by Mark Ayre
“So tell me your side.”
“I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you, and that’s the point. I knew how it would make me look, but I told you anyway. Why not lie?”
A decent argument. One that might have winded James’ theory had he not already considered it.
“Jane warned you I’d be asking questions,” James said. “Had time to think. I reckon you thought I’d find out what Harris was up to before long, and wanted to get ahead of it. If you lied to me, then I found out what you knew, looks extra guilty, but if you’ve come clean…”
“You flatter me,” Tahir said, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not that intelligent.”
“Maybe,” James said, searching for another angle. A way to knock Tahir off balance. “You know he phoned Emily, the morning he died?”
“Yes,” he said, clenching his fists, pissed at how much Emily had revealed. “She told me. He said the girl was lying and he wanted to meet me. He rang my mobile, too.”
“What did he say?”
“Same thing.”
“And what did you do?”
“I said if he wanted to meet me, he could see me at Jane’s homecoming. He said he wasn’t going and was busy that evening. We agreed to meet the following morning but, as you know, he was unable to make it.”
“Because you killed him first?”
Tahir stopped so suddenly a large woman piled straight into him, almost knocking him to the ground.
“Watch it.”
Tahir ignored her. He was staring at James, who had stopped a few feet ahead. His fists were still clenched by his side, but James didn’t see him attacking.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah. You said that.”
They continued in silence. Turning at yet another candy floss stand, James saw a mass of black approach. Teenagers in ripped jeans and heavy metal t-shirts. Many of them wearing grubby hoodies that were as appropriate on this sunny day as wellies and an umbrella. James plunged towards the black, playing it out.
“It was you that night. The one who attacked me. Don’t deny it.”
He looked poignantly at the clothes again. This was guesswork, the jacket and shoes were pretty nondescript. More telling was Tahir’s look of resignation.
“But you say you didn’t kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him. I told you I wanted to make sure he’d stop pressuring girls into sex and filming them, but I’d never have killed him. Wouldn’t even have beat him up. I’m not stupid. I know what Jane would do to me.”
“Did you find his sex videos?”
“I found the code to his safe and broke in. He had this little device in there. Screen on the front. Cameras sent their footage straight to it. I took it, and also nabbed his computer, but he probably had more in the cloud. I would have tried to get him to delete that, but I didn’t get the chance.”
James considered this.
“Do you still have the tapes?”
“You what?”
“Don’t give me that look. I don’t want to watch them, get my rocks off. I’m thinking if you didn’t do it—and I’m not saying I believe that—the tape would offer a list of suspects.”
“I’ll take a look,” he said, “let you know. Then I’m going to destroy it.”
“And I’m to trust you won’t keep anything from me.”
Tahir nodded, and James was prepared to argue but stopped. No use antagonising Tahir while he was being semi-compliant. Find another avenue, return to the videos later.
“So what were you doing at the bar? Given when you were there you must have seen the killer or helped them if you didn’t do it. Tell me, or I will call Jane and tell her everything I know. Let her work it out herself.”
Tahir clenched and unclenched his fists. He didn’t want to tell but neither did he want to face Jane with the truth of what he had done. Whatever that was.
“I already had the evidence and the computer. I’d disconnected the camera. I was planning to speak to Harris yesterday, which would have been tomorrow on Friday. The reason I was there. It had nothing to do with him.”
“So?” James pressed when Tahir seemed reluctant to go on.
“I got a text,” he said eventually. Paused. James didn’t push. “It was from Nina. She asked me to meet her at the bar. In my office. That’s why I was there.”
“What did she want?”
“She didn’t say, and I never found out. Before she showed, I heard Harris. He was talking to someone, and I listened, angry, thinking it might have been another one of his girls. I was ready to burst in but not until I was sure. I heard talking, then an argument then—
“It happened too fast. I heard someone flee so came out of my office, but they were already bolting down the stairs, and I didn’t give chase. I stepped into Harris’ office, and there he was, dead on the floor.”
“So, you called an ambulance?”
“No, I checked his pulse, and he was gone. Paramedics have a meagre success rate with the already dead. I was trying to decide what to do next when you arrived. I considered coming out and saying I had been working late, but I was afraid of the suspicions. There was no reason for me to be there at that time—I never had been before—and worse, I’d just found out about Harris and his sex tapes. If anyone knew that they would do what you did—jump to conclusions.”
Tahir met James’ eye.
“I’m innocent.”
He looked honest enough, but didn’t they always? The mass of black hoods was almost upon them, and James considered.
“Why would Nina want to see you at your office, that late? This was after you’d already seen her at the party, right?”
“I don’t know, and I agree.”
“Did she talk to you about it there?”
“No.”
“Then why—“ It came to James. A flash of inspiration. “When did she text you?”
“Right after the party.”
“No,” James said.
“What do you mean?”
James would have answered, but the teens were upon them. The duo split, and James turned side on to get through the crowd, all of whom had their heads bowed, eyes averted from he had offended them. They bumped him side to side until he was free.
He looked back and saw the tall figure of Tahir standing in the crowd. His eyes were wide, and they caught James’. His jacket whipped in the breeze and he looked down, seeing red spread across his T-shirt like an oil spill across the sea.
In slow motion, he slipped from his feet, disappearing into the crowd.
Someone shouted in shock. Then the screaming began.
“Out of the way,” James shouted, running through. “Someone call an ambulance.”
Several people were already on their phones, calling the cops, the ambulance, local news, their mother, whoever. James barged through the teenagers and came to the fallen man, one hand on his stomach, staring at the sky. His eyes near James, but unable to focus.
Going to his knees, James started babbling useless words such as “be” and “alright”. He reached for the pulse with one hand while clasping Tahir’s with the other, trying to help stem the bleeding.
“Oh God, oh God.”
Tahir stared, but he was still, with nothing more to say. Somewhere nearby, sirens were already filling the air, but what was the point?
As Tahir had so aptly pointed out, paramedics have a meagre success rate with the already dead.
15
James had been in a few police interview rooms. Too many, in his opinion. They all looked the same. All felt the same. Bland, cold, uncomfortable. Everything was steel or some similar hard material. Padding, it seemed, was against the rules, even for the questioners for whom you’d think comfort would be something of a benefit.
Today’s investigative duo would have played well on a diversity poster, and had the classic good cop bad cop patter down to a tee.
DCI Chris Lindelof had his gaze set permanently to glar
e, and had done all but spit in James’ face to show what he felt of the unfortunate man on the other end of his questioning.
DI Meredith Yang was kind-faced. She offered him a drink and had warned her partner to ease off a couple of times. It was well rehearsed. James wanted to suggest they take the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, but wasn’t brave enough.
He had been assured he was not a suspect—however, Lindelof might be treating him. The group of teens had been questioned, and a couple of them had seen a hooded man bump into Tahir and run off. More still had seen James walk past and out of the crowd before the stabbing had happened. But knowing Tahir had been talking to James put him under intense scrutiny—his refusal to answer question serving to further irate these hard working officers.
“Let me ask you again,” Lindelof said. “What exactly were you and Tahir talking about?”
There was something familiar about the broad, blonde Scandinavian cop, but James couldn’t place it. The eyes unsettled him. Made it hard to think. All part of the plan no doubt. He had not asked for a lawyer, not wanting to seem guilty, but that didn’t mean he was going to answer any questions. He knew his rights.
“It’s private.”
“I’m sure Tahir won’t mind.”
“That’s in poor taste, don’t you think, officer?”
Lindelof jabbed an angry finger towards James, but Yang reached up and took his arm, shaking her head. A warning. He glared then dropped the accusing digit. Yang leaned across the table, parental concern etched across her face.
“James, you have to understand our concern,” she said, her voice quiet and calm. “Two nights ago the assistant manager of Jane Chappell’s bar—who also happens to be her son—is murdered. We get called, but it feels like Jane is keeping things from us.”
“Nothing new there,” Lindelof muttered. Yang ignored him.
“Now, the manager of that same bar is killed. We have no leads. Jane, we know, has plenty of enemies but we cannot think of anyone who might have done this.”
She waited. James tried to decipher what she was implying. Couldn’t.
“How does this involve me?”
“Good question,” said Lindelof. “See, from what we hear, you’ve only recently arrived on the scene. You’re dating Harris Chappell’s aunt. Fine, but now you’re going for walks with Tahir and doing your first ever shift at a bar—”
“They were a member of staff down.”
“Now who’s talking in poor taste?”
Yang took over.
“My partner is right. You’ve had an action-packed couple of days. Your first shift at the bar, followed by a kidnapping and road accident. Several hours in the hospital. Then you appear at this fair, demanding to speak to Tahir, according to his son.”
“The boy was pretty scared of you,” Lindelof said. “Couldn’t tell us what you said, but he was sure his daddy didn’t want to talk with you. That’s why we have to ask, what have you got on Tahir?”
James shrugged. He didn’t like to think he had upset the kid, but supposed that would be the least of the boy’s worries. Was he back with Emily yet? James tried not to think of it.
“Nothing. I wanted to talk to Tahir. He was happy to talk to me. Then he was murdered. What happened between bore no relevance to his murder, and I don’t want to reveal it.”
But he did want to think about it.
Why had Tahir been killed? Who had killed him? He thought about Jane. How he had refused to give her the information she desired. But she had known he was hiding something. She hadn’t trusted him. Had she had him followed? Had she dealt with Tahir? Or had it been the killer? If one of the sex tape girls had killed Harris, might they have come after Tahir, fearing he had seen her flee? Possible.
“James.” It was Yang, her eyes stern, her tone calm, steady. “We have no reason to believe you are anything more than a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t just mean Tahir. Your involvement with the Chappell’s. They are dangerous, and Jane and Davis will use you if they feel they can get something from you. You should be careful.”
James leaned forward, feeling a little confidence.
“I suppose you can protect me if I’m afraid?”
“Don’t take the mick,” Lindelof said, but Yang silenced him with a look.
“You can be sarcastic, but I think you are scared. I think you know you’re involved in something you shouldn’t be. Lindelof and I have been looking into Davis and Jane a long time. We know what they’re like.”
That made something click. He stared at Lindelof, saw the cop’s blonde hair and stony face. His eyes must have widened as he realised because Lindelof looked a little disconcerted.
“What?” he said, his voice gruff and confused.
“It was you—“ James said, then stopped himself, realising. He turned to Yang. She was right, he was afraid, and now he wondered how much he could afford to give away.
“You were involved when Jane was chucked in prison?” he said to both of them. “You worked on that case?”
Neither of them answered. They didn’t have to.
“I know what happened,” James said. It was his turn to point the accusing finger at Lindelof. “You got your informant killed.”
“You what?” Lindelof said, face reddening. Yang jumped before the situation could deteriorate.
“What do you mean?”
“Michael Fisher risked his life informing on Jane Chappell,” James said, feeling the anger build. “Three years wasn’t enough for you, though. You came back, tried to force him to testify again, put Davis away this time, I’d guess, but you fucked up. His sister saw you together, and I’m guessing she wasn’t the only one. The wrong person saw, and Michael ended up dead.”
“Michael Fisher is missing,” Lindelof spat, face growing redder and redder, but it was the eyes that gave him away. James knew what guilt looked like.
“Whatever you say,” he muttered.
With Lindelof set to explode, it was once more up to Yang to keep the peace.
“Please, James, we’re all on the same side.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said with venom. “Not sure I want to be on the side of people who are so careless with the lives of others.”
Yang gave an awkward cough.
“The Michael Fisher case is ongoing. Of course, I can’t discuss details—“
“It’s not ongoing,” James said, feeling a flush of anger. “It might be officially ongoing, but you’re not looking. You know what happened so stop wasting time denying it.”
“You want to watch your tongue, boy,” Lindelof said, but the threat remained unsubstantiated. Lindelof fell back, letting Yang take over.
“I know it might seem as though we are careless,” she said. “But it’s not true. We speak to lots of people we feel might be able to help in our investigations, and we always practice discretion where we feel it is necessary.”
She glanced at Lindelof, as though inviting him back into the conversation. He looked away, so she went on.
“The situation with the Chappell’s is particularly emotive because they are particularly bad people. We have been trying to see them behind bars for a long time—and I mean that in both senses. Unfortunately, they have people scared or paid off. If you’ve spoken to Jane, you will no doubt know, before we got her for three years, we almost had her father and her up on substantial sentences. I led the case that almost brought them down, but guess what? Evidence goes missing. Witnesses pull out. Suddenly, the case falls apart, because people are afraid. So more people go missing. More lives are ruined, and we end up in the same situations again and again, sitting in front of people like you. People who could help, but won’t because they’re afraid. How long will it be before that fear gets someone else killed?”
It was a powerful speech. Designed to make him feel guilty and that he did. Like so many before, he was propping up the Chappell’s. Letting them get away with murder. Literally. He was afraid, and getting the cops
involved could put him in further danger. But he already suspected Davis of kidnapping him and knew the old man wanted him dead. How much more dangerous could his situation get?
His eyes slid to the darkest corners of the room, as though expecting to see Chappell men standing there, waiting for the slightest hint he would spill his guts before striking and, well, spilling his guts. Of course, there was no one, and it was time he put on a show of bravery.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
Yang nodded, Lindelof tried to hide his smug smile.
The door flew open.
“What the—“ Lindelof turned. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. What are you doing here?”
At the door stood a tall woman in black suit with shoulder length silver hair. She smiled at all members of the room, then tutted at the cops.
“Well, well, what have we here? Questioning my client without his lawyer present. And you a veteran of the force, Chris. I am disappointed.”
Lindelof didn’t speak. Yang offered James a hurt expression, as though they were old friends and he had let her down. Without looking away, she spoke to the newcomer.
“James didn’t request legal representation. He didn’t mention you, Ritchie. We had no idea he was able to afford such distinguished representation.”
The distaste in her voice was obvious, but Ritchie was unruffled.
“We’re not all on police salaries, thank the stars. Is my client under arrest?”
Yang and Lindelof crossed their arms, refusing to look at Ritchie. They seemed like naughty school children, defiant in the face of a telling off. Ritchie played the role of annoyed teacher perfectly.
“I asked you both a question.”
“We wanted to talk to him.”
“He said, not answering. Is my client under arrest?”
More silence. More crossed arms and grumpy expressions.
“Ritchie,” Yang said, trying to be reasonable. “Your boss’s second in command has been killed. Don’t you want to know what happened? James was there and if you would allow him to—“
“Good point,” Ritchie cut in. “You—“ she snapped her fingers at James. “Sorry, what is your name?”