Drawing Blood

by J G Alva

  “She’s good,” Freddie said, coming down the steps. “I’ve seen her in court.”

  “With rose tinted glasses, no doubt,” Lisa said, craning her head around to address him.

  “No, no,” Freddie insisted, and as he passed behind her, he touched the back of her neck. He reclaimed his seat and Sutton poured coffee into his mug. “This was before I was infatuated with you. Cheers.”

  He raised his cup and drank.

  “Freddie,” Lisa said, with a glance at their guest; a little embarrassed, Sutton thought.

  “She’s good,” Freddie said, with a look at Sutton. “Believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  While he poured, Sutton couldn’t help thinking that a Criminal Defence Lawyer would be a handy person to know. Doing what he did.

  “Uh oh,” Freddie said, his eyes on Sutton.

  “What is it?” Lisa asked, concerned.

  “I just heard the sound of your name drop into Sutton’s mental rolodex. Kerr-plunk.”

  “Not true,” Sutton said, a little uncomfortable that Freddie had read him so clearly.

  When he next looked at Lisa, she seemed openly intrigued by the prospect.

  She pulled her chair forward, and leaning on the table toward him, she said, “I must admit, Sutton, I’m fascinated by how you make your living. Freddie’s told me a bit about it. You’re something of a maverick, I hear.”

  “Well,” Sutton said, shifting in his chair. “I’ve had some success.”

  “Sutton is successful in everything he does,” Freddie proclaimed.

  “That’s not strictly true,” he said.

  “And with women,” Freddie added.

  “Freddie, come on.”

  To his wife, he said, “I bet he’s got one on the go now. Go on. Ask him.”

  Lisa checked her husband’s face, and then turned to Sutton and said, “have you-“

  “No.”

  Freddie chuckled.

  “If not now, then soon. And why not? He goes where angels fear to tread. That kind of raffish air has got to appeal to the ladies. What woman doesn’t like a daredevil?”

  “Is that what you are?” Lisa asked him, her inquisitive eye upon him. “A daredevil?”

  Before he could answer, Freddie said, “he sticks his head in the lion’s mouth on a regular basis. If this was ancient Rome, he’d volunteer to be a gladiator.” He turned to Sutton and only half serious, he said, “you got a problem, friend.”

  Lisa said, “but how do you go about getting clients? I can’t believe you advertise.”

  “No,” Sutton said. “It’s usually word of mouth. The things I do for people, sometimes the nature of the problem is so personal that when their friends face something similar, they immediately think of me. Advertisement by association. Of course, having a client vouched for by a previous client also helps to weed out the more…undesirable projects.”

  Lisa slowly shook her head.

  “I just can’t believe that you can earn a living by doing that alone,” she said.

  “I supplement it with my painting,” he said, “but it’s possible.”

  “But…is it really very dangerous?”

  “It can be.”

  “How did you get into something like that in the first place? I can’t imagine you came up with a business plan.”

  “Like the best things, it happened by accident,” Sutton said, with a look encompassing the happy couple, and by association their meeting.

  Freddie got it; he nodded and smiled.

  Lisa continued.

  “But how do you charge for such a service?” She looked between the two of them, seemingly disturbed by what she was hearing. “You can’t possibly have rates or any kind of standardized billing.”

  “I usually only charge what can be afforded,” Sutton said. He examined his cup but the coffee was all gone; probably for the best, or he would be up half the night. “But the real money I make is when I am successful. It’s strange, but a grateful customer will pay above and beyond for the return, or resolution, of whatever is missing or wrong. It’s almost like I don’t have to ask for the money at all.”

  “Like tipping a waiter,” Lisa said, almost dreamily.

  Sutton was amused.

  “Possibly very much like that,” he admitted. “Do you begrudge giving a generous tip for good table service?”

  There was a moment’s contemplative silence.

  “He’s an enigma,” Freddie said to his wife, with a small grin. “You won’t get to the bottom of him in an evening. I’ve known him for years, and I’m still trying to work him out.”

  To side track such earnest enquiry from who he was and what he did – an enquiry by a Criminal Defence Lawyer was apt to make him a little nervous, skirting as he did the line of the law from time to time – Sutton said to Freddie, “I liked your chilli curry. It had a real kick.”

  Freddie held his coffee cup in the air as a salute.

  “All your enigmas are forgiven,” he said, and they laughed.

  *

  “I managed to find out some details on our dark haired, scar-lipped friend,” Freddie said.

  They stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out on the dark, almost indistinguishable countryside. Lisa had eloped to the bathroom. An occasional light glimmered in the distance, like a jewel; but for that, it was deserted, a dark pool of quiet. Sutton found it soothing.

  “Really?” Sutton stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  Freddie looked mildly guilty.

  “I was afraid that if I told you at the beginning of the evening, you wouldn’t have stayed,” he said, avoiding his eyes. “But now that you’re going…”

  “Come on, Freddie. I would have stayed.”

  Freddie searched his eyes then, perhaps looking for the truth…and hopefully finding it.

  “His name is Scott Bradley,” Freddie said. “Forty one. Unmarried. Do you know the Jefferson Out Clinic?”

  “No,” Sutton said.

  “Well, he’s been a resident of Jefferson’s for about eight months now. A heroin addict. And an exceptionally violent personality. And he’s been missing for a week and a half.”

  I know, Sutton thought, he paid me a visit late Saturday night.

  “And they have no idea where he might be?” He asked.

  “Nope,” Freddie said, absurdly cheerful, until Sutton realised he was trying to stifle his anger. “Not a fucking clue. Jefferson’s mostly a voluntary clinic, right? You check yourself in. So what the hell’s a psychopath like that doing there? God knows, I’ve got sympathy enough for people who are dependent on one thing or another, but there are just some people you can’t let out. Not until they can get on the wagon, and stay on the wagon.”

  “Thanks, Freddie,” Sutton said, his voice distant as the ramifications of what Freddie had found out sunk in.

  “No problem. Did you get chance to speak to Veronica?”

  “What?” Sutton said, bringing himself back to the conversation.

  “Miss Halls. Did you speak to her?”

  “Yes. I found her.”

  “And how did that cheery fucking reunion go?”

  Sutton made a face.

  “By her account, she’s turned over a new leaf. Revenge would be beneath her.”

  “Fuck off. Do you believe her?”

  “She also said she was innocent.”

  “I like her,” Freddie said, smiling coldly. “She’s got such a good imagination. Don’t you think?”

  *

  He was woken again by that thing chasing him.

  He sat up in bed and turned on the bedside light. He knew what it was that had woken him up, that bear-sized white slug roaming the corridors of Barrow Gurney Mental Hospital: it was the embodiment of his fear.

  He wondered if putting to bed his fear would put to bed his nightmares…and whether the shame of his own weakness wouldn’t pend
ulum swing him to be as incautious as he was when he got into this mess at the beginning. Courage was admirable, but without intellect there was no courage at all, just stupidity.

  To compensate, he would need to be overly cautious. Even though the urge to act on the woman directly responsible for his incarceration was strong, he knew that the smart thing to do would be to wait until he knew more before proceeding.

  But God, he had to get on top of this.

  *

  CHAPTER 14

  SATURDAY

  “You don’t look…well,” Diane said, as he opened the door.

  “Bad night’s sleep,” Sutton said. “Come in.”

  He felt tired, sapped, drained. Diane looked as if she might be suffering with insomnia herself: there were dark circles of fatigue under her eyes.

  She took her handbag from her shoulder as she walked down the hall to the lounge, dropping it on the sofa as she passed.

  She stopped at the balcony doors, staring out at the view.

  “Wow. Impressive.”

  She turned to him with a revelatory light in her eyes.

  “He gazes upon his domain,” she said.

  Sutton grunted.

  “Tea?”

  “Please.”

  *

  He passed her the tea, and then sat on the sofa on the opposite side of the coffee table from her.

  She watched him and then said, “I take it, it still hurts?”

  He nodded.

  “Not so bad. Just stiff.”

  She looked bleak when she said, “I had a dream last night, that I was trapped underground. I woke up sweating.” She stared at him and said, “I wouldn’t have survived, if it had been me down there. I would probably have gone mad. And you were down there for a whole day…” She shook her head.

  “It’s not all bad news,” Sutton said.

  “Oh?” She didn’t look as if she believed him.

  He smiled.

  “We must be doing something right, if I upset somebody enough to go to the trouble of putting me out of action.”

  She shook her head as if she didn’t understand him.

  “You’re incredibly blasé about someone trying to kill you,” she said, sipping her tea.

  “Grace Chapel – and whoever she is working with – didn’t want to kill me.”

  “No?”

  “No. I had food and water. Enough for a week.”

  “So what did she hope to accomplish by locking you up for a week?”

  Sutton shrugged and then said, “I’m assuming it’s because they needed time to tidy things up. Like Gavin’s body, for instance. I’m assuming it’s been taken because there’s something about his murder that might help us find who killed him.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely Uncle Richard would have found it, if there was?”

  “Not if he thought it was just a robbery gone wrong. Speaking of which, I need you to do something for me.”

  A guarded look came over her features.

  “What?”

  “Gavin’s murderer. I think I know who it is.”

  Diane stared, and the shock seemed to push at her face in increments: the mouth went slack, and the eyes got bigger, and the eyebrows rose up on her forehead.

  “What? How-“

  “I found out last night. I’m not sure, mind you, but he sounds right. His name is Scott Bradley. He is forty one, unmarried. And a drug addict.”

  “My God, you have to tell Uncle Richard-“

  “No.”

  Again, the slow return of shock.

  “Why not?”

  “Because even though he killed Gavin, I think somebody else told him to. From what I understand, Scott Bradley is not a high functioning individual. If we tell your uncle, he will just arrest him and it won’t go any further than that. And how is he connected to Grace Chapel? Will your uncle look into that? I don’t think he will. If we tell him, he’ll do only what the evidence will allow him to, and there isn’t much of that. So we wait. I don’t want the people who are really responsible to just slip away. Is that what you want?”

  She thought about it, and then shook her head.

  “I want to get them all,” she said, and her eyes were momentarily fierce and frightened at the same time.

  “Scott Bradley had a course of treatment as the Jefferson Out Clinic, which apparently didn’t take,” Sutton explained. “Can you petition them for their records? So I can get a line on him?”

  Diane made a face.

  “Legally, I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “You said you’d help, not hinder.”

  She looked outraged then.

  “I am-“

  “Then find out where Scott Bradley went after his stay at the Jefferson Out Clinic. They’re bound to have a forwarding address.”

  Tight lipped, she said, “if you will let me finish-“

  “Go ahead,” Sutton said mildly.

  Diane took a calming breath.

  “I was going to say, legally there is absolutely no way that I could get them to relinquish that kind of information. I’m not hindering you, I’m just saying that I can contact them, but without police involvement we won’t get anything.”

  “No. No police. What about illegally?”

  “What?”

  “There’s always more than one way to skin a cat. Can’t you conceivably think of another way you might be able to get the information out of them, without strictly adhering to the law?”

  “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  “Then you are hindering me.”

  “That’s not fair-“

  “Was it fair that Gavin got killed?”

  Diane sat tight lipped for a moment. And then –

  “I won’t break the law. I won’t.”

  “Alright,” Sutton said. “Then how about bending it?”

  Diane stared at him a moment, her expression thoughtful, before she said doubtfully, “I don’t know if…I don’t know.”

  There was a moments silence.

  “Get your phone out,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your phone. I’ve got a new number.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  She shuffled in her handbag.

  At that moment, a thin high note of alarm rang out: the sensor at the top of the stairs.

  Diane looked around for the source of the sound.

  “What-“

  A knock at the door.

  “Fin,” Sutton explained, struggling to his feet.

  *

  “Bonjour, bonjour,” Fin said, struggling into the flat with his reports, laptop and leather satchel. Sutton shut the door behind him.

  “Miss Gable,” Fin said, seeing her in the lounge.

  “Fin, you look like you’re going to drop everything, let me help you,” Diane said, rising from her seat and taking the paperwork and the laptop from him.

  Sutton had to smile to himself. Something about Fin seemed to bring out the mothering instinct in women, no matter how unlikely it might seem that such an instinct existed in that woman.

  “Fin,” Diane exclaimed, shocked.

  The tone of her voice made Sutton turn.

  She had opened one of the folders.

  She looked at it, and then looked at Fin…and Fin stoically avoided her eyes.

  “This is the police file on Gavin’s murder!” She exclaimed.

  “I asked him to make a copy,” Sutton said.

  She turned an accusing stare his way.

  “But…how? I was with you the whole time.” She looked between the two of them.

  “It’s a good thing I did,” Fin said, putting the laptop on the coffee table and turning it on.

  “Why?” Sutton asked.

  Fin looked at Sutton and then, including Diane in his question, he asked, “was Gavin Thompson a cocaine addict?”

  *

  “No, he wasn’t,” Diane said again, stubbornly refusing to be
lieve it.

  Fin regarded her with sympathy, but then turned to Sutton.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “The urinalysis showed detectable traces of benzoylecgonine.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “What?” Diane said, looking between the two of them.

  Fin explained to Diane, “benzoylecgonine is formed in the liver by the metabolism of cocaine and shows up in the urine. It’s pretty conclusive. He’d at least had some coke in the last couple of days.” He shrugged; he didn’t look happy about it either. “Sutton wanted me to look at the autopsy report again, because of the body being taken. And this is what I found.”

  “Nothing else?” Sutton asked.

  “Nothing significant.”

  “I wondered if it was something to do with the way he was killed…”

  “I don’t think so. He died from blunt force trauma to the head. There’s nothing remarkable in that. The damage is pretty remarkable, I suppose, but the terrible things people can do to other people doesn’t surprise me anymore. His face was totally destroyed. Whoever did this is totally sick.” Fin shrugged again.

  Like a psychotic drug addict, Sutton thought. Like Scott Bradley.

  “This is…weird,” Sutton said, sitting next to Fin on the sofa. “Of all the people I know who could become addicts, Gavin is the least likely.”

  “People aren’t indestructible,” Fin said, typing on the laptop. “You get some bad knocks and it just seems like it’s too hard to go on. At least not without something to help.”

  Sutton wondered if Fin was talking about his own dark past.

  One night, when a teenage Fin had been hospitalised due to a very bad seizure, someone had broken into his parent’s house. Sutton didn’t know all the details, but Fin’s father had been killed and his mother raped…before she too was killed. Sutton had the impression that Fin blamed himself for their deaths; that if he hadn’t been ill, and in the hospital, then he might have been able to save them.

  Sutton suspected that the truth was more simple: that if Fin had been home, he would most probably have died too.

  It was why he was so good at what he did. That every crime, in some way or another, was personal for Fin; and because it was personal, he always gave it his all. He was still trying to find the man who had killed his parents…and anybody who was a murderer was that man, or at least of the same type. They were all his mortal enemies.