Eye Snatcher

by Ryan Casey

  The police.

  “I…” Jean stepped towards the door, transfixed. Heartbeat picked up. Palms sweated. She tried to think of reasons why the police would be here. Reasons other than Sam. Had something happened to one of her clients? Was she witness to anything recently—any crimes that she’d forgotten to report?

  She stepped closer to the front door, through the lounge, through the first doorway and into the porch way, still no closer to an answer. She could hear ‘Han Solo’ muttering things, hear Clara growling at the men at the door like she always did at guests, as Jean reached for the handle and hoped—prayed—for news on Sam.

  Or if it was bad news, she prayed for no news at all.

  She unlatched the door, nerves tingling through her body like they always did in uncomfortable situations. She’d managed to dull them down, tune them down, over the years. Came with the territory of meeting so many men every day. But the socially anxious teenage girl lived on inside her.

  And that teenage girl reared her ugly head in the darkest of situations.

  She pulled open the door. Prayed for relief. Prayed for some kind of good news, even though she wasn’t much religious and she’d done way too many bad things in her life to ask for God’s forgiveness already.

  She could tell by the way the chubby one looked at her. The flat half-smile he gave her. But she wouldn’t believe him. Not until she heard it. Not until he said the words.

  “Mrs Betts? Jean Betts?”

  Jean nodded. Looked from the chubby one to the skinny one and back again, looked at their blank, distant faces. “My… it’s not my boy, is it? It’s not my Sam?”

  The chubby one looked at his companion and gulped.

  “I’m Detective Inspector McDone and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Richards—”

  “My Sam. Please. Please tell me he’s… tell me he’s okay. Please.”

  Another pause. Another awkward look between the officers.

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Detective Sergeant Richards said. “Can we come inside please? It’d be better if we sat down.”

  Jean wanted to protest. Wanted to fight and kick up a fuss.

  Instead, she nodded. Sniffed back her tears, wiped the corners of her eyes.

  She led the two police officers into her living room towards the sofa.

  When they told her the news about Sam Betts, the rain blasting against the window, she didn’t scream. Didn’t cry, like grieving mothers did in clichéd stories.

  She just froze.

  Her life stopped, right there.

  Everything changed.

  FIVE

  Jean Betts didn’t say much about her son’s death.

  Brian sat on her cream leather sofa with a cup of tea in hand. It was weak and sugary even though he’d specifically asked for no sugar. Rain pattered against the front window of the cottage, specks of it spitting through the single-glazed frames. The place was nice. But much like anything nice, it was dulled by the events that had occurred. It was ruined by the things that had happened to Sam Betts.

  Because anything nice could never be nice again with that kind of news.

  Brad was beside McDone. Jean’s little Yorkshire Terrier, Clara, sat pressed up against his lap. She stared out of the window, sad little eyes. Every time a car or someone went by, she lifted her head and her thin tail wagged from side to side, then she lowered her head again and sighed when she saw it wasn’t Sam.

  “What time did Sam leave to walk Clara?” Brian asked.

  Jean sat on the edge of the single chair at the other side of the room. She gripped onto her brew, hands shaking, but she hadn’t taken much more than a sip of it either. Her wide brown eyes stared at the fireplace, stared into space. Brian couldn’t imagine ever being told about Davey what she had about Sam. He didn’t want to imagine it.

  But he’d broken enough bad news to parents over his career that he knew Jean Betts was in a severe state of shock.

  “Mrs Betts?” Brad asked.

  She blinked. Looked over at Brad, then at Brian, as if noticing them for the first time. “Yes. I… Sorry. I…”

  “You don’t need to apologise,” Brian said. “Just take your time. I have no idea how difficult this may be for you, but the more you give us, the more we can do our job. What time did Sam leave to walk Clara on Wednesday night?”

  Jean Betts gulped. Took in a quivery breath and nodded. “He… Usual time. Time he always takes her. No, later. Later than usual. About half six. But it was… it was going dark and I knew… I shouldn’t have let him go. I knew I shouldn’t…”

  She shook her head. Didn’t crumble into tears, just shook her head. Stared in a trance again.

  “And what time did Clara show up?”

  Another gulp from Jean. Rapid blinking as she tried to wrap her head around the question. “She… About a couple of hours later. Eight, maybe. Scratching at the door and barking and—and I thought Sam was with her at first. Thought he was… thought he was hiding or something. And that’s when I… when I rang the police. And… But he… he was always so safe. Always so careful. You know?”

  She glanced at the pair of them and Brian nodded.

  Brad looked around the room with those scanner eyes of his.

  “Mrs Betts, if you don’t mind me asking,” Brian said, shuffling onto the edge of the sofa. “What were you doing when Sam disappeared?”

  “I was at home,” she said. The answer was sharp. Rehearsed, almost. Brian didn’t like it. Not that he suspected this woman had any involvement in what had happened to her son. He’d just built up an understanding of when someone was bullshitting him over the years. Developed an ear for certain intonations, certain ways of responding, of using body language to try and convey meaning and getting the opposite result.

  And right now, Jean Betts was completely rigid. That question had hit a sore spot.

  Brad must’ve noticed it too because he came swooping in with the next question. “What were you doing?”

  She opened her mouth. Put her cup on the wooden coffee table and rubbed her hands against her knees. Another sign. Sign of uncertainty. Insecurity. “I was just at home. At home on my own. Just… Am I not allowed to just be at home?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mrs Betts,” Brian cut in. “Not a thing. We’re just trying to help you out here. And every little piece of information could help us find out who did this to your son. Stop them doing it to other kids.”

  She slowed down the rubbing of her legs. Brian watched her jaw quiver as she tensed and released it.

  “Nothing has to leave this room if it’s private,” Brad said. A complete lie, of course, but one worth using considering the circumstances.

  “I… I was with someone,” she said.

  “Someone?” Brian asked. “I thought you said you were—”

  “I was with a man. I…” Her speech grew more slurred. “I’m… my job. I… I meet men.”

  “So you’re a whore?” Brad said.

  Brian’s stomach twinged, and Jean shot daggers at Brad.

  “I meet—I meet men in my home. High-class men. Not like a street hooker. I… This house, it’s expensive. And… and meeting men pays better than any minimum wage job I could get. So I do it to support my boy.”

  “Sex does sell,” Brad said, nodding his head.

  Brian was pretty taken aback to find out that Jean was a prostitute. Or an “escort,” rather. But hell—more women were escorts than people thought. Sex did pay well. And this house, the mortgage couldn’t be cheap.

  He wondered how Jean had got here in the first place. What had pushed her into escorting.

  But he wondered more about the man she was seeing.

  “This man you were with. Do you have a name for him? A contact number?”

  Jean shook her head. Lifted a flimsy arm to point at the kitchen. “He’s through…”

  She stared into the kitchen. Slight twitching of her eyes.

  Brian leaned over. “M
rs Betts?” he said. “What is it?”

  She lowered her arm. “He was… the door. It’s open. He… he was in there. I told him to wait there until…”

  Brian and Brad both looked at one another then stood up like they were in sync. “He was here today?”

  They walked through to the kitchen, Clara following them. Nice—marble surfaces, concrete floors, island in the middle with two wine glasses on, one of them half-finished.

  There was a pair of wooden framed double doors at the other side of the long wooden table.

  One of them was partly open.

  “He must’ve … must’ve gone. Must’ve gone when—”

  “He was with you all night?” Brian walked over to the back door. The garden was long, with a little wooden shed, thick trees at the back. “From Wednesday right through to today?”

  “Yes,” Jean said. “He… He was with me. He… He was a good man.”

  “How much did he pay you to say that?” Brad asked.

  “Richards, shut your mouth,” Brian snapped. He stepped up to Jean. Put a hand on her right shoulder. “You say you have the number for this man? Just as a witness. Just procedure.”

  Jean nodded. Lifted her scratched iPhone out of her pocket. Dialled the mystery man, in Jean’s phone book as “Han Solo.”

  Dead line.

  Not even a voicemail.

  “And you texted him on this line?” Brian asked. “Communicated with him? What about a car?”

  “I’ve—I’ve got texts on here from him. And… and messages. Messages through my website. And—and he cycled. His bike was… was right by the door.”

  Brian took down the name of Jean’s personal escorting page. Made a mental note to check out for communication from Han Solo later.

  “This wine glass,” Brad said, lifting up the half-emptied one without the lipstick marks. “Mind if we take it in for DNA profiling?”

  Jean nodded. Her eyes were glazed, ghostlike. “Whatever. Whatever… whatever helps.”

  Brad bagged it up. Half-smiled at Brian. Nodded.

  Brian handed Jean a card with his number and email address on, even though his fingers were way too hammy to write out emails on his bloody awkward touchscreen phone. “If there’s anything else you remember, please be in touch. We’d… we’d like you to come down to the station. To… to identify the body. Formally. Any time in the next two days will—”

  “He nipped out,” she said.

  The words came out of nowhere, completely out of context. “Who did? What do you mean ‘he nipped out’?”

  Jean held Brian’s card between her fingertips like it was an alien object, distant and detached from her. “The man. Han Solo. He… he nipped out. Went to get wine at—at around eight. Wednesday night.”

  Brian felt that familiar tingling feeling in his stomach again when Jean gave him this new information.

  “But it can’t have been him. He… he was here when Sam went missing. It can’t have been him. Right?”

  Brian and Brad didn’t say a word.

  They just looked at the open back door, listened to the trees shaking in the heavy wind, heard a car zoom past out the front, Clara lifting her head to check if her “brother” was back yet.

  And then she lowered her head and sulked as Brian and Brad left.

  SIX

  “So what d’you make of him?”

  Brian stared out of the window. Watched the rain blot his view of the orange-leaved trees, listened to the sounds of the wipers scrape against the glass again and again as Brad drove away from Jean Betts’ house.

  “Who?” Brian asked.

  Brad tutted. “Nelson Mandela. Shit, who do you think I mean? This Han Solo chap.”

  “Oh,” Brian said. Truth be told, his thoughts were blurred. The cruelty of this case, it was weighing down on him already. Making him want to see Davey, his boy. Making him want to see he was okay. He rubbed his eyes and tried his best to snap out of his trance. “I dunno. I mean, Jean said he was there when Sam went out for his walk.”

  “And he nipped out later on. To get some wine.”

  “Yeah, over an hour after Sam went missing. It doesn’t add up. It just … It doesn’t match.”

  Brad let out a low sigh. He always did when he wasn’t getting his point across too well. “Then why did he run? Why did he run the moment he saw us pulling up on the drive?”

  Brian squinted out of the window. Looked at the traffic stacked up behind the Broughton lights, which took an eternity to change. He tried to put himself in “Han Solo’s” shoes. “This guy was paying for sex. Dress it up however he wants—that’s why he was at Jean’s in the first place. Maybe he didn’t want to be caught screwing the grieving mummy.”

  “Maybe,” Brad said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Maybe.”

  Twenty-five minutes passed and they were still stuck in traffic. Usually only a ten-minute drive out of Broughton and down the A6, but the traffic was an absolute nightmare. Didn’t help that the sky was a shitty shade of brown-grey. Autumn in Preston—gotta love it.

  As Brian rattled his fingers on the edge of the window, rain lashing down on the car, he looked outside. Stared at the kids on their bikes with their black hoodies up, all barely out of their teens, all smoking in front of a tacky little corner shop. He wondered how he’d ended up here at fifty-one. He’d sworn to do all kinds of things in his life: travel, live abroad, spend some time out of this shithole.

  But this shithole had a way of holding him down. Gripping him by the throat and keeping him from leaving. He’d realised that when he’d had his heart attack last year. Right before he was about to go on holiday, too.

  And sure, he didn’t take too nicely to the sun. Burned badly. But it just showed how much Preston had its claws in him.

  He’d live and die here.

  “How’s shit with you these days, anyway?”

  Brian darted a stare at Brad and quickly pulled it away. It wasn’t like Brad to ask him how he was, not deadly serious. “Shit’s good.”

  “Keeping healthy?”

  Brian rubbed his hands against his legs. “Jesus, you my dad or something? No. Clearly not my dad. My dad never gave a crap.”

  Brad kept on staring out of the windscreen. Inched forward in the traffic. “Just checking you aren’t gonna have another heart attack on me.”

  Slight heat in Brian’s cheeks. “Fantastic. Very flattering. How about you? You aren’t gonna go try and kill yourself on me, are you?”

  Brian knew he’d crossed the line the second Brad looked at him. His cheeks were red. His lips quivered a little. And it wasn’t like Brian could talk, not with his depressive past. He was hardly one to criticise someone else for attempting to cop out when that one factor pretty much united Brad and him.

  Before he could apologise, Brad turned away and shook his head. “Touché.”

  They got to the station about thirty minutes later. Ran through the rain with their coats pulled over their heads but still got drenched, sending water pooling all over the slippery tiled floor of the reception area. They made their way through to the offices, still drying off, as the storm continued to rage outside.

  They gathered a few officers together and went into a spare office at the back to carry out a briefing. DI Carter, DS Richards, DC Arif and DC Finch, as well as a few others that Brian didn’t really know too well and wasn’t too fussed about getting to know.

  “So the young lad Sam Betts goes out for walkies on Wednesday night,” Brian said, wondering why the hell he was still doing this public speaking crap. “Six-thirtyish. Dog rolled up back at Mummy Jean Betts’ house about an hour and a half later.”

  Brad pinned a few pictures of the mangled corpse of Sam Betts across the cork notice board. It shut up a few chatterers, brought a few shrieks and gasps around the office.

  “Now Jean Betts isn’t a goody-two-shoes at all. She’s an escort. Has an ad page over on HighClassFucks.com. Specifies an interest in ‘professional’ clients.
Just so happens she had one of those professional clients round that night.”

  Brad continued from Brian. Outlined the number they had for the alias Han Solo, the way he’d gone missing when the police went around to Jean’s house. Asked Harry Walters from forensics to take a look at the wine glass for DNA profiling, while Finch—the Ginger Cheeto, as he was lovingly known—agreed to run checks on HighClassFucks.

  “As long as you don’t order one for yourself,” Carter added.

  Finch just went as red as his hair.

  Arif, a Sikh who was relatively new to the station but a bloody friendly guy, went to investigate the number on record for Han Solo.

  “Want us to get a team down to the dirt track where the kid went missing?” Carter asked.

  Brian nodded. “That’d be good. Mum insists the kid only ever took one route—a safe route. So get down there and take the dogs. If Sam Betts really did go down there, there should be something. Chat with any locals, too. There aren’t many of them, so they shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Any of you got info from forensics at the Whittingham Hospital scene?”

  Brian looked around at all the officers and one of them, a tall woman in a blazer with a hard face who was either called Sally or Cindy, he couldn’t remember, shook her head. “Nothing at all. No DNA, no evidence of hair or fingerprints or semen. The place is totally clean.”

  Brian turned away from her. Stared at the pictures of poor Sam Betts, disembowelled, mangled intestines hanging out of his belly. Eye sockets completely empty. “Thanks, Cindy,” he said, taking a gamble.

  “It’s Sally,” she said.

  Fuck.

  The team left the room, some of them pale-faced and clearly distressed by the images of Sam Betts still spread across the wall.

  Brian looked away from the photos that he’d put on the wall, regretting his move. “Do we have to keep those up?”

  Brad did a double-take at Brian. “It’s the investigation. You know how it is.”

  Brian sat down at the desk in the middle of the room. Stared at his watch as it ticked closer and closer to two p.m. “Just… just concentrate a load better if stills of a dead kid weren’t staring at me.” He felt flushed in the face. Could feel his heart racing. His stomach whined with hunger but he had zero appetite.