by SE Moorhead
Before she had set off in the car, clutching the serviette on which Rosetta had drawn a crude map, she had momentarily wobbled and called Alex, thinking she would prefer not to go alone, but she cut the call before there was any answer, in case word got back to Tom. She would rather risk being alone than have to deal with his incredulity. The last light was fading from the sky and the garage, set away from the main road down a rough, narrow path, was quiet and remote. It felt almost like a trap.
She made her way past the clump of trees, grown much bigger now, where Ray had seen the fox, careful of her footing on the rubbly ground. She was going to find a lead, she was sure of it. Then Tom would see how good the technology was. The police would be impressed, maybe even offer to buy the tech and then Carter would forgive her. But most importantly, she would have helped to find Isabel and catch the Mizpah Murderer.
Justice for Emma at last.
The yellowy glow from the yard lamp had long since gone. She flicked the light on her Commset, which gave out a bright white beam and, with some difficulty, yanked open the door into the garage that Ray had used for shelter. She lay down, too eager for information to worry about her coat on the grimy ground. The smell of oil was much stronger than she had caught in Ray’s memories.
Peering out from beneath the cracked wood, she angled her head down so that she could shine her light across the yard and look out at the same time.
But she did not see what she had expected.
Her sight became refracted, as if she had a migraine halo, and split her vision into two, as if the past and the present were converging and both happening simultaneously. She saw the yard as it was when she had arrived and then she saw the yard as it had been the night Rosetta had been there. Then, the present day faded away and there was only the past.
Right in front of her eyes, just beyond the garage door, she could see the tyre of a car. She craned her neck to see more. The paintwork was a bright, cherry red, radiant in the white light of her Commset. The next moment, a half brick banged the garage door, making her heart burst into speed, the adrenaline flushing through her system.
She glanced over to the far side of the yard and, as she did so, Jennifer Bosanquet came running out, her feet bare, stumbling on the rubble in the yard, her tiny frame swathed in white fabric like an old-fashioned nightdress. She ran up to the door, right in front of Kyra, half a metre away, separated by only a few centimetres of rotten wood, and then cowered down behind the car, hiding. She was in Kyra’s beam but she didn’t seem to see the light.
Kyra’s chest grew tight. The bees, ever present these days, made every nerve in her body hurt as the anxiety travelled through her body like electricity. She briefly closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the car and the woman were still there. Her mind was reeling, her instincts were urging her to rescue the woman, her psychology training telling her this wasn’t what it seemed.
Next moment, the garage door opposite burst open.
A hooded man appeared and honed in on the terrified woman. She whimpered. ‘I’m not her! I’m Jenny! I’m Jenny!’
Kyra knew what would happen next. She had already seen it. This would be the last time anyone saw Jennifer Bosanquet alive.
‘But I’m Jenny!’ the woman cried more desperately.
The killer came really close and punched Jennifer once, hard.
Kyra, in her stunned confusion, could no longer stop herself from remaining still. She thought of Rosetta’s courage, and grabbed a half-brick, the only weapon available. She knew in a matter of seconds he would be bending over Jennifer’s body, picking her up and putting her in the boot of his car. She burst out of the door, brick raised above her head, ready to strike, ready to fight for Jennifer’s life.
But the yard was empty.
There was no car, no woman, no killer.
Kyra ran over to the garage opposite and wrestled the rusty hinged door open. Shining her Commset torch in, she could see no one. The garage seemed to swirl around her and she staggered back into the yard and slumped down to the rough ground, sweating, heart pounding, limbs weak, wondering what the hell she was thinking.
This had all happened fifteen years ago.
But it had all seemed so real.
Her chest was heaving now, a hive full of honey, unable to let any oxygen in.
Why the hell hadn’t she brought Alex with her? She tried her number, but there was no reply. They were probably in the thick of it now in the Hub – last-minute leads, desperate to make the next few hours count.
Midnight was beckoning – the hour of Isabel Marsden’s death.
For a split second she considered ringing Tom.
‘Dial Jimmy.’ Her words shattered the eerie silence. ‘Jimmy, pick up, pick up!’ she urged. It went straight to auto-message. He wasn’t speaking to her. She couldn’t blame him.
‘Jim, please, I’m freaking out here, something weird’s going on. I saw something but it happened years ago. I don’t feel so good. Jimmy, I need you! I’m sorry. You were right, this tech is making me … just call me back.’
She wished she could have said, Come and get me.
She was on her own.
The light from the call went out and she was surrounded by stifling darkness. She moved to get up, her chest still tight, and pulled herself up to her feet, wheezing. Her head exploded into a sharp ache and dizziness which caught her off balance. She needed to get back to her car which she had left on the main road.
But to get there, she would have to walk down to the entrance of the yard, a tapering alleyway with tumble-down brick walls riven with buddleia on either side. The plants had been left to grow wild and now formed a tunnel of dead brown spear-shaped heads and branches wavering in the cool breeze. Kyra stumbled to the alley, desperate to get out of the yard. Up ahead, at a distance, she saw the bright lights of intermittent cars driving past, but they were suddenly blacked out by a solid shadowy mass beyond the thin branches which waved violently as the wind began to increase.
She stopped still, straining to see what it was. As her eyes grew used to the dark, her heart nearly stopped.
A figure stood motionless, silhouetted against the distant street lights, blocking the path. In his hand, she could see a hacksaw, the angular trapezoid shape visible in outline. Was it Lomax, escaped again? Was he going to make good on his promise to her? Who was it?
‘Jesus, no,’ she cried, frantically looking for an escape route. She switched her light off to make her position less obvious.
Adrenaline made her legs feel useless. Her mind flailed and in her panic, to get away from him, she retreated a few metres back down the alley towards the garages, and then realised her mistake as he moved towards her, maintaining the distance between them.
Could she run into one of the garages to hide, wait until he came further into the yard and then make a break for it? At least that way she might have a chance to escape.
But she knew he would move the second she did. He would be faster, on her before she even had a chance to hide. She eyed the hacksaw again and willed her body to do what she needed it to do, urging her legs to function, her eyes to guide her.
The second she moved her body, he burst into action and darted towards her like a lion on a gazelle. She scrambled her way to one of the rotten wooden doors, sliding on rocks and tripping over rubble. She heard him getting closer, the sound of his feet pounding the concrete. Darting into one of the garages, she caught her hand against the rusted lock, the pain shooting up her arm. Crouching down in a dark corner, she tried hard to stifle her laboured breathing, desperate to suck in the air as she shuddered in fear.
There was an almighty crash as he slammed his body against the wooden door.
She got up on to her haunches, like an animal ready to launch herself, to fight whatever it was that she was about to face.
Nothing happened.
She waited for another minute, the adrenaline burning her muscles, a growling fear in the pit of her stomach.
She slowly stood up, her body tensed, and listened, scanning the air for any sound or smell that would tell her danger was near.
Then she moved towards the door in the pitch black, one footstep at a time, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. She reached out for the door, gearing herself up to going back out to the courtyard. Her fingers made contact with the splintered wood and she pushed it open in trepidation and peeked out.
She could see no one and launched into a run.
A loud animal roar burst into her ears and he came from behind, hurtling after her.
She caught her foot on a brick and fell, tumbling over and over, banging her hip and elbow, cracking her wrist, and grazing her face, until she righted herself and stood, and moved off again, in one swift motion.
Where was he? Who was he? She hurried towards the alleyway and the lights of the main road beyond the branches. She hit her car at speed and grabbed the handle but for some reason, the door wouldn’t open. A shooting pain electrified her damaged wrist as she struggled with it.
She heard him then, gaining on her. She tugged at the handle again, frantically pulling with short snappy looks back and forth, to see how close he was. There was no reassuring ‘clunk’ as the central locking responded to her hand print. Her face burned from the contact with the ground, her wrist throbbed.
He stopped two metres away, smaller than she had imagined. It’s not Lomax but nonetheless terrifying – waving the hacksaw at her. His face was a dark space, a grim reaper’s aspect.
Of course, the oil and grime from the floor of the garage.
He started moving slowly towards her, nothing between them, nowhere to hide.
She wiped her hand furiously on her jeans, spitting on them and rubbing again, then grabbed the handle.
He dived towards her, but the door opened halfway. She quickly tried to force her body into the narrow gap but he was too fast and he was upon her. He slammed against the car door, banging it against her head as she tried to climb in. Lights burst around her vision. Somehow, she managed to push him off.
His hands hit the window between them and the hacksaw cracked against the glass. Her foot was still on the ground outside the car. She was stunned, her head throbbing. His face was so close to hers now that she could hear his grunts as he forced the car door against her, the pain in her leg excruciating. He gritted his teeth together, spittle at the corner of his mouth. One of his eyes was closed over, the skin around it ruched.
Her body trapped, she did the only thing possible and pressed her heel down as hard as she could on his foot. It was not particularly forceful, she hadn’t been able to get much momentum, but he yelped and released the pressure on the door briefly.
It was enough to give Kyra space to get herself into the car. Once in the seat, she went to pull the door closed, but his hand darted in and he grabbed her by a fistful of hair, pulling her head out of the car and slamming the door on it.
‘I’m going to take your hands!’ he whispered.
As she lost consciousness, the last thing she saw was the hacksaw.
Chapter Thirty-Five
WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY
8.36 p.m.
Kyra screamed when she heard the thumping on the window of the car. It was still dark. How long had she been out? She brought her arms up to protect herself.
Her hands.
She examined them, trembling before her eyes, relieved.
‘Kyra!’ Jimmy stood on the grass verge outside, lit by the headlights of his own car. His curly hair was poking out from under a cap, his palms pressed against the glass.
‘You okay? Open the door!’
With a shaking voice she ordered the car to unlock the doors and half-climbed, half-fell, out on to the grass. She grabbed Jimmy’s arms and pulled herself up and held onto him.
‘Has he gone? Has he gone?’ She glanced around in the darkness, eyes wide.
He patted her back, uncertainly. ‘You’re okay. There’s no one here.’
Jimmy had come for her. He cared about her. They were friends, for heaven’s sake. He hadn’t meant to reject her. He’d only been concerned about her, hadn’t he?
‘I’m sorry … about everything … about work … about pushing too hard …’ she began.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he reassured her.
She loosened her grip on him. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’
‘You mean what are you doing here? I got your message and I was worried. I used the tracker I put on your
car.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’ It seemed like such a basic experiment now. So much had changed since then.
She finally let go and sat back down on the car seat, door wide open, feet on the grass beneath.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I’m alright now.’ She ran her hand across her forehead. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘What on earth were you doing out here on your own at this time of night?’
She examined her hands again, relieved. She thought about Riley, the little boy with no mother. She steeled herself for his reaction. ‘This is where Ray Clarke saw the killer.’
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked quietly.
‘Rosetta Maguire called me. She was a witness to Jennifer Bosanquet’s murder. The police overlooked her, took her for a junkie, but she told me everything.’
‘About this place?’
Kyra nodded.
‘Does Tom know you were here?’
She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t believe anything I say. He thinks I’ve lost it.’
Jimmy came around the other side of the car and got in and closed the door. Kyra immediately shut her door too and locked the car.
‘Let’s wait here until you feel a bit better and then I’ll follow you back to yours, make sure you get home safe.’
‘Do you think I’m mad, Jim?’ She kept her eyes on the dashboard, the soft blue glow of the lights familiar and comforting.
‘It’s been a tough time. Don’t worry about Tom Morgan.’
Tears of relief prickled her eyes.
‘But I think you have let this get the better of you.’
She didn’t want to hear it, and opened her mouth to speak, a sob escaping. ‘Jimmy, I’m so sorry, about … everything. I didn’t want to fall out with you.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’
She looked up at him now. ‘Thanks for coming for me. I didn’t …’ she began, but she was interrupted when her Commset rang.
Why was her mother ringing this late? She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Hi, Mum, everything alright?’ she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt.
‘Molly’s not back. I don’t know what to do. She’s not answering.’
Kyra sighed heavily and put her hand on the dashboard in front of her. How much more pressure could she take?
‘You know what she’s like, Mum. She’ll come back once she’s got over …’ Her eyes flicked to Jimmy and back. ‘… the row last night.’
‘No, Kyra, this is different. That was a lot for her to take in yesterday. I don’t know …’
‘Mum!’ She hadn’t meant to snap at her. Jimmy directed his gaze out of the window.
‘Mum,’ she said more calmly. ‘She’ll be back in the morning. She will. Try not to let it get to you.’
She ended the conversation, her mother still anxious, but Kyra was too exhausted to give her more comfort. She should be worried about herself right now, the things she was seeing, the man at the garage, not her niece’s tantrums or her mother’s worries.
‘What happened here?’ Jimmy pointed to the graze on her face, concerned. ‘Do you know your face is bleeding?’
She flicked down the mirror behind the visor and checked her reflection. ‘I fell over.’ Was that a shadow on the back seat? She looked around and then back again to the mirror. She must have imagin
ed it. She touched her face, it stung, the blood was gritty on her fingers. She flipped the visor back up.
‘What were you thinking coming out here in the middle of nowhere on your own? Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?’
‘I saw him here,’ she blurted.
‘Who did you see?’ She couldn’t look at him, but she could hear the anxiety in his voice.
‘A man … he tried to attack me.’ She looked out of the car window. ‘I don’t know where he went.’ Jimmy was silent. ‘What if it was him? The Mizpah Murderer?’
‘He was here? Jesus! Tell Tom!’ he urged. ‘There might be some evidence.’
‘I said I saw him. I don’t know if he was here … not really.’ Her voice shook with nerves. She turned to face him now. ‘Jimmy, I’m seeing things … all sorts of things. I don’t know what’s real.’
‘It might have been the killer. How do you know he wasn’t there? Would he have come back – after all this time? I mean, he killed someone the other day, it could have been him, right?’
Did he believe her? ‘I saw Jennifer Bosanquet, one of the victims.’ She searched his face for a reaction. ‘She’s been dead fifteen years.’ She groaned and covered her face with her hands. ‘I saw the man who took her. But I don’t think he was there. I’m losing it, Jim. I am going mad, Tom’s right.’ She reached up and put her hands on the wheel.
‘Kyra, this has got to stop,’ he said gently. She knew he was looking at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the windscreen.
‘But I’m so close, Jim. Isabel … she’ll die tonight if I don’t find some way of …’
He reached his hand over and put it on hers. ‘You’re making yourself ill. This is the furthest we have ever come with CASNDRA. You’ve proved it works. You’ve proved yourself.’ Feeling his touch broke her down, and she let out a wail.