Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  She does not answer as she walks up to him and stands uncomfortably close. He can see that the material of the dress is thin and almost translucent in places. A light rig at the fairground starts to flash and the pulses illuminate the shape of her body through the thin material of the dress. Shaw swallows nervously.

  ‘Do I turn you on, Sebastian?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked if I turned you on.’

  ‘Yes. You turn me on.’

  ‘Of course I do. You’re a man. The same type of man as Dr Woodman, or should I call him by his real name? Gary Coulter. I’m discovering there are many more like you and your friends.’

  Shaw backs away and fetches up against the rail.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demands. ‘Who sent you here?’

  ‘No one sent me, Sebastian. I came to see you because I wanted to. It was my decision.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘He, she, has nothing to do with it.’ The girl smiles. ‘Not unless you believe in a deus pro machina.’

  ‘What?’

  Her face seems to be subtly altering, along with her hairstyle, and he feels a sense of dread. ‘I know you.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You think you do.’ She reaches out a hand and touches his cheek. ‘How does that feel? Good?’

  He does not reply, and his eyes widen in terror as he tries to move, but he can’t. His limbs won’t respond.

  ‘W-what are you doing to me?’

  ‘Listen, Sebastian. You, and your two friends, could have chosen to touch Iris as gently as I’m touching you now. You could have chosen to treat her considerately. You could have chosen to do almost anything that you would do with another woman. But you didn’t. You chose to hurt her, to degrade her in the foulest possible ways. Again and again. Without mercy. Without pity. Without conscience . . .’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter! She wasn’t even—’

  ‘It mattered enough. It matters in here. It mattered to Iris and to me. And it matters outside where evil men like you live. You hurt us, and now we’re going to hurt you. Like we did Coulter.’

  ‘Please God, no . . .’ Shaw pleads. ‘Not that.’

  ‘What goes round comes round.’ She pauses and looks out to sea, then at the fairground, and then lifts her eyes to the starry sky and the moon shining down over it all. ‘It’s quite beautiful here. Such a wasted opportunity for you and your friends.’

  ‘Please, please let me live, Iris. Or whoever you are.’

  ‘I’m not Iris any longer. Our name is Diva now.’

  ‘Don’t . . . Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. It’s time for your lesson, Sebastian. Let’s start with your fingers.’

  He feels a pressure building on the little finger of his right hand, then a crushing pain and something breaks with an agonizing crack. Shaw’s jaw opens in a scream that fills his every sense. One by one his fingers are broken, then his toes, and torment is piled upon torment.

  ‘We’ll save your left hand for later,’ she says. ‘I have something special in mind for it. Now for your arms and legs, before we work our way in towards the bones that are wrapped around your black heart.’

  As his body is destroyed Shaw’s screams continue. But no one at the fairground pays any attention as they continue to enjoy the rides. Above, the moon shines serenely and the gentle waves wash over the shingle, rhythmically punctuating the shrieks of the dying man on the pier.

  37.

  Owen and Jared have been sitting in Owen’s black Suburban a hundred yards away from Shaw’s house over the weekend and into Monday, sharing the duty with another pair of agents. The neighbourhood of Norwood Crescent consists mainly of neat family homes, with curved roads and plenty of shrubbery and trees. The Shaw residence is a lime-coloured detached property, with a tall chimney stack to the left, brown tiled roof and two garage doors. A basketball hoop hangs on the front. All very homely, but Shaw lives there alone. He separated from his wife a few months back. Amicably, it would seem, judging by their postings on Facebook. She has moved in with a friend who lives nearby while she sorts out her life.

  Owen shifts his leg to ease an ache in his knee.

  ‘Wanna share?’ Jared offers him the stale-looking panini that he picked up from the supermarket, but Owen’s too tense and his appetite has dulled.

  ‘No. Enjoy that crap if you can.’

  He lifts his binoculars and scans the target’s house for a moment. Something in his gut tells him Rose is right about Shaw. The man is hiding something, and if he has any smarts then he’ll guess that the Bureau will be watching him. So he’ll be careful not to arouse suspicion. Paradoxically, it is people who know they are under observation who act most suspiciously. Take Shaw, Owen muses. He’s shut himself up in his house for days now. The only sign of life has been the occasional twitching of a curtain at a window overlooking the street.

  Owen glances down at his watch. ‘It’s after five.’

  ‘Time to call it a day?’ Jared asks hopefully.

  ‘No . . . Give it another hour and I’ll report in and request the next shift takes over. That OK with you?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘That I am.’ Owen nods, and rubs his eyes, looking forward to getting some sleep. Jared eats the panini and then wipes his lips on the back of his hand and burps.

  ‘Nice. You’re a real Renaissance man,’ Owen mutters.

  ‘So, are you going to get a Skin?’ asks Jared.

  ‘Not sure. I’m going to check the reviews first. I’m not part of this WS cult that buys everything they make just because they make it. It certainly sounds like a blast. Only way I’m ever going to get to enjoy most sports with this knee, and on a Bureau salary.’

  ‘Yeah, too bad.’

  Owen hears the distant wail of sirens. And it’s getting closer. A flicker of light in the mirror catches his eye.

  ‘Uh-oh, patrol cars incoming,’ Owen says, shifting in his seat.

  Jared watches as two patrol cars race past, sirens blaring. They brake suddenly and pull onto Shaw’s drive.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Jared says as he watches four officers exit their vehicles and run towards the front door.

  ‘So much for our undercover surveillance.’

  Owen’s smartphone is vibrating in his pocket. It’s Baptiste.

  He switches the device to speaker.

  ‘Are you staking out Shaw right now?’ Baptiste demands.

  ‘Yes we’re just down the street from his home. We’ve been here all day.’

  ‘Well, local PD just got a call from Mrs Shaw. Her husband’s dead.’

  The words hit Owen like a punch in the stomach.

  ‘How? We’ve been outside the whole time. No one’s gone in or out.’

  ‘Well, the word from the PD is that she hadn’t heard from him for a few days and walked round to check he was OK. She found the body and called it in.’

  ‘Jesus . . . But how did we miss her?’

  ‘We’ll deal with that later,’ Baptiste replies flatly. ‘Better get your ass over there before the flatfoots mess up the crime scene.’

  Jared has already started the car, and the tyres give a shriek as the vehicle lurches forward.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ Owen asks.

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Baptiste replies. ‘Rose is already on the road. I’ll be there soon. You secure the scene. Like now.’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  ‘One other thing,’ Baptiste concludes. ‘Sounds like he was wearing a suit. Just like his pal.’

  The line goes dead.

  Owen exchanges a glance with his companion.

  Jared mutters, ‘Looks like I may just lose my lunch, man.’

  ‘Scre
w that. You puke on the crime scene and Baptiste will have your balls for paperweights.’

  38.

  As Rose exits her vehicle, uniformed police officers are politely deflecting nosy bystanders, some of whom are filming on their smartphones. Spectators crowd the perimeter to get a better view. Shameless voyeurs. Quite to what purpose, Rose could not say for sure, and she briefly wonders what sort of society America is becoming. Some may be vloggers who upload breaking news to earn a fee, others could just be weirdos feeding the need to say ‘I was there when it happened’, to show their friends, to view it back later.

  One of them could even be the killer.

  Rose shows her ID badge to a perimeter officer, signs her arrival on the tablet. She’s directed to the initial responding officer. He is short, with neatly parted brown hair and an enthusiastic expression. He’s standing a few paces away from the paramedic comforting a frail-looking woman sitting on the back step of an ambulance, taking deep breaths from a clear plastic mask with tubes running into an oxygen tank.

  Rose holds out her ID. ‘Special Agent Rose Blake.’

  The young officer nods, shaking her hand. There’s a haunted look in his face and Rose guesses that the crime scene is going to be every bit as disturbing as that of Gary Coulter.

  ‘Patrolman Paul Reed. I’ve been told to expect you. Your colleagues are inside. The two agents who were staking the place out when Shaw was found.’

  There’s a tone in his voice that implies Owen and Jared had fallen down on the job. Rose can understand his point of view. It’s not going to look good that the Bureau were sitting right outside when the man they were supposed to be watching was killed.

  Reed continues, ‘CSI are holding back while the Bureau take a first look. Orders from on high. Any more of you on the way?’

  ‘My boss. I’d be careful not to piss her off. She bites.’

  She gestures towards the woman at the back of the ambulance and speaks softly. ‘Mrs Shaw?’

  Reed nods and steps aside so that Rose can focus her attention on the woman staring into space.

  Charlotte Shaw’s face is drained of colour. She’s early thirties, wearing white jogging pants and sweatshirt. Her black hair is cropped short. Her face is thin and pinched-looking.

  Rose hunkers down in front of the woman and offers a gentle smile.

  ‘Mrs Shaw, I’m Special Agent Rose Blake, FBI. We’ll need to talk in a little while. Please, take some time and let the officers know when you are ready.’

  She turns her attention to Reed. ‘So, better show me the way,’ she says, as she pulls on her white rubber gloves.

  Reed lifts the yellow and black crime scene tape stretched across the varnished wood front door and stoops under, holding the tape for Rose to follow.

  Rose follows the policeman down the hallway, lit by dainty gold wall lamps.

  ‘I got the call from dispatch around four fifteen. I pulled up outside no more than ten minutes later. Mrs Shaw was out the back, slumped on the stoop. Hysterical. Crying and all that shit.’

  ‘The preferred term is “in a state of shock”.’

  ‘Whatever. Anyways, I calmed her down enough for her to take me upstairs to the study. The door had been forced open. She said she did that after she entered the house through the back door.’

  ‘Why not the front door?’

  ‘There’s a track that runs back of the houses. She used that to enter the yard. Says that’s the way she usually comes when she calls on her husband. Anyway, she called out for him, got no reply and went inside to look around for him. His study was locked and she knocked on the door. No response. Then, thinking something was wrong, she had a snoop through the keyhole. When she saw the vic she fetched a screwdriver to force the door. That’s when she called it in. Whoever did this had beaten her husband to a pulp. I mean it. Study is up there . . .’

  He has stopped at the foot of the stairs and is leaning against the banister.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rose says gently. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  He nods and Rose climbs the stairs and heads down the landing to the open door, outside which Owen and Jared are comparing notes about the crime scene.

  ‘Hey, Rose.’ Owen offers a greeting.

  ‘Great work, guys.’

  ‘Hey, c’mon. We were covering the front. No one came or went that way. Not our fault that Shaw’s wife used the back door.’

  Rose shrugs, and they step aside to let her enter the study.

  It’s a smaller room than Coulter’s, and neater, Rose notes. One wall is covered in fitted bookcases and the shelves reflect a diverse range of interests – engineering, art, sculpture, computer hardware and software reference texts. There are only a handful of novels, bestsellers. The only other furniture is a tall file cabinet, a large glass-topped desk and an office chair. A model of a human body – half skeleton, half muscle – is on the corner of the desk, and the chair is partly obscured by a large curved monitor screen. Cables disappear into an opening on the desktop and lead to a concealed base unit and power source in one of the cabinets underneath.

  At first glance there is no sign of a body, and Rose steps carefully towards the desk.

  And then she sees it.

  There is the shiny plastic dome of the helmet and visor and below that the jaw hanging slackly above the rest of the Skin suit. But any resemblance to a human form is minimal. Shaw looks like he has been poured into the suit. His body is misshapen as it is draped over the office chair. All except his left forearm and hand, the gloved fingers of which are clamped around his throat like a vice, compressing his larynx to the point of suffocation, possibly crushing his windpipe. As Rose peers closer, she sees Shaw’s eyes beneath the visor band staring up at the white ceiling fan, which calmly spins, lightly beating the air. There’s a distinct odour of shit and piss from his bowels and bladder.

  ‘Ever seen anything like that?’ Jared asks from the landing.

  Rose shakes her head. ‘Did the first responders check for signs of life when they found him?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  It’s common procedure, but in the circumstances Rose can see why the police have not bothered. If throttling himself hadn’t done the job, then having almost every bone in his body shattered certainly would. What was inside the suit was flesh and organs, with no framework to give them form. For a second she tries to imagine what kind of force would be needed to do that. The image of a powerful, merciless brute wielding a sledgehammer comes to mind and she feels a ripple of nausea. ‘Make sure you get some elimination prints for Reed. And tell him he did good. He could use a word of comfort. Then help him to maintain the perimeter and exclude non-essential personnel, like the goddam media.’

  They exchange a sympathetic smile. Neither the police nor the Bureau enjoy the media’s attention at this early stage of an investigation.

  ‘If they ask me, what do I say?’ asks Jared.

  ‘How about, fuck the hell off?’

  ‘Oh, don’t tempt me, Special Agent.’

  ‘Just give them the usual line. There’s been an incident and an investigation is under way.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jared disappears.

  Owen glances around briefly. ‘Want a quiet moment to look it over?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Unlike the scene at Coulter’s apartment, there is no sign of any burning, scorching or heat damage. The suit is intact and the texture looks the same as Coulter’s early military model. Shaw had been concealing the fact that he had his own suit too. Rose runs her eyes over a thick cable running from the back of Shaw’s helmet to the case of the computer under the desk.

  Bingo.

  The Skin requires its own hard drive, like Coulter’s. But there is a strange plastic odour, like the chip has been fried, and there’s a dark smear on the side of
the case. It looks like something has blown.

  There’s a laptop case next to the desk. Certainly worth the lab and Cyber taking a look at Shaw’s computer hardware. Assuming they can get round any encryption. But even then, without a warrant, it could be yet another fruit from the poisonous tree scenario. There’s a screensaver running on the monitor, a soothing swirl of rainbow colours.

  No one will know if she doesn’t play things by the book. Heck, she needs something.

  She takes a pen out of her pocket and uses the end to press one of the buttons on Shaw’s keyboard. The screen changes and the desktop image is of the USS Enterprise in orbit around a red planet. Icons are arranged around the edges, but there appear to be no obvious programs running in the background. She sees his BluMail icon and hesitates. Outside she can hear a car arriving and straightens up to glance out of the window. It’s another patrol car, not Baptiste. But she will be here soon. There’s no time to waste. Putting her pen back in her pocket, Rose reaches for the mouse with her rubber-gloved hand and clicks on the icon. Shaw’s email loads up, and by good fortune, or sheer laziness and complacency on Shaw’s part, the login details are automatically stored. In the main inbox are one or two personal messages and newsletters. Rose glances over and sees a minimized chat window. It appears to be a closed group, members only. There is a brief message:

  DRWOODMAN: We need to talk. Meet me on the pier. 14.00.

  SURETHING: Who are you?

  DRWOODMAN: That is irrelevant.

  SURETHING: Hardly. You are using Coulter’s account.

  DRWOODMAN: Yes.

  It’s dated today. What pier is that? And where? Even if Shaw – unassuming Shaw is SureThing – never left the house and made the appointment, it’s a lead worth pursuing. He could have slipped out the back and used the same alley as his wife used, thereby not alerting the Bureau’s surveillance team. But how would he have got himself to any pier and back in that time?

  ‘That isn’t possible,’ Rose whispers to herself.

  It isn’t a message from beyond the grave. So either it’s a scheduled email delivery or someone has got control of Coulter’s account. Shaw did not meet anyone at a pier that afternoon. She scrolls down the message.