by Stav Sherez
Two pigeons were fighting on the window ledge outside. An explosion of noise and dust, the scuffle-fright of flying feathers and flapping wings. What did birds have to fight about? Carrigan wondered. The same things we did? Or did they fight over stuff we couldn’t even begin to imagine? He rubbed his head and checked his watch. He was running twenty minutes late. He’d been heading out for his appointment with the doctor when the super had called to say he needed to see him urgently.
The cold Glaswegian accent of the newly appointed chief constable crackled through the earpiece. Carrigan heard her admonishing Branch, her voice clipped and broaching no disagreement. Branch mumbled another apology and ended the call. Carrigan waited for the super to say something but Branch ignored him, making notes in a small leather-bound diary.
‘If it’s about the audits . . .’
‘It’s not about the audits.’ Branch looked up. ‘The audits themselves I couldn’t give a fuck about. That’s not what I called you in for.’ He placed the pipe beside his laptop. ‘But, I’m curious, so humour me – why is it you think we’re facing an audit now? At this particular time?’ Branch peered over the frames of his glasses, his eyes neatly bisected.
Carrigan had no idea what he was talking about.
‘You think it’s a coincidence we get picked for a random audit less than six months after you mess with the assistant chief constable?’
Carrigan blinked, his mouth suddenly dry. It took him a moment to register what Branch was saying. ‘Are you talking about the nuns?’
‘Of course I’m talking about the nuns. You didn’t think Quinn would let you get away with it, did you? I didn’t take you to be that naive. Actions have consequences and now, because of you, this entire department is under scrutiny.’
Carrigan flashed back to the burnt-out convent in Notting Hill and the eleven bodies they’d discovered inside. The nuns had taken the law into their own hands and Carrigan had been forced to go up against the diocese in his investigation. But ACC Quinn hadn’t seen it that way. Quinn was connected to the diocese and the church and he’d taken it as both a religious and personal affront.
‘He can’t touch us,’ Carrigan said. ‘Fuck his audit. The numbers add up. I put my best detective on it.’
‘It’s not the audit I’m worried about.’ Branch pointed to a slim blue folder on his desk. ‘It’s that.’
Carrigan took the file and opened it. The first page was a memo from the DPS, the Met’s internal affairs directorate, to ACC Cooper and DSI Branch. Carrigan read it, his fingers gripping the paper, trying hard to focus as the words began to slip and slide off the page.
Branch tapped his pipe against the keyboard. ‘Quinn means to crucify you and that there is the cross.’
Carrigan flipped the memo over. Three subsequent pages of typed depositions and statements. He scanned names and saw people he’d shared a drink with, a hushed conversation in lulls between cases – people he knew, people he worked with every day. How had Quinn managed to get to them? He put the folder down. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Only going to save you if His second coming is as a shit-hot lawyer.’
‘That serious?’
‘Depends what they can prove and how far Quinn’s prepared to take it.’
Carrigan looked at the file. He couldn’t tell if the super was secretly relishing this but suspected he was. ‘You haven’t asked me if I’m guilty of what it says?’
‘Don’t need to. I already know you are. Quinn wouldn’t have instigated this unless he was a hundred per cent sure.’ Branch took off his glasses and rubbed the pouched flesh beneath his eyes. ‘You only have yourself to blame. If you hadn’t done anything out of order, Quinn wouldn’t have been able to touch you and we wouldn’t be in this mess. Policework’s changed. The things we used to get away with – that’s ancient history. I may be able to turn a blind eye provided you get results but the computers won’t.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
Branch smiled lopsidedly. ‘Oh, believe me, I would if I could. But this shit flies right back at me. This happened on my watch. Certain people will come to the conclusion I was behind it.’
There was something else beneath Branch’s words, another layer of meaning Carrigan sensed but couldn’t quite interpret. He looked at the blue file. He’d been a cop his entire adult life. It was all he knew and the only thing that had ever made sense to him, yet – for a very brief window of time – there’d been another life. A part of him had always known this day was coming, that eventually he’d be found out for what he was, a pretend cop, someone who would never fit in, and he’d assumed that when the moment came he’d react in a certain way, but now it was here he was surprised at how wrong he’d been.
‘You think Quinn’s really going to bother going all the way with this? Over a minor infraction?’
‘It’s not the infraction,’ Branch replied. ‘Your investigation put the diocese in an embarrassing position. You fucked with a man’s religion.’
Carrigan was about to say something but quickly changed his mind. ‘How do you suggest we deal with this?’
Branch shook his head. ‘There’s no we. I’ve done what I can but Quinn means to take you down. I’ve got the new chief constable wondering what the fuck’s going on and I can’t tell her without putting the blame on Quinn and, since the two of them are best fucking friends, I can’t do that without putting myself in the grinder. I’m sorry, Carrigan, but I need to do what’s best for the team.’
‘What’s the worst they can do to me?’
A dry chuckle emerged from Branch’s lips. ‘You know as well as I do, no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. You want my opinion? You could well be looking at several months.’
‘Prison?’
‘No, a fucking beach resort. Christ, Jack, you need to start taking this seriously.’
Carrigan ran his fingers along the blue file. ‘Do you have any advice?’
‘Retire.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Hand in your resignation. If you’re no longer in the job, they can’t touch you.’
‘That’s exactly what Quinn wants me to do.’
‘You prefer risking jail time?’
‘This is bullshit. Stupid personal bullshit.’
‘That’s as may be, but both you and I know that facts and truth have nothing to do with the real world. Your naive and innocent act won’t wash.’ Branch picked up a smartphone and pecked out a text message. ‘What have you got on at the moment?’
Carrigan rubbed his head and tried to remember. He’d taken the pills an hour ago thinking he was on his way out. The first tingle ran down the back of his knees and made it feel as if he were floating a few inches above the chair. ‘A couple of things coming up in court but those are all assigned. Several minor arrests happening today but nothing I have to be there for.’
‘Good.’ Branch scratched the bridge of his nose. ‘Not that I need to say it, but obviously I do because you’re not fucking listening, you need to focus all your attention on this.’ Branch pointed to the blue file. ‘That said, there’s fuck all you can do about it today except stress and fret, so go home tonight and relax. Eat something nice, take Karen out for a stroll . . .’ Branch stopped. ‘I surmise by your expression and lack of response that things are not well?’
‘It’s just so bloody hard,’ Carrigan replied before he had a chance to think, unaware, as the words came rushing out, how much he’d needed to say them. They’d broken up eight days ago and he hadn’t told anyone yet. They’d been seeing each other for six months and, at first, everything was great, and then it wasn’t. ‘We gave up too easily. I think we both saw the way it was heading and fell into this awful, predictable pattern. Coming home from work so tightly wound up from the day’s hassles that the smallest thing – a dish in the wrong place, a stray comment or neglected chore – and we’d explode at each other and end up sitting at opposite ends of the room, watching TV shows ne
ither of us had the slightest interest in.’ Carrigan looked away. The pigeons who’d been fighting were now standing side by side. ‘I’m sorry. I should keep my mouth shut. Talking about stuff only makes it worse.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Branch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s all hard. What the fuck, right? That’s the world we live in – but relationships, shit, that’s like having to carry twice the load. Your problems become their problems and vice versa, all the daily frustrations and slights double up. It’s why I live alone and why I’ll die alone. Life’s complicated enough. You’re better off by yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ Carrigan said as he picked up the blue file.
‘What for?’
‘The inspiring pep talk.’
3
‘Sit down, please.’
They were in one of the smaller interview rooms. A cup of tea and a double espresso on the table. Geneva was sitting, her fingertips drumming against the plastic cup. The girl who’d collided with her was pacing up and down, muttering to herself and pulling at her own hair.
‘I can’t.’ The girl’s eyes swept the room and fixed on Geneva. ‘He’ll get me.’
‘Not here, he won’t.’ Geneva sighed, already regretting her decision. ‘You’re safe here, but if you don’t sit down you’ll drive me nuts, so please?’
The girl stopped and stared at the chair. Her hair and clothes were dishevelled and torn as if she’d run through brambles. Two of the fingernails on her left hand were broken. She wore a pair of ill-fitting horn-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her nose. She pulled out the chair, looked underneath it then checked below the table. When she was satisfied she sat down, shifting and fidgeting as if the seat was too hot.
Geneva took out her notebook and pen and wrote down the time and date. There was no point in activating the digital recorder yet, the girl – these days Geneva thought of anyone under twenty-five as girl or boy – would probably thank her for it later.
Geneva cleared her throat but the girl was transfixed by the hatchwork of scratches and gouges inscribed upon the table. Generations of criminals had sat and whiled away the uncertain hours by using their nails, buttons, or anything else they could find, to mark their passage through this room. The tables were never changed. Suspects often avoided looking down. It reminded them they were nothing special, only one of many to pass through here.
But not this girl. Her entire body was focused on this one task, her fingers tracing arabesques of signature, curse and football chant, a faint hum dribbling from her lips.
‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ The girl’s head shot up. She looked at the ceiling then back down to the table. ‘What do they mean, these words?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. What’s your name?’
The girl blinked twice. ‘My name? Why do you want my name?’
‘You said you had something to report. We usually begin by taking your name so we know whom to contact.’
The girl stared at the door. ‘Madison. Madison Carter.’
‘Good. Now, Madison, you need to tell me what drugs you’ve been taking.’
‘What? I didn’t take anything.’ She crossed her arms, her fingers twitching to a silent beat.
‘I see girls like you come in every weekend,’ Geneva said. ‘Girls who’ve taken too much and need something to bring them back down.’ As she spoke she could hear a low rasping sound in the room, as if a fly had got itself trapped behind one of the walls. ‘I know what it feels like too, you know. I wasn’t always a policewoman.’ Geneva smiled and tried to impart a sense of trust or friendship, anything but the unease she was feeling, her clothes sticking to her skin in this humid room, the tickle of sweat running down her cheek, the cold lost eyes of the girl in front of her. The rasping sound resumed. Geneva scanned the room, the door, the video equipment. She thought maybe it was the camera but it wasn’t. The sound was coming from somewhere close. It stopped. It started again. Geneva caught a flicker of movement and her eyes settled back on the girl.
Madison’s hands were crossed at the chest, the palms facing inwards, and she was scratching the inside of her elbows – small, efficient strokes that left bright blushes of cherry-coloured flesh.
Geneva reached for the stress ball in her pocket and gave it one hard squeeze. ‘Please, don’t do that.’
Madison shrugged, stopped, then couldn’t resist one more scratch.
‘If you tell me what you’re on, I can get a nurse to give you something to calm you down.’
‘I don’t want to calm down.’ Madison thumbed her glasses. ‘I want my friend back.’
Geneva took a sip of cold tea and sighed. They’d been seeing this more and more. It was like the sixties all over again, except that instead of frying their brains on LSD, kids today took whatever was going – bland white pills that could contain anything and often did, a mixture of who knows what as long as it got you high. Geneva had seen teenagers bleeding from the eyes after taking a pill called Boost, a girl who’d clawed the skin off her own legs while high on Meow Meow and, once, a group of boys on a stag night who’d snorted Bath Salts and promptly thrown themselves into the Thames.
‘I think he put it in our drinks.’
Geneva snapped out of her thoughts. ‘Who?’
‘The man who took Anna. He did something to our drinks.’ Madison pointed to the wall. ‘She’s out there right now. What’s he doing to her? Please. You need to do something.’
‘I need you to calm down. Drink some of that coffee. It’s good. My boss’s special blend. It’ll sober you up, I guarantee it.’
The girl’s arm shot across the table. She grabbed Geneva by the wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘Every time I close my eyes I hear Anna scream. No one else will listen to me. She’s out there somewhere and I can’t stop thinking about what he’s doing to her.’
Geneva gently pulled her hand away and checked her watch. She should have detailed a uniform to do this but the accountants were waiting for her upstairs with a long list of petty queries and snide remarks. She texted the desk to send over a nurse then switched on the interview room’s embedded recorder and stated her name and the date.
‘Your friend? What’s her full name?’
Madison scanned the room, floor to ceiling, then scratched her elbow. ‘Anna Becker. The man came and Anna . . . Anna she couldn’t . . .’
‘Please. Start from the beginning. When did Anna go missing?’
Madison moved her lips silently, her forehead scrunched tight. She looked as if she were trying to work out a particularly complicated maths equation. ‘What day is it?’
‘Monday.’
Madison shook her head. ‘It can’t be. How can the drugs still be in my system if it’s been three days?’ She started scratching again. She caught Geneva looking and stopped. ‘What did he give me? Why won’t it wear off?’
‘Someone’s on their way to look at you. Whatever you took, it’ll soon leave your system and you’ll be back to normal. I promise.’ Geneva glanced down at her notebook. She had to keep the girl anchored in facts – as long as Madison was trying to recall details she seemed fairly lucid but the moment she stopped talking her eyes started to drift and the sound of scratching filled the room. ‘Did you know Anna from back home?’
‘Uh-uh. She was from some tiny village in Germany. Somewhere with mountains, I can’t remember the name.’
‘That’s okay,’ Geneva said. ‘She was here on holiday?’
‘Nah, she’d come back from travelling. She wanted to settle down and get work as an actress. She’d auditioned for a place at RADA.’
‘Did she get it?’
Madison looked down at the ingrained squiggles, her fingers sinking deep into the grooves, rubbing up and down the channelled depressions, and shook her head. There was an intensity to her that unnerved Geneva. She wanted to open a window but there were none in the room.
‘Is that how the two of you met?’
Mad
ison pushed her glasses back up and sipped her coffee, grimacing at the taste. ‘We share a dorm. She was the first person I knew in London.’
‘What was she like?’
A faint smile momentarily transformed Madison’s face. ‘She was great, you know? You don’t meet many, well, you meet so many people travelling but most of them are gone before you get to know them or are assholes from the start. Anna was so great. That first day, I just knew we were going to be good friends – which is funny, because she was everything I wasn’t. So sure of herself, confident, bursting with all these big dreams. But she was also kind. Not spoiled like most kids who can afford to travel these days. She always stood up for me.’ Madison pulled something from her pocket. Geneva braced herself but the girl was only retrieving her wallet. She opened it and carefully removed a small photo and passed it to Geneva.
The two girls couldn’t have looked any more different. Anna was pale and ethereal while Madison was all curves and smiles, a sly suggestion of sex and electricity in her dark eyes. Geneva looked up. The girl sitting opposite her looked ten years older than the one in the photo, though it had obviously been taken recently. Geneva promised she’d return the original once she’d made copies and clipped it to the file.
‘Do you remember what happened on Friday night?’
‘Everything.’ Madison laughed softly. ‘I can remember everything so clearly. That’s the worst part. Details I’d never normally notice – the stairs, the sound of cars braking, the way Anna . . .’ Madison looked down. ‘Aren’t these drugs supposed to make you forget?’
‘I think he may have given you something a little different – but it’s good you remember. It’ll help us.’ Without being aware of it, Geneva had taken the stress ball out of her pocket and was pumping it with her free hand. ‘Where did this happen?’
‘The Last Good Kiss.’
Geneva recalled passing the subterranean nightclub several times on the way to Carrigan’s favourite Chinese restaurant. ‘The two of you go there regularly?’
Madison scanned the wall as if she expected to pluck the answer from its surface. ‘We hadn’t been for a while but yeah, we used to. There’s a long happy hour. Best thing about it. The plan was to have a few drinks, dance a bit, then go into town for the night. We were on our second drink . . .’ Madison stopped and used both hands to grip the edge of the table. ‘I started to feel sick, like one moment I was okay and the next the lights and music were way too much. Anna was looking at me all funny, her mouth hanging loose. She said she was feeling terrible. I suggested we go outside for some fresh air and silence – the club was rammed, lights strobing, music so loud you could feel it rattling your ribs, this song . . . oh God, if only they hadn’t played that song—’
