Fade to Black (2 page)

RP
: “Could the mysterious lights around the Tor have triggered the beliefs?”

St. Clair
: “The Tor has been at the centre of many legends and beliefs—not all of them concern mysterious lights.”

RP
: “Such as?”

St. Clair
: (smiling) “Faeries for one—and not the cute winged variety found at the bottom of the garden. It is said they have caverns and magical springs associated with the home of Gwnn ap Nudd, the Faerie King—and of course there are those who believe in Ley lines, celestial pathways from the summit and that’s not to mention the big one-the connection to King Arthur.”

RP
: (chuckling) “There’s lots to explore on this one then, Professor St. Clair, but we’ll have to leave it for another time—maybe in a galaxy far, far away! Thanks for coming in.”

St. Clair
: “My pleasure, Roseanne.”

Chapter Two

Tuesday, 2 p.m. New Scotland Yard, London.

Allie St. Clair had been an Acting Detective Chief Inspector for exactly thirty seconds and it already felt right. She’d earned this. Seven years of making a drunken sod look good had finally paid off. Two weeks ago, DCI William ‘Billy’ McBride’s liver had made his decision to retire an easy one. Her immediate elevation to the head of a murder investigation team under the aegis of the Homicide Serious Crime Command was gratifying and she quietly hoped her promotion enjoyed the unanimous support of the hierarchy at New Scotland Yard.

Her former boss had been a legend with the metropolitan police–at least in his own long lunchtimes. At fifty-two, Billy had barely served enough time to qualify for a pension. But barely was good enough, and now he had passed out of Allie’s working life. The farewell booze-up for him at his beloved Old Star just off Broadway, conveniently located not one hundred yards from Billy’s office, had been put on hold as he had been admitted to hospital five days ago to undergo a series of tests.

She’d heard his photo now hung above the bar at the Old Star.
He’d earned that alright,
she thought. It was ironic that the very thing he loved to do most, which had elevated him to some kind of hero status, had brought his career to a sodden halt.

She ran her fingers over the new warrant card that Detective Chief Superintendent Ellen Carr had just presented to her–the cheap plastic feel not dimming her prickle of anticipation. Around the central meeting room, the rest of her team now stood in their respective positions of support, admiration, mistrust and jealousy. This was life. She had worked hard, played it straight down the line, and tried to do the right thing by those colleagues whom she respected and liked. But there were those who felt she was not ready for this responsibility. She was, after all, just thirty-years old, and horror of horrors, she hailed from a background of conspicuous wealth and privilege. Her team, many of whom she had worked alongside for some years, had no way of knowing she eschewed her father’s wealth and struggled like everyone else with a hefty mortgage. She even rode an old motorbike as buying a decent car on her salary to date had been too much of a stretch.

Carr was winding up her congratulatory remarks and Allie prepared herself to respond. She thought again about McBride. She had never actually hated him and in some ways had felt sympathy for him and his condition. But he had belittled her too many times and had taken credit for her work as a matter of course. But, she reflected, she could even have lived with that for a while longer. What she could not abide, however, was his refusal to care about anything but himself. To Billy, victims of rape had ‘asked for it’; battered women were just weak; and murder victims, the majority of whom were homeless or hopelessly drug dependent, were a nuisance at best, interrupting his drinking time. He was a sad man—and that was a fact.

Carr’s awkward speech came to an end, “… one of the youngest officers ever to achieve the rank of Detective Chief Inspector! Allie, congratulations!”

The twenty strong who were gathered applauded as they should and as tradition dictated, and now she was invited to ‘say a few words’. Allie St. Clair now faced them as their new superior officer.

She was conscious of the fact that even her first words today would have an effect on how she was perceived by her new team. She paused for a moment to survey the room and simply enjoy the moment. She noted young DC Jacinta Wilkinson’s beaming smile and ‘thumbs-up’ gesture directed at her. She smiled her thanks. No such acclamation from Detective Sergeant Rachel Strauss—she was clearly agitated—shuffling and looking anywhere but at Allie. There could be no mistaking the ice from that corner of the room. They would never be friends; that much remained obvious to her. Their initial friendly rivalry as trainee detective constables seven years ago had disintegrated over time into outright enmity. Allie had been given recognition for having largely cracked a murder investigation that Rachel had worked on for months, but to no obvious avail. Allie had genuinely sympathized with Rachel and had approached her superiors more than once to have Rachel’s role in the investigation acknowledged.

Even Billy, with whom Rachel had a close working relationship, had done nothing to correct the injustice. Rachel was never to know that Allie had tried hard to act in her interests. The problems between the two women had been compounded a couple of years previously when Allie had been approached by the Met’s advertising agency to feature in a series of recruitment ads to run in the nation’s press. It had been no secret that the agency’s hierarchy had felt that Allie’s thick, lustrous black hair, slim physique and clear-skinned good looks were exactly the ‘look’ they were after to attract higher-caliber applicants. Allie still regretted her decision to pose for a ‘test’ photo shoot. Mere days later, a huge, full-color poster had been hung in full view of the public and her colleagues.

A friend in the force had confided to her that Rachel Strauss made loud, croaking, vomiting noises every time she’d passed by the poster. Rachel made no secret that her view of Allie’s near-perfect white teeth and searing, blue eyes were hard enough for her to cope with in real life, but
Photoshopped
and at ten feet tall were nothing less than an assault. Allie had already withdrawn from the campaign by then as she’d been uncomfortable with the whole concept from the outset and had only initially agreed under pressure from her superiors at Homicide Serious Crime Command. Her withdrawal neither won her points from HSCC nor assuaged Rachel Strauss’s bitter reaction.

It was only some months later that Allie had learned that Rachel had thought her own shaggy blonde hair and impressively packed uniform might have ‘filled the bill’ as she was fond of saying, and she actively sought to be the Face of the Met. Had Allie known at the time, she would have gladly stepped aside. She looked now to the corner of the brightly-lit room at the bevy of male detectives gathered there. She knew some of them would also have a problem with her new status. The Met was a male domain, despite the well-publicized efforts to correct the impression. As genuine as those efforts were, it would take time.

She thanked those who had helped her along the way and expressed hope that they would all work together as an effective unit. She heard herself even thank Billy for everything he had done for her, wish him well, and say how she planned to visit him at the hospital soon. In fact, she had been very surprised to receive a note from him the day before. He had asked her to come and see him. She had been wondering whether he would welcome a visit from her and the note had eased that concern. What
was
interesting was the unmistakable sense of urgency in the tone of the message.

At the end of her speech, she did not invite everyone to join her for the customary, celebratory drink. She knew this was ‘bad form’ and did not miss the raised eyebrows in the room. She felt it was not appropriate given Billy’s condition. At the last moment she added that perhaps drinks could be postponed ‘just until Billy was well enough to join them.’ This drew a few nods and a general murmuring of approval. “Perhaps in a week or so,” she suggested. She drew her speech to a close with a simple, “Thank you once again and ‘see you all tomorrow!”

There remained, of course, the details of changing offices, phone numbers and so on, but all that would happen the next day. Most of the team stopped by her office individually as the day drew to a close to again offer their congratulations, Strauss an expected exclusion. Allie found that Strauss’ attitude disappointed her more than she had expected. Prior to their ‘falling-out,’ their friendship had been one Allie had valued.

Everyone had drifted out by six o’clock and she decided to head for home, but not before promising to have lunch the next day with two of her closest friends from British Transport Police, which was headquartered just across the road, also in St James’ Park. On a whim, she suggested they gather at the nearby Feathers Inn on Broadway at one pm. Leaving her fourth-floor office and ducking down a brick lane behind the St. James’ tube station, she rounded the corner and began unchaining her motorbike from the iron security post. Her phone pinged. Groaning, she dug it out from underneath her heavy, leather riding jacket. She read the message,

Congratulations Allie

-Michael

Michael? No
Michaels
sprang to mind. Stuffing the phone in her zip pocket, she sorted the bike chain, fired up the six-year-old Yamaha Cruiser and decided that rather than cook tonight, she’d treat herself to a meal in one of the restaurants in Putney High Street near her home by the Thames. Maybe try the new Spanish restaurant, The Matador, or was it the Toreador?

Traffic was lighter than normal, so she decided to head out through Kensington and down Fulham Road via Chelsea, just as an alternative to her usual King’s Road route. She was enjoying the ride in the warm air until she noticed the distinctive arched steel verandah of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital coming-up on her left. Her conscience gnawed at her. Billy McBride was in there. She was still debating whether she’d see Billy tonight when the bike almost turned itself into Limerston Street, which bordered the hospital. Decision made.

The narrow street offered the only real chance of a parking spot. She didn’t fancy the hospital’s underground car park—she’d experienced that horror once before when a friend of hers had a badly broken leg, from a motorcycle accident, ironically enough. She’d been stuck in the cavernous car park for an hour along with two hundred other motorists waiting for a broken-down Daimler—probably a surgeon’s car—to be towed out of the way.

She quickly navigated through the Porsches and Jaguars parked on the Kensington Street, finally squeezing her bike into a half-spot in a car park adjacent to the hospital grounds. A fabulous, shiny, black Triumph Rocket Three motorcycle occupied an adjoining parking space. The bike made Allie’s Yamaha look like a child’s plaything. She’d really fancied one of the Triumphs until she checked its weight; she was strong, but her slight frame would never have allowed her to manage the bulk of the bike if she dropped it at the traffic lights—or worse. The price at this stage of her career was also a huge obstacle.

Looking again at the big bike, she made a promise to herself to hit the gym during the coming summer. Her promotion might add enough into her budget to put it within reach. She was not one to give up easily. Motorbikes made sense in this part of London, avoiding peak-time congestion charges being a major advantage, although it was after six p.m. now anyway, she reminded herself.

Cramming her jacket and helmet into the leather panniers, she made her way back around to Fulham Road and to hospital reception. She was directed to the nurses’ station on level three where an ancient nurse ushered her to room twelve. She raised her hand to knock on the pale door, but a sudden feeling of dread froze her. She felt its pressure like a heavy black cloak. Opening the door now seemed like a very bad idea. A nurse shuffled down the corridor towards her. Embarrassed, she forced herself to knock and went in. Billy was alone and trying to figure out how to work the remote control for the wall-mounted television.

“I’ll fix it for you, Billy.”

“Ah, I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said without looking at her.

“
Are you?
” Her voice was too shrill.

He twisted to face her. She was shocked to see he had turned into an old man. There was almost no trace left of the corpulent, outgoing Billy she had tolerated for so long. His alarmingly sunken face matched the grey of the bedding and she was sure he had less hair than when she’d last seen him—hardly more than a week ago. His eyes were jaundiced orbs protruding from a seemingly shriveled skull. . He drew his lips far enough back in an attempted smile, displaying the smashed-off front tooth she had noticed so often. She could never fathom why he had not had that fixed years ago.

“You’re a good looking girl, Allie.”

W
hat was this
, she wondered as she put up her hand in protest.
What drugs were they giving him?

“Hang-on,” he said. “Don’t worry. I haven’t gone strange on you.”

She relaxed a little, managing a smile for him despite the clinging cold of the room. Didn’t they ever turn the heaters on?

“Allie, I wanted you to come see me for a reason. Let me say first that I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I am not looking for pity. You should know that anyway. But I do know that I have disappointed you.”

“Billy-”

“Shut-up for a second, girl. Let me finish!”

She sighed. This was more like the old Billy. He composed himself and motioned to her to come around to the other side of the bed.

“Grab yourself a chair. And close those bloody blinds. That fucking neon sign over the road blinks at me all night.” He waited until she was seated. He hesitated again for a moment, seemingly lost for words. “I’ve been waiting for days to talk to you—you’d think I’d be organized by now, wouldn’t you?”