Page 8 of Between the Lies

But Mr Mann had loved to talk about the work he did as a police officer. Mann had been more of a parent to Robert than his own mother had time to be. So naturally, when Robert had grown up and found university wasn’t an option thanks to financial constraints, he’d found himself in school to be a police officer.

Yet here he was now: two and a half months after becoming a widower at thirty-five, a year after knowing his wife had miscarried for the second time, and now having witnessed a side of police work he hadn’t experienced before – the last one painted with disappointment and, worse, inhuman carelessness.

Is this what the uniform he wore stood for? Was it just a symbol people hated, feared. An outfit that had come to stand for brutality over protection, for arrest numbers and PR calls over compassion.

‘I don’t care. From where I stand, I feel ashamed to say I’m a police officer.’ Robert sighed. Unfortunately, after everything, that was the awful truth.

He would never be a father; was no longer a husband or a police officer.

He had nothing to live for.

CHAPTERFOUR

The words all swirled together as if someone had dropped ink into water.

Robert blinked, trying to ease the strain. His entire body had begun hurting a while ago, and now parts of his legs had fallen numb from sitting in one position for too long.

Compared to what Anne must’ve suffered though, his discomfort was like peeling the skin from around your nails.

The worst part was that the words Dickheadson had chucked his way were true: Roberthadbeen a bad husband. Despite everything he’d promised Anne and everything he’d sworn to himself, he had fallen short. Just like his own father had.

After her first miscarriage, Anne had needed him. But hearing her cry herself to sleep constantly had sent him begging for the night shift. When he’d find his way home after a long shift, they’d argue over more and more inconsequential things, and then he’d keel over and fall asleep.

Hell, the day before she died, they’d had a blazing row about the washing-up liquid he’d purchased.

Two years ago, he’d told himself they both needed space to cool off and grieve. But that space had lasted longer than he’d expected.

Robert rubbed his eyes, trying to massage the pain away, but it intensified into a headache. He should quit and go get some sleep… Staring at the screen for eighteen hours straight hadn’t given him the answers. What’s to say another hour would?

He pulled up the notes he’d gathered so far. The building where the ‘accident’ had occurred appeared to be a mostly abandoned dump. A barely legit nightclub occupied the ground and basement. The alarm had been sounded at around 4 a.m. when a council worker fixing a road sign had spotted flames emerging from the top of the building. It had been a Thursday morning, and the nightclub had been closed.

Still, there’d been one casualty – his wife.

To his struggling mind, two things didn’t add up.

What had Anne been doing in a near-derelict building on a Thursday morning? No one lived there. The windows had all, apparently, been boarded up. Secondly, Dickheadson had said it was a gas leak, but something about that didn’t make sense…

Robert made a note to check in with the nightclub owner, then he picked up his pen and scribbled,‘CCTV footage?’

A yawn threatened to burst through his lips. Chances were, if he stood up, he would crash to the floor.

He could sleep during the day – it hardly mattered when you were on ‘sick leave’. If not for the mountains of paperwork and enquiries to jump through, Dickheadson would have fired him. So now, with all this free time, Robert could play armchair detective.

A key rattled in the lock, making Robert jerk up. ‘Oww!’ He groaned when his muscles revolted at the sudden movement. ‘Ow!’

So much for his police training.

The front door to his flat swung open. ‘Rob? Shite! What’s happened here?’ Muffled footsteps rushed in.

Robert grimaced but managed to push off the chair. God, it felt like someone was sticking needles into his body and not for acupuncture.

‘Robert!’ the intruder called again, as if to jolt Robert out of a haze.

‘W-What—?’ Robert cleared his throat. God, he was parched. ‘What are you doing here?’

PC Joshua MacLeod studied the drawn curtains, the desk lamp droning along, highlighting the scattered papers on the kitchen table. Then his eyes analysed the rest of the house.

Since Anne’s death, all Robert’d done was use his side of the bed, shower (occasionally) and sit at that table, thinking.

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