by Matt Drabble
“They are a progressive bunch.”
“Anyway, I was there for a few days when I got a call that I was being reassigned to a case in Faircliff. No offence but I had to look your town up.”
“Do you get sent to consult on many cases?”
“A few, but never with such speed. My boss back in San Francisco told me that some guy with a tonne of juice had pulled more strings than he’d ever seen before and here I am. Look, Danny, I’m in no one’s pocket, I can assure you of that. I’m an agent in the FBI and we don’t screw around taking orders from James Bond villains. This Ramsey guy may have pulled a few strings to get me sent here, but I can assure you that’s as far as his influence goes, Danny. I’ll work this case with you, Danny, and I’ll help you solve it too. Just tell me where to start and we’ll worry about the politics later.”
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Jane was getting ready to throw the remote control at the TV due to its stubbornness to perform the simplest of functions, when a man stepped into her room unannounced and uninvited. She could tell immediately that he wasn’t a doctor as his suit, even to her amateur eyes, was far beyond the salaries of any NHS staff member. “Can I help you?” she asked, hoping that her tone was suitably irritated.
“Miss Parkes, my name is Alfonso Ramsey; perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
She watched his pudgy smug face waiting for her to comply with her confirmation of his fame, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She knew his name and that his reach was large; he was a man reportedly with an ego as big as his empire. “Sorry, no. Are you a doctor here?”
If he felt annoyed at her question, he hid it well. “No matter. I am here on private…, personal business, Miss Parkes. I understand that you were at my daughter’s apartment with the police.”
Jane knew that he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t know the facts already and there was no point in lying. “Yes I was.”
“I also understand that you have certain…, abilities shall we say. I may be a man at the forefront of modern technology, Miss Parkes, but I am also a man from the old country where superstitions are adhered to like religion. I have no doubt that such abilities exist, the only question is whether or not you are indeed in possession of them.”
“What is you want, Mr Ramsey?” she asked, guardedly.
“In short, answers, Miss Parkes. Answers.”
Jane watched the short man standing at the end of her bed. There were several silhouettes standing outside the room, presumably keeping their conversation private, but she didn’t feel threatened - at least not physically. Normally she would have expected to be almost overwhelmed with the waves of grief emanating from a distraught father, but whatever Ramsey was feeling it was kept locked deep inside and not for her consumption.
“I’m afraid that there aren’t any, Mr Ramsey, at least not yet. I take it that our conversation is not for your media outlets?”
“You assume correctly, my dear.”
“Then all I can tell you is that I’m trying to work with the police and that they are doing everything possible to find your daughter’s killer.”
“What I would like from you, Miss Parkes, is a little… shall we say … forewarning.”
Red warning lights went off in her head at that point. “You mean you want his name before the police arrest him, don’t you?”
“You would be handsomely rewarded, I promise you.” Ramsey smiled with all the warmth of a hungry shark.
“I understand that you must be grieving, Mr Ramsey, but I don’t think that I could do that. I want this man caught and stopped but I believe in justice.”
“Justice!” he spat, and for the first time she saw a flash of his real self. He was a man who had been wronged, a man whose possession had been taken away and someone had to pay the price. “You really believe that your cushy prison cells equal justice for me?” he growled, jabbing a stiff finger into his own chest hard.
She suddenly felt uncomfortable as the full weight of his considerable personality bore down upon her.
“I want this man, and I want his blood on my hands. That is justice, little girl,” he snarled, leaning forwards.
Jane managed to hit the nurse call button at the side of the bed and blissfully heard the commotion from outside as someone was temporarily blocked from entering. Ramsey’s face cleared of its thunder in a flash and he stood up, smoothing down his suit and calming himself in the process.
“Perhaps when you’ve had a chance to consider my offer,” he said, smiling again - the public face of the man plastered back on. “Jonathon,” he called towards the door and it opened.
A handsome and well-groomed man in his thirties stepped inside and stood next to his boss.
“This is Jonathon Banks, my assistant. Give her a card,” Ramsey ordered and the man complied silently in a well-rehearsed fashion. “You can call him any time of the day or night whenever you have some news or simply wish to discuss the matter further.”
Jane tried to offer a small smile to the assistant, but his face remained set in stone as he handed her an exquisitely engraved business card. Then they were gone, leaving her eager to follow in their footsteps and get somewhere where she wouldn’t be so easy to find.
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Randall watched as the summer sun finally fell away and the day was plunged into darkness. He was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the cemetery and hoped that it was far enough to not be noticed. The old groundsman, whose name had turned out to be Abel Arany, had spun him a story about Arthur Durage, one that he found too hard to swallow.
According to his new friend, Arthur Durage had never been buried at his cemetery. They had simply dug a grave for an empty pine box that had been lowered into the dirt. Randall had asked why anyone would do such a thing and Abel had merely shrugged his shoulders in reply. Abel had told him that there had been a small police presence at the burial and he had been sworn to secrecy. He’d asked Abel how he’d known that the men had been police, but Abel had merely smiled knowingly and Randall assumed that the man had a long experience with authority figures. Abel had kept his promise until Randall had made him another one, one that might save the man’s sister.
Scepticism ran deep in Randall’s veins and the tale sounded too fishy to take seriously. According to every report that he’d read over the years, Arthur Durage had been shot dead by Karl Meyers. Tom Holland, Meyers’ old partner, had assured him that Durage was dead and he’d believed the man. But there had been something deep in Abel’s eyes that had left him feeling uncomfortable and he was sure that whatever the truth, Abel believed his own words. So here Randall now sat with a pick and a shovel obtained from a nearby DIY store. His palms were sweaty as he contemplated his night’s upcoming exertions.
He slipped out into the warm night and was disappointed by the still humid air. He headed carefully back to the cemetery, hugging the shadows and keeping his ears alert for any sounds. The cemetery railings ran alongside him, rusted black metal that kept people both out and in at the same time.
Eventually he found a gap in the fence where the metal had worn away from its moorings and he pried a metal spike free. His body was now so skinny that he was able to squeeze himself through the hole and as he did so, he pushed away the thoughts about his health.
Once through and onto the dampening grass, he crept around as stealthily as possible. Abel had shown him the small shack where he lived on the grounds but Randall had noticed a multitude of empty and cheap alcohol bottles strewn about the place. Hopefully, Abel would have fallen into a drunken stupor by now.
He found the gravesite in question quickly; it was as though he was somehow drawn back to it. Invisible hands were guiding him now and his heart rate was rapidly increasing as he stood over the headstone. He used the small keyring torch to light his way and wondered if it was just his imagination or if the grass seemed dead around the edges of the grave.
The pick sank quickly into the ground on the first swing and he switched
immediately to the spade. The earth was loose and eager to be free and he ignored the aching muscles in his arms as he threw the dirt aside.
He worked tirelessly, digging the spade deeper and deeper until the black hole spread its legs wider and wider. His mind was miles away as the earth flew over his shoulder and he sank deeper into the grave. At some point he started to wonder if he was already dead; perhaps he was digging his own final resting place. His heart fluttered worryingly but he ignored it and pressed on as cold clammy sweat ran down his face.
The spade struck something hard and sent a reverberating shudder up his arm. He knelt down in the hole and brushed the dirt from the top of the coffin. He shoved handfuls of earth aside until the pine box lay bare. With trembling hands, he forced the spade’s edge into the gap between the coffin and lid, prising it open. He braced himself for the smell to explode, but there was none. He knew what he had found, but he followed through anyway, ripping the lid free. The coffin was empty.
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Jane signed herself out of the hospital, caring little for the warnings from the staff. Alfonso Ramsey’s visit had but paid to any lengthy stay. The man was powerful and his offer had sounded more like an order than a proposition.
There was too much history of the dead painted upon the white tiled walls and all of it was clouding her mind. She was already carrying enough spirits around with her and she had no room for anymore.
She caught a taxi from outside of the hospital and gave the driver her address. Mercifully, he didn’t seem in any more of a mood to chat than she did and the journey passed quickly and silently.
Her cottage was dark when they arrived but it was still a welcoming sight, nevertheless. After handing the taxi driver a fistful of money, she climbed out and wandered up the path.
Her head still ached a little but at least here, on home turf, she was better in control of her mind.
“Well come on if you’re coming,” she snapped at the assembled spirits who loitered at the top of the path.
They were as silent as ever. For some reason, the dead never spoke directly to her or anyone else. She didn’t know if they could not or would not talk, or perhaps they simply had nothing to say.
She looked at them, puzzled, as black pits instead of eyes stared back at her, motionless statues marbled in death and frozen in time. For the first time she wondered if they were trying to tell her something, even warn her perhaps.
Eventually she grew tired of their games and left them to spend what remained of the night outside. She had the key in the lock and the door halfway open before the sense of fear struck her hard. She knew every inch of her home, every floorboard squeak and every creaking beam. She knew the flow of her cottage and right now there was someone else inside.
Her fight or flight instinct was kicking hard, but she had sworn an oath to herself that she would never again be a victim and that wasn’t a promise she intended to break now.
She took the collapsible police baton, which she had bought on eBay from a survival nut, from her bag. She flipped the weapon and it extended in a flash, locking into shape as she gripped the handle with a strong steady hand.
She ducked into the dark hallway and carefully avoided the floorboard that always groaned in protest at any direct weight put upon its shoulders. She tiptoed down the corridor, hugging the wall, pausing every now and then straining her ears into the quiet. She could feel the presence but she couldn’t hear or see anyone.
She reached the lounge and peered into the darkness at the solid silhouettes of her furniture. She knew each piece by virtue of seeing them a million times in the light and nothing felt out of the ordinary. She was starting to think that the blow to her head, after it had bounced off the windscreen, had perhaps done more damage than she’d realised, when something moved in the kitchen. Throwing aside her natural caution, her rage at the invasion into her inner sanctum took over and she bolted towards the noise.
She flew into the room as someone darted out of the shadows and towards the back door. Jane heard the unmistakable sound of boots crunching on broken glass and she knew that the intruder had smashed the glass on the back door to gain entry.
She charged towards the shape, swinging the baton hard. Her aim was offset by her anger and the baton struck the kitchen countertop hard enough to chip the marble. A foot shot out of the shadows and smashed into her stomach. The breath exploded from her but she caught the foot on its way back and refused to let go. She braced herself and pivoted to the right, twisting the foot over in two hands. The shadow let out a squeal of pain and surprise as it fell over and landed heavily on the linoleum floor.
She was close enough now to see that the figure was dressed all in black with a woollen ski mask over his head. She could also see, from the absence of curves and the low-pitched timbre of their voice when she’d twisted their ankle, that it was a man.
She moved over the fallen man with the baton raised and ready for a more deadly blow. “Stay right where you are!” she ordered, as she raised her left hand out towards the light switch on the wall.
She didn’t want to take her eyes off the fallen man as her left hand flapped for the switch. Her fingers brushed it once, twice, and then found purchase. The kitchen was suddenly flooded with light, stinging her eyes, but the light didn’t stop at merely being on. The bulb exploded, showering her with glass fragments; this was swiftly followed by every other bulb in the cottage following suit and exploding in a blinding flash.
She staggered backwards, dimly aware that the man who had been at her feet was now darting for the back door. Her vision still swam as thousands of lights popped in front of her eyes. She heard the door being flung open and footsteps running out into the night.
It took her a few moments to gather her senses and process the facts. The Crucifier killer had been here, but it seemed like he had only been here in the abstract sense. The man who had been lying on her kitchen floor seemed familiar but somehow different from the man who had been invading her mind.
Once the fog had cleared from her eyes, she retrieved a large flashlight from a cabinet in the kitchen. The powerful beam lit her way as she searched the pantry cupboard for replacement bulbs. She also found the junction box and reset the fuse that had blown when the lights had exploded.
She was replacing the last bulb in the hallway when she felt a presence again somewhere close by. She realised that she had left the baton in the kitchen but she still held the long metal flashlight tucked under her arm. The front door was still open and she stepped behind it, gripping the flashlight. A head poked inside the door and she hit it hard. A man slumped forward, landing inside the door, and she could see that he was holding something in his right hand. She recognised the slender frame and saw the bunch of flowers: Marty Kline, the teenager who had been clumsily wooing her, had come calling with flowers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NEW FACES
Danny headed into the office bright and early the following morning. Alfonso Ramsey’s deadline still hung over them and there had been no breaks in the case to date. He’d assumed that he would be the first one in, but he was surprised to find Bradshaw in his office, methodically studying box upon box of case files and notes. The FBI agent looked to be running on empty; his carefully manicured appearance was now fading fast.
“Hey, Inspector,” Bradshaw said, looking up briefly.
“Call me Danny. I thought that I’d be the only one in this early.”
“I’m afraid not. Don’t suppose that you have access to anything vaguely resembling a decent cup of coffee in this place?”
“Sorry, pal, but the brown sludge is about all we’ve got; I can make you a cup of tea if you like?”
“What, with the little china cups and doilies and all that?” Bradshaw asked seriously.
“I hate to break it to you but Downton Abbey isn’t a documentary,” Danny grinned. “I’m sure that we would no longer live up to your stereotypes than you would to ours. We do like to start the day w
ith a strong mug of tea. Plenty of us do drink coffee but personally I’ve always found it a trifle bitter.”
“DI Meyers?” A voice called from behind and Danny turned to see Kim Croft, the admin assistant, standing behind him.
“What’s up, Kim?” Danny asked.
“Dr Reese was looking for you yesterday. Did he catch up with you?” Kim responded.
“Did he say what it was about?”
“What, and talk to a mere mortal like me? I don’t think so,” Kim grinned back. “You know what a pompous prick he can be.”
“Miss Croft, I think that you are forgetting your place,” Danny replied, stifling a smile.
“My apologies. He’s a pompous prick, Sir,” she said, heading to her desk.
“That’s better. Well, Agent Bradshaw, how about a trip to the morgue?” Danny asked the agent.
Bradshaw stood up and straightened his trousers. “Why not? I need a little time to process this stuff anyway; my brain’s approaching overload,” he said, nodding to the discarded boxes on the floor.
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DC Bryan Wilson refilled the bird feeders and waited for his feathered friends to shyly appear from the hedgerow. The garden was long and wide and had its fair share of tranquillity. This was his sanctuary where he came to be alone and decompress from a long day at the office. His supposed day off had already been planned and filled to the minute with chores from his wife.
Back when he’d first met, and then started seeing Suzy, his professional life had been one long round of innuendo. Suzy had been a working girl that he’d met when running with Vice. She had been all steel on the surface, but he had seen past her defences to the girl underneath. He was a firm believer that no one could ever choose who they fell in love with; it was a meteor that fell from the heavens and landed indiscriminately, flattening whoever was in its path.
He’d dragged her kicking and screaming from the only life that she’d ever known and had slowly broken down her barriers. It had taken time and patience but he’d known that his purpose had been to save her, even from herself. He’d had no great visions of ever being rewarded for his actions. He was no great white knight, just a man trying to make a difference in a cesspool of death and despair. It had been the only way that he could have ever made sense of the world around him. The pimps, the beatings, the drugs and the hopelessness had been drowning him, holding his head under the filthy water until he couldn’t breathe.