Closed Road

AJ DRIVES TOO fast. He knows these roads well, and usually he absorbs the colours of the trees, the flowers in the hedgerows – sometimes he’s too engrossed by them to notice the important things like speed signs and other motorists. But tonight the countryside is just a flattened grey cloud on the periphery of his attention. He is eaten up by wanting to see Melanie.

He’s called her maybe twenty times. Each time it’s gone to voicemail. He’s left three messages, with varying degrees of frustration, anger and forced patience. ‘We need to talk about this.’ ‘Can we chat – no blame, no anger, just a chat to get things straight?’

He doesn’t say, You need to explain where Keay is in all of this. Have you covered for him? Have you been covering for something he’s cooked up with Isaac?

It’s six when he arrives at her house. Nine minutes before the satnav said he would. He can tell as he pulls into her road and sees blue lights flashing from several vehicles parked in the close ahead that whatever mistakes Melanie has made she’s paying for them tenfold. At the neck of the road, a uniformed cop is unravelling blue-and-white police cordon tape.

It’s a closed road. Not a crime scene. To AJ the difference is immaterial.

He puts the car into neutral and lets it roll slowly towards the cop. The officer blinks, blinded by the headlights coming at him. He stops unravelling the tape, bends his head to speak quickly into the radio attached to his hi-vis jacket, then lowers the tape reel and comes towards AJ. Batting his hands together and breathing out frosted clouds like a dragon.

‘Yes, sir? Can I help?’

AJ stares past him at the house. He can see people moving in the garden. There’s a van parked to the right of the driveway – white and unmarked. He can see into the kitchen: it’s a mess. Food and plates smashed on the floor. Windows smashed. Someone has torn the place apart.

‘I’m looking for Melanie Arrow. She’s a resident here.’ He licks his lips, not taking his eyes off the mayhem inside the house. ‘But I guess you’re not going to let me through.’

‘We’re carrying out a routine inquiry, sir. Are you a relative? A friend?’

‘Of Melanie’s? Yes – I am, very much a friend.’

‘Have you any ID?’

AJ has. His NHS card is in his wallet. He holds it up. ‘I work with her. DI Caffery knows me.’

‘Is he MCIT? Avon and Somerset?’

‘Yes.’

The cop nods. ‘And you last saw Melanie . . .?’

‘A couple of hours ago. At the hospital we work in. Can you tell me what’s happening?’

The cop doesn’t answer. He half straightens, hands behind his back. Turns his head left and right, as if surveying the horizon. As if weighing up his response.

‘We don’t know. She’s not here.’

AJ closes his eyes. He puts his finger to his forehead.

‘Sir? Are you OK?’

He nods weakly. The cop is leaning through the window, a hand resting on his shoulder.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m fine. Honestly, fine.’