Did they know one another? Was she his next victim?
The girl raised a camera to her face. She was photographing Rochdale. There was no doubt about what she was doing.
Rochdale won’t take too kindly to having his photo taken, Crow guessed; Crow hadn’t once succeeded in finding an image of the man online, and had arrived at the conclusion the absence was deliberate on Rochdale’s part.
Crow whipped his attention back to the man he’d been searching for weeks for and had just found, only to discover he’d lost him again.
Rochdale was nowhere to be seen.
Bugger. There was only one thing for it – Crow would have to follow the girl and hope she led him to Rochdale, because there was no doubt in Crow’s mind that Rochdale and the girl were connected somehow.
Chapter 3
Olivia
I blinked. Still no aura, so I looked away, hoping for the fleetest of moments that the “gift” had left me, but everyone else appeared normal – my kind of normal, that is.
The aura-less man must have felt my stare, my astonishment, my sheer disbelief, for he turned his head, seeking me out. Our gazes locked and a shiver travelled down my back as his eyes met mine.
A tiny smile played about his full lips, barely there.
I couldn’t stop staring. He was an enigma, an anomaly, a mystery. I wondered if he was even aware of his fascinating difference. He cocked his head to the side, a small movement. An acknowledgement? A question? I couldn’t tell.
Acting on instinct, I raised my camera. Click, click, click; the shutter-noise was comforting, familiar in the chaos. The man had no aura through the lens either, although I didn’t expect him to. No one ever did. Another reason why my camera was so precious.
Then someone stumbled, bumping into me, and the moment was lost, my hands falling away from my face, taking the camera with them.
‘Sorry, oh God, I’m sorry,’ a woman cried, patting me on the shoulder.
I mumbled something, keeping my eyes diverted, not wanting to see the torment that I knew would be on her face, and raised the camera once more.
He’d gone.
Desperate for another glimpse, wanting to assure myself I hadn’t imagined him, I pointed the lens at anything and everything, hoping to catch a hint of him in one of the frames. I scanned the theatre, panning from right to left, searching.
It was no use, the man without an aura was nowhere in sight.
I should leave. All around me, the injured were being removed from the scene, and the place was filling up with police. Soon, only the dead would remain, and those people unlucky enough to be tasked with discovering why so many had died.
I brushed aside offers of help, too shocked to thank those well-meaning people, feeling numb from the soul down, and kept my head bowed and my eyes on the floor as I made my way through the foyer and out into the street.
Outside the theatre door, I halted, dazed and badly shaken. Oxford had been transformed from a relatively civilised Tuesday evening, into a night bristling with armed police, sirens, blue lights, and horror.
A paramedic approached, holding a silver shock blanket in his hands. I shook my head.
‘Let me check you out,’ he offered, and I hastened to reassure him that the blood coating me wasn’t mine.
‘Still, I’d like to—’ he began.
‘No.’ My tone was sharp; too sharp. Softer now, I added, ‘Thank you.’ All I needed was a few moments to collect myself, and then I wanted to go home. I’d be OK. I would. There were others who needed help – my injuries were mental and emotional. I just needed to go home...
The paramedic stood for a second or two, uncertain, but someone more needing and deserving of his ministrations caught his attention and with one last look at me, he left.
I made my way further into the street on slow, dragging feet, each step hard-won as my numb body reluctantly obeyed the commands from my equally numb mind. Dear God, it was almost as bad out here as it had been in there. Sinking to the floor, I rested my backside on the edge of the kerb and put my head in my hands.
‘We’ve got tea, lots of it,’ a voice said, from overhead.
I glanced up quickly, then looked down again. As well as being cloaked in a predominantly muted orange aura, the man wore a kind of uniform, black trousers, black polo-shirt, a logo on the right-hand side of it depicting a well-known pub chain, Mills Brewery. Over the years I’d become very adept at taking in a great deal of information with one glance.
‘I could do with a gin,’ I said, meaning it.
‘Sorry, tea or coffee only. On the house,’ he added. ‘Have you been seen by a paramedic?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I caught hold of the hem of my blouse and pulled it away from my stomach. It peeled slowly away like dead skin, dark and sticky. ‘The blood isn’t mine.’
He hesitated, then offered me something I couldn’t resist. ‘I’ve got a spare T-shirt.’ He pointed towards the pub.
I got to my feet stiffly, and followed him on Bambi legs. I hadn’t been aware I was shaking until I stood up again. Sweet tea might be a good idea after all.
The pub was full and most of the clientele were refugees from the theatre; I could tell from the way they were dressed – suits for men, evening dresses for the ladies. Opera was a refined sport.
I’d dressed up for the occasion too, in black tailored trousers, heels (not too high) and a cream, chiffon blouse. My old jacket had let the side down, but I wasn’t leaving it at home. Besides, I didn’t own a smart coat. I rarely went to places where such an item was needed.
There were other people here too, the ones who’d been in the pub enjoying a few drinks or a plate of steak and ale pie, before the atrocity had ruined their night. They lingered, the pedestrian equivalent of rubber-necking, expressing outrage, disbelief, and relief that they’d not been caught up in the horror, in equal measures. And some could hardly contain their glee – what stories they’d have to tell in the days and months to come.
In here, the colours were bordering on normal, although there was a predominance of mud browns and black swirling above various heads. In one swift scan of the room, I’d taken it all in.
‘Wait here and I’ll fetch you my T-shirt,’ the man said, though “man” was giving him more years than he could lay claim to. He was barely eighteen, and kinder to me than anyone had been in a long time.
I waited as I was told, but risked another look around the room. Something had caught my eye... Ah, there – an elderly woman was sitting in a booth, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. She held a cup loosely in one hand, the liquid threatening to spill onto her lap. Her aura was grey and considerably fainter than it should be.
Without thinking about it, I made my way over to her and bent down.
I didn’t think she was breathing. In fact, I was certain she wasn’t. But she was still alive; her aura told me, although she wouldn’t be for much longer. From my first glimpse of her, it had faded even more.
‘Ambulance!’ I yelled, at the top of my voice, hoping someone would take notice. There wasn’t time to call for one myself; I had to act quickly if this woman stood any chance of surviving.
The level of noise diminished, as people stopped talking and turned to look.
‘Fucking hell, look at her! She’s covered in blood,’ a voice yelled.
I didn’t bother to correct anyone. It didn’t matter if they thought the ambulance was for me, as long as it got here. There were plenty outside the theatre to choose from.
The woman couldn’t wait any longer. I hadn’t had any training, but I’d seen it done enough times on TV, so I pushed her onto her back, leaned over her, and put my ear close to her mouth and nose.
No whisper of breath on my cheek.
There was nothing for it – I had to try CPR.
The first chest compression was a bit of a shock. Who knew you had to use so much force, and she was such a little thing, too. I thumped down hard, violently, my interlaced fingers on her bre
astbone, my arms rigid. One, two, three... I counted them off in my head, beginning to breathe harder with the effort, then I stopped, tilted her head back and pinched her nose shut, hoping I was doing it right. Her aura was still extremely faint, but at least it hadn’t vanished altogether.
I brought my mouth close to hers, took a deep breath and—
‘Thanks, love, we’ll take it from here.’
I moved aside fast, glad to hand her over to someone who knew what they were doing, and backed away through the ring of onlookers, keeping my head down. They parted like the Dead Sea to let me pass, and I turned on my heel, only to walk face-first into a chest.
Another one of my rapid-fire glances told me it was the boy with the T-shirt, and he held the item in his hand. ‘The ladies’ toilets are over there.’ He pointed and I lifted my head to see the sign.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, taking the T-shirt gingerly between a finger and thumb and holding it well away from my body. I didn’t want to get blood on it.
The ladies’ loo was mercifully empty.
Not bothering with a cubicle, I lifted the strap of my camera over my head and placed the Nikon gently on top of the hand dryer, making sure it was secure. Then I peeled off the offensive blouse and let it fall to the floor. My bra quickly followed it. Naked from the waist up, I examined myself in the mirror. No wonder so many people had thought I was injured. The blood had soaked through to my skin, coating my chest, stomach, and back in shades of red, the colour deeper and darker where it had dried.
I grabbed a handful of toilet paper, dampened it, and dabbed at the stain. It was going to take some effort to get it all off, and the tissues rapidly changed colour. I threw them in the bin and took a fresh fistful. And another.
When I was as clean as I could be without standing under a shower, I carefully picked up my soiled clothes and dropped them in the bin, then pulled the T-shirt over my head.
My jacket and bag were relatively free from blood, but the camera felt sticky, so I wiped that too. When I was good to go (or as good as it was going to get), I looked in the mirror, and my reflection surprised me. I appeared relatively normal, on the outside, at least. There was hardly a hint of the terror or the awfulness of the last hour.
The inside was a whole different matter. My stomach churned, and my heart thudded uncomfortably against my ribs. It hurt to breathe, and it wasn’t just because I’d nearly been crushed; my soul ached, too. Dear God, so many dead, so many injured.
I bit back a sob and straightened up. I had to go home; it was safe there.
I glanced at my watch. The chrome had flecks of red, and the glass on the face was smeared. I wiped the evidence of death away with grim dismay. Was there nothing that didn’t carry the mark of this night?
My face certainly did. There was a tightness around my eyes which hadn’t been there before, and I wondered whether my lips would ever curl into a smile again.
Out in the bar, I looked for the kind boy who’d loaned me his T-shirt, but I didn’t see him. To be fair, I didn’t look too closely – I’d had enough of people for one night. I’d launder the garment tomorrow and post it back to the pub with a note of thanks and some chocolates. It was the least I could do.
Chaos reigned in the street. Along with the hundreds of people who had managed to escape the theatre, their ranks were swelled by those in the pubs and restaurants who had also spilt out into the roads, some panicked and eager to leave, others lingering and curious. The police were doing their best to corral them, but there were simply too many and, in the confusion, I managed to slip through the hastily erected cordons and make my escape.
With a heavy heart, I found my way to my car and pointed it in the direction of home and my little house. Never had I been more in need of its quiet safety.
Chapter 4
Crow
Crow followed the girl’s slow progress outside, matching her pace, trying to blend in with the rest of the opera-goers. He didn’t want to stand out – the police were on high alert, looking for anything and anyone who didn’t fit in. Crow knew he might be in that category if he wasn’t careful. Hell, he was already in it, but not because the attack had anything to do with him. The exact opposite, in fact. Not many months ago, he might have been one of those searching a crowd for a wrong expression or a too-purposeful stride, or a hint, a suspicion, a difference in the faces of those who should be stunned, dazed, and appalled. He still had too much of the military about him; it clung to him like a second skin. Maybe, in time, it would become less obvious, but he’d been out only a few weeks, and it was hard to mask.
Ah, there she was. She was currently fending off the well-meaning attentions of one of the ambulance crews.
And there he was – Rochdale, a calm eye in the middle of the hurricane swirling around him. His attention was on the girl, and even from this distance the curled smile on his lips was clear.
Crow took a step towards him. Move, he muttered silently as a middle-aged couple walked in front of him obscuring his view, and he dodged around them, then halted.
Rochdale had gone.
Frantically Crow searched the milling crowds, his gaze flitting from face to face. The man couldn’t have gone far. He had to be somewhere close by.
Concentrate on the girl, he told himself. Stick with her and hope Rochdale would show up. He made his way towards her without being too obvious. He didn’t know if Rochdale knew what he looked like or was even aware of Crow’s existence, but he wasn’t going to take any chances that he might be spotted, so he made sure there were a good few people between the girl and himself.
She was making it easy for him, shock rendering her stationary. He knew she would be trying to process what had just happened, trying to forge some sense out of the broken links of the evening. She’d been expecting a decent performance, possibly a bite to eat on the way home, probably followed by an uneventful slide into sleep.
Had she lost someone tonight? She hadn’t asked about the status of anyone else when he’d pulled her clear; her first thought hadn’t been for a friend, a relative, a lover. Instead, she’d reached for her camera and had taken photos, which led him to believe she’d been alone tonight, just how Rochdale liked his women. She could be a journalist though, one who specialised in the arts. If so, she was out of her depth, but she may have gotten some decent shots. He wondered if she’d managed to take any photos of Rochdale.
She sat there on the edge of the pavement, staring at the ground, and in turn Crow stared at her, hoping, praying, Rochdale was watching her too. He hadn’t imagined it – there’d definitely been a connection between Rochdale and the girl.
Crow tensed when a youth approached her, gesturing towards a nearby pub, but he subsided again when he realised from the logo splashed across the boy’s shirt, that he had nothing to do with Rochdale. Crow followed her anyway, keeping close so as not to lose sight of her in the milling mayhem, all the while scanning the crowd for his mark. The sodding man was nowhere to be seen.
Christ, he could murder a whisky, he thought, as he threaded his way into the pub and watched the youngster disappear into a staff-only area, leaving the woman standing forlornly by herself. She mostly kept her head down, her gaze on the floor, but when she finally seemed to gather enough courage to glance around, her attention was caught by something, and she visibly stiffened.
Crow followed her gaze, expecting Rochdale to be the object of her interest, adrenalin shooting around his body, making his fingers tingle with anticipation. If he had to beat the information out of the bastard, he would.
Shit. The girl was staring at an elderly woman whose head was tilted back and resting on the back of her seat, her eyes closed. Crow was just thinking the old dear didn’t look too well when the girl walked over to her and bent down. Her cry of ‘Ambulance!’ took him by surprise. He was even more astonished when a voice yelled, ‘Fucking hell, look at her! She’s covered in blood!’ For a heartbeat, Crow thought the girl was calling for an ambulance for hersel
f and that he’d missed an entry wound when he’d checked her over.
He realised what she was doing when she pushed the older woman onto her back and began CPR, and he wondered if he should take over. The girl was only a slight thing, and chest compressions were hard work, but the medics arrived before he made a decision, and she turned away.
Keeping her head down, she walked straight into the young man who’d brought her into the pub, and for a brief moment she lifted her head and Crow saw her expression – wary.
The guy was holding a T-shirt out to her and she took it with a flash of a smile and headed off in the direction he was pointing.
Crow kept a close eye on the door to the ladies’ toilets, his shoulders tense. For a second or two, he expected her not to come back out. He’d give her another minute then he was going in after her. If she’d done a runner, he’d know for sure that there was something going on between Rochdale and her, and that he’d been spotted.
He ground his teeth as he waited impatiently, and had taken a first step towards the door, when she emerged, considerably less blood-stained, and he was able to see her properly for the first time. She was pretty in a fawn-like way, all nerves and long legs, looking for all the world like she’d bolt at the slightest thing. Her features were delicate, not classically beautiful, but there was something about her. Maybe it was the air of reserve she wore like a shield which made Crow want to walk over to her and strike up a conversation.
Common sense prevailed, and he resisted. He was here for Rochdale and he couldn’t afford any distractions, not if he wanted to find Meadow.
He followed her outside and into the night, keeping a fair distance behind, only narrowing the space between them when she entered a car park, a set of keys in her hand. The place was well lit and a number of people were walking towards their vehicles, so he felt fairly confident he wouldn’t be noticed. The girl didn’t look up anyway, keeping her eyes lowered and her gaze on the ground. A flash of lights and a beep told him which car belonged to her.
The Colour of Death Page 3