Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both!

by Jeremy Costello

  ‘The time is 3am. At the conclusion of this recording there is a riddle. I would like the elite few listening to this message to solve it and return it to me within twelve hours. In precisely eleven hours a man will appear opposite your building and he will wait for one hour. He will be wearing a green hooded sweater. You will not speak to him, you will not address him in any way. You will simply hand him an envelope containing your answer and allow him to walk away.

  ‘Now, pay attention, this is the fun bit. If you fail to answer the riddle correctly I will kill a promising young law student. If you succeed, I will kill a convicted paedophile. Either way, somebody dies. Any deviation from the rules, they both die. However, I’m sure we’d all like the same outcome, so I urge you to think long and hard about the solution. A young girl’s life depends on it.’

  Static…

  ‘An apple begins with me and age too. I am in the midst of a man and foremost in every apprehension. You will find me in everyday and see me in all autumns. It's a pity that you cannot see me in the night, when run must I, hidden from sight.

  ‘Twelve hours…tick tock…’

  The quiet in the meeting room thickened, stolen briefly by static. Wheeler reached forward and switched it off.

  Eventually York spoke, shattering the tension. ‘That’s why he left the bodies in that dump.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Newport

  ‘He saw Grayson’s hotel as a mirror for the victim’s souls: rotten and dirty.’

  Mason interjected. ‘Jonathan, what have you been able to take from the recording?’

  ‘Nothing at all yet, guv,’ the techie admitted, shifting his lean frame to the head of the table. Sweat marks were visible at his armpits. ‘Whoever made the recording knew what they were doing. They made it within a silent environment so there is literally no background sound at all. Not a single foreign decibel to go on.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So that leaves us with a riddle to solve,’ York threw in.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Nick,’ said Mason. ‘Solution or not, somebody dies. It doesn’t matter who that is, or what he’s done, we’re the police and we can’t hang a man out to dry based on immoral life choices.’

  ‘Tell me you're kidding? We can’t hang a young girl out to dry either because we felt like being righteous today.’

  ‘It’s not about that, Nick!’

  ‘Then tell me what it is about, guv. Because I’m going to need to hear it.’

  ‘We have a moral obligation as police officers to protect our citizens, no matter what they’ve done. If this paedophile is back on the street after a conviction, then he’s served some punishment and been deemed fit for release. It’s not our call to punish him further.’

  This time not even a hiss of static betrayed the silence. ‘Okay, that’s your call,’ said York. ‘But when this twenty-something girl is found with her heart torn out because we failed to follow simple instructions, I won’t be the one talking to her family. The system fails enough people, Judy, let’s try and do the right thing here.’

  Mason pondered for a moment under the scrutiny of the others, her clear blue eyes unreadable. ‘Okay…’ she said at last, ‘Will, Jonathan, get teams together and solve the riddle. But I want every available resource on this to make sure we never have to make that choice. We have a window of eight to nine hours left to bring this guy in, let’s not waste it. Nick, take Holly and find out who Michael and Harriet Fuller are. Get out to their house and see what made them tick. If they are garbage as we’re being made to believe, I want to know why.’

  York and Newport stood in unison.

  ‘Before you go, Nick,’ she added, ‘A word in private. Everyone else is dismissed. Let’s get cracking.’

  Picking up files and evidence bags, everyone but Mason and York left the room. Waiting for the door to click closed, the two officers eyed each other with patience. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on with you?’

  York took a seat and adjusted his hat. ‘In what regard?’

  ‘You look like shit, Nick. I need to know if you’re fit to work. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d been drinking.’

  ‘Is this because I opposed you in front of the others?’

  ‘Don’t even suggest that!’ Mason snapped. ‘I’m pulling you up because you look like crap, and I don’t need to see headline pictures tomorrow morning of our leading detective looking like a bum.’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping. That’s it.’

  ‘People on a lack of sleep don’t look as rough as you, Nick.’

  ‘Jesus, are you being paid to give me abuse?’

  Mason paused. ‘Okay, if you say you’re alright, I believe you. But if you’re lying to me, I’m going to be upset, and my dog doesn’t like it when I come home upset. I hope you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Your dog’s hormonal?’

  ‘Nick!'

  ‘I’m not lying to you, Judy! But I did have a request.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want to be assigned solely to this case. I don’t need anyone else.’

  Mason didn’t react. ‘Something going on between you and Newport?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just have a bad feeling about this guy. He’s going to make it personal and I’d rather Newport wasn’t in the crosshairs.’

  ‘It’s her job to be in the crosshairs. Are you worried for her husband? Because we can put her house under protection if it comes to that.’

  York turned away, the faintest bruise of anguish flicking across his brow.

  ‘Shit, Nick, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  He brushed it off. ‘The logic behind it works, though, doesn’t it? Newport’s family could be in danger. Mine's gone, Judy, he can’t make it personal with me.’

  Mason scratched behind her ear to stall. Then she said, ‘Request denied.’

  York sighed. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Well time will tell, won’t it? I want Holly with you on this.’

  York stood and headed to the door.

  ‘And Nick,’ she added, ‘lose the hat, you’re not Elliot Ness.’

  York shrugged. ‘And he wasn't Nicolas York, but he still wore the hat.’

  4

  Park Lane was filling steadily now, humans flooding the pavements. Bodies were bustling through the streets heading to work, pouring from the Marble Arch underground in multicultural droves, while others not so fortunate lay buried in doorways under rags and self-pity. Gridlocked roads were the next thing on the morning’s agenda.

  Now that Michael and Harriet Fuller had been identified, their address had been easy enough to find. York stood beneath the towering block and couldn’t argue that the couple had taste. It was a converted townhouse building off Hyde Park Corner, and it looked like it should be filled with those cosmetic surgery quacks or Fortune 500 magnates. According to his info, Michael Fuller was a car salesman, his wife a care worker. Neither occupation belonged in this building.

  He eyed the flat numbers in the entrance and hit the intercom. As expected, only static replied. Since the couple was dead, the court order to search the property had been granted quickly. Usually these things were cut and dry. The caretaker had been called and was meeting them onsite.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Newport.

  Shielding his eyes against the sun, York scanned the building’s fascia.

  ‘On a beautiful day like today, too,’ Newport replied, as if that were somehow relevant.

  A nicotine-laced voice intruded. ‘You the police?’

  Despite the simple black shirt and black trousers, the bunch of keys swinging from his belt loop gave the newcomer away as the caretaker.

  York abandoned the intercom. 'Malcolm?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  The caretaker led the way into the foyer, patently sidestepping York's extended hand.

  ‘You probably hear this all the time,’ said York, �
�but you look just like –’

  ‘Morgan Freeman, yeah I know,’ said Malcolm, dead-panning the comment.

  Newport grinned. ‘Did you know Michael or Harriet?’

  Heading up the steps, Malcolm’s keys jangled against his hip. ‘As well as anyone. So no, not really. I knew them in passing. Them and their little girl.’

  Halting mid-step, Newport said, ‘Wait, what little girl?’

  ‘The Fullers!’ Malcolm stopped and turned on the steps. ‘They have a little girl. You’re the police, aren’t you supposed to know stuff like that?’

  The caretaker huffed as if pleased and continued on up the stairs.

  No one had mentioned a little girl.

  ‘What they done anyway?’ said Malcolm.

  ‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that, sir,’ Newport replied.

  Bringing up the rear, York smiled. What Newport meant was we didn't have the first bloody idea.

  ‘Here it is,’ Malcolm grumbled as they reached the third and topmost floor of the building. The caretaker perused his loop of keys and pushed open the door to the Fullers’ apartment, releasing the pungent aroma of class. Intensely modern, the plan opened up into a large living area with huge panel windows showing off a sun-dappled panorama of Hyde Park. The enormous home cinema, the frenzy of artwork, the plush carpets and leather sofas, all spoke lavish.

  York whistled in awe. ‘How much do these apartments go for?’

  Malcolm shrugged. ‘one-point-five mil without breaking a sweat. No appeal, you ask me. No personality to them. Only good people live here, though. Everyone trusts everyone. Most of them don’t even lock their doors in the day.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone coming or going from the building who didn’t belong?’

  ‘What do you mean, like one of them Asian types?’

  ‘No, Malcolm. Take a look at this picture.’ He plucked the mugshot of Liam Grayson from his jacket pocket. ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘Never seen him. Looks like one of them fagg –’

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm, you’ve been a great help. We can see ourselves out from here.’

  Newport walked Malcolm to the door who seemed only too glad to oblige. ‘I’ll be waiting downstairs,’ the caretaker called back. ‘And hurry up, I got shit to do.’

  From an outsider’s perspective the apartment looked like any other, despite the obvious “out of most people’s price range” mod-cons. The place was neat and kempt, visibly clean, and smelled of pine. From a detective’s viewpoint, the flat was a little too immaculate.

  Flipping off his hat York stepped into the large, almost clinical kitchen. More pine, this time infused with some kind of cleaning agent. Directly in front of him the refrigerator stared him down. It was a simple household fridge like any other, only this one was bleeding. ‘Newport, get in here!’

  His partner appeared in the doorway, scepticism splashed across her pixiesque face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Got some gloves?’ He pointed out the small patch of cloying blood at the foot of the fridge.

  Without trace of hesitation, she fished a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and snapped them on.

  ‘You've got the honours,’ he announced.

  Newport stepped forward and straddled the dark red pool. Gripping the fridge handle, the door swung coldly outwards. Both detectives stood and eyed the two items sitting gorily on the central shelf atop a large oval meat platter.

  Silence ruled for a moment.

  ‘I think we’ve found what remains of Michael and Harriet,’ she uttered.

  York nodded thoughtfully. The two human hearts stared at them mockingly.

  This is a game to him, and we’re inferior players.

  York’s own words came thundering back. He realised he’d never been so right. He should have felt sick but he didn’t. Not even mildly. Breaking the spell, he called the station from a phone mounted on the kitchen wall. Will Graham was going to have a field day here.

  ‘What now?’ Newport asked.

  York checked his watch. ‘I reckon we have about twenty minutes until Graham and his team show up, so let’s keep looking. Got to be something here to uproot this fucker.’

  Newport turned to York and began following him from the kitchen, their step faltering as a jarring thud reverberated through the laminate flooring. Newport glanced at her superior who was standing motionless, head cocked.

  ‘Malcolm?’ she suggested.

  York moved to the kitchen window and peered down at the street. Without a word he gestured Newport join him. The caretaker was smoking a cigarette out on the pavement.

  ‘Not Malcolm,’ he uttered.

  Staying tight, the detectives moved stealthily through the kitchen and into the living room. Perfect rectangular slabs of daylight beamed through the panoramic panes filling the large room with natural light.

  Another thud, this time from the direction of the bedrooms.

  Edging further in, York found himself in the corridor off the main living area, Newport firmly at his back. He directed her to the first bedroom and stepped into the second: damp and fusty, as if the room didn’t see much use. The big space was well lit, two large windows jostled into the wall. King-sized bed, walk-in closet, massive vanity unit and mirror; all in immaculate upkeep.

  He halted, waiting for another sound. An instant later, from the depths of some deep, deep lungs, he was obliged. Goosebumps rose on his arms as the echoing crunch and cry of pain echoed out through the flat. A cry belonging undeniably to his partner.

  *

  Will Graham's unit was buzzing around the apartment block, sealing off necessary areas and annoying the residents. Malcolm the caretaker had been only too willing to avoid all questions, but there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that he wasn't involved. He was a stubborn old bigot who had chosen the path to an easy life a long time ago. After recognising the caretaker’s evasion as nothing more than sheer disinterest, York had sent him on his way.

  ‘How you holding up?’

  Holding an icepack to the back of her head, Newport grimaced. She was sitting in the apartment’s living area, keeping her head down.

  ‘Need some painkillers?’ York added.

  ‘Had some,’ she muttered. ‘They haven’t made a dent.’

  Hearing Newport’s scream, he'd bolted from the master bedroom and into the second, smaller room. As he burst through the door into what could only be a child’s room, he had been faced with the most surreal vision he could have imagined. Down on one knee, Newport was clutching her head and her consciousness with all she had, while standing against the single bed was a catatonic kid of around nine or ten gripping a baseball bat. The young girl had taken little subduing. After taking away the bat and assuring her that they weren’t there to hurt her, the girl had yielded and allowed herself to be placed on a recliner in the corner of the room. Aside from Newport’s pride needing a little mouth-to-mouth, she was largely undamaged. Graham and his team joined the party two minutes later.

  By the kitchen entrance, he spotted Graham chatting animatedly to one of his unit. He’d changed his shirt since earlier and somehow this one seemed tighter than the last, the buttons fighting for survival. Spotting York and Newport, Graham ushered his guy away and made a beeline for them. Nothing short of a gun to the head could have kept him away.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ York muttered.

  Newport glanced up and spotted Graham making his way through the knot of officers. She merely reapplied the icepack.

  ‘Now then,’ beamed Graham, ‘what is it about you two that seems to attract trouble?’

  No one replied.

  ‘And Holly, I’ve seen you reduce grown men to tears, seen you stare down a Rottweiler for God’s sake. And now you’re being beaten down by a minor?’

  Newport peered up, face hidden behind a veil of thunder. ‘She was hiding behind a chest of drawers, Will. I didn’t know she was there, I’m not Luke fucking Skywalker. And I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking.’


  Graham froze, stared back at Newport like her head was on fire. ‘Holly…I didn’t…I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s fine, Will, forget it,’ York cut in. ‘Holly’s okay. Tell me what you’ve got.’

  Graham's grin promptly returned. ‘Not much to tell yet. The hearts probably belong to Michael and Harriet but that’s to be confirmed. And there seems to be some kind of markings in one of them. Bites, maybe.’

  ‘Bites?

  ‘I know, this shit just gets weirder, doesn't it?’ Graham grinned.

  ‘And the girl?’ Newport asked.

  ‘She’s been taken back to the station. She’s in shock so we haven’t got much from her yet, but there’s a guy from Social Services coming in to talk to her. We can get a shrink too if necessary.’

  ‘And the girl?’ Newport stressed.

  ‘Oh, erm, yes, she’s the Fullers’ daughter. Her name is Abigail, ten years old. We found the family documentation, birth certificates and whatnot. Some photo albums too. It’s conclusive.’

  Newport went back to the view.

  ‘Will?’ York turned to see one of Graham’s geeks standing awkwardly outside their circle.

  ‘What is it, Tom?’ said Graham.

  ‘I think you and DCI York should come and see this. In the kid’s bedroom, we’ve found…’

  The so-called Tom let the sentence trail off, as though finishing it would end everything in chaos. ‘It’s okay, son,’ York stepped in. ‘Take your time. What have you got?’

  Tom moved nervously from foot to foot. ‘I think it’s probably best you…see for yourselves.’

  Leaving Newport to her icepack, York and Graham followed Tom to Abigail Fuller’s bedroom. The atmosphere of the scene suddenly felt several shades darker, like something from a Tim Burton film.

  Abigail’s bedroom had mostly been decorated in green, with the exception of the Bill & Ted’s bed sheets and posters, Keanu Reeves’s face plastered across most surfaces. Aside from the large Panasonic TV and the acoustic guitar propped against one corner, the room was like any other belonging to a ten year old girl. Most girls of that age, though, didn’t have a secret compartment behind their wardrobe; one that she probably knew nothing about.