Ophelia (Ophelia book 1) Page 3

  "I'm fighting your corner," he says, opening the first folder and taking a look. "Homeless girl found dead in a park," he continues, reading from the first page. "Jordan took a look at this case but he didn't get anywhere. We never even identified the girl. She's on a slab while we try to locate her parents, but at the end of the month I'll probably just give the order for her to be cremated. We can't keep her around forever, but why don't you keep yourself busy by having a nose about?" He flicks through to the next page. "It's a gruesome one, too, if that's your kind of thing. Lots of blood and guts."

  "So that's what I'm reduced to?" I ask. "Nick Jordan's cast-offs? Cases that no-one cares about?"

  "A dead girl's a dead girl," he replies, passing the folder to me. "Give it a quick once over, see if you can make any headway, and then decide if it's worth pursuing. No-one's gonna make a fuss about some homeless junkie. There are no anguished parents demanding answers, no blood-sucking journalists adding fuel to the fire. Natasha Simonsen was a photogenic young woman who looked good on a front page; this dead junkie had a bunch of tattoos and piercings. It's a nice, quiet case that won't draw any attention, and that's why I'm giving it to you."

  Staring at the case report for a moment, I can't help feeling that I'm being punished. It might sound harsh, but the brutal truth is that no-one gives a damn about some random homeless girl who was found dead almost a month ago. It's the kind of case that usually gets a cursory investigation before being marked up as unsolved, and then kept on file just in case it's ever useful. I'm going from one of the most high-profile murders in London to a case that Nick Jordan dropped due to lack of interest. It's a complete waste of my time.

  "Go on," Greenwell says, finishing his whiskey. "Go home, or out to the pub, or whatever it is you do to relax, and tomorrow morning you can start on that dead girl. You never know, Laura, you might even get somewhere with it. Meanwhile, you need to keep well out of public sight until the fuss dies down. Just count yourself lucky you're not facing a formal disciplinary panel, and try to focus on the positives. You're still young, you're still smart, and you've still got a job. This is just a set-back. We all have them from time to time, so you need to get over it and move on with the next case."

  "But -"

  "I know what it's like," he continues. "When you come into the job, you think you're never going to fuck anything up. You think you're the best detective the world has ever seen, and it's hard letting go of that idea. Laura, you're still good, but you need to pick yourself up, dust yourself down and carry on."

  "Fine," I reply, realizing that there's no point fighting him. Putting the folder down, I head to the door.

  "Laura," he adds. "You should probably take the case folder with you. At least pretend to be interested. And I don't know what you do to unwind, but whatever it is, do a lot of it tonight. You need to reset your head." He pauses. "How's Maureen doing?"

  "The same," I reply. "Maybe slightly worse."

  "I know it must be hard -"

  "I'll see you tomorrow," I reply, cutting him off. "Bright and early."

  Grabbing the folder, I leave the room without saying goodbye. In a way, I wish there was going to be an official investigation into my handling of the Natasha Simonsen case; at least I'd be able to defend myself, and I'd have a chance to work on the evidence and maybe prove that I was right about Daniel Gregory after all. As things stand, however, I've been written off as a failure and now I'm supposed to spend my time looking into a month-old murder that no-one else can even be bothered to investigate. Sure, Greenwell says I'll get another chance at the big-time eventually, but I can't shake the feeling that he's just letting me down gently.

  Twenty-eight, and I'm already on the scrap heap.

  "See you down the pub?" one of the custody sergeants calls out.

  I smile politely, but I keep walking. People are right when they say I need to unwind, but getting drunk isn't going to do the job. I need to find some other kind of release. Unfortunately, I only have one real option.

  Chapter Four

  Ophelia

  "Spare some change?" I ask, but the man just hurries past me, not even making eye contact. He had a nice face and I really thought he might stop, but I guess I was wrong. I'm usually pretty good at predicting these things.

  I watch the crowd for a moment, trying to pick out someone who looks like they might reply. Someone with a kind face, or someone who's already made the mistake of making eye contact with me. Most people ignore me when I'm out begging, but there's always someone who looks.

  "Spare some change?" I ask a woman as she passes me.

  "Sorry," she replies, looking a little embarrassed as she continues on her way.

  Reaching into my pocket, I run my fingertips over the coins I've managed to collect so far this afternoon. A fifty pence, two twenties, and three ones, which means I've got ninety-three pence. It's not exactly a fortune, but it's only slightly below average for a gray-skied Tuesday, and I can quit as soon as I get to a pound. I always hit my targets.

  Pulling out my notebook for a moment, I double-check my data for begging and see that the problem is probably the weather. When the sky's gray like this, people aren't so inclined to give money; it's a trend I've been noticing for a while, and I guess I should know better than to try to go against human nature. Still, I want to get to a pound in change for today, even if it means altering my schedule and shuffling a few plans around for the afternoon. I make a quick note in the margins before putting the notebook back in my pocket.

  "Spare some change?" I ask another woman.

  She ignores me.

  "Spare some change?" I ask a man.

  "Piss off."

  I take a deep breath and try to reset my head. It's just past lunchtime and I'm standing on the Strand, outside a clothes shop, and I know someone's going to move me on sooner or later. Someone'll come out of the shop and tell me I'm disturbing the customers, or a police officer'll come past and stop to ask me questions. It's as if I'm invisible to all the people whose attention I'm trying to attract, but visible to the people who can cause me problems. Life would be a lot easier if the situation was reversed, but I'm not in charge of how the world works.

  "Can you spare some change?" I ask as a passing woman glances at me.

  "Get a job," she says with a broad, fake smile that looks like it was painted onto her face.

  "But -"

  "Get a job," she says again, with a hint of arrogant confidence in her voice. "Seriously, love. Get a fucking job and stop freeloading, yeah?"

  As she walks away, she looks back at me for a moment, and I can see the contempt in her eyes. She can't be much older than me, but she obviously thinks she's smarter. I hate people like her; people who think I'm on the streets because I'm lazy or because I'm some kind of addict. I guess I can't blame them. After all, a lot of people in my situation are addicted to something, and at times it's been hard to keep myself clean. Then again, I think I've got a pretty good survival instinct, and there's no way I'm going to die on the streets.

  I've got plans.

  This, all of this - the homelessness and the cold and the pain and the headaches - is all just temporary. I'm going to get back on my feet eventually.

  "Sorry, you're going to have to move," says a voice suddenly.

  Turning, I see that a woman has come out of the shop. She looks a little embarrassed, and I guess I feel bad for her. After all, she probably doesn't really care about me being here, but no-one likes beggars in their doorway.

  "We've had a few complaints," she continues. "Sorry. You're gonna have to move on or I'll call the police. It's not up to me. It's my manager. She says we can't have people loitering in the doorway."

  I turn and start shuffling away.

  "Sorry," she calls after me.

  After I've taken a few steps, a man almost knocks me over as he hurries past, letting out a muttered obscenity as he goes. I swear, sometimes it's like people can't even see me. Figuring that ninety-three pence i
s probably enough money for today, I briefly make plans to head back down to the river before reminding myself that my goal is a pound, and I can't afford to start cutting corners. Once I reach the door of a fast-foot restaurant, I stop and watch the crowd for a moment. Seven more pence. That's all I need, and then I'll be able to go and find Josephine.

  I've got a busy day lined up.

  "Hi," I say, holding out my hand as a passerby briefly makes eye contact with me. "Please, can you spare some change?"

  Chapter Five

  Laura

  "It is!" the girl whispers. "I swear! Look!"

  It's getting late, and I'm standing by the cheese cabinet in a grocery store. The place is pretty much empty, but there are two teenage girls in a nearby aisle and I'm pretty sure they've recognized me from the news. I can't even begin to imagine why teenagers would even be bothering to watch the news, but they've taken to following me around the store at a not-so-discreet distance, muttering to each other about me.

  Great. I always wanted to be famous.

  Over at the main counter, the bored-looking cashier seems more focused on her magazine. I guess I should have known that sooner or later someone would spot me somewhere and recognize me, and at least I can be grateful that there aren't any do-gooder types around; I'm convinced that eventually some angry old hag is going to storm up to me and accuse me of failing poor Natasha Simonsen.

  Suddenly I realize that the giggling and whispering has stopped.

  Looking over my shoulder, I figure the girls have gone. I head along to the other end of the cheese cabinet and pick out a block of Parmesan. I stare at it for a moment as I try to decide whether I really need it or not. After checking over my shoulder again and seeing that the cashier isn't paying attention, I turn and head along the next aisle. I know where the cameras are in this store, so once I'm in the bread aisle I carefully slip the block of cheese into my coat pocket before grabbing a loaf and dropping it into my basket.

  So easy.

  My heart is racing, but I know no-one saw me. No-one ever sees me. That's the whole point. I've just got this face that blends into the background. Lucky me.

  "Excuse me," says a voice suddenly.

  Almost jumping out of my skin, I turn to see that the two teenage girls have suddenly reappeared. I open my mouth to jabber some kind of apology about the cheese, but finally my addled brain untwists itself and I realize that there's no way these girls are store detectives. It takes a moment before I spot the tabloid newspaper that one of the girls is holding out toward me, along with a pen.

  "Sorry, but can you sign this?" she asks.

  I stare at her.

  "Sorry," she continues, turning the paper around so I can see the front page story about Daniel Gregory's trial, complete with a box-out showing a photo of my face alongside the words 'Incompetent cop'. I guess the evening edition is out already and the media frenzy is getting into full swing. I'm going to be ridiculed in public for a few days until some other poor target comes wandering along.

  "Sign it, yeah?" the girl continues, struggling to suppress a giggle. "Go on, please? It's for my Mum."

  "You want me to..." I glance over at the cashier and see that she's finally paying attention. At least, that's what I assume from the fact that she's staring at me with her mouth hanging open.

  "Can you just sign your autograph?" the girl continues. "Please? I won't sell it or anything. I just want it so I can show people. You're the first famous person I've ever seen."

  "I'm not famous," I reply cautiously.

  "You are right now," she says with a grin. "I saw you on TV."

  Figuring that I don't want to cause a fuss, I take the newspaper and try to hide the fact that my hands are shaking as I scribble my name. My mind is blank, and it's only when I pass the newspaper back to the girl that I realize I probably should have refused. Still, it's done now and it'd make more of a fuss if I tried to get the paper back. She'll just have a laugh about me with her mates and then probably try to stick the autographed newspaper on some online auction site. At most, she'll make a tenner from it, and I don't think I have the energy to stop her.

  "Cheers," she says, turning and hurrying away with her friend. They're still whispering and laughing as they head out of the shop.

  "Are you really famous?" the cashier asks, sounding slightly curious.

  "No," I reply, grabbing a jar of pasta sauce before making my way to the counter. My heart is pounding and I'm tempted to pay for the cheese, but I figure there's no need to panic. Taking my items out of the basket, I'm fully aware that I must seem like a nervous mess, although at least I've got an excuse. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel more alive right now than I've felt for weeks. I should have done this sooner.

  "Are you that actor?" the cashier continues, gawping at me as she starts ringing up my purchases.

  "No," I say with a trembling voice, "I'm not an actor. I'm no-one."

  "But why did they -"

  "No idea," I say, forcing a smile. "I guess they mistook me for someone else. Probably someone from a TV show or something."

  "Huh," she mutters.

  The rest of the transaction is completed in relative silence, and although the cashier is clearly still curious, she at least doesn't bother to ask any more questions. She stares at me as I pack my bag, though, and I feel flushed as I smile politely at her and head out of the store. There's a part of me that keeps expecting the cashier to call out and challenge me about the cheese, but finally I step over the threshold and take a deep breath.

  I got away with it.

  Again.

  Once I'm outside, I glance around to make sure there are no more autograph-hunters nearby, before making my way to my car. I swear to God, it feels as if my heart is about to burst out of my chest, and I'm seriously starting to wonder if I might faint. By the time I reach the car, I can barely keep my hands steady as I fumble in my pockets for the key. I'm a goddamn nervous wreck, and it's only when I finally get into the car and pull the door shut that I'm able to take a deep breath and at least try to calm down.

  "Shit shit shit," I mutter. "Holy fucking God, you have to stop this".

  After a moment, realizing that I've started talking to myself, I take another deep breath and then sit in silence for a moment.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out the block of cheese. It's so stupid, but finally I start to feel better. It's crazy how something so simple could be so fulfilling. I don't even need Parmesan tonight, and I could certainly afford to pay for it. It's just that nothing else makes my heart beat so fast these days.

  Nothing else makes me feel alive.

  Chapter Six

  Ophelia

  "Have you seen anyone weird hanging about?" I ask as I follow Josephine along the street.

  "This is London," she replies with a faint smile. "I can't remember the last time I saw someone who wasn't weird. All the sane people fled a long time ago. There ain't nobody left around here but us loonies, and I'm including all the proper people in that group."

  "Proper people?" I ask.

  She smiles.

  "You know what I mean," I continue. "I think something's happening. I've been hearing stories about this guy who -"

  "Can't you relax for one moment?" she asks, interrupting me. "Every time I see you, you've got some crackpot theory and you just ramble on and on like it's the most important thing in the world. Is this why you came to find me today? Am I the only person who'll still listen to your stupid ideas? I wouldn't be surprised. I'm too tolerant and patient for my own good, but everyone has a limit."

  "It's not -"

  "Give it a rest," she says firmly. "I'm too tired and too old to listen to your shit, Ophelia. Go and bother someone else. You're running around like a blue-arsed fly, and here I am, just trying to put together the cost of a cup of coffee without being bothered too much."

  "Here," I reply, grabbing fifty pence from my glove and holding it out to her.

  "You can't spare that," s
he grunts.

  "It's okay," I continue. "I'm seven pence down for today but overall I'm forty-five pence up on my target for the week, so I'm sure I can pull it back. Overall, since the start of the year, I'm 8% up on the amount I made in the previous twelve months, and that's not counting -"

  "Jesus," she mutters.

  "I'm serious!"

  Sighing, she takes the money.

  "You go around giving people all your cash," she says with a sigh, "and you're gonna end up worse than ever. You need to get a little common sense into that busy head of yours, girl."

  "People might be dying," I tell her, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my notebook. "It's been going on for a few months, and I've been keeping track of things." With fumbling fingers, I start going through the pages, trying to find the section on the killings. "There's a pattern," I continue, "and no-one else is paying attention, but I can see it."

  "And you're gonna save the day, are you?" She grins, and it's clear that she's yet another person who doesn't take me seriously. "Sometimes I'd love to have gotten a look at you when you were younger, and seen what you used to be like. Have you always been a bit weird, kid, or did you go a little crazy when you hit the streets? 'Cause I think you might be one of those types who's always been a bit on the wild side, if you catch my drift."

  "I don't know," I reply, still trying to find the right place in my notebook, "but I've been working on this for a while and I'm sure I'm right. The patterns really stand out once you start to notice them. I really think there's someone out there, and he's killing people."

  "Killing who?"

  "Gary's gone missing."

  "Good," she grunts. "That guy's a waste of space. Whatever happened to him, I hope it was painful."

  "He's my friend," I point out.

  "No," she continues, "he's a thieving, opportunist scumbag. Just because he's a little nicer than the average thieving opportunist scumbag doesn't mean he's a nice person or that anyone should give a damn where he's gone. You need to kick these little obsessions, girl, or you're gonna disappear down a rabbit hole." She pauses for a moment, and then finally she sighs. "It's too late, isn't it? Tell me something, have you ever had proper psychiatric help? I'm not joking. I want to know."