by Rob Roughley
Lasser could see the flex of her calf muscles, a smile on her pretty face; she had a bag hanging from her shoulder, her right hand clutching it as if it contained something of value.
‘It’s her all right,’ Shannon looked at the image and then down at the dead girl.
Bannister grunted and slapped the book closed.
‘Sometimes, I hate this job,’ the pathologist sighed.
Bannister looked at the man and sighed, unable to fathom how he had missed the fact that the body on the bank was the same as the one in the album. ‘Don’t we all, Shannon, don’t we all.’
61
They were sitting in Bannister’s car; the hospital car park was virtually deserted. Lasser could feel the craving for nicotine gnawing at his nerves, his mouth parchment dry. Bannister looked out of the window, seeing nothing, his eyes locked on some internal horror. Rubbing a hand across his face, he sighed. ‘I can’t think straight,’ he mumbled.
‘You need to get some sleep,’ Lasser yawned.
Bannister turned his haunted gaze to the Sergeant. ‘Have you got any cigarettes on you?’
Lasser looked at his boss in surprise and nodded.
‘Come on then, hand one over,’ he held out a shaking hand.
Lasser fumbled the packet from his pocket. ‘I didn’t know you smoked?’
Bannister took the cigarette, rolled it between his fingers, and then sniffed it as if it were an expensive cigar. ‘I quit over ten years ago, I thought it was unbecoming for an officer of my rank,’ he tried for a smile; it came out like a grimace. ‘How pathetic is that?’
Lighting one of his own, Lasser handed the lighter over and took a huge swallow.
‘I keep trying to pack them in, but…’ he drifted to a halt.
‘But what?’
‘This is going to sound weak and pathetic...’
‘You do surprise me, Sergeant.’
He ignored the sarcasm. ‘You see, the thing is I’ve convinced myself that I think more clearly when I’m smoking.’
‘Bollocks.’
Lasser smiled and shrugged. ‘I told you it was pathetic.’
Bannister coughed as the unfamiliar smoke hit the back of his throat; he slid down the window but didn’t throw the cigarette away. ‘So, come on you’re smoking now, so bloody well think.’
Lasser flicked ash out of the window. ‘We know Brooks was a creature of habit, he went to the same places every day, the cafe...’
‘I’m aware of his wanderings, Lasser, this is old ground.’
‘According to our records he’d lived in that house all his life, he never went on holiday, and the photos we found are all taken around town, local pictures, local girls.’
Bannister pulled on the cigarette, the end glowing furnace red in the darkness. ‘I’m listening.’
‘So why hasn’t anyone come forward to say the girl is missing?’
Bannister looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re saying she wasn’t local?’
‘Well if she was then surely someone would have been to see us by now.’
Bannister nodded. ‘Makes sense, but it still doesn’t help us.’
Lasser frowned and took another long pull, the cigarette rapidly shrinking, then he reached over onto the back seat and slid the first album onto his knees before flicking on the interior light and opening the book.
‘Sophie is the only girl he actually named; the other pictures have captions underneath but no names.’
‘And?’
Lasser tried to think, but a wave of tiredness swamped over him, he rubbed at his eyes.
‘I think Marshall Brooks was a deluded individual, but I still think he was trying to do us a favour...’
Bannister sighed, ‘You’re clutching at straws…’
‘We need to know for sure if Jonathan Ramsey was murdered. I mean, do you think the wife could have done it?’
The atmosphere in the car suddenly changed, Lasser could feel cold waves of anger pulsating from the man behind the wheel, like radioactive waste. ‘Go on.’
Lasser swallowed. ‘They’ve both been under an enormous amount of pressure, perhaps they argued and she lost it.’
‘And what about my daughter, Lasser, I’m not interested in Brooks or how Jonathan Ramsey died. I want to find my girl, everything else is secondary.’
Lasser noticed he didn’t include Suzanne Ramsey in his little speech. ‘Right, Brooks takes the photographs but doesn’t have the cash or the ability to process them himself. But he knows someone who will, now we know Fulcom has both of these things...’
‘For God’s sake put that cigarette out, it isn’t helping.’ Bannister tossed his out of the window. ‘Just because Fulcom owns a digital printer it means nothing. I mean, can you honestly see someone like Brooks going to Fulcom’s house for a wine and cheese evening?’
‘No, but I can see two twisted individuals who have an interest in underage girls. Brooks was your typical loner, a bit weird, kept himself to himself. No job...’ he suddenly stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’
Lasser looked out of the window; he was suddenly back in the stinking Charnel house, the bedroom littered with body parts. ‘When we searched his house, what happened to the clothes in the wardrobe?’
‘Bagged and tagged, why?’
‘He had three green sweatshirts neatly folded on one of the shelves.’
‘Yes, yes, but so what?’ he could hear the pressure building in Bannister’s voice, the needle approaching red, ready to explode.
‘Each one had the same emblem on the chest, like a coat of arms with some Latin written underneath?’
Silence.
‘I’ve seen it before.’
‘The point, Sergeant, get to the sodding point.’
Lasser slid out another cigarette and quickly lit up before Bannister could object. ‘When I was at the school, they used a double H,’ he grinned and Bannister frowned, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
‘Sergeant?’
‘Harper had a small plaque on his desk, with the same bloody emblem on it.’ Bannister looked at him blankly. ‘Don’t you see, double H, Hindley High.’
‘For fucks sake, we know Brooks spent hours every day trawling the charity shops, he could have picked them up at any number of places’
‘What three of them? I mean, you saw his room, the clothes he owned were scattered all over the place, apart from the sweatshirts. I mean, if he had worked at the school then it would link him to Fulcom.’
Bannister’s eyes suddenly caught a spark and flared. ‘You’re suggesting that Brooks, a twisted fuck of a human being worked at a school, is that what you are seriously trying to tell me.’
Lasser hesitated for a second. ‘Yeah.’
Bannister glared at him and then closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Go home and get some rest.’
‘But...’
‘As soon as the school opens in the morning I want you to check it out.’
Lasser grinned in the gloom.
62
On the way home, he stopped at the all night Tesco and bought two hundred cigarettes, a bottle of spiced rum and a chicken Madras for one. Back at the house, he dumped the food in the fridge and cracked open the bottle, grabbing a glass from the cupboard before making his way into the garden. Flopping into one of the rickety camping chairs, he took a sip of the rum, before looking up at the night sky. Perhaps Bannister was right, Brooks could have picked the sweatshirts up from a charity shop, but why were they the only clothing that weren’t scattered throughout the room, why had Brooks kept them neatly folded in the wardrobe? Lasser took another a sip, savouring the flavour. Brooks was a man who treasured things. The house may have been a disgusting wreck, yet the things he cared about had been kept pristine. Each of the albums had been looked after, every photograph carefully positioned beneath the plastic; the edges neatly trimmed so they slotted perfectly into the triangular holders, apart from the albums and the shirts, the rest of the house had looked li
ke a rubbish dump. Tilting his head he looked up, the sky was awash with stars, somewhere a dog barked. He thought back to Fulcom’s attic, the small space lined with MDF, tiny halogen spotlights set in the ceiling. The room had been full of high tech gismos, the walls covered with dozens of black and white images. Mainly industrial landscapes, derelict buildings, and skeletal electrical pylons, at the side of the desktop there stood a top-of-the-range digital printer. Everything had been immaculate, no empty disk cases, no paperclips, none of the clutter you would normally associate with a small office space. It was as if the room had been hermetically sealed.
Lasser lit a cigarette, watching as the smoke trailed into the darkness. He knew the image of the dead girl had been circulated to other forces, hopefully they would discover her identity, and then...His mind suddenly went blank, as if his frazzled brain had had enough and was shutting down the power, like a computer going into hibernation.
He yawned, drained the glass, and went back inside; dropping the cigarette into the sink, he headed upstairs. Five minutes later, he was fast asleep.
63
The three-storey house was in darkness. Suzanne stepped forward and rang the doorbell. Behind her, she could hear the occasional late night taxi glide by. She watched as someone exited the park gates trailing a black dog on a lead. The small animal cocked its leg against a lamppost, and then they wandered off toward the town centre. She looked up at the darkened windows before pressing the buzzer for a second time. After a few seconds, Suzanne began to jab at it, until she saw a light pop on upstairs, quickly followed by another on the landing. When the door opened, she took a step back, drawing her thin coat tight around her. The man blinked out at her, his face fuzzy with sleep.
‘Mr Sinclair?’
He rubbed his eyes, his mind still in the land of nod. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ he mumbled.
‘My name’s Suzanne Ramsey, I was wondering if I could have a word with your daughter?’
‘What?’
‘I’m the mother of Kelly Ramsey.’
Sinclair’s eyes suddenly seemed to focus. ‘I’m sorry but she isn’t here.’
Suzanne took a step forward. ‘It’s really important that I speak to her, I need to ask her a few questions.’
Sinclair moved outside pulling the door partially closed behind him. ‘Look, Mrs Ramsey, the police have already spoken with Rachael, twice, and believe me she told them all she could.’
His face seemed to move and shift before settling on something that vaguely resembled compassion.
‘But...’
‘We feel for you, we really do and I can’t imagine how traumatic this must be for you and your husband...’
‘My husband’s dead.’
For a millisecond, Sinclair looked lost for words and then he tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea you were a single parent,’ he made it sound like an affliction, as if she were someone to be pitied.
‘He died earlier today.’
Sinclair took a backward step, his eyes wide, as if the thought of sudden death could somehow be contagious, ‘Today!’
‘The police aren’t sure if it was murder or suicide,’ she was amazed by the tone of her voice; she sounded detached as if the news was of no great importance.
Sinclair thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘My God, I don’t know what to say, I mean, I’m so sorry.’
‘So where can I find Rachael?’
Sinclair smiled at her apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ramsey, but she’s gone away for the weekend.’
‘Gone away, where?’
Another car went gliding by. ‘She’s visiting friends.’
‘What friends?’
Suzanne saw a look of annoyance flit across his face, and then he smiled again. ‘Just some girlfriends, a sleepover, you know what they’re like at this age, always wanting to spread their wings.’
Suzanne tried to think, Rachael had only been at the school for a few months, of course she knew that Kelly had befriended her but she couldn’t seem to focus, couldn’t remember much about the girl. ‘Did Kelly ever stay here?’ she asked.
Another backward step, ‘I’m afraid I don’t recall. You see I’m normally busy with work and Rachael tends to make her own plans.’
‘Well do you have her phone number; maybe I could give her a ring?’
‘Ah, slight problem there, Rachael’s notoriously bad at answering her phone. I tell you it drives her mother and I mad, but...’
‘All the same, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to try,’ she held out a hand like a Victorian beggar minus the bowl.
He paused for a moment and then nodded, his floppy blond hair suddenly coming to life. ‘Of course, if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll write it down for you.’
She stepped forward and Sinclair closed the door in her face. Snatching up the zip on her coat Suzanne bit at her lip in anger. He reminded her of Jonathan, the same game show smile, the same condescending tone to his voice; he even had the foppish fair hair.
Half a minute later, the door opened and he held out a slip of paper. ‘I hope everything works out for you, Mrs Ramsey, I really do.’
‘Thank you,’ she reached out and Sinclair slid his hand back.
‘Just one thing, I’d ask you to wait until the morning before you ring.’
‘I’m sorry?’ she looked at him in disbelief.
‘Well it’s almost midnight and I wouldn’t want her to hear the phone and think something was wrong.’
Suzanne resisted the urge to slap his smug, self-satisfied face, ‘Of course,’ she replied tightly.
The smile clicked back into place, Suzanne took the paper and studied it for a moment as if it would somehow turn out to be a vital clue, when she looked up the door had closed. Slipping the number into her pocket, she turned and headed down the street. As she passed the park gates, she suddenly stopped; her mind conjured up the image of her younger self-pushing the buggy with her baby daughter tucked up safely inside. They used to come here all the time, spending long summer afternoons sitting in the sun. Kelly had taken her first faltering steps on the lawn that stood in front of the ornate fountain. She could see her now with a clarity that threatened to stop her heart, her little girl, her princess.
Kelly had loved it when she’d called her that, her face used to light up with the thrill of the special name.
Moving through the gates, she began to walk along the narrow path that threaded its way beneath the trees, the tarmac felt uneven beneath her feet from where the roots had burst through. Shadows pooled around her as she walked, the scent of honeysuckle, sweet and pungent drifted through the air. A sudden sense of crushing despair threatened to force her to her knees, she should be grieving for her dead husband, yet it was her daughter that filled her mind, leaving room for nothing else. Suddenly, she stepped out from the cover of the trees and stopped. Moonlight bathed the whole of the park, the well-kept lawns dissected by small paths that seemed to radiate with half-light. She could see the fountain in the distance, could see her phantom-self sitting on the grass holding out her arms as Kelly toddled toward her on unsteady legs. It seemed bizarre but she couldn’t get past this one image, over the years they’d holidayed all over the world, but she couldn’t recall one instant of those times. Christmases, and birthdays became fogged in her mind as if seen through thickening gauze. Yet, here she could feel everything, see this one snapshot of time with utter clarity could even sense the closeness of her missing child. She began to cry, staggering forward toward the sepia image of that frozen moment. Suzanne broke into a run; everything seemed to shake inside her, like a badly made machine falling apart under immense stress. She staggered and fell, landing hard on the dry sun-baked ground, the breath slammed from her body. Shaking her head, she leapt to her feet with a snarl and carried on running. Her heart raced as she pushed on her arms and legs pumping, her handbag slamming against her hip. The sky above seemed to pitch and shift, the stars movi
ng across her field of vision in a blur.
When she reached the small lawn in front of the fountain she fell to her knees, her hair hung down obscuring her face, breath whooshing in and out of her open mouth. This was it; the exact spot where she’d been at her happiest. After Alan left, the only thing that had mattered had been her daughter; she had been so small, so defenceless. Suzanne had smothered her with love, transferring everything she felt for Alan onto her only child. Watched with pride as she grew into a beautiful young woman and now she would never see the result of all of her hard work. The injustice of it all broke inside her like a tidal wave breeching a flimsy storm barrier. The insurmountable horror of knowing your child was dead knocked her flat onto her back. Curling her legs up Suzanne Ramsey covered her ears, screaming out all the pain and anguish at the night sky, whilst in the background the only sound was the water from the fountain cascading back on itself.
Sinclair watched from the bedroom window, a sour frown on his catalogue man face.
‘Come back to bed, daddy,’ her voice whispered in the darkness. ‘I’m cold,’ he heard the pretence of a shiver in her voice.
‘In a minute,’ he snapped, unable to take his eyes from the woman curled up on the grass, a strange tableau in the moonlight.
‘What did you say?’ Rachel’s voice suddenly changed, all the coyness, all the-little-girl-lost tone had vanished.
Sinclair swallowed and turned away from the window. She sat up in bed, her hair wild about her shoulders, her wonderful breasts bare, her eyes like shards of broken glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Rachael smiled. ‘You will be.’
64
‘Yes, of course I remember Marshall Brooks; he worked here for over eleven years and I still can’t believe what’s happened. I mean, it’s dreadful, absolutely dreadful.’
Nine o’clock on the dot and Lasser was back in Harper's office, the sun blasting through the grimy window, the houseplant withering to extinction on the windowsill. Lasser stifled a yawn, his sleep had been broken and full of feverish dreams, at one point he had been making love with Cathy in the uncomfortable bouncy chair. The image had been so real, so acute that he’d awoken with a gasp, his erection bone hard. Leaning over he’d taken a drink from the glass of water and closed his eyes, desperately trying to slide back into the delicious dream. However, instead of Cathy his embroiled brain had conjured the image of the dead girl on the metal slab, short blond hair washed sterile clean, the dark bruises around her neck, livid. Curling into a ball, his erection shrivelling, Lasser had fallen into a fitful sleep.