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The Heart Wants
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Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Zettl
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.rebeccazettl.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Tom stepped off the train. He felt his pulse flicker in his throat, an uncomfortable reminder of the nerves that jangled throughout the trip from Middlesbrough. He walked along the platform, deliberately stretching his legs as he made his way. He moved a little more slowly than his stiff joints demanded, towards the exit and the taxi rank beyond. He should have been pleased to see that there was no queue, instead his heart sank as he climbed into the first taxi without having to wait. He fumbled a piece of notepaper from his pocket with sweaty fingers and read the address to the driver. He watched unfamiliar streets roll past the window without really seeing them.
"Which place is it?" The driver asked suddenly, slowing the taxi to a crawl along a back road. We can't be here already, surely? Tom's heart palpitated. "This one just here." Tom gestured to an aging hotel on the side of the road, pretending not to hear the way his voice broke under the pressure of his nerves. The driver shot him a strange look but accepted his cash without comment and drove away, leaving Tom to haul his luggage inside and check in. Minutes later he was walking, crawling really, back up the street. He knew it was getting a little late for this, but he was a nervous wreck. He had to get it over with. He turned down a narrow street with a name he knew off by heart, while the sky darkened, and the street lamps flickered on overhead. He moved so that he was between them, out of range of the two circles of artificial light pooling on the pavement, and, at least he hoped, out of sight from the flats across the road. He stared at the flats opposite and counted windows along the building, starting from one end. There. It had to be that one. He had spent hours on the Internet, staring at the place from every angle, but now that he was here it seemed different. Maybe it was just the deepening evening that made it look different. He was certain he had found the right place. Tom stared at the window. A small square filled from within by a soft yellow glow, flowing outward into the evening gloom. The living room window on the side of the second floor apartment that faced the road. Tom nodded to a young couple who passed him on the street, huddled close to each other. They gave the stranger loitering in the dark a strange look as they passed, putting him behind them as quickly as they could. His false smile vanished the second they had passed, and he turned his watchful eyes back to the window. The sky was dull, promising rain, and a chill settled over him as he watched. He barely noticed it. It had taken months to find this place. To find her. "Angie" she'd said her name was. She'd said lots of things. Sweet nothings that, somehow, had grown to be everything. He had swallowed it, hook line and sinker. For awhile at least. That was why he was here, after all. That nagging sense that something wasn't quite right. A nagging sense that seemed to grow the more that he tried to reject it. Now he stood, miles from home, shifty and alone on a quiet street, staring up at the proof that he had been right to worry. Bitterness sank into his bones like the damp that descended over the city, and he felt his heart crumple in on itself like an empty paper cup. Only his most stubborn denials had held the feeling at bay, but they gave way as he watched as two shadows pass across the window's glow. One, a tall, curvaceous woman. The other, clearly male. His lip curled watching them. He imagined them sipping their wine together and laughing, as though they knew how deeply he'd been duped. He shifted in the darkness. His feet were beginning to ache and there was nowhere for him to sit and rest them. But he wouldn't leave. There was something he needed to do before he could go home. He'd come miles to be here. He wasn't leaving until it was done. The train ride had been long and boring, and he'd tortured himself with images of her, and the thought of what he'd do when he got here, fear of what he might learn. But he couldn't confront her with company present. Beneath the tough angry facade he presented to himself, Tom was hurt and confused. Though he couldn't admit it to himself, he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else being witness to his humiliation. No, he would have to wait. He leaned back against the stone wall behind him to give his feet some relief, shivering at the cold that seeped through his jacket and into his skin. He crossed his arms against the chill and watched, with a pang of jealous hurt, as the shadows moved into the bedroom window, then out of sight. He finally caved in to the growing ache in his feet and sat down on the pavement, trying to settle into a comfortable position. He might be waiting for awhile.
#
Benji stared up at Alice, or, more accurately, at the piece of peanut butter toast held between her slender fingers. "No," she admonished, wagging a finger at the mastiff, whose eyes followed the food without blinking while long strings of drool hung lower and lower from the edges of his mouth. Donny watched the exchange with a smile, perched at the kitchen counter over a cup of fresh coffee. The moment was disturbed when his phone buzzed across the counter top. He wandered a few paces away to take the call, leaving Alice to defend her breakfast from her beloved dog.
"Yes of course, I'll be right there," he muttered into the phone.
"Right where?" Alice asked before he had even opened his mouth to tell her about the call. "A crime scene. I have to go."
"Okay." It had taken Alice some time to get used to Donny's sometimes odd hours, but she had always accepted that they were necessary. She watched him for a few moments, striding around the living room, into the bedroom and back out again, a mixture of confusion and irritation on his narrow features.
"What have you lost?"
"My tie. I was sure I brought one over."
"You know, if you moved in you wouldn't have this problem," She teased, sipping her coffee while she waited for his inevitable response.
"And if you moved into my place I wouldn't have this problem either," he said, still distracted by his search for the tie that Alice doubted he had ever brought.
"I'll have to grab one from home," he said finally. It might have been a problem had his own flat not been three doors down the hallway. Donny brushed unruly red curls back from Alice's face to kiss her. "I'll let you know when I'm headed home."
She nodded. "Be safe."
He half smiled back over his shoulder at her on his way out of the door, and then he was gone.
"Benji!" Donny heard Alice gasp as he closed the door behind him. It seemed the mastiff had won his toast after all.
Donny pulled his car up at a row of flats along a quiet back road. A police car stood in the street already, drawing curious glances from neighbours on their way to work. He checked the address that he'd received in a text. This was it. He found a winding staircase inside and followed it up to the third floor. He had to squeeze in past a crime scene officer checking the door handle for prints. The inside of the flat was in disarray. A framed photo on the wall hung askew, the glass shattered. A smashed vase lay on the floor beneath it, its shards mingling with the broken glass on the floorboards. It had been thrown, judging by the trail of mangled flowers that lay strewn on the floor, forming a kind of trail leading away from the mess of shattered ceramics. The jaunty yellow petals seemed out of place in the face of so much anger. Donny made his way through to the study, where the destruction was even more appar
ent. The middle aged, male victim lay on his back, staring blankly towards the yellowing ceiling. A congealed ooze of deep red leaked from a gash on the side of his head. The offending object seemed to be the modern square lamp that lay, broken and shadeless, on the carpet beside him. The victim was only an average sized man, but his modest frame took up most of the space in the cramped study, barely more than a broom closet. A laptop lay on the floor, its screen cracked and useless.
"Oh good, you're here." DI Gould said to Donny. "Meet one Joseph Riddle." He gestured to the man on the floor between them in the tiny room. Donny didn't even know how the rotund detective had even gotten over to the far side without disturbing the victim.
"Who called it in?" Donny asked.
"EMS. A woman called them, wouldn't give her details. He was gone when they got here."
Something on the floor caught Donny's eye, and he crouched down to have a closer look. It was a footprint, in what looked like the victim's blood.
"Yeah, I saw that. The techs got photos."
"Probably a man's going by the size." Donny said, taking as close a look as he dared without disturbing the evidence.
Donny straightened back up, and looked to his senior officer for instructions.
"I need you to talk to the neighbours, see if they heard anything last night." Gould said.
Donny nodded. He had expected as much. He left Gould and the techs to their work, and prepared to knock on door after door. Two hours and six neighbours later, he regrouped with Gould.
"Most of the neighbours were out, probably gone to work. Those that were home didn't hear anything much. One said the victim's girlfriend was visiting him last night. Another said they noticed a stranger hanging around in the street outside."
Gould was more interested in the girlfriend. "Who is she?"
Donny shrugged. "The neighbour didn't know her. His mobile phone's probably the best bet to find her."
Gould nodded. "What about this stranger in the street then?"
"Thirties. Average height, average build, brown eyes, brown hair. Wearing a jacket," Donny said, hearing the vagueness of it ring in his ears.
His disappointment was mirrored on Gould's face. "And what was he doing?"
Donny shrugged. "Just standing in the street, staring towards the flats according to Mr. Andrews. He says he passed by there with his girlfriend on the way back from the shops and the guy was just standing there staring."
Gould glanced at Donny, digesting the information, his pale eyes thoughtful. "I think we'd best talk to the girlfriend. We can ask her if she noticed anyone. The couple might be useful witnesses if they can ID someone. But we'll never find anyone from 'average height average build' we need a bit more to go on."
Donny agreed. The couple's description had been hopelessly vague, and they hadn't shown much promise when he had asked them about sitting with a sketch artist. He just hoped the girlfriend would prove more helpful.
#
Donny knocked on the door of the flat. They found Charlotte's address through her phone company from the number on Riddle's mobile. Donny steeled himself to give the news that he and Gould were expecting to deliver. But when she finally opened the door, Charlotte's eyes were already red rimmed and bloodshot, her face swollen with crying. Had she already heard? She let them in and showed them to her small kitchen table where a mug of dark black tea steamed on the table. She sat heavily behind it, directing her swollen eyes down to the tabletop, unable to look at the detectives. Her long legs coiled awkwardly beneath the chair. She was tall for a woman, and struggled to keep her legs out of the way of her guests across the small table. She was trying to be courteous, even though their visit was unwelcome. She sniffed loudly and her lips parted, wavering, to speak. "You're probably wondering how I know about Joe already."
"We did wonder," Gould said, trying to force his gruff voice to sound as gentle as he could. The result was none too effective, but Charlotte didn't seem to notice.
"I've been trying to call him this morning. When he didn't answer I went around. I saw all the police there. One of them told me what happened."
"An officer told you what happened?" Gould clarified, surprised.
She nodded, wiping her nose on the now sodden tissue that she clutched in one hand.
"Do you mind if I ask who you spoke to?"
She shrugged. "I don't remember. It was such a shock."
"Of course," Donny said, sympathetically. It was hardly surprising. It must seem like a tawdry detail at a time like this. Gould frowned. If an officer had talked to her, why didn't he, or she, tell them Charlotte was there? Or at least get her contact details? They could have saved them plenty of wasted time. And exactly how much had they told her? The thought of information about the investigation leaking out without his knowledge made him just a touch nervous. He made a mental note to talk to the team about it later. He didn't mean to let this happen again.
"How long had you and Mr. Riddle been together?" Donny asked, unperturbed by Charlotte's comments about the officer.
"Three years. Off and on," She said. "We'd had our problems, Joe and me. But everything was good lately. It was really gonna work out this time." Her voice cracked and the two men averted their eyes uncomfortably as a fresh wave of tears consumed her for a few moments. After a deep breath, she regrouped with a visible effort. "I'm sorry. What do you need to ask me?"
"When was the last time that you saw him?"
"Last night. I was there until about half past eight. Joe wanted me to stay but I wasn't feeling too well, so I came home and went to bed early." Her face crumpled again. "Maybe if I had stayed-" she buried her face in a tissue, unable to finish the thought.
"There's nothing you could have done," Donny said kindly. It was probably true. At any rate, what had happened wasn't her fault. She couldn't walk around blaming herself. Nobody deserved that.
The placation seemed to make her worse and soon she struggled to breathe, dragging slow, shuddering breaths into her lungs through messy, snotty sobs. Finally she recovered herself again. "I'm sorry," she said, blowing her nose.
"It's alright. Had Mr. Riddle been having any problems lately?"
Charlotte shook her head, making the straight brunette hair that tumbled, unbrushed, around her face swing back and forth. "No. Not that he told me about anyway. He doesn't always, you know. He doesn't like me to worry."
The comment piqued Donny's interest. "What sort of problems had he had in the past?"
She shrugged. "You know. Just disagreements with people and stuff."
"What kind of disagreements?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Just stuff."
Donny tried not to show his disappointment at the vagueness of her answer, instead pushing on with the rest of the questions that they had to ask her. They asked what seemed like a cruel barrage of questions in the face of her grief. They asked about his life, his contacts. His work, which apparently had been non existent for some time. His family. Her answers were vague and hesitant. The glimmer of hope Donny had harboured that she might know something wavered. He wasn't sure whether she didn't know, or whether she was just having a heard time talking about it right now. Maybe they should simply give her some time. She was clearly distraught. Gould seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He slid a card on to the table between them with an approximation of a gentle smile. "We'll need to ask you some more questions. But if you think of anything else in the mean time, let us know."
She nodded, but left the card where it lay on the table top. She didn't move. "We'll see ourselves out," Gould said, breaking the awkward moment. She just nodded. The two detectives trailed out, leaving the woman unmoving at the table, still staring at the tea that she hadn't touched, now surely cold. Donny closed the door carefully behind them, making sure it was locked. He didn't expect the broken woman inside to notice or remember such little details right now.
#
At the station, Gould was keen to get their hands on the laptop that had been
found at the flat. It had taken some damage when it had been knocked to the floor and the technicians were trying to coax it into life. Failing that, they would salvage the files and emails that might have been on it. In the meantime, Donny got to work running a background check on their victim. They just didn't seem to know much about him yet. There had been very few calls on his phone, save to Charlotte, and they hadn't been able to trace any friends or family. There had to be some other contacts in his life that they could speak to. A family. A job, even an old one where he might have some friends. When he ran the name Joseph Riddle, he got a surprise. Nothing. At least, nothing more than three years old. Since then there'd been a drivers license, a vehicle registration and numerous traffic offenses, but before that was a total blank. Donny tried again and again, using different spellings, trying Joe and Jo instead of Joseph. More nothing. He frowned and rubbed a hand over his face, staring at the message on the screen. The drivers license they had found read Joseph Riddle. All the paperwork in the flat read the same. Donny rested his head on his hand, reflecting on possible reasons for the anomaly. Could Riddle be an expat from some other country? Then there wouldn't be any records from before he arrived in the country. Donny doubted Alice would have any records on file older than the past year either, when she had first moved here from Australia. But they hadn't found a foreign passport or immigration papers in his flat, which seemed to dampen that theory. Donny went, reluctantly, to give the news to Gould. He found him in his office, leaning intently into his computer screen. He, at least, seemed to be making some progress. "The background check turned up nothing more than three years old."
"I think I know why," Gould said, not even looking up from his computer. He was too engrossed. "Come and look at this."
The screen was filled with files that the technicians had given Gould on a USB after salvaging them from the damaged laptop. It was the emails that seemed to have Gould transfixed. Donny read them over his shoulder.
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