Chapter 23

Michael

“Think he’ll be talkative?”

James shrugs. “Who can guess with that bastard?” He casts down. “Charlotte?”

She’s tight, controlled, hands shoved in the pockets of her jeans. “It’s okay. I’m alright.”

Mmmm…

The guard at the counter goes through the usual rigmarole…

Got to have their procedures I suppose…

… sliding the daybook across the counter. He taps a cracked fingernail on the bottom row. “Name and
signature there, sir. And some ID, please.”

I hand over my driving license. “I’ll just be a moment.” The guard scans the license, stapling the copy to
the rest of his paperwork, passes it back then turns to James. “Now you, sir.”

He repeats the performance with James and Charlotte, then “And your car keys, please.” I hand them
over and he hangs them on a keyboard at the back of the reception area. “Thank you, sir. You can go
through now.”

The interview room is as dismal as ever…

Can’t they ever give these places some fresh paint?

And a couple of extra light-bulbs…



Footsteps have trailed a path over worn linoleum and the reek of cigarette smoke competes with stale
cabbage.

Klempner’s waiting, sitting behind the barrier. His gaze flicks between me and James then settles on
Charlotte as she takes her seat facing him. “Thank you for coming.” His expression is schooled flat but
polite, his tone just as much so.

She flushes. “You’re welcome.”

The prison-issue clothes are shabby, but well pressed, immaculate, his hair well cut, fingernails
trimmed and clean.

He sits with his hands on the counter, fingers interwoven, thumbs circling each other as though this
were no more than a job interview or perhaps a niece visiting a favourite uncle.

Ignoring me and James, “And what would you like to talk about today?”

I push the paper up to the barrier. “Does that mean anything to you?”

His gaze flicks to mine then to the paper. He leans in, looking more closely. “An address? Should it?”
He radiates boredom.

Faked?

“I found it in the police files. Supposedly it was the last known address for Charlotte’s mother.”

Klempner’s cheek twitches...

… Yes, faked…

“I’m guessing you visited?” he says. “What did you find?”



“We tried to visit, but the address no longer exists and hasn’t for a long time. There’s a supermarket
and a car park on the site now.”

Klempner sucks his teeth. “It may have been a dead end to begin with. Bech was fairly creative about
muddying the records. It was a good part of what he did; keeping the dogs sniffing in the wrong
direction...”

A shudder runs through Charlotte, seated next to me. Klempner’s gaze flickers to her, his face a blank.
Under the counter, I lay a hand on her thigh and she settles.

“So the address was bogus in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” Klempner inhales. “It probably was. I lost track of her. And Bech…” He pauses.

“What?”

“Nothing, just thinking.”

“About what?”

His head tilts back. He regards Charlotte under lowered lids. “Bech wasn’t happy about Mitch,” he says
eventually. “It’s possible he tried to misdirect me too.”

“I thought he was your reliable henchman?”

“And who told you that?”

Assumptions…?

Charlotte breaks in. “Bech… Corby as I knew him… He knew my mother? He didn’t like her?”

“No, he didn’t. But then, Bech didn’t really like anyone but Bech. He had his own agenda.”



“Which was?”

“Making himself very wealthy.”

“So why did you work with him?”

“He was efficient… most of the time anyway. He generally had good ideas and could put them into
practice. It was his suggestion that I send you to that farm up north.”

She inhales sharply.

She okay?

I try to take her hand in mine, but she tugs it away.

“But why? I thought I was going to be punished for murder, but I woke up there.”

“Murder?” Klempner frowns. “Why would you think that?”

“Supervisor Jenkins…” she suddenly swallows her words.

“Jenkins was hit by a truck. Why…?”

Better stop this…

I interrupt. “So why did you send her to that farm?”

He ignores me, addressing Charlotte. “Jenkins was dead. I had to get you out of the way. Left to his
own devices, Bech would almost certainly have killed you. Or arranged that you died. I wanted you
alive.”

“So you sent me to the farm and set a spy on me? Why there?”



He taps a forefinger, the nail click-clicking on tired formica.

“I wanted you to grow up like your mother.”

Christ!

Charlotte recoils. Shock ricochets over her face. “You wanted me as a substitute for her? Is that it?”

“You could put it that way, yes.”

“For what? To take your revenge on me? Because she left you?”

He leans forward on folded arms, his face almost touching the grill. “You got it right the first time. I
wanted you as a substitute for her.”

Why is he saying all this?

Admitting this?

Charlotte leans forward too, her face almost meeting his save for the barrier. “You imagine I would have
wanted you?” she hisses. “Fallen in love with you? Is that what you mean? After the way you treated
me when I was little? It’s been over twenty years. You’re obsessed. You’re fucking obsessed!”

The guard moves to stand behind Klempner, poking a baton between his shoulders. “Behave yourself,
Larry...”

There is something in the guard's stance; something in his expression…

He dislikes Klempner?

Really dislikes him?



Something personal?

And Klempner’s face…

“… If you go upsetting your visitors, you’ll not be getting any more of them.”

Looking for an excuse to cut his privileges?

Klempner’s eyes flash sidelong, fury glittering there. Just for a moment…

The monster…

… before he schools his features to a more normal expression; apparent passivity… “Yes, Mr
Hartland.”

Apparent meekness.

Apparent obedience.

All fake.

What’s going on?

James lays a hand on Charlotte’s. “Calm down,” he murmurs. “It’s past.” It’s the first thing he’s said.

I want to think about what I just saw, but my thoughts are cut short…

Charlotte shuffles in her chair. She and Klempner eye-ball each other. After long seconds he says, “So
what would you like to talk about?”

The rage drains from her. “Will you tell me something about my mother?” There’s pleading in her voice.
“Something personal.”



His head inclines, eyes unfocusing, seemingly looking into some far distance. “She had a thing for
butterflies.”

"Butterflies? A thing? What do you mean?"

“I mean, she liked butterflies. She had a small tattoo on the back of her shoulder, just there.” He
reaches back, tapping behind himself. “And she’d painted one on the wall of her apartment.”

“She was artistic? A painter? A good painter?”

“What I saw of her work was very good. Very realistic.” He sucks at his teeth. “Almost eerily so actually.
She could have made a living as an artist had she chosen that route.”

Charlotte seems to run out of words. Klempner regards her, then continues, “She always seemed to be
wearing butterflies on herself somewhere... slippers, pyjamas...”

Charlotte sits back in her chair. “Pyjamas?”

“Yes, pyjamas.” He sucks in his cheeks, looking amused. “What’s so surprising about that?”

She mumbles a bit. “Didn't have it down as a pyjamas kind of relationship.”

In a tone like a desert, “Long story.”

Her eyes lift to his. “Would you tell me about it?”

“Maybe,” he muses. “Perhaps the next time you come to see me.”

Her face sets. “Why not now?”

“It will encourage you to visit me again.”



“Oh… What else?”

Klempner gets that distant look again. “She wore a necklace with one too, a butterfly that is. A little
silver thing. Just a trinket, but she was fond of it.”

Charlotte sits back, her mouth opening and closing. Then she dives for her bag, scrabbling inside.
Klempner watches the performance with a raised brow. He glances at me with a questioning eye. I
shrug. He avoids James’ eye.

From the purse she pulls something; the photograph, holding it up to the grill. “Is that it? The necklace.
That she’s wearing there?”

Klempner blinks, glances, then stiffens, looking more closely. “Well, what are the chances? Where the
hell did you get hold of that?”

“Michael found it in some old records… The missing persons file on my father.” Her hand is shaking. “Is
that it? The necklace she’s wearing?”

Klempner glances at her, his eyes narrowing, then he turns his attention back to the photo. “I'd like a
closer look.”

He looks to the guard who snaps fingers at the photo. Charlotte passes it to him. He gives it a cursory
inspection, then nods.

Charlotte slides it under the grill and Klempner takes it carefully…

Something precious?

… then sits staring at it.

“Is that the necklace you were talking about?”



“Yes… Yes, it is.” His voice is quiet as he looks up. “Your father gave it to her.”

“That's him in the photo.?”

“Yes, that’s Conners.”

“Were you still friends then?”

“Yes.” But the monosyllable lacks conviction.

Charlotte doesn’t seem to notice. “When was it? Where was it?”

Klempner’s words are slow. “Towards the end, before... before...” He holds up the photo. “Can I keep
this?”

Charlotte flushes then swallows. “It's the only one I have.”

I slip a hand over hers. Her flesh is icy. “It's a copy of the original. James can make you another.”

Her fingers tighten into mine. She swings to James. “You're sure?” He nods without speaking.

“Then yes, if you want it, you can have it.”

“Thank you.” Klempner sits silently gazing at the image. “I still have that necklace you know. If you like,
you can have it.”

“You have it?” Charlotte's voice trembles. “Why do you have it?”

“Another long story. But your father gave it to your mother. Since she's not here, I suppose that makes
it rightfully yours.”

Her voice wavering, “I thought they didn't let you keep things like that in prison.”



“They don't. I didn’t say I have it here. But I can have it sent to you. Perhaps at those Haswell offices
where you spend so much time?”

She sits bolt upright, dragging her hand from mine. “Why would you take that kind of trouble? You hate
me.”

He sits back, chews at a lip. “I used to hate you. That's true…”

“For something I had nothing to do with…”

“Your father...” He stalls then holds up the photo. “Quid pro quo. You give me something. I give you
something.”

“Is that really it?” asks James.

Klempner folds his arms, a sneer flirting over his mouth, staring him down.

James stares back.

Never try to out-stare a cat…

Where did I hear that?

Charlotte looks between the two of them then, “Why did it fail? Between you and my mother? Because
she was afraid of you?”

Klempner holds her eyes for a long pause before speaking. “It ended like that, yes. But... there was
something about her well before then. As though she couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?”

He shrugs. “Mitch was damaged goods.”



“What’s that supposed to mean. Damaged?”

“She had no capacity to love.”

She gives him a look like a blade. “While you do? You mean she didn't love you?”

He sits back, folding his arms. “No, she didn’t.”

“She loved my father though…”

His head tilts. “I’m not convinced of that.”

“But she married him?”

“It’s not actually necessary to love someone to marry them.”

“Did you want to marry her?”

“It didn’t get that far. But yes, I wanted her. I wanted her to be with me.”

“But she didn’t want you.” Her voice drips contempt.

“I’m not convinced of that either. There was something else. Something stopping her from… from giving
herself…”

“And from that, you deduce that she had no capacity to love?”

“Why would she have left you at Blessingmoors?”

James sucks air through his teeth.

Klempner leans forward again, folded arms resting on the counter. “She knew I had you. She knew
where you would be. But she never came for you. I believed she would. But she didn’t.”



Charlotte, white-faced, could be carved in stone. I take her hand again, curling warm fingers around her
cold ones. “You don't believe in softening the blow do you?”

Klempner inhales. “I thought you came to talk; to ask me what happened. Do you want the truth or do
you want a fairy tale?”

Charlotte whispers. “I want the truth to be a fairy tale.”

The aggression seems to drain from him. “And whatever led you to think life is like that?”

There’s a shudder running through her fingers to mine. “It can be.”

“Yes?” He picks at his teeth, extracting a morsel of something. “Is that why you married Eye-Candy
here…?” He nods to me… “And him too?” He jerks a thumb at James.

She tugs her fingers from mine again, hissing, “What turns a man into something like you? What
happened to you? I can’t believe people like you are born. You’re damaged goods too. Where do you
come from? What made you?”

And now, he sits frozen. Like a scene from some over-acted movie with the bad guys waiting it out,
they stare at each other. James stirs, but I give him the smallest of head-shakes and he settles again.

“You're brighter than your mother was, you know.”

“Are you saying my mother was stupid?”

“No, not at all. She was… streetwise, and she believed in self-education. But she was limited. Not good
with the larger picture.”

“What are you suggesting?” asks James. “That Charlotte inherited her intelligence from her father?”



Klempner's brow furrows. “Actually, no. Now you ask, Conners was efficient and a good businessman.
Reliable. But he was no bright bulb.”

Charlotte, war in her eyes, interrupts. “Are you going to answer my question? What happened to you?
How did you become a killer?”

His head bows. At length, he looks up again. “What is it to you? My past?”

“You stole my life from me. Or tried to. You robbed me of my mother. You murdered my father and God
knows how many other people have died because of you. You’ve cast a shadow over my entire life.”

“And yet,” he drawls, “you’re here.”

“You're a slaver…” He shrugs. “A rapist…”

He jerks back. “No.”

“Yes. You’re a rapist. You sold women, and girls and boys to the gang-masters and…”

“I've never raped,” he insists. “Your mother…” He stops.

“You’re a murderer. You’re not denying that?”

He exhales, eyelids drooping.

“How does that happen? Who was the first person you killed?”

Another of those drawn-out silences, then, “Since you insist, it was my father. But it wasn’t murder. It
was self-defence.”

Charlotte’s jaw drops. She sits, her mouth opening and closing until, “How old were you?”



He squeezes his eyes closed, rubbing at his forehead, “Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Does it matter?”

“Why? Why did you do it?”

“It was him or me. He was beating me… going to kill me. I got him first.”

She stares at him. “Your father was a monster, and he turned you into a monster...”

He simply waits, less response than a stone.

At length, Charlotte says, “What about your mother?”

“She was gone long before that.”

“She left you?”

He hesitates. “She was gone.” His face sets.

Enough…

“I think we've talked enough today,” I say. James Hmmphs agreement.

Klempner raises weary eyes. “I'd say so, yes.” He looks to Charlotte. “Thank you for the photo. When
you come to visit again, I'll tell you about it.”

Her eyes shooting arrows. “And the necklace? You said…”

“I’ll have it sent to you.” His eyes soften. He actually smiles.

Weird or what…

“… Think of it as an early birthday present.”



She blinks a couple of times. “Birthday present? That would be early…”

He holds up palms. “All right, it’s out by a few weeks, but it’s not as though I can hold to a timetable in
here, is it?”

James, half-standing, one hand on the counter, pushes himself upright against his bad leg…

Charlotte licks her lips…

The wheels turning….

“But… my birthday’s in October…”

Klempner nods, casually at first then, stiffening, his voice tensing, “October? October? What date?”

“Um… thirty-first. Why? What does it matter?”

Klempner stands, “October thirty-first?” His voice drops to nothing. “How old are you, Jenny?”

“I’m twenty-five. Twenty-six next… Why? What does it matter?”

Christ...

Is this going where I think…?

James casts me a look of rising alarm.

“You’re sure of that?” Klempner’s lips move. Nothing else does.

“Well… yes. Michael found my birth-certificate but why…?” Charlotte stops in mid-sentence, backing
away a step. “No.”

“Jenny…”



“No!”

Hands raised, pressed to his temples. “Oh, Christ. What have I done?”

“No!” Charlotte screams the word.

“You're mine,” he says. “I always believed you were Conners', but you're mine.”

Her breath comes in short sharp bursts. “You can't know that. You said my mother... That she... you
said she was a prostitute. It could have been anyone…”

“I took her away, that Christmas… I tried to persuade her, to make her mine. There was only the two of
us. And when we came back, she never... I'm sure of it. Jenny, you're mine.”

“You're not my father!” She stumbles backwards, pressing herself against the wall. “You’re not my
father.” She’s shrieking. “You are not my father!”

Klempner is ashen. He looks ill. Holding out hands, palms outstretched… “Jenny... Charlotte…”

“You're not my father!” She keeps screaming the words, close to hysterical. I pull her in, enclose her in
my arms. The guard, Hartland, wide-eyed, gives me the nod. “You want me to...?

“No, it's alright. We need to deal with this.”

He backs away, but he’s muttering into his phone.

James, his nose almost pressed against the barrier. “You beat her, starved her and locked her in the
dark with the corpses of the murdered. And you wonder why she doesn't want to know you? Why she
would deny you?”

The door behind Klempner bursts open, guards stampeding through. Half a dozen sets of hands clamp
around his shoulders, his arms… Unresisting, he’s hustled away.



*****


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