Made To Be Broken (24 page)

This wasn’t what he had wanted. It was supposed to go as planned – but this was as far outside the plan as you could get. The mirroring in Connie’s eyes struck him as ironic and he couldn’t turn away from her. All the action was on the screen in front of him but it was his petite and withdrawn wife who was mesmerising him now as the carnage that played out on the streets outside seemed to dance on within her.

Connie on the other hand, could not look away from the local news. The ticker tape at the bottom of the screen constantly updated the new events that were occurring, when the reporter could not keep up. Her eyes simply shone. Her mouth set in a grim, angry line. Anger mirroring that of the people on the screen. She was visibly vibrating with it.

He rubbed his jawline. Felt the bristles from his chin against his palm.

Connie stretched her arms out, fists clenched. ‘Can he not see what he is doing? Is this what he wants? Complete breakdown.’ She sat on the edge of the seat at the side of him and the spell he’d been wrapped in as he watched her was broken.

‘Maybe he didn’t intend for this to happen. It looks pretty independent to me.’

She railed on him. ‘How can you say that? How?’ She stood again and turned to face him. Isaac hoped his guilt didn’t show. ‘Look at the television, will you? Look what is happening. How can you terrify people and not expect them to react?’

‘Connie?’

She grabbed the television remote control from the arm of his chair and turned the volume right up. He wanted to cover his ears. The shouting of the people, the shop alarms going off, the reporter shouting above it all to be heard, all in the confines of their small living room. Closed in.

‘Look at it. Really look, you foolish old man.’ She was yelling at him. More words than they’d spoken in so long and yet they were words of anger.

The sounds were bouncing and oscillating in his head.

‘What if Em were still alive? What then? Would you still be so indifferent then, if her safety were in question, would you? What if Em were out there?’

It had been an incredibly long shift. I had lost track of how many hours had been spent at the office today but it still wasn’t long enough. However, my batteries weren’t charged sufficiently and neither were the rest of the team’s. I had to let them go and get some rest before they collapsed of exhaustion.

The emotion of the death of Bridgette York and added stress of the subsequent ongoing riots, the risk of their own lives with the firebombing of the station on top of the workload of the case was too much to ask a person to deal with. I’d sent them all home for some much-needed sleep.

I plumped up the cushion on the sofa a couple of times and leaned back on it, my feet up. A glass of red wine sat on the table beside me, already half drunk, along with the painkillers I’d taken for the pounding that was going on within the scar in my arm. It didn’t feel healed. There shouldn’t still be this much pain. I was lucky that my GP was understanding and prescribed me the pain pills, knowing that it troubled me so much and that I had an occupation that required my full concentration and not the amount of distraction the arm injury gave me. Slamming into the corner of the wall hadn’t helped.

The pills weren’t taking the edge off the pain, so I was hoping a glass or two of wine was going to help me sleep.

I pulled the newspapers from the table and spread the first one across my knee. It was easy to find Ethan’s byline, as his article was front page. Where he always wanted to be.

I reread it. Then reread it again.

Although it was one of his more balanced reports, and he hadn’t directly attributed the death of Bridgette to the police, it didn’t stop clear of hinting where the blame might lie.

I slugged the rest of the wine and topped up the glass again with the bottle I’d brought into the living room with me and dragged the next newspaper to my knee.

I reread all of Ethan’s bylines from the start of the investigation.

How could he do this, knowing I was heading up this case? Knowing what I’d been through. What
we’d
been through as a team.

I knew Catherine had been reading these and she hated every word, as much as I did, and even though she didn’t know about our relationship she still held me to account for not closing this case and for allowing this witch-hunt to continue. Catherine was protecting herself. I could almost feel her scrutinising me. Eyeing me up for the kill if this case went any further wrong.

I drank more.

My head felt fuzzy. My brain, now tired.

There were rules on relationships with reporters. It was my responsibility at the time to have informed the job that I was in a relationship with Ethan, but it had imploded last year after the Manders case was closed and Sally was killed under my supervision.

I reread the articles. The article of the opening of Sally’s inquest, articles in which the police were made to look like a bunch of Keystone Cops.

Like
I
was a Keystone Cop.

Now, I didn’t need to fill in any forms. Not for that one night that we had spent together.

I picked up my phone and looked at Ethan’s number. Hovered over the dial icon. That night had been great. He’d been hungry for me, he’d been sensitive. He’d made it feel as though we’d never been apart. Then work had phoned and it had been my wake-up call. How could I manage a relationship with him?

Damn it to hell.

I dropped my mobile down to the floor. I couldn’t do it. It was too messed up.

I finished the bottle.

There was no more pain.

Not in my arm.

4 weeks ago

There were multiple bottles and strips of medicines. All prescribed in the name of Emma Knight. All with the purpose of keeping her life going. He tipped the crate onto its side and sat on it. A disturbed spider scurried off in the opposite direction, wanting another dark corner. The medicine was laid out in front of him on the old kitchen worktop he had fitted in the garden shed some twenty-odd years ago. It was now worn, battered, scarred and chipped. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, now feeling like the worktop he had fitted with love so many years ago.

So many medicines. Such a waste. At the side of the medicine was Connie’s laptop. She wouldn’t miss it. She didn’t miss anything now. Well anything other than … Nothing was worth a damn. And if she did miss it, she wouldn’t think Isaac had it with him in the garden. She always said he had two left thumbs. What that meant, he wasn’t sure. No matter how his thumbs worked, his mind was still capable of using an Internet search engine. He opened the lid with his two left thumbs and clicked on the home icon. There was no need for a password in this house. There was love and trust. And what could they do on the laptop anyway?

The machine was slow. They hadn’t been bothered about getting a state-of-the-art piece of equipment, just something to keep them connected to Em as she dipped her toes out into the world. To be her safety net, should she need one. And she had. She really had. But this damn laptop couldn’t catch her and neither had Isaac.

Or anyone else.

The screen lit and he opened a browser, which was even slower to load. Too far away from the house. Even he knew that, but as long as he could do what he needed to, it didn’t matter how much time it took. He had all the time in the world now. He worked methodically, using laptop and notebook and pen to write down what he found out. After each search, the pile of medicines gradually changed from his left side to the right, and when he finally closed the lid on the laptop the entire pile had moved. He had what he wanted. All he had to do now was move it to the allotment – further away from his home, away from Connie.

The light that filtered through my eyelids was brighter than I expected. My phone alarm was set for six a.m. I wanted to move but everything felt stiff. And cold. Freezing, in fact. Then I realised I was still on the sofa. That would be why it was so light; I didn’t have blackout lining in the living room and the summer sun rises at an ungodly hour. Rolling my neck with as much care as I could, I reached down to the floor where I knew my phone would be. My head; throbbing. My arm; protesting.

I needed some painkillers. And I needed a shower.

Blinking sleep out of my eyes and pushing myself up, I tried to focus through the pain that enveloped my fragile body. The room was bathed in sunlight.

I looked at my phone and checked the time.

‘Fuck.’

It was dead. I hadn’t charged it and I had no idea what time it was. There wasn’t a single clock in my apartment. I lived and breathed by the phone in my pocket.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Painkillers and a quick shower helped to wake me up. My phone had also had time to wake. It told me in no uncertain terms that I’d slept in, and I’d done a bloody good job of it. It was nine-thirty a.m. and there were seven missed calls and five messages. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed the in-car charger from the drawer and started to listen to the messages as I made my way into work.

The first one was Aaron, wanting to know where I was.

The second one was Aaron, wanting to know what time I was going to be in.

The third one was Aaron, now sounding annoyed. Catherine was chasing him up, looking for me. He told me the city was in meltdown and I needed to be in work.

The fourth message told me Aaron couldn’t cover for me any more and Catherine was on the warpath.

I slammed on my brakes as the car in front hit his for the red lights at the Shakespeare Street/Mansfield Road junction. The driver’s eyes glinted at me in the rear-view mirror as by some minor miracle I missed hitting him, though he could easily have driven through the amber light safely because stopping so suddenly really was more of an issue and driving through would not have been the cause of any accident. He couldn’t see that I was on my phone, as I had my hands-free on through the speakers in the car. I was safe. He was an idiot.

The next message was from Catherine.

She wanted to know where the hell I was. Was I supposed to be leading this team, this investigation?

Oh, fuck.

The lights changed, and we moved off. Not before the guy in the Prius glared at me again in his mirror and threw his left hand up in the middle of the car, showing his frustration.

The last message on my phone, I’m not sure I wanted to hear. The painkillers didn’t seem to be doing their thing. The day had got off to a bad start. I wanted it to start again. Or miss it altogether. I felt like shit. Catherine was on my back. I wasn’t getting anywhere with the investigation and the inquest was looming like a huge dark tidal wave, waiting to drown us all in its surging waters.

It was Catherine again, telling me that if I wanted to keep control of this investigation – or any investigation in the future – I needed to get into her office right away.

The kettle whistled to announce its arrival at boiling point. Switching the kettle on was the first thing I had done after arriving at work. I’d driven into the rear staff car park, having seen the fire damage done to the front. Two uniform officers were standing by the door, showing we were still here – not to be moved or intimidated.

I tipped the water over the teabag and walked towards the incident room. As I pushed the door open with my spare hand a couple of heads turned to look. Aaron stood, straightened his tie and made a beeline for me, determination in his step, as I walked towards him.

‘Where have you been?’ His voice was low. If he didn’t want this conversation to be heard, then I probably didn’t either.

‘Hey, look I’m sorry, I know I’m late, I forgot to plug my phone in last night and it died so my alarm didn’t go off.’

‘And you only just woke up?’

‘Yes, I only just woke up.’

‘Everyone else managed to make it in.’

‘I know.’ I pushed the door again, this time moving towards my office.

‘Even Ross.’ Could I take any more painkillers yet? I doubted it. Bloody hell. This was going to be a long day. I needed to tough it out.

‘I’m sorry. Catherine’s left me a couple of messages as well. I need to go and see her.’ I turned to look at him as we neared my office door. ‘How bad is it?’

Aaron touched the knot on his tie but it was straight, even. Nothing for him to do. His hand dropped back to his side. Always so calm, so organised. ‘Well, she’s far from happy, Hannah. She expected you in early with everyone else. I tried to cover for you for a while but she was like a dog with a bone and wanted to talk to you after events yesterday. Eventually she figured out you weren’t even in.’

‘Did you help her?’ I couldn’t help it.

‘Help her what?’ He looked confused. This irritated me more.

‘Figure out I wasn’t in.’

‘No, why would I?’

‘I don’t know, Aaron, why would you?’ I wanted to put my mug down, to rub both my arms, but we were still standing in the corridor outside my office.

‘Hannah, what are you getting at? You’re late. I don’t understand the rest of it.’

‘Don’t you, Aaron?’ I raised my voice at him. Goddamn it, I wanted this bloody mug out of my hands and I wanted this pain to stop. All of this pain.

‘Hannah?’

‘It’s all about the work with you, Aaron. Just the work. It’s been six months since Sally was killed and not once have we sat down and talked about how you feel. Not once have I seen you get stressed in the job. You’ve breezed through this. I’d say, dispassionately, almost. Very together. Ross has nearly imploded. Martin is living his life differently, spending time with Sharon and their dogs. Christ, Grey is turning into a ghost. Yet you, you, I see no change.’ I was aware my voice had gone up several octaves, but right at this moment in time I didn’t care. What I cared about was my team and it didn’t feel as though Aaron was a part of that team. He stood there, stock still. Voiceless.

‘So, what I’m thinking is that you didn’t cover for me quite as well as you could have done because this is a job and I wasn’t here where I was supposed to be – and why should you cover for me? It’s not as though we’re a team for you, is it? Where is your heart, Aaron? I see no evidence of it.’ I was practically screaming in his face; my pain, fears, hurt and anger driving me on. The mug in my hand was shaking so much the tea was slopping over the sides, burning my hand, the sting hitting my nerve endings and resulting in an increase in my emotional outburst.

Aaron kept his voice low, but stepped closer so I could hear him, a look of sadness on his face. ‘I did try to cover for you, Hannah. I tried. Catherine is on a mission. You know how bad it is right now.’ He paused while I took a breath. I looked behind him and saw I was drawing an audience. Ross.

‘The reason I don’t talk to you about my feelings is because I have Asperger’s. I
am
upset about Sally. I am upset that the team isn’t coping well and I want to do the best that I can to support you and to help you support them. The simplest way I can think to do that is to work as hard as I can, so that’s why you see me the way that you do. I will always support you as long as we work together, Hannah.’

And with that, he walked away.