by Joseph Knox
I looked over my shoulder. Thought I saw shadows moving in my periphery. I went up the path with a torch and a crowbar.
I clicked on the torch.
The simple wire that had held the door shut was gone. When I shone the light down at my feet, I saw the wire, cut, on the floor.
The door was already ajar when I pushed it, and it wouldn’t open much further. The damp carpet had swollen up from the floor too much. I edged inside and shone the torch down the hallway. Everything looked the same. I wanted to be sure that I was alone so went straight along into the kitchen.
Same boarded windows.
Same gutted room.
Same spaces where white goods would have been. I checked that the pantry was still empty, then went back along the hallway into the front room. It was the same way I’d left it. A sad, plain space, about four metres by three, wrapped in gloom. The carpet had been stripped away some time ago, leaving a mismatched, warped wooden floor. The windows were boarded up and no light from the street got in.
I left the front room and climbed the stairs, feeling them flex under my weight. I went past the bathroom and looked into the bedroom. It was empty, exactly as I’d left it. The second room, where I had seen a sleeping bag and food scraps before, was also empty.
It had been swept clean.
I went back to the bathroom. It was so cold I could see the breath in front of my face. I took the newspaper clipping from my pocket and shone the light down at it.
T A K E A B A T H
I set the torch down so it lit up the bathtub, then took the crowbar and knelt beside it. I tried to jam it in the corner of the side panel. It was well sealed, and so caked in years of grime that I couldn’t find the edge. After a couple of minutes of this I swung back and hit it. Then again. I made a dent, a hole. Then another.
Eventually, I was able to get the crowbar inside. I pulled backwards and broke the board. I stopped. Thought I’d heard something over my shoulder. I waited a second then swung again.
I made another dent, then a hole. I pulled backwards. Broke away more board. Swung again. Finally, a big enough hole appeared. There was a dull, rotten smell. I listened to my breathing. Absorbed waves of paranoia. I dropped the crowbar, picked up the torch and shone it inside.
Contorted into too small a space, between the side panel and the bathtub, was the body of a young woman. Ruined by death and time and damp. I pushed myself backwards, tried to breathe. I went out on to the landing and retched.
Joanna Greenlaw had never left the house.
I thought about Zain Carver, Sheldon White. She had betrayed one. Agreed to testify against both. The black and white paint tied things back to Sheldon, but it was circumstantial. And I thought about Superintendent Parrs. His zeal. His close relationship with Greenlaw. I was sure that at least one of them had known where she was for the last ten years.
I heard the front door go. Kicked in. There were footsteps and flashlights, first one in the doorway, then two, blinding me.
Raised voices and swearing.
A shape came at me. Hit me in the stomach with a flashlight. I was turned around and shoved into a wall. Teeth on brickwork. My hands were cuffed behind me. The room was filled with panting breaths.
‘Turn around,’ shouted a familiar voice.
‘FUCKING TURN AROUND,’ screamed another.
I turned. All I could see was the blinding white from the flashlight. It hit me in the face, glass smashed, and I was dragged out of the room. I could feel blood, brick and loose teeth in my mouth. They shoved me across the landing to the top of the stairs.
‘My hands,’ I said. They were still cuffed behind me.
Then one of the men pushed me down the staircase. I rolled and landed in a painful heap at the bottom.
17
‘As you know, I’m Detective Sergeant Laskey,’ said the thinner of the two officers who’d twice visited my flat. I thought we were in an interview room in the basement of police headquarters. An unventilated black box with no windows and no air.
I didn’t know what time it was, what day it was. My hands were cuffed in front of me now, and I was sitting at a desk with a tape recorder and some files on it.
I was fucked.
Detective Sergeant Laskey was standing against the far wall with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, hands in pockets, jingling change. Pale. Thin. Tendons standing out from his neck like wires. He kept clenching and unclenching his jaw as though he was chewing on something.
Grey, artificial light bled into the room through a plastic fitting in the ceiling. When I looked up to stretch my neck I saw trapped dust inside it, the vague outlines of dead insects.
‘You remember Detective Constable Riggs,’ said Laskey.
I nodded at his partner.
The larger man had pulled his chair away from the desk and sat with his back to the door. To the average interviewee, this might signify that no one was walking out of the room. To me it signified that no one would be walking in. Riggs’ face was so red with drink that he looked sunburned, the capillaries in his nose and cheeks at absolutely full capacity. He winked at me and a dull pain went through the back of my head.
I remembered him.
I thought the heat and body odour in the room were probably coming from Riggs, but they might have been coming from me. It smelled like stress. Fear. I tried to run a hand through my hair but it was matted with blood.
‘You forgot to read me my rights,’ I said.
Laskey unclenched his jaw. Smiled. ‘We’re just talking, Aid. Don’t need to hear your rights for some conversation, do you?’
Riggs cleared his throat. ‘How long had you been screwing Isabelle Rossiter before she died?’ His drinker’s blush made him look ashamed of himself, but he smiled at me as he said it.
‘Don’t think he remembers,’ said Laskey, unclenching his jaw. ‘Let’s go back a bit further. How’d you meet her in the first place?’
I didn’t say anything.
Riggs sighed. It smelled like alcohol and cigarettes. ‘Come on, Waits, whatever’s going on, it’s game over. Kids dropping dead. Women crammed under bathtubs. You’re not the man we want and every minute with you’s one we could spend after the fucker responsible. So help yourself.’
It felt wrong.
I’d just found the body of a woman who’d been missing for a decade and they wanted to talk about Isabelle Rossiter. I was confused. Handcuffed, but not under arrest. There was something else going on.
‘I met Isabelle Rossiter at Zain Carver’s house,’ I said.
‘Seems a funny place for a vodka heiress.’
I shrugged. It hurt.
‘How’d she get there?’ said Laskey.
‘Invite only, what we hear,’ said Riggs.
‘I don’t know, she’d been there a while when I arrived.’
‘A while?’
‘Months.’
‘More than one month, less than two,’ said Laskey. ‘According to her dad.’
Riggs leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘In which case, she ran away around the same time you were caught stealing drugs from evidence …’ Confirmation that they didn’t know I’d been undercover.
‘No comment.’
‘Wonder if those two things are connected? We know she liked her drugs …’
‘I didn’t meet her until after I was suspended.’
‘You were stealing drugs, though?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you have a drug problem?’
‘When I can’t get enough of them.’
‘So you were stealing them for yourself?’
‘No fucking comment.’
‘See, her dad reckons she was using something before she ran away. Someone got her hooked, then she went to the source.’ Her dad. He’d never said she was an addict before. Either he was lying to them or they were lying to me.
‘That’s one explanation.’
‘So give us another,’ said Riggs.
‘She was runnin
g from something.’
‘From something like what?’
The only sound was the buzz of the light bulb.
‘Fair enough,’ said Laskey, pushing himself away from the wall. ‘You’re an addict but you get suspended. Your supply runs dry. Is it you or Isabelle who first decides to approach Zain Carver for drugs?’
‘Laughable,’ I said. ‘I just told you, I didn’t know her until after I went to Fairview.’
A thin smile. ‘My mistake.’
‘Which of them did you meet first?’ said Riggs. ‘Zain Carver or Isabelle Rossiter?’
‘Isabelle. She was at his house the first time I went.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Scoring.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Pills,’ I said. ‘Not girls.’
‘And Isabelle Rossiter was scoring too?’
‘She was sober.’
‘So you go out scoring—’
‘Pills,’ said Laskey, interrupting his partner. ‘Not girls.’
‘Right. You go out scoring pills, not girls, and end up with a bit of both. Nice work, son.’
‘We just talked.’
‘I’m sure you fucking did.’
‘Sounds like Isabelle Rossiter did a lot of talking,’ said Laskey. ‘We think it might be why she ran away.’
‘From something,’ said Riggs, sitting up. ‘See, she’d fucking talk to anyone, that girl. She’d already talked to every boy in her school. Some of the girls as well, from what we hear. She’d pick up homeless blokes off the street and just talk to them all night. Sometimes she got a hotel room and talked to two or three of them at the same time.’
I looked at him.
I realized I was standing up.
I looked away and sat back down.
Riggs chortled. ‘Any time, son. Any time.’
‘Go on, Waits,’ said Laskey, sharing a smile with his partner. ‘You were talking with her …’
‘We passed each other in the hallway. Said all of ten words.’
‘Sometimes that’s all it takes.’
‘All what takes?’
He shrugged. ‘Answer one of my questions and I’ll answer one of yours.’ I didn’t say anything. ‘I’ll give you an easy one. How long had you been screwing Isabelle Rossiter before she died?’
‘I never touched her.’
Laskey stared at me for a few seconds, then leaned forward. He flipped open the first file and slid it across the desk.
‘What’s this, then?’
I didn’t look down.
I knew what it would be. I felt light-headed. Those migraine sunspots in my eyes. Riggs heaved himself out of his chair and walked behind me. He leaned over my shoulder and squinted at the top picture. Full colour. Blurred. The sheen of sweat on Isabelle’s skin.
‘Looks like you’re touching her there, mate …’
‘Care to rephrase your last statement?’ said Laskey.
‘We’re in a crowded corridor. Talking.’
Riggs leaned closer, leafed through the pictures and spread them across the table. The booze was so heavy on his breath that I could guess his brand.
‘Like I said. Talk to fucking anyone, that girl.’
Sarah Jane had done a good job when she took the pictures. They were framed to include as little of our surroundings as possible. Each one showed Isabelle and me slightly closer together. Riggs leaned hard on my shoulder.
‘This the first night you met?’
I nodded.
‘Don’t waste your time, do ya?’
‘Where did you get these?’
I didn’t want to ask him and sound rattled, but I was.
‘Sent in anonymous,’ said Laskey. ‘Someone out there wants you burned to the ground, Waits. Who might that be?’ I was already thinking about it. Rossiter or Sarah Jane could have sent them the pictures. I knew Rossiter was most likely. I thought about not destroying them when I’d the chance.
‘How many times did you meet Isabelle Rossiter?’ said Laskey. Riggs was still pressing down hard on my shoulder. Their focus on Isabelle Rossiter, the pictures, started to give me a bad feeling, worse than the pain in my head.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Then think about it.’
I thought. ‘Two or three times at Fairview. Once at Rubik’s. I took her home from there one night. What’s this about?’
‘Tell us about the Rubik’s night,’ said Riggs, lifting himself off my shoulder, walking round the table. The light glaring off his polyester trousers hurt my eyes.
‘I ran into her late, around last orders. She was drunk and I wanted to make sure she got home safe.’
‘Safe from what?’
‘The bar manager was a creep.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Laskey. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Never caught it,’ I lied. Laskey gave me an odd look.
‘You took her back to her flat?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Cab driver says you went to Fairview first.’
I tried not to react. ‘That’s true.’
‘Picking up Eight?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Isabelle was drunk—’
‘Passed out in the cab, apparently,’ said Laskey. ‘Driver says he was concerned for her safety.’
Fucker. ‘She was fine. I took her to Fairview because I didn’t know she stayed in the flat round the corner. We weren’t that close.’
Laskey gave me a yeah-yeah look. ‘So you get her back to the flat, then what?’
‘I left and she asked me to come back the next day.’
‘Why?’
‘Something she wanted to tell me.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘The next time I saw her she was dead.’
‘Is that right?’ said Riggs.
Laskey sat down opposite me, clenching and unclenching his skinny jaw. ‘We wondered if she’d just told you something you didn’t want to hear?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like she wanted to go back to her family?’
‘Her decision. I’d have told her it was a good one.’
‘Funny, that. When you and her got in the cab from Rubik’s, you started out heading in that direction …’
Riggs carried on. ‘Only, once she passed out, you had the cabbie pull over and turn round.’
When I’d found the cash in Isabelle’s handbag.
‘My word against a cab driver’s?’
‘The journey was saved in his satnav,’ said Laskey. ‘So what changed your mind?’
It was clear I was giving away more than I was getting back. ‘No comment,’ I said.
They exchanged a look.
Laskey went on, ‘Maybe she told you she didn’t want to see you any more?’
‘No comment.’
‘Maybe she told you she’d been talking to this barman you can’t remember the name of?’ Laskey gave me that look again. What do you know? I wondered why he was so interested in the barman.
‘You know how she liked to talk to people,’ said Riggs.
‘No comment.’
‘No comment,’ said Laskey to Riggs. ‘S’pose no one can ever know …’
I looked at him.
‘Oh, that got a reaction.’
‘Got a reaction at the scene, as well,’ said Riggs. ‘Gave a constable a broken nose.’
‘Why did you lose it when you saw the message on the mirror, Waits? No one can ever know what?’
‘No comment.’
‘How come it was written on the bathroom mirror at your place?’
‘You trashed my flat?’
‘Searched your flat: the door was open when we got there. Someone had written No one can ever know on the bathroom mirror and smashed it. I think it was you.’
‘No comment.’
‘And how come when we grabbed you today, there was a note
on your person with the same thing written on it?’
‘No comment.’
‘Not in your handwriting,’ said Riggs. ‘Yours slants like a fucking psychopath’s. Maybe the note was from Isabelle?’
‘She sends you a note saying no one can ever know. She ends up dead. You see it written on a bathroom mirror and assault a police officer.’
‘No comment.’
‘You write it on your own mirror and destroy the place.’
‘You’re miles off …’
‘Who was in the room with you when you found Isabelle’s body?’
‘No one.’
‘ “We’ve found a body,” you said. I’ve heard the tape.’
‘I misspoke.’
‘No one can ever know, what?’ said Riggs.
I looked at him. ‘You tell me.’
‘Answer one of my questions and I’ll answer one of yours.’
‘Do we have to keep on doing this?’
‘How long had you been screwing Isabelle Rossiter before she died?’
‘It never happened.’
Riggs raised his eyebrows at Laskey. Laskey gave me another thin smile and slid the second file across the desk towards me.
‘Open it.’
It was a post-mortem report. I knew it immediately. The name at the top was Isabelle Rossiter. I was familiar with the layout and assimilated the information quickly. Felt the pulse, beating through my head. The blood, singing through my veins. I could hear my heart.
I looked at the report again.
There had been heroin in Isabelle’s bloodstream when she died. That was expected. She had also been a few weeks pregnant. That stopped me. I didn’t move but I was sinking into the ground. Laskey put one hand roughly on my shoulder. I felt his bony fingers, kneading my skin. With the other hand he pushed an evidence bag across the table.
The picture of Isabelle that her father had given me; it had been in my pocket.
A pale, pretty girl with dull blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. In the picture, she was staring above where the camera would have been. At the person holding it. It looked intimate. Laskey smiled about an inch away from my face and squeezed my shoulder again.
‘You never touched her, mate. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
18
We repeated the same conversation several times, the heat in the room rising, until they decided to go out and eat. I’d lost all track of time and my head was a mess of lies and omissions.