by Sharon Jones
Panic took over and Poppy pounded on the door again. Just when she thought her heart would explode, a light illuminated the mottled glass. The next second the door swung open.
The Master was no longer in a suit, but wore a pink sweater over his grey trousers and white shirt.
‘Poppy? I thought your dad was home.’
‘H-he is,’ she lied. ‘I need to ask you something.’
The Master frowned, but he stepped back as if to usher her in.
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t have time.’
‘Then you’d better spit out what it is you want to know.’ He folded his arms and squared his shoulders.
She took a deep breath: please, let him help her. She didn’t know where else to go.
‘You said that there’d been trouble that last time someone tried to out the Apostles. When did it happen?’
‘Young lady, I thought I told you not to get involved.’
‘You don’t understand…’ Exhaustion flooded through her. ‘With all due respect, it’s a bit late for that, Saint John…I mean, Sir John.’
He smiled, but then a thought visibly passed over his face and he took a step towards her. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Poppy?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘No, but Dad could be. Please…’
‘I could call Messenger.’
‘That really wouldn’t help.’
‘OK.’ His lips thinned but he nodded. ‘Well, I don’t remember too much about it, it was just before my time. I’ve only been here since the beginning of term. Much of it amounted to nothing more than childish pranks.’
‘Who was going to expose them?’
The Master shook his head. ‘I don’t remember, as I say, it was before I was Master here. I think it was a student. Someone who worked for the student paper…not the official one, the other. The Student Room, I think it’s called.’
‘That’s all I needed to know. Thanks.’ She turned to walk away.
‘Poppy, wait!’
She turned around. He was walking towards her, frowning.
‘Poppy, let me see your hands. What have you…’
She stumbled back.
‘Poppy, stop!’
She ran, leaving the Master’s voice echoing off the walls of Great Court.
The police were everywhere, but there were plenty of civilians too. Drawn by more sirens, people had spilled out into Great Court. That, combined with the icy fog that blurred outlines and faces so that no one would recognise anyone unless they were up close, meant that she could slip through the crowds undetected until she found a wrought iron gate that opened onto stone steps descending to an unlit passageway.
‘What’s down there?’ she asked a passing student.
His eyes narrowed, then he shrugged, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. ‘It’s the passageway under the road. Goes through to another court.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured as he walked away.
She was never going to get past the porters on the main gate, and there had to be another way out on that side of the campus.
She edged slowly down into the gloom, until her feet fell into the pattern of the steps. At the bottom she jerked to a stop and grabbed at the damp stone wall to steady herself. She began moving again, staying close to the wall, and eventually, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the faint light up ahead, and the outline of steps going up. Gaining in confidence, Poppy hurried towards the light and up the uneven steps. At the top, she pushed the wrought iron gate open and emerged into another court with a snow-covered lawn at the centre, and a tall stone building surrounding it. She spotted what looked like a gate. She’d made it. She glanced down at her hands; they were still stained with Conal’s blood. She had to do something. She couldn’t walk around the streets looking like this. She looked like she’d committed…murder. She glanced around. There were no signs pointing to toilets and she didn’t have time to go looking. Finding a heap of cleared snow piled up against a wall, she crouched down and plunged her hands into the piercing cold. By the time she’d finished washing her hands she was shaking hard and the snow had turned pink. She covered the stain as best she could, dried her numb hands on her jeans and cautiously headed in the direction of the gate.
There was a smaller porter’s lodge next to the entrance, but the porters didn’t even come out as she opened the door. She stepped over the threshold and emerged onto the street, almost opposite the Great Gate of Trinity College, from where the statue of King Henry looked on, along with a couple of uniformed police.
Now she had to find somewhere open with Wi-Fi, or a copy of The Student Room, and she had no idea where to find either. She decided to see if the coffee shop she’d used before was still open, although it was already nearly seven – most of them would be shut. Shit. What if she was barking up the wrong tree? What would happen to Michael and Dad? Maybe she should just go to the police and tell them what had happened. But she couldn’t risk it. This killer meant it: Danny, Lucy, Conal. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Michael and Dad. It was up to her. There was no one to help. Tears burned her eyes.
She jogged down what she hoped was the same cobbled lane she’d walked down earlier that day. But in the fog, everything looked different. Lights glowed from the windows of the buildings, creating strange sheens in the air that she couldn’t see beyond, and huddled figures hurried by – nothing more than ominous shadows. Poppy shivered. She tugged her hoodie closer, but even the ridiculous amount of layers she was wearing couldn’t keep out the damp cold that gnawed at her bones.
The cobbled lane opened out onto the main street. Ahead was the gate to what she assumed was another college. Silhouetted against the warm light pouring through the open door was a man who looked like he was on door duty. Dodging the cyclists who speeded ahead, despite the thickening fog, Poppy crossed the road and headed right for him.
‘And what can I do for you?’ the porter asked, smiling when she stopped in front of him.
‘This might sound like a daft question, but I don’t suppose you have a copy of The Student Room, do you? Or know where I can get one?’
‘Nahh… Sorry. Not my kind of reading. But I do know where you’ll find someone who writes for them.’
Poppy almost hugged him. ‘That would be great.’
He nodded to the college. ‘Come on in out of the cold and I’ll give him a buzz.’
Poppy followed the porter past a sign saying Sidney Sussex College Closed to Visitors, into a lodge that was tiny in comparison to the lodge at Trinity. But it was bright and there was a blow heater that she huddled beside, careful to keep her hands in her pockets in case she hadn’t got all the blood off.
The porter rubbed his hand over his bald head while he looked down a list of numbers. ‘Here we are,’ he said and began to dial.
‘James, it’s Brian down at the lodge. I’ve got a young lady here wanting a copy of your rag. I thought you might be able to help. Oh yes, she’s definitely worth your time.’ The porter rolled his eyes at Poppy while at the same time grinning. ‘Good man.’ He put the phone down. ‘On his way.’
‘Thanks,’ Poppy said. ‘I really appreciate the help.’
She had to squeeze against a partition wall as a couple more porters crowded into the lodge rubbing their hands together and complaining about the fog. A minute later a tall guy with blond hair and a hopeful smile walked into the lodge. His eyes landed on her and brightened even more.
‘Hi, I’m James.’
‘Poppy,’ she said, shaking the hand he offered before quickly slipping hers back in her pocket.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Actually, I wanted to know if you could point me in the direction of the person who was writing a story on the Cambridge Apostles a couple of years ago. I believe the story didn’t run but—’
‘—Hold on a minute. Who are you? Why do you want to know?’ His eyebrows pulled together.
‘Please,’ she said blinking
back the tears collecting in her eyes. ‘It would really help for me to know who that was.’
‘Umm – hey, don’t get upset,’ he said, glancing around as if he expected the porters to blame him for her tears.
‘Please,’ she begged.
‘It was a guy called Nick Bradwell.’
‘How can I get in touch with him?’
‘You can’t.’
Her heart sank. Her last chance had just vanished. Michael and Dad’s last chance.
‘What! Why not?’
‘He’s dead. He died a couple of years ago. A car crash.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The only place still open was a Starbucks. Poppy found herself a quiet corner, and after buying a coffee, she opened her laptop and Googled Nick Bradwell.
Nicholas Bradwell from Sunderland had been a second year student at Trinity College when he died tragically in a car accident on the A12. There was lots of stuff about the road being a death trap, but not a lot about Nick himself.
Poppy fingers shook as she opened her email inbox. It was there. Another from the Avenging Angel. All it said was:
Tick-tock.
Bastard! Poppy hit reply.
Is this about Nick Bradwell?
She waited. Hit refresh. And waited some more. Every second she waited, her heart picked up speed.
‘C’mon!’ she muttered, drawing looks from the people around her.
Just when she was about to give up, an email popped into her inbox.
Yes.
That was it? Poppy tried to type a reply, swearing every time her fingers hit a wrong key.
I don’t understand what more you want me to do! Where are Michael and my dad? Please let them go.Whatever you think happened to Nick, they’ve done nothing wrong!
How was this supposed to end? What was she supposed to do now? A tear escaped down her cheek. She brushed it away only for it to be replaced with another. She had no phone, her laptop battery was running low, and she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
Poppy fished in her pocket; beside a tissue, she found Detective Inspector Dalca’s business card.
Another email pinged into her inbox.
I’m not sure your dad is entirely innocent.
What about Lance Tillman?
Shit! Was the killer the Dean? Did Bea have Dad and Michael? She’d said she hadn’t forgiven those people she blamed for Lance’s suicide. But that had been a suicide – the Dean had admitted that. And this Nick’s death had been a road accident. How could Bea blame the Apostles for both deaths? Did she know something the police had never found? If it was Bea. But what connection did the Dean have with this Nick guy?
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed the heels of her hands into her burning eyes. Think, Poppy, think!
This could go on forever. OK, it was suspicious that Nick had died right before he could out the Apostles, but nothing in the searches she’d done suggested that anyone ever thought his death was anything more than an accident.
Unless it never made it into the news.
Poppy stared at her laptop screen, not seeing it. OK. She’d reached the end. She wasn’t going to play this game any more. She was done with being ordered around by a crazy killer. If they had Dad and Michael, surely they couldn’t be watching her…
She had no choice, she had to take the risk and call Detective Inspector Dalca.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Where had all the telephone boxes gone? It took asking three people and ten minutes of walking in circles to find one. Then the first two times she tried the DI’s number, she didn’t pick up. Finally, on the third attempt Dalca answered.
‘Poppy, where are you? Are you with your dad?’ The detective’s voice was as close to frantic as she’d ever heard.
‘No—’
‘—It was you who found Conal Preshoe, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. I’m sorry I ran away, but I’ve got a good reason. Please, please, just listen.’
‘Talk.’
‘I need you to look up an old case file. It was a car accident; a guy called Nick Bradwell died.’
‘Yeah, that came up when we cross-referenced Trinity College through our computer system, but we couldn’t see a link.’
‘It’s there. Maybe Messenger deleted something, or covered something up. Could he do that? The murderer is someone connected with Nick.’
‘Poppy, where are you?’
She glanced around, afraid someone might be watching. ‘I’m at a phone box. You can’t come after me, though; they’ve got Dad and Michael.’ Her voice sounded funny. She was having to squeeze words past the big lump that was stuck in her throat.
‘Shit! Poppy, now you need to listen to me. You can’t do this by yourself.’
‘I have to. The note said that if I contacted anyone…’
‘If the murderer contacted you, he or she wants to be found. And I don’t like that, Poppy. Because I’m not sure what the end game is. So we need to work together.’
‘They’ll find out.’ She whispered the words into the handset, feeling like she might faint.
‘This person is smart, but you and me? We’re a hell of a lot smarter, OK?’
Poppy breathed. Were they smarter? Were they really? If this went wrong, she could lose the two people she loved most in the world. ‘OK,’ Poppy said at last.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Michael tugged at the electrical tape binding his wrists and ankles. There wasn’t a chance he’d break free, but just struggling against his bonds eased the sense of helplessness. Plus, somehow he needed to get over to Jim.
Even with only the light from the streetlamps bleeding in through the windows, Michael could see the pool of blood circling Jim’s head like a black halo. He was pretty sure the older man was still breathing, but he couldn’t be certain.
He couldn’t believe he’d fallen for the note trick. What kind of an idiot was he? But he wasn’t the only one.
‘Hello?’ a voice called, echoing around the curving stone walls.
Here came the next sucker.
Michael shouted, but the electrical tape over his mouth smothered the sound to a muffled grunt. Footsteps got louder. Whoever it was was heading in his direction.
‘Hello? Ria, are you there? For fuck’s sake, quit pissing around will you! Didn’t you hear? Lucy’s in hospital, I haven’t got time for this.’
Shit, it was Devon, and he had no idea what he was walking into. Michael renewed his struggle; if he could warn him somehow – get his attention – maybe Devon could get out – get help. But the bitch hadn’t only taped his wrists and ankles together, she’d attached his bound wrists to the carved oak pew with rope.
‘Ria? What are you doing?’ Devon asked. A pause, then, his voice a pitch higher, disbelieving: ‘Is that a gun? You’re kidding me.’
‘Get down on your knees.’ Ria’s own voice was hoarse and shaking.
‘What? No!’ Devon gasped. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Don’t question me,’ Ria snarled. Michael could hear her panting as though she’d been running. Like she was about to lose it. ‘Just do it! Unless you want a bullet in your brain.’
‘No!’ Devon protested. ‘I’m getting out of here.’
The sound of the gunshot almost deafened Michael. His chest constricted and his heart hammered in his throat. There wasn’t enough air – he couldn’t get enough air in through his lungs. Tears blurred his vision and the calm that he’d managed to maintain was gone. His nose started to run, the mucus backed up into his throat and he was choking.
‘OK, OK!’ he heard Devon scream. ‘Just put the fucking gun down.’
He wasn’t dead. The bitch had snared another victim in her web, but Devon wasn’t dead yet.
OK, calm down. Michael focused on slowing his breathing. He had to keep it together if he ever wanted out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The baristas hovered around her like flies waiting for a sheep to drop dead. There was five minute
s before the Starbucks closed, and she was damned if she was moving until then.
Poppy refreshed her email.
Nothing.
Damn it, what was taking so long?
Detective Inspector Dalca had told her to sit tight – she was going to send through what she had on the Bradwell case in the hope that something would leap out at Poppy. She tapped her nails on the laptop, unable to sit still. She was pretty sure that she was running on nothing but adrenaline now, which explained the almost constant shivering and dry throat.
Finally, an email pinged into her inbox. It had a massive file attached – no wonder it had taken so long. Poppy clicked on it and watched as the download progress bar filled with blue.
‘I’m sorry, we’re closing now,’ said a young woman with an impressive array of piercings.
‘Just one more minute,’ Poppy begged.
‘Sorry, but we have to close up.’
‘Shit!’ Poppy glanced down at the progress bar, but it was only halfway done.
‘Miss?’ The girl’s voice had gone up in pitch.
Poppy groaned. She glanced up at the woman. Nothing. She had to go. Poppy stood up, shoved her backpack over her shoulder, picked up the still-open laptop and slowly shuffled towards the door, her eyes glued on the progress bar.
75%…
78%…
Too slow! She had to stall. Poppy slid her backpack off her shoulder and swung it towards a table where the chairs had been piled on top. The chairs teetered, and she had to jump back to avoid the computer being smashed as one slid off and crashed to the floor.
‘Oh God, I’m so clumsy!’ Poppy slid the laptop down onto the counter that held all the napkins and packets of sugar, and crouched to grab a chair. ‘Here, let me help you.’
‘That’s OK, we can do that,’ the girl snapped. She was staring at Poppy like she was a nutter.