Things You Don’t Ask the Walls

“Buildings remember what people won’t. Every silence in a police station has teeth.”

I arrived at the police station early that morning, the chill still clinging to my coat, the scent of disinfectant and old leather from the retirement home lingering faintly in my nostrils. The echoes of the dream hadn’t yet faded—they hung about me like a persistent fog, softening the edges of reality in ways I didn’t want to admit. Even now, as I gripped the steering wheel, parked across the street from the station, I could still feel the phantom weight of that imagined ring—its delicate pressure ghosting against my finger, a cruel echo of something that had never existed.

After Jane had caught me in the aftermath of that dream—mortification coursing through my veins like acid—I’d fled into the only refuge I knew: work. The promise of order. Of logic. Of control. It was a world where emotions could be classified, boxed, and stored—preferably in evidence lockers or confidential reports. Here, in the realm of structure and consequence, there was no room for the indulgence of longing or the vulnerability of grief.

The Hobart Police Station loomed ahead, all sharp corners and unforgiving lines, a brutalist monolith carved from damp concrete and municipal despair. The structure always seemed to sweat in winter, a film of moisture perpetually clinging to its grey façade like the building itself was reluctant to face the cold. The sky above it was slate-grey, a low ceiling of clouds pressing down on the city with quiet menace. It mirrored my mood too perfectly.

Living alone, without even the inconvenience of a houseplant to water or a goldfish to name, suited me—or so I told myself. The lie had been rehearsed for years, shaped into a personal truth through repetition and necessity. I’d whispered it to myself while brushing my teeth, while returning to an empty house at midnight, while standing in front of the fridge contemplating another meal-for-one. Solitude was my armour. No one to disappoint. No one to lose.

My home—if it could be called that—was a modest place tucked away in the suburbs, about ten minutes’ walk from the Derwent Entertainment Centre. It was the sort of street where no one made eye contact unless they were already holding a rake or a recycling bin. My house didn’t stand out. Just another low, boxy silhouette half-hidden behind a weather-beaten fence. Inside, it was sparse. Functional. Everything had a place. Nothing was sentimental. The only artwork on the walls were maps—topographic and forensic. The décor spoke in statements, not questions.

It was in that silence, in that carefully curated emptiness, that I found something close to peace. The absence of companionship meant the absence of scrutiny, and in that void I could breathe. It was there, amid the solitude, that my obsession with solving the unsolvable thrived. Each mystery was a puzzle with edges I could define. Each case offered a resolution—closure. The same couldn’t be said for the silence that waited behind my front door, pulsing with questions I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—face.

As I exited the changing rooms, my freshly pressed uniform still clinging to the faint chemical scent of industrial detergent, I felt the transition begin. The ritual always helped—slipping into the fabric of the job, letting its crisp edges cut away the fuzz of emotion. I was ready to dive headlong into the day’s work, ready to drown out the echoes of a dream I still couldn’t shake, the ghost of that imagined ring pressing faintly against my skin. I’d compartmentalised the moment with Jane—filed it away for later, for never—and now I just needed motion. Routine. Something to anchor me.

The open-plan office stretched ahead like a hive already in motion. It hummed with the symphony of early-morning chaos: phones ringing with clipped urgency, keyboards rattling with bursts of frenetic typing, the familiar gurgle of the ancient coffee machine choking its way to life in the far corner. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in that sterile hue that only ever existed in government buildings and hospital corridors.

My desk stood like an old ally waiting patiently at the centre of it all—messy, cluttered, entirely mine. Case files, evidence photos, notebooks filled with chicken-scratch scrawl and post-its curling at the edges—every object felt like a thread in the fabric of my working life. I took a small breath as I laid eyes on it. This, at least, was a world I understood. In here, chaos bowed to logic, truth could be hunted, and justice—however imperfect—was a thing we still dared to chase.

"Detective Lahey,” The voice sliced through the noise like a scalpel—precise, cool, vaguely menacing. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Spine straight. Shoulders square. Muscles tightened with reflexive anticipation. There was no mistaking that voice.

I turned.

Sergeant Claiborne stood at the end of the corridor, his towering frame blocking out the movement behind him like a dam halting flow. The air around him seemed to cool by degrees. His presence had always carried a weight—gravitational, unspoken. He didn’t need to shout to command attention. Just standing still, watching, was enough.

"Yes, Sergeant Claiborne?" I said, voice neutral, tone measured. Guarded. The moment he appeared, something instinctive curled within me—fight or flight held in suspension. He had the disconcerting ability to make everything feel like a test, even if the subject wasn’t listed on the syllabus.

He approached, footsteps slow, deliberate. The man was carved from military rigidity—six-foot-three, salt-and-pepper hair cropped down to regulation bristle, jaw set in a way that suggested smiling was a concept he viewed with suspicion. His face was a latticework of frown lines and professional disappointment. I’d never seen him relax, let alone laugh.

"Are you busy?"

The question was deceptively simple, but the edge in his voice caught me off guard. There was urgency there. Not overt, but threaded through his otherwise sterile tone like a barely perceptible warning. His eyes scanned me—not with concern, but with appraisal, the way one might assess the viability of a tool pulled from a drawer.

"Right now, Sir?" I echoed, a flicker of uncertainty slipping into my voice before I could rein it in. I hated that. The slip. But something about him always unsettled me. This approach was too direct, too irregular. I searched my memory, sifting through recent cases, wondering if I’d missed something critical.

"Yes, right now, Detective."

His tone left no room for interpretation. The words were cleanly cut, honed for efficiency. A muscle flexed in his jaw, the only crack in an otherwise impenetrable mask.

"No, Sir," I replied slowly, weighing every word. "What do you need?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavier than it should’ve been. In truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

"Have you seen Detective Jenkins yet?"

The question dropped like a stone into a still pond, and for a moment, I faltered. I felt the tension knot between my shoulder blades, the familiar pressure of secrets and alliances grinding silently beneath the surface. Karl—my partner in every way that mattered, though Claiborne remained blissfully unaware—was likely still face-down in a darkened room somewhere, fighting off last night’s hangover with black coffee and defiance.

The memory of his slurred promise echoed in my head: “I’ll be in early, I swear.” I’d known then it was a lie. A habitual reassurance we both accepted as theatre.

"No, not yet, Sir."

I said it plainly, but the words caught in my throat like gravel. A small betrayal, maybe. But necessary. Claiborne’s expression darkened. His mouth twisted into a scowl that deepened the creases in his face, his displeasure radiating in silent waves.

"You’ll have to join me then."

I blinked. The words landed with force—unexpected, jarring. Join him? Where? Claiborne didn’t conduct interviews. He didn’t join anything. He watched. He delegated. He waited.

My brain scrambled, running through every possible explanation: a disciplinary? A new case? An ambush? Whatever it was, it wasn’t routine. My instincts bristled, alert now, scanning for the unseen.

He gave me a final look—sharp, dissecting—his eyes narrowing slightly, as though measuring the margins of my competence.

"You’ve got five minutes," he said, voice clipped and decisive. "Then I want you to join me in interview room three."

"Yes, Sergeant," I replied, managing to keep my voice steady, though adrenaline had already begun its quiet ascent in my bloodstream. He turned and walked away, his heels clicking against the linoleum like a metronome marking out the seconds of some dark countdown.

I stood frozen for a moment, watching his retreating figure disappear down the corridor. The scent of stale coffee and bleach crept back into my lungs, sharp and grounding. I swallowed hard. My desk, my notes, my comfortable chaos—none of it mattered now.

Interview room three.

It was never used lightly. Room one was for major suspects, room two for day-to-day affairs. Room three? It was for cases that left fingerprints on your soul. Whatever waited for me behind that door, it wasn’t routine.