Witness X: ‘Silence of the Lambs meets Blade Runner’ Stephen Baxter

by SE Moorhead

  She wanted to scream, ‘Did you take my sister?’ but she had been warned by Tom. Her training had taught her that Lomax was the sort of criminal who would enjoy her pain, taunt her about where her sister was, if he knew. The police weren’t sure. Emma didn’t exactly fit the pattern. Had it been the Mizpah Murderer who had dragged her into his car two weeks ago? What had Kyra expected when she had climbed those metal stairs? That Emma would be there, locked in a room, distressed and exhausted, but still alive?

  They knew his pattern now, the first victim each year killed at midnight on a Thursday in February, the second woman would be killed at midnight on the following Wednesday. This was the third year of his cycle. They had already found Amelia Brigham – a Type B victim, a young social worker, in the underground reservoir near China Bank a few days ago. If Lomax had taken Emma, Kyra knew she would already be dead. He would have fulfilled his pattern. It was just that they hadn’t found her body yet.

  The thought of her sister lying somewhere, desecrated, broke her.

  She shouldn’t even be here – this was personal. Any officer who was in any way connected with a case could be immediately taken off, as protocol. Tom had been furious when she’d shown up – he’d warned her not to come when he called her to tell her that they were arresting Lomax. But when he had seen her at the bottom of the steps by the flat he hadn’t told her to go home. Because she was the only psychologist attached to the case? Or because of his feelings for her?

  Tom spoke calmly. ‘David Lomax, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. 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.’

  ‘I ain’t done nothing,’ snarled Lomax, wrenching his cuffs. Then his body stilled. ‘Murder?’ he repeated, as though he didn’t really understand the word. Kyra studied his face as he tried to make sense of the charge. She had to restrain herself from begging for the information.

  He would enjoy that.

  ‘Arresting me?’ This incensed him. He fought to get up. ‘What the fuck is this? Get these things off me!’

  One of the armed police flung him back down on the bed. ‘Shut it!’

  He struggled to sit up again, spittle flying from his mouth.

  ‘You have a temper on you, Lomax,’ Tom said pleasantly.

  One of the armed police came back in. ‘Sir, the search team are outside.’

  ‘Send them in,’ Tom said, keeping his eyes focused on Lomax.

  Why wasn’t Tom asking about Emma?

  Tom sat down on a small set of drawers near the bed so he was almost level with the sweating man in front of him. He spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, in control.

  ‘A few days ago a woman, Rachael Molloy, came to speak to us,’ Tom said. ‘She told us that you beat her.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ Lomax said, looking out of the window. Was he trying to mirror Tom’s calmness?

  ‘Only, she says you do know her. She says you’ve been to buy her services a number of times. “Regular” was the word she used.’

  ‘It’s not illegal.’

  ‘It is if you don’t use the designated sex industry houses.’

  ‘If the stupid bitch wants to let me fuck her for a few quid, who’s getting hurt?’

  ‘Obviously she is, judging by her injuries,’ Tom said.

  Kyra’s blood was boiling now. Get on with it, Tom! Ask him about Emma.

  Lomax laughed slowly, mockingly. ‘Is that what this is about? Me roughing up a whore?’ He looked around at the other police officers in the room, smiling. ‘This is bullshit.’ He scowled again. ‘Whores get beaten up all the time. Haven’t you got any proper crimes to deal with?’

  ‘As I said, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’ Tom put his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Don’t know nothing about a murder. It weren’t me. Rachael’s old man probably done her in when she got home ’cause he found out how she makes her money.’ He grinned, showing his brown, tombstone-like teeth.

  ‘Ah, but Rachael’s still very much alive,’ said Tom. ‘Which means she’ll be able to testify against you.’

  ‘She won’t do that,’ he sneered. ‘If she knows what’s good for her. How long do you think I’d get for beating up a whore? Six months, max? I know where she lives. It won’t even get to court.’

  It was Tom’s turn to smile now. Kyra watched as he waited until Lomax’s face fell.

  ‘How can you arrest me for murder when she’s still alive?’ There was an edge of concern in his voice. ‘What the fuck is this about?’

  ‘Kyra, can you tell the search team to make a start? We won’t be here much longer.’

  Why was he sending her out? Was he going to ask if Emma was still alive?

  If Lomax wasn’t going to talk, maybe the search team would uncover a clue as to where her sister was.

  ‘Tom, please … ask him.’

  Lomax studied her, curious.

  ‘Search team,’ Tom commanded, eyes locked on Lomax, and she huffed and left the room.

  She gave the thumbs-up and a steady stream of officers in white overalls, blue plastic over their shoes, invaded the flat and began to tear it apart, lifting greasy cushions and emptying chaotic cupboards. They used handheld metal detectors and X-ray cameras on the furniture, walls and floor. She was surprised at the state of the place. She had told the investigating team that he would be a highly organised killer and they were invariably meticulous. That would be another reason for them to scoff at her.

  She stood in the hall, but leaned on the bedroom doorpost, watching Lomax and listening to Tom. ‘We took samples from Rachael Molloy, Lomax. She said you bit her. We took DNA from the bitemark, and other parts of her body.’ Tom left that one hanging for a moment. ‘Problem is, you see,’ he said, leaning towards Lomax, ‘The DNA that was found on Rachael’s body is already on our database.’

  ‘Then it ain’t mine. I’ve never had my DNA taken. So, it ain’t fucking me.’ His expression was one of weariness.

  ‘No, that DNA was found on two bodies. Two women who turned up dead,’ Tom said flatly, watching for his reaction.

  The word ‘dead’ made Kyra’s stomach clench.

  Lomax’s eyes, bloodshot and bulging slightly, fixed on her. ‘It ain’t me, I’m telling you. You got the wrong man. I like fighting and fucking. I’ve never killed no one.’

  ‘You mean you’ve never been caught,’ Kyra said.

  ‘That Rachael bitch is lying!’ Lomax burst out, but there were beads of sweat on his brow and a nervous tic had started up in the corner of his eye. What was he afraid of – being caught, or being blamed for something he hadn’t done?

  ‘We have CCTV showing you meeting Rachael on the night. Your face is very clear on the footage,’ Tom added.

  Lomax sighed heavily.

  ‘We’ll show it to you when you get to the station, after we’ve taken a sample of your DNA to match up with the sample from Rachael.’

  Kyra was starting to feel light-headed. The small flat was full of people moving around noisily, lifting and carrying things out down the steps to the vans below. The smell of damp and the cloying heat of the radiators made her feel smothered. Being so close to Lomax was making her blood itch.

  Where’s my sister, you evil bastard?

  ‘But we’ve got you now, Lomax.’ Tom’s voice was so low he was almost whispering. ‘We’re going to take you down to the station, take a bio sample, and we’re going to prove you committed those murders. You’ll never see the light of day again.’ Tom stared him out for a few moments. ‘But you can make things easier on yourself – tell us where Emma Sullivan is.’

  Lomax ‘s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Emma Sullivan, the woman you abducted two weeks ago on Lawson Street.’

  The room seemed to shrink, everyone else seemed to disappear, the only sound Kyra’s heart beating so loudly she thought her chest might burst.


  After what felt like minutes, Lomax snarled, ‘I told you, I ain’t done nothing.’

  All of a sudden, all the noises, movements, people, smells, came crashing in on Kyra. She rushed towards Lomax with her fists flailing. ‘Where is she, you bastard?’

  ‘Get her out!’ Tom shouted. One of the officers grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into the hall before blocking the entrance to the bedroom. She stamped her foot in frustration. The hallway was so small that she had to squeeze back against the wall to let other officers past as they fetched and bagged items. She watched as a mini-screen, wrapped in a transparent bag, was carried out of the flat and down the steps to the van. Would there be any evidence that her sister had been there?

  She heard Tom say, ‘Cover him up.’ Then he came out, followed by Lomax who was wearing joggers and sports sandals, a jacket thrown over his shoulders, an officer in front, and one behind him. As he moved past her, she could see that he was much bigger than he had seemed on the bed. He suddenly lunged towards her and she cowered, but he stopped short and swore in her face.

  Furious with herself for showing fear, she stood up straight and put her hands on her hips. Two of the guards grappled with him, and he struggled against them as they made their way to the front door in a tangled trio. Tom was ahead, about to make his way down the steps when someone in the living room cried out, ‘Sir!’

  One of the female CSIs, white hood pulled over her hair, only her dark brown eyes visible above her face mask, came out of the living room. She was on the other side of Lomax and the officers, and the lack of space meant she couldn’t get close to Tom. Instead, she stretched out, almost touching Lomax’s chest with her blue-gloved hand, a silver chain with a pendant dangling from her index finger.

  It was a half-heart of a Mizpah pendant.

  That was it, the last piece of the jigsaw.

  Tom’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Found it down the back of the sofa, sir.’

  ‘Good work. Bag and tag it.’ He locked gaze with Lomax for a moment and smiled contentedly.

  Kyra studied Lomax’s face, watching his confusion, as he examined the necklace without recognition, until the penny finally dropped.

  A cold, prickling sensation swam in Kyra’s stomach. And she resented the wisp of doubt that was creeping into her mind. It all seemed so straightforward, so why was she beginning to doubt it?

  Lomax momentarily locked eyes with her, his expression horrified.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘No!’ he shouted louder, eyes wide, panicked now. ‘It weren’t me! It weren’t me! You think I’m some fucking psycho who butchers women?’ He began to jerk around, agitated, struggling against his handcuffs. The officers grabbed his thickset arms and tried to restrain him, but he fought against them.

  Kyra moved out of the front door for safety.

  ‘It weren’t me! I ain’t going down for this! There’s been a mistake! Rachael fucking stitched me up! I ain’t going to prison!’ Lomax yelled, lashing out with his feet into the scrum of officers.

  A few of the neighbours had come out to see what the police vans were for. Kyra moved down to the bottom of the steps. Even from this perspective, she could see Lomax charging like an enraged bull into the officer in front of him and then kick out at his knees, one of which bent at a weird angle and the copper went down yelping in pain. Then he headbutted the other officer who slumped to the floor, face a bloody mess.

  The icy rain was coming down in sheets as Kyra ran over to one of the vans and banged on the door to get some back-up. She turned back to angry shouts, as Lomax, hands still cuffed behind his back, bulldozed Tom at the top of the steps. The back doors of the van opened and two of the officers jumped out and followed Kyra’s eyeline. Tom, taller than Lomax, but not as well built, was pushing against him, trying to stop his escape. Lomax had lost his jacket, and his vest had been torn away; his chest was drenched. The two men struggled for a few moments at the top of the stairs before Lomax gave one final push with his shoulder, hands still cuffed behind his back. Tom tried to grab the railing, but it was slick with rain and he went toppling down the metal stairs until he hit the concrete at the bottom and lay motionless.

  Lomax charged down after him, Kyra wasn’t sure if he was going to run, or attack Tom again, but as soon as he reached the bottom, five coppers were on top of him and he lay sprawled out, taking vicious punches. He looked up amidst the beating and saw Kyra staring at him.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch!’ he yelled.

  Kyra, shaking and legs weak, collapsed on the ground next to Tom as the blood from his head mingled with the pool of rainwater in which he lay.

  Chapter Seven

  FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY 2035

  7.32 a.m.

  The bus judders to a halt, the rumbling heat moving through my body bringing a surge of nausea. I adjust my expression to copy the one of bored indifference that I often observe on the other passengers, even though my heart is beating ten to the dozen with anticipation. The others probably think I’m off to work, but most people don’t even see me, except some of the mothers with little ones. They draw away from me, almost as if they sense there is something to be feared but can’t exactly put their finger on it.

  Instinct.

  The moment she steps on board, all my anxiety disappears, replaced by a lightness of being. She swipes her Commswatch on the pad by the driver and then moves down the aisle. I lower my eyes, watching her in my peripheral vision. She usually sits in the middle of the bus, to the left if there is a free seat. It took me a few trips to get her pattern. But today she moves up close, her pale, delicate fingers catching the pole nearby to steady herself as the bus pulls off, so close, then she sits down right in front of me.

  From the moment I saw her I knew this one was the perfect offering.

  Yes, this one will diminish the darkness, the loneliness, the fear.

  I lean my head against the window and half close my eyes, adrenaline and joy moving through my body. I breathe in her scent, light and playful, roses and jasmine. She wears her gleaming fair hair in a loose bun, a long, pale tendril of it spilling over the collar of her coat. My fingers twitch as I resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

  She reaches up and rubs the back of her neck and I take some pleasure in thinking she might be able to feel me watching her.

  I came across her weeks ago – unexpectedly. Sometimes I go to her workplace and hide in plain sight. On one occasion, she smiled in my direction, but I knew she wasn’t really registering me.

  I want so much for her to see me, but not yet.

  Not until the time is right.

  7.45 a.m.

  It was always a watershed moment, finally getting home and shutting her own front door behind her. Kyra had crept out before Molly and her mum had awoken, not wanting the difficult discussion about why she wasn’t going to work.

  It was cool and dark in the flat. She usually adjusted the lights and temperature remotely via her Commset before she left work. There was no point in using a timer. She had a quiet life – no partner to eat meals with, no kids needing picking up from after-school club, no cat to be fed – she had toyed with the idea, so that there was another living being in the flat, but had decided it was too much of a cliché.

  Part of her liked the fact that everything was exactly where she had left it, how she had left it; the windows slightly open, her own breakfast dishes still in the sink, the toilet lid closed. There were never any surprises or anyone else demanding things that her exhaustion couldn’t deliver. When Molly came over to stay, one night always seemed like enough. How much mess and noise could one teenager cause? Molly slept on the pull-out sofa. Having her own room would be too much of an invitation.

  The symmetrical block of compact apartments was identical to the other blocks along the street and probably fairly similar inside too. She suspected they all had the same small black built-in, easy-clean kitchenette and the open-plan living area, which was big enoug
h for a sofa and small table and chairs. Kyra had tried to individualise her flat with a few personal items on the shelf unit, including a photograph of her dad and Emma, a tiny crackled china vase with a shamrock design that had been her grandmother’s, and a handful of non-digital books that she couldn’t let go of.

  She made a coffee and went to the fridge to replace the milk. On closing the door, she read the digital smart message on the front:

  replenish salad boxes, eggs; low on milk; butter past use-by date 2 days; remember to take daily Nutri-Pod.

  ‘Screen on,’ she commanded as she moved back into the living area and slumped across the sofa. An exercise programme burst onto the screen, shown regularly before the news updates on the hour to try to encourage the fight against obesity.

  Between worrying about her mum and Molly, and wondering about Lomax, sleep had evaded her the previous night. And those dreams about the soldiers … they were probably projections of her brain after the Brownrigg transference, but she might mention them to Jimmy. Shit – she still hadn’t replied to his text. She’d call him tomorrow, when she wasn’t so fed up. She took her Commset off her wrist, took her earpiece out and put them on the table nearby.

  ‘Kyra Sullivan – jobs search.’ The screen immediately switched from programmes to hypernet search. She had saved her data from before she had met Carter but she hadn’t expected to be using it so soon. She scrolled down the results, but there was nothing exciting or unexpected – genetics lab, research lab, child mental health psychologist, neurology clinic. None of them seemed as interesting as her last job, none appeared to allow for much creativity or independence, certainly none of them were paying as much money as Carter had given her.

  With a feeling of dread, knowing what she might see, she said, ‘News channel.’

  She immediately recognised the face of one of the first victims of the Mizpah Murderer: Skylar Lowndry, the

  first Type B victim, killed in 2019. Kyra wasn’t surprised the news had chosen this particular image. Skylar’s slightly lopsided smile on an otherwise perfect face gave her a look of heart-rending vulnerability. Why was it that the death of a beautiful young person always seemed more tragic? Wouldn’t that have been what she would have advised when working with the police? Get the most attractive photographs of the deceased, the most relatable, the most sympathy-inducing, to trigger people to help catch the monster.