by Amy Cross
"It's just the two of them," she replies. "George's mother died years ago, and he's got no brothers or sisters. He and Nat are basically each other's family. Sad fucking bastards."
"So there's nowhere they might have gone?" I ask.
"Nat's an old fisherman," she points out after a moment. "He used to go rambling on about having an affinity for the river, like it was coursing through his veins. It was all bullshit, obviously, but I guess they wouldn't stray too far. That old bastard is so up himself, he acts like he's got the water of the Thames running through his veins, but it's all just a pile of shit. He was a fisherman for about three years back in the seventies, before he got done for some kind of import scam. Don't get me wrong, but the guy's a complete dick. I just wish George could've seen through it all."
"If George gets in touch," I reply, "can you -"
"He won't."
"Okay, but if he does, can you let me know?" I place my card on the desk. "Also, and I don't mean to alarm you, but if he makes contact in any way at all, you should exercise extreme caution. No matter how well you think you know George Longhouse, you should be aware that he and his father are suspected of involvement in some very serious crimes."
"Like what?" she asks, taking my card and glancing at it. "What've they done?"
"I'm not really -"
"They haven't hurt anyone, have they?" she asks. "I know George'd do almost anything Nat told him to do, but I always thought that there was a line he wouldn't cross. Like, he's got morals..."
I pause, trying to work out how to break the news delicately.
"Fine," she says after a moment, sniffing back tears. "You know what? I don't even want to know. I've got my life now, and I don't want to get involved in whatever bullshit those two idiots have been doing. Just..." She pauses again. "It's Nat who's the bad one," she adds finally. "Get George away from Nat, and you'll see the difference. He idolizes his father, which is completely fucking ridiculous since the old man's bad news, but eventually he had to make a choice and he chose Nat instead of me."
"I'll be in touch if I have any more questions," I tell her. "I'm sorry, I've taken up enough of your time already."
"It's not my fault, you know," she replies as she shows me to the door. "That fact that he ended up homeless. I did my best, but he just slipped through the cracks. I had to chuck him out of the flat."
"I know," I reply, even though I can tell that the guilt is eating her up. "Just try not to think about it too much."
A few minutes later, as I leave the office building and head to my car, I can't help but realize that I'm terrible at basic human interactions. I tried to reassure Kelly Park, but I doubt my words made much of a difference. Then again, I don't have too much time to dwell on my failures. Somewhere out there, George Longhouse and his father Nat are living on the streets, and there's bound to be another murder soon. Somehow, I have to find them first.
Chapter Three
Ophelia
"Can you spare some -"
Before I can finish, the man issues a curt 'No' and walks on, leaving me to look back down at the polystyrene coffee cup next to my feet. I've only managed to score thirty pence so far this morning, and I'm starting to worry that I'm dangerously off my game. Even on a bad day, I can usually get a pound before lunch, but somehow I seem to be striking out. It's almost as if, by spending time with Laura, I let the dust get washed off my wings, and now I can't fly.
"You oughta play something," a woman says as she passes me. "At least try to entertain people if you want 'em to give you money. Get yourself a flute or something."
"Can you spare some change?" I ask, but she's already too far away.
Turning and looking along the street, I can't help but wonder if I've completely lost my knack for this kind of thing. The crowd of oncoming people seems to have merged to become a vast sea of faces, and I can't imagine how I can persuade any of them to give me money. Worse, I feel as if I don't deserve to get anything. Looking down at the cup again, I can't help but realize that I feel as if I no longer belong on the streets. I guess I was right earlier; spending time with Laura has definitely changed me. The problem is, I don't know if I can change back and become myself again.
"Thought I'd find you here," says a familiar voice.
Looking up, I see that Lofty has come over to join me, and now he's smiling with that same old uncertain grin I've seen so many times before. For perhaps the first time ever, I'm genuinely glad to see him, and as I get to my feet I have to restrain myself from giving him a hug. Hugs are what other people do.
"They let you out then," I say, slipping my meager collection of coins into my coat pocket.
"Course they did," he replies, glancing both ways along the pavement, as if he's worried about being followed. "There wasn't anything they could hold me for, was there? I mean, sure, I was a bit drunk the other day in the park, but they can't be arsed putting me through the system for something like that. They just sobered me up in the drunk tank and then they shipped me off out the door with a smack on the arse and a warning to stop twatting about. Fucking wankers."
"But now -"
"I've been looking for you, actually," he continues. "I went and checked your usual spots, but there was no sign of you anywhere. Bumped into old Josephine, though. She was ranting and raving more than ever. I told her to fuck off and carried on trying to find you. Took a while. You sure know how to squirrel yourself away, don't you?"
"I'm not hiding from anyone," I tell him. "I'm just trying to get some money."
"And how's that going for you?" he asks, peering into my polystyrene cup.
"Slow day."
"Slow?" He laughs. "Jesus Christ, I've seen frozen corpses have more luck, and that's not even a fucking joke."
"It's early," I say, a little defensively.
"You got any food?" he asks, interrupting me. "I'm fucking starving. Even something old'd be enough. The food in those police cells isn't exactly tasty, is it?"
"No," I reply, suddenly noticing that there are tears in his eyes. "Lofty," I continue, "are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he shoots back, but he's clearly on edge. "It's just those fucking cops pissing me off again, the way they keep on targeting me. I can't fucking walk down the street around here without being harassed. I've had it. I swear to God, I can't take it anymore." He pauses. "There's a new supermarket nearby that doesn't bleach its bins. You wanna come see if there's anything worth grabbing?"
"Sure," I reply, "but -"
"Cool," he mutters, before turning and immediately leading the way. He doesn't even look back to make sure that I'm following; he just assumes that I've got nothing better to do. On a normal day, I might let him go, but right now I figure I need to hang out with someone. Maybe Lofty can help me remember the way things used to be.
Abandoning my polystyrene cup, I hurry to keep pace with him. Sure, hanging out with Lofty isn't exactly my idea of a day well spent, but right now I could use some company. After all my time on the street, I thought I'd managed to develop a way of coping, but the events of the past week seem to have screwed up my instincts. I just hope that my time with Laura doesn't end up causing any long-term damage. If I lose my ability to survive on the streets, I'm going to be back at square one. In the vast, dangerous underbelly of London, a mistake like that could be fatal.
Chapter Four
Laura
"Detective Foster!" a voice calls out as I make my way across the parking lot.
Glancing over my shoulder, I sigh as I realize that Joe Lewis is hurrying after me. The very last thing I need right now is for some asshole from the press to start bugging me again, but Lewis has the kind of dogged tenacity that means he's never going to let up if he thinks he's got a chance of drawing blood. It's been almost twenty-four hours since I last heard from him, so I guess I should have been expecting a visit. They say you're never more than a meter from a rat in London, but I'm starting to think you're also never more than half a meter from a member of the media.
"I don't have time to talk," I tell him, picking up the pace as I head to the station. "If you've got a question about a case, contact the -"
"It's not about a case," he says breathlessly as he reaches me and keeps pace. "I thought I'd let you know that I've been looking into that little friend of yours, Ophelia. I've managed to come up with some rather juicy information about her, and I was wondering if I could get a quote from you for the story I'm gonna be running. It'd really round things off, and my editor says there's some stupid rule about giving people a right to reply before you eviscerate their reputations."
"What story are you talking about?" I ask, trying to sound as if I don't care.
"The one about a flawed detective who's so desperate for results, she brought a homeless girl into the heart of her investigation without even bothering to check if that girl has anything dodgy in her background. Careless at best, but in my opinion borderline reckless."
"You can stand down," I tell him as I reach the door and start rooting through my pockets for my access card. "Ophelia was helping me for twenty-four hours, but that period ended a while ago and I'm pursuing other lines of inquiry. She's not here, and I have absolutely no reason to believe that I'll be seeing her again, so even if -"
"Don't you wanna know her real name?" he asks.
I pause for a moment, before stepping aside as someone comes out through the door. The truth is, I'm insanely curious to know more about Ophelia, but there's no way I'm giving Lewis a moment's satisfaction.
"I see I've caught your attention," he continues with a broad, infuriating smile. "I've gotta admit, I had to do some digging. A few of the dark arts were employed, so to speak, but I got the information I was after eventually. I've gotta say, Detective Foster, that your decision to let that girl run loose in your office is gonna seems a little questionable if certain details become public. I mean, unless I'm very much mistaken, you don't know much about the girl, do you?"
I stare at him, and it's clear that he knows he's got one over on me.
"You don't know the truth about little Ophelia, do you?" he adds with a glint in his eye.
"I know enough," I reply, holding the door open but not going inside, not yet. "I had a chance to talk to her," I continue, "and I'd like to think that I'm a good judge of character. I certainly didn't just let her run amok through the department. She was supervised at all times."
"Huh," he replies, clearly not buying my story.
"She was quite useful, actually," I add. "She has a unique perspective."
"But you don't know who she really is," he replies. "You don't know her real name, or the names of her parents. You don't know where she grew up, what she was like as a kid, why she ended up on the streets... Hell, you don't even know whether she did anything bad, do you? Is she a killer? Is she violent? Does she have a history of significant psychological problems? These are all pertinent issues, Detective Foster, and you should've made damn sure to clear her background before you started to trust her. How much access did she have around the station during those twenty-four hours? I hope you didn't allow her into any sensitive areas. The morgue, for example, would be a clear violation of a whole heap of policies. Enough to get you sacked, maybe."
"So that's what this is?" I ask. "You're just trying to get me fired?"
"It's a public interest story," he continues. "The public need to know if their public servants are doing their jobs properly. Surely you're not opposed to a spot of accountability, Detective Foster?"
I stare at him, and for a moment I'm tempted to punch that dumb smile off his face. Then again, I guess he'd love the extra publicity, and it wouldn't surprise me if he's got a photographer lurking nearby, just in case I react badly. If my career is going to implode, I at least want it to happen on my own terms.
"So," he continues, "my story's gonna be in the -"
"I don't care," I say firmly, turning to go inside. "Publish your story wherever the hell you like."
"You'll care when you realize the kind of person you've been hanging around with," he replies, slipping his foot in the way in order to keep the door open. "Wouldn't you rather hear the cold, shocking truth from me, rather than waiting for tomorrow's paper? There's still a chance for you to get your point of view heard as part of the story, and believe me, you want to be proactive rather than reactive." He pauses, and it's clear that he thinks he's getting me hooked. "Work with me," he adds after a moment, "and we can shape this narrative so you look good. Otherwise -"
"I have a job to do," I reply, interrupting him. "Get your foot out of the way."
"And you're not even slightly curious about Ophelia?" he continues. "You don't want to know the truth about who she really is, and where she's from and what she did?"
"What she did?"
"You don't think nice girls end up on the streets, do you?"
I wait for him to continue.
"Nice girls don't go to extreme lengths to hide their past," he adds, fixing me with an amused stare. "Nice girls don't run away from home. I don't know about you, Detective Foster, but I think the obvious assumption to make here would be that Ophelia is most definitely not a nice girl." He pauses. "Don't you want to know the truth about her?"
"Mr. Lewis," I say after a moment, "you can write whatever the hell you want in your story, but I'm at work and I have a case to solve. Half an hour ago, I issued a call for the public to report any sightings of two men who are wanted in connection with a series of murders. Don't you think your time would be better spent on something that benefits society, rather than raking up muck from a young girl's life?"
"Actually," he replies, "I was gonna tie all of that together in my story. Two killers on the loose, and what does the detective in charge of the case do? She fucks off with some homeless kid for a day. Really, after all the crap that rained down on your head with the Daniel Gregory case, I'd have thought you'd be playing things a bit safer for a little while. Instead, it's almost as if you've got a death wish."
Smiling, he takes a step back.
"Keep an eye out for the papers tomorrow," he says, fixing me with a determined stare. "I'm sure you'll find my story very interesting, but I really don't think you're gonna like the truth about little Miss Ophelia."
"What exactly are you going to say about her?" I ask.
"I've given you a chance to cooperate," he replies, "and you turned it down. I'm under no obligation to offer again, so you're gonna have to read my story over breakfast one morning like everyone else. Or you could check the paper's website. I'm hoping to get the story ready in the next few days."
With that, he turns and walks away, but there's a very clear spring in his step. The guy obviously thinks he's got one over on me, and right now I wouldn't bet against him. Still, his information about Ophelia can't be that bad. I'm pretty sure I'd know if she was some kind of mass murderer, so it's probably just going to be a case of over-hyped outrage.
Hopefully, anyway.
Letting the door swing shut, I turn and hurry along the corridor. People like Joe Lewis are nothing better than scum, and while I'm all in favor of a free press, there are times when I wish I could operate in a complete vacuum, untroubled by the gaze of the fifth estate. I just hope that Lewis doesn't have anything too damning to reveal about Ophelia; not only could he ruin my career, but he could also cause her a great deal of anguish, and I'd feel responsible for dragging her into this mess in the first place.
"Foster!" a voice calls out from nearby.
Turning, I see that Greenwell is leaning out of his office, and he's got a face like an oncoming thunderstorm.
"In here," he says firmly, making no attempt to hide the fact that he's angry. "Now!"
"I'm on my way to a briefing," I tell him as I make my way over to his door. "Would it be possible for us to talk after the -"
"Why is nothing happening?" he asks.
"Nothing -"
"You've got names," he continues, looking as if he's about to bust a blood vessel. "Tw
o names, two identifiable individuals who you claim are responsible for these killings, and yet I'm not seeing any sign of them being brought to the station."
"They're homeless," I tell him. "Do you know how many homeless people there are in London?"
"Hundreds, but that doesn't -"
"Thousands," I say firmly, starting to tire of the way that I'm constantly being criticized. "Officially, there are around seven thousand, but some figures put the number closer to ten. All of those people are completely off our radar, Sir. It's like an entire community that we have no access to, except it's not a community at all. It's thousands of individual people who have no real ties to any location, and there's the added fact that most of them absolutely hate us."
"Fine, but -"
"They scatter like crows when we even try to go near them," I add.
"There was that one you had in here," he replies.
"She was different."
"How?"
"Just..." I pause, and finally I realize that this would be a lot easier if Ophelia was still around. "She was a good go-between," I add. "She helped me to access that world."
I wait for him to reply, but for once I seem to have actually made him see things from my point of view.
"Nat Longhouse and his son could be anywhere in the city," I continue, "and even if someone has seen them, I doubt they'd tell us."
"They'd rather help to hide two murderers?"
"Instead of helping us? Probably." I pause for a moment. "They hate us, Sir, and the ones who don't hate us, they don't care about us at all. They think we're scum. And do you know what? Maybe they're right. Some of our officers treat them like garbage to be swept off the streets. If I was one of them, I'd probably hate us too. To them, we're the enemy."
"So what's the plan?" he asks. "Keep circulating photos and hope a normal person sees the Longhouses?"
"That's one option," I reply, "but there are others. I'm working on it, but..." I pause again, and this time I realize that I have to make a stand. Ever since the Daniel Gregory case collapsed, I've been walking around with my tail tucked between my legs, feeling as if I'm the biggest failure on the planet. "If I don't have them in custody by midnight," I say finally, "I'll offer you my resignation."