LAST RITES. Neil White

own. There was no one to hurt her, just her own thoughts and dark despair.

      Just then, the speakers went silent. Sarah heard someone outside the room. She froze, felt her stomach lurch. What was coming now?

      Her strength disappeared when she heard the lock turn in the door.

      Laura looked down at the arrest handover package in front of her. It was an A3 piece of paper, folded over, holding a print-out of the incident log and custody record, the former telling her how the job had been called in, the latter telling her what had happened to the prisoner since his arrival.

      Pete buzzed around her desk, trying to see what she had.

      ‘A scrapper,’ she said, her voice struggling to hide her contempt.

      ‘Todd Whitcroft?’ he asked.

      She checked the name on the front sheet. ‘Yeah, that's him. Do you know him?’

      Pete raised his eyebrows. ‘Blackley's premier-league scrapper. Feeds his kids by stripping the town's roofs of their lead and cashing it in at the scrap yard. He's moved on to cables now, because he thinks they're less traceable.’

      ‘Maybe he's got scared of heights,’ Laura said as she skim-read the front-sheet. ‘It looks like they caught him with a van full of them.’

      Pete sighed. ‘Oh great.’

      ‘What's wrong?’ she asked.

      ‘Todd Whitcroft never admits anything. He will say he had permission, or else he will say nothing at all.’

      Laura sensed the day stretching ahead, and she was overtaken by a sense of gloom.

      ‘So we have to catalogue it all,’ she said, her voice weary, ‘just so that we can prove where it came from.’

      ‘That's about it,’ he said, as he hopped off the desk and headed for the door. ‘No time like the present.’

      Laura got to her feet wearily, and then followed Pete out of the room. As they walked along the corridor, Pete bouncing small talk off the walls, Laura heard conversation coming out of the Incident Room further along. Her cheeks turned red as she remembered the humiliation from the day before, but she couldn't help glancing in as she went past. It looked like most were working the phones, chasing down old leads just to check if they had missed something. Only one person looked up, the cop in the polo shirt with the crew cut from the day before. He was still casually dressed, much different to the suits around Carson, and he smiled a greeting to Laura as he noticed her, a nod of reassurance.

      Pete pressed the security button and they both went into the cobbled yard at the back of the station. Laura groaned as she saw the dirty cables spilling out of the back of a battered Transit van.

      Pete passed her the clipboard. ‘You make notes, and I'll get in the van and shout out what we have.’

      Laura was about to object that she wasn't his secretary, but then she looked at her hands, clean and scrubbed, and then at her suit. Maybe there was a time for chivalry.

      ‘Have you thought some more?’ the masked man asked Sarah as he walked into the room. He was still again, his arms by his sides.

      ‘About what?’ She covered herself as best she could, arms over her breasts, her thighs clamped together.

      ‘About killing me,’ he answered.

      Sarah shook her head in exasperation. ‘I don't know who you think I am, and I don't know what you want from me.’

      He nodded at her. Sarah thought she saw the shape of a ponytail sticking out of the cloth, bobbing up and down in time with his head. ‘I know what you are,’ he said. ‘But you have to work it out too.’

      Sarah turned away and faced the wall.

      ‘Do you think you are the only one here with compassion?’ he asked.

      Sarah took a few deep breaths before she answered. ‘It feels that way,’ she said quietly.

      ‘You'd be wrong at that,’ he replied. ‘Morals suit everyone differently. But what of the things you really want? Not the fantasies people tell you you should have, but your real fantasies, the ones you don't tell anyone about, the ones that come to you in the night? They're your real morals. You should embrace them.’

      ‘And what do you want them to be?’ Sarah asked, her voice rising. ‘Murder, like you, or worse? Torture? Rape? Is that what you want me to tell you I think about? Or maybe me being raped, how I like to be hurt?’

      He said nothing.

      ‘Or perhaps I just want normal things,’ Sarah continued. ‘Like hoping I meet someone I love and settle down, have a happy home. What's wrong with that?’

      ‘Cowardly,’ he said. ‘Everyone has a darker side. Feed it, grow it.’

      ‘And what are your morals?’ Sarah asked as she turned back around. ‘What sick things do you dream of?’

      He gestured around the room. ‘I dream of this. Of you, in here, my butterfly fastened by the wings. And of this,’ and then he turned and dragged something into the room. Sarah saw that it was a camp bed. ‘I feel like showing you a kindness. There is no trick. This is just how I feel today.’

      Sarah looked at the bed. She craved the bed. She saw a blanket on top. Maybe if she could get in, she could drown out the noise and get some warmth. She closed her eyes as they became filled with tears. She had wanted to be strong, but she had more basic needs.

      ‘You have seen what I can do,’ he continued. ‘I will follow my emotions. You have to make me want to be kind, if that is how you want me to be.’

      ‘And if I make you feel different? If you don't feel kind?’

      ‘I'll just follow my feelings,’ he said, his voice sinister, and when Sarah swallowed, he added, ‘and my imagination.’

      ‘I'll do as I'm told,’ Sarah whispered.

      He dragged the bed further into the middle of the room and unfolded the blanket.

      ‘Can I have my clothes?’ she asked.

      ‘Do as you are told and be rewarded,’ he whispered. And then, as Sarah climbed under the blanket, grateful for the warmth, he slipped out of the room.

      The noise of the heartbeat returned, but it seemed more bearable now.

       Chapter Eighteen

      I had been sitting in my car for nearly an hour before I saw Katie walking up the hill to her house. It was steep, and so she didn't see me until she reached her front door, her head down as she climbed.

      She had looked deep in thought, but brightened when I stepped out of the car.

      ‘Mr Garrett,’ she said coyly. ‘Do you have some more questions?’

      ‘You're too perceptive,’ I replied, playing along. ‘Is that okay?’

      ‘Depends on the questions,’ she said, and she smiled.

      I glanced towards the door. ‘Shouldn't we go inside?’

      She considered that for a moment, and then reached for her keys. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

      As I went in, I noticed different things to our first meeting. The house seemed quieter, like it had become used to silence. The wind chimes in the hall tinkled like broken glass as we entered, but they sounded too loud. I noticed the smell this time. It was bleach, cleaning fluids, a touch of fresh paint. I glanced into the living room, tried to get an impression of Sarah, but Katie went straight into the back room again, dumped her bag onto the sofa and sat down with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

      ‘You mentioned letters,’ I said bluntly.