Hey, Sherlock!

by Simon Mason

  He shrugged.

  ‘Don’t just shrug. Don’t you see? This door’s locked. Down there the door’s locked. And back there it’s locked too. There’s no way out. Listen!’

  In the darkness they heard the whining of the lift rising through the building.

  ‘He’s coming,’ Amy whispered. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Wait a bit.’

  ‘Wait a bit? Don’t you understand? He’s coming to get us.’

  In the silence they listened to the lift as it rose through the building. It shunted to a stop; for a moment there was silence, then the sound of the doors shushing open.

  Then footsteps. They came out of the lift and stopped.

  Amy put her fingers to her lips.

  There was silence, pained and fragile, as if the whole building were holding its breath.

  Then the footsteps started again, going along the corridor away from them.

  ‘He’s not sure where we are,’ Amy murmured.

  In the darkness they listened. The footsteps receded down the corridor, fading.

  Garvie shook his head. ‘He knows where we are.’

  ‘It’s a maze,’ Amy whispered. ‘He might not find his way to us.’

  Garvie shook his head again.

  After a while they heard the footsteps again, far off, but getting slowly louder.

  ‘He’s going round the same way we came in,’ Amy said. ‘It’ll lead him here in the end. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Wait a bit.’

  ‘What are you talking about, wait a bit? Waiting a bit won’t help us.’

  ‘No. But it’s nearly always the most interesting thing to do.’

  The footsteps were louder now, heavy; they came faster down the corridor beyond the dogleg where they stood. They heard the click of a door unlocking and the swish of someone opening it and rapidly passing through.

  ‘He can unlock doors too,’ Amy said, groaning.

  Garvie nodded. ‘He must have an electronic key. That’s interesting as well.’

  ‘It’s not interesting. It’s fucking well disastrous. He’s inside. He’s got us!’

  Garvie nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s go.’

  ‘Go? Go where? Haven’t you been paying attention?’ She pointed at the door ahead of them. ‘It’s still locked.’

  Garvie walked up to it and pushed it open.

  Amy stared at him. ‘But,’ she said, ‘we heard it lock.’

  ‘It locked all right. It just wasn’t shut properly. Someone must have Blu-tacked a bit of cardboard to the electronic strip.’

  He carefully removed the cardboard and put it back in his pocket. ‘Friend of mine who knows about this stuff said you always got to secure your exit. Electronic doors are all very well until you cut the current.’

  Amy stared at him in bewilderment. ‘OK. But—’

  ‘But what?’

  Her face flushed. ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

  He looked at her oddly. ‘What difference would that have made?’

  They went through the door and it swung shut behind them, and the lock clicked.

  As Garvie paused on the other side, Amy caught hold of his arm. ‘Listen,’ she hissed, ‘you’re not making this as easy as it could be. Very smart of you to have rigged the door. But we have to go. Now. Now and very fast. He can unlock it again soon as he gets here.’

  Garvie thought about that. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘But can he get through it?’

  Amy thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘What are you talking about now?’

  Garvie took a rubber wedge out of his pocket. He put it under the door and kicked it in tight. ‘Same friend,’ he said. ‘Good with tips. And now,’ he said, ‘it all depends how good he is at swedging.’

  They went together down the corridor as far as the staircase.

  ‘Wait a bit,’ Garvie said at the corner.

  Amy groaned. ‘What, again? Really? Can’t we keep running, just in case he’s good at, what did you call it, swedging?’

  As they looked back they saw a shadow growing on the other side of the darkened door. It grew into a silhouette that filled the whole glass panel. The door unlocked with a click and shook as he tried to open it.

  Garvie said, ‘Don’t you think it would be useful to see his face?’

  Amy stared at him, aghast. ‘You planned this, didn’t you? To get him here so we could see who he is. But how do you know he can’t get through the door?’

  ‘I don’t. Though usually those rubber wedges are pretty good value.’

  The door shook violently; the silhouette pressed itself against the glass. Then there was a moment of stillness when the man – if it was a man – stood on the other side of the door, staring at them through the glass panel so intently it was as if he could hurt them with his concentration. He rolled his shoulders.

  They couldn’t see his face.

  Then his silhouette disappeared.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Amy said with relief.

  There was a sudden rush of darkness and explosion as the door burst open and a man in a balaclava and ski-mask surged through it.

  Garvie said, ‘OK, he’s good at swedging. Running sounds like a good idea after all.’

  They tore side by side down the corridor, barged their way through the swing doors and flung themselves down the steps three at a time. Above them, a few seconds later, they heard the doors crash open again, and the pounding leap of footsteps in the stairwell.

  At the bottom Amy turned towards the lobby but Garvie caught hold of her hand and they ran together the other way through the loading area, following the signs down another corridor to a fire escape with a crashbar. Shoving their way through, they jumped down some concrete steps and ran across the empty car park to the edge of the dual carriageway, where traffic was still coming past with reassuring regularity, and stopped there at the side of the brightly lit road, panting.

  ‘Fire escapes,’ Garvie said. ‘Always the quickest way to go public.’

  Amy put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Look!’

  He turned back in time to see a silhouette appear in the doorway of the fire escape at the top of the steps. For a moment the man stood there, motionless as before, staring at them, then he melted back into the building and the doorway was empty again.

  29

  Garvie ran.

  He left Amy and ran across the car park back towards the building and round the side towards the main entrance. He ran past chained trolleys and industrial bins to the far corner. But he was too late. All he heard was the noise of an engine fading into the ring-road hum.

  He went back slowly, talking on his phone, and when he reached Amy he found her standing numbly staring at the gun which she had placed carefully on the asphalt at her feet. She seemed to be in shock.

  On the ground the gun was big and ugly, and they both looked at it warily as if it might leap up on its own and shoot at them.

  ‘You OK?’ Garvie asked.

  She looked at him. ‘Why wouldn’t I be OK? It’s not like we’ve just been chased by a maniac wanting to kill us. Oh, wait.’

  ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I feel a bit pale.’

  They were standing close together, looking at each other. Without knowing how it happened, he found himself with his arms round her. He felt her hand on the back of his head, and felt her body trembling, or perhaps it was his body, and he was gazing into her eyes very big in front of his; and then her foot touched the gun and they came apart again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the gun. ‘I’ll be OK now.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Garvie said after a while.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth.’

  ‘Whoever he was, he’ll be back.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He really wants it. You could tell.’

  She nodded unhappily. ‘He was desperate. He would’ve hurt us.’

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah. But that’s not the issue.’

  ‘What’s the issue?’

  ‘The issue is: why does he want it?’

  They stood in silence.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said after a while. She gestured at the gun with the toe of her shoe. ‘I don’t want it any more.’

  ‘No. Sensible.’

  ‘I can’t even touch it without feeling sick. It freaks me out.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. What can I do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Give it to someone.’

  She looked at him then. ‘Don’t be stupid. Who could I give it to?’

  Garvie didn’t answer; he appeared to be studying the moon through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Me?’ he suggested at last.

  ‘You?’ She looked at him, amazed. ‘Why would I give it you?’

  ‘’Cause you can’t keep it. You just said so. And ’cause you can’t bring yourself to touch it again. And ’cause there’s no one else here to take it off you. Seems to be pretty conclusive.’

  ‘But … but what would you do with it?’

  He took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt. Shrugged again. ‘Give it to someone else, probably,’ he said.

  Her bewilderment increased a notch. ‘Who?’

  He turned as a beige-coloured Skoda Fabia came into the car park and drove across the asphalt towards them.

  ‘Here he comes now,’ Garvie said.

  The Fabia came all the way up to them, and Singh got out wearing a brown suit, pink shirt and tomato-coloured woollen tie, and a startling orange turban.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you and all that,’ Garvie said. ‘Sounded on the phone like you were out having dinner. Didn’t realize you were at a bring-and-buy sale.’

  Singh ignored him. He asked Amy if she was all right, and she said she was. Moving as methodically as usual despite his civilian dress, he put on a pair of disposable gloves and put the gun in a plastic evidence bag and, when he’d done that, said quietly to Garvie, ‘This is yours then? That’s what you told me on the phone.’

  Garvie nodded.

  ‘I hope you can explain it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Singh said, ‘There’s always a short way to do things, and a long way. It’s surprising to me how many people prefer the long way. The end result is nearly always the same. So I ask you, how did it come into your possession, Garvie?’

  ‘Give me a moment,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’ll come to me.’

  Singh sighed. ‘Are you sure you choose the long way?’

  Garvie said nothing.

  ‘I’m disappointed,’ Singh said.

  Garvie shrugged. ‘I’ve been disappointed all my life, mate.’

  ‘I’ll ask you one last time. How did the gun come to be in your possession?’

  Garvie sighed. ‘Do you know what? I think it’d be more fun if you worked it out for yourself.’

  Singh’s face tightened. Automatically putting his hand up to adjust his turban, he spent a few moments looking expressionlessly at his gleaming leather shoes until he was calm. Then he looked up at Garvie and said, ‘Garvie Smith, I am arresting you for the illegal possession of a firearm. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if—’

  ‘It’s mine,’ Amy said.

  They both turned to her.

  ‘Well,’ she added, ‘not mine, but, you know, in my possession.’

  Singh paused, looked carefully from one to the other. ‘Longer and longer,’ he murmured. ‘OK, Amy. I ask you the same question.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Would it help,’ Garvie interrupted, ‘if I said I gave it to her?’

  Singh ignored him. He sighed. ‘Now we have to cut it short. Amy Roecastle, I am arresting you for the illegal possession of a firearm. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘Do you want to call your mother? I think it would be a good idea for her to meet us at the station.’

  They moved off together to his car. Singh opened the door for her, and she got into the back, and he got in himself and started the engine.

  There was a tap on the window, and he wound it down.

  ‘What is it now, Garvie?’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a lift into Five Mile is there?’

  Without replying, Singh wound the window up, and pulled away, and Garvie watched it go.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Smudge. Cheers, mate, you were perfect. Where is he now? I thought he’d’ve shaken you off already.’

  Smudge said, ‘That’s the thing, Garv. I did what you said and got a little fire started, and I ran in shouting and stuff, but he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Not there?’

  ‘Not at the desk like you said he’d be. Couldn’t see him anywhere. I just hung about a bit and went home.’

  ‘Very interesting, Smudge. Good work. I owe you.’

  ‘Laters.’

  He stood in the car park for a moment, thinking, then set out for Eastwick Gardens.

  To Garvie’s surprise his mother was home already. She’d changed into her dressing gown and was standing flat-footed in her slippers at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water, and she watched him narrowly as he crossed the room.

  ‘Thought you’d still be out,’ he said.

  ‘And I thought you’d still be in. So we’re both mistaken.’ Her tone was short and heavy.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She was looking at him mistrustfully, but she didn’t say anything, and after a moment’s awkward silence he said goodnight and went into his room.

  In the kitchen he heard her bang down her empty glass and go off into her own room.

  He lay down on the bed and concentrated on the ceiling.

  Downtown, Amy Roecastle was getting out of Singh’s car and walking with him through the sally port into the Police Centre and along the corridor to the interview rooms. Garvie pictured her. She was in his mind so vividly he could feel his breathing speeding up. He remembered exactly what she was wearing. Black combat trousers with overlong black canvas belt. Black long-sleeved top. Electric blue bandana, bright and dishevelled against the ivory skin of her throat. He remembered the way she spoke to him, posh accent and sharp tone, and the way her mouth moved, the way her eyes looked at him. He remembered the way her hair swung across her face as she ran.

  He remembered the way she held the gun in both hands, pointing it at him.

  He remembered the way she felt in his arms, light, delicate, almost fragile, the bird-fluttering of her body.

  Then he imagined her sitting in the interview room, tonight or tomorrow, Singh’s patient questions, her defiant answers. She was taking the long way round, but she’d reach the same place in the end. He wondered how long it would be before she confessed who it was who gave her the gun.

  30

  Location: Interview Room 1, Cornwallis Police Centre, East Wing.

  Aspect of interviewer: neatly uniformed, careful, professional.

  Aspect of interviewee: exhausted.

  Aspect of interviewee’s mother: firm-faced, defensive behind sunglasses, shocked.

  Aspect of interviewee’s lawyer: concerned, watchful.

  DI SINGH: It is Tuesday the 21st of August, 12:00 p.m. With me are Amy Roecastle, and her mother Dr Elena Roecastle, and the solicitor Diane Rebuk. Amy, this is your third interview now, after you talked this morning with Detective Inspector Dowell. Before I ask you questions myself, some of which I know you will be anticipating, I need to give you news of some recent developments. Our ballistics department has been at work, and I have to inform you that the gun in your possession last night has been identified as the one used to kill Joel Watkins in Market Square on Wednesday the 8th of August, and that this is now a murder investigation.

  AMY ROECASTLE: [sile
nce]

  DR ROECASTLE: I don’t understand. I … What are you saying? Are you saying you think Amy has killed somebody?

  DI SINGH: On the night of the 8th of August there was a disturbance in Market Square. The police had forcibly evicted partygoers from a rave that was taking place in a disused warehouse in The Wicker. People fled into Market Square, where fighting with the police took place. At approximately 22:30 gunshots were fired; a few people were injured, and one man, Joel Watkins, suffered several bullet wounds that proved fatal. I know that Inspector Dowell has already asked you this question, but it is more urgent and important than ever, Amy, to know who gave you the gun.

  AMY ROECASTLE: [shakes her head]

  DI SINGH: Amy, I think you are an intelligent girl and I know you want to do the right thing.

  AMY ROECASTLE: [shakes her head]

  DI SINGH: And I know that Inspector Dowell has already made you aware of the possibility that without your cooperation we may need to proceed with charges against you.

  DR ROECASTLE: Charges? What charges?

  DI SINGH: Amy, listen to me now. It is worse, always worse, to try to protect someone with lies. Worse for the person you are trying to protect. I know this, I have seen it many times. Don’t make that mistake.

  AMY ROECASTLE: [silent]

  DI SINGH: The only way to protect them, if they are innocent, is to tell the truth.

  AMY ROECASTLE: You say that, but … [silent]

  DI SINGH: It’s true. Unless you tell the truth they will always be vulnerable to other people’s falsehoods. So often they end up punished for what they did not do. I think you know this too. They get mixed up with things they know nothing about, and are punished while the guilty go free. Don’t let that happen to the person you are trying to protect.

  AMY ROECASTLE: [long pause, speaking at last in a quiet voice] All right. Damon gave it to me.

  DR ROECASTLE: Damon Walsh? That delinquent in the van?

  DI SINGH: Thank you, Amy. I appreciate you being honest with me. That was the most difficult question. All the others now are details. So. Tell me. When did he give it to you?

  AMY ROECASTLE: That night. I’d been out with Sophie, I told you already. The taxi dropped me off at the turn and went on with Soph, and I was walking down to our gates, and suddenly Damon was there.