Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  Jason studied the line of Amy’s body, surveying the fragile tension, deciding how likely it was he was about to get a bullet in his skull.

  “You don’t know how to use that,” Martin said. “You can’t shoot me. Put it away.”

  Amy showed no sign of moving, as still as a sentry marine, waiting.

  Jason wouldn’t let her wait any longer. He jumped, hanging off Martin’s arm with his full weight, a bolt of agony through his broken arm. The killer cried out as he bowed forward, before yanking his arm out of Jason’s grip and holding his hand up to strike.

  A gunshot sliced through the air and Martin, surprise painted on his face, tipped over the balcony. There came the crash of metal and breaking glass. Jason struggled to his feet to peer over.

  Martin lay dazed in Amy’s skip, blood blossoming over his left shoulder. Jason watched him struggle feebly for a moment before he passed out. With an expression of grim satisfaction, Jason turned back to Amy.

  She held the gun at arm’s length, staring at it like it was possessed, and slowly slid down to the patio tile. “I shot him,” she whispered. “I shot him.”

  Jason stumbled over to kneel on the ground before her, holding out his hand. “Amy, I need you to give me the gun.” His voice was a rasp, as if he’d been gargling with knives, and he felt the burn in his throat from where Martin had gripped him.

  Amy handed over the gun mutely, obedient like a child, and Jason wiped it on his T-shirt before setting it carefully on the tile away from them. The tremor in her hand spread to her arm and soon she was shaking, body racked with silent sobs, the enormity of what had just occurred hitting her all at once.

  Jason drew her close with his left arm, and she tucked her face into his neck, trembling against him, clinging. “Outside, outside...no...please...” she muttered to him, but he shushed her, letting go for a minute to fish out his phone.

  “Bryn, the killer’s at Amy’s.” He took a breath. “I shot him.”

  Chapter Fifty: Nothing But the Truth

  Bryn arrived at the scene of the crime and, for the first time, hated his job.

  The cordon around the house had already drawn gawkers from the general public and press alike, and the ambulance stationed outside with its muted flashing light didn’t help. As he passed the back of the ambulance, he saw a protesting figure on the trolley, connected to a drip on one side and handcuffs the other, with two uniforms on the door. Alive, then. More’s the pity.

  He approached the door wearily. He should be thrilled with this arrest, the end to so much heartache, but all he could think about were the implications for a young man he’d grown fond of. Ex-cons who shot people went down for a very long time. Could they make an argument for self-defence? Shooting anyone who wasn’t waving a rocket launcher was considered disproportionate these days. And who exactly brought an illegal handgun to the party?

  Bryn didn’t even want to consider what this would do to Amy. He had finally started to see a change in her, letting someone in to take care of those things she just couldn’t keep hold of, like cleaning her clothes and eating regular meals. If Jason went back to prison...

  Amy’s flat was crawling with police officers, evidence markers highlighting a trail of blood down the corridor. As he entered, Bryn heard the unmistakeable sound of Jason’s raised voice and sighed. He’d hoped to avoid this kind of confrontation.

  “She’s not going anywhere! I don’t care if it’s a crime scene. She’s going to stay here and drink her bloody tea,” Jason growled at the poor uniformed officers over his shoulder, his left hand wearing a metal bracelet and the officer dithering over what to do with its right counterpart.

  “He’s not going to do a runner.” Bryn drew all eyes in the room. “Are you?”

  Jason raised his chin, defiant to the last—and revealing the red raw scrapes and developing bruises tattooing his neck. Self-defence then.

  “Amy isn’t going anywhere,” Jason rasped, voice broken but fierce in its intensity. “She wasn’t even there!”

  He jerked his head towards the sofa and Bryn finally noticed her there, ensconced in a nest of blankets with a mug of tea in her hands.

  She was staring into space, a fine tremor running through her. But then she looked up at him, eyes wide as she reached out a hand to cling to the hem of Jason’s shirt. “Don’t take him. It was—”

  “A struggle. On the balcony. The gun went off.”

  The words were short and clipped, and every good policeman’s instinct in Bryn’s body flared, telling him the boy was a liar. But then he saw the way Amy looked at him, lost and yet painfully grateful, and Bryn understood. He understood all too well what lengths Jason would go to for Amy, and confronting a serial killer was barely the start of it.

  “You need to come down the station to answer a few questions,” Bryn said reluctantly.

  “Amy stays,” Jason said, hard steel in his voice that reminded Bryn that this boy had run with a gang, done time, taken down a murderer with a broken arm—whether he’d struck the final blow or not.

  “She’ll need to give a statement.” Bryn was unwilling to relent on that, at least. If they did this by the book, they would all be above scrutiny. But that would mean psychiatrists and assessments and the disruption of this fragile shell of a life that was all that was holding Amy together.

  Amy looked up at him with imploring eyes. “You will take care of him.”

  Bryn hesitated. But Jason saved him, suddenly switching to calm, even tones to soothe the wounded animal on the sofa. “Amy, I’m under arrest. I’ve gotta go explain myself, haven’t I?”

  She slowly nodded but continued to stare at Bryn as if he’d just taken a hammer to her beloved computer.

  “When you’re done with your questions, he’s coming back here,” she said, apparently oblivious to the potential consequences of being arrested. Jason merely smiled. Bryn nodded to the uniform officer, who awkwardly removed the handcuffs and shuffled round to look up at Jason.

  “Jason Carr, you are under arrest for illegal possession of a firearm, illegal discharge of a firearm, and unlawfully and maliciously inflicting grievous bodily harm.” The charges were drawn from the officer’s lips like the solution to a particularly challenging puzzle. It wasn’t every day you arrested a man for shooting a serial killer in Cardiff.

  However, as he moved on to the familiar right to remain silent, he picked up speed and confidence. “You do not have to say anything. But you may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” At the end of his spiel, the officer looked at Bryn like a child ready for a lollipop. Bryn shot him a withering look.

  But Jason was smiling at him, despite his bruises and the way he gingerly held his right arm, with lines of tension through his body. Bryn should get him to A&E sooner rather than later, though he’d be damned before he let him share an ambulance with the bastard outside.

  “Go on,” Jason said, grinning. “I know you want to.”

  It took Bryn a moment to work out what the kid was saying, before he rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh.

  “Take him away, boys.”

  * * *

  Jason was the most-photographed man in Wales. While the Job Centre Creep hid behind the ambulance doors, Jason had to face a dozen flashbulbs outside Amy’s house and again at the cop shop.

  At least he didn’t have to wait long for his interview. Owain entered the room, a man beside him who Jason didn’t know. Jason was immediately uneasy—where was Bryn? Despite his strained relationship with the older detective, he’d been relying on his level head when dealing with this situation. And Bryn knew Amy, knew she had to be kept away from the world of cells and interview rooms and grim unsmiling detectives.

  The unfamiliar man sat across from Jason, Owai
n leaning forward to start the recording device against the wall. No tapes—Amy would be impressed. No doubt she’d have acquired the file before he got home.

  “Interview commenced at 19:40 on 25th November 2013 Detective Superintendent Roger Ebbings and Detective Sergeant Owain Jenkins present,” Owain rattled off. A super? Jason was moving up in the world.

  “You’ve waived your right to counsel, son—is that right?” Roger had a soft Swansea accent, but there was a hard edge lurking beneath. Jason shrugged his left shoulder.

  “Don’t need it, do I?” he said easily, but his heart started to beat a tattoo in his chest. Shit, was he being a moron here? Or did demanding a lawyer look suspicious? He couldn’t afford his own, and he never entirely trusted appointed lawyers to be on his side. Bored jobsworths, most of them.

  Roger nodded. “Your choice. Tell us what happened.”

  Jason carefully laid out how he’d come to Amy’s house, how he’d followed the trail of blood and how he’d been jumped on the balcony.

  “And then he pulled a gun,” he said, voice steady. “I tried to grab for it. It went off, see. And then he fell over the edge.”

  “Why would he start using a gun now?” Owain said, sounding more curious than concerned. Jason resisted the urge to jump across the table and shake him.

  “I don’t know,” Jason said, with a touch of hostility. But then he thought of Amy, curled up in his arms and shaking, because she’d dared to cross a line to save his miserable life.

  Jason took a breath. “Maybe he knew we were after him. Maybe he got desperate.”

  Owain leaned forward, poised to ask another, when Roger interrupted. “We might never know,” Roger said, and Jason resisted the urge to laugh in relief.

  They believed him. Thank fuck, they believed him.

  Chapter Fifty-One: Hearth

  “I worked it out,” Amy said, with a note of triumph. “Before he arrived.”

  She hadn’t moved from the sofa, tucked against Jason’s side as he rested his good arm over her shoulder. Bryn and Owain had to make their own tea.

  “Martin,” Jason spat, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Bryn frowned. “You know him?”

  “It was the Job Centre,” Amy said, savouring the feeling of all the pieces sliding into place. “We were so concerned with where they worked and who they knew there that we overlooked the fact that they all had new jobs. Melody had the postcode for the place on her phone. The credit card on the ticket machine confirmed it.”

  “What about Carla Dirusso?” Owain asked.

  Amy shrugged, blanket sliding off her shoulder. “The hospital? It would be easy enough to find out.” She would run the data when she had time. When Bryn needed it for court. When Jason wasn’t just back from the police station and A&E (again) and she could stop checking he was really here. “He matches the sketches and the profile. He came after Jason when he recognised him at the train station.” Her voice shook on the words, and Jason squeezed her arm, silently supporting her.

  “He was worried that you’d recognised him, like he’d recognised you,” Owain said, nodding to himself.

  But Amy shook her head, still turning over the facts in her mind. “He knew he didn’t, because we didn’t come after him. Jason went to the Job Centre this morning and didn’t say anything to him. There must be another reason for it.” Amy frowned, struggling to connect the dots. She was tired. Fighting for your life would do that to a person.

  “Maybe he wanted to use me to get to Carla,” Jason said.

  Amy looked up at Jason questioningly. “Why would he seek out Carla? She rejected him. She never knew he existed.”

  Jason smiled at her. “Because he loves her. Or he thinks he does, which is as good as. People do stupid shit for people they love. Including killing a bunch of girls and coming after tough ex-cons.” He removed his arm from her shoulder to flex it, showing off an impressive bicep.

  Amy giggled, slightly hysterical.

  He was real. He was here.

  * * *

  Jason measured the last segment of hallway for the new carpet and noted it down on his bit of paper. Amy had offered her iPad for the task, but he liked the feel of pencil on paper when measuring. It was reassuringly familiar, and God knows he needed some of that.

  The news reports had been as dramatic as expected, describing the confrontation at the home of the “private investigator” as if it had been a high-speed car chase through the city centre. However, his mother had dutifully framed the front page of the Echo to put up in the kitchen, and Jason was resigned to it being dinner table conversation for the next year.

  He’d called Teresa, and she had listened in silence to his story, with only a few telltale hitches in her breathing. She’d thanked him for what he’d done and tentatively wondered if they might get a drink some time. He’d told her no, that he was still caught up in this investigation and it wouldn’t be fair on her, and she said she understood. He liked to think they’d parted friends, but they’d never really been friends before and he couldn’t see them keeping in touch.

  Jason was both relieved and saddened that the gun was gone. Bryn had taken him to one side and reminded him that this wasn’t an episode of The Wire and if he ever found him carrying a concealed firearm, there would be hell to pay. Also, he didn’t think that any sort of weapon around Amy was a good idea. Jason had agreed with his eyes, despite his nonchalant denial.

  Amy wasn’t yet back to her usual self. She had been avoiding going to bed, catching naps on the sofa instead, and burying herself in lines of code. Jason had managed to feed her, but only if the food was placed directly in front of her with hints that it was getting cold at regular intervals.

  At least she didn’t have to testify in court. Jason had identified himself as principle witness and Amy would only be required to submit a written statement, as Bryn declared her a victim who required the protection of anonymity, and the judge had agreed.

  Jason had never known anyone like Amy. It seemed that most of the time she just didn’t care what happened to her. Meals, sleep, changing clothes—it could all be happening to someone else, a remote person who she didn’t particularly like.

  He returned to the living room, where she was sat in front of Ewan, busily typing away. The rhythm of her keystrokes was almost soothing, a tapping lullaby, and he sat on the sofa to watch her for a while. Amy was never still, but she was never entirely in motion. It was as if her energy was all constrained inside her, only released for dire need or the thrill of the case or an exciting piece of coding. She was otherwise inert, uncaring, a lifeless doll.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Amy did care—he saw that in the way her eyes strayed to his arm, how she wanted him to sit down with her and take tea to make sure he rested. He’d soon learned that he didn’t really have working hours and he was still seeing just as little of his mother and sister as he had been at the height of their investigation. He missed sitting across from his mam in their little kitchen, talking over the day with a cup of tea. He’d have to sound out how Amy felt about her coming over for dinner.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Jason looked up, startled to see Amy’s chair turned towards him as she studied his face. “Nothing much,” he said, hurriedly dredging up a neutral subject. “Dylan thinks the bike will be ready for the road soon.”

  “You’re not ready for the bike,” she reminded him, looking pointedly at his arm. The surgeon had decided he wouldn’t need an operation, but his struggle with Martin had undone all the healing accomplished so far and he had to start the wait from scratch. Another five weeks before he could ride his beauty down the street. He could hardly contain his excitement and earned another look from Amy.

  “What are you up to?” He tried to peer around her to look at the monitor.

  S
he gestured vaguely at the lines of code. “Trying to commandeer our killer’s private server. He’s not using it and I can run it better than he ever could.”

  Jason shook his head. “Back to the wrong side of the law, eh?” It wasn’t that he disapproved; he just had a hard time picturing Amy as a career criminal.

  Amy laughed at him, a small puff of air over lips, before returning to her work.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Please,” she said, and he went to make another round of toast.

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Rosie Claverton grew up in Devon, daughter to a Sri Lankan father and a Norfolk mother, surrounded by folk mythology and surly sheep. She moved to Cardiff to study medicine and adopted Wales as her home. Her short film “Dragon Chasers” aired on BBC Wales in Autumn 2012. Currently exiled to London, she lives with her journalist husband and their pet hedgehog.

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  ISBN-13: 9781426898334

  BINARY WITNESS

  Copyright © 2014 by Rosie Claverton

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth

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