Approaching Zero (8 page)

“We met online, but it turns out that he’s a friend of Jackie’s.”

“Who the hell is Jackie?” This was just getting better and better.

“You know Jackie.” Kathy didn’t. “She’s a friend.” Kathy had never heard of her. “Anyway, it’s been a few months now, so I thought it was time to let you know.”

“A few months?”

“I would really like you to meet him, sweetheart. He’s heard all about you. Maybe you could come over for dinner next week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Another pause. “To be honest, Kathy, it’s been really nice, you know, just having him to myself. You’re going to love him. He’s such a sweetheart. And you’re so serious with work.”

Serious with work? Was that even a real expression?

“How is work anyway? You used to tell me all about your clients and I haven’t heard anything for so long.”

“It’s fine, Mum – good.”

“So you’ll come, to dinner?”

“I’ll think about it.”

What came through the receiver next could only be described as lovers’ giggles and then, “I’ve got to go, Kathy.”

“Mum?”

“Let me know about dinner—get off, Marcus. Bye, sweetheart.”

Dead line.

“Yeah, bye, Mum,” Kathy said sarcastically, holding the receiver in the air and staring at it accusingly before replacing it in the cradle. She then puffed out her cheeks and said, “She didn’t even say–” But she was interrupted by the phone ringing again. She smiled before picking up the receiver and automatically saying, “Yes, I know, Mum, I’ll be safe.”

“That’s a first,” a deep, gravelly voice replied. “I’ve been called many things in my time but never Mum.”

“DCI Spinoza.”

“You’re psychic.”

“What? No. What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as psychic. What do you mean? I’m–”

“I just meant because you knew it was me, Miss Smith. We’ve only met once and I’m surprised you recognised my voice.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I’m just really good with voices.”

“And psychic.” Spinoza repeated, now sounding as if he was teasing Kathy but she was too tense to notice the lightness in his voice.

“Is there something I can help you with, DCI Spinoza?”

“Funny you should ask. How are you recovering after your accident?”

“I’m fine now, thank you.” Kathy propped the receiver between her cheek and shoulder and reached over to the phrenology head on the shelf behind her that had followed her all the way through her life so far. She set it down beside her and traced the painted lines on the head as she spoke.

“Good. In that case, you most definitely can help me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I need a psychological consult for a suspect and I think your unique skills would be invaluable.”

“What unique skills?”

“Well, you
are
a psychologist, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. But I think I explained that I’m on sabbatical at the moment, DCI.” Her finger swept over morality and memory and then onto sections of the well-polished head representing courage and devotion. “I’m really not doing this kind of work at the moment.”

“Okay, Miss Smith. Not to worry. I thought I’d ask because this particular suspect is connected to the missing children and–”

“You have a suspect?”

“Yes, we have a suspect but you’re clearly busy.”

“When’s the interview?” Kathy’s fingers were now tightly wrapped around bulbous head and squeezing.

“It’s tomorrow afternoon. Two p.m.”

“I’ll be there on one condition,” Kathy tried, sensing that she maybe had the leverage to get her list back, but Spinoza replied, “No, Miss Smith. You’ll just be there.”

“Right… okay. And my list?”

“We’ll see how useful you are tomorrow, Kathy.”

“Right… two o’clock tomorrow then.”

“Two o’clock,” Spinoza repeated in agreement and the call ended.

With the oppressive silence filling the room once again, Kathy caught herself playing with the phrenology head and puffed out her cheeks again, as if catching herself in an unpleasing act, and unceremoniously stuffed it into the drawer headfirst then slammed it shut and leaned herself against it. Now she would finally sleep.

Chapter 7

For the first time in years, Kathy woke up after midday. This was not like her at all; there was always so much to do. But she had clearly needed it and had been so tired that she didn’t even stir as the blazing sun gate-crashed her room through the curtains she had forgotten to draw the day before. Her room was decorated in cool charcoals, with teak furniture, a black duvet and curtains and black-and-white, framed art on the walls. It was the only room that was free of her nan’s influence, but it was just as cluttered as the rest of the house, with boxes that went as far back as her childhood still littering the floor.

The lie-in meant that she didn’t have to spend the morning fretting about the interview in the afternoon, desperately trying to find things to occupy herself until 2 p.m. The downside was that she had left herself precious little time to get ready. Thankfully, her work clothes, unused for some time, were all hanging in a neat row in the wardrobe and she was able to throw on a pastel-blue shirt and navy skirt, which combined to create a non-confrontational outfit—if such a thing existed—providing calm, serenity, and just enough cleavage to distract a difficult client. She didn’t have time to tackle her hair, which would need to be washed, dried, straightened and styled, so she threw on a blue stretchy band that she had picked up years ago at a flea market somewhere. It wrapped around twice and covered her hair, but was pretty enough to look like a style choice. She completed her outfit with tights and low heels then threw a few handfuls of cornflakes into her mouth, some irrelevant papers into her bag, and, eventually, the whole shebang into the car. She arrived at the station with just minutes to spare.

Kathy had had no reason to visit the police station before. Her dealings with the disturbed criminal mind had all taken place post-conviction, taking her to mental institutions and prisons. She had had no cause to deal with the police on a personal level until she met Spinoza, and so as she parked in the car park there was definite apprehension in the pit of her stomach, not necessarily because of the task at hand, but because of the unfamiliar surroundings. She hadn’t actually had to turn up anywhere for some time, let alone professionally, and she was definitely out of practice.

“Right, here we go,” she told herself and straightened out her skirt and shirt in the windows of the cars she passed en route to the front door. But superseding this apprehension was a foaming excitement at the prospect of making headway with Spinoza’s case—her case. Running into paedophiles was one way of solving the problem (and clearly not an effective way), but now for the first time she had an opportunity to actually get involved… and she couldn’t wait.

The police station was a drab building, constructed with red bricks and a distinct lack of imagination and zeal. The inside was no better, with a waiting room resembling that of a doctor’s surgery—if you were waiting to see Doctor Crippen. Every expense was spared on the bright orange plastic chairs and copies of
Take a Break
from the nineties. A token junkie had secreted himself into the corner of the room and was either sleeping, unconscious or dead, and a worried-looking, old woman was seated in a chair as far away from him as possible and flinched at every little sound, however innocuous, including Kathy’s arrival. Judging by the strong spell of disinfectant, Kathy imagined a team of industrial cleaners waiting in the wings in nuclear suits ready to swoop in and disinfect anything that either of them touched the moment they were gone.

Kathy approached the old gentleman behind what she imagined was a reinforced glass window and was surprised by the lack of stripes on his shoulders. He had the distinct look of a military man—immaculately turned out, ironed and polished, not a hair out of place, erect posture—but the way he greeted Kathy told her that he hadn’t achieved half of the things he had hoped, including rank, and was now being put out to pasture in hell’s waiting room.

“Name?” he said, barely looking up. He hated Kathy already. He hated everyone.

“Erm, Kathy Smith,” Kathy answered politely. “I’m here to provide a psychological consult.” She made a show of looking at her watch and said, “I’m actually running a little late,” but it did nothing to hurry him along. Here was a man who now did everything in his own time. If he hadn’t done enough by now for the powers that be to elevate him above the rank of a constable, he wasn’t going to start trying to impress now. He looked up at her briefly and then creakily turned toward the computer on the desk beside him. If it hadn’t been for the glass, Kathy would have been able to smell the whisky that had been his assistant since he started his shift a few hours ago.

“We’re not expecting any kind of consult today,” he said with alarming finality and looked past Kathy as if there were suddenly a long queue behind her and she should move along and stop wasting his time.

“Do you think you could check again, sir? I was asked to attend by DCI Spinoza.” The ‘sir’ was well judged. Although the jaded PC didn’t check again, there was something vaguely human in his eye as he spoke to her again.

“This computer here is the control centre of this station, love. If we were expecting a consult of any kind it would be on the day list. I would love to give just any Tom, Dick, or Kathy Smith access to this hub of criminal justice just to brighten up my day, but my hands are tied. No name, no access.”

Kathy had clearly mistaken the sardonic twinkle of self-satisfaction for humility and could feel the familiar rise of frustration. In her mind she had already busted through the glass heel-first, glass shards impaling and slashing the officer. She was now bashing him with the computer monitor, showing him a far more effective use for it than making everybody’s life a misery.

“Do you think you could contact Spinoza?” Kathy tried instead of kun-fu-ing his ass. “It’s important that I sit in on the interview and it was scheduled to start at,” she checked her watch again, “five minutes ago.”

“Look!” he spat, his tone now suggesting that, far from acting human, perhaps he wasn’t even a part of the human race, but the rant building within him was thankfully interrupted when Spinoza popped his head into the reception booth.

“Ah, Miss Smith. Brilliant. Buzz her through, Jeff.”

Jeff? He wasn’t even respected enough for other officers to use his last name. Perhaps he was one of those pretend community interference officers.

“But she’s not on the list,” he protested again.

“Buzz her through,” Spinoza repeated, showing his authority by not engaging in Jeff’s bizarre pedantry.

“But she’s –”

“Buzz… her… through!”

“Well, let me just get her a visitor’s pass. We can’t just have anyone wandering around, DCI Spinoza.” As he spoke, he was already fumbling with forms and stickers to authenticate her visit.

“You’ll do no such thing. Are you going to buzz her through or am I going to take the half bottle of whisky in that drawer there to your supervising officer?”

Kathy tried to hide the fact that she was finding the exchange just a little exciting as she watched. Spinoza didn’t use force to handle the jobsworth constable; he was calm and firm and spoke with the finality of a man who knew that the last word was always going to be his. By contrast, Jeff was left blushing and apologetic, panicking around the drawer as if the whisky was now on display for everyone to see and he was soon to be out of a job.

“Through you go, Miss Smith,” he said through gritted teeth and a forced smile, and a heavy door opened beside her, pulled by Spinoza, still dressed in his jeans and white T-shirt. Kathy imagined the leather jacket was hanging over a chair somewhere in the station, maybe in an office with crushed paper coffee cups strewn around the floor and framed posters of cop movies from the eighties adorning the walls.

“Thanks for coming,” Spinoza welcomed her through, offering his warm hand to shake. “Don’t mind Jeff. If you were strapped with plastic explosives we’d be thanking him.”

Kathy smiled awkwardly, not really knowing how to answer that.

“You’re not are you? Strapped with plastic explosives I mean.”

“No, I’ve left them at home today.”

They shared a smile, which quickly faded as he led her into a little box room with a table, four chairs and recording equipment set up. Kathy briefly took in the scene that was familiar from any number of British film and TV scenes then said, “Why wasn’t I on the list in reception anyway?”

“We haven’t got time to worry about that now. I need to catch you up with a few things and then we’re on. Thanks again for agreeing to come in, I really think that you can shed some light on this guy.”

“Well, I’ll try my best.”

Spinoza gestured for Kathy to take a seat in yet another bright orange plastic chair and he positioned himself beside her. Their side was going to be the good-guy side, she suddenly thought, and imagined the paedo walking in, sitting down and facing the impenetrable wall that they would create together. It was a strange feeling, but sitting beside Spinoza made her feel not only safe, but capable, as if they could achieve something great together. This was probably more of a reflection of his size than anything else. Sitting down, he was a half-head taller than Kathy, but it was his width that set him apart. Kathy could feel that there were not too many places in the world that were safer than sitting at this big man’s side.

“So we apprehended Michael Spooner, sixty-five, last night. We have reason to suspect that he is responsible for the abduction of Brixton O’Neal. A positive ID has been made on traces of blood in his flat. The whereabouts of the boy is unknown, but we are not hopeful that he is still alive.”

“Michael Spooner?” Kathy said to herself, mentally recalling her list. He was on it, but owing to the limited remit of her skills, all she really knew about him was that he was one of
them
—a pervert. She may or may not have had his address, occupation, all of the details that would make it easy to keep an eye on him. She couldn’t place him by name at that moment and as she thought this, the need to get her list back was pressing within her once again.