by N. M. Brown
She, on the other hand, didn’t mind the dark. In fact, it comforted her. How could she fear what lay in the dark when she’d known them all her life? Walking confidently through the shadows, Echo approached the only high-tech piece of equipment in the basement. Stood to one size, was a walk-in cool room stacked with white wines, beers and other bottles that had to stay chilled. It was a stainless-steel box with one door, while kept at a perfect temperature of three degrees C. It was a deep as Echo's arm span and as tall as she was in heels. It stretched out to be at least nine foot which made it fit snugly in the alcove.
Opening the chill box, she stepped inside and glanced around, shoving an empty crate aside as she went. “What the fuck!” Echo swore as she saw boxes of wine piled in front of and on top of her corner. It was another stainless-steel chest, bigger than her box upstairs but it was made up of draws. Each draw held different flowers and herbs that needed to be preserved and she had just topped it up yesterday. Yesterday, she’d had a clear path to her ingredients. Yesterday, Sydney seemed to have had a brain on her shoulders. This morning, not so much.
“Fucking bitch!” Echo snapped, beginning to pull boxes out of the way. “Bloody airheaded bimbo. How hard is it to stack the fucking boxes out of the way?” It would take her ages to move all the wine and then she had to find the right draw with the right stuff in. Slamming a box down, Echo jumped from her skin when an even louder bang followed. Suddenly she was in semi darkness. Only a frosted plastic cover bulb in the ceiling was her source of light and it did very little. It was so dim it was showing shadows that weren’t there. Looking behind her, she saw that the cool room door that she had left open had closed behind her.
She was locked in.
“Shit.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Echo expected the door to open right away, Sydney apologizing profusely at her clumsiness, but when minutes dragged by and Echo's arms began to shake, she reconsidered. Sydney was a pain, but she wasn’t murderous. Maybe the drunk girls had followed her down, slamming the door in spite. Would they come back? Echo scoffed. Would they be sober enough to remember to come back?
When at least five minutes had gone by, Echo tried banging on the inside of the door. Annoyingly, the previous bar tender - a delicious boy with dreamy abs who Echo had never learnt the name of - had the habit of leaving the door open. When three cases of ‘Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Montrachet Grand Cru’ – a very expensive bottle of white wine, had gone off in the warmth, Gala had flipped. Last Echo had heard, the dreamy abs had paved way to a ninety-inch gut, oily skin with acne and chronic-pain in his joints. Poor thing.
However, one would think someone would check if anyone was inside before closing the door. Not only that, she should have been able to open the door from the inside, yet when Echo tried, the door wouldn’t budge. There was a latch they dropped and locked at night, but otherwise the door was kept closed by a big magnet. Echo swore if someone had dropped the latch on the other side she would skin them alive and turn them into a new handbag.
The air, frigid and cold, began to thin and Echo felt like Deans hands were wrapped around her neck again. She huffed a cough, trying to clear the sensation. “Damn it.” She whispered to herself seeing her toes were blue. Looking back to the door, she shuffled over, trying to bang on it again, but enough time had passed and Echo was losing feeling everywhere. Blood dribbled down her arm where she’d cut herself on the icy door, but she couldn’t feel any pain. She was running out of time…
Echo didn’t dare panic. She didn’t do panic. Instead, she examined the door again. It was at the furthest point from the dim light and the shadows stretched far and wide. She felt the seams and the area around the handle, trying to find a safety catch or a hole. No such luck. Slamming her fist again, Echo screamed in annoyance. She told herself it was in no way out of fear.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” What the fuck was she going to do? Being found dead in a freezer, in nothing but a black dress and six-inch heels would crush her in the afterlife. Echo shivered and rubbed her arms, forcing her body to try and stay warm.
Six-inch heels… Echo looked down again. Her feet had long ago turned purple and the black knee-high boots had begun to gape as her feet shrunk in the cold. Looking back at the door, Echo was suddenly fuelled with renewed vigour. The hinge of the cool room door was on the inside, secured in place by one pin slid in form the top. Ripping off a shoe, she hobbled closer, trying to keep off the cold ground. It would be close, but her heel just might be narrow enough to jerk the pin out. The pin at the top and bottom of the door were about five inches in length. Her shoes were six, but they widened towards the top. She’d have to lever the pin out once it was out far enough. Feeling suddenly warmer, Echo quickly got to work before she froze and suffocated to death.
✽ ✽ ✽
With a strangled cry, Echo gave the door one last shove as the heavy steel dragged across the concrete ground. The sweet relief of untampered air brought a joyous laugh to her lips as she tumbled to the ground outside of the cool room. On the inside of the door water in the air had harden into ice in a thick coat. Slamming her body against the door again and again, the ice ground into her skin with every push. Her entire right arm was covered in cuts and scrapes and stung as warm air attack the numb edges. Shoes long abandoned: one snapped in half and the other ripped along the heel, Echo slumped on the basement floor. Her breaths were ragged and she still shivered, but she was alive.
“Jesus!” A high-pitched cry came from the stairwell. Echo groaned and not out of pain. Fucking Sydney. Now she turns up. “Echo? Are you alright?” Sydney kneeled beside her, trying to lift her and inspect the damage.
“Fuck off.” Echo wheezed. She didn’t know who’d closed the door, or even how long she’d been in there, but she was done with all this shit. She didn’t need pity or sympathy right now, all she wanted was a warm shower. “Go pester someone else Sydney.” Struggling to her feet Echo hobbled off while Sydney stayed sat on the ground in shock, her mouth open like a fish.
Echo didn’t look back as she walked back upstairs. Customers gawked at her arms, making comments of surprise and concern, but Echo ignored them all. She walked, bare foot to the top of the house her mind on the knowledge that up there, she would be warm. She had never been more pleased to have privacy in such a busy place. Within minutes she stood, still dressed, under a warm shower feeling the water scorch her skin. Blood circled down the drain and her skin screamed at the sudden temperature change, but a sigh still escaped her lips. Tonight, had been a shit day, but tomorrow… Tomorrow, Echo decided, she would make up for it all.
IX
Hale had agreed to let Mrs. Farrows sweat it out overnight, leaving her uncertain and unbalanced by Monday morning. Departing the night before, McQueen stopped by his local Catholic church to make up for his absence, before going to the B&B for a full night’s sleep. It frustrated him his early morning work had led to nothing but humiliation, but nevertheless, Mrs. Farrow’s might lead them somewhere and his spirits had risen slightly.
“We caught the woman, chill.” He told himself, but he had a nagging itch that made him frown. If Mrs. Farrows had paid for her husband to be killed: that was an open and shut case. However, she said she’d used the number of a hit man a friend had used. That was an entirely different case that would need to be investigated by someone else. But if everything held true, there would have been a similar death matching their current one. Yet he’d checked and there was no record of a man dying like Mr. Farrows and Dwight, so that stood to reason that maybe the hit man wasn’t the killer… McQueen shook himself as he left his B&B room. It was silly to question such an easy case. It was always the wife.
Sighing, McQueen looked around. He was still at the Spindle & Thread and in the days that had passed he’d settled in a bit more. The landlady, Misses North, had welcomed him with open arms; literally. He’d come down for the included breakfast, dead on his feet from the drive here and she had been sun beams and kisses from th
e get-go.
“Ah, Mr McQueen. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s not very often we have late night check-ins but when I heard you on the phone, well, I knew I had to work something out for you.” She’d walked over and proceeded to give him a big hug.
“I-, thank you.” He’d stammered sitting down and marvelled how there was already a fresh bread roll and a pot of tea waiting for him.
“It’s no trouble my dear. I’m just glad you made it. Now you sit and eat. I just know you’re going to have a few busy weeks ahead of you. Best to get your strength now.”
Misses North had no idea how true her words had been. Walking down the stairs now, it was too early for the regular breakfast hours and the truth was, McQueen was up and off to work so early he rarely saw any of the other residence. Nevertheless, Misses North was always up and pottering around the ground floor; cleaning, cooking always humming to herself softy. This morning was no different.
“Good morning Mr McQueen. How did you sleep?” She smiled at him, looking up from the beautiful stitch work she was doing. “Humm-… not well I see.”
McQueen smiled sadly at her before scooping up his cup of tea, draining it. “It’s been a long week.”
“Yes, I see. Well I will wrap you up some lunch.” She offered, walking to the kitchen before he could even turn her kind offer down. Not a moment later though, she was back, a nice neat brown paper bag clutched in her hand.
“Thank you.”
“You’re are quiet welcome my dear. I know you won’t be around for much longer.” She said it almost cheerfully. McQueen gapped. “Oh, don’t look so surprised honey, I know you wouldn’t want to stay here forever. But, just so you know, you can always come back. There will always be an open room for you.”
“You can do that, as a B&B?” McQueen asked surprised. “You don’t have other guests?”
“Oh, my dear, Rippling isn’t a tourist attraction. We always have open rooms, and besides, I like constant lodgers.” She gave him a sideways wink. “Keeps my cats fed.”
After a sweet goodbye, McQueen made it to the office, the pre-dawn light not even making ripples on the skyline, yet Hale still beat him in. Whatever disturbed McQueen’s sleep, Hale’s nights must have been worse.
“Morning.” Hale said in a gruff voice. Dark jacket over dark shirt, Hale looked the same as always. His face was freshly shaven, his jaw on show again and he had a breath of life to him: ready for another day. “Our friends at Central Intelligence haven’t got back to us. If Mrs. Farrows is telling the truth and she hired a hit man, we’ll have to get it out of her who it was.” Hale huffed in annoyance. “This will mean it’s more likely she’ll push for a plea deal.”
McQueen ground his teeth too. The woman had paid to have a husband and his lover killed and she would get a lower sentence for giving information. It was despicable but necessary. “If she can’t give us much, her sentence will still remain in the decades? Won’t it?”
“Even if she gives us a scrap she’ll want minimum security.” Hale shock his head in equal disgust. “Not to mention she has the money to get into the ‘nicer’ prison holes.” Hale leaned back on his chair, hands resting on his head. “This is a shit show.”
McQueen opened his mouth to give some words of encouragement, when Officer Ramirez – a friendly cop who’d welcomed him his first day - walked over with a suited and booted man tailing behind him. He was carrying a briefcase, while wearing a pinstriped black suit. He even wore the circular glasses perched on the end of his nose like a swanky lawyer would.
“Detectives Hale and McQueen. This is Mrs. Farrow’s attorney.” Ramirez didn’t seem pleased to be the one to give the news. He had been the chosen Officer to break the news to Mrs. Farrows of her husband’s death. It had been a slap to his face when she’d been dragged in as the murderer. Ramirez had come to McQueen offering any and all help. Nothing like a kick to the ego got an Officers blood pumping for revenge. McQueen had appreciated the gesture and said if they needed any help, he’d be the first called.
“I wasn’t aware Mrs. Farrows was given her phone call.” Hale asked, the underlying question: how the hell had she contracted representation before they’d had a stab at her?
“Mrs. Farrows neighbour gave me a call.” The lawyer answered, rolling on the balls of his feet. “She suggested I review the case beforehand and represent her friend as soon as possible.” Shit, McQueen thought. If this guy was from money, he would know his stuff and he’d have done some research on the case as well. This was going to mean a whole load more loops to jump through. “I assume Mrs. Farrows has been made aware of her rights and has been placed in suitable conditions?”
“If by condition you mean a six by six cell where murderers stay, yes, she’s looked after quite well.” Hale droned out, shoulders tensing.
The attorney made a low groan in his throat, as if he was not pleased with the answer but for now, couldn’t argue. For the moment, his client was a murder suspect. “Right. Well, shall we begin?” McQueen refrained from snapping at the man for representing such a murderous woman but kept himself in check. God forgives and forgets. But for now, McQueen hoped that wasn’t true for all. Instead of saying anything though, he kept his mouth closed and followed Hales direction.
✽ ✽ ✽
Leading the way, Hale entered the interrogation room with the attorney, while McQueen went with Officer Ramirez to collect Mrs. Farrows. Unexpectedly, she was sat up straight on the bed, her black clothes from the wake; unrumpled and her hair twisted back up with some neatness. She didn’t however, look like she’d slept. Black smudges under her eyes were not only make-up, but McQueen was surprised by how presentable she looked.
“I see my attorney is here.” She said with a stiff upper lip. Standing smoothly, she put her hands through the hole in the cell, allowing them to be cuffed together. She was promptly walked back to the station through a series of security doors. She seemed smug now, knowing her attorney was waiting. McQueen hated her just a little bit more with each step.
“Fiona!” The attorney said fondly embracing her in a hug. She tried to hug back but her hands cuffed in front of her made it difficult.
Sliding into the chair next to him, Fiona smiled tightly. “Hello Bruce. Thank you for coming.” Bruce just nodded. McQueen suspected after a greeting like that, Bruce would do almost anything for Fiona.
“Let’s begin.” McQueen turned the camera on. “Interview of Mrs. Fiona Farrows, case 3-4-5-9, the murder of her husband Mr. Farrows and his lover Mr. Wavers. She had been arrested for the contract killing of her husband, Mr. Marty Farrow found three days ago. Interview starting at seven oh-eight by Detective Hale and Detective McQueen. Mrs. Farrows has accepted her right for an attorney, Bruce…” McQueen slowed in his opening speech until Bruce pushed over a calling card, “Bruce Davis, Attorney at Law, who is also present.”
Before Hale could even get the first question out, Bruce piped up. “I’d like to start by stating my client is completely innocent.” McQueen had to swallow a laugh. Hale helped somewhat, his face a mask of rage.
“Innocent?” he spat. “I don’t think so Mr. Davis. She gave a full confession in front of two Detectives and in earshot of over twenty guests. I can’t believe you’re trying to state your client is innocent.”
Bruce remained all smiles and charm. “My client was in a state of grief and emotional turmoil. What was said in that state cannot-,” Hale raised an eyebrow, daring the Attorney to challenge what he could do in his own station. “I mean to say, it should not be taken in to evidence.”
“It has, and it will be used against her in a court of the law.” Hale simply stated, moving to look at Fiona, who was deathly pale and clasped her hands tightly on the table. Dressed all in black, McQueen felt transported to when Echo was sat in a similar situation. Her black sleeping t-shirt had somehow looked better than Fiona’s dress. Looking back, he’d been more than surprised when she’d walked in wearing nothing and he’d had to push hard to remain pr
ofessional. Even now he found it difficult to focused on the situation at hand. Instead he compared them: Echo had owned the room when she’d walked in here. She’d claimed it as her own and walked away with their balls in her hands. Mrs. Farrows looked like she was about to puke. Evidently, one’s clothes had nothing to do with it.
“How did you contact your hit man Mrs. Farrows? How did you get thirty thousand pounds to him in cash?” Hale continued, ignoring the infuriating attorney.
“Don’t answer that.” Bruce spoke up, as he was meant to. “My client refuses to acknowledge that she was in any contact of any form with a supposed hit man-,”
“Your client best start finding her tongue Mr. Davis.” McQueen spoke, “She’s looking at a minimum of fifteen years in prison, with no early parole.” If Fiona’s face could have gotten any paler, it did. “And that is if we catch the hit man. If we should find him difficult to locate, she’ll be looking at full murder charges, resulting in twenty-five years to life.”