Waking Broken

by Huw Thomas

  ‘If something did happen to her, it was probably along the top end of Union Road.’ The superintendent frowned. ‘What’s up there now. Big building site isn’t it?’

  Glasgow nodded. ‘We’ve taken her picture around and talked to the workers but nothing so far.’

  ‘And the husband?’

  Glasgow shrugged. ‘Unlikely. He claims not to have known she was gone until he woke up the next morning. He works shifts at a local meatpacking factory. He was there at six the next morning. He doesn’t have an alibi up until then but on the other hand he doesn’t have a car. It’s possible he could have got hold of one but it seems unlikely. There’s also no evidence he was on the same train and, like I said, there was no sign of anyone following her from the station so it’s hard to see how he could have ambushed her.’ He shook his head. ‘He might have been knocking her around but I don’t fancy the husband for this one.’

  ‘So…’

  Glasgow pulled a face. ‘A couple of Stanley’s guys have heard odd rumours from around Union Road over the past month or so about girls going missing but there’s been nothing we can substantiate. These four are the only ones where we’ve got any evidence at all of women having disappeared.’

  ‘And Smith Street.’ The big man leaned in close to look at the picture of the manacles fixed to the sewer wall. His nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘That’s nasty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this was a tip-off from the journalist?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘And what do you know about him?’

  Glasgow pointed to the fifth snapshot on the wall. ‘Daniel Harper.’ He shrugged. ‘The tip-off was anonymous but I’m certain it was him. I’ve listened to the recording and I’d swear it’s the same guy.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘Briefly: on Wednesday night. He was the one Cole’s men caught sneaking around the back of his sister’s place.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Glasgow. ‘The caller gave a name. Said to call him ‘Dusty’. We’ve spoken to his ex-girlfriend and not only has she confirmed that it’s his voice but apparently it’s an old nickname of his.’

  Black raised an eyebrow. ‘Why ‘Dusty’? As in Dusty Miller?’

  ‘No.’ Glasgow smiled. ‘Jim Stanley got it right. It’s as in Dusty Springfield.’

  The superintendent frowned. ‘What’s the connection there?’

  ‘The song: Son Of A Preacher Man. Apparently Harper’s father is some kind of preacher. Quite heavy duty from what he told his girlfriend: bit of a fire and brimstone type. When he was a kid some of his friends used to call him Dusty.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  Glasgow gave a humourless smile. ‘Avoiding us. We went round to his flat but what we didn’t realise was that the ex lived next door. He was in there talking to her and did a flit down the fire escape when we called. We’re looking for him now. I’ve got a couple of addresses to check out.’

  ‘You reckon he’s your man?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But he knows something. It’s hard to think how else he would have known about Smith Street but then why tell us about it? There’s one other thing though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, the girlfriend said he’s always been a bit erratic. Heavy drinker, prone to mood swings, done the odd disappearing trick on her.’ Glasgow shrugged. ‘Nothing conclusive: the relationship broke up anyway so it might just be sour grapes on her part. Although, she did say he was behaving oddly when he came round this afternoon. She asked him about it and he said he’d been in an accident and his memory was playing tricks on him. They never got to finish the conversation because he ran off down the fire escape.’

  The detective sighed. ‘I don’t know if it adds anything anyway. He told her the accident happened on Monday and some of these disappearances go back further than that.’

  Black raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe his memory of when the accident happened isn’t right either.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, let me know when you find him.’

  ‘I will do.’

  A frown crossed the superintendent’s face. He pointed at a photograph on the far side of the board. ‘What about the other woman?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Glasgow nodded. ‘Louise Brent. Not sure whether she fits into the jigsaw puzzle or not.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Journalist at The Post. Went out with friends on Tuesday night but never came home. If we’ve got a killer who’s targeting prostitutes then she doesn’t fit the profile but then neither does the Latvian woman.’

  ‘Partner?’

  ‘Live-in boyfriend. We’ve spoken to him. He’s the one reported her missing but there’s nothing to suggest she’s dumped him and done a bunk or that he’s topped her and stuck her body under the floorboards.’

  ‘Connection with Harper?’

  ‘Works for the same paper. Nothing else we know about.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Glasgow shrugged. ‘Like with the others, we’ve got nothing definite. Just another woman who’s disappeared.’

  ‘From our streets.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Black nodded. ‘Well, as you know, I can’t give you much of a budget or a lot in the way of manpower until you give me something concrete. But keep trying to see if the dots join up. If there is something — or someone — behind this then we don’t want to let them slip through the net.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And keep trying to find your friend Dusty Harper.’

  Glasgow watched as his superior turned to leave. He straightened his back and cleared his throat in a discrete cough. ‘Er… sir? There was one other matter.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Something I should warn you about.’

  Black looked wary. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s Cole. He’s got some footage he says he might use against me.’

  ‘Footage of you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Glasgow nodded. ‘Nothing too serious.’

  ‘How serious?’

  The detective spoke with his usual confidence but he looked slightly uneasy as he made the admission. ‘Well… I’m not quite sure but probably some girls. Maybe some drugs. You know how it is: these people trust bent cops. I’ve had to prove I was bent.’

  Black nodded slowly. ‘So is this a formal warning or something to hear and forget?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Glasgow. ‘I don’t think he’ll use it. I’ve got a feeling he was just pushing me to see whether I’d do as I was told or not.’

  ‘Right.’ The superintendent nodded. ‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Make sure you keep it that way. I’ll forget this conversation for now but, if the situation changes, I’m the first person you’re going to call.’

  49. Waiting For The Man

  Friday, 9.12pm:

  Harper ducked under the wire and lowered himself beneath the metal railings. He clung to the base of the fence while trying to worm his legs around and get a purchase on the other side. Part way through, he found himself stuck. He hung in mid-air, neither one side nor the other. A cold breeze plucked at him, its cool touch making him even more conscious of the river drifting by below.

  He was at the eastern end of the old Kavanaugh Centre. A riverside path normally ran past the old shopping arcade but it was blocked off while the redevelopment of the site took place. From outside, it had looked easy enough to get into the site by climbing around the barrier. That, however, had been from the safety of the road. Now, as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the gravel-covered concrete on the inside and his arms felt like they were being pulled from his sockets, Harper began to realise the risk he was taking.

  He gritted his teeth and cautiously shuffled his grip a bit further. Then, arching his back and twisting hard, he managed to shift more of his weight around to the inside of the railings. Another pull and he was almost there. A final twist got his body onto the path and he slid the rest of t
he way, landing in an undignified sprawl: arms aching but relieved to be back on solid ground.

  Harper lay and gathered his breath before picking himself up. He nodded to the others. ‘Okay.’

  On the other side, Brendan stepped back a few paces and threw Harper’s bag. It sailed over the fence and Harper gathered it to his chest. He slung the old pack over one shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now this one.’ Brendan held out the soft case with the video camera. It was just small enough to slip through the gap between the railings and Harper stowed it in the pack. As he did so, Rebecca reached out through the bars and took his arm. ‘You’ll be careful won’t you?’

  Harper smiled and took her hand in his. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything reckless. I’m just going to keep watch. If Van Hulle turns up, first thing I’ll do is call the police. The only other thing is get him on camera.’

  Rebecca looked doubtful. ‘I hope this works.’

  Harper shrugged. ‘So do I. But look on the bright side: the police aren’t going to come looking for me here and if I can get some evidence they’ll have to believe me. They can arrest me then: I don’t care as long as they get Van Hulle as well.’

  After leaving Van Hulle’s offices in the old church earlier that afternoon, Harper and Cash had returned to Haworth Manor, the first stage of their mission complete.

  Rebecca was still there when they arrived, hard at work educating herself about her new boss. As the artist’s personal assistant, she needed to be completely familiar with his personal and professional history, output and other projects. She had not seen Harper since dropping him off that morning — and was still unaware of the looming spectre of Van Hulle. As far as she knew, her biggest worry was thinking too much about Danny Harper and researching Paul Cash had appeared a welcome diversion.

  Rebecca realised that she tended to dwell on dilemmas: over-analysing situations, rehashing actions and decisions, thinking about all the options, rather than just acting and living with the consequences. She could have spent all day considering the situation with Danny but experience had taught her she would probably emerge from the process no wiser and more confused. Instead, she lost herself in her work.

  Cash had left the manor mid-afternoon, saying he was going into town but without giving any details. Rebecca did not ask for any. She was happy to wander the old mansion in solitude, getting her bearings and a feel for the place where she would be working. Later, she had gathered a pile of paperwork and settled down in front of the fire. For the next couple of hours, she skimmed through brochures for old exhibitions, magazine articles, newspaper clippings and all manner of writing relating to Paul Cash, his work and his exploits.

  She had still been deep in her work when Cash returned. With him was Harper. His arrival was a surprise but her pleasure darkened when he broke the news about Van Hulle and explained the next stage of his plan for proving the man’s guilt.

  ‘You see,’ Harper told her. ‘I tried telling the police but now they want to bring me in for questioning. They turned up at Brendan’s flat not long after me and Paul left. They know it was me that tipped them off about Smith Street and now they think I must have more I could tell them.’

  He shrugged. ‘Which, to be fair, I do; but nothing I could realistically explain. If I try telling them the truth, what are they going to think? They’re hardly going to take it on face value. Most likely thing is they section me under the Mental Health Act; that way they don’t even need to charge me. They can probably keep me locked up for as long as they like. They’re not going to believe me and they’re going to waste time trying to make sense of my story instead of going after Van Hulle.’

  Rebecca was reluctant to accept Harper’s proposal. ‘But can’t you just lie low for a while, until this is over. They’ll catch Van Hulle in the end and then they’ll forget about you.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘But how long’s that going to take. If they haven’t got any evidence they’re not going to be able to do anything. As far as I know, they haven’t even found a body. There’s no proof a crime has even been committed. There’s no way of knowing that Van Hulle will ever get caught. And how long would you be prepared to wait? And what if something happens to some other woman while I’m in hiding waiting for him to make a mistake?’

  Harper paced around the room while he talked to Rebecca, with Cash standing in the doorway. ‘Look,’ Harper continued passionately. ‘We don’t even know what he does with the women he takes. Or how many there are, or who they are. The only one I know about is Stacey Cole. She was the one imprisoned in the wall. The thing is…’

  He stopped and turned to face Rebecca. ‘When the police found her body they couldn’t say how she died. She might have been still alive when she was put there. They said Van Hulle didn’t kill her. That she might have drowned when the concrete was poured on top of her.’

  Harper let that revelation sink in as he stared into Rebecca’s eyes. ‘Maybe he doesn’t even kill the women himself. In which case, what if he’s got a prisoner somewhere now, someone he’s going to put into that wall? If I don’t stop him, that woman’s as good as dead. But, if I can stop him, she’s got a chance.’

  Now, some hours later, Harper found himself picking his way through the shadows of a sprawling building site. The bag over his shoulder held the video camera and his mobile phone, as well as an extra fleece, a flask of coffee and a pack of sandwiches. He was wearing his warmest clothes and ready for a long night ahead.

  He carried a torch in one hand but kept it off as much as possible, just in case of any security guards on the site. Instead he relied on the city’s ambient light: a steady orange glow reflected off the ceiling of low clouds.

  The riverside path only took him part way into the site. Then it came to an abrupt end, terminating where foundations were being installed for the office blocks destined to sit here. Harper was forced to detour into the main site, threading his way around stacks of reinforcing rods, parked machinery and service trenches still open to the night sky. He moved warily, as anxious not to make noise as to avoid falling into any excavations.

  Eventually, he found his way to the edge of the huge pit that would one day be an underground car park. Harper gave a shiver as he looked into the hole. Like so many others, he had seen the TV pictures and photographs from when the wall breached and the river burst through. And he had also seen the snatched, long lens shots taken after the water was pumped out again and the breach revealed. He had seen the police forensic teams chipping away at the concrete and combing the mud for clues. He had also seen the footage of the bagged remains being removed from the scene and taken away for autopsy.

  The hair on his neck stood up as he saw the scene again. This time he was closer to the pit and seeing it from a new angle. And this time, the wall was still unbreached, the hole unflooded and the body undiscovered.

  Harper drew a slow breath and looked around, almost expecting Van Hulle to explode at him out of the shadows.

  But nothing happened. He could hear traffic and distant voices from outside the site, in the direction of the city centre. Here, though, all was still.

  He began to edge around the excavation. The section of retaining wall around the inside of the pit was already finished and in place. But to the left, where the builders had cut deep into the riverbank, the wall was incomplete. Where the riverbank was cut away, a temporary barrier held the water back. Inside that, a skin of plywood shuttering and a grid of metal rods marked out the position of the wall.

  Enough of the bank still remained, however, to provide a rough path around the top of the wall. Tramped down by builders’ boots it was relatively level and firm. Harper followed it slowly. He flicked the torch on but kept the bulb hooded by his hand. As he made his way along parallel with the wall, he shone the beam down into the open grid of metal, looking for any kind of opening where a body might be deposited.

  50. Fragile Thing

  Friday, 10.13pm:

  The male
nurse on the reception desk at the hospital’s accident and emergency department was used to seeing all sorts. Few people included a visit to A&E in their Friday night plans but plenty added the venue to their schedule at the last minute. Some had already lost consciousness by the time they reached hospital but most came in as walking wounded: arriving in all manner of condition.

  Often though, it would be the attitude that was as problematic as the injury that brought them. Some would be in deepest despair, in all shades of pain from non-existent to excruciating, some full of anger at the indignity of whatever had been inflicted on them — even when both cause and effect were self-inflicted. The most problematic customers were those who arrived still wanting to party and needing careful persuasion to bring them down from whatever plateau of pleasure they had reached.

  This Friday had been little different from any other. When the outer doors were pushed open for the tenth time in less minutes, the nurse did not bother to look up from the holiday form in front of him. He had been trying to complete it since coming on shift more than two hours ago and had barely got past filling in his own name.

  It was the sharp intake of breath from the orderly standing next to him that got his attention. The nurse’s eyes opened wide as he took in the woman staggering towards him and the child lying limp in her arms.

  Louise knew she stank. She only realised when, just minutes after picking her up, the taxi driver she flagged down wound his window down while driving at racetrack speed through the February night.

  But her own condition was less important to her now than that of the boy in her arms. He did little more than mumble even while she was hauling him through the hatch in the cell roof. He had stayed unconscious since and she could feel the fever burning up his body. Without expert intervention, she knew his time was limited.