by A D Davies
“It’s Cleaver.” He stepped forward before speaking again. “Anyway, I wanted to say thank you. We have a decent lead now.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said flatly. She took the flowers in one hand and held them upside down by her leg. “Anything else?”
“No. Just … thanks.” Cleaver turned to go, this time the defeat final, never to return.
“Sergeant Cleaver,” Darla called.
He stopped.
“There was something else. Wasn’t there?”
He took a breath, trying to build up his courage. Well, “build up” might have been exaggerating. Create some courage might be more accurate.
He said, “Two things. The first one I think you’ll definitely say no to, so I’ll ask you the second reason I came here.”
She nodded at him to get on with it.
Voice low so the probie on reception didn’t hear, he said, “I was wondering if—and you can say no if you want, I’ll understand—I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me break the law for an hour or so.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Her gaze wandered to the floor, crept toward the probie who was watching them. She ushered Murphy further out of earshot. “How much law-breaking are we talking about?”
“I’ll say I tricked you. If I’m caught, I’ll say you set me up on the computer and left me to it. But I really need to look into someone’s financial records. I don’t have a warrant.”
“This is to do with the missing girls? That Siobhan woman too?”
Cleaver nodded once.
“It’ll be inadmissible,” Darla said.
“I know. But we have a theory and I need to know how close we are.”
Darla wanted to say yes, Cleaver could feel it. This morning she was so spot-on balls-adamant she had to get back to tracing the old lady’s credit card, pissed that she’d been dragged off to help someone else’s case. This wasn’t a woman who cared nothing for her job. She wanted to catch them all. She reminded Cleaver of himself a decade ago.
“My daughter likes Siobhan,” she said. “Personally I think she’ll be in the bargain bin by Easter.”
“There’s more than one girl you know.”
“Yes, but it’s Siobhan the public will focus on. And that’s what’ll make them feel unsafe. That a well-protected star like Siobhan can be taken.”
Cleaver understood. “How old’s your daughter?”
“Nine. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Can we go inside?”
Darla held the door for him and they headed for the same room as before.
“I have two myself,” Cleaver said. “Fourteen and sixteen. Boys. They live with their mother.”
“Really?” Darla said. “And what makes you think I’m interested?”
They spent the rest of the short walk in silence. In the office, she booted up the computer and logged on with a lot of asterisks. The flowers lay on the side of the desk.
“Okay,” she said. “What do you need?”
He produced a scribbled page from his notebook, told her the names and addresses of the two people he was interested in.
“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Darla’s fingers set off, tap dancing over the keyboard, only pausing occasionally to use the mouse.
Cleaver watched her, watched her face when he could. Her angular lines made her swish glasses look abnormal, her untreated hair pulled back in a long, straw-like ponytail. She dressed frumpily, but it failed to hide from Cleaver what he was sure were superb breasts.
Ah the mind of a gentleman.
“Stop it,” she said without pausing.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Sorry.”
She ceased working. The light from the screen reflected in her glasses, hiding her eyes. “If you want to ask me out, you don’t have to buy me flowers or make up illegal hacks. You have to prove you aren’t like Chrissie’s father.”
Cleaver felt his cheeks burn. “It’s not made up. I really need this.”
“Okay.” She started again.
“So will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Go out with me. You know, when I get done with this.”
She stopped typing again. Examined the screen. Took one glance at the flowers.
“No,” she said, and resumed working.
The Travel Inn was only a matter of minutes away by car, and Alicia could not remember entering the hotel arranged by the Family Liaison team. She was sure she flashed her ID to the manager who greeted them and allowed them in the back door, but she did not remember being invited up to Richard’s room. She automatically followed him. No words, nothing, and now they were alone together. Richard looked out of the window, squinting toward the canal where it wound its way invisibly through the night.
Alicia sat on one of the chairs beside the writing table, comfy-looking but too hard for her. She figured it was safer than the bed.
“We have a suspect,” she said. “But it’s going to be tough getting a warrant. We’re putting pressure on the guy we brought in today, but he’s scared. Not sure if it’s jail he’s scared of or the guy who paid him to disappear.”
“What’s his name?” Richard said.
“I’d rather not say at this point. You understand.”
He nodded reluctantly. Then he perked up as he spotted the complimentary drinks beside the kettle. “Tea?”
Alicia checked her watch. No probs. Ms. Fortune would still be with her client, and Murphy would phone when it was time. She was only five minutes away at the most, and that included getting to the car.
“Yes, please. Milk, no sugar.”
“Sweet enough, I suppose,” Richard said with a sly smile.
She had no reply, holding inside her the worst case of unreasonable hormone activity since she fell for Bradley Donovan, a drummer at her high school who thought it was cool to keep rats as pets. His long hair and lack of any sort of direction in life was Alicia’s first rebellion against her parents’ ordered, perfect lifestyle. He was an idiot, but she loved him, was going to marry him, have his six kids and live life the way she chose, not become a lawyer like her dad.
And now she wasn’t living how she chose. She was living by the will of those who do harm, who take from society and give nothing back, who take and take until there’s nothing left.
She definitely was not herself. “Don’t think I’m sweet enough tonight.”
Richard said, “Sugar it is.” Then, “So who’s this Wellington guy I’ve been hearing about? Some ex-CID officer I gather.”
“Where did you hear that name?” Alicia asked.
“The other officers talking at the press conference before you arrived. The chubby fellows.”
Cleaver and Ball. Oh well.
She said, “He’s not the prime suspect, but we think he knows more than he’s letting on. I don’t know how we’ll prove it without a warrant and full investigation into his finances. But that will implicate someone else, and the political fallout if we make a boo-boo of it … it’s tough getting what we need, but we’ll do it. I know we will.”
Richard poured water into two cups with a teabag in each. He plunged them and added milk. One sugar sachet for Alicia. He held the cup out and she took it, her fingers brushing his. He sat opposite in the twin of the chair she’d taken. She drank, the milk tasting sour, as per usual in hotel rooms.
Over his cup, Richard’s eyes met hers. There was little more to discuss. No more ground on Katie, and nothing more to say about Wellington. Unable to mention the little Windsors. Alicia, wondering how rough Richard’s stubble was right now, figured the time had come to politely leave.
She placed the cup on the bedside table, her arm making contact with Richard as she leaned past him. He stood and gently took her hand.
And that was it.
The hormonal surges that plagued her throughout her teenage years were on the march again. They found their way to her fingers, k
nees, toes, as well as the usual places. Before she could think of one more reason not to—and there were many—Alicia was on her tippy-toes, hand clasped around the back of Richard’s head, pulling him towards her. His lips smooshed into hers, soft, moving just right, every rule under the sun broken by that one act. Tongues tested one another, then explored fully, Richard’s hands circling her back, strong and powerful, and he lifted her slightly so the pressure was off her toes. Her arms slid around his neck, hands running through his hair, his lips firm on hers, moisture down below growing more severe, uncomfortable even, but a good uncomfortable, one she hadn’t experienced for a long time. Richard smoothed his hands down her back, finding her rear, holding her there, pushing himself against her, and she could feel him, make out his shape. She unbuckled his belt in a furious fumble, and—
Alicia’s mobile rang. It was loud, sounding louder than it really was, making them both jump.
They disengaged the kiss, grinning, forehead to forehead. Alicia bit her bottom lip.
“Go on,” Richard said. “It might be important.”
She flipped it open, sat on the bed whilst adjusting her hair. “Alicia Friend speaking, how may I direct your call?”
“Alicia, get back here,” Murphy said. “The lawyer’s ready for questioning. How long you going to be?”
Alicia continued to straighten herself—her hair, her blouse. “I’m not sure, I…” She looked at Richard, hands in pockets, trying to look nonchalant. Failing. “Can you do it alone? Something’s come up. I think Richard needs me.”
He nodded at that.
“No, Alicia,” Murphy said. “I need you here.”
If this wasn’t concluded one way or another, here, now in this room, it was over forever for them. She and Richard would be embarrassed each time they met. And Murphy was more than capable. The kid wasn’t a suspect; he was a witness. There were no new insights, nothing Alicia could exclusively help with. It was more important she stay here. Richard needed to remain strong, and she needed to see to it that he did.
“Donald, take Ball or Cleaver in with you,” she said. “Sounds like Ball would like to get away from his wife anyway.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, mister, just do it. I’m the psychologist, remember? Katie’s father needs me here more than you need me there. Ring me in a couple of hours.”
She hung up without a reply. Then she reached for Richard’s belt, pulled it out of its hoops, and eased him onto her so she lay on the bed beneath his body. His lips found her neck and her hands untucked the man’s shirt.
And she wondered exactly how much trouble this was going to land her in.
Cleaver couldn’t be raised, and Sergeant Ball made the appropriate harangued noises for the benefit of his wife, but when he arrived at the station the only indication that he’d been put out was the absence of a tie. He and DI Murphy entered the interview room and announced their names for the tape. Murphy read Paavan Prakash his rights once more, and Paavan confirmed he understood.
“Interview commences six-fifteen p.m.,” Murphy said. “Right. Mr. Prakash, I’d like you to explain how someone who isn’t working and isn’t claiming benefits can afford to live in a three bedroom semi-detached house.”
“Don’t answer that,” Fortune said.
“He can answer what he likes.”
“He answers what I tell him to answer.”
Paavan’s hard stare confirmed this.
“Fine,” Murphy said. “Then how about you go over your relationship with the late Tanya Windsor?”
“No,” Fortune said. “Not that. It has no relevance to his arrest.”
“It has every relevance.”
“It does not. He has been arrested for the situation arising at the Scarborough Road branch of Priceway’s in Bridlington. You may ask about that.”
“The relationship was what we were investigating when your client decided to bolt. Mr. Prakash’s motivation for running is perfectly relevant.”
“Mr. Prakash’s motivation for running is that he was scared of two police officers crowding him into a small room. He felt threatened. We all know how the police behave toward ethnic minorities, don’t we detective.”
Murphy wished for the olden days, when this type of interview was a straightforward session of threats and counter-threats and finally compromise with a ton of information and a nod and a wink to say they’d release the prisoner without charge if the statement checked out. Now it was burgeoning your way through a wall of ego-driven lawyers trying to get one over on the police.
“DS Friend and I were not crowding him. He was looking for property belonging—”
“That you requested. You told him it was standard enquiries, and yet you’d thought to bring along not only a local black and white, but two more CID officers from this station as well.” She nodded at Ball. “A little heavy-handed for one man about whom you claimed to be ‘enquiring’. Don’t you think?”
Murphy thought for a moment. This woman was a ball-breaking bitch with a point to prove. A real ego problem. She was also a private practitioner.
“Who’s paying for your time, Ms. Fortune?” Murphy asked.
“That’s irrelevant. My client is the one under arrest, not me.”
“Not yet,” Murphy mumbled.
“Don’t even try to imply a threat, Detective Inspector.”
“Paavan. Tell me about your relationship with Tanya.”
“He’s told you everything already.”
“For the tape. Tell it again.”
She tapped his arm. “Do not say anything. They can’t make you.”
Paavan laid his chin on hands, folded on the table. Murphy met his gaze, the lad’s mouth quivering slightly. Scared. Of whom though? The lawyer? Or of jail? Neither. He was scared of something else. Murphy needed a plan of attack, one he could use to circumvent Gretan Fortune.
But he’d taken too long to think
“Paavan,” Ball said in the softest voice Murphy had ever heard him use. “If you won’t talk about Tanya, she’s going to rot. She’s going to be put in the grounds on the Windsor estate and the worms will eat her—”
“That’s enough,” Fortune said.
Ball’s tone dropped an octave. Sterner. “The man who killed her is still free and he’s holding two more girls, innocent girls like Tanya.”
“Was she innocent?” Murphy said.
Paavan sat up, looking at Fortune.
The lawyer said, “Stop this right now. My client is not under arrest for murder, he is under arrest for taking a hostage. This line of questioning is over. If you have nothing else, I am taking my client out of here.”
“And then what?” Murphy said. “The last guy with any connection with this case, fella called Doyle, he died pretty horribly. You want a dead client on your hands?”
“We won’t catch him,” Ball said. “Not without your help. What would Tanya do if this was reversed? If it was you in a fridge waiting to be cut open, already having tests carried out on your corpse? What would Tanya do?”
A flicker in his eyes.
Murphy caught it.
The lawyer said something else, threats of legal action, accusations of harassment and racism, but Paavan ignored her.
Murphy said, “If you’d been killed by your uncle Bengal tiger because you wanted to marry a white tiger, what would she do? Would she hide behind a lawyer? Like a cub?”
“No,” Paavan said.
“Do not say one more word,” Fortune warned. “Not one more.”
Paavan’s eyes were full of tears. “Please leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms.
Oh yeah, that’ll work, Murphy thought.
“I waive my right to legal counsel,” Paavan said.
Paavan’s words hung all around, especially around Fortune. Finally, she stood, composed herself and, at the door, pausing before she left, she told Paavan, “Remember what I said.”
The door closed and Paa
van leaned forwards, eyes darting side to side as if expecting assassins to break through the walls.
He said, “I’ll talk to you, but you have to protect me.”
And Paavan told his story.
At the exact moment that Paavan Prakash burst into tears and began wailing for Tanya to forgive him, which was close to the end of his statement, Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend was across town in a hotel room, experiencing an orgasm of such magnitude that her fingernails gouged a series of small canyons down Richard Hague’s back.
And, in the afterglow of it all, Alicia still didn’t regret it. Morning could be another matter. Richard was kind, a good man, though sad, hiding something of his true self. Alicia didn’t mind so much. If she could free Katie for him she would have plenty of time to unravel what secrets lay behind the façade.
Lying with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat winding down to its regular rhythm, she told him of her fears, of becoming someone she wasn’t. That she was losing something of herself, allowing the darkness in, pushing her personality out. She was about to confess to the abortion of her teen years, how it had been playing on her more than usual since the trip to Brid, but then Richard suggested they shower, and the darkness was banished once again.
He soaped her all over—every part of her body lathered—tenderly moving his hands over her smooth skin. He took time to wash her intimately, then rinsed her with the skill of a beauty therapist. She returned the favour and they kissed some more, held one another.
Richard said, “Perhaps you’d make more ground if you were … ‘you’ again.”
She saw in his eyes that he felt he same way as her, that this was right, that it was meant to happen. Whatever happens.
“Alicia, you’re right. From the woman I met two days ago, you have changed some. Not as happy, not as hopeful.”
He kissed her neck, water spraying off his head.
“You’re also right about the darkness. If it gets inside you it’s hard to get rid of. And you are too beautiful a creature to lose to it.”
His mouth moved to her breasts, not hard, not suckling like a starved baby goat like her previous boyfriend; Richard was teasing, considerate.
“Trust me, Alicia. I know about that sort of thing.”
