Running Girl

by Simon Mason

  Garvie shrugged. ‘OK. Deal.’

  He put out his knuckles, and Singh raised his eyebrows and put out his own knuckles and they touched them together.

  Garvie stood behind him while Singh brought up the PDF of the note on his screen.

  ‘What about the back of the sheet?’ Garvie said. ‘Is that here too?’

  Singh scrolled down to show him. ‘See? Nothing on the back actually. Completely blank. But I’ll give you an extra minute to look at it when you’ve finished looking at the front.’

  ‘I’ve finished looking already,’ Garvie said, walking away.

  Singh stared after him. ‘Don’t play games. I’m not giving you any more time.’

  ‘I don’t need any more time.’

  Singh snorted.

  Garvie stood at the window, staring out. He said, ‘Single sheet of white medium-lined A4 notepaper torn from a student refill pad, hole-punched for ring-bound filing. Recto. In other words, from the right-hand side of an open pad. The holes are in the left-hand margin. Yeah?’

  Singh glanced at the screen. ‘Yes. Though it’s unimportant. What’s important is the message.’

  ‘The message, then. In Chloe’s handwriting in the centre of the page, in black felt-tip pen, circled. It says, Gone for a run Back 7.30 p.m.’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. Well remembered. It’s not lengthy, however.’

  ‘Full stop missing after run.’

  Singh frowned and leaned towards his screen. ‘Yes. As it happens.’

  ‘Various doodles and notes above and below the circled message,’ Garvie went on, still looking out of the window.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Singh said. ‘But no need to fill up your photographic memory with irrelevant details. Sit down now. Let’s talk about what was happening outside the station.’

  ‘Doodles,’ Garvie repeated, remaining where he was, ‘which appear in the same black felt-tip, in the same handwriting. In the top left-hand quarter of the sheet, fifteen words in a list, in ten lines: plain choc, milk, white, butter, pecans, plain flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla essence, castor sugar. In that order. Caster spelled wrong.’

  Singh scrutinized the screen. ‘A list of ingredients, obviously.’ He paused. ‘Impressive. But still unimportant.’

  Garvie went on, ‘Bottom right-hand quarter, in the same handwriting, in the same black felt-tip, numbers in the form of an equation – one over x plus two in brackets plus one over three equals minus one.’

  Singh examined the screen again. ‘Yes. A maths problem. Homework of some sort.’

  ‘Standard-grade probability question. X equals minus eleven over four, by the way. But Chloe wasn’t to know that. Probability wasn’t her thing. Though I hear her chocolate brownies were top notch.’

  Singh said nothing.

  ‘Finally,’ Garvie said, ‘in the bottom left-hand quarter of the sheet, in the same handwriting, same black felt-tip, a single word: jacket.’

  ‘Yes,’ Singh said. ‘OK. I’m impressed. But the basic message is—’

  ‘Though I ought to mention as well,’ Garvie went on, ‘that the sheet is a bit creased, from left to right. And that there’s a vague doodly scribble underneath the probability equation. And a smear of something yellow across the words eggs and vanilla. And the left-hand edge of the sheet is jagged and slightly torn an inch from the top.’

  At last he fell silent.

  ‘Did I miss anything out?’ he asked.

  ‘On the contrary, you remembered too much. Obviously Chloe ripped the page out of her pad to write her message on. All these other things – homework, recipe and so on – are just what were already on the pad.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Interesting.’

  ‘Why is it interesting?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Singh frowned. ‘OK, then,’ he said.

  There was a moment of contemplative silence. Singh raised his eyebrows. Garvie nodded briefly.

  Singh said, ‘Good. Now it’s time for your side of the bargain. Finally. What was going on outside the station?’

  Finally Garvie told him.

  ‘So, in your opinion, Naylor is her second stalker?’

  ‘Obviously. On Thursday night he stole her running shoes out of her locker with his pass key. Which meant, of course, she didn’t have them for Friday evening. Probably he nicked other stuff of hers too. He was always watching Chloe at school, she told Jess. He used to hide in her garden to spy on her. If you check his varsity jacket you’ll find a button missing on the left sleeve. And it turns out he’s a bit psycho.’

  Singh nodded. ‘He has a history of violence, we just discovered.’

  ‘Me too. There’s a lot against him, seems to me. If I were you I’d bring him in.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me what to do. But I doubt he’s Chloe’s killer. His alibi checks out. He was drinking with a friend in a pub that evening. Besides, there isn’t as much against him as you think.’

  ‘What about all the stuff I just told you?’

  ‘Hearsay. Conjecture. Not even circumstantial. You didn’t see him steal the shoes. You didn’t see him watching Chloe. You didn’t see him in Chloe’s garden. What we need is direct evidence.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got pretty direct evidence of his violence against me. You should see my shoulder.’

  Singh looked at him. ‘I don’t think you realize. It’s not as easy as that.’

  ‘He attacked me. You saw him!’

  ‘I saw a man on a moped wearing a varsity jacket and a blue helmet. I never saw his face. I didn’t have time to check his number-plate. I doubt a court would accept my evidence as corroboration of Naylor’s identity. And what about your own evidence? It’s not as strong as you think.’

  ‘Come on, man! I definitely saw him!’

  ‘Could you identify him for a court of law?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘After he reappeared in Fulton Plaza, did he ever take off his helmet so you could see his face?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Did you have a chance to get a clear view of his number-plate again after he came out from under the arcade?’

  ‘Course not, I was too busy running.’

  ‘A court of law requires proof beyond reasonable doubt. If Naylor’s smart he’ll go home, dispose of his varsity jacket and get himself another helmet.’

  Garvie was quiet. ‘I’d at least get him in,’ he said. ‘He knows something. He was watching. If he’s not the killer, he might know who the killer is.’

  Singh took his time; he put his hands together and rested his chin on his knuckles.

  ‘I’ll do a deal with you,’ he said at last.

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘I thought you liked deals. I’ll question Naylor again. I’ll even do my best to bring charges against him for assault on you. So long as you promise me now not to involve yourself in any of this ever again. Not ever.’

  Garvie scowled.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Singh said. ‘Don’t you see? You’ve done exactly what I hoped you wouldn’t do. Got yourself into trouble. Dangerous trouble. And when you get into trouble I get into trouble.’

  Garvie folded his arms. ‘And if I don’t agree? You going to put one of those tags on me and send me off to a correction facility?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I told you, I talked to your mother on the phone earlier. She told me about her new job opportunity in Barbados. I think all I’d have to do is have a word with her.’

  Garvie scowled again, more deeply.

  ‘Is it a deal?’

  In the silence the clock on the desk clicked: 01:30. Garvie’s shoulders slumped. Suddenly he felt tireder than he’d ever felt before. He looked at Singh holding out his knuckles, and with a sigh he reached out and reluctantly touched them with his own.

  He took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scribbled on it and passed it to Singh.

  The policeman frowned. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My direct line. When you
get stuck you might need help.’

  Singh controlled himself. ‘Go along the corridor to the end office. A constable’s waiting for you there. He’ll drive you home. And remember!’

  Garvie turned in the doorway.

  ‘You need to watch your step. I didn’t want anyone developing a grudge against you – least of all a man with psychopathic tendencies. He’s violent and he’s done a bit of breaking and entering. I don’t think it would be hard for him to find out where you live.’ He hesitated, glancing at Garvie with sudden feeling. ‘I don’t want you coming to harm.’

  Garvie looked back at him. ‘Yeah, well. I don’t want you coming to harm, either, man. Anyway, it’s not Naylor I’ve got to worry about.’

  Singh raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I promised my mum I’d be back at ten and you’ve gone and made me late.’

  Before Singh could react, the phone on his desk rang, and as he answered it Garvie left his office and went down the corridor to where the young policeman was waiting for him. The last thing he heard Singh say was, ‘Yes, Chief. I didn’t know you were still in the building. No, no, I’m on my own. I’ll come up now.’

  31

  IN THE EARLY hours of Saturday morning the ring road was finally quiet. Five Mile slept peacefully under a cloud-heavy night sky, still and dark. In Eastwick Gardens the only light showing was the wall-light above the lobby door. Everyone was asleep.

  Not quite everyone. There was a slight noise in the stairwell. A soft noise, creeping and purposeful. It slid, like a shadow slides, up the stairs, through a door and along the lightless hallway of the top floor. Something metal gave a quiet chink and a shape formed in the shadow of a doorway. For some time there was no other sound, but the silence seemed to thicken with a sort of tension, with some invisible effort of strength. There was a sharp click and a hiss of breath suddenly released. Then the door of Flat 12 soundlessly opened and closed, leaving the hallway empty again.

  Inside the still flat there was a shadowy hint of movement in the dark living room where there had been none before. A new sound, very low, like the breath of someone keeping quiet, blurring the silence. Soft footsteps of someone feeling his way forward. A shadow moving towards a room where a boy slept.

  The living-room lights came on suddenly like a whiteout of sheet lightning, revealing Garvie’s mother standing in the doorway of her bedroom and Garvie frozen in a creeping position halfway to his room. Both looked at their watches at exactly the same time.

  ‘Let’s talk about this,’ Garvie’s mother said. ‘Right now.’

  Location: kitchen at 12 Eastwick Gardens; formica-topped table covered with estate agents’ brochures; wipe-clean chairs; sugar bowl; sauce bottle; empty coffee mug.

  Aspect of interviewer: thunder-faced; dressing-gown-wrapped; dangerous.

  Aspect of interviewee: exhausted; cute; badly bruised.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Ten o’clock I telephoned your friend. Called Smudge. Not a clue what I was talking about. Half past ten I get a pure nonsense message from you saying you’re still at Smudge’s. So then I call your other so-called friends, the burglar Felix Fricker, the drug-dealer Alex Robinson. Nothing. No trace of Garvie Smith. At eleven o’clock I phone the police. Missing persons hotline. Put through at last to a policeman already familiar with the name of Garvie Smith. Half an hour later he calls me back. Garvie Smith has turned up at the police station. There’s been a, quote, slight disturbance, unquote. No need to worry. Look at me. Am I worried?

  GARVIE SMITH: Yes, Mum.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Have you ever seen me so angry?

  GARVIE SMITH: No, Mum.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: You haven’t seen nothing yet.

  GARVIE SMITH: Mum, I’m very tired. Can we talk about this in the morning?

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: You think you’re going to live to see the morning? Let’s have your explanation.

  [Silence]

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: You can do better than that.

  GARVIE SMITH: All right. I wasn’t at Smudge’s. I wasn’t revising differential calculus.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: I’d worked that out already. What were you doing?

  GARVIE SMITH: I was out.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Out where? Out with who?

  GARVIE SMITH: You’re not going to like this.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: That’s the first thing you said I’m agreeing with. Out with who?

  GARVIE SMITH: With Alex.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: You were right. I don’t like it. If you’re out with Alex Robinson I know what you were doing. And I don’t like that, either.

  GARVIE SMITH: I know. I’m trying to stop. It’s just, it’s hard to resist, Mum. But I am trying, I promise. I don’t want it to affect my performance in my exams.

  [Silence]

  GARVIE SMITH: Sorry, Mum. Sorry for worrying you.

  [Silence]

  GARVIE SMITH: Well, thanks for listening. I’m really tired, so I think I’ll just—

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Sit down. You haven’t told me yet how you got that dirty great bruise on your head.

  GARVIE SMITH: Oh. That. It’s funny, I can’t really remember. Doesn’t actually hurt. Much.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Or how you ended up at the police station. The last place you’d go near if you were smoking puff.

  GARVIE SMITH: Well, it was Alex, really. Stop and search, you know. But I went in to keep him company.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Or about the, quote, slight disturbance, unquote.

  GARVIE SMITH: Well, that, I didn’t have anything to do with. Alex got a bit narked and the coppers didn’t like it. Handbags, really. Very slight, quote, unquote.

  [long silence]

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: This isn’t anything to do with Chloe Dow, is it?

  GARVIE SMITH [shocked]: No, course not.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Interfering, like that inspector said? Getting into trouble?

  GARVIE SMITH: No, no. Nothing like that.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: We have a deal. Remember?

  GARVIE SMITH: You won’t take that job unless I do badly in my exams.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Well, the deal’s off.

  GARVIE SMITH: What?

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: I was formally offered the job yesterday.

  GARVIE SMITH: But Mum!

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: No need to congratulate me. I’ve got four weeks to accept it. No longer. Which means you’ve got four weeks to impress me. Look here. What do you see?

  GARVIE SMITH: Brochures.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Estate agent left them today. I’m all ready to put this place on the market. Step out of line once more – just once – and that For Sale sign goes up, but straight away. You hear me?

  GARVIE SMITH: Yes, Mum.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s over now. Understand?

  GARVIE SMITH: Yes, Mum.

  GARVIE’S MOTHER: Go to bed now. You’ll be up bright and early. To revise.

  32

  GARVIE WAS WAITING at Bottom Gate when Smudge arrived for school on Monday morning. Hands jammed in his trouser pockets, hood up, shoulders hunched, he leaned against the railings, thinking. He was thinking how comfortable it would be to have a memory lapse now and then. Unfortunately, he remembered everything.

  Her pale face blurred by crying, for instance, the damp-breath sound of her voice as it trailed into silence. That disconcerting beige smear on her throat. Worst of all, the wet gleam sliding in her eyes. Once again, in his memory, she looked at him silently for something he could never give her. What was it? Money? Help? Or something they’d lost a year ago and couldn’t forget?

  Singh might or might not have the right idea about her having arranged to meet someone up at Pike Pond. But he hadn’t seen what Garvie had. The point wasn’t just that she intended to go up to Pike Pond. The point was that she seemed desperate to get there.

  Something had gone wrong for Chloe. Garvie didn’t know what but he knew when: on Thursday night. And he knew where to look
for it: at Imperium.

  Thinking of the casino brought another memory into his mind, another girl’s face – shockingly pretty, with humorously cool grey eyes and a smiling mouth and dimples like punch-lines in a joke he’d never heard before.

  A voice reached him.

  ‘My man Sherlock! Bit early for you, innit? Here, what you done to your face?’

  Garvie ignored him. ‘Got any smokes, Smudge?’

  ‘Run out?’

  ‘Mine are all a bit bent.’

  He threw the cigarette into the corner of his mouth with his old ease and lit up.

  ‘Had your mum on the blower on Friday,’ Smudge said.

  Garvie glanced at him. ‘Oh yeah? What about?’

  ‘No idea, mate. Made no sense to me. Something about couscous, sounded like. Bizarre.’

  ‘Couscous, Smudge?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Couldn’t have been calculus, could it? Differential calculus.’

  Smudge shook his head. ‘Nah, wasn’t that. I don’t even know what that is.’ He scratched. ‘Eat that stuff over your place, do you? Couscous.’

  ‘Well, Smudge, we don’t exactly eat it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. We smoke it.’

  ‘Really?’ Smudge looked impressed. ‘What’s it like?’

  But he never found out because a call came from down the lane, and they both turned to see Jessica Walker stalking towards them in regulation school uniform and non-regulation strappy wedge sandals. They watched her approach.

  ‘Looking good, our Jess,’ Smudge said to Garvie out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah. You mean you wouldn’t mind giving her one.’

  ‘Not stepping on your toes, is it?’

  ‘No, no, Smudge, go right ahead.’

  ‘Hey, Garv.’

  ‘Hey, Jess.’

  ‘Got to talk to you, Garv.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Important stuff.’

  ‘Hey, Jess, girl,’ Smudge said. ‘Looking good.’

  ‘Whatever. It’s about, you know.’

  ‘Hey, Jess, I’m liking those shoes. Liking those legs too, girl.’

  ‘Shove it, fat boy. Listen, Garv, can we go somewhere?’