by P. R. Black
‘I don’t like it when I see you two smiling,’ the girl mumbled. ‘Makes me think you’re up to something.’ She pulled out a seat and slumped down at the table.
‘Did you finish your physics problems last night?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, part-reply, part-exhalation, as she spooned raspberry preserves onto her toast. ‘I even showed Mum, before dinner.’
‘Good.’
Two weeks earlier she had been caught copying a friend’s homework. Classic folly – they had made the same mistakes. A letter had been sent from school. The teachers were thorough, and he had been pleased with the action they had taken. He had been brutal when he confronted his daughter about it. His anger at her had surprised both wife and daughter. Sloppiness was something he did not tolerate but even so, his bellowing had frightened them both.
He’d had things on his mind.
Once his wife had set off with their daughter on the school run, he entered his stark white-walled office and booted up the desktop computer, checking out the news. An application alerted him to the presence of news stories which might be of particular interest to him. According to a red-bordered number on his starting menu, twenty-four news stories awaited his attention. This was an unusually high number, but it had to be expected the day after the Crimewatch Special.
He read these without any sense of unease.
Afterwards, he took off for a run, already formulating plans, calculating angles of approach.
In truth, the logistical part of his activities was a big part of the thrill, nowadays. With modern technology being what it was, he had to plan very carefully.
But then he’d always been a cautious man. It was the reason he had never been caught.
Once he was down the hill from the front gate, he pounded the cycle path and pavement past ranks of pines, head down, teeth gritted, his hood over his head. He was a capable runner, injuries permitting, though he would readily concede that he wasn’t as fast or as strong as he had been even three years ago.
He passed only one person on the journey, a dog-walker whom he saw most days on the road, but never said hello to. The dog was a mongrel, a happy imbecile which cocked its head and unfurled its tongue whenever he passed.
Not for the first time, he fantasised about killing it right there and then, jumping on it with both feet in front of its astonished master, and then continuing on his way.
After a sharp left through the path, the road became steep, hard and stony, and he took a brief rest. The route diverted into an old logging trail, less well paved and almost never used. The ground grew boggy very quickly. One had to know where best to run in order to avoid getting too muddy, or more specifically to avoid leaving identifiable footprints which might set quickly in drier conditions.
Another turn took him through dense woodland, and he had to squeeze through the trees at some points in order to continue travelling. There was something about the grey skies visible through the black, jagged forest canopy that moved something within him. He especially loved this view on clear nights, when the shadows were thicker in contrast with the moonlight.
This was when he felt closer to his true nature than at any other point, except one.
He soon came upon the pit. There was always an element of danger, here. Supposing one day he should come upon it and find the pit empty?
But there were no such worries today. He took off his backpack, put on some gloves and then, of course, the mask.
He cleared away some of the bushes, delved into the muck, found the chains, and heaved.
A thick wooden trapdoor opened up from the swampy ground, heavily camouflaged with a thick covering of branches and other arboreal detritus – and there she was, just as he had left her. He saw no horror in her eyes, and no hope.
He tossed her some food which he had brought in his backpack and sat on his haunches to watch while she ate. Something startled the crows in the trees above, and the girl’s head shot up, only the one eye showing through her matted fringe.
Entirely confident that there was no one around to disturb them, he smiled beneath the mask.
After he was sure she had eaten every scrap – even things which had fallen into the slick mud – he cleared his throat and said, ‘Morning!’
8
Masquerade was in an unexpectedly smart part of town. Becky strode past Georgian architecture, high windows and Greek columns; For Sale signs harried the streets like angry mobs in a Hammer movie.
She spotted some basement bars and restaurants, none of them looking more than a couple of years old to judge by the décor and the signs. Masquerade was situated down a stairway in the midst of these establishments.
Any information Becky had turned up on what to wear to the club was worryingly vague. She decided that indigo jeans and an open-necked black blouse underneath a dark jacket would do. At the last minute before leaving the house, she swapped a pair of black, patent leather heels for her well-worn ass-kicking boots, which reduced her height but boosted her confidence. After double-checking that she had the right address, she was delighted to see that a regular pub was positioned across the road, somewhere with a square bar, brass taps and a cadre of ruddy-faced older men. The kind of place where boozers came to die. Perfect.
She took a position at one of the outside tables and nursed a near-as-damn-it zero-alcohol beer. When she’d ordered it, the barman had pretended to blow dust off the bottle. She’d nearly smiled.
She watched people arrive at Masquerade in ones, twos and threes, most of them double-checking their phones before trooping downstairs. Many of the men wore tuxedos and smart suits, with several of the women in evening dresses. One or two of the better-dressed couples in the pub also headed across the road, hand in hand. One of the women giggled excitedly, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Disregarding the glad rags and wedding suits, they might have been going to a Bryan Adams concert, she thought.
Becky waited until the trickle of bodies became a steady stream before heading across the road. At the bottom of a stairway that sagged at an angle like an old mattress, a bullet-headed man scanned in codes on phones proffered by the punters.
She double-checked her own phone, making sure the text message with the code attached was ready to open with a single swipe.
A man and a woman in their late thirties were in the queue ahead of her. They looked as if they’d stepped out of one of those headache-inducing Christmas perfume adverts. The woman wore a backless, fairy-princess blue dress, which displayed shoulder muscles that had done serious time on a rowing machine. Her physique complemented her partner’s jawline, a geometrically-perfect construction from a superhero comic. They turned round to glance at Becky as the queue shuffled down from step-to-step. The man’s eyes were keen, but his partner’s appraisal was cold, tracing Becky from head to toe and back, slow and deliberate. The woman paid particular attention to Becky’s boots.
She leaned over and said to Becky, her lip curling, ‘Are you the half-time entertainment?’
The man laughed.
Becky grinned. ‘Wait and see.’ She took out a packet of chewing gum, put a stick in her mouth, then offered the pack to the couple. The woman in the blue dress grimaced, shook her head, then whispered something else in the man’s ear. They both turned to the front.
The queue reached a booth, where they were handing out masks. They were Viennese style – some white, some embossed with gold or faux diamonds, and some bearing obscenely long noses.
Becky hesitated, shoulders tense. As well as handing out the masks, the pair inside the booth took coats and jackets. The black woman in the booth was strikingly beautiful even beneath a white lace-fringed mask, with an elegant chin, perfect teeth and a black evening gown that represented an entire month’s salary to Becky. The man beside her was similarly handsome, and in a tuxedo like most of the patrons. He had a notable lack of body fat and clean lines round the brow and jaw. The pair could have been models hired for the evening, and probably w
ere.
The man wore a simple highwayman’s mask, which left plenty of space for a frown to become apparent when he spotted Becky.
‘You come to the right place?’ he said, in a gruff accent.
‘Had my ticket stamped, haven’t I?’
The man shrugged. He turned to a rack of masks, but before his hand could alight on a plain white cowl, she said, ‘No – the harlequin pattern one, please.’
‘That one’s for men,’ the woman told her.
Becky chuckled. ‘I thought you people were kinky?’
*
The harlequin mask amplified Becky’s breathing as she filtered through to the main room. A doorman in a fox mask ushered her in through dark drapes, allowing his hand to trail across her back. Becky chose to ignore this.
The room was lit in ultra-violet, the kind that showed up dandruff and outlined dilated pupils to the more diligent bouncer. To the credit of the men in tuxedos milling around, white flakes could only be discerned whenever Becky got close to one of them. The room was fitted with booths along both sides; many couples were sat at them.
Some of the clientele queued up at the bar. Thanks to some pounding trance, it could have been a nightclub anywhere in any city, if you ignored the headgear. Becky noticed that some of the couples were shaking hands and sitting down, with others getting up and moving on to the next table.
Becky clocked the DJ booth – the person on the decks wore a zebra head mask – then found the corner booth she’d been told to sit at. It was empty, with a ‘reserved’ sign on the table.
Becky sat with her back to the wall. She did not have long to wait.
A man wearing what seemed to be a white linen suit with an open-collared shirt strode through the purplish glow, dappled by light from a lazy mirror ball poised above. He raised a hand to a bouncer who had moved to intercept him, and the bouncer returned to his post, frowning in Becky’s direction.
The newcomer wore a black and gold jaguar mask. It was too tight and gave him a chubby-cheeked appearance he almost certainly hadn’t intended. He appeared to have bright blue eyes beneath the cowl, and was perhaps the youngest person in the room.
Becky cleared her throat and leaned close in order to make herself heard. ‘So, here we are. Speed dating for swingers. What do you call it? Speed shagging?’
The man remained very still and stared at Becky. Probably he imagined this would intimidate her.
His voice was deeper than she expected. ‘You forgetting something?’
‘Whippoorwill,’ Becky said.
The man nodded and relaxed a little, resting his arms on the table. ‘To answer your question about this place – you’re right. This is quite an exclusive gathering of what we like to call broad-minded couples.
‘Strange venue. Couldn’t we just have met in the pub across the road?’
‘I chose this venue for a good reason. I prefer to do my business somewhere people actively avoid being recognised and don’t take kindly to surveillance. This is a strictly private party.’
‘It’s different, I’ll say that for you. We could have done this at Mickey Ds.’
He sighed. ‘Shall we just get down to business?’
‘Okay. Let’s see the goods, then.’
The man passed her an envelope. Becky did not open it but tucked it into her jacket pocket. Her fingertips told her a memory stick was lodged inside.
‘Any instructions to go with it?’ she asked.
‘You use it at midnight tonight, on the nose. Apart from that, we only ask that you treat it with the utmost caution. You are moving into a dangerous world, here. It’s no game. I would say, “don’t pass this onto anyone,” but to be frank, if you try to do that, we’ll know, and we’ll delete every connection and all the information in the stick. After that, we’ll get angry with you.’
‘I don’t want to share it with anyone. It’s very important that the connection is as secure as possible and I’m the only one who can use it. I was quite specific about that.’
‘Good, then we have an understanding. Now, to be clear… if we should have to come looking for Miss Elizabeth Hounslow, of 61 Maxwell Terrace, flat 3/1, drives a Kia Cee’d, 2014 plate, has a Samsung mobile phone, works at the National Portrait Gallery… then it won’t be anything dramatic. Not right away. You might notice the odd withdrawal from your bank account, or a few units added to your utility bills, or an unusually high insurance premium. Things like that. Nothing severe. But you will notice them. And you will be given to understand that it can get a lot worse. Because if you cross us, we can and will destroy you. It’s very easy to do if you know how. And we know how.’
Becky tried hard to suppress a smirk. He had taken the bait. She had worried that the fake ID she’s cooked up looked amateurish; evidently not.
He had practised his lines. They were curiously devoid of threat, the polished spiel of the telesales operator he probably was in his day-to-day life. Becky nodded, and in a similarly businesslike tone, said: ‘That’s right, Mark. You’ve got me bang to rights. Elizabeth Hounslow, that’s me. I expected no less. You are the best at what you do, is that right?’
To his credit, he gave no indication that her use of his name had unsettled him. She’d managed to get the name of the contact out of Jarrod, quite by accident, when she took him for a coffee. She hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble for it.
‘And I hope we do understand each other,’ Becky continued. ‘Because if my personal data should go anywhere I don’t want it to, then I might come after you – personally. It won’t be anything dramatic. Nothing severe. Maybe just a quick call to the police. Or your employer.’
He grinned. The babyish gap in his teeth was a surprise. ‘Touché, Miss Hounslow,’ he said, applauding ironically. ‘Now, if you don’t mind…?’
‘Of course.’ Becky handed over an envelope. The man pocketed it without opening it, then got up and left without another word.
‘Miss Elizabeth Hounslow… I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,’ she whispered to herself. She chewed her gum for a while, checking and double checking the envelope was secure in her inside pocket. She paid close attention not to the masks, but to the evening gowns, the black shoes and the beer bellies.
It hadn’t taken long for things to warm up. One couple were kissing openly, lasciviously, in the booth opposite. Another couple watched from the seat opposite.
Finally, she found what she was looking for; a pale blue strappy dress, twirling under the mirror ball, a study in grace amid the throng on the dance floor.
Becky strode past this baby blue dervish.
Quick as a stiletto strike, she spat her gum into the folds of the sheer blue material. Then she headed for the door.
9
Despite the hooded top obscuring most of her face, Becky felt like she was going on a date. She was in the spare room but had angled the camera away from her map and other jottings on the pinboard. The map in her spare room had grown threads now – strands of wool stretching between murder sites pinpointed on the map, criss-crossing each other like a Tube map in an off-kilter dimension. Once Becky had tried to find a pattern in these criss-crossings. There appeared to be none, though the idea that she might have missed some component that would complete a symbol or a message of some kind haunted her.
She checked the time, dimmed the lights at her back and turned the laptop on.
Becky fully expected something chaotic to happen when she put the USB stick into the port
She had certainly prepared well for this, using an ancient, but souped-up Toshiba laptop, requisitioned from a dodgy garage outlet situated under a railway bridge more used to dealing pirated copies of Office and video games.
Becky knew she had to be more than careful. She thought of her activities now as though they were a live court case. Restrictions applied; rules were in place; details had to be checked, logged and checked again; infinite care and accuracy had to be taken from now on.
A plain white box opened in the centr
e of her screen. One word appeared, with a blocky cursor tapping its foot at the end.
Password?
She typed without hesitating: ‘Whipp00rwill.’ Cap W, two Ps, two numerical zeroes, two Ls.
The cursor paused, then a video screen opened up. A man with long red curly hair appeared. He wore a black T-shirt, and from the doughy quality of his forearms beneath the cuffs, just visible at the bottom of the screen, Becky guessed he didn’t lift. Like her, he was sat in the dark, the electric blue glare of his own screen the only illumination. An untidy space was just about discernible over his shoulders, boxes and books crammed into shelves amid the oil slick sheen of stacked CDs.
His face was distorted. At first Becky thought that it was some corruption in the video feed, a bulge of magnified purplish pixels, circles and squares. She trailed the cursor round the face, hoping the digital interference would clear. Oddly, she could still see the man’s brown eyes in the midst of the maelstrom, but the digital muddle remained.
‘Ah, I wouldn’t bother with that, Elizabeth,’ the man said, in excellent English, but with a heavy accent. ‘It’s not your connection. This is my mask. You will understand my need for anonymity.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. That makes two of us. Do you have a name I can use?’
‘You can call me Rupert.’ Scandinavian accent, Becky thought; perhaps northern Germany, at a stretch. It was difficult to tell, and a waste of time asking.
‘Rupert? As in the bear?’
The shoulders on-screen shrugged. ‘As in anyone you like. Maybe your uncle Rupert?’
‘Uncle Rupert it is.’
‘I’m not seeing very much of you, Elizabeth.’
‘Good.’