The Dying Streets

by Amy Cross

  "It might help," I point out.

  "I don't stick my beak in other people's business," he continues. "That's something my Dad used to tell me, even before he got sent down. He always said that a man's doings are for him to worry about and no-one else. Cops, wives, friends... No-one's got a right to start poking about in what anyone else is doing, not unless it directly affects them." He pauses. "Of course, he got locked up for a spot of wheeling and dealing in the import-export business, so I guess he had good reason to be pissed off about people poking their noses in, but you get the idea. If you start asking questions, you're gonna piss people off. Including me."

  "Greg's dead," I reply.

  "Do you mean dead in his soul, like he's always been, or actually dead this time?"

  "Actually dead."

  "Alright," he says, not seeming particularly upset. "Do you know who's getting his stuff?"

  I shake my head.

  "Cool. Do you know where he stashed it?"

  "No idea," I reply. "I think he was murdered by the same people who murdered Liz Read a while back. Someone's killing people all along the south bank."

  "You've been hanging out with cops for too long," he says with a smile. "You're starting to sound like one of 'em." He pauses. "Why would anyone even bother killing people round here? It's not worth the fucking effort, and it's not like we've got anything worth nicking, is it?"

  "There are other reasons why people kill," I point out. Figuring that he's not likely to be much use, I glance back over at Laura and see to my surprise that she's talking to Gabby, who appears to have peeled herself off the pavement for the first time in weeks and hauled her lumbering frame over to the wall. I can't help but smile as I see the startled look on Laura's face.

  "You're talking a lot more than normal," Lofty says suddenly.

  I turn to him.

  "Something's changed about you," he continues. "Is it that cop? Has she got under your skin?"

  "Nothing's changed," I tell him. "I'm just trying to find stuff out."

  "Nah," he replies, "something's definitely different. You've got this look in your eyes, like you actually give a shit. You wanna be careful. The cop doesn't actually care about you, Ophelia, so don't start thinking this is your ticket off the streets. She's just using you, like everyone else uses all of us, and she'll drop you when she's done. She doesn't actually give a flying fuck about you."

  "I know," I reply, before turning and walking away, with Lofty's words still ringing in my ears. I know damn well that Laura's only using me so she can try to solve her case, but that doesn't mean I'm some naive little idiot who lets herself get manipulated. I'm using her at the same time, so we're kind of on level terms. At the end of the day, if we both get what we want, I don't see that there's going to be a problem.

  Chapter Thirty

  Laura

  "But you don't wanna, do you?" the woman says, stepping toward me as she fixes me with her wide, staring eyes. "You don't wanna know what's really going on. All you wanna do is round up the real people. The ones who matter. Tell me something. Does the smell down here bother you?"

  I want to reply to her, but the truth is, I have no idea what she's talking about. This rather large, very strange-smelling woman just seems to have come over to rant at me about some kind of secret cabal of politicians and bankers, and she's convinced that they rule the world. To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if she starts talking about lizard people after a moment.

  "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" she continues. "Do they make you sign a pledge?"

  "A pledge?" I ask.

  "To join them."

  I wait for her to explain, but after a moment it becomes clear that she thinks I know what she's talking about. She's lost in her own little world that has its own twisted logic, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't get very far even if I had the time to work out what she's getting at; I guess I just need to be polite and hope to extract myself from the conversation as delicately as possible.

  "I had to sign a kind of pledge when I joined the police," I tell her, choosing my words with care. "I pledged to uphold the law and -"

  "I'm talking about the ones who are really in charge," she continues, interrupting me. "Do you know what they're doing, or are they brainwashing you? I've worked out how they do it, you know. They've got antennae on all the public transport. Everyone uses public transport, right, except the ones who are really rich? So it's perfect for them. They broadcast their signals during rush hour, making sure everyone stays calm. That's also why they don't like renewable energy, 'cause it interferes with the signals."

  "Right," I reply, glancing past her and suddenly realizing that I can't see Ophelia. "Excuse me," I add, stepping around the woman and hurrying across to the other side of the underpass. There's no sign of her at all, and I'm starting to think that I might have made a huge mistake by trusting her. Sure, I can call back to the station and get her ankle monitor checked, which should help me track her down, but that'd be a huge admission of failure.

  "You looking for the runt?" asks a voice.

  Turning, I see a homeless guy sitting with his back against the wall. He's grinning at me, and after a moment I realize that he's the guy I saw Ophelia talking to a moment ago.

  "Where is she?" I ask.

  "She fucked off," he says with a smile. "Five quid and I'll tell you which way she went."

  "I'm a police officer," I reply, "and -"

  "In that case," he continues, "make it a tenner."

  I want to argue with him, but I don't have time. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a ten pound note and pass it to the man. He holds it up to the light for a moment, as if he's checking it's real, before slipping it away.

  "That way," he says, pointing toward the small patch of parkland next to the underpass. "About thirty seconds ago."

  I turn to go after her, but after a moment I stop and look back at the guy. He seems surprisingly keen to help me, and it suddenly strikes me that maybe Ophelia asked him to intentionally misdirect me.

  "Jesus Christ," he says with a sigh. "You've gotta learn to trust people. Don't be so fucking cynical."

  Without even stopping to reply, I hurry after Ophelia, even though there's a part of me that worries I might have been sent in the wrong direction. If I've lost her already, I'm never going to live it down back at the station, and it'll be the final confirmation that I can't be trusted.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ophelia

  Reaching behind the bush, I fumble for a moment before pulling out my plastic bag. Every time I come back for my stash, I worry that someone might have found it, but so far it's always been here, waiting for me.

  Setting the bag on the ground, I start rooting through the contents. I know I'm probably being totally paranoid, and there's a part of me that thinks this is a huge mistake, but I hate feeling like I can't protect myself. Sure, Laura's completely harmless, but I've been on the streets for long enough to feel completely naked if I don't have at least one weapon. Finally, I find the small pocket-knife that I've been keeping stashed away, and I slip it into my pocket. Better to be safe than sorry.

  "Hey!" Laura calls out, sounding panicked. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Shoving the plastic bag back behind the bush, I get to my feet and turn to find her hurry toward me with a worried look on her face.

  "You can't just go wandering off like that," she says breathlessly as she reaches me. "Do you realize how close I came to calling the station to have your ankle monitor traced?"

  "Not very close," I reply, trying not to look too pleased with myself. "Calling the station would've been an admission of failure, so you'd have spent a bit longer looking for me first. Anyway, I told you I was going to ask around. You're the one who was supposed to stay put, so if you look at it like that, I guess it's you who's wandered off, isn't it?"

  "What were you doing just now?" she asks, looking past me. "There's no-one else here."

  "Didn't say there was."
/>   "But -"

  "It's none of your business," I point out.

  "But -"

  "It's none of your business," I say again, more firmly this time. "I said I'd come with you. I didn't say I'd explain every step I take, so just back off, okay?" Realizing that I'm being a little too confrontational, I pause for a moment. "It's just not your business."

  "It's absolutely my business," she replies. "You're only out because of me. Have you got something hidden back there?"

  "Maybe."

  "Show me."

  I pause for a moment.

  "Show me," she says again.

  "If I show you," I reply, "you'll see that it's just a bunch of notebooks and old clothes. No drugs, no weapons, just normal stuff. I'll also clam up again, and I won't say another word to you, not ever. On the other hand, if you trust me and don't insist on looking, we can carry on trying to solve your case for you. It's up to you, but I know which option I'd choose. How do you wanna play things?"

  She stares at me, but it's clear that she knows which side her bread is buttered right now. In fact, I think I can spot the exact moment when she realizes she can't push me any further.

  "Promise me I don't need to worry about whatever you've got hidden away here," she says finally.

  "Pinky promise," I say with a smile.

  "I need you to show me where you encountered the guy with the hook," she replies. "It's going to get dark in the next hour, so we should hurry. I need you to retrace your steps precisely, and then..." She sighs. "And then we'll call it a day. You're going to spend the night at my place, and I'll make something for us to eat, and then we'll still have tomorrow morning to get a few things done."

  "And then you'll get this tag taken off my ankle?" I ask.

  She nods.

  "Promise?"

  "Of course I promise," she says wearily. "We made a deal, didn't we?"

  "Then I'll show you," I reply, "but don't expect too much. I doubt he's left a calling card. Come on, this way."

  As I lead her back toward the river, I can't help but slip my hand into my pocket and double-check that I've still got the pocket-knife. It's not much, but if I'm backed into a corner, I can sure as hell use it to fight my way out. It's saved my life once before, and I was an idiot to ever go out without it again. Sure, Laura seems harmless enough right now, but there's definitely a dark side to her, and I'm also worried that people might start talking about the fact that I'm helping the cops. That's the problem with life on the streets: you never know when things are suddenly going to turn nasty, and even the slightest wrong move could be fatal.

  That's something Laura could never understand.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Laura

  "Okay," I say as we reach the front door. "I should warn you about something. I live with my -"

  "Mother," she says, interrupting me with a broad smile.

  I turn and stare at her for a moment.

  "How did you -"

  "Know that? Just something about you. Plus the fact that you were gonna steal chocolate from the store for no good reason, which made me think you want to rebel but you can't do it at home, which means you live with someone. You don't have a wedding ring, and I think you're enough of a traditionalist to wear one if you were married, and you blatantly don't have kids -"

  "Blatantly," I reply, trying not to feel offended.

  "So it had to be a parent," she continues. "Both would be too much insanity for anyone to put up with at your age, so I figured it was just one, maybe someone who relied on you. Women tend to live longer lives than men, statistically, so I decided you probably live with your mother." She grins, as if she's very pleased with herself. "Don't worry," she adds. "I don't bite. Hell, I actually like old people better than people my own age."

  "Right," I say, trying to regather my composure. "Fine, Sherlock, but there's one thing you don't know -"

  "She's sick," she replies. "Why else would you guilt yourself into staying with her? So what's wrong? Wheelchair? Alzheimer's?"

  "Alzheimer's," I say, taking a deep breath. "Early stages, but enough that it's noticeable. The main problem is that she forgets things. It's pretty bad, but she doesn't need to go into a home yet."

  "Yes she does," she replies. "Judging from the bags under your eyes, I'd say it's a living hell having her under the same roof. You probably kid yourself that it's too soon to shuffle her off to a home, but most people would have done it a while ago. Maybe you're a saint, or maybe you just can't afford it." She pauses, as if she's studying me. "My guess is, it's a bit of both."

  "Sometimes it's possible to be too smart for your own good," I mutter, turning and unlocking the door before leading her into the hallway. "If it's okay," I continue, "I'd prefer it if you just kept things fairly quiet. My mother doesn't need to know the details of any of the cases I work on, and even if you tell her, she'll have forgotten most of it half an hour later. Trust me, the conversations around here tend to go round and round. Sometimes I think I should just tape my answers and leave them on a loop."

  "I'm good at talking to old people," she replies as she slowly removes the first of her two coats. "They get me."

  I open my mouth to ask what she means, but suddenly I'm overcome by a powerful odor coming from her body. To say that there's a smell would be an understatement: it's pretty clear that she's been wearing the same clothes, come rain and shine, for quite a while, and I swear I can actually hear the fabric crackling as it's peeled back. Although I try not to let my discomfort show, I have to take a step back, and I can already tell from the look on Ophelia's face that she knows what's wrong, although she doesn't seem too bothered.

  "Feel free to let me use your bath," she says with a smile as she hangs the coat up and then starts unpeeling the second. "Maybe the washing machine too. Also, do you have a spare toothbrush? I figure I might as well get myself smarted up while I'm here."

  "I'll take a look in the closet," I reply. "I think I have some of my old clothes from when I was your age."

  "You keep your old clothes even after you've outgrown them?" she replies. "Interesting."

  "I just haven't had time to throw them out yet," I say firmly.

  She smiles.

  "Laura?" my mother calls out from the living room. "Is that you?"

  "Yeah, Mum!" I shout back. "I'm going to put dinner on, but I've brought a... friend over. She's going to be spending the night."

  "A friend?"

  Ophelia grins at me. She's clearly enjoying this.

  "Sort of," I say. "Someone from work. Don't worry, though. She's going to be very busy most of the evening."

  "Am I?" Ophelia asks.

  "I'm going to cook," I tell her, "and while I'm doing that, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a bath or a shower. No offense, but you smell really bad."

  "None taken."

  "You can also..." I pause for a moment. "I have case files relating to these hook deaths. If you can promise to keep your mouth shut, I'll let you take a look at them."

  "Why?"

  "In case you spot anything that makes sense," I reply. "I figure you've got a very different perspective when it comes to what's been happening. I'm the first to admit that you might be able to shed some light on things."

  She pauses, as if she's worried this might be a trap.

  "Okay," she says eventually. "Sure. I'll take a look."

  "And maybe you can share some of the information in that diary of yours," I reply.

  "It's not a diary," she replies, "it's a notebook. And maybe. It depends if there's anything relevant. I keep notes on a lot of different stuff, though, so don't go expecting me to give you some kind of Rosetta Stone, okay?"

  "I'll find those clothes for you first," I continue, "and please, feel free to wash your hair as well, and clip your toenails, and anything else you think might help. Meanwhile, pile your clothes up and we'll see about getting them washed and dried for the morning."

  "Yes, Mum," she says with an amused sta
re.

  "No need to thank me," I reply, feeling a little worn down by her constant attempts to turn every conversation into some kind of a game. I'm starting to think I liked her better when she didn't talk so much.

  "And then can I talk to your Mum and ask her to tell me embarrassing stories about you?" she continues. "To be honest, that's really the only reason I came home with you. I want to meet the woman who raised someone like you."

  "Just go and have a bath," I reply, trying not to let her see that I'm worn out. "Please? Oh, and take this -" Reaching into my bag, I take out the worm pill I picked up at the pharmacy and hand it to her. "It'll take a few days to take effect, but at least it should stop the itching."

  Smiling, she turns and starts making her way upstairs, before stopping and turning back to me.

  "Don't take this the wrong way," she says after a moment, "but... This explains so much about you." With that, she heads up to the landing, and a moment later I hear her starting to run the bath.

  Taking a deep breath, I realize that she's going to be at least half an hour up there, if not longer, which means I've got a break. I swear to God, I feel as if I'm going to collapse at any moment, but I have to keep going. After the disaster of the Daniel Gregory case, I need to get this thing solved before Greenwell starts bugging me.

  "Laura?" my mother calls out. "Is that you?"

  "Yeah, Mum, I..." Sighing, I start to realize that this is definitely going to be a difficult evening. I'm used to dealing with my mother's foibles, but now I've got two children to deal with. Grabbing the shopping bag, I turn and head through to the kitchen. For the first time in my life, cooking actually appeals; hopefully it'll be a chance to just clear my head.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ophelia

  Leaning back in the bath, I let the hot water wash against my body. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I swear I can feel all the filth and crusty stuff starting to lift away. It's been almost a year since I washed properly, and the water is already starting to look distinctly brown.