He’d only dragged himself out of bed and come here today as the headaches were getting even worse, and besides, he suddenly had the time, having been suspended from work.
Following yesterday’s raid on The Stranger Times, he’d gone straight back to the station and had Patel from the tech squad go through the hard disk for him. They’d found the picture pretty quickly. He and Patel had sat there for quite a long time, just looking at it.
‘Is it possible,’ Sturgess had asked, ‘to fake something like that?’
‘Well, I mean, you know,’ said Patel, for whom a typical sentence had about five redundant sections before it got to the good bit, ‘it’s theoretically possible to fake anything these days.’
‘Right.’
‘I can, like, if you want, I can, y’know, tell you the timestamp on the file. When it was taken and that.’
The picture had been taken just minutes before Simon Brush’s fatal dive off the top of the Dennard building. As Patel had confirmed, checked and rechecked the timings, Sturgess’s headache had reached truly excruciating proportions, throbbing so hard that his perception of colours seemed to change, as if someone were turning the contrast on a TV up and down in time to a thumping bassline. He’d closed his eyes while, for the fourth time, Patel rechecked everything.
‘Detective Inspector, are you – I mean, none of my business – but are you OK and that?’
Sturgess had opened his eyes again to find Patel leaning over him. ‘You sort of, slumped over a bit there.’
‘I’m fine. Just tired. Well?’
The recheck of the recheck had come back with the exact same results. Patel had also run a series of tests on the photo and he couldn’t find any evidence of manipulation.
‘OK,’ said Sturgess. ‘Don’t mention this to anyone.’
‘Right. Yeah. No problem. Whoever faked that, they must be, y’know, like, seriously, really good.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t faked?’
Patel had looked at Sturgess and then at the screen again. ‘Well, I mean, like, y’know, it must be fake, mustn’t it?’
Sturgess had studied Patel’s monitor one last time, and the demented eyes of a massive beast that seemed to be effortlessly holding the photographer off the ground with one long, powerful arm. ‘Yeah,’ said Sturgess, ‘obviously.’
He’d gone back to his office and, behind the closed door, had taken four painkillers and even attempted those breathing exercises that he always felt foolish doing. Then, when the pain had at least receded to a dull, steady roar, he’d headed straight for the interview room where Mr Ox Chen was stashed. He’d started talking before he even reached the table. He was angry.
‘Are you proud of yourself?’
Ox had held up his hand. ‘All right, I shouldn’t have taken the hard drive.’ Then a look of panic crossed his face. ‘Not that I’m saying I did, or I didn’t. I’m saying “no comment” is what I’m saying.’
Sturgess had rested his fists on the table. ‘Not that, you piece of shit.’
‘Hey!’
‘How else would you refer to somebody who uses a kid’s death as an opportunity to fake a photo?’
Ox had looked outraged. ‘No way, man. I would never do that. That picture is real.’
‘It can’t be real!’ Sturgess had all but shouted it.
‘It is. Simon was my friend. I would never—’
‘Bullshit!’
‘What the hell would you know about it?’ Ox had shouted, raising his tone to meet Sturgess’s. ‘Working for “the man”. You people oppress everything.’
‘I’m trying to get to the truth.’ Sturgess had thumped his fists into the desk, his head throbbing again.
‘You’ve seen the truth. That thing killed Simon, and it killed that homeless bloke too. We’ve got witnesses.’
‘It can’t be …’ Before he’d known what he was doing, Sturgess had grabbed Ox by the shirt and pushed him up against the wall. ‘Tell. Me. The. Truth!’
Then there had been hands on him, pulling him away. DSs Wilkerson and Murphy. He’d held up his hands and they’d let him go. He’d seen the looks of shock on their faces.
In all his time on the force, that was the first time Sturgess had ever put his hands on a suspect. He held them out in front of him now, as if they had somehow betrayed him.
Wilkerson had spoken in a soft tone. ‘The boss wants to see you.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘She wasn’t asking.’
As he’d left the room, flanked by Wilkerson and Murphy, he’d stopped and turned. He’d winced with embarrassment as he felt his colleagues tense, ready to hold him back again. Ox was standing in the corner, looking at him like a man looks at a vicious guard dog that has been temporarily restrained.
‘Mr Chen, I wish to apologize for what just happened. I shall report myself to the Independent Office for Police Conduct and submit a full written statement and an unreserved apology. I would encourage you to contact them – these officers will give you the details of how you can do so. Once again, I apologize unreservedly for placing my hands on you. There is no room in the modern police force for such behaviour.’
Ox had said nothing, just looked at him in confusion.
Then he’d been taken into Clayborne’s office, where she and the chief inspector had informed him that it had been noted he was showing signs of stress and was overdue a break.
‘No, thank you, boss,’ said Sturgess. ‘I’d like to continue with my investigation. I’d also like to know if my request to see the CCTV at the morgue has been granted?’
Clayborne had spoken to him with faux concern. ‘Tom, be sensible. Take the long view here. You’re a good detective – you still have a fine career ahead of you.’
‘Then let me do my job.’ He turned to look directly at the chief inspector. ‘Let me complete the case I’m working on. What on earth are you trying to hide?’
‘Tom!’ Clayborne’s voice had been full of warning, the fake friendliness gone.
Sturgess’s eyes had remained locked on the chief inspector’s. ‘Who’s applying pressure to get this case dropped?’
‘There is no case here, DI Sturgess,’ the chief inspector said in a casual manner. ‘A homeless man died due to drunken misadventure and a confused young man tragically took his own life. All I see is an officer showing signs of a breakdown and exhibiting very poor judgement.’
‘With all due respect, sir, that’s crap.’
Clayborne had made to speak but the chief inspector had silenced her with a raised hand. ‘Think very carefully, DI Sturgess, as the next words out of your mouth are going to have a massive impact on the rest of your life. There is no case here, and we would like you to take a couple of weeks’ holiday to relax and regain some of your lost perspective. Are you willing to do so?’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’ The chief had shaken his head and then suspended him pending a disciplinary review.
Wilkerson had met him outside Clayborne’s office, looking awkward. She had tried to pretend she was just being friendly, not under instructions to escort him back to his office and stay with him until he left the building. While he’d been taking a few things from his desk, Wilkerson had made every effort not to notice the bottles of pills he removed from his drawer. Instead, she had closed the door carefully and spoken in a hushed voice. ‘I don’t think Chen will go to the IOPC, boss, and Murphy and I won’t—’
‘He should,’ said Sturgess. ‘And you should encourage him to do so. I also expect both of you to report the incident.’
DS Wilkerson had stood there, unable to think of anything to say.
‘Though I doubt it’ll make any difference,’ continued Sturgess. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been suspended already – for doing my job. I don’t know what they’ll trump up but we both know my career is finished.’
He had gone home, taken a long hot bath and tried to sleep. His head had been full of that photo and the pain from th
e headaches, so this morning he had finally decided to go back to the GP and organize the tests they’d suggested the last time he had been in.
As he sat in the waiting room his phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and took a long look at the screen. It was an unknown number and he was tempted to let it go to voicemail. Given his lack of a social life, it was undoubtedly work-related. Still, a nagging voice wouldn’t let him ignore it. He pressed the green button.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi, DI Sturgess.’
‘Hello, Ms Willis.’
‘Hi. I, umm, had your number from when you gave me your card.’ She sounded nervous.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘How are you?’
‘Just ask him,’ a male Irish voice barked in the background, followed by a muffled exchange he couldn’t make out.
‘How can I help you, Ms Willis?’
‘All right, look. I know this will sound mad, but our friend has been taken by … It’s hard to explain …’
‘The thing in that photo?’ Sturgess could feel his headache starting up again.
‘Oh. Yes. That.’
‘I see.’
‘And the only way we can get her back is … We need to talk to Ox. The guy you arrested yesterday. He knows how to find her and …’
A message scrolled across the LED display above the door instructing T. Sturgess to go to examination room four, but he didn’t see it, being halfway out the door by that point.
‘I’ll meet you outside Stretford police station in ten minutes.’
Still No Martians in Masham
The town of Masham in North Yorkshire is one of the very few in the UK never to have documented a UFO sighting, much to the chagrin of local ufologist and undertaker Jacob Ransdale.
To redress this, Mr Ransdale has opened an intergalactic tourist information centre in the hope of attracting them.
‘Masham is a blooming great town and I think if visitors from other galaxies would just give it a chance, they’d find themselves pleasantly surprised. We’ve got two working breweries, and we have the sheep festival in September, which is always very popular. I mean, bloody Thirsk had one last year – a proper triangle being chased across the sky by the RAF. Why won’t they come here? We’re miles better than sodding Thirsk. All they’ve got is that the bloke who wrote All Creatures Great and Small comes from there, and they’re always banging on about it.’
If any intergalactic visitors are intending to add Masham to their itinerary, Mr Ransdale respectfully asks that they avoid the first two weeks in June as he has a holiday in Torremolinos booked.
CHAPTER 44
Speed and confidence, thought Sturgess. That was the key. Speed and confidence. Throughout his life, he had never broken the rules. In fact, if his life had a driving motivation, it was an obsession with bringing to justice those who flagrantly disregarded rules. And yet here he was.
When he had pulled up across from Stretford police station, Hannah Willis had been standing beside a green Jaguar, looking around nervously. He had been happy to see her. He had been less happy when the back window rolled down and her boss’s voice had chimed forth. ‘Ah, excellent, here’s the jackbooted thug of oppression we’ve been waiting for.’
‘Shut up,’ Hannah had hissed.
‘Both of you are against freedom of expression. I can see why you get on so well.’
Sturgess had sat in the front seat while Hannah quickly made her pitch: that thing was real; it was being controlled by some American; and it had taken Stella, the young girl from their office, of whom Sturgess had only the dimmest recollection.
‘Look,’ said Hannah, ‘we can try to go the police route with this, but we need to do something fast. We don’t know what this guy is planning …’
‘We do,’ Banecroft chipped in, ‘but it isn’t good and it will take far too long to explain.’
Sturgess had looked out the window and taken a deep breath. Some things you don’t come back from. But there wasn’t a decision to be made. He had thought about it on the drive over and had already made his choice. He had nothing to lose and, more than anything, something deep down inside him wanted to know the truth – to hell with the consequences.
He nodded to himself. ‘The police won’t do anything. They’ve suspended me for chasing this. Somebody with a lot of power wants it to go away.’
‘Terrific,’ said Banecroft. ‘The standard of policing in this—’
‘Shut up,’ Hannah told him again. She had given Sturgess a pleading look. ‘If the police won’t do anything, then we have to. If Stella has her phone, Ox knows how to track it, but we need to get him out.’
Sturgess shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’
Hannah had looked crestfallen.
‘But I can get you in.’
Speed and confidence. Sturgess strode into the station and past Brigstocke on the reception desk. There was no point going in the normal way: Sturgess would bet that his pass no longer worked. ‘Hello, Jim – can you buzz me in?’
The sergeant looked up at him, eyes filled with suspicion, and then at Hannah standing behind him, trying to look relaxed and charming. ‘Sturgess, I thought you were …’
‘I’m on holiday. Just dropping in to pick up a couple of things.’
He rested his hand on the door and looked at Brigstocke expectantly. He could see his colleague’s training battling with the natural human instinct not to make things awkward. Brigstocke hit the button and buzzed them through.
Sturgess walked down the corridor as quickly as he could. ‘We’ll have to be fast. Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice I shouldn’t be here.’
He took a left and a right before hurrying down the stairs to the basement. A couple of people he passed did double takes. He was aware he was not a popular man, and he guessed the news of his suspension had been a gleeful topic of conversation since yesterday.
As Sturgess opened the door that led down to the holding cells, PC Duncan Deering looked up from his paper with a start. Deering was utterly terrible at his job and had managed to get himself sick-noted into doing indoor work only. He was the deadest of dead weight, which meant that doing a sloppy job – as Sturgess needed him to – would come as second nature.
‘This woman needs to see the guy in cell four,’ Sturgess announced. ‘Family emergency.’
‘Right,’ said Deering, who had somehow got chocolate on his cheek. ‘Should we not bring him up to an interview room?’
‘There’s no time,’ Sturgess said, not having to fake his impatience. ‘I’m approving it. His sister needs to speak to him.’
Deering looked at Hannah and gave a nervous smile. ‘Sister?’
Sturgess took a step forward. ‘Yes, sister. What? Do you think a man of Chinese heritage cannot have a Caucasian sister? Have you never heard of adoption? Are you opening the cell or am I writing you up for racial insensitivity?’
This was the great advantage of having a reputation for being a bastard: people believed you were perfectly happy to be one at the drop of a hat.
As the holding cell opened, Sturgess was ashamed to see Ox flinch at the sight of him. Sturgess took a step to the side, and when Ox saw Hannah, his expression changed to a mixture of confusion and relief. She quickly sat down beside Ox on the bench-cum-bed.
‘Thank you, PC Deering,’ said Sturgess. ‘You can leave the door open and I’ll call you when they’re done.’
Deering nodded and scurried away.
Sturgess waited until the officer’s footsteps had faded, then turned to Ox and Hannah, and lowered his voice. ‘Be quick!’
‘What’s going on?’ said Ox.
‘No time,’ said Hannah. ‘We need to find Stella and Grace says you’d know how.’
Ox looked up at Sturgess nervously. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Ox,’ said Hannah, ‘that thing has got Stella.’
‘The …?’
‘Yes. The bloody great monste
r. Now tell us how to find her – fast.’
Ox glanced around again furtively and then scratched at his stubble.
‘Ox?’
‘My phone. There’s an app called Bloodhound. I downloaded it when I installed it on Grace’s so—’
‘PC Deering,’ shouted Sturgess, walking out into the corridor, ‘I need this detainee’s personal effects immediately.’
CHAPTER 45
Stella had tried alcohol only once in her entire life. It had been back in the old place, in what she now thought of as her old life. She’d been far too young but, as always, she’d been attempting to fit in. One of the older girls had got hold of a bottle of vodka and they’d gone out to a clearing in the woods. The girls had given her some mixed with Coke and it had tasted, well, mostly of Coke. Like slightly off Coke.
Huddled around a fire, they’d all been chatting and she’d felt, for the first time in her life, as if she had friends. Then she’d started to feel unwell, like the world was tumbling off its axis. She’d stood up and tried to excuse herself before stumbling away from the fire to be sick, a very different kind of laughter now ringing in her ears. When she’d come back, she’d found the clearing empty. It had taught her two valuable lessons: one, you couldn’t trust people; and two, alcohol was only the answer if the question was ‘How can I make everything worse?’
She had made her way home eventually and been met by Jacob as she attempted to sneak in the back door. He had looked even more disappointed than usual. For a moment, she’d thought he was going to say something, but instead he just sent her to her room. When she woke up the next morning, her head had been throbbing and she would have welcomed death.
The Stranger Times Page 29
