“Sorry. I was sure-”
“There!” Chris said and pointed. “Cigarette light. Fourth, maybe fifth tree up.”
“I see it,” Linda said and turned the ignition.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We’re too far away. I’ll crawl up another hundred metres or so.”
“Nice and slow. It’s probably a pro, but it could be bait for our guy so keep your lights off.”
She clicked the handbrake off and held down the clutch to let the road inch the car forward. When the terrain had flattened out Linda gave it a little juice creeping along the footpath, their eyes arrowed ahead at the burning light. After a few minutes they could see the outline of the figure.
“Look familiar to either of you?”
“Calls herself Madame High Jinx,” Chris said. “Well connected. Let’s just say this. See that nice smooth path along the canal? When she first walked it, it was a pebble one.”
“She’s been around a long time,” Linda said.
“That’s what I just said! You younger ones need everything to be dumbed down. Jeez,” he said. “Isn’t that right Roy?”
Roy looked at the man who was no older than his son but smiled to appease him. Chris turned and blew a raspberry at his fellow officer who shook her head.
“Real mature.”
“So what now?” Roy asked. “Do we pick her up?”
“What? No, no. She’s harmless. We leave her alone. Poor woman’s trying to make a living. Ain’t doing no harm. Besides, she’s come in handy in the past.”
“For what?” Linda had turned to the passenger now and seemed interested, reading his face.
“Missing people. Sometimes it’s the taxis and prostitutes in the wee hours in the morning that can shed light. By and large, though not always the case, they’re more reliable informants than pisshead drunks who will tell you they saw John Lennon in McDonalds. People like Jinxy there are sober so can be a good source, another ear on the ground, extra boots – or stilettos – on the street.”
“Not only that, I suppose,” Linda said. “They can help with criminal investigations. Ladies of the night swim in pretty ugly waters and some of the characters that we’d need to put away have a profile we can flesh out with some testimony from people like her. Maybe give us some additional leads.”
Chris was still sniggering at the ‘ladies of the night’ comment when they suddenly saw a car approach, headlights waving off a main street, half dimmed. The black beamer rolled over the speed bumps one by one, before pulling up along the kerb on the canal side and turned off the lights.
“Is it him?” Roy asked.
“Looks like it,” Linda replied. “Can’t see inside. Tinted windows. It’s his car and reg alright. Chris?”
The other man nodded confirmation, and cocked an ear to the open window to see if he could catch a snippet of conversation but only received the whistling wind for his efforts.
“What do we do next?” Roy asked.
The officers were leaning forward in their seats, eyes narrowed front and centre. From the shadows, they watched as the ghostly outline of the woman stepped forward and approached the side of the car. She seemed to do so with some trepidation, took a long last drag on the cigarette before crunching it under a heel. Her actress smile was missing as she hovered at the side of the car, and they watched as the window of the car screwed down.
“Not much we can do,” Chris said. “Nothing illegal about asking for directions, even from a hooker. Sorry. Lady of the night.”
The jest failed to engage the driver in battle, who was oblivious, continuing to stare. The prostitute was leaning over, skirt riding up her thin legs, a paunch for a stomach that would normally be held in for suitors relaxed and swollen. She was careful not to touch the expensive car, tucking her hands between her thighs. The light from within the interior of the car, shone on her face which was pulled into a desperate expression. She was shaking her head back and forth, speaking quickly with the driver.
“She doesn’t look her usual effervescent self tonight,” Chris said.
“No,” Linda replied. “Looks like they’re arguing.”
Suddenly the woman stepped back, almost tottering on her heels before falling on the grass bank. She was waving her hands in front of her chest now, shaking her head more vigorously. They watched as the driver door opened and out stepped a blonde headed man. He was suited and booted, slamming the door shut as he walked over to her slowly.
“That’s him,” Linda said and she clicked the door, ready to spring into action.
Her other arm was pinned back by the officer who held up his hand asking for patience, watching the interaction on the canal closely.
“He hasn’t done anything yet. Give it a…”
There was a scream from the prostitute as they looked across and saw the man rain blows on her body and face, pummelling her to the ground.
“Now!” Chris said and they both leapt from their car.
“Police! Stop!” Linda shouted, reaching for her pistol.
The man looked at the running officers, raised his hands up in the air and held them behind the back of his head. Taking the opportunity before they had closed the gap, Marcus shook his head and looked down at the woman, breath fast in his chest from the adrenaline. His was a face of fury. He hocked up in his throat and spat on the crumpled, beaten heap on the canal bank before looking back at the two officers.
“It’s not what you think,” he said and smiled.
“It never is,” Chris said and pulled out the handcuffs.
FORTY-NINE
The prison warden swivelled around in her seat to see the governor emerge from his office. He was slipping his arms through a windbreaker jacket. He stopped at the little window and looked outside, shaking his head.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Do we have an umbrella?”
The woman rolled across on her seat and lifted a parasol umbrella which was wedged between the table and wall. She moved back, careful not to hit her head on the TV bracket above and turning held it out by the curved hook handle. Roy took it, kicked its silver top with the front of his boot, displacing some of the rain drops, and buttoned up the jacket.
“No rest for the wicked,” Sheila said. “Late one last night?”
“It was actually,” Roy replied, fastening the buttons on the front of the jacket. “Kicking ass and pulling names.”
“You heading in to see it?”
“Not at all!” Roy replied and pointed to the TV set. “I’m not going to be anywhere near it. Looks like you’ve got the best seat in the house.”
The woman remained unconvinced but nodded and checked the conditions outside matched the live stream on the TV, which of course they did. They watched the footage, taken from a drone zooming high above the park, green fields were a sea of coloured coats and umbrellas. Long lines converged into a central route, drawn from separate tributaries. It carved a trail that trickled to the centre of the park, where the lake had been covered with grilled metal plates.
“Some crowd,” Roy said.
“They’re expecting over 150,000,” she replied and received a whistled response. “Where you headed?”
“Down to the precinct. Just helping out a couple of the officers. Hopefully won’t be too long. No parties here without me, OK?”
Roy left the woman to watch the live stream – a countdown timer in the corner of the screen pulsing red indicating four hours remaining – Popewatch – when the pontiff would take to the stage to greet the public and global audience.
When Roy opened the door, he was buffeted by pellets of rain that slanted into his face. Reversing backwards and pinching the button in its stem, the umbrella fluttered open and he raised it from the ground and toward the wind. Both hands managed to steady it and he was thankful that its frame was strong enough to resist the force, pushing his head under its hood and pressing ahead. The streets were empty as he walked them, rounding the great big grey prison and cros
sing into the car park. As he opened its door, the wind nearly pulled it off the hinge and the umbrella in his free hand made it known that it had aspirations to be a kite. He sat down, tapped the umbrella off the ground and tied the cord around the fabric again, throwing it into the back seat. His trouser legs were wet and getting wetter so he quickly heaved the door back and, slamming it shut, finally took a deep breath and wiped his face.
As he drove, following electronic sign diversions and traffic coordinators in bright overalls, he clicked on the radio and tried to find a music station but without success. Talk of the “historic occasion” and minute by minute commentary on the “huge crowds” and “buzz” which fortunately didn’t impact on his journey that morning.
He arrived well before the time that the female officer had instructed, found a place to park and battled through the rain again, this time, minus the umbrella as he crossed the road and dipped his head until he was inside the building.
Roy shook himself in the doorway like a wet dog, rubbing his hands together and looked up at the front desk. There was a skeleton crew in the back. A blonde woman smiled as he approached, holding a cup of something warm to her face.
“Looks like you could do with one of these,” she said.
“Big time. Some day for it?”
“You’re telling me. Here, let me fix you a cuppa. Linda and Chris will be out shortly.”
Shortly turned out to be the time it took to boil the kettle. They both approached, shook his hand and he thanked them before following them around the long front desk and through a corridor.
“Your coffee,” the woman called out just before he passed through.
He stopped, traced back and reached out for the mug, cold fingers gripping the little circular hold, the touch of the cup itself hot against his palm.
“Look at that!” Chris said. “She hasn’t made me a coffee in ten years. You got some skills, Roy.”
“Five decades in the field my friend will teach you the art of diplomacy,” he said and took a sip, burning his lips which he was glad the officers didn’t see.
“Maybe you should be interrogating our friend,” Chris said, as they walked further along the corridor.
His female colleague looked at him as if to check if the man was serious, although Roy knew from experience that it was just a throwaway comment and quickly jumped in.
“This is all yours. It’ll be good just to observe from the wings if that’s, OK?”
“No problem,” Linda said. “His lawyer has just arrived, so we’ll see what he’s got to say for himself.”
They stopped suddenly outside a teal door, a rectangular plate on its face saying INTERROGATION ROOM B. Chris reached for the handle of the door and then flicked his head to one side.
Linda took the instruction. She pointed Roy across to a door further along the wall and opened it. There was no template on its face and she turned on the light and signalled for him to enter.
“Give me ten minutes,” Chris said. Roy turned and saw the woman nod a response.
Although the room was lit, it was only from a line of lights on the wall to their right. It was more of an ambiance vibe, perfect for afterhours dalliances between frustrated officers. Roy walked its centre and noticed the long window on his left. There were two seats against it and as he sat down he saw the inside of the next room through a one-way mirror.
“Nice,” he whispered to her when she had taken the other seat beside him.
“It’s OK,” Linda replied. “They can’t hear us.”
Roy stared into the adjacent room. A square wooden table was in the centre with two men seated at one end. He recognised Marcus, whose tanned complexion was at odds to the other man beside him. He was a pasty young suit with twitchy movements, who looked nervous under the bright lights from above. They were mumbling to each other, barely audible from the speaker in the corner of the witness room. Roy craned to hear, shaking his head before Linda pointed back to the window.
The door clicked open with the male officer coughing to clear his throat. There was a small switchboard on Linda’s side and Roy watched as she adjusted a dial. Chris took slow measured steps to one of the two chairs on his near side. He pulled it out, sat down opposite the blond man and parked a tape recorder on the table.
“You can’t hold my client here. Under Articles 34 of the-”
The officer held up the palm of his hand which stopped the lawyer mid-flow and pressed a button on the tape recorder.
“For the record, it is March 2nd, 2018. The time is 10.12 a.m. My name is Superintendent Chris Hopkins, badge number TR42517, and I am sitting in Interrogation Room B of Crown Police HQ with a defendant and his requested lawyer. Can you please state your names for the record?”
“Marcus Gunn.”
“Barry Peters.”
“OK, Mr Gunn. Do you agree to the terms we spoke of earlier, namely that a lawyer has been provided to you; you have suffered no ill-treatment as a result of your detainment here and agree to fully cooperate with police with regards to an incident occurring last night, March 1st in the Gleeside canals in Ballygorm?”
“I do.”
“Can you speak up a little?” Chris said and moved the tape recorder forward.
The other man cleared his throat, nodded and repeated his confirmation stronger.
“What were you doing last night in an area commonly considered a place to solicit sex?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” the lawyer said smirking, and turned to the officer. “My client doesn’t have to answer that.”
In the other room, Linda and Roy were leaning forward, scrutinising the blond-haired man’s face, who looked away and shook his head. His eyes scanned the mirror, looking beyond it and settling on Roy’s face for a moment. The governor withdrew and grabbed the woman’s arm, but she patted his leg. He softened a little when the eyes moved away.
“OK. Fine. Mind telling me what you spoke to the woman, Lucinda Jinters, about? How do you know her?”
“You don’t need to answer that,” the lawyer said. “You’re trying to put words into my client’s mouth and assume that they know each other.”
The blond man seemed to get tired of the lawyer’s interruptions, whispering something sideways and got a little furtive glance in return. They continued this little debate for a few seconds, barely audible to those in the connecting room and even to the male police officer who watched. Chris turned his head toward the mirror and gave a little shake.
“I know her, yes. She helped connect people to me in the past.”
“What do you mean ‘connect people’?
“Marcus…” the lawyer warned, turning, but the blond man ignored his request.
“My conscience is clean,” he said. “Sometimes I ask people to join me at certain functions, events, charity balls. Things like that.”
“And pay them for sex,” Chris said.
The man shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. He leaned back and crossed his legs, plucking little orbs of fluff off and releasing them into the draft.
“Don’t be so vulgar,” he replied. “I raise them to a higher level of lifestyle. Share some of my world with them.”
“So,” Chris said, “it’s a power kick for you.”
“Something like that,” he said with a satisfied smile.
“How does Miss Jinters fit into this?”
“You know as well as I do, ‘Miss’ Jinters is anything but. A paid plant by you and your friends no doubt.”
“Doesn’t explain why you would beat her. What sparked that? Thought she ratted on your two stooges?”
“Marcus…” the lawyer said in one last pithy attempt to steer him off the dangerous road he was on.
Instead the man smiled, rubbing one cheek with a smooth palm and then the other as if applying shaving foam. He seemed to be enjoying the exchange, and Roy could see the female officer shake her head, muttering a curse under her breath.
“A dime a dozen, those mugs. S
he got what was coming to her though.”
“What did she do to deserve that?” Chris asked.
The lawyer conceded defeat and merely watched the play between the two men. He was a bystander like the two people in the other room, watching the performance of the accused who seemed to have a flair for theatre, an air of indefatigability under the line of questioning.
“Aren’t you going in?” Roy asked, turning to Linda.
She looked at her watch and shook her head. Her hands were clenched together, trembling under the strain.
“Don’t think I could hold it together with that smarmy bastard. Look at him.”
Roy looked back and saw the man, a leg propped on his knee, pointing out the shoe. His arm leaned back and was on the top of the chair, laughing freely and for all the world looking like he was with friends at his country club, sharing brandies by the fire.
“So, tell me about Molly Walker,” Chris said.
The leg that was bobbing up and down suddenly stopped, and the smile froze on his face. Roy Walker froze in his seat, studying his reaction.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for one, why you instructed Beavis and Butthead to go to her apartment.”
The man nodded, and lifted a hand, inspecting his fingernails. Something there caused him to grimace and he picked at the hangnail between his teeth and pulled it out. A little dry spit shot from his mouth and onto the floor. He uncrossed his legs and faced the officer again.
“Any reason you were going after the girl? Did she piss in your cornflakes or something?”
“My lemon sorbet actually,” he replied, “but that wasn’t the reason.”
“Then why?”
The man took a deep breath, looked skyward and for the first time, something resembling emotion crossed his face.
“It was always about Lazarus,” he said, a wistful smile playing on his lips.
The officer glanced at the window imagining the figures of his colleague and the governor stooped forward, listening intently.
“The man that fell into the lake just before Christmas.”
“No,” Marcus corrected. “The man who saved a child from drowning.”
Raising Lazarus Page 22
