Free A Dark Redemption by Stav Sherez

in his throat and he could feel the pulse in his fingers as he turned the pages.
    Photos of young athletes torn from newspapers. Olympic swimmers, glistening in dewy relief against blue swimming pools. More pages from catalogues, young blond boys playing board games, modelling T-shirts and underwear, each page ripped out and then carefully neatened up, pasted into the book with little translucent butterflies.
    Carrigan cursed himself for running out half-cocked like this, knew he’d been slipping these last two years. His arms came down so quickly that even he was surprised. He picked up Monroe and slammed him against the wall. The photo book fell to the floor. Monroe’s face crashed against a framed Elvis print and his body buckled in Carrigan’s grip.
    ‘When did you last see her?’
    Monroe turned, his eyes misty and his lip split at the edges. ‘She’s not my type.’ Blood poured down the side of his cheekbone. ‘Get your facts right, Inspector.’ He spat out some more blood. It landed on Carrigan’s shoe. ‘You show me this fucking picture, ask me when was the last time I saw her. You fucking pricks, you don’t even do your homework, do you?’ Monroe’s teeth glinted red. ‘I don’t like girls, Detective; never have, never will. And I don’t like anyone this old.’
    Carrigan felt the pulsing of the blood in his fingers, the heat of the flat, the whine in Monroe’s voice. He buried his fists in his pockets, felt them jumping inside. He stared at Monroe, cursing himself. Monroe pointed at the TV, two boys running together on a railway track, and emitted a high-pitched cackle. ‘That’s right – come to Daddy.’
    Carrigan shoved him hard against the wall, feeling a shock of electricity rip down his arm and through his chest. He saw Grace falling to the floor, blood trickling down her cheeks. He heard her scream. He let go of Monroe and exited the flat, slamming the door behind him.

7
    Geneva made her way through the press of bodies and up the stairs. Her stomach reeled and rolled, her palms clammy and hot. She stopped and took a deep breath of hazy London air, her vision going scrambly for a split second. She couldn’t believe how nervous she was. Knew she was going to fuck it all up. She stared at the cool columns and smooth steps leading up to SOAS’s main entrance, trying to focus on nothing, just the blankness in front of her, but it wasn’t helping. Her first interview working a murder and she felt like a schoolgirl about to be reprimanded.
    She’d been surprised when Carrigan had called an hour ago, told her to conduct the interview by herself. He’d sounded distracted and tense, she’d tried asking him what he was up to but he’d hung up before she’d even finished the sentence. It had been a while since she’d had a new DI and she’d forgotten how hard it was; how it would take weeks, months sometimes, before you clicked, understood every unsaid thing. She didn’t know what to make of him yet – he didn’t dress like a policeman, he didn’t look like one. A depressed lecturer in medieval history perhaps, with his crumpled clothes and even more crumpled face, the hair that wouldn’t sit still in the wind, and his ridiculous fake Barbour interlaced with biscuit crumbs. He wore a wedding ring but didn’t look like a man who went home every night to a loving wife.
    She took a swig of her Coke, binned it and entered the building. The hum of student life surrounded her, the frayed newsletters, wanted notes, mimeographed posters for bands with unpronounceable names and political pamphlets, their covers stark with 20-point headlines in black capitals, so sure of their messages it made her heart shrink a little.
    A secretary guided her to a chair and paged Professor Cummings. His office was on the top floor of the building, encased by corridors and bookshelves. In front of her a large window opened out onto the square below and she watched the students gather, chat and slurp soft drinks