by Rob Roughley
The man had looked up at him, his eyes full of pain, his damaged nose leaning to the left. The cuts on his face opened up again, the blood running freely now dripping onto the hardwood floor with a pitter-patter, the sound had a hypnotic quality to it, almost soothing. Then suddenly, Sinclair had started to scream for help, his voice echoing around the narrow hallway and Bannister had grabbed him by the throat and pushed his face in close.
‘I asked you a question!’
‘Didn’t, didn’t kill anyone,’ he grunted and then coughed, a bubble of blood forming in the corner of his mouth.
‘Why did you get Fulcom to change his story?’
‘I don’t know what...’
Bannister hit him again and felt the damaged cartilage collapse completely. Sinclair’s mouth stretched open, building to a scream that would have brought down the foundations of the house. Bannister clamped a hand over his mouth, leaning in closer, until he was whispering in the man’s ear.
‘If you scream I’ll make sure you never stop, do you understand me Mr Sinclair?’
Sinclair swivelled his tortured eyes towards him as Bannister slowly released his grip. ‘My Sergeant says you’ve been fucking your step daughter, is that the truth?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he squealed.
‘And then you found out that Fulcom had been at the trough as well and you couldn’t stand that, could you, you worthless piece of shit?’
Sinclair tried to shake his head and groaned in agony as the pain lanced through his ruined face. ‘Take care of herself,’ he hissed.
Bannister frowned. ‘What did you say?’
Sinclair screwed up his eyes. ‘I said Rachael can take care of herself.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
At first, he thought Sinclair was crying, huge tears leaked from his eyes. Then his face crumpled and he started to laugh, a titter of near insanity that rapidly turned into a loud guffaw. Bannister glared down, his rage spiralling out of control.
‘Rachael was never a child you idiot, she was never innocent,’ his shoulders shook. ‘You think I was the one corrupting her, well you’re wrong.’ He spat and a tooth shot from his mouth and bounced away across the floorboards. ‘You think I was ever in control of any of this, that little bitch has been playing me for years...’
‘Listen, Sinclair, you’d better start making sense, or...’
‘Or what?’ he’d tried to sit up and then yelped as the pressure in his head intensified until it felt as if someone were turning the handles of a vice around his skull. ‘You think I care about your threats, you think it concerns me that you know about me and Rachael...’
‘You dirty fucker!’ Bannister had grabbed the man by the collar of his polo neck jumper and yanked him into a sitting position. Sinclair’s eyes swivelled upwards until only the whites were visible. ‘People like you are always the same, trying to lay the blame on others for your disgusting weaknesses,’ he shook the man. Sinclair’s head lolled from side to side, his eyes fluttered open.
‘Rachael’s the devious one, not me, she knew all along what she was doing, but I never understood...’ he suddenly clamped his lips together.
Bannister narrowed his eyes. ‘Never understood what?’
‘I’ve broken no laws, even if I were having a sexual relationship with her it has always been consensual; Rachael has always been too intelligent to say otherwise.’
Bannister had tried to figure out the meaning of the solicitor’s words, though his head had been too full of simmering anger, too trapped in the moment. ‘You said you knew her when she was six years old, is that when you started to abuse her?’
Sinclair had grinned, dark blood slick across his teeth. ‘No comment.’
Bannister closed his eyes, a vein in his forehead pulsating. ‘So I take it she wasn’t of consensual age when you groomed her, was she?’
Sinclair laughed again, his eyes manic. ‘She was the one doing the grooming. Rachael manipulates people; she befriends them and uses them in whatever way she sees fit, as long as it’s beneficial.’
Bannister thought of his daughter, what had Rachael wanted when she befriended her. He suddenly felt a tight knot of fear begin to disentangle in his mind.
‘What do you mean by beneficial?’ he’d asked through gritted teeth.
Sinclair had slid him a sidelong glance spiked with malice. ‘I thought she actually cared for me, I mean, look at all this,’ he’d spread his arms. ‘The house, the money, she never wanted for anything but it turns out it wasn’t enough...’
‘If you don’t start making sense...’
‘How can you make sense of what she does, what she is? I thought I knew her, thought I had her there,’ he turned his thumb and pressed it onto the floor, as if he were some Roman dictator putting a gladiator to death, though his eyes were wide with ravished despair. ‘All this time I thought she respected me, loved me for saving her from a wasted life; when the truth was she was simply using me, setting me up.’
‘Setting you up for what?’
Sinclair grimaced. ‘We all have to fall eventually but Rachael likes to push, likes to be the one in charge, to dominate...’
‘What about Kelly Ramsey?’
Sinclair had looked at him nonplussed, ‘Who?’
Bannister closed his eyes, trying to keep a tight rein on his fury. ‘The girl who went missing on the night of the prom, the one we questioned Rachael about.’
A sly smile slid across Sinclair’s face. ‘Ah, yes, dark haired girl, beautiful tits, apparently her parents are loaded; just the way Rachael likes them.’
Bannister had staggered backwards until he hit the wall, convinced that if he hadn’t, he would have slaughtered Sinclair as he sat on the landing nursing his broken nose.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, though he dreaded the answer, watching Sinclair’s lips in fear as they began to form words.
‘She doesn’t care if they’re male or female, as long as they have what she needs.’
‘Which is?’
‘She likes to dig at the cracks, plant the seeds, she loves to wreak havoc in any way she can,’ he paused, ‘or at least that’s what I used to think.’ A pensive look settled on his bruised features as if he were working through some complex internal puzzle. ‘Over the years she’s caused me more problems than you could imagine, but you see I realise now that’s one of the reasons I was chosen...’
Bannister pushed himself away from the wall. ‘Chosen?’
Sinclair had nodded, oblivious to the pain; it was as if some momentous secret was slowly being revealed to him, one of such magnitude that it obliterated everything else. ‘I was handpicked because they knew I would be useful to them, because I would always be able to protect Rachael.’
‘Because of your job?’
Sinclair had looked at Bannister, this time the tears that slid down his cheeks were not tears of laughter, but of bitter betrayal.
‘They knew all along...’
‘Who’s they?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you saying that Rachael is involved with someone else?’ Bannister could hear the desperation in his voice, could sense precious time slipping away. ‘Come on, Sinclair, tell me what you know!’ he’d loomed over the solicitor, hands bunched into fists, ready to go on the rampage.
Sinclair didn’t move, didn’t flinch. ‘Why should I? ’
‘Because if you don’t I’ll make you suffer, I will...’
Sinclair had laughed again, exhausted, it was as if he suddenly realised that his life was over. His grip on reality was faltering; he was a man who’d always thought he had an answer for everything, slick and calculating. He had never met Rod Jansen, but he would have sympathised with the man. ‘Do your worst, it won’t make any difference.’
Bannister obliged.
88
Lasser pulled the car up tight to the ornate gates and yanked on the handbrake.
‘Where are we?’ Medea looked
at the huge houses set behind the high, russet coloured wall.
‘Welcome to the Ramsey’s humble abode,’ he answered as he clicked open the door. Climbing from the car, he made his way over to the intercom on the wall, holding his finger down on the button to number eight – no reply – turning away, he suddenly stopped and scanned the other names. When he spotted the name ‘Reynolds’ he jabbed a finger at the button, after ten seconds a woman’s voice crackled from the small speaker.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mrs Reynolds?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘I am trying to get in touch with Suzanne Ramsey but...’
‘Look if you’re another reporter, then that family has been through enough ...’
‘No, I’m sorry, I should have explained, I’m not a reporter, my name is Sergeant Lasser and...’
‘Well, I am afraid Suzanne isn’t in, I saw her leave about an hour ago.’
Lasser glanced back towards the car; Medea was peering at him through the windscreen a frown on her face.
‘Well, do you have any idea where she was going?’ he asked.
‘I am afraid I don’t.’
Lasser looked up at the sky, another wasted journey; he kicked at a loose piece of shale watching as it shot beneath the gates.
‘Are you still there?’
Lasser thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if you could let me through anyway, I might as well wait for her?’
‘But I don’t know how long she’ll be.’
‘That’s not a problem; in fact if you fancy making a brew, I wouldn’t say no.’
‘A brew?’ she sounded perplexed as if it were a new word to add to her vocabulary.
‘Tea or coffee, I don’t mind which.’
‘Well, you see the thing is I was just about to go out myself.’
‘Oh right, well, not to worry but if it’s all right I’ll still wait?’
‘But if she doesn’t come home then you’ll be stuck inside, you see, you need a fob to let you in and out.’
Lasser dragged the cigarettes from his pocket and then changed his mind, he was smoking too much, his mouth felt hot and sour, his taste buds redundant. ‘Look, this’ll only take a few minutes, if you could hang around while I take a quick look at the house...’
‘But what are you looking for?’
‘I’m sorry but I’m not in a position to answer that, but you would be doing me a big favour and I promise it won’t take long.’
He waited for her to reply, after a few seconds an electronic sigh drifted out to greet him. ‘Well all right, as long as you’re not too long.’
He heard the sound of a buzzer and then the gates began to glide open; hurrying back to the car he slid behind the wheel.
‘You still haven’t answered my question?’
He glanced at her as the car rolled forward. ‘Sorry, Medea, what question was that?’
‘What are we actually doing here?’
Lasser gave her a twisted smile, ‘Digging the dirt.’
89
Jodie sat on the edge of the bed painting her toenails, her iPhone on the pillow, loudspeaker on. ‘Come on, Zoe, I thought we could go into town for a few of drinks.’
‘Sorry, I’ve got college in the morning.’
Jodie glanced at the phone in disgust. ‘Well, can’t you miss it for once; I mean, we’ve not been out in ages.’
‘I’m broke.’
Jodie blew at her nails. ‘You’re always broke, I can sub you the money you know that.’
‘How come you always have plenty of cash?’
‘Duh, I have a job remember.’ Jodie screwed the lid on the nail varnish and admired her toes.
‘Well yeah, but I can’t imagine you get paid a lot working at the gift shop.’
Jodie smiled to herself. ‘I get by, besides, I’ve been doing some overtime. So what do you say, meet outside Aqua Bar at nine, my treat?’ Jodie listened to the hesitation, Zoe would buckle in the end she always did.
‘Sorry, Jodie, but I’ll have to give it a miss.’
The smile on her face faded. ‘Why, have you had a better offer, is that it?’
Another sigh drifted into the room. ‘Don’t be an idiot...’
‘Some boy you’re trying to keep to yourself, perhaps?’
‘For God’s sake, Jo, give it a break.’
Jodie swung her legs onto the carpet, her painted toes forgotten about. ‘No, come on, something’s up, I mean, the other day when we went to the baths you hardly said a word.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was telling you about that missing girl and you couldn’t have given a shit.’
‘Her name’s Kelly...’
‘I know what her name is,’ she spat, ‘but you were miles away.’
The phone went quiet and for one unimaginable second Jodie thought that Zoe had hung up on her.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’
‘What?’ Jodie scrambled onto the bed and snatched up the phone. ‘What do you mean, you’ve got to go, go where?’
‘I am kind of busy here, I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
‘But...’ the phone flashed and then the screen went blank. Jodie looked at it in disbelief, her hand closing tight around the plastic cover. Her eyes flashed in anger as she stabbed at the buttons. When the engaged tone sounded she threw the phone onto the bed and stormed over to her wardrobe. She dressed hurriedly, a pair of hipster jeans, gold digger top and trainers, she snatched up the phone and headed downstairs.
Her mother stood in the doorway of the living room. ‘Is everything OK, sweetheart?’
Jodie checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, a reflex action as natural as combing her hair or waxing her legs. ‘What?’ she snapped.
‘It’s just that I thought I heard you shouting?’
Jodie turned and looked at the woman in disgust, the lank scraggy hair and frumpy body hidden beneath a ridiculous onesie with images of teddy bears plastered all over it. Not for the first time she wondered how this disgusting lump could be her mother.
‘What are you going on about?’
Her mother frowned. ‘I’m only asking, there’s no need to bite my head off.’
Jodie glared and then ran a hand through the remains of her extensions. ‘Listen; can you do me a favour?’
A maternal smile flickered across the woman’s face. ‘Anything, sweetheart, you know that.’
Jodie smiled and nodded. ‘Good, then why don’t you drop fucking dead!’ she screamed, in her mother’s face and then spun around slamming the front door so hard that the glass rattled in the frame.
90
Bannister looked out over the golf course; the undulating greens deserted, although he could still make out a couple of die-hards on the driving range whacking the tiny white ball into the fading light. He had a sudden recollection of playing endless rounds of golf with the people who mattered, the great and the good. They called it networking, Lasser would have called it was plain old arse licking. Kowtowing to those who had what you wanted, the age old merry-go-round of climbing the greasy pole to success and for what? Just for the privilege of watching another man bring up your child, so you could miss a lifetime of being with the people you loved. He groaned in anguish, this was meant to be his job, to get to the truth, to solve crimes and yet he knew that this was beyond him. Even after beating Sinclair to a ragged pulp he was still none the wiser as to what had happened to his daughter. She was more than likely dead and he’d been unable to do anything about it. Kelly would have left this world never having known that he was her father, he would never get to hold her, never have the opportunity to tell her how much he loved and cherished her.
Shaking his head violently he tried to clear the chaotic jumble of thoughts. Though the more he tried, the further they slipped away from him, just like naughty children engaged in a nightmarish game of tag, they scattered to the darkened corners of his mind.
Sinclair was a paedophile; he was responsib
le for turning Rachael into the person she had become, someone who would lie and cheat. Someone so hardened to the shitty side of life that she could no longer feel any sort of compassion for anyone but herself. Bannister gritted his teeth, wishing he had the solicitor here now, so he could finish the job.
Fragmented sections of the Hall peeped out between the branches of the old trees, like sections of a jigsaw puzzle. Climbing out he crunched across the gravel car park, like a wounded animal desperate to leave the pain behind, past the old stable block now converted into a gift shop and cafe. The park appeared deserted, the swings standing stock still, the roundabout stationary. With Kelly missing and the body of Sophie Washham turning up in the woods families were staying away. Even the ice cream kiosk was boarded up for the night. He followed a meandering path through the trees and then down a long flight of stone steps that led to the front of the Hall. The huge sandstone building cast a long square shadow over the close-cropped front lawn, the grass was uneven with mole holes, the whole area bordered by a vast bank of rhododendron bushes in full bloom. Walking around the corner of the building, he saw Rod Jansen slipping a briefcase into the boot of his car, like the Lord of the Manor off for a hunting trip.
‘Mr Jansen.’
The man spun round; when he saw Bannister standing there a look of utter panic bloomed in his eyes. Slamming the boot he hurried to the front of the car, opened the door and frantically climbed behind the wheel.
Bannister tapped on the glass and Jansen threw him a look of abject terror, trying desperately to slide the key into the ignition.
‘Open the door, Mr Jansen, I want a word.’
The estate manager ignored him; Bannister could see his lips moving rapidly as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps praying, his forehead drenched with perspiration his eyes frantic. Bannister grabbed the door handle and yanked, but the central locking held fast.
‘Jansen, open the bloody door, right now!’ he slammed his hand against the side window. Jansen snapped his head away as if he expected to be peppered with tiny shards of broken glass. When the window held, he twisted the key and the engine fired into life.