Читать книгу COLD KILL - Neil White - Страница 8

Jack put his camera away as he watched the activity at the crime scene.

He had managed some shots of the white suits as they were bent over the body, knowing that Dolby would like those. And as he’d zoomed in, he’d recognised one of the white suits as Laura McGanity, his partner.

He smiled to himself. No, not partner. Fiancée. They had been engaged for a few months now, but things had changed since he’d proposed. Laura had thrown herself back into her career, and it seemed they saw each other only briefly in the house, pit-stops between her shifts. She complained that he was showing no commitment, that he was stalling about the wedding, but it was more that they didn’t have the time to talk about it. Laura wanted it low-key, because she had been married before, a marriage that produced a son, Bobby, the main brightness in their lives, eight years old now. Both of Jack’s parents were dead and so he had no one to offend by keeping it small, but it felt like it wasn’t the same big deal for her, because Laura had already had the big white wedding with all the trimmings.

As he watched her, Jack knew that Laura was the reason why Dolby had asked him to cover the story, hoping for an inside line, maybe a loose word over supper. But Jack knew better: Laura wouldn’t give anything crucial away. Having a reporter as her squeeze had caused her enough trouble before, hints and jibes that she was whispering secrets along the pillow. It would only take one lazy article, where he forgot what was official and what was secret, and Laura could lose her job.

The crowd around the police tape had grown, from the simply curious passing through, some with dogs straining on leads, the police blocking access to the usual dog-walking path, to the unemployed looking for a way to fill the day. Teenagers hung around on bikes, some just watching, others riding in tight circles, all in black, hoods drawn over their faces in spite of the warmth, laughing and talking too loudly. Young mothers smoked and gossiped, and two men at the end were drinking from a can of Tennent’s, which was passed between them as they watched the police at work. A police van drifted across the junction at the top of the street.

All the activity was taking place in a small patch of trees between some houses, the police in the shadows, talking in small clusters. Some flowers had already arrived and been placed by a lamppost, although the identity of the body hadn’t been released yet.

Jack approached the crime scene tape, hoping to overhear the police talking, but as he got near, a female officer put her hand up.

‘You need to move away,’ she said, the light tremble in her voice telling him that she was new to the force.

‘I’m a reporter,’ he said, and then he pointed to where the body had been found. ‘Do we have a name?’

She shook her head and repeated, ‘You need to move away.’

‘I don’t want to get closer. I just want to find out who she is. Do you know yet?’

She was about to shake her head, but she stopped herself and put up her hand. ‘Please, move away.’

‘Can you tell me anything?’ Jack persisted. ‘How did she die? When did she die?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything,’ she said, her voice firmer now. Jack could tell that he had annoyed her.

He smiled an apology and then turned away as he realised that he wasn’t going to get anything else from the scene. He checked his watch. No information would be released for a few hours, and so it was time to go to court, the crime reporter’s fallback, low-life tales of shame from the grim streets of Blackley. That was how Jack made his living, writing up court stories. He would have to speak to Dolby about the Whitcroft article later, because he got the sense that it wasn’t going to amount to much, despite the shopkeeper’s views. Perhaps he would go back later, when the sun had gone down.

Jack watched the crowd for a few seconds more, as they waited for a glimpse of something they didn’t really want to see, like knitters at the guillotine, but it felt grubby, like he wasn’t really that different to them. He had just found a way to make money from the excitement, that’s all.

He turned to walk towards his car. No one really noticed him going, and so he turned his thoughts to what might lie ahead at the courthouse.

The police van drove slowly past the crime scene. He couldn’t help but look, but as he glanced over, he could hear a ticking sound. Not loud. Just like a scratching noise on the inside of his skull. It wasn’t enough to distract him or make him close his eyes.

He allowed himself a smile. Now was the time. It had taken longer than he’d expected for her body to be found, considering that the path nearby was used by joggers and dog-walkers. He must have concealed it well.

He turned away when he saw people look over. The gaggle of the crowd. Someone taking photographs. Like fucking sheep heading for the pen. The first stretch of the crime scene tape and they all shuffle forward. All of that thrill could have been theirs, but they’re spineless, like leeches, second-hand thrill-seekers.

And then the images came back to him in flashes, bright snapshots of her clothes, of her walking, the cloth moving against her soft skin, young and unblemished. Not knowing. Just another night. Then that look in her eyes. The flash of fear replaced by anger, and then back to fear when she knew that her time had come.

Then it came, like always, the sharp focus, where he could see everything more clearly than ever before, in more detail than is possible with the naked eye. Her pupils, black saucers, but he could see the other colours in them too, swirls of dark green and deep blue, the clear view broken only by the flecks of spittle that bubbled up when she first went to the floor. And the coughs of mud. He could see the soil turning in the air in front of him as she spluttered, tumbling in the fading sunlight. Just tiny specks, but he could see their form, uneven and dirty. He remembered the whites of her eyes. He had seen the veins in them and how they were broken by the small explosions of red, just pinpricks, like splashes as the blood came to the surface.

He grinned as he felt the familiar tremble in his groin as he thought of her struggling, the fight under his hand. He knew it would come. He was waiting for it. He liked to feel it, to control it. He could do that, control it, so that it was a present for later, something he had to touch, to feel in his hand as he thought of her struggling and then slowly giving up the fight, her body limp.

He gave the crowd a salute but no one was watching as he slipped away.