Carter steps forward again, and Mark sees the knife glint in the torch beam. ‘Hand her over,’ Carter says, and Mark feels the sharp point of the knife at his throat. He moves until he can’t move any further and feels the bite of the blade in the soft skin of his neck.
‘Please, Mr Carter—’ But he’s already releasing his grip, relinquishing his child to danger.
Carter eases the baby into the crook of his arm in a practised, easy movement, and Mark is reminded that he has two daughters of his own. Carter licks his finger and dips it into the precious powder. ‘Of course, the Victorians mixed it with syrup first. Oh, well. Here goes.’ He rubs a little on the baby’s gums. Bryony squirms and screams, fighting him, but soon she seems calmer, and even begins sucking on Carter’s finger. ‘There you are!’ He beams at Mark like a proud father, gently rocking the baby in his arms. ‘They say babies of junkies are born jonesing for a fix.’
‘Stop it!’ Tears stream down Mark’s face, stinging the cut on his cheek. His nose is running and his stomach is beginning to cramp. He struggles to a crouch, but Carter knocks him flat again with a shove from his foot.
‘What’s up, Daddy? Afraid there’ll be none left for you?’
Mark watches in impotent rage and shame, because a part of him does resent the waste of his fix.
Carter dips his finger in the powder again and offers it to the infant, who sucks greedily. He laughs. ‘That’s got to taste bitter!’ He watches as Mark wipes his nose on his sleeve. ‘Think Jasmine’s been feeding her the stuff on the sly?’
Mark hears Bryony’s contented sucking and wants to scream. In minutes, her body begins to go limp. Once, twice, her hands jerk in some kind of reflex, but when Carter places her on the floor of the basement, her head is lolling, her mouth slightly open, her eyes not quite closed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carter says. ‘She’s in a good place.’
Mark’s hands are shaking and his nose won’t stop running. Withdrawal and fear combined sends tremors through his body that rattle his teeth.
‘Now,’ Carter says. He pockets the foil and turns to Mark. ‘You’re gonna tell me everything.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ He eases up to a sitting position. ‘Honest, Mr Carter.’
‘Sure there is.’ Carter sits on the bottom step, holding the knife. The torch, balanced on the post above his head, casts a shadow over his face. ‘Mr Maitland wants to know how you got out.’
Mark blinks, remembering the dark places, the secret places of safety he sought out as a child.
‘You made a deal, didn’t you?’
Mark feels his eyes widen. ‘No!’
‘Come on, now,’ Carter chides him. ‘Police helicopters, bullets flying, the Dutch baying for blood . . . The last he saw of you, Mr Maitland says you were standing in the spotlight like you expected them to beam you up.’
‘No, Mr Carter. No deal. I mean, who would I make a deal with?’
‘That’s what Mr Maitland wants to know.’
‘But I didn’t.’ His head is burning and his body aches like the worst case of flu. ‘I just ran.’ The effort of remembering is draining, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘There was cops everywhere. I just took the bag and ran.’
‘Bag?’ Carter says. ‘Just one, Mark? ’Cos I found two, and unless it split overnight, like a little amoeba—’ He sees the look on Mark’s face and his brow furrows in fake concern. ‘Yes, Mark, I’ve already got the money. And the drugs.’
Mark stares at Carter. This is a trick — tell the stupid smackhead you’ve got the money, he’s bound to blurt out where he’s stashed it. But there’s no way Carter could have found the bags. No way.
Carter’s smile is pained. ‘Did you think your NVQ in Motor Mechanics would have me stumped? Poor Mark — your biggest handicap isn’t your stupidity, it’s your lack of imagination. Door panels, wheel arches, under the spare wheel. First three places even an amateur would look.’
* * *
Mark drifts in and out of consciousness, the pain bringing him to and plunging him back into the grey half-light between screaming wakefulness and total oblivion.
He has told Carter everything — the impulse to grab the money, finding the tunnel, the fall. He has told him things he’s never told another living soul, yet Carter still does not believe him.
The accountant slips back into focus as the balance tips, and Mark feels again the searing burn of a dozen small cuts to his face and chest. He is lying face down and his hands are tied behind his back with the length of leather cord Mark uses for shooting up. Carter stands over him now with his sleeves rolled up and his face flushed with exertion. There is a guilty excitement in his face — like a businessman playing hooky, knowing he’ll have some explaining to do when he returns to work.
‘It’s my curse,’ he says, as though continuing a conversation. ‘Always to be underestimated. But it has its advantages.’ He picks up his jacket and searches his pockets, grunting with satisfaction as he brings out a pair of leather gloves. ‘I mean, I’m not under arrest, am I?’
Mark shakes his head — Carter has taught him that to make no response is unacceptably rude and will be punished.
‘Why is that, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Carter,’ Mark croaks.
‘There’s no warrant out for my arrest,’ he goes on, as though Mark hasn’t spoken, his eyes glittering in the dim light. ‘Do they think old Bernie the Books is too dull to be a criminal?’
Mark shakes his head again, whimpering as the movement grinds plaster dust into the cuts on his face and chest. ‘N-no Mr Carter.’
Carter gives an aw-shucks shrug. ‘Oh . . . that’s just because you’ve got to know me better.’ He pulls the gloves on tight.
‘Yes, M-Mister Carter,’ Mark stammers. ‘I understand, now. I—’
Carter catches Mark by the hair, dragging him to his knees, tearing afresh the shallow cuts in his skin.
‘There are things about me you could barely imagine,’ Carter says. ‘Let alone understand.’ He balls his right hand into a fist.
Mark tries to pull away, but Carter holds him fast.
‘Don’t, Mr Carter. Please, don’t.’
Carter hesitates a moment, staring at Mark as he might a pet dog that had stood up on its hind legs and talked. Then he drives his fist hard into Mark’s face. ‘Good old Bernie. Dependable — dull — predictable — Bernie!’ He punctuates the sentence with a punch, each carefully aimed: the eyes, the cheekbone, the temple, the mouth. ‘Betcha didn’t predict this, eh, Mark?’
Mark coughs and retches, tears and blood mingling on his face.
‘So, Mark. Let’s start from the top. What d’you know?’
Mark dry-heaves. ‘Oh, God . . .’ he groans. His left eye is almost shut, and his lip is split. As it swells, he feels it peel back even more.
‘God isn’t here, Mark. And I’m still waiting.’
Mark flinches, expecting another blow, but Carter is as good as his word. He waits, a look of quiet interest on his face. ‘I don’t know nothing, Mr Carter. I didn’t think — I just . . . I’m sorry . . .’
He breaks down, sobbing, and Carter ruffles his hair then, unexpectedly, lets him go. Mark sways, his knees creaking with the effort of keeping him upright, afraid to fall because Carter likes to use his feet almost as much as he likes to use a blade.
Carter crouches beside him, a good-humoured look on his round, pleasant face. ‘You say you know nothing, but I don’t accept that, Mark. Now, I’ve tried to be reasonable about this, but I’m losing patience.’ Mark begins to protest, but Carter presses a finger to Mark’s cut lip to silence him, and Mark grunts in pain.
‘There are many kinds of trauma, Mark. Sharp, blunt — everyone knows those — but there’s also drowning, crushing, heat, cold.’ He might be discussing flavours of ice cream. ‘We’ve done sharp and blunt — and drowning’s out of the question — what d’you say we try hot, next?’ A cigarette lighter appears in his han
d and he flicks the trigger.
‘Nu-nuh!’ Mark ducks, but Carter has him.
He realises too late that during the last long hour of torture, Carter hasn’t mentioned Maitland. ‘You know I didn’t grass Mr Maitland up,’ he whimpers. ‘You know that, Mr Carter.’
‘Of course I know,’ Carter says, as though he’s been trying to explain for hours and Mark has finally got the point. ‘’Cos it was me grassed Maitland up.’
Mark understands now — Carter isn’t interested in retribution, only in pain. He bucks and lunges, but Carter is stronger and fitter. He twists, sliding his arm around Mark’s throat, squeezing his windpipe until the flickering yellow torchlight fades to red. He sees white, bright stars, then, just as the edges of his vision seem to close in, Carter eases off. ‘Choking,’ Carter says, cheerfully. ‘That’s one I almost forgot.’
The baby stirs and makes a fretful cry.
Carter drops Mark like an abandoned toy and he falls to the floor, coughing and retching, gasping for air.
‘You shouldn’t have brought the baby,’ Carter says over his shoulder. ‘But that’s typical of you, isn’t it, Mark? You couldn’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. Jasmine, the baby — they’re just extensions of your sad little ego.’ He picks the drugged child up, and Mark gives an involuntary cry.
Carter’s hands encircle Bryony’s narrow chest. He lifts her, dandling her in front of his face. ‘Shall I tell Daddy what I did to your mummy?’ He baby-talks in a musical falsetto. ‘Shall I? Hmm?’
Mark struggles to get up, but he hasn’t the strength, and cranes his neck to look up at his tormentor. His face is swollen and bloody, he can’t see out of his left eye, and his skinny frame is bruised and battered, but he feels no pain — the fear of what this monster might do to his baby girl is so intense.
Bryony’s head lolls, but she’s trying to rouse herself — her eyes, though heavy-lidded, are partially open and she’s articulating — making soft, meaningless sounds that make Mark’s heart swell till he thinks it will burst.
‘I screwed your mummy silly,’ Carter says, still in that vile crooning tone. ‘Yes, I did! Then I cut her.’ He eyes Mark greedily. ‘I scored her flesh like meat. Oh, baby, you should have seen it . . .’
Mark sobs in sorrow and guilt and terror, but Carter is without pity.
‘I even threatened to cut you up into little bits,’ he says, giving Bryony a little shake. Unexpectedly, he switches his grip of the baby, cradles her in his left arm. Now his face is serious, his voice cold and hard. ‘I threatened to cut the baby and she still didn’t give you up. What kind of a mother would put her baby at risk to protect slime like you?’
Mark moans, an almost animal sound, wrenched from deep in his gut. ‘She didn’t know . . . I never told her where I was staying. She thought I’d left for good.’
Carter stares at him. ‘You really are a piece of shit — you didn’t even give her that much to bargain with. I might have let her live if she’d given you up.’
Mark keens softly. ‘You didn’t have to kill her. You didn’t have to . . .’
Carter looks down at him, a look of disgust on his face. ‘Grow up.’
‘You’ve got the money. Do what you like to me, just — please — don’t hurt my baby,’ Mark begs.
‘Do you think I’m an animal?’ Carter says.
Mark can’t see past the terrible picture in his head of Jasmine, bloodied and defiled. Jasmine dead. Jasmine with all the beauty and life torn out of her. Jasmine, his love, the one beautiful thing in his life, made ugly by this man’s depraved actions. But still he wheedles.
‘No, Mr Carter. I know you did what you had to. I know you don’t want to hurt Bryony.’ It’s a betrayal of Jasmine, feigning an understanding of what Carter has done, but one he thinks she will forgive. ‘Take her to the home,’ he urges. ‘Leave her on the doorstep. They’ll find her.’
Carter looks at him in astonishment. ‘You really do think this is Little Orphan Annie, don’t you? Well, guess what, Mark. The sun’s not coming out for you tomorrow or any other day.’
Chapter 45
DS Daniel Cass was indulging in a little retail therapy. He’d been called in, on his off-day, by DI Dwight, who had administered the required bollocking. Poor record-keeping, using unregistered informants — he had denied that one strenuously — ‘misinforming’ fellow officers on vital intel. Misinforming — he liked that one. Little wanker didn’t even have the balls to confront him with the lies he’d told the delectable Naomi Hart. Dwight did say he’d referred the ‘incident’ with Foster to a ‘higher authority’, which meant Superintendent Maynard, and a more effective bollocking. Cass had made all the right noises: regret, lapse of concentration, pressure of work, blah-blah-blah, and Larry, like the lamb he was, had been mollified.
Since then, his phone had been ringing on and off, almost without let-up. DI Dwight looking for a hand-holder or DCI Rickman out for blood — he didn’t care to find out. Either way, he intended to remain invisible until things cooled down a bit. Not that it stopped him staying in touch. His work mobile might be switched off, but he kept a second handy for emergencies such as this.
He’d driven to town to get away from the landline and was now browsing one of the better clothing stores in the city centre. The shop girl was efficient and obliging, had found him the right collar size in the shirt he’d chosen, helped him find a tie to go with it, and was about to take his inside leg measurement for a pair of trousers. An unnecessary pleasure, since Cass knew it, but he felt he’d earned it — it was one of the perks of paying a bit extra, having a pretty girl kneel in front of him, feeling the inside of his thigh.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you . . .’ She blushed, looking up at him. That’s nice, he thought. You don’t get nice girls like that anymore. He smiled down at her. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand at ease.’
She returned to the task, looking a little flustered. ‘Thirty-four inches.’
‘Now you’re flattering me.’ She looked sharply into his face, her flush deepening, and he grinned. No, you don’t get girls like that anymore. He sighed happily and dipped in his pocket for his pot of Vaseline, applying the balm to his lower lip as she leaned in, circling his waist with her arms to draw the tape measure around him.
His phone rang and he retrieved it from his jacket pocket with his free hand.
‘Sarge. Smith here. Where are you?’
‘I’m in the arms of a pretty lady, Smithie, not that it’s any of your business.’ He looked down at the girl with some satisfaction, and a growing erection.
The girl snapped suddenly upright with a little gasp, and Cass tilted his head in apology. She turned away, under the pretext of writing down his measurements, and Cass said, ‘What’ve you got?’
‘I just got word from the office. Carter’s missus made a call to her dearly departed.’
Cass closed his eyes. Stupid cow!
He took a breath and said, ‘Yeah?’ aiming for laid-back curiosity.
‘I’ve got an address.’ Fuck! Didn’t he tell them no communication?
‘Where?’
‘A farmhouse near Ormskirk.’
Cass cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘Sorry, love. Have to finish this another time.’
The girl turned around, her eyes wide with disappointment. ‘But—’ She’d done all her figures, neatly noted them in columns, written his name in her best handwriting. He almost felt sorry for her.
‘Police business,’ he said. ‘Look—’ He bent to peer at her name tag. ‘Shona. Nice name. Tell you what, Shona, why don’t you keep a note — I’ll come looking for you next time I’m in.’ He slipped his lip salve back in his jacket and patted the pocket, then turned his back on her and walked away.
‘Are we good to go?’ he asked Smith.
‘That’s why I rang, Sarge. The boss is at an IAG meeting, in Toxteth, and his phone’s switched off.’
Cass felt a passing annoyance — calling
Larry Dwight ‘the boss’ was like calling Man City a football team. ‘You know what IAG stands for, Smithie?’
‘Independent Assessment Group,’ Smith replied, the confusion apparent in his tone.
‘That’s the official line. Anyone who’s actually been to a meeting knows it really stands for Irritating Arseholes with Grievances.’
Smith choked a laugh, but he wasn’t so easily sidetracked. ‘I could send someone over, pass on the message.’
Cass stopped, his hand on the brass plate of the shop door. Dwight would feel the need to tell Rickman, Rickman would send officers to pick Carter up at the farmhouse, and Carter would not be pleased.
‘No need for that,’ he said.
He had to contain the situation, inform Carter they were on to him and give him the chance to get away. That was what Carter was paying him for: to keep him informed of developments and the police off his back. The money was good, and it was low risk — at least, it had been until Rickman had muscled in on the case. Dwight, he could manage. Rickman was like bloody yard dog — his bite definitely worse than his bark.
‘Larry’s going on to a social thing,’ Smith persisted. ‘He might not switch his phone back on.’
‘I’m just around the corner,’ Cass lied. ‘I can be there in five minutes.’ As if to underline the urgency of the situation, he crossed the white expanse of Williamson Square at a trot, his breath steaming in the cold air. ‘Get the posse together. We’ll meet at the ASDA near Switch Island, save on travelling time.’ He checked his watch — two o’clock. ‘Tell them they’ve got an hour.’
Smith cleared his throat.
‘Did I forget something, Smithie?’ He reached the main bus terminus at Queens Square and pressed the button at the crossing, willing the lights to change.
‘DCI Rickman.’ Smith sounded apologetic.
‘What about him?’ He felt the muscles in his neck tense.
‘Shouldn’t we let him know? I mean, he said tracking down Carter was priority, and the super said he wants full cooperation—’
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 33