No Further Action

by TL Dyer

  ‘Her parents wouldn’t. Strict churchgoers and all that.’

  ‘But it’s not as if she was underage. She was an adult. How strict are they?’

  ‘I just mean that from what she told me, it was complicated.’

  ‘Complicated how?’

  I receive another tilt of the head and a wary evaluation that informs me I’m asking too many questions. Comes with the job. Second nature. But I’ve forgotten this is a case that, according to the law, has now closed.

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all,’ I explain.

  Tricia leans her forearms on the table, and with the bar getting busier and the chatter picking up around us, I lean in to hear what she says.

  ‘She never gave me details, mostly because I never asked for any. Ignorance is bliss and all that, and the last thing I need is to get tangled up in some teenage love drama. They can turn pretty ugly, pretty quick. But I gathered that this fella she was seeing... Well, I’ve a feeling he wasn’t exactly her age.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But whoever he was, he was a right shit to her.’

  ‘In what way?’ I shuffle closer to the table to be better able to hear. Except she shrugs one shoulder.

  ‘Just that she was upset quite a few times when she came into work. And she was a good kid, you know?’

  ‘You’re saying he hurt her?’

  She presses her lips together to think about that, and something about the way she pushes the hair back behind her ear and looks everywhere but at me suggests she’s uncomfortable. With what she knows. Or the question. Or with me asking it.

  ‘Not hurt hurt, I wouldn’t say,’ she says into the depths of the half-empty glass. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it just wasn’t going the way she wanted. That’s young girls, I suppose. They have big ideas about stuff like that, don’t they? It’s tough when you’re that age.’ She huffs a dry laugh to the Beck’s and mutters, ‘Tough when you’re any age.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  She looks up from her drink with a sleepy smile that this time I know is amusement.

  ‘Anna’s boyfriend,’ I prompt. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Why’s that, Officer? Thinking of arresting him for crimes against the female sex?’

  I pick up the alcohol-free beer, wishing it was something stronger. Wishing I didn’t have the car, or work in the morning. Wishing I hadn’t started this conversation.

  ‘I don’t know his name. Anna never said. Whoever it was, and whatever he did to upset her, he must have made it up to her somehow. She was defiantly protective of him.’

  When I bring the bottle back down to the table, Tricia’s watching me with a scrutiny that bothers me just as much as her teasing did.

  ‘I should go,’ I say, but point to her glass. ‘Or did you want another?’

  She finishes her drink without answering and we leave, brushing our way past the youngsters going in the opposite direction, the ones trying to get in for a few warm-up rounds before they head into town to make a night of it. They have an air of confidence that says they belong, that this is their patch, their time. We have an air of contrition that says we’ve outstayed our welcome and trespassed on land that isn’t ours any more.

  The cool night is in such contrast to the stuffiness inside the pub that it’s a shock to the system. We both shiver.

  ‘Need a lift?’ I ask, hitting the key fob on the Focus to unlock it.

  ‘Got my own, but thanks.’ She points up the street. When we get to my car though, and I walk to the driver’s side, she lingers on the pavement. My hand’s on the door handle, when she adds, ‘Look, Steve, if I said something wrong...’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Only sometimes I do. Put my foot in it, I mean.’

  ‘Really, you didn’t say anything wrong.’

  ‘Because I am grateful you came tonight. Really grateful.’

  I look across the roof of the car to where she stands, gripping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. In the travel agent’s behind her, a row of spotlights highlight rows of hand-written cards hanging in the window, last-minute flights, bargain package holidays and city getaways. Its white glare casts her face in shadow, so I can’t be sure of her expression. But I can feel it. I feel it in the way she clings to the bag strap, and in the way she’s still looking at me for a response. With the tilt of her head, I catch a sparkle on her cheek from the face glitter, and think of earlier. How she bit her lip when I trod on her feet, how she persisted with patience when I couldn’t follow the moves, and how we giggled when she tried to put rhythm into hips that had never known any before. It was awkward to start. Really awkward. But also sort of fun. In some form or other, it was a whole other head space just for a while.

  I smile. ‘Thanks for asking me. I had a great time.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, dropping her hands into her pockets and walking on to her car, glancing back once over her shoulder to cross the road. ‘Same time next week, then.’

  *

  I don’t think I’m looking for him. At least, I hadn’t intended to. It’s more out of habit that I have my eyes on the street as I pass through town on the way home, and luck that I spot the black and white fleece before it ducks down the lane away from the bus station.

  I bring the car around to the multi-storey and park up, exiting via the lift and jogging past a stream of heels and giggles, and bravado and baritone laughter, making its way to the bars and clubs in the opposite direction. No black and white jacket among them, nor along the High Street. I go on to John Frost Square, expecting Cranky to be a creature of habit, his sort not known for their imagination or creativity – that comes much higher up the criminals’ food chain.

  I come around the building society, taking my wallet out of my pocket like I’m looking for my card to use the cashpoint, and there he is, sitting alone on one of the ornamental stone benches in the middle of the plaza. He’s got his elbows on his knees, and taps at the phone in his hands with both thumbs as if he’s playing a round of PacMan and can’t get away from the ghosts quick enough.

  He takes no notice of me until I’m within ten feet of him. Then his gaze comes up from the screen, followed by his entire body straightening when it’s clear I’m heading right in his direction and not stopping. He doesn’t get up though. He doesn’t look up to much either. But maybe that’s because what I see of him is bathed in the glow from the closed shops on both sides of us. He’s got a thin nose, eyes a little too close together, and more pockmarks than the moon’s surface has craters. And because of that, or perhaps because I’m recalling the way he spoke to Anna in their text conversation, I don’t like him.

  ‘Yeah?’ he says, with a tilt of his mouth and a sarcastic huff. I like him even less.

  ‘You Cranky?’

  He pulls himself up another inch, tucks his hands in his pockets. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Mate of Anna’s.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Anna. Anna Johnson.’

  ‘Righto. That’s nice for you.’

  ‘You knew her, right?’

  ‘Might have. Don’t remember.’

  I blow out a heavy sigh like I’m on a short fuse, which isn’t too far from the truth. Looking around me at nothing in particular, I mirror him by tucking my hands into my jacket pockets.

  ‘Bit old to be a mate of Anna’s, aren’t you? Mind, saying that...’

  I draw my gaze back to the little scrote. ‘So you know her, then?’

  One hand comes out of his pocket and he swipes it across his nose as he sniffs. Not the sharpest knife in the block.

  ‘Listen, this is a bit awkward actually,’ I say.

  ‘What is?’

  I tut, scratch the back of my head. ‘No, it’s just... Well, Anna said, if I needed anything... Shit, you know what? Forget it.’

  I’ve only gone a few steps when he’s on the end of the hook. ‘Like what?’

  That’s the other thing about small-time crooks. No patience. If it looks l
ike a score and smells like a score...

  I count three seconds before I turn back. ‘What’ve you got?’

  He dips his head and eyes me from under the hood in a manner that suggests I must have him down as a mug. Yeah, actually, and the rest.

  ‘Anna said sometimes she got some bud off you.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  I’m losing patience with the idiot and let him see it. ‘Okay, do you know what? I haven’t got time for this.’

  ‘So why ask?’

  ‘Do you have any or not?’

  ‘Might.’ He buries his hands in his pockets and leans back like I’m the one being reeled in on the end of the line. ‘Mind, you’d have to ask nice.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I whistle the word through my teeth.

  ‘Alright, alright, keep your piece on,’ he says, taking out his phone and tapping at it while he speaks. ‘Couple of grams?’

  ‘Just one. Yeah, that’d be good.’

  Cranky huffs a laugh to himself as he goes on with his message. He assumes I’m green to all this. He’s sort of right, in one way. Not so much in another.

  ‘Will it be long?’ I ask. I don’t want to be seen out here having a conversation with a known dealer while I’m off duty, but I do want to make the most of this opportunity that I’ll only get once.

  ‘Nah,’ is all he says, laid back, enjoying my discomfort.

  I sit a good distance from him on the stone bench, hands jammed in my pocket, tapping my heels. He peers at me around the edge of his hood.

  ‘Chill, man. We’re in a blind spot.’ He tips his head to a camera on the wall to our left. It points away from us.

  ‘What did you mean when you said I was a bit old to be a mate of Anna’s, then changed your mind?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said, Saying that... Like maybe I wasn’t too old.’

  Cranky shrugs it off. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘I heard she was seeing someone. Was he older than her, then?’

  I’m going too fast. He’s looking at me like I’m some kind of weirdo. ‘How’d you say you knew her again?’

  ‘I worked at the vets with her.’

  ‘Rad,’ he says, fishing in his breast pocket and coming out with a pack of cigarettes. He flips it open, taps out a cigarette and the lighter tucked down inside. He offers the packet, but I decline, and he cups his hands to light up, before returning the lighter to the box and the box to his pocket, drawing a long first inhale as he does. Exhaling through the side of his mouth and his nostrils, he peers sideways at me again.

  ‘Good-looking girl,’ he says, a thin line of a smirk peeling back his lips when he takes the cigarette away.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, staring up the street and thinking I don’t have much time. Any second now, the runner will arrive and this rendezvous will be over. ‘To be honest, I really liked her.’

  ‘No shit,’ Cranky says, with a pathetic chuckle.

  I’m not sure what disturbs me more, that he’d chuckle over a woman no longer alive or that he sees something in me that I don’t. I remind myself this is a petty dealer with probably little left between his ears that the weed hasn’t got to yet, and a level of intuition Rumpole the Staffie would sneer at.

  ‘You know, you would have been just her type too.’ He points the cigarette in my direction.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The tip of his head suggests he knows about these things. His pockmarked skin stretches with the effort of the pull he takes on the filter, and I’m wondering how a bloke with so little going for him can carry such an air of confidence? Where does he get it from?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘She seemed pretty wrapped up in this other bloke.’

  ‘Well, that’s Anna for you.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  My question draws another wary glance and another puff on the cigarette, before he blows the smoke to the night sky. But Cranky’s crooked intuition must have me pinned as one more heartbroken Romeo, because then he says, ‘Rumour has it she was fucking someone at her college.’

  ‘Right.’

  I try not to think of Anna with her cool hand in mine, the fear in her eyes, the pleading as her life slipped away. I clench my teeth to bite back a nag in my chest and remind myself what I’m here to do, find this Brad and what the hell he might have done to make Anna crash the car that night.

  ‘So, someone in her class,’ I say.

  Cranky snorts a puff of smoke through his nose as he laughs. ‘One way of putting it.’

  He looks over to me with a crude smirk that says I’m going to love what he has to say next.

  ‘Her fucking lecturer, is what I heard.’

  I raise my eyebrows in response, and Crater-Face laughs again, like all this just cracks him up. I’m guessing he’s not too bothered about losing one of his customers.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ he says, and adds in a sing-song voice, ‘That’s Anna.’

  I ignore his present tense mistake and wonder how much I can trust what this arsehole is saying. ‘Did you know his name?’

  ‘Fuck no, nothing to do with me who she’s shagging. Couldn’t keep up even if I tried.’

  Grounding the cigarette end under his boot, he looks down the street as if he’s hurrying his product along.

  ‘If that’s what gets you off, man. Never trusted teachers myself. Never trust anyone who works with kids. Heard he was at least twice her age, though. Married, rug rats, all that shit.’

  He stretches his neck to peer down the street, and I follow his gaze to where some young kid drowning in a hoody too big for him is bouncing our way like his Nikes have got springs under them.

  ‘But that was Anna,’ Cranky adds, eyes glazing over in a moment of whimsy, as if it’s her he’s seeing and not his delivery boy. ‘Everyone wanted to bang her, you know? Specially pervy old bastards.’

  The whimsy evaporates. He pulls himself from his reverie to look at me. ‘No offence, mate.’

  ‘None taken,’ I say, even as I want to put my fist to his scarred jaw and explode his puny nose with my forehead.

  I go through with the exchange, knocking a tenner off Cranky’s ridiculous asking price which he hasn’t bargained on me being any the wiser about. Then with my gut in my throat, I clench his hand in a cool, weak handshake and leave. Once I’m on the High Street, I take out my phone and put in a call to the station, saying I’ve seen a couple of kids flogging dope in John Frost Square, and giving a detailed description of Cranky and his mate. I explain that I’d do it myself except I’ve had a couple of drinks. Only a half-lie, I tell myself, as I walk back to the car park with a gram of weed in my inside pocket, and a tension in my chest for the fuckers who messed with Anna’s head and likely each contributed in their own way to her death.

  Chapter 19

  It’s gone ten, but all the lights in the house are still on. I lock the Focus, steeling myself to lie for the second time tonight, albeit to someone I care about a hell of a lot more than a pimple-faced pot broker. And because I care about her, that makes these white lies, nothing more. Every copper resorts to them at some point, male and female. Call it self-preservation. Call it keeping the peace. Call it whatever you like as long as it makes life more bearable for everyone.

  Rumpole greets me on the way in, short, stiff tail swinging, eyes arching up to mine as if they’ve pleaded for help and now at last help arrives. I lock the door behind me, drop my keys in the side drawer and crouch to get my face licked. His tongue is sandpaper over my stubble and reeks of meaty chunks in gravy, but the folds of his body are warm under my hands, and just for a minute I indulge him. He so rarely waits at the door any more, and I so rarely give him the attention I once did, that it’s hard to be sure which one of us needs this more, him or me.

  ‘Alright, boy,’ I say, close enough to his ear that it flickers. His reply is a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest.

  There are voices coming from the TV in the sitting room, the authoritative tone of a newsreader thro
wing questions at someone who’s trying to get a word in edge ways, voice rising as they run out of patience. With the heaviness in my rib cage still threatening, I walk straight through to the kitchen where I flick on the lights and fill the kettle. I’m spooning coffee into the mug when I sense I’m no longer the only biped in the room.

  ‘Want one?’ I ask, even though I know she won’t. Nine o’clock is Ange’s deadline for drinks.

  ‘Food’s in the microwave,’ she says. Her voice is quiet, not sharp, which means she’s tired. Too tired for a fight, maybe.

  I punch the door release on the microwave. Inside is a plastic container of cottage pie and peas. I close the door and set the timer to warm it up.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ I say, stirring the coffee as I take it to the breakfast bar. ‘Sorry I’m so late.’

  She tugs her dressing gown tighter around her and pulls out a stool opposite. Her hair is damp where it lies resting over her shoulders, staining the blue satin with faint dark patches. She’s taken off her make up and her eyes are hard but weary, suggesting disappointment is still on the table.

  I rub the back of my neck with one hand, then scorch my tongue and lips on the coffee too hot to drink yet.

  ‘You staying?’ she asks.

  ‘What?’

  She points at me, gaze dropping to my chest, and I look down to see I’m still wearing my jacket. I slip it off and throw it over the stool next to me.

  ‘I’m really sorry about parents’ evening, Ange.’

  ‘Forget it,’ her mouth says, but her tone claims otherwise.

  ‘There was a domestic at end of shift. We had to arrest this woman for attacking her partner.’ I shake my head, my stomach groaning with emptiness as I think of the marks on Paula’s body, not an ounce of fat on her waist. ‘Christ, Ange, if you’d seen the state of her. What her husband had—’

  ‘So do you want to know?’

  ‘Want to know what?’

  ‘How he got on? Your son?’

  The microwave drones behind me, the vibration worming its way through my gut, the numbing monotone dragging on my insides. I’m close to saying, why do you always do that? Why is he my son when you’re pissed off and never at any other times? Why am I not allowed to have a life outside of these four walls without feeling ashamed about it?