by Bo Brennan
Gently, she peeled back the surgical tape securing the needle in place. The last thing she needed was a spurter. Pressing down with the redundant hospital gown she looked to the ceiling, focusing on the perfect seals in the brilliant white tiles. She wasn't good with blood, especially her own. India took a deep breath and the image of a small girl in a blood soaked night dress, curled up in a tight little ball, flashed into her mind’s eye. The sudden overwhelming smell accompanying it – the sickly sweet, metallic stench of blood – filled her nostrils, making her head swim and her stomach lurch.
She shook her head and gritted her teeth. Focus. Focus on the ceiling. One sharp tug and it was out. She wrapped the gown tightly around her hand and walked out the door, straight past the stuttering uniform, only to find her path blocked by the now not quite so friendly nurse.
“I can't stop you discharging yourself, Miss Kane, but I will be dressing that hand properly first.” She gestured curtly to a chair in the corridor; the smile never left her face, but her manner made it clear there was no room for negotiation.
The main office hummed with activity. The busy chatter of one sided phone conversations formed an urgent overtone to the baseline hum of printers spewing reports.
India’s eyes scanned her colleagues’ corner cluster of empty desks, narrowing when they came to her own. A pink and yellow bouquet of spray carnations, the sort you buy for graves, had taken up residence on hers. At the manned work stations, eyes that studied computer screens and reports, lifted and followed her progress as she flip-flopped her way across the room to Firman's office.
He leapt from his seat the second he saw her. “What the hell do you think you're doing here?”
“I work here,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Not today you bloody don't.” He gestured for her to take a seat as he slowly lowered himself back into his chair, studying her. “How are you feeling?”
“With my hands, Guv.”
Raising his eyebrows he leant towards her across his desk. “This is me you're sodding talking to.”
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” She stared at him as he frowned and stroked his beard. “Where is everyone?” she said dully.
“Out trying to find the sick bastard,” he said. “And I promise you, we will find him, India.”
“Ok, whatever,” she murmured, rubbing her temples. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go home.”
“What?”
“That's what I want you to do, India,” he said. “Go home to your mum and dad.” She stared at him vacantly and he sighed. “Please, just let Pete and Bev look after you, at least until the effects of the drugs wear off.”
She shook her head and groaned. It felt like someone had put an axe through her skull. “I need to be here, working.”
“You're no good to anybody in this state,” he said, giving her the once over.
“I'm fine.”
“I do have eyes, you know. You're green around the gills with nausea, and I expect your head feels like it’s going to explode.”
“It'll pass.”
Firman lifted his desk phone and called the custody sergeant. “I want a car out front in two minutes to take Detective Kane home. Yep, that's right, India Kane,” he said wearily. “And tell PC Paul Smith to get his arse into my office.”
Chapter 49
Colt was half way through the barman's statement when his phone vibrated and an unknown number flashed on the screen. It could be the hospital. “Excuse me. I really need to take this,” he said, turning his back on the barman. “DCI Colt,” he said eagerly into the handset, hoping for good news. And he got it, from an unexpected source.
“It’s Gray Davies. She’s awake.”
Colt closed his eyes, Thank you, God.
“I thought you should know,” Gray said, matter-of-factly.
“Thanks.” Colt sensed the undertone of other matters Gray thought he should know about too. “I really appreciate it, mate. Any idea yet when she’ll be out?”
“Tonight.”
“That’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”
“The hospital said four days,” Gray said, dully. “But she’ll discharge herself and be back at home tonight.”
“She can’t go home, it’s a crime scene,” Colt said, almost laughing. He should’ve known any man that danced like that would have a tendency to be over dramatic.
“She won’t give a shit about that. Trust me. I know her.”
Colt frowned. He was being deadly serious. “I'm at the club. I'll get straight over to the hospital as soon as I finish up here,” he said.
“A couple of uniforms guarding her place won't cut it. One of us needs to be down there, too,” Gray persisted.
It will be me, Colt thought. If I have to sit on her steps all night, I'll be there. “Don't worry, I’ll keep you updated. Thanks for the heads up.” Colt pocketed his phone and turned back to the barman who was deep in thought polishing glasses.
“JD,” he suddenly blurted, as though he'd had a Eureka moment.
“Sorry?” Colt said, his mind already at the hospital.
“Jack Daniels. That's what the dude drinks that paid for her wine.”
That was the jolt Colt’s mind needed to re-join his body at the club. The lad had a memory for faces and places, once he'd served somebody – he knew their drink for life. Colt hadn't remembered the kid as the one who’d served him, but he remembered Colt as the lager drinker who didn't like the price.
“He had a black beanie hat on so I couldn't say what his hair was like. Can’t even tell you the colour, had it pulled right down over his ears,” he said. “But his accent was local, if that’s any help.”
It helped. But Colt thought wearing a hat to a nightclub was unusual, a sure fire way to draw attention. “Are people usually allowed in here wearing hats?”
The barman smiled. “That's the fashion, man. If beanies were banned, we wouldn't have any customers.”
Colt was beginning to feel out of touch. “What about his trousers and shirt?” he asked.
“You mean jeans and t, right?”
Colt nodded. Back in his day of partying hard you wouldn't even be allowed across the threshold of any self-respecting nightclub unless you were wearing trousers and shoes. Jeans were for watching rugby and gardening, trousers were worn for partying and pulling. A woman wouldn't look at you twice if you were in jeans.
“Black straight leg jeans, a black body con t-shirt. And a black TC design bomber jacket,” he said.
“TC?” Colt queried, puzzled.
“Yeah you know . . . Tom Cook . . . real expensive trendy designer?” Colt shuddered; he hadn’t just heard of him, he’d gaped over the cost of the shoddy crap the guy produced. Colt’s philosophy to clothes was simple – expensive meant exclusive, and you didn't get that off the peg or from a sweat-shop in Taiwan.
Colt looked over the statement. No physically odd traits; by all accounts he was well kept and athletic. The barman said he was no ten-pinter either; a couple of women were giving him the eye as soon as he walked in. It didn't make any sense. If he had no problem pulling and wasn't short of female attention, what the fuck was his problem?
“He drank the same last week too,” the barman said.
“What, last Thursday?”
“Yeah, I served him right after you.”
Colt’s blood ran cold when he realised it wasn't just him who had been stalking her last week. “Do you think you'd be able to remember him clearly enough to help a police artist produce a sketch?”
The kid snorted a laugh. “Yeah, sure I can, I'm nineteen. I've got at least another fifteen years before I start dribbling.”
In the space of a few minutes Colt had gone from feeling out of touch to well past his prime. At thirty-eight he was old enough to be this kid’s dad. And that made him want to slap him.
“I thought you might appreciate these.” Colt turned to find The Head of Security, previously known as baldy, holding ou
t an A4 brown envelope.
He was pretty cut up about the whole situation, had run the security at the club without incident for fifteen years. He liked the dancer lady, probably a little too much judging by the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about her. “She always stopped for a chat on Thursday nights, got a real nice way about her too,” he’d said when giving his statement. “Friendly with everyone.” It had warmed Colt’s heart to hear him speak about her that way, brought a smile to his lips, right up until he’d said: “I always make sure the blokes she leaves with aren’t arseholes.”
Colt slid the contents of the envelope out, the guy was right, he did appreciate them. Whilst he had been busy taking statements, the switched on Head of Security had been busy lifting their suspect’s image from every camera in the club and printing them out on stills. Colt’s frown deepened as he flipped through the images, all those cameras and none had picked up a clear view of his face.
“Surprised me too,” the Head of Security said. “The guy knows how to keep his head down.”
“Not when he’s ordering a drink he doesn’t,” the barman said, tapping his temple. “I’ve got his photo stored in here.” Colt smiled. Suddenly their highly elusive suspect wasn't quite as elusive as he thought.
Walking to the car his phone vibrated again, hopefully Len was ringing with good news.
“She's what? Jesus Christ. All right, I’m on my way. I've just left the club now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” He ended the call and broke into a run. Gray Davies was right, India Kane had returned home.
As Colt approached the dirt track, a constable pulled back the crime scene tape and waved him through. In his rear view mirror he watched him reseal it, securing the entrance again. He was already aware she'd slung everybody off the scene in what Lee Sangrin described to Len as, ‘a hissy fit of epic proportions’ – God that guy really needed a slap – but Tom had refused to leave unless she’d agreed to the four man unit currently guarding the perimeter.
The officer sitting outside her door in a marked car updated him on arrival. “She's been inside alone for fifty-four minutes, Sir. No suspicious activity to report other than a snooty estate agent creating merry hell because he couldn't show potential buyers around the holiday home next door.”
Colt shook his head. Fucking estate agents were becoming the bane of his life.
“He left his card, Sir,” the officer said, holding it out to him. “Wants you to call him about whether he'll need to postpone the open viewing days he's advertised for this weekend.”
Colt slipped it into his jacket pocket without even glancing at it. He'd call the bloke and ruin his weekend later; right now he had a more pressing issue to deal with.
He knocked the door, unsure of the reception he would get, and waited. Knocked again, harder this time – she was probably sleeping. Lacey had warned him that the after effects of Rohypnol could be pretty hard core. Christ only knows what they’d be like mixed with opiates.
As he waited in silence, anxiety engulfed him. She had two licensed shotguns in there and she wouldn't be thinking straight for at least another twenty-four hours. He turned back to the uniform. “Are you positive she's still inside?”
The constable looked pissed that he'd had the audacity to ask. “Yes, Sir. Check for yourself. The door’s unlocked. DI Dwyer insisted the property remain accessible to assistance at all times.”
Tom Dwyer. The more he heard the more he liked. He turned the handle and stepped inside.
Colt tinkered in her kitchen, the sound of the shower providing comforting background noise. His nose twitched at the strong floral scent, barely masking the sterile chemicals the clean-up team had used. Only the slightest discolouration remained on the lounge floor, where the innards of her cat had been stamped into the wood planks.
He shuddered at the memory of all that blood, placed his empty coffee cup on the worktop next to an empty bottle of wine, and refilled the kettle. He considered how many gallons of hot water her stove had heated to enable the amount of time she'd been showering. His tank at home provided for a maximum of fifteen minutes heat before the icy blast got you, perfect on hot summer mornings, but torture on cold winter nights like tonight. Or if two people were in there.
He pressed his ear to the bathroom door; all he could hear was water. “India, it’s Colt. Are you all right in there?” When no answer came, he cracked his knuckles and leant back against the door, trying to remember Lacey’s early hours pep talk in his parents’ lounge. She’d said victims of sexual assaults often felt the need to bathe excessively – ‘a compulsion’ was how she'd phrased it. This felt way past excessive.
The only evidence of her being in there at all was the sound of running water, it wouldn't drown out a shotgun blast but it might be enough to adequately muffle a scream. Sharon Cutler’s suicide flashed before his eyes. He banged his palm on the door. “India. If you don't respond I'm going to have to come in.”
In the silence that followed, he prayed he wouldn’t have to kick the door down. Drawing a deep breath he turned the handle, terrified of the scene that might greet him.
She sat fully clothed on the floor of the shower, her face buried in knees hugged tightly to her chest. As the warm water rained down her body remained motionless. She looked so tiny and fragile he thought his heart would break. When I catch him, I swear to God I'm going to kill him.
He kicked off his shoes and stepped into the shower. “India,” he said softly, slowly extending a hand to touch her arm.
She lashed out with both feet. A sodden flip flop flew past him as her heel struck him square in the shin. Caught off guard he stumbled back. She scurried frantically to the corner of the shower enclosure, using the right angled tiled walls to propel her to her feet. “Get away from me!” she screamed, her fists connecting with his chest.
“India, it's me, Colt,” he said, calmly.
He could see the terror and anger in her eyes, turning them to brilliant sapphires in the humid fog. They were the eyes of someone else, a stranger who had encountered pain and cruelty beyond his imagination. He made no attempt to stop her as she rained blow after blow into his chest and abdomen, stood firmly in place as her fists pounded his flesh. Took the punishment he deserved from the woman he yearned for, detesting himself for his failure to stop the maniac who had done this to her.
“India, please. It's me. It's Colt,” he pleaded. “'You're safe now. I promise. I'll never let anyone hurt you ever again.”
He wasn't sure what made her finally hear him; it was as though an emergency stop button had been pressed, but as her fists stilled against his chest he resisted the overwhelming urge to pull her to him and hold her.
Suddenly she backed away, staring at her stained hands. Panic gripped her face as she slid down the back wall of the shower and curled up in a small ball, arms covering her head. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
He looked down to see his drenched white shirt steadily turning red. “It's just ink,” he said, unbuttoning it and throwing it to the bathroom floor.
Tentatively, he sat down next to her balled-up body and hung his head. The water felt soothing against the tense muscles of his back and neck. He was desperate to pull her close and hold her tight, make her feel safe and secure. And loved. But he had no idea what he was meant to do now, only what he wanted to do. His father’s lifelong advice rang in his ears: 'follow your heart, son.'
Colt scooped her body up and pulled her across his lap, ignoring her resistance he held her tight and close. Wrapped in his arms she clung to him like a frightened child while he rocked her gently. Kissing the top of her head he buried his face in her hair, allowing the painful, bittersweet relief of her survival to engulf him. His shoulders shuddered and his tears began to flow as the water continued its vain attempt to cleanse them both.
Chapter 50
The huge phoenix took to flight, spreading its wings across his torso and rising to his chest. It was fresh and raw looking, the surrounding skin bruised
and inflamed. Feelings of shame engulfed her with the memory of the blood red ink seeping through his shirt.
That memory was swiftly replaced by another as a vivid image flashed into her mind's eye. There was no ink in this one, India could taste the metallically, sickly sweet blood as it splashed across the little girl’s face and lips. She screwed her eyes shut and took another swig of wine.
“I don’t want to lecture you,” Colt said, “but maybe you should slow down a bit. You shouldn’t really be drinking.”
India shrugged. One bottle, two bottles, what did it matter? She tried to focus her eyes on the taut and toned body in her kitchen. Focus on his fresh tattoo. She bit her lip, she liked it a lot. Felt an overwhelming desire to touch it. It was different from the others he displayed, stood out in its bold use of colour against the older ones in uniform shades of black and grey.
India struggled to recall her school days, wishing she'd paid enough attention to the few lessons she'd bothered to attend. Had a vague recollection a history class on heraldic symbolism had featured a phoenix. Battling through the brain fog clouding her memory, her mind eventually grasped a link with rebirth, immortality and renewal. Something along those lines anyway.
The one on his right bicep was intriguing too. The intricate tattoo of a gladiator came to life, mesmerising her with every movement as he sliced and diced his way around her open galley kitchen with ease. The detail so extraordinary, it was as good as any piece of fine art she'd ever witnessed hanging in a gallery. A wide and intricate highly stylised Celtic band encircled a left bicep larger than her thigh. She wondered how she'd never noticed the large inky black masterpieces through his shirts. All the remarkable things his expensive tailored clothes concealed were currently laid bare, exposed.
She admired the way he moved, the way the layers of muscle tugged and flexed at his waist as he turned to slide the dish into the oven. When confronted with the face of Christ, serenely smiling down at her from the giant crucifix covering his back, India gasped. The name ‘Jenna,’ emblazoned in thick gothic script, was encased in an ornate scroll below it.