by Amy Cross
"Fuck, yes!" Ophelia shouts, jamming the buttons on her phone. "Get in!"
"That's your secret weapon?" Tim asks. "Seriously? I get that you thought she could help you see things from the homeless point of view, and that was a valid approach, but it hasn't worked out and she's just exploiting you and wasting your time. Sure, she's smart, and she's got an interesting personality, but..." He pauses for a moment. "Just because you screwed up on the Daniel Gregory case, don't lose faith in yourself. You're the detective here, not Ophelia whatshername. When you fall off the horse, you have to get back up. Don't waste your time on this kid."
I want to argue with him, but as he heads to the door it's clear that he's right. Once he's left the room, I sit and stare at the print-outs; when I was collating them, I told myself that they'd be the key to tracking this killer down, but now it's clear that I was just fooling myself. I've hung all my hopes on Ophelia, and the experiment - while noble to begin with - has failed. It's time to cut her loose.
"Sutter's Wharf," she says suddenly.
"What?"
"You did read my notebook, didn't you?" She puts the phone back in her pocket and finally turns to me. "I didn't say it when Captain Sensible was in the room just now, but it's all in my notebook. I've been calculating the killer's movements for months, and if we're looking for someone connected to boats, we need to start with Sutter's Wharf. It's a boatyard out to the east and I think that's the part of the city that this guy calls home. It stands to reason, if he's got arthritis in his hands, his other joints might not be too good, so movement could be a problem. There's also the fact that he clearly thinks no-one'll notice a bunch of homeless people being killed, so I doubt he's even being very careful."
"I don't know," I reply, struggling to summon the necessary energy. "Ophelia, maybe -"
"I'm right," she says firmly. "If you've ever believed that I have something to offer, then you need to get us out to Sutter's Wharf so we can ask around. I'll bet you anything in the world that this guy's linked to that place somehow." She pauses, and finally a broad smile crosses her face. "Come on, trust me. It's not like you've got any other leads."
Chapter Four
Ophelia
"Ophelia!" she calls out. "Are you coming?"
"Just a minute!" I shout, sitting on the toilet as I try to work out how to get the ankle monitor to come loose. The damn thing is locked on tight, and right now I'm struggling for ideas. Still, I've never met a device I couldn't beat yet, and I'm convinced I can find a way to break the main buckle. It's not as if I need to be careful about setting the alarm off; by the time anyone can get to me, I'll be long gone. Still, I'm not sure that anything short of a pair of bolt-cutters will be strong enough to get me free.
"We need to get going!" Laura calls through the door to the bathroom. "Are you okay in there?"
"I'm fine," I reply, trying to sound relaxed and carefree. "Do you really want to know what I'm doing? I can give you a lot more detail if that's what you're after. My stomach's been bad, so there's a lot of -"
"Okay!" she shouts back. "That's fine, just... Try to hurry up, okay? We don't have long. I'll be waiting in the corridor."
I listen to the sound of the door swinging shut, and then I prop my ankle on the knee of my other leg and try to shake the monitor loose. I'd assumed that this wouldn't be so difficult, but the device has some kind of extra-strong strap that's never going to slip down over my foot. It obviously requires some kind of key device to get it open, and my initial idea - smashing it with a rock - clearly isn't going to be effective. After tugging at it some more, I finally sit back as I realize that I'm going to need another plan.
Sighing, I flush the toilet and step out of the cubicle. I take a look at my reflection for a moment, and I have to admit that I look a lot smarter than usual. It's almost as if I've had some kind of makeover, although really it's just the result of a wash, a change of clothes and a few hair-pins. Still, I almost look normal, which is something of a turnaround from the way things are usually. It's been a very long time I had a spare moment to examine my reflection, and there's something about my eyes that gives me the shivers. All in all, my appearance hasn't changed so much over the past few years. I was hoping the different would be more striking.
"Idiot," I mutter, before turning and heading out to the corridor, where Laura's waiting impatiently.
Chapter Five
Laura
"This is hopeless," I say, standing on the path that runs along the side of the river. It's cold, rain is pouring down, and a few desolate boats are bobbing up and down on the rough water. "There's nothing here," I add, turning to see that Ophelia is already making her way toward the office building. "Where are you going?"
"We need to ask around!" she calls back to me.
"Ask who?" I shout.
"Anyone we find! We're in the right place, though! Don't give up yet, okay? Trust me, I've got good instincts!"
"Of course you have," I mutter. "You're homeless and you've got worms. Why the hell wouldn't I trust your instincts?" Trudging after her, I can't help but admire her enthusiasm, but Tim's words are starting to ring true. I'm wasting my time out here, and at the end of the day I'm going to end up back at the station with nothing to show for my day's endeavors. I swear to God, it's as if a small part of my soul has already given up.
"Hey!" Ophelia shouts, banging on the door of a mobile home. "Anyone in there?" She tries the door and it swings open, and before I can say anything she makes her way inside.
"Ophelia!" I call out, hurrying after her. "You can't just go in there! That's private property!"
"We're with the police," she's saying as I get inside, to find her facing a startled-looking man in what turns out to be some kind of small office.
"That's not quite true," I say, stepping past her as I take out my badge and flash it at the man. "I'm with the police, and I'm very sorry that we intruded like this. I hope we didn't disturb you."
"That's okay," the man says, getting to his feet and coming over to shake my hand. He's a short, balding guy with an open, innocent kind of face, but it's clear that he's somewhat startled by the way that Ophelia and I just burst in here. "Clifford Daws," he continues. "I'm the manager of the wharf. Is there some kind of problem?"
"I'm dripping on your floor," Ophelia tells him.
"We're investigating a series of murders," I continue, determined to ensure that Ophelia doesn't take the lead here, "and we're speaking to anyone who might be able to help us track down a suspect. I can assure you that no-one here is under suspicion, but we have reason to believe that the individual we're looking for might be linked in some way to a fishing fleet in the area." Surprised not to have been interrupted by Ophelia, I look over and see that thankfully she's turned her attention to a series of framed photos on the far wall. I have no idea how that girl's mind works, but at least she's shutting up for a few minutes. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" I continue, turning back to Mr. Daws.
"I'm happy to help," he replies, heading back around to the other side of his desk. "I don't know if you're aware, though, but Sutter's Wharf is barely even active anymore. There are only a couple of boats that use this place, and they're just working down the remainder of their contracts. There's a new development planned for the area."
"We're looking for a man in his fifties or sixties," I continue, aware that I sound faintly ridiculous, "and the only other defining features were really have about him are the fact that he most likely has a son, and the possibility that he suffers from arthritis."
"Right," Daws replies, clearly a little nonplussed. "I'm afraid that's not ringing any bells right now."
"He also might have spent a significant period of time in prison," I continue, "and possibly he was released some time in the past six months."
"That really doesn't sound like anyone we deal with here at the wharf," he replies, bringing up a file on his computer. "No, we have no-one here above the age of forty-eight, and certainly no-one who
spent time in jail."
"Maybe it's the son who works here, then," I reply. "Can I get a list of contact details for all the boats that moor at Sutter's Wharf? I know it's a long-shot, but we have to cover all our bases."
"Of course," he continues, pressing a few buttons before the printer fires up. "I'm sorry I can't be more useful, but I happen to know all the men who work on the boats here and I find it hard to believe that any of them could be involved in anything criminal."
"You haven't noticed any hooks going missing, have you?" I ask.
"Hooks?"
"Never mind," I mutter, realizing that it was a dumb question. It's not as if there's going to be a big box of hooks sitting around. I'm starting to get desperate, and it's clear that something about my approach needs to change.
"I appreciate that you're just doing your job," Daws says after a moment, "but I hope this won't cause any disruption. The people who work here are good, honest men, and they're just trying to make enough money to live. They work twelve, sometimes fifteen hour days. Between working and sleeping, I don't think any of them would even have time to do anything else."
"We just need to rule people out at this stage," I reply. Glancing back over at Ophelia, I realize that she's still examining the photos on the wall. It's unusual for her to be so quiet for so long, and I figure there's a chance that she's onto something. Then again, I've spent far too long trusting her instincts, and Tim was probably right when he said that I need to get back to some more conventional approaches.
"Here," Daws says, handing me the sheet, which turns out to list just half a dozen names, together with email addresses and phone numbers. "I really don't think you'll find that anyone here has got anything to do with whatever you're investigating."
"Probably not," I reply, folding the piece of paper and putting it in my pocket, "but we have to cover all the bases. Thank you your cooperation, and I'll be in touch if there are any other questions." After shaking his hand again, I turn to see that Ophelia is still looking at the photos. "Come on," I call out to her, "we're not going to find anything else here. Let's get going."
"Okay," Ophelia says with surprising obedience.
She heads over to the door and makes her way outside, and I'm struck by the sudden change in her character. I would have expected her to make much more of a fuss, but it's as if the wind has gone out of her sails. After exchanging a few more pleasantries with Mr. Daws and assuring him that he's not under suspicion, I follow Ophelia outside and find her loitering a few meters away with a self-satisfied smile on her face.
"Don't take this the wrong way," I tell her, "but I think that might have been a waste of time."
"Are you gonna get in touch with the people on that list?" she asks.
"I guess. It's better than nothing."
"Okay."
I wait for her to continue, but it's clear that there's something she's not telling me. She has that smug look on her face that usually means she's about to demonstrate her annoying brilliance.
"Spill," I say eventually.
She grins.
"Ophelia," I continue with a sigh, "I don't have time for games. I really think this whole situation is getting -"
"Nathaniel Longhouse," she says suddenly.
"Who?"
"Nathaniel Longhouse," she says again, "or Nat to his friends. Probably, anyway. That part's a guess." Reaching under her jacket, she pulls out a small framed photo, and I realize with horror that she must have stolen it from the office just now. "He's the murderer," she continues. "His name is Nathaniel Longhouse and he was a crew-member on a boat that used to fish out of Sutter's Wharf in the seventies and eighties. Look him up on your computer, and I bet you'll find that not only has he been in and out of prison, but he's almost certainly got a son." She passes the framed photo to me. "He's the killer. I guarantee it, 100%, this is the guy you're looking for."
"And you're getting all this from a photo?" I ask, taking a look at the image. Several men are standing in a row, smiling at the camera, and a legend at the bottom lists their names from left to right. Nathaniel Longhouse is standing in the middle, and to be honest he doesn't look any different from the others in the photo.
"It's him," she says firmly. "I've met him, remember? It was dark, but I saw a little of his face, and the way he was standing, and it was all enough for me to be sure that this is the same guy."
"Ophelia..."
"Check him out," she continues, with a hint of desperation in her voice. "I swear to God, once you've looked into his details, he'll match everything we've got so far." She pauses. "Why would I lie to you, Laura? I'm not a bullshitter. That's the guy. We know his name, now all we have to do is find him."
Chapter Six
Ophelia
"Bolt cutters?" he asks, clearly a little suspicious. "Why do you want bolt cutters?"
"Maybe I've got a bolt that needs cutting," I point out, following him through to the examination room. "Did you ever think about that?"
"Does Laura know you're down here looking for bolt cutters?"
"We're not joined at the hip," I reply with a shrug, while glancing about the room in hope of spotting something I might be able to use. "Your name's Tim, right?"
"I don't have bolt cutters," he replies, "and even if I did, I wouldn't give them to you." He pauses. "You really shouldn't be down here, you know. Only authorized personnel are allowed into this part of the building, and I don't care what Laura's told you, but you're definitely not authorized to -"
"I need to get rid of this," I say, lifting my leg and resting my ankle on the counter before pulling my trouser leg up to expose the monitor. "Laura said she'd have it removed today, but she'd blatantly not going to do it, so I figured I needed to enlist some extra help. I can trust you not to tell her, right?"
He stares at me, as if he can barely even believe what I'm saying.
"It's pretty straightforward," I continue. "I mean, I'm thinking it's probably illegal for her to strap this thing onto me so casually anyway, and she's totally broken a bunch of rules already. So have you, just by letting me down here. So instead of letting me kick up a fuss and cause trouble, why don't you just find something that'll cut through this piece of crap? It's only fair."
"You're absolutely insane, aren't you?" he replies.
"And you're no fun," I continue, pulling at the ankle monitor. "First you refuse to let me use the chest-spreaders on a corpse, and now you're won't help me right this most egregious of wrongs. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were on Laura's side. What's wrong, have you got a crush on her?"
"I think you should leave now," he says firmly. "Laura's probably looking for you."
"And she'll have no trouble finding me," I continue. "Come on, you know this is unfair, right? There's no way I should still have this thing attached to my leg. It's a violation of my human rights or some bullshit like that. You can't seriously tell me that there's nothing in your box of tricks that'd get the fucking thing loose."
"Please leave," he replies, heading across the room and opening the door for me. "Now, Ophelia."
"But -"
"Now!"
Sighing, I let my leg back down and head over to him.
"You should spend less time working with dead bodies," I tell him as I head out into the corridor. "It really isn't doing much for your sense of -"
Before I can finish, he pushes the door shut.
"Huh," I mutter, before reaching into my pocket and pulling out the scalpel I managed to steal from the counter when he wasn't looking. I never expected him to actually help me with the ankle monitor, but I had to distract him while I was helping myself to some of his equipment. All things considered, that was a successful little foray, and at least now I'll be armed wherever I go. Feeling surprisingly pleased with myself, I head off to find Laura.
Chapter Seven
Laura
"Nathaniel Longhouse," I say as I enter Greenwell's office. "Sixty-five years old, recently released from prison after s
erving two near-consecutive stretches for involvement in various smuggling operations. He used to work out of Sutter's Wharf as a fisherman, but he also had a habit of using his boat to bring illicit shipments of cigarettes into the country. Later, he diversified into drugs as well." I drop the file onto his desk. "This is the killer."
"Huh," he replies, taking the file and opening it. "You seem awfully sure of yourself, Laura."
"That's because he's the killer," I continue, feeling confident about something for the first time in weeks. "I've gone over his background extensively, and he fits all the criteria. His stretches in prison fit with the timings for the murders, going back as far as the seventies, and during his most recent spell he was diagnosed as suffering from arthritis in both hands, as well as trouble in his knees. It can't be a coincidence, Sir. I've already spoken to two other men who used to know him back in the early eighties, and from what they've said, he was a strange guy. Very interested in younger women, if you know what I mean."
"Do you have enough evidence to go and pick him up?" he asks.
"I'm confident I can link him to the deaths," I continue, "but we don't have a current address for him. He was released from prison six months ago and he went to a halfway house in the East End, but he left after a week and since then he's dropped off the radar. I'm in the process of trying to trace his only son, George Longhouse, but he's not exactly an easy man to find either. There's a possibility that the pair of them might be working together, so I'm exercising extreme caution, but I'm confident I can -"
"Hold on," he says, interrupting me. "Back up a little, Laura. How exactly did you come to the conclusion that Nathaniel Longhouse is the man you're looking for? I'm not seeing the logical follow-through from point A to point B and so on..."
"It wasn't easy," I reply. "We had a little luck -"
