Sirens

by Joseph Knox

  They came back into the room smelling of fresh air, fried food and cigarettes. Freedom. I couldn’t pay attention or say anything back at first. I could hear my pulse. Ambient noise from the rooms above and around us. The box we were in felt dense with heat and there was no movement in the air. I thought I had a concussion.

  Laskey and Riggs were sweating. I was sweating. The walls were sweating. I could see Laskey, looking at me, lips moving, and tried to concentrate.

  ‘Let’s talk about the Franchise,’ he said.

  ‘Can I get a glass of water or something?’

  ‘In a minute, let’s talk about the Franchise a bit first.’

  My words slurred. ‘What do you wanna know?’

  ‘Tell us how you got involved in the first place.’ I had my doubts about both of them, and decided to play along with the public record of my disgrace. I improvised.

  ‘It was after I was suspended. I was just looking for somewhere to score …’

  ‘But you’re an ex-cop. How’d you get yourself invited to Fairview?’

  ‘I met a girl at Rubik’s. Catherine.’

  ‘This the same girl who dropped off the face of the earth a few weeks later?’ I nodded. It felt like an aneurism. ‘You said you knew her from an old case …’

  ‘I did. I ran into her again at Rubik’s.’

  Laskey and Riggs exchanged a look.

  ‘Go on,’ said Laskey. ‘You meet this Cath, again.’

  ‘I told her what I was after, she told me how to get it.’

  ‘And on your first night at Fairview, the only person you spoke to was Isabelle Rossiter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s when these pictures were taken?’

  ‘Yeah, listen, can I get that glass of water?’

  ‘In a minute,’ said Laskey. ‘Were you using the night you took Isabelle home from Rubik’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you drinking?’

  Yes. ‘No.’

  ‘Saturday, November fourteenth. You were seen in an altercation with this barman you can’t remember the name of.’

  ‘Never got the name of,’ I said. Laskey. The barman again. That same look on his face. What do you know? I had a flash that I might not be the only one in the room with secrets.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a room full of witnesses who say you were drunk. You’d spilt beer all over yourself. Isabelle Rossiter was found dead the next day …’

  I didn’t say anything.

  Riggs flicked my head.

  ‘You’re drunk. You get in a fight with him and leave with Isabelle. You set out for her mum and dad’s place, probably at her request, but once she passes out you get the cabbie to turn around and head to Fairview.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where you know you can score,’ said Riggs.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Once you do that, you go back to the flat,’ said Laskey.

  ‘Only there’s an argument.’

  I shook my head. Gripped the table to stay upright.

  ‘She wakes up somewhere she doesn’t wanna be.’

  ‘With you.’

  ‘Starts off just drunk talk, but she’s used to her own way.’

  ‘These rich bitches.’

  ‘You’re just tryna calm her down.’

  ‘Keep her quiet, but it’s all coming out now.’

  ‘And she plays her last card.’

  ‘Ace in the hole.’ Riggs smirked. ‘She’s pregnant.’ Neither of them said anything for a minute, then Riggs went on, leaning right into my face, ‘She hasn’t shut her legs in six months, fuck knows whose it is.’

  ‘No one can ever know,’ said Laskey. ‘Isn’t that what all this is about? No man could be himself in that situation.’

  ‘Let’s get it cleared up now, mate. How long had you been screwing her before she died?’

  ‘I thought we were talking about the Franchise?’ I said. I was looking at the table, but I could feel them both staring down at me. I could hear myself breathing. See the sweat dropping off my face.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Laskey. ‘Seems to have fallen apart recently. Why?’

  ‘Sheldon White came out of prison and things started to happen. Black and white paint turning up in places it shouldn’t have. Then the spiked Eight, Isabelle’s death, Sycamore Way, Carver’s collections being turned over.’

  ‘Them cabs that were held up?’ said Laskey.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the fire at Yarville Street?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Were you at Sycamore Way?’ said Riggs.

  Yes. I hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘Bloke matching your description,’ said Laskey. ‘Maybe you’ve got a double?’

  ‘God’s not cruel enough to put that face on two different fuckers,’ said Riggs. I didn’t say anything. He flicked my face.

  Laskey stood.

  They were both standing, facing me now.

  ‘It all comes to a head when you meet your friend Cath at Rubik’s again …’

  ‘White was there. He threatened her.’ My voice sounded like someone else’s. Tired. Pleading. ‘Said unless I got a message to Carver, she’d end up like Joanna Greenlaw.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘That Rubik’s was a Burnsider place from then on.’

  ‘Is that when he told you where Greenlaw was?’

  I shook my head and regretted it. The room spun.

  ‘He just used her name as a threat.’

  ‘And we met you the next day,’ said Riggs. ‘Looked like you’d been using …’ I didn’t say anything. He flicked my face. ‘Looked like you’d been going from club to club and getting fucked up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Using your warrant card to jump the queues.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then inventing this story of a drug rivalry and missing girl when we called you out on it.’

  ‘No.’ I thought. ‘Someone else reported Cath and Grip missing …’

  ‘Sarah Jane Locke. Another woman in your life who’s dropped off the face of the earth. One missing girl’s a mistake, Waits. Two’s just careless.’

  ‘I called hospitals the next day, looking for Cath. Check.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s true, you called some hospitals.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘So you were impersonating a police officer, congratulations.’

  None of us spoke for a moment, then Riggs leaned on the table, staring right at me.

  ‘You said you never touched Isabelle Rossiter. Lie. Said you wanted her to go home to her parents. Lie. Said you were alone when you found her body. Lie.’ I could feel the heat beating off him. ‘You said you knew this Catherine through an old case. Lie. Said she was last seen with Sheldon White. Lie. Said you’d handed in your warrant card …’ He fumbled in his pocket and slapped an evidence bag down on the table. It was my card. It had been in my pocket. ‘Lie.’

  ‘I told you. Talk to Parrs.’

  ‘We have. He doesn’t remember the girl. Barely remembers you. He thinks you’re a fucking fantasist.’

  Everything stopped.

  I sat back in my chair. My chest felt tight and it was all I could do to breathe.

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you anything, but I need some water.’

  Laskey and Riggs looked at each other. They were both breathing hard, shirts patching with sweat. Laskey nodded at his partner.

  Riggs gave me a nasty smile. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said, turning, kicking the chair from in front of the door and opening it. He walked out and turned the lock on the other side. There was a gasp of ventilated air from the corridor. It stung my eyes.

  Laskey resumed his position at the far side of the room. Hands in pockets, jingling loose change. Now he stared right at me. With some difficulty, because of the cuffs, I ran a hand over my face and looked at the palm. Soaked with sweat. I ran it through my hair. It had been matted with blood where Riggs had hit me i
n the Greenlaw house, but the sweat had loosened it and I felt the bump.

  I thought about Laskey. His line of questioning. His interest in the barman. The look on his face that said: What do you know? I thought that if he had a secret then the barman must be his weak spot. I tried to think.

  Laskey just stared at me.

  Jingling his change.

  I touched the spot on my skull where I had been hit. I thought of the night I met David Rossiter. The night I met Catherine. The night I first went to Fairview, and the night I met Isabelle. Someone had hit me when I was leaving Rubik’s.

  ‘Zain’s friend,’ Sarah Jane said.

  I woke up, face down on the street. The young couple crossed over to avoid me, and I heard the jingle of small change in someone’s pocket.

  I looked up at Laskey. ‘You hit me over the back of the head outside Rubik’s.’ His expression didn’t change. ‘You suppressed evidence against Glen Smithson, the Franchise barman, in that date-rape case.’

  He jingled his change again and smiled.

  19

  Laskey’s expression didn’t change until we heard someone at the door. Riggs came in with three bottles of water, and I breathed in a blast of fresh air. The door closed and I was left with the edge of sweat coming from Riggs.

  Laskey ripped the lid off his water and drained it in one, crushing the plastic bottle as he did so. Riggs did the same, spilling some on his shirtfront as he glugged it back. The water just blended in with the sweat.

  My mouth was dry. I could still feel the brickwork from the Greenlaw house on my teeth. I looked at my bottle. The seal had been broken. An old trick, a cheap one, to make me think twice about drinking it. I just left it there.

  I felt like my life depended on getting out of that room.

  ‘Riggs, can I ask you something?’

  He did a double take, glanced at Laskey and then sat down opposite me. He rubbed his nose on his forearm and nodded. ‘Course you can, Aid.’

  ‘Where were you on October thirtieth?’

  ‘Dunno, mate. Where were you?’

  ‘At a bar. Rubik’s. It was a Friday, by the way. I drink too much and so do you. It’s why you write everything down. Your notebook’s in your jacket pocket, so you can check.’

  He looked over his shoulder at Laskey.

  His partner was standing, stock-still, against the wall. Riggs didn’t catch the game, but didn’t want to give that away, so he turned to me, shrugged and reached for his jacket. He dug into his pockets and found my wallet, my phone, and dropped them on the table. Then he held up his notebook.

  Before he could open it, I interrupted. ‘Prediction: if you were on duty with him around six p.m.,’ I nodded at Laskey, ‘then he either made an excuse and left, or plain disappeared on you.’ Riggs hesitated and I knew I’d jogged a memory. He leafed back through the pages and shrugged again.

  ‘Yeah, so? How many times did you screw Isabelle Rossiter before she died?’

  ‘Where were you on Monday, November sixteenth?’

  ‘What is this?’

  Laskey clenched and unclenched his jaw. ‘Tell him,’ he said, steadily. He was staring right at me. That same look on his face. ‘We’ve got time.’

  Riggs leafed forward in his book and found the day.

  ‘Prediction,’ I said. ‘He moved heaven and earth to get assigned to the Isabelle Rossiter investigation after her death.’

  ‘So?’ Riggs frowned. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Friday, October thirtieth. Zain Carver asked his man on the force to rough me up. Detective Laskey makes an excuse and leaves you at around six p.m. I was assaulted at seven.’ Riggs shifted in his chair. ‘Monday, November sixteenth. Said man made sure that room 6.21A here was reassigned so he could go in and out without being noticed. A hard drive which he believed to be evidence against him was wiped.’

  Riggs shrugged. ‘Meaningless.’

  I looked at Laskey. ‘I was sent undercover to flush him out. You need to get Superintendent Parrs. Now.’

  Riggs smiled. ‘Parrs thinks you’re full of shit—’

  ‘Did you hear that directly from him? Or did Laskey tell you?’

  He didn’t move. Laskey didn’t move.

  ‘What about that first day you came up to my flat?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Franchise doormen wouldn’t speak to the police in their wildest dreams. If some mad bastard was using his warrant card to get into Franchise clubs, they’d report it to their boss. Zain Carver. He’d get his man on the force to look into it.’

  ‘You’re in space—’

  ‘There’s one more: Glen Smithson.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘He’s that Franchise barman that Laskey keeps derailing this interview to talk about. Was charged with date rape a few years ago, but the evidence went missing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So a couple of weeks ago he went missing, too. It was never reported to the police, though.’

  ‘And what’s that gotta do with Jim?’

  ‘When I went looking for Smithson, the guard in his building said I was the second cop who’d been there. The first burst in on the night of Sycamore Way, stuck his head in the room and left. The same night I heard Zain Carver put every man in the Franchise on to the hunt.’

  ‘And you’re saying it was Jim?’ Riggs mulled it over. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘The first man left his mobile number with the guard, in case Smithson turned up. I saved it on to my phone.’ Laskey stepped forward, but Riggs swiped my phone off the desk.

  ‘Saved as?’

  ‘Franchise Man.’

  Riggs walked round the table so he was standing to my right. He and Laskey were either side of me, facing each other. He frowned and scrolled through the address book. He looked up and hit call.

  Laskey’s phone went off, a shrill factory-setting ringtone. Calmly, he took it from his jacket pocket and cancelled the call. His face twisted into a smile. He spoke to his partner but he was staring at me. ‘Why don’t you go and wake up the Super,’ he said quietly.

  Riggs was confused.

  I spoke to him. ‘If you leave me alone with Laskey, he’ll say there was an accident. That I tried to run …’

  Riggs looked at me. ‘Have you completely lost it?’

  ‘Go and get Parrs,’ said Laskey again, eyes not moving from mine.

  ‘… And you can’t get a junior officer in here ’cus you never officially booked me in. It’d take some explaining.’

  ‘Go and get Parrs,’ said Laskey.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Riggs, thinking he was joining in on the joke.

  ‘GO AND FUCKING GET HIM!’ screamed Laskey, the veins pulled tight in his neck. Riggs gaped at his partner. ‘That’s an order.’

  He put the phone down and backed away from the desk. He fumbled with the door and walked out, letting it close behind him. Laskey looked at me as we listened to the footsteps going down the corridor.

  First walking, then running.

  Laskey jingled his change one last time then took his hands out of his pockets. Took a step closer.

  I stood up. ‘That’s a secure place,’ I said, improvising. ‘CCTV, time stamps …’

  ‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The guard ID’d your picture,’ I lied.

  ‘Shh,’ he said, taking another step. I could see his mind working. Making it up as he went along. He picked up my phone and threw it down on the floor. Then he stamped on it, ground it under his heel. He ripped the lanyard off his neck and threw it on the table.

  I looked down.

  His clearance card. Then he stepped back and leaned on the bright green Panic button. An alarm went off but I didn’t move. He shrugged, picked up the tape deck and hit himself, hard, in the face with one corner.

  He leaned back against the far wall and looked at me, blood spotting from his nose into his teeth, down his chin, on to his shirt. I decided in less than a second. Picked up my wallet, the cl
earance card. I opened the door and went down the hall. Through two sets of doors, banking left into a fire escape.

  The ground-floor exit led out into the captivity of the station car park. I hit the doors so it would look like I’d gone that way and went on up to the first floor. I tried to breathe. When I heard a sound behind me I started to run. Followed the exposed piping round to the south side of the building. I went down a floor and banged through the fire doors, out on to Central Park, thinking:

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  V

  Control

  1

  I was in the cab before I knew where I was going.

  ‘Know the Wiggle Room?’ I said to the driver. He grimaced. The Wiggle Room is a ramshackle, semi-legal nightclub off Sackville Street. A five-minute walk could take you to the gay quarter: colour, vibrancy and life. The Wiggle Room was the other side of that coin. In the daytime it was difficult to spot, the entrance caked in crusted, overlapping show posters for BDSM and Trans-Queer cabaret. I hoped it went some way to explaining my appearance to the cab driver. I was still handcuffed, scared of what I might look like.

  Bawdy street-laughter from the queue blended with old show standards escaping from inside. I paid the cabbie and climbed out of the car.

  Two enormous drag queens wearing bright feather boas were working the door. They were balanced on brick-thick high heels made from sparkling, see-through plastic. The plastic was filled with water and each shoe contained several live goldfish. The shock to the senses was intentionally comic and absurd. Your mind took in the queue, the leather, the make-up at a glance, but then it stopped.

  Was that a host from ITV news? Someone singing the Lady Di version of ‘Candle in the Wind’?

  The queue itself was diverse.

  Some were drifters from the gay quarter, wanting to see it for themselves. Some were outright BDSM enthusiasts, swelling out of PVC corsets. Some were curious, blank-faced men, turned away from the street, hoping not to be noticed. The first night of every month was a guaranteed sell-out because of the residency of their biggest draw.

  Daddy Longlegs.