A Cry in the Night

by Tom Grieves

  ‘I love the way you talk. But I bet they bloody despise you back in that cop shop,’ Helen said, and walked away.

  Zoe remained at the table, her mind whirling. She knew that Helen had dropped a vial of slow-working poison into her ear – seeding doubts against those she trusted and loved. She recognised that Helen had secrets of her own and that she was trying to manipulate her. She should go back and tell Sam now, tell him everything and not let Helen come between them. That’s what loyal colleagues do. They’re open and honest at all times.

  But Sam wasn’t being honest with her. And the way he was right now, she wasn’t sure if her loyalty wasn’t indeed dangerously placed.

  The poison was working. She could feel it spreading cancerous tentacles through her, making her shivery and suspicious. Or maybe it was only awakening emotions that were already there.

  She got up. Lizzie was clearing a table by the door.

  ‘Does she meet people here often?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem her sort of place. I imagined she’d eat somewhere fancier.’

  Lizzie just shrugged.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘But you know her.’

  ‘Oh yeah. We all know her,’ the waitress replied. It sounded, somehow, as though she was describing an army.

  Zoe walked back to the station. She had known that visiting Helen would be a mistake. And now she’d done it, although nothing had happened and no deal had been agreed, she felt she’d somehow signed a little bit of her life away.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sam went back to visit Arnold Heath in his musty, book-strewn flat. The academic prickled with excitement, desperate to help and be a part of the adventure, and Sam was soon able to get what he wanted. Some post had arrived, incorrectly labelled, as Sam had assumed. It was an electricity bill with a large amount unpaid and had sent Arnold into a tizzy. As a result, he had rung the contact number left for him (Helen Seymour’s chambers) and had been disappointed to be put through to a temp who was unhelpful and unprofessional. However, Arnold was so concerned that he would be forced to pay the bill himself, that he forced the young woman to dictate the tenant’s forwarding address down the phone so that he could ensure its arrival with a recorded delivery. He had even kept a copy of the receipt (with the address included) in case the bill remained outstanding.

  Sam thanked him politely for his tenacity and let him ramble on about society and the deterioration of manners until his bulk and the silence did their work and Arnold felt too uncomfortable to speak any more. Sam shook his hand, promised to be in touch with further developments (which caused a flurry of excitement all over again) and left.

  The address was in Nottingham, far from his jurisdiction. But that didn’t stop him; he drove there straight away. He turned on the radio, then snapped it off, his concentration skittish. It was only as he approached the outskirts of the city, nearly two hours later, that he remembered he’d failed to buy any of the provisions on his supermarket list. What had happened? He’d been in there and then … then the case had distracted him and dragged him away. He consoled himself with the thought that he could buy the things he needed on the way back. Right now he needed to concentrate on Lily. And Richard Howell.

  The address took him to a depressing part of town. The building itself was a crumbling brick ruin on the corner of two busy roads. Heavy trucks grunted and hissed as they passed, and Sam had to shield his eyes from the grit that they kicked up. He looked at the sky, but there were no rolling clouds here, just a thick, dull blanket of grey.

  It was impossible to tell if the intercom worked or not, but it drew no response, and Sam had to wait for a workman to enter, slipping in behind him and heading up to the top floor, the stairs sagging alarmingly under his weight. He knocked on the door, saw a buzzer and tried that as well. After a few minutes, he was about to give up when he heard a shuffling behind the door. He stopped and listened.

  ‘Open up. Police,’ Sam barked.

  The shuffling stopped. Busted.

  ‘Come on, I know you’re there. You’re not in trouble, I just want to ask you some questions.’

  After a lengthy pause, the door opened and a scrawny man peered out at him. He was shirtless, with pyjama bottoms that hung loosely over his thin hips. From his research, Sam knew that Ricky was in his late twenties, that he never answered to Richard, and hadn’t done a day’s work in his life. But on first observation, the pallid figure in front of him could have been anything between twenty and forty. His skin was deathly grey, and a fine line of stubble only heightened the sense of a body in decay.

  ‘Yeah?’ Ricky said.

  Sam introduced himself and pushed his way into the flat. The curtains were closed, but so thin that the daylight still bled through. Ricky lived in a nauseous half-light. He led Sam across the unopened post that lay thick on the floor and into an awful sitting room which was composed solely of a sofa, a large TV and a low coffee table covered in needles, dope, silver foil, matches and empty vodka bottles.

  When he saw Sam looking at all of the drugs paraphernalia, he sniffed.

  ‘It’s medicinal, innit?’

  He wavered by the sofa, his body swaying slightly. His eyes had a yellowy, nicotine-stained sheen to them, and Sam tried to work out just how far gone he was.

  ‘So what is it, then?’ Ricky asked, flopping down onto the sofa. His eyes drifted towards Sam and then away from him as though he were coming in and out of focus. If Sam had stood still for long enough, it was quite possible that Ricky would forget he was even there.

  ‘You used to live at 221 Dalton Street?’

  Ricky sniffed a confirmation. He started to fiddle with cigarette papers and rolling tobacco.

  ‘Why did you move?’

  Ricky’s hands paused at this, then continued. The tell was obvious. Sam pushed for an answer but Ricky just fiddled with his papers, then lit his cigarette and let his head rest against the back of the sofa.

  ‘It was a nice place. Seems a shame to have moved from there to here,’ Sam said.

  A shrug of the shoulders, but nothing more. Sam asked him more questions, but only ever received the same dull avoidances. He was used to this – this type of regressive, failing man who hides behind a veneer of boredom. He just had to break through the facade.

  ‘I bet you’re surprised to see me here. I imagine you thought we’d never find you again.’

  Ricky glanced nervously at him and Sam knew he was getting there.

  ‘No one can hide from us, Ricky.’

  The trucks below made the window frames shudder. They gave off an ominous rattle and hum each time.

  ‘Did Helen tell you different?’ Sam asked.

  Ricky gave him a tiny glance, but nothing more.

  ‘I know why you’re here, Ricky. I know what you saw.’

  ‘Saw nothing, say nothing,’ Ricky muttered, as if by rote.

  ‘Did you see a boy die, Ricky? Is that right?’

  Ricky closed his eyes again, as though he was trying to lock the memories away.

  ‘A boy, trying to defend himself, yes? And a woman grabbed him, didn’t she? She grabbed him and tried to drown him. And then, when she couldn’t manage it, she hit his head against the sink. Beat the little boy’s skull to pieces.’

  A truck rumbled below and they both shook with it.

  ‘You saw that, didn’t you?’

  ‘How did you find me?’ Ricky asked.

  Sam finally felt as though he was opening him up.

  ‘You witnessed the murder of a little boy and then you ran away.’

  ‘I didn’t, I didn’t run, I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Because of her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her. Mrs Seymour.’

  Ricky closed his eyes again, but Sam forced them open, snapping his fingers. He had her.

  ‘Tell me about He
len.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can.’ Sam leant over him.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. And then he repeated it over and over again. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. He shook his head, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

  Sam cleared a space next to Ricky and sat down close to him. He soothed him with false promises and offers of support. He was a mate, a bloke, a mensch. Slowly, he tried to get Ricky to confirm what he had seen. But whenever he got close, Ricky would wriggle away from the subject. Whenever pushed, he always retreated to the same line.

  ‘I didn’t see nothing.’

  ‘Why are you scared of her, Ricky? I’m not scared of her.’

  And this got a proper reaction. ‘Well you should be.’

  And there was the fear again. The fear Sam had felt in those little boys, the surge of dread he’d felt when Sarah had smiled at him outside her bedroom before she fell silent, the same fear now rising like steam off Ricky, like the morning mist at Lullingdale Water.

  Sam stared at the table and a freshly used needle, a trace of blood on the tip. Anything could be bubbling in this man’s mind, true or false.

  The window frames rattled again.

  ‘Why are you scared, Ricky?’

  ‘I need a hit. I gotta have another hit. You’ve got to go.’

  His body shook slightly and Sam felt a similar tremor echo within himself.

  ‘What is it about Helen that makes you so scared, Ricky?’

  ‘Not just her, is it?’

  The thin curtains bathed him in a bloody half-light and Ricky started to roll up his sleeve, patting his arm and reaching for a shoelace, a makeshift tourniquet. Sam pushed his arm down.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Tell me what you meant. Who is else is there, besides Helen?’

  ‘Oh, copper, there’s a whole bloody army of them. Can’t you see that?’

  Blood-red windows shuddered and shook. Sam saw the murderous women’s faces from his file, staring bitterly out at him.

  ‘We all know how the world really works,’ Ricky said. ‘We all know. We just like to close our eyes and pretend it’s nice and sweet and kind. But it’s not. You know it’s not, don’t you?’

  Hundreds of cases told Sam he was right. The withering flowers on Andrea’s grave confirmed it.

  Ricky reached for the tourniquet again and this time Sam didn’t stop him.

  ‘We think we’re special, we think we’re the ones in charge,’ Ricky said, pulling the lace tight then reaching for a lighter and silver foil. ‘You think you’re a lion,’ he said, and shook his head at how wrong Sam was.

  He heated the heroin and they both watched as it melted and then started to boil.

  ‘The world is upside down, copper. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’

  The syringe sucked the demons up off the foil.

  The room reverberated again.

  Sam imagined Helen and her army. He heard the man next to him gasp and sigh, and when he looked at him, Ricky’s eyes were half-closed, a blissful smile of escape on his lips.

  Sam stood, accidentally knocking over the coffee table. The detritus crashed to the floor, but Ricky didn’t notice.

  ‘Did you see that boy die?’ Sam asked, more frantically this time.

  A grin and a sigh.

  ‘Did Helen force you to move?’

  Ricky’s tongue slipped onto his top lip and his eyelids flickered.

  ‘Who does she work with? Please, Ricky, who is she doing all this with?’

  But Ricky was far away now. Somewhere where neither Helen or Sam could get him. He slid onto the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest in a foetal position.

  Sam wanted to grab him and drag him back to Manchester, but he wasn’t sure that a word he’d said was credible. But the man was scared of Helen. She had control over people in an extraordinary way. She, and others, had scared him so badly that he’d been reduced to this pathetic husk. And Sam felt the fear by some sort of osmosis. He didn’t understand it and didn’t know how to fight it. He just felt it seep into his bloodstream, pumped in by an invisible syringe. It rendered him dumb and forced him to leave Ricky where he was. He slipped down the stairs, scared of making a noise for no reason that he could fathom.

  When he got outside, he looked around at the grungy traffic and tried to claw back his senses. The sky was still a dull grey, cars drove by as usual. A flashing light above a shop offered kebabs and fried chicken. The world was just as it always was. But then Sam saw a young woman in a suit stride towards him and he felt the fear surge up again. He turned to her, waiting for the conflict, but then felt stupid as she strode past, unaware that he was even there. Angry with himself, he went back to the car with heavy steps, trying to remind himself of who he was and what he could do. The fear retreated. But it swam in tiny circles somewhere in his gut, a cold tickle, ready to come back when the time was right.

  *

  It was swimming idly in his stomach, twisting in serene arcs, when Sam got home that night. Magda opened the door to him as he approached. She was dressed differently – gone were the sweat pants and baggy T-shirt and she wore tighter, more revealing clothes now. His eyes took them in and then he felt guilty for doing so, especially when he caught her eye and saw that she was pleased he had done so.

  ‘Hi, Magda.’

  ‘Mr Taylor.’

  ‘You’ve dressed up. Are you going out tonight?’

  ‘No. I just like to dress nicer sometimes.’

  ‘Well, you look … swell.’

  Sam stepped awkwardly around her and fled to his bedroom.

  He read the files again, checking details he already knew by heart. Issy came to the door but Sam couldn’t talk to her. She shouted at him but he ignored her teenage tantrum and ran himself a long bath. He stared at the steaming water and imagined he was Arthur in the lake. He held his breath for as long as he could, then breathed out and watched the bubbles pop the surface. He imagined delicate female hands pulling him down and holding him there.

  Later, dry and dressed, he stepped quietly through the house. Everything was quiet now. The lights were out. He peeked into his mother’s room. She was asleep and he sat by her side, watching her the way he imagined she would have done him, when he was her little boy. Her mouth was agape and she shifted uncomfortably in her sleep as though she was in pain, as though she were fighting something. Old age was cruelly dragging her down too.

  Issy was on the computer, headphones on and her back to him, and although Sam wanted to make peace with her, he also didn’t have the energy. Jenny’s door was closed and he let her be.

  Magda’s door was ajar. He’d never been in her room, not since he showed it to her after giving her the job. Sam noticed that a light was on inside. He didn’t go in, but he had to pass it to get to his own room. As he approached, he saw the young woman appear in the shadow of the door. She wore a long shirt, undone and revealing, and nothing else. She stood there and stared at him. Sam stopped when he saw her. He couldn’t avoid the provocation: her near-nudity, the stare, the time of night. But he didn’t go in. He walked past, entered his bedroom, shut the door and wished that there was a lock to keep her out.

  FORTY-THREE

  Three young cops, fresh-faced in their neatly pressed uniforms, were waiting for Zoe when she returned to the station later that night. She’d managed to stay away from the station all day with various chores and non-urgent duties, but she had to come back at some point. They stood in a line, arms folded, a barrier between her and the station’s entrance.

  ‘I’ve done the report, alright? Done it, handed it in, so get off my fucking case,’ she snapped. They were only there because Malcolm had told them to be, but their bovine obedience was pathetic. She pushed through them, her elbow connecting hard with one of them. He jolted back and said something she didn’t catch but also didn’t quite have the nerve to question.

  When she reached CID, she was informed that Mr Frey, t
he Chief Superintendent, wanted to see her.

  ‘Who’s been a naughty girl then?’ came the teasing call as she turned tail and marched up the six floors to where the top brass lived. It was quieter up here. She passed only one other person as she made her way to his office.

  She was shown in and stood awkwardly in front of his desk. Mr Frey was on the phone and didn’t look at her as he continued to talk. It was all ‘I see’ and ‘very good’. After a few interminable minutes, he hung up and looked at her with a serious face.

  ‘DC Barnes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There was an incident, I hear. A young man was hurt.’

  Oh shit, it’s got all the way up here, she thought.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You witnessed it.’

  ‘Part of it, sir.’

  ‘I have a statement from Sergeant Malcolm Cartmell.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s a good man, Sergeant Cartmell. Excellent officer.’

  Right. So that’s the message.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is there anything that I should worry about?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

  He gazed at her, and somehow she felt that it was the same leery gaze he would fix on a stripper in a club.

  ‘Good girl.’

  She realised that this was her cue to leave.

  ‘Do send my best to Sam when you next see him.’

  ‘I will, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  And with that she was done. She headed back downstairs, glad to be out of his gaze. Soon, she knew, they would discover that she hadn’t completed the report as she’d claimed and then the monster would come back at her. Emails, texts, abuse in the corridor and worse. But somehow it seemed less scary than that cold man on the top floor and his idle, cruel manner.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Helen Seymour’s chambers sat in the corner of a wonderful old city square. Every building had the same black brick facade and on several were light-blue plaques that commemorated famous artists who had once lived there in centuries gone by. In the centre of the square was an iron-fenced park, for residents’ use only. Passers-by would gaze in longingly at the perfectly manicured lawns and plants that blossomed in their liberation from children and ball games. As Sam arrived and walked towards her offices, he admired his surroundings. It was a far cry from the places where Helen’s clients lived and worked.