by SE Moorhead
She reached out to her car door, the lock automatically reacting to her. She sat in the driver’s seat, light-headed, chest heaving.
‘She’s only run off again,’ said Alex, sounding bored. ‘You said yourself – she often goes off on her own. Go and have a sleep, Kyra. You’re losing it.’
She could hear Alex make a muffled comment to someone else, and the sound of her engine.
‘Please, Alex …’
‘Look, Kyra, we’ve got to get Coombes, he’s the most likely suspect. The armed response team are already there. We’re on our way now, so I’ve got more important things to worry about.’ There was brief pause. ‘Molly will come home when she’s ready.’
The call was disconnected.
Kyra started the engine and took the car to the junction, trying to decide whether to turn left or right. What was she to do? Where was she to go? Was there no one who would help her now? How was she going to find Molly? She rolled the car out slowly but slammed on the brakes as an ambulance appeared from along the main road, lights but no sirens, and came towards the car at speed. As he drove past her, the peri-med glanced in her direction.
It was then that Kyra remembered where she had seen the killer’s face before.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
10.35 p.m.
ISABEL
Candles, there are so many candles, gentle lights flickering on the ceiling which seem to stretch high, reaching up, up, up. That’s where she can see them, their wings wide and welcoming – the wings that will soon curl around her and lift her up. She wonders if it is an angel carrying her now, but then she sees his eyes and remembers.
She hears a sound like feathers fluttering, a rhythmic, swishing sound. Maybe she is already leaving her body, travelling through time and space, no longer held back by anything – no longer bound by the fear of what he will do to her, or the attachment she once felt to the world.
She can hear the angels singing, or maybe it is water flowing. For a fleeting moment, she thinks of her mother – she can feel her presence, somewhere in the world, as though they are connected, even though her mother is long gone. The hidden is becoming visible to her, her mind going beyond the physical.
‘We’re coming to the end now,’ he tells her gently. ‘You mustn’t worry, everything is in place, everything will be peaceful. The pure and innocent should not suffer. It will be painless, beautiful.’
And something in his voice convinces her that it will be beautiful.
10.37 p.m.
It made sense now, what Rosetta had said.
Rosetta – witness X – the whole key to unlocking this case.
When Rosetta had told her that an ambulance had come for Jenny’s body, for a moment, Kyra had teetered on the edge of disbelief. But it had been precisely the fact that her gut instinct told her loud and clear that Rosetta was truthful, that forced Kyra to find an explanation.
The ambulance was driving away, Rosetta had said.
The T-shirt with two snakes and a winged staff she had seen in Lomax’s memory; the access to medical opiates and a sternal saw; a peri-med pulling over to let her car into the eco-recycling centre fifteen years before.
She was sure of it now, the killer was a peri-med.
It was how he had chosen his victims: the burn on Riley’s arm – Chloe had said his mother had had it checked over – and Rosetta said a peri-med was called when her daughter was found unresponsive in her cot. Did he think these mothers didn’t take enough care of their children, like his own mother, maybe? Was that why he was punishing them?
Even the second set of victims, the B Type ‘good girls’ – Jessica Smith, a school teacher, ambulances sometimes went to school when children hurt themselves or got sick, didn’t they? Jennifer Bosanquet – a church youth worker – she’d be out visiting the people in her parish who were ill. Perhaps she had encountered him there. Amelia Brigham – a social worker – they dealt with peri-meds regularly, she was certain.
But, more importantly, he had the ideal form of transport. Kyra imagined him bringing Madelyn’s body with him in the ambulance, after brutally killing her elsewhere. He must have driven to the eco-recycling centre, placed her body at the foot of the slagheap of plastic and then called it in himself.
She knew from experience that, more often than not, ambulances arrived at the crime scene before the police got there. He could have called 999 for all of his kills and when the control room radioed, guess who would be nearby?
A ghost, Will had said.
She imagined him sitting in the vehicle, watching the unfolding drama of his own creation.
Best seat in the house.
It was the perfect method. Hiding in plain sight – someone who the victims would trust, someone who could transport bodies, someone the police wouldn’t suspect – one of their emergency service brethren who had access to different vehicles, who had medical knowledge to drug his victims, who could get his hands on a sternal saw at the hospital.
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense to her.
‘Dial Alex,’ she told her Commset and moments later she answered.
‘Alex, it’s me.’
‘Christ, Kyra! I’m in the middle of a crime scene,’ she said as soon as she picked up. ‘Have you not got the message …’
‘Tell me one thing … Is Martin Coombes a peri-med?’
‘What?’ Kyra could hear people talking on the other end of the line.
‘Martin Coombes – is he a peri-med? I think our killer drives an ambulance …’
But Alex cut her off. ‘Martin Coombes is dead. CSIs did a forensic light source, a blue-light, and there’s blood all over the place. Coombes is wrapped in plastic in the fucking loft, so I’m a bit too busy for your bull—’
‘So why don’t you listen to me? I’ve got a new lead. The killer – he’s a peri-med. He drives an ambulance. I think his first name is—’
‘Kyra, I’m really not interested. You told Tom I went with you to see Rosetta when you promised you wouldn’t! It’s your fault I’m on a warning. I’ll never get a bloody promotion now.’
‘Listen to me!’
‘No! We’ve got a few hours to save Isabel, and I’ve got another dead body on my hands. Let us get on with it. Bye, Kyra.’
‘But he’s got Molly!’ Kyra begged. ‘We’ve got to get to him before—’
‘Tom’s right about you. You’re fucking mental.’
Kyra opened her mouth to speak, but Alex had already cut the call.
There was a split second when it could have gone either way, when everything that had happened seemed to rush at her all at once and she might have been crushed under the weight of it. She might have crumbled in despair, fallen down a black hole of grief and helplessness, abandoned hope for a safe return for Molly and Isabel, given up.
But then she thought of her niece, her golden eyes, her gorgeous smile, her mother’s spirit still alive in her, of the promises she had made to Emma in the Necroplex to look after Molly.
There was another way.
She scrabbled for Tom’s police mini-screen that was still in her glove compartment and flicked it on, more determined than ever to show them that her tech worked, more determined than ever to get justice for Emma, but more importantly now to find Molly.
Less than three minutes later, she had located the statement of the first officer attending the crime scene at the eco-recycling centre in 2020. She scrolled through, looking for the name of the person who had called in Madelyn Cooper’s body. UNKNOWN.
Then she looked for first response details.
She knew these reports didn’t always have the name of the attending peri-med.
But, in this case, it did.
Stephen Fennig.
Stephen.
He had told Rosetta his real name because he hadn’t expected her to live and tell anyone.
He would have given his real name in the police report because he didn’t think he would be caught.
She
commanded her Commset to call April Butler, the Human Resources manager at the hospital, deliberately using her vidscreen. She had been with Tom when they had gone to find Andrew Harper’s information just days ago. The Human Resources officer would recognise her face, assume she was a police officer. Tom hadn’t told her any differently. Kyra would ask for the details of Stephen Fennig, just as they had done with Andrew Harper. It was late, but April Butler answered.
Minutes later, Kyra had all the information that she needed.
Tom did not have faith in her tech. Alex doubted her sanity. Jimmy thought she was weak and couldn’t handle the side effects.
But she knew where Stephen Fennig was.
She would save Molly, whatever it took.
She would get justice for Emma.
She would find Isabel.
She would show Alex, Jimmy and Tom.
She would show them all.
11.08 p.m.
ISABEL
He lays her down carefully. The cold shocks her back into feeling her body, the surface hard and smooth beneath her. For a moment, she is alone with the lights, the angels, the voices. It is the most peaceful she had felt for a long time.
When he reappears he is carrying a red metallic gift box with a golden bow. It shines in the candlelight and makes her think of Christmas. She wishes he would go away. She wants to be alone, just her and the angels, but the second he speaks, the angels begin disappearing like bubbles popping.
As a child she read about near-death experiences; how there was a tunnel, a beautiful light at the end. She wants to fly away, be free from all pain, from Andrew, from time itself, time that her grandmother had given her, marked out in the silver casing of a fob watch. She giggles. It seems so pointless now, a watch! Why count the time when she can be free from it altogether?
‘This is what you must do. Give these to Elise. Tell her I love her. Tell her I will be there, one day. Look after her for me.’
‘Where is she?’ asks Isabel. Her voice sounds soft, slow. It is a buzz inside her own skull.
‘In the water, of course. You’ll be with her soon.’
‘What is this?’ she asks sleepily as he places the box on her chest. She takes it awkwardly, the contents slide heavily inside.
‘Open it and see.’
She thinks she might be smiling, like a child on her birthday, as she pulls the golden ribbon, feeling its silky softness until it pops open. Her arms are weak and heavy, her fingers fumble with the lid until she manages to remove it and drop it to one side.
From her prone position, she can’t see what is in the box and so she tips it towards her face.
At first, her muddled brain can’t recognise what she is seeing, can’t make sense of it, possibly some kind of huge red spider with a grotesque viscous body? Her eyes narrow, trying to decipher it, but then, not able to hold the box steady, the bony, slimy mass slips onto her neck, the spider’s legs wrap around her throat.
She tries to shrug it off, reaching up to pull it away, but her fingers are numb, and she struggles to grasp it. When she manages to take hold, it comes away in pieces, the bloody mass slipping back on to her body, the spider’s legs in her hands. She inspects them, trying to focus – the spider’s legs have silver rings and fingernails, painted black.
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ the sound coming from her lips.
‘A mother’s hands should be used for good,’ he says, crouching down next to her, smiling, his eyes bright, as though she now understands. She lies trembling, the pair of severed hands grasping at her neck and shoulders. He removes the box and places the heart gently on her chest. Underneath it, her own heart beats furiously, pulsating through her ribcage, making the bloody mound appear to beat in time with her own.
‘Give this to my sister,’ he says smiling. ‘A good girl deserves her mother’s heart.’
And then the water comes.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY
11.17 p.m.
Kyra drove fast along the rain-washed city streets, shadows and images taunting her at the periphery of her vision. A homeless man shuffled along with his horde of plastic bags. He was real, surely? Or was it a memory she had picked up from Ray? As she moved through the tall grey buildings, travelling alongside her was an army jeep covered in desert camouflage; the driver saluted her. She quickly focused on the road ahead, ignoring the phantom, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She couldn’t lose it now, not when she was so close to finding Isabel. She swerved to avoid two little children who stepped off the pavement and into the path of her car. She could see their small, pale faces staring after her in the rear-view mirror as she drove on.
‘They’re not real,’ she said, out loud. ‘I’m going to find Isabel. I am going to find her.’
She checked her mirror to see if the children were still there and was met by the gruesome sight of Emma, battered and bloodied, sitting on the back seat peering back at her, her white face marked with the striations of removed duct tape like sand ripples on a beach.
Kyra jolted the steering wheel in shock and the car mounted the pavement, juddering with the impact. She righted the vehicle, her heart fluttering in her chest. Her eyes flicked to the mirror again.
Emma was gone.
Releasing the pressure on the accelerator slightly, she focused on the road. It had taken less than three minutes to find his name, when you know, you know, her dad used to say, then literally seconds on the mini-screen for the directions for the address that April from the hospital had given her. Immediately, an estate agency website had come up, showing photos from some years back, a tumbledown house and a garage on a few acres of land out in the suburbs. For some reason it had been almost immediately taken off the market again. Kyra told her Commset to guide her and, within minutes, she was heading to Dreyton Lane. Stephen’s home.
I’m coming for you, Mols. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Soon, this would all be over. She would no longer be host to all these memories that were haunting her, tormenting her. The dark, shadowy figures of memories that were not her own, constantly distracting her now, would disappear for ever. It was this case, driving her mad, pushing her to her limits. But she was going to solve the case and defeat them for good.
Most importantly, she would have Molly back. And she would have justice for her sister. Then she would get on with her life, take her mum and Molly on holiday, have a break before finding a new job, one where she wasn’t beholden to some ignorant businessman and his money.
She drove further out to the suburbs, away from the city lights, and out into darker, tree-lined roads which gave way to lanes with hedges running down both sides. A fine rain began and her windscreen wipers swiped intermittently.
‘You have reached Dreyton Lane,’ her Commset stated, startling her. She pulled up to the side of the road but couldn’t see any buildings beyond the greenery. Her breath caught in her throat, and she cowered when she saw a figure behind her car. It was a soldier, standing to attention, his eyes locked straight ahead of him, gun slung across his body. She swore, angry with herself for being so timid – how could she face the killer if she was frightened by these projections of her own brain?
Overgrown bushes concealed whatever lay behind. One or two ancient lampposts emitted a weak light. She drove to the end of the lane, and then turned the car around and drove back, slower this time, window down, leaning forward in her seat, hoping that Linden House was still there, that it hadn’t been demolished, the bricks and wood re-purposed.
Just as her frustration was becoming intolerable, a white figure appeared amidst the hedges, giving off a spectral glow which lit the greenery around her like a religious grotto. She took her foot off the accelerator in shock and the car rolled slowly forward towards the apparition.
It was Skylar Lowndry.
Kyra switched the engine off, got out of the car and slammed the door hard, but Skylar remained, motionless, eyes shut, white dress dripping with water, the form o
f her body visible beneath the wet material, her porcelain face a death mask.
Kyra moved closer to her. From this position, she could see a wrought-iron gate, covered by leaves. Was Skylar guiding her towards Isabel? She steeled herself, her hand trembling as she reached out to open it, centimetres from the ghostly woman, trying to reassure herself that it was all in her mind.
Skylar’s eyes flicked open, her eyes ice blue, lashes encrusted with tiny ice crystals. Kyra jumped back in fright, and the glowing figure disappeared, only to reappear on the other side of the wrought iron. All Kyra’s instincts were telling her to get back in her car and drive away, but Molly was close, she was sure of it. And it gave her the courage to go on, to force the stiff, rusted latch and push the gate – which would only open enough for her to slide in.
The moment she was through, Skylar disappeared and it was dark again.
Once on the other side, breathless with fear and anticipation, Kyra peered around in the gloom. She flicked on her Commset light. The driveway was a patchwork of bricks set unevenly into the earth, greasy underfoot with the misty rain. It was a mechanics yard, littered with carcasses of old motors and dismantled engines. A driveway stretched out in front of her to a set of double gates on the far side. There was a large workshop with wide doors that were open, showing space for three cars. She could imagine it back in the day, the purr of engines, the mechanics dark with oil, the banter. But now it was dark and silent, the only car a rusted old red Ford Focus, a dent in the bonnet.
Molly, where are you?
Skylar appeared again, standing at bushes at the far end of the yard.
Kyra made her way over, feeling less afraid of the apparition now. The moment she moved, Skylar disappeared. Kyra scrambled through the bushes, and there, on the other side of the overgrown foliage, was a house in total darkness, except for Skylar, who appeared as a glowing form at the front door.
Molly would be locked in a room here, afraid but unharmed. Kyra had to believe that so that she could keep going. She moved towards the house. What the hell was she going to see in there?