Ophelia (Ophelia book 1)

by Amy Cross

  "He was teaching his son," I reply. "That's what this was all about. The old man was passing on his skills to the next generation. George is basically his apprentice."

  "But we know he carried out some of the killings himself," Tim points out.

  "To show his son the basics," I continue, "but the idea was clearly to get him to take over eventually. With each murder, Nat was probably making George take on more and more responsibility, pushing him to follow in his footsteps. It's not exactly uncommon for a father to try to get his son to take up his line of work, although I'm not sure I've ever heard of serial killers working quite the same way. " I pause for a moment, staring at the old man's crippled hands and trying to imagine the agony that he must have endured in his every waking moment. "What was the cause of death?" I ask finally.

  "There are a couple of possibilities so far," Tim replies. "One is that it was simply old age. Judging by certain rather obvious physical signs, I'd say that old Nat Longhouse has been on his last legs for quite some time. If you look at his eyes, you'll see a hint of yellow. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he's got some significant liver damage. Then again, there's something about the way his body is laid out, something a little unusual." He pauses. "I'm not going on record with this other idea yet," he continues eventually, "but I think there's a chance he might have suffered a stroke. If that's the case, it would have been a fairly quick death. I'll need to carry out some more tests, though, to make a definitive statement."

  "How long has he been dead?" I ask.

  "It's fairly recent," he continues. "I'd say no more than twelve to sixteen hours."

  Looking across the garbage-strewn flat, I look for any sign that anyone else has been here.

  "I know what your next question is going to be," Tim continues, "and I'm afraid there's nothing to indicate that anyone was here with him when he died. Obviously that's not my area of expertise, though. I can perform a few tests to maybe look for signs that the body was moved after death, but like I said, the position of his limbs makes me think that he simply suffered a stroke. If you want my educated guess right now, I'd say that he died alone. There's certainly nothing to suggest that anyone found him and disturbed the body or tried to revive him."

  "So his son wasn't with him," I reply, turning to him. "If that's the case, George might not even know that he's dead. For all we know, they were both based here."

  "It's quite possible," he says. "I mean, you'd think the son would have at least taken the hooks, wouldn't you?"

  "So George Longhouse is still out there somewhere," I continue, "and most likely he doesn't know that his father is out of the picture. He probably knows about this place, though. I mean, they must have been in very close contact, so..." I pause for a moment. "We can just wait for him to show up," I say finally. "It stands to reason that at some point soon, George Longhouse is going to come here to check on his father. We need to get rid of police vehicles, ambulances, anything that might scare him off if he's -"

  Before I can finish, there's a faint, muffled ringing sound from nearby.

  "Whose phone is that?" I ask, but suddenly I realize that the ring-tone is coming from somewhere in one of Nat Longhouse's coats.

  "Here," Tim says, rifling through the old man's pockets until he finds a small phone, which is ringing and flashing as someone tries to get in touch. He holds the phone up to me. "Looks like George wants to talk to his old man. Pretty convenient, huh?"

  "Since when did homeless people have phones?" Nick Jordan asks from over by the door.

  "Since phones were about a fiver down the supermarket," I mutter, staring at the screen as I try to work out whether I should answer. Technically, I should probably tell George to give himself up, but I can't risk losing this lead; it's better to leave him in the dark for now. Finally, the ring-tone stops, and I realize that it would have been a mistake to have let George know that we're here. If he can't get hold of his father, hopefully he'll come to look for him. Scrolling through the missed call list, I see that George has made several attempts to get in touch over the past day.

  "So we're just going to wait for him?" Nick asks.

  "Maybe," I mutter, looking back down at the dead body, "or maybe he's too cautious. These missed calls date back more than a day, so he's had plenty of time to come and check up on his father if that was something he was likely to do. They must have some kind of arrangement."

  "Guess he needed someone to wipe his arse," Nick replies, "and -"

  "Will you shut up?" I reply, turning to him. "Seriously, Nick, shut the fuck up. Go knock on some doors, see if anyone saw anything unusual over the last few days."

  Sighing, Nick turns and heads out of the room.

  "Great," I mutter, realizing that I let him goad me. Sure enough, he'll be telling people all about my little outburst later, and I'm sure people are going to start saying that the pressure's getting to me. I guess I just hate the way he was standing there, making jokes about a dead body that was still in the room.

  "I need to this old chap back to the lab," Tim says. "I can have some more definitive answers for you in five or six hours. I'm fairly confident it's going to turn out to be a stroke, though. Even old serial killers have to die eventually." He pauses for a moment. "And don't let Nick Jordan get to you, Laura. Just focus on doing your job."

  "I need to put a trace on George Longhouse's phone," I reply, as I check the text messages but find nothing. "If we can find the other phone, we can find George before he hurts anyone else. At this rate -”

  I stop as, suddenly, I realize I can hear a baby crying somewhere nearby. After exchanging a puzzled glance with Nick, I hurry over to a cupboard in the corner of the room. As soon as I pull the door open, I'm met by the powerful smell of feces, and when I look down at the floor I spot an emaciated baby in a wooden box, barely even able to muster the strength to cry.

  “What the hell?” I whisper as Nick comes over to take a look. I turn to him. “Why do these people have a baby?”

  Chapter Two

  Ophelia

  "Fuck," Lofty says, pulling the card out of the back of the phone before tossing the lot into the river. "I don't know what the old bastard's doing, but I'm not sitting around waiting for the cops." He pauses for a moment, before looking over at me. "Sorry, Phil. We've gotta get moving."

  I try to reply, but I don't have the strength. It's been almost an hour since George stabbed me with the scalpel and I'm still on the floor, still trying to gather the energy to move. The crazy thing is, while I was struggling to get free and trying to call for help, the rational part of my mind was assiduously counting every time he plunged the scalpel into my belly. He stabbed me a total of nineteen times, and although the scalpel blade is very small, I can tell that he caused some major damage. I've lost a lot of blood, enough to make me feel far too weak to struggle any further, and I'm starting to worry that I might have significant internal bleeding. I always knew there was a chance I could die on the streets, but I never thought things would end like this. The pain is constant and deep, and it's getting worse by the second.

  "The old man taught me to be fucking paranoid," George says as he comes over and grabs my hand. "He told me that if he didn't answer his phone for twenty-four hours, I had to assume he was in trouble. Of course, the way his hands have been going, it'd probably take 'im the best part of a day to get it out of his pocket, but still..."

  I try to reply, but all I can manage is a faint croaking sound. I feel as if my mind has slowed down to a crawl and I can't keep up with everything that's happening around me.

  "Come on," George continues, suddenly starting to haul me across the concrete. "Jesus, Phil, for a skinny bitch, you're actually pretty fucking heavy. What've you got in those fucking pockets of yours, eh? Concrete blocks?"

  Although I try to fight back, all I can manage to do is let out a gasp. He's dragging me quickly across the open space beneath the underpass, and my body keeps bumping over the rough concrete. The pain in my belly is g
etting worse and worse, and I think I'm starting to develop a fever. The logical part of my mind keeps trying to think of ways to get free, but the deeper, more abstract part of my mind seems to already be in mourning. It's as if there's a part of my mind that has already accepted that this might be the end, even though somewhere else in my head there's a scream waiting to get out.

  "Don't worry," George says as he hauls me into the shadows. "It's better this way. I was gonna wait for the old cunt to show up and do his shit with the hooks, but to be honest, I'm sick of those bloody things. Anyway, it'll be good for me to do one of these on my own. Let him see that I don't need him around all the time, yeah?"

  Finally, he drops me onto the cold, slightly damp ground and then he kicks me over onto my back.

  I stare up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  "What do you want?" he asks after a moment. "Honestly, Phil. Do you wanna live, or do you just wanna die without too much pain?"

  I open my mouth to say something, but I can't get the words out. The truth is, this isn't the first time I've been at death's door.

  "It's funny," he continues, "but I remember the very first time I ever saw you. I'll be honest, I thought you looked like a fucking freak, but also maybe someone I wouldn't mind hanging out with. I honestly wouldn't have minded a shag a few times, but I'm not the kind of guy to force that kind of thing on anyone." He reaches down and uses his fingers to force my eyes open. "You still in there?" he asks with a smile. "Come on, Phil, stay with me a little longer, yeah? It's only a few little flesh wounds. You're not dead yet. I know you might wanna sputter out, but I'm not gonna let you, not just yet. We've got a few things to do, yeah?"

  I try to whisper something, but I'm feeling too weak.

  "I could always just let you fade away," he continues, "but where's the fun in that? You don't seem like the kinda girl who'd ever want to just fade."

  I open my mouth but, again, no words come out. This isn't like last time: before, when I was hurt, I could still feel some strength in the pit of my stomach, but this time there's nothing. It's as if I've given up.

  "I never even wanted to be like this," he says after a moment. "Believe it or not, Phil, I actually tried to get my life sorted once. I had a girl and a place to live, but the old man got out of prison and he came to me and, fuck, he told me I had to pick up sticks and help him out. At first that's all it was... I was just helping. Later, his hands got too bad and he wanted me to do more and more. By the time I realized he was coaching me, it was too late, but I guess it's like he always says. I'm just like him. I'll be more like him soon. I won't actually be him, though. That's not what I'm after."

  He smiles.

  "So why shouldn't I follow the old man into this line of work, eh? Talents are passed down genetically, right? He never really got a clear run, thanks to being banged up for so many years, but I really don't mind helping him live his dream. In fact, I'm almost starting to enjoy it. You get used to things after a while, don't you? I mean, you start to adapt, even if at first you were all, like, not sure and stuff."

  I try to haul myself up, and although the pain in my belly is getting worse, I'm finally able to lean against the wall. With trembling fingers, I reach down and gently lift the fabric of my shirt, and I can't help but let out a gasp of shock as I see the full extent of the damage to my belly: the skin has a series of small cuts, each of which is mired in blood that seems to be dry in some places and wet in others. I reach down and run my fingers through the mess, fascinated by the sight of so much damage to my body as I try to work out what organs might have been affected. Stomach, liver, kidnaps, intestines... the cuts are fairly shallow, probably not much more than half an inch deep, but he applied a lot of pressure so there has to be some damage.

  "Don't worry," Lofty says, setting the scalpel aside before pulling a larger knife from his pocket. "Seeing as we go back a bit, I'm gonna make it a bit easier on you. Quicker, like. Dad's quite into making things get all drawn out. Sometimes I think he's a sadistic old bastard. With me, I kinda wanna get things done quicker. Maybe I'll learn to like the blood a bit more over time, but for now I just wanna get it done, you know?"

  "No," I whisper.

  "What's that?"

  "No," I say again, using all my strength to make myself heard as I stare at him. "You can't... Please... Don't hurt me..."

  "But you're always so cynical," he continues, kneeling next to me with the knife in one hand. "You always rant and rage against the world, Phil. I'd've thought you'd welcome death. I mean, at least it ends all the fucking misery, doesn't it? You'll never be cold or hungry again. You won't have to traipse through the streets or sit begging for money. I know death isn't necessarily a good thing, but there are definitely some upsides, yeah?"

  "I don't..."

  "You don't what?"

  "I don't want to die," I whisper, even though I'm starting to taste blood in my mouth. "Please, I don't want to."

  "Why not?" he asks.

  I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not sure what to say.

  "What have you got to live for?" he asks. "Go on, you might as well tell me. What the fuck has a girl like you got going for her? It's not like you've got any plans, is it?"

  "I've got plans," I whisper.

  "Like what?"

  "None..." I try to take a deep breath, but the pain is intense. "None of your... business."

  He smiles.

  "You weren't going anywhere," he says after a moment. "Maybe you thought you'd get off the streets one day, but it was never gonna happen, not really. I bet old Josephine thought she was going somewhere once too, but look at her now. Fat, stinking and spending her days tramping around. That's how you'd have ended up, Phil. Don't kid yourself, okay? If you were anything special, you wouldn't be on the streets in the first place. You're just another homeless little slag, Ophelia, and that's something the world's not ever gonna be short of."

  I try to tell him to go fuck himself, but I can't get the words out.

  "I'm gonna remember you," he says after a moment. "Defiant to the last, eh? You know, that night when me and the old man almost killed you down by the river, I was a bit pleased when you got away. Dad was angry, but I was quite happy about it. I couldn't let him see that, obviously, but I figured you're worth a bit more of a memorable death. You should be proud, though. I've helped the old man out plenty of times, but this is gonna be my first solo killing. Makes you special."

  Although I try to tell him to go to hell, I'm feeling weaker than ever. I can barely summon the strength to slip my hand into my pocket, where I fumble for the sensor from the ankle monitor. It takes a moment, but with the last of my strength I'm able to use my bloodied fingers to snap the covering shut, which should activate the tracer.

  "Got another scalpel in there, have you?" Lofty asks. "Don't bother, Phil. I'll save you the trouble of fighting back." With that, he plunges the knife into the upper part of my belly. As the blade scrapes against one of my ribs, he clamps a hand over my mouth; I try to scream, but he's got me held too right. Finally, the scream seems to go inward, shaking my mind until I pass out.

  Chapter Three

  Laura

  "This girl," I say, holding out a photo of Ophelia. "Have you seen her?"

  The old woman doesn't even look at the image. Instead, her eyes remain resolutely fixed on me, and it's hard not to get the impression that she's nurturing some kind of deep resentment. I remember seeing her last time I was down here, when I was with Ophelia, and I was hoping that she'd recognize me and agree to help. Instead, I'm starting to think I should back away slowly.

  "You haven't seen her?" I ask.

  She stares at me.

  "It's very important," I continue, hoping to maybe get through to her. "This is a police matter, and I know you might not be inclined to help me, but I can assure you, I'm here because I care."

  I wait for a reply, but her beady eyes just seem to have locked onto me.

  "I swear," I add, "I really do care. I'm not l
ike the others. I actually want to help, but I need some information first. If you've seen Ophelia, you need to tell me. For her sake, and for the sake of everyone down here."

  I wait again.

  Nothing.

  "Okay," I mutter, turning and moving on. I'm in a small park down by the river. It's a well-known hangout for people who are homeless, and Ophelia mentioned it a number of times as a place where she tends to meet people. With the trace of George Longhouse's phone taking too long to come through, I've resorted to an old-fashioned feet-on-the-ground search. I figure that if I'm going to find George, I need to have Ophelia back on my side first. She's the one person who can help me navigate the world of the homeless and dispossessed.

  "Hey," I say, hurrying over to a woman who's sitting on a park bench, "have you seen this girl?"

  She looks at the photo, which at least is an improvement over the last person.

  "Why?" she asks eventually.

  "It's very urgent. I need to find her."

  "Why?"

  "People are in danger," I tell her.

  "Why?"

  "They just are," I reply, starting to worry that this is turning into some kind of game, "and I need to find Ophelia. Trust me, Ophelia and I are..." I pause as I try to find the right word. "We've worked together," I continue after a moment. "We're friends."

  She stares at me.

  Sighing, I reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled £10 note, which I place on the woman's lap. It's not much of an offering, and I'm worried she might take offense, but right now it's my only option.

  "Please," I continue, "if you've seen her at all in the last twenty-four hours, I need to know where."

  Sniffing, the woman takes the note and examines it, almost as if she suspects it might be a forgery. Holding it up to the light, she turns it around, checking the watermark. She has the careful, proud tone of an expert, but I guess it's just a performance.