by Lucy Cameron
‘Look, truth be told, I haven’t seen him for a day or two, maybe more. Not since before your lot came and cleared his place out. Hang on.’ The fat slob disappears inside. Returns with something in his hand. ‘Andrews gave me a key, for emergencies.’ Rhys wonders how long the fat slob would wait without seeing Andrews before it would class as an emergency.
‘You want to see any kind of identification before you go handing out a vulnerable neighbour’s key?’ Rhys reaches for his pocket.
‘There’s nothing vulnerable about that mad bastard.’ The fat slob laughs.
The door slams shut.
The key turns easily. Rhys is back inside the tunnel of magazines and newspapers. Some of the piles have been kicked aside then badly restacked. The team were not kind when they came to remove what they believed was theirs.
A towering archway of print still leads to the living room. How different the room is. It’s had its heart torn out. There are dark patches where the photographs prevented the wallpaper fading. Rhys can still see the image of Claudia Rose. Her eyes as green and dark as the wallpaper. The carpet is also green. Covered in coffee stains so black they look like blood. A bald patch worn in front of the sofa. There’s a coffee table. A side table. A couple of lamps. The room is otherwise empty. They’d cleared it back to King’s Mill. Taken a piece of Andrews with it. Rhys can see that now.
The smell of damp is heavy. Rhys moves cautiously through the house. There is a small, squalid kitchen. A fridge full of rot. An even smaller bathroom containing a selection of dust-covered hand soaps. Upstairs is the master bedroom. An empty wardrobe. A bed with dirty, greasy sheets.
Rhys pauses outside the daughter’s bedroom. Will Andrews be in here? Does he too feel solace in loss? Will he be crying? Will he be poised ready to pounce? He need not have worried. Andrew’s wife removed every trace of herself and the baby the day she left. The room contains a couple of sticks of furniture, all too small even in this tiny space. All Andrews was left with was the case, and they had taken that from him.
All he had been left with was Kier?
Rhys can’t tell when Andrews was last in the property. It doesn’t look like it has been fit for human habitation for some time. Had they brought him back here and left him to fester? His colleagues. His friends. After everything he’s done, everything he’s sacrificed. Why hasn’t the neighbour seen Andrews? Where is he?
Rhys’s mobile rings. He jumps and swears.
‘Where are you?’ says the voice.
‘I’m not late.’
‘Get your arse down to Queen Street pronto. Someone somewhere has decided we haven’t got enough to do. There’s another bastard body.’
‘What number Queen Street?’ Rhys fumbles for his pad. Isn’t the centre of the city all businesses and clubs? How can the killer have managed to get to another couple there? The voice laughs.
‘No number, just the street. All over the bastard street.’
51.
Blue and white tape is strung wide to try and keep her from the prying eyes of the early morning commuters. Already their cappuccinos and croissants line the end of the street. Mobile phones ready so as not to miss a moment. Her body, or what is left of it, is down an alley just off the main road. Dumped on a pile of rubbish bags. All very television drama, except the girl is not an actress. She won’t get up and walk away.
The rain pours down, gutters overflow. Drains, like the Constables, work overtime. The alley is sheltered by several large awnings. Awnings put up for disgruntled employees to break more rules smoking in fire escapes. The awnings sag under the weight of the rain. Plastic sheets have been put up where necessary. The water pours off the edges in torrents. Everyone below the rank of detective is soaked. Preserving the evidence is key. Protect what is left. Ironic really, if you think about it.
Quinn is at the cordon as Rhys arrives. Too self-absorbed to question why Rhys is already soaked. He waves Rhys through to the flash of press camera bulbs.
‘They think it’s the same one.’ Quinn points to the press as he speaks. He slurps at the coffee he’s managed to get his hands on. ‘Stupid bastards.’
They walk towards the alley.
‘Kid there called it in.’ A pale-looking teenager huddles under blankets in the back of an ambulance. ‘They were starting early as they had a wedding on. If this doesn’t put them off marriage nothing will.’ Rhys looks at the expensive cocktail bar. It fronts onto the main road. One of the fluorescent strip lights inside the window flashes.
‘Kid wanted to get ahead. Whoever worked last night was kind enough to leave all the rubbish inside. In fairness, it was pissing down. The kid popped out to the bins…’ They reach the mouth of the alley. ‘… which are situated here.’ This time the camera flash comes from down the alley. From deep inside the evidence tent. A tent erected to try and keep her safe. Hours too late.
‘What if they had put the bins out?’ says Rhys.
‘I doubt it, but we’ll never really know. They can’t give us that tight a window of death.’ Quinn shrugs. ‘He spent a while with her though, so…?’
They step towards the tent.
‘Best keep your hands in your pockets, eh.’ Quinn is close behind him. ‘Don’t want to go potentially fucking up any more crime scenes.’ Rhys ignores him. ‘This is not our guy. Not at all. Just another bastard adding to the shit storm.’
To the sides of the alley are several Constables. They work inch by inch along a grid pattern. Check every single square. They work quickly and efficiently. Know every minute counts as the downpour continues. The killer has been thoughtful enough to leave them with pockets of shelter. There’s no guarantee he will have left a vital piece of evidence in a place of such luck. Rhys treads carefully towards the evidence tent. Do two of the younger Constables at the end of the alley turn and giggle to each other as they see him?
Are those deep, dark stains along the wall? Stains from someone being dragged? Someone fighting and screaming? Someone frozen ridged with fear? He overhears a snippet of conversation as he passes Constable Bayne.
‘I feel sick. I walked this way about eleven last night. You can cut along the river from the station and be here in half the time.’ Rhys knows it well. Has walked that way himself. They all walk this way at one time or another.
Rhys stoops, enters the small white tent. The man taking photographs isn’t someone he knows. They nod to each other.
She’s on her back. Arched over a pile of rubbish bags. Thrown there like a rag doll a child has tired of playing with. Her tiny silver skirt still manages to give her some kind of dignity. It would be the last thing on her mind. Her hair is thick. Auburn. It reminds Rhys of the first girl he dated at school. The hair covers the left side of her face. Not that it makes much difference. The right side of her face no longer exists. Beaten and bloody beyond recognition. All over her naked flesh, her neck, arms, midriff, legs are deep, brutal bruises. The skin broken in deep black holes. Her ribs look to have broken through her skin leaving a blood trail to the floor. A giant claw dug into her. She still wears one pink patent heel. It twists at an odd angle where her ankle is broken.
‘Doesn’t look like she got the chance to put up much of a fight, poor kid.’ The man taking the photographs rises. His colleagues wait outside to do their jobs. To swab and sample in the tiny space. ‘Hopefully that was because it was over quickly. For her anyway.’
The space inside the tent is as tight as a second skin. Rhys feels he’s suffocating. The smell of the rubbish is overwhelming. The smell hits the back of his throat. The floor starts to shift. Everything starts to burn and char. The smell of rot mixes with the smell of burning.
‘Run,’ her voice whispers in his ear. ‘Run.’ But he can’t. He turns. The wet entrance flaps of the tent wrap around him. Holding him in. He’s trapped and terrified. Smothered in wet plastic, he cries out. The panic rises. Then he’s free.
‘Hey mate, are you alright?’ The photographer’s voice is distant.
&
nbsp; Outside everything is burning. The alley is charred and black. There’s a great rip in the landscape. Huge pillars of dense black matter have torn up through the earth. Everyone’s laughing. He turns his head from side to side. A few feet away, Quinn turns.
‘Ask,’ says Quinn. The flesh from the side of his face falls away. His skull is exposed. His face contorts into an almighty grimace. ‘Ask.’ His voice is louder than humanly possible. Rhys screws up his eyes. Brings his hands to his ears. Gasps. He staggers back. The outside of the tent is wet against the back of his neck. He can feel the heat from the flames burn his skin.
And then it’s gone.
Slowly he opens his eyes.
Everything is normal.
‘… ask me, then stupid people will believe anything you tell them.’ Quinn speaks to the bored-looking Constable that guards the entrance to the alley. ‘That’s the problem with the world today. We can use it to our advantage, but it can also be used to disadvantage us.’ Rhys fights for breath.
‘Sir.’ Constable Bayne holds up something on the end of a lanyard. ‘I’ve found something, sir.’ She looks awkward, unsure.
‘Give it to Morgan there. He looks like he could do with something to focus on. He’s gone a bit green around the gills. Again.’
‘No, sir, I really think this is one you need to look at.’ Quinn sighs. Stalks over. Peers at the object. Shoves it into an evidence bag. Mutters to Bayne. Stuffs the evidence bag into his pocket. Bayne doesn’t take her eyes off Rhys.
Rhys struggles to catch his breath. Looks like a rookie who has never seen a dead body before. No wonder Bayne looks at him strangely. The air is damp on his face. The cold rain cools his skin.
What the hell just happened?
He fights the urge to vomit. He needs to sit down. He needs something solid to lean on. The tent is flimsy. It could collapse and send him backwards into the rotten embrace of the bloody corpse. He’s watching everything through water. A third person perspective on himself as he stands in the filth.
Quinn stands for a long moment. He comes silently to Rhys. Nods for him to follow.
Something is wrong.
It takes all of Rhys’s energy to get his legs to move. The ground gets firmer beneath his feet the further they get from the tent. The end of the alley is like a looking glass. Rhys steps through it, back to reality. He feels like he has awoken from a dream.
On the main road, Quinn signals them into his car. As the doors shut Quinn pulls the evidence bag out of his pocket. Holds it close to Rhys’s face.
‘You are in some serious shit.’
Staring back at Rhys is Rhys. At least his police photo identification. Covered in blood and apparently found wrapped around a second pink patent heel.
52.
‘As I keep saying, there is no way my identification could’ve been there. It’s just not possible.’
‘You were there, with Detective Inspector Quinn, when the discovery was made?’
‘Yes, I know that. It’s just not possible. I have it here, look.’ Rhys fumbles into his pocket. Shit. Where’s his identification? The other pocket? No. Why is there so much stuff in his pockets anyway? He starts to empty them onto the desk. Tissues, coins, keys, a piece of Lego? His heart skips as he throws the picture of Kier down. It smiles up at him.
There is no identification. Harry must have it.
‘Harry must have it, must have moved it. He does that all the time.’ Rhys laughs weakly. Harry does move his identification all the time. He loves to play cops and robbers. He’s always the cop. Rhys tells him countless times how important it is not to touch Daddy’s identification. He needs it for work. He will get into trouble without it. They even spent a rainy Sunday afternoon mocking Harry up his own card, complete with photograph and realistic hologram. Obviously the message hasn’t got through. ‘Let me call Anna. I’ll ask her to look.’
‘Rhys, is this your identification?’ Detective Chief Inspector Alec Jenkins pushes the clear plastic evidence bag across the table towards him. Inside the blood congeals in bubbles.
‘It looks like it, yes, but as I keep saying that is not possible.’ Rhys stares at the photo of himself. ‘It must be a fake or something. Can’t you get it analysed?’
‘We should get you analysed.’ Quinn speaks under his breath. Jenkins frowns.
‘Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector. Rhys, this is really important.’
‘I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? Like I said, call Anna.’ Rhys drums his fingers on the desk. ‘No, wait – don’t call Anna. It’s in my desk. In my desk. I remember now.’ It is in his desk. Of course. The relief is like a weight being lifted. ‘When I moved all my stuff in, it was in the box. It’ll be in my desk. Shall I go and get it?’ He rises. Of course that’s where it is. He just needs to calm down. To think clearly.
The Detective Chief Inspector signals for Rhys to sit. He nods once to Quinn who leaves the room. The Constable at the door shuffles. Rhys sits. Fidgets. Jenkins’s eyes bore into him.
‘Rhys, this is not a question I like to ask but hope you understand I have to. Where were you between eleven p.m. last night and seven a.m. this morning?’
‘What? Are you serious?’ He is of course. ‘Is this an interview? Am I a suspect? Shouldn’t we be heading down to the interview suites to do this? Do I need a solicitor?’ He really needs to clear his head.
‘Rhys.’ Jenkins’s voice is calm, firm. ‘You’re here voluntarily, helping us with our investigation.’ Rhys looks down at the tabletop. ‘I’m trying to help you here. Your police identification has just been found next to a young girl’s body. A young girl who was violently beaten to death at some point between eleven p.m. and seven a.m. this morning. You’re saying that’s not possible. I want to hear why. Help me out here. Help me find the right answer.’ Rhys sighs. Rubs his itchy eyes. Why are his eyes always so itchy?
‘I was at home.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Rhys.’ Rhys looks up. ‘I’ve already spoken to Anna.’
‘Anna and I had a fight. I went out. I drove around. I fell asleep.’ No lie.
‘What did you fight about?’
‘Our neighbour came over for drinks. We don’t get on. I didn’t want him in my house, Anna did. We fought, I left.’
‘How did your neighbour feel about this?’
‘What? I don’t give a shit how he felt about it. He knew he wasn’t welcome in my house. He was there taking the piss.’ Rhys feels his anger rising. Control it. The thought of the creature sitting there with his wife. His children.
‘Was there any violence?’ says Jenkins.
‘A little bit of shoving, that’s all,’ Rhys shakes the image of Kier’s sly smile from his mind. ‘You’ve spoken to Anna. She must have said the same?’
‘And what’s the name of your neighbour?’ Jenkins looks at his notes. Are they real notes? Notes about him. Or just blank sheets of paper in a file, there to make Rhys feel uncomfortable?
‘Kier Finnegan, not that I am sure how that’s relevant.’ Kier’s picture smiles up at him from the table. Jenkins makes a note. Rhys wants to stand up and scream, instead he says, ‘I wouldn’t bother going during the day.’ Jenkins raises an eyebrow.
‘So, you left around what time?’ says Jenkins.
‘Seven p.m.’
‘And then what?’
‘I drove.’
‘Where did you drive?’
‘Here. There. Everywhere. I couldn’t say, I was just so angry,’ Jenkins makes another note. ‘Do I need a solicitor?’
‘Not at this stage.’ Shit. ‘How angry were you exactly?’
‘I was very angry, but driving calmed me down. I wasn’t “get out of my car and beat some poor teenager to death” angry, if that is what you are asking.’ Being smart will get him nowhere but this is ridiculous. Quinn will be back any minute with his identification. They’ll all have to apologise. He needs to get out of here. He has bigger problems on his hands.
‘And where di
d you end up after all this driving?’ says Jenkins. ‘Out of town. In the old lanes.’
‘Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?’ Rhys pauses.
Interesting.
‘Yes actually, my neighbour, Kier Finnegan.’ Let’s see how Kier likes the police knocking on his door. Bringing the net closer.
‘Kier Finnegan? The neighbour you say you had a fight with earlier that night?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you said you were driving “here, there and everywhere” How would your neighbour have found you? Why would he want to find you after there had been some “shoving” earlier in the evening?’
‘I have no idea. You could ask him for me when you confirm my alibi, not that you will need to as this is all a big mistake.’ Jenkins stares at him. Rhys does not break eye contact.
‘Do you keep any tools in your car?’ says Jenkins.
‘No. Like what?’ A hammer?
‘A hammer?’
Rhys shakes his head. Slowly he reaches across the table. Pulls his belongings towards him. Slips them back into his pockets.
‘It’s been brought to my attention,’ Jenkins continues, clears his throat, ‘that your behaviour has been, how can I put this, a little erratic lately.’ What is that look in his eyes?
‘Who told you that? Quinn? Well he’s a lying bastard.’
‘The issue at St James’ Hospital? The need to eliminate your fingerprints from an active crime scene?’
‘I….’ Right on cue Quinn comes back into the room.
‘There’s nothing there, sir,’ says Quinn.
‘You lying bastard.’ Rhys shoots out of his seat. ‘See, what did I just say, he’s a lying bastard.’ Rhys turns to the door. ‘Let me go and look myself.’ The Constable steps in front of the door. ‘It’s there. It has to be there. How can it not be there?’ How can it not be there?
‘It isn’t. Both myself and DC Dan Davies were present,’ says Quinn. Davies was there too? Fucking brilliant.
‘There has to be some kind of mistake,’ says Rhys. ‘Look on the CCTV. Someone must have taken it.’ A slow reality dawns. He sits back down. ‘He must have taken it.’