Twelve Across

This part of my day I could do blindfolded. My alarm goes off but I'm already awake, in fact I've been awake for at least two hours. Sleep has come hard for me for the last six months since I left hospital, if I get any more than two hours a night it's a bonus. I drag myself out of my warm bed and stagger into the kitchen where I prepare my breakfast of coffee, which I drink before heading to the bathroom where I'm confronted by my almost healed face that, along with my lonely bed, is a constant reminder of the day, almost a year ago when my world came crashing down around me.

It was my fault, I'd been to my sister's birthday party and I'd had a few too many drinks. I had told myself that I needed them to ease the pressure of my work, of the investigation that I had just wrapped up after three months, that had sapped my physical and emotional resources. Julie, my long suffering Julie, had lived through the hell that I'd been going through in dealing with a wave of organised crime ranging from murder, rape and extortion, to drug labs that churned out massive quantities of crystal meth to supply the market desperate for a high.

I had been told that I'd made enemies that were out to get me but I persisted until we were able, finally, to close the case and make several high profile arrests. Detective Chief Inspector Matthews, my boss, had suggested that I take some time out to recuperate before the trials, so Julie and I travelled interstate for my sister's party.

My face staring at me from the mirror was accusatory, it yelled at me that if I hadn't become a cop Julie and I would have been safe. It yelled at me that if I'd been a normal beat cop Julie and I would have been safe. "Leave me alone!" I yelled back at the mirror. "I can't help what has happened, nothing will bring her back."

We had left the party and Julie was driving, we were heading back to the hotel because there were too many people in Stef's house and no room for us. Julie had just turned onto the main road when a car pulled up beside us. Something made me look at the car and I could clearly see the pistol pointing directly at me, its barrel looked huge. Julie must have caught a glimpse of it because she slammed her foot on the accelerator. That move cost her her life, the bullet meant for me hit her instead. She was dead before the out of control vehicle crashed into the front window of a hardware store. A sharp metal tool of some description crashed through the windscreen and lodged in my skull. I was in a coma for three weeks and in intensive care for ten before being sent to a ward to 'recover'.

My face was testament to the cosmetic surgeon's art, the scar had almost disappeared, and people no longer stared as I walked down the street. It was the scars inside that weren't healing. The self blame just would not go away. I was no longer employed as a detective although I kept that title and rank. The shrink decided that I should remain on duty doing menial tasks that the others just didn't seem to get time to do. Filing of evidence, court transcripts, closed cases to be filed in the archives, including the one that I had worked on, at least I didn't have to give evidence, I wasn't well enough and, even if I had been, I wouldn't have been able to be objective in my testimony. While my mind and body were kept busy the constant reminder of what had happened was eating at my insides. The other detectives were good about it, probably realising that if it hadn't been me that had copped it, it would have been one of them.

I missed the after shift drinks because I now had no tolerance for alcohol and had given up drink, so I went home instead, home to my loneliness and my thoughts, home to my supermarket frozen dinners and coffee, always coffee, and, if I hadn't finished it in the morning, the cryptic crossword.

Showered and shaved I left my house, an attached cottage in a row of identical attached cottages, and walked to the newsagents where I picked up a morning paper before calling into a cafe to top up my caffeine levels with a cup of take away, because it was so much better than the station muck. I passed the time of day with the desk officer before heading for my desk and my filing. Before starting I sat and skimmed through the paper until I reached the puzzle page and my crosswords. The regular one got my brain working in preparation for the cryptic. I had just started on it when the DCI came up to me. "Charlie, how are you feeling?"

"Fine." I lied.

"Good. I've been talking to the shrink and he suggested that we might look at easing you back into your old job with some undemanding types of investigations, and one has come up that I think will fit that description."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It's a break and enter at the Bookworm bookstore, do you know it?"

"Yes, I know it well, I walk past it every day."

"The owner, who lives above it, came downstairs this morning to find that it had been broken into and had been trashed. She hasn't finished checking but doesn't think anything has been stolen. I'd like you to go down and have a poke around and see if you can't get a line on who it was that could have done this. Do you think you can handle that?"

Do I think I can handle it? I could do this without thinking; this is kids stuff so why is he getting me to investigate when uniform could easily do it? "Of course I can." I told him. I folded my paper and slipped it into my desk drawer, swallowed what was left of my now lukewarm coffee and grabbed my jacket. I was conscious of the eyes of my fellow squad members following me as I left.

The Bookworm was as I remembered it, a small frontage to a long narrow store. There were shelves down each side wall and fixtures at right angles down the centre of the room. In the centre of the store was the cash desk, a large polished wood desk that wouldn't have appeared out of place in an executive office. The only concession to modernity was a computerised register, its screen seemingly at odds with its surroundings.

The bookish woman, responding to the tinkling of the door bell, glanced at me as I entered and smiled as I walked toward her. "Miss Morgan, I'm Detective Sergeant Forbes. I understand that you had an unwanted visitor last night?"

She stood up from her task of collecting the scattered books from the floor and held her hand out to me. "I'm pleased to meet you, I was expecting a constable, I feel important having a Detective Sergeant attend. I'm Samantha Morgan, I own this store, or what's left of it."

I glanced at the books lying on the floor in front of empty shelves. "This is going to take a lot of work. I'd like to ask you a few questions before I have a look around. You sleep above the store, is this correct?"

"Yes, I have a flat above. I find it convenient"

"I would have thought that this would have made a lot of noise, how is it that you didn't hear anything?"

"I'm a heavy sleeper, the tablet helps, once my head hits the pillow I'm dead to the world until my alarm wakes me at seven."

"I'm envious, I can only manage a couple of hours." I mumbled.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's insensitive of me prattling on about how well I sleep. I recognise you, you're the officer that was badly injured about a year ago, you lost your wife, didn't you. Oh there I go again, prattling on, I'm sorry, forgive me, please?"

"It's all right." Who was I kidding? Was I right in accepting this case? I suppose I'll just have to grin and bear it. "The most obvious reason for breaking into a shop is money, was there any stolen?"

"Oh no, of that I'm positive, you see there is never any money left in the till over night, not even the float."

"Float?"

"The money that is in the till at the start of the day is called the float. I take the cash drawer out and store it in my safe upstairs along with the takings for the day."

"Who ever did this obviously didn't know that, otherwise he would be tip-toeing up the stairs in the dead of night to rob you."

"That sounds scary, maybe I should rethink my security."

"That would be wise, sometimes even a small amount of money will satisfy your amateur criminal."

"You believe this to be the work of an amateur?"

"Yes, for a couple of very good reasons, the first is the target, this is a book store, not a high volume business so, even on the best days you wouldn't have enough money lying around to satisfy the professional crim. Secondly, a professional, finding no money, would normally slip off into the night leaving you unaware that he's even been here. Only a rank amateur would lose it and trash the place out of frustration."

"I never thought of that, that's something that Miss Marple would have realised immediately."

"A fan of Agatha Christie are you?"

"In one way, yes. I find them formulaic and spend most of my time swimming through the shoals of red herrings looking for the sprat of a clue that will be revealed at the very end, and in doing so miss the whole raison d'être of the book, it is an entertainment designed to keep you amused as well as guessing. My current favourite is Ian Rankine."

"Thankfully we're not all like Rebus." My mind went to the book lying on my bed where it had fallen out of my hand in the early hours of the morning. I bent and looked at the desk drawer, someone had taken what appeared to have been a large screw driver to it. "Was this drawer locked?"

"No, I had no reason to look it, the cash drawer wasn't in it."

"Our amateur didn't think to try it to see if it was open before attacking it. You have some damage that needs to be fixed." I pointed to the scar in the wood. "It's a shame, this is a fine piece of furniture, a good cabinet maker should be able to repair it so that you can't see the damage. I assume that your insurance will cover this and the loss of business due to this mess?"

"I hope so, I've paid them enough money over the years and have never made a claim, I've never had to."

"I noticed when I walked past here the other day, you had a book sale on over the weekend and a book signing on Saturday. Were you busy?"

""Not hugely busy, the author who was signing isn't well known , just a local writer starting out and he asked me if I'd help him promote his first novel. To be honest, he needs all the help he can get, it isn't that good."

"So there would have been people milling around in here, did you notice anyone who looked out of place in your literary world?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, there was one young lad who seemed to spend a great deal of time wandering around pretending like he was interested but I could see that he wasn't. I thought that he might have come in with someone else and was just bored waiting."

"Could you give me a description of this person, height, weight, distinguishing features, you know the drill?"

"He was about your height and a little heavier than you, he had several piercings around his face, ear-rings, a nose ring, a stud in his right eyebrow and one through his chin just below the lower lip. He was wearing torn jeans, faded blue and not very clean, a checked shirt under a denim jacket and he wore black boots. I did notice on his fingers he had letters tattooed, on the right hand he had l-o-v-e while the left had h-a-t-e."

"Stir tats, it seems as if our lad had spent some time in his misspent youth in a Juvenile Detention Centre. Was his hair dark brown and spiky?"

"Yes it was, now that you mention it. Do you know him?"

"Oh yes, I know him. If it's who I think it is, and I'm sure it is, his name is Julian Greene, the latest in a long line of blaggards by the name of Greene, only one doesn't call him Julian to his face, he prefers 'Spike'. Of course proving his guilt may take some doing because he'll have dozens of relatives all prepared to swear on every Bible in the courts system that he was going about his honest business at the time that your shop was being destroyed."

"But why would he choose me, my shop?"

"Young Julian isn't the brightest of crims, neither is he the bravest. He'll look for a 'soft target' and you fit the bill. You won't find him pulling jobs where he might get hurt, he's a disappointment to the family."

Samantha glanced at the clock on the back wall. "I'm just about to have a cup of coffee, would you like one?"

"Yes I would, thank you."

"How do you take it?"

'White and no sugar, and strong." She went through the door into a back room and I bent and picked up several books from the floor. Looking at the tags on the shelves I began stacking them where I thought they should go. I guess that I was so carried away with this simple enough task, after all that's pretty much all I'd been doing for the last six months, that I didn't hear her come back into the shop.

"You don't need to do that, I'll do it, I have little else to do."

"But you'll be here for days doing this. I'm offering my expert services as a filer to you. If you want, I'll drop in after work and give you a hand."

Her curious eyes looked at me through her glasses, looking into me, searching for something. She must have found it. "I'd like that, thank you."

From my side of her glasses I saw a woman deprived of any other than short term contact with the world of people, someone starving for a relationship. This surprised me because, under her bookish exterior was an attractive person, in her late twenties or early thirties who was desperately lonely, something that I was gaining experience at.

I sipped my coffee and picked up a biscuit from the plate she'd put on the desk. "How long have you had this shop?"

"It was my parents business. My father was an academic and started this business to give my mother something to do after I began school. She had been a teacher but, although she loved teaching, she felt that the education system had changed so that freedom of expression had taken over from a more balanced curriculum of academic skills combined with life skills. Her heart was no longer in it and it was affecting her outlook on life. This shop was something of a consolation prize. She loved it."

"What about you, I would have thought that you'd have gone to university and a career?"

"Oh I did. I was in my second year at Uni when my father died suddenly. He had a massive heart attack while giving a lecture and by the time the paramedics had arrived it was too late, they said that he was probably dead before he hit the ground. My mother never really got over the loss. I gave up my studies to help her and to keep her company. I think it was the company she missed most. She died within months of my father and I stayed on in the shop."

"If you don't mind me asking, you've never had much of a social life, have you?"

It was almost as if she'd been waiting for years for the opportunity to unburden her innermost feelings. "No I haven't. I was brought up a good Catholic girl, you know, saving myself for my husband and the wedding bed. Abstinence from any form of sexual contact because the nuns told me that was what God expected of me, and I believed them. While I was at Uni I had some very good male friends but none of them ever got to the point where I would have had to refuse their sexual advances, and after I came back here I never seemed to have the opportunity to meet anyone that I could get close to."

"You aren't in any clubs or interest groups?"

"No I'm not. I've always felt uncomfortable about finding myself in new and strange situations and meeting new people. I have no self confidence outside of my comfort zone."

"And your comfort zone is here, on your own, with the occasional very short term contact with people." It was a statement, not a question.

She looked closely at me. "You have a very good interrogation technique, do you know that? I have told you more about myself in the last five minutes than I have ever told anyone, and I've never felt as if you were interrogating me. Do you always get people to relax so that they'll open up to you?"

"No, much of the time it is closed questioning because we don't have the time to use the 'softly, softly' approach, we usually know the answer and by asking closed questions we limit the opportunity that the crim has to confuse the issue. On the other hand, I find that, when I want to get to know someone, really know them, a process of open questions and allowing the other person to expand on their area of expertise by me making statements that are almost, but not quite, right, with the odd closed question thrown in to direct the flow of conversation that allows the person to volunteer information is very effective."

"And you want to get to know me?"

"Yes I do. I'm stepping way out of line here, but I have found you to be a very attractive woman. There is something about you that interests me, probably because you and I are similar in so many ways, we have closeted ourselves away from personal contacts and, if you're anything like me, it is a world that holds few attractions for me. I've been looking for a way out of it for some time."

"I can understand that, we've both suffered the loss of loved ones and have not had the motivation to get over it."

"You like crosswords, don't you?"

"Where did that come from? Yes I do."

"I noticed the paper in your drawer was open at the puzzle page and you'd started the cryptic. In my top drawer at work is a paper also open at the puzzle page and a started cryptic crossword."

"I'm impressed. You don't miss much, do you?"

"I try not to. I get off work at five, I'll see you as soon as possible after that. Do you want me to bring something to eat?"

"No, the least that I can do is to feed you. I'll see you then."

It was with a new vitality that I strode back to the station, I wasn't even thinking about talking to Spike and his family until I almost bumped into him and his mother, the redoubtable Beryl Greene. "Spike, a word in your shell like."

"Sergeant Forbes, they've let you out have they?"

"Yes, I'm free to wander at large solving all sorts of major crimes, which brings me to the subject at hand, where were you in the wee hours of this morning?"

"He was at home tucked up in bed like the good boy that he is Sergeant Forbes."

"I thought as much, how could I have ever gotten the idea that this innocent young man would have broken into the Bookworm bookstore and trashed it?"

"I don't know, how could you have?"

"Maybe it was the fact that you had been in there during the day casing the joint as they say. Not very well I might add, take it from me, if you want to case a place dress like you were meant to be there. You didn't notice the sign on the door that said 'no money kept on premises', did you?"

"We all know that they're there so that you don't think that there is money kept there."

"In this case it was true, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, I mean, how would I know? You can't prove anything and I have an alibi."

"I wouldn't have thought otherwise. Keep your nose clean or you'll have me to answer to."

"You can't touch me."

"Come along Julian, let Sergeant Forbes do his duty."

"Spike Mum, my name is Spike." He followed her up the road.

"How did it go?" The DCI asked as I sat down at my desk.

"I know who did it, but getting proof will take some doing, breaking down the ramparts of fortress Greene is an almost impossible task."

"Good luck, but don't obsess over it, understand?"

"I won't, there are more interesting things in this world than seeing some young thug behind bars." I took my crossword from the desk and looked at the next clue.

I hadn't got much further with it when I finished for the day. It seemed as if everyone in the squad room had advice as to the best way to solve the major crime that I was investigating. I had several offers of assistance and encouraging words from them.

At five past five I tapped on the closed door of the Bookworm and Samantha got hurriedly to her feet to let me in. "It's good to see you again. I can't keep calling you Sergeant Forbes, can I?"