The Lost Sister (15 page)

The drive to FHQ, Bell Street, Wickes sat sullen. Fuming; refusing to look at me.

I remembered what had happened with Stephen earlier.

Anger issues?

Aye, took me long enough to figure that one out.

Which made me question everything he'd told me; helped me finally figure out why I'd been uncomfortable taking him on as a client in the first place.

I looked over at him.

He pretended not to notice.

At least he was coming with me. Had agreed to talk to Susan. I'd half expected him to blow up on me, maybe try and send me to the hospital for even daring to suggest he might need someone else's help.

I'd thought he was like me. That we connected somewhere with this need to sort out our own mistakes, to atone for things we'd done wrong.

More of his act.

I realised now we were nothing alike.

Or I had changed somewhere along the line and hadn't even realised until now.

Susan was waiting in the car park outside FHQ when I pulled in to the Market-Gait entrance.

Before he even got out of the car, Wickes twisted his neck to take a glance up at the blocky and imposing nineteen-sixties architecture of FHQ. Said his first words in over twenty minutes: “They all look the same.”

Had to agree with him.

Susan waited at the base of the steps leading to the three sets of double doors that were kept locked on a close to permanent basis. No one really used the front entrance any more. A sign taped to the glass asked visitors to go to the rear entrance, where a bored member of Tayside's proud support staff sat behind safety glass and tried to figure out the timewasters from the genuinely concerned citizens.

Susan held a plastic cup in her hand. The liquid steamed.

After we walked over Wickes said, “None for us?”

“This your new friend?” Susan asked, ignoring Wickes. “Is he going to tell me it was your idea to walk all over a sensitive investigation?”

Not even a smile.

Or a hello.

Officer Susan – pardon me,
Detective
Susan now – through and through.

I bulldozed past the cold front, sensing her concern was personal more than professional. Not wanting to get into that. Christ, we could keep the two apart, right? Said to Wickes, “This is Detective Constable Susan Bright.”

He offered his hand. “He talks about you.”

Susan didn't return the shake. Let him lower his arm awkwardly.

Wickes said, “Temperature's down today.”

Susan kept her eyes on me.

Said, “Deborah Brown…You told me this was about her. And Mary.”

Wickes said, “Nothing to do with him. I was the one had the information. Made him keep it back.”

Surprised me.

I'd expected sullen silence. Minimal co-operation. Maybe even some kind of outburst.

Susan finally looked at him. “Made him?”

Wickes smiled. Frosty. He was right about the temperature. “You wanted to talk about Deborah.”

“It would help.”

“How much do you know?”

Susan shook her head. “You don't ask the questions.”

Wickes said, “Where's the DCI? Surely he should be here.”

“I'm the one talking to you. This pans out, I'll have no hesitation taking it to the bosses.”

Wickes looked at me. “You never said you had a thing going with a copper. Sly little bastard.”

Susan said, “Eyes on the prize, moron. This isn't about some little soap opera in your head. This is about finding a girl who's gone missing. A girl who, statistically speaking, is probably already dead.”

Wickes shook his head. “No. Not yet. She wouldn't…No, it's not in her.”

“Then tell me what is. She's not exactly up for mother of the year.”

“Christ, just let me…I can sort this out,” he said.

“You're worse than this one,” Susan said, gesturing at me. “What is it, a male thing? You're the only people who can sort out the world? All the bad things would just go away if we gave you a chance to step up?” She shook her head, allowed herself a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

Wickes's jaw was clenched tight. A vein in the side of his forehead started to pump. “She's not dead. Deborah wouldn't kill the girl.” That caught my attention. When he'd told me the story about the dog, that was precisely what he'd implied: Mary was in danger from Deborah.

Wickes kept going, “That's not what this is about.” My imagination, or did I detect something like disappointment in his tone?

I didn't want to confront him with his contradiction, figured I'd wait and see where he was going.

“You're sure?” Susan asked.

“Oh, aye. I'm fucking sure, lass.” I remembered how he'd been in the moments before he turned on Stephen.

Braced myself before stepping in, landing a restraining hand on the big man's arm. “She's not the enemy.”

Wickes turned fast. Pushed me away. I stumbled, didn't go down.

“Of course she's the fucking enemy! Get real. Look at her, the lying bitch. You can see it in her eyes.”

Susan held up her hands. “Maybe if we all calm down.”

“Maybe if you go fuck yourself.” Wickes turned his head to me and spat. A fat glob of spit smacked the ground next to my feet. “What, you think there's a chance she'll let you near her, so you believe every fucking thing she says? Fucking weak, man. I expected more of you.”

I'd tried putting down his earlier outburst to frustration and anger at some kind of perceived impotence; the unconscious knowledge that there was nothing he could really do in this situation.

But I couldn't escape it: this man was driven by rage.

Susan said, “None of this is helping.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Wickes said, spinning back to face her. His body humming with the rage. “Little fucking cunt, all you want is control. Control over everything. Control you couldn't fucking handle if you got it.” He stepped forward.

I saw what was happening. Couldn't quite believe His fist raised. He roared; primal. The cry of a predator.

In the flat, when he went crazy and threatened Stephen, I'd been frozen to the spot. This time, I found myself tugging back on the giant's arm. Pulling him away from Susan. He shrugged me off, swatted his free hand at my face.

I barely felt anything; a rush of disorientation. My arms shot out to grab at something for support. Anything.

The world blurred. A noise battered through my skull; like putting a shell to my ear and instead of hearing the gentle lapping of waves, getting the scream of a storm.

I landed on my knees. Palms down, slamming into concrete. I tried to stay steady, shook my head to get the equilibrium back.

Something heavy landed on my back. My elbows gave way and I slammed straight down. My skull vibrated.

First thought:
concussion
.

There were voices.

Footsteps.

On the back of my eyelids, I saw Susan at her father's party, lecturing me on something. Couldn't hear the words. Couldn't hear the voices. My face was on fire, pain searing up and along my cheekbones.

Finally, I blacked out.

Call that a mercy.

My leg was on fire. The calf muscles stretched to breaking point.

The surface beneath my back was hard and jagged. Could feel it even through my clothes. Figured it was concrete.

Okay, so what else did I know? I was outside. The air was too sharp for indoors. And the rush of traffic came from nearby.

Last thing I remembered was hitting the deck in the car park outside FHQ. Across the road from the old mills that had been converted to student accommodation.

I was still there?

Meant I hadn't been out long. Or they were afraid to move me.

Which begged the terrifying question of,
why
?

Not wanting to think about that, I tried to focus on anything else. Like the voice that sounded a long way away. Muffled. Indistinct. I had to concentrate to make out the words.

Realised it was Susan.

“If you can hear me, Steed, say something.” She took my hand in hers. Her grip was soft, her skin warm. “Or squeeze my hand if you can't talk.”

Her grip was insistent, concerned.

Comforting.

I thought: she can hold my hand forever.

I let out a breath. If I didn't say anything, she might not let go.

Drifted again.

Only thing I knew was the squeeze of her hand.

Only thing I wanted to know.

“Are you messing about this time? Or are you really awake?”

I opened my eyes. No effort, now.

No longer in the car park. On a sofa, my head supported by a balled up jacket. I could feel the zip line cold against my scalp, my hands flailing over the edge of the cushions.

My neck was killing me.

There was blood on face on my face; old wounds re-opened.

Keep going like this, you might eventually mistake me for a pro boxer. My left eye didn't quite open all the way. The world seemed soft around the edges. Nothing seemed to remain in focus for more than a second.

The skin around my eyes was puffed and tender. Hurt just to move my pupils. I wanted to reach up and touch; see how bad things were.

My conscious brain said:
bad idea

So I was still thinking rationally. A good sign? Take hope where you can and all that shite.

I flexed my hands. My feet. Gave all my muscles a quick try; making sure I could move. Sure, they worked, but it was agony every time.

When I was satisfied, I turned my head – painfully slow – and saw Ernie Bright sitting in a bucket chair a couple of feet away. Watching me with this unreadable expression. He said, “Thought we were going to have to call a bloody ambulance.” He checked his watch. “Just gone past eight.”

Unreadable even if I knew that his very presence didn't exactly bode well.

I said, “Susan?” My voice came out harsh and broken, the effort of making the sound rasping the rear of my throat. I could imagine the muscles flaking.

“She's fine,” Ernie said. “Although…she's got a shiner, right enough. The risk we all take, aye?” He was talking nonchalantly, but there was anger bubbling up. Susan was his daughter, after all. And even if he knew the job, knew that she knew the risks as well, none of that changed the way he felt about her.

I turned my head back so I was looking up at the ceiling.

The room was small. White walls. Strip lights. An office, maybe, decked out plain with a low coffee table, a cheap sofa and a few small chairs.

I figured interview room. Set for chats with witnesses and families. That kind of thing. More comfortable than any room in which you'd conduct an interview with a possible suspect.

I swung my legs. Made to sit up.

The world swung like a pendulum.

I toppled forward, grabbed the edges of the sofa to keep from going all the way.

Ernie didn't move a muscle. Aye, this man I'd called my mentor. Thought of as my friend.

Fuck him.

“DI Lindsay's been squawking in my ear,” he said. “About the point my daughter insisted you'd be no hassle. Aye, goes to show how family's more trouble than it's worth. I didn't listen to the DI; he's an arsehole, right? Everyone knows it. A good detective, but a lousy people person. Maybe that's the way to be. Buggered if I know.” Each sentence sounded disjointed. As though he didn't realise he was speaking any of them out loud, was simply trying to sort out his thoughts.

I said, “You're regretting letting me anywhere near the Furst case.” Could have been a question, but I got the feeling he'd snap if it was.

He let out a little cough, as though clearing his throat. Smoothed out his trouser legs. Not preening. Just searching for a distraction. Maybe so he didn't have to listen to himself. “Do you get it yet?” he asked. “That my daughter's got a weak spot for you? Christ knows why, but there it is. And if you've got her ear, then I guess you've got mine too. Except…not any more.”

Aye, message received: I'd fucked up.

So what else was new?

I leaned forward, tried to keep my back straight. My stomach was churning. Vomit backed up at the base of my throat.

I gulped in air, waited until my insides were settled and said, “You love her so much, you ever tell her about you and Burns?”

He nodded. He'd been waiting for me to bring that up. “Surprised you hadn't told her already.” Did he sound surprised? Grateful?

Hard to be sure. Either I'd lost my touch, or he was putting on a fantastic bluff.

I leaned back. Grateful for the support of the sofa, but trying for a relaxed
like-I-give-a-toss
look. “Figured that was your call.”

“Police work can be unpleasant,” Ernie said. “In more ways than one when you start ascending the ranks. I never told you that one, eh? Didn't want to scare you off.”

“Oh aye, I bet it's lonely at the top. Tell me; you're one of the reasons no one ever touched the bastard?”

He sucked in breath between gritted teeth. Looked like I'd pushed him onto the back foot. “I don't like your tone.”

“I don't like that you're keeping secrets from your daughter.”

He looked ready to launch from the chair. His eyes were wild.

I could have wept for the man I believed him to have been.

More, I could have wept for Susan.

When I left the force, I burned a lot of bridges. Some of them intentionally. Others, like Ernie, I just quit caring about.

Susan had tried to stop me from being an eejit, reached out to me, tried to keep me human. And when I pushed her away, she kept insisting until I finally let her in. I owed her my life. Literally and figuratively.

She found out about her dad…Christ only knew what it would do to her.

Ernie said, “Speaking of secrets, why don't you tell me about your friend? The bruiser with the beard?”

“Way Susan was talking, I though you lot knew everything already.”

“We didn't know about him.”

“Maybe I should be talking to Susan.”

“I'm the investigating officer, you jumped-up turd.”

“You're a corrupt, ageing bastard.”

We were silent, then. Both surprised by our own outbursts.

Tell me I had any lingering feelings of that old mentor relationship left behind.

He sat back. Quick, like I'd just slapped him one. Maybe I had at that.

When Ernie left the room, I swung my legs off the sofa, planted my feet on the floor and doubled forward; an approximation of the emergency-crash position. The one they call,
kiss-your-ass-goodbye
.

Someone once told me that the reason they have you lean forward is so that if there is a crash, then your head is jolted forward against the back of the seat in front and your neck is broken. Quick death. Better than the slow one if things go wrong.

Never bothered to find out if it was true. Like most urban legends, it remains unsubstantiated and half-heartedly denied by those who should be in the know. But it felt right. Enough air of morbidity to be based on fact.

Susan came into the room after maybe fifteen minutes. Her dad hadn't been joking about the shiner. She looked pale, and the black bruising around her seemed all the worse for her colouring. She even walked with a slight limp.

I said, “Bloody hell.”

She shot for tough: “You looked in the mirror lately?”

“I try not to. Even on the best of days.”

“Explains a lot.”

What do you say to that?

Finally: “You have to tell me.”

“About Wickes?”

She nodded. Patient. “Aye. About Wickes. And then later, you can tell me what's up between you and my dad.”

“You know he was never happy about me leaving the force.”

She forced a smile and raised a finger. A teacher ticking off a cheeky child. “Nuh-uh. No way, this is something else.”

She could read me easily. Always the same.

Only one other person had been able do that.

I said, “What do you know about Deborah Brown?”

She gave me the basics. The surrogacy off the books. The complaints filed. The disappearance.

Tallying up with Wickes's story.

What had worried me from the start had been his emphasis. The facts he chose to linger on. The emotions he evoked when he spoke.

I told her what I could about Deborah Brown. She listened intently, waited until I was finished before saying, “And that prick Wickes says she's unstable?”

I nodded. “I believed him at first.”

“And now?”

Did I have to answer?

“I've seen the video,” I said. “At Deborah's flat. No denying it's Mary. I went to the school. Talked to the rector.”

Susan nodded. She was interviewing me. This was not about friendship. Or anything close to it. Oh, no, this was business. She took a deep breath, ran a hand through her hair. “You don't think she's behind the abduction?”

“I don't know if she means the girl harm.”

“Aye, because you abduct the people you love.”

“Right now,” I said, “I doubt anything that Wickes told me is true. Whatever he says in interview, I wouldn't quite –”

Susan reached up to touch the swelling around her eye. Deliberate? Christ, I hoped not. “Bastard legged it.”

“Yeah?”

“Fast on his feet for a big guy.”

“I noticed.”

“We're checking on him, now.”

I nodded. “You won't find anything. “He's too clever for that.”

“I wouldn't call assaulting a police officer clever.”

“No,” I said. Thinking maybe I'd call it desperate.

What was it I'd said before? Aye, love makes you do crazy things.

Maybe Wickes knew that better than most.