by Steve Mosby
I smiled. ‘Yeah, I know that in my saner moments, honestly. Whatever gets you through the day.’
‘Exactly. Or the night.’ She raised her glass of wine, then immediately put it down. ‘Not that I’m finding this traumatic, by the way. In fact, I’m pleasantly surprised. I’m already hoping we’re going to do this again some time.’
‘I’d like that. Next time, I promise not to get annoyed about anything.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I like it.’ She sipped her wine and gave me a pointed look. ‘A bit of passion is good.’
We both let that one hang for a moment, and then I checked my watch. It was coming up on nine. We’d met properly only two hours ago - which even a fruit-fly would class as early days - but it was obvious there was some kind of spark there. The conversation had come without a hitch. Sarah was attractive, articulate and intelligent. She’d made me laugh and - at the least - she’d been gracious enough to act as though I was funny as well. It all seemed very promising.
Early days, I reminded myself.
‘We should head for a taxi, maybe?’ I said.
‘Sounds good.’
‘I’ll get the bill.’
I went across to the counter to pay. As Sarah headed towards the door, she called over to me.
‘Oh yeah - can I have my ring back, by the way?’
‘Of course.’ I glanced over. There were two baskets of flowers on either side of the entrance. I gestured uncertainly at the one on the left. ‘Check in there.’
I turned back to the counter and sorted out the money.
‘Hey!’
‘What?’
Sarah was standing, hands on hips, staring at me. Not only had I made the ring vanish, but I’d made it reappear again several metres away from where I’d been sitting, without moving a muscle. God-like genius.
That was when she asked me the second inevitable question.
‘How did you do that?’
‘You have no idea how much effort it took.’
I put fifty pounds down on the counter - the bill, plus the ten I’d agreed in advance for the waiter to deposit the ring in the flowerpot on his way out to smoke. He’d found it in my napkin, from when I’d brushed the ring into my lap the second time I ‘picked it up’. Dull, really.
But it’s good to maintain a slight air of mystique in the early stages; not so good to reveal the boring truth straight off, whether about a magic trick or anything else. I was no more going to tell her I bribed the staff than I was about to start belching words or leaving my pants scattered around. Those are third-date tasks at the earliest.
Sarah and I headed to the taxi rank down the road, her still pestering for the truth, me playfully resisting. The city centre streets were busy with people - couples and groups - but by this time most of them were just getting started, and there was no real taxi queue, just three cabs parked up, engines idling. Sarah slipped her arm into mine. It was the first solid physical contact we’d had, and it felt good. As we approached, she pulled back slightly, using the weight of her body to stop us both before we reached the taxis.
‘Maybe we should get this out of the way first?’
She leaned in and kissed me, slipping her arm properly around me. I reached round and held her, marvelling at the sudden sensation of her lips and how slim she felt. Her personality had been so strong that it seemed there should be more to her than this, but I could feel her spine through her shirt. She was light as air. Then I smelled the faintest trace of it.
A flower in a bottle.
Tori’s perfume.
But that was okay. In the week and a half since I’d seen her, I’d stuck to the decision I’d made. No texts, calls or emails. The association was still strong, of course, but I was determined. They had the same perfume - so what? Maybe it wouldn’t be too long before I smelled it and thought of Sarah instead. I hoped so. And as she continued to kiss me, I hoped so more and more.
‘Figured that would make things easier.’ She smiled.
‘It did. Thank you.’
‘So … are you going to ring me, or shall I ring you?’
‘Those are the options,’ I said.
‘Ah, but there’s also that other option. The one where neither of us rings the other.’
I shook my head. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. We can sort out the details later. I’ve had a lovely night, Dave. Thank you for dinner.’ She held up the ring. ‘And this.’
‘Me too. We’ll sort something out soon, I promise.’
‘Cool.’ She gave me another quick kiss and then headed for the taxi. ‘See you, then.’
Definitely.
I took the second taxi in the queue, gave the driver my address, and we set off. The nightclubs and restaurants and bars began to flash past in the window, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything apart from the feeling of excitement in my chest. It felt like a small sun was shining behind my ribs, warming my whole body with its energy. If I hadn’t been strapped into the backseat - and if there hadn’t been anyone around to see - I might actually have jumped up and down a bit. As it was, it felt like I wouldn’t be getting to sleep any time soon - and for a good reason, this time.
Great, great night, I decided.
Bad morning, though.
I woke up with a dull ringing in my ears.
The ringing stopped. I groaned to myself and opened one eye to look at the clock on the bedside table. Quarter to eight. Why had I set the alarm for that time?
The ringing returned, and this time I recognised it for what it was. Someone was at the front door. I clambered out of bed and over to the bedroom window, and lifted it up. The sounds of traffic on the main road blew in on a blast of cold air.
Two floors below, a couple of men were waiting outside. One was in his mid-forties, the other slightly younger. Both were wearing identical long black overcoats.
‘Hey,’ I shouted.
They looked up. The older one called up at me.
‘Dave Lewis? Police. Could you open the door, please.’
Shit. Eddie.
‘Give me a minute.’
‘Quick as you can.’
I hunted around for clean clothes to wear, feeling sick.
Just keep calm.
I managed to get dressed, then went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, pausing to inspect myself in the mirror. My expression bothered me. It was too nervous. I leaned on the sink, my shoulders hunched, and stared myself right in the eyes.
That afternoon, I thought, nothing happened.
You don’t know anything.
Nothing happened.
Then I clicked off the light and went downstairs.
Chapter Ten
Monday 29th August
The weirdest part of not sleeping, in Currie’s considerable experience, was when you looked back on yesterday morning and realised you’d actually been awake since then. It always felt like those things must have happened at least a week ago, and perhaps even to someone else. Just after midday, he walked down to the department’s press room, finding it hard to believe that a hazy but continuous chain of events connected him to a breakfast he’d eaten nearly thirty hours earlier.
And one of those events seemed like a nightmare, even though he’d been awake at the time. Yesterday evening: standing in Julie Sadler’s bedroom, looking down at her small, wasted body, while crime-scene cameras flashed around him.
The image of her lying there still haunted him, even more so than Alison Wilcox’s body had. In the tilt of Julie Sadler’s head, he saw an accusation; in her outstretched fingers - frozen in the act of straining - he sensed outrage. It was as though she’d screamed questions out as she lay there, slowly dying, and the ghosts of those words still hung in the air, a challenge to anyone that dared enter.
Why didn’t you save me?
Why did nobody care enough to come?
The sorrow he’d felt in that tiny bedroom was so overwhelming it bordered on
profound. It was the closest he’d ever come to tears while attending a crime scene, despite the absence of mutilation or even blood. What had been done to this girl - to all of them - was an affront.
Currie looked around the press room as he entered. It was heaving today. The seats, split into two columns by a central aisle, were all taken, while more reporters were packed in at the back and down the sides by the arched windows. Television cameras were perched on wheeled tripods, or shoulders. The polished floor was a snaking mess of cables.
The scent of blood, he thought.
Swann was already sitting at the top table. Currie walked over, cutting through the solid heat of all these hostile people, and took a seat beside his partner, placing his notes down in front. Along with the official microphones, the table was strewn with small, rectangular handhelds, which appeared to have been thrown there almost as an afterthought. The desperate, haphazard sprawl of them symbolised everything he disliked about these press conferences.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, not looking up. ‘I’m Detective Sam Currie. Thank you all for coming. I’ll be reading a short statement and after that there’ll be time for a small number of questions.’
He heard the quick, swishing click of cameras, and a couple of lights flashed across him. The memory of Julie Sadler’s house rose up again. Sweat prickled on his forehead. He looked up.
‘At five p.m. yesterday evening,’ he said, ‘officers were called to an address in the Buxton area of the city. Upon entering the property, the body of a young woman was discovered inside. We are treating her death as suspicious. At this time, we will not be releasing or confirming the woman’s name to the media.’
None of which, he thought, will deter any of you bastards.
‘We are in the process of talking to the woman’s friends and family, and the investigation is progressing along a number of different lines. We ask for the media’s co-operation in this matter, and will make a further announcement as soon as possible. I’ll now hand you over to my colleague, Detective James Swann.’ He glanced sideways. ‘James?’
Swann nodded and turned to the crowd.
‘I’ll take any questions you might have.’
There was a predictable flurry, both of hands and camera flashes, but Currie allowed himself to relax a little.
He had a certain amount of respect for the press, in that they could be useful, but after Alison Wilcox had been killed the media had teased out the connection to the two earlier murders and Currie had found himself becoming increasingly tight-lipped. As he saw it, the dead girls were reduced to lurid details - morsels of gristle to keep the pages wet and the papers shifting - and he began to find the whole thing difficult to stomach.
Swann seemed more able to keep his cool in the face of it, so they’d agreed that he would handle the questions from now on. In truth, the press probably liked him more, anyway: thirty-five years old, muscled, photogenic. People generally wanted Swann to like them, and he had a knack for smiling without appearing flippant. When Currie saw himself on television, even he thought he needed to cheer up. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like today. His face felt like old rock.
‘Are you connecting this death with the earlier murders of Vicky Klein, Sharon Goodall and Alison Wilcox?’
‘As mentioned, the investigation is proceeding down a number of lines.’
‘And that is one of those lines?’
‘It’s one of the possibilities we’re looking at, yes.’
‘Was the victim tied up?’
‘The victim was restrained. We can’t go into detail on that for reasons I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
‘Are you close to making an arrest?’
Currie thought about Frank Carroll: the amused look that had appeared in the man’s eyes under questioning. The GPS tracking on his ankle bracelet put him entirely in the clear, and their IT tech had assured them the device hadn’t been tampered with. It was a disappointment. Frank Carroll had never been near the girls’ houses, or even the locations from which the texts had been sent.
Swann nodded. ‘We’re pursuing a number of leads. We’re not prepared to discuss details of particular individuals.’
The reporter stared blankly, then made a note on his pad.
Scribble, scribble, Currie thought. The police know nothing.
On one level, he didn’t care about media animosity. It had been inevitable that, eventually, the press would turn on them and start demanding results. He wanted those results himself. But in other ways, it angered him intensely. He and Swann - all the team, in fact - had exhausted themselves on this case, and each of them cared deeply, both about the murdered girls and about finding their killer. All these people cared about was selling newspapers.
Another hand. ‘Who found the body?’
‘The body was found by a friend of the victim after they became concerned for her wellbeing.’
‘Have any of her other friends received messages, as was the case in the previous murders?’
‘Four individuals received mobile phone messages earlier this morning.’ Swann nodded, then looked around the audience. ‘We will not be disclosing the content of those, nor will we be discussing these in any further detail whatsoever.’
‘Was this woman left to die of thirst?’
‘The cause of death has yet to be established.’
The more the questions went on, Currie realised, the more oppressive the room was becoming. It was tiredness as much as anything, he knew, but the back of the room seemed to be receding one second and moving closer the next. Julie Sadler’s indignant, unanswerable questions seemed to be hanging in the air.
Why did nobody come? Why—
‘How many more girls are going to be allowed to die?’
Currie’s gaze flicked to the reporter who’d spoken. Swann simply stared at him for a moment, but the man went on undaunted, shrugging the question out as though it was obvious and natural.
‘You’ve been involved in this investigation for over a year now, detectives. How many more girls are going to be allowed to die?’
Swann stared for a second longer, then answered him as politely as ever. Currie looked down at the table in front of him and waited for this to end.
Half an hour later, the atmosphere from the press conference still trailing behind him, Currie walked into Interview Room Five.
It was deliberately designed to unnerve. Empty, it would have just about accommodated a double bed, but with the table, chairs and recording equipment in here, there was barely space to move. A single bulb illuminated the room, not quite reaching the edges, and the interviews were often punctuated by a judgemental clank of pipes from above. The air smelled damp. It was like coming down into a grave.
Dave Lewis was slouched in the moulded plastic chair on the other side, his face unreadable. Even with his stomach pressed up to the table, there was no room; if he leaned his head back it would touch the wall behind. Lewis was staring down at his hands beneath the table, and there was an intermittent click as he picked at his nails. His downcast face was frozen in place. In fact, he looked a lot like Currie imagined he’d done on camera just now.
He put a styrofoam cup of coffee down on the table, then offered his hand.
‘Hello again, Dave. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Lewis looked at him blankly for a second, then shook his hand. Currie nodded and sat down, putting the file on the table beside the coffee. He was quietly hopeful about this interview.
Julie Sadler’s friends and family had been interviewed quickly, and Dave Lewis’s name had come up over the course of them. He was only a short-term boyfriend of Julie’s, and an old one at that, but Currie had recognised the name. He’d checked the files, and it wasn’t on the system, but still … it was familiar, even if he wasn’t sure from where. And when they’d arrived at his house, Lewis had come to the station without asking for an explanation. In fact, he didn’t seem at all surprised to find the police on his doorstep. Currie wanted to
know why.
‘Okay, Dave.’ He rested his elbows on the desk. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Julie Sadler.’
For a second, the man looked confused.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Julie was killed a couple of days ago.’
Lewis couldn’t have looked more shocked if he’d reached across and slapped him. Currie, who liked to think he knew a liar when he saw one, was slightly disappointed: if the man was acting, he was doing it well.
‘What? Why?’
‘I won’t be discussing those details with you just yet. And you’ll be the one answering questions when I do. Okay?’
Lewis rubbed his forehead and stared at the table.
Currie took a casual sip of the hot coffee and then extracted a photograph from the file, slid it across the table to Lewis. It had been taken from the student notice board at the university.
‘You remember her?’
Lewis nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s her.’
‘I know it’s her. I asked if you remembered her.’
‘Of course I remember her.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
Lewis thought about it. He looked to be still reeling - as though he’d been expecting a punch from the left and got one from the other side instead.
‘I don’t know. It’s been over a year.’
‘When she broke up with you, you mean?’
‘No. We met for coffee a couple of times after that. I don’t know when. A while ago.’
‘Texts? Emails?’
‘No.’
‘No contact at all, then.’ Currie folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. ‘How long were you an item?’
‘A month, maybe.’
‘So you went out for about a month and you’ve not heard from her in about a year.’ Currie smiled at him. ‘You look pretty devastated to me, Dave. Why is that?’
‘What?’
It had been an unfair question, but he didn’t care. He was interested to see how Lewis would react to being prodded a little.
