by S A Tameez
Soon as he opened the door to the house, he noticed Stacey in her grey jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt wrapped tightly around her bump. She was stood in front of the television watching an exercise program.
“Hey,” Nick said, “What you doing?”
“Fishing!” She said with a sarcastic smile, “What does it look like?”
“Oh, how I longed to hear your mocking comments.”
“Is that why you’re back early?”
“No,” Jackson smiled, “I got you these,” He held the flowers and chocolate in front of him.
Her face turned deadly serious. She grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched the television off.
“They’re beautiful,” she smiled and reached for the chocolate, “The vase is in the kitchen,” she said and sat on the sofa.
“Are you going to even smell them? Tell me how sweet and romantic it was to get you flowers, like they do in the movies?”
“I smelt them soon as you came in. Made my hay fever flair immediately. So, thanks for that.”
“My pleasure,” Nick said, “I’ll just put these in the kitchen.”
“Great, while you’re there…”
“Yes…”
“I would love a cup of tea,”
“How about we strike a deal?”
She turned to face him and made a serious face.
“Name your terms?”
“How about I make us both a cuppa and you share some of that chocolate?”
She looked down at the chocolate and then back up at him.
“You drive a hard bargain Mr Bailey,”
“It’s Detective Bailey, actually.”
“Not when you walk in through those doors. Then you’re just my Bailey – no one else’s!” She lifted her eyebrows. “Now, I would be quick with that tea, Mr Bailey,” she continued in a Russian accent, “I can’t guarantee the safety of this chocolate!”
Chapter 19
The phone on the bedside table buzzed. Nick grabbed it quickly and pressed the volume button to silence it. His eyes stung as he looked at Zoe’s name displayed on the screen. He glanced at the time on the top left-hand corner of the phone – 6.27am.
“She’s an early bird,” Stacey said.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Nick remarked, putting the phone face down on the table.
“You not going to get that?”
“I’ll call her back at a more sociable hour,”
“Really? It could be important. Why else would she call your mobile at this time?”
“Everything is really important to her. She’ll just have to wait. Anyway, what you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Feel sick.”
“Morning sickness?”
“Morning sickness only happens at the beginning of the pregnancy, silly. Did you not read any of the books?”
“I read some… I mean, I read about packing the labour bag and make sure it is ready just in case of an emergency.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And… is it ready?”
“Erm…”
She lifted the pillow and hit him playfully on the chest.
“Luckily, I got it ready,” She grinned. “And read all the books.”
“Well, I guess I’m just lucky to have you.”
“Yes, I suppose you are,” she gloated, “Now call her back before she ends up driving to the house and banging on the door!”
“She probably would do that, you know.”
“Oh, I believe you.”
“Is there anything I can do? You know, help with you feeling sick?”
“Yes, don’t ever buy the multipack of Terry’s Chocolate Orange ever again!”
“You only had one bar.”
She placed her hand on her throat.
“After you went up last night… I kinda had the other two!”
“Naughty naughty!”
“Don’t start!”
“I was thinking of making a curry for dinner later, you up for that?” Stacey said as Nick got ready for work.
“Sounds great but are you up for cooking? I don’t mind grabbing us something – a take-away?”
“No, I want to do something productive – I feel like a vegetable.”
“Well, you’re not a vegetable…” he thought of what to say next, “You’re more like fruit,”
“You calling me pear-shaped?”
“No, in that, you’re vibrant,”
“Just stop,”
“You know… and you’re sweet… like a fruit… not a pear… more like a—”
“Just stop,” she rolled her eyes,
“Like an apple,”
She threw her pillow at Nick. He managed to dodge it.
“A banana?”
She then threw his pillow and got him in the stomach. He crouched down pretending to be in pain.
“OK, I’ll stop.” They both laughed before he left the room.
“Nick!” she called from behind.
“Yeah?”
“I need those pillows back…” she moaned.
Nick called Zoe using the car’s handsfree feature on the way to the office.
“Zoe,”
“Hey, when you getting in?”
“Be there in 20 mins.”
“OK, you want to grab a coffee from your favourite spot?” There was a brief pause, “Just discuss stuff before we get in?”
“Could do,” Nick glanced at the clock in the car.
“Great, see you soon,” She hung up.
Zoe was already sat at the same table they had sat at last time. She had two cups and scattered paperwork on the table in front of her. Her eyes searched the papers like a child hunting through a word search.
“I know a number for Workaholics Anonymous,” Nick said as he approached the table.
“I got you a coffee,” She pointed at one of the cups.
“Thanks,” He sat down opposite her, “Have you had any sleep?” he said noticing her puffy dark eye circles.
“There was nothing at the yard,” Tactfully ignoring his question, “Fowler’s statements don’t show any transfers to Sarah’s account or anything else suspicious. His story about the stolen parts in the cars checks out – he buys them like that, and after the advice from his solicitor, he’s now pleading ignorance. He saying he didn’t know the cars had stolen parts.”
“So, we got nothing on him?”
“I don’t think he’s got anything to do with Sarah’s murder.”
“So, back to square one?” Nick sighed and then took a sip of the coffee.
“Not exactly,” Zoe pushed a piece of paper towards him.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the address for Norman Hyde.”
“The guy from her university? The stalker?”
“Yes, and check this out. The university have notified us that Mr Hyde hasn’t attended university for a while. Since the disappearance of Sarah Fowler, to be precise.”
“Well, I guess we better drink up and pay a visit to Mr Hyde’s home,”
“We sure should,” she said sipping her drink, “But don’t forget about your date.”
“Date?”
“Your date with the Press.”
“Shit!” he looked at his watch and then gulped the coffee, “I better get out of here. You coming?”
“Right behind you,” she stared down at the paperwork, “I’ll meet you back at the office when you’re done.”
Nick stood facing 30 reporters with cameras and microphones facing him like guns. He hated giving statements but appreciated why it needed to be done. For DCI Harold Bishop it was part of the bureaucracy of his role – a formality that had to be completed. But for Nick it was, aside from a pain in the neck, a way to keep people calm – give them some reassurance that they were doing all they could to keep the streets of London safe.
At a time like this where murders, knife crime, acid attacks and gang culture were on the rise, it was imperative to keep
the public on the side of the Police. The last thing they needed was vigilantes who had lost faith in the system taking matters into their own hands.
“We can confirm that a body of a young woman was found near South Bank between Millennium Bridge and Blackfryers Bridge.” Muttering emerged from the crowd of reporters. “We can also confirm that there was foul play involved and we are working around the clock to find out exactly what happened.”
“She was murdered?” One of the reporters asked.
“Yes, we believe so,”
“Was it the Sailor?” Another reporter yelled out.
“We’re not yet sure who was responsible.”
“Did the victim have the sailboat?”
“I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give you at this time – we do have someone in custody for questioning and we will be questioning a few more people over the next few days.”
“Can you confirm whether there was a sailboat?” The reporter shouted.
“That’s all the information I can give you right now. We are asking people to be vigilant and careful and want to reassure everyone that we are doing everything we can to find out exactly what happened and who was responsible. Thank you.”
The reporters immediately started hurling more questions, but Nick ignored them and walked back towards the entrance of the station. He could hear the footsteps of the reporters marching behind him and was relieved when the small group of uniforms stepped forward stopping the reporters from giving chase into the station.
“How did it go?” Keith said as Nick walked inside, “With the sharks?”
“Splendid… just splendid,” Nick rolled his eyes.
“I’m looking for Detective Nick Bailey,” A lady barged in through the doors and asked at the desk.
Great! A reporter? How did she infiltrate the barracks?
“My name is Melisa Maddison… I need to talk to—
“I’m DS Nick Bailey,” Nick approached the desk, “You’re Melisa Maddison, Sarah Fowler’s friend?”
“Yes,”
“OK, let’s get you signed in and then come through.”
“Can I get you a drink? Coffee, tea?” Nick asked as he observed Melisa fidget with her fingers. She shook her head and looked around the small interview room.
“I want to know what happened with Sarah,” her eyes pointing at Nick as if he had all the answers, “I need to know.”
“We are doing everything we can to figure that out.”
“OK, but what about Norman Hyde? Have you spoken to him?”
“We will be visiting his home shortly and—”
“You still haven’t tracked him down?” Her voice was now raised, “I told you about him! He is a freak! It was the way he stared at her – he watched her all the time. Made me feel uncomfortable.”
“We have your statement and we are—“
“You need to do it faster! He is involved in this – I know it.”
“Miss Madison, someone staring at someone or even being infatuated by someone doesn’t necessarily mean he is behind a murder. I assure you, we—”
“That’s the thing! She is just another murder to you. Just another number to add to your statistics but she was so much more than that. She was a lovely soul and was my best friend.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss—”
“Are you? Are you actually sorry for my loss? Do those words even hold any value anymore? You must say it robotically to all the families of murder victims – Sarah was not special to you or anyone else around here – that’s why you’re not doing anything about it.”
“We are working around the—“
“Save your speech for the Press, detective. I’m not sitting around waiting for you lot to do something.”
“Melisa, we urge people to remain calm and not get involved in investigations.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your investigation but I’m not relying on you to get to the bottom of this!” She marched out of the door.
Nick rubbed his fatigued eyes and then stared into space for a moment. Was he doing enough? Was this girl just another murder? Being a detective in Major Crimes did make you desensitised to murder victims, just the way doctors became desensitised to seeing Z:ProjectsThe LCD LabWebDesignRe design people with horrendous injuries – that doesn’t mean doctors don’t care, right? It didn’t matter what field you were in; you were still human and that meant you made mistakes – there were days where you cared less, days where you were tired, exhausted, not in the mood to do anything productive. Days where you missed things, important things – things that mattered to other people more than they did to you.
His trail of thoughts was interrupted with his phone buzzing.
“Nick Bailey,” he answered.
“Where are you?” Zoe asked.
“Interview room 4,”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” He stood to leave, “Just had Melisa Maddison in here. She was—”
“Melisa Maddison is in there, right now?”
“No, she left a few moments ago,”
“Shit!”
“What’s up?”
“We need to speak to her urgently. She’s not answering her phone.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Nick said as he rushed out of the room and towards the front desk.
“See if you can stop her. Arrest her if you have to!”
“Terry,” Nick called out to the uniformed officer sat at the desk, “You see a young woman walk out of here? IC3, curly brown afro?”
“She just walked out.”
Nick barged out of the doors and looked around – before he got a good chance to see if he could locate her, the heard of reporters rushed towards him.
“DS Bailey,” one of them shouted, “One more question.”
“No further comments!” He said in frustration and barged back into the station.
“You still there?” he asked over the phone.
“Yeah. Did you find her?”
“Negative. Lost her and the crowd of reporters is still out there!”
“Damn it!”
“OK, you want to tell me what’s going on now?”
“Meet me at the office.”
“Roger that,” he then looked at Terry, “If she comes back in, call me straight away,”
“Sure,” Terry replied.
“And don’t let her leave!”
Chapter 20
Jessica Hyde’s eyes were glazed as she robotically washed the dishes. She stared out of the window into the small garden. Her mind switched from the over grass that needed trimming to Norman, who had been in his room all day and hadn’t come down for dinner. It wasn’t unusual for a teenage boy to spend most of the day locked away in his room, but she still hadn’t got used to it. She missed him being dependant on her. Needing her. Giving her purpose. She was a mother, that’s all she knew, all she was good at. Him growing, becoming a man would change everything. She wished there was a way to stop it – stop him from transitioning. Moving on. Leaving.
She put the last plate on the rack to dry and removed her washing up gloves. She sat at the breakfast table and stared into space, not knowing what to do. What could she do? She felt lost without David, though she needed him gone.
She was glad he was gone – he was no good for her or Norman. Her mother was right about him – he was a waste of space.
A waste of space that always kept on top of cutting the grass, she thought as she stood up, glanced at the garden and sighed.
She ambled through the hallway and up the stairs. Paused outside Norman’s bedroom door and made a fist to knock but it froze in the air. She paced up and down and thought about knocking again. Again, she froze.
She walked to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Nothing would ever be the same again, that much was sure. She knelt and reached under her bed and pulled a blood-stained faded blue hoody. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped her face an
d took a deep breath before removing a black rucksack from her cupboard. She folded the top before placing it inside. She slid the bag under the bed and sat on the floor panting.
Her eyes were drawn to a picture frame on her dressing table. An image of her and Norman from a few years back. She had torn her husband out of the photo the way she tore him out of their lives.
Things were so simple then.
He was a special boy, misunderstood but special. She was his mother, his guardian, his protector. It was her duty to protect him. Even if it was wrong.
She wiped her tears and got to her feet.
“Yes,” he answered after she knocked a few times.
“I… your… your dinner has been ready for a while.” She put on a jolly tone, knowing she was only fooling herself.
“I’m not hungry.”
She paused for a moment. She searched the hallway for an excuse to lure him out of his room. It wasn’t that simple anymore – she couldn’t offer him sweats or lollipops anymore.
“Norman, I need to talk to you… it’s important.” She used her serious tone to express it was no longer a request.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” he responded after a short pause.
“Great, I’ll warm dinner up. It’s meat lasagne, your favourite.”
He didn’t respond. She waited for a moment hoping that he would hiss in excitement like he did when he was child. Her child. Her special child.
She sat at the dinner table for 25 minutes before he came down. His hair was a mess. Huge puffy eyes, an oversized, creased, white t-shirt draped around him and he smelt like he hadn’t showered in days. She instantly recognised the t-shirt. It was David’s. She hated it. She hated anything that reminded her of him. She had changed the furniture, the wallpaper and even had the shed painted a different colour – a desperate bid to erase all traces him. But she couldn’t, for the main trace was now sat in front of her. Norman. Her son. Her world. At least he gave her that.
“What do you think?” She noticed him scoffing the food. Hungry or not, he could never resist her cooking.
“What?” he said with his mouthful.
“The lasagne? What do you think of it?”
