by Ryan Casey
Jack put his bacon butty down. Studied the photograph, squinting. “Yeah. Yeah I ‘ave seen ‘im before. Few times, actually.”
Brian let Jack study the photo for a few minutes, though. I bet you fucking have. “The thing is, Adrian has an alibi for the night of Sam Betts’ disappearance. So something isn’t adding up.”
Jack handed the photo back to Brian. Went to pick up his bacon butty again, but opted against it. “Is that right?”
Brian was about to speak when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He thought about ignoring it, but he didn’t want to take any more chances today. He didn’t want to piss Hannah off too much, and he didn’t want the department wondering where he was. Plus, he needed a few seconds to regroup. To work out his next question to Jack.
“Sorry, is there a bathroom I can just take this in?”
Jack nodded. Pointed to the door next to the bottom of the stairs.
Brian locked himself inside and answered the call.
“Yeah?”
“Brian.” It was Samantha Carter. “Where you at?”
Brian turned the little silver tap on so the running water covered his voice up a bit. “I’m just—”
“Doesn’t matter. We got news back on the car registration from outside Booths. Our toilet runner. Think you’re gonna be pleasantly surprised.”
Brian turned the other tap on so the noise got a little louder. He could hear Jack whistling in the kitchen down the corridor.
“Old Farmer Jack said he had a son, right?”
Brian flushed the toilet. More disturbing noise. “Yeah. In Yorkshire with his family or something.”
“Jack’s son doesn’t live in Yorkshire. He doesn’t have a family. Patrick Selter left prison six months ago.”
Brian tensed as he tried to listen to Carter’s words beyond the flushing toilet. “What for?”
“Child pornography. Production and distribution. Lowest scumbag of the low. And what more, this black Renault Clio outside Booths. It’s his. Used to be his daddy’s, but they switched the insurance over six months ago.”
Brian turned off the other tap. Listened to Jack Selter whistling away outside the bathroom door, like everything was okay, everything was normal. “Where does he… where’s he registered as living?”
“At home with his parents,” Carter said. “Where you at anyway?”
Brian heard the footsteps creaking above his head. Heard more sizzling of bacon. Heard his heart pounding against his chest.
“Samantha, I… I’m…”
“You okay, Brian? You’re breaking up.”
The call cut out.
Brian paused a few seconds. Waited, absorbing the information, taking it all in. Listened to Jack Selter’s whistles.
Patrick Selter. Shit. Shit.
He stepped up to the bathroom door. Took a deep breath in of the lavender air freshener.
And then he opened the bathroom door.
Jack barely looked up at Brian as he stepped out of the bathroom, which was just as well because it gave Brian a free minute to lunge up the creaky staircase of the converted bungalow attic.
He heard Jack shouting as he stepped up the spiralling stairs. Heard a plate drop and hit the hard kitchen floor as Brian turned onto the upper floor, looked at the two dark wood doors either side of him.
His heart pounded. He stepped up to the first door. Reached for the handle. Tried to turn it, completely locked.
Tried the second door. Same problem. Same predicament.
“You don’t have a bloody warrant to search this place,” Jack shouted, as he came around the stairs.
But Brian wasn’t listening.
He smacked into the door on the left. Barged into it, shoulder first, hurting his shoulder in the process. Barged again, as Jack poked his head around the top of the stairs, shouted at him some more.
The third barge, something snapped, and the handle came loose.
“You don’t step in there!” Jack shouted.
But Brian didn’t need to step in. He didn’t need to step in the room to see what he’d seen.
The tripod at the bottom of an unsheeted double bed. Cuffs and chains at the top and bottom ends of the mattress.
Posters of Barbie, Disney films, and teddy bears and toys all scattered around the room.
He felt sick. Sick to the bottom of his stomach. Sick and angry, as Jack looked on with a reddening face.
He stumbled into the room, his knees weak. Jack didn’t even try to stop him.
His sickness reached new heights when he saw the bed closer.
When he saw the red stain in the middle of the mattress.
When he saw the little purple earring, just like Beth Turner’s, beside the pillow.
“It’s okay, Dad,” a voice said.
Brian turned around. A tall, muscular lad with dark hair wearing a black V-neck T-shirt and blue skinny jeans stepped out of the room opposite.
“I’ve got this,” he said.
He was pointing a rifle at Brian’s face.
NINETEEN
“Put your hands behind your head and sit on the bed.”
Brian’s heart pounded as he stood in the doorway of Patrick Selter’s fucked up little bedroom. He tasted the sweat from his forehead dripping down onto his lips. Felt his knees going weak as he got the dull smell of stale semen, of old urine.
He stared at Patrick Selter as he pointed the rifle in his face. As his dad, Jack, the farmer, looked on red-faced, inconsolable.
“Now!”
Jack reached for his son’s shoulder. “Pat, you don’t have to—”
Patrick brushed his dad away. “I’ve got this. I’ll handle it. Sit the fuck down.”
Brian wasn’t sure whether he physically could sit down, especially not on this unsheeted mattress that had blood and other stains all over it.
“Don’t for a fucking second think I wouldn’t,” Patrick said. He stepped forward. His muscly biceps underneath his dark V-neck T-shirt were tensed as he held on to the rifle, pointed it closer into Brian’s face. “On the bed. So we can sort this out. Get it done with.”
Brian wanted to stand up to this creepy little fucker. He wanted to tell the little noncey pervert to get fucked. He wanted to shove the gun up his ass and cause him pain for what he’d done to Sam Betts, to Beth Turner, to countless other kids.
“Now!”
He prodded the gun against Brian’s forehead.
Brian fell down. Fell down on the hard, grey mattress of the bed. Tried to steady his breathing as the bed springs squeaked. Tried his best not to look at the dusty teddy bears, the princes and princesses on the chipped walls.
Tried not to look at the camera tripod at the other side of the room.
“Now here’s what you’re gonna do,” Patrick said. “You’re gonna climb over to those cuffs and you’re gonna—”
More protestation from Jack. “Patrick, you don’t need to do this—”
Patrick swung around. Pointed the gun into his dad’s chest. Bloodshot mania in his eyes.
“You fucker. You brought him here. You’re no fucking dad to me. Now get the fuck out the room. No. Wait. Stay here. Don’t want you calling anyone else.”
Jack lifted his hands. Looked at his son with shame, with fear. “I was looking out for yeh. Tryin’ me best to look out for yeh. If I knew what you’d been doin’—”
“Well, surprise. Now you know.”
Patrick turned around. Pointed the gun back at Brian. Tilted his head over to the cuffs. “Cuff yourself up.”
Brian gulped down the lump in his throat. He looked at the cuffs. Looked at the little red marks on them where countless people had been held. At the purple earring belonging to Beth Turner. It made him sick. Made him sick to the pit of his stomach that it could’ve been Davey in here. It could be his next kid in here.
Fuck. Sick fuck.
“Doesn’t have to be this way,” Brian said. They were the only words he could think to say, but he knew they were pointle
ss. “You can drop that gun. Head down to the station with—”
The rifle smacked across Brian’s face. He tasted blood, felt dizzy.
“You get into those chains right now,” Patrick said, the gun getting shakier. “You and me both know there’s no other way here.”
Brian crawled closer to the chains. “You know I’m not alone here. You—you realise that if anything happens to me, people know I’m here.”
“And how do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”
“You don’t,” Brian said. Got closer to the cuffs. “But the truth is, you were sighted climbing out of that Booths window. You’re on CCTV leaving the Booths toilets where Beth Turner was discovered. You were in there with her. I’m not the only one who realises that. And—and whatever happens to me here, you won’t get away with this. You… you sick fucker. You won’t get away with it.”
Brian got closer to the cuffs. Looked back at Patrick. He was shaking a bit more. The gun was wavering. His eyes were filled with tears.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—to—”
“And you didn’t mean to do what’s in this fucking room?” Brian shouted. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t contain his anger. He grabbed the purple earring while he had the chance. Grabbed one of the cuffs, prayed to God he could talk his way out of this one, although he didn’t fancy his chances. “You didn’t mean to do what you did to the kids you had in here? You didn’t mean to do what you did to Beth Turner? Fucking kid’s only two years younger than your little sister—”
“Cuff yourself and shut the fuck up.” Anger in Patrick’s eyes again. Assertiveness in his position. Jack continued to cower beside him, a shadow of his usual confident self.
Brian took the cuff in one hand. Clipped it over his wrist. “Arrested for killing a police officer. On top of all this in this room. That’s what you want to go down for? For killing me? Killing Beth Turner and Sam Betts? That’s your legacy, is it?”
The anger seemed to drift from Patrick’s face again as Brian tightened the cuff around his wrist. Weirdly, even though he was in the position he was in, he felt like he was gaining control of this situation. Like there was a combination of words he could say to Patrick that would completely unlock him, stop him shooting him.
“Patrick,” Jack said. He lifted his hand and reached for his son’s shoulder again. “Listen to ‘im. He’s right. End this ‘ere. You’ll go down again for this shite.”
“And you won’t?” Patrick said, swinging around to his dad. Slight smile on his face. “Look at the situation, Dad. You really expect the police to believe you knew nothing about this room?”
“But I—”
“You believed what you wanted to believe, you coward.” He turned back to Brian. Lifted the rifle. Pointed it at his head.
Brian wanted to tell Patrick not to do this. He wanted to beg for his life. Instead, he said, “Do this and it’s over. Your life’s over right here. Don’t do it, you might have a chance of a smaller sentence. I’ll say you—you cooperated. You turned yourself in. That might help with the murder charges.”
Patrick shook all over. “Fuck. I… My life. It’s already over. I… Beth, I… I didn’t mean…”
“Talk to me about her,” Brian said, seizing the opportunity. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill her? Kill both of them?”
Patrick looked at his dad. Looked sharply at Brian, then back at his dad again, like he was losing all control of his senses. “I… I didn’t… Oh fuck. I know—I know what it looks like but… the coat, I had to get rid of it but… Fuck. Fuck.”
“Patrick, calm yourself,” Brian said, resisting the urge to curse Patrick some more. “Deep breaths. In through the nostrils, out through the mouth. Talk to me here.”
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” Patrick said. The rifle shook so much in his hand that it looked like it’d been fitted with an in-built vibrator. “I… there’s nothing I can say. Nothing I can—I can say now—”
“Patrick there is—”
Patrick swung the gun into the side of his dad’s head. Knocked him to the floor, then whacked him again and again with the butt until he went bloody at the head and stopped speaking.
And then he turned around to Brian. Looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks, a shadow of the cocky little perverted fuck who’d tied him to this bed in the first place.
He lifted the gun. Pointed it at Brian’s head.
“Think of your sister,” Brian said, closing his eyes until the blackness filled with colours. “Think of—of your little sister. Don’t shame her even more. Don’t shame her.”
“It’s not… It’s not like it seems. I—I didn’t kill Beth Turner. I can’t… Please.”
Brian peeked through his eyelids. Saw the scared little child in Patrick’s face. Saw him begging, like a cornered mouse, saying any bullshit he could to get out of the situation he was in.
Not wanting to kill Brian, but knowing he had to.
Brian took in a deep breath. His breathing was shaky too. “My partner, she’s… she’s pregnant and—”
He didn’t finish his sentence because he felt the skull-cracking blast and then there was silence and blackness.
TWENTY
“How you holding up, boss?”
Brian held an iced cloth to his thumping head, which Patrick Selter had hit with the butt of his rifle. He could taste blood, dull and lingering, as he sat in the police station canteen. The smells of overcooked pastry and deep fried chips made him feel sickly, and his legs were shaking.
“Brian, you should go to the hospital, mate. Or at least head home—”
“I’m okay,” Brian spat.
He looked up. Saw Brad opposite him in his leather coat, twiddling his fingers together. Saw that look in his eyes—that look of pity. The look he hated.
“I’m just saying,” Brad said. “Patrick Selter’s done a runner. Fled in his black Clio.”
“We’ve got the registration, right? What’s taking us so long to trace him?”
Brad shook his head. “You know how it is. Isn’t always that easy. Looks like he might’ve skipped town. But we’ll find him. We always do.”
Brian nodded. “And Jack?”
Brad rubbed his hands together. “He’s in medical custody. Took a few heavy punches. Awake, but pretty shaken up about—”
“We speak to him. Right now. He knew what his son was up to. He knows more. He has to.”
Brad opened his mouth to protest. “Brian, we can’t. Not now. Besides, I don’t know if—”
“I’m okay,” Brian said. He threw the iced cloth onto the canteen table. Made it rattle on its hinges. A few officers helping themselves to a Sunday feast on processed shite. “My head it, it’s not that bad. Just stings a bit.”
“It looks bad.”
“Well so do you.”
“Touché.”
Brad leaned back on his creaky canteen chair. Looked around the place. “What did he tell you then? You still haven’t properly gone into things.”
Brian reached into his pocket. Pulled out the purple earring that belonged to Beth Turner, which he’d found in Patrick Selter’s horrible little room.
Brad’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. Is that—”
“He filmed them in that room,” Brian said, sickening feeling growing inside him as he spoke. “The cuffs he chained me to, the ones you got me out of.”
“Which you still haven’t thanked me for.”
“Yeah. Location Services bullshit. Whatever. But that room. He took kids there. Filmed… filmed himself or—or others doing stuff to them, I dunno.”
“We’ve got forensics down there doing DNA tests and searches. Whoever was in Patrick’s room, we’ll have them.”
Brian nodded. “She was there. She… for some reason, Beth Turner was there that day. Something took her to that house instead of her friend’s. And then something took her to Booths that evening.”
“And Sam Betts?” Brad asked.
&nbs
p; Throwing Sam Betts into the equation made things even more complex. “I… I dunno. He must’ve been there too.”
Brad clapped his hands together. “Then we’ve got him.”
Brian stared out of the window at the grey Preston skyline. Looked at the high rise flats, the cloudy sky, saw three magpies flocking around a satellite dish and couldn’t be fucked saluting them. “Why ditch his coat down where he was kidnapped?”
Brad shrugged. “Panic? I dunno.”
“And the earring,” Brian continued. “Why leave that lying around when you know it’s going to incriminate you?”
Brad puffed out his lips. “I get what you’re saying, but we’ve got this guy. We’ve got Patrick on CCTV leaving Booths toilets through the window at 3.30 a.m.”
“How about entering?”
Brad shrugged. “Lot of obstruction. Busy rush before the place closes. But we’re working on close-ups.”
The canteen door swung open, hitting the wall with a cringe-inducing crunch like it always did. Through the door stepped Samantha Carter, dressed in a black winter coat, a woolly navy scarf and a cream shirt underneath.
She looked at Brian with that same look of confusion, of pity, as Brad had.
“Jack Selter’s ready for questioning. Just thought you should…”
Brian scraped his chair back and felt Brad grab his arm. Aside from being a little embarrassed about Brad’s movement, he was doubly pissed that an officer below his bloody rank would try stopping him in the first place.
“Go home to your girlfriend,” he said. “Leave this to me and Carter.”
Brian yanked his arm back. Let Brad’s hand tumble to the table.
He took in a few deep breaths. Worked the colour out of his burning face, as officers looked on and whispered. Half-smiled at Samantha.
“Take me to him,” Brian said.
“Quite a bump to the head you got—”
“Oh don’t you start too,” Brian said.
She didn’t.
She looked at Brad, raised her eyebrows, and then led Brian towards the interview rooms where Jack Selter was being held.
Brian could sense from the way everyone was looking at him that he was on the brink again.
