No Further Action

by TL Dyer

  It’s the only thing I can say, and I make a hash of it. She even waits. She stands there waiting for something else, something better.

  ‘Ange, I don’t know what’s—’

  ‘There was no training.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I spoke to Freddie. He said there was no work training on Sunday. You didn’t think to get your story straight first?’

  Freddie. Always Freddie. Another one with a soft spot for Ange. Selling me out to earn brownie points with her, or maybe to shake things up between us. Well guess what, Fred? It worked.

  ‘You two were talking behind my back?’

  ‘So where were you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter. I need—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Right. So you keep saying. Well I’ll tell you what does matter, shall I, Steve? Dan’s already at my mother’s. He went yesterday. You didn’t even notice. I’m going now. You won’t notice that either.’

  She pushes past me, pulling both cases behind her, stopping at the door to take her keys from the drawer.

  ‘Wait. Ange, please.’

  She opens the front door, but I punch it shut with my fist. It makes her jump and she glares at me.

  ‘The finca, Ange. What you said. You were right. We should put down the deposit.’

  She looks at me a long time before she answers. ‘That’s not what you want.’

  ‘It is,’ I say on an exhale, my body slumping, shoulder landing on the door, my face hot, my cheek, the stitches at the back of my head, everything burning.

  ‘We are talking about the same thing, right, Steve? You do mean my precious finca? Do you mean that one?’

  ‘I wasn’t in the right head space. I’m... I’ve been...’

  ‘I’ve taken the cottage off the market. It’s all yours, just as it always was.’ Her hand’s back on the door handle, her gaze there too as she says, ‘Look, I need a bit of space to think. That’s all. And so do you.’

  Another man, a better man, would have known what to say, might have begged his wife of seventeen years to stay, the mother of his son. Someone like Dad. He’d have known. He’d have had this in the bag all the way back at the restaurant. He’d have never let it get to this point in the first place, never slept with another woman, never lost his head.

  I edge away along the wall until I’m up against the coats hanging from the hooks.

  ‘You can reach Dan on his phone. But do me a favour and try not to confuse him more than he already is. I’ll be back when we’ve got our heads round this.’

  She opens the door, lifts one case over the step, then the other, readjusting the bag on her shoulder. I watch her do all this, without stopping her, without helping, without speaking. I can’t do any of it.

  The door closes behind her, and in my head I tell myself to do something, you useless prick, but my body won’t move, only to slide down the wall to the floor. Some of the coats come with me. They fall around me as the Tiguan starts and backs out of the driveway. And once it’s gone, my skin burns so hot across my temple that when I bring it down to touch the cold wood floor, I couldn’t care less if its fire consumes me.

  Chapter 36

  Chief Inspector Peter William Fuller didn’t drink, except when he was made to on special occasions. He said he’d seen the stuff ruin too many lives, cause too many problems, and above all turn a man into the very worst version of himself. He had a lot of experience of alcohol, he said, and attributed a good proportion of the call-outs he ever attended to it. If not for the fact it was lawful over a certain age limit, he claimed, it would be more of an issue than drugs. He wasn’t so arrogant to have got on his soapbox over it, and never questioned anyone else’s appetite for it, but when the subject came up, his distaste was clear. Mum never drank much as a result, and there was never drink in the house.

  ‘And we all know why that is, don’t we, Dad?’ I mutter into the darkness of the sitting room, a bottle of Glenfiddich tucked between the chair and my thigh, glass gripped in my fingers on the armrest.

  ‘Fear.’

  I raise the whisky to the imaginary Dad in the chair across the room from me.

  ‘But the question is, what were you most afraid of? That it might loosen your self-control? Or that you might, just might, actually like it?’

  I smile and point my finger at him. Gotcha.

  He doesn’t smile back.

  ‘Whatever.’

  I unscrew the cap off the whisky and top up the glass. Then lifting the bottle to eye-level, I give it a shake, squint at it. Nearly out. Shit, it’ll have to be some of Ange’s gin next, unless she’s taken that with her too, tucked down in the suitcase with her most necessary possessions. Knickers, bras, work clothes, bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Not a girl to share old Dad’s sentiments. Neither of us did.

  My case in point, Dad says from across the room. Look at the state of the pair of you.

  ‘No offence, Dad,’ I say, leaning over to lower the bottle to the floor. ‘Think there’s a bit more to it than that.’

  Do you, son?

  ‘Yes, I fucking do.’

  My elbow bumps against the armrest as I come back up. Instinct has me reaching to catch the full glass, but in the darkness I misjudge and my knuckles knock it the rest of the way over. It lands hard on the laminate floor, not breaking, but throwing good whisky up the wall and over the fireplace.

  ‘Ah, shit.’

  I swipe the near-empty bottle up by its neck and drop back in the chair, unscrew the cap again and take a swig direct from the source. The path of least resistance. Why make life difficult for yourself?

  My phone vibrates on the coffee table and I stretch forward, clutching the liquid gold, careful this time not to have any more mishaps. The waistband of my jeans digs into my gut, pushing up a belch that fills my mouth with whisky fumes and something spicy I ate a few hours ago. I have to make a few attempts before my fingers land on the phone and I drag it towards me. It’s still vibrating and Neil Smithy Smith glares at me from the screen. Bugger, am I supposed to be on shift? How many days has it been since Ange left? No, hang on...

  ‘It’s two thirty in the sodding morning.’

  I swipe the screen to answer.

  ‘Smithy, good man, what can I do for you?’

  There’s a lot of noise coming down the line but not much else. For a second I think he’s called me by mistake, his phone rattling around in his pocket or something, until he says, ‘Steve.’

  Just that. But it’s the way he says it. I put the bottle on the table and get to my feet.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, forcing away dizziness as the blood rushes to my head and a hit of nausea lodges under my ribcage.

  ‘That twat,’ he says through heavy breaths, like he’s running. His voice is loud too, his mouth close to the phone. ‘The twat with the fires. What’s his name?’

  ‘You mean Zippo?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Real name. What’s his real name, Steve?’

  I tap at my forehead. How could I forget? The prick tormented us for months last year, always out of reach, always a shred of evidence away from nailing him. A careful criminal. The most annoying kind and the most satisfying to catch.

  ‘Shit. Yeah. Give me a sec. Walter... Water... Waterman. Keith. Keith Waterman.’

  ‘Right, right. Keith Waterman.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  I look outside the window at the lamp-lit street, empty and quiet, only number twelve with its lights still on. Number twelve, where the owner’s disabled daughter requires round-the-clock care. We’re so lucky, Ange used to say. Aren’t we lucky, Steve?

  ‘Steve.’ Smithy’s voice is loud in my ear.

  ‘What’s going on? Why are you asking me and not the PNC?’

  Through the fog of the drink and the last few days I’m already coming up with the answer to my own question, and that’s before my colleague releases a long sigh down the line.

&nbs
p; ‘I just need to know where he is. That’s all.’

  ‘Are you even on shift, Neil?’

  There’s a thump in my ear, as if he’s caught the phone with his hand. I can picture him losing patience, jaw clenching and eyes hardening, that look he always has when things don’t go his way. It’s a face the rest of us see more than we’d like.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I say, and walk down the hall, through the kitchen where I catch my hip on the breakfast counter, then fumble with the key in the lock. I blink long and hard to force my eyes to focus. The key turns and lock releases. I open the back door and step outside, the contrast in temperature taking my breath away so that I prop a hand on the side of the house for support.

  The noise down the line has gone quiet, but Smithy’s breath is loud, his mouth still too close to the mouthpiece.

  ‘This is off the record, Steve.’

  ‘Go on,’ I say, lowering myself to the step, goosebumps prickling the hair on my arms and rushing the back of my neck.

  ‘It’s Right Guard.’ His voice is a low growl, churning the whisky in my stomach a bit more. ‘He’s fucking dead, Steve. Fucking dead.’

  My eyes land on a flowerpot over by the wall, one of Ange’s pet projects, and I use it to focus my gaze, my foggy head.

  ‘How?’ I ask, even as my inebriated instinct does the sums. I have to repeat myself, because I still need to hear him say it but he seems to be having trouble answering. ‘How, Neil?’

  ‘They fucking burned him. The bastards fucking—’

  Bile rises up my chest and sits in my throat, turning the whisky bitter. I shift my feet wider apart in case I can’t keep it there.

  ‘Fucking took a lighter to him. Can you believe that? Burned him alive. Can you believe they’d be so fucking sick?’

  I think of Zippo, that high he was on when we booked him into custody, the baby he’d almost killed fighting for her life right about then. ‘Yeah. I can believe it.’

  ‘I’ve seen some shit, but this... This...’

  This isn’t the worst. But it’s Right Guard.

  ‘You’re not on shift, Neil, are you?’

  ‘I am, but they’ll get away with this. It’ll be ruled accidental. Another street rat succumbing to his poor lifestyle choices. All his own fault, that’s what they’ll say. No one gives a shit about someone like him.’

  ‘Have they put a team on it?’

  ‘Yeah, but by the morning it’ll be boxed up.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  He huffs a laugh. ‘Yeah, I fucking do. He doesn’t have anyone to fight his corner. No family, nothing. Who cares if they tick a box and move onto the next one?’

  I drop my shoulder against the door frame, eyes heavy enough that I can’t keep them open.

  No sweat, fellas, no sweat.

  ‘In his sleeping bag, man. That thing would’ve gone up in no time. He wouldn’t have stood a chance, Steve. Right Guard. Fucking Right Guard.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s Zippo?’ I ask, keeping my eyes closed, even as my head spins.

  ‘Apart from the obvious, he’s been hanging around lately.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Said Right Guard, a couple of days ago when I last saw him. I came by with Millie on my day off. Just sat with him, you know, now Piper’s gone, the last friend he had in this fucking shithole of a world. He said he didn’t like the bloke, didn’t trust him. Creepy fucker, were his exact words.’

  ‘Can’t argue with him there.’

  ‘So you get why I need to find him.’

  ‘That’s not your job, Neil.’

  ‘Fuck the job.’

  The line crackles in the aftermath of his remark. But then he sighs. ‘I just want to talk to him. See if I can give CID a head start, something to pique their interest.’

  I pull my eyes open. It’s a pathetic lie, but what I need to do now is not rile Smithy any more than he already is.

  ‘Alright, listen. Do me a favour. Not tonight, okay?’

  ‘Steve—’

  ‘No, listen to me. Zippo won’t run, it’s not his way, he enjoys the game too much. He’s not going anywhere. So give it twenty-four hours and I promise I’ll help. They won’t wrap this up that quick, even if they rule it accidental.’

  ‘Fuck...’ He mutters something under his breath, away from the phone.

  ‘Anything you do tonight, mate, will be wrong for everyone, including Right Guard. So sit tight.’

  ‘But you know where he is?’

  I rub my fist over my forehead, swallow over the heaviness in my chest. ‘I’ve got a few ideas. But you’ll have to trust me, okay?’

  He’s not happy, but the sigh, quieter this time, says he’s relenting.

  ‘Smithy.’

  ‘Alright. Alright.’

  ‘Good man. Another favour. Once you hang up, go get yourself a strong black coffee and make yourself available for the next call. You box this thing up until tomorrow, right? We’ll deal with it then.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighs again, sniffs. ‘Right. Right. But Steve... If you’d have seen him. Like he was worth nothing. That’s how he was treated all his fucking life, and then this. I mean, what a shit life. And who cares, Steve? Who’ll even fucking notice he’s gone?’

  ‘I know. I know, mate. Go and get that coffee, work out your shift. I’ll shout you tomorrow.’

  I hang up, confident I’ve talked him down for now. But for how long? Losing himself in the next call would be fine so long as there is one, and another after that, and again, until end of shift. But what about the gaps in between? What about the moments he’s sitting there in the car alone and his mind’s churning over with images of Right Guard he’ll never be rid of, the smell of his burned remains still in his nose? What might he decide then?

  Getting to my feet, I wait out the blood rush, sucking in a lungful of cold air in a futile attempt to sober me quicker. I do this a few times before going upstairs to shower, brush my teeth and gargle mouthwash. I change into black jeans and a dark sweater, and downstairs slip on the navy canvas jacket Ange bought me for Christmas, zipping it up to the throat. I drag my kit bag out from under the side table, rooting about until I find gloves, a balaclava, and the extendable baton, all of which I tuck into my jacket pockets. Next I pull open the side table drawer and hesitate with my hands hovering over the car keys. But the shower, the change of clothes, and certainty of what I need to do, have me thinking clearer than I have done for days, maybe even months.

  I snatch up the keys, slam the drawer shut and go out through the front door, knowing where it is I need to start. Because if there’s one thing I learned about Zippo during last year’s fun and games, it’s that he can’t help himself. He always returns to the scene of his crimes.

  Chapter 37

  Back about six months ago, a visitor came into the station to talk to us. He gave the same talk to all the wards, but on that occasion we were night shift and so we were asked to return to the briefing room early morning, after booking off, to get our session done. His name was Steve too, or Stephen he preferred, but his colleagues and friends called him Sanchez. He paused when he said this, giving us time to join the dots. Russell and Smithy got there first, being the footie fans they are. Peghead wasn’t too far behind, and the rest of us followed soon after. The likeness to the Chilean footballer was uncanny. Or at least what he might look like in another ten years. Except he wasn’t there to discuss football, but his career in the Force and how it ended.

  He’d seen it coming, he said. At least, looking back he could spot the signs, how he was running on fumes, not taking care of himself. Physically, yes. Like a lot of cops, he drowned himself in exercise routines that filled the space when he wasn’t at work. But mentally... Mentally he was stuck in high gear without even realising it. Until June 23rd, 2015, at approximately 1.45 in the morning.

  He and his partner were attending a domestic, no different to any of the others. There was drink involved, an enraged man, his wife
and daughter, yelling, a lot of noise, a lot of unnecessary panic and chaos that the two officers tried to calm. It was the kind of bedlam that would wear on the nerves of your average civvy at that time of the night, but nothing new for the officers, they’d worked this stuff a hundred times before. Except, the call before that one had been to a cot death. A young mum hysterical that her three-month-old son had stopped breathing, and why hadn’t she noticed, and what the hell had she done wrong to make that happen. The paramedics failed to revive the infant, only twelve weeks into the world, and it had been tough, Sanchez said, to forget the tiny face, still and colourless, lips parted, eyes open, gone. It had been tough to remove that image from his head, stood there in the centre of another stranger’s house less than an hour later, only this time with a shower of noise raining down all around him.

  And that’s when he’d walked.

  Just walked. Out of the front door and down the street. Kept right on walking even when his partner called after him. Instinct told him to get as far as possible from that noise. Because just then it was louder than at any other time, and he couldn’t see a way to cut through it to what was required of him. To do his job.

  He remembers standing in the middle of the street in the darkness and crouching to the ground, touching his fingers to the tarmac to feel something real and solid under him. He remembers feeling like a part of him was giving way and he couldn’t do anything about it except let it. He remembers wishing it would rain, because that might wake him up, help him recall what he was meant to do, nudge him into action. He remembers thinking he was about to die.

  He doesn’t remember how long he was there, or when his colleagues arrived, or who picked him up off the road. And he doesn’t remember exactly when it was he learned that the male in the domestic had stabbed his partner in the chest with a steak knife, his partner bleeding out on the sitting room floor, three pints already lost before the paramedics got there, and the charge of grievous bodily harm becoming one of murder in less than an hour. He doesn’t remember any of that. But in the weeks and months and years that followed, he wished he was the one that had died.