by J. D. Weston
But the man from the previous day, who had haunted Myers through a night of restless anxiety, had been nothing he’d ever seen before. He wore no stereotype, he fell into no silo, and he carried none of the traits that Myers and countless other detectives looked for in such men.
It wasn’t unusual for Myers to be able to imagine the man in the interview room carrying out his deed. As terrible as it was to imagine, Myers found it helpful. To visualise how capable the man was, how sick he was, and what drove him to do such things.
Men like Faisal Hussein often had an inbuilt distaste for female flesh. They despised women and girls and sought to ruin them. Some men were so depraved and socially outcast that to touch a consenting female rarely went further than brushing past one as he squeezed onto a packed bus or a train. Like Derek Young, thought Myers, and he remembered a case he’d worked on two years previously. He remembered the man sitting in that very same interview room and how he had cowered as Myers berated him and broke him into tears of shame. It had been those tears that had opened a world that Myers hadn’t been ready for, and one he had never been able to leave since.
It had only been when Young had been unable to restrain his excitement that he had risked everything. The bus had been packed, he had said, too packed to move without touching anybody. The woman had been wearing a short skirt, shorter than anything Young had seen before, and when the bus leaned into the corners, she too had pressed up against him.
“What did you do, Derek?” Myers had asked, his voice calm now that the confession had begun.
“You know what I did,” said Young.
“For the tape,” said Myers, and nodded at the two reels that had been spinning for thirty-eight minutes.
Young had stumbled at first, as if he was considering changing direction, but Myers had seen that before and steered him right.
“The bus,” said Myers, “the girl, the skirt, and her legs.”
“Women don’t look at me. I’m one of those men who women seem to look through as if I’m not there. Even when they do see me, I can see it in their faces, the repulsion.”
He paused and drifted into his own world of misery and relayed his story of depravity and cruelty. How he’d followed the girl and taken her to a quiet place where he could take his time.
Savour the moment.
Myers’ eyes flicked open as the psychology presented itself. Young had savoured the moment. He had wanted it to last. Just as Faisal Hussein had savoured the moment.
And the silent man had savoured his own moment.
His feet touched the cold floor and his dressing gown rode the air as Myers pulled it on while walking from the bedroom to the kitchen. He pulled the previous day’s coffee filter from the machine and replaced it with a new one. He collected three spoons of ground coffee, poured enough water for two coffees, then slammed the lid shut and hit the power button.
Before the coffee machine had even started its whirring, Myers had grabbed a pen from a small bowl on the kitchen counter and pulled his case file close.
“Savour the moment,” he said, speaking out loud to prompt his thoughts. “This guy was savouring the moment. How long had he been there? The whole area was humming with police for hours. How did he get into the forest and out again without being seen? He must have been there waiting. Which means he must have known Hussein was going to take her there in the first place. Which means he must have been following Hussein, watching his every move.”
Myers tapped the pen on the file, but he couldn’t untangle his thoughts enough to write anything. Instead he wrote two words. Silent man.
“He’s the killer,” he said out loud again. “I know he is.”
He poured a coffee, added two sugars, and as he strode through to his bedroom, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and stared at himself. The years had not been kind. Two days’ growth covered his chin with more salt than pepper. Beneath his plain, white t-shirt, his paunch peeked into view over the elastic of his shorts. The only clear reminder of the man he used to be was his eyes. Though too many late nights and the horrors of his job had left their scars in the form of heavy lines and darkened bags, they were his eyes, a feature his ex-wife had adored, and countless women before had fallen for.
“Still got it, Myers,” he said, unconvincing even to himself. It was something his ex-wife had used to say on the odd occasion they had to dress up for an event, a wedding or the annual ball.
In the bedroom, he set the mug of coffee down and fished his notepad from the pocket of his trousers, which were lying on the floor in a heap with his shirt and jacket from being discarded only a few hours before.
On the back page, he had written Fox’s phone number. He had tried too many times to memorise the number. But there was no pattern. He remembered other numbers, but not Fox’s. He checked the time and judged if she would be at the office or still at home then decided to call her home number. He didn’t want to let DCI Allenby know he was awake if he could help it. But as he reached for the phone, its shrill ring startled him.
He sighed, knowing who it would be, then picked up the handset and waited.
“Matthew?”
He was right.
“Matthew, are you there? Don’t you dare drop my call again.”
He imagined her with her new life. In days of old at nine o’clock in the morning, she would have been wearing her old threadbare dressing gown and nursing her fifth cup of tea. But her new life commanded much more of her. She would be wearing a pretty summer dress and flip-flops, or maybe a long skirt and an off-the-shoulder top. Whatever it was, she would be dressed and made up. She would be looking good.
“Matthew? Talk to me.”
She would smell fantastic too. He remembered the girl at the checkout commenting on her perfume one time. The way Alison attracted even the opposite sex.
“Are you there?”
In fact, he would have bet a month’s salary that if she was ever going to leave him, it would have been for another woman.
Can’t be right all the time.
“Matthew, don’t play games. I don’t have time.”
“What do you have on today?” he asked.
“What? What do you mean what do I have on? What I’m wearing is none of your business.”
“You said you don’t have time for this,” said Myers. “What do you have on? What am I keeping you from?”
She sighed, and he heard her change the handset to her other ear. The rattle of an earring gave her away, but her lowered tone confirmed it, that lover boy was still at home.
“You said you’d take Harriet today. You said you’d drop her off.”
So that was it. She was waiting for Harriet to go to school so she could have some fun time with Darren. Myers knew all about Darren Hunter. He had called in some favours and had him checked out before he’d moved into the family home. For his daughter’s security, and to satiate his own jealousy.
“It’s Saturday, Alison.”
“She has a study session. She has exams soon. I told you all this last week.”
“I’m leaving now,” he said.
“You’re not even dressed, are you?”
She still knew him.
“I can hear it in your voice. You haven’t even finished your first coffee yet.”
“I will have by the time I’m dressed,” said Myers.
“She’s already late. So you need to be here ten minutes ago and get her to school by ten.”
“Tell her I’ll beep when I’m outside,” said Myers, and went to put the phone down. But Alison’s voice stopped him. He put the phone back to his ear.
“Matthew?” she said, waiting for him to confirm the call was still live.
“Alison,” he said, impatient but playful.
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m sitting in my boxer shorts nursing my first coffee and I’ve had about two hours sleep.”
“No. I mean, are you okay? I hate this.”
“I’ll beep
when I’m outside, Alison.”
He’d barely let go of the handset when the phone jumped into life again. He held it there, controlling his temper, and then answered.
“I hate this as much as you hate this, Alison. But it was your choice to-”
“Detective Inspector Myers, I suggest you calm yourself,” said a new but all too familiar voice.
There were two women in Myers’ life. One, he adored and was fascinated by to the point that she was in his thoughts at least five times a day and could rouse his ageing hormones with a single teasing bite of her lower lip. The other terrified him to the point of admiration, submission, and defeat.
If either of them ever found out which one they were, he’d be screwed.
Chapter Four
The grounds of John Cartwright’s house were littered with chairs, tables, and pedestals. In the time it had taken for Harvey to run ten miles, shower, and dress, more workers had arrived and had begun ferrying crates and boxes from the vans that were parked in a line along the gravel drive.
Harvey kept to the grass and made his way between them to the big house, aware of the returning glances from some of the girls. He paid them little interest and only turned when he was at the top step of John’s grand entrance. He wore his leather jacket, despite the heat of the early morning summer sun, with cargo pants and tan boots. It was his usual attire. Most of John’s men wore suits, or at the very least trousers, shoes, and a sports jacket, but Harvey preferred the freedom of movement and the solid, protective feel of boots.
The driveway led away from the steps to the gate and his own small house. To the right, the grass was empty up to the stream that cut through the property and the orchard beyond. To the left, the piles of wedding furniture began where the gravel finished. The workers were carrying the items across the lawn for three hundred yards to where the ground fell into a slope that led down to the barn and the old stables. But at the crest of that fall, John had commissioned an arch of oak and maple for Donny and his bride to stand beneath. With only sparse furniture in place, the arch appeared insignificant against the sky beyond, but Harvey knew it was at that point where the arch had been erected that the view across Epping Forest and the village of Theydon Bois was commanding. He also knew that the village of Theydon Bois would be able to see the wedding in the distance, and admire the opulent ceremony, however distant.
In John’s mind, thought Harvey, he was a lord of old and the villagers lived in envious admiration. But it was doubtful that any would even look up.
Behind Harvey, the two huge, wooden, arched doors opened and, as a butler might, Sergio appeared standing to one side, a silent invitation for Harvey to enter.
Meetings with his foster-father were rarely pleasant or interesting. Harvey remained standing on the step, letting Sergio wait a few moments longer. He considered how the meeting might go and its purpose, and he prepared himself with a few deep breaths. The meeting would concern the wedding, of that there could be no doubt. But the specifics were hard to guess.
There was a polite cough from behind him.
“Harvey?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
Instead, he turned and, without meeting Sergio’s submissive gaze, strode into the house and stopped. It was usual for the house to be immaculate, but what Harvey saw was spectacular.
The grand entrance was high-ceilinged, and two staircases curved up from the ground floor to the first-floor landing, like snakes, Harvey had always thought. Every inch of the wood had been polished, from the ornate oak floor to the balustrades that ran alongside the stairways and the length of the upper landing. Curtains on the upper floor had been cleaned and tied back to form neat V-shapes, and though the summer sun beamed through the windows, not a speck of dust hung in the golden beams.
The paintings on the walls of each stairway bore polished brass frames that gleamed and the ostentatious chandelier that hung in the centre of the void between the two staircases sparkled.
On the left-hand side of the hallway was a dining room, formal and stiff. When Harvey had been a boy, it had been a lounge and he remembered playing with his sister in there under the watchful and adoring gaze of Barb, John’s ex-wife. Harvey imagined the cleaning effort had seeped through into that room too. It would be where John would invite only the most privileged of guests and his stage from which he would demonstrate his wealth and power in his usual show, a leading role in a cast of one with an audience that varied from the impressed to the oppressed, and even the depressed.
On the right-hand side of the hallway was John’s study. Harvey guessed the cleaning crew had, under strict instruction from Sergio, John’s puppet, been told not to clean in there.
He stepped through.
He was right.
The space was not dirty. John was a clean man, fastidiously tidy and organised beyond normality. But being one of the most used rooms in the huge house, the wood needed polishing and dust particles hung in the air.
However, the room had hosted conversations and acts that could see the entire Cartwright family behind bars. Although there was no paper evidence of the criminal activity, it wouldn’t be too difficult for undercover police or even one of John’s long list of enemies to plant a camera or a microphone or even find some kind of incriminating evidence that would link the family to a long list of unsolved crimes. There would be only two men that would not and could not be locked up with evidence found in that room, and that was Julios, Harvey’s mentor and John’s minder, and Harvey. Neither man existed on paper.
Behind his walnut desk, John cradled a crystal tumbler of brandy. It was typical of him to wear a suit with no tie. His image carried him a long way and nestled his personality into the realms of the rich and famous, where opportunity was frequent, and bonds could be made. But the expensive suit had been discarded and, in its place, John wore a tuxedo. It was new, as Harvey hadn’t seen it before. The tailoring concealed his ample weight and, despite Harvey not wanting to, he couldn’t help but notice that the old man looked good.
“It’s a proud day for me, Harvey,” he said, pointing at the guest seat that he knew Harvey wouldn’t take. Harvey never sat in John’s company. Business was business. “Relax, Harvey. Come on, sit with me.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“At least have a drink with me. You wouldn’t reject my offer of a drink on my son’s wedding day, would you?”
Harvey said nothing but felt Sergio’s presence behind him.
“Get him a water, Sergio, for God’s sake,” said John, leaning forward in his chair to talk around Harvey. “And get Julios in here.”
Sergio slipped from the room as silently as he’d entered, and John set his drink on his desk. He leaned forward, interlaced his fingers, and stared Harvey in the eye.
“I love you and Donny just the same, Harvey. You know that, right?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“I never thought I’d see Donny marry. He didn’t seem to have the guts for it,” said John, and Harvey felt an emotional rant heading his way, an effort to get closer to Harvey and then slip him a wild card. He’d seen it before and there was nothing John could hand to Harvey he couldn’t handle. “I know you two don’t see eye to eye. Even as kids, you never really got on, did you? I can remember hearing you, Hannah, and Donny playing in the lounge one time. I thought to myself that we’d finally cracked it. We’d finally got them playing together. But when I walked in, Harvey, I found you and Hannah playing together and Donny watching. He was excluded.”
Harvey knew what John was talking about. He couldn’t remember the exact time, but it happened more than once. Whenever Hannah and Harvey played together, Donny, who was only slightly older than Hannah, would come and ruin their game. Hannah had a particular distaste for him, but whenever John or his ex-wife Barb stepped into view, Donny would make out that it was Hannah and Harvey who were being nasty. It was a cowardly trait that Donny had never been able to shake.
“Today is Donny’s day, Harvey
. Today marks a change,” continued John. “Today, Donny is going to marry his beautiful bride, so that means today is a big day for you too. I want you to put aside your history with Donny. Do you know how much it would mean to him if you shook his hand and wished him a happy future?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“It would mean the world to him, Harvey,” said John.
He turned and stared out of his window at the hand-built arch where the ceremony would be taking place, and his chest swelled with pride.
“I want you to shake his hand, Harvey. I want you, in your own words, to give him that boost. He’s lived in your shadow for too long and if I’m right, this wedding will mark a significant change in him. It will give him confidence. It’ll mature him in a way that only having the love of a beautiful wife can. He’ll stop all his stupid ways, and he’ll stop knocking around with petty criminals. He’ll become more invested in our firm, Harvey. That’s where we need him. He spends most of his time with people who don’t even work for me. That’s not what I’d call invested. Is it, Harvey? No, it’s not. Why does he do that? Well, put yourself in his shoes. Imagine you had a brother or a foster-brother who is as capable and reliable as you, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to shine above him. Imagine that your father finds only disappointment in you, Harvey, but sees excellence in your foster-brother.”
He left a moment for Harvey to put himself in Donny’s position, but Harvey needed no imagination.
“That’s why he gets himself into all sorts of bother with small-time hoodlums, Harvey. That’s why he’s so distant. I’m getting older. I shouldn’t be doing what I’m bleeding doing now. I should be retiring and leaving my business in the capable hands of my two boys. But I can’t. One of my sons takes more interest in risking his freedom with petty crime and drugs than in the family business, and the other one is a stone cold killer who hasn’t said a bleeding word in the ten minutes he’s been standing in front of me. Say something, Harvey. At least acknowledge you understand what I’m asking you to do.”