by Ian Skewis
‘That’s my Jack, always being official.’
‘Professional, Colin. I’m professional.’ And I know you meant officious, you little prick, he seethed.
Their journey settled into silence. As far as Jack was concerned, they had very little in common and any attempt at small talk had all but expired. Jack preferred it this way. It gave him time to think, though he was aware that his thoughts were often the result of an unsettled mind. Today he felt particularly unsettled. Despite the fact that the leaves were turning brown, the remnant summer heat was stifling and he was more tense than before. He wished Colin wasn’t there beside him. His close proximity made him feel suffocated.
‘I need to pee,’ announced Colin eventually.
‘What? You’ve only been in the car for ten minutes.’
Colin tightened his mouth in an effort not to look displeased.
Jack, sensing his embarrassment, continued with his mild protest. ‘There isn’t a public toilet for miles out here, Colin,’ he said with a smirk.
‘Stop the car, will you?’
‘Sure, Colin. Will here do?’ replied Jack, his voice as sincere as he could allow.
‘Aye. This’ll do.’
Jack watched as Colin’s little legs hurried him over to the best place he could find – some bramble bushes. As he stood by the roadside, Jack realised there was a distinct possibility of Colin being seen, but right now he didn’t care – the opportunity to see the little bastard lose his dignity was too good to pass up. He heard Colin cry with relief as his piss hit the tarmac. Jack turned away discreetly. A Mini Cooper passed by, an elderly couple hunched in the front seats, their faces agog and aghast. All Colin could muster was an unapologetic shit-eating grin. As the car disappeared around the bend, Jack watched in embarrassed silence as Colin shook himself off, popped his manhood back into his trousers, zipped up and sauntered back to the car – not caring a jot.
‘There. That was most refreshing,’ he announced as he got back inside.
Jack became aware of something moving and looked up to see two figures coming towards him from around the bend – the elderly couple from the Mini Cooper. What Jack assumed to be the male of the species chapped its knuckles hard against the passenger side window. Clements slowly wound it down and Jack observed the man’s wind-blown, papery skin, rosy at the cheeks, making him appear somewhat androgynous. His wife simply scowled, manfully holding a large Tupperware box that was presumably filled with food. Whatever it was, it was brown and looked like shit.
‘It is against the law to urinate in public places,’ the man said with a slightly contorted nasal whine, his thin lips stretched into a triumphant smile.
‘I am the Law,’ Colin replied, in a deep authoritarian voice. ‘Detective Constable Colin Clements.’ With a quiet, restrained tenor, and to get right up their hunched little backs, he added, ‘And I can do what the fuck I like.’
Jack cringed and gave them a pained smile, then drove off. He smarted when he caught sight of the smug look on Colin’s face, obviously happy that he was leaving the couple agog and aghast for the second time that morning. Jack frowned in disapproval when his son yelped with delight and appreciatively kicked the back seat. Jack felt his support of Colin’s behaviour was not only misplaced but a sure sign of betrayal.
They arrived at Hobbs Brae Police Station and got out of the car.
‘Wait here,’ whispered Jack to his son, but he was oblivious, texting endlessly.
At the top of the stairs, Colin tried to get in through the door first but Jack beat him to it.
‘Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,’ Colin quipped, and with an overtly dramatic flourish, opened the door a little wider for him. Jack looked down at the detective for a brief moment, enjoying the fact that he towered over him. Colin was only five feet four. A few years ago he wouldn’t even have been eligible for my job, Jack thought. If only I could turn back time. He knew Colin could barely conceal his longing for Jack to disappear. Every exchange he had with the man felt like a hand on his shoulder pushing him back out the door. He watched as the DC marched his squat little frame down the corridor. I wish I could work alone, just once, pined Jack, and headed to his office.
As he sat behind his desk, his paperwork neatly stacked on either side of him, Jack mused on his pending retirement. Your final case, he heard Colin say gleefully again. I’m sure you’ve got loads to look forward to. But it didn’t feel like that. He sighed heavily and considered calling his wife. What would I say? he wondered, then noticed that time was moving on as he wasted it deliberating. He pulled himself together and recalled his conversation with the Chief Superintendent of the Police Constabulary.
‘A young couple have gone missing.’
‘I see,’ said Jack patiently, glancing at the Chief’s numerous trophies in the glass cabinet, framing him in polished silver, an imposing sight.
The Chief cleared his throat, absentmindedly thumbing through some files on his desk. ‘Alistair Smith and Caroline Baker. They were last seen on the night of September the first at a petrol station just outside this village.’
‘Who reported it?’
‘Helen Patterson. She looks after Alistair’s mother.’
‘What about the girl’s parents?’
‘Her family have been informed. Should be a nice, easy case for you to conclude your career with.’
I don’t need a nice, easy case, sir, Jack wanted to say, but thought better of it.
Maybe that was Jack’s problem. Even now he felt swamped by his own ambition. He wanted to end his career on a high, not with some nondescript case that any old policeman could solve. It was patronising and it made him feel worthless. The entire conversation felt as if he was being handed his coat.
‘To be unappreciated in one’s own lifetime,’ said Jamie airily as Jack got back into the car. Jack turned and looked at him, surprised at his ability to seemingly read his thoughts.
‘Where did you learn that kind of talk?’
‘Can’t remember,’ replied Jamie distantly, already texting someone, his face flushing red; a lie, obviously.
‘Do you mean I don’t appreciate you?’
Jamie glanced at him contemptuously.
‘That’s your mother talking,’ Jack concluded, his chin raised defiantly against the outside world and the private domain of his own doubt as he drove off into the autumn sun.
Chapter Two
August 29th
Alice Smith woke with a start. She sat up from her day bed and sipped from a glass of water that had turned warm in the heat. She breathed deeply and tried not to mull over the disturbing dream she’d just had.
Helen, her carer, appeared in the doorway. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
Alice hated the patronising way Helen always cocked her head to one side when she enquired after her well-being. ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, getting up and putting on her cardigan.
‘You were talking in your sleep,’ commented Helen.
Alice noted her tight little smile that seemed far removed from genuine concern. ‘Did I say anything interesting, dear?’ she replied sharply.
‘I wasn’t listening, actually,’ she heard Helen say impatiently.
Alice gazed back at her steadily. ‘Isn’t it time for you to go now?’ she suggested.
Helen made a point of looking at her watch. ‘Oh, yes it is.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ purred Alice with a smile of pleasure. And good riddance, she thought.
‘Yes, see you tomorrow,’ replied Helen, running her fingers through her long, dark hair as she left. ‘Don’t forget to take your pills now.’
Alice glared as Helen waddled out of the room. ‘Fat cow manages to make everything sound like a competition,’ she muttered, and sat back down on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t shake off the cloud that hung over her – a remnant from her dream, whose subject she couldn’t remember, but it made her feel on edge nevertheless. She was in no mood to dwell on it and made her way through the house a
nd outside onto the front doorstep. The early evening air was warm. Must have been a beautiful afternoon, she thought. She resented the fact that she had missed the sunset again.
Her memory had been failing her for a while. Simple things like the date and time, and rather more embarrassing things like her own name and the birthdays of family members. She kept this fact hidden, for she didn’t want to worry anyone, least of all her son. An early onset of dementia, she had been told by her doctor. She had been forced into taking early retirement from her teaching job. Her memory loss was a frequent visitor, a decidedly unwanted guest that kept gate-crashing her mind at the worst possible moments. Helen was brought in to help. Alice hated her. Initially, she had seemed an easy target; overweight, quiet, almost mousy. The opposite of Alice.
*
‘I’ve no idea why you’re here,’ was Alice’s opening shot. And she spent the rest of that afternoon berating her helper, who she observed went about her duties with tight-lipped toleration. Alice was surprised to find that at the end of the day, Helen had found her voice.
‘I’m here to protect you,’ she explained, in a tremulous tone, but with a hardened stare. ‘To help clothe and feed you when your memory really starts to fail. To wipe your arse if need be. And if you want to bark at me all day, then fire away. I can take it. Plenty of years’ experience under my belt for that.’ And with this as her parting shot, she left.
Alice was furious. ‘How dare she speak to me like that in my own home,’ she shouted, but no one was there to listen. As the night went on she recalled all the things the doctor had told her to expect and she felt the fear creeping in on a series of what ifs. By the next morning she couldn’t wait for Helen to come and rescue her from her own fragile state of mind.
‘I know I can be a grumpy old so and so,’ she explained, ‘but it’s because I’m frightened. Sometimes I don’t know where I am. Or who I am.’ She wept at the admission and was grateful that Helen sat with her for the rest of the day. ‘I owe you so much,’ she said.
Helen smiled kindly and replied, ‘I can be a grumpy old so and so too, you know.’
They both laughed.
*
But she didn’t feel like laughing now. Something was wrong. It wasn’t that her memory was failing or that she could not recall the contents of her dream. It was that the dream had left her feeling disturbed. Unsettled. She was vulnerable once more and she wished that Helen was still around.
Then the dream came back to her. Something to do with my son. She concentrated, pictured him: his green eyes; the scar on his forehead. She was upset without quite knowing why, agitated because she couldn’t summon up anything that would make sense of it all. Did something bad happen to him in the dream?
She gave up trying to think about it and smiled fondly as she saw him turn and look at her, his eyes narrowing shrewdly as he decided on his next act of mischief. Twelve years old. She recalled the day he left home, a young man with his whole life ahead of him. She had watched tearfully from the top of the hill as his form receded into the distance, until he became nothing more than a dot, then disappeared.
Alice sighed, the encroaching night zephyr ruffling her thinning, white hair. She hadn’t heard from her son in a long time now. She couldn’t recall how long, but figured it must have been several months now, maybe even a year. She remembered he was seeing a girl, though. Carol? Caroline? She couldn’t be sure. Alice recalled that she had never met her, never been introduced. But her mind kept going back to that dream, and the feeling of utter dread. She wanted to call him. But what would she say? I think something terrible is going to happen. Her mother had been a strong believer in premonitions and such like, but Alice was made of sterner stuff. Becoming a teacher meant that any influence her mother had once exerted was totally eclipsed. Alice had no time for such nonsense. She sipped at her glass again and grimaced at the warmth of the stale water. Perhaps it’s just this heat, she thought, and wandered off to get some fresh lemonade from the kitchen.
Chapter Three
September 3rd
Colin was growing impatient. He viewed with furrowed brow the mountain of reports he had to get through, which frustrated him because he was no office junkie. The stifling heat and the lack of space only served to make him claustrophobic. He squirmed in his seat, noting all the details of each person he had interviewed, hating every minute of it. For, despite his short, fat appearance, Colin regarded himself as a man of action.
‘Tell Campbell and Driscoll I need to see them both now. The usual place.’ He slammed the phone down and aggressively scratched his scalp.
A short while later he was in the pub, the Crow’s Beak. ‘I’m sweating like a rapist,’ he complained, and wiped his brow.
‘I’ve got to separate the cranks from the genuine callers,’ Campbell stated despairingly.
Colin raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, poor you,’ he said contemptuously. ‘It’s your job. Deal with it.’
‘But there’s shitloads – sorry, hundreds of them.’
‘No more than usual,’ replied Driscoll pointedly.
Colin gazed at Campbell, the younger of the two officers who were part of his team, and noted his constant attempt to look serious by frowning and self-consciously stroking his embryonic beard. A failed attempt to be in two camps at the same time – the police officer and the artful West End bohemian. He was standing at the bar, unconsciously mimicking Colin’s pose and eyeing up just about every female within a 20-foot radius. The DC observed him with a wry smile, and saw that Driscoll, an older officer with a sly look and dyed-black greasy hair swept behind his ears, had opted for sitting on a stool opposite. Anything to be different, thought Colin.
‘What about you, sir?’ Driscoll asked.
‘Aye. I’ve got to take statements,’ said Colin. ‘In other words, I’m doing Jack’s dirty work.’
‘And I bet that eats you up like a cancer,’ said Driscoll through a grin.
Colin gazed at him steadily for a moment. He scratched his head and pondered on how to respond. Then he lowered his voice. ‘Aye, it does. And you know the only cure for it?’
‘What?’ Driscoll asked, leaning in to him, with Campbell following suit.
‘High doses of fucking alcohol!’ he shouted, and they laughed loudly.
‘But seriously, I’m being forced to tail this investigation when I should be in charge of it. Jack should have retired by now. I’m fed up being his underdog.’
Driscoll smiled thoughtfully and said, ‘He’s good stock, though, don’t you think? Never put a foot out of place in all these years.’
Colin snorted. ‘Since when did you start admiring Jack Russell? He’s a do-gooder with a whiter than white track record and a degree in self-fucking-importance!’
His colleagues gave a hoot as he slammed his beer onto the bar for effect, the froth spilling across the tarnished surface.
‘But you have to admit he’s very well respected,’ Driscoll said.
Colin stopped him with a stare. He could tell when an ambitious officer was trying to marginalise him and he smiled at Driscoll’s subsequent look of discomfort, for they both knew what was coming. ‘And you like whiter than white role models, do you? Think you might be in a position to get my job when all this is through? Move up the ranks two places at a time, maybe?’
It was Driscoll’s turn to snort. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said, laughing nervously.
‘Don’t forget I know you, Driscoll. I know all your dirty wee secrets. So don’t get too upwardly mobile just yet. I’ll tell you when there’s a gap for you to fill. But right now, I’m thinking of number one.’
‘Don’t hold back, Colin,’ Driscoll said sullenly.
‘I fucking won’t,’ he answered, turning to the bar and calling to anyone who was listening, ‘Same again.’ He turned back to face his small entourage, who were both looking for the door.
‘I need to get back…’ began Driscoll.
‘That bastard’s always got the upper hand,’
grumbled Colin.
‘Who, Jack?’ Campbell asked innocently.
Colin looked at him, trying to figure out if the officer was quite the full shilling. ‘You’re right,’ he concluded to Driscoll. ‘You need to get back to work.’ Then he looked markedly at Campbell. ‘Both of you.’
‘Understood,’ said Campbell, and he left, following in Driscoll’s wake. Colin remained at the bar, alone. He wondered at the investigation that was now unfolding: Alistair Smith and Caroline Baker. Local kids. Both on a trip from Glasgow and went missing on their way to Hobbs Brae.
‘Hobbs what?’ the Glasgow office had asked.
‘Brae,’ replied Colin, almost shouting down the phone. ‘Hobbs Brae.’
‘Weird name for a village,’ came the reply.
‘Aye. That’s what everyone says, but are we going to discuss the finer points of the origins of village nomenclatures or get on with the case in hand? We need CCTV footage of the missing couple on their journey from Glasgow to here. Might give us a clue as to their whereabouts.’
Colin smiled to himself. I’m not the type to use big words but that was impressive. ‘Nomenclature,’ he repeated, then realised that he had sunk one too many pints. ‘I’m away for a piss,’ he said to no one in particular, saluting unsteadily with his empty glass. Afterwards, he hit the fresh air outside and whispered, ‘Fuck. I need to sober up.’
*
Returning to his office brought all the bitterness of his situation back to him. He couldn’t stand the way the Chief placed Jack Russell on a pedestal, revering him like some kind of latter-day saint – holier than thou. It was as if Jack had somehow managed to hypnotise all who gazed on him. As a result, Colin’s ego was put in an impossible position. He was jaded, jealous. He hated Jack more than words could say. He couldn’t help himself. Jack was taller and better-looking than he was. Jack was more successful. Jack was jammy. He could not wait to see the back of Jack. As he endured sifting through the files, trying to sober up quickly with a bottle of water and mug of black coffee, he jotted down reams of notes with his own special kind of shorthand – a habitual use of abbreviations that had got him through his endurance test as quickly as possible. Only he could read them and so it served as a nice fuck you to Jack. DCI Russell had a lot to answer for. The longer his investigations dragged on, the more paperwork Colin had to do.