by A D FOX
You need to talk to someone about this. The sensible voice in her head; her mother’s, most likely, was right. She did need to talk to someone. But who? Joanna? Oh god, no.
Upstairs her younger brother Francis was probably pulling an all-nighter on some online computer game. She could go up and sit next to him and tell him what she was thinking. Trouble was, Francis barely knew Lucas from back then; back when he was best friends with their sister Mabel and her friend Zoe. Francis had been only seven when Mabel disappeared and Zoe was found murdered in the quarry. His memory even of Mabel was hazy, he admitted these days. They kept her photo in amongst the collection of family shots by the front door, along with pictures of their late mother; they wanted to keep both alive in their memory. You never knew what you’d lose next in this life. This was probably the reason she and Francis had opted to convert the family home into two flats, so they could keep an eye on each other in case death or disappearance threatened again. It was a nice location, too; a quiet street of Edwardian houses with long sloping back gardens that led down to the river. Their mother had bought it not long after she’d accepted her daughter was never coming back; giving them a fresh start in a new home… and a new name to match. No longer Johanssen but Sparrow, her maiden name. They still lived in Salisbury but just far enough away from their old life to give them some respite from the compassionate glances and hushed conversations in the post office; the kind smiles at the school gates.
That name change was the reason it had taken Lucas so long to twig their connection. Because he had worked it out, eventually; that Detective Sergeant Kate Sparrow was the little sister of Mabel, the girl he’d dowsed for and never found. It can’t have been easy for him to make the discovery. Getting involved again with the Wiltshire Constabulary had been hard enough after what had happened when he was fifteen.
And the kicker was, she felt responsible - partly. She was the one who’d got Mum to call Lucas when Mabel didn’t come home. She was the one who’d said that Lucas could dowse for Mabel and Zoe. Mum had begged him to do it, of course. So he’d come over to their place and then got out Sid, his little blue bottle stopper on a chain, and dowsed a path all the way to the quarry.
Kate hadn’t seen Zoe’s body. She hadn’t gone down into the quarry with them. She had been made to wait in the car. She still heard her mother’s scream, though. She could hear it right now as she lay staring into the sleepless dark; could see the flock of startled rooks scattering into the sky through the smeared side window of the old Nissan Micra. She remembered the police arriving and then Lucas being put into the patrol car, a copper’s hand on the crown of his head. She remembered wondering why.
Of course, it was obvious, when they thought about it later, why the police would suspect Lucas. He had, after all, led everyone directly to the scene of the crime and Zoe’s body. Who else but the killer would know where to go? It had been a grim time for him. He was only saved by his mother’s insistence that Lucas had been at home with her when the pathologist said Zoe’s life had ended. But he wasn’t saved. Not really. Although his name had never been printed in the local papers - he was legally still a child and so given anonymity - rumour got out. There were eggs thrown at the car and then graffiti sprayed on the house. The school asked Lucas not to return except for his GCSE exams, explaining that it would be much easier for him to stay away. Lucas’s mother, always a little free with the wine, did not cope well. She was sacked from her job at the bank after being found inebriated at her desk.
Soon after, they moved away and that was the last Kate had heard of him for a decade and a half… until earlier that year when a friend of a neighbour mentioned something about his aunt dying and Lucas being the sole heir to her modest estate. Then she’d set out to mess his life up again by dragging him into the Runner Grabber case.
Bloody good thing for her that she had, or she’d most likely be a desiccated corpse by now.
Not so bloody good for Lucas. Especially now that he’d stupidly helped her out again. Why the hell did he have to do that? Why put himself on the line again, for someone who had used him and abused him in the line of her work… and then refused to see him. Why?
Did he have something to atone for?
She realised she had been staring at the dark ceiling for a solid twenty minutes or more, her unhelpful mind turning Lucas Henry over and over. There was something he was hiding; she knew it. But what? Even now her mind skittered away from the darkest of her suspicions. Wouldn’t quite frame even the thought. But the thought, framed or not, drifted around in the deepest pockets of her psyche, like the hint of a shadow on an X-ray, or the whisper of a growing infestation in the basement.
With a groan of frustration she flung back the duvet and got up to make a cup of tea, switching the radio back on and carrying it with her into the kitchen. With a full mug she sat at the small pine table and found herself instinctively reaching for the cardboard packet. She got the plasticine out and started making snails, rolling fat little bodies out of the brown and then making twisted coils of yellow and green to put on their backs. The unpleasant fizzing inside her began to subside a little and time passed gently.
‘I think you need to work on your golden ratio.’ She jumped and looked around to see Francis peering around her kitchen door. He held up his key to her flat and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry… just saw your light was on. Was worried.’
She blinked and shook her head. ‘I might have been having mind-blowing sex with someone. You’d have needed therapy for life. Anyway… what golden ratio?’
Her brother grinned, leaning in the kitchen doorway, his fair hair messy and definite signs of ketchup on his sweatshirt. He really needed to get out more. ‘The Fibonacci number sequence. A snail’s shell perfectly follows the rule of the golden ratio. The divine proportion - sixty-two to thirty-eight - is found everywhere in nature. A snail’s shell is the perfect example. Except when it’s rendered in plasticine in the small hours by my messed up sister.’
‘Hmmpf,’ she commented. She was about to say he was just as messed up as she was, but in truth he looked absolutely fine. He was pretty much nocturnal, communicating with friends and work colleagues all over the world from his computer set up in the study he’d built upstairs.
‘What’s the plasticine about then?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Therapy. A suggestion from Joanna.’
‘Is it helping?’ he asked, smiling gently. He was very paternal about her these days, which was irksome when he was three years her junior.
‘I’ll let you know,’ she said. ‘Bugger off back to your world wide web of wonders. I’m going back to bed… soon.’
He nodded. ‘We should go out some time. Like normal people,’ he said, as he walked away.
‘We should,’ she said, smiling. ‘We will.’ She sighed and then went back to her snails, peering at the undivine proportions of the spiral shells and trying to improve them. She was teasing out their little feelers with her finger tips as Josh Carnegy said: ‘I can’t believe it, but we’re out of time,’ over the swell of the BBC news intro music. ‘Once again, thank you all for sharing the wee small hours with me. Tomorrow we’ve got the book of the week review, a brand new Where and When quiz and obviously loads of calls from you lot. Nanight folks. Sleep well.’
He sounded like he meant it and she could imagine a lot of lonely wakeful listeners snuggling down and finally switching off for the night.
She just wished she was one of them.
Josh slid his mic fader shut and then pressed an assortment of buttons to give control of BBC Radio Wessex’s output over to the guys at 5 Live.
Then he powered everything down to stand-by in Studio B and gathered his coat and bag. He noticed a text from Rob on his phone asking him to come back in at midday. Well… that could be interesting. Maybe the boss was finally going to talk to him about coming off nights. Maybe everything he’d done would turn out to be worth it.
He texted back: Sure. See you then.
Then he headed out through the empty, silent newsroom, lit only by the endless flicker of the News 24 screens, descended the rear stairwell and went out through the garage where the radio car, the VERVs and a couple of pool cars were parked. He was particularly twitchy tonight; he felt like he was being watched all the time these days, like someone was going to slap a hand on his shoulder at any moment.
But there was nobody in here with him and nobody outside either. He wished he’d got a car. He could drive but he’d never got around to buying something; his flat was only a twenty minute walk away from the radio station and BBC local radio pay wasn’t really enough to justify the expense. He might have felt safer, though, getting into a car and driving out through the electronic gate, windows up and doors locked.
He took a deep breath and opened the footpath exit. On the other side there was nobody at all.
Just a tin. A Marks & Spencer biscuit tin. On the low wall right by the gate. His own publicity postcard was stuck to it. He stared at it for several seconds, his heart racing, and then leaned over and flipped off the lid. Inside were flapjacks, about a dozen of them, sending up a sickly sweet waft of oats and syrup. Of course. He’d mentioned last night that he loved a nice flapjack.
‘What the fuck, Finley,’ he muttered, putting the lid back on with a shudder.
He took the gift with him to the nearest bin and shoved it inside, wondering how his life had gone so wrong and twisted that he now spent his nights getting freaked out by an empty garage and a tin of flapjacks.
Had it all been worth it?
10
‘Sheila, I hate to call you in the dead of night,’ said Rob. He pictured her on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, her beloved cat on her lap… or maybe in bed; she had an early start after all.
‘What’s up?’ she said, sounding perfectly bright.
‘I was worried I might wake you.’ He poured a glass of red for himself, hoping it might steady him, and sat down at his kitchen table.
‘Me? Oh no - I was taking a look at Mars. It’s a lovely clear sky tonight. Tried to see it up at the Rollestone observatory last night with the Astronomy Society but it clouded over.’
‘Oh… only I thought as you’d got an early start in the morning…’
‘Oh, I slept this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Got three hours. I sleep in shifts all the time; especially when I know I’m going out stargazing; it works a treat. Anyway, what’s up?’
‘You might want to sit down.’
‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘That sounds serious. Are you offering me the breakfast slot?’ She giggled and he knew she was only half joking. She’d been angling for the permanent gig for years, clueless to how badly suited to it she was. She didn't even have any journalism training, for god’s sake. She’d joined the station as a secretary back when they still edited with razor blades and sticky tape.
‘Sheila… Dave Perry is dead.’
There was silence at the end of the phone and then an exhalation. ‘Shit,’ said Sheila. Not a word often heard from her lips. ‘What happened? Did he have a stroke or something? He’s always drunk way too much.’
‘No,’ said Rob. He gulped. ‘Sheila, he was murdered.’
Another silence and then: ‘What? No! Oh my god. How? Where? Who killed him?’
‘I’m telling you this now because it’s bound to get out. It’ll probably be all over the commercial stations’ news by tomorrow morning; I wanted to warn you. I think we’re going to have to go with this as our lead story. Just be brave and open up to the listeners - turn tomorrow’s show into a phone-in memorial, remembering Dave. Do you think you can handle that?’
‘But… I mean… wait a minute. I still don’t understand. Who would want to kill him? Was it someone’s husband?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what the police are looking into,’ said Rob. ‘They told me about Dave earlier this evening; I’m still in shock myself. They want to come in and interview all the staff tomorrow. I’m drawing up a rota for them to work through. I shouldn’t really be telling you anything but I thought you needed to be prepared. I’ll be getting in at five to brief James and Gemma and whoever’s on the news shift.’
‘But you still haven't told me how he was killed?’ Sheila sounded shrill, on the edge of hysteria.
‘Asphyxiation,’ said Rob. ‘That’s all I know. We won’t be going into details on air, of course. Not unless one of our competitors gets ahead of us. I’m expecting to get calls from the Journal and Spire FM and probably the nationals and network too.’
‘Oh my god; he was strangled,’ she murmured. ‘That’s it then - it’s got to be a husband. Dave always had a thing for the married ones. I told him it would come back to bite him one day. Never thought it would end like this though. A punch-up, maybe, but…’
‘Well, nobody knows just yet,’ said Rob. ‘Sheila… are you up to this? I can get Spencer and Jack in if you think it’s going to be too-’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. It should be me. I’ve known Dave longer than anyone else on the station.’ She sniffed. ‘I can’t believe it. When did it happen?’
‘They think some time over the weekend,’ he said. ‘The body wasn’t found until today. Out Shrewton way.’
‘Oh my god,’ she said, ‘I was up that way myself on the weekend, with the Society. In fact, I’m pretty sure you were too. Didn’t I see you near Donna’s place?’ Despite the gravity of this discussion, a slightly teasing note entered her voice. He knew there were rumours about him and his PA.
‘Sheila - you need to get some sleep. We both do,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow is going to be the day from hell.’
11
Chief Superintendent Rav Kapoor sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re serious?
‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Lucas Henry. He says he picked up a signed postcard at the station yesterday after overhearing the presenter and the receptionist saying Dave Perry was missing. Then he got… you know… a dowsing thing going. He followed it and found the body.’
‘But he didn’t call you? Or us?’
She shifted awkwardly on the plastic seat in front of his desk. ‘Well… he’s not had a great time with the Wiltshire Constabulary over the past few weeks, has he? He got tasered twice, for a start. He wanted to stay anonymous this time. You kind of can’t blame him for not wanting to get involved again.’
‘Assuming he’s not involved,’ said Kapoor, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest.
‘If he’s involved, why would he call us at all?’ she said. ‘And honestly… you don’t really think he is do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kapoor. ‘Do you?’
She paused and took a breath. ‘I think he’s proved, more than once, that he can do this whole dowsing thing. It’s not some kind of magic trick; dowsing is a thing. Look it up online; there are engineering companies and developers who hire these guys to dowse for water before they start building. They pay them for the service. It saves thousands, apparently. Lucas is… just one of them; just very good at dowsing. He was always brilliant at it when we were kids. He found stuff all the time. Watches, keys, toys…’
‘…bodies,’ said Kapoor. Then he pressed his lips together and said: ‘Sorry.’
‘No need,’ she said. ‘He never found my sister’s body, after all.’
‘I’m going to need to speak to him again,’ he said.
She sighed. ‘I thought you’d say that. Do you want me to bring him in? I could get him later this afternoon. I’ve got to get back to the radio station this morning; start the interviews with Michaels. Bill Sharpe’s back off leave, yes? Are he and Sharon Mulligan still doing the family end?’
‘They are,’ he said. ‘Perry’s ex-wife - I’m not sure which one - has agreed to formally identify the body. But don’t worry about Lucas Henry. I’ll give him some thought. Get back to the station and crack on with the staff interviews.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, getting up.
‘And Kate..’
> ‘Yes, guv?’
‘Thank you for being straight with me about this,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ she said, although it didn’t feel like no problem. It felt like betrayal. She’d really had no choice, though. And she guessed Lucas knew that. He probably wouldn’t completely hate her for it.
Back in CID she found Michaels on her desk, eating a flaky chocolate croissant for breakfast and sifting through print-outs from the BBC Radio Wessex website. Helpfully all the presenters had a short bio and photo online. From a staff list sent by the ever efficient Donna, she’d learned there were around a dozen backroom staff too, producers and researchers as well as a handful of news and sports journalists who worked shifts across all the output, but mostly on weekends. There were also a couple of BBC engineers looking after the station’s IT, broadcasting desks and radio cars. A cleaner came in every other day. It was a pretty small team for a station which covered the best part of three counties.
Kate had brought her portable radio in from home and now she flicked it on again to catch the latest. It was 7.38am and it seemed the entire listenership of BBC Radio Wessex was in mourning. The breakfast show had become a live, rolling memorial, throwing out all other news apart from a desultory five minute bulletin on the hour and the half hour, and running nothing but clips of Dave Perry’s most memorable on-air moments interspersed with his favourite songs, calls from weeping fans and recorded inserts of various local celebs expressing their shock and grief and personal memories. It was all being fairly ably steered by another station stalwart, Sheila Bartley. Sheila said: ‘Oh… you’re going to start me off again,’ roughly every five minutes. Judy on traffic and travel had cried during a bulletin.
