Waking Broken (9 page)

Rebecca shook her head, reluctant to accept the explanation but unable to refute the logic.

Sarah shrugged. ‘Then he has this accident and gets a knock on the head and it all gets twisted up. Now he can’t tell which part is fantasy and what’s not. It’s all a dream but he doesn’t know it and now he’s trying to convince you it’s true as well.’

Wednesday, 1.42pm:

The wine bar was busy. Themed to the latest trend in metropolitan décor: it was right in the centre of the city’s main business area. Only a few months old, it already attracted a steady clientele of young professionals and other members of the fashionable herd prepared to pay good money to be seen wherever was in vogue.

The man who made his way to table sixteen appeared a little older than most in the room. Otherwise, he did not seem out of place. His suit was only a few months old and his hair cropped and teased in all the right places. His tan was genuine and he seemed comfortable with his personality. Weaving slightly to avoid an incoming waiter, he slipped into the empty chair.

‘Nelson.’ He greeted the short, redheaded man already at the table. ‘Sorry I’m late. Judge took his time on the summing up.’

Cole smiled and waved dismissively. ‘Don’ worry about it, my friend. Wheels of justice gotta turn, eh?’

The newcomer snorted. ‘They’d already done that. His honour seemed to think he had something to get off his chest. Don’t know why the old bugger bothers, no one’s interested in his pontificating. Anyway, we got our result, that’s what matters.’

‘Ah well, you’ll be wantin’ somethin’ to celebrate with.’ The ex-dancer reached languidly for a bottle of white wine sitting in a cooler. ‘I got a bottle in to start us off. Nice Chardonnay: fresh little number, full of flowers. Glass?’

Inspector Robert Glasgow leant back in his chair and stretched his arms, pulling the muscles in his shoulders taut. He held the pose for a moment, smiling. He was anticipating a pleasant afternoon. ‘Sure.’

The two men sat in silence for a while, sipping wine and watching the room: one surveying the women, one the men. After a while, they caught each other’s eye and grinned.

Cole gave a brief giggle. ‘Anything you like, sir?’

Glasgow smiled. ‘Oh I think I’ve spotted something.’

The other man raised an eyebrow. ‘And what takes sir’s fancy then?’

‘Over to your left,’ said Glasgow, ‘near the window, table of four. Dirty little blonde facing us: she’d do nicely. A few hours with her would be fun.’

‘Nah.’ Cole shook his head. He lifted one hand and gave a little wave. The girl sitting on the other side of the wine bar caught his eye. She looked away but only after meeting his gaze. ‘You could do better than her. You’re gettin’ too predictable my friend. There’s a dozen of her sort here every day.’

Glasgow shrugged. ‘That’s not a problem. One or two at a time would do.’

Cole grinned and gave a dirty laugh. ‘But why her? She’s not special. Nothin’ wrong with her but everythin’s on show, there’s no class. You wanna try somethin’ a little more sophisticated. There was a lovely one in earlier: dark hair, cheekbones to die for, very tasteful. Shame you missed her.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Glasgow. ‘She was slim, bit of a waif, an elegant dresser?’

Cole looked surprised. ‘You know who I mean?’

The detective shook his head. ‘No. But I know what you’re like. You’re the one getting predictable; you’re trying to choose women you would fancy.’

The redhead looked baffled. ‘Eh? Women I’d fancy. Come on Rob, you know me better than that.’

Glasgow took a long sip of wine and gave Cole a level stare.

‘What?’ said the smaller man indignantly.

‘So, you don’t fancy girls,’ said the policeman. ‘Let me guess, though. This dark-haired one, she was slim, yeah?’

Cole nodded.

‘No tits?’

The redhead pulled a face. ‘You’re so… crude.’

Glasgow grinned. ‘Yeah but my point is, she wasn’t exactly curvy.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘Bit like a pretty boy then?’

Cole looked at the policeman blankly before bursting into a fit of high-pitched laughter. He thumped himself on the chest and wiped his eyes. ‘Oh… fuck. You got me bang to rights, guv'nor.’

There was a discrete cough from behind. The two men turned together. A young waiter with spiked hair and a bored expression gave his menu pad a lazy flap. ‘You gents want anything to eat?’

‘Oh yes, please.’ Cole looked the boy up and down. He winked at Glasgow and turned back to the waiter. ‘I’ll have you.’

The two men made their way into Cole’s office. It was a large room with glass walls overlooking one of his dance and fitness centres. Perched up high, the occupants could look through one-way mirrors at a gym on one side and a dance studio on the other. A small man with Chinese features opened the door for them before slipping away as Cole led them inside. The ex-dancer lowered his compact frame into the padded chair at the desk and waved Glasgow to the steel and leather sofa at one side.

‘Have a pew, my friend. Let’s get the business out of the way. Then you can get on with enjoyin’ yourself.’

Glasgow raised an eyebrow as he sat down. ‘Sounds like you’re not planning on joining me?’

Cole looked rueful. ‘Not this time. Goes against the grain, eh? Doesn’t seem right lettin’ you enjoy yourself without me to keep you company.’

‘Too right,’ said the policeman. ‘It won’t be half the fun.’

Cole smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure you can manage without me for once. I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.’

Glasgow gave a mock sigh. ‘Oh well, I guess I’ll have to be bad for both of us.’ He leant back and gave Cole a quizzical look. ‘So what’s so crucial you can’t make playtime? Must be quite important. Or shouldn’t I ask?’

The redhead gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘It’s just bad timin’. Somethin’s come up I need to sort.’

Glasgow’s eyes narrowed. ‘To do with this business you asked me about?’

Cole looked out at the dance studio. Down below, a dozen middle-aged women strutted and stepped to music the two men could only hear as a low murmur. He was silent for a moment then waved his hands. ‘Yeah… it is.’

Glasgow looked thoughtful. ‘Sounds like this is more important than you’ve been letting on.’

Cole glanced back at his friend. There was a glimmer of damp in his eyes. Then his expression hardened. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’

‘Okay,’ the policeman nodded. He pulled a couple of sheets of paper from inside his jacket and reached over to slide them onto the desk. ‘I’ve summarised the main points.’ Glasgow shrugged. ‘But to be honest there’s not much to go on. I’ve asked around and there’s nothing really concrete but…’

‘Somethin’s goin’ on.’

‘Possibly.’

Cole’s lips narrowed and he shot Glasgow an angry stare. ‘So why haven’t you lot been doin’ anythin’?’ he snapped. ‘They just whores to you? Not regular citizens?’

‘Hey! Steady.’ Glasgow held up his hands. ‘It’s not like that.’

The policeman sat silently for a moment and Cole looked away, embarrassed by his brief loss of control.

Glasgow ran a hand lightly over his hair. He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. ‘Believe me, Nelson, it’s not like that, not at all. I mean, sure, some people might think that but not all of us. And there’s limits. Some things are too serious to draw distinctions.’

Cole nodded but did not turn round, continuing to stare down into the dance studio where the tempo was starting to move up a couple of notches.

His friend shook his head. ‘No, the problem is lack of information. All we’ve got is vague allegations, a couple of unsubstantiated reports but nothing else. Not enough to ring any alarm bells.’ He sighed. ‘Thing is, because of who we’re dealing with there tends to be a bit of a trust issue. It’s hard for us to get facts that stand up and, let’s face it, we’ve heard rumours but so far there haven’t been any bodies. Well… not that anyone’s told us about.’

Wednesday, 2.55pm:

Harper turned the corner and continued along Carson Street. It was mid-afternoon and after an aimless morning prowling the city centre he was returning to Brendan’s flat. The photographer was on the early shift. By now, he should be finished and on his way home. Harper needed someone to talk to and — with Rebecca unavailable — his other choice was Brendan.

Harper had lost the habit of being a social animal. Growing up in Penzance, a lively network of contacts had made sure he was rarely lonely or bored. Some were close friends, others little more than drinking acquaintances. Most of the former — like Harper — had left home pretty much as soon as they could. They wanted pastures more exciting and lucrative than a run-down fishing port at the furthest end of the country. Now, Harper’s contact with his oldest friends was little more than a Christmas card and the occasional phone call bemoaning the fact they never met up any more.

Arriving in strange towns during his first few jobs as a journalist, Harper tried with limited success to replicate the camaraderie of his teens and early twenties. When he moved to
The Post,
he made a real effort to get out, make friends and build up a life. Brendan was one of the first people he met. Born and bred in the wilds of Donegal, the photographer was already one of the paper’s longest-serving members of staff. Happily describing himself as ‘bog Irish’, Brendan’s original ambition was to become a wildlife photographer in Africa. Thirty years on, the great dream was still just that: largely because Brendan never quite plucked up the courage to cross the English Channel. Once behind a camera lens, little flustered him: hostile football crowds, burning buildings, gory accidents, a British town centre on a Friday night or aggressive court defendants who did not want their faces splashed across the paper. But faced with the prospect of ferries, planes or people speaking foreign languages, Brendan’s confidence slipped away and his plans for his real career went back on hold for one more year.

Most people never saw through Brendan’s Irish bluster. He was good company in times of crisis or celebration, as well as being a competent photographer. It was only over time that Harper realised Brendan’s easy-going manner concealed a life tinged with disappointment and unrealised ambition.

Harper first teamed up with Brendan when he went to the Christmas party thrown by his new employers. The event was similar to what passed for festive generosity at any number of large companies. In return for a couple of free bottles of cheap wine, the staff were obliged to sit through a corporate ‘pep talk’, delivered by some top floor apparatchik with no clue about how the ground floor actually worked. That year, the paper excelled itself, hiring a guest speaker so dull even the MD made his excuses and left the room.

Not wanting to stretch to paying for a different venue for the staff to let their hair down, the festivities had taken place in the same offices where the
Post’s
wage slaves spent their days. With the speaker gradually clearing the company’s tinsel-draped canteen, Harper and Brendan were among several escapees standing in the paper’s smart atrium when the headman and his entourage departed. Five minutes later, Harper was trying the door to the top floor’s corporate hospitality suite. Finding it open, he let himself in and made his way towards the bar. As he reached for a bottle of whisky from the shelf, Brendan stepped from the shadows and offered him a glass.

That was the start of a long evening and the two men went on to become close confidantes. Despite the age gap and a number of other differences, they made a good team and their friendship soon developed into more than a mere drinking partnership. Brendan did not quite become a father figure to Harper but he made a pretty good sounding board when needed. Conversely, the photographer was happy to have the ear of a younger man who took him seriously when he talked about one day stalking wildlife in the Masai Mara.

While Harper’s friendship with Brendan had remained strong — in both of his lives — other bonds had faded away. Part of that was due to the fact that, like many dailies,
The Post
had a regular turnover of staff. Several of the reporters Harper got to know when he first arrived had already left and moved on to other jobs.

But over the last few years, Harper had also become much more selective over how he spent his time. He no longer accepted any invitation that came his way. Pointless pastimes began to seem just that. Hours and days had value. Time was no longer solely for passing; it was space to be used and filled. Concepts like purpose and worth started to creep into his evaluation of opportunities.

The catalyst for that change had been a sudden one. Harper was sitting outside a pub on a sunny afternoon when his mobile rang. It was his mother calling to tell him his father had suffered a massive coronary and was at that moment undergoing emergency surgery.

For a few minutes, Harper could not take the idea seriously. He had never been close to his father; the man was too unapproachable. His father always seemed such a powerful figure: stern, commanding and above all vital. It seemed incomprehensible he could be in danger of losing his life. But his father never recovered from the heart attack. The emotional shock that followed, of seeing his father first as a frail and vulnerable human wreck and then as an empty body, hit Harper more violently than any physical blow.

Up until that unforgettable summer’s day
,
Harper was drifting. No plan governed his existence: no ambition and no real concerns. All he possessed was the immortality of the careless. But the loss of his father changed everything. It was as if the shock flipped a hidden switch. For the first time, he was aware of his own mortality. A new awareness of the fragility of existence made him begin to question the value and achievements — or lack of — in his own life.

The result was a conscious decision to give his life more direction. Harper started to drink less, exercise more and consider the choices he made. He started to care about his job and to think about the longer-term future, not just what he was doing that weekend.

The other huge impact on his social life, however, had been Rebecca. Since they had got together, Harper completely lost any remaining urge to go out roaming the city’s pubs and clubs in the company of casual acquaintances. Why go searching for entertainment when his best friend shared his bed and home?

As he hobbled along Carson Street, Harper wondered how he passed the time in this life. The flat contained no bike and fewer books than he would have expected. He owned a good collection of whisky bottles though, including a few empties. But it seemed unlikely he spent all his time in the flat or at work. Maybe he still spent all his time at the pub.

It occurred to Harper he had not asked Brendan about girlfriends. Although obviously not with Rebecca, he clearly had not been single all the time. The picture of him with the girl from the flat next door seemed to show that — even if her reaction suggested the relationship was no longer current.

Lost in thought, Harper had not been consciously looking at the view. But reaching the end of the road, something made him stop.

Ahead lay the site of the former Kavanaugh Centre. An old shopping development, it had been a brutal monstrosity born in the aftermath of World War Two, when civic planners married a love of concrete with a philosophy of building fast and cheap with no regard to aesthetics. Never popular, the centre was semi-derelict by the 1980s, boarded up by the Millennium and demolished a year ago. The Kavanaugh Centre had occupied a prime riverside site on the edge of the city centre. Now, a new office complex was coming in its place, something to fit the city’s modern image of itself.

Only a few weeks earlier, though, the site made news headlines around the world. A vast pit had been dug for a car park going underneath the offices. The hole was lower than the adjacent river and a retaining wall protected the excavations from the water.

Early one morning, the wall failed, creating a major flood and a serious setback for the project.

But what made the collapse so sensational was the discovery of woman’s corpse entombed within the wall. One theory was the woman’s body had created a flaw in the concrete that weakened the wall and led to its collapse.

Now, as Harper stared through the fencing around the building site, cold fingers crept up his spine. On the other side, where he remembered the breach appearing, construction workers swarmed over the wall. But they were not repairing the collapse. They were putting up shuttering, the skin for concrete yet to be poured. And down below, other machinery was at work, still digging out the last few inches of the pit.

Harper was still trying to make sense of what he had seen at the Kavanaugh Centre when he made his way up Courtney Hill.

A few minutes later, he reached the top of the steps leading to Brendan’s flat. As the door opened, the photographer stood aside to let Harper in, giving the younger man the once over as he limped past. His eyes took in the ripening bruises, the eyes rimmed with exhaustion and pallid complexion. Brendan gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, boy. Just looking at you makes me feel fit and well.’

Harper gave a faint smile and lowered his aching frame down onto the sofa where he had slept the night after the accident. As he did so, it occurred to him it was still not even forty-eight hours since he discharged himself from hospital. He winced at the thought.

Brendan nodded. ‘That’s right, make yourself at home.’

His tone was sarcastic but Harper knew better than to take too much notice. ‘I will.’

‘So. The quack agreed you’re malingering?’

Harper shook his head slowly. ‘No. I paid him a fiver and he agreed to sign me off for the time being. I even got a few painkillers as a bonus.’

‘When are you due back?’

‘At work?’

Brendan shrugged. ‘Work or the doctor’s.’

‘I’ve made an appointment to go back to the doctor’s the same time next week,’ said Harper. ‘I’m signed off until then.’

‘That’ll please Tony Wright.’

Harper shook his head. ‘At the moment I couldn’t care less about Tony Wright or
The Post.
I need to sort things out with Rebecca first. That comes before anything.’

Brendan frowned. He turned and walked towards the kitchen. Harper heard the sound of a kettle being filled.

‘You want tea or something stronger?’ Brendan called.

‘Tea’s fine.’

Brendan leant against the doorway as he waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I’ve got some beers in the fridge if you prefer. Or a drop of malt.’

Harper shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want booze. Not at the moment. My head’s muddled enough as it is. Besides, I’ve got these painkillers to take. The way I’m feeling at the moment, if I have one of them and then a drink I’ll probably pass out.’

Brendan nodded. ‘You’re not right are you?’

Harper looked up. There was something cautious in his friend’s tone. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Brendan shrugged and went back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make the tea.’

Brendan put the mugs down on the floor and lowered himself into a chair as grizzled as its owner. He sighed. ‘Ah, am I glad to sit down. It’s been one of those days. I don’t think I’ve sat down properly since I was in first thing. I’ve been running round half this city trying to be in five places at the same time. Then when I do get back to the office there’s no time to draw breath.’

Brendan shook his head. ‘But I was glad to be out of the place today. Tony was in a fine mood. Cursing you for getting hit by a car, then cursing Louise for doing a disappearing act. Shouting at anyone who crossed his path today, he was.’

Harper shook his head. ‘Louise not turned up then?’

‘Nope. Not heard a peep out of her either.’

‘She’s not normally like that, is she?’

‘Not far as I know. She’s a feisty one but she’s not a shirker. I hope nothing serious is up with her.’

Harper took a sip of his tea. He looked thoughtful. He had too many questions and was unsure which ones were important. He gave Brendan a hopeful glance. ‘I take it you haven’t heard from her?’

‘Eh?’ Louise?’ His friend looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh. You mean Rebecca?’

Harper nodded.

Brendan gave a short laugh. ‘No, boy. Wouldn’t really expect to either. I mean; she hardly knows me any more than she seems to know you.’

‘I just wondered if she might have wanted to ask you something, check me out a bit or something.’

‘Sorry.’ Brendan shook his head sympathetically. ‘I can’t help there. Besides, even if she’d tried, she’d probably have had trouble getting hold of me today.’

Harper lowered his head back to his tea mug. ‘Never mind.’

He forgot about Brendan for a couple of minutes, troubled by something else. A cloudiness had appeared in the edge of his vision: a thin, dark fog that seemed to seep out of the corners of his eyes. It had happened to him a couple of times yesterday and three times this morning. So far, it never lasted long but it was still alarming. What was more worrying was that each time it happened the fog spread just a little further. Harper guessed it was something to do with the knock he took to his head when he came off the bike — or whatever it was that happened here. Rational thought said he should tell a doctor but that created other complications; for the time being he would take a chance on the problem fixing itself.