by Danuta Reah
6
Steve McCarthy had been home for an hour. He’d got home after eight-thirty and gone straight to his computer to log on to the network. His evenings would be like this now, until this case was over. There was always more information pouring in, more details often burying important details, and he intended staying on top of it all.
McCarthy was ambitious. He’d joined the police after leaving school, choosing to go straight in rather than going on to do a degree. He still wasn’t sure if that had been the wisest decision. He’d done well, promotions had come in good time, sometimes sooner than his best expectations, and he knew he was seen as a team player with a good future ahead of him. He was thirty-two, and the next hike up the promotions ladder was the important one.
He was working on their current database now, getting it to look for patterns in relation to other offences in the Sheffield area over recent months. He typed another command into the computer, getting it to sort the information in relation to drug offences. While he was waiting, he dug his fork into the takeaway he’d picked up from the Chinese on the way back. Cold. He looked down at the polystyrene tray. His chicken chow mein had somehow transformed itself into a grey, glutinous mass. He pushed it away impatiently. He could get something out of the freezer later, stick it in the microwave. He picked up his mug of coffee with little optimism. Cold as well. He couldn’t work without coffee. He went through to the kitchen and pushed the switch on the coffee machine.
The flat was modern, two-bedroomed. McCarthy had bought it because it was fitted out, convenient and he could move straight in. He’d heard someone say once, or he’d read somewhere, that a house should be a machine for living. McCarthy understood that. He wanted the place he lived in to service him. He wanted to go in and find it warm when the weather was cold, cool when it was hot. He wanted to be able to cook at the push of a button, wash at the flick of a switch. He wanted to have any disorder that living created reordered before he returned.
‘Christ, McCarthy,’ Lynne, his last girlfriend, had said, ‘why don’t you just lock yourself away in a cupboard at the end of the day?’ Another time she’d said, ‘What you need, McCarthy, is a wife. An automatic, rechargeable, super-turbo, fuel-injection wife.’ He’d laughed and started massaging her back, running his hands over her neck and shoulders in the way he knew she liked, because he hadn’t wanted to have another of their vicious, cutting rows, and she’d pulled him into the chair and they’d had a quick wham bam thank you, ma’am – or thank you, sir, and then they’d gone into the bedroom and spent longer, spent most of the evening, exploring each other and drinking wine. But he and Lynne only had that: they had sex and they had the job. They couldn’t spend all their time screwing and working – though to McCarthy it had sometimes seemed as though that was exactly what they did – and the relationship had ended when Lynne got the job that he had aimed at, got his promotion in fact, and the whole flimsy edifice had fallen apart in the volcanic aftermath. He still felt angry and bitter about that, and he determinedly shut it out of his mind.
He took the coffee back into his workroom and looked at the screen. There was very little there that he didn’t already know. He noted the fact that Ashley Reid had a drugs caution – hardly surprising he’d missed it, McCarthy thought, in the long list attached to that young thug’s name. And, now, this could be interesting: Paul Lynman, one of the tenants at 14, Carleton Road, the student house, had a conviction for possession. McCarthy pulled up the details. OK, it looked like a my-round deal – he’d been caught with almost enough speed to pull down a dealing charge – but not quite. He’d insisted, wisely, that it was for his own use, but he’d probably been buying for a friend as well as for himself. Worth chasing up, though. There was nothing conclusive, no real links. McCarthy rubbed the skin between his eyebrows in an effort to concentrate. He’d heard something about a problem at the Alpha Centre, something about Es and speed. And had there been some kind of action round the university? He needed to talk to someone from drugs.
He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. He wondered what to do with the rest of the evening. Listen to music? Watch the telly? He felt a sense of things closing around him, as though his life was shrinking to the walls of this flat, the route to and from the office, the office itself. Maybe Lynne had been right. Maybe he should start looking for that cupboard.
Sunday morning, Suzanne got up early, was showered, dressed and at her desk by eight o’clock. She planned to put in a solid day’s work, to forget everything that had happened since Friday. For an hour, she tried to read and make notes from a research paper that she’d had on her desk for a week. Her mind refused to focus. When she reached the end of the ten dense, closely printed pages, she realized she might as well not have read it at all. She tossed it irritably into her paper tray, not bothering to put it into its correct basket. She rubbed her forehead, and looked at the waiting tasks arrayed around her desk. She thought about Jane’s method for focusing – there was some kind of yoga trick. Something to do with emptying the mind. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the nothingness that was behind her eyelids.
Focus… What had Richard meant when he said that Keith Liskeard was very unhappy? Keith had always been less than enthusiastic about Suzanne’s research. She remembered him nodding in agreement when one of the social workers – Neil, she thought – had said that the Alpha lads weren’t rats in mazes for researchers to play games with. Suzanne had swallowed the antagonistic response that had leapt to her tongue, and again patiently gone through the reassurances that at this stage all she wanted to do was observe, she would do nothing without the approval of the staff, would keep them informed at all times. It had been time-consuming and frustrating, and she had been angry at the way they put labels on her and stereotyped her in the way they were accusing her of doing to the young men who were sentenced to the Alpha programme. She was tired of the phrase middle class, tired of academic as a term of abuse … She realized that Keith would not be sorry of a chance to get rid of her.
This wasn’t working. She opened her eyes and looked at the array of papers on her desk. OK, reading was out. She needed something concrete to do. She decided to put some data into the computer to set up the first stage of her analysis. It needed doing, but it was a mechanical task that she’d been putting off. She didn’t need to concentrate for this, and it would keep her occupied.
But once again work seemed no escape. Suzanne keyed data into her computer, the mindlessness of the task leaving her vulnerable to thoughts that wandered beyond her control. She thought about Michael’s small figure climbing the steps up to Dave’s front door. She thought about Lucy’s contained self-possession; she thought about Joel leaning easily against the worktop, smiling. She thought about the sudden interest in DI McCarthy’s eyes. She thought about Richard’s look of disappointment. He was the only person at the Alpha Centre who’d given her any support. How can you be so unreliable! Her father’s exasperation and reproach echoed in her mind.
The computer beeped at her. Shit! She’d hit the control key by mistake. Thank goodness the programme she was using was fairly idiot-proof. She leant back in her chair and stretched. Maybe a walk would do her good. It was all tangled up in her mind. Michael, Dave, her problems at the Alpha Centre, her research … Emma. She tried to picture Emma in her mind, but all she could see was the white face under the water, the face that wavered and became Lucy’s, then wavered again and became Adam’s. She pressed her hands over her eyes. No good.
She went down to the kitchen, put the kettle on, sorted through the dishes in the sink until she found a cup that wasn’t too bad, rinsed it and put a spoonful of coffee in. She remembered how Dave used to refuse to have anything to do with instant coffee. She ladled two spoons of sugar into the cup, and added the top of the milk. That reminded her of Michael. She’d bought the full-cream milk for his weekend.
Then she sank down on a stool, holding her cup, as the panic hit her. Familiar, so familiar, but never any ea
sier. She was back in the hospital, feeling drunk with a kind of elation she had never known before. It’s a boy, Suze! She could remember Dave’s face close to hers. Let me hold him. Suzanne, reaching out, was tired, relieved, amazed. She remembered the tiny, perfect face, the small body wrapped in a hospital blanket. Her baby. She held him. His eyes opened and looked into hers for the first time, a clear and perfect blue like the first time she’d held Adam, her mother in the hospital bed, the nurse carefully handing her the blue-wrapped bundle. And a stab of fear almost doubled her up, leaving her trembling, with a knot in her stomach, a feeling of panic and impending disaster. She felt as though a terrible danger was teetering over the child, catastrophe and chaos lurching towards him – from her. She mustn’t touch him. She was … somehow, she was going to hurt, to damage this child beyond repair. The baby stirred and uttered a protesting cry.
Remembering, Suzanne felt herself break out in a cold sweat.
Since leaving home, Emma Allan had stayed in the student house on Carleton Road. Sophie Dutton had lived there, and Emma had apparently shared Sophie’s room, and then lived there by herself once Sophie had left. ‘Strictly against our rules,’ the university housing officer said. He had the list of the recent tenants. Paul Lynman, who’d been studying modern German, gave a home address, presumably his parents’, in Derby. Gemma Hanson and Daniel Grier, also students of modern German, had gone to Germany as part of their post-graduate study. ‘They left in May,’ he said.
Barraclough had been given the task of making contact with Sophie Dutton, who was proving elusive. According to the university records office, she had left officially on May 14. Her tutor had put it down to exam panic, and tried to persuade her to stay. ‘She would have passed, probably done quite well. But a pass was all she needed. First-year exams don’t count towards your degree.’ But Sophie had been adamant.
But whatever she’d told her friends, she hadn’t gone home, nor had she told her parents of her decision. ‘She’s in Sheffield,’ Sophie’s father had said. ‘She’s been there all year. Sophie left her course? Rubbish.’
His irritation was apparently aimed at Barraclough who clearly couldn’t detect her way out of a paper bag, but perhaps concealed the anxiety of a parent watching his child take those first steps in independence. ‘We’re the last people to know what she’s doing.’ His irritation switched to anxiety when he realized that his daughter was not in Sheffield, or at least not where they thought she was. He wasn’t able to give Barraclough any information about Sophie’s contacts that she didn’t already have. ‘Sophie hasn’t been in touch much,’ he said. ‘Not after the first few weeks. Her mother’s had a bit of a go at her about it, but Sophie just says, “Oh, don’t fuss.”’ Barraclough managed to establish that Sophie had been home for Christmas, but had only stayed for a few days. She’d made a couple of phone calls since then, and sent them a jokey postcard from Meadowhall.
The house had only recently been vacated. ‘It’s earlier than we usually end the let, but with two of them off to Germany, and the fourth tenant having left, it seemed fair enough to let the last one go.’ He was apologetic. The house had been cleared out. All their houses were used for summer rents and needed to be ready as soon as possible. ‘This one’s let from the beginning of July,’ he said. Anything personal left in a house was dumped and sent to the local tip.
The cleaners who had done the houses on Carleton Road couldn’t remember anything particular about number fourteen. ‘Did that poor lass that got killed live there?’ the supervisor of the team asked Barraclough. ‘It’s shocking.’ She shook her head. Her words were conventional, but she seemed genuinely moved. ‘No, I can’t remember anything about number fourteen. There can’t have been anything, it was only about a week ago we did it. I’ll tell you what. They were all pigsties, the houses on that road. They may be bright, these kids, but they’ve got some filthy habits.’
The house was next door to Jane Fielding’s. Inside, it seemed too small to contain the four – sometimes five – adults who had lived there. Steep stairs ran up from a small entrance lobby. A door to the left led into a downstairs front room with a bay window. There was a bed, stripped, a carpet, a wardrobe and a small desk. The room was crowded with just that small amount of furniture.
To the right was a communal room and a kitchen. The kitchen was equipped with the basics: cupboards, worktops, cooker and fridge. The edging on the worktops was damaged, showing the MDF inside the marble-effect plastic.
Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. And on the next floor, in the attic, there was another small bedroom. Barraclough looked out of the dormer windows and wondered about fire. There was no fire escape. Did they have one of those fold-away ladders? It looked like a death trap to her.
Sophie Dutton, whose room Emma had shared, had had the attic room, but, like the others, it was stripped to essentials now: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk. It must have been cramped with two of them in there, Barraclough thought, squeezing past the inconveniently placed wardrobe. The room was clean, but there was dust in the corners and bits on the carpet, as though the cleaners had run out of energy as they moved up the stairs. Looking at the evidence of less than thorough cleaning, Corvin arranged to have the rooms checked for prints. But unless that check came up with something, the search of Carleton Road was a bust. They found no traces of Emma, and nothing to tell them where Sophie Dutton had gone.
Suzanne closed the door on her study and set to work to clean up the house. She worked meticulously from the top to the bottom, dusting, vacuuming, washing, until the distracting disorder was replaced by something closer to the order and system she had in her study. It took her nearly three hours, and by the end she felt tired, hot and grubby – but was filled with a sense of achievement.
A plan was beginning to form in her mind. Her research at the Alpha Centre was under threat. Richard hadn’t actually said so, but … She could put all her energies into producing a really good analysis of the little bit of material she had, but that wouldn’t be enough to impress the people who made the decisions. She needed to undo the damage she had – unintentionally – done. She wanted to do that anyway. She owed it to Ashley.
She thought about the first time that she’d met him.
He’d just been a face in a crowd at first. She had a vague memory of a boy with dark hair and eyes and a sudden, warm smile – someone fleetingly, but disturbingly, familiar. With hindsight, she knew that he had been interested in her, curious. It was his attention to her that had drawn her attention. But it had been a week or so before they finally spoke to each other.
She had been in the coffee bar one day – a big, high-ceilinged room with an assortment of chairs, some tables, a drinks machine in one corner. Like the rest of the building, the coffee bar was shabby, showing the wear and tear of constant use but no personal ownership. Rules about vandalism were strict, and there was little graffiti at the Alpha Centre, but the damage of constant use, the damage of poverty and the damage resulting from damaged people with damaged lives had all made their mark.
The air always smelt of frying, steam and cigarettes. There was a serving hatch at one end of the room that was locked and shuttered at that time of day. A metal grill protected its brown painted wood. The main part of the room was taken over by a full-size snooker table, which was one of the few things at the centre that the lads evinced enthusiasm for. There was always a game going on, whether it was officially break time or not.
She was idly watching two of the Alpha’s clients, Lee and Dean, experimenting with fancy shots. Richard had suggested that these two would be good candidates for the first stage of her research, and she was trying to get to know them. Dean she found hard to read, and though he had shown her no overt hostility, there was something about him that worried her. She always felt edgy when he was around. Lee, on the other hand, had seemed friendly in the middle of his hyperactivity and fast-talking wit. That day, he’d offered to teach her how to play snooker, and though she
knew the basics, she’d accepted, seeing this as a way of breaking down some more of the barriers. She’d caught Ashley’s eye as Lee was demonstrating how to hold the cue, and he had, almost imperceptibly, shaken his head as if in warning.
And the muffled comments and laughter as she’d leant over the table lining up her cue, the way Lee positioned himself behind her, the loose-lipped smile on Dean’s face made her realize that she was being turned into a target of sexual innuendo and mime. She’d made the fundamental mistake of assuming that superficial friendliness meant they had no hostility towards her. She didn’t know how to cope with that kind of behaviour from a group of youths – it was more unnerving and more demeaning than careless innuendo on the street. It was focused, personal, malicious. She’d walked away, knowing that this was acknowledging defeat, aware of muffled comments and laughter, and met Neil’s eye from where he’d been standing in the door of the reception office watching unseen. His face carried the unspoken comment: I told you so.
She’d moved across to the far side of the coffee bar, lit a cigarette, trying to make herself less visible, feeling angry with herself for not handling the situation well, when Ashley had caught her eye again and given her a sympathetic smile. A few minutes later, he’d sat down beside her, where she was aimlessly turning the pages of her work folder.
‘Don’t mind them,’ he’d said. He’d bought her a Coke from the machine, and she found that, and his support, oddly comforting. Then he’d looked at her folder. ‘What are you doing?’ he’d asked. His voice was quiet, his accent broad Sheffield. She’d told him a bit about the university, and asked him about his interests, his plans. He didn’t really have any, he’d said. He hadn’t bothered with school much. But he liked drawing. ‘I’d like to do art at college,’ he’d confided. A brief exchange, but encouraging.
