Falling (2 page)

Tom had held the old man’s hand as he wept, and had thought that there were days when this was the worst job in the world. He had been in the force for fifteen years. Eight in uniform, pounding pavements in the lashing down rain, drainpipe drizzles plopping from the rim of his helmet onto his fluorescent jacket. Then CID. A detective, just like his father. He tried not to think about that. His mother said that was why he had never gone for promotion, why sitting at Detective Constable was enough for him. Not because he didn’t think he was capable of reaching the dizzying heights of Detective Chief Inspector, but because if he did then he would truly be his father’s son. And anything was better than that.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years in which Tom had seen more than a dozen dead bodies, smelled death more times than he would have thought possible. He remembered the last time he had arrested Callum Jones, spared a moment as he danced through patches of ice to wonder how long it would be until he was arresting him again. A never-ending carousel.

Tom breathed in the bitter cold air, skidding on ice rink tarmac. Thought of his son that morning, eyes still heavy with sleep. No idea that his mother had gone.

“You’re going to go to Grandma’s today. Okay, Ben?”

His son had studied him, the light from the rising sun throwing shadows onto his face creased into a little boy frown. Then a smile that could break your heart. “’kay, Daddy.” Baby fat fingers reaching up carefully, hovering over the slick aubergine skin. “Show Gaga my owie.” Clumsy, the fingers brushed the bruise, and his rosebud lips pulled down, face creased. “Ow, Daddy.”

“I know, bud. You’re okay. Gaga will kiss it better.” And he’d tucked the toddler’s windmilling arms into thick padded sleeves, and tried not to think about what would come next. Watching his son’s chubby fingers, spreading themselves wide, the frown as he examined them, like he’d never seen them before. Suddenly fascinating. Tried to ignore the words that circled his head, vultures above a carcass. Your mother has left us. She’s not coming back.

Callum was inches ahead now, running ragged on the steep incline. Tom dug his feet hard into the slush, gritting his teeth, the cold whipping at his lungs as he ran. Could see Callum’s arms, pumping back and forth beneath his t-shirt. Callum’s girlfriend had stood there, on the doorstep of their council flat, biting her lower lip as she cradled her track covered arms and tried to disappear into the flocked wallpaper. She had watched as her boyfriend – the one who loved her and who had beaten her hard enough to kill the drug addled baby growing inside her – pushed past the arresting officers and into the snow bound night.

They were plunging down the hill, the cold catching at Tom’s throat, running so fast it seemed that they were falling. Sound of traffic, getting louder, and then the alleyway opened up, spitting them onto the curve of a main road, traffic thin and moving slowly in the slush. Past the skeleton of a phone box, all jagged glass edges, glittering in orange street lighting. The snow was thinner here, mounds thinning into furrows of slush. Callum dove onwards, not glancing left or right, past the wide eyed shop windows where late shoppers peered over shop displays, running out into the road, an almost terminal slip in the car tracked snow, then regaining his balance and diving on past the co-op. Tom veered around slush, breathing easy, compact body primed by years of running.

A beam of light and the slam of a car door.

Tom glanced sideways at his partner, Dan. “Took your time.”

“Got fucking lost. Ended up in a bastard funeral procession.”

“At least you’re clearly not the Grim Reaper. Not got the figure for it.”

“Whatever, skinny arse. You going to catch this little shit, or what?”

“Shall we?”

Tom had woken that morning to the slamming of the front door. It always stuck in the cold. It had pulled him from a dream into a moment of disorientation, and he lay, blinking into the darkness. Then the growl of the engine, settling back into a steady grumble, swaddled in snow. He lay in the bed, wondered distantly just where it was that Cecilia was going. The rhythm of the engine climbed, wheels, crunching on the snow. But then, did it really matter when you came right down to it? He listened to the car until he could hear it no more, then laid listening to the silence. He didn’t know what made him get up. How it was that he just suddenly knew. He pushed back the duvet, bare feet on thick carpet and padded down the hall, to the room that had become known as Cecilia’s room. He pushed the door, that feeling in his stomach of treading where he wasn’t supposed to go.

Snapped on the light. The curtains were closed. The bed was made, duvet pulled tight across the box frame. He stood there for a moment. It looked like a guest room again. The book was gone. The one she had been reading, the one whose title he had never bothered to learn. And the picture of Ben in its knotted silver frame that had sat on the beside table. That was gone too. He crossed the room, slowly pulled open the wardrobe door. Ran his fingers over the few clothes that remained. They smelled of his wife. Tom stood there, staring at the gaping hole, the naked metal hangers. And knew. His marriage was over.

He had gone back to bed, footsteps slow. She was supposed to watch Ben today. That was what she had said. But it was probably for the best, after yesterday. He hadn’t been able to sleep after that, had stared at the ceiling for an hour, maybe more. The bedroom door had creaked, a little after 6, and Tom had listened to the soft tread of little boy feet on carpet, hiding a smile as a soft voice whispered “’kay, daddy. Back to sleep. I stay here now.” The heart stopping warmth of his son creeping under the duvet, huddling against him. Tom cuddled him in, painfully aware that it didn’t even occur to Ben to wonder where his mother was.

Callum turned sharply, into the road, past the primary school, closed thank god, then a sharp left into the alleyway that snaked by the steepled building. Snow climbed into peaks, hiding the detritus that lay beneath. But it was dark. That was why he didn’t see the leaking down-pipe and the lake of ice that had spread out across the narrow alleyway.

In fairness Tom didn’t see it either. What he saw was Callum’s legs stretched in a giant leap over a protruding bank of snow, sailing through the air in a balletic moment of elegance that Tom doubted his sad little life had ever seen before. Then that moment, where everything goes wrong, as his right foot made contact with the ground, expecting a solid surface, somewhere safe to land, arms windmilling as his body realised before his brain did that there was no safety here and that the solid ground had warped into a sheet of ice. Then his left foot, landing because it had no choice, desperately trying to make the situation better but only making it worse. And then both feet giving up the game, as they slid out from under him, and he dropped like a stone, skinny arse landing on the frozen ground with a sickening thud.

Tom skidded to a halt, holding his feet on firm ground, before reaching out, hands encompassing the bone thin wrists. “Come on.” He hoisted him up. “Callum Alun Jones. I am arresting you for assault and burglary.”

“Little fucker, little fucker, little fucker…” Tom didn’t look round, didn’t need to, to know that Dan was skidding, arms flailing wildly from a body more designed for rugby than slalom. “Stand still, you little shit. I swear to god, I’m going to…” then a pause as ice and breathlessness tore his partner’s words from his mouth.

Tom snapped handcuffs onto the addict’s writhing wrists, the narrow figure twisting as Tom read him his rights, Callum kicking out at Tom’s shins.

“Fuck you, wanker.” Callum’s voice sounded like sandpaper.

Tom wrapped him in a tight grasp. “Yeah, yeah.”

Callum twisted, pulling his head back. Tom should have seen it coming. He’d been here often enough. Shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But he was off his game today, not paying the attention he should, and the gob of murky fluid hit him square in the face.

“Little shit.” Dan grabbed hold of Callum, pushing his shoulder into the ground. “Fucking little shit.”

Tom wiped his face with his sleeve. “Forget it, mate. He’s a twat.” Pulling him bodily to his feet. “Come on, wide boy. Walk.”

Snow had begun to fall again in thick flakes, and in spite of himself Tom wondered if Cecilia would be flying today. Took a second to reflect on the irony of running away from your husband and son, only to be grounded by a late Spring snowfall. The wind had whipped up, bitterly cold, swirling torrents of snow into miniature tornadoes. They walked slowly, heads down. Callum had stopped struggling, was trudging beside them now, cuffed hands folded behind his back as he muttered to himself about his human rights. It would be a tough night to fly.

They were in the car, Callum tucked into the back shivering wildly without the adrenalin keeping him warm.

Dan turned the key, the engine sparking to life. “Bloody weather.”

“Yeah.”

“Supposed to go like this for a while.”

“So they say.”

“You, ah, you hear about Madeleine?”

Tom watched the snow tumbling by his window. “Yeah.”

“May, the baby’s due.”

“Yeah.”

“Said she’ll be sticking around in CID with us. They’ve got her doing light duties.” Dan eased the car out onto the slick roadway. “You guys talk much now?”

Since he had told her he was leaving her. Since he had broken her heart and his in the process.

“A bit. Not much.” Tom reached, twisting the volume button until another voice drowned out Dan and the memory of what could have been. The newsreader’s tone was serious. Tom was going to change the channel, his hand moving, but then something fluttering at his subconscious, so that his hand hung in midair, stayed by something that he didn’t recognise. Then the words.

Aeroplane crash.

Chapter 3

Jim - Thursday, 15th March - 6.25pm

It was the darkness. That was his first warning that there was something wrong.

Jim had pulled up outside his daughter’s house, driving carefully, muttering to himself. Ridiculous weather. Cold would decimate his daffodils, yellow trumpet heads bowing under the weight of the snow. He had pushed open the car door, carefully hoisting the plate from the passenger seat. Had ducked his head, pulling his chin into the neck of his thick jacket. Snowflakes crept down the back of his neck. Jim knew that Libby wouldn’t be home. She would be at work, was afternoons today, but it would be here for when she returned. She’s too skinny, that girl. Esther had been making cookies, narrow arms fearsome as she pounded together sugar and butter. I swear, she’s disappearing.

Jim had hurried down the path, thinking that it was slick, that perhaps he would salt it before he left. Had swerved to one side, to where the snow was thicker, the grip firmer, because that was the last thing he needed now, falling in the snow like some decrepit. Breaking a damn hip. Thirty years on the police force and winding up a snow-bound corpse in some housing estate, delivering pork chops to his youngest. It was unsettling enough, this retirement thing, without the indignity of that. That was when he had realised that there was no line of light creeping its way between closed curtains. He had stopped, right there in the snow. Had frowned.

It wasn’t like Libby.

Libby hated the darkness, always had, even when she was a little girl, needed the reassurance of knowing that there was life there, no monsters under the bed. Would leave the living room light on, day and night, even though he had nagged her about wasting electricity, teasing her that no police officer should be afraid of the dark, even an unwarranted Police Community Support Officer, a bobby on the beat with a scant eight months on the force. But not tonight. Tonight the house was black.

Jim slipped the key into the lock, pushing open the door, and slowly reached, flicking on the light.

The room was as it should be. Everything tucked up into its place. The cat blinked at him, curled into the sofa with its plumped cushions. A tiny creature, white and black, little pink nose and two black smudges across his eyes that gave the impression of a boxer down on his luck. With a long stretch, it jumped down, letting loose a miaow too big for its little body, began weaving its way around Jim’s legs.

“Hey Charlie.”

Jim crouched down, scanning the room as the cat curled itself into him. It was clean, tucked away as it always was. Apart from the coat, flung across the arm of the sofa. Jim’s pulse quickened.

Miaow

Libby’s work coat. The one she had worn when she came home, on her first day in uniform. A police community support officer. Almost like her daddy. There was a plan – there was always a plan. Serve her time, learn everything there was to learn, and then, when they started recruiting again, apply to be a police constable, pound the streets, do her time. Then, when she had learned enough, start the climb, to Sergeant, then Inspector, then Super. Just like her daddy. He reached down, fingering the lapel of the coat.

Miaow

Jim pushed himself up. The kitchen door was closed. She never closed the door, because then the cat couldn’t get to its food, and she doted on that damn cat, ever since she’d found him curled up in the brambles that ran alongside the railway tracks, a tiny, shivering bundle of fur.

Bringing him home and letting him eat her out of house and home, sleeping on her bed and following her around like they were joined at the hip. He eased the handle down, snapping on the light.

The surfaces had been wiped down, chairs tucked snug beneath the kitchen table, floor mopped. The cat’s bowl was empty. Charlie ran to it, pushing his head against it. A look back at Jim, a loud miaow.

Jim stood there for a moment, trying to identify the unease. A quick look up, eye caught by movement beyond the window, but it was just the falling snow. He slid the plate onto the kitchen table. The cat was twisting around him, knotting itself around his legs.

“All right. Let’s get you some food.”

Jim crouched down, levering open the narrow cupboard that stood alongside the fridge. He would ring her, just to check, and she’d laugh at him, would say that he was getting soft in his old age. But he would ring anyway. After all, he was a father. That was what you did.