Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘I needed to put something back. I took it the first time. I shouldn’t have,’ I say.

  She’s got me. I’m a shucked oyster.

  ‘What are you really doing here?’ she says with understandable force, but coming down to a whisper now, creating a pact between us. Just us three. No Mr Bridges. No angry white man flying off the handle. Just us. It’s a good tactic. I walk right into it, hoping it’s not a snare or a deadfall trap. I think about traps a lot recently. I run the scenarios to see how to escape them. And how I’d trap others.

  ‘We found a picture at each of the missing girl’s houses.’

  ‘Right, well, she likes to draw. Look, I’m calling the police, the real police,’ she says, turning towards the door.

  ‘Not like this, we think these were given to her by a man. We think this man has your daughter,’ Heywood says, putting it all out there before I can stop her.

  Mrs Bridges draws breath. It’s no wonder this offers her no comfort. This theory isn’t pretty, even in its optimism. She looks at Heywood in her black trench coat, wondering what story it tells. She looks at my trainers. Casual Sundays. I’m the still image of an interloper. Maybe her husband was right.

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ she says, tucking her black hair behind her ebony ear, shaking with exasperation. ‘This is my daughter’s life. Do you understand that?’

  She’s right to be angry. Of course. A shudder runs through me.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I care so much about this case, about these girls. I promise you. I can’t let it go. And I won’t, until they’re found.’

  It’s the whole truth and nothing but. But she’s not convinced. She shakes her head firmly, biting down hard on her bottom lip.

  ‘So… I don’t know you’re here then? Is that the plan?’ she mutters, stepping further in to the room.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say hopefully, laying some of my cards on the table, but eminently aware of my shitty hand. We have to get out of here.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t see why I shouldn’t shop you in?’ she says, taking her phone out of her pocket.

  ‘Because we’re giving you everything,’ Heywood says, which is true. But Mrs Bridges, in the half-light of the room, doesn’t look convinced. She knits her carefully plucked eyebrows and then turns away again with intent, but I move in and grab her arm.

  She looks at my hand and I let go.

  ‘And there’s something else. They got into Tanya Fraser’s Facebook account and they found someone… no picture, no name, trying to contact her. If they can link it back to the computer it came from, then it could all be over very soon.’

  She lifts the back of her hand to her mouth and her eyes moisten. There’s a certain energy between us.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got. I promise. On my parents’ lives.’

  A hint of warmth. She grabs my arm and squeezes it. I give her the slightest smile back. Heywood glances out the window.

  ‘I don’t care who brings her home. But if this all goes to shit and I find that’s anything to do with you then I won’t hesitate to speak up. Get out,’ she says.

  We don’t need a second invitation, but I stop with a hand on the door frame and whisper once more.

  ‘What… does she like? I mean, what are girls her age… into? I don’t know a thing about them.’

  She bites the right side of her lip.

  ‘I don’t know. Snapchat. Kanye West. Horror movies. Shopkins. Constantly checking their gmail.’

  Then we’re gone without another word. We bluster past Mr Bridges, only the breeze of our bodies causing any ripple in his world. He doesn’t stir, like we’re friendly ghosts he’s learned to put up with. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around outside but I put up my hood anyway, and we hurry for home, my leg dragging just a little less than usual.

  And as we walk the streets and Heywood buzzes with the fever of it all, I think: I’m going to have to get into these girls’ heads.

  26

  ‘And in spite of the weather

  I feel closer than ever.’

  The first thing that strikes me is that any attempt to understand these girls may be fruitless given what Shopkins are. These small plastic characters are mostly sold in American grocery stores and have names like ‘Aspara-Gus’ and ‘Noni-Notepad’. Children of all ages are known to buy maybe fifty at a time and then video themselves opening them so they can display their reactions for others to watch. If this seems odd in theory, the practice of viewing half an hour of these on YouTube almost sent me into a parallel dimension.

  The second thing that strikes me is that Jade Bridges is either kind of naive for her age or has some level of irony, as most of the girls in these videos are far younger than her. If her interests turn out to be far removed from Tanya Fraser’s, this presents a significant problem with my plan. Not all girls are the same, by any means. This much, even I already know. But these kids are marketed to in the same way, live in the same area and go to the same school. My theory is that if they’ve been grown in the same petri-dish, they should share some of the same cultures. I have to try this.

  We get some tips about hacking Facebook accounts from a corner of the internet we shouldn’t be on. It’s clear that with the situation not applicable to the usual methods of hacking: Phishing scam (getting her to respond to an email), or setting up a Keylogger (installing software on her computer that will capture every piece of information she types on her keyboard), we need to guess her email address and password.

  I’m prepared to hazard that Tanya is on gmail; it seems to be the one girls her age are most into, which was borne out by Mrs Bridges namechecking it. Our first task is to construct a set of words that would be big in her world. While I don’t know Tanya, I do have key details such as her address, date of birth, her school and her full name, and a site told me I’d be unlucky if her gmail account wasn’t some kind of mixture of these. I also have Miss Heywood to throw some words into the mix, who wants to see this train of thought through to its natural end, and is far closer to ground level with these kids than I.

  Tanyaf1999 is her relatively simple email, which we manage to crack in about half an hour. In truth, we get lucky, as Heywood manages to source it using Twitter; finding that it appears in the contact info of an old account she seems to have set up years ago and forgotten about. It’s amazing how transparent our lives can be from a distance.

  This carelessness from Tanya is a boon for us, as it means we don’t have to try multiple address and password combinations. Despite the belief that people can’t read our minds, even a hacker who doesn’t know his victim has a better than twenty percent chance of guessing a password within a hundred tries. And as we’ve downloaded some software from a Russian website that gives you multiple attempts at guessing Facebook passwords without locking you out, these statistics look good for two people with time on their hands.

  However, this doesn’t mean the process isn’t painful. We’re forced into a seemingly endless litany of word and number variations like:

  Shopkins99

  ShopkinsTanya

  Kanye1999

  Kw01kardashian

  Yeezus1999

  Horrorfan99

  Halloweenbabe

  And

  Bieber001

  Gradually, as we begin to tire, we start to lose track of which ones we have and haven’t tried. But just as we start to consider giving up, as the glow of intrigue is leaving Heywood, Mark jumps onto my lap and sparks a useful remembrance. I recall the encounter with the Siberian at the Fraser house. And ‘Monkey1999’ runs out our winner.

  And so, three hours deep, we are in.

  The site appears like a blur of text and fury to me, so it’s just another reason to feel blessed by Heywood’s presence. Though I quickly remind myself not to get too attached. After my last relationship disaster, I’m going to try to play this as close as I can to cool.

  ‘Type carefully, we can’t afford any slips.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I�
�m a safe pair of hands,’ she says as she types.

  I make a pact with myself not to touch the keyboard, no matter how hard the urge. Of all the footprints I’ve made over this case, a new Facebook update from a girl who’s been missing four days is not one I want to make.

  The curser gravitates towards the envelope symbol. He isn’t hard to find. 103 messages from an account with no photo attached, just as Jarwar had said. The man calls himself Mr White. This is where Heywood feels a little squeamish, and says she has to run to a meeting with ‘her group’. What the ‘group’ does she doesn’t divulge, as she grabs her leather rucksack and stands.

  ‘This is all between…’

  ‘You and me? Yes. I know,’ she says.

  ‘Of course. Call me?’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Yeah,’ she says, and I hold out hope that it might actually happen, as she takes her grace and easy-going charm with her, breezing out like this was the most ordinary first date in history.

  I don’t delve into the messages too deeply. It would be a night’s work to sift through them all, even for someone with a decent reading age; for me it would take a lifetime. But what I do find is one sentence, the shape of which is repeated throughout. ‘Don’t tell anyone at school.’ Again and again and again.

  Mr White’s need for secrecy is understandably paramount. The words ‘after school’ are also present. As well as ‘need to see you.’ I even grimace over the words ‘car’, ‘hard’ and ‘get me off’.

  I sign out, carefully. But they can possibly link this sign-in activity back to me no matter what I do from here, I had earlier learnt. I feel sick to my gut. Not just because of seeing his words, tapped out presumably in some gloomy residence, where they are now being kept, I imagine, but because I used to be worried the police were a step behind me; now I’m worried they’re not. And if I’m the front runner and their computer lead goes nowhere then it really is up to me to make the next move.

  My phone rings again. It lights up and rumbles with urgency. I’m getting better at the shapes of short names, so I take a look, but all I see is numbers. I get that rotten feeling in my stomach again.

  I pick up.

  ‘Yes?’

  *

  A bang on the door and for once I’m not ready. I don’t usually sleep so much as wait for morning light. But last night brought more surprises and disruption to my daily routine.

  The bang comes again, ominous in its haste. I throw on my clothes. I’ve already showered but then I went back to bed. It seemed rude not to.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  ‘Coming!’ I shout, picturing Jarwar, Levine and the others at my door.

  We know, we know. You did, you did.

  I prepare a few get outs in my mind. Not good ones. But ones all the same. But all I find is Bartu there, beaming out at me with his car framed behind him like it’s the front page of a blog post entitled ‘me and my motor.’

  ‘Thought I’d give you a lift. Now I know where you are.’

  ‘It’s out of your way,’ I say, eyeing him.

  ‘That never bothered you before. Some thanks for a lift!’ he says.

  He’s full of beans this morning. Perhaps it feels good to get caught. To be exposed and find the punishment isn’t as severe as feared. But I have a feeling he shouldn’t breathe so easy so soon.

  He knows I’m hiding something. He peers in as if expecting Miss Heywood around some corner. But if he’s looking for her he’ll be disappointed. I shrug and grab my bag, just as Miss Shelley’s head appears at the top of my stairs as she goes to the bathroom.

  ‘Food and coffee in the fridge!’ I shout up.

  He gives me a ‘Jesus Christ’ look and we get on our way.

  In the car, after a couple of minutes, he finally asks the question.

  ‘You do know those are two different women, right?’

  I leave it a few seconds before answering.

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  ‘The two teachers you appear to be… sleeping with?’ he says.

  I love toying with him, I think I’ll do it more often.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Levine?’ I say.

  Then we fall into silence. That was a joke about me not recognising faces. I’m pretty sure he gets it, but a laugh would’ve been nice.

  ‘I’ve got something bad to tell you,’ he says, but I hardly hear it at first.

  ‘Women are different these days. Sometimes they just call. Apparently. Why they’re calling me? I have no idea. Maybe I’m an easy target.’

  We pull in. Bartu parks, badly.

  ‘Listen…’ he says. But still I don’t hear him.

  ‘Maybe I’m giving off some sort of vibe,’ I say, sticking out my bottom lip, unable to explain this current phenomenon.

  ‘You’re definitely giving out lots of vibes, mate,’ Bartu says.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ I say. Sadly, I’m confident that my level of conversation, plus embarrassment about my body and my handling of theirs, will mean I never get to see either woman again.

  He tries to speak once more but I shush him as we enter the station and heads rise to look at us. Maybe it’s just ‘The Spotlight Effect’, but I’m sure Bartu also feels it.

  I needn’t have worried about them moving slowly or having limited ideas, technology, or the ability to make fast decisions. When we get there it’s clear they’re gearing up for an arrest. Jarwar speaks animatedly to Levine and there’s a certain feeling in the air somewhere between anticipation and success. As if it’s already a done deal.

  ‘Jarwar, I had an insignificant question. There’s this skinny guy I’ve seen around, stiff posture, always wearing shades. Apparently you helped put his dad away, for molestation…’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t remember,’ she says, after a diminutive pause.

  ‘Ah, okay. Few years ago… the abuse was when he was a kid –’

  ‘Not now, Tom,’ she says, silencing me with a raised hand and sending me sloping back to the margins without a turn of her head.

  Anderson and Stevens mill around, Bartu stepping into a corridor as he sees them, worried about repercussions from that direction. I stand tall and play innocent. Police get enough things levelled at them by the public, there’s no need to consider a work colleague would be messing them around or setting them up. The only thing that might make them suspicious is seeing a guy acting strange and suspicious. I casually communicate this to Bartu. A ‘be cool’ look at last makes him take a breath and come out from behind the wall.

  He gives Anderson a pat on the back as Jarwar leaves, flanked by a couple of faceless constables. We four are left to watch on limply.

  ‘Good to have you back. What a load of rubbish that was,’ says Bartu.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Anderson.

  I give them both a smile which echoes Bartu’s sentiment, and then lean down to tie a lace. Silence has its own power. Especially when everyone’s aware of the question on your lips.

  ‘Looks like that’s that then,’ says Stevens, hands firmly in his pockets, while Anderson fiddles with her zip.

  ‘That’s what?’ says Bartu, playing it casual.

  ‘Come on,’ says Stevens. ‘The link’s a bit too close to ignore isn’t it?’

  ‘What link?’ I say, rising. Seems like we’re always the last to know, unless we make it our business to be first.

  ‘Dirty messages. Sexy stuff. As you’d expect,’ says Anderson.

  ‘And with his son’s ex-girlfriend, imagine that. That Akhtar fella. Horrible. He… I… doesn’t bare thinking about,’ says Stevens.

  But I am thinking about it. Because someone has to engage with this taboo, rather than gaffer tape their mouth shut, as the words ‘adult’, ‘child’ and ‘sex’ are simply too distressing to be spoken in a sentence together. You need a sterner constitution than that. We’re the police after all. We do the moralising so the rest of society doesn’t have to.

  The conversation collapses into the nods of professional
s. I recalibrate. Bartu pats them on the back as they head into the daylight.

  ‘Do you mean the Akhtar’s that live on…’ I say, following after them, clicking my fingers twice.

  ‘Myddleton Road. That’s right,’ Anderson says.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, turning to Bartu brightly. But his face is a brick wall. For once, I read it easily.

  ‘Oh, by the way, you hear about Katherine Grady?’ Stevens says, stopping just beyond the entrance and pulling on his gloves.

  ‘Who’s Katherine Grady?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly,’ he says, adjusting his hat and striding away.

  My eyes roll around. My brain unsure what just happened.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I yell.

  But Stevens is too far away to hear or to care.

  ‘Who’s Katherine Grady!?’

  27

  ‘I wish I’d stayed in with you in bed

  Ducked under covers together instead.’

  I’ve got a tune stuck in my head again today. It’s not always the same one, it shifts periodically, but I always wake up with something. It’s usually one of those lullabies I made up to keep myself thinking and developing. I even bought a little Casio keyboard so I could flesh out the melodies and play them to myself. I’m not very good, but it’s another little challenge that helps.

  Today it’s this one. I tap out the tune with a single finger and sing it to myself, but I can’t get past these first two lines, to the next ones, where something lies. I run them over and over, in my mind. Each time expecting the proceeding line to come naturally, to fall down like those copper coins from the coin pusher ledge at the arcade.

  ‘…under covers with you instead… This time, this time, it will come, the next line, here it comes… Can’t get that, da da da…

  But it never does. Maybe it never will and I’ll move on to the next tune where mental constipation will strike again. Perpetually waiting for the meaning to drop, as I continue to not glean these whispers in my ear.

  *

  ‘Give me the tape,’ I say, in the locker room, with its beige-tinged look, to my eyes, from the overuse of anti-perspirant.