by Lucy Cameron
The day shift are packing up. They lick their lips; taste that well-earned pint. There’s talk of cosy meals with husbands. Plans to visit a nightclub. Of a hot bath to try and relax, get some peace laid down in their minds. No one mentions what day of the year it is. No fancy dress. No tricks to make each other jump. All they want is a few hours away from the madness. To hold something normal. One or two of them will call the night shift with a thought or idea that can’t wait until morning. Something tiny that will seem massive in the dead of night. Something that will lead to nothing other than divorce.
Amongst the goodbyes, the phone starts to ring. Nothing out of the ordinary. Someone shouts to leave it. They all know they can’t.
Quinn sighs as he replaces the receiver.
He nods to Rhys as the colour drains from his face. The pint will wait. The room looks to Quinn in silence. They know without him saying. There is no smiling. No comments. No crass jokes. There are no words at all as Rhys follows Quinn to the car.
Earlier that day, Detective Chief Inspector Alec Jenkins made a few things very clear. He has reached the end of his patience. Should there be any more bodies, the press, the Divisional Superintendent, the whole of the known universe, will be down on them like a sack of shit. A sack of shit he won’t stink of alone. The Detective Inspector and his goddamn team best work every second they have to catch this sick bastard before anyone else dies. Do they all understand? Do they understand their shift patterns and what ‘until further notice’ means? Do they need him to come and supervise the investigation more closely? All the press needs is one sniff of Andrews’s misdemeanours, one sniff there has been a potential mess up, and none of them, he emphasises these words, none of them, will work so much as issuing a speeding ticket in this town again.
The street is full of kids. It’s that kind of street. Full of kids on bikes with dirty faces that shout dirty words at the police. They dress in sheets with eyeholes. Vampire capes. Plastic axes come out of the top of their heads. Buckets for sweets and money dangle from handlebars. Someone shouts ‘a penny for the guy’. Someone shouts something ruder.
It is a terrace house. Red brick. Victorian. A front door with a bubbled glass panel. A small concrete rectangle masquerades as a front garden. A mirror image of the neighbour, and the neighbour after that. Street after street of these houses. Lined up next to the park. A park full of dog shit and flashers. Teenagers drinking cider and starting fires. Little wonder the kids are on the streets. It’s cheap housing. Inhabited by generations of families all born, living and dying a few streets from each other.
Crude pumpkin faces leer out of windows at Quinn and Rhys as they arrive. Laughing at the joke they are.
The couple in question are Will and Pam Jones. They live at number one hundred and seven. Female wailing fills the air.
No one’s thought to move the pumpkin. It stares toothlessly up from behind the boot of the Constable positioned at the front gate.
‘What the hell’s that noise?’ Quinn snaps.
‘Crying, sir. It’s the daughter, Sally, sir. I think she’s a little upset.’ The Constable looks down at his highly polished boots. Knows he sounds ridiculous. The pumpkin catches his eye. ‘She’s waiting for you, sir. She’s the one who found the deceased. The paramedics wanted to check her over, give her somewhere to calm down, the neighbour offered. I thought it would be okay.’
Another wail emanates from one hundred and nine. The front door is open. Rhys sees the outline of a Constable in the gloomy hall. ‘It’s all a bit busy out here, sir.’ The Constable nods to the gathering crowd. Quinn’s neck is bright red.
‘Move this bloody cordon back then!’ The blue and white tape is only metres behind. ‘Tell the vultures they can wait and see this on the news, like the rest of the world. Get back!’ The last words barked to the gathering crowd. The man closest to the tape steps back. ‘Show some bloody respect.’ The front gate squeaks in approval as Rhys and Quinn pass.
The hall smells flowery. Fragrance from a wall adapter plugged in across from the dark mouth of the understairs cupboard. A cupboard that swallowed Will Jones whole. Nearly whole. As whole as can be expected. No need for the paramedics. Will is going nowhere in a hurry.
‘Jesus.’ Quinn peers into the darkness. ‘Where are the CSI guys? They usually beat us here? I always got the impression they slept in the van, fully kitted up and ready to go. You would think that, the amount of bitching that goes on.’ He takes a step closer. ‘There’s a lot of blood in there. A hell of a lot of blood.’ His face is a grimace. He turns. ‘There’s never been this much blood before. Mind you, I can’t really see fuck all without the lads and their lights.’ He sticks his head closer. Double checks there’s no light source.
‘Why do people keep so much shit under the stairs anyway? Bet they haven’t looked at half of it for years.’ Had Will thought the same as he lay there in the gloom? ‘Bet that would really piss him off, the killer, if he came to shove someone in and it was too full of crap. Police safety warning: keep those understair cupboards full, folks. It will stop the bogie man getting in.’ Quinn doesn’t even bother to laugh. He rises. Joins Rhys. They stare into the lounge.
‘There’s a lot of blood in here too,’ says Rhys. He looks at a pool that floats like oil on the white leather sofa. Quinn sniffs. The air is stale. The smell of old Chinese food. Open containers are stacked next to wiped-clean plates. A bag of prawn crackers has been knocked to the floor. One of them is soaked crimson.
‘So, it’s the lesser of two evils really. May as well go next door and speak to the daughter while we wait for CSI to arrive.’ Rhys nods. He picks the living over the dead any day.
‘Wait for CSI so we can see everything clearly?’ It’s not a question that needs to be answered. Quinn steps back. Looks into the kitchen.
‘I think I can see what’s in here clearly enough. Let’s talk to the daughter first, then she can get out of here.’
32.
Time grinds to a halt. It always does when he talks to the lost. More so with those catapulted into loss when all they expected was a cup of tea, a cake, a moan at something crap on telly. Sally is a large woman. She looks tiny as she sits, trying to control her shakes.
‘Husband’s on his way.’ The paramedic rises. Sally grabs his arm, pleading. Funny the attachments people make. He looks from Quinn to Rhys. ‘Is it okay if I stay?’
‘Sure.’ Quinn perches on the arm of a second floral couch, crammed in at ninety degrees to where Sally shivers. Rhys walks to the window.
Sally picks at a lose thread on the arm of her large brown cardigan. She opens her mouth to speak. Shuts it again. Lost for words. No, not lost, there are no words. Nowhere to begin where she can guarantee ever being able to stop.
‘Sally.’ Rhys turns to face her. ‘Do you mind if I call you Sally?’ A headshake. ‘I understand how hard this is, I really do, but if you could talk us through what happened from when you arrived at your parents’ house that would be great.’ Sally nods.
They continue to sit in silence.
‘What time did you arrive, Sally?’ Quinn this time. Sally looks pointlessly at her watch for guidance.
‘About half an hour ago, I think. Yes, no, longer, it was about half-seven. I had to wait until the kids had had their tea and got ready for trick or treating, you know with it being… It’s not fair on Barry otherwise. He doesn’t get in from work until seven you see, so yes, about half-seven.’
Just over an hour ago. Sally is sixty-five minutes into her new life.
‘Oh god what if I’d brought the kids with me? They wanted to come, they really did, to show nanny their costumes, but I said no, said it was too late, took pictures to show her…’ Sally’s voice starts to shard.
‘How did you get into the house?’ She focuses on Quinn.
‘I have a key. It’s for emergencies. That’s what Mum says.’ The tense catches in her throat, ‘said? Saved her having to get up to answer the door all the time, Dad is, was… oh
god.’ Her eyes on Quinn start to plead. ‘He was a lazy sod. And I’m always over here.’ She points towards her parents’ house. ‘There.’
‘You’re doing really well, Sally, just a few more questions and we can leave the rest until tomorrow.’ Sally clenches her teeth. Does she hope it’ll hold the pieces together? ‘So what happened after you let yourself in?’
‘There was no sound. I thought it was odd: there’s always sound, usually from the television, but there was nothing, so I called out. I wondered if they’d gone out but Mum would have said yesterday, told me to come later.’ Her head drops. She picks at the thread. If she pulls too hard she’ll unravel. ‘Oh god why didn’t I come earlier…’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ says Quinn. Blunt. To the point. ‘No difference at all. Please…’
‘Really?’ A tiny drop of relief in this dark storm. The briefest moment. Swept away as the horror of reality returns. Quinn says nothing. Lets the silence settle.
‘So I called out, no one answered and that’s when I saw all the blood.’ Sally starts to shake violently. The paramedic looks at them with concern. ‘So much blood in the lounge. I started to panic, ran into the kitchen. At first I thought, you know, she had done something stupid, the way she was hanging there.’ Sally laughs suddenly. Eyes wide. ‘Then I realised she was upside down… and naked… and so pale… and her face…’ The twisted scream hammers into Rhys’s mind. Shake it off. His hands are in his pockets. He balls them into fists.
‘I didn’t touch her, I couldn’t. I think I screamed. Yes, I screamed. That’s what she must have heard, next door… here.’ The thought forms physically in front of her. ‘Why didn’t they hear anything here? Why didn’t they hear anything when she could hear me screaming? Maybe they did. You’ll have to ask them. You will ask them, won’t you?’ The paramedic rests a hand on her arm. Signals to Quinn it is time to stop.
‘And Dad, I didn’t even know Dad was there. Why didn’t I know Dad was there?’ Her eyes dart back and forth. Questioning. Self-accusing. ‘Why didn’t I see the blood coming from under the cupboard door?’ She gags. Snot pours from her nose. ‘It was the first thing the policeman noticed when he got here, the blood on the carpet: at the door. What if I had noticed? Would he still be…?’
‘No.’ Quinn stands. ‘There is no way that could have been the case.’ He goes as if to carry on but stops himself. ‘No.’ Quinn nods to Rhys; they rise to leave. Quinn reaches the door. Hand on the knob.
‘I mean Mum’s only just got home.’ Sally takes big rasps of air. ‘Home from the hospital.’ That stops Quinn, stops them both.
‘Which hospital?’ Quinn pivots slowly.
‘St James’.’
Quinn nods to Rhys. Rhys excuses himself.
‘When was she admitted…?’
Rhys calls Davies, gives him all the relevant information, then paces the hall. The homeowner twitches in the kitchen. She is poised to flick the switch of the kettle, open a new packet of biscuits. Keen to help. A voyeur to someone else’s nightmare.
The reality of what happened through the thin brick wall has not set in. Yet. Was she sat at her table while through the wall the killer sat at Pam Jones’s and watched her blood drain? Rhys considers mentioning it. Extinguish that twinkle in her eye.
Quinn exits the living room to a crescendo of Sally’s sobs. Rhys half expects him to take a bow. He strides past Rhys and out onto the street. It’s time to go back next door.
33.
Quinn’s phone rings at the front door. He looks at the caller ID.
‘I need to take this.’ Quinn steps away.
Winters and his team have arrived. Winters passes Rhys in the hall. Rhys nods. Winters doesn’t notice. He mutters something about evidence bags.
Rhys steps into the kitchen.
Pam fills the space. They’re alone. Strangers on a first date.
Her face is twisted. The silent scream of terror.
The room is ice cold. Is it coming from her skin?
Rhys couches down low. His face near Pam’s. Her eyes are open. Stare directly at him through their thin, red veil. He resists the urge to close them.
Pam’s flesh is covered in cellulite. Does that make it harder to get the blood out? Harder for it to fight its way through the fat? Or did her massive heart pump her life out all the faster? Rhys feels the warm liquid at the back of his throat.
He rises, takes a steps back. His blue shoe covers make him silent. Through the front door, he can see Quinn on the telephone.
Rhys moves around Pam. Careful to stay on the foot boards. Careful not to contaminate the scene.
Did the killer do this? View her from every angle. Rhys tilts his head. What does he think about as he watches her die? Does he sit or stand? Rhys circles her slowly. Does he hold them close at that final moment? Feel their heartbeat slowly fade next to his?
Rhys feels a second heartbeat next to his. The breeze rustles his hair. The ground shifts slightly under foot. Someone should push the front door shut. They’ll all be blown away, not that it’s all that windy. He completes his circle. Looks back to the front door. It is pulled tight shut. Rhys frowns. Rhys’s paper boiler suit suddenly seems too tight, more his tie is too tight underneath. He can’t draw breath properly; he can’t undo the zip with these goddamn gloves on. He pulls one glove off, yanks the zip, loosens his tie. Inhales deeply even though the air is rank.
The colours of the kitchen start to swirl. To merge. He blinks rapidly. Is he having a panic attack? The room feels like it’s swaying, tipping from one side to the other. He staggers slightly to the left. In the hall, the lights flash. Black. Then white. Then black again.
‘Ask.’ The voice whispers in his ear. Just an out breath but enough. Cold. Hard. Full of purpose. Rhys whips his head round. Nothing. His heart stops. Adrenalin explodes through his veins.
‘What for?’ he shouts. He reaches out to steady himself on the worktop.
‘Talking to yourself in here, Morgan?’ Quinn steps into the room. All movement stops. The wind lulls. Everything is still. All bar the adrenaline buzzing through Rhys’s veins, his heart as it hammers in his chest. He can’t move.
‘You know what that is? The first sign of madness.’ Quinn’s laugh is distant. He finishes fiddling with his phone. ‘Actually that’s probably not appropriate, all things considered.’ Quinn looks up. Stops dead. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He stares at Rhys’s fingers that cling to the wood.
‘Rhys!’ The sound of his name clicks the final edges of the kitchen back into focus. For the first time he is aware of the smooth wood beneath his fingers.
‘Sorry. Shit.’ What on earth is he doing? Where is he? He jerks his hand back. Tries to use the sleeve of his paper boiler suit to wipe the worktop. Why the hell hasn’t he got gloves on? He always put gloves on. ‘It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to. I just… it was a mistake.’ He can hardly speak. He looks from his one gloved hand to the other gloveless one. His tie, he took it off to loosen his tie.
‘You’re a fucking mistake, Morgan.’
‘It was my tie, I was–’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Quinn steps close. Rhys is definitely awake. ‘You know they haven’t finished in here, right? You best not give that fat bastard reason to have one up on me. Fuck me.’ Quinn’s head shakes. He glances over his shoulder. Checks the hall is still empty. ‘Hands in pockets. Now.’ Rhys complies. ‘Shit, if you’re going to act like a dick, I’ll treat you like one. Let’s go. Now.’
Rhys isn’t sure his legs will work. Will he fall? Crash headlong into Quinn. Into the voice. The voice. The one simple word seems to resonate around his body. Shake his bones until they hurt.
‘Ask.’
The reverb on his eardrum. The echo in his head. The sound of waves crashing all around him. Quinn is talking. Focus on the words. Use them to pull yourself back towards the light. A pinprick on the horizon zooming into focus. Rhys feels sweat break out all over his body.
Quinn moves down the hall. Opens the door to a flash of press photograph bulbs. His voice is far away.
‘Not sure about you, but I really fancy a Chinese for dinner now, once you’ve given your details to Winters so he can eliminate you from the crime scene.’
34.
‘Clean it.’ Mother’s voice shrieks above him. ‘Clean it faster, you vile little thing.’ Tears stream down his face, land on the stone floor. Snot pours from his nose but he daren’t stop. Instead he breathes through his mouth. The fumes burn his throat – make him cough. This makes her laugh louder, harder. His hands are red raw. They feel like they’re on fire. They burn and itch in equal measure. He pulls and pushes the heavy wooden scrubbing brush back and forth. He’s down on all fours like the disgusting animal he is. He wants so badly to make it shiny. To make her happy. Why can’t she see how hard he tries to please her?
The flagstones beneath his knees are cold. Pain shoots up his thighs as his bones push down. Back and forth in the slippery bubbles. Soaked and sore and vile. He looks up at her. From this angle she looks like the light fitting is going straight into the back of her neck. She is suspended in the gloom like a grotesque theatre puppet.
‘Don’t you look at me. Not like that. Not at all, you vile creature.’ She kicks him then. Hard. Violent. He sprawls across the wet floor. She grabs the bottle of bleach. Pours it all over him. All over him and the floor. She screeches that he isn’t fast enough. Doesn’t scrub hard enough. He is vile and if she wants a job doing properly she’ll be as well doing it herself. She spits down on him. Screams her wish that he was dead. That he was dead and his sister was still alive. He screws up his eyes and almost wished the same thing.
In the dark, he finds her there, little Elizabeth. In the corner of his mind. In the corner of his room.
He doesn’t think about her, his little sister. It’s as if the memory of her has almost been erased over time. Time has changed so much. Things have changed so much. There is no room for her. He likes to kid himself it’s because things are so horrible now that he refuses to think of her. Doesn’t want to taint her with the stink. That’s a lie. He just doesn’t think of her. It’s as simple as that.