Dead Lands

by Lloyd Otis

  Kearns stood in front of Breck and Clarke eyed her up and down. She returned the favour, unsure of what to make of his bright red shoes.

  ‘Mr Peter Clarke?’

  ‘Yes, who wants to know?’

  She pulled out her ID. ‘I’m DS Kearns, and this is DI Breck. Can we come in?’

  Suspicion circled Clarke’s face yet the detectives knew that because of his legal background he’d respect the law. Or at least they hoped he would. They knew little about Clarke or his temperament but would soon find out.

  ‘Can I ask what this is concerning?’

  ‘It’s best if we talk inside, I reckon,’ Breck suggested.

  There was an innocuous shrug from the defence solicitor before he let them in. When he did, he directed them towards the kitchen.

  ‘We can talk in here. It’s time for my cuppa anyway. Do either of you two fancy one?’

  Both officers declined the offer almost in unison and Kearns sat down while Breck stood. Everyone waited with pleasant faces and fixed smiles until the kettle boiled. Then Clarke poured out the water into his white mug and joined Kearns around the table. He bought the smouldering liquid heat to his mouth and took a sip before taking great care to place the mug back down.

  ‘So what is this about?’

  ‘Do you know a man by the name of Alexander Troy, maybe known as Alex for short?’

  The solicitor ran a hand over his thinning patch of hair and assumed that the police must already know he and Troy were friends so there was no point in lying.

  ‘Yes, I know him. Is he OK?’

  Breck failed to answer. ‘When was the last time that you spoke to him?’

  ‘We spoke two weeks ago. He said he had got hold of tickets for a football match. He asked if I wanted to go with him but I couldn’t.’

  ‘What else did he discuss?’

  ‘Nothing much, it was a short conversation.’

  ‘Did he seem normal?’

  ‘Yes, he seemed normal, whatever that means.’

  Kearns cut in. ‘Has he got a girlfriend, someone else who knows him well?’

  Peter Clarke tilted his head upwards and tapped his fingers on the table to an imaginary rhythm, giving the impression he was trying to search every loose memory in his head.

  ‘Alexander doesn’t do girlfriends, he prefers casual relationships. Likes to play the field. He flashes a smile and then lets the beast in his trousers do the talking. He’s got the looks for it, unlike me.’

  Kearns stifled a smile and continued. ‘I understand that he’s going out with a woman by the name of Ceinwen, pronounced kine-win.’

  Clarke shrugged and Breck pulled out a seat then settled into it. Clarke brought his mug to his lips again, and this time took two mouthfuls of tea while Breck believed him to be too clever to give much away out of loyalty. For the present moment, he at least provided them with a jagged path into Alexander Troy’s life.

  ‘Mr Clarke, I suggest you help your friend by assisting us. We need him to clear up an urgent matter and he hasn’t made things easy for himself so I’ll ask this question just the once. When was the last time that you really heard from him?’

  Clarke’s face hardened. ‘I told you, two weeks ago!’

  Breck slammed a hand down on the table. ‘A murder has occurred, and he has been implicated. Tell us what you know!’

  Clarke rebuked the aggression by folding his arms in defiance which signalled the end of the questioning. Breck knew that and rolled his eyes. The conversation hadn’t turned out the way he had planned.

  ‘May we have a look around?’

  ‘Not without a search warrant. You know the rules DI Breck.’

  ‘Indeed, I do Mr Clarke. Thank you for your time and rest assured we’ll be in touch.’

  Breck and Kearns left, failing to spot the framed photo of a little boy and his mother. Peter Clarke peered through the kitchen window and watched them shrink into the distance then smirked. He grabbed his tools and returned to the pipes underneath the sink that he had been attempting to fix before the interruption, desperate to get it all done before Troy arrived.

  NINE

  West Cransham had more than a few interesting places to visit and one such place was called The Inn. The music venue brought a hazardous nightlife to the area and people from all over the UK flocked to the place frequented by a plethora of in-demand bands.

  A guaranteed spectrum of noise accompanied every gig, every event, with drug-fuelled teenagers puking up in the toilets. On a night when a band comprising of three Northern lads with sprayed hair, lean torsos and body piercings, played their last song, a majority of the crowd refused to believe that it was over.

  Cheers followed, mixed with chants of, ‘We want more,’ but it was indeed the end of the show and the exits were opened to allow everyone to leave.

  The venue had seen lots of nights like this, where many still felt the cutting edge of the electric guitar riffs, the lingering sounds of the tremolo, and the memories of the solo parts. The young began to get rowdy. The night belonged to them. Screw the establishment.

  Buried in the heart of the crowd was Geraldine, a transatlantic rich girl rebelling against what she stood for, while soaking up the community tribalism at the same time. Her group were already so high they felt invincible and Geraldine felt no need to hold back her boyfriend.

  ‘That looks like Rogers ahead,’ he said. ‘I never gave him permission to come to the gig. He’s not allowed.’ Simon couldn’t catch up to Rogers as quick as he wanted. Not because Geraldine hooked herself onto his arm, but because the crowd were being drip-fed out. His best friend Tiz came along with his girlfriend Imelda, and he pitched in to back Simon’s comments.

  ‘He needs smacking up, let’s do him.’

  ‘Yeah, I like the idea of that.’

  It had been a good night so far and would be even better if he ended up putting his fist through Rogers’ nose.

  The Inn’s security made sure the crowd exited in single file and received abuse for their efforts from those who were nothing more than a colourful collective of wayward youth. By the time the group reached outside there was no sign of Rogers.

  ‘You’ve lost him, maybe next time huh?’ Geraldine said, unintentionally making Simon feel as if he had failed which dented his male pride.

  ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ Imelda suggested but Tiz wasn’t having any of it. ‘We’ll go there after Simon sorts out Rogers. Hang on, there he is.’

  Rogers crossed the road with two mates and Simon’s adrenalin reached bursting point. He squeezed through the crowd that had spilled out onto the street and Geraldine lost her grip on him. Tiz wasn’t far behind so she found Imelda and both girls held onto each other for comfort. A line of cars stopped them from joining the boys as they pounced on Rogers and pinned him against a wall daubed with Pakis Out in large letters. Rogers’ mates had legged it.

  ‘Bet you save loads of money on dyeing your hair.’ Simon pulled hard, tugging the roots out of Rogers’ scalp causing him to wince.

  ‘He’s a true ginger spaz but pretends that he isn’t?’ Tiz said, wading in.

  Rogers nodded in the hope it would make them go away but he was wrong. Simon became intent on making an example of him, just to show off, nothing else.

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to come here tonight. We didn’t want to see your ugly mug.’

  Simon could see fear in Rogers’ eyes, so loosened his grip. He wanted a fight not a capitulation and had the intention of letting him go until Geraldine and Imelda joined them. Their disappointment in the anti-climax reinvigorated his desire to humiliate him.

  ‘Kiss my boots, Rog.’

  Rogers stared down at the Dr. Martens and didn’t fancy putting his lips on the scuffed leather. Simon pushed down on Rogers’ shoulders, forcing him to begin the descent to his knees but in a surprise move, Geraldine protested.

  ‘Let him go Simon,’ Rogers caught her eye, thankful for the intervention.

  Geraldine
knew the right thing to say to make Simon relent. ‘He’s a loser, don’t waste your time on him. Let’s go to the pub.’

  Simon chewed on her words and wanted to step away but Tiz stirred it up again.

  ‘He’ll lie to his mates and say that he fought us off.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Rogers’ could feel Simon’s breath skate across his face and his attempts to deny Tiz’s claim were fruitless.

  Simon grabbed him by the neck to force him down.

  ‘Do it, come on, do it. Lick my fuckin’ boots.’

  Rogers was trying to resist but when Tiz kicked his knees, his legs collapsed. Imelda cheered on the boys while Geraldine wasn’t so enthusiastic. Simon and Tiz had no need to bully Rogers, but she was powerless to stop it unless she could lessen the blow herself. With nothing to lose Geraldine bowled over and slapped Rogers across the face. It stung him and interrupted the whole shoe kissing moment. Then she screamed at him and the wink she sent Rogers was shared between them alone. Geraldine dragged a pent-up Simon with her.

  ‘I need a drink. Come on.’

  He spat in Rogers’ direction, narrowly missing him while Tiz grabbed Imelda and began to complain.

  ‘Why didn’t you do what she did?’ Imelda had no answer. ‘Simon, your bird doesn’t mess about.’ An irate Tiz pulled Imelda to one side. ‘Listen babe, next time do what she does, show a bit of balls.’

  Imelda elbowed him in the ribs and he told her to, ‘Piss off’, then he put his arms around her and together they walked off. All four of them still feeling invincible and able to fight the world.

  Rogers made sure they were almost out of sight before he pulled himself up and dusted down. It was time to go home and made for a crap end to the evening. But while he walked away so did someone else. A person that had been watching everything and taking a keen interest, although not in Rogers. It was in someone else within the group that had just left. Geraldine.

  TEN

  The Messenger

  In his mind it wasn’t personal, just business for which he had been paid to complete and the evening saw him waiting by a wall, busy pretending to be nothing so that nobody needed to look at him twice.

  He watched with interest when she left the pub with friends and within that group he saw her boyfriend, judging by their closeness. The arms were locked together, the lips touched. Not the right match for her he believed and already he blamed the boyfriend for making the girl Frankenstein’s monster. Dog collar around her neck, a studded leather second skin, and ripped clothes. They mirrored each other. The boy wasn’t the floral shirt and sandals type, he was the Mr Angry type.

  The Messenger slid off the wall and followed from far enough away for them not to notice. Not to smell him. They couldn’t feel his presence, and to his own mind, he walked close enough to hear the soles of their boots tap against the cold pavement. They walked without speed, a slow tread, before splitting from the others and when she kissed the boy again, it became wild and rough. For the one who watched, bad thoughts surfaced, of her… naked… doing things… then he stopped when he reminded himself he was there for the business; nothing else.

  Along a winding road, a thin mist of fog joined the two lovers and they become outlines, these punks that were unsteady on their feet. He wanted one of them to fall, to hurt themselves and call for help. Yet somehow, they struggled along just, and hopped on a bus which he caught too.

  He kept his head down, heard them talk, learned things, until they abused the conductor and were forced off, thinking they could get away with anything.

  They arrived at Leicester Square, the showpiece. The one they polished for the Queen’s Jubilee. Tourists liked it that way, admired the sparkle and the space. But for the one who watched, it meant nothing to him

  The girl stopped right outside a place to eat and the boyfriend stared through the window, pining for the food, checking his barren pockets. He clenched his fists but she calmed him, then it was over and they moved on, still thinking that they ruled the world. The Messenger watched all of this because of one simple thing. He would be visiting the girl soon and she would be next.

  ELEVEN

  Being a prime suspect on the run meant that Troy’s flat in Cransham had been locked down. Guarded by an officer stationed outside, it was sealed off to anyone unauthorised and the officer recognised Breck and Kearns as soon as they arrived. He greeted them with a polite nod, opened the door to let them into Troy’s flat, then stepped aside.

  It was tidy, not a messy bachelor pad. Everything seemed to be in place and that gave them a little bit of insight into Troy. A person that liked to keep things neat and in order, organised being a key word. For Breck, he considered Troy’s escape as a measured action. Not one done without thought.

  The furniture was kept to a bare minimum, one chair around a small table in the dining area, a double sofa chair in the living room. A single bed for the bedroom. Breck stared at the bed and thought it must be tricky for Troy whenever he invited female company over. He moved towards the drawer in the living room and at the same time that he opened it, Kearns opened the adjoining one. They sifted through each drawer but the only thing of significance were letters from Troy’s bank regarding his account. His account had been set up at Midland – the ‘listening bank’ and Breck found statements that covered the last four months.

  Troy was spending his entire income and more or less ended each month on a minus balance. Breck paused when he saw Kearns hold up a statement confirming that Troy owed the bank money. A significant amount too.

  ‘Pat, I have another possibility for a motive. Troy needed money and saw Janet Maskell as a way to clear his debts so must have known she had a vast amount set aside somewhere.’

  ‘Makes sense. So it’s either for that reason he murdered her, or because she caught him breaking company rules. Both sound a bit strange to me. Over the top.’ Kearns then closed her drawer. ‘OK, nothing in this one. I’m going to search other areas of the flat.’

  Breck followed and soon unearthed a bag, the colour of which blended in with the forest green carpet. He realised it could have been missed. Inside, he found a neat pile of folded clothes and took out each item. A shirt and a pair of trousers, socks, Y-Fronts and a light brown jacket. There was also a pair of Nike Cortez running shoes. Breck pushed his hand further into the bag and found something hidden inside the lining. He had a Swiss army knife on him so he flicked it open, made an incision with the blade, then dug his hand further in to pull out a passport and a hundred pounds in cash.

  ‘Pat have a look at this!’

  Kearns returned to the room walking faster than usual and peered at the collection of items.

  ‘It looks like a quick getaway kit if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes it does. We’ll take it with us.’

  ‘Good find,’ she said making a mental note of the items.

  ‘Where did we get with Janet Maskell’s telephone call log?’

  ‘Forgot to tell you with so much going on. I have received it.’

  ‘Anything to note?’

  ‘No, nothing to help us. She made no calls on the day, or previous to it so not sure why it had been left dangling.’

  Breck wasn’t surprised, but they needed to leave. He repacked the clothes into the bag and carried out the statements. They would be brought back to the station and added to Troy’s file.

  It was when Kearns opened the door to leave that Breck remembered something and doubled back. He searched around until he found the cupboard that housed the boiler.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, watching while he opened its door.

  ‘When we interviewed Troy he said that he had taken the time off in the morning to fix his broken boiler remember?’ Breck began to fiddle around with the controls.

  ‘Yes, so it needs fixing right?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Breck closed the cupboard door. ‘The boiler is working fine Pat, there’s nothing wrong with it which means he lied.’

  *

>   When Kearns returned to the station she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be discussing the morning’s events further with Bashir. She expected nothing less than a very public dressing down. It was the way it had to be and she had no problem keeping secrets. Though some were bigger than others. Kearns was aware that she needed to keep the investigation on its natural path, to nudge Breck when appropriate and suggest things. It wasn’t just about Alexander Troy. It never had been.

  Bashir gave Kearns a disapproving stare, witnessed by a few, and summoned her into his office. Double-barrelled expletives shot from his mouth, clear and audible for everyone, and the embarrassment grew. Kearns kept her head bowed, even when Bashir’s hands were knitted together over the desk while he waited for her to get comfortable in her seat.

  ‘Now that we’ve got that little show over and done with do I have to remind you why you’re here?’

  ‘No sir,’ Kearns said, making eye contact.’

  ‘Good because this situation is unprecedented and must be kept from Arlo.’

  He unclasped his hands and reached for a cigarette from the half-full packet on his desk. Bashir slipped one into his mouth then lit up.

  ‘By rights, not even you should know,’ he said.

  ‘I understand so what happens next?’

  ‘Well, you’re going to sit here for five minutes while I have a smoke. After that you’ll go.’

  Bashir lit up and blew out a pillow of smoke, leaving Kearns to stare into space. Neither of them saw Breck arrive and stand as close to Bashir’s office as he could without being accused of spying. If he were a fly on the wall he’d hear them say:

  ‘This is difficult for me to deal with sir, let’s stop the secrecy and I’ll go after him myself.’

  ‘No, you may have a stake in this but I must do what I’ve been instructed to.’