Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) (9 page)

Chapter Twenty: Despair Has Its Own Calms

The alarm went off on his phone at half-seven, like always, but this morning, there was a soft moan next to him and Jason realised he wasn’t in his own bed.

He silenced the alarm and got up, politely but firmly removing Teresa’s searching fingers from his arm and heading for the shower. After a quick rinse, he shoved on yesterday’s clothes and, arm caught once more by the delightfully naked and still mostly drunk Teresa, gave her a quick parting kiss before legging it down the stairs and out into the crisp Monday morning.

He had to get home and get dressed for work before heading out to Amy’s. If he walked quickly, he might even have time to grab a bacon butty. He was glad he’d opted for low-key, so that his walk of shame that morning wasn’t particularly obvious. He’d had a good time and, if this morning’s limpet-like clinging was anything to go by, Teresa would quite like to see him again. Unfortunately, he hadn’t found out much about Melody—dead housemates didn’t make for great pillow talk.

Of course, his mother was already up when he got home. Gwen shot him a reproachful look as he tried to creep through the kitchen door. “And what kind of one o’clock is this, hmm? Were you drunk last night?”

“No!” Sure, he’d had a couple and he’d got his wine and beer the wrong way round, but other than that, it had been a pretty clear night. Crystal clear—he remembered every detail: the silver bauble cupcakes, his top score on Guitar Hero, the scent of ripe berries on Teresa’s hair as she kissed his neck...

“Oh, I see,” Gwen said, with a mother’s intuition. “Did you have a nice time? Was your hostess very...welcoming?”

Jason shuddered. There were some things you just did not discuss with your mam, and one-night stands were one of them. “She’s a nice girl. I’m gonna be late.”

She waved him off, and he hurried upstairs to change and get round to Amy’s for nine. He’d meant to pick up some fruit before going round there, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Amy wouldn’t die of her vitamin deficiency in twenty-four hours.

Ten minutes later, he was out the door and in the car, but was soon bogged down in city centre rush hour traffic. Drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, Jason debated texting ahead to let Amy know he would be late, but he wasn’t handy enough with the phone to subtly text while looking like he was paying full attention to the road for any passing cop.

It was twenty past nine before he finally got to Amy’s, running up to the front door to find it opening before him. She’d been waiting for him—damn. “Sorry I’m late,” he called through, as he headed into the living room. “I was—”

“Stuck in traffic. Yes, I know.” Amy was up and dressed, sitting at her computer in a baggy black T-shirt with a vintage Iron Man in silver. “You didn’t reply to my text.”

“How did you know about the traffic?” He hadn’t replied to her text, true, but then he hadn’t really understood what it meant. However, in Amy’s world, not replying to a text was probably like refusing to answer her calls or putting her through to voicemail.

“I told you—centre’s crawling with cameras. When you didn’t come at nine, I went looking for you.” Her words were sharp, reproachful. Jason winced. “As I told you last night, I’ve narrowed the woman at the hospital down to seven possibles. If she’s an employee and a Crash and Yearn fan. Too many ifs. Can’t be helped.”

Suddenly, the text made sense—7 was the number of women, 2 was just text-speak. He couldn’t be expected to decipher that with wine in hand. “What are you going to do now?”

“You should go looking for her.”

Jason bristled at the way she ordered him around like she was his military commander. He was meant to be the cleaner, not her personal slave. Besides, this was Bryn and Owain’s job, and they got paid a hell of a lot more than him. “Get Bryn to do it.” He collected the stray mugs that told him she’d been subsisting on coffee all weekend. “I’ve got work to do making this place habitable.”

“I’m paying you. Why won’t you just do what I want? You’re late and now you want to get out of a job—”

“You’re not paying me. Your sister is. And she’s paying me to clean your flat. You can’t just order me to fetch and carry for you. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“You didn’t complain before. Why are you now so stubborn? Did you find something better to do?”

“If you want to find this woman so badly, why don’t you find her yourself?” Jason was deliberately baiting her now. His head was starting to ache and he was not in the mood to fight with Amy about what he did and didn’t want to do for her. This case had taken over his life already. He’d spent most of his weekend trying to find out stuff for her, and now she was acting like he was slacking off just because he was a bit late? He’d been staying late every day to help her out, and this was the thanks he got? Typical bloody woman.

“Maybe I don’t want to.” Amy turned back to her keyboard with a huff.

Jason stalked over to her and turned her chair around, hesitating at the flicker of fear in her eyes. “I get it—you don’t want to go outside. What’s so scary about outside, Amy? Would a little sunlight kill you? You’re not a bloody vampire.”

With that, he threw open the curtains, allowing the light to stream into the room through the grubby windowpane. Amy shielded her eyes as if it burned her, whimpering softly at the onslaught of sunlight. “Don’t, please, just...put them back...”

Ignoring her pleas, Jason found a key on the windowsill and thrust it into the rusted window lock. “Something wrong with fresh air? Do you good. Sun and fresh air and outside.”

“No, don’t open it!” she cried out, grabbing for his sleeve. “I don’t want it—”

Jason wrenched open the window and a cold gust of air swept into the stuffy room, the bite of encroaching winter in its ice. He turned back to Amy to find her shuddering in her chair, curled in on herself and gasping for breath. “Amy...?”

Her breathing showed no sign of slowing, as she huddled in her ball of terror like a startled hedgehog. Jason quickly slammed the window and drew the curtains, returning the room to its usual state. But she did not calm, tension radiating from every fibre of her being.

Jason knelt in front of her, unsure of what to do, his own heart hammering at his impotence. “Tell me what you need. Amy, you have to tell me how to help you.”

“Not going out, not going out, not going out.” The litany that passed her lips was like a prayer, fervent and unanswered. Her breathing quickened further and she clutched her chest as though she was having a heart attack.

Jason grabbed hold of her shoulders. “Amy! Snap out of it!”

Amy cried out, shaking now, tears spilling over.

Jason was terrified and started rubbing her shoulders rhythmically. “It’s okay, it’s okay—you don’t have to go. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re going to be all right.”

She reached out, clutching at his T-shirt, and Jason wrapped his arms around her, soothingly rubbing her back and drawing her close to him. He bent close to listen to her feverish ramblings, but could only pick up fragments: “...hurts...please...don’t let me die...”

“You’re not going to die. I’m right here. Breathe.”

She was clinging to him as if he were a life buoy, her only hope of survival, and he wasn’t sure how long he held her, as her cries subsided and her breathing slowly returned to normal.

“Are you okay?” he said, unwilling to release her until he knew she was going to be all right.

“I’m not going out.” Her words were muffled against his shoulder, and he ran a gentle hand over her hair.

“You’re not going out,” he agreed, shaken to his core by what had just happened. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Will you stay?” She looked straight at him with pleading, red-rimmed eyes.

“For as long as I can,” he promised, and that seemed to be enough.

Chapter Twenty-One: If I Had a Hammer

Jason was cleaning the skirting boards, a task that Amy wholly failed to grasp the relevance of, when the doorbell rang. Bryn and Owain’s faces flickered up on the monitor and Amy buzzed them up. She hadn’t moved from her position on the sofa, where Jason had found her that morning, but she could work just as effectively from her iPad.

If she ignored yesterday’s events, it was as if they never happened. The whole day had been a write-off, as she’d retreated to her bedroom and Jason had let her go. He was apologetic today, even brought doughnuts for breakfast, and a tiny part of Amy was glad he was contrite. She’d thought she was going to die. There was no way to rationalise that sense of dread.

Full of raspberry jam and tea, she was curled up in her dressing gown when Bryn and Owain entered the room. “Please tell me you have something,” Bryn said.
Not good.

“I sent you the names...” she started, but Bryn waved that off.

“Dead end. None of the girls know anything.”

Amy set her shoulders at that, indignant. “That’s impossible. I cross-referenced all the available data—”

“They don’t know anything, Amy,” Bryn repeated and Amy subsided. “What else have you got?”

Amy gestured helplessly at AEON. “Nothing. I’ve got nothing. The CCTV footage of Melody goes dark before she disappears, I’m no closer to finding the alarm in the hospital—and now you’re telling me it might not even matter.” A black cloud was already settling over her. It wasn’t worth getting up today for more of this shit.

“Then we’ll have to look at everything again,” Jason suddenly piped up, and Amy looked towards him.

“Everything?” she echoed.

“Fresh eyes, adding what we know now to our looking.”

Bryn snorted, but Owain was nodding along. “It’s probably past time for a review, Amy. I could give you two a hand—”

“We have witness statements to type up,” Bryn said, deflating Owain’s enthusiasm. “Not that they’ll do any bloody good. You’ll call me, when you have something? Bloody papers are baying outside the door every day and night, and Mr. Frank has got hold of my mobile number.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Jason said cheerfully, and Bryn glowered at him on his way out.

Amy wondered what had gotten in to Jason today. He was surprisingly chipper. Maybe he’d seen that girl again. The one whose house he’d snuck out of when he should’ve been heading to hers.

With Bryn and Owain gone, Amy set about doing exactly what Jason suggested—starting at the very beginning. And that meant the forum photographs. While her cleaner popped out for a cigarette—filthy habit, she must stop that—she began combing over the images, trying to spot any clues she might have missed before.

“You will die of lung cancer,” she declared, as the lift spat Jason out in cloud of foul cigarette smoke.

“It’s a nice headboard, that.” Jason leaned in to study Melody’s picture, finger tracing over the fluted edges and the hint of brass inlay at the top of it. “I know someone what makes these. If it’s special work, he’ll know about it.”

Amy swiftly located the envelope containing the police original under a cluster of mugs and handed it off to Jason. “You said something about the wicked,” she said innocently.

“Cow.” He affectionately ruffled her hair before heading for the door. And Amy realised she hadn’t even flinched.

* * *

Jason rested back against the oak cabinet, hands folded into his armpits against the chill that permeated the workshop. The air was thick with floating shavings and the rich scent of wood oil.

Russell held Melody’s picture in his calloused hands, face twisted with pity. “Poor child. But, to answer you, no—not one of mine, but I do know it.”

Russell disappeared into the back and Jason paced to keep warm, his breath misting before him. The days had turned cold, ice on the cars and crystals on the wet leaves. No doubt the Accident & Emergency department at the Heath was doing a swift trade in banged knees and broken hips. Jason wondered if Bryn and Owain had gone back to the hospital. He didn’t envy them—the place was a crowd at a rugby match, changing by the minute and the most unreliable of witnesses.

“Here, this looks like it.” Russell emerged from his tiny office, carrying a large order book with scribbled names and measurements in pencil. On the open page was a rough square torn from a magazine with a picture of a smiling couple in a hotel room, the same sculpted headboard at the top. “Some lady brought it to me, wanting a copy. That any use to you?”

“Do you have a number for her?” Jason said, already pulling out his phone.

Russell hesitated. “You know I can’t do that, mate. Can’t go selling people’s details on, can I?”

Jason held his temper. “You’re not selling, Russ. You’re helping catch a killer!”

But Russell pulled the order book back, his hostile stare telling Jason that he’d best be on his way. Reluctantly, Jason took back his photograph, placing Melody back, modestly covered by the envelope before leaving Russell to his propriety and his stinking morals.

Jason stomped out into the early morning drizzle, breaking the thin ice on the pavement’s puddles. He’d known Russell since he was a lad. The bloke had been mates with Jason’s dad, but prison changed the way people looked at you. People were afraid of him now, what he might do. Stole a car off an old lady, punched a copper. At least Lewis and the boys had gone away for a victimless crime. Nobody got hurt robbing gold. That was how the neighbourhood saw it.

He got to the car—and stopped. There were flyers on the back window. But this was the middle of an industrial estate, not another car in sight. Who would be leafleting out here?

His hand went to the switchblade in his back pocket. If his mam found out he was carrying it, she’d go spare, but he wasn’t going to be caught unprotected again. It was a deterrent, he told himself. Just to warn them off.

Walking slowly round the car, he pretended to study the gaudy paper squares, while keeping his eyes and ears sharp for movement around him. But a sudden yank at his ankle pulled him to the ground, the air knocked out of him. Fucker was under the car!

Fighting to draw breath, Jason kicked out at the kid beneath his car, but two heavy men crashed down on him, driving his shoulders into the ground and gripping his arms like a vise.

“I hear you’ve been messing with my boys.” Stuart Williams walked into his eye line, shaking his cigarette to sprinkle ash over Jason’s coat.

“They...attacked me,” Jason bit out, still not able to get his breath.

Stuart looked away, exposing the web of raised scars curving around his left eye and over his sharp cheekbone. “Damage has an anger for you, because of how you left his brother in prison, see. But then the cops show up like they’re on speed-dial, and it got us to wondering how you did so little time.”

Shit
,
they think I’m a grass
. “I never—”

“Save it. We figure the cops have eyes on you, round our way. But out here—who’s gonna see?” Stuart placed his boot in the centre of Jason’s chest. Jason gasped. “So, tell us what they know.”

Jason would never tell Stuart anything, even if he had something to spill. He would laugh if he could draw breath, his lungs starting to burn.

A crack whipped through the air and Stuart yelped, ducking behind the car. Were the Cardiff gangs carrying guns now? Jason was suddenly afraid. He knew beatings and he knew knives, but he’d never been shot before and he was in no hurry to try it.

“Let that boy go and get out.”
Russell.

Jason tried to raise his head to see what was going on, but he was still pinned.

Stuart slowly straightened, then threw his hands up in surrender. “Look, old man, this ain’t none of your business—”

“I’ll stick my nose where I like,” Russell said sharply. “And unless you want a bolt through your arm, I’d get gone.”

One of the lads holding him down clambered to his feet, paled at what he saw and tugged at Stuart’s arm. Stuart shook him off, snarling. “Fine, we’re leaving. But we won’t forget this, old man. Watch yourself—and your little fag too.”

Spitting on Jason’s jeans, Stuart grabbed his boys and cleared out. Jason got to his feet and reflected that this was getting to be a habit. Road rash was a bitch.

Jason looked over his car to see Russell hovering outside his workshop, a large adze in one hand and a bolt gun in the other.

“Russ—”

“Don’t bring trouble to my door again,” the man snapped and retreated back into his shop.

Jason tore the leaflets from his window screen and threw them into an icy puddle, sick of the whole rotten town.