Isolation - a heart-stopping thriller, Shutter Island meets Memento

by Neil Randall

Chapter Ten

  By the time the police had escorted me home, details of Doctor Rabie’s grisly murder had started to break. Desperate for further information, I scoured the internet, going from one news site to the next, trying to learn as much about the killing and crime scene as I possibly could. I wanted to know exactly what ‘macabre stab wounds’ meant, if the killer had carved the same symbol into Rabie’s skin as the other two victims. What horrified me most, though, was the fact that the obituary had been sent in yesterday’s post (of this there could be no doubt: on this occasion the date and London postmark were plain to see). Therefore, whoever had sent it – and at this stage both Watson and Kendrick were working on the assumption that it was the murderer – had been planning to kill Rabie shortly afterwards. A clear expression of premeditation.

  As a precaution, Kendrick had arranged for a police presence to remain outside my flat overnight. Regardless, it didn’t really put my mind at rest; it didn’t make me feel any less exposed.

  Only when Liz called round (and she had quite a job persuading the police that she was my girlfriend) did I feel at ease.

  “What’s going on?” She met me in the hallway. “Why you got bloody policemen guarding your flat?”

  I told her all about the obituary.

  “So this doctor fella, you were one of his past patients?”

  “That’s right.”

  Wary of revealing the whole truth, something so personal, I nevertheless told her about my troubles as a teenager, the distant relationship I had with my parents, the exam pressure that go the better of me, my problems with food, and how I ended up needing counselling.

  “I hate to lay all this stuff on you, Liz. You probably think I’m a bit of nutcase now. You probably want to run a mile.”

  “No I don’t.” She took hold of my hands. “None of this is your fault. I’m not going anywhere. And besides…” she trailed off, reached out and touched the side of my face. “Are you okay? Your face, you look a little – a little, I don’t know, like you’ve been in the wars or something.”

  With even more reluctance, I told her about the incident last night, about the attack outside my own front door, how I wasn’t sure if it was connected to the photograph and the murders or whether it had something to do with her ex-boyfriend.

  “Bastard!”

  “What? So you think it was Scott, then?”

  She looked at me with such anguish in her eyes, I felt like reaching out and drawing her close.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. Shit! I feel terrible. With all this other stuff going on in your life, now you’ve got a cretin like him attacking you. I’m so sorry, Nigel. I’ll have a word with a few of my dad’s old mates…should’ve done it the other night, should’ve known. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Scott never troubles you again.”

  “Look, don’t get upset. Some things are worth getting a punch in the face for. And as regards the other stuff, I don’t know what to make of it, nor do the police. I just can’t understand why I’m involved. I’m just a normal, average guy who works for the council.”

  We sat at the kitchen table and discussed everything that had happened, breaking things down, rationalising events, exploring each and every likely explanation.

  “So do you think this has got something to do with the horned owl, all that Native American stuff we talked about the other night?”

  “I’m not sure. But if Doctor Rabie, as the news reports suggest, had been mutilated in the same way as the two women in the hotel room, then chances are he’s had the same symbol carved across his skin. I mean, I saw the other bodies. I saw how much time and care must’ve gone into scraping that horned owl symbol across their stomachs. If someone was going to go to that much trouble, then it must mean something.”

  Liz agreed. “This is getting darker by the minute. Reckon we should definitely go and see my mate down Portobello tomorrow. What he don’t know about all this Native American folklore business ain’t worth knowing. Bet—”

  “But I’m not sure if the police will let me leave the flat.”

  “You what? Are you, like, not under house arrest, but, you know, in protective custody or whatever?”

  “Something like that. As they haven’t got much else to go on, as I’ve clearly been singled-out, they want to make sure that nothing happens to me.”

  At just after nine, Kendrick called round with an update.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Barrowman?” He cast a sceptical eye over Liz.

  “It’s okay. This is my girlfriend. There’s nothing you can’t say in front of her.”

  He screwed up his face, as if he didn’t approve of the idea, but proceeded to speak anyway. “Since you left the station, we’ve managed to contact most of the other people in your old counselling group, bar Jeffrey Fuller and Michelle Rouse. In all likelihood, they’re working late or are out for the day, and hopefully, we’ll track them down in the coming hours. Of those we’ve located, none have reported any unusual occurrences taking place over the last few days. Therefore, at this early stage, it would appear that you have, for reasons that are not altogether clear, been selected as a point of first contact.”

  “By Jeffrey Fuller, you mean? Have you looked into his background? Do you know what he’s been up to all these years? Has he been in some kind of institute? Is that why I received that call regarding him at the office the other day?”

  “We don’t know yet, Mr Barrowman. But until we find them, both Mr Fuller and Miss Rouse, are suspects in the killing.”

  “Miss Rouse?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. “So Michelle never married, then?”

  “Not as far as far as we’re aware – looks like she lives alone.”

  “And what about Doctor Rabie? On the news they said that his body had been mutilated. What did they mean by that?”

  “Sorry, Mr Barrowman. At present, I can’t discuss details of the crime scene. The corpse was only discovered a handful of hours ago. Our forensics team is still sweeping the area for prints, hairs, fibres et cetera. We’ll know more in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

  “And what about me now? Can I go out? Can I travel anywhere?”

  “Best not to. Like I said, for whatever reason, whoever sent that photograph and mocked-up obituary wants you involved. With a link firmly established between you and Doctor Rabie, it would be logical to assume that the killer is someone known to you. Maybe it is Fuller, and maybe he’s trying to make some kind of statement. Therefore, it would be unwise for you to be in any way exposed. For the time being, we ask you to remain here, at your home, at all times.”

  I clicked on the Native American Folklore and Legends link, opening a black and white homepage with the outline of an Indian chief in a feathered headdress as the background.

  “Here.” Liz leaned over me. “If you type, erm…I don’t know: horned owl into that search engine thing, I bet it’ll come up with a few pictures.”

  After a few moments, a new screen appeared with dozens of different depictions of the horned owl on it. I scrolled down until coming across what the site called the horned owl, a portent of imminent death.

  “Told you. That shape you sketched out at work is pretty much identical.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” It was uncanny, eerily so.

  “Pity there’s not much information on here, nothing ‘bout the origins of the symbol, the story behind it, stuff like that.” She paused for a moment. “And look, if you can’t leave the flat, then why don’t I get up dead early tomorrow, like six or something, jump on the train down to Portobello, go see my dad’s old mate, show him a picture of that horned owl and see what he says? That way, we’ll know a whole lot more about all of this than we do now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  All morning I was mad on edge. I couldn’t stop thinking about the past, Jeffrey Fuller, the things he’d said and done; the true state of his mind back then. In particular, I recalled one incredibly tetchy session where Rabie had enco
uraged him to speak frankly about the incident with his mother (although, the true extent of what had actually happened that day was always clouded in uncertainty, boastful embellishment then frantic denial). For some reason, Fuller got into a heated argument with Helen, who had perhaps tired of the same self-deceiving charade.

  “But what if I crept into your bedroom with a knife–” he said, “when you were naked. What if I forced you to do things you didn’t want to do? What then, eh?”

  “I’d fight back, that’s what. You’re such a pathetic weakling, I’d take the knife from your hand and shove it up your arse.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Oh, you would, would you?” When angry, Jeffrey’s whole body used to shake, like someone with Parkinson’s disease. “I reckon there’d be a very different outcome. I reckon I’d slice you up good and proper, shutting your dirty mouth once and for all.”

  At this peak of nastiness, Rabie interceded.

  “Jeffrey, please.” He raised both hands, palms upturned. “Let’s not turn the session into some kind of sadistic fantasy, the kinds of delusions which are probably at the root of all your problems.”

  “Delusions! If I’m subject to delusions, then what am I doing here?”

  “You’re here because you need to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. You need to be able to function in your everyday life.”

  I can’t remember what happened next, or if that was the end of that particular discussion. Only later, as we were all getting ready to leave, Fuller must’ve said something else to Rabie, something abusive or threatening, because the doctor asked him to stay behind to clear the air or talk things through to ‘a logical conclusion’ – a favourite stock phrase of his. But Fuller refused, saying, ‘If anyone deserves a knife up their arse, it’s you, you incompetent bastard’.

  But had Fuller, over a decade later, really killed three people? Had he finally done something that would make everyone take him seriously?

  The front door swinging open disturbed my thoughts.

  “Bloody hell.” Liz met me in the hallway again. “Those coppers are proper thorough.” She stood on tiptoes and brushed her lips against my cheek. “Made me empty my bags and everything.”

  “Did you buy something?” I pointed to the carrier bag in her hand. “Did you find anything out?”

  “Yeah, yeah, been an interesting morning. Come on. Let’s go through to the kitchen. I’ll show you, tell you all about it.”

  We went and sat at the kitchen table.

  “Right. Billy, my dad’s old mate, recognised the symbol straight away, got all excited, he did, telling me about its probable origins and what it may mean.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, he says the horned owl really is a symbol of death, that the Choctaw Indians, one of the five civilised tribes, who come from Mississippi and Alabama, used to call it Ishkitini, and that if you saw the horned owl, it meant that someone, usually a child was going to die. Reckons there’s loads of folkloric stories regarding the owl, but he couldn’t remember ‘em all of the top of his head.”

  “So, we’re on the right track with the markings cut into the two corpses at the hotel, and, presumably, Rabie, we’re dealing with a maniac killer trying to assume the role of some ghostly prophet of doom.”

  Our eyes met. Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

  “So what’s in the bag?”

  “Oh, that’s just it.” Liz slid a decorative, antique wooden box out of the carrier bag. On the lid was an intricately carved horned owl – or something very close to it. “A huge coincidence, but Bill had this piece on his stall, reckons it only came in the other day, said the box is hundreds of years old, that the carving is of Ishkitini. Reckons it’s a proper desirable trinket in its own right, but he done me a pretty good deal on it.”

  I took the box and turned it around in my hands, pushing the top open to reveal a long, narrow silk-lined compartment.

  “And did he say what it was used for?”

  “To conceal a weapon: a dagger.”

  “A dagger?”

  “Yeah. But like I said, he couldn’t remember all the horned owl stories. So what we need to do next is get hold of a copy of this book he mentioned.” She took a scrap of paper from her pocket. “A Complete Guide to Native American Folklore, was half-tempted to stop off in central London, go to one of those big shops on Oxford Street or Charing Cross Road, but thought it best to get back here as soon as I could.”

  “Don’t worry. We might be able to—” two knocks sounded against the front door.

  “Mr Barrowman?” Kendrick opened up and shouted down the hallway.

  “In the kitchen.” I slipped the box back inside the carrier bag.

  “Ah, here you are.’ He walked into the room. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything, but we really need you to come down to the station again. There have been some slightly confusing developments, and you’re the only man who could possibly shed light onto things.”

  “Developments? What kinds of developments?”

  “All in good time, Mr Barrowman. I’ve got a car waiting outside.”

  “Right,” said Watson, “as Detective Inspector Kendrick has no doubt made you aware, there have been some interesting developments overnight. Firstly, and quite worryingly, we still haven’t been able to ascertain the whereabouts of either Mr Fuller or Miss Rouse.”

  “I see. That is worrying, considering everything that’s happened.”

  “Indeed. Although, in the interim, we’ve looked into Mr Fuller’s background, unearthing some important information.”

  “Was he in an Institute?”

  “Yes. A secure housing unit on the Norfolk coast. By all accounts, he’s had, as you predicted, a rather complicated life since the last time you saw each other – sectioned over a dozen times, arrested, been in and out of institutes and treatment programmes – but was never, ultimately, seen as a danger to the wider community, only to himself.”

  This sounded like the Jeffrey Fuller I’d known.

  “Did the secure housing unit have any record of trying to contact me for information about Jeffrey?”

  “No. Whoever called your office was not a member of staff – although the time lines do overlap.”

  “Time lines?”

  “Yes. Around the time of the first murders Fuller went missing.” Watson fixed his stern eyes on me, as if to confirm the significance of this. “That brings us on to Miss Rouse. Did you know that she kept a diary?” I shook my head. In all our time together she never mentioned one to me. “Well, she did. A very, erm…comprehensive diary. We found several dozen volumes when we searched her house.” He handed me some photocopied sheets of paper. “We’ll leave these selected samples with you for half an hour or so, then come back and ask you a few related questions. Once you read them, I’m sure you’ll realise their importance.”

  I flicked through the pages, checking the dates neatly printed out at the top of each entry. In all, they had selected three samples, one from March 1985, around the time we were in the counselling sessions, one from June 1989, when Michelle and I were living together, and a much more recent one, January 1993 – why, I was about to found out.

  27th February 1985

  It’s nearly midnight. My parents are asleep in the next room. I can hear my father’s light yet persistent snoring, which I find strangely soothing. I’ve just got back from the big séance that Helen and Riordan were talking about for weeks. What a letdown! I thought everyone was going to take it seriously. I thought we all agreed that there are things in this world that we don’t fully understand, things that could be contributing to our conditions, to why we don’t feel happy or content with life. But the others, including my clingy admirer, Nigel, were happy for the whole evening to descend into farce. As soon as we turned out the lights, lit the candles, and set up the Ouija board, they started giggling like little kids who’ve never been in a darkened room before, like we were a bunch of lusty, lecherous moro
ns playing spin the bottle. All of which left me fuming. Every time Nigel tried to put his arm around me, I roughly pushed him away. It took a good hour before they realised the seriousness of the situation, the importance of what we were about to undertake, and how it could help us better understand ourselves. When Jeffrey’s hand (and I really admired the way he took control of things) was directed across the table, spelling out: You will all die a horrible death, I knew there was, despite everyone’s protests, saying Jeffrey was moving his hand of his own accord, more than a grain of truth in the prediction. From an early age, I’ve known that this will be the case – whether it’s at my own hand or that of another, is the only thing that remains unclear.

  On the way home Nigel got all possessive and weird again. I don’t like it when he acts like that, pushing and shoving me around. He says it’s the medication, but I know for a fact he doesn’t take it half the time. And when I say I don’t want to hang around with him anymore, he threatens to kill himself, to kill us both. He’s such a drama queen. That’s why I like spending so much time with Jeffrey. In front of the others he’s a complete dick, but when we’re alone he’s the sweetest, most soulful and intelligent person I’ve ever met. If only I could let Nigel down gently, it would free up much more time to spend with Jeffrey. We’d be able to explore each other’s minds. We’d be able to push things out further than we have ever done before.

  I put the papers aside. Only vaguely did I remember the night of the so-called séance, but the events in my mind didn’t match those in Michelle’s diary. Yes, one of the girls had dug up an old Ouija board from somewhere. Yes, we did sit around in candlelight. But, to the best of my memory, Michelle was the most cynical person present, calling the whole thing superstitious nonsense. In fact, I’m sure she insisted that the two of us leave early. Because as soon as we arrived, Jeffrey raided the drinks cabinet, drank half a bottle of cognac neat, and was sick everywhere. As for my histrionics, the things Michelle complains about in the second and last paragraph, they may’ve had some truth to them. I was terribly dramatic back then, but I never pushed her around, I never laid a finger on her, or anyone else, for that matter – it just wasn’t in my nature. And I certainly don’t remember ever threatening suicide, not to a girl who’d cut her own wrists several times before. It was like reading things written by someone else, about a person I’d never met before. Moreover, the words as I heard them in my head didn’t even sound like Michelle. Most troubling of all, though, I had no idea that she’d been seeing Jeffrey outside of the group, that she considered him to be anything other than a horrible, smarmy, twisted bastard. To think of them conducting some kind of secret friendship behind my back just didn’t seem possible.