The Voyeur

by Kimberley Shead

  Josh bounced towards her along the walkway. “Mum, Nana’s here. Can I have the sweets now?”

  She outstretched her hand and grinned. “Dinner first. Then sweets, if I can remember where I hid them.” She ruffled his hair and led him through the door.

  “Tea?” Her lips tightened in an artificial smile as she acknowledged Irene for the first time.

  “Milk, one sugar. I’m trying to cut down.”

  Irene slipped off her jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it over the back of the settee. She ran her hands down her petit body, flattening unseen creases from her coordinated outfit.

  “Sorry, Irene, I’m all out of dark blue and red cups.” As she walked from the room her mouth relaxed into a grin which lit up her eyes. She knew the next thirty minutes would be difficult for Irene. It was excruciating for her to drink from cups which didn’t coordinate with her clothes. It was an inconsequential need which had festered into an obsession. An obsession Josie found easy to exploit. What did she gain from hiding the blue and red cups at the back of the cupboard? A subtle sense of control with a tidal wave of satisfaction.

  The microwave tinged, and Josh helped Josie unfold the chair, then settled down in front of his dinner. She leaned across him and cut the fish fingers before stabbing a chunk and handing his fork over.

  “Just blow it. It’s hot.” She pursed her lips and modelled the action, walked over to the boiled kettle, made the drinks, and carried them on a tray into the living room.

  “So you spoke to Emily then?” She asked, bending to place the tray on a stool she was using as a coffee table.

  Irene passed Stan his coffee, then blew on her tea before taking a cautious sip. “When?”

  “When she came for Mitchell.”

  Her parents glanced at each other before Irene lowered her cup and answered Josie.

  “Why would we have seen Emily?”

  “Mitchell was playing with Josh. Surely you saw him?” With a slow shake of her head, Irene looked at Stan, who shrugged his shoulders and took another mouthful of coffee.

  A fleeting chill shot up her spine as she shouted through to the kitchen. “Josh, where’s Mitchell?”

  There was a scrape of a chair and the pad of his socked feet on the linoleum. His head down and shoulders slumped, as he replied, “Mitchell went to the other tower. I didn’t want to go.”

  “You left him to go alone. Why didn’t you come and get me?”

  “I said we weren’t allowed. I told him to stay in the square.”

  Josie’s stomach clenched as tears began to flow freely down Josh’s reddened cheeks. She threw herself to her knees and grabbed his arms and leaned forward, close enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Why did he go off?” She loosened her grip, afraid she’d try to shake the truth from his lips.

  Josh sneaked a wary look at his mum. “We were playing…” Her glare made him stammer. “…Hide ’n’ seek.”

  “And?”

  He stalled for a second. She nodded encouragement. “And I counted for a while, but didn’t go after him. I could see him between my fingers and saw him run in.” His face coloured even more, and he hung his head.

  “Come on now.” Irene laughed and lifted Josh into a tight reassuring hug. “I’m sure he’s okay. He’s probably hidden away waiting for you to find him.”

  Josie reached out for the bannister as she rose on unsteady feet. With a shaking hand, she grabbed her jacket and slipped it over her shoulders.

  Irene gestured in her daughter’s direction. “You might want to go with her, Stan. Help her look?”

  Music blared from a number of windows. A melee of genres met and merged overhead in a battle to be heard. The thrum drilled into her head and disabled logical thought. Next, the distant sounds of sirens mingled with the already deafening sound. Josie’s stomach cramped, and a painful knot tightened with the nearness of the warning sounds. She stumbled forward, her arms outstretched. Stan caught up with his daughter in time to buffer her fall. He soothed her hair and whispered reassurances as the siren wail intensified. She rocked in his arms. Her eyes scrunched tight. Her hands pressed over her ears. Once the crescendo faded and was replaced by silence, Josie knew it was far worse… a hollow nothingness.

  7

  Albie Edwards tapped an erratic rhythm on the desk, with his fingertips. He had promised Lucy the full works—wining and dining, dancing into the night, and his undying attention. He bowed his head. Lying had become a habit. When they first met, Lucy valued her independence. Their relationship had worked because she remained undemanding. In fact, he believed that, for her, being his plus one was a statement. She got a kick out of playing a part.

  More recently, however, she’d become resentful of the time he spent at work, and they now behaved more like acquaintances than a couple. If he was honest with himself, Albie probably had deeper relationships with his colleagues than Lucy, and that was his preference.

  He picked up the office phone, knowing he could put it off no longer, then punched nine swiftly, followed by the phone number he could recall in his sleep. He breathed deeply, grimaced when he heard her voice, then relaxed once he realised the answer machine had invited him to leave a message. Close call, he thought while rattling off excuses for his absence with as much sincerity as he could muster before dropping the phone back in its cradle.

  A cursory knock on the already open door drew him from his thoughts.

  “DCI Masters wants to see you before the briefing.” He glanced at the clock before checking his watch. Ten minutes difference. He was sure his watch was losing time.

  “Right, I’d better get a move on then. Do us a favour, Tanya, add the photos to the board. Oh, and I’ll need the notes. Just put the file on the front table.”

  Tanya smiled, gathered together the scattered papers across the desk, but paused when she came to the close-up of the dead girl’s neck injuries. Acidic bile rose in the back of her throat. She slipped it between other paperwork, composed herself, then walked into the engine of the workforce.

  Albie hurried through the double doors at the far side of the room, walked to the end of the corridor, knocked, and waited.

  “Come.” Masters gave the short sharp instruction which left Albie in no doubt that his superior officer was not in the mood to wait. “Ah, DS Edwards, finally. I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to grace me with your presence.” She rose from her chair and slid her glasses up to sit on top of her head.

  “Marm,” he replied. He stood straight and fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt.

  DCI Masters, although not a tyrant, found weakness of any sort a handicap, especially if shown by the officers on her team. She’d been known to be involved in the demotion of more than a few officers she’d led. He concentrated on his breathing— not in a meditative way, more to make sure he was actually still breathing.

  “Don’t look so worried, Edwards. I want the heads up on the case before you lead the briefing so there are no unnecessary surprises.” She checked the clock above his head. “Five minutes…right…So what have you got?”

  Albie cleared his throat. For the first time in a while, he wished he’d been as thorough as Tanya Watts and taken a multitude of notes, but then again, he knew he didn’t need to worry. He was thorough in his own way. He took a couple of steps closer and in a conspiratorial tone shared the information they collected from the crime scene.

  “I’ve some general notices to share,” Masters said, standing, straightening her skirt, and heading for the door. “Then I’ll pass over to you for the update and back to me for the distribution of work. Okay, DS Edwards?”

  Albie nodded to the back of her head and followed her along the narrow corridor to the crowd of officers gathered in the incident room.

  “Right, ready? We’ve got work to do.”

  Albie scoured the crowd while officers finished their conversations in whispers.Those who had been perching on the edges of tables migrated to vacant chairs as Masters got their
full attention.

  “Right. Let’s get the housekeeping out of the way first, shall we?”

  She waited while a few shuffled in their seats and whispered under their breath.

  “For those of you who do not know, the newly married member of our team recently put in for a transfer to work in a vicinity closer to his new home. I’m pleased to announce he will be moving to work with the Manchester Police force at the end of the month.”

  “Is that drinks on Justin, then?”

  “I’m sure we’ll give him a good send off, PC Garrett.”

  The crowd erupted into whistles, ‘go on, my son,’ and plenty of back slapping before Masters cleared her throat.

  “Now, I’m afraid there’s no easy way to break the next piece of news to you other than head on. No overtime until further notice, I’m afraid.”

  A chorus of disgruntled murmurs and smatterings of unsavoury language rung out around the room.

  “I know. I know. But all I can say is cut backs. Now, DS Edwards will update us on the murder case and an attack on a child.” She nodded in his direction, then took his vacated chair.

  Albie nodded to Masters, then turned to his colleagues as they quietened.

  “Well, all I can say after that piece of news is I know how committed to your job you all are, and I know we can count on you to pull out all the stops to find the person who’s responsible for this.”

  It took one stride to reach the board and draw their attention to the enlarged photograph of the woman’s body surrounded by smaller close-up images of each of her extensive injuries.

  Albie scanned the room. Every face was fixed on his, ready for him to relate the details of the case and delegate jobs. It was undeniable that every officer, whether or not they joined the force for a particular reason of their own, only ever wanted to catch people with minds warped enough to justify the murder of another human being.

  “It’s not official yet, but the victim is someone known to many here. Emily Dyer.”

  “An O.D.?”

  “Not that simple, Garrett. Although, there are signs of recent drug use. Other injuries suggest not. It’s too early for me to say too much, but the sooner we get out there asking questions, the better.”

  Albie pointed to a photo just to the right of the board. A thick black marker line separated it from the spread of photos of the woman.

  “There was another crime reported last night which could have some significance to Emily’s murder. Thankfully, it wasn’t another murder. However, it was a brutal attack on her young son, Mitchell. Just keep an open mind.”

  Albie nodded towards Tanya, who cleared her throat and read from her notes. Her words were slow and precise but there was a slight nervous quiver in her voice as she read to a deathly silent audience.

  “Mitchell Dyer, eight years of age, was found in a sports bag in an elevator which services Sutcliffe Way. He was found by Elsie Soren, a resident of the estate, when she entered the lift at nineteen thirty yesterday evening. On initial inspection, part of Mitchell’s tongue had been amputated. He is being held in hospital for a few days until he is well enough to leave and foster care is organised for him.”

  Albie waited for the group to take a collective breath and finish individual discussions before thanking Tanya.

  “So, I suggest as we perform our allocated tasks we keep in mind there is a possibility these two cases are connected. Coincidences happen, I know. Open mind, just keep an open mind.”

  DI Masters, already on her feet, raised her hand.

  “Right, let’s go gather as much from the locals as we can while the Dyers are at the forefront of the local’s minds. Edwards and Watts, go and visit Mr Nico at the morgue. Fawn, you’ve got the rest of the team to question locals at the crime site and on the estate. I want you to give Miss Soren’s interview the personal touch.”

  A buzz began around the room as Fawn dished out instructions to pairs of police officers.

  Masters dropped her notes into a file, scooped up her bag, swung it over her shoulder, and slipped the file under her arm, then made for her office.

  8

  Intermittent dark clouds tinged with smokey grey hung over Regent Road quadrant on the Fennick Estate. Reggie’s flat cap had been stuffed in his overall pocket all day in readiness for the promised thunder storms the weathermen had been shouting about for the last three days.

  The metal grid which covered one of the empty flats opposite was leant against the balcony. Reggie hit call for the third time on his phone and listened to it go to answerphone. With a groan, he patted down his trouser pockets to find his keys, locked the door, and headed off to find his son.

  Nick had been back for nearly two months now. It was not as if there wasn’t enough work for him. Reggie was always in demand. He didn’t know what some of these tenants did to the properties or why the men in the houses were never able to complete small repairs themselves. Well, that wasn’t quite true. More often or not he’d hear them in the background when the women phoned him.

  ‘And you can tell him if he complains that we pay rent. He gets paid to do these jobs and we’re gonna get our monies worth.’

  “Lazy gits. The lot of them.” He looked over his shoulder just to check he was alone.

  When Nick first came home, it had been great, a novelty. But it was costing him more time and money chasing his son around the estate than if he’d just got on with the work independently, like he had before. In the end, he’d given Nick the job of clearing and preparing the two empty maisonettes for rehousing. Now he had him in one place, but he still didn’t answer his phone. He wasn’t even sure how much preparing was needed. Reggie had just left him to work on the places.

  “Nick,” he shouted through the open door. “Are you in there, son?”

  Reggie took a couple of tentative steps inside. He never liked this part of the job. He had a real fear of empty houses. As far as Reggie was concerned, there was no such thing as ghosts. But still, the atmosphere of these places when they’re empty gave him the creeps.

  “Dad. What’s up? I didn’t hear you call.”

  “Never do,” Reggie moaned. But if Nick caught the sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t respond. “Council. They want to rehouse a couple of families. I don’t know how much time you need, but I managed to hold them off for a fortnight.”

  “They’ll be ready. I can work a few evenings to make sure they’re done. The last people trashed the places.”

  “Ai, always do. Knock off now. I’ve cooked a hotpot. It’ll be ready in fifteen.”

  Reggie strolled back home while Nick screwed the boards in place. Lana would have loved the fact that he’d come home. All those years in boarding school had done him good. Away from the place connected to the trauma. It was a suggestion made by more than one therapist. Probably the only suggestion that had really helped. A good education was important. That’s another reason Reggie didn’t want Nick at home. He could be anything he wanted to be with the education he’d received. Now not only was it going to waste, but he was back at the site of the trauma he suffered when his mother was murdered.

  It had been years since Nick had asked about Lana. He’d stopped asking once he hit his teens. Reggie was not sure whether he stopped because Reggie refused to talk about her or whether she’d begun to fade in his memory. He would never ask Nick. He never wanted to take him back to that night and what he may have seen.

  Reggie did the right thing and went to see Lana when he could, just to share life’s ordeals and ups and downs. Lana had always been the love of his life, and no matter how much they’d drifted apart all those years ago, they had been ready to work for their marriage for the sake of their son.

  “I’ll come for a visit soon, Lana. Now that Nick’s settled. I’ll tell you all about him. You’d be so proud of our son.”

  As Reggie dished the steamy hotpot onto plates, he thought about taking a photo of Nick with him to place next to the plaque. “That’ll cheer you up, Lana. A lovely p
hoto of Nick.”

  9

  Olivia slouched over her desk, head in hands, delicately massaging her brow with her fingers. With a sigh, she glanced at the paperwork scattered over her desk. The majority of it had plummeted from the ‘In’ tray. It wouldn’t surprise her if the files were either trying to escape from boredom or making wild attempt to be noticed.

  For the millionth time in the last five years, she was reflecting on why she’d been so keen to save every Tom, Dick, and Harriet by becoming a social worker.

  Why had they added the ‘social’ part to her job title? This had always bothered her. There was nothing social about being told, in no uncertain terms, that she was not welcome.

  Olivia winced. She could still smell Mr Moore's rancid breath as he’d rammed his face into hers, reminding her with a sneer to mind her own bloody business. It was at that point she’d left, not looking back. She’d made a pact with herself that next time she would gain entry, even if it meant involving the police.

  Yes abuse, aggression, and plenty of mental agony were undeniable ingredients in the experience of what she believed was an underrated profession. Never forgetting the paperwork, of course, she thought as she smiled and took the first document from the pile at the same moment her phone sprang to life.

  “Olivia Devine speaking. How can I help?” She perused another sheet of paper from the file as she listened to the caller. The paper slipped through her fingers as she flipped the phone into her other hand, picked up a pen, and searched for a scrap of paper.

  “Yes, I’m Mitchell Dyer’s caseworker. I’m sorry, but why am I needed at the police station?” She glanced at the cracked clock bearing down from the opposite side of the room. “Why do you need me now? I appreciate that Emily Dyer isn’t the easiest person to contact, but she always turns up.” Six thirty. The clock teased her, as did the mound of paperwork she’d stayed behind to try and shift.