Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) Page 2

  Blake had to keep his mouth buttoned up. He had heard the man; anything you do say… and that was just it. He would have to be careful so as his words would not be twisted. This kind of thing was on the television all the time. The defendants would put one foot out of line and their whole case would go up in smokes. Every sentence from here on out, no matter how silly it seemed, would have to be considered carefully, no matter how frustrating it may feel.

  The silence was extremely uncomfortable though. He had to ask them something, even if just to show that he was a normal human being, no different from them… save for a police badge and the key to his handcuffs. 'Would you mind opening the window?' he asked, leaning forward from the back seat. 'It's stuffy back here.'

  Detective Inspector Howard took his eyes off the road and shot a look at his colleague. Blake thought he was about to protest, but then saw the man nod. Wilkes hit a button between the front seats, rolling his own window down an inch. Fresh air flew in, caressing his skin. The occasional drop of cool rainwater sprayed against his face.

  'Thank you.' Blake slumped back, landing his back against the cuffs.

  They sat in silence the rest of the way. It would have been awkward, had Blake not been so deep in thought. He kept trying to focus on what he would say when they got to the police station, but memories of his father seemed to keep creeping their way into his mind. Even if he was proven innocent right now, who was to say that his dad would be okay? From the way they had described it, it was a cold, hard fact that Val Salinger was a dead man.

  The car slowed around a two-floored building and came to a stop at the back. It looked as if nobody had made any amendments to the place since the seventies. The windows looked single-glazed, the paint below them was as dull a brown as the weathered bricks. Blake felt as though he had been dragged back in time, to a place where typewriters might cover the desks, and phones would call out in high-pitched rings.

  Inspector Howard got out of the driver's side and opened Blake's door, pulling him onto his feet. He suddenly found himself wishing he had perfectly normal things to worry about, like the expense of the shirt that was being treated so roughly. Whether he would be home for his dinner-for-one, like any other October Tuesday.

  Sadly, bigger things were at hand, and such petty matters were insignificant.

  They crunched across the gravel, the younger man escorting him from behind. They passed a row of police cars. Even they looked too old to be on the road. Why does everything here look older than me? Maybe he was just being absurd. Maybe it was just a shock to his system, having spent recent years surrounded by the modern architecture of London, and being dependant on today's technology.

  But the inside was even worse.

  They entered through a set of doors that squeaked as they opened, as if they were about to drop from their hinges. Blake could clearly see dust particles floating around in the gloomy, narrow reception area. A large woman with a double-chin sat at a desk behind a wall of glass at the far end. It was eerily quiet–all he could hear was the patting of her fingers on computer keys, and their own footsteps as he was marched over to the receptionist.

  Blake was stopped at the desk, where Wilkes patted him down, removing the mobile phone, wallet, keys, and a small vial of breath-freshener from his pockets and sliding them towards the woman through the tray under the glass. He watched as she threw them into a box and slid a clipboard back to him.

  'Print your name and sign,' she said, and that was all. Not a hello to her colleagues, not even a frown at him. She didn't even have the courtesy to look Blake in the eye.

  But why would she, he thought, I'm just a murderer to her.

  Howard removed the handcuffs, cautiousness in his eye. 'Give me an excuse.'

  As soon as Blake signed, he was escorted to a shoulder-height machine. It looked like an ATM, he thought, as Howard forced his hand into the slot. When the scanner beeped its completion and a fingerprint appeared on the screen, the DI clicked the handcuffs back on, tighter than they had been the first time. There was something personal in his cruelty.

  A buzz rang through and there was the sound of an electronic lock sliding open. The inspectors shoved him through, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. The doorway led into a much larger room, one that looked more modern, and not dissimilar to his own place of work. Life was buzzing in here; phones ringing, detectives and officers shouting at each other. A female officer zipped past them, shooting a filthy and accusing look at Blake.

  'Room two,' Howard said, moving his fist and pulling Blake by the scruff of his shirt, apparently to room two. 'Wilkes, get everything we need for an interview.'

  You say "interview", thought Blake, but I hear "interrogation". Maybe the younger detective would be the right person to suck up to–he seemed like he would be easier to convince of his innocence.

  Blake was marched right through the centre of the room, towards the back. Employees of the station - of many ranks, ages and colours - all ran around each other, probably rushed off their feet with police work. He wondered just how many of them were currently working on his father's case–how many of them thought he was guilty. It was unfair, he thought, that he would be the one accused while the real killer ran free. But he hoped against hope that there wasn't a real killer, that his dad had just gone on some unmentioned holiday.

  But why do they seem so sure he's dead?

  They approached the back wall and he could still feel the judgemental eyes scanning him, looking for understanding and - presumably - praying for justice. Blake wouldn't accept it. His father was too young to die. Simple as that.

  At the door to the interview room, Howard stopped, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and fidgeted with them. Blake caught sight of a man to his left, sat on a chair and dressed in a plain black t-shirt. He obviously wasn't a policeman. He looked far too casual. His hair was thick, silvery-grey and slicked back. And he was staring at Blake.

  Who are you? Blake had seen this man before somewhere, he was sure of it. The man was looking at him with a hint of recognition; staring, his mouth hanging open a little, and a fire in his eyes that suggested relief… and victory.

  The door finally opened. The detective dragged him through it, scraped a shoddy chair back across the cemented floor, and pushed Blake down into it.

  They really think it's me. Blake prayed that his solicitor would arrive shortly… had Marcy taken care of it yet? Had Rachel even got round to calling her?

  DI Howard leaned in close to his face, his breath smelling vile; a hot lunch and a lot of coffee. 'If I undo these, can you sit without causing trouble?' he spat, nudging his arm to indicate that he was talking about the handcuffs.

  Blake felt as though he was being tested. Why would I cause any trouble? I haven't done a damn thing so far. 'Of course,' he said, holding back on what he really wanted to say to this man. But then the steel loosened and slid from his wrists. He sighed. Things weren't coming to look any better for him.

  'I'll be right back,' said DI Howard, and then disappeared out of the room.

  Blake was thankful for it really; he hadn't had one second to breathe since he had been hauled out of work. It was nice to finally catch a breath, even if his movements were being monitored, which they probably were. Don't worry, Rachel had said. But how could he not? Sure, they couldn't possibly have any evidence against him, but then how did they get their warrant? Did they even have one? The day was turning into a real clusterfuck as far as Blake was concerned, and he had a feeling that it wouldn't get any better.

  The detective left the door wide open as he left. An irrational escape attempt was probably expected of him, but he didn't have the nerve. Didn't see the point either. Even if he got out of here, there would be nowhere to run.

  He looked around the room, still thinking about the man who was sat outside. A small part of him wanted to get up and ask who he was, and why he seemed so familiar to him. But he wouldn't dare. He was in enough trouble as it was.

 
Blake looked around the room. There was nothing but the table in the middle, which he rested his hands on, and a security camera in the corner. With the lights still off, everything was dark, ominous. A pane of glass ran along the same wall as the door, and he wondered just how much of this was private. Though in a strange sort of way, Blake wanted to be on show. He had no idea if he could trust these detectives–they had already given every indication that they didn't like him, and who knew what they would do to him?

  Blake closed his eyes and, before the storm came, silently whispered a prayer.

  Chapter 4

  The two detectives returned, looking no less accusing than before.

  Wilkes had a small black machine tucked under one arm, and a large set of files under the other, barely held together by a blue folder. The senior detective flicked on the light, pushed the door closed, then took to the back wall, where he folded his arms and leaned back. It looked like a different room now that it had equipment, people, and the dizzying bright light.

  While Howard leaned against the tiled wall and scowled, Wilkes sat in the chair across the table, spread the files out and pushed down a button on the machine. 'Detective Martin Wilkes, ID: 3850C. Date: Tuesday–October eight. Time;' he glanced at his watch, 'one-fifteen PM. Please state your name for the record.'

  Blake licked his lips. His mouth tasted like cotton. From this moment on, every word he gave could - and would - be used against him. He wondered if the police cared who they put away for a crime, or if they only wanted to put someone away, so that they could raise a glass to success while receiving all sorts of compliments from their superiors.

  When he was ready to speak, he gave his name.

  'Mister Salinger, could you tell me where you were on the night of Sunday October sixth, leading into the early hours of Monday seventh?'

  Is that when it happened? Blake had to think about that one. It was two nights ago, going by what Wilkes had told the machine. His mind was foggy too, but he scrambled through it, mulled it over, and decided it was probably accurate. 'I was at home, sleeping.' It wasn't the best answer he could give, but it was the truth.

  'I see,' Wilkes went on, 'and were you alone on the night in question?'

  Shit. He had known it would come, and he didn't like to give the answer. 'I was alone, yes.' That stung. No company meant no alibi, and no alibi could only mean bad things for him. He could almost see a grin weaving itself into the inspector's expression. It was obviously the answer he had wanted.

  'Could you tell me about your relationship with Mister Val Salinger?' Wilkes had a very professional manner, very thorough and formal. This seemed like more of a presentation to him, and an in-depth flicker through of all the questions–all of the right ones. No prejudice, no judgement whatsoever.

  That was more than could be said for his colleague.

  'Okay.' Blake paused. The answer to this wouldn't look too great either. He could go into detail, but what was the point? When it came to making a solid defence from the law, he figured that less was probably more. 'He is my father.'

  Wilkes nodded, almost approvingly. 'Do you keep in contact?'

  'No.' Blake adjusted his collar.

  Howard lunged forward, leaning his fists on the table. 'Why not, Mister Salinger? Did you have a falling out? A little disagreement, perhaps? Something that caused you to be angry or upset–to react instinctively?'

  'Wha–no, not at all. We just distanced.' This was getting a little too much for him. He was worried that he might say something that would land him in trouble, and that certainly wouldn't have helped matters. 'Look, while I'm waiting for my solicitor, I don't have to talk. I know that.' His voice wavered. He sounded unsure of himself. 'I will answer straightforward questions until she gets here, but I won't be forced into a corner.' But when would she arrive? Marcy was his father's wife, and she was - according to his father - an incredibly talented solicitor.

  'She's not coming,' said Howard, standing up straight.

  'When was the last time you made contact with your father?' Wilkes took the reins again, finally showing some balls and huffing at his partner. 'And we do appreciate your cooperation, despite appearances.'

  At last, some humanity! But what about Marcy? Was she really not coming, or had he just said that to plant the seed of doubt?

  'A year ago, I guess. Look, we never got along. Detective, you've asked me several questions and told me nothing, so may I ask you something?' Easy, Blake.

  Wilkes craned his neck and looked up at his partner, as if to ask for permission. He didn't seem to get it, but Wilkes nodded anyway.

  'I woke up this morning and went to work, just like I usually do. My close friends were as close this morning as they were last week, and my distant relatives were ever distant. When I got to the office, I had a meeting, took a piss, and the next thing I know I'm being hauled into the police station and accused of something I didn't even know had happened.' Blake's hands were shaking. He was losing his patience, becoming sloppy. 'Now, I've answered all your questions and I'm happy to answer even more, but I won't be saying a damn word until you've told me what you know about my father.'

  They both looked taken aback, shocked by the sudden outburst.

  The door swung open and a female officer in uniform came in with a handful of see-through bags. Without looking at anyone else, she put them on the table and nodded at Wilkes before leaving the room.

  'Right on time,' said the inspector.

  Blake eyed them, trying to see what they contained.

  Wilkes looked down at one of the bags, separated it from the others and slapped it down onto the table between them. 'Presenting item #46518. Mister Salinger, is this your key?'

  Blake looked down at it. His heart began to race. For years he had kept that key on the Doctor Who key ring, which was still attached. He could feel his face redden. 'It is, yes. But that has been at my father's house the whole–'

  The young detective held out his palm. 'A simple yes or no will suffice. Now, can you tell me why traces of Val Salinger's blood were found on the key?'

  'No. I can't. I mean I–'

  'Moving on to item #46519,' Wilkes continued, removing the evidence bag and replacing it with another. This one contained a small metal object with black smudges around its surface. 'Can you tell me what this is, Mister Salinger?'

  Blake leaned in, peered at it. 'Looks like a bullet.'

  Inspector Howard stepped forward again. 'Your bullet.' It wasn't a question.

  'What? No.'

  'Then why is your thumbprint on it?'

  Everything was getting blurry. His stomach felt like it was spinning, and he was getting light-headed. 'My thumbprint?'

  'Yes. From when you pushed it into the magazine?'

  'What magazine? I didn't use a gun.'

  The black detective - Howard - thumped a fist into the table. Everything on it jumped, rattled, or rolled onto its side. 'Then what did you use to murder Val Salinger?'

  Shit. Idiot.

  'Nothing! I–' As his voice cracked, he could feel the tears brewing behind his eyes.

  'You're lying.' Even Wilkes was pressuring him now. 'Your print is on this bullet, which was extracted from your father's chest. Are you denying the evidence?'

  'Yes!' Blake shot up, kicked the chair back behind him. 'Until you told me, I didn't even know he was dead!' The tears came flooding, drowning his words as he said them.

  Howard leaped towards him. He had been waiting for "the excuse", as he had put it earlier. With immeasurable force, he dived at Blake and held him back towards the wall, holding a strong forearm against his adam's apple.

  Restricted, threatened, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. His father was dead and he was going to be locked up. Worst of all, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

  'We got you,' Howard said, a self-approving smile appearing on his lips.

  Blake could just about see Wilkes stood by the table, not a word of protest spoken.

  Ther
e was a sudden knock on the door. Blake had never been so grateful to hear anything in all his life. He needed time to think, to figure out how he can give his statement with absolute clarity and get out of the crosshairs. But more than anything, he wanted to take a few minutes to breathe, to steady himself.

  Detective Inspector Howard looked at the door, clearly pissed off, and then let go of Blake and stepped back. He adjusted his shirt and straightened his tie. When everyone had silenced, as if nothing had happened, he opened the door. 'What?' he said, though Blake didn't know who he was saying it to.

  Time seemed to slow down for Blake, watching it happen. A man entered the room, flashing his badge in a manner that demanded respect. It took seconds for it to register with Blake that this was the man who had been sat outside. Only he looked different; a new suit jacket over his t-shirt… and a set of glasses? It was only because he had studied him that Blake knew who he was. Why he was there was a different subject altogether.

  The silver-haired man didn't say a word. The door creaked to a close behind him, and as soon as it clicked, he threw a punch at Howard, sending him rolling over the table.

  Blake's eyes widened in shock. Did that really just happen?

  Wilkes reacted immediately, lunging at him–a partner's instinct, milliseconds too late.

  Smooth and swift, the man slid the belt off his waist and ducked. Less than a second later, he hooked Wilkes's arm into the loop of the belt, pulled it taut, and used the lock to drive the detective's face into the table.

  Blake stood in horror, two unconscious policemen at his feet. His mouth hung open, and he realised his hands were held up in surrender. He wanted to speak, to ask this man what the hell was going on. But the words were caught in his throat.