by Val McDermid
‘When she was Christopher, she was definitely a few butties short of a picnic,’ Don chipped in.
‘I wish we could ask Tony about this,’ Brandon said, stalling.
‘So do I,’ Carol said through her teeth. ‘But he’s obviously found something more important to do today.’ A sudden thought hit Carol like a sandbag to the neck. Her knees started to buckle and she collapsed into the nearest chair. ‘Oh, my God,’ she gasped.
‘What is it?’ Brandon asked, concerned.
‘Tony. He hasn’t been in touch with anybody since he left here yesterday. He had two task-force meetings arranged for today, according to his secretary, but he hasn’t shown up at work, and he hasn’t phoned in. He wasn’t home last night, and he’s not there now.’ Carol’s words hung in the air like a cloud of poisonous smoke. A wave of nausea lurched up from her stomach, almost choking her. Somehow, she maintained her composure under Brandon’s concentrated stare.
With fingers that trembled, Carol picked up Brandon’s copy of the profile from his desk. Urgently, she flicked through the pages till she found what she was looking for. ‘“It is possible that his next target may also be a police officer, perhaps even one who is working on the investigation. This alone will not be sufficient motive for the killer to choose them; they must also fit the victim criteria that he has drawn up in his own mind in order for the killing to assume its full meaning for him. I would strongly recommend that any officers who fit the victim profile employ extra vigilance at all times, noting any suspicious vehicles parked near their homes, and checking to see whether they are being followed to and from work and social events.” Think about it, sir. Think about the victim profile. Sir, Tony fits it perfectly.’
Not wanting to believe what Carol was suggesting, Brandon said, ‘But it’s not eight weeks. It’s not time!’
‘But it is a Monday. Don’t forget, Tony also pointed out that his timetable could be accelerated if something happened to traumatize him. Stevie McConnell, sir. Think of all the publicity. Someone else was getting the credit for his crimes. Look, it’s in here, sir: “Another possible scenario is that an innocent person is charged with the killings. That would be such an affront to his sense of himself that he might commit his next murder ahead of schedule.” Sir, we’ve got to move on this now!’
Brandon’s hand was on the phone before she’d even started her last sentence.
The front door opened directly into the house. Downstairs couldn’t have looked more normal. The small living room was furnished inexpensively but comfortably with a two-seater sofa and matching chair upholstered in moss-green Dralon. There was a TV, video, mid-priced stereo system and a coffee table complete with a copy of Elle. A pair of framed posters of whales in the ocean hung on the walls. The single bookshelf contained a selection of science-fiction classics, a couple of Stephen King novels and a trio of Jackie Collins bonkbusters. Carol, Merrick and Brandon moved cautiously through the room, past the stairs and into the kitchen diner. It was surgically neat as a showroom, work surfaces clean and uncluttered. On the drainer, one mug, one plate, one fork, one knife.
With Brandon leading the way, they climbed the narrow stairs built between the two downstairs rooms. The front bedroom was pink and frothy as a strawberry milkshake. Even the kidney-shaped dressing table, with its skirt of lace, was pink. ‘Barbara Cartland, eat your heart out,’ Merrick muttered. Brandon opened the wardrobe and flicked through the array of women’s clothes. Carol headed for the drawers in a pink tallboy and worked her way down. They contained nothing more disturbing than a selection of tacky underwear, much of it in red satin.
It was Merrick who first broached the back bedroom. As soon as he opened the door, he knew no one was going to be screaming to the papers about magistrates granting warrants on non-existent evidence. ‘Sir?’ he shouted. ‘I think we’ve cracked it.’
The room was arranged as an office. A large desk held a computer and assorted peripherals that none of them could identify. To one side was a telephone linked to a sophisticated tape recorder. A small video-editing desk was in one corner, next to a filing cabinet. A wheeled trolley carried a television and video, both state of the art and top of the range. Shelves lined two walls, filled with computer games, videos, cassettes and computer disks, each box labelled neatly in firm capitals. The only alien object in the room was a leather recliner, the material slung hammock-like on a steel frame.
‘Bingo,’ Brandon breathed. ‘Well done, Carol.’
‘Where the fuck do we start?’ Merrick said.
‘Do either of you know how to work the computer?’ Brandon asked.
‘I think we should leave that to the experts,’ Carol said. ‘It might be programmed to crash the data if someone else tries to log on.’
‘OK. Don, you take the filing cabinet, I’ll take the videos, and Carol, you take the cassettes.’
Carol moved across to the shelves of cassettes. The first couple of dozen seemed to be music tapes, ranging from Liza Minnelli to U2. Next were a dozen marked ‘AS’ and numbered from one to twelve. Fourteen marked ‘PG’ followed, then fifteen with ‘GF’, eight with ‘DC’ and six with ‘AH’. The concatenation of initials was far beyond the boundaries of coincidence. Carol picked the first ‘AH’ tape and, heart heavy with misgivings, slotted it into the cassette player. She picked up the headphones plugged into the machine and gingerly pushed them into her ears. She heard the sound of a telephone ringing, then a voice so familiar she could have wept. ‘Hello?’ Tony said, his voice reduced by the telephone line.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ a voice not entirely strange to her said.
‘Who is this?’ Tony asked.
A chuckle, low and sexy. ‘You’ll never guess. Not in a million years.’ Got it, thought Carol, grim foreboding gripping her. The voice on the answering machine.
‘OK, so tell me,’ Tony said, his voice curious, friendly, joining in the game.
‘Who would you like me to be? If I could be anyone in the world?’
‘Is this some kind of wind-up?’ Tony demanded.
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. I’m here to make your dreams come true. I’m the woman of your fantasies, Anthony. I am your telephone lover.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the phone slammed down at Tony’s end. Over the dialling tone, Carol heard the strange woman say, ‘ Hasta la vista, Anthony.’
She stabbed the stop button and violently pulled out the headphones. She turned round to see Brandon transfixed by the image of Adam Scott stretched out on a rack, naked and apparently unconscious. Part of her mind could not comprehend what she was seeing. Evil, she thought, should be drenched in blood, not prosaically displayed on a suburban television screen.
‘Sir,’ she forced out. ‘The tapes. She’s been stalking Tony.’
Tony tried a laugh. It came out more like a sob, but he carried on regardless. ‘You expect me to get an erection? Trussed up like this? Angelica, you chloroformed me, kidnapped me and left me to come round alone in a torture chamber. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve got no experience of bondage. I’m too bloody scared to get a hard-on.’
‘I’m not letting you go, you know. Not to run straight back to them.’
‘I’m not asking you to let me go. Believe me, I’m happy to be your prisoner if that’s the only way I can spend time with you. I want to get to know you, Angelica. I want to prove my feelings to you, I want to show you what love feels like. I want to show you whose side I’m really on here.’ Tony tried to turn on the kind of smile he’d learned that women responded to.
‘So show me,’ Angelica challenged, letting one hand run caressingly down her body, lingering over her nipples and edging towards her crotch.
‘I’m going to need your help. Just like I needed you on the phone. You made me feel so good, like a real man. Please, help me now,’ Tony pleaded.
She took a step towards him, moving sinuously as a stripper. ‘You want me to turn you on?’ she drawled in a ghastly parody of seduction
.
‘I don’t think I can do it like this,’ Tony said. ‘Not with my arms pinned behind me like this.’
Angelica stopped dead and scowled. ‘I said, I’m not letting you go.’
‘And I said I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking is that you cuff my hands in front of me. So I can touch you.’ Again, he forced the gentle smile.
She looked at him consideringly. ‘How do I know I can trust you? I’d have to set your hands free so I could cuff them in front of you. Maybe you’re trying to double-cross me.’
‘I won’t. I give you my word. If it makes you feel safer, chloroform me again. Do it while I’m unconscious,’ Tony said, gambling again. Her reaction would tell him all he needed to know about his chances.
Angelica moved behind him. An exultant voice in his head screamed ‘Yes!’ He felt the warmth of her hand between his as she gripped the cuffs and painfully jerked them up. ‘Shit!’ Tony yelled as new arrows of pain shot up his arms and through his shoulders. He heard a click of metal as the shackle connecting the rope to the handcuffs snapped free. Angelica released the handcuffs and Tony collapsed to his knees, his legs buckling under him. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he swore as he crashed forwards on to his face, feeling the rough stone graze his cheek.
Moving swiftly, Angelica unlocked one side of the handcuffs, seized the back of his hair and pulled him upwards. Still holding the arm with the handcuffs attached, she stepped in front of him and roughly gripped his other arm just below the bicep, dragging it across his body. Seconds later, his hands were cuffed again, this time in front of him. He knelt like a supplicant, his discomfort doubled by the tight leather straps round his ankles. ‘You see?’ he gasped. ‘I told you I wouldn’t try anything.’
Panting slightly, Angelica stood in front of him, legs apart. ‘So show me,’ she demanded.
‘You’ll have to help me up. I can’t do it by myself,’ he protested weakly.
She bent down and grabbed his hair again, hauling him up on to legs whose muscles trembled with the effort of staying upright. They stood, inches apart, the silk of her kimono brushing his hands. He could feel the warmth of her breath on the raw flesh of his grazed cheek. ‘Kiss me,’ he said softly. Whores never get to kiss, he told himself. This’ll make it different.
Something flickered in Angelica’s eyes, but she leaned over him, releasing his hair and pulling his face to hers. It took every ounce of his willpower not to flinch as her lips met his, her tongue invading his mouth, exploring his teeth and tongue. Your life depends on it, he told himself. You’ve got a plan. Tony forced himself to kiss her back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, telling himself there were worse things in the world, and this woman had made her previous victims endure some of them.
After what felt like the longest kiss of his life, Angelica pulled away, looking critically down to his groin. ‘I’m going to need some help here,’ Tony said. ‘It’s not been an easy day.’
‘What kind of help?’ Angelica asked, panting slightly through parted lips. It was clear that she was having no difficulty with the sexual arousal that was beyond him.
‘Give me head. That’s the one thing that always works when I’m having trouble. I’ve felt your mouth now; I just know you’ll be terrific. Please, I really want to make love to you.’
Almost before he’d finished speaking, she was on her knees, hands flickering over his balls. Tenderly, she lifted his flaccid penis and slipped it into her mouth, not taking her eyes from his face. Tony reached out and began to stroke her hair. Then, with what felt like infinite slowness, he pulled her head forward on to him, forcing her head down, her eyes away from him.
Then, summoning up what remained of his strength, Tony raised his hands and brought the handcuffs crashing down on the back of Angelica’s head.
The blow caught her completely off guard and she went crashing forward between his legs, her teeth snagging agonizingly on him. Tony let himself fall backwards, feeling a tearing in his ankles as they protested against a movement they were never designed to make. As he hit the ground, he doubled forwards and grabbed Angelica’s head, banging it hard on the stone floor till her body stopped thrashing.
He dragged himself over her prone figure till his numb fingers could reach the ankle straps. With maddening clumsiness, he struggled to unfasten the sets of buckles that fixed him to the stone slab. After what felt like hours, he was finally free. As he tried to stand, his ankles refused the challenge, turning over and catapulting him to the floor again, sending excruciating daggers of pain up his legs. Moaning, he dragged himself across the floor towards the steps. He had barely travelled a couple of yards when the body on the floor groaned. Angelica lifted her head, blood and mucus turning her face into a grisly Hallowe’en mask. When she saw him, she roared like a wounded animal and started scrambling to her feet.
The search for a clue to Angelica’s killing ground was growing more desperate as their fear and concern for Tony grew. They had emptied out the contents of the filing cabinet on to the floor. Every scrap of paper was scrutinized for any hint of the location of the cellar revealed in the video. Invoices, guarantees, bills and receipts all got the treatment. Carol was wading through a file of official correspondence, hoping to come across some lease or mortgage details, anything that related to another property. Merrick was ploughing through the files relating to Thorpe’s sex change. Brandon had already had one false alarm, coming across a stack of solicitor’s letters relating to a property in Seaford. It soon became clear, however, that they concerned the sale of Thorpe’s late mother’s home in the town.
It was Merrick who found the key. He’d finished with the sex-change files and started on a bundle of assorted letters, filed under ‘Tax’. When he came across the letter, he had to read it twice to make sure wishful thinking wasn’t making him imagine things.
‘Sir,’ he said cautiously. ‘I think this might be what we’re looking for.’
He handed the letter to Brandon, who read the letterhead of Pennant, Taylor, Bailey and Co., Solicitors. ‘Dear Christopher Thorpe,’ it said. ‘We have received a letter from your aunt, Mrs Doris Makins, in New Zealand, authorizing us to pass on to you the keys for Start Hill Farm, Upper Tontine Moor, by Bradfield, W. Yorkshire. As her agents, we are empowered to allow you access to said property for the purposes of maintenance and security. Please make arrangements with this office to collect the keys at your convenience…’
‘Access to an isolated rural property,’ Carol said, looking over Brandon’s shoulder. ‘Tony said that’s what the killer might have. And now she’s got him there.’ A wave of anger poured through her, displacing the slow burn of fear that had been eating through her from the moment they’d unlocked the macabre secrets of that superficially normal office.
Brandon closed his eyes momentarily then said tightly, ‘We don’t know that, Carol.’
‘And even if she has got him, he’s a clever bloke. If anyone can keep himself out of trouble with his gob, it’s Tony Hill,’ Don chipped in.
‘Never mind whistling in the bloody dark,’ Carol said sharply. ‘Where the hell is Start Hill Farm? And how soon can we get there?’
Tony looked around in desperation. The rack of knives was over to his left, impossibly high up. As Angelica got to her knees, he clawed at the stone bench and hauled himself upright. His hand closed on the haft of the knife as she staggered to her feet and threw herself at him, still bellowing like a cow bereft of its calf.
Her weight and the momentum of her charge bent Tony backwards over the bench. Her hands scrabbled for his throat, gripping his windpipe so tightly that white lights started to dance in front of his eyes. Just when he thought he could hold on no longer, he felt the warm, sticky gush of blood against his stomach and Angelica’s grasp became flabby as a wet newspaper.
Before he could take it all in, he heard footsteps crashing down the stone steps. Like a mad vision of paradise, Don Merrick crashed downstairs, rapidly followed by John Brandon, his jaw dropping at the
tableau in front of him.
‘Fucking hell,’ Brandon breathed.
Carol pushed past the two men and stared uncomprehendingly at the carnage before her.
‘You lot took your time,’ Tony gasped. As he passed out, the last thing he heard was his own hysterical laughter.
Epilogue
Carol pushed open the door of the side ward. Tony was propped up on a pile of pillows, the left side of his face swollen and bruised.
‘Hi,’ Tony said, a wan half-smile the best he could manage without too much pain. ‘Come on in.’
Carol closed the door behind her and sat down on a chair by the bed. ‘I brought you some bits and pieces,’ she said, dumping a plastic bag and a padded envelope on the coverlet.
Tony reached out for the bag. Carol winced inside as she saw the bracelet of bruises round his inflamed wrists. He took out a copy of Esquire, a can of Aqua Libra, a tin of pistachio nuts and a Dashiel Hammett omnibus. ‘Thanks,’ he said, surprised by how her choice touched him.
‘I wasn’t sure what you liked,’ she said defensively.
‘Then you’re obviously a good guesser. The perfect taskforce officer.’
‘If a little slow on the uptake,’ Carol said bitterly.
Tony shook his head. ‘John Brandon was here earlier. He told me how you worked it all out. I don’t see how you could have got there any quicker.’
‘I should have realized sooner that you wouldn’t have done a disappearing act at such a crucial time. Come to that, I should have realized as soon as I saw that profile that you could be a target and taken steps to protect you.’
‘Bollocks, Carol. If anyone should have realized that, it was me. You did a bloody good job.’
‘No. If I’d been on the ball, we’d have got there in time to save you having to… to do what you did.’
Tony sighed. ‘You mean, you’d have saved Angelica’s life? For what? Years in a secure mental hospital? Look on the bright side, Carol. You’ve saved the state a fortune. No expensive trial, no years of incarceration and treatment to pay for. Shit, they’ll probably give you a medal.’