The Playground

Prologue

It is midnight and a black car has just pulled up to the curb. A man dressed in a plain black suit steps out, walks around to the boot and opens it. He stands there for a few moments, hunched over the black bag kept inside and after a few seconds he closes the boot with a slam, locks the car and walks down the street.

         Minutes later he is at his destination – Lawrence Hill. He stops outside a house -an ugly red and yellow brick structure. There is a light on upstairs and the man stands for a few minutes, bathed in the sickly yellow glow. When he sees the street is deserted  he walks up to the locked front-door, takes a lock pick out of his jacket pocket and a minute later the door opens with a click. 

         The man takes no notice of the objects adorning the hallway or of the clothes hung carelessly over the banister. He is not here to rob the house. As he creeps up the stairs he pulls the silenced pistol from his inside pocket and gets ready for the kill. It's the same every time; you get in, get the job done, and get out as quickly as you can. Of course, a hit is always carefully planned but in that line of business you always have to be wary - things often don't go accordingly. When the girl comes out of the bathroom after taking a shower, she catches the killer unawares. Not part of the plan.

         Screams pierce the silence, but only for a split second before he shoots. The first bullet catches her just above her waist, tearing through her soft skin whilst the second smashes into her right shoulder. He could have shot her in the head straight away but he makes it look messy on purpose. She falls, and as she does drops the towel that was covering her. For a second the image in front of the killer - the naked, innocent victim desperately trying to cling on to her dignity - forces a twinge of guilt and he almost drops his gun. But he can’t: he has a job to do and so before he finishes the girl off he crouches down next to her and wraps the blood-stained towel around her body and places a pillow under her head.

         A shot-to-the-temple later he walks away from the body. But his job is not done yet: there’s still another soon-to-be-dead body in the house. This time it’s a male - the girl's lover. The killer had half expected the second of his targets to try and intervene with the first killing, but is not too surprised that he doesn't - the notes on the victims made the male, Clive Barrow, sound like a coward. The girl’s murder takes about a minute from the second she first screams to the second the killers puts the bullet in her head and so it is unlikely that Clive has got too far away.

         A clash draws the killer’s attention to the kitchen: he turns and heads back down the cluttered staircase. The light is on and next to the overloaded sink is Clive, with a grimy, long-handled knife in his hand, its blade shining in the light. He’s shaking as the killer aims his gun. But he doesn't shoot. Instead he lays the pistol on the granite worktop and motions for Clive to do the same with his weapon. Clive obeys but is still frozen to the spot, shaking uncontrollably. The killer walks over to Clive and unleashes a fury of punches on his stomach, causing Clive to double over and slump to the floor. He tries to get up but the killer won't let him - another fury of punches and kicks leaves Clive bloodied and bruised. The killer had been told to make it look like a struggle had taken place and when he’s satisfied he’s done that he reaches for the gun. Clive takes two bullets – one in the crotch and one in the face. The killer’s job is done.

         As the unknown assassin leaves the house he removes the silencer from the pistol and fires two shoots into the air to alert the neighbours. After collecting the spent cartridges he turns and walks back to his car. As he turns the corner a door opens and he knows it won't be long until the police are swarming the scene. The sounds of sirens draw nearer as the killer drives off into the night.



Chapter 1

I crawled upstairs. My whole body was aching from the rain of blows forced upon me. My head was pounding and the blood hadn’t let up yet. I was leaving a trail of red behind me which starkly contrasted with the cream carpet, staining it a muddy crimson. I could barely see in front of me and everything was a blur. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered right now was the pain, and finding some way to relieve it.  The sound of the smack of the truncheon on the back of my head was still echoing in my ears. I managed to reach the bedroom but couldn’t make it to the bed in the corner of the room. My body was in immense pain and I passed out, slumped up next to an old chest of drawers next to the door.



When I came to a few hours later the pain was still there but had gradually faded to a strange feeling of numbness that still throbbed. The bleeding from my head had stopped, but my face was covered in blood and my hair was matted and dry. I was sat in a puddle of it and wearily got up and sat on the bed. I began wondering what had caused the policeman to attack me, but couldn’t come up with any reasonable explanations. I knew he’d said something before the blows, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

         The pain was slowly dimming as I sat in the darkened room, the venetian blind blocking out the intense sun which would have otherwise flooded the room with light. There was a half-smoked packet of cigarettes on the night-side table; I took one and slowly lit it. The familiar smell of burning tobacco filled the room as I started to clear my head from what had happened last night.

         The smoke lingered in the room as I pulled up the blinds. The sun was intense and for a few seconds my head was pounding again. I walked over to the mirror and looked at the cut. The hair above my left ear was matted with blood and I could see the beginning of the cut; just above my temple. It ran about four inches from here towards the base of my skull. I wasn’t quite sure how the truncheon had caused the cut but I couldn’t remember much about what had happened. It was too painful to touch and looked as if it could do with a few stitches. That would have to wait; I needed to clean myself up first. I fished out some clean clothes from the wardrobe and took a cold shower, carefully cleaning the wound as best I could.

         Next I tried to clean the carpet and after an hour or so it was almost back to its original colour, though it was slightly pinker than before. I washed my bloodied clothes and cleaned the place up as best I could. I was trying to put the incident to the back of my head, but knew I’d have to confront it sooner or later. I still couldn’t figure out exactly what had happened to me, and more importantly why it had happened.

         I don’t think the police would appreciate me coming into the station to lodge a complaint of assault by one of their officers. No, that was a bad idea that screamed stupidity. I’d have to take it into my own hands to find out why this had happened. Scrolling through my phone’s contact book I found the number I was looking for – Ken Laymen.

         Ken was an old friend from years ago. We had met back in ’97, when BBC News 24 was first launched. I was a studio hand, offering cups of coffee and doing whatever I was needed to do (it wasn’t a very rewarding job but after just finishing college I had taken it as a way of getting into the media industry). Ken, on the other hand, had been there for a few years and was a prompt operator; a slightly more rewarding role within the studio. Ken and I had quickly become friends and although he was a few years older than I was, we had similar interests and would often retreat to the Kings Arms pub just round the corner from the studios after a hard day’s work.  I was 18 at the time and Ken, 24. He left a year later to join the police force but I’ve kept in touch. Now Ken has only been with the Metropolitan Police for ten years, and in that time he’s progressed up the ladder and now has some senior role in the main station at Clifton, Bristol; Ken agreed to meet me in the usual place - the Kings Arms – and said he’d be there in a half hour.



I pulled my Ford Fiesta up to the kerb, just outside one of Clifton’s more spacious parks, and sat for a few seconds. Ken’s black BMW 318i was over the road but I couldn’t see if he was sat in the front seat. I reckoned he probably wasn’t and headed for the pub.



Chapter 2

The Kings Arms pub was an old Victorian building. It was entirely black with four large windows, each next to each other. The peeling black paint of the exterior combined with the large windows contrasted to create a sort of façade. The windows were inviting, yet the dark exterior gave the impression that you were not welcome to set foot inside. It was one of those pubs that didn’t appreciate the unfamiliarity of strangers.

         As I crossed the threshold from the bright outside to the dim interior of the pub I felt strangely at home. Next to the doorway was an old jukebox that hardly ever played anymore. The wall behind the jukebox ran to the other side of the pub. Next to the jukebox was the bar, an elongated semi-circular design made from dark oak wood, adding to the dimness of the place.

         Opposite the bar were four booths each furnished in the same dark oak with office-green leather seating - the same as the stools by the bar. It was in one of these booths that Ken sat. I nodded to him before going to the bar and ordering a half pint of Hecks Dry.

         “`Ello, Jamie. Just the usual is it?” asked the barman, Trev.

         “Nah, just a half, mate. Cheers.” I could feel his eyes wandering over me as they finally came to a stop on the cut on the side of my head.

         “Nasty cut there, chap’. How’d that `appen then?”

         I didn’t want word going round just yet that I’d been assaulted by a cop so I tried to play it down:

          “Oh that? Ah, it’s nothin’, mate. Just had a fall, thas all.” I could see he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t push it any further.

         I got my drink and took a seat opposite Ken. He was now 35 but looked as if he hadn’t aged a day since I first met him. It seemed a lifetime ago to me.

         Ken had a full head of short, fuzzy black hair, earning him the nick-name Q-Ball, which had stuck. His features were welcoming; an undeniable friendliness captured in his bright blue eyes and a smile that never failed to make you feel at ease in his company. He was built like an athlete due to his rugby training twice weekly and the purpose of his job. Although he was not so much involved in front-line duties anymore, the Force had strict regulations as to the weight and height of their police staff.          

         I studied his face for a brief second before deciding it was best to go ahead. If I was going to take the law in my own hands, I’d need someone’s help. Ken was a perfect choice. Though his record at the station was immaculate, he’d never not help a friend. Ken got on with everyone and was well liked at the station. And he could talk his way out of pretty much anything.

         “Hi, mate.” I hadn’t spoken to Ken in about a month, and felt slightly awkward sat opposite him. “How are ya? Job all goin’ well an’ all that?” I asked.

         “Yea, pal, y’know how it works. Things are goin’ pretty slow at the minute, but can’t complain, eh? Anyways, how’re you keeping?” He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of my wound, so I turned my head and let him view the whole thing. “Jeez, pal, that thing looks nasty. You had it looked at yet?”

         I contemplated making up a story that I’d been to the hospital, but knew instantly that Ken would see straight through my lies. That was another of Ken’s talents. He could see into a person, almost as if he was looking directly into their soul. “Not as yet, but I’ll go after here.” My hand instinctively caressed the wound.

         “Ok, just make sure you do, yea. Now what do you know about what happened?” The welcoming expression turned to a serious one.

         “Not much, unfortunately. I was walking home on my own after going to the pub with a few mates and out of nowhere came this guy in a police uniform and he just started hitting me for no reason. I dunno how a truncheon could cause a cut, but I was a bit pissed. He said something to me before he left, but like I said, I can’t remember much.”

         “He could have been carrying a knife or something to make the cut. And you can’t remember anything else? What he looked like? Age? You got any idea why someone might attack you?”

         I told him I couldn’t think of anything else or why someone would target me but said I’d keeping thinking about it, and that I’d give him a ring if I thought of anything else. The conversation soon drifted on as we shared news, and had each drank three pints (I was drinking coke as I didn’t want another beating) a piece by the time we went our separate ways.          

         “I’ll see what I can find at the station, but gimmie a ring if you remember anything. However small it may seem, it could be hugely significant.” He gave me a pat on the back before crossing the road and driving off into the night in his black Beemer.



Chapter 3

A few days later I got a call from Ken saying he’d been thinking about it and that he knew a place we could try.

         “Hi, mate.” I said. “ You got any ideas on what to...oh? The Playground? What the hell’s that? Ok…Ok…yea sure…I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Bye”

         Apparently this place, ‘the Playground’, was a huge construction site which had been started 5 years ago but had since been deserted for some reason - lack of funding, I presumed. It was now somewhere for the scum of Bristol City - drug dealers, pimps, junkies and criminals and maybe, with a bit of luck, a good police snitch - to congregate and offer their businesses to each other.

         Anyways, Ken had said on the phone to meet him at the train station in twenty minutes. The station was close to my place so I arrived a few minutes early, only to find Ken waiting:

         “You’ve been here for half an hour already?” I asked

         “Yea, it just feels so good to be out of the office. I’ve been waiting a while to do some real police work y’know.” He sounded anxious to get going.

         “Alright then, Q-ball. What’s the plan here? Who’s this guy you know? Most criminals ain’t too reliable you realise!” It was supposed to come out as a joke, but I guess Ken could hear the tension in my voice as he gave me a reassuring look.          

         “Relax, kid. He’s just an old friend of mine. Bit of a tosser, like, but he’s reliable. And yes, I know, I know, cops shouldn’t be friends with thieves, right? But I’ve know this guy forever and he only pulls little scams. Never hurts anyone.”

         Ken smiled and I found myself questioning that ‘immaculate’ record he held at the station. The record was probably true, but knowing there was a little part of Ken that went against regulation stunned me a bit.



A few minutes later we arrived at ‘the Playground’. It was fenced off but the lock had been broken and the gate was half-open. We ignored the Do Not Enter sign and went in. Once inside, I saw the full scale of it.

         “It was supposed to be an apartment complex,” Ken explained, “but the work had to be stopped because of some flaw in the design or something. Anyways, the contractors had only got as far as building the steel frames and a few of the ground-floors when they had to leave.”

         “Shit. Are they ever gonna finish it?” I asked.

         Ken didn’t answer so we walked on. The area outside the metal skeleton was scattered with plastic traffic cones and various building materials. As we neared one of the entrances, I could see syringe needles sparkling in the daylight.

         “We gotta go round back,” Ken said finally. “They use the windows to keep a look out, so they’ve probably already seen us. If we try goin’ in the front they’ll probably start yellin’ abuse our way.”

         This didn’t calm my nerves but I was at least grateful we had come in the daytime. A few minutes later and we were by a back door. Ken made a quick call saying we had arrived and seconds later the door opened.



Chapter 4

A man appeared in the door way. He had a battered leather jacket and black trousers on, and his eyes were covered with big sunglasses. A roll-up, probably filled with illegal substances, was dangling from the corner of his mouth. He took of the glasses and I was instantly thrown back by how much he looked like Shane MacGowan - same greasy, unkempt hair; same under-chin beard and the same rat-like face.

         “Q-ball,” he said in a thick northern accent.

         “Robbie,” came the reply.

         That was all they said to each other but he beckoned us inside and we followed. It smelt inside and there were puddles on the floor: the ceiling was nearly finished, but in some places it had holes. Opposite the door there was a concrete stairway where a couple of junkies were injecting something into themselves. They didn’t seem to notice us as we walked past and into the next room. The room was bare, except for a few chairs in places, but they were occupied by dodgy men giving us equally dodgy looks.

         Robbie took us to the corner of the room where we huddled together.

         “So, whaddya wanna know? Somethin’ `bout bent cops, ain’t it?” Robbie whispered.

         “Yea, that’s right. My friend here…,” Ken pointed at me, “…got attacked by someone the other night. He says it was a policeman.”

         “Alright.”

         “But he can’t remember anything about him. He also said the guy said something to him, but he can’t remember that either.”

         I got the feeling I wasn’t supposed to speak, which I didn’t understand, but I kept my mouth shut anyway.

         Robbie spat on the ground then inspected my injury. “Looks pretty rough, that. Well, I know of a few bent cops around here. Let me see…”

         He took a yellow piece of paper out of his breast pocket. It was folded several times and looked like it had been rubbed in dirt. He didn’t open it, instead just handed it to Ken and gave him a pat on the arm.

         “This should give you the info you need. But you didn’t hear it from me, remember.” Robbie put his glasses back on, lit another cigarette and left us, still huddled in the corner.

         “OK, so I guess we can leave now, right?” I noticed Ken was smiling to himself and I felt I’d missed an inside joke or something so I gave him a nudge.

         “Yea, let’s get out of this shithole,” he said, recomposing himself. I was desperate to see what was written on the dirty, yellow piece of paper, but Ken pocketed it before I had a chance to ask.



Once we were outside and walking back to the train station my curiosity got the better of me.

         “So what’s on the paper?” I asked.

         “Don’t worry about that,” he said, “I’ll take a look over it tonight and me and the boys will start pulling names in tomorrow. There’s nothing you can do now until we’ve checked them over to see what their story is. Once we find someone whose story doesn’t add up, it’ll take a while to collect the evidence an’ all that. You just sit tight for a while.” He turned and began walking toward the station, “I’ll be in touch when we’re gettin’ somewhere.” He shouted over his shoulder and disappeared.



Chapter 5

The next day there was a loud banging at the front door and someone was shouting my name. I guessed it was something to do with the attack but was finding it hard to believe Ken had got results so quickly.

         I opened the door to two police men, but before I even had a chance to speak, one of the cops had already begun.

         “Are you James Simon Mackenzie?” He was reading from a notepad in his hand.

         “Yes. Is this about the beating?” I asked hopefully. The two men looked at each other and laughed - another inside joke I thought.

         “You might say that.” The one with the notepad laughed again. “James Simon Mackenzie, we are arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Laura Roberts and Clive Barrow on the twenty-seventh of April, 2009…”

         “What? What the hell are you talking about? Murder? Are you serious? Shit. I haven’t killed anyone! You must have the wrong person!” I couldn’t say much more because in a second they had me on the ground and were cuffing me. The guy with the pad shouted something to a nearby police van and three officers stepped out.

         When they had me back on my feet the other officer read me my rights:

         “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned anything which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand this, Mr Mackenzie?”

         “No …what…I haven’t done anything…what?”

         “Do you understand, Mr Mackenzie”

         “Yes, I understand.” It didn’t look like I had much of a choice.

         “Now, we have reason to believe you may have vital evidence in your residence and so Officers Delaney, Woods and Russell will conduct a thorough search. Do you understand?” The cop with the paper frog-marched me towards the parked police car before I could answer, as the three officers entered my house.

         As they drove me to the station I was trying to make sense of what had happened. I was convinced it was a misunderstanding - I knew who Laura Roberts was, hell, we’d been going out for about a year and a half. She was going to move in, but then she’d suddenly left because she said I wasn’t ‘committed to our relationship’. But that was ages ago. Sure I was pissed-off at the time, especially after I’d heard she’d found someone else so quickly, but I was over it now. Why the hell would I wanna kill her? Why would anyone? It didn’t add up, but obviously the police didn’t see it that way. The thing that stuck in my mind was that the murder happened on the 27th April, the same day I was attacked whilst walking home. I hoped Ken would be able to sort this whole mess out.



When we arrived at the station the officers re-read me my rights and informed me they would have to notify a relative of my arrest. They took all my belongings and told me I would spend the night in a cell before being transferred to prison for holding tomorrow. It was half-past five and they asked if I wanted to make a call to anyone. I said I didn’t - I couldn’t let anyone know I’d been arrested on suspicion of murder, even if I was innocent - so instead asked if Ken Laymen was available. They just laughed as I tried to explain I was a friend. They said today was his day off and led me away to a cell.



Chapter 6

I was woken sharply at nine o’clock by more banging at the door and everything came flooding back as I remembered what had happened yesterday. The officer told me it was time to get up and that they had got me a lawyer. They’d asked last night if I had one, but I didn’t so they said they’d find me one. I was led down to an interview room and took a seat opposite my lawyer.

         “Hi, I’m Richard Sinclair.” He offered a hand but I was in no mood to shake it. Richard was probably in his mid-forties and looked like he had the experience, but I was still wary.

         “Okay, Mr Mackenzie. We can do it your way, that’s fine. I don’t really wanna be here either you know…. Okay, so you know why you’re here right? And you say you’re innocent. Fine. But it doesn’t look that way from the evidence.”

         “Evidence? What the hell are you talking about? There is no evidence. I didn’t do it! I didn’t d…” I realised I was shouting and stopped. “I didn’t do it. I haven’t spoken to Laura since we split up. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt her. And I don’t know why you think it was me.”

         “Mr Mackenzie, you are innocent until proven guilty remember. But I’m afraid the evidence is not stacked in your favour. They’ve recovered a gun from your house, Mr Mackenzie. And it’s got your prints on.”

         This really hit me. I’d never even seen a real gun before, let alone used one. I couldn’t speak and my mind was running in circles. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong but what if this gun, “it’s got your prints on”, stood up on its own in court. What would happen then? I’d be sent down for sure. Would I get life? Life imprisonment? I didn’t want to think about it anymore so I focused on Richard’s face. His was talking, but I couldn’t hear him. He pushed a glass of water over toward me and drinking it must have cleared my head.

         “Can you hear me, Mr Mackenzie?” I nodded and he continued. “That’s not the only thing. They’ve recovered a skin and hair sample from the crime scene. They both match yours.”

         “Shit!” I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t think about what was happening. I was too shocked to think about anything.

         “From the evidence they’ve got,” Richard went on, “they’ve probably got enough for a conviction. But I’m your lawyer, Mr Mackenzie and it’s my job to help you as much as I can, but I’m gonna need your cooperation first. Okay?”

         “Okay. Go on. What do you need from me?” I knew, of course exactly what he needed but it was all I could think to say.

         “I’m going to need a full account of where you were…,” he scanned the piece of paper in front of him, “…on the twenty-seventh of this month. I’m also going to need a list of witnesses and alibis, and your phone. I need to know every detail about you and Laura and anything else you may think is relevant.”