Sleepwalker, p.1
Sleepwalker, page 1
SLEEPWALKER
M. A. HUNTER
For all the dreamers.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
More From M. A. Hunter
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by M. A. Hunter
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
1
NOW
How has it come to this?
The boat continues to bob in time with the sound of waves crashing against the bow. Ahead of us is nothing but a wall of white; the fog fully encompassing the whole vessel now. I don’t envy the captain of the MS Oldenburg having to navigate through this. I can only hope there is state-of-the-art navigational equipment in use, but looking at the rusted bench frames and chipped paint of the well-trodden walkways, it’s hard to imagine anything modern exists onboard.
Affectionately referred to as ‘the old and buggered’, the MS Oldenburg is a ship that was built in the 1950s and, according to the pamphlet I’m clasping, crosses from Bideford and Ilfracombe to Lundy Island three times a week. The twelve-mile trip should take us just short of two hours and as far as any of the other passengers are concerned, Detective Fahey, Max and I are just three acquaintances making the trip from Ilfracombe. I’m grateful Fahey didn’t cuff me before we boarded.
It doesn’t feel real; none of it does. Less than a month ago, Lucy and I were talking about booking a holiday abroad. Somewhere warm with a pool and food that our five-year-old daughter Sienna wouldn’t fuss about. Lundy Island couldn’t be further from that dream. And none of us would ever have imagined I’d be standing trial for murder.
I look over at my brother Max. Over six feet tall, he inherited male pattern baldness from Dad’s side of the family in his early twenties, and now keeps the top of his head fully shaved; a means of exercising what little control over it he has left. I want to ask him for the umpteenth time if this is all just a nightmare from which I seem unable to wake; a bad practical joke that has been taken too far. As angry as I would be to find myself the butt of the joke, I would give absolutely anything for Lucy to still be alive.
Whilst this feels like a waste of everyone’s time, Max assures me it buys him extra time to find Lucy’s real killer.
So much blood… like something out of a horror movie.
Those were the words of the Crime Scene Investigator I overheard from the back of the ambulance while I struggled to make sense of why someone had erected a large white canopy outside my front door. I refused to accept that Lucy was dead until Max entered my room at the hospital and confirmed the devastating news.
But even now, I’ve not come to terms with it.
And the worst part is how they could believe that I am responsible. They claim to have found my bloody prints on the handle of the knife that inflicted the fatal wound, and her blood soaked into my pyjamas. But what they seem unable to accept is that I could never hurt Lucy. I loved – love – her with all my heart, and wouldn’t have been able to do any of the things they are accusing me of.
I thought a person was innocent until proven guilty, but Detective Fahey and his team appear to have attended a different school of thought.
And I genuinely can’t tell whether Max is just using the suggestion that I was sleepwalking when the crime occurred to buy more time to find the real killer, or whether there’s a part of him that actually believes it.
In the UK, a person who commits any offence whilst sleepwalking can be considered not guilty, or ‘legally insane’ if it can be proved the offence occurred while they were asleep. This is how Max explained it to me when he first proposed it as a defence at the plea hearing. I’ve asked him what he believes and he always gives me the same answer: ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe, little brother, only what I can prove.’
Hardly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for, but then Max and I have never been that close. It was a relief when he volunteered to represent me when Fahey arrested me for Lucy’s murder within days of me being released from the hospital. They don’t seem to care that I suffered a blow to the back of the head the same night that Lucy and I were discovered in the kitchen, and that I have no recollection of what really happened.
What’s more logical: that I was sleepwalking, stabbed my wife to death, and somehow managed to knock myself unconscious; or that someone broke into our home, knocked me unconscious, and murdered my wife?
We’re sitting against a railing that would do very little to stop anyone falling overboard. I’m not the strongest of swimmers, so any attempt to escape into the choppy, icy waters would fail before it began. And with the fog as thick as it is, it would be so easy to become lost anyway.
Fahey doesn’t speak, his cheeks an unnatural shade of green, but I’ve never been a fan of small talk anyway. What would we talk about? He’s already warned me that he won’t answer any questions about the investigation. And as far as he is concerned, he’s caught his suspect. What troubles me most is the prospect that they’re no longer looking for alternative suspects.
Max returns, pocketing his phone and pulling his coat around him. I’d give anything for a hot drink to fight off the chill, but the Oldenburg doesn’t have any refreshment facilities. I should get up and move about, but I don’t want to give Fahey the wrong idea. Max has already told me not to do anything that might cast further suspicion, but it’s almost as if he’s also forgotten I’m an innocent party in all of this. I’m not sure either appreciate just how much I’ve lost.
No, correction: just how much has been taken away from me. Lucy’s body has yet to be released by the coroner, which means we’ve not been allowed to lay her to rest. How am I supposed to process my grief when I haven’t had the chance to say goodbye? Although I was discovered beside her, my last memory of Lucy is of her laughing, so none of this feels real. And I would give anything to suddenly wake and for the nightmare to be over.
‘Shouldn’t be too much longer,’ Max says, blowing warm air into his hands. ‘We should be able to see the island soon enough.’
Three miles long and half a mile wide, Lundy Island lies off the coast of North Devon where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Bristol Channel, and is a National Trust property. There are no hotels or lodgings available, according to the pamphlet, and the only method of transportation is the Oldenburg’s twice-daily visit. Anyone who misses the crossing back will have to battle the elements, and at this time of year, it isn’t something I’d want to face.
The island is also the base for the Lundy Clinic for the Study of Sleep Disorders. Max has promised that they will be able to fully assess my mental state and predisposition to sleepwalking in less than a week. Again, this is going to be a waste of time, because they will conclude that I don’t sleepwalk, which only serves to support my assertion that someone else killed Lucy. So what is Max really hoping is going to happen while I’m locked inside the clinic? All I can pray is that he has some masterplan up his sleeve, and this week will buy him the time to implement it.
The only way he could convince the judge was telling stories of when I sleepwalked as a child; stories I have no recollection of either. And I’m certain that if it is something that continues to affect me, then Lucy would have mentioned it. And I’m also sure that members of my various forces’ teams wouldn’t have kept it a secret.
Fahey stands suddenly, clutching his mouth, and tells us not to go anywhere, before hurrying towards the toilet sign. The fog is so thick here that Fahey disappears from sight before he’s even made it to the door into the hull. The irony that a similar impenetrable fog surrounds my own memory isn’t lost on me.
Why can’t I remember what happened that night? The swelling to my head is gone, and I’m no longer suffering with the agonising headaches, and yet the glaring hole remains. I overheard Max on the phone yesterday asking one of the medical specialists whether the lack of memory could be as a result of disassociation; that I could have killed Lucy and been so shocked by my actions that my own psyche has wiped it from my mind like someone deleting a file on a computer. When he caught me eavesdropping, he was quick to reassure me that he’s simply playing devil’s advocate and trying to pre-empt what the prosecutors will ask, but the look on his face told me he’s not totally convinced by my protestations. What chance have I got if I can’t even convince my solicitor – my only brother – that I didn’t do it?
The boat rises and drops, and my stomac
‘Planning your escape?’ Max murmurs beside me.
I don’t answer, shaking my head instead.
‘Nobody would blame you,’ he continues quietly. ‘Given everything you’re facing, and what’s happened…’
‘I have no reason to run,’ I say firmly. ‘I didn’t kill Lucy and I’m going to prove it one way or another.’
He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, before offering me the packet. I shake my head, though I could do with something to take the edge off. I cough as his exhaled smoke blows into my face. He apologises, and stands, moving across to the other side of the ship, and leans over the railing. I’m so cold that I also stand, and move about to try to get the blood pumping. I move to the front railing and try to peer through the fog in search of the island, but it’s no good. There could be land a stone’s throw ahead of us and we wouldn’t see it until too late.
And then suddenly, there’s a break in the dense swirl, and a dark shadow appears on the horizon. The boat begins to slow, and as the mist continues to disperse, the shadow begins to take shape. Spiky shards pierce the thick blanket of cloud, and as we near, the shadows take on hues of dark green and brown as the scale of the large hilly mass becomes apparent. It’s as if someone took a giant moss-covered rock and dropped it into the water. It’s like something out of a horror movie, the kind of place that is probably very pleasant in the right conditions, but just looks sinister in low light. I can’t escape the feeling that nothing good will come of this.
2
We head towards a long wooden pontoon cut into the water, and the boat begins to slow as we near. Fahey appears beside me, and he takes my wrist in his hand as if to remind me that I’m not a free man. He continues to hold on to my arm as the boat docks and the other passengers head along the drawbridge to dry land. It is only when everyone else is off that we venture forwards. It feels like I am being led somewhere from which there is no return.
Whilst the rest of the passengers have headed towards the left of the pontoon, where a sign confirms the start of the marked trail around the island, we venture to the right, where a track leads up and around the hill directly in front of us. A man with a prematurely grey beard, dressed in a navy-blue overcoat, is standing beside a large map stencilled into a placard of wood. He approaches Max and extends a hand.
‘You must be Max Meredith, right?’
There’s a Belfast twang to the bearded man’s accent, and he gives me a serious frown as Max shakes his hand and introduces me and Fahey. He makes no effort to shake my hand, but there’s no look of fear or concern behind his grey eyes.
‘My name is Stuart Coyle and I’m the facility director and clinical lead. I thought it only right to come down and meet you all personally. How was your crossing?’
‘Choppy,’ Max replies. ‘Is the clinic far?’
‘Only a five-minute walk. I hope that’s okay? There are no motor vehicles allowed on the island, so we either have to walk or run. The choice is yours.’
What kind of place prohibits motor vehicles? I can’t escape the feeling that my living nightmare has taken a darker turn, and I’m being imprisoned here against my will.
Coyle leads the way, Max beside him, and Fahey with an ever-watchful eye next to me. A more natural colour has returned to his cheeks now that we’re on dry land, and I’m the one feeling sick to the gills. Is this what it feels like being marched to the gallows?
‘Have any of you been to Lundy Island before?’ Coyle asks.
‘No, never,’ Max answers for all of us.
‘Well, I’d offer to give you a whistlestop tour, but there isn’t much here really. There’s a small street of houses on the south side of the island for the twenty-eight of us who call the island home. The majority of those work at our facility, whilst a handful of others run the bar and café for the visiting tourists.’
I catch sight of a monument as we pass. A bronze statue of a bearded figure in a cloak and hood, a cross in one hand, with the other pointing back out to sea. There is text etched on a tablet near the statue’s feet, but when I try to read it, I realise it is written in Latin.
‘For the souls of all who are lost,’ Coyle translates when he sees me reading it. ‘This is St Brendan the Navigator, Lundy’s shrine to all those who’ve died traversing these rough waters, whether through sinking or misadventure.’
He looks at me directly as he says this, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I stare back out to sea, the mainland cut off by the thick wall of fog. I’ve never felt so isolated, and all I want to do is get back home where Sienna is waiting for me. It’s been too long since I spoke to her, and I promise myself that as soon as I’m settled, I’ll find a phone and call her.
I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s going through, with her mum gone and now her dad ripped from her life. I know Lucy’s sister Geraldine will do a great job of taking care of her, but she shouldn’t have to. It should be me helping Sienna to process her grief, and her helping me.
Maybe I should have instructed Max not to pursue this course of action. Maybe I should have just pleaded not guilty and allowed the judicial system to run its course. On the stand, I know I could convince a jury of how much I love Lucy, and if they could see how much pain I’m in, they’d see through Fahey’s mistake. They’d see that I couldn’t possibly have killed Lucy. At least then I’d be at home and better able to support Sienna.
Is it too late to tell all this to Max now? Surely he could reach the judge and advise that me being at this clinic is just a waste of everyone’s time. The judge could then tear up the order that I be detained here for the next week and we can get back to finding Lucy’s real killer. Ultimately, that’s what we’re going to have to do when Coyle and his team conclude that I am not someone who sleepwalks. But I can’t get to Max. He’s several metres in front, in deep conversation with Coyle, and with Fahey and I struggling to keep pace with them, a greater gap is growing.
‘Hold on there,’ Fahey says with more than just a hint of warning in his voice. ‘You might have convinced everyone else that you didn’t stab your wife, but the evidence tells me a very different story. You can continue to lie to yourself, tell yourself that you didn’t commit this heinous crime, but at some point you’re going to have to come to terms with what you did. And for the sake of your daughter, I hope that you realise the truth sooner rather than later. She deserves to know why her mum died, and she deserves a father who doesn’t lie.’
I know now that there is nothing I’m going to be able to say or do to convince him of my innocence. As far as he is concerned, he’s solved the case, and that means he won’t even contemplate the possibility that someone else could have killed Lucy. If Max can’t find the person responsible and somehow obtain their confession, I have no way of proving my innocence.
Coyle continues to lead the way up and around the hill until we reach what looks like an abandoned hotel. It stands out against the blanket of thick cloud blocking out the sky. The paintwork is grey and weathered, and the windows on the front side are covered in grime. It looks like the sort of building they use in horror movies; devoid of any kind of life. If it wasn’t for Coyle leading us here, I never would have guessed this is supposed to be a state-of-the-art facility.
‘Welcome to the Lundy Clinic,’ Coyle says, with a smile on his face that could belong to the devil himself.
3
It’s only when we’ve entered through the automated doors that I finally accept we’re in the right place. The reception area is the total opposite to the decrepit exterior. The carpet is a deep maroon colour and must be relatively new as I can feel the bounce of the tread as I walk across it. The walls are clinically white, and there is a gentle hum of air conditioning. The place is so tall and airy, like we’ve walked into an airport lounge. I can almost picture suited pilots wheeling their cases along with a smile on their faces and a twinkle in their eyes.
The other thing that makes me think of an airport is the presence of four men in dark green shirts and trousers, carefully stationed at each corner of the room. The radios clipped to their belts and their athletic physiques mark them out as security, but it isn’t yet clear to me whether they’re a permanent fixture or have been drafted in because of me. The fact that there are no other patients or guests in the square room is also a red flag, though it wouldn’t surprise me if everyone is on high alert as a suspected murderer arrives. Although Max hasn’t said it in so many words, I know it was he who arranged this stay, and had to get the judge to agree to the assessment being carried out here. Just how much Stuart Coyle and the rest of the clinic team knows of this isn’t yet clear, but given they’ll be supplying their report to the judge, they must have some detail of what’s happened.
