Splintered
Page 38
He tried again.
Still, no response.
He was about to try and call a third time, when he paused.
He was still watching over Roberts’ shoulder as he finished scrolling through the images on one camera and began loading those from another, when something caught his eye.
The figure was moving away from them, down the corridor. The image was terrible, but for a moment, there was a flare on the camera.
Roberts noticed it too. ‘What was that?’ he asked.
Prior reached for the controls, replaying the brief succession of images and pressing pause as the flare began.
‘It’s something in his trouser pocket.’ Roberts continued.
‘It’s the chain he uses.’ Prior said, astounded, ‘Christine was right. He doesn’t wear it around his neck. It’s . . . what did she call it? A totem. Something he draws power from; that gives him a sense of purpose and strength that he feels he lacks.’ Prior paused, tilting his head and thinking for a moment, then — pointing to the screen — he continued, ‘When he goes up the steps out of shot, just round that corner,’ he said, ‘let’s say he goes up two levels . . . that’d bring him out by medical, wouldn’t it?’
Roberts nodded. ‘Yeah, if he went up that far. He might even have gone further. Up onto the open deck and off across the ship.’
‘What’s the time index on that camera?’ he asked, checking for himself before moving back to his own screen. He began hurriedly scrolling through the images as he continued, ‘Even if he did go out onto the deck, I think he’d have retraced his steps rather than drifting too far. He couldn’t have been too certain of his way at this point. I mean this ship does take some getting used to.’ Roberts gave a nod. ‘And we know that not too long after that image was captured he ended up in engineering, which — it seems — is where he wanted to be. Now that’s either a massive fluke or — ’
‘He checked it out on a map.’
‘Yes, and . . . if he did go up on deck he will have passed that great big coloured schematic thing near medical. Ah ha!’ Prior laughed with delight as the figure from Roberts’ screen stepped into view on his. Prior pointed as the stills rolled slowly on; step, by step, by step. ‘We still don’t have his face, but that’s definitely him. Look at the chain.’
Suddenly, the killer was on the floor and in another flurry of images he seemed to be picking up a multitude of pages spilled from files and handing them to another man who struggled to organise them back into a manageable pile.
‘Who is he, do you think?’ Roberts asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Prior said, pointing to the newcomer on the screen, ‘but, I know who that is. We really need to speak to Marc Davies.
With a sudden crack of static, Prior’s radio came to life.
Both Prior and Roberts jumped, though neither one acknowledged the fact. Each hoping the other hadn’t noticed.
‘Prior? Are you there?’ the soft, Scottish tones of a female voice left little margin for error in guessing the owner was.
‘Christine.’ Prior acknowledged, holding down the button on the side of the radio. ‘What’s wrong? You sound breathless.’
‘Thank you.’ she laughed, ‘You know how to cheer a lady up. I heard you calling Davies and I was on my way down to medical, thought I’d check in with Shona and Dr Matthews. See how Kelly is doing.’
‘Are you on your own?’ Prior asked, his voice full of concern for her.
‘I’m fine.’ came the cheery reply, ‘I have a radio, I have the torch that Marc leant me earlier and a great big stick that I’m sure I could manage to beat any would-be assassin with quite well, should the need arise.’
Prior grinned, despite himself. ‘Well, just keep the channel open will you? At least until you’re through doors and I know you’re in Davies’ safe and capable hands.’
‘Oh, he’d love that!’ Christine giggled, and Prior listened as she opened one door after another. ‘I might tell just him, the poor lad’ll . . .’
Christine stopped.
The channel was still open. She had simply stopped speaking.
‘Christine?’ Prior said, though he knew she would not be able to hear him. ‘Christine?’
‘Jon . . .’ she said, her voice suddenly trembling, ‘You need to get down here. Quickly.’
He was already heading out of the bridge, taking the steps three at a time when she released her hold on the call button.
‘Christine, I’m on my way. What’s wrong?’ he asked, breaking into a measured sprint.
‘They’re . . . Jon . . . Marc’s injured and Dr Matthews’ too. I think . . . I think she might be dead.’
‘What?’
The news stopped him in his tracks for the briefest of moments, before he started back at full speed once more, turning this way and that through the vast darkness of the ship.
‘What about Kelly and Shona?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Christine said, the worry in her voice as clear and metallic as the ring of a great iron bell, ‘They’re not here.’
21:20
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Marc Davies opened his eyes. His head was pounding.
His nostrils were flooded with the scent of bleach and he could feel the smooth, chilled surface of a linoleum floor pressing against his cheek.
He tried to push himself up, but was overcome with dizziness. He rolled himself onto his back as a devastating coldness washed over his body. And suddenly he was shaking. Dithering.
‘Marc? Marc, are you ok?’
The voice was distant, but he recognised it and felt an instant sense of relief wash over him.
‘Chris . . .’ he struggled, trying to sit up.
She pressed him gently back down to the floor, placing something soft under the back of his neck.
‘Don’t move just yet.’ she said, ‘Take your time. You’ve got a nasty head injury there.’
He could well believe her.
After a moment he brought his hand up the back of his head, feeling gingerly with the tips of his fingers for signs of the wound he had already guessed was there.
His vibrant shock of golden locks were now a tangled and matted mess of blood. Dismayed, he blew out a lungful of air between his cut and swollen lips.
Though he couldn’t remember much, it was obvious that he had been hit from behind. He had then fallen, bursting his lips and cracking his forehead on the hard, but clearly sterile floor.
Well, at least it was clean.
‘What happened?’ he asked, dazed.
‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’ Christine replied with a soft, but concerned smile.
‘What do you mean?’ With a terrible knowing — a nagging, gnawing suspicion of a feeling — he became suddenly aware of just how quiet it was inside the room. ‘Where is everyone?’
At that moment Prior burst through the doors, torch in hand, expectant horror written all over his face. He had clearly been running, though was physically fit enough to not be overwhelmed by the fact.
‘Davies.’ he said, joining Christine at his side. ‘Marc. Are you alright?’
Davies instinctively tried to sit up. Prior too pushed him back down.
He nodded. Agreeing to stay put.
‘You just rest a moment.’ Prior said, as he checked him over visually. Once relatively satisfied, he climbed to his feet and began exploring the room.
Davies looked up at Christine, who stroked his head affectionately. Soothingly. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.
Christine shook her head. Her eyes looked sad and tired.
‘They’re not here.’ Prior said, trying — without success — to keep the agitated concern from his voice, ‘Shona and Kelly are missing.’ He paused for a moment, scanning the dark room with his torch. Then he stopped once more. ‘Dr Matthews is over here.’
Davies watched as Prior moved to the spot and knelt down to look at her, though he himself couldn’t see Matthews from where he lay, ‘Looks lik
e whoever knocked you out employed the same methods on her. Only with a much more brutal force.’ he said, before pausing to swallow, ‘The whole left side of her face is gone.’
Prior coughed and stood up.
This time Davies rolled himself onto his stomach and pushed straight up onto his knees. He breathed through the pain and the desire to simply drop back down to the floor and, after another moment, eventually climbed to his feet. He extended his hand to Christine, who had been knelt all this time at his side, and braced awkwardly to take her slight weight as his shoulder too began to twinge and complain.
‘That hurting as well?’ she asked, placing her gentle hand on the jarred joint.
He nodded and stared at her as she took up the thing that had been a soft pillow for him only minutes earlier. After a moment he realised that it had, in fact, been Christine’s own light-coloured cashmere cardigan and that it was now irreparably stained with his blood.
‘Sorry about that.’ he whispered, his voice rasping; his throat dry and sore.
Christine smiled at him with her warm, chocolate eyes and he handed her the white and gold cane that she had managed to hook with a practised talent onto the back of the chair next to where he had lay.
It was only then that he noticed, as he turned around, the trail of blood that Dalmatianed its way across the room like a horrific dot-to-dot puzzle on the floor. There was a small pool near to him; a much larger pool near Prior.
‘Oh my God.’ he whispered as he and Christine Kane struggled to help one another across the, eight long and tiring feet of the room that separated them from Prior.
And the body of Dr Matthews.
Eventually reaching their destination, Davies released Christine, who then struggled once again to bend and examine the body.
Dr Matthews’ usually perfectly-placed and scraped-back blonde hair had been ragged around this way and that as she had been dragged across the room. She had clearly struggled.
‘Looks like she was first hit in the side the head. And with some force.’ Christine said, pointing as she spoke, ‘It seems to have been a fairly blunt object, but look at the damage it’s done to her eye and the area near her temple.’
Davies leaned in to get a better view of the horrendous quarter-inch thick gash in the upper right-hand quadrant of Dr Matthews’ face. The blood vessels in her right eye had ruptured on a massive scale and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover that the eye socket itself had been fractured; spider-web fractures that cracked the way Polos did when you dropped a packet on the floor.
And yet, the right-hand side of her face was a picture compared to what remained of the left. Her cheek, skull, jaw . . . all had caved in under the tremendous force of being repeatedly slammed into the bleached linoleum floor. All that remained now was a gooey, chunky mass of stringy muscles, tissue, bone and brain matter.
Davies gagged, coughed and tried to keep the bile from rising in his throat.
He swallowed it down once, but it was no good. It returned a second time with a renewed force, scorching its way up his throat and leaving him little time to turn his body from the remains of Dr Matthews before throwing up the contents of his stomach across the slim metal table that stood at least a foot to the left of him.
The largely liquid vomit splashed over the table and onto the floor as Davies wiped his mouth, apologising.
Prior looked at him, concern stamped clearly across his solid face.
Davies gave a small nod. He was ok.
He watched as his commander and friend pointed to a small metal instruments tray, the edge of which was covered in blood.
‘I think this was the initial weapon used on the pair of you.’ he said, ‘It’d be about as sharp as a blunted axe, that would. But, it’d do the trick.’
‘Clearly, it did.’ Davies said, reaching up again to feel the open wound at the back of his head. It felt consistent with the look of the tray.
Prior nodded and turned his attention back to the body of Dr Matthews.
‘Anything else?’
‘It’s another left-handed kill.’ Christine said, ‘Look at the way her hair is bunched. I’d say he was facing her when he killed her, when he drove her face into the ground. Just as he was when he drove Stacey’s face into the side of the bath.’
Prior gnawed at his lip for a moment. He seemed to be considering whether or not he should air whatever it was that was troubling him. Finally, he relented, pushing out a long, slow breath. ‘Isaac Leigh was left handed.’
Christine looked up at him, surprise and intrigue dancing plainly in her soft brown eyes.
Davies too seemed to understand the weight of this revelation.
‘Isaac Leigh . . . Simmons?’ she asked slowly.
Prior nodded.
‘Hold on, Guv’. Simmons? As in Blood is the Pride of Red Merseyside Simmons? The brothers?’ Prior shuddered at the remembrance of Jacob Simmons’ coined slogan. He — like Prior himself — had professed to being a red, but not for a love of the sport; only for the potential violence that might erupt after any given match.
That was sure to occur if he could only help it along.
The green-eyed Security Chief nodded his reply, running his hand absently over his stubbling, black hair, feeling the pencil-thin scar with the tips of his fingers and thinking — suddenly — about how Davies would now bare a similar scar.
The Simmons’ Legacy.
St Helens born Marc Davies had reached the age of six before navigating his way a little closer to the centre of the city of Liverpool. He had also worked there the majority of his adult life. The city was in his blood, he knew both its older and more recent history; the good and the bad.
What he didn’t know was that Prior had been the lead investigative officer in the botched warehouse sting that had been so widely publicised in the weeks that had followed. Or that he had been responsible for killing Jacob Matthew Simmons in front of his younger brother.
‘But, they’re dead aren’t they?’ Davies asked, as though reading Prior’s last thought, ‘Well, I know that at least one of them is. The other one was on the run wasn’t he?’
‘Christine thinks he may have run on board.’
‘It’s not just me who’s beginning to think that way though, is it?’ the psychologist said, without irritation or reproach.
Prior sighed, ‘I think . . . that it’s possible he might be on board.’
Davies regarded Prior, then Christine, and then Prior once more. ‘So,’ he said after a moment, ‘are you thinking that the younger Simmons brother could be behind all this?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’m sorry, you know I’m always the first to get behind you and support you and . . .’
‘And I’ve always appreciated that, Marc.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why here? Why now? Why all this? And, anyway, didn’t he have some, like, massively crippling fear of water?’
Prior’s eyebrow flicked up for a moment. ‘He did, didn’t he?’ he said, contemplating ‘But still, there’s an incredible amount of similarities between the crimes that have been committed on board over the last two days and those that were committed during the time that the Simmons’ brothers were most brutally active. Too many similarities to overlook.’
He was about to speak again when both his own and Christine’s radios suddenly crackled to life; squawking under a deafening barrage of feedback as she stood at his side.
Prior stepped back and pulled the two-way free from his belt, putting some distance between himself and Christine; thus separating the angry-sounding equipment.
Davies frowned.
‘Where’s mine?’ he said, looking around and listening.
The radios crackled once more, slightly out of time and echoing one another as though it were some sound-wave game of tag.
Davies glanced from Christine to Prior and back again. Both looked bemused and he could imagine a similarly perplexed expression plastered across his own face.
Prior held in the button on his radio. ‘Who is this?’ he said before releasing it once more.
To their surprise and to their horror the voice that cracked across the static airwaves belonged to Shona.
She was trying to suppress the sobs that came as she attempted to speak, but it seemed that the harder she tried, the more desperately upset she became.
‘Jon . . .’ she struggled, her voice small and distorted as it echoed with a millisecond delay across the two radios. ‘Please, listen to me. There’s a message I’m to . . . pass on to you. I’m to read what’s been written here and say nothing else.’
‘We’re listening.’ Prior said, not knowing whether she had heard him or not.
Davies could see the very real fear in his commander’s green eyes along with the beads of sweat that had suddenly broken across his furrowed brow.
‘He says he knows what you did.’ she said. Prior closed his eyes, his heart sinking; this couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be happening. ‘He knows it was you and, in turn, invites you to come and witness the death of your . . .’ she paused, weeping; unable to disguise or contain her terror and her grief.
There followed the sound of a swift and powerful slap, after which Shona cried out briefly, but then, pulling herself together, continued to recite the sickening message, ‘. . . to witness the death of you own sibling.’ Her voice gave way to more sobs as she struggled with the final instalment of the grim communiqué, ‘You’ll be given further instructions once the stage is set . . . once the colours are properly mixed . . . then, you will watch and I will die . . . and honour will finally be satisfied. The debts paid in full.’
The transmission ended. Cut off without even a departing hiss of static.
In the next moment each of the two remaining radios bleeped furiously; each of the little red lights flashing before, following suit once more — one and then two — they switched themselves off.
‘The batteries have gone.’ Davies said.
‘I’ll kill him!’ Prior shouted, spinning on his heel. ‘I’ll kill the little bastard! I’ll tear off his head! I’ll — ’