DARK TIMES
A Mariska Masekova/Dave Lewis
Crime Novel
By
S.D. GRIPTON
©Sally Dillon-Snape and Dennis Snape
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Published by Smashwords.
This novel is from our imagination and none of the characters reflect real people past or present.
It is dedicated to Kieran, Laura and William
May you all forever read.
Front cover by Katie Spencer
katiejanespencer.blogspot.com
Other Crime Novels By S.D. Gripton
Oklahoma Blue
Run Money
City Of Sinners
Streets Of Filth
Where No Crows Fly
CHAPTER 1
Nausea. Dark. Pain.
He was feeling them all. His chest heaved, he wanted to be sick, but there was nothing in his stomach to retch up. It was very dark and he couldn't understand why, it should be daylight, it couldn't be night. And his head hurt. It hurt terribly. Migraine hurt, migraine headache. Too painful to open his eyes. Pain. Dark. Nausea.
Wet.
Suddenly he was wet, water over his head. Was he drowning? Had he fallen into his bath, into a river, a stream, an ocean? He was gasping; something was jammed in his mouth, something hard, solid. Jammed. He couldn't breathe; he was drowning, falling, retching. He had to open his eye; his life depended upon it. Open his eyes. Open.
He opened his left eye.
Someone was looming over him, a huge someone, a giant, a vast scary presence. He glared up at the giant with his one open eye. It was an ogress. A huge monster of a woman, a female with wild red hair. She lifted something up, something shiny, something metal. She was going to hit him with it; she was going to smash his skull. She was going to kill him.
Water hit him with considerable force. Full in his emotionless face. His one eye closed rapidly, he wanted to curl up into a ball, except, except...
…he was already in a ball
“Wake up!” the ogress shouted. “Wake up you stupid, drunken bastard. Wake up.”
He began to cry. Tears mixed with the water that ran from his hair, down his face, off his chin, onto his chest.
“Wake up! Open your eyes.”
The noise was tremendous, echoing in his head, making it hurt more than ever, making him cry more, hurting him. He couldn't open his eyes; couldn't the ogress understand that simple fact? He couldn't do it. The pain was too great. Too great.
More water landed on him, once again flush into his face. He moaned and tried to reach out to protect himself but his arms were cramped, solid, he was made of concrete. He could not move. He would die here, wherever here was. His life was surely over.
“Open your eyes!”
The order was so loud, so magisterial, so authoritative that both his eyes opened, if only slightly. Light hurt him; the ogress still towered above. He blinked to get water out of his eyes and rolled over on to his right side.
He was tightly curled and naked, he realised, and his right thumb was jammed in his mouth. He removed his thumb with a loud plop; as if he were loathe to set it free. He unwound his legs and stretched them out, rolled over on to his back, brought his arms down to lay them by his sides. His head still throbbed, the light still caused him pain, but his eyes were now fully open and he stared up at his housekeeper, Mariska, a girl with a foreign-sounding name but with immaculate English credentials. Private girl’s school, University educated, unable to get employment in the current recession, cleaning and cooking for him in the meantime, providing some income for herself and free accommodation. She lived in his basement in some comfort. No bills to pay, fully furnished, her own entrance, no restrictions on coming and going, or on any guests she wished to invite. He barely knew she lived there though, so quiet was she.
“Mariska,” he whispered.
“What do you think you are doing, lying there, curled up, naked, thumb in your mouth? I thought you were supposed to be getting better.”
“I am.”
“Doesn't look like it to me. Get up, cover yourself with something.”
“Where am I?”
“You are lying on your bedroom floor, behind a wardrobe, which you slid away from the wall so you could get behind it. That's where I found you almost one hour ago. It has taken me that long to bring you round. The empty whisky bottle is on the floor over there.”
She pointed to her left.
He didn't need to look; he knew the bottle would be there. There would be another somewhere, too. He could taste the poisonous alcohol in his mouth, the furring on his tongue. He was supposed to be recovering. Getting better. As if he could ever get better. Better than what, anyway? Better than the way his life was before it all happened? Better than that? Impossible. It might be better than last week maybe, but even that was difficult to quantify.
“Your people have phoned. They are visiting at noon.”
His people. What did she mean? His people?
“That is in forty-three minutes time,” Mariska said. “You should be ready to meet them.”
His people? He was struggling with that. His people. Except the cogs of his brain began clicking into place. Oh, he thought. His people. He tried to roll over on to his side, to climb to his feet and failed.
“Mariska,” he whispered.
“What did I tell you the last time? I said if you ever got in this state again, you would have to get yourself out of it. I will not help you. You are either ready for the visit of your people or you are not. Either they will take you back or they won't. It doesn't matter to me. I have done enough to help. I do no more. Get up. Get showered, dressed, get ready for your meeting.”
Without looking, without actually knowing, he knew she had left the room, though she didn't close the door behind her. The carpet on which he lay was soaked, the result of the water Mariska had thrown over him. He sighed. His people were coming. Did he care? Did he want to continue in his job? Did it matter? He pushed down on his hands and tried to push himself up, but his arms were too weak, there was no strength in them at all. He began to cry again. His life was over; he was done for. He pushed himself feet-first from behind the large, brown-wood wardrobe, on his back across the bedroom floor until he touched his double bed, used only for single sleeping. He screwed himself round, grabbed his mattress and pulled himself up to his knees. His head spun, nausea rose up in him again and pain exploded in his brain. Tears rolled down his face. He dropped his face on to his duvet and attempted to lift himself to his feet. It was like lifting the Colossus of Rhodes. Up and up he came, his legs at first wobbly, then locked. Up to his full height of six-feet exactly, or one-point-eight-two-metres in the new age, which he didn't quite understand. A full-length mirror faced him and his reflection was disgraceful. It showed a tall, thin man, where once had stood a tall, broad-shouldered man; it showed a sad, long face, where once it had been round and jolly; a sunken chest, narrow waist, saggy bollocks, limp dick. He looked exactly the same as he had looked the last time he'd reflected upon himself in the mirror. He couldn't understand why he wasn't dead. He rarely ate, except when Mariska forced something down him, he rarely exercised any longer; he just drank and sat around, staring at the pictures on a television screen, never understanding what was supposed to be happening. People singing and dancing, what was that all about? Other people in a house, bickering? In a jungle? Crap. Utter crap. The lot of it. He didn't know why he still had a television.
He staggered across his bedroom, into his en-suite bathroom, something he'd paid to have installed years ago, in another life, another age. He skidded and slipped on the tiled floor and collapsed into his shower, sliding the door closed with his right foot, stretching up to turn on the water, which came out with force and extreme cold. He gasped, sucking in air with hurtful lungsful. Why did he survive? Why did he bother? Why couldn't he just lie down and die? His Granddad had done it. Laid down and died, not wanting to be part of the history of the world any longer. He should do it. He could do it. He could die.
The water pounded down on his head and body.
* * * * * *
“You've lost more weight, Dave,”
“A bit.”
“You don't look much recovered to me.”
“I'm feeling a little better, sir.”
“It's been almost a year.”
Almost a year. A bloody year. Surely not. A year since his whole world crashed down on him. A year since...
“I don't think you will ever be coming back, Dave, do you?”
“I would like to come back, sir. I really would.”
Why did he say that? He didn't want to go back to work.
“You will never be up to it, I'm afraid. You should retire. You'd get a fairly good pension, sympathetic treatment.”
“I'd die, sir.”
“You're dying anyway, David. You've given up.”
“No, sir. I am trying.”
“Not hard enough, I'm afraid. You are still drinking. I can smell it from here.”
“Only occasionally, sir. Had a bad day yesterday.”
“You have a lot of bad days. I've been talking to Mariska. Without her, you really would be finished.”
Dave said nothing; he just dropped his head and fought back the desire to cry again.
“I'm going to send you to Dr. Hughes, the psychiatrist. I'll get her to rubber-stamp your retirement, then you can get on with your life, whatever kind of life it may be.”
“I want to come back, sir.”
There. He'd said it again. He must want to go back, mustn't he?
“Not in the state you are in. You are never going to recover. Almost a year and you haven't moved on by one single day. You're wasted, Dave, lost, done for. You let it get to you.”
“It was my family."
“I know it was.”
There was silence in David Lewis's lounge as the two men sat and looked at each other. One with clothes that were far too big for him, trousers hanging loosely on hips that were no longer there, a shirt hanging on shoulders than didn't exist, hair uncombed and slightly damp; the other immaculate in his Police Superintendent's uniform, with buttons brightly polished, creases sharp enough to shave with, black shoes that showed bright reflections, hair cut short and neat.
“I've made an appointment for you to see Sally tomorrow, 2 pm, give you time to rise and shine. At the medical centre. Don't be late. Turn up, not like last time. Last chance.”
* * * * * *
“Come in, David.”
He rose from the chair where he sat in the waiting room, only one chair, no receptionist, all appointments strictly by order, no need for frills, a blue office door with Dr. S. Hughes (MRCPsych) embossed in white on black plastic, a different door in and out so police officers who were her patients never met. Go and see Sally that was the order. Many others had received the same order before being retired from the Force. Sally was who they came to see now, but before her it had been James, before him, who knew, someone.
“Sit down.”
Dave sat on the chair in front of Sally's desk, behind which she sat. She peaked her fingers and leaned her chin on them as she stared at him, before sitting upright and pulling a pad of paper towards her.
“New clothes?”
“Yes.”
He felt comfortable in his new jeans, his grey sweater, his black jacket, new trainers.
“You have lost more weight, though.”
“A bit, yes.”
“You're not eating properly.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“When your housekeeper cooks for you?”
Dave Lewis didn't reply. Sally scribbled on her pad.
“Other than that, how has your life been progressing, in general?”
“Better.”
It had been better, last night, with Mariska cooking him a meal and insisting he eat it, after which she searched the house for whisky and found none. He had none in the house, which was a bit of a pain, though he slept well. Peacefully, for a change. He had thought of sneaking out and buying some alcohol, but he knew Mariska would hear him leaving and cause a scene in the street. She'd done it before, embarrassing him in front of his neighbours. Effective control. She was good at it. So he slept instead.
He awakened early, refreshed. And hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so hungry. By the time he made it down to the kitchen, Mariska was already there, making toast, brewing tea, smiling at him, her red hair tied back, her face free of make-up, dressed in an ill-fitting tracksuit, bare feet.
“Toast?” he asked, as he sat.
“You want something else; you can have it when we come back.”
“From where?”
“From our run.”
“I can't run.”
“Yes, you can. Today, you must. You must be ready for this afternoon, your appointment with Sally, otherwise they will get rid of you, they will pension you off. And I won't be able to stay if they do that, you will be unbearable.”
“I'm not unbearable now?”
“Yes. Yes, you are, but with no hope left in your life you will be worse.”
“I can be worse?”
“I think you can. Eat your toast. Drink your tea. I will meet you outside in thirty-minutes.”
They only jogged fifty-yards and he was breathless, so they walked through the park, occasionally jogging a few steps, the pair of them together, the tall thin man and the red-haired beauty, other joggers smiling at them, knowing a man who cannot run, just doing it for his younger girlfriend.
Never assume.
“You need some clothes that fit.”
“I know.”
“I'll go and get a pair of jeans, a shirt, a jacket. You should be okay.”
“Thanks.”
* * * * * *
Sally's office was claustrophobic, low light, no windows, little colour.
“Tell me what you see when you close your eyes at night.”
“Fire.”
There was no hesitation in his answer.
Sally pulled a file towards her and opened it. She studied the pages, turning them slowly.
“You have never been involved in a serious fire,” she said. “You've been shot at, buried alive, dragged along the street by a car, beaten, but you have never been in a fire. Why would you see that when you close your eyes?”
“You know why.”
“No I don't. There is no reason to see fire. It is not your memory. It is someone else's memory. Not yours. Why would you want to see it?”
Dave shrugged.
“Not a good enough answer, I'm afraid. I am trying to assess whether you can continue your career or not. False memories can cause all kinds of problems.”
“It's not a memory.”
“You know that?”
“Of course I know that.”
Sally scribbled on her pad.
“Then why do you see it when you close your eyes?”
“I feel their pain.”
“You don't feel their pain, David, you see fire, but it's not your fire and not your pain. Stop seeing it, stop feeling it.”
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can. You are seeing something you have never experienced, you are making it up, something that is not in your brain, not in your memory, and it is not part of you. You can stop it, but if you can't you will go mad, and if you go mad you can't be a police officer.”
Sally smiled. Dave didn't notice.
“I can't get past their deaths, can't forget them.”
“No-one expects you to forget them. No-one wants that, they were part of your life for some years, but the fire wasn't your fire, their pain is not your pain. You have your own pain, the pain of loss, the pain of someone being ripped away from you, but you must also face the fact that they had already gone, David. Your wife and daughter had already left you for someone else. They had restraining orders out against you. They wanted no contact. They were gone.”
“But now they are gone forever.”
“Yes, they are.”
“There is no going back for them, no chance they might change their minds.”
Sally scribbled on her pad.
“There is cognitive thought there, David. You are aware they went but are hurt because their deaths took away your right to challenge their right to leave.”
He shrugged again.
“Don't shrug at me, David, speak, that is what you are here to do.”
He waved a hand around, anger rising in him.
“Okay, Sally, you are right. I always thought I could win them back, I always thought they would come back, through all the restraints on me, and everything else. I always thought we would be together again, forever. I didn't see that a man's wife would burn down a house with my family inside.”
“It wasn't your family, David, not when they died. They had been gone for almost two years; she was going to marry Mr. Tilson the moment his divorce was finalised. He was going to be a father figure to your daughter.”
“He was never going to be her father.”
“I never said that. He was going to be a father figure to her because you would not living with them.”
“Why was there no hint that she would do what she did?”
“Excellent change of tack of your questions, David. Your instincts are still intact. Mrs. Tilson had never committed an offence in her life. She'd never caused a moment of trouble to anyone. No one could have seen it coming.”
“But he left her, Terry Tilson, said she was a mad cow.”
“Your wife said you were violent and reckless when she took out the restraining order. Did you ever see yourself as either of those?”
“Of course not.”
“People say things when they are angry or want something.”
“Untrue things, but it was true what he said about her. She was a mad cow. She set fire to a house with three people in it.”
“Yes she did, and she was sentenced by the Courts for her offence.”
“It wasn't enough.”
“Vengeance is never enough to those who desire it. Is that what you want, David? Vengeance?”
“Yes.”
He said it quietly the first time. Then he shouted it.
“Yes!”
Sally scribbled on her pad again.
One hour-fifteen-minutes later, Dave Lewis stepped out through a dark green door. Who knew who was waiting to come in through the blue one?
Dr. Hughes' report to his superiors would follow.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER 2
Another waiting room, another day. Eight days on from the last time he'd sat in one, except this one had a receptionist, or secretary, or whatever she called herself, blonde, slim, forties; there was carpet on the floor, flowers on her desk. Dave Lewis couldn't help himself noticing, he still retained his observance abilities; situations and places had always been interesting to him. Mildly interesting.
He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, new shoes and a tie, all of which Mariska had purchased for him, with his own money of course, ready for this meeting. This is the big one, she'd said, before she'd pushed him out of his front door and into a waiting cab. This is the one that counts. Either you go back to work or you don't. Do not mess it up, you need the job.
Did he?
He wasn't sure. What was the point of being a detective when he hadn't seen the crime coming that killed his wife and child? No one saw it coming, he'd been told. But he'd been the best, one of kind, a great detective, dedicated, clever, good deductive powers and people skills. And he'd never seen it coming. Tilson's wife setting fire to the house where he'd lived with Dave's wife and daughter. Ex-wife, about to be divorced wife, daughter never ex, but dead anyway. In the fire. Petrol through the letter box, followed by rags and ignition, three a.m. everyone asleep, house going up like a firecracker, whoosh, just like that, three dead, engulfed in flame and smoke. Cause of death? Inhalation of smoke, not to mention being burned to a cinder. Daughter Melanie, Mel, eleven, wife Claire, thirty-seven, bastard Terry, who cared about his age? nutter Kathleen, who should be dead by now. Fifteen years, all she got, legal argument about the state of her mind. State of her mind? Dave knew the state of her mind; mean, jealous, deadly, vengeful, marriage over, awaiting divorce. Cow.
There was a buzz on the desk of the receptionist and she picked up a phone and whispered into it. Phyllis, was that her name? Phil? Who cared?
“You can go in, Detective Lewis,” she said, laying down the phone.
Dave heaved himself from a chair and meandered towards a closed door that had a name on it he couldn't even be bothered reading. He knocked and pushed it open. Why was he here? Why was he bothering? They were never going to let him stay, his career was over.
There were three of them, two men in uniform and a woman, God only knew who she was, secretary, someone to record his ramblings. He waited to be invited to sit, then he did.
Superintendent Edward Manse, the officer who'd visited him at home just over a week ago, read a file that lay on the table in front of him. What the hell are you reading? Dave thought. What is it about my life you don't already know? Come on, man, get it over with.
Manse looked up.
“Thank you for coming, David,” he said.
Dave Lewis said nothing, he simply sat with his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead. Thank you for coming, he thought. I had a choice? What would have happened if I hadn't come, would I have just received a letter telling me what I am going to hear today? No job. Thank you for coming. Fuck off.
“We have a report from Dr. Sally Hughes, who you saw you just over a week ago.”
The three of them stared down at a file lying in front of them.
You haven't read it yet? Dave thought. You have been in receipt of it for at least twenty-four hours and only now did you think of reading it? Get on with it. I can be in the pub in no time. Pub. He hadn't been in a pub for months. He did all his drinking at home, except Mariska wouldn't allow any alcohol into the house at the moment, this close to his interview, it was like living with a jailer, but he was sleeping better, his appetite had picked up and his thoughts were more lucid. Get the hell on with it.
“You have been off work for almost one year.”
It was the woman who spoke, whoever she was, and what did it matter to her, anyway? Keep your nose out of my affairs, woman.
“Yes.”
“And have retained the pay and conditions of a Detective Inspector.”
“Yes.”
Yes. Yes. So when you pension me off, I get it based on an Inspector's pay. Get the hell on with it, let's talk figures.
“How do you think your interview went with Dr. Hughes?”
He blinked. What the hell did it have to do with her? Why should he explain anything to her? Who the hell was she? Did his career rely on what he said to her? Fuck you, lady.
“She was rough with me.”
“Because when she has been kind to you, you have failed to respond.”
It was Manse who spoke this time.
How do you know? Were you there? Were you listening at the keyhole? Wouldn't put it past you.
Dave said nothing.
“You have nothing to say.”
If I'd had anything to say, I would have said it.
“She was rough with me, made me realise what had happened to me and to my family, made me think about my future, what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.”
I want to get drunk and make love to Mariska, that's what I want to do. Neither of which seems to be forthcoming.
“The talk seems to have worked.” Manse again. “In the report we have in front of us she recommends that you should be allowed to return to work.”
Dave's eyes opened wide.
Had he heard properly? Was it true, or were they taking the piss?
Allowed to return to work? Is that what she'd said?
“On reduced duties, of course,”
It was the bloody woman again. Reduced duties, what did that mean? Handing out traffic tickets? Stuff that. Sitting at a desk, shuffling paper? Stuff that, too.
“You can't return as a Detective Inspector,” Manse said.
Ah, that was it, a demotion, less money, less pension should they get rid of him later. My life is messed up enough without you lot adding to it.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, if you choose to return, Dr. Hughes recommends a three-month trial period at the reduced rank of Detective Constable.”
“On Detective Constable's pay?”
His brain was working a little bit, he was asking questions, he was getting back into the game. Anger was also growing. They wanted him to agree to a demotion, less pay, less pension.
“Yes.”
“And how would that affect my pension, should I not be able to continue, following my three-month trial period, or the failure to complete it?”
The two uniforms and the woman looked one to the other.
Question too bloody difficult for you, is it? Do you want me to repeat it? It's quite simple, do I retire on an Inspector's pension or a Constable's.
“We are prepared...”
God, she had a vicar's wife's tone, you could just hear her giving a sermon, or reading it for her vicar husband, believing every haranguing word.
“... .prepared to allow you to retire on an Inspector's pension if you fail to see through, to a completion of, your trial period. If you are still with us after that point, we will have further meetings to discuss it.”
What's to discuss? I am not going to last three-months, you know it, I know it. Three hours, maybe, three days, there's a chance, but three-months? No chance. Why not let me go now? Let me get on with killing myself.
He said nothing.
“Have you nothing to say?” Manse asked.
Why was the other uniform there? He hadn't said a word. Had nothing to do today? At a loose end? Want to sit in on this meeting, sad little case, good cop to broken man, should we keep him?
“As long as I can still retire on an Inspector's pay.”
“David,” Manse said, almost gently, “we are trying to help you in both directions here. We could have ignored Dr. Hughes' report and just retired you off, but she has recommended twelve-weeks and we are going to give them to you. From a personal point of view, I wish you well, but feel you will fail. I don't think you are ready or will ever be ready. But my colleagues think you should be given a chance and want to go along with the report. I really wish you well, and we don't want to punish you by downgrading your pension. We will keep it at its current level for the time being, and see how it goes. How does that sound to you?”
It sounds like a crock of shit, you two-faced bastard. It was because of people like you that I tried so hard when I was an Inspector. I loved rubbing your faces in it, it was what the job was for. Of course, Julia didn't see that way, didn't like it, that attitude, the ex Julia, the dead Julia, the burned Julia, the-left-me-for-Tilson Julia. She never thought I should have worked so hard. Other officers don't work as hard as you, she'd carp. Other officers? Who cared what they did?
“Will you come back on that basis?”
Dave shifted in his seat. He wanted a drink. He wanted to die, he wanted to be left alone to die. Why wouldn't they let him do that? Why couldn't they leave him alone?
“Yes, ma'am, I will.”
Why had he said that? He didn't want to come back at all, especially not as a dumb Constable, on no pay, obeying everyone else's orders. Say no, you weak bastard. Say no, tell them to shove it. Now, before anyone reaches out a hand.
Manse reached out with a hand, rising from his seat, smiling.
“Best of luck, Dave.”
Don't take it, remain sitting, ignore him. Ignore him.
“Thank you, sir,” Dave said, as he took the hand and shook it.
No one else offered a hand so he considered himself dismissed. He brushed down his new suit and turned to leave.
“Monday, then,” the woman said. “Report to Detective Sergeant Holland at 9 am at C.I.D.”
Tell her to shove it. Come on you coward, tell her.
“Yes, Ma'am.”
They allowed him to leave. Outside the room was just a corridor, no Phyllis, no smiling face, nobody, just a corridor, stairs. Outside, on the pavement, Mariska waited for him. There was no bloody escape from her, she kept him on a tighter rein than a dangerous dog.
“Well?” she said, as she linked his left arm.
“Three-month trial.”
She jumped with glee. In the bloody street, with people looking on. Like a schoolgirl just being told she'd passed an exam.
“Stop it.”
“Don't be silly, it's exciting. Three years I've been living in your cellar and this is the most exciting news you've ever had. The most positive anyway.”
She giggled and danced.
“Cease,”
“I'll treat you to a meal. Give me some money.”
He stopped and looked at her, pulling her to a halt.
“Well,” she said, with a grin. “You don't pay me enough for me to treat you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, very sure.”
He shook his head. Jesus, how had his life come to this. Being bossed around by a kid, being given three-month’s trial by people who couldn't solve a crime if their lives depended upon it.
Who the hell was Detective Sergeant Holland?
* * * * * *
Mariska had got his car up-to-date. It had been serviced, taxed, insured, cleaned inside and out, new tyres, broken lights repaired. It even looked like a car again. Of course, she didn't let him drive it, far too early in his recovery to allow him to wander around the City on his own behind a wheel.
He argued with her.
And lost, as he almost always did. She was wonderful in an argument, simply stonewalled everything he said, every point he made. She ignored him. She was right, he was wrong. End of story.
She'd spent the weekend jogging him around the park, feeding him, exercising him, making sure he got enough rest. On the one occasion he'd tried to creep out of the house, minutes after midnight, looking for booze; she'd been there, waiting, dressed in a tracksuit, arms folded. She didn't say a word, he just turned and re-entered the house. And there had been no alcohol. Not a single glass.
On the day he began working again, she drove him to work.
“When will you be home?”
“I'll be lucky to make it to lunchtime.”
“Don't be so pessimistic. Will it be a full day, home at five, say?”
“It will be a miracle it I last that long.”
“I'll have dinner ready.”
She drove off without saying goodbye, good luck or anything else.
What the hell am I doing here? Am I completely nuts? I don't want to do this? Do I? He stared up at the front of the Police Station. He used to be known here, people used to say hello to him, smile at him, speak to him, discuss things with him. Now? He had no idea. He could always walk away, go for a drink. Mariska would kill him though.
A woman exited the building. Tall, slim, short blonde hair, dark glasses, black shoes, dark suit, white blouse open at the neck. She skipped down the three steps that led up to the doors and crossed over to where he stood.
“Dave Lewis?”
He blinked. Who the hell was this woman? What did she want with him? Why was she even speaking to him? Leave me alone, go away.
“Yes.”
She held out her right hand.
“Detective Sergeant Holland. Chrissie.”
Dave looked at the hand, he looked at her mostly make-up free face, her finely honed cheekbones, her dark glasses. Detective Sergeant? He didn't know her. He was going to work for her? Was that fair, just? Ignore the hand. Walk away.
He took the hand in a limp grip, but said nothing.
Chrissie smiled. “Jeez, they told me, people who knew you, that you were a sagacious sort of guy, outgoing, friendly.”
“I changed.”
Her smile disappeared.
“I guess you did. You want to come in with me, or are you going to walk away. You look like you are ready to walk. Are you going to give up? Not even try?”
Once again he stared at her. He realized that he was still holding her hand and let it go. How could he answer? Should he tell the truth, that he didn't want to be here? That he didn't want to go back to work? He wasn't ready. He would never be ready.
“I don't know.”
“Tell you what, come on in, have a coffee. You like coffee?”
“My housekeeper allows me to drink coffee.”
She cocked her head as if she hadn't heard properly.
“Your housekeeper?”
“She looks after me.”
“Oh. Okay, then, come and have a coffee.”
She took hold of his left arm, just above the elbow, and walked him up the steps, into the Station. Inside, a uniformed Sergeant nodded, but didn't speak, Chrissie tapped in a security code on a door, opened it and took Dave in, along the corridor, up some stairs, steps he had once known well, fourteen in total, he'd counted them years ago, when he'd first climbed them. He turned right at the top of the stairs automatically, Chrissie had no need to steer him, but his first instinct was to step into his Inspector's office, his name no longer on the door, someone called Wantage in there now, never heard of him, past that one, into the general office, where only two officers sat at desks. One he knew, Sammy Tate, been a Detective Constable since forever, the other he didn't, tall guy, young, dark hair, brown eyes, dressed up to the nines, looking like a model, someone off the television. Chrissie let go of Dave's arm. He stood in the room, five desks, five computers, half-a-dozen chairs, one window, high, lots of artificial light. Some things never change.
Sammy climbed from his chair, came forward, smiling, holding out a hand.
“Dave, welcome back. How are you doing?”
How am I doing? I'm a fucking wreck. How do you think I'm doing, you moron? I'm a wasted shell.
“Okay, Sammy, I'm doing okay.”
“Good man, good man.”
Slaps on shoulders, hugs, Sammy the life and soul of whatever party was going on, a bundle of friendly fun. For a cop. Chrissie smiling, watching Dave integrating, feeling good about it, about him. It was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.
“Eric Bishman,” the other officer said. “Erky.”
Another hand, another handshake, another smile.
I'm going to die. I can't take all this, this friendliness, this camaraderie. I haven't missed it at all, when I was a boss I was always regarded as cold, distant, and I've only changed for the worse.
“Coffee.”
Dave turned to look at Chrissie. She was holding a mug, his Dave mug, three-quarters full of black coffee. He stared at the mug. Jesus.
“It's your old mug.”
No fucking kidding.
“Thanks.”
He took it, held it in both his hands, the warmth flowing through him, making him feel mildly better. He looked at the three faces, Sammy with his smile, Erky serious, posing, as if he were checking himself in a mirror, Chrissie the concerned mother, just a kid, barely thirty, driven, could see it in her face. He tried a smile and had no idea if it worked or not.
“Thanks for the welcome.”
“You are very welcome, Dave,” Chrissie said. “Really, it's great you're back. Take a couple of days, find your feet, drink some coffee, bring yourself up-to-date on current cases, chat to the boys. We're all here for you.”
It was like being spoken to by a Social Worker, the woman at his interview. We're all here for you. What the hell did that mean? Where else were they going to be? It was where they worked, where they came every day to investigate crime. Hopefully.
“Thanks.”
He sipped his coffee. It was hot, burned his tongue.
“Your desk,” Chrissie said, pointing to a completely clear, and clean, desk.
Dave stared. It had a phone, a computer monitor, an old jam jar with pens and pencils in, a chair that you could swivel round and lean back on. In his old office he'd had a big upright leather one that he felt gave him a certain demeanour of leadership, power. He'd liked that chair.
“Thanks.”
“Don't keep thanking me all the time, Dave. Just come back to yourself, be the copper you were before, well...before, you know what I mean, prove to the bastards upstairs that you can do it again, be brilliant again. We all look up to you, even those of us who didn't know you personally, we knew your reputation, your abilities, the way you looked after your team.”
He looked at her and shook his head.
“That really was before, Sarge. Back before time began.”
“Well,” Chrissie said, as she put her hands on her hips, “you're back, so you must have impressed somebody.”
She smiled.
Dave felt himself smiling, at least he thought he was.
Who the hell had he impressed? The psychiatrist? Must have been. Jeez. Whoever impresses psychiatrists? Ever.
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
He moved around her and sat in the chair behind his desk. He looked up at the three faces looking down at him, different expressions on each. Sammy with his smile, Erky with his deviousness, his worry about how he looked, Chrissie with hope, looking like an angel come down from heaven, trying to convert the atheist.
“Good man, Dave,” she said. “Sammy, get him some files so he can see what's happening on our patch.”
“Sure thing, Sarge.”
Sammy moved away, along with Erky, who went back to his own desk; Chrissie leaning over to pat his hand before she returned to her small office, leaving the door open, just enough room inside for a person, a desk and a cabinet, nothing to write home about, except for someone as ambitious as Detective Sergeant Chrissie. Sammy dropped at least a dozen files onto his desk.
“Ongoing cases,” he said. “And some solved ones, to get you back into the swing. Dave, it really is nice to have you back.”
Dave looked at a smiling face.
“Thanks, Sammy. I'll get used to it.”
Will I? Will I ever get used to it? Do I ever want to get used to it? What the hell am I doing here, a fraud, an impostor, a shell, empty of knowledge or incentive? Should I just call it a day? Looking around at the other faces, he realized that that was what they expected him to do. To walk. To give up. He flicked open the first file, slid closer in on his chair and gave the information his utmost attention. A situation grabbed his attention immediately. A house had been broken into, the burglar had been disturbed, the burglar had hit out at his intended victim, knocking him down and knocking him out. The victim was seventy-one years of age. A cowardly, dastardly attack.
The kind of attack Clive Allen Pendel would carry out.
Dave leaned back in his chair.
Where the hell had that name come from? Clive Allen Pendel, a burglar who specialised in robbing the elderly and who attacked them whenever he was disturbed. Clive was a fat, bald, tattooed useless greedy shit. Dave lifted the file and waved it round.
“Clive Allen Pendel,” he said.
“What?” Chrissie asked, as she rose from her chair in her office and approached his desk in a rush.
“This burglary and attack. It reminds me of guy called Clive Allen Pendel. His M.O.”
Chrissie took the file from him, opened it and scanned the details of the crime. She looked at Dave.
“You know him?”
“Known him for years. Targets the elderly, attacks them if he's disturbed. If he's not locked up, it's him.”
Chrissie turned pages of the file she held.
“He's not banged up.”
“It's him.”
Chrissie smiled.
“Jeezus, it didn't take you long to get back into your act.”
“It's not an act.”
“No, sorry, Dave, of course not. I didn't mean it that way. What I meant...”
“I know what you meant.”
Dave didn't smile. He didn't feel like smiling, he'd almost forgotten how. And was glad of it. All the bloody smiling that goes on in the world, most of it false, smiling to cover sins, to cover lies, to cover backstabbing. He hated people who smiled all the time. Didn't used to hate it, of course. With Julia, with Melanie, he smiled all the time. No need to smile now.
“Sammy, Eric, go and see this Clive Pendel, see what he's got to say for himself.”
She gripped the file in her left hand.
“Thanks, Dave.”
Yeah, fine.
“Yeah. Sure. It's okay.”
Sammy strode to his desk, tapped in something on his computer and said, “I've got his address. Clive Allen Pendel. Come on, Erk.”
How many names did the bloody model have? Eric, Erky, Erk? How many did he want or need? The film star moved languorously and followed Sammy like a trail follows a snail.
“You did good, Dave.”
What kind of English was that? You did good? You did well, that would have been acceptable, although saying nothing would have been better. Chrissie went back to her office, taking the file with her, tapping on her keyboard, staring at the monitor, then at Dave. He looked through more files, drank his coffee. His phone rang. Not any phone, not one at another desk, not the one in Chrissie's office, but his. He stared at it before answering.
“C.I.D.” he said.
“It's me.”
Mariska
Who else?
“What?”
“Is that any way to speak to me?”
“I'm at work.”
“I know you are, and you have been there for almost one hour and I am checking on you, seeing how you are, how you are bearing up, back in the bosom of your colleagues.”
She exhausted him. Totally. Her energy, her verve, her youth, they were all a curse to him. Maybe it was time to get rid of her, tell her he no longer needed her. I'm back at work, doing okay.
“I'm okay.”
“See,” she said, with youthful enthusiasm, as if to prove Dave correct. “I said you could do it. I knew you would. See you later.”
And she was gone.
“'Bye,” he said, into a dead phone.
“Your housekeeper?”
Dave looked up. Chrissie was standing at his desk. What's it got to do with you? Why are you sticking your nose in? Tell her nothing, nothing.
“Yes.”
“Checking up?”
“Yes.”
“She must care.”
And if she does, I ask again, what has it got to do with you? And I don't know if she cares, she just seems to have a very strong mothering instinct. She helps.
“Suppose.”
“She must be a comfort.”
Yeah, like a large scotch, or even a bottle of it or more. That's the comfort I understand. She's not like that.
Dave shrugged.
“That was a brilliant get, Dave. Clive Pendel. No-one fingered him here.”
Dave shrugged again.
Chrissie stared a while, then returned to her office, saying over her right shoulder, “Oh, by the way, the other Detectives are Thomas Lane and Peter Lindcroft, the D.I. is Elliot Wantage, you should see them all today.”
“Good.”
Dave went back to his files.
Bloody woman.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER 3
Three cups of coffee later, Chrissie called for him.
“Bring your chair, Dave, and let's have a chat.”
Not another bloody chat. Jesus, I have been chatting to people for a year now, and none of it has done any good. Is this the time to leave, to just put my head around the door and say, See you? Is it?
He dragged his chair across the office and placed it in front of Chris's desk. She glanced at her watch.
“We're going in to see the Boss in half-an-hour and I want to make sure there are no issues before we go in. Nothing to embarrass either of us.”
Nothing to embarrass you, you mean? You've taken me on to further your career, to be the one who brought Dave Lewis back into the fold, but it's risky. I might walk, that would upset your plan. I might shout at someone I shouldn't shout at, that wouldn't go down well at all. Punch someone, you are back on the beat. Kill someone, career over. And I could get away with killing someone, the balance of my mind being really off centre.
“Woe betide embarrassment.”
“Don't be cute, Dave, I am only trying to help. We all are.”
I don't need your help, or anyone else's, come to that.
“Sorry.”
“Okay. The Boss won't want to know how you are doing, you haven't been back long enough, but he will be interested that you found Clive Pendel almost immediately. It indicates your police brain is still working, that there is still knowledge there.”
“I don't know how he could have been missed.”
“There have been a lot of changes since...since you went, Dave. Lots.”
There had been a stink, he remembered. He'd been warning everyone about Kathleen Mary Tilson, saying she wasn't right in the head, even though she had done nothing wrong, had never been aggressive, never committed a crime. It was just a feeling. Something not right. Maybe some people had had their arses kicked. He hadn't taken any notice, just like no one else had.
“He's a good guy, Wantage.”
“Who?”
“The D.I. Elliot Wantage.”
“Oh.”
“He's going to see the both of us, together, see how we're getting on, see if I've got anything to say.”
“Have you?”
“What, got something to say?”
“Yes.”
“I have. I'm going to tell him that you're after his job.”
She smiled.
“I had his job.”
“Well, I'll tell him you are on your way back.”
“That'll impress him.”
Chrissie laughed. A delicate pealing sound. Not unpleasant. She was a woman who loved having fun.
“Careful, Dave. You'll be cracking jokes next.”
“Not in this life-time.”
“Of course you will. Anyway, I've only called you in to let you know we are going to see Wantage and that you should have no worries.”
I haven't got any worries. Only the usual ones. When is my next drink, can I go home, is my working day finished? Can I not end it all? Usual ones.
“Thanks.”
“Stop saying thanks, Dave.”
“Okay.”
Dave returned to his desk, ploughed on through the files; robberies, attacks, sexual assaults, attempted child abduction. All the stuff that had been there the last time he'd read files like this. Life moved on, did it? Did it fuck.
Chris Holland exited her office again, it was barely worthwhile having one, Dave thought, the amount of time she spent out of it.
“You be all right here, while I nip out?”
What? I can't be left in an office on my own? What do you think I am going to do, smash all the equipment; that would certainly dent your upward gallop?
“Yeah, of course.”
Chrissie departed the office, now there was only one member of the Criminal Investigation Department in the department, and that one couldn't care less where he was. His ability to investigate crimes had long since past, he needed a drink, to lie down, to climb into a coffin, something, anything to end it.
Dave leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head.
“Daddy.”
The word was said quietly, no more than an unearthly whisper, but it was enough to knock Dave Lewis off his chair, straight backwards, into the wall, off which he bounced, spinning round to land face down on the floor, trembling, white-faced, eyes wild. His chair had fallen in the other direction.
He lay very still staring around, and could see nothing.
For a moment there, for a split-second, he had seen his daughter Mel, dressed in the white dress with red trimmings he had purchased for her eleventh birthday, looking just as he'd remembered. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, fragile, as she always seemed to be. Beautiful. The way she should be now. Not dead.
It was the first time he'd seen her sober.
Drunk, he saw her all the time, like the white rabbit that sat on his bed, a big bugger with huge teeth. Drunk, he could call Melanie up almost any time and she would come, but of course, even he knew she wasn't there, knew she was just a figment of his well-known imagination.
But seeing her sober? That was a new thing. He never called her, he never asked her to come to him, his concentration had been totally on the files he was reading. Why had she come? Was she really there?
He climbed to his knees, just as Chris Holland re-entered the office carrying two sandwiches from the canteen. She looked in alarm to where Dave knelt. She lay the sandwiches down on another desk and came over to him cautiously.
“Dave. You all right, Dave?”
It took a moment for him to realize she was there, above him, looking down with her angelic, motherly expression.
“Fell off my chair. Leaning back. Stretching. Just fell over. Sorry.”
He climbed to his feet, righted the chair.
Chrissie laughed her laugh again.
“Jeez, I can't leave you for a second, can I? Fell off your chair, how ridiculous is that?”
Bloody ridiculous, actually, but not as ridiculous as telling you that I was knocked off by the appearance of my daughter.
Daddy.
The word tumbled around his brain. He heard it over and over. How could he have heard a word from a dead child? How did that work? She'd never spoken before.
“Bloody ridiculous,” Dave agreed, as he sat.
He tried a smile but didn't think it worked.
“You really are a funny bastard.”
Thank you for that, Chrissie. Detective Sergeant Chrissie. Driven Chrissie. He looked up at her.
“Yeah, hilarious.”
She reached back, picked up a packed sandwich and tossed to him.
“Here. Eat.”
Dave caught the sandwich, looked at it, BLT, cold. Wonderful. Not.
“Thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“Shouldn't I be asking you that?”
“It's your first day, I'll do the coffees. Tomorrow, you won't get such attention. Tomorrow you'll just be another member of the team. Eat it quick, we have to see Wantage in five.”
Five bloody what? Five years, decades? Why can't people talk properly any longer? He peeled open the sandwich and took a bite, while Chrissie went and brewed some coffee. Half-way through, some person stuck his head around the door and called out to Chrissie.
“Right, Boss,” she said, as she climbed to her feet, exited her office and said, “That's D.I. Wantage, he's ready for us.”
I haven't finished my sandwich. I haven't even finished my coffee.
“Leave the sandwich and coffee, come on, he doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
A Detective Inspector who doesn't like to be kept waiting? What kind of career path had he been on? Waiting was part of the bloody job. Dave laid down his cup and sandwich and followed his Sergeant out of the office. Chrissie knocked on the office next door. Knocked? No one had ever knocked when he had been a D.I. His office door was always open, no interruptions admonished, information important, doors no block to that.
Wantage waved a hand around.
“Sit.”
Chris sat in one chair, Dave in the other.
“David, welcome.”
Shove your welcome up your arse.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No need to call me sir, Dave. Boss will do.”
You will never be able to boss anyone, you wanker. Look at you, silk and wool suit, hand-made shirt, silk tie, Italian shoes, immaculate hair. Who the hell got you ready for work? And how do you make your money?”
“Okay, Boss.”
“Chrissie, how's he doing?”
“Very well, sir. A bit shaky at the start, but fine since then. Put the finger on a burglar almost immediately.”
“So I heard. They have him downstairs, now. Pendel, was it? He seems to have slipped past my knowledge.”
Knowledge is slipping past your knowledge. You know nothing. How did you get to be a D.I.? Friends above? Connections? University education, fast-tracked?
“That was a good get, Dave.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
It's called knowing your patch. Do you know your patch? Did you spend long enough walking its streets? Or did all that pass you by?
“You still happy to have him on your team, Chris?”
“Of course, Boss.”
Oh, he certainly likes to be called Boss. Everything she says, Boss this, Boss that. Fucking Boss.
“You going to measure up, Dave, become part of a team again?”
I was never part of a team, don't you know anything about me? Okay, a little bit, I was a little bit part of a team; I quite liked working with other people. I suppose that makes me part of a team. A little bit.
“Frankly, Boss, it's too early to say.”
Wantage blinked. It wasn't the answer he was expecting. He wanted obeisance, the towing of the party line. He wanted someone to say that he was delighted to be back and would try his best. Ah!
“Oh,” Wantage said, as he glanced at Chrissie.
“First day nerves, Boss.”
“You sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“He doesn't sound too confident to me.”
I am still here, tosser. I am still in your office. Giving the wrong answer doesn't make me invisible.
“His confidence will return.”
“And you're sure about that?”
“Of course I'm sure.
“Boss.”
“Of course I'm sure, Boss.”
If I'd been better, stronger, with more physical strength, I would have knocked him off his chair for that insult. Treating a woman like that. Demeaning her in front of someone else. He deserved a smacking. If only I'd been strong enough.
“She seems to think you can do it, Dave.”
She? The bloody cat's mother. She? She has a name you bloody fool, you time-wasting career freak. Get some people instincts.
“And I admire her for it.”
“Boss.”
“Boss.”
“I'll go along with her for the moment.”
That's big of you, especially as my twelve-weeks has been sanctioned by people so high above you that to reach them you would need an oxygen mask.
“...and the Pendel get was a good touch. We'll see how it goes, day by day.”
Week by week, you self-obsessed waster. Until twelve of them have passed, been worked, done.
“Thank you.”
“Boss.”
“Boss.”
Wantage waved a hand again and Chrissie rose from her chair, so Dave did the same thing. Back in the office she stood with her hands on her hips and stared at him.
“You made a determined effort to get up his nose, didn't you?”
“Yep.”
He went back to his desk as he listened to her laugh.
“You succeeded.”
“He's a wanker.”
“Not in your class?”
“In a million years.”
“You've still got it then, the desire to be a copper. It might be deeply hidden, but it's there. You want to go and interview Pendel?”
“You and me?”
“If you want.”
“Okay.”
Chrissie shook her head and smiled, leading the way out of the office, down the stairs to Interview room one. She knocked on the door and opened it, and Dave heard Sammy say, “For the tape, Detective Sergeant Christine Holland has entered the room.”
“A word,” Chrissie said, as she motioned Sammy to her.
“Yes, Sarge,” Sammy said, as he stepped outside and looked, with surprise, at Dave stood in the corridor.
“Has he said anything, Pendel?”
“Nothing a human being would like to hear, Sarge. He's just babbling, swearing, denying. Wants to know how we got on to him. Been at his mother's for years, apparently, only just back.”
“Back long enough to do his stuff, though.”
“Yep.”
“I'd like me and Dave to have a go at him.”
Sammy raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“That okay with you, Sammy?”
“Yeah, sure, Sarge. I'll get Erky and we'll go and have a sandwich.”
“Good man. Dave, you ready?”
Am I? Am I hell. But, bugger it, I'll give it a try.
“I'm about as ready as I can be.”
“Good man.”
* * * * * *
CHAPTER 4
Chrissie stepped into the Interview Room and Dave followed. They took up two seats opposite Clive Pendel, who sat next to a Duty Solicitor. Clive laughed loudly and raucously.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, “if it isn't Detective Inspector Lewis. Dave Fucking Lewis. Hey, man, I thought you were dead in a fire. No, not you, the wife, wasn't it, and the kid, roasted alive, some insane woman.”
He laughed and slapped his chest like a madman.
He was fatter than Dave remembered, more round in every aspect, face, head, chest, stomach, everything had grown.
“I see your mother's cooking agrees with you.”
“Don't mention my mother.”
“You brought her up first, Clive, as I hear it. Been living with her for some time, that's what you've said. So, she's feeding up your fat frame, pretty soon you're going to pop.”
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