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He handed me a digital camera and I flicked through the images on the previewer. The one by the chip shop was dark. Jagged bars hiding a hunched figure, his hands on his head, twisted in a way that reminded me of ‘The Scream’. It wasn’t like the other graffiti I’d seen around East Veil. Most of that was a load of names, garish and amateur. This was something else. I zoomed in on the signature in the bottom corner. CeeJay.
“Told you,” Eric said. “It’s Jackson alright.”
I flicked along to the next.
A crime scene body outline had been sprayed onto the skate ramp. Cartoon-like but gruesome.East Veil kills.Again, there was the CeeJay.
“Quite good, isn’t he?” I remarked, carelessly.
“Good? It’s a bloody eyesore.”
“No security cameras?”
“He knows them. Didn’t catch a thing, even if they did, he wears a hood. Can’t prove shit. Seen the spectacle at the garages? Can’t make bloody sense of it, myself. Pissing vandal.”
I flicked forward a few more, pulse racing at the memory of that place. My blood ran cold as I interpreted the images, guilt and embarrassment and something indeterminable crawling through me. The picture was of Casey. It had to be. A big black dog, in zigzag lines, frozen in mid-leap, tail curling into the sky. Red and purple script, the full height of the garage doors.Thank you.
Thank you.
Shit.
I could feel my cheeks burning.
Eric tutted. “Takes the fucking piss, doesn’t it? That’s going to take hours to clean up, budget’s already tight for this quarter.”
“Has anyone else seen these?”
“Not yet. Brought them straight to you. Hope you can take the little wanker down.”
I smiled, a hollow mask. “I’ll do my best.”
I uploaded the first two scenes to the East Veil archives.
The third never made it.
***
I took a working lunch, catching up on my notes from my meeting with Hannah Jackson the day before. Her usual troutish bluster had been absent, leaving a chain-smoking husk of a woman in its stead.
He’ll get me,she’d said,he’ll break his way in here and he’ll get me.
She’d said nothing of the dog, not one word. Only that her son was a monster, and had been since birth. As if children are ever born evil. Children are sculpted by their parents, I’d seen it a thousand times over on those estates. I’d battled with a whole host of questions in my time with her, all of them fizzing on the tip of my tongue. Questions about Callum, about the dog, about his prison time... I’d asked none, of course, bar those necessary to do my job.
I need security, alarms, extra locks. I need window bars on this place, and one of those fireproof boxes to catch the mail. You’d better get them for me, or I’ll go to the papers!
I assured her I’d do my best. I was doing that a lot lately.
And you’re sure he’s a danger to you, Mrs Jackson?
He’ll fucking kill me if he gets chance! I’ll be dead! He’s got a temper, that lad. A temper like you’ve never seen!
But I had seen it. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop thinking abouthim.
Hell, I needed a distraction.
I checked my Edgeplay login. Five new messages. A couple of idiots with one-liner chat-ups, some guy from Manchester, and someone I’d met once before. I flushed at the memory. A hotel room in Kensington and too much wine. He’d been good, but rough, and I’d been careless. I’d been reckless, in fact. Stupid. He’d given me a damn good fucking but left me bruised for days, requiring a trip down Accident and Emergency after an overly zealous fisting attempt. I clenched my legs at the thought. Fucking ouch.
He’d been good, though. His dirty voice, his edgy sadism... like Masque without the finesse... without the restraint, too.
