Sound

by Catherine Fearns

  Darren and McGregor walked over from Canning Place to the Lumina Building, in silence at first. After they had crossed Wapping, McGregor opened his mouth to say something about the case, when he realized that they were standing on the edge of the fluorescent cordon that marked the Lumina II site. A barren square of earth now, still blackened and charred but ready for grass to be planted. McGregor stopped and shuffled, looking down, his hands in his coat pockets.

  ‘Listen, Darren. I never properly said I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About your… your partner, you know.’ He indicated the flattened ground behind him awkwardly. ‘He was a hero. You know.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s all right, you didn’t need to say anything.’

  They started walking again, more slowly now, and McGregor continued, to Darren’s surprise. ‘After my wife died, I lost the plot for a while. I was angry, drunk. I wanted someone to blame. So I can’t imagine how you must feel about Shawn Forrest. And I do admire how you’ve… got stuck in again. You know.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. It helps, being on this case.’ They ambled onwards, more companionably, now. This was the first time, thought Darren, that they had ever had a proper conversation. As they approached the entrance to the Lumina building they lowered their voices.

  ‘Right, are you ready for this?’ They grimaced conspiratorially at each other, as they looked at the flatscreen photo slideshow in the window. An image of Justine Killy appeared, handing out an award on a stage. McGregor surprised Darren again by saying, ‘I’ve always felt a bit sorry for Justine.’

  ‘Have you? Why?’

  McGregor nodded, grim. ‘I dealt with a nasty case ten years ago. She must have been about fifteen. She came down to the station and accused her uncle Max of rape. Story sounded credible as well. Sounded like he’d been abusing her for years. We questioned him, and then a day later Justine came in with her Mum and retracted her statement.’

  ‘My god, just when I thought Max Killy couldn’t have been any worse.’

  ‘To be honest, I was more shocked by that Val Killy. Imagine a mother who doesn’t protect her own child.’

  Shawn Forrest’s new office took up the eighth floor of the Lumina Building. The reception area of Forrest Group Plc was a permanent exhibition to Forrest’s achievements. There were framed photographs of him shaking the Mayor of Liverpool’s hand; handing over a cheque to a children’s hospital; in a hard hat laughing with his building site employees. A series of banner stands displayed the various ways in which Forrest Group was beginning to dominate the skyline of Liverpool; aerial photographs of the Lumina building, apartment blocks both planned and already built; soft-focus visions of the luxurious Lumina hotel suites, restaurants and conference facilities.

  An impossibly beautiful secretary sat behind a futuristic reception desk of brushed steel. She had assured them Forrest usually arrived in the office around 11am. McGregor surveyed the floor-to-ceiling view while Darren sat trying to compose himself before having to face, for the first time since it had happened, the person whom he knew had killed Matt.

  Sure enough, just after eleven the elevator door opened and the figure of Shawn Forrest emerged, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a motorbike helmet. He looked unsurprised to see them, his secretary having presumably forewarned him.

  ‘Detectives. Welcome.’

  ‘Mr Forrest, I’m DCI John McGregor and this is Detective Inspector Darren Swift. We’ve just come from over the road.’

  Forrest shook McGregor’s hand firmly, and examined his face quizzically. The scar over his right eye was a permanent reminder of his violent past. ‘You look very familiar. Don’t you live here?’

  ‘I do indeed. Fourteenth floor.’

  ‘I knew it. Can you believe I let the police in?’

  ‘The irony was not lost on me either,’ said McGregor, laughing.

  Well aren’t they getting on nicely, seethed Darren, as Forrest turned to him.

  ‘Detective Inspector Swift. Darren. I’m so very sorry for your loss. I understand your partner was one of the firemen who died in the summer fire. He was a hero.’

  ‘Yeah. He was.’ Darren’s skin crawled as Forrest maintained a grip on his hand and placed his other hand on Darren’s arm.

  ‘Well. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions? In connection with an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Of course. Step into my office.’

  They sat across from his enormous desk, with the city ranged out behind him in the morning light so that it was difficult to read his facial expression. Darren began.

  ‘Mr Forrest, a twenty-three-year-old man is missing. Name of Oliver Hecht.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But what does it have to do with me?’

  Darren ignored the question. ‘He was a resident of this building.’

  ‘Really? I don’t recognise the name. But then, I don’t know all the names of owners and tenants. The estate agency deals with that.’

  ‘He was living here under an assumed name. Rather unorthodox. We’ll be asking the estate agency for documents of course. Name of Jonathan Dunn.’

  Shawn Forrest maintained a neutral expression. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said DCI McGregor. ‘The other reason we’re here, is to ask you about the Napier Estate.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now Forrest’s expression changed and he cocked his head slightly. ‘In Aintree. Yes?’

  ‘I understand that an anonymous benefactor has very generously offered to rehouse the residents for free. Almost unbelievably generous. There aren’t many benefactors who would have the means to do that. It wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?’

  ‘Because you have a lot of apartments sitting empty in this city,’ added Darren.

  Shawn stayed silent, although he betrayed a hint of contempt now.

  ‘What are you planning to do with that land, Mr. Forrest? It’s useless, with all that methane,’ said McGregor.

  ‘Perhaps this person simply wanted to do something for the city. The gas will clear eventually. Perhaps it’s a long-term investment.’

  ‘In what? A casino, perhaps?’

  Shawn Forrest shook his head, smiling. ‘Let’s stop playing this game, Detectives. Yes, I am the benefactor. Yes, I am planning, eventually, to build a casino in Aintree. Not just a casino; a hotel complex, with an international shopping resort; it’s going to be an amazing thing for Liverpool. This is a huge investment in the city’s future. And it’s not a secret either. Or it won’t be, after tomorrow. If you thought you’d stumbled on some sort of conspiracy, you’re wrong. Forrest Group is going to send out the press release in the morning, outlining my vision for Liverpool. And I’m going to be making a video announcement which will go on social media. So there’s no scandal, no conspiracy, just a rather wonderful secret. Which won’t be a secret after tomorrow.’

  ‘But since you might have to wait years for the land to be buildable, why apply for the gambling licence now? Star Casinos. I saw the website,’ said Darren.

  Forrest hesitated. He seemed momentarily thrown. ‘It’s not a crime to apply for a gambling licence, Darren.’

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Swift. It is a crime when you’ve obtained the land for that gambling licence under false pretences.’

  Forrest cocked his head to one side again, and was silent.

  ‘Vanessa Scott,’ Darren continued. ‘She’s on the Board of Directors of Star Casinos. She’s also the person who commissioned the methane study.’

  ‘That’s not a conflict of interest, actually. She’s an advisor. That’s why she’s on the Board. It’s all perfectly standard.’

  McGregor said, ‘It’s also a crime to expose people to an addictive drug without their consent. You’re planning to make people addicted to the casino.’

  Forrest laughed. ‘What are you on about? I don’t need to make people addicted. People already want to gamble. I’ll try and kee
p them there when they’ve crossed the threshold, but that’s what all casinos do. They pump people full of oxygen, block out the windows or use basements so there’s no natural light, bathe the punters in artificial fluorescent lights to keep them awake, ply them with cheap drinks to lower their inhibitions and cloud their judgement. Gambling is an addiction, just like alcohol, cigarettes… I’m here to make money. I’m not the moral police.’

  ‘But I thought you were. Since your renaissance. I thought that was your whole thing...’

  ‘People are addicts. The whole world is addicted to social media, for instance. If I go out there now…’ he gestured towards the door. ‘That receptionist of mine will be glued to her phone. When you get on the train or the bus, every single person – eyes down, glued to their phones. They’re already like zombies. And they hear what they want to hear, trapped in their own echo chambers on social media. I don’t need to hypnotise people. They’re doing it to themselves.’

  Forrest stood up. ‘I don’t think you have any serious questions, Detectives. And,’ he looked at his watch. ‘I have a meeting at twelve o’clock. So, if you don’t mind…’

  He showed them out. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you with your case. You’ll see the press release tomorrow, no doubt.’

  Darren and McGregor took the elevator down to the Lumina hotel reception and stepped out on to the street. McGregor turned to him.

  ‘All right, DI Swift. I believe you. I believe that there’s nothing wrong with that land. It’s a prime piece of real estate. Forrest wanted it, and wanted it cheap. I’d be willing to bet that the methane discovery is revealed to be a mistake, pretty soon after he’s moved out the residents and razed the houses to the ground. I’m willing to believe you about the weapon, too. But you need to catch Forrest red-handed with the weapon. It’s our only chance.’

  Darren was taken aback by McGregor’s sudden about-face.

  ‘What changed your mind? Don’t fancy the idea of council estate riff-raff partying in your corridors?’

  McGregor looked a little hurt, and Darren instantly regretted his snap judgement. ‘Look. Darren. I know you and I got off on the wrong foot. And I know I’m not always the most PC copper around. But I’m not a complete arsehole. And I’m not the worst copper around either. Did you hear what he said? “Trapped in their own echo chambers.” Strange turn of phrase, don’t you think? Unless you had echo chambers on the brain. Or even anechoic chambers.’

  Darren put a hand to his mouth and began to step backwards, nodding, ‘We’ve got him.’ But McGregor reined him in. ‘Careful. He might be watching. He’s as good as admitted his guilt. Or at least his involvement. We haven’t got him. All I’m saying is that… maybe I believe you. And the problem now is that he could go to ground. He’s not in any rush.’

  The Second Coming

  This is the story of the virgin birth of Satan’s son

  As the virgin was defiled by God

  So the whore is defiled by Satan

  He places the infernal embryo in her foul womb

  The Second Beast, the Deceiver shall take human form

  And this shall be the Second Coming of Satan

  For nine months the whore’s belly swells

  Impregnated by Lucifer, she knows not

  Writhing in pestilent amniotic waters

  Claws and scales become nails and skin

  The Second Beast, the Deceiver shall take human form

  And this shall be the Second Coming of Satan

  Gestation arrives, punctured womb shrivels

  Pestilent flesh claws its way down the festering canal

  Pool of faeces, stench of evil

  Bring forth the progeny in shit and piss and blood

  Self-excretion, mangled labia

  Lacerated passages, rotten placenta

  Foul mother shall look upon devil child

  And this shall be the Second Coming of Satan

  Vox Inferi (from the 2012 album ‘Burn The Child’)

  Thirty-Five

  There was something Darren needed to do. He thought about doing it every day, but pushed it to the back of his mind – along with the complicated emotions it stirred up. He felt guilty for not going, because he had promised Thomas Kuper he would keep in touch. He felt guilty for going, because this seemed to be a betrayal of Matt, and it had only been three months. But he couldn’t put this off any longer. It was Friday; Halloween was Monday, the trial began on Monday, things were coming to a head.

  Darren waited outside Melwood, the Liverpool FC training ground in West Derby, amongst the straggles of fans who were there every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of their heroes as they left. The fans knew the players’ schedules precisely. And therefore, at 5pm exactly, there was a noticeable stirring amongst the crowd. Then the players began to emerge, cars rolling out of the gates, aided by security. Darren knew the schedule too, from his former job doing security for Kuper, and so he knew that Kuper was one of the players who always stopped to sign autographs. The window of his red Ferrari rolled down and a group of kids moved forward, holding out T-shirts, programmes, and marker pens.

  ‘Thomas.’

  Thomas Kuper looked out to see Darren standing there, behind the crowd, hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet awkwardly.

  ‘Can we go back into the grounds? We’re gonna get hassled otherwise.’

  ‘Come on, get in.’

  They sat in the window of the players’ lounge, watching from above as groundsmen worked on the grass, then the youth team ran out and began to warm up.

  ‘How are things with Justine?’

  ‘We don’t really speak. Virtually separate lives, in the same house.’

  ‘Sorry to hear. Is she a good mother, at least?’

  ‘In her way, I suppose. Val is a good grandmother. And I am a good father.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘You know, this is my fault. I should never have married her. I convinced myself that I loved her. But her mother was right. I married her under false pretences.’

  ‘It looks as if Justine is going to cooperate. She came to the station yesterday; I think Val managed to convince her. She’s willing to testify against Forrest, and she’s going to try to get him to incriminate himself. We’re doing an operation on Monday. I don’t know if Justine told you?’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘She doesn’t tell me anything. You realise this is an endgame, Darren. Once Forrest turns on Justine, my child is in danger.’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that. And we’ll keep a watch on the house. I promised you I’d protect the baby. And I will.’

  ‘But I’m also worried about Justine. No matter what she has done, she is still my wife. And according to the book’s prophecy…’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve read it as well?’

  ‘Of course. You see, you’re not the only one who grew up in a religious cult.’

  Darren had told Thomas, on their many car journeys together between Anfield and Blundellsands years ago, about his upbringing in a fanatical Christian household, his twice-weekly visits to a church filled with hatred and intolerance. In his turn, Thomas had described his seemingly idyllic childhood in a Swiss mountain village with his grandmother. But it was only when Darren had visited this village for himself, the previous summer with Helen Hope, that he had had an inkling of the sinister side of this formidable peasant woman.

  They looked at each other across the table, and the possibility of an alternative future that had always been out of reach hung between them.

  Darren’s hand was turning a coffee spoon over and over in frustration, and he wanted to reach out and touch Thomas, but he loathed himself. It had only been three months. How could that even cross his mind?

  ‘If all goes to plan, we’ll be able to arrest Forrest and you can put all this behind you.’

  ‘Not really. I’m still left with Justine, remember.’

  They were silent.

  ‘Just make sure you stay with Alfie on
Monday evening, when all this goes down.’

  Thirty-Six

  Halloween. Liverpool has never needed much excuse for a celebration, and Halloween falling this year on a Monday provided no barrier to merriment. Across the city people were decorating their houses and dressing up, adults and children alike; children preparing to trick-or-treat, adults to trawl the city’s bars and clubs. This Halloween had a particular resonance of spooked amusement due to the strange noises that had been plaguing the city for weeks. Ghosts and ghostbuster costumes were among the most popular this year. As if to signal its involvement in the festivities, the Mersey Tunnel ventilation tower gave one of its sporadic roars at lunchtime.

  Halloween was also a fitting day to begin the Shepherd trial, thought Darren, with this case’s undertones of heaven and hell, devils and ghosts. As he made his way into the Crown Court he had to dodge reporters and a surprisingly large crowd. They were mostly friends and relatives of victims Jason Hardman and Chelsea McAllister, there to jeer, protest and wave banners when the prison vans arrived containing those accused of their murders. Star witness Andrew Shepherd wasn’t exactly popular with the spectators either, his experiments on these vulnerable young people having set off the process which had led to their gruesome deaths. Darren expected that there would be some reaction from the gallery when he took the stand. He was also worried about whether Shepherd would stick to his prepared statements or whether he would start spouting his theories again. And how would the man cope under cross-examination? Surely the defence team would try to present him as mentally unstable, and therefore insist his testimony was invalid. Because who would believe someone who claimed to have discovered the genetic marker for sin and, what’s more, claimed to have found a way to cheat this genetic destiny, and eventually send the whole world to heaven?