by J. F. Kirwan
‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Yeah, battering ram. Couldn’t find a sledgehammer at short notice. And I don’t have the skull keyring either, Donaldson has it. So, which side?’
‘You worked it out, then?’
‘Once you gave me the address. We talked to the neighbours, of course, but they were convinced the lower floor flats were empty. A rookie did a quick search and said he just found rats and pigeons. Rickard is one sly bastard, I’ll give him that. The one place we weren’t looking. You really think he’s there; he won’t have cut and run?’
‘Not his style.’ He recalled the paintings in Rickard’s office. Custer’s Last Stand and the Battle of Trafalgar. ‘Besides, he’s too public a figure. Where would he go?’
Greg turned back to gaze at the short row of terraced houses: three floors above ground, one basement flat each. ‘Any chance of backup?’
Matthews did his theatrical bit, cupping a hand to one ear as if listening carefully, ignoring the din of not-so-distant sirens. ‘I think that’s a “no”,’ he said. ‘Well, okay, I made a request just before I arrived, but don’t count on anyone arriving anytime soon, given the Yard has just gone up in flames. And it’s the end of day six for Finch. Minutes count, so we’re not waiting for backup.’ He hefted the ram. ‘Left, or right?’
‘Right,’ Greg said, based on pure guesswork. They had to start somewhere.
Matthews dug out his badge and pinned it onto the outside of his jacket. Balancing the battering ram against his leg, he pulled out a non-standard-issue matt-black Beretta, breeched it, then lifted the battering ram back up with his other hand. ‘Stay behind,’ he said. ‘Try not to shoot me.’
It wasn’t the basement flat to the right. They got in easily enough, the place not seriously locked, so that Matthews could use a thin rectangle of X-ray film to slip behind the Yale lock and coax it open. The flat was clearly unused. A heady stench of decay made Greg’s eyes water when they first entered. No electricity, dried pigeon excrement encrusting every surface, old newspapers littering the floor. They backed out, walked back up to street level and past Fergus’s stairwell to the basement flat on the other side. They descended the steps. The curtains were drawn, but there was a faint glow, imperceptible unless you were right there next to the window. They both listened hard.
Nothing.
Matthews clenched a pencil flashlight between his teeth. It lit up a heavy chain and a chunky padlock keeping the door in place. Greg and Matthews exchanged glances. If somebody was inside, they were locked in. It gave Greg hope that only one of the killers was home.
‘Hey-ho,’ Matthews said quietly. He put away the flashlight and holstered his weapon. He swung the battering ram back in an exaggerated arc, then powered it forward with a speed and force that surprised Greg. It hammered into the door, smashing a jagged hole through it, the wood splintering. Matthews let go of the ram with one hand and reached inside through the jagged hole to try and unlock the door from the inside. The chain and padlock were still intact, but had come loose from the wood.
‘Fuck!’ Matthews said, as he heaved the battering ram again, readying to smash the door a second time.
So much for the element of surprise. At least Finch would hear it if she was here. If she was still alive.
The battering ram slammed into the door again. It flung open. A woman on ground level shouted down at them.
‘I’m going to call the police!’
Greg gave her the thumbs-up.
The woman glared at him and vanished.
When he turned back, Matthews had already ventured inside. Greg stole after him, stepping gingerly over bits of broken door.
It was dark, but not pitch-black. A dim glow flickered around the stark walls. A candle somewhere. The battering ram was on the floor. Matthews was in a semi-crouched double-handed shooting stance, sweeping the area. Greg took up position on the other side of the room.
He pulled out Kate’s Colt but kept it lowered by his side while his eyes adjusted.
‘Rickard!’ Matthews shouted. ‘We know you’re here. Tell us where Finch is. It’ll go easier for you.’
Silence.
They were in the front sitting room, its layout a mirror image of the one where he’d met Fergus, or rather, the second killer. Aside from an old bookcase, there was a high-backed armchair and a small coffee table, on which rested an open bottle and a solitary, near-empty glass of red wine.
‘Rickard!’ Matthews shouted again. Then, ‘Finch! Finch, can you hear me? If you can, make some kind of noise!’
Nothing.
Six days without food or water, Greg reminded himself. But she was tough.
He stared towards the narrow hallway directly in front of Matthews. There was definitely some kind of dim light at the other end. Outside, a siren drew close, then faded. Matthews took a few cautious steps to the hall’s opening. He peered down it, trying to see. There was a ‘pfft’ sound. Matthews hand went to his neck, then he stilled.
Greg was about to ask him if he was all right when he suddenly remembered Rickard’s expertise with fast-acting drugs. At the moment, Rickard – or the killer – might not realise Greg was there with Matthews because Matthews had initially entered alone. Greg raised his arm, aiming the Colt at the near end of the hallway. Matthews’ breathing became laboured. His gun arm trembled. Greg wanted to move towards him, to help him, but then whoever it was at the other end of the corridor would have a direct line of fire. He and Matthews would both die. No, all three of them would die. Finch was here for sure. Matthews began to shiver violently. His breathing stuttered, lips bubbling with saliva, while his legs swayed.
Still Greg waited.
The dim glow grew a little brighter. Someone approached from down the hall. A floorboard creaked. A hand appeared, reaching for Matthews’ Beretta. The hand began peeling it from Matthews’ powerless fingers. Greg wondered if he could shoot and hit the hand, but it was dark and he didn’t know what might be in the assailant’s other hand.
Dammit, move forward so I can shoot you.
But whoever it was remained out of sight.
Greg couldn’t wait, otherwise the killer would have a Beretta loaded with nineteen bullets compared to the six in Kate’s Colt. He shifted his gun arm a fraction to the left and aimed a little lower, supporting his right wrist with his left hand. He took a silent breath, held it, then let it out slowly. He fired at the plasterboard, praying it wasn’t brick underneath. He fired again, and again, moving a step closer with each shot. The room lit up in flashes each time. The gunshots pounded his eardrums, the sharp tang of cordite stinging his nostrils. His gun arm felt like he’d just punched a wall.
A muffled cry of pain; the sound of someone hitting and then sliding down the wall.
Greg stood next to Matthews, whose breath was shallow and rasping, and stared down at the man on the floor. The candle in its tray-holder was miraculously still burning. Its yellow flame lit up Rickard’s sad frame. Slumped against the wall, bleeding, clutching his left shoulder, trying to stem the blood flow. His right hand bled profusely. A thin silver tube lay next to him, along with what looked in the flickering light like a tiny feather dart.
Rickard was down. Two of the bullets had hit home.
First things first: Matthews. Greg knew Rickard was cautious. He’d have a cure on him somewhere in case he accidentally poisoned himself.
‘Antidote,’ Greg said, aiming the revolver at Rickard’s face.
‘Go ahead. Shoot me,’ Rickard said. He spat blood against the wall. ‘Your fat friend will be dead in two minutes.’
Greg aimed the Colt lower. ‘Antidote, Rickard, or I shoot you in the balls. You’ll join him in twenty minutes, but they’ll be the worst twenty minutes of your life, and then Matthews will beat the crap out of you for all eternity.’
Rickard glared, sweat on his forehead glistening in the pallid light.
‘Go on. Dare me,’ Greg said. ‘Tell me I don’t have it in me.’ He cocked
the hammer.
Rickard shuffled awkwardly, grimacing with pain, and reached into his pocket with his good hand. He produced a syringe. Greg guessed what it was: adrenaline, or more precisely, epinephrine.
‘Quickly,’ Rickard said.
Greg flicked off the cap, moved the gun to his left hand, then held the syringe in his closed fist like a dagger. He slammed it into Matthews’ torso, straight into his heart, and rammed down the plunger with his thumb. Matthews coughed and sputtered, then collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping like a near-drowned man. He ended up sitting with his back against the wall, trying to breathe, drenched in sweat, his lips a deathly blue. He yanked out the syringe and managed to croak ‘Fuck!’ before a bout of coughing ensued.
‘Where is she?’ Greg asked Rickard.
Rickard looked defeated. He no longer held his hand over the shoulder wound that refused to stop bleeding, and gazed listlessly at the growing pool of his blood on the floor.
‘He left me here. Locked me in. Said I wasn’t a true serial killer.’
Greg got down on his haunches. ‘Where – is – Finch?’
‘Maybe he was right. I… enjoyed it, but… I saw the way he killed. Him, and the others. They all… Like it was encoded in their DNA. As if they were born for it. I thought they were made by society, our collective failure.’ He looked up at Greg. ‘They’re not.’
Greg snapped his finger and thumb right in front of Rickard’s face. ‘Finch, Rickard. Where is she? If you tell us where she is, we can try and cut you some kind of deal.’
He focused on Greg. ‘I didn’t rape her. Kate, I mean. I… I wanted you to know that.’
‘Later. Tell us where Finch is.’ Greg heard Matthews struggling to his feet. ‘Now.’
Rickard nodded. ‘A deal.’
‘All right, we can talk about a deal later.’
‘No,’ Rickard said. He seized Greg’s left wrist. ‘I can’t go to prison. Or, God forbid, that other place. I… just can’t.’
Greg heard Matthews scrape up the battering ram from the floor. Outside a siren grew louder. Make that two.
Greg assessed Rickard. He’d already lost a lot of blood. ‘What are you saying?’
Rickard’s eyes became waxy. ‘I tell you where she is, and then… you end me.’
Greg suddenly felt the weight of the Colt in his hands, its three remaining pieces of lead, the one in the top chamber waiting eagerly.
‘You’re in shock, Rickard, you’ve lost a lot of blood, you don’t know what you’re–’
Rickard half pulled himself up by Greg’s wrist, his eyes suddenly wild. ‘I know exactly what I’m saying, Gregory! Why do you think I stayed here? I’ve had plenty of time to think it through.’ He let go, slumping back to the floor, his body deflating. ‘That’s the deal. Take it or Finch dies. You’ll never find her in time.’
Greg sensed Matthews behind him, silent, awaiting his answer. Somewhere very close, Finch was hanging on by a thread, maybe already gone or too far gone, in which case he was about to commit murder for no good reason. No good reason? Kate, Fergus, Raj, and maybe Finch too – weren’t they enough justification? He imagined Kate looking on. What would she want him to do? But this was his call. And the sirens were getting closer.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Deal. Where is she?’
Rickard pointed down the corridor, his words coming out in gasps. ‘Kitchen… washing… machine… underneath… chamber.’
Matthews shouldered past Greg and shuffled down the corridor. Greg heard anguished grunts and the squeaking of something heavy scraping across a stone floor. The sirens arrived outside. Tyres shrieked to a halt. Doors opened and shut. Policemen shouted, telling people to step back.
Rickard uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘Become a killer, Gregory. It’s your destiny. He said so.’
Greg stood up, Colt in his hand, steady as a rock. ‘Who is the second killer, Rickard?’
Rickard shook his head. ‘Out of time. Fulfil your promise, Greg. Fulfil yourself.’
Greg heard boots at the top of the steps outside. Rickard was right. He was out of time.
He aimed the Colt, imagined firing it point-blank at Rickard’s face, which would explode, blood-soaked brain matter spattering against the wall. Greg couldn’t help but think that it would look like one of The Painter’s works. And then Greg recalled the hastily drawn sketch back in Reedmoor, where Greg was between two godlike serial killers, about to enter the void…
No.
He lowered the Colt.
‘We had a deal,’ Rickard said, his voice ebbing.
‘I don’t know she’s down there,’ Greg replied. ‘And I’m not fulfilling your or anyone else’s vision of my destiny.’
Rickard sagged. ‘We’re both disappointments.’
Greg didn’t see Rickard move at first, distracted by the police shouting outside, preparing to storm the flat. But then Rickard’s good hand slapped his own neck, as if swatting a mosquito, and his hand fell back into his lap, palm open, revealing a tiny feather dart spiked with a blob of red.
‘Don’t bother searching,’ Rickard said. ‘Only one anti–’ He froze, his breath coming out of him in gurgling rasps. The police thundered down the steps.
‘Down here!’ Matthews shouted to them. ‘Down here! Bring sledgehammers!’
Armed police rushed into the flat and took over, four of them following Matthews down the hall. An officer relieved Greg of the Colt. Greg stared down at Rickard, whose face was already blue. Rickard was reacting quicker to the poison than Matthews had, no doubt due to the blood loss. Greg answered the officer’s questions on autopilot. Rickard lurched, then slumped again, his eyes glassy, a vacant shell of flesh and bone.
Greg stared a long while. Did he gain any pleasure from having watched Rickard die, or from seeing his lifeless corpse? Was he in any way like Rickard, or the others? Was his destiny inextricably tied to theirs?
No.
Excitement down the hall broke the spell, and he entered the grimy kitchen lit by stark flashlights. Matthews and several others had forced open a heavy, rusted trapdoor to what must have been an old air raid shelter. Matthews and three policemen descended steep steps into the musty chamber. Greg followed, his feet landing on crunchy soil, manic torches illuminating walls covered in black slime. They all listened but heard nothing. Had Rickard lied after all?
Greg trawled his fingers through the grease on one section of wall. Matthews chose another section and did the same. One of the policemen following their lead shouted, ‘Here, fresh bricks and mortar!’ and it was enough. The four men began pounding at the wall with sledgehammers and battering rams. Greg stood back in the billowing fog of dust and grime, holding his breath, daring to hope. Suddenly they broke through, their torch beams penetrating the dust cloud, revealing a pitiful figure huddled in a foetal position in the corner of the small space. Not moving. Corpse-like. Greg couldn’t imagine how anyone could have survived this. He barely breathed until Matthews half shouted, half cried, ‘She’s alive! She’s unconscious but she’s bloody alive!’
Greg leant against the wall, not caring about the oily slime. They gave her oxygen, and one of the men injected her with something. She stirred, groggy as hell, Matthews talking to her so fast he was almost incoherent. Greg climbed the ladder and waited. Carefully, they hauled her out of the chamber and carried her through the corridor on a stretcher over Rickard’s corpse. She looked around as if searching for something. Not something, Greg realised; someone. She caught his eye, tried to speak, but couldn’t; too weak.
He lingered a moment and studied Rickard. Rest In Peace arose in the back of Greg’s mind, but Rot In Hell was all he could think. For once he knew Kate would agree.
Greg left the flat, walked up the steps, and caught up with Matthews attending Finch who was being made comfortable in the back of the ambulance.
‘Leave her be for now,’ Matthews said.
Greg ignored him and pushed his way through to Finch. She looked unbelievab
ly frail, the skin on her cheekbones taut, almost transparent, her sunken eyes half-closed. The drugs drip-feeding into her arm were no doubt healing and sedating her at the same time.
‘Did you see him?’ Greg said, his voice raised above the hubbub of activity around them. Matthews grabbed Greg’s arm. Greg shook him off.
‘Finch, look at me. Did you see the other killer?’
‘That’s enough!’ Matthews shouted, grabbing his arm more forcefully.
Finch suddenly roused, her eyes opening wider. She nodded.
Matthews’ hand released Greg’s arm, and they both leaned in to catch what she was about to say.
‘Eyes,’ she croaked. ‘Red… eyes.’ A paramedic put a damp sponge to her parched lips, squeezed it, and Finch did her best to swallow. She gasped. Her head rolled, her eyes fluttering closed.
‘She needs rest,’ the paramedic said.
‘Will it kill her if she speaks?’ Matthews asked.
‘Well, no…’ The paramedic shrugged and busied himself in the front of the ambulance.
Greg’s mind was spinning. Red eyes. But it couldn’t be…
‘We’re here,’ Matthews said. ‘Anything you can give us. Anything at all.’
Finch leaned forward, and her fingers clutched the sleeve of Greg’s jacket. ‘His face. The skin. Shiny.’ Her head rocked backwards, her eyes not quite closed.
The paramedic returned. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Bill, we’re leaving!’
The second paramedic muscled through Greg and Matthews, climbed in, gripped the inside door handles and pulled them closed, shutting Finch in with him, forcing Greg and Matthews out. The siren began wailing, and the ambulance sped off.
Matthews was handed a Styrofoam cup of something steaming hot, smelling vaguely of chocolate, while a new paramedic took his blood pressure and shone a pencil torch into his eyes, checking his pupils. Matthews appeared to be recovering quickly from his own near-death experience. He thanked the paramedic and addressed Greg, ‘You all right?’
Greg felt as if he was standing on the edge of a very tall cliff, losing his balance. ‘No, I’m a long way from all right.’ The serial killer he was thinking of… He superimposed the image onto the man he’d met masquerading as Fergus. More or less the same height and stature. All that red hair and beard undoubtedly a disguise. Must have used latex or gelatin prosthetics to cover up the shiny skin, as well as something to counteract the redness of his eyes. The noise from the TV, radio and stereo masking his voice. And he’d never once looked Greg in the eye. Greg recalled he’d had a Taser, and he’d offered to tell Greg who the next victim would be. Now he was sure it would have been him if he hadn’t upped and left.