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

by Jeremy Costello

  The huge unit had been pulled away from the wall and was being crowded by Graham’s nerds. Nobody objected to York’s intrusion.

  He peered inside the enclosure and was given the answers to a handful of questions, like why the Fullers had popped up on the killer’s radar, and how they could afford to live in this building.

  He reached in and plucked one of the VHS tapes from the collection, examining the homemade cover. Behind him the room lingered in expectant quiet.

  Replacing the tape, he turned morosely, faced the body of officers crowding the room and took a deep breath. ‘The killer of Michael and Harriet Fuller told us…he told us that these people were at the core of everything rotten. He wasn’t wrong. Some of you may have seen movies like this before, and some of you will again. But the fact that these have been secreted by the parents of a ten year old girl, in her bedroom, makes them two of the vilest people I’ve ever come across. But that does not alter the objectives of anyone in this room. Some of you may feel that Michael and Harriet Fuller got what they deserved, and I wouldn’t blame you. But they were murdered by an individual who had no right or authority to deal out vigilante justice. And we still need to catch him. So, now that he has our attention, everybody needs to stay on focus and remember what we’re doing here.’

  The hush dissipated as the room went back to business and York slipped away unnoticed. This episode had darkened his heart that little bit, and for the briefest of moments he felt gratitude towards the person they were hunting. There were some things out there more despicable than murder, more loathsome. Making snuff movies and hiding them in your ten year old daughter’s bedroom was one of them.

  5

  York itched to be alone.

  The lifts out of order, he took the stairs to his apartment. A tornado of desperation bubbled inside him, coiling carelessly around his insides. Sometimes he could suppress the jolts of pain. Sometimes it was pointless to try.

  The index finger on his left hand began to twitch. This was a new development. He noticed it for the first time a couple of weeks ago, amazed no one in the Pit had pulled him up on it.

  Straight after he and Newport left the Fullers’ apartment, they went their separate ways. He’d gone straight from the scene to his flat in Pimlico where he lived alone.

  His block was nothing special, his apartment less so, but it was a place to get his head down, and a place he invited no one. It was the only personal space he had left.

  Pushing his way in through the front door, he toed a bunch of post from his path and stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but food shopping was rarely on his agenda. The shelves were bare, the fridge likewise.

  Thoughts of food dismissed, a torrent of pain struck him below the stomach, like a spike thrusting through his liver. He wouldn't be able to put it off much longer.

  Staggering groggily through to the bedroom he tugged off the sweat-damp trilby and took a seat on the end of the unmade bed, a tangle of sheets pushed back against the headboard. His breathing was heavy. He stared at the blank canvass of the wall in front of him, eyes fixed on something beyond. Shoulders stooped forwards, he clung onto the whispery tendrils of denial with all he had.

  The hands of the clock ticked on. He had no clue how long he stayed like this, staring in this transfixed, almost hypnotic state.

  He waited, trying to recall the face that haunted his dreams each night. He had photographs but they were carefully boxed and taped, stored elsewhere. All the walls in the apartment were bare. Since moving out of the family house and into the flat, he had refused to display memories. Photographs were a fabrication. They spoke of a time when smiling was a part of daily life, laughter was commonplace.

  As though on cue his wife’s face emerged from the brickwork: painfully beautiful smile, eyes infinitely sad. He knew it was an illusion, the product of a damaged mind; she had been gone a long time, but still Leanne came to him, sometimes Frasier too.

  Two years ago his wife had gone on a business trip to Germany, and because York had been up to the eyeballs with an investigation, she had taken their four year old son with her. Saying goodbye to them on that chilly April morning had been the last time he’d seen them alive. That was twenty-something months ago. Leanne’s body turned up in Hanover six weeks after the disappearance, gagged, hogtied and dumped in a park like some fly-tipped mattress. Frasier was still missing.

  Leanne had been badly beaten and dealt a crushing strike to the back of the neck. Frasier had been taken. Where to remained a mystery, and those German idiots hadn't shone any light onto Frasier's vanishing act in the eight sleepless months of their investigation.

  He couldn’t imagine what his son might be enduring. Sometimes, he wished him dead. Surely now, dead was better than enduring.

  Snapping out of the vision, he tore himself away. He pulled out a small wallet from his jacket, unzipped it and laid it gently on the bed. Tugging off his coat he rolled up his sleeve. He didn’t want to do this to himself anymore, but his half-assed attempts at going cold came with wracking pain and despair.

  Unsnapping the spoon, he squeezed a small vial of water into it. Next he unwrapped the small brown stone, about the size of a tic-tac and the last he had, and dropped it into the water. The flame danced as he struck the silver Zippo, the orange tongues begging for vocation. He heated the solution, watching carefully as the brown stone dissolved. As the water began bubbling brown, he soaked it up with a cotton bud and drew from it with the syringe.

  He paused and checked himself. Then he pushed the needle into an unhealed puncture mark in the crux of his arm and drew a trace amount of blood. The needle was flush. Exhaling deeply, Leanne’s face emerged from the smoky confines of his mind. She was smiling.

  Pushing down slowly on the plunger, he fell back onto the bed and into the open arms of an uncaring oblivion.

  6

  Dropping the Ford into reverse, Newport slotted the car expertly into the vacant space. The car park was quiet, which probably meant the wine bar would be too. She was relieved. High volumes would be a distraction, and her next words would have to be chosen carefully.

  The back of her head stung like hell. A lump had graced its presence just below her crown and she massaged it. For a second she remained behind the wheel and focused on a broken patch of plaster-wall through the windscreen; a debris of bricks and rubble at the top of the lot which mirrored her thoughts. That moment back in the Fullers’ flat, that split second before she realised she was being attacked, she thought that was it, her bucket was kicked. She remembered being the most terrified she could ever recall being. She and York were shrewd coppers, how could they have missed something like that? She shuddered as she recalled the haziness lifting, thankful to be alive.

  York had been staring down at her; the distorted image of his tired eyes and battered trilby had been nothing short of beautiful. Her heart was still racing.

  Plucking off her glasses and pocketing them, she climbed from the car. There weren’t many vehicles around, but next to a long-ago abandoned skip was the green Peugeot she expected. That meant its owner was waiting for her inside.

  Straight opposite, a burgundy Vauxhall sat motionless in the afternoon sun. From the glare of the windscreen she couldn’t see inside, but someone was in there, watching her. Too broad to be a woman, she thought, but she didn’t recognise the car. Dusting the paranoia from her shoulders, she went inside.

  At peak time in the day the stuffy heat was growing more intense. She was glad to get indoors, dark and shaded as the lounge usually was. There weren’t many punters. Aside from a couple of full booths and a guitarist setting up for the night, the place was deserted. Only one set of eyes tracked her as she entered, and a pleasant shiver danced through her.

  Fearing hesitation, she marched confidently to the booth and sat down opposite the petite woman: pretty, blonde bobbed and stony-faced. A moment of sturdy silence hung between them.

  ‘Didn’t thi
nk you’d show,’ the blonde uttered at last.

  Newport smiled half genuinely. She realised she was twiddling her thumbs. ‘I have to be honest, Kellie, I thought about postponing.’

  Kellie dropped her shoulders like she always did when she was waiting.

  ‘A big one opened up today. Another mentalist who likes to play games with people’s lives.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What’s this nutcase all about?’ asked Kellie, sidestepping the question.

  After the jab left Kellie’s lips, she picked up her thin-looking Americano and took a sip. Newport couldn’t help but stare, mesmerized by Kellie's plump lips as they met the porcelain cup and sipped at the coffee. It didn’t matter that her comment about things sounding familiar was a dig at her, and it didn’t matter that she was clearly angry. All that mattered was that she was here with her now, where she could drink from her aura.

  ‘I can’t talk to you about an open investigation, Kellie, you know that.’

  ‘You brought it up. Anyway, can’t blame a girl for trying to make conversation, can you?’

  Taking the question as rhetorical, Newport said, ‘It’s good to see you, sweetie.’ She thought about leaning over the table and taking Kellie’s hand, but doubted it would be accepted. A thin smile spread across Kellie’s lips and disappeared just as quickly. ‘Holly, I asked you here because we need to talk this thing out. I can’t go on like this. We’re going round in circles and if we don’t add some kind of solidarity to the situation soon, I am literally going to implode. This has been going on for almost eighteen months now, did you know that?’

  Newport nodded, but in truth she was astounded things had been carrying on that long, and at how good she’d become at covering her tracks. Since the day she met Kellie in that supermarket, Newport’s life had been incredible. It had also been a curse. For so long she’d lived a second life outside of her marriage, with a second lover and a second home life. At first there had been guilt. Having the affair behind her husband David's back was something she could never have envisaged, and when she first began seeing Kellie, she had been caught up in a real crisis of conscience. But over time those feelings had rescinded. Kellie was now all she thought about. Her dreams and her future plans all involved her. David had become a blurry second.

  Now cooler, Kellie braved a bigger swig of the coffee. ‘For a year now, you’ve been telling me you’re leaving David. How long am I supposed to wait for you?’

  ‘I hate that I’m putting you through this, baby, I really am. It’s just that David’s been away on business a lot lately and I haven’t seen him.’

  Kellie sighed audibly.

  ‘It’s true. I want nothing more than to begin building a life with you, but right now –’

  ‘I met someone,’ Kellie cut in.

  The words sliced through her, tore at her heartstrings. The silence became so complete, so perfect, it distorted the air. ‘Wh…who is she?’ The question was childish, but she could think of little else to say.

  ‘Who said it’s a she?’

  ‘You’ve known you were gay since you were fourteen, Kellie. Don’t try and tell me I’ve turned you straight.’

  Kellie shook her head dismissively.

  Newport felt winded. It seemed like her lover was deliberately trying to hurt her. She reached for Kellie’s hand but Kellie retracted it. ‘Why are you being like this?’

  ‘Like what?’ said Kellie.

  ‘Like a cunt!’

  Silence. Then, ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Holly.’

  ‘Kellie, please…’ Newport knew she sounded pathetic, she just didn’t care. She had come here expecting a kick in the teeth, but not this.

  ‘I’ve just had some time to think, Holly. I don’t want to give you an ultimatum –’

  ‘Then don’t!’

  ‘…but I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Kellie, please…’ she said again.

  ‘Look, something’s come up in my life, a new assignment,’ Kellie declared. ‘I won’t be able to see you for a while. Maybe it’s the time apart we need. Think about what I’ve said to you today. I’m begging you, Holly, just think about it.’

  ‘What new assignment?’

  Kellie dismissed the question.

  ‘Why are you putting me in this position, Kellie? Can you not see how unfair this is?’

  It wasn’t unfair, not in the least. Kellie wanted her; nothing in the last eighteen months had changed about that. She had been patient.

  Finishing her coffee, Kellie placed the cup gently down. ‘The only reason it’s come to this is because you refuse to leave David, a man you claim you don’t even love. You’re not a timeshare flat, baby, I don’t want to go halves on you anymore.’

  Newport rubbed her eyes.

  ‘What makes it harder,’ added Kellie, ‘is that I don’t even understand why. If you’re not in love with him anymore, why can’t you leave him?’

  It was a fair question. She could’ve lied, made something up about David’s dependability, or waiting for the right time financially, but Kellie would have seen right through it. The truth was, she didn’t know why she couldn’t leave David.

  Kellie stood up and pulled her thin leather jacket from the back of the seat. ‘I want to spend my life with you, Holly,’ she muttered, leaning over her. ‘I do. This other person is great, but she’s not you. Please don’t make me do this.’

  Newport climbed shakily to her feet to protest, but Kellie was gone, the fragrant vapour of her perfume lingering in her wake.

  7

  Sunshine cast jagged edges onto sharp surfaces. Clear became opaque, opaque clear, and the faces of passers-by took on an almost clown-like manifestation. York revelled in this. It used to worry him, now it seemed more real than when he was sober.

  He entered the station by the rear door and stood alone in the darkened corridor. He slapped himself once, twice, a third time. He had to find his game face.

  The artificial light from the fluorescent tubes blinded him as he entered the Pit. Blinking until his eyes adjusted, he spotted Newport. She was sitting at her desk, Will Graham leaning over her like a dog in heat. She looked only too glad to see York when he approached. He noticed his partner’s eyes linger on him a little too long.

  ‘Got nothing better to do, Will?’ he said.

  Pushing himself back from the desk, Graham flushed at the cheeks. ‘Oh, erm, I was just –’

  ‘You were just wasting time!’

  ‘Actually,’ Newport intervened curiously, ‘he was updating me on the fingerprint analysis. You okay, guv?’

  Newport’s words echoed hollowly over his head. He didn’t reply. Instead he turned on his heel and walked to his office, feeling the eyes burning into his back as he walked away. Newport was talking after him but the words travelled on a mashed sound wave. He closed the office door behind him and shut the blinds, placing the Pit a million miles away.

  He sat down at his chaotic and picture-free desk. A confusion of files, pens and pencils obscured the ring marks to a degree, but couldn’t hide the mugs of half-finished coffee, many of which hadn’t moved for a fortnight, and the debris of paperwork which hadn’t been organised since some time BC.

  He didn’t need a lot of space and he hadn’t been granted much. DCI status was not all it was cracked up to be, allowing him an office no larger than a hefty broom cupboard, a desk, and two cheaply upholstered armchairs facing each other.

  He flipped off his hat and rubbed his eyes, the crux of his arm aching from the overused puncture mark. He rubbed that too, the image of Gary ‘Tank’ Henderson’s squashed face worming into his mind. He’d never asked the man why they called him Tank. He just assumed it was on account of the man’s size, the term “brick shithouse” being close to literal. Still, he and Tank had an agreement: Tank would continue to supply him with class A’s at a discounted rate, and he in turn would leave the dealer a
lone to conduct his business. It was a sound arrangement.

  Pushing some paperwork aside, he eyed the printout in front of him. It was a copy of the riddle from the recording, each sentence, word and letter standing out in a bold font.

  He read the whole thing aloud. He hated riddles, had never been much good at them.

  An apple begins with me and age too…

  What did an apple begin with, a seed, a pip? How did it ‘become’?

  I am in the midst of a man and foremost in every apprehension…

  Who was foremost in every apprehension, a lead detective, a flatfoot?

  Eyes fluttering, the phone jolted him alert. ‘Nicolas York,’ he answered.

  Only static hissed across the line. Somebody was there, though, he could tell.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nothing, just the muffled breathing of someone standing away from the mouthpiece. Replacing the phone on the hook, he closed his stinging eyes. The phone rang again.

  This time he made no move to answer, simply stared at the phone as it rang off the hook. Finally he grabbed the receiver and held it to his ear. Somebody was there again, a ragged breathing and…crying? Given no time to react, he ripped the receiver away from his ear as the piercing scream cut through the static. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the screaming abated, replaced once again by the gentle sobbing.

  ‘Hello?’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Jesus,’ he gasped.

  ‘Nah, just me.’ Newport was standing on the far side of his desk. He hadn’t heard her come in. ‘Who was that?’

  York eyed the phone warily. ‘Nobody,’ he muttered, replacing the receiver. ‘You forget how to knock?’

  ‘I did knock! Pardon me for saying, guv, but you look like shit.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard.’

  She took a seat on the edge of the desk. He noticed her eyes lingering on his face again.

  ‘Can I help you with something, Holly?’