by Lucy Cameron
‘Yes, Spenser, I know who Tony Reynolds is.’ Spenser stammers, looks at the handful of punched holes he still holds. ‘Right.’ Quinn digs through his pockets, pulls out the packet of nicotine-replacement gum. He studies it in disgust then tosses it onto the desk. ‘We’ll speak to Tony first, Andrews second. I’m going for a cigarette.’ Quinn turns to Rhys. ‘You get the coffees in. And I mean coffees from the canteen, not that pile of shit in the corner.’ He nods to the coffee machine. ‘And I’m referring to the coffee machine not you, Spenser, before you go calling HR.’
7.
Detective Constable Dan Davies appears to have resumed ‘service as usual’. His rich black skin shines. His deep brown eyes sparkle. He is close shaven, his shirt immaculately pressed. He swaggers slowly across the room like the tosser he is. A young female Constable smiles at him. He smiles back, his teeth a perfect line of white. Even after all these years a ball knots in the base of Rhys’s stomach as he watches. In his right hand Davies carries a fruit pot. In his left what looks like some kind of posh coffee from the shop across the road. He doesn’t look like a man who attended an unimaginable crime scene hours earlier. He looks clean and fresh and ready to work. He looks exactly as he always has.
Rhys shakes his head, drops his eyes to the pale tabletop. As he blinks Davies’s dark silhouette pulses against the plastic surface like someone has taken a photograph and his eyes can’t quite recover from the flash.
Rhys is in the canteen less than two minutes after leaving the operations room. He buys two coffees. The place is bland but functional. A grumpy middle-aged woman spoons beans onto warm bread masquerading as toast. It’s the kind of place you don’t eat in if you know better. If you have another option.
‘Morgan.’ Rhys lifts his head. ‘We have got to stop meeting like this.’ Davies gives him a flash of those pearly whites. Why is he talking like they are still friends? ‘Ten years of nothing then twice in hours.’ He peels back the lid of his fruit pot and pops a grape into his mouth. ‘People will start to talk.’ Davies laughs nervously. Rhys does not. The coffee burns Rhys’s fingers through the cheap plastic cup. Doesn’t Davies remember what he did? The agreement they all came to? ‘Finally come to your senses and decided to join us on the dark side?’
‘I heard you needed someone to show you how it’s done.’ Davies laughs again, the sound feels like a grater on Rhys’s bones.
‘You keep telling yourself that, mate.’ Did Davies put the emphasis on the final word? Rhys holds his eye.
Rhys remembers Davies clearly. All his excuses about how his wife didn’t understand him, about how they had drifted apart. Rhys wonders if they’re still drifting, and how many other women Davies has had to help him stay afloat.
‘Look, Rhys–’
‘Dan.’ A tiny blonde Constable calls as she starts to weave her way across the room. She is dwarfed under the weight of her uniform and a tray laden with a full English breakfast. She smiles and tries to wave. Milky tea sloshes across the tray.
‘Oh shit,’ mutters Davies. ‘That’s my cue to leave.’ And Davies is gone before the Constable reaches the table.
‘Bastard,’ she says, then ‘hello,’ followed by something else Rhys doesn’t catch over the squeal of her tray as she slides it onto the table. She waits for a response, so he nods and smiles. She sits opposite him, rips open three small sugars and pours them into her tea. ‘It tastes awful otherwise.’ She talks to him, but her eyes don’t leave the door until, Rhys supposes, Davies is long gone. ‘Chantelle Watts.’ Her eyes come back to him.
‘Rhys Morgan.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Rhys Morgan.’ They shake hands awkwardly over her cooked breakfast. She stirs her tea with the handle of her fork. ‘You know Dan then?’ Rhys half nods, half shrugs. Chantelle Watts stabs the fork into her sausage; the ting of metal on ceramic is loud. She lifts the sausage and inspects it with distain. ‘Me too, unfortunately.’ She bites off the end of the sausage aggressively. ‘Me too.’
There are more cracks in the walls than Rhys remembers. The paintwork has been touched up in the wrong shade. A hum comes from the overhead light bulb. The chairs are crude and plastic. Dirt and shoe rubber stain the floor in lines. The footfall of thousands as they wait to be questioned and interrogated, detained or released. The villains and the victims all mixed into one. On the plus side, no one has been sick in the room in the last twenty-four hours. It’s not ideal but it’s the best they have.
Quinn welcomes Tony Reynolds into the room. Tony’s face is swollen and blotchy. He looks like he has cried since the moment he took the call about his parents. A man drowning in his own tears. Right on cue Tony inhales deeply, a wet, snotty sound.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ says Quinn. Tony looks at him like he has no idea what the words mean.
‘I didn’t lose them.’ The chair legs scrape as Tony sits.
‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’ asks Quinn.
Tony half shrugs, ‘I guess a large vodka is out of the question?’ He tries to smile but instead spasms out a bark of laughter that morphs into a wail. The sound seems to catch him off guard. He clamps his hand to his mouth. Quinn’s eyes drop. Rhys watches Tony. Tony blinks rapidly, a fat round tear escapes. Then another. This is what murder does to people. This is why Rhys would rather be anywhere but here.
Quinn uses his index finger to push a small box of tissues across the table. The box is well used. The noise as Tony starts to pull a tissue out is deafening. The tissue sticks in the box’s jagged mouth. Tony pulls at it aggressively,
‘For fucks sake.’ Tony hurls the box across the room then crushes his hands against his face and lets the sobs break free.
Quinn and Rhys watch in silence. Quinn sits opposite Tony and sips his coffee, the thin plastic of the cup squashing beneath his fingers. Rhys stands against the back wall. Knee bent, one foot against the grubby tiles.
Tony drops his hands. A thin line of snot glistens on his top lip. Everyone pretends like there isn’t a box of tissues on the floor in the far corner. Rhys pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket. A whiff of Olbas Oil penetrates the stale air. Quinn’s head turns to face him.
Anna’s bloody mother. Anna had told her mother that Rhys was transferring to murder. Rhys knew exactly why Anna told her, so her mother could help her build up a case for the defence. Or is that prosecution? Anna tells her mother more about their marriage than he is privy to. Last time she came to visit, she dug out his handkerchief, dowsed it in Olbas Oil, told him that Olbas Oil on a handkerchief was used to breathe through at murder scenes. It covered the smell of decay. Rhys told her she had been watching too much American television. Anna snapped not to talk to her mother that way.
‘No, thank you. No offence, but Mum says handkerchiefs are dirty.’ Rhys sees the realisation his mum will never say these words again flit across Tony’s face. Tony’s lip quivers. His elbows drop to the edge of the table. His face finds his hands again.
Quinn turns and sniffs disgustedly at the air, the sound almost hidden against the backdrop of Tony’s crying. Quinn’s eyes narrow as he slowly shakes his head. Rhys folds the handkerchief with far more care and attention than he feels. He slips the handkerchief back into his pocket and tilts his head to look at Quinn. Quinn’s mouth is a firm, pressed line.
Minutes tick past.
‘Tony.’ Quinn eventually speaks, cuts through the sobs. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Tony, do you?’ Tony looks up. His blotchy cheeks flame with anger.
‘You can call me bloody Katie Price if you like, I don’t care. I want to know what you’re doing to catch the person who did… this… ’ Quinn’s jaw tenses.
‘When was the last time you saw your parents… Tony?’
‘I don’t know, three weeks ago?’ Tony rubs forcefully at his eyes. Is he hoping he can push the tears back in? Quinn stares at him. ‘They came to visit me, see my new place.’
‘Very nice. How long have you lived in this new place?’
> ‘What? Erm, about six weeks. That’s why Mum and Dad came up. Mum always likes to visualise where it is I’m living, for when we’re on the phone, you know?’ Quinn’s nod falls somewhere between patronising and dismissive.
‘And how did your parents seem when they came to visit you?’
‘What?’
‘How did they seem?
‘Fine.’ Tony’s eyes dart to Rhys. ‘What does this have to do with… with what’s happened?’
‘Mr Reynolds. Tony.’ Eyes back to Quinn. ‘We have to build up a picture of your parents. Who they knew, the type of people they came into contact with.’
Would anyone they know want to torture and kill them? The words snuggle thick and unsaid between them.
‘Did anyone they know behave oddly around them? Had they ever felt threatened in any way?’ Quinn continues, ‘I know it’s painful, but we need to find out how they lived their lives–’
‘How they lived their lives has got nothing to do with it. Are you trying to blame them? Say it is somehow their fault?’ Tony places both hands flat on the table. His shirt cuff twitches against the Formica as he shakes. ‘Some bastard forces his way into their home and bleeds my mum to death, and it’s somehow her fault?’ Tony’s eyes dart back and forth between them. ‘There’s no need to both look so shocked. I read the papers you know, I know what this sick bastard is doing. As for my dad. Oh god.’ Tony’s hand flies to his mouth as he retches. He swallows hard. Fights to compose himself. ‘If you had worked harder, if you had worked faster, then you would have caught him already and this would not have happened. Would not be happening. This is your fault so don’t you dare try and lay the blame on them. Oh god.’ His voice cracks. He retches again.
‘Perhaps we should take a break,’ says Quinn.
‘Is there someone I can call?’ asks Rhys. Are there more members to the Reynolds family or in one brief night have they been blotted from the face of the earth? Rhys steps towards the table.
‘Stay the fuck away from me,’ Tony pushes back from the table as he speaks. ‘I need some air.’ Tony fumbles at the door handle like he has forgotten how they work. ‘I need some air right now. And Dad, I need to go and see Dad.’ Quinn leans to help open the door. ‘Stay the fuck away from me!’ Tony wrenches the door open and exits, his final, ‘stay the fuck away,’ echoing in the corridor.
‘Doesn’t he see, we’re all on the same side?’ says Quinn.
‘Sorry?’
Quinn shakes his head in response and strides out of the room.
8.
Quinn blows cigarette smoke towards the sky. Fat drops of rain start to fall. Rhys’s fingers force large buttons through tight holes.
‘That was a monumental waste of time.’ Quinn flicks ash into the wind.
‘His mother’s just been murdered.’
‘Exactly, and it’s our job to catch the bastard responsible, but we can’t do that on our own can we? DI Andrews has proven that.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ The wind blows the rain against Rhys’s face. Quinn continues,
‘We are precisely zero steps further forward than we were two and a half hours ago, two and a half hours to add to the pile of days already wasted.’ That isn’t what Rhys meant. Quinn lights a second cigarette off the butt of the first, shakes his head. ‘We are already going to have to do a full review, a full goddamn review of every note, every breath, every fucking fart taken by every person involved in this case in the past eight months. Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take? Alongside the fact the bastard is still killing, still piling shit into the storm and people are taking offence when I ask the most basic of questions.’ Quinn sucks hard on his cigarette. The end crackles.
The smoking area is a tiny square of outside space, wedged between the rotting buildings. It smells like decaying vegetables. There are black outlines where the bins used to be. They perished in the bright roll out of recycling. The new bins and containers need three times as much space. This area is still deemed okay for people, though. If you like to stand close together. And don’t mind the lingering smell.
Rhys raises a hand to gesture ‘hello’ to a smoker in the corner, except there’s no one there, it’s just a jacket hung up while someone smoked. Thankfully Quinn doesn’t notice Rhys change the movement to a casual scratch of his head.
‘Something’s been missed, it has to be.’ Quinn coughs. ‘Something’s in there somewhere, all the information we already have. Andrews may be mad but the rest of the team are good coppers.’ Quinn flicks the half-smoked cigarette away as if it’s the source of the disgust. It bounces off the wall opposite, lands next to the man that’s actually a coat. ‘Luckily next on our list is an invite to Andrews’s mad hatter’s tea party so we can ask him, right? Because that should help. That won’t be another epic waste of time.’
The sarcasm is sucked into the wind.
Quinn takes the steps down to the holding cells two at a time. Rhys follows, slips out of his coat, brushes off the rain. The quicker they get there the quicker it will be over, whatever it is.
The scream pierces the air long before they hit basement level, a wild sound that raises the hairs on the back of Rhys’s neck. Quinn’s footsteps falter slightly; his fingers brush the wall to keep his balance. It takes all of Rhys’s willpower not to clamp his hands over his own ears.
Quinn’s pace quickens. He glances back over his shoulder to Rhys, his face a mixture of anger tinged with concern. They round the corner. Another scream tears towards them. A ragged sound of pain and anger.
The sound of Andrews.
They’re running now. Quinn slides to a halt outside the only open cell door on the dark blue corridor. Rhys catches the edge of the doorframe and stops himself inches from Quinn.
The cell is tiny. Bodies cram in on either side of Andrews. Two Constables try to restrain him. Each clings to an arm. The small window backlights them like a paper puppet show. Andrews head is bowed. He is using all his strength to try and get his mouth to his right forearm. The Constable who battles to stop him is overweight and sweats heavily. He shouts to his even larger female colleague. She’s having her own battle with Andrews’s left arm. Neither can reach a radio or alarm. They all squash together against the wall then right themselves as Andrews lifts his head.
A meat-red mark on the wall is a mirror image of the flat bleeding patch starting to scab on Andrews’s forehead. His thin papery skin crinkles around the wound’s edge. The skin on the rest of his forehead looks to have slipped during impact. It reminds Rhys of trying to stick tissue paper with Copydex for one of Harry’s school projects.
Andrews sees them, stops struggling. The force, or lack of, sends the female Constable staggering backwards. She swears loudly. Rhys’s ears ring. There is a dirty bandage tied tightly around Andrews’s left hand and wrist. The fresh bloody handprint slamming against the car window thumps into Rhys’s mind. Andrews is injured? It’s his blood that left the handprint?
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ Quinn’s words break the silence as he squashes himself into the cell.
‘I know you.’ Andrews leans sideways, peers around Quinn.
‘I doubt that very much,’ says Quinn. Andrews’s thin lips pull into a large grin of sharp white teeth. Quinn moves and blocks Andrews from view. ‘Again. What the hell is going on here?’ Quinn’s words aim at the Constables, at Andrews. Rhys sidesteps to get a view into the room. To get a view of Andrews.
The large male Constable replies. His breaths are heavy.
‘It was him, sir.’ He points at Andrews.
‘It was him, sir.’ The mock is crystal clear. ‘Where do you think we are, the school playground?’ Quinn takes a step towards the male Constable. Their bodies touch, their shadows one black mass. The Constable tries to step back but there is nowhere to go. Discomfort squirms physically around them. ‘Everything that happens in this room is your responsibility. Do you understand that, Constable?’
‘Yes, sir.�
� There is a slight octave change in the Constable’s voice, a hairline crack.
Andrews is stood statue still. His tiny black eyes fix on Rhys. He blinks one slow blink. Rhys anticipates the move but Andrews is a split second faster. Rhys’s hand has hardly left his side as Andrews head snaps forwards and he sinks his teeth into his own forearm.
‘What the…?’
Quinn’s move is surprisingly quick. He grabs at Andrews’s head and crams his fingers in amongst the teeth and broken flesh. It is a technique Rhys has seen used on dogs. A dog. One that refused to release a child’s limb. A small sound cracks, like someone stepping on a twig. Quinn swears loudly and pulls Andrews’s head back. Drops of deep red blood flick across the wall and the male Constable’s sweat-soaked shirt. Andrews roars, Quinn grapples with him. Quinn’s forefinger is bent back at a funny angle. The male and female Constables wrestle into the chaos of limbs. They become like a cartoon fight. A ball of confusion with arms and legs protruding. Quinn swears again and shoves hard until the two Constables are back to holding Andrews, one arm each. Rhys cannot tell if it is Andrews’s blood or the combined pools of sweat that give the room a slippery sheen.
‘Why are you trying to stop me?’ Andrews spits the words into Quinn’s face. A spray of fine blood particles land on Quinn’s pale doughy flesh. ‘It’s not your place to stop me.’
Quinn takes deep gasps of air, pushes his right hand hard into his left. ‘Sadly for both of us, it is my place. It’s my job. Some of us still have some commitment, believe it or not.’ He stares at Andrews. A thick line of blood and saliva runs down Andrews’s chin. ‘Trust me there is nothing I would like more than to step out of this room and leave you to fuck yourself into oblivion the way you’ve fucked this case up.’ He takes another deep, pain-filled breath. ‘But I don’t think the local taxpayers and papers would like that very much, do you?’ The blood from Andrews’s right forearm runs down his fingers and drips onto the floor. The male Constable grips the arm tightly, oblivious to the blood that turns his fingers a deep pink.