Look Closer

by Rachel Amphlett

  Will’s heart jumped between his ribs. If the police had already organised an ambulance, it meant they were taking the story seriously.

  It also meant they were having serious doubts about Mack’s survival.

  41

  Gregory fed the papers into the fireplace and watched as the greedy flames devoured the documents, the edges curling and turning brown before disintegrating in the heat.

  Beyond the room, he could hear Rossiter getting closer, the police no doubt at his heels, trying to hurry him along.

  He cursed under his breath as a page fell from his fingers, bent down to pick it up and glanced at the numbers across the paper.

  All their work. All this time.

  ‘Shit,’ he mumbled, screwing up the page in his hand and tossing it onto the fire.

  He peered over his shoulder as the footsteps drew nearer, then turned and dropped the stack of documents into the grate and stirred them with the poker.

  He glared at the hearth. The problem with old stately homes was that the chimneys were never swept as often as they should be. The draw wasn’t enough to fan the flames, and smoke began to billow out into the room.

  He coughed and moved back to his desk as the door opened.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this interruption?’ he demanded as Rossiter stood to one side to let the police detective and his colleague over the threshold. His mind worked as he spoke. Two armed special response officers stood in the hallway outside. No doubt, the detective had more men posted by the front door and around the building. He congratulated himself at having the foresight to light the fire as soon as Rossiter had hammered on his office door and announced the police were about to descend on them.

  He glanced towards the hearth, the smoke increasing in density, then back at the detective.

  It was too late. The man had followed his gaze and now moved across the room to the grate.

  Gregory watched as Lake crouched and began to pull pages from the flames, salvaging as much as possible. Soot and ash covered the hearthrug.

  ‘Hey,’ exclaimed Rossiter, ‘that’s original nineteenth century – you can’t do that!’

  ‘I can, sir,’ said the detective. ‘And I will. Destroying evidence is a crime.’ He looked over his shoulder, his eyes finding Gregory. ‘As I’m sure you’re both aware.’

  Gregory recovered quickly. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Detective, accusing a parliamentary candidate of a crime is extremely serious,’ he said, coughing to clear the acrid smoke from his throat. He moved towards the window and released the safety catch before shoving the sash frame upwards, allowing fresh air into the room.

  ‘No!’

  Lake realised too late what was happening.

  As the morning breeze seeped through the gap, the flames caught in the hearth, freshly fuelled by the fresh air filling the space. The remaining documents began to burn quickly, easily.

  One of the other police officers joined the detective, and between them, they tried to pull more evidence from the flames.

  Gregory glanced over at Rossiter, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t feel so confident as his boss. Many of the more important accounts were now lying, singed, on the floor in front of him.

  He wiped a trace of sweat from his top lip with a handkerchief and looked away.

  Lake cursed and eased himself upwards from his crouched position, then glared at Gregory. ‘Gather what we have, constable. Take it out to one of the cars and tell the driver not to let the documents out of his sight.’

  Once the constable had left the room, the detective turned back to Rossiter. ‘Sir, we’ve reason to believe that there may be other people here. Perhaps not of their own volition?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

  Rossiter shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Gregory, stalling them for as long as possible. ‘What on earth are you doing here, forcing yourselves into Mr Rossiter’s private residence?’

  ‘We didn’t force ourselves,’ said Lake. ‘Mr Rossiter here answered the front door and invited us in.’ He turned to the politician, who nodded.

  Gregory cursed under his breath. ‘Then you won’t mind if I call our legal representatives,’ he said.

  ‘You can, once I ascertain that no one is being held in this building against their will,’ replied the detective. He turned, ignoring Gregory, and spoke to Rossiter. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving us the guided tour, sir.’

  He gestured towards the door.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said Gregory, moving from behind his desk. The last thing he wanted was Rossiter opening his mouth and making a disastrous situation worse for both of them. Already his mind was working quickly, trying to fathom how on earth he was going to extricate himself from the situation and create a modicum of distance between him and his employer.

  ***

  Gregory’s fears were realised as he trooped after Rossiter and the police officers towards the back of the house.

  The man cheerily pointed out antiques, extolling the history of the building as he strolled ahead of them, seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.

  Rossiter had been acting strange ever since they’d finished torturing the old man, and Gregory suspected that his boss had taken even more of the strong painkillers he was quickly becoming addicted to.

  What’s he doing?

  He became more concerned as he followed the small group through to the back of the house, and then his heart lurched.

  Rossiter was headed straight for the kitchen instead of taking the police round to the other side of the house as they’d agreed before the detective had knocked on the front door. Which meant their security team wouldn’t have had time to remove the Irishman from the premises.

  He stumbled forward. ‘No!’

  Rossiter flung open the door, stood to one side, and ushered the police into the room.

  Gregory ran a hand over his face as he leaned against the doorframe and wondered what was going through the senior police detective’s mind as he surveyed the gloomy space.

  Mackenzie Harris sat in a chair in the middle of the room, his face bruised and bloody. His hands were folded in his lap and he peered up at the detective through puffy eyelids. One eye was red and weeping.

  Two men in jeans and black sweaters stood with their backs to the wall opposite, the taller of the two with a knife still in his hands, both of them with their jaws open in shock.

  Remnants of rope lay scattered on the floor around Mack’s feet, and he rubbed at his wrists as he blinked and stared up at the newcomers.

  ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad to see the police,’ he said, then turned his head and spat on the floor, blood mixing with his saliva. ‘What kept you?’

  Lake turned to face Rossiter. ‘You’d better explain yourself, Mr Rossiter – or should I address you as Terry Hollister?’

  The politician baulked at the use of his real name, and then pointed at Mack. ‘This man was caught trying to break into my house,’ he said. ‘My security people took the appropriate action.’

  Gregory closed his eyes. We’re dead men.

  ‘Appropriate action?’ the detective said. ‘Explain to me how you consider this,’ he waved his hand in Mack’s direction, ‘appropriate action?’

  Rossiter smiled and moved to the butcher’s block in the middle of the room. ‘He was carrying this,’ he said and turned.

  Gregory’s ears filled with the noise of three armed response policeman simultaneously raising their weapons and aiming them at Rossiter, who held up a revolver, its grey surface catching the sunlight beginning to pour through the kitchen window. He turned it in his hands, a wild look in his eyes.

  ‘Put the gun down, sir,’ said the detective, his voice strained. ‘Right now.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ said Rossiter. ‘He came here to kill me. We had to stop him.’

  ‘Sir, put the gun down.’

  ‘Ian, please,’ begged Gregory. ‘This has gone too
far. Do what he says.’

  Rossiter’s eyes met his, before he swung the gun and rested the barrel under his chin.

  ‘Sorry, Malcolm.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Lake.

  Gregory flinched as the gun went off and closed his eyes.

  A shocked silence filled the room, and then everyone began to talk at once.

  Lake began barking orders, the tactical team aimed their weapons at Gregory’s two security men, shouting at them to kneel on the floor with their hands raised.

  The other officers began to clear out of the room, talking into their radios, their faces pale but their actions efficient and precise.

  Gregory leaned against the wall, his legs shaking, his mouth open, and his mind still trying to process what he was staring at.

  He’s gone.

  Rossiter’s body had collapsed to the floor, blood pooling from the gaping wound in his skull.

  Red and white spatter covered the stainless steel front of the oven and marble bench top, dripping down the cabinet doors to the floor next to the body.

  Most of Rossiter’s face had disintegrated under the force of the blast, and Gregory turned away, sickened.

  He became aware of movement from the other side of the room and watched, horrified, as Mack staggered forward.

  He leaned over and spat at Rossiter, his spittle landing on the dead man’s feet. ‘Good fucking riddance.’

  Gregory’s head jerked towards the Irishman, a moment before he launched himself across the kitchen at him.

  ‘You bastard – you ruined everything!’ he screamed.

  Two policemen moved in front of him, their bulk blocking his way, forcing him to a standstill, before one of them unhooked handcuffs from his utility belt and slipped them over the press secretary’s wrists.

  Terror filled Gregory’s veins. Without Rossiter to protect him, his chances of surviving prison were slim.

  He shook off the constable’s grip on his shoulder, his upper lip curling. ‘Get your hands off me.’ He pivoted until he faced Lake. ‘I’ll have your career for this,’ he snarled.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Lake. ‘I’ve just lost one suspect. I have no intention of losing you.’ He stepped closer. ‘Malcolm Gregory, also known as Peter Hardcastle, I’m arresting you under suspicion of holding a man against his will and torture. You’ll also be asked to provide a statement explaining your involvement in the fatal shooting of Amy Peters, Mr Rossiter’s driver, and his bodyguard on Monday.’

  The detective turned to one of the constables standing next to him. ‘Take him away,’ he said, before looking at Mack.

  ‘You’re coming with us, too.’

  42

  Will’s eyelids flew open at the sound of a loud crack from the house, closely followed by shouting.

  Erin pushed herself away from him, and they both leaped from their seats and opened the car doors.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ hollered the police driver.

  He got out of the vehicle and ran over to Erin who was racing towards the house. He pulled her into a vice-like grip and marched her back to the car, ignoring her struggles.

  Pushing her towards Will, he pulled out a gun from a holster under his jacket. ‘Keep hold of her. Get behind the car and stay down.’

  He nodded to the other driver, who was leaning out of his car window, a worried expression on his face, and then pressed a button on his mobile phone.

  ‘Team leader to back up team. Get here now. And bring that damn ambulance with you!’

  He ended the call and dropped into a firing position, aiming at the front door of the house.

  Will pulled Erin with him and fell to the ground behind the car. He hugged Erin closer to him, the metalwork of the vehicle pressing into his spine, his knees grazed by the gravel beneath them.

  He stretched his neck and turned his head until he was level with the car window and peered through the glass.

  Beyond the vehicle, the two police drivers were crouched, weapons ready.

  He looked over his shoulder at the sound of engines revving over the crunch of gravel, then watched as two more police cars slid to a halt and their occupants spilled out onto the driveway. An ambulance braked, parking behind them, the faces of the two emergency workers grim as they stared through the windscreen.

  He spun round at a shout from the front of the house and felt Erin move beside him.

  Lake appeared, gun raised in the air. ‘It’s okay, lads. Stand down.’

  The two policemen lowered their weapons and stood, brushing dirt off their uniforms.

  Lake looked over his shoulder, and then turned, before reappearing with Mack.

  Erin cried out in relief and collapsed against Will, whose own legs almost gave way.

  ‘Thank god,’ he murmured. ‘I thought we’d lost him.’

  As the two men drew closer, Will noticed the purple bruises covering Mack’s face. One eye was so swollen, only a slit remained. He frowned, noticing how Lake kept a firm grip on Mack’s arm on the way to the car.

  When they were nearly level with the car, the police officer released the older man.

  ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he said and went to stand over by the vehicle.

  Will frowned as Mack approached on unsteady legs. The man’s clothes were stained with dirt, but something else too.

  A smile was plastered across the old man’s face, and when he’d passed the police driver, his good eye winked at Will.

  He grasped Erin’s hands when he reached her.

  ‘He won’t be causing you any more harm, lass,’ he said. ‘I made sure of that.’

  A sob escaped Erin’s lips, and Mack released her hands.

  Will pulled her to him, watching Mack over her head while he soothed her hair.

  ‘What did you do?’

  Mack stiffened, and his whole body grew taller. ‘I did what needed to be done,’ he said.

  Will blinked, and then glanced up as Lake approached.

  ‘Time’s up, Mackenzie,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. I have a feeling you and I are in for a long day.’

  ***

  Will nodded his thanks at the junior constable who handed a coffee to him before leaving the waiting room. He wrapped his fingers around the smooth plastic surface, closed his eyes, and inhaled the aroma, his nose wrinkling.

  ‘Don’t get too excited. That one even manages to burn the instant stuff,’ growled Lake.

  Will opened his eyes. ‘They say it’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Huh.’ Lake caught the attention of the desk sergeant. ‘Derek – I’ll take interview room three – can you mark it on the system for me?’

  ‘Sir.’

  The detective turned his attention back to Will. ‘Follow me.’

  He led the way down the corridor, into the heart of the police station. Will’s ears roared with the force of his heart beating, adrenalin still soaring through his veins.

  The backpack seemed heavy on his shoulder now, something he hadn’t noticed before, and he ached to be rid of the fear that had consumed him for the past five days.

  Five days. Was that all?

  The detective paused at a closed door, used his security swipe card to open it, and then stood aside to let Will pass.

  ‘Have a seat.’ He gestured to the table in the centre of the room, four chairs surrounding it.

  On the desk, a recording machine had been set up alongside a manila folder and two plastic evidence bags.

  Will worked his way round until he could face the door and pulled out one of the chairs. As he sat, he noticed the loops on the edge of the table for handcuffs to be fixed to, if required.

  The senior police officer joined him, hit the ‘record’ button on the machine, and then pushed a newspaper across the table to Will, the front page facing upwards, its bold headline and accompanying photograph already imprinted on Will’s memory.

  ‘I presume this was your way of having some insurance?’

  Will nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be
lieve me. Or if I could trust you.’

  The policeman shrugged himself back into his seat and checked his watch before he paused to clear his throat and looked down at his notes.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’ve told me the version the newspaper’s going to print. What don’t they know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The detective folded his arms across his chest. ‘Come on, Will. You don’t expect me to believe that Amy just happened to stumble on this story, do you? And that your own father somehow provided the missing evidence some twenty years after he went missing?’ He leaned forwards. ‘The truth, Will. Now.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Really? Let me show you.’

  The detective moved round the table, glared at Will, then bent down and picked up his backpack.

  Will rubbed his palms over his jeans as he watched the policeman unzip the bag and pull out an object.

  Lake dropped the bag to the floor and set the object on the table.

  Will’s hands moved towards the robot toy before he could stop.

  ‘Do you know what I think Will? I think you’ve engineered this from the start.’ The detective sat in his chair and folded his hands on the table, his eyes boring into Will’s. He pointed at the toy. ‘This has all been about revenge, hasn’t it? But not just for Amy. This has always been about what happened to your father, hasn’t it?’

  Will bit his lip, his fingers moving the parts of the toy as Lake spoke, turning it from a robot into a car. He set it flat on the table and began to run it backwards and forwards, the tiny plastic tyres gripping the surface.

  ‘It took me weeks to fix this,’ he said. ‘There were so many missing parts. I wouldn’t let my mum vacuum for days. Not until I was sure I had them all.’

  ‘Will? How did you find Rossiter in the first place? You used Amy, didn’t you?’

  ‘One of the neighbours helped me,’ Will said, turning the car and pulling it back towards him. ‘Mum wouldn’t let me use the glue on my own. She was scared I’d hurt myself.’

  His fingers began to twist the parts once more, turning it back into a robot.