by Andy Remic
He dressed, coughing, and feeling pretty low.
Everything seemed to be falling apart.
Everything was turning to rat–shit.
It can only get better, muttered a blossoming part of his soul.
Oh yeah? Right. You wanna fucking bet?
The drive to Agar Street was performed in a state of withdrawal. Cal knew he was driving illegally, but for once (maybe twice) side–stepped morality and didn’t give a damn. He realised there were worse things in the world. And last night’s memories were a bitter pill stuck in his throat, in his brain, and making him gag.
That dead woman, he thought, shaking his head.
That poor, dead, pregnant woman...
‘Callaghan. Sit down.’
‘DI Bronagh. Glad you’re so eager to get to the point.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse. Or trust me, I will fuck you up. There’s a lot of cops in this building today who’d like to talk to a suspect on this murder case. Know what I mean? Do you know what it does to a family man? To cut down a skinned and mutilated corpse? To get a pregnant woman’s blood on your clothes? Blood on your hands? In your hair?’ His eyes were glittering dangerously. ‘It never washes off, Callaghan. Never washes off.’
‘Sorry mate.’ Cal’s eyes were bleak. ‘Feeling a bit shitty myself. Believe me, you weren’t the only one to get a shock to the system last night. Is Jimmy here?’
‘Not yet. We’ll interview you both separately.’
‘Interview?’ Cal raised his eyebrows.
DI Bronagh smiled a smile that was all teeth. ‘You are simply helping us with our enquiries.’
‘I’m not under arrest?’
‘I didn’t find your prints on anything. And you were a bit too clean to have skinned the woman.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Kathryn Murray. Now, she’s a bloody sack of meat down the morgue waiting for her autopsy. Should be interesting – some weevil skins a woman alive, and they have to cut her open to see what killed her. Madness! Still, a doctor I am not.’
‘Please, you don’t have to keep saying how he skinned her, Bronagh.’
The DI seated himself opposite Cal and met the photographer’s gaze. ‘Why? Not making you squeamish, am I?’
‘Yeah. You are. OK if I smoke?’
‘Not really. We operate a no smoking policy in the building.’
‘Yeah? Well you can stick that socially correct passive smoking bullshit up your arse.’ Cal lit a cigarette and breathed deep. It wasn’t his first, so did little to relieve his agitation. He suckled like a needy infant, a dying man drowning on his last fag. Which, he reflected, he probably was.
‘OK, just for the record, Mr Callaghan, can you explain in your own words what happened on the evening of 20th October? In your own words, please.’
Callaghan explained again what had happened, staring at the tiny digital recorder as if it were a cockroach. Bastard little thing, he thought. I wonder if one day this will come back to haunt me? I’ll hear this recording being played in a law court... just prior to a grilling by a wig, and followed by the joy of final sentencing and the lustful smiles of big rough men in the shower. Bend over and pass me the soap, fat boy...
After finishing his monologue, a female PC entered and stood by the door.
‘You want a coffee?’ asked Bronagh.
Callaghan nodded.
‘Milk?’
‘Milk and three sugars.’
Bronagh half turned. ‘One coffee, milk and three sugars. A half–pint of Nigger Sweat for me. Five sugars.’
The PC left without a word.
‘Nigger Sweat, Bronagh? It’s at times like this I truly love the freedom of the press.’ Cal’s voice was low, eyes fixed on Bronagh, face screwed up a little. ‘What an exposé it would make – one of the Met’s famous high–flying Detective Inspectors undergoing the shame of internal investigation, denial, and subsequent disciplinary procedure regarding flippant racist comments made to subordinate colleagues.’
‘Racist? Ha.’ Bronagh laughed a cold, brittle laugh. ‘I’m not a racist, Callaghan. I don’t care what colour, creed or religion you are.’ His already brutal face hardened. ‘If the truth be known, I hate all fucking people. No contest. No prejudice. You're all maggots.’
‘Yeah. Thought so. Fine words for a police officer.’ Cal nodded to himself as an uneasy silence descended on the two men. Bronagh tapped his pencil against the edge of the desk as they waited. Cal found himself irritated by the low level disruption. It pierced his skull like a fast–spinning drill–bit.
Finally, the female PC returned, brought both men their coffee. Bronagh reclined, sipping at his dark sweet brew. He was watching Cal intensely, and it gave the photographer the creeps.
‘Did you know this woman?’ said Bronagh, finally.
‘Which woman?’
‘The murder victim.’
‘"Murder" – can I quote you on that?’
‘No. Answer the question.’
‘No. I didn’t know her.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Never seen her before in my life.’
‘Maybe she had her clothes on? And all of her skin? Ring any distant bells in your cocaine–mushed brain?’
‘Bronagh, I did not know her. OK? Look, that envelope you found – with my name on the front? What was in it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at this stage.’
‘Come on, Bronagh. This is me, Callaghan. I’ve helped you with a thousand cases in the past – we go back a long way. I’ve been scratching your hairy back for ten long years! Isn’t it time I had a little payback?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at this stage.’
‘You’re a motherfucker, Bronagh.’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at this stage.’
A different PC entered, handed a slim folder to DI Bronagh. Bronagh flicked through the papers leisurely as he finished his black coffee, and the PC left the two men alone.
‘A couple more questions, then we’re done.’
Cal nodded, lighting another Marlboro and eyeing the folder suspiciously.
‘You should quit. It’ll be the death of you.’
‘Yeah, right. Then it’ll be the fucking death of me.’ Cal coughed harshly, as if to confirm impending lung cancer.
Bronagh fixed him with his pale gaze. ‘OK. This is a simple exercise. I’m going to read you something, and I want you to tell me if you’ve heard it before.’
‘OK.’ Cal nodded, a touch nervous now, wondering where it could be leading. His eyes narrowed. Am I being stitched up here? he thought. Should I call my lawyer? Bastard police – never trust the filth as far as you can throw them...
Bronagh cleared his voice. And began:
‘“Do we blame the children? In the land of the drugged, the robbed, the methadone depraved? Products of casual violence, force–bred stupidity, drug–high prejudice, they grow like tumours, emerge from estates of tortured animals and intimidation stares clutching ASBOs with pride and ejaculated into a world–machine of decadence. We’re surprised when OAPs are given fifty facial stitches; amazed when a pretty blonde is glassed by scabby whores; stunned when a tramp is doused in petrol and set alight by hooded teens. Is there education for our young? Or are the new new policies, endless initiatives, re–shuffles and teacher kafuffles and politician scuffles for the benefit of the voters? Are the anti–social Social Workers working? After all, nudge nudge wink wink, a child’s best kept with its heroin addict mother, right? Stands to unreason. Serial rapists walk victimless streets. Paedophiles live happily beside primary schools, unchecked and unloved but with a mighty big erection. Murderers are imprisoned to watch Box Office Premieres, eat Pizza Hut specials and bend over for the soap, fat boy: prison camp or camp prison? Who’s enjoying who enjoying who? Once it was An Eye For An Eye, A Tooth For A Tooth. Where is our justice? Our protection? Our LAW? A LAW that WORKS? Does the LA
W protect us? Here? In this place? What good the police? Traffic uncalming measures? The sculpture of the GATSO? We’re a self policing society now! Don’t ring us, ring the Social Workers! Do good people have to turn vigilante to bring our world back online? Because our society has crashed, people. Crashed bad down the Facebook toilet. Don't blame Microsoft for the Blue Screen of Death, OK? They don't own the world... well, not yet! So how do we jack back into a system that works? Law, order and respect: the perfect triumvirate. Should rapists be raped? Murderers murdered? Serial killers stripped of their skin, tortured and drained of decadent infested blood? Who kills the killers, that's what I want to know?”’
Bronagh stopped there; although he could have gone on. There was a lot more, Callaghan knew. And it wasn't very flattering. Especially to the police.
Bronagh’s teeth bared. It might have been a smile. Callaghan decided it probably wasn’t. Cal coughed, and sipped the dregs of his now cold coffee. It tasted bad.
Finally: ‘You heard that before?’ Bronagh’s words were sotto voce.
‘You know I wrote it.’ Cal’s reply sounded weak. Small.
‘An interesting piece.’
‘I was trying to...’
‘I know what you were trying to do,’ barked Bronagh. ‘I don’t need a patronising non–lesson in your journalistic art of piss.’
‘I wrote that piece a long time ago. You should commend your monkeys on digging up antiquities. Well done. I didn’t realise the Metropolitan Police employed archaeologists.’
There was a long pause.
‘Of course, it’s probably nothing.’ Bronagh gave a cold smile. ‘Sheer coincidence. That woman being skinned. You know.’
‘What was in that letter, Bronagh? Why the hell did it have my name on it? Come on man, what did it say? It’s eating me up here – I have the right to know...’
‘You have the right to fuck all,’ came the growl of the DI. ‘I’ve got some fucking lunatic walking the streets willing to carve the skin from a pregnant woman’s stomach; to amputate limbs; to murder. And for all I know, he called you on the phone only minutes before he strung up the corpse – and left a note for you in her dead grip. And you say you don’t know the murderer, or the victim... just protecting your freedom–of–speech sources, are you, Callaghan?’
‘No!’
‘Well I’m warning you, you’d better be fucking careful. You’re playing a game here – and I think you’re fucking with me. I don’t like it. Some sicko murderer out there is not playing by the rules; and they like you, Callaghan. They like you a lot.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Cal felt chilled to his marrow.
‘Just call it a hunch. But whoever it is, they feel integrated with you and your world. You watch yourself, mate. I think you and me are going on a long journey together... I think this is the first of many meetings, Mr Callaghan.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘This is just the beginning, boy–o. Now. Goodbye.’
‘I can go?’
‘Yeah. Fuck off. I’ll catch up with you again – sooner, rather than later, I reckon.’
Cal walked along the pavement, boots leaving imprints in patches of frost, and checked his watch. His head came up and he turned the corner, eyes fixing on the building ahead, blue and yellow sign filling a billboard proclaiming:
STORAGE HEAVEN, an ideal, cost–effective way to store your personal possessions or business stock in a clean, secure environment with 24 hour security and on–line monitoring facilities.
Cal sauntered beneath the sign, glancing over his shoulder to check if he was being followed. He smiled a sickly smile at the security guard who, a stickler for bureaucracy, checked Cal’s ID and signed him in, despite knowing him well.
He walked down the concrete ramp and into a huge bay. Stopping at a section of blue roller shutters, Cal fumbled with his keys, unlocked the padlock and rolled up the steel door.
He breathed deeply. This moment always caught in his throat.
His girls. His babies. His motorbikes!
Four of them.
And yes, Sullivan did call him a self–spoiling little bitch. Often.
OK, Cal thought. Focus. Mission. Meet Sophie – and dump her. Take Sullivan’s advice for once. Life is definitely getting too complicated and it needs smoothing out. Smoothing over. Simplifying. An emotional pruning.
Mission: Stratford. Two hours, if I cane it.
Mission: Meet Sophie. Dump her. No tears. No drama.
Mission: Not get killed by Romanian gun–runner with a fetish for vodka and Techrim 11mm pistols.
Cal stretched, and rolled his neck with crackles of released tension. His back was aching, head still throbbing. His breath smoked and he moved to the shelf containing his rack of helmets, polished, gleaming, loved. Jimmy once joked, you love those damn bikes more than your women! And he’d been right. Cal glanced affectionately at his Suzuki GSXR1000, the polished blue, white and black fairing gleaming enticingly under strip–light. His lips compressed as his hand touched the cold metal of the tank. ‘Not today, baby,’ he muttered, moving instead to the BMW 1200GS Adventure, gloss black with silver alloy BMW panniers. He kicked the large bike off its stand and with a grunt, wheeled it from the lockup, out into the airy bay.
He grabbed his black armoured jacket from one of the many pegs, balanced his black Arai on the BM’s seat, dropped a spare lid into one of the side panniers, and rolled shut the lock–up. My paradise, he realised. My little Pandora’s Box... Why? Because these delicious, svelte, powerful machines always get me into trouble...
The bike roared into life, parallel twin rumbling to a fast idle. Cal pulled on his helmet, fastened up the jacket and rode quickly to the ramp on a cream of powerful torque.
Free of the underground confines, he allowed the bike to roar down the road and he laughed for a moment inside his helmet – feeling suddenly free, free of his job go here go there photograph this what the hell is that supposed to be if I wanted cultural photography I’d hire Prince bloody Charles! Free of the police, shouting and moaning, a bunch of bureaucratic paper–pushing lazy donut–munching sons–of–bitches. Free of Jimmy, the malingering Scottish mothering lovable git. And free of the threat of Vladimir, that slightly crazy Romanian hey but aren’t they all crazy and a bit wacky with their comedy accents? And his non–comedy guns, of course. And Callaghan felt free of the vision – of the skinned and murdered woman from the previous night. Everything blended into a smooth butter of forgetfulness, and Cal opened the throttle hard, the BM’s exhaust snarled and the bike leapt forward. He powered down Canada Square, leaned left onto Upper Bank Street, and allowed the bike to surge like an unleashed predator hunting down prey.
Wind slapped Cal’s helmet, and whistled past his darkened visor.
Behind Callaghan, keeping a good distance back, a black Mercedes CLK with tinted windows pulled smoothly from the kerb and with a low growl, began to pace him.
Stratford centre, and Cal kicked the BM onto its side–stand and pulled off his helmet, coughing, desperate for a cigarette and a piss but not quite sure which need was greatest. Traffic moved behind him, a fluid metal snake. He glanced up at the gold lettering of The Pig and Perkin. He grinned then, because this place always made him grin. The pub wasn’t really named The Pig and Perkin. It was called The Pen and Parchment, but, after a particularly heavy drinking session with friends one evening, somehow the name had transmogrified and this solecism had stuck. Damn that Hoegaarden, he thought. Dam it all the way back to Belgium!
And of course, this was also his (ir)regular meeting place with Sophie. It reminded him of her. Of their intimacy. Of hardcore, unattached, rampant sex.
He blinked, and breathed deep.
Think of the devil.
Sophie stood in the doorway, short black shimmering dress, red gloss lips smiling, mascara’d eyes sultry and half closed under heavy lids. He moved towards her and her hands lifted, resting against his chest. She smelled good; no, she smelled incredible.
He glanc
ed around nervously, aware of their openness. Their vulnerability. ‘Not here. Not on the street,’ he said.
She leant towards him, long black hair tumbling, and she winked. It was quite seductive. ‘Come inside,’ she breathed.
They moved into the gloomy interior. Sophie had secured a corner table looking out over the front of the public house. As Cal sat in a high–backed Queen Anne chair, he glanced out, paranoia kicking him as he checked his BM. Then he watched, idly, as a black Merc CLK moved from the kerb and vanished.
‘Drink?’
‘I’ll get them, I need the toilet.’
‘How... fascinating.’
He returned a few minutes later, placing a glass of Chardonnay on the dark oak and dropping a packet of Marlboros next to it. His own drink was a huge hexagonal glass of Hoegaarden. He cursed himself; he should have learned his damned lessons with that beer. And yet it called him back, time and time again. It was sublime.
‘You shouldn’t be drinking,’ Sophie chastised. She opened his cigarettes and lit one, as he gulped the wheat beer with eyes closed, making an exaggerated sighing sound.
‘Sue me.’
When both had a cigarette trailing smoke, Sophie’s face seemed to soften. Her hand snaked across the table and touched his. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.
‘You do?’ He stared into those large, pale, opal eyes; as ever, they melted his heart and hardened his crotch. Damn, he thought. Damn bastard bloody bastard damn. Don’t even be going soft now! Don’t weaken your resolve! Don’t give in to that evil snare which makes you so much melted butter in her warm and welcoming lap...