Mr Invisible

by Duncan Brockwell

  “Oli, was this here before?” Isla asked.

  He didn’t like the way she said it. “What?” As he approached her, Isla was pointing at the driver’s side. He crouched down and stared. His eyes widened when he saw it. A white scratch running the length of the car. With his heart thumping, he followed the scratch to the rear, where the continuous line kept going. All the way around it went. Whoever was responsible, had keyed it to within an inch of its life. Oliver wanted to punch something, anything, to dispel the rage he felt inside. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!” Oliver growled, his hands shaking.

  “You think it was him?” Isla asked.

  “Who else would it be?” Oliver hissed. A thought forced him to sprint after Elf Man. He ran into his road, Lindsay Avenue, his thongs not the best for running. If he caught the pom, he would make him pay for scratching his gorgeous Nota.

  Oliver ran the length of his road, past McKell Park on the opposite side of the street, turning left into Darling Point Road, where cars lined the street ahead, but there was no sign of Elf Man. The pom could’ve turned right, yet Oliver had a feeling the Brit had turned left. He sprinted past cars and lamp posts until he had to stop to catch his breath.

  Stood in the centre of the quiet road, his mobile vibrated. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved it. On Chatter, he had a video message from his tormentor. And the footage displayed before he pressed “play” was the side of his car. “Bastard!” He didn’t want to watch. He wanted to wring the pom’s bloody neck, with his bare hands. And he could tell Elf Man enjoyed defacing his gorgeous car. “You’ll pay for this, you mongrel!”

  From behind him came the unmistakable sound of screeching tyres.

  Bathed in bright white light, with his phone in hand, Oliver instinctively turned round as two white lights came at him with speed.

  Without thought, he dived to his right, almost hitting his head on the side of a stationary Ford. Had his reaction been slower, the speeding car would have sent him hurtling over the bonnet and roof, leaving his broken body lying on the tarmac.

  Elf Man had just tried to kill him. He was dangerous, an elusive shadow waiting to exact his revenge. As Oliver picked himself up, the red rear lights of the pom’s car disappeared from view.

  On his way back, limping, his knee bleeding, Oliver decided not to tell Isla what had happened; it would freak her out too much, and it served no purpose. He would just tell her to be vigilant and keep an eye out for him.

  His girlfriend waited for him at the end of their drive. She looked at his injured knee. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” he lied. “I’m embarrassed. I can’t run in these, and fell over. I almost face-planted the tarmac.” He showed her his scraped palms. “Lucky I kept my arms out, eh?” She fussed over him, until he told her he was all right. When she ordered him inside so she could tend to his wounds, he said, “I’ll be there in a mo; I’m putting her in the garage first. I’ll catch you up.” As she went inside, he jumped into the driver’s seat and started her engine. The garage door opened, and he drove the Nota gently through.

  After locking his beloved up for the night, Oliver found Isla waiting for him in their bathroom with the first aid kit. “I’m fine, baby, honest.” He rested his foot on the bathtub, allowing her access to his cut. Blood dripped down his leg.

  “Why was she left on the driveway?” Dabbing at his knee with alcohol-soaked cotton wool, she waited for an answer. “You can’t forget things like this, Oli. You know how many people envy us. They’ll do everything they can to ruin it.”

  With nothing to say in his defence, he nodded his agreement. “I know.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “But it was him, look.” Oliver inputted his passcode and opened his Chatter video message. She stopped dabbing. “He’s out there, so stay alert, all right?” When she tutted, he added, “I mean it, Isla, this guy’s dangerous.”

  “Fine, I promise I’ll keep my eyes open.” She sighed. “But if you’d put her in the garage like you’re supposed to, she wouldn’t have been out there for him to scratch, would she?” Isla shook her head. “You’re so lazy sometimes.”

  Not wanting an ear bashing, he tutted. “Oh, here we go,” he said, taking his knee back and heading for the bedroom.

  Isla followed him. “Hey! Don’t walk away from me!”

  “Why? I’m not getting a decent convo from you anyway. Might as well go downstairs, the hell away from you and your nagging.” He hated it when she got her knickers in a bunch; she could be such a royal pain in the arse.

  His walking away didn’t improve the situation. Oliver ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. By the time Isla reached him, he had his face in the refrigerator. She yelled at him about being a child. “Well, you chose me, right? You knew what I was like,” he countered. But when she shouted at him that Elf Man’s arrival was his fault, he slammed the cooler door, a tinny in his hand, and faced her. “Oh, right, now you wanna blame me? I didn’t expect the bloke to fly over here, did I? I mean, who does that? Who flies to the other side of the world to meet someone you follow on Chatter?”

  “A fucking psycho, that’s who!” Isla yelled. “And now he’s here, on our bloody driveway, scratching the shit out of your car. And you brought him here.” Her hands were shaking with rage. “Right, because you led him to our doorstep, you can get rid of him. I don’t care how you do it, Oli, but you do it. If you have to pay him off, or if you have to beat the shit out of him, I don’t give a shit, I want him out of our lives, for good. And if you ever pick up someone else’s phone again, I swear I’m gonna cut off your hands. Jesus Christ, you make me so fucking angry!”

  Oliver stood back, awed at her anger. Her chest rose and fell, the exhaustion of her raging outburst affecting her breathing. “Shh! I know you’re scared,” he said, stepping towards her, his arms out. “But I’ll sort it, I promise. I’ll find him, and I’ll fuck him up.” His voice was calm, given that she’d just yelled the house down.

  “Oh, and you’re sleeping downstairs tonight,” she said, before she flounced off.

  “Great!” Anger built up inside. “Fucking pommie bastard!”

  16

  DI David Coates powered up his computer.

  DS Packard pulled up his chair and sat next to him.

  Although his partner mocked him for his lack of technical expertise, he managed fine. Using his mouse, he opened up his email account and clicked on Patricia Rollins’ report, which he had to download.

  “You’re getting the hang of this.”

  “You’re funny. You won’t be laughing when I bust you down to traffic duty.” And that wiped the grin off Packard’s face, Coates noted, not that he had the authority to enact it. “Come on,” he said, agitated, desperate to see the evidence for himself. “Here we go.” A file popped up.

  “Well, he doesn’t look like much. Talk about Mr Average.”

  Coates ignored his partner’s comment. The photo of Arthur Peebles was not very flattering, but arrest photos never were. He had a mop of unruly hair and thin, horrible lips. And even with dark hair, he had a pale complexion that didn’t suit him. Coates thought him less than average; ugly. Knowing what he did to that poor fourteen-year-old girl compounded it. “He’s more than average in other ways. Let me show you his record.”

  Using his mouse, he clicked on the Police National Computer, PNC, and typed in Arthur Peebles’ name in the search bar. There were eight entries to choose from. After finding the correct one, he pulled up Peebles’ file. The picture was the same one used in Rollins’ report. “Ugly spod,” Coates muttered.

  “Why is it redacted?”

  He could think of no reason why some parts of Peebles’ record should be blacked out, while others were legible. The key details of his arrest, the laws broken, and the facts of the case against him were left intact. “Here we are.” He turned his monitor slightly for Packard to read. He remembered the court case well, even sixteen years later. It was all over the news back in the day.


  A fourteen-year-old Arthur Peebles was arrested five days after the defiled, naked body of Zoe Evans was found in a shallow grave in woods in Hull, with the help of sniffer dogs. It took two days to secure a confession out of Michael Ince, Peebles’ partner in crime, who told police that Peebles had beat her to death with a brick, after they both raped her. Coates heard Packard’s disgusted sigh. When questioned, their suspect tried to pin it all on his co-defendant, saying he killed Zoe with the brick.

  The trial took place six months later and it took two weeks for the jury to produce a guilty verdict, whereupon two days after that the pair were sentenced to life imprisonment, where Peebles spent fourteen years of his twenty-five year stretch, before being released back into the community eighteen months earlier. There was an entirely redacted report from the prison. Peebles and Ince spent their first four years in a young offender’s institute, before graduating to HM Full Sutton Prison at the age of eighteen.

  “It would help if we could get hold of an unedited copy.”

  “You’re right, it would,” he agreed, turning in his chair to scan the open plan office for his line manager, Detective Chief Inspector William Morgan. “Sir,” he shouted, waving his boss over, “can we have a word?” Without assistance from the top brass, he and Packard would hit a grand wall of silence. The file was redacted for a reason, possibly by a politician, or some senior officer within the probation service, so he needed to enlist the help of his superiors. He would go to DCI Morgan, who would go on up to Chief Constable Gately, and so on, until the right person spoke to the right contact.

  “What’s the problem, Dave?” Morgan, a heavyset man in his fifties with a full head of greying hair and a red nose and purple veins in his cheeks, indicative of an unhealthy relationship with whisky, stood by his desk.

  “Any idea why this would be redacted?”

  “I remember this one. Horrible little bastards, they were. Why the interest?”

  “Peebles’ DNA is all over the bin body, sir. We’ve got everything from semen to a bloody fingerprint. All I need to know is what it says on his record. Is there anyone you can reach out to? Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not asking for a miracle here.”

  “No, leave it with me.” Morgan pulled his mobile out of his suit jacket. “I’ll phone Gately, see what he says. I think he’ll help; he won’t want Peebles out there causing trouble, any more than I do. But, don’t get your hopes up, getting in touch with the right person’s going to take time. If I were you, I’d look at different angles to locate Peebles. Try talking to the governor at Full Sutton, see what he has to say.”

  Coates thanked the chief inspector and went back to his monitor. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out,” he said to his partner, who took his chair back to his own desk. “I’m going to carry on with this; why don’t you go back to Stacey, see if you can locate the guy Tara was online with.”

  He had a suspect, but locating and apprehending him seemed a long way off. Still, nothing worthwhile was ever easy, he told himself. One question popped into his mind: if Peebles was from Hull, why had a corpse with his fingerprints all over it surfaced here, in the south east? “Let’s see what we can see.” He clicked on Peebles’ record and looked up the parents.

  Victor and Ursula, the parents, relocated after their son’s incarceration to a village near Hull, called North Ferriby. Coates surmised that they must’ve found it hard to continue living in the same town, after their son had committed such a heinous crime. The whole country knew how Peebles beat Zoe Evans in the face with a brick over forty times. Forty-six to be exact, before burying her in a shallow grave, and after he and Michael Ince raped her.

  An anomaly: on paper, Arthur Peebles had no reason to be a convicted rapist and murderer. He’d had all the opportunities in life. He and his family may have lived in a relatively deprived town, but they didn’t want for anything. In fact, the father owned a successful printing company, and the mother a GP practice.

  Arthur Peebles had three siblings: two brothers, one older and one younger, and an older sister. Coates ran records on each of Peebles’ relatives and not one of them had form, which meant they were all law-abiding citizens. In fact, they weren’t just respected citizens, they were all high achievers: his older brother was a GP, like his mum; his younger brother owned a telecoms company which floated on the stock market, while his sister earned her living as a solicitor.

  Coates leaned back in his chair, pondering a question: if Peebles came from good stock, which he clearly did, why had he become a rapist and murderer? Nature vs nurture, he thought. Maybe Michael Ince nurtured him? Coates shook away the thought. By all accounts, Peebles was the ringleader, the alpha, in that partnership.

  “Stacey says I can go over there.” Packard stood. “Are you all right staying here, or do you want to come with?”

  “No, you go ahead. I’m going to do some research on Peebles.” His partner left, and he went back to his computer. Abnormal psychology – psychopathy – had always interested him. Why did one become a killer? Was it down to bad wiring in the brain? Or a chemical imbalance? Maybe because Peebles had met Ince, and they’d encouraged one another? Had Peebles been exposed to too many violent movies? Or could he be just plain evil?

  Making a note of the Peebles’ landline number, Coates picked up his desk phone and dialled it, hoping to set up a meeting with them. The more he could understand about their son, the greater chance he had of apprehending him, hopefully before the psychopath raped and murdered again. “Come on, answer,” he said, looking at the clock on the wall: 12:45. Almost lunchtime.

  After eight rings, a deep masculine voice answered. Coates introduced himself and why he was calling, only to be cut off. “Hello?” He looked at the receiver. “Hello?” Rude bastard, he thought placing his phone on its dock. The mere mention of their son’s name brought out the worst in the family, it seemed. Mr and Mrs Peebles were a no-go.

  DCI Morgan’s words went round in Coates’ mind. Picking up his phone again, he dialled the number for HM Full Sutton Prison, hoping to speak with the governor. Greeted by a female voice, who identified herself as Governor Brian Hicks’ secretary, Coates explained the situation to her, explaining that he needed to speak with Hicks about Arthur Peebles. The secretary told him that the governor couldn’t talk. Away on a course until the following afternoon, Wednesday, apparently. Sighing, Coates seized on the opportunity and booked an appointment with the governor.

  17

  The wind whistled through Georgina’s hair as she drove her Jeep along Ocean Drive, heading into Port Macquarie. Georgina and her best surfer buddy, Mingzhu Chan, a tiny Chinese girl she met a few years ago, set off for Lighthouse Beach in the early hours of the morning, attempting to arrive by nine. Looking at the clock, it was five to, and she had been driving for four and a half hours.

  Music blared out of the Jeep’s speakers. She and Mingzhu were both huge fans of The Deranged. Her passenger hooked her phone up to the stereo. All morning she and her gorgeous Chinese friend had moshed to the greatest hits The Deranged had to offer.

  “Are you all right, George?” Mingzhu shouted. “You’ve been really quiet all the way here. Something up?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it! I just want to enjoy the ride.” Without glancing at her friend, she knew Mingzhu wanted more.

  “Come on, out with it. I know when something’s bothering you.”

  Reaching into her bag behind her on the back passenger seat, Georgina retrieved her phone and handed it to her friend, holding her thumb on the home button so it would clear the passcode. “Open up Chatter. Go into my private messages.” Looking out to sea on her right, she waited for Mingzhu to catch up. Ahead she could see Tacking Point Lighthouse, a bright white beacon sat atop a cliff. The closer it came, the closer she was to surfing. “I’m being… We’re being stalked.”

  “Who is he?” her friend asked, reading her messages. “It says he lives in the UK.”

  “He’s a pommie,” she clarif
ied. “Oli was mucking about on my phone Friday night, and this is the result. This Elf Man guy, he sent me a message on one of my cheeps, and Oli replied as me, telling him he should come visit… He has. He bought a plane ticket there and then.”

  “What an arsehole! I can’t believe Oli did this.” The wind rushed through Mingzhu’s long black hair. “I don’t get it, what’s the problem? You meet him, say hello and move on.”

  “The boys wouldn’t have done it; they’d have taken the mickey. So, I told him I didn’t send the messages, that a friend was fooling around.”

  “Oh shit, George.” Mingzhu’s expression grave, she continued. “Let me guess: he didn’t take it too well. So, what, he’s stalking you now?”

  Georgina nodded. “Uh-huh! You got it. We went to meet him on Monday night at The Starfish, as agreed, but he didn’t turn up. So, I thought he was all talk, right? Wrong! He filmed us from a distance, which spooked the crap out of Shane and he goes and beats the shit out of some pommie guy sat by himself thinking he’s Elf Man.”

  “Holy crap! So, what’s he doing about it? He can’t be seen beating people up, not if he wants to keep his job as captain of the Swans.”

  Getting excited at the lighthouse approaching, Georgina shook her head. “He paid the guy off, gave him a few thousand dollars as an apology. He’s not pressing charges. Last night, this Elf Man scratched the shit out of Oli’s new car.”

  “Not the Nota?”

  “Uh-huh! The very same. He’s heaps pissed.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.”

  Keeping her eyes ahead, slowing down on Matthew Flinders Drive, Georgina turned right into Tacking Point Surf Life Saving Club’s car park. With the music off, and hardly any cars parked nearby, she chose a space closest to the pathway leading to the beach. She pulled up the handbrake and glanced at Mingzhu. “I’ve come here to forget all about this guy, honey. Can we just go surfing? Please?”