Love & Hate Series Box Set 2 (3-4) - In Too Deep - Skimming the Surface

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  She snorts, like she does, but she wouldn’t give a fuck. Her eyes are locked on mine, and all I can think of right now is bending her over the table and fucking that attitude out of her head. I drag my hand through my hair, wondering what the hell is wrong with me today. She is a witness and I can’t touch her. On top of that, I need to stay calm.

  “There is no case. Suranne was murdered; someone got into her room when I was sleeping and slashed her throat. I don’t need some fancy leading investigator to figure it out.”

  I pin her down with my green eyes, and for a good few seconds I try to figure out why she is so pissed off with me. I fucked up her bike and all right, I lost my temper, but her housemate was just murdered. She should be more upset than this. Her chest keeps rising and falling. She looks tense, fiddling with her fingers nervously. On top of that, she keeps licking that round piercing on her lips and I’m getting turned on by it.

  “I’m sorry about your bike. Last night was difficult. I was hoping to nail a few druggies, but I failed. Today is a new day. Trust me, I want to be over with this as much as you do, but first I need to know—what did you do last night? How about we start from the moment you arrived back to the flat?”

  She snorts, letting me know that she still doesn’t want to take me seriously. Then she looks disappointed, moving her gaze from mine down to my lips. This isn’t normal. This girl Tahlia is a freak, but the heat that radiates from her makes me weak, and I instantly want her.

  “How about you go fuck yourself, Mr. Detective? I won’t say a word until I get someone other than you,” she snarls, narrowing her eyes and leaning over the table. Her face is inches away from mine. I catch the scent of her perfume. I recognize the exotic flowers with sandalwood and jasmine. The skin on my face tingles, and I’m getting an instant hard-on. Despite that, I’m fucking furious, ready to lose my temper with her again. I have the urge to slam my lips into hers, grab her arm and yank her down on the table, so she can’t move.

  Instead I get up, walk around the table and bring the chair next to hers. Now I’m even closer than I was before. She doesn’t look scared of me, but she should be. Without thinking about it, I grab her wrist and bring her closer to me, so my eyes are on the same level.

  “That kind of language doesn’t suit a pretty face like yours. I’m planning to keep you in this room until you tell me everything I want to hear, Miss Sanderson, so stop fucking with me and start talking,” I say, almost in a whisper, making sure that she catches every single word. The air is filling with an electric current, drifting around us; the tension in my groin is unbelievable. All I can think of is her lips. Her body is lean, fit, and her tits are small but perfect. I’m picturing myself running my tongue over her hardened nipples, hearing her gasp.

  What the hell am I doing? Losing my shit with a potential witness. I need to calm down and stop bringing anger into this. Stop acting like I know it all.

  Snippets of conversation with my shrink are coming back. It was my final session.

  “Micah, we can be here all day, but in the end I won’t be able to clear you until you start telling me what is bothering you. Why are you so uncomfortable being in here with me?”

  My shrink is a woman in her thirties. I have been coming to see her for over eight weeks. The idea of talking to her about my feelings is making my skin crawl and my anxiety hit the roof. I don’t talk about personal stuff, about Steph, to anyone.

  I took a bullet for someone. That doesn’t mean that I’m not stable enough to carry on working.

  Dr. Foster is pretty and when she looks at me, she is seeing a twenty-something- year-old man with dark brown hair, green eyes and strong jaw. I didn’t shave yesterday, so I might look a bit scruffy. Most women like that look, but not Dr. Foster.

  I need to fucking say something, because I can’t imagine being here next week, and the week after.

  “My girlfriend was murdered when I was seventeen. The crime was never solved. I’m afraid that you might ask me about that, about how I felt then and if this thing still affects me now.” I force myself to say it, clenching my fists.

  The gut-wrenching guilt is back. I should have been more upset about what happened eight years ago. I should have cried, but instead I shut myself down.

  Dr. Foster writes something on her paper, then looks back at me.

  “Why are you afraid? You don’t like talking about it?”

  I swallow hard, feeling sweat gathering on my forehead. All of a sudden I feel suffocated. This is so wrong, because after so many years I should be able to talk about her, about what we had. I can’t keep living in denial, pretending that she never existed.

  “Because I want to grieve over her, but I can’t,” I say, hiding my face in my hands. I’m supposed to be strong, for fuck’s sake. The bullet was nothing. It was my duty to protect my partner, but I couldn’t protect Steph. I was more angry than sad and I never cried. Fuck, I should have cried.

  “What’s preventing you from grieving over her?”

  It’s just pain and guilt. I should have stayed over with her that night, and then maybe she would still be alive.

  “I can’t cry, and I don’t feel sad. I have never felt sad. Her mother was howling and I just stood there, angry, detached and isolated.”

  “Some people deal with grief in different ways. You shouldn’t be feeling guilty that you can’t cry, Detective. Sometimes we don’t need tears to feel sad,” she says, giving me a warm smile, but that doesn’t help. I haven’t talked to anyone else about this. I have no friends, no girlfriend. It’s just me, and maybe that’s part of the problem. I have chosen loneliness, thinking that I might disappoint someone again. It’s me and work, but that bullet changed it. Now I have Rogers trying to be my friend and I don’t know how to act.

  I run my hand through my hair, trying to get rid of the pain that keeps mounting, the overwhelming emptiness. Maybe it’s time to change, to let someone in. It’s a scary world out there and I’m alone. I have always been alone.

  She tries to get free and I loosen my grip, realising that I’m back in the room with the suspect.

  “Your bullying methods won’t work on me, butthole. I have shitloads of coursework on my plate and I don’t want to waste my time with arseholes like you. That’s the only reason that I’ll answer your questions,” she finally says, turning away from me, like she is afraid to touch me, to stay close.

  I glance down at her tattoos, fascinated by the bright colourful skulls with hollow eyes. I don’t get it. Maybe she’s hiding behind the look, trying to be someone else. For no apparent reason she fucking hates my guts. Well, maybe that has something to do with the fact that I ruined her bike and wasn’t very nice to her last night.

  “What happened after you left me on the street? You went straight back to the campus?”

  She glares at me, trying to hide the fact that she is aware of that damn pull between us.

  “Yes, I went back to the flat straight away. Suranne was in the kitchen cooking lunch for tomorrow. We chatted for a bit and then I went back to my room to read. She asked me to wake her by nine the next morning because she had an early lecture and she isn’t a morning person. Then the next morning I got up early, around eight, and I knocked at her door, but there was no response. I tried the door, but it was locked. I was surprised, because normally she doesn’t lock her room. I knocked for about ten minutes. I had a feeling that something was wrong, so I eventually managed to barge inside. A moment later I saw her lying on the bed with her throat completely open.” Tahlia rubs her arms, looking tense. I give her some space; understandably this whole situation is very disturbing. Suranne’s neck was pretty much butchered; whoever did it must have been very skilled.

  “If the door was locked, how did you open it?” I wonder aloud, wanting to get some clarification on that. Tahlia seems angry and reluctant to continue with her tale. There is something wrong with her body language. Her hands are shaking and I have a feeling that this might have nothing to do with th
e fact that she is in shock over the murder.

  She bites her lip and stares at her hands for some time, probably considering her answer.

  “I used a hairpin, twisted it and played with the lock for a bit. I was anxious to see if she was all right,” she replies, looking uneasy. Most of the time her gaze rests on my badge, but then I keep seeing shock and disbelief in her eyes. When she finally looks at me, I’m baffled, knowing that she managed to open the lock without a key. Not many people can do that.

  “A hairpin? How did you even know how to use it?”

  “I grew up in a rough neighbourhood, so I learnt from an early age how to take care of myself. The bottom line is that Suranne wasn’t responding. I had to do something, so I opened the door.” She shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, but her voice gives away the fact that she is annoyed that I keep pressing her. Maybe because she wasn’t planning to reveal that much detail.

  “Didn’t you think about calling other students or your friends or the college management to open the door?” I keep throwing questions at her. She’s talking, but holding back things that are crucial and I don’t like the fact that she is so uncomfortable around me.

  “I don’t have any friends. I have been here three weeks, and the term only just started,” she says through gritted teeth.

  I lean over, invading her personal space, maybe because I can or maybe because I can’t help myself from inhaling the scent of her exotic floral perfume. “What happened after that?”

  “I stood there looking at her for a bit, unable to move, and then ran upstairs to the other students,” she replies with a heavy sigh, staring directly into my eyes.

  “Your housemate, Suranne, was she close with anyone on campus? Did she have a boyfriend?” I press.

  Tahlia shakes her head.

  “No. As I said before, the term has only just started. People are still arriving. I know that she was friendly with the other student from upstairs. As far as I know, she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  I nod and get up, forcing myself to pull away. I remind myself that this girl is still a suspect. Parts of her story don’t make much sense. I need to check her background, find out why she is acting so odd, and verify a few details.

  I glance at the clock, realising that Rogers is probably already done with the others.

  “That should be all for now, Miss Sanderson. My partner and I will be hanging around campus. We will probably visit you again at some point. I’m determined to get to the bottom of what happened last night,” I tell her, shoving my hands into my pockets.

  “Fine,” she snaps and stands up. That’s all I get, a short acknowledgement that she understood me. She narrows her eyes at me and then leaves, slamming the door behind her. I press my palms to the wall, inhaling deeply for a good few moments, trying to stop thinking about her as a sexual object. Rogers knocks a few minutes later, poking his head inside the room.

  “I’m done. What about you?”

  “Yeah, almost,” I reply. “You remember that girl from last night, the one that I crashed with?”

  “The pinky head?”

  “Yes, well, that’s Tahlia Sanderson, the victim’s roommate,” I inform him.

  “You’re kidding. The cutie that you knocked off the bike?”

  “Yes, the same one. She gave me a hard time, barely wanted to answer any questions,” I mutter, not wanting to admit that she got under my skin, igniting a burning sensation deep in my stomach.

  Rogers smirks, shaking his head. “Well, mate, you damaged her bike. No wonder she’s pissed.”

  “Yeah, probably should offer to pay for that, but there was something about her story that didn’t resonate with me. I need to look at her file, check her background. She stated that she spoke to the victim right before bed. Suranne was cooking in the kitchen, and she asked Sanderson to wake her around nine….”

  Chapter Five

  Not-so-clean slate.

  I bring Rogers up to speed with everything that Tahlia said. He agrees with me that opening the door with a hairpin isn’t something that people would normally do in situations like that. Rogers talks about the other witnesses from the flat above Sanderson and Wallace.

  “A girl from upstairs was pretty shaken up,” Rogers says. “The guy wasn’t talking much. Both of them were in their flat from nine o’clock at night. In my opinion they are telling the truth. The toxicology report should be out in a few days. I don’t know, mate, but this whole case stinks. The door was locked, and no one in their right mind could have managed to get inside her window without breaking their legs. I don’t have any ideas.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about. Someone murdered this girl in cold blood, without any motive.

  “There is something wrong with her housemate. She was very nervous around me and gave me one hell of an attitude. It was a bit of a battle and you should have seen her face when I mentioned that I might see her again,” I say, shaking my head. “We need to start looking at any CCTV footage from this area. I don’t believe in coincidences. In the meantime I’ll get someone to keep an eye on our pinky head.”

  I don’t want to believe that Tahlia had something to do with her roommate’s murder, but she didn’t make a very good first impression.

  On top of that, I can’t ignore the similarities between this case and the murder from eight years ago.

  “Right, let’s go back to the crime scene. There must be something there that we missed,” I suggest. There are some students left outside, but most of the area is deserted. The forensics crew is nearly done, still collecting bits and pieces. It takes me and Roger another hour to look through the victim’s personal stuff, but in the end we don’t find anything that would give us an indication of why this happened.

  A few hours later I’m back at the station. Rogers stays behind to request CCTV from the porter in the university.

  I report what I found out to Clarke and lock myself in the room with all the evidence that we have collected today. I start going through the photos first, soon realising that I made a terrible mistake. The size of the room, the victim’s clothes, the way the body is situated on the bed, the lock on the door, and the surroundings look exactly the same as the crime scene from eight years ago. For a moment I feel like I’m back in London, staring at my dead girlfriend and realising she is long gone, except this time I have a fresh corpse.

  I go home several hours later convinced that Steph’s death wasn’t just some random coincidence. Rogers decides to leave straight from campus. He has a newborn kid, and I feel bad if I keep him in the office for longer than necessary. I go over the statements in the comfort of my own home, trying to remember every detail from all those years when I attempted to grieve for Steph. Now, looking back I don’t even recall how I managed to keep on going.

  Around eight I ask Kerry to come over. I want to tell her that we need to talk, but in the end I back off. I don’t think I can handle her rejection right now. She might not be interested in this new proposed arrangement. She doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of coming over, but eventually arrives.

  Trouble is, Tahlia Sanderson is still in my head and I can’t stop thinking about her feisty personality and those alluring grey eyes. The sex relaxes me, but it also distances me from who I want to be. The emptiness isn’t diminishing. But Kerry has this ability to pull me away from reality.

  In the beginning, she would just show up, use me to get off and then leave in the middle of the night. Now I keep wondering if we have a chance for something real. I carry on enjoying myself, trying to talk to her about my needs, but every time she thinks all I want is to screw her again and again. When she leaves later in the night, I notice that something has changed. This time, sex with Kerry hasn’t worked. I’m more frustrated than ever with myself, with her—and with Tahlia Sanderson. I begin to worry that I’m developing a crush on pinky head.

  Next day I arrive at the station first thing in the morning to work on the case, trying to dismiss the fact that I woke up
in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. I have been having nightmares for years about that day when I discovered Steph’s body, but they have never been as vivid as last night. It’s probably because I’m finally involved with a serious murder case—and the body I saw was left exactly the same as Steph’s. I’m convinced that her murderer is the same person that killed Suranne Wallace, the student from Braxton University, and I want to nail the motherfucker. Maybe when I do that, I will be able to spill some tears. Maybe then I’ll feel like a human being again.

  I pull all the records available on Tahlia Sanderson. She is a year younger than me, originally from Stoke-on-Trent. There isn’t much in her national records, just some snippets of her time in London. She moved to Braxton a few weeks ago, for obvious reasons. She has student loans and never had any problems with the police. Everything looks clean—too clean for my liking. The family is unknown, and some of her earlier records from Stoke are missing.

  I stalk her on Facebook, but she doesn’t have a personal profile there. No Twitter account or blog, either. That makes me wonder why she is so secretive. Fair enough; some people don’t like to put themselves out on social media sites, but it looks like Tahlia Sanderson is trying hard to remain anonymous. That picks up my curiosity and I’m planning to find out why she likes being so private.

  Rogers arrives an hour after me, this time with an orange juice. It took him long enough to learn that I’m a health freak. I work through lunch, until my eyes burn, while Rogers keeps going through CCTV records. We normally go out for lunch to the local café, five minutes’ walk from the station, but today I’m planning to go back to campus and speak to the faculty members and other students about Suranne Wallace. I’m just about to grab my jacket and leave when Rogers barges through the door.

  “Change of plans. Clarke wants you to run the press conference,” he says.