Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  ‘Second, we have yesterday’s discovery of the bones.’ Mutters rise. ‘Third, we need to finish sorting through this lot,’ a point to the towers of boxes, ‘to check for… How shall I put this? Indiscretions.’ A lot of uncomfortable nods.

  ‘Let’s start at the top. Davies. What have we learnt from the hospital?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid.’ Quinn’s neck starts to redden. ‘Yet, not much yet. The HR guy is pulling all the paperwork together for me. He’s going to see if there’s any correlation between the dates Jess worked, the dates Martin worked, staff and patients at that time. It’s a bit of a nightmare, staff turnover is high, it’s a training hospital. It’s busy. We’ll keep at it. If there’s anything to find, we will.’ Quinn’s nod is slow. Measured. He gestures to someone at the back of the room.

  ‘I followed up the university lead… Tony and the university…?’ Rhys turns to look at Spenser. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ These words to Rhys. ‘I thought you guys would be pretty tied up yesterday.’

  ‘Initiative. Good. I like it.’ Quinn speaks, flicks a smirk at Rhys.

  ‘It’s a dead end, so to speak. Eddie and Cathy’s son, Tony, he’s never been in St James’ Hospital, other than to visit his dad, obviously, and that’s recently, not at the times we are looking. He’s, Tony that is, specialising in dermatology.’ Someone says ‘yuck’. ‘Not something they cover at St James’… ’ Spenser shrugs.

  ‘Okay.’ Quinn is dismissive. ‘We’re still waiting for any news on the formal identification of the bones discovered up at the cottage yesterday. Rather than waste time on idle speculation, we’ll focus on following up the leads we already have.’

  ‘Morgan.’ Quinn catches his attention. Flicks through the sheets in front of him. ‘The first couple that were killed, Jess and Ron. They have a daughter. Go and see her. We need to know as much as we can about the time her mother worked at the hospital. The link has to be there, we just need to find it.’ Rhys nods. Happy to be anywhere but here. Quinn addresses the room.

  ‘There are very few of us and a lot of this.’ The boxes of Andrews’s possessions tower around them. ‘If you are a Constable lucky enough to be in this room, you can take an educated guess as to what you will be doing. Let’s not have this stuff lingering around any longer than is needed. It doesn’t reflect well on any of us. Any questions?’

  ‘How’s Eddie?’ Constable Bayne speaks softly from the back of the room.

  ‘Eddie’s condition at the hospital is unchanged. If there’s any news, you’ll be the first to know.’ No news will be good news. No mention of the hands. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Why is he taking the blood, from the crime scenes?’ A female Constable. The hairs on the back of Rhys’s neck rise.

  ‘To drink according to Andrews.’ A male voice. A murmur of awkward laughter somewhere in the room. ‘That’s why we never find any isn’t it, sir? He sticks in a straw and off he goes…’

  ‘Enough!’ A voice booms from the doorway. Everything stops. The room becomes a tight vacuum. Detective Chief Inspector Alec Jenkins stands, hands on hips. ‘Quinn, my office. NOW!’

  ‘Nice one, dickhead.’ Quinn mutters. He shoves the male Constable a little too hard as he exits.

  ‘What? I was only saying what you were all thinking.’ The group disperses. Ashamed. Eyes to the floor. ‘Tell me it wasn’t, go on, tell me…’ The Constable’s voice is lost in the scrape of chair legs, the beep of mobiles being turned on. Davies sidles over, like a dog that just won’t get the hint.

  ‘You look like you’ve had about as much sleep as I have.’ Davies rubs a fist into his eye. Yawns. ‘I was at the hospital all night trying to find reasons to question nurses.’ He has the audacity to wink. ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’ The answer bores Davies.

  ‘So what does she look like, this daughter you have to go and see?’ Davies tries to intercept the file as Watts passes it over.

  ‘It’s a fair question though isn’t it?’ says Rhys.

  ‘What? Whether she’s a hottie? You dark horse.’

  ‘Why is the blood being removed?’

  The question is tentative. Peppered with embarrassment. Davies fails to notice. He sucks his teeth, more interested in seeing if there’s a photo in the file.

  Rhys turns to the mind map. The floor falters slightly beneath his feet. The cold metal needles sear into his neck once more. He grabs the tendons. Lets out a small sound.

  ‘You okay?’ Davies is behind him, not overly concerned.

  ‘Cramp.’ Lies. Rhys rubs his neck, focuses his attention on the wall. It shifts slightly. ‘The human body can hold, what, an average of eight to ten pints of blood depending on size?’ Davies nods. ‘How much is being found at the scenes?’ Rhys traces his finger down the statistics.

  First, Claudia Rose. Roughly six pints believed to be at the scene. Over half. Then Jess Simmons. Just over four pints. Followed by Claire Abbot. Roughly the same. Now Catherine. Cathy Reynolds. According to the newly added lab figures little more than three pints of blood left at the scene.

  It seemed like so much more. Up the kitchen units. On the yellow carpet tiles. Rhys feels Davies’s eyes follow his finger down the wall. How do they even work these things out?

  ‘He’s getting better,’ says Davies.

  ‘Or greedier.’ Rhys’s voice is a whisper.

  ‘How the hell does he get the blood out of the houses? Five pints of blood isn’t something you can conceal. How much does one of those big things of milk hold? Four pints aren’t they? Not exactly conspicuous. As for getting it from the body, catching it,’ Davies pulls a face of disgust, ‘whatever the term is. You’ve got to be some sick fuck to lurk around, with what, a bucket…?’ Davies’s voice fades away.

  All Rhys sees is the image of himself. He stands in the kitchen. Drinks milk straight from the four-pint bottle, fingers crossed Anna won’t come in and see.

  29.

  It is the thirty-first of October. All Hallows’ Eve.

  It makes sense now, Harry wittering on about witches. How the hell has she missed it?

  Anna hates Halloween. Some mothers at school really buy into it. The whole family in fancy dress out trick or treating. Houses decorated with pumpkins. It is her mother’s influence, Anna knows that. Her mother thinks trick or treating is glorified begging. Begging and scaring the shit out of each other.

  The kids like to carve pumpkins. That will guarantee only the little rotten ones will be left. Although these days, Louise probably thinks carving pumpkins is for babies.

  Anna takes a deep breath. The air is crisp. She’s glad she walked the children to school. The blood pumps through her veins. On top of which the house is spotless.

  Lack of sleep, that’s Rhys’s problem. That’s what’s making him behave like this. She’s been telling him to see a doctor for weeks. He refuses. Well tough luck. She’ll pop into the surgery when she goes to get the sodding pumpkins.

  She rounds the corner. The weak winter sun glistens. She read somewhere that lack of sleep leads to a drop in your IQ? That would certainly explain a lot.

  Anna twists her mobile inside her pocket. Why hasn’t Rhys called to apologise? He has more important things to do, the demon on her shoulder jibes. Shake it off; enjoy the feel of the sun of your face.

  She turns into the cul-de-sac. There it is. The old witch’s house. New occupants. Less than a week old and Rhys has ruined relations. A tree surgeon measures the thick trees around the property.

  Do children live there? They’ll hardly want to be friends with her two now.

  Arthur did seem quite old. An elderly couple. Great. Even better. Her husband can be known for terrorising the elderly. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  A deep, cold breath. Shoulders pulled back. This is the day for action. What is done is done. Time to make it better. Bold, confident strides. Up the gravel path. Knock on the door. All done before she can lose her nerve.

&nb
sp; Instantly the door swings open. Arthur stands before her. Grey, three-piece suit. Crisp white shirt. He smiles down at her.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi.’ Shit. She should have though this through. He looks over her shoulder. ‘He’s, Rhys, he’s in work.’ Her face burns with shame. ‘Actually that’s why I, erm… look, I wanted to come over and apologise for my husband’s behaviour last night. I have no idea what came over him…’ The words tumble out.

  ‘Arthur.’ A strong voice inside the house stops her dead. ‘Don’t be so rude. Invite the young lady in.’ Arthur hesitates for a fraction of a second. Anna catches his eye, it tells her nothing. Poor man. He’s terrified she’s like her husband. Will kick off inside and they’ll be stuck with her. She smiles reassuringly. Arthur steps back, allows her in.

  The hallway is cold and dark. The walls are hung with heavy, worn wallpaper. Arthur shows her to the front room. It’s gloomy and cool. Rich curtains drawn tight. It could easily be the middle of the night, not morning.

  ‘It’s to protect the furniture.’ The strong voice speaks from across the room. Velvet smooth. Reassuring. ‘A lot of it is antique and would perish in the sunlight. Until I decide where it’s going, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Then he is in front of her. The most beautiful man she’s ever seen. Later she’ll ponder this as he drifts in and out of her thoughts. What about her husband for one? Shame will blush her cheeks. Surely she didn’t mean ever seen?

  He is tall, over six feet. Slim, yet muscular. His blond hair is swept back off his face – a natural wave fights to break free. Anna knows nothing about him but is drawn to him. He smiles. Her heart melts.

  ‘Hello.’ His hand reaches towards her. ‘Kier Finnegan. I am hoping you are one of the people I now have the pleasure of living near.’ A smile spreads across her face.

  ‘Erm, yes, hello.’ A firm shake, yet tender. ‘Anna. I live across the street.’ She smiles again. Why hadn’t she spent longer on her hair? Goddamn her ‘around the house’ jeans. Kier smiles back. His eyes never leave her face. ‘I came over to apologise for my husband’s behaviour last night.’ A dark shadow flits behind his eyes. She’s never felt regret mentioning Rhys before.

  ‘There is no need to apologise, Arthur has told me all.’ Anna still holds his hand.

  ‘I think it’s work. It can get a bit much sometimes. You know how it is? Stress…’ Her voice trails. How to defend? Kier turns away. Did he stoke her hand gently with his thumb as he dropped it? She shivers slightly.

  ‘Of course, but he really should be careful. Arthur is an old man, vulnerable. A less compassionate friend than I could take offence at the elderly being accosted in their own homes at that hour.’ The shame rises again. ‘However, let us not start wrong footed. Your apology is accepted.’ He flashes her a half-curled smile. ‘I must say I am very glad you came over.’ Her joy opens in a way it has not for a very long time.

  The house is quiet. Anna can smell freshly cut flowers. They stand and study each other in the gloom.

  ‘Erm, I was wondering…’ Anna’s mind darts. His eyes never leave her. His chest drops and rises with each breath. Her mouth is dry. ‘Erm, if you would like to come over for a drink one evening?’ Shit. That sounds like a pathetic come on. ‘You … and Arthur of course… to see Rhys and me, as an apology, for the other night, and a kind of get-to-know-your-new-neighbours kind of thing?’ She hardly recognises her own voice. It is pathetic and hopeful. Does he have a wife? Why does that matter? ‘And anyone else that lives here of course.’ Now she sounds like a nosy neighbour. God, what’s wrong with her. She’s behaving like a teenager. She’s a fully-grown, married woman. Get a grip.

  ‘Arthur is busy but I would love to.’ She didn’t specify a date. He is near her once again. The sound of blood rushes through her ears. Fills the silence. He touches her again. A gentle hand on her shoulder. A touch full of something else. It’s time to leave.

  ‘And there is no one else that lives here.’ His breath is soft on her face.

  ‘Great. I shall look forward to it.’ Barely a whisper. She smiles again. A stupid smiling clown.

  ‘You should consider working with children.’ He holds her gaze. ‘You have a kind demeanour and it is what you know best.’ The words are out of place but perfect all the same.

  Then instantly she finds herself emerging from the dark building. In the moments it takes for her eyes to readjust to the light, Kier is gone. Arthur stands once more in the doorway. A watchman at his post. Children. It is obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Her head spins. Her mouth hangs open.

  ‘Goodbye, Anna.’ Arthur’s body blocks her view back into the house. She quashes the urge to jump up, try and see over his shoulder. Catch a glimpse of Kier. There is sadness to the old man now. She hadn’t noticed it before.

  ‘Goodbye, Arthur. Lovely to meet you again, after, you know.’ She motions towards her house. An embarrassed laugh escapes her lips. Arthur steps back into the dark. ‘I hope you can make the drinks too.’ He smiles a sad smile at her, closes the door. She hears the bolts slide into place.

  30.

  His feet pound along with the rhythm of the machine.

  Beat, beat, beat.

  He likes to run fast. What’s the point otherwise? He likes to count the beats of his feet as they hit out the rhythm. He likes to feel his lungs pull for breath. Feel life as it pulsates through his body.

  Disrespect your body, it will disrespect you. Obesity offends him. Pam had offended him a little. It upsets him to admit that after all they’ve shared.

  He flicks the machine up a gear.

  The sweat runs down his scalp. Down his back. Down his legs. It feels hot and red. Hot like her life. Her life he has taken and made his own.

  Beat, beat, beat.

  He should be sweating blood. His blood. Her blood. Their blood. He shakes sweat from his head.

  Around him, machines hum. Ready to be filled by the post nine-to-five crowd. A woman on the end of the row keeps trying to catch his eye in the mirrors. Trying to catch his eye and smile. He ignores her. She is trying desperately to look good and run at the same time.

  Of course, he could smile back.

  They would share a coffee. He would go back to her place. They would enjoy another kind of workout. He giggles to himself. Starts to relax. That’s good. Better. How it should be. He looks at the woman. She is okay. Not his type, but okay. Any other day and things could be so different. For her. But not today.

  He runs the machine to a stop. It is important to cool down properly.

  He smiles back at the woman on the end of the row then disappears into the changing room. It never hurts to keep your options open.

  In the showers. Steam rises all around him. Gyms are always empty at this time of day. Only ever a few overweight, middle-aged women trying to keep hold of their men. A few unemployed men thinking getting fit will get them back into employment.

  He likes the gym. Likes to visit many different gyms at many different times. Pay to use the equipment. No hidden costs. No lengthy forms. Moving around keeps it fresh. Keeps his interest. Keeps his mind moving and alert. He likes the way his muscles feel after a workout. Hot and toned. Sore but full of strength. Relaxed but ready to go. He smiles to himself as he lathers up the soap.

  There’s a small bar attached to the foyer of the gym. On the bar is a small plastic witch on a broom. She’s next to a large bowl of mints. The barman is dressed as a vampire. For a moment, the man stares.

  ‘Good costume, eh?’ The barman does a twirl.

  ‘Orange juice, no ice.’ The barman doesn’t look impressed. People are very, very odd.

  The man knows he will make his orange juice last. He likes to watch the world pass by, watch the people pass by. Especially at this time. When he is most relaxed. While their bodies are still one, him and Pam. Him and any of the ones that came before her. There is no pressure. No need to look other than for pleasure. It is company
after so long alone in the dark, their company, running through his veins.

  The bar is quiet. He almost cries with joy when he sees that the front window faces the busy high street. It is a huge viewing room. A massive glass television designed just for him.

  A man in a business suit paces past the window, lost deep in a telephone conversation. Oblivious to the world around him. Two young girls, probably from the local sixth form, amble the other way, giggling. One of them looks at her reflection, adjusts her hair slide. The other pulls her away, laughs. Both of them lick toffee apples in a way a lesser man would find arousing. A mother with a pram passes, an old fashioned pram you don’t see so often these days. The undercarriage is packed with fresh fruit and vegetables. The mother’s hand-knitted hat is pulled tight over her ears. One hand darts down to fuss whatever is in the pram every other second. A baby the man assumes.

  This feeling will pass. It passes quicker each time. This makes him sad and happy all at once. Soon the need will grow within him once again. He’ll have to look properly. To observe. To pay attention and select. It doesn’t bother him. There are always plenty to choose from, but it’s a different kind of fun to this.

  Then something beautiful catches his eye.

  Someone beautiful.

  Through his own reflection he sees her, nearly lost out there on the busy street. She’s so perfect she takes his breath away. The way she walks. The way she looks. Then she turns. Turns towards the window and smiles. Smiles right at him, right through the reflection of himself. Her smile overlaid with his face. She’s already inside him.

  It’s meant to be.

  His heart jumps into his mouth. It’s very soon, all things considered. It is… it has to be a… a… he can’t think of the word. Not a sign but… right? He really hopes everything else fits as perfectly. He can’t let this one get away.

  Quickly, he drains the glass. Heads out into the street.

  31.

  Rhys looks up as the phone starts to ring.