by Ryan Casey
“Look, like I said, it—it’s been in service.”
“Is it in service now?”
Andrew’s eyelids twitched as he stared at Brian. “No. It’s… I got it back this morning.”
“Convenient,” Brad said.
“Very convenient,” Brian echoed.
Andrew kept on looking at them in either fear or confusion, realistically both.
“When did it go in for service?” Brian asked.
Andrew scratched the back of his neck again. Puffed out his lips and peered into the distance. “Um, Monday. A week ago.”
“Heck of a long time for a car service,” Brad said.
“Couple of nights before your little date with Jean Betts?” Brian asked.
Andrew nodded.
“Is that why you were on a bike?”
Andrew nodded again.
Brian pulled the CCTV stills out of his inside pocket. Placed them in Andrew’s cold hands.
“This is what we need explaining. Last night, these stills are from. Your car, outside the house of Harriet Johnson.”
Andrew squinted at them with definite confusion this time, whether feigned or real was beyond the question. “I… I don’t… this can’t be—”
“Do you know who Harriet Johnson is, Andrew?” Brad asked.
Andrew looked back up for a second. Shook his head.
“I’ll tell him, Brad. She was best friends with Janine Ainscough. Janine Ainscough is the third victim of this Eye Snatcher fella we’ve got on the loose.” He turned the photographs over in Andrew’s limp hands. “Take a look at this image. This is the interesting one.”
Andrew looked.
It was the still of Janine Ainscough disappearing off the camera into the blind spot on Long Lane.
“See the front of the car at the bottom?”
Andrew diverted his eyes. The colour was draining from his cheeks. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but he couldn’t find the words.
“A silver Ka, believe it or not.”
“Your silver Ka,” Brad added. “You know. That one you picked up from its convenient week long servicing this morning.”
“This is wrong,” Andrew said.
“Yes,” Brian said. “It is wrong. What’s this place where your Ka got serviced called anyway?”
Andrew blinked a few times. Croaky voice hesitated. “Ahh, Galaxy. Galaxy Mechanics over at—at Whittingham.”
“So if we ring Galaxy up and ask about this car, they’ll be able to confirm that this car was in their garage for a whole week?”
Andrew’s eyes were glassy, distant. “Someone’s… this is a set up. I swear it’s a set up.”
Brad patted Andrew on the back. “Of course it is. Of course. The number for Galaxy, please?”
“It’s happening again,” Andrew blubbered. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. “Just… just like it happened before. It’s happening again. I swear I—”
“The number for Galaxy,” Brian said, sternly.
Andrew gave them the number. Brad wandered down the first few steps, called Galaxy up. Brian stood with Andrew as he cried. He looked a man defeated. A man caught.
“I should never have gone there,” Andrew said. “I should never have gone there.”
Brian kicked some stones off the concrete steps in front of Andrew’s house. “Gone where?”
Andrew’s lips quivered. “Three years ago. Damien. Damien Halshaw. His… his dad. He… He said he’d ruin me. He said he’d ruin me for what I’d done with his son if I ever… But nothing happened against Damien’s will. I swear nothing—”
“Brian,” Brad said.
Brian turned around. Brad had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Rain sprinkled down on him.
“No record of the silver Ka ever being serviced at Galaxy,” he said.
When Brian turned around to arrest him, Andrew Wilkinson didn’t even look surprised.
He just looked like he’d seen a monster that he always knew was hiding in the closet for the very first time.
TWENTY-SIX
Brian pressed record and commenced the interview on Andrew Wilkinson.
“Andrew Wilkinson, being interviewed on suspicion of the murders of Sam Betts, Beth Turner and Janine Ainscough—”
“I didn’t kill those kids,” Andrew Wilkinson spat.
They sat in the grey-walled interview room. The blinds were partly open, so Brian could see officers peeking in for their first look at the Eye Snatcher. In the interview room with him was Detective Inspector Samantha Carter. She was good at this interviewing business, so it helped to have her present.
Andrew Wilkinson was wearing the same white V-neck T-shirt and slim-fit jogging bottoms he’d had on when Brian had dragged him away from his house. A pair of tartan slippers wrapped around his feet. He looked rough, his eyes puffy and his nostrils streaming. Hardly what Brian expected a cold, brutal child murderer to look like, but often criminals like this were the most unexpected.
Brian leafed through a few of the CCTV shots of Andrew’s silver Ka. Then the ones of him on his bicycle as he went to get “wine” that night he was at Jean Betts’. “Galaxy Mechanics are pretty insistent you aren’t on their records. And yet you claim you sent the silver Ka in for servicing for a whole week. A whole week, that just so happened to be the whole week these murders took place. Why is that?”
Andrew Wilkinson shook his head. Stared intently at Brian, like a kid about to be beaten up bargaining with his captors. “I did not kill Sam Betts or any of the other kids. I swear to you. I’ve nothing to do with—”
“We’re searching the Ka now,” Samantha cut in. She leaned across the table. “We’re searching it for DNA. We’re also checking all the CCTV we can to confirm whether you were in fact trawling the city in that car when you said it was in for servicing.”
“And how about the CCTV at Galaxy?” Andrew shot back. “You’re looking at that, right? Then you’ll see my car was there.”
“Actually,” Brian said. He flicked over a few of the print-offs he’d been handed upon his return to the station. “There’s no trace of your car at Galaxy at all. No trace of it being repaired. It wasn’t there, Andrew.”
Andrew looked at the plastic table. Complete defeat covered his face. He looked broken beyond repair. “I knew it was gonna come to this. One day, I… I just never really accepted it’d reach this point.”
“What?” Carter said. “You’re killing sprees? Little eye-scoopings? Never thought you’d have it in you?”
“I want my lawyer,” Andrew said.
“Your lawyer’s on the way,” Brian said. “You say you never accepted something would reach this point. What are you referring to?”
Andrew looked up at Brian. The look in his eyes, it was like he was stuck in the middle of the ocean and he’d just been thrown a line, albeit a line that was still so far away. “I… He said they’d punish me for this. Said I’d… I’d never get away with what I saw.”
“Do you have an alibi for the days of Beth Turner and Janine Ainscough’s murders?” Samantha cut in.
Andrew opened his mouth. Looked like he had an answer ready, and then just sighed and let the strength drift from his body. He shook his head.
Brian wasn’t sure about this guy’s attitude. Something about it made him feel deeply uncomfortable. Usually, people in his position would be fighting to the death to prove their innocence. And sure, it had started as that with Andrew Wilkinson—he’d certainly had more fight when they’d first met him, that time he’d fled Jean Betts’ house, hidden in the Marriot.
Right now, he seemed defeated. Like he knew there was no way out. Like he’d accepted the situation.
“You didn’t flee Jean Betts’ house because you were worried about seeing an escort that night, did you?” Brian said.
Andrew glanced up at him. Glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “I didn’t kill Sam Betts—”
“Then prove it. What are you hiding, Andrew? What are you hiding?”
Andrew opened his mouth. A tear rolled down his left cheek. “I… I… I want my lawyer.”
Brian smacked his fist against the table so hard it made Samantha jump. “We’re trying to throw you a line here, mate. In case you didn’t realise, you’re in a horrible fucking situation right now. You’re hiding something, I know you are. And maybe you did kill those kids—”
“I didn’t—”
“But there’s something you’re not telling us. And that something could be the difference between being known as a child butchering psychopath for the rest of your life, and being nothing more than a lowlife little nonce who once had a fling with a student.”
Andrew shook his head. More tears came down his cheeks.
Carter rested a hand on Brian’s arm while Andrew sobbed onto the table. Reminded him to stay calm, keep his cool, especially with Andrew currently lawyer-less, the interview not really “by the book” as such.
Brian took a deep breath. Leaned forward. “I don’t know what you did, Andrew. I don’t want to believe you murdered those children, as much as I want to arrest someone for it. I don’t want to believe anyone is capable of doing things like that. But right now, you’re telling me something happened in your past. And… and the silver Ka. The silver Ka being sighted outside Harri Johnson’s house. That… I dunno. To me, that doesn’t feel like a move a killer would make unless they want to be caught. So speak to me. Open your fucking mouth and speak to me. Or you will go down for these crimes. That’s all I can promise you.”
Andrew lifted his head. Wiped his eyes. Sniffed up and looked solely at Brian, Samantha taking the quieter, observant role in this exchange. “He… Damien Halshaw. He… I saw something. When I was with him.”
“Spare us the gory details,” Samantha said.
Andrew disregarded her. “I… I promise what Damien and I had wasn’t—wasn’t like you think. It was… it was more platonic than anything. A positive teacher-student relationship.”
Brian cringed. “Which involved you slipping your dick into—”
“It’s not what you think,” Andrew said, raising his voice.
Brian nodded. Let Andrew have his say.
Andrew leaned back and brushed his fingers through his curly hair. “He… We’d go to his place sometimes. I’d… I’d help him with his homework. Studying for his GCSEs, things like that. And he… they had this big garage in the yard. This garage where—”
Brian raised a hand. “If you’re gonna start describing a step by step walkthrough of what you did to Damien, quit it right there.”
“His dad used to store old cars in there. But I… I never saw his dad. He left years ago, something. But Damien’s mum, she could never bring herself to go in that garage. Reminded her of him too much, something like that.”
Carter shook her head and sighed. “What does this have to do with anything?”
Andrew placed his flattened palms on the table. His mouth twitched, like he was struggling to say the next words. “I… I went round once. The last… the last time I went round to Damien’s. And Damien wasn’t in. I… I saw a light in the garage. And… and I heard noises too. Like someone struggling. So I—I went through there. Went… went down to the garage. Thought maybe—maybe Damien had got stuck, something. And I opened the door to the garage and I…”
He stopped. His eyes were completely wide. Tears dripped from his cheeks onto the table.
“What did you see?” Brian asked. He realised he was leaning right across the table now, just a couple of feet from Andrew’s face. “Andrew, tell us what you saw in there.”
“I… I…”
The door rattled open. Snapped Brian out of his thoughts.
“Detective Inspector McDone, if you’d like to remove yourself from my client’s face and restart the rolling tape, that would be greatly appreciated.”
Brian kept on staring into Andrew’s eyes. The openness inside them had gone. It was like shutters had fallen over them again—shutters that hid the truth, which Brian had come so, so close to fully lifting.
“Brian.” Brian felt a hand on his arm again—Carter.
He took a deep breath. Leaned back in the chair. His heart pounded, and his arms tingled.
The lawyer stepping into the room was a tall blonde woman called Callie Harder. She wore angular glasses, a purple-tinted blazer and black trousers, and she smelled of some perfume that Brian swore Vanessa used to wear. She sat down beside Andrew West, whispered a few things to him, as he skulked back into his chair.
Brian’s body tingled with frustration. “Andrew was just telling us—”
“Andrew was telling you nothing,” Callie said. She took out a leather-bound notepad. Opened it up. “Nothing said before my entry into this interview room has any validity whatsoever. Especially not with you, Detective McDone. Not after all your hounding.”
Brian tensed his jaw. “With all due respect—”
“My client and I don’t feel comfortable with you present,” Callie said. “I’ve had a word with your superior and he’s already agreed to bring in another officer in your place.”
Brian’s whole body felt like it was burning. “You can’t—”
“I can, Brian,” Callie said. “Especially talking with your therapist. Mental struggles coming back to haunt you, from what I gather? Surely a case like this is way beyond your capabilities right now.
Brian was so tense that he felt like smacking his fist into the table again. Felt like throwing all the anger and rage inside him right in Callie’s direction.
A hand on his arm again. A hand that cooled him somewhat; calmed him.
“I’ve got this, Brian,” Carter whispered. She patted his arm. “I’ve got this.”
Brian stayed in his chair for a few moments. Stayed rooted to the spot. Stared at Andrew Wilkinson, who wasn’t making eye contact with him anymore.
And then he scraped his chair away and stormed out of the interview room.
Andrew Wilkinson hadn’t given him the answers he wanted, but he knew somewhere that might.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Damien Halshaw’s old house was a detached, grey-bricked building just outside of Whittingham.
Brian sat in his car outside it. Looked at the ivy crawling up the walls, overgrown and out of control. According to the records, this house had been unoccupied for the best part of a year. The house was technically still owned by Miranda Halshaw, but she’d moved away with her son shortly after the incident with Andrew Wilkinson. She hadn’t put the house up for rent, and it showed: she’d left it to rot. Clearly, the Halshaw family had money to waste.
Brian stepped out of the car. He’d come alone, mainly because of the way he was kicked out of the Andrew Wilkinson interview just half an hour earlier. He knew he was a stupid bugger for visiting a place like this alone, especially with what had happened when he’d been alone in the past, but lightning didn’t strike four bloody times, right?
He looked down the long country road. Listened to the sounds of birds singing, of leaves rustling against one another in the evergreen trees. The sounds of nature, nothing more. No traffic. No other houses around. Complete seclusion.
The perfect place to hide a secret.
Brian stepped up to the rusty iron front gate. There were some chains around it, but they’d been snapped. Judging by the cracks in the cobwebbed windows of the house, the graffiti sprawled across the crumbling white paint of the front door, kids got in here and hung around. With the old abandoned Hospital just around the corner—the one where Sam Betts’ body had been found—and this, Whittingham kids really had their fair share of creepy places to hang out.
Brian took another look left, another look right, and he pushed against the gate. It scraped along the algae-laden flags, another treacherous trap in Brian’s path into these grounds. Shit, he’d worn his Timberlands today too. Supposed to be walking boots, but they were slippery as shit when it came to surfaces like this. He’d have to keep his balance. Last thing he wanted to
do was fall on his ass and end up in hospital after the way he’d already been embarrassed at the station earlier today.
Being careful with his steps, Brian made his way up the driveway. The grass either side of him was about knee height, but it’d stopped growing for winter now. In the distance, Brian swore he saw movement, then realised there were just rabbits and squirrels hopping about, enjoying the rare seclusion from the outside world. The smell of rich morning dew made the scene almost idyllic.
Pity about the circumstances.
Brian got halfway up the pathway. Heard another gust of wind batter the trees over the road. He looked over his shoulder—again, swore he saw movement. But no. He was being silly. There was nobody around here. The place was empty. There were no cars. No sounds. Nothing.
But there was something in the garage. Something that Andrew Wilkinson had seen when he’d been at Damien Halshaw’s house three years ago. Something that he insisted had links to what was happening to him today.
And Brian kind of believed Andrew Wilkinson’s innocence. He didn’t buy that this Eye Snatcher guy, who’d been so careful not to leave any clues or any traces during any of his three brutal murders, would suddenly just blow his cover in his car on CCTV. Sure, Andrew Wilkinson was a crook. But he wasn’t their crook, not right now. Not to Brian, anyway.
Brian felt his footing wobble underneath him. His legs split apart in a ball-busting position. He was just about to hit the concrete when one of his feet touched the grass, got some support. He gasped in relief, in frustration. The concrete was shiny with algae at this point. One slip, and he’d crack his head right open.
He steadied himself with a few deep breaths like his bastard singing therapist had told him and he stepped into the knee-length grass. The dampness from the grass went right through his black work trousers, squelched through a little hole in the front of his left Timberland, but anything was better than the slipperiness of the concrete. He made his way to the right, looped around to get a view on the garage. It had to be around the back of the house, or around the side. There had to be something in there.
