Chasing Shadows

A detective escapes to Barcelona, but cannot outrun a traumatic incident.

Hannah Wilde gripped the plastic armrest, pressure building in her ears as the aircraft levelled out for its final approach. Beyond the marbled green and orange mountains, the hazy azure of the Mediterranean stretched away to the end of the earth. She slowed her breathing and closed her eyes.
         The rumble of the engines through the floor reminded her of the night she’d faced a killer. She turned to Pete Dawson beside her.
         He took her hand. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’
         ‘          Not           of flying. Of falling.’
         A familiar ping trilled from the inflight speakers.
         ‘Good afternoon, this is your captain speaking. We’re approaching Josep Tarradellas Airport. Local time is fourteen-hundred-hours, and the temperature is a balmy twenty-eight degrees. We are slightly ahead of schedule.’
         The aircraft kept losing height. Through the window, the sprawl of the city grew ever more distinguishable as it drew rapidly nearer. Altitude dropping. Coming in fast, the runway rushing up.
         The plane jolted as it hit the ground, the impact shuddering through the fuselage. The screech of rubber, then hard deceleration as the reverse thrusters engaged.
         A murmur of relief rippled through the cabin. Wilde released Pete’s hand and let out a slow breath as the plane taxied towards the arrivals gate.
         As soon as the fasten seatbelt signs went out, people clambered to their feet, jostling to free belongings from overhead storage.
         Wilde reached beneath the seat for her holdall while Pete wrestled a bag free from the locker. From her vantage point, she could take in the other passengers. She tried not to scan their faces. Being attuned to people and her surroundings came with the job, but she wasn’t watching for suspicious behaviour. She was looking for one person in particular. Pete guided her into the aisle and towards the exit at the front of the aircraft.
         Thanking the cabin crew, Wilde stepped out onto the trembling metal staircase, Pete close at her shoulder. The furnace blast of the afternoon stopped her in her tracks. But, more arresting than the heat, the quality of the light: a rich russet that seemed to dust everything—even the perfect, cloudless sky—in an orange glow. Out over the apron, beyond rows of planes, the square glass terminal building adorned with one word in yellow lettering: Barcelona.
         Passengers gathered on the runway in huddled groups. A babble of excited conversation swirled around them: expectant holidaymakers at the start of their journey, weary travellers finally home.
         Wilde slipped on her sunglasses. Across the tarmac, a vehicle materialised from the heat haze—a single-decker bus, bright blue, trundling towards them. She could already feel the crackle of the sun on her bare shoulders.
         Pete took her hand. ‘This is what you need,’ he whispered. ‘Some time away. Time to decompress.’
         The transporter rolled up beside them in a hot cloud of exhaust fumes and a hiss of brakes. Wilde held Pete back until the others had funnelled aboard.
         They claimed the last standing spaces near the luggage racks behind the driver. Her holdall between her feet, Wilde steadied herself against the metal grab pole as the bus lurched towards the terminal. The diesel engine reverberated through the chassis.
         The back of the van. Pitch black. Arms and legs tied.
Facing forward, she kept her focus on the terminal through the windscreen. Brilliant sunlight, blue skies. Slow breaths. Stay in the here and now. Right arm hooked around the rail, she ran her thumb along her watch strap, tracing the pattern of light scarring inside her wrist.
         The bus jarred to a stop, and Pete put out a protective hand to steady her. He gripped her arm, stumbling slightly himself.
         Out into the simmering heat, Wilde turned her face to the sun. Before setting off on this trip, she’d made herself a promise. She would not be beaten.


Carrer de Valencia: a shaded, tree-lined avenue that ran half the length of the city centre.
         While Pete paid the taxi fare, Wilde turned on the spot, taking it all in. Tall sandstone buildings—so uniform in design, it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began—ornate cast iron balconies splashed with colour: window shutters in mustard yellow and dusty pink.
         Rows of mopeds lined the bustling pavement. She scanned the crowds, searching for the one face she knew she’d never see. Horns blaring, raised voices, angry and incomprehensible. A scooter cut through the seized one-way traffic, chainsaw revving the underpowered engine. Distant, police sirens wailed.
         The entrance to the hotel was unremarkable: an ornate black gate set into the wall beside an old-fashioned greengrocer, herbs and vegetables spilling from wooden wheelbarrows on the pavement. The scent of fresh basil and mint drifted on afternoon air thick with traffic fumes, melting tarmac, and spent fuel.
         Pete shepherded Wilde towards the entrance. He pressed the worn ivory button beside the brass nameplate. The intercom crackled, then a female voice in rapid-fire Spanish.
         ‘Hola,’ Pete said slowly, leaning towards the microphone. ‘Tengo una habitación reservada. Mi nombre es Dawson.’
         Wilde smiled to herself at his attempt at the language.
         ‘Of course, señor.’ The receptionist’s English was note-perfect. ‘Please come up.’
         Pete pushed open the gate into a light and airy stairway. The cool air smelled of orange and sea grass—earthy and sweet—but underneath lurked faint notes of something musty and cloying that caught near the back of the throat. A smell not unlike death.
         Pete hefted the suitcase up the marble steps. Wilde followed, her holdall slung over one shoulder, the leather strap lightly chafing her bare skin. At the first-floor landing, a gilt and ivory reception desk.
         The receptionist smiled warmly. ‘Welcome to the Hotel de Eixample. You’re in room five-twelve on the fifth floor.’
She laid two key cards on the polished counter, revealing a butterfly tattoo inside her wrist.
         While Pete filled out the registration form, Wilde crossed to the window overlooking the street. Traffic was moving again. She surveyed the crowded pavements until he called her to the lift.
         Alone inside the mirrored car, he reached up and gently touched her face. ‘You’re my world.’ He leaned in and kissed her.
         She returned the kiss, giving herself to him. Here, in Barcelona, everything would be different.
         The room was large and surprisingly cool, the décor clean and fresh—rough-plastered walls painted white, a wardrobe and dressing table in solid wood. A single art print hung over the king-size bed: a watercolour of Gaudí’s cathedral. The Sagrada Família reminded Wilde of something from a fairytale.
         Pete dropped the suitcase and carry bag onto the carpeted floor and took Wilde’s holdall from her.
         Double doors led onto a balcony too narrow for even a bistro table. Wilde unhooked the flimsy latch, and the riot of the street rushed up. She leaned against the warm railing and scanned the street below, searching—cars, people, anything that didn’t fit.
         Then she pulled the doors closed and checked they were secure.
         Pete was still standing near the bed. ‘Everything OK?’
Wilde wrapped her arms around his neck.
         She didn’t answer.
         He pulled back a little. ‘Then what do you say we take a walk, maybe find something to eat?’
         ‘Pete—’
         He silenced her with a kiss. ‘We’ll do what we promised here. We’ll put what happened behind us.’
         Wilde gave a sharp nod. She lifted her bag and carried it into the spacious, white-tiled bathroom. Slid home the bolt. Gripping the edge of the sink, she stared at her reflection. She ran the cold tap and splashed water on the back of her neck.
However irrational, she sometimes couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched.
         She rummaged in the holdall for her makeup bag. A light dusting of powder, a rerun of lipstick, a brush of mascara.
Stepping back and checking herself in the mirror, she decided her outfit—floral summer dress and low wedge heels—suited the city and the weather just fine.
         Wilde met her own gaze. She refastened her hair in a loose ponytail and misted the air with a spray of her favourite day perfume.
         Out in the bedroom, Pete had changed into a white shirt and navy linen trousers. With his dishevelled dark hair, he looked incredibly handsome. Wilde felt the familiar rush of desire, and she was struck again by how lucky she was to have him.
         ‘Well, hello,’ he said, stepping towards her.
         She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, full and passionate.
         When his hands started to wander, she pushed him playfully away. ‘We’re meant to be exploring.’
         He tugged at the hem of her dress. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
         She turned, freeing the material from his grasp. ‘Get your wallet,’ she said. ‘I need that drink.’
         ‘I thought you wanted to eat?’
         Wilde started sifting through her handbag. ‘Who are you kidding?’


They headed down in the lift, out into the vibrant afternoon. Hand in hand, they started along the pavement, the sun hot against Wilde’s back. She hooked Pete’s arm and pulled him close. They strolled for ten minutes or more, crossing several blocks, until Wilde was not entirely confident she’d be able to find her way back to the hotel.
         Pete pointed out a bar across the street: a satin black exterior, tall windows, and bistro tables on the pavement outside. They waited for a break in the traffic, then darted across the road, slaloming between parked scooters.
         Pete held open the heavy glass door, followed Wilde in, a reassuring hand at her back.
         The bar was cool and intimate: dark wood, glossy tiles, and low lighting. A ceiling fan lazily churned air heavy with the delicious aroma of cooked meat and fresh herbs. From concealed speakers, a slow piano undulated over hushed conversations to the percussive clink of cutlery and glass. A polished bar dominated one wall, the mirrored shelves behind stacked with an impressive array of bottles.
         They found a table for two, and Wilde dragged a leather-bound menu towards her. She started with the wine list.
         A waiter in black approached. ‘Puedo traerte algunas bebidas?’
         Wilde looked to Pete. ‘Un botella de sauvignon blanc, por favor.’
         ‘English,’ he said. ‘Very good. Two glasses?’
         ‘Gracias.’
         The waiter bowed slightly as he retreated.
         ‘You know what gave you away as a non-native?’ Pete said.
         ‘It’s a close-run thing between my complexion and my leftover A-Level Spanish.’
         Pete shook his head, grinning. ‘Your manners. The Spanish don’t go in for please and thank you so much.’
         ‘Is that right?’
         The waiter returned with an ice bucket and placed it at the centre of the table. He poured two generous glasses.
‘Would you like to order food?’
         Pete opened the tapas menu. ‘Patatas bravas. That’s a must, right?’
         Wilde nodded, scanning the list. She added meatballs, fried brie, and garlic prawns.
         The waiter gathered up the menus and retreated.
         Wilde lifted her glass by its delicate stem and tilted it towards Pete. The wine was sharp and vivid, with a gooseberry fizz.
         The anaesthetic effect was almost immediate.
         ‘I know it’s irrational,’ she said. ‘I know he isn’t coming for me.’
         Pete touched her wrist.
         The flash of the knife. Ropes cutting into her skin.
         She pulled away, drank some more.
         ‘The very idea of what he did can be overpowering. It’s like a shadow that follows me. Sometimes, it’s a mile away. Other times, it’s right here at my shoulder.’
         ‘Ferguson is in prison,’ Pete said. ‘You put him there.’
         Wilde shivered. ‘You know why it gets to me, what he did?’ She drained her glass. ‘He’s changed me. He’s muted me.’
         Pete poured more wine. ‘What do you mean?’
         ‘I’ve been a police officer for eleven years, and in that time, I’ve taken a lot of shit. I’ve been spat at. Punched. Kicked. Called every name. I’ve arrested blokes twice my size. But Ferguson managed to do the one thing nobody ever did. He made me afraid. I’m scared, Pete. I’m scared to do the job, and I’m scared I’ll hurt the people around me.’
         ‘Hannah—’
         She held up a hand. ‘Barcelona is meant to be a new beginning. We can’t restart if I don’t deal with what happened.’ She ran her thumb over her wrist, the puckered skin. ‘I want to be able to do the job without being afraid.’
         ‘None of this is on you,’ Pete said. ‘Everything is down to Ferguson. When I heard you were in hospital, I knew I couldn’t lose you. I love you, Hannah. You’re the same woman you were before you walked into that warehouse.’
         The back of the van. The cold, dark cellar.
         ‘I’m not sure I remember who I was before.’
         Pete cleared his throat. ‘The DI position is coming up.’ He looked at her earnestly. ‘You’ve started your inspector’s exams.’
         Wilde had given the role some consideration, but she didn’t want to chase promotion for the wrong reasons. ‘I’m not sure now’s the right time.’
         ‘Of course not,’ Dawson said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
         ‘I’m going to talk to somebody. A psychologist. Once we get back.’ She finished her second glass. ‘But, right now, this is my therapy. Let’s make the most of these few days.’


After leaving the bar, they walked some more. The sun was starting to lower, but there was still plenty of heat left in the day.
They headed down to the historic old town. Regimented blocks gave way to dogleg streets and winding alleyways, the buildings less uniform: weathered, uneven stone. Cobbled streets teemed with people.
         The gothic architecture—sweeping archways and pointed windows—put Wilde in mind of a film set.
         She told Pete they should come back early the following morning, when it should be less busy. He checked directions on his mobile.
         Wilde wore her bag slung across her body, her arm covering the closure. The tourist hotspot around El Gótic was a notorious hunting ground for pickpockets. Not that anybody would be able to get that close without her noticing.
         They strolled down to Las Ramblas, a vast and boisterous boulevard lined with slender trees, market stalls touting trinket souvenirs, and outdoor bars sheltering beneath sunshade canopies. At the roadside, a performance artist perched on a bollard—made up as a gargoyle, painted red, with elaborate bone wings at his back, gloved hands fashioned into talons.
         Wilde looked away. ‘Let’s get another drink.’
         Pete pointed to one of the street bars.
         ‘Can we find somewhere quieter?’
         They deviated from the main drag, threading through a network of tall, sandy alleyways. From the outside, the bar didn’t seem to have a name. The décor was modern and minimalist, with exposed brickwork, light wood and glass. Busy, but not full. The jukebox was playing Fleetwood Mac. Wilde took that to be a good sign. She settled at a table while Pete went to the bar.
         She took out her mobile, scrolled through her newsfeed, and resisted the draw of her work email. Fought the urge to scan the bar for Dominic Ferguson. When she noticed Pete threading his way through the crowd carrying a bottle and two glasses, she dropped her phone into her bag.
         They sat together for an hour, speaking without talking, Wilde trying her hardest not to retread old ground. The more she drank, the more the sparkle lost its fizz.
         Pete shuffled back in his chair and got to his feet. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Me voy a mear.’
         Wilde looked up at him. ‘Saying it in Spanish doesn’t make it classy.’
         ‘No, indeed. I make it classy.’
         Wilde watched until he disappeared behind a pillar. She took another swallow of wine. A couple in a booth beside the jukebox leaned across their table, bending into one another, holding each other in such a way that made it hard to tell where one ended and the other began. She considered again how lucky she was to have found Pete. Her mind wandered to their first meeting at police headquarters.
         A scream, somewhere outside. A female voice, shrill and urgent. Wilde swivelled towards the full-height window. Nothing. She looked around the bar. No one had reacted to the noise.
         She pushed back her chair, already heading for the exit.
         Wilde dragged open the door and lurched out into the velvet evening. She looked up and down the lane shimmering with people: singles, couples, a group of young lads. She started moving away from the lights of the bar, towards a narrow side street. Metal shutters, tagged with gaudy and elaborate graffiti. The pungent stink of cannabis cloyed the sultry air.
         Another shout, echoing between the sandstone buildings. She broke into a run, following the noise.
         The street emerged into another, even narrower. On one side of the lane, scaffolding reared up the side of a building, graffiti-tagged hoarding protecting the base of the structure. The roadway had been closed to traffic. There was nobody about.
         Wilde pressed on.
         Up ahead, dark fencing loomed around a children’s play area. Character shapes grotesque in the twilight.
         Two figures stood in the playground, close but not touching.
         Wilde threw open the low gate and pushed forward, the grass sinking beneath her low heels as she ran.
         A male and a female, facing each other.
         She was in her late teens: long, dark hair. Short skirt, needle track thin.
         He was older—twenty-something, shaved head, wearing a white vest revealing rangy, heavily tattooed arms. Holding what appeared to be a handbag, one handle almost touching the ground.
         Wilde stopped at the edge of the playground, breathing hard. The familiar spike of adrenaline. ‘Stop,’ she called. ‘Alto, policia. Police.’
         The male turned to Wilde. ‘Qué diablos estás haciendo? Estas loco?’
         Wilde understood well enough what that meant. She stepped forward. ‘Leave her the fuck alone.’
         The girl mumbled something indecipherable.
         Wilde held a hand out to her. ‘Just tell me you’re all right.’
         The girl blinked.
         The man raised himself to his full height. He spat a couple of sentences in flint-hard Spanish.
         Wilde didn’t understand. But she’d dealt with enough scrotes and been in enough scrapes to know that if she didn’t back off, this was only going to end one way.
         The girl draped herself over the man’s shoulder. He smiled, coldly, displaying a gold incisor. The handbag dropped to the playground floor.
         If it came to a fight, the girl would be on his side. Two against one, and Wilde was on very foreign ground.
         The crowbar, heavy in her grip. Ferguson hitting the floor, caught in the light of the torch.
         ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here,’ Wilde said to the girl. ‘But be careful. This guy’s a prick.’ She stepped away from the pair.
         Only when she was sure the couple wasn’t following did she turn her back. Retracing her steps. Laughter followed her down the alley.
         When she got back to the bar, Pete was standing outside, her handbag in his fist, concern etched on his face.          When he noticed Wilde, he started jogging towards her.
‘Where the hell did you go?’
         ‘Sorry.’ She took her bag from him. ‘I heard a scream. I went to investigate.’
         ‘Investigate? Hannah, we’re on holiday. You can’t go chasing strange noises.’
         ‘I thought somebody was in trouble.’
         ‘And were they?’
         ‘Not necessarily. It was a couple of kids. They asked if I was crazy.’
         ‘Jesus, Hannah—’
         ‘What would you have done if you heard a scream?’
         ‘I don’t know, but I’m not—’
         ‘Not what? A girl? A psychological mess?’
         ‘You’re not a mess.’
         ‘I’m not a girl, either. I’m a police officer. And it’s my job to help people.’
         Pete shook his head, incredulous. ‘Not here. You don’t know what could’ve happened.’
         ‘I didn’t allow anything to happen.’
         Pete turned and marched away from the bar.
         The adrenaline ebbing away, Wilde paused a moment before jogging to catch up. She threaded her arm through his, and pulled into him. He laid a hand on her wrist.
         They walked together, fading into the city.