Sirens

by Joseph Knox

  Laskey smiled. ‘Just going for his tram.’

  ‘Like I said, I was in Rubik’s.’

  ‘Was only down the road. You were seen leaving soon after him.’

  ‘It’s open-and-shut, then.’

  ‘What it is,’ said Riggs, stepping towards me, ‘is circumstantial.’

  ‘But sometimes we believe in circumstantial,’ said Laskey. ‘There are worse things than the law, Waits.’

  I just looked at him. ‘Such as?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Get back to me when you can prove something. Otherwise, you know where the door is. Apparently it’s open.’ I turned and walked back into the bedroom. I sat down, feeling sick. After a couple of minutes I heard footsteps, heading out. The change rattling in their pockets.

  ‘We’ll leave this as we found it,’ shouted Riggs, kicking the door for effect. I went to the window and watched them get into their car again. I walked to the front door, closed it and locked it. Then I went back to bed and tried to forget everything.

  It didn’t work.

  Joanna Greenlaw. Isabelle Rossiter. Catherine, Sarah Jane. I’d pushed them to the back of my mind but they wouldn’t stay there. I saw them laughing, frowning, dying. I got up, went to the bathroom and found a bag of speed. I flushed it down the toilet, then went through to the gutted sofa and sat down. I forced myself to think.

  IV

  Still

  1

  I set my alarm for 7 a.m. but was already awake, watching the time pass, when it went off. Monday. The last day of November. I got up, shaved, showered and dressed. I found a black suit and ironed a white shirt. I found a slim black tie, put it on, and looked in the mirror for the first time in days.

  If only I could iron that face.

  Weeks of long nights and bad living had darkened it, and my eyes were smaller, sharper. I shined my shoes, took a breath and walked outside. It was just above freezing, the kind of weather that makes you think the planet’s trying to shake us off.

  There was a car parked on the other side of the road. That BMW, all gleaming black paint and chrome. I walked in the opposite direction. The car started. I heard gravel crunching beneath tyres as it pulled alongside me, matching my pace.

  I stopped.

  The driver pulled up to the kerb, left the engine running. The window buzzed down and Detective Kernick leaned one arm out through the frame. He was dressed, like me, in a smart black suit. I don’t know if it was the shock of morning light or the stress he’d been through lately, but his grey hair looked a shade lighter.

  ‘Don’t do it, son,’ he said. I could see his breath in the air.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t go out there this morning.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Look, I’m sure you’ve the best intentions. I’m sure it’s hard. But I have to think about the Rossiters today. They don’t want you there. Hard enough for them as it is …’ I carried on walking. He started the car again and drove alongside me for a minute. ‘You look awful.’ He sighed. ‘Don’t let it ruin your life.’

  I didn’t turn, but heard the window go up again. He drove ahead to the end of the road and indicated. I waited until he’d turned the corner, then went on.

  I’d read about Isabelle’s funeral a few days before, in a newspaper that had been left lying around Rubik’s. Although it was set to be a private ceremony, held in Gorton Monastery, mourners would be allowed on the grounds to watch the procession and lay tributes. It might be interesting to see who turned up, but it wasn’t my intention to go there. The funeral just presented an opportunity.

  I walked at a pace, running things through my mind. I needed to know who’d taken Isabelle’s phone from her flat. Her father had provided police with the number to her old phone, the one found taped to the bottom of a drawer, but I’d heard him leave a message on her new one. If he knew about the new phone, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Why hadn’t he passed that number on to the police as well? And how had he got the number in the first place? Most of all, I needed to know if he’d taken the phone from her room after she died. I needed to know why it had gone missing, what was on it.

  I arrived at Beetham Tower before 9 a.m. There was a group of dishevelled men in tuxedos, just walking in from a night on the town. The funeral was due to start in half an hour, so I was sure that both Rossiter and Kernick would be on their way to the monastery. I crossed the road to a bank of payphones, found a clean one and dialled 999.

  ‘Police,’ I said. ‘I’d like to report a break-in.’

  2

  I walked into the lobby of the tower and approached the front desk. I was pleased to see the same young woman who’d been on duty for my previous visits, when I had been in the company of Detective Kernick. She gave me a perfect white smile.

  ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘Morning,’ I said, handing over my warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Waits, I’m not sure we’ve met before?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Might I have seen you with Mr—’ she corrected herself with a smile, ‘Detective Kernick?’

  ‘You might have, I’m on Mr Rossiter’s security detail.’

  She read my card before returning it.

  ‘Such a shame about his girl …’

  ‘Sadly the press haven’t been so sensitive. I’m sure you know the funeral’s this morning?’

  She nodded. ‘I believe Mr Rossiter’s at the family home this week …’

  ‘He is. I actually just came from there. Our only concern is that some members of the press might find their way here. Harass guests, staff, neighbours for quotes. I’ve been asked to post myself in the lobby and politely move any lurkers along.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I refer you to building security?’

  ‘That was going to be my next question. I don’t think I’ve met Mr …’

  ‘Reed,’ she said.

  ‘If you could give him a call, that’d be great.’

  I moved away from the desk so that she could explain the situation. The man who appeared a few minutes later had the look of an ex-police officer. A bulky, no-nonsense gait and searching, observant eyes. From ten or so people standing around the lobby, he identified me immediately as the person he was looking for.

  ‘Mr Reed,’ I said, as though Detective Kernick had told me all about him. ‘Detective Constable Waits.’ We shook hands. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Course,’ he said, nodding us towards two chairs on the right of the lobby. ‘I believe you’re on Mr Rossiter’s security detail?’

  I handed him my warrant card. ‘Seconded to it while the death of his daughter’s investigated.’

  ‘Hm,’ he said, looking at my card. ‘Bloody shame.’

  ‘Your colleague told you why I was here …?’

  ‘Press,’ he said. ‘Bloody parasites sometimes.’

  ‘You were on the force yourself, weren’t you?’

  He drew himself up. ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Seen your share of ghouls, then …’

  ‘To be honest, son, there’s more of ’em hanging round here than most crime scenes.’

  ‘The price of success,’ I said, motioning to the grandeur of the lobby. ‘We were hoping for a little compassion today, but when we saw the state of the church, thought it might make sense to post someone here.’

  ‘So they sent the work-experience boy?’

  I smiled. ‘A day off from doing the tea run. If it’s OK with you, I’d be sat here with a magazine, keeping an eye on the door, probably just until after the funeral.’

  He returned my warrant card. ‘Makes sense to me, son. I’ve got some bits on, but if you have any trouble, get the desk to give us a call.’

  We stood and shook hands. ‘Thanks again, Mr Reed.’ He went over to the desk, briefly explained the outcome of our conversation to the receptionist, and gave me a nod. Then he walked back to the lift and carried on with his day. I sat down, opened a complimentary magazine and watched the door
.

  3

  When I had called the police a few minutes earlier, I reported suspicious noises and activity coming from a neighbour’s flat on the forty-fifth floor of Beetham Tower. I knew that mentioning Rossiter’s name might mean the police would arrive too quickly, so I just said that my neighbour was away and I knew that his flat was supposed to be empty.

  Less than an hour after I sat down to my magazine, two uniformed officers walked into the lobby. They wore high-visibility jackets and carried their hats under their arms. I saw the receptionist look over at me as they approached her, but decided to wait in my seat. They lowered their voices, hinting towards a sensitive matter. When the receptionist walked around the front desk and motioned the men to follow her, I stood and walked towards them.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  The first officer addressed me. ‘You are …?’

  ‘Waits.’

  ‘Detective Waits is on Mr Rossiter’s security detail,’ the receptionist said.

  I showed them my warrant card. ‘Is there a problem, Constables …?’

  ‘Turner and Barnes. We’ve received a report of suspicious activity in a suite on the forty-fifth floor. Apparently that’s where Mr Rossiter lives?’

  ‘That’s right. There shouldn’t be anyone in there today, though.’

  ‘Might be worth us having a quick look.’

  ‘I’m … not sure that would be appropriate.’

  Barnes cut in. ‘If someone’s reported a disturbance, sir, we have to look into it.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but I’m certain there’s no one in the apartment today.’

  ‘Have you been in the apartment today, sir?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you have access to the suite?’

  ‘No,’ I said. Then, to the receptionist, ‘Perhaps you could call up? Save our blushes …’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She walked back to the front desk and dialled a number, then asked to be put through to Mr Rossiter’s suite. We waited for a minute as the phone rang. ‘Sounds like there’s no one home.’

  The officer looked at her. ‘Can you get us access to the apartment?’

  ‘I believe Mr Rossiter is on the key card system.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I can’t just let anyone up there.’ The officers looked at me in disbelief. ‘One moment,’ I said. I pulled out my mobile and dialled a non-existent number.

  ‘Kernick,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait.’ I allowed an uncomfortable amount of time to pass while the three of them stared at me. ‘Sir,’ I said finally. ‘There’s been a report of a disturbance in Mr Rossiter’s suite at Beetham Tower and—’ I pretended to be interrupted. ‘Of course, sir.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ I hung up and then spoke to the receptionist. ‘If we could get the key, please?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, turning back to her desk.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to the constables. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the heightened sensitivity today.’

  ‘Course,’ they said in unison, both avoiding my eyes.

  4

  I insisted that one of them handle the key card. None of us spoke as the lift approached the forty-fifth floor. I don’t remember the muzak, but I’m sure it was still there. When the doors opened, I walked ahead along the corridor and directly to Rossiter’s suite. To leave no doubt that I went there often.

  When I looked back, they were walking slowly towards me, memorizing the decor and remarking on the layout. The officer with the key card, Turner, stepped forward, inserted it and pulled the handle.

  ‘After you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll follow up with the neighbour while you look around.’

  ‘Whatever you think.’ He opened the door and walked through it. I stepped aside for his partner and watched them both crane their necks. As the door closed, I heard one of them whistle. I went down the hall and stood by the neighbour’s entrance for a minute. When I heard Rossiter’s door opening again, I began walking back towards it.

  ‘All good?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Turner. ‘Nice to know the honourable gent’s a man of the people, eh?’

  ‘All good?’ I repeated.

  ‘Sir. No sign of a disturbance.’

  ‘Neighbour’s a shut-in,’ I said. ‘The only disturbance is in her head. Wants to make a statement about her cleaner stealing plates. She’s just getting changed.’

  The officers exchanged a smile. ‘Shall we …?’

  ‘I’ll take it from here. Thanks.’

  They walked past me, down the corridor, and pressed the button for the lift. I watched them, waited until the doors were open before I said, ‘Constable.’

  They both turned to look at me.

  ‘The key?’ Turner stepped out of the lift while his colleague held the door. ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it and walking back down the hallway.

  I heard the lift doors close.

  I walked directly to Rossiter’s.

  Opened it. Entered.

  Checked the time: 9.57.

  I closed the door, closed my eyes and leaned back against the frame for a second, breathing deeply. I wondered if Isabelle would have been buried by then. I had to be in the lift, on my way down to the lobby by 10.30.

  Any later would be suicide.

  I pushed myself forward. Looked: I was in the large, anonymous lounge where I had met Rossiter before. Huge floor-to-ceiling panes of glass showed the city below.

  I compartmentalized, grid-searched.

  I was looking for Isabelle’s second phone and I went efficiently about the room. The inaccessibility, the remoteness of the suite, made it the perfect place for Rossiter to keep secrets. This would be my only chance to find them. I moved quickly, aided by the anonymity of the place. In all of that space, there was just so little to look through. I examined the cognac that Rossiter had given me almost a month before. Hennessy.

  Zain Carver’s brand.

  I found nothing else in the lounge and moved through to one of the largest kitchens I had ever seen. It looked unused. There was nothing but a carton of skimmed milk in the fridge.

  I walked back into the lounge and through to a spacious stairwell. It led up to the bedrooms, but first I looked into the study at its base. Although the study afforded the best view in the suite, the desk was turned markedly away from the window.

  The sign of a room where work was done.

  There was a closed laptop on the desk but no books, notebooks or files. There was nothing in the bottom two drawers. I pulled out the top one and saw it. The brown paper envelope that Rossiter had slid across his coffee table towards me, two weeks before. I lifted it out of the drawer, poured out the pictures and went through them.

  Full colour but blurred. The pictures were taken at odd angles, clearly from a camera phone. I could see the sheen of sweat on Isabelle’s skin. The two of us together at the first house party I had been to.

  I thought about taking the pictures. I wondered if that was why I’d really gone in the first place. To destroy evidence against myself and save my own skin. A pulse of self-loathing went through me. I put them back in the envelope, the envelope back in the drawer and left the room.

  I got to the stairs and stopped.

  Went back into the study and opened the drawer again. I didn’t pick up the envelope this time. Just looked at the writing.

  I. R. 30th October.

  I moved up the stairs, into a dark corridor. There were two large master bedrooms, each bigger than my entire flat. One was plainly Rossiter’s and there were some simple things in the adjoining en-suite bathroom, a toothbrush and shaving kit. There were two smaller guest rooms further down the corridor. The first carried the same vacant anonymity as the rest of the flat.

  The second one was different.

  Time jumped from 10.25 to 10.30 in what felt like seconds.

  The wallpaper was bright pink. The small, single bed had pink sheets and pillows. On i
t were an array of dolls and stuffed toys. Care Bears and Barbies. Isabelle had been seventeen years old when she ran away. From memory, her older sister was somewhere in her twenties. So whose room was this?

  I went to the walk-in wardrobe and opened it:

  Several identical little black dresses.

  A couple of pairs of blue denim dungarees.

  I closed the wardrobe and went to the chest of drawers. Found colourful, childish underwear. Cutesy writing and Disney characters on them. All in what I’d guess would be Isabelle’s sizes, but not her style. Not even close.

  10.34. I thought for a moment. About the phone hidden in Isabelle’s flat. I wondered if it were a regular trick of hers. I pulled the drawers out fully. There was a slip of paper taped to the back of the bottom one. I checked the time.

  10.36.

  I peeled the Sellotape off the paper and gently pulled it away from the wooden surface. It was a note. It was 10.38 and I was pushing the drawers back. I moved down the stairs and through the lounge. I could still go back for the photographs, I thought.

  A piercing, loud telecom sound cut through the room. I froze to the spot. It went off again and I realized it was the doorbell. I held my breath and made my way slowly forward.

  I opened the door to Mr Reed, building security. He was red-faced and breathing hard. ‘Y’should’ve bloody called me, son. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Reed. I knew it was nothing so thought I’d save you a job.’

  ‘You’re not saving my bloody job when there are two cun—’ he stuttered. ‘Cun—’ He concentrated. ‘Constables in the building I don’t know about.’ He’d run out of air halfway through the sentence.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to take a look around yourself, but I’m sure it’s a false alarm.’

  He eyed me. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, off guard. ‘I’ve just had a call that the funeral’s concluded so I’ll be heading back to the family home now, anyway.’ I walked down the corridor, feeling his eyes burn into the back of my head. I came to the lift and pressed the call button seven times.