The Trail Killer

Twenty-nine

Her memory of it would later prove stuttering, lacking in fluidity. A series of blurred snapshots soundtracked by occasional hissed blasts of a mental audiotape.

Haring up the station entrance steps, the sheet of paper fluttering in her hand. Over at the front desk, Sergeant Brown's initial expression of surprise turning to one of exploding rage, his voice booming out after her as she swept through the swing doors into the main corridor.

Shields, you're not allowed through there anymore! For Christ's sake, come back here, Shields!

Hurtling then up the stairs to the first floor - heaving herself up those steps two at a time, uniformed bodies lurching out of the way, backs arched against the hand rail to allow her room to pass. A chorus of tuts and curses trailing in her wake.

What the hell's going on, Shields?

Jesus Christ, almost knocked me over there!

Hey Shields, what you bloody up to?

In then through the door of the CID room, the expression on Bridcutt's face as he peered up from his Macintosh a mixture of utter shock and the deepest of intrigue.

Diane, what's---?

His voice fading behind her as she blasted through into the glass-walled office. Gooch already on his feet, his lips sneered in frantic motion.

She wasn't listening though. Just wasn't listening.

Now the slam of her palm on the desk, the sheet of paper anchored beneath.

Written by Billy Pitman's dead mother. Look at those e's , Gooch. Just look at those e's.

And moments later the image she would recall most of all - that returned gaze, its thick contrasting mesh of emotions.

Defeat.

Respect.

Shame.

Awe.

*

It was his father who first became aware of it.

"Hear that noise?" he frowned from the kitchen table.

Billy was over at the sink rattling their lunch plates into the ever-deepening clutter of pots and pans. Bacon and fried mashed potatoes, his favourite. Was never more content than when his stomach was so warm and greasy and full.

But yes, now he could hear it too - a faint, distant siren squeal.

"More than one," his father stated. Calm, matter-of-fact, as if it was nothing of any great significance.

And for a few moments Billy wanted to believe it too. That all those approaching sirens were headed somewhere else. For someone else. A pair of smashed up cars out on the backroads. A fire in some neighbouring farmer's barn. A gang of drug dealing no-gooders being chased from the county.

His father had meanwhile slouched out of the kitchen door, Queenie beside him - her ears pricked, alert. Billy scurried out to join them, the noise by now a deafening incoming wave.

"What do you think it is, dad?"

He watched as his father sucked down a deep breath, let it out long and slow. Not a gesture of fear or apprehension, more a long-awaited sigh of relief.

"The moment's come, Billy. Was always going to come."

And finally Billy understood. He could feel his heart begin to thud, his breath come more quickly. Inside his stomach, the warm mush of his lunch had now turned icy cold.