He gave me a doleful yeah-right nod. Fuck him, but he was right – this was too personal for me; professional impartiality was out of the window. I’d assumed Kira was safe with David in Green Valley; I’d let her slip from my mind, but I had grievously failed Odille. I should have done more. There was every chance that my niece was undernourished and diseased just like the other dead children, next in line to turn up in the morgue.
I searched Jordan’s face for his real feelings. I couldn’t believe that I was the only person in this entire city who gave a damn about dead kids turning up out of nowhere. If these were Stanton kids, especially from North Harbour or Sunset Drive – rather than, say, Claymarket – the police commissioner and the mayor would be in their waders dredging the sewers personally for clues. I knew who was moving these kids, even if I couldn’t prove yet that he had anything to do with their deaths. You’d think Jordan would be glad to have a lead at last, but here he was, giving me his thin-shouldered shrug.
‘I have to provide compelling reasons why Barrett is a suspect,’ he continued, gladly abdicating any involvement in a messy situation – just like I had when Odille died. ‘So far, I have nothing. We broke into his apartment and saw no evidence, apart from that he seems to be a responsible parent with neat habits.’
‘I’m telling you, I know it’s him. I just can’t tell you how. There is evidence, though. Can’t you trust me, Jordan?’
He turned his angular face towards me, his eyes sunken even further into shadow than normal by the gloom and backwards slant of the floodlights lighting the rooftop. ‘No, I’m not sure if I can any more.’ He said it sadly, and his words hurt me.
The truth was receding as fast as the light, I knew. Soon, it would be dark and I’d never find Kira. So I decided to tell him; I’d deal with the fallout from Sentinel when it came. ‘Okay, here’s what I’ve got. It may sound trivial, but it’s one undeniable, direct link between Barrett and Kira. I accessed his dossier, tax records, company filings – his corporate logo is a yellow rooster.’
‘That’s all?’ he sneered, starting to turn away.
‘The same rooster, Jordan. The exact same rooster David showed me when I was in Green Valley. The abductor left it behind at the scene.’
‘He left a rooster at the scene?’
‘Sort of. Residue, an electronic fingerprint of an old digital calling card.’
He shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette, puffing out his last breath into the wind so it doubled back and hit me in the face. ‘Accessed his dossier. That’s some intrusive shit you’ve got going on in there.’
I was growing tired of his stubbornness. Why couldn’t he see? ‘It’s called police work, Jordan. Do you remember? That’s what the police used to do. They’d find criminals.’
‘Yeah, but not by spying. Not any more. That was in the bad old days, and we’re pretty sure we don’t want to go back there.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ I sighed. ‘You have to admit: if you had that chain of evidence, you’d consider it at least enough to make him a person of interest, worth a look.’
Jordan lit up another cigarette, cowling his shoulders and lean fingers around the flame.
‘Wouldn’t you? Isn’t it?’ I pressed.
Then he narrowed his lips in an approximation of a smile. ‘Yeah.’ I knew that deep down he was impressed or envious. If I got him drunk one night, I bet I could get him to admit he wished for resources like Sentinel’s. But he’d never be able to state that on the record, not as an officer of the consensual peace.
‘So?’
‘So what?’ he said.
‘Can I get a patrol on the girl’s school? Get a twenty-four-hour monitor at the apartment? Get eyes in the office?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to help you break into his office so that you can bug it. Never, so get over it. Ask your spooky friends if you want to do that. All you have is footage that doesn’t officially exist, and a “digital calling card” that you can’t show anyone.’
I strode off to the other side of the terrace, grinding my teeth and balling my fists, my nails digging hard into my palms. ‘I like the way you’re a stickler for the rules all of a sudden,’ I mumbled. He shot me a warning look, and I knew I’d gone too far. ‘Sorry. Forget it,’ I said, as I made for the stairwell door, knowing that I’d blown it. Nobody else would help me. It was done.
‘Wait,’ he said, and I turned. ‘You misunderstand me. I’m with you on this. Like you, I do care. I want to know what killed those kids as much as you do. Do you think it’s fun for me to take snapshots of dead kids and be told to file them away as if they didn’t exist? There are people up there’ – he pointed upwards, meaning upstairs, in the police and city hierarchy, but all he was pointing at was the bruised and swirling storm clouds so it looked like he was talking about some ancient, all-powerful deity – ‘who strongly and aggressively don’t care, and get very upset if people care when they’re told not to.’ As if punctuating his point, a bolt of lightning gathered and belted down somewhere close by, and fat raindrops were shaken out of the cloud. Jordan hurried behind me into the stairwell. On the first landing he said, in a low voice, ‘I don’t think your methods are good detective work. Snooping and drawing prefabricated conclusions from the comfort of your office. That’s not the way to find the truth. I’ll be able to get you the patrol at the school tomorrow, and we can ask around. But we need to go carefully.’
He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out. ‘All right?’
‘All right,’ I confirmed. ‘Thank you.’
16 ‘You made it,’ Fabian said, coming from the kitchen and wiping his hands on a dishtowel as I walked into the apartment.
For a second I thought he was being sarcastic, still bitter from our argument the night before, so I answered defensively. ‘I had to wait out the rain; it was—’
But he approached me and kissed me warmly on the cheek, moving his hand to my back and pulling me in for a moment. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said. ‘Come get some wine when you’re ready. I’m making pasta.’
I was grateful to him for breaking the ice between us; I didn’t want to fight tonight. I wanted, somehow, to dial down my mind, which had been whirring at a burnout pitch ever since David had called. I showered and dressed in better clothes, then joined Fabian at the kitchen counter. I downed the glass of wine he’d poured then refilled it. I poked at the fresh herbs decorating the pasta with my fork. I couldn’t eat. How could I? How could I even sit in this luxurious, glossy room while Kira was lost and afraid, waiting for help, Jordan’s team coming too late? Or worse… Something like a sob lurched out of my chest and I pushed my plate away, hiding my face from Fabian.
‘You’re not okay,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Fabe.’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t say sorry.’ He looked at me in silence, clearing all the space in the room for me to talk, and for him to listen.
‘I really thought Kira was all right in there. Odille loved David, and trusted him. They wanted the best for their child. Of course they did.’ I glanced at his face and he looked back, all patience and receptiveness.
‘I didn’t want to bring her in here. I didn’t want to bring my ancient, grubby history into your home. But now…’
‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s missing. David can’t find her; he says someone’s taken her. And I shouldn’t be speaking about it, but…’
‘Go on.’
‘Green Valley children have been turning up in Stanton, dead. Three so far, and I’m so scared that Kira’s next. David can’t find her,’ I repeated, willing the statement to prove itself false. ‘The police are looking out here, but there’s nothing. I feel so fucking helpless.’
‘Is there anything more you can do? I mean at… your work. Do you need to go somewhere and do it? Can I help you?’
Even now, even while Fabian was being the perfect, gentle partner, I couldn’t trust hi
m enough to tell him the truth. I didn’t trust him to love me more than his principles. So I said, ‘There’s nothing for me to do but wait. Jordan’s got good officers out looking for her. They have a lead, but I sit here, just waiting for him to call, to tell me that they’ve found her, and every minute that goes by I think I should be doing something more, but there’s nothing more I can do. I’m useless to my only remaining family, Fabian.’ I pushed away from the counter, the stool scraping on the tiles and tottering. ‘I don’t want to just sit here and eat your lovely pasta and pretend that everything’s fine. I wish it was, but it’s not.’
* * *
I lay next to Fabian and waited for him to fall asleep, and I must have gone under myself, because it was 3 a.m. when I pinged awake, the fervent noise in my mind quick out of the traps. It was as if I was living in a different time zone and I thought for a minute of all those people, thousands of miles away, who were eating breakfast legitimately, seeing sunrise out of their window after a night full of sleep. I couldn’t remember when last I’d slept a whole night through. I’d sleep again when this was over.
The bed was so comfortable, I lay in a stupor for a few minutes, battling the swirling lists in my head and willing back the oblivion, but Fabian had pulled up the mohair blanket and its tickle on my nose was what finally encouraged me to move. I got up to pee, and then closed myself in the study again. If I couldn’t sleep, at least I could watch other people sleeping.
Flicking through the camera angles on my monitor and adjusting the earphones to a low volume, I settled back in my chair and watched. Vidal and Sofie Barrett were doing what normal citizens do at three in the morning, and observing them was a meditation. For the first time this week, I had a chance to think about everything I’d seen, my mind gradually grinding it into some sort of processed material. I spent hours like that, looking at them sleep, shifting only when it became uncomfortable. The sky was already beginning to lighten when I noticed it.
A glow at the window, around the rim of the blackout curtains in Sofie’s bedroom, followed thirty seconds later by a double flash. Sofie sat up for a second, then turned and went back to sleep.
I rewound and turned the volume up. There. An answering rumble of thunder.
I looked out of the window at the washed violet sky, the last morning stars flickering out against the approaching sun. There were no clouds out there; that storm had run its course last night.
* * *
Jordan had dragged on some track pants and a dressing gown before answering my hammering knock. When he saw that it was me, he stepped back and widened the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ he slurred.
He ground his eyes with the heel of his palm, the gown angling open. I couldn’t help but see the scattering of hair over his sunken, bony chest. He scowled and tightened the gown, leaving the door open for me to follow him inside.
It was the first time I’d breathed the cigarette-and-cheese funk of his apartment. The stubby hall led to a poky kitchen-dining room with an uncurtained window looking at the back of another block. Peering into his bedroom, I saw a barely ruffled three-quarter bed crammed in beside a neatly stacked desk. His apartment was about the same size as the one I had grown up in; at least this was in a decent building, in a better neighbourhood than Claymarket, but still I felt guilty, having rushed here from my five-star lodgings to batter him awake.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as he carried a bundle of clothes past me to the bathroom. ‘I waited until I thought you’d be up.’ The petty lie and the apology rolled off my lips.
He nodded at me wordlessly.
‘Something urgent’s come up. I need you to come with me, and there’s no time to wait. We may already be too late.’
* * *
As we got past the security guard and up the stairs to the landing, I signalled Jordan to stop. I took my tablet out of my bag and showed him the feed. On the screen, Vidal and Sofie were still in bed, just where I’d left them, and for good measure, just in case I was wrong, we padded silently along the corridor. As we rounded the turn in the corridor, we surprised a neighbour heading out early and locking her door. I startled back towards the wall, trying to look innocent, but Jordan proceeded with besuited authority, nodding at her once. The woman gave us a quizzical glance, but kept her questions to herself like a good citizen.
When we got to Barrett’s door, I pulled out the tablet and checked the screen again – no change, they were still in bed inside – and Jordan unholstered his pistol, finally allowing himself to check on the feed. I smirked at the minor moral victory, but he kept a stony face as he hammered on the door with his fist. ‘Police!’
I killed the monitor screen and slipped it back in my satchel. ‘They’re not here,’ I said.
‘But your machine…’ he whispered, gun still at the ready. ‘It shows them right there, in bed.’
I shook my head. ‘We’re too late.’
This time, Jordan insisted on entering legally. It took a while for him to persuade the guard to call the landlord for authorisation. The little man stood at the threshold as we trailed through the apartment. It was pretty much as we’d last seen it, except this time all the dishes were washed and packed away, the fridge had been emptied of fresh produce. There were gaps and empty hangers in the closet, and the toothbrushes and some toiletries were absent, along with Sofie and Vidal Barrett.
In Vidal’s bedroom, out of sight of the keyholder, I showed Jordan the screen. Vidal and Sofie still fast asleep, no sign of us on the feed. ‘What’s the matter with it?’ he asked, wilfully feigning ignorance. ‘Can you fast-forward to now?’
‘This is the live feed. He’s put it on a loop.’
‘You knew that all along.’
‘Yeah, but I hoped we had a chance to catch them leaving. That’s why the early wake-up call.’
‘How did you know?’
When I’d discovered the loop, I’d scanned through the last several hours of buffered footage. It had taken a while to isolate the flashes at such a high speed, but eventually I found them, three hours and ten minutes before, six hours and twenty. The same rhythm, rumble… bang, bang. Sofie sitting up and turning over.
‘They knew we were watching,’ he said. I noticed the ‘we’ and banked it.
‘Yeah.’ I glanced at the invisible installation I’d made in the cornice, and then at Jordan. ‘Someone must have told them.’
17 I might have read it as guilt, or it might have been because he was telling the truth when he said he cared about the invisible children, but Jordan threw himself into the investigation that day. He knew as well as I did that the longer Vidal Barrett was off our radar, the less chance we’d have of ever finding out what happened to those kids. He blew off all his other cases for the day, prepared to deal with the captain’s flak for spending all his man-hours on helping with a non-existent case.
We drove straight to Barrett’s office, which was in a tenement on the edge of Claymarket, two blocks from where I’d grown up, but showing more signs of the changes that had come over the city. The brickwork had been acid-cleaned and repointed, and the ground-floor windows of the office suite reframed in wood. On the same stretch of Ocean Street, down from the office, was Suds Ease, the ancient laundromat my mother and I used to take our clothes to when the machine in the tenement’s basement was broken, and Sweet Times, the candy store that had been there for ever. I noted that they were offering Artisanal Drops and Bespoke Gums Made on Premises for five times the price of the same thing at the supermarket, while an expensive hair salon pushed its chest out from the storefront in between, reminding me of Main Street, Green Valley.
While Jordan went to stake out Sofie’s school, I waited with Berna Danielewski, the patrol officer on the one-to-nine shift, drinking coffee at the counter across the front window of the diner opposite Barrett’s office. She’d seen nothing unusual overnight, and Vidal Barrett hadn’t come into the building. We watched Barrett’s receptionist unlocking the office at t
wenty past eight and workers rushing their kids to school before catching the bus.
‘You’ve been with the force for a long time, haven’t you, Officer?’ I said. Danielewski looked around seventy, though she had to be younger than sixty, the mandatory retirement age; sucked towards the ground, grey and sagging, by her beat. She winced when she got off and on the stool at the counter, and I wondered why she’d stayed in uniform all this time, never made it to detective or an office job.
Her eyes were still trained on the building opposite. ‘Retiring soon.’
‘You’ve been a cop all your life?’
She glanced at me for a second, and shrugged. ‘Not when I was a kid.’
‘So you were on the beat before the Turn?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s hard to meet people who were, you know. So many people from before seem to have been swept away, under the rug, changed jobs afterwards. It’s hard to remember what things were like back then, like we’re not allowed to think about them.’
‘If you talked like that, I probably pepper-sprayed you on your university campus back then.’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I wasn’t exactly an instigator back then, but still, I never dreamed I’d end up working for the police.’ So much had changed in the last twenty years since I was in college, but nothing had. One sort of protest had been replaced by another. Officer Danielewski’s life had turned out just as hard as it would have if the Turn had never happened. Claymarket was still Claymarket; people still grinding away at a grubby, difficult existence. Maybe we hadn’t evolved at all. It all made me nostalgic for Zeroth’s false promises – at least they offered a vision.
Next to me, Officer Danielewski spluttered, derailing my train of thought. I thought she was choking for a second, then I realised she was laughing. ‘I can tell you’re a bit of a square peg.’
‘How so?’
Green Valley Page 13
