Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (2 page)

Blake ran the tap. Steam rose as the scalding water whooshed out, and he ran his hands under it. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, switched the water to cold, and splashed it to his dry eyes with cupped hands.

The water was cool and refreshing upon his skin. He felt more awake, and he felt more alert. Alert, but no more pleased with himself than he had been five minutes ago. This wasn't the life he had wanted. He craved adventure, freedom. To be the hero for once, rather than the kind of sleazy salesman he despised.

'My pockets are deep, Rachel,' he said, taking a breath, 'but did you see the way Evatt was looking at me? It's the same look
you
have when you lose a drinking game. I doubt I would live long enough to spend a penny of said cash.'

Rachel grinned, her smile cheesy and youthful despite her age. 'Come on, buddy.' She play-punched his arm. 'I don't lose drinking games.'

It was true enough. That is,
he
had never seen her lose one, and he had known her for most of his life.

'Look, business is good,' she added, dropping back to her feet and stumbling as if they were her first steps. 'Dead leg. Anyway, Evatt sent me in here to tell you to close the deal at thirty thousand. Don't haggle for more. He was strict about that.'

'
Evatt
sent you in here? To the men's bathroom?'

'He sent me to wait outside, but I'm impatient.'

'Don't I know it?'

Rachel took small steps towards the door, stretching out her arms and yawning as if she had just got out of bed. 'See you in there.
You
reel them in and
I'll
send them running with their tails between their lily-white legs.'

Blake could barely take it any longer. This was a scam. 'Sure. I'll just pack away my conscience so I can take the good people's money. This is wrong.'

'Rubbish. You've been lying through your teeth since you hit puberty.' And with that she left the room, the door swinging shut behind her.

Alright,
he told himself, studying his own tortured face in the mirror.
Happy Blake. Strong Blake. Smooth, trusting, everybody's-best-friend Blake.
He forced a smile that seemed horribly genuine. It almost made him sick that he would have to do this until the day he died… probably, though hopefully not.

He only wished he knew why he had been so wound up lately.
You're working too hard,
he told himself,
that, or you're getting too old for this game.
He was only thirty-seven, so he dismissed it with a smirk.

Deep breath.

This was it now. He would go into the next room, offer a price that was way too high, have them lower it. Then he would accept, everybody would shake hands, and he would go home to be alone again, in his own miserable existence, ready to start all over the next day.

Blake was just leaving, adjusting his tie and straightening up, when the door swung open and Rachel came bursting back in. 'What the hell did you do?' She looked worried. Terrified, actually. He hadn't seen her this way since The Great Pregnancy Scare of '09.

Frozen, confused, Blake struggled to find his voice. 'You tell me.'

'There are policemen asking around the office. Looking for you.' She grabbed the door and pushed it to a close, peering through the thin gap.

'So? Show them in.' It should have been that easy, but the way she was acting suggested there was more to it than that. 'I haven't done anything,' he said, trying to calm her with a chuckle. It barely even convinced
him.
'Probably just enquiring about a disturbance or something. Let's just go see what they want.'

Blake reached for the door.

Rachel put her back to it, stopping him. 'Then why are there three cars outside?'

'Police cars?' That didn't see right to him.

'Yes!'

'Well, I didn't–can't you just tell them I'm not here?'

'That's exactly what I did, but they're going to search the building. Whatever you did, sweetie, get out of here. Go. Just let me send them up a floor. You can go out the back way.'

'But I–' Blake hesitated. He hadn't done anything wrong… had he? For a moment, he thought about running. But what would be the sense in that? This wasn't some bust at a drug den. He was a respectable working adult - save for the "daylight robbery" - and he was pretty sure he could work his magic on these officers. 'This is silly.' He pushed Rachel to one side, having to struggle to get out.

'Idiot,' was the last thing he heard as he left the room. He could hear her trailing up behind him, eager to see the conclusion to this exciting event.

As he walked through the office building and towards the front desk, Blake could feel eyes all over him. He knew the positions of the cubicles, and all adjoining offices. He knew who was sat behind each desk and caught them all rising from their chairs to get the gossip. But they wouldn't get any of the details from him. He knew exactly how this kind of thing worked; they would hear whatever the policeman had to say, and the rest of the story would fill itself in like a game of Chinese Whispers.

This doesn't look good.
The first cold shivers of sweat began as if from nowhere. He loosened his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt as he came up beside them. Neither of them seemed to be particularly pleased with him.

'I'm Detective Inspector John Howard. This is Detective Martin Wilkes. Are you a Mister Blake Salinger?' The policeman was tall, lean, and black. His head was bald but the roots still showed through like millions of black freckles, suggesting that the hair had been shaved. He scowled, looking stern and serious.

His partner hung back, his hair fair and his pale face seeming more curious than focused. It was clear that he was the follower, and this confident man was the leader.

Blake trembled, nervous and embarrassed like a child who had been sent to the head teacher. 'Yes?' He had barely got that one word out before the man stepped forward, reached out and grabbed his wrist. Blake felt a shooting pain go up through his shoulder, and then again with the other arm. His thumbs were forced inward.

'I'm arresting you on suspicion of murdering Val Salinger. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence–'

It hit Blake like a speeding car.
Had he said Val Salinger?
This couldn't be right. Whatever had happened to his father, he had nothing to do with it. He couldn't have–he loved him. Or at least, he
had
, back when they were close. 'This is ridiculous. I didn't–'

'Your
defence
,' the man continued through gritted teeth, 'if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

Blake felt the handcuffs tighten around his wrists. The cold steel pinched his skin. For the first time in recent memory, he was lost for words. His mouth hung open in utter bewilderment and confusion.
This is a dream–that's all. Just a bad dream.
He was shown downstairs, being dragged around like a criminal. He felt helpless. He belonged to the law for now, and he was being dragged on a walk of shame through his own office building. People stood and looked with a mixture of disgust and intrigue.

Blake lowered his head, locked his eyes on the floor.

'Don't worry, Blake,' said Rachel, struggling to catch up to them in her high heels. 'I'll call Marcy. She can help you. Just don't say anything until she gets there.

I don't plan to,
he thought.

He lifted his head fast enough to see her brushed aside by the younger detective. He hoped that she was right, that Marcy would do whatever it takes to get him out of there.

His heart raced inside his chest. Sweat rolled down his temple, off his cheek, and then splashed to the floor. He could barely believe this; until now his only concerns for the day would be the meeting, his lunchtime, and what movie to watch that night. He'd had no idea that he would get hauled out of work and to the police station. Least of all for the murder of his father.

It's just a dream, that's all. Just a really shitty dream.

Outside, he felt the DI's hand on his head as he was shown into the back of the police car. The door was slammed shut, and he sat looking at the exterior of the building. He didn't know it yet, but this was the last time he would see this place as an employee.

The detectives climbed in, started the engine and pulled out onto the road, the other vehicles trailing behind them. Blake caught a glimpse of Rachel's face in the entranceway; a strong expression of worry, and a faint hint of shame.

Chapter 3

Nobody had said much for most of the journey. Blake sat staring lifelessly out of the window, watching the rain pour heavily onto the road. It was interesting to see people scramble about desperately to get out of the rain–it served as a distraction, though the fact kept hitting him;
they think I killed my father. My father is dead and they're sending me to prison for it.

He was dying to ask what had happened to his dad, but he couldn't. They wouldn't give him any information. Quite the opposite; they would expect details from him. Only he had nothing to give them, nothing at all to say about what they wanted to know. What Blake hoped, among many other things, was that his dad was still alive, and that this was all just one nasty prank. Every time he tried to tell himself that it was, the reality of it sank back in, weighing heavily on his mind.

Blake had to keep his mouth buttoned up. He had heard the man;
anything you do say…
and that was just it. He would have to be careful so as his words would not be twisted. This kind of thing was on the television all the time. The defendants would put one foot out of line and their whole case would go up in smokes. Every sentence from here on out, no matter how silly it seemed, would have to be considered carefully, no matter how frustrating it may feel.

The silence was extremely uncomfortable though. He had to ask them something, even if just to show that he was a normal human being, no different from them… save for a police badge and the key to his handcuffs. 'Would you mind opening the window?' he asked, leaning forward from the back seat. 'It's stuffy back here.'

Detective Inspector Howard took his eyes off the road and shot a look at his colleague. Blake thought he was about to protest, but then saw the man nod. Wilkes hit a button between the front seats, rolling his own window down an inch. Fresh air flew in, caressing his skin. The occasional drop of cool rainwater sprayed against his face.

'Thank you.' Blake slumped back, landing his back against the cuffs.

They sat in silence the rest of the way. It would have been awkward, had Blake not been so deep in thought. He kept trying to focus on what he would say when they got to the police station, but memories of his father seemed to keep creeping their way into his mind. Even if he was proven innocent right now, who was to say that his dad would be okay? From the way they had described it, it was a cold, hard fact that Val Salinger was a dead man.

The car slowed around a two-floored building and came to a stop at the back. It looked as if nobody had made any amendments to the place since the seventies. The windows looked single-glazed, the paint below them was as dull a brown as the weathered bricks. Blake felt as though he had been dragged back in time, to a place where typewriters might cover the desks, and phones would call out in high-pitched rings.

Inspector Howard got out of the driver's side and opened Blake's door, pulling him onto his feet. He suddenly found himself wishing he had perfectly normal things to worry about, like the expense of the shirt that was being treated so roughly. Whether he would be home for his dinner-for-one, like any other October Tuesday.

Sadly, bigger things were at hand, and such petty matters were insignificant.

They crunched across the gravel, the younger man escorting him from behind. They passed a row of police cars. Even
they
looked too old to be on the road.
Why does everything here look older than me?
Maybe he was just being absurd. Maybe it was just a shock to his system, having spent recent years surrounded by the modern architecture of London, and being dependant on today's technology.

But the inside was even worse.

They entered through a set of doors that squeaked as they opened, as if they were about to drop from their hinges. Blake could clearly see dust particles floating around in the gloomy, narrow reception area. A large woman with a double-chin sat at a desk behind a wall of glass at the far end. It was eerily quiet–all he could hear was the patting of her fingers on computer keys, and their own footsteps as he was marched over to the receptionist.

Blake was stopped at the desk, where Wilkes patted him down, removing the mobile phone, wallet, keys, and a small vial of breath-freshener from his pockets and sliding them towards the woman through the tray under the glass. He watched as she threw them into a box and slid a clipboard back to him.

'Print your name and sign,' she said, and that was all. Not a hello to her colleagues, not even a frown at him. She didn't even have the courtesy to look Blake in the eye.

But why would she,
he thought,
I'm just a murderer to her.

Howard removed the handcuffs, cautiousness in his eye. 'Give me an excuse.'

As soon as Blake signed, he was escorted to a shoulder-height machine. It looked like an ATM, he thought, as Howard forced his hand into the slot. When the scanner beeped its completion and a fingerprint appeared on the screen, the DI clicked the handcuffs back on, tighter than they had been the first time. There was something personal in his cruelty.

A buzz rang through and there was the sound of an electronic lock sliding open. The inspectors shoved him through, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. The doorway led into a much larger room, one that looked more modern, and not dissimilar to his own place of work. Life was buzzing in here; phones ringing, detectives and officers shouting at each other. A female officer zipped past them, shooting a filthy and accusing look at Blake.