Darke

by Matt Hilton

  The thought hit her like a slap. Stomach acid bubbled up her throat. Jesus, Kerry, is that what you really want?

  They had met when Kerry, at the time a Detective Sergeant, visited HMP Belmarsh to conduct follow up enquiries with a remand prisoner. Adam had been her assigned escort inside the prison. A big, smart, efficient guy, who was polite and attentive, and judging by his lingering eye contact found something in Kerry’s mismatched irises mesmerizing. By chance they’d bumped into each other again months later, this time during a night out with some of her colleagues at a bar on Tottenham Court Road. She hadn’t noticed him, but she was instantly recognisable to him. He’d made the first move, and they hooked up instantly. Totally out of character for her, Kerry had slept with him that night, and it had sealed their bond, and apart from where their alternating shift patterns dictated their lives, had barely been apart since. Was she prepared to lose Adam for the sake of…

  She didn’t end the thought.

  It wasn’t a debate.

  Now you’re being a selfish bitch!

  No. This wasn’t about selfishness. Her quest was as much a part of her as her heterochromia, her arms and legs, her heart and soul. If Adam wanted one part of her he must accept all. A person’s faults were equally as important to their make-up as their virtues.

  So cut Adam some slack for being an insensitive dick. Embrace his faults too.

  Her train of thought fell silent. She could almost imagine the tumbleweeds rolling past. Almost. But apparently her imagination wasn’t as fertile as it was when conjuring Girl, or…shit, she could deny the past few incidents all she wanted, but the shape lurking behind DCI Porter, then in her office and recently leering from Hettie’s bedroom window was undeniable.

  ‘You shouldn’t dwell on Erick Swain.’

  Kerry gawped at DS Korba.

  ‘Sorry?’ she asked once she’d caught her breath.

  ‘Swain. You should put him out of your mind.’

  It was almost as if Korba were the one with the extra sensory perception and had read her mind. She shook her head.

  ‘What happened to him was horrible, but you don’t have to carry any guilt,’ Korba expounded. ‘You ask me, well, it’s guilt that made you think about him back there at his house. It wasn’t a ghost, Kerry, just guilt.’

  Kerry said nothing.

  They were waiting at a red light, boxed in by black cabs and delivery vehicles on all sides. Ahead of them, a twin-carriage bus blocked the road, its extra length unable to clear the intersection. Horns blared in annoyance.

  ‘I’m not dwelling on guilt over Swain’s death,’ she finally said, ‘only on what he’s responsible for.’

  ‘You shouldn’t carry that kid’s death on your shoulders either.’

  ‘She was called Bilan and she was only ten.’

  ‘I know, Kerry. I don’t mean to trivialize her murder. It’s a horrible waste of a young life. But you can’t let it get to you. You have to compartmentalize, put it away in a box so it doesn’t eat you up.’ Korba didn’t look at her once.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Korba looked at her then. His eyebrows rose in question.

  ‘Look, Danny, I appreciate your concern. But you don’t have to worry about me. If I am dwelling on Swain it’s only because we need a quick result on this case.’ They both understood that it was only a matter of time before their superiors expected firm resolution to the case. More importantly she’d promised Bilan’s father she’d do everything in her power to catch and punish her killers.

  ‘Tell me about Zane McManus,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s a given. Any suggestion he was the driver?’

  ‘He’s too stupid to have been involved. I ain’t suggesting he doesn’t play a part in Swain’s activities, but in a less demanding role.’

  ‘He drives. He has, what was it, a Nissan Skyline?’ She didn’t wait for Korba’s confirmation. ‘I don’t need to be a petrol head to know a Skyline doesn’t come cheap. How old’s Zane…early twenties? A kid his age, and I’m assuming with no full-time employment and scrounging benefits, couldn’t buy that car, let alone pay the extortionate insurance on it. You called him stupid, but he’s obviously clever enough to do something for Swain that lines his pockets.’

  ‘I ain’t denying he’s getting bunged a few quid, and the Skyline was probably an incentive to obligate him to Swain. But I had a good chinwag with him: he’s a bit of a numpty. You ask me, the only reason he’s been taken into the fold is ’cause he’s Hettie’s cousin. He’s good for running a few errands, the odd street level drug deal, and keeping Tyke entertained. He’s a glorified dog-sitter, and like I said, a numpty. He ain’t somebody you’d trust to back you up on a drive-by shooting.’

  Kerry rolled her neck.

  The bus had finally cleared the intersection, but standing traffic still blocked them in. The lights had gone through their sequence twice in the meantime. Other drivers were growing impatient, and frustrated, and the sounds of horns were insistent.

  ‘We don’t rule Zane out yet,’ Kerry decided. ‘I want Mel to concentrate on collating the file, and doing follow up inquiries with witnesses at the scene. I could also do with her viewing the CCTV we’ve seized. We only need one clear picture of the driver and it should be enough to identify him.’ Mel Scanlon had widened the ring in regards CCTV evidence, checking street cameras between Wandsworth Road and the bank of the Thames where the Subaru was later found burnt out. ‘Glenn and Tony I want working their CHIS for any of Swain’s associates we haven’t already identified.’ A Covert Human Intelligence Source was a police term for an informant, though they were often called by a more derogatory term. Occasionally a grass could be compelled to squeal simply through their hatred of the person they were fingering, or through monetary reward. It didn’t matter how they got the intelligence, as long as she learned a credible name to follow up on. ‘I’ll keep working on Hettie, and I think another discussion with Funky’s on the cards.’

  The traffic abruptly started moving. They took a left and joined another queue of slow moving traffic. ‘Did Bob Grier get back to you?’ Korba asked. ‘Once things quietened down at Swain’s place, he told me he needed to speak with you about the gun.’

  Grier knew more about weapons than her. He was a resource she should pull on. There was something troubling about the manner in which the gun was found, but what it was she hadn’t worked out yet. Whatever Grier had to tell her could prove important. She took out her mobile and rang the control room, asked a dispatcher for Grier’s personal line. It rang out. When she checked she discovered the sergeant was on his rest days. She rang his home number.

  A sullen teenaged boy answered.

  ‘Hello, can I speak with Bob Grier, please?’ she asked.

  Without answering, the youth placed down the handset. ‘Dad! It’s some woman for you.’

  In the background Kerry heard soft muttering, clattering, then a gruff voice. ‘This better not be another flaming market research survey.’ The words were directed at the boy, who said something that could be deemed racist and sexist: ‘It ain’t a Paki, it’s some Geordie bird.’

  She wasn’t a Geordie, but southerners often mistook her accent.

  ‘Bob,’ she announced as soon as he made a gruff ‘hullo’ down the phone. ‘It’s DI Kerry Darke. I hope I’m not intruding…’

  ‘Oh, hi, Kerry,’ he said, his tone brightening. ‘Nah. It’s nothin’ that can’t be put off. My missus has me assembling some flat pack cupboards. It’s taken me bloody hours, so I’m due a break.’

  ‘Those things can be torture,’ she agreed. ‘The other night at Erick Swain’s place, you wanted to tell me something about the gun, but I didn’t get back to you.’

  ‘Yeah, you had your hands full at the time.’ He chuckled. ‘During the commotion I took an impromptu head dive into a bloody wall, so I forgot about it myself.’

  ‘Danny Korba said you asked for me to get
in touch after. Sorry about the slow reply.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you can’t be blamed for that either. That boss of yours…’

  ‘Say no more,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s maybe best. Look, something bothered me about that Webley we found.’

  ‘Go on, Bob.’

  ‘From what I know of the drive-by, there were three shots fired. Three brass shells found at the scene?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what bothers me. See, there were four bullets found in the gun.’

  ‘And it was a six shot revolver. Aye, the numbers don’t add up,’ said Kerry, pleased she’d already noted the disparity.

  ‘Swain could’ve easily reloaded an extra bullet afterwards. Why he’d do that if he intended burying the gun, we’ll probably never know. But that’s not what’s been bothering me. You know how a revolver works, don’t you?’

  ‘I have the basic concept.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to insult your intelligence, just some people unfamiliar with firearms make assumptions based on what they’ve seen in movies, brass shells tinkling round the gunman’s feet. That’s OK if the gun was a pistol. It doesn’t happen like that with a revolver. After the bullet’s been fired, the empty shell stays in the chamber while the cylinder rotates to set the next live round. For those expended shells to be found at the scene, they had to have been taken out the cylinder and dumped out the car window. Nobody with an ounce of savvy about forensics would do that, and they were savvy enough to burn out the getaway car. Who wastes time to dump the empties and load a single cartridge when there’s still three live rounds in the gun?’

  ‘It does sound implausible.’

  ‘Or deliberate.’

  19

  ‘Get the brews in, Danny, and I’ll see you all in the office in five.’

  Korba flicked an aye-aye salute and sauntered towards the canteen, with the intention of rounding up the rest of their team en route.

  Kerry made a swift visit to the loo, avoiding glancing at the vanity mirrors over the sinks and almost diving inside a cubicle. After she washed her hands, again averting her gaze from her reflection, she was in the act of drying her hands before realising how irrational her behaviour was. What exactly was she so afraid of? She should be inured to weird hallucinations by now. Girl’s appearance was always eerie, but she’d never felt threatened by her. It was the other presence she was afraid of. He was sinister.

  The problem with irrationality was that it was a self-propagating condition. The more she denied seeing Swain, the more she tried not to see him. But the harder she tried the more he remained in the forefront of her thoughts, and the more she feared he’d appear again. She almost fled the bathroom in panic. Mercifully the locker room was empty this time, so she was able to gather her shredded nerves before exiting into the corridor, and scuttling for the GaOC office.

  She had the room to herself.

  Thankfully DCI Porter was attending a Trident strategy meeting at New Scotland Yard. The reprieve was welcome. It was an opportunity to get her facts together before giving Porter a progress report. All she had was a disparity in numbers. Three shots fired, three spent shells at the scene, four live rounds in the murder weapon, a six-shot revolver. It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t act until she figured out why the numbers didn’t add up.

  Her team had collated a flow chart and pinned it to the office wall. It listed Erick Swain and his known associates. Corresponding mugshots had been added where available, but some of those named had little more than their dates of birth and last known addresses listed. She studied the board, hoping a name would jump out and demand further investigation. Henrietta Jayne Winters and Zane McManus were situated at opposite ends of the ‘known associates’ chart. Her attention drifted over the spaces between the two, absorbing names and faces. One of them was the person she sought. She took a step back, as if the bigger picture would become clearer if viewed from a distance.

  ‘Look closer.’

  She felt as much as heard those words. They were carried on a sharp exhalation that ruffled the hair around her left ear.

  She spun around, her hand clasping down on the spot. Her skin was icy, clammy, and there was a residue of static electricity that crawled down her cheek on scuttling insect legs. Snapping her head about, she searched for who’d spoken. Nobody. Holding her breath, she twisted to face the chart again, briefly hoping she was the victim of a prank, and the joker had moved counter to her. Nobody.

  The voice must have originated out in the corridor. The exhalation of cold air from…all the fans had been turned off while the office was empty; there was nowhere it could have come from! The office was its usual sealed tomb, airless and still.

  Her fingertips played across her ear and jaw. The tickle of electricity was now the caress of an airborne spider’s web. Goose pimples rose over her entire body and her short hairs stirred to attention. Uncanny dread clawed at her. She sought escape, lunged for the door.

  A second icy breeze struck her face, halting her. This time the words felt tattooed into her skin by jabbing needles. ‘I said look closer, you wall-eyed slag!’

  She swiped at the empty air, batting at invisible webs of energy, crying out. Stumbled backwards on rubbery legs. Her mind was chaotic, questions tumbling. What, where, how…who?

  ‘You fucking know who!’

  This time the voice came from her right. She cowered away. Didn’t want to look, but she must.

  The air directly in front of the flow chart rippled, as if disturbed by a wafting thermal haze. Snatches of colour dimmed then brightened, and there was a scattering of twinkling highlights: silver and pearl. Indistinct shapes and shades coalesced, and took on form. A wolfish visage jumped into clarity, framed by shaggy blond locks and a silver earring. ‘Look closer, bitch!’

  Kerry shrieked, batted in horror at the face of a dead man. Her arms swept through the image, tearing it into translucent wisps and scattering them. She raced for the door.

  Before she could reach it, she suffered a moment of stark lucidity. Stumbled to a halt. She braced her left hip against Mel Scanlon’s desk, one hand covering her mouth, as she aimed a tentative glance at where Swain had appeared. She was unsure if the rippling haze in the air was genuine, or a result of her wet eyes. ‘Neither,’ she croaked into cupped fingers. ‘It’s all in your head. Adam was right: You are losing it.’

  Girl — supposedly the product of a child’s fertile imagination — had forever been a silent companion. Kerry had grown used to visual hallucinations, so much so that for years she’d ignored them entirely and Girl had faded into the deepest corners of her subconscious. Noticing her again only a few days ago, at the murder scene of a similarly aged child, was perhaps not entirely unexpected. But seeing Swain was unexpected and frightening. To hear his voice was terrifying. Whether his words were a form of auditory hallucination she couldn’t ignore their consequence. This was an entirely knew level of craziness.

  She balked against the notion.

  Insane people didn’t recognise their insanity…did they?

  ‘I’m not mad,’ she whispered. She was tired, stressed, annoyed, but not going insane. ‘I’m not mad, I’m not mad.’

  She straightened, staring directly at the shimmering atmosphere, challenging Swain to materialise again. Everything was as it should be. Scanning the entire room, she saw nothing out of place. The only sound was the low hum of the overhead lights, and the distant ambient noises of a busy police station muffled by intervening walls and doors.

  ‘See…I’m not mad,’ she confirmed with a little more backbone. And it wasn’t a moment too soon, because the door opened and Tony Whittle held it open so Glenn Scott could enter, carrying a tray filled with five steaming mugs, Korba and Mel following. Kerry returned their greetings with individual nods, but didn’t speak for fear her voice quivered. She was torn. Glad of their presence but wishing she’d had a couple more minutes to get composed. She could tell herself she
wasn’t mad, but judging by their frowns and glances, her team had other ideas.

  Korba was last to have seen her, so to him her current dishevelled appearance was most obvious. Once Glenn set down the tray, the DS grabbed a mug of tea and offered it to her. Trembling, Kerry accepted it, grateful of something to do other than speak. Korba aimed a silent question at her. She shook her head gently, said, ‘Some personal stuff I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Swain again?’

  ‘Adam.’ Her fiancé was as good an excuse as any. She lowered her head and Korba got the message.

  He took control of the briefing, and doled out the team’s responsibilities as prescribed by Kerry earlier. Once he was done, he offered Kerry the floor, sensing she’d regained a grip of her emotions. Her instruction was short and pointed. ‘You know what we need to do. So let’s do it.’

  Mel headed out to scare up the video evidence she was waiting for, while Glenn and Tony got on with contacting and arranging meetings with their informants. Kerry followed Korba through the nick to the canteen to freshen their cups. A trio of patrol officers was finishing up their fish and chips lunch, laughing and bullshitting, and once they’d dumped their papers and plastic cups in a bin, the two detectives had the canteen to themselves.

  ‘How d’you feel about taking some advice from a lowly detective sergeant, boss?’ Korba posed.

  ‘Depends on whether it’s about my love life. You’re a confirmed bachelor, Danny; your advice might not be the best.’

  ‘I know things ain’t good at home for you,’ he said, ‘but avoiding the issue won’t help. You and Adam need to sit down and have a heart to heart, get things straight between you again. This—’ He touched two fingers to her upper chest, then immediately to her forehead ‘—has to be kept in line with this. One can’t work without being in tune with the other, not if you want to stay balanced.’

  ‘What do you mean by staying balanced?’ I’m not going crazy if that’s what you’re suggesting.’