Catherine Jones had now reached over the legal age limit and was more than capable of running her own life.
“No. We hug, at the very most. Not that our private lives are any of your business.” Jack seemed traumatized at Finlay’s intrusion. “She wanted to hug me, not the other way around. She’s like a second daughter to me. Not that anyone could ever replace Emily.”
“And what about the medication?” Finlay cut off Jack’s heartfelt speech, cursing at the thought of them two embracing in any kind of way.
Jack paused, mentally gathering his story into order. “Catherine felt a lot of grief, but she didn’t want to upset her parents. They’re not emotional people, and she didn’t want them to know how much she was struggling. Catherine was already registered with the medical centre I worked for at the time, and all she had to do was ask for me. It was kept between us, patient confidentiality, so her parents never found out.”
“How so? If she were under eighteen at the time, they would've had to sign forms allowing Catherine to visit you in the first place,” I recalled.
“I kept it all off the record. No agreements, nothing to sign--”
“And then you stole the pills,” I said, filling in the blanks.
“A few boxes of antidepressants here and there. Not too regularly, but that didn’t matter because the boss still found us out after checking lack of inventory,” Jack relaxed, a weight taken off of his shoulders. This was the first time he’d openly admitted it. “They told Catherine’s parents about the pills she had been taking, and Catherine begged with her life to not press charges. Her parents agreed, thinking it was their fault for Catherine not opening up to them about her struggles.”
“Didn’t her parents teach you a lesson? Warn you to stay away from their daughter. A late father doting after their daughter poses a few uncertainties for them, surely?” Finlay couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“They did. They moved to the other end of town, and her father threatened me a couple of times.” Jack touched his side as though he was punched at some point.
“But we found you at Catherine’s house.” Finlay couldn’t fathom why, after all this, Jack disobeyed his warnings.
“Her parents were away, and they couldn’t do anything about it. Catherine invited me over. She wanted to make sure I was safe. I’d phoned her and told her about your visit.” Jack looked me directly in the eyes, being brutally honest this time around. “It was one time we didn’t have to sneak around.”
“What were you doing? Catherine was in her nightgown,” Finlay scowled, sure Jack was still covering up the other part to their ‘relationship’.
“We celebrated Emily’s life. Wrote poems for her, went through photographs. Honoured her spirit.” Jack breathed shakily, threatening to cry again. The solicitor sat back in shock, not realising the extent of her client’s rigorous life.
“None of that explains the scalpel,” Finlay was quick to point out.
“It happened a few days ago, possibly a week. Catherine snuck out to come and see me. I gave her a drink, and she dropped the glass. A piece embedded into her hand, so I used whatever was around to help loosen it. By the time I’d sorted her out, it was early in the morning, and Catherine had to rush home.” Jack recollected, flapping his shirt to cool down.
“I went to bed, and then I woke up to your officers knocking on my door. I assumed Catherine's parents had called them or found out what was going on, so I stashed it all. But then you informed me about Gavin’s death, and all this escalated from there.” Jack almost couldn’t believe the challenges he’d faced these past few weeks.
“You’ve protected Catherine from her parents’ judgement all along,” I concluded, rounding up recent events. “Coincidences can happen,” I hinted at the woods located so near to Catherine’s home.
“You can’t tell Catherine’s parents. Promise me you won't. She’ll have no one to talk to--” Jack whipped himself into a nervous frenzy.
“And neither will you,” Finlay grimaced. “It’s in your own interests that we don’t tell Catherine’s family. You can’t stand to be alone,” Finlay derived. “You’re a broken man, Jack Harper. If you cared about Catherine in the long run, as you so abundantly claim to now, you’d stop hindering her future.” Finlay cautioned Jack Harper and pursed his lips tightly, fist clenched in revulsion.
“Then, clearly, DI Cooper, you haven’t cared for anyone. I know this would ruin Catherine’s life if we were found out, but I can’t stop myself. She’s the only thing left of Emily that hasn’t walked away from me. I’m not letting go so easily,” Jack told us sincerely, begging me especially.
I couldn’t help them now.
“I think we’re done here. Interview terminated at six forty-five.” Finlay switched off the recording and huffed. The solicitor was already on her feet.
“You’re free to go, Jack,” I broke the news, seeing relief written all over his aged face. He didn’t know what to say, sore from being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. His footsteps followed his solicitor out of the interviewing room, leaving Finlay and me in stone-cold silence.
“Trauma bond, in a way. Your instincts were right though, he was sketchy,” I assured Finlay. He sat frozen in place, tensing all of his muscles. A blood vessel stood out on his blotched forehead, willing itself to explode.
18
A pit of fire raged in my stomach. Not at Jack Harper, who had squirmed his way out of my grasp, oh no. But the fact that McCall didn’t debrief me or share her uncovered information. I looked like a fool during that interview, and it was all caught on tape. If DCI Campbell were to do routine checks and rightfully chase up our interview processes, I’d be made a mockery out of.
My first case as detective inspector, and I’d already cocked up left, right and centre. I’d been bashed in all the local papers, argued with the guv, and interrogated a wrong suspect even though I’d managed to convince everyone else on the team that he was guilty.
“I hope Catherine finds her own way in life. Imagine being lumbered with a cranky man like him for the rest of your life.” McCall glanced at me. “Never mind.”
I wasn’t interested in McCall’s teasing, especially not when we had so much to figure out on our plates.
“None of our business anymore. You let him go,” I said gruffly. It’s true. My main priority now fell to ensure Gavin’s killer didn’t wander loose for much longer. McCall was taken aback.
“Ah. I see what’s going on,” McCall laughed insincerely. “You can't stand anyone getting results but yourself. You don’t understand the word ‘team’, because you aren’t a part of it. You don’t include yourself, and you don’t get to know those working underneath you. That’s why results aren’t coming through, because you’re too stubborn to agree that others should get credit where credit’s due.”
“It’s not that!” I countered. “You, as a colleague, didn’t debrief me on a notion you had and didn’t adhere to the original tactics we settled on together. As a team,” I waggled two fingers in the air when quoting her earlier accusation.
“So it’s my fault for noticing Catherine’s cut?” McCall tended to jump to random conclusions when angry or wound up. I believed it was partly to throw her opponent off course and change the argument's actual subject. It worked, for our initial argument turned to a completely different matter now. “You resent the fact that I had more knowledge than you.” McCall sneered, for effect.
“Oh, don’t start all that shi—”
“Ever since you were awarded your promotion, you’ve insulted everyone in the office. I stuck up for you, convinced myself that you wouldn’t affront me, not after all the help I've given you.” She paused and gathered breath to argue her point some more. “Me withholding information wasn’t intentional, merely circumstantial. I don’t hide anything from you. I even stole files for you, risking my entire career for a selfish, selfish man.” McCall flounced away, wanting to get as far away from me as possible.
“Do
n’t expect me to cover for you anymore. I’ll know you as my detective inspector only, sir.” McCall calling me sir was a slap in the face. I didn’t want her upset with me, because of my stupid egotistical problems.
I pulled her back, and she glared at me with ferocity set in her face.
“I covered for you, with DCI Campbell. You’re not going to lose your rank, nor your career,” I said firmly. “I dropped myself in a pile of piss to alter a decision you ultimately made yourself.” It was true. I didn’t force her to visit the medical centre, nor take their files either. She used her own initiative and did what any decent detective would do. She found the details.
“Get lost,” she mocked me, not caring to listen to what I had to say. My guilty conscience nudged me, raring me to run after her and apologize. But I talked myself out of it. Where did apologizing ever get anyone? McCall’s footsteps travelled along the corridor, slapping the floor in haste.
I longed just to go home, sulk and fall asleep.
I didn’t even bother collecting any items from my office, instead preferring to avoid McCall altogether. My footsteps bounced off the station front steps, freeing me of that hideous remorseful feeling creeping up on me.
A woman with dyed red hair, not like McCall’s, waited near a fence. She may have been familiar, but recognising people wasn’t my strongest skill. I noticed people coming and going all day at the station and in various cases. There were too many to keep count of.
“Are you just going to ignore me?” the woman called across, sounding alluring. Maybe? The egotistical side of me, which got me into hot water with McCall, convinced myself that she found me attractive. Tempting, even.
I strolled past the woman, without care for finding out what she wanted from me. My destination was clear.
“Hey,” the slightly insane woman didn’t give up. In fact, she did quite the opposite. She ran after me and fell in step with my strides. “Popeye! Don’t ignore me.”
I tried my best to not look anywhere near the ageless woman. My eyes focused directly on the footpath, and my ears froze with a breeze redirected directly from the bay itself. Don’t look. She will go away eventually, I convinced myself, repeating that mantra in my head.
When we rounded the third street in a row, I knew she wouldn't give up so easily.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I grumbled.
Her laugh peeled like a hundred tinkling bells, delicate and natural. Not forced, not fake. I gave in and peeped to my left. She was smaller than me, petite and slight. A rather vivid plaid coat suited her hair well. That red hair started as black at the roots and gradually faded to a boxed dye job. Champagne coloured eye makeup complimented the rest of her features, in resemblance of Geri Halliwell.
She played off my cynical comment without so much as a bat of her eyelid. “Seems the detective has a bee in his bonnet.”
“Do I know you?” My tone consisted of weariness and a hint of mockery. We stepped further along the path, neither of us wanting to be the first to stop and engage in a full conversation.
“Probably not. I was in the woods this morning. I’m your witness,” she introduced herself. “Abbey Aston. You should get to know me better.”
I had a flashback to her awkward wink from the woods earlier. Detectives were often romanticised, especially by members of the public.
“No, I shouldn’t,” I confirmed, scratching my unshaved stubble. “Because that’s all you are. A witness,” I tried to stop her advances from progressing any further.
I knew these types of women. Flirtatious and enjoyed hunting down men to date and trap into relationships. Well, not me. “So please, leave me alone. I’m rather busy.”
“What, getting drunk and sleazing over reporters in bars? Seems a fun way to spend your time. It wasn’t what I expected of you, Pops,” Abbey retorted, sticking to the original nickname she’d given me, Popeye.
“Stop calling me that. It's DI Cooper to you.” A stroke of cold numbness filled my body unpleasantly. “How did you know about last night?”
“Who doesn’t?” Abbey said. Truly an enigma of a person.
“You’re talking in riddles,” I scoffed. “I’m a detective, not a mind reader.”
Abbey sighed. “Are you winding me up?” She clocked my expression and realised I wasn’t. “Here.” She pulled out her phone and opened our local news articles. There I was, glorified in a horrid depiction of my drink-fuelled endeavours.
It didn’t feel quite so drunk then, but a picture speaks a thousand words, and my picture spoke two thousand. My hair was ruffled terribly, shirt stained and crumpled. I had a gormless expression plastered on, obviously having no clue as to my surroundings. The article was entitled, ‘My night with DI Cooper’ and the tagline didn’t improve. ‘An insight into his personal woes, work troubles, and women.’
She’d set me up, I realised, heart thudding to the floor. She’d gotten close enough for me to spill all my deepest, darkest secrets. I’d been played and with no small feat. Georgina Ryder was out to get me, to cut me down using only her pink, fluffy quill. The devil in lipstick. I scrolled through her article, the main gist hinting towards my unsuitability as a detective inspector and whether I could take on such immense responsibilities during my ‘mid-life crisis,’ as cruelly penned by her.
I bet McCall was gloating in appreciation at Georgina’s words, loving my public shame and takedown. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole office read the article by now. News spread like wildfire around here. Copies would be pinned in jest to my office door in the morning. Georgina had trapped me, and I fell straight into the shark’s jaws. I only hoped DCI Campbell would keep clear of this issue.
“DI Cooper?” Abbey nudged me, finally naming me appropriately.
I handed back the phone and stayed quiet, not quite knowing what to say. Could Abbey be on Georgina’s side, another scapegoat for the press to get an easy article? And the nickname, Pops? I hated it. It reminded me of a mixture between grandpa and a less-than-capable detective, something I didn’t want to be branded as.
“Listen, I don’t know what your game is, or what your intentions are by coming here, but I don’t need any publicity or humiliation,” I grumbled. “Alright? I’m a simple guy, with simple tastes. I want to solve the case we’ve been given and then I want to start another one. Because that’s what I do. I don’t need another pesky woman trying to sabotage me.” My words were perhaps unjust, for Abbey had not done wrong by me yet.
Our tiff turned into calm as the cold Dalgety Bay air worked through our bones. After a while longer, we realized neither of us had a heading, we’d just been walking in circles. I didn’t want her to know where I lived, and her vice versa. Underneath a burnt ember coloured streetlamp, the smaller woman stopped us, and an eerie light illuminated her features. They joined in harmony to create a pretty face.
“I’m hungry,” she announced. Although she’d blatantly appeared to ignore my rant beforehand, I knew she’d listened because her expression had softened. “How about we grab dinner? Fish and chips sound good? I could murder a bag of chips.” Abbey grinned without thinking. “What I mean, is that I’m hungry, and you must be too.”
I mulled the invitation over in my head. Abbey was polite to offer me food, and I was starving by then. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. That’s where I should have drawn a line.
“It’s not a date, detective. Don’t panic.” The flirty girl linked her arm in mine, an unusual gesture to me. “My way of apologising for hounding you the way I did and making up for your newspaper sting.” She cruised ahead and pulled my tired body along too.
I heaved a long sigh, fog spilling from my lips as a result of the weather. My pride had been officially swallowed, and I accepted the offer with as much grace as I could gather.
Dalgety Bay’s most beloved fish and chips bar bustled with activity. They served local after local, alongside a few random tourists. This time of year was popular with visitors. The at
mosphere of Dalgety Bay aided a Christmas feeling like no other small town could. Fairy lights hung from the fish bar roof and gave a contrasting golden glimmer to the pitch-black night sky and filled people’s hearts with joy. The owners had fashioned a makeshift Santa’s sleigh outside their window. It was only a red sledge with a plush Santa Claus inside and garden ornament lights shaped out of reindeer. It gave a sweet air of vintage Christmas.
Even men like me, with an ice block for a heart, could find room to thaw a little. Young children frolicked, pretending to ride Rudolf the Reindeer, jolly and having a lot of fun. When it snowed, no doubt the scene would be almost picturesque. I would have never imagined my run-up to Christmas spent arm in arm with a random girl, purchasing newspaper-wrapped fish and chips.
Previously, I’d be working every night after all my contemporaries had gone home. Christmas day itself consisted of a problematic dinner round the parents’ house with my sister and me. None of us made any effort to keep in contact throughout the year, but Christmas day always had to be spent the same, no matter what. Call it tradition if you may.
“Smells heavenly,” Abbey remarked. She sniffed the air outside the shop in surprise. I followed, not realising just how hungry I had become. Even being situated outside the door was enough to feel the heat from their fryers and smell a familiar scent of chip fat. Unhealthy, but pleasantly enjoyable.
“What would you like?” the owner shouted over the bustle towards Abbey and me.
“A large chips and small cod.” Abbey ordered hers confidently, likely having visited this chip shop since she was a small child. For a skinny woman, she sure could eat well. My decision took longer, too many items taking my fascination. That’s what happened when I got overly hungry, everything was good enough to eat.
“Just the same, cheers,” I decided. It was easier than choosing for myself. The owner jumped right to it, sorted out the bags, and scooped a shed load of chips into each one. They glistened with a sheen of oil. No dieting tonight.
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