Do you want the truth to come out?

Chapter one: Anywhere but Brighton

It was a cold and sunny Monday morning in January, the second day of the year, when I first entered the place where I would work for the next six months: Brighton’s police station. Our graduation ceremony took place some twenty days prior, but the holidays made it feel like it was another lifetime altogether.

As I walked through the door of the police station, I thought about our final day at the academy, and the moment we were receiving our posting letters sprang to my mind. Up until that point, we had been training for the previous six months to become private investigators, and it had not been easy on any of us. We somehow formed a strong bond, and we were all very excited to see where life would take us next, who would be there with us, what we would do. After six months of books, lectures, videos and tests, we all wanted to get out of the classroom and get into the action.

I remember all those things going through my mind the day I opened my letter, and how the words came out of my mouth before I could hold them. Before I could think about them, even. 

“You gotta be kidding me!”

My classmates all turned around, almost as if they had rehearsed and synchronised the movement. Some of them were grinning, some seemed genuinely worried. One thing was sure: I managed to break the tension in the classroom. 

The next module of training would be a paid placement internship in some sort of related workplace, and throughout the training we were able to manifest our preference for the kind of crimes we would like to investigate. Some people wanted to go into fraud and financial crimes, some wanted to go into cyber crimes. I wanted to go into police investigation - I grew up reading the likes of Poirot and watching Murder She Wrote on TV, it was clear to me that I wanted to be a detective. Maybe for that very reason, I applied to do my internship at Sussex Police. I did not really want to be a member of the police, but that would probably be the closest I would get from actual police work. I also told my colleagues I was hoping to be posted in a small, quaint village in the middle of nowhere, preferably the home of some kind of rich person living in a huge manor, who would later be killed by a diamond encrusted dagger in the library. My main suspect would be a mysterious woman with a strong exotic accent. I was obviously making a joke - although, as the cliche goes, every joke has a grain of truth to it.

As much as I wanted to be involved in investigations and be part of the action, there was a side of me that wanted to live in a small and peaceful place, where there would be practically no violence, and I would be able to help the community. I didn't care which small village I would be deployed to, whether there would be any action or not, as long as I did not end up in the biggest city in Sussex: Brighton and Hove. ‘Anywhere but Brighton’ became my mantra. As luck would have it, those were the exact two words written in my posting letter.

It was not really a surprise, to be fair. The vast majority of investigations and police work took place in big cities, where things actually happen. Places like Brighton, Eastbourne, Worthing. A lot also happened in Gatwick, but it was a different kind of work which I was not really interested in. Only a small handful of people worked at the villages, and there was not really space or need for interns. Sadly, I was not the exception.

I wouldn't have been that upset with any other big city, but the thought of living in Brighton scared me. Mainly because it brought with it the prospect of dealing with drunk young people, tourists, misogynists and homophobes. In a nutshell, I was not happy with what that letter and, to some extent, life had given me. My interjection just showed that clearly to my colleagues.

At least this would be a six month experience placement, and after that I would have the chance to move somewhere else, with undeniably good experience on my CV. So I put on a brave face and decided to play with the cards I had been dealt. I decided to try and make the best of it. Whether I would succeed or not, was a completely different matter. But more on that later.

It had not been that difficult to find accommodation - who would not want to rent to someone working with the police, especially as we were now being paid for our work? I got myself a small one bedroom flat in Hanover, about a ten minutes walk from the police station on John Street. I didn't have many things, so I made sure to rent a place which was already furnished. It did not feel very homely and personal to me, but neither did the idea of a life in Brighton - at least there was a consistent theme.

That first day was purely focused on admin work: taking pictures for my ID, setting up my email address and access to systems, documents, learning to use the equipment and the programs. Most of the theory we had already learned in the academy, now it was just a matter of putting it into practice. I was also introduced to the people who, unbeknownst to me at the time, would be who I would work most closely towards the following months: Lead Detective Stephen Pritchard and Senior Forensic Analyst Dr Sanjay Parkheet.

Steve, as he asked me to call him, was a tall man in his mid forties, with thick brown hair, that didn’t seem to have been cut by an actual profession in a good number of years, thick connecting brows, over piercing blue eyes. His face also showed a stubble from someone who hadn’t shaved for the last couple of days, although I couldn’t say if he achieved this look intentionally or if he just didn't care. He was not attractive, but he was also not ugly. He was the kind of man people don’t really notice - he looked like a common person, and there was nothing special or outstanding about him. For him, it would have been very easy to blend in, as long as he kept his mouth shut: he had an unmistakably strong accent from the North of England which, in Brighton, would be something that would make someone stand out from the crowd. He had been working for the police for the last twenty something years, and he gave me the impression he was someone who was once very good, but got lost within the system.

Dr Sanjay was the exact opposite: he was young, probably around twenty-eight years old, always very well dressed and well groomed. His neatly combed brown hair was never seen without hair gel, his eyes were honey brown, he was clean shaven and some people said never left the house without cologne. He graduated top of his class at Cambridge and repeated to whoever wanted to hear that forensics was his dream job, and the solution was always in the details the eyes cannot see. He had married his best friend from childhood, Pryia, and already told me how they lived across from each other their whole lives, and how he knew she would be his wife from the very first time they met. She was about six months pregnant and they were having trouble choosing a name for the newborn - the first fight they've ever had about anything.

The team was supported by Ms Felicity Browne-Porter, who insisted everyone call her Felicity. She was in her early to mid sixties, grey hair that contrasted with her dark skin tone, thick turtle shell glasses with equally thick lenses and a maternal face that reminded me of a kind grandma. She often said her own grandchildren didn’t see her with such kind eyes, and she always called everyone ‘darling’. Her husband had passed away some four or five years prior, leaving her a considerable sum of inheritance. She has been in the system for many years, working for different government agencies, and said that, without work, she would go insane. On the other hand, she kept a calendar counting the years left until she would retire in Spain. She made sure to mention that she considered herself an enemy of the Conservative Party and was probably the person who made me feel most welcomed in the new job.

Besides them, I was also introduced to many other people working that day, from janitors to heads of departments, but I could not keep everyones’ names in my mind. It was a long and busy day, but at the same time nothing really interesting happened. Well, apart from the occasional gossipy comment from Felicity about the things that happened at the office Christmas party some weeks prior. They could not shock me, because I did not know any of the people who took part in any of the stories described by her, but some of my colleagues seemed to be a bit uncomfortable with this. Others thought it funny and harmless. One of my colleagues told me, discreetly, while Felicity was out of the room:

“Forget the BBC News, if you want to be up to date with anything that happens around here, tune into FBP News.”

At least with the busy day I didn't notice the time passing, and I was surprised when the clock showed five minutes past six in the afternoon. I gathered my things and left the building, but went in the opposite direction of my new place, as I needed to do some grocery shopping. I noticed Steve outside, by the edge of the building, having a cigarette. I stopped for a chat.

“Welcome to the team, kid. Did you like your first day?”

“To be fair, it was a lot of admin and boring things. Which is normal, I guess. But I cannot wait for the action to start.”

“Action? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, the real investigations, the gruesome murders…”

“That’s interesting. So you want people to be murdered?”

That question caught me off guard. After six months in the classroom and being so eager to start working, it became easy for me to disassociate the fact that every time a crime is committed, someone becomes a victim. Someone real, with a life and feelings, with loved ones and a history. Steve seemed to have picked up on what I was thinking.

“This is the first thing you need to learn about working with the police: a victim is not a number. A victim is a person, and they should always be treated as such. Even your suspects, they are also real human beings. Don’t ever forget that.”

I felt a little embarrassed, especially as he had a somewhat condescending tone, maybe with an undertone of kindness. Sounded like someone who didn't want to show vulnerability, as if he had to assert there and then who was the boss and what my place was. Seeing me clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable, he went on, this time a little less condescendingly.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not the first time you will get yourself thinking like that. Happens to everyone, you're not the first one I’ve had to give this advice to. I still have to remind myself sometimes, after these many years. In any case, keep your expectations low. There are a lot of small crimes in Brighton, but I would be very surprised if you got any ‘action’ in your six months here. You will probably end up helping many departments. And it’s probably better this way: to be here and not be used, it means the world is a safer place. Don’t you agree?”

I was not sure I could read him yet, or if I would ever be able to. All I knew was that day one was over, now it was time to get some food and get away from the cold, to enjoy my new home.

Yet, somehow I had the clear impression things did not start well for me.

Chapter two: When you least expect it…

For a moment I thought I was still standing in the corner of the building, chatting to Steve while he finished his cigarette. 

“Hey kid, get up. We need to move.”

The words from him came into my head whilst I realised I was in my bed, but at this point I still could not discern if those words were reality or part of the dream I was having, which I could not remember anymore. I think my phone had been ringing for what seemed like hours, and I had no idea of the time. Slowly, my brain started to recall what happened the night before. I stopped at the shop to get some food - ready-made curry for one, which I heated in the microwave with a surprisingly tasty garlic and coriander naan on the side - sat in front of the TV to watch some reruns of Schitts Creek, and it wasn’t long until I was sleeping and drooling. How I made it to my bed is a mystery not even Miss Marple would have been able to solve. 

I finally opened my eyes, looked at my side clock - it was showing three fifty two AM. I somehow managed to get myself together and say something, in a very raspy voice.

“Hello, Steve. I think I am awake. What is going on?”

“Something happened. We are coming to pick you up, can you be ready in fifteen?”

“Fifteen what? Minutes? Wow, let me think. I need to shower, eat something…”

“Don’t worry about food, we will get something on our way. Shall we say ten past?”

“Can we make it a quarter past, at least?”

“Ok, I will see you then. I hope you’re ready to put your money where your mouth is.”

At a quarter past four I was closing the building door behind me when I saw the faint blue/red light reflection from the car entering the street. When they stopped, I could see that Steve was driving and Dr Sanjay was sitting in the back seat. That early hour seemed to have enhanced the first impression I had of them both: Steve looked even rougher than usual, whilst Dr Sanjay looked even better groomed than when we first met. 

Once on our way, they filled me in on the reason we were out so early: Someone had been found dead at a flat in the Marina area of town, but we did not yet have many details. We were informed that the victim appeared to be an adult male, found by a neighbour who was coming back from a night out; he lived on the third floor, which was also the top floor. The witness had been out the whole of the previous day with friends. When she came home, she noticed that the victim’s flat door was slightly ajar, and tried to alert him about it. She called for the victim and there was no answer. Consequently, she went further inside and found the victim, laying face down on the couch, unresponsive. The witness did not touch anything and called the police right away. 

The call was received by the emergency services at eighteen past three AM, and the police arrived about fifteen minutes later. It was clear to the first responders that the victim had been dead for many hours, no CPR was administered and he was pronounced dead at forty five minutes past three AM. The officer in charge of the scene alerted Steve, who immediately called Dr Sanjay and me. At the moment, the death was being treated as ‘under suspicious circumstances’, but it was not possible to say anything else until we investigated further. On our way, we would be stopping at a fast food restaurant for a quick breakfast before proceeding to the scene of the crime. And Steve seemed to be even more condescending in the early hours of the morning.

“Oi, mind what you eat! A dead body can be pretty gruesome, especially if it’s the first time you see one.”

“I mean, we have studied many crime scenes in the academy, pictures, videos…”

“Yeah, but this is real life. Trust me, don’t order anything with eggs. We can't afford to deal with you being a liability today.”

I felt somewhat unwanted there, and resigned myself to a cup of coffee, some fruits and an unappealing though warm muffin sandwich with a slice of cheese in between, which I devoured on the way between the restaurant and the victims’ flat. Right in front of the building, there was one other police car, the paramedics ambulance, some police officers and paramedics. A couple of neighbours were out, but the scene was still relatively quiet. 

We climbed the stairs and arrived at the flat, where a police officer was standing in front of it, whilst another one was inside the witness' flat opposite, talking to her. We were informed that her name was Alisson Ling, and she seemed a bit ecstatic by the situation. Steve and Dr Sanjay wanted to look at the scene of the crime before talking to her.

The flat was a standard two bedroom, two bathroom flat. We entered through a small corridor that had five doors connecting to further rooms: the first door to the left was a kitchen, the next one clockwise was a small office, right in front of us was a toilet, right beside it to the right was the entrance to the living room, and finishing the circle was the door to the master bedroom. It was not difficult to spot the body after only a few steps into this corridor, as the curtains of the balcony door were open and the light from outside was illuminating the living room. I also noticed a glass on the floor and a stain on the carpet, which was probably the liquid that spilled from the glass as it was dropped. My first thought was that the body could have easily been spotted from outside too, but once I stood at the door, I saw why I was wrong: between the balcony door and the couch stood a bookshelf filled with books, blu-ray discs, records and board games. Light could still go through, but the view would be blocked enough not to allow any outside looker to see it clearly. And as we were on the top floor, not many other buildings had a good point of view into the flat. 

I was lost in my initial analysis when I saw Steve's hand stopping me, almost hitting me in the face.

“Sorry, kid. That's as far as you'll go for now.”

“Are you kidding me? You won't allow me in the crime scene?”

“No, I will not. This is no place for amateurs. Everything we find now will be extremely important to the investigation, and I cannot allow you to contaminate or compromise it in any way.”

Before I could protest, he made his point clear.

“This is not a game, it's not a classroom. This is real life. You should be happy I'm allowing you all the way up here. You’re just an intern. Observe from the door if you want. And if you don't, go back to bed. I don't care, I have a death to investigate.”

I was extremely frustrated but there was nothing I could do, so I decided to make the best of the situation and observe.

Dr Sanjay seemed to be very technical about it all, observing and making annotations. He would move things with surgical precision, making sure that it went back to the exact same place. He seemed to observe everything without making any remarks or change of expression. I felt like he was the kind of person who would not get to a conclusion without knowing all the facts. Steve, on the other hand, gave me a completely different impression. He did not really touch anything, but he would look at things and whisper, whistle, make interjections and ask himself things like "how is it possible", to almost immediately answer with "ah, of course" within the same breath. Maybe I was starting to resent Steve, and that was influencing my judgement, but more and more he looked like a fraud to me.

About half an hour later, after they finished with their observations, we moved to the adjacent flat to talk to Alisson, whilst the forensic team came in to collect objects and take pictures. The body would be removed later. 

Now, in the neighbouring flat, I was allowed to come in with them, but I was nudged not to talk, just observe. 

Alisson Ling was tall, did not look older than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three years old, and spoke very fast in a very thick accent. She looked east asian, her hair was short, very straight and black with highlights; her eyes were green, although I could have sworn she wore coloured contact lenses, and her mouth was small, which contrasted with her round face. She wore a pink t-shirt with the words ‘Girls just wanna have fun’ written in gold glittery detail. She now looked tired and extremely fed up with the situation she found herself in - the excitement had certainly passed.

“This is very surreal, d'ya know what I'm sayin'? I come ‘ome after a day out with m'mates and I find a bloody corpse!”

I thought to myself ‘Well not quite, I couldn’t see any blood’, but decided it was wiser to remain silent. She went on.

“I din't even know this bloke. Seen ‘im a couple o’times passing, but never even spoke a word to ‘im. Saw the door a bit open, thought to myself: might've gone to bed after a couple o’pints and forgot to lock the door, bloody idiot. I went in, called 'hullo matey’, no answer, walked a bit in and saw it. Right 'ere where I live, man. It's mad! D'you know what I mean? Mad.”

Steve was the one who spoke to her, and his tone sounded much kinder to her than it ever did to me.

“Miss Ling, we will need you to come down to the police station and make a statement.”

“Oh, call me Ali, Mrs Ling is me mum. D’ya think I can get some sleep first? I'm knackered, d'ya know what I…”

“I understand, Ali. But it's important that this is done now, in the heat of the moment. Otherwise you might forget something, some detail.”

“Mate, I don't think I can ever forget this. Anyway, I told yous everything. There's not much more.”

“Then it will be a quick statement and you'll be able to get back home and sleep in peace, knowing you fulfilled your duty as a good citizen. We promise we won’t keep you for long, and I will make sure someone drives you back home straight away.”

Having nothing else there for us, we drove back to the station. Ali came with us in the car, gave her statement and was taken back home. Indeed her statement did not add much more to what she told us, she was just able to clarify details such as times, where she was and who she had been with, and if she would be willing to help further if needed. 

In her statement she said that she had left her flat a little after noon, she was pretty sure that the victim’s door was closed, but she did not really look. She went to a friend’s house in Portslade with two other friends and stayed there the whole afternoon - all of them would be able to vouch for her - and the four of them went to get some food and drinks in the evening. She left those friends around two thirty AM and took the night bus home. She had a cigarette downstairs before going up. When she reached the third floor, as she had to pass in front of the victim’s front door to reach her own, she noticed the door ajar. She went in, called for someone, did not get any answer and went further in. That was when she saw the body. She tried to get a response and noticed that the body was cold and rigid, so she called the emergency number right away.

She did not know the victim very well, couldn’t even tell what the victim’s name was, and had never engaged in any meaningful conversation with the victim, apart from the occasional greeting whilst crossing each other in the common areas of the building. She made herself available for any further clarifications, although insisting there was nothing more to be said, confirmed her contact details and signed her statement after reading it.

After she left, Steve seemed to be back to his usual bad mood.

“Fucking humans. Someone had been found dead, a life was lost, and all she cared about was getting some sleep first. Selfish prick.”

“You didn't seem to be so angry at her when she was around.”

“Alright Sherlock, what would you rather have me do? Let’s hear your great idea! Antagonise and spook a key witness into keeping her mouth shut? Brilliant, why didn't I think of that!”

I felt like he got me once again, but I was not going to show it.

“Whatever. I'm gonna get some coffee, real coffee, do you want something?”

“Nah, thanks.”

I left the building and walked to a cafe a block away, to get some coffee but also to clear my head and take a break from everything. It had been an intense morning, and I finally got what I had so joyfully joked about for the past six months: a murder, a crime scene, investigations, witnesses. But I wasn't sure I actually wanted any of that anymore. It was not exactly how I expected it to go. My whole experience in Brighton so far was not exactly what I thought it would be - if anything, it was worse. 

The previous words from Steve echoed in my mind: a life had been lost. I hated to agree with him about anything. Furthermore, this was only day two, and I still had six more months ahead of me. I walked slowly back to the police station, because I did not really want to go back there, but I also wasn’t sure if I wanted to go back into that life, that situation that somehow I got myself into. My body was taking the steps back, but my mind was wandering aimlessly, while I looked vaguely ahead of me. When I entered the police station, my mind was suddenly brought back to reality by the person I saw sitting at the reception area. If she was trying to be inconspicuous, she had failed miserably.

She was wearing a pin striped purple suit and trousers and a floral scarf tied around her neck, which immediately made me think of a flight attendant’s uniform, accompanied by thick squared indigo blue glasses but almost no make up. Her shoes somehow clashed with the outfit: she wore black converse with pink details; it was not an unpleasant combination, just the type of pairing one wouldn't expect to work. But it did work on her. 

Her eyes were grey and hair was somewhere between blond, grey and white, short and ruffled, as if she had left it wet from the shower and shook her head vigorously to try and dry it. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, and although I couldn't really tell how tall she was while she was sitting, I would have guessed she was an average height - didn't seem too tall or too short. A small badge on the left side of her chest showed the words ‘she/her’. 

Felicity came out to talk to her, and I had the impression I was seeing two distant cousins together - although they did not look anything like each other physically. There was something in their manner that looked like they were very familiar with one other. They were walking in the same direction as me, and we entered the room together. As we did, Steve rolled his eyes at the sight of the three of us and said, in an exasperated tone:

“Now this is all that I need, the famous Helga Hildegard. To what do we owe the pleasure of having a world renowned detective in our humble investigation?”