Neil White - LOST SOULS

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Laura.

‘The preliminaries have come in from the post mortem,’ someone said, an eager young detective.

‘Go on.’

‘Jess was tortured. She was alive when she lost her eyes and tongue.’

Laura took a deep breath. ‘So more than just trophies.’

‘Seems that way. They were taken out by something sharp, though, almost surgical. There were nicks on the bone around the eye-socket where the blade scraped it.’

Laura winced. And she guessed that her time with Bobby would be briefer than she’d hoped.

‘She hardly cried out.’

The voice woke Sam up quickly. He must have fallen asleep. He looked around, scared for a moment as he wondered where he was. Then, as it came back to him, he rubbed his eyes.

He was in a cell with Luke, as they waited for Egan to decide what he was going to do. Sam could have waited outside, or even back at his office, but he knew how cops like Egan operated. He knew there were too many casual conversations with prisoners, just little asides, hints that their lawyer might be wrong.

It had been a long wait, though. The paint on the walls, grey and grim, matched the toilet in the corner. He hadn’t used it yet, but that moment might come soon. It was the lack of good light that struck him the most, the windows frosted and small, but it was the smell that Sam knew would linger.

The cells in Blackley police station had a smell all of their own. The police station was over a hundred years old, and the cells felt more like cellars, with little natural light and a position below ground level. A century of damp had seeped into every piece of brickwork, the smell broken by disinfectant and whatever had been left by their occupants, all those weekend drunks, drug addicts sweating their way through withdrawal, old feet. Sam knew it would stay in his clothes and in his hair for days.

‘What did you say?’ asked Sam.

‘She hardly cried out,’ Luke repeated.

Sam stood up and stretched. ‘Don’t say any more.’

‘No, I want to tell you,’ Luke continued. He was obviously enjoying himself.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Sam replied, although it wasn’t his conscience that made him say it. There was a corridor full of empty cells, and Egan had marched him past all of them to get to the large one at the end, where there was room for a few prisoners. Sam couldn’t see the microphones, but he knew one of the cells was bugged. It had been done a few years ago, when one of the police-station runners was suspected of smuggling drugs into the cells. At first the police had thought he was just providing a good service, when bringing his clients chocolate or sweets. But they’d soon begun to notice that his clients stopped being as eager to get out. So the police bugged a cell. Not to use in court, just for intelligence gathering. They were in the bugged cell, Sam was pretty sure of that.

Luke smiled and sat back, his head against the white tiles.

‘Oh come on, you do. You must have wondered what it would be like to kill someone.’

Sam turned towards him, his anger starting to surface. ‘I’ve never wondered that, because I have never wanted to kill anyone. But stay quiet in here because if you talk, they might listen.’

Luke whistled, his eyes wide. He looked around. ‘Wouldn’t that be fun.’

His smile shut off at the sound of a key in the lock. It was Egan, his jaw set firm and angry. Sam wondered if someone higher up had told him to release them.

Sam had to squeeze past him to get into the tight corridor. He blinked at the bright light, and then felt himself pulled to one side.

‘The dead girl’s mother is in the waiting area,’ Egan hissed. ‘Maybe you’ll want to look her in the eye on the way out.’

Sam jerked his arm away. ‘I’ll tell her how you can’t catch her killer, Egan,’ he said angrily, and then cursed himself for losing his temper.

Sam didn’t wait for permission from Egan. He started to lead Luke away, but he was angry with himself. He was baiting Egan to make himself feel better. Sam had gone into a police station with someone who’d said he had killed and would kill again. Sam had done what he could to get him out. What kind of person did that make him?

Egan glared at Luke all the time he was being booked out of custody. As they went through the waiting area, Sam saw a woman, sitting at the back, a tissue clenched in her fist, her chin puckered, her eyes red. Luke looked away, but Sam saw her watching them, her eyes getting wide, her mouth opening.

Sam looked away and left the station, with Luke at his shoulder.

I was back in Blackley when Sam Nixon came out with Luke King. The best reporting involves patience, although I could tell that the news was already beginning to spread. There was a reporter from the local paper there too, along with a cameraman and a young woman with a microphone.

I saw Sam mutter ‘shit’ to himself as he came out of the door. He glanced back at the station, but the only way was forward.

I moved forward as the cameraman went towards Sam, who tried to push past, Luke tucked in behind him. The court stragglers spilled onto the pavement and watched the excitement. I thought I heard somebody cheer.

Suddenly Terry McKay appeared in front of Sam. He swayed towards Luke King, his finger in the air, waving in jerky movements.

‘You’re a fucking wanker,’ he sneered, his teeth bared, brown and jagged, spittle landing on Sam’s suit.

Sam tried to move forward, tried to push Terry out of the way, but Terry just pushed back.

‘They catching up with you?’ he continued, shouting now.

Terry turned towards the camera, to make sure he was being filmed, and Sam took the opportunity to slip past him, Luke keeping up with him. The cameraman stepped in front of McKay, leaving him alone on the pavement, confused and angry.

As Sam walked off, he tried to step up the pace, but the cameraman was quicker, blocking his path. Sam realised that he had lost the option of silence, so I watched him as he licked his lips and swallowed. A microphone and my voice recorder were pushed in front of him. He cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed.

‘As you might know, the police have been speaking to my client in relation to a murder that took place last night. My client would just like to say that he is mystified as to why the police wanted to speak to him.’

His voice sounded strong, assured.

‘He knows nothing about the unfortunate woman who was found dead last night, but hopes that Blackley Police find whoever committed this awful act. He hopes sincerely that the police are now able to devote their time to finding the killer, and that they stop trying to achieve quick publicity by pursuing an innocent young man just because he happens to have a well-known father.’ Sam smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s all.’

And with that, he walked away, Luke close behind.

I watched them go, noticing how Luke kept his eyes down, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze. I thought about Sam and the few conversations I’d had with him. Did I know him well enough to get the inside track?

I checked my watch. I still had some time before I had to collect Bobby. And I wouldn’t know until I asked.

I had some research to do first, though.

Sam didn’t pause in reception. The seats were full of people ignoring the no-smoking sign, but he couldn’t face seeing any clients. Let the caseworkers speak to them. They spent their days working the files, visiting crime scenes, seeing witnesses, harassing the prosecution. And when the prosecution ignored the letters, they harassed them some more.

Sam wouldn’t ask the Crown Court runners to speak to anyone in the office. They weren’t employed for the daily grind. Harry recruited them for the flash of their legs, nothing more, to brighten the lives of prisoners and take notes in court. The word soon got around the pubs and estates in Blackley that if you wanted to see a pretty girl when you were stuck in a prison cell, you went to Harry Parsons & Co.