The Keeper

by Catriona King

  ****

  Nicky was kneeling beneath her desk picking up some tin tacks that she’d split, so she couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from at first, just that it wasn’t part of the familiar squad-room soundtrack. It didn’t sound like talking or typing, or even the tannoy calling someone to another floor. It wasn’t the lift’s drone or a fist banging on a desk in frustration, and it wasn’t Craig muttering and pacing, because he wasn’t in.

  She rose and cast a look round the open-plan office. Nothing seemed out of place. What team members were there were seated, heads down or eyes fixed on the ceiling searching for inspiration, just as they usually were. Her scan stopped suddenly as she fixed on Jake’s office chair. He was spinning around in it deep in thought and the noise it was making was out of place. She listened carefully to the discordant squeak. It was annoying, yes, but it still wasn’t the sound that she’d heard. Her survey revealed something else; Davy was nowhere to be seen and he hadn’t said that he was going out for lunch.

  She piled the tacks in her in-tray and went to see where he was, noticing that the noise grew louder as she approached the small corner kitchen found on each floor, allocated for sandwich storage and microwave dinging, or, at a push, for the stirring of soup. The noise had a reedy quality, like an oboe; she knew that because Seal’s ‘Kiss from a Rose’ was her favourite tune and she’d checked out the oboe solo online.

  As she entered the kitchen Nicky saw Davy and another young man. At least she thought it was a man; the skinny jeans and long blue hair made it slightly hard to tell. Either way whoever it was was laughing, and the nasal sound they were making was her unusual noise. She stood in the doorway awaiting an introduction. When it wasn’t forthcoming she walked towards the blue haired pipe cleaner, reaching out a hand.

  “Nicky Morris. And you are?”

  The grip that ensued said that the gripper was decidedly male. An unexpectedly smooth baritone confirmed the thought.

  “Ash. Ash Rahman.”

  Beneath the blue hair was a pair of the most beautiful brown eyes that Nicky had ever seen. Wide and slightly slanted, she could stare into them for hours. Momentarily flustered, a condition she rarely suffered from (it ranked up there with losing at scrabble, something else that she never did) she turned quickly towards Davy, struggling to hide her impending blush.

  “How do you know each other?”

  Ash was the first to answer. “I’m an old mate of Davy’s from Uni, and we’re doing a photo -”

  Davy cut in hastily. “Course. W…We’re doing a photography course together.”

  Nicky was so intent in telling Davy off that she completely missed his companion’s sceptical smirk.

  “So why are you in here? If your friend’s come to visit you should have taken him to The James for lunch.”

  Davy’s smile said that he’d seen her reaction to Ash and was considering using it to deflect her, but reconsideration told him that he’d better not, so instead he slipped past her to the door.

  “He’s not here visiting, he’s here to work. There’s a lot to do so the chief said I could get another analyst in to help.”

  He headed back to his desk, leaving Nicky and their guest alone. After a few seconds shuffling and “after you-ing” they were all three back out on the floor. Davy waved Ash to a desk and started to show him the ropes, but Nicky hadn’t finished.

  “David. I’d like to see you for a moment, please.”

  He loped over for the lecture that he knew was to come, leaving Ash cleaning his new desk with a wipe from his rucksack.

  “Why was I not informed that Mr Rahman was starting?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me. The chief s…should have told you. I let him know last night.”

  She searched for something else to complain about. “Has he got his badge, do Human Resources know he’s here and… and, how long is he staying?”

  “Yes, yes and I haven’t a clue.”

  He turned to go.

  “I hadn’t finished!”

  Davy turned back, stifling a grin. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve got a lot to get on with. W…What else would you like to know? Nicola.”

  As Nicky searched the air for something else to complain about she noticed that Jake was gazing at her, amused. A narrowing of her eyes said not to be; this was her floor and she had the right to ask whatever she wanted, but even she knew that her next question was weak.

  “Has he had lunch?”

  Davy was mildly surprised. “No idea.” He yelled across the floor. “ASH, HAVE YOU HAD LUNCH?”

  A flurry of blue moved from side to side. Nicky seized on it.

  “Well, there you are then.” She reached into her drawer and withdrew the petty cash tin. “Take this and your friend to the canteen for twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes mind you, then you can start your work.”

  Before anyone questioned her sudden generosity with the office funds she entered Craig’s office and shut the door behind her, not to re-emerge until the analysts were off the floor. As soon as they hit the stairwell Davy hissed at his friend.

  “I told you not to mention it.”

  Ash shrugged. “Sorry, I forgot. What’s the problem anyway? They’re all gonna know eventually.”

  Davy shook his head vehemently and carried on down the steps. “Not if I can help it they won’t.”

  When Craig and Ken arrived five minutes later Craig was surprised to find Nicky standing in his office ready to pounce. She walked towards him, her finger pointing.

  “Why didn’t you tell me we had a new analyst?”

  He slipped past her to the percolator. “Have we? Does Davy know?”

  She put her hands on her hips indignantly. “He said you knew all about it!”

  Craig sat down on his chair, his mind on other things. He’d had two more calls from Sophia between the lab and car-park and they were beginning to wear him down. He gestured vaguely at his P.A.

  “Maybe I did. I can’t remember. Anyway, what’s the problem? Davy needs the help.”

  “That’s not the point! I need to know every-”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Everything that happens around here? I thought that was my job.”

  “Only when it’s related to a crime. Everything else falls to me. What if…” She searched for something so dreadful that it couldn’t be ignored. “What if there was a fire, and I didn’t know we had an extra member of staff? They could die without me knowing!”

  Craig’s eyes widened.

  “You not knowing would hardly be their main problem, would it? Don’t you mean that unless you knew you wouldn’t be able to save them?” He was winding her up and he knew it.

  Nicky was unamused. She flounced out to her desk and sat down, arms folded. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  He did, but he didn’t have the time to placate her, plus he hadn’t had lunch yet. He decided that food was the answer to everything and walked past her onto the floor.

  “Ken, Jake…” He turned casually towards his very annoyed assistant. “And Nicky, if you’d like to join us, of course. Fancy lunch over at The James?”

  He was answered by two men racing past him towards the lift and a pursed lipped secretary taking root in her chair.

  ****

  Newcastle.

  Liam stopped halfway across the soggy field and lifted one foot to examine the sole of his shoe, tutting loudly.

  “It’ll take me hours to get this mud off. Why couldn’t they have stayed in a caravan park like everyone else?”

  Carmen’s laugh was as loud as his tut, earning her a warning glance. She ignored it and continued walking till she’d reached the large white caravan parked at the far side of the field. This was why she kept a pair of flat shoes wrapped in a plastic bag. She’d only been a cop for seven years and she knew that, so a thirty year veteran like Liam had no excuse.

  By the time Liam had sworn and grumbled his way to join her she’d already knocked the door and was gazing up at a grey-haired wo
man with a small girl wrapped around one leg. She flashed her I.D., impressed by the woman’s complete lack of surprise at two police officers standing at her door in a rural field.

  “Mrs Hart?”

  The woman nodded mutely and stood back to allow them in. Before Liam could speak she’d put on the kettle and explained why she wasn’t shocked that they were there.

  “Wilbert phoned me from Belfast to expect you.” She clamped her hands over the child’s ears. “I know that Billy has gone.”

  As Liam engaged her in small talk Carmen gazed around the space. She was impressed. She’d always thought of caravans as poky but this one looked like it had room to spare. Liam’s bass cut across her property assessment. He was smiling down at the child in the way that he did with his own kids.

  “Are you Toni or Billy-Joe?”

  The little girl answered by scurrying beneath the table.

  “Toni. Billy-Joe’s with his mum. She picked him up an hour past.” The woman retrieved her granddaughter and shooed her down a short corridor. “You go and play with teddy. Nana’s got to talk to the nice man.”

  Carmen’s barely stifled “Huh” didn’t escape Liam’s ears. She’d pay for it later. He had better things to do at the moment, including drinking what looked like a fine cup of tea. He took a deep slurp and declared himself impressed. Finally! Someone who didn’t make their tea like dishwater or tar; if the woman hadn’t just lost her son he’d have asked her what tea-bags she used. Instead he set down his cup and adopted a sympathetic look.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Hart.”

  He almost meant it, even though her son had been a murdering, thieving slug. In his experience children’s bad behaviour didn’t affect the strength of maternal feelings, which was probably just as well or there’d be very few teenagers left alive.

  Arlene Hart nodded, acknowledging the kind words; the nod was tainted with a scepticism that said she’d read his mind. She set down her cup and lit a cigarette as Carmen curled her lip; she hated smokers but she could hardly tell the woman not to, given that it was her home. After one puff the bereaved mother began to speak.

  “Our Billy was no angel.” Understatement of the year. “But he didn’t deserve what that pig did to him.”

  It was on the tip of Liam’s tongue to ask why not but the thought of a complaint on his file and another sensitivity course made him swallow the words. Why didn’t Billy Hart deserve what had been done to him? God knows he’d done it to plenty of others in his time. Or did that not count because it had happened between sixty-nine and ninety-eight, as if the responsibility for murder had some sort of expiry date? He didn’t trust himself not to say the wrong thing, so instead he just made sympathetic noises until he was safe to speak again.

  “Could you tell us when you last saw Billy, please?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Saturday night. He brought the kids down and left his bags.” She gestured after the toddler. “They’re in his room.”

  Carmen was about to inquire how many rooms the caravan had when Liam’s quick shake of the head said no. He continued.

  “So Billy went out again?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can I ask what time?”

  She sniffed as if still displeased with her son. “Soon as they got here. Around nine. He dumped his bags and the kids and said he was heading for the pub in Moneyscout Village. Near Tollymore Forest.”

  Father of the year.

  “We were expecting him back around half eleven, after the place shut. But he never turned up.” She cast a quick look around to ensure that the toddler hadn’t reappeared and then leaned in, dropping her voice. “I expect he met some woman.” She pursed her lips. “There are plenty down there not as good as they ought to be.”

  It begged the question of how good people ought to be and who set the minimum.

  Liam was surprised. Tollymore hadn’t been on his list of flesh pots of the north, but there you go, you learned something new every day. What he’d also learned was that the Belfast based paramilitary had been kidnapped from outside the big smoke. By necessity or design? And did it really matter; Hart had ended his days in the city of his birth. Carmen’s bored face said that he’d speculated for long enough; time to get back to work.

  “Would you know the name of the pub he went to?”

  “Probably the one with the red roof; it’s as close to a red light as they’d try round here.” Another, even more reproving, sniff. “And our Billy was lazy; I doubt he’d have driven further than that.”

  “So you’ve no idea what the place might be called?”

  She shook her tightly-curled head indignantly. “I don’t drink.”

  Translation; do I look like I frequent such places and me a God fearing woman? It didn’t matter; a one pub village in Ireland wasn’t uncommon, the rest of it often only comprising two houses and a church.

  They’d find the pub and then with any luck they’d find something to link to the man who had obviously followed Billy Hart there.

  ****

  They were halfway to Moneyscout when Craig’s name appeared on the Ford’s carphone. Liam pressed to answer.

  “Hello, boss. What’s happening?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Halfway to Tollymore Forest. Don’t ask, I’ll tell you at the briefing.”

  Craig hadn’t been going to ask. If Liam was on the road he trusted it wasn’t a joyride.

  “How much longer will you be? I’d like you to meet me in Templepatrick.”

  Templepatrick, the place where Tommy Hill had chosen to retire. Not for the views or the nearby golf club, although they were nice of course, but to be close to his only grandchild, Evie, who had lost her mother, Hill’s daughter, at birth. She’d been murdered by a spree killer; in part for her father’s history. It was sad of course, but in his harsher moments part of Liam was glad Tommy had finally experienced the pain of loss; as you sow so shall you reap.

  If he hadn’t been driving Liam would have rubbed his hands at Craig’s invitation; Tommy was his favourite sparring partner. Last time they’d encountered him he’d been smuggling a rare Islamic manuscript and damn near got himself killed for his pains.

  He considered Craig’s question. Five miles to the village, an hour to interview the bar staff and then another hour to get to Templepatrick. Damn. It would be after four before he’d be there. Unless…

  “I was planning to leave Carmen here to interview a few people, then she can get a car back to the ranch for four. So I could meet you in Temple P by three o’clock. How’s that?”

  Craig made a face. Carmen was on the street a week early and he’d have preferred her interviews to be supervised for a few days. But then what difference did a week really make? If she was going to cock up better that he knew it as soon as possible. Liam was just about to prompt him with a “Boss?” when he replied.

  “OK. I’ll see you at the manse at three. Do a good job on the interviews, Carmen.”

  Liam saw a retort spring to her lips just as Craig cut off. He stared straight ahead as he spoke.

  “I really hope you were about to say, thank you, sir.”

  She answered in a sulky tone. “What if I wasn’t?”

  “You’d have been looking for a new job. You’re on your last warning, Miss. Don’t forget that.”

  With that he pulled up in front of the appropriately named Red Roof Saloon and leaned over to open the door. He drove off before the recalcitrant constable could think of a pithy retort.

  ****

  The C.C.U. Relatives’ Room

  Dick Schofield sat on the edge of the relatives’ room’s sofa, gazing around him nervously as Annette watched. She wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. He’d been fine in the bar and grand as they’d driven there, but as soon as he’d entered the C.C.U.’s reception his face had tightened and he’d gripped his carryall for dear life. It couldn’t have been that he thought they would steal it, so the only other possible explanation was fea
r. After five minutes of coffee sipping in silence Annette decided to ask.

  “You seem uncomfortable, Mr Schofield. Why? We’re very grateful for your help.”

  He shook his grey-white head. “Police stations. I don’t like them.”

  Annette smiled. People confusing their headquarters with a police station was a common mistake. Her voice was gentle.

  “This isn’t a station. It’s our office building.”

  His reply was unequivocal. “Same difference. It’s still full of cops who arrest people.”

  He had a point. She changed the subject.

  “Mr Schofield-”

  “Dick.”

  She smiled again. “OK, Dick. When we first met you said that you saw a man shot. In York Street. Could you tell me about it?”

  It was unlikely to have been some other murder but she still had to make sure.

  Schofield slid back slowly from his precipice and gazed longingly at the coffee pot. She took the hint and topped up his cup, sliding a plate of biscuits towards him. He held his refilled mug in both hands as he spoke.

  “I was walking down York Street. Sunday night I think-”

  She was loath to break his flow but she had to be sure that they were talking about the same night.

  “What makes you think that it was Sunday night?”

  He furrowed his brow, thinking and then nodded firmly. “Definitely Sunday. I always look to see what’s on at the Yorkgate cinema.” His face lit up. “I treat myself sometimes, if there’s a good thriller on.” She leaned forward in encouragement. “Aye well, anyway. I saw they’d listed a special Sunday matinee, so that’s how I knew what day it was.”

  It would be easy to check. She nodded him on with his tale.

  “Anyway. I don’t like Fernwood much at weekends. People drink more and I can’t stand the fights that come next, so sometimes I bed down in the old garage. The one on Garmoyle Street. Lots of us older ones go there, for the peace and quiet.”