What Lies in the Dark

by CM Thompson

  She looks up at him, her eyes staring him down.

  Fletcher feels like a naughty schoolboy. “It’s the CCTV footage, we have managed to capture …” He doesn’t need to say any more, a small smile may have traced Bullface’s lips as she stands and follows him out the room.

  The camera had been purposely positioned at the memorial display. The city had suffered severe vandalism the year before and was aiming to tackle it. Bullface watches the grainy footage, watches as a young couple come on screen, she is clutching his arm as if afraid or unable to support herself. They had appeared out of the bushes from the other side of the screen, the male purposely keeps his head down, he is dressed in a dark outfit and is wearing a dark beanie. They are a dark black mass moving across the screen, the camera does not capture his face. Bullface realises with sudden horror that the girl’s throat has already been cut. In a matter of seconds, he throws her face down into the poppies. She does not move. The man keeps walking. The screen stays on the image of Madison Albrook, lying awkwardly in the poppies, four minutes go by, no movement. Seven minutes later a second couple appear on screen, their mouths opening in shock, the male goes over to shake Madison, then he freezes. His partner screams silently into the camera. Bullface doesn’t care to watch anymore.

  “This is useless.” She mutters.

  “It’s a start, we might be able to clean the image up.”

  “It’s winter, there are hundreds of men wandering around in black clothes and beanies. We can’t make beanies illegal.” Out of sight, her hand clenches angrily. “Has he been sighted anywhere else?”

  “We are still looking, now we know how he was dressed, he might be easier to spot. I sent a team back to the park, to check if anything was left in those bushes.”

  “Why didn’t they check before?”

  “Well, we didn’t know before,” Fletcher says.

  “There should have been a blood trail.”

  Fletcher is silent.

  The couple who found Madison Albrook are still in shock. They sit together, not speaking, hands clasped to the cold metal table. The male’s eyes are firmly fixed to the cooling coffee in front of him, occasionally his gaze will shift uncomfortably back to his fingers, staring hard as if he could still see the unwelcome droplets of blood. Fletcher reckons they are both around fifty, beginning to lose the battle to old age. The female stares disapprovingly at the two-way mirror, unknowingly meeting Fletcher’s gaze. Her face is stern and cold, reminding him of Bullface. Right now, he doesn’t want to be reminded of Bullface. She is displeased, yes, the last crime scene had not been processed properly. It seems so obvious now, why had no one followed the blood trail? Mistakes have been made, they are only human yes, but this is not a case that can allow any mistakes. If only he wasn’t so fucking tired … Fletcher knows Bullface probably blames him, for not checking the scene properly, for not realising sooner. She had trusted him to run the scene alone while she briefed the other officers and now … now she knows what a worthless … no, there is no point in thinking about that now. Fletcher is still in charge of conducting the interviews, still trusted. The pressure has tripled now, this has to go well. No more mistakes will be allowed. First things first, before he goes into the room, how does he want the interview to go?

  The CCTV footage has cleared the couple of any involvement in the attack. Fletcher has already followed them through various parts of the park on the footage and is satisfied that they are innocent. Since these eye witnesses are not under suspicion he does not need to be seen as a fierce figure of the law. Fletcher has spent months researching different interview techniques, it is his specialism. He knows that if the interviewer speaks in authoritative tones, he will establish control over the eye witness, meaning they will play a more passive role by providing information they think he wants. Whereas, if he speaks in a more relaxed tone, then they will consider him in a more friendly way … hopefully, encouraging them to play a more active role, more willing to provide information. But then again this couple are older, they may not take him seriously if he is too friendly. Slowly he opens the door.

  “Hello, I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, how are you both doing?” He asks politely, the woman gives him a disapproving stare, the man barely notices his arrival.

  The woman says sternly, protectively. “We want to get home.”

  “Well I just have a few questions for you, and then you will be free to leave.” The man nods gently, the woman shifts in her seat. It is very clear who in this couple is the dominant personality.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, what time did you arrive at the park today?” Fletcher tries to keep his tone neutral and open, the woman is still staring at him sullenly.

  “We arrived at two thirty maybe.” The man mutters, his eyes fixate with a slight horror on his hands.

  “I would like to do a memory exercise with you, to help you remember this afternoon a little easier.”

  The woman becomes indignant. “Young man, I assure you there is nothing wrong with our memories.”

  “Please humour me, Madam.”

  There is silence, though the woman is still visibly bristling. Fletcher wonders idly again, whether she is related to Bullface.

  “Please describe the park when you first arrived.”

  “In what way?” the man says, resignedly.

  “What could you see when you first arrived?”

  “The park,” the woman mutters, still angry at the time-wasting exercise.

  “We went to the bird cages first, near the ponds.” The man’s eyes close tiredly. Fletcher knows just how he feels.

  “Did you see anyone near the bird cages?”

  “There was a young boy, drawing the birds.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I didn’t really look at him, he was very young.”

  “And he was in the park on his own?”

  “No, his mother was watching him, she was sitting in the picnic area.”

  Fletcher slowly writes this information down, allowing them time to elaborate further.

  “His mother, what did she look like?”

  “She was wearing a purple jumper.”

  “No it was red.” His wife insists.

  “Purply-red,” he tries to compromise

  “Red.”

  “What was her hair colour?”

  “Brown.” The woman insists. The man gives no argument. Maybe this interview would have been more successful if they were interviewed separately, another damn mistake.

  “What colour top was the boy wearing?”

  “Brown, it was a sweater, there was a logo on the front of it.”

  Fletcher gives the man time to argue before continuing.

  “Was he wearing glasses?”

  “No, does this really matter?”

  “Every detail is important.”

  “Please continue, Detective.” The man says quietly.

  “Where did you go after leaving the bird cages?”

  “Straight on, there is a path we like to follow.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  A pause, the couple look uncertain.

  “Every detail is important.” Fletcher says softly.

  “No, we didn’t see anyone.” The wife says firmly.

  “Was there no one walking ahead of you?”

  “The park was quiet. It is November,” she says pointedly.

  “There was someone ahead of us,” the man says.

  “When?” His wife snaps. There will be discussions about this on the way home.

  “I saw him before I saw her.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Walking away.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know, he was too far ahead.” The man looks ashamed. “I don’t even know if it was a he – he was very far away.”

  “Did that person remind you of anyone you know?”

  “Like I said, he was too far ahead.”

  “Did you s
ee their clothing?”

  “Was just a dark blur.”

  “Did you see any points of colour?”

  The man shrugs helplessly. “No.”

  “Had you seen anyone hanging around the park? Anything you thought was suspicious or out of place?”

  “It’s a park.” The wife says, a tad snidely.

  “We don’t tend to look at the people, Detective.”

  “The victim, did you recognise her?”

  The man’s eyes drop again, these are not memories he wants to think of. “No, I don’t think I have seen her before.”

  “After you found the victim, what happened next?”

  Both pairs of eyes drop, it’s time for the bad memories. Fletcher waits patiently.

  “I checked for a pulse. I was a volunteer with the St John’s ambulance service … I thought … I thought maybe she was drunk … that I could help her.”

  His wife softly rubs his arm supportingly, he grips her hand. This, they won’t talk about again.

  “She was already dead.” A slow pause, his mind is going through the scene again angrily, what else does the officer want? “Then we called the police.”

  “Did you notice anyone else in the park then?”

  “No, some more people arrived when the police arrived, but I don’t remember seeing anyone before that … it was just us and …” His voice cracks.

  Fletcher ends the interview.

  November 11th 7 pm

  Fletcher finds himself repeatedly nodding off to sleep, always just catching himself at the last moment. It is time to go home, tomorrow he has interviews scheduled with Isobel Hilarie’s mother, Madison Albrook’s mother and then they are going over to examine Madison’s room. There is always a small chance, maybe she had arranged to meet with the assailant, like Adelina Sasha had but, unlike Adelina Sasha, maybe she had left some kind of clue behind, something more useful than the CCTV footage. Next to him, Bullface yawns, rubbing her eyes viciously. She is slowly unwrapping a bar of chocolate with numb fingers. It isn’t until she finds herself tasting plastic instead of sweet sugar that she realises just how tired she is, but by then it is too late to retrieve her chocolate from the bin. She hopes Fletcher hasn’t noticed. The wrapper tastes terrible.

  Across the city people are watching the news in sheer disbelief. He is watching as well, his arms wrapped around his wife, comforting her. He is enjoying this, for the first time in his life, he is actually enjoying something. There are consequences of course, he had purposely let victim 22 be found publicly, knowing there would be consequences. But he wanted them to know he was out there. Thought it meant that small petty things like security would increase, already he has had to change a site because a police car was spying around the corner. But it also means that their paranoia is increasing, people are beginning to turn on each other. He grins, clutching his wife tighter, indirectly he is controlling them, making them afraid of the shadows. It is a shame he has to sacrifice some of his numbers but then they don’t mean that much to him, he could get more. These women mean absolutely nothing. He will have no problem in getting more.

  His wife shivers in his arms as the image of Madison Albrook is brought on screen.

  “Are you going jogging tomorrow night?” She asks, fear lacing her voice. The very sound of her fear sends delicious shivers down his spine.

  “No.” He feels her slight relief, “But I am meeting Aaron for a quick drink.”

  He enjoys her begging him not to stay out too late. He promises to be home early but doesn’t really mean it. The beer will taste so much better when he knows she is sitting, anxiously waiting for him to come home, afraid of every little noise.

  November 12th 8.08 am

  Fletcher sits at his desk, a cooling cup of black coffee to his right, a copy of the eye witness statements to his left. While he was interviewing yesterday, his colleagues had gone round every vendor who operated in or near the park, every possible witness. As far as Fletcher can tell, Madison had left her house around 1:30pm, going straight to a local piercing parlour. Fletcher’s cheeks burn a bright red when he reads exactly what Madison had pierced. Madison left that place at 2:15, she had been spotted in the supermarket. Her shopping bag had been found in the park bushes containing a bag of carrots, a jar of coffee and a bar of dark chocolate – but no purse. She had been identified only because her student card had been in her jeans pocket. Some people had seen a man waiting near the bushes, sitting on a nearby bench, some said he was a black man, some said white. He had been there, out of the camera sight, for maybe an hour. He had been drinking a beverage and reading a paper, the newspaper obscuring his face from the passers-by. None of the vendors remembered selling anything to him. They had seized the litter bins within a mile radius of the park, to see if they could find what he was drinking. Unfortunately, even in winter most of the bins had been full, which meant over two hundred DNA samples taken from the two hundred and sixty four cups and cans had to be sent to the back-logged lab. The serial kills now had priority over every other case but it was still going to take a while.

  The vendors had confirmed that this was a regular walk home for Madison, though it was not her usual time. She usually came through the park at 4:30 with another girl. Fletcher can’t help but think that if Isobel hadn’t died, then maybe Madison would have gone to class as usual and would not have walked home alone.

  Isobel’s attack had not yet yielded any eye witnesses, no one so much as heard a scream. The store clerk was the only one who reported seeing her and not seen anyone hanging around the store, well there had been the usual crowds, but it was a cold night and no one had wanted to hang around. The clerk had a long night, another long night, a long week, a long, overworked tired week, everything had blurred into one. It meant the clerk had forgotten completely to tell them something important. They have searched the nearby bins again, searching for possible bloody clothing, Fletcher has the sinking suspicion that the assailant was taking all evidence home with him. Fletcher gags on a mouthful of cold coffee before continuing to read.

  At 10.17 Fletcher is informed that Mrs Hilarie, Isobel’s mother has arrived. Fletcher does not know what to expect, half of him thinks that maybe Mrs Hilarie will be as funky as her daughter … was. Maybe a new-age hippie sort of lady, or maybe Isobel had been rebelling against her parents and Mrs Hilarie would resemble a typical tax accountant. Fletcher took one last look at the picture portraying the young artist with bright purple hair, smiling wildly into the camera and then went to meet her mother.

  Mrs Hilarie sits quietly at the conference table, she had neglected to brush her hair or match her shoes. Her face is sorrowful, streaking still with tears. She fiddles with a tiger’s eye ring, twisting it back and forth on her finger. She doesn’t want to be here, well rarely did anyone want to be here and she seems to be filling the small room with a cloud of desolate despair.

  “Good morning, Mrs Hilarie, thank you for coming in. I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, I need to ask you a few questions about Isobel, if I may.”

  Mrs Hilarie nods slowly, barely looking at Fletcher.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  She is silent for a few moments, then finally she speaks, her voice is a dull rasp. “Did she suffer?”

  “I am sorry?”

  “My daughter, did she suffer?”

  Fletcher bows his head slightly, but still manages to meet Mrs Hilarie’s sad eyes. “No, death would have been near-instantaneous.”

  “You would think that would be a consolation, but it isn’t.” She begins to cry again, half-sobbing the words, “It really isn’t.”

  Fletcher sits in silence for a while, passing Mrs Hilarie the occasional tissue.

  “Mrs Hilarie, I just need to ask you a few details about your daughter, to see if there is anything she may have told you that could help catch the person who did this.”

  “What’s the point?” She wails, “Izzie isn’t going to come back.”

 
“No, but maybe we can stop him from striking again.”

  She doesn’t believe him, she isn’t going to say so, but Fletcher can tell, just from the way her body has completely stiffened, her hands clenching and unclenching. No one, not Jack Sasha, not Robert Leona, no one seemed to believe in their ability to catch this guy. Sometimes even Fletcher doesn’t believe it. But then he also knows Bullface. Bullface will never let anyone fail.

  “What was Isobel like? As a person?”

  “Crazy.” The half laugh, half sob. “She was very open. I used to think she had ADHD because she could never stay focused on one task.”

  “Did she have a lot of friends?”

  “Yes, she was a very friendly person.” Mrs Hilarie says this almost mechanically, suddenly wanting to retreat from the sacred memories of her daughter.

  “When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”

  Mrs Hilarie is silent for a few moments. Fletcher can practically see her mind trying to work it out.

  “Three days ago … she wanted to know if she could borrow some money for an art project. I didn’t want to give her the money … I know what she and her boyfriend get up to …” Suddenly drinking too much with a boyfriend didn’t seem as bad. “But I told her I would buy the paints for her, for Christmas.”

  “Was she OK with that?” Fletcher asks gently.

  “Izzie never had it in her, I mean, she was never mad or upset. She just accepted everything.”

  “Had Isobel complained of anyone following her?”

  “No, Izzie would have confronted them, she is very fearless.” An unwelcome memory of Izzie had flashed into her mind, a fresh supply of sobs burst forth.

  There is silence for a few minutes with Fletcher patiently passing more tissues before finally asking, “Did Isobel tend to go out alone?”