by Kate Sten
I barely felt the weight of her elbow. She was slim and probably weighed under forty kilos. We were kids, mostly - barely twelve. It was the last year for us both in primary school. There was barely any time to get to know her before we both moved on to somewhere else. I swore to myself to make the days in school count.
I swore to get as much of her company as I could. There was something there. Some sort of raw connection, a melding of minds based on our similar experiences. We were both the invisible kids flying under the raider of the so-called cooler kids with the penchant for making the lives of the uncool kids nothing short of hellish.
‘Look who has got a new boyfriend. The ugly mule doesn't even wash. She will smother him with the stench of her armpits. The things they will drag out of there if someone were brave enough to excavate,’ one of the girls I had seen earlier on the swings came over and seethed at Amber, her finger poking at Amber's temple.
‘Go away Claire! Please leave me alone! I don’t want any trouble!’ Amber shielded her face and recoiled into herself, her feet raised in a defensive position.
‘Well you should hide in the dark where we don’t have to hurt our delicate eyeballs looking at a stinking poverty-stricken wretch like you. Didn’t your mother teach you how to bathe?’ Claire laughed, holding her nose and waving the other hand over her face. ‘Oh I forgot, how could the town bike afford to teach her slut daughter something as basic as simple body hygiene?’
Tears exploded from Amber's eyes, her chest swelling up and down with raw emotion. She could not fight Claire. She wasn’t alone. Her backup were a finger click away from descending on Amber if she had felt the inclination to be anything other than submissive.
‘You shouldn't talk to her like that. You guys are animals,’ I jumped in Claire's face shoving her away from Amber.
‘Feeling big are you? Being a boy doesn't mean we cannot make your life not worth living in here!’ Claire gave me an intense glare, her eyes taking in the measure of me.
‘I am not scared of a pouting fish-lipped thingy like you,’ I said, my eyes raging and leering scornfully at her.
Claire was livid. Her lips trembled and her face tightened. The atmosphere between us grew tense and we knew instantly that we harbored no goodwill towards each other.
She shoved me and I shoved her back. We did not mean to, but we had drawn the attention of the other kids in the playground. They cheered and raised their fists. They were not particularly on Claire's side. Neither were they on mine. I got the nauseating feeling that they just wanted to see us tear strips out of each other, regardless of whatever the outcome of such a showdown was.
‘Are you guys going to stand there all day? Do something!’ A loud goading voice thundered from amongst the mass of school kids that had surrounded us.
‘You are not worth it, loser! Let's get out of here!’ Claire and the other two shoved through the small sea of blue and gray, removing themselves from the situation they themselves had unwittingly engineered.
I was relieved. I might have had no love for Claire but I was not looking forward to fighting a girl, especially in front of all those watchful eyes. If I had won, I would forever have been known as a girl beater and if I had lost, I would have been called the weakling who got his ass handed to him by a skirt. Neither of those outcomes would have looked pretty on my rep.
‘They are gone now. You should have seen the look on Claire's face. She was bricking it.’ I offered my hand to Amber.
‘You showed them. My knight in shinning armor.’ She smiled at me, clutching my hand tight, her brown eyes dazzling under the glimmer of faint sunlight nestling in the curls of ginger on both corners of her head.
Everything seemed smaller, she seemed larger than life in the hole of my eyes.
TWENTY FIVE
ABAGNALE
Lips stiff and eyes unwavering, the middle aged detective started to do the rounds, going from door to door to make further inquiries about the recent death of the deceased felon, Christian White. Her superiors had closed the books on the case but something about it did not sit right with her.
He had not had any prior references to a mental health professional. There was no history of depression in his family, and evidence suggested he was a chronic alcohol abuser not a junkie.
Why would he suddenly have chosen to get a fix of drugs? Why would he even inject when he absolutely hated needles?
Those questions bugged her. They bugged her so much that she decided to moonlight and dig further into the case. She didn’t have a personal life. There was no husband in an abominably hideous sweater to go home to - just a cold cup of coffee sat on top a bunch of case files that she had photocopied and taken home to study in her free time.
She preferred the whole lone-cop on the prowl thing. Partners were just deadweight getting in the way, contradicting her at every turn and impeding her thought process. She did not want the slug of having to watch someone else's back when the shit really did hit the fan in a bad way.
She had been there before and it wasn’t pretty - a terrorist case where her then partner had decided to ignore protocols to engage the terrorist. That foolhardy mistake would nearly cost him his hand. He managed to escape with deep flesh wounds. Had the blade been any sharper, that single ill-thought decision could have cost him more than a couple of stitches. Fortunately for her ex-partner, a year in rehab was all the incident took from him.
She could not recollect his name. It was vague in her head. He was probably one of those fuckups that she would rather remain rubbed out in the annals of her memory. She was past all that. She was past him.
Her fists thumped hard on the door she had presently stopped at, her face unsmiling and her lips flattened. The door slid open and a petite woman popped out. Her hair was dark and her face slightly oval. She had a warm disposition, her knees pushing out of the hem of her knee-long skirt, and her lips arched into a bow, ‘Is there something I can help you with? Miss?’
‘Abagnale! DCI Abagnale, and you are?’ She adjusted her smart turquoise jacket and waved a badge in the woman's full view. ‘But you can call me Laura if that is easier.’
‘Okay, Detective!’
‘I am Molly by the way. Molly Radcliffe.’ Molly's eyes strained a bit as she scanned the badge that had been put in her face.
‘Are we doing this on the doorstep? Or is this the part where you invite me in and offer me coffee?’ DCI Abagnale smiled coyly.
‘Sure! Come in! The police are always welcome here.’ Molly swung the door wider, allowing the detective passage into her home.
There were cloths thrown over the floor and furniture. The strong scent of fresh paint flooded her nostrils causing the detective to cough a bit. She ignored the odor and soldiered on.
‘I hope you don’t mind standing. My place has been in quite a state and we are only just getting it repaired,’ Molly intimated, her eyes inspecting the wet paint on the wall.
‘We? Is there a Mister Radcliffe?’ DCI Abagnale alluded.
‘Not yet!’ Her face brimmed with excitement. ‘But I hope Henry pops the question soon. I know we have only been dating a couple of weeks now, but I do feel that the stars have aligned with him. He is just charming and a real gentleman.’
‘I thought those were extinct!’ DCI Abagnale joked, her head slanted and her heels clicking beneath her.
The two women laughed together like old friends that had not had the pleasure of each others company in a very long time. They fought extremely hard to choke back the happy tears, their teeth bare and lips widened.
‘Trust me, Henry is the real deal! I could not believe that it took me nearly being killed in an accident to have stumbled upon my Mister right,’ Molly regaled the detective with her love story.
‘Oh I see! Did you meet him on the recovery ward?’ The detective's smile faded away.
‘No, No. Yes. Sort of. I was knocked unconscious when he pulled me out of my burning car. Put his life on the line to haul my ass to safety.’ Her t
one went mellow and reflective.
‘He was there at the crash scene? And you remember nothing of the crash?’ DCI Abagnale's probing eyes bored deep into her face.
‘Uh, now that you mentioned it, there was a peculiar smell after he dragged me out. I cant be hundred percent sure on this but I think I smelt something rancid, a bit like eggs rotting,’ Molly elaborated, fingernails raking over her tuft of black hair.
Detective Abagnale felt numb in her toes, a knotting feeling strangling her insides. Her thought was muddled for a brief moment and she gasped for air. Her mind flipping backwards to a tense moment in her past. Molly's description had jolted something in her. Something she had long locked away in the recesses of her mind. Her jaw dropped when her eyes caught a glimpse of something brown in the distance. They were large boots, about the same size as the boot prints that had been pulled off an old but vaguely familiar crime scene.
Her mind was mostly sharp. She never forgot details of logged evidence. The proportions on those shoes and the smell Molly had described was fast forming a picture in DCI Abagnale's overactive brain. The wheels had begun to spin in overdrive now.
Could it be? Was this connected somehow to that black night?
‘Rotten eggs! Of course! Clay! Clay stinks of rotten eggs and I remember shaking some of it off an envelope I received in an old case!’ Her hands gripped Molly's arms, shaking her like an inanimate object.
‘Okay. But I am not a hundred percent on that,’ Molly retorted.
‘Do you mind if I look at those?’ Her finger pointed to the slightly distant pair of boots in front of the kitchen.
Molly sighed and reluctantly gave the nod. DCI Abagnale made a quick strut towards the boots, her eyes glued on them as if they were going to suddenly do a vanishing act. Trust was something that was in short supply in her line of work. She had been primed to be automatically sceptical and disbelieving of people. That kind of came with the territory.
‘The track patterns on these. They are familiar. I have seen them before. I know them all to well.’ Her eyes rolled from side to side with trepidation invading her countenance.
‘Are these Henry's?’ She shoved the boots in Molly's face accusingly, her tone less amicable than before.
‘Yes! Why?’ Molly asked, confusion thick on her face.
The floor board creaked, stealing her attention before she could say another word. Henry was descending from the stairs with nothing but a towel hanging from his waist. His eyes went a deeper shade of blue when they saw the detective bagging his boots in an evidence bag.
‘I am going to need those back.’ A cold unfeeling voice escaped from his lips.
‘Why? You don’t have something to hide do you?’ Detective Abagnale's eyes trailed him as he came closer towards the two women.
‘Stop right there!’ The detective shrieked, her gun drawn and pointed at him.
He stopped in his tracks, wearing a broad impertinent grin on his face. There was a gun pointed at his face but he seemed unfazed by it. You might as well have pointed a toy or an unloaded gun at him. He was that cocksure about himself.
A deadly silence ensued between the trio, each woman pondering what to say to de-escalate the situation. There was only one of them with a gun - the tool which had the power to choose who lived and who got erased from existence. It was not exactly the instrument of peace neither did it do much to inspire calm.
‘You are not going anywhere with those!’ Henry smiled, wrapping his hands round his waist.
‘You are not going to be stupid enough to get in the way of police business. That is a crime, Henry.’ Molly gasped, her fingers firmly in her mouth, teeth beavering away at her her fingernails.
‘She came alone with no backup. That is not normal practice. I am sure the police department did not sanction this invasion so I am well within my rights to defend this home and the property in it from the rogue officer,’ Henry gritted his teeth menacingly, his chest pounding and his fingers curled.
‘You will be dropped before you make a move! Listen to your girlfriend!’ DCI Abagnale stepped backwards, her Beretta M9 still aimed at him.
He ignored her and walked hastily towards her, eyes unfeeling and leering viciously at her. Her heart raced and red mist blanketed her vision. Her fingers drew closer to pulling the trigger with every second that he bounded closer towards her.
‘You have fucked with the wrong boy,’ he drew the towel from his waist and flicked the gun away from the detectives hand with it, sending her gun sliding out of reach.
His hands wrapped around her neck, fingers pressed into her throat, and his eyes bulging with unfettered rage at her. He intended to squeeze the life out of her, his weight pressing hard on her delicate neck.
‘You pesky old hag! I should have killed you years ago, back in the car, under the pouring rain! I should have cut your throat and let it bleed into the sewers because that is all you deserve!’ His words got intense and less cohesive
‘Henry, stop it! You are killing her!’ Molly tugged on his arms, trying to persuade him to ease his grip on the fast fading detective.
‘My name is Redford! Do not confuse me with that weakling!’ His tone deepened, as he slapped her across the face, sending her crashing into the wall.
Her head gashed open and she fell, her body stretched out on the floor and her head concussed. There was not a flicker of remorse on his face after he had done that to Molly. Barely a recognition of her injury. He simply smirked and went back to choking the detective.
Molly had taken his concentration for a fleeting minute and given the detective some gulps of much needed air. She had some strength left so she put all of that into her knee, thrusting it deep into his crotch.
‘Ouch! Bitch!’ He yelled as he fell to his knees in crippling pain.
‘Wash that mouth of yours, you murdering bastard!’ She drove her knuckles into his face, sending him crashing to the floor.
Her eyes caught sight of the gun. It was lodged under a shelf. She wobbled shakily towards the shelf, her eyes slightly blurred and her head throbbing from oxygen deprivation. The dizzy spells slowed her steps but she was determined. Determined to end the case that had dogged her for most of her career. He was as much a nemesis to her as she was to him.
She was almost there. Just a fingertip closer. She had bent low and stretched her arm to reach it. She pulled at the nuzzle of the gun and dragged it closer. She wasn’t fast enough. A tight grip on her ankles yanked her away from the bosom of salvation.
His tough fists pounded into her face, breaking her cheekbone and dislocating her nose. She bleed through her nostrils and spat out blood.
‘You are going to die here, DCI Laura Abagnale. Nobody is coming for you. Nobody will save you. You are all alone and I will do with your broken body whatever I please,’ the monster before her croaked, pulling her up by her neck so that she could see his grinning face.
She spat blood in his face and laughed defiantly in his face. ‘That all you got asshole!’
‘I don’t see why you are laughing bitch! You are in for a world of hurt! I will cut you up and stuff your insides with worms while you watch! Is that graphic enough for you?’ He screamed in her face.
A shot rang. He squelched, his face surprised and afraid at the same time. Then he turned to see the child he had devoted most of his time to rearing in recent times armed with the detectives Beretta M9 in his hands.
‘John! Why?’ He asked, his tone softened and regretful.
‘Because you are an evil murdering scumbag! You hurt Molly!’ The boy's voice thundered, sounding every bit as unsympathetic as his.
Another shot was fired and then another and then the last shot hit him in the gut. He fell back, and collapsed in a pool of red, eyes wide agape and inanimate.
‘Is he?’ John spoke softly, standing over Henry's body, the gun still clicking in his hands.
‘Give me that, John. I believe he has had it.’ DCI Abagnale put a hand over the corpse's eyes and shut t
hem, as she tactfully retrieved her firearm from the trembling boy.
Days later, a team of officers descended on Henry Winters's property, bagging up evidence and digging up the garden. DCI Abagnale led the team of fifteen strong officers and forensic investigators. She had ignored bed rest advice from her GP and would not let her injuries get in the way of wrapping up the Redford case. She could barely move her head in the cervical collar that held her chin in place but her hawkish eyes were quick enough to clock a locked padlock that hung over the garden shed. She was never big on ceremony so she bashed the lock loose with the butt of her service pistol.
There were lots of unopened boxes but the centrepiece in the disused shed soon caught her eye - a plain-looking tarp that hung over something massive in width. Her hands stretched out, she hesitated for a minute as if to consider the gruesomeness of what she could uncover.
She pushed the thought aside quickly and tore away the tarp covering, revealing a row of clay sculptures. The exact number of heads on the fused sculptures matching the number of missing ladies in the Redford files. At the foot of one of the statues was caked blood preserved in clay.
‘That almost looks fresh. Seems well preserved.’ DCI Abagnale cupped some of the loose clay in her gloved hand, sniffing at the dried blood in the clay.
‘Forensics!’ She shouted out loud to her colleagues in the garden, just outside the shed.
TWENTY SIX
BARRY GARDNER
May 2017, WOODHILL PRISON, MILTON KEYNES
Decked in a loose white shirt smudged with coffee stain, Barry Gardner headed straight for his scheduled session with John Bishop. He was not particularly looking forward to a chinwag with the inmate but he was happy to be talking to someone. He raised his face high and rubbed his beard as he pushed past the door of the interview room.
