by Matt Hilton
‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I was just struck by a funny thought.’
‘There’s no rule against happiness.’ The grey-haired man offered a smile that added a touch of colour to his cheeks. He turned his smile on the DCI. ‘Having a happy team is the mark of good leadership, Charles.’
His comment to the DCI was a welcome distraction, and Kerry was grateful. By the time they both regarded her again, she’d regained a modicum of professionalism. The man approached her with his hand extended.
‘Superintendent Harker,’ he said in introduction. ‘I’m glad we got the opportunity to meet, Inspector Darke, and I would like to chat longer. Though you must now excuse me; duty calls back at The Yard, I’m afraid.’
His handshake was brief, but warm enough. Except a dribble of icy water ran the length of her spine. Superintendent Graeme Harker: she knew exactly who he was. He also knew her name, which was bad news. She flickered him a smile, and trying not to sound ironic said, ‘Another time then, sir.’
‘Indeed. Charles, be seeing you too.’
The Superintendent strode off down the corridor, his leather-soled brogues beating noisily on the thin blue carpet underfoot. He was a contradiction. Officers working in the Department for Professional Standards were referred to as ‘rubber heelers’ after their propensity for sneaking around and eavesdropping private conversations. Perhaps by the time you made Superintendent of DPS the necessity for silence was replaced by the thunder of the firing squad you headed.
Kerry watched him until he’d disappeared around a corner some distance away.
‘Kerry. I haven’t got all day.’ Porter held the door open. ‘Come in.’
She aimed a thumb at the space in the corridor vacated by Harker. ‘Was he here because of me?’
‘If he were, it wouldn’t be right to admit it. Now, come in, Kerry, you’ve kept me waiting long enough.’
As she entered his office, Porter stayed at the door. He studied her reaction – watching if she had a similar response to the area where his commendation hung on the wall as before. She rested a hand on the back of the chair she’d previously sat in, glanced at him. Porter’s mouth pinched briefly, then he closed the door securely and hustled past to his side of the desk. As he sat, so did she. She deliberately fixed her eyes on his neatly knotted tie. Again she sensed his scrutiny, and lifted her head. The overhead light washed out the lenses on his glasses; his return stare was inscrutable. The silence was palpable.
‘I’m sorry I took a while getting back, sir. I was conducting follow up enquiries with a witness.’
He sniffed away her excuse. ‘Tell me that you’ve got something actionable.’
‘Nothing concrete, I’m afraid.’
‘Then get something concrete. Erick Swain’s death doesn’t mean we’ve dodged a bullet.’ He paused, considering his poor choice of words. ‘By that I mean we still need a successful conviction. The media can posthumously try and convict Swain for the deaths of the Ghedis, but it’s an unsatisfactory result for the Met, and for my team in particular. I want a live suspect on the stand, Kerry. Where exactly are you with identifying Swain’s driver?’
She quickly related the actions taken, and that her team was conducting pro-active enquiries with CHIS, and interrogating CCTV evidence. She told him about the ballistics report confirming the murder weapon and the one seized from Swain’s garden matched, and that Swain’s fingerprints had been lifted off a bullet loaded in the revolver and also those seized from his bedroom, though not from the spent shells found at the crime scene or from the gun itself. Next she mentioned her recent discussions with Hettie Winters and Funky, and how neither of their versions of events rang true with her.
‘On what level?’
‘They’re both liars.’
He tilted his head, and his glasses flashed reflections off the polished desk. ‘So find out the truth.’
‘I’m working on it, sir.’ Earlier, she’d avoided mentioning what was on her mind to Korba, but she was in a pinch under his stern expression. ‘I have a theory—’
He held up a hand. ‘I’m not interested in theories. I want facts, proof and evidence. I want to see arrests and convictions.’
‘I’m working on it,’ she repeated. ‘I’m only waiting on a single piece of corroborating evidence that I can act on.’
‘What kind of evidence?’
‘I don’t know for certain. But I’ll know it when it arrives and I will give you the arrests and convictions you expect.’
Porter grunted.
‘I could do without empty promises, Inspector Darke.’ He studied her closely for a moment. Changed tack entirely. ‘I’m wondering if in lieu of what happened to Swain you’re the best person to head this investigation. Would it be unreasonable to suggest that you were affected by his violent death?’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she said.
He pursed his mouth. Sat back. He’d taken off his suit jacket earlier, so didn’t need to unbutton it to make room for his belly. Instead he fiddled with his tie. Then slowly — deliberately, she suspected — craned around to observe the framed certificate on the wall. Sensing the trap, Kerry didn’t follow his prompt. When he gave her a sidelong look she was still facing forward. He turned back to her with a smile ghosting across his lips.
‘If there’s any support I can offer, you need only ask,’ he said.
‘I have DC Scanlon tied up with going through hours of CCTV footage if…’ She didn’t finish the request for extra manpower, because it dawned that was not his meaning. ‘Sir, if you mean therapy, I’d like to politely decline. I don’t need it.’
‘Maybe you’re not the best person to judge.’
Kerry scowled. ‘Has somebody said something about my odd behaviour?’
‘About what?’
Idiot! She’d almost sprung a trap for herself. ‘I don’t know. I only wondered why you’d think I’d need it.’
‘You were involved in a violent incident that ended with a man’s death. Police officers aren’t soulless robots, Kerry; we do have feelings. It’s why we have the robust support of an occupational health department.’
‘Have any of the other affected officers been offered therapy?’
‘No. But two constables injured by Swain are currently on sick leave, one whose leg injury is quite serious and could disqualify him from future active duty: as and when the time comes, both will be offered, and encouraged to accept, assistance from Occupational Health.’
‘That’s fine. Their injuries are more serious.’ She touched her grazed forehead. ‘As you can see, mine is already on the mend.’
Again Porter pursed his lips. It was in his power to order her to attend sessions with a force therapist, but couldn’t do so while she was on active duty. If she wasn’t careful another suspension could be heading her way. ‘Sir, honestly, you’ve nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’m a little tired, a little under pressure, but hey, aren’t we all?’ She raised her hand, holding her thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. ‘I’m that far from getting something concrete for you. I’d rather spend my time investigating than being analysed.’
‘I’d be a poor supervisor if I didn’t care about my team,’ he said enigmatically. He said no more.
His silence was her cue to leave. She stood, straightening her clothes.
‘Sir,’ she said, uncertain if she was saying goodbye or asking his permission to go.
He continued staring at her, inscrutable again behind the glare on the lenses of his spectacles. She couldn’t meet his gaze and felt her own slip beyond him. It was almost a physical effort to drag her eyes from the spot where a semi-translucent Erick Swain mimed a lewd act of sexual self-gratification over the DCI’s shoulder.
‘What a sanctimonious tosser you work for,’ Swain crowed, for her ears only. ‘All he cares about is how much you embarrass him!’
Kerry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she hurried away without a backwards glance.
22
Slos
hing an inch of whisky into a glass, Kerry collapsed on the settee in her living room. When she’d arrived home in the early evening, the stale smell reminded her she’d neglected her share of the domestic chores for a couple of days. Adam’s attempt at mopping the spilled whisky had been in his usual bullish-style: throwing down a few sheets of absorbent kitchen towel and stomping up the residue. The carpet had dried, but the stain and aroma hadn’t shifted. Resolved to do something about it, she collected a basin of warm water, bicarbonate of soda and white vinegar from the kitchen, as well as a scrubbing brush and cloths. She got as far as picking up the abandoned bottle of Scotch, and decided cleaning the carpet could wait.
Food hadn’t crossed her lips since breakfast, and when the whisky hit her stomach it cramped. Alcohol fumes burned a trail up her throat, and she hiccoughed, felt sick. Hair of the dog, she thought, and poured another measure. She took her next drink tentatively, this time appreciating the oily warmth in her gullet. Alcohol had led to the ruination of her mother, and watching her slow destruction had tempered Kerry’s response to hard liquor. These days she drank only on odd occasions, and usually only to the point of experiencing a fuzzy glow, not stupor. Right then, she was content to drink to senselessness if it helped. Gin was her tipple of choice, but there was none in her larder. She poured more whisky.
Peeked under her lashes at the easy chair opposite.
A semi-opaque Swain aimed a smarmy grin at her.
‘Drinking to forget, Inspector Darke?’
Kerry closed her eyes, shivering.
‘Please leave me alone,’ she whispered.
Since his appearance in DCI Porter’s office she couldn’t shake him off. He’d been an unresponsive stalker most of the time, dogging her movements in the GaOC office, moving between her team and in and out of Kerry’s cubbyhole, before hanging over Mel Scanlon’s shoulder as she worked through a video file on her computer. None of the others were aware of his presence, but it was no comfort to Kerry. It suggested he was solely in her head, and the more worrying because of it. Almost she wished that he were capable of physical touch. If he swept a file from a desk, or prodded Korba in the neck, or even flicked off the overhead lights, she could accept that he was there, had some kind of tangible solidity and she would punch him in his smug face. He was incorporeal, though, a figure of refracted light and shadow, conjured into recognisable shape by her mind – her unhealthy mind, she might have to accept.
She’d refused Porter’s offer of therapy. It was a kneejerk reaction. Acknowledging a problem was the first step to recovery, but she was still caught in the murk of denial. Not only denial, also fear. If she was diagnosed with mental health issues her rank — not to mention her career — as a detective inspector could be deemed compromised. She’d be out on her ear, and what then? She’d worked hard to get where she was, in the hope that one day she would lead the hunt for the Fell Man and find Sally, and finally lay them both to rest. Kicked off the job she’d never give up searching, but without the resources of a modern police force it could prove a hopeless task.
Mel turned up nothing fresh from the video evidence, and Glenn and Tony were playing a waiting game to hear from their sources. Kerry hid in her office, completing administration chores and signing off on other crime files submitted by her team, aware constantly of Swain’s presence and trying her hardest to ignore him. Escaping the nick, she drove home. She half expected an unwelcome hitchhiker, but he left the confines of her car alone, only appearing to her as reflections in shop windows or waving from street corners as she passed. The usual parking situation arose when she arrived back at her street, and she had to again abandon her car a couple of blocks over near Eel Brook Common. Her walk home was completed with her head bowed, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. Swain was waiting on the front step, and refused to budge when she unlocked the door and hurried inside, passing directly through him. She’d slammed the door, but doors were no obstruction to hallucinations. Before she entered the living room Swain had already made himself confortable in her easy chair, his ankles crossed.
Cleaning the carpet had been intended as a distraction, but the whisky would do a better job.
‘You can neck the full bottle; it won’t make me disappear.’
‘Maybe not, but I’ll be too drunk to care.’ It struck her that her madness was growing more acute when she was answering him back. She closed her eyes again, shutting him out. ‘Just go away, will you?’
‘Sorry, Inspector Darke, but you’re stuck with me.’
‘You’re not real.’
‘So not only do you make me fall off a building you’re also happy to hurt my feelings?’
‘You fell.’ She snapped open her eyes to glare at him. The heat of her anger should burn him up like sunlight on morning mist. ‘You were trying to throw me over the side, not the other way around!’
‘You were the one that smacked me round my head with your truncheon, and got that spray in my eyes. Or have you forgotten?’
It was apparent that he’d forgotten any part Girl had played in defending her…or perhaps Kerry kept the memory from him. ‘I arrested you; it was your choice to try to escape. Don’t dare blame me for your death!’
Swain returned her stare. He raised his right hand from which hung a facsimile of the rigid cuff he’d died wearing. He pointed a finger, was about to say something, but shut his mouth with an audible snap. He disappeared.
Shaking, raising the glass to her lips was difficult. The whisky tasted sour. She dribbled it back into the glass and set it aside.
‘Holy Christ, Kerry, you do realise you’re arguing with yourself?’
She was more prone to cry at happy moments. Sadness had been an aspect of her life so long that it rarely reached her on a physical level anymore. Yet tears rolled down her cheeks as she scanned the room for a sign of him. Hopefully he was gone for good, and she’d exorcised him by stating the obvious.
Damn him! He hadn’t left, only moved from the chair to stand in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. His gaze roved over the walls and ceiling, one side of his mouth curled up in disapproval. ‘So crime doesn’t pay, eh? If that’s the case why did I live in a palace and you squat in a shit hole? Bloody hell, Inspector, if you expect me to hang around here you’d best think about redecorating.’
Kerry gawped. Not only was she being haunted by the shade of a violent gangster, he was also a bloody snob! She almost laughed at the absurdity, but was more outraged. ‘If you don’t like my place, you’re free to bugger off out of here.’
She struggled off the settee. The whisky was yet to have any affect on her; her lack of coordination was more to do with indignation. She went to her knees, grabbing the basin of warm water, and shoved it towards the spillage on the carpet. The bowl sloshed as she grabbed for a cloth.
‘That’s where I like to see my women,’ said Swain from directly behind her. ‘Down on their knees, and I don’t care which way they’re facing.’
If she’d been outraged before, Kerry was volatile now. With a throaty cry, she snatched the bowl of water and twisting at the waist she hurled the contents, and the bowl, at Swain. He dodged aside, though there was no reason to, because the water couldn’t cling to a figment of the imagination. The water splashed up the far wall, and the bowl clattered against the blinds on the front window. Kerry swivelled on her knees. In a moment of distaste, Swain checked his clothing for wet spots. Then he faced her, raised up the tail of his baggy tie-dyed shirt. ‘Did you have to kill me when I was wearing these old things? For Christ’s sake, Inspector, I’ve to exist for all eternity dressed like Shaggy off Scooby-frigging-Doo!’ He rattled the handcuff on his wrist. ‘And what the hell’s this meant to signify? Are these cuffs symbolic? Do they mean we’re going steady or what?’
Kerry struggled to stand. Where was Swain’s indignation coming from? If he was a hallucination, then she was the one that clothed him, so why be upset at his funeral garb? And she certainly wasn’t the one putting those misog
ynistic words into his filthy mouth. She craned forward, challenging him.
‘What are you?’
He dropped the tail of his shirt. ‘What am I?’ His voice was pitched low. He raised his hand and fingered the silver earring. The handcuff tapped against his shoulder, apparently to his distraction. He snapped down his hand, and his tone of voice held a rasp. ‘What am I? What the hell do you think I am, Inspector Darke? I am…FUCKING ANGRY!’
He flew at her – literally. One instant he was standing near the front window, the next hurtling through the intervening space. Only his face and grasping hands were definable, the rest of him a streak of insubstantial colour. His eyes shone like fire, his fingers were claws as they went around her throat. Kerry pitched backwards in shock, falling on the stained carpet. Swain followed her down, his features creased in rage, teeth bared, fingers now gouging to scoop her eyes from their sockets. But for a tingle of static electricity on her skin, Kerry felt no actual pain. The knowledge he lacked the power to physically harm her didn’t alleviate her horror. She fought back, her own hands grasping and flailing. Swain’s intangible form was ripped and broken in one instant, but reformed the next. He clubbed and pounded, strangled her, but Kerry scrambled up, passing through him as she had when he’d blocked access to her front door. She lurched away, kicking aside the scrubbing brush that ricocheted off the base of her easy chair. Ten feet away she spun round to confront him, hands coming up defensively, fully expecting another flying assault.
He’d reformed to a figure equating an entire human being, though still only partially visible in places. Swain knelt on the carpet with his back to her, head lowered. He held up his cupped palms, the handcuff drooping from one, and she watched as his back shook in a series of sobs at his limitations. As if sensing he was the object of study, he twisted at the waist, holding out his cupped hands. His fiery gaze had dimmed; the sparks of ferocity leeched from them. ‘What did you do to me?’
‘I didn’t do a bloody thing, Swain. If you are real, this is your punishment…for what you did.’