your hands reek of chlorhexidine,’ Fletcher said. ‘You scrubbed your hands in the upstairs bathroom before treating your patient, didn’t you?’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m a surgeon. It’s a standard antiseptic cleaner. I use it because — ’

‘I watched you doing your hand exercises with that rubber-strengthening ball.’

Corrigan grew still, his face shiny with perspiration.

‘Then I watched you pick up your little stack of coins and check your hand for tremors. I’m assuming that’s why you take these.’ Fletcher held up the man’s plastic vial of pills. ‘One is a betablocker, and so is the other, Propranolol. These are the only two medications that, when used together, decrease surgical tremors and anxiety.’

Corrigan couldn’t mask his surprise at being found out.

‘If you’re not a surgeon, Mr Corrigan, then why are you taking these medications?’

The man didn’t answer. Beads of sweat rolled down his face.

Fletcher reached for the cleaver.

‘ Was,’ Corrigan said. ‘I was a surgeon.’

‘But you told me you were a nurse.’

Corrigan swallowed. Licked his lips and swallowed again.

‘Let’s talk about this like two civilized people, okay? I’ll tell you everything I know. It’s not much, but I’ll — ’

‘You lied to me,’ Fletcher said, picking up the meat cleaver as he stood.