by Wes Markin
Topham said, ‘I was one of the first at the scene this morning. I held that tongue. Don’t worry about me, sir, sympathy is in short supply.’
Yorke looked through the glass door at the prisoner staring into space. A monster, yes. But a monster that had been created by another monster. How many times had he seen this in his career?
Sturridge knew that they knew. Yorke could tell this as he took a seat opposite him. Completely gone were the confidence and the sneers. He now actually looked like the person he really was.
A shattered boy.
Yorke looked at Topham, gave the date and time for the recording, emphasising the name David Sturridge, and then said, ‘You’re a clever young man, David, you knew we’d find out who you were eventually.’
Sturridge shrugged.
Good, thought Yorke. He’s responding. He knows it is time.
Yorke pushed a notepad and pen over.
‘Why did you kill DC Ryan Simmonds?’
He wrote something down and then passed it back to Yorke.
Yorke read it out for the recording, ‘David Sturridge has written: I didn’t mean for him to die.’
‘But he’s dead, isn’t he? So, it’s murder, David,’ Topham said.
‘We have your identity, the evidence that you committed the crime, we do not need your confession,’ Yorke said, ‘but if you help us to understand and explain it all to us, it could help you in the days to come.’
Sturridge stared at Yorke long and hard. The look seemed to say to Yorke: Do you really not get it? Is it not obvious?
Yorke touched the notepad and Sturridge wrote.
‘David Sturridge has written: Do you ever feel alone?’
Instinctively, Yorke answered the question in his head, but he sensibly refrained from saying it out loud. He felt pricked by his own response though.
Sturridge grabbed the notepad back again and Yorke watched him write the words: Do you ever feel the need to strike back?
Again, Yorke’s mind automatically sought an answer, and his thoughts immediately flew to his dead sister, Danielle, and Harry Butler’s phone call.
Topham must have noticed that his boss had been caught off-guard because he read the message out for the recording and then continued the interview. ‘David, we know what happened to you. We went to the squat. The place you rent from Alex Drake by prostituting yourself. We met Sylvia – and she loves you. At least she loved the David Sturridge that she knew – I do not think she knows this one sitting in front of us. She opened the tablet, and we watched the film of you and Alex. I can’t imagine how you must feel—’
Sturridge slammed his fist on the table. He reached over, grabbed the notepad and scribbled.
Topham took it back and said, ‘David Sturridge has written: see above. And has drawn an arrow up to the previous two questions which have been recorded in this interview.’
Yorke brought himself back in. ‘David, why did you make that film?’
Sturridge wrote his reply.
‘David Sturridge has written: exposure,’ Yorke said. ‘So, David, you wanted to expose Alex Drake as homosexual?’
Sturridge wrote: among other things.
‘A rapist too?’ Yorke said.
Didn’t expect him to do that.
‘What did you hope to achieve by exposing him?’
I wanted to destroy his reputation.
‘So, why didn’t you move forward with the plan? You had the ammunition.’
Found another option.
‘To actually kill him?’
Sturridge did not write an answer.
‘Look,’ Yorke said, ‘despite what you’ve done, I cannot help but feel sympathetic over what has happened to you, but with the truth out on the table, we can close this off. Things will be so much better for it.’
Sturridge wrote: the truth isn’t simple.
‘It rarely is, but we have to start somewhere. David, did you kill Alex Drake?’
Sturridge considered and wrote: No, but I am part of the experience.
Now what the hell does that mean? Yorke thought. He looked at Topham. His colleague’s eyes sent over a similar thought.
‘So, you were there?’
No.
‘But you know he’s dead?’
Yes.
‘Who did it then?’
Sturridge didn’t write a response.
Yorke felt his frustration grow. He glanced up at the busted air con, wishing for a blast of refreshing cool air. He decided it was time to take the interview up a notch. ‘Christian Severance?’
Sturridge flinched. He hadn’t expected that. Got him.
‘How do you know this man?’ Yorke said.
Sturridge stood firm and remained still.
‘Severance had motive to kill Ryan Simmonds. Have you done this for him?’
No response.
‘One last time, I will ask you about this man. After that, this well of goodwill towards you runs dry. Where is Christian Severance? How do you know him? And did he kill Alex Drake?’
Sturridge considered and then wrote: It is not my place to talk about Christian Severance.
Yorke bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes.
Sturridge wrote: I will not be pushed on this.
Topham jumped in. ‘Have you got a little deal between yourselves? You kill this man for me, and I’ll kill this one for you?’
I told you already – Simmonds was not supposed to die.
‘Why didn’t you just deal with your own problems? Wouldn’t it be more satisfying that way?’ Topham said.
You do not understand.
‘Well, help us to,’ Yorke said.
No point.
‘Then we can help you.’
No need. I am healed.
‘Healed?’ Topham said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Look at yourself David. Have you still got your tongue?’
Sturridge opened his mouth to show them that he hadn’t.
Yorke pressed on. ‘You’ve been mutilated and you are going to be found guilty of murder … at what point are you going to give yourself a bloody break?’
I’ve accepted what I have become.
‘Did Christian Severance take your tongue?’ Yorke said.
Sturridge paused to look Yorke in the eyes for a few moments and then wrote: I’ve shared and I’m no longer alone.
Yorke looked away.
Topham pointed at Sturridge. ‘You sound brainwashed!’
And I’ve displaced my pain onto others.
Yorke gently pushed down Topham’s finger which was too close to Sturridge’s face for comfort. He nodded to the guard in the corner and called the interview to a close.
Topham threw down his bag and collapsed onto his sofa. He reached over to the vacant side of it, wishing desperately that it wasn’t empty right now, and grabbed a cushion. He lodged it under his head and closed his eyes.
The sleep he entered was fitful, and the dreams were relentless. Colleagues, people he knew and loved, stared at him as blood ran from the corners of their mouths. In front of them, Alex Drake, pointed at him, and called him a faggot over and over again, breaking the repetition every now and again with the words, ‘I am not like you.’
He woke with tears in his eyes, and Neil was sitting beside him on the sofa now, dabbing his forehead with a towel.
‘It looked like you were having a nightmare, thought I’d wake you gently.’
Topham reached up and stroked Neil’s face. ‘I appreciate it. You wouldn’t believe the things that happened today.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
Topham shook his head, and then brushed the back of his hand over Neil’s new goatee. ‘Still not sure about this new look.’
‘Does that mean I don’t get a kiss?’ Neil raised his eyebrows.
Topham reached up, looped his arm around the back of Neil’s head, and pulled him in for a kiss.
They broke away and Neil said, ‘Does that help you get used to it?’
‘It�
��s a start,’ Topham said, and winked.
They took a few moments to stare at each other, before Neil said, ‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’
‘In my sleep, I think.’
Neil stroked his face. ‘What did happen today?’
Topham sighed. ‘I shouldn’t really talk about it. Besides, you really don’t want to know.’
‘It’s about that dead policeman, isn’t it?’
Topham nodded. ‘Please … let’s talk about your night first. How did it go with Martin Adams?’
‘Well, it wasn’t easy going for dinner after the wedding meal, but I forced it down anyway. Didn’t want to look ungrateful!’
Topham smiled. ‘And?’
‘And?’ Neil said, smiling back.
‘It’s in the bag, isn’t it?’
Neil beamed.
Topham sat up. ‘Really?’
‘Yes!’
‘Part of his team?’
‘He loved my my second book. The one about PTSD. He just went on and on about it.’
‘Boom!’ Topham said, giving Neil a knuckle bump. ‘That’s my boy. It’s all those interview questions I gave you yesterday. Got to be some credit in this for me?’
Neil laughed. ‘Sorry to break this to you, Mark, but it wasn’t really an interview. Martin said that the meal was just a formality. He just needed to know that I wasn’t as socially awkward as most of his team.’
‘Well, you’re definitely not socially awkward.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean, did he even get a word in edgeways?’
‘One or two.’
Topham narrowed his eyebrows, feigning suspicion. ‘He’s not gay is he?’
‘Wasn’t the first question I asked, believe it or not!’
Topham sat up and put his arms around Neil. He whispered in his ear. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ They then placed their foreheads together.
After another brief kiss, Topham said, ‘So when do you start?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Bloody hell! He is keen. You really have made an impression.’
‘I think it’s going to be a test of some kind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he only wants me to see one patient. A long-standing patient, and a notoriously tricky one. I suspect Martin wants to see how I handle it.’
‘Well, if it is a test, you’ll fly through it. God, Neil, I’m so proud of you.’
They embraced.
‘So, there is absolutely no chance that I’m hearing about your day?’ Neil said.
Topham rose to his feet. ‘Work another time. Champagne, sex, sleep; in that order.’
‘If you insist.’
‘Yes, I fucking insist.’
Thankfully, Patricia was asleep. If she hadn’t been, he would have unloaded the toxic stew in his brain onto her, and that wouldn’t have been kind.
Not on their wedding day.
It was stifling, even with the windows open. He lay there, naked, next to his new wife, also naked, and listened to the cars outside.
He turned onto his side and reached around to stroke her stomach, trying to feel for some movement from his unborn child. Then he moved around to stroke the scars on her back. Skiing, apparently.
A lie. Every time they discussed it, she looked away. Then, after the discussion ended, sadness always lingered in her eyes. The truth was close though. He felt it. Every time he mentioned it, she seemed to move that little bit closer to him. Trust him that little bit more.
He kissed her shoulder blades and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
And he genuinely was. He’d ruined her wedding day.
Was this a sign of things to come? The life that he was offering her?
He rolled onto his back and thought of David Sturridge’s question written on that notepad. Do you ever feel alone?
He ran his hand through Patricia’s hair. I wish so much, so very much, that I didn’t. I owe you more than that.
He thought of Harry Butler and the three messages on Voicemail. All demanding that Yorke phone him immediately because the news was urgent. He’d not rang back because that man didn’t deserve a phone call. A text message would have to suffice. What do you want? He was yet to hear back.
He thought of Sturridge’s second question: do you ever feel the need to strike back?
The answer to that was very simple.
Danielle had been everything to Yorke growing up. While their mother sought out drugs and men, only communicating with her children in a stoned haze, Danielle remained focused on Yorke, feeding him, and walking him to school. As Yorke grew, becoming more introverted and awkward, she became more protective and took him everywhere. A fourteen-year-old girl had no business being trailed by a prepubescent boy. Her friends weren’t so sure either. It wasn’t long before she didn’t have many left. All because of her commitment to raise a child that no one else could be bothered raising.
Yes. Danielle always sacrificed for him.
But then she became an eighteen-year-old girl, crumbling under the pressure of not only loving and supporting one boy, but their mother’s other two boys as well; both of whom eventually ended up in care. One memorable night, Danielle told Yorke that she’d failed his brothers.
But why was it her failure? Simply because their mother would never have allowed it to be her failure. She had been too busy with drugs and men to take any responsibility.
When Danielle turned twenty, she found relief in the same addictions as their mother.
Leaving Yorke alone.
Danielle quickly became consumed by the dark world she’d thrown herself into. Tom Davies, a selfish and spiteful young man, helped nurture her heroin addiction. He got her pregnant twice, but never came to the hospital to hold her hand after she miscarried. Davies was with her the night she died. In a dingy hole somewhere with a drug dealer called William Proud. A man who took too much from the world and left it cold in his wake.
Proud tried to rape Yorke’s sister in the kitchen. When Danielle resisted, he held her face against a hot stove until she died. Maybe he hadn’t expected her to die? Cause of death was a heart attack. Proud ran, leaving Davies to hold the body, because deep down, beneath the spite, he loved her. He cried with her for hours, until the police arrived and arrested him for a murder he hadn’t committed.
Yorke, then a detective constable, was supposed to be kept in the dark regarding the murder. Identifying her body was meant to be his only involvement. On that slab, they turned the burned side of her face away from him – which allowed his imagination to work its grisly spell, and the preserved memories of her beautiful face crumbled.
Looking back now, his memories were clouded and hazy. Unsurprising. It had been a time drowning in alcohol.
Detective Inspector Harry Butler, his best friend, had been nominated SIO. Capable hands.
Yorke sneered.
The only thing Harry had been capable of in that investigation was keeping Yorke informed on the details around the developing case. Something he really shouldn’t have been doing.
Maybe that was the reason? Maybe Yorke’s secret involvement in the case had pushed Harry too far? Those clandestine meetings and phone calls – in which Yorke had cried and demanded that Harry find justice.
Harry was no stranger to loss, having lost his own wife to the hands of a murderous recluse, so he had moved swiftly.
Davies became the victim of that swiftness. When William Proud was nowhere to be found, Harry coerced a confession from Davies. Away from the tape recorder, Davies was lied to. Harry told him that the DNA pointed to the fact that Proud was never present; that it was his, Davies’ DNA, that was going to ensure a life sentence. Harry also told Davies that he would prosecute his mother for dealing heroin, having found a large supply in her house when they searched it. This, of course, would never have washed – the drugs belonged to Davies and no one in their right mind would have ever believed them to belong to his mother. But, for all his failings, Davi
es loved his mother a great deal, so he agreed to confess, and went to jail for the murder of Danielle Yorke. It seems, in his desperation for swiftness, and a desperate need to support his best friend, Harry really had started to believe in his own fabrications.
When Davies committed suicide in jail, leaving a note in which he disgraced Harry for coercing confessions, and named Proud as the rightful heir to this prison sentence, Harry not only lost his job, he also suffered a nervous breakdown.
Proud, wanted in connection with the murder of Danielle Yorke, had never been seen since.
And Yorke blamed Harry.
And his anger, and resentment, burned deep.
To see this man, desperate for his forgiveness, desperate to atone for his sins, made him sick, so staring at the phone now, made him angry.
As he’d thought through these traumatic events from years ago, he’d thrown on a dressing gown and headed out into his back garden with his mobile phone. The walls on his garden were low and the neighbouring terraced houses loomed over him – the occasional window burst into light, taking away the feeling of isolation he’d journeyed outside to find.
He looked at his mobile phone again. Still no response.
His dressing gown flopped open, but he had underwear on, and it was another hot evening, so he didn’t bother to close it. He saw the flashing green eyes of a cat as it swept past him and disappeared into the darkness at the end of his garden.
A run. That’s what he wanted right now.
He’d found a solace in running that was indescribable. It wasn’t just that sense of freedom, but rather that headspace, that he was failing to find right now.
To be left alone. To stop thinking. Just to feel.
But it was too late for a run, so he reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
He thought of Gardner’s eyes on him. Not just a close colleague, but one of his closest friends, and mother to his godchild. She disapproved of his smoking. Vehemently. Which could be rather irritating, especially when standing outside a crime scene with the adrenaline riding high.
Before he lit his cigarette, his phone beeped.