by J G Alva
“And if he doesn’t come?” Toby asked.
Sutton made a face.
“Then we know the plan hasn’t worked,” he said, and opened the front door to go out.
◆◆◆
He should have felt triumphant, but after the meeting all that Pat felt was maudlin.
Sutton Mills – whoever he was – was cautious to the point of paranoia. Pat could forgive him this, after recent events, but it wasn’t making his job any easier. Yes, he had agreed to hand over the boy, but it was not without conditions. Mr Mills was more than apt to change his mind and renege on their deal on a whim; all Pat could do was hope that he was in Millennium Square at nine tomorrow.
Most unsatisfactory.
Pat was just passing the dimly lit Student Union building when his phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number, but a deep unease settled in his gut. Every unknown number had been bad news recently.
He pulled over to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Pat?”
It was, of all people, Sally.
“Yes, Sally, what is it?”
A pause. When she spoke next, her voice was hollow.
“It’s Detective Costar. He’s been attacked.”
◆◆◆
Aimee stood on the bottom step, waiting.
There was no way to properly describe her state of mind in that moment; there were too many things going on at once to be able to settle on any one emotion. But the quality of it reminded her of the sky dive she had taken in her youth. She’d been twenty one, living and working in Australia for eight months on a year-long visa. She shouldn’t have been there, but Zosia had insisted…and when Zosia insisted, it was impossible to refuse.
Anyway, she had paid for everything, so Aimee had been happy to go along.
Zosia could afford it.
A sweaty desperate fear had pervaded the long slow ascent to the heavens. But there had also been a sense of unreality. Was she really going to jump out of a perfectly good plane with only a blanket to prevent her from squishing on to the earth below? That seemed a bit silly.
Leaving the plane had been the worst bit.
She had screamed, an involuntary release.
This was something like that.
Dot was behind her, in the hallway. Looking directly across, she could see Toby on the sofa in the living room. His leg was jumping with the tension.
How had she gotten here? What was she doing in a stranger’s house, afraid for her life?
A knock at the door.
Dot started, fear flashing across her face. Aimee felt a contraction in her stomach in direct response to that look.
Dot straightened up and, with head held high, went to the door like a soldier marching in formation.
She opened it.
Aimee was immediately obscured behind it
“Yes?”
“Hi,” the man said. He sounded amiable. “I’m Detective Darren Board. I was wondering if I could speak to you about an attack in the area last week?”
“An attack?” Dot said. To Aimee’s ear, she sounded like a bad actor struggling with her part.
“Yes. Can I come in? I…”
The voice trailed off. Looking across the hall, Aimee could tell that Toby had been spotted, as the boy’s face was bleached with fear.
Detective Darren Board stepped into the house, pushing on the door, Dot falling back. His attention was fixed completely on Toby. He passed the edge of the door, and Aimee could see him now: he was younger, younger than her; he had a thick mop of dark hair; he wasn’t very tall.
Even though he was fixated on Toby, he sensed something at the last moment, and started to turn. He even started to bring up his arm; his reactions were good.
But Aimee still managed to place the end of the fireplace poker across the back of his head.
The consistency of his skull was like a medicine ball, and the poker rebounded. Darren Board rocketed forward, his head striking the doorframe to the living room – a second blow, perhaps he would be lobotomised after all – and he went down on one knee, a hand grasping at the hall table and knocking a notepad and a pot of pens on to the floor. But he was still conscious. Aimee brought the poker around again. It felt to her as if she were working in slow motion, as if her joints were not properly oiled and were seizing up, as if the air had the compact resilience of water…all and everything conspiring against her to slow her attack.
Darren would have ample time to get out of the way.
Darren would easily be able to dodge her swing.
He didn’t.
Maybe the first blow had dulled his mind, because he didn’t even bring up an arm to protect his head this time; he merely observed as the poker came toward him once more and caught him under his left ear.
He hit the doorframe again and then fell into the living room, completely slack.
Aimee was making a noise: some kind of low groan. She made the same noise at the gym, when she was working with the free weights.
Darren Board did not stir.
Aimee felt sweat trickle down her brow. She wiped it away absently.
She tried to speak, but her throat wasn’t working.
She cleared it.
“Call him,” she told Dot.
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 20
Detective Inspector Lee Pointe was the only senior man left in the building, so the task had fallen to him to investigate what had happened.
“How is he?”
“He’s at the BRI,” Pointe said. “They’re operating. There was a haematoma. They’ll call as soon as they know.”
“Nobody saw anything?”
Pointe shook his head.
“Is this the Cult thing you’ve been working on?” He asked.
Pat shook his head, but it had to be.
“When did you see him last?” Pointe asked.
“I dropped him at the New Pl – at the Bristol Central Police Station about an hour ago,” Pat said. “We’re moving on the Cult. He was getting the taskforce together.”
Pointe nodded.
“I spoke to Phillips. Apparently he sent him over here for the files.”
“Blast him.”
Point raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Pat saw it, and then immediately waved a hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Pointe nodded. He understood.
“Pat, do you have any idea who might have done this?”
Pat was reluctant to say it. To say it was to admit to his part in it, his failure to act in accordance with a plan to prevent this. He should have put Darren in a cell. He had not expected this.
He had been wrong.
Wrong to push to get Darren to work on the Cult case.
Wrong to trust him at all.
But it didn’t make sense. Darren wasn’t religious. He could have sworn…
“Pat?”
“Oh…DC Darren Board,” he said.
Pointe frowned.
“What?”
“We suspected that somebody close to the investigation was feeding information to the Cult,” Pat said. “And now this…”
“You think DC Darren Board is behind this?”
Pat nodded dumbly.
“I’ve tried calling him, but he doesn’t answer.” He had a thought then. “Did the security camera catch anything?”
Point shook his head.
“They’re gone. They went last week. Over to Bristol Central.”
“Of course they have.”
“So,” Pointe said. “DC Darren Board is our number one suspect. Fuck. This shouldn’t have happened, Pat. It shouldn’t be possible. How the fuck are we going to explain this? An attack on a police officer…in a police station. And if he dies…This is a fucking nightmare. Shit rolls downhill, Pat. You better watch out.”
◆◆◆
Nathan Price didn’t talk much. He was in his mid-twenties, absurdly healthy, with a haircut so precise it must have been do
ne with a set square and a ruler.
“I’m going to be two minutes,” Bob told him. “Are you alright to wait here?”
Price nodded.
They were sat in a car in the small forgotten square of concrete that substituted as an unofficial car park for the staff of the Bridewell Station. As it was unofficial, there were no lights, and no order to how the cars were parked; if you could fit your car in without blocking the exit, then no one complained.
“Two minutes.” Bob opened the door. He paused before actually getting out. “You might want to move the car. I don’t think anyone can get in, with you parked here.”
He didn’t wait for a response from Price…he didn’t think he’d get one anyway. Price was a robot.
Weaving between the dark cars to the back entrance, Bob wondered if this wasn’t a bad idea. But, he supposed, it wasn’t as if he had much choice.
Nobody had photos, back at the Bristol Central Police Station. Nobody had printouts. Nobody had the reports. Nobody had anything.
They couldn’t mount an operation without reviewing the intelligence one last time.
“Is this really necessary?” Bob had asked.
“Is it necessary for Angus Young to practice before going on stage?” Phillips had countered.
“Uh, probably not…”
“Well, that’s because no one here is an Angus Young.”
“This is the digital age, Detective Sergeant Phillips-“
“Yes. But I told you: nobody’s waved their fucking IT wand in our direction yet. We can’t see digital files without working computers. And you have all the printouts at Bridewell station. Nathan will drive you. He’s got nothing better to do right now.”
So Nathan had driven him.
Bob took the back staircase, which was dark, cold, and empty, quickly running up the steps to the first floor.
The Work Room was deserted.
Bob immediately began gathering the files scattered across the table.
“Bob?”
He gave a start. He hadn’t realised how tense he was.
Darren stood in the doorway.
“Darren.”
“What’s going on?”
“Uh…I need to get these files together, so I can give them to the taskforce at the New Place.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Darren’s eyebrows went up on his head. “Have you found them?”
Bob hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Where’s Pat?”
“He’s gone to get the boy.”
“What? Where?”
Once more, Bob hesitated.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“But shouldn’t we-“
“I need you with me, Darren,” Bob said. If they couldn’t trust him, then Bob would just have to keep him close. “To help organise this taskforce. We need to get over to the New Place with this information as soon as we can. So we can get things moving.”
“When are they going in?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Darren, I just…I need your help. Okay? Can you help?”
Darren nodded.
“Of course.”
“Grab those files,” Bob said, pointing to the paperwork on the table directly in front of Darren. “I want Phillips to see all of this.”
Darren did as he was told, and they both left the Work Room together.
There was nobody in the corridor at this hour, for which Bob was grateful: he didn’t need to answer a load of unnecessary questions from interested people, some of whom may be innocent…but some of whom may not be.
He still wasn’t sure about Darren.
But if he kept him close, there shouldn’t be a problem.
Bob had some trouble with the door to the stairs, as his hands were full of paperwork, so Darren offered up some help, pushing the door open with his free hand.
“Go on,” he told Bob.
The stairwell was cold and silent. Rough grey concrete landings separated metal lined steps going up and down on either side. The lighting had never been good in the stairwell, Bob thought. Panel lights illuminated the stairs but not the landing themselves, so it was like walking through pools of blackness at each landing.
On the next landing down, Bob heard Darren drop his paperwork with a frustrated grunt.
“Darren?” Bob said.
He could hardly see him; his figure was a humped shape in the corner as he bent to collect the fallen paperwork.
“Sorry,” Darren said. “I’ve got it. Just a minute.”
“Hang on.” Bob had spotted that one of the files had skidded to the edge of the landing and was about to go over. He bent to pick it up.
As he straightened, he said, “here-“ but he didn’t get to say you go as Darren brought the billy club in his hand down on to the back of Bob’s head.
Bob immediately went limp, collapsing on to the landing on his face. The paperwork fell out of his hand and dropped over the edge of the landing, see-sawing in the air to the floor below.
Darren stepped over him, but hesitated briefly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
◆◆◆
Darren put the billy club back in his pocket.
It was as advertised: a weighted club no bigger than a foot long from Subway, with a strap to keep it on your wrist. It fit easily into his pocket.
The stairwell was quiet; no trumpets, no spotlight erupted at this unnecessary piece of violence. Darren felt remorseful. For all his faults, he had liked Bob. But the end was coming – what a relief that would be – and if he was going to see it through to that ending then he couldn’t have Bob controlling his movements. He understood why he hadn’t been made aware of these recent developments: Pat suspected him of being involved with the Cult.
People mocked Pat, but he was such a good detective.
And he was right.
Darren quietly went down the steps to the ground floor.
Slowly opening the door to the main corridor, he peeked out: it was deserted, save for a few indistinct bodies in conversation near the main reception.
The back door was about ten feet in the other direction, and he quickly moved toward it, until he was outside, in the dark area at the back of the building that doubled as a car park and smoking shed.
Darren moved down the line of cars to his own and got in. He didn’t see anyone.
He pulled the phone from his pocket, dialled and then waited for it to be answered.
Three rings, and then –
“Hello?”
Darren had to swallow before he could speak properly.
“They know where you are. I don’t know when they’re coming – I’ve…delayed them somewhat – but you have to move.”
A pause.
“We are moving. We’re coming. Find the boy.”
“I am. I mean, I will. I think I have a lead on him. I’ll call you when I know more.”
A pause, and then the person on the other end of the line hung up.
Darren started his car.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt Pat. But it could come to that, so he had to prepare himself.
Anyway. If it did, he knew he would do it.
◆◆◆
Pat sat in the Work Room and tried to think what to do next.
Not that his brain would cooperate. Instead, it insisted on reviewing memories of Bob. They had known each other thirteen years, so there were a reasonable amount of memories to go through. They had never been close friends, but there was a certain amiable mutual appreciation going on, which always meant he was good company.
He wanted to feel mad but instead he felt beaten. He had called his wife to tell her ten minutes ago, and at the news she had been silent for a full thirty seconds. So long, in fact, that he had worried that they had been cut off.
“Janine?”
“I’m here. Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound f
ine.”
“No. I suppose I don’t.”
“Where did it happen? Was he out or-“
“No. It was here. In the station.”
“In the station?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. The whole place is on alert. There’s nowhere safer than here, right now.”
“What’s this world coming to?”
“I know.”
“You sound worn out, honey.”
Pat sighed.
“Shell shocked, I think. If he doesn’t make it…”
“Don’t. You can’t think like that. Can you get away? Come home?”
“No. Not yet. Did I wake you?”
“Yes. But it’s fine. Come home when you can though, baby. I’ll run you a bath. Your back must be killing you.”
“It’s fine. I love you, Janine.”
“I love you too, honey.”
“Bye.”
He didn’t know if he should ring Rachel and let her know, he couldn’t think about the consequences or the procedures, his head was soup.
And what of the Cult? The taskforce hadn’t been assembled, obviously. Pat thought he should get off his bum and get over there, but he didn’t have the energy or the inclination. But if Darren knew, what did it matter? There was no way the Cult was going to stay where they were. They would be on the move again.
Darren.
He couldn’t think what to do, how to handle it. He felt so betrayed…like he had been cut with a knife. He also felt ashamed. The attack on Bob was partly his fault, and he’d have to come to terms with that somehow.
If Bob died…
No. Don’t think about that.
Where was Darren now? Was he in his car, looking for the boy? Or was he driving to meet the Cult?
Driving.
He picked up the phone on the table, dialled, waited while it rang.
Pointe answered.
“Pat?”
“We can track his car.”
◆◆◆
“I don’t want you to see this,” he told her.
Aimee looked righteously pissed. He didn’t know if it was with him, or the situation.
“I’m staying,” she said belligerently.
Sutton shook his head.
“Let me put this another way…I don’t want you to see this.”
“That’s not putting it another way. That’s putting it the same way.”
