by James Oswald
True to Maggie’s word, I find the young man – boy, really – in an isolation room. I can’t go in, don’t actually want to, but I can see him well enough. Unconscious, he’s propped up in bed, hooked to a saline drip, a tube in one nostril. Wires trail from his body to several machines, blinking their quiet readouts as they stand vigil around him. He’s been cleaned up, at least, the blood gone from his face, his tight-curled hair washed of the muck and rubbish from around the back of my apartment block. If anything he looks even younger now than he did at the scene. So small and vulnerable. Who the fuck did this to him? Why?
My eyes lose focus after a while. It’s quiet here, just the low hiss of the air conditioning and the background hum of the hospital. It gives me time to think, as if I haven’t had plenty of that these past few months.
Except that I haven’t. Not really. I’ve gone through the motions of preparing for the trials. I’ve had endless interviews with Professional Standards, given my statement over and over again. And I’ve hidden from the press, waiting for the story to lose its lustre, the frenzy to abate. What I’ve not really done is considered where I’m going next.
My mind drifts back to the autumn, and DCI Bain trying to return my warrant card to me. I turned him down then, still too traumatised by events to even think about work. I always assumed I would go back to the job though, once things had settled down. But all I can think of right now are the looks on the faces of my former colleagues when I walked the corridors of my old station this morning. Colin Peterson might be a shitty little excuse for a uniform constable, but he’s a bellwether for the mood there. I can’t work with that. Not for long. Not without punching someone.
So what then? Quit entirely? Sure, I could look for a job doing something vacuous. I’ve got transferable skills and a degree. Might even earn a bit more than they pay detective constables. But that’s not me. As I focus again on the boy lying unconscious on the other side of the glass, I see an injustice and a mystery. I want to solve that puzzle and put things right. He might be a total stranger, this young man, but what happened to him happened on my patch. I can’t let that lie.
A flicker of motion to the side drags my attention away. I look around to see a young woman dressed all in black. For the shortest of instants we lock eyes, and then she’s gone, her boots echoing on the linoleum floor. I hurry along the corridor just in time to see her disappear at the other end, black coat billowing out behind her as she runs. It doesn’t take a genius to realise she knows the young lad I’ve been staring at, so I set off after her.
The door she stepped through leads to the stairs, and as I peer down, I see a hand on the rail two floors below. I consider shouting to her to stop, but I doubt she will. Speeding up, I take the stairs two at a time. It’s not easy in these boots though. The heels may have given me useful inches over DCI Bain, but they threaten to tip me forward with every step. They don’t even have the ankle support I’m used to.
I’m still a floor above her when I hear the door clatter open, a brief swell of noise from the ground-floor reception area, and then relative silence as it swings shut again. I’m in good shape after a winter spent yomping through the Scottish highlands, but even so I’m out of breath as I push through the door myself. The hall is busy with patients, visitors, nurses and doctors and all the other folk who have very good reason to be in a hospital. I can’t see the mysterious young woman in her black leggings and overcoat. I can see Detective Chief Inspector Bain though, and he doesn’t look at all happy about seeing me.
‘What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing here, Fairchild?’
I know better than to try and answer that question. He doesn’t want to hear it, anyway. Bain’s angry scowl and florid complexion are enough to tell me that. He pushes me back through the door I’ve just exited, into the relative quiet of the stairwell and away from prying eyes.
‘I thought I made myself clear back at the station. You’re to have nothing to do with this case, understand? And don’t tell me you have a sick relative here. You were visiting the victim, weren’t you?’
I nod, but say nothing. Ever the professional, I try to keep eye contact rather than looking away like I’m embarrassed. I am embarrassed, of course, but only at being caught. Bain breaks first, running a heavy hand through his receding hair as he turns away from me, then leaning against the beige-painted wall for support.
‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’ He asks the question of the wall, rather than me. ‘He’s unconscious. Got no tongue left, so he couldn’t speak to you even if he wanted to.’
‘I didn’t want to question him, sir. I wasn’t here looking for clues.’ It’s the first thing I’ve said since he found me, and it doesn’t calm him down much.
‘Then why come here at all?’ He rounds on me again, but the anger’s dissipating now, replaced with exasperation and, surprisingly, confusion.
‘I wanted to see him. Just to check he was OK, being looked after properly. I don’t know.’ I shove my hands in my pockets like a defensive teenager. ‘And I wasn’t the only one, either.’
Bain opens his mouth to shout at me some more, then his brain catches up with him. ‘You . . . what?’
‘There was a young woman – or girl. I didn’t get too good a look at her. She came looking for the boy, but she scarpered soon as she saw I was there. I was following her down the stairs when I bumped into you.’
To his credit, the DCI doesn’t immediately go off on one about me acting like this was an investigation I might be involved in. He slumps back against the wall, says nothing for a moment. He’s about to, when a couple of nurses enter the stairwell, their noisy conversation disappearing the instant they see us. One of them scowls, the other raises a quizzical eyebrow, then they carry on up the stairs. Their chatter resumes once they’re at the first landing above us, and only then does Bain speak.
‘This young woman. What did she look like?’
‘I only caught a glimpse. She wasn’t tall, maybe one-fifty-five, one-sixty. She had boots on, so that probably made her look taller than she was. Long black coat, black hair about so.’ I raise my hands to indicate a point maybe an inch above my shoulders. ‘Pale skin. Almost too pale, like she was wearing make-up, goth-style, you know? I think she had a black bag over her right shoulder.’
Bain takes out his phone as I speak, taps it on and flicks around the screen. I think he’s going to show me a photograph, as if they already know who the mysterious girl is, but instead he places a call. I wait patiently while he tells someone at the other end of the line to request CCTV footage from the hospital. He puts the phone away once he’s done.
‘You want me to look at it? See if I can spot her?’
For a moment I almost think he’s going to say yes. Then he gives his head the very faintest of shakes. ‘No, Fairchild. You’re going to come with me.’
We go back through the door and into reception, Bain striding through the milling throng as if there’s nobody there. I make best use of his wake, and we’re across the wide hall and out of the door in no time. It’s started raining, but the DCI ignores it, making for a squad car parked on a double yellow line nearby. He raps on the driver’s window, and it winds down to reveal a female PC I’ve not met before. Her eyes widen when she sees me following Bain.
‘Take DC Fairchild home, will you, Constable? You can call it in when you’ve dropped her off, eh?’ The detective chief inspector opens the rear door and motions with his free hand for me to get in. It’s a dressing-down, I know. And it’s his way of making sure I do as I’m told. But given the wet squalls gusting between the high buildings on either side of the street, I’m more than happy to be humiliated this time.
5
Apart from asking me where I live, my driver says nothing for the first ten minutes of our journey. She’s younger than me, and technically I’m the ranking officer since I’m plain clothes. I’m all too aware that I’m also cu
rrently suspended from duties, so don’t try to make anything of it. She drives well, coping with London’s messy traffic with a confidence I’ve never mastered. From what little of her accent I’ve heard, she’s from the East End somewhere, so probably learned to drive in these conditions, whereas I had the tricky terrain of rural Northamptonshire to practise on, and many miles of private tracks where the most likely cause of an accident would be an escaped cow. It’s only when an idiot in a BMW M3 cuts up our inside that she swears under her breath. Colourful but controlled.
‘Would you like me to make a note of his number?’ I ask, and see the ghost of a smile as she looks at me in the rear-view mirror.
‘Reckon I can remember. Personalised, weren’t it. Always think they’re so cool, but they forget being memorable works both ways.’
‘I’m sorry if you had other plans than babysitting an errant detective constable. You could always drop me at the nearest Tube station. Have an hour to yourself before calling in that I’ve arrived home.’
‘You know Control can monitor the exact position of every squad car, right?’
‘And you think Bain will check?’
She shakes her head just the once. ‘I know he will. He’s like that.’
Given that I may end up working for him, I figure this is as good a time as any to try and find out more about the DCI. ‘You known him long?’
‘Long enough. He was still DI when I ended up as support for one of his operations – must be what, a couple years back? We’ve crossed paths every so often since.’
‘You’re not part of his team though.’
‘Do I look like an NCA officer?’ The smile’s gone from her face, eyes staring at me in the mirror. I’ve been leaning forward the better to speak to her, wishing I was in the passenger seat beside her and not back here where the criminals go. Now I slump back and stare out of the window as we move slowly up the road.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to find out a bit more about Bain. Heard he was one of the good guys, but he’s not exactly cutting me any slack.’
‘Why should he? You’re not part of this investigation. To be honest, you’re way too high profile right now to be any use to him.’
‘I found that kid though. He was out the back of my apartment block. All I wanted to do was see if he was OK.’
She doesn’t answer this, but I can see the raised eyebrow. We continue the journey in silence, and before too long the squad car is pulling in to the kerb outside my block. My new friend switches off the engine and climbs out, opening the door for me as if I am some kind of visiting dignitary. She has to, of course. The child locks are on to stop miscreants from trying to do a runner. At least I’m not in handcuffs.
‘Thanks for the lift. I owe you one.’ Standing, the constable and I are much the same height, although my boots have chunky heels so she’s probably taller than me. Her dark skin and high cheekbones wouldn’t look out of place on a catwalk. I wonder why she joined the Met.
‘Reckon you do, yeah.’ She nods once, short-cropped black hair bobbing over her shoulders. Then she climbs back into the squad car and slams the door. Bain only told her to drop me off, and that’s all she’s going to do. I don’t even know her name.
It’s only as the car is pulling away that my brain registers the clicking noise behind me. Too late, I realise what’s going on, idiot that I am.
The paparazzi are here.
‘That you helping the police with their enquiries, eh love?’
‘Give us a smile, Connie.’
I’m trying to run the gauntlet of the gutter press’s finest. God only knows how they found out I was back in London. It’s not even been twenty-four hours and the shit show that drove me north to Scotland is back just as bad as it ever was. I shove my way through the pack like a seasoned celebrity, head down and wishing I’d remembered to wear shades. Why are they even interested in me? Christ, have they found out about the boy round the back?
‘Any truth to the rumour about you and Nero Genovese?’
That last question pulls me up short. Rookie error. There’s maybe a dozen photographers and journalists camped outside the entrance to my apartment block, and I make the mistake of trying to work out which one’s asked me about Hollywood’s latest heart-throb. I’m fairly certain I’ve never even met the man, don’t think I’ve even seen one of his movies. On the other hand, if that’s the level of questioning, then maybe they don’t know about what happened last night. At least, not yet.
‘Where on earth do you people get this stuff from?’ I round on the nearest camera-toting idiot, and get an eyeful of flash for my trouble.
‘So you’re not denying it then?’
‘Are you out of your mind? I’ve never met the man.’ I blink away the spots, still not sure which ghoul in the crowd is speaking. They are all men, of course. A range of ages, but every one of them with the same jaded expression. I should probably pay them a bit more attention, try to memorise their features in case they turn up again, but it’s hard to tell one from the other. They huddle together at the base of the concrete stairs leading up to my floor, either too lazy to stalk me at my own door or not quite desperate enough for a story.
‘Have you really not got anything better to do? For fuck’s sake, I’m a police officer, not some airhead celebrity.’ I push past them and scurry up the steps to my floor. My keys are in my bag, which is why I don’t notice the men on the walkway until I’m already there. Seems the mob downstairs were just the warm-up act.
‘Detective Constable Fairchild. Can you tell me, are you ready to face Roger DeVilliers in the witness box?’
I recognise this one. He’s been a thorn in my side since the story first broke last autumn. Jonathan Stokes has worked for most of the tabloids during his journalistic career, and is currently hatchet man for one of the worst. I last saw him and his parasitic twin, long-lens embarrassing photographer to the stars Chet Wentworth, in a remote glen in Perthshire. Quite what they were doing there I’ve no idea. It’s not as if I’d be out in a bikini in the snow, and I’ve hardly got a body worth a double-page spread.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Stokes. If you want a statement about the upcoming case, please see the press liaison department at the Met. I’m sure you’ve got their number.’
I’ve got my keys now, gripped in my fist with the pointy bits facing out just in case things turn ugly.
‘I’m told he’s hired a team of the best lawyers in the country. They’ve been doing a bit of digging about you and your family. Lots of juicy stuff in that file, I’d guess.’
Something about the way he says it makes me pause, tense. It’s no great surprise the lawyers for the defence will do everything they can to make me look like an unreliable witness, but would they drag my family through the gutter too? Looking at Stokes, I can see that they would. And I’d lay good odds he’s being drip-fed information. Maybe even helping them dig stuff up.
‘Smile for the camera, love.’ Chet chooses exactly the wrong moment to step forward, something expensive raised to his face as he tries to frame me for a shot. It’s not been a good start to my return to London, and this is the final straw. Without thinking, I reach up to grab his camera, jabbing keys into a lens that probably cost more than I earn in a month.
‘Careful with the merchandise, love.’ He tries to pull away, but I’m not letting go that easily. He tugs a bit harder, I pull back. Something goes crack and I’m left with half of his camera as he stumbles into his colleague and lands on his backside on the concrete.
‘’Kin hell. That’s three grand’s worth of lens, you stupid bitch.’
‘Maybe you should be more careful where you stick it then.’ I lob the lens at him, knowing full well that he’ll fumble the catch. It makes a satisfyingly expensive noise as it hits the concrete floor of the walkway. ‘Now fuck off out of my way before I call the police.’
<
br /> ‘You’ll fucking pay for that, Fairchild.’ Stokes is in my face as he speaks, anger turning his skin red, flecking spittle from his rancid mouth. He’s a boil on the arse of society, but I fear he may be right.
‘These two giving you a hard time?’
Stokes’s angry stare flicks past my shoulder, and the fight goes out of him. A flicker of worry narrows those yellow and bloodshot eyes. I don’t need to turn to know who’s there, but it surprises me all the same.
‘You’ve not heard the last of this, Fairchild.’ He grabs his friend, drags him to his feet and pushes him past me. He tries to hold my gaze, but I can see his eyes darting to the uniformed constable who has appeared at the top of the stairs behind me. My driver from earlier, she steps to one side to let them past. If it had been me, I’d probably have tried to trip them up as they went, but she’s less prone to giving in to temptation. Instead, she just watches them go, and only once they’ve muttered their way out of earshot does she finally turn to face me.
‘I couldn’t help noticing the crowd. Thought you might need a little help.’
‘Thanks. I hope they don’t decide to turn on you instead.’
For a moment her jaw goes slack at the thought, and she stares at the empty stairwell. ‘You think they would? I mean, I’m nobody. Just a PC.’
‘I was nobody until they decided I was somebody.’ I take a couple of steps, glance down over the edge of the walkway to the pavement below. The group of paparazzi and journalists are in a huddle, talking about something, plotting how best to make my life miserable, at a guess. Wentworth is showing his broken camera to a couple of other photographers, and I can tell they’re building up a head of steam, their outrage growing even though it’s entirely his own fault. One starts to look upwards, so I step back.
‘You might want to come in for a while,’ I say to my new friend. ‘They’ll get bored soon enough, but if they get your picture first, they’ll probably try and track you down.’