by Jack Jordan
Detective Clark was watching her closely, his lips set in a straight line, his eyes even darker than before.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Come this way,’ he said.
Rose stood and followed Montgomery, passing Clark as he held back to follow behind her, as though she was a prisoner who needed escorting through the building towards one of the cells.
Because of Montgomery’s limp, it took them longer to walk down the corridor and deeper into the building, but Clark continued at a fast pace, the tips of his shoes occasionally kicking her heels. He was so close she could smell his breath with every impatient sigh, a vile cocktail of coffee and cigarette smoke.
I won’t be intimidated by you, she told him internally, but on the outside, her body was squirming to get away from him.
The doors to the usual interview rooms crept into view. She braced herself for what was to come, further questions she felt unequipped to answer, but Montgomery didn’t slow down, and they passed the doors without even a glance. Her pulse quickened, pounding at her neck and wrists. It was then that she realised she was truly out of her depth.
All she had to go on was a journal, written by a man who might or might not have gone missing. She wasn’t a police officer or a detective; she didn’t know the man, or anything that might give them information on his whereabouts, and yet she had thrust herself into the situation. She clenched her hands into fists by her sides – she had to remember why she was doing this, and how far the corruption went within the force. She was doing this for Finn. For Jay.
They walked deeper into the station, past officers who had to press against the wall to let them pass, suited men and women sitting at desks, too engrossed to look up from their screens.
They piled into a lift, Rose in the middle with a man on either side, listening to their even breaths and trying to calm her own. Her pulse sounded so loud in her ears that she wondered if they could hear it too.
The doors opened, and the air from the corridor, although stale, felt fresh to her after a minute of unbearable silence and recycled air. Montgomery led them to the right and towards a door. The plaque read:
Chief Constable Timothy Mann
Her mouth dried.
Montgomery gave her a timid smile and knocked on the door, only opening it when a gruff voice on the other side invited them in.
The room was of a good size, but the bareness of the office gave it an empty ring, with shelves barely filled and a desk so clean she could see the reflection of the window and clouds drifting across the surface.
Montgomery led them inside and ushered her towards the desk. Clark hung back, shutting the door behind them and taking a lone seat by the door.
The Chief Constable sat behind the desk. He stood and gave his hand.
‘Rose, pleased to meet you.’
She shook it wordlessly. Her hand was damp with sweat; his was bone dry.
‘Take a seat,’ he said, settling back in his chair.
Rose sat and Montgomery took the seat beside her, releasing a small but noticeable grunt as he sat.
Just like the walk to the office, she had one man before her and another man behind, both the chief’s and Clark’s eyes on her as though they were burning through her skin to meet.
‘Now,’ he said, his hands clasping together on top of the desk. ‘I understand you have some concerns about a Mr Finn Matthews.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied, sounding stronger than she felt.
‘I’ve read over the information you gave when you handed us the journal allegedly written by Mr Matthews, and have spoken to Detective Montgomery, and unfortunately there isn’t much we can do at this stage. No one has declared him missing, except for yourself, but you don’t actually know this man, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘I see.’
‘But in the journal, he writes about fearing for his life. He believes the man who harassed him was going to murder him.’
‘Having spoken to the officers who dealt with this case, I can’t say he mentioned a fear of being murdered.’
‘Perhaps he had lost faith in you by then.’
The words came out, quickly and unforgivingly, and she immediately regretted them. The air in the room changed. She sensed Montgomery tense up by her side, heard Clark scoff behind her. A room full of men, and her slap bang in the middle of them.
‘Mrs Shaw,’ he began. ‘Mr Matthews let up the lease on his apartment and left town. Everyone in this room has the right to do the same, if they so choose, without being hunted down by the police, who are needed to work on urgent cases.’
‘But no one in this room has been stalked. The circumstances are entirely different. Finn thought he was going to die.’
‘And what would you like us to do?’ Clark asked behind her. ‘Fund a wild-goose chase for a man that fancied a change of scenery?’
‘But can you be sure of that?’ she asked, refusing to meet his eye. ‘Or is that just an assumption so you don’t even have to try?’
‘No one has reported him missing.’
‘Would you have listened if they had? I spoke to an ex-officer who used to be on the force here, and he told me about the lack of support for minority victims, and the prejudice that men attracted to the same sex received from your team.’
‘And who was that?’
‘Shane Hughes.’
She would stand her ground, keep her eyes on the man in charge, even if she could feel her knees jittering against each other, her throat beating with her heart.
And it was then that she saw the meeting for what it was: on the surface, it seemed like they were simply letting her down easy, but fear seemed to simmer beneath. They didn’t want her digging up the past. They weren’t going to help her. This was an intervention. At the mention of Shane, she sensed a barrier had come up between them and her.
‘Mrs Shaw, I’m afraid we won’t be going any further with this. We can’t spend money on an investigation unless strong evidence permits it. There are too many crimes, too many victims, that need our attention.’
‘Had I not been called in to your office, I would have agreed with you. But here I am, sitting with the chief of police, who seems set on trying to steer me away from looking into this any further.’
‘No, I’m trying to protect police resources, and frankly, I can’t have you wasting any more of my detectives’ time.’
‘But it was relevant enough to waste yours?’
‘This isn’t up for debate, Mrs Shaw. This will not be pursued.’
‘Not by you, perhaps,’ she said, and stood.
Each of them rose reluctantly, their confident air now far weaker than when she had first walked into the room.
‘Please show Mrs Shaw out,’ the chief said. ‘Montgomery, a word.’
Montgomery nodded and sat back down, as Clark stood and opened the door for her to pass.
‘Mrs Shaw,’ Chief Constable Mann said.
She stopped in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘After your previous visit to the station, the journal in question went missing from our interview room. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’
Sweat instantly broke on her back.
‘No. Why, do you think I took it?’ She looked to Montgomery. ‘Did you see the journal in my possession when you escorted me from the building?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Then I guess you can cross me off your list.’
Chief Constable Mann continued to stare. He didn’t believe her.
‘Are you going to search me?’
He looked her up and down, as if considering it.
‘No, Mrs Shaw.’
‘Right,’ she said, and headed down the hall.
Clark shut the door behind her and led her wordlessly down the corridor, tapping his foot as they waited for the lift. When the doors opened, she was the first to step inside. The sooner she was away from him the better. The doors closed and the lift rumbled i
nto motion.
‘Why are you mixing yourself up in this?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Don’t you have a job? Friends? Everyone already knows about the family situation. . .’
She ignored him, staring ahead. She could almost hear his thoughts ticking over, thinking of ways to get her to break.
‘I knew your brother,’ he said beside her.
She shot him a look. He looked ahead, at their reflections in the steel doors, chewing gum with that sly, slanted smile.
He was playing with her.
‘We were in the same year at school. It was a shame what happened to him.’
Clark had seemed to master the art of barely muttering a word, but saying just enough to evoke pure hatred. Just hearing him mention her brother made her want to rip out his tongue.
‘If he were around, he’d probably tell you. . .’
The doors opened on the ground floor. A woman in a skirt suit stepped aside for them to pass. Rose watched him wink at the woman and instantly felt sick. She headed down the corridor, refusing to be led. She didn’t want to hear what else he had to say, what other punches he would throw just by parting his lips, but his stride was wider than hers, and soon he was back by her side.
‘If he were around, he’d tell you I’m not the best person to get on the wrong side of.’
She stopped in place, just before the door to the reception.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Not a threat, a friendly warning.’
He smiled, but without a single speck of sincerity. His stare spoke volumes.
‘Maybe you should get a hobby,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Or a job. Use your time more productively rather than running around after someone who doesn’t want to be found.’
The waiting area was empty except for one man. He was around her age, but looked better for it. Dark-haired and meticulously groomed, not a hair or stitch out of place. He looked her up and down.
She reached the main doors and stopped.
‘That’s right,’ she said loudly enough for the man to hear. ‘I have all the time in the world. I have nothing better to do than to get to the bottom of this, and you can rest assured that I won’t stop until I get the answers Finn deserves.’
Clark’s eyes changed, like two suns eclipsing, darkening.
‘Good luck,’ he said, another ominous threat, and turned towards the man. ‘Come on up, doc.’
The man in the waiting room stood and followed Seb further into the station, glancing at her over his shoulder.
Rose stepped outside, her legs like jelly, hands shaking.
There was no room for doubt now.
The police wanted the case buried.
It was up to her to dig for the truth.
JAMIE
25th September 2009
Jamie walked with his head down and his heart hammering in his throat.
He was being followed.
Jamie couldn’t see the man, but he could feel him, his glare scratching at his skin like small nicks from a blade.
He shouldn’t have walked through the woods. The safer route was through the streets, but it would have taken longer, and he just wanted to get home and shut the door behind him, hear the satisfying click of the lock sliding into place. He hadn’t thought of how vulnerable he would be out here, with no one to hear him call for help if he needed it.
Sweat poured down his body, giving his lips a salty taste when he licked them. It seemed like he was checking his phone every ten seconds, waiting for the signal to pick up again so he could call a friend. If anything happened to him, they would hear it down the other end of the line. He could tell them where he was and they could get the police to come.
He looked behind him, saw no one.
He was being paranoid. There was no one there; all he could see were trees with green moss on the trunks, autumnal leaves coating the ground. The only person he had seen was the dog walker heading in the opposite direction a mile or so ago. But his gut was churning like it had all those times he had seen the man watching him from afar, the man he was sure had sent him the text messages.
I know what you are.
The first message had turned his blood cold. Not who. What. The man knew the secret he had kept from everyone, the secret Jamie hadn’t even admitted to himself until he read the message.
As he headed out of the woodland and into the open field, he thought of all the times he had gone to tell his friends what was happening, but if he did that, he would have to tell them who he really was, or as the man put it, what he was.
The urge to run burnt in his legs. He turned to eye the woodland and saw nothing but trees. There was no reason to run, but as he turned back, he broke into a sprint. His backpack slammed into the middle of his back with every stride, and sweat slanted down the sides of his face in warm streaks. His mother would be waiting for him with the same look she had given him ever since the messages started, knowing something was wrong but not wanting to pry.
He ran across the field and through the next, until he was back in the knit of trees. He stopped and leaned against the nearest trunk, panting for air. His lungs stung from the freshness of it, the chill that had numbed his throat. He closed his eyes and listened to the race of his heart, waiting for it to slow.
A hand covered his mouth and his eyes shot open.
A man stared back at him, so close he could smell his breath.
‘Shh. . .’
It was him. The man he had seen so many times. He was so close the tips of their noses were touching. He blinked calmly, but his eyes were wide, darting left and right before settling back on Jamie’s face.
Jamie instantly went rigid with fear, his body hardening against the tree trunk, recoiling from the press of the man’s body. His eyes were so wide they felt close to bulging from their sockets. He murmured beneath the man’s palm, grimaced when he tasted the sweat on it.
‘I just want to talk,’ the man whispered. ‘If I take my hand away, will you let me talk?’
Jamie nodded. A tear fell from his eye and traced the seal of the hand against his face.
The man lowered his hand slowly, as if he was getting ready to clamp back down, and watched Jamie’s face without blinking. When he was sure he would comply, he sighed and stepped back.
And then Jamie released a deep, terrified scream.
The sound echoed through the woods, slicing between the trees until birds flocked from the treetops.
There was a split second when the scream stopped and they stared at each other with shock painted on both of their faces, as though time suddenly stood still, before Jamie bolted into a run and screamed again for help.
He sprinted across the uneven ground, covered in leaves that hid dips in the earth, roots of the trees, fallen branches that broke and squeaked beneath his soles. His foot dropped into a hole in the earth and the ankle twisted, throwing him to the woodland floor, but he scrambled back up and ran through the pain, stray leaves that had stuck to his clothes falling off him in his wake. He ran until he could taste blood at the back of his throat, and the cold air stung his eyes and made them stream.
And then everything stopped.
One second he was running, and the next he was on the ground, staring out at the woodland from the side with a hot pain spreading through the back of his head. His right ear was ringing, piercing down to the ear drum. Boots appeared in his line of vision. A thick branch fell to the ground, blood and hair matted on the end.
My blood.
My hair.
The man knelt down and wedged his arms beneath him.
Jamie tried to scream as he was lifted in the man’s arms, but all that escaped was a broken murmur. Rain began to cut through the trees and patted on his face. He closed his eyes against the drops and let the darkness take him.
TWENTY
Rose looked up at the newspaper building from where she stood on the street and squinted as sunlight sliced through the clouds. Exhaustion buzzed in every exhale, and her eyes were
dry and sore, but her fury from the meeting at the station was still eating away at her. If they wouldn’t look into Finn’s disappearance, she would.
She had walked past this building so many times before, but this was the first time she really took it in, eyeing the dark bricks, the single-paned windows with chipped paint. The paper’s logo was emblazoned above the main entrance, weathered from numerous seasons of scalding heatwaves and thrashing rainfalls.
Finn had spent so many hours of his life behind those walls, and all he had got in return was grief. She thought of him standing where she stood, seeing the building through his eyes, and wondered which painful memory would come back to him first.
She looked across the street at the café, eyeing the path where Finn first met his stalker. It could have been anyone, but fate had chosen him. She had known Rearwood all her life, walked into every shop, driven down every road, but seeing it through Finn’s eyes, she couldn’t ignore the darkness that lurked within the town she thought she knew through and through.
She steeled herself and stepped inside the building, the doors parting as she neared. The lobby was small, and the struggle of the printed newspaper business was evident from the scuffed floor to the walls desperately in need of fresh paint.
A woman sat behind the reception desk, talking quietly into the phone. It was only when Rose got closer that she heard the rushed end of a personal conversation on the company’s time.
‘How can I help?’ the woman asked with a forced smile.
‘I would like to see the editor.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but—’
‘I’m afraid you’ll need an appointment,’ the woman said quickly.
Rose wondered how many people requested meetings like this and how many times the receptionist had said the same sentence. It sounded as though the words were imprinted into her brain.
‘The person in charge will be interested in what I have to say.’
‘Well, when you have an appointment, I’m sure she will be happy to hear it. But until then, I’m afraid I can’t let you up.’