Broken Things
by Glenn A. Kershaw
Detective Inspector Sheridan Quay paused. It was one of the things he did, a technique he used with a suspect. Not that Johnny Dash was a suspect anymore. His alibi had checked out. Still, there was one last thing Quay needed to know, one last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.
No, not a jigsaw. His wife Susie had always laughed at him for using that metaphor. She said solving a crime was like smashing a bowl and then restoring it with gold paste and resin. As if what you finished up with was the same as the original. Better. The Japanese had a name for the art. He tried to remember, but the word wouldn’t come. Susie knew, of course, she knew all about that stuff.
For a moment, his mind left the interview room, and he imagined his daughter, Asuka, pushing herself around in her walker, laughing, and getting into things as Susie tried to work on a pot.
Quay looked up at Johnny Dash, an everyday man with an everyday face.
“Tell me about your relationship with your brother,” Quay asked.
Johnny Dash looked tired. Deep lines ran around his eyes, and his head drooped.
“I went through this with that copper,” he said, nodding at Detective Constable Andrew White, who was standing behind Quay and resting his back against the tiled wall.
Quay leaned forward, looking deeply into Dash’s eyes, searching. “Well, tell me about it, Johnny.”
Johnny Dash’s eyes flared like fireworks. “It’s not Johnny, right! That was Franky. He was into all that. It’s just John, John Dash.”
Quay liked this interview room. The lights weren’t so bright that they washed out the lies, nor the shadows so dark they hid them. There was no smell of cigarettes or fear.
“Right, John Dash. Tell me about it,” Quay asked casually, more casually than he felt. He glanced at the clock on the recording machine. Time was against him.
Dash put his head in his hands as if the weight had become too much. “We were just a couple of boys, you know? The type you see down the street.”
Boys down the street, where all the girls meet. Quay filed that away.
“But Franky had it,” Dash said. “Just like Dad, only more. Franky was good with the piano and awesome on the axe.”
Blues for a Single Girl had played softly in the background while Quay and Susie had made love, before the pregnancy.
“And Franky had the pipes, see?” Dash said. “When the band did that gig at the Colosseum—”
“I had the live album,” Quay said. Susie had bought it for him. He kept the remark matter-of-fact, but it prompted Dash.
“Yeah, like an angel. I felt the song in my soul.”
The song in my soul. Quay added that to the list.
“But you didn’t have it?” Quay asked.
Now Dash stared Quay in the eyes. “I can play, you know. But it wasn’t that. Kelley, she’s my kid, Kelley and me, we liked to watch Franky and the band on the box, Wembley and the Greek. That was his life. It wasn’t mine.”
Quay changed tack, going slowly after his objective. “After the fifth album, Franky went into seclusion,” Quay stated, “about a year before his murder.”
Dash folded his arms on the metal table. “Franky and the Flyers. Five straight platinums,” Dash said. “You must have seen his mansion. Sixty-five rooms, and I forget how many loos. And the cars. But it changed him. By the last album, I didn’t recognise Franky anymore.”
“What changed him?” Quay asked, his voice soft.
“The usual. It’s why I didn’t want our Kelley going into the game. People, family, they didn’t matter to Franky anymore. To him, they were just the people you see on a ferry.”
Quay stored that, too, Just people you see on a ferry. The man couldn’t help himself.
“Tell me about the cars.”
John Dash shook his head slightly. “He bought them like they were packets of fags. He’d bend one and get that assistant of his to go buy another. Once, he broke three in a week.”
“Tell me about that. Was anyone ever hurt? Quay knew the answer; he had another reason for asking the question.
“Me and Kelley, we just read the headlines and turned the page,” he said.
Read the headlines/turned the page when you’re gone. Off the Red album.
“I think,” he continued, “I read this bird got knocked over. Dunno...”
* * *
It was raining. Big fat drops still fell out of the sky. The road glistened, and the scene seemed to be defined by the light of the single street lamp. The driver of the Lamborghini stood underneath. Someone held an umbrella over his head and a steadying hand on his arm while he signed autographs for the cops and a fortunate teenager.
On the other side of the little shredded sedan was a gurney with the body of Quay’s wife. The rain glued her hair to her face. Her blue and white dress, now mostly red, was plastered to the shape of her, to her pregnant belly. Her arms hung limply. Quay had tried to get to her, but fear dragged at him and held him in place. She was packed into the ambulance and gone by the time he arrived. He was left to stare at the red lights that vanished into the night, feeling like a ship adrift.
* * *
“Your daughter’s going into the game?” Quay asked. He slid a bill from amongst the papers in the folder.
“Yeah. That’s why I went to see Franky,” Dash said, ‘to borrow some money and get help from the band for a proper demo. I asked him to help get it on the air.”
Quay nodded as if this was new information. “Franky said, ‘No,’ Quay continued. “You were angry. You almost had an accident as you left his place.”
John Dash frowned. Andrew White looked puzzled and eased his back from the wall.
“How’d you know that?” Dash asked.
Quay thought quickly, “It’s our job to know.”
“Yeah, I was angry. But Franky was still alive when he got that bastard butler to see me out.”
Quay nodded. “Why wouldn’t Franky help?”
Dash smiled but rather sadly.
“As soon as Kelley sang, everyone would know,” Dash said. “The industry, everyone, they’d know they were my words in Franky’s mouth.”
Quay made a sound as if he was ready to finish up. “You weren’t jealous of Franky. After all, he had everything; the money, the mansions, cars, the girls—”
“The light that shines the brightest,” John Dash said. “It’s something Franky would never have. You’re married. You got kids?”
Quay covered his wedding ring. The pain of a widower who’d just buried his wife and unborn child was like a knife slicing through him.
“No. No, I don’t,” Quay whispered.
“Kelley’s the light of my life. It’s all about her now.”
Quay nodded, then glanced up at White.
“Interview terminated at twenty-two twenty hours,” Quay said as he switched off the recorder.
“I just needed to clear up that last point,” Quay said. “Constable White will arrange for a car for you to take you home.”
Dash stood.
“You’re not giving up, are you?” he asked. “You’re still looking? Franky was a bastard, but he didn’t deserve that.”
“Yes. We just had to clear you; procedure, that’s all.”
John Dash nodded. “He had so much, but really, he had nothing.”
* * *
Quay tapped keys to flip another application in front of the online leave form on his monitor as Constable White approached.
“Couldn’t get a car, so I put him in a taxi.”
“Good. Is it still raining out there?” Quay asked.
“Just drizzling, gov. Almost stopped.”
“It feels like it’s been raining forever.”
“Nearly a month, gov. It broke the dry spell. Elle won’t be watering her veggie garden every day now.”
Quay chuckled.
“Are you okay with this, gov?” White ventured. He had a thoughtful, concerned look. “You know, Franky Dash killed your wife and did it with that fancy car of his.”
Quay glanced at the case notes on the screen and then up at White.
“What else could the Super do?” Quay asked.
“He could give it to one of the others. When the case first came in, I thought he would. I mean—”
“What, give it to the likes of Brightwood?”
White laughed. “No, gov. Not Inspector Brightwood.” White glanced around the office. All the other desks were empty. “Not if you want the case solved anytime soon.”
“’Dangerous’ Davies is in court right now and probably will be for the rest of his life,” Quay said. “The defendant’s barrister files a complaint if you say good morning and he takes it the wrong way. Inspector Hollowleigh has his caseload and was flat out as it was before all this.”
White nodded. “I don’t know if you know, the Super wants a promotion to Chief Super so bad he eats it for breakfast.”
“Is that so?” White said, a little wide-eyed.
“If he can make it in the next year, two at the outside, he’ll still be young enough to go higher.”
“Right.”
‘There’s no chance in hell he’d pass the case onto another patch, not a case like this, and can you see him inviting an Inspector from another group to run the case? If he solved the case, it would be that Inspector’s boss who would be crowing.”
“Yeah, gov. It’s all about the numbers and the glory up there,” he said. Then a thought came to him, “But there’s plenty of good sergeants who could run this—”
“No,” Quay said, “not this time. The media will be all over it. A case like this, you put your best and brightest on.”
White looked thoughtful. “No one’s got your conviction record, gov.”
“That’s what I said to the boss. When this case is solved, it will put him over the line.”
“But gov, when the news gets out about your connection with Franky—”
“Now you’re starting to think like a detective,” Quay said. “That’s why it’s going to be done by the book. The Super and I will meet every Monday to review the case. When the time comes, I’ll brief Hollowleigh, and Inspector Hollowleigh will make the arrest. My name’s not on it.”
“But why, gov, why take it on? Inspector Hollowleigh could shuffle some cases around. It’s got to kill you inside running this case?”
A moment of sadness escaped Quay’s mask. He glanced at the screen to hide it. Then looked at White., “Suzie made me feel human again after the army. She was my anchor. I need... I need to prove to myself I can still do this job.”
White nodded, but the look in his eyes hinted at his confusion. “What a perfect time for the Chief Inspector to be on long service leave,” he said.
“It is,” Quay replied.
“What do you think, gov? Revenge killing?”
“Possibly, probably. Franky was flush with cash, an addict. He was careless with his cars, probably careless in his relationships....”
“Women?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’ll have enemies. But John Dash isn’t one of them. It’s funny, Franky had everything; the fame, the lifestyle, all the trappings, but John pitied him.”
“Do you think we’ll solve this one, gov?”
“Oh, yes. The truth is out there. We just have to whisper the right words into the right ears, and mouths will open. Or someone will hear something on the radio or see someone, something on the box and the word will get out. It’s just a question of time. And you know the law can wait a long time.”
“But what if the shooter has flown, you know, to Argentina, someplace that doesn’t have extradition with us?”
“Yes, yes ... Doesn’t matter. All that matters is the boss can stand in front of a camera and rattle off a name from a piece of paper. Runs on the board.”
White mulled over something momentarily, like a man working on a puzzle. “What was that bit about John Dash almost having an accident as he left his brother’s place?” White asked. He was guarded in the way he spoke.
“I wanted to see how he reacted.”
“But he wasn’t a suspect. We’d crossed him off.”
Quay stopped typing and appeared to think.
“He might have arranged something. I just wanted to see,” Quay said. “Monday, we go after Franky’s drug dealer. If the gun came from him, he’ll talk.”
White shrugged. “It was a throwaway, no serial number. We’ll never find the seller.”
Quay remembered the heft of the pistol. The weight in his hand, how good it had felt. The army had started his weapons training. A dead body in the Far East had finished it. Quay shook his head slowly and smiled briefly. “Someone sold it, someone knows; they’ll talk.”
“Okay, gov.” White turned away and made for the door.
“Don’t be late Monday,” Quay called. “We need to keep the momentum going.”
“Right, gov,” White said.
Quay flipped back to the leave form and finished typing, printed a copy, signed it and placed it on the Chief’s desk where he’d find it on Monday. Back at his desk, Quay pulled his mobile from his pocket and typed into the SMS app, “Going to take a few days off. This case has reminded me too much of my wife’s death. I”m having trouble handling it.” He selected White’s number, chose delayed send and set the date and time for Monday at 7.30 am. The phone went into his desk, which he locked.
At the doorway, Quay glanced around the office one last time, then took the lift down to the ground floor. It was dark and drizzling on the street. He turned right, then right again at the next street, and went down a few blocks.
Kintsukuroi. He knew he’d remember the name. It was a poor choice as a metaphor for solving a crime, but he’d never told Susie that. Sure, the bowl might be repaired and was possibly more beautiful, more valuable than before. But once the crime was solved, the victim was still dead. His wife and unborn daughter were still dead.
He made sure there were no familiar faces nearby, then hailed a taxi. A big black cab with an engine that sounded as if it was grinding up small stones saw him and sidled over to the footpath.
“Where to, governor?” the cabbie asked as Quay climbed in.
Quay looked at him in the driver’s mirror. He wore a pork pie hat, had deep crevices around his eyes and a depth there that said he remembered faces.
“The airport,” Quay replied.
“Sure thing. No luggage?”
“Meeting a friend,” Quay lied. His travel case was waiting in a locker at the airport.
The rain came again, hammering the roof of the cab. Cold seeped in through the driver’s window. Quay looked out into the rain, peering into the dark at the streets he’d loved, and beyond the city was the cemetery with its single grave he would never be able to visit again. The pain came back.
“Domestic or international?”
“International.”
Copyright © 2023 by Glenn A. Kershaw
