‘What the hell, George? You’re a police officer! You can’t be doing this!’
‘That just means I know how to dispose of a body, Ronnie.’ George let go of the grip he had on Ronnie’s hair. Ronnie got to his knees. He was still facing away. He bent his head so his forehead touched the wooden surface of the units. His right hand reached out. He rested it on the lip of the drawer. He held it there.
But George was already walking away. As he reached the door, he glanced back to see Ronnie still on his knees, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. George turned away and made for his car.
He fell into the driver’s seat, his heart racing still; his breathing was shallow, his palms clammy on the steering wheel. He drove fast out of the car park. The tyres screeched. He made it out of the campus and turned hard left to roll down the hill back towards the city centre. He was trying to breathe, trying to get himself under control. Trying not to turn the car round and go back there to finish the job. He shouldn’t be driving, he wasn’t concentrating. He turned off the main road and pulled up. He turned the engine off and angled the mirror in the sudden silence. When he peered into it he saw that his eyes were wide, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a sort of snarl. Driving away from the campus, he’d thought he was furious. But the man looking back at him now was something very different. He was terrified. His heart still beat hard and fast, his hands were trembling as they moved to his phone. He scrolled shakily through his favourites. Emily Ryker picked up on the first call.
‘You do know I’m off duty, right?’ She sounded angry.
‘Ryker . . .’ It was all he could manage, his voice was breaking as he said it.
‘George? George, are you okay?’
‘I’m just as bad. I’m just like him.’
‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
‘Shit day, Ryker,’ he said. He lifted his hand to rub at his face. It fell over his mouth. The whole day and every emotion of it rushed back at once and overcame him.
‘What do you need?’
‘Can I come round? Can I come to you?’
She hesitated, but just for a second or two. ‘Of course. I’ll make sure the kettle’s on.’
Chapter 15
Liam Cooney had waited long enough for the darkness to come. Though it was twilight, the lights down to the garden had clicked on and that was good enough for him. He moved quietly but still peered over to his neighbours’ gardens. The fences on either side were tall but they dropped with the gradient. The grass was too long; his feet swished through it. His mum always liked it when it was freshly mowed. He should have cut it a few days earlier. He didn’t like to leave it. It would be so long by the time he made it back.
He pulled open the shed door. The lawnmower was in the corner and he briefly considered firing it up. He shook his head. That would be silly. It would look out of place at this time of night. He turned in the doorway and peered back out at his neighbours’ houses one last time. Some had lights on; most already had curtains drawn. They were all settling in for the night. No one cared about him. They never had before.
He pulled the shed door shut, swung the catch across, clipped a thick padlock through it and pocketed the key. Satisfied, he turned on the light and looked over at the bench. The stout Victorian iron he had left resting on top had moved slightly, leaving fresh scrape marks. She must have given it a real shove. He was impressed; she shouldn’t have been able to move it at all. She had spirit. She was a fighter. He pulled the rope from his pocket and tested its strength. It was thick, coarse and worn. But it was strong. No way anyone was getting out of that when he knotted it up tight.
He hauled the iron off the top and heard a scuffling noise. She was awake in there and she was moving. He checked the windows. They were all covered over. He undid the padlock that kept the box lid down. The catch had enough give for the lid to lift just an inch. Liam considered that it might have even given her hope. But she was never getting out. The lid yawned open. The bottom of the box was hidden by shadow but he could just make out her limbs. And her upturned face against her blonde hair.
‘Are you okay?’
He heard a whimper. She moved. Slowly. The box wasn’t big enough for her to move a lot. He had read up on it: when you suppress people’s movement, their limbs can’t move properly — they stiffen up. It takes fifteen minutes or more for the blood flow to fill the muscles again. She wouldn’t be able to move well to start with. Perfect.
‘Please . . .’ she said. That voice again. Soft, gentle, beautiful. He liked it when she pleaded with him. He wanted to get closer. He yearned for her to whisper it right in his ear. He squatted over her.
‘What did you say?’
He turned his face. Her lips were a few inches from his ear.
‘Please. Please let me go.’ He could feel her breath against his cheek. He closed his eyes to the pleasure. He stood back up. His face was a wide grin.
‘Your freedom is coming. I’m going to make sure of it! I was up in the house and I suddenly thought — I don’t even know your name! What is your name?’
‘Please!’ The voice was a little stronger.
‘Your name? What should I call you?’
‘Please, just let me go.’
‘Your NAME!’ His anger flared. It bent him double, his face close to hers again, his eyes forced wide. He could feel his heartbeat in his temple. He swallowed. Straightened back up and took a breath. He still couldn’t control it. Even now.
‘Annie. It’s Annie. Please, don’t hurt me.’
’Annie!’ He said. He stepped away and closed his eyes. ‘Annie,’ he said. He inhaled deeply. Perfect. It was all perfect. ‘You need to come with me, Annie. You understand, right?’
‘Are you going to hurt me?’ Annie had managed to rise to a sit. She was rubbing her legs, probably trying to get some feeling back into them. The blood would be rushing to her legs, causing them to tingle and itch.
‘You need to do what I say, Annie. I think we can get on. I think we can be good for each other, but you have to do what I say. Do you think you can do that? If you’re good to me, Annie, I will be so good to you. I will be so good!’ He stopped talking. He felt himself welling up. The emotion had crept up on him. It took him a little by surprise. He took a breath and pushed it back down. He focused back on Annie. She was sitting up with the light on her face. Her hair fell over it a little but she lifted her hand to push it back behind her ear, the way he had seen her do it a thousand times before: on the train, when she got into her car, when she walked with her head bent and her headphones in. She was doing it for him now. All for him. When she moved her hair he could see her face. Her cheek around her eye was swollen, it was an angry red and her eyelid looked like it was a little more closed than the other.
‘What happened to your eye? To your face?’ He could feel the anger building in him again.
‘You know what happened. What do you mean?’
‘What happened? Tell me what happened.’
‘You hit me. Are you taking the mick?’
He shook his head. He couldn’t remember! He couldn’t remember hitting her. She was lying! That must be it. He wouldn’t have hurt her. She was perfect.
‘Who hit you?’
‘You hit me. Why are you talking like that?’ Her voice was stronger. She sounded like she was getting upset. Her tone was harsher. He didn’t like it. He liked it when she was soft. He shook his head. Sometimes he could get angry. He could black out, his mum used to tell him — she would have bruises too. He would get so angry, begging her to tell him who had done it, who had hurt her. She finally told him. She said it was him. She said he got so angry she didn’t recognise him. She said his eyes went all funny. Just like a bathroom window, she said. He was so sorry. He said so all the time. His mum . . . she said it didn’t matter, that she knew it wasn’t his fault. She said he could hurt anyone when he was like that.
‘Where are we going? I just want to go home.’
‘You c
an’t go home. Not yet. We’re going for a ride. You need to come with me.’
‘A ride? I don’t want to go for a ride! I just want to go home! Please! Just let me go home.’
‘No!’ he snapped. He knew he had. He didn’t want to get angry. Not at her. He didn’t want to leave any more bruises on her. They needed to get going. ‘Hold your hands out. Put them together and hold them out.’
‘No. Please, please just let me go.’
‘Hold your fucking hands out!’ He was angry again but this time he sucked in air straight after. Like he was taking back the words. His mum hated it when he cursed. She wouldn’t listen to it. She would tell him; she would say that you shouldn’t talk like that, that you shouldn’t use them words. Sometimes he would get angrier, they would argue, he would come back in the room and his mum . . . she would have new bruises.
Annie stood up. She looked shaky on her legs. ‘I’m going home. You can’t keep me here.’ She moved forward. She lifted her leg to get out. She wasn’t listening to him. She wasn’t doing what she was told.
His hand plunged for his waistband. He’d brought a knife, the biggest he could find. It was a zombie knife, one of his own. He had got it from the internet. It was a sharpened, steel arc that could gut her in an instant if he wanted it to. He moved closer to her. He was on her quickly, his left hand grabbed a fistful of hair. He pulled back hard and her face lifted to the light. He pulled the knife round so it flashed in front of her eyes and settled on her throat.
‘You’re coming with me. You’re going to do what I say. Do you understand?’ Her puffy eyes were wide and didn’t blink. They flicked to meet with his. She jerked her head. He pushed it away. He felt disgust. He rubbed his hand down his jeans. It was damp with her sweat.
‘We need to get going. The next time you say no to me I will slit your throat. Are you coming with me now?’ He picked up the rope and ran it through his hands, licking his lips.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Chapter 16
George woke up fully dressed in a bed he didn’t recognise. His head was muzzy, tinnitus fizzing loudly in his ears, and he was aware of a bright block of sunlight across which a shadow moved.
‘Alright?’ It was Emily Ryker’s voice. George squinted. Her form was still backlit by the sun.
‘Nope.’
‘That’ll be the hangover. I’ll make some breakfast. It’ll be downstairs.’
The shadow departed. He still needed to squint when he sat up. The curtains looked like they had been pulled roughly open. He was in a double bed — Ryker’s, he guessed. The other side was flat and made; he must have slept alone. He swung out his legs and paced to the window. Ryker lived right on the coast. Her move to the south of the county was only supposed to have been temporary — one week, a couple of weeks, a month tops. That was three years ago. Officially, hers was still a temporary attachment, and her job role had never been sorted, so she still rented places. George thought he knew her well enough to suggest that she was always going to be scared of laying down roots. He reckoned that was why she never pushed to have her contract resolved. It remained the perfect excuse not to settle. He stretched at the window and concluded that she should stay, even if it was just for that view. The English Channel practically lapped at her door. Her backyard ended with a low wall where the promenade started, and on the other side of that were the pebbles. He turned away. Sea views had become something of a sore point. He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘Coffee. Strong.’ Ryker slapped a mug down in front of him. It read KEEP CALM AND FOLLOW SPURS. Tottenham was Ryker’s football team.
‘How come I get the Spurs cup?’
‘What would you prefer? There are some little floral china numbers in the back of the cupboard left by the little old dear who was here before me.’
‘I like a china cup, actually.’
‘I bet you do. It wouldn’t feel right though. They’re not meant for people like you: wearing yesterday’s suit, swigging black tea to cure your hangover.’
‘I suppose I can’t argue with that.’
‘Scrambled eggs okay?’
‘You know I recently told someone I had an egg allergy so she wouldn’t throw them at me. One of the stranger fibs I’ve told. She . . . you know what, it doesn’t matter. Eggs? Yes, please, Ryker.’
Emily rolled her eyes, ‘I swear you’re getting stranger. I’m sure I don’t need to know your morning-after stories either. Just call a taxi and leave like everyone else!’ Emily laughed. It seemed forced.
‘It wasn’t a morning after. We’d just met actually. Not even . . . honestly, forget it! And thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. Two minutes in the microwave, George. You won’t get no Jamie Oliver shit round here.’
‘I don’t mean for the eggs! I kinda chewed your ear last night. Turned up out of nowhere.’
‘Drank all my whisky.’
‘Drank all of your whisky . . . Ah, that explains it.’ He reached for his head.
‘Don’t worry about it. You need to talk out shit like that. Whittaker was right, you know. It can fester.’
‘That might explain the smell.’ George sniffed his shirt in disapproval.
‘You can have a shower if you want but you’d have to get back into those clothes. If you really want a change I’ve got a size-ten off-the-shoulder number that might go with your shoes.’
George snorted into his mug. ‘Nah, I figure I’ll get back home to my own clothes. I’m a size twelve, see.’
‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, about this Roberts piece of work. You flip-flapped all over the place last night. One minute you were moving on, forgetting about the whole thing, the next you were turning up at the court of appeal yourself. Where are you now?’
‘Ah. Sorry about the flip-flapping. It always happens when I’m on the whisky. I’m going up there.’
‘Up there? Up where?’
‘Back to Symonds Yat. I want to talk to the SIO again. I just want to bottom out this missing person.’
‘The SIO? This Emma you were talking about, right? The inspector?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know really. Closure probably — for me, I mean. I might be able to help.’
‘So might the other hundreds of officers who are actually warranted to work in her police force, George. We’re a long way from that particular coal face. Think how we would react if we got officers from other forces turning up and demanding to help. They would all get a pill. Police forces don’t mix well.’
‘I know that, Ryker. But this is different. I could feel her desperation. We’ve all been there. When we need something to happen but we’re too scared or too proud to ask for help. I think she wants help.’
‘From you?’ Emily chuckled.
‘Well, she doesn’t know me, does she?’
‘She can’t do. Are you sure it was help she was after?’
‘In all honesty, I’ve got no idea. I figured I could go and see her. I need to speak to her anyway. I need to keep her up to date on what happened with Roberts — what he said. They won’t know yet. Whittaker said he would leave it to me to tell her. It wouldn’t feel right doing it on the phone.’
‘No, well, you can’t poke your nose in so easy over the phone!’
‘It’s not about poking my nose in, Ryker. I told you, I saw that site yesterday. There’s no way one man does all that alone. Drags that . . . that thing through those trails. Then gets two young women there too. It doesn’t work.’
‘And then you’ve got another girl missing in the same circumstances . . .’
‘Exactly.’
‘Time for Super George to swoop in and save the day.’ George flashed angry. He bit hard so he didn’t react but he stared Emily down. She raised her palms in surrender. ‘I’m just saying. You need to be aware that it’s going to look like that. Sometimes you police with your big size ten
s, George. You know that as well as I do. We put up with it down here because we have to.’
George felt his anger drop away just as quickly as it came on. She had a point. ‘You’re right. She needs updating. That’s my reason for being there. I’ll see how she is, see how they’re getting on. I can offer my help at least.’
‘And if they turn you down?’
‘The size tens, Ryker.’
Chapter 17
George felt a little better for the freshen-up and change of clothes at his flat. When he got back to his car, he checked his phone. He had missed a call from Whittaker and made a mental note to call him back at some point. He didn’t want to do it yet. He wanted to be far enough away from Langthorne that it would be difficult for Whittaker to call him back. Not that he thought he would. It was a reasonable move to go up and talk to the Senior Investigating Officer for a job like this in person. The update was not one he was looking forward to giving. He also had an email from an HMP address — Her Majesty’s Prison. He scanned the content hurriedly. The body of the email acknowledged his request for copies of all correspondence to prisoner Henry Roberts. It said that he hadn’t received or sent any letters, but they attached all the prisoner’s logs. That was something more than he’d asked for — unusual for HMP. Maybe they’d felt like they had to send something? High-risk prisoners like Roberts had a constant log running. It would mostly be handwritten and was a running record of his day that was filled out by whichever staff members were on duty. It would include things such as his meals, any medication and his general routine. It would also include anything of note. It probably wouldn’t help, but George thought it might break his journey up by finding a coffee stop an hour up the motorway and giving it a read.
He also wanted to send a text message to Ryker. He looked at a blinking cursor for a good minute or more. He didn’t know what to say. He settled on: Thanks for hearing me out last night. I guess I needed a rant. Sorry to intrude. And about your whisky. He sent it before he could think any longer about the content.
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