Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  The inside of her car smelt yellow. Cheapish air freshener and hot change in her coin draw.

  But the house definitely smelt orange.

  Emre Bartu glares at me intermittently as we peer into Tanya Fraser’s bedroom.

  • A mess of bed sheets, crinkled like storm clouds

  • An abundance of small ornate mirrors scattered around.

  • A childhood bear peeping out from her half-open wardrobe.

  Both of us stand on the precipice, not wanting to break the barrier between us and this sacred space.

  ‘Was she part of any after school clubs?’ I say.

  ‘Tennis club. Badminton. Running club. I told the others this.’

  Bartu lightly sniggers. But everything helps.

  I don’t find anything about my day humorous anymore. Her room has altered me somehow, taking away any thrill of the puzzle, focusing me in on the dark import of all this.

  ‘Is she a messy girl? Or do you think she left in a hurry?’ I say.

  ‘No, she’s not messy. She’d have tidied up if she knew… she’d be mortified if she knew… she’d have guests… that there’d be people in here.’

  Ms Fraser darts into the room on impulse, her voice cracking. She makes a grab for the duvet to cover up the shame of the unmade bed.

  ‘No. Don’t touch anything,’ I say. She stops and looks to me.

  I follow her in smoothly.

  ‘Best not to touch anything. Just in case,’ Emre says, stepping inside tentatively, his hand brushing the clean white doorframe.

  ‘In case of what?’ she says.

  ‘In case there’s anything here that might give us a clue as to her whereabouts,’ Emre Bartu says, the word clue sticking in his throat like a bone, as if the necessary drama of his job occasionally embarrasses him.

  ‘The others weren’t like this. The others just asked a few basic questions,’ she says.

  ‘That’s why it’s best to double up,’ I say.

  I scan the room. Her bed is pushed into the corner, under the window, which I imagine her opening in the summer to let the air flow in. She has a chest of drawers facing the end of the bed, up against the wall. The bottom drawer is not fully closed and instinctively I want to push it shut it to make it level with the others. To the right of her bed as we look is her wardrobe, one panel of it dusty white, the other a mirror.

  I take a few steps towards it, its jaws ajar, the bear looking at me from inside.

  ‘When did you say she was turning seventeen?’ Emre says, behind me.

  It occurs to me I hadn’t even asked her age. I hardly know a thing about her.

  ‘Not until September. She’s still a baby,’ she says. But she’s not. She’s old enough to go out on her own, old enough to get into trouble. Old enough to do a lot of things her mother doesn’t know about. It’s her prerogative. It’s a must. For boys and girls. Rites of passage.

  ‘She have a boyfriend at all?’ says Emre Bartu.

  I put my hand out to open the wardrobe and feel their eyes on me.

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  I stop. My hand goes back to my side.

  ‘Not one you know about anyway,’ I say over my shoulder.

  ‘No. I’d know. We tell each other everything. We’re mates.’

  I draw breath, wondering how to put this, then I just say the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘She may still be a little girl to you, you know, but –’

  ‘She lost it to a boy called Asif Akhtar in the form above about a year ago. He’s the only boyfriend she’s ever had. He cheated on her at the bowling alley. They don’t see each other anymore.’

  She fires it all out with absolute conviction and a hint of triumph.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ I say.

  Somewhere behind me Emre Bartu is rolling his eyes. He thought I just wanted to have a play around and then I’d leave it alone. He’s wondering how we ended up here and how he’ll tell Levine, if he’ll tell Levine. I open the wardrobe.

  ‘Hi, I’m Teddy, let’s play! Let’s play!’ The bear shouts as it hits the ground.

  I stumble back, almost crashing into Emre behind me.

  I walk back towards the wardrobe and see her childish things crammed hastily into the bottom below her carefully ironed dresses and tops. A soft yellow pony with long pink hair. An etch-a-sketch. Annuals and books about wizards and vampires.

  The woman above. The girl just below the surface.

  If you close the cupboard and tidy the bed, then only a woman remains. I place the bear back inside and close the cupboard.

  Something smells blue. If it were a musical note it would be an ‘F’. If it were a texture it would be mahogany. It arrives all at once. A blue mahogany ‘F’.

  ‘We should go. We do try to leave everything as untouched as possible. Both to maintain evidence in the last place we know her to have been… and “cos we don’t like to intrude…” Emre says, breaking off as he sees me climbing onto her bed.

  I lie face down. They say nothing. Emre is forced to nod and give the impression that all this is pretty normal stuff.

  I breathe in. It’s a man’s smell but I don’t think he’s been in this bed. I admit this must look unorthodox.

  I reach down into the gap between bed and wall and pluck out a piece of paper. I act like that’s all I needed. I pull it out. Cream A5, full of colour on one side. Purples, greens, blues, reds. The picture started as a useful subterfuge, but now I look at it, it could be more than that.

  My eyes scan it and see patterns. Triangles here. A grid. I map it in an instant. I understand the components, the smallest minutiae of shades within shades, but my mind can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be.

  ‘What is this?’ I say.

  ‘It’s a picture,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a house next to a playground,’ Emre says.

  ‘Does she like drawing?’ I say, taking a slow step toward her.

  ‘Probably. I don’t –’

  ‘Know everything about her, do you?’ I say.

  ‘She’s a girl. She takes art. I’d say she likes drawing,’ she says. I’ve riled her a little.

  ‘Why draw this?’ I say. I have to focus to see what they see so easily. The house and playground coming into shape like a constellation.

  ‘Why draw anything?’ she says.

  ‘Exactly!’ I say.

  Emre Bartu shuffles from side to side.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t recognise it, it’s just a picture,’ she says.

  ‘It’s quite childish,’ I say.

  ‘She’s a child,’ she says.

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘She’s sixteen…’ says Bartu, taking no side.

  ‘Would you say she’s childish? Young for her age?’

  ‘Not really. She’s mature. We have adult conversations.’

  ‘Then why does she draw like this?’

  ‘It’s just a picture,’ she says.

  ‘Have you seen it before?’ I say.

  ‘No…’ she says.

  ‘No “definitely not”, or no “maybe”?’ I say.

  ‘It’s just a picture,’ Bartu says, as much of a reproach as he can muster without it seeming like a professional dressing down.

  I toss the paper away and head for the chest at the foot of the bed. I open the uneven bottom drawer. I run my hand along the materials inside.

  I smell blue again.

  Winter garments. My hand rummages further, I feel something underneath a patterned scarf, I lift it up and underneath I feel cool, smooth, synthetic material. Then I take a look and step back again, vocalising my surprise with a level of drama I didn’t intend.

  ‘What is it?’ she says, as she goes over to look.

  Emre looks at me. I was rooting around too much. I don’t want to intrude or offend, I only want to help, but my new brain makes delicacy difficult. And it’s too late for regrets, I’ve found something.

  She pul
ls them out from under the scarf. She looks at me tersely, then back at them.

  Did you know that photo paper is mostly made from gelatine? Our images are preserved forever, burned onto crushed animal matter. You need the thickening agent of the gelatine from cow’s bones to hold the glossy silver halide crystals together.

  She holds them for Emre Bartu to see and then quickly draws them away. I don’t like surprises. I didn’t want to see a young girl’s naked body. There are twenty or thirty pictures.

  ‘Do you think she took these herself, Ms Fraser?’ Emre Bartu says.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think she has a Polaroid.’

  ‘Maybe a friend has one,’ Bartu says.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m sorry.’

  I could say, ‘I think there’s an awful lot you don’t know’ at this point, but I manage not to. She’s looking at me differently now. Grudgingly pleased we’ve shown a bit more fervour than the last two did. I don’t want to spoil this emerging good will.

  ‘Should I be worried about this?’ she says.

  ‘Depends what sort of friend took them,’ Emre says. Careful, Bartu.

  ‘Yeah, it does,’ she says, staring at them. She offers them back to me, unsure what the protocol dictates. Her hand shakes a little as she pushes them it towards me.

  ‘No! No. Put them back where we found them, I think,’ I say, glancing at Emre.

  We can’t bring evidence back with us. We’ll have to do this without analysing anything, officially anyway. We need to leave everything as we found it, like night thieves covering their tracks. That way it will be longer until we’re found out.

  ‘Thanks for your time. We should go,’ he says again.

  ‘Please, take my number, in case you need anything,’ I say, handing her one of my pre-prepared cards. Emre tenses up again as I do so.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. She’s grateful. A profound sensation of joy comes over me. We head downstairs, I think about the blue smell as we reach her door, the smell that would feel like mahogany, and sound like an ‘F’ note.

  ‘Who wears the aftershave?’ I say.

  ‘No one, we haven’t had a man in this house for five years.’

  My olfactory sense is good but not that good.

  ‘Tanya’s dad?’

  ‘Is in Canada. They’ve never met. And they don’t need to.’

  ‘And five years ago?’ Emre says.

  ‘A boyfriend I was seeing, but I’m through with all that.’

  We nod and I work through the possibilities. A man has been there and not so long ago. That’s what it smells like to me.

  ‘It’s probably my perfume you can smell. Is it important?’

  I take in the oddness of the structure of this sentence. They both take in the oddness of me.

  ‘No, not important. Yes, it’s probably the perfume,’ I lie.

  Then I notice a Siberian cat with canary-coloured eyes creep up to the front door and pry in. It looks up at me, I return the favour and we understand each other somehow.

  ‘Monkey,’ she says. ‘Come on in.’ She picks him up and gives me a look. Bartu is as amazed as he should be by this partial confirmation of my previous deduction. But I don’t even smile, I just revel in it. Then ponder…

  Monkey? What sort of name is that for a cat? You can call it any stupid name you want, but don’t call it the name of another existing animal. Language is tough enough without that kind of nonsense. That really annoys me for a second. I resolve to remember to name my cat, but be a lot more careful than she’s been about it.

  I nod to her and turn to leave abruptly. Emre follows, saying ‘Bye then’. By the time she says it in return I’m ten feet away and walking back to the station.

  I notice it’s getting dark as Emre appears alongside me. I think about what sort of man would’ve worn that aftershave. I think about the colour blue. I think about why she’s lying to me.

  9

  ‘My body is tired, tired, tired

  But my brain is wired, wired, in the night

  My liver is fired, like a fire alight in the cold

  Think we’ll keep the thing alive before we get too old’

  ‘We’re not done in there,’ I warn him in the locker room.

  ‘Tom. We’re extremely done in there. We’re not going anywhere near her or this ever again,’ he says, sotto voce.

  ‘Come on. You know that’s not true. We’re just getting started,’ I bark back.

  There’s no one around. The others told us on the radio that they were back on time and were heading home. Emre is extra annoyed because he had to tell Levine that we’re late in because ‘someone thought there might have been a break in at the library, but it turned out to be nothing’.

  Liar. That was his first lie. I try not to tell lies. He probably does, too, but he got backed into a corner and didn’t want to get into trouble.

  In reality, the only other thing we had to do on our shift was to go and get a description of some shoplifters from John’s Food and Wine. Shoplifters always get me down for some reason. That and the school visit wouldn’t have taken up our whole time, even it was a half shift. So he needed to create another event to explain us coming back twenty minutes late.

  He could’ve said we lost track of time.

  He could have told the truth and put it all on me.

  But he didn’t.

  He told a lie, a white one but a lie all the same. Now he’s with me, we’re bound together, because I know about the lie and I know he’s the sort of person who isn’t averse to deception. It’ll be tough for him to get away from me and my plans, but he doesn’t know that yet. I can only wait for his reticence to wither and then drop off.

  ‘We can’t do this anymore,’ Bartu says as we step outside in our civvies.

  ‘It sounds like you’re breaking up with me. It’s only our first date.’

  ‘I’ll lose my job. I need it. I’ve got aspirations.’

  ‘Yes, me too, I’ve got aspirations, Emre Bartu.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re the same aspirations.’

  He lights a cigarette. Emre smokes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You smoke.’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong with that? Don’t say the obvious.’

  ‘I have to say I see this as very weak.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But then I’m very judgemental.’

  ‘Everyone’s got their thing to get them through the day.’

  ‘I don’t like to be dependent. On anything, never have.’

  ‘They don’t smoke me. I smoke them.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What’s your thing?’

  ‘Words.’

  ‘But you can’t read properly, right?’

  ‘I’m working on it. Why don’t you try quitting?’

  ‘Because I’m dedicated.’

  ‘You’re not that dedicated. You’re giving up on this case.’

  ‘It’s not my case to give up on. Give me a break will you?’

  This all happens quite slowly but it’s the fastest bit of conversation I’ve been able to take part in for a while and I’m pleased with myself.

  I batted it back and forth, it was a decent rally. My mind is getting sharper. I break into a broad smile, pleased with myself for everything that has happened today. He clocks this as we arrive at his car. I go to get in on the passenger side.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I need a lift.’

  ‘Ok, fine. Where do you live?’

  ‘By Seven Sisters station.’

  ‘That’s not on my way.’

  ‘Are you going to make me walk? I got shot in the head.’

  Emre just sighs and cracks; he likes me, he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t, but he likes me.

  He backs the car out as I find an open packet of bonbons in his glove compartment.

  ‘Headlights,’ I say, popping one into my mouth.

  ‘I was just about to.
You’re Mr Rules all of a sudden, huh?’

  ‘Can’t see without headlights,’ I say, shrugging. He’s flustered.

  Our lights crawl along the road in front of us as we cut through the biting evening air. The misted breath of the passers-by rises and drifts up to join the milky clouds above. The temperature has dropped and it’s going to start snowing again soon apparently. It hasn’t snowed since the day of my accident. This is supposed to be one of the coldest winters in London on record, something about a cold front from the Atlantic. 68 days of snow were scheduled so that gives us a few more by the end of a freezing February, by my reckoning.

  I’m not interested in the photos. Teenagers are mostly into that stuff. Once you hit fifteen it’s all warm cider and dick pics these days. Look at me! I’ve got one of these! Observe me!

  I’m more interested in the picture she drew.

  The scent of aftershave in the house.

  ‘Hey Emre, remind me to remember that Ms Fraser had a rosewood coloured afro that nicely complemented her skin tone, will you?’

  ‘Okay. Why?’

  ‘So I remember who she is.’

  ‘We’re not going back there.’

  ‘Well, just in case.’

  ‘You spent an hour with her, are you that forgetful?’

  ‘I’m not forgetful at all. I’m just not so good with faces.’

  ‘Is anyone that bad with faces?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Since the accident. Tomorrow I won’t recognise you either unless I write it down. No offence. Everyone’s face is like a plain black suitcase. I see the shapes and they means nothing to me, it’s like a foreign language. You know that phrase, I don’t remember names but I never forget a face? That’s the opposite of me. Don’t tell anyone though, they won’t like it.’

  ‘Hmm. No shit. That’s not typically how you’d want a member of the police force to be.’

  ‘Nothing about me is typically how you’d want a member of the police force to be. But then I’m not a typical person. And I’m not really a member of the police force.’

  ‘Okay. I think I understand that.’

  ‘Good. Then we’re on the same page.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  He’s right, I’m not on the same page as anyone, not anymore. We’re not even in the same library.