Authors: Steven Bannister
She smiled at the recollection. She also remembered managing just two shots of the JD over two hours before falling asleep by nine o’clock. A big drinker she was not.
Kicking off her boots, she padded glass in hand, to her sofa by the window, flicking on the sound system as she passed. She dropped onto the soft leather as Nora Jones whispered the intro to ‘
Come away with me’
. Allie gulped at her drink and shivered. Her eyes watered at the strength of the drink. She closed them and revisited the terrible scene at the hospital. She shivered again.
Poor Billy’s last words came back to her. They were bizarre and disturbing. What had rattled him so much that he would risk not taking his medications just so he could tell her of his fears? And why her? Surely there were people closer to him that he would have wanted to confide in? Despite their dysfunctional working relationship, she had definitely learned things from Billy, at least in the early days.
And now he had alluded to something else beyond the ‘normal’ crime, if there was such a thing. He was troubled by something nastier,
darker
.
“Accept him,” Billy had said at the last. Perhaps he had been hallucinating, thinking he was actually talking to God or whomever he defaulted to in a crisis. But somehow that didn’t feel quite right either. . She looked at her watch. It was late and she really should call her friends. She sighed as she thought about the next day’s priorities. She would have to go in to work early to brief the rest of the team about Billy first thing. She threw down another gulp at that thought. The funeral would be held on Friday, she supposed. That was three trying days away.
Fixing another drink, but with less space-wasting ice this time, she settled down, her head nestled back on the largest of the sofa’s loose cushions. The strange, bike-adhering white feather drifted into her mind, but before she could explore that bizarre little cameo appearance, her eyes closed again. It had been a draining twelve hours.
4:15 a.m.
She bounded off the sofa like a gymnast, spilling the remains of her drink on the wool rug. Staring stupidly at her watch, she cursed herself. She’d completely forgotten to ring Greg and Phoebe, her friends from BTP she’d be meeting tomorrow…no, today! “
Goddamn it!”
Her head swiveled as an email pinged on her laptop. She picked up the empty glass, stalked over and pounded the key to open the message.
“Better watch that language-he’ll get pissed off.”
“What the…?”
She spun around is if to catch someone hiding in the room.
Long, pure-white feathers cascaded down the walls, covering the sofa, the mat, the coffee table—the entire living room. It was a blizzard of white. The fine dust from the feathers caught in her throat. The room filled. The feathers were now waist deep. Panic took hold as she tried to wade to the door, but the feathers were like thick snow. Her leg hit something hard and unseen under the blanket of feathers and she felt herself falling.
The feathers rose up to claim her as she fell through them, plummeting toward a dark door. After an eternity, she landed on something familiar. She felt around tentatively, unable to see, her eyes swollen and streaming from the fine dust. Her hands moved across a coarse material, then some piping. Her sofa? Frantically clawing at the cushions, she fell to the floor, jolting herself awake.
Clambering to her knees, she rolled back up onto the sofa, sweat making her top stick to her. She realized she just experienced her first true nightmare. Restless now, she swung her legs off the seat cushion and walked to her shuttered window. She peered left through the white-painted slats to the street corner. Barely a hundred yards away, the River Thames was being sucked east towards Kent and the North Sea. She raised her eyes to the sky. The sun would be up soon. Taking a few deep breaths and stretching, she decided to revive herself with a cup of Earl Grey tea and some sourdough toast. Perhaps she’d go for an early run along the Thames’ embankment. That might clear her scrambled brain before heading in early to work.
Thirty minutes later, she closed the front door of her flat, set her stopwatch, and ran past the rows of identical Victorian orange-brick terrace houses and chest-high fences toward Rotherwood Road, then on to the embankment. This was a run she enjoyed, but had trouble finding time for. At least her nightmare had given her
that.
Her mood lightened. Running always did that for her. In fact, any physical activity worked that magic. Her chosen line of work was all consuming, and there had been little time even for karate, a sport she had embraced as a ten-year-old and still loved. She had reached instructor level years ago and was now supposedly studying and training for her third-degree black belt, but the last six months had seen that all slip. Relationships too had suffered over the past few years. Beyond the very occasional and, in retrospect, ill-considered one night stands, there had been no regular male presence in her life, apart from her father.
She conceded that she did not suffer fools gladly and so many of the boys/men who showed an interest in her seemed to her to be somehow a bit lame, wimpy, or just plain silly. She had often thought her expectations might just be too damned high. Her decision to pursue a career in criminal investigation had alienated her from her university friends, many of whom were now well established in law firms and medical practices and earning three times her salary.
There had been quiet, intelligent Alan from Trinity. He had tried valiantly to keep their relationship going beyond its one year on-and off-again life, but if nothing else, the timing was bad. University ended and his career dictated that he find work in the wilds of Scotland, farming and studying his beloved trout. They emailed and rang each other for a while, but it was just too hard and she was already busy carving out a career in a tough world. To be honest, she had been finding Alan more than a little boring at times.
Trout
for God’s sake! The prospect of spending the rest of her life listening to wild-eyed stories about
Salmo Trutta’s
spawning cycle somehow failed to light her fire.
The monotony and rhythm of the run worked its endorphin-driven magic. Her mind rid itself of the confusion of the past day and her thoughts now roamed freely, landing on her father and his reaction to her choosing a career in the CID.
He had not been disappointed, he claimed, but she could see then and even now, that something worried him about her work. She never could put her finger on it, despite good-naturedly interrogating him about it occasionally over the years. Her mother, Susan, had always been supportive, but again, there was a level of ‘concern’ there that she could not quite fathom. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t gotten a job as a high-powered lawyer. Still, she’d earned the law degree, with first-class honors, so her mother had gotten half her wish.
She remembered she was to go to her parent’s home for a drink and dinner that night to celebrate her promotion. She wondered wryly who her mother had arranged to prepare the meal. Suzie Whiteman couldn’t boil an egg.
She was working up a fair sweat now even though it was still quite dim and cool. It had been a good summer so far, which had made last night’s strong winds so out of character. There were no signs of any damage this morning that she could see. The Hammersmith Bridge came into view and she checked her time as she always did at this point. She was much slower than normal. No surprise there. That mental promise from last night to ‘hit the gym’ would have to be honored.
She heard someone running up behind her and moved to the right of the track to let him pass. The footsteps were heavy, so she assumed it would be a man. She figured he must be much fitter than she was—he was really travelling. The footsteps kept coming and were now appreciably louder. So loud now that he must be on top of her! In a last-second maneuver, she stepped on to the grassy verge. Nobody came past. She was alone.
Allie stood there in disbelief, dumbly looking up and down the track, even across the river. Thoughts returned of her near miss with the advertising hoarding. “Easy girl,” she said to herself. “Don’t get spooked.” Checking the time, she decided to run back in any case. It was time to focus on the grizzly job at hand this morning—informing her team that Billy had passed away. Below that, the excitement of taking the reins of command still bubbled away. It would be a big day, moving offices thrown in for good measure. As she ran, she listened for footsteps other than her own and ran a little bit faster because of it. She was unnerved. The footsteps had seemed very real.
*****
Detective Sergeant Rachel Strauss arrived at her office early, much earlier than usual. It was only 7:00 a.m., but she had given up on sleep at 4 a.m. She had the place almost to herself and headed for the tearoom. She filled a jug with water, ferreted out the instant coffee, and sniffed the milk. She needed a caffeine hit. Cradling the cup to warm her hands, she wandered down the corridor towards the common area onto which most of the CID offices fronted. The emptiness hummed.
She stopped outside Billy McBride’s office. Anger immediately rose at the thought of Alison St. Clair occupying it later that morning. Billy had been a joke; she knew that, but of all people to succeed him, why did it have to be
her
? Little miss over-educated, oh, so attractive Allie-fucking
-
St. Clair, the poster girl for the Met. She was destined to become the youngest Superintendent in the history of British policing, according to the latest scuttlebutt.
Spare me,
she thought.
She wondered why she ever thought she could have competed with St. Clair. Presumably, St. Clair had political connections through her big-time father and more money than you could poke a Versace label at. St. Clair’s Putney apartment, to which Rachel used to be regularly invited, was worth way more than Rachel’s parent’s house in East Cheam—and they had worked hard their whole lives to finally clear their mortgage. Putting Rachel and her brother Damian through University had all but broken them. Their expectations of her still weighed her down. At some point in her sleepless night, she had resolved that this was just ‘round one’ with St. Clair.
She slumped into her swivel chair behind the featureless wood and metal desk and picked up the file on the investigation to which Billy had assigned her only a week ago, the morning of the start of his health troubles. Once again, Allie invaded her thoughts. Even though south Londoner Billy clearly didn’t relate to the privileged St. Clair, he still gave her the best cases—the eye-catching ones, while she, Rachel, was chasing petty thieves operating in and around tube stations. At least Billy and the boys still gave St. Clair a hard time—that was
something
.
Hearing footsteps, she looked up. It was DC Peter Banks.
“You’re in early, Rache. Mess the bed did we?”
“Get stuffed, Banks.”
Banks clutched his chest, the bulbous rolls of fat around his waist wobbling like jelly. He laughed.
“Ouch! Rapier-like reply there, DS Strauss. Have another coffee and try again in twenty minutes.”
She was in no mood for Banks’ smart-arsery this morning. Her humor was blackening by the minute.
Allie booted the little black Yamaha over Putney Bridge and up the King’s Road. There was no need to bother about Fulham Road at this early hour, and in truth, she didn’t want to pass the Chelsea Hospital again. Not for a long while. She had a good clear run, with traffic only thickening around 7:30. She swung through Hobart Place, Buckingham Gate and into Petty France. She parked her bike, entered the ‘Yard’ building and a minute later came up beside DC Mathew Connors who was waiting at the elevators.
“Good morning, Al… DCI St. Clair,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with her new rank.
“Oh please, Matt—that sounds so weird,” she laughed.
He smiled back. “The big day, eh? Feeling different… nervous?”
She hesitated before answering. Nervous? She couldn’t admit to that.
“Well, certainly
different
anyway. Unfortunately, the day is also tinged with more than a little sadness.”
She saw his concerned look.
“I’ll explain shortly,” she added.
They stopped at level five. Walking to her office, she was greeted by random staff as they shuffled to their desks. Her co-workers offered a few more congratulatory remarks, which she graciously accepted. Rachel Strauss did not acknowledge Allie’s friendly ‘good morning’ as she passed by her office. Noticing this, Allie decided to speak to Rachel later that morning. Best to jump on it early.
The balance of Allie’s team and the support staff trickled in and by 8:15a.m., it looked like everyone was in. Allie asked her inherited P.A., Margaret Daly, to gather everyone in the meeting room at 8:30 a.m. She spent the next few minutes sorting files for the move and gathering her thoughts about Billy.
There was a hubbub in the meeting room as she approached it, including someone, probably Banks, saying he thought that there should at least have been some sausage rolls and little pies on offer.
Normally, there would be,
she thought.
She greeted everyone again with the standard ‘good morning’ and stopped in her tracks as they replied in unison with an obviously rehearsed, ‘Good morning, ma’am!’
There was no getting past this, she realized. Things had changed, but she smiled warmly and rolled her eyes theatrically.
Surveying the room, she saw that all of the same people as yesterday were there and she wondered what they thought she was about to say.
“I wish I could start today on a positive note, but alas, it is not to be.”
Puzzled looks went around. She got straight to the point.
“I’m very sad to inform you all that Billy McBride passed away at approximately 7:00 p.m. last night.”