Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Not much like Leytonstone High Road, then?’ Zoe said.

  He didn’t have to look outside again to see the grime-stained buildings and shambling people whose eyes never left the cracked and litter-strewn pavements. Leytonstone, riding the cusp of humanity in east London, is a suburb uncertain of its place in the world, offering little but shelter and the passing of time.

  Frank moved across to the desk he and Zoe shared. ‘No,’ he answered softly. ‘Not much. But this is the here and now, and the agency pays the bills. Sometimes.’

  The tiny office was functional – barely. Into it were crammed two large filing cabinets, a photocopier, computer station, and a row of three assorted soft chairs for visitors. A seam on one of the chair cushions had split open, revealing blisters of yellow foam. The folds of a brown ill-fitting carpet disguised a sloping floor, whose boards creaked and groaned like a ship’s rigging when walked upon. Zoe had tried to make the place more appealing by hanging a couple of small prints on the stained walls, and setting out a display of colourful plants, but they served only to make the decor appear even more dour. Whenever Frank bothered to look at the room, he realised it must come across as a front for a half-hearted business closer to drowning than staying afloat.

  Frank and Zoe faced each other across the wide desk – the only item in the room not bought second-hand. Her half was neat and tidy, while his was stacked with crumpled letters, unpaid bills and Post-it notes ringed with coffee stains. As he reached for his diary, Zoe slid her hand in front of him and left it there, palm upwards.

  ‘What?’ He looked up and frowned.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You know what. You paid Mr Hedges a visit on Friday evening. Did you get the money for Mannion’s Autos from him? If not, I’ll take the car keys instead.’

  ‘I got the money. He was easily persuaded.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Frank shook his head at the memory and smiled. ‘He was a big bugger, too. Stood there by his front door in just a vest and shorts, scratching his crotch every few seconds and telling me to ‘piss off if I knew what was good for me’. It was either back down and lose Mannion’s business, or take Hedges on.’

  ‘And you put the business first.’

  ‘No choice. I grabbed hold of the family jewels, gave them a few sharp tugs and twists, and he coughed up the money … amongst a few other things’

  Zoe threw back her head and laughed, her whole face coming alive, gleaming with youth. Frank admired her easy-going nature. She was cute and knew it, though she tried her best to disguise the fact by sporting weird haircuts and even more bizarre clothes. Today her hair was tinted orange, and her thin peach blouse and leather micro skirt could not conceal the shape of a body in its prime. Behind the startling appearance lay intelligence and warmth, as Frank had come to discover.

  ‘Great,’ she said, still chuckling. ‘I’ll bank the money this morning and write out a cheque for our grateful client.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘It’s a cash deal.’

  Zoe rolled her eyes. Gave an indulgent sigh. ‘Frank! I told you we shouldn’t get involved in that kind of thing any more. You have to go about things the right way if you’re going to get this business established how you want it.’

  ‘I know, I know. But some people prefer to work with cash only. That’s the way life is at this end of the scale. It greases the wheels, Zo. Always has done, always will do.’

  ‘Well it’s not good enough.’

  ‘So, you don’t want the cash, then?’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, Frank Rogers.’ Zoe beckoned with her fingers. ‘Hand it over.’

  He pursed his lips, stalling. The thick smell of fried onions from a nearby burger bar wafted in through the open window. Compared to the seemingly permanent odour of blocked drains, it was a welcome relief.

  ‘I know that look,’ Zoe said. ‘What have you done with it this time?’

  ‘Some of it. I have some of it. The rest I spent.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, you had the kids this weekend and you blew the money.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She put back her head and made to pull out her hair. ‘Ooh, you drive me bloody crazy.’

  ‘Hey, hold on a minute. I am the boss. I thought we’d established that.’

  ‘You’ll be the boss of nothing if you carry on the way you’re going.’

  ‘I have our client’s money.’

  ‘But you spent our percentage.’

  Frank nodded. He tried a smile, but Zoe wasn’t having any of it. ‘That money was needed for bills, Frank. The rent on this place has to be paid, we need stationery and our supplier won’t give us any more credit. BT are screaming at us in big red letters. No office and no phone means no business. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes. Your voice is raised loud and clear.’

  Zoe flapped a hand at him. ‘Oh, sod you. You’re hopeless. Whatever made you think you could run a business?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘Oh. Her.’ Zoe’s tone mellowed, and her scowl became less severe. ‘Look, Frank, I’m serious now. We have to keep a tight grip on things for a while. This is my living we’re talking about as well, you know. Think about it: if you go bust I won’t be around to brighten your days anymore.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’ll really miss the ear-ache and that multi-coloured thatch you call hair.’

  Zoe puckered up her lips. ‘You’d miss my short skirts and my cleavage.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever noticed.’

  ‘Not much. I’ve caught you checking out the goods.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Zo, just looking at you saps all my energy.’

  ‘I’ll bet it does, old man. And don’t call me Zo.’

  Frank was about to snap off another response when the door to the office juddered open, snagging on a ridge in the carpet.

  A tall man, with thick black hair and a swarthy complexion, stepped inside. He wore a grey double-breasted suit, white shirt with a red silk tie. Black shoes gleamed like polished ceramic. His face was long and narrow and hard looking, with eyes that seemed cold and unforgiving. He looked like trouble.

  Frank swivelled in his chair and his eyes and mouth opened wide as if synchronised. ‘Nicky!’ he cried. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  The man remained in the doorway, silent and seemingly anxious, like an actor who has fluffed his cue.

  Springing to his feet, Frank walked quickly across the room. ‘How the hell are you, pal? It’s been a while. What brings you–’

  Frank Rogers stopped, the words snagging in his throat. He and the visitor had been cadets together at the Hendon police training centre, and though Frank had risen through the ranks a little quicker, they had both reached the level of detective inspector before he’d decided to quit, little more than a year ago. He and Nicky remained great friends, whose unsocial working hours kept them apart more than they liked. But while he was thrilled to see his friend, Nicky’s face was creased and weighed down by sorrow.

  Taking a short step back, Frank felt his skin begin to crawl. He knew that particular look too well. It had been written across his own features often enough. Something cold gripped his insides, squeezing hard. The air became difficult to draw into his lungs, as though the entire room had been emptied of oxygen. A balloon filled with bile swelled around his heart. He felt as if someone had put a sawn-off to his temple, or punched his stomach with a knife.

  ‘What is it, Nicky?’ Frank’s treacherous voice crumbled at the last moment, lending the name an extra syllable.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank.’

  That was all his friend said. It was all he needed to say. Frank Rogers knew the rest.

  3

  It was in Highams Park, on the very edge of east London where it bleeds into Essex, that Frank’s estranged wife had chosen to rebuild her life without him in the home of another man.

  Janet had taken with her their son and daughter, and it was the absence of
the children from his daily life that had recently begun to strip Frank of any optimism regarding the future. He could not recall a day since the break-up of the marriage when his heart had not ached, his love for Gary and Laura impossible to calculate. They were sources of immense pride to him, their bright and witty outlooks forcing him to believe that not everything he touched became tainted. That something good had come of the life he and Janet had built together.

  The short drive from Frank’s office seemed to take an eternity as Nicky Loizou’s two-year-old Mondeo stuttered through predictable multiple snarl-ups. The atmosphere inside the car was grim, laced with equal measures of incomprehension, overwhelming grief, and despair.

  As Nicky weaved his way through the weary traffic, Frank stared straight ahead through the windscreen. Though of little more than average height and build, he had worked hard to attain a professional aura of someone brooding and menacing. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close to the scalp. A direct, narrow gaze had been perfected. Now he felt small and weak. A broken reed, flapping lifelessly in the breeze.

  ‘Tell me again,’ he muttered softly. He’d shed no tears, but he felt moisture in his deep-set hazel eyes.

  Without pause, Nicky laid it out once more. ‘The mother of one of Laura’s friends who often takes her and Gary to school, was there as usual to collect them this morning. Today no one came out of the house when she tooted the horn. She thought something was wrong because both cars were still in the driveway, newspaper poking through the letter-box, and the curtains were drawn. At first, she thought they’d all overslept, but after a time she became concerned. The woman had her shit together. She called us.’

  ‘Go on.’ Frank nodded. ‘I know you already told me, but I really didn’t hear it first time around.’

  ‘We found Paul Clarke and Janet upstairs in one bedroom. Gary was in another. All three were dead. There was no sign of Laura.’

  ‘Any blood?’

  ‘Of course. I mean …’

  Frank shook his head abruptly. ‘No. In Laura’s room. Was there any blood?’

  ‘We can’t be certain at this stage. Maybe some footmarks, but it doesn’t look as if she came to any harm there and then.’

  ‘So, she could have escaped … run away?’

  ‘We can’t rule that out, but we can’t assume it, either. Fact is, if Laura got away, why hasn’t she come forward? Why wouldn’t she have reported the crime? And wouldn’t she have somehow found her way to you?’

  For a moment or two there was silence. Frank’s eyes had narrowed, but now he nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be so blunt, Frank, but I don’t want to give you any false hopes. You know how this goes better than anyone. We believe whoever carried out the murders now has Laura.’

  Frank felt his friend’s continued appraisal, and knew that a wretched sense of impotence would be twisting Nicky’s insides. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then suddenly they were there, and all at once words seemed obscene.

  As the car nosed into the tree-lined cul-de-sac, Frank felt his muscles tensing. This was happening. It really was happening. Police attendance was heavy, with squad cars and forensic science vans scattered everywhere. Detached homes, each different in style and size, peered down at them as if offended by their presence in such a tranquil setting. The modern, angular house and surrounding grounds where Frank’s family had lived, were now bordered by white-and-blue tape. Behind a hastily erected barrier stood the media; notebooks, cameras and video cameras at the ready. The usual gawkers did what they did best, while beat coppers kept them under observation. Uniforms, suits, and overalls both green and white came and went through the front door of the house, while others on their hands and knees patiently scoured the front lawn and drive.

  ‘No ambulance,’ Frank noted as they rolled to a halt.

  ‘The bodies must have already been taken away. The pathologist and his crew were about done when I left.’

  Frank jerked his head around. ‘Bodies?’ His voice quavered, and he felt as if he had somehow misunderstood earlier. As if Janet and Gary and Laura were going to come running out into his arms. Frightened perhaps, injured even, but safe. Alive.

  He felt Nicky’s hand on his shoulder. A gentle squeeze. ‘It’s for the best. You wouldn’t have wanted to see them like that.’

  ‘No.’

  As they got out of the car and walked across to the scene, Frank’s mind spiralled into a whirlpool, dragging all manner of memories into its core. How many times had he done this before? How many corpses had he seen? How many people had he informed that their loved ones were dead? Then he had been detached, perhaps not as warm as he might have been, given the circumstances. Wanting to get on with the job of finding out who the perpetrator was, unconcerned with the husks of victims who would never be able to tell him what he needed to know.

  Now it was his wife, killed in another man’s bed. His eight-year-old son, killed in that other man’s house. And Laura. Where in God’s name was his daughter? Frank’s mind continued to toy with his emotions. He felt as if all his thoughts were trapped in the hold of a tiny sinking ship, being sucked down into the murky depths of some fathomless ocean. It was all so unreal, someone else’s nightmare.

  ‘Are you filming the onlookers?’

  He asked the question almost before the thought had formed in his head. His gaze veered off into the sun-drenched crowd, wondering whether the killer of his child was amongst them, gloating over his work as some of their kind like to do.

  Nicky nodded. ‘We’ll run it by the neighbours afterwards, see if they spot any strangers.’

  Looking up at the house as they approached, it didn’t seem possible to Frank that he’d been here just last evening, dropping off the children after spending a wonderful weekend with them. He recalled that his thoughts had been filled with petty jealousies; his wife finding a better life elsewhere, his children living comfortably in another man’s home, precious times together now grabbed only sparingly. But he had imagined then that his two children would be with him once more on the following Saturday morning, bringing warmth, a touch of brightness and a little sanity back into his world. Now there was only horror waiting for him, and the certain knowledge that his life would never be the same again.

  He took one last look around, felt the weight of inquisitive eyes upon him, sensed a ripple running through the gathered media. They would want to know who he was, what he was doing there. His gaze also took in the onlookers, meeting their questioning stares.

  Are you out there? he wondered. Are you out there now, grinning behind your hand, mentally congratulating yourself at a job well done? Are you? Because if you are, be warned. You may not know who I am right now, but you will. That I can promise.

  Frank turned swiftly away and, with a heart so heavy he thought it might drag him down to his knees, headed inside to confront his demons.

  4

  As they entered the house, Nicky paused on the threshold. ‘Look, Frank, there’s something I have to tell you. The special crimes team were called in for this, so they are running the show.’

  Frank nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Okay. That’s good, isn’t it? Why do you look so concerned?’

  ‘The problem is we have no say over who’s leading the team.’

  ‘I still don’t see …’ He paused, eyes narrowing. ‘Who’s heading the investigation, Nicky?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it. Believe me.’

  Frank closed his eyes and used his thumb and middle finger to massage the lids. ‘It’s Foster, isn’t it? Colin-fucking-Foster.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So what rank has he arse-licked his way up to?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Let it go, mate. It’s history.’

  ‘What rank, Nicky?’

  His friend gave a heavy sigh. ‘Superintendent. Roger Finnieston was the chief super on duty, he took one look at the scene of crime and assigned the case to Foster as the only senior
investigator available at the time.’

  Silence again. Then: ‘Does he know I’m coming?’

  ‘No. You have a right to be here …you know, family involvement. But no questions, Frank. Don’t try to get involved with the inquiry itself. He won’t have it.’

  ‘With a bit of luck he won’t be around much. Who’s your DCI?’

  ‘I’m DCI now. My promotion came through a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Loizou,’ Frank said, tasting the flavour of each word. ‘I’m impressed. Congratulations, Nicky. You deserve it. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I was going to give you a bell later today, thinking we’d go for a drink to celebrate.’ His voice tailed off, and he looked away. They both knew there would be no celebrations now.

  They moved beyond the open front door and into the hallway. Detective Sergeant Warren Capel, an officer Frank recognised, stood in the hallway having an animated discussion with three other detectives. He broke away from them without a word, extending a neatly manicured hand.

  ‘Frank,’ he said, suitably sombre. ‘What can I say? I’m gutted for you. I still can’t believe it.’

  Frank nodded and breathed deeply. ‘Yeah, me neither. Thanks, Warren.’

  He looked beyond the tall, sandy-haired man, openly appraising the house, for this was the first time he had set foot inside. Large and comfortable, money poured into it tastefully. Expensive prints adorned the pastel walls, lighting subdued yet exact, furnishings plush and colour-co-ordinated. Cream carpeting, mahogany woodwork, solid panelled doors painted with a soft sheen. He wondered whether Janet had advised Paul Clarke on the decorating. He thought it likely; it looked every bit the house she had always wanted. Fit for the glossy pages of a magazine.

  Though not any more.

  There was a rush of footsteps on the stairs, one person descending them hastily. Frank looked up and glanced across. Detective Superintendent Colin Foster stopped on the bottom tread. A thin, almost gaunt figure, Foster wore his authority with the air of one who believes it is nothing more than a stepping-stone to greater things. His myopic eyes seemed huge behind tinted, gold-rimmed spectacles. An unconvincing toupee perched on top of his head. He nodded once, a single gesture of compassion. When he spoke it was all business.