His First His Second

by A D Davies

  Richard wished he’d killed the man anyway. Still might. Could he? Without Alicia spotting him?

  From the front door, the store flooded with officers, Murphy and the two fatties included, and Richard decided to let the man live. For now.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Siobhan. That was her name. Nothing else. Like Madonna. Only, according to Julian Watson, the head of her record label, she was going to be bigger. No, Siobhan was not another flash in the pan, another kid who’d won a TV talent show.

  She was The Next Big Thing.

  Okay, yeah, she did win a TV talent show, but this was more credible than Britain’s got Talent or X-Factor. She wrote her songs. She collaborated on the music. She was a musician. And last month, she outsold the previous year’s X-Factor winner by a margin of five-to-one. This year’s winning single was released this week, and Siobhan ranked neck-and-neck with him for the Christmas number one slot.

  And now, aged a mere twenty-one, six months since eighty-four percent of the nation voted for her to win Talent Trek, she was signing copies of her autobiography in a music shop chain store, flanked by the best guarding company in the biz. It was mostly young, spunky ex-military and failed policeman types, but a few older people too.

  At last, the lunchtime crush was easing, and after scribbling her name five hundred times, maybe a thousand, her wrist needed a break. She held out her pen to the guard called Ronnie, who took it and placed it in his pocket. Not bad, efficient. Especially considering he’d only joined the Siobhan entourage this morning. She extended an empty hand toward the manager of the shop, who filled it with a glass of iced water. She sipped it, then held the cool surface against her aching wrist.

  “This is too cold.” She returned it to the man. “Thank you.”

  Ha! Get that “thank you?” Who said she was getting too big for her boots? She could have, if she’d wanted, dropped the full glass. Let it smash. Or even chucked it in the man’s face. Wouldn’t that have been something? They’d have cleaned it all up without comment. But she didn’t. She wasn’t some diva.

  “Take the ice out,” she suggested helpfully, “and then bring it back.”

  “Of course.” He waved a minion over and relayed the instruction.

  Siobhan rubbed her wrist again. She’d have to hire someone to teach her how to be ambidextrous. Surprised she knew such a fine word? So were many chat show hosts and newspaper people. She was intent on ensuring she didn’t get a reputation as a dumb blonde, so much so that she read a thesaurus as often as she played X-Box, and although early on in this experiment she was ridiculed for occasionally using an ever-so slightly incorrect word or phrase, she was soon able to deflect this when she learned about malapropisms, claiming she was being ironic all those other times. In fact, such was her desire to drop the dumb blonde tag that she stopped dying her hair and reverted to her original brown.

  Treated and styled very well, though, naturally.

  “Hello.”

  The man held out an unauthorised biography, as well as her entire back catalogue of CD singles and both albums.

  Oh great. Who bought physical music these days? Obviously a weirdo.

  He was her age, maybe older, well-built but geeky-looking. She extended another empty hand Ronnie’s way and received the pen.

  “So who do I make this out to?” Siobhan asked.

  “Oh, er, Simon. Your biggest fan.”

  Siobhan heard the smirk from Ronnie. She saw the effect wash over Simon, the poor lad.

  She said, “Well it’s always great to meet my biggest fan. Especially when he’s so cute.”

  Simon beamed, wrinkled his nose at Ronnie, collected his newly-signed merchandise. He leaned toward Siobhan. “Any chance of a kiss?”

  Siobhan’s initial reaction was revulsion, and she pulled back. Ronnie’s shovel-like hand gently eased Simon away.

  “That’s close enough, mate,” Ronnie told him.

  Siobhan’s biggest fan seemed crestfallen once more. It was another fear she had—losing her fans. All it would take was this guy falling out with her and telling the papers some sob-story about how she had him booted out by her pet gorillas…

  “Oh, a little one won’t hurt,” she said.

  She reached over and pulled him closer, landing a soft peck on his cheek. When she saw his face, she found herself a little scared. He bit his bottom lip and, bent slightly at the waist, thighs not moving far, he backed away, trying to say thank you, but the words didn’t make it. She half-expected him to explode.

  “Urgh.” Siobhan collected her clutch bag from the second bodyguard. “I need to clean my face.”

  “Sure,” Ronnie said, following.

  She used the goods lift to ascend one floor where Ronnie ensured the ladies toilets were clear of members of the public.

  “Go grab a coffee, Ronnie,” she said, patting his muscular chest. “I’ll be a little while.”

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  “No.” Siobhan opened her bag and slipped out a packaged tampon. “I have to do more than wash my face.”

  “Ah.” He looked embarrassed, but he obeyed. “I’ll keep an eye on the door,” he said, and headed for the coffee bar at the opposite end of the floor.

  Inside, at the counter of three sinks, looking in the mirror, Siobhan smiled at her thoughts of the big lump. The way Ronnie gazed at her, too, she knew she could have him at any time, but it was better she carried on dating the rap star she’d been photographed with on holiday in the Seychelles. She had a book to promote and a second album coming out early next year. Maybe after that they could hook up—

  “Hello, Siobhan.” A man’s voice, the door closing.

  Simon, her biggest fan.

  “You can’t be in here.” Her hand found a metal nail file in her bag.

  Simon gradually approached, reached the counter. He smiled, breathing in a half-laugh, half-whimper. Hands trembling. He placed the signed CDs and book on the side.

  “I always knew we were meant for each other,” he said. “I voted for you eight thousand six hundred and forty-two times. My dad wanted to throttle me. He doesn’t have much money, you see.”

  “Well … thank you.” She hid the nail file behind her back.

  “But that kiss…” He held his cheek where she’d touched him. “You felt it too, didn’t you, Siobhan?” He reached for her cheek, brushed it lovingly with the back of his hand. “You and I will be a wonderful couple.”

  She swung the nail file at his eye. “Eat shit and die, psycho!”

  He caught her wrist easily. Squeezed. So much stronger than she expected, forcing her to release the makeshift weapon.

  “You might not feel like it right now, Siobhan. But in time … In time I think you can love me the way I love you.”

  The door burst open and Ronnie came charging though. “Get away from her now!”

  Simon released Siobhan. She fell back onto the clean tiles. Ronnie slammed a fist into Simon’s face. A sickening crunch echoed through the bathroom. Simon actually lifted off with the force of the blow, hitting the counter and bouncing off, landing hard on the floor. Blood covered Simon’s face and Ronnie’s fist. Ronnie lifted the fan by his neck and pushed him against the wall, allowing him to stand, dazed, nose oozing.

  “Ronnie, it’s okay,” Siobhan said. “Don’t hit him again, I think he’s out.”

  “No,” Ronnie said. “It’s not okay at all.”

  And the hulking bodyguard kicked Simon in the throat. Blood erupted from his mouth. He gurgled, drowning in his own fluid as he slid to the floor.

  Siobhan was too shocked to scream. Despite Ronnie’s size and muscular body, he’d been so sweet, so gentle, all day long. This wasn’t like him. When he came to comfort her, to hold her hand, she pulled away, more disgusted even than when her biggest fan tried to kiss her.

  “But Siobhan,” Ronnie said softly. “You have to come with me. I want you to meet my first. You shall be my second.”
/>   Chapter Twenty-Two

  At ninety miles per hour westbound on the A58, the winter sun rested low in the sky, and Murphy took one hand from the wheel to don sunglasses. Alicia squinted to see as orange spikes of light bounced off the police van in front; the vehicle containing Paavan Prakash.

  Arriving at the outer suburbs of Leeds, the pace slowed and they listened to the press conference held at Sheerton station, DCI Chambers speaking to press, TV and radio. There was a nervousness to her voice that Alicia found hard to articulate. It was as if her mind was elsewhere.

  The most recent body was identified as Melanie Sykes, survived by three children of various fathers. Chambers said she was “a woman who sometimes worked in the sex industry.” Alicia heard men around the Force scoff at terms like this, calling it “political correctness.” Often, they added “gone mad” of course. But Alicia understood the modification to the language. Identifying her simply as “a prostitute” can give the impression that, somehow, what happened to her was her own fault. It also boils her down to a noun. Yes, if she’d been a bin-man they might reference her job a “refuse collector” rather than “a woman who works in the refuse-collection industry” but she would not be defined by her profession. They—the press, the public, the police—would refer to her as a person first. But because she was “a prostitute” she’d be referred to as “dead prostitute Melanie Sykes” or “murdered prostitute Melanie Sykes” or even “Melanie Sykes, the prostitute known as Mia on the street.” Melanie herself probably thought of herself as a mother first and foremost. Yes, “murdered mother-of-three Melanie Sykes” is far more palatable.

  And accurate.

  The other body was yet to be identified, although it was thought to be that of Sally Shaw, who was known also to vice. DNA evidence was currently under examination. Cause of death in Ms. Sykes was a single knife wound to the heart, inflicted by someone of high skill, such was the precision of the blow.

  Someone of high skill.

  Alicia wondered what profession would prepare you for that. Butcher? Military? The people surrounding the Windsors were either in the military or huge fans of it. Tanya’s dad, her cousin, her uncle … there couldn’t be a connection could there? No, Alicia gave herself a mental slap. Don’t be silly. Katie was taken for a reason. Melanie Sykes was a thrill-kill. A power-seeker.

  On the radio, they said Ms. Sykes was seen talking to a man on the street shortly before she departed with him, and the police are interested in speaking with this man. No charges relating to the sex-trade will be brought; they want to interview him as a witness, nothing more.

  Like Alicia and Murphy had with Paavan Prakash.

  The person of interest was of average height, indeterminate build, fair to dark hair, aged between thirty five and fifty. “Probably” white.

  Alicia picked up on Chambers’ pessimistic tone. Murphy’s “Hmm” showed he did too.

  Chambers went on to detail the location of the bodies, the fact that the man in custody was no longer a suspect, but would be helping the police further. She ended by asking if anyone at all saw something suspicious to call this number. She repeated it three times. Then the questions.

  “So the police have absolutely nothing?”

  They had a witness, someone who could identify the man if he saw him again.

  “Is this the witness currently being interviewed by mental health experts with a view to sectioning?”

  He was in the company of a social worker and a lawyer, his state of mind being rather erratic, possibly due to witnessing the disposal of a dead body.

  It went on like this. Police incompetence was currently selling newspapers, like rabid dogs, paedophiles and Muslims-are-gonna-get-ya have done, this current rash featuring mistake after mistake. It was why Alicia got harangued so badly by the journalist from the Sentinel. Robert Clancy. She hoped to meet him later, when she brought Katie Hague out from whatever dark place she currently resided.

  They passed the West Yorkshire Playhouse, a big theatre, currently showing a ballet version of Wind in the Willows. How odd, Alicia thought. But she might have to go, if only to see Toad of Toad Hall in a tutu.

  “What’s so funny?” Murphy said.

  “Was I smiling? I smile a lot, often for no reason. Thought you realised that by now.”

  They pulled around the City Market, approaching the final road to Glenpark Police Station, the soon-to-be-mothballed base for the West Yorkshire constabulary close to the city centre.

  “Not the last day and a half,” Murphy said. “You’ve not been the bouncy, perky thing I met with Rhapshaw.”

  Was she being dragged down, into the shadows where no one is happy? Where work, this job, everything, takes place on a lower tier of existence? She couldn’t be. She thought about herself over the last few days, almost panicked when she realised the last fun thing she tried was abseiling with what was now a potential suspect. If not a suspect in the murders, then she foresaw a case file heading to Professional Standards Department; PSD were tasked to investigate corruption in former officers as well as serving ones.

  She was strangely glad to see a swarm of photographers attacking the van containing Paavan.

  Cameras flashed in the dusk light, men and women leaping, snapping futile shots of dark windows and the side of the van. Murphy slowed the Ford Focus.

  Robert Clancy morphed out of the crowd. He was there suddenly, stepping out from behind a cameraman, his cameraman as it turned out. She forgot the Sentinel had a digital video edition. He was the calm in the storm, unreal, central to the melee of newsmen, as if frozen, while all around him the world ran amok. He tapped the youngster on the shoulder and pointed straight at Alicia.

  The first flash smacked Alicia in the eyes with red and brown dots, floating, blinking in and out of existence. Robert Clancy approached the car, making a windie-down-the-window gesture, but, predictably, they ignored him.

  Flash.

  The photographer’s lens kissed the passenger window.

  Clancy called, “Any comment on the latest kidnapping?”

  So it was out in the open. Katie was now fully exposed. More than that: Richard was exposed. Raw, laid out for the nation to focus upon. Their next sound bite to twist into more police incompetence.

  Flash flash.

  “Any comment, DI Murphy? DS Friend? Any leads?”

  More press spotted them. Photographers and reporters left the Humberside police van and blocked Alicia and Murphy.

  Flash flash.

  …

  Flash.

  “The public are scared. Are you any closer to catching this person?”

  The van disappeared into the underground parking garage, the gate swinging shut behind. Murphy made a beeline for this gate, trying hard—though not too hard, Alicia suspected—not to hit any journalists. But now, without the van to chase, the swarm had found a new target.

  They inched along, the car like an obstruction in an artery, dislodging gradually. Alicia glanced at Murphy. He was set, serious, no expression. Alicia realised now that hers was not an icy exterior, that she’d been horrified since she spotted Clancy.

  She expected to look bad in print tomorrow.

  The gate opened as they neared. The pack of newsmen stopped as if by an invisible barrier and, once the Ford was inside, the gate closed creating a real one. They wouldn’t violate this area. They’d be arrested, their privileges crushed.

  Alicia and Murphy parked up in time to see two constables ushering Paavan into the elevator, taking him to be booked in, having been arrested for assault, taking a hostage, criminal damage, and generally being a silly little boy. It was a real shame. If he’d not panicked like that they could all have eaten fish and chips on the beach, taken his statement, and come home far sooner. His witness statement would have been enough to walk the search warrant application that Ball and Cleaver were currently processing.

  Alicia and Murphy took the stairs. Murphy had said nothing since parking the car. He still said nothin
g on the stairs. Her voice a little loud, with a tinny echo, Alicia broached the subject of Wellington’s possible involvement.

  Murphy’s answer also echoed. “No. He was straight. Wouldn’t be bought. No matter what. He had his faults, but being dirty wasn’t one of them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Back then, a lot of coppers were on the take. Small stuff. A cut of a dealer’s stash or something. Nothing major. But you always knew who they were. They did it too much and one of their mates would take them aside and give them a bit of advice. Namely that we all knew, and it was making us nervous. They’d stop, or put the extras on hold, and no one said any more. A moment of weakness is forgivable. Covering up a murder isn’t. Wellington just wouldn’t.”

  “Enough money can make a nun pole dance,” Alicia said, the words resonating up the stairwell and, possibly, all the way to Heaven.

  Murphy sniffed, buttoned his jacket, and said, “Depends on the nun.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Streeter’s dress uniform hung in the corner of his office cocooned in polythene ready for his next TV appearance. He wore his usual suit, a tired-looking grey number like the one Murphy wore the day Alicia met him. His hands busied themselves with little nothings as he signalled them to sit.

  Alicia sensed the kind of nervousness that came with political fallout. She guessed there had been a leak somewhere; that Katie being given up to the press had hit him hard and he was now feeling pressure from above. For once, though, she was wrong.

  “You know the pop star, Siobhan?” Streeter asked once they were all settled. He didn’t need to enquire about Paavan Prakash; Murphy had already reported in.

  “Better than the usual pop-kids,” Alicia said. “Writes her own stuff.”

  “I hadn’t heard of her. Until today.”

  He flopped an A4 glossy photo on the desk. The colour drained from Murphy’s face. Alicia’s legs went numb, a sickness grabbing inside her. She actually wanted to cry.