by LJ Ross
“Can I help you?”
“We need to come in.”
“Our doors are always open,” he said, imagining them to be people in need of peace and solitude.
“We need to speak with Jenny Adams, or Jenny Adamson.”
The priest looked more closely at the pair of them and noted the air of fizzing tension surrounding their arrival.
“May I ask your names and what it’s concerning?”
“Tell her it’s the police and we’ve come to ask about her son. The one who’s been marauding around the countryside killing people.”
The priest made a funny little sound in his throat.
“Right. Ah. Right. Wait here.”
He scurried off and they were afraid for a moment that she wasn’t coming but a minute or two later a petite woman of around sixty walked into the hallway. Her face was practically unlined and she wore a serene expression that seemed to suggest she had lived a good, wholesome life.
But it was the eyes, Phillips thought. She had the same eyes as her son.
“I’m told you’re from the police?” Her voice was soft, breathy almost.
“Yes,” Phillips confirmed, grateful that he had retained his warrant card to be able to show her. She didn’t need to know that he was on suspension. “The information you give us now could mean the difference between saving a woman’s life and—and not,” he finished inadequately, unable even to form the words out loud.
“Please think carefully,” Anna urged. “We don’t care about your past or about why you left it behind. If you want, we’ll never tell a soul we found you here. But please, tell us where you used to live, down near the waterfall.”
Jenny Adamson—formerly Adams, until she’d made the slight change to her name—had spent nearly two years inside the protective confines of Minsteracres. Every day, she had prayed for Christ to redeem her and wash away her sins, but every night the past came back to her and the cycle began again. She would always remember and she would always know that she was to blame. No amount of art or dance therapy, of healing hands or walks among the trees would remove the ever-present knowledge that she had borne a killer and, she feared, made him that way in the first place.
She turned without a word and led them into a small sitting room that reminded them of an old people’s home, with beige-coloured high-backed chairs and a lingering scent of custard pudding. She turned the light on and the room was instantly lit by a bank of energy-saving bulbs that hardly lifted it from the general gloom.
“I don’t know how you found me,” she said, and let herself sink into one of the stiff chairs.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Anna urged her. “Please tell us where he might be, Jenny. If we don’t find him in the next hour, he’s going to murder somebody else.”
The woman pressed shaking fingers to her eyes.
“If he finds me here, he’ll kill me. Do you understand? He’ll kill me.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“I…I was young when I had him and it wasn’t planned. I didn’t want a baby. I only wanted Charles,” she whispered.
“But you had him, all the same.”
“Yes, but I didn’t give him much of a life. All my love and attention was for Charles. That was the way it was.”
“He killed his father, in the end,” Phillips said flatly. He wasn’t interested in this woman’s stumbling confession. She’d had more than enough time to make her peace with the things she had done.
“I think—yes, I know he did.” She dashed away a tear but it wasn’t for the degeneration of her child, it was for the man she still loved, despite all the years that had passed. “Charlie—Keir—went out one night, he said he was going for a walk. I didn’t care because I was expecting Charles and I preferred to have him out of the way.”
Anna’s heart hardened towards the quivering, grey-haired woman sitting delicately on the stained old chair. It was hard to imagine a woman being so unfeeling towards her own child, even though that child had long since grown into a man, and that man was a killer.
“Charles never made it to the house that night and his body was found the next morning, smashed against the rocks at the bottom of High Force. I knew it, though, even before word started to spread. I knew it because Charlie came home and his shirt was covered in blood.”
Tears began to stream down her face and she let them fall.
“I t-told him I wanted him out. He took Charles from me, I know he did.”
“Tell us the address,” Anna growled, and the older woman looked up in shock at the undertone. “Tell us where he is, before he kills again.”
Jenny hiccupped and wiped at the snot dripping from her nose. Nobody offered to find her a tissue.
“You’ve known all along where he might be,” Phillips managed. “All this time when we’ve been chasing our tails, searching high and low, you knew and you never told a soul.”
“You don’t understand,” she wailed. “He doesn’t know I’m here. The summer before he started killing all those girls, I moved here and changed my name. I didn’t want to live in fear anymore, terrified that he’d eventually do what he’d threatened to do so many times before. He hated me but he loved me, I think. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I asked the sisters to help me because I didn’t want to be in the world any longer. I left him a note, telling him it was the end, I didn’t want to be his mother anymore. I think he believed—still believes—that I’m dead or somewhere very far away. If he knew I was still alive and living so close, he’d kill me.”
“He’s killed three other people instead because of your silence.”
The woman made a cross against her chest. clasped her hands together and then recited an address in a dull little voice.
“I’ll pray to God for forgiveness,” she finished.
Anna took Phillips’ arm and tugged him away, fearful of what he might say or do.
“Come on, Frank. Come away now. We have everything we need.”
CHAPTER 27
Unable to contact either Ryan or Lowerson by telephone, Phillips radioed through the address Jenny Adams had given them. Ryan took comfort from the crackling sound of his voice coming through the speaker and, for a moment, it was as if they had gone back to a simpler time when nobody had smartphones or tablets. He acknowledged safe receipt of the information and radioed his colleagues in Northumbria and Durham Constabularies who had been on standby for an alert over the past three hours. The address given as Edwards’ childhood home was a small farmhouse located a mile or so south of High Force waterfall, perched on high ground between two forested areas and accessible via a single track. It was among those barren fields, volcanic outcrops and thickets of forest that a young Keir Edwards had lived his lonely childhood as Charlie Adams, wandering the hills and ravines, swimming in the lakes and listening to the unfortunate comings and goings of a domineering, absentee father and a submissive, selfish mother whom he would eventually feel compelled to kill, time and again.
With an hour to go before the eight o’clock deadline, Ryan set about the business of ensnaring him. It was imperative that Edwards should not be alerted to a police presence. Small teams of plain-clothed police officers set about evacuating the houses close to Edwards’ farmhouse, although given its sheltered location there were very few of those and none within a half-mile radius. It was not outside the realms of possibility for Edwards to take hostages from any of those houses, or indeed from the jolly-looking pub opposite the tourist entrance to High Force waterfall which lay to the north on the other side of a forested area. For that reason, residents were swiftly removed from the designated high-risk zone and road blocks were set up at every major road exit. It was all done quietly and without fuss, under the velvety fold of darkness. People mostly came willingly and without complaint—for those who didn’t, the casual mention of an escaped serial killer was enough to make them hustle into the backseat of an unmarked car to be driven to safety.
By the time th
e digital clock on Ryan’s dashboard showed seven-thirty, inner and outer cordons had been successfully arranged. Armed response teams seconded from neighbouring command areas were in position to the north, south, east and west of The Hacker’s location. Ordinary police manned the outer cordon to ensure no passing civilians entered the danger zone. It was already a risky proposition to override Edwards’ explicit instruction that no other police should be present but Ryan had already received Phillips’ blessing that he was taking the right course of action as far as he was concerned.
The only problem was, Ryan would be going in without any means of communication—Edwards would be sure to spot any bulky radios or wires and, if he did, it was more likely he’d execute MacKenzie on the spot. Ryan was therefore relying on their deal, offering himself in exchange for his friend Denise, who must have lived through untold nightmares over the past week. It would be a straight switch to get MacKenzie out as swiftly as possible, following which the armed response teams were free to enter immediately afterward.
Unlike the man he hunted, Ryan did not consider himself superhuman or above taking obvious safety measures. With Anna’s face printed clearly in his mind, he wore a bulky stab vest, as did every one of the police staff who made up the response team scattered across the quiet countryside. He also wore steel-capped walking boots, having already learned that his usual thin brown suede boots were wholly inadequate for hill walking. Headgear rested on his lap, which he fully intended to wear when approaching the farmhouse. From his current position on the main road to the north of High Force, it would take him perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes to walk along the single track, arriving at approximately seven-forty-five. The response units had been told to surround the farmhouse if MacKenzie had not exited by five-past-eight, which roughly coincided with the time the sun was due to set. Chief Constable Morrison approved his strategy and so all that remained was for Ryan to approach the farmhouse on foot and prepare to face his personal demon one last time.
* * *
Ryan had ordered that Phillips and Anna should head back to the holiday cottage and stay well out of range of the action. Phillips would have stayed to protect her, entrusting the safety of MacKenzie to his best friend and superior officer, but it would have gone against his every instinct screaming for him to be there when Denise was brought to safety.
Anna agreed wholeheartedly and suggested they join Lowerson in position on the north side of High Force waterfall. The River Tees separated the north and south sides and, since the farmhouse was on the south, they would be far enough away not to present a distraction or interfere with the police operation.
Phillips was supposed to be on suspension but CID bureaucracy meant diddly squat to him at that precise moment, when the only thing occupying his mind was ensuring Denise was safe and unharmed. If it came to it, he’d risk another disciplinary. So thinking, Phillips stopped to retrieve his firearm, checking the safety clasp and tucking it into his holster before making for the front door.
Anna paused at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s the matter, lass?”
She glanced upstairs in the direction of the safe box she’d hidden beneath one of the beds.
“Just a minute.”
She took the stairs two at a time and scrambled to retrieve it from beneath the bed. Her fingers shook a bit as she unlocked the box and lifted Ryan’s firearm out of its leather case but her movements were sure and quick as she checked the mechanism.
Her father had done little enough for his family but he had taught her how to fire a gun.
The weight of it felt alien and dangerous in her hand and she thought about returning it to the safety box but instead she shoved it into the deep pocket of her waxed Barbour jacket and ran lightly back down the stairs.
“Ready,” she said.
Phillips gave her an odd, searching look but he gestured for her to go ahead. She was a capable woman who’d been brought up on the land. She was no trigger-happy fool and, besides, he hadn’t seen her take anything.
Had he?
* * *
Keir Edwards lay atop a high ridge of craggy whinstone rock overlooking the River Tees near Low Force, his belly flattened to the rock as he surveyed a group of seven or eight firearms officers huddling around an armoured vehicle, scratching their arses. He watched them for another minute or two through his binoculars and felt anger run like lava through his body.
Did Ryan think he was stupid?
Did he imagine that he wouldn’t have prepared for every eventuality, every possible misstep?
His plan had always been to wait to kill Denise MacKenzie in front of Ryan for maximum impact. He would savour the pain on the other man’s face as if it were a fine wine, something that had taken years to mature.
Then he would kill Ryan too.
It was unfortunate that time constraints would not allow him to truly relish the experience but his hands were nimble and he was sure he could achieve something quite spectacular in only five minutes. After that, he would leave via his planned route. There was nobody who knew these hills as he did, nobody who had traced every crop of heather, every juniper bush and rock formation. He could have walked blindfolded through the dark and would still be able to outrun a team of CID plodders.
Edwards had a rucksack packed full of Ryan’s fine clothes and a passport with Ryan’s name and face on it, carefully doctored so that the eyes appeared a darker shade to match his own. He was sure he would enjoy spending some time playing a dead man.
Slowly, he wriggled backward on his belly until he could be sure that nobody would see him, then jumped to his feet and ran back towards the farmhouse with a loping, sure-footed stride. There was a mile to cover but at this speed, he would be back within five minutes. His quarry had been in captivity for over a week and it was time to put her out of her misery, at least after the first few cuts.
* * *
Jack Lowerson coordinated Response Team B which was stationed in the visitors’ car park immediately north of High Force waterfall, about a mile away from the action. His task was to prevent anyone rabbiting away from the scene and to move his officers into a support position once Team A confirmed that MacKenzie had been safely picked up. They were positioned with Ryan at the foot of the narrow lane just off the main road, which turned into a winding, disused track leading directly to the farmhouse.
Ryan was already en route to the farmhouse, walking along the track dressed in protective clothing but without a radio or communications device so as not to enrage the man who held MacKenzie’s life in his hands. Lowerson heard crackling updates from one of the armed officers of Team A, who estimated Ryan’s progress as an average distance covered per minute.
“ETA is two minutes,” the voice said, and Lowerson continued to stare at the asphalt car park as he imagined what might be going through Ryan’s head as he made that long walk through the fields.
After arguing their way through the first roadblock, Phillips and Anna found Lowerson like that, staring fixedly at the ground with one index finger to his ear, presumably holding the small radio earpiece in place.
“Jack,” Phillips said, and waited for a response. “Jack!”
Lowerson looked up in surprise and gave them a funny half-wave, concerned by the prospect of a civilian on site when Ryan had given express orders that there should be none—and especially not his fiancée. Still, he walked to the boot of his car and retrieved another two radio headsets and stab vests, which they shrugged on without complaint.
The three of them settled back against the side of Lowerson’s car and listened to the disembodied voice of a firearms officer from Durham Constabulary counting down to Ryan’s arrival at the farmhouse.
“ETA is one minute.”
* * *
Ryan maintained a steady pace as he followed the long, single-track road leading south from the main road, curving up and over the landscape with its jutting rocks and uneven fields separated by crumbling walls or windblown hedges.
It would have been a lovely sight, to stand and watch Nature’s majesty as the sun reduced to a tiny slither of light and the sky was painted a deep inky blue. But he continued onward, climbing further into the fold of the valley until the road changed from tarmac and became long, overgrown grass.
He heard nothing except the sound of his own light breathing, the hum of crickets and the call of birds circling high in the sky above. It was a humbling experience to feel so alone in the world and with every passing step he realised that, without Anna and Phillips, he would never have found the location of this farmhouse. Not in time, at least, and not amid the countless other similar dwellings scattered across the fields and tucked away in the shadowy corners of the valley. The terrain was so unpredictable; sometimes the track would plateau, other times it dipped and fell before rising again to look out across the valley. To his left, he could hear the faint sound of High Force waterfall through a thicket of dense trees and it sounded like a running tap, rather than the rushing deluge he remembered visiting once before.
He rounded a bend and a simple two-storey stone building came into view, little more than a dark silhouette against the navy-blue sky. A light shone in the downstairs window, bidding him welcome.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist.
Just in time.
CHAPTER 28
Five minutes earlier
MacKenzie could feel a change in the air and a change in him. It had taken her a while to realise precisely what had changed but, when she did, the truth came crashing down on her like a tonne of bricks. The reason why Edwards had chosen not to see her all day was because he didn’t want to waste time on a woman he planned to kill within a matter of hours. The prospect of him coldly planning his attack was bowel-loosening and she’d vomited into the pathetic bucket in the corner of the room, already filled with her own faeces in the absence of a toilet.
MacKenzie was past caring about the indignity because her entire being was focused on survival. As the hours dragged on and the intermittent bursts of ‘fight or flight’ adrenaline coursed through her veins, she burned it off in a series of abdominal crunches rather than allow herself to sit jittering on the bed, waiting for death to come. Her ribs were still painful but each day she had forced herself to endure higher levels of discomfort, to desensitise her body against the final push that was to come—and it was working.