by Rob Ashman
White was turning an attractive shade of pink, scribbling furiously in her notebook.
‘Harry, I have to advise you—’ she said clearing her throat.
‘Oh fuck off, you’re as bad as them. I’ve lost my job, my reputation and probably my home all because you lot refused to believe I was being blackmailed. I had things under control with my habit, then Moore decides to turn the screw and I’m fucked. It’s gone, it’s all gone.’
‘Harry I can’t believe that—’ Kray got no further.
‘Believe what you want. Moore had me over a barrel and he knew it. Well he doesn’t now.’
Nicki White exploded in a cloud of protestations and denials.
Kray ignored her. ‘Harry did you kill Richie Moore?’
‘Richie Moore was slowly killing himself anyway, I just helped him along.’
‘What did you do, Harry?’
‘When I arrived he was about to shoot up so I said I’d join him. I bunged him twenty quid and cut myself some fresh gear from the pile. I pretended to do mine but put the whole lot into Richie. He had it coming for what he did to me. He took everything. I got nothing now.’
‘Harry Aldridge, I am arresting you for the murder of—’
The door burst wide open and the large bulk of ACC Quade bustled into the room, closely followed by the PC with a ginger bob and DCI Jackson.
‘Kray! My office now!’
Interview terminated, fourteen thirty-seven.
54
Kray wheeled her trolley around the supermarket, her phone pinned to her ear.
‘Hi, Mum, how are you doing …?’ She paused for the stock response, then continued, 'Yes I’m fine thanks, I got off shift early today.’
She reached the checkout with three bars of chocolate, a loaf of bread and four bottles of wine. The woman behind the till scowled at her for being on the phone.
‘Yes I’m eating well, you don’t have to worry … no I don’t need anything … look I have to go, Mum, I’m at the supermarket … I’ll give you a bell later. Okay?’ Kray hung up and shook her head.
The look on the checkout woman’s face said it all, ‘So you’re eating well then?’.
Kray caught her disapproving glare.
‘Do you want a bag?’ she asked.
I’m not going to stuff it in my fucking pockets, now am I? Kray returned the stare.
‘Yes please, that would be good,’ Kray replied, placing the items onto the belt.
The checkout lady picked up the first bottle and dinked it through. She gave Kray a sideways glance. What would your mother say?
‘Would you like help with your packing?’ she asked with a plastic smile.
Kray stopped, holding a bar of chocolate in mid-air. Do you think I’m fucking useless?
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ Kray put the items into the bag, a process that was punctuated with more sideways glances. Back in the car her head was filled with the checkout lady. I’m not going back there again. Cheeky bitch.
The traffic was light and she made good time. Before long she was in her kitchen peeling the foil wrapper off the chocolate and cracking open the first bottle. The wine tasted good, like it was capable of washing away the day. Which was precisely what Kray had in mind. She could not work out who had been more furious, Quade or Jackson, each one trying to outdo one another as to who could shout the loudest or listen the least. The day had not ended well.
Kray gathered up the bottle, the chocolate and her fast emptying glass, and headed upstairs to the bathroom. She stripped off and ran a deep, hot bath with so many bubbles she could barely see the wine bottle sitting on the wooden ledge. She sank into the suds and slurped her wine.
Kray mulled over the shouting match that had taken place in Quade’s office. Despite churning the discussion over and over in her head, it still remained unclear if she had been put on garden leave, had been suspended from duty or was on the sick. She was sure all three had been mentioned at some point or another. But either way she was not in work and was not expected to return for a while. That much was made clear.
Quade had taken the lead, piling into her about not being able to leave the case alone and for stepping on their toes. She disregarded Kray’s account of why she was interviewing Aldridge and told her she had engineered herself a way to get back into the investigation. The fact that Kray was about to arrest Aldridge for murder didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was that she had been told to leave well alone and had disobeyed a direct order. Jackson had spent the whole time reiterating what the ACC was saying but in a louder voice, as if that made it sound like they were his own words. Both of them steadfastly refused to believe that Kray was acting as part of her own investigation. They kept reinforcing the point that she had been told to back off, and here she was sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. It was around about that time when Kray told them both to ‘go fuck yourselves’ and mutterings of ‘suspension’ were being mentioned.
The wine level in the bottle was past the label and the chocolate had disappeared within minutes. She was exhausted. Not enough sleep, coupled with being emotionally shredded, was beginning to take its toll. She poured herself another glass.
‘Fuck ‘em,’ she told herself, raising her glass above the bubbles. ‘Let them get on with it. Wacko will be on the sick soon enough the way he’s going, and that will leave Mrs Blobby and Brownbag to track down the murderer. Fucking marvellous.’ She raised her glass, her eyelids felt like ton weights as she finished off the bottle. Minutes later she was asleep, dreaming of being in her kitchen, with the sun pouring through the open windows, and Joe fixing dinner while they drank cold beer.
There was a loud thump on the front door. Kray woke with a start and dropped the glass into the water. The bubbles were gone and the water was cold.
‘Shit,’ she said as she hauled herself over the rim of the bath and into her bath robe. Another two thumps echoed from her hallway.
‘Alright, I’m coming,’ she shouted, padding her wet feet down the stairs to the front door. She opened it to find Tavener holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other.
‘I have no fucking idea what I’m gonna do with those.’ She nodded at the bouquet. ‘But you can bring that with you.’ She went back up the stairs calling behind her, ‘Come in and make yourself at home. I’ll be down in a minute.’ She went to her bedroom, threw on a baggy top and jeans and headed back downstairs to find him in the kitchen opening and closing cupboard doors.
‘Had a tough day?’ he said.
‘Yeah something like that.’
‘I heard. In fact, everyone heard.’
‘They’re in the end cupboard.’
He opened it to find an array of glasses. He picked two off the shelf and poured wine into both. ‘What happened?’ He handed her one.
‘I’m not exactly sure.’ Kray propped herself against the worktop. ‘I think I might have been rude to them.’
‘You think? It’s the talk of the station. Those walls are thin you know?’
Kray sniggered into her glass. ‘Not sure they had to be that thin.’
‘No, that’s true, I could hear you from the car park.’ They both paused to take a sip. ‘Aldridge has been charged with the murder of Richie Moore.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Kray shook her head looking down at the floor.
‘I reckon they were so desperate to be seen to make progress they took your collar and claimed it as their own.’
‘Wacko and Mrs Blobby will be fighting over who will give the next press conference. My money is on the wider one.’
Tavener laughed.
‘Did you really tell them to go fuck themselves?’
‘Yeah, I think I might have done.’
He laughed again. ‘So, are you suspended?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kray took a mouthful of wine. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘Did they take your pass and warrant card?’
‘Nope I still have them.’
‘Then you’re not suspended. However, I’m not sure what the correct HR term is, but I reckon you’re fucked.’
‘Yes, I reckon you’re right.’
There was an audible buzzing. Tavener fished his phone from his pocket.
‘Bollocks, I gotta go. There’s an all-hands briefing in thirty minutes. I wanted to come round to see you were okay.’
‘No rest for the wicked.’
‘With those guys running the show it’s more like no rest for the one-legged man in an arse kicking competition.’
Tavener put his wine on the worktop and made his way through to the hallway.
‘Thanks for the wine and, err, the flowers.’ Kray followed him out.
‘Let me know if there is anything I can do.’
‘I will thanks, but I’m fine.’
‘I’m pretty useful you know.’
‘Yes I’m sure you are.’
‘I could set your clock on the mantelpiece to the correct time if you’d like?’
55
Sampson is grumpy. I have the silver rod holding his head to the table while his body winds itself around my arm. I slide my hand along and clamp my index finger and thumb either side of his jaw bone with my first finger pressing on top of his head. The rod comes away and I have him.
I lift him up and stare into his lidless eyes. His tongue flicks out. He wants to be fed but more than that, he wants to sink his fangs into my flesh and inject me with enough venom to kill a horse.
One day I will have you, one day.
I pick up the glass with the latex membrane stretched over the top. I offer it up to him and he opens his mouth. The glass rubs against the underside of his jaw and his enormous fangs hinge forward.
You are a big boy, Sampson.
I pull the glass away and wave it in front of his face. His coils tighten around me as he strains against my grip. I bring the glass within reach again to rub it against his mouth, he opens wide and fakes a strike. I pull it away. I touch the rim against the underside of his jaw and he lunges at it. One fang penetrates the rubber while the other spills yellow liquid on the outside of the glass.
‘Fucking behave,’ I say to him, holding on tight.
The next strike, both fangs bite through the membrane and a gush of venom hits the bottom of the glass. I disengage him and he goes in for another. Thick yellow liquid coats the side as he bites down against the rim. I massage his venom glands. After several smaller strikes, he’s done.
I lower his tail into the cabinet and rest his head against the side. I pull my hand away and withdraw my arm. Sampson curls himself up, waiting for his treat.
I dangle the mouse by the tail and lay it onto the sand at the other end of the tank. It darts around exploring its new surroundings. I can see its nose, held in the air, sniffing out any danger that might be lurking nearby. Sampson flicks his tongue out. I know what he’s thinking: Do I want to eat, or do I want to play? He adopts the trademark S-shape and watches impassively as the mouse runs around, keeping tight into the corners of the glass. Sampson sways with his head poised in mid-air, measuring the distance. The mouse leaves the relative safety of the corner and ventures out. Sampson flexes his body and strikes, snatching the mouse clean off the bottom of the tank. He retreats into his usual coiled position and I watch two tiny legs kick as Sampson’s jaws open and close to devour the rodent. Maybe the mouse had a cold, because he certainly didn’t sniff out danger when he should have done.
I wonder if she has the ability to sniff out danger, or is she just another mouse?
There are times in the life of every man when he knows instinctively that he has done something wrong but has no idea what it is. That described Duncan Tavener to a tee as Kray booted him out of the house like he’d taken a crap on her coffee table. He returned to his car with the sound of the front door crashing shut behind him.
Back in his flat, watching sport on the TV with a beer, Tavener was considering his experience to be a life lesson. Okay, so I won’t take flowers again.
Kray stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and raw from the constant dabbing of tissues. She had spent the last two hours watching the minute hand tick its way around the clock face, keeping perfect time. Perfect, that was, apart from the fact that the fucking thing was precisely one hour slow.
The sound of the clock ticking away played like a metronome in her head. With every increment an image exploded into her mind like a never-ending procession of flash cards. The faceless body of Madeline Eve, the screen shot of Lucy Frost raising her glass in the Purple Parrot, the look of terror on the face of Ania Sobotta at the Trafford Centre. A myriad of memories crowded in, suffocating the life out of her. And all the while the hands on the clock ticked away the time.
Kray was losing her sanity.
She picked up a make-up pad and applied a thin layer of cream. The soft cotton glided over her face removing the grime of the day. If only it was that easy to erase the thoughts torturing her soul. She reached her cheek and the expensive foundation slid away to reveal the red scar beneath. She stopped and ran her finger along its length. The thin ridge felt like a chasm cut deep into her face, ragged and uneven.
She could feel her skin pricking as a fly walked across the scar. The muscles in her face twitched. The sound of buzzing filled the room, the wings of a million flies beating out their droning tone. Another fly pitched on her face, followed by another. Soon her face crawled with the sensation of dancing insects.
The room spun on its axis and she felt sick. Her thoughts crashed together.
Rampton was told I set him up.
He attacked me because someone told him to.
All the while flies landed onto her face and neck. The buzzing got louder.
The phone box outside in the street.
Her favourite table at the Purple Parrot.
Walking hand in hand across Park View.
Her scars were on fire, burning into her flesh. She screwed her eyes shut as tears ran down her face. The buzzing was deafening. Her skin crawled.
The knife sticking out of Joe’s neck.
The blood, there was so much blood.
Suddenly all was quiet. The flies were gone. The buzzing had stopped. She opened her eyes.
Ice-cold shivers racked through her body. Her reflection stared back - with her narrow face, high cheek bones and big brown eyes set slightly wide apart. The pieces tumbled together and fell into place.
The killer knows me. And I’m next.
56
Kray picked her keys off the table and careered down the hallway to the front door. Her stomach was in knots, her vision bled in and out of focus. Her breathing was short and shallow. A tourniquet of panic wound around her chest.
She reached the downstairs toilet to pull her coat from the back of the door. A stream of Chardonnay and chocolate vomit hit the back of the porcelain as she spewed into the bowl. Her legs gave way and she clung onto the seat. She heaved again, but nothing came out.
She unwound toilet paper from the roll and wiped her mouth. She rocked back onto her heels and tugged her phone from her pocket. Who was she kidding? She was in no fit state to drive. She ordered a taxi.
After a few minutes her mobile beeped to announce her cab was waiting outside. Kray left the house and gave instructions to the driver. Sitting in the back she tried to clear her thoughts, tried to focus on the actions she had to take rather than the terrifying prospect running riot in her head. Her stomach churned as the car lurched through the empty streets. Eventually they pulled over and she handed the driver fifteen pounds.
She hurried through a double set of doors and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. The place was deserted, the only light spilling into the office came from the street lighting outside, giving the rooms an eerie quality. Kray walked along the corridor with Quade’s last remarks booming in her head ‘… and I do not expect to see you at the station, is that clear?’ It was, but obvi
ously not clear enough.
She reached her office and turned on her laptop, leaving the main light switched off. The blue screen illuminated the corner of the room as she began clicking away at the menus on the screen. Unlike last time she knew what she was looking for, or to be more precise, she knew what he looked like.
Kray scrutinised the mugshots flashing before her, scouring back through the years. She glanced at the digital clock at the bottom of the screen, it read 1.35am.
After a while she sat back in her chair to stare at the ceiling.
This is hopeless. Think, woman, think! I have to narrow down the search.
She went through the sequence of events in her head. Her focus had been on stalking through Rampton’s latest stretch in jail, but when she thought about it again, that made no sense. If her worst fears were true it must have taken place before that. It had to have been before he attacked her.
Kray entered different dates into the search bar and flicked through the names, each one accompanied by a mugshot. Image after image spooled across the screen. Nothing.
Then bingo!
The face of a young man filled the screen. He had shared a cell with Rampton for four weeks while on remand. Kray looked into his eyes and a cold shudder ran through her. It had to be, nothing else had come remotely close. This was him. A flicker of recognition fired in her brain. I’ve seen you before. How the hell …?
She clicked the print icon and the lights in the hallway outside flickered into life. She looked at her screen trying to work out what the hell had just happened, half expecting to see that she had hit a toolbar command saying, ‘Switch the lights on’. She heard footsteps.
Kray closed up her laptop and ducked down below the desk. The footsteps were getting louder. She held her breath and watched a shadow pass across her doorway.
It must be Wacko, what the hell is he doing in here at this time? She heard the office door at the end of the corridor open and the sound of a light switch being pressed. It was time to get out of there.