The Dark Horizon Page 2

  The cold was omnipresent, all around and everywhere. Ice in the air and sleet in the sky. The crystal teeth of icicles on the windowsills, the glitter dust of frost on the tarmac.

  Inside the flat, through the warmed mist of the steamed windows, was another land. Soft lights, rumbling radiators, the hot cocoon of a shower to end this peculiar day.

  But still, he hesitated. Stared at the silver edges of the key. Shivered and pulled his jacket tight.

  Thought of old friends lost and family long gone. Betrayed promises and dying dreams. Christmases past and all the ghosts of the mind of this most reflective of seasons.

  From inside the door came a slow footfall. Dan straightened, took a breath and turned his key in the latch. Claire was waiting in the half-light of the hallway.

  ‘Hi!’ she chirped.

  ‘Hello.’

  She waited. He waited. They both waited. Claire leaned forwards and, after a pause, Dan accepted the hug of her outstretched arms.

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘A bit weird.’

  ‘Do you need a shower?’

  ‘After I’ve walked Rutherford.’

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A scrabbling shook the lounge door. ‘You shouldn’t shut him in like that. He doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I just wanted a cuddle without him interrupting.’

  ‘He doesn’t interrupt.’

  Dan pushed open the door and the dog careered out, a jumble of legs and fur, even now little different from those puppy days. Claire stood watching as Dan knelt and made a long fuss of the Alsatian. His ears were rubbed, his sleek nose stroked, his paws held, his fine mane lovingly ruffled.

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you think more of that dog than me,’ she whispered.

  There was no answer. Dan had rolled Rutherford onto his side and was tickling the dog’s stomach.

  ‘I’ll put supper on,’ Claire said. ‘I’ve done some pasta.’

  ‘I had a decent lunch. I don’t need anything much.’

  ‘A small bowl? It’s your favourite. I’ve made it specially.’

  ‘Ok, then.’

  In the shower, Dan noticed a new line of cosmetics had staked yet another claim to the windowsill. A mat of Claire’s dark hair was blocking the plughole. He sighed and picked it out.

  From the kitchen a pan clanged. The radio burbled, overly-loud, as ever.

  Dan tried to shut it out, think instead about Resurgam towering into the sky, at last almost complete. It was one of the longest running stories he’d ever covered and by far the most bitter. With all that had unfolded over this last year, it would be a strange relief to see it open.

  His mobile warbled with a text and he reached through the shower curtain to read it. The message was from El, and unusual. The photographer normally sent only very brief messages, but this was an electronic lament.

  You’ve got to help me! I’m being murdered on me own patch. Them paparazzi from London are everywhere. They’re stitching up all me sources with their flash and cash. They’re gonna find the Cashman. Me reputation’ll be shot. I’ll be history, a laughing stock. Help your poor old buddy, please!

  A gentle knock sounded on the door. ‘The pasta’s looking good.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Would you like a beer?’ Claire asked.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘A glass of wine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some company?’

  In a strained voice, Dan said, ‘I’m almost done. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  The door slid closed again.

  When Dan bought the flat, it was entrancement at first sight. He delighted in all the rooms, but it was the lounge he loved the most. The great space, the lofty Victorian ceiling, the plasterwork, the expanse of bay window overlooking the city and the white marble fireplace. It needed no television, just a sofa to sit and enjoy.

  He had taken care to choose the decor to compliment the bequest of heritage, and the furniture to match. It was a haven of calm, warmth and beauty, an atmosphere it had never lost.

  But this evening, the lounge was suffering a look it had never known before, and it was doing so with all the grace of a Hell’s Angel forced to wear a tutu.

  Tinsel bedecked the dado rail, a caterpillar of red and green. Baubles of shamelessly unconvincing gold and silver hung from the fine stone of the fireplace, turning a little in the caress of the rising heat. In the corner, by the window, stood a small Christmas tree.

  ‘I decorated,’ Claire smiled.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘I spent hours. Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s certainly Christmassy.’

  She clicked on the stereo and found some music, a dignified, classical sound. Dan reached for the remote control and turned it down. They sat at the table by the window and ate the pasta, Rutherford stretched between them.

  ‘I saw your report on the Cashman. It’s bizarre. Does anyone have an idea what that’s all about?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘It’s quite a mystery.’

  Rutherford yawned. Claire picked up her wine glass and took a sip of the claret liquid. Dan traced the line of a wood grain with a finger.

  ‘I bought you a Christmas present today,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you need any ideas for mine?’

  ‘Not really. I’ll find something.’

  They ate on. One of the strands of tinsel slipped and hung down the wall. Dan’s phone rang. Claire glanced at it, a tired, forlorn look.

  ‘You’ve got to help me find him!’ a pained voice wailed. ‘I’m being humiliated on me home turf!’

  ‘El, I can’t talk now. I’ll have a think and get back to you.’

  ‘Promise? Cross your heart, Scout’s honour and on Rutherford’s life?’

  Dan pushed the remaining pieces of pasta around the plate. A gust of wind whistled at the window.

  Claire lay down her fork. ‘We’re going to have to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You know what about.’ She flicked at her hair. ‘Me. You. Us.’

  Another piece of tinsel drooped down and swayed with a sad rhythm. Claire got up from her seat. ‘I took this sabbatical to try to work it out with you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you said it was a good idea.’

  ‘I know that. I just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Just didn’t realise it meant you’d be moving in.’

  She folded her arms. ‘Don’t you want me here?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Just…’

  ‘Should I move out again?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘What are you saying then?’

  ‘Just that I’m not used to living with someone. It’s the first time I’ve ever done it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied, with acrid bitterness. ‘I could tell.’

  ‘I just need some space.’

  ‘Space?’

  ‘It’s come as a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve been here two months now!’

  Dan joined the folded arms club. ‘Two months, one week and three days, in fact.’

  Claire let out a low gasp. She turned away, the boyishness of her hair highlighted by the glow of a standard lamp.

  ‘All I mean is – it’s just… taking some adjusting,’ he wheedled.

  ‘Do you want me here or not?’

  Dan’s mobile began trilling once more. He answered, listened briefly and hung up.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘It’s Resurgam again. Another attack.’

  ‘Don’t go. Not now.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘But I need to talk to you - please.’

  ‘I’ve got no choice. We can talk… some other time…’

  Claire held out her arms for a cuddle, but Dan was already past her and striding for the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  The wire-and-metal panels of one of the gates lay scattered, a couple of ruby eyes of warning lights still blinking. The hinges had been wrenched from the wall, as if swatted by a mighty force. Lumps of rubble were strewn across the road.

  Inside the compound lay a lorry, the axles and exhaust of its underbelly exposed. The tarmac was gouged where it had toppled and scoured at the ground. One door was angled ajar, a fluorescent jacket dangling limp. Oil dripped, glutinous from the engine, forming a dense puddle shining in the darkness.

  The guardhouse next to the gates had been demolished, caved in and crushed, as if it had imploded under its own weight. A spray of glass shards covered the road, glittering in the arrhythmic pulsing of the lights of the mass of police cars, fire engines and ambulances.

  The bitter tang of scorched rubber lingered in the air, dominating the leaking diesel and background wash of sea salt. The jets of hoses from a team of firefighters damped the underside of the lorry. A sinuous trail of wispy steam rose into the raw air.

  A small knot of people was huddled by The Wall, watched over by a couple of police officers. Around them, discarded and forgotten, were the makeshift banners which had been their weapons.

  No to Resurgam! Give our city back! Jobs, not follies! Remember Alice!

  A couple of the group sat hunched, heads in hands. More hugged each other, a fog of breath surrounding the clutched embrace. Diminished by the cold, shamed by the scene, none could look to the nexus of this night.

  A team of paramedics was bent over a corner of the debris, firefighters with them, picking away brick and pulling at metal stanchions. The work was urgent, focused. They formed an uneven line, fighting the weight of a twisted beam.

  One, two, three – heave! One, two, three – heave!

  In the twilight of the moment, death lingered. Held back for now by the determination of the effort, the shared purpose, but still waiting, hovering on the edge of every set of senses.

  A pile of rubble clattered. Brick dust filled the air, a swirling mist in the whiteness of the arc lights.

  One more time – heave!

  Now the stanchion shifted and clanged to the ground, a mind-splitting attack of sound, decibels ringing to the core of the brain. A stretcher was pulled forwards, the unmistakeable outline of a person lifted onto it.

  But wrong, so very wrong. An insult to nature and decency. No living creature should ever be twisted carelessly into such a form.

  Unseen as he approached, half-hidden in the shadows, the detective allowed himself one contemptuous glare at the shining glass, steel and concrete edifice known as Resurgam.

  As ever at the start of a major investigation, he had only a drunkard’s view. There were blurs and scents, claims and allegations, but no focus or definition.

  Adam quickly scanned the miserable group. ‘Is this all of them?’

  ‘As far as we know,’ the uniformed sergeant replied. ‘It wasn’t a difficult job. They just stood around waiting to be arrested.’

  ‘Hmm. You think?’

  The group was a mix of young and old, all locals as far as Adam could remember. Resurgam hadn’t been his case, not even when the protests had turned violent. Only after the first death was his dark expertise required.

  These remaining demonstrators weren’t the Professionals, as they styled themselves. This little group was the set from the community. Committed, passionate or embittered, they had sworn to protest until the day Resurgam opened.

  Shock was in each pair of eyes. One woman looked dazed, kept repeating, ‘I can’t believe it, not again.’ The men tried to be stronger, but it was a frail façade. Most were no more than teenagers. One, perhaps only 18 or 19, was clutching a banner. In an untidy legend was painted For Alice and our Future.

  At the end of the group stood a woman, wrapped in thick layers of clothing but still shivering in the unforgiving cold. A memory surfaced of an elder’s role here; comforter of the young, moderator of the radical, a soul of reason and sensibility.

  ‘It’s June, isn’t it?’

  She nodded, but couldn’t look at him.

  ‘Chief Inspector Breen. I was part of the investigation into Alice’s death.’

  Another miserable nod.

  ‘What happened?’

  No reply.

  ‘Where is she?’

  June turned away, another woman lacing an arm around her shoulders. ‘She’s too upset to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but murder investigations don’t allow much leeway for sympathy.’

  And now June looked up, her once kindly face pinched and drawn. ‘He’s not… the man in the guardhouse isn’t...’

  ‘That depends how things go at the hospital. But what we do need to know is - what happened?’

  ‘Just a protest,’ June whispered. ‘That was all. Just another demonstration before Friday.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘Esther?’

  Adam’s lip curled with the name. ‘Esther.’

  ‘It was her idea – for the lorry.’

  ‘I somehow thought it might be. And let me guess - was she driving it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘Off… she ran off …’

  The words faded into a lost silence. Dismal experience said a curtain had fallen on this interrogation. Adam turned to some of the young men, clustered together, sharing a cigarette in shaking hands.

  ‘Where is she?’

  No one replied. A fire engine rumbled past, followed by an ambulance, the rising draft pulling at the men’s hair.

  ‘Lost your voices?’ Adam barked. He leaned forwards, right into their faces, amidst the lingering smoke, waved it away. ‘You - where is she?’

  ‘No idea. Just leave us alone.’

  There was a fuzz of hair around the young man’s mouth, an adolescent attempt at a goatee, but it couldn’t hide the trembling lips.

  ‘I can’t leave you alone just yet, I’m afraid. Because I’ll need to start charging you with being accessories to murder first.’

  A foot swung from one of the group, but it was a half-hearted effort, easy to evade.

  ‘To which I’ll add assaulting a police officer. That’s unless I find out where Esther is – right now.’

  ‘She ran off, ok?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I dunno! None of us know, for fuck’s sake! Do you think we wanted to be part of this?! She just jumped out the lorry and ran.’

  As if aloof from the human follies playing out at its feet, a great beast amongst mere bacteria, Resurgam continued to make ready for its grand opening.

  Flashlights swayed in the dark heavens of the night. From the heights of the Sky Garden, 57 floors above, came the sound of hammering and drilling, the odd spray of sparks arcing in the blackness.

  It could have been shrewd marketing. It might even have been a rare sight of elusive truth, but word had been put around it was a traditional race against time to get Resurgam ready for its inaugural day. Work would have to go on around the clock in this last week of preparations.

  A small team was setting the angles of the sculptures of modern art which would welcome the first visitors; details and adjustments so slight as to be barely worthwhile, except perhaps in the most affected of eyes.

  Around the cavernous mouth of the building’s doors, engineers fiddled and refined. They stood back in their gangs, hands on hips, pointing and nodding.

  The line of low steps leading up to the edifice was smoothed and sanded. The buzz and hum was the backdrop to all that went on that night. Around the ring of flagpoles, final brushstrokes of paint were applied and guide ropes pulled.

  While fifty metres from them all, as far detached as could be another time, police officers guarded the remains of the gatehouse as the fingertips of their fellows searched for evidence. And detectives questioned the protesters in a slow path of pained progress, the dispirited responses sullen and monosyllabic.

  Workers with pencils and notepads were already assessing the damage to the mass of brick and concrete which had, with an ironic nod to history, become known as The Wall.

  And across the city an ambulance sped, a blue shrouded spectre amongst the streets, its burden a gravely injured young man. While at the hospital, outside Accident and Emergency, doctors and nurses stood waiting, swinging arms and stamping feet to keep warm and ready.

  A stare as sharp as a broadsword’s blade was one of this detective’s favoured expressions. With such a lean face, and eyes some said could turn grey amidst the intensity of a major investigation, it was a look he did well.

  Tonight, it was set not upon some wriggling miscreant or dissembling recidivist, but a CD. In its mirror shine was a clue, but like the most reluctant of witnesses it wasn’t giving up the information easily.

  ‘Security reckons it shows the whole attack,’ the sergeant said.

  Adam was on his feet before the end of the sentence. ‘Then let’s see it.’

  ‘That’s the problem. The player was in the gatehouse.’

  The silent response must have been answer enough, and the man offered quickly, ‘There’s a machine back at the station.’

  ‘By which time she’ll be long gone.’

  With impressive speed Adam was out of the van. Striding in a precise, near-military manner, his polished shoes shinier even than the ice, he cut an unerring path, no concession to a slip or slide. Ahead were the gathering lines of the media; satellite vans, radio cars and reporters.

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’ the sergeant called, but the crow-black night gave up no reply.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dan and Nigel had been standing beside the camera, doing their best to keep warm, for a quarter of an hour before other journalists and photographers began to arrive. The duo was eyed with irritation and envy, as befitted those in contented possession of a scoop. Dan took it as a compliment and tried not to look smug.

  Across the road, a line of men from the Homeless Mission had emerged to share a cigarette and sightsee. Along the estuary, a sole fishing boat huffed its way into harbour.