Harte

by Robert Innes

  Sally stared at the window in surprise.

  “It’s tiny.”

  “I was ten. I was one of the skinniest kids in the whole school. I don’t think there’s many other people that could have gotten in, even I struggled.”

  “Well, it isn’t boarded up now,” Sally noted, nodding towards the house.

  She was quite right. At some point during the past two decades, the boarding around the back of the house had been removed and there was now a door visible, though the handle of it looked like it was on the verge of rusting away all together.

  “Come on then,” Sally said, gently pushing Blake towards it.

  Blake took a deep breath, fully aware that his palms were now sweating and his heart felt like it wanted to burst out of his chest. He felt similar to how he did whenever he woke up from one of his nightmares, but there was no going back now.

  Blake reached the door and took a firm grip on the handle. It felt cold and the rust dug slightly into his skin. With one last look of reassurance from Sally, he turned the handle and to his surprise the door opened.

  “Oh,” Blake murmered as they stood in the now open doorway. “I didn’t expect that.”

  The house was as dark as he remembered it, both from the night he discovered the old woman and from the dreams themselves. Even the daylight streaming in through the open door seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness as they cautiously entered.

  The place smelt musty and the air was filled with dust. As they cautiously made their way through the kitchen, Blake became aware that his shoes were sticking to the floor.

  “It’s like walking through that nightclub we both used to go to in the city centre,” Sally commented as the sound of their shoes reverberated around the echoey kitchen like Velcro being pulled apart. “The floor is disgusting.”

  “It’s exactly like I remember it,” Blake murmured, peering around the gloomy room.

  “Are you okay?”

  Blake merely nodded.

  “So, where did you find her?”

  “Through here.”

  “And what, she was just in the chair in the middle of the room with a knife sticking out of her back?”

  “Yep. And it was never solved. They found out her name, Julia Watkins. She was eighty-seven. The police at the time apparently assumed that she was just some old squatter. Other than that, Mrs Watkins is a mystery. The fact that they couldn’t work out how she got in here or how the hell anybody got in the house to stab her in the first place didn’t help matters. The house was boarded up when I discovered the body. Only a child the size of a rake was able to get to her.”

  They made their way into the living room and were immediately plunged into darkness.

  Blake felt his blood run cold as he felt along the wall for the light switch. The last time he had done that in this room, the lights had come on to reveal the dead woman in the chair. He was relieved when the light did not come on when he found the switch.

  “There’s not going to be any electricity in here, is there?” Sally said. “Hang on.”

  Blake felt her shuffling in her pocket for her mobile and a few seconds later, her face was illuminated by the light from her phone screen as she flicked through the apps to find the torch. Finally, she held up her phone and a powerful beam of white light emanated from the top of her phone and immediately they both cried out in alarm.

  The face of a man was suddenly illuminated in front of them. He appeared to be in his sixties, greying hair sticking out in random places from the side of his head. He had a large hooked nose and a pair of glasses so thin that they almost appeared invisible.

  As they both stood staring at him, unable to move from the shock of him unexpectedly appearing in front of them, the man lifted his own torch and shone it back at them. “Who are you two?” he asked, his voice scratchy and raspy. He sounded like a man who smoked more than Sally and Blake put together.

  Blake glanced at Sally who looked as though she was having difficulty getting her heart to restart so opted to answer himself. “I’m Blake Harte, this is Sally Matthews. We’re police officers. What’s your name?”

  The man frowned. “Police officers? Why are you here?”

  Blake and Sally exchanged looks.

  “What’s your name?” Blake repeated.

  The man narrowed his eyes, considering them.

  “Samuel,” he replied. “I live a few doors down. Police officers, eh? I don’t envy you. I know how hard that is.”

  “You do?” Sally said. “How?”

  “Because I used to be one,” Samuel replied quietly. “I was a detective sergeant. Retired now of course. The way the world is now I doubt I could handle it anyway. Terrorism, knife crime, you lot have my respect.”

  “Thanks,” Sally replied. “No offence though, it doesn’t answer what you’re doing here now.”

  The man sighed and pointed his torch towards the door. “Likewise. Might I suggest we take this outside? No point in us trying to have a conversation in the dark. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

  Blake shook his head. “Not really. This place has a lot of memories for me that I had to face, that’s all.”

  The man stared at Blake, shining the torch directly into his face for a few moments. “Wait a minute,” he whispered. “Blake Harte, did you say your name was?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sorry if I’ve got this wrong,” Samuel said slowly, “but weren’t you the kid who found the body of that dead woman in here?”

  Blake silently nodded.

  “Wow,” Samuel exclaimed and whistled. “No wonder you’ve got skeletons to lay to rest. Look, the pair of you come with me. Like I say, I live a couple of doors down. Your parents live opposite me, am I right?”

  “Stephanie and Colin?” asked Sally.

  “Yeah, yeah. Great couple of people,” Samuel replied with a smile. “They’ll be out shopping if I know their routine at all. You can wait at mine till they get back. Think we all need a cup of tea, don’t you?”

  Samuel’s house certainly was a better option than the rickety old building they had just left. It was warm and inviting with soft armchairs and a sofa that Blake felt he had sank into when he had first sat down. On the walls in beautifully polished frames were a selection of a much younger Samuel throughout his policing career. There was one with him shaking hands with whom Blake assumed was the superintendent at the time and another where Samuel was sitting pride of place in front of his other officers, smiling proudly at the camera.

  “Quite a career he’s had,” Sally said looking at the photos on the wall.

  Blake glanced towards the kitchen where Samuel was busy making the tea.

  “Seems he’s got quite a lot of pride about his career. Did you get the feeling, though, that he left the force before he was ready?”

  Sally looked thoughtful. “Sounded more like the job became too much for him. You can hardly blame him. No offence Blake, but you’ve said yourself that you needed time away from the job to try and sort your head out. Maybe he had to deal with just one horrible murder too many.”

  Blake went to reply that he was by no means at a stage where he was going to quit the police force when Samuel returned carrying a tray of cups and a steaming teapot, complete with a plate of various biscuits.

  “Not often I get to entertain these days,” he said. “Help yourselves.”

  “You’ve had quite the career by the looks of things,” Blake said as he grabbed himself a custard cream.

  Samuel waved a dismissive hand as he poured the tea into the cups. “Oh, you know. I had a good run. I’m proud of what I achieved. All good things must come to an end though.”

  “You never said why you were in the old house though, Sam,” Sally said.

  Samuel glanced at her sharply. “Samuel, please. Sorry, I hate being called Sam.”

  Sally shrugged. “Sorry. My full name is Sally-Ann. Utterly despise it.”

  The old detective nodded as he conti
nued pouring the tea before sitting down in an armchair opposite. “The Julia Watkins case was a low point in my career. I suppose you know that was the name of the woman you found, Blake?”

  “Yes, I did find that out,” Blake replied. “I didn’t discover a lot else though. Just that you found her name on her bus pass. You were actually in charge of the investigation into her death?”

  “I was indeed,” Samuel said. “And what an absolute mess of an investigation it turned into. No witnesses, barely any evidence and a victim that appeared inaccessible to anyone or anything. Not only did she manage to get inside a building that was boarded up, but someone else managed to get to her, stab her in the back and then get out again.”

  “And nobody ever came forward with any evidence?” Blake asked.

  “No and the sad thing was that we were never even able to find anybody who this woman belonged to,” Samuel continued. “It was as if she had nobody. No family, no friends, nobody missing her. I mean, you’ll know if you both work in the same position that there’s nothing more frustrating than finding yourself with a case that has no answers to it.”

  Blake and Sally murmered in agreement as they sipped their tea.

  “I don’t know if you remember me speaking to you, Blake,” Samuel continued. “I remember interviewing this terrified little boy, shaking and unable to understand what he’d discovered. If you’d told me then that petrified kid would grow up to be a police officer, I never would have believed you. I’m impressed.”

  Blake looked down at the ground. “I don’t feel especially impressive at the moment. Julia Watkins had quite the effect on me growing up. Even after all these years. That’s why we were in the house, to try and face my demons a bit.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It might have done if you hadn’t nearly have given me a heart attack. What were you doing in there anyway?”

  Samuel shuffled in his seat, appearing to be suddenly very interested in the contents of his cup.

  “Samuel?”

  Without taking his eyes off his cup, Samuel spoke quietly and slowly.

  “Have you ever failed? Like really failed? To the point where you sort of know that you’re not the right person for the job anymore?”

  “You mean as an officer?”

  Samuel placed his cup down on the table in front of him and finally looked up at them. “Yeah.”

  “Being an officer is tough, Samuel,” Blake said. “We all know that. Sally’s just about to start her next chapter as a DS, you’ve done it, I’m doing it now. I’m lucky that I’ve managed to find all my culprits since being a detective. I know sometimes it doesn’t quite work like that though.”

  “Julia Watkins was a mystery,” Samuel said. “I was trying to find out something, anything, about her and there was just absolutely nothing. It was as if she was a character picked out of one book and placed into another with zero context or connections. The case was closed and I was left looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d failed. I went on being a DS, managed to continue my career but, looking back, my heart wasn’t in it after that. One day, I was chasing this thug for robbing a pensioner’s house and he clobbered me on the side of the head with a hammer. You can see the wound he gave me now, if you look closely enough. I had to have God knows how many stiches.” He pulled his fringe backwards to reveal an old scar just above his right eyebrow.

  Sally and Blake winced. They had both seen attacks from hammers enough times to know how much damage they could cause.

  “Anyway, I retired after that,” Samuel went on. “I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. Twenty years ago today that was and, to be honest, my only regret is not doing it sooner. The public deserves better than an officer who is just doubting himself to protect them. The Julia Watkins case was what made me quit really. I don’t know why, but I felt like I needed to see inside the house again today.”

  They sipped their drinks for a few moments without saying anything. Blake had been hoping that Samuel might have been able to shed some light on the old woman’s identity or how she had been killed, but all he had been left with was more questions.

  He put his cup down and wandered across to the wall to examine the pictures on the wall in an attempt to fill the somewhat awkward silence. As he wandered along the wall, he came across a smaller framed picture on the sideboard. It was of a little boy and a taller gentleman that looked to be Samuel in his younger days.

  “This is a nice picture, Samuel,” Blake said, holding it up. “Is this you?”

  Samuel glanced at the photograph and nodded.

  “Who’s the kid?” Sally asked.

  Samuel drained his teacup and slammed it on the table as if he had just taken a shot of strong whiskey. “That’s my son. Was my son.”

  Blake frowned. “Was?”

  “He died,” Samuel said shortly. “Went out one day, never came back.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Blake said, placing the photograph back down again.

  Samuel shrugged then turned to Sally. “Are you done with your tea?”

  Sally quickly nodded and passed her empty cup to Samuel who put all the cups and plates back onto the tray and walked back to the kitchen with it without another word.

  Blake and Sally exchanged looks.

  “Can we go, Blake?” she murmered. “I don’t think he’s going to be much help to us.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Blake replied. “My parents should be back soon anyway.”

  Samuel walked back into the room and threw himself into his armchair, reaching across the table for the television remote and flicked it on. His initial hospitality seemed to have completely vanished as if their conversation had completely depleted him of any positivity.

  “Thanks for the tea, Samuel,” Blake said over the sound of the lunchtime news starting. “We’re going to make a move.”

  “No problem,” Samuel murmered. “Give my regards to your parents.”

  Blake nodded and went to turn away when he heard the topic of the first news report.

  “…The serial killer Thomas Frost is being moved today to a new prison in London where it is expected he will serve his multiple life sentences for a number of years before he is moved again. Let’s go live now to Belmarsh where Theresa Bowen is waiting as Thomas Frost arrives at his new placement. Theresa?”

  “Blake?” Sally asked, standing in the living room doorway. “Are you coming?”

  “Hang on,” Blake muttered, watching the screen intently. He wanted to make sure that Frost was locked up and secure where he should be.

  On the screen, the news cut away to the London prison where Theresa was standing amongst a huge crowd of people.

  “I watched this morning. Christ, that old hag Theresa got there quick,” Sally commented, crossing her arms as she watched the television. “They never should have made it public Frost was being moved. Look at all those people.”

  “Wouldn’t have done in my day,” Samuel said from his armchair. “Psycho like that, they should bring back the death penalty. Free up prison space for those that can still be saved.”

  Sally and Blake exchanged knowing looks and continued watching the news report.

  “Well, as you can see, the news that we revealed this morning that Thomas Frost was being relocated to a larger prison has resulted in a huge reaction from the public,” Theresa began over the sound of the crowd chanting something indiscernible. “Many of these people still remember the feeling of unease that was felt when Frost was at large. He is due to arrive at the prison at any moment having been brought here over the morning from Strangeways in the Manchester area. Now, there was much criticism from MPs who have said that he should have been moved to a closer prison, Helen Beauchamp, an MP for a Manchester contingency, in particular has been on social media today lambasting the decision to move Frost such a long distance and thereby having him, in her words ‘within touching distance’ of the public. In a statement from Manchester police, it was stated that Frost has been securely
locked away in the van, handcuffed to his seat, inside a further confined space with a camera trained on him, meaning that the public would never be at any risk and he was, of course, escorted all the way down from Manchester to London by a formation of police cars.”

  “Far be it from me to agree with Helen Beauchamp,” Blake remarked, thinking of the politician that had been the MP for Greater Manchester for the past ten years, “but she does have a point there.”

  “And as you can see, the escorts are now arriving, meaning Frost has now arrived at his destination safely and without incident,” the reporter continued as the prison transfer van appeared with its dangerous passenger.

  The crowd noise on the television rose to an angry buzz and a few eggs were even chucked at the blacked-out windows as the van drove slowly through the prison gate. Immediately the camera seemed to run around to the metal gates and peered through the bars as the van came to a stop and Theresa Bowen continued speaking as the prison officers stepped forward to take Frost into the prison.

  “And, as you can see, Frost has now arrived at Belmarsh, where he will now be taken inside, placed inside a secure cell and then not be moved again for a number of years.”

  Blake heaved an audible sigh of relief.

  “Good,” Sally said. “I hope he rots there.”

  But then, as the camera zoomed in on the van as the back doors were opened, it became clear very quickly that something was wrong.

  The prison officers seemed to be yelling at each other, looking confused and angry. As the driver of the van ran around to see what the trouble was, he soon became embroiled with the argument.

  “What’s going on?” Blake exclaimed, his blood seeming to turn to ice.

  “And, I don’t know…” Theresa said, sounding confused. “There seems to be some sort of problem at the van, Frost should be coming into view at any moment. But I am hearing…No. No, that can’t be right.”

  The camera zoomed in even closer and then, to Blake’s horror, a prison officer stepped out the back of the police van holding a pair of handcuffs and gesturing angrily into the van.