by Amy Cross
"You haven't seen her?" I ask.
She stares at me.
"It's very important," I continue, hoping to maybe get through to her. "This is a police matter, and I know you might not be inclined to help me, but I can assure you, I'm here because I care."
I wait for a reply, but her beady eyes just seem to have locked onto me.
"I swear," I add, "I really do care. I'm not like the others. I actually want to help, but I need some information first. If you've seen Ophelia, you need to tell me. For her sake, and for the sake of everyone down here."
I wait again.
Nothing.
"Okay," I mutter, turning and moving on. I'm in a small park down by the river. It's a well-known hangout for people who are homeless, and Ophelia mentioned it a number of times as a place where she tends to meet people. With the trace of George Longhouse's phone taking too long to come through, I've resorted to an old-fashioned feet-on-the-ground search. I figure that if I'm going to find George, I need to have Ophelia back on my side first. She's the one person who can help me navigate the world of the homeless and dispossessed.
"Hey," I say, hurrying over to a woman who's sitting on a park bench, "have you seen this girl?"
She looks at the photo, which at least is an improvement over the last person.
"Why?" she asks eventually.
"It's very urgent. I need to find her."
"Why?"
"People are in danger," I tell her.
"Why?"
"They just are," I reply, starting to worry that this is turning into some kind of game, "and I need to find Ophelia. Trust me, Ophelia and I are..." I pause as I try to find the right word. "We've worked together," I continue after a moment. "We're friends."
She stares at me.
Sighing, I reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled £10 note, which I place on the woman's lap. It's not much of an offering, and I'm worried she might take offense, but right now it's my only option.
"Please," I continue, "if you've seen her at all in the last twenty-four hours, I need to know where."
Sniffing, the woman takes the note and examines it, almost as if she suspects it might be a forgery. Holding it up to the light, she turns it around, checking the watermark. She has the careful, proud tone of an expert, but I guess it's just a performance.
"Can't be too careful," she mutters finally, slipping the note into her coat pocket before slowly getting to her feet. She's a large woman, cocooned in at least two thick coats, and she has a couple of plastic bags in her hands, filled with what appear to be more bags. As she moves, she seems to disturb several pockets of air from under her coat, and I can't help noticing a stale, sweaty smell.
"Let me help," I say, reaching out for her hand.
"I can manage," she replies, pushing me away before turning and starting to walk toward the gate. There's a creaking sound from her knees, as if she hasn't moved for quite a while.
"Where are you going?" I ask, keeping pace with her.
"It's not every day some skinny bitch gives me a tenner," she mutters, sounding as if she's struggling for breath. "I'm going to celebrate, aren't I? Tea and a bacon sandwich, or maybe something grander. Cake. I think I deserve a slice of cake."
"But Ophelia," I continue. "You've seen her, haven't you?"
"Never," she replies with a smile. "Not once in my whole life, M'am. And even if I had, I sure as hell wouldn't tell a cop. Thanks for the tenner, though. Much appreciated."
I stop and watch as she lumbers toward the gate. Turning to look back across the park, I spot half a dozen other listless shapes and suddenly it strikes me that this is a hopeless endeavor. Nearby, standing next to a bin that he appears to have been searching, there's a middle-aged man who's now staring at me with an unnerving expression, as if he's fascinated by my appearance. Suddenly, I feel like I'm sticking out like a sore thumb.
"You a cop?" he calls out after a moment.
"Um..." I pause, wondering whether I should ask him to look at the photo.
"Hey!" he shouts, turning to a man on the other side of the park. "Look over here! This one's a cop!"
"No," I reply, before turning and hurrying to the gate, not even daring to look over my shoulder and check to see if I'm being followed. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I bring up Tricia's number and wait patiently as her phone rings. Getting no answer, I head to my car, but moments later my phone starts ringing and I look down to see that Tricia's finally getting back to me.
"Sorry," she says as soon as I answer, "things are going crazy here. I just spoke to the phone company and they say the phone was last used near the Thames Barrier Park, but it was switched off a couple of hours ago."
"Okay," I reply, getting into my car, "I'm not far from there. I'll -"
"But there's something else," she continues. "Remember that ankle monitor you got fitted to Ophelia? The sensor was removed and deactivated, right? Well, we just got a call from the company that runs the monitoring equipment, and they say the sensor was reactivated about ten minutes ago."
"Where?" I ask.
"That's the crazy thing," she says. "It's down near the Thames Barrier Park as well. As far as we can tell, the monitor and the last location of George Longhouse's phone are within two hundred meters of each other."
"But..." I pause for a moment. It seems scarcely possible that Ophelia could have somehow tracked George Longhouse down; then again, I've learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to that girl.
"Laura," Tricia continues. "Do you want me to -"
"I'm heading over," I tell her. "Get a full team down there to meet me. I want helicopters, dogs, the works. And an ambulance, just in case."
Cutting the call, I start the engine and reverse out of my spot before starting the short drive toward the Thames Barrier Park. It can't be a coincidence that these two signals have come from more or less the same location, and I'm also convinced that if Ophelia reactivated the tracking monitor, it must be a deliberate call for help. If it was anyone else, I'd have a hard time believing that she might have stumbled onto George Longhouse, but somehow with Ophelia it's quite easy to believe. If she's reactivated the monitor, however, I figure the encounter maybe isn't going so well.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Ophelia
"You'd think he'd be here, right? To see me become a man at last. What the fuck is the old bastard doing that's so fucking important, huh?"
I open my eyes and find that I'm on my side, staring at the wall. The past few minutes are something of a daze, and I seem to be drifting in and out of consciousness with alarming regularity. The pain has mostly subsided, which would normally be a good thing except for the fact that I'm worried it means my body is shutting down. Tilting my head a little, I spot a dark patch on the concrete, directly under my chest.
Blood.
No, it can't be blood. There's too much.
Definitely blood.
But it can't be mine. How can one person have so much blood to spill?
"He knows to come here," Lofty continues, clearly getting impatient. "He fucking knows. We arranged it, yeah? We always arranged when and where to meet up, and we both knew we could never, ever be late. It's how the whole thing worked, and now he's breaking the agreement. The old cunt's probably got himself arrested again. I swear to God, he's always been an unreliable bastard."
Trying to recover a little of my strength, I turn and look over at the nearby bushes. I can already feel myself getting weaker and I'm worried I'll pass out again soon, but while I'm conscious I still have a chance. When I try to move, however, I feel as if my entire torso is filled with lead. I reach out, but all I can manage is to run my fingertips against the bloodied concrete.
"Where do you think you're going?" Lofty asks with a smile. "Gonna crawl to somewhere safe, yeah? Fuck, this isn't working, is it? I guess the old man's testing me. He's probably lurking somewhere, watching me, wondering if I'm gonna finish you off. Well, I don't wanna disappoint him, do I? Gotta le
t him see that I've learned proper, like."
He climbs over me, with the knife still in his hand.
"Okay," he says, leaning close to my ear from behind. "Don't worry, Phil. This won't take too long. I just need him to see that I can do it, yeah? I wish it was someone else, really. I've always kinda liked you. In another life, maybe we could've been proper friends, but you know how things go. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, especially when his father's watching. Didn't you ever have to prove anything to your parents?"
I turn to look at him.
"You've got pretty eyes," he adds. "Anyone ever tell you that? Really pretty. Not like most of the fuckers down here. You can see in their eyes that they're almost dead already, but you... You still haven't given up, have you? Not yet, anyway. But the truth is, no-one gives a shit. Not about you, and not about me. People like us, we live our lives in the margins, and real people only notice if we get in their way. I doubt anyone's even gonna bother picking your body up after they find it."
I try to say something, but suddenly I feel him reach around and slide the knife straight into my belly. I let out a gasp as he pulls it out and then stabs me again. He puts his hand over my mouth, but this time he doesn't really bother clamping me too tight, which I guess means he thinks I'm too weak to call out for help. I close my eyes and try to ignore the feeling of the blade slicing through my skin again and again, until finally I can't control myself anymore.
This time, when I scream, the sound echoes all around.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Laura
"Stop!" I shout, racing across the grass as Ophelia lets out another scream. I can see two figures on the ground up ahead, in the shadows of the underpass, but it's hard to make out exactly what's happening. There's blood, though. A lot of blood.
"Stay back!" the man shouts, holding a bloodied knife up for me to see. He's behind Ophelia, reaching around her waist almost as if he's spooning her, but I guess he doesn't want to see her face while she's dying. It's a strange, almost tender moment.
Stopping a few meters from them, I stare at the crumpled heap in his arms and see to my horror that it's Ophelia. She's gently sobbing as blood runs from a series of wounds all over her exposed belly, and although she opens her eyes for a moment, I'm not convinced she recognizes me. She briefly looks straight at me, before turning her gaze toward the wall.
"Ophelia, can you hear me?" I ask, trying to stay calm.
She continues to stare at the wall. I don't know what's going through her mind, but she seems to be lost in thought. I want to call out to her again, to tell her that everything's going to be okay, but I know she wouldn't believe me. I can't insult her by offering empty promises.
"I bet you wish you had a gun," George continues, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on me. "They have guns in America, you know, but not here. With a gun, you could just take me out without even having to get close. That'd be convenient, eh? All you can do now is try to work out when to make your move. The thing is, even if you get a jump on me, it still won't be enough."
He's right.
"How about now?" he asks, moving the tip of the blade closer to Ophelia's belly. "Or now?" He moves the blade toward her throat. "Any moment, really," he continues. "You might get lucky or you might not. If you were lucky, you could get the knife out of my hand and disarm me. If you were unlucky, I'd get this thing in your fucking face and then I'd finish her off and leave the both of you dead right here. You can be the first proper person I kill."
"You don't want to do that," I tell him firmly.
"I don't want to do it?" he replies with a smile. "Are you fucking kidding me? I would love to do it. I only came here to kill one person, but if I could get two down, that'd really show the old man, wouldn't it? I mean, fuck, he hates the cops but he's never actually killed one. I always told him I could go one better than anything he's ever achieved. I ditched the fucking hooks for starters. I'm not just gonna copy him. I'm gonna be better! The old man was always a fucking loser."
"George Longhouse," I say, desperately trying to work out if there's any way I can disarm him, "I need you to stop and think about what's really happening here." I pause for a moment; Ophelia's bleeding heavily, and every second counts. "Put the knife down. Please, George. No-one else needs to die. I know about you and your father, and I also know that this was all his idea. He made you do it, didn't he? He talked you into killing those people, but I can help you. I can get people to talk to you, people who understand what you're going through."
"How do you work that out?" he asks.
"I spoke to Kelly," I tell him.
"She doesn't know anything about me."
"She said your father coerced you into doing things. He persuaded you to help him, didn't he? He turned you into a murderer's apprentice, but you can stop, George. You can just put the knife down and stop. You don't really want to hurt her, do you? She's never done anything to you."
"My old man's watching us, you know," he says with a smile. "I'm not quite sure where he's got himself hidden, but he's watching. He's proper proud of me. He's been waiting for me to take the initiative and do one on my own, and now I'm gonna show him everything I've learned. I'm ready to move up a gear."
"Your father's dead," I tell him.
"Bullshit."
I look down at Ophelia and see that she's stopped sobbing. Her face is completely still now, although blood is still oozing from the cuts in her belly.
"Bullshit!" George shouts again. "You're a fucking liar!"
"He was found this morning," I continue, figuring that I need to distract him so I can get the knife out of his hands. "Some council workers went in to decorate a flat on Pennington Road. Flat 5A. They found your father's body on a sofa, George. The cause of death looks to have been a stroke, but there'll be an autopsy later today. It was probably very quick, though. He probably died in his sleep and never even realized what was happening. No fuss. No pain."
"Liar!" George shouts. "He's here! He's somewhere around, watching!"
"No," I say firmly. "He's dead, George. We think he died during the night." Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the plastic evidence bag containing the two hooks. "We recovered these from the scene," I continue, holding them up for him to see. "I was taking them back to the lab when I came here. We haven't run any tests on them yet, but I think you know what we'll find when the results come back, don't you? These are the hooks you and your father used to kill those people."
He stares at the bag, and I can tell from the look on his face that he finally understands.
"They were on a table near the sofa," I continue. "I'm assuming you must have been there at some point, George. How could I know these things, and how could I have these hooks, if I was lying? Your father's body was found this morning and nothing is going to bring him back. He's gone."
I wait for him to say something, but there are tears in his eyes and he seems to be completely shocked. He still has the knife close to Ophelia's belly, though, and I'm worried that he might strike again at any moment.
"You need to put the knife down," I tell him, trying not to panic. Ophelia's so still, I'm starting to worry that I'm already too late. "You've obviously been through a lot, but we have people who can help you. We aren't going to throw you into a room and leave you to rot. You can be assessed by trained professionals who'll work out how to help you recover from this. Please, George, your life can get back on track..."
"He was supposed to be watching," he replies, his voice trembling a little as if he's about to lose control. "I only did it for him! He said I had to take over for him, but he said I had to prove myself first! He went on about it over and over again, but there's no point proving myself if he's not there to see it!"
"I know," I reply, "but right now, I need to get some help for Ophelia. There'll be plenty of time to talk about this later, but -"
"He said he'd be proud of me," George continues, trembling as he holds the knife closer to Ophelia's body. "He said he needed me
to take over for him. He never got the chance to do it right, see? He always got interrupted, and then his hands went bad. At first I was just helping, but he told me I had to get more involved. I didn't even want to do it at first. I just did it for him. He said I'd get used to it eventually, and that I'd start to enjoy it... It was the only time he ever seemed happy with anything I did..."
"I know," I say firmly, "but if the -"
"We were just practicing," he adds. "We were gonna start doing proper murders on real people soon, but for now we were just practicing on people from the streets. He said we were gonna move on soon and find some proper girls. We were gonna do some proper murders, you know?"
"These were proper murders, George," I reply, trying to time my intervention just right. My heart is pounding and I know I'm only going to get one chance at this; if I make a mistake, the knife could end up buried deep in Ophelia's belly, or in me, or in George himself. "Your victims were real people," I tell him, "with feelings and pain and families. And please, George, I don't want Ophelia to become the next. Enough people have died, and your father's gone. He can't see you now, George, so why not pack it all in? I can help you, but you have to put the knife down first..."
"He said we'd start doing proper ones soon!" he shouts. "He said we only needed to do a few more like this and then we'd head north and find some proper girls. Fit girls..." He pauses, before looking down at Ophelia. "Not dirty little slags like her -"
Before he can finish, I lunge at him, grabbing his arm and pushing the knife away. He struggles, and he's stronger than I'd anticipated, but I manage to roll him away from Ophelia. As I try to get the knife out of his hand, however, he headbutts me, knocking me back with enough force that I momentarily lose my grip on him. There's a brief, panic-filled moment during which I have no idea where he is, but finally I turn and see him; I just about manage to kick the knife out of his reach, and as he turns to go after it, I grab him from behind and haul him back down onto the floor. He tries to get up, but this time I'm ready for him and I punch him square in the face, slamming his head down against the ground with enough force to knock him out cold.