The Soprano, page 17
“What is it?” he barked, and Catherine saw the women shrink back slightly.
“I’m sorry, Guv, but there’s something you need to see.”
In amongst the chaff that had, somewhat inevitably, filled the spreadsheet on the large monitor in the CID office, no fewer than three separate women had told of a university security guard dismissed for following female students around the campus. Details were scarce, but there was enough similarity in them to warrant further investigation. Catherine felt the adrenaline growing in her. Finally, something was happening - something more than just the baseless hope she had clung to since she’d been a teenager. Finding Sarah’s body first, and then the necklace. The gloves. This new person of interest. All of a sudden, things didn’t feel quite so hopeless. Darkest before the dawn, indeed, she thought to herself.
It was a short walk from Central police station to the University’s Security building. Both were ugly concrete cuboids, lacking the architectural flair and sophistication of the University’s original Victorian building or the modern elegance of their state-of-the-art neighbours. Built in the early 1960s, it was rumoured that both would inevitably be torn down and replaced, but for now they were what they were - the red-headed stepchildren of an evolving city.
It was raining heavily, and although Damien had an umbrella and had offered to share it, Catherine had declined and was sodden by the time they reached the narrow alley between an ornate white stone building on one side and a patterned glass motif on the other. It hadn’t helped that the alley had become something of a wind tunnel and was driving the rain straight into them, but she didn’t like the idea of being in such close proximity to him - to anyone.
The Security Centre was a two-storey building, far deeper than it was wide, and at some point a bridge had been installed to connect the upper floor with the neighbouring library. They were greeted by an excitable blonde in her early forties, and as she chattered quickly at them Catherine couldn’t tell whether her wittering was an attempt to find out some inside-scoop from the police, or to flirt shamelessly with Damien, who - although retaining the air of permanent professionalism he always wore in public and only ever let slip while working at one or other of their homes - she assumed would be enjoying the attention. The blonde led them up to a first-floor office at the top of the stairs and through a wind-chime, positioned so that it couldn’t be avoided and rang loudly as the chimes rattled into one another. She knocked on the door and waited as slow, heavy footsteps clomped behind it.
As the door was yanked open from inside, Catherine was astounded to see a familiar face that she’d neither seen nor thought about in quite some time. Although slightly older now and more heavily lined, the unmistakably green eyes that greeted them belonged to Ruth Simpson, who’d been Catherine’s mentor when she’d first joined the police. A tough, no-nonsense type of woman who’d “fought with her male colleagues for decades and worked twice as hard to get half as far.” That’s how she’d once described herself to Catherine during one of their early meetings. In getting to know her, she’d seen how much of a facade this was, but it served her well and she’d made the rank of DI before retiring. A wave of guilt immediately washed over Catherine as she realised she’d become so engrossed in her own career and the hunt for Sarah that she hadn’t known that her friend had continued working after retiring from the police service. She’d only been 52, but with a good pension in place it wasn’t uncommon for officers to retire around 50 and move into private sector employment to top up their savings. She couldn’t even say with any certainty that she’d even thought of Ruth since she’d retired - it was very much a case of out of sight, out of mind. She didn’t mean to be so callous, but she often found herself thinking at odd hours that she should get in touch with this person or that, only to forget by the time it would be more appropriate to reach out.
Ruth ushered them into the room, pointing at the white bud in her right ear and grunting out acknowledgements of whatever was being said on the other end of the call.
“Yeah… Yeah, sure. Look, I’ve got to go - the police are here.”
Without waiting, Ruth clicked off the call and whipped the headphone from her ear, tossing it carelessly amongst the clutter that covered every inch of her desk. Seeing the unkempt piles of papers spilling into one another was something Catherine had become accustomed to during their time working together, and it raised a smile, seeing that those old habits hadn’t been retired too. Gesturing to the small, tattered blue sofa pressed tightly into the corner of the office, Ruth sat in the high-backed hair behind her desk.
“Cat, hi. I had a call saying someone was coming in - didn’t know it was you. I’d have made a cake.”
Catherine rolled her eyes and laughed dryly.
“Why? What did I do to you?”
“Touché…”
The woman extended her hand to Damien. He nodded as he sat down next to Catherine.
“Damien Owens. I won’t shake, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Old habit.”
Catherine smirked, casting another eye over the desk.
“I haven’t got long, I’m afraid. Since the press reported Sarah’s body being found we’ve been inundated with calls from students, worried parents and even Wales Online asking what we’re doing to prevent a recurrence, as if this happened yesterday. Christ.”
She opened the top drawer of her desk, removed an e-cigarette and took a long drag, blowing vanilla-scented vapour from the side of her mouth.
“Normally I’d ask where you’ve been - I only retired, not died. But, under the circumstances I’ll give you a pass. How are you coping?”
Sarah felt suddenly nauseous, as though Ruth had punched her in the stomach with the ferocity of a heavyweight boxer, and she struggled to disguise the fact that her lungs had filled with sawdust which kept her from breathing. Having been removed from active duty immediately after the body was identified, she’d managed to avoid being asked repeatedly how she was coping or feeling, and hiding from that personal, emotional side of things had helped her to remain at least partially objective.
“Ah, you know.”
Ruth offered a knowing smile and quickly changed the subject.
“When I got the call, the girl I spoke with just said that you had some questions, but wouldn’t go into details. I’ve only been here six months - topping up the pension until Dennis retires, you know - so I’m not sure how much help I’ll be able to offer.”
Damien sat forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs.
“You might have seen that Catherine’s father made an appeal, yesterday, for anyone with information to come forward. As you’d expect, most of what came in this morning was crap, but there were three separate calls about a Security Officer who worked here around the time, who was dismissed for stalking female students. We’d like to speak with him, but none of the calls gave a name.”
Ruth screwed up her face and sighed.
“Like I said, I wasn’t here so I don’t know any details - although the gossips downstairs have been having a good go this morning. Heard them when I was walking through the Control Room, but they stopped when they saw me. I could get one of them to come up, if you’d like?”
“Thank you, that would be great.”
Less than two minutes after Ruth had called downstairs, the blonde woman returned, this time with a tall, bald gentleman who introduced himself as Justin Bellamy. He filled the doorframe, standing to attention in front of Ruth.
“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?”
“Yes, Justin, thank you. This is DC Green from South Wales Police, and Mr Owens, her partner. They’ve come to ask some questions about a former colleague, but unfortunately he left well before my time here. I was hoping you might be able to assist.”
He shuffled uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Ma’am - it’s not really my place to say anything, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
“You didn’t seem overly concerned, talking to Tina this morning…” Ruth’s tone was sharp, but measured. She hadn’t raised her voice - she hadn’t needed to. Her authority in that room was absolute, even down to the fact that he was still referring to her as Ma’am, even though Catherine would’ve guessed he’d been out of the service for at least a decade. This was a trait Catherine had spent years trying to hone, but was still a way off.
“Oh, right.” Beaten, Justin turned to Catherine and nodded. “What can I do for you, Ma’am?”
Catherine took out the notebook she always carried with her and flipped it to the first empty page, ready to take down anything and everything he told her. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Ruth had done the same, pen poised over a larger pad on her desk.
“Thank you Justin - we’ll try not to take up too much of your time. An appeal went out yesterday for information relating to the disappearance of Sarah Green, a student here, in 2004. Her body was found a few days ago, buried on the site over the road.”
“Aye, terrible business that. I’d just started here, maybe a year before? Let’s see, I retired in 2002, then we went to Australia to stay with the wife’s brother for a few months. Spent Christmas on the beach - that was odd. Then we came back after Easter 2003, and I started working here in the May. Meechy – that’s Sam Meech, my old DCI from Merthyr – he was in charge of this place then, and he brought me in.”
Catherine scribbled frantically, trying to keep up with him.
“And that was, did you say 2003?”
“Aye, yeah. 2003.”
“And what can you remember about the following summer? 2004?”
“Not much, to be honest. Greece won the Euros. I put a quid on them for a laugh. Won two grand!”
“Congratulations. I was thinking, more specifically, about what happened here that summer.”
Justin blushed deeply, trying to laugh off his mistake.
“Oh, right, aye. Yeah, we had a new boy started with us around Easter. Bit weird, but he worked hard. Nice lad - I liked him. Anyway, from what I can remember - we’re going back nearly twenty years, now, mind, he went to a call out for a student locked out of her room. He attended - by all accounts she was a pretty girl, a bit friendly - and he took a bit of a fancy to her. Started making excuses to knock on her door - checking in, that sort of nonsense. We haven’t got time to check in on everyone, you know how it is. Then he’d started turning up around her lectures and so on. The last thing, then, a student called the desk in the early hours of the morning saying there was a man hanging around in the bushes outside one of the blocks up at Cyncoed. We saw him on CCTV, and he didn’t work a shift here again. Word was that he did a deal to go quietly, in return for not reporting him to the police. Last I heard, he was living in Spain somewhere.”
“Did he have a name?” Catherine asked, pausing to look up from her notebook.
“Oh, yeah - course. Jacob, he was. Jacob Morrison.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AFTER RELAYING WHAT little they’d learned during their visit to the University’s Security department (as well as a less fruitful call to the HR department, who refused to cooperate without an official request for information from South Wales Police), Damien had suggested that they retire to the relative calm of Catherine’s flat, as working in such a busy and noisy office wasn’t an environment he found conducive to productivity. Catherine had agreed, but missed the office and had been quietly hoping that their involvement in the investigation in a more official capacity might be her key back into work. She knew that there would be things Hales wouldn’t share with them – presumably on the DCI’s orders – which wasn’t going to help them catch Sarah’s killer, but they had more chance of finding out if they were in the building….
The flat was a mess. In their excitement the previous evening, they’d forgone the daily ritual of returning paper copies of documents to their files and returning everything to the shelves in the office. And - more annoyingly and embarrassingly - Catherine had left a sink full of dirty dishes, which she felt compelled to do before they started working again. By most people’s standards there weren’t many things to wash up, but she hated leaving things in a state of flux. It was the one place - her home, her sanctuary - where she could retain complete control of things while the rest of her life had been engulfed in chaos since Sarah had disappeared. Sarah vanished, her parents divorced, the life of crime-fighting she’d embraced - none of these things allowed her any semblance of order or control, but at least in her small corner of the world she could have things how she wanted them. She cracked, deciding that she couldn’t ignore them. Washing up would only take her a few minutes, and Damien was - as usual - preoccupied by whatever goings on he was tracking through his phone. Try as she could, she was unable to think of anyone so constantly connected and synchronised with their digital life. He ran his entire life from his phone, tablet or laptop - from work and entertainment right down to turning on the lights at home if he wasn’t going to be back before dark or turning on the central heating to warm the house up when he left her flat, so that every room in his comparatively palatial home was at a comfortable temperature by the time he got there. Catherine had always thought herself to be at least slightly tech-savvy and up to date, but the more time she spent with Damien, the more she felt like a cave-woman.
She filled the red plastic bowl in the sink with hot water, plunging her hands into it and letting the heat prickle against the fleshier parts. She wouldn’t have said it was painful, but rather that it grounded her in the present and stopped her mind from wandering. A psychiatrist (or psychologist - she didn’t know the difference) would probably have deemed this to be a form of self-harm, a self-destructive and entirely inappropriate coping mechanism, or a cry for help, but for Catherine it was just how she washed the dishes.
She quickly swiped glasses and dishes from the counter and swilled them around in the bowl before wiping them clean with a faded blue cloth and standing them neatly on the rack above the draining board. As she picked up the last glass, the oversized goblet which still had a small drop of wine at the bottom, it slipped from her hand and cracked against the edge of the bowl. She instinctively reached out to grab it, the newly jagged edge slashing the butt of her hand deeply and almost instantaneously turning the soapy water a deep red. Already stinging from the temperature of the water, the sudden surge of excruciating pain seared through her.
“FUCK!” she yelled, grabbing a crisp white tea towel from the side and wrapping her injured hand in it. In the few seconds it took for Damien to run in from the living room, the tea towel had already reached its saturation point and was now dripping blood into the sink as she held her hand up high, in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
“First aid kit?” he asked, retaining an air of calm which both comforted and irritated her.
“Bathroom cupboard, under the sink.”
She watched as he ran to the bathroom, listened as he clattered around the cupboards, pulling everything out as he fought to reach the first aid kit, which was stowed at the back behind numerous bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash and other lotions and potions she’d amassed over the years.
She was feeling light-headed and wanted to sit down by the time he returned, so was glad when she saw he’d brought a thicker towel from the bathroom to soak up the blood and was leading her gently to the bathroom where he could clean and dress the wound in the brighter light. As much as she’d liked the aesthetic, this was the first time she’d actually appreciated the laminate wooden flooring she’d had installed in the hallway, as getting so much blood out of a carpet would’ve been impossible - especially as the carpet she had replaced had been a beige piece which served as a magnet for all kinds of dirt regardless of how many times she vacuumed and cleaned it. Sections had greyed beyond all hope of repair by the time she’d ripped it up.
After ten minutes of irrigating the wound and packing strips of gauze against it, Damien had been unable to staunch the bleeding and Catherine had found herself sitting in the bathtub with her hand elevated above her chest. Although it had slowed considerably and was now only trickling, rather than gushing as it had at first, blood was still soaking through the gauze, and she’d gone from light-headed to dizzy and nauseous. Try as she did, keeping her eyes open for ten seconds or longer proved to be impossible, and she could feel herself sliding downwards into the tub, her arm becoming increasingly weighty as she tried to rest it on the side. She also wasn’t sure where Damien had gone, and her head swam with shapes and colours, high-pitched wails of tinnitus and roaring winds swirling with them. And then Sarah. Just Sarah. Engulfed in darkness. Gloved hands at her throat. Her eyes silently pleading as the life faded from them. Then darkness.
It was a strange tickling sensation in her hand that roused her. The pain of her torn flesh hadn’t subsided - nor had the sting of the vodka-based disinfectant Damien had concocted and dabbed against it - but this new sensation was comparably pleasant, as though a particularly shaggy dog was rubbing its bushy fur against the edge of her hand. Only when it was followed by a sharp, stabbing sensation did she open her eyes to see Damien stitching her ruptured skin. The gash was deep and the skin on either side was red and sore, but his touch was gentle, and she could tell from the concentration etched on his face that he was taking care to do a neat job.
Her head ached and she groaned as she tried to sit up, but Damien pressed a hand against her shoulder and held her still.
“What… What are you doing?” she asked, the fog still swirling around her. “Why am I…” She trailed off again, struggling to follow her own thoughts. Trying to get her bearings, she looked around the bathroom. Every surface she could see was covered with flecks of blood. A large pool had formed around her, where it had run down the inside edge of the bathtub as Damien had tried to clean and stitch her up.
