The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

GRAVEYARD BOY

Six am. Vans of tradesmen are parked the length of Whittle's house; my house. I press shuffle, Post Malone plays. I raise the volume to block the noise of the lounge floor being fitted and the bathroom gutted. I want every trace of Whittle obliterated. It's a shame he's dead; I'd like to kill him again.

***

Walking towards my office, I'm thrilled by the 'Detective Inspector' before my name on my office door. Day two of a new life and a new job. I place my latte and chocolate twist down. My desk is bare: no files, notes or crime scene photographs; nothing pinned to my incident board. I have empty folders, coloured trays, sticky notes, highlighters, you name it; everything required to work a case except a body; more specifically a person dead under suspicious circumstances.cheque.

Opening my drawer, I take an emery board from my make-up bag. I file my nails whilst perusing the personnel records of my inherited team.

Beyond the glass-partitioned wall of my office reside a collection of old-school coppers. I watch their grey, balding heads bob like buoys weathered by the sea. I've no allies; I'm not here to make friends, but a boss is only as good as her team.

Tom Brady is a ray of hope: a sergeant at twenty-six, very forensically aware but possibly sour grapes; he'd applied for my post. He may be good, but not that good. Being on the edge of thirty, with convictions of two high profile murder cases under my belt Brady was never in the running.

I find myself lingering on my other sergeant's photo, Andy Jensen. A transfer from Wales, only a few days ago. Ex-military. He'd seen plenty of action and worked some complex, high profile cases. He'd be a good second.

To understand murder...I mean really understand it...you've to experience what it sounds and smells like. Jensen's as near to that as I'm going to get. How many officers have witnessed a person disconnect from their body like a power cut? Or been on the other side of the door when the police come calling.

"Ma'am."

I look up toward the detective knocking on my door.

"We've a major incident."

I pick up my latte and pastry.

"Brady, we're up," I call to my sergeant. "Enjoy," I say passing my sugar burst to the constable.

***

I've been awake hours and it's still only 7am.

I stare at my birth certificate - Phoenix Harriet Whittle.

Fourth of September, eighteen years ago, was the day my Mum first held me in her arms. My heart and throat burn with an agony that's trapped inside me. Nothing dulls it. Thinking about my parents, missing them, is killing me...then I die a second time as I cross the school gates.

I blink. Wave upon wave of kids whoosh across the playground. Jade spots me first and a smile of pure evil spreads across her face, as she bitches into Amy's ear. I feel powerless. I can't stop the trolling; a clap back would lead to a slap back.

I step over a rucksack. The ground is littered in them. I carefully move between brands; jostling with students, getting elbowed, when Alex ploughs into me.

"Look where you're fuckin' going."

"You bumped me," I say weakly.

"Fuck you Whittle."

***

Driving down Kings College, my eyes dart left and right to the large stretches of land: Ruislip Rangers football grounds, Kings College Café, the Cricket Club, skateboard park. Turning left before Ruislip Woods, the silence in the car speaks volumes of Tom Brady's disappointment. I understand the frustration of being looked over for Inspector, but we can't let professional jealously impact on the case.