Time Out

TIME OUT

With each day passing, we look back at the future foretold.

Pat Whitaker

Copyright © 2009 by Pat Whitaker

Cover design Pat & Robert Whitaker

All rights reserved.

Other Titles by Pat Whitaker

Antithesis

Bad Blood

Raw Spirit

Mindset

Returning

Smashwords Edition 1.0, November 2009

Manchester, England.

Prologue.

Wednesday, 17th March, 2004.

11.35pm:

Don Ryan pulled into the kerb and switched off his engine. Up ahead the road was cordoned off and the all too familiar scene of police, ambulance officers and flashing lights danced their urgent dance in the dark and the rain.

Suddenly Don felt bone weary. Too many years he had been locked in this endless cycle of chasing people’s grief and sorrow for the transient gratification of a bored and detached public. Still…

With a sigh he hauled himself out of the comfort of his car and made for the cordon. Lying on the road, being recorded by the forensic photographer, was the body of a young woman. Although difficult to be certain in the dark, there appeared to be skid marks close to where she lay, but no sign of a car. As this would be the last thing to be moved, Don concluded that it was a hit and run.

Moving around the cordon, Don approached a constable positioned to keep any members of the media and public at bay, although few of either were present.

Evening Constable. Lawson, isn’t it?

That’s right, Mr. Ryan. Nasty business.

Always a nasty business. Don’t suppose you have any details for us—names or anything?

Sorry, Mr. Ryan, just that it is an apparent hit and run. The woman’s dead and the car’s gone. Can’t really tell you any more. Youngish woman, but I wouldn’t like to put it any closer than that.

Thanks, Lawson. Do you have a time?

Around eleven fifteen, but that’s unofficial.

Understood.

You won’t try and take any pictures, will you? You know I can’t allow that.

Come on! You know me better than that. I’ll just take a picture or two of the scene once the body has been removed.

Sure. Sorry, but some of your people will try anything.

Not my people, Constable, but sadly, you are right.

And I hope they hurry up, Don thought to himself, the rain was starting to run down the back of his neck. He moved around to the right to get a better view of what was happening—although he seriously questioned why he bothered.

Hello, Don.

Don turned to find Detective Inspector Paul Stringer standing behind him.

Hello, Paul, I’m surprised to find you at a hit and run.

Contrary to the stereotypical view of policemen and journalists, Don and Paul had long ago developed an understanding of the needs and constraints of their respective professions, and of knowing where the boundaries lay. In respecting those, they had become close friends.

Me too. Actually, there is something a little odd about the victim, which is why I was called.

Are you able to tell me?

Yes, if you’ll keep it to yourself for the time being. She is dressed in a plain linen smock, rather like a monk’s habit, and nothing else.

Nothing?

Nothing. No underclothes, no shoes, nothing. She also looks like she might have been maltreated on a regular basis, but that is speculative. We need the pathologist’s report to know for certain.

Bloody hell, I see why you were called. You’ll give me the word if you get anything more definite?

Sure, though, as I said, you’ll need to keep it to yourself in the meantime.

Thanks Paul. I’ll just get a couple of pictures of the scene and I’ll be off home for a hot shower. Bugger all this standing around in the rain.

Paul returned to the job at hand. Don made his way back to his car and sat looking at the scene through the rivulets of water running down his windscreen, waiting for the body to be removed.

Still, he may as well make a job of it; he knew that tomorrow was going to be a bad day. A very, very bad day.

Thursday, 18th March, 2004.

7.48am:

Despite his late night, Paul Stringer arrived at work early, as was his wont. He sat in his car park at the Bootle Street Police Station thinking about the hit and run. Nothing unusual in itself. A bad night and a pub, all sadly predictable. Even the driver leaving the scene was not necessarily sinister, many people panic in such circumstances.

But the girl. There was something very wrong about the girl.

Still, he would know more once he had the pathologist’s report. He got out of his car and went up to his office, collecting his habitual morning coffee on the way.

Half an hour later he was up to speed with the rest of the night’s events and could turn his attention to the hit and run. The forensic report was at least a day away, as was the pathologist’s, but he didn’t anticipate that either would produce anything remarkable.

The two most salient points were; was the girl drunk or drugged, and therefore a likely contributor to the accident, and who was the driver? The first question would be answered by the pathologist, so his immediate concerns were to find the driver and identify the victim. As for the woman, notes taken at the scene would indicate that she was not actually in the pub prior to the accident and was certainly unknown to any persons present. Indeed, there were no actual witnesses to the event at all, the patrons of the establishment rushing out after hearing the screech of tyres, the thud of impact and a car accelerating away.

Sum total of information contained in the witness reports—sod all!

He reached for his phone and keyed his sergeant’s extension. Henderson, pull the missing persons files and tag all the files that are a broad match for last night’s hit and run, would you. Thanks. And the forensic and path’ reports, bring them in as soon as they arrive, please.

He replaced the phone and sat back in his chair, staring into nowhere.

Why was she wandering around there in the middle of the night dressed like that? Why be there at all if you were not going to the pub, it is not like there is anything else in the immediate area. Of course, it is possible she was on her way there, even if she was not known to any of the locals. Or maybe she was just a raving nutter.

He made a quick note to canvas the various mental institutions and organisations in the area.

Book One.

Thursday, 18th March, 2004.

10.10am:

Don Ryan nervously knocked on his Editor’s office door. He was in trouble, big trouble.

After months of research, his in-depth exposé of business and political corruption had been published, and all hell had broken loose. This in itself was as expected. He knew that it would happen and the paper knew it would happen. But then that was the whole idea.

Trouble was, he got it wrong. Disastrously wrong, and the paper was fighting for its life.

His mistake had been a small one. He’d made a connection that hadn’t in fact existed, but that had seemed so certain that he had neglected to give it more than a cursory check. He knew, and the Editor knew, that at the end of the day it probably changed nothing. The paper’s key allegations were almost certainly correct.

But that one small mistake made their assertions indefensible.

He entered the office and Susan Sharpe, the Editor, indicated he should sit. For what seemed like an eternity she said nothing, just stared at him. Then she smiled a resigned sort of smile and said, So what are we going to do with you, Don?

Don, surprised, started to speak, but Susan held up her hand, stopping him before he could start.

"Rhetorical, Don. We both know the situation. You’ve cocked up big-time. I rant and rave and call you every kind of incompetent bastard, you grovel about looking embarrassed or terrified or whatever and try and defend your position. I haven’t the time for all that crap, and you’ve been around too long to be impressed by it, so let’s just take it as read.

I’m under huge pressure to nail you to the wall, as I’m sure you are aware. But I also know that if I get rid of you nobody else will touch you. Besides, I’m reluctant to crucify a journalist for trying hard, even if they make an error of judgement.

Susan, you don’t have to put your own position at risk to protect me.

No, I don’t, but I do have to think of the consequences for my ongoing relationship with my journalists if I throw you to the wolves.

I see.

What I need to do is to shove you off somewhere out of the line of fire until things have quietened down. Into hiding, if you like. As you know, in the last year there have been three reported UFO abductions in our catchment area…

You can’t be serious!

I’m dead serious, Don. I have to be seen to take action, both by our board and by people of influence. This will be read as a reprimand. Besides, as a paper we can’t afford to ignore these things. Our readers want to know. What I want you to do is to investigate not only these and previous incidents, but all UFO phenomena. And take your time about it.

But you know my views on all that alternative, global conspiracy crap.

I’m counting on it. We are not the News of the World, our readers expect a bit more. If you can debunk the whole business, then great, that will suit me fine. Just make sure you have good rational arguments, not just dismissive opinions. I want you to give the readers something to think about.

Don looked at Susan for a moment,

I’m not going to be able to change your mind on this, am I?

No. It’s either/or, I’m afraid.

Either do it or walk?

Susan nodded and got up from her desk. The interview was over.

1.35pm:

Detective Inspector Paul Stringer was enjoying a rare, quiet lunch in a rather scruffy little café when his phone rang.

Henderson here, Sir. The path’ lab has their report ready. You asked me to let you know.

Thanks. Have they sent it yet?

"No. I told them to hold on to it and I’d call them back. I thought you might want to pick it up personally so that you can talk with them face to face.

As I always do, eh? You know me too well. Thanks, Henderson. Let them know I’ll pick it up in about half an hour.

Paul finished his lunch and went to find his car.

Twenty minutes later he was talking with Doctor Greenwood, the forensic pathologist.

So apart from all the obvious stuff, which I know is there in your report, what can you tell me?

Well, Paul, the girl—mid-twenties, average size and weight, although somewhat undernourished—died of injuries sustained by being hit by a car; well, to be more precise, the cause of death was head injuries consistent with her head hitting the road, not by the vehicle as such. No surprises there. No real surprises anywhere in fact. She was, however, a long-term drug user. Not high at the time of the accident, but definitely habitual. I’m not given to speculation, but it is possible that she was suffering withdrawal symptoms, which would imply a degree of disorientation and also why she was where she was.

Come again?

Oh, I don’t mean there specifically, just wandering about trying to secure a fix.

Got you.

She also was or had been very sexually active, plus she had suffered a degree of physical abuse over a considerable period of time.

What do you mean ‘sexually active, more than you would expect from a woman in her mid-twenties?"

I mean, saying that she was sexually active was like saying that Oliver Read drinks. You could compare her state to that of a prostitute of similar age. Bear in mind, however, that this is only an impression, I cannot be explicit—the signs are not all that clear.

And the abuse?

Not severe. Again speculative, but the sort of thing you would expect from a drug addict selling her body for a fix. It’s a very rough business.

So she probably contributed to her own demise.

Can’t say, obviously. But it is a reasonable assumption, although I wouldn’t imagine it was deliberate.

Accidental due to inattention?

That sort of thing.

And, if I understand you correctly, there may have been relatively little damage to the vehicle?

Again, I can’t really say, but probably not.

Damn.

3.50pm:

Janet Roy turned off the small country lane she was driving down and into an open gateway. A farm track led through a small group of trees to the open fields beyond. At the edge of the copse she stopped her car and got out.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon and the sun was no more than a hand-span above the rolling hills to the west. Janet loved this part of the country and whenever she felt the need to shake off the detritus of every day life she would get her paints and come out here for an hour or so.

Not that she had any pretensions of being an artist, she was well aware of her own limitations in that regard. Technically competent but uninspired, was how she described her efforts and that was a pretty fair assessment.

After a leisurely appraisal of the view she decided on the scene she would tackle and started getting her easel set up. Soon she was busy with a light wash outlining the salient features. Then she paused. Below her to the left, in the middle distance was a group of cows grazing quietly. She had particularly chosen the view to include these, as they added both scale and depth to the scene.

When she had looked again, she noticed that there was something curious about the way the cattle were standing, and she now saw they were grouped around some object in the middle of the field.

What it was, she couldn’t make out, but supposed it may be a calf sitting on the ground, although the colour seemed wrong. Not that it mattered; she carried on with her work.

But it continued to niggle at her. One calf in a whole herd of cows didn’t seem right, and why hadn’t it moved, or some of the cows moved away? At last she could ignore it no longer. What it actually