by J. S. Spicer
Heritage didn’t do anything without good reason. So either he genuinely felt this case needed both of their skills and experience, or else it was a test. If so she had to be the one to pass it, even if she didn’t know what Heritage was up to. Lorraine always strove to be the best, to be a cut above her colleagues, male colleagues especially. She had a good track record and thought she’d made herself invaluable to the Chief. But, she reminded herself, no-one was indispensable.
The paranoid portion of her brain gnawed on the possibility of a transfer being on the cards; perhaps, given their past relationship, Heritage wanted one of them out. If that’s what it was, she was determined it wouldn’t be her.
The blast of a car horn behind broke her reverie. The light was green. She pulled away, forcing her hands to relax on the wheel. She glanced at the driver behind; suit, sunglasses, smugly shaking his head at her reflection in the rear view mirror. She was tempted to flip on the siren, wipe that look right off his arrogant face, but resisted, after all, he wasn’t the one she was really mad at.
Guiding the car through midday traffic she fiddled with the climate control, setting it to a deliciously arctic level. She was playing it cool, literally. She visualised Max at the scene. At the time she’d been focussed on controlling her own reactions, her own emotions. She’d worked hard at it for months now, but today had been the acid test. She’d held up well. She’d looked into those blue eyes of his and kept her nerve; unruffled. She was past the worst now she knew; there’d been only the briefest flutter in her belly at the sight of him, and that was just surprise when he’d first arrived.
Now though she allowed herself to dwell on how he’d looked. Lorraine smiled in the interior of her icy cool car as she remembered his flushed cheeks, the dark hair, damp and plastered to his brow, and his shirt limp in the heat with the beginnings of pit stains beneath the arms. He’d looked hot, irritable, and very uncomfortable.
Yes, so far she had the upper hand.
She turned at the next junction. Smug, suited bastard behind carried on. She was glad he was no longer riding her bumper. Another car turned, a blue Toyota, going the same way that she was, but this guy stayed back, kept his distance, not in any hurry.
**
Timmy Heath had a dreadlock ponytail with remnants of highlights peppering the ends. It was like his hair was having an identity crisis. The sleeves of his dazzling white shirt were turned back, buttons at the neck left undone; the look casual but expensive, unsubtly exposing the hunk of Rolex gracing his wrist and the thick rope of gold nestled amongst his chest hair. Nikes squeaked a little against the lacquered oak flooring as he let her into HeathTrent Enterprises.
Lorraine gladly stepped into the air-conditioned office. HeathTrent Enterprises was small but perfectly formed, and reeked of the kind of quick-buck design you’d expect from a couple of twenty-something guys on the first rungs of the success ladder. That climb was over now for Andrew Trent.
For all of Timmy’s carefully styled persona she saw the news had been a blow; eyes still slightly too wide, the shock weighing on him and taking some of the spring out of his step. His greeting was still polished though, politely ushering her through an open-plan office dotted with brightly coloured modular furniture with a sprinkling of laptops and flat-screen TVs. She didn’t see another soul.
“Told the staff to take the rest of the day off,” he explained as Lorraine’s eyes adjusted to the bold lime and cherry red theme of the place. “Everyone’s pretty shook up about it, you know.”
She gave him her best understanding look; tiny nod, briefest upturn of the mouth. She was still assessing, still deciding how to tackle this guy. He could be the murderer, if so, how best to trip him up? Hard or soft approach? For a cold-blooded killer you needed to poke and prod until you found a weakness, then not let up, chip away until a chink opened up and you could gouge into it, herd and corral through every story, excuse and alibi, until eventually tripping them up. If it was a crime of passion, spur of the moment maybe, then that was different. Guilt could already be festering, poisoning and haunting like a disease pulsing through their veins. Sometimes they wanted to confess. They didn’t always know they wanted to though; you had to coax, be understanding, lead them to the realisation.
The problem with this case was bloody Stan Everson and his pointless comments. Seeing the body, so torn up, Lorraine saw passion there. There were cleaner and easier ways to get rid of someone than plunging a knife into them again and again. Still, Stan’s reedy voice echoed in her head, ‘not really frenzied’.
She accepted when Timmy Heath offered coffee, glad of the extra time to observe him. She guessed from the toned form shifting beneath his shirt that he worked out, but lean, maybe a runner too. Young, fit and strong. Physically he could easily have punctured the life from his partner. But why would he?
She felt the trembling in his hand as she took the stripy mug. So be it, she’d go softly. She smiled at him fully this time; sympathetic.
“Thank you.”
**
Lorraine was glad of the clammy street and scorched traffic fumes when she left HeathTrent Enterprises. The perfect offices had been silent and sterile; she doubted even with staff in situ they’d ever be bustling. Timmy had been fully cooperative. He’d gladly given her access to information about their business, their finances, all of their staff. He’d shown her some pictures of a team-building day out; skinny people with broad white smiles, proudly sullied with gobs of the lurid paint they’d been blasting at each other. That’s when he’d cried, his grief all the worse because he fought it like hell out of some pointless sense of dignity. He’d angrily smacked the tears from his eyes then sniffed throatily through the rest of the interview.
Yes, Timmy had cooperated, and had been no help whatsoever. He was a long way from being crossed off the suspect list, but Lorraine couldn’t ignore the irritating voice in her head telling her she was barking up the wrong tree. His remorse seemed genuine, as did his uncertainty about how the business would continue without Andrew Trent. He’d spouted some well-meaning intentions to ‘do right’ by his staff, but she could see he was floundering; lost without his partner.
Lorraine was halfway to her car when she was jointly distracted by a grumble in her stomach and the scent of pastry on the air. She allowed herself to be lured into the nearby shop and joined the short queue of office workers grabbing a quick lunch. Lorraine bordered on regimental about her food intake, her exercise regime, her lifestyle in general. She couldn’t afford to get tired and flabby. She needed to be sharp and honed, mentally and physically. A salad was usual for lunch, but today she slipped; that was allowed occasionally. As tempting as the pasties and cakes were she knew the grease would quickly sicken her, and a sugar rush now would plunge her into a dip of lethargy later. At the counter she ordered the healthiest sandwich they had; turkey salad on wholemeal. This was still a cheat for her, but at least her fall into depravity hadn’t been too low.
She ate in her car. The food wasn’t bad, a little dry, but she’d bought a bottle of sparkling mineral water to wash it down. She took her time to eat, just as she always did, and denied to herself that she was putting off returning to the station where she’d have to compare notes with Max Travers.
Eventually the food was gone, the water bottle empty, and she could only reapply her lipstick so many times.
As she pulled into traffic she caught a glimpse in the rear view mirror of a blue Toyota, two cars back. Was that the same car from earlier? The one that had kept its distance after she’d made the turn at the junction? Doubtful. More likely she was letting her imagination get the better of her. Still, she kept an eye on it. She was ten minutes from the station when it turned off.
It was a delicate balancing act; paranoia pitted against an eye for details. In her job she had to be observant, soaking up her surroundings like a sponge, alert for anything amiss, anything important. But it was too easy to read something into nothing. Lorraine Pope didn’t think
for a moment there would be anything suspicious about that blue Toyota, but she kept a jotter in her car. It was full of registration numbers. Most were just arseholes who’d cut her up or given her the finger. She liked to fantasise about getting her own back some day, but she never did, the list was just therapy. ‘I have your number, I can find you!’ Really the list was just for her peace of mind, but she added the Toyota details to it anyway.
CHAPTER FIVE
Melissa Austen-Brown couldn’t sleep. It had been this way for years. She would snatch some precious moments when she first slid between the sheets, fall willingly into the arms of that sweet oblivion, but always it was too brief.
She usually woke around 3am; then it was all over. She used to persevere. She would squeeze her eyes shut, breathe slow, deep, clearing her mind or imagining idyllic scenes. She’d tried tapes, soothing music supposed to help. Nothing did. Most of the time she would lie staring at the dark ceiling for a while before giving up and leaving the warmth and comfort of her bed.
It was frustrating but couldn’t be helped. This was just how it was.
Tonight was the same. Melissa padded from the bedroom and into the kitchen of her small, retirement apartment. Her smallest saucepan and favourite mug sat on the worktop. Ready. Waiting. She switched on the kitchen light to make up her warm milk, but once the mug was steaming in her hands she flicked the light off again and headed for the gloom of the living room.
A gap in the curtains let in a trail of bleary light, poking straight across the thick carpet, which was burgundy in daylight but in the shadow of night just a mass of darkness beneath her slipper-shod feet. She found her way easily though, knew precisely where everything was. She walked past the TV, her friend during the afternoon and early evening, but at this hour it would be just annoying. The armchair by the window was where she settled, lowering herself with a sigh. She placed her mug on the small coffee table beside her. She liked to let the milk cool a little first. Pulling her robe tighter she rested one cheek against the high wing of the chair and let her gaze drift through the gap in the curtains.
The street was quiet. Of course it was, at that hour. Not much to see, to amuse, not for the insomniac. She created her own diversions, to fill these small hours, let her imagination run free as she waited for another day to be born. On this side of the road the block of retirement apartments stretched away in either direction. Opposite though there were houses, the kind that were once the domain of the on-the-up middle class, but were now a little worn and dated, settling for a lower class of resident once the area had lost its former glory. Melissa could see about a dozen homes from her shadowy vantage point. Despite efforts at individuality, in the darkness they all looked the same, set behind long driveways were rows of high sloping roofs and bold bay windows.
A few houses down there was a car parked at the roadside. That was unusual, especially at such a late hour. There was plenty of off-road parking; even the retirement flats had their own car park around back.
So who had parked on the street?
Melissa smiled to herself in the dark room and reached out her hand. She didn’t pick up the milk though, not yet. First she grabbed her binoculars; they could be her best friend when sleep abandoned her.
**
Felix knew that was the one he was looking for. He’d snuck inside the building earlier, trotted up and down the corridor a couple of times, checked out the layout. She lived at number eighty three. They were all the same, same number of windows, same amount of floor space. So Felix knew that was her flat, and he’d seen a light go on a little while ago.
She lived on the first floor, but he’d peered into ground floor windows and knew living rooms and bedrooms overlooked the street. The light he’d seen wasn’t the solid, bright block you’d expect in one of those front rooms, it was vague and unformed; so further back. Probably the bathroom. Old people went to the loo a lot at night, didn’t they? He’d have to wait a bit longer then. He’d thought she’d be one of the easiest, but she never went out. He’d been checking on her, on her and the others, for some time. He’d been planning it.
He had Karl to thank for it. Smug, smarmy Karl Drummond; he’d freed Felix, he’d exorcised his demons. A seemingly innocent comment one day, an offhand remark about his teenage years in Blackbridge.
Blackbridge.
Hearing the name of it again, after so very long, he’d felt the serpent stir in his guts. That’s when it had begun, slowly uncoiling, the forked tongue of his secret desires darting out to taste the air. Tentative at first, uncertain. He’d held it all down for so long, pinned it tightly, afraid to untether the beast.
Gradually he’d relaxed his hold. It had unfurled. He soon realised it was nothing to be afraid of, the darkness he’d hidden away from the world. No, it gave him strength. It nourished him and gave his life purpose. Felix had begun to feel a kind of joy and anticipation unknown since he was a boy.
He’d pressed Karl for details. This puzzled the young man for a time; Felix had never shown interest before. But this, the exciting coincidence of that same place in both their pasts, he had to know.
What he’d learned was a revelation. It was a sign. And it wasn’t just Blackbridge. No, it was more specific than that. Much more specific. Without even knowing it Karl Drummond gave Felix clarity. The information so carelessly shared opened the door for Felix, threw him headlong into the light, and it sealed Karl’s fate.
That’s when the plan had begun to form. He knew what he had to do, and it made perfect sense. He’d lost something back then, way back in 1989 at the Doyles’ place. Others had come along, usurping something special to him, trampling all over the best memories he’d ever had. Now, they would be dealt with.
Felix reached into his pocket, took out the piece of notepaper. He rummaged in the glove box for his torch and clicked the on button, shining the beam onto his list.
He ran the edge of his thumb across the top two names, now crossed out. He’d considered doing this in chronological order, but Karl’s death had made that impossible anyway. The only thing that mattered was to leave the best till last.
His thumb moved down the list, his dirty finger nail scratched at one of the other names, yet to be crossed off.
Melissa Austen-Brown.
**
Melissa slopped milk down her chin when she saw the light. Someone was in that car. It hadn’t just been parked. There was someone out there, at this hour. Why? She mopped her face with the sleeve of her dressing gown and reached again for the binoculars.
Now she wasn’t just killing time, she was genuinely curious. It was a man, sitting in the driver’s seat. He seemed to be looking down into his lap. Perhaps he was checking a map, or looking at his watch. But what was he doing? Was he waiting for someone?
The light went out but her curiosity remained kindled bright.
Moments later the man got out of the car. Melissa caught a glint of something before he hid it beneath his jacket. She couldn’t be sure of what she saw, but a thrill of fear made her heart beat faster.
He looked up and down the street once then crossed the road. Desperate to keep him in sight she abandoned her comfortable chair and pressed close to the folds of the curtains. Through the gap she saw he was heading straight for the front door to the building, to her building. Her heart thumped again as she watched him reach for it. The entrance was always locked.
Except tonight it wasn’t. His hand pushed lightly and immediately the door swung open. In a second he’d disappeared inside.
Melissa considered her options. It might be that he was a relative of some resident. Perhaps they’d called him, if someone was sick or something like that. It didn’t explain the door though. He hadn’t pressed the intercom first, so unless someone was watching out for a visitor there’s no way the door would release. So many possibilities scurried through her mind.
Without certainty she let curiosity lead the way, and silently snuck to her own front door. She had to stand on tiptoe t
o see through the little peephole. Low lighting always illuminated the corridor beyond. She waited, listening, senses strained for anything.
She jolted back when a shadow moved out there. Cursing her own cowardice she edged towards the peephole again, forcing herself to look.
It was him.
There was a man walking slowly along the corridor. Again she struggled to account for it, hoping there was a reasonable explanation for someone to be strolling through the building in the dead of night. She would feel foolish in the morning, she was sure, when she heard he was someone’s son or nephew, probably on an errand of mercy.
These innocent justifications suddenly flew out of the window.
He’d stopped.
This time Melissa didn’t jump. She froze.
He’d stopped right outside her door. When her eye met his terror enveloped her like a cold shroud. She stood and stared for one second, two.
Then she turned and ran for the phone.
CHAPTER SIX
Carrie prodded at the scrambled eggs her mother had placed before her. For once she had little appetite. She shuffled in her seat. It wouldn’t hurt to miss a few meals, her clothes pinched and bunched up, but she wouldn’t concede to moving up a dress size. Not that she wore ‘dresses’ too often, and never for work. She had a couple of respectably long dresses her mother liked her to wear to church, but for everyday it was always trousers and long tops. She wasn’t comfortable exposing more of herself than her head, neck and forearms. The rest of her body betrayed her with folds and dimples that she felt obliged to keep covered.
