The Dying Streets

by Amy Cross

  "Do you still have the confidence of your superior officers?"

  "I certainly hope so," I reply, forcing a smile that I quickly realize is probably ill-advised. "Whatever their view, I'm sure they'll let me know in due course. We still need to think of Natasha Simonsen, though, and her untimely -"

  "What about Daniel Gregory?" asks another reporter, interrupting me. "Are you going to apologize to him personally? Do you feel you owe him that much?"

  "Would you consider a joint TV appearance?" another voice calls out.

  "I would very much welcome the opportunity to speak to Mr. Gregory," I reply, trying to sound reasonable. "In private, of course. I appreciate that he's been through a significant ordeal, and I'm aware that he most likely has some very strong opinions regarding our handling of the case. I think we should focus, though, on the fact that the British justice system has done its job and ensured that an innocent man walks free."

  "And do you fully accept the jury's decision?" asks the woman from the BBC. "Is Daniel Gregory off your list of suspects now?"

  "Absolutely," I reply, trying to ignore the wave of nausea in the pit of my stomach. "Mr. Gregory walks free from the court today without a mark against his name. I'm sure he's been through a great ordeal."

  "And do you accept that he's innocent?" asks another reporter.

  I pause.

  "Do you?" the reporter adds.

  "Absolutely," I say through gritted teeth. "The court has made its decision, and we must abide by the verdict they reached. That's the way the justice system works."

  "He's coming out the side door!" shouts a voice.

  As one, like a huge shoal of chattering fish, the journalists rush back down the steps and head over to a door at the far end of the main hall, where Daniel Gregory and his lawyers are waiting to deliver a statement. For a moment, Gregory and I make eye contact, and it occurs to me that maybe I should go over and try to make some kind of public apology. After all, twenty-four-hour rolling news channels are unforgiving, and it might be a good idea if -

  "Don't even think about it," Tricia hisses, grabbing my arm and steering me back along the corridor.

  "I should say something," I tell her, even though I'm glad she's giving me an excuse to get the hell out of here.

  "Were you ever given media training?" she asks.

  "I'm not sure, I -"

  "Jesus Christ," she mutters, "sometimes you're so fucking green around the gills. You do not walk over to someone and apologize in front of the nation's media just a few minutes after you were accused of framing them for murder!"

  "I don't think that's quite what the judge said," I point out.

  "More or less," she replies, leading me around the corner as we finally get away from the crowd. Stopping, she turns to me. "The papers aren't going to be very kind to you, Laura. They're gonna want to keep the Natasha Simonsen murder on their front pages, and they're also gonna want to make you out to be some kind of incompetent idiot. The more ammo you give them, the more they're gonna fire at you."

  "What else was I supposed to do?" I ask. "All the evidence pointed to him! It's not as if I was the only one who thought he did it!"

  "You've been hung out to dry," she continues. "Whenever something like this goes down, one person always ends up getting the blame, and this time it's you. It stinks, but it's how things work. You're gonna need to develop a thick skin and just hunker down for a while until it's all blown over."

  "Or until I've caught the real killer," I reply.

  "Well, that'd be useful," she mutters, "but let's not get too ambitious, eh?" She pauses, and it's clear that she feels some sympathy for my plight. "If it's any consolation, that old bastard went way too far. He's probably some geriatric old fart who doesn't like having to deal with women in the workplace."

  "He was right, though," I point out. "I screwed this case up big-time. I was too confident, and I thought the jury would have more sympathy for the victim. It never occurred to me that the judge would be so hostile."

  "So go and get drunk," she replies, patting me on the shoulder. "That's what the rest of us do when we need to forget our fuck-ups. We get wasted, we feel like shit the next morning, and then we just get on with the next case." She pauses. "Come on, Laura. Drop the teetotal act and let your hair down for once. I swear to God, it's better than sitting around all night, gnashing your teeth while you think about your mistakes. You're not the only one who's gonna come out of this case looking like an idiot. Come and get hammered with the rest of us."

  "Another time," I reply.

  "Bullshit," she says with a smile. "You've been saying that for ever since I met you. You never just come and hang out." She pauses again, as if she's trying to read my mind. "I know you. You're gonna spend the whole evening picking over every detail, letting your doubts get you down, and then you'll go to bed and still feel exactly the same in the morning. That's your problem, Laura; you micro-analyze everything. You're like a vulture pecking at the corpse of a dead case. Can't you just give it a rest for one night?"

  "I'm fine."

  "What do you do to relax?" she adds.

  "Nothing special," I reply.

  "Everyone does something," she continues. "Whatever you do, do a lot of it tonight, yeah? Do too much. Go crazy. You need a clean slate for the morning."

  "I'll give you a call later," I tell her, even though I have no intention of doing any such thing. "I'll come out, I swear. Or I'll think about it. You know how things are, I can't always get away from the house."

  "How's she doing?" she asks.

  "The same," I reply with a shrug. "A bit worse, maybe."

  Taking a step back, she glances around the corner. "Looks like the feeding frenzy's still in full swing. We should probably go out the back door, unless you really feel like feeding yourself to the jackals."

  "You go," I reply. "I need to do something here first. I'll catch up."

  "Gonna find a whip and beat yourself with it for a few hours?"

  "I just have some things to do. Paperwork."

  "You know where to find us," she says as she turns and walks away. "Don't leave it too late, though. I wanna be legless by eight!"

  Taking a deep breath, I realize she's right: I should go and get drunk instead of focusing on my mistakes. They'll all be at the pub tonight, laughing and joking about things, and basically resetting themselves so that the mistakes don't eat away at them. It's probably the best strategy in the long-run, and there's a part of me that thinks I should ignore my inhibitions and join them for once. At the same time, however, I feel as if there's one person I need to talk to first. Fortunately, I know exactly where to find him.

  I can't do this anymore. I have to resign.

  Chapter Two

  Ophelia

  "Have you seen Gary?"

  The old woman shakes her head. I don't know her name, but she's down here every day and I know she's got a pretty good idea of who everyone is. People in the underpass tend to keep themselves to themselves and only talk when it's really necessary, so I guess there's no point asking again. Shuffling past her, I head over to the railing, where Lofty's nursing a fire that he's managed to get started in an old paint can.

  "Have you seen Gary?" I ask.

  "No," he replies, glancing at me with a leery grin. "I've seen me, though. What's wrong? Isn't that good enough for you?"

  "I'm looking for Gary," I tell him.

  He shrugs.

  "He hasn't been around for a few days," I point out.

  "So?"

  "So that's a bit weird, isn't it? He's always around."

  He shrugs again.

  "Did he ever talk about -"

  "I don't know anything about Gary," he says firmly, as if he's running out of patience. "For all I know, he's won the lottery and fucked off to the Maldives, yeah?"

  "He wouldn't do that," I reply, "not without saying bye." Pausing, I realize that Lofty was probably joking; it usually takes me a few seconds to work out when people are bein
g serious and when they're being sarcastic, but by then it's always too late.

  "You're right," he says with a smile. "He's probably just floating face-down in the Thames. Still, he might drift all the way to the Maldives if the currents are right."

  I shake my head.

  "Why not?" he asks.

  "He said he'd be around," I reply.

  "Yeah, but being dead might hold him up," he continues. "It tends to do that to people. Jesus Christ, is it an act or are you really so fucking simple?" He stares at me for a moment. "What do you want him for, anyway?"

  "He said he'd take me north," I reply, even though I'm not certain I should really say too much. "That's all."

  "North where?" he asks. "North London?"

  I swallow hard.

  "You mean proper north?" he continues. "Up north, like Newcastle or Scotland? What the fuck would you do up there that you can't do here? There's nothing up north but coal and shit football clubs."

  "He said he knows some people," I reply.

  "Fucking hell," he says with a smile, "you're so bloody naive, aren't you?" He stares at me again with a look of genuine bemusement in his eyes. "You're so smart in some ways, Ophelia, but you're mind-numbingly dumb in others, did you know that? You fucking swing one way and then the other. Never know what the fuck's gonna come out of your mouth next."

  I stare at him. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what he means.

  "Do you wanna sit down for a while?" he asks as he pokes at the fire in his paint can. "It's warmer here."

  Glancing over my shoulder, I stare for a moment at the half dozen tramps who are sitting around nearby, mostly under the train bridge. It's not a very inspiring sight and I only came to look for Gary, but at least the place seems safe. Above, another train rattles toward Charing Cross.

  "So what's got your goat, then?" Lofty asks. "I know you, Ophelia. You're always worried about something. I've seen you scribbling in that fucking notebook of yours."

  "People are going missing," I reply.

  "What people?"

  "People. People I know."

  "You don't know any people," he says with a smile.

  "I know you."

  "I'm not people," he spits back at me. "None of us are, not anymore. We're just shells."

  "That's not true," I tell him. "I know lots of people, and some of them have disappeared."

  "You mean Gary? He's probably just fucked off somewhere without you, love. Don't take it personally."

  "Not just Gary," I reply. "I do the rounds every day, and about once a week someone else has gone missing. It's always really sudden, and people are starting to talk."

  "Talk about what?" he asks, and it's clear that I've finally got his attention. "No-one talks down here. Everyone just stares into space."

  "There's some guy," I continue. "He walks around dropping money, and then anyone who goes after him ends up..." I pause for a moment, still trying to work out how much I should say. "They disappear," I add eventually. "Everyone's scared."

  "Sounds like a load of bollocks," he replies. "You wanna watch what you believe, kid. People'll fill your head with nonsense until the cows come home if you let 'em".

  "I think it might be true," I tell him, as I hold my hands over the fire. The warmth feels good, even though I know it'll feel worse in a few minutes when I have to get going again. It's never a good idea to get comfortable. "Too many people are talking about it. People who don't know each other. It's like this guy picks a different patch every time, although I think there's a pattern. Even Louise from the common went missing, and she's, like, the most careful person I've ever met. No-one could hurt her."

  "You do realize that homeless people tend to move around a bit, right?" he asks. "I mean, fuck, it's not like we're rooted to the spot. Plenty of people drift."

  "But these people were seen going after the same guy," I reply.

  "You're locked in your own little world, aren't you?" he says with a smile. "All these paranoid fantasies, building up your head, and eventually they spill out and make you sound like a fucking idiot." He pauses for a moment. "Do you wanna know what people say about you, Ophelia? 'Cause they talk. Do you wanna know what they say when you're not around?"

  I stare at him.

  "Most people think you're completely fucked," he continues. "Like, not just a bit crazy, but properly out of your fucking mind. You're properly mental. You talk to yourself, and you act like you don't wanna hang out with everyone all the time, and half the time nothing you say makes sense. Most people thought you wouldn't survive last winter. How'd you get by, anyway?"

  "I managed," I mutter, feeling a strange trembling sensation in my chest.

  "You've obviously got something going for you," he says after a moment. "I mean, I've seen some tough-looking assholes end up on the streets, and you think they're gonna get by, and after a couple of months they're being zipped into a body-bag. But you..." He pauses. "You come over like a weak little streak of piss, but you look after yourself, don't you? What's the secret, Ophelia? You got some secret ninja moves you bust out when you're in trouble?"

  "Just lucky," I reply. "I should get going."

  "Where'd you get that stupid name, anyway?" he asks. "Are your parents fucking sadists?"

  "I don't know," I say, turning and walking away.

  "Pop by any time!" he calls out. "I'd sure love to know your secret!"

  Ignoring him, I make my way toward the path that runs along the side of the river. Lofty's useful sometimes, but he's mostly full of shit and I'm always slightly worried that he might turn violent one day. He's on my list of people to avoid, and I'm pretty sure my instincts are always right. All I can think about right now, though, is Gary, and the fact that he seems to have vanished. Sure, he might have simply drifted away, but I can't shake the feeling that his disappearance is linked to all the other stuff that's been going on lately.

  Someone's killing my friends. Well, maybe not friends, but people I know. Fortunately, I don't have any actual friends.

  Chapter Three

  Laura

  "It's not the end of the world," I say, standing in Bill Greenwell's office. "I'm only twenty-eight. It's not too late for me to start a new career. I could try teaching..."

  "Teaching?" he replies with a smile as he fills two small glasses with whiskey. "You'd be eaten alive, Laura. If you think the media scrum's rough, try standing in front of a class of teenagers". He brings the glasses over and tries to hand one to me.

  "No thanks," I say.

  "It's good stuff."

  "I'm fine."

  "Have you ever tried it?" he asks.

  "Once," I reply. "Maybe. I'm not sure."

  "Take some. It might help."

  Realizing he's not going to give up, I take the glass and try a sip. The taste is foul, and it's all I can do to keep from spitting it back out. Although I manage to swallow it eventually, I pass the glass back to him and I'm unable to muster more than a faint, forced smile. I wish people would stop trying to get me to drink alcohol; it's as if they think there's something wrong with anyone who doesn't knock back a load of shots every night. They think I'm dull and safe and boring. To be fair, they're right.

  "I don't know whether to make fun of you for being a lightweight," he says, taking the glass and tipping its contents into his own, before heading back over to his desk, "or commend you for being the only detective who isn't a drunk. Everyone else is out there getting wasted in the evenings, letting off steam, but what are you doing with yourself?" He pauses. "Have you ever been the drinking type, Laura?"

  "It's never really come up," I mutter.

  "You never got into the habit at uni? Never went out drinking with your friends?"

  I shrug.

  "You do have friends, don't you?" he adds.

  "Of course," I reply, a little too defensively.

  "Teaching," he continues with a knowing smile. "It's a mug's game. No, I don't think you should quit the force, and I definitely don't think you s
hould take up something as masochistic as teaching. I think you should take stock, and I think you should look at where you went wrong with the Natasha Simonsen case, and I think you should learn from this experience. You're still one of my best detectives, even if you're a little rough around the edges. Maybe I put you on a big case too soon. I thought you'd zoom into the Natasha Simonsen thing and solve it without even breaking a sweat."

  "So did I," I mutter.

  "You weren't seriously thinking of resigning, were you?" he asks.

  I open my mouth to reply, but finally I realize he's right to be skeptical. I've devoted my entire life to this job, and it's the only thing that keeps me even remotely sane. Sure, there are people who want my scalp following the collapse of the case against Daniel Gregory, but that doesn't mean I should just serve myself up on a plate. There's still time to turn this around.

  "So what are you going to do?" Greenwell continues.

  "I'm going to find the killer," I tell him, somewhat tentatively.

  "That might not be possible," he replies. "There's no way I can keep you on the Simonsen case, not after all this."

  "It's my case," I point out, feeling a hit of nausea in my belly.

  "Not any more," he says, taking another sip of whiskey. "Don't take this personally, Laura, but the media's going to be on at me after what happened in court today, and I need to be able to tell them something's changed. That means cycling you to other duties for a while. I know you're not going to like it, but you have to understand that my hands are tied. We don't live in a world where people get second chances. You had your crack at the Simonsen case and -"

  "I was right about Daniel Gregory," I say suddenly.

  He stares at me.

  "I mean it," I continue, feeling a little breathless. "I said all those things earlier because I knew I had to back off when I was being interviewed, but I haven't changed my opinion. I know he killed Natasha Simonsen, and I still think the evidence supports that conclusion. I didn't get the wrong man. I just got the case wrong."

  "A jury of his peers believed otherwise," Greenwell points out, "backed by a very vociferous judge."