To Kill a Man - Maggie Costello Series 05 (2020)

by Bourne, Sam

  ‘So, guys, how about some introductions?’

  Reflexively, the oldest of the trio lunged forward, trying to grab the phone from her. He succeeded in pushing her arm down, so that the camera was now aiming towards the ground, but he didn’t prise it from her grasp. She knew it was still on, beaming its sound and pictures to whoever was watching. The only viewer she could think of was Liz.

  ‘Sorry about that everyone,’ she said, aware how bumpy and uneven her voice sounded, as if she’d just come in from a run. She was nervous. ‘Seems one of our guests is a little camera-shy.’ As she spoke, she raised the camera again, so that, wobbling and jerky, it showed the three men. One of them had his face obscured by his own phone; perhaps he was filming her filming them.

  ‘So how about those introductions? Let’s start with you,’ she said, focusing on the hipster. Now, in a short, sharp move that caught her by surprise, he sent his arm towards her, his hand giant as it filled the image on her phone. Instinct accounted for her response. Still holding the phone in place, she kicked out. Aiming only for his shins, she struck something softer. The howl that she caught on camera confirmed instantly that she had struck him hard in the genitals.

  There was a sound over her shoulder. She wheeled around to see that two more men had arrived. She caught them mid-signal, as they were gesturing a plan of attack to the other three.

  With strained jollity, she said, ‘Oh look, two more want to join the fun. Hi! Let’s wave to all the people watching.’ She made a wave of her own, her hand oversized in the foreground. ‘Seems we have several thousand followers watching this, live. Hey, you . . .’ She was addressing the tallest of the new pair. ‘Seems a few friends over at the DC Police Department have joined us. Oh look, and the FBI. How cool is that? They’re all watching us.’

  The taller man spread his fingers across his face in an attempt to hide himself. The second of the new arrivals turned and sprinted away.

  Emboldened, she spun around and focused on the man in his fifties. ‘So you want to tell me what this is about? I think our audience wants to know.’

  ‘You’re working for a goddamn murderer. Natasha Winthrop killed a man in cold blood!’

  For the first time since Liz had called, Maggie had a thought that went beyond self-preservation. She was thinking about Natasha and whether, by doing this, Maggie was inadvertently providing a platform to those bent on harming the woman she was meant to help. She also knew she’d be doing Natasha no favours if she simply cut the feed at this moment.

  ‘So what were you planning to do to me? Were you planning on coming into my home? What were you men going to do to an unarmed woman in her own home?’

  Now he stepped forward, so that Maggie instinctively recoiled. His face filled the screen, covered in white stubble. His nose was latticed with tiny purple veins. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ He seemed to be addressing not Maggie, but the unseen audience. ‘A world where a woman can kill any man she wants. Just like that. You just cry rape and any man is fair game. Open season. Well, we won’t let it happen.’ Now he leaned in even closer, so that his breath was near enough to mist the lens, and bellowed: ‘You will not DESTROY US!’

  With that, he turned and marched off. Maggie looked around, confirming that he had been the last; the others had all gone. She saw a man on the opposite side of the street quietly put away his phone. Perhaps he had planned to join the party but, once he saw what was going on, thought better of the idea.

  She held up her phone, clicked the button to reverse the shot, so that it was now her face in the frame, and said, as wearily as she’d ever heard herself, ‘Thanks for watching.’ Then she clicked the button to cut the transmission. The device revealed that, at the close, she’d had nine hundred and sixty-one viewers. She had lied when she had spoken of thousands, but clearly there had been an audience. People would stop in the street to watch a fight: why would social media be any different?

  A couple of neighbours now appeared – Maggie guessed they had seen or heard the commotion and waited to see how it played out before getting involved – to check she was OK. One offered to call the police, an offer which, largely to avoid the hassle, Maggie declined. She checked once more, left, right and all around, found her key and let herself in.

  Normally she felt only relief when she got home after days on the road, especially when she felt she had evaded danger. But not this time. It was not just the confrontation outside, though that had shaken her. It was what had happened the last time she was in this apartment, the man who had broken in through the bathroom window, the man who thought he could force himself on her, or pretend to, which, because she hadn’t known it was a pretence, amounted to the same thing.

  She approached the blind and, with as small and subtle a motion as she could manage, she separated the slats to look outside. Two men, both in their twenties she reckoned, were on the sidewalk opposite. They seemed to be conferring. One was showing the other the screen of his phone. Then, as she knew they would, they looked up, to indicate her apartment. Instantly, she stepped back, hoping to be invisible, though she was not hopeful: the tremor of the blind had surely given her away.

  Her need for sleep now was overwhelming; her body was screaming for rest. And yet, she knew there was too much adrenalin flooded through her system for sleep to come easily. She was familiar with that sensation: exhausted to the core, but her nerves still crackling with electricity, throwing off blue sparks.

  That would fade eventually. It always did. But still she feared rest would be out of reach. It was thanks to those men outside, and the others that were bound to follow – the men who had not yet had word of the live Twitter transmission, or who had heard about it but did not fear it, men who were still acting on the initial call-out: #FindingMC. It had been on the phones of aggrieved men all over America by the sound of it; in Portland airport, in bloody Penobscot, for Christ’s sake. To think that in every corner of this huge country there were ‘men’s rights activists’ imagining themselves heroes for hunting down a single, unarmed woman.

  Every corner of America, all the way to her front door. That’s why she couldn’t rest. Her home was no longer a haven. She wanted desperately to soak in a hot bath. But she knew her eye would forever be on the window where that would-be rapist had climbed in. She wanted to slip into bed and under the covers. But she knew she’d be thinking about the men down below, on the street, looking up, waiting. She’d feel their eyes on her. Her home was no longer a refuge. It was no longer hers.

  The phone was ringing. She reached for it and felt relief to see the name on the display. She and Liz spoke only briefly, just long enough for Maggie to reassure her younger sister that she was now safely indoors – and also to let her know the full picture. There seemed no point holding back now; Liz had seen for herself the danger Maggie was in. So Maggie told her, as concisely as she could, about the intruder who had broken in and the online forum where he had found her address. Liz was shocked and livid, but audibly did her best to contain it. She knew her sister didn’t have the strength for that now.

  Once the call was done, Maggie fell onto the sofa and put her head in her hands. She thought of the older man on the street outside, the one who had shouted in her face. You will not DESTROY US. She thought of the man who had broken into this apartment. She thought of Senator Harrison’s hands squeezing her shoulders. She thought of P and what he’d done to the child who had once loved him like a brother. Their faces blurred into each other. And like that, with her coat still on and anger bubbling through her veins, she drifted into fitful, exhausted sleep. But even then, in her dreams and nightmares, her subconscious began to grope towards what she had to do next.

  Chapter 42

  Bangalore, India

  What was his last thought? Was he even capable of thought by then? His captors hoped so. Though they had tormented him – no, though they had tortured him – they had taken pains to e
nsure he remained conscious, that he could still hear, that he could still process information. There was one important fact they wanted him to absorb.

  They looked at him now, his ankles chained, his wrists cuffed, his mouth gagged. They surveyed the battered, mutilated state of his genitals, pulled, beaten and twisted. They beheld his nakedness, his degradation.

  They had confused him about his location, blindfolding him as soon as they snatched him off the street, bundling him into a van and driving him through choked streets in circles. But they wanted there to be no confusion about their motivation. Through the last eighty minutes, behind the steel door of this lock-up garage on the outskirts of the city, they had spoken to him at intervals throughout. Not in their own voice, of course, but by means of a distorted, electronic voice, as recommended.

  They had reminded him of his past crimes, the most recent of which was just last week – not to mention the sexual assault that had been underway when they had picked him up. They recounted the scooter case, when he and three friends had spotted a young woman – a doctor – on her way home from work. One of the men had been tasked with deflating the scooter’s tyres, then running off. The other three watched as the woman struggled with the useless vehicle before they approached, offering to help. They then dragged her to a patch of wasteland away from the road, where they were joined by the fourth man – the one who had let down the tyres. There, on that patch of dirt, weeds and garbage, they had repeatedy raped her, each one taking turns, sometimes simultaneously, using her as if she were a doll designed for their satisfaction. When they were sated, they strangled her and dumped her body under a bridge. They soaked it in petrol and watched it burn.

  He had been bailed while waiting to be charged for that crime, and while free he had raped again. Somehow, he evaded justice for both. And those were only the most egregious incidents. He had been assaulting or raping girls and women for years. His neighbours knew it; the police knew it; the dogs on the street knew it. But he was still a free man.

  All of this information was conveyed to him in that pitiless, metallic voice, while he howled and moaned as his testicles were twisted and as a thick, alien object was shoved inside him. Occasionally the captors would ease up on the punishment, anxious not for his safety or wellbeing – they did not care about that – but out of concern for his consciousness. They needed him to absorb what they were about to tell him.

  In the last of these periods of respite, as he kneeled, whimpering and blindfolded, on all fours, the captors gave each other the signal they had pre-agreed. Their faces still covered, even from each other, they now formed a square around him, so that he was equidistant from each of them. The captor who had been using the voice-distorter to address the captive had moved away from that device. Another nod and then all four, in unison, said the same three words.

  Did they hear a gasp from their captive? Afterwards, when they discussed it, two said they had. The others were not so sure. But there could be no doubt. He had heard what they had said and he had understood it.

  That cleared the way for the final move. As agreed, all four of them had in their right hands a section of lead pipe. These weren’t exactly the same length, but close enough. They took a step forward, so that they were all within striking distance of their target. They raised their right hands and then, on the arranged signal, they came down hard, the four heavy pipes simultaneously striking a different part of the man’s skull.

  Despite their fears, the effect was instant and complete. It was clear he was dead, what remained of his head lolling forward, loose and lifeless.

  The captors began to pack up, moving efficiently, untying the man and zipping him into a mortician’s body bag, ready for transportation and disposal. As they worked, they drew satisfaction from the fact that the last neural information that went through the rapist’s cerebral cortex consisted of three words he would have known were true, for they were spoken by voices that could not help but confirm the statement they had uttered. The last three words he heard were:

  We are women.

  Chapter 43

  This is the BBC World Service, you’re listening to Newshour. To India now – a country that some say is in the midst of an epidemic of rape. At an extraordinary press conference earlier today, police in Bangalore said they believe a vigilante gang may be active in the city, hunting down notorious rapists. They’re basing the claim on security camera footage that showed the abduction of a man with multiple convictions for sexual assault, and on the fact that that man’s body was found brutally mutilated hours later. What’s more, some are linking the crime with a highly publicized act of so-called vigilante justice an ocean away. We’re joined on the line now by our South East Asia correspondent Randeep Tripathi. Randeep, what more can you tell us?

  Well, Tim, one statistic tells the story. In India one rape is committed every fifteen minutes. Women’s groups here have long argued that not enough is being done to tackle the problem, despite some horrific cases that have outraged public opinion. But now some are wondering if ordinary Indian citizens are taking the problem into their own hands. It comes after that footage emerged, as you mentioned, suggesting an infamous rapist in Bangalore had been snatched off the streets.

  Now, these CCTV pictures, which have been playing on a loop on some of India’s news channels, appear to show the dead man – who is currently not being named for legal reasons – in the act of committing assault against a woman. The quality of the pictures is quite grainy, but what they appear to show is the man walking behind a woman, suddenly pouncing to grab her by the neck, bringing her to the ground and then, if you will, the first stages of him forcing the woman to perform a sex act.

  At that point, an unmarked black vehicle pulls into the shot. Four masked men, four masked figures, jump out, they bundle the man inside and take him away. And, as you say, a few hours later his dead body was found in what police say was a ‘horrific’ state.

  And to reiterate, Randeep, that’s sparked talk of a possible vigilante movement in India. What can you tell us about the link some are making with a similar episode far away from India?

  That’s right, Tim. You might remember reports yesterday of a similar incident in Chicago in which a past sex offender, apparently also apprehended in the commission of a sex crime, was also snatched off the street, also in a black vehicle, also by masked figures, and also dumped close by a few hours later. In that case, the man was found alive. But some here are wondering if what happened in Bangalore is a ‘copycat’ of that episode in Chicago. Social media is buzzing with what is, for now, a conspiracy theory, but the BBC understands that the authorities in Bangalore are ‘exploring’ the parallels and have ‘not ruled out’ any line of inquiry . . .

  Maggie’s eyes were still shut, but she was awake. Slumped on the couch where she had fallen asleep, she could feel a film of sweat on her face and a foul taste in her mouth. She had no idea how long she had slept or what time it was: the BBC playing on her phone was no good, because it kept on saying it was whatever o’clock Greenwich Mean Time. Had she set her alarm, was that why she was hearing the World Service? She couldn’t remember.

  She was hazy too on what she had just heard. She reached for her phone and, squinting through half an eye, she saw that she had dozed for several hours. She opened up the BBC app, rewound thirty seconds and listened again to the last chunk of that report from India.

  . . . apparently also apprehended in the commission of a sex crime, was also snatched off the street, also in a black vehicle, also by masked figures, and also dumped close by a few hours later.

  She sat up, the gears in her mind turning over slowly. She headed for the bathroom, to splash some cold water on her face, glanced up at the window, remembered why she didn’t want to be in this room, thought about food, headed for the kitchen, opened a cupboard and wondered, not for the first time, if it was too early in the day for whisky.

  Now she re
ached for her laptop. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew it had something to do with that India story and the one it referred to, in Chicago. Something not quite right.

  She looked up the Reuters account of the Bangalore incident, which contained a few more details. The report said the man’s skull had been ‘smashed to a pulp’ and quoted a police spokesman saying the dead man had been ‘violently sodomized’ with objects that had caused serious injury.

  Now, on a new tab, Maggie looked up the New York Times account of the Chicago abduction. She skim-read it – the black vehicle, the masked figures, the past record of sexual assault and rape, the ‘victim’ dumped back where he’d been picked up. Obviously there was no mention of injuries to the head: he had been found alive, after all. There the parallels ended. That the two incidents were not identical made sense, even if one were a copycat of the other. The vigilantes of Bangalore only had to be inspired by what happened in Chicago; they weren’t following an instruction manual.

  And yet something nagged at Maggie all the same. Something about the Chicago incident and the way she first heard about it. Where had she been? She just needed to remember where and how she had heard about it. Come on, think. Think.

  Now it came back to her. The parking lot of a Subway on I-95, between New York and Trenton. She had pulled over for her second or maybe third stop of the night drive down from Maine and she was listening to the radio. Except it wasn’t a radio station. It was one of those digital stations which played the audio from cable news. She could picture herself leaning against the car, a cup of foul coffee and a grotesque, too-soft tuna sandwich resting on the roof, while CNN played on the car speakers.