Snarl

by Celina Grace

  “Kate, can you come with me and—”

  Olbeck had appeared at her shoulder. She turned to him and grasped his arm.

  “Go and see if Stuart’s all right, will you? He’s in the men’s loos.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind,” said Kate impatiently and hurried through the door after Stuart. Outside the grey painted door to the men’s toilets, she hesitated for a second and then knocked and pushed it open.

  Stuart was sitting on the floor of one of the cubicles, clearly oblivious to the filthy floor, his head in his hands. The room stank of vomit. Trying not to breathe, Kate squatted down by him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You all right?”

  He raised his head and she saw with alarm that he was almost crying. “I’m fucked, Kate. I’m so fucked. Oh God, help me, I didn’t know – I didn’t know…”

  She didn’t waste time asking what was wrong. She had to get out of this fetid room but she couldn’t leave Stuart. The door to the room opened and Olbeck walked in.

  “What’s the problem?” He caught sight of the state that was Stuart. “Oh, God. What’s wrong?”

  “Help me get him up.”

  They hoisted Stuart to his feet between them. He was crying openly now, and Olbeck looked across his bent head at Kate in alarm.

  They manhandled him out of the loos and across into an empty office. Olbeck shut the door.

  Stuart had his head in his hands again.

  “What’s going on?” asked Kate, gently.

  There was no answer. She could hear Stuart’s high, terrified breathing.

  “Stuart!”

  He dropped his hands from his face, rubbing the tears away. She could see him make an effort to collect himself. “I’m so fucked,” he said, again.

  “All right,” said Olbeck. “Why?”

  Stuart took a deep, shaky breath. “In the photos – the photos—”

  “Of the Hargreaves crime scene?” asked Kate. She sat down next to him and took one of his large hands. He clutched it gratefully.

  “Yeah, that scene. There’s a sculpture in one of them, a big silver thing, a bit like a robot…”

  “Yes?”

  There was a moment’s silence in the room, broken only by Stuart’s ragged gasp. “I know who made it.”

  There was another silence. Kate and Olbeck exchanged a glance.

  “Yes?” asked Kate, careful not to sound impatient. “And?”

  Stuart put one shaky hand up to his eyes. “I know it – I know what happened. I can see the links now. I can see it all.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I need to talk to Anderton. Oh Christ, he’s going to kill me.”

  “Stuart,” said Kate, fighting the impulse to take him by the shoulders and start shaking. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Stuart took a deep breath and got up, releasing Kate’s hand. He looked at her and then looked at Olbeck and smiled a smile that was nothing more than a grimace. “I’ve been fucking a murder suspect,” he said and then walked out of the room, leaving Kate and Olbeck with their mouths ajar.

  Chapter Twenty

  They didn’t talk much in the car on the way there. Rav was driving and Stuart sat next to him. Kate, who was by herself in the back, looked at Stuart’s face, which was set tight, as if it had frozen stiff. She wished Anderton were there, or Olbeck, but they were both busy elsewhere and Stuart had specifically asked if she would accompany him.

  “This is going to blow your cover,” she’d said as they walked to the car. He’d laughed raggedly.

  “You think that matters now? My career in Undercover is over, Kate. I’m probably off the force for good.”

  Kate thought of that grim note to his voice as he’d said that. She leaned forward and squeezed his arm. “Stuart, do you think – do you think this is a good idea? Should I make the arrest, instead?”

  “No,” said Stuart, that same note in his voice. “I want to see her face.”

  “Is it this turn?” asked Rav.

  They swung off the main road into a cul-de-sac. The houses were pre-war; nineteen thirties construction, not particularly attractive but well-built and large, set back from the road with long driveways and front gardens. The house they sought was right on the edge of the estate, its boundary abutting a scrubby bit of woodland. Stuart, exiting the car, thought of the first time he’d been there and how he’d first seen her, spot lit under that harsh kitchen strip light.

  The three of them stood for a moment, looking up at the silent house. There was a large, battered estate car parked on the crumbling concrete driveway that Stuart couldn’t recall being there before. All the dirty curtains were drawn, although that wasn’t so unusual, Stuart recalled. He wondered how many people were in the house.

  “Well,” said Rav. “What are we waiting for?”

  “You’re right,” replied Stuart. “I’m going in.”

  There was a sharp crack and Kate felt the sudden sting of something in her upper arm and a buzzing noise. She looked down, expecting to see some kind of insect. Instead, there was a blooming patch of red on her bicep, the sleeve of her shirt torn open as if ripped by a tiny hand. She was still staring at this, the implications not reaching her brain quickly enough, when there was another crack and Rav gave a kind of grunt before folding up next to her, literally crumpling to the ground as if his legs had been dynamited from under him.

  Within the next ten seconds, and how she didn’t know, she and Stuart were behind the parked car on the driveway, with Rav on the floor beneath them. She was still so dazed it took her a second to realise that she’d been shot, the bullet grazing her arm. Rav had been shot in the stomach. Had Stuart picked him up bodily whilst hurrying her under cover? She supposed he must have, but it was as if the last few moments of her memory had been burned away.

  “What the fuck—”

  “Shut up! Keep down!” said Stuart in a hissing shout. Kate heard Rav groan and dropped to her knees beside him. His face was an awful sepia tone, grey bleaching out the brown. He looked incredibly young. She put a hand on his chest and he clutched at her fingers. She had a sudden, piecing flash of memory; her brother Jay, when he was teething as a toddler. Kate, at eleven years old, would take him into her bed when he cried and he’d lie beside her, cuddled close, clutching her fingers. She did the same to Rav as she’d done then to Jay, lying close beside him and shielding him as best she could while she put her forehead against his clammy cheek and murmured to him just as she’d murmured to little Jay; it’s okay my darling, it’s okay my sweetheart, you’ll be okay… She was conscious that any second could bring a final bullet to them both and the terror was so overwhelming that her comforting murmurs were as much for herself as for poor Rav. She was dimly aware that Stuart was pressed against her back, his arms around her, shielding her as she shielded Rav.

  “It hurts, it hurts...” Rav moaned and Kate helplessly kissed his face and stroked his head, not knowing what else she could do. She daren’t put any pressure on the wound, not knowing how badly his insides were injured. She had a vague recollection of Stuart shouting for an ARU, for an ambulance but that seemed a long time ago now. Was Rav dying, under her hands? Another shot pinged and ricocheted off the car and both Kate and Stuart flinched, huddling even closer to the ground.

  “What’s happening?” she asked Stuart, almost sobbing, as if he would know.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  His voice shook so much she almost couldn’t make out the words. His arms tightened around her and she pressed back against him, feeling a tiny measure of comfort from his physical bulk.

  Rav started to fit beneath her. She gasped and tried to hold him, feeling his muscles jerk and twitch beneath her hands. She tried to put her hands under his head to stop it banging on the concrete.

  “Rav, oh hold on, hold on, sweetheart – hold on, darling – I’ve got you—”

  She was crying properly now, her tears falling on Rav’s grey face. Do
n’t die, oh please don’t die… Distantly, just as she had at Hargreaves’s house, she heard the sound of sirens. Her heart leapt in hope within her.

  “They’re coming, Rav, they’re nearly here, you’ll be all right sweetheart, hold on…”

  Then they heard it, even over the sound of the approaching emergency vehicles. There was another shot but from within the house, a gunshot that somehow sounded more final than any of the ones before. Stuart and Kate remained frozen for a second. Had they heard what they thought they’d heard? Rav calmed and his body stilled beneath Kate’s hands. Terrified, she bent to put her head on his chest and exhaled sharply in relief, not even knowing she had been holding her breath, as she heard his heartbeat beneath her ear, faint and erratic but there all the same.

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t move. Don’t do anything until the ARU get here.”

  All the cars and teams seemed to arrive at once .There was a confusion of screeching tyres, shouts, blue lights pulsing, running feet, more shouts. Kate stayed crouched down, her arms around Rav, until she was pushed aside by a paramedic, a burly middle-aged man with a beard. She fought the urge to kiss him. Almost before she could say anything, another female paramedic crouched beside her, talking calmly but forcefully.

  “Officer, are you hurt? Are you shot? Can you tell me?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Kate looked around, dazed. Rav was being loaded onto a stretcher, the bearded medic bent over him. Where was Stuart? Was it safe to sit up?

  “That arm looks nasty, I’ll have to treat that.”

  Ignoring her, Kate flung herself floorwards again and looked across the driveway from beneath the car. She could see a semi-circle of police cars, several armed officers with their guns trained on the house. Almost as she looked, she heard the front door go down with a splintering crash amidst shouts of “Armed police! Armed police!”

  “Officer, you need to come with me for a moment. We’ll be safe over here…”

  The female para was gently pulling her away to the shelter of an ambulance, parked behind the fence that marked the boundary. Kate craned her neck, trying to see where Stuart was. Had he gone inside?

  “Officer, please. You need to come with me.”

  Another ambulance’s siren started up, loud enough to make Kate jump. She watched it drive away, bearing Rav with it. She muttered a quick, open-eyed prayer as she watched its tail-lights recede into the distance. Please God, let him be okay…

  “Officer—”

  Kate relented. She followed the paramedic into the remaining ambulance and allowed them to shut the door.

  Stuart stepped through the broken front door frame of the house. Fragments of wood lay scattered across the hallway’s dirty floor tiles. ARU officers thronged the rooms downstairs. In so far as he was able to wonder about anything, Stuart wondered whether anyone else had been in the house – that curly-haired Charlie, or the one with the funny name, Rizzo or something. He hoped not.

  He climbed the stairs, watching the treads move in and out of his vision. His chest ached and his jaw; he’d been clenching it for so long. Up to the first floor, where rooms had been checked and cleared. He paused at the beginning of the final staircase. How strange that he was climbing upwards when his life was in an uncontrollable spiral downwards. There was no escape now, nothing to stop his descent. He walked slowly up the narrow wooden stairs, hand desperately clutching the banister. The door at the top of the stairs was open, leaning drunkenly on its hinges. They’d broken that one down, too. There were two uniformed officers by the doorway, staring into the room. As Stuart approached them, one turned to him and said something, but he was too far gone now to understand. He moved into the room of glittering mirrors and again, he was reminded of the first time he’d been there. Again, he watched himself in miniature, a million tiny reflections of himself, a million tiny images of his haggard, aghast face.

  The body of Guy Ward lay face down on the floor, one side of his head a ragged mess of blood and bone. A shotgun lay by one outstretched hand and there was another gun lying on the floor between the body and the bed. Angie was stretched out on the bed with two officers restraining her, pinning her to its surface. For a frozen moment, Stuart thought she was dead too and then realised her face was turned towards him, her eyes fixed on him, unblinking. She wasn’t struggling. He looked once at her beautiful statue’s face and then his gaze rose to the large computer screen on the desk by the wall. He swallowed.

  There was the Dorsey drawing room, the beautiful antiques, the velvet curtains. For a moment, Stuart thought he was looking at a photograph of the room and then there was a flicker in the corner of the screen and he watched Wade advance on Jack Dorsey, who was turning, open-mouthed. Where was Angie? Behind the camera; he answered his own question a second later. Stuart watched up until the moment the knife first went in and then he looked away, feeling sick. He remembered Angie showing him that other multi-media collage on her phone – the same time he’d seen her silver sculpture. Was this to have been her next project? A living snuff film, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. He had to get out of this room. He remembered her telling him about her latest artwork. It’s consumed me…

  Anger and nausea rose up in him and, to stop himself from attacking her even as she lay prone and flattened on the bed, he rushed for the door. The walls flickered, a million little Stuarts running with him.

  Chapter Twenty One

  When Kate had finally got back to the incident room, Olbeck had said nothing but simply thrown his arms around her and held her tight for a long time. Then he’d stepped back and touched the bandage on her upper arm. He’d traced a line across from the bandage to the centre of her chest. “God, if that had been four inches further across…”

  “Oy, hands off the boobs,” Kate had said.

  “Well, it’s the only pair I’m ever likely to get my hands on,” Olbeck had replied. Then his mouth had twisted and he’d pulled her back into a hug.

  It was seven thirty in the morning, the day after the shooting, and they were all waiting, pacing the floors, biting their nails, drinking cup after cup of the rank instant coffee that was all the station could offer. Most of the team hadn’t slept at all. They were all fixated on the door and when it finally crashed back, admitting Anderton, there was an audible intake of breath heard.

  He didn’t waste time keeping them in suspense. “He’s alive, he’s okay,” said Anderton.

  That in-held breath rushed out. Jane burst into noisy tears, sobbing, “Sorry – sorry, everyone,” and then cried again. Theo put his arm around her and she leaned into him, hiding her face. Kate sat down suddenly, the nervous energy that had propelled her through the rest of the night suddenly dissipating. Olbeck sat down next to her and put his head in his hands for a moment, rubbing his eyes. Kate heard him murmur something like oh, thank God.

  Anderton’s eyes were pouched with shadow and his skin had that grey tinge of exhaustion. He held up a hand. “I should qualify that a bit. Rav’s not okay, he’s very badly hurt. But he’ll live. I know you’re all dying to see him, but he’s in Intensive Care. He’s not allowed visitors at the moment and obviously his parents and his sisters will be first in the queue when he is, all right?”

  They all nodded. Jane wiped her face and sat back up again.

  Kate opened her mouth to ask about Stuart, and then shut it again. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Now,” said Anderton. “Now, those who want to can go home and get some sleep. I’ve got our prime suspect to interview. Anyone want to sit in on that with me?”

  “I will,” Kate said, immediately.

  “Me too,” said Olbeck.

  Theo opened his mouth for a second and then shut it again.

  “Right,” said Anderton. “Let’s go then.”

  *

  The woman’s face reminded Kate of a statue, one of those ancient marble Greek sculptures. The same strong lines of the face, the sam
e absence of expression. The woman’s eyes had that same blankness, too. She was beautiful but it was the beauty of a distant supernova or the sinuous curves of a poisonous snake; something lethal, best appreciated at a distance.

  Too fanciful, Kate. She turned her attention back to Anderton and what he was saying.

  “So, Angie,” said Anderton, pleasantly. “We’ve been having a look at your records. What made you choose the name Angela Sangello?”

  Angie looked at him with no expression. “She’s an Italian artist of the twentieth century,” she said, in a bored tone. “Don’t worry. You won’t have heard of her.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t. But then I don’t know much about art.”

  The contempt in Angie’s face was now visible. Kate clamped down on a smile. She knew Anderton had a variety of ways of softening up a suspect and knew that his line in self-deprecation would be just the thing to get through to this arrogant, chilly girl.

  “That’s not your real name, is it though?” asked Anderton. “Not according to our records. You were born Clara King, firstborn daughter of Damien King, or should I say Lord King, hereditary peer. Ring any bells?”

  “I’m estranged from my family,” said Angie, coldly.

  “How very sad. I wonder why that could be?”

  Angie remained silent.

  “Now, let me see, your mother died when you were seven. I’m sorry. And your father married again when you were ten. Am I right, so far?”

  The solicitor next to Angie, a grey-haired, middle-aged man, shifted slightly in his seat. No doubt he, as well as Angie, was wondering where this was going.

  “Now, your new stepmother and father had another child, didn’t they? Another girl. Can you tell me anything about your sister, Angie? Or should I call you Clara?”

  Angie’s face tightened a little, but she still said nothing. Anderton continued.

  “Now, it seems that your younger sister was tragically killed in an accident when she was two. She fell from the top of a quarry near your house at the time, near Guildford. What an awful thing. That must have been extremely traumatic for the family. Was it very traumatic, Angie?”