Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  ‘That’s a ‘G’.’ said Mike, tracing his finger over the scrolling, semi-precious stones.

  ‘That could be anything.’ said Davies, ‘It’s just a pattern, isn’t it.’

  Mike huffed, but didn’t speak and Christine made a show of examining the knife, though she knew he was finally speaking the truth. ‘I don’t know.’ she said, ‘I suppose it could be a ‘G’. But, it could stand for anything; Gaudy, Glamorous, Gorgeous. Give in to me.’

  ‘Or it could be a name.’ Davies added, playing along. ‘Gareth, Glen, Greg. But, what does it prove? That you’re a thief on top of a bully? Or that you own a knife with a swirl on the handle that vaguely resembles a ‘G’.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Mike, ‘That’s my point! I’m not a thief! The knife doesn’t belong to me . . . it doesn’t. But, I’m not a thief, either! This is one of a set.’ he paused, feeling that he had said too much and quickly changed tactics, trying to double-back, ‘I mean, surely, if I was going to own a knife like this and risk smuggling it on board, I’d have one made with up an ‘M’ on the handle, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Would you?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Of course I would.’ he said.

  Bingo.

  ‘Like this one, you mean?’ As she asked the question, Christine produced the second evidence bag, laying it flat on the table before him.

  Dried blood flaked about the inside of the bag and could be seen clearly staining the blade of this, a second knife — a twin of the first — bearing, in the same scrolling pattern of semi-precious stones as the other, the letter ‘M’.

  All colour drained from Mike’s previously reddened and enraged face. He seemed to physically shrink back into his seat; deflated. Exhausted.

  ‘Where . . . where did you find this?’ he stammered after a moment.

  ‘It was found at the scene of yet another brutal crime committed on this ship.’ Christine said, ‘Do you deny that it belongs to you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘This is mine. No. It was mine, but I haven’t seen it for . . . years.’ His hand wavered over the bagged knife for a moment, before he drew it back, his eyes engaging with Christine’s. ‘He’s set me up! That’s what he’s done . . . he’s set me up, the bastard! You have to believe me!’

  ‘Sure, yeah.’ Davies laughed, ‘On account of you being so open, honest and up-front about everything, right?’

  ‘Who set you up Mike?’ Christine asked.

  ‘I told him I didn’t want anything to do with it. That I didn’t work for his bastard family anymore! That I was done!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This family wouldn’t happen to be the Copina’s would they?’ Davies asked, laying his hands flat on the metallic surface of the table.

  ‘How did you know?’ Mike said.

  ‘Because, it’s my job.’

  Christine couldn’t help but smile, hearing a little of Prior and even herself in Davies’ now-commanding voice.

  ‘It’s your job to go snooping into people’s pasts?’

  ‘Well, kind of, yeah!’

  ‘What does the ‘G’ stand for, Mike?’ Christine asked, eagerly ‘Who is ‘G’?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me.’ he said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘Is it Gary Blakely?’

  Mike made a small, snorting noise and nodded. ‘I don’t see why I should have to protect the little prick! I told him I was done with his family. And, if he’s trying to set me up, anyway — ’

  ‘Gary Blakely’s dead.’ Davies said, with a look that conveyed the words; you dick! ‘And he’s been dead for while too.’

  ‘Dead?’ Mike echoed. ‘Like, really dead? And gone. For good.’

  Christine nodded ‘He was killed at least twelve hours before this knife was found in the suite of a Mrs Fiona Jenkins.’

  The name appeared to mean nothing to Mike, but that was really neither here nor there. Criminal families extended all the time. And if Mike was little more than a hired hand there was really no reason to expect that he should have known the late Mrs Jenkins. But, still.

  ‘What was it that Blakely had asked you to do for him, Mike?’ Christine said.

  He hesitated. ‘It wasn’t for him. It was a job for his cousin.’

  ‘Michael Copina?’ Davies asked.

  Mike nodded. ‘Apparently he’s getting married. But, their family can’t ever be normal about anything, can they?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Christine pressed.

  ‘Well, he wanted me to go and chat her up. Try and get her into bed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I wondered.’ he said, honestly, ‘It was obviously some sort of test, but was it meant for me or for her? And what if I succeeded! What then? I doubt Michael would have clapped my on the back and said Thanks for all your help mate, I knew she was a slag, but I had to be sure.’

  ‘What was the girl’s name?’ Davies asked, already knowing.

  ‘He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know anything.’

  ‘Did you speak to Copina at all?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Just Blakely.’

  ‘And when was the last time you spoke to him?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Four weeks ago?’ he said, thinking it over, ‘maybe more. Yeah, maybe six weeks.’

  Christine exchanged glances with Davies, feeling Mike’s eyes studying the pair of them as they did.

  ‘So, can I go now?’ he said, suddenly much cockier, clearly believing that he was no longer in any danger of seeing the inside of a prison cell.

  ‘Oh, no.’ said Christine, ‘You’re not done yet. There’s still the matter of this knife and the state of Kelly’s health to consider.’

  ‘I already told you I didn’t cut her!’

  ‘And yet she was bleeding. And there is blood on Gary Blakely’s knife. The ‘G’ knife. The one that you threatened Shona and Kelly with not two hours ago.’

  ‘That’s old blood.’ he said, before he could stop himself. Then, he shifted in his chair, reacting as every guilty person does when they come to realise that they have said too much. He fell silent; face flushed, looking suddenly very guilty.

  Guilty as hell.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Christine pressed.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ he stumbled, ‘that it could be old blood.’

  ‘You said that’s old blood. Like you knew. Like you were absolutely certain. How could you be that certain, Mike?’

  ‘I’m not. Ok?’ he shouted, ‘I was just saying that it could be! So what if it came out wrong?’

  But it hadn’t.

  Christine picked up the evidence bags and pushed herself up to stand. ‘Marc, can I speak to you outside for a moment?’

  Davies nodded and followed her to the door, holding it open for Christine to pass through before joining her and closing the door behind him.

  The hall seemed even darker than before and, for a moment, Christine was overcome with fear. She found herself holding back, hovering near the door. Ready to charge back inside to the sanctuary of the lightened space.

  But she didn’t.

  ‘I don’t know if what I said in there was correct.’ Davies said in a hushed voice. ‘Prior would have know exactly what the maritime penalties were for carrying a knife and threatening or assaulting someone, but me . . . I don’t really know. I just guessed.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Christine said, ‘We just needed to shake him up a bit and that’s exactly what we did.’

  ‘I’d say!’ he said, smiling, ‘Do you think he knows anything?’

  Christine shook her head. ‘He’s not our man.’

  ‘So, what was all that, just now?’

  ‘He’s certainly disturbed. An animal torturer; the little big-man,’ she said without emotion, ‘And he has admitted to working for the Copina’s in the past.’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier; over the radio. I
found out that Copina and Blakely were cousins. Which goes someway to explaining Blakely’s expunged record.’

  Christine nodded.

  ‘I want you to go back in there and I want you to talk to him. I think he might have been more involved with the missing girl incident than we first thought. He wasn’t just paid to provide an alibi for Gary Blakely. I think he was with him when she was killed.’ she said, pausing to consider, tilting her head as she pulled apart her own thoughts, ‘Now, whether it was Blakely that killed her or Mike, I can’t say for sure. Maybe, they both played a part. But, he was scared in there. Really scared. Did you see how nervous he looked when he first saw the knife?’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain Blakely keeping hold of Mike’s knife and Mike having Blakely’s. Does it?’ Davies said, feeling like he was missing something.

  ‘It could have been a trust thing. Binding them together.’ Christine reasoned, ‘If each of the knives had a set of prints on them — one with Blakely’s, the other Mike Jones’ — and even a drop of the girl’s blood, DNA, whatever . . . well, that’s a pretty damning amount evidence in a case that has — thus far — remained unsolved.’ She paused, staring at the door as though she could see into the room beyond; see Mike sweating out his reasons and his decisions. Reliving his actions. ‘Swapping knives would have forced each man into a kind of silence. The kind of terrified silence we just witnessed in there. They’d be forced to trust one another.’ she continued with a sigh. ‘But, it goes beyond that. Like Blakely asking Mike to take part in the testing of Stacey Atkins’ fidelity. I mean, Mike’s initial conclusion when he saw the knife was that he’d been set up. Almost, as though he was expecting it.’

  Davies nodded slowly, agreeing. ‘Because he’d already refused Blakely.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Keep him here. Try and get a confession. An account of everything that happened. He can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ he said. ‘I’ll do my damned best.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Christine said, smiling briefly, even as she looked nervously up and down the darkened corridor, ‘And can you also bring Prior up to speed when he’s done with Shona?’

  Davies nodded once more. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to my room. I need to think. And rest.’ she said, ‘Although rest can wait, I suppose. I might even go and speak to Dr Matthews if I absolutely have to.’

  Davies chuckled, understanding her lack of time and enthusiasm for the less-than-friendly physician perfectly well.

  Christine turned back towards the darkened corridor and hesitated once more.

  Pulling the small LED torch free from his belt once more, Davies offered it to her. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you might just need this . . . a little guiding light to find your way.’

  Christine smiled a sad, exhausted smile, taking the torch from him with silent thanks.

  ‘Don’t we all from time to time?’ she said.

  13:12

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  He had been hiding for some time now. Enjoying the chaos that had been delightfully easy to set in motion. The chaos that he had helped to create, but which had now expanded into something even more spectacular than he ever could have imagined.

  This was so much more than he could have hoped for.

  And none of them suspected. Well, how could they? Why should they? Not with that testosterone-fuelled young amateur stepping up and catapulting himself so splendidly into the limelight!

  And just in time.

  He grinned from ear to ear as he lurked in the shadows.

  He couldn’t have asked for a better cover. A better diversion.

  Couldn’t have planned it better if he had orchestrated the frenzied, little farce himself.

  This had bought him time.

  Time to plan. To begin work on his final masterpiece before the big unveiling. Before he was finally able to reveal himself to the world. And then disappear once more.

  The difficulty lay in deciding who should feature in such a grand finale; his opus magnum. There were — after all — so many players involved now.

  Thus far, luck and lust had drawn him from one great work to the next. Granted, there had been some set-backs. There had been some surprises and some downright rude interruptions too! But he had persisted in his labour, evolving with each masterful stroke; with each cut and slice and spatter of scarlet delight.

  He slipped the chain from his pocket, thumbing the tags where his brother’s name had all but worn away.

  Years of the same thumbed motion had nearly erased the lettering; the last of the deeply personal, physical evidence he possessed which accounted for his brother ever existing at all. And though he knew that that same thumbed action was responsible for the wearing of the engraved metal down to a flat, polished surface; it was also one of the few things in this pointless journey known as life that now brought him any real, tangible comfort.

  Part of him — he realised with an ironic smile — was doing this — all of this — for Matty. In his name, so that he would never be forgotten.

  While, the remaining parts of him were enjoying it simply for him. And him alone.

  He looked forward to the day that he could finally wear his brother’s tags with pride. When he had finally earned that right.

  He had longed to slip them over his head on many a dark and lonesome night, when he had felt so alone, so . . . lost.

  But he hadn’t dared. He knew better than that.

  You have to earn something like this!

  He heard the words as clear and crisp as though they had been poured directly into the chasm of his mind and remembered the first time he had seen Matty wearing the tags around his neck. The first time he had asked about them.

  Had he been six?

  Not quite six?

  He had told how he had earned them through hard work; through physical training, mental torture and the spilling of blood.

  He called them his ‘ticket to ride’, his free pass to kill and be thanked for it. And these tags, they came with weapons and ammo and enough moving targets to satisfy even Matty’s thirsty, cavernous desire to spill blood.

  Just so long as he signed on the dotted line; pledging his unfaltering obedience to his imperial den-masters.

  At least, that’s how he had seen it. Matty.

  It was the grand old sceptred Isle — Great Britain, Britannia, The United Kingdom, whatever — that had originally paid his brother’s cheques. Though there were many other soldiers that he had talked about who were earning more — much more — than he.

  Soldiers far better equipped than those of his deprived platoon.

  They were the well-paid pawns obeying the silent commands of the pointing finger that extended from the Don-like hand of the good old U S of A. That which pointed ever East; towards the oil.

  Not that any of that mattered.

  Not to him. And not to Matty.

  But then there had been that inquest.

  And the dishonourable discharge.

  He boiled with a sudden anger. Striking out at nothing, but the yawning darkness. He didn’t care what they said. What any of them said.

  His brother was a hero.

  To him at least.

  And soon he could wear those tags with pride. And not for any half-arsed allegiance to some soulless nation. Not because he needed a ‘ticket to ride’ or to kill.

  But simply because he had earned them. Because he was worthy of them; worthy to bear the legacy his brother had left behind.

  But to honour the dead with the simple spilling of blood? Was that really enough?

  He had — after all — been enjoying his merry, little self immensely. Enjoying the sweet and salted toil he had wrought.

  It had hardly been a testing penance.

  In any case, he was of his brother’s ilk and killing came naturally to him. So, he had had no trouble in the ‘spill
ing’ part of that little equation, but honour . . . now, that was another matter. Would honour really be satisfied with these sacrifices?

  He had aided Nona, with her plea to feel something one last time.

  He supposed that he had honourably assisted her in ending it all in a blaze of glory that would forever be connected to his name and that of his brother’s. Which, was what she had wanted and so satisfied two honours when you thought about it.

  But, no.

  It still didn’t feel right. He needed a way of screaming his brother’s name physically through space and time so that — no matter what happened — it would echo out and out and still further out. Honouring his memory in eternity.

  Avenging his death — somehow — once and for all.

  Would one more kill really do that? Would it suffice? Could it?

  He was running out of time.

  The kill would certainly have to mean something in a way that none of the previous kills had done.

  But who to choose? How? And why?

  He had watched the man with the green eyes as he had secured his prisoner earlier; the knife-wielding amateur. There was something familiar about that one. Something half remembered; like a dream. And then there was his young officer, and the women . . .

  But it had to mean something.

  This one had to.

  It was the grand finale!

  He growled. Impatient. Annoyed.

  Your instinct has led you this far, brother.

  Matty’s voice. As before.

  It was in his head, he knew, but it was so real that he swore he could have reached out and touched his elder brother’s bristling face in the dark. That he could smell his heavy, distinctively male aftershave.

  It’ll come to you. If you let it.

  ‘But, it can never bring you back.’ he whispered, still hidden.

  I’m always with you, you dick. Always here. Now, make them remember me. Fear me, as they used to.

  He nodded, his eyes burning. ‘They’ll fear us both, brother. I swear it.’

  Chapter Eight

  18:04

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  Christine stretched out across the large, soft quilted bed; lengthening her spine as she twisted this way and that, curling and flexing her ankles and her feet.