Waking Broken (12 page)

Wednesday, 10.11pm:

It started to rain just as Harper reached for the edge of the roof. He blinked away the moisture falling into his eyes and grabbed the edge of the gritty felt that covered the roof of the garages.

He hesitated a moment, getting his balance as he teetered on the edge of the wheelie bin’s plastic lid, then went to pull himself up in one smooth heave.

But his muscles refused to respond as expected. The necessary strength was missing. Well before his chin reached the level of his hands, Harper felt his arms begin to quiver. He bit his lip and swung sideways. One foot connected with a downpipe from the gutters on the adjoining building and he braced himself against it.

Another tug with his arms, a push with his legs and then his shoulders were level with the garage roof. He half-pulled, half-flung himself over the edge and rolled onto the wet, dirty gravel.

Harper lay in the rain. His arm muscles were burning and his chest ached as it wheezed for air. He closed his eyes, angry at the lack of care that had been taken with his body, cursing any idiot who ever smoked a cigarette.

Finding the place had been simple enough. He remembered it from when the story first broke. To begin with the address led both police and press to assume the victim was a respectable, high-earning professional. The neighbours all claimed to have been astounded when it emerged she was a prostitute; some appearing more horrified by that fact than by the details of how she was killed.

Now, Harper could only work on the assumption that the woman lived — or had lived — at the same address in this life too.

He had tried the direct approach first, ringing the doorbell, hoping for but not really expecting a reply. The entrance to the luxury apartment was lit up but there were no lights visible inside and no one responded to Harper’s ring. However, he was unable to see any further than the stairwell leading up into flat number eight. Although on the ground floor, the block was built against a hill and the front of the flats were raised too high for him to peer into any windows.

Unwilling to give up so quickly, he circled round to the back of the building. He found the rubbish bins in a service area near the block of garages and dragged one across the tarmac. There were few lights on in the building and the whole complex seemed quiet. Harper just had to hope no surveillance cameras watched his actions.

Pulling himself to his feet, he trod cautiously across the garage roof. Large courtyard gardens lay behind the flats but they were secure behind a high wall, the gates bolted and locked from the inside. If he could find his way through the gardens, he might be able to peer in through the back, get a clue who lived there now and whether they were around.

The rain was getting harder as Harper dropped off the far side of the garage roof, now on the inside of the walled gardens. He kept close to the building, ducking beneath a lit window in one flat. He tugged his jacket over his head, partly to shelter himself from the weather, partly to hide his face in case any of the occupants noticed an unexpected movement outside.

Each apartment had its own garden. Low walls and thick plantings divided most of them; wet leaves and scratching branches clung to Harper and clawed at his face and hands as he pushed his way through.

A tall fence, however, marked the boundary of number eight, and Harper swore when he met it. There was nothing next to the building to help him climb the barrier and he had to follow the fence for some distance, looking for a way over. Eventually, he found a small tree growing next to the boundary. A fork in the trunk gave him somewhere to put his foot and Harper pulled himself awkwardly over the fence, hoping no one inside would spot him or hear his clumsy progress.

He crunched down into loose gravel on the other side, his boots wrecking the raked patterns. The tall fence made it darker in number eight’s garden and Harper crouched in the rain, trying to check his bearings.

As he set off up the garden he nearly tripped over a large boulder. After regaining his balance, he moved on more slowly, using his hands to help him explore. Beyond the gravel bed, a miniature bridge led across an ornamental stream that curved around the bare frame of a small maple tree and a stand of bamboo. Having negotiated the tall canes, Harper made his way onto a wide wooden deck and finally reached the rear windows of the apartment.

He stepped up to the wet glass, leant forward and peered through, his face almost pressing against the French doors.

A flash of light momentarily blinded him and he stumbled backwards, raising one arm to block the brightness and squeezing his eyes into narrow slits. For a moment, the tableau remained frozen, the only sound and movement coming from the rain that continued to patter down.

Harper shot a glance to the side. The security light glared back.

He breathed a slow sigh of relief, still tense as he waited for any further response to his presence. But there was no obvious indication he had done anything other than trigger an automatic sensor. After a few seconds of indecision, Harper’s pulse slowly began to calm.

The light stayed on, its stark blast of white illuminating the whole deck and a chunk of the garden beyond. Harper glanced around, still nervous but the initial rush of fear under control. He debated what to do, then went and stood right under the light. He was against the wall of the house, beside one of the windows looking into the lounge. It was actually slightly darker directly beneath the light and he hoped he would be less noticeable to anyone looking out from another flat. Plus, if and when the light cut out, there was less chance of him immediately triggering its sensor again.

In the meantime, some of the glare from the security light spilled into the flat inside. It was immaculately furnished and obviously lived in. There were flowers in a vase on a table and fruit in a bowl. But no real clues as to the occupant and no sign of immediate life.

Harper took a deep breath. He knew that in another life Isaiah Van Hulle had murdered the woman who lived in this flat. Finding out whether or not she was now okay had seemed a logical step in the heat of the moment. But so far, coming here had proved nothing. It was too late at night to start knocking on doors asking after whoever lived at number eight and the most likely result of any more prowling around private gardens was getting arrested.

He shook his head, pulled his collar up and buried his face as much as possible as he turned away. The light came on again but he ignored it, walking swiftly away from the flat. He made for the gate at the end of the garden. After going around the bamboo and the maple, he crossed the little bridge and followed a line of stepping-stones that wove through the gravel and its heavy boulders.

Behind him, the security light went off and darkness descended like a welcome blanket. Some of the tension went out of Harper’s shoulders and his body relaxed a fraction. He began to think beyond just getting out of the garden.

Then.

The sound of a key turning. Ahead of him.

The garden gate.

Harper dropped into a crouch and darted towards the fence, seeking shelter behind another clump of bamboo. The gate opened and two men appeared. They moved softly but with determination towards the back of the apartment. Neither spoke and their heads appeared to flick from side to side as they moved, with predatory steps, into the garden.

Harper stayed as still as he could until they were past. One man reached the little bridge then the second. He rose cautiously, one foot reaching out. A long, surreptitious step. Then another. Still watching the backs of the two men, he began to move steadily towards the gate and escape.

Then the sound of a piano broke the silence. Coming from Harper’s pocket.

His mobile phone.

‘Oh shit!’ Harper began to move only milliseconds after the men at the other end of the garden turned in his direction. He sprinted towards the garden gate, gravel flying through the darkness as he demanded as much speed as his legs could give.

The gate was still open and Harper lunged for the opening. He burst through and began to turn left, in the direction of the street, the phone still ringing in his pocket. But he had only gone a few paces when he became aware of the dark shape moving towards him.

Something hard drove into his midriff and Harper doubled over, all the air in his lungs expelled in a single, agonising rush.

Wednesday, 10.53pm:

Harper stared around the room. He was in a gym somewhere but there were no lights on and he had no clue where in the city he was. His arms remained tied behind his back and his body ached abominably.

He had still been bent double, wheezing for breath when the three men slung him into the boot of a car. He was then driven away from the flats to wherever he was now. The journey was not comfortable; it seemed to Harper like the driver was intentionally taking corners as tightly as possible and aiming for every bump or pothole. It would not have been the best of experiences under any circumstances but Harper’s body was hardly in the best state at the beginning of the journey. Now he felt like a tenderised steak, not yet bloody but certainly sore.

When the car stopped, it dawned on Harper he should attempt to leap out and make a run for it but his captors were one step ahead. The boot lid opened to reveal three men standing well back, one to either side and one directly behind the car. The one in the middle held what looked like a baseball bat; all three gave the impression of being quite happy if Harper wanted to try to put up a fight.

Instead, he pulled himself warily out of the car and stood there in the street. A quick glance around revealed nothing more than a damp alley surrounded by dark buildings. An orange glow and the sound of cars behind Harper clearly came from a nearby road but there was nothing else immediately obvious to indicate his location.

Before he could see or do anything else, the men on either side grabbed his arms, pulling them behind his back. They bundled him roughly through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. A couple of minutes later, he found himself sitting in the empty gym, tied to a weights bench. The three men left, turning off the lights as they went and he was alone. Waiting.

Harper had little idea how long he sat in the gym. It seemed like at least an hour but might have been not much more than ten minutes.

Either way, it gave him plenty of time to think. He thought about how much his body hurt now. He pondered the stupidity of hoping to find Van Hulle’s victim. He thought about Rebecca and about the nightmare his life had become. But mostly he wondered what might happen next, who might have grabbed him and why. He also speculated vaguely — without any real hope — whether the men might just forget him and leave him there until the gym’s owners opened up in the morning.

But eventually the door opened.

The lights were not switched back on but enough illumination came through the doorway and a row of small windows for Harper to make out the figures of four men. One stayed by the door, one moved off to a far corner of the room.

The other two walked directly towards Harper.

They stopped a few feet away. Neither looked particularly big but a worm of fear snaked down Harper’s spine, wrapping itself around his heart and sliding its tail into his fluttering guts.

He tried to moisten his lips but his mouth had gone dry. Harper closed his eyes and braced himself.

‘So.’ The single word was spat out. Following it came the beam of a high-powered torch that lanced into Harper’s face from a few feet away. ‘Huh. Don’t look much does he?’

Harper waited, head turned partly to one side, eyes narrowed, the fear now curled up in the hollow emptiness of his stomach.

‘So?’

It was a question this time and Harper tried to force his reluctant mouth to form words in answer. ‘I… was looking for someone.’

‘Who?’ The second question came fast and sharp.

‘A woman. I… thought she lived there.’

‘What woman?’

‘Er … Stacey. Stacey Cole.’

‘Knew her did you?’

‘Not well. I’d… met her once.’ Harper shrugged awkwardly trying not to think too hard of one particular image of Stacey Cole, the woman entombed beneath the Kavanaugh Centre. He never actually met her in the flesh, dead or alive, but he had seen photographs of her in both conditions.

‘So, what were you doin’? Make a habit of climbin’ into your friends’ back gardens do you?’

Harper tried to look up at his inquisitor, squinting against the torch beam. ‘I didn’t know if she was there or not. I’d tried her bell but I didn’t know if she might be in… working.’

He gritted his teeth, unsure who he was dealing with and what they knew about Stacey Cole and her profession. But the man holding the torch just snorted. Harper was unsure whether the sound was one of anger or contempt. He did not really care what his captors thought of him. Just as long as they did not suspect him of something more than what he had actually done.

‘So. Who are you then?’

‘My name’s Harper, Daniel Harper. I’m a reporter for
The Post
.’ As Harper answered the question an idea began to come to him. He hesitated a moment before squinting up into the light again. ‘I wanted to talk to Stacey about a story I’m working on.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do I know you’re a reporter?’

Harper squirmed against his bonds and gestured to his jacket pocket. ‘Have a look in my wallet. There’s probably something in there with my name on. If you’ve got a copy of the paper you should see my name in there.’

The torch beam flicked slightly as the man holding it gave a nod of his head. The other one of the pair nearest to Harper moved forward and crouched by his side. Harper lifted his arms as best as he could. ‘My inside pocket, it should be in there.’

A hand reached into Harper’s jacket. He could see the man out of the corner of his eye but did not look at him directly. He looked Chinese.

The hand found the wallet and slipped it out. Harper watched as his wallet was opened and the contents rifled through. The man’s hands stopped and pulled a card out.

‘What’s this? NUJ; you’re a union man then?’

Harper gave a faint smile. As far as he knew, he had not been a member. He had been put off joining the union by their history of self-flagellating internal disputes and the fact they rarely seemed to achieve anything; clearly his other self did not feel the same way. He nodded nonetheless. ‘Yeah.’

‘Bit odd though, isn’t it.’

‘What?’

‘Strange time of night to go callin’ on your contacts. Couldn’t you have just phoned her or somethin’?’

Harper looked down. ‘It probably would have been a better idea.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d had a few drinks. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t realise it was quite so late when I got there. I must still have been a bit drunk when I decided to go round the back. You can’t see in the front, I thought maybe if I got into the garden I could knock on the window.’

‘Not smart.’

Harper smiled ruefully. ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So who are you?’

The man was silent for a while. ‘Security,’ he said eventually in a voice that was softer but had not lost all of its edge. ‘Let’s just say we’re security.’

The man was silent for a moment, the torch beam lowering slightly. Then he flicked the light straight into Harper’s face again. ‘What were you doin’ last Thursday night?’

Harper blinked. ‘I… er.’

It took him a few moments to work out what day of the week it was now. Working backwards was a lot harder. Last Thursday was less than a week ago but it was literally another lifetime to Harper. As far as he could remember, he had been at home with Rebecca. Home in the flat that no longer existed. Not much of an alibi if that was what he was being asked to provide. He took an educated guess. ‘Down the pub I expect. I’m not exactly sure.’

‘All night?’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably?’

‘I don’t remember that well. I think I’d had a few drinks too many.’

‘Yeah? Bit of a habit is it?’

Harper shrugged and said nothing.

‘What pub?’

Another educated guess: ‘The White Lion, I think. Not sure whether we were there all night though.’

‘With anyone?’

‘Er… I’m not sure. My friend Brendan was probably there.’

‘Know his number?’

‘His number’s programmed into my phone.’ Harper leant sideways as the Chinese man approached again. ‘It’s in my trouser pocket.’

Harper felt his arms being untied. He pulled the phone out and flipped it open. He pulled up Brendan’s number. ‘You want me to call him.’

‘No.’ The man with the torch took the phone from him. He turned and walked over to the third man, the one sitting on the other side of the room. There was a muttered conversation and then Harper heard his phone dialling.

‘Hello. Is that Brendan?’

A pause. Then. ‘Yes and no. Listen, my name’s Glasgow. I’m an inspector with CID. This is an unofficial inquiry at the moment but I need to check where you were last Thursday night.’

Another pause.

‘No, don’t worry. You’re not involved. I’m double-checking something.’

Pause.

‘Take your time.’

A longer pause.

‘The Schooner. All night. Okay.’

Another, longer exchange followed but the man turned away and Harper was unable to hear exactly what was said next. He caught his own name mentioned and the word taxi but that was it. Then the policeman, if that is what he was, walked over. Harper watched him warily. He had met many of the city’s police officers through his job but did not know this one. The name Glasgow was vaguely familiar though. Harper had a vague memory connecting it to some vice investigation of a couple of years ago; an inquiry into illegal gambling dens or something like that.

The man handed Harper back his phone. ‘You drink too much, you know.’

Harper said nothing.

‘You were at The Schooner in Old Street all night. Had to be put in a taxi at midnight and posted home.’

Harper nodded. ‘Sounds about right,’ he muttered, as much to himself as the others.

The third man pointed at Harper as he turned to the one with the torch. ‘I don’t think he’s your one.’

The man with the torch came closer. ‘So, when did you see Stacey last?’

‘It was a month or two ago,’ said Harper. He shrugged. ‘I only met her once but she seemed helpful. I thought maybe she wouldn’t mind talking to me again.’

‘Yeah?’

A fist snaked out of the gloom and cracked into the side of Harper’s face. His head jolted back and bounced sharply off something hard behind him. A trickle of blood crawled down from Harper’s left eyebrow.

‘You’re a fuckin’ peepin’ tom.’