by Maggie James
‘Lucky bastard.’ Adam still sounds pissed off. He won’t, not when Mark dangles the bait in front of him. ‘Having something to remember our Pretty Princess by, I mean.’
‘Yeah, I was lucky. Mum never got rid of any of my stuff, kept my room exactly the same. Got her to pack everything up for me, right before I got my new identity, became Mark Slater. Mum took it bad, the idea of not seeing me ever again.’ Adam won’t know about Joanna Barker’s rejection of her son, what with the two of them being sent to separate detention centres, so it’s a lie Mark can easily get away without arousing Adam’s suspicions.
‘Been thinking.’ Time to hook Adam on the line. ‘I mean, you should have it, really, not me. Seeing as how you killed her. Doesn’t seem fair me keeping it.’
Silence from Adam. He won’t be able to resist, thinks Mark, now I’ve offered it to him so openly; he wants his trophy too badly. Hell, the bastard’s probably getting hard just thinking about it. He adds some extra meat to the bait. Adam’s getting the scent of the lure, nice and strong. ‘It’s yours, if you want it.’
‘You serious?’
‘Yep.’ Reel him in, Mark tells himself. He’ll believe it, simply because he wants to.
‘You’ll give it to me?’ Lust oozes from Adam’s voice.
‘If you want it. Like I said, it’s more yours than mine.’
‘Yeah, I want it. Hell, that’ll be good.’
Job done, Mark tells himself. Now all he has to do is follow through.
They make arrangements. Mark tells Adam he’s free to meet any time. He’ll call in sick to work again. What with the other man not currently working, he figures he’ll want to hook up as quickly as possible to claim his trophy, and he’s not wrong. Adam tells Mark he’ll meet him tomorrow. Thursday. Which, as it’s now well past midnight, is actually today. Same time, same place.
‘Don’t be late, nancy boy.’ The line goes dead as Adam ends the call.
Mark needs to prepare. He goes into his bedroom to rummage around in his bedside cabinet. Does he still have what he’s looking for? Yes, he does. Lodged right at the back of one of the drawers is an old writing pad along with a packet of envelopes. Nobody really writes letters anymore, not the outdated paper type, but the purist in Mark refuses to commit what he has to say to the impersonal tone of an email. Besides, the old-fashioned approach seems appropriate, given how Natalie’s discovery of the letter from Linda Curtis sparked off the events of recent weeks. The important thing is to get both letters written, no matter how tough the words are to write. Mark has it all planned in his mind what he needs to say, but whether it’ll translate onto paper is hard to judge.
The letters prove even more difficult than he’s anticipated, taking him past two a.m., through several drafts, until he’s satisfied. He seals them in their envelopes, ready for delivery tomorrow.
Exhausted, Mark drops into his bed, but his mind has never been so clear, so calm. He’s being strong for the first time in his life, and it feels good. Very good. His sleep is deep, refreshing.
Thursday morning arrives. Shower, clothes, breakfast; his routine’s as precise as ever, in spite of the fact the rest of the day will be far from normal.
Time to call his boss. He registers disbelief, coupled with annoyance, in Steve Taylor’s voice as Mark pleads a continuing stomach bug, but what the hell. He’s taken precious little sick leave in four years and the odds are good he’ll soon be back behind bars anyway. Ensuring Adam Campbell enjoys the same outcome matters more than keeping Steve Taylor sweet.
First thing on Mark’s agenda concerns the letters. He intends to deliver them by hand; their content is too important to entrust to the vagaries of the postal service. Thankfully, Natalie’s an early bird where work’s concerned, often at her desk by eight a.m. No risk of running into her. Same for Rachel, for the opposite reason. She’s mentioned how she frequently sleeps in late, what with doing catering events several evenings a week. God knows the last thing he needs is an encounter with her. He drives over to Natalie’s, hastily shoving her letter through her mailbox. Rachel’s will be delivered to her flat in Exeter before his meeting with Adam in Moretonhampstead.
Next, it’s time to go shopping. Thank God for the Tesco store at Eastville; Mark’s pretty sure they’ll have what he needs. If not, he’ll drive into Cabot Circus. Whatever he buys won’t be exactly right, of course, but that’s not an issue. He’s willing to bet Adam won’t remember the precise details, not after so long.
Five minutes later, he’s in Tesco. Mark can’t locate anything suitable at first, and his chest starts its familiar dance with panic, before he reminds himself an approximation will suffice. Then he spots one of those displays that supermarkets tack on to the ends of aisles; what he’s after is bang in front of him. Near enough in size and shape, and dead right with the colour. Job done.
Back in his flat, Mark pulls a small backpack from his wardrobe, slinging the letter to Rachel and his purchase from Tesco into it. His plan simply requires him to get in his car and drive the now familiar route down to Moretonhampstead, via Exeter. Twelve o’clock will be the last time he’ll ever have to endure Adam Campbell’s shit, if all goes to plan with nailing the bastard’s arse to the wall. No need for any anonymous tip-off to the police as he’d originally considered doing; he’ll inform them later, and he won’t be nameless when he does.
He pulls on his jacket and grabs his mobile phone. Keys, backpack. Breathe. In. Out. One. Two. Mark’s apprehensive, despite his resolve to quit being weak. Adam Campbell makes a formidable opponent, one who still holds the power to instil terror. He’s facing the prospect of a knife through his neck should Adam suspect his motives. He forces himself to remember Abby Morgan’s bloodied body; Rachel’s scarred arms. As well as the little Italian girl. He can do this. For them, the ones he’s let down, he’ll be as strong as he needs to. It’ll only be for a short while anyway.
Several rounds of counting later, Mark’s as ready as he’ll ever be.
It’s post-rush hour on a weekday morning. Traffic is light on the M5, despite the ever-present roadworks outside Bristol. Mark makes good time. First task is to drop off Rachel’s letter at her flat in Exeter. No sign of her, thankfully, but he can’t shove the letter into the box quickly enough. Time to get to Moretonhampstead. He arrives just after eleven thirty, parking up in the same car park as where he talked with Rachel after the vigil. A ten-minute walk through town takes him as far as Michelle Morgan’s house. Mark forces himself to look this time. No more Mr Weak Guy, after all.
Everything’s more or less the same. The place still wears an uncared-for air, the paint peeling, the gutters as sagging as ever. The garden is more unkempt than he remembers. He stares at the long grass, right where he first saw Abby Morgan. She was playing on that exact spot, he recalls, absorbed with her dolls’ house, the plush green hippo beside her. He hears again the tinny voice singing One, Two, Buckle My Shoe.
A movement at one of the upstairs windows jerks him out of the past. The drawing back of a curtain.
A woman is watching him.
Michelle Morgan. Has to be, although he only gets a glimpse of whoever it is. Doubtless wary he’s some opportunistic journalist, sniffing out a story.
Mark doesn’t believe in Fate, but eyeballing the woman for whom he’s caused such pain flags itself up to him as an omen. Whether it’s good or bad, he’s not sure, but for now he’ll take it as a sign he’s doing the right thing at last. He turns his back on the house, anxious not to arouse her suspicions further. An actual face to face confrontation with her isn’t part of his game plan. Doesn’t stop his heart from attempting to thud its way out of his chest, however. Once he reaches the sanctuary of the lane leading to the murder site, Mark counts his way back to calm. One, two, buckle my shoe, he chants in his head.
A few minutes later, he’s standing where Abby Morgan bled to death. Now the shed has been demolished, it’s hard to tell. The day is cold but unusually sunny for the time of year, a shar
p reminder of fourteen years ago. Adam’s late again, of course, but Mark expects that. It gives him time to breathe, to centre himself, go over in his head what he’s planned, before the other man arrives. Imperative that he doesn’t allow Adam Campbell to intimidate him, whilst preserving the illusion of being an obedient sidekick. Chances are he’ll only get one shot at this. Don’t screw up again, he tells himself.
Ten past twelve. Ah, he’s here at last. Adam Campbell is striding across the field, his bearing as cocky as ever. Despite his resolve, nerves clench Mark’s stomach. He hugs his arms across his chest in mock protection, psyching himself up for what’s to come.
‘Mate.’ Adam’s standing in front of him now, dominance oozing from the man. ‘Don’t see you for fourteen years before the vigil, now it’s twice in two days.’ He glances around. ‘Can’t get enough of this place, even though it’s all different now. Happy memories, eh?’
‘Not the part where we both got banged up.’
Adam shrugs. ‘I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m more careful these days.’
Mark’s banking on the fact Adam’s arrogance has prevented him from learning as much as he thinks. ‘You definitely think you’ll do it again?’
‘We’ve had this conversation before, mate. Don’t you fucking listen? I’ll ask you again. What makes you think I haven’t already?’
Mark’s mouth becomes desert dry. He manages to force words out of it, mindful of the need for Adam to believe he’s on board with this shit. ‘You serious?’
Adam moves up close, his fag-ash breath hitting Mark’s nostrils full on. ‘You don’t reckon I’ve got the balls for it? Is that what you think?’
Fuck. The man’s so near to Mark it’s unbearable, and what’s worse is his expression. Vicious, feral, like he’s itching for any excuse to lay hands on Mark, probably whilst holding a knife to his throat again.
Somehow, Mark manages to speak.
‘Course not, mate. Never doubted you for a minute.’ Breath held, his chest tight with terror, he watches as Adam’s expression tones down a notch, the killer countenance morphing back into mere aggression.
‘You’d better not, you fucking wuss. Or else you’ll end up with my knife blade in between your ribs.’ He steps back, enabling Mark to expel the breath clamouring for release from his lungs. ‘Course I’m serious.’
Get the bastard to brag, Mark tells himself. Best way to get him to spout out what he needs to hear.
‘Who? Where?’
Adam shrugs. ‘Couple of street girls. One in Plymouth, the other in Southampton.’ His self-satisfied ego sneaks a smirk onto his face. ‘All over the news a while back. You can’t have missed it.’
‘I remember.’ Mark does, too. Back in his flat after the break-up with Natalie, reading the report on the BBC website about the Southampton murder. Along with his Google searches of the night before, detailing the deaths of the two women. Sparked off by his suspicions, themselves fuelled by Adam’s unsubtle boasts, along with the fact he works away from time to time. Plymouth and Southampton. Not exactly difficult for Mark to connect the dots.
Two women have died at Adam Campbell’s hands. A stark lack of evidence in both cases, the Plymouth case already cold as far as the media are concerned. The Southampton one is also cooling rapidly. Nobody seems to be linking the two murders, at least not from what’s been broadcast in the news.
The respite in Mark’s chest is only temporary, apparently. He’s struggling to breathe once more. He reminds himself of the end game; Adam Campbell’s arse back behind bars.
‘You killed them both.’ Mark forces reverence into his tone. He needs to put on the performance of his life here; convince Adam the murders of the prostitutes turn him on. Seems the act’s working, from Adam’s next words.
‘Yep. Did a snuff job on both of those tarts. Strangled the first bitch. Stabbed the second one.’ That ties in with what Mark’s found out from Google.
Adam scrutinises him. ‘You like that, wussy boy? Gets your nipples hard, does it?’
Mark nods.
‘Because it sure tweaks mine. I tell you, hearing those bitches beg for mercy didn’t half get me stiff. In all the right places.’
‘You went for a different method with the second one? How come?’
‘Two reasons. One – throw the police off their game. See, those fuckers think they’re so clever, what with all this profiling shit. Figured they wouldn’t connect the two whores, not if I did them in different cities, changed the method.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Second reason – wanted to experiment. Discover what suits. So far, wet work’s definitely more my thing. Next time, I’ll give something else a go.’
‘A new place, as well?’
Smug pride etches itself on Adam’s face. ‘Told you, mate. That’s the plan from now on. Like I said, I’ll go for another street girl, some big city, doesn’t matter where. Leeds, perhaps, or Glasgow. Some clapped-out junkie who nobody gives a rat’s arse about. Find somewhere quiet to take her, so I can have myself some fun. Nice and slow, it’ll be, same as with those hookers, not quick like when I killed the brat.’
‘You made them suffer?’
‘Hell, yeah. They didn’t die easily, that’s for sure.’
Mark recoils before he manages to catch himself. The last thing he needs is for the other man to sense he’s not fully on board with what he’s saying. Adam doesn’t, though. Too wrapped up in reminiscing.
‘Fucking sweet, it was. You should have been there. Not that you’d have done anything, you pussy. You’d have just stood and watched. Like the way you did fuck all when I was having fun with our Pretty Princess. Screaming at me to stop. Leaving me to do all the dirty work. Not that I minded, as it happened. Horses for courses, eh, mate?’
‘I guess. About those two women -’
‘Took myself a little something from each one to remember them by.’ Adam closes his eyes, relish oozing from his expression. Mark’s hardly surprised, not after the pink diary, the green hippo. Adam’s lust for trophies is why they’re here today, after all. Nothing’s been mentioned in the online news reports about missing items, but there wouldn’t be. Not the kind of thing the police release to the media, and besides they might not even be aware something personal has been stolen.
‘What did you take?’
Adam shrugs. ‘Silver charm bracelet off one, a gold ankle chain from the other.’
A bracelet and an ankle chain. Items with edges and nooks, where skin cells can lodge, providing vital DNA. Adam should be easy to flag as the women’s killer, assuming the police can locate the jewellery. They will, Mark thinks. Adam will keep them close by. For him, they’re sacred relics, to be brought out often, caressed, savoured. Probably giving him a hard dick in the process.
‘We make a good team, you and me, Joshua mate.’ Adam swings out a meaty hand, slapping him on the shoulder. His expression turns feral. ‘We should join forces again sometime. If you get my meaning.’
Mark does, dark and foul though it is, and it’s an effort to force himself to nod, as well as plaster an expression of pleased surprise on his face. Make him think you’re gratified, honoured even, that he’s including you in his fucked up plans, he tells himself. Stroke the bastard’s ego. The prick either intends Mark to be a fall guy if things go belly-up, or else he reckons the pleasure he gets from killing will be heightened with an audience watching. Probably both. This is one seriously screwed-up motherfucker, and he intends to relish every moment of taking the bastard off the streets.
Adam slaps him again on the shoulder. ‘You got the goods, mate? Didn’t come all this way for sweet fuck all.’
‘Here.’ Mark delves into his backpack, bringing out the pink plastic child’s bracelet he bought that morning from Tesco. Removed from its packaging, the elastic deliberately dirtied and the beads scuffed to conceal its newness, it looks more or less like the one Abby Morgan is wearing when Adam kills her. What with Adam intent at the time on cleanin
g the knife, he’ll never know Mark didn’t steal the bracelet or that this isn’t the original one. Adam’s desperate for his souvenir; Mark’s baiting the trap with fresh, tempting meat.
Adam snatches the bracelet, turning it over in his fingers, his expression gratified, like a kid given cake. The bastard’s probably halfway to a hard-on, thinks Mark, although fuck him if he’s going to glance down to check. He doesn’t reckon he can stand much more of this crap; he needs to get away from the sick bastard in front of him, from the pretence he gets off on murder by proxy, before Adam clocks his bluff.
Too late. Adam shoves the bracelet in his pocket. ‘Sweet. Now I’ve got trophies from all three.’ He slaps Mark hard on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s find a pub and get some beers down our necks.’
27
WHAT YOU DESERVE
By the time Mark’s back at his flat in Bristol, Adam Campbell’s warped personality clings to him like a bad stink. He strips off all his clothes and stands under the hottest shower he can bear, scrubbing off the bastard’s vileness, swilling away the memory of having to pretend to be as twisted as the other man is. Being forced to sit with him in a pub, drinking alongside him, as though he’s the mate Adam always refers to him as, makes Mark want to puke. He starts to count, working his way up through the numbers, and gradually the tightness in his chest eases. Once he’s out of the shower and into clean jeans and T-shirt, he’s back on track with his staying strong resolve. Besides, he reminds himself, with any luck he’ll never need to see the fucker ever again, and all that remains is to execute the last part of his plan.
Mark heads back into his bedroom, opening his laptop. He’s aware it’s displacement activity, postponing the inevitable. What he should be doing is phoning Tony Jackson. As soon as he does, though, his freedom will end. Mark’s clinging to his last moments of liberty, procrastinating on his laptop. Eventually he picks up his mobile.