The Lover's Children

Chapter 45 – The Idylls of March #17

KLEMPNER

Haswell tops up Beth’s wineglass, then Mitch’s “So, have you two finished your shopping?”

The pair exchange glances. “There’s just a few bits and bobs I still want,” says Mitch. Her eyes flash

wicked. “And I believe Beth wants to buy you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Haswell’s brows rise. “And what…”

His words are cut off by the rising wail of a siren…

Heads turn. People rise from their seats, brows furrowing. Children squawk protests.

A police car squeals to a halt at the far side of the square. Then another. And another. Squad cars

arrow in. An ambulance is close behind. Police tumble out of the cars, some dashing through the park

entrance, others pushing back the crowd. Bollards blocking entrance to traffic descend into the

sidewalk and the ambulance mee-maws in, pedestrians parting before it.

"What the hell's going on?" mutters Haswell. “To have the police arriving in those sorts of numbers…”

“Bomb scare?” suggests James.

Haswell flashes alarm, spins, gesturing Ross over. “Accompany Elizabeth back to the car immediately,

please. Get her home."

The driver cups Beth’s elbow. “Let’s get you out of here, Mrs Haswell.”

She doesn’t look happy. "But..."

Haswell kisses her forehead. "Go. I'll see you later." Meekly, she turns to follow the driver.

Haswell's judgement is good. I agree with him. "Mitch, I'd like you to go too."

She frowns, her lips parting. Haswell lays his hand on hers. "Please, Mitch, go with Elizabeth. You'd be

doing me a favour. She’s more nervous than you and I’d like her to have company."

Mitch’s mouth purses. She knows she’s being eased out. “And Jenny?”

James jangles car keys. “I’ll get her back, Mitch.” She nods, turns and joins the departing pair.

Haswell gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry if I shoved in my oar uninvited there. It seemed the fastest

way to avoid arguments. Mitch is..." He hesitates.

"Less inclined to take instruction than Beth," I finish.

“Quite.”

“No, you don’t!” It’s James, sprinting half a dozen steps to snag Jenny by the elbow. “Whatever’s

happening over there, it’s nothing to do with you.”

She protests, spinning an arm toward the growing activity across the square. “I only wanted to go see

what…”

“I don’t care what you wanted. Stay out of it.” He steers her back to us. “It’s time to head home anyway.

Michael is due a break.”

“Quite right,” says Haswell. “We should all be heading back. Where are you parked, James?”

“Just around the corner.”

*****

James takes the driver’s seat, Haswell getting in beside him. I open the rear door for Jenny, close it

behind her, then tap on the driver’s window. As it winds down, “I’ll see you in a while.”

James frowns. “You’re not coming with us?”

“No, I want to see what’s happening back there.”

Jenny moves to open her door. “I'll come with you.”

I ignore her. “Get Jenny out of here. It might take you and Haswell together to do it.”

He nods, slapping down the child lock, then against Jenny’s enraged protests, pulling away.

*****

Police are everywhere, holding back the crowd, redirecting scowling shoppers. Lights flash blue.

Another siren wails in and a squad car muscles through the now-congested traffic and into the park. At Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

the junction, more official vehicles arrive from the opposite direction.

People shift and surge, reacting uneasily, too densely packed for me to see through. Women,

previously window-shopping, scurry away. Others are streaming away, small children gripped by the

wrist, bawling as they are towed from the scene. “Don’t wanna go home. Wanna play. Wanna go on the

swings.”

Some men do the same with the women they accompany, drawing them away from the growing chaos.

Other couples stand, slack-jawed, gawping.

I suppose I’m as practised a gawper as any. After watching a couple of green-coated medics dashing

past, I settle for finding a vantage point, stone steps topped by a statue of a mounted figure in uniform

commemorating something or other. Whoever he was, the extra few feet height gives me a view over

the crowd.

Up ahead, police are thick on the ground, setting up a cordon. Technicians are raising a screen with

urgent speed, concealing whatever is beyond.

From off-side, a logo'd van swerves in: City News. Dodging taxis, trucks and unwary pedestrians it

screeches to a halt. Within seconds, it disgorges crew, cameras, and a woman I recognise as a

breakfast tv reporter. Hair and face immaculately groomed, she yells instructions to her crew.

Less than a minute later, another van pulls in, then another: competitor news stations.

Reporters and crowd alike slam up against the cordon, police pushing back.

A familiar face emerges from one of vehicles, his expression grim. The beefy figure of Haswell’s chum

Stanton towers over most of those around him as he strides past the cordon and into the tented

enclosure.

What the hell’s going on?

Maybe James was right…

The police commissioner doesn't turn up in person because someone's had their pocket picked.

Microphones aim his way. "Commissioner! Can you confirm reports of another victim of the Slasher?"

"Sir, is this serial killer now running free in the City?"

Stanton pushes past, his face visibly red even under his dark skin. "No comment." His eyes sweep the

reporters, the crowd, briefly settle on me. His gaze lingers before he gives me a brief nod, then moves

on and he vanishes into the enclosure.

The City News reporter is blathering away to the camera. I can't hear a word. After a moment, my own

stupidity slaps me in the face, and I pull up the station on my mobile.

The reporter standing ahead of me speaks on-screen above ticker-tape headlines scrolling beneath...

Breaking News...

"Reports are that that the so-called Slasher has claimed another victim. The remains were found a

short time ago by a jogger on his morning run. The identity of the victim has not yet been released, but

police confirm the victim is female and was dead when discovered. A reliable source indicates that,

behind closed doors, officials are now calling the killer, ‘The Surgeon’. City News is informed that Police

Commissioner William Stanton will be making a statement shortly..."

I’m distracted from the report by something…

… catching my eye…

… a flash of something bright…

But a quick scan forward doesn’t flag up whatever it was caught my peripheral vision…

Men in working clothes, or suit, or jeans, trainers, tee-shirts and hoodies, craning and gawping.

Women in whatever’s passing for fashion, or tucking kids into their skirts, scurrying away.

Groups of gawking teenagers, some pretending bravado…

A woman with bleached blonde hair stands beside them…

Perhaps that was it. A flash of silver hair.

People mill and sway. It’s hard to pick out detail. A couple of faces I recognise mutter together. Tarik

and Dawes run a cathouse down by the docks, not far from where Finchby once had his dive, before I

started Haswell’s planned demolition works early. Heads close, they talk sidelong to each other…

Bad for business…

A pair of obvious street hookers cling together, arms wrapped around each others’ waists.

What am I looking for?

I’m not sure, but internal radar is flagging up something that my conscious brain hasn’t caught up with.

I’ve learned to listen to my unconscious. It pays more attention sometimes than I do.

I scan the scene, quartering the ground with my eyes:

Police tent… Cordon… Officers… Reporters… Yelling idiots waving placards…

What the fuck good do they think that does?

… Young… Old… Male… Female… White… Brown… Black… And every shade between…

It’s as good a slice of humanity as you could see. The lurid details of the murders that have made it to

the press have prompted speculation, but previous reports had been that the women taken had been

found in out of the way spots: alleys, back lanes. I recall one was dumped in the river.

But to happen here, in this place, in the beating heart of the City, something like a panic reaction is

sparking…

None of that answers why my gut is telling me to look at the crowd and not the police scene…

I sweep the stage again…

Aahhh…

A familiar face pushes out from the melee.

Borje...

What’s he doing here?

Middle of the working day…

?

Watching the show?

He's flushed, as though he's been running, and his silver-blond hair is disordered, dark with sweat. He

pushes against the frenetic crowd, I think angling for a better view. Maybe trying to get closer to the

cordon.

Scanning ahead, his gaze sweeps over and past the throng, then sweeps back, settling on me. Eyes

widening, he nods acknowledgement, but then, as a gap opens, he sets off again at a run and I lose

him in the chaos.

Making my way down the steps I push through, but I’ve lost him.

Shit!

Weaving through young and old alike, I follow the line of sight I had…

“Do you mind!”

“S’cuse me…”

But he’s gone, vanished as though he’d never been there.

“Excuse me, sir. Get back from there.” A police officer blocks my way, giving me a meaningful nod.

Do I tell James?

No… He thinks the man’s a friend…

And truthfully, what do I know?

Nothing.

*****