As she started to get out of bed,
Suzanne Andrews’ right lower thigh got caught in one of the under sheets. It
took the best part of a minute to free it. This was the third morning on the
trot it had happened. She wriggled her toes a little to improve the circulation
in the lower part of her legs, but as soon as she did, the back of her right
knee went into a stiffening spasm. The muscles were expanding and contracting
simultaneously, and the effect was painful enough to make her yelp. She tried
deep, concentrated breathing to counteract the sensation and it seemed to work.
The tightening of her muscles subsided and that part of her leg felt normal
again.
She waited a minute before
getting up. Suzanne then quickly uprooted herself from the mattress before the
lure of its comfort pulled her back onto it. That would’ve led to her staying
under the duvet for longer than would be tolerated by her superior. The sooner
she was leaving her bedroom to perform her bathroom duties the better. Under
her breath, she jokingly recited the song ‘Friday’, in particular the opening
lines which managed to race through a list of mundane but necessary chores
commonly done in the morning. The individual words were garbled by the act of
brushing her teeth. The minty lather made it look as if she were foaming at the
mouth. Although well-rinsed, the bristles of the toothbrush still felt a little
crusty around the edges, making the motion less gentle. Their design was
supposed to ensure that they cleaned between the teeth and in the gum’s
hard-to-reach areas. The decrease in flexibility opened the possibility that
the toothbrush itself might do more harm than good. For a moment, she felt that
the harsh movement had caused a small portion of her lower gum to start
bleeding. The taste of what was in her mouth was soon identified, though, as
some coffee. She’d drunk the remaining contents to ensure it was empty, ready
to be rinsed out and used again. When the saliva had mixed with it, the colour
had become a brown shade of crimson, resembling blood. Whilst trying to spit it
out, some of it dribbled onto the midpoint of her chin. The image facing her in
the mirror was undignified and slightly gross. Using a towel which had been on
the rail for more than two days, she dabbed at it to remove the fluid. A drop
of toothpaste landed on her right breast and she employed the towel to remove
that as well. Her baggy pea-green T-shirt barely covered them, but mercifully,
neither of her nipples seemed exposed.
Because this was all she was wearing,
the bathroom was colder than usual. It was for this reason she hurried up her
ablutions. Suzanne didn’t have to worry about walking through a draughty
corridor. Her bedroom was on the other side of the door, so she didn’t run the
risk of getting herself too cold. A friend she had been at school with had been
in an outdoor Jacuzzi and made the mistake of going from a cooler temperature
to a warmer one whilst naked. The upshot was that she developed a bout of flu
that led to temporary deafness (lasting roughly three days) and four days of
being confined to bed with cough syrup, lozenges and balm-coated tissues at her
bedside table.
It wasn’t that warm where she was
standing, so Suzanne switched on the central heating unit, hidden in a vacant
wardrobe that belonged to the previous tenant. The one housing Suzanne’s
clothes was situated to the left of the bedroom door. It was immediately
plundered for something suitable to wear on her first day as a Detective
Inspector in Greater Manchester CID. The last item to be selected was a pale
blue shirt. Keeping it on the coat hanger until she’d finished breakfast was
vital. She didn’t want a single food-related stain on it, until she’d worn it
for more than day and a half. Deep down, she knew this would impossible a goal
to stick to. Accidental spillage was out of anyone’s control, no matter how
careful they were.
Realising she only had a quarter
of an hour before setting off, she wolfed down a bowl of cereal she’d managed
to rustle up in the space of a minute. The speed with which she eat it made her
look gluttonous but her need to get to work before nine in the morning made it
a necessary evil. In the corridor leading up to her apartment’s front door were
her shoes. She put them on as she made ready to leave for her first full day as
the DCI’s second-in-command. This was all she had time for. There was none
spare to apply deodorant under her arms or perfume on her neck. She couldn’t
help but be miffed that she had to leave this task out of her regular morning
schedule. Suzanne cared very much about the state of her body odour. Her
descent down the stairs leading to the apartment block’s car park was actually
quicker than using the lift. This method of reaching that floor, or any of them
for that matter, was seldom reliable: the overall manufacture of it had been of
a poor standard, and it frequently required repairs and general maintenance.
Consequently, the ‘out of order’ sign was often in use. She found herself
wondering how the local council could keep paying for such repairs with the
Government’s austerity measures restricting that type of spending. The economic
downturn had also affected the wages earned by her fellow police officers
together with a number of constables. Suzanne was not immune to such cutbacks.
Promotion hadn’t improved her finances and she had less than thirty thousand
pounds in her account.
She hadn’t anywhere near enough
money to buy her own flat. One was purchased for her as a 23rd
birthday gift by her mother and grandparents’ combined finances. It was the
last extravagance Suzanne’s family afforded her. The arrival of this current
recession bit hard into people’s pockets, and receiving a gift that expensive
wouldn’t happen again for the foreseeable future. From then on, her birthday
presents got smaller in cost, but by then she had long since understood that
it’s the thought that counts. Whilst this was true for her relatives on her
mother’s side, her former boyfriend, Jonathan, still gave her gifts that
required a lot of money to be bought and that made her feel special – one of
which was her beloved blue Toyota which he had purchased for her 28th.
In the intervening period between then and now, the demands of being a police
officer put severe strain on the relationship and it broke down a fortnight
before her 29th. The coupling didn’t result in any accidental
pregnancy scares, however. In spite of them both having a healthy sex life,
they remained careful and avoided anything that could end up with Suzanne with
more than she bargained for within this love affair. The end of it was painful.
Her profession helped her to move on, but only up to a point. There were times
when she missed him and his Robert Pattinson-type jaw line, but hearing recent
reports from others concerning his engagement to Heather Morton, someone who
used to bully her, made these moments of private adoration become rarer. She
was pushed into expressing the attitude where she would say “they deserve each
other” and took it as a sign that there was no point in regretting in losing
him. When she turned thirty, she blurted out to her family “No more boyfriends
for a while!”
This wasn’t a concrete attempt to
explore celibacy, but Suzanne did want to be able to stick to such a promise
for as long as she could. She injected some aloofness into her voice when
saying good morning to her male colleagues, but not too much. The last thing
she wanted was to come over as paying hard-to-get in their eyes. Her teenage
hormonal rushes did lead to sexual curiosity over young men, but she never
recalled any situation where she led anyone on, and her mother never had any
stories involving disgruntled teenage boys who might’ve thought her a prick
teaser. She never thought for a moment that she might have sent out the wrong
signals. Sexual frustration was no joke for men or women, and she did what she
could to avoid making the opposite sex suffer that indignity. DI Andrews,
however, did become embroiled in a case where the dark side of this masculine
problem became all too apparent to her. Up until then, her naivety had made her
unable to see the factors that sometimes connected the causes of rape and
domestic violence.
In the week leading up to her
promotion to Detective Sergeant, she was involved in an enquiry where domestic
violence and rape collided. The case reminded her slightly of the Beth Jordache
storyline on the defunct Liverpool soap opera ‘Brookside’. The family dynamic
was different, though. Three children had grown up with the psychological
terror created by a father (very occasionally a mother), as opposed to two
sisters and a female parent who had limited romantic possibilities. As for
rape, she had strong opinions about what should happen to the perpetrators, but
her responsibilities as a police officer made advocating vigilante-orientated
viewpoints impossible. Detachment was the only way of staying focussed and
professional.
In spite of there being more than
a few traffic hold-ups, she reached the headquarters of Greater Manchester
Constabulary a few minutes before she was expected in. When emerging from her
vehicle, her right ankle got caught in the seatbelt, threatening to flare up
her leg cramp. Luckily, there was no repeat performance. After taking a moment
to savour the relief, she started making her way towards the building’s front
entrance. Every seven seconds or so, she glanced upwards to take stock of the
21st century style of architecture. It wasn’t a sight indicative of
what the building looked like throughout the years she was a constable and then
CID officer. The change to the exterior was an event that happened while she
was working towards the rank she’d ended up being promoted to. Its silver &
blue lines and squares made it a structure that was embracing the image people
had when dreaming up buildings on a drawing board. Suzanne was glad that it had
lost some of the grey, over-concreted feel of the previous premises. The
outside often influenced the internal atmosphere. Her verdict was that it was
suited to someone of her generation. Those officers who were older were less
keen on its newness, and saw it as too gimmicky.
Counting two police officers and
four constables as being present, Suzanne walked straight to her new desk.
Plonked down on it first was her handbag. She didn’t seat herself at it,
though. Her actual first destination was the office belonging to the DCI. Its
occupant was different to the person holding this position a week or so ago.
The reshuffle that had led to her
taking over as Detective Inspector was caused by the decision taken by her
former superior opting for retirement instead of choosing to become the new
Chief Constable. That post was duly filled with an outsider: Michael Maitland,
a former DCI himself from the Gloucestershire Constabulary. Suzanne’s ex-boss,
Stan Gregson had been vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with the
profession he’d once had a lot of enthusiasm for. It then became a definite
eventuality in the minds of his colleague that he would be leaving. The entire CID team felt the weight of his
departure and were still adjusting to it even now. The identity of the police
officer taking the reins offered Suzanne an alternate outlook on the situation
to the rest of her colleagues. On entering the office and shutting the door to
it, she simply said “Morning mum”.
“That’s guv’ to you, DI Andrews”
The response Josephine Andrews
gave was gruff, but it had a purpose. Domestic familiarity in the workplace was
something she felt would trigger rumours of nepotism. She didn’t want anyone to
entertain the idea that it had played a crucial part in Suzanne getting
promoted. This kind of talk DCI Andrews saw as an unnecessary distraction, and
it was one she didn’t want to interfere with present or future investigations.
That happened to be why she wanted to avoid addressing her in family terms.
“Don’t get too comfortable at
your desk this morning, DI Andrews. I need you to talk to one of the witnesses
in the murder of Fiona Bright.”
“I thought we’d verified all the
statements as being correct.”
“We had, but I was reading
Charlene Hedley’s again and I suspect there may be some discrepancies within
what she told the police.”
“Which are?”
Suzanne was only given one type
of discrepancy. DCI Andrews poured much more emphasis on it, increasing its
relevance. According to her, Charlene’s statement didn’t run parallel with the
timeline attached to the day Fiona was murdered.
“Why would she make stuff up?”
“That’s the question I want
answered. Get over to her place. If she’s not at home, try where she works.”
“Which is?”
“HMV in the Arndale Centre”
“I thought it was on the high
street.”
“That shows how few visits to the
city centre you make to do shopping. It got relocated there a short while ago.
Now, go talk to her – I want the details about what she says by lunchtime.”
“I’ll bet there aren’t any
inconsistencies.”
“Go!”
“Yes guv’.”
DI Andrews almost forgot to take
her handbag with her on the way out. She walked backwards and collected it,
before setting off again.
Josephine’s prediction about
Charlene having left for work proved correct. Two minutes of knocking on the
door to her flat went by without anyone opening it. This meant two journeys
awaited Suzanne: one by car and one by foot. The first kind involved DI Andrews
driving into the multi-storey car park nearest to the city centre. It was
costly, but the expense was a small price to pay for getting to her destination
swiftly. Crowds of people accumulating, however, doubled the duration of her
walk. The shortest part of her 2nd journey occurred within the
shopping complex itself. She almost missed the chance of tackling her in
regards to the statement she originally gave to the police. Charlene was on the
verge of heading into the stockroom, probably to do some sort of audit, but
Suzanne yelled her name loud enough to grab her attention. Typically, she asked
DI Andrews who she was and the nature of her business here. The police officer
made the usual introduction and briefed Miss Hedley on her reason for calling
on her. Suzanne was surprised how cooperative she was turning out to be.
Unfortunately, Miss Hedley’s recital of her original statement revealed there
were inconsistencies. The version of events that the Detective Inspector was
listening to didn’t correlate with the facts about the case as she had come to
understand them. The implications were clear – and serious. Charlene’s
exaggerations were details she didn’t see as lies, but Suzanne saw the matter
as any police officer would: an act of stupidity with the potential to damage
the credibility of a police investigation. Suzanne’s tone became sterner as she
did her best to make Charlene aware of how badly this could affect the whole
enquiry. Miss Hedley’s response was merely “I’m sorry” but DI Andrews couldn’t
detect a scrap of real remorse. This made continuing any dialogue with her
utterly pointless. She left Charlene’s place of work in something of a huff and
she walked continuously until she ended up back at the car park she’d arrived
at not long ago. Instead of going straight in, she spent a couple of minutes
stood at the bridge, staring down at the water flowing underneath. For this
stretch of time, she immersed herself in a childhood memory of seeing the banks
of a canal for the first time. She was nine years old, but Josephine felt her
daughter understood enough of the dangers of being this near to water to be
safe. The mating call of the first swan she’d ever clapped eyes on somehow
snapped her out of it. The other factor that ended this brief daydream was
Suzanne subconsciously acknowledging that during her work hours, her time
wasn’t her own.
She moved away from the bridge
and disappeared inside the multi-storey building. The specific number of the
level her car was located on was kept in her mind as a subliminal image. It was
all too easy to get confused between floors. They had the irritating habit of
appearing identical, and she recalled a few occasions where she had gone to the
wrong level and had to use the stairs to get to the right floor. She was three
vehicles away from her own means of transport when she saw a male car park
attendant banging on the car window looking into the passenger half of a red
car. A mixture of professional and natural curiosity prompted her to find out
what was going on.
“Is everything okay?” she said to
the attendant as she got nearer to the scarlet-coloured vehicle.
“No it isn’t” said the attendant,
“I think the woman inside is either drunk or has fainted.”
“How can you be sure of either?”
“She’s lying on her face.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think she’s also locked
herself in her car.”
“Tell me, did you get an
education?”
The attendant was puzzled by her
question. He was far from sure what that had to do with anything. Nevertheless,
he answered it.
“Yes I did.”
“Well then, stop acting like
you’re thick! To get inside, she’d have to unlock the car itself!”
Suzanne’s point was proved when
she successfully opened the left-hand door on the passenger side of the front
half with a tissue covering the palm of her hand. She tried all of them. They
were all unlocked. Not knowing whether she was unconscious, seriously ill or
dead, DI Andrews felt the appropriate spot on the back of her neck to see if
there were any signs of life. There were none. She made short work of shutting
the doors, one-by-one. The tissue remained in her hand.
“Don’t touch anything in and around
this car! This is now a crime scene.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“No I’m not” she said as she
lifted up her ID card in front of his eyes.
“Is the manager of this building
in?”
“Yeah”
“Go and let him know what’s
happened!”
“What are you going to do now,
Detective Inspector?”
“Things that are police business,
sir”
Taking the hint, he set off to
find his superior. In the midst of encircling the car twice, her right big toe
connected slightly with a set of car keys resting uselessly on the concrete
floor. Keeping hold of the tissue she had been clutching when opening and
closing the doors, she picked them up, folded it around them and put the paper
thin parcel on the vehicle’s roof. A few seconds later, DI Andrews had hold of
her mobile. She selected her mother’s cell phone number and pressed the
appropriate symbol to make the call. On hearing her daughter’s voice, Josephine
launched into finding out whether or not Charlene had been economical with the
truth about her statement.
“You were right. She did embellish
her version of events. Listen, I...”
“I thought so! The silly cow may
well have put the whole enquiry in danger of collapsing. I’m going to have to
do a lot to limit the damage.”
“Listen,” repeated Suzanne, “I’ve
found the body of a woman in a red car!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The body of a female is lying
face down in a red car! I can’t make it any clearer, mum!”
“I told you not to call me that
during work hours, DI Andrews.”
“I’m calling you on my mobile.
It’s a private call. That rule doesn’t apply.”
“Yes it does.”
Rolling her eyes, Suzanne said
“Whatever!” After a three-second silence she carried on. “I found a set of car
keys. I used a tissue to pick them up and to open & shut the car doors, in
case you were wondering.”
“DS Pickford and I will be down
there in less than a hour. Hold on, where are you phoning me from?”
“I thought you would’ve asked me
that a couple of questions ago!”
“Just tell me.”
“The multi-storey down the street
from Marks & Sparks: you’ll probably need to bring some uniform with you.”
“I’m well of that already.”
“Now you’re starting to sound
like my mother! I...”
Approaching footsteps momentarily
halted her conversation. A middle-aged man with light brown hair was in heading
in Suzanne’s general direction.
“I’ll have to call you back,
mum.”
When he was less than a foot away
from the vehicle, she put up her hands and blocked his path.
“May I ask, sir, what you’re
doing?”
“Trying to get to my car” he
said, put out by the bluntness of her question.
Opening her wallet at the right
point, Suzanne gave the gentleman the quickest glance of her police identity
card. He barely registered any sort of reaction.
“Could you tell me your name,
sir?”
“Edward Cullen.”
The bottom half of her mouth
dropped a fraction. The immediate thought she had on hearing his name was that
he was attempting to have a kind of joke with her.
“Seriously – that is your name?”
“Of course that is my name. It’s
the one I’ve had since I was born.”
Stifling a laugh, Suzanne said
“Is Bella not with you?”
“My wife’s name is Cynthia, not
Bella.”
It was gradually becoming obvious
to her that she was confronted with someone who hadn’t heard about this film
franchise. Suzanne decided to enlighten him on the conversation that probably
seemed strange to him.
“I was referring to the
‘Twilight’ movie series, sir.”
“I’ve heard of it but never seen
it.”
“Well, the main male character
shares your name.”
“Oh I see” he said flatly.
“Has your daughter seen it?”
DI Andrews was wrong-footed by
his silence when faced with this query. She immediately swung back to the
central line of her questions, though. There wasn’t any justifiable reason for
her to dig deeper into why he didn’t answer a question revolving his daughter’s
likes and dislikes. Before Suzanne could ask him anything else, he spotted the
deceased female lying on her stomach.
“Miss Williams?”
“You know the woman in the car?”
“She’s my PA.”
Hearing this, Suzanne unfolded
the leaves of tissue paper, revealing the keys she’d found and enquired “Do
these belong to you?”
“Yes, they’re one of a set of
two. I give them to her when I need her to run errands that require her to use
motorised transport. Why is she asleep?”
“She’s not asleep, sir – she’s
dead.”
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