‘Shush,’ Rob said. ‘It’s all taken care of.’
‘What do you mean? I need to say goodbye. I need to bury him.’ Maddy suddenly couldn’t breathe. Was she having a panic attack? It felt like a mountain of bricks was crushing her chest.
‘Calm down, love, you’ll be able to bury your cat, don’t worry. Just lie down for now and try and take some deep breaths. I’ll call your friend.’
***
Two hours later, Paul guided Maddy into their flat. She still felt dazed, a little unsteady on her feet. And still unable to grasp her latest loss.
The paramedics had carried out various tests. She was in excellent shape, aside from her blood pressure being a little on the high side, but that was to be expected.
No sooner had Paul received Rob’s call, than he dashed to Maddy’s side. As Maddy had become more lucid, she’d asked if they could take Atticus home with them. She wanted to give him a proper burial, say goodbye.
But assuming The Scribe was to blame – and there wasn’t any doubt in Maddy’s mind that he was – Atticus was now a part of Carver’s murder investigation and needed to be examined by forensics. She’d called Carver as the paramedics stuck twelve electrodes to her chest for a routine ECG. He’d come straight away, startled by the news, and informed Rob that his leisure centre would need to be temporarily closed so that a proper sweep of the premises could be carried out.
He’d reassured Maddy that his men were guarding the fourteen women, and that he’d do everything in his power to catch the killer before the New Year was in. But it didn’t help much. Atticus’ death had shaken her up badly, and she felt crushed by guilt.
Her beloved cat had never been part of the equation, but he’d ended up paying the price for her interference.
Chapter Thirty
At 3.55 on New Year’s Eve, Bethany Williams trudged up the stairs to the third floor of her apartment building, inwardly cursing the maintenance men for not getting the lift back in order. Small-boned, she had delicate features and slender hips. But soon that would change. If she felt like this now, still trim and making her three sessions a week with her personal trainer, goodness knows how she’d feel in six months’ time. No doubt fat, breathless, and unable to see her feet.
Although he’d disapproved of her decision to have the baby, it wasn’t his decision to make. She was the one growing life inside her, and she knew that she could never bring it upon herself to willingly kill her baby. Yes, it should never have happened. But it had. And maybe it would end up being the best mistake she’d ever made.
Unlike him. He’d been a mistake. Even though she loved him. Couldn’t resist seeing him, kissing him, making love to him. She’d known all along that he’d never leave his wife for her. Even now, pregnant with his child. He’d always been the same. For the entire eight years they’d known each other. Unable to resist his urges, moving from one girl to another, as if trying to fill a void. A void that no one, not even his wife, not even the woman carrying his longed-for baby, could fill. It was innate. As fixed as the moon in the sky.
She hadn’t told anyone else yet, not even her best friend, Juliet. She was only just over the twelve-week mark, and it being her first pregnancy, wasn’t yet showing. Luckily, she’d barely had any nausea, just the odd day here and there and a bit of heartburn, but nothing so bad as to attract attention. But tonight was going to be tricky. Juliet was having a house party, where the alcohol would be flowing and anyone not drinking would stick out like a sore thumb. Until now, she’d used work pressures, menstrual migraines and a tummy bug to avoid meeting up with her friends whenever booze was involved.
But she hadn’t missed seeing in the New Year with Juliet since 2009. Getting out of it would arouse suspicion. Plus, knowing the man she loved would be spending the evening with his wife upset her. She didn’t want to be home alone, drinking orange juice in front of Jools Holland; feeling sorry for herself. She needed company to take her mind off how complicated her life had become.
She turned the key in her door and felt for the switch inside. The thing she loved most about where she lived was that she felt secure. The gated system ensured she was never afraid that some lunatic might be lying in wait for her. She’d read so many stories in the press about people being attacked in their own homes. And now, more recently, the police were hunting a serial killer they were calling The Scribe. At first, she’d been frightened by reports that he appeared to be targeting ex and current female students at her former law school. But the father of her child had allayed her fears, told her to think sensibly. Hundreds of female students walked through the academy’s doors each year. Bethany had been one of them – one of many – and that was getting on for nine years ago. Logically, it made no sense for the killer to target her. He told her she had more chance of being run over by a bus.
Her fears placated, Bethany had tried not to think any more of it. She focussed on her work, her friends and the life growing within her.
Once inside her flat, she removed her coat and gloves and headed straight for the open plan kitchen-diner. She grabbed the TV remote on her way and pointed it in the direction of the 46-inch plasma mounted on the far wall. A man’s face immediately appeared. She recognised him. He was the detective leading the investigation into The Scribe murders. He was attractive. But he had a weary look about him as he warned the public to be vigilant, particularly as they had reason to believe another attack was imminent.
Bethany shuddered and switched channels. Some corny Christmas movie appeared. A much better alternative to the grim news. She flipped the switch on the kettle, turned on the radio and contemplated what to wear that evening. This time next year, if she hadn’t lost the baby weight, she might not fit into one of her slinky dresses. She decided she might as well make the most of her wardrobe while she had the chance.
She turned around and saw two eyes looking at her, gleaming, like black jewels. She dropped the mug she was holding but scarcely heard it crash to the tiled floor, smashing to pieces around her feet. She attempted to scream but a gloved hand was suddenly there, preventing her. Aside from the eyes, the killer’s face was masked by a balaclava. She made out a broad body sheathed in a long black leather coat and Nike trainers. They looked brand new. It was The Scribe. She was sure of it. She remembered reading about the Nike trainers in the press.
The killer gestured for her to be silent. She nodded, trembling. Slowly, the killer released her mouth, then took her by the arm, dragging her towards her bedroom. And that’s when she heard classical music … closer and closer, louder and louder. And then, once inside her bedroom, she noticed a red MP3 player lying on her bedside table. It was playing Mozart’s Requiem.
It reminded her of him.
She looked in horror at her bed. Rope cords were tied to each corner. The maniac was going to tie her up. And then what?
‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ she begged. ‘Why are you doing this? I’ll give you money, just tell me how much.’
The killer didn’t respond, and Bethany was suddenly beside herself with fear. She thought about the life inside her. Pressed one hand to her belly, felt her pelvis tighten. Even though she’d yet to meet him or her, she already felt a love like nothing she’d experienced before, and knew that she would do anything to protect her child.
She tried to wriggle free from her attacker’s grasp, despite knowing it was hopeless. The killer was too strong, yanking her fiercely by the arm and throwing her onto the mattress, one hand pressed down on her belly, while the other tied a piece of rope around one of her wrists to the far right corner of the bed. Now, she had no chance of escape. The killer did the same with her other wrist and ankles, then used a pair of scissors to cut her clothes down to her black lace bra. Then the killer paused, eyeing her cleavage, before slowly cutting the join between both bra cups. She lay there, half-naked, like a human sacrifice. Her heart thumped with fear, everything that was her life flashing before her.
‘Please, don’t do this,’ she pleaded
, crazy with panic, tears streaming down her hot cheeks.
The killer worked quickly, methodically, as if engaged in a time-critical intellectual challenge. The leather gloves were removed, revealing slender fingers and neatly filed nails, which then reached into a black rucksack lying on the floor and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. The killer put them on, then delved into the rucksack once again.
Bethany’s stomach lurched on seeing what was produced this time: a syringe and a clear solution in a glass phial. The killer expertly filled the syringe with the fluid, then leaned over her. She smelt a distinctive aftershave. Like James wore. Why did the killer not speak? She at least wanted to hear a voice.
At that moment, the love for her unborn baby superseded any fear for her own safety. ‘Speak, you motherfucker!’ she yelled. ‘You cowardly piece of shit. Why don’t you speak and show your face?’
She felt the sting of rubber across her cheek. Her violator leaned in closer, aiming the needle sideways underneath her left breast, pausing momentarily as it was lined up exactly where it needed to be, a faint pressure on her skin. And then she felt the needle go in, piercing her flesh, barely five seconds passing before it was removed.
‘Why did you do that? What are you going to do to me?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
She felt the urge to touch her chest but couldn’t. It was as if her skin had gone numb. The killer placed the needle and phial in a polythene bag, before dropping it into the rucksack.
Bethany glanced at the clock on her bedside table. 4.14 pm. The killer briefly disappeared from the room, then returned with something. Her phone. She watched the killer type something, before laying the phone on the bedside table. A text, an email? ‘What were you typing on my phone?’ she stammered.
She got no reply.
And then, with the killer’s next move, Bethany knew what was coming. Her lover had been wrong. It didn’t matter that she’d studied at the academy nine years ago. For some reason, she was on The Scribe’s agenda.
The knife didn’t look like any ordinary kitchen knife. It had a massive blade with a slightly curved tip. She needed to be sick, but her horizontal position prevented her. She heard the phone ring – recognised the ringtone she’d set for Juliet. She was probably calling to check what time she’d be over.
Knife gripped in one hand, the killer crawled onto the bed, knelt between Bethany’s thighs, and towered over her. She saw eyes that were filled with hate and deadly intent. They slowly came closer. She couldn’t help but lower her own and watch the gleaming blade slice through her skin. She felt no physical pain –only fear as the killer began to inscribe.
It wasn’t a long word to carve. But that was the least of her worries. The worst was not knowing what came next. None of the victims so far had survived.
How did the killer plan to end her life? And the life of the child inside her?
Job done, the killer took a moment to gloat, before placing the soiled knife in a fresh polythene bag, then zipping it up inside the rucksack.
Rucksack slung over one shoulder, the killer walked towards the door, then hovered at the entrance, surveying Bethany with dispassionate eyes.
‘You’re leaving me like this?’ she said. ‘You’re not going to kill me?’
A flicker of hope ran through her. Maybe the fucker had realised she was pregnant, had decided to take pity on her? She suddenly valued life more than ever. Saw that not being with him wasn’t the end of the world, that there was so much she should be thankful for. Everyday things she’d taken for granted, sidelined as trivial, but which she now saw as beautiful and a blessing. She could live with being scarred for life if it meant she could go on living her life – be a mother.
She vaguely heard the door close and realised the killer had gone. She started trembling, conscious that she’d wet herself, the insides of her thighs moist and warm. She wondered if Juliet would start to worry that she wasn’t picking up and come over. She imagined this scenario, clung on to it, willing herself to be strong until she was found.
Ten minutes passed before the phone started to ring. Juliet again. Surely now, when she didn’t answer, her friend would think something was wrong and come round? It wouldn’t be long. She’d soon be …
What’s that sound? A faint ticking, somewhere in the bedroom … somewhere to her left. She tried to lean her head that way, pricking her ear to see where it might be coming from. It was close, almost like it was under the bed.
The ticking grew more frantic, and then there was a deafening noise that sent a searing pain through her ears, and a pain through her stomach like nothing she’d felt before.
And then, after a couple of minutes, Bethany felt no more.
***
The bang was heard all around the apartment complex. And beyond. But it wasn’t just the explosion that alerted neighbours and pedestrians. It was the shrill noise of Bethany Williams’ smoke alarm that sent people flocking to her flat in Limehouse.
Carver was at the station when the call came through, his mind consumed by thoughts of Maddy. He’d never seen her look so scared, so fragile. He hoped she was doing okay, was strong enough to get over her ordeal. No one suspicious on camera had been caught entering the leisure centre, and the changing rooms weren’t covered by CCTV. Forensics were still there, but he wasn’t hopeful.
In the last half hour, he’d been liaising with officers stationed at secret hideouts monitoring the homes of the fourteen women, one of whom Maddy believed could be the killer’s next victim.
But it was a pointless operation. Carver’s heart plummeted when he listened to an officer recount the scene he and a colleague had been called to. Just as he’d feared, the killer had given them false hope, only to outwit them once again. This, his second kill of the day.
The victim – Bethany Williams – had been a former competition lawyer, five years qualified. But for the last year and a half she’d worked as an in-house lawyer at a leading global energy firm whose offices were situated on Bank Street in the heart of Canary Wharf.
…she works amongst the canaries. Sees the office from her bedroom window.
***
‘Here we are. What you need is alcohol – lots of it.’
Cara came into the compact living room of her one-bedroom apartment, holding two champagne flutes. She handed one to Maddy.
Right now, Maddy felt more secure in Cara’s gated community than she did in her own flat.
Yesterday, over the phone, before Atticus’ death, they’d decided to have a quiet New Year. It seemed appropriate, in view of recent events, Paige’s death particularly, and they had set themselves up for a night of DIY manicures, cocktails and ice cream. But now, still haunted by what happened after that, Maddy was no longer in the mood for such frivolity. She needed company, though. Paul had no choice but to work, and the last thing she wanted was to be alone in their flat. It had been the second time the killer had invaded her home, and it was almost as if she could feel his presence as she went from room to room. She’d also felt the stinging absence of Atticus, seeing his empty basket, food tray, stray hairs all around the flat.
Maddy took the flute gratefully, but her eyes were faraway. She had a sip.
It tasted good. Just what she needed, like Cara said. She simply couldn’t switch off, relax. She kept wondering how Carver’s stake-out operation was going; whether there’d been any sign of the killer; whether tonight the devil in human form might finally be caught and they could all breathe again.
The track on the radio faded out. It was just on seven, time for the hourly news:
‘The body of a woman believed to have been in her early thirties was found this afternoon.’
Maddy straightened. Glancing nervously at Cara, she quickly placed her flute on the coffee table. ‘Turn it up,’ she said. Cara didn’t hesitate. They listened to the announcer in dismal silence:
…following a loud explosion heard coming from a gated apartment complex in Limehouse. Police believe she may be the si
xth victim of the serial killer police have been hunting since late October, known as The Scribe. They are again urging members of the public to come forward with any information that may be relevant to the murders.
‘Turn it off,’ Maddy said bleakly. Cara did as Maddy asked, then came and sat down beside her.
‘You did your best,’ she said, putting her arm around her friend. ‘There’s nothing more you could have done.’
Maddy turned to her, tears in her eyes. ‘Yes, but how did the police not see the killer, or notice anything suspicious? It’s just not possible that he could have walked right in and murdered her without being seen. There’s only one explanation. It can’t have been any of the women on my list.’
‘But you thought you’d found every qualified competition lawyer who worked in the area, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but obviously I missed something. I need to know what.’ Maddy leapt up from the sofa, grabbed her phone, and dialled Carver’s number. It went to voicemail. Frustrated, she didn’t bother leaving a message, hung up, then tried again. This time, he answered.
‘Ms Kramer, you’ve heard the news? I’m at the crime scene now. Fucker blew a hole in her stomach.’ He sounded shattered.
‘Jesus. I just can’t believe it. It’s like he’s a ghost. Who was she?’
‘She was a qualified competition lawyer as you predicted. But for the last eighteen months, she’d been working as an in-house lawyer at BP Global, whose offices are in Canary Wharf … which I can see from here … from her apartment balcony.’
‘Fuck!’ Maddy kicked herself inside for being so dumb, for not thinking outside the box – again. ‘I can’t believe I only focussed on law firms, on private-practice lawyers. It’s all my fault.’
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