by Danuta Reah
She worked in the quiet of the stacks; the endless rows of shelves and the pools of light in the darkness restored her equilibrium. As she read, she felt the excitement of seeing solid backing for her intuitions. Here was someone who was identifying organic brain damage in persistent offenders. Damage in areas of the brain that affected language. Physical evidence to support her more indirect observations. Recent events had shaken her faith in her abilities. For the first time since her interview with DI McCarthy, she began to think that it might be all right after all.
Soon after eleven, she began to flag. She realized she’d been working for nearly three hours without a break, so she left her books and notes on the desk and headed across the campus towards the students’ union. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sky, enjoying the warmth and the patterns of light and shade against her eyelids.
When she opened her eyes, she was a bit disconcerted to find herself face to face with DI McCarthy himself, coming down the steps from the road past the red-brick admin, building that gave the university its ivy-covered centre. They had almost collided. He looked faintly surprised, possibly at the sight of her standing there like a sun-worshipper. She grimaced, then hastily smoothed her features out. She felt at a disadvantage. She would rather have her rematch with McCarthy in the severe garb of professionalism, but she was dressed for working in the stacks in old jeans and a T-shirt. There were ink stains on her fingers from a leaking ballpoint, and, for all she knew, on her face as well. The clip was coming out of her hair. She thought she caught a gleam of amusement in his eye, but when she looked again, he was his austere, impassive self. ‘Ms Milner,’ he said. He sounded pleasant enough, but he didn’t smile.
Suzanne nodded in acknowledgement. She didn’t know what to call him. She thought maybe you said ‘constable’ or ‘sergeant’ but she wasn’t sure if you said ‘inspector’. Or would it be ‘Inspector McCarthy’? She settled for a wary, ‘Hello,’ catching at her hair as the clip fell out and clattered onto the pavement. ‘It’s Suzanne, by the way.’
‘Steve,’ he said. He picked up the hair clip and gave it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She pulled her hair off her face again and pushed the clip back in.
She expected him to move on, but he stayed where he was, looking at her and then at the open campus ahead of him. ‘I don’t usually come into the university,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere to get a cup of coffee round here?’
‘There’s a coffee bar in the students’ union,’ she said. ‘You can get espresso and americano and things there.’
He shrugged. ‘Hot and full of caffeine would do for now.’ He looked at her again as though he’d just thought of something. ‘Have you got some time? There’s something I wanted to ask you. I’ll get you a coffee.’
Suzanne was suspicious. Something I wanted to ask you. ‘Is it something to do with—’ She almost said ‘Ashley’, but caught herself in time. ‘With Emma?’
‘There are one or two gaps you could fill in.’ He looked at her, waiting to see what she would say. She thought about Jane, what Jane had said the other day. Jane would probably have made a pass at the bleak DI McCarthy. She wondered how he would react to that. In her experience, very few men put up much resistance to Jane, but she thought she might put her money on McCarthy.
She realized she hadn’t said anything, and he was looking at her questioningly. ‘All right,’ she said, cautiously.
He did smile then, at her wariness, and said, ‘Don’t worry. They fed me before they let me out this morning.’ That surprised her into laughing. OK, possibly he did have his human side. They walked across to the students’ union in silence.
The coffee bar was quiet. McCarthy bought her a double espresso, pausing to chat to the woman who was serving the coffee, getting involved in a quick exchange of banter, just for a moment seeming very different from the man who’d been brusque and unsympathetic with Jane, and cold and impatient with her. Maybe he just compartmentalized a lot.
He offered her a cigarette and then lit one for himself. Before he could say anything, she said, ‘What are you doing up here?’
He looked at her for a moment before answering. ‘Trying to track down Sophie Dutton.’
Suzanne was surprised. ‘Sophie’s gone home. Didn’t you know?’
He didn’t answer that, just kept on looking at her as he knocked the ash off his cigarette. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the Alpha Project.’ He stopped as though he had just thought of something, and looked at her with genuine curiosity. ‘Why there?’ he said.
Suzanne ran the question through her mind, looking for pitfalls. It seemed safe enough. ‘Why not?’ she countered.
He seemed to take that as serious comment. ‘Most of those lads should be locked up,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t choose to spend any time with them. If I didn’t have to.’
Suzanne set her jaw. ‘There are reasons,’ she said, ‘for the way they are.’
‘Oh, there are always reasons,’ he agreed. ‘It doesn’t make them any less dangerous.’
She looked at her hands. She wondered if he really believed what he was saying, or if he was trying to get her wound up and talking incautiously. ‘I don’t think they’re dangerous,’ she said. ‘It’s mostly car theft, stuff like that.’
‘Car theft is dangerous enough, if you get hit by a joyrider.’ That was a debating point. Any driver was dangerous if you thought about it like that. She waited to see what else he would say. ‘What you need to remember is that most of them are seriously disturbed. Don’t judge them by your own rules.’
She had the feeling that he was warning her about something. She thought about the lads she’d got to know. OK, Dean was aggressive and difficult. He had a history of disturbed behaviour and substance abuse. The centre workers always treated him with caution. Richard had once admitted to her that he thought Dean’s case was a hopeless one. And Lee masked something sinister behind his quick wit. Ashley was different, though: quieter, less aggressive. She wanted to get him off the topic. ‘And that’s just the social workers?’ she tried.
He started to say something, then laughed as he caught her eye, and she smiled back in a moment of rapport. Jane was right. He was attractive. She relaxed a bit. She wondered why he was just talking, not asking her questions about Emma. Maybe he was trying to put her at ease.
‘You still haven’t told me,’ he said. ‘Why the Alpha Centre?’
‘It was the best place for my research.’ She explained her theory about people whose communication skills were damaged. She was used to being on the receiving end of scepticism, but he seemed genuinely interested and asked her some surprisingly well-informed questions. Then she wondered why she was surprised. Criminal behaviour was as much his area of expertise as it was Richard’s. She told him about the Californian research she had found that morning, and the way it supported the work she was doing. He listened, and told her about some of the people he’d had to deal with. She found herself warming to him, finding him easier to talk to than she’d expected. He seemed prepared to accept her as an expert in her own field. She told him about the reactions she’d had from the Alpha workers: Neil’s dour disapproval, Richard’s earnest solemnity.
He smiled at that. ‘They can be a bit protective,’ he said. She could hear something underlying his diplomatic words, and looked at him quickly. He met her eyes, and she read an unspoken opinion that was close to her own. She felt that unexpected sense of rapport again. She was starting to enjoy herself. He went back to her research programme. ‘So how often are you up there?’
‘I just do the one afternoon and the one evening.’ That was all she’d been allowed.
‘A week?’ He reached across for the ashtray as he spoke.
‘Yes …’ She pushed it over to him.
‘How many hours a week?’ He stubbed the cigarette out half smoked, unlike her own student habit of smoking them down to the filter.
‘It depends
. Three hours, four maybe.’ She couldn’t see where he was going.
‘And you work with all the lads together?’
‘Mostly. Sometimes—’ But she stopped herself. She wasn’t going to tell him about the tapes, not until she’d cleared it with Richard. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I wondered how well you knew Ashley Reid,’ he said. ‘Have you had any contact with him away from the centre?’
So that was it. He was trying to show that she was protecting Ashley because they had a kind of – something, she didn’t know what. Trying to show that she wasn’t impartial, that she would lie, in fact. The barrier was there again. He wasn’t an attractive man gently chatting her up over a cup of coffee, he was a professional interrogator. ‘I’ve only ever seen Ashley at the centre. I met him for the first time about eleven weeks ago, and I’ve seen him on and off at the centre since then. Some weeks, I haven’t seen him at all.’ That wasn’t strictly true. She had spent more time with Ashley than any of the others, and though there had been one week when Ashley had left early, he was always there.
‘OK.’ He seemed happy to accept that. ‘We’re having some problems tracking him down. I thought you might have some ideas.’ She shook her head, waiting. He was thinking over what she had said. ‘As I remember, you said when I interviewed you that you caught a glimpse of the person, of his face.’
‘Yes.’ She was beginning to get that knot in her stomach again.
‘But you can’t be sure, can you, that it was or that it wasn’t Reid? You just saw someone answering his description.’ His voice implied that this was logical, reasonable. ‘Listen, Suzanne, we think he was at the scene. You could help us with the time. By your own admission, you hardly know Reid – not to tell at a glance.’ He looked at her again. ‘You saw this person walking away from you towards the woods. He looked back over his shoulder. You thought it was Reid, and then you thought it wasn’t – but really, you can’t be sure either way.’ Just tell us where Adam is. We want to help the lad, Suzanne. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you just need to tell me what happened, what you saw. You’re not responsible for Reid.’
I hold you responsible for this, Suzanne. She froze. Adam’s face in the picture; Emma under the water. A young man with dark hair walking away, looking back, quickly, furtively. Could she trust what she remembered? She looked at the man sitting opposite her. He was waiting for her to answer, looking faintly puzzled. Had she said something? She shook her head. ‘It’s like I told you,’ she said. ‘I saw someone who reminded me of Ashley Reid. I didn’t think it was him at the time, and I still don’t think it was.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘I’m sorry. That’s what I saw.’ She was going to start babbling, explaining, justifying in a minute. She didn’t meet his eye as she stubbed out her cigarette and picked up her bag. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’
McCarthy watched her disappear through the door, feeling a sense of frustration. Everything about her said that she was lying to him, and he couldn’t see any reason for it. Just possibly she’d been sheltering Reid in some misplaced benevolence when he’d talked to her before, but she’d had time to think since then. She wasn’t stupid. He’d told her they had information that could put Reid on the spot. All he’d asked for was confirmation.
He stayed where he was and finished his coffee. The coffee bar was painted cream and blue, the carpet echoed those colours, and the whole effect was light and airy. The rows of tables by the windows said canteen, but the area where he had been sitting with Suzanne had low tables, bars with high stools, greenery, all arranged to create comfortable, private seating. There were a few people scattered around the tables, a low buzz of talk, but nothing to disrupt the general air of sunny quiet. He thought about the canteen at police headquarters. Adequate, but there was no carpet, no greenery, just an acoustic that amplified and echoed the noise of conversation and the grating sound of chairs on lino. It all seemed designed to increase the sense of tension and pressure under which they worked these days. He wondered what students did to deserve this air of calm and peace that always impressed him on the few occasions he came on to the campus. Get that chip off your shoulder, McCarthy.
He ran his conversation with Suzanne through his mind. He hadn’t meant to upset her – she wasn’t coming across the supercilious academic this time. She’d been friendly; a bit wary at first, but then she’d become genuinely engaged as they’d talked about her work, seeming suddenly confident and in control. He’d found what she was saying interesting. She’d sketched a vivid picture of the Alpha team closing ranks in horror, including a slanderous impersonation which had made him laugh, and then, as he’d rather reluctantly moved on to business, suddenly it had all collapsed, and she had looked frightened and lost.
He’d been pleased when he’d seen her standing by the wall, her face turned up to the sun, smiling, very different from the way she’d looked before. She’d spotted him, and her smile had changed to a frown, hastily modified when she realized he had seen her. If he was honest, he’d admit that he was watching her because he enjoyed looking at her. She reminded him a lot of Lynne, except there was a fucked-upness about her that there never had been about Lynne. A vulnerable Lynne, a Lynne without that intimidating competence. He’d enjoyed the process of breaking down the barriers of her resistance until she’d confided in him, but then, without meaning to, he’d put the boot in.
And he still didn’t have his confirmation that someone answering Reid’s description had been seen in the park around the important time – he was going to have to talk to Suzanne again. He checked his watch and finished his coffee. He had a trip to Derby on his schedule.
It was playtime. Lucy shook her head when Lauren asked her if she wanted to join in their game. ‘Go on, Lucy, you’ve got to play. It’s my game.’ Lucy shook her head again, and wove her way through a group of boys who were shouting and pushing near the seats. She heard Kirsten’s voice behind her.
‘Her babysitter got killed. The police came to her mum.’ There was a buzz of chatter. Lucy clenched her fists. She would show Kirsten. But she had something more important to do. She went to the wall that looked out over the road and scrambled up a bit, holding onto the railings. She could see the shops on the other side, people rushing up and down. There was the shop where Mum got all her flowers and herbs. Daddy was always talking about Mum’s flowers and herbs. There was the shop with all the cheese. Lucy didn’t like going in there. It smelt funny. She gripped the railings harder and scrabbled her toes into the irregularities in the stone. There were cars parked all the way along the road. Pollution. That’s what Mum always said. All the people looked ordinary. There was Mrs Varney, who babysat for Lucy sometimes. There was the lady with the funny shoes. And Kath from the fruit shop with her baby in the pram. Lucy waved, and Kath waved back. The strange feeling that had been inside her all morning began to go away. It looked as though it was all right, as though maybe she didn’t need to worry. She craned her neck to see further along the road.
And he was there, just outside the bookshop. He seemed to be looking at the books, but Lucy knew he was only pretending. Grandmother’s Footsteps. She was looking now, and everything was still, nobody was moving. The monsters were still there, and they were closer. She didn’t know what to do.
The monsters were still waiting.
‘You’re going to get me the sack, guys.’ The young man looked at the two detectives waiting for him in the manager’s office. ‘Look, can’t this wait until I finish? I need the money …’ His voice trailed off. He looked uneasy, like someone with something on his conscience. He’d been working on Friday, at his keyboard all day in the Derby office, working to supplement the loan that hadn’t even covered his rent for an academic year. McCarthy liked the uneasiness, liked the fact that Paul Lynman, undergraduate and ex-resident of 14, Carleton Road, flatmate of Emma Allan and Sophie Dutton, was frightened of losing his job. The quicker he answered their questions to their satisfaction, the quicker they would leave him alone.<
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‘We’ll make this as quick as possible,’ he said. Lynman nodded. ‘I want to ask you some questions about Emma Allan and Sophie Dutton. You shared a house with Sophie from last September. And we understand that Emma Allan was an unofficial lodger there for a few weeks.’
Lynman looked taken aback. He hadn’t expected this. McCarthy wondered what he had expected, to have looked so worried, so uneasy when they announced themselves. ‘Emma?’ His look of unease began to grow. ‘She’s Sophie’s friend. I don’t really … And I haven’t seen Sophie for weeks. She’s left ….’ He looked at McCarthy. ‘I wasn’t there in September. I moved in in October. I was living with my girlfriend, but there wasn’t room. I didn’t know them …’
McCarthy thought. ‘Why did you move in so late?’ The house was for four people. The university was short of accommodation, so how had there been a room available in October? A room in a premium area, as well.
Lynman looked at him, weighing up the question. ‘The place was full, but then someone moved out, so they needed someone else. I knew two of the people there, they were on my course, Gemma and Dan.’ The students who were in Germany. ‘So …’ He shrugged.
OK. McCarthy shelved that. ‘Mr Lynman, did you see the news yesterday?’ Lynman’s bafflement was convincing. It looked as though he didn’t know about Emma. So why the panic McCarthy thought he had seen?
‘No, I don’t bother with … What news?’
‘Emma Allan is dead, Mr Lynman.’ He watched as the young man’s face registered the knowledge.
‘I didn’t … I told her … What happened?’
McCarthy didn’t want to soften it. ‘She was murdered,’ Lynman’s face showed first disbelief, then shock as he realized that McCarthy meant what he was saying, wasn’t playing some elaborate trick. He went white and grabbed at the wall for support. Corvin steadied his arm and pulled out a chair, raising his eyebrows speculatively at McCarthy.
