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

by Jeremy Costello

  Newport narrowed her eyes. ‘So why haven’t you been to the police before now, Kellie? This is fire you’re playing with.’

  ‘You’re the police.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I haven’t got to the best bit yet,’ she insisted. ‘I followed one of these men to a bar one night, decided to chat him up, see what I could find out. He wouldn’t give much up but that night I went with him back to this house. And get this, I heard all sorts of conversation about someone called “The Face.” No one would tell me who The Face was, just that I’d do well not to mention it again. And they were saying it in English, like maybe it was an English bloke running things. But I kept pushing. Eventually they freaked and threw me out of the house.’

  ‘Kellie, are you fucking insane? What were you thinking?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking! And now I reckon I’m being followed. Strange people hanging around outside my house, blokes behind me in the street. I’m not imagining it, I’m certain.’

  ‘So why haven’t you been to the police?’

  ‘Are you nuts? This exclusive is still alive, Holly, I can still get this. If I blow it open now, The Face will just disappear, materialise somewhere else. But this Polish bloke, he likes me. I can try to meet him again, see what else I can find out.’

  Newport shook her head. ‘Kellie, listen to me, okay. I know you want this scoop like nothing else right now, but a scoop is nothing if you’re dead! These guys don’t mess around. This is big business for them and they’ll kill anyone who interferes. Our laws mean nothing to them. If you're right and they’re watching you, then they're doing it to see if you pose a threat. You need to let it go. File a report with the police and leave it alone.’

  Kellie looked across the table at her like she was crazy. ‘You can’t ask me to do that, Holly. I’m so close to this, you have no idea what it means.’

  ‘It means me dragging you out of the Thames at 3am with a concrete block chained to your leg. You’re already scared. Do you have any idea what these people will do to you?’

  Kellie blinked, a subtle eye movement that shot across the cafe. She genuinely did look nuts. ‘I thought you were going to help me. I thought you might want to see this through with me. Now I can see I’m wasting my time.’

  She stood up to leave.

  ‘Kellie, don’t do this, please. Go to the police. Or at least give me the address and I’ll file it myself.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Holly. I have to see this through.’ And she turned to leave, pushing her way to the door.

  Quickly, Newport climbed to her feet. ‘Kellie!’ she called, random stares shooting in her direction. ‘Don’t do this, I’m begging you.’

  In amongst the other diners, Kellie had vanished.

  *

  Visitations to inform loved ones never got any easier. After he and PC Dale Yates had called in on Janine Bluestock’s family – mother, father, brother – to notify them of their daughter’s fate, York had felt so incredibly low he was fastened to the driver’s seat of the car, firmly in park. Their faces had shown so much anguish, but most of all, they had shown compassion. Love for each other and for the girl whose legacy had simply become a shortened branch on the family tree.

  He hadn’t told them the gruesome details of their daughter's death; they hadn’t asked and they didn’t need to know. They had learned only the surface details, the icing. Their daughter was dead. That was enough.

  He stared ahead into the day and for the first time since his family was lost to him, he was frightened. They had no leads. They would continue to have no leads. They were losing.

  He was losing. How many other families would he have to visit? How many other fathers and mothers would he have to look in the face and tell them their child wasn't coming home?

  He slowly took off the handbrake, started the car and pulled away.

  Switching the engine off in the station car park, the crux of his arm began itching beneath the bandages. How fast could he get to Tank’s place, he wondered? The methadone was doing its job. The sweating had stopped. So had the stabs in his gut. From his reflection in the rear view mirror, he appeared just about human.

  The reception was busier than it was last night. As he passed, he asked the desk clerk if he had any calls. The answer was no, nothing.

  The Pit was livelier now. Jonathan Wheeler was back, sitting at Newport’s desk, eyes down. The current hot topic was the latest riddle. York looked at the wall clock. The morning was nearly gone. So was their time.

  Over by the chalkboard The Pit Bull stood staring at the new riddle. Stepping up next to her he said, ‘Any ideas?’

  Mason’s stare remained fixed on the board. ‘I think if I looked at this for the rest of the day I’d be none the wiser.'

  York waited, sensing Mason had more to say.

  'The papers are calling us lax, inept, and I don’t think I can argue it. We’re nowhere, jumping through hoops for this bastard. He has us right where he wants us.’

  ‘Yep,’ said York scanning the riddle.

  No legs have I to dance, no lungs have I to breathe, no life have I to live or die, and yet I do all three.

  ‘He’s back,’ someone called out. York and Mason turned to the see PC Dale Yates standing at the bay window looking out.

  York and several others joined him. The man in the green hoodie had returned, standing exactly where he had the first time, hands in pockets, back casually to the fence.

  ‘You want me to take our answer out this time, ma’am?’ Yates said to Mason.

  ‘Don’t call me ma’am, Dale,’ said Mason.

  A thin smile crept onto York’s face. ‘There’s nothing to take out there yet. If we don’t find the answer to this riddle soon, someone we probably know isn’t going to see the night out.’

  Yates looked back to the figure in the street. ‘How do we even know there is an answer? All that shit on the board, it means nothing to me!’

  ‘There’s an answer. Giving us something unsolvable is not his style.’

  He spotted Roy Sunnily walking into the Pit hand-in-hand with Abigail Fuller. It looked like they were leaving.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ York asked cutting them off. Abbey looked back at him with gentle green eyes.

  Roy Sunnily smiled. ‘We were just released. Apparently you don’t need us anymore so I’m going to take Abbey here down to Social Services, get her on the register. And afterwards we’re going to go hit KFC, right, Abbey?’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Abbey walking demurely over to the chalkboard.

  ‘It’s a riddle,’ said York. ‘We play games in here too, you know. We’re not a bunch of boring sods.’

  Abbey's smile broadened. ‘Ha, well you’re not very bright then, this is an easy one!’

  The majority of the room heard the girl drop the bombshell.

  ‘What…what did I say?’ she muttered.

  ‘You know the answer to this?’

  ‘Of course, I love riddles! Jeez, grown-ups are soooo thick sometimes!’

  Silence.

  ‘Okay look,’ she said, exasperated, ‘what dances, other than human beings? Fire, of course! Fire needs oxygen to breathe, and a fire comes to life and then it dies, simple!’

  Turning to the Pit crew, Abigail offered a small curtsey.

  ‘You heard the girl, go-go-go! Prep the envelope again. No bugs this time. There will be no pursuit!’ Then York knelt to Abigail Fuller’s height. ‘Abbey, I think you’re the most amazing ten year old I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.’

  ‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘I’m pretty cool.’

  ‘Keanu Reeves doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

  Roy Sunnily stood patiently behind the girl, tugging at his beard.

  ‘I’m going to have to go now, aren’t I?’ she murmured.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Abbey,’ he replied honestly. ‘Roy’s going to take care of you for a while. But I’ll keep up with your paperwork. If I know
where you are, I can drop in on you from time to time.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘If it earns me a hug.’

  Without encouragement, Abigail Fuller wrapped her tiny arms around him and squeezed.

  ‘Not too hard. I’m an old man.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ she grinned.

  Sunnily stepped forwards. ‘We should be going, Nicolas. Lots of paperwork to fill out, you know how it is.’

  It had been eighteen months since he’d held a child in his arms, or felt that genuine feeling of warmth and vulnerability only children emitted. There was a big age gap between Frasier and Abigail, but the effect was the same. For just a moment, a split second even, his loneliness had abated.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Abbey,’ he said quietly.

  She stepped forwards and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Nicolas,’ she murmured, and Roy Sunnily led her out of the Pit.

  29

  This time as York crossed the street more people were filtering through the morning, mice lost in a maze, passing the hooded figure with little or no interest. Clutching the envelope tightly he stood before the messenger and waited silently.

  In the bright daylight, the messenger pulled the hood further down until only his lightly stubbled jaw line was showing. Mirroring his first visit, he reached out, palm upwards, and waited for the package to be placed into his hand. York obliged, and the envelope disappeared into the hoodie. Then the messenger began to walk away, mixing subtly into the crowd.

  Clenching his fists York let out a yell of pure frustration. Heads turned his way; others gave him a wide berth.

  For fuck's sake! His adversary was the one cordoning off areas with yellow tape, restricting places he needed to see. He yelled again, the frustration pouring out of him. More people strode wide of him, some crossed the street.

  He dug his hands into his pockets and leaned against the fence where the messenger had stood, watching as a handful of minutes ticked by. When his perspective didn't broaden, he crossed the street and headed back inside.

  ‘He say anything?’ asked Braddock who had since appeared. ‘Inspector, did he say anything?’

  York glared at the MI5 man and pushed past him.

  ‘I’m here to help, Inspector,’ said Braddock stepping on his coattails. ‘If he said anything, I need to know.’

  York stopped and turned on his heel. ‘He didn’t say a word. And neither did I. I jumped through another hoop and the one solid lead we had just walked away again. I couldn’t talk to him, I couldn’t follow him, and I sure as fuck couldn’t reason with him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The man's a robot. It’s like he’s programmed, or something.’

  Braddock blinked. ‘Maybe if I’d gone out there, things would’ve been a little different.’

  York stopped suddenly. 'Come again?'

  ‘I’m a criminal psychologist, graduated at Cambridge. Maybe I know how to talk to these people better than…others.’

  York ground his teeth. ‘Do you even know what’s happening, Braddock? Since you’re here I’m assuming you’ve heard the recordings. I wasn’t allowed to talk to him! That is unless you wanted two bodies instead of one, then you could’ve recited fucking Shakespeare. Congratulations on your qualifications and your undoubtedly framed certificates, but honestly, I could not give a shit where you attained them, and I can’t think for the life of me why you’d drop that into conversation.’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘I’m assuming you were trying to impress me. Well the only thing that does impress me is my ability to catch bad men, and others’ abilities to aid me in catching bad men. If you’re here to help, help. Otherwise pack up your school books and your stories about Oxford and go home.’

  ‘Cambridge.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Braddock looked confused. ‘Lot’s of pent up aggression in you, isn’t there?’

  York stopped and turned again. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Hey!’ Mason yelled from the door of her office. ‘You two ladies, in here, now!’

  Trailing Braddock into Mason’s office, York closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  ‘Nick, what just happened?’

  ‘I was frustrated,’ he explained. He removed his hat, the band inside slightly damp.

  ‘Screaming and shouting at passers-by? Like we need the complaints. Tony?’

  ‘I ran checks on garage workers recently killed. Came up with only two names. One in Peckham, one in Brixton. Both times the assailants scrubbed up well, had alibis. John Harker-Williams had been with his girlfriend, she testified to it, and Winston Jackson was apparently in Glasgow the night of the attack. Their fingerprints were all over the crime scenes, but neither was convicted. They both admitted to using the respective garages all the time. Anyway, I think we have a couple of winners for the next target.’

  ‘Which one?’ she urged.

  ‘It’s a photo-finish.’

  ‘Send a couple of cars out to both addresses, see that these guys are okay. We’re assuming we got the riddle correct so we’ve got to assume he’ll go after the offenders.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ York interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Braddock.

  York didn’t move, didn’t reply.

  ‘Explain, Nick? You’ve been wrong once in the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I’ve been wrong a lot more than that. Why would he go after someone he knows it’d be easy for us to check. We have profiles on every loser in the city. Of course we can check acquitted individuals.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This guy, whoever he is, he's way too smart for this. He’s throwing us a bone, and like every time before, we’re going to chase it, just like we’re supposed to.’

  Braddock smiled pleasantly. ‘So what’re you saying? He’s going to go after a copper just to sucker-punch us? That’s outrageous. Ma’am, you’re not buying into this crap are you? Our guy has never broken his pattern, not from the get-go. Why would he change now?’

  ‘Don’t call me ma’am,’ warned Mason. ‘Nick?’

  ‘Man makes a good case, Judy, I just think it’s a bit too convenient. We continue to not give this guy the respect he deserves, and he continues to make us look stupid. I’m not saying you shouldn’t send those cars, I’m just trying to get one step…’

  He paused abruptly.

  ‘Nick, what is it?’

  He closed his eyes slowly. As his eyelids peeled back up, he glanced from Mason to Braddock.

  Back to Mason.

  Oh shit...

  Holly.

  30

  Queuing up behind a silver sports car, Newport switched her driving glasses for shades, the dying sun blinding. She fiddled with controls, couldn’t concentrate. Kellie had left her stunned. She had shown her a side Holly never knew existed, dangerous and idiotic.

  Exciting.

  As the thoughts coursed through her head, a pleasant shiver passed between her thighs. She visibly quivered.

  At first, as Kellie’s words passed through her, she felt that familiar pulsation of jealousy; Kellie out with another man, burning the midnight oil. She’d almost asked her to stop, cease talking. She didn’t want to know, even if she was talking about some Neanderthal halfwit. But as the story sped along unwaveringly, and she began to push aside the envy and incredulity, it felt good to just roll with it. After Kellie had left the café and the dust had settled, she realised she was mildly turned on.

  Amidst the jarring blare of car horns and curses, she began to wonder if there really had been another woman or if Kellie had fabricated the entire thing. Judging by this unexpected new side, anything was possible. In the heat of the moment she’d made no effort to read her. From countless interrogations, she’d grown good at spotting character traits and imperfections. She could tell when someone was telling the truth. And she could tell when somebody was concealing it. She just had no idea which category Kellie fell in to.


  Finally, the car in front began to move. First gear. Second.

  The buzz from the espressos began to wear off and behind the sunglasses her eyelids started to droop. It suddenly dawned on her just how tired she was. When was the last time she slept?

  David wasn’t going to be home, that was one positive. She wouldn’t have to engage in small talk - You manage to close that Bates account, David? No, you manage to catch that psychopath, Holly? - and she wouldn’t have to make an excuse to not make love. Again.

  The cars were moving now, the traffic breaking up. Second gear. And third.

  Fighting to keep her eyes open, she focused on an image of her bed. It was beautiful, and if she was lucky she might get a full two hours.

  *

  As she neared her house there was more night than day around, but it didn’t take a genius to see she was being followed. She recognised the car. It was the same burgundy Vauxhall she’d seen yesterday at the bar, its driver still obscured neatly behind glass and velocity.

  She flicked on the indicator and turned into her street. The Vauxhall went speeding past. At the back of her head the lump began to tingle again as she recalled the jeering message left for York at the scene, the taunting voice on the recordings. Mark my words, York had said, this is going to get personal. And now she was being tailed. A shudder ran along her spine. Did he always have to be so bloody right!

  Pulling on to her driveway, she shut off the engine and paused. David’s car was there.

  Frowning, she climbed into the warm evening and took off the sunglasses.

  David was supposed to be in Middlesbrough, though she couldn’t deny she was glad he was there. The strange Vauxhall had unnerved her.

  She let herself in and lingered in the deserted hallway. Sitting primly on the laminate floor was a suitcase, one of David’s full-sized bags and too big for a quick trip up north.