The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  Behind him, Wolfe heard the door unlock and the rumble of footsteps rattling the wooden framework of the stairs.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Ronald cried. ‘I’ll swing for you, I swear, if you touch her.’

  Panic-stricken, and unable to propel herself faster without remounting, the old lady shouted, ‘Go back inside, Ronald, he won’t catch me. I’ll fetch the police!’ She threw her leg over the bicycle. Her skirt caught on the saddle. She lost balance and hopped on one foot while disentangling herself. Lost precious seconds. A glance over her shoulder showed the giant was almost on her. She screamed.

  Wolfe snatched at her hair. A handful grabbed, he dragged her from the bike. Aware of heavy footsteps and panting breath coming from behind, he swung round and saw her son.

  The signalman raised his bat to strike. ‘I fucking warned you,’ he snarled, bringing the weapon down with all his might.

  Wolfe, in a blur of movement, hoisted the old lady aloft, a rag doll in his hands, her body used as a shield.

  The woman’s son tried to divert the blow. It crashed home with sickening force, smashing her skull, cleaving her head open.

  Face aghast, the man screamed, ‘No!’

  Wolfe let the corpse fall. Licking blood from both hands, he growled, ‘I told you shouldn’t have said that to me. All I wanted was a glass of water, and now look what you’ve done.’

  Rage and grief contorted the man’s face. He roared, raising the bat shoulder-high, as if about to score a home run.

  Wolfe didn’t move until the last moment. He leaned back out of range, the club missing by a hair’s breadth, and whipped forwards from the waist to grab the man’s throat. His fingers dug deep into flesh on either side of the larynx, and he yanked his second victim towards him. Ronald, captured in an unrelenting grasp, kicked and flailed, gurgled and choked, his eyes bulging from his head. Tighter. Tighter. Wolfe slowly crushed his windpipe, taking pleasure at the ineffectual taps of the bat on his back and buttocks. With frightening ease, he lifted the signalman up and held the lifeless body away to see the feet dancing, twitched by muscles yet to receive the message that life had gone. A moment later, Wolfe dropped him. The body thumped to the ground.

  Wolfe carried the old woman upstairs last, along with her handbag, and dumped her on top of her son. After going back down to conceal the bicycle, he returned. ‘Nice of you both to invite me for lunch.’ Although he was famished, the choice between a broiler and lardy flesh didn’t appeal. On a hunch, he searched her bag and retrieved a tin-foil package from it. ‘How nice of her to bring us these,’ he said, and then, swinging the armchair around, he unwrapped the sandwiches and ate them at the desk.

  After he’d eaten, he toyed with the idea of arranging the pair into a compromising position. Although the idea amused him, tiredness took command of his eyelids. Pointless, he thought, to fight a losing battle against himself, so he settled comfortably, looking round his new lair at row upon row of colour-coded levers. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d have had a play with them.

  Heavy-lidded, his eyes closed, and not inclined to reopen them, Wolfe sank into the welcoming arms of soporific darkness, descending the worn and slippery steps into dank tunnels. The man he’d so often seen executing prostitutes and others down on their luck, exchanged the blood on his clothes and skin for the filth of sewer water. He beckoned him to follow. Wolfe grinned acceptance and together, they made their escape to dine on a choice cut taken from the man’s latest victim.

  Chapter 29

  Copse Hall. Hospital wing. 12:30 p.m.

  Edwards, letting himself through the door, wheeled in a trolley laden with food and drink. He saw Kotlas standing by the window staring out, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘You took your time,’ the psychiatrist said without turning round.

  ‘I’ve been over at Control. I told them what happened. They can’t believe it. UPS – Uninterrupted Power Supply – never kicked in. No one knows why. Any investigation is going to pull this place apart.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Kotlas said.

  Edwards moved forward with the trolley. ‘You must be starved.’ He glanced at the privacy curtains pulled around Fleur’s bed. ‘Is she sleeping?’

  Kotlas turned to face the guard. ‘No, I’m afraid she isn’t,’ he said softly. ‘She died.’

  Edwards dashed to the curtains, and swishing them apart, froze. His fingers dug into the fabric, the truth sinking in at the sight of her. He stood, arms outstretched, as if crucified.

  A few moments passed before, at last, Edwards spoke. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The syringes Rubenstein thought he lost in the fight – she’d taken them from his pocket.’

  ‘Christ.’ The guard sank to his haunches. ‘I never gave them a thought when I wrapped the jacket round her—’

  ‘Hey, you aren’t to blame,’ Kotlas said. ‘She must have injected herself under the covers pretty much as soon as we got her into bed. Why didn’t I think to watch her?’

  ‘Fucking Rubenstein,’ Edwards spat. ‘If that coward had used them as he was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  Kotlas approached the guard, dragging a chair behind him. ‘If not now, she’d have done it anyway,’ he said, gently taking the other man’s arm. ‘Come on, sit down.’

  ‘She only started here a couple of weeks ago,’ Edwards said ruefully.

  ‘She asked me to hold her hand,’ Kotlas said.

  ‘And you had no idea?’

  ‘None. I sat down next to the bed. Almost drifted off.’ Was that when she injected herself? ‘I held her hand like she wanted. We spoke. I told her we’d get her fixed up. She was out of it. I thought it was shock. Then she stopped breathing. I tried to resuscitate her. That’s when I found the syringes under the covers.’

  ‘Christ,’ Edwards clasped his head in his hands between his knees. ‘Why wasn’t I there for her earlier? She’s so young – what a waste of life.’

  ‘There was something else,’ Kotlas said. ‘She told me she was pregnant.’

  ‘How much worse is this day going to get?’ Edwards said.

  ‘Tomorrow it’ll seem like it was a bad dream, only we’ll know it wasn’t. This is the start of a nightmare, and it’s going to run for months before we even get to the inquest.’ Kotlas strolled past the trolley and picked up a bottle of water. ‘I don’t know about you, Edwards, but I’ve a feeling we’d better go and find Rubenstein.’

  The guard got to his feet. ‘You don’t think . . . ?’

  ‘After all this, I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s facing ruin.’

  Edwards locked the door on the second floor, securing the northern staircase. ‘You know where Rubenstein went wrong, don’t you?’ the guard said.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ Kotlas replied.

  ‘He rushed to get the place open, that’s what he did.’

  ‘Let’s leave that for the enquiry.’ Kotlas walked on a few paces. ‘This is the way, isn’t it? We came up from the other end.’

  ‘Just down there,’ Edwards said, catching him up. ‘Turn right; his office is about halfway down. The thing is, you don’t even work here.’

  ‘Right now, Edwards, for entirely selfish reasons, I can’t tell you how glad I am about that. When I woke up this morning, I was thrilled to be coming here, the prospects and everything,’ Kotlas said. ‘How all that changed. Tell me something. How did Fisher escape?’

  They rounded the corner.

  Edwards took a deep breath. ‘In normal circumstances, he’d have been isolated from anyone else. I’m guessing the minute the circuits blew, the power switched to emergency generators. We can only speculate on the reasons why they didn’t work. It’s another failure for the investigation.

  ‘Anyway, he must have been out of his cell – in transit – when it happened. Control would have lost touch with who was where and with whom, and he somehow ended up grabbing that fucking screwdriver from one of the contractors. They shouldn’t have even been in the sam
e corridor. Bang. Power out. No cameras. No personal attack alarms. Fisher would have been on it straight away.’

  ‘And with everyone involved now dead.’

  They stopped outside Rubenstein’s office.

  ‘I guess we’ll never know,’ the guard said.

  ‘All those people. Poor Fleur,’ Kotlas said, and rapped hard on the glass panel of the door. He listened, then knocked again. The men exchanged glances. Edwards pulled the keychain from his pocket, selected the correct key and unlocked the door.

  Rubenstein looked up from his desk. He had written a note. In his hand he held a blue and white box. ‘You took your time,’ he said.

  Kotlas walked around Bales’ body. It had been turned over, face down. ‘You were supposed to come back.’ The younger man stared at the swelling on Rubenstein’s face. ‘They your painkillers?’

  ‘I’ve taken some.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Tramadol. Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘The syringes – you never found them, did you?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Well, we fucking did,’ Edwards spat. ‘Fleur killed herself with them.’

  Rubenstein gawped in horror. His shoulders slumped. ‘Leave me,’ he whispered.

  Edwards snatched the note from the desk, read it and then passed it to Kotlas. ‘Give me the box.’

  Rubenstein handed it over.

  Kotlas opened it and counted the missing pills. ‘You’ve only taken two.’

  ‘I made my mind up just before you came in. I’m finished, Kotlas. Let me end it,’ he implored.

  ‘No, you fucking coward,’ Kotlas said, putting the pills in his pocket. ‘You’re not getting off so easily. I’m going to sit here and watch you until the power comes back on.’

  Chapter 30

  Avon Gorge. 12:35 p.m.

  Local news reporter Nick Summer, dashed to the scene of the prison bus accident on his vintage motorbike as soon as he heard what had happened. He parked the bike and padlocked it with the heavy chain he wore bandoliered over his shoulder. He climbed down to the crash site, the camera he’d borrowed from his grandfather swinging from his neck.

  At the bottom, only human vultures remained, grouped together, picking over the story in hushed tones.

  Summer approached a man whose blackened face, streaked with sweat, gave him the appearance of a commando on special operations. ‘Excuse me,’ Summer said, nodding towards the wreckage. ‘Were you here when that came over the side?’

  ‘Almost,’ the man said. ‘It was about four hours ago. Every time I think I’m going back up, someone else comes along asking questions.’ He wiped a dewdrop of perspiration from the tip of his nose and studied Summer. ‘Which lot are you with?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. Nick, pleased to meet you.’ He shoved his hand out.

  The man ignored it. ‘Can’t tell you a lot, but what I do know is that whoever they had on board looks to have escaped. The officials are not saying much, though from rumours going round, I gather the prisoner was a psychiatric patient on the move under heavy guard.’

  ‘Well, it was a prisoner transfer vehicle, so no surprise there,’ Summer said.

  ‘You think not?’ The man looked around him cautiously and leant towards the reporter. ‘He had at least ten of them guarding him.’

  ‘Ten? No, you must have that wrong. There were other prisoners on board?’

  ‘No, he was the only one. Six of the guards perished, plus the driver. You must have seen the mess on the bridge before you came down. The three surviving guards might still be up top.’

  ‘I saw them,’ Summer said, ‘but I wanted to get a feel for what happened before I start asking questions. You got a name?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I have,’ the man said. ‘But I don’t want it in the papers.’

  ‘Fine.’ Summer popped the lens cap from the old Minolta and began taking photographs of the scene.

  ‘I didn’t tell you all of it, by the way. A couple of hours back, two more guards turned up asking questions. It was them who figured out how the prisoner had got away. Somehow, the guy in the wheelchair and the escapee survived the original crash. Got thrown clear, they reckon. I heard one of them say, ‘There’s only one man I know as big as Wolfe.’ The man lowered his voice. ‘Turns out it was the guy in the wheelchair. This Wolfe murdered him and stole his clothes.’

  ‘Where did you say that was?’ Summer said.

  ‘Behind those rocks.’ The man pointed to an outcrop further down the slope. ‘There’s a guard looking after the body until it can be recovered.’

  ‘There?’ Summer said as he wandered down. ‘It’s hard to imagine a formation like that occurred by accident. Looks like a corner of Stonehenge.’ He made a mental note to ask his grandfather, Professor Young, if he knew anything about it. If he didn’t, he’d surely be interested enough to take a look.

  He rounded the corner of the largest stone, doing his best to look casual. He saw the guard perched on the smooth flat surface of a stone that looked like it was made for the purpose, smoking. ‘Hi there. Nick Summer’s the name.’ He flashed an identity card. ‘I’m a reporter.’

  The man blew a plume of smoke in his direction and then, taking another drag, he stood, dropping his cigarette to the ground. ‘No comment,’ he said, and screwed the burning stub out with his boot.

  Summer ignored the remark and moved closer. The body lay on its side, the top half concealed by a tartan picnic blanket. Rivulets of blood had dried on the exposed bare legs.

  The guard stepped in to block his view.

  ‘I’m not asking for a comment. I’m just making conversation. You’re a big bloke, what, six foot four? Even covered up, I can see the dead man is bigger.’ Summer gauged the guard’s face for a reaction, a clue for how best to get him talking. The man’s face was as hard as the limestone surrounding them.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but it seems odd that he survived the initial fall. As far as I know, only one other person has, and that was over a hundred years ago. Her skirts saved her, acted like a parachute.’ Summer closed the gap between him and the guard. ‘And here, there’s not one, but two survivors. Incredible, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe,’ the guard said.

  ‘There’s no maybe about it. Listen.’ Summer reached into his back pocket and produced a fifty-pound note from the wad he’d won at the casino the night before. ‘I’ll make a bet with you.’

  ‘I’m not a gambling man, but what’s the bet?’

  ‘The coroner says it’s to do with how big they were.’

  ‘That’s bollocks and you know it.’

  ‘Right now, I don’t really know anything. I’ll tell you what,’ Summer said. ‘You take that. Just give me a little something I can use. I won’t write anything down, and I won’t reveal the source of my information—’

  ‘You think you can buy me for a fifty?’ the guard said. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I only want some background,’ Summer said, ‘nothing anyone’s going to get sensitive about.’

  ‘Listen, pal, if I’m going to talk, I want double that.’

  Summer took the roll from his back pocket, skinned another note from it and handed the money over.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why ten guards?’

  ‘The patient has a history of flaring up. That’s how many men it takes to subdue him.’

  ‘What’s he being treated for?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Okay,’ Summer said. ‘I understand some other guards showed up asking questions a while back. What happened to them?’

  ‘One went to the police station. The other stayed behind.’

  ‘I take it that isn’t you. Where is he?’

  ‘Up on the bridge, with the others,’ the guard replied. ‘How much money have you got there?’

  ‘About five hundred. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because, for that, Summer, I can give you something rea
lly juicy.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Wolfe’s a cannibal. He has a habit of exposing himself to his victims before he kills them.’

  ‘I’m sure I could dig back through old news reports and find that out.’

  The guard laughed. ‘Yeah, probably. Here’s something that came out of studies on him. You cannot reveal your source, though. Right?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘He orgasms as he gorges on flesh. No need for penetration.’

  ‘What?’ Summer said, incredulous. ‘How come I’ve never heard of him before?’

  ‘You won’t have done. He’s been in the system since he was fifteen. He murdered seven girls. Started when he was thirteen. Took the police a while to catch him because they were looking for someone much older. He had a knack of getting away undetected.’ The guard scratched his chin. ‘That’s your lot. If you want any more, you need to give me the rest.’

  Summer nodded. ‘All right, but this had better be good.’ He fished the roll of notes from his pocket, counted the money and handed it to the guard. ‘I’ve heard of junkies getting an erection as they prepare for a fix, sometimes ejaculating as the needle pops a vein, but who comes when he takes a bite out of someone?’ Summer said, his expression a mixture of puzzlement and disgust.

  The guard glanced around him. ‘The way I see it, it isn’t any different to a boy getting a hard-on in anticipation of sex with his girlfriend. I heard his doctors discussing it once. They said it was like the experiment with dogs and bells done by some Russian. The dogs hear a bell. They associate it with food. They salivate.’

  ‘You mean Pavlov. Are you sure he was Russian?’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if he was or wasn’t.’

  ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘I used to have a drink sometimes with one of the psychiatrists. I could have been a psychiatrist, if I’d wanted. I was bright enough. Just didn’t have wealthy parents. I had to get out and work as soon as I left school. Anyway, that’s another story. When he’d had a few, he used to spout on about all kinds of shit. He knew about my interests. We used to have some really heavy conversations. I remember him telling me one night how we understand the workings of the brain so much better now, and how much dopamine plays a part in addictions and perversions. There’s no doubt killers get a high, and often, after a while, it simply isn’t enough.