by Wes Markin
‘Of course not,’ Topham said. ‘Not unless he’s had extensive plastic surgery?’
‘But, even then, he would look more like this,’ Yorke said, pointing at Severance’s before photograph, ‘than the boy in the interview room?’
‘Yes, bar some miracle of surgery, they are not the same person. Even their builds are completely different. Why are you trying to link them, sir?’ Willows said.
‘Well, Christian Severance was shot in the face, destroying a huge part of his jaw, and his tongue. Now, the man who could have stopped it, DC Ryan Simmonds, is dead, having had his tongue cut out. Add to that, the guy in the other room who is communicating via cards, something you may do if you cannot speak, because you do not have a tongue … how can I not make links?’
They all paused to reflect. If Topham and Willows felt anything like he did now, Yorke reasoned, their minds would be reeling.
‘Now what?’ Topham said.
‘We find out if that killer in the other room has a tongue or not, and then we find out who the bloody hell he is.’
Christian Severance stared out of the window at the two young boys who lived in the house opposite, playing football. They passed the ball to each other, several times, before the taller of the two smashed the ball into an inflatable goal. They embraced, and shared the experience.
One of the boys noticed him watching through the window and whispered into the other’s ear.
He’s spotted the freak, Severance thought. He tried to smile. He couldn’t. His face was too damaged.
The other boy turned and looked at the face in the window too. Happy expressions fell off the pair of adolescents like torn clothes. The ball rolled off; neither stooped to pick it up, or give chase. They simply stopped and stared at Severance as if hypnotised.
Boo Radley perhaps? Or worse, something out of a horror movie?
Severance turned from the window, wondering if one day the two boys would dare each other to go into the monster’s garden.
Well, you will have to hurry up young men, because one day soon, I will be gone.
This wasn’t his house after all.
As he sat himself down on the sofa, he undid a few buttons on his shirt. It was stifling today. As it had been every other day this week. A dry breeze through the open window wasn’t cutting it.
He reached over to the coffee table and took hold of one of his old diaries. He flicked through the pages before settling on an entry he hadn’t read in a while.
The Conduit’s warning hit him. Sharply. Dwelling can be compelling but depressing.
Yes, but is it dwelling? I was fourteen then; I’m twenty-nine now. We should not forget who we are and why we are what we are. Memory can be deceitful. Learning about yourself can be an academic pursuit. My diary is a reliable source.
He began to read. He listened to the fourteen-year-old boy talking to him.
Today was finally the day I told Mr Long about my father. He listened too. Most people I have told this story to don’t really listen. They nod. They sigh. They smile. But they don’t really listen. Listening is complete silence and no movement. A blink or two, maybe, but no more. Mr Long really stared at me when I talked and it made me feel warm and important. I told him the story because Mr Long wants to know why I always come and sit with him at lunch. He asked me why the smell of his tuna sandwiches had not put me off yet! So I told him. Because I have no friends. Not since Jeremy found the DVD at his house. The one of his father having sex with my mother. The one he showed everyone at school. It’s okay for Jeremy, because my ex-friends think it’s kind of cool for his father to be cheating on his wife. But, my mother, well that’s a whole different ball game – she’s a whore, apparently. After I’d finished my story, Mr Long acted like he didn’t know already, but he probably did. It is common knowledge. Most of the students know, so it’s more than likely all the teachers know. Plus I’ve told the school councillor, and he will certainly have sent out a notification or two. Mr Long observed that I didn’t have any lunch today. I told him that my mother always made my sandwiches before everything fell apart, and now I must make them. So, sometimes I forget. He offered me some of his tuna sandwich and I surprised him by having a wedge! He’d clearly thought I’d be repulsed. The thing is with Mr Long he always knows what to say and what to do to make me feel better. We then talked about music. He’s always telling me about his record collection. It sounds amazing! He reckons he has signed vinyl from all the masters. The Beatles, The Stones etc. Passed down from his father apparently. I asked him about his wife and his daughter. Just trying to be polite really, but as usual he does not really want to talk about them. So, we talked through lunch, and half-an-hour after school. Before I left this evening, he brushed my fringe over my ear. He apologised and said he was sorry. He said it was what his father used to do to his hair every day when he was younger and now it was a habit. I said I didn’t mind. It felt good actually.
Severance placed the diary on the table and reached up to run his hand over his smashed cheek; the rough skin scratched his fingertips.
He looked at his watch and saw it had already passed ten. He wondered if Long had fulfilled his end of the bargain. He suspected he would have done. It was his only chance of him ever seeing his beloved daughter alive again. Not that he would be seeing her again. That had been a lie of course. Severance wanted to smile but his smashed face would not allow it.
With his eyes closed, he thought of Susie Long: pale, still and silent in her plastic coffin.
Yorke still couldn’t believe what he was saying to Gardner down the phone. Unprecedented, to say the least. The collision of two cases.
‘So, what, we just roll them into one?’ Gardner said.
‘Not just yet,’ Yorke said. ‘Yes, Severance is our prime suspect for the missing girl, but Simmond’s murder was committed by someone completely different. Someone sitting in our interview room. But as yet we know only two things about him. He smiles a lot, and he doesn’t speak.’
‘But he is missing his tongue? Surely, then, he is connected to Severance?’
‘The boy’s missing tongue has yet to be confirmed. And even if it is, I want his identity first. Emma, get an early night. You took full advantage of my free bar today and must be ready to get your head down. You said before that new evidence has come to light?’
‘Yes, the letters sent to Marcus Long from Susie. Jake is scouring them.’
‘Good. Get Jake in the loop after this call. Run the briefing tomorrow morning for Operation Autumn. Cover the new discoveries, and then I will bring any new information from Operation Coldtown along and brief your officers.’
‘Sounds good. So, if they are connected, sir, what does that say about Susie’s chances?’
‘I don’t want to speculate, but … not good. There have been no ransom demands. If Severance is taking revenge on people in such a brutal manner, by removing their tongues, then I fear for her. It is difficult to remain optimistic, but that is where you will come in Emma.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘That you are always more positive than me.’
‘Really? Thanks.’
‘Goodnight, Emma.’
‘Goodnight Mike … and congratulations for today.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
As he hung up, he felt dreadful that his wedding day was not the first thing on his mind.
Christian Severance looked down at the body. Its face was obscured by the thick plastic sheeting that he’d just wrapped tightly around it. Severance rolled his shoulders, heard his spine crack, and felt hot sweat pool in the small of his back.
He saw the splodge of blood spreading out on the interior of the plastic sheet where the victim had been cut.
Before moving the body, he’d need a break. He removed his damp shirt, screwed into a ball and dabbed at his upper body.
He returned to the living room, and the sofa, shirtless. If the boys playing football looked in to see a half-naked, disfigured man,
so what? They already considered him out of the ordinary.
As he sat down and picked up the diary again, the words from the Conduit came back: dwelling is compelling but depressing…
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, and began to read:
When I went inside Mr Long’s house today, I asked him if he was worried about anyone seeing. He said he wasn’t. He said that he often had teenagers around for exam tuition so no one would pay any attention. My mouth fell open when he told me that he gets fifteen pounds an hour for that. Fifteen pounds! I joked that I wouldn’t be paying him that much as it takes weeks to earn that on my paper round! He laughed. I like making him laugh. He told me that no one makes him laugh like I do. Not even his own wife. When I asked him where his family were, he told me that they were away. His wife teaches in a different area and their holidays were different so he had his house all to himself. He showed me his huge new television. I made him laugh again by joking about how his tutoring had got him living like a king. Not likely, he said, and he laughed a lot. He took me upstairs to see the record collection, he’d been boasting about all these weeks. Jesus! He’d not been exaggerating. Signed copies of Beatles and Stones’ records. All passed down from his dead father! I touched some of them and ran my fingers over the signatures. Jagger, McCartney, Lennon … Impressive I said. I can’t believe they actually touched these particular records! You didn’t believe me, he said. Yes I did, I said. I had believed him. Every word he ever says to me sounds so real. It always has done. More than anyone else’s. Then we sat and talked for hours, like we always do in the classroom. About music, about films and about books. He loves books. Why did you become a History teacher and not an English teacher? I asked him. The marking, he told me. Then he talked to me about his job. He said he loves talking to me and he feels he can talk to me about anything. I also love him talking to me, just like I love him teaching me. When he teaches, his every word, movement, gesture, draws an image in your mind. I tell him this. I told him that he brings the American West to life like no other and that his rendition of the Khan legacy once left me speechless. I checked my watch. It was late but I wasn’t worried. I’d told my parents I was at Martin’s. He moved closer to me and asked me if I was hungry. I could smell the mint on his breath. I didn’t mind. It felt good to have him close to me. He put his hand on my leg, and he widened his eyes. I think he was trying to ask me if it was okay. I nodded.
Severance stopped reading and threw the diary at the mantlepiece. An ornamental clock fell and smashed into thousands of pieces on the fake fireplace.
Topham approached Yorke in the corridor, shaking his head. ‘He won’t budge, won’t let me see inside his mouth. Can’t we just take a look? You hold his arms, sir, and I’ll hold his nose. Ten seconds and we’ll know…’
‘And then we will be under investigation rather than him,’ Yorke said. ‘No, we do it properly. I’ll try again in a moment. If I fail, we will have to get a warrant to force a look. I’m sure we can manage one quick enough with a missing girl on our radar…’
‘Sir?’
Both Topham and Yorke turned to face Willows.
‘Vice have contacted us. Someone in their department recognised the boy’s picture. He’s not in the system, hence the reason he was overlooked by the facial recognition software, but one of the officers clocked him from an area he works regularly. His name is David Sturridge.’
Yorke felt his heart beating in his chest. ‘Go on.’
‘He is a suspected male prostitute, although no charges have yet been brought against him. DC Jeff Powers from Vice, who phoned this in to me, says the area of Tidworth in which he operates is rife with prostitution. Several squats exist within the vicinity, and Sturridge had been sighted and questioned in one of those squats.’
‘So, he’s homeless? Okay, Collette, can you pull up all the details of David Sturridge? Mark, contact DC Jeff Powers again and get the address of this squat.’
Christian Severance emptied the remains of the clock into the bin and returned the dustpan and brush to the cupboard under the sink. The Conduit would not be best pleased about his outburst.
He didn’t like to upset the Conduit. The man had been particularly kind to him, after all. He also possessed a strength in character and purpose that could dominate your will. So, on the whole, it was best to avoid these situations.
Plus, Severance also craved a few hours of therapy, which would not be forthcoming if the Conduit’s mood was sour. That was if he returned this evening. Quite often, he returned very late or stayed over in hotels.
He returned to the sofa and picked up another diary. He looked at the date and saw that it was almost a year after the events in the previous extract he’d read. After looking around for any valuable and breakable objects in case his temper got the better of him again, he opened the diary and began to read:
Today was the worst day of my life. Seeing the man who claims to love me crying as he gave his statement. My mother’s hand gripped mine throughout the whole process. He was contrite. He confessed to knowing I was fourteen. He confessed that he had betrayed his duty of care to me as my teacher. He said he understood that this was statutory rape now, and the fact that it was consensual means nothing. He accepted all of these wrongdoings, but he said he would not apologise for loving me. That he would never apologise. I buried my head in my mother’s lap. I told her that I’d changed my mind, that I didn’t want him punished for what he had done to me. But it was too late. I’d given my statement. I’d exposed him. The evidence had been presented. My mother kept whispering to me that I was doing the right thing. But every time I looked up from her lap, I could see him staring right at me. Worse of all, it was not a look of hatred. It was a look of forgiveness. A look of longing. Now, as I sit here, writing this, I wonder what it is I am feeling. I am sad, not because I have lost someone I loved, because I never really loved Marcus. I feel sad that I’ve lost the only person in the world I could really talk to. I feel sad that I’ve lost my only friend.
I also feel sad that this man manipulated me into feeling this way.
Severance wiped a tear away and wished the Conduit was here. He could really do with that therapy right now.
5
YORKE SHOOK DC Jeff Power’s hand. The Vice officer had already finished for the day, so had gone beyond the call of duty to meet them in a spot renowned for prostitution and drugs. It wasn’t the best place for a copper to knock around.
When Yorke thanked him, repeatedly, Powers said, ‘Don’t sweat it. They all know me round here. They trust me too. So, there’s nothing for us to worry about.’
They stood under a sodium lamp, opposite the Rising Sun pub, and beside the entrance to the dingy street they were about to venture down. It was chucking out time, so several lads emerged from the pub. As the pack crossed the street towards them, they pulled their hidden pint glasses from underneath their jackets and continued drinking. They sneered as they passed. One spat on the floor close to where Topham stood.
Topham looked at Yorke. ‘Do you think they know we’re police?’
Yorke raised his eyebrows and pointed at Topham’s expensive suit. ‘What do you think?’
Powers offered Topham and Yorke a rolled-up ciggie. Topham declined immediately. Yorke considered it, and then refused.
Powers was a looming man with a shaved head and big hands. He smoked quickly as he filled them in. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for David Sturridge … at least I did. Always seemed one of the nicer boys around here. Polite, you know? Most of them sneer and spit – as you’ve just seen. At least, until they really know you. David was never really like that. Always polite. Willing to talk.’
‘You mean grass?’ Topham said.
‘Nah, not like that. It’s more of a containment job around here. We try to keep a lid on things before they get out of hand. Last thing we want to do is stitch any of them up. We work closely with the charity Second Chance, and we try our best to ensure that the prostitutes are fed, watered an
d protected - if you get my drift. Best to get these prostitutes off drugs, off the game and off the street in that order. Banging them up just slows that process down.’
A group of girls, barely out of their teens, emerged from the Rising Sun. The excessively short skirts, see-through tops, and three-inch high heels told Yorke a story that he never ceased to be disturbed by. They crossed the street and strolled past the small group of officers. This time, one of the girls addressed Powers. ‘Good evening, Detective.’
Powers returned the salutation, and then said, ‘Evening Cindy. Straight home, now.’
They all nodded and headed down the street Powers was about to take them down.
‘We need to know everything about Sturridge,’ Yorke said as they followed the girls down the street.
‘Unfortunately, there isn’t a great deal to know at this point. His story is a familiar one. Father in jail. His mother is an alcoholic who welcomed a new stepdad into the house. The new stepdad didn’t take kindly to David, and over a year ago, he flushed himself down the toilet and onto the street.’ Powers sighed. ‘Well, I guess if he is responsible for what happened today, he’s no longer homeless, is he? He’ll be better off in jail than out here, I can assure you of that!’
‘How long has he been on your radar?’ Yorke said.
‘Just under a year,’ Powers said. ‘He’s small-fry. We mainly target the pimps and drug-dealers. Many do both jobs. They keep the prostitutes hooked, so they have to keep working and buying. It’s a very cyclical, vicious system.’
‘Who is Sturridge’s pimp?’
Powers sighed. ‘Funny you should say that. That’s partly the reason you really caught my attention today.’
Yorke recalled the words from the interview earlier. Someone else called me good-looking once … he’s dead.
