‘What new assignment?’
Kellie dismissed the question.
‘Why are you putting me in this position, Kellie? Can you not see how unfair this is?’
It wasn’t unfair, not in the least. Kellie wanted her; nothing in the last eighteen months had changed about that. She had been patient.
Finishing her coffee, Kellie placed the cup gently down. ‘The only reason it’s come to this is because you refuse to leave David, a man you claim you don’t even love. You’re not a timeshare flat, baby, I don’t want to go halves on you anymore.’
Newport rubbed her eyes.
‘What makes it harder,’ added Kellie, ‘is that I don’t even understand why. If you’re not in love with him anymore, why can’t you leave him?’
It was a fair question. She could’ve lied, made something up about David’s dependability, or waiting for the right time financially, but Kellie would have seen right through it. The truth was, she didn’t know why she couldn’t leave David.
Kellie stood up and pulled her thin leather jacket from the back of the seat. ‘I want to spend my life with you, Holly,’ she muttered, leaning over her. ‘I do. This other person is great, but she’s not you. Please don’t make me do this.’
Newport climbed shakily to her feet to protest, but Kellie was gone, the fragrant vapour of her perfume lingering in her wake.
7
Sunshine cast jagged edges onto sharp surfaces. Clear became opaque, opaque clear, and the faces of passers-by took on an almost clown-like manifestation. York revelled in this. It used to worry him, now it seemed more real than when he was sober.
He entered the station by the rear door and stood alone in the darkened corridor. He slapped himself once, twice, a third time. He had to find his game face.
The artificial light from the fluorescent tubes blinded him as he entered the Pit. Blinking until his eyes adjusted, he spotted Newport. She was sitting at her desk, Will Graham leaning over her like a dog in heat. She looked only too glad to see York when he approached. He noticed his partner’s eyes linger on him a little too long.
‘Got nothing better to do, Will?’ he said.
Pushing himself back from the desk, Graham flushed at the cheeks. ‘Oh, erm, I was just –’
‘You were just wasting time!’
‘Actually,’ Newport intervened curiously, ‘he was updating me on the fingerprint analysis. You okay, guv?’
Newport’s words echoed hollowly over his head. He didn’t reply. Instead he turned on his heel and walked to his office, feeling the eyes burning into his back as he walked away. Newport was talking after him but the words travelled on a mashed sound wave. He closed the office door behind him and shut the blinds, placing the Pit a million miles away.
He sat down at his chaotic and picture-free desk. A confusion of files, pens and pencils obscured the ring marks to a degree, but couldn’t hide the mugs of half-finished coffee, many of which hadn’t moved for a fortnight, and the debris of paperwork which hadn’t been organised since some time BC.
He didn’t need a lot of space and he hadn’t been granted much. DCI status was not all it was cracked up to be, allowing him an office no larger than a hefty broom cupboard, a desk, and two cheaply upholstered armchairs facing each other.
He flipped off his hat and rubbed his eyes, the crux of his arm aching from the overused puncture mark. He rubbed that too, the image of Gary ‘Tank’ Henderson’s squashed face worming into his mind. He’d never asked the man why they called him Tank. He just assumed it was on account of the man’s size, the term “brick shithouse” being close to literal. Still, he and Tank had an agreement: Tank would continue to supply him with class A’s at a discounted rate, and he in turn would leave the dealer alone to conduct his business. It was a sound arrangement.
Pushing some paperwork aside, he eyed the printout in front of him. It was a copy of the riddle from the recording, each sentence, word and letter standing out in a bold font.
He read the whole thing aloud. He hated riddles, had never been much good at them.
An apple begins with me and age too…
What did an apple begin with, a seed, a pip? How did it ‘become’?
I am in the midst of a man and foremost in every apprehension…
Who was foremost in every apprehension, a lead detective, a flatfoot?
Eyes fluttering, the phone jolted him alert. ‘Nicolas York,’ he answered.
Only static hissed across the line. Somebody was there, though, he could tell.
‘Hello?’
Nothing, just the muffled breathing of someone standing away from the mouthpiece. Replacing the phone on the hook, he closed his stinging eyes. The phone rang again.
This time he made no move to answer, simply stared at the phone as it rang off the hook. Finally he grabbed the receiver and held it to his ear. Somebody was there again, a ragged breathing and…crying? Given no time to react, he ripped the receiver away from his ear as the piercing scream cut through the static. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the screaming abated, replaced once again by the gentle sobbing.
‘Hello?’
The line went dead.
‘Jesus,’ he gasped.
‘Nah, just me.’ Newport was standing on the far side of his desk. He hadn’t heard her come in. ‘Who was that?’
York eyed the phone warily. ‘Nobody,’ he muttered, replacing the receiver. ‘You forget how to knock?’
‘I did knock! Pardon me for saying, guv, but you look like shit.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard.’
She took a seat on the edge of the desk. He noticed her eyes lingering on his face again.
‘Can I help you with
