by Sarah Flint
She could see a couple of lights shining from within the main block and the odd random light in far-flung classrooms. Someone was there. She tried Atkins’ number again. It rang for what seemed like ages before the line clicked on.
‘Vincent, are you there?’
There was no speech, just a mumble, followed by the sound of heavy breathing. Everything about the scene was screaming danger but at the same time Atkins could die if she waited any longer. She tried to get him to speak but there was no more conversation, just the sound of his breaths.
‘Shit.’
She ended the call and dialled Hunter’s number again.
‘How far away are you?
‘We’re quite close. Should be there in ten minutes or less. I’ve called an ambulance but they can’t give an ETA.’
‘I’ve just phoned Atkins’ number and he answered it but there’s just heavy breathing. I can’t get anything more out of him.’
‘Is anyone else there?’
‘Not that I can see. There’s only one car in the car park and it’s his.’
‘You’ve got to go in then, Charlie. If you don’t and he dies, we’ll be in the shit. We’ll be with you as soon as we can. Give me a situation report when you know what’s happening.’
‘Will do.’
She rang off and climbed out of the car, her heart pumping, and made her way first to Atkins’ car. The vehicle was locked and there looked to be nothing of note inside it, so she headed for the main block. She’d check from the outside quickly first, before going in. His office opened on to the reception but its window looked out across the central square of the school, where he could no doubt keep an eye on the movements and behaviour of all his pupils. It wasn’t hard to find.
The window was closed and the blinds pulled down but a light shone out from around the edges. She pushed herself up on to her tip-toes and peered in through a large chink at the corner. Vincent Atkins was sitting in a chair, his body slumped forward on to his desk. In one hand he held his mobile phone, and a fountain pen was balanced in the other, its nib still resting on a pad. Various photographs were arranged around the desk in front of him in a semi-circle and a mug stood to one side.
The door to his office was open and she could see through the reception to what appeared to be the staff room, with a small kitchen area. There was no other movement and no sign of anyone else being present.
She ran round to the main entrance. Luckily he’d left the door unlocked. She pushed it and went in, heading straight through the reception to the headteacher’s office.
Atkins was still breathing, though his breath was now fast and shallow. She tried to rouse him but he didn’t respond. She ended their call on his phone and removed the pen from his hand. Across the pad was the message, ‘I’m so sorry for everything, Molly’. To her alarm it was written in the same ornate, flowery hand writing as on the note pinned to the gate of Cross Bones Graveyard.
She looked at the contents of the mug. Instead of the dregs of a coffee, it contained the last few drops of a transparent liquid. A small glass bottle lay on its side nearby, with a few drops, of what appeared to be the same liquid spilt next to it. She picked them up and sniffed them but both were odourless, in Charlie’s mind almost certainly GBL.
Vincent Atkins must be their man after all, and he was almost dead. With Hunter and the others not far off and an ambulance on the way, she had to try and keep him breathing until help arrived.
She ran round behind his chair and pulled at his limp body, hoisting him through the air on to the rug below. There was no way he was going to die if she had anything to do with it. His victims and their families needed to see him in the dock. Carefully she turned him on to his side, arranging his body into the recovery position. His pulse was getting weaker; she could barely feel it now. She leant down to listen for the sound of him exhaling and to feel his breath against her cheek. It was at that moment that she felt the hand on her shoulder.
*
Hunter banged his fist down on to the dash board. Red brake lights were all that illuminated their path.
‘Bloody hell, why can’t motorists learn to drive more carefully? Get out of the bloody way, you morons!’
‘I don’t think they actually can move guv.’ Paul stared in dismay at the line of traffic in front, all of whom were trying and failing to get out of their way. ‘And nor can we.’
*
‘Oh my God, you made me jump. Next time give me some warning that you’re here.’
Charlie put her hand to her heart, emphasising her alarm.
‘Sorry, I presumed you’d heard me. There wasn’t much I could do for Vincent while I waited for the ambulance. I heard you come in as I was making coffee so I took the liberty of making us both one.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ She stood up, looking down at Vincent Atkins as she took the mug that was offered. ‘He’s as stable as he can be. Hopefully the ambulance will be here soon.’
He lifted his own mug to his mouth, so she followed suit, sipping the warm, sweet coffee. It tasted different but quite pleasant.
‘I put a dash of Krupnik in it. I hope you don’t mind. It’s a liqueur that comes from Poland. It’s made from honey and other herbs. Good for dealing with shocks, and this certainly is shocking. I couldn’t believe it when he phoned.’
‘He phoned you too?’ She took another sip, then another. It felt good to have someone else with her.
‘Yes, he was rambling. I told him to come here where we could talk. He arrived a while ago. I said that he should have left Susan alone. That she was mine. That I’d lost her once before and now, because of him, I’d lost her again. ‘He didn’t even argue with me. He just did everything I told him to.’
She was confused; but more than that she was light-headed. He was talking in a very matter-of-fact way but he wasn’t making sense. She wanted to laugh; the whole situation suddenly seemed ridiculous, but at the same time she was beginning to feel queasy. She tried to focus on his words.
‘I thought you were different though. You listened and made time for me. I saw the way you looked at me. You admired me and I admired you. I was even beginning to love you, until I watched you today with that other man swinging you around, carrying you, kissing you.’
He walked across to the side of the room and picked up a bag, setting it on the floor next to her. Charlie was watching but she couldn’t talk, her body wouldn’t move as she wanted it to. She could hear every little noise and smell the aroma of the coffee as it wafted towards her, but she couldn’t walk away, even though she tried to move her legs.
He pulled some cord out of the bag and ran it through his fingers, advancing towards her.
‘But you’re no different to Susan. Susan never ever really saw me. She liked me, I know that, but she never really loved me, not like I loved her. I was just there as a friend and a confidante all those years ago. Even when I came back she was the same. She would chat, she would pass the time of day, but she looked straight through me. She could have chosen me; she was free from Mickey but instead she started an affair with this excuse for a man. Look at him. He deserves to die. What did he have that I didn’t? Neither of us have money but I- I would have given her so much more.’
He laughed then, a deep hollow laugh, edged with bitterness.
‘She ripped my heart out and tossed it aside, not once but twice and so I did the same to hers. She didn’t even recognise me, not until it was too late.’
Charlie recalled the phrase through the jumble of words in her head. It was the same phrase that had been written on the note left on the graveyard gate and yet it was Vincent’s hand writing on the note on his desk? It was Vincent’s message to Molly? She looked towards the note, confused.
He saw where she was looking and smiled. ‘I just wrote down what he was saying. It fitted nicely.’
‘And you... drugged him... just like... you’ve drugged me?’ Her head was becoming muzzy. She threw the mug to one side.
Her head was spinning now, thoughts and memories of conversations springing to the forefront of her mind, before disappearing again into the fog. She felt him wrapping the cords around her wrists but she was powerless to stop him. She knew the answers but they were just out of her grasp. ‘But why? Why you? I don’t understand.’
‘Because I am not who you think I am.’
He turned towards her, taking off his thick-rimmed glasses, pulling his hair back from his face. She stared at his face, up close now, and her thoughts started to take shape into a man that she had never met, but one she had heard of; a man who would have known all three of the victims and whose career had been tainted by one.
She remembered Joan Whitmore’s voice as clear as day. How could she have not seen through the beard, the thick bush of hair that masked his features, the glasses that covered his eyes? How could she have not recognised the clear, clean shaven face of Father Michal, the young priest kneeling reverently before Pope Benedict in the photo at St Matthew’s Church? They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. As she looked into his now she wondered whether she was peering into the depths of hell.
*
‘Charlie’s phone is just ringing out,’ Hunter muttered. ‘Where the hell is that girl?’
They were on the move again, at last. A few minutes more and they would be there. He saw the blue lights of the ambulance just ahead. It looked as if it was going to the same place as they were. Good, he hated dealing with casualties.
The police car Charlie had taken was in the car park when they drove in and the lights in reception were on. She must be there, so why didn’t she answer? He jumped out and headed straight into the building, calling out her name. He tried the number again; this time he could hear it ringing. He followed the sound. It led him to the headteacher’s office, its ring tone loud in the quiet school. Vincent Atkins was lying on the floor, unmoving. A paramedic who’d been just behind him took control of Atkins, immediately indicating that he was still alive. Hunter scanned the office but there was no trace of Charlie. She should be with him. He could see her phone now lying on the desk, blinking on and off with his name neatly across the screen. Hunter’s mind filled with dread. Something had happened and he didn’t know what.
Paul shouted across from the reception. Hunter ran to join him, the adrenalin shooting through his body. Paul was standing directly outside a fire escape, the doors of which had been flung open. A small parking area outside led to the access road, used for deliveries to the kitchens. The gate from the access road also hung wide open and a set of tyre marks criss-crossed the tarmac.
‘Look guv.’ There was a slight note of panic in Paul’s voice. He was pointing at an object lying on the ground. ‘It’s one of Charlie’s hats. I’d recognise it anywhere.’
Hunter ran back to Atkins’ office. Maybe her phone would yield a clue to where she was, but it shouldn’t be here. It should be with Charlie. She never went anywhere without it. He picked it up and scanned through the call data. Other than calls between the two of them, the only other name shown, within the necessary time frame was that of Vincent Atkins, and he was still here.
His eyes alighted on the photos, the empty mug and the note. It was in the same handwriting as their killer’s and it read as if Vincent had written it. Next to the ornate writing was another style of lettering. It looked to have been written in a hurry, the letters scratched clumsily on the paper, the last letter tailing off as if the writer had been interrupted. He bent down and read it but it made no sense.
He looked back at the phone. His name was still at the top of the call list. Other police units were beginning to arrive, summoned no doubt by Naz or Sabira. Atkins was being lifted onto a stretcher now, still unconscious. He would be saying nothing for a good long time.
Quickly he put the phone and hand written note into exhibits bags and beckoned to the others to follow him. He’d sent Charlie into this situation. Now he had to get her out of it.
*
It had been easier than he’d ever thought. Now she was his, to do with as he wanted. He peered round at her sitting in the passenger seat of his dark blue Vauxhall Vectra Estate, her hands bound, her mouth gagged, her body kept in place with the seat belts. She was pretty; not too dissimilar to Susan in her younger days, but with more courage and more drive. There was nothing she wouldn’t try. He had seen that already, when he’d caught her writing a message. Thirty seconds was all that it had taken to open the fire escape doors ready and ensure the car was unlocked. Thirty seconds shut in the room, with no phone and no way out and in that time, she’d scribbled those letters on to Vincent’s suicide note. In the end, he’d decided it was more important for police to find Vincent’s message, than worry about a few random letters on the same piece of paper that made no sense.
Leaving her phone behind served two purposes; firstly, as confirmation of the call log and secondly to prevent her escape, having caught her earlier trying to surreptitiously remove it from her trouser pocket.
As a witness, he’d been given DC Stafford’s work contact mobile to call if necessary. As a suspect, Vincent hadn’t. It was a spark of ingenuity getting the headteacher to call from his personal number. He hadn’t even had to tell the old fool what words to use; the man was happy to die and he was happy to help him. In fact, it had been fitting. He’d thoroughly enjoyed taking out his love rival. Maybe next time he would do the same again...
This hostage was not as subdued as the others and careful handling would be required. His attempts to get more GBL into her had been futile. She was feisty and strong and had fought him off, spitting out the fluid as she did so. He would enjoy breaking her to his will. It would almost be a shame to kill her, but he knew he’d enjoy the process.
He glanced down at her bindings as he drove, checking that they were still secure. She was twisting her wrists, attempting to loosen them, wriggling and squirming, trying to reach the knot. For a second he was mesmerised by the way her fingers moved, the manner in which each perfectly formed digit bent and pointed and stretched.
He knew exactly where he was heading; he’d been there before. It was remote, undisturbed, inhabited by the dead, and soon it would have another body added to its number. His heart quickened at the knowledge of what was to come; images of blood, flesh, bones firing his imagination.
He looked down at her fingers again and felt the usual twitch of anticipation coursing through his body. He couldn’t wait to add this latest trophy to his collection.
Chapter 39
Feliks Makary was half asleep when Hunter burst into his cell, followed closely by the custody officer, whose keys he’d borrowed on the way through. There was nothing further to be gained at Harris Academy. He strode over to the mattress and thrust the message he’d just retrieved from the school in his face.
‘What does this mean?!’
He read out the letters, ‘FM is D… Your initials are FM so who or what is D?’
Makary stretched languidly and closed his eyes again. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Hunter pulled the blanket off him and hauled him upright. Makary threw his hands up to try to fend him off but Hunter was having none of it. Grabb
ing him around the top of his T-shirt, he twisted the material so it tightened around his throat, then pushed him up against the wall.
‘I don’t give a shit about what you or your fictitious mate Radislaw do or don’t do at your flat! I’m not interested in what gear you have there or whether you know that it’s stolen or not! What I am interested in is what you know about this message with the initials “FM” on it! Your initials! What I’m also interested in is the other note we found at your flat with the three registration numbers on, which has the same initials above them. So... best you start talking!’
Makary shrugged. ‘I know nothing.’
A wave of pure rage surged through Hunter and he felt his cheeks burning. The custody officer tapped him on the arm, worried with how the situation was beginning to escalate.
‘Leave him, guv. He’s not going to speak, and if he does say anything, it won’t be admissible in court.’
‘I don’t give a fuck if it’s admissible or not in court Sergeant, and I don’t give a fuck whether he wants to make something of me asking.’
He turned back round to Makary and twisted his clothing tighter still. He didn’t give a shit that the man was half his age and twice his size, he had to try.
‘Now look, you lying bastard, one of my officers is missing. She was dealing with a suspect for three murders and this note was found at her last known location.’ He shoved the message towards him. ‘Two of the registration numbers on the other piece of paper found at your flat are linked to two of these murders and your initials are written on both notes, so I suggest you tell me everything you know about them, because if anything happens to my officer, I swear I will hold you personally bloody responsible and I will make it my mission to get you charged with withholding evidence in a murder investigation, not to mention possession of every single item in that flat of yours. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be looking at ten years in a room just like this one and then when they do see fit to release you, I’ll make sure you’re on the first plane back to Poland.’