Time to Play (North East Police) Read online

  She stayed hidden beneath the coats until she heard the cars leave, then slowly emerged. The pile consisted of jackets, waterproofs and kit. Most stations had one similar somewhere. Since the dive team’s headquarters didn’t have locker rooms, it accumulated in a corner of the recreation room.

  Elvie felt a stab of guilt as she pulled open the fridge. No matter how much she tried to sugar-coat it, stealing was wrong. But she had to eat.

  She opened the top of a Tupperware box that had been left on the shelf and sniffed suspiciously. It was a rice dish, with lumps of chicken and vegetables. Grabbing a fork from the draining board, she tucked in, her mouth watering as she tasted the tang of chilli. When she was done, she flicked through the magazines left on the table. One thing she could say about being holed up with no one to talk to was that it gave her time to read. And her reading skills were improving rapidly. She was even starting to understand some of the slang terms used. She made a conscious effort to listen whenever she heard conversation, then when everyone had gone home, she’d been practising her words.

  She wanted to be able to leave the station, venture out and find help, but to do that she knew she had to be able to speak. Noni had taught her, but she wanted to be better, and reading helped her learn. Besides, there wasn’t a whole lot else that she could do cooped up in the police station.

  10th November, 2105 hours – Ryhope, Sunderland

  Nita was confused. The whole situation was just surreal. One minute the man who came in was hurting her, then the next he was stroking her face, talking softly and feeding her painkillers.

  In the time she’d been there, he’d gotten her off the drugs she never even wanted to be on, broken bones, beaten her and then dressed her wounds to alleviate her discomfort. She had no idea what he wanted, or why he was keeping her there. And she was losing track of time: the lack of natural light made the days indistinguishable from the nights.

  The last few times he’d visited, he’d taken to staring at her, his gaze what she could only describe as compassionate. It was unnerving. She’d tried talking to him, but he never understood. He seemed pleased when she didn’t show the pain she felt, so she’d started not crying out when he hit her, not whimpering and crying despite the fact the fear kept her chest so tight she thought it might burst at times.

  Right now the room was pitch black, even the portable heater wasn’t giving off any light that she could see. She couldn’t hear a thing either, except the ticking of the clock on the wall above the workbench. Not that she could see it: she remembered its position from the times the lights had been on. She hated the clock: it ticked so loud that sometimes she found herself twitching in time with it. Given half the chance, she’d rip the horrid thing off the wall and smash it to smithereens.

  Nita had taken to trying to sleep whenever he wasn’t there, but it was uncomfortable. Even now she could feel the metal bars of the cage digging into her skin, causing bruises on bruises. She couldn’t stretch out fully, couldn’t even stretch her legs out if she sat up. Her neck ached permanently from being bent at an angle, and many of the grooves to her skin off the cage had started getting sore and weepy.

  She was lucky if he was in the room for a couple of hours over the day, and she felt like she was slowly going insane. She had full conversations with herself, dreaming about when she would escape, then arguing with herself and saying that it would never happen and that he would kill her in this little dark room.

  Truthfully, she didn’t know what to think. She knew he had had plenty of opportunity to kill her if that was what he wanted, and she had no idea why he kept her alive.

  Turning slightly, Nita repositioned herself on the other side, and fumbled in the dark for the water bottle she knew was somewhere near the cage door. Taking hold of it in the crook of her bad hand she used the other to subconsciously rub at the welts on the leg that had been against the base of the cage.

  There’s only me, no one knows I’m here. No one will ever find me. If I’m going to get out of here, I need to do something.

  She fought as tears of desperation threatened to fall again. The tears did no good, they couldn’t help her.

  Angrily, she swiped at the salty rivers on her cheeks. No more. Whatever happened, this situation was down to her to resolve. If she didn’t help herself she would die. It was that simple.

  Next time he comes in, I’ll be friendly; I’ll make him understand that I won’t tell anyone. I’ll look for an opportunity to escape. Maybe when he puts me in the chair I might be able to distract him.

  Resolve made, she took a sip of the water then curled herself into a tight ball to preserve what warmth she had. Slowly, she dropped off into an uneasy sleep, her fingers tapping on her leg with the ticking of the clock.

  11th November, 1910 hours - Connor’s parent’s residence, Sunderland

  Connor screeched to a halt outside his parent’s house and ran inside. He’d had an absolute nightmare of a day. He’d ended up being nominated lead diver with Marlo and had spent the better part of three hours in the freezing cold north sea, alternating being in the water with a little time on the boat to warm up. God damn training exercises. Just once he’d like to have a day where training consisted of sitting inside, with a cup of coffee and his feet up.

  He sighed as he reached the front door, his body shivering slightly. Even now, a couple of hours since they’d gone back inside the nick, he was bitterly cold. He had been looking forward to a nice, hot bath and a couple of beers, and had just got in his car when his phone had rang.

  His mother screaming down the phone had chilled him more than the temperature of the sea water could, and he’d broken every speed limit getting to the house.

  Hearing his mum scream again from inside, he pushed the door open and practically ran inside.

  Racing into the living room, he found his dad towering over his mum, his fist raised. His mum already blood streaming from her nose and a bruise forming on her cheek. She had an arm raised, trying to protect herself as her husband brought his fist towards her again.

  ‘Dad!’ screamed Connor, pushing himself between his parents. ‘Stop it!’ He felt his face burn as the blow meant for his mum glanced off the side of his chin.

  Immediately his dad looked distraught and devastated as the red haze lifted and he realised what he’d done. He took in the pain-filled incomprehension on his wife’s bruised face, and he started to sob, falling to his knees and putting his hands over his face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What have I done?’

  Connor was torn.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? His dad loved his mum, he knew he did, but that couldn’t excuse this behaviour. He could have killed her. Connor knew how hard it was when his mum wasn’t lucid: heck, he had the fading bruises and scabbed scratches to prove it. But his dad was supposed to look after her and protect her; not lose it and beat the crap out of her.

  He sighed deeply as he pulled out his mobile phone. He knew what he needed to do.

  ‘Wouldn’t do that if I were you, lad. I’ll take care of this mess.’ Fred’s voice came from the doorway to the hall. ‘You ring this in and your dad will be arrested for domestic assault. Your mum will be shipped off to some God-forsaken home where she’ll wither away in a pool of her own piss.’

  ‘He hit her, Fred. I can’t just do nothing. I’ve got an obligation to report –’

  ‘You have an obligation to your family,’ said Fred, grabbing Connor’s arm and pulling him into the hallway, and shutting the living room door with a soft click. ‘You’re not doing this, Son. He might get off, he might not – but you’re not getting my brother arrested. Your mother will stay here at home where she belongs. You owe her at least the comfort of her own home, not a council run shit-hole.’

  Connor was ready to argue his point, but Fred continued, ‘Look, I’m here every day as it is. I’ll come more often, make sure your dad has some time to himself so this doesn’t unravel again. You know he loves Sheila. Taking her away will break hi
m. God knows she doesn’t make it easy, but he loves her. Don’t you want your mum to be looked after?’

  Connor nodded slowly. ‘Yes, but not at the expense of everyone else. It’s time she was in a home, Fred. It’s not up to you to look after her, and I work too much to be here more than I am now. It’s safer for her, and better for Dad that she goes in one – and the sooner the better.’

  ‘He’s my brother dammit, we take care of our own.’

  ‘Adopted brother,’ Connor corrected, getting frustrated.

  ‘Besides, imagine how bad it would look if you reported it. Your mum always could spin a yarn. What if she mentioned to one of the social workers, or one of your cop friends that her precious son gives his uncle information on raids and the like. I can’t imagine being exposed as a rat would go down all that well at work, Son.’

  ‘You bastard,’ spat Connor, clenching his fists.

  ‘Like father like son,’ said Fred, his eyes cold as he flashed a glance down to Connor’s hands. ‘You wouldn’t know a set of balls if they jumped up and bit you on the arse, you jumped-up little shit. And you definitely don’t have the cojones needed to take me on. I’ve enough dirt on you to have you put away for three life-times, and don’t think I wouldn’t squeal to high heaven if you don’t do what I say. You… Will… Not… Tell… A… Soul.’ He punctuated each word by jabbing a finger into Connor’s chest, his face so close that Connor could smell the stale stench of cigarettes and whiskey.

  ‘I’ll deal with it. You can go.’ Fred dismissed him with a nod towards the front door.

  ‘You can’t just kick me out of my parent’s home.’ Connor tried to sound certain, but he knew it was already a foregone conclusion. He would be leaving any second. Fred was right, there was no way he could report this. It would mean his job.

  ‘I believe I just did.’ Fred turned his back on Connor and entered the living room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Connor stood still for a moment, his mind reeling from the exchange. He couldn’t report it. He’d been guilty of passing so much information that there was no solution with work. If professional standards found out, they would bury him. But he wouldn’t do it anymore, he wouldn’t feed Fred any information. Family or not. But even as he thought it, he knew he was fooling himself. For one, what Fred wanted Fred got, and for two, everything they had as a family depended on Fred continuing to pay the bills.

  For the hundredth time, Connor wondered how he had come to be on this path. How his dream job could’ve ended up turning into the nightmare from hell thanks to his actions, and how he had come to be this person he despised so much.

  Life fucking sucks.

  Chapter Eighteen

  11th November, 2320 hours – Ryhope, Sunderland

  He was angry.

  The kind of anger that simmered beneath the surface, ready to blow with the ferocity of a volcano. It seemed to him that the older he got, the harder it became to contain the fury. One shitty day and he wanted to lash out to anyone and everyone, kill them where they stood just for looking at him.

  He tried to rein it back in. Going in to see the girl when he was this mad would probably be a bad idea. Too much, and he could do irreparable damage to her, and he knew that would blur the lines, make this whole thing about him and not about the lessons he had to teach. There was a fine line between teaching someone to cope with pain, and inflicting torture.

  Pushing open the door, he took in a breath and flicked the light switch.

  Her eyes widened, blinking as the bright light made her pupils dilate.

  For a moment, he realised he couldn’t remember when he had last visited her, last brought her food. The last few days had blurred into one, no specific action clear to him. I’m too old for this shit. And maybe he was, but it wasn’t something he could stop doing. He was destined to do this, karma had shown him the path he had to take and regardless of how angry he was, he had to follow it. Doing this would make everything right. It had to.

  The girl’s face was apprehensive, but also accepting and it threw him off balance. Normally it took weeks for them to get to that stage. How long had she even been here? It wasn’t weeks though, he knew that. It was more like days. The acceptance was strange though. Had her life been so shit before that this was actually better?

  He stood for a long while, just staring at her.

  She was attractive, he supposed, though not to him. With everything he’d dealt with in recent years those kinds of stirrings were a thing of the past. And even when he’d had them back then his wife had always serviced them, before she’d gone anyway. And afterwards, well he’d just learned to ignore them. Or head to the brothel if he needed to. He might’ve liked this girl though, with her long, dark hair and brooding brown eyes. Even curled up in the cage, in need of a bath and a hair brush, she could still captivate.

  Suddenly he wondered what she was called, where she had come from.

  Knowing that information would be a bad idea. It would make it personal, and he couldn’t afford to get emotionally attached. Not to her, not to anyone.

  Emotion caused pain.

  His anger dampened now, he unlocked the cage and held out his hand to her. He saw her wince, and knew her muscles were tired of being in the same position and would be sore.

  Despite the pain, she paused. Then softly slipped her hand into his.

  Again, he found himself surprised. He’d never had a girl so accepting of her fate. Usually they kicked and screamed until they realised that doing that meant more pain.

  He put her in the chair, fastened the straps and stepped back.

  Before he even realised what he was doing, he pointed to his chest.

  ‘Jim,’ it had been his father’s name but she didn’t need to know that. Repeating the motion, he said it again and then looked at her expectantly.

  Understanding gleamed in her eyes and she replied. ‘Nita.’

  Nita. Pretty name, it suits her.

  Then he realised what he’d done.

  God damn idiot. What did you go and do that for? Now it’s all going to go to hell in a hand basket.

  Stepping back, he waited for the lightning bolt to strike him down, but there was nothing. Just the girl, still strapped in the chair in front of him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, reaching for the Stanley knife from his pocket.

  Maybe I shouldn’t do this; maybe she’s already had enough pain. He realised he felt sorry for her. He knew the girls Rocko brought in had no life, wouldn’t be missed by anyone. They already knew pain to a point. And he knew what went on in the houses, and had seen first-hand, how hard it was for them to come off the drugs. Maybe she had suffered enough.

  Told you not to ask her name. Now it’s personal, and you’re soft.

  Setting his mouth in a straight line, he tried to ignore the argument in his head. He slammed the Stanley knife back down on the bench, cursing loudly, making Nita jump fearfully.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Unstrapping her wrists and feet, he pulled her roughly from the chair and pushed her back towards the cage.

  The first he knew of her resistance, was the feel of her fingernails scratching across the side of his neck, ripping his flesh. She screamed like a wildcat, clawing at him again and kicking at him with her bare feet.

  He’d let his guard down, and now he was paying for it.

  He grabbed her hand and did the only thing he could to control her; he twisted it hard, the movement and the pain knocking Nita to her knees with a loud cry.

  She whimpered as she looked up at him, apologising and pleading with her eyes, but it was too late. His eyes flashed with anger, and he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. His fist slammed into her face, again and again, bringing blood forth and breaking teeth. His feet kicked her in the stomach and ribs, harder and harder until he was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms any more. She’d slipped into unconsciousness somewhere along the line, and didn’t struggle as he pulled her limp body up and practically t
hrew her back inside the metal box that had become her home.

  Locking the padlock, he left the room, and realised he was devoid of any feeling now. There was no guilt, no anger, just a massive expanse of darkness.

  12th November, 0940 hours – Dive Team HQ, South Shields

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I’ve had enough of this. My chicken and rice was taken the other day, and now someone’s troughed my bloody sarnie!’ Sharpie’s voice echoed round the canteen as Marlo exchanged looks with Mac and Connor.

  ‘You’re not the only one. We’ve all had stuff taken, and the tuck shop’s been coming up short. Do you think it’s Bravo Team being dicks? It’s ridiculous like. It’s a police station not a flipping school playground.’ Marlo’s questions had the others nodding their heads in agreement.

  She watched as Sharpie’s gaze hardened. ‘I have no idea, but I’m damn well gunna find out. I’ll not have this childish behaviour. I’m going out to grab some breakfast and run a couple of errands. If anything comes in buzz me on my mobile.’

  As he left, Connor asked, ‘Do you think it is Bravo Team?’

  ‘Dunno, but something’s not right. Don’t think I’ve ever seen Sharpie that pissed off. Am sure there’s an old line that says never come between a man and his food!’

  The team chuckled, then sobered, lost in their own thoughts, at least until Marlo’s radio burst to life a few minutes later.

  ‘5204 Buchannan. Go ahead LV.’

  ‘Marlo, I’ve tried contacting Sergeant Sharp but can’t raise him on his radio, can you have a look at an incoming job please? It’s a bloke who was seen to go underwater near a buoy just off the coast of Seaham. Apparently the old boy has swam in the ocean three times a week for the last fifty years. Coastguard is asking if you can assist: they’ve got a ship in distress down Blackhall way so can’t dispatch a full crew.’