7:45 am, May 10. Suburbs near Chester.
"Thank God it's Friday," said Greg Stewart, picking up a pile of mail from his doormat. Already suited up for the day in his customary plain grey off-the-peg from Burton's, Greg spent a few minutes leafing through the pile of mail.
Two leaflets caught his eye: one in a plastic jacket from Scottish Power, some sort of newsletter, and a leaflet extolling the virtues of holidays in North Wales, published courtesy of the Wales and Marches Tourist Board, whoever they were.
The rest, being bills, were ignored for now. Greg threw them onto the small but growing pile in the basket labelled Pending beside the modest stand in the hallway. Checking himself out in the mirror, Greg straightened out his tie ... then gave the hallway the onceover with the sight, the special one granted by the Heralds which enabled him to see in the dark.
One can never be too sure these days ...
Outside, the black Espace sat in his driveway, ready to go. The street Greg lived in was a nice, quiet suburb of town; all the gardens were kept in pristine condition, and Greg's home boasted tall fences and thick privet hedges, all in the name of personal privacy.
Greg walked out, felt the warmth of the hot Friday morning sun against him a moment, smiled. It was going to be a lovely, sunny May day.
He shut and locked the front door, walked the short distance to the car, began pointing his magic wand keychain to unlock the car.
Crunching on the gravel of the drive alerted him. Greg looked up.
Two male uniformed policemen were approaching him up the driveway.
"Hello, Officers," Greg said. "How can I help you?"
The lead uniform held out his warrant card. It was genuine. Greg scanned them with his sight, which was still on: they were both clean.
"Are you Mr Gregory Stewart?" asked the lead cop.
"I am," Greg replied. "Have I done something wrong?"
"Not that we know," said the second policeman. "I'm afraid we're going to need you ro help us with our enquiries into something."
Greg's face was a poker mask: impassive. "What, in particular, are you enquiring about?"
The lead policeman did not seem to believe in beating about the bush. "I'm afraid we'd like you to come down to our morgue in order to help us identify a body."
The morgue was a silent study in sterility.
Greg walked down concrete stairs, his expensive Hush Puppies slapping against the hard surface. Striplighting overhead cast everything in odd relief; with his sight still on, searching for traces of unnatural activity, Greg allowed himself to be led by the officers flanking him down towards the identification room.
More cold, sterile striplighting greeted them in the ID room. Like the hallway they'd just come down, the walls of the morgue were of poured concrete, painted over with plain white emulsion, cold and sterile.
Shiny steel body drawers lined the walls of the mortuary, reflecting the cold light as the policemen escorted Greg into the ID room. Greg smelled a strong smell of antiseptic in the air. He breathed shallowly, trying to hear any other sounds in the room. Other than the policemen breathing, sounds of their movement and the hum of the overhead lights, there was nothing: not even the sound of the air conditioning system.
"It's as quiet as a morgue down here," Greg ventured, flippantly. The officers flanking him did not seem perturbed by his humour.
The identification room was empty, bar the three of them. Presently, a squeaking sound preceded the arrival of the corpse, mounted on a steel table beneath a plain white sheet. The table, on castors, was trundled into the room by an assistant in a white lab coat. The lead cop, the one with the warrant badge, nodded to the assistant, who nodded in reply and backed out of the room.
"So, then," Greg said, "this is the body I'm to attempt to identify."
Without another word, the lead cop reached for the sheet at the end, pulled it away. Beneath the sheet was a pair of ladies' feet, with a toe tag.
"Wrong end," whispered the other cop.
"Shit," said the policeman, moving to the other end and uncovering the head of the corpse.
Greg peered closely at the woman. She was brunette, relatively heavy - set. Her eyes had been closed.
"This one isn't moving," Greg murmured under his breath.
"Not many corpses do," replied the second copper. "What makes you think a dead body would just get up and walk away?"
Greg looked at the second cop with the poker face in place again.
"Look at her closely, Mr Stewart," said the first policeman. "Do you recognise her?"
"No," Greg said, "I don't, I'm sorry." He looked at her again. She appeared to have died violently, yes: but nowhere was there any trace of supernatural activity on her body, suggesting that the cause of death was mundane.
He looked up at the lead policeman. "Who is she?"
"I thought you would recognise her," said the second policeman.
"No, sorry," Greg replied.
"Look," said the first policeman. "Is this woman, or is this not ... Susan Whalen?"
Greg took a step back, momentarily stunned. "Susan?" he asked.
"Yes," said the second policeman, "Susan Whalen. You know. Your lover."
"No, of course this isn't Susan!" Greg replied, angrily. "I have no idea who this woman is, but I can tell you for certain this isn't Susan!"
The lead policeman sighed, took a step towards Greg. "Ah, well," he said. "We'll try and find your Susan some other time."
"What do you mean? Is Susan missing?" Greg asked, bumping into the second policeman. In a flash, the second policeman had Greg in a restraining hold.
"What is this? What are you -" Greg yelled, as he felt cold steel handcuffs snap around his right wrist, and then his left.
"Gregory Stewart," said the lead policeman, "I am arresting you for the murder of this as - yet unidentified woman, and for the murder of Susan Whalen, whereabouts as yet unknown."
"This is ridiculous!" yelled Greg. "I demand my solicitor at once! At once!"
6:45 pm, May 10. Chester Police Station.
The smoke from countless cigarettes, smoked in nervous hands and smoked by police interrogators, permeated the room, giving the walls a permanent tinge of yellow - brown.
Greg had sat next to some slimy git with greasy brown hair, in a greasy black leather jacket and grubby jeans, for an hour waiting for the interrogation room to become free. Just before they came for him, the slimy git, with a smug grin, had whispered to Greg: "You know, that's the room they interrogated Myra Hindley in ..."
It was more than an hour later, and the smell of nicotine had gotten into everything. Greg looked at the two detectives who sat across the room from him. One was fat, sweating, with a red moustache and receding hairline: the other was a thin, fidgety lad with black hair and piercing brown eyes.
In front of him was a packet of cigarettes. Greg declined them. There was enough nicotine in the room already.
"Look, we've got you bang to rights," said the detective sitting directly opposite him: the other, sitting on the copper's right, sat next to the recording apparatus taping the conversation. "We know you did it. All the evidence points to you."
"Bullshit," said Greg. "I did not murder that woman in the morgue, and I most certainly did not murder Susan Whalen!"
The coppers looked at each other a moment, then turned back to face Greg. "And what about your black Espace? Where was that between the hours of 8:30 and 9:30 pm last night, Mr Stewart?"
Greg sat back, perplexed. "What about it?"
"We're asking the questions, Mr Stewart," said the second copper.
"I'll ask you again," said the first policeman. "Where were you between the hours of 8:30 and 9:30 pm last night?"
"I was down the pub," Greg replied. "I've got dozens of people who'll swear blind they saw me there last night."
"And which pub was that?" asked the first policeman.
"The Falcon," Greg replied. "Where I always go."
"Shit," said the second copper, quietly. The first one cast him a sour glance. The Falcon was the coppers' pub of choice in town. Anyone who could vouch his alibi in there had to be solid. Plus, the place was wired up for CCTV all over the place. One never knew what sort of interesting evidence one could eavesdrop on, even from other coppers ...
"You know, we're going to have to look at the CCTV footage," said the first copper. "That means we're going to have to detain you while we wait for the lads from the Falcon to bring them over. You could be here a while ..."
"Unless ..." started the second one, looking at the recording device.
Greg leaned forward to speak into the mike. The cops leaned forward in anticipation.
"I. Want. My. Fucking. Solicitor." breathed Greg into the microphone.
The police officers sat back, paused a moment. Then the first one motioned with a waggle of his hand that he fancied a cuppa. The second copper nodded, got up.
"For the record, I am getting up to leave the room to get us all some tea," the second policeman said. "Suspending interview at ..." He checked his watch. Greg checked the slightly pale patch of skin that was his exposed wrist, and cursed: they'd taken his watch, tie, belt, wallet and shoelaces.
"6:49pm," finished the second policeman, pausing the tape recording and leaving the room. That left Greg and the first policeman alone.
There was a long silence. The policeman sat staring at the paused recording device as Greg sat staring at the ceiling. Neither wanted to meet each other's eyes.
Suddenly, the first policeman leaned forwards, put his hands on the packet of cigarettes. "May I?" he asked. Greg nodded. The copper pulled the packet towards him, fumbled in his pockets for a lighter.
"Shit," he said, after a moment. He looked at Greg, who shrugged.
"If I had a lighter," he said, "they'd have taken that away from me, too."
The copper shrugged, took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and stuck it behind his ear. "I may as well quit, anyway," he said. "Filthy habit."
Greg sat, said nothing.
"Look," said the copper, "we know you and Susan Whalen were together. All you have to do is tell us where she is, if she's alive or dead."
"Who's asking?" Greg asked. "Not that this is on the record, mind you."
"It isn't," said the copper. "Is she dead? Is Susan Whalen dead?"
Greg leaned forwards, looking the policeman straight in the eye. "I last saw her Wednesday night," he said, calmly. "We were both at the Falcon. We had a drink together. We left together, and Susan made her way to Frodsham Street to catch a taxi. She couldn't drive, because she'd had a skinful. I'd been on Irn Bru and Britvic Orange all night. I had work to do."
"Why didn't you and her go home together last night?" asked the copper.
"We're not joined at the hip," Greg replied. "She had a dental appointment in the morning, and she had to sort out her latest commission. You've been to her house, I presume."
"We have," said the copper.
At this point, the door opened, and the second policeman entered the room, ritually unlocked the recorder, stated for the record that he had come back into the room and that the recording was being resumed at 7:13pm.
The first policeman sat back in his seat, took out the cigarette from behind his ear. The second copper had the lighter, which he used to light the first cop's smoke. Blue smoke drifted in the room as the first policeman leaned back in his chair.
"We've been doing some digging on your background, Mr Stewart," said the smoking copper. "You and Susan Whalen seem to go back a while, as far back as November 2000 to be precise. When did you two meet up?"
Greg smiled grimly, thought back to his imbuing. "It was a cold November night," he said. "That's all I can remember. Where's this leading up to?"
"Well," said the smoker, "it seems you and this Susan Whalen don't have much in common, really. Your lifestyles are so different. She is an artist, sculpting in metal and glass and stuff like that. She pulls in some money, but not that much.
"You, on the other hand, are part of the G&T nineteenth hole local golf set, and it's only your outspoken views on some political issues that've been keeping you from becoming accepted in the local Masons and rubbing shoulders with the really influential people."
"Political issues?" snorted Greg. "I only likened them to the Nazi Party, and commented on the vaguely veiled homoeroticism of their initiation rituals."
"Ah, if I can quote you on this," said the copper, reaching for a manila folder at the side beside the recorder. He took it, opened it out, rifled through the sheets until he came to the quote he wanted. "You once said, 'If God had wanted me to go through that stupid ritual to see the Higher Truths, he'd have given me better - looking knees.'" He closed the folder. "What exactly did you mean by 'the Higher Truths,' Me Stewart?"
Greg thought about the past year and a bit: the Heralds' message, his realisation that he'd been living a lie, all the weird stuff, the Liverpool Posse, the list flaming him to oblivion and back ... his relationship with Susan, the funny names - Libra, Vestal, Vagabond, Domestic, Charlady.
Zeiss.
Last Halloween's traumas flashed through his mind, bringing a pained expression to his face.
"You want a Higher Truth?" he told the policemen. "Here's one for you. What could possibly bring together someone like Susan and someone like me?"
The policemen leaned forwards, expectant.
"We've both lost children," Greg said. "We both know what is has been to lose a loved one, to suddenly be alone, to need someone badly. Someone who understands." He leaned forwards to match the coppers. "Susan and I understand one another, in ways you cannot possibly imagine."
The coppers leaned back, stared at one another, then turned back to face Greg. "If you and she are on such good speaking terms," said the copper, "then answer me this, Gregory Stewart. How come you're lying about having seen her last night?"
"What do you mean?" Greg asked.
"You know, as well as I, that Susan Whalen has not been seen in her house, now, since the start of May. The company who commissioned her current work has been trying to get through to her, but both her mobile phone and her landline phone are on call divert to an answering machine.
"She's missed two deadlines already, the company called us in to make sure she hadn't abused or defrauded them, and we went to her place with a warrant. It hadn't been occupied since the first weekend in May.
"We found newspapers and letters piled inside her front door, unanswered. There were 31 messages on her answerphone. None of them, I might add, from you or from Herald Recruitments. You know where she is, so there hasn't been any need to call her, has there?"
The second policeman leaned forwards. "We found the grant cheque she'd been given as an advance by the firm who'd given her the commission for the sculpture. We also saw the sculpture in her garage, completed and crated up and ready to ship, and the delivery note and invoice - unfinished.
"We saw no sign of packing, her luggage cases lying on top of the wardrobe with a layer of dust on them an inch thick. Her toiletries were in the bathroom, undisturbed. Her Sky TV subscription was still active, although it's due to run out at the end of the month.
"We then checked her bank account. It seems she'd been to the bank Friday 3rd May, around 8pm, to withdraw cash from the ATM. A large wad of it. We have video footage from the bank machine. She looks agitated, looking over her shoulder, as if someone was after her.
"After that ... not a trace of her."
Greg sat, impassive, as the police officer stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray beside the recorder and stood up to lean over him.
"So, matey," he said, "we know you're lying to us about her. It doesn't matter about that brunette in the morgue - we know who she is. She's some tart from Upton, and we've already got her murderer, the guy who was pimping for her."
The second copper leaned forwards. "We just wanted to shake you up a little," he said, "see if you would react to the possibility we've already found Susan Whalen's body. But you didn't react, which means you're either sure her body can never be found, or you're just a plain stone cold fucking killer who couldn't give a toss about his nearest and dearest."
Greg leaned back, suddenly smiling. He now understood. the smile vanished, and the poker face came back. He folded his arms. "What Susan does with her life is none of my business," he said. "I hope she comes back to me, one day, alive and well; but for right now, I have no idea where she is, whether she is alive or dead." His smile was grim. "And that's fine by me."
The coppers sat back, whispered urgently to one another. "What the fuck is he?" asked the one. "He's a cool one, I'll tell you that for nothing," said the other. "All right, we'll play the game his way."
The broke off the whispered conversation, turned back to face Greg.
"All right, then," they said. "We're going to need to confiscate your clothes, Mr Stewart."
"Confiscate? Why?"
"To test for blood stains," said the first policeman. "We managed to get some samples of Susan Whalen's DNA from her home. We'll need to check your clothes for fibre samples that may match fabrics found in her home, like bedsheets, carpet fabrics ..."
"Gunshot and blood stain residue, too," said the second. "If we get a bloodstain that matches her DNA ... we won't need to interrogate you. We'll know what you did, there and then."
Greg looked at the policemen. Then, silently, he began to strip off.
"Do you want me to strip all the way?" he asked.
"Just down to your underwear, that's all," said the second.
An hour and a half later, and Greg was sitting in the interrogation room in a paper overall, waiting for the tea or his solicitor to turn up, whichever was first.
He was alone.
Presently, a lady entered the room, flanked by the two police detectives. In the lady's hands was a tray bearing three mugs of steaming tea, which she set down in front of Greg.
"There you go, lads," she said. "You have that to drink, and rest your nerves for a while."
"Ta, Lucy," said the first policeman. "It's been a long day." They reached for the mugs. Greg took his mug of tea, took a long, grateful sip. He was dying of thirst.
It turned out to be the last drink he would have for some time.
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001