Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘One thing I’m not sure anyone asked… that we really need to know…’ I say.

  I lose my train of thought as I notice his sensible shoes are just slightly muddy. It’s not uncommon for loved ones of missing people to spend most of their days walking around the local area, in the hope that at some point they might see their face around a corner, in the back of a car. Every minute that ticks on is like another ton weight around their necks. I don’t know how much it ever helps, but it feels better than standing still.

  ‘Mr Da Silva. It sounds silly. And again I’m sorry if you’ve been asked this before… Was she part of any after school clubs?’

  He breathes out hard and places his right hand on the small of his back.

  ‘No,’ he sighs.

  Bartu is already looking for the exit.

  ‘No. No one ask this before. She did go to them. Lots. She go to computer class, Monday. Extra maths study group on Wednesday. Tennis Club, Thursday,’ he says.

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ I say, standing and resisting punching the air.

  Bartu is already at the door, as a defeated and heavy Mr Da Silva follows us out and my mind is working overtime.

  It’s important he can meet them following after school clubs so he can avoid the visibility of 3.15 home time. And it’s important their clubs are all on different days so they don’t realise they’re not the only ones getting this special attention. I’ve already found out from Miss Heywood that Jade Bridges did art club with her on Tuesdays, and had no interest whatsoever in sport or anything else. However, Ms Fraser told us Tanya played on three different sport teams. If we can figure out which day he met each girl, then we can narrow it down to the fifteen or so others who were in that group and jog their memories about anyone hanging around outside the school gates on those days. There’ll still be work to do but god knows it’s better than interviewing the whole school, and better than just asking the handful of kids in Heywood’s art class alone. With around forty or so pupils, I like the odds of one of our little information processors remembering a guy hanging around with a camera. Then throw a photo-fit of a guy like that to a community like this? Someone will know him. No one’s that good at hide and seek.

  I make a mental note to have a second shot at leaning on the shoe-gazing cleaner with the different coloured irises at some point, too. Going by the fact that he was almost finishing up around the time we met him at the school, I’d say he leaves around the time that the school clubs finish, and I think he knows more than just how to make people uncomfortable.

  ‘You should be looking into the paedophile ring. You done this? This Tottenham paedophile ring?’ says Da Silva, voice low. He has been looking up local rumours, spending his time wandering through internet threads, as well as outdoors.

  ‘We’re not counting anything out,’ says Bartu.

  But in this case, we are. It’s a myth perpetuated by a buzz word. By the time ‘Paedophile Ring’ entered the lexicon, every local area had one. The news makes monsters and keeps people scared. Rumours make the monsters real. We can’t stick around for this, it’s too ‘tin foil hat’ even for my taste.

  ‘We really shouldn’t take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you,’ I say, smoothly reaching for the door handle and letting us out with a deal of acumen I often struggle to muster. It’s smooth tact that Bartu appreciates as he strides purposefully out of there. But it can’t save either of us from what happens next.

  We see a uniformed figure appear at the end of the drive.

  Radio in hand.

  Wearing a look that only a smarter man than me could decipher.

  25

  ‘Danger…

  Real danger, troubling danger. Danger!’

  ‘You know… Jarwar… I’ve been so worried about those girls, about the families. I can’t sleep.’ I say.

  She walks us around the corner and out of sight of the Da Silvas and their neighbours. Then pushes Emre against her car and frisks him, taking a look for any stray eyes as she does. I’d say it was a bit uncalled for if I didn’t know it was fairly called for.

  ‘Yeah I get it, but you’re in a position of authority and there is protocol. You can’t go off doing whatever you like. I’m serious! I need to call this in,’ she says, a tad rougher as she gives me my going over. And I’d be nervous about that mini-DV in my pocket. Had I not palmed it to Emre behind my back in between his pat down and mine.

  ‘I know. I know, I’m just… I’m so afraid. For them. My nerves got the better of me. Don’t blame Bartu, I m-made him come with me. He just didn’t want me to be alone. I can’t be alone. At the moment.’

  I pantomime it out accompanied by a fixed stare to the horizon. I opt for the ‘storm-inside-that-I-can’t-express’ angle.

  I bring my hand to my face, cover my eyes and hang my head to increase the dose. Bartu looks on, his mouth shut fast around his heart.

  ‘You know what… I…’ she says, turning away.

  She’s trying to keep her composure, but she really does have a storm inside. She turns back to us.

  ‘I’m gonna… look, consider this a warning, okay? They want blokes like you, your age, your… profile.’

  There we go again. I read the subtext. There’s the inflection.’

  But… they don’t need you. Not that badly. There are blokes with far less going for them than you two, but, If you cause top brass any trouble they’ll switch you out in a second. Believe me. So consider yourselves… warned.’

  I nod, as if struggling to take it all in.

  I could give her a heartfelt thanks. Yet, tactically it’s always better to make people intuit that their words have had such a great effect that you feel winded rather than relieved. That can only play better for you later on.

  My brain struggles to get myself out of the zone. Smile, and you feel great. When you frown, you feel bad. The body is a simple thing. It can be led by any sector and they’re all tied together with strings of emotional information. My breathing falters and I find that my eyes are indeed full of tears.

  Jarwar clocks this. She doesn’t want to reference it full on, it’s the kind of thing that’s awkward for an adult. It’s hard to look at, like the sun, so she makes a snap decision.

  ‘Look, if it makes you guys feel any better we have a firm lead.’

  We barely blink. The joy of revelation is not meant for us. We push it down and hide it away.

  ‘That’s good. That does make me feel… a bit… better, certainly,’ says Bartu.

  I just wipe my eyes and start to walk back to Bartu’s car. They follow.

  Buoyed by Bartu’s response, but prompted for more elaboration by mine, she decides to go on.

  ‘Someone had been sending Tanya Fraser messages about meeting times using Facebook. And other stuff, flirtatious stuff.’

  ‘Grooming,’ Bartu says.

  ‘Well, maybe,’ she says, as we near our vehicles.

  I start to wonder whether Jarwar was planning to visit the Da Silvas at all.

  Perhaps our meeting was just a case of bad luck.

  Or something else entirely.

  ‘No photo on the profile page. False name. We’re tracing the account now and should get news on it soon.’

  The air between us tells a story of disappointment. If it leads back to a home internet source they’ll have an address. It’s good they’re close, but I wanted to be the one to find her. Not least because I trust myself more than I trust them. Call it instinct.

  ‘Any news on the leg?’ I say, eyes adorned with hope and tears.

  ‘None yet,’ she says. ‘We’ve got people out looking through the cemetery and other open spaces. For… you know, the rest of her.’

  ‘That it, is it?’ I say.

  ‘No. No, that’s not it!’ she says, my baiting effecting a shift in her. ‘We’re checking other recent corpses that missing a limb. We’re sampling it against some other body parts that were found inside a sofa dumped on the side of the Parkland nature t
rail. And we discovered signs of a partially erased tattoo on the back of her calf showing the initials KG! That okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah. All right,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Good. And how does KG, whoever she is, fit into the disappearance of our girls?’

  ‘She doesn’t, Tom. She has nothing to do with it. At all,’ she says.

  That’s not what I think. But I stifle anymore petty disagreement, as even I can see I’m wearing away her good will.

  ‘Look. Seriously. No poking around in other people’s cases, lads. If you get further up the ranks, you’ll find people don’t like that. People like to finish what they start, it’s bad form to muscle in.’

  This is the toughest she’s been during the whole encounter. The steeliness inside is back, the sort of thing that makes her good police I suppose. But that steel is also what made me think something was off the night before last, in that playground as the rain fell.

  ‘Stick to what you do best, boys, and you’ll be fine.’

  Her door slams and she pulls away, eyeing us as she speeds off, while I reach for Bartu’s passenger door.

  ‘Right, I need to make a call,’ I say, dropping my ‘touched by emotion’ vibe. Emre clocks this, grimacing with disbelief as he backs the car out. Maybe it already feels like strike three for him. Maybe that nudge is enough to scare him off.

  ‘Make the call on the way. Better still, do it at home. I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ll drop you back,’ he says.

  ‘No, not a phone call. A house call,’ I say.’

  Miss Heywood? That’s fine. You do what you want, you’re an adult. I’ll drop you there,’ he says.

  ‘No, not there. We need to go to see the Bridges.’

  The car stops. Emre punches the steering wheel.

  ‘No fucking way! Do you understand what just happened there?’ he shouts.

  ‘Yes, I do, all the more reason to cover our tracks. We need to get rid of that picture before they start looking back over everything.’

  ‘No, not that. Not now,’ he fires back.

  ‘Yes now! She thinks we’ve just taken it hard and are backing off, this is the one chance we’ve got.’

  ‘Okay, just so I’m clear, to cover up the shit we’ve done, you want to do more of this shit? And to go and see them? Of all people? Furious Bridges who fucking hates PCSOs?’

  ‘I don’t see that we have another choice.’

  He starts the car again.’

  ‘Not today, man, not again. Not on my day off, please.’

  ’ ‘Okay,’ I say, putting my hands in my lap.

  Silence. I watch the world pass. It doesn’t quite feel real, like we’re in a car from a fifties movie. The backgrounds are pre-recorded. I half expect them to come around again on a loop.

  ‘That’s it? Okay?’ Bartu says.

  ‘You said you didn’t want to. So we won’t. Drop me home,’ I say, staring out the window.

  I can sense he thinks I’m moving towards a sulk, but I’m not. I’m being pragmatic. He’s a horse with a sore hoof, he can’t go any further today. Time to bed down in the campfire light until morning.

  The pre-recorded background goes on. It’s a game you can play next time you’re in a car, look at it and imagine you’re on a set. It’s easy. This is how it is when the world loses its previous resonances.

  When we arrive, it takes me a while to get from seated to standing, Bartu turning away as it makes him uncomfortable to see me struggle. He only turns back when the car door slams.

  He calls out the window and throws something to me. That I actually catch. Which surprises no one more than me.

  ‘There’s your tape. Get some rest,’ he shouts.

  I hold onto it as I see a man wearing a black baseball cap on the other side of the road. I start to wonder if it’s the same guy that left so abruptly from the chicken shop. Ever think you keep seeing the same stranger everywhere? Ever feel like people are watching you? This is known as ‘The Spotlight Effect’. I suppose I’m just another person who thinks the world revolves around them. As I watch him walk away, I realise he seems completely oblivious to my presence. But I still wait for him to disappear before I speak again. Just in case.

  ‘Nah, better if you keep it till tomorrow,’ I say, flinging the tape back to him. It makes sense, as eyes are always on me, while he’ll soon be safe at home.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your Saturday,’ I shout holding up a hand that I only realise I’ve kept raised far too long when I check to look at it as I get out my front door key. It’s been up the whole time, as I turned and walked. Bartu probably shook his head as he drove off. I release my arm and let it drop to my side.

  I need to change my shoes. I went with sensible black for lunch, but the Bridges’ house is a bit of a walk away and these are starting to rub. I don’t know if I feel safer without Bartu or with him, but it was clear this was the end of the road for him, for today.

  I’d already smuggled the picture out of his glove compartment as I excited the car, taking advantage of the fact that my fumbling made him uncomfortable, affording me a window in which to spirit it away. Funny that no one sees how fast your disabilities become opportunities.

  I know I have to put things back as they were, if I get to ask the Bridges’ a couple of questions while I’m there, then so much the better.

  *

  ‘Come in then,’ Mrs Bridges says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘This is PCSO Heywood, by the way.’

  The two women nod, Miss Heywood taking the ruse in her stride. When I returned home earlier than expected she was still there and was pretty sheepish about the matter. She’d stuck around to sketch out an idea she’d had in charcoals in my kitchen, time had run away from her and it seemed rude not to ask if she would like to tag along for support. I didn’t expect her to say yes. Maybe I’m too amenable.

  Mrs Bridges leads us into their pockmarked living room, past her half-dressed husband. He’s naked to the waist but not in the direction you’d expect. He wears a red T-shirt that barely covers his potbelly and some Y-fronts to protect his modesty. It hasn’t worked.

  ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ he says, which is a kinder greeting than I got last time.

  ‘I wanted to keep you in the loop about everything. I know how these things work, families get shut out, I just wanted to say… if I hear anything… you’ll be the first to know.’

  Mr Bridges shifts back into his arse groove in front of the TV and says nothing. We seem to have drawn some truce. However hostile it may look to Heywood it feels relatively permissive to me.

  ‘And I just wanted to check one more thing, up in the bedroom.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mrs Bridges says after a second’s thought. Heywood gives Mrs Bridges an assuring nod as we head upstairs.

  I stand perusing the posters on her wall.

  Occasionally I eye the drawer beneath her bed where I found the picture originally. Then I glance up to see Mrs Bridges there. Not watching me with any particular eagle eye, but there all the same. A presence. One that will not let me do what I need to do.

  I wonder whether Jarwar followed me here. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing Heywood. I always push things just a little bit further than is necessary. It’s a filthy habit. The colour grey drips from the walls; her childish perfume scattered around the room. I try to take her in, I feel the imperative here more than ever.

  I see the younger version of Jade staring at me from the corkboard photo collage above her headboard. The shot she looks happiest in catches my eye. A bouncy castle party on the front lawn of this house, only a couple of years ago, I’d imagine. Peeping out, blurred in the bottom of the shot, is the blue circle symbol. But without its diagonal lines. And a copper coin drops, somewhere in the back of my mind.

  I swallow it down, blink away my concern and save that black theory for later, as a poster next to it intrigues and disturbs me, too.

  ‘Bieber,’ I say. Pronouncing it Biber.

  ‘Beeber
,’ says Mrs Bridges. I raise my eyebrows and nod, scanning the room. I’m waiting for my chance. I can’t be here long. They could burst in any minute.

  Jarwar. Levine. Bartu. Our nervy chief. A litany of other faceless faces, all of whom I’ve grown to mistrust.

  I need Mrs Bridges to go, even if it’s just for a second. Her face has formed itself into sternness, and all this after my opening gambit was about openness, honesty and keeping her ‘in the loop’. Whatever that means. I’m well outside the loop, the loop doesn’t want me in it. I couldn’t find the loop if I tried.

  She stares at me. Then at Heywood. Heywood stares at me. Two strikes in a day would be more than a warning. There will be consequences and endings. That much I know. I could slip it back in there without even opening the drawer.

  I walk around to assess the gap. The picture sits patiently in my document holder. She watches.

  My prints will be all over it. And Bartu’s. But it’s too late to worry about that, I can’t imagine they’ll be looking for our fingerprints, but still, what amateurs we are.

  Heywood turns to the window.

  I sneeze.

  ‘Bless you,’ Mrs Bridges says, no feeling behind her words.

  ‘Thank you.’ I cover my nose. Give her an embarrassed look. ‘Could I trouble you for a tissue?’

  A micro-nod, her head hardly moving, she turns towards the bathroom, which is only about five paces to her right, keeping her arms folded the whole time. I burst into action.

  It was a good sneeze, I consider, my best bit of make-believe yet. I kneel down and feed the picture into the drawer below the bed. But it won’t go in. I pull at the drawer. Heywood comes around to help, too. It’s stuck. We pull at it. It comes loose. I drop the only slightly creased picture back and close the thing softly with my right hand, Heywood replacing the light blue valance in one swift move.

  Then, standing there, holding a wad of rolled up toilet paper, with a face like a question mark, we see the lady of the house.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ she says, uncharacteristically raising her voice.