Chapter Four

Police Constable Ashley Bryce yawned and opened his sticky eyes as his pager buzzed and bleeped on his bedside table. Oh, shit, he sighed inwardly, wishing he had held back on the Living Dead cocktail of vodka, Sambucha and coffee liqueur, which he had been downing all night at Attica, Deling City's trendy bar-club.

Reaching out to read what all the fuss was about, he glanced at his empty pillow, as he had vaguely remembered getting into bed with at least on woman the previous night. Sure enough, lipstick and mascara clung to the otherwise lilywhite pillowcase, which told him that, sure enough, he had spent the night with a female. At least he hoped it had been a female. Why did this always happen? What was it with Attica? Whenever he went there he always managed to pull (and usually shag!) some incredibly gorgeous woman, who was always gone by morning, with nothing but make-up stained sheets and a soggy condom in the bed as a reminder. One conquest of his had even left her bra behind but, for some reason, had never returned for it.

Why? Bryce thought as he grabbed his pager. Was he that crap a ride? Was he so hideously ugly, that the women he pulled couldn't stand to be with him once he had sobered up? As he glanced at the pager, he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for Hyne's sake, Dave!" he cursed as he read the number '1664'; the code for 'Emergency Situation: Contact Sergeant Rawlinson Immediately.' "What the shit do you want from me on a Sunday morning?"

Reluctantly, he reached for his mobile phone, switched off by his bedside. As he switched it on and waited for the phone to ready itself, then dialled his sergeant's desk, he yawned once again and wished that once, just once, the girl he pulled, whomever she might be, would stay. Just for a little while. It would give him a much-needed ego-boost, companionship and… something to do in the morning!

All sexual thoughts were blown like cobwebs from his mind when his commanding sergeant, David Rawlinson, answered in a terse manner.

"Bryce?" Rawlinson boomed in a voice overflowing with something that made Bryce think that this was going to be bad news. "Thank you for calling back so promptly. I wouldn't normally bother you on your weekend off," Bryce had a sneaking suspicion that Rawlinson knew about his drunken nights of passion. "But this is a serious matter."

Bryce groaned. "Not the Garden kids again," he sighed. He had found the Headmaster, Cid Kramer, to be most uncooperative and unbecoming during the fallout of the accident that had caused the death of one of the students there.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Rawlinson told him. "There has been a serious incident, and a murder suspect is currently being detained in the Garden's disciplinary wing.

Bryce rolled his eyes. "So," he sighed. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We shall go down to the Garden," Rawlinson said, "and interview the suspect."

"Sounds simple enough," Bryce croaked.

"One more thing," Rawlinson added. "This suspect… is a young man, considered dangerous. That's why Headmaster Kramer has asked us to actually interview the suspect on the premises. For our own safety."

Bryce's stomach turned, and it was nothing to do with the dodgy cocktails. "Must we go there?" he asked, with a heavy heart. "Couldn't we just take this suspect back to the police station in Deling City? There's a unit there specifically for violent prisoners."

"I'm afraid Headmaster Kramer was quite adamant about keeping the suspect on Garden ground. I guess military academies want to deal with situations in their own way."

Bryce groaned again. The day was getting worse and worse, and he hadn't even set one foot out of bed yet. That disagreeable Headmaster wanted everything his own way. Well, not anymore. He was going to stand up to this pompous arsehole, and take this boy into custody, no matter how dangerous he might be. Bryce had been in this job for five years, and he would do anything to prove himself.

Rawlinson suddenly interrupted his reverie. "So, I'll meet you by the harbour, with the squad car, in half an hour. In uniform, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Bryce sighed, remembering the time he had turned up to take a statement from an old lady in Winhill who had been burgled, wearing a T-shirt and barbecue sauce stained jeans – he was so hung over he had completely forgotten that such an important call for a vulnerable citizen required a good impression, and also a uniform.

Bryce hung up and hauled his naked form out of bed. He felt unusually unclean, and he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He didn't even want to think about the sick, degrading sexual practises he had inflicted on this night out's girl… or girls. He ran to the bathroom to cleanse his body, if not his promiscuous soul.

Slightly more refreshed, Bryce stared out to sea, leaning on the cast-iron fence of the marina. The bracing sea breeze made him forget his headache, and the salty air soothed his guilty, tainted mind. Rawlinson should be here any moment, he thought, deciding to reluctantly turn his back on Balamb's spectacular sea view, and actually watch for Rawlinson's squad car.

Glancing towards the posh marina flats (if only he were promoted to Sergeant, then he would be able to afford one!), his eye caught the sight of a beautiful girl with long black hair set off by red highlights. She was dressed in a long, flowing, blue woollen coat with an elaborate angel wing motif on the back, black vest top and short denim skirt, coyly accompanied by a pair of skin-tight shorts. Jesus, thought Bryce, she's certainly got the figure for it. He watched as she stalked across the marina square, clutching a large folder to her chest. She must have noticed Bryce staring at her, because she shot him a contemptuous look. Her sad brown eyes were filled with absolute incredulity toward her admirer; he guessed that she'd either had a hard time with her boyfriend, or the aforementioned boyfriend had just broken up with her. Bryce hoped to Hyne the latter was true.

At that moment, Rawlinson's Fiat Panda pulled into the square, and honked for Bryce's attention. Reluctantly taking his eyes off the girl's tight denim and Lycra-clad bottom, Bryce strolled towards the waiting car.

"Still eyeing up the talent, are ya?" remarked Sergeant David Rawlinson, winding down the window. "I thought you'd left your womanising days behind you.

Bryce sighed. "Not quite," he said wistfully. "Perhaps it's time." He reached for the door handle, but Rawlinson reached across and locked the door.

"It's not worth you getting in," he told Bryce.

"Oh?" Bryce answered, trying to cover his annoyance. "So you got me out of bed for nothing?"

"Well… I've got some good news and some bad news for you." Rawlinson explained. "The good news is that you don't have to come with me to Garden.

"Thank God!" Bryce breathed, relieved that he didn't have to deal with that pompous, self-important, so-called Headmaster.

"However," Rawlinson continued, his face becoming more serious. "I've just been radioed as to a murder on Garden Way, the main residential street in Balamb town. There have been three people, two women and a young boy, at Number Two, found dead. Massacred apparently. Blood everywhere…." Rawlinson took a breath as if to compose himself having delivered the shocking and sad news. "Anyway, I want you to assist forensics, who are on the scene now, and report to me the cause and time of death, and interview the neighbours to ascertain a preliminary list of suspects."

Bryce shuddered. "Dead people?" he quavered. "You want me to help around… dead people?"

Rawlinson nodded. "It's part of the job," he sighed, "and it's something you've not yet experienced."

Bryce tried to straighten out his horrified face, as Rawlinson revved up the car's engine. "Don't worry," he reassured Bryce. "You'll do fine. See you later, Ash."

And with that, he wound up the window and drove off, towards Garden.