by Rob Roughley
They were standing behind a black-out curtain, Lasser could hear low murmurings of dissent coming from the captive audience.
‘This isn’t right.’
Bannister frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You can’t stand there and grill them like a room full of suspects.’
A finger appeared out of the darkness and jabbed at his chest. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not trying to tell me how to conduct an investigation, because if you are...’
‘You’re not thinking straight, boss, we need more people up here and those lot need to be spoken to individually...’
‘I don’t have time to pussyfoot about, all those girls out there and not one of them is willing to open their mouths to help one of their own.’
Lasser didn’t know what to say, Bannister was an experienced copper, and he knew how to get people to open up but this... well this was just bollocks.
‘Look, I know we have to push this forward but these people will tell us nothing if they feel threatened. I mean, come on, would you want to stand up in front of all your peers and start blabbing.’
Like the ‘Cheshire cat,’ Bannister’s face materialised slowly from the gloom. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about hurting their feeling’s…’
‘OK, go ahead, but you’ll still be standing here at midnight and maybe one or two will come forward, but you won’t get anything concrete, nothing useful, unless you speak to them separately.’
He could hear the sound of air expelled through flared nostrils as time seemed to grind to a halt. ‘Get Chadwick and Cooper up here now,’ he snapped. ‘I want everyone interviewed by seven o’clock, and whilst you’re at it get half a dozen PCs too.’
Lasser heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Straight away, boss,’ he dragged out his mobile as Bannister stalked back onto the stage for another unwelcome encore.
12
If someone were to ask him why, then the man couldn’t have provided an honest reply, the truth was it simply felt right, felt like the honourable thing to do. He looked at the photograph in his hand. It showed Kelly clipping in the feathered earring, her head tilted slightly to the left her neck so slender, so perfect.
The dress hung from her shoulders; revealing the swell of her breasts, a beaded necklace caught for eternity as it swung to the left, the image of the beads blurred by the movement.
Carefully slipping the picture into the large manila envelope, he peeled back the white paper tab and sealed the package. Flipping it over to double-check the address, he squints at his spidery handwriting, grunts with satisfaction before pushing to his feet. Grabbing his coat from the floor, he suddenly stops and looks around the room and wonders how it ever came to this. The floorboards are bare; a solitary chair sits in the centre of the room facing a dusty television that hasn’t worked in over three years. The grimy curtains are drawn and a forty-watt bulb casts a pitiful cone of light around the threadbare room. Closing his eyes, he tries to think, tries to organise his mind, but the medication makes it hard to concentrate, makes him feel disjointed and somehow insubstantial. With a shake of his head, he walks out of the room and down the narrow hallway with the peeling wallpaper, before heading out into the street.
He squints into the last of the early evening sunshine, there is a post box on the corner, not twenty yards from his rotting front door, but he walks straight past, his eyes locked on the gum-tacky pavement, the envelope trapped beneath his right arm.
He seems to remember reading somewhere that the police could trace a letter, could pinpoint the exact location it had been posted. Therefore, he carries on walking past another red sentinel with the black slit mouth. The town centre is busy as the revellers start their ritual of drink and laughter, followed hours later by drunken singing and ending with a greasy kebab and vomiting down some rubbish-strewn alleyway. The man has watched this ritual often enough, it has been a favourite pastime of some of the girls he has obsessed about.
However, over the years he had concluded that it always ends in disappointment, eventually the chosen one would do something distasteful, and his obsession would wither and die. Some of them, he had caught taking drugs, and he hated drugs, hated the way they made you forget who you were. The way they would break down the walls, the walls you so carefully erected and leave you unrecognisable to yourself. If it wasn’t drugs then it was sex that ruined everything, he had spotted one of his favourites behind the Chinese Palace, the motto, ‘eat all you can for a tenner’ had been emblazoned across the entrance. She had been on her knees amongst the discarded polystyrene food trays and cigarette ends in front of a nightclub door attendant eating what he offered. He had watched in horror from the shadows as her head moved back and forth, the man’s hands gripping the sides of her head, twisted in her beautiful hair, his face tilted toward the heavens. It had been disgusting, the girl had looked nothing like the photographs he had of her at home. There was no sign of the English rose as she wiped a hand across her sticky lips.
As he moves deeper into the town the crowds began to grow, the man can feel his nerves thrumming with anxiety. People jostle and push as they stride by, young men wearing tight T-shirts with huge tattooed arms on display throw him looks laced with disgust. Girls sneer as they totter past on skyscraper heels, faces lathered in makeup, red lips like garish wounds in slabs of cold meat. He averts his eyes so he won’t have to see the expressions on their faces. Keeping close to the shop fronts he pretends to look in the windows as he shuffles along the street.
A man engrossed in a conversation with his girlfriend slams into him.
‘Watch it, dickhead.’
The girl laughs at his quip, he can see a smear of lipstick on her teeth; one of her false eyelashes has come loose, giving her face a strange disjointed look.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles apologetically and turns away.
He watches their reflection in the shop window as they stroll away, the man has one hand firmly gripped on her right buttock, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. This town makes him feel sick. Nobody seems to notice, or maybe they just simply don’t care about the flesh on display and the slick smell of cheap perfume lacing the air, mixed with the fairground stench of frying onions and burgers.
A break in the crowd reveals his destination; the man quickens his pace dodging between the aimless throng of revellers. He is always the one to move to the side, always the one to give way, it’s almost as if he’s invisible, a nonentity.
When he reaches the post box he hesitates, with the envelope poised in the air before the opening, he tries to think if anything has been overlooked. He wants to help if he can but doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. His tongue darts out and flicks across his dry lips, his hand hovers over the yawning slit. The envelope slides slowly inside, yet still he clasps it with his fingertips, suddenly afraid that he’s interfering in something that is of no concern to him. The familiar voice in his head informs him that she would have ended up like all the others, on her knees sucking cock or ravaged by the drugs that wash through the town like an open sewer.
He gasps at the horrific image and his fingers spring open involuntarily. As soon as the envelope disappears, he feels the panic morph into tangible fear. Turning, he hurries back down the road, feeling watched feeling hunted. Shuffling past McDonald’s he averts his eyes so he won’t have to see the grinning clown in the window, he hates clowns; they make him feel like a terrified child. His councillor once told him the name of the phobia, but he can no longer recall what it is – everything, everybody – seems to crowd around him and he begins to run, his coat billowing behind, his greasy hair plastered to his scalp.
Twenty minutes later, he slams the front door closed; his clothes stick to him like a clammy second skin. He can smell the stale odour of his own body, his mouth medication dry. Closing his eyes, he begins to cry at the unfairness of it all.
13
By the time Lasser reached home the heat of the day had bled away, leaving a chill in th
e air, the clear night sky revealing an explosion of stars. Standing in his kitchen with a half empty can of lager in his hand; he watched the shepherd’s pie for one revolve in the microwave, a sad carousel for the lonely.
What a day, the whole thing had been a shambles, as time passed parents had become fractious, their offspring sullen. Reinforcements had arrived a full two hours after Lasser put in the call. Bannister had been incandescent with rage and DI Cooper had caught the brunt of it when he mentioned something about missing an anniversary meal with his wife. Bannister had literarily dragged him outside, the glass walls doing little to block the expletives as the DCI let fly.
Lasser had gone through the motions, interviewing three families separately. Each of the girls had eventually admitted to seeing Kelly, though they had all stated that she seemed fine. The parents had sat by their sides watching Lasser with steely intent. Every time he tried to get the girls to open up, either mummy or daddy would butt in as if he were a paedophile trying to groom their little princess into a life of vice.
‘Three hours we’ve been here, three bloody hours!’ The man had leant across the table and jabbed a finger at Lasser. ‘I had to leave an important meeting to come here and you’ve kept us locked up like common criminals.’
The daughter smirked, the braces on her teeth flashing like a mouthful of barbed wire.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way Mr Glover, but I’m sure you can appreciate this is a serious matter and...’
‘I never said it wasn’t, but if this girl is relying on the likes of you to find her then she’s in big trouble. Now, unless you have any more ridiculous questions, then I can assume we’re free to go?’
‘Of course, and...’
Glover had shot to his feet without waiting for Lasser to finish; the girl sauntered after her father, hips swaying as she followed him to the door.
The microwave pinged; as he spooned the sloppy shepherd’s pie mess onto the plate, his appetite suddenly vanished. Scraping the mush into the flip-top bin, he finished the drink and grabbed another cold comforter from the fridge before heading into the lounge.
Opening the laptop, he logged on and checked his emails, as always, when he saw no message from Cathy, he sighed. Six months, it felt more like six years since she’d told him she was quitting the force and dumping him in the process. Since the breakup, he’d sent three exploratory emails checking to see if she was OK and received not one reply.
Clink, he dropped the empty can into the bin bag and cracked open another.
By the time the interviews had finished; main reception was locked and bolted for the night. Medea Sullivan must have got tired of waiting, an image of the receptionist drifted into his head and he pushed it away with a snarl – no more women – no more false hopes. Tilting his head he drained half the can and kicked of his shoes in anger, slamming his feet onto the coffee table. Perhaps he should hit the town before he became too old, sew some wild oats, though the thought of dragging his carcass around the hotspots of Wigan only filled him with more despair.
When the doorbell rang, he was just drifting off to sleep; Medea Sullivan was unleashing all that hair, a sultry smile on her stunning face. He lurched up, disorientated, the dregs from the can spilled over splashing the front of his trousers.
‘For fucks sake!’
The bell bleated again and he pushed himself up from the sofa, it had been that long since someone had actually rung the sodding thing he was beginning to think that the battery must have died. Halfway down the hall it rang for a third time, the electronic buzz drilling into his head.
‘All right I’m coming!’
Whoever was standing on the doorstep either didn’t hear him, or heard him and didn’t care?
When he dragged the door open to find Bannister on the step, Lasser thought he must have downed more cans than he realised.
‘Boss?’
Without waiting for a reply, Bannister brushed past him and stormed into the living room, leaving Lasser standing in the hall with the door wide open.
Shaking his head in confusion, he trailed after the DCI.
‘I didn’t have you down as a piss head,’ Bannister was shaking the bin bag the sound of the empty tin cans clattered together reverberating in the ensuing silence.
Lasser rubbed at his tired eyes, his brain clogged with sleep. ‘What are you doing here?’
Bannister dropped the bag and fell back onto the sofa. ‘Do you think she’s dead?’
Lasser looked at his boss; Bannister had his head tilted toward the ceiling eyes closed.
Jesus, what do you say to something like that? ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue,’ he eventually replied.
The DCI cracked open one eye and glared at him. ‘No bullshit, Sergeant, I want the truth.’
Lasser crossed the room and sat in the springy chair that he and Cathy had bought after a trip to IKEA. He remembered they’d once tried to make love in the damn thing, but it had ended with bruised ankles for him and Cathy on the floor breaking down in a fit of giggles.
‘That depends. I mean, she could have a boyfriend we know nothing about, she could have done a runner to Gretna Green...’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ Bannister rumbled.
Lasser held up his hands. ‘OK, but you know what I mean; young girls are good at keeping secrets and pound to a penny if there is some bloke involved then he’ll be a few years older than her.’
He watched as Bannister’s face curdled, ‘Bastards!’
Lasser winced at the venom. ‘Then again, maybe she argued with her parents, and...’
‘Rubbish,’ he heaved himself forward. ‘She’s not that type of girl.’
‘Come on everyone argues.’
‘I realise that, Sergeant, but the parents would’ve told me if anything like that had happened, they’re friends of mine.’
Lasser decided not to pursue it; it was too late for a slanging match. ‘Well, I went to see Zoe Metcalf and she’s adamant it was Rachael Sinclair who told the driver that Kelly had already left.’
Bannister undid the buttons of his coat. ‘I don’t like that girl.’
‘Maybe we should have another word with her?’ Lasser suggested.
Bannister grabbed a can from the floor, snapped back the ring pull and took a drink. ‘I just can’t understand how she could’ve vanished without trace. I mean, we’ve had bodies searching the woods all bloody day and not a peep.’
‘Well that’s probably a good thing.’
Bannister squinted at him. ‘You mean she left there under her own steam?’
‘Well it looks that way. Let’s face it, if someone had tried to snatch her there were enough people around to make that a very risky proposition. Perhaps Sinclair is telling the truth...’
‘So why not just come out and say it? I mean, all this ‘I can’t remember shit’ only makes our job harder.’
‘Well, Zoe doesn’t like the girl and according to the receptionist at the school, Sinclair only arrived at the end of last term, so it’s not as if she’s known Kelly for any length of time.’
Bannister took another sip, grimaced, and plonked the can back on the floor. ‘This is disgusting.’
‘Maybe when you promote me to DI I’ll be able to afford something better. You never know I might even get a taste for expensive wines.’
‘Yes, well, be careful what you wish for, Lasser, climbing the greasy pole isn’t all fun and games you know.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’
Bannister suddenly stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Right, well I’d better get going.’
‘What do you want me to do in the morning?’
‘Well, I’m going to the other schools to see if the little dears can remember anything, but after today’s fiasco I’m not holding my breath. You go back to Claremont, find this teacher Fulcom and grill him.’
‘No problem.’
Bannister dragged his car keys from his pocket and headed for the do
or. Lasser watched as he trudged down the drive before climbing into the car and driving away without a backward glance. Somewhere in the dark, a dog began to bark.
Back in the lounge, he picked the can up from the floor and gave it a shake before draining it and heading for bed.
14
Bobby yanked the cord on the leaf blower, his arm jerking back and forth, his face red with effort, the machine spluttered to life for a couple of seconds and then died.
‘Are you sure there’s fuel in this sodding thing?’ Stan asked his face lined in anger.
‘Yeah, I filled it before we set off.’ To prove the point, Bobby gave it a shake, the sound of petrol sloshing about in the small tank turned Stan’s frown lines into deep furrows.
‘I told that prick we needed a new blower, but oh no, ‘you’ll have to make do, Burrows,’ he mimicked an impression of the estate manager.
‘What are we going to do, I mean, it’s half nine now and he said he was coming at eleven?’
‘I know what he said,’ Stan spat onto the ground.
Bobby looked at the dovecote arch; a huge summerhouse with a pigeon loft stuck on top – but no arch in sight. He couldn’t see the point of having your wedding in a place like this, the best day of your life, and, according to Stan, almost every bride ended up with pigeon shit on their dress.
‘Get one of yard brushes from the back of the van and start sweeping.’
Bobby looked aghast; the courtyard was the size of two large tennis courts, the whole area awash with a sea of last year’s fallen leaves. The wind had piled them into huge drifts that were slowly rotting away against the side of the summerhouse.
‘But where will I put it all?’
If Stan had his way, he would force-feed the lot down Jansen’s throat. ‘Grab some of those heavy duty bin bags and get shovelling.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Stan narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Well, Mr Jansen said...’