You're Next

by Michael Fowler

  Diane Harris interrupted, ‘So, let me get this right Scarlett, what you are saying is that Jason Cabett, Dorothy’s first son, has taken the identity of James Green, her second son, who was killed in a house fire.’

  Scarlett nodded. ‘That’s what I believe.’ After holding the DCI’s gaze for a few seconds, she said, ‘And do you want the piece de resistance?’

  ‘There’s more?’ Diane Harris responded.

  Scarlett smiled broadly. ‘Oh, there’s more all right. Although he never gives his address when he signs in at the care home, on a hunch, I rang the housing department and gave them Dorothy’s name and asked them to do a check at Belvedere House at Feltham. And guess what?’ Before anyone had time to answer Scarlett said, ‘The rent of the flat at Belvedere House, in Dorothy’s name, is still being paid.’ She exhaled sharply. She didn’t need to tell them about Alex’s trace of the number that had appeared on Ella’s phone, which located back to Belvedere House. She had crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s with her own phone calls.

  Ella’s killer was in touching distance.

  Seventy-one

  The next morning, a three-vehicle convoy made its way to Belvedere House. The first two vehicles – marked vans – contained officers from the Task Force, suited and booted, ready for the raid of Dorothy’s flat. Scarlett and George, with Detectives Carl Jenkins and Kathryn Hall, from Syndicate Two, followed up the rear in an unmarked car. Belvedere House was just behind Feltham shopping centre, part of a twin concrete complex of high rise flats. Dorothy’s flat was on the fourth floor. Apartment 416.

  The police fleet pulled up on a side road, kitted up – the Task Force adding body armour to their overalls, and the Homicide Squad donning forensic suits – and then they made their way to the main entrance at a trot. Two officers stayed in the foyer, guarding the lifts, just in case their target was already making his way down and the rest of the team took the stairs. At the top of the stairwell of the fourth floor, everyone grabbed a breath and composed themselves. Then, following a silent signal from the Task Force Sergeant, they hurried along the balcony to apartment 416. It took two swings with the steel enforcer to smash in the door and then everyone rushed inside. All the rooms were on one floor, and Scarlett and her team stayed by the broken door, listening as officers cleared each room.

  When the last shout went up Scarlett was disappointed. Jason Cabett, aka James Green, wasn’t here. Flashing her team a frustrated look, she flicked her head and ordered, ‘Come on let’s start searching the place.’

  She was about to take the first door to her left when a voice shouted from up ahead and one of the Task Force officers stepped into the doorway at the far end of the hallway. ‘You need to take a look in here,’ he said. Scarlett caught sight of a single bed pushed against the wall. The room behind him was bathed in a diffused orange light indicating that the curtains were closed. She stopped at the doorway and looked inside. The coruscating light coming through the cheap orange curtains cast everything in a warm glow. But there was nothing warm or cosy about the interior. The bedroom was drab and poorly furnished, the furniture years out of date. Beside the single bed, in the three-metre by three-metre room, there was a single wardrobe in a corner to her left and a set of drawers. What caught her eye was the chair on the plastic sheeting in the centre of the room, a large orange/brown stain surrounding it. She recognised this scene from the DVD she had been sent. This is where Ella had been killed. Her head felt as if it was exploding; a rush of meteorites whizzed behind her eyes and she went light-headed. Feeling her legs about to give way she grabbed for the door handle and sucked in a series of deep breaths. Within a few seconds the fainting sensation receded and the strength returned to her legs. As the flashes subsided and her vision returned she took in the room again. Next to the set of drawers was a small video camera on a tripod that she had missed from her initial sweep. And then, her gaze fastened on the montage of photographs taped to the wall: photographs of her and of Ella.

  ***

  Driving his mother’s car, Jason Cabett turned off Feltham High Street, heading back to his flat. He had got up early to begin clearing the place of incriminating evidence. The day before he had smashed Detective Ella Bloom’s phone to smithereens and, together with the SIM card from his own phone, had tossed them into nearby Queen Mary Reservoir. That morning he had bin-bagged the detective’s clothing and his own blood-stained T-shirt and joggers, and driven over to a refuse site at Hounslow and dumped them into a skip. It had been out of his way, and had taken him over an hour, because of the traffic, but the journey had been worth it. No one would think of looking there. All he had left to do was to get rid of the chair and the plastic sheeting: he had already identified another dump-it site, five miles away, at Staines. As he approached Lemon Grove, where Belvedere House was located, he was feeling rather chuffed with himself; another two hours’ work and there would be nothing the cops could pin on him, even if they did track him down. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost missed the riot vans tucked against the side of the flats. He braked sharply. A car horn blared and he shot a glance in his rear-view mirror: he hadn’t thought about who had been behind him, so swift had been his panic reaction. A silver VW Polo swung out and overtook with a screech of tyres, the young male driver giving him a tosser handshake as he passed. He caught his breath and a knot formed in his stomach as he looked at the leading police van parked in the road opposite. He also spotted the white Vauxhall Astra, third in line, recognising it as one of the cars he had seen Detective Macey in. She’d found him. Fuck. She’ll have found the evidence as well. Detective Macey had fucked up all his plans. He was screwed. His heart started thumping and he could hear rushing noises in his ears. He drew in a deep breath. He needed to regain control. He still had something to finish. Putting the car in first gear, he turned slowly left, out from the junction – leaving behind his hiding place for the past eighteen months – and headed out of town, towards Richmond, where he could formulate new plans.

  ***

  ‘It looks as if he’s been following me and Ella around ever since he was released from court. I recognise where he’s taken most of the photographs we found in the bedroom, from their background.’ Scarlett turned towards DI Taylor-Butler in the squad room, fixed him with a stare, and added, ‘I told you he’s been stalking me.’ Satisfied she’d stabbed her point home, she returned to updating everyone about the investigation. It was now 8 p.m. Scarlett and her team had been at Dorothy Green’s flat most of the day, searching through everything to see if they could get a location for Jason Cabett. From speaking with neighbours, they knew he had been staying there ever since the collapse of his rape trial, and from the warm kettle and half empty mug of coffee they had found in the kitchen, they had only just missed him. In a drawer in the lounge sideboard, they had found the registration document for his mother’s blue Ford Fiesta and had run it through the Police National Computer. Some of the team had gone back through footage from roadside cameras on the night Ella had been abducted, and had picked out the car at various points leading to the industrial site at Greenwich. The next job was to look through today’s camera recordings to find where the Fiesta was now. At the flat, a forensic team, including photographers and an exhibits officer had been brought in and they had made a start on evidence gathering. A lot of ground had been covered since they had found the place where Ella had been butchered.

  Diane Harris thanked Scarlett and took over. ‘I know everyone is psyched up but there’s nothing much else we can do today folks. Jason Cabett has been circulated, as has his mother’s vehicle. It is only a matter of time before we catch him. I want everyone’s fresh eye on this, and I can see you’re flagging so I’m going to call it a day. I want everyone back in for 7a.m. tomorrow.’ Solemnly, the DCI ran her gaze around the room. ‘Good work everyone, and before you go, let me remind you all it’s Trish Scarr’s funeral tomorrow. I know some of you will want to pay your respects and support Tarn.’

 
Seventy-two

  St. John The Evangelist, Roman Catholic Church, was at the edge of a housing estate, overshadowed by a huge concrete rail flyover. It was the church where Tarn Scarr had married Trish five years earlier and now it was where he would say his final farewell to her.

  Scarlett, George Martin and another close team member, Phil Foster, stood uneasily by the gate, watching the funeral cortege slowly approach. It hadn’t come far – Trish’s parents lived two streets away. The coffin bearer car rolled past them and drew up a few yards away. Through the windows Scarlett saw the word MUMMY, spelled out in individual letters with pink carnations, resting against the side of the coffin and her stomach flipped. The lead passenger car stopped directly in front of them, capturing her attention. A funeral attendant jumped out and opened the back doors and she got her first glimpse of Tarn in over a week. Looking sad and drawn, he was a shadow of himself, and she wondered how he was going to cope, especially with two such young children. Would he return to work? She met Tarn’s eyes as he exited the car. He looked grief-stricken and acknowledged her with the ghost of a smile. Her chest lurched as she suppressed a sob. He helped his children, Dale and Heather, out of the car, their faces a picture of confusion as they looked among the throng of mourners. It was as if they didn’t know what was happening. Maybe they didn’t. That probably wasn’t a bad thing. Tarn’s parents climbed out after him, and following an exchange of sad glances with their son, they tearfully hugged one another and moved to the coffin bearing vehicle.

  The third black vehicle in the cortege contained Trish’s parents and a woman, who looked to be early thirties. Scarlett couldn’t help but notice how like Trish she was. A sister? Scarlett didn’t know Trish had a sister. She watched her file past with her parents. The resemblance to Trish was uncanny. She could almost be her twin. She watched them join Tarn, Dale and Heather, and his parents and exchange sombre nods.

  Then everyone waited and watched as Trish’s light oak coffin was pulled from the back of the car by the team of bearers, hoisted up onto their shoulders, and with such well-practised grace, shuffled sideways to face the entrance of the church. With a final check from the funeral director, the march into church began.

  Scarlett and her colleagues waited until last. As they entered, Gary Barlow’s Let Me Go was playing, and, although an upbeat tune, Scarlett knew the significance of the song and she felt her chest lurch again. Taking a pew, she picked up the order of service leaflet, glanced at it fleetingly and drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t looking forward to this. If truth be told she didn’t want to be here. She would rather have been back at the station working on capturing Jason Cabett, but Tarn was her closest colleague on the squad and her friend and if roles were switched she knew he’d be doing exactly the same for her. In a week or two’s time she would be going through this again at Ella’s funeral and she knew she wouldn’t hold it together then. As the song faded she took in another deep breath.

  It was her first time at a Catholic funeral service and it seemed awfully long, prolonging the agony. Scarlett drifted in and out; if she paid too much attention to the words being said she would end up bursting into tears and making a spectacle of herself. She was glad when it finally ended and she could leave.

  Outside, she caught another glimpse of Tarn. His eyes were red but his attention rested on his children and Scarlett thought that was a good thing. There would be many times over the next few weeks when he would feel alone and grieve but having Dale and Heather around would ensure it wasn’t all the time. She watched him guide them back into the funeral car, joining his parents; they were going on to the cemetery for the burial: Scarlett was going to avoid that – work was pressing and they had a killer to catch.

  ***

  Back at the station, Scarlett made herself a coffee and took two paracetamols; she could feel a headache coming on and didn’t want it to stop her over the remainder of the day. She found Lucy Summers and caught up with what was happening. Jason’s mother’s car had been identified and tracked from the previous day's roadside camera footage – they had only missed him by whisker when they had raided the flat. A team were out, currently going over the ground where the car had been spotted, seeing if there was anything relevant about the journey he had made earlier the previous day. Jason had returned while they were searching the flat, obviously spotted them and taken avoiding action. They had managed to track the car for another few miles, as it had diverted away to Staines along the A308, but then it disappeared. The theory was it had either been dumped in an estate somewhere or Jason had switched number plates. Lucy finished by telling her that the DCI was currently with a news broadcasting team recording an appeal for the local evening news – tonight, the public of London were going to get their first view of the face of a cop-killer.

  Scarlett thanked Lucy for the update and was about to check what tasks had been allocated to her when her desk phone went. It was one of the receptionists from downstairs.

  She said, ‘Scarlett, another of those packages has just been handed in. It was an old man. I’ve got his details. He said it was given to him ten minutes ago by a youngish guy wearing a hoodie. He gave him a tenner to bring it in for him.’

  ‘Okay I’ll be down in a couple of ticks.’

  Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Scarlett headed to reception, recovered the padded envelope and returned to her desk. Like the others it was addressed to Detective Macey and written in the same hand. Taking her time, she gently peeled open the seal and tipped out its contents, wondering what it would be this time. A candle fell from the package, rolling until a small pile of papers brought it to a halt. She shook her head. This just didn’t make sense. Whatever game Jason Cabett was playing, she wasn’t on his wavelength. She returned her attention to the package, looking inside. There was a small piece of paper. Tipping the envelope upside down she shook it. The slip of paper fell out. Penned, boldly in ink, were the words, HERE COMES THE CANDLE.

  Seventy-three

  Scarlett turned the key in the lock and pushed her front door open as she let out a heavy sigh. It had been a long day. A long couple of days. She was whacked. All she wanted was to grab a quick bite, soak in the bath and flop into her comfy bed. Dragging herself out of her biking leathers, she went through to the kitchen, checked what she had by the way of food in the fridge, made a cheese and salad sandwich, grabbed a yoghurt, and suddenly feeling less drained, decided to hold off on the soak in the bath and grab an hour’s TV to unwind. Besides, she wanted to see the DCI’s appeal on the news. No matter how tired she felt, she wouldn’t be able to relax enough to drop off immediately unless she unwound a little. Taking her sandwich and yoghurt through to the lounge she dropped onto the sofa, switched on her TV with the remote and settled back into the cushions. There was just under an hour before the news, so she whizzed through the TV planner, channel-hopped a couple of programmes and settled on the final part of 24 hours in A & E; it was easy viewing that she didn’t have to concentrate on, and she also liked to draw comparisons with the other emergency services who coped with limited resources.

  Finishing her sandwich and yoghurt she drew her legs up beneath her, took in the remainder of the hospital programme and as it ended switched channels. The piece about Jason Cabett featured on the local London news. It showed footage of the abandoned industrial site where Ella had been abducted, the garden at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park, close to where her body had been found and finished with a shot of Jason’s Mother’s flat at Belvedere House. The photograph they showed of him was the mugshot taken following his arrest for rape, four months earlier, when he was known as James Green. The news production team had given it a good airing. As she switched off the TV she hoped that by the morning someone would have rung in and grassed him up for the £5,000 reward they were offering.

  After tidying up the kitchen, she wearily climbed the stairs, undressed, bathed, put on her nightwear and climbed into her inviting double bed. The events of the past few days had finally caugh
t up with her. As she plumped up her pillow she could feel her brain starting to shut down even before she rested her head. Turning off the bedside light, she pulled the duvet up to her chin and closed her eyes.

  ***

  Jason Cabett stepped out of the shadows opposite Scarlett’s home. Her house was now in darkness. For the past hour he’d been watching her shadow drift past curtained windows. He could tell by the flashes through the curtains that she had watched some TV when she got home. The last thing he’d seen before the house had been plunged into darkness was her bathroom light being turned off. The front bedroom light hadn’t gone on and he guessed she slept in the back. He picked up his bag and hugged it close to his chest. He would give it another half hour, then he would put the final part of his plan into action.

  ***

  A loud beeping noise woke Scarlett and for a split second she was bewildered. It was not only pitch black but something cloudy was snaking across her vision. Suddenly her chest was tight and she couldn’t breathe. The back of her throat stung. She started to cough, her chest getting even tighter. She tried to gasp in air. Panicking, she flung out a hand, searching for the bedside light. She switched it on, still trying to catch her breath. As the room lit up she saw why. The bedroom was full of smoke. Thick, dark smoke! Her house was on fire! Flinging aside her duvet, she launched herself out of bed. Her chest was so tight now it burned. She was going to die if she didn’t get out of here. The smoke was coming from the landing, or downstairs. She couldn’t see any flames though. The shrill beeping noise of the smoke alarm resounded from the hallway. Stumbling, she slammed the bedroom door shut and tried to take in a gulp of air. The smoke hit the back of her throat and another wracking coughing fit started, causing her to stumble. Only the closed door stopped her from hitting the floor. She had to get out. Struggling back to her bed, she rolled across it to the window and almost ripped the curtains off the pole as she flung them aside. Then she threw open the side window, flinging her head outside. She grabbed for air, desperate to breathe, but her throat was clogged and another bout of coughing started, tightening her chest even further. The patio was below her. She checked where the potted plants and her garden bench were. This was her only way out. Exerting everything she had left, she grabbed hold of the window frame and pulled herself up onto the sill. Then, swinging out her legs she hauled herself over the sill, dropping the fifteen feet or so to the ground. She hit the paved patio feet first, hearing a loud crack and feeling her right ankle turn under her. The pain was excruciating, adding to the soreness in her chest, and a blaze of fireworks exploded inside her head. She fell forward, letting out a yelp, throwing out her hands to stop her head hitting the ground. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe. Every part of her body screamed with pain. Then she heard a voice, a melodious, singing sound. She opened her eyes to see where it was coming from. It sounded close to the fence surrounding her small garden, only a couple of yards away. She could just make out some form of human shape in the dark. Her brain was trying to make out what the song was. She had heard it before: something from her past. The shape stepped nearer and the singing became louder. The voice was mocking. And, in that instant she both recognised the voice and the song. It was Jason Cabett, and he was chanting a nursery rhyme that her Grandfather Macey used to sing – Oranges and Lemons. Images burst into her thoughts: the items she had been sent, the messages written by Jason Cabett, were all in that rhyme. It was all coming together. She saw the dark spectre edging towards her, the silhouette beginning to take on form, the head lowering.