by M K Farrar
Automatically, her right hand moved to cover her left one, hiding the gold wedding band. “Oh, well, I don’t really have anyone. I did. I was married. I still am married.” She stumbled over her words. “He died a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, even though it wasn’t. It was far from fine, but she didn’t want to make anyone else uncomfortable because of her circumstances.
“How did he die?”
“It was sudden,” she said. “Taken too young. Life can be cruel.” She didn’t want to give him any details. She hadn’t lied exactly, but also hadn’t told him the truth. She didn’t want to tell a man who’d been attacked in his home that her own husband had been brutally murdered. What kind of confidence in her abilities would that give him, if she hadn’t even been able to keep her husband safe?
He put up both hands and shook his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry. Ignore me.”
She gave a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
It would be easy enough for him to find out what had happened to her husband. All he needed to do was Google her name and numerous articles would come up. She hoped he wouldn’t. She didn’t want him to pity her or to think she was bad at her job.
She brought the topic back to the case.
“I’m sorry to make you go through this again, but I wanted to talk to you about the attack. I know you said it was dark and it happened fast, but I need some more details.”
“Okay. What kind of details?”
“Your attacker slashed you across the face, but you said you moved when the knife was coming down. Is there any chance your movement also changed the direction of the knife?”
He frowned. “Changed the direction? I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Could the tip of the knife originally have been pointed down, in a stabbing motion, rather than a slicing?”
“You mean, did he try to stab one of my eyes out?”
She winced at the image that must have brought to mind. “Yes, I do.”
He thought for a moment. “I guess so. When I lurched back, jerking my face away from the knife, he was behind me with that arm curled around my head. My shoulder would have struck his bicep and so could have changed how he was pointing the knife.”
Erica nodded, picturing the scene in her head. That would make sense. Of course Brandon’s movements would have affected those of his attacker.
“Why are you asking me all of this?” Brandon said, his frown deepening.
She couldn’t give him too much information. “Just following a lead. There’s the possibility whoever did this might have done something similar before.” Even though he was currently serving several life sentences in prison.
Brandon straightened, his forehead smoothing, his blue eyes brightening. “That’s good, isn’t it? Not that they did this to someone before, but that you’ve got a lead.”
She risked a smile, though she didn’t feel it. How could she possibly explain to him that her so-called lead was someone who had been behind bars at the time of the attack? Brandon wanted her to make him feel better, to reassure him he was going to be safe in his own home, but she couldn’t.
“I wish I could tell you that we’d already caught the bastard, but I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“It’s okay. I know you’re doing everything you can.”
There was one thing that she had wondered about. Why hadn’t Brandon put the light on the moment he’d stepped into the flat? She knew it was the first thing she’d do when she got home. The light switch was on the inside wall just past the door, so she’d open the door and flick the light on even before she’d really stepped into the house. Why hadn’t Brandon Skehan done the same?
“One last question, Brandon, if that’s all right?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you put the light on when you got home? The witnesses who helped you right after the attack say the flat was in darkness, and you said yourself that you hadn’t seen your attacker because it was dark. But it wasn’t as though you had a power cut or anything, so why didn’t you turn on the light?”
He shrugged. “There didn’t seem to be much point. I was going to bed.”
“You still had to find your way to your room. Wouldn’t it have been easier to put a light on?”
“Maybe, but I was planning to use the bathroom first and I’d have put the light on in there. Detective, you’ve seen my flat. It’s hardly on the large side. It’s literally a few steps between the front door and the bathroom, so I would have just put the bathroom light on, had I reached it. It’s really not a big deal.”
She sighed. “I suppose I was just thinking that you might have seen the attacker if you’d put on the light, or at least might have noticed that something had been moved.”
“Aye, I wish I had now, too, but to be honest, I’d had a few pints and I probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway.”
“Thank you.” She got to her feet. “I’ll leave you in peace now, but if you think of anything else, please do call me.”
“I’ll do that.” He paused and then added, “Maybe, when you’re free sometime, I could buy you a drink and you could give me some advice about how I can start thinking about joining the police, as well?”
Erica’s insides jolted, and heat rose to her cheeks. He wanted to buy her a drink? Was this just an excuse for him to take her out, or was he genuinely wanting to know how to get into the Met? No, of course he didn’t want to take her out. She was older than him, and a mother. He was an attractive bloke and could be out pulling hot twenty-one-year-olds. She was misreading this in completely the wrong way. She hated feeling so awkward, and like she was going to misstep the situation and look like an idiot. She was a professional woman.
“I’m afraid free time isn’t something I have much of. You can find plenty of information online, though.”
“Oh, right. No problem.”
Now he was the awkward one, and she found herself feeling bad about that.
“Besides, it wouldn’t be very ethical of me to go for a drink with a victim in a case I’m working on. The boss wouldn’t approve.”
“No, I totally understand. I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position. Perhaps you’ll think about it once the case is over?”
Erica took a couple of steps towards the door. “I really should be going.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll show you out.” He offered her a smile. “Sorry I made things weird.”
Erica laughed. “No, it’s fine, really. Thank you for your time.”
“Anything I can do to help,” he said and showed her out of the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
One Month Earlier
Nicolas stood in line, waiting for his meal, his tray in hand.
On the other side of the canteen, Officer Bache walked back and forth, his gaze fixed on the prisoners sitting at the tables, making sure each of them was eating quickly enough and not doing anything to break the rules.
The queue moved forward, and Nicholas wasn’t fast enough to fill in the gap and received a fist in his back as thanks. He staggered and almost fell into the man in front but managed to keep to his feet. He immediately looked down at the tray, his shoulders rounded, his neck bent, taking on a submissive posture. Even a split second of eye contact with the wrong person in this place could mean a beating.
He shuffled on, waiting his turn in line until he reached the front. Rice and curry was slopped onto his plate, and he helped himself to a carton of juice and a bread roll.
With the tray in his hands, he moved up the far side of the canteen, searching for somewhere to sit. Officer Bache had seen him coming, and the prison officer’s face crumpled into a scowl. Just like with the other prisoners, Bache could sense weakness, and it seemed to disgust him.
Nicholas kept going.
A foot stuck out from under one of the tables, catching Nicholas’s ankle. To his horror, he flew forwards, and he automaticall
y released the tray with one hand. The forward motion caused the tray to swing out to his right, and as his arms flew up, the edge of the tray connected with Officer Bache’s face.
Curry and rice landed all over the prison officer, a red gash beneath his eye already forming where the tray had struck him.
Nicholas hit the floor, his teeth clacking together, the air bursting from his lungs. But he didn’t even care about his own pain. He’d hit Officer Bache in the face with a tray and he knew this was going to get bad.
The canteen erupted in chaos. Shouts of encouragement were layered with warnings from the other officers.
A heavy body landed on his back, crushing what remained of his breath from his lungs. A knee planted painfully in his spine and jammed down, flattening him to the floor.
I’m sorry, he wanted to tell them. It wasn’t me. Someone tripped me. It was an accident. But his breath was a painful, narrow wheeze, and the words refused to come. He tried to lift his head from the floor, but it was shoved back down again, his temple hitting the hard surface, a loud crack ricocheting through his ears.
The other inmates took in the sight of Officer Bache covered in Nicholas’s curry and rice and peals of laughter echoed around the hall, but they didn’t drown out the fury in Bache’s voice.
“What do you think happens to an inmate who dares to assault a prison officer?”
Nicholas tried to speak but was rewarded with another boot in the spine.
Bache and another of the officers hauled Nicholas to his feet.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Bache snapped. “A few days in the box should sort you out.”
“No, please.”
He didn’t want to go in there. He’d heard rumours. There was nothing in the room, except for a toilet—no bedding, no windows, nothing to distract his thoughts.
“Next time you’ll think twice before trying something so stupid.”
They dragged him out of the canteen, down the corridors, to the end where the box was located. One of the officers released him long enough to open the solid metal door, and then they threw Nicholas inside.
The moment the door slammed shut, a metallic clang echoing around the enclosed space, Nicholas was back on his feet. He threw himself at the shut door and battered his fists on the metal.
“I didn’t do anything wrong! I don’t deserve to be in here.”
A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “You assaulted a prison officer with a tray. You deserve to be in there for a very long time.”
“No, wait!”
But footsteps clicked away, and Nicholas knew he was alone. Just as he would be, day after day, night after night, until they decided his punishment was over.
TIME PASSED.
Nicholas slept and woke, and slept and woke again. With no barred window and a solid metal door, there was no movement of air in the cell, and it was hot and stuffy. He felt as though he’d been drugged, now living a strange existence of little to no routine, and barely any contact with another person.
“What are you doing, Nicholas?”
Nicholas jerked awake. He’d been dreaming. He must have been, but he would have sworn he’d heard his brother’s voice, as clear as though Danny had spoken right into his ear.
“What—what?”
He flickered open his eyes, but it was dark. It must be night again. Other than the bells ringing through the prison, and the meals he was given through the hatch in the door, he had no way of telling the time of day. Normal prison life meant he was locked in his cell from six p.m. until eight a.m., but now he was in here twenty-four-seven.
“It looks like you’re struggling in here.”
Nicholas blinked into the darkness. “Danny?”
“Yeah, Danny. Who else is it going to be?”
He wanted to tell Danny that it couldn’t be him, because his brother was dead, but, weirdly, he worried about pissing Danny off if he tried to argue with him.
“I said, it looks like you’re struggling.”
“I suppose I am.” It suddenly felt good to be able to say it, and to have someone on his side, even if he knew that person wasn’t real.
At first, when he’d been put behind bars, he’d experienced a kind of notoriety. The things he’d done had been plastered all over the media, and the other prisoners had treated him with respect. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t felt like an outcast. Men had clapped him on the back and invited him to sit with them at mealtimes and listened to him regale the stories of the things he’d done—especially the one where he’d killed a detective’s husband. That was one of their favourites. But it hadn’t taken long for them to grow bored of the stories. Nicolas had been able to tell by the way their gazes drifted away when he started to talk and how they spoke over him or simply turned their backs to start conversations with someone else.
He’d felt it all slipping away, the respect, the notoriety. It had filled him with panic, and the harder he’d tried, the more he’d caught those disdainful glances and shrugged shoulders. He’d quickly returned to the nothing person he’d been all his life. No one noticed him, or if they did, it was for all the wrong reasons.
“You’re being stupid, Nicholas,” Danny said. “Did I teach you to be stupid?”
“No, Danny. You didn’t.”
“Why do you let them treat you like that?”
“It’s not my fault. I don’t have any choice.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. He didn’t want any of the other prisoners or officers to hear him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you. Heard you were getting into a bit of trouble and I thought you could do with your brother’s shoulder to lean on.”
“You...you can’t be here, because you’re dead.”
“There are some things you just need to accept that you won’t understand. I’m here, aren’t I? You can hear me, so I must be here.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No, I must be imagining you.”
Danny’s tone changed. “You’re hurting my feelings now, Nicholas. I make all this effort to come and see you, and that’s how you treat me?”
“Sorry, Danny.”
“You need to listen to me, okay, and you need to listen to me hard. You have something you can use, and you’re not making the most of it.”
Nicholas wrung his hands together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The letters you’re receiving mean something. Someone has been contacting you for a reason, and I think you know what that reason is.”
He spoke in a whisper. “He wants to kill the detective.”
“Exactly. You have a fan, Nicholas, someone who wants to complete your work. What’s more important to you, having him kill Erica Swift, or getting out of this place sooner?”
The seduction of both possibilities hung on the air. Which siren song was stronger?
He wanted Erica dead, didn’t he?
“You can kill her,” Danny’s voice came out of the darkness. “If they let you out early, it can happen at your hands. You’ll take your revenge for my death yourself.”
But an uneasiness twisted Nicholas’s stomach. “I’ve already made her pay, haven’t I? I took her husband from her.”
“And then she got you locked up in here. Do you think that’s fair? Do you?”
Nicholas put his hands over his ears and rocked in the corner. “Don’t shout at me, Danny. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.”
Nicholas had always been frightened of his brother’s temper. He’d been frightened of almost everything when he’d been growing up. That was his resounding emotion when he thought back to his childhood—fear and shame. Their mother had always loved Danny more, even though she’d had a strange way of showing it. It wasn’t that she’d been particularly loving with either of them, but whenever she’d got drunk and her anger had taken hold, it had always been Nicholas she’d made a beeline for. Perhaps she sensed the weakness in him, just like everyone else did. Danny
had always been stronger, at least, until he hadn’t. In the end, he’d gone the same way as their mother—too much drinking and drugs, letting the anger take over. Nicholas had done the same—not with the drinking and drugs, but with the anger—and look where that had got him.
He didn’t know how long he stayed that way, with his hands clamped over his ears, rocking back and forth, but when he eventually lifted his head again, the lights were back on and his brother was gone.
Had he been right, though? Did all those letters he’d been receiving mean something important? He’d put the code together himself, hadn’t he—the one about the bird? He’d known the letter-writer was talking about the detective. Could he really use them to get his sentence reduced?
More than anything, he hated being in this place. He was miserable. What was the point in going on if this was his life now? Those letters were a small beacon of hope. He’d thought he’d felt that way because it had been good to know that someone was thinking about him, and the letters broke up the mundanity of prison life, but perhaps they meant something more?
What would happen if he allowed this person to kill Erica Swift? Would the letters stop? Where would that leave him? Yes, the detective would be dead, but he’d still be facing a lifetime in prison, and maybe his letter-writer would have fulfilled his purpose and stop writing to him.
Then he’d be left with nothing.
WHEN NICHOLAS EVENTUALLY got out of the box, weeks later, there was another letter waiting for him. It was short and to the point.
Dear Mr Bailey,
I’ve brought all these things together now, Nicholas. It’s time I did a little exterminating of these beasts, those birds in particular, wouldn’t you say? I’ve set a fire, and done some painting, among other hobbies I enjoy. Now it’s time for the grand finale, to finish off the job you started.
Yours, M Cimi.
That evening, as Fish watched the television and the local news came on, Nicholas paid extra attention. The news reporter spoke of crimes that had happened across the city, and finally the penny dropped. He understood what those letters meant.
