His First His Second

by A D Davies

  “She’s a match,” Murphy said. “Perfect.”

  The most beautiful so far. Although Alicia wondered how much was airbrushed in this publicity shot.

  “And that’s why they’re outside,” she said.

  Streeter nodded. “Her agent stirred the shit right up. Some folk figured it for a publicity stunt, but that’s gone now.”

  Murphy crossed his legs and scratched his nose, then his ear. He looked at the photo for a while longer. “It’s so frigging cold, I can’t believe they don’t have something better to do.”

  “Well, something good’s come out of it,” Streeter said. “The chief super’s given you the extra men you wanted—Serious Crimes have made their interest official. Superintendent Rhapshaw has allocated a full squad to be based in Sheerton station. First thing in the morning. As of right now your budget is unlimited.”

  Alicia first felt relief at the reinforcements; they could canvass five times as fast, search property, financial records, question suspects, all far quicker than alone. But then she had a thought that lowered her opinion of Chief Superintendent Rhapshaw more than any time she’d known him.

  She said, “So now someone famous is missing, we get the bodies?”

  “It’s not like that, Detective Friend,” Streeter said. “It’s just…”

  “It’s just that Siobhan is so much more important,” Murphy said. “That’s right, isn’t it, sir?”

  “No. And don’t take that tone with me, Detective Inspector. Friend gets a little slack because she’s protected from on high. You watch your mouth.”

  “Fine,” Alicia said, standing. “If I’ve got protection, then listen up: of course I want the bodies, but it’s disgusting, vile and putrid. It stinks. Poor Katie’s been in the hands of some maniac for nearly a week, and only now someone who can sing a bit has joined her do you authorise the budget increase.” She willed back tears.

  “You never even asked for it before.”

  She couldn’t stomach this. It churned inside her, that one human life was worth so much more than another. The furore outside had nothing to do with a lovely young woman and her fraught father; such aggressive press coverage was reserved for celebs and rock stars. It was as if Jesus had returned to Earth, but a bus hit him before he managed to say anything important.

  “No, I didn’t ask for extra help,” she said. “Because I knew what the answer would be. Murphy had already tried.” She was too angry to talk straight, the words flying out as soon as they formed. It was wrong. It wasn’t Alicia. Too much anger, too much hate. She needed to do something about it. So she thought of camping on a beach, of the surf hissing at the shore, of moonlight… “And another thing. You better protect Richard on this … Mr. Hague. You’d better not be exposing him—”

  “Detective Friend, you may have some leeway, but do not threaten me. Especially when the threats are pointless.”

  Hmm. That was an odd thing for him to say. She allowed him to elaborate.

  “Richard Hague has already agreed to make an appeal to the kidnapper. Live. Sky News, the Beeb, ITV … they’re all in the press room. Channel 4 is on the way.”

  Alicia didn’t believe him. That Richard would volunteer … it didn’t seem right. He’d been pressured, had to be.

  “And they’re waiting for you,” Streeter said.

  Alicia stopped talking, thinking, breathing. She felt Murphy stand beside her, take her arm.

  “Don’t worry,” Streeter said. “It’s just TV. No gutter press. And the talking’s already been sorted. Mr. Hague is being briefed right now. You have ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes for what?” Murphy said.

  “To read this.” He tossed a sheaf of paper to each of them, a dozen sheets in each stapled bundle. “The preliminary report on Siobhan’s kidnapping. Witness statements. Details of one Simon Pitt’s death. Read it, consume it, figure something out. But go. Now.”

  Outside, Alicia was too nervous to read. She let Murphy. She concentrated on rehearsing some clever put-downs, something comprehensive, yet authoritative and professional. Halfway to the press room, Murphy finished reading.

  “Simon Pitt. Nice chap. Had restraining orders out relating to Kylie Minogue, Pixie Lott and Kelly Brook. At first looked like he was trying to protect Siobhan, but now seems he was hitting on her. Anyway, he died from drowning in his own blood. Ruptured trachea, massive internal trauma. Broken nose for definite.”

  “Professional stalker,” Alicia said, keeping her mind off the impending conference.

  “Siobhan was abducted by her bodyguard, a chap known as Ronnie. He showed up at the hotel claiming to be someone called Carl’s replacement. Carl was found dead at his apartment half an hour ago. Ronnie presented authentic-looking paperwork from the agency that supplies personnel to SecureBiz, so no one batted an eyelid.”

  “SecureBiz?”

  “Security for showbiz personalities.”

  “Oh.”

  “He had photo ID, references, everything. All disappeared since Siobhan was taken.”

  They passed through double doors that led them into a cold, echoing corridor, a service area that many officers used as a shortcut. Alicia wished they weren’t cutting through like this.

  Murphy outlined how it went down—the coffee, the loo, the amorous Mr. Pitt. “This ‘Ronnie’ emerged with her hand in hand, practically dragging her. Used a fire exit—pre-planned escape route for real emergencies—and into a car that we think was a good-sized executive class vehicle.”

  “Nothing specific?”

  “No. Ronnie might’ve been thirty, might’ve been twenty-five, maybe forty. Car could’ve been a Lexus, possibly a Merc. Only one witness, and he was on his arse, shooting up at the time.”

  They reached the press room, noises emanating from within. The vibration of a mike test.

  “So what do we know?” she said.

  “That the record shop has decent CCTV, but it was ordered turned off for the visit, advice by Mr. Ronnie the bodyguard. He said he used to work in retail, and when a star as gorgeous as Siobhan comes in, they use the cameras to close in on breasts and legs. Digital images end up on the Net. Apparently she ordered these instructions to go out to all her next appointments.”

  “Nice girl.” Alicia reached for the doorknob. “So no image?”

  “None. He thought of pretty much everything.”

  “Except?”

  “No. There’s no ‘except’.”

  “So there’s no ‘pretty much’ either, is there. He’s thought of everything.”

  “Well ex-cuse me.” Murphy adjusted his tie. “We know his build matches the description of the guy from the wasteland, and we know he’s strong enough to beat a fellow human being to death. Man or woman. And he won’t go down if me and you turn up with a pair of handcuffs and a sniffer dog.”

  Alicia thought for a moment, again about herself. That sort of reaction wasn’t her. She was about to apologise when the door swung open. Daphne Wilson, PR officer for Glenpark Station, stood there, hands on hips.

  “About time,” she said. “We’re waiting.”

  Alicia took one last reassuring look at Murphy, and amid a shower of lights and calls from the TV people, they all stepped inside. Richard Hague sat behind the table, his fingers thatched, eyes upon his knuckles.

  It had been a long day for him.

  When Alfie Rhee turned away from the television in the hotel bar, he necked a bourbon and started on what McCall claimed was the best beer in Europe: Stella Artois. It was okay, but he’d finish this one and then buy a Bud. The press conference with that piece of ass Chambers was over and he was still none the wiser. Alfie signalled to the barman he could turn the volume back down. He’d spent five thousand dollars on nothing. He could have watched YouTube. The details Chambers released were hazy, though more scientific in print, in the file. But big fat hairy deal. The only thing this damn file did was confirm what he already knew—it was definitely the same guy who murdered his wife.

/>   “Take it easy, man,” McCall said. “It’s only four in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll do what I like. I just wasted five Gs. Thanks a bunch.”

  “What about my money? You promised to pay me.”

  “You were supposed to help me find a killer. You done nothing but spend my money on a bent cop who I’d rather screw than do a deal with. What you think, I can’t read a paper, watch TV? I coulda found this out from Manhattan.”

  “Oh, come on, mate, I need this.”

  “Well until you point me in the direction of something concrete, your dick sure ain’t touchin’ solid. Now either make some calls or get a round in. J.D. Straight.”

  The afternoon had been okay, sat in an English pub, kinda quaint in a theme park sort of way. And the food wasn’t even that bad, though they only offered three types of cheese, and the bread only came in two varieties: white or brown.

  McCall returned with two Jack Daniels. “I guess this won’t do me any harm being as I’m gonna have to call my lady friend and cancel.”

  “You do that,” Alfie said.

  “Don’t suppose you fancy tackling another murder do you?”

  “What? Another stabbing?”

  “Nah. Ent this UnSub guy. It’s a kidnapper. Sick bastard. Pretty girls. Nabbed a pop star. It’s on telly now.”

  Alfie glanced up. Another press conference. Leeds, West Yorkshire. He’d write a letter to the mayor of Detroit on his return to the States, recommending a twinning ceremony. Hah! The Brits were always so superior about crime in the U.S. They reckon they don’t get as much murder and shit here, but look at that. Two murders from a serial killer, now a kidnap-murder all over the BBC.

  Alfie finished the rest of his Stella. “I’m taking a piss then I’m getting a Bud.” He stood and walked toward the bathroom.

  McCall turned the television back up, bored so easily after Alfie moved. Alfie pitied the guy. Not that that would make him like the asshole any better. He kept on walking.

  “I am appealing to the man holding my daughter, Katie,” the voice from the TV said. “I’m sure you have your reasons for doing this, but please, take a look at her, take a look at Katie.”

  Alfie paused at bathroom door, unable to move. Thinking. Like walking into a room and completely forgetting why he was there. Something subconscious, something there but not, floating like mist through his mind.

  “You are human, I know you are,” the man’s voice continued. “And I know you don’t want to hurt Katie like you did the other girls.”

  Turning from the bathroom, Alfie found himself drawn slowly closer to the TV. It was high up next to the bar itself. He stood beneath it, looking up, up, falling through nothing, dropping through time itself...

  He was looking up at someone he recognised.

  Someone he ate dinner with once upon a time. A man Stacy had worked with, whom she had liked a great deal. His kindness, his help in getting her a promotion out of the typing pool and into his office, though he was away for long stretches at a time.

  Stacy’s boss.

  She brought him round once, and Alfie cooked steak on the deck. This was back when he was still an FBI agent, of course. There was no sexual spark between Stacy and the guy, no hint of an affair, just mutual respect. Friendship. Alfie never suspected anything at all. He liked the guy. Trusted him with his wife.

  Hague, that was his name.

  Richard Hague shook Alfie’s hand at the funeral. Richard Hague hugged him in that manly bear-hug way and said, “If there’s anything I can do … anything at all.”

  Him. Here. Now.

  Two people dead in this town. A town in which a man lived, a man who knew Alfie’s wife—his dead, murdered wife—a lifetime ago. A man who travelled all over the United States, who was always welcome in the Rhee household.

  Who would have had no trouble gaining access to the house.

  “What you doing boss?” McCall said. “You get lost? It’s just over there.”

  “You know,” Alfie said, his eyes still on the screen, eyes on the man who killed Stacy Rhee. “I’m glad I came now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At four p.m., half an hour after Paavan was booked in and shown to his cell, a lawyer presented herself at the front desk. Gretan Fortune was about forty, tanned, expensively-dressed, and in a foul mood for some reason. She claimed Paavan was a victim of racial profiling, that if he’d been a white man there’s no way the ARV would have been called out and there’s no way he’d have been bound inhumanely and hurled down the motorway at a hundred miles an hour. Murphy was the lucky one to greet her and pointed out that no one called ARV. He also mentioned that the responding officer was now suspended on disciplinary grounds and that the motorway was in fact an A-road, and finally the reason for the haste was a) because of the urgency of getting him back to Leeds, perhaps to identify a suspect, and b) to ensure his safety; Paavan was obviously frightened of something. He also held a police officer hostage and threatened to cut her throat with broken glass. Ms. Fortune was quietened but not satisfied. Now it was time for her to confer privately with her client.

  While she did that, Murphy sipped a fresh coffee in the operations room, awaiting the all-clear to commence the interview. Alicia sat with her feet up, reading the report on Siobhan’s abduction yet again. Alicia’s mobile chirped and she answered. She said a few negative things, swore, and hung up.

  “That was Ball,” she said. “They didn’t get the warrant.”

  “So we can only go into the Windsor estate with the owner’s permission?”

  “Yup. If you’re a society type or a celeb we might as well have two police forces.”

  It was so weird to Murphy, having only known her a few days. Which of her “five stages” had he entered? What were they again?

  Disbelief, irritation, acceptance, reliance, collaboration.

  Acceptance, or so it felt. Maybe reliance. Collaboration may have been approaching. Whichever stage, he hated hearing her talk like that.

  He said, “Ball and Cleaver on the way back here?”

  “Nope. Cleaver has a lead to chase, doesn’t want me getting too excited. And Ball is knackered. He’s going home for some tea. His wife’s giving him ear ache apparently.”

  “So why didn’t we get the warrant?” Murphy asked.

  “Brass said it was ludicrous. Circumstantial. Let the man mourn in peace, apparently.” Alicia rolled her eyes. “Word from on high. What can you do?”

  “We can get Paavan to talk. Then we take it to Wellington.”

  Alicia checked her watch. “Lawyer’ll be a while. I’ll see if Richard’s finished with the press office, offer him a lift.”

  When she was gone, Murphy stood in front of the whiteboards bearing the names of dead or missing girls. He added Siobhan’s name and bullet-pointed her abduction. Then he added some issues to the section with Tanya’s name at the head. The final thing he wrote before standing back and reading it all again was: John Wellington, Detective Chief Inspector, retired.

  Alicia had not been herself. The decline in Alicia-ness was a by-product of allowing things to squirm inside her and nestle within. It happened from time to time. The bounce was back now, though. She just hoped it hadn’t made its welcome return through the prospect of seeing Richard again. When she entered the family room in which Richard had been placed after the press conference, she saw him smile, and she knew that, unfortunately, it was definitely bounce-related.

  The meeting was over and the press officer was gone. A little coaching session for Richard on how to treat the press who would almost certainly be at his home. An officer was stationed there, to keep them off his property, out of his bins, leave his flowerbeds untrampled.

  Richard said, “Hi, what are you doing here?”

  “Personal service.” Alicia smiled back at him. Casual. Y’know, a mate popping by. “Seeing if you needed a lift anywhere. Heard you got driven in from your house.”

  “That’s right. But they’ve put me
up in a hotel not far from here. I was going to catch a cab. Less conspicuous.”

  “Don’t be daft. I’ll drive you. Besides, I could do with a chat. I’ll let you know where we are after today’s shenanigans.”

  Shenanigans? Really?

  Alicia signed out a maroon Vauxhall, disengaged the airbag as usual, and drove them out of the underground garage. They passed the photographers, who didn’t see inside and therefore were slow off the mark to realise maybe they’d missed something. It was cold and night was descending, streetlamps now lit.

  They had a clear road out to the Travel Inn.

  Sergeant Cleaver felt like an ass. The reception to Sheerton was lit only by a few fluorescent strips, as if the building itself was growing tired. A man on a ladder changed bulbs, a whole section cordoned off. Cleaver hated winter. Dark at five p.m. and so cold that brass monkeys were breaking out the thermal undies.

  Cleaver felt like even more of an ass when he asked the kid, same one as this morning, if Darla Murphy was still in the building. The kid dialled her extension and confirmed that she was, asked what it was regarding, and Cleaver said it was confidential. The kid relayed this, held the phone away from his ear as a barrage of abuse spat back at him, and softly replaced the receiver.

  “She’ll be right down,” he said.

  Cleaver smiled awkwardly. Then he stood, also awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels. There was no easy way, he decided, to wait for a fellow police officer, in a police station, holding a bunch of flowers that, in all likelihood, stank of petrol. The kid behind the desk looked at them as if they were porn.

  Darla’s voice: “What is it?”

  There she was, stood in the double doorway like a bad-tempered siren in need of a daytime TV makeover.

  “Er, these are for you,” Cleaver said.

  She glanced at the flowers without expression. “And what do I do with them?”

  Cleaver shrugged. “Look at them? Put them in a vase or something.”

  “This is a police station, Sergeant Ball, not a garden warehouse.”