River of Blood

By Kris Malkin

“The aftermath of the car-park had been a nightmare. Seeing this huge guy reduced to a bag of inconsequential bones was one thing. Having to stand aside while others tore his belongings, his character and his life to shreds was impossible to bear. To then, sit through the court proceedings, which put everything under the microscope for the world to tear apart all over again. Well...needless to say, Hanks had not slept properly for weeks. His feelings of blame had wrapped him in a bodysuit with a thorn lining. Whichever way he turned, he bled.”

Sergeant Trevor Hanks is the only person left visiting his friend, Steve Holland. The world may have consigned the former Police detective to a secure room, with bars on the windows and guards in the corridors, but Hanks’ guilt keeps him making the journey and hating every minute of it. An unexpected turn of events sees the Sergeant track down an old friend of Holland’s, who might be able to clear his name. But two major obstacles remain; the self-serving D.I. Foss and the killer, who so skillfully engineered Holland’s destruction.

Returned and reinstated, D.C. Holland must find a way to come to terms with everything that has happened and deal with unshakable feelings of loss and fear. However, Swindon SOCIT becomes involved in a brutal murder, leading Holland to question his effectiveness as a member of the Serious Crime team. Two more murders then occur, in quick succession and events around the town begin to spiral out of control.

Attempts to progress a grinding investigation take the Serious Crime team onto increasingly dangerous streets. Desperate for a break and with the hierarchy beginning to pressurise the new Detective Inspector, Hanks and Holland have to pool their knowledge and energy. A chance find puts them on the trail of a suspect, but neither of them can predict where the path actually leads...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kris Malkin
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463239681

Kris Malkin

Kris Malkin was born in Swindon, south-west England. Although, a life-long fan of science and horror, it wasn't until University that he began writing, taking inspiration from friends and an enjoyment of Role-Playing Games, such as 'Shadowrun'. He started with short-fiction, based on characters from the games and developed from there, trying horror fiction and later crime.Psychology has also long been a personal interest and helped inspire his first novel, 'Blood in the Rain', which took around two years to get to print. He continues to write short fiction, but more books are planned; a science-fiction series, of which the first part is completed, and further anthologies of short stories. Swindon holds an important place in his heart, however he now lives in south-east Poland with his wife and son, where he works as an English Language teacher.

Book preview

Prologue

There so long.

Still there.

Breaking up the cloudy day, like a dirty mark on a clean wall.

Making it bearable.

A thin beam, from above, to light up a patch of earth, too distant to see. The steward showing the avid movie goer to their seat, in heaven’s cinema.

Maybe, something important was there.

Maybe, hope.

Hope. All he had left.

Hope and plans.

Yes. Plans.

Stuck in this room, performing this pitiful role. Trapped by the situation, the circumstances created for him.

None of it stopped his planning.

Days may have become weeks.

Weeks may have become months.

The wearing effects of that ticking hand may have dissolved. But, ideas had solidified.

Inevitably, plans became actions.

The time for lying down had ended.

Steve Holland had had enough of this. He would be quiet no more.

No more.

Part One

The

Changing

Tide

Chapter 1

Trevor Hanks peered right, waited for the gap and depressed the accelerator. He concentrated the silver Ford Focus into the exit and sped on.

He’d come to despise this journey.

The same tedious roads. The same boring bushes and hedgerows. The same stultifying signposts. He wanted to ram one at full speed, to feel it bend and contort under his wheels. Okay, it would damage the car, perhaps beyond repair. But oh, the satisfaction.

A break from the tedium. The boredom.

Equally, without goal, or point.

Wouldn’t change a damn thing.

He’d still hate this journey.

Things at home had, at least, settled down. A little less of the amateur dramatics about daily life. No longer did he feel like a soap-opera actor praying for his director to yell, "CUT!"

Stacey’s baby had presented itself to the world. After initial months of sleep interruptions and long nights, Munchkin had found its routine.

Motherhood had provided Hanks an unexpected surprise - Stacey had actually warmed quickly to her responsibilities and finally grown up. Seeing his daughter was once more a joy. Pride restored. The girl may be gone, but the woman who had filled her shoes was a more than fitting replacement.

A powerful thing to be proud.

Which may also explain why Jamie’s sometimes typical, adolescent behaviour caused less of a blip on his personal Richter Scale.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t a prat anymore, causing the occasional earthquake. Or, that he didn’t engage in fleeting bouts of utter stupidity. Jamie was indeed, still prone to the idiocy of his peer-group and moments of rebellion, brought on by a biological, genetic and physical proximity to a copper.

All these circumstances were unchanged and had been so, for quite some months.

Why then, did Hanks’ level of concern remain in bed, everyday, while he went about his business?

Was it lack of care, due to being worn down by forces more persistent and stubborn than his own?

Or, was Hanks just less bothered than he had been?

As the security guard nodded and the barrier rose steadily into the upper reaches of the windscreen, Trevor Hanks considered a third, more likely reason for the easing of his home-related stress.

It now lived in a building at the end of this strip of tarmac. Behind a frontage reminiscent of a further education college; all glass, trying to appeal to modern, architectural tastes. In a room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a normal hospital, were it not for the bars on the windows and the security personnel who prowled the corridors.

Steve Holland’s collapse and descent into mental oblivion had not just destroyed him. Others had fallen, too.

Hanks, included.

His fight had gone. Ripped from his chest by the evil that his friend had supposedly become. He thought briefly about that ‘Indiana Jones’ film; the one with the pumping heart scene, but without his friend’s weirdly accurate film knowledge, he couldn’t recall the title.

Dropping to his knees, that day in the Fleming Way car park had been the signal for the total destruction of everything. Even Holland’s bulk and boldness had meant nothing, next to the sheer weight of the powers stacked against him.

Hanks pressed the button, so his driver’s side window slid back into its upper-most position, as if the storm of that fateful day in the centre of Swindon was still blowing.

You could do everything asked of you. Complete every task. Dot all the ‘I’s. Cross every ‘T’. Appease life of its every whim. Bow to its every demand.

Still, you get crapped on.

He signed and dated the register. Took the ‘Visitor’ badge and pinned it to his hollow-sounding chest. "Guilty", would have been more appropriate.

Never a pleasant feeling.

Being let down is little better.

Combine the two and there was really only one word left, to describe how Trevor Hanks now felt every, single day.

Shit.

The usual, boring corridor ended in the usual, boring lift. The same, old squeak of the closing door only served to magnify just how much he hated this fucking place. Its whiteness. Its sterility.

The monotone, female voice, reiterating his choice of floor, only twisted the knob of the microscope lens one level higher, closing the distance to the glass-slide of his brain.

She announced his arrival.

Shit.

The shallow, colourless carpet muffled his first footfall. To him, it still had the cacophonous depth of a bass drum. The floor, walls and ceiling seemed to ripple with the impact. Each shockwave emanated away from him.

As he looked up, wishing he could be in a million other places than here, right now, the corridor appeared to elongate before him. The ‘70s-style carpets and magnolia of ‘The Overlook Hotel’ came to mind. Maybe, he shouldn’t have sat through ‘The Shining’, the other night.

Hanks suddenly felt like Danny, on his big-wheel tricycle. He just hoped the twin girls wouldn’t appear, in front.

Hello, Trevor. cue sinister pause. Come play with us, Trevor.

No, thank you.

In fact, you can shove that tennis ball up your arse!

Room twenty-nine beckoned. White-gloss finished door and viewing window (which slid aside, allowing a minimised glimpse of the cold space inside) offered nothing in the way of attractiveness.

At least it wasn’t room two-three-seven.

The security guard inserted the key, turned it and the door gave.

His hands seemed to slow. Fingers curled around and gripped the door handle, with all the precision of an O.C.D. sufferer. Strength was applied deliberately, revealing a thin strip of matt-white wall.

Hanks wanted a black-hole to be waiting on the other side, swirling and swallowing. Pulling every atom of his being apart, before crushing them into nothing.

Everything he deserved, given the unparalleled shame he still felt.

No such luck.

All that awaited were four, crystal-clean walls, straight out of a ‘Dulux’ advert, two white sensor modules in opposite corners (which undoubtedly doubled as cameras and listening devices) and, of course, the prone figure of his friend, supported by the stiff back of a wooden, upholstered chair. Holding the same position as always; chin down, facing an unchanged, grey sky.

Every, single time the same view.

Every, single time the same peak of culpability.

Christ, he hated this.

Shit.

Holland’s face was no relief.

A dead blankness masking an accusative glare.

That’s what Hanks saw, anyway.

How’re you doing, bud? the pointless formality repeated, again.

The usual words dredged from the bottomless pit and pulled slowly, inexorably upwards, until rendered useful. Only, after what felt like a million, separate occasions, the words and the effort to find them was wasted.

They weren’t heard.

Gave no solace.

Christ, he hated this.

The sharpness of eye contact had gone. No rising of the corners of the mouth followed. Affectionate, yet razor-edged remark offered its potential, but never graced the air.

Holland stared blankly into the grey nothingness beyond the black bars running down from the top crossbar of the door frame. His lifeless eyes were only matched by his expressionless face. The only thing noticeable was the speckle of white flecks, sprouting amongst the stubble on his chin and cheeks.

Hanks looked at his friend’s face, silhouetted against the white wall of the background. Nearly ten months of this captivity had passed and he had hardly changed position. Perhaps the cheek bones stood out more. Or, the brow protruded further than he could remember.

This Steve Holland was a shadow of his former self. So, the phrase went.

Shadow was a crap word, still suggesting life, or some kind of activity. Steve now provided neither of these. He may as well not even be there, for all the difference he now made to the world.

He was an opposite. An anachronism.

Nothing.

The bars didn’t protect a door, but a glassed mirror.

Sitting there, soft mattress pooling around his rear and upper-thighs, Hanks considered a jail-break. He’d sat through the complete first season of ‘Prison Break’, wondering how Scofield was going to free his brother and just how much more complicated the situation was going to get, before the last episode revealed all.

None of it mattered. Not even the escapism of the moment.

Getting Steve beyond those bars may free him from his physical confinement. The cage holding Holland’s essence though, was buried within the depths of his consciousness. Only Raquel Welch in a miniaturised submersible had any chance of finding that padlock.

The door to the room opened. A draught travelled up the calves of Hank’s trouser legs, as they dangled over the far side of the bed.

Hello, Trevor. said the voice. How are you, Love?

Fine thanks, Tina. You?

Ohh, you know…

The positive tones of the nurse made the freezer of a room just a little warmer. One example of a responsibility not normally listed in the job description.

She wore the light-blue uniform, with white trim, like she’d been wearing it her whole life. Some people are born to certain jobs. Hanks only saw the uniform’s ineptitude at hiding the fact she was slightly overweight.

Work alright? she asked, continuing the pleasantries, as she reached through the bars for the balcony door. I’ll just let some air in.

Could be worse. Hanks’ attempt at matching the nurse’s manner sounded far less convincing. How’s he doing?

Doctors gave him an assessment yesterday. she started, sliding the UPVC door aside. No change. They’re a bit concerned about his loss of weight, but otherwise, he’s actually in good shape.

Her natural instinct for hope was obvious. Her verbal injection did nothing to spark life back into Hanks’ optimism.

Do you think he’ll come out of it? asked Hanks, trying not to sound desperate.

It’s been known, even at this late stage. she responded.

Expectedly non-committal.

Therefore, unhelpful.

You can take him outside, if you want. I think he likes it.

You’re not worried, I’ll finally do a runner, with him? joked Hanks.

He’d got used to the trust the staff seemed to have in him, because they knew he was a copper. One advantage, at least. Especially significant, when finding positives was like taking part in the ‘Mental Challenge’ of ‘The Krypton Factor’.

I don’t think you’d get far. Tina scoffed.

How bloody true.

Umm… for some reason, Hanks had to think hard about it. Go on, then.

I’ll get the wheelchair. said Tina, making for the door.

Within five minutes, she had returned and together they manhandled Holland’s dead-weight into the chrome and white contraption.

A couple of minutes later, Hanks was manoeuvring the wheels down the ramp, from the back door and heading into the sizeable garden at the rear of the building.

Chapter 2

An exercise in self-awareness.

Or, should that be self-evaluation?

Not sure which is better.

Oh, well.

I suppose the real question here concerns how useful internalising actually is.

We all do it.

Whether it’s preparing for a job interview or what to say to a prospective boy or girlfriend, we all reach inside for a chat with our inner voice.

Internalising is more than that, though.

Most people have some kind of vice, to offset and deal with the many slopes life offers. Take sports bods, for example.

Psychology has them play mental tricks on themselves; visualising a ‘STOP’ sign, when the thoughts trail downward; seeing a winning move, before it is actually attempted. Of course, on the other side of the net, look how many sports personalities turn to gambling or drinking, as a way of finding balance.

Funny, that.

Sports personality.

An interesting phrase considering most have no personality, at all.

Anyway…

Arguably, the same is true of a lot in the entertainment industry. If your job is to give yourself to others, for the sake of cheap laughs, recognition or applause, you have to find somehow to keep some of yourself in reserve, for the purpose of sanity, if nothing else. After all, if your audience has it all, what’s left for you and your family?

The only outcome then, is loss, on a grand scale.

Hhhmmm?

Thing is, if you go too far the other way, the end result is the same.

Jesus. Not much fun being a celeb, when you think about it. Unless, you’re so far up your own rectum, the adulation is all you crave, as it satisfies a singular need to be liked.

Some would call that shallow.

Even weak.

As for coppers and detectives, Sherlock had his violin and pipe. Depending on which version you read, he also turned to opiates, to wrest control over his overactive senses.

Morse had his beer and female fancies.

Fitz went the whole hog; betting, booze and Panhandle.

If all these figures encouraged external vices, which brought about some kind of social or personal destruction, what’s so wrong with my habitual internalising?

I don’t waste cash on drugs, socially acceptable or not and I can’t remember the last time I burned a friendship on the social altar, because my selfish tendencies were more inherently important.

That’s not me.

…

Back to the point.

If we’re agreed internalised coping strategies are fair and reasonable, perhaps it’s the topic of distraction that’s the problem..?

Weather is intriguing. What more’s to say?

When a storm breaks, there are two kinds of people - those who dive under the bed covers and the rest, who go outside and face down Mother Nature, in all her sweet glory.

I guess, I’m the latter.

Especially when, as I’ve pointed out before, so much of ourselves is coated in concepts related to weather.

Wherever you look, television, art, literature, the skies and what they play fiddle to, forms the basis of so much.

For all the interest though, it didn’t save me. In fact, it got me here.

Most would not claim this as success.

So, internalising doesn’t work.

Or, does it?

Bugger.

...

Okay, let’s weigh it up…

Chapter 3

The bench consisted of wooden slats supported by an iron frame. Its ornate appearance and gold plaque (screwed into the highest slat of the bench’s back support) were not important, next to the relative peace and quiet the location under the tree provided.

Anyway, Hanks had read the dedication on the plaque so many times, it only gave him another reason to hate coming here, every bloody week.

"In loving memory of Dr Sarah James She will be remembered with the same love and dedication she had for her work and patients. Rest in peace."

Holland sat motionless, blanket warming his legs and abdomen. His head hung, slightly to the right.

The wheelchair was positioned next to the bench, as if these were two, old mates wiling away their retirements together, within the tranquility of their local park. A line of thick trees was trying its best to soften the tone of the place. Various staff (both nurses and security) milled around the area, casting regular glances in their direction, only highlighting what this really was.

It may appear grand, an example of twenty-first century architecture. But, it was still Avon and Wiltshire’s finest secure, mental facility.

So, the docs reckon you’re in good shape, do they? Hanks turned to his left and looked at his friend. Could’ve fooled me.

Humour was a last resort.

Had been so, for a long time.

Hanks had given up trying to explain everything that had happened and using Holland’s inability to respond, as a sounding board.

Of course, soon after he’d been sent here, following the trial, Hanks had spent every, waking hour trying to fathom out what had transformed Holland from an angry detective into a supposed, raging serial-killer.

Ha! Trial... What a joke.

Execution, maybe.

Once the mystery had proved too difficult-a-puzzle to solve, real sadness had taken root. Not the kind of sad that causes tears to appear, for no obvious reason. Or, that which renders the waterworks unstoppable. This was a sadness that takes the heart on a one-way trip to the Mirny sinkhole and drops it in. Leaving it to barrel down into the darkness, with an malevolent chuckle its only goodbye.

It never stopped falling.

Never stopped hurting.

Visiting this awful place just kept the wound open, disabling the healing process.

Making light of the situation hence brought diversion, rather than comfort. Which, under the circumstances, was better than nothing.

Should jokes not be enough, there was always the trial to contemplate.

Sorry. The execution.

Holland’s inability or unwillingness to speak had basically meant any argument was very one-sided. The prosecution had a field-day with the evidence, whilst the defence was only able to counter with character witnesses and work records. Being he was hardly the easiest person in the world to get on with, these sometimes felt more negative than otherwise.

Deliberation of the jury had amounted to no more than a coffee break.

With witnesses unable to offer any form of alternative angle, or evidence that Holland was not the killer he clearly seemed to be, the life sentence was merely a formality.

The only positive, after what felt like the fastest murder trial in legal history, was Holland’s apparent insanity. Which, by law meant, he’d serve his time in a secure institution, until such time as he was fit enough to serve it elsewhere. Given medical reports, this was highly unlikely.

As if all this wasn’t bad enough, Hanks had had to watch the media convict his mate, long before the jury actually did. They’d also torn apart the Wiltshire Constabulary almost as much as they’d laid into the Swindon Serious and Organised Crime Investigation Team (SOCIT) and just about labelled every Swindon and District copper as dirty, at the same time.

Even worse, when interviewed, Detective Inspector Foss had taken the opportunity to completely separate himself from the going-ons of his staff and exaggerate his own role in bringing Holland to justice.

This was the bitterest of all pills and Hanks couldn’t wait to spit it back in his boss’ face.

That’s right. There literally was nothing positive to come out of the whole, sorry episode. Just another line on a long, long list of things Hanks really, fucking hated about this damn situation.

Number one on the list - the personal culpability of Mr. T. Hanks.

If ‘Guilt’ was an Olympic event, Hanks would win gold, silver and bronze in the men’s, women’s and team events, and get booed out of the arena because the crowd got pissed off seeing the same flag raised nine fucking times and hearing a specially extended version of the National Anthem on three, separate occasions.

Hhhmmm? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were ignoring me. Hanks said, once more attempting to see some light.

He looked away, nodding at a security guard who passed close by.

When he turned back, the small piece of paper took a few seconds to catch his attention. He simply didn’t look down at his lap, until instinct told him to do so.

"Don’t react".

The frown formed almost instantly, making his forehead look like a furrowed field.

His fingers were pulled towards the lined square of creamy-white, like a moth drawing ever-decreasing circles around a light-bulb. Hanks examined it and turned it over.

"Be cool".

He peered at Holland, still in the same, unchanged position.

Straightening up in his seat, he looked around.

Was someone mucking around or, was this something to be incredibly secretive about?

When comfortable he and Holland were not the subject of an unseen observer’s curiosity, Hanks leant closer to Holland, keeping the paper between his thumb and forefinger.

Is this you? he asked in a whisper, trying not to feel stupid.

Holland’s angled neck kept his head fixed ahead.

"Don’t react".

No. The words did say what he thought.

"Be cool".

Who d’ya think wrote that? The Invisible-bloody-Man? Holland’s head remained lolled to one side, as he whispered.

The farmer’s field of Hanks’ forehead were suddenly rolled flat. Skin stretched to near breaking point and his eyes seemed to pop out, on stalks.

This was no Chuck Jones cartoon.

Be cool, Boss. I need you cool. came the soft voice.

He wanted to react.

Jesus, he did. Wanted to explode, in fact.

The warm-up act of the paper and his instinctive calmness (honed after years of being a buffer between the workers and the management) and Hanks slipped into ‘silent mode’. He was wise enough to know, allowing the internal explosion of emotions to go off, would alert the whole institute to Holland’s actual situation. A killer he may be.

A friend first.

Scratch that. More like a son.

Get the book out the back pocket and make like you’re reading. there was seriousness in Holland’s hush, as well as confidentiality. And, lose the paper in the back.

An act of regularity, which Hanks thought may bring comfort.

In all honesty, reading had been more for him than for Holland, anyway. Much more than he’d realised.

How long? the question may have lacked content, but Holland knew exactly what was being asked.

A little while.

So, you were...gone, then? Hanks felt awkward with the words.

Yeah… thinking on the subject seemed to get to Holland. ...I was gone.

Hanks’ heart was beginning to slow down.

So was Holland’s.

They were F1 cars, vying for position in the pit-lane, before jinking to a stop, to be surrounded by technicians.

I gotta ask… Holland started, retaining his quiet gravity. ...You don’t actually think I killed anyone, do you?

What a question.

What a responsibility.

If ever there was something weighted with intent, with possibilities, with meaning, it was this.

The aftermath of the car-park had been a nightmare. Seeing this huge guy reduced to a bag of inconsequential bones was one thing. Having to stand aside while others tore his belongings, his character and his life to shreds was impossible to bear.

To then, sit through the court proceedings, which put everything under the microscope for the world to tear apart all over again. Needless to say, Hanks had not slept properly for weeks. His feelings of blame had wrapped him in a bodysuit with a thorn lining. Whichever way he turned, he bled.

He hadn’t wanted to believe what all the evidence had screamed at him. Hadn’t even wanted to listen.

The real knock-out blow was the court’s analysis of Holland’s bedroom artwork. Those expressions of sheer madness had done more to convict him than any of the other evidence put together. To the prosecution, this was Holland’s confession and there was nothing else to discuss. His guilt was absolute. There could be no question. No defence.

The newspapers had been full of it, next day. One headline had summed it up - ‘Copper. Killer.’

There’s one reason I knew you hadn’t done it. Holland’s head twitched, as he listened. Nikki.

A name.

One word.

For Holland, the most meaningful word in the English language. Over two million different utterances to choose from and a name brought Holland to an emotional stand-still.

"Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

Bollocks.

You loved her. Hanks spoke simply. You may not be able to admit it, but you did. I knew it. So did she. Hanks spoke into the open book. His words carried far more load than the fiction inside. There’s no way you would’ve killed her.

Ten months dead, from the car-park to now.

Ten months of regret and memories.

He’d tried to get those last few moments out of his head. The red tide. The look of loss in those dying eyes.

Ten months and still, all he saw was that.

Where is she?

Whitworth Road. the book lowered and Hanks looked away. It was a nice ceremony... Tough, but...nice.

One of the most beautiful words, followed by one of the most unworthy.

The first time, in all these months, Holland felt like the mask was taking a uncontrollable slide to the floor.

I need to get out of here.

That isn’t gonna be easy. the book returned to its reading position.

I’m not talking about a break-out. I mean, walk out, innocent. Cleared.

How? Hanks was genuinely bemused by the prospect.

The wall-writing convicted me, right?

Yeah.

Did they go over any of my other things?

Not sure. The flat was certainly turned over. Whether they really went through your stuff, I couldn’t tell you.

The expected answer.

D.I. Foss may have let Holland run his serial-killer case, but there was no way on Earth he’d let Hanks anywhere near its on-going aftermath.

There’s my mobile. My notepad. And particularly, a laptop. You need to check them out.

Why?

Therein lies the truth. being cryptic wasn’t Holland’s thing. The situation didn’t really allow for far-reaching discussion.

Meaning?

One of the main advantages of being in his situation was solitude.

Okay, for a good portion of the time, he’d been off-planet. Visiting the mothership. Call it what you will.

After the veil had dropped, allowing the sweet light of home to seep back in, the act of silence had been easy to maintain. He’d been biding his time.

He still was.

Thought was the only thing he had. The nurses would, of course, pop in. Perform a task. Do a duty. They’d offer a greeting or two, in the vain hope their words would break through the months-old shell.

No chance.

It took a certain kind of discipline to remain in the same, lifeless state, even when a blood pressure was being taken, or a temperature recorded. If truth be told, Holland was quite proud of himself, actually.

Should definitely have been an actor.

Isolated he may have been. The trade-off had been hours and hours of contemplation and thought.

Now, considering the last occasion Holland had had a fair amount of time to really concentrate on something, and the kind of character he was known to be (that took over-thinking to the nth-degree) having an inordinate length of time to spend trawling over the same subject, could be construed as a recipe for disaster.

As far as he was concerned, the problem that had dogged him all those months back had still to be solved. Being he’d thought endlessly about it then, he saw no reason to stop now.

Besides, Sanderson had spent over thirty years using him as the focus of her thinking. Seemed only fair to return the favour.

She’s here, you know.

Who?

Sanderson. The real killer.

The woman you mentioned, over the phone that time? the Sergeant’s belief systems were now being tested.

Right.

Hanks masked his response with a heavy cough, as the book took a bow to the watching audience of flowers and shrubs. A passing guard shot a cursory glance in Hanks’ direction, but continued on his route.

What d’ya mean, here? the book rose in his hand again, but his acting was less convincing.

She visits, as a volunteer. A couple of times a week.

You’re jokin’. the natural reaction was to shoot his friend a look. Hanks couldn’t fight it.

Be cool, Boss. Remember? Holland’s voice may have been soft, but it got through.

Who is this Sanderson? urged Hanks, as calmly as he could.

Like I said… Check out my stuff.

Hanks was aware of crunching footsteps on concrete, growing in volume from behind.

We realise that it would, of course… he began reading, raising the book higher. ...be premature to expect a full-scale battle as such. He twirled his Panama hat on the end of his finger…

I’m sorry to interrupt, Trevor… the portly Tina said. ...It’s getting a bit colder. Could you come back in?

Ohh. Uhh, yeah. Of course... Sorry. Must have got carried away… he feigned enthusiasm, shaking the book’s cover in her direction.

Derek Robinson? Never heard of him. she seemed embarrassed, not wishing to appear ignorant. War stuff. Maybe, not your cup of tea.

Do you need a hand? she prompted.

No, thanks. I’ll manage.

Hanks slipped the book into the seat-back’s rear pocket and unhitched the wheelchair’s brake.

Head for the room. whispered Holland. We can continue, there.

What about the cameras, bugs and shit? checked Hanks.

I guess… Holland whispered. …we’ll just have to improvise.

The chair whirled around and Hanks pushed it towards the building.

Chapter 4

Alright. Pros and cons…

Internalising enables a process of analysis, whereby correct decisions are come to appropriately, rather than by chance or surpassed by choices much-less worthy of the time taken.

Yeah. Sounds good.

It also provides a diversion from all things meant to entangle, thus giving more clarity to said choices, as well as being able to put faith in them.

Hhmm… So far, so good.

Coping strategies require a second person; a counsellor, a guide,someone to lead the way. This adds time to the equation, plus other, more unpredictable factors. By internalising, you are taking all that time and potential cost out of the equation and reaching your conclusion based on your own knowledge. Thus, outcomes can be relied on and believed to a much greater extent.

…

Right. That’s the case for the defence.

Quite convincing.

I think…

Chapter 5

The mug of tea sat steaming on the trolley.

Oh, Tina. Before you go…

Yes, love. said the nurse, smiling as always.

If I wanted to bring a laptop in, that’d be alright, wouldn’t it?

What for?

You know, to show him some pictures. Hanks was doing his best puppy-dog- eyes at her. Maybe that’ll...you know, spark him out of it.

Umm. I don’t see any reason why not. But, I’ll have to ask. Okay?

Cheers, Tina. Hanks beamed at her.

Don’t forget to put that music down a bit, please, Trevor. uttered the nurse, the folding of the door gradually obscuring her.

Yeah, will do. Sorry. Hanks popped up from the bed, making for the digital radio parked in the corner, under the redundant television.

The door swung fully closed, as the nurse finally left the room.

Not as dumb as you look, are ya? joked Holland, speaking quietly to his left pectoral.

You did want to get out of here, right? Hanks returned the book to its reading position, at face height.

Even totally at the mercy of this crappy situation, their years-long relationship had the ability to survive. It may have been ripped apart, starved of any interaction and bereft of input for the last ten months, but something had kept it going.

Call it, belief.

The fact the two of them could take affectionate pops at each other, as if their friendship had never been interrupted, was testament to its strength.

The best release of any anger either of them displayed.

Now though, was not the time to be too expressive. A give-away to paid eyes and ears that might be scrutinising a security station, nearby. While they’d got used to Hanks speaking and acting blindly around his prostrate friend, as far as any bugs were concerned, Holland was and forever would be, in Cloud-Cuckoo Land.

He had to remain there.

This was a detention facility, after all, partially under the auspices of Her Majesty’s judicial system. Their aim was to keep inmates well-and-truly detained, far away from Mr. J. Public and under the strictest of quarantine.

To make the off-worlders stay that way.

So, this Sanderson tracked all the victims down… Hanks restarted, bluffing his continued reading of the book.

After finding them on ‘Date Rate’. Holland reminded softly, from the short conversation, in the lift. After finding them on ‘Date Rate’... Classy… the Sergeant echoed Holland’s disgust at the name. ...And, in the meantime, she’s setting Nikki and you up for the car-park. Leaving you with the bodies and holding the knife... Sounds like a fucking Hollywood script.

Don’t remind me. even actors get bored by the monotony a scene may provide. Make like you’re wiping my mouth, with the towel.

Oh, right.

Leaning to his right, Hanks hooked the patch of white cotton off the end of the bed and reached around Holland’s front.

Make it convincing. Steve whispered, Hanks’ ear only a couple of inches away. 

Can you prove any of this? I mean, beyond doubt. asked the Sergeant, passing a slow hand across his mate’s chin.

Not beyond doubt. But, get that stuff and I’ll give it a try… Holland tried to assure his friend, knowing in actuality, Hanks’ task might be difficult. There’s one other thing.

What? Hanks placed the towel in his friend’s lap and reached forward for his tea.

I want Foss.

He scoffed back the slug of hot liquid.

Good luck, with that. and plopped back down into the mattress.

I mean it.

And, how the fuck do you expect to do that? Hanks didn’t want to seem cynical, but it was hard to see how Holland’s idea was plausible.

Two things. My mobile and Neil Rice.

Who?

He’s an old contact. You’ll find him in Trowbridge.

Copper?

D.I… A good mate. He’s not a lover of bent blues.

You’re fucked, then.

Friends can grant much.

Seriousness to a serious situation. Levity to the same.

Hanks could do both.

There were lots of reasons why Holland liked him.

Loved him.

Get the mobile and get that recording to him.

That one from the office? asked Hanks, unsure.

My career is far more important than you are... Remember?

Jesus. You know it word for word?

How long have I been sat here..? it seemed obvious. To Holland, anyway.

Fair point.

Up until that moment, Hanks could only have imagined what his friend had been through. Not only had he been rendered senseless and, for want of a nicer term, brainless, by his emotional collapse, but having returned from that place (wherever it had been) he’d been left with nothing else to do except examine all recent occurrences under the microscope of his over- analytical brain.

To maintain the illusion of insanity and the uninterrupted peace of his incarceration, Holland had had to sacrifice his own, innate need for human interaction (whether he was actually any good at it, or not). To give himself even the smallest chance, he’d given up everything. Even his grief for the woman he’d loved.

The epitome of all his dreams. Ripped from his grasp.

He couldn’t even shed a tear for her. Not one.

This was not the act of a guilty man. Not guilty of any crime, anyway.

Not quite the ultimate price, but pretty close.

Of course, there was another side to that coin.

He’d been spared most of what Her Majesty’s justice system had subjected him to (thank God his wits had apparently been dulled for that) and people’s treatment of those once entrusted with their safety.

Holland wasn’t just a good-copper-gone-bad, he was a fraud, a betrayer.

A killer.

All the good one man had ever done, wiped off the cosmic chalkboard with one swift swipe of a wet cloth.

Ironic, isn’t it. Society can forgive the guilty, but not the innocent.

Lucky then, in some ways, circumstances had evolved the way they had.

There’s just one thing I gotta ask, before I pull your arse out of the fire, again. Hanks asked, knowing full-well he might not like the answer.

Go on.

That writing… here it came. ...Why?

There is no-one, nothing more critical than the self.

In youth, you don’t get the luxury of huge, internal knowledge, which is why we are prone to mistakes and often forgiven for making them. As we grow, so does our understanding of the word ‘me’.

Errors become labels. The older we are, the bigger the label.

The process of understanding never ends. It’s the height of arrogance to think it does. Which is why, out of all the possible targets for his highly internalised analysis, that bloody writing had garnered most attention.

What a choice.

Continue to fight, with no back-up plan and when you are taken down, you never stop falling. Or, have a back-up, but know it’s exactly that which’ll be used to destroy you.

At first, comfort. Pure and simple. somehow Holland’s soft voice added to his honesty. You’ve heard of people writing positive affirmation statements, which they put on their walls, so as they walk around the house, they’re reinforced by positive thinking…

Yeah. the word slipped out more out of thought than reason.

...So, at the beginning, that was it.

That suggests, something changed.

There came a point, I realised how it might all look to the casual observer. And, I stopped. I was about to repaint the walls, when Richardson’s email did the rounds…

Asshole. obvious who the quietly-spoken expletive was aimed at.

...That’s when I realised I could get seriously fucked. I needed an out. The writing was it.

You played the insanity card? Hanks’ attention swiped away from the book.

Easy, Boss... a reminder the Sergeant suddenly needed.

The book lowered a second time and Hanks went for the towel.

He was learning.

...Without knowing I actually was heading in that direction. concluded Steve.

Jesus. You’re either a really clever bastard. Or, a really stupid one.

I’d say, half-and-half.

I can’t believe you chose this. Hanks was genuinely amazed, as he returned the book to its upright position.

Trust me. From my point of view, there was no choice.

Must’ve been getting old. Or, blind.

For the first time, Hanks understood how far his friend had gone, to remain true to himself. How unwinnable his situation must have seemed. How pointless any fight would actually have been.

Christ. If what Holland said about Sanderson was true, she’d manipulated him, Nikki, everyone into believing Holland was a murderer. Foss’ own, boring self-centredness had only made Holland’s predicament more difficult and his fall from grace even further.

Anger came to Trevor Hanks. His stomach reacted with a bubbling heaviness.

You could’ve come to me.

Holland’s chest heaved.

No. I couldn’t.

Hanks explored his friend’s response for a few seconds, then decided not to add to it.

Fine. I’ll find a way to get your stuff. But, on one condition.

Hit me.

The book still stood against the silhouette of the light from the balcony door.

His hand still held it aloft, at reading height.

To a person watching through the viewing slide of the door, it would have looked like a someone spending time with a friend they couldn’t let go of. A scene so often repeated.

Right then, in that moment, this was no longer an act.

No more a secret to confound the suspicious world. This was a promise. Made and shared.

Holland would be free of this cage.

Hanks would be relieved of his rage.

Foss is mine.

Made and shared.

Chapter 6

Cons.

With no guide, thought can swirl and spiral, creating nothing but an even worse mess. Unless the individual has a spotlight trained on an end-goal, they can easily disappear right into the heart of the tangle, never to return.

I can relate to that.

Actually, further to that, the unguided soul can come to believe that their point of view is unquestionably correct. With no exterior influence, thoughts can run away, uncontrolled, taking the individual into the darker recesses, best avoided. Abnormal behaviour then becomes confused as normal and, therefore, the individual cannot see the dangers therein.

Just ask Sanderson.

Paralysis by analysis. Simple.

The more you rev the engine of the car stuck in the mud, the deeper it digs itself in.

I, the accused.

The exterior gives a context and rationale for the interior. Being bound by the world around us also provides a basis for the way we behave in it. We are unable to act appropriately without the world to lend us its borderlines. Thus, by internalising, you ignore the very thing that makes any action or thought sense. And, with no sense, no amount of processing will achieve the desired outcome. Unless your aim is anarchy and/or madness.

Please refer to the above.

…

Fuck.

Chapter 7

Atmosphere in the workplace can be a telling thing.

You could have a manager with all the qualifications and acumen, trained by the best lecturers at the L.S.E. Staff with a breadth of experience and just the right mix of characters, that will make working together, as smooth as the mechanics of the finest Swiss watches.

Plus, the office and furniture could be ergonomically and functionally perfect, so the staff have no reason for discomfort, or complaint.

Notwithstanding, should the atmosphere be in any way negative, the ability of this oh-so-wonderful team, to work as an effective unit, is severely diminished.

Judging from evidence, the climate around the SOCIT office had been almost non-existent, for a while. Probably, the only thing keeping them together were the working relationships they’d developed over the last couple of years.

The same, old faces.

Detective Constables Card and Brae, were still partnered up. Card hadn’t changed much, but Brae had detached himself from D.I. Foss’ coat-tails and become more of a team player. The surgery though, had been drawn-out and not without some pain. Under Card’s insistence, the operation had been necessary.

Spruce had challenged himself to be harder and more decisive. Regular self-defence classes and trips to the gym had raised his confidence. The knock-on effect had been a more fruitful partnership with Det.Con. Martin. Not so often did they miss opportunities and get lost in bad choices. They’d become better known for diligence and for covering more of the bases. Actually, becoming useful.

All had made decisions.

Strategies to separate them from a boss nobody trusted. To divert them from the thing they all knew laid at the heart of the team’s problems.

Allow the mistrust to be real. Accept it, but not let it bring them down. Follow their boss’ instructions, without giving him favour. Treat him like the asshole he was. Do nothing that jeopardises your job, but quietly pray the higher-ups get their fingers out and point him the way to the door.

That morning, Hanks conducted the briefing, as was his routine. The old fire was gone, though. He did what he did for the public and no one else. Certainly, his focus was still on his babes, but he just didn’t give the same level of shit. His heart had been crushed.

For all the changes that had been made around the office (Foss’ way of papering over the cracks he’d helped create) most couldn’t forget what had happened, so easily. The management committee at Area Command could have changed all of the decor and furniture. Even re-housed the team in another, new building. The scars ran too deep.

Hanks didn’t want to forget.

He’d insisted on keeping Nikki’s place, exactly as it was.

Call it a mark of respect.

Foss’ arguments (a waste of resources and other such pen-pushing notions) were easily countered - Hanks had said he’d resign before allowing Nikki to become nothing more than a bad memory. Being the Detective Inspector was not daft enough to think the team would follow him, if his Sergeant walked, Foss had succumbed to Hanks’ insistence, that not everything in the office was going to change.

Call it a reminder.

Nonetheless, Foss’ gain from the ‘deal’ had been, anything related to Holland would be stricken from both the mind and body of the office.

This had only inflamed Hanks’ quiet anger, even more.

He could wait.

Patience was a virtue.

So, once the briefing was complete and Hanks had checked with Sarah (her employment as the admin assistant, had actually turned out to be one of the D.I’s better moves) various reports were either done, or in the pipeline, he started down the corridor to the other side of the building.

Chapter 8

Hello, Trev. What’re you doing down here? Dropped your wallet, somewhere?

Just like you to pick the bugger up.

The handshake confirmed their acquaintance.

Jim Lynch was of Hanks’ generation.

There weren’t many of them left.

They had an understanding of ‘life’ before everything became computerised and convenient. Jim also had the far from dubious pleasure of overseeing the evidence archive and had little to do with the daily politics that took place in the upstairs offices.

Lucky Jim, indeed.

He and Trevor certainly had a connection, which wasn’t just down to age. From Hanks’ point of view, it was great to have somewhere to wander, when the environment upstairs got too thick.

Not like you to venture down here.

Aw, you know. Change is as good as a rest.

Getting twitchy, up-top..?

This was confirmation, as if Hanks needed any, the current situation in the office was well-known to just about everybody working in, or connected to the Gablecross station.

...What can I do for you, anyway?

Need to check some notes. friendship or not, given the current levels of trust he was experiencing, Hanks skipped chapter and verse.

Case number?

Here. the Sergeant neatly presented his semi-closed notebook, thumb acting as a bookmark.

Paper version, or electronic? Lynch had clicked into work-mode.

Do I look like a geek?

Lynch knew his friend was having a playful dig. Something else which made their generation stand out.

Hanks flipped open his notebook and handed it over, as Jim took a seat in front of his flatscreen monitor. He keyed in the number, eyes flicking between notepad and screen.

Holland?

Uhh, yeah. now to test his story-telling skills. Family have been in touch. Want to know about his private effects. a convenient lie, with a sprinkling of bullshit on top.

Oh, right. Seems a long time to wait, but I suppose the wheels have moved a bit slow, where Holland’s concerned.

Hanks wasn’t sure Jim knew his request was a falsity, but the wide-reaching circumstances surrounding the case had helped cover it up, quite well.

Some benefit out of all the crap, at least.

Questioning no further, Lynch slid away from the desk and ambled out of his small office, to a line of metal filing cabinets. After dwelling over the numbers on the outside of the drawers, Jim pulled one open, delved a hand in and began flicking through the separate files. Within a few seconds, he was wandering back.

Here. Jim said, presenting the file.

Thanks. Can I use your desk?

That’s what it’s there for. Jim turned to leave. If you want to see the evidence, just give me a shout.

He liked Jim. Had time for him.

Liked, in the context of the uncomfortable greasiness emanating from him.

Time, in the context of being a middle-aged man, whose mother probably still ironed his clothes and prepared his breakfast.

A harmless nerd.

He may look like a 1930s throw-back; tank-top and tie, and a bit too much as if he was at home

among filing cabinets, but he was as threatening as a newborn kitten.

All that mattered.

Especially, when the stench of rats was all too common.

In a police station so full of people Hanks really didn’t want to spend every day with, particularly within the current atmosphere, Jim was a very pleasant and necessary diversion.

The file contained hard copies of everything related to Holland’s case. The front page listed both what was found physically and gave further details, post-analysis.

Scanning the list, the laptop, the two mobiles (one work, one private) and a notebook were all mentioned.

The written information that followed indicated the laptop contained nothing of any bearing. In fact, it appeared to be very new, having next to nothing on the hard-drive apart from the standard software applications.

The only items of interest were the various websites saved in the ‘History’. These showed extensive use of various databases (including police) related to personal details (it noted to check network security, as Holland’s access should not have been possible, given his suspended status, at the time).

Other records suggested Holland had become an avid user of ‘e-You’; a social-networking site. D.C. Lowe, the I.O. (investigating officer) a night-shift regular, had commented that Holland’s use of social media seemed a little out of character. Problem was, a password was needed to access his page. Being the laptop was still very new, it had not been set up to remember any such settings, halting further investigation of this angle, in its tracks. In Lowe’s conclusion, the social-media use likely wasn’t really relevant and with more substantial evidence to consider, so justification of the man-hours, for a techie to crack the passwords wasn’t warranted.

Fortunately, for Holland.

Finally, information from the laptop had been copied and the recommendation was to make the hardware available for return. Consequently, it wasn’t required to stay in evidence and could be moved to ‘Property’. An additional line (written in black ink instead of the more usual blue) dated around two months ago, stated the laptop had been shifted (space requirements, it said) to S. Holland’s Vauxhall ‘Astra’, currently residing in the Police impound.

Bingo!

Tick number one.

Hanks made a mental note.

Rapidly, one became two.

I like this game.

The thin wad of paper constituted analysis of the notebook.

Photocopies.

Each page had been enlarged onto a full side of A4. Holland’s scribblings were, of course, much bigger, but no more legible. The first few pages seemed relatively ordered. Afterwards, the writing was more random in nature, at different angles and in no coherent pattern. Lowe had clearly spent time on this, as different coloured highlighters had been used to match up certain themes (e-You, an ‘Angela’, a ‘Paula’ and ‘Kingsdown School’ appeared to make up the majority).

Recommendations for this suggested the notebook should be compared to the information found on the websites, namely ‘e-You’. Again, the lack of a password and perceived relevance were the stumbling blocks.

Whatever. One notebook. Two ticks.

The rest of the file was work records, including commendations and Human Resources documents. Which is not why Hanks’ eyes tightened up.

He flicked back to the front, to check the evidence list. No, the mobile phones were definitely mentioned.

So, where was a similar analysis, related to them?

Had it been removed, because the phones’ contents were not useful to the investigation?

Had it simply been removed?

A detective’s job revolved around being suspicious. Hanks suddenly was.

Very much so.

Jim? he called.

Yes, mate. answered Lynch, popping his head round the door frame.

There’s mention of two mobiles, but no notes. Would they be with the actual evidence?

Shouldn’t be, but you can check.

Jim turned away and Hanks caught his slipstream.

Why is it these places always seem darker than everywhere else?

Adding suspense?

Hanks couldn’t help passing minor judgement on Jim’s surroundings. Especially when the rest of the building was modern and glass-fronted. Inexplicable why the archive section would be so gloomy, unless Jim just liked it that way. Maybe, he was a vampire.

Trevor smirked.

Jim grabbed the balled ends of the turning handles and unwound the sliding door along its runners. He pulled out the third drawer from the bottom to reveal a number of cardboard boxes. One was marked with the reference number Hanks recognised from the paperwork.

You can use the desk, there. Lynch pointed behind and to his right. Sift through, but don’t take anything from the plastic bags. Alright?

No problem.

Let me know when you’re sorted. asserted Lynch, sure not to appear too pushy.

Cheers, Jim.

The lid slipped off easily and Hanks stood it up against the wall, at the back of the small desk.

For some reason, Hanks was surprised to find the inside quite full. Not stuffed to the brim, but not far off.

Everything was in sealed, plastic bags (clearly labelled ‘Evidence’, in red) with the black writing of a marker pen distinct, on a white panel. Clothes made up the top two bags; a folded, bomber jacket, which Hanks recognised, and a pair of jeans with a noticeable patch of red-brown.

After a couple of other packets of clothing that weren’t familiar, Hanks came to something more solid and obviously hidden at the bottom for good reason.

The knife.

A normal, kitchen knife, meant for chopping. With a black handle and a blade about seven inches long and two inches at its widest point.

A similar red-brown stain stood out, against the silver metal.

Just the sight pissed him off. The fact it had been in Holland’s evidence box was like an unofficial accusation of having actually used it. Now he knew that wasn’t the case, Hanks felt the cut of its blade, even though the plastic bag rendered it no more dangerous than a comb.

Hanks couldn’t help thinking about how the blood and knife had come into contact. Metal piercing skin. Warmth greeting cold.

Life flowing over death. Nikki’s life.

He dropped the loaded bag back in and wiggled away the strange sensation from his fingers.

Another couple of items of clothing and he’d reached the floor of the box.

No mobiles or notes.

Where the hell had they gone?

Jim? Hanks called down the aisle.

Yes? his head and shoulders appeared from behind one of the support pillars, at the far end.

No phones here.

Then, if we’re talking work’s phones, and no longer required in evidence, they were probably taken back by ‘Requisitions’.

That happened before? asked Hanks, less than convinced.

Wouldn’t be the first time. said Lynch, knowingly. Once either the evidence has been recorded or copied, and the legal side sorted, the hardware becomes superfluous.

Which, accounted for what may or may not have happened to Holland’s work mobile. No great hassle; easily checked.

Two and a half ticks.

But, any analysis would be back in the folder, whether the actual phone was here, or not. argued Hanks.

Unless, deemed inconsequential to any investigation or someone is checking it out now.

Surely, it would’ve had to have been signed out?

Yeah, of course. Lynch now sounded a mite defensive.

What about something private? Would it go to ‘Property’, like the laptop?

As long as it’d been cleared, sure.

Unconvinced, Hanks returned the plastic bags to their places and slid the lid back on top. He had the very comfortable impression he was a couple of steps closer to extricating Steve from his hardship. He also had the feeling of still being some distance from whatever truth he was meant to find.

Swallowing contradictions was never an easy thing to do.

Made worse when a lack of complete understanding made the palate a bit dry.

Okay. I’m done here. Hanks was about to lift the box.

Leave it there, Trev. I’ll put it back. said Lynch, making his way down the corridor.

Knowing the whereabouts (possible or actual) of two-and-a-half things on Holland’s list was definitely a step in the right direction. Yet, as Hanks stretched into his walking rhythm, leaving Jim to the long aisle and its collection of circular handles and sliding doors, the mystery of Holland’s personal mobile was beginning to get the better of his thinking.

Jim? called Hanks, as he approached the exit stairs.

Yep. Lynch was lowering the box back into its drawer.

You keep records of everybody who comes down here and checks out evidence, don’t you?

’Course I do. Why? Jim asked, rising from his haunches and reaching for the two handles.

Just asking.

As the door swung open, Hanks wasn’t just asking.

For the first time in quite a while, he was motivated to be a detective again.

Not only was his innocent friend incarcerated, but he had a sneaky feeling someone was trying to keep him that way.

Made and shared.

Chapter 9

The guys at the impound were very accommodating, actually.

A quick flash of the I.D. and Hanks was being treated like a long-lost brother. It probably wasn’t like that, if you happened to be a member of the general-public club. Even worse, if you were one who should have his membership revoked.

The burgundy Astra was in a back row of three.

As Hanks navigated himself between the other vehicles, he got to thinking this place looked more like a used-car lot than anything. Just, a crapper version, with no inflated prices stuck in the windscreens.

Hanks felt his nerves being further grated by the fact Holland’s motor had a thick layer of grime all over it. They should be looking after it.

He’s one of ours.

Then, he remembered.

He was just about the only person in the world who hadn’t gone with what the evidence was apparently screaming and thought Holland was a killer. Also, the only person who knew the true state of his friend’s current condition.

At which point, Hanks wanted to grab somebody by the lapels and force them into cleaning the car, so it shined Holland’s guilt away. Preferably, using their