Waking Broken

by Huw Thomas

  Glasgow let the other man cross, watching to see whether the temporary bridge sagged. ‘Any thoughts on the caller then?’

  Stanley shrugged. ‘Nothing too concrete,’ he said, turning to watch over his shoulder as Glasgow followed him into the left-hand fork. ‘Youngish, thirties I’d guess. Fairly standard speech, educated but not overly. Probably not local though, accent wasn’t quite right for that. Wasn’t giving much away. Seemed a bit agitated but no more than normal.’

  ‘Any name?’

  ‘Wouldn’t give one to begin with. When pressed, said to call him ’Dusty’.’

  ‘Dusty?’

  Stanley stopped again. ‘Yeah, like Springfield. Anyway, we’re here. End of the line.’

  The older officer turned a corner and stepped into a short section of sewer that ran about twenty feet before stopping at a solid concrete wall. Glasgow looked around. An arc light had been positioned at the side of the tunnel, shining towards the wall. There was no sign of a body or evidence there had been one.

  Stanley laughed. ‘Looks innocent doesn’t it. From here, you’d think it was a wind-up: someone yanking our chain.’

  Glasgow registered his colleague’s choice of words but did not pursue them straight away. He frowned. ‘I thought you said the informant reckoned the body was behind the wall.’

  ‘He did but it’s certainly not behind that wall,’ said Stanley. ‘We’ve had the guys from the water company and the council down to check. There’s a section of old Victorian sewer beyond here that used to lead through where the Kent Street car park was built. When they excavated the basement of the multi-storey, the water company put in new drains and blocked off the old sewer. These guys swear that’s the wall that was put in twenty years ago.’

  ‘You sure there’s not another way in? What if the body is on the other side?’

  Stanley grinned. ‘Oh, don’t worry. We did make sure. One of the bods from the council drilled a hole and put a fibre optic through.’

  ‘Nothing there?’

  ‘Just a dark, empty hole. Not even any rats.’

  Glasgow stared harder. He began to walk towards the wall. He stopped when he was about ten feet away. An unaccustomed chill ran down his spine. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Stanley.

  Two metal manacles had been bolted into the wall at shoulder height about four feet apart. Another pair had been fixed into the wall just above ground level.

  Glasgow bit at his lip. He stepped slowly up to the wall then turned. He stood with his back to the wall and lifted his arms.

  ‘Fuck,’ he repeated. ‘It’s a fucking crucifixion.’

  25. Memory Games

  Thursday, 9.20am:

  Rebecca stepped forward as the taxi door opened then stopped again, hesitant. Last night the wine had released her tongue. Laying out the facts for Paul Cash had brought to the surface the more intangible aspects of the affair, breaking down a dam that held back a confusion of emotion. The process was gradual, the rising levels of alcohol washing away the inhibitions on her words. At first the feelings that clogged up her mind emerged in a trickle but, as the night went on, they came rushing out in full spate.

  She had not yet had time this morning to remember everything that she told Cash, let alone appreciate the cathartic effect of her confession. But Harper’s unexpected arrival was triggering an even more important revelation: she was suddenly aware of the huge hole left in her thoughts by his absence.

  A smile lit up Rebecca’s face as Harper clambered out of the taxi’s back seat. But it dissolved to dismay as she caught sight of his features. ‘Danny! What’s happened to you?’

  Harper grimaced. ‘It’s a long story.’

  He looked at Rebecca with a mixture of relief and longing as he closed the car door behind him and moved towards her. Without apparently thinking about it, he stepped close and put his arms around her in a tight hug. ‘Ah, Becca, you don’t know how good it is to see you.’

  Rebecca felt herself go stiff as Harper’s hands rested on her shoulder and ribs, drawing them together. Although seconds ago his arrival had filled her with a warm glow, to now have him holding her body against his was too much of a jump. But it was weird the way he did it. He held her so naturally: as if it was something he did every day.

  Harper became aware of her resistance and started to pull away. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…’

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers and once again she found herself staring into his eyes but closer than before. She was conscious of the cut above one eyebrow and the bruising that had spread across the side of his face. More than that though: she saw the weary sadness in his expression, a longing that touched her deep inside.

  Harper shook his head as he slowly, reluctantly released her and withdrew a step. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have done that. I forget… It was just… good to see you.’

  Rebecca lifted her hands to his shoulders and squeezed them. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I mind.’

  A tentative smile curled the corners of Harper’s mouth. ‘Well, if you really don’t think you do then that’s the best thing I’ve heard for days.’

  Rebecca smiled back as, beside them, the taxi pulled away. The movement jolted her back to where they were and made her conscious they were not alone. She released Harper and turned, indicating her host with a slightly embarrassed gesture. ‘Danny, this is Paul Cash.’

  The artist stepped forward, a sardonic glint in his eye. ‘Mr Harper, I’m delighted that you could make it.’

  Harper let himself be guided into Howarth Manor. Rebecca walked at his elbow. She seemed pleased to see him but subdued. Cash, however, appeared bright and breezy. A niggling little demon made Harper wonder if something had happened between the two of them last night but he tried to bury the idea.

  The lord of the manor led them through a couple of rooms and into a large kitchen with a low, beamed ceiling and flagstone floor. The artist gestured to a big wooden table in the centre of the room. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Cash wandered over to a line of ramshackle cupboards built of oak so old that they looked black. From inside one of the compartments he produced a bottle of whisky and three crystal tumblers.

  After placing the bottle and glasses on the table, Cash pulled out a chair opposite his two guests and sat down. Harper followed suit slowly. Being back in the same room as Rebecca felt like a relief but he was wary about the reason behind his invite to the manor and the other man’s intentions for both of them.

  Harper watched as Cash silently pulled the stopper from the single malt, poured out a healthy slug and pushed it across the table. He hesitated. ‘It’s a little early for that.’

  Cash shrugged. ‘Says who? Besides, you look like you need one.’

  Harper nodded reluctantly. ‘Yeah, I probably do.’

  He picked up the glass and twirled it in his hand, watching the viscous spiral of the whisky as it followed the crystal round. The sharp aromas of peat, old oak and Scottish lochs eddied up towards his nostrils. He inhaled slowly, watching Cash, who made no attempt to fill the other glasses.

  The room was silent for a while.

  Rebecca, who had been standing, pulled out the chair next to Harper and sat down. She rested one hand on his arm and gave a friendly squeeze. Harper blinked, sensing a prickle of tears in his eyes: a combination of exhaustion and over-emotion.

  Cash was leaning back in his chair, watching them both through narrowed eyes, a faint smile on his lips that betrayed many possibilities. After a long and unproductive hiatus, the artist reached forward, poured himself a small whisky and took a sip. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I must say you don’t look quite so on form as last time I saw you, Mr Harper.’

  Harper frowned. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last summer,’ said Cash. He waved around the kitchen. ‘I wondered if you might recognise the room… though… on the other hand, maybe not.’

  Rebecca look
ed surprised. She glanced quickly from one to the other. ‘You didn’t say you knew Danny.’

  Cash smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him. I’ve met him.’

  ‘No,’ said Harper. He shook his head doggedly. He looked down at the table then around the room, awkward and uncertain.

  ‘Actually, I’m not surprised you don’t remember it,’ said Cash. ‘It was quite a shindig even by my standards. I recall that you and your friend Brendan made quite an impression. A dance routine I seem to remember.’

  Rebecca smiled uncertainly but Harper shook his head again. ‘When was this supposed to be?’

  Cash rubbed his chin. ‘Let me see. Last June? It was after the Picnic in the Park event. You were backstage when everyone came back here for a party. That was on the Friday. I think you were one of the last to leave. I didn’t clear everyone out until Monday.’

  ‘No,’ repeated Harper slowly. ‘I do remember the concert and I was there but it wasn’t with Brendan.’ He glanced sideways. ‘I was with Becca and her cousin Suzie. We did come backstage and, in fact, I remember seeing you but we didn’t go to any party. Suzie was a big Black Dove fan and I’d promised to get her backstage so she could meet the band. She was upset because she’d broken up with her boyfriend and we were trying to cheer her up.’

  Rebecca gave a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes widened and her grip tightened on Harper’s arm.

  Cash took in her expression. ‘You were with your cousin?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I was.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I hadn’t seen her for a few years and she suddenly turned up to see me.’

  Harper smiled. ‘About eleven o’clock at night if I remember.’

  Rebecca blinked. She stared hard at Harper, staring into his eyes as if trying to draw out the essence of this other life. ‘But we weren’t backstage,’ she said slowly. ‘Suzie is a fan of Black Dove but we were out in the park with everyone else.’ She turned to look at Harper. ‘How could you know about Suzie?’

  Cash snorted. ‘I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, my dear. Knowing who you were with that day doesn’t prove much.’

  Harper set his whisky glass down on the table, still untouched. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything.’

  ‘No?’ said Cash.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything because I can’t. All I can do is say how I remember things.’

  ‘Handy isn’t it,’ said Cash calmly.

  ‘What is?’ said Harper.

  ‘Having a… what shall we call it… story? Condition? You’ve got memories, or so you say, of events that don’t match with anyone else’s recollection of the truth. But we can’t say you don’t have these memories because no one can read your mind. So, in a sense, we can only argue about the facts, we can’t dispute your belief. Just like religion really.’

  Rebecca shook her head and held out her hand to stop Harper before he could speak. ‘But that’s only part of it. What about the things he knows?’

  Cash shrugged. ‘What things? The story of your virginity?’

  Rebecca gave a gasp. She stared at Cash, her astonishment turning to anger.

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. He looked in surprise at Rebecca then Cash, wondering what other confidences these two had shared.

  ‘That’s out of order,’ Rebecca said coldly.

  Cash looked unabashed. ‘Or are you talking about the fact he knew you were with your cousin? How difficult is that to find out. The man is obsessed with you. He sees you at a concert; of course he’s going to notice who you’re with.’

  Rebecca face flushed with anger. ‘I hadn’t seen her for years,’ she snapped. ‘No one else in this place knows her. Even if Danny had seen me with Suzie, how would he have known who she was? And, even if he did find out, how the hell would he know what time of night she turned up?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Cash. ‘One overheard conversation. That’s all it takes. Are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t bump into anyone you knew that day? That you didn’t introduce your cousin, joke about how she’d appeared out of the blue, that you were taking her to see a favourite band?’ He leant forward, pale eyes fixed on Rebecca. ‘And if he is a psycho, some kind of stalker, can you be certain he wasn’t watching your house when your cousin arrived? He might even have been listening when you spoke to her on the doorstep.’

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed and she glared at Cash but Harper smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry?’

  ‘No. He’s trying to provoke me.’ Harper sighed. He picked up his whisky and took a gentle taste, rolling the liquor around his tastebuds. ‘Your friend here is trying to test me. And I don’t mind. It’s fair enough. I’d probably do the same in his place.’

  Harper set the glass back down. ‘The thing is: there’s part of me that welcomes it. The whole thing doesn’t make sense to me either. I don’t understand what’s going on so it’s no surprise that Mr Cash here is suspicious. And part of me would be quite glad if he could find a hole in my story.’

  He spread his hands. ‘What if I am mad? If you could prove that I’m mentally ill, it would be a relief in some ways. I mean: I don’t want to lose my memories of you. On the other hand, if it’s all some weird fantasy maybe it would be better to know, get some treatment and stop all this madness in my head.’

  Rebecca looked at him aghast. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  Harper smiled sadly. ‘Not really, no. Maybe it’s just a symptom of my madness but whatever anyone else may say: I know that everything I’ve told you is true. I remember everything. I remember meeting you for the first time. I remember our life together. I remember Suzie turning up at your door, all dressed in black, with mascara running down her face because she’d cried all the way here on the train. I remember making her bacon and eggs for breakfast and then finding out she’d become a vegetarian since you’d last seen her.’

  He sighed. ‘I remember everything: most of it good.’

  26. Bad Vibes

  Thursday, 2.40pm:

  The room was quiet as the three officers studied the blow-up prints pinned to the wall. One showed the dead end of the tunnel leading off the main Smith Street sewer. The others showed close-ups of the manacles bolted into the concrete wall. The black and white pictures were stark, clinical and precise but held a presentiment of evil in waiting.

  Jim Stanley gave a slight shiver. Like most detectives, he had seen his share of unpleasantness: scenes of degradation and pain where sordid emotions erupted into brutality.

  This was different. There was no victim to be found, no sign of struggle or violence. There had been no evidence anyone had ever been placed in the manacles: no fragments of skin or hair on the metal. But that made it worse. The best hope was that it was all a macabre hoax of the worst taste. The alternative was that this was preparation for a crime yet to happen, a plan waiting for execution. And, in that case, the violence would not be spontaneous or casual, it would be ruthless murder carried out with chilling forethought.

  Robert Glasgow drew a long breath in through his nostrils. He examined the images with less emotion than the older man at his side. ‘What have you learnt then?’

  Stanley twisted round, turning his back on the board. ‘There’s more tests to be done but the restraints are new. Probably only been there a matter of days. They’ve been fixed with standard wall bolts driven into holes drilled into the concrete. The dust from the drill holes was still on the ground.’

  ‘Any leads there?’

  The city centre detective snorted derisively. ‘Not at the moment. We’re seeing if we can trace the manacles; they’re not exactly your everyday household item but the bolts and fixings are ten-a-penny. Knowing our luck, though, we’ll probably find you can get the cuffs in any sex shop in the country.’ He sighed. ‘That’s not all though. There’s one other thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Show him the map, Sharon.’

  Sharon Redman stepped forwar
d and deftly tacked a large-scale plan showing the streets to the east of the city centre next to the photographs. A number of thick lines had been drawn across the map with a marker pen.

  ‘The lines in blue are the sewers,’ she said. ‘The circles are manholes. The area in red is where we found the wall.’

  Glasgow nodded impatiently. ‘Yeah, I can work that out.’

  Stanley part turned back to the wallboard and jerked a thumb at the map. ‘Look up to the right. See the bit we’ve outlined with a dotted red line?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a building site. A new development of flats.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Glasgow traced the line of the sewer, which had forked just before they found the wall with the manacles. One fork veered away from Smith Street and ran directly underneath the highlighted area. There were several blue circles marked within the building site. He nodded slowly. ‘So what have we got? A ready supply of building materials? Plus a discrete access for getting into the sewer system?’

  Stanley sighed. ‘Yup. That pretty much sums it up.’

  Glasgow drew his shoulders back and prowled across the room to the window. They were on the fourth floor. Below was the police station car park, a bleak rectangle of concrete surrounded by high walls. Razor wire and CCTV cameras guarded the station: an island of order in a world of striving chaos.

  Immediately outside the protection of the walls lay busy streets. Cars rushed by, weaving and dodging as drivers jockeyed for position: trying to get into the lane for the traffic lights, avoid a queue or manoeuvre past another vehicle. Beyond lay shops, offices and people, everywhere people: some good, some bad, some indifferent but all individual. And somewhere amongst them was the person responsible for fixing these manacles to a sewer wall.

  Until now, the rumours of women disappearing had been just that. But last night’s informant had told police to look for the body of a prostitute. Glasgow knew instinctively that, even without a victim, this was more than just someone wasting police time with a highly dubious practical joke.