‘Where were you Sunday night?’ he shot out. He wasn’t sure how many more minutes he could remain in this man’s company.
‘At work,’ he shot back. Amusement was dancing in his eyes. ‘I supervise the night shift in a supermarket.’
‘You think this is funny?’ Dawson asked.
He could see Bryant’s warning glance to his left. He shrugged in response.
Flint tipped his head. ‘I honestly have no feelings on that, whatsoever,’ he said. ‘What does amuse me is your noticeable change towards me since I mentioned my political views.’
‘You must get that a lot?’ Dawson said, trying to keep control of the rage building inside him. Oh, how he wanted to retaliate. Give this man his real thoughts.
Bryant stepped forward. ‘Those views are your own, Mr Flint, and they are your right, however abhorrent they may be to a normal, sane person. Although, sending threatening, abusive messages is not your right.’
Dawson felt himself reacting just as badly to his colleague’s measured, reasonable tone. There was nothing reasonable about this disgusting piece of shit.
‘Threatening to rape his wife, slit the throat of his children,’ Dawson raged, taking a step forward.
Flint looked unapologetic. ‘The end justifies the means in my book. If they pack up and—’
‘They’re fucking human beings,’ Dawson interrupted, aching to wipe the satisfied smile from the bastard’s face.
‘Not my kind of human beings, Sergeant,’ he said, imperiously.
Dawson found himself moving towards the man. ‘What the hell gives you the?—’
Bryant stepped right between them and started speaking.
‘Gary Flint, I’m arresting you on suspicion of…’
Dawson turned away in frustration as Bryant calmly stated the caution and applied a pair of handcuffs. He took a few deep breaths and worked to compose himself. He was by far the most agitated person in the room.
‘You’re not even bothered that you’re in some serious shit?’ he asked.
Flint smirked. ‘Officer, you want me to be sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m not. I will take the consequences for my actions, but it won’t change a thing about how I feel whether I’m here or in prison.’
‘But at least it’s one more scumbag off the streets,’ Dawson spat.
Flint surprised him by laughing out loud.
‘Oh, Sergeant, I can assure you that you have much bigger problems than me.’
Dawson was prevented from replying as his colleague turned Flint and pushed him towards the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Kim took a good look at the vehicle as she crossed the road.
Her eyes widened as she got closer and saw the full impact of the damage. Bloody hell, no wonder the woman had stood no chance. The entire driver’s side front wing had been smashed and crumpled into the middle of next week. The mangled metal reminded Kim of an unironed white shirt. Pieces of orange and clear glass littered the floor and the front bumper hung down, sadly.
Kim paused for a moment before continuing. She looked up and down the road. It was a 40 mph zone leading up to the traffic island. Something wasn’t making sense here.
A suspicion began to build in her stomach.
A man, who she assumed to be the driver, attempted to get up from his seated position on the pavement. She indicated for him to stay where he was. If the two pools of vomit to the left of him were anything to go by, he would not be stable on his own two feet.
‘Detective Inspector Stone,’ she said, showing him her ID.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said, immediately.
She appraised him slowly, leaving his statement hanging between them. She guessed him to be late fifties, with a greying stubble evident on his chin. Glasses had been pushed on to the top of his head and left there.
Kim leaned down, bringing herself to his level.
‘Are you okay, Mr?…’
‘Brady,’ he answered. ‘Allan Brady.’
Kim had opened her nostrils when he spoke but she detected no obvious smell of alcohol. He would be tested for that shortly but her initial feeling was that he was not driving under the influence.
She raised herself back to a standing position as the smell of the vomit began to waft towards her.
‘Mr Brady, can you tell me exactly what happened?’
He rubbed at his head and realised his glasses were there. He popped them back to their rightful position.
‘H… how is she?’ he stuttered, pleadingly.
‘I can’t answer that right now, Mr Brady. If you could just tell me…’
‘She’s d… dead, isn’t she?’ he cried, searching her face.
She gave away nothing. ‘Mr Brady, I can’t…’
‘She’s dead, I know it. I know she’s dead and it’s my fault. I should have seen… I sh… should have stopped… I should…’
His words were muffled as his hands covered his face and the sobbing began.
Although she had neither confirmed nor denied his question, Kim’s failure to reassure him the woman was still alive had given him his answer.
‘Mr Brady, you need to stop thinking about that, right now. Can you tell me how it happened?’ she asked again.
‘I can’t think. It was all so quick. She just appeared from nowhere. I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I?’ he asked, sobering.
Kim was amazed how quickly self-preservation kicked in. Right now she had no clue who was to blame for the woman’s death but she wondered if he’d be so quick to think about his pay cheque if she took him back and showed him the victim’s wounds.
‘Mr Brady, would you mind?…’
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ he asked, suddenly. ‘Am I being charged with murder?’
‘Mr Brady, I need you to calm down and stop getting ahead of yourself here. I’m simply asking you what happened.’
Suddenly, his face closed down. ‘I think I’m going to keep quiet until…’
‘Were you speeding, Mr Brady?’ she asked, hoping for an answer before he shut her out completely.
‘Excuse me?’ he asked.
She was happy to clarify. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brady, but the impact of this accident at forty miles per hour is not making any sense to me,’ she said, truthfully.
He looked from her to the red circled traffic sign staring at them.
‘You don’t think… I wasn’t… my speed…’ he stumbled, trying to get his point across.
She shrugged. ‘The severity of the damage to your vehicle and the victim for a walking pedestrian at forty miles per hour doesn’t seem to compute.’
Travis sidled up beside her as the van driver shook his head.
‘No officer, you’ve got it wrong. She didn’t walk into the path of my van. That lady was pushed.’
TWENTY-NINE
17 OCTOBER 1989
Jacob James had no clue what time of day it was.
The darkness cloaking him was stifling. Constantly he found himself fighting down waves of panic.
He had no concept of how long he had been in the room. At first, he had tried to keep a rough idea but the darting thoughts had interrupted his count.