The Drowning Child

49

Ren sat in the kitchen having coffee with Deb when she was finished.

‘I was thinking, after what you said, that we should take a look at any previous drownings in the area,’ said Ren, ‘or any unusual water-based incidents, if the UNSUB has a history.’

‘Definitely,’ said Deb.

‘And in terms of previous victims of near-drownings, apart from hospital admissions...’

‘See, that’s the problem,’ said Deb. ‘What I said before – it’s a sinister crime. It leaves very little trace. And, you know what, it’s the type of thing that people don’t seem to take seriously. Child victims have tried to report these things before and people just don’t believe them. I think if a child said he was being molested, he would be believed quicker.’

‘I guess it seems so unreal,’ said Ren. ‘Or just, I don’t know – someone could construe it as “of course your mother/father/brother, etc. wouldn’t do that to you”. Like, what a screwed-up thing to do. As if all the other shit that people do to each other isn’t.’

‘I know,’ said Deb.

‘Are ASSes drawn to water in general?’ said Ren. ‘Like, John Veir is an ex-military diver, Seth Fuller was a child swimming champ.’

‘Not really, no,’ said Deb. ‘That in itself wouldn’t ring my alarm bells. But if the victims are children, well, we all know UNSUBS will put themselves where they’ll be around them.’

‘Are there any other signs that someone is or was a victim of near-drowning?’ said Ren.

Deb let out a breath. ‘Depending on how long-term the abuse is, maybe lung issues, recurring pneumonia...’

‘OK,’ said Ren.

Deb checked the time on her phone. ‘OK – I better go or I’ll miss my flight.’ She took a printout from her bag and handed it to Ren. ‘My parting gift to you is this – a list of aqua erotic and drowning fetish sites.’

Ren scanned the list. ‘You do know I’ll be exploring these on my own in my hotel room tonight...’

‘Would you rather watch them with that adorable police chief? Or his angry lieutenant?’

‘You spotted that too,’ said Ren.

‘Issues...’ said Deb. ‘Now, when you are checking those out, you might want to have another screen open beside it with cartoons on.’ She paused. ‘Not The Little Mermaid, though.’

‘Or Finding Nemo...’

Gary walked in after Deb had left.

‘Your friend is good,’ said Gary.

‘Really good,’ said Ren. She slid the printout over to him. ‘Fancy a late-night aqua erotic porn screening? My treat.’

That evening, Ren sat at Ruddock’s dining room table after a dinner of roast chicken that was mercifully perfectly cooked. He lived in one of the homiest homes she had ever been in. Ruddock was easy company, a man who lit up when he talked about his late wife. He told Ren she’d been heavily involved in life at Tate PD – organizing the community photo displays in the foyer, tending to the plants. She would bring in cakes and cookies during the day, and casseroles when the team was working late. It was clear Ruddock missed her terribly.

He didn’t ask Ren about her own relationship situation, but she knew at this stage he was bound to have googled her and found out what happened in Safe Streets.

Were you sent to me, Ruddock, you gentle soul? My inadvertent healer.

She could hear him in the kitchen, putting the dinner plates in the dishwasher.

‘Are you sure I can’t help?’ she called in.

Please say yes.

‘Positive,’ said Ruddock. ‘You relax out there.’

‘OK!’ Yay.

She heard the oven door open, and she could smell cinnamon.

Life brings wonderful surprises.

People die.

Surprise!

Good people.

Surprise!

Ruddock’s wife. Robbie. Everett. Ben.

Surprise!

Aaron Fuller. Luke Monroe. Caleb Veir?

No.

She could feel her chest tighten.

No, not here. This is a nice fucking night. Give me a break.

Ruddock walked in. She took a deep breath, then looked up with a smile. Ruddock had his hands in his wife’s floral oven gloves, and he was carrying a steaming apple and cinnamon pie.

Jesus Christ, he is so fucking adorable.

She burst into tears.

Without saying a word, Ruddock set the dish down on a trivet at the other side of the table, slipped his hands out of the oven gloves. He sat down beside Ren, reached out and squeezed her hand, held it there, didn’t let go.

I am a fucking lunatic.

‘I know you lost your friends,’ said Ruddock. ‘And your boyfriend.’

Ren nodded. She grabbed a napkin and pressed it into the corner of her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ruddock.

‘Me too,’ said Ren. ‘For you. Your wife...’

He managed a nod too.

‘You must think I’m nuts.’

‘Well, if you are, I’m nuts right along with you.’

‘It’s so sad,’ said Ren. ‘No one tells you... all the weird stuff. Not the normal stuff – the texts, the emails you keep, the songs that remind you of them.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Weird stuff. Like... not buying the shower gels you used to use. Mugs I can’t drink from, but I can’t bear to throw away. TV shows I can’t watch any more – I’d feel like I’m cheating. Meals I can’t eat. And if I do cook something we used to have, I just end up crying through the whole thing and I can’t even eat it. And I still have his toothbrush, his razor, his deodorant.’ Which I still take the lid off and smell. Which I would use if it wouldn’t make me feel like I was losing my mind. ‘I still wear his T-shirts.’ And his shorts. Jesus. Christ. When will it go afuckingway?

Poor Ruddock.

‘I wish you weren’t going through all this,’ said Ruddock. ‘It’s not easy.’

‘Everyone is grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Everywhere I look. You’re such a lovely man. I’m so sorry you lost your wife. Life is so unfair.’

‘It will get easier,’ said Ruddock. ‘You won’t believe me now, but you’ll be saying the same thing to someone else down the line. That’s just how it goes. I’m the person to tell you. You’ll pass it on to someone else.’

‘Thank you.’ I should be more embarrassed than I am. But you’re just so fucking nice.

She gave herself one minute of crying, then excused herself to go to the bathroom. She stared in the mirror.

I have those lost eyes. Oh, God. I do. They’re only for other people.

My mascara rocks.

She wiped the tiniest of smudges from the outer corners of her eyes. Her hair was damp at the temples. She pulled it off her face into a high ponytail, then pulled out the elastic and let it fall down. She washed her hands, dried them, and went back out. As she was walking down the hallway, she could hear the click of the front door closing. She stopped.

She heard voices. Ruddock’s... and another man’s.

Oh, God. What’s going on? Why do I always go to the dark side?

‘I didn’t want to mess it up!’ the other man was saying. ‘I’m lying to everyone, I’m lying to you, I’m lying to her—’

Ren felt her sadness cut away by a stab of anger.

I can’t trust anyone. Even Ruddock. My instincts about him. My instincts are gone. I never know who to trust. I shouldn’t be doing this.

She reached for her sidearm. She felt steady, preternaturally calm. She raised it, walked forward quietly, listened. Their voices had dropped, were hushed, urgent.

Fuck.

She looked into the living room, her weapon raised. There was a tall, dark-haired man standing with his back to her, dressed in a black biker jacket, black jeans and boots.

Fuck. That’s J. J. Nash. The plumber. The nephew.

Her heart started to pound.

I’ve been set up.