by James Oswald
It’s not an explicit order. Shepherd’s not my boss, for one thing, and it’s also highly irregular. But it’s better than nothing.
‘I’ve always fancied going back to Edinburgh. Not really been since I graduated from uni a while back.’
‘And I doubt the tabloids would follow you up there.’ Shepherd gives me a businesslike smile that tells me we’re on the same wavelength. Or at least I hope that’s what it means. She’s really not my type.
‘Excellent.’ She pushes herself up and out of her seat with a fluid motion, interview over. ‘Just try not to tread on anyone’s toes while you’re there, eh?’
14
I sit in the CID room, mulling over what’s just happened, until the first detective comes back in. I always hated office politics, but now I’m stuck in the middle of it all again.
‘It’s Fairchild, isn’t it?’ The young man raises an eyebrow as he asks the question. I don’t recognise him, which goes to show how long it’s been since I really worked in this place, how many people have gone only to be replaced by new faces.
‘Yeah. Sorry. Know I shouldn’t be in here, but I needed to find a quiet place to think.’
He tilts his head in understanding, and I’m grateful to him for that. There’s only one way he could know my name, but he’s not giving me any vibes of judgement. Unlike the rest of the station.
‘I’ll get out of your way. Know how busy this place can get.’ I stand up from my old desk, strewn with the detritus of another detective’s work. What if it’s his?
‘Sam,’ he says as I step past him towards the door. ‘Sam Waddington. Detective Sergeant. Seems only fair, since I know all about you.’
I pause a moment, trying my best not to give him the eye the way so many boys have sized me up over the years. He’s OK, I guess. Anonymous, which is good in a detective. Average height and build, mousy hair that’s maybe thinning a bit on top. His eyes are brown, but piercing.
‘All about me?’ I shake my head. ‘I very much doubt that.’
I can see the start of his reply, the way he edges forward, mouth poised to open. But I’m not in the mood, and before he can say anything I’ve moved past him and out into the corridor. If I stopped, looked back, maybe there would be something. I’m not looking for something though, and certainly not here. Not him.
It takes me longer to find PC Eve than it should, mostly because I have to deal with snarky comments from anyone I ask. Eventually I find her in one of the interview rooms, alone and with some complicated-looking paperwork strewn across the table in front of her. She glances up as I knock on the half-open door, doesn’t smile, but doesn’t glower either.
‘I hear congratulations are in order. Going to be moving out of uniform soon.’
Now she grimaces at me, then picks up the nearest form. ‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s not so easy to get excited once you see the paperwork though. I thought it was bad enough filling in overtime sheets. Most of this makes no sense at all.’
It was a nightmare back when I moved from uniform to CID, and that was two parts of the same organisation. Secondment to the NCA means sort-of leaving the Met. I don’t want to think what a bureaucratic nightmare that might be.
‘You want any help? Can’t promise I’ll be much use, but I can try.’
For a moment I think she’s going to take me up on the offer, but she shakes her head and smooths the form out flat on the table in front of her again. ‘No. Reckon I’ll get it done by shift end. That is, unless you’re needing a lift somewhere?’
It’s tempting, but I’ve never been all that comfortable with being driven places anyway. ‘No. I was just going to let you know I’ll be flitting out of town soon. I had a chat with your new boss and we decided it was for the best. I can’t really do any police work while the press are hassling me, and that’s not going to die away anytime soon.’
If she’s happy about this, she keeps it from her face.
‘Look, Karen. What you said earlier. It’s all true. I’m sorry you got roped into this. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and I’ve met a few who really deserve it. You’ve helped me, though, and I appreciate that. I just wanted to wish you good luck in the new post. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be joining you, once the heat’s off.’
I slip out through the back door of the station, walk swiftly across the car park and then do my best to merge with the crowd in the next street along. It helps that it’s market day, the stalls doing a good trade despite the miserable weather. Hoodie up and backpack slung over my shoulder, I’m just another Londoner about her business, but I still keep an eye out for anyone following.
Without Karen to drive me home in a squad car, the journey across the city will take at least a couple of hours. I could save time by catching a bus, or even worse the Tube, but I’m in no great rush to get home. Chances are there’ll be at least one reporter and photographer camped outside my flat, although God only knows why. Tomorrow I’ll take the train back to Northamptonshire, go stay with my aunt until I’ve sorted out the next move. I’m beginning to wonder why I even bothered coming back here in the first place, except that I had to be here for the trial.
Much like the last time I walked this way, I realise my route takes me right past the hospital where Dan Jones is still being cared for. I never asked Shepherd if it would be OK to visit him, but then she never explicitly told me not to either. It’s not as if he’ll be able to tell me anything, but I feel a need to see him again, to remind myself of what’s going on, what started all this. Even if I’m not really sure what ‘this’ is. And it can’t hurt to have the most recent update on his prognosis if I’m going to try and speak to his mother.
It’s only as I push through the glass doors at the main hospital entrance that I realise I’m not going to be able to just swan up to the ICU. After the incident with the young woman, Anna, there’ll be a police guard on Jones, for one thing, and I don’t have a warrant card right now, so getting past reception won’t be easy either. Fortunately for me the atrium is busy and nobody notices me heading to the door to the stairwell. It has a security lock on it of course, and I don’t have the code, so I pretend to be responding to a text on my phone until a cleaner comes past, unlocks it and steps through. No point following right behind him, that would raise suspicion. Instead, I put my foot against the door to stop it from closing. A nervous count of thirty and then I push through.
The cleaner’s long gone, but I’m more worried about trying to remember what floor the ICU is on. There’s nothing on each landing apart from a number painted next to the door, and the corridors beyond each narrow glass pane all look the same. I’m fairly sure it was either six or seven, and take a chance with six because I’m too out of breath to climb another flight by then.
Luck’s on my side, and it only takes a few moments to get my bearings. There’s no police guard to be seen, and when I reach the isolation rooms and peer through the glass at Dan Jones, it’s as if nothing has changed in the days since I was last here. He’s still that sickly grey-brown colour, still swathed in bandages, still hooked up to machines doing most of his living for him, still unconscious.
‘Hey, Con. We must stop meeting like this.’
I’ve only been staring at the young man for a few moments, and yet somehow I’ve let myself zone out so much I haven’t noticed the junior doctor approach from the direction of the lift. Maggie Jennings still looks tired, but her smile’s genuine enough.
‘Mags. Hi.’ I turn to greet her, but stay at my vigil in front of the glass.
‘No update on our patient, I’m afraid. Didn’t know he was your case though.’ She joins me, standing perhaps a little closer than is comfortable, and we both peer through the window.
‘He’s not. Not really, anyway. I was the one who found him though.’
Maggie takes a while to digest this news, although I’m fairly certain I told her the last time we met.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘He’s in a deep coma. I’m no expert on neurology, but the chances of him ever regaining consciousness are slim. Given his injuries, and the state of him before they were inflicted, I’d be surprised if he ever wakes up, poor soul.’
Maggie reaches up and places a hand on the glass, fingers splayed. She’s a doctor working in the ICU and so presumably allowed to go into the isolation room if she wants to, and yet it feels as if she doesn’t dare.
‘You say the state of him before the injuries.’ My brain catches up with her words more slowly than I would like. Something about this place. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He’d been dosed with some kind of narcotic. Blood toxicology is similar to what we see with synthetic cannabinoid abuse, but there’s none of the other outward signs.’
I remember the addicts sprawled out on the benches in the park close by my flat, Mrs Feltham’s angry words. ‘Spice?’
‘Something like that, but nothing I’ve seen before. The analyst at the lab said it was more like a single dose used to anaesthetise and paralyse him. Probably what kept him alive while they were . . .’ She doesn’t finish the sentence, goes back to staring through the glass. The thought doesn’t bear pursuing, even if my mind wants to go down that horrible path. Numbed to the pain, paralysed as someone cuts you up. Was he conscious when it happened?
‘Hey, a bunch of us are getting together at the weekend if you fancy joining us?’ The words tumble out of Maggie’s mouth in a jumble, almost like a shy boy summoning up the courage to ask someone he fancies out on a date. It’s a welcome distraction from my darkest thoughts, and I almost say yes. Then I remember what’s happening in my life right now.
‘I’d love to, Mags, but I can’t. I’m actually just about to leave town again. Too much attention, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yeah. I saw the papers. Can’t be much fun.’
‘Just never piss off a tabloid hack is my advice. Or break a pap’s camera.’
‘Oh God. You didn’t, did you?’ Maggie turns to face me, her expression one of such utter horror I can’t do anything but laugh. Soon she’s laughing too, the both of us a pair of loons, and for an instant it’s almost a decade ago. Then just as quickly as the hysteria comes on, it’s gone, and we both of us look back through the glass at the comatose Dan Jones.
‘You’ve told the investigating team about the drugs in his system, I take it?’ I can’t think of anything else to say, the situation is too awkward.
‘Not me as such, but it’s in the medical report sent to the police, yes.’
‘I’ll chase it up. See if anyone’s looking into the drug angle.’ I take one last look at the young man, then finally turn away. ‘We’ll find out who did this to him, I promise.’
I’m pleasantly surprised to find there are no journalists or photographers camped outside my flat when I make it back to the apartment block. It’s almost as if they didn’t know I was coming home. The rain came on not long after I left the hospital, and now I’m soaked to the skin. All I want to do is get these dripping clothes off, warm up in the shower and pour myself a stiff drink. Sod the fact that it’s not even four in the afternoon yet.
The route to the concrete steps takes me past Mrs Feltham’s front door. I try not to be seen, but I’ve barely stepped past her flat before her voice booms out from behind me.
‘Con, girl. You look like you been thrown in the lake. Them fancy folka yours never teach you to find shelter when it’s rainin’?’
It’s not actually raining any more, just the memory of it keeping the air damp and misting my breath. Even so, I imagine great fat raindrops bouncing off my head, my face and my shoulders as I turn slowly to face her. I don’t think it would be possible to get any wetter than I already am.
‘Been avoiding people, Mrs F. I get stared at on the bus. Kids point and whisper.’
‘I read about it in that rag they try to call a newspaper. I wondered why all them paparazzi were still hounding you after, well, you know.’
A trickle of icy cold water drips from my matted hair. I can feel it work its way down the back of my neck and my spine. All the way to my tailbone.
‘I’m surprised they’re not still here, actually.’
‘They were here. One a’ them knocked on my door and asked where you were. Told them you’d gone out for lunch with a friend. Best look for you at the Green Man over on the high street.’ Mrs F raises her chin in the general direction. I wouldn’t drink in the Green Man if it was the last pub left open in London, and she knows that.
‘Thank you, Mrs F. You’re a star.’
‘They’ll be back. Mark my words. You get yourself inside and dried off now, ’fore they do, child. Got something on the stove for my boys. It’ll be ready in about an hour. I’ll bring you some up.’
I open my mouth to say that I’d be happy to come down and fetch it, but she waves me away with an impatient arm. ‘Go, child, before you catch your death!’
I do as I’m told, hearing the laughter in her voice. I can see the smile on her old face in my mind’s eye too. Maybe the stiff drink can wait, if there’s some of Mrs Feltham’s famously hot curry on offer instead.
The flat is cold, heating not set to come on for another couple of hours. I tap the override as soon as I get in, even though I know it’ll take a while for anything to happen. At least there’s plenty of hot water for a long shower, and soon enough I’m pulling on clean, dry clothes. I’ve almost finished draping the wet ones over the still-lukewarm radiators when there’s a knock at the door. I shove my hand in my pocket for my phone to check the time; surely it’s not an hour since I was talking to Mrs F yet? Only then do I realise it’s still on the bedside table. Fetching it I see two missed calls from DCI Bain, and a single line of text message.
Where are you? Eve will be at flat in half an hour.
The knock is more insistent this time, and backed up with a ‘Con? You in there?’ I hurry to the door and open it, unsurprised to see PC Eve standing there. Surprised to see DS Latham with her. He won’t actually look me in the eye, but I can see him gazing past me at the hallway with its damp clothes and general untidiness.
‘Boss says you need to come with us,’ Karen says. ‘Something he wants you to see.’
‘Something you shouldn’t be involved with at all.’ Latham’s voice drips with loathing. If he’s hoping to put me off, it’s having the opposite effect.
‘I’ll grab my coat,’ I say, and soon we’re down the stairs and climbing into a waiting squad car. I look back at Mrs F’s front door with a feeling of deep regret. The curry will have to wait.
15
Nobody tells me what Bain wants, and I’m expecting a drive back to the station across the city I’ve just walked through. It comes as something of a surprise then to be taken the short distance to the park instead. Darkness is falling now, and the street lights don’t help, casting shadows on the areas where I witnessed volunteers from the Church of the Coming Light gathering up the Spice addicts and taking them off to the shelter. It’s reassuring to see none of the zombie-like bodies here tonight. Less reassuring is the huddle of police officers and white-suited forensics technicians over by scraggly trees. One of them breaks from the group and comes over as we approach.
‘Where the fuck have you been all afternoon, Fairchild?’
I’m getting more used to Bain’s occasional brusqueness, but his coarse greeting puts me on edge. On the other hand, he doesn’t seem to know that I spent part of that time at the hospital. Should I tell him?
‘What’s going on? I thought I wasn’t meant to be involved in any police operations, sir.’
‘You’re not,
and yet somehow you manage to find a way. Come.’ He waves a hand for me to follow him, then leads me to the huddle of police officers. They’re standing a bit further into the trees, clustered around something on the ground.
‘You called in a report about some junkies here.’ Bain puts no inflection into his words, simply reporting it as fact. ‘I take it you come through here on your way home.’
‘Sometimes, yeah. I spoke to someone at the local station a few days back. Seems like this is the favoured spot for crashing out on Spice.’ I hold my hands out, palms up to the damp air. It’s not raining any more, but it will start up again soon enough. ‘Not exactly the nicest place for it, especially at this time of year. They don’t seem to care, mind you.’
‘Bloody nightmare stuff. Don’t think it’s what did for this poor sod though.’ Bain taps the shoulder of one of the forensic tech officers, who moves aside without a word. No one’s saying anything much, and as I step forward for a look, I can see why.
Hurrying by, you might think the body was just another Spice victim, passed out on the ground. He’s young, but then so many of them are. That’s the tragedy of it. There’s a stillness to this body that’s beyond even the addicts I saw earlier, and I can tell instantly that he’s dead, even before my eyes begin to process the grisly details. Like the fact that he’s naked from the waist up, and there’s a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be.
‘Jesus fuck.’
The ‘tsk’ of disapproval is so loud it breaks the horrific grip this scene has on me. Turning slightly, I see DS Latham glaring in my direction as if he’s never heard anything so blasphemous and shocking in his life. Poor wee soul, what’s he doing working for the police if a little light swearing upsets him? Maybe he thinks women should be more decorous. Seen but never heard.
‘Got a call from some local shelter. Found him when they were doing a sweep for any addicts passed out.’ Bain is unmoved by my cussing. ‘I take it he wasn’t here when you came through.’
