by Mark Ayre
James did not look at the detective. Her eyes were fixed on the beauty of the lake, stretching out in front of him. So calm. Peaceful. Hard to believe he had been so frightened on being pushed in two nights ago. Hard to believe lakes like these had been causing him nightmares for what felt like years.
“If you don’t believe me,” he said, “you don’t have to do anything.”
“I didn’t say I don’t believe you,” she returned. “I’m merely pointing out there is not much I can offer a court of law. You must remember Davis has been slipping out of the police forces’ grasp periodically since he was a teenager. Men and woman alike have gone mad trying to lock him up.”
Smiling, James thought of a stony-faced blonde man throwing Davis against a wall.
“Your partner being one of them?”
“My partner is not the only blonde man in this world.”
“Don’t forget the sour expression. In my experience blondes are usually smiley.”
“It’s because they’re dim.”
“Hey, at least my stereotype was positive.”
Hard eyes and she smoothed her jacket. He wondered if she had left family to visit him so late. Doubted it. She came across as a lifer. Someone who gave everything to the job and had little time for a social or love life. Lovely as she was, he hoped he was wrong about that.
“If it was him,” James said, “at least he was proactive.”
Yang rolled her eyes.
“Telly watchers love the idea of Lindelof. He’s emotive, he likes to charge in, be rougher with suspects than he should.”
“Like Jack Bauer.”
“Exactly, but that mould doesn’t fit with modern policing.” She sighed, closed her eyes. “I shouldn’t bad mouth my partner in front of near strangers.”
“It’s okay, I didn’t like him.”
That drew a smile. Her eyes found the lake as he had. He could see it reflected in her eyes and thought she understood its beauty. Maybe police work wasn’t all that mattered.
“There are plenty of people like that on the force,” Yang said, mildly. “When I was building my case against Davis and Jane I faced problems from the impatient. People like Lindelof didn’t want to wait, to do it right. In the end, my case fell apart and everyone said I told you so, while Lindelof was lauded for finding an informant who would put Jane away for three years, but it didn’t have to go that way. People took their eye off the ball. The case fell apart when we lost information internally. How can we be expected to take down the baddies when we’re working against ourselves?"
Pulling her eyes from the river she flushed red, realising what she had said, as though she had become hypnotised by the calm water.
“It’s okay,” said James. “I get it.”
That wasn’t the problem though, and he knew it. She smiled and shook her head.
“It’s because I’m tired,” she said. “Too many late nights. Not enough sleep. Not enough downtime. I am too hard on my partner. Chris has it harder than me. He has a family, and things have not run smoothly for him. I believe it was him your friend saw at Davis’ party because I know he has had problems with his daughter becoming wrapped up with some nasty people. I cannot imagine what that must be like for any parent, the constant fear of what horrible things might befall your child, but for a police officer, who sees right into the heart of the darkest organisations every day, it must be soul destroying. So I cannot blame him for his anger, or for seeking any way he can to put Davis away. I only hope I can help him out.”
She rose, letting her eyes drift back to the river, then tugging them away, scared of getting caught. As James untangled himself from the park bench, she held out a hand.
“Thank you for what you’ve told me tonight,” she said. “Rest assured I will look into this. No hesitation. I said there’s nothing concrete here but it is an excellent jumping off point, and if it stacks up, there is an excellent chance we will finally get the bastard.”
“I hope so.”
They walked away from the river, to the small parking area off the main road. At Yang’s car, she faced him.
“You need to get out of this,” she said. “No more messing around. No more investigating. I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, but you are not safe here. I appreciate everything you’ve told me but now is the time to step back.”
He didn’t respond. He was looking at where he had been pushed into the water. Reliving the fear as he dropped below the surface, sinking into murky depths. He felt the air restrict as he allowed himself to imagine the water consuming him again.
“James?”
Back to reality. He looked to the concerned eyes of Yang. Saw fear and worry there and nodded his head very slowly, very deliberately.
“You’re right,” he said. “I need to get out.”
“You’ll leave the city?”
“I’ll leave the city.”
Still, she watched him, her eyes not boasting trust, but that was okay. After all, he was lying. Running wouldn’t help. Mel had said she would come after him and, now he suspected her of working for Davis, he trusted she had the means to do it. So he would assume Davis would not be caught and would try to protect himself. Time to visit Tahir’s once again and locate that evidence.
Then, and only then, could he leave the city for good.
As he worked his way down a street made narrow by two walls of cars, he could not help but think of Emily and her boy, huddled together, broken, beaten by the death of Tahir. Emily would move on, eventually, but the kid would have permanent scars. Deep running wounds for which both would know who to blame. James.
Shuffling into a tight space, he looked at Emily’s home. Dark. Quiet. He prayed she would not be in, fearing bumping into her more than he feared falling into the clutches of Davis or Mel in their most murderous moods. Were he to see her, he hoped she would scream and yell and try to kill him. If she crumpled beneath the weight of her grief, falling to the floor in unstoppable tears, no one would need to kill him. Death would be metered out on the sword of his shame and grief.
It was twenty to midnight when he arrived, ten to when Owen pulled up, knackered, worn, but with that ever-present glint of excitement in his eyes. James felt the apology build as they stepped from their respective vehicles, but could not stop it.
“I’m sorry about this.”
“You know,” Owen said, looking at the house. “I’m starting to feel this relationship is take, take, take. I save your life. I keep a lookout. When you gunna get my back?”
“What do you need?”
He thought about it.
“For you to purchase another round would be nice. Sit and finish it with me, even better.”
“You have my word,” said James, though he didn’t mean it. He liked Owen but had every intention of flying soon as he was squared with Mel. Guilt spread at the lie, but it was a necessary evil.
They stepped towards the house like two ordinary blokes out for a late night stroll, rather than a couple of burglars. At the door, they surveyed their surroundings. The street was dark, bar a few lights dotted here and there, all of which were covered by curtains. James lifted his hand to ring the bell but paused when he arrived, heart pounding, seeing Emily before him, crying and crying and crying and—
“You forgotten how it works?” Owen asked. Leaning in he did the job for James, jabbing the button and stepping back.
“What now?” he asked.
“She comes, let me do the talking. She doesn’t—“ and he was hoping she would not— “uh, do you know how to pick locks?”
“What I look like to you?” Owen said. “Some sort of common crook? I’m neither, and I don’t know how to pick a lock. I do know something about people though.”
James raised his eyebrow, but Owen was already at work. Crouching and searching under the mat, a couple of ornamental rocks, and through the bushes in front of the living room window, rising with a glint in his smile and his hand.
“Here you are.�
�
A key.
They listened at the door but could hear nothing within. James rose his hand and pressed the bell again, made nervous as it rang through the street. A glance left and right, seeking twitching curtains, opening doors, but there was nothing.
“Let’s go,” Owen said, but James raised a hand.
“No, just me. Too much of a risk having us both in there. I don’t want you getting in trouble with the cops.”
“Well that’s sweet, but I’m not a child, and you ain’t my pa.”
“I know, but still.” He looked back onto the street. “If you want to help you can stay here, keep lookout and text if anyone comes.”
Owen’s face soured fast.
“Sounds riveting.”
“I know you don’t like it—“
“You promised me exciting.”
“I know—“
“So far it’s been about as fun as jury duty. Hey, best bit was when you got kidnapped. When’s that happening again?”
“Knowing my luck, not too long,” James muttered, placing the key in the door, facing Owen before unlocking. “Will you do this?”
He did, earning James’ eternal gratitude. Maybe there was a point in having friends after all.
The door opened without a creak, and James slid inside as though there was far less of a gap then there was. The same hallway Emily had led him into, but darker. Peeking into the living room he tried to think logically about where the evidence might be. It could have been hidden in any room, but many could be ruled out pre-search. Tahir hadn’t wanted his wife to know what he was doing and wouldn’t want his child to find what he had stolen. So, it was unlikely to be in any communal area—bedrooms, living room, kitchen. Anywhere Emily might relax or cook, anywhere the boy might play or sleep.
All guesswork, but he thought the most likely location was some kind of study, if there was one. He looked up. This was a three bedroom. One for the parents, one for the kids and—
Upstairs, he tiptoed like a cat burglar from a cartoon, sneaking towards a diamond, scared of alerting the guards. Toilet to the left, kids bedroom straight ahead, right next to parents’ room. He poked his head into all of these then moved on, heading to the final door along the hall, sliding it open and slipping inside.
Empty. Dark to begin with and not much better once James flicked the light on. The thick black curtains and silver walls seemed to turn bright light into gloom. The heavy material of the lampshade didn’t help. Stepping in, examining the room. A sofa one might turn into a bed with a degree in quantum mechanics. A desk atop which sat a monitor, beneath a computer and filing cabinets. A wardrobe and three shelves of books.
Sliding open the filing cabinets he found them empty. He removed the cushions from the sofa and looked under the computer and behind the monitor, but all of this was too obvious. Guests or Emily might see anything hidden here.
What wouldn’t they use?
The bookshelf. He allowed his eyes to scan it. Three shelves, each taken by one member of the family. Or so it seemed.
A raft of colour made up the bottom shelf. Big books with patterns and animals and large smiling faces on the front. Large font and pictures on the inside. James made for it and pulled one of the books free. Looked upon a boy and a dog and tried not to think of the little boy who would try to read this book. Whose father had probably read it to him, and who would never have a book read to him by that father again. Because of James.
No good. No, no, no, it was no good. He put the book back and examined the second shelf. Murder mysteries. All murder mysteries. And Harry Potter. That could be Tahir’s shelf, and yet, he thought not. Tahir struck him as too serious to be interested in something so fanciful as —well —fiction.
That meant shelf three.
Biographies and autobiographies. Mostly football based. Some cricket. One golf. Clearly, Tahir wasn’t too fussy about which sporting legends he read up on.
The shelf started at James’ head height. The books mostly hardback and of varying sizes, creating contours as they ran from one end of the room to the other. James touched the first book, pressed, then went along each and every one, pressing, feeling the resistance of the hard wall behind each volume until—
There. A book on Leicester’s unlikely Premier League triumph gave way, falling towards the wall. The book next to it, on a golfer James had never heard of, gave as well. After that, they were back to hard wall.
Withdrawing the books from the shelf, he tossed them aside, as though they were on fire. Reaching up was a struggle, and hurt his side, but on tiptoes, he was about able to reach far enough into the gap left by the books to feel that yes, there was something there.
Side still aching, and thinking the kid would never have found this, James managed to drag it back, slipping as he did and collapsing into the sofa as the object of his desires smacked him in the face.
He lay in a heap on the floor, breathing as though he had run a half marathon but feeling a strange sense of victory.
He had it. At last. The evidence that would save him from Mel or give Yang what she needed to arrest Davis. Relief flooded him as he held it up. A silver object as long as an iPhone and a little narrower. On one side a row of speakers, a microphone, and the lens, on the back a screen with simple buttons to play, fast forward, stop, and rewind. A simple spying solution. A micro USB on the end allowed the user to upload the footage to a PC, presumably for blackmailing purposes.
His finger hovered over the button. He felt the cool of the little play symbol.
“Well, hello there.”
James froze, not even blinking, as though to be still was to be invisible.
“Come on, get up.”
James hesitated a second longer, then did as he was told, sliding the device casually into his pocket as he did. He turned to a smirking man.
“You think I didn’t see that?”
James said nothing. The man wore a smart suit and slick expression. His hair was swept back, and he was what James considered to be modern handsome. He was perhaps ten years older than James and a hell of a lot nastier. Though James doubted he had wracked up so many kills.
“Doesn’t matter,” James’ new friend said. “You and your little device are coming with me. The boss’ll be so pleased you found it. Not sure it’ll persuade him to forgive you for Mel, but it’ll stand you in good stead.”
“Forgive me?” James asked, confusion washing over him. “I was going to take this to her, that’s why I’ve come.”
His captor snorted. A look of derision appearing then fading as he examined James’ confused expression.
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
Still, the man watched, not sure whether to believe. Deciding against it.
“Whatever, man. Let’s go.”
Hesitation. Deciding if running was an option. It worked during the kidnapping, but this wasn’t Lars. This was, sad to say, a professional.
“Where are we going?”
“No questions,” he said, echoing Mel even if he didn’t know it. “Let’s go.”
“What’s wrong with Mel?” he said, holding his ground. His new friend sighed, reached into his pocket and withdrew a phone.
“I still reckon you know,” he said, smiling. “Trying to play me but whatever, it won’t work. You stay where you are and look. Try come at me, I’ll stick a knife in you.”
Another few seconds. Trying to decide if this was the right move. Then, he shrugged, finding what he wanted on his phone. Valuable seconds with his eyes off James, but he was on edge. Likely to react if James so much as blinked. No the right time to make a move.
“There.”
The screen was in his face. Three seconds passed in which his jaw dropped, then the phone was gone.
“Right, that’s it, you’ve had your fun, now let’s go.”
“I didn’t. It wasn’t—“
“Whatever, discuss it with Davis. I just need you to move.”
The man stepped back and allowed James to step in front. The moment he had done, James felt a heavy hand in his back and went sprawling to the floor face first.
“Oops, sorry.”
James was supposed to be riled by this, but he wasn’t. His head was pounding with that image, pasted behind his eyes. All the blood, the torn clothes, her pale face, gaping mouth. The shock. Mel had come to James’ house to collect her prize or take his life—she wouldn’t leave with her own.
Out the front door and into the street. James looked to Owen who smiled before spotting the man. Shock crossed his face, and he went for his door, but James shook his head, silently pleading he stay put. No one else needed to get caught in this.
“Hey, I’m over here.”
James stopped. He had half stepped into the road. His new friend was pointing to a car right outside Emily’s. James thought of the picture again. So like Harris’ murder. The sheer brutality of it. Someone not content with one or two stab wounds. Someone who wanted to make sure the job stayed done. How had it happened? No time to think about that. James took another step back, into the middle of the road.
“Don’t be an idiot, man,” said the guy. “You’re in trouble, but it ain’t nothing fatal. Not yet. Not unless you try fuck with me. You got to get that.”
Still, James didn’t approach the car. He saw the guy click his jaw, then sigh. Again James glanced towards Owen who was still sitting with his hand on the door, watching.
The man approached. James took another step back.
“Go on,” he said. “Try run, but you know what—“
Taking a leaf out of James’ kidnap escape playbook, the kidnapper shot forward before finishing his sentence. James tried to turn but tripped over his own feet. Almost went down but a powerful hand wrapped under his arm, holding tight. James’ attacker pulled him close, and there was a glint of metal, and something sharp poked James’ stomach. Nice and light, but with enough pressure to cause a twinge.
“That,” his new friend said. “Was a fucking mistake. ‘Bring the lad here’, I was told, ‘unless, he causes you trouble. He causes you pain, you deal with it how you see fit.’
