Joe thought about denying it, but he knew it was obvious why he’d called her.
‘Okay, Ronnie Bagley,’ he said.
‘Is this off the record, or should I make a note?’
‘It’s just a talk,’ Joe said.
‘If any of this is used in the case, whatever I say, we’ll never talk again.’
‘You know I fight hard, but you know that I’m never underhand.’
Kim paused as she thought about that, and then said, ‘Okay, what do you want to know?’
‘It’s about this morning,’ Joe said.
‘What, the court hearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s about you, really. I’ve known you as a prosecutor ever since we both qualified, and if I know anything about you, it’s that you are a fighter.’
Kim looked in her glass for a few seconds, swirling the froth around. ‘There are some things you can’t win.’
‘No, that’s wrong. Ronnie Bagley is charged with murder. I was blowing hot air, making a noise, acting up for Ronnie’s benefit. I didn’t expect you to cave in like that.’
‘I didn’t cave in.’
‘You did. You got wind that you were losing the judge, and rather than talk him round, you gave it up. And you would never allow a man who you think murdered his girlfriend and baby to walk out of prison, just to avoid a judge turning against your case. That’s not you, Kim. You could have fought it, because if you really believed in your case, you could have convinced the judge better than I could.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That there was something else going on, and it’s been bugging me all day.’
‘What like?’
‘There are only two possibilities. That you think Ronnie didn’t do it, and just for a moment your conscience shaped your decision, except I’ve seen the evidence, and it looks okay.’
‘So what other reason can there be?’
‘That you want Ronnie out, even though you know he’s guilty.’
‘Why would we want that?’
‘So it’s
we
now?’
‘You’re not making sense anymore.’
‘I don’t think it was Kim the lawyer making the decision this morning,’ Joe said, ‘but the Kim who works with the police, because I don’t think it was a legal decision. You caved in to help the investigation, because you think that whoever made the decision to charge Ronnie did it too soon. You let me think that it was all my doing, that I talked the judge round, but you want to find the bodies, because if you can do that, it will be easier to convict him. You wanted Ronnie walking the streets so that he’ll lead you to the bodies.’
Kim drained her glass. Her eyes had lost that shine, her expression cold. ‘I can’t talk about things like that,’ she said.
‘It makes me sound like I’m right.’
‘Perhaps you made a good case, Joe. For once, it might have been about you.’ She got to her feet and reached down to collect her bag. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I didn’t mean to end it so quickly,’ he said, reaching out for her hand.
She smiled ruefully. ‘I’d have come out if you’d just wanted to say hello, maybe even talk about old times. I can’t do this though.’ She kissed him on the cheek, her lips cold from her drink. ‘See you around, Joe.’
As he watched her go and the coldness of her kiss faded, he slumped back into his seat, feeling empty. He was used to women walking out of his life. He just wished he could summon up some fight in himself to try to stop them. He raised his glass and said, ‘Yeah, you too,’ but the alcohol had lost its glow.
He closed his eyes and put his head back, stretching out his back. He took a long, deep breath, inhaled the cold air of the night around him, daylight gone, just the blue darkness of an early-summer evening. He tried to reclaim the silence, after his day filled with noise.
He was back where he belonged. This was his space, his world. The hum of the city wasn’t far away, cars and trams, the occasional smash of a bottle or drunken shout. That was somewhere else, beyond the walls, high and safe. He had no control out there. Here, it was different. It was his space, where he knew the shadows and had been into the dark corners, broken its peace with the echoes of his footsteps.
He went there to be with them, long nights with his memories, as if to stay there meant they hadn’t really lost their lives, that his presence somehow kept them alive. He was their guardian, looking after them until nature took them back and turned them into dust.
The air tasted of beautiful familiarity. Cold steel, rusted iron, damp brickwork, the sweet smell of the ferns that grew through the concrete. Scents that reminded him of all those nights spent alone there, where he paced, marked out, sometimes jumping at the noises in the shadows that kept him on edge until the slow spread of daybreak pushed back the threats, receded until the following night, when they would creep out once more, each time more daring.
It was more than just those nights though, because not every night was long and lonely, with just darkness and imagination to keep him company until morning. It was the other nights. The screams. The chases. The struggles. Thrashing bodies under his hands, flickering eyelids, memories like strobe lights.
He opened his eyes. Stars shone through the gaps in the roof, just dots in the gloom, the full spread broken by the jagged edges of broken metal, the corrugated strips smashed in places, sometimes through vandalism, other times through simple decay. Where he was standing had been undisturbed for more than sixty years, except for the slow progress of time, reclaiming it, taking it apart piece by piece. Each time he visited, it filled him with awe; that this could exist at the heart of the city, its heartbeat still, frozen, just waiting for some attention. It said so much, was symbolic, that behind all that was new and modern was disease and dereliction, forgotten glories left to crumble.
It wasn’t an easy place to be though. It was the shadows that plagued him, the way a bright moon made the light come through in patches. Some parts in front of him were shifting patterns of grey, insects caught in the light, whilst others were nothing other than pitch black.
He closed his eyes again. He wanted the noises. They helped to bring the place alive. Some of them were real, some of them distant. Sometimes it was light scratches, claws on concrete, scampering, dashing for the long grass that had taken over in places. Or the crack of flapping wings, birds nesting in the roof space, the sound of flight bouncing and swirling above him, so that he had to turn quickly to know the source of the noise, ready for when the wings brushed too close and he felt dirty feathers in his hair.
The thought made him shudder, and his mind went to the other sounds, soft to the ear, never loud enough to blot out the constant noise from the other side of the walls, but he could hear them. They were ghosts of the past, the memories embedded in the brickwork. The movement of people, like a constant murmur. Feet on concrete, shouts, the turn of the large wheels, whistles like screams.
He stepped forward, just to hear the crunch of his footsteps, to break his thoughts, because he could feel the tremble in his fingers as he knew where his mind was going, to his own memories. He couldn’t go there, not yet. He hadn’t broken the spell.
There was a flurry of wings, birds swapping places on the rafters, making him turn quickly, his torch flashing upwards. His heart beat quickly. It made him jump. He laughed to himself and then raised his arms upwards and outwards, claiming ownership, his kingdom, an oasis of nothing.
The sound of fear drifted towards him. It came as soft whimpers, muffled by the gag. He looked over.
She was under a shaft of light from the moon that shone through, like a silver spotlight, her hair streaming down her back, the light bouncing off it like water. He swallowed. She had been there for nearly an hour, her cries muted to sobs of fear. He had wanted to get away from this, but as he looked over, he knew he was being drawn back in again. She rocked on the chair, the wooden feet knocking quickly on the concrete.
He looked down at his own feet for a moment. Mortal, weak, just brown shoes, soft soles, hazy against the grey concrete floor. He knew what would happen next.
His feet made no sound as he walked over, moving softly, slowly, not wanting to alert her. His torch was off. It was the not-knowing that frightened them the most. There was a dark cloth around her eyes, pulled tight and tied at the back, digging into her skin, the edge wet where she had cried tears of fear. The gag around her mouth was a small cloth rammed between her teeth and kept secure by a larger rag tied around it, digging hard into her cheeks.
It was something else that attracted him as he got closer though. It wasn’t the gag, or the rise and fall of her breasts as her lungs tried to keep pace with her panic. It was her hair. It was long and dark and luxurious, falling like a dark stream down her back.
He put his face closer. She must have felt his breaths because she jolted and recoiled, and then her head thrashed around, trying to see him through the tightness of her blindfold. His hand reached out and he felt the crackle of static as he let her hair fall across his fingers, the strands lifting in the air. Her skin flashed into goosebumps and he saw the glisten of sweat. She was whimpering, struggling, the clatter of the chair on the floor getting faster.
He put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, ‘Do you want to go home?’ His voice was a hiss.
She screeched at first, but then as the words sank in she nodded, uncertain at first, but then more desperate, her approval coming as grunts through the gag.
He looked past her, to the figure by the wall. When he got the nod, his hand went to the knife in his pocket. The blade was sharp. He reached down to the rope that bound her arms to the chair and slashed at it. Her arms flexed as she was released from the pressure, although her hands were still tied behind her back. He knelt down to her ankles and cut the rope there, her feet kicking outwards. She was free from the chair, bound at the wrists, blindfolded and gagged.
‘Fly, little bird,’ he said.
As he stepped back from the chair, silent again, so that she wouldn’t know where he was, he looked over once more, asking for approval. He got it. A smile.
It was time for the game.
Sam Parker’s eyes opened quickly when he heard the telephone. He looked at Alice, who moaned softly before turning over. The clock radio said it was 6.30.
He thought about leaving it, expecting it to be another withheld number, another bout of screaming, but he knew he had to answer it, because wanting to know who it was would make him get up anyway. He scrambled under the pile of clothes from the night before until he found his phone. He flopped back onto his pillow before answering.
‘Hello?’ His voice was thick was sleep.
‘It’s Mary Evans.’ Sam sat up, jolted awake. ‘Someone else has gone missing,’ she said. ‘Another girl. You need to come in.’ And then the phone went silent.
He wiped the tiredness from his eyes. He hadn’t slept much the night before, the images of the missing girls on his mind. All long hair, innocent smiles. But he couldn’t dwell on that, because then he would think about Ellie, or about how he would feel if it was one of his own daughters. That wasn’t the way to think about it. Go in, do his job, impress. His own memories and fears would cloud things.
Alice stirred and put her arm around him. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve got to go in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and kissed the top of her hair. ‘Another girl has gone missing.’
Alice pulled away at that and propped herself up on her elbows. Sam saw her glance towards the bedroom door, to their own daughters’ bedrooms.
‘Are you all right doing this?’ she said.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, and slid out of bed, pausing only to stretch. ‘It’s why I joined the police.’
‘Just saying it doesn’t convince me, Sam.’
He didn’t answer as he got ready. A quick shower and he would skip breakfast. DI Evans had called him early because she wanted him there, and if he took too long, she would think that he didn’t really want to be a part of it.
The journey in didn’t take as long as usual, the rush hour not yet in full flow. When he got into the station, he sensed an increased feeling of urgency. It had been busy the day before, but it was something different. There were uniformed officers standing in groups on the corridor, in black boots and navy blue boiler suits, talking in whispers. Search teams. In the main squad room, a group of senior detectives were talking by the window.
Sam turned to the nearest person, Ged, the detective from the day before who had taunted him with the coffee. ‘What’s going on?’ Sam said. ‘Has a body turned up?’
‘No. Just missing, but we’re thinking the worst.’
‘Connected?’
Ged looked like he wasn’t going to answer, still bristling at the way Sam had stood up to him, but after a few seconds he said, ‘Yes. She’s called Julie McGovern. Her father is a local councillor, and he was one of the magistrates who first remanded Ben Grant in custody. And it looks like someone has tipped off the press, because they’re gathering outside.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve lost control now.’
The detective went back to his computer screen and Sam stood and looked over his shoulder. He recognised the blue banner of Facebook. The profile picture was of an attractive brunette, her wide smile showing teeth that were bright and even, with thick lustrous hair that swept down over her shoulders. As he looked down the page, there were photographs showing groups of girls with their arms around each other and comments posted underneath.
‘Pretty girl,’ Sam said.
‘I’m watching her profile page,’ Ged said, ‘just to see if anyone posts something we don’t know about.’ He looked up at Sam. ‘About yesterday. I was only joshing, you know how it is.’
‘It isn’t about us, it’s about them, but thanks.’ Before the detective could answer, Sam walked over to Evans, who was organising some paperwork. There was a map, and it looked like she was sorting the search teams or door-to-doors.