by A. J. Oates
WPC Shaw drove me from the morgue to arrive home a little after 5.00 a.m. It was still dark but the milkman had already started on his rounds and bottles were waiting on the doorstep. Shaw had tried to start a conversation, perhaps attempting to ease her own discomfort as much as mine, but I was in no mood to chat and she quickly realised that her efforts were futile. I suspected that she was relatively inexperienced and doubted that she’d ever been involved in anything like it before. Ironically I began to feel almost sorry for her, believing that in some way I was responsible for her current discomfort. She’d offered to come in to make a drink but I declined for both our sakes. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and attempt to rationalise the events of those last few hours.
Once at home I kicked off my shoes and headed straight to the spare bedroom. I climbed, fully clothed, into bed and closed my eyes but the images of my boys seemed more real than ever. Thinking the chances of sleep were minimal, I was surprised to wake several hours later to the sounds of the neighbourhood children heading off to school, their lively chatter coming up from the road below the bedroom window. In my first few seconds of wakefulness the events of the previous evening weren’t immediately apparent, and then, as if being bludgeoned with a hammer, they suddenly and painfully flooded my thinking. My breathing rate escalated, my heart pounded, and for a weird few seconds I thought I was going to die; not that I really cared. What did I have to live for?
Over the next few minutes I slowly began to compose myself, and as I lay in the spare bed I could just hear the 8:00 a.m. news broadcast, barely audible, coming from the alarm clock radio in the master bedroom. During the weekdays we’d always woken to the 7:00 a.m. news on Radio 4, and the alarm had still to switch itself off. The Prime Minister was in India, a policeman had been stabbed in Manchester, and there were job losses at a midlands car plant. There was no mention of a hit-and-run killing five.
After thirty minutes of wallowing I willed myself out of bed. Struggling to summon the strength to move, it felt as if I’d aged fifty years overnight. In discrete stages I headed for the bathroom, all the time giving myself commands and encouragement: bed covers off, sit up, feet over the edge, standing position, right foot forward, left foot forward. I shuffled past the open door of the bedroom that my beautiful sons had shared, and the enormity of the loss was overwhelming. I repeatedly felt that an emotional rock bottom had been reached; but then a memory or thought would be triggered and the bar of desolation would be lowered further.
I showered trying to cleanse myself in the near-scalding water. I’d read how rape victims spent hours in the shower attempting to purify themselves of their attacker, and as I stood with the water pounding my body I could identify with those emotions; I felt violated, if not physically, then psychologically. After thirty minutes I stepped out of the shower with my skin reddened and close to blistering in places. I struggled to decide what clothes to wear, before settling on a suitably subdued navy blue top and jeans.
In the empty and unnervingly quiet house I headed downstairs to the kitchen. I made tea and slowly drank it while listening to the radio and waiting for the next local news bulletin. We never used to listen to local radio, with the banal approach of the presenters making even the most serious issues appear trivial, but it was different now; may be they’d pick up on the story more quickly than their national counterparts. Though part of me couldn’t bear the prospect of my life story being played out in the media, I held onto the hope that it would, in some way, be therapeutic. Of course, I was deluding myself.
At 10:00 a.m. the news bulletin began, and the hit-and-run was now the main story. Very few details were provided. No names, no ages, just the time and the place followed by an appeal for witnesses from a Detective Inspector Patel. As the news moved onto the next item I turned off the radio just as the phone started to ring. Not ready for conversation, I was sorely tempted to let the answering machine pick up, but then thinking that it might be news from the police, I answered. I recognised the voice immediately, it was Debbie from work. “Julian, what are you doing at home, we’re waiting for you and Bob’s …”
Debbie generally meant well but was intrusive at the best of times, and I was in no mood to give details. I cut her off mid sentence. "I’m sorry but I've got some kind of stomach bug, I won’t be in today but I'll speak to you later.” I put the phone down without giving her any time to respond, but before I’d a chance to sit down, it rang again. Jesus, Debbie, what the hell do you want?
Irritated, I picked up the phone but said nothing and waited for her to reprimand me for my abruptness. “… Hello, this is DI Patel from Otley Road Police Station. Could I speak to Mr … I’m sorry, Dr, Julian Scott, please?”
“Yes, erm … Yes, I’m Julian Scott.” I answered falteringly.
“Sorry to bother you, Dr Scott, I’m the lead investigating officer on the case involving the death of your family. I know that this is a terrible time for you but I’d like to ask you some questions if that’s okay?”
I struggled to connect brain and mouth in synchrony, “Erm … erm yes, yes. Okay … though I’m not sure how much more I can tell you but ... erm ... anyway I’ve got some questions myself.”
“When is convenient for you? I can come and visit you today at home, or if you prefer you can come to the station – whatever’s best for you.”
I was surprised that he wanted to meet so soon, though in a way I suppose I was grateful; at least it would give me something to do. But the thought of having police, or anybody else for that matter, in my house didn’t appeal. “Yes, that’s fine, but I’d prefer to come to you if that’s okay?”
“No problem, can you make it around noon?” responded DI Patel, and continued without giving me time to answer, “Make your way to the front desk and ask for me there.”
“Okay, thank you. I’ll see you then.”
I put the phone down and slowly made my way back to the sofa. The clock on the mantelpiece indicated 10:30 a.m., though I knew it was running a couple of minutes fast. The police station was only ten minutes’ drive and I had well over an hour to kill. I lay on the sofa staring at the light fitting on the ceiling. My emotions were in turmoil and I wasn’t used to the out-of-control feeling. I’ve always liked order. Even as a child I’d driven my mother mad; the night before school, my uniform had to be ironed and neatly stacked at the end of the bed along with polished shoes. As an adult my obsessions only got worse and I’d always thought I had some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder, though this wasn’t formally diagnosed. Perhaps that’s why I’d been drawn to a career in science and research, with its firmly established rules and logic. But with everything that had happened I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings, sadness, anger, frustration, guilt, all at the same time. Nothing made sense anymore. I’m sure a psychologist would argue it was completely normal given what I’d been through, but it certainly didn’t feel normal to me.
The time dragged by and I still had another thirty minutes before the meeting with DI Patel but I desperately needed to get out of the house. I briefly considered walking to use up time and in the hope that the fresh air would breathe some life into me. But almost immediately I realised that the route on foot would go past the church and the site of the accident. There was no way I could face it, at least not yet. In the end I decided to drive, and, with little traffic on the road, and even taking the long way around, I pulled into the police station car park still twenty minutes early.
I’d driven past Otley Road Police Station numerous times on the way to work, though never had cause to go inside. It was the divisional headquarters, an imposing six-storey building with numerous massive radio aerials on the roof. Surrounded by a ten-foot metal fence topped with sharp spikes, it was clearly designed to withstand a serious public disturbance. I parked in one of the many empty spaces of the public area of the car park and then made my way to the entrance marked “Enquiries”. I gave my name to the PC sitting behind a glass security screen on the fr
ont desk. My presence seemed to be expected: he made a brief phone call before asking me to take a seat in the waiting area.
I sat for less than a couple of minutes before a man wearing a smart, expensive-looking grey suit came through a door at the side of the front desk. He was probably about the same age as me and had short cropped hair receding in the front. He approached me extending his hand. “Dr Scott, thank you for coming. I’m Detective Inspector Patel. This must be a terrible time for you.”
I took his firm grip and attempted a polite smile in response. “Yes, it’s all come as a shock – to say the least.”
Patel nodded “Yes, yes ... Let’s go up to my office, we can talk better there.”
We headed back through the door he’d just come out of and then up two flights of stairs. Despite the modern appearance of the building from the outside, the décor let it down. The carpet was stained and worn and the walls were a dirty grey colour with just the odd patch of the original pale blue emulsion showing through. Patel’s office was in the corner of a much bigger, open-plan office space. This larger work area was bustling with activity, with people either on the phone or tapping away at computer terminals, but nobody looked up as we passed by.
Patel’s personal office was a cramped affair containing a desk which was far too big for the small room and overflowing with folders and loose papers. He moved a further pile of papers from a spare chair in the corner and pulled it up, gesturing for me to sit. “Can I get you tea or coffee?”
I shook my head, “No, no thank you.”
Patel then took a seat opposite me on the other side of the desk. Behind him on the wall was a collection of framed photographs, mostly in his police uniform, and also several certificates. One of the certificates in particular caught my attention:
Nikesh Patel
B.Sc., Psychology
First Class Honours.
University of Sheffield
It crossed my mind that it might be a cunning ploy to unnerve suspects – maybe they’d crack under the pressure at the prospect of him tapping into their inner psyche. It almost made me grateful that I had nothing to hide. Patel picked up the phone and punched in four digits. “Jane, can you come through?”
Within twenty seconds a woman in her mid twenties appeared at the door and Patel introduced her as DC Drife. She nodded her head respectfully and then stepped outside for a moment, returned with a chair, and then negotiated her way through the piles of paperwork on the floor, taking a seat in the corner behind Patel. The room was not designed to seat three people in comfort and I began to feel claustrophobic and undid the next button down on my shirt. Patel appeared to notice my discomfort and opened the small window behind him, although it barely made any difference to the stagnant air.
With everyone seated, he began asking basic personal details of my family: date of birth, place of birth, address, occupation, school, etc. My recollections of the previous night were vague at best, but I was pretty sure I’d given much of the same information already. DC Drife sat at the back, not saying a word and diligently taking notes. Patel then asked me to go through the events of the evening. Why had we gone to the restaurant? What time had we left? Why had the others walked? Why had I driven home? What time was it when I realised there was a problem?
At first my thoughts were sluggish, dulled by recent events. I struggled to respond to the most basic of questions, even pondering to recall my own date of birth. But as the interview went on I began to feel more comfortable and my responses were more articulate and free-flowing. Patel nodded intently with my every response, almost as if each snippet of information was going to be crucial in solving the case.
After twenty minutes or so he again checked that I didn’t want a drink, before continuing: “After leaving your house and on the way to the church, did you see anybody, or anything, out of the norm?”
I tried to piece things together, but it all seemed so fragmented. “No, nothing out of the ordinary … at least as far as I can remember. It’s all a bit of a blur to be quite honest. It was very quiet though, I’m sure I didn’t see anybody else.”
Again Patel continued his nodding, deep in thought. “And the red pick-up truck, had you ever seen it before?”
I thought for a few seconds. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t. It’s obviously very distinctive and I’m sure I would’ve remembered. The name down the side though, William’s Building Supplies, that’s certainly familiar, but I’m not sure where from – maybe just an advert in the local paper, something like that.”
Patel nodded thoughtfully. “And can you think of anyone who may have wanted to harm your family?”
“What do you mean?” I responded angrily, demonstrating my irritation for the first time. “No, I can’t bloody think of anyone who would want to kill my wife or my little boys.” I was stunned by his question and the way he’d just casually slipped it in. I’d never considered the whole thing anything other than a hit-and-run, and it seemed completely bizarre that I might know who was responsible.
Patel seemed surprised by my outburst and sat back in his chair, clearly aware of my feelings. “I’m sorry but I have to ask these questions.”
I’d had enough, and although it had only been a little over half an hour I was beginning to feel tired and was grateful when Patel signalled the end of the questioning. “Okay, that’s fine, I’ve nothing more for now. Is there anything you want to add that you think might be important to the enquiry?” I shook my head. Patel went on: “Okay, the other reason I wanted to speak to you is to let you know how things are progressing.”
I sat forward in the chair; this was what I’d come for. “At this initial stage we believe it is a relatively straight forward hit-and-run, albeit with hugely tragic consequences. We believe that the pick-up truck at the scene had probably been stolen, but we are waiting for a report from the scenes-of-crime officers with information on fingerprints and other forensic evidence ...”
I interjected, “But what about the driver, have you spoken to him yet?”
“Unfortunately the driver of the vehicle had disappeared from the scene by the time the first motorist arrived. We’ll be interviewing the owner of the pick-up truck this afternoon and it may shed light on events. Again, unfortunately, without a witness to the incident it can be difficult to find the person responsible in a case like this ...”
“In a case like this!” I interrupted angrily. “To me this is not just a case, to me it’s about who killed my family. I hope you realize that, inspector.”
Patel looked sheepish, “I do appreciate that, Dr Scott, and I assure you we won’t lose sight of that fact.” After a few seconds he continued: “We’ve made a local media appeal, and in the meantime ...”
Tired and irritated, I again interrupted him. “We just have to wait.” “I’m afraid so.” said Patel calmly.
It was quiet for the next thirty seconds, before Patel broke the silence. “Okay, thank you for coming, I know this is a very difficult time for you.” I stood to leave and then remembered DC Drife in the corner, who hadn’t said a word throughout the meeting. She nodded politely at me, and then Patel led me down the same staircase we’d come up, then through the reception area and to the front door. “Once again, very sorry about your loss. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear anything, and if you remember anything please get in touch.” He gave me his business card and we went our separate ways.
I returned to the car, fastened the seatbelt, and sat for several minutes, going over the wording of the conversation as close to verbatim as I could remember. Most of his questions had been fairly predictable, though I’d been surprised by his query about the pick-up truck and, bizarrely, whether anyone might want my family dead – a thought that was inconceivable. In any event, Patel had not filled me with any great optimism that they’d be able to track down the driver. My thoughts were interrupted as a car pulled into the parking slot next to me, and I had the sudden need to get home and be in my own space. Swelled by parents on the
school run, the traffic was heavier than on my arrival and it flickered across my mind that I should get back home to see the kids. But I quickly and painfully realised that it was no longer the case.
Chapter 5
My first morning in the Graves Park bolt-hole, I wake from a deep slumber with a shaft of brilliant light striking my face and gently warming my skin. In my barely wakened state, it’s not unlike the comforting sensation of lying on a beach and, with eyes closed, seeing the red glow of the sun beyond. But within seconds reality kicks-in and remembering where I am, and the events of the previous night, I fear that I’ve been discovered and that my pursuers are illuminating my presence with a torch beam. My heart pounds as the anxiety is explosively reignited, and I sit bolt upright, cracking my forehead on the low ceiling. As I blink away the pain, relief comes with the realization that it’s only sunlight streaming through a slit between the rocks at the entrance of the drain. Breathing more easily, I check my watch in the cone of light, 10:05 a.m. Amazingly I’ve been dead to the world for the last five hours.
Viewing my temporary home in the daylight reminds me how small a space it is. I struggle to adjust my position before cautiously spying through the narrow aperture between the rocks at the entrance. My view is restricted to a small section of clear blue sky and tree canopy with autumn leaves falling. The rain has finally stopped and the only sounds come from the nearby stream with the water level running high and the gentle blowing of the wind through the branches. Mercifully, there are no helicopter blades whirring, German Shepherds barking, or policemen shouting. Clearly I’ve not been discovered, and refreshed after the long sleep, my mood and optimism has improved beyond recognition from just a few hours earlier.