Sirens

by Joseph Knox

  ‘This is an informal conversation. It serves mainly as a handover and debrief for your work with the Franchise. It’s my hope that—’

  ‘Did we get him?’ I said.

  ‘As you know—’

  ‘Did we get him?’ I repeated.

  ‘No.’ Parrs blinked. ‘As you know, the sting was set for Monday, November sixteenth …’

  ‘The day after we found Isabelle Rossiter.’

  ‘The drive was wiped. Our man was definitely in there. Unfortunately, due to the increased workload that day, room 6.21A was reassigned without my authorization.’

  It felt like a joke. ‘I don’t understand. We were keeping the room empty …’

  ‘Personnel overflow working the Rossiter girl’s death was assigned to 6.21A. Thirty-five people went in and out. Twenty-three of them long-serving enough to be our man. No,’ he said. ‘We didn’t get him.’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Believe me, I know how you feel.’ I wanted to get up and walk out, I just couldn’t put enough thought together. ‘Let’s talk about you, son. Your future.’

  ‘I was under the impression I didn’t have one.’

  ‘That’s up to you, to some extent.’

  I reached into my jacket pocket, handing him a sealed envelope. ‘In that case, I should be clear from the start.’ I wasn’t interested in sitting through more threats. I wanted to take the gun out of his hand.

  He held up the letter. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You received my reports?’

  ‘I did. They were very clear.’

  ‘I’d like them to serve as the basis of my handover.’

  Parrs looked at the envelope, which he was still holding in the space between us. ‘This your fucking suicide note?’

  ‘My resignation.’

  He put the envelope down. ‘What makes you think you’re in any position to resign?’

  ‘If there are charges for removing drugs from evidence, then I’ll face them.’

  He swept the letter to one side so it lined up perfectly with the corner of his desk.

  ‘Bold choice. Corruption. Theft. Intent to supply. Five-year sentence? Three, four years inside? Be difficult to qualify for good behaviour, though, the amount of glass you’ll be shitting.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, standing to leave, thinking I still might run.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘What’s this really about?’

  I sat. ‘Joanna Greenlaw’s disappearance. Zain Carver. The Franchise. Contaminated drugs. Fine.’ I looked at him. ‘But I won’t cover up Isabelle Rossiter’s death. It’s one compromise too many, even for me.’

  ‘What do you plan on doing? Aside from some hard time?’

  ‘I’d leave,’ I said. In my head it sounded sensible, like something he might want to hear. Out loud it sounded like a childish dream. ‘I’d go as far away as possible.’

  ‘You don’t want to see this through to the end?’

  ‘I don’t want to know how it ends.’

  His eyes narrowed. In interrogations, Parrs would ask simple, direct questions and then wait. Even after the interviewee had answered them. It made people uncomfortable, forced them to break the silence and keep on talking.

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’d make sure it fucking followed you, son. Wherever you went.’

  ‘What can I do?’ I said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Parrs glared at me. ‘You asked me before about Joanna Greenlaw. I sent you to the Evening News appeal. You got the facts but didn’t quite get the truth.’

  ‘What’s the truth?’

  ‘There’s an awful lot of it outside the facts, if you look and listen. Joanna Greenlaw agreed to testify against Carver and the Burnsiders ten years ago, that’s a fact. A friend of hers was killed in the Burnside, that’s a fact. What the papers won’t tell you is the truth. That it was me who turned her. The papers won’t tell you I worked with that girl every day for months. Painstaking stuff. We changed our pattern of communication every three days. Orchestrated a rotating cast of operatives. Made sure no other officer knew the scope and scale of the operation. So when I say I know how you feel …’

  ‘Why all that?’

  ‘Carver had enough near-misses under his belt to convince me there were leaks, even then. That’s the truth but not a fact.’

  ‘You must have someone in mind for the leaks.’

  ‘A rogue’s gallery, son.’

  ‘What really happened to Joanna Greenlaw?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Black and white paint found at the scene. No sign of her.’

  ‘Did you look?’

  ‘To my shame, no. My Chief Super said she’d just got stage fright. Done a runner before she said or did anything too damning to her old boss. I was reassigned and told in no uncertain terms to leave it alone. I’d wasted enough time already. Once the dust settled, I tried to follow it up, but her last-known associates were Zain Carver and Sheldon White. Neither of them talkative. The trail, if she left one at all, was cold by then.’ He paused. Went on quietly, ‘I suppose I hoped she had run. Then with each year that she didn’t turn up, saw it was less and less likely …’

  ‘Grip – Danny Gripe – thinks Sheldon White’s making noise for the anniversary. Ten years since she went missing …’

  Parrs thought about it. ‘Psychological warfare seems a little advanced for the Burnsiders. It’s convenient that White just got out, but that’s all it is. He’s not the type to own a calendar, much less use one.’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ He didn’t move. ‘You don’t think Joanna Greenlaw’s still alive?’

  He ignored that. ‘What I’m saying is, sometimes you have to play the long game. You could still see this right.’ I didn’t say anything and he went on, ‘Fine. You have about a month of unused leave. I was going to suggest you take it anyway, but I suppose, given the circumstances, I’d agree to you taking it to see out your notice.’

  ‘And the charges?’

  ‘We’ll see about the charges. But only after a satisfactory debrief.’

  ‘My reports—’

  ‘Are, as I said, very clear. Very factual. I think it might be helpful for us to step outside those facts into your reactions and impressions. You only ever see the worst in people, son.’ He flashed me his shark’s smile. ‘Only fair I reap the benefit, eh?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Parrs picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. I saw it was a part of my written report. Although he didn’t look down or refer to the paper, it was clear he had fully assimilated its contents. In meetings he often wrote detailed notes and then discreetly binned them afterwards. His memory was excellent and I assumed he took the notes to assure others that he was taking them and their work seriously. I assumed he held my report without looking at it now for the same reason.

  ‘When you took Isabelle back to Carver’s place in a cab, you went through her bag. Why?’

  ‘From what I’d seen at Rubik’s – that she was at least drinking and probably using – I’d decided to take her home. Her real home,’ I said. ‘I only vaguely knew where the Rossiter family lived. I thought I’d find something with their address on it.’

  ‘Take me through what you did find.’

  ‘Money. Lots of it. I realized she’d made the Franchise collection while out of my sightline. I thought she’d be in more danger if she didn’t take the cash back to Carver.’

  ‘What else was in the bag?’

  ‘Cosmetics, a purse, a mobile. She still had that mobile when I got her home. Whoever took it from her flat must have been the last person to see her alive.’

  ‘Don’t get excited. We found the phone.’

  I tried not to react. I thought about the text Isabelle had sent me. The text that I’d seen sitting in her sent items folder.

  Zain knows

  I braced myself. I had already told Parrs that I never got her number. This would prove me a liar.

  He went on. ‘Her f
ather had the number and we were able to trace it. When we saw that its last signal came from inside her flat, we took the place apart. The phone was found hidden. Taped to the bottom of a drawer on her desk.’

  That didn’t sound right. I wanted to ask what was on it. Why it was hidden. If they’d found the message she sent to me. I knew how it might look to an outsider: Zain knows about us.

  Parrs left an excruciating silence.

  I thought of the photographs.

  Finally, he said, ‘What was the reaction when you got her back to Fairview?’

  ‘Subdued.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to Carver?’

  ‘Sarah Jane answered the door.’

  ‘This redhead of his?’

  I nodded. ‘She was more interested in the cash than Isabelle. I think I saw Carver in a window when I was leaving. To be honest, I wondered if the whole thing was a set-up.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He likes to play games with people and he was trying to work out if he could trust me. He’s had me followed. He wouldn’t be above having the barman spike Isabelle to see what I’d do once I found the money. He was certainly more trusting of me afterwards.’

  ‘You say he likes to play games. Why?’

  ‘Part of the fun. He considers himself a strategist. Whatever it looks like he’s doing, he’s probably working on the opposite.’

  ‘He’s a big guy. Sometimes men like that only respect their own kind. What’s he make of you?’

  ‘More than I thought he would.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think he enjoyed me racking out some home truths. Seemed to enjoy me talking out of turn. He always knew how and when to put me back in my place, though. I think he likes to talk and probably doesn’t get much chance to with the goon squad. The one thing he said that really rang true was that he doesn’t go around hitting people. He doesn’t have to.’

  ‘Tell me about this Grip character.’

  ‘Little less conversation, a little more action.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘He’d pick a fight with the floor if it looked up at him funny. He spat in my face the first time we met.’

  ‘You can have that effect on people.’

  I smiled. ‘No, he’s the type. I’ve seen Carver have to talk him down once or twice.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Parrs. ‘Bonkers enough to have spiked the Eight? Or sold on stuff that he knew was bad?’ I hadn’t told Parrs that Grip had, in fact, been the first victim of the bad batch.

  ‘Emotional was the word Carver used. Says Grip’s lost his appetite for the game rather than gained it. My impression is, he’s like the rest of them. Scared of something else.’

  ‘Tell me more about the house.’

  ‘Transient population. Especially when there’s a party on. I stayed there my second night, no problem. Kids kipping on floors every other room.’

  ‘What kinds of kids?’

  ‘White middle-class ones. College age up. Most in their mid-twenties. Creatives, I think they call themselves.’

  ‘And there are two exits?’

  I looked at him. ‘You’re raiding.’ He didn’t move. ‘The night of the next party.’

  ‘Those parties camouflage the Franchise with a couple of hundred drunk kids.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘They’ll get hurt.’

  ‘It’s a nebulous concept to you, Waits, but I’m following the orders I’m given. I happen to think, given the circumstances, they’re the right ones. Carver’s been given too long a leash for too long a time. When you’re a dealer and kids start dying from toxic batches, you get your door kicked in. Simple as that.’

  ‘Why not just go round now with a warrant?’

  ‘We did. He was waiting for us. Fucker’d had his whole house deep-cleaned from top to bottom.’ My warning. ‘Now, the exits.’

  ‘Two, from what I saw. Front and back. The back’s a double-

  glazed doorway leading out into the garden. Since there’ll be a crush when you kick the front door in, it might be worth letting people filter out that back way and having men on the garden gate down the path.’

  ‘Something to keep in mind.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘You’ve heard about the cabs being turned over?’

  ‘Just pub talk. Cabs plural?’

  ‘Aye, looks like we’re in for a regime change whether Carver’s arrested or not. One cab on Friday night and one on Saturday. Both unreported but called in by witnesses. Each car was hit by a large goods vehicle before it could reach Fairview. Then someone got out of said vehicle and forcibly took the cash from whichever girl had collected it.’

  ‘Who was in the cabs? Are they OK?’

  Parrs looked at me. ‘Cuts and bruises, far as we know.’ I hoped it wasn’t Catherine. I felt like less than shit for lying low the past week.

  ‘Franchise collections. They’re not gonna like it …’

  ‘They’d have been paltry in the first place. There was a long article from one of the Sycamore Way mothers in the Guardian. As a brand name, Eight’s finished.’

  ‘It’s about sending a message.’

  ‘A nail in the coffin, aye. Anyway,’ said Parrs, sensing my renewed interest and cutting it short, ‘that’ll be all.’

  I stood to leave, feeling light on my feet. Parrs didn’t stand to see me out, just offered a nod in my direction. A part of me wanted to turn around and tell him everything, but I had the door open when he called after me.

  ‘Sorry, Waits.’

  I turned.

  That shark smile again.

  ‘There was one other thing.’

  I walked back into the office, let the door close behind me, went completely blank.

  ‘Isabelle’s phone,’ he said.

  Zain knows.

  ‘I was wondering if you could take a look at it for me?’

  Zain knows.

  I nodded. I could hear the pulse in my ears. Parrs opened a drawer at his desk. He sighed, closed it, and opened another. He rummaged in that one but closed it as well.

  He knows.

  I couldn’t believe that the man who’d memorized my reports had forgotten which drawer he’d left some evidence in. He was raising the tension. Finally, he took out a large-screened, hot-pink mobile phone, wrapped in a clear plastic bag.

  ‘This the one?’

  It wasn’t. I had never seen it before.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘At least, I think it is.’

  ‘Hm,’ he said, eyes not moving from mine. ‘Odd thing is, it doesn’t seem to have been switched on since Isabelle ran away from home. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing she’d keep in her handbag.’

  ‘It was there,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Parrs, smiling.

  3

  I racked my brain for Parrs’ angle on the phone. He knew it wasn’t the one I’d seen, or at least suspected it. I walked a zigzag through the city, making sure I hadn’t been followed. I found a payphone. Scrolled through the messages in my mobile for the single one I had received from Isabelle. From the phone that the police hadn’t found. The phone that had gone missing from her flat when she died.

  I looked over my shoulder, dropped a coin into the slot and dialled. It rang two and a half times and was suddenly cut off. Sent to answerphone.

  Someone had it.

  I thought of the voicemail I’d heard on that phone. The night before Isabelle died.

  That unmistakable Oxbridge accent.

  ‘Isabelle, I wish you’d pick up the phone. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from . . .’

  Superintendent Parrs had found Isabelle’s old phone because her father had given him the number. If David Rossiter also had the number to her second phone, the one she had only bought since running away, how had he got it? Why hadn’t he handed that over as well? And who had taken it from her room?

  When I starte
d walking it was still early. I tried to disappear into the streets again, just another vagrant that your eyes scan past as you cross a road. Weak, white-grey light thawed the city, the traffic flowing again like blood in its veins.

  I wanted to be swept along with it and forget myself. To see my reflection warp and alter in the bottles behind a bar. I saw the same afternoon tug in other people, too. Invisible lassoes around their waists, pulling them into street-side pubs.

  It was early evening when I arrived at Rubik’s. I stood outside for a long time, working up the nerve to go in. Something here was different, and I knew it was probably me.

  4

  I ordered a drink and sat in a corner, in the booth that Catherine liked. I wanted to talk to her, and it was the only place we had in common where Zain Carver wouldn’t be. I imagined he’d been doing the same thing I had since Sycamore Way. Lying low, getting his story straight. I’d stopped into Rubik’s most days since, but no one had surfaced yet.

  The tone of the place had shifted, though. Behaviour was being tolerated, even encouraged, that wouldn’t have been before. I had seen open drug use, simulated sex on the dance floors and men glassing each other. They were climbing up the walls. I didn’t know if they were going through withdrawal or just using stuff they weren’t used to.

  I didn’t want to know.

  It was early evening and I was into my second drink when Catherine walked through the door. I wondered if she’d come here hoping to see me, but the slight inclination of her head when she glanced over said that she hadn’t.

  She gave a small smile, a small wave. I waited while she ordered, running through what I wanted to say, watching it fall flat in my mind’s eye. Zain had told me that his girls didn’t know I was a police officer, but Sarah Jane had worked it out somehow. I hoped Cath hadn’t yet. I knew I should tell her myself. She looked subdued in comparison with her usual Rubik’s get-up. A leather jacket, black pencil skirt and brogues. Her brown hair, usually spilling out over her shoulders, was tied up on top of her head, with two red sticks stabbed through to hold it in place.