Road Closed

by Leigh Russell

  ‘We’re going down the pub.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No, you can’t. We’re going for a pint and we’re leaving now. Look at yourself.’ Ray was still sitting down flicking through channels on the television. ‘Come on then!’ Cal kicked Ray sharply on the shin. Ray jumped to his feet.

  ‘Why can’t I come?’ Brenda whined.

  ‘We’re only going to the corner for a pint. You’re not even dressed. You look like shit.’

  ‘You’re taking him,’ Brenda called anxiously after them. ‘It’s always him. Why is it always him?’ Cal ignored her. Ray turned round and pulled a horrible face.

  The interior of the pub was barely brighter than the street outside, but warmer. Cracked and grimy ornaments gathered dust on high narrow shelves: chipped mugs interspersed with a motley assortment of china plates.

  Cal made his way over to a table and waited, while Ray went up to the bar.

  ‘The usual?’ the landlord asked, throwing a glance in Cal’s direction. He pulled out a couple of pint glasses with a flourish, like a conjurer. The pub was nearly empty. In one corner two young women were nattering in low voices, their heads bobbing up and down as they spoke. An elderly man sat muttering to himself in another corner, his gnarled fingers clasped round a pint.

  ‘Evening Bert,’ Ray called out as he carried the drinks over to Cal who sat drumming his stubby fingers on the table. The old man didn’t look up. ‘Fancy a game of darts?’ Ray asked without taking a seat. Cal shook his head. Ray set the glasses carefully on the table.

  ‘I’ll give you a game,’ the old man wheezed.

  Ray hovered, uncertainly. ‘You’re all right, mate,’ he said and sat down opposite Cal, his back to the old man.

  Cal slapped his knee and laughed. The old man scowled, mumbling into his pint. ‘You?’ Cal spluttered. He pointed at the old man, put his pint down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You? Not bloody likely.’ The old man sat motionless.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a rest?’ Ray burst out.

  ‘What’s eating you?’

  ‘It’s just there’s no need to be rude to everyone all the time.’

  Cal raised his voice suddenly, and thumped on the table. ‘Don’t talk so bloody daft. Give that old git a dart, he’d have your eye out. He’s half blind. Four-eyed old git. Look at him. Those aren’t hands. They’re claws. Why don’t you cut your nails, you filthy bastard? Use them as darts!’ He laughed loudly. ‘What’s it to you anyway? He’s nothing but a useless bag of shit.’ Ray glared at him, one hand clasping his pint. On the table, Cal’s fists clenched. The buzz of conversation from the two women continued uninterrupted.

  After a second, Ray dropped his gaze. Cal’s hands relaxed. ‘I just think you should give it a rest, that’s all,’ Ray muttered. Cal looked at him through half closed eyes. ‘That’s what I thought, anyway,’ Ray added lamely. He sat perfectly still, staring at the table.

  ‘Don’t try to think,’ Cal retorted. They drank in bad tempered silence for a while.

  ‘I’ve had enough.’ Cal stood up suddenly. Ray didn’t move. ‘You coming then, or what?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘In a while. I can’t see the rush. No point wasting good beer. You go on home. Don’t mind me. I can please myself.’ He wished he had the guts to tell Cal exactly what he thought of him, but Cal was a vicious bastard. Ray was relieved when the door closed behind him. He despised himself for being scared, but he had seen Cal’s temper. He drank slowly, hoping Cal wouldn’t take it out on Brenda. Not that Ray would give the spaced out cow the time of day, but Cal was brutal. One of these days he was going to kill Brenda.

  ‘Sadist,’ Ray grumbled into his pint.

  ‘What’s that you say, mate?’ the old man in the far corner called out.

  ‘Nothing. You’re all right,’ Ray answered. The old man sat back, still mumbling to himself.

  Ray looked up and caught the landlord watching him curiously. He felt uncomfortable. He drained his glass and decided against staying for another one. It was dull sitting by himself. He could go home and drink in comfort in front of the telly. He wasn’t going to stay just to prove a point.

  Outside, he turned his collar up and thrust his hands into his pockets. He strode along the pavement, breathing heavily in the freezing air.

  36

  Passerby

  ‘Always knew you’d do well for yourself,’ John told his old friend, Nigel. John wouldn’t fancy living in New York himself, but he couldn’t help feeling envious of his friend’s glamorous life style, flying business class, and staying in a hotel, all expenses paid. They took the bus into the centre of Harchester but there was nothing much to do there.

  ‘I remember the town centre being so exciting when we were teenagers,’ Nigel said. He spoke with a faint American accent. ‘It’s not New York, that’s for sure,’ he added with a laugh. They wandered into a pub they used to frequent when they were younger. It looked the same from outside, but the décor was completely different, with loud music blaring out and the bar bustling with teenagers. They sat in a corner over a pint complaining about how times had changed.

  ‘How can they call this racket music?’ John asked. Nigel shook his head. They left after one pint and went for a curry.

  ‘I’ve missed the food,’ Nigel admitted.

  ‘You must be able to get a decent curry in New York,’ John said as he ordered another pint of lager.

  ‘Yes, you can get anything in New York. It’s not the same, though.’

  At the end of the evening John insisted on paying for dinner. They phoned for a cab to take Nigel to the station and arranged to drop John off on the way.

  ‘It’s all on expenses,’ John’s friend said, waving away John’s offered cash.

  ‘This’ll do,’ John said as they approached his turning. ‘I could do with a breath of air.’ He was beginning to feel a bit sick. He had lost count of the number of pints he had drunk that night. Climbing out of the cab he slipped on the uneven pavement and fell against a gatepost, scraping his knuckles and grazing his cheek. Swearing softly, he turned to wave but the cab had already disappeared down the road. Cheerfully drunk and comfortably full, John rounded the corner and almost tripped over a figure lying prone on the pavement.

  ‘Stupid bloody place to sleep,’ he cried out, startled. A car drove past. In the sudden glare of headlights, John saw it was a man, his head lying at a peculiar angle. He crouched down unsteadily to take a closer look. There was something odd about the figure on the ground. ‘You’re going to freeze to death if you stay there all night,’ John told him. The man didn’t move. John leaned forward, wobbled on his heels, and put his hand out to stop himself falling. The pavement felt sticky. ‘Did you hear me? I said you’ll freeze your bollocks off lying there.’ The man didn’t respond. ‘Damned if I care.’ John clambered to his feet and lit a cigarette, cupping his hand round the flickering match. His head was fuddled, but he recognised blood on his fingers.

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. He lowered the match and studied the prone figure. The man’s face was concealed beneath a mop of untidy hair. He was a big bloke, broad shouldered, with large hands and feet, wearing a dark anorak and dirty trainers. Even in his confused state John was frightened. The man could be dying. He could be dead. John fumbled in his pocket with shaking fingers and dialled. ‘Ambulance,’ he gabbled.

  It felt like an eternity before the emergency services arrived. John waited at the kerbside and waved at an approaching police car. A few seconds later an ambulance drew up, light flashing and siren wailing.

  ‘He’s over here,’ John called. Paramedics leapt from the ambulance. ‘Is he dead?’ John asked, but he no longer cared. He just wanted to go home and lie down. He was freezing cold and shaking with shock.

  ‘He’s still breathing,’ a voice replied. ‘Who is he?’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I just found him like that. I was going home.’

  A policeman came up and starte
d questioning him. ‘Are you the gentleman who reported the incident?’ It sounded like an accusation. John nodded. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. I was on my way home and I almost fell over him.’

  ‘Have you ever seen the injured man before?’

  ‘Never.’

  The policeman stared at John. ‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your cheek, sir,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you come by it? It’s quite recent, by the look of it, I’d say. Still bleeding.’

  John put his hand to his cheek, suddenly aware of a sharp stinging. ‘I fell over,’ he said.

  ‘I see, sir.’ The policeman raised an eyebrow.

  John realised the policeman didn’t believe him. He took an involuntary step back. ‘I fell over,’ he said. ‘I scratched my face when I fell over.’

  ‘And where was that, sir?’ The policeman glanced down at the pavement. John wondered if forensic officers would find his own blood on the ground, mingled with the blood of the stranger he had stumbled across.

  ‘Ask Nigel,’ John blurted out, afraid and at the same time angry at the implication. ‘I was with my friend when I fell over. He’ll tell you…’

  ‘You were with Nigel and you think he saw you fall over. I see, sir.’ John wished the policeman would stop saying that. ‘And where can we find Nigel?’

  John frowned and stammered out his old friend’s name.

  The policeman stood, pen poised, waiting. ‘And the address, sir?’ he prompted John after a pause.

  ‘I’ve only got his email address. He lives in the States.’

  ‘Nigel lives in America? I see, sir. Have you been drinking, sir?’

  John tried to explain about meeting his friend, going to the pub, the curry and finally the cab home. Suddenly it all seemed very complicated.

  The policeman took his name and address. ‘Just in case, sir.’ In case what, John wondered, but before he could ask, the policeman directed him to go home. John turned and staggered away, relieved it was all over. So much for being a good citizen, he thought angrily.

  37

  Briefing

  Geraldine’s night was troubled. She had stayed up late on Sunday rereading reports. Focusing on work kept her mind occupied, but when she finally went to bed, she slept uneasily…

  Craig was standing on a bridge laughing. He was watching Celia struggle in the river far below. Geraldine knew her sister was being swept away on the current towards treacherous rapids but could only watch, horrified. She wanted to scream out to Craig to save Celia, but she couldn’t utter a sound.

  …Geraldine woke, sweating. It was five o’clock on Monday morning.

  ‘You look rough, ma’am.’ The desk sergeant’s face twisted in a sympathetic grimace.

  ‘You’re no picture yourself,’ she replied. The sergeant laughed.

  The Incident Room was buzzing when she walked in. A sense of isolation flooded through her. Relief at returning to the distraction of work slipped away. She glanced around the Incident Room feeling as though the truth hadn’t only cut her off from Celia. She was alienated from everyone she had ever known. Every officer there had grown up in a family, of sorts. They all knew where they came from. Every one of them had childhood memories, even if they were miserable ones. They knew where they came from. None of them knew that Geraldine had been abruptly excluded from that basic human right to her own history. It felt strange to watch them carrying on with their daily tasks, as though nothing had changed. She wondered if she looked different, but even Ian Peterson didn’t register surprise as she entered. Geraldine felt reassured. Perhaps life could continue as before. In work she could find her normality.

  ‘Your suspect’s been assaulted, ma’am,’ the duty sergeant told her.

  ‘What?’

  Peterson joined them. ‘Raymond Barker,’ he said. ‘Assaulted on the street on Saturday night. He’s been in A & E.’

  ‘Assaulted or brawling?’ Without waiting for an answer, Geraldine made her way to her office. Annoyed with herself for not checking her emails before coming in to work, she glanced quickly through a report on the incident. At least she could be up to speed before the briefing began.

  Raymond Barker had been admitted to A & E on Saturday night. Geraldine read through the injuries: temporary chemical blinding, broken nose, concussion probably caused by a fall, and broken ankle. Someone had been angry. She pushed her keyboard aside and read through the report again slowly.

  Raymond Barker had visited his local pub on Saturday evening with his housemate, Callum Martin. Martin had left early. Barker had stayed on, drinking alone. On his short walk home, Barker had been violently assaulted. He had regained consciousness but wasn’t yet able to make a statement. All he could remember was pain before he passed out. Luckily for him, a passer by had called an ambulance.

  Geraldine read the witness statement. The injured man had been discovered just after eleven o’clock. The paramedics said Barker wouldn’t have lasted the whole night in the freezing cold, with his injuries.

  Geraldine frowned. Barker’s wallet was visible in his back pocket. His mobile phone was in his jacket pocket. This was an odd mugging. She wandered thoughtfully back into the Incident Room.

  Peterson interrupted her thoughts. ‘Serves him right. He had it coming,’ he muttered as the briefing began.

  ‘No one deserves that,’ Geraldine replied.

  The DCI looked around for silence. ‘We still need to establish if there’s a connection between the burglaries and this Raymond Barker,’ he said, tapping at Barker’s picture on the board. His eyes were red and swollen, his nose bloody. ‘Deborah Mainwaring picked him out as her intruder. Barker gave an account of his presence in her house, but…’ he shrugged. ‘He’s got an alibi for the nights both burglaries were committed.’

  ‘An alibi that’s a tissue of lies,’ Bennett muttered and the DCI frowned.

  ‘Sophie Cliff claims she saw Barker running away from her house the night of the gas explosion,’ Geraldine said.

  ‘It was a bit of a coincidence her seeing him here,’ someone pointed out.

  ‘She could’ve been mistaken,’ the DCI added. ‘She could only have seen him for about a second, at night.’

  ‘In her headlights,’ Peterson said.

  The DCI tapped at Barker’s picture again. ‘The assault on Barker doesn’t appear to have been a mugging. The victim had his wallet and his phone clearly in view. Neither were taken. He had nearly fifty quid on him. He wasn’t mugged for his cash. Which all suggests this could have been personal. It was certainly a vicious assault. His eyes were sprayed with a fluid containing butane, propane,’ he glanced at his notes, ‘ethanediol – all the components of a common brand of deicer.’

  ‘So his attacker could have been a woman,’ Geraldine said. ‘Do we know Sophie Cliff’s whereabouts last night? When I told her Raymond Barker had an alibi for the explosion, she refused to accept he wasn’t guilty. She seems convinced Barker was responsible for her husband’s death and was furious when we let him go. She said he should be punished.’

  ‘She wants someone to blame for her husband’s death,’ Bennett agreed.

  ‘Someone other than herself,’ Peterson muttered. ‘Never the woman’s fault.’ He sounded so bitter that Geraldine glanced at him in surprise before turning her attention back to the discussion.

  ‘And next thing,’ the DCI was saying, ‘Barker’s attacked.’

  ‘Is it possible Sophie Cliff assaulted him?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘It was a vicious attack,’ the DCI replied. ‘Violent. Probably took some physical power. My money’s on Martin. Barker’s a big chap. Could a woman have done that?’

  ‘If she’d taken him by surprise.’

  ‘What about this character John Squires? We’ve got him at the scene. Who is he? Did he just happen to be passing by? We need to eliminate him or find out if there’s any connection between him and Barker.’

  ‘There’s something else in the report,’ Ge
raldine said. ‘When Barker was found by the paramedics…’ she hesitated. ‘The paramedic said someone had dropped a lighted match on Barker’s back. It must have flared up and gone out. A dead match on a patch of singed fabric’

  ‘Perhaps he lit a cigarette when he’d finished,’ Peterson suggested. Geraldine frowned.

  After the briefing, Geraldine and Peterson were scheduled to interview Raymond Barker again, this time as the victim of an assault. He had been kept in hospital for observation over the weekend. That morning the doctors had checked him over and sent him home, his leg in plaster. Before calling on Raymond Barker, they went to his local pub to question the landlord.

  Ian Peterson speculated as they drove off. ‘It’s funny, if you think about it. There wasn’t enough time to rob the victim – fifty quid’s worth having even if the motive for the attack was personal – but there was time to light up without worrying about being seen. If it was a personal attack, why stop to light a cigarette?’ The DI didn’t answer. ‘Am I boring you?’ Still no reply. He lapsed into uneasy silence wondering if he had upset her. He was concerned about the DI. She seemed distracted. He knew she was dedicated to the job; it was one of the qualities he admired in her. But she didn’t seem to have her mind on work that morning.

  ‘Everything OK, gov?’ he hazarded as he drew up at the lights. He was startled when she snapped at him. He took both hands off the wheel and held them up in mock self defence. ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘Well don’t.’ After they had worked together so closely in the past, it was a curt reminder to know his place. He couldn’t call it a friendship, but he thought they had built a sense of trust. He thought he knew Geraldine, but right now she seemed edgy. Distracted.

  The lights changed and they drove on in silence. Arriving in Garden Street, Ian leapt out of the car and slammed the door confused, disappointed, but above all furious. You just never knew with women. One moment everything was going swimmingly, the next he was made to feel like an idiot. For no reason.