moment of the snapshot, the other backing away against the tunnel’s side, the latter’s shoulders and head against the glass. Similar of height and stature, at least in this inideal rendering, had he not prior knowledge of their characters Grey would have found it difficult to tell the one from the other. And how like Stephen Carman he thought, always so fearful of being spotted, if he did turn out to be the one caught in rear-quarter profile as he made his lunge.
‘He’s anti-photogenic, that Carman — he dodges lenses even when he doesn’t know they are there.’ Grey didn’t want to think about any of this.
He looked again at the image: like a square of a comic strip, it was as though an artist versed in action drawing had captured these figures in such a way as seemed almost holographic, two people alive and in motion within the still frame.
‘There’s still a couple more, sir.’ Sarah said this with such implied doom that Grey was barely able to keep his eyes on the screen. ‘This one was taken by the same camera, some twenty seconds later.’
This new image, the penultimate it turned out, was near identical as the one it replaced onscreen — same frame, same angle — yet altered in that now only one figure stood midway along the tunnel, though still with their back to the camera. They were standing with intent, as if an animal over its kill, the thrill and struggle of battle over. Yet the space at their feet, where the other should, in this reading of the scene, be lay out, was clear, empty, with not a sign of the vanquished prey. Nor was this some trick of the lens or unfortunate cutting off of the frame: for had the original designer of this CCTV system been brought forward to that night and instructed by the police how they wished this future scene to be viewed, they could not have placed the camera to give the officers this morning a better view of the empty space at the attacker’s feet. His shoulders were raised, back hunched as if breathing in deeply, arms curved slightly outward as if about to grapple a barrel.
Grey’s mind lurched into the realms of phantasmagoria, fancying that if only that pixelated face were looking his way he would see fangs there, and blood around the mouth. Yet the scene was gruesome enough as it was, something from a psychological horror movie or an adult video game; and he suddenly thought of Sarah, left alone up here in his office and spending her night searching through reels of night-time film for the next in this grim sequence.
‘This is the last I have,’ said Sarah as she queued up one last picture, ‘taken from the far staircase.’ This final shot was something of a comedown after all that had preceded it: recognisably the same bridge, but taken at a new angle, the remaining figure moving gingerly as they emerged from the stairwell, heading towards that side’s carpark. Their head was tilted slightly sideways — perhaps one last glance back at the scene? Grey couldn’t be sure.
‘There’s only two cameras on that side, and I’m not sure the other is working.’
‘Southbound,’ uttered Grey. ‘London.’
‘If he found a lift he could be anywhere now,’ concurred Sarah.
‘He could have called anyone to collect him. He had his “work” mobile presumably.’
‘I’m afraid I rather flaked out after finding these shots, sir.’ said Sarah apologetically, she looking fit to flake out again now, Grey thought. ‘I hit the hay and haven’t found Thomas or… him again since.’
‘But somewhere, in all these hours and hours of footage…’
‘…we will find them as they move across different cameras. I’m sure we will, sir.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Bear in mind I was moving through the tapes quite quickly, sir; and the cameras on the carpark have quite long delays between frames.’
‘But Thomas… he just vanishes.’
‘He must have gone somewhere, sir.’
Grey knew at that point that something very bad had happened along that bridge, however confusing those final images. Yet despite he wanting so much to find the secrets within this mass of film, this desire was as nothing compared to his gratitude to Sarah, and his wanting her to get home and get some sleep,
‘But you’re not going to find any more this morning,’ he advised.
‘But I really think in a couple of hours…’
‘No buts. Tired eyes don’t see. You’ve moved us on three days here in one night. Now get home; and I’ll remember all you’ve done in my report.’
He was sending home one of the few people in the station — bar himself, Cori, Rose, the Desk Sergeant, Custody Sergeant, and a skeleton crew of officers for emergencies and orderlies for those duties which must be maintained — who weren’t heading for the factory frontline. With Sarah away her work would rest undone.
Her recent efforts were what Nash would expect from his team as a matter of course, it then occurred to Grey: unswerving dedication in time as well as application, with complete disregard for the work/life balance or their family lives. Not that Grey’s team were slouches of course, or any less conscientious, but come on, there was a line here… He was glad Sarah had done this extra work, but glad also that it had been exceptional, that she had almost had to apologise for spending her free time at the office.
Still, I’m glad I’m not one of those on Nash’s list this morning, Grey thought, suspecting that that city might be a much safer place by lunchtime.
‘This map,’ Grey studied it on the desk, ‘it has all the camera points and timings marked on it?’
‘Yes sir, it’s how I kept track.’
‘Then I’ll take it with me when I go, if you don’t mind. And then I don’t want to see you back here for a good few hours. If anything gets left, we can pick it up tomorrow.’ Tomorrow was a Saturday, not that either of them batted an eye at being here at weekends.
‘I might be needing to go on a treasure hunt,’ said Grey, as Sarah left with a smile and a hand on his arm. He wished though, that like in the stories of his childhood, it was a wooden chest of Spanish coins that he was looking for, and not… well, he wouldn’t think about that for the time being.
Chapter 26 — A Difficult Release
No sooner had Grey made his way back down to the holding cells, than the Custody Sergeant grabbed his ear,
‘Inspector! We’ve been hoping to see you along this way. Mr Dunn has been especially waiting, haven’t you Mr Dunn? ’ He said this quite loud enough for his words to travel along the antiseptic-scrubbed tile corridor, and on through the letterbox-slot opening in Larry Dunn’s cell door. The Custody Sergeant’s voice on such occasions was of that special tone, trained into policemen for dealing with recalcitrant charges and rowdy scenes, and similar to that of teachers facing troublesome classrooms — it was the voice of obvious and unquestioned authority, that at its sounding rendered all argument and rival claims to anyone’s attention in the vicinity null and void.
‘We can’t hold him for long,’ he continued in a quieter voice, to the Inspector alone.
‘Don’t worry. Do we have an interview room free?’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Just dandy. He’s been fed?’
The Sergeant nodded in confirmation; and two minutes later, with a copy of Dunn’s statement in his hand, and a duty Constable (held back, at least for now, from the picket line pressgangers’ clutches) stood at the door, Grey at last faced Larry Dunn across an interview room table, the automated tape machine silenced by the Inspector the moment it clicked into life. The man glowered at him from across the table.
‘You’ve had breakfast?’ asked Grey, simply for something to start with.
‘Shouldn’t you be recording this?’
‘Only if we were charging you. As it is I’m only here to tell you you are free to go.’
‘You’ve kept me here all night to tell me that?’
‘I’d say you’ve got off lightly, wouldn’t you?’
Perhaps sensing silence would be his best way of having the interview over soonest, Larry Dunn held his tongue; as Grey continued also in a different vein,
‘I did mean to speak to you sooner. Sorry you had to stay overnight. If I could have gotten here yesterday… well.
