“It’s almost impossible to believe you were this sick when you were a cop. All those detectives around you and none of us caught it.”
Harold groaned painfully, pressing the gunshot wound in his abdomen hard to staunch the flow of blood.
“I’m very good at what I do.” Harold retorted breathlessly.
Gordon heard, amidst the droning rain, the very distant sound of sirens.
“They’re going to be here soon. Maybe ten or so minutes. They’ll want to take you into custody.”
Harold smirked despite everything that was about to happen to him.
“None of what you have will stick. My lawyers will have it all thrown out.”
Gordon shook his head.
“I doubt that. It’s interesting really,” Gordon told him moving around to Harold’s side and kneeling down, ensuring there was nothing in range the latter could use as a weapon, “I didn’t really know if I was just going to kill you or actually allow them to arrest you. I saw a minute or so of what you did to Millie and I heard Derek’s testimony and then, finding all those memory sticks… well, it’s hard to think of a reason you should still be alive.”
“Let me guess,” Harold said, taking a couple of deep, laboured breaths, “you’ve decided to let me get arrested.”
“Oh, no, not at all. You’re going to die. Looking at how much you’re bleeding and where you got clipped, that wound in your gut will kill you in… twenty minutes? A lot less if you don’t apply pressure.” Gordon explained as calmly as he could.
Harold reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. Gordon took it from him, ripped the back off and wrenched the battery free, throwing it as far as he could into the gloom before tossing the device back onto Harold’s chest.
“Looks like you damaged your phone in our fight.”
“So, you don’t have the guts to kill me; you’re just going to let me bleed out? You coward!”
“No, I’m going to give you time to think about what you did, to think about all those lives you took and the ones you ruined. I want you to think about them and know that justice has finally come for you. It’d be too easy on you to just put a bullet in your brain; you need to suffer for what you’ve done and maybe then… maybe then, there’ll be a little bit of a counter balance in the world for what you did.”
“I’m not sorry!” Harold hissed venomously. “I’m not sorry for what I did!”
“I didn’t expect you would be.” Gordon told him as he stood and turned, leaving Harold behind.
“You’ll never forget me, Crane! You’ll never forget what I did!” Harold goaded him, but Gordon was already focused on returning to Vicky and getting her free. As Harold’s voice became lost amidst the rain behind him, Gordon hoped that somehow Isabelle and Millie had just found a little peace.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time Jones arrived, Gordon had managed to get Vicky free, wrapping her in his soaked jacket in order to protect her dignity until more suitable clothing could be found for her. As neither of them were steady on their feet, they sat together on the concrete floor. She clung to him, fearful and thankful in equal measure. He spoke soothingly to her and while she still clung pathetically to him, she appeared a little calmer. When the police arrived outside however, she became tearful and alarmed, afraid of losing his protection. Only by promising he would stay with her until she felt safe, did her panic subside. Entering the building, Weller hurried over to them, taking off her coat and replacing Gordon’s jacket with something warmer and thicker. Somehow, another woman’s presence reassured Vicky and she allowed herself to be helped to her feet and led away to the ambulance outside. She did turn back to face Gordon in the doorway, in her eyes a question she wasn’t able to put into words. Guessing what she needed, Gordon assured her Weller would stay with her and he would see her at the hospital very soon.
When Jones saw Gordon he signalled for the paramedics, who were alarmed when they saw his injured shoulder, ushering him urgently towards the other ambulance. Jones followed him, asking him what had happened. Gordon recounted events, omitting that Harold had still been alive when he left him, although Jones had a pretty good idea what truly transpired. Harold had elected to relinquish the pressure on his wound and had quickly bled to death. Jenkins was also on the scene, looking a little unhappy, but with the evidence brought by Derek, his testimony - together with what Vicky would no doubt tell them once she was able to speak - there would be little doubt that Harold was a prolific serial killer and Gordon had stopped him when no one else had been able to see the pattern.
The next few days were a swirling mixture of experiences, beginning with a vigil beside Vicky’s bed until her parents arrived: an overnight stay in hospital, followed by police interviews and ducking the press as they began to poke around Harold’s death and, when he was finally alone, trying to convince himself he’d done enough. Gordon still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was responsible for Isabelle’s death. If he hadn’t become involved with her then she wouldn’t have been in the line of fire that day. The more Gordon thought about it the more convinced he became of his guilt. He wanted to drink but couldn’t because of his painkillers; he wanted to talk to someone but found himself unable to even begin to open up to Jones, his only true friend. So he would sit alone in his office, staring at his laptop and reading up on the fallout of the case.
Leland Security collapsed under the scandal; someone had leaked what Harold truly was and what he had done, probably Derek, Gordon imagined. Everyone fled the ship before it could sink; distancing themselves as much as they possibly could before they were dragged down under the weight of Harold’s guilt. There was little mention of Isabelle, though Gordon did attend her funeral, albeit keeping his distance so as not to disturb her family. As he saw her coffin being lowered into the ground, he realized it wasn’t just the loneliness that drew him to Isabelle; he believed he had truly loved her. Did she feel the same? There was no way for him to know. He barely knew anything about her, but he would like to believe she had feelings for him beyond what may have been a simple physical need.
The days turned to weeks and, long after Gordon was cleared of doing anything that could be construed as criminal, he was still unable to bring himself to take a case. There were offers - the usual kind of thing from adultery to process serving, as well as a few that might have been more interesting - but he couldn’t commit himself. At first, he told himself it was because he still needed time to heal. As that became an apparent falsehood, Gordon wondered what it was that was holding him back. In the end, it came back to a feeling of failure. He had failed Isabelle and he couldn’t forgive himself for it. He lost weight and couldn’t sleep, because in those hours of darkness he could think of nothing but Isabelle’s face as she lay dying, or the horrifying images he saw on the recording of Millie.
More than month had passed when Derek came knocking at his office door. Gordon had been unwilling to let him in at first, but he had insisted so Gordon had reluctantly allowed him to enter. They sat across the desk from each other, and Gordon looked expectantly at him.
“I guess you’re wondering what is so important for me to talk to you about.” Derek declared.
“It crossed my mind.” Gordon replied dismissively.
“I’ve been… well, I’ve been trying to find a way to do something to make up for what I did. Or what I didn’t do.”
“You did what was right in the end. You were in a bad situation and there wasn’t a lot you could’ve done.”
“That’s not true. You pushed through no matter how dangerous it was.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because that was my job,”
“Well, I’m currently out of a job.”
“Yeah, I’d imagine so.”
“I’ve got enough money to do some good though.”
Gordon sighed. He hoped Derek would get to the point soon.
“What do you want, Derek?”
; “I want to help people, like you help people. I was thinking--”
“No.” Gordon said flatly, pre-empting what Derek was about to suggest.
“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest.”
“You want to help me work some cases, right? See if we can’t balance the books out a little?”
Derek nodded.
“It don’t work like that, kid. I’m not even sure I’m going to carry on, because this case has made me think about just how bad things really are. We took down one scumbag, but we were so very, very late. I did that for years as a cop and now I’m doing it again for less pay and with less authority. I think I’m done.”
Derek looked at him and nodded slowly.
“I understand. But I think I’m supposed to do this. I think I need to do this.”
“Then I wish you the best of luck, Derek, and I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Derek stood up and extended his hand. Gordon did the same, shaking with him and then sitting heavily back down. Derek set his card down on the desk before he started to leave.
“In case you change your mind, this is my new number.”
“Goodbye, Derek.” Gordon said, turning away a little.
Derek left without another word. Another couple of weeks passed and Gordon realized he was starting to run low on money. He needed to decide whether he was going to give up being a private investigator and just live frugally on his pension or if he had it in him to carry on. Gordon wasn’t sure which way he was going to go. He’d started to drink again, then one evening he found himself watching the news on his computer, his feet up on the desk and a large glass of whisky in his hand, when there was a faint knock on the door. Gordon glanced at it but decided to ignore it.
A few moments later the knock came again, louder and a little more insistent. Gordon turned up the volume and tried to ignore whoever it was.
“Mister Crane?” A woman’s voice called out from the other side of the door.
“I’m closed!” Gordon yelled back loudly.
“Please, Mister Crane, I need your help!”
Gordon sighed and got up from his desk, shuffling across to the door. He opened it and looked at who apparently needed his help. An older woman, her dark hair greying and a sad, fearful look in her eyes, was standing timidly in the hallway.
“I’m closed. Sorry.” Gordon declared firmly.
“Please!” She insisted suddenly, reaching out to grab his hand. “My son is missing. No one believes me when I tell them he’s in trouble, but I’m sure he is. He’d never disappear like this, no matter if he’s an adult or not!” She asserted vehemently.
“The police--” Gordon started.
“The police won’t listen to me! I need help! I saw… I saw the article that said you helped that woman whose daughter was murdered when no one believed her and I thought… I thought maybe you’d help me too.”
Gordon looked at her. She was scared and something in the way she spoke to him convinced him she was desperate. Something tugged on the strings of his broken heart and, despite his former indecision over whether he wanted to continue the work, he found himself stepping aside.
“Tell me about your son.” Gordon stated.
His Twisted Smile Page 22
