by Jane Killick
Andy was heading for her flat. She lived, Andy’s thoughts revealed, alone with her cat, which meant if something had happened to her, there was no one to raise the alarm.
Michael perceived Sian’s address from Andy’s mind and he could have stopped following him to make his own way there. But the best way to get to Sian’s flat was by the tube train that they were already on and so he sat with Pauline with his back to Andy in case he recognised him from their fractious meeting outside of the army base.
It was not an inconsiderable walk from the tube station to Sian’s flat. Michael and Pauline hung back a little and crossed the road so as not to be so obvious about it, but Andy must have sensed he was being followed. Michael perceived that either he didn’t care or he deliberately decided not to notice because the only thought in his head was getting to Sian’s flat.
What are we going to do when we get there? thought Pauline.
Either she’ll be there and we can ask her what she meant about the story being bigger than the Perceiver Corps, or she won’t be there and we can come back to ask her later, Michael replied.
What if something really has happened to her? She might have fallen down the stairs and hit her head or something.
Michael didn’t have an answer for that and he let his indecision speak for him.
The parked cars along the road that Sian lived in gave Michael and Pauline a little bit of cover as they tried to both keep up with Andy and not get too close so that he would turn round and challenge them.
The cameraman’s pace slowed down as he approached what his mind said was where Sian lived. Like all the other houses in the street, it was a Victorian terrace with a postage stamp of an overgrown garden between its front wall and the street. And, like half of the other properties in the road, it looked like it had been converted into maisonettes.
Michael tucked himself in behind one of the parked cars as Andy walked up the short garden path to Sian’s home. Pauline crouched behind him.
Andy put his hand out to the front door, but rather than knocking, he gently pushed and the door swung open.
He went in and Michael caught a moment of his concerned thoughts before he disappeared into the building.
Michael and Pauline crossed the road.
“Sian?” Andy called from inside.
Michael and Pauline waited on the street, next to the patch of overgrown garden.
“Sian!” Not a call for her to respond, but a scream of panic. “Sian! Sian! Jesus! Sian!”
Andy appeared in the doorway and Michael perceived a rush of horror as the tall man leant on the frame of the open front door, his eyes damp with the sheen of tears and his face pale. His trembling hand pulled the mobile phone from his pocket.
There was a singular image in his head: a blood-splattered bedroom and, at the centre of it, the wide staring eyes of Sian Jones’s corpse.
Nineteen
Sian Jones’s death was on the news by the time Michael and Pauline got back to his flat. The journalists on the television did their best to report it like any other murder, but it was clear in their faces – even without being able to perceive them through the screen – that this was not like any other murder to them.
Their colleague had died in the most brutal way and they were still trying to process it.
Michael and Pauline were still trying to process it.
On the television, a reporter stood on Sian Jones’s street in front of a strip of police tape and told the camera what she knew, which wasn’t very much. The reporter said it was a suspected shooting. The reporter said early indications were she had been dead for some hours and might have disturbed a burglar when she got home from a late shift.
The reporter didn’t say what everyone had to be thinking: that Sian Jones was probably killed because of the story she was working on.
Michael got fed up of watching the TV, got off the sofa and went into the kitchenette. “Do you want some coffee?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Pauline.
“Me neither.” He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap.
Pauline turned off the news, which had started to repeat the same information they’d heard ten minutes ago anyway, and came over. She put her arms around Michael’s waist and rested her head on his back. The warmth of her touch was nice, but the perception of her thoughts was troubled.
Michael drank from the glass. The water was cool and it soothed him a little. “We’ve got to find out what story she was working on,” he said.
“We could ask her colleagues,” said Pauline.
“I got the feeling this was her scoop. If she did tell anyone about it, they’re not going to tell us. I was thinking more of getting hold of her research.”
“I don’t see how. If she kept it at work, it’s in a newsroom manned twenty-four hours a day in that building with security guards and security doors. If she kept it at home, then it’s at the site of a major crime scene crawling with police officers.”
“I know,” said Michael. “Know any good computer hackers?”
“I don’t even know any bad ones,” said Pauline.
A knock on the door made Michael turn. “Who’s that?” he said.
“Could be Katya?” suggested Pauline.
Michael put his glass down by the sink and headed out of the kitchenette. Pauline’s arms slipped from his waist and her residual warmth dissipated into the room.
As he approached the door, he perceived through it. “It’s not Katya.”
He opened the door to reveal Inspector Patterson wearing a coat over his usual crumpled suit. His stern expression didn’t change. “Can I come in?”
Michael stepped aside and allowed the policeman to enter. He paused just inside the door and looked around. “Nice place.”
“The government’s paying for it,” said Michael. “I don’t suppose I’ll be here much longer.”
Patterson’s gaze settled on Pauline. “You two back together again?”
Michael tried to perceive the answer from her, but she blocked him. The only answer he got was the one she was prepared to give to Patterson. “I needed somewhere to stay,” she said. “My home burnt down. You probably saw it on the news.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Do you want some coffee, Inspector?” said Michael.
“This isn’t a social call, Michael.”
“I know. You’ve come about Sian Jones.”
Patterson’s stern expression became suspicious. “Are you perceiving me?”
He was, but not on a deep level. Not that he needed to. It was obvious. “You’re the perceiver cop. The journalist who was working on the perceiver story has been murdered and suddenly you’re here. Am I putting two and two together correctly?”
Patterson didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. Michael perceived he was right.
“Maybe I’ll have that cup of coffee,” said Patterson.
Michael returned to the kitchenette and made three mugs of coffee for three people who didn’t really want it. With two mugs balancing precariously in one hand and one held easily in the other, he brought the drinks over.
Patterson had taken off his coat and was sat on the sofa next to Pauline. It was a sofa which was big enough for three people, but only if Michael squeezed himself in between them. Given the circumstances, it seemed inappropriate and so Michael sat on the floor.
Patterson took out his phone and the stylus he used to write notes on it. Michael saw that he was also starting the recording app, like he used to do when he interviewed suspects and witnesses back in the time when Michael worked with him.
Michael tried to work out which one Patterson thought he was – suspect or witness, but it seemed even Patterson wasn’t sure.
“Do you want to tell me what you were doing at Sian Jones’s house?” said Patterson.
“Nothing,” said Michael.
“You were seen,” said Patterson. “The witness gave a description good enough for me to recogn
ise it as you.”
“What Michael means,” said Pauline, “is that we didn’t do anything. When we got there, she was already dead.”
“The witness said you had a loud argument with her a couple of days before.”
“You really think I could have killed her?” said Michael.
“I think you had motive,” said Patterson. “She’s the one who broke the perceiver story, she revealed where your training base was and indirectly got your girlfriend’s home burnt down …”
Pauline flinched at being called Michael’s ‘girlfriend’. Patterson didn’t seem to notice.
“… You have military training, you can fire a gun. I’m told the army keeps tight control of its weapons and you can’t just walk out with one, but amid all the fire and the confusion the other night, it might have been possible.”
“No!” said Michael. He scrambled to get himself off the floor. He felt vulnerable with Patterson looking down on him from the sofa. Standing, he felt he could regain authority in his own flat. “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t want to kill her. I went to her house to talk to her, but she was dead by the time we got there.”
“Do you think a perceiver did it?” asked Pauline.
“Officially, we are keeping an open mind and pursuing several lines of inquiry,” said Patterson.
“Unofficially?” said Michael.
“A perceiver with a grudge makes sense.”
“Does it?” said Michael.
“On the surface,” said Patterson. “But I’ve been at crime scenes where someone has been killed because of a vendetta and they’re messy. People get angry, there’s usually some sort of fight, the victim has defensive wounds and there’s stuff all over the house where people have thrown things. This crime scene was clean. The gunshot wound made a mess, there was a lot of blood as you’d expect, but there was no evidence of a confrontation. It looks like someone was waiting for her to come home and shot through a pillow so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. There was some effort to make it look like a burglary gone wrong, but it was a half-hearted one.”
“Are you saying it was a professional hit?” said Pauline.
“I’m saying a perceiver with a grudge makes more sense,” said Patterson.
Michael walked over to the window and came back again. Pacing did nothing to subdue his nervous energy. “She told me before she died that she was working on something else. She suggested that all the perceiver stuff she had reported on so far was just the tip of the iceberg and something bigger was coming.”
“What?” said Patterson.
“I don’t know,” said Michael. “We wanted to ask her, but it seems someone else got there first.”
Patterson’s stylus hovered over the screen of his phone. He hadn’t written a word of it down. “Someone with the power and resources to hire a hitman?”
“It makes more sense than a perceiver with a grudge,” said Michael. “Don’t you think?”
“I think you might be putting two and two together and making five,” said Patterson.
“Then help us get to the truth,” said Pauline. “If she was working on a big story that got her killed, the details could be on her computer. If you could get us access—”
“I can’t.”
“Or a copy of the files,” said Michael.
“You two seem to forget that you don’t work for the police anymore,” said Patterson. “Even if I could give you access, I wouldn’t. Until we establish what happened, you two remain suspects. I can’t let suspects in a murder inquiry tamper with computer evidence, they’d bring back hanging just for me.”
“You really think we’re suspects?” said Pauline.
“We’re keeping an open mind and are pursuing several lines of inquiry,” said Patterson.
“For the record,” said Michael, “we didn’t do it. We need to find out who did before the perceiver crisis explodes into something worse. Sian Jones knew something and she was killed for it. No disrespect to you or your police colleagues, but I’m not prepared to sit back while you gather evidence strong enough to stand up in court. We need to act now.”
“I can’t help you,” said Patterson. “I came here on my own as a favour to you because of our time working together and because I respect you. If you want to speak to the journalist’s colleagues and see what they know, then that’s entirely up to you as long as you don’t impede my criminal investigation.”
Patterson drank back his coffee. He stood up and handed the empty mug to Michael. “Is that your bathroom through there?” he asked, pointing to the only internal door in the room. “I just need to pay a visit.”
He turned off the recording app on his phone and laid it down on the sofa along with the stylus. As he headed for the door, he thought to himself: I’ll just leave my phone there. I’m sure it’ll be safe for five minutes.
Once he had gone, Michael turned to Pauline. Did he leave that there on purpose? he thought.
Pauline picked up the phone and start scrolling through. It’s got the statement made by the man who found the body.
What does it say?
She looked up from the screen and smiled. It starts off with his name and address.
Andy Mostello, which turned out to be Andy the cameraman’s other name, opened the door to his flat with a cat tucked underneath his arm that didn’t want to be there. It was a relatively mature cat which was completely black, apart from a white patch down its front, and it was wriggling like crazy against Andy’s strong grip.
The man himself was in a bit of a daze. By the scratchy beard on his chin and the unhealthy colour of his face, it looked like he had not slept at all. By the smell coming from the inside of his flat, alcohol was probably involved.
Andy’s home was a step down the property ladder from Sian’s converted house. It was one of up to fifty flats in a purpose-built concrete block with cold and uninviting stairwells that led to up to five separate floors where blank corridors allowed access to a row of identical front doors. The only thing that distinguished Andy’s flat from that of his neighbours was his door was painted yellow, while both the ones on either side were painted blue.
Michael perceived that Andy was expecting to see someone like the postman or a delivery guy standing on his doorstep, so when he saw it was Michael and Pauline, his brain took a moment to realise who they were. As soon as it did, he broke into a sudden panic and hurled the cat at Michael.
The cat screeched a meow and Michael jumped backwards as the furry projectile landed on his neck. Alarmed and probably trying only to save itself, the cat extended its claws and reached out to find something to hold onto. The first thing it found was Michael’s face and it tore at the skin on his cheek.
Michael yelled, grabbed at the furry ball and pulled it off him. The cat’s pawing claws dug into his coat, but Michael yanked it free and dropped it to the floor. It dashed away across the corridor and down the steps.
As Michael wiped the blood from his cheek he saw that the door was still open because Pauline was standing in the doorway. Just beyond her, was Andy. For a tall man who was physically a match for both of them – even at the same time – he was gripped with irrational fear.
“We only want to talk,” said Pauline.
Michael stepped forward and looked over Pauline’s shoulder to see Andy with a mobile phone in his hand.
“You killed Sian!” he said.
“We didn’t,” said Michael. “We came to talk to her. The person who killed her was there long before we were.”
In the pause that accompanied Andy thinking about what Michael had said, a voice spoke through the speaker of his phone. “Emergency. Which service do you require?”
“Please, let us talk to you,” said Pauline. “We want to find out who killed Sian as much as you do.”
Staring at them, his mind conflicted, Andy lifted the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry,” he said into it. “Wrong number.” He hung up.
“Thank you,” said Michael. “Perhaps we can com
e in and talk properly.”
A sudden panic came over Andy. But it wasn’t a panic brought on by fear, it was brought on by worry. He stared at the open doorway. “Where’s Trixie?!”
“Who’s Trixie?” said Pauline.
“Sian’s cat,” said Andy. “I took her in when the police sealed off the house. Sian would have wanted someone to look after her.”
Michael felt a dread in his stomach. “Would that be a black cat with a white patch down its front?”
“Yes,” said Andy.
“It ran out and down the steps.”
Andy pushed his way past them and out in the corridor, shouting the name of the cat as he went. “The bloody thing’s been trying to get itself run over ever since I brought her here. I’ve been trying to hold on to her every time I open the door, but she’s a slippery cat.”
He seemed to have forgotten he was the one who had literally thrown the cat out of his flat.
Michael and Pauline ended up spending the next twenty minutes walking up and down the road shouting the cat’s name until it was obvious that either the cat didn’t know what its name was or it didn’t want to be found.
Pauline was the one who suggested going back to the flat to get some cat food to tempt it out of hiding, and that’s when they found Trixie: sitting outside of Andy’s door all innocent as if nothing had happened.
Michael felt the most enormous relief from Andy as he bent down and picked the animal up. He squeezed and cuddled the cat, even though Trixie clearly didn’t like being held, and wiggled to get free. The stupid cat was the only thing he had left of his murdered colleague and he treasured it.