Читать книгу The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder - Sarah J. Harris - Страница 20

THE POLICE CAR DOESN’T screech to a halt with its siren blaring bright yellow and pink zigzags outside David Gilbert’s house. The driver slowly reverses into a parking space. A blonde woman in a black uniform climbs out, followed by a man. He opens his mouth wide and stretches his arms above his head. To be honest, they’re taking this emergency at a frighteningly leisurely pace.

The policewoman could be the one I saw outside Bee Larkham’s house earlier. I’m not sure. She walks up the path (why isn’t she running?) and knocks dark brown shapes on the front door. After thirty-one seconds, the door opens. A man appears, they talk for forty-four seconds and she goes inside. Her colleague waits by the car.

I’m not an expert in hostage situations, but shouldn’t she be more careful? She didn’t even have her weapon drawn (if she’s even carrying one) and she’s alone in a stranger’s house, which isn’t a good idea. People have a habit of turning on you when you least expect it. Her colleague can’t help. His finger’s stuck inside his left nostril.

After three minutes and two seconds, the policewoman steps out of the house with two strangers. They all walk down the path and stop on the pavement, next to the second police officer. Their faces turn and look in my direction.

Why isn’t the man in cherry cords wearing handcuffs?

David Gilbert should be locked up in prison. That’s where he belongs.

They walk towards my house. I don’t like this. Why are they coming here when they should be going to the police station? I back away from the window. I can’t hide. There’s no point. They know I’m here. I called 999 on my mobile. Not because I wanted to, because I had to.

No one else stepped in to help.

I’m a reluctant witness, a reluctant helper – the roles I’m used to playing.

One member of this group knocks blobs of light brown with streaks of bitter dark chocolate. I can’t be sure which one, because I’ve moved far away from the window. I’m hiding behind the front door, counting my teeth with my tongue.

‘Hello, Jasper,’ the policewoman says in viridian blue when I’ve finished my teeth count and opened the door. ‘My name is PC Janet Carter and this is my colleague, PC Mark Teedle. I think you recognize your neighbours.’

She gestures to the two men standing behind her. Obviously, she couldn’t be further from the truth if she tried, but I have useful clues to help me. One man is wearing cherry cords and has come from David Gilbert’s house. His dog is barking angry yellow French fries at being left alone in 22 Vincent Gardens. The other guy has black suede shoes, red and black spotty socks and is clutching half a bag of birdseed.

They’re the kidnapper and his hostage.

The policewoman glances at the men behind her. ‘We wanted to let you know everything’s OK,’ she says. ‘There hasn’t been a kidnapping or a murder. Your neighbour, Mr Watkins, wasn’t forced into Mr Gilbert’s house. He was paying a friendly visit.’

‘It’s true,’ Custard Yellow says. ‘I was about to refill the bird feeders when David asked if I could help shift a piece of furniture in his kitchen. It was too heavy for him to do alone.’

I’m not entirely certain about this turn of events. It’s unexpected and I don’t like unexpected. It’s a waxy, Crayola orange word.

‘He had his hand on your shoulder,’ I point out, taking a step backwards. ‘Even X and Y didn’t do that to me earlier. They stood one in front and one behind, but didn’t touch me because that would have been assault and they’d have been expelled.’

‘I went with him willingly, Jasper. It wasn’t a problem. I don’t mind helping out someone who’s in trouble. It’s what neighbours do for each other on this street. That’s what Mum always said.’

I feel a jab of pain in my tummy and the back of my neck is cactus prickly.

‘You’d help a neighbour even if you knew he was a serial killer or had helped a serial killer?’ I ask.

The policewoman’s mouth widens into an ‘O’ shape, the way Bee’s did on her first night here. I guess she’s as curious as me to know the answer.

David Gilbert looks at the police officers. ‘Do you see what I mean? These wild accusations have to stop. The lad’s gone too far this time. He’s a total basket case.’

Like Bee Larkham.

That’s how he described her. When she was alive.

‘You’re a bird killer,’ I clarify, because that’s only fair as he doesn’t have a defence lawyer with him. ‘I didn’t accuse you of killing Bee Larkham.’

‘I should think not!’ he says loudly. ‘What’s he going on about? What does any of this have to do with Beatrice? She’s going to have a lot to answer for when she finally bloody well shows up again.’ He directs his grainy red words at the two uniformed police officers. ‘I want something done about him. This is victimization. He makes slanderous accusations about me all the time. I have witnesses like Ollie here, who’ll back me up. Isn’t that correct?’

The man standing next to him moves his head and arm. I’m not sure what the gesture means. Is he silently signalling he will back David Gilbert up or is he refusing to? It’s hard to tell.

Instead, I concentrate on victimization. It’s an interesting colour, almost translucent with a slight violet hint.

The word builds on the singular victim. You can turn it around and around in your head to mean different things. Perhaps that’s not simple to understand either, who the victim is supposed to be.

‘We can deal with this from here on, sir,’ PC Carter says. ‘Perhaps you could both go home and we’ll have a chat with Jasper alone?’

Cherry Cords stalks back to his house, to Yellow French Fries, but the other man, Custard Yellow, doesn’t move.

‘I can stay with him if you want, since his dad doesn’t seem to be around.’ His body shifts in my direction. ‘Would you like that, Jasper?’

‘Bee Larkham hasn’t fed the parakeets since Friday. The bird feeders have been empty all weekend.’

The policewoman turns to him. ‘It’s best if you leave, sir. We’ll call on you if we need any help.’

‘If you’re sure.’

He doesn’t move, which is annoying.

‘You can refill the feeders with the bag of seed I gave you, but you’ll have to buy more. You’ll need to keep feeding the parakeets from now on. Twice a day. Also plates of apple and suet. Please don’t forget.’

‘Of course. Whatever you say.’ He strides away, bag swinging against his thigh.

‘Can we talk, Jasper?’ PC Carter asks.

‘In one minute or maybe ninety seconds.’ I watch as Custard Yellow returns to his original mission. The plastic bag billows in the breeze as he turns it upside down and empties the seed into the feeders. There’s not enough to go around all six, but at least three have been half topped up.

Job done.

Custard Yellow sticks his thumb in the air and walks back to his mum’s house.

‘I’m ready to go to the police station now,’ I say, turning to the policewoman. ‘I have to tell you everything that’s happened. I want to confess.’

‘No need for that.’ She talks in small viridian blue staccato sentences. ‘We can talk here. Can we come inside? It’s nothing to worry about. You should have someone with you. You’re on your own, right? Is there someone you want to be here?’

‘I want my mum. She’s the only person I want right now.’

‘That’s OK. Is she at work? We can call her for you. Have you got her telephone number to hand?’

‘You can’t call her. She’s cobalt blue, but the colour’s fading.’ I burst into tears. I can’t help myself. Truly, I can’t. ‘That’s all Bee Larkham’s fault. She diluted Mum’s colour for Dad, mainly Dad, but me too because I didn’t realize what was happening. By the time I noticed it was too late to do anything about it and I’d lost her.’

‘It’s all right, Jasper. Don’t get upset. I’m sorry I upset you. How can we get hold of her?’

‘I don’t know how to bring her back. I don’t know how to bring anyone back from the dead.’

‘Jasper—’

‘I want to bring her back, the baby too. I can’t! I don’t know where the bodies are. Please help me! Help me! I can’t do this. I’m too young. I want to get out of here.’

Her face looms towards me. Then another. I don’t recognize either. A man’s mouthing loud words and unpleasant colours at me, but I don’t know what they are or who he is. I don’t want to study the shades in detail, because I know I’ll hate them. I’ve blocked them out.

His mouth is thin and red, like a gash. It’s opening and closing.

I see ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles again.

They’re going to hurt me. Hurt my tummy.

I scream and scream until the icicles smash and fall away into tiny pieces.

I see nothing.

Nothing except blackness, all around me, pulling me down.