Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 3a
“That’s it, Gov. Those three are the only acetylene welding torches sold in the past month in all of Manchester,” Chris set the list in front of Gene and backed away from the desk, swallowing hard, trying not to look at the clock on the wall. Less than 24 hours remained until their deadline, and until, to the best of their knowledge, Sam would be killed.
“Andrew Norris, Brian Bennington, James Grey. All paid by check, with full information. Bloody brilliant,” Gene felt a spark of hope rise up inside of him as he looked over the details for their three prime suspects. “I’ll take Norris, Ray, you take Bennington, Skelton and Cartwright, I want the two of you on Grey.”
“Just me and Annie, Gov?” Chris’ eyes darted back and forth between Gene and Annie nervously, and Annie sighed.
“We’re just questioning them, Chris. If we think we might have a lead with him, then we’ll ask him to come down to station for more questions. No chances, no arrest, just questions.” Annie patted Chris lightly on the shoulder.
“And then you take him down and place him in lost property. And then I come in, rip off his tiny little scrotum, string them up on barbed wire and make a nice little necklace for him. And then we go pick up Tyler and head to the pub.” Gene stated it very flatly, as if it were fact. He was willing it to be fact as he said it, and the others nodded in unison.
“What happens if none of the leads pan out, Gov?” Annie asked as they all began putting on their coats and heading for the door. “I mean, what then? The latest morgue report showed tiny slivers of glass in some of the wounds on the arms - could that be something we could go off of?” Annie bit her lip as Gene looked at her, angrily.
“One of these leads will work out, Cartwright. If it makes you feel better, muse over the glass bits in your head while you’re doing your real work. And hope that you don’t end up with the killer, because Chris’ll likely shit himself and run before you have a chance to ask him down the station,” Gene’s voice rose as he glared at Chris, then turned on his heel and headed out of the door.
Ray was the first of the group to find his lead, and the first to discover that his wasn’t the killer. Brian Bennington was a member of the Royal Navy, and the acetylene torch was currently locked up and going through ten thousand reams of paperwork before being given back to its new owner.
“Not fair at all, is it? Never going to get a good art career going now, what with that thing locked up, and it doesn’t help matters that you coppers have to show up looking into the matter, does it?” Bennington nervously moved from foot to foot as he drew heavily upon his cigarette, obviously upset about the entire thing.
“Art career?” Ray asked, lighting up a cigarette of his own.
“Exactly. Lot better living than going out on ship ten months of the year, lot better money, lot better birds, that’s for sure. I told some bird down Shoreham that I was going to be a sculptor, just like that Myers fellow, and she and her friends were all over me. Couldn’t get enough. All the bloke does is fuse a bunch of crap together, set some shit a-fire, and what do you know, he’s got some fine dandy with notes spilling out his arse in London, practically begging him to take ten thousand pounds for it. Ten thousand pound!” Bennington continued to burn quickly through his cigarette as he described his upcoming art career.
“Like that Myers fellow, eh? Sounds familiar, but can’t say I can place it.” Ray stroked the sides of his mustache idly, trying to find some way to make a break from the conversation and head back to the station; 19 hours left to find that smug tosser and rub it in good that he’d been the one to save him. Now that would be a nice feeling, staring down at that sanctimonious git with a nice, loud, “Now who saved whose tits ‘round here, eh? Next round’s to you, mate.” It would be heaven, absolute perfection, storming in and dragging the nonce up to his feet, handing him a gun and showing him the proper way to shoot one’s way out of a pickle. Absolute bliss, he thought, constantly reminding himself to not think of the alternative. No matter what, don’t think about that…
Ray let his attention drift back to the annoying ramblings of the little sailor boy, lighting up another cigarette and wondering if he might actually stand a chance at meeting another bird just by pretending he knew what the difference between “blue” and “cerulean” was. Who the hell gave half a toss about cerulean? Bloody cerulean, what the hell was that?
“And they catch the light like nothing else, like a whole other race of people made up of nothing but light, just steel and glass all spinning like that, and people come from miles around to see it - people coming up here from London, ever since he moved his workspace here. Said sommat ‘bout it being more ‘conducive to the muse,’ but I don’t ken what that could mean ‘t all…” Sailor boy launched into another speech about light and patterns and some other rot, and Ray couldn’t take it any longer. A “Yeah, I’m a copper, I catch hardened blags, here, have another drink, lass,” was much better than a “Your eyes are cerulean.” Bloody cerulean. A tenner says Tyler would know what cerulean was.
“Listen, Brian, good luck with getting your art career going after you’re back from your next tour an’ all, but I’ve really got to be going, now,” Ray cut Bennington off in the middle of his speech, then slowly shuffled back towards his wreck of a car, staring at the right passenger door for a minute. The window roll was laying on the seat next to it. “Snide little shit had better be all right, he still hasn’t paid me for that,” Ray grunted under his breath. He lit another cigarette and swallowed, hard, trying not to stare at his watch as he made his way back to the station. They’d find the smug little bastard, with plenty of time to spare. The Gov would make sure of it.
Gene felt his blood slowly begin to boil as he shoved his way through another mob of journalists, flashbulbs going off in all directions and voices shouting at him.
“DCI Hunt! Any new information about the recent string of killings?”
“What are you doing to catch this killer, Mr. Hunt?”
“Any information regarding the victims and their families, Mr. Hunt? Is there any specific type of citizen who should be extra cautious?”
“DCI Hunt, how do you respond to allegations that police incompetence is the reason that this vicious monster is still at large?” At the last call, something snapped inside of Gene; he figured it was just the blood in his veins reaching the boiling point and finally going over, and he half imagined that steam was starting to stream out of his ears. Instinctively, he grabbed the nearest photographer and hurled him into the crowd, shoving them all back a bit.
Gene gritted his teeth, searching for the right words… “We’re… We’re doing…” Tyler’s voice whispered in his memory, reminding him of the last time they had been faced with this large of a mob of journalists. Tyler always knew just what to say to make the sodding devils shut the hell up, if only for a second. “We’re doing all we can, at this point. We are following several leads, and we are confident that we will have this sick bastard in custody by morning. CONFIDENT! And you can quote me on that, yeah pack of bastards.” Hunt drew in a deep breath and continued to shove, the silent roar of his own fuming blocking out further questions and accusations from the crowd as he made his way to the Cortina.
He turned the key in the ignition, pressed down on the clutch and gas, and was soon off on his way to meet with suspect number one: Andrew Norris. Norris was a salesman by trade, and after that Vic Tyler bastard, well, and after that encyclopedia flogger who he was SURE had given the missus a bit of a go over, Gene had nothing but hatred for salesmen. Come to your house, force your bird to fork over a good chunk of your hard-earned cash for a bloody great useless set of books. Books! And not even books with good stories, like those Clint Eastwood novelisations! Worthless pieces of shit with little articles of information, bloody hell, it was the type of shit Tyler would read…
Gene stamped on the gas harder, half expecting to hear screeches of protest coming from the passenger seat, and getting none. Since when were you such an important part of my life, you little shit? Gene thought as he stared at the empty seat, narrowly missing a pedestrian and swerving into a pile of stacked boxes without slowing. People needed to learn to keep the damned roads clear, is what they needed to do. It was nearly ten minutes of a high speed chase after no one before the Cortina eventually pulled up outside of a block of houses.
It was a quiet, nondescript neighborhood, just like hundreds of others scattered around all parts of the city. Gene killed the motor abruptly and ripped the keys from the ignition, then stormed up the front steps, knocking hard and rapidly against the wood of the door. “Andrew Norris? Open up, police,” he barked angrily, whipping his badge out of his pocket. It was a few seconds before a wiry, hard looking man appeared in the doorway. Gene felt a small stab of elation - he was a shifty looking fellow, there was a good chance that this could be him.
“Andrew Norris?” He asked, and the man nodded, crossing dirty hands over his chest. “DCI Gene Hunt. I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Gene tried to look Norris directly in the eye, tried to read something there. He searched his own mind for some form of notice, some silent intuition that would go off and let him know that this was the one. His inner voice stayed silent, and he scowled at Norris as he was waived into the house.
The house’s interior was much the same as the exterior - small, standard, a parlor with a couch, a small telly and a radio on one side, a staircase on the other, a hallway leading back to what he assumed were the kitchen and dining rooms, lined with frames full of people with idiotic smiles. Like the exterior, it was just like hundreds of other homes throughout the city. “How can I help you, Mr. Hunt,” the voice was low, smooth, and Gene hated the bastard already. Good. This has to be him. Looks a right sorry monster as is, dirty hands like that, shifty looks, voice like running treacle. Gene crossed his arms and drew himself up to his full height.
“Mr. Norris, I’d like to ask you a few questions about an item you recently purchased. An acetylene welder’s torch,” Gene tried to keep his eyes on the other man, glaring icily down at him, trying to stay alert at all times, waiting for the bastard to make a move. Come on, make a move, let me know that it’s you. Has to be, just look at you, you smarmy arsehole… Gene willed his sixth sense to jump in and confirm what logic was telling him, but it remained silent.
“Acetylene torch? Are they starting to monitor those? Suppose they could be dangerous an’ all, couldn’t they…” Norris’ tone was kind and well mannered, despite his rough looks and dialect. “Me mates an’ I are starting up an auto shop, like, fixin’ cars and things about - haven’t quite gotten a place together for a storefront, but we’s all well known ‘round this part of town, all well known handymen, best fer fixin’ motors, or other things what breaks. Ask anyone. If you care to follow me, sir, I can show you the torch now.”
The man started to lead Gene through the hallway, towards the kitchen and, presumably, the back door. Gene continued to stay alert, his hand tucked inside of his coat and jacket, fingers lightly massaging the back end of his gun. Just one wrong move, you bastard… It’s you, innit? Let me know that it’s you, come on… Gene exhaled sharply out of his nose as Norris led him out of the back door, all the while silently willing him to be the killer.
When Norris did lead Gene out of the back, Gene saw that the back garden was littered with bits of cars, including the entire forms of what looked like a ’67 Anglia and a ’65 Corsair. “Noticed you drive a Cortina, sir, and latest model. Good motor that. As you can see, I’m a bit of a Ford man meself, can’t beat Ford of Britain now, can you?” Norris gave a broad grin as he pointed out the various parts scattered about the mud and grass, paying particular attention to what he described as a “totally rebuilt” engine from a ’53 Consul. Gene grunted in appreciation, and then noticed the toolshed. Perfect place for hiding bodies, that, he though, and his hand again went inside of his coat and jacket.
Gene was met with nothing but disappointment when Norris flung the doors of the shed wide upon their hinges, holding his arms out like a television presenter so that Gene could see the various tools inside of it. The acetylene torch was laid upon a wide workbench like a trophy, and looked as if it had never been used. “We’re plannin’ on finding place by end o’ year, and we’s already got a good customer base, sir. You’re welcome t’ stop by at any time, once we’s set up. Always glad t’ serve Manchester’s finest, are we,” Norris beamed as he said it, and then set about describing the various industrial tools. Gene felt his heart sink as he congratulated Norris and asked to be shown out, then had to struggle to keep his head high on the way back to the Cortina.
Once inside the car, Gene moved off slowly, a rare move for him, fighting and, eventually, winning a battle against the burning in his eyes. “Where are you, with all your ridiculous blood spillage books and science prat nonsense? Where are you when I need you, Sammy Boy?” He stared at the empty seat, then growled, deep in his throat, like an animal. He slammed into the gas and took off, ignoring several traffic signs and oblivious as always to screeching of other cars’ tires and brakes and the shouts from other motorists.
Chris’ hands were shaking as he slid the keys into the ignition of the car he and Annie were taking to the given address for James Grey. Annie gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder as she slid into the seat next to him. “Do you want me to drive, Chris?” She pulled out the case file that she had been reading over when he shook his head, pulling her seatbelt across her chest and beginning to read over the facts again, despite having already memorized them. There had to be something that she was missing…
“They let you read the morgue report then, Annie?” Chris glanced at her nervously as he cautiously backed the car out of the station car park and onto the road, swallowing hard.
“Yeah, yeah they did. Never have before.” Annie absentmindedly answered as she continued to scan page after page of the reports.
“So, you know, you know what, what they think happened to… What they know happened to the third fellow and all and…” Chris trailed off and started to thump the steering wheel with his thumbs as he drove.
“I know, Chris. It’s terrible,” Annie continued to look through the files, then stopped and looked up again. Chris was still frantically tapping his thumbs against the wheel as they stood at a stop sign, and Annie became acutely aware that they had been at the same stop for over two minutes.
“Chris. It’s clear.” Annie stared at Chris as he continued to stare away at nothing, still moving his hands frantically on the wheel, thumbing out a rhythmless beat. “Chris?” Annie moved to put a hand on his shoulder again and felt him almost jump into the air. He exhaled slowly and then pulled out into the road, taking them closer to the warehouse that Grey had given as his address.
“Sorry,” Chris muttered as he tried to lose himself in driving, his eyes darting back and forth about the streets.
“You okay?” Concern filled Annie’s voice as she stared at him; she was used to Chris being a little jittery, and a little nervous, but this was a bit much even for him. “Sam’s all right, Chris. We’re going to find him, and catch this killer, and it’ll all be all right.” Annie tried to smile at him.
“You’re so sure?” Chris snapped at Annie, then ducked his head down before gluing his eyes to the road again. “I’m sorry, Annie, I’m sorry…” He bit into his lower lip and again tried to concentrate just on the driving.
“Chris. We have a job at hand. And we’re going to do it, and do it well, and everything will work out all right. Okay?” Annie tried not to think about the fact that she was trying to convince herself just as much as Chris.
“So you and the boss, are you, like, you know,” Chris tried to change the subject, and Annie sat back, sighing, not sure if she should be exasperated that the conversation had taken this sudden turn, or glad that Chris was no longer on the verge of a nervous breakdown over it.
“That’s none of your business,” she tried to make it sound light, like she was laughing it off as another one of his stupid remarks, but she couldn’t. It just came out strained, and she swallowed hard before looking down at the papers in her lap, not even looking at the words this time.
“Sorry,” Chris muttered again, and the two of them sat the rest of the way in silence, Annie glad that Chris was at least trying to stave off his fidgeting, and Chris glad that Annie seemed too lost in the reports to start being patronizing. It took them nearly a half hour to pull up in front of the warehouse.
“Place is huge, wonder what it is they’re holding in there. I don’t see any signs for any exporters or importers or any of the like, do you?” Annie looked up at the huge building, a large, unwelcoming square made up of hundreds of smaller, cold, grey squares. No windows graced the floors of the building, just row after row of exterior squares, a huge hunk of steel and concrete amidst several similar buildings. The other buildings, however, all had windows or large, colorful signs displaying the names of textile factories, export companies, import companies, there was even a very colorful sign for a new company labeled “Momofuku Ando of Japan and Golden Wonder of Wales present Pot Noodle.”
“Now that just sounds disgusting, it’ll never sell,” Annie pointed to the building to the right of their targeted warehouse.
“Too right,” Chris nodded as they walked towards the grey building. Annie pointed again, this time at a sign that stood up against the side of the building, near the single entrance point. “Jefferson Meyers Studio North” was written on the sign, above a small photo of what looked almost like someone screaming… Annie stared intently before she realized she was staring at a photo of a pile of steel and cloth that had been oddly arranged and, in some places, burnt through.
“What, it’s some sort of broadcasting studio?” Chris puzzled over the sign.
“I think it’s an art studio, I think I’ve heard of him, he’s a sculptor.” Annie continued on towards the door with Chris in tow.
When the two of them reached the door, Chris turned to Annie again, “Better let me do the talking, people expect a police officer to be a bloke, know what I mean?”
Annie tried to keep her nose from wrinkling before nodding and falling in behind Chris, who opened the door slowly into a small reception area. A blast of cold air hit them from the side as a wide, square plate of a sliding door was moved shut, locking off all but the area that they were in.
“Blimey, it’s colder in there than it is outside. Don’t know what to make of that,” Chris muttered as he looked quizzically at the door. The two of them strode forward to the desk, where a single secretary was busy chatting on the phone, twirling the plastic cord slowly around her fingers as she gleefully spoke into the headset.
“…And then, Diane, he actually said ‘Yes!’ Can you believe it? Oh, it’s magnificent! Oh, I’ve got to go, Di, I think it’s more reporters. I’ll ring you back in just a bit. Ta!” The secretary, who was wearing about three times what Annie would refer to as the usual amount of makeup, grinned a huge, false grin up at them and then settled into a little scripted message in a horribly fake, perky voice, made to seem even more fake and snobbish by the thick, and obviously put-on, London accent.
“Welcome to the Manchester studios of Mr. Jefferson Myers, two-time nominee for the Reisman award, here working on a new installation in the grim and industrial warehouse district of Greater Manchester, to be moved for permanent placement to the Manchester Antheneum in the summer of 1974. Currently closed to the public except for select tours, with select pieces of art on sale to the discriminating collector, tours and showings of completed pieces are available by appointment only.” The girl resumed her horrible false grin.
“Detective Constables Chris Skelton and Annie Cartwright, here looking for a Mr. James Grey,” Chris held up his badge, trying not to stare at the incredibly low cut blouse and high cut skirt that the girl was wearing. Annie looked off to the side when she noticed that Chris was failing in his attempts to avert his own eyes.
“Oooh, a real life detective!” The girl leaned forward over her desk, and Annie set her jaw angrily when she noticed that Chris was physically backing away from her, as if being intimidated by a larger man in a pub fight. She stared at the ceiling for a second, and then plastered on a fake grin of her own.
“We’re actually looking for Mr. Grey rather urgently, we believe he might have witnessed some activity that could help us to resolve a recent spate of robberies,” Annie tried to insinuate herself between the girl and Chris, who was blinking rapidly and swallowing hard.
The secretary slumped back into her seat and picked up the handset on her phone, then punched in on several of the switches at the phone board. “Lucy? I’ve got some police here that want to speak to Mr. Grey. They think he might have seen something like a burglar or something, I don’t know. They didn’t say. Uh-huh. Okay. Bye-bye!” She finished the call with another fake grin and incredibly perky shout.
“Mr. Grey’s secretary will be down to collect you in just a minute, if you’d care to wait,” the girl smiled again, and Annie noticed for the first time that there was a name tag labeled, “Julie” sitting behind a pile of pamphlets about Myers’ work.
“Thanks, Julie, you’ve been really helpful,” Annie said as she reached out and took one of the pamphlets, then headed towards the row of plastic chairs that were backed up against the far wall of the reception area. Chris stayed glued to the spot.
“DC Skelton?” Annie asked, trying to draw Chris’ attention away from Julie. He continued to stare at her as he made his way over to Annie, almost tripping over his own feet a few times. “Chris! Really!” she hissed under her breath as he sat next to her, hoping that she wasn’t starting to sound like Phyllis.
“I don’t think she’s wearing knickers, Annie…” Chris’ eyes were wide and his entire body seemed to be shaking slightly. Annie allowed herself to fully give in to the sigh she had been fighting since she had first walked into the building with Chris.
“Chris, job at hand. What if Grey could be the killer?” That snapped Chris out of his reverie quickly enough, she decided, as he turned towards her and settled back into his seat.
“You don’t really think that he could be, do you?” Chris was an entirely different type of nervous this time, and he slowly rubbed his damp palms against the legs of his trousers.
Annie looked over the brochure in her hand, staring at the odd pieces of sculpture that had been photographed in different types of light. “I don’t think so, Chris, but we should be alert none the less, right?”
“Exactly. Well put, Annie. Well put.” Chris straightened up a bit and stared forward, and Annie glanced curiously at him. Sometimes, she really didn’t have a clue what he could be thinking. Then again, she was fairly certain that he didn’t have a clue what he was thinking some of the time, so she figured it didn’t matter much.
A rickety steel cage lift appeared at the far side of the reception area, directly across from the chairs that Annie and Chris had been seated in, it’s open shaft obscured by the main entrance. A short, impeccably well groomed man in his late 50’s strode out, wearing a very modern and, Annie hazarded a guess, very expensive grey suit. He seemed to blend into the grey background of the building, like some sort of human chameleon. A very strong odor of eau de cologne wafted outwards from him, and beneath it, something else, as if he were trying to cover something else up with the scent. Annie squinted her eyes a bit as she stood, trying to take in every detail of him.
“James Grey, I presume?” She held out her hand and smiled at him, “I’m WDC Annie Cartwright, this is DC Chris Skelton. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a recent purchase that you made at Warrington’s Industrial, Sir.”
Chris seemed a bit shocked for a second, eyes wide and gazing at Annie appreciatively, before holding out his own hand. “Uh, yes, sir, just some questions.”
Grey smiled at them, then held out a hand towards the lift, “Well, if you don’t mind, we can always talk in my office. Less foot traffic, less noise,” Annie was a bit taken aback by his manners, and by the fact that he had just referenced totally non-existent foot traffic and noise: there was no one in the lobby except for the three of them and Julie, and no noise seemed to penetrate the thick steel doors that led to the rest of the building.
“Much obliged, Sir,” Annie responded, still smiling, and she swallowed hard once his back was turned to her, following him to the lift. Chris just nodded once, and then eventually seemed to realize what was happening and followed the two of them into the strange steel cage of a lift. It was almost like being in a birdcage, Annie thought, as she stared at the tightly knit bars of steel and the open spaces that looked disconcertingly out at the street.
“Top floor, George,” Grey told the small, grizzled lift operator, who obliged by lowering a clasp on the outer door, and then slowly lowering the lever on the lift control. Annie felt her breath catch as the lift rose up, more smoothly than any lift she’d ever been on, but far more frightening for the exposed bands of light and air opening up and showing the street below. The warehouse had to be at least eight stories tall, although she figured that there might be fewer floors than that, given the height of the ceilings in warehouses. She felt her body tense as she looked down from the dizzying height, and was pleased to notice that, for once, Chris didn’t seem scared out of his wits. Apparently heights were the one common fear that he was not susceptible to.
“So, a lady detective, I’m intrigued,” Grey smiled warmly at her, and Annie tried her best to tear her eyes off of the ground and to look back at him.
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, as the lift gently came to rest near the top of the building. She slowly exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath. “Might I ask what type of sculpture Mr. Myers produces? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with his work.” Now that they were leaving the lift, Annie found she was able to make conversation easily again.
“Abstract Expressionist, similar in thought to Ferber, but differing in medium,” Grey smiled again, and this time Annie definitely felt there was something wrong about him.
“So it doesn’t look right, it’s all bent out of shape?” asked Chris, snapping to and following them out onto a foyer at the edge of the building, directly above the small area where reception had been on the ground floor.
“Something like that,” Grey nodded patronizingly at Chris, and then led them through the foyer, which appeared to be a much more well appointed waiting room, and towards a pair of highly polished chrome doors, each with a long, oddly curved and equally shining silver handle. “Although you’ll see for yourself, in a minute, Detective, as my office is on the opposite side of the building, just behind our private showroom.” With that, Grey flung the doors open, revealing the near entirety of the top floor, no walls, just support bars here and there, sculptures filling nearly the entire space, hard, cold white lights shining on them from above and from the side walls. The walls and floors were all flat grey steel or concrete, and a long strip of deep red carpeting led the way through the center of the floor, thick plush trailing from the foyer to what appeared to be a raised dais with a desk and several chairs in the far corner. Grey’s office, Annie presumed.
Chris and Annie both felt their eyes go wide as they stared around them. The sculptures were between the size of one to four people, and each was an amalgam of twisted, melted and hardened steel, sheets of deeply died sackcloth, wood, and plate glass. Grey gestured them over to the one nearest them as they walked inside of the building, smiling his ever present salesman’s smile at them once again. “This piece, recently sold to Brendan Harris of the Harris, Waldren, and Blankenship firm in London, to be presented as a wedding gift to Princess Anne and the esteemed Mr. Phillips this November. It ships in two weeks,” he held out a hand towards the piece, puffing his chest out slightly and drawing himself up to his full height, trying to look both impressive and impressed at the same time, like many salesmen did.
Annie swallowed as she looked over the thing. It was about six feet tall, three feet wide and two feet deep, long spires of cold steel twisting and curving about incredibly white towers of brightly bleached white wood. The wood was partially enshrouded in a vibrantly crimson sheet of sackcloth, which was stretched toughly across it and then welded into the steel, trapped behind a cascade of melted and hardened metal. More spires of white curved outwards inside the steel framework, and more cloths, equally brightly dyed, stretched through it. She walked slowly around the sculpture, bending down in some places and looking upwards in others. She noticed that Chris, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same.
“Very…” She searched for the proper word, “Very intriguing,” she managed to smile again as Grey led her and Chris away from the sculpture and up the red carpet, towards the strange, open office area.
“Exactly, intriguing. Very thought-provoking, evocative, intriguing in the utmost, my dear,” said Grey, never once breaking his constant smile. He led them to the desk, then gestured towards two of the chairs that sat across from it before climbing into the seat behind it and steepling his fingers together, his elbows resting on the polished surface. “Now, how can I help you, Detective… Cartwright, was it?”
“Yes, Sir. We were actually wondering about a recent purchase that you made at Warrington’s Industrial, Sir. It seems you purchased a high grade acetylene torch, Sir.” Annie looked sweetly up at Grey, trying to hide her suspicions, and then looked over at Chris, who simply looked… uncomfortable. Annie hoped that he was thinking the same things that she was.
“Ah, yes, a new acetylene torch. Jefferson uses them for a great deal of the welding that goes into his sculptures, as well as varying sizes of soldering irons, open flame, and other tools,” Grey leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.
“Are there any other tools that Mr. Myers would frequently use in his work?” Annie tried to think of a good way to phrase the question, something that would make it seem totally innocuous, but drew a blank, and hoped that simply asking about tools outright would work.
“Is this an inquiry about burglary, or about my client’s artistic style, Detective Cartwright?” Mr. Grey leaned back further in his seat, and his smile seemed to grow almost too warm, an odd expression that made the hairs on the back of Annie’s neck stand on end.
Chris seemed to snap to attention then, and looked directly at Mr. Grey, “You’ll have to excuse DC Cartwright, Sir, you know birds, always thinking about the art and such,” Chris offered his goofy, lopsided grin up to Grey, who seemed to accept the explanation. At any other time, Annie would have been working to hide her anger at the comment, but now, she was completely thrilled, urging Chris forward silently.
“Our major issue is that there’ve been a lot of robberies that we think might be using industrial tools lately, so we’re looking for any that have gone missing,” Chris seemed to pull the statement out of nowhere, and Annie beamed at him for a second before leaning forward and addressing Grey again.
“We’re starting off with the torches, which have been used to melt through steel doors and break into warehouses recently, and then looking for any other recent thefts, such as glass cutters,” she threw the phrase out, hoping to catch some glimmer of change in Grey’s expression. “Was the new torch purchased because an old one went missing, or was unaccounted for in any way?”
“And other things, too… Glass cutters and all,” Chris added, leaning forward in his chair.
“Well, to answer both of your questions, Jefferson also use quite a few types of glass cutters, multiple knives and other items that might seem suspicious, things that are used for the carving of wood, you’ll notice expertly cut pieces of plate glass that catch the light perfectly in some of the sculptures, high grade blades both large and very small are used in the carving of wood, the etching of both wood and steel, but, despite the new purchase, no torch was recently missing. We’d only recently moved to the area, and quite a few supplies were purchased, none of which were replacements for old tools, and none of which have since gone missing.”
“In that case, Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to excuse ourselves and thank you for your time,” Annie stated as she rose, Chris following suit.
“Not at all. Always a pleasure,” Grey led the two of them back to the lift, but left them at the lift gate this time. The operator, George, slowly and smoothly took them down to the ground floor, although the lift seemed to jam for a moment. Annie caught her breath at the mild jerking motion, then looked imploringly at the small man.
“Sorry, lassy, just a moment and it’ll be right as rain,” the old man said as he jiggled the lift’s control stick. Annie tried not to look out this time, looking instead at the small room at the side of the, what, third, fourth floor? She couldn’t remember. She heard an odd noise, rasping and high pitched, but not like a screech of metal… Was that a scream? She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise again.
“Did you hear that?” she motioned with her head towards the building, and both Chris and George shook their heads.
“All sorts of sounds around here, lass, nothing to worry about,” George twisted the lever back down in his arthritic hands, and the lift began to descend again, back to the original reception area. Annie and Chris thanked the lift operator, then slowly left out the front doors and towards the parked police car.
Annie whirled around at Chris, “Are you sure you didn’t hear that?”
Chris shook his head, “I heard something but I think it was just the bloke making more of those statues. Crazy things, ain’t they? Right creepy. Wouldn’t want one of those anywhere near me, whether or not Princess Anne has one. Royals are into creepy things anyway, aren’t they? All them years of severed heads an..” Annie cut him off.
“Chris, that’s exactly it. The statues. They’re made with torches, and pieces of glass, and razor sharp tools. We have to get the Gov down here, or we have to pull in Myers himself for questioning.”
“You mean, you don’t think… The artist bloke?” Chris turned his head rapidly back towards the building as he climbed into the driver’s side of the car.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Chris, we’ve got to tell the Gov, straight away. And Chris,” Annie smiled for a moment, her dark expression unclouding as she reached out to give Chris a brief hug. “You were great up there, you know? Come on, let’s go…” Her expression clouded over again, and, at least for a bit, not because of the possibility that they had found a vicious killer. For a split second she winced and held her hand to her face, turning away from Chris. “Just get us back to the station, Chris.”
Chris sheepishly looked up, then slowly pulled his hands away from the space they had been hiding between his legs and started the car, blushing deeply.
All comments and criticism welcome and encouraged!
“Andrew Norris, Brian Bennington, James Grey. All paid by check, with full information. Bloody brilliant,” Gene felt a spark of hope rise up inside of him as he looked over the details for their three prime suspects. “I’ll take Norris, Ray, you take Bennington, Skelton and Cartwright, I want the two of you on Grey.”
“Just me and Annie, Gov?” Chris’ eyes darted back and forth between Gene and Annie nervously, and Annie sighed.
“We’re just questioning them, Chris. If we think we might have a lead with him, then we’ll ask him to come down to station for more questions. No chances, no arrest, just questions.” Annie patted Chris lightly on the shoulder.
“And then you take him down and place him in lost property. And then I come in, rip off his tiny little scrotum, string them up on barbed wire and make a nice little necklace for him. And then we go pick up Tyler and head to the pub.” Gene stated it very flatly, as if it were fact. He was willing it to be fact as he said it, and the others nodded in unison.
“What happens if none of the leads pan out, Gov?” Annie asked as they all began putting on their coats and heading for the door. “I mean, what then? The latest morgue report showed tiny slivers of glass in some of the wounds on the arms - could that be something we could go off of?” Annie bit her lip as Gene looked at her, angrily.
“One of these leads will work out, Cartwright. If it makes you feel better, muse over the glass bits in your head while you’re doing your real work. And hope that you don’t end up with the killer, because Chris’ll likely shit himself and run before you have a chance to ask him down the station,” Gene’s voice rose as he glared at Chris, then turned on his heel and headed out of the door.
Ray was the first of the group to find his lead, and the first to discover that his wasn’t the killer. Brian Bennington was a member of the Royal Navy, and the acetylene torch was currently locked up and going through ten thousand reams of paperwork before being given back to its new owner.
“Not fair at all, is it? Never going to get a good art career going now, what with that thing locked up, and it doesn’t help matters that you coppers have to show up looking into the matter, does it?” Bennington nervously moved from foot to foot as he drew heavily upon his cigarette, obviously upset about the entire thing.
“Art career?” Ray asked, lighting up a cigarette of his own.
“Exactly. Lot better living than going out on ship ten months of the year, lot better money, lot better birds, that’s for sure. I told some bird down Shoreham that I was going to be a sculptor, just like that Myers fellow, and she and her friends were all over me. Couldn’t get enough. All the bloke does is fuse a bunch of crap together, set some shit a-fire, and what do you know, he’s got some fine dandy with notes spilling out his arse in London, practically begging him to take ten thousand pounds for it. Ten thousand pound!” Bennington continued to burn quickly through his cigarette as he described his upcoming art career.
“Like that Myers fellow, eh? Sounds familiar, but can’t say I can place it.” Ray stroked the sides of his mustache idly, trying to find some way to make a break from the conversation and head back to the station; 19 hours left to find that smug tosser and rub it in good that he’d been the one to save him. Now that would be a nice feeling, staring down at that sanctimonious git with a nice, loud, “Now who saved whose tits ‘round here, eh? Next round’s to you, mate.” It would be heaven, absolute perfection, storming in and dragging the nonce up to his feet, handing him a gun and showing him the proper way to shoot one’s way out of a pickle. Absolute bliss, he thought, constantly reminding himself to not think of the alternative. No matter what, don’t think about that…
Ray let his attention drift back to the annoying ramblings of the little sailor boy, lighting up another cigarette and wondering if he might actually stand a chance at meeting another bird just by pretending he knew what the difference between “blue” and “cerulean” was. Who the hell gave half a toss about cerulean? Bloody cerulean, what the hell was that?
“And they catch the light like nothing else, like a whole other race of people made up of nothing but light, just steel and glass all spinning like that, and people come from miles around to see it - people coming up here from London, ever since he moved his workspace here. Said sommat ‘bout it being more ‘conducive to the muse,’ but I don’t ken what that could mean ‘t all…” Sailor boy launched into another speech about light and patterns and some other rot, and Ray couldn’t take it any longer. A “Yeah, I’m a copper, I catch hardened blags, here, have another drink, lass,” was much better than a “Your eyes are cerulean.” Bloody cerulean. A tenner says Tyler would know what cerulean was.
“Listen, Brian, good luck with getting your art career going after you’re back from your next tour an’ all, but I’ve really got to be going, now,” Ray cut Bennington off in the middle of his speech, then slowly shuffled back towards his wreck of a car, staring at the right passenger door for a minute. The window roll was laying on the seat next to it. “Snide little shit had better be all right, he still hasn’t paid me for that,” Ray grunted under his breath. He lit another cigarette and swallowed, hard, trying not to stare at his watch as he made his way back to the station. They’d find the smug little bastard, with plenty of time to spare. The Gov would make sure of it.
Gene felt his blood slowly begin to boil as he shoved his way through another mob of journalists, flashbulbs going off in all directions and voices shouting at him.
“DCI Hunt! Any new information about the recent string of killings?”
“What are you doing to catch this killer, Mr. Hunt?”
“Any information regarding the victims and their families, Mr. Hunt? Is there any specific type of citizen who should be extra cautious?”
“DCI Hunt, how do you respond to allegations that police incompetence is the reason that this vicious monster is still at large?” At the last call, something snapped inside of Gene; he figured it was just the blood in his veins reaching the boiling point and finally going over, and he half imagined that steam was starting to stream out of his ears. Instinctively, he grabbed the nearest photographer and hurled him into the crowd, shoving them all back a bit.
Gene gritted his teeth, searching for the right words… “We’re… We’re doing…” Tyler’s voice whispered in his memory, reminding him of the last time they had been faced with this large of a mob of journalists. Tyler always knew just what to say to make the sodding devils shut the hell up, if only for a second. “We’re doing all we can, at this point. We are following several leads, and we are confident that we will have this sick bastard in custody by morning. CONFIDENT! And you can quote me on that, yeah pack of bastards.” Hunt drew in a deep breath and continued to shove, the silent roar of his own fuming blocking out further questions and accusations from the crowd as he made his way to the Cortina.
He turned the key in the ignition, pressed down on the clutch and gas, and was soon off on his way to meet with suspect number one: Andrew Norris. Norris was a salesman by trade, and after that Vic Tyler bastard, well, and after that encyclopedia flogger who he was SURE had given the missus a bit of a go over, Gene had nothing but hatred for salesmen. Come to your house, force your bird to fork over a good chunk of your hard-earned cash for a bloody great useless set of books. Books! And not even books with good stories, like those Clint Eastwood novelisations! Worthless pieces of shit with little articles of information, bloody hell, it was the type of shit Tyler would read…
Gene stamped on the gas harder, half expecting to hear screeches of protest coming from the passenger seat, and getting none. Since when were you such an important part of my life, you little shit? Gene thought as he stared at the empty seat, narrowly missing a pedestrian and swerving into a pile of stacked boxes without slowing. People needed to learn to keep the damned roads clear, is what they needed to do. It was nearly ten minutes of a high speed chase after no one before the Cortina eventually pulled up outside of a block of houses.
It was a quiet, nondescript neighborhood, just like hundreds of others scattered around all parts of the city. Gene killed the motor abruptly and ripped the keys from the ignition, then stormed up the front steps, knocking hard and rapidly against the wood of the door. “Andrew Norris? Open up, police,” he barked angrily, whipping his badge out of his pocket. It was a few seconds before a wiry, hard looking man appeared in the doorway. Gene felt a small stab of elation - he was a shifty looking fellow, there was a good chance that this could be him.
“Andrew Norris?” He asked, and the man nodded, crossing dirty hands over his chest. “DCI Gene Hunt. I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Gene tried to look Norris directly in the eye, tried to read something there. He searched his own mind for some form of notice, some silent intuition that would go off and let him know that this was the one. His inner voice stayed silent, and he scowled at Norris as he was waived into the house.
The house’s interior was much the same as the exterior - small, standard, a parlor with a couch, a small telly and a radio on one side, a staircase on the other, a hallway leading back to what he assumed were the kitchen and dining rooms, lined with frames full of people with idiotic smiles. Like the exterior, it was just like hundreds of other homes throughout the city. “How can I help you, Mr. Hunt,” the voice was low, smooth, and Gene hated the bastard already. Good. This has to be him. Looks a right sorry monster as is, dirty hands like that, shifty looks, voice like running treacle. Gene crossed his arms and drew himself up to his full height.
“Mr. Norris, I’d like to ask you a few questions about an item you recently purchased. An acetylene welder’s torch,” Gene tried to keep his eyes on the other man, glaring icily down at him, trying to stay alert at all times, waiting for the bastard to make a move. Come on, make a move, let me know that it’s you. Has to be, just look at you, you smarmy arsehole… Gene willed his sixth sense to jump in and confirm what logic was telling him, but it remained silent.
“Acetylene torch? Are they starting to monitor those? Suppose they could be dangerous an’ all, couldn’t they…” Norris’ tone was kind and well mannered, despite his rough looks and dialect. “Me mates an’ I are starting up an auto shop, like, fixin’ cars and things about - haven’t quite gotten a place together for a storefront, but we’s all well known ‘round this part of town, all well known handymen, best fer fixin’ motors, or other things what breaks. Ask anyone. If you care to follow me, sir, I can show you the torch now.”
The man started to lead Gene through the hallway, towards the kitchen and, presumably, the back door. Gene continued to stay alert, his hand tucked inside of his coat and jacket, fingers lightly massaging the back end of his gun. Just one wrong move, you bastard… It’s you, innit? Let me know that it’s you, come on… Gene exhaled sharply out of his nose as Norris led him out of the back door, all the while silently willing him to be the killer.
When Norris did lead Gene out of the back, Gene saw that the back garden was littered with bits of cars, including the entire forms of what looked like a ’67 Anglia and a ’65 Corsair. “Noticed you drive a Cortina, sir, and latest model. Good motor that. As you can see, I’m a bit of a Ford man meself, can’t beat Ford of Britain now, can you?” Norris gave a broad grin as he pointed out the various parts scattered about the mud and grass, paying particular attention to what he described as a “totally rebuilt” engine from a ’53 Consul. Gene grunted in appreciation, and then noticed the toolshed. Perfect place for hiding bodies, that, he though, and his hand again went inside of his coat and jacket.
Gene was met with nothing but disappointment when Norris flung the doors of the shed wide upon their hinges, holding his arms out like a television presenter so that Gene could see the various tools inside of it. The acetylene torch was laid upon a wide workbench like a trophy, and looked as if it had never been used. “We’re plannin’ on finding place by end o’ year, and we’s already got a good customer base, sir. You’re welcome t’ stop by at any time, once we’s set up. Always glad t’ serve Manchester’s finest, are we,” Norris beamed as he said it, and then set about describing the various industrial tools. Gene felt his heart sink as he congratulated Norris and asked to be shown out, then had to struggle to keep his head high on the way back to the Cortina.
Once inside the car, Gene moved off slowly, a rare move for him, fighting and, eventually, winning a battle against the burning in his eyes. “Where are you, with all your ridiculous blood spillage books and science prat nonsense? Where are you when I need you, Sammy Boy?” He stared at the empty seat, then growled, deep in his throat, like an animal. He slammed into the gas and took off, ignoring several traffic signs and oblivious as always to screeching of other cars’ tires and brakes and the shouts from other motorists.
Chris’ hands were shaking as he slid the keys into the ignition of the car he and Annie were taking to the given address for James Grey. Annie gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder as she slid into the seat next to him. “Do you want me to drive, Chris?” She pulled out the case file that she had been reading over when he shook his head, pulling her seatbelt across her chest and beginning to read over the facts again, despite having already memorized them. There had to be something that she was missing…
“They let you read the morgue report then, Annie?” Chris glanced at her nervously as he cautiously backed the car out of the station car park and onto the road, swallowing hard.
“Yeah, yeah they did. Never have before.” Annie absentmindedly answered as she continued to scan page after page of the reports.
“So, you know, you know what, what they think happened to… What they know happened to the third fellow and all and…” Chris trailed off and started to thump the steering wheel with his thumbs as he drove.
“I know, Chris. It’s terrible,” Annie continued to look through the files, then stopped and looked up again. Chris was still frantically tapping his thumbs against the wheel as they stood at a stop sign, and Annie became acutely aware that they had been at the same stop for over two minutes.
“Chris. It’s clear.” Annie stared at Chris as he continued to stare away at nothing, still moving his hands frantically on the wheel, thumbing out a rhythmless beat. “Chris?” Annie moved to put a hand on his shoulder again and felt him almost jump into the air. He exhaled slowly and then pulled out into the road, taking them closer to the warehouse that Grey had given as his address.
“Sorry,” Chris muttered as he tried to lose himself in driving, his eyes darting back and forth about the streets.
“You okay?” Concern filled Annie’s voice as she stared at him; she was used to Chris being a little jittery, and a little nervous, but this was a bit much even for him. “Sam’s all right, Chris. We’re going to find him, and catch this killer, and it’ll all be all right.” Annie tried to smile at him.
“You’re so sure?” Chris snapped at Annie, then ducked his head down before gluing his eyes to the road again. “I’m sorry, Annie, I’m sorry…” He bit into his lower lip and again tried to concentrate just on the driving.
“Chris. We have a job at hand. And we’re going to do it, and do it well, and everything will work out all right. Okay?” Annie tried not to think about the fact that she was trying to convince herself just as much as Chris.
“So you and the boss, are you, like, you know,” Chris tried to change the subject, and Annie sat back, sighing, not sure if she should be exasperated that the conversation had taken this sudden turn, or glad that Chris was no longer on the verge of a nervous breakdown over it.
“That’s none of your business,” she tried to make it sound light, like she was laughing it off as another one of his stupid remarks, but she couldn’t. It just came out strained, and she swallowed hard before looking down at the papers in her lap, not even looking at the words this time.
“Sorry,” Chris muttered again, and the two of them sat the rest of the way in silence, Annie glad that Chris was at least trying to stave off his fidgeting, and Chris glad that Annie seemed too lost in the reports to start being patronizing. It took them nearly a half hour to pull up in front of the warehouse.
“Place is huge, wonder what it is they’re holding in there. I don’t see any signs for any exporters or importers or any of the like, do you?” Annie looked up at the huge building, a large, unwelcoming square made up of hundreds of smaller, cold, grey squares. No windows graced the floors of the building, just row after row of exterior squares, a huge hunk of steel and concrete amidst several similar buildings. The other buildings, however, all had windows or large, colorful signs displaying the names of textile factories, export companies, import companies, there was even a very colorful sign for a new company labeled “Momofuku Ando of Japan and Golden Wonder of Wales present Pot Noodle.”
“Now that just sounds disgusting, it’ll never sell,” Annie pointed to the building to the right of their targeted warehouse.
“Too right,” Chris nodded as they walked towards the grey building. Annie pointed again, this time at a sign that stood up against the side of the building, near the single entrance point. “Jefferson Meyers Studio North” was written on the sign, above a small photo of what looked almost like someone screaming… Annie stared intently before she realized she was staring at a photo of a pile of steel and cloth that had been oddly arranged and, in some places, burnt through.
“What, it’s some sort of broadcasting studio?” Chris puzzled over the sign.
“I think it’s an art studio, I think I’ve heard of him, he’s a sculptor.” Annie continued on towards the door with Chris in tow.
When the two of them reached the door, Chris turned to Annie again, “Better let me do the talking, people expect a police officer to be a bloke, know what I mean?”
Annie tried to keep her nose from wrinkling before nodding and falling in behind Chris, who opened the door slowly into a small reception area. A blast of cold air hit them from the side as a wide, square plate of a sliding door was moved shut, locking off all but the area that they were in.
“Blimey, it’s colder in there than it is outside. Don’t know what to make of that,” Chris muttered as he looked quizzically at the door. The two of them strode forward to the desk, where a single secretary was busy chatting on the phone, twirling the plastic cord slowly around her fingers as she gleefully spoke into the headset.
“…And then, Diane, he actually said ‘Yes!’ Can you believe it? Oh, it’s magnificent! Oh, I’ve got to go, Di, I think it’s more reporters. I’ll ring you back in just a bit. Ta!” The secretary, who was wearing about three times what Annie would refer to as the usual amount of makeup, grinned a huge, false grin up at them and then settled into a little scripted message in a horribly fake, perky voice, made to seem even more fake and snobbish by the thick, and obviously put-on, London accent.
“Welcome to the Manchester studios of Mr. Jefferson Myers, two-time nominee for the Reisman award, here working on a new installation in the grim and industrial warehouse district of Greater Manchester, to be moved for permanent placement to the Manchester Antheneum in the summer of 1974. Currently closed to the public except for select tours, with select pieces of art on sale to the discriminating collector, tours and showings of completed pieces are available by appointment only.” The girl resumed her horrible false grin.
“Detective Constables Chris Skelton and Annie Cartwright, here looking for a Mr. James Grey,” Chris held up his badge, trying not to stare at the incredibly low cut blouse and high cut skirt that the girl was wearing. Annie looked off to the side when she noticed that Chris was failing in his attempts to avert his own eyes.
“Oooh, a real life detective!” The girl leaned forward over her desk, and Annie set her jaw angrily when she noticed that Chris was physically backing away from her, as if being intimidated by a larger man in a pub fight. She stared at the ceiling for a second, and then plastered on a fake grin of her own.
“We’re actually looking for Mr. Grey rather urgently, we believe he might have witnessed some activity that could help us to resolve a recent spate of robberies,” Annie tried to insinuate herself between the girl and Chris, who was blinking rapidly and swallowing hard.
The secretary slumped back into her seat and picked up the handset on her phone, then punched in on several of the switches at the phone board. “Lucy? I’ve got some police here that want to speak to Mr. Grey. They think he might have seen something like a burglar or something, I don’t know. They didn’t say. Uh-huh. Okay. Bye-bye!” She finished the call with another fake grin and incredibly perky shout.
“Mr. Grey’s secretary will be down to collect you in just a minute, if you’d care to wait,” the girl smiled again, and Annie noticed for the first time that there was a name tag labeled, “Julie” sitting behind a pile of pamphlets about Myers’ work.
“Thanks, Julie, you’ve been really helpful,” Annie said as she reached out and took one of the pamphlets, then headed towards the row of plastic chairs that were backed up against the far wall of the reception area. Chris stayed glued to the spot.
“DC Skelton?” Annie asked, trying to draw Chris’ attention away from Julie. He continued to stare at her as he made his way over to Annie, almost tripping over his own feet a few times. “Chris! Really!” she hissed under her breath as he sat next to her, hoping that she wasn’t starting to sound like Phyllis.
“I don’t think she’s wearing knickers, Annie…” Chris’ eyes were wide and his entire body seemed to be shaking slightly. Annie allowed herself to fully give in to the sigh she had been fighting since she had first walked into the building with Chris.
“Chris, job at hand. What if Grey could be the killer?” That snapped Chris out of his reverie quickly enough, she decided, as he turned towards her and settled back into his seat.
“You don’t really think that he could be, do you?” Chris was an entirely different type of nervous this time, and he slowly rubbed his damp palms against the legs of his trousers.
Annie looked over the brochure in her hand, staring at the odd pieces of sculpture that had been photographed in different types of light. “I don’t think so, Chris, but we should be alert none the less, right?”
“Exactly. Well put, Annie. Well put.” Chris straightened up a bit and stared forward, and Annie glanced curiously at him. Sometimes, she really didn’t have a clue what he could be thinking. Then again, she was fairly certain that he didn’t have a clue what he was thinking some of the time, so she figured it didn’t matter much.
A rickety steel cage lift appeared at the far side of the reception area, directly across from the chairs that Annie and Chris had been seated in, it’s open shaft obscured by the main entrance. A short, impeccably well groomed man in his late 50’s strode out, wearing a very modern and, Annie hazarded a guess, very expensive grey suit. He seemed to blend into the grey background of the building, like some sort of human chameleon. A very strong odor of eau de cologne wafted outwards from him, and beneath it, something else, as if he were trying to cover something else up with the scent. Annie squinted her eyes a bit as she stood, trying to take in every detail of him.
“James Grey, I presume?” She held out her hand and smiled at him, “I’m WDC Annie Cartwright, this is DC Chris Skelton. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a recent purchase that you made at Warrington’s Industrial, Sir.”
Chris seemed a bit shocked for a second, eyes wide and gazing at Annie appreciatively, before holding out his own hand. “Uh, yes, sir, just some questions.”
Grey smiled at them, then held out a hand towards the lift, “Well, if you don’t mind, we can always talk in my office. Less foot traffic, less noise,” Annie was a bit taken aback by his manners, and by the fact that he had just referenced totally non-existent foot traffic and noise: there was no one in the lobby except for the three of them and Julie, and no noise seemed to penetrate the thick steel doors that led to the rest of the building.
“Much obliged, Sir,” Annie responded, still smiling, and she swallowed hard once his back was turned to her, following him to the lift. Chris just nodded once, and then eventually seemed to realize what was happening and followed the two of them into the strange steel cage of a lift. It was almost like being in a birdcage, Annie thought, as she stared at the tightly knit bars of steel and the open spaces that looked disconcertingly out at the street.
“Top floor, George,” Grey told the small, grizzled lift operator, who obliged by lowering a clasp on the outer door, and then slowly lowering the lever on the lift control. Annie felt her breath catch as the lift rose up, more smoothly than any lift she’d ever been on, but far more frightening for the exposed bands of light and air opening up and showing the street below. The warehouse had to be at least eight stories tall, although she figured that there might be fewer floors than that, given the height of the ceilings in warehouses. She felt her body tense as she looked down from the dizzying height, and was pleased to notice that, for once, Chris didn’t seem scared out of his wits. Apparently heights were the one common fear that he was not susceptible to.
“So, a lady detective, I’m intrigued,” Grey smiled warmly at her, and Annie tried her best to tear her eyes off of the ground and to look back at him.
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, as the lift gently came to rest near the top of the building. She slowly exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath. “Might I ask what type of sculpture Mr. Myers produces? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with his work.” Now that they were leaving the lift, Annie found she was able to make conversation easily again.
“Abstract Expressionist, similar in thought to Ferber, but differing in medium,” Grey smiled again, and this time Annie definitely felt there was something wrong about him.
“So it doesn’t look right, it’s all bent out of shape?” asked Chris, snapping to and following them out onto a foyer at the edge of the building, directly above the small area where reception had been on the ground floor.
“Something like that,” Grey nodded patronizingly at Chris, and then led them through the foyer, which appeared to be a much more well appointed waiting room, and towards a pair of highly polished chrome doors, each with a long, oddly curved and equally shining silver handle. “Although you’ll see for yourself, in a minute, Detective, as my office is on the opposite side of the building, just behind our private showroom.” With that, Grey flung the doors open, revealing the near entirety of the top floor, no walls, just support bars here and there, sculptures filling nearly the entire space, hard, cold white lights shining on them from above and from the side walls. The walls and floors were all flat grey steel or concrete, and a long strip of deep red carpeting led the way through the center of the floor, thick plush trailing from the foyer to what appeared to be a raised dais with a desk and several chairs in the far corner. Grey’s office, Annie presumed.
Chris and Annie both felt their eyes go wide as they stared around them. The sculptures were between the size of one to four people, and each was an amalgam of twisted, melted and hardened steel, sheets of deeply died sackcloth, wood, and plate glass. Grey gestured them over to the one nearest them as they walked inside of the building, smiling his ever present salesman’s smile at them once again. “This piece, recently sold to Brendan Harris of the Harris, Waldren, and Blankenship firm in London, to be presented as a wedding gift to Princess Anne and the esteemed Mr. Phillips this November. It ships in two weeks,” he held out a hand towards the piece, puffing his chest out slightly and drawing himself up to his full height, trying to look both impressive and impressed at the same time, like many salesmen did.
Annie swallowed as she looked over the thing. It was about six feet tall, three feet wide and two feet deep, long spires of cold steel twisting and curving about incredibly white towers of brightly bleached white wood. The wood was partially enshrouded in a vibrantly crimson sheet of sackcloth, which was stretched toughly across it and then welded into the steel, trapped behind a cascade of melted and hardened metal. More spires of white curved outwards inside the steel framework, and more cloths, equally brightly dyed, stretched through it. She walked slowly around the sculpture, bending down in some places and looking upwards in others. She noticed that Chris, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same.
“Very…” She searched for the proper word, “Very intriguing,” she managed to smile again as Grey led her and Chris away from the sculpture and up the red carpet, towards the strange, open office area.
“Exactly, intriguing. Very thought-provoking, evocative, intriguing in the utmost, my dear,” said Grey, never once breaking his constant smile. He led them to the desk, then gestured towards two of the chairs that sat across from it before climbing into the seat behind it and steepling his fingers together, his elbows resting on the polished surface. “Now, how can I help you, Detective… Cartwright, was it?”
“Yes, Sir. We were actually wondering about a recent purchase that you made at Warrington’s Industrial, Sir. It seems you purchased a high grade acetylene torch, Sir.” Annie looked sweetly up at Grey, trying to hide her suspicions, and then looked over at Chris, who simply looked… uncomfortable. Annie hoped that he was thinking the same things that she was.
“Ah, yes, a new acetylene torch. Jefferson uses them for a great deal of the welding that goes into his sculptures, as well as varying sizes of soldering irons, open flame, and other tools,” Grey leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.
“Are there any other tools that Mr. Myers would frequently use in his work?” Annie tried to think of a good way to phrase the question, something that would make it seem totally innocuous, but drew a blank, and hoped that simply asking about tools outright would work.
“Is this an inquiry about burglary, or about my client’s artistic style, Detective Cartwright?” Mr. Grey leaned back further in his seat, and his smile seemed to grow almost too warm, an odd expression that made the hairs on the back of Annie’s neck stand on end.
Chris seemed to snap to attention then, and looked directly at Mr. Grey, “You’ll have to excuse DC Cartwright, Sir, you know birds, always thinking about the art and such,” Chris offered his goofy, lopsided grin up to Grey, who seemed to accept the explanation. At any other time, Annie would have been working to hide her anger at the comment, but now, she was completely thrilled, urging Chris forward silently.
“Our major issue is that there’ve been a lot of robberies that we think might be using industrial tools lately, so we’re looking for any that have gone missing,” Chris seemed to pull the statement out of nowhere, and Annie beamed at him for a second before leaning forward and addressing Grey again.
“We’re starting off with the torches, which have been used to melt through steel doors and break into warehouses recently, and then looking for any other recent thefts, such as glass cutters,” she threw the phrase out, hoping to catch some glimmer of change in Grey’s expression. “Was the new torch purchased because an old one went missing, or was unaccounted for in any way?”
“And other things, too… Glass cutters and all,” Chris added, leaning forward in his chair.
“Well, to answer both of your questions, Jefferson also use quite a few types of glass cutters, multiple knives and other items that might seem suspicious, things that are used for the carving of wood, you’ll notice expertly cut pieces of plate glass that catch the light perfectly in some of the sculptures, high grade blades both large and very small are used in the carving of wood, the etching of both wood and steel, but, despite the new purchase, no torch was recently missing. We’d only recently moved to the area, and quite a few supplies were purchased, none of which were replacements for old tools, and none of which have since gone missing.”
“In that case, Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to excuse ourselves and thank you for your time,” Annie stated as she rose, Chris following suit.
“Not at all. Always a pleasure,” Grey led the two of them back to the lift, but left them at the lift gate this time. The operator, George, slowly and smoothly took them down to the ground floor, although the lift seemed to jam for a moment. Annie caught her breath at the mild jerking motion, then looked imploringly at the small man.
“Sorry, lassy, just a moment and it’ll be right as rain,” the old man said as he jiggled the lift’s control stick. Annie tried not to look out this time, looking instead at the small room at the side of the, what, third, fourth floor? She couldn’t remember. She heard an odd noise, rasping and high pitched, but not like a screech of metal… Was that a scream? She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise again.
“Did you hear that?” she motioned with her head towards the building, and both Chris and George shook their heads.
“All sorts of sounds around here, lass, nothing to worry about,” George twisted the lever back down in his arthritic hands, and the lift began to descend again, back to the original reception area. Annie and Chris thanked the lift operator, then slowly left out the front doors and towards the parked police car.
Annie whirled around at Chris, “Are you sure you didn’t hear that?”
Chris shook his head, “I heard something but I think it was just the bloke making more of those statues. Crazy things, ain’t they? Right creepy. Wouldn’t want one of those anywhere near me, whether or not Princess Anne has one. Royals are into creepy things anyway, aren’t they? All them years of severed heads an..” Annie cut him off.
“Chris, that’s exactly it. The statues. They’re made with torches, and pieces of glass, and razor sharp tools. We have to get the Gov down here, or we have to pull in Myers himself for questioning.”
“You mean, you don’t think… The artist bloke?” Chris turned his head rapidly back towards the building as he climbed into the driver’s side of the car.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Chris, we’ve got to tell the Gov, straight away. And Chris,” Annie smiled for a moment, her dark expression unclouding as she reached out to give Chris a brief hug. “You were great up there, you know? Come on, let’s go…” Her expression clouded over again, and, at least for a bit, not because of the possibility that they had found a vicious killer. For a split second she winced and held her hand to her face, turning away from Chris. “Just get us back to the station, Chris.”
Chris sheepishly looked up, then slowly pulled his hands away from the space they had been hiding between his legs and started the car, blushing deeply.
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