18. Done Good
When Sally finally stepped out of the shower, steam fogged the mirror above the sink. She wiped a clear patch with the heel of her hand and saw the rich, purple bruise surfacing around her throat.
Her fingers rose and gently probed the swollen flesh. Sensitive, raw, hot.
Roarke Rook's work. Elder brother of the man she was about to interview.
She snatched her hand away, toweled off then reached for the spare uniform. Black trousers, utility shirt, jacket. It was a long time since she'd worn departmental kit. The neck of the shirt sat too low, exposing the bruise. She tried turning up the collar of the jacket, but it wasn't enough.
So be it.
When she stepped back into the corridor, carrying a plastic bag with her rinsed running kit in, Liam was waiting outside. He clocked her throat, and his jaw dropped slightly.
"Shit," he muttered. "You weren't kidding. That bastard really tried to kill you."
Sally let him look. The bruise wasn't going away any time soon, and she had nothing to be ashamed of. "He tried."
Liam cursed again. "We're going to nail these bastards to the sodding wall."
"Amen to that. We've got our room?"
"Yeah. But I just had a call from the DCI." His tone turned apologetic, though he struggled to take his eyes off Sally's neck. "She's insisting we get checked out. Medically."
He gestured toward an open side room. Sally looked in. The paramedic from the beach was there, John Logan. He had his sleeves rolled to the elbow, black trousers still damp at the hems. Early 30s, broad-shouldered, checking over some paperwork.
"It's fine," Sally said, then stepped into the room. "You again."
Logan looked up and smiled, dimples cutting into his cheeks. "I'm like a lucky penny. But truth be told, there's not a lot of paramedics down here, what with Eastbourne nearly 30 miles away." He took a moment, regarding her neck. "That looks painful. How do you feel?"
"I'm fine."
"Mind if I take a closer look?"
She almost argued, but the sting in her neck made the decision for her. She sat before him, allowing him a moment to peer at her neck and face.
"Burst capillaries around the eyes," he said quietly, pointing. "Petechiae. Matches the throttle mark around your neck." He paused. "Someone tried to kill you today, didn't they?"
Sally's shoulders tightened. She felt Rook's hands around her throat again. Second time in one day, after the Mud Beast. "Like I said, I'm fine."
Logan sat back, his tone calm. "Maybe. Something like this gets logged officially, you'll be off the job. Hospital observation, 24 hours minimum. Maybe longer."
"What do you want?" Sally growled.
"I don't want to lose my job," Logan said slowly. "I clear you now, but there's tertiary symptoms? Dizziness, nausea, visual snow, vomiting, even trouble concentrating? My career's on the line. And I like doing this."
Sally glared. "This is about catching a killer. Not about me or you."
Logan just looked at her. "Is that right?"
That infuriated her. "Clear me or don't, Logan. This is a waste of my time."
"OK." He reached into a case on the desk and held out a thin NHS-issue card. The blue Star of Life lay in one corner and the red cross in another. It read ‘John Logan, Paramedic, South East Coast Ambulance Service'. A single mobile number was printed beneath it.
"What's that for?"
"To cover both of us. Call me if any of the symptoms I mentioned surface."
Sally looked at the card, then at him. She was angry still, but managed a sullen, "Thanks."
"Now, your legs. Are they OK?"
"My legs are fine."
"But the bandages came off."
"They're fine."
He studied her a moment longer, then nodded. "You're clear, Officer Rogers."
Sally rose and left. It felt like she'd somehow missed something, like there was something she should've said or done, but she didn't know what it was. Outside, Liam was still waiting, though now he held a tray laden with baked goods and two steaming coffees.
"There's a Greggs a few doors down. This is a late lunch."
"Good man," Sally said, still distracted. "Come on."
As they entered the bullpen, PC Chakrati looked up from her seat at a nearby desk. She winced when she saw Sally's neck.
"Ma'am, are you all right?"
Sally smiled. "I'll be better if you get me cuffs, a baton and some PAVA."
"That I think I can do." Chakrati stood, and smiled back. "Better than Farb-gel."
Sally chuckled, and Chakrati led them into a side room. It was long and narrow, with multiple whiteboards and a large display screen affixed to the walls. On the desk lay a tall stack of files beside two open laptops, a tray of custody forms and a plastic evidence wallet.
"This is a training suite?" Liam asked.
"Yes, sir," Chakrati answered briskly. "I trained here. Hawlin too."
"You're both local?" Sally asked.
"East Hythe, born and raised, ma'am. Hawlin's from Greatstone. We're both local kids done good."
Sally found her smile locking in place. Chakrati had an earnestness that was refreshing. How many people would consider a part-time policing job in Dungeness to be 'done good'?
"So you know DI Mercer?"
"Jack Mercer?" Chakrati asked, brightening. "By reputation, yes. A big voice on the, uh, original killing. Some of the old cops around here still mention him."
"We're hoping he comes in today. If he does show, can you send him straight to us?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Call me Sally. What's your first name, Officer?"
"Uh. Emily, ma'am."
"Sally. And what's this, Emily?" She gestured to the stack of files.
"Everything we have on the Rooks, the case notes from 30 years ago, and Gabriel Rook's personal effects. I'll go fetch your gear now, ma'am. Sally."
"Thank you." Sally sat, wrapped both hands around the coffee for warmth then pulled the top file toward her.
GAbrIEL ROOK
DOB: 14/08/2003
"Try the steak bake," Liam offered, taking a seat opposite.
She took the pastry and bit down. It was hot, buttery, meaty and rich.
"It's good," she managed, then gulped it down. Swallowing hurt deep in her throat, the pain sharp and jagged. She winced but took another bite out of sheer bloody-mindedness. "Let's assess all this, strengthen our hand, and aim to be in with Rook as soon as he gets counsel. What else have we got?"
Liam pulled the papers his way. Sally noticed his hand was shaking again. Alcohol withdrawal, according to John Logan. The paramedic from the beach. His face wormed into her head; how directly he'd counseled her back then, how easily he'd dismissed her just now.
She pushed thoughts of him aside.
"Looks like Mayhew's warrant came through," Liam said, holding up a wad of papers. "This is the full shift from last night at the reactors, construction workers included."
Sally grunted. "Interviews have begun?"
Liam sifted further. "Looks like, yes, Mayhew's started, but there's nothing concrete yet. Nobody saw anything."
Sally sipped the coffee, looking up at the clock over the door. 2 p.m. already. Where had the day gone? "And forensics?"
Liam sorted through the piles. "Here's the preliminaries from Umberside Lodge, plus on-site fingerprinting from Gabriel Rook's van.
No fabric or hair yet, no DNA, full culturing of black mold from the shack walls will take days.
" The papers made a shushing sound as he leafed deeper into the stack.
"Ketamine is a match for what CSM Akilota found in the victim's bloodstream.
No source of a cardiotoxic agent though, not anywhere in the Lodge. "
"Huh," Sally murmured. "One drug but not both."
"Techs have also uncovered the Rooks' livestream ID. There's records of what they've posted. It's unsavory. Also, uh, I think this is tide tables?" He held up a page crammed with numbers. "Then there's all of Reginald Rook's business interests, Reactor Logistics included."
Sally took another bite then wiped crumbs from her mouth. Her lips stung, and she remembered Roarke Rook punching her. She took another stubborn bite.
"We dig deep. Look for an angle. Then hit him hard."
"We want him as perp or witness?"
"Both. Either. We crack him and see what spills out."
Sally took another glug of hot coffee, then picked up the tide tables and studied the columns of dates and times.
High water. Slack tide. Back and forth, in and out every six hours.
Around 3 a.m. that morning, the tide was fully in.
She pictured it lapping over the boy's body, maybe washing the feet of the killer as they kneeled down in the shingle, shells in their hands.
She shuddered, picturing the insertion of the shells, all while the boy stared and struggled to move. She thought about the perverse combing of his hair, the emptiness of that unforgiving desert. While the Rooks were just a few hundred yards away at their shack, loading trafficked girls into a van.
Had he cried out? Had the Rooks heard his pleas, above the wind and the sea? Had they seen the killer, a shadow against the starlit sky?
She set the tide tables down.
"Still no ID on the boy," she said.
Liam looked up from his phone, distracted. "Uh, no. Not yet."
That bothered her more than she'd expected it to. He was still just the boy on the beach. The body in the tent. The victim in their CSM's photographs.
But he'd been someone's son. Maybe someone's brother. Not so far from the Rook brothers in age. Around the same age as the first boy washed up on that same strand line, 30 years ago.
She took another bite of the steak bake and refocused on Rook's jacket, rain beating down on the skylights overhead.