by CJ Carver
She tried to put herself in the killer’s mind. All the Recycling For Charity outlets were under observation. They hadn’t found a torture room at any of these locations, so where did he take his victims? They had no clues, nothing, from Jamie’s body, that could point them in a particular direction. The killer was fiendishly clever and careful but she couldn’t wait for him to trip up. If Jamie’s list was definitive, she was the last potential victim still walking the streets.
She turned her attention to PepsBeevers, which was based near Slough. All its employees were associates of academic departments, devoting their research efforts to programmes that, the website told her, advanced the knowledge of the function and structure of the brain and its relation to behaviour. It was where Zidazapine had, apparently, been invented, along with a wide array of other medications that helped control a variety of behavioural disorders and psychological symptoms. PepsBeevers were at the cutting edge of brain research and Lucy resolved to interview them as soon as she could.
The second she stepped off the train she felt a rush of belonging. She was home. A moment of exhilaration followed. She would find the killer. She would return to live in London. Her burst of optimism remained until she walked out of Notting Hill Gate Tube station. Even though common sense told her the killer was long gone, she couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder and around the area. She arrived at Stanley Gardens out of breath and jumpy.
Tim 62 lived in the top floor flat. Eighty-five stairs and no lift, and views stretching over a garden and half a dozen tall trees, laced white with snow, to Ladbroke Grove and beyond. It would have been beautiful if Lucy had looked at it properly, but she was absorbed in searching the place for a clue, anything that might lead her to Tim 62 and the killer.
Thanks to Mac, the investigating team were ready for her, along with DI William Niles.
‘He didn’t have any idea he was in danger,’ Niles said. ‘I was just getting through to him that the situation was serious, when it all blew up.’
‘Anything left at the scene?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said, looking around. Two uniforms were also searching the place. ‘If Tim had a suitcase, it means he took that as well as Tim’s phone.’
It had been Niles who’d rung Tim’s parents. They’d told him their son had rung them from Heathrow, just after he’d flown in from overseas to tell them their godson had just won an important business contract out there.
‘Witnesses?’ Lucy asked.
‘Nobody yet. We’re going to canvass the neighbourhood.’
‘There’s something about the killer that makes people trust him,’ said Lucy. ‘Lets him get close enough to snatch them.’
‘He won’t be wearing a hoodie, then,’ said Niles.
‘No,’ Lucy agreed. ‘More like a suit.’ Or a uniform, she thought, but kept this to herself. ‘Did you find a computer?’
‘No.’ Niles was sorting through the contents of the hall side table. Lots of loose change, receipts and old train tickets. Tim’s dumping drawer when he came home. ‘He’s got superfast broadband so he’ll have one, but it’s not here. We’re assuming it’s with him.’
She left Niles in the hall and walked quickly through the apartment. Neat, organised, no dust or dirt that she could see which meant Tim probably had a cleaner. The bedroom was tucked beneath the eaves of the building giving it a rustic air. King-sized bed, armchair, bare clotheshorse. A photograph of him and, she assumed, his girlfriend on top of the chest of drawers. She studied Tim. Mid-thirties, brown curly hair, chunky build. He and the girlfriend were smiling as they sat at a restaurant table overlooking a harbour filled with sailboats – it looked like Cornwall.
Lucy opened a bedside drawer to see it stuffed with detritus – tissues, watches, sunglasses, an old alarm clock – before heading for the bathroom. White and blue tiles with a nautical motif and big fluffy white towels. She opened the medicine cabinet. Her gaze went straight to the second shelf and the distinctive pink and blue flashes on the side of two boxes. Zidazapine.
A cold feeling spread through her chest. She’d run out of time. She had to come clean with Mac now there was evidence that three of the people on Jamie’s list were taking the same drug. The killer could be a doctor or dentist, a brain research scientist, a surgeon or psychologist, a pharmacist . . .
Her fingers felt stiff as she shut the cabinet door. She knew she should text Mac to let him know, but still she hesitated. In a minute, she told herself.
She walked to the kitchen. Lots of granite and shiny chrome. The counter tops were bare except for a coffee machine and sugar bowl. The fridge had no food, just some orange juice and out-of-date milk, a bottle of white wine. Nothing seemed out of place.
She knew she was procrastinating. Putting things off. But she couldn’t help it. She was hoping against hope that something might turn up. Like what? You don’t believe in miracles.
The spare room had been converted into a study and was a glorious mess that the cleaner obviously didn’t bother trying to tidy. Or perhaps they weren’t allowed in here. There seemed to be three major piles of litter. Lucy started on the nearest and had a flip through. Old envelopes, funny cards from Mia, some light aviation magazines, invoices, more receipts, and although she read the words – ASDA, WHSmith, National Trust – her mind was on the Zidazapine.
‘Found anything yet?’ Niles stuck his head around the door.
She rubbed the spot between her eyes with her fingertips. ‘No.’
‘Who would have contact with so many disparate people?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. My bet is that the only person the victims know is the abductor,’ he said.
Lucy couldn’t meet his eyes and busied herself with the next pile of litter. Now was the time to go into the bathroom and open the cabinet door and bring out a blister pack of Zidazapine and tell Niles. Tell Mac. She couldn’t keep quiet any more. She felt sick. She wanted to cry. She took a deep breath and braced herself to turn around and –
Then she saw it.
A name that leaped out at her. Printed on a receipt.
Slowly, she picked it up.
Boots UK Limited.
Using his Visa card, Tim had bought a pack of travel tissues, a packet of Nurofen, one apple juice and a chicken and mayo sandwich, but this wasn’t what had sent a shower of orange sparks through her mind.
It was the store’s address and the date.
‘You’ve found something,’ Niles said. His tone lifted in excitement. ‘What is it?’
She said, ‘Do you have his girlfriend’s address?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need to see her. Now.’
*
Mia Dray lived with another young woman in a maisonette near Earls Court. Tall and supple, she had blue eyes and a short red bob that was currently a tangled mess. Her tracksuit was crumpled but despite her bewilderment, she managed to maintain her self-possession and asked her flatmate to make coffee for them all.
‘The thirteenth of October?’ Mia repeated.
Lucy had persuaded Niles not to tell Mia her boyfriend had been abducted until she’d asked her questions, explaining that Mia might get hysterical and they couldn’t waste the time calming her. Niles had agreed.
‘Saturday,’ added Lucy.
‘Why on earth –’
‘Please, Mia,’ Lucy said. ‘I know this is unsettling, but we urgently need to know what Tim was doing that day.’
Giving her a look that said How the hell should I know? Mia said, ‘I’ll check my diary.’
‘Thank you.’
Mia switched on her phone. Had a look. ‘Oh,’ she said, her face clearing. ‘I went to a wedding, an old school friend of mine. It was held at Lucknam Park in Wiltshire – just gorgeous.’
‘And Tim? Was he with you?’
‘No. He was invited but since he didn’t know anyone – except for me of course – he made some excuse, which was a shame as he would have actually had a really good
time. They had a great live band and –’
Lucy held up a hand to halt the woman’s prattle. Jesus, what was she on? You would think she was talking to a pair of socialites, not two plain-clothed cops in the middle of the night. ‘So what did Tim do while you were at the wedding?’
Mia looked at her blankly. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘Perhaps he texted you that day?’ Lucy suggested. ‘That might give you a clue.’
‘Hey, good idea.’ Mia picked up her phone and scrolled through her messages while the flatmate delivered mugs of coffee. ‘What date did you say?’
Trying to keep control of her frustration, Lucy repeated herself.
‘Yup. Here it is. I texted him a photo of me in my outfit . . . then some stuff about weddings, I was winding him up and . . . oh, yes.’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘He went to a concert that evening. He sent me a photo.’
‘Can I see?’ Lucy asked.
‘It’s not very good.’ Mia squinted at it. ‘It’s a bit blurry.’
‘Please.’ Lucy held out her hand.
Mia passed over the phone.
The photograph showed lights blazing, silhouettes of crowds and, in the distance, a giant dragon. She checked the time and date. Checked again.
The world seemed to turn one-dimensional, black and white. Hot then cold. A long hiss of breath streamed from her lips.
She could feel her terror, her whole being paralysed with dread and then all sense fleeing as she bolted outside.
It wasn’t just the Zidazapine. It was the concert.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Sunday 2 December, 10.00 a.m.
Dan began walking along the central avenue of the cemetery, looking for his wife and daughter. A cold, keening wind whipped around the little chapel and, in the distance, he could hear church bells pealing for the morning service.
Despite the cold there were several people about and he had to remind himself that it was perfectly normal for them to be here, paying their respects. He didn’t feel reassured. The nape of his neck began to hum ominously.
He noticed a man standing next to a family mausoleum. Dark trousers, leather coat, maroon scarf. He was leaning against the railings, smoking a cigarette. The man looked out of place and although he didn’t look directly at Dan as he passed, Dan was convinced he was watching him.
Dan tried to tell himself the man was another mourner, but it didn’t work. Ever since Grace had told him about Sirius Thiele, and that apparently Stella owed his client a huge amount of money, he’d been on edge. Stella had wanted him to find Cedric. Did Stella owe Cedric this money? Although he couldn’t remember Sirius, an instinct told him to steer well clear; his name brought up dangerous, dark feelings.
He’d called the number Stuart Winter had given him for the man called Bernard, without success. He let it ring and ring, waiting for an answering service to kick in, and when it didn’t, allowed it to ring out. He’d go back to Stuart tomorrow and ask him more about his hospital stay as well as Bernard but in the meantime, he had to get through today.
Then he spotted Aimee and his heart lifted. He increased his stride. He noticed the man by the mausoleum hadn’t moved but his head had turned. He was definitely watching him.
‘Daddy!’
He hunkered down, hoping as always she wouldn’t decide to change the way she greeted him. His heart flipped when she broke into a run for him, happily leaping into his embrace, wrapping her arms round his neck and whacking him in the back with her pink plastic handbag and the ever-present Neddy. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent – fruity shampoo, chocolate, something slightly musty that he couldn’t identify – and closed his eyes.
Keep her safe, keep her safe . . .
‘It took us ages to get here,’ she babbled against his cheek. ‘I coloured in my flower fairies book but one was really difficult and Mummy had to help me. She used pink when I wanted yellow but it was OK in the end, wasn’t it, Mummy?’
Aimee wriggled out of Dan’s arms. ‘Tara and Sally and me are going to catch fairies later. Tara’s got a butterfly net. I think we should dress like fairies so we won’t frighten them away. Can I have a fairy dress? And some fairy slippers . . .’
Dan’s eyes went to Jenny. She was wearing her expensive little black dress and delicate tights beneath a dark grey cashmere coat. Glinting through curtains of blond hair were the pearl and white gold earrings she told him he’d bought her in Venice on their fifth wedding anniversary. Another memory lost forever. In her hands she held a simple bouquet of paperwhite narcissi tied with satin ribbon. She stood tall and slim and elegant and he didn’t think she’d ever looked more beautiful or more unreachable.
Slowly he rose to his feet. The man by the mausoleum continued to watch.
Jenny said, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
Neither made any move to go to the other. Aimee looked up at them. Dan said, ‘Sweetheart, why don’t you lead the way? You can remember where Luke’s grave is, right?’
With Neddy dangling, Aimee spun on her heels and started walking for the western part of the cemetery. Dan followed behind with Jenny, feeling each step. She said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Inside him something tightened. ‘What for?’
‘For lying to you.’
‘About what?’
Her hand lifted, fluttering like a pale bird. ‘The job you used to do.’
Bile rose, born from treachery. She’d been talking behind his back. As she’d obviously been doing for the past five years.
‘Who have you spoken to?’ he asked. He had to modulate his voice carefully. He didn’t want her to know how deeply his feelings ran.
‘Your father.’
Blood pulsed behind his eyes. ‘You didn’t see fit to speak to me about it?’
‘He rang me,’ she said, protesting. ‘What was I supposed to do? Not take his call?’
‘You could have rung me after you’d spoken to him. Seen how I was. I’d just learned who I used to work for . . .’ He could feel emotion constricting his throat so he took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to regulate his anger. ‘Or did you think I’d take it all in my stride? Finding out that my father and wife knew about my real job all along but lied about it to me all these years . . .’
She put a hand on his arm. ‘Dan, it’s not like that.’
‘Then tell me, what is it like?’ His voice was like frozen gravel. He didn’t take his eyes off Aimee.
Jenny seemed to be struggling for the right words to say. Then she took a deep breath.
‘That job . . . I hated it.’
He turned his head at the passion in her voice but she was staring straight ahead. Her fists were clenched.
‘It took up every minute of your life. You worked every hour God sent you and then when you were at home all you thought about was work, work, work, but you couldn’t talk about it because it was classified. Restricted. On a need-to-know basis. Your wife didn’t need to know.’
He was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. ‘Jen,’ he started, but she spoke over him.
‘I felt left out and isolated. And when you went undercover . . . my God. It was even worse. No communication for weeks on end. Not knowing if you were dead or alive. Then you’d come home unshaven and exhausted, usually underweight and stressed out.’ She sighed. ‘But you were alive. Animated. You loved it. You loved every minute of that fucking job.’
She suddenly stopped and turned to him. She had tears shining in her eyes. ‘I couldn’t ask you to leave because I knew you’d choose your job over me. Do you know how that made me feel?’
The tears spilled down her cheeks but she didn’t brush them away.
‘And then Luke died. You went crazy, blaming yourself. Seeing you locked up like that, you have no idea what it was like. Aimee was just a baby . . . I was at the end of my tether and when you were given that amnesia drug it was as though God had heard every prayer I’d ever spoken. I’d lost Luke but
gained a husband. You were there, at my side, supporting me for the first time. We were a normal couple, trying to come to terms with the loss of our son. We started doing normal things. Shopping together. Going to the movies. I didn’t lie awake at night worrying about you getting shot at or poisoned or gassed . . .’
It was only then that she seemed to realise Dan had stopped walking. She turned and looked at him through her tears.
The low hum turned into a loud buzzing. It spread from his neck through his chest and stomach and down his arms.
He didn’t realise he was shaking.
‘You knew about the amnesia drug?’
She came and stood in front of him. She raised her chin. ‘Yes.’
He fought the urge to shout at her. He knew if he did, he’d never be able to stop.
‘Your parents,’ he choked. ‘They didn’t pay for the treatment, either. That was picked up by my employer.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was advised not to.’
‘Who by?’
‘Dr Stuart Winter.’
Aimee trotted back to hold Jenny’s hand. ‘Don’t be sad, Mummy. Luke’s in heaven. He’s really happy there.’
‘Yes, sweetie.’
Jenny gave Aimee the flowers before bringing out a tissue and wiping her eyes. They allowed Aimee to lead them to Luke’s grave. Dan followed. There were too many thoughts running through his head, too many emotions, so he pushed everything aside and concentrated on his daughter, the way her hair had started to escape her ponytail, the smudge of mud on Neddy’s hind leg.
He watched Aimee place the narcissi on the grave. As he did every year, he stared at the simple monolith headstone and tried to summon up a picture of his son, but all he could visualise were the photographs dotted around the house: Luke on his shoulders, Luke on a see-saw, Luke swinging between him and Jenny, bright blond hair gleaming in the sun. He had no true memories of his boy. Just the odd flash that occasionally broke the surface like the flick of a fish’s tail.