Waking Broken (15 page)

Thursday, 2.40pm:

The room was quiet as the three officers studied the blow-up prints pinned to the wall. One showed the dead end of the tunnel leading off the main Smith Street sewer. The others showed close-ups of the manacles bolted into the concrete wall. The black and white pictures were stark, clinical and precise but held a presentiment of evil in waiting.

Jim Stanley gave a slight shiver. Like most detectives, he had seen his share of unpleasantness: scenes of degradation and pain where sordid emotions erupted into brutality.

This was different. There was no victim to be found, no sign of struggle or violence. There had been no evidence anyone had ever been placed in the manacles: no fragments of skin or hair on the metal. But that made it worse. The best hope was that it was all a macabre hoax of the worst taste. The alternative was that this was preparation for a crime yet to happen, a plan waiting for execution. And, in that case, the violence would not be spontaneous or casual, it would be ruthless murder carried out with chilling forethought.

Robert Glasgow drew a long breath in through his nostrils. He examined the images with less emotion than the older man at his side. ‘What have you learnt then?’

Stanley twisted round, turning his back on the board. ‘There’s more tests to be done but the restraints are new. Probably only been there a matter of days. They’ve been fixed with standard wall bolts driven into holes drilled into the concrete. The dust from the drill holes was still on the ground.’

‘Any leads there?’

The city centre detective snorted derisively. ‘Not at the moment. We’re seeing if we can trace the manacles; they’re not exactly your everyday household item but the bolts and fixings are ten-a-penny. Knowing our luck, though, we’ll probably find you can get the cuffs in any sex shop in the country.’ He sighed. ‘That’s not all though. There’s one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Show him the map, Sharon.’

Sharon Redman stepped forward and deftly tacked a large-scale plan showing the streets to the east of the city centre next to the photographs. A number of thick lines had been drawn across the map with a marker pen.

‘The lines in blue are the sewers,’ she said. ‘The circles are manholes. The area in red is where we found the wall.’

Glasgow nodded impatiently. ‘Yeah, I can work that out.’

Stanley part turned back to the wallboard and jerked a thumb at the map. ‘Look up to the right. See the bit we’ve outlined with a dotted red line?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s a building site. A new development of flats.’

‘Ah.’

Glasgow traced the line of the sewer, which had forked just before they found the wall with the manacles. One fork veered away from Smith Street and ran directly underneath the highlighted area. There were several blue circles marked within the building site. He nodded slowly. ‘So what have we got? A ready supply of building materials? Plus a discrete access for getting into the sewer system?’

Stanley sighed. ‘Yup. That pretty much sums it up.’

Glasgow drew his shoulders back and prowled across the room to the window. They were on the fourth floor. Below was the police station car park, a bleak rectangle of concrete surrounded by high walls. Razor wire and CCTV cameras guarded the station: an island of order in a world of striving chaos.

Immediately outside the protection of the walls lay busy streets. Cars rushed by, weaving and dodging as drivers jockeyed for position: trying to get into the lane for the traffic lights, avoid a queue or manoeuvre past another vehicle. Beyond lay shops, offices and people, everywhere people: some good, some bad, some indifferent but all individual. And somewhere amongst them was the person responsible for fixing these manacles to a sewer wall.

Until now, the rumours of women disappearing had been just that. But last night’s informant had told police to look for the body of a prostitute. Glasgow knew instinctively that, even without a victim, this was more than just someone wasting police time with a highly dubious practical joke.

He looked sideways at Stanley and Sharon Redman. ‘What next?’

The sergeant glanced at her boss, who was staring at the photographs again. ‘We’re doing some house-to-house in the area and I went down to the building site earlier.’ She looked resigned. ‘Nothing so far but it’s hard to know what we’re looking for at this stage. Someone going into the sewer? Just drive up in a van and wear a set of overalls. Who’s going to bat an eyelid?’

Glasgow nodded. ‘What about the tip-off?’

Stanley turned round. ‘We’ve flagged it up but unless he calls again there’s not much we can do. We’ve got too many other cases to deal with. With this one, there’s not even a body. All we’ve got is one anonymous informant and what may or may not be a wind-up. I can hardly go to Mr Black with this and expect our superintendent to launch a major incident inquiry.’

Glasgow scowled. ‘But if we do nothing…’ He let the implications hang in the air.

Sharon Redman snorted. ‘Well, what do you suggest?’

She sounded defensive but Stanley waved a hand to disregard her response. ‘You’re right, Rob. At the moment, the only thing we’ll have achieved is to warn our man someone is onto him. I’d like to think it was a joke but somehow I can’t see myself laughing at this one. My guess is our caller was genuine but got his information wrong. I’ve heard these stories of girls going missing, same as you. That’s why I called you this morning.’

He shrugged. ‘I just don’t see what else we can do without more information.’

Thursday, 2.45pm:

Harper stood at the top of the hill, feeling the cool wind plucking at his hair and clothes. He breathed deep and slow. The expanse around and below him brought a sense of peace he had not found in the city. He savoured the moment, relishing the sensation. His skin was cold and his bruises ached after climbing the hill but he felt calmer than for days.

Paul Cash watched him intently, giving Harper time to absorb the scale and detail of the landscape spread out below. Aware of the other’s scrutiny, Harper drew his mind back to the here and now. He focussed his thoughts on the view for a while and nodded slowly.

‘You see it?’ asked Cash.

Harper smiled. ‘I’m not sure I’d go that far. I mean; I’ve no idea if it would work but I like the concept. I’ve not heard of anything like it before. It sure beats going to galleries and it would definitely make a mark.’ He paused then glanced sideways. ‘So, how much of the land do you own?’

Cash sighed. With a flick of one arm, he wrapped his long grey cloak around his body and pulled it tight. Standing proud and tall, posing against backdrop of wind-scoured hilltop and darkening winter sky, he looked more messianic than ever. The artist shook his head. ‘Oh, come on: don’t bring me down to earth again. That’s the trouble with you journalists; all you want is the grinding detail. Not the beauty of the concept but the mechanics behind it.’

‘So, it’s not all yours?’

‘Not exactly.’ Cash admitted with a grin, dropping the pose as easily as he had adopted it, now slipping into the guise of roguish puck. ‘But it makes it even more fun if I can persuade other people to let me use their land.’

Harper laughed, surprising himself with the ease with which the sound emerged. He was finding he liked Cash more than he had expected. The confrontation of the morning had simply been verbal sparring, a blatant attempt by the painter to provoke Harper and test both his mettle and ability to stick to his story.

But Harper’s reaction appeared to satisfy Cash. His initial challenge out of the way, the mercurial Lord of the Manor relaxed back into the role of charming host, taking Harper and Rebecca on a tour of his ancient halls. Afterwards, they drank coffee in the artist’s studio. Once they were settled, Cash quizzed Harper on his life, the accident and everything that had happened since. The questions were sympathetic but probing: the painter seemed fascinated by the idea Harper’s mind had somehow moved to this world from a parallel but not identical life. Like Brendan, he theorised that any parallel life must have diverged from the original at a specific point in order for it to have so much shared history. Cash tried to elucidate from Harper when, if there had been a split, it happened.

Unfortunately, neither the artist nor Rebecca had any detailed previous knowledge of Harper, while he was only aware of sketchy details of the path his life was supposed to have taken since he moved to the city and joined
The Post.
As a result, they failed to identify the point when the two tracks of the story had parted.

In the main, Harper tried hard to answer the questions honestly and in full. Most came from Cash, although Rebecca asked a few about Harper’s family and other personal details. The only matter he left out was his sighting of Isaiah Van Hulle and knowledge of what the man was accused of having done in Harper’s other life.

Keeping quiet about Van Hulle was not a conscious plan. The previous night still preyed on Harper’s mind and he was trying to work out how he could, and should, act on his knowledge. There was no guarantee Van Hulle had committed the same crimes in this life. But Harper was convinced, that with the two worlds between which he had moved so closely related, the chances of the Dutchman being an innocent were unlikely.

And Harper was certain that the need to resolve the question of what Van Hulle had — or had not — done was vital. Compared to the prospect of a psychopathic killer roaming the city undetected, his own problems appeared far less urgent. Until now, Harper had regarded ideas like fate or destiny as illogical superstition: the kind of thing he left to his father. But circumstance, warped as it was, had forced him into a position from which it was impossible to escape. As the only person with any detailed knowledge of what Van Hulle might have done, Harper could not abrogate his responsibility and just absorb himself in his own situation. The information he possessed could not only reveal what had happened to any victims so far but save the lives of others to come. To disregard this ‘fate’ would leave him morally no superior to the killer.

But with Rebecca and Cash, bringing in Van Hulle would only complicate matters further. Things were confusing enough without introducing another layer of uncertainty. As a consequence, Harper also kept quiet about his attempt to find out what had happened to Stacey Cole and the resulting late night interrogation. He glossed over the cut and the bruises on his face, saying merely he had run into someone he must have offended in his previous existence in this life.

‘That’s the trouble with what’s happened,’ he joked ruefully. ‘I guess it’s like going to a party and being embarrassed the next day because you got so drunk you can’t remember what you did the night before. But in my case the blank spot covers several years. And it sounds like the ‘me’ in this life wasn’t the most sober person in town. Who knows how many people I might have upset?’

To Harper’s relief, Cash seemed to find that particular situation quite believable. The talk soon moved on and, eventually, the questions and speculation ran out. By the end, Harper was still unsure how much the older man believed but the artist seemed ready to at least accept the premise of Harper’s situation at face value.

It was nearly midday by this point and Cash excused himself for a while, leaving Harper with Rebecca. As they sat opposite each other in the artist’s studio it dawned on both that this was the first time they had been alone together since Harper poured his heart out in The White Lion just a couple of days earlier. Rebecca fell silent and Harper found himself sitting staring at her with tongue tied: there were so many things he wanted to say that he had no idea where to start. Instead, he gazed blankly at Rebecca, heart racing and mind frozen.

It was an awkward moment, neither knowing quite how to move the situation on, and Harper leapt at the idea when Rebecca suggested a walk. Promenading with the stiffness of soon-to-be-lovers who sense but have yet to reach consummation, they found their way out of the manor. The air outside was cool, still dank with the lingering moist chill of a grey February day. They went for a slow wander around the outside of the manor. Cautious of each other’s hesitant body language, they said little, wary of anything that would break the fragile bubble.

Harper kept stealing glances at Rebecca, watching the way her hair brushed against her collar, the faint clouds that appeared as she breathed out in the cold air and the length of her eyelashes. He also noticed the rapid rise and fall of her chest, how the tip of her tongue wet her lips from time to time and the tenseness in her jaw. Her presence captivated him. He was on tenterhooks, alert to her slightest movement or change of expression. His senses and emotions were all on edge as he focused on absorbing every aspect of each moment they were together. It was like falling in love all over again. This time round, though, knowing what was at stake, it felt even more intense. And yet, beneath the excitement and nervous exhilaration, he was a little confused. She was the same woman: of that he was certain. But there was a difference, something that perturbed him. It was hard to pin down and he was unsure whether it was because he was seeing her in the altered light of changed circumstances, whether he was seeing something in her he had never noticed before or whether she was actually no longer the same. It was a situation both delicious and a dilemma — and one that made it hard to keep his eyes off her.

Rebecca was conscious of his scrutiny but unsure how to respond, or whether she wanted to. Rather than meet his eye she kept her gaze fixed on the garden to her side or on the path ahead.

As they strolled, Harper’s hand was itching at his side. It kept wanting to steal out and capture hers. To walk so close together but without any actual contact was heaven and torture. He was desperate to touch her, even if it was only to imprison her fingers and transmit his passion through her skin. And to reassure himself she was still the same woman he had loved before.

Their emotionally-repressed progress brought them to a walled garden where the bare stems of roses twined around a metal arbour and fish skulked at the bottom of a murky ornamental pool. They ignored the damp-looking bench and walked to the edge of the pool. They stood side by side, silently watching for elusive glints of orange and gold.

Since leaving the studio their eyes had barely met until this point. Rebecca turned to stare at Harper. He was still looking at the water and stiffened, aware of her scrutiny, unsure whether to turn and meet her gaze. Eventually she gave a long sigh. ‘So, why is it that I feel like I’ve known you for ages?’

The question caught Harper off guard. He blinked and gave a short laugh. ‘I’m not sure.’ He was silent for a moment then tilted his head round so that his eyes looked into hers. ‘I wish I could say. It would be nice to give you a simple glib answer, something confident and reassuring but if I did it wouldn’t be honest. The truth is: I don’t know what’s going on any more than you. I know that you don’t really know me in this life. All I can say is what happened in the life that I know.’

Harper lifted one hand and rested it on her shoulder, not trying to draw her near, simply establishing a physical bond. It took a huge effort to stop the contact there. ‘Becca, when I first met you, at that party, I’d already noticed you before we were introduced. I mean, you’re a very attractive woman and as a single bloke I’d probably have eyed you up anyway but there was more to it than that. I was drawn to you as soon as I saw you and I made damn sure we were introduced.’

Smiling at the memory, Harper closed his eyes momentarily before re-establishing visual contact. ‘I remember you were very nice and polite but when I didn’t just move on to talk to someone else you got a bit twitchy. I could tell you were a bit wary but I made sure I got your phone number before I cleared off and a promise that you’d think about having dinner with me.’ He shrugged. ‘It took a bit of persistence after that but we had a few dates and you started to let your guard down. Afterwards you told me you were still getting over a long-term relationship with this guy from university and that you’d been keen to stay single for a bit. You said you liked me from the off but that you’d not wanted to get involved with anyone.’

Harper turned back to gaze into the pool. ‘I don’t know whether there was something in particular that drew us together, whether it’s hormones or pheromones or whatever. We certainly clicked pretty quick once we actually got together. From then on…’

He sighed. ‘Let’s just say it was good enough that losing it was one of the worst things to ever happen to me. And maybe I can’t ever recreate the life I had but I’m not prepared to give up on the best thing that ever happened to me.’

As he fell silent, Rebecca stood looking at him. She was silent but the moisture brimming around her eyelids gave away the intensity of her emotions. She was about to speak when a loud ringing came from her pocket.

‘Oh shit!’ She bit her lip. ‘Not now.’

Harper shrugged. ‘See who it’s from. It might be important.’

She dragged the offending article from her pocket and flipped the phone open. ‘It’s Sarah.’

That had been the end of their intimacy by the pool. Sarah’s call broke the delicate spell. Unaware of all that had happened since their riverside conversation the previous day, Sarah was ringing to find out whether Rebecca would be back at the office in time for lunch.

Rebecca did not mention Harper’s presence but said she would be coming back into town soon. She offered Harper a lift but he sensed the moment had passed and declined. ‘I’ll get a taxi later,’ he said. ‘It’s quite nice being out of the city for a bit. I’ll maybe go for a walk, come back later.’

She left soon after, departing with a hasty farewell to Cash and a lingering, wondering look over her shoulder at Harper.

The artist had observed the slump in Harper’s shoulders and summoned him back into the manor. ‘Come on, we’ll have some food and a drop of wine then there’s something I want to show you.’

Somewhat reluctantly but with no particular alternative, Harper followed his host’s orders. Cash, who was as at home in the kitchen as in the studio, had already prepared a simple meal for three. Once the two of them dealt with that, the painter led Harper back outside and to a mud-spattered Land Rover parked beside a creaking old barn.

After a cross-country drive of about a mile-and-a-half, they parked at the end of a track near Westbury Hill and continued up on foot. Along the way, Cash began to explain his new project. ‘Painting with trees, that’s the key to it,’ he said. ‘You know how trees transform in autumn, that blaze of colour, the alchemy of all those shades of green melting away and erupting into gold and orange and yellow and red… Well, I want to capture the beauty of that natural display, seize the moment and take those colours, use them to create a work of art, a piece of art that isn’t confined to a room or a gallery, but a piece of art that covers a whole swathe of the landscape. I want to use this land as my canvas.’

‘Ambitious.’