Kill or Die

by Ann Evans

  “You accuse me of murder, then you want me to cook breakfast for you?”

  “Been on duty all night, sir. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.”

  Without a word, Ian threw a couple more rashers in.

  “Actually, though, sir,” said Grimes, leaning against a cabinet. “No one has accused you of anything. We’re trying to piece it all together.”

  “But, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Can’t you understand that? What’s going on here is a domestic problem. I've been a bloody fool, and my wife's left me because of it. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with what’s happened to my neighbour.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Logan,” said O'Ryan, coming back into the kitchen. “I think you could be mistaken there.”

  Ian swung round, wanting to punch some sense into the thick copper, sick and tired of these accusations. However, instead of his usual, smug look, the officer’s face carried an element of pity.

  “What?” Ian demanded, feeling uneasy suddenly, as if they'd found some incriminating evidence proving he was guilty. An irrational thought leapt into his head, maybe he was guilty—had done old Benjamin in, and blocked it from his mind. Or, Julia had robbed the old man.

  This was sending him insane. No wonder people admit to crimes they didn't commit under pressure.

  O’Ryan was taking an infuriating long time to answer, as if selecting his words with the utmost care. “Your wife would have been driving a yellow Mini, you say, sir?”

  Ian nodded, the smell of sizzling bacon suddenly losing its appeal.

  O’Ryan continued staring at him, with that sympathetic expression on his face. It was disconcerting.

  Ian's brow furrowed, as he saw O'Ryan cast a look in Grime's direction. The younger officer seemed to grasp some unspoken message. “For God's sake, will you tell me what's happening.”

  The Chief Inspector took a step closer. “Going by the time you returned home, on the night in question, and found your wife and daughter gone, it's feasible she could have left the house sometime between twelve-thirty and two a.m.”

  “She could have left at any time during the day,” Ian replied, but guessing – hoping she would have given him the benefit of one last chance, to see if he came home at the appointed hour. And then, he remembered that Lucy’s bed had been slept in. So, Julia had taken her from her bed when she’d made her decision to leave, realising he wasn’t coming home at his usual time. He lowered his head. “Yes, it’s feasible – probable, I suppose. They would have left around then.” As soon as he'd spoken, he felt a tightness in his throat. The police had pinpointed Benjamin’s attack to five past one in the morning. Was this another link pointing the finger at him and Julia? “So, what are you getting at?”

  O’Ryan closed the space between them, and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. He half expected him to say, ‘you're nicked, mate,’ but then, Ian saw the sympathy behind his eyes, and realised it was a gesture of comfort.

  “What?” he repeated, realising his voice this time was barely a whisper.

  “My officers have found evidence in the road of a collision. They’ve found broken indicator glass and flakes of paint. Dark blue… and yellow.”

  He’d seen that himself, hadn’t he? Broken glass in the road. It didn’t mean anything. He certainly hadn't connected it to Julia's car. A sick feeling rose in his throat. Why the devil hadn't he connected it? Was he stupid? Had he been so wrapped up in his own self-pity he hadn't thought what Julia might have gone though.

  “But, it was a bit of glass, just a bump.” His frown deepened. They were still looking at him with solicitous expressions on their faces, as if waiting for him to fathom something out. And then, his legs felt weak. He stepped away from O'Ryan, and sank down onto the sofa, trying to make sense of this latest bit of news. She'd collided with another car. And who else might be out driving around these quiet streets in the middle of the night. Unless it was the person who'd attacked Benjamin… “Oh God!”

  O’Ryan’s sat down beside him. “Mr. Logan, we have to consider the worst. It’s possible that your wife was leaving here, probably in a bit of a state, just as Benjamin Stanton's killer was leaving the scene of the crime, also in a bit of a state, judging by the amount of blood he’d lost.”

  Ian stared at him, his thoughts too jumbled to sort into any kind of logical sequence. “What are you telling me?”

  “We discovered two blood types at the scene,” explained O'Ryan. “One belonged to the victim. The other hasn't been identified as yet, which was why we wanted a DNA swab from you.”

  Giving his DNA was the last thing on his mind now, as the reality hit him. His wife and child could have come into contact with a murderer. More than that, crashed cars, and that would lead to what...

  “God!” he breathed. “Oh, dear God!”

  Grimes spoke up. “Even if the flakes of paint do come from your wife's car and the attacker's car, my guess is he wouldn't have stopped to exchange names and insurance details. He'd want to be well away.”

  It didn't make Ian feel any better. He knew Julia. If she'd had a bump in her car, she would stop, get out, see if anyone was hurt. “My wife wouldn't have driven away. She would have checked no one was injured.”

  “But, the offender wouldn't have hung around,” said O'Ryan. “He wouldn't want to draw attention to himself.”

  “It would be a bit late for that,” said Ian, getting to his feet, a cold panicky sweat starting to trickle down his neck. “Julia would have seen him, seen the car. My daughter would have seen him.” His voice dried in his throat, as an awful scenario began to materialise in his head.

  “We can't jump to conclusions, but we also have to assume the worst.”

  “They've been taken hostage! That's why they didn't turn up at her sister's. That's why Lucy's not at school. It's why no one has seen them.”

  “I doubt that very much,” O'Ryan said, exchanging glances with his colleague, on his feet, too, now, urgency in his movement. “No point in jumping to conclusions. No perpetrator in his right mind would hardly want the complication of two hostages.”

  “But, he's not in his right mind,” Ian shouted, pacing the room, needing to do something, and desperately needing his wife and daughter here now, safe with him. He turned to O'Ryan, frantic. “He'd just killed a helpless old man. He's not going to drive off, and leave them to call the police. Because you would, wouldn't you. If someone crashed into you, and then drove off, you'd call you cops. He'd know that. He wouldn't let them do that. He'd stop them identifying him, one way or another.”

  “Try and keep calm, Mr. Logan,” Grimes said, getting on his radio. “The assailant wouldn't have been able to drive your wife's car and his own, so abduction isn't a likelihood. Wherever she went after the bump, she's gone of her own free will.”

  Ian tried to calm down. Grimes had a point there. “Yes, I suppose you're right. One man can't drive two vehicles...” His voice trailed away, as the same thought seemed to strike all of them. He saw it in O'Ryan's face, and in the younger officer’s expression. But, Ian was the one to put it into words. “What if there was more than one...”

  O'Ryan jerked his head, indicating Grimes to move. The taller officer strode out into the hall; he was already on his radio. Ian distinctly heard the words, ‘hostage situation,’ before his front door shut.

  Blind panic made his head spin. He slammed his fists against the wall. “All this time you've wasted questioning me. They could be anywhere. What's happened to my wife and my little girl? She's only eight. Oh, my God, if they've hurt her...”

  “No point in letting imagination get the better of you, sir,” said O'Ryan. “Now, if you have a recent photograph of your wife and daughter, that will be a help. Then, if you wouldn’t mind phoning family and friends – anyone who she might have gone to, just to see if they have turned up. And try and think if any of your neighbours owns a dark blue car. The bump hopefully has nothing to do with the crime.”

>   Ian’s head was beginning to throb. It was hard to think straight. “I don’t know… a few of the neighbours have dark coloured cars – blue, grey, I don't know. You don't notice these things.”

  “Just try and keep calm, Mr. Logan. If we can keep a level head, we’ve more chance of finding your wife and daughter sooner, rather than later.”

  It was hard to put two coherent thoughts together. “It’s bound to be those bastards' car. Sycamore Drive leads off into the countryside. We don’t get passing traffic. People either live here, or they're visiting, or delivering something, or…”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, but if you could find those photographs, that would help.”

  He couldn't even think where any photos would be. They were all on his computer. Then, he remembered the ones in his wallet, and the framed one in the hall. He tried to get his panic under control.

  “Calmly now, sir. More haste, less speed.”

  Ian glared at the police officer, despising him for wasting so much time when his wife and daughter's lives were in peril. “Why photos? How are photos going to help find my wife and daughter? They haven't run away, or are wandering lost somewhere.”

  “It helps us to know who we're looking for. Now, try and keep calm, sir. No point in getting too worked up.”

  Ian looked O'Ryan directly in the eye, and wondered whether he'd be collected, if it was his wife and child missing. In the calm manner, the police officer seemed to expect, Ian said, “Tell me something, Chief Inspector O'Ryan.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If you had just smashed in an old man’s skull, stolen all his possessions, then bumped into two people who could identify you, what would you do?”

  O’Ryan didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 26

  Chief Inspector O’Ryan left the house, with Ian Logan’s words ringing in his ears. He hoped to God the paint flakes weren’t from the assailant's car. If he – or they—had taken Mrs. Logan and her daughter, he didn’t hold out much hope for them. They'd be dead and dumped by now, poor buggers.

  His arms swung briskly, as he walked down the drive, and out into the street. There was intense activity going on in the victim’s garden, where more blood had been found. There was a trail of blood leading from the back of the house to the street, where it stopped, probably because the attacker had got into his getaway car. He hoped it was the perpetrator's blood, not the Logan woman's or her kid's. The trail could have been from the road to the victim's garden. Quite possibly it was Mrs. Logan's blood, or the little girl's.

  This line of thought sent him barking out more orders for an even more in-depth search of the garden, specifically looking to see if a body had been buried there, or, to be more precise, two bodies.

  Cold and weary, Grimes wandered over to him. It had been a long night. Although, if Mrs. Logan and her daughter were still alive, by some remote chance, no doubt their night had been a lot longer, and a damn sight more harrowing.

  “With luck,” said Grimes, “whoever killed the old man has taken the woman and kid along for insurance. Or, better still, their paths didn’t even cross.”

  “You never know,” agreed O'Ryan.

  “Want me to pop back in, and ask him what his wife and daughter's blood groups are?”

  “Do that, Len. Only try and be tactful. Tell Logan it’s routine enquiries. Don’t let on about all this blood.”

  “I’ll get onto it.”

  “And see if there’s any progress on matching the glass and paint flakes. If we can identify the other vehicle, then we’ve something to go on.”

  “It seems to indicate there was more than one perpetrator, wouldn’t you say, sir?” Grimes suggested. “One person couldn’t have driven two vehicles.”

  “He could have snatched the kid, and made Mrs. Logan follow,” said O’Ryan, turning up his collar, a chill running through him his sheepskin jacket couldn't keep out. “Step on it, Len. Let’s get things moving. I know chances are they’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere, but if this is a kidnapping, and they’re being held captive by some murdering swine, they’re in one hell of a tight spot.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Julia and Lucy lay sprawled across the wooden box they'd dragged over the trapdoor, pressing hard down, using their weight to hold the hatch shut. They clasped their hands tightly together, afraid to move, afraid to release the pressure on the trapdoor, even though the house was silent now.

  They had shrunk back in horror, when Vincent had begun chanting. Lucy had wept in terror at the sound of his manic voice. They’d pressed desperately down on the trapdoor to stop him getting in.

  Then, they had listened to the vicious fight that had gone on between the two men. Something dreadful had happened. They’d heard the horrendous sound of something falling away; a tremendous cracking sound, as if the house was collapsing. The entire house had shaken. She guessed it was the staircase, and because the fighting had stopped, she presumed one of them had probably perished. She hoped and prayed they’d both been killed, but she didn’t dare raise the trapdoor yet to look, in case Vincent was still there.

  Lucy’s little face was covered in tear-streaked grime. Somehow, she'd managed to hang onto her teddy bear. But, both were afraid to speak out loud yet. Julia mouthed silently to Lucy, “I’m so sorry, my darling.”

  Lucy squeezed her hand, and mouthed back, “I love you, mummy.”

  “I love you, too, so very much.”

  After a few more minutes of silence, Lucy asked softly, “And you still love my daddy, don’t you?”

  Julia nodded. It was what Lucy needed to hear. But, deep down, there was no love in her heart for anyone except her daughter. If it hadn't been for Ian's infidelity, none of this would have ever happened.

  She seriously wondered whether they would get out of this alive. Would Ian realise what they'd gone through? Would it occur to him that they'd gone through hell these last few days? Was he even bothered, or was he consoling himself with his other woman? She wondered who she was. Someone from work, no doubt. She'd met a few of them. There was only one who was brassy – who looked the sort to have an affair. She wondered if Ian loved her.

  “Have the horrible men gone?” Lucy whispered.

  “I don't know,” she murmured. She wished she knew the answer. Either they had killed each other, or Vincent was on the other side of this trapdoor, toying with them, taking sadistic pleasure in this cat and mouse game.

  Long agonising minutes passed, with them listening for any sound from below to indicate whether death lay waiting for them or freedom. From up in the eaves, a blackbird started to sing, and a shaft of dusty sunlight streaked through the attic window. It fell on their faces, warming them. Slowly, it moved, brightening in turn each murky corner of their prison.

  Her body ached from lying in one position for so long, and her ribs still hurt from the beating Vincent had given her. She helped Lucy to sit up on the box, knees tucked under her chin. She did the same, keeping her weight pressed down, barely making a sound. Lucy’s glistening eyes didn’t waver from her face, as she was manoeuvred from one position to another, silently. Like Julia, Lucy knew the danger, and was doing her best not to do anything wrong. She cuddled close to Julia, and they sat, arms entwined around one another.

  Eventually, a faint glimmer of hope began to rise inside of Julia. It had been so quiet below for such a long time now, she really began to wonder if both men had perished. Or they’d gone. If there was anyone lurking on the landing, surely, they would have heard some sound by now.

  She had to know. They couldn’t sit here forever. She had to try and see.

  As gently as she could, she untangled herself from her daughter’s arms, and slid off the box. She stood on the beams, heart pounding.

  Lucy watched her, eyes widening in fear. Julia put a finger to her lips, and helped Lucy to stand safely. Every nerve in her body was tingling, every muscle taut and coiled, ready to throw her weight back over th
e box, if the trapdoor started to move. Nothing happened.

  She looked at Lucy. Her blue eyes were like saucers. “I’m going to take a peep,” she whispered. Then, moving the box a fraction of an inch at a time, Julia eased it off the trapdoor. The scratching of wood against wood was amplified to astronomic proportions. Time and again, she stopped to listen and look, her breath locked inside her chest.

  There was still no sound from below, and Julia knelt down, and carefully lifted the trapdoor a fraction. She gasped at the carnage below. The stairs were gone; a gaping hole yawned where they had stood. She could see someone lying crumpled and motionless on the ground floor beneath a mass of timber. From this angle, she couldn’t be sure who it was. She prayed it was Vincent.

  A tiny thread of hope began to grow inside of her. Maybe they were safe, and this nightmare was over. “We’ll try and get down, love,” Julia murmured. “I’ll lower myself down, you follow, and I’ll be able to catch you.”

  Lucy was reluctant to let her go, and wrapped her arms around her fiercely. “Don't, Mummy...”

  “We can do it, we can. But, you have to be very brave.”

  For a second, Lucy clung onto her mother’s waist, afraid to let her go. Julia gently eased herself free, and felt for the weapon she’d spotted earlier—the chair leg – just in case. “Are you ready, sweetheart…”

  It was at that moment she felt someone watching them. It was an instinct, yet so strong, she felt her skin crawl with terror. She spun around, her gaze sweeping across the attic floor. She saw the vile apparition, and the scream building up within erupted, bouncing off the cobweb-blackened walls, and returning to ring in her ears. Lucy’s scream was higher pitched—a sound no mother should ever hear.

  Vincent was grinning up at them; his head and neck protruding through the plasterboard floor, where Lucy’s foot had gone through earlier. It was a horrendous, disembodied face—watching, leering, delighting in their terror.