The Death of Me

by Natalie Hames

  “Hmm, can I ask why you’ve wanted a check on this?”

  For a moment he was lost for words. He hadn’t anticipated she’d question him and he scrambled to find a reason.

  “I…I’ve noticed some suspicious activity. It’s just a routine check, it’s probably nothing.”

  Another silence fell. A pure silence devoid of any background noise from the office blended with the sound of her breathing so close to the receiver.

  Why has she muted the call?

  A faint click and she came back on the line.

  “It belongs to a man called Yasin Baranski,” she replied. “Is there anything else?”

  Phil scribbled the name down on his notepad next to the registration number.

  “Err…no. Thanks Alison,” he replied, concentrating on writing the name correctly. “Oh, just one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you not mention anything about this to anyone? I don’t want to raise any alarms if it turns out to be nothing.”

  “Yeah, of course,” she replied, then quickly ended the call.

  The traffic warden was gaining so Phil manoeuvred out of the parking space and started back on the route for home. The journey gave him valuable time to think, get the pieces in place ready for when he walked through his front door and surprised Katherine with his early return. His hours were always long and irregular and she had come to accept the chaos which came with his job, never questioning where he had been or who he was with. ‘Ships which pass in the night,’ was how she described their marriage, a half joking – half serious cliché and he decided to call into the local shop for a bunch of flowers to give to her when he arrived home. A small gesture, but one which would give her the feeling she had his attention and mask the wanderings of his mind and his relentless anxiety. Thoughts which he kept to himself, private thoughts which would never be shared. He relaxed into his seat, allowing the car to drift through the traffic on its familiar route and by the time he pulled into his driveway he had achieved the mental calm he needed to slip back into the role of husband.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Four months had passed since Tom Dalton’s acquittal and Grace’s case had effectively gone cold. He sipped on his early morning coffee and studied the missing person’s board at the back of the office. Faces, some smiling most with a slight troubled expression emanating from their eyes stared back at him. Two dimensional, flat images capturing a living being, all giving an indescribable vibration as if crying out for help. He focused on each one, imagining their life story, deep down knowing the likelihood of them being found alive was slim. There was always something strange about a person’s photograph. It was as if a part of their soul had been captured along with their image and by quietening his mind he was able to sense the ones who were already deceased. He never mentioned it to anyone, especially to his work colleagues but his gut feelings were never wrong. Even when his colleagues were confident Esme Fletcher would be found alive he had looked at her photograph and knew they were wrong. Most of the images were of children with ages ranging between as young as eight to the oldest being fourteen and amongst them was Grace. Like many of the others she was smiling and wearing her school uniform but unlike the others there was a brightness, an energy which kept drawing his eye. Despite her being missing for eight months he could feel she was still alive.

  Returning to his desk, he placed his half-drunk coffee on its coaster and opened up the first file. The coroner’s report had been placed in his tray along with the other two cases for him to close. He worked through them dispassionately, hardened by several years of reading the usual gory details of how they had met their fate. Descriptions of horrific sexual mutilations written in scientific, clinical jargon enabled him to disconnect from feeling a soul crushing empathy for the victim. Maybe it would change once he had his own child and he would be able to make the link but for now he was grateful for the distance between the words and the pain. Their killers made his job easy in some ways, with each victim usually being discovered in water so any DNA evidence had been degraded. None of the cases had a commonality, each displaying different M.O’s and different types of victims – some male some female. Each body found in separate locations across rivers, streams and The Thames, two floating while the other had been weighted down.

  He worked through the files as quickly as possible, checking over them to ensure he hadn’t missed any minor detail. It was his perfectionism when dealing with paperwork which made him the first choice for closing the files and he had developed a routine enabling him to work far faster than the other officers in his team.

  “At least I’m good at some aspect of policing,” he muttered to himself as he addressed the final case to the Archives Department and placed it into the internal mail box.

  Phil had been desk bound for weeks, with Mick handing the larger cases straight over to Jason but he had still been carefully tracking Jason and building evidence. It was a catch twenty-two situation. If no decent cases filtered his way, then how was he expected to regain his credibility? The anger which was never far away surfaced as he watched Jason sitting at his cubicle. He needed to run a check on the name Alison had given him when he had discovered the van at the warehouse but the internal system would record he had entered the search and blow his cover. The last thing Phil needed was a disciplinary on his record on top of the Fletcher case but he knew he would have to find a way.

  As the day drew to a close the office staff started to finish off their paperwork and leave for home and Phil decided to stay a little longer so he would be ahead of his work schedule. He needed the silence, to think, to plan his next move. Frustration gnawed at his nerves and made him too agitated to go home and settle, listening to Katherine talking about her day. The last colleague drifted out and the majority of the office lighting dimmed, only the light on his desk surrounded him in his cubicle. The ends of his nerves tingled with the same static and as soon as he was sure he was alone, he stood up from his desk and paced the office.

  He stopped when he arrived at Jason’s desk. He had been out all day gathering evidence, interviewing victims and enjoying the freedom of real detective work. Deep resentment displayed on Phil’s face as his eyes bored into Jason’s files in his pending tray and for a second he had to restrain himself from swiping them off the desk. He sat in his chair, turning clockwise and anti-clockwise as he imagined himself to be Jason. This should have been his job, his promotion to Detective Sergeant.

  The small anarchy of sitting in Jason’s seat without his knowledge gave him a sudden surge of empowerment, or maybe it was control. It felt the same every time he checked up on the tracking device. He was the spider waiting for the fly to get stuck in his web. The feeling didn’t last long and Phil stopped turning from side-to-side as the silence surrounding him entered his awareness. Sitting forward, he opened up the files Jason was working on and flicked through them without absorbing many details.

  “Hmm, fresh missing person cases and a possible rape.”

  He dropped them back into the tray, paying close attention to the order they had been stacked then casually opened his drawer.

  “No one ever pinches his bloody stapler,” Phil grunted as he poked around.

  Initially there seemed to be only the usual stationery most office drawers would contain – pens, pencils and paperclips – but then Phil noticed a small black pocket book with a red spine pushed right to the back. He pulled it out and switched on Jason’s desk light to see it more clearly. There was an image on the front, a religious image incorporating the face of Jesus printed onto a triangle shaped cloth.

  “The image of Edessa,” Phil muttered, recognising it instantly.

  He frowned as he ran his finger over the wrinkled paper picture glued onto the cover of the book.

  “Jason’s not religious. He’s boasted many times about being an atheist.”

  Pushing the book under the light, he opened it up to see what was written inside. The first couple of p
ages were blank but the following three were filled with what appeared to be mobile phone numbers. Initially nothing appeared odd apart from there being no names in the contacts column, just the odd letters, sometimes one but mostly two.

  “Initials maybe? Why not just write the name?”

  He was tempted to call a few but knew every outgoing call would be logged so he took the black book over to the photocopier on the far side of the room and ran off a copy. As he scanned each page in turn, he checked the rest of the book for anything else Jason may have written. They were all blank until six pages from the back.

  “Adai-Mar-Addai…” Phil whispered, his eyes squinting to read the text.

  The office door closed softly and Phil spun around to see Jason walking over.

  “Shit!”

  Aware he was holding the notebook in plain sight, he shoved it into his pocket and tried to look busy reading the paper print-offs as he scurried back to his desk.

  “Working late, Phil?” Jason said, with the usual snide undertone.

  He had to make an excuse to get him away from his desk so he could put the notebook back. His whole body was on edge as he inwardly scrambled to find a plausible excuse, and without thinking it through he looked straight at Jason.

  “What was that?” Phil said, trying to impart a mixture of surprise and concern.

  “What?”

  “That. There it is again, did you hear it?”

  Jason listened for a moment. The room was silent apart from the fans in their computers.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said, shrugging and continuing to head towards his desk.

  “There it is again, I heard it earlier. It sounds like it’s coming from the washroom.”

  Jason stopped, listened for another moment then rolled his eyes.

  “Hmph, I’ll go and check it out as you’re obviously too scared.”

  A wave of relief washed over Phil as he watched him strut across the office and back through the doors. As soon as he was out of sight, Phil shot round to his desk and placed the notebook back inside, taking care to place it at the back where he had originally found it.

  “Nope, nobody there,” Jason announced as he re-entered the room. “Poor Phil, all by himself and scared of the bogeyman. Good job I popped in.”

  Phil smiled as if responding to the sarcastic joke but secretly admiring his own quick thinking. He stared at his computer screen, keeping one eye on Jason as he arranged a couple of files then opened the drawer and delved straight to the back. A brief glimpse of the notebook appeared as he placed it into the inside pocket of his jacket and picked up his car keys.

  “That was quick. Are you off?” Phil said, casually looking over his partition.

  “Yep. Just forgot something I need. See you bright and early,” he replied, his voice trailing off as he made his way over to the door then disappeared.

  Phil breathed a massive sigh of relief and rubbed his hands down his face.

  “Shit, that was close.”

  He strolled over to the full width window and gazed down at the car park, watching Jason as he walked over to his car and drove off. The more he dug, the more pieces of the jigsaw appeared. He just had to arrange them in the right order to form a clear picture of what he was up to.

  “If only I could run a search on Yasin Baranski. Who is he and how is he linked to Jason?”

  Safe in the knowledge he had seen him drive away, he sat back down in Jason’s office chair and returned to swivelling back and forth while he mulled over the contents of the notebook. Ideas flowed through his head, most of them discarded as foolish. Suddenly, the words in the back of the notebook reappeared.

  “Maybe that’s his password.”

  He checked around the office then flicked Jason’s computer on and typed in the words as they had been written.

  “Oh, bingo,” he said softly as the computer obediently flashed to life.

  He swiftly navigated his way round the internal server till he found the area for running searches, typed in Yasin Baranski’s name and waited. Three results came back and he opened each one in turn, closing them when they didn’t match any of the criteria till he came to the last.

  “My God,” he muttered as he read the man’s file. “What the hell have you got yourself into, Jason?”

  He read down the long list of suspected crimes, each one investigated and dismissed by Jason. Panic gripped him and he quickly sent a copy of Yasin’s image to the printer then noticed a file on Anthony Fletcher. Curiosity burned him and he opened it up and headed straight for the most recent entry. The update consisted of only a couple of sentences one of which noted Anthony’s suicide, the other revealing the name of the new witness who had come forward with fresh evidence.

  “Ian Headland,” he repeated the name out loud. “Who is he? I don’t recall the name.”

  He logged off and shut the computer back down. If his suspicions were right about Jason’s activities and he discovered he was onto him, his life would be in danger. The feeling he already knew too much pervaded his thoughts and he wished he was able to turn back the clock and un-see everything. Simply return to blissful ignorance and concentrate solely on his original strategy for claiming back his credibility within The Met.

  Rain lashed down and he ran to his car, his head down and collar turned up. Turning the ignition key, he waited for the fans to clear the mist from his windscreen and soon two round, clear patches appeared at the base. They slowly grew in size, revealing more visibility and he noticed the young man wearing the hoodie and sportswear lurking just outside the entrance. He had seen him several times now, hanging around the same spot but had never paid him much attention. This time though, something about the stranger caught his eye. Impatient to get a clearer view, he grabbed a cloth from the compartment in his door and wiped away the mist.

  Is he looking at me?

  Their eyes met and the stranger flicked his wet cigarette into the gutter then stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking towards the car. An ominous feeling swept over Phil. Was this man dangerous? He scanned the car park for any other officers who would come to his aid if things turned ugly, but he was alone. Erring on the side of caution, he discretely activated his central locking, keeping his eyes on the man’s hands in case he pulled a weapon. Within seconds he was at the side of the car and he bent down to look straight at Phil, making a hand gesture for him to roll down his window.

  “What do you want?” Phil asked through the glass.

  “I need to talk to you. It’s about Anthony Fletcher.”

  Phil paused. Was this a trick? Would he let the man inside and find a gun pointing to his head?

  “Please, it’s important,” the man insisted.

  He had a clear view of the man’s face just a few inches away through the glass. His features were kind with no hint of aggression and so Phil decided to take a chance and open his window a small way so he was able to hear what the man was saying more clearly.

  “You might have heard of me. My name’s Ian Headland,” he said, his voice light and calm.

  “Get in.”

  Phil released the central locking and the man walked around the front of the car and hopped inside. Soaked from the rain with droplets of water dripping from his face Phil opened up the glove compartment and handed him a pack of tissues.

  “Thanks,” he said, politely pulling one out and drying his face. “I’ve been hoping to talk to you for a couple of weeks now but never had the courage.”

  Phil frowned. “Why?”

  “I saw someone enter Anthony Fletcher’s shed after his daughter went missing. They were carrying some large black bags, they looked quite heavy.”

  “Go on,” Phil said, trying to disguise the adrenaline now causing a sick feeling to appear.

  “Well, it seemed funny. The police had already searched the shed and then a couple of days later her…”

  He stumbled as he tried to find the appropriate words to describe a dismembered body o
f a young girl.

  “…Her remains were found. I’m no copper but it’s pretty obvious they were planted.”

  The man’s words confirmed Phil’s suspicions yet they had fallen on deaf ears when he had raised them to DCI Burns.

  “I was prepared to testify in court but…”

  “But what?” Phil pressed him for more information.

  “I was told to keep my mouth shut, or else,” Ian replied. “They don’t want to know if it’s one of theirs who’s being accused do they?!”

  He looked away and reminded himself he was talking to a police officer. He was taking a massive risk even having the conversation and was aware Phil may unleash trouble into his life, but having seen how the press had torn him apart he had concluded they were on the same side.

  “Listen, I don’t want anything happening to my nana, she’s old and can’t defend herself. I’d stopped over at her house that night after missing the last tube home. She lives next door to the Fletchers.”

  “Would you recognise the men if you saw them again?” Phil asked and Ian nodded.

  “I think so. One was a big, broad man, a bit foreign looking. I only caught a partial glimpse of the second but it looked like one of your lot.”

  Phil pulled out a soggy brown file from the passenger foot well and flicked through its contents wishing he had a picture of Jason to show.

  “Is this him?”

  He handed the print of Yasin Baranski to Ian and recognition immediately flashed across his face.

  “Yes! Yes, that’s him. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know yet, Ian. But I plan to find out.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The camping light flickered causing Grace to let out a fear-filled gasp. The fear of being left in the impenetrable darkness of her prison was unbearable. It had only happened once but the trauma had left its indelible scar. She trembled, not daring to touch the lamp yet unable to take her eyes off it for fear it would give it permission to go out. His visits were sporadic, sometimes leaving long periods of time between them as the duration of her captivity stretched. Maybe he would lose interest and forget her, leave her there to die alone surrounded by darkness, her body decomposing into the damp fusty mattress. She opened the jewellery box and the ballerina twirled in front of the triangular mirror stuck onto the pink satin cover inside the lid. Her white tutu made of nylon netting offering no movement as she rotated in a steady clockwise direction. A haunting tune twinkled out, slowing whenever the silver key at the back of the box needed turning. The tune was familiar yet she didn’t know its title. She had heard it before, maybe from a film her father used to watch. Yes, it was definitely from a film and Elspeth had also played it on her cello.