Next to Die by Neil White Page A

closed his eyes. If he was going to listen to it properly, he had to blot out everything else.
    It was the sobbing he heard first, but it wasn’t through misery. It was wretched, part pleading, part terror. Then the first scream came. He flinched. The scream was cut short, as if there had been a gag, because the struggle he could hear was muffled. Then another scream, louder this time, higher-pitched, more desperate.
    He threw the headphones onto the desk. His hands were trembling. Sweat flashed across his forehead and he felt the tingle of goosebumps over his body. The screams were real, he knew that. It was no film soundtrack, where a scream is just a loud noise, a one-note pitch. You can never properly replicate that fear, because it comes from deep within, something uncontrollable.
    He couldn’t avoid it though. He had to listen again. If it was something real, it was being sent to him for a reason. He was a cop, but he was about money and frauds and secreted accounts. This was something different, violent.
    As he placed the headphones on his head once more, he focused his mind on staying with the call. He clicked play and put his head down. The sounds were just the same, the first scream hitting him like a jolt of electricity. He clenched his jaw and carried on listening. There was the gagging, the muffled gasps, but he could make out something else, like a second voice, and small shuffles, like the sound of a struggle, before the second scream burst into his ears. It made him sit bolt upright, his eyes wide, as if he was feeling the terror himself, transported away from the corner of his dining room to wherever it was taking place.
    There was the rumble of an engine. Near a road? But it was moving slowly. A noise too. Like a regular beep.
    The call ended and Sam put the headphones back onto the computer desk. His chest was rising and falling with the pace of his breaths and his mouth was dry. The call meant something, and it was aimed at him.
    He knew it was going to be a bad day.

Sixteen
     
    Joe cupped his hand over his mouth and blew. Stale booze. He had bags under his eyes and his mind felt lethargic. He should have eased off with the drink, but it had been his birthday. He had to get his head together for the court hearing. Judges can tolerate poor advocates. What they can’t tolerate is a lawyer who isn’t prepared, so he had to appear sharp.
    The clicks of Monica’s heels were loud as they marched through Crown Square, the noise only partly drowned out by the loud whirring of the street cleaner as it swept up the debris from the Swiss restaurant in the centre. He looked around as he walked, checking behind him. Nothing suspicious. Just the suits whose breakfasts came as coffee in foam cups and small groups of people gathered near the entrance to the court, huddled and nervous, families and supporters, the defendants obvious in their suits that didn’t quite fit, pulling hard on cigarettes.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ Monica said. When Joe looked at her, she blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. You just seem a bit on edge.’
    He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he said, smiling reassurance, although he remembered the man outside his office, and the feeling that he was being watched the night before.
    They were heading for the Crown Court. It was within sight of the Magistrates Court, but it was a whole different legal world. The Magistrates Court was chaotic, all the low level crime dealt with at high volume, where a court appearance was nothing more than an interruption to many people, carried out with a relaxed swagger. The Crown Court was the serious court, where the lawyers wore wigs and gowns and people went to prison for a long time. Even the regular players loitered nervously.
    The building was modern on the outside, trapped into a seventies frame, with plenty of concrete and a high glass front, so that people outside could always see who was on the corridor. Not every