Love & Hate Series Box Set 2 (Love & Hate #3-4)

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

“What are you talking about?”

  “He called the wolves in and wants you to give a statement, something about good morals. You know politics; he probably got the call from upstairs.” He shrugs.

  My pulse speeds up. I hate talking to the wolves. They always twist my words and we both know that this case has gotten a lot of publicity since yesterday. Clarke knows that I have no experience with this sort of thing.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say, just to be sure that he is not fucking with me.

  “I don’t know, mate. Apparently we’ve been getting phone calls from all over the country. He wants you to reassure people that we have this under control.”

  “It’s my first homicide. I don’t do statements. He knows that my place is in the field,” I snap, feeling under pressure. I should be glad; I have a chance of being in the spotlight, but it’s too soon.

  This is what I’ve been working for since I graduated. I wanted to lead a homicide investigation, keep the press on a short leash, but now standing in front of the wolves feels fucking daunting.

  “You’re leading this whole shebang, so get it together. You have to prepare the statement. Clarke doesn’t want you to reveal any potential suspects, just confirm that we are still gathering the necessary evidence. He wants you to assure the public that the murderer will be brought to justice.”

  I breathe in and out, knowing that the press can work to my advantage sometimes. After going over the CCTV, we don’t have anything concrete, and the university doesn’t have any cameras around the main road to the flats, which I find absolutely absurd. I start to wonder if maybe we are looking at everything from the wrong angle.

  Rogers leaves me in my office and I pull out a blank page, trying to work on what I’m going to tell the press. I loosen my tie, feeling warm. I’m not great in a crowd or at parties, and I’m not too keen on Clarke’s idea. The journalists are like hungry wolves—they want a good story, and there is nothing better than a horrific homicide.

  Seeing a girl spread on her bed with her throat wide open was shocking, but I have seen worse and experienced disturbing shit over the years when I was still a trainee. Three years ago when I was in the programme with Metropolitan Police I was called into a house in one of the council estates in London. Three guys that were there with me quit after that assignment. At the time we all thought that it was just a routine check, but we were wrong. It was something out of a horror movie.

  “Micah, they’re waiting for you.” Kerry’s smooth voice pushes me back to the present world. I blink a few times and nod, gathering my papers and wondering where an hour has gone. I haven’t got time to think about the past. The hungry wolves are waiting for me.

  I walk through the long wide corridor, feeling like everyone’s eyes are following me all the way to the conference room. Kerry gives me a thumbs up, and Rogers an encouraging smile. There is no doubt that I’m ready. This is my chance to shine.

  The flashes start going when I enter the hot room filled with reporters. The cameras are rolling as I take a seat in the front row. I look up, and silence descends. The hungry wolves are ready to take on the prey.

  The paper right in front of me looks blank, but I guess it’s just my nerves.

  “My name is Micah Thomson and I’m the leading investigator on this case for Braxton Metropolitan Police Department. Two days ago a young student was found dead in Braxton University. After careful consideration, we ruled out natural causes of death. Suranne Wallace has been murdered.”

  I pause to take a breath, but the wolves are starting to throw their questions. I should have loosened my tie. The whole room is too hot, and my palms are sweating, rubbing the ink off the paper.

  “Inspector Thomson, have you got any suspects yet?”

  “Inspector, can you tell us more about Suranne Wallace? Other students are saying that there has been a conflict with her roommate.”

  “What about Suranne’s boyfriend? Will you be interviewing him too?”

  I tense and ignore their questions, not looking at the camera.

  “Suranne Wallace was a fresher; she arrived at Braxton almost four weeks ago to study. At this present moment we don’t have any suspects, as the investigation is still pending. The family is—”

  “Inspector, don’t you think that you’re too young to be leading this investigation?”

  I glance at the woman in a red dress who is holding her microphone toward me. She has this look of determination on her face, the look that can cause trouble. My unease spikes up and I shift on the chair, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

  “I’m twenty-five years of age, and I believe that Superintendent Clarke hired me because he believes that I’m good enough to lead this investigation.”

  “Sure, but you do have to admit that you haven’t had much experience in the homicide department?”

  Clarke should have known that this was going to happen.

  The reporter in the red dress is expecting me to answer, and I can’t fucking breathe.

  “Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes is what the old school homicide department needs. Now can we move on to the case?” I say, knowing that I sound pathetic. They don’t let me finish the statement, but keep drilling me with personal questions about my past. I try to tell them politely to fuck off, but this whole thing feels like a circus. They already know more than I was supposed to tell them, and by the time I leave the room I’m sweating like a pig.

  Rogers is standing by my desk when I’m back and he doesn’t look pleased. Other officers are staring at me, and I already know that I fucked it up because I didn’t take control of the situation. I let them get to me.

  “They wanted you to lose control. They weren’t interested in your statement. Sorry, man,” he says, giving me a sympathetic smile.

  “I told them what they needed to hear. They were questioning my abilities,” I argue, now angry that Clarke asked me to speak to the wolves. They were right: I had no experience and now I’ll look like an idiot, right in front of the whole town.

  Clarke has some people in the office with him, so I can’t talk to him.

  “Micah, don’t worry, buddy, you didn’t give them much, which means that you have the advantage over them. Let’s go and look at evidence. We have shitloads of work today and still no credible suspects,” Rogers adds, patting me on the back.

  “Brandon, I appreciate that you have my back, but I know what the fuck I’m doing,” I bark at him, getting up.

  “Fine, whatever, mate,” he says. “I’m looking out for you, the same way you looked out for me.”

  A couple of weeks ago, when Rogers’s daughter was born, Lisa started having some emotional problems; she wasn’t bonding with the baby. After his paternity leave ended, Rogers had been late almost every day. I had covered for him countless times, lying to Clarke and working double shifts. I didn’t mind; the guy was in trouble so I felt obligated to help him. Lisa was going through a tough time. We didn’t go into too much detail, but I presumed that it was postnatal depression. She had been in hospital, back and forth. Rogers had to look after the newborn baby, his wife, and work long hours at the station. Something had to give. I was married to the job and during those empty hours when I covered for him, I realised that I had no one to talk to anyway. This was my life, my normality, and that was when I began to contemplate if this is what I really want—to spend the rest of my life alone, constantly working.

  “I’m fine, man,” I repeat, like I’m trying to justify myself. These thoughts are unnecessary. Since Steph, I have been alone, moving through life like she never meant anything to me.

  Rogers mutters something under his breath and sticks his nose in some research. We spend the rest of the afternoon looking through all the evidence and reports from forensics. The fingerprints, CCTV footage on campus, and the statements from other students. I have a feeling that in a couple of days I need to get back and talk to pinky head and other students that were in the house at the time of the murder. I need to make sur
e that I’m not missing anything significant.

  In the late afternoon, we nail down a few male students that hung around the houses during the time when Suranne had been murdered.

  “What about phone records? Has anything come back from intelligence?” Rogers asks, looking tired. I’m still pretty pissed off with myself. The reporters are already gathering outside the station, probably waiting for my next slip. This isn’t funny anymore. I have to tell Rogers about Steph. We need to dig out the old case. There is no point wasting time anymore. He calls me his best mate, and I’m still reluctant to trust him. Christ. Maybe I should start seeing the shrink again.

  “We’re still waiting for them. I was told that pinky head doesn’t have a mobile. I don’t know, there’s something up with this girl. It’s the twenty-first century. These days everyone has a fucking phone.”

  “Do you really think she could have done it?”

  “I don’t know, mate. This girl… she was too fucking nervous when I questioned her. We need to get to the bottom of her deal. Find out what she was doing so late when her roommate was murdered.”

  There is a knock at the door and Kerry peers in, smiling at me. I don’t know why, but my body doesn’t react the same way to her as to the pinky head. Maybe I have a serious problem, like I get off on the suspects or something. Whatever, this is absurd and pathetic. I need to stop watching psychological thrillers.

  “Detective Thomson, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace are outside. They would like to speak to you,” Kerry says, winking towards Rogers. I look at her like I’m seeing her for the first time in my life. She can’t be serious. I can’t talk to the family of the victim. Aren’t they supposed to be under the care of a psychologist?

  “Rogers, maybe you should talk to them. I’m kind of tied up in here?” I ask him.

  “Micah, you’re the leading investigator. They didn’t ask for Brandon, but for you,” Kerry adds, dropping the “detective inspector” pretence. I see them both eyeing me, probably thinking that I don’t want the responsibility.

  “All right, I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her, and she nods, closing the door.

  I take a deep silent breath and leave the office, feeling slightly apprehensive about seeing the Wallaces. Clarke keeps watching me from his office when I approach the short woman in a tight black dress and a man in his early fifties. Mrs. Wallace’s eyes are all puffy and red, and I don’t know if I should say anything specific. I was never told how to talk to a victim’s family when I was in the academy. Everyone probably assumes that I know what to say.

  “Mrs. and Mr. Wallace, my name is Micah Thomson. I’m the leading investigator in your daughter’s murder case,” I say, lifting my hand to shake his, but he doesn’t move. Their eyes are both empty, and the woman starts sobbing. This automatically makes me uncomfortable. Most people find it easy to cry, whereas I feel guilty that I have never shown my own sadness. I haven’t cried for years, and I don’t know how.

  “Son, all we want to know is what happened? Who killed her?” Mr. Wallace asks, cuddling his wife to his chest. I start rubbing the back of my neck, thinking how to handle them. Is there a formula for this kind of thing?

  “We are working to establish the suspects. The wound was very precise, and there was no sign of any abuse. Your daughter bled to death in the early hours in the morning—”

  Mrs. Wallace howls even more and I just stand there, numb from head to toe. I should know what she is experiencing right now, but I don’t.

  “Mr. Thomson, please, this whole thing came as a shock. You must have a lead. Our daughter was innocent. She just wanted to become a solicitor. This crime is terrible, absolutely shocking. Who would do such a thing?” the father of Suranne Wallace questions me.

  The anger comes back, shattering my vision. It’s always the same when I see someone grieving. I just want to shake them and tell them to get it fucking together. Then I bring back that one case from three years ago when for the first time in my life I was truly affected by someone else’s pain. At the time I kept asking myself over and over—Who would have done such a thing?

  Chapter Six

  The story from the past.

  Everyone at the headquarters knew that Crawly’s team was planning something big today. I was bouncing when he asked me to join him. I was even more excited when I heard that the SWAT team was going to be involved. We were supposed to stay behind and wait until the whole area was cleared. Crawly didn’t like wasting his breath on details, and as far as I knew it was just another routine trip. I had no idea that at the time Crawly was hoping to lock up well-known drug dealer Rudolph Curtis. I found out about that a couple of days later.

  It was an opportunity of a lifetime. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one that joined. Mark and Jack flopped into the van after me, grinning like they were just about to win the lottery.

  The three of us had been bored out of our minds in the past few weeks, working in the evidence room, filing and fooling around. Crawly was always very cagey about everything that was going on at the station, and I could never really crack him. This was my first chance to gain some real experience in the field. I was raving, imagining that we were going to get a very complex homicide case. As it turned out, it was something much worse.

  “Right, ladies, I want you to listen to me carefully. Once SWAT sweeps the whole space and we are clear, I want you all to keep an eye on evidence, anything that might be useful. We are hoping to bust that arsehole today and put him in front of the judge tomorrow morning. Make sure you do everything by the book. I don’t need any fuck-ups!” Crawly shouted, looking at all of us, expecting us to do what he told us. We all nodded, but we had no idea what he was talking about. That was the only downside of working with him.

  The van was already doing at least eighty miles an hour, throwing us all over the place. I held on to my seat, my food coming right up my throat. I hated showing any kind of weakness, so I kept trying to look focused.

  Several minutes later the van stopped. We heard some heavy steps, then a small explosion and loud roars. My legs were itching to get outside, to see what was going on. Crawly got an update through the radio: the SWAT team was in, and we were supposed to wait. My pulse was fucking racing and I kept tapping my foot until Crawly told me to give it a rest. Days later I realised why Crawly was so fucking tense then. The whole station had been bragging about getting Rudolph for months and this was the day when Crawly was finally planning to bust him. The scumbag had been playing with the whole police department for a good year.

  I was only twenty-two then, the youngest of everyone on the programme, but I outranked them with my intelligence. I’d gotten the best possible grades, and I just wanted to prove to Crawly that I was good enough to become part of his team. I knew that eventually I wanted to get into the homicide department, but that was a long way out.

  Mark kept rubbing his palms together, whereas Jack looked like he was going to throw up at any moment. Minutes started dragging until the door to the van opened up unexpectedly and one of the SWAT guys stood outside looking at all of us with a grim expression on his face.

  “The house is empty; the drugs are gone. We found some coke in the basement. The bastards must have known that we were going to bust him,” he stated.

  Crawly swore loudly, then tossed the papers that he was holding on the floor. I had never seen him lose the plot like that. This was one of the biggest cases in the history of the department, but as far as I knew it was another field trip. I didn’t want to believe that Crawly’s suspect managed to get away. He must have had people inside.

  Crawly kept breathing like he couldn’t get any air. His face was red. Three of us were glancing at each other, waiting for some kind of direction.

  “All of you, get inside and start doing what you’re paid to do. We need to find the bastard. I don’t care how long it takes you guys; just turn the whole place upside down. We need to find him before he kills again,” he shouted and we all got out of the van as quickly as
we could.

  For a split second I had a panic attack, because I thought I was back home. We had ended up in a council estate with a house made of red brick. Half-dressed kids and their parents were standing nearby, staring at us with displeased expressions on their faces. The sky was covered with clouds, and my skin prickled with dread. The doors to the detached house were smashed. Inside I had to cover my nose, as I couldn’t breathe. The smell of rotten food, mold and decomposed rubbish hit me and somehow I managed to fight off the instant gag reflex. The floor was covered with deep red stains; the walls were ripped, scratched. Empty boxes from takeaway covered the living room.

  The smell was unbearable, but I had to obey orders, carry on with the search. Crawly kept throwing orders on Mark and Jack to start from the living room, so I decided to head down to the basement to get out of his sight.

  It was a narrow entrance with slippery steps and the odour of chemicals was much stronger. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I was cramped into the small space. There was an old washing machine in the corner and some rotting boxes. White powder was spread all over the floor, and the light kept flickering. My breath came in large ragged pants. I could barely think straight. There was no time to waste. I needed to start taking some pictures, find something that might be worth it for Crawly to see.

  I had shoved my hand into my jeans pocket, looking for the camera, when I heard a scratching coming from the corner. I stopped breathing altogether and stood still, listening. At first I was convinced that it was a rat, but then the scratching turned into a desperate banging. I heard steps above me, but instead of calling for help I took a few steps towards that old washing machine.

  I knew for a fact that I was not crazy; there was something or someone behind it. Crawly was shouting upstairs and for the first time since I joined the fast track programme I was ready to ignore the order.

  The washing machine was old and fucking heavy, but I kept pulling until it moved. The banging had stopped, and I inhaled loudly, ceasing all my movements.