by TL Dyer
‘How’s it going?’ He points to his pals. ‘This is Christian, and this is Julia.’ And to us. ‘Sacha. Steve.’
I hold out my hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you both. How’s your shift?’
‘Good, yeah,’ Christian says, and Julia agrees. They’re both young and eager, and I wonder if this is their stepping stone into the job. I’ve got more respect for the ones that do this without pay than half of those getting top brass. It takes a different kind of strength to work the beat for no immediate gain. It would be a hell of a lot easier to stay at home and not bother.
‘Actually, pretty quiet so far,’ Jared says, looking down the street for some action to show the new kids. But our presence alone seems to have an effect, and most revellers pass by quietly.
‘Stick around long enough, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,’ Sacha says, checking her watch. ‘Give it another hour and you’ll be filling your boots.’
I clap my hands together. ‘And now that you’re taking over the shift, Jared, we’re code four.’
‘Jammy bastards,’ he says, at the same time as he draws a thumb down the corner of his mouth and shares a smirk with his crew. MaccyD’s getting its money’s worth from SEWP tonight, then. Never let it be said we don’t contribute to the local economy.
‘Guess we’ll see you guys later,’ he adds, looking at Sacha, but her sights are set on where we’re heading next.
I wait until we’ve put some distance between us and our colleagues to say, ‘Got a lot of time for that boy.’
‘Who? Jarhead?’
‘Be a right catch for someone.’ She doesn’t bite, but maybe that’s because she’s been snagged by the strip lights coming through the windows of McDonald’s. ‘Don’t you think?’
She pushes through the front door. The restaurant’s buzzing with a low hum of chatter and about half the seating is occupied. I’m probably the oldest one in here, including the staff behind the counter.
‘Think what?’ she says in answer to my question, but distracted by the self-service screen. She punches at the menu and scans the burgers.
‘Jared. He’s a top man.’
‘Course. What do you want?’
I order a cappuccino and pay. ‘My treat. You shout the next one.’
‘Shit, if I’d known that...’
I tell her to find a seat, and bring our drinks and her burger over once it’s ready. We get a few side glances from the customers, that’s nothing new. We also get the odd smile and greeting too, the pleasant side of wearing the uniform. Sacha eats quickly and we sit only for a few minutes before taking our coffees out to the street, glad to be away with no snarky comments this time about how we’re wasting taxpayers’ money and letting the town run about lawless while we take a ten-minute break.
‘What are you thinking?’ I say, the automatic doors sliding closed behind us. ‘Back on wheels?’
She scrunches up her nose. ‘Yeah. Shall we?’
‘Or would you rather go and hang with your buddy?’
‘What buddy?’ She looks at me, confused, then groans when her head catches up. ‘Fuck off, Fuller.’
‘What?’ I say on a laugh. ‘You could do worse.’
‘Can’t believe you’re matchmaking. Should I call you Cilla now?’
‘If you want.’
‘And I look like I need a bloke, do I?’
‘Jared’s not a bloke. He’s a really good lad.’
She laughs and shakes her head, but I mean it. We’ve both known Jared a long time. He’s excellent at his job and has a heart bigger than anyone else I’ve ever met. They’d be a good fit. Do I think she needs a man? Absolutely not. Do I think she needs someone or some thing at the end of a tough shift? Maybe, maybe not. Ultimately, I suppose, we’re all alone in this job. There are things I don’t tell Ange. Not necessarily to protect her from all that, but just ‘cause it’s easier not to have to repeat them.
Back in the car, my partner blasts the heaters to warm us up, turning them down again a minute later to a more comfortable level. We watch a small group tumble out of the Mayflower pub. There’s a little argy bargy, until one of them catches sight of our unit across the road, then they settle down quickly and move on. We wait until they’ve disappeared down the street, before Sacha backs out of the parking space and pulls up to the railway’s exit.
‘Tough call last night,’ she says, once we’re moving again.
‘Can’t win ‘em all.’ I tug at the seatbelt, which has got caught under the radio on my vest. ‘Did the sarge pat you on the head?’
She nods. ‘You?’
‘You deserve it, Sacha, I mean that. You did a sterling job.’
‘Pull the other one.’
She takes us down the main road, alongside the River Usk and past the university. The radio bleats, but with calls that are being dealt with, nothing new coming in yet. We’re in that eerie bizarre space of waiting for something awful to happen and then we’ll be needed. There’s no call-out for something good.
‘So, witnesses drew a blank?’ I ask, though I already know. I saw the statements Sacha took last night, and the sarge mentioned it in the pre-shift briefing earlier, but the two of us haven’t had a chance to talk about it since.
‘Most arrived after the event,’ she says. ‘Lorry driver watched her fishtail and flip, but was too far back to see what happened. Didn’t recall seeing any other cars on the road. But you know what it’s like, you don’t expect anything to happen in front of you, and when it does, it’s over before you’ve clocked the details.’ She turns right on Lower Dock Street, heading for George Street, which will take us past the station. ‘I hate it when there’s no good reason, though. I mean, if it’s drink or drugs, or doing her makeup, playing on her phone...’
I know what she means. A good reason would be something wrong with the car, a collision with another vehicle, a heart attack. All equally a bloody waste, but unavoidable, to a point.
‘You did a great job, Steve. To stay with her like that. Must have been pretty shit, mate.’
I look out of the side window as we pass the station, turning up the volume on the radio to catch what’s coming in. We fall silent, both listening to the static as Sacha takes us past the City Royal Hospital, and a right, up the hill alongside Belle Vue Park.
‘She was training to be a veterinary nurse,’ I say, peering through the trees into the black darkness of the park. It looks empty tonight.
‘Was she?’ Sacha says, and tuts. ‘Such a shame. So young.’
I huff a dry laugh. ‘We say that, don’t we? Like age makes the difference between a decent person and a bad.’
‘She wasn’t a decent person?’
‘God yeah, she was. Could have been. I mean...’ We’re past the park now and I peer down into the estates as we pass by, wondering what exactly it is I mean and why I brought it up. ‘Did Smithy tell you about that little scrote we banged up last week? Twelve years old.’
‘Twelve?’ she says sadly, more like it’s a damn shame than a shock.
‘Not even a teenager.’
‘What’d he do?’
I groan. ‘You know. Gang of lads on bikes shouting their mouths off. We offered some advice they didn’t want. This kid, no bigger than a bar of Imperial Leather, calls Smithy a few choice words before gobbing on my shoes. Gave him a warning, and he does it again. Then hoofs Smithy a good one in the shin.’
Sacha frowns, but she’s seen, heard and experienced all this before. ‘It’s the only thing they know, some of them.’
‘Yeah, but you try telling me his life is worth more than Anna’s. A bright, intelligent, caring, beau—’ I break off, huffing a sigh to cover my mistake. ‘You wouldn’t want to bet your retirement fund we’ll never see that kid again. I can practically map out his future right here and now. And that place there features heavily in it.’ I stare at the law courts on our left.
‘Come on, Steve, that’s not the way it works and you know it. You can’t go comparing like that.
I’m not disagreeing with where he might end up, but you know where he’s probably come from too; what he’s used to round his house. There’s no easy fix for those things. So Anna was one of the lucky ones. That doesn’t mean her life was any more important than Shin Kicker’s.’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying... Ah sod it, I don’t know what I’m saying. Ignore me.’
‘Alright.’
She’s smirking when I glance at her. I laugh and throw up my hands.
‘I’m just saying, in another few years, the chances are it’ll be more than his foot doing the damage. And if he’s not shy about assaulting officers now, he won’t be then either.’
‘Quite right, PC Fuller.’
I shake my head at her teasing, but what she’s really doing is letting me know that’s enough of that. She’s young in the job to already recognise that trying to make sense of these things will only spin you in circles. Better to handle them as they come up and resist fighting them.
I’m about to make some quip about her filling Dalston’s shoes when a call comes in. Domestic. St Mary Street. We glance at each other as I radio that we’re close and on our way. All we have to do is navigate the one-way system and we’re outside the terraced house of Cath Bridges only minutes after she’s made the call. Not efficient. Just luck.
Sacha finds somewhere to park halfway down the street, and we walk our way up to the same residence that both of us have visited more times than we’ve got fingers for. Mrs Bridges is in her late sixties and has learning difficulties. As does her forty-three-year-old toy boy husband, Patrick. They met eight years ago on a walking holiday in Snowdonia laid on by the Come Together volunteer organisation they’re both members of. They married a year later in the grounds of Tredegar House down the road, but soon after found that true love wasn’t all bells and whistles.
Sacha knocks on the door, and as we both stare at the glass pane waiting for Mrs Bridges to answer, she mutters under her breath, ‘He came home from the club later than he said he would. They argued. He threatened her with divorce. She threatened him with a knitting needle. Now he’s stormed out and won’t answer his phone, and she’s worried something’s happened to him and he’s gone for good.’
Beyond the frosted glass, a shadow makes its way down the hallway. Enough time for me to turn to my colleague and say, ‘Now, now, that’s not the way it works, PC Sanderson. We should work each call on its own merits. Maybe this time the knitting needle was more than a threat.’
Sacha opens her mouth to respond, but the key is already turning in the lock.
Cath Bridges stands before us in a pink quilted satin dressing gown, of which she worries the piping down its edges with her fingers, wild scarlet hair a distress beacon, and tears staining blotchy swollen cheeks. She looks like a child who’s done something she shouldn’t and now her life might as well be over.
The second the door’s wide enough, she declares, ‘I think he’s done it this time. I really think he’s gone and left me.’
‘How about you pop the kettle on, eh, Cath?’ Sacha says, as we step inside. ‘And PC Fuller here will give Paddy a ring on his mobile. I’m sure he’s fine.’
A sparkle of amusement passes fleetingly across Sacha’s face as Mrs Bridges leans in and lands a sodden cheek on her shoulder. I smile and dig out my phone from my pocket, taking it through to the sitting room and clucking a greeting to Ross Kemp the budgie on my way past his cage. The glare he gives me tells me I’m still not a friend no matter how many times I drop in for a visit or click my tongue at him. Still, it’s an improvement. He once flew at the side of his cage at the sight of me, violently squawking in a high-pitched rage, and not relenting until I’d left the room. First copper-bashing budgie I’ve ever met. He hasn’t done that since, instead settling for something closer to resigned tolerance. But he’s got a mouth like a sewer when he gets going, so I cross to the far end of the room to make the call, over by Cath’s miniature cacti collection lined up across the windowsill.
Despite my ribbing of Sacha at the door, she was right. We both know how this goes. I’ve even got Patrick ‘Paddy’ Bridges’ number in my contacts to allow for a more efficient process.
He answers on the second ring. ‘Cath?’
‘No, Paddy, mate, it’s PC Fuller. Wanna tell me what this is all about?’
‘Bolshy bastard!’ the budgie squawks from the other side of the room, at the same time as Paddy’s sigh obliterates my ear drum. It’s like being attacked from all sides. I turn my back on Kemp.
‘I dunno. She’s just... I don’t think Cathy loves me any more, PC Fuller.’
‘Come on now. That’s nonsense.’
‘Nah, nah. She told me. She wanted me gone. Out of the house. Gone. Just gone.’
‘Have you had a drink tonight, mate?’
‘Big breasts! Beautiful breasts!’
Paddy mutters something indecipherable, followed by, ‘A couple. Yeah, a couple.’
‘Right.’
‘I forgot the time, see. And she gets... Cathy, she gets jealous, you know? Thinks I’m after a woman on the side. But I’m not. I told her, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not like that.’
‘Course not.’
‘Cocksucker!’
‘Cause I love her, you know? But she don’t love me, Officer. Not any more.’
‘Listen, mate,’ I say, giving Kemp the death stare as I sit on the arm of the sofa. ‘We’re here with Cath now and she’s worried sick. You know she doesn’t mean those things she says.’
‘I dunno. She sounded like she meant it this time.’
‘Why don’t you make your way home and then we can talk about it properly? She just wants you home safe, Paddy, and we can’t leave until we’re sure you are.’
‘Filthy bastards! Cocksucking—’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,’ Paddy repeats down the line, his voice distorting, mouth too close to the phone.
‘Come on now. Cath needs you here, home with her. She’s afraid on her own.’
There’s a long silence, broken only by the shudder of his exhale down the line. ‘Is she still mad, Officer?’
‘No, mate. She’s not mad, she’s upset. She wants you back safe.’
‘Want some? You want some?’
‘Cause I’d do nothing like what she said. I don’t want anybody else, you know?’
‘Course not.’
‘She’s all I got. But she drives me crazy when she gets so mad, starts accusing me of all this shit I haven’t done and...’ He mumbles off into the distance, still talking but away from the phone.
‘Paddy, listen, all of this is normal, okay? These things need a bit of give and take, that’s all. Make your way home, alright, mate? We won’t leave Cath alone until you get here.’
‘Alright, Officer. Alright.’
‘You filthy cu—’
‘So you’re heading back, Paddy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. We’ll see you in a bit.’
I get up from the sofa, about to disconnect the call when I catch that Paddy’s still talking.
‘Well I might... I might be a few minutes.’
‘Why’s that, mate? Where are you?’
‘No, no, no. I gotta drop by the shop, you know?’
‘What for?’ I ask, thinking more booze will only fuel another call-out later.
‘Want some? Chew on this!’
‘Just, I dunno, get her some flowers or something. The sort she likes. What are they... Carnations or something. Yeah, carnations. Something like that anyway.’
‘She’ll appreciate that, Paddy. That’s a great idea, mate.’
I hang up the phone, wondering if these are the kinds of call-outs I’ll remember in later years once I’ve retired, or whether they’ll get buried under a whole load of other stuff. Because the truth is, while some of the others will roll their eyes when another call from the Bridges and their potty-mouthed budgie comes in, might even do their best to avoid it, I’d ra
ther have a thousand call-outs like this than the one I had last night.
‘Hey Kemp,’ I say as I pass the cage on my way to the kitchen. ‘Take a chill pill, fella. Remember who you’re talking to.’
He shuffles side to side on his perch, cocks his green bonce like he’s coming in for a head butt or laying down a challenge. As I leave the room, I snort a soft laugh at his pathetic attempts to rile me. But halfway down the hall, he gets in the last word.
‘Motherfucker!’
*
I don’t know what makes me drive past. Curiosity, I suppose. I saw the address in the file and happen to know where Wood Crescent is. Nice suburb in a dead-end street. The sort of place that if I’d thought about it at all, I would have imagined Anna lived. Detached houses with neat, tree-lined lawns and paved driveways. Four bedrooms, at least. It looks like a pleasant neighbourhood. Suburbia at its finest.
I bring the Focus alongside the kerb across the street, and wonder at the light on in the sitting room behind closed curtains. It’s 6.30 in the morning. Someone up for work or school? I doubt that, not right now, not today. More likely it’s someone who can’t sleep. It’s too early in the day to knock and pay my condolences. Freddie would add unnecessary, too. Freddie would say leave them to their grief, don’t you think they’ve seen enough coppers? And Freddie would be right.
*
17.04.19 15:35
Stokes: Alright, Gorgeous, just got your message. Who is it you need?
Anna: The usual. Where are you?
Stokes: Town.
Anna: So have you got any or what?
Stokes: Depends who you want. I’m with Billy, with Charlie. Take your pick, babe.
Anna: Don’t be a dick.
Stokes: You know you want to. Just like last time. Billy’s upped his game, he’s a real gent, swears he’ll give you the time of your life.
Anna: Forget it. I’ll ask someone else.
Stokes: Alright, keep your muff on. Yeah, I’m with Mary too. But she won’t stick around for long, you’ll have to be quick.
Anna: Where are you?
Stokes: JFS. Fifteen minutes.
The text messages, both these and the ones to Brad, were dated Wednesday night, the night of Anna’s death. The ones to Stokes were first, then Brad’s hours later. The sort of messages maybe Anna wouldn’t want her parents to see. Thinly concealed arrangements to buy weed. A meeting with a boyfriend or lover, maybe the boyfriend she was returning from seeing when she flipped the car. The sort of messages that might taint a parent’s memory of their child.
