‘Of course,’ said Jered.
He cleared a pile of vestments off a small armchair and motioned to Liv to sit down.
‘I should have a cardigan around here somewhere,’ he said, rifling through the discarded pile of garments.
Francis hurried down the front path of St Catherine’s. In the round arc of the streetlights ahead, he saw the rain still billowing in slanted sheets. His shirt was soaked through in minutes – but he rejected the thought of running into his house to grab dry clothes. His phone told him he’d missed a call from Rose Lewis while he’d been talking to Jered Stapleton – it would just have to wait. A killer was roaming free somewhere on Brighton’s streets and Francis had to find him. But at least Liv Templeton was safe.
64
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Alex
When the sewage level reached halfway up his chest, Alex started to panic. He had exhausted himself trying to rip the rusty ladder away from the wall, and his cuffed wrist was a bloody mess. Now the current was so strong that he had to cling on to the top rung with both arms. The filthy brown water sloshed against him, splashing his face and making him feel sick, and his whole body felt slapped as solid particles of muck pelted against him and wedges of soggy paper wrapped round his legs.
This wasn’t how he wanted to die.
He blinked. The splashes of water stung his eyes and his throat burned from constantly retching.
He thought about Liv and felt a fresh surge of agony. Had Francis Sullivan managed to save her? Or had they all been carried away by the tide of waste water?
But the person he thought about most while clinging to the side of the sewer in the pitch black was his mother. He had distanced himself from her, horrified by the thought that for the last nineteen years she hadn’t even known who the father of her child was. It wasn’t that he believed what Paul had told him and it wasn’t that he didn’t want to believe that Thierry was his father. He just didn’t know what to think.
But what the hell did it matter whether his genes had come from Paul or Thierry? Their genes were the same. He would have been the same person no matter which one of them fathered him. But they weren’t the same people. Thierry had been a good father to him in a way that he doubted Paul would have been. Paul had raped his mother, and he was the result of that rape.
And now he was going to die down here, without getting the chance to say sorry to her, or to tell her that he loved her, that she was the most important person in his life.
Despair flooded him and he wondered if it wouldn’t be easier just to submerge himself in the torrent and embrace what was coming.
The thought made him retch again and he clung onto the rusty ironwork a little bit tighter. If the rain stopped, the water levels would recede. It could still happen, so he wasn’t going to surrender just yet.
He wondered how long he had left. Every second would be precious to him. A few fleeting minutes to remember all the good things that he could. Only he couldn’t think of anything good. Even his memories of Tash were overlaid by the image of her in the hospital, as the medics fought desperately to save her. He’d soon be dead like her. His teeth were chattering and he had to keep spitting out the foul-tasting water splashing into his mouth.
‘Help . . . Help me!’
He’d shouted over and over again, but it was a waste of energy. There was no one down here to hear him and the roar of the sewage would drown out his shouts even if there was.
He was going to die.
He was going to die alone and covered in shit.
He closed his eyes and did something he hadn’t done since he was a kid. He prayed, urgently and fervently. If there was a god, now was the time he needed to do his stuff.
And miraculously, his prayers were answered. A flicker of light in the distance told him there was someone else down here.
‘Help. Help me . . .’
He didn’t even care if it was the killer. He just wanted to see another person.
The light became brighter. It was coming closer.
‘Help . . .’
‘Alex Mullins, is that you?’ called a voice.
‘Yes! I’m here.’ He yanked at the metal ladder, desperate to get free, desperate to go towards the source of the voice.
Finally, he could make out what looked like a small rubber dinghy heading towards him on the current. There were two men in it, both using paddles to steer the craft as best they could. When they came close enough, one of them picked up a rope from the bottom of the boat.
‘We’ve got one chance, Alex. You need to catch this and hold onto it or we’ll go straight past you.’
He threw the rope, shining his torch so Alex could see it. It had a knot at the end of it and Alex stretched out an arm to grab it.
‘I can’t hold it.’
It was slipping from his grasp. The dinghy was level with him, rushing past him. He snatched his arm back to his chest so his shackled hand could grab the rope as well. His bloody wrist had to take his full weight and the pull of the boat and men. For a few seconds, he thought his wrist would snap, but then one of the men was able to reach for the bottom of the ladder.
‘We’re here, Alex,’ he said. ‘We’re going to get you out.’
It was the best thing anyone had ever said to him.
65
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Francis
‘Talk to me, Rose.’
Francis was pounding down North Street, outstripping the torrent of rainwater that rushed down the gutter like a small, fast river. His white shirt was plastered, transparent, against his chest and his trousers clung to his legs like wet towels. He could hear the scream of sirens and blue lights flashed in almost every direction. The city centre was being flooded by police manpower. If only they knew who they were looking for.
‘Finally!’ said Rose Lewis at the other end of the line. ‘Right, you need to hear this. I’ve done some digging on Valentine Montgomery since the dental match came in.’
‘Be quick.’ His voice jarred as his feet thudded on the pavement.
‘He was a successful businessman, electronic components, import/export, and he lived in a pile just on the edge of Bosham Hoe.’
‘So the bones were found pretty much in his back garden?’ Francis spoke breathlessly, not slowing down.
‘Absolutely. He went missing in 1995 . . .’
‘We know this.’
‘What you don’t know is that the year before, his seventeen-year-old daughter Aimée died on the same stretch of water. There’s some confusion over what exactly happened. Montgomery’s son was driving the boat – she went overboard and got chewed up by the propellers.’
‘Jesus.’
‘At the time, the son, who was then twenty-one, claimed that she’d thrown herself out of the boat and into its path. He could do nothing to prevent it – but he’s the only witness to what happened.’
‘Implying?’
‘Could have been an accident due to bad driving, for which he didn’t want to take the blame. But the girl was known to have mental health issues. She was anorexic and had a record of self-harming. Also, Montgomery’s wife died exactly one year to the day before his daughter.’
‘Cause?’
‘Cancer. The date, which was also Aimée’s birthday, gives credence to the suicide claim.’
Francis had reached the bottom of North Street and was waiting to cross Old Steine as a fleet of police cars sped by.
‘But this doesn’t get us anywhere with Montgomery’s murder – or how it’s linked to the Poison Ink killer.’ Francis was impatient for facts he could work with.
‘It might,’ said Rose. ‘Listen, when the police investigated his disappearance, they found nothing of interest in his business dealings, or those of his partners. But his family had imploded. I think you need to talk to
his son at any rate.’
‘Okay. I’ll get the team onto that next week. Thanks, Rose.’ He was about to disconnect.
‘Wait.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve done some digging on the son.’
‘Slow week, was it?’ Francis hurried across Old Steine as a gap in the traffic presented itself.
‘The reason your team couldn’t find him was because he changed his name – not surprising, given his possible part in his sister’s death – but I found one thing that could help. ‘Jay’ wasn’t his given name. It was just a nickname, the letter ‘J’ in fact. His actual first name was Jered . . .’
Francis stopped in his tracks in the middle of the road.
‘. . . Stapleton. It’s Jered Stapleton.’ The realisation hit him with the shock of an ice bath. The Latin. The Buxtehude. The religious symbolism.
‘What the? How did you . . .’
Francis cut Rose off and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He turned 180 degrees in the middle of the road and started running. A police car blared its horn at him and he turned again, digging out his warrant card. He ran up to the passenger door.
‘Get out now,’ he screamed at the WPC sitting in the passenger seat.
‘What?’
‘Now!’ He climbed into the car as the woman was still pulling her second foot out of the door. ‘Drive up to St Catherine’s. Put your siren on and your foot down.’
There was a sharp ringing in Francis’s ears and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He clamped his teeth down on his lower lip and tried to calm himself but it proved impossible.
‘Faster!’
‘Yes, sir.’
The PC driving the car gripped the wheel tighter as he took a sharp corner. Francis was flung against the passenger door – he hadn’t even had time to get his seatbelt on. But he didn’t care. They had to get there in time. They had to get there before Jered Stapleton could start tattooing Liv.
The car screeched to a halt by the entrance to Wykham Terrace. Francis leapt out.
‘Come on,’ he shouted to the PC. ‘And call back up, now.’
‘What . . .?’
‘The Poison Ink killer. He’s in the church.’
Francis ran up the brick path past the top end of the terrace of houses, and through the gate into the churchyard. His chest burned but he ran faster. The PC trailed behind him, talking on the radio as he ran. Francis lunged at the double doors to push them open and crashed into them. They were locked.
‘Damn, damn, damn!’
He turned around and looked at the PC coming up behind him. He was a big bloke, well over six foot and built to match.
‘It’s locked,’ he said.
His meaning was clear to the PC, who quickly re-hooked his radio to his belt. He looked closely at the double doors.
‘The left one?’ he said.
‘I think so,’ said Francis, looking at the arrangement of the lock and door handles.
The copper took a step back, then launched a ferocious kick at the left-hand of the two doors. His momentum burst the lock and carried him forward into the church. Francis followed him in.
The place was in complete darkness.
‘Liv? Stapleton?’
Francis felt his way along by putting a hand out to find the back of the nearest pew. He moved as fast as he dared through the silent space, turning to go up the nave when he reached the end of the pew. The PC blundered behind him, swearing as he bumped into the font.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Gavin. Gavin Albright.’
‘Get the lights, Gavin,’ said Francis. ‘The switches are by the doors in the north transept. Directly opposite.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Francis carried on towards the vestry, straining his ears for any sounds that Stapleton and Liv were still in the building.
He heard nothing.
The lights came on and he was able to move more quickly. As he expected, the door to the vestry had been locked from the inside, but it only took another quick kick from his companion to break through.
‘This way,’ he said, running to the steep staircase that led down to the crypt.
From somewhere below, he could hear the whining buzz of a tattoo machine.
Please God, no!
At the bottom of the stairs, he went around a corner. There was light here, bright and white, but flickering with movement. As he entered the part of the crypt, he saw why. A tall man – Jered Stapleton – was bent over the largest of the stone sarcophagi, where Liv Templeton was lying, once more bound and stripped naked to the waist. The figure turned in his direction and the glare of a head torch shone directly into his eyes.
‘Stapleton, stop now!’
Jered Stapleton turned back to Liv and gouged the tattoo machine across her shoulder blades. Liv screamed and thrashed against her bindings.
Francis had no choice. He threw himself at Jered Stapleton with all the force he could muster. Stapleton swore loudly and tried to sidestep the onslaught, but Francis caught his left shoulder, causing the taller man to stagger. He dropped the tattoo iron, which clattered away over the slab-stone floor, and the two men followed it down with a crash. Francis was underneath, his arms pinned to his sides by the weight of Stapleton’s body.
He moved his legs and found the side of the stone sarcophagus Liv was lying on. Pushing off from it with his feet, he was able to squirm out from under the verger just in time to see Stapleton’s hand reaching for the tattoo machine. Without a foot on the pedal, the machine had stopped whining, but it didn’t stop Stapleton from jabbing it in the direction of Francis’s eye. Francis whipped his head to one side and felt the needles rip across the skin of his cheekbone.
As Stapleton raised his arm to try again, Gavin Albright loomed towards them out of the dark and grabbed the verger’s wrist. Yanking his arm back hard, the policeman dragged the verger away.
Francis struggled to his feet and put a hand up to his cheek. He felt warm blood course through his fingers.
Albright had Stapleton face down on the floor.
‘Cuffs, sir. On my belt,’ he said.
Francis unhooked a pair of handcuffs from the policeman’s belt and attached them to first one, then the other, of Stapleton’s wrists. Outside, a wail of sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance and the police backup team.
‘Jered Stapleton, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Tash Brady, Sally Ann Granger, Lou Riley and Tony Hitchins, and for the attempted murder of Liv Templeton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
He hoped to God that the last charge remained attempted murder and didn’t become an actual murder charge. But he was by no means certain that it would.
66
Sunday, 3 September 2017
Rory
Jered Stapleton filled the tiny interview room with his presence. From his fingers, stained black with tattoo ink, drumming on the Formica tabletop, to the stench rising up from his sewage-soaked shoes.
Rory stared at him from the door, gripping the doorframe as he struggled to get his temper under control.
‘Murdering bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.
Tony Hitchins was dead. Angie Burton was still missing. The boss, and Liv Templeton, had been rushed straight to hospital, along with the tattooing equipment and ink bottle that Stapleton had been using. Tanika Parry was doing what she could, but if either of them died . . .
‘I heard that,’ said Stapleton.
‘Good,’ said Rory, as Kyle Hollins followed him into the room.
The tape recorder wasn’t switched on yet, so Rory didn’t have to mind what he said.
The two policeme
n sat down, both of them instinctively moving their chairs back from the table to be further from the rancid stink of sewage. Rory explained what would happen and Kyle snapped on the recording device.
‘It’s two a.m. on Sunday the third of September, 2017. In the room: DS Rory Mackay and DC Kyle Hollins to interview a suspect in an attack on Liv Templeton. Please state your name for the record.’
‘Jered Montgomery Stapleton.’
So he was going to co-operate?
‘You have been arrested on suspicion of four murders and two attempted murders. You can request to have a lawyer present.’
‘I don’t need a lawyer. God will be the only judge of my actions.’
‘I think you’ll find there’ll be plenty of people judging you for your actions down here on earth, Mr Stapleton. But if you don’t want a lawyer that’s up to you.’
There was a sharp rap, and the door opened.
‘Rory?’
Rory’s head snapped around. It couldn’t be.
‘Boss?’ He got up and slipped out into the corridor to find Francis Sullivan standing outside. ‘What the hell? You should be at the hospital.’
Sullivan had a bandage taped to his cheek where Stapleton had gouged him with the tattoo iron. His complexion was grey, but at least he’d changed out of the drenched and filthy clothes he’d been wearing when Rory had last seen him.
‘No, I shouldn’t. I need to see this through.’ His voice betrayed his absolute exhaustion. ‘There’s nothing they can do for me. It’s just a waiting game.’
‘Nothing they can do? What about a blood transfusion?’ Rory couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Francis shrugged. ‘Parry didn’t think that would make a difference. The dose is much smaller than the ones that killed the girls. I discharged myself.’
Rory shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I feel okay. Not great, but well enough to interview Stapleton. If my condition deteriorates, you’ll have to take over.’
They went back into the room and dismissed Kyle.
Rory turned the tape back on. Stapleton stared at them both from beneath heavy lids. Something had changed – it was as if he didn’t recognise them. As if he was drugged.
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 32