Dead Lands

by Lloyd Otis

  Breck’s anonymity didn’t last long. Bashir spotted him watching and instinctively raised his voice a little higher. Kearns performed an awkward shift in her seat. Bashir called him in.

  Breck entered the office and Bashir’s upper body remained rigid. The soles of his shoes pressed hard into the floor. He twirled a pencil in-between his fingers with the cigarette stuck between his lips. His eyes told Breck to stand and listen.

  ‘I’m not happy with your account of things Patricia that’s why I needed a recap from you. Now you say when the fight broke out the suspect saw his opportunity to make a run for it. Yet, he was a suspect under arrest and you didn’t cuff him. You’re an experienced officer that failed to follow protocol so I have no choice but to give you an official verbal warning. Ensure that something like this doesn’t happen again.’

  Kearns glared at Bashir for a few seconds, fed up of being the scapegoat but she knew the drill. She daren’t say anything. After getting bored with just standing still, Breck intervened, if just to save her from more punishment.

  ‘We’ve sent the suspect’s details to all ports and airports in case he tries to leave the country. We’ve also checked his home address to see if we can find any clue to his current whereabouts. So far we’ve found nothing to help us but he owed his bank money.’

  ‘How are we with verifying who’s who?’

  Breck groaned. ‘It’s a bit of a struggle if I’m honest because I’m trying to access old files from Alexander Troy’s school. We obtained the name from the CV he sent to Van Bruen plc.’

  ‘Well you know my thoughts, let’s focus on the one that reported the theft.’

  Breck blew out a weakened breath while Bashir stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. He walked towards his door and turned the handle, opened it by a quarter of an inch, then served a volley of warnings to Kearns.

  When he had finished, she left with Breck and felt as if the eyes of the whole department were watching and they were. She didn’t like it one bit and it worried her colleague.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I deserved it.’

  Kearns went to get a hot drink, leaving Breck to head back to his desk.

  He had been sitting down for no more than a minute before he was interrupted.

  ‘How’s your investigation going then hotshot?’

  He looked up to see Ray Riley using both thumbs to stretch his braces outwards. ‘Am I supposed to respond to you?’

  ‘I might be able to help, you never know.’

  Breck shook his head at the insincere offer. ‘Why are you wearing your dad’s braces, you look daft.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. I’m the fashion prince around here and at the forefront of everything.’

  ‘Bullshit if you ask me but keep telling yourself what you want if it makes you feel better.’

  Riley contemplated walking away but stopped himself. ‘I’m thinking about asking Beatrice to help out on my armed robbery investigation. She looks bored with you lot.’

  ‘You’ll get no success there. She busy working on my case and I’ve got her locked in.’

  At that moment Kearns pushed past Riley and returned to her seat with a mug of warm Ovaltine. He struck up another conversation with someone while she placed it next to her copy of Woman’s Own, and a stick of rock that she had won at the seaside a few weeks back.

  Breck left his seat to join her. She seemed to be in a philosophical mood.

  ‘Arlo, why do it to yourself?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This place is a world away from anything that you’re used to so why do it to yourself? In Cransham the racialists want to sow seeds. We have murders, robberies, and streets that are filled with piss-heads and good time girls.’

  ‘You sound a little negative, Pat. We’re supposed to be the positive ones.’

  ‘We are but I like calling it as it is.’

  ‘So, tell me; how is it?’

  Kearns swung her chair around. ‘Nothing is as it seems and I don’t know who’s at fault but I think I should blame someone.’

  ‘That’s how we get into trouble, trying to blame innocent parties without taking responsibility. Anyway, there’s something that I don’t understand regarding your incident with Alexander Troy.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why no handcuffs?’

  Kearns’ reply became stuck in her throat but Ray Riley’s return gave her something else to think about. He hung around on purpose in an attempt to poke his nose in and the silence from the two officers spoke volumes. He had little choice but to leave them be and Kearns made sure he was long gone before responding.

  ‘The handcuffs didn’t seem necessary at the time.’

  ‘It’s basic protocol.’

  Kearns shrugged. ‘Don’t start, I was careless but it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Do you know if his prints checked out?’

  ‘Yes, we have a match on the credit card but nothing on the magazine. Just Janet’s prints, no one else.’

  She pawed through a few index cards on the table with names and addresses of Janet Maskell’s neighbours. Breck appreciated her as a colleague and a friend but felt ill at ease. There were a few things swimming through his mind. Strange thoughts that made him uncomfortable.

  ‘Have we set up an Investigation Board yet?’

  ‘Not yet. It will be done soon though.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be behind with setting that up Pat. It makes us look bad.’

  She disliked his sharp tone. ‘As my hands are full should I get your girlfriend to do it for you?’

  The underhand comment surprised him. He wanted to laugh it off he didn’t quite know how to because Kearns’ had hit a raw nerve.

  ‘Why have you called her my girlfriend?’

  ‘Everyone suspects something is going on between you and Beatrice. I know there isn’t…yet, but you need to sort yourself out.’

  Breck threw up his arms. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you are going to cheat on your girlfriend, do it with someone that has a better personality.’

  Kearns continued to look through the cards, pretending she hadn’t said anything at all, while a shocked Breck tried to come to terms with being on the gossip lists. He thought that he and Beatrice were always so careful around each other. What a mess. Trying to act normal was the only thing he could do so Breck changed the subject.

  ‘Our POI has gone on holiday to Norway so that presents us with a few problems. I think it’s a good time to visit The Cambas to see if the other Troy really did have lunch there. I’ve also asked a contact of mine to send me a list of clients that Peter Clarke represented in the past.’

  ‘Who’s the contact then?’

  ‘Can’t say. Sorry.’

  Kearns understood. ‘What are you hoping to find?’

  ‘I want to know what type of company he likes to keep.’

  Breck picked out an index card from her desk. ‘Do we know if Janet Maskell’s nosey neighbour Wynda Brodie is in?’

  ‘Not sure. Let me find out.’ Kearns took the card from him and rang the number written on it.

  ‘Hello, is this Mrs Brodie?’ ‘It is? Great. I’m Detective Sergeant Patricia Kearns and was hoping you’d be able to help us with our investigation.’ Kearns winced, and seemed to be struggling to hear Mrs Brodie. ‘Yes, it’s about your neighbour. We tried to speak to you earlier but you weren’t in.’

  While she was having the conversation Breck re-read the information on the card and a few minutes later Kearns ended the call.

  ‘Can we get something from her?’

  ‘I believe so. I’ve told her we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Good. Come on then.’ Breck grabbed his coat. ‘Let’s hear what she has to say.’

  TWELVE

  Wynda Brodie’s blue rinsed hair matched her hand knitted Aran cable knit cardigan. It was decorated with large circular buttons and she seemed keen to usher Breck and Kearns into h
er home as fast as possible, away from the prying eyes of the neighbourhood. She hobbled around aided by a walking stick and struck Breck as a woman with a keen eye for detail, nosey some may say, but he preferred her to be the type to stick her nose in where it shouldn’t be if it meant he’d get a lead. In fact, for an eighty-year-old, she very much had her wits about her.

  Mrs Brodie’s beady eyes found their way straight over to Kearns’ standard issue black shoes and then her handbag, while Breck observed the photos of an unidentified man in an army uniform plastered across the walls.

  ‘Is that your husband?’

  Mrs Brodie paused and stared in the direction of the photos. ‘Yes, it’s my Cecil, God bless him.’

  ‘Died in the war?’

  The thought excavated sadness onto her face. ‘Oh no he survived everything Hitler’s boys threw at him. Killed by a thug in his own country. A mugging gone wrong the police said.’

  Breck could sense that he had touched a raw nerve and the old woman lost a bit of her momentum.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that but thank you for agreeing to see us.’

  ‘Yes of course, this way.’

  She hobbled into a living room that was still stuck in the 50s, with furniture that sparkled diamond bright and a cabinet which held a history of memories on each shelf. In the centre of the room she had prepared a pyramid of teacakes and tarts, along with a large pot of tea. Both officers sat down.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ Mrs Brodie ordered.

  ‘Er… that’s a lovely spread but we can’t eat it.’

  Mrs Brodie wasn’t used to being told no and loaded a few spoonfuls of loose tea into the pot, then poured it out into the mugs with the aid of a tea strainer. A reluctant Breck, knowing that the old lady just may have something worthwhile to share with them, relented and squeezed up next to his colleague. He picked up a cherry tart and brought it close to his line of vision before swallowing it in one go. His action caused Mrs Brodie to blossom out into a smile. It was then that he knew he had her onside once again.

  She sat down on a cushioned chair and stretched out her right leg.

  ‘Broke it years ago, it’s never quite been the same since.’ She stared at it with a forlorn expression.

  ‘These are lovely cakes, Mrs Brodie,’ Kearns said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Breck took a sip from his cup then placed it down in the tray. He pulled out his notepad and flicked through the pages to remind himself of what he wanted to ask.

  ‘Right, Mrs Brodie, did you see anything suspicious in the last few days with regard to Ms Maskell?’

  ‘Well I know most things on this street and make it my business to as I’m the longest serving resident since Mrs Snowden.’

  ‘Mrs Snowden?’

  ‘She moved in two weeks before I did, twenty-five years ago. Lovely woman. She died four months ago. Anyway, that lady, Ms Maskell, would go to work early come back late evening. Nothing irregular.’

  ‘Did any friends visit her?’

  ‘Her sister came around last year, in June. Around 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon I’d say.’ Breck and Kearns swopped glances, impressed with the old girl’s memory. ‘Her special friend would also pop around to keep her company. He did that most days.’

  ‘What special friend?’

  ‘The gardener, younger than her by quite a few years he is. She loved the attention. I told her folk round here will start talking. His lot are trouble.’ Kearns stopped drinking her tea and placed the cup on the table, while Breck kept his focus on Mrs Brodie.

  ‘Do you have a name for this gardener?’

  ‘She said his name was Benjamin or something like that but the problem is they’re from two different places. Know what I mean?’ Wynda Brodie ended the sentence with a wink.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Difficult to say but he’s one of them.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a better description than that.’

  Mrs Brodie had a little think. ‘He’s a coloured chap about an inch or two under your height. That lady, I don’t know what she was thinking employing him, let alone… well you know?’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  ‘Can I what?’

  Kearns cut in. ‘We need a bit more detail Mrs Brodie.’

  Breck sighed. ‘Is there something else about the relationship between Benjamin and Ms Maskell that we need to know?’

  ‘Oh I see. Yes, he was her boyfriend. I saw them kissing on her doorstep once. Shocking I know.’

  Breck already felt uncomfortable. ‘Shocking?’

  ‘Well a kiss can lead to all sorts and before we’d know it, they would’ve had half-caste kids running around the street.’

  Breck noted the name of the gardener then closed his notepad. He returned it to his pocket, upon deciding he had heard enough, and wanted to leave Mrs Brodie’s bigotry behind. He rose to his feet just as Kearns grabbed a cherry tart. It caused a wave of excitement to swell the old woman’s heart.

  ‘Do you need me to go to court and testify now Detective Inspector Breck?’

  ‘Not at this moment but your information is very useful. We still have to follow the normal lines of enquiry.’ Breck’s response disappointed her. ‘Tell me, can you remember how often the gardener visited?’

  Mrs Brodie hauled herself up while refusing Breck’s offer of assistance, then made her way to the mantelpiece and lifted up a diary.

  ‘Dates and times are all in here,’ she said holding it aloft. ‘Keeping track of things gives me something to do. It keeps me young I reckon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Breck said as he took it from her. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  THIRTEEN

  Breck and his girlfriend were renting a two-bed home on Grinstead Road, opposite Deptford Park. The street lights had died, and the pavements weren’t the cleanest he had ever encountered but it suited them both. The neighbours were pleasant and the paperboy always delivered on time.

  Breck awoke to a warm ray of the sun which crawled across his skin. Yet it did little to brighten his tempestuous mood. A lack of sleep had seen to that. He shuffled out of bed, fretful about what needed to be covered with the Maskell case and let it weigh on his mind. He needed to locate her gardener and work out where Troy was.

  Breck forced himself towards the bathroom in a daze, almost tripping over his discarded slippers, and when he turned the door handle found that it wouldn’t open. He was confused for a few moments until muffled sounds from inside caused him to press his ear closer to the door. He could hear Molly sobbing.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I could never lie to you.’ It was true but Breck said nothing, only listened. ‘I’m getting flashbacks, lots of them.’

  ‘Try occupying your mind with something, perhaps pick up one of those hobbies you used to do.’

  ‘Hobbies? For Christ’s sake, do you know what I went through?’

  ‘Sorry, I want to help but I don’t know the best thing to suggest. It’s a slow process I know but I think you’re getting better.’

  ‘I don’t feel that I am because I keep thinking of that night. He’s going to get me, Arlo, and I’m worried he’s going to step right into this house when you’re not here.’ Breck had hoped his girlfriend’s fears were behind her but it seemed not. Molly was falling apart in front of him and a helpless Breck didn’t know how to ease her torment. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me about my ordeal, something I can’t remember isn’t there? I’ll find out, I always do.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, you blacked out and the passer-by scared off that piece of scum.’

  However, there was something else. Breck hadn’t revealed that her attacker had struck before and she happened to be one of the lucky ones. Not all the victim’s survived. Breck’s silent anger continued its steady rise. He hated the person that
did this, a faceless person still at large and he felt that Molly had slipped away from him.

  ‘I can get you to speak to someone like a psychiatrist,’ he suggested. ‘What you went through wasn’t pleasant, please don’t bottle it all up anymore.’ He waited for a response but nothing came. There were times when Molly appeared to be fine then something would set her off. A name, a colour, or a sound. Breck didn’t know what those triggers were and wondered what would happen if he didn’t get his old Molly back? ‘Have a think about what I’ve said.’

  He stood by door for a few moments before Molly’s reply finally arrived.

  ‘OK, I will.’

  Breck popped downstairs, switched on the radio and turned up its volume. In the kitchen he pulled out a bottle of Bolognese sauce, tomatoes and garlic, humming along to a Donna Summer song. He opened the cupboard and grabbed the spaghetti, and was setting it to boil when Molly appeared. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen looking curious.

  ‘Smells good, what is it?’ Her eyes were still red from crying but she sounded brighter.

  ‘This is what they call spaghetti Bolognese Breck style and it’ll be ready soon. We’re going to have a nice late morning breakfast I promise.’

  Molly’s light smile gave him hope, and that’s all he needed to keep going. Hope and the belief she’d get back to how she used to be one day.

  When they sat down to eat together, they talked about simple things. Not the main problems but Breck didn’t mind. In fact he welcomed it and appreciated the gentle kiss she thanked him with.

  Molly cleared the plates away and Breck realised the time.

  ‘I need to get going,’ he said.

  ‘OK, get off to work. Don’t make yourself late and have a good day.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He didn’t need telling twice but he felt a little deflated as it was. A failure as a boyfriend – one that should have been able to protect Molly better.

  Breck returned to the bedroom to put on his best suit, pausing only to tighten his black tie in front of the full-length mirror. He combed his sideburns with gentle downward strokes and thought about his work hours. They were taking him away from home which is why he had started to believe that a change of career might be just what he and Molly needed. Police work gave him the buzz, but he was tired of being unable to carve out time for anything else. Something had to give and the interview this morning presented a way out.