The Lover's Children

Chapter 49 – The Idylls of March #21

KLEMPNER

Tapping on the door of the press vehicle for City TV, I balance my tray, actually the upturned lid of a

carton of soft drinks. As it opens, I brush past an acne’d face-scape into the smoky interior. “Hi, wasn’t

sure how many I was buying for…” I present a stuffed box.

“Hey, those donuts?” Faces spin from screens and control panels. A variety of sweaty bodies crowd

round and I try to hold my breath.

“Yeah. I got a bit of all sorts. There’s jelly, custard-filled, chocolate coated, and sugar dusted and…”

Injecting some apology into my voice. “… I didn’t know if you wanted your caffeine hot or cold so I got

half coffees and half Pepsis…” I let my voice trail off. From the size of the van I was estimating a crew

of maybe five or six maximum, so a box of a dozen donuts is plenty. Maybe I underestimated. Hands

snatch from all directions.

Worse than pigeons…

An Asian type, clutching the custard option, looks properly at me. “Sorry, but who…?”

“Central sent me over. They reckoned you’d need an extra pair of hands on this one.”

“Too right.” She bites into a donut and yellow cream squirts backwards. Her mouth full as she speaks,

“Hey, can you get these print-outs to Max? It’s what the researchers came up with from the archives on

the Boswell Knifer.”

“Sure. Where’ll I find him?”

“Over in the Press Enclosure. You got your press pass?”

“Yeah…” I tap my lapel badge, half-concealing it with my hand in the process.

“No, you’ll need the red pass. They’re limiting numbers now. Here, I’ll get you one.”

Perfect.

*****

A stack of files under one arm, I stride toward the enclosure entrance. “I’m looking for Max.” Blondie

and Bruiser give me a cursory glance and wave me through to the press section.

*****

Dumping the files onto the nearest City News rep I can find, I find a corner away from the general

melee of preening, narcissism and occasional reporting. Muttering into my phone as though dictating

some report, I take in the scene.

A couple of non-uniformed but obvious cops exit from beyond the screen, then hang by the access,

talking quietly. Through the almost-but-not-quite opaque screen, vague shadows move. Voices murmur,

annoyingly almost below the threshold of hearing.

How to get inside…

Without being arrested…

Press can’t go in…

Police will be recognised…

Forensics too…

Brazen it out?

From the park entrance, a voice rises. “This is an infringement of citizen’s rights…”

All heads swing toward the excitement. Cameras follow.

The complaint grows louder. “… We’re living in a fucking police state…”

A leather-clad smoothie towers over Blondie. He looks to have seen too much alcohol and not enough

soap. His chums are keeping Bruiser occupied. “Streets aren’t safe any more. What the fuck are you

doing about this? We’ve gotta right to know!”

The shouting spreads, the crowd surging. Cameras whirr and click. Journalists chatter into

microphones. Police officers dash in from all directions…

Snatching up a clipboard, I stroll to the access flap and inside…

*****

A blur of impressions…

A circle of turf, rimmed by the screen…

A fold-up table with a scatter of coffee cups, files, labelled packets, envelopes and plastic containers…

Jackets and coats tossed at one end…

The marquee…

A raised flap…

Inside… canvas-filtered sunlight on grass… Scattered bloodstains… Pegged markers, numbered…

37a… 37b… 42… 43… 5c… 5d… Men and women moving, taking measurements and photographs.

One sketching.

Organ bags…

A bin containing discarded paper overalls…

…

Swing back to the jackets… A grey zip-up hoodie…

…

A figure emerges…

White-clothed. A pale man. Tall. Long-legged. Silver-haired. Blood bright on his hands

Borje…

*****

For an instant, he clearly doesn’t recognise me. Then, his eyes widen. “Larry? What the hell…”

I react by instinct, locking a hand to his throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jolted back against a supporting post of the marquee, arms flailing, he gurgles against the vee of my

thumb and fingers. Red-faced, scrabbling at my hand... “Choking me…”

I relax my hold a bit.

“What was that?”

“Doctor. I'm a fucking doctor!”

?

I release my grip and he drops, gasping, to all fours. “Doctor?”

“Yes, a doctor.” On hands and knees, he coughs and splutters, clearing his airway. “I'm a police

pathologist, you fucking… maniac.”

For a moment, my thoughts freeze…

Then my brain kicks in again, collecting the detail my first freaked-out impression missed:

The white coverall…

The hair netted back…

And the blood…

Not on the hands, but on vinyl gloves that even now Borje is peeling off.

A rustle behind me. A figure in space uniform. It goggles. “Doc? You okay?”

“Yes.” Borje stands, brushing himself down. “Just...” He gives me the evil eye... “Just a Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

misunderstanding.”

The figure looks doubtful, retreats into the marquee.

Seconds later and another figure emerges, some cop in uniform. He looks to Borje. Looks to me. “Who

are you?” Then, sweeping around. Left. Right. Behind me. “Who let you in here? Press pen’s back that

way.” His arm windmills out, pointing back the way I came. “Out! Now.”

“I am not aware,” hisses Borje, “that this man is with the press.”

Brows arch. “That right?” A finger jabs at my ‘pass’. “So what’s that? Forged? Stolen?”

“I… was given it.”

“Who by?”

Ah… Crap…

The cop gives me an old look. “This way, if you don’t mind. You’ve some explaining to do.”

“There’s no need to…”

“If you prefer to make it formal, I’ll arrest you for assault. Do I gather you know this man, Doctor?”

Borje, arms folded, chin lifted, “Slightly, yes. His name is Lars, I believe. But everyone calls him Larry.”

“Larry what?” Borje shrugs.

Ah… fuck it…

“Waterman,” I say.

The uniform gives me a nod. “You want to press charges, Doctor?”

Borje rubs at his throat. “No, no charges. But I would like to hear what he has to say.”

“Would it be convenient for you to come with us to the station?”

“I can spare you an hour, yes. Give me a minute.” Borje strips off his coverall. Underneath, he’s

wearing everyday clothes: plain dark trousers, roll-neck sweater, black leather oxford shoes. “Okay, I’m

good to go.”

I nod to the heap of coats. “You forgot your jacket.”

“So I did.” He fishes a lightweight, padded body-warmer from the stack. The grey hoodie remains with

the rest.

*****

It isn’t as though I’ve not seen the inside of a cell before, but nonetheless, it’s depressing. Painted in

institutional grey, rancid with the stench of vomit, urine and disinfectant, a thin mattress overlies what

passes for a bed. After a brief consideration of the stains and the likely ecoculture it houses, I don’t feel

much like touching it.

Stashing the reeking thing in a corner, I sit on the bare boards, pondering what I’ve learned, trying to

separate what I know from what I suspect.

Borje…

Forensics?

Fucked that up, didn’t I…

*****

The interview room is equally dreary. The same grey walls.

The same cheap floor covering.

A bare wooden chair for me. Two similar chairs facing me across the table, one occupied by an officer I

don’t recognise.

The mirror on the wall.

The officer shuffles papers…

Self-important little prick…

“… I’m Lieutenant Gibson. Commissioner Stanton informs me, Mr Waterman, that you are known to the

police?”

I have no idea what Stanton might have told the man. And so far, no one has read me my rights.

I settle for sitting back in my seat, folding my arms and biding my time.

I’ve not actually done anything…

Assault?

No charges pressed though…

Gibson pauses, then sighs. “If it’s going to be like that… Let’s cut to the chase, Mr Waterman. Where

were you between the hours of 6 am and 2 pm yesterday?”

“At 6 am, I was in bed with my wife. Later, we were on a shopping trip with friends, including Stanton’s

pal, Haswell, and his wife.”

The forehead furrows. “Who?”

“Haswell. You must have heard of him...”

A memory surfaces… Jenny, who I didn’t then know was my daughter, who’d set herself up as bait to

rescue Haswell’s wife…

… shrieking defiance, facing me down as though I were nothing at all, hurling Haswell’s name at me.

I could have done anything I wanted to her. She should have been terrified of me…

The hell she was…

My Jenny.

Suppressing a smile, I steal her words of more than three years ago.

“… Richard Haswell… Owns half the fucking City. Your boss knows him if you don’t.”

Gibson’s stare stretches out. “Richard Haswell? You were on a shopping trip with him and his wife?” He

flounders. “You can prove this, I suppose?”

“I’m sure Stanton has his phone number…” I turn to face the pockmarked mirror. “Why don’t you call

him? Right now.”

I’ve scored with my guess. Gibson, looking glum, clocks the mirror, stands, exits.

Can’t take more than a minute or two, surely…

It doesn’t. In under five minutes, the door clangs open and Stanton erupts into the room, wearing the

proverbial face like thunder. Gibson dangles behind, but Stanton waves him off. “Go get a coffee. And

don’t drink it next door.”

Gibson glowers but nods and exits. Stanton takes Gibson’s abandoned seat. “Alright, Mr Waterman.

Let’s hear it. What were you doing wandering around a murder scene? If you want to walk out of here

anytime soon, it’d better be good.”

“You spoken to Haswell yet? You’re not pinning this woman’s murder on me if that’s what’s in your

mind.”