What Lies in the Dark (7 page)

One officer irritably jabs a stick into some bushes. He is annoyed, his arms and legs are covered with itching insect bites. Why am I giving up my weekend for this? I could be playing football, I could be … his thoughts are interrupted as his stick becomes stuck on something. Great! Another dead animal! Angrily he pulls the bush aside to become face to face with decomposition. A stench of rotting carcass hits his mouth, as he lets out a vomit choked scream before collapsing forward next to the festering body of one former Thomas Goldrick.

They would eventually conclude that Thomas Goldrick died of unknown reasons, his body too badly decomposed for a coroner to determine. His history of heart problems and age, lead them to determine that Thomas had become confused on the way home and, despite living in the same area all his life, took the wrong path and wandered lost until the heart attack hit. It is a loose theory, and his widow will eventually accept it.

Down by the river, where nobody goes, there is a small bundle of clothes, a wishy and a washy and a one, two, three … Her screams echo across the forest.

A volunteer has been aiding several officers who are dragging the river. Her job is to catalogue everything they
pull out. Throwing discarded bottles and cans into recycling bags, rubbish into rubbish bags. She feels a small sense of pride from just cleaning the river, admiring how nice it looks. Maybe, she thinks, maybe she will bring her children down here, it will be a nice place for a picnic. She smiles with the thought, already seeing her children playing in the trees as her eyes catch sight of a small glimpse of blue – a blanket, hidden under a nearby bush. More abandoned clothes. The blanket feels heavy as she lifts it out from its nesting place. Puzzled, she pulls back the folds and begins to scream. A day-old baby smothered in the blanket. His mother will never be found.

There is a small air of depression, despair and anger as the search groups slowly leave, several volunteers sobbing. One officer will never be able to forget the smell of decomposition. The forest has only given up two secrets, neither of them relevant to the actual case. They return the next day, the forest is gloomy and dark. The search continues with sleepless eyes and trembling fingers. The groups are less eager now, the tragedies of the previous day have swatted all enthusiasm. Some people are hoping not to find a body, not to have to see. The searchers are still diligent though, despite aching limbs from the previous day’s search, despite itching bug bites. They check as much as they can for hours and hours, but nothing. They stop briefly as food and refreshments are brought out by other volunteers, search for a few hours more before finally giving up and heading home, empty handed, to neglected families.

Michaels has been supervising the comings and goings on both days. She has been left at the meeting point alone, with food and water supplies for the group, monitoring the sign-ins and outs. They are calling it a day now, the sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, rain is threatening. The sad search will begin next weekend. Her finger runs down the lists, looking for anyone who hasn’t already signed out. 34 – Susanna Hardy.

“This is base calling 34, this is base calling 34.”

“34 here.”

“Time to come home 34.”

“Be ten minutes, base.”

“Roger.”

57 – Michael Jennings.

“This is base calling 57, this is base calling 57.”

“Did you say 57?”

“Yes, 57”

“57 here.”

“Time to come home, 57.”

“Sign me out Base.”

“Roger.”

133 – Shannon Leona

“This is base calling 133. This is base calling 133.”

Static fizzles down the radio, Michaels slaps the walkie talkie in annoyance.

“This is base calling 133. This is base calling 133.”

Silence across the frequency.

“This is base calling 133. Please come in 133”

Silence.

Four hundred people take the train into the city every weekday. Most of them sleepwalk in, their eyes half closed in the last throes of slumber. Some use the morning to catch up on paperwork, hurrying through unimportant documents. Some flirt. No one really looks out the window any more, the view never changes. The first train passes within seconds, a chug chug blowing dust over frozen eyes.

The second train passes ten minutes later. One person sees something but isn’t quite sure. It is just a trick of light, the train is going too fast to really see … but it looks like … but it isn’t … definitely not. No one else is reacting, was just a trick of light.

It takes five trains before someone alerts the guard, who doesn’t really take the teenager seriously, despite the wide-eyed pleading, the I-know-what-I-saw, it was a dead woman! The defiant teenager is met with reassurances and eye rolls from the guard who has heard it all before. The teenager sits back in his seat, arms crossed, angrily glaring at the other passengers, protesting that he knows what he saw. No one believes him.

Sixth train, people are more awake now. When one woman screams, the rest of the carriage pay attention. Several people catch the glimpse of flesh and blood as it speeds past their window. Some people say that it is just a prank, a really nasty prank. Others babble incoherently, arriving at work on edge, shaking and babbling until their boss finally sends them home. The nearest station is radioed and a police car is dispatched. At this point no one is really taking the call seriously. It isn’t until the order comes through for trains to be diverted, until several cars speed past, their sirens blazing that the realisation hits.

She had been dumped in front of the tunnel, her bloodied head resting against the mossy bricks. Her bruised, clothed body resting at a slant, her cut hand hidden behind her back as if to hide her shame from the cameras, her
walkie-talkie still giving off a dying bleep. A female that most of the assembled knew. A female some of them had spent the night searching the forest for, wanting to believe that she had become lost, tripped. 133 – Special Constable Shannon Leona.

Shannon Leona had volunteered to become a Special Constable seven years ago. It was how she met her husband Robert Leona, Robbie Bobbie, one of the full-time officers. She worked part-time as a nursery assistant, and then volunteered part-time with the police force. She did it because she wanted to help the world. She did it because it felt good, the police force felt a little like family. There had been resentment when she first signed up, the ritual hazing but slowly she was accepted. Her relationship with Robert helped. Shannon would take the Friday night shifts, volunteer to talk down drunk teenagers, never cared when her shoes were vomited on, never scared when someone tried to take a swing. She had a reputation in the force for being able to calm down almost anyone, no matter what the situation.

She would have been horrified to be remembered this way, that her friends had to see her like this. She prided herself on being a strong woman, never allowing herself, even at school, to submit to any humiliation. She had been dragged and beaten but she fought as long as she could. Smashing against the cold confines, screaming through a bloody gag, kicking as hard as she could.

In the end, she only amused him. He enjoys reliving that moment when her eyes widened with … recognition.

Robbie Bobbie was given his nick-name by his colleagues, and took it in good part. He took most things with a wide grin. The class clown at school, the class clown at work. Now his eyes are cold and hollow as his partner takes him aside and begins to tell him the news. It takes six colleagues to hold him back, to stop him from running over to the crime scene. He just won’t stop struggling and screaming and
scratching, half pulling the others across the floor before he finally breaks against the human wall, collapsing into his partner with tears in his eyes.

Robert Leona would never return to work after that day, couldn’t stand to see his wife being slowly replaced. Couldn’t stand to see the pictures pinned to the board. Couldn’t stand to see the colleagues who failed to protect her. Couldn’t stand to be a suspect.

They had to bring in another pair of detectives from a different district, detectives who had no connection to Shannon or Robert Leona. Despite the link to the other victims, this case had to be worked separately. Once the detectives had cleared Bullface and Fletcher, then they could begin interviewing every officer, every volunteer who had helped with the search, had to dredge through every work place conflict involving the Leonas, the old rivalries and misunderstandings. Poke through any case involving either of the Leonas to try and find any resentful party. They would be there for a long unwelcomed time.

Fletcher and Bullface have been relieved of all other open cases. Their sole occupation centres on the Numbers murders. Both can feel the pressure mounting, Shannon’s murder means that the entire district is watching them, making sure no one slips up, nothing slips away. There is an anger buzzing in the air, the station is a thunderstorm of anger at not protecting one of their own. Anger at Fletcher and Bullface for not catching this guy yet, anger at each other, anger at other people’s anger. The station is now motivated, powered and fuelled by anger. Anger which is always a catalyst for catastrophe.

Bullface tries to escape from the station as much as possible, taking any opportunity to leave. She feels like the station is smothering her. Just like her first marriage had smothered her in blame and anger. The accusing eyes are haunting her again and she wants out, wants this to be over. Fletcher tries to soothe, he tries to be everyone’s friend. He knows that people need to see him working, need a
punchbag, need to be reassured that they are actually doing something, but so far the results are disappointing and no one will forgive him for that. Even though they see he is working hard and even though they know it is not his fault. The assailant has managed to pull an entire station apart with one single well-planned murder.

The other detectives are not helping. Interviews by Dalbiac and Vogel have ended with officers storming out, swearing, launching a formal complaint or all three. No one so far had come out smiling. To Fletcher, they seem to be making a bad situation even worse. He was one of the first to be interviewed and had been grilled almost abusively about the lack of progress on the case. While those detectives are there, everyone in the station suspects everyone else, hating and resenting the implication that one of their own could have done that, that to Shannon Leona.

It’s funeral week, Stella McQam is cremated with little ceremony. No family attend, just three of her friends. Unknowingly, as they sob, they are watched by waiting cameras. Adelina’s funeral is next, closed casket. Adelina’s funeral is crowded, the sobbers gathered in close, the chorus of cries echoes from grave stone to grave stone. Jack Sasha stands protectively close to his wife’s casket. The fierce anger has faded, his face is a chiselled blank. Jack is accepting the,
“I am sorry - if there is anything I can do.”
The handshakes with small nods. He barely notices who is talking to him. This is fortunate for the mousey woman. She approaches Jack with her head fixed on the ground. She has deliberately worn the same dress that she had worn to her daughter’s funeral. She has caught a few of the mourners staring at her, trying to figure out who she is. She waits on the outsides of the throes, waiting to catch Jack on his own. She knows, from her own sad experience, that being alone at the funeral is a rarely given reprieve.

She whispers in his ear, “May I talk to you, Mr Sasha?”

The response is an immediate scowl, “Leave me
alone.”

“Please, Mr Sasha.”

Jack Sasha growls at her.

“I am not a reporter.”

“Then who the fuck are you?” Jack glares at the mousey woman.

“My name is Jennifer Taylor.”

He doesn’t recognise her, why would he? Her daughter’s death had not attracted the same amount of attention. She had not appeared on the news threatening revenge. “I am Fran Lizzie Taylor’s mother.” She says with a hushed whisper.

Anna Stevenson is also at the funeral. She wears carefully selected black strappy heels, ones that Adelina would have approved of. Ones that say, I can be sexy but still sorrowful. Also she wears a skimpy black dress, carefully designed to minimise her flabby gut. Her make-up has been carefully chosen for its waterproof elements and has been slightly reapplied. She is going for it – well she would be, had Jack not walked off with the strange timid women who had approached him moments before. She and Jack disappear behind another gravestone, much to the astonishment of the other bereaved. Anna is not impressed. Adelina’s mother has started wailing again, unhappy that her daughter’s husband is already cavorting with another. Anna stares at the red rose and white lily arrangements that surround the cut in the earth. A stone sinks deep within her stomach, it is finally hitting just whose funeral she is attending. For the first time Anna Stevenson feels ashamed of herself, slowly backing away, alone to her car, to collapse in a gooey pile of tears.

Shannon Leona’s funeral will be on Friday. Her autopsied body has finally been released. Officers who had attended the search are still under suspicion. Some have even been warned that perhaps they should not attend Shannon’s funeral, particularly those who were members of Shannon’s search group and the unfortunate officers who had arrived back late.

Fletcher lies in bed, listening to his wife’s slightly congested breathing. His eyes are burning, red raw from too many late nights, his whole body throbs in the throes of exhaustion yet he cannot sleep. His mind runs over every single event, trying to find that single elusive clue that he knows they have missed. Should he go out now? Begin a random search alone, the guy could be killing right now, what is he doing lying in bed? If someone died tonight it would be his fault.

But then that’s why they employed night staff, who are all vaguely competent, he is only human after all and humans need sleep. Even the killer needs sleep.

Shannon’s death hurts, their biggest failure yet. Robert Leona was a good friend; they had been on the same rugby team for eight years. He had attended Robbie’s stag night, Robbie laughing his way through the night. It could have been Claire. Playing little juvenile tricks on his fellow officers, forcing them all to dress up as super heroes. His mind plays their wedding over and over. Could have been Claire. The smiling Shannon looking up at Robbie. Could have been Claire. Now Robert won’t even talk to him, won’t answer the phone, won’t return his calls. Robert’s message is clear, leave me alone.