by John Nicholl
A long -serving constable sitting at the back of the room held his hand in the air like a child in a classroom. ‘How reliable is the information, ma’am? How the hell would the Met know what’s happening in our part of the country?’
‘The source of the intelligence has to remain confidential, for operational reasons pertinent to the Met, but I’m assured it’s accurate. Turner was in the Aberystwyth area after leaving Caerystwyth. Let’s hope he’s still there for us to find.’
‘Thanks, ma’am, seems reasonable.’
‘Local Aberystwyth police have already begun door -to-door enquiries – starting in the town initially, and then moving on to the outlying areas and villages along the coast. We’ll be joining them in the search, together with all available officers from other divisions, who will meet at Aberystwyth police station at eight a.m. precisely. You’ll then proceed from there under the direct supervision of nominated sergeants, who will notify you of your allocated geographical area. We’re talking about a lot of properties, residential and otherwise. We need to be organised, we need to be thorough, and we need to be quick. If Emily Gravel’s still alive, and we’re going to assume she is until proved otherwise, we need to find her. We’re going to look today, and tomorrow, and every day after that, until we achieve our objective. We owe it to Emily, and we owe it to Grav. He’s one of our own. Don’t forget that … Are there any final questions?’
All was silent.
‘Right, the clock’s ticking. I’ll be available at Aberystwyth Police Station throughout the day. Keep me fully informed of any developments. Follow your supervisor’s orders closely, and we should have a successful outcome. On your feet, let’s make a move, transport’s waiting.’
53
Charles Turner pulled up his pants and trousers and smiled. ‘Not bad at all, Emily. I barely heard you breathing that time. And you’ve learnt not to move. Eight out of ten. Perhaps if you’d lost consciousness, it would be a nine.’
Emily raised herself upright and opened her mouth wide, greedily sucking in the pungent air. ‘There’s going to be a next time?’
‘Possibly. I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Oh, come on, why only possibly? I told you I’m up for almost anything, and I meant it. Why kill me when we can have so much fun together? There’s a million girls out there to hunt down and imprison. We could do it together. I could source the clothes and the shoes and help you dye their hair. We were destined to meet. I truly think we’re meant to be together. Why bring all that potential to a premature end when you don’t have to?’
‘I may consider it. On the other hand, I may not.’
‘I helped you work out what happened with your mother, didn’t I? There’s so much more we could explore together, me and you against the world.’
He clutched her hair and forced her head back. ‘You sound a little hoarse. I hope the pressure on your throat wasn’t too onerous? I thought you’d stopped breathing at one point. I’ve never been harder.’
‘I’m absolutely fine. Why not let me come upstairs? I badly need a shower. I could freshen up, make myself more presentable, and cook you something nice for breakfast. We could eat it together with a cup of coffee. What do you think? You could play me some opera. I’d love to learn more about it. You once said you’d take me to Verona.’
Turner looked at her and shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not ready to trust you just yet. You’ll live another day or two. That’s a triumph of sorts. I’d be grateful for that, if I were you.’
Emily settled herself on the cold concrete floor, hiding her hands underneath her, and carefully placed her lower leg on top of the handcuffs. ‘What was that?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I thought I heard something upstairs. I think someone’s there.’
Turner tensed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I could swear I heard something.’
Emily felt a combination of anxiety and hope as he hurried towards the stairs and flicked the light off before ascending. This was her chance, maybe her only chance. If she wanted to see the light of day again, she had to take it.
54
Emily lifted herself to her feet in the darkness, placed the palms of her hands against the wall, and moved slowly to her right in a cautious sideways motion until she discovered the light switch. She opened her eyes slowly, taking in the room, as they adjusted to the electric glare. There were no windows, no coal hatches, and only one door at the top of the stairs, but there may be a weapon. She had to find a weapon.
Emily searched every inch of the cellar, taking her time looking in every nook and cranny, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing. When she’d almost given up and was walking towards the stairs, trying to build up the courage to ascend, she saw something glinting on the floor, half hidden by an oil stained tarpaulin.
She rushed across the floor and picked up a rusty replacement blade for a utility knife; discarded or misplaced at some point in the past. She held it in her right hand and ran the still sharp edge over the thumb of her left, causing dark blood to seep from the resulting wound. She clutched it tightly, not letting go, never letting go, and said a silent prayer of thanks to a God whose existence she sometimes doubted.
Emily stood at the bottom of the stairs for five minutes or more before placing her bare foot on the first step, which creaked alarmingly under her weight. She withdrew it quickly and stilled herself, listening for any sign of movement from the ground floor, but all was quiet. She tried again, avoiding the first step this time, and slowly climbed to the top, stepping tentatively, until she reached the door with the comparative relief of a climber conquering the summit of the Eiger.
She took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, before placing a trembling hand on the door knob. She turned it to the right and pushed the door open, slowly, until the gap was sufficient to place her head through and peer into the farmhouse kitchen.
Emily froze, every cell in her body on full alert and screaming, run, girl, run, but there was nowhere to go. She stood on the top step, staring at her captor with blinking eyes that were filling with tears. There he was, perched on a chair in the centre of the floor, directly opposite the door, with his arms folded in front of him and a cold sneer on his face. ‘Well, hello, Emily. I was wondering how long it would take you. It seems I can’t trust you after all.’
Emily considered retreating into her cellar home, but instead, she stood her ground. She pushed the door a few more inches and leant forward so her upper body was in the room. ‘I wasn’t trying to escape. I just wanted a shower. Look at the state I’m in. I just wanted to see you, that’s all.’
Turner kicked his chair aside. ‘Do you really think I’m that stupid? I told you not to underestimate me, but it seems you’ve done exactly that. That, my lovely, may well prove to be a fatal mistake.’
Emily took a slow step back as he walked towards her, but then, she moved quickly with agility and grace, taking one stride, and a second, before launching herself in an upward trajectory, smashing into him in mid- air, the blade flailing in every direction but not finding its target.
Turner fell backwards and crashed to the tiled floor. He looked up, dazed and shaken, as Emily sat astride him and repeatedly slashed at his face with the razor sharp blade. By the time he reacted, his face was a bloody mess, totally unrecognisable as the man she knew. He bucked one way, then the other, attempting to shake her off, but she clung on like a limpet. She slashed again and again, and kept striking, blow after blow, until he used all his remaining strength to knee her hard in the back, causing her to fall off with the blade still clutched in her bloody hand.
Turner moved swiftly this time, faster than his quarry, and kicked her in the face as she raised herself on all fours, attempting to continue the fight. Emily tumbled sideways, hitting her head on a table leg, and she lay there with him looming over her, his blood pouring from his open wounds on to her naked body. He stood there,
looking at her semi -conscious form; shocked – as much by the fact she’d dared to do such a thing, as from the searing pain. He lifted his right leg and stamped on her hand, breaking her fingers, before kicking the blade across the floor and well out of reach.
Turner pressed a tea towel to his face with one hand and clutched Emily’s hair with the other, dragging her towards the cellar steps with lurching movements that tore sections of skin from her scalp as he adjusted his grip. He stopped when he reached the door, panting hard, and rested for a moment to regain his strength. He dragged Emily upright by her throat, and sent her crashing down towards the cellar floor, where she lay moaning quietly to herself, temporarily oblivious to her reality.
When she finally came around, an hour or so later, she was back in the dark, cold, alone, bruised and battered, waiting for the end. It was the lowest point of her life.
55
PC Kieran Harris parked his West Wales Police patrol car on an area of rough ground, about twenty yards from the stone cottage. He turned off the engine just as bright rays of winter sunshine were breaking through the clouds. His first child, of six months, had slept fitfully during the night, waking often, and he was feeling somewhat jaded as he pulled on his cap and walked towards the front door, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
PC Harris knocked, and kept knocking, without response. He peered through the letter box but all he saw was a small hallway and a closed internal door. He was about to head back to the car, on the assumption that the place was deserted, or locked up for the winter, when he noticed tyre tracks leading to the back of the building.
The young constable hurried round the side of the cottage and stopped at first sight of the vehicle. He walked around it and tried the driver’s door, then the passenger door, and finally the rear doors, all of which were locked. He peered through the windows but there was nothing of significance to see. PC Harris, yawned, made a note of the number plate, and took out his radio. ‘PC 143 to control. Come in, please.’
The response was almost instantaneous. ‘Go ahead, Kieran.’
He provided the index number and requested a Police National Computer check.
‘Control to PC 143. The vehicle is a white Transit registered to West Wales Plumbing in Ammanford. It is not stolen, and the keeper is not wanted. Repeat, not stolen and no outstanding warrants.’
‘Thanks, Control, over and out.’ He returned his radio to his tunic pocket, noting the large WWP logo emblazoned on both sides of the van, and relaxed.
PC Harris approached the cottage and knocked on the back door, moving to look through a grubby ground floor window when he didn’t receive a response. He couldn't quite believe his eyes when he pressed his nose against the glass. There was a man standing behind a half -open internal door at the far side of the room. A man he didn’t recognise. A man whose face looked like a grotesque parody of a Halloween mask, with its patchwork effect of blood and red raw flesh that was almost beyond comprehension.
PC Harris rapped the glass with his baton, and struggled to hide his revulsion when Turner crossed the room and opened the window with a scowl. ‘What the hell do you want?’
The young officer took a step back but didn’t look away. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. My name’s PC Harris, local police. We’re looking for a man in his thirties, with short blond hair, who goes by the name of Charles Turner. He may or may not be accompanied by a young woman. Have you seen anyone meeting that description?’
Turner weighed up his options. ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone like that. We’re a bit off the beaten track here. I haven’t seen anyone at all.’
‘What does the logo on the van stand for?’
‘West Wales Plumbing; we’re an Ammanford firm. Why do you ask?’
‘You’re a fair way off your patch.’
Turner gripped the windowsill with both hands. ‘It’s my mother’s place. I’m doing a bit of work for her – putting in a new bathroom. There’s no law against it, is there?’
‘Is she in?’
‘Who?’
‘Your mother.’
‘No, it’s a holiday place. She only comes in the summer. There’s just me.’
‘Do you mind if I come in? I’d like to take a quick look inside, if that’s all right with you?’
Turner took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Yeah, no problem. Go around to the front. I’ve lost the key to the back.’
When the solicitor opened the front door, less than a minute later, he was clutching a ten- inch carving knife behind his back. PC Harris stood in front of him, recoiling at his second sight of Turner’s face, unable to compute the severity of his injuries. ‘Look, I’ve got to ask. What the hell happened to you?’
Turner tightened his grip on the knife’s shaft. ‘I was attacked by some madman with a beer glass after a few drinks in Llanelli. I’m lucky to be alive.’
‘What, he did all that with a glass?’
‘Yeah, he hit me once, and then again when I tried to fight back.’
‘Have you reported the assault to the police?’
Turner shook his head and winced as his injuries screamed for attention. ‘I haven't had the chance. It only happened last night.’
‘What, it happened last night, and now, you’re here, fitting a bathroom?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Those are serious injuries. We’re talking grievous bodily harm, possibly wounding with intent. I’m surprised the hospital didn’t contact us. It’s usual in this sort of case.’
Turner moved the knife in front of him as he turned and walked across the kitchen, into the lounge, and spoke without looking back. ‘I didn’t go to a hospital.’
‘Who attended to your wounds?’
The solicitor turned and faced the officer, the knife still carefully hidden. ‘I did it myself with a needle and fishing gut. Aren’t I the clever one.’
There was something about the man’s eyes that was familiar, but Kieran Harris couldn’t work out what. By the time Emily had dragged her bruised and battered body up the wooden steps, and yelled out for help at the cellar door, it was already too late. Turner raised the knife high above his head and brought it down with all the force he could summon, plunging the tip of the blade deep into the officer’s upper chest and puncturing a lung.
PC Harris was already dying when he moved away, swinging his baton with his last breath, striking Turner a severe blow to his right temple. Both men fell to the floor as if in unison and lay there, unable to move.
Emily listened for any sound of motion, any sign of life, and opened the cellar door with her one good hand, half expecting to see Turner sitting there waiting to pounce. She took one step, then another, creeping into the kitchen and towards freedom. But as she glanced through the open door to the lounge, she saw the young constable, collapsed on the carpet, with blood bubbling from his chest wound and soaking into his uniform. She couldn’t remember his name at first, but she recognised his face. Then, it came to her, Kieran, Kieran Harris, as she walked slowly towards him.
Emily crept around her dazed tormentor, every nerve jangling, and she knelt at the officer’s side, holding two fingers to his neck to feel for a non -existent heart-beat. Turner moved, not much, and not to any great effect, but she could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed shallowly in his unconscious state.
Emily wanted to run. She was desperate to run. But instead, she took a blue satin cushion from the nearby settee and held it to Turner’s face, pressing down with all her weight and strength, cutting off his oxygen until she was sure he posed no further threat.
She struggled to her knees, threw the cushion aside, and looked into Turner’s eyes at touching distance. He was staring at her, as he had so many times in life, focused intently on her familiar features, but seeing nothing at all. She lifted her hand to his face and closed his eyes; she had never felt so exhausted. It really was over. The monster had lost his power, and the world was a better place.
Emily stru
ggled to her feet and reached to take Kieran Harris’ two- way radio from his pocket. She held it to her mouth and pressed down on the yellow transmission button. ‘Hello, hello, is there anybody there?’
‘This is control, who’s that?’
She smiled thinly, her mind flooded with mixed emotions. ‘My name’s Emily Gravel; I’m using Kieran’s radio, PC 143. Turner killed him.’
‘Where’s Turner now?’
‘He’s here, but he’s not breathing.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hold on, Emily, the inspector wants to speak to you.’
Emily fetched a single quilt from a first -floor bedroom with a view of the sea, and wrapped it around herself to cover her nakedness. She returned to the lounge and stared at the two bodies just a few feet away from her, half expecting Turner to rise up and drag her back to that awful place she knew would haunt her forever.
‘Hello, Emily, are you there? It’s Laura. Are you okay?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh, thank God, I thought I’d lost you for a minute.’
‘No, I’m still here.’
‘You said Kieran’s dead?’
‘Yes, Turner stabbed him. He lost a lot of blood. He’s gone.’
‘And he’s definitely dead, you’re certain?’
Emily looked across at him. ‘Oh, yes, he’s dead all right. Turner’s final victim.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in an old cottage somewhere. It’s, um, Turner said it’s on the Ceredigion coast. I think that’s what he said. Somewhere near Aberystwyth maybe.’