Sirens

by Joseph Knox

  ‘When I got into your car, there was a vanilla scent. Some designer perfume. It didn’t really fit with you or your partner.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Later, I met the girl that scent belonged to. I couldn’t place it at first. She was Zain Carver’s girlfriend.’ I looked at Rossiter. ‘For some reason, I didn’t see the two of you together.’

  ‘Perfume,’ he said. ‘Pathetic.’

  ‘Then, when I came up here for the first time and you shook my hand, your skin was warm. Your wedding ring was cold to the touch. You’d just put it back on.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Listen.’ He indulged me and I went on. ‘When I went to Fairview for the first time, it was on your instruction. But you went through unofficial channels, so it couldn’t be traced back. I wonder why?’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Once I was there, you had compromising pictures taken of me.’ He still didn’t move. ‘Y’know, I actually thought you might be looking out for your daughter …’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That you were looking out for yourself. You knew you couldn’t leave it any longer before reporting her missing. Might not play well with the press, if it came out. But you were afraid of what the police might find. So you sent me. The pictures were leverage in case Isabelle and I got too close. In case she told me the wrong thing. Kernick, you put it best before my debrief with Parrs. He doesn’t have to know, you said. At the time, I thought you were worried about procedure. Illegally carrying out a shadow investigation. In fact, you weren’t sure what I might know. What I might tell him.’

  ‘I was trying to do you a favour, son,’ said Kernick.

  ‘What was it you didn’t want her to say?’

  Neither of them spoke.

  ‘That David Rossiter, MP, was in a relationship with an escort? That he had some wild role-play fantasies? That his Special Branch detail was acting as her taxi service?’

  Neither of them spoke.

  ‘You got Sarah Jane to take pictures of me. Used them as blackmail. Best of all,’ I looked at Rossiter, ‘you paid her off.’

  He took a drink then cleared his throat. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘You sent your man to do it. Either way, it was under a surveillance camera in a multistorey car park. I was there, David, so let’s not dance around it.’

  Rossiter glared at me.

  ‘You were having an affair with Sarah Jane.’

  He lowered his head. Moved the glass in his hand and listened to the ice cubes colliding.

  ‘You paid her for sex.’

  He looked up at me.

  ‘You knew that she and Isabelle had met each other.’ I took a step forward. ‘You waited a month before reporting your own daughter missing because she was connected to the escort you were sleeping with, and you were afraid what might come out.’

  Rossiter grimaced, stared vacantly ahead. Finally, he nodded.

  ‘Let’s talk about some of the consequences of that decision,’ I said. He shifted in his seat, but didn’t argue. ‘Because you didn’t report Isabelle missing, because you insisted she wasn’t to be brought back against her will, she ended up in a relationship with Glen Smithson.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘A dealer with the Franchise. Kicked off his career selling Rohypnol in nightclubs.’ Rossiter swallowed hard. He stood, fixed himself another drink and sat back down. I waited. ‘Did you know Sarah Jane was living with Zain Carver when you started the affair?’ Rossiter’s eyes flicked to Kernick, so I spoke to the back of his head. ‘Well?’

  He twisted himself round. ‘I’d followed her, yeah. She partied with a criminal. Big deal.’

  ‘You were risking her life,’ I said to Rossiter. ‘As well as your own. As well as your daughter’s.’

  ‘Now come on …’

  ‘What do you think a man like Carver does when his girl’s sleeping with someone else?’ I saw that Isabelle had been his weak spot. Sarah Jane was someone he could brush over, and he regained his confidence.

  ‘Give the bitch a good hiding, I’d have thought.’

  ‘And then some. Have you ever heard of Joanna Greenlaw?’

  He strained. ‘The appeal recently? That missing woman …’

  ‘The woman whose body I found crushed under a bathtub two days ago. Carver’s ex. She made the mistake of leaving him.’ That visibly shook him. He seemed to appreciate for the first time who his daughter had been left with.

  ‘Well, Sarah Jane’s a big girl, she makes her own decisions.’

  ‘Isabelle told me the same thing about herself.’

  ‘They’re hardly comparable.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Isabelle had a life. A future. Sarah Jane was …’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Oh, fine – she’s a perfectly nice girl and I’m a monster, blah, blah.’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t believe in people being equal. It’s a philosophy one only ever hears from the weak. Where’s all this going?’

  ‘Did you know that your daughter self-harmed?’ He nodded grudgingly. ‘Neat, straight lines, cut into her inner thigh.’

  He bristled at the idea that I’d seen them. It was the first fatherly reaction out of him that night. ‘Tally marks,’ he said. ‘They began a couple of years ago. After she hit puberty. Her doctor thought they were something to do with particularly difficult cycles.’

  ‘I think each cut represented a time she was sexually assaulted. Eighteen or nineteen by the time she died.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Rossiter.

  Kernick stood, turned, but didn’t say anything. His face was drawn and grim. Lifeless except for the bloody nose.

  I looked past him. ‘I’ll only take another minute of your time. The night before she died, I saw Isabelle have a panic attack because she thought I was working for you. She said that you stalked her. Interviewed her boyfriends. Played the tapes back to her as blackmail. Intimidation. Harassment.’

  He was frowning, sweating, shaking his head. ‘It’s not true …’

  Kernick stepped forward, pushed me back towards the door. ‘If that’s it, Waits.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ I said. Then, to Rossiter, ‘How did you get her phone number, David?’

  He was lost in thought. ‘What? Sarah Jane gave …’ He paused, corrected himself. ‘I made Sarah Jane give it to me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give it to the police after Isabelle died?’

  ‘They’d have known,’ he said. ‘They’d have found out about Sarah Jane and me.’

  ‘You could have saved us both a lot of trouble.’

  Kernick pushed me again. ‘We don’t need to listen to this.’

  ‘I found the phone,’ I said.

  Everything stopped.

  There was just the glow of the city, surrounding us, swallowing us all. Kernick stepped back and Rossiter stood. Stared down at me, through me.

  ‘It was driving me mad. I’d seen her with this phone the night before she died. But it was missing from her flat when I found her body.’

  I produced it from my pocket.

  ‘I was sure the killer had to have taken it. Because there was something incriminating on there. In fact, it was someone else. A member of the Franchise who just didn’t want their name coming out in connection with drugs.’

  ‘What’s on the phone?’ said Rossiter.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Kernick. ‘He’s making this shit up as he goes along.’

  ‘What’s on the phone?’ Rossiter repeated.

  I glared at Kernick until he stepped out of my way. I crossed the room and stood beside Rossiter. Aware, once again, of the intense physical presence of the man. I held up Isabelle’s phone, found the video and pressed play.

  I handed it to her father.

  A blurry, moving image of Isab
elle’s flat appeared. Then, so did she. She was breathing quickly. She placed the phone down on a surface. The sofa, I thought. Then she adjusted it so the camera was watching the other half of the room. The desk. There was the sound of the bolt. Isabelle unlocking the door. Then she crossed the room to the desk, still wearing her going-out clothes from the night before.

  She waited.

  After a few minutes there was a sound. She jumped. The door opened and then closed. Isabelle looked away, stared at the wall. There were footsteps and a man came into view. He crossed the room towards her. Put a hand through her hair. Isabelle’s body went rigid. Then he kissed her. First caressing her neck, then working his way up to her jaw. He kissed her closed mouth until, finally, she began to kiss him back. I stood beside Rossiter but didn’t watch any more. At a certain point he looked away.

  ‘Jump ahead to thirteen minutes.’

  Dumbly, Rossiter scrolled forward. Isabelle crossed the room towards the camera. Picked it up and took it to the bathroom. She pointed it at the mirror. The message that the man had smeared on to it with lipstick.

  NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW

  Then the picture blurred. The phone was dropped as she hit something. There was the sound of broken glass and then her voice, shaking: ‘I was fifteen when it happened the first time . . .’

  Rossiter lowered the phone.

  Stared at Kernick.

  Kernick didn’t move.

  ‘You.’

  Kernick still didn’t move.

  Rossiter threw himself forward. Kernick reacted instinctively, using Rossiter’s momentum against him, sending him into the wall. Rossiter got to his feet again, punch-drunk and weaving.

  ‘Please, don’t,’ said Kernick. Rossiter slapped him, hard. Kernick didn’t move.

  ‘Stop,’ I said.

  They both stood, sweating, shaking, unable to look at each other. The phone was on the floor between them. Kernick wiped his eyes then shoved Rossiter, hard, into the wall. In one motion, he picked up the phone, stepped over his boss and went for the door. Rossiter sat, panting, on the floor. Kernick snapped open the door, turned and looked back, complete misery.

  Rossiter covered his face and began to cry.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I said to Kernick. He looked at me for the first time in minutes, only now remembering I was there.

  ‘It’s not the way you make it sound.’

  ‘She’s quite clear about it in the video, Alan. Where are you going?’

  He was breathing heavily, rolling the phone around in his hand. ‘Home.’

  ‘I’m afraid—’

  ‘What?’ He held up the phone. ‘You’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Neither have you.’

  His head went to one side.

  ‘I showed that video to your wife and daughter three hours ago.’ His legs almost went out from under him. ‘I’m afraid they don’t want to see you at the moment.’

  ‘You’re …’ He smiled, shook his head and then laughed. ‘You’re full of shit. More fucking talk from the master.’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder how I got into your car? Kris gave me the spare set.’ He shut his eyes and I put my hand into my jacket pocket. ‘She asked me to give you this.’

  ‘What is it?’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Here,’ I said, holding my hand out a little further.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Come and see.’ I could feel him weakening. The adrenaline subsiding. ‘This way you’ll be sure.’ He stepped out of the doorway and crossed the room. He was watching me carefully. His small, black eyes.

  I opened my hand. Showed him his wife’s wedding ring. ‘She couldn’t get it off her finger fast enough.’ He took it, examined it and went limp. ‘There’s a good chance you won’t see them again,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll die in prison, Alan. You know you will. There are police officers on every exit of the building. If you run, you’ll just die sooner.’

  He stood there, head hanging low. I took the phone from him and went over to Rossiter. Helped him up. He looked at Kernick, then at me.

  ‘His family?’ he said. ‘Was that really necessary?’

  ‘Not really, but people get a lot of ideas until you show up where they live.’ Rossiter took a step back, actually appalled. ‘I’ll never forget where you live, David.’

  I went back for Kernick, guided him towards the door. Neither of us looked back. Then I took him by the arm and marched him along the hallway to the lift. When it arrived, he stepped inside without resistance. I pressed for the ground floor and the doors closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist, but when he opened it a minute later I saw he was still holding his wife’s wedding ring. He seemed entirely unconscious of me until about halfway down the building. He remembered with a jolt what he was going to. He wiped his face with a forearm, tried a smile.

  ‘Of course … I’ve got money …’

  I just looked at him. Held the handrail as hard as I could until he turned to face the wall. I could see his reflection in the steel. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t. When we reached the ground floor, he turned, drew himself up. He stepped into the centre of the lift, in front of the door. Ready to run. I just watched him. Gripped the handrail. When the door opened, ten or so police officers were standing outside it. He sank back down.

  I took him by the arm, led him to the first officer.

  He stepped forward. ‘Detective Alan Kernick. I’m arresting you for the sexual assault of Isabelle Rossiter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ Kernick nodded vaguely.

  ‘Get rid of him,’ I said.

  The officer turned Kernick and marched him out of the lobby. For a minute the made-up, elegant people checking in and out stopped and watched. Once the last police officer had left the room, they all carried on and forgot about it. Superintendent Parrs was standing to one side of the lobby and he drifted slowly into view, like smoke.

  I handed him Isabelle’s phone. ‘It’s all there.’

  He considered me for a moment, then looked down at the phone.

  ‘Good work on Laskey,’ he said, with his shark’s smile. ‘In the end.’

  Then he nodded and turned to leave.

  11

  It was a few weeks later when I saw the girl again. Around noon, a weekday, although I can’t say which. I’d been walking. Emptying my head. The nights since Beetham Tower had been bad. My dreams were tedious, suffocating.

  I lived alone in them, and some people I knew had died. I learned to fall asleep with the radio going. Something deeply informative and earnest droning on in the background. With practice, I started to dream about current affairs instead.

  War. Famine. Politics.

  Anything but the girls.

  The days were their own challenge. At first I just drove in and out of the city at the worst possible times. Sat in traffic and watched. It was never as peaceful as that first time, though. So I went back to walking. That day I’d been thoughtless, made the dozen or so mistakes that can lead a man down Market Street in late December.

  I had been giving quite serious thought to going after Sarah Jane. Not all the way. I didn’t even know where she’d ended up. I just wondered if I should follow her example.

  Fill a case and take a train somewhere for good.

  I felt myself drifting irresistibly into the slipstream of the street and tried to turn. Each time I did, I was pushed further forward by the crowd, the way I didn’t want to go, until I just went along with it, life streaming past.

  I almost didn’t recognize her at first. She was a face in the crowd, and so changed from the girl I’d seen last. She was going the opposite way. Pale, sick and thin.

  Transformed.

  We barely registered each other as she went by. I just caught the edge of a look. That flash of eyeball white, and she was
gone. I turned, looked for her.

  Stopped.

  She’d done the same, but hundreds of people were driving us further apart. With effort, I held the same spot for a few seconds and saw her, struggling against the tide to do the same. The roar was all around us, too loud to speak, but her eyes were on mine.

  Trying to place me.

  A man pushed past and I saw her loose coat sleeve, pinned up. Lydia Hargreaves. The girl I’d seen at Sycamore Way. First checking her reflection in the window. Then walking back and forth over broken glass. Her arm had been amputated, and she was the only survivor now.

  Perhaps that’s what we had in common.

  The shared, stunned looks on our faces, not happy and not sad. She got pushed a little further into the crowd. I tried to get closer but lost her and, in the end, let myself be swept along. A part of the parade. Her eyes had been wide with the surprise of recognition, but I was glad to have seen her.

  The crowd was all momentum, and that’s probably why I didn’t notice them sooner. Being pushed about anyway, the hand on my shoulder, the one on my arm, didn’t register. It was when I reached a clearing and was still being driven forward that I looked up.

  Saw Billy one side.

  His friend on the other.

  Two of the young Burnsiders. I pulled back but they held me fast, pushed me along towards a waiting street-side van. I tried to break away from them. One took my arm, twisted it hard behind my back. The side door slid open. Someone inside took hold of my right leg.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No! No!’

  They threw the door closed on my leg.

  I heard a wet crunch, a scream. I was shoved inside in shock. They climbed in with me and the door thunked shut again.

  It was dark. I was sitting on a dirty floor, stinking of motor oil, surrounded by three, no, four people. The shapes and smells of men. Everything felt slowed down. Hyper-real. I couldn’t see my leg, but it felt like it was detached below the knee. I was lying in something warm and wet. Smelled the piss, pooling beneath me.

  I clenched my jaw, swallowed bile. Panicked. One of the men shifted, climbed into the front of the van.

  Started up and drove.

  Weaving through streets with sudden turns, sending me sliding painfully side to side. At length, a light flicked on.