by BATEMAN, A P
Sarah smiled over her shoulder as she led the way into the lounge. “Got any music?” she asked, coiling herself up on the sofa like a cat.
O’Bryan didn’t know. He doubted Anderson’s taste in music, or his wife’s for that matter, would appeal to the thirty-year-old in front of him. “I’m not sure,” he said. In truth, he was hungry now and just wanted to eat.
She shrugged. “So how come you’re staying here?”
The question had come as he had bitten into the rib. He chewed, felt sauce on the corner of his mouth. She smiled and leaned forward, wiped the sauce from his cheek with the tip of her finger. She tasted it, then popped a king prawn into her mouth. O’Bryan didn’t know if he was more turned on, or whether it turned his stomach. A little of both, perhaps.
“It’s my boss’s home. Or second home,” he said. “He’s from money and so is his wife, so I think he has homes all over the place.”
“So why are you here?”
“I’m divorced. I live in a little apartment near Camden Lock. My boss thought I’d do better down here,” he said. “For my recovery.”
“Recovery?”
“I was injured. Stabbed.”
“Oh god!” she exclaimed. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she sighed. “I meant, were you seriously stabbed?”
“I suppose so,” O’Bryan replied. “It’s hard to imagine a stabbing that isn’t serious.”
“Where?” she asked, licking sweet and sour sauce from her lips.
“In London…”
“Oh for god’s sake!” she laughed. “I meant, where on your body?” She shook her head and smiled.
O’Bryan smiled too. He hadn’t meant to take her questions so literally, but it was funny now. “In my stomach,” he replied. “And a gash on my shoulder. It was pretty bad, needed a bit of work inside my stomach to get it all stitched back together.”
“Can I see it?”
The question came out of the blue, he hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t shown anybody else either. Only the medical staff, his own doctor for follow-up appointments and his police federation representative. There was a compensation case in process. He doubted he’d be living in his tiny apartment for much longer. He had been told to get the best deal, he should take six-months leave on grounds of mental anguish. He couldn’t have begun to contemplate that. He was champing at the bit to get back to work as it was. And he wasn’t one to play the system, or screw it all together. Procedures and human rights, yes. Fake depression, no. In truth he felt pretty good. The wound no longer hurt now that the external stitches and staples had been removed. The internal ones would dissolve soon, if they hadn’t already and the wound to his shoulder had been relatively quick to heal. Considering what happened, there were plenty who encouraged him to remain on sick leave, but he had had enough of it already. If it wasn’t for Anderson’s assignment on the side, he would have asked to go back to work last week.
“I was hoping you’d see it, but not like this,” he grinned wolfishly.
“No way!” she laughed. “I’m not sleeping with you if it’s all gross and stuff!”
He laughed, but wasn’t entirely sure how serious she had been. He put his plate down on the coffee table and wriggled forward to the edge of the sofa. He lifted his shirt to his rib cage. Sarah took in his toned stomach, the remains of his six-pack, which had started to fade after so much time away from the gym located in the basement of his headquarters. He wasn’t a serious gym goer, but he tended to go after his shifts, when others headed to the pub. It was easier to be out of the way of temptation, than to skirt the dangers of its periphery, and easier to have a credible excuse. Sarah cocked her head when she saw the scar. It was jagged and approximately six inches long. She reached out slowly and touched it. Her fingernails were sharp, and he flinched a little. She removed her finger, kissed the tip and patted the scar again.
“That will pass. I won’t kick you out of bed for that,” she said. She leaned in and kissed him again. Softly, her lips open enough to be sensual, but closed enough to signal it was merely a kiss. She sat back in the sofa, tucked her legs underneath herself and picked up her plate. “Did it hurt?” she asked.
O’Bryan picked up a rib and felt the fires below extinguish once more. He bit off a good mouthful and chewed. He’d almost finished it when he said, “At the time, no. I mean, I knew I’d been stabbed, but it didn’t hurt. I felt it slowing me down, the effects of the injury. It stung later, and then hurt like hell until I got into the hospital.” He realised he did not have a drink. Nor did Sarah. “Do you want a drink?”
“Please.”
“Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He got up and walked out to the kitchen, noticing a light that shone briefly past the window. He looked out through his own reflection in the glass, to the quiet road at the rear, or technically, the front of the house. There was a gravelled parking area, enough for three cars, where O’Bryan had parked his old Alfa Romeo. The road beyond connected most of Barlooe, but at this time of night there would only be the odd dog walker or car coming home. The light had looked like a torch. The glow of an orange street lamp lit up a good proportion of the area. There was nobody out there now. He turned back to the table and unscrewed the wine. He’s never been a wine drinker, had no issues pouring it into the glass he had taken out of an open display rack. He filled himself a large glass of water and returned to the lounge. He froze, the two glasses in his hands, the wine and water spilling out and onto the oak floor as he stopped abruptly in his tracks.
“Stand still,” one of the men said. He was the man with the shotgun, so O’Bryan did as he was told.
The other man was standing behind Sarah, who was still holding her plate. He bent down and knocked it out of her hand, scattering rice, noodles and sauce all over the coffee table. She flinched and let out a little yelp. She was recoiling, almost hugging herself tightly.
Both men wore balaclavas and were both dressed in greasy jeans and work jackets. O’Bryan noted the tattoos on the hands and wrists of the man brandishing the shotgun. He feared shotguns, had seen what one could do to an unfortunate security guard early on in his career. What he feared most was the lack of skill it took to use one with devastating effect. O’Bryan felt dumb holding the drinks. He felt like downing the wine, even though he hated the taste of it.
Fifty-nine days…
“Put down those bloody glasses and kneel on the floor,” the man with the shotgun said.
O’Bryan weighed his odds. To someone holding a shotgun he was no threat at all. If they were going to kill him, then they would probably have done it by now. He watched Sarah’s expression, but it was one of sheer terror. “Do it!” the man barked. His Cornish accent was thick and he raised the last word of each sentence at least an octave.
O’Bryan stepped across to the dresser and put the two glasses down. He turned around and kneeled slowly. The man behind Sarah stepped around the sofa and O’Bryan could see he held a roll of duct tape. His heart raced, but the barrels of the side-by-side shotgun were menacing and unwavering. The unarmed man was soon behind O’Bryan and he grabbed his arms roughly. O’Bryan did not make it easy for him, keeping his arms locked. The man struggled, but was strong and he pulled backwards against the joints and O’Bryan gave. He wrapped the tape tightly, round his wrists several times. Then he ripped the tape and stood back, pleased with his handiwork. He kicked O’Bryan in the face and he recoiled backwards into the dresser. The man kicked again and again. O’Bryan heard Sarah scream, followed by the man with the shotgun shouting at her to shut up.
“Here, take this,” the other man said, holding the shotgun out for his companion. “I want a go.” He paced over and the other man took the weapon. He got closer to O’Bryan and swung down a savage punch into his face. O’Bryan felt his teeth crack together. He could feel a chip of tooth somewhere in his mouth. He clenched his teeth tightly as the man rained a series of blows down on him.
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O’Bryan’s ears were ringing and his eyes were clouded and wet. He was dizzy, and his face felt thick and numb. The other man was laughing. The two had forgotten about Sarah, and she looked as if she was about to move off the sofa when the man now holding the shotgun turned around.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” She froze and he walked over to her. He held the shotgun in his right hand grabbed her right breast with his spare hand and gave it a squeeze. “Bugger me, that’s got to be nearly three-pound in weight!” She recoiled away and the man laughed. He turned around and shouted to his companion, who was taking a breather from pummelling O’Bryan around the head. “I’m going to give her one, if it’s alright with you?” he said. O’Bryan noted that he was better spoken than the tattooed man, little accent and he did not round off his words.
“No!” Sarah shouted.
“Shut up!” the man snapped, spinning around and grabbing her by the wrists. He dragged her off the sofa and she kicked wildly. He pushed her away, then pulled her back with such force that she fell into him. He ducked low and had her over his shoulder with as much well-practised precision as a coalman unloading a fifty-kilo sack. He walked past O’Bryan and handed the shotgun over to the other man and made his way into the kitchen.
O’Bryan tried to stand, but the man kicked him back down, and without his hands to balance or break his fall, he fell into the dresser. The man followed it up with several savage punches, and O’Bryan could feel his consciousness tested. He tried to focus. The man grabbed him by the throat and bent down, staring at him. O’Bryan could see his eyes behind the torn holes in the woollen mask. He noticed the colour of one of the man’s eyes had bled into the white. He was reminded of the missing Madeleine McCann’s distinctive iris. The man’s eyes were dark brown. He drew closer, cigarette smoke on his clothes, a sharp aroma on his breath, enough to make O’Bryan want to gag.
“You hear me?” he said quietly. O’Bryan nodded. He could hardly breathe. He tried to splay his arms, but the bindings were too strong. He nodded again. “Good. Get yer arse back in that fancy Italian car and get back to the smoke where he belong…” He gave O’Bryan’s throat a shake. “You hear us?” O’Bryan nodded. The man pushed him down onto the ground. O’Bryan grunted and looked up, just in time to see the sole of the man’s work boot coming down towards his face. That was the last he remembered.
4
“And you left the door unlocked?”
“Shouldn’t be a crime.”
“It’s not.”
“Then why does it matter?” O’Bryan stared at the man in front of him, glanced across at the young female detective sitting next to him.
“They didn’t break in.”
“They weren’t invited. And they had a gun.”
“Just ascertaining the situation.”
“Ascertain all you like, but they came in, pointed a gun at us, beat the shit out of me after tying me up and took my friend away saying they were going to rape her.”
“You said…” The detective flicked through his notes, “Give her one. You never said, rape…”
The female detective looked across at her superior ranking officer. She did not hide the look of contempt. She turned back to O’Bryan, her face impassive.
“Well in the context of taking her by force, and dragging her kicking and screaming, I would say it was safe to assume that giving her one, meant rape.” O’Bryan sipped the coffee the young female detective had made him earlier and shook his head. “Look, detective…?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Trevithick…”
“DCI Trevithick, I’m a police officer myself…”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course. This is Cornwall.”
“That small, eh?”
“Well connected, that’s all.”
“My friend…”
“Is safe and well.”
“She is?”
“Yes. And she doesn’t want to press charges.”
“What?” O’Bryan looked at the female detective. “You buy that? Sorry, what is your name?”
“Detective Sergeant Hosking.”
“Do you think that is acceptable, DS Hosking?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Thank you DS Hosking!” DCI Trevithick snapped. He looked back at O’Bryan. “If she doesn’t want to press charges…”
“She doesn’t have a choice!”
“She might.”
“She was abducted! We were threatened at gun point! I was tied and beaten! She can’t pick and choose over offences like that,” O’Bryan said.
“She’s safe and well. She made the call.”
O’Bryan alternated the coffee for the tea towel full of ice cubes and pressed the compress against his swollen eye. “Where is she?”
“I said she was safe and well.”
“Do you think she knew the attackers?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I can’t think of any other reason for not wanting to take this further,” O’Bryan said, taking the ice away from his eye socket and cheek. “What happened after she was taken? She called you.”
The detective leaned back in the chair. He looked comfortable, unhurried. “Why are you down here?”
“Recuperation, a free holiday,” answered O’Bryan. “And I asked you a question first. What happened after she was taken?”
“You’re familiar with the chain of command, are you not, DI O’Bryan?” Trevithick asked. “I understand you were a DCI once. A long time, and more than a few mistakes ago.”
O’Bryan shrugged. “Public record,” he said. “Even you could look it up.”
“Well, I did.”
“And what did it say?”
“That you falsified evidence.”
DS Hosking looked between the two men. She seemed to be enjoying the cock fight. O’Bryan didn’t think she liked her boss much, his comments about rape had shown as much. “What’s your biggest case to date, DCI Trevithick? Did it involve cows on the road, or a stolen bicycle? Mine was spending four months of my life undercover with right wing extremists. My last case had me chasing down an Islamic terrorist.”
“We do get the news down here, DI O’Bryan,” he said nonchalantly. “How’s the stab wound?” He glanced at DS Hosking. “We have a big city celebrity in our midst. I’m surprised he’s not signed up to go into the jungle with all the other celebrities nobody has ever heard of.”
“I think they film in the autumn, Sir,” DS Hosking said amiably.
Trevithick scowled at her, closed his notebook. “Well, I think we’ve got all we need.”
“Where is Sarah?”
“She’s safe. If you don’t know where she lives, I certainly won’t tell you.”
O’Bryan shook his head. “What station do you work out of?”
“Why?”
“So I can call and find what progress you’re making.”
“I’ll get a log number and you can call one-zero-one.”
“You may want to re-think that, DCI Trevithick. I’m tired now, but tomorrow is another day. You may want to put your cock away and give me some professional courtesy. You may find your arse bounces off the fucking walls tomorrow and you rethink whether your career is in the Devon and Cornwall Police, or walking around in a yellow high-visibility jacket doing security at the Boardmasters Festival. Tomorrow is the day you may just lose your pension,” O’Bryan said, his eyes boring into the man’s in front of him. “Now, if you really have finished, fuck off out of my house and don’t let the door hit your fat arse on your way out.”
5
The sun was bright and it shone through the window at the eastern side of the house. The lounge windows faced south, and the sun remained on the house all through the day, with the sun setting over the headland at the highest end of the creek. O’Bryan finally realised why ‘south facing’ was always a popular phrase touted on property programmes. It really was a feature worth having. He thought about his
apartment in Camden Lock. He got the sun for about forty-five minutes a day in the summer months. He couldn’t ever recall having seen it from his apartment in the winter. But then, he was hardly ever in. He picked up the post, dropped his head on the pillow most nights for a few hours. His satellite TV had been playing up for a few months now, but he’d never got around to having it fixed. There was little point.
He drank his third cup of black coffee, watched the water subside from the creek. He figured it had been high again at around six-am. It was now eight. The big black and white bird was still dipping for shrimp or whatever it was it was searching for. He looked back at the photocopies of newspaper clippings, the police reports, pathology reports and printouts of internet-based news reports. He had a pattern. And it made him feel uneasy. Singularly, the information was merely a collection of facts and dates. It was the skill of the investigator to create a pattern, use relative assumption and deduct meaning.
The first story was a sad tale, but one told so many times in recent years. The Syrian refugee crisis had become apathetic. So many news features had desensitised the public to their plight. Naturally, there were charities and organisations helping the refugees no end, and the governments of the countries of western Europe had all taken in refugees, some more than others, and given aid to the camps. But it had been news for so long, that it was dropping from the front pages of the papers and the lead features of the programmes, and in some cases, dropped from the schedule altogether. The crisis had peaked with the tragic images of a three-year-old boy. Those images had been the reason Germany had made the short call to allow a million refugees in practically overnight. Alan Kurdi was the little boy whose body was photographed drowned and being removed from the beach near the fashionable Turkish town of Bodrum. It was front page news, and TV news lead story for a week. Celebrities were outraged and talking about nothing else. Some were even going to sing songs. Appeals were made. Slowly, the crisis faded from the news, with one or two pieces a week flashing across the screens of the world. Then Brexit came along and Donald Trump and rockets launched high above North Korea and the world looked inwards for a while, contemplating the insanity on their own doorsteps. War in Syria rolled on, family lines were wiped off the face of the earth. Russia continued to back the Syrian government, the rest of the world complained, but failed to step up and stand up for fear of waking the giant sleeping Russian bear, and refugees continued to migrate to Europe, after outrageous rights such as protection, safety and survival.
