Darkness Looking Back, The (13 page)

NIELSEN HADN'T EVEN shut the door properly before Rees floored it. Even over the engine, Stirling could hear the radio.

Ten-one, ten-one. Speeder's going east on Leslie Avenue, Balmoral.

They hit Symonds Street, travelling eighty.

In front of him, Stirling heard Coleman groan as comms gave the usual crap about bailing out if it got dangerous, cutting into the commentary.

'Come on . . . Get on with it.'

Stirling was bang on his side. In this city, everyone drove with a permanently raised middle finger and one lead foot. The constable on the radio gave a curt acknowledgement, then got down to it.

Heading south on Sandringham Road in a black Mitsubishi Evo, licence plate Romeo Zero Charlie Kilo Delta Juliet, that's R0CKDJ.

What's the speed?

He's going 115 ks in a fifty zone. Traffic's moderate, but it's a pretty major road.

Unit 258, unit 258, are you able to intercept?

Roger, just on Great South Road now, turning into Greenlane East.

Stirling leaned forward. 'How did they find him, Tony?'

Rees answered without turning his head. 'Patrol saw his car at the lights. Believe it or not, he's still driving it.'

Stirling looked at him incredulously. 'You're joking. And then he plays chasey! He's only guaranteeing himself top spot on tonight's news.'

Three cars were in pursuit now, and a fourth was close by, on its way.

He's turned east on to Cambourne Road . . . heading for Balmoral. Almost lost control on that last corner.

This is unit 258. We're on Balmoral — about two minutes away, over.

They heard the Eagle helicopter come in, tracking the pursuit from the air. The constable in the first car wasn't even bothering to narrate the route now, as the streets got even more erratic, winding north again. Curtis wasn't stupid enough to stick to the main road. As the silences drew out, the tension in the car grew. Other traffic went to the kerb as they ploughed a route through. Stirling could feel a pain starting in his back as he bent over his knees. Rees hurtled through a set of lights on Dominion Road just as they turned red, throwing them all against the side of the car as he spun onto Balmoral.

'We're going to land in such shit over this.' Nielsen spoke in a guilty whisper, but Stirling could see she was trying not to smile.

'Not if we catch him,' said Rees.

The next moment he hit the brakes for a queue of cars at the lights.

'
Shit
!'

Stirling drummed his hands on his lap and Nielsen bit her knuckles. The car seemed too small for them all. After what seemed hours, Rees pushed a gap in the oncoming traffic. In the same instant, the silence broke.

Got him! He's in a cul-de-sac.

Stirling realised he had the armrest in a death-lock, his knuckles the colour of bone.

A second voice said:
We've blocked off the road, he can't get past us.

The air in the car was so still that no one was even breathing for fear of breaking the spell. Three . . . two . . . one . . .

Then:

He's crashed, he's rammed into one of ours! Send an ambulance.

Unit sixty-five, please respond. Unit sixty-five, what's your status?

He's out of the car, he's running towards a neighbouring house.

Got the dogs following him, over.

Fragments of different conversations were whirling around like fakes in a snowglobe.

Jeff, that's Constable Jeff Mooney, is injured. Cuts and maybe concussion. Or worse. There's blood all over his face. I'm staying with him.

Speeder's over the fence — Eagle, can you see him?

Is he talking?

Go left of the house.

Barely, and I can't repeat any of it. He's in a lot of pain . . .

Ambulance on its way, over.

Heading south-west.

Need a couple of tow trucks too, we're not driving either of these back . . .

I can hear him!

The sound of barking could be heard in the last message, followed by a lengthy period of white noise. None of the listeners said anything, knowing it would be as much as their lives were worth in this atmosphere. Grimly Rees kept his foot down. Almost there . . .

Got him.

Stirling felt his shoulders unroll in relief. No one killed. It was always a relief.

But there's been a bit of a punch-up. There's a broken nose by the looks of things, and assorted injuries. How far away is that ambulance?

Second that — Jeff's not looking too good.

Grim triumph surged through the quartet of detectives in the car. They had enough to hold him now. Only the news of an officer being wounded held back the cheers.

The whining of the Eagle came in the background.
Can see it from here, mate. Just a few streets away.

And they were there. Rees brought the car to a halt, and Stirling, Coleman and Nielsen were out before the engine stopped running. It was, predictably, carnage, with the stricken cop and his partner in the middle of the road, the odd neighbour rubbernecking for all they were worth, and now the ambulance wailing onto the scene. Added to that were the profanities coming into earshot from Webb himself as he was dragged back to the waiting cars.

Stirling remained silent, troubled. Rees gave him a quizzical glance, but Stirling — he couldn't help it — looked away. It was ridiculous. Something would have to be done about this. Sooner or later . . .

Stirling was normally immune to abuse, but something about Webb's insults burrowed into his ear.

'I didn't do it! Fuck you, Nazis! I didn't kill her! Let me
go! I'll sue all of you fuckers. I am
innocent
!
I am innocent
!'

THE AIR AT CIB the following morning was as heavy as the smog outside. When Stirling went in search of Kirkpatrick, he found him in Woodward's office, sitting in on the DI's phone conversation. As the office door was open and Kirkpatrick didn't wave him away, Stirling eavesdropped without shame.

'I'm very disappointed about this, Tom. I realise you have a duty to inform the public, but there are some things the public has no right to know at this stage. You're tipping off a murderer about how much we know and removing a very important advantage.'

His expression didn't change as Tom said his piece over the line, his media face still calm and pleasant as ever.

'Tom, do I ever give you advice on how to do your job? Because if we're going to start on that game I might want to ask when you switched the funnies column over to page one . . .' Woodward smiled. 'Oh yeah, we've had a great laugh at some of the stuff you've been printing.'

Stirling wished he could have heard Tom's reply. Woodward's next comment gave him an idea.

'Well, I'd say we have an even greater obligation to the public. You keep your readers informed, we keep them alive. You might want to think about that. I'd hate for you to see any drop in circulation.'

The reply this time was noticeably succinct.

'Look, Tom, we've been friendly for a while, and I don't want to see our good relationship ruined, but if this continues we won't be able to provide you with any more favours. If we can't trust the press, we won't talk to them any more. And that's the hard truth of it. All you'll have left is that source of yours.'

At those words, Kirkpatrick looked over at Stirling. 'Andy, run and fetch Tony and Vicky, will you?'

Reluctantly Stirling obeyed. There was more to his bad feeling than simply missing out on Woodward's journo-roasting. He knew full well why those two had been chosen — of anyone who wasn't an inspector, they had the best connections in the media. To watch Rees 'help' to track down the mole was going to be tough.

The big man wasn't hard to find; he was standing at the water cooler, chatting to DS Blundell.

'Hey, Tony, Willy wants to see you.'

'What about?'

'The media leak.' Stirling kept his voice casual, but with enough meaning in his eyes to give Rees a scare.

The blond detective didn't show any signs of noticing, only nodding. 'Ah. Well, all the best, John.'

Blundell staggered slightly as Rees slapped him on the shoulder and walked towards Woodward's office. Stirling went and fielded Nielsen from her own office, unable to stop himself tailing her back to the party.

Rather to his disappointment, Woodward's phone call was already over. Rees was in a seat in front of the desk, with Kirkpatrick in his favourite position on the corner of the desk, jiggling his knee.

'Vicky, come in. What have you managed to get from your contacts? Any luck?'

'No, sir. Three News categorically refused to reveal their source — even when I threatened them with obstruction of justice. They're going to have to find another female face of the force now, or whatever they want to call me, because I'm done with them. She said since nothing was in front of the courts they could run whatever they damn well liked.'

Rees snorted. 'Same at my end. Get bent, copper. If you're not bent already.'

'Bloody journalists and their ethics,' said Kirkpatrick. '
What
ethics?'

'Believe it or not, I'd respect them less if they
had
told us the source,' said Woodward, sighing. 'It's not like we can do much — we need them, and they know it. But it's bloody annoying. Someone on
our
team is selling us out. And I'm going to find out who.'

Still lingering in the doorway, Stirling glanced at Rees's profile. From this angle it was impossible to see his expression.

'IT'S JUST NOT the sort of image this school should be projecting.' Veronique shrugged dismissively.

'James isn't some sort of freak — he's not trying to fool anyone. I don't understand how you can say he's tarnishing our reputation.'

Lena kept trying, but she knew it was useless. It was blatantly obvious that whatever she said, she didn't have the slightest chance.

'He is very controversial. Many of our parents don't approve of that sort of thing. They send their children to our school because we are above reproach. How would you feel if all of a sudden our school was seen as a haven for hippies, or communists, or Scientologists? If
Tom Cruise
's children were coming here, I would want to consult the board and the other parents first.'

Bullshit
, Lena thought.
You'd just put his name all through your prospectus and hawk it round Hollywood as fast as you could.

She kept her voice down for the sake of the people at the other tables in the café. 'Even so, how does what
James
does affect
my
position? I'm not a psychic. Surely it's not fair that I should be punished for something my boyfriend believes? It's like pushing me out of a Catholic school because I'm going out with a Protestant.'

Veronique swallowed a sip of chai latte, her wrinkled, overly made-up face bored. 'But he's not a Protestant, is he?'

'Actually he was brought up Church of England,' Lena said coldly.

Veronique shrugged and shook her head. 'This is something very different. You wouldn't have been dragged through the papers if he just went to church. That is the crux of it. It's all the adverse publicity that's got our clients worried. We can't have reporters turning up at our school and disturbing our children, or trying to interview them. Surely you see this.'

Lena couldn't speak; or at least, didn't think she ought to.

Veronique's expression didn't change. 'And by aligning yourself with him, you've just made it worse. You've proven to the parents that you think just like him. Do you think they'd want their children to be taught these way-out kind of ideas?'

'I'm
not
teaching them way-out ideas!'

'All that matters is what they
think
you're teaching.' She spread her hands and shrugged again. Lena noticed her long nails, like a cat's. 'I'm sorry, Lena. I'm going to have to be firm — as long as you continue to see this person, we cannot have you teaching at the school this year. I hope you won't take it too badly.'

Lena gazed at her steadily for several seconds. 'Is that what the parents think? Or what
you
think?'

'It is the same thing.'

Lena stood, leaving half of her coffee still in its cup. '
Merci beaucoup, madame
. The French always know what's in or out, don't they?'

As she coldly turned her back, she heard Veronique call gaily
after her, 'And you are Swiss, my dear —
you're
not supposed
to take sides.'

'
BITCH
. I HOPE she chokes on a frog.'

Paxton's hands had curled into claws. Lena looked too angry to even be upset. She scooted forward to the front of her seat, unable to sit back.

'How dare she dictate who I go out with? It's none of her damn business. It's not like
you're
the serial killer or anything.'

'So what are you going to do?'

Lena let out a long breath. 'It's the best job I've ever had. I can't very well go teaching at a high school without extra study. I'm not qualified. But I don't want to lose you, and I don't want to work for someone who would treat me like this. Sylvie reckons I should take Veronique to court for discrimination. But it's really not worth it.'

'Some people are so
stupid
. I shouldn't be surprised at it any more. Tell you what, I'll tell Burgess she's next. Bet she'll take it more seriously when people are ringing up asking how she feels about getting an axe through her head shortly.'

'You're a jerk, James,' said Lena. She gave a fleeting smile.

Paxton rested his face in her hair. 'At least Sylvie's on your side now. Is she the one with the long, straight brown hair?'

'Yeah. She's really lovely. I'll invite her to my leaving party.'

For almost an hour they sat in total silence, each of them thinking their separate thoughts and getting steadily more depressed until he made the excuse of having the washing to do and left. It fooled neither of them. They both knew he often rinsed his shirts out and whacked them in the dryer half an hour before work.

Paxton might as well have asked himself what
he
was going to do next. His life seemed stuck on repeat, waking up every day waiting for his guts to be ripped out like Prometheus. It wasn't any better here than back in Telford now; still causing embarrassment to his few friends and loved ones, for nothing but an unfortunate birth defect. Still playing the devil or the Messiah.

Back home, Paxton sat in front of the TV, flipping the top of his beer bottle up and onto the back of his hand, then tossing it up and catching it again. If he'd never gone hunting out the killer, he wouldn't be losing Lena. If he hadn't gone hunting a killer, he'd never have found her in the first place. Heads you lose, tails you lose again. But he couldn't let the crap in his life spill into hers. For the first time in his memory, he was going to do the responsible thing. The difference was this time he'd be walking away, not running away. It didn't make him feel a damn bit better. He felt his eyes burning.

A news bulletin came on, followed by an ad for
Cross
,
featuring Simon Burgess's smiling face. In a sudden rage, Paxton grabbed the
remote and punched it off. He kept staring at the screen for a long time.

WALKING TOWARDS THE water cooler for his third cup of the day, Stirling caught sight of Rees in front of it, looming over Little John Blundell. Together they looked, as ever, like cops from a skit show. He casually veered off course, aiming for the fax machine instead. With an empty plastic cup in his hand, it wasn't much of an act.

'Hey, Andy!'

His heart sinking, Stirling looked up. Blundell was waving him over, his face unusually cheery.

'Come here for a minute. We've had some new information from Curtis Webb. I had a hunch, and went with it. Turns out I was right.'

Stirling looked at him sharply. 'Oh yeah?'

'Something just didn't add up. I think it's his usual style — in all his previous escapades, he's got drunk in a bar and lashed out. He hasn't exactly been following women home. Tony agreed with me, so he suggested another stunt. And it worked beautifully.'

Stirling looked at Rees, but the big man didn't say anything.

'I don't know how Tony thought of it, but he suggested I try mentioning that Joel — that other guy from the radio — had told me all about the drugs. And blow me down if he didn't throw one hell of a wobbly!'

Now Rees smiled. 'He's in the music scene, he's always in and out of clubs, and that was a brand new Evo he was driving . . .'

'You're due a promotion, Tony, that's all I can say.'

'So he was a dealer.
That's
why he ran.'

'That's exactly why he ran, Andy. Though of course that doesn't exactly rule him out of the equation. For all we know, he could have got himself hopped up on P and done everyone on the list. He swears he was at a nightclub. However, it seems like our friendly nark Joel Moorside isn't so spotless either. God, you should have heard Curtis shouting.' He dipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a mini tape recorder, then thumbed play. For a few seconds Blundell's own voice could be heard on the tape, mentioning Moorside's name. Then Curtis cut in.

'That little bastard! He bought stuff off me every other week. He and Leash used to do it at home, when her boyfriend was out. He told me all about it, rubbing it in, the smart little prick. If anyone killed her, he did — she had a boyfriend and he didn't like it. He wanted her all to himself, just like everything else. Why don't you go and ask
him
where he was, the fuckin' arsehole?'

Click.

'Joel didn't mention that one, did he?' Rees's face looked quietly satisfied.

'No, he did not. And afterwards, Curtis made the case that Mr Moorside might have been rather jealous of Alicia's boyfriend. She lived with him.' He waved the tape recorder meaningfully.

'You might not want to play that too often,' said Stirling, trying to make it sound jokey. 'Don't want the leak getting hold of it.'

'No,' said Blundell, with a wry smile. The smile became real. 'But I know I can trust you and Tony.'

Stirling swallowed, hoping neither of them could hear it as loudly as he could. 'Bit worrying when you can't trust your friends, isn't it.' He couldn't help his gaze flicking towards Rees as he said it. He saw the blond detective's eyes widen, then as quickly narrow. Stirling turned away to fill his cup with water.

Paynter's whistle as he came through the door seemed to come from another planet.

'Morning, fellas. Have you heard the news?'

Blundell, Rees and Stirling stared at him.

'We've got some new stuff on Stuart Fletcher.'

'Who's that?' Blundell wanted to know. 'Charlotte Hiscocks's lover boy? I visited your Chinese café owner, Andy. Confirmed what you said, all right — he picked Fletcher out straight away. But not from six months ago.'

Stirling automatically glanced at Rees, startled. He saw Rees was doing the same to him.

'Did you never ask him that?' said Paynter. 'Last time he saw Fletcher, he wasn't with Charlotte — it was just before Helen McCowan was killed.'

Blundell was aghast. 'You're not serious!'

'But wait, there's more. The motel people said he went out the night she was killed. The bloke on the front desk distinctly remembers Fletcher walking down the driveway, because he thought it was strange a man would go for a walk on his own at that time of night. It was just before ten
—
it was already dark. And he didn't have a rental car.'

As the three of them continued to stare, Nielsen arrived, promptly catching her toe on a curling square of carpet that had come unstuck and spilling her coffee.

'Oh
bugger
. Bugger, bugger, bugger.' Paynter smiled, calling across the room. 'Why can't you just say fuck like the rest of us?'

Nielsen looked up, sidestepping the puddle. 'I can't. I have kids now. I've trained myself out of it.' She grabbed a handful of paper out of a printer and got on her knees, ineffectually blotting the floor.

'Hey, Vicky, did you hear this about Fletcher being seen in the café? Ciaran was just telling us.'

Nielsen straightened, tiredly hurling her takeaway cup and the soaking paper into the bin beside the cooler. 'That's right, Tony. Course, he could have been simply mourning the death of his girlfriend, in the place they always went to . . . But then again, he could have been looking for his next victim. He never told us he was there, did he?'

Stirling tried to keep his guilt from showing too strongly on his face.
Why
hadn't he asked? But then, Rees hadn't asked either, had he? That bit about staying at the motel and falling into a drunken coma had sounded just a little too pat as well. It stung that Paynter had shown them up. He always seemed a bit too
Starsky and Hutch
to be taken seriously. But what if Arthur was lying, throwing the blame on Fletcher, just to keep himself out of the equation?

'I
hate
cases like this!' cried Blundell, crossing his arms, unknowingly echoing Stirling's earlier thoughts. 'Now
I've
got another chief suspect as well. We're just going round and round in circles. I thought bloomin' forensics was supposed to take the donkey work out of policing. And what have
they
got for us?'

'This time we really can blame television,' said Rees. 'Criminals know more about cover-ups than we do. Forget about a psychic investigator — we should be hiring a scriptwriter to tell us how they bloody did it.'

'I'll say!' Paynter said.

'I don't think we should have got rid of James in the first place,' said Stirling, unable to stay quiet. 'It wasn't my idea to bring him in, but you can't argue, we need him even more now than we did before.'

'I was impressed,' Nielsen said, nodding.

'But he didn't name us either of our suspects, did he?' said Paynter, still smiling. 'Can't say he's been much use. For all we know,
he
did it, just to get involved in another murder case. He was probably getting bored — been too long since the last lot.'

Stirling stared at him in disgust. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

Rees's voice rumbled behind him. 'I still think it was Ray. He's pissed at Graeme for getting the promotion and wants him to look like an arsehole.'

Nielsen cracked up. 'Now
that
I could believe.'

Even Little John was grinning. 'You've never drunk with him in the Barracks, have you? Ray would never send out those free doughnuts, the tightarse. He always leaves before it's his round.'

Stirling tried to walk as casually as he could towards his office, but Rees kept pace easily, standing close.

'Have you told anyone your suspicions about me?' he asked quietly.

Stirling stopped and looked him in the eye. 'No.'

'Thanks, mate. I appreciate that.' Rees held his gaze for a moment or two longer, then turned and walked away.

'You bastard, Tony,' Stirling said softly.