The Hidden Eye

by Oliver Davies

“Hi, I’m here to see Mark Fisher.”

  The woman glanced up and then pointed one perfectly manicured nail at a wooden box on top of the counter. “You can put all comments, suggestions, and complaints in that box, and someone will get to them in due time.”

  “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase that.” My smile grew, and I showed her my warrant card. “I’m here to see Mark Fisher.”

  Her eyes widened at the sight of the official seal, and she stammered an apology. “His desk is right over there. I’m sure he’d be happy to speak with you.” She gestured towards a desk just off the centre of the room where I could see half of a man’s head over the cubicle wall.

  “Thanks.” I patted the desk and made my way over to my target, threading in between many cubicles and the printers that acted like lights to a moth, drawing crowds of journalists and editors around them.

  I rapped on the cubicle wall, startling Mark Fisher out of his work. The journalist wore a tweed jacket and pair of large, wire-rimmed glasses that belonged in the eighties, his dark tie thin and slightly askew. He blinked at me a couple of times, trying to figure out if I also worked at the Courier, before he finally said, “Can I help you?”

  I flashed my ID. “You’re Mark Fisher, correct?”

  Fear flashed through his eyes as he nodded, mind struggling to figure out what he had done to catch an inspector’s attention.

  “You wrote this article?” I held the paper out to him, open to the article about Jacob Greene.

  Again, he nodded, still mute.

  “It was brought to my attention that you deadnamed and misgendered the victim. You’ll have to correct that.”

  Fisher immediately grew defensive. His shoulders straightened, and he puffed out his chest a little bit as his eyebrows drew together, lips pursing before he spoke. “Look, mate, I was just going off the information I was given.”

  I cocked my head to the side and gave him my best pleasant yet still chilly stare. “Oh, really? And who gave you that information? So I can have a chat with them about not talking to the press before the Senior Investigating Officer clears it?”

  Fisher blanched, every drop of blood draining from his face as he realized the extent of the mess he’d stepped into. He spluttered a couple of times, looking for the right words. “It was a sergeant. He helps me out sometimes. Gives me the inside scoop.”

  “Why?”

  The reporter turned a bright, tomato red. “I pay him,” he mumbled, so quietly I barely heard him.

  I cupped a hand around my ear. “I’m sorry?”

  “I pay him,” he repeated, spitting the words out.

  “His name?” I asked, catching hold of my anger before it could blaze up too brightly.

  “I don’t know, I swear. He never said. We never met in person. We always made the exchange electronically.” Fisher looked desperate for me to believe him, convinced I was about to clap him in irons and take him away. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix the article. What’s her--his name?”

  “Jacob Greene,” I said. “Make sure you do fix it. And I’ll need your source’s email and the info on whatever money transfer service you used.”

  “Of-of course,” Fisher said and began to frantically scribble on a piece of scrap paper.

  A reporter in a grey sweater vest approached as he was writing, giving me a curious glance before nodding at Fisher. “You haven’t heard from Hamish, have you? He told me he had a lead to follow, but he seems to have disappeared.”

  “You know Hamish,” Fisher said without pausing his pen. “He gets so wrapped up in his stories that he forgets to check in with anyone.”

  Waistcoat sighed and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “I know. I know. Drives me nuts every time, though.” He looked at me again and held out his hand. “Who’s your friend?”

  “A detective inspector,” Fisher said. If voices had colours, his would have been a kaleidoscope of emotion.

  “Callum MacBain. Inverness police,” I said and shook the man’s hand.

  “John Reiker. Editor in Chief.” His eyes gleamed as he put on his reporter’s cap, a sly look in his eyes. “Care to make a statement about the stabbing earlier today?” He dug a recorder out of his pocket and stuck it right in my face.

  “Yes, actually,” I said, and he blinked, clearly expecting me to attempt to dodge the question. “It was wrong, and my partner and I are working as hard as we can to make sure that justice is served.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” Reiker asked.

  “That’s why I said it. Furthermore, the Inverness Police in no way condones the actions of DS Townsend and will be launching a full investigation into him as well as the rest of our practices and procedures to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again. Our deepest apologies go out to the Houser family, and though there is nothing we can do to make it better, we can at least make sure Cameron Houser gets justice.”

  Dunnel would probably have my head for making such a bold statement without his go-ahead--much like how I was going after whoever had leaked the details of the Greene case--but things could go south very quickly if we didn’t get out in front of them, Dunnel was having too much trouble processing how something like this had happened under his watch to jump on the press release.

  Fisher folded up the scrap of paper and passed it to me. I plucked it from his fingers, making it disappear into my pocket. “Thanks for your help. Don’t forget to make the article right this time.”

  He’d clearly been hoping that I wouldn’t mention his mistake in front of his editor, but I wasn’t feeling generous enough to keep it under wraps. Fisher slumped back in his chair, a defeated cast to his shoulders, and Reiker turned to interrogate him about what I meant. I left the two of them to it, heading back outside with my hands stuffed deep in the pockets of my over coat.

  The day was getting late, and I’d promised Fletcher an early start tomorrow, so I drove home rather than back to the station, a take-away pizza for dinner on the seat beside me. I dropped it on the kitchen table and ate it straight out of the box, rooting around in my pockets for the slip of paper Rayla had written her email address on.

  “Rayla,

  This is DI MacBain. I don’t have Alana’s contact information, so I was hoping you could let her know that I spoke with the journalist, and he’ll be reprinting the article with Jacob’s right name and pronouns. Again, I’m sorry that that happened. I’m still looking into who could have leaked the details of the case. I hope Em is doing okay. Fletcher and I will be driving down to Glasgow tomorrow to speak with Jacob’s parents.

  You no doubt heard about the stabbing that happened earlier today. Fletcher has taken the lead investigating the sergeant responsible. I just wanted to let you know that we’re doing everything we can to make sure that this is dealt with properly and quickly.

  Sincerely,

  Callum MacBain.”

  The message felt inadequate, but I sent it anyway, wishing I had more to promise her. The pizza burnt my mouth on the first bite, but I was too hungry to wait for it to cool properly. Rayla’s reply came as I was putting the leftovers in the fridge. It took me a couple of times to get the door closed properly around the too-large box before I went to check the email.

  “Thank you for doing that,” it read. “Em has gone to stay with their parents for a while. Would it be okay if Alana and I met you in Glasgow? Jacob’s coming out would be better coming from us, I think, and we would both like to get out of Inverness for a bit.”

  She didn’t mention Cameron Houser. She probably hadn’t had the time or emotional space to wrap her head around that on top of her friend’s death. I sent her a reply, telling her to meet Fletcher and me at the Greenes’ place at noon. I didn’t want to be the one to out Jacob to his family. Rayla was right. That would sound better coming from someone who knew him rather than a stranger with a badge.

  That night, my dreams were vivid but disjointed, filled with the eight curling arms of the Kraken and the Loch Ness Monster’s shadowy head, the
Kraken curling around the creature and dragging it down, down, down into badly animated waves. I saw my father, saw a black figure hit him in the back of the head, saw him fall into the water, and watched as the scene reversed and repeated, reversed and repeated as if a child were playing with the buttons on a VHS. At some point, the image froze, and Alasdair looked right at me, lips forming words, but his assailant unstuck and swung its bat once more before my father could tell me anything.

  I awoke with a start the next morning, my alarm blaring on the bedside table. I slapped at it with my hand until I got it to turn off and then rolled over, groaning as my brain struggled to figure out whether or not it was awake.

  Half an hour later, I’d somehow managed to get dressed and find my way out the door to my car, engine revving in the cool morning air. My windshield wipers squeaked as they dashed the light dew away, my headlights a fuzzy bloom against the dark as I drove across the city to Fletcher’s flat.

  I texted her when I arrived, messing with the radio knobs to find a station that wasn’t an early morning talk show as I waited for her to come down. A minute later, the door swung open, and Fletcher appeared, dressed in a dark red leather jacket and matching trainers. She waved before she locked up then jogged down the steps and over to the car, head bent against the rain.

  “Morning,” she said, sliding into the passenger’s seat and dropping her bag to the floor.

  “Ready to go?” I asked and eased the car into gear as she nodded.

  Fletcher propped her elbow against the car door, resting her head against her hand as she looked out the window. The city was quietly setting about its day, the hum of the other vehicles on the road dulled by the soft but steady mist of rain. Pedestrians hid beneath large black umbrellas, and the light from the streetlights seemed to hang within the tiny water droplets, giving the morning a sleepy, fairytale feel.

  “Did you speak with the child?” I asked as we reached the outskirts of town. I kept my voice soft, in fitting with the mood outside the car.

  Fletcher nodded and sighed, a sad look in her eyes. “The child is Cameron Houser’s son.”

  The air around us grew heavy, each note in the song coming out of the stereo dropping to the car floor like a stone.

  “He told us what we expected to hear, but…” Fletcher trailed off.

  “But Townsend’s defence will be able to question the validity of a five-year-old’s memory,” I finished for her.

  “Basically.”

  We fell silent, the air too full of dreary emotion to support what we had to say. I focused on driving, on the way the black road spooled out before me, gently twisting through the hills. The last fingers of dew between the grass were slowly being overcome by the rain as it increased from a mist to a steady drizzle.

  “Why don’t you have Bluetooth, or at least an AUX port?” Fletcher demanded some time later, fiddling with the stations on my radio.

  “My car is older than yours,” I answered, and she harrumphed, dissatisfied.

  It was just over a three-hour drive to Glasgow, but Fletcher and I didn’t talk for most of it. She was wrapped up within her own head, and I was still a bit freaked out from my dreams the night before. They were mostly faded now but for the image of my father turning his head to look at me, mouth opening, prepped to say something but cut off by a violent blow before he could.

  Words like ‘danger’ and ‘violence’ were not ones I’d ever associated with my father. He was a rather nerdy sort of man. He wore glasses and jumpers, and he always had mints in his pockets that he would slip to Sam and me when he thought Eleanor wasn’t looking. It was a little game they played. I avoided peppermints like the plague after he was gone, though I hadn’t realized why until just now.

  A part of me didn’t want to find out what this finished puzzle would look like. A definitive answer would be all she wrote, and it was much less painful to imagine any ending I wished. But I knew I owed it to Sam to finish what we had started, even if it led nowhere good.

  Glasgow was one of those cities that was half modern glass and metal and half old stone and cobbled streets. The River Clyde cleaved it in two, much like the River Ness did in Inverness, but the city centre was much larger and more expansive, no doubt bustling with tourists even though summer had yet to truly start. Inverness was almost a little gloomy when compared to Glasgow’s wider streets and lighter architecture. Double-decker buses trundled along their routes, blocking traffic as they pulled in and out of their stops, the flow of pedestrians on the pavement a constant pulse within the city’s veins.

  The Greenes lived fifteen minutes from the city centre in one of the quieter, residential suburbs where the houses were built with soft red brick and cream-coloured stone. Fletcher had the address plugged into her phone and guided me towards one of the rows in the middle of the suburb. The number seven gleamed a tarnished gold beside the door, and there was one car parked in the driveway.

  We pulled up to the kerb just as a taxi arrived from the other side, depositing Alana and Rayla on the damp pavement. Today, they were both dressed in black, Alana wrapped in a mid-length trench coat while the skirt of Rayla’s dress blew gently in the breeze. Fletcher and I stepped out of the car, and I gave the two women a wave. Rayla returned the gesture with a limp wrist and tired eyes.

  “How are you both doing?” I asked as they approached.

  There were far too many things wrapped up in the question, so Alana simply nodded and shrugged. I felt bad asking the question. Of course, they were not doing well.

  “Where do we want to start?” Fletcher asked.

  I’d been thinking about that the whole drive over, and the answer was I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like we needed to start with him being trans so we didn’t have to deadname him when we explained that he was, well, dead. But that would put a lot of pressure on Alana and Rayla right away and would leave Jacob’s parents wondering why we were telling them this rather than Jacob himself. Their worry and fear would grow and grow, and that would only make the second part that much more painful to hear.

  “I’ll start,” Alana decided, straightening. It looked like she was trying to fight the entire weight of the universe. “It will be easiest for me to explain it to them since I’m trans, too.”

  Rayla looped their arms together, and Alana leaned into her for support.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this then.”

  Ringing that doorbell was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. My hand moved as if it was trapped beneath layers and layers of mud and clay, and the button itself burned my fingertip. The chime echoed dimly through the brick then died away. I stepped back a little so that the four of us formed a cohesive group as we waited for an answer.

  “Just a moment!” a voice called, and footsteps drummed against the floor, closer and closer until the door swung open. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in a rush as a short, grey-haired woman appeared in the doorway. I could see Jacob in the shape of her nose and the colour of her eyes. She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her as she looked at the four of us, struggling to figure out what we were doing on her front step. “Can I help you?”

  For a second, all thought went out of my head. I didn’t know what to say. I saw my own mother standing there, knocking on the door of my university flat, come to tell me that my father had never come home the night before.

  “Mrs Greene?” Alana said, smiling at the older woman. “My name is Alana, and this is Rayla. We’re friends of your… child.”

  June Greene beamed at Alana. “Yes, of course. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to put a face to the name.” Her expression crinkled, confusion overtaking her earlier excitement. “What are you doing here? Who are your other friends?” Her eyes flicked towards Fletcher and me.

  “Callum and Tara,” Alana answered and left it at that. “Could we come in?”

  Fear began to descend across June’s face as her thoughts flashed to the worst case, and in this instance tru
e, scenario. “Of course.” She stood back to usher us inside. “Is everything okay? Is Julia alright?”

  Alana cringed just slightly, though it wouldn’t have been noticeable if you weren’t looking for it, and she seemed to lose all the air in her lungs.

  “Best if we sit down.” I took over. “Is your husband home?” I was going for in control and comforting, but June picked up on my inspector voice instead, and worry carved canyons into her face.

  “He is. What--?”

  “Better if we sit down first,” I interrupted. I was getting more and more damp standing out in the rain, and this was a conversation best had somewhere warm and comfortable.

  June nodded and moved away so the four of us could file into the little hall, wiping our shoes off on the mat. “Take a seat.” June pointed towards the small living room. “I’ll find Richard. Any tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, not wanting to put any pressure on her even though my hands could have used a warm cup to hold onto.

  The four of us crammed ourselves onto the small sofa, leaving the rocking chairs for the Greenes. The room was brightly lit and smelled like cinnamon from the red candle flickering on the mantle. Alana picked a framed photo up off the little end table beside her, fighting back tears as she looked at it. It was a school picture of a much younger Jacob. He was probably around eight, and his hair was much longer, the collar of his polo too tight against his little neck.

  June and Richard Greene stepped into the living room just as she was setting the picture back down. Richard was at least a foot taller than his wife, his hair silver rather than grey, and his shoulders had a slight hunch to them beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. They both had steaming mugs in their hands, and they sat carefully in the open rocking chairs, June pulling hers closer to Richard’s. Then they simply stared at us, waiting for one of us to begin.

  Alana cleared her throat. Their eyes snapped over to hers like golden eagles catching sight of movement in the grass. “This isn’t… I don’t really know how to start, and I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, but here goes.” She pounded her fist against her leg a couple of times and took a deep breath, steadying her voice. “Your, well, daughter, Julia, is actually your son. His name is Jacob. He’s trans. He realized this about five years ago, while he was at uni. That’s how we met. In a trans support group.” Jacob’s parents stared at her, and Alana rushed on, her words tumbling over each other. “That doesn’t change who he is, and he loved you very much, and he wanted to tell you himself--”