Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

an incident in your class this morning,’ he says, placing his phone down on the table, face up. ‘An officer was badly hurt. So too was another inmate. Word is that you took a few bumps and bruises yourself trying to protect a certain infamous inmate from being seriously hurt. Didn’t work, for all your efforts. Stabbed with a pencil, or so I’m led to believe.’

Rufus nods. Shrugs. ‘That’s about the size of it. Not really what I signed up for. I had a few misgivings about it but I believe in the importance of creative writing – engaging with your own imagination, y’know? It’s a big part of a life well lived. And I’ll admit, I was intrigued. Bit of a reputation, Holderness, hasn’t it? And of course, Annabeth has been a big supporter of my books.’

Neilsen nods, understanding. ‘You were aware that one of your attendees was from the At-Risk wing, yes?’

‘Sort of,’ admits Rufus, sheepishly. ‘I get a lot of emails. I’m not exactly Mr Organized. Annabeth said something about it but my only thought was the more the merrier.’

‘Even if that somebody has abducted a child?’ asks Neilsen, frowning.

‘I wish I could give you some sort of deep and meaningful breakdown of my core beliefs, I really do. But I just said “yes” because I tend to say “yes” to most things. It’s actually easier than saying “no” and leads to more interesting situations. That probably sounds ridiculous to you.’

Neilsen shrugs, his manner a little too louche for Rufus’s taste. He takes a sip of his whisky. Feels the burn and wonders where the hell this is going.

‘I’m told there was some unpleasantness during yesterday’s session,’ says Neilsen. He adjusts his position slightly, flicking a glance at his phone. ‘The gentleman in question was, in the words of one of the witnesses, “trying to wind you up”. Asking off-colour questions. Generally making a nuisance of himself.’

Rufus puts his hands down on the grainy wood of the table, hears the clang as the barmaid calls last orders. Answers with a frown. ‘I’ve had worse questions from little old ladies at Women’s Institute meetings. It didn’t bother me. Bothered the other chap though. What was his name? Suggs? But it was fine. Just added some heat to the blaze, you know?’

‘Mr Cox is alleging that you responded violently,’ says Neilsen, quietly. ‘Twisted a big patch of his forearm while everybody was distracted. He has a nasty wound.’

Rufus feels heat start to prickle at his skin, the drink in his belly sloshing about and climbing up his throat. ‘What are you talking about? That’s not even remotely true. He did that to himself, I saw him do it.’

‘He says you called him a nonce.’

‘He what? When? How would I …?’

‘And obviously with the situation developing today – the serious assault … well, CPS could even decide it’s a case of attempted murder. As things stand, he’s staying very quiet about what he saw. Can’t seem to recall who did what. Only willing to talk to one officer, and she’s not well enough to come to work. Your sainted Annabeth …’

Rufus sits forward, fringe flopping forward across his brow and sticking to his clammy forehead. He twitches his hands. ‘Are you accusing me of stabbing him? Is he? That’s mad. I don’t know him from Adam! I saved him, if anything!’

‘What a hero,’ says Neilsen, drily. He takes a sip of his sparkling water. Cleanses his palate: the mention of Cox having left a sour taste. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance, as it happens, Mr Orton. You and I, I mean. The reporter you chatted with earlier this evening. She’s a good operator – one of those freelancers who takes their job seriously and understands that “off the record” actually means something. She has been showing a great deal of interest in a case that you seem to have accidentally inserted yourself into. You’ll be aware that we’re searching an area outside Kirmington for the remains of one Bronwen Roberts, yes?’

Rufus drains his whisky, wishing to God there was another on the way. He’d like to rewind forty-eight hours and be back in his armchair, pissed and useless but largely harmless. ‘Yes. The reporter, she mentioned it, I think.’

‘Apparently you had an interest in a cold case. Walter Defreitas. That name rang a bell, you see, Mr Orton, because Defreitas was big pals with one Mark Fellowes. And Mark Fellowes is on the radar of the joint task force which is currently looking into a series of disappearances. Teenagers, as it happens. Similar modus operandi, similar victim profile. Can you guess which other of our mutual acquaintances is very much a suspect in these disappearances?’

Rufus lets his feelings show. Rolls his eyes like a child tired of being lectured. ‘Would it be Griffin Cox?’

‘Give that man a prize,’ says Neilsen, pointing a finger directly at the centre of Rufus’s chest. ‘You know he’s in prison for abduction, yes? Groomed a teenage girl online, made arrangements to meet, bundled her into his car and only got pulled over through sheer bad luck? You know that’s why he’s inside?’

Rufus nods, his head really starting to ache.

‘He was in HMP Frankland for several years. On the VP wing. He was there at the same time as one Mark Fellowes.’

Rufus stares into the bottom of his glass. ‘Right,’ he says. Shrugs. ‘And?’

‘And if I were to put a load of names on a whiteboard and start drawing lines between them all, I think it would make for a very interesting picture.’

Rufus rewinds a little, plays the conversation back. Shakes his head. ‘No, you’ve lost me. Why have you come out of your way to talk to me? What do you think I’ve done?’

Neilsen doesn’t reply. Glances at his phone. ‘You’re an academic, aren’t you? First class degree from Durham, yes? Tell me about Ovid. About Lavinia.’

Rufus wrinkles his face, unsettled by the change in tone. ‘Ovid? What are you asking about Ovid for? And