Ophelia (Ophelia book 1)

by Amy Cross

  "He killed the first girl in 1975 and then he went to prison for something else, something unrelated. A few years later, he gets out, goes back to his old ways and there's another murder, then he ends up back inside, comes out, does it again, and then some time around 1982 he goes away for a long, long time. Comes out recently and picks up where he left off, which means he'd be in his fifties at least. He's basically an old man, or near enough, whose serial killing has been continually interrupted by a series of stretches in prison."

  "So the prison time," she replies, "is completely unrelated to the murders."

  "Totally," I continue. "In the seventies and early eighties he was put away for something relatively minor. Maybe he was involved with gangs, or some kind of dodgy business dealings, or whatever. Finally, in the early eighties he gets banged up for a long time, or maybe he doesn't behave while he's inside. It must have been something pretty severe for him to get such a long sentence. We're probably looking at a career criminal. And now he's old, too old to carry out the murders, but he can't stop and that's why he's hired his little mate to help out."

  "Does that fit with the guy you met the other night?" she asks.

  "Maybe." I flick through to the back of the file. "It also adds credence to the idea that maybe he's got bad hands. He's suffering from arthritis or some other condition, and that's why he needs an assistant. So he pops an advert in the paper and hires someone to help him out." I pause for a moment. "No, that bit doesn't quite make sense. There's got to be some other way he ended up with his handy little apprentice. It's too neat."

  "Why do you live like this?" Laura asks suddenly.

  I turn to her.

  "You're smart," she continues. "Hell, you're smarter than half the people working here, maybe including me. You're clearly educated, and you're literate and you've got a creative mind. You're obviously not addicted to anything and it's almost as if you actually enjoy working on this kind of thing, so why do you live on the streets?"

  "It's just how things worked out," I tell her, grabbing the next file and hoping to find something I can use to change the subject.

  "You could join the police, you know. Get yourself sorted out, get a stable base, and then sign up. With a mind like yours, you'd rise through the ranks pretty fast. They keep an eye out for people like you, you know. People who show potential from the start -"

  "Like you?"

  She pauses.

  "They fast-tracked you, didn't they?" I continue. "Sorry, your Mum mentioned it. So what happened? Did they make a mistake? It doesn't look like you on the fast-track right now."

  "We're talking about you," she says after a moment. "It's not glamorous work, but you could do it with one arm tied behind your back."

  "Why would I do it like that?" I ask. "Sounds stupid."

  "You know what I mean."

  "I'm not interested," I tell her. "I hate the police. Present company excepted, maybe."

  "I can help you," she replies, refusing to give up. "Even if you don't want to join the police, I can get you into a hostel, and from there you can get your life back on-track. You can get help with the things that aren't working for you right now. Counseling, some money, help finding a job, maybe go back to school. You seem so smart, Ophelia, and I can't help thinking that you could do anything if you put your mind to it. I know it's hard to accept a little help, but -"

  "No thanks," I say firmly. "The first girl who was murdered, back in 1975, was she -"

  "So you like being homeless?"

  "It is what it is. The first girl, was she -"

  "I don't care about your past," she continues, clearly determined to keep hammering away at the same point. "I mean, that's not quite true. I'm insanely curious about it, but that's not really any of my business. But whatever you've gone through, Ophelia, there are people who can help you move on. The past doesn't matter as much as the future."

  "I haven't been through anything," I tell her, fully aware that she's staring at me as I take a look through the file. "Why do you have to assume something like that? For all you know, I had a perfect, happy family life and finally I just decided to go and live on the streets for fun. Hell, maybe I'm a millionaire and I just do this for a few weeks every year, to keep myself grounded". I pause for a moment, and then finally I turn to her. "Maybe I do like being on the streets. There's no bullshit, no need to get some mind-numbing nine-to-five job, none of the boring shit that puts bags under your eyes."

  "But you'll have somewhere warm to sleep at night," she counters. "You could have friends, money... You could get a job that you actually care about."

  "Like you?" I reply.

  She looks down at her coffee.

  "That's what I thought," I continue. "You live with your mad old mother, you work a job that you don't really seem to care about, and your only hobby seems to be shoplifting. You're not exactly a great advert for the normal way of doing things, are you?" I pause, and finally I realize that I'm probably being a little harsh. "Still," I add, "I guess you don't have worms, or a weird rash on your thighs, and you don't have to regularly fight off sexual advances from assholes who think you're fair game, so you've got that going for you. Swings and roundabouts, huh?"

  "Are you tired?" she asks, getting to her feet and finishing her coffee. "I'm tired. Hell, I'm exhausted. I think we should head back to my place and get some sleep." She wanders over to the door, and it's clear that she's been affected by what I said to her.

  "I'm not tired," I say after a moment.

  "Well, I am," she replies, "and since you have to go where I go, you're coming with me. I've already made up the spare room, so you're going to get a few hours' sleep in a proper bed, whether you like it or not."

  "But -"

  "Don't argue with me," she says firmly, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor before glancing back at me. "For once, Ophelia, just shut up and come, okay? I have to go and check a few things, but meet me at the reception desk in ten minutes. Bring the files if you want, but neither of us is any use if we're dropping on our feet."

  I want to tell her that I'm fine, that I can just stay here and work, but as she heads off down the corridor, I figure that I should probably cut her some slack. I mean, everything I said to her was true, but maybe I phrased it badly. Still, at least I managed to get her off my back, and hopefully she'll think twice before asking me any more dumb questions about my past. Piling the files up, I lift them from the desk and head out of the room. I'm too buzzed to sleep, so I figure I'll just do some more work when we get to Laura's place. At least I can try to be useful before the twenty-four hours are up and I'm free to get rid of this ankle monitor.

  Chapter Seven

  Laura

  "Detective Foster! Can I grab a word with you?"

  Sighing, I turn to see an unfamiliar face hurrying along the corridor. The last thing I need is a conversation with some asshole, but I'm too tired to come up with an excuse so I just wait resignedly as the guy reaches me. He's young, clearly barely out of his teens, and he has a kind of bright, over-eager look in his eyes that makes me immediately want to kick him in the nuts.

  "We haven't met," he says, holding out a hand that I leave unshaken, "but I'm Joe Lewis. I work for a few different news blogs and magazines. Cutting edge of the social media news revolution, that kinda bollocks. Of course, I try to stay out of the fray and focus on more of the core values of today's modern agenda, which is a fancy way of saying that I try to stick to important stories. In fact, I was there outside the court a few days ago when the Daniel Gregory verdict was issued and -"

  "I don't have anything to say," I reply, turning and walking away.

  "I'm working on a profile piece," he continues, keeping pace with me. "Five thousand words on you and your career. Obviously I don't absolutely have to talk to you directly, but it'd really help if I could get an interview. We could talk about a few of the things that have come up while I've been doing my research, 'cause I've got to admit, there are some conflic
ting ideas here that I'm having a hard time getting hammered out. It'd also be a chance for you to shape the narrative and ensure that the finished profile doesn't contain any inaccuracies. I mean, despite my best intentions, it's possible that it could go a little off-course, so your input would be extremely valuable."

  "I'm sure you'll find plenty of people who're willing to give you input," I mutter.

  "It's not just going to be about the Daniel Gregory case," he explains as we head through a set of double doors. "I'm going to be profiling your entire career. The meteoric rise, the sudden career stall -"

  "Excuse me?" I ask, stopping and turning to him.

  "Well..." He pauses, with a slightly embarrassed look in his eyes. "I just mean, from what I've heard so far, it seems like you were marked out for great things and then..."

  I wait for him to finish.

  "And then what?" I ask eventually.

  "Well, you know..." He pauses again. "The Daniel Gregory case really capped off a bad year for you, huh? I mean, don't take offense, but I'm pretty sure you'll admit that it was a huge fuck-up. You took a high-profile case, you pursued it in a very public manner, and then it all fell apart when it reached court. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of your skills, is it? I hope you don't mind me asking this, but has the fallout shaken your faith in your own abilities? What about the signed newspaper? Was that a conscious decision? Are you thinking of a move into show-business?"

  "You really don't know what you're talking about," I tell him, resisting the urge to put him straight more forcibly.

  "So help me out," he replies with a faint smile. "You can already see the way this profile is gonna go if I have to rely on second-hand testimony. Despite my best efforts, there'll be mistakes, and maybe those mistakes might lead the whole thing astray. I'm a responsible journalist and I do my best, but I'm sure that in your line of work you've come to understand that even with the best of intentions you can sometimes end up going a bit wrong. Why don't you get involved and make sure all my facts are straight? It'd only take up an hour or two of your time."

  "I'm busy," I tell him, turning to walk away.

  "Aye," he continues, "I've been checking up on your latest case. Who's your little assistant?"

  Stopping, I look back at him.

  "Ophelia something-or-other, right?"

  "Leave her out of it," I tell him.

  "I've been doing some digging," he continues. "How much do you really know about her? She's some homeless kid, right? I mean, it's a bit strange to bring her in on a case like this, isn't it?"

  "She's a witness," I reply, stepping toward him. "That's all."

  "A witness to what?"

  "That's not something I can divulge at this moment."

  "But she saw something?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Something about a hook?" He pauses. "She was arrested for causing a disturbance, wasn't she? Are you sure she's a witness and not a suspect?"

  "I think you need to leave her out of this," I reply. "She's just a witness who's helping out with certain aspects of a case. There's really nothing significant about the fact that she's here."

  "You seem very defensive," he says with a smile. "Almost protective, one might say. What exactly is your relationship with that girl, anyway? I've been looking into her, but I haven't come up with much so far. I've put one of my best men on the case, though, so I'm confident I'll turn up some dirt on her eventually. It's a good hook for the story, really. In fact, depending on how things turn out, maybe she'll become the focus. I'll make a decision once I know about her background." He pauses. "I believe she went home with you last night, didn't she? Did she get on well with your poor old Mum? Have you got a spare bed, Detective Foster, or did you and Ophelia snuggle up together?"

  I stare at him, and for a moment I actually feel as if I'm about to hit him.

  "So should we schedule that interview?" he asks finally. "I mean, so you can set me straight on a few things? Otherwise, I'll have to do my own digging, not just about you but about the people around you. God knows what I'll turn up, but it has to be worth a try, doesn't it? You don't know Ophelia's surname, do you? I don't need it, but it'd speed my investigations up a little."

  "What are you doing here?" another voice asks suddenly.

  I turn to find that Tricia has come over to join us, and she's eying Joe Lewis with suspicion.

  "I'm just talking to your colleague," Joe tells her. "She's -"

  "Your accreditation today was for a brief conversation with Inspector Greenwell," Tricia continues, taking him by the arm and steering him back toward the doors. "That doesn't give you free reign to go wandering around the station, harassing anyone you happen to bump into."

  "Give me a ring some time!" Joe calls back to me with a self-satisfied smile. "I'll keep digging on my own until I hear from you, yeah?"

  Once he's been led away, I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. I sure as hell wasn't expecting to become the focus of some kind of profile, but suddenly I can't stop imagining the potential fallout; I have no idea what Joe Lewis might uncover if he started digging around in Ophelia's past, and I'm sure he'd present everything in the most unflattering manner possible. Then there's the effect on my career: I'm already on a knife-edge and this is exactly the kind of thing that bring me crashing down. I have no idea what I'd do if I had to resign. I've got no hobbies, no real interests outside of my job; in fact, it's almost as if I'm an empty shell.

  "You need media training," Tricia says as she comes back through. "I just had to eject that asshole from the building, but people like him, they're tenacious." She pauses. "Are you okay? Don't let him get to you. Guys like Joe Lewis get a real kick from unsettling their targets."

  "I'm fine," I mutter, checking my watch and seeing that it's time to go and meet Ophelia.

  "You're not considering calling him, are you?" she asks.

  "Who?"

  "Joe Lewis." She stares at me for a moment. "Laura, it would be a huge mistake to talk to that asshole. You'd be legitimizing his story, and I guarantee you still wouldn't have any control over how you're presented. Just leave it be, and the worst that'll happen is that he'll come up with some piece of trash journalism that'll be seen for what it really is. Hell, by the time he's got his copy ready, the news cycle will have moved on and he'll be lucky if he can publish anywhere. It'll end up on some blog somewhere."

  "I have to get going," I tell her, turning and heading back the way I came.

  "Just keep your head down!" she calls after me. "And for God's sake, don't go signing any more newspapers!"

  Chapter Eight

  Ophelia

  "Where'd you get that?" the custody sergeant asks, eying me suspiciously.

  "Someone gave it to me," I reply, barely looking up as I continue to go through the options on my new phone. I've tried to keep up with technology over the past few years, and I've noticed a lot more people using touchscreen devices, but it's still pretty freaky to be using one for the first time. Well, freaky isn't the right word: it's fascinating and alluring and addictive, and although I've managed to avoid drugs and alcohol during my time on the streets, I'm starting to worry that I might get addicted to this goddamn device.

  "Who gave it to you?" the custody sergeant asks, clearly not convinced.

  "Someone," I reply unhelpfully, as I scroll through the phone's settings. "Do you know how I can access the internet on this thing? I think I need a password."

  "Is that stolen property?" he asks.

  "Someone gave it to me," I say again, trying not to antagonize him by letting my impatience become too obvious. Then again, why bother? He's just some ham-brained drone. "Now can you give me the password for the wi-fi here?" Finally, I look at him. "Please?"

  "Let me see that," he says, coming around from behind his desk and reaching out for the phone.

  "It's mine," I tell him, taking a step back.

  "I have reason to believe that you're in possession of stolen property,
" he continues, clearly pleased with the sound of his own officiousness, "so unless you allow me to inspect that item and determine its ownership, I'll be forced to confiscate it and place you under arrest."

  "It's mine," I say again, more firmly this time.

  "Then you won't mind me taking a look, will you?"

  I pause for a moment, before reluctantly handing it to him. He immediately starts checking the details, although I have no idea what he expects to find. The guy's clearly a complete idiot, and he sure as hell doesn't like me very much. Normally I'd be much more resistant, but the last thing I need right now is to end up in some kind of needless argument, so I figure I'll just let him do what he wants. There are days when I'd turn this into a huge scene, but I'm feeling particularly closed-off right now so I just want him to go away.

  "Nice phone," he mutters. "Why'd anyone give you something like this? Sure you didn't slip it out of a pocket?"

  "It was a present," I tell him.

  "From who? Did Mummy and Daddy send it so you could keep in touch?"

  I reach out to grab the phone, but he keeps it out of my reach.

  "I'm gonna have to look into this," he continues with a grin. "If it's not stolen, you've got nothing to worry about. I'll contact the phone company and make sure it's all above board, and if it's really yours, you can have it back in two to five days." He pauses. "Working days."

  "Leave her alone," Laura says as she reaches us. "I gave her the phone, Gilmore."

  Sniffing, the oaf - or Gilmore, as he's apparently known - doesn't seem very impressed as he hands the phone back to me. His little power trip has come to an abrupt end, but he's clearly not the kind of person who'd ever apologize.

  "Just thought I should check," he mutters. "After all, it's not often that you see one of their lot with a decent phone."

  "Come on," Laura says, leading me toward the door. "It's time to get out of here, at least for a few hours."

  "Are you okay?" I ask, sensing a new level of anxiety in her voice. Something's clearly got to her in the few minutes since I spoke to her in her office. Hell, she's always highly-strung, but this is more like a kind of surface-level panic.