‘They said, though it looks bad, it’s not actually that structurally serious. Part of the front of the building is damaged and there is a lot of smoke and water damage, but the building itself is sound.’
‘Great. So, we can go back in?’
‘The building’s been cleared; I didn’t say you had.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. Aaron.’
‘They’re going to put a couple of uniforms on the front to protect the building for the rest of the evening. Mutual Aid has been requested and is on its way over to help with the public order that’s taking over, not just in the city but spreading county wide.’
Mutual Aid was us asking for policing assistance from other forces in the face of this public order outbreak we were dealing with. It was common practice and we provided assistance to our colleagues whenever needed. ‘How long before we can get back in?’
‘How long before you get cleared by the paramedic?’
‘What are you, my father?’
‘Are you going to let him know? He’s bound to have seen this on the news.’
I sighed. ‘Yes, I’ll do that now.’ I picked up my phone. Aaron was right. Dad would be worried. He would have seen it on the news. I tapped out a brief text. Aaron glared at me. ‘What?’
‘Not a phone call?’
‘We’re busy. Have you seen what’s happening around us? We need to get a move on, Aaron. If I phone him, we’ll get into an awkward and uncomfortable discussion that’ll last twice as long as it would need to.’
‘So why don’t you go see her?’
‘You really are channelling him today aren’t you?’ I snapped. I’d been through enough today without talking with Aaron or my father about my sister.
‘I don’t understand why you don’t talk to your dad about it, Hannah. He’s your dad and she’s your sister. He wants to talk to you about it, but you avoid it and then you avoid him. Avoiding doesn’t help you.’
‘It’s helping me just fine.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Can we get on with the job we have here?’
The paramedic treating me had insisted I be checked out at A&E for the effects of smoke inhalation. Apparently it could be pretty lethal.
It took another couple of hours for the fire service to allow everyone back into the building and by then light really wasn’t available. The rest of the staff who had stayed had stomped round in circles to stave off the cold that the dwindling light brought with it as they’d waited to gain entry.
The ambulances had long gone and so, after several hours of being assessed, I’d made it back inside.
The lower part of the station was not in any state to be used. Everything was sodden, and that included computers. Luckily, everything was backed up on the force server, so was still accessible by those computers that were still working.
Once inside, I made a beeline for the kettle. No work was going to get done until I had a warm drink in my hand. Then we had to get our heads together for a few hours before I sent everyone home for a few hours’ sleep. The frustration was rattling around inside me, making me twitchy. Not only could we not bring in this offender but he was also setting off a chain reaction within the city. If it wasn’t contained soon, it could very easily spread out to the rest of the country, as we had seen happen on past occasions with the London riots being a prime example. Nottingham had felt more than a ripple from those. This was already a disaster but had the potential to scale up and that was a sight I really didn’t want to see. This killer was responsible for enough already. We had to stop him and we had to stop him now.
92
Isaac sat at home, watching the television, shocked by what he was seeing. This wasn’t what he wanted.
The television flashed images of flickering orange and angry sounds. Newscasters shouting to be heard over crowds who were screaming about police incompetence and loss of life. Missiles thrown indiscriminately. Bottles filled with petrol, with their instantaneous effect, bricks, and empty bottles; shearing glass, shards meant to slice.
He looked at the screen.
Shocked.
Mouth ajar.
Isaac listened to the reporter talking about the growing discord. How social media was a tool in spreading the word and growing the numbers of people out on the streets. She used words he didn’t understand. Hashtags. Twitter and Facebook. He barely used his mobile phone for texting and he’d only done that so he could keep in touch with Em. She’d preferred to text rather than talk. It was something she could do when time was short and he would rather have that contact than none at all. She’d been the one to talk him into buying a mobile phone. When she was a child she’d wheedled at him for her own phone because everyone at school was getting them. Although he didn’t believe in getting things for that reason, a phone seemed sensible when she sat him down that evening and talked to him about the pros of having it. Of being able to keep in touch with her when she went out. Of having that constant link with her. If he was ever worried, he could phone or text her. Looking back now, Isaac could see she had played on his fears for her safety. Like any typical teenager, she was not infallible to being manipulative but he could see the sense in the argument and had bought her one. After giving in to her, he’d had to buy himself one so he could text her if needed. It was easier than phoning her. Especially when she was younger. When she didn’t want to be hanging out on phone calls with her dad all the time. She could throw a text back out at him and she knew he would be happy she was there.
Now, he looked at the screen and didn’t understand how technology meant to progress and help lives was causing so much destruction.
‘It’s his fault you know.’ Connie was stood in the doorway behind him. Always behind him.
‘What?’
‘This. It’s his fault.’ She walked into the room. Watching events unfold on the television as she moved. The flashing images reflecting in her eyes. More life mirrored in her eyes from the television screen than actually being lived through them, he thought as he studied her.
‘Whose fault?’
‘The killer who’s poisoning everyone. That’s where this started. All this. It’s his fault.’
Isaac felt those words like a physical body blow.
93
This wasn’t what he had wanted. It was supposed to go as planned – but this was as far outside the plan as you could get. The mirroring in Connie’s eyes struck him as ironic and he couldn’t turn away from her. All the action was on the screen in front of him but it was his petite and withdrawn wife who was mesmerising him now as the carnage that played out on the streets outside seemed to dance on within her.
Connie on the other hand, could not look away from the local news. The ticker tape at the bottom of the screen constantly updated the new events that were occurring, when the reporter could not keep up. Her eyes simply shone. Her mouth set in a grim, angry line. Anger mirroring that of the people on the screen. She was visibly vibrating with it.
He rubbed his jawline. Felt the bristles from his chin against his palm.
Connie stretched her arms out, fists clenched. ‘Can he not see what he is doing? Is this what he wants? Complete breakdown.’ She sat on the edge of the seat at the side of him and the spell he’d been wrapped in as he watched her was broken.
‘Maybe he didn’t intend for this to happen. It looks pretty independent to me.’
She railed on him. ‘How can you say that? How?’ She stood again and turned to face him. Isaac hoped his guilt didn’t show. ‘Look at the television, will you? Look what is happening. How can you terrify people and not expect them to react?’
‘Connie?’
She grabbed the television remote control from the arm of his chair and turned the volume right up. He wanted to cover his ears. The shouting of the people, the shop alarms going off, the reporter shouting above it all to be heard, all in the confines of their small living room. Closed in.
‘Look at it. Really look, you foolish old man.’ Sh
e was yelling at him. More words than they’d spoken in so long and yet they were words of anger.
The sounds were bouncing and oscillating in his head.
‘What if Em were still alive? What then? Would you still be so indifferent then, if her safety were in question, would you? What if Em were out there?’
94
It had been an incredibly long shift. I had lost track of how many hours had been spent at the office today but it still wasn’t long enough. However, my batteries weren’t charged sufficiently and neither were the rest of the team’s. I had to let them go and get some rest before they collapsed of exhaustion.
The emotion of the death of Bridgette York and added stress of the subsequent ongoing riots, the risk of their own lives with the firebombing of the station on top of the workload of the case was too much to ask a person to deal with. I’d sent them all home for some much-needed sleep.
I plumped up the cushion on the sofa a couple of times and leaned back on it, my feet up. A glass of red wine sat on the table beside me, already half drunk, along with the painkillers I’d taken for the pounding that was going on within the scar in my arm. It didn’t feel healed. There shouldn’t still be this much pain. I was lucky that my GP was understanding and prescribed me the pain pills, knowing that it troubled me so much and that I had an occupation that required my full concentration and not the amount of distraction the arm injury gave me. Slamming into the corner of the wall hadn’t helped.
The pills weren’t taking the edge off the pain, so I was hoping a glass or two of wine was going to help me sleep.
I pulled the newspapers from the table and spread the first one across my knee. It was easy to find Ethan’s byline, as his article was front page. Where he always wanted to be.
I reread it. Then reread it again.
Although it was one of his more balanced reports, and he hadn’t directly attributed the death of Bridgette to the police, it didn’t stop clear of hinting where the blame might lie.
I slugged the rest of the wine and topped up the glass again with the bottle I’d brought into the living room with me and dragged the next newspaper to my knee.
I reread all of Ethan’s bylines from the start of the investigation.
How could he do this, knowing I was heading up this case? Knowing what I’d been through. What we’d been through as a team.
I knew Catherine had been reading these and she hated every word, as much as I did, and even though she didn’t know about our relationship she still held me to account for not closing this case and for allowing this witch-hunt to continue. Catherine was protecting herself. I could almost feel her scrutinising me. Eyeing me up for the kill if this case went any further wrong.
I drank more.
My head felt fuzzy. My brain, now tired.
There were rules on relationships with reporters. It was my responsibility at the time to have informed the job that I was in a relationship with Ethan, but it had imploded last year after the Manders case was closed and Sally was killed under my supervision.
I reread the articles. The article of the opening of Sally’s inquest, articles in which the police were made to look like a bunch of Keystone Cops.
Like I was a Keystone Cop.
Now, I didn’t need to fill in any forms. Not for that one night that we had spent together.
I picked up my phone and looked at Ethan’s number. Hovered over the dial icon. That night had been great. He’d been hungry for me, he’d been sensitive. He’d made it feel as though we’d never been apart. Then work had phoned and it had been my wake-up call. How could I manage a relationship with him?
Damn it to hell.
I dropped my mobile down to the floor. I couldn’t do it. It was too messed up.
I finished the bottle.
There was no more pain.
Not in my arm.
95
4 weeks ago
There were multiple bottles and strips of medicines. All prescribed in the name of Emma Knight. All with the purpose of keeping her life going. He tipped the crate onto its side and sat on it. A disturbed spider scurried off in the opposite direction, wanting another dark corner. The medicine was laid out in front of him on the old kitchen worktop he had fitted in the garden shed some twenty-odd years ago. It was now worn, battered, scarred and chipped. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, now feeling like the worktop he had fitted with love so many years ago.
So many medicines. Such a waste. At the side of the medicine was Connie’s laptop. She wouldn’t miss it. She didn’t miss anything now. Well anything other than … Nothing was worth a damn. And if she did miss it, she wouldn’t think Isaac had it with him in the garden. She always said he had two left thumbs. What that meant, he wasn’t sure. No matter how his thumbs worked, his mind was still capable of using an Internet search engine. He opened the lid with his two left thumbs and clicked on the home icon. There was no need for a password in this house. There was love and trust. And what could they do on the laptop anyway?
The machine was slow. They hadn’t been bothered about getting a state-of-the-art piece of equipment, just something to keep them connected to Em as she dipped her toes out into the world. To be her safety net, should she need one. And she had. She really had. But this damn laptop couldn’t catch her and neither had Isaac.
Or anyone else.
The screen lit and he opened a browser, which was even slower to load. Too far away from the house. Even he knew that, but as long as he could do what he needed to, it didn’t matter how much time it took. He had all the time in the world now. He worked methodically, using laptop and notebook and pen to write down what he found out. After each search, the pile of medicines gradually changed from his left side to the right, and when he finally closed the lid on the laptop the entire pile had moved. He had what he wanted. All he had to do now was move it to the allotment – further away from his home, away from Connie.
96
The light that filtered through my eyelids was brighter than I expected. My phone alarm was set for six a.m. I wanted to move but everything felt stiff. And cold. Freezing, in fact. Then I realised I was still on the sofa. That would be why it was so light; I didn’t have blackout lining in the living room and the summer sun rises at an ungodly hour. Rolling my neck with as much care as I could, I reached down to the floor where I knew my phone would be. My head; throbbing. My arm; protesting.
I needed some painkillers. And I needed a shower.
Blinking sleep out of my eyes and pushing myself up, I tried to focus through the pain that enveloped my fragile body. The room was bathed in sunlight.
I looked at my phone and checked the time.
‘Fuck.’
It was dead. I hadn’t charged it and I had no idea what time it was. There wasn’t a single clock in my apartment. I lived and breathed by the phone in my pocket.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Painkillers and a quick shower helped to wake me up. My phone had also had time to wake. It told me in no uncertain terms that I’d slept in, and I’d done a bloody good job of it. It was nine-thirty a.m. and there were seven missed calls and five messages. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed the in-car charger from the drawer and started to listen to the messages as I made my way into work.
The first one was Aaron, wanting to know where I was.
The second one was Aaron, wanting to know what time I was going to be in.
The third one was Aaron, now sounding annoyed. Catherine was chasing him up, looking for me. He told me the city was in meltdown and I needed to be in work.
The fourth message told me Aaron couldn’t cover for me any more and Catherine was on the warpath.
I slammed on my brakes as the car in front hit his for the red lights at the Shakespeare Street/Mansfield Road junction. The driver’s eyes glinted at me in the rear-view mirror as by some minor miracle I missed hitting him, though he could easily have driven through the amber light safely because stopping so suddenly really was more of an
issue and driving through would not have been the cause of any accident. He couldn’t see that I was on my phone, as I had my hands-free on through the speakers in the car. I was safe. He was an idiot.
The next message was from Catherine.
She wanted to know where the hell I was. Was I supposed to be leading this team, this investigation?
Oh, fuck.
The lights changed, and we moved off. Not before the guy in the Prius glared at me again in his mirror and threw his left hand up in the middle of the car, showing his frustration.
The last message on my phone, I’m not sure I wanted to hear. The painkillers didn’t seem to be doing their thing. The day had got off to a bad start. I wanted it to start again. Or miss it altogether. I felt like shit. Catherine was on my back. I wasn’t getting anywhere with the investigation and the inquest was looming like a huge dark tidal wave, waiting to drown us all in its surging waters.
It was Catherine again, telling me that if I wanted to keep control of this investigation – or any investigation in the future – I needed to get into her office right away.
97
The kettle whistled to announce its arrival at boiling point. Switching the kettle on was the first thing I had done after arriving at work. I’d driven into the rear staff car park, having seen the fire damage done to the front. Two uniform officers were standing by the door, showing we were still here – not to be moved or intimidated.
I tipped the water over the teabag and walked towards the incident room. As I pushed the door open with my spare hand a couple of heads turned to look. Aaron stood, straightened his tie and made a beeline for me, determination in his step, as I walked towards him.
Made To Be Broken Page 20
