Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Amy had to agree. The renovations had added a glass box to the back of the house, giving the family a new living space that opened up the garden into their daily life. Watching the birds go about their business, noting the bulbs pushing up throughout April, now a chorus of bright colour, or spotting a squirrel . . . it was like a whole world they’d been ignoring all these years. ‘I’m glad they didn’t sell up. I would have hated to leave this house. And summer’s going to be brilliant. Why don’t you come and live here with us?’

  ‘No, I think your mother has enough on her plate with her busy job and busy life.’

  ‘But you could always be home for Tom after school. He’s got another three years, and it must get lonely in that cottage.’

  ‘I’m never lonely, darling. I love where I live, and I have plenty of friends. Are you worried about going off to university?’

  ‘A little. I’ll miss it here.’

  ‘You’re a close quartet, Amy dear, but broaden your horizons and don’t look back. Your parents aren’t going anywhere – your dad’s clinic just gets busier and your mother’s skills seem to be in more demand than ever. Everything will remain as you leave it and you can come home often. Besides, Tom says he likes the idea of being an only child.’ At Amy’s expression, her grandmother giggled. ‘Only teasing. Brighton isn’t that far away and it’s such a lovely town to be studying in. I’ll visit.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Of course,’ her gran said, easing herself up to refresh their pot of tea. ‘Grandad used to take me there for a naughty weekend.’

  The thought of her grandparents frolicking in bed was a thought too far, but the notion was interrupted by a metallic sound that made them both turn and look down the garden, which backed onto the glorious woodland of Grove’s End Park enjoying the last licks of daylight.

  Davey nodded. ‘This one looks like a goer.’

  Don agreed. ‘Those back doors are just an invitation,’ he sneered, a cruel smile twitching at the edges of his mouth, which held a thin, half-smoked cigarette he’d rolled himself. He sucked back on it and flecks of tobacco lit and drifted away on the light breeze as the paper burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. He flicked the butt carelessly into the undergrowth, ash scorching the dancing head of a bright daffodil.

  Davey ducked. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s there.’

  Don risked a look, on tiptoe on the fence strut they were balanced upon. He squinted to see the woman near the kettle. ‘Aw, it’s an old lady, Davey,’ he grinned. He tapped his friend’s parka pocket. ‘Nothing this won’t fix.’

  Davey felt the heaviness of the wrench push against his side. He hadn’t planned to use it on a person when he’d grabbed it this morning at Don’s nod. He’d figured they’d use it to smash into somewhere if their shoulders weren’t strong enough to force a side door.

  ‘We don’t know if there are others upstairs,’ he hissed.

  ‘There aren’t, Davey. We’ve been standing here for twenty fuckin’ minutes and it’s getting colder now the sun’s going. We need to get going before I freeze.’ Don was right; they were not in any position to debate this. ‘If we don’t pay Big Al, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Davey?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Say it, so we both hear it and understand.’

  ‘He’ll cut off a finger for each day we’re late.’

  ‘He’ll cut off a finger from each of us for each day. We’ve only got today if we’re going to fence the stuff tomorrow. Big Al is expecting us on Friday. What will happen, Davey, if we don’t turn up to have our fingers cut off?’

  ‘He’ll kill us.’

  ‘Right.’

  Davey hesitated. ‘Do you really think he would, over a couple of thousand?’

  Don cut him a look of intense exasperation. ‘I’ll explain this one more time, son. Big Al maims, tortures and kills just on principle. It wouldn’t matter if we owed him fuckin’ sixpence. To him a debt is a debt. We would be the example he’d use to frighten others. We knew the terms when we took the gear.’

  Davey sighed and steeled himself. ‘Let’s go.’ In a nimble move, he leapt up to the top of the fence, balancing briefly before jumping down onto the grass, kicking over a watering can.

  ‘That’s done it, son,’ Don said in a resigned voice, landing at his side as Davey reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrench.

  Amy had to refocus to be sure it was the two men from the pub. She recognised the olive-green parka first before registering that it was the flirt and his dirty-looking sidekick. Before she could stop her, Amy’s gran was out on the porch steps demanding to know what they were doing there.

  ‘Gran, get in!’ she warned, pulling at her elder’s arm.

  It was no good. The older woman was already advancing on the pair. ‘How dare you! What do mean by—’

  Her gran never finished her objection. Amy watched the older guy grab what Grey Eyes was holding and swing it, then watched the woman she loved spin with the force of the blow and crumple onto the stone steps with a crunching sound that spoke of broken bones. Gran fell like a doll made of cloth, as though she had no substance to her body. And as she lay lifeless, the world seemed to still. Both men stopped and stared. Amy’s scream was trapped in her throat as she saw a trail of bright blood snake its way from under Gran’s head and leak down one step and then another in a slow but determined flow.

  The violence was so sudden, so shocking. Her mouth still open with confusion and disbelief, she turned to the men, who appeared as startled as she was.

  ‘Well, that’s done it, Don!’

  Before Amy could regain her wits, the man she now knew as Don was pointing a filthy finger her way. ‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth, bitch, and we won’t kill you too.’ He pushed past her into the house.

  Amy moved towards her grandmother but Davey grabbed her, squeezing her arm fiercely to spin her back towards the house and shoved her in his friend’s wake.

  ‘I have to call an ambulance,’ she pleaded, her voice high, panicked.

  ‘No point,’ Don said with remarkable heartlessness, as he opened drawers and cupboards, rifling through her family’s stuff, tossing the contents onto the floor.

  ‘Let me at least get a blanket for her, please!’

  ‘She’s not fuckin’ cold, luv,’ he replied. ‘She’s dead.’

  Tiring of the conversation, Davey pushed Amy backwards against the kitchen bench, noticing how, as she grabbed it to steady herself, her shirt stretched against the breasts he’d admired.

  The itch, which he hadn’t scratched in a couple of weeks due to being troubled by Big Al’s threats, reasserted itself. Sex would calm him. Right now, the need to relieve that particular desire was only adding to the stress. If he could get rid of that, he might think more clearly. He needed a woman’s body against his own; something soft and real to pound out his fears against.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, boy,’ Don cut into his thoughts, growling next to Davey’s ear for only his hearing, ‘but right now, we must do what we came here for. But I’ll tell you what, Davey, if you can find me at least two thousand quid’s worth in five minutes, I’ll let you do her. Find the goods!’ He flung a backpack at Davey. ‘Fill it.’ Don turned his attention to Amy, and Davey was further aroused to see his friend grab the girl by the breast. She sucked back a breath of pain. ‘I’ll stop if you help me find what we need. Phones, laptops, jewellery.’

  ‘My granny,’ she began, realisation pushing past the shock, tears helplessly streaming. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Got any cash, luv?’ Don pressed. ‘We only need two thousand.’ He squeezed harder. ‘Get going, Davey!’ he snarled over his shoulder.

  Davey ran upstairs to begin ransacking.

  Don smiled his hideous sneer. ‘Listen, darlin’, I’m cold and tired. I don’t care that your granny’s dead; a man’s going to cut off my fingers if I don’t give him two thousand quid.’

  �
�My phone’s over there.’ She nodded to the coffee table.

  ‘Good, we’ll do this together, shall we?’ He grabbed her convenient ponytail and watched how it bent her with pain. He pulled harder and she straightened. ‘Nice and obedient, Amy, that’s how I like it. Now, phone into the bag. Oh, good, that looks new. Now, Mummy’s jewellery?’ Amy led Don upstairs to her parents’ bedroom and into her mother’s walk-in wardrobe, which Davey had already discovered. Don gave a low whistle. ‘Fancy,’ he cooed. ‘I told you, boy, about those tits, didn’t I?’

  Davey grinned, watching Don let go of the girl, knowing she was too frightened to disobey them now.

  ‘I’m thinking Daddy might have a safe stashed somewhere, eh, luv?’ Don wondered.

  She looked back at them bewildered, her thoughts wandering again. Davey backhanded her with vicious speed and force. Amy collapsed to the plush cream-coloured carpet, her snotty nose leaking onto it. Davey picked her up and over the top of her sobs explained what she needed to know. He was privately enjoying watching her fear; it was making him hard . . . and he knew she could see his arousal.

  ‘Listen, Amy. Be sensible. Help us and this will be over.’

  ‘Not for Gran.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a shame. But she was old and you’re young and gorgeous . . .’

  ‘Aha!’ Don said, gleeful. ‘I knew it. Here’s the safe,’ he said, pushing aside her mother’s long coats and gowns that hid her father’s safe. ‘Okay, luv, I need the code. If you don’t give it to me in your next breath, my friend here will not only rape you, but I will kill you afterwards. Are we clear?’

  She nodded, looking sickened. A welt on her cheek had begun to deepen in colour. It was probably fractured.

  ‘Zero eight four eight nine two,’ she said.

  Don felt the door of the safe click open. He rummaged inside it, tossing aside documents and files, before giving a whoop. ‘Cash, Davey. Delicious cash. Count it!’ He threw it at Davey, who duly counted it while Don fixed Amy in place with his narrow-eyed leer.

  ‘Just shy of eighteen hundred,’ Davey said, sounding joyful.

  ‘Well done, Amy,’ Don praised her, reaching back into the safe to upend ring and bracelet boxes.

  ‘Doesn’t my phone make up enough with the cash?’

  ‘Ah, luv,’ Don said, almost sounding sympathetic. ‘This is just some extra security for me and Davey here. Aw, look at this beautiful stuff, son. We’re done.’ He glanced at Davey and checked his watch, returning a resigned nod. ‘There’s just one more thing, luv. My friend really likes you.’

  She looked back at Don, sullen but defiant.

  ‘Ooh, Davey, watch this one. She’s going to fight you.’

  ‘Not if you hold her down, Don.’

  After wriggling free of her bonds, Amy made a teary 999 call on the home telephone. Two ambulances and a couple of police response cars arrived with flashing lights and sirens squealing. A police dog unit was in tow and headed off to find the trail of the men, but the two criminals were by then already on their way, using the parklands to get as far from the scene of the crime as they could before changing into a new set of clothes they’d hidden earlier that morning; they’d figured it would be a good way to dodge the street cameras. The dogs and their handlers found the domestic bins on the street where the clothes were thrown but then the trail went cold, after Davey and Don had split up to make their separate ways into central London and to its east.

  With Davey wearing a bandage on his cheek, they’d paid their dangerous creditor a visit a day early to settle their account. Big Al had nodded, impressed; told them he’d do business with them anytime they needed. Their mistake was to fence the jewellery a day later, by which time an accurate description had gone out on the missing goods and the usual suspects were raided.

  They’d also underestimated Amy’s fighting spirit and her good memory.

  She’d been badly beaten, her face unrecognisable. So many bones fractured because she’d fought them with every ounce of strength she possessed. She’d been raped by both men and left in her parents’ bedroom, bleeding and broken, but with three nails full of DNA belonging to Davey Robbins. They also had no idea that Amy was an artist; in her rage she had drawn very good likenesses of both men. Don’s illustration was particularly illuminating. The police had them locked up within forty-eight hours, their fingers intact.

  Nothing was intact for Amy again.

  2

  LONDON, APRIL 2007

  He opened the new bag of coffee beans and inhaled, relishing the toasted aroma that his favourite brand of arabica gave off. Tipping the contents into the grinder’s basket, he enjoyed the satisfying clatter of the oily rubble, awaiting the revolution of the burrs that would allow them to perform the alchemy that hot water and their grinds could achieve.

  This was a ritual for DCI Jack Hawksworth. Ever since his last trip to Australia to see his sister and her family, now living in Melbourne, coffee had taken on a new dimension for him. No longer did he swallow the muddy slurry from vending machines for something warming; now well-brewed caffeine had become a passion. Having tasted the delicious version of a piccolo in the Italian quarter of Melbourne – where unshaven men stood behind hissing, steaming machines twisting buttons and pressing levers that ultimately delivered a shot like liquid liquorice, topped by a layer of caramel-coloured crema – he now prided himself on attaining a similar magic at home.

  He sat back now at the small breakfast table, satisfied with this morning’s brew. His laptop was open to read the news but he ignored the screen and instead stared out of the window and across the concrete complex of his temporary home. He’d worried this place might turn him melancholy but contemplated instead that life was looking up. Moving into this apartment while he decided where to live had been wise. And while its architecture seemed to contradict everything he might normally respond to, he enjoyed its convenience and ease. These last few weeks had been coloured by a watershed sense of arriving at peace. Two relationships in a row with intelligent women, both characterised by bright personalities and beauty, had ended horribly. How could one person have such poor luck as to have two lovers who were enmeshed in crime? Anne McEvoy had notoriously emerged as a woman on a revenge spree for a gang rape in her childhood; she’d killed all but one of the perpetrators but in the process had effectively changed Jack’s life, especially as he’d never stopped loving her.

  Then along came Lily. The sensuous florist had entered his world by chance and a sense of hope had begun to simmer. He had liked Lily enormously, although they both knew the relationship was doomed. Her Chinese parents had arranged a suitable marriage to a surgeon, but that was not the pain in his heart. The hurt that would never leave was that Lily never got to live her life. It had been snapped out by the sinister fiancé, and Jack had spent a year now trying to regain his faith in himself; he felt he had failed both these women.

  He sipped the coffee, allowing its richness to fill his senses and move him away from the past. Tapping the space bar, he watched the screen brighten and he read the headlines and their articles. Most disturbing was the report that a three-year-old child called Madeleine had gone missing during a family holiday in Portugal; he couldn’t imagine a more terrifying scenario for a parent. He wondered how the Europe Desk that he headed up at Scotland Yard might be drawn into the case. There would be a media circus to contend with, and Jack began to imagine the emotional energy building within police from both countries, which would be about to explode. Moving on, he scanned the usual depressing facts: Manchester United had won yet another Premier League final, and Britain had come joint second to last in the Eurovision Song Contest. He sighed.

  Jack shifted to the newspaper; if technology continued the way it was, he imagined that one day he might read the news via his phone – now what a crazy world that would be. He shook his head, feeling old, and kept turning the pages; he was now simply scanning, thinking about a second coffee, knowing he should probably get to work. He’d only ha
d the briefest of sleeps, having left the Europe Desk in the small hours and not been able to drift off happily, so he’d been up by five for a run. He checked his watch; it was nearing eight. He was about to close the paper and start his day when a brief caught his attention.

  Jack’s forehead knitted with disgust, the good buzz of just moments ago beginning to ebb away as he read that Rupert Brownlow had been released a week earlier; that he was not giving interviews, had done his time and now just wanted to get on with his life.

  ‘Rupert, you bastard,’ he murmured, recalling the case. He hadn’t worked on it, but the detectives who had were broken for a while; certainly, the paramedics first on the scene had been collectively traumatised. Four children, two forty-something adults, two seniors – one in her seventies and an older man in his eighties – plus a couple of beloved dogs had died that day, not quite eight years ago, because spoilt, rich, arrogant Rupert Brownlow had been enraged that his girlfriend had dumped him for some other pimply private-school sixth-former. He’d taken some drugs and swallowed more alcohol from his family’s drinks cabinet than a youth of eighteen should at ten in the morning. Then, in his drugged, drunken teenage version of wisdom, Rupert had taken his father’s tomato-coloured Range Rover and gone wheeling around London, a police car and a police bike ultimately on his tail. They finally caught him but not before half-conscious Rupert had ploughed into a suburban street in Potters Bar, ending lives through his selfish hellraising. He’d served just over three years of his appallingly short seven-year sentence.

  ‘Amazing what money and a lenient judge can do, eh?’ Jack remarked to the universe, feeling a punch of despair on behalf of the families who had lost their loved ones and would now know the killer was back out to pick up the threads of his life, repair the gaps and move forward in his twenties . . . contrite perhaps, but still wealthy. Meanwhile those families would likely never escape their loss and move forward, as Brownlow could.