As Pete swung the car into the police-station yard, he muttered, ‘Today is turning into a fuck-up.’
‘Two suspects,’ sighed Laura. ‘One we can’t find, and the other is about to walk.’
‘Bad management,’ said Pete, and he started to smile. He brought the car to a halt in front of the station and jumped out. ‘C’mon, bring your rags with you.’
Laura followed Pete towards the back entrance of the station, holding two large clear exhibit bags, one containing old valeting rags, the other filled with the tissues used to wipe clean the car interiors. It had taken a few circuits of town to find the car valeters, but then she had seen the Audi parked on the street. The owners of the firm were more than happy to help, although the way some of the valeters melted into the spray mist made her think that not all of them declared their earnings. She didn’t ask any questions. That was a fight for someone else.
Just before she got to the door, ready to swipe her way in, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. When she checked the display she saw that it was Jack. That
made her nervous. She was on the first day of a murder investigation, and he was calling far more than usual.
‘Hello,’ she snapped.
Pete raised his eyebrows as Laura listened, and he saw how she softened during the call. She was smiling when she snapped her phone shut.
‘Good news?’
‘It was Jack,’ she said. ‘He’s bringing Bobby down to meet me after work.’
Pete winked at her. ‘Maybe the day isn’t turning out that badly.’
They walked to the Incident Room together, and they detected a sombre mood.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Laura.
‘The preliminaries have come in from the post mortem,’ someone said, an eager young detective.
‘Go on.’
‘Jess was tortured. She was alive when she lost her eyes and tongue.’
Laura took a deep breath. ‘So more than just trophies.’
‘Seems that way. They were taken out by something sharp, though, almost surgical. There were nicks on the bone around the eye-socket where the blade scraped it.’
Laura winced. And she guessed that her time with Bobby would be briefer than she’d hoped.
‘She hardly cried out.’
The voice woke Sam up quickly. He must have fallen asleep. He looked around, scared for a moment as he wondered where he was. Then, as it came back to him, he rubbed his eyes.
He was in a cell with Luke, as they waited for Egan to decide what he was going to do. Sam could have waited outside, or even back at his office, but he knew how cops like Egan operated. He knew there were too many casual conversations with prisoners, just little asides, hints that their lawyer might be wrong.
It had been a long wait, though. The paint on the walls, grey and grim, matched the toilet in the corner. He hadn’t used it yet, but that moment might come soon. It was the lack of good light that struck him the most, the windows frosted and small, but it was the smell that Sam knew would linger.
The cells in Blackley police station had a smell all of their own. The police station was over a hundred years old, and the cells felt more like cellars, with little natural light and a position below ground level. A century of damp had seeped into every piece of brickwork, the smell broken by disinfectant and whatever had been left by their occupants, all those weekend drunks, drug addicts sweating their way through withdrawal, old feet. Sam knew it would stay in his clothes and in his hair for days.
‘What did you say?’ asked Sam.
‘She hardly cried out,’ Luke repeated.
Sam stood up and stretched. ‘Don’t say any more.’
‘No, I want to tell you,’ Luke continued. He was obviously enjoying himself.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Sam replied, although it wasn’t his conscience that made him say it. There was a corridor full of empty cells, and Egan had marched him past all of them to get to the large one at the end,
where there was room for a few prisoners. Sam couldn’t see the microphones, but he knew one of the cells was bugged. It had been done a few years ago, when one of the police-station runners was suspected of smuggling drugs into the cells. At first the police had thought he was just providing a good service, when bringing his clients chocolate or sweets. But they’d soon begun to notice that his clients stopped being as eager to get out. So the police bugged a cell. Not to use in court, just for intelligence gathering. They were in the bugged cell, Sam was pretty sure of that.
Luke smiled and sat back, his head against the white tiles.
‘Oh come on, you do. You must have wondered what it would be like to kill someone.’
Sam turned towards him, his anger starting to surface. ‘I’ve never wondered that, because I have never wanted to kill anyone. But stay quiet in here because if you talk, they might listen.’
Luke whistled, his eyes wide. He looked around. ‘Wouldn’t that be fun.’
His smile shut off at the sound of a key in the lock. It was Egan, his jaw set firm and angry. Sam wondered if someone higher up had told him to release them.
Sam had to squeeze past him to get into the tight corridor. He blinked at the bright light, and then felt himself pulled to one side.
‘The dead girl’s mother is in the waiting area,’ Egan hissed. ‘Maybe you’ll want to look her in the eye on the way out.’
Sam jerked his arm away. ‘I’ll tell her how you can’t
catch her killer, Egan,’ he said angrily, and then cursed himself for losing his temper.
Sam didn’t wait for permission from Egan. He started to lead Luke away, but he was angry with himself. He was baiting Egan to make himself feel better. Sam had gone into a police station with someone who’d said he had killed and would kill again. Sam had done what he could to get him out. What kind of person did that make him?
Egan glared at Luke all the time he was being booked out of custody. As they went through the waiting area, Sam saw a woman, sitting at the back, a tissue clenched in her fist, her chin puckered, her eyes red. Luke looked away, but Sam saw her watching them, her eyes getting wide, her mouth opening.
Sam looked away and left the station, with Luke at his shoulder.
I was back in Blackley when Sam Nixon came out with Luke King. The best reporting involves patience, although I could tell that the news was already beginning to spread. There was a reporter from the local paper there too, along with a cameraman and a young woman with a microphone.
I saw Sam mutter ‘shit’ to himself as he came out of the door. He glanced back at the station, but the only way was forward.
I moved forward as the cameraman went towards Sam, who tried to push past, Luke tucked in behind him. The court stragglers spilled onto the pavement and watched the excitement. I thought I heard somebody cheer.
Suddenly Terry McKay appeared in front of Sam. He swayed towards Luke King, his finger in the air, waving in jerky movements.
‘You’re a fucking wanker,’ he sneered, his teeth bared, brown and jagged, spittle landing on Sam’s suit.
Sam tried to move forward, tried to push Terry out of the way, but Terry just pushed back.
‘They catching up with you?’ he continued, shouting now.
Terry turned towards the camera, to make sure he was being filmed, and Sam took the opportunity to slip past him, Luke keeping up with him. The cameraman stepped in front of McKay, leaving him alone on the pavement, confused and angry.
As Sam walked off, he tried to step up the pace, but the cameraman was quicker, blocking his path. Sam realised that he had lost the option of silence, so I watched him as he licked his lips and swallowed. A microphone and my voice recorder were pushed in front of him. He cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed.
‘As you might know, the police have been speaking to my client in relation to a murder that took place last night. My client would just like to say that he is mystified as to why the police wanted to speak to him.’
His voice sounded strong, assured.
‘He knows nothing about the unfortunate woman who was found dead last night, but hopes that Blackley Police find whoever committed this awful act. He hopes sincerely that the police are now able to devote their time to finding the killer, and that they stop trying to achieve quick publicity by pursuing an innocent young
man just because he happens to have a well-known father.’ Sam smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s all.’
And with that, he walked away, Luke close behind.
I watched them go, noticing how Luke kept his eyes down, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze. I thought about Sam and the few conversations I’d had with him. Did I know him well enough to get the inside track?
I checked my watch. I still had some time before I had to collect Bobby. And I wouldn’t know until I asked.
I had some research to do first, though.
Sam didn’t pause in reception. The seats were full of people ignoring the no-smoking sign, but he couldn’t face seeing any clients. Let the caseworkers speak to them. They spent their days working the files, visiting crime scenes, seeing witnesses, harassing the prosecution. And when the prosecution ignored the letters, they harassed them some more.
Sam wouldn’t ask the Crown Court runners to speak to anyone in the office. They weren’t employed for the daily grind. Harry recruited them for the flash of their legs, nothing more, to brighten the lives of prisoners and take notes in court. The word soon got around the pubs and estates in Blackley that if you wanted to see a pretty girl when you were stuck in a prison cell, you went to Harry Parsons & Co.
When Sam got back to his office, he sank back into his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. It was the old moral question, the one he tried to avoid. How could he defend a killer? The answer was easy: the judicial process would decide how to treat him. It was a cop-out, an
excuse, but it was the only thing that helped Sam sleep. When he ever did.
But what happened when his client said he would do it again?
That
wasn’t in the script. Sam had the power to stop it. The Law Society rules allowed him to breach client confidentiality if someone’s life was at stake. He rubbed his hands over his face. He knew he couldn’t do it. Luke King wasn’t an ordinary client. And that sickened him.
Sam still had his eyes closed when he heard his door click open. When he opened them, he saw Harry standing there.
Sam wasn’t surprised. Although Harry never came to his office—he called Sam to his—Sam guessed that Luke’s case might make a few things different around here.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Sam.
Harry shook his head. ‘I was just passing when I saw you.’ He tried to look casual, but Harry Parsons didn’t do casual. ‘How did it go with Luke?’
Sam saw Alison looking into the room.
‘He’s still got his liberty, if that’s how we measure these things,’ Sam said.
Harry didn’t answer, so Sam played him at his own game. A few seconds passed before Harry spoke.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Sam sat forward and rubbed his eyes, and then he told Harry all about Egan getting frisky, seeing a big name, a headline.
‘So is he out now?’ Harry asked.
Sam nodded. ‘He’s got to go back, but he knows that Egan will be watching him.’
Harry stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes down, thinking, and then he nodded. ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ he said, and then turned to walk away.
As Harry was about to leave the room, Sam shouted after him. ‘If he is taken in again, I don’t want to act for him.’
Harry turned back round, and Sam noticed that his cheeks were flushed. ‘Why ever not?’
Sam tried to think of a way to answer that sounded reasonable, but there wasn’t one.
‘I just don’t, that’s all.’
Harry was about to respond when there was a light tap on the door. It was Karen, Sam’s secretary. She looked nervous.
‘Excuse me, Mr Parsons,’ she said, her voice quiet. ‘Sam, there’s someone to see you. He’s in reception.’
‘Has he made an appointment?’
She shook her head. ‘He says it’s urgent. He’s been hanging around the office all day.’
Harry turned to walk out. ‘Stick with it, Sam,’ he said quietly, ‘for all our sakes.’
And then he left the room. As he went, Sam saw that Alison was still outside his office, but as Harry passed her, she turned and walked away.
For all our sakes.
What the hell did he mean by that? Sam didn’t know, but he was sure he had seen something in Harry’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. Fear.
The old man had been seated in a room by the time Sam got there. It was one of the older interview rooms, with woodchip and ancient desks, not for the best clients.
Sam was hit by the smell as soon as he walked in. It was as if the old man had slept in his clothes for days, a musty mix of sweat and damp. From the back, Sam saw straggly grey hair over a dirty old grey overcoat, tide-marks along the collar. As he went around the desk, Sam recognised him straightaway. It was the old man who had been staring up at his window that morning.
Sam sat down in front of him.
The old man was in a chair without arms, and he looked vulnerable, scared. His knees were together, his hands over them, and he looked defensive. Under his coat he wore a shirt, but it looked creased, as if he had found his only clean one under a heap of others and made a special effort. There was a film of grey bristles over his cheeks, and his dark-rimmed glasses were held together by tape over the bridge. His eyes had once been bright blue, Sam could tell that much, but now they looked tired, ringed by dark circles.
Sam didn’t try to put him at ease. The old man had been watching him all day, and Sam wanted answers, although he wondered now how the old man had ever made him nervous.
‘Hello, my name is Sam Nixon. How can I help you?’ It came out brusque, unfriendly.
The old man looked surprised. He watched Sam for a moment, and then looked down. Sam realised that he’d just ruined the prepared speech.
‘My name is Eric Randle,’ he said quietly, his voice sounding hoarse, ‘and I have dreams.’
‘We all have dreams,’ Sam snapped back. He looked at his watch. At the moment this was all free of charge.
The old man ran his finger around his collar, and then said, ‘I dream of the future, and it comes true.’
Sam started to twirl his pen between his fingers, a habit he had when he wasn’t sure what to say.
‘I paint them,’ Eric continued. ‘My dreams, I mean.’ He shifted in his seat. Sam didn’t say anything. He just looked at the old man, let him talk.
‘I’ve always painted, since I was a child,’ Eric carried on, leaning forward in his seat, ‘but then I started getting these dreams, strong, vivid, violent dreams.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I knew they meant something, but I didn’t know what.’ He shrugged. ‘So I started painting them.’ He sat back and smiled, a nervous smile. ‘I paint my dreams, and then they come true.’
Sam tried not to smile with him. ‘What, you influence the future?’ He put his pen down. ‘I saw it in a film once. Richard Burton.
Medusa
something.’
‘No, no,’ Eric said, his eyes wide now. ‘You don’t
understand.’ The old man took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. ‘These aren’t normal dreams. These wake me up, and I’m crying sometimes. I know I’ve seen something terrible, something that will kill people, but I can’t do anything about it.’
‘What kind of things?’
Eric began to clench his jaw, his eyes distant. ‘Disasters, murders. I’ve seen plane crashes, earthquakes, bombings. And I can’t do anything about it, because I don’t know when it’s going to happen, or where.’ He looked back at Sam, his eyes almost pleading. ‘Sometimes I’m too scared to go back to sleep. So I get up, no matter what time of night it is. I get up and paint my dreams. And then they come true.’ He wiped his eyes. They looked damp, his lip trembling. And I know all the time that I could have stopped it, if I’d just known more.’
Eric looked at Sam expectantly, as if he suddenly thought that Sam might have an answer. But Sam had his mind on something else.
‘Why have you been following me today?’ asked Sam.
Eric sat bolt upright and wiped his eyes, looking more focused. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a roll of paper. ‘I painted this a few months ago,’ he said.
He passed it over, barely rising from his seat; Sam had to lean over the desk to get it.
Sam unrolled it carefully. It wasn’t cheap paper. It felt thick, luxurious, not the glossy white of office paper. It seemed completely at odds with the man’s appearance.
It wasn’t a painting as he expected it. It was more of a collection of jottings, of images. There was no structure, no form, but the images immediately got his interest.
Sam could tell the old man had talent. The human figures were drawn with swift lines, almost scribbled, and the colours overran, but the figures had astonishing movement, action.
It was the image in the middle that drew Sam’s attention. It came at him like a shot of adrenaline, recognisable straightaway. It was a woman, petite, young, tied to a chair. There was something hanging from her neck, like a rope, and her chest and face were painted bright red, with crosses over her eyes. Sam hadn’t seen the pictures from the scene of the murder, but he had heard Egan describe it over and over during the interview as he tried to rattle Luke.
Sam looked up at the old man, who smiled, just a nervous flicker of his lips.
Sam looked back at the picture.
There was more in the picture, and when Sam saw his own name scrawled across the top corner he felt his chest tighten. There were two people painted underneath his name, standing in front of a statue, of some old Victorian dignitary on a six-foot plinth. Sam recognised it. It was a statue near the court. The faces of the people in front of the statue were empty, but Sam could tell it was two men from the width of the shoulders and the suits.
Sam sat back and folded his arms. ‘What does this all mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ Eric looked at Sam, his eyes wide. ‘Sometimes I don’t know until afterwards.’
‘Until after what?’ Sam was getting frustrated now.
‘Until after it comes true.’
Sam put the picture down. ‘Mr Randle, this is all very interesting, but I’m a lawyer. I deal with legal problems.’ He gestured towards the picture. ‘I just don’t see how I can help you.’
‘I didn’t come here for advice,’ he said softly. ‘I came here to warn you.’
Sam felt a flutter of nerves. ‘Warn me of what?’
The old man shook his head slowly, sadly. ‘I don’t know. But you’ve been in my dreams all the time lately, and they’re getting stronger. Really strong.’ He rubbed his eyes and his voice came out in a croak. ‘I haven’t slept well in months. I keep hearing things, awful things, people crying, screaming.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘And I hear children, but they don’t say much. But I feel their pain, like they are lost and can’t get home.’
Sam wondered what to do. He could ring the police, but then what would he say? An old man had painted a picture and dreamt about him?
But then Sam remembered how he had been waking up every morning lately, bathed in sweat, the same dream making him wake up scared, bolt upright. A dark house. A boy crying. Doors, lots of doors. Falling.
Sam held up his hand.
‘Mr Randle, I don’t…’
‘You’ve got children, Mr Nixon,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Sam felt a burst of anger. This was more than a passing client. He had researched him, looked into his life before he came to the office.
Sam stood up quickly and got ready to march Eric Randle to the door.
‘It’s got a scientific name,’ Eric said as he looked up. ‘Precognition. It’s not just me, you see. There are a lot of people like me. Some people write things down, some of us draw. Some people just forget their dreams, until something happens and they think it has happened before.’ He leaned forward and became animated. ‘Have you ever had a dream that something awful was going to happen, and then, not long after, it does?’
‘I can’t say I have.’ Sam spoke through clenched teeth, one hand already on the door handle.
‘Perhaps you just don’t remember.’
‘And perhaps I just haven’t. Look, Mr Randle, you’ve got to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll make you.’
The old man looked anxious, waiting for a response. Sam didn’t give him one.
Randle stood up, moving more quickly than Sam thought he would. ‘You’re in danger, Mr Nixon,’ he said.
Sam stayed by the door, his eyes blazing now.
‘Keep that,’ Eric said, pointing at the picture. ‘It might mean something soon.’ He started to leave, and then stopped. ‘We have meetings.’
‘Who does?’
‘The people who have these dreams. We meet up and tell each other what we’ve seen.’ He put a leaflet on the desk. It had been done on a home printer, the colours dull on cheap paper. ‘The girl in the painting was in our group.’
Sam looked at the piece of paper again, curled up on the desk. ‘What, the dead girl?’
Eric nodded. ‘Her name was Jess Goldie. She used to write down her dreams. She had seen it coming, we
both had, we saw it in a dream, but we hadn’t known it was her.’
‘When did you paint this?’
‘There’s a date on the back.’
Sam walked over to the desk and turned the paper over. The picture was over three months old. Or so the date said. He looked at Randle, who shrugged his shoulders and then set his jaw as he clenched back a tear.
‘She was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I just want you to be careful, Mr Nixon, and promise me that you’ll listen to me if I call you.’
Sam thought about it for a moment, and then he realised that it was a cheap promise, one he could always break if he wanted.
‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘Promise.’
Eric looked happy with that. Sam watched him as he gathered himself and then shuffled out of the office. When he had gone, Sam felt his forehead. He was sweating. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
He laughed nervously. The day had turned into a strange one.