by Neil White
‘Because you kept me in a box for a week,’ said Sarah, her voice cracking. She could feel him watching her and so she looked at the floor, tried to suck in some deep breaths to regain her composure. ‘I just feel like I've got a right to know,’ she said, her voice stronger this time, but she flinched when he moved closer to her.
Sarah gasped as she heard him laugh, just a deep chuckle under the hood.
‘You don't have any rights,’ he said quietly.
Sarah moaned and put her head in her hands. ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she pleaded.
‘I haven't decided.’
Sarah could feel the panic rising through her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them, didn't want to look weak in front of him. But it was hard. She knew what he was capable of, ever since her nightmare had begun a week earlier.
It had started with a knock on the door, close to midnight. She had almost ignored it – it was cold and dark outside and Luke felt good next to her, sleeping naked – but the second knock had been more insistent, louder, and so she had slipped on Luke's shirt and some old jeans and gone to answer the door.
All she had seen was the mask, like a shadow, and then his hands shot forward and grabbed her, an arm around her neck and a hand over her mouth, rough and callused, smelling of cigarettes and oil. She had tried to bite him and lashed out with her feet, but his arm went tighter around her neck as he dragged her out of the house.
She had heard Luke shout out, asking who was there, but a rag had been pushed into her mouth, petrol and grease, and the pavement tore the skin of her heels as she was dragged to a car, the street quiet, no one around.
The boot had been open, ready for her, but it had been cramped and filled with dirty tools and a spare wheel. She was pushed in there anyway, head first, her arms pulled behind her back, her wrists tied together quickly, before he slammed the lid down.
The memories flooded back as Sarah looked at him, in the same impenetrable black hood.
‘Why me?’ she wailed.
He tilted his head as he looked at her. ‘I'm here to look after you, Sarah. Is there anything you need?’
Sarah looked at him, incredulous. She glanced behind him, at the way out of the room, to the stairs that seemed to lead upwards.
‘I want to go home,’ she replied, meekly now.
‘Anything else?’
Sarah swallowed as she felt the tears come again. She shook her head, knowing that if she spoke she would show her weakness.
He didn't answer. He watched her for a few moments, until he suddenly turned to go.
Sarah almost ran at him, to beg him not to lock her in, that she would do anything to get out, whatever he wanted, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the fear of what he really wanted from her. Instead, she watched him walk out and then listened as the bolt slid back into place.
She was alone once more, and she let the tears flow as the heartbeat noise started again, her hands clamped tightly over her ears.
Chapter Ten
I went to Luke's gym next.
It was part of a new development, all glass and steel girders, built on the site of a demolished mill on the outskirts of Blackley. Shops were on one side, entertainment on the other, as long as you liked bowling and pizza. Luke's gym was in-between, a guilt trip as you walked back to your car.
I could see the metal frames of the equipment and exercise bikes as I got near to the entrance, the poseurs gallery lined up in rows near the huge windows. I could hear music thumping out of speakers as I walked inside, accompanied by the occasional clang of weights. There was a bored young woman in a polo shirt at the reception desk. She glanced at my midriff and reached for an application form. I put my business card on the counter.
‘I'm writing a story on Luke Howarth,’ I said. ‘Is there anyone I could speak to?’
I detected a change in her mood. ‘The press came here last week,’ she said, her voice timid. ‘I thought you'd all got bored.’
I shook my head. ‘Luke deserved more than that,’ I replied, guessing that she might be a friend. ‘I want to find out what happened to him. Were you one of his friends?’
‘Not really,’ she said, but then looked apologetic. ‘I don't mean that I didn't like him. I haven't been here long, but he seemed pretty nice. Callum was Luke's best friend.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He'll be on a break soon. I'll page him to come down.’ Then she pointed me towards the coffee bar in one corner of the gym.
I was halfway through my latte when I saw a tall man walking towards me, his skin dark, his hair shaved afro. He wore the same uniform polo shirt as the girl on reception, but he filled it, the sleeves tight against his arms, his broad chest visible through the cloth. I stood up to greet him, my hand outstretched. ‘Callum, I presume.’
He didn't take it.
‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice,’ I added.
He sat down and folded his arms.
‘Had your fill of journalists in the last week?’ I ventured.
He paused for a moment, and then relaxed, and his eyes lost some of their hostility. ‘I just can't see what good they have done. Luke was just a passing story to them, but he was my friend.’
‘Well, I'm not writing for the dailies. I'm writing a feature.’
‘On what?’
‘On Luke. A tribute.’ I tried to hold his gaze as I said it, so that he wouldn't spot the lie.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
I tapped my pen on my lap and asked, ‘How about Luke and Sarah? What kind of couple were they?’
‘You'll need to write two stories to get that,’ he said.
I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They weren't a couple,’ Callum replied.
I was still confused.
‘C'mon, get real,’ said Callum, shaking his head at me. ‘They were fucking each other, that's all. Have you been out of the game that long?’ Before I could ask him what he meant, he added, ‘No offence, but you don't look like a man on the hunt.’
‘But I get the impression that they were “Luke and Sarah” – you know, a couple,’ I said, looking down at myself, seeing the old boot-fit jeans and tatty jumper, bought the year before and worn too often.
Callum snorted. ‘That's because she killed him. Go back a couple of months, maybe even less than that, and Luke was my friend, and Sarah was just one of the girls he was seeing.’
‘So it was casual?’ I asked, still surprised. Katie had talked like it was a whirlwind, that special one.
‘Casual? Oh yes, very casual,’ Callum answered, laughing slightly, his eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah, sure, Luke liked her. She was good-looking, and had a great body. He met her in one of the clubs in town, and it seemed like most of the eyes were on her.’
‘A good notch on his belt?’
Callum shrugged, unapologetic. ‘Think of the women you wish you'd been with, and I bet one is a teacher. Something about it, isn't there? The discipline, the respect.’
‘Maybe for schoolboys,’ I replied.
Callum blinked, spotted the jibe. ‘Maybe in ten years' time I'll think like you,’ he responded.
A smile flickered on my lips. He'd won that point. Then I remembered about the rage, the knife in the chest. And I thought about what Katie had told me, and so I said, ‘What if I told you that Sarah was getting in deeper, perhaps much deeper than Luke?’
‘She knew the score, they all did,’ he replied, and then it was his turn to smile. He had spotted me for what I was: settled. But he presumed that I wanted his life. Sometimes I liked the idea of being single, but it was like waiting for summer: you expected the sunshine but only ever got showers.
‘What do you mean “all”?’ I asked.
Callum laughed at me. ‘He was a fitness instructor. Do you have any idea what it's like?’
I shook my head.
‘Middle-aged women try to hang on to their youth by booking one of us,’ he continued. ‘They try and get back
to a shape that they haven't had since they were teenagers, and in between breaths they try and seduce us.’
‘And do they?’
‘That depends. Some of the women look good, and sometimes there are some young clients, maybe young women trying to burn off the pregnancy weight. Our only rule is that they have to be single; we don't want angry husbands coming down here.’
‘Cramp your style?’
‘Don't look at me like that,’ he snapped at me. ‘We all know the rules. Do you think the women care about us? Course not. We're just muscles to them, something different from their ex-husband. Sarah was the same. All coy and reserved on the outside, but once you take them home, well, you can guess the rest. Luke said it was like peeling off a mask, you know, like the angel was really the devil in wings and a white dress.’
‘So there were other women?’
‘Luke was a good-looking bloke – there were always other women.’
‘Anyone special? Or any who didn't like being unsuccessful with him?’
‘He didn't tell me that much,’ Callum said, softening slightly. ‘Just man-talk, you know, all about the conquests, not the losses.’
I made some notes, scribbles that I knew I would have to make sense of later. He had some good quotes, but I was starting to feel uneasy. Katie had described the relationship as close, but now Luke's friend had described it as relaxed, and whatever it had been, Luke had ended up with a knife buried into his chest. The two things didn't add up.
‘Did Luke have a temper?’ I asked.
Callum looked surprised by the question. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I'm just wondering why Sarah would stab him, if it was so casual. Self-defence?’
‘No,’ Callum replied warily. ‘Luke was a pretty chilled-out kind of person.’
‘But maybe there was something affecting his mood.’
‘What like?’
I sensed some defensiveness in his question. I pointed at Callum's arms, the veins being throttled by the knitted sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘You work in a gym,’ I said. ‘You'll know what goes on in the pursuit of physique.’
‘Are you saying Luke was on drugs?’
I cocked my head. ‘I don't know, but you don't end up looking like you do on chicken and pasta.’
Anger flashed across Callum's face, his jaw clenching as he glared at me.
‘Roid rage,’ I pressed, trying to guess the answer from his response. ‘Perhaps Sarah was just defending herself?’
Callum stood up quickly, his chair rocking back on its legs. ‘Is that what you're going to write?’ he demanded.
‘I'll write the truth,’ I replied.
‘It doesn't sound like much of a tribute,’ he said.
‘You haven't given me much to admire about him.’
‘Please leave,’ he said, his voice low and angry, his brow furrowed as he stared at me.
‘Nothing else to add?’ I asked, pushing for one more quote.
Callum didn't answer, and we both knew the interview was over.
I thanked him for his time and walked towards the door. I stopped for a moment and thought about apologising. His closest friend had died and I was making allegations without proof. I had lost both my parents and so I knew how raw grief could be. Had I sold out my humanity for the value of a good quote? I glanced back at Callum, but from the hostile stare he was giving me, I could tell that any apology would be pointless.
When I got back to my car, I threw my pad onto the passenger seat and wondered whether I was wasting my time. Sarah Goode was missing, and her occasional lover was dead. It sounded straightforward. If I wanted to use it there had to be an angle, something different from the average murder report.
But there was something different. I sensed it. If Katie was right, Sarah had killed Luke in a lover's rage, passion gone wrong. But if Callum was telling the truth, it was a murder without reason.
I checked my watch and wondered what Laura would say if she knew what I was doing. No, I knew what she would think; the memory of the argument that morning was still sour. So if I was going to write the story, I wanted Laura to find out from me.
Laura McGanity tried not to look at the prisoner in front of her, as she sat on a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor to stop prisoners throwing them, in one of the interview rooms at the end of the cell complex. No windows, no natural light. The floor was dotted with old chewing gum and scarred by cigarette burns, souvenirs of life before the smoking ban. Pete was next to her, leaning forward to make the cramped space seem even smaller.
The prisoner in front of her had been arrested from the middle of the brawl, dishing out black eyes to anyone who came close, until a blast of parva spray sent him to the gutter, crying at the pain in his eyes. His bravado had melted now, and he had slept off most of the drink, but he was trying hard to keep his breakfast down. He'd been sick down his jumper, and he held it in his hands, putting it to his mouth whenever another wave of nausea hit him. Laura kicked the bin towards him and shook her head, trying to breathe through her mouth. This wasn't on the recruitment poster.
Pete Dawson was frustrated. ‘Doesn't look like he wants to explain himself,’ he said to Laura. ‘Looks like the court will form its own conclusion.’
‘Do you really think it will get that far?’ asked the prisoner's legal representative, a young police-station runner in shiny pinstripes and gelled hair who looked like he wanted to be much further away from his client than the bolted-down chair would allow.
‘I wasn't talking to you,’ barked Pete.
‘Okay,’ the legal rep replied, his smirk forcing Pete to take a deep breath to keep his anger at bay. He turned to his client and said theatrically, ‘For the benefit of the tape, let's hear it one more time.’
The prisoner held his jumper to his mouth. ‘No comment,’ came the muffled reply.
Laura turned away as the smell of the jumper wafted towards her. She was frustrated by the no comment mantra, but she knew the advice was right. The other fighters didn't want to help, so if he didn't confess, he would win the day.
‘Let's suspend the interview,’ she said. ‘I think we all need some fresh air.’
As Pete clicked off the tape machine, a twin-deck black cube, Laura said, ‘We're going to check out the CCTV. Your client can think about that as he sits in his cell.’
As she headed for the door, Pete just behind her, she heard a groan, and then the splash of the prisoner's vomit as he lost his battle with his stomach. From the curse that came from his rep, it seemed that he hadn't quite made it to the waste bin.
Laura stepped into the corridor and smiled at Pete. ‘That's one interview room out of action for a while.’
‘Do you think we should have waited?’ he asked. ‘Let him recover? He can't think straight.’
Laura shook her head. ‘The advice would have been the same, except the rep would have kept his shoes clean. I think I prefer it this way.’
‘So what now?’
Laura checked her watch. The cells were full, the others on the CRT working their way through the list, and so when they had finished with this prisoner, it would be time to move on to another.
‘Like I said, I'm heading out to the town hall, see if the cameras picked anything up. Maybe we'll get something more than midnight lovers.’
Pete scowled. The camera operators used to liven up their evenings by looking out for drunken couples snatching romance in alleys, just behind the bottle crates and dustbins, but two people had lost their jobs when the cameras missed an assault that put someone in a coma. Pete had been the one who had explained that to the victim's parents, and the memory wasn't a pleasant one.
‘And if we've nothing?’ he asked.
She joined him in a scowl. ‘Then he walks, like always.’
Laura felt her phone buzz. As she looked down, she saw that it was a text from Jack. ‘Coffee somewhere? Got some info for you.’
‘Got to go,’ she said to Pete. ‘Get him in a cell and write
up the interview summary. I won't be long.’
As she turned to walk away, the legal rep opened the door, his face white, his mouth set in a grimace. He glanced down towards his trousers. ‘Have you got a towel?’
Laura was smiling as she left.
Chapter Eleven
Rod Lucas had been to the hospital shop, and he looked up from his newspaper when he heard Abigail stir.
He checked his watch. He had been there for a couple of hours.
Abigail groaned and tried to roll over.
‘Miss Hobbs?’
She turned towards him and reached out. There was a bandage over one eye, and the other one looked swollen and red. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, sounding quiet and weak.
‘It's all right,’ he said, and took her hand. Her skin was cold and her hand felt brittle. ‘There's no need to move, Miss Hobbs. I'm a police officer.’
Abigail raised her head, and then she winced and lay back down again. ‘Am I still in the hospital?’ she asked, her Lancashire accent slowed down by the drawl of the countryside.
‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, his voice gentle and soothing. ‘You'll be home soon.’
She took a few short breaths, and then asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Someone set you a trap,’ he said.
She swallowed, and Rod could tell that she was thinking back to the events of the morning.
‘Tibbs? I could hear Tibbs. Is he all right?’ she asked.
He took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze, as if the action would make her stronger. ‘Tibbs is dead, Miss Hobbs.’
Abigail gave out a small cry as the events of the morning came back to her. She gripped his hand tightly as she realised what had exploded in front of her eyes.
He let her cry it out for a while, but when her quiet sobs died away, he asked gently, ‘Who would do that to you?’
He passed her a tissue, and as she wiped her nose, she replied, ‘I don't know. I've done nothing to harm anyone.’
‘No enemies?’
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. Rod took that as a no, but he wasn't too sure.
