Day 276/277 – Writing exercise

A story based on three photographic elements

…

Then he checked behind him in case he was being followed. He was not. He ducked under an awning as another gust of wind shook it, avoiding a gush of water that fell like a waterfall, then moved on.

Was it Clara Higgins, an informant and a club singer?  He had interviewed her for a case, and they hit it off.  She worked at the ‘Blue Note’.  Her voice was pure velvet and smoke, a sultry husky drawl that had bought and sold a dozen cops and PI’s before him.

She was leaning against his car six weeks ago, smelling of gin and expensive perfume, whispering about a crime that desperate men were about to commit.

It could be her.  She lived in the shadows, but she usually called him Jackie.  The caller didn’t.

Was it Lydia Vance, now Rawlings, his sister, a woman variously in and out of trouble, with a no-good husband he had offered to sort out?

She had a voice that had grown raspy over time from a heavy bourbon habit she said was the only thing keeping her sane.

Their last conversation was a tense, midnight phone call eight months ago, her voice thick and gravelly as she begged for money to clear a gambling debt.

No, she didn’t have the stomach for whatever dangerous game this was.

He shook his head, and the water dripped from his hat brim.  Another glance up and down the road before turning the next corner.  Three suspects, but they were heading in a different direction.

He turned the corner, the lane narrowing, this time not stopping to look up at the rain.  It was falling harder, and he could hear the sound of the drops hitting the ground.

It was the sort of rain that made a familiar sound.

It bounced off the walls of the lane, as did other sounds, though he could not say where they came from. An arguing voice came from above, distorted by the rain and the surrounding walls.

The theatre alleyway was looming ahead, a dark chasm where anyone or anything could be waiting.  Jack slowed his pace as his heart rate increased, and he could feel the sweat from walking fast in anticipation.

Was it Sarah Kelly, the missing journalist?  She was the nosy type who pushed buttons and limits, but good at her job.  He had been quietly helping her.  Her voice was naturally husky, especially when tired and working a lead.

She was sitting on his office desk just three weeks before, her voice dropping to an intense, quiet rasp as she showed him some evidence and city hall shenanigans.  Two days later she vanished.

The cadence matched perfectly. Was she alive?  Was she trying to get a message to him, or was it a trap?

Could be, but…

Was it May Lin, the ex-detective he had just taken on?  She had a cold, raspy cough for the last week from a flu that she refused to take time off to get better.

Just yesterday, at their early morning meet-up at the diner, her voice was a rough, gravelly whisper, warning him that she heard on the grapevine that Internal Affairs was investigating his old cases when he was a cop.

If it was her, why the disguise?

He stopped just short of the turn into the alley. A sixth sense sent a shiver down his spine. The rain eased. His mind settled on two candidates: a desperate Sarah Kelly trying to surface from the dead, and a compromised May Lin playing a double game.

He turned into the narrow, dark alleyway, the neon lights from the main road reflecting in the pools of water that covered the cobblestones at the entrance.

He cursed, just remembering the cracks in the sole of the left shoe as the water seeped in, cold and uncompromising.

He pulled his hat down low, covering his face in case CCTV cameras had recently been installed. Then he looked up and saw a blinking red light mounted near the entrance.

He scurried past, close to the wall.

He travelled the full length of the alleyway, checking doorways and hiding spots for assailants, his hand on the gun in his pocket, just in case.

It was eerily silent, except for the occasional sound of running water. He saw the telephone booth, now disused and grimy, and walked past it, barely able to make out where any evidence might be, before continuing.

On one side, a single lamp cast a dim glow over the telephone itself, but it was not strong enough to reach the ground.

If he was being observed, it would not do to let them know the telephone booth was his destination.  Not yet.

He slowly returned as the rain eased, as if on cue. Above him, several high windows were lit, casting a pale yellowish light into the night. They did not illuminate the alley.

He was here.  Now.  As there was no evidence, he would wait.  Perhaps the husky-voiced woman would come, thrust an envelope into his hands and then disappear.  Dressed in black, she could easily fade into the gloom.

The only sounds now were his breathing and raindrops hitting metal.  Leaning against the telephone booth, he was right under a steady drip onto his hat, so regular, so mesmerising, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to massage away the tiredness.

The steady drip onto his hat nearly caused him to miss the beam of light from above. It shone directly on a plain, stained and creased envelope sitting atop the pile of rubbish that had accumulated against the booth.

Just as he leaned down to pick it up, the light snapped off, plunging the area into darkness. The sudden change left him temporarily blind.

“Go to the diner and wait.”

The same husky voice.  He swivelled around, but all he could see was darkness, punctuated by a rim of light from the bulb above, and a sloshing sound.

The woman escaping?

It took two minutes for his sight to return.  He had the envelope, but no clue as to the identity of the woman.

He took his torch out of the other coat pocket and opened the envelope.  It contained a photograph.

It was a photograph of him and Jackson Pike, taken a year ago when Vance was a cop investigating a break-in at City Hall. Pike was alleged to have staged the break-in to obtain evidence of a rigged election. The photograph showed Pike handing Vance an envelope.

Evidence of what? Was Vance part of a cover-up?  There had been evidence, but it was not Vance who was the guilty party.  It had been his partner, Elroy Baggins.  Two weeks before, Elroy had been killed in a shootout.

Baggins had died and had taken the truth with him, leaving Vance to explain the unexplainable: that the dead officer was corrupt.  That maybe he was guilty by association or tarred with the same brush.  It was why he quit.  He had been very close to finding the proof, and then the boss called him into the office and gave him a choice: resign or be destroyed.

In the end, he had no choice.

Now, Vance figured, if they couldn’t get Baggins, they would come after him.

May Lin had tried to warn him, but his money was now on Sarah.  She had somehow got hold of the internal affairs evidence and had got the message to Jack via May.

Another look around the alley showed nothing.  She had gone.

There was nothing for it, except to go to the diner and wait.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026