not that dedicated. You’re giving up on this case.’
‘It’s not my case to give up on. Give me a break will you?’
This all happens quite slowly but it’s the fastest bit of conversation I’ve been able to take part in for a while and I’m pleased with myself.
I batted it back and forth, it was a decent rally. My mind is getting sharper. I break into a broad smile, pleased with myself for everything that has happened today. He clocks this as we arrive at his car. I go to get in on the passenger side.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I need a lift.’
‘Ok, fine. Where do you live?’
‘By Seven Sisters station.’
‘That’s not on my way.’
‘Are you going to make me walk? I got shot in the head.’
Emre just sighs and cracks; he likes me, he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t, but he likes me.
He backs the car out as I find an open packet of bonbons in his glove compartment.
‘Headlights,’ I say, popping one into my mouth.
‘I was just about to. You’re Mr Rules all of a sudden, huh?’
‘Can’t see without headlights,’ I say, shrugging. He’s flustered.
Our lights crawl along the road in front of us as we cut through the biting evening air. The misted breath of the passers-by rises and drifts up to join the milky clouds above. The temperature has dropped and it’s going to start snowing again soon apparently. It hasn’t snowed since the day of my accident. This is supposed to be one of the coldest winters in London on record, something about a cold front from the Atlantic. 68 days of snow were scheduled so that gives us a few more by the end of a freezing February, by my reckoning.
I’m not interested in the photos. Teenagers are mostly into that stuff. Once you hit fifteen it’s all warm cider and dick pics these days. Look at me! I’ve got one of these! Observe me!
I’m more interested in the picture she drew.
The scent of aftershave in the house.
‘Hey Emre, remind me to remember that Ms Fraser had a rosewood coloured afro that nicely complemented her skin tone, will you?’
‘Okay. Why?’
‘So I remember who she is.’
‘We’re not going back there.’
‘Well, just in case.’
‘You spent an hour with her, are you that forgetful?’
‘I’m not forgetful at all. I’m just not so good with faces.’
‘Is anyone that bad with faces?’
‘Yes, I am. Since the accident. Tomorrow I won’t recognise you either unless I write it down. No offence. Everyone’s face is like a plain black suitcase. I see the shapes and they means nothing to me, it’s like a foreign language. You know that phrase, I don’t remember names but I never forget a face? That’s the opposite of me. Don’t tell anyone though, they won’t like it.’
‘Hmm. No shit. That’s not typically how you’d want a member of the police force to be.’
‘Nothing about me is typically how you’d want a member of the police force to be. But then I’m not a typical person. And I’m not really a member of the police force.’
‘Okay. I think I understand that.’
‘Good. Then we’re on the same page.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
He’s right, I’m not on the same page as anyone, not anymore. We’re not even in the same library.
We drive past low price trainer stores and a football ground.
‘Listen, Tom, I can’t come with you on this trip you’re on. So I’m just going to tell Levine he should find you someone else.’
‘What will you say?’
‘I’ll say we don’t get on.’
‘Why lie?’
‘How do you know I’m lying?’
‘Because you can’t fool me, you like me.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yep. Also, you’ve already told a lie and I know about it and if I tell them about it, it won’t look good for you. I could make trouble for you, Emre Bartu. And I don’t want to do that.’
‘Is that a threat? Are you threatening me now?’
‘Yes, but it’s only ‘cos I like you. Pull over.’
‘What?’
‘Pull over!’
I grab the wheel and that forces Emre to slam on the brakes. We both fly forward but our belts do their jobs and we don’t even suffer a minor whiplash, so I don’t know what he’s so angry about.
‘Are you crazy!?’ he shouts
‘I’m not crazy,’ I mutter as I get out and approach the black car at the side of the road that had drifted into my vision.
Ever since I heard the words ‘missing girl’ I’ve been looking for a blacked out car. You don’t see many cars with blacked out windows and you certainly don’t see many halfway up the kerb without number plates front or back.
I stalk around it and Emre follows.
No broken windows. Tickets all over it. Possibly dumped. Hubcaps missing, which tells me it’s been there long enough for people to start stripping it for parts but not long enough for it to be towed.
‘Tom? Can we do this tomorrow? We can check it out then if you’re interested, but I wanna get home to my girlfriend.’
Most support officers don’t carry batons due to the ‘nonconfrontational’ nature of our work, but we are authorised to do so. I told Levine it would make me feel more comfortable.
‘You’ve got a girlfriend? Nice, good for you,’ I say, smashing into the passenger window with my baton.
‘Shit! Tom? Don’t do that. Let’s do this when we’re on the clock tomorrow, okay? We’ll do it together. We’ll stick together, I promise, but not now.’
It takes a few hits to get through. Then I clear off the loose shards and take a look inside.
It smells chartreuse. It would taste of ink and sound like an E flat. Owing to the blacked out windows it’s dark. But it’s the smell I’m interested in. He joins me, poking his head inside.
‘What would you say that smell is, Emre?’
‘Er, I don’t know. I can’t smell anything.’
Chartreuse, refined yellowing pear-like green, a colour named after a French liqueur.
‘I can’t see anything either,’ he says, interest growing. But I spy the outline of a patterned glove, that I’d say is part of a set. But the other glove, and the possible matching hat and scarf, are nowhere to be seen. Leaving the single glove there, alone, lying limply on the back seat.
Girl missing: Blacked out windows.
It’s like word association. It’s just how my brain works now. That’s not to say I’m right, but if a girl goes missing there are only so many options.
1. She’s gone of her own free will.
2. She’s walked into a trap.
3. She’s been picked up and taken somewhere against her will.
And