Читать книгу Uncaged - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 6

Megan didn’t stop running until she was out of breath. She clutched something nearby and stood there heaving, trying to fight off a pain in her side. Gradually her head cleared enough for her to realize that she was holding a tree. She looked around and found herself in a large park that seemed empty except for herself.

She was unfamiliar with this part of London and she didn’t know where she was. She’d fled blindly, and now she had no memory of entering the park and no idea of how to get home. But the dreary little apartment had never been home, and now it wasn’t even a refuge. They’d found it and would be watching for her return. Her feet were bruised and bleeding and she was shivering with cold. She wondered why she’d ever thought things would be better once she’d left jail. They were worse. She was as much a prisoner as ever, but now she was a prisoner on the run, with nowhere to go.

To her surprise she discovered she wasn’t cold anymore. Heat was stealing pleasantly through her limbs and all over her body, although the icy rain was still pouring down, plastering her hair over her eyes. She brushed her hair back, but it was still hard to see through the curtain of water that surrounded her. She began to stumble about, seeking an exit, although what she would do when she found one she didn’t know. The whole evening seemed like just a dream. She’d dreamed that her enemy had come to call, just as she was dreaming now that she could hear his voice through the lashing of the rain.

She came to another tree and stopped to rest against it. But something in the pattern of the knots seemed familiar, and she realized that it was the same tree as before. How long had she been wandering around in circles? She had no notion of time.

“Megan.” The voice was there again in her dream, and Daniel Keller mysteriously appeared through the curtain of water. “Megan. Thank God, I found you.”

She regarded him without hostility, but without interest. He was no more than a shadow in her overheated consciousness. “Go away,” she said indifferently. “I’m fine, really I am.”

He put his hand on her forehead and swore. “You’re burning up with fever. Come on.” He picked her up and ran with her in his arms to where he’d left his car. He almost threw her into the backseat, wrenched off his jacket and wrapped it around her before getting into the front and starting up.

As he drove, he used his car phone to call his doctor, who was also a good friend. “I need a home call urgently,” he said. “Can you be there in ten minutes? Thanks.”

Dr. Angela Lang was there before him. She stood by his front door, a reassuringly motherly figure, as Daniel hurried up the path with Megan in his arms. “Help me put her to bed,” he grunted as he carried Megan inside and passed Dr. Lang on the stairs without waiting for a response.

In the guest room, he stripped off Megan’s sodden nightgown and dried her fiercely. “Good grief!” Angela exclaimed in sudden shock. “Isn’t she—?”

“Yes, she is,” Daniel said urgently. “Never mind that. Do something for her feet while I try to stop her getting pneumonia.”

“The best thing is if I get her admitted into the hospital—”

“No!” Daniel said explosively. “She’s had enough of institutions and people staring at her. She needs peace and privacy.”

“Daniel, are you mad? If you want to save your career, this woman is dynamite.”

“I know that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“So what the devil is she doing in your house, unconscious and naked?”

“You’re right,” he said quickly. “She needs something warm to wear.”

“That wasn’t what I—” But Daniel had vanished, returning a moment later with a pair of his own clean pajamas. Angela gave up arguing and tended to Megan’s bleeding feet.

“She isn’t going to get pneumonia, is she?” Daniel asked when Megan was dressed and wrapped up under an electric blanket.

“I don’t think so. Probably just a feverish cold, but if she gets worse, call me at once. Are you a good nurse? She’ll need a lot of attention at first.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with bleak humor, “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

* * *

The heat that had comforted Megan in the park had given way to violent shivering. She was burning up with fever, yet at the same time she was like ice. Somebody was piling blankets onto her, but it was no use. Aches and pains chased themselves through her limbs. She wanted to sleep but she felt too ill.

Then she was being raised to a sitting position and a mug was being pressed to her lips. “Drink this.” She vaguely remembered the man’s voice but she couldn’t place it. “It’s hot milk and whiskey, and it’ll do you good,” he added.

She obeyed, and took the tablets he gave her. But when she lay down she was still restless and began tossing about, throwing off the blankets. He piled them back onto her and she threw them off again. He seemed to have inexhaustible patience, because no matter how often it happened he was always there to push her back against the pillows and soothe her. She tried to fight him off, muttering, “I’ve got to...got to...”

Got to what? She didn’t know. She only knew that some terrible problem was going unsolved while she lay here, and nobody else understood.

But it seemed that he did understand because he murmured, “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right. Just sleep and let me do the worrying.”

After a while she stopped struggling and lay there, her hand in his.

Daniel stayed quite still until he was sure she’d fallen asleep, then he gently tucked her hand under the blanket. He rose and stood looking down at her flushed face on the pillow. The strain was smoothed away from it now, but the dark shadows around her eyes told the story of inner torment.

“What have I done?” he murmured. “Dear God, what have I done?”

* * *

In the limbo between sleeping and waking Megan found herself experiencing a new sensation. Suddenly there was nothing to worry about because someone was taking care of her, someone strong who could shoulder all her burdens until she could cope with them again herself.

That had last happened when she was a child. Her parents had died when she was only sixteen, after which she’d had to fend for herself. She’d capitalized on her height and slender beauty to become a model, and for a few years she’d been in the front rank.

Then she’d met Brian Anderson. At first she’d been charmed by him, but the charm had faded as she’d realized he’d had only one priority—success. He’d been an accountant in a high-profile firm, and he’d adored her because she was successful and well-known. He’d enjoyed being seen with a beautiful woman on his arm, but she’d gradually become convinced that his feelings went very little deeper than that. She’d been on the verge of breaking off the relationship when she’d found out she was pregnant.

She’d never even considered an abortion. She’d wanted her baby, and Brian’s eagerness to marry her had warmed her heart again. Perhaps his child would make him see the world in less monetary terms. But it had had the opposite effect. Money and success became doubly important. He was furious when she’d abandoned her career because she couldn’t bear to be apart from her adored little son.

When Tommy was a year old, Brian had broken away from his firm to start up on his own. Megan had been an asset to him, presiding over dinner parties where every detail was perfect, including her own impeccable appearance. But the socializing had meant nothing to her. The guests were invariably people who might be “useful” and afterward Brian would discuss them entirely in terms of their money and the business they might bring his way.

The gap between herself and her husband had yawned wider every day, but she’d made the best of it for Tommy’s sake, and would have continued doing so, if Brian hadn’t gone too far. Trying to land a hugely rich but personally repellent client, he’d instructed her to “be nice” to him.

“Just how ‘nice’ do you want me to be?” Megan had asked in an icy tone that should have warned him.

Brian had shrugged. “He’s worth millions, he’s got no family and his hobby is speculation. Work it out.”

Their own physical relationship had been over for a year at that point, but it was still a shock to discover that he’d respected her so little that he could suggest such a thing. When Brian returned home from work that evening, he’d found Megan and Tommy gone.

He’d tried to starve her back to him, refusing to allow her a penny even for the child’s upkeep. So she’d returned to work, taking the kind of low-ranking modeling jobs that would once have been beneath her, and supplementing her income with escort work. In comparison to the luxurious life-style she’d left, they were hard up, but she was happier than she’d been for a long time—until the sky had fallen on her.

In all those years there’d never been anyone to murmur “It’s all right...let me do the worrying.” But now someone had said it, and the words had given her ease.

She opened her eyes and found herself in a strange room. It was large and shabby but comfortable. It didn’t surprise her that she recognized nothing. The events of the past few days had made the unfamiliar familiar, and the unexpected, the norm. She was hot and achy all over, and her head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.

Then the door opened, and her enemy came in. She stared, aghast, and tried to pull herself upright in the bed, but lead weights pulled her back. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“This is my home,” Daniel told her. “I brought you here after I found you in the park.”

“How dare you!” It was hard to sound angry when she could hardly speak.

“I had no choice, Megan. I couldn’t take you back to that apartment. The press had it staked out.”

“Not here. Anywhere but here,” she croaked.

“If you think about it, you’ll see that this is the best place. Who would ever think of looking for you with me?”

She started to cough and could do nothing until the fit had subsided. When it was over, she lay back, drained, and looked at him helplessly.

Daniel laid a gentle hand on her forehead. “You’ve got a feverish cold,” he said. “You stay here until you’re well.”

“You’ve taken a lot for granted,” she said hoarsely.

“What would you prefer, the hospital, where you’ll be stared at?” She shook her head weakly, beyond speech. “Don’t waste what little voice you’ve got left in abusing me,” he advised. “The doctor left you something to take. I’ll get breakfast and make you comfortable, then you must get some more sleep. The bathroom’s next door. Put this on.” He indicated a thick terry-cloth robe lying across a chair, and left the room.

As soon as she got out of bed, her head swam. It took ten minutes to get into the robe and out of the room. The bathroom mirror showed her looking haggard, with large, feverish eyes, but it had been a long time since she’d cared what she looked like. Almost subliminally she noticed that the room was exclusively male. There was shaving tackle and toothpaste, but no talcum powder, or anything else to suggest a woman.

She slowly made her way back to the bedroom, holding on to the wall, and was leaning against it to regain her breath when Daniel appeared with breakfast. “Let me help you,” he said, setting down the tray and reaching for her.

Her eyes glittered at him. “Don’t...touch...me....” she said in an emphatic whisper.

Reluctantly he let his hands fall to his sides and watched edgily as she tottered back to bed. After that, she seemed to have no more fight in her, accepting the tablets he offered without protest, eating some of the breakfast, falling asleep and staying that way for the rest of the day.

That afternoon Daniel called Canvey. His old colleague greeted him with cautious warmth, until he heard what Daniel wanted. Then he exploded with outrage and apprehension. “Are you out of your mind, man? Do you want me to be thrown off the force, as well?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Daniel said urgently, “but nobody need suspect. Just for one night, and you can have them back in the morning.”

“Masters will have my head on a plate if he finds out.”

“He won’t find out. Please, Canvey, I’m desperate.”

In the end, Canvey gave in as he was bound to do, since he owed his life to Daniel. He arrived after work that evening with a parcel that he thrust into Daniel’s hands with the words, “Have these ready when I call tomorrow morning, or we’re both in big trouble.”

Daniel went into the back room where he kept his audio-video equipment, the one luxury he allowed himself. He opened the parcel and found that Canvey hadn’t let him down. Inside were cassettes, both audio and video, of his interviews with Megan, three years ago, plus all his own notebooks.

He spent the night duplicating everything, and had just managed to get the parcel packed up by the time Canvey called on his way to work the next day. After thanking Canvey, he made his way upstairs with Megan’s breakfast. He found her coughing and sneezing, and unable to do much more than nibble on some toast. He put fresh sheets on the bed and helped her back in. She made no protest. In fact, she hardly seemed aware of him, falling asleep almost at once.

Then Daniel was free to settle down with the videocassettes and papers. He wished he could remember more about what had happened. It wasn’t uncommon for policemen to forget details in time, as other cases took over, but he’d always been known in the force for his phenomenal memory. Not with this case, though. His mind seemed to have wiped it out.

He tried an old trick. Stop worrying about the thing you needed to remember. Go back to something that had happened earlier and work forward. But that meant reviving a memory he flinched from; of how a gentle, loving woman and a bright-faced little boy had been mowed down in a car driven by Carter Denroy, a lout with booze running in his veins, a man so drunk that he couldn’t afterward remember what had happened. And that led to another terrible memory—Denroy walking from court, a free man, smirking because his only punishment had been a fine. That smirk had burned itself into Daniel’s consciousness so deeply that it still tortured his dreams.

He wanted to shy away now, but he forced himself to relive the scene, and gradually another detail emerged. There had been a woman there, too. A glossy, expensive woman who’d looked bored and impatient with the whole business of coming to court, as though it was simply too ridiculous to make a man pay for the lives he destroyed. As Denroy and the woman had walked out together, Daniel had heard her say, “You see, I told you it would be all right.”

Daniel had stepped out quietly to stand in front of them, which had made the grin fade from Denroy’s face. He’d halted, saying nothing, looking nervous. But the woman hadn’t been nervous. She’d looked Daniel up and down before saying imperiously, “Kindly get out of our way.”

Daniel had neither moved nor spoken. He’d just stood looking at the man who’d killed his wife, his face possessed by a cold, silent hate that had made Denroy flinch. He’d been scared. Was that what had made him say such a stupid, fatuous thing? No hard feelings, eh? Just an accident. Then he’d fallen back at the menace in Daniel’s face.

Now Daniel remembered how Denroy had cast a nervous glance at the woman, and how her contempt had seemed to force some courage into him—enough courage to shoulder his way past. That look had told Daniel all he’d needed to know about their relationship. Denroy had been intimidated by her, had wanted to impress her. That was why he’d driven her home when he’d had no right to be behind the wheel of a car. He’d probably bragged, “Don’t worry. What’s a little booze? I can handle it.”

Daniel had thought of Denroy often, but the woman had faded from his mind—until now.

Another memory—Canvey, there with him in court, hovering beside him as he’d confronted his wife’s killers, hands at the ready to stop him from physically attacking Denroy. He was a good friend. He’d hauled Daniel away to the nearest pub and poured drink down him. “Take some time off,” he’d said. “Take as much as you need.”

“I can cope,” he’d insisted.

“You think you can, but you shouldn’t work in this state.”

“I tell you, I can cope.”

He’d prided himself on being a hard man, a strong man who could stand up to anything. He’d thrown himself into his job, working all hours, ignoring weariness, driving himself to the limit. It was the only way he could endure. Canvey had been concerned. “I see you staring into space sometimes,” he’d said, “and when I say your name, you don’t seem to hear.”

Daniel had responded by driving himself even harder. Whether he’d done his work well or not was something he didn’t know, because he could hardly recall a single detail of that time.

But he had to remember. He forced his mind back. Henry Grainger. Hang on to that name. Henry Grainger, the owner of a small block of apartments, had been found dead. Someone had hit him over the head with a blunt instrument. Daniel had been sent to investigate.

All the signs pointed to Mrs. Megan Anderson, one of Grainger’s tenants, who’d been heard quarreling with him the night he’d died. He hadn’t been found until the following evening, at which time Mrs. Anderson was out on an assignment for an escort agency. Daniel had waited until she’d returned late that night. She’d walked in, glossy, expensive, consciously alluring, dressed and made up for effect. He recalled that she’d made that impression on him, but strangely, he couldn’t conjure up her face. Instead he kept seeing the face of Denroy’s companion, who’d also been glossy and heavily made up. He tried hard to concentrate, but he couldn’t clear the confusion, and at last he gave up and put a cassette into the video machine.

For a moment he didn’t even recognize the woman who appeared on the screen. Surely she couldn’t be the same person as the tense, feverish invalid upstairs? The contrast shocked him. He stared at the screen, noting her defiance, almost arrogance, tinged with bafflement at finding herself in a police station under suspicion of murder.

He heard his own off-camera voice. “Let’s go back to your quarrel with Mr. Grainger, Mrs. Anderson.”

“It wasn’t a quarrel,” the woman on the screen said wearily. “I didn’t know him well enough to quarrel with. He tried to paw me about, I told him to push off.”

“That’s not what your neighbors say. According to them, the whole thing was very violent.”

“They weren’t there. I was.”

“They heard screaming and shouting.”

“I was angry. He disgusted me. He was a worm.”

“That’s how you saw him, was it? A worm?”

Such an obvious trap, he thought now, but she hadn’t seen it. “Yes, a worm,” she said with a shrug. “Or a sewer rat. Take your pick.”

Wouldn’t a woman have to be innocent to walk so blindly into danger? he wondered. He almost winced as he heard his own voice springing the trap. “In other words, vermin—to be destroyed? A worm to be trodden on. A rat to be hit on the head—like Henry Grainger?”

“I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left the building. I walked miles away. I told you that before.”

“Yes, you told me you went to Wimbledon Common. I’ve got a team out there trying to find someone who saw you. But so far there are no witnesses to confirm that you were there.”

The words brought Daniel out in a cold sweat. There had been a witness. He’d been lying, unless...

He leafed frantically through the papers until he came to the photocopied statement from the man who’d seen “a woman who might have been Megan Anderson,” on Wimbledon Common at the time Grainger had been killed. There was a note scribbled on it in Daniel’s own writing, saying he’d received it on February twenty-third. He yanked the cassette from the machine to study the label, but in his haste to duplicate everything, he hadn’t made notes. But it would be on the cassette, at the very start. His heart thumping madly, he shoved the cassette in, rewound it and pressed the play button. In the few seconds it took the machine to start, he felt as if he was dying.

Then his own voice, “Mrs. Megan Anderson being questioned by Detective Inspector Keller in Interview Room 10. Interview timed at fifteen hundred hours, February twenty-first. Let’s go back to...”

The twenty-first. Two days before the statement. He hadn’t been lying to trap her. The relief was so overwhelming that he almost blacked out. When he’d steadied himself, he poured a stiff drink and wondered at the pass he’d come to. It was appalling to have to rely on outside evidence to confirm his honesty to himself, but he had no recollection of either the statement or the interview.

He ran the tape forward to where he’d left off. “...no witnesses to confirm that you were there. It’s a pity you can’t remember seeing anyone else there.”

“I wasn’t looking at other people,” Megan said. “I just walked there to be alone and brood on how much Henry Grainger disgusted me.”

Her tone struck him. She sounded bored, exasperated and edgy, but not frightened, as though she knew this was only a misunderstanding that was bound to be cleared up in the end. It was a tone he associated with innocence, and he wondered if he’d noticed it at the time.

This interview had taken place two days after Grainger’s death. She’d changed from the gorgeous evening wear of their first meeting, but she was still smartly dressed and groomed. A lot of care had been applied to her face, as though beauty was a tool of her trade.

He saw himself appear on the screen. Evidently he’d risen and walked around the table to confront her more closely: he sat on the table in front of her and leaned down. Watching himself, he made a face of distaste at what looked like an intimidatory tactic. But the woman he confronted wasn’t intimidated. She raised her head and looked up at him coolly, defiantly. He felt a flicker of admiration now for the way she wouldn’t back down in front of a bully.

A bully? Himself? Yes. The sound of his own voice grated on him. “Tell me about it from the beginning, Mrs. Anderson.”

“Oh, God, not again! I’ve told you so often.”

Suddenly his face came into view, and he was shocked. He looked like a dead man, a zombie, and it was a dead man’s voice that said, “Tell me again. Let’s see if you can remember any details you’ve forgotten.”

Daniel shivered.