Killing Ways

by Alex Barclay

  Nothing crazy …

  Ren’s cell phone rang. She picked up.

  ‘Agent Bryce – it’s Agent Richmond here in Sherman, Texas. What I can tell you about Chloe Farraday is that her last-known job was as a nurse – that was two years ago. Apparently, she has also worked, in an informal capacity, as a carer. And that’s it – I’m not picking her up anywhere in the past two years. You might want to talk to Vincent Farraday – he could know more.’

  Oh. My. God.

  Nurse. Sharps disposal.

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you for the call.’

  Ren went back into Gary’s office. Joe was still there. ‘Joe – how would you feel about a trip to Texas?’

  45

  Vincent Farraday’s home was a disintegrating cabin in the woods outside Denison, Texas. Within its walls, his body was doing the same thing – and within that, his mind. Ren and Joe sat across from him, waiting, waiting for sense. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a smeared glass on a table beside him. He knocked back what was left in it.

  Ren took the time to look around the room. There were photos of Wanda still on the sideboard, looking respectable and happy, and many photos of their twin girls, only up until they were about sixteen years old.

  All three – skinny, blonde; the girls – identical.

  ‘It came from nowhere,’ said Vincent, suddenly. He poured himself another glass. ‘Wanda had turned her life around, found me, found God, had the girls, our beautiful twins. She was a different woman. Then I came home one day, and there she was, a needle in her arm. It went on like that for a little while – I tried to hide it from the girls, but I couldn’t. She turned into an absolute wreck, became so mean and nasty, I didn’t know who she was. Then, one day, I came home, she was gone … no warning …’

  ‘And you didn’t report her missing at that time,’ said Ren.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said Vincent, ‘because it would have been a waste of police time. She could have been anywhere. I told our friends, my family that she was in rehab. I told the girls the same thing. Everyone had seen Wanda, they knew what was going on. At that stage, though, the girls hated her. It was so sad. Their whole lives, they thought the sun shone from their mama …’ He drifted off. ‘And so did I. I began drinking. We all have our painkillers, I guess.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘And then the police show up a few years ago. Some DA who was looking for glory decides to try and arrest me for murdering my wife, even though they hadn’t even got a body!

  ‘My life’s been hell these last few years,’ said Vincent. ‘Absolute hell.’ He drained his glass. ‘I was interviewed for hours and hours – over twenty times by Denison PD, then by the FBI in Sherman. Imagine constantly being hauled in to go through the same questions over and over. It’s enough to drive you insane. You know the truth, you know your wife just upped and left. You’re thinking – did she die, did she kill herself, did she drown by accident, was she hit by a car somewhere, is she lying in a ditch, did she walk into the path of a killer? It’s been a nightmare from the moment she stuck that needle in her vein. I’ve been a performer all my life, but then, people started looking at me to see if I was still performing, covering up a crime.’

  Ren and Joe hovered, without a word, in Vincent Farraday’s anguish.

  Vincent shook his head, poured himself another whiskey.

  ‘I’ve had kids egg my house, spray-paint “murderer” on my wall,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ve had people knock on my door under all kinds of pretenses – oh, they’re studying justice or law or forensic something-or-other. One of them was all the way from New York by the sound of him, looking for information about Duke Rawlins, about what kind of childhood he might have had, what kind of mother Wanda was to him. I told him I didn’t know that Wanda Rawlins. And I sure don’t want to hear another thing about that animal Rawlins.’ He paused. ‘You know Wanda had a tattoo of that boy’s face on her shoulder, must have gotten it in one of her guiltier, drunker moments, way before we met. She always wanted to get it taken off, but was afraid it would hurt.’ His gaze drifted away, then he returned to his story. ‘So, I answered what I could for the young man – he seemed well-intentioned, like he wanted to set a record set straight. He seemed to me to be invested in the truth, unlike most people.’

  He paused. ‘And I know what you’re thinking – you could say to me “Don’t open your door”, but the truth is I think to myself “What if it’s Wanda coming home?”’

  Love is the mystery to end all mysteries.

  ‘So, there you have it,’ said Vincent.

  His eyes were filled with pain, with sadness, with resignation.

  Yet no anger.

  ‘We know that your daughter, Robin, is living in London now,’ said Ren. ‘But we can’t seem to find Chloe …’

  He looked up at her, vacant-eyed. He took another drink.

  ‘Do you have any idea where your daughter Chloe is now, Mr Farraday?’ said Joe.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t, I do not.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have I met you before, Detective?’ His words were getting slurred.

  Ren looked at Joe.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Joe.

  ‘Something about you is familiar …’ said Vincent.

  Joe shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there.’

  ‘Have you seen Chloe in the past while, Mr Farraday?’ said Ren, guiding him back while he could still at least partially function.

  He nodded. ‘She came around here looking for her guitar about twelve months back, arrived with the police, said I stole it, which I hadn’t.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear to look at it,’ said Vincent. ‘I’d put it in the attic. I told her she could go on up and get it, told her she could stay if she liked. What she replied to that wasn’t very nice at all.’

  God love this man.

  ‘Is Chloe a singer?’ said Ren.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vincent. ‘A very good one.’

  ‘Does she write songs?’ said Ren.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Vincent. ‘She was writing songs from when she was eight years old.’

  ‘Do you or your family, or Wanda’s family, have any connections in Denver?’ said Joe.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Vincent. ‘Denver … Denver …’ He let out a breath. ‘Got an old roadie buddy there, guy by the name of Benny Jakes. Good guy, Benny.’

  Ren texted Everett: Everything you got on Benny Jakes, roadie, based in Denver.

  ‘I want you to know Wanda loved those girls very, very much,’ said Vincent. ‘I can’t for the life of me see how it could have gone so wrong.’

  They all descended into silence and before long, Vincent Farraday was snoring in his chair.

  ‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’ said Ren.

  ‘Don’t mind if we do,’ said Joe. He raised his eyebrows.

  Ren and Joe weaved in and out of the rooms in the house. Vincent Farraday had clearly downsized. Two of the rooms were filled with packing boxes, packed by a removals company: LIVING ROOM, KITCHEN, CHLOE’S ROOM, ROBIN’S ROOM.

  Ren went into the kitchen, opened the drawers, got a knife, came back in, sliced open some of the boxes.

  One of them was filled with bubble-wrapped posters behind glass and framed in black. She opened the first few. They were advertising appearances by VINCENT FARRADAY: COUNTRY STAR! in different venues across Texas. There were three photo albums wrapped in brown paper. Ren opened one of them and flicked through photos of a very handsome Vincent Farraday on stage, with his fans, at radio interviews, at press appearances. He had a big friendly smile, radiated warmth and happiness. She went through all the albums: the last one was a personal one, the most recent, and featured a clean and shiny Wanda Rawlins, their marriage, and soon afterwards, Chloe and Robin. They were pretty girls. And now they were gone.

  Ren opened another box. It was filled with girly notebooks.

  Journals?

  Ren picked one up and flicked through it. On the inside cover it said: This Belongs
to Chloe Farraday.

  She took all the notebooks that had Chloe Farraday’s name inside.

  Ren met with Joe in the kitchen.

  ‘Could Duke Rawlins be looking for Wanda?’ said Ren. ‘Could he use Chloe Farraday for that? Like bait?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Joe. ‘I can’t get a handle on this.’

  ‘What we’ve got is this song that sounds like Chloe Farraday’s life,’ said Ren, ‘and links her to Jane Doe and Carrie Longman.’

  Vincent stirred in the chair as Ren and Joe came back in and sat down.

  Joe leaned into him, spoke gently. ‘Mr Farraday, have your daughters ever met Duke Rawlins?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ said Vincent. ‘They don’t even know he exists, they never knew Wanda’s maiden name, none of that.’

  Wanda Rawlins had the type of slate anyone would want to wipe clean: junkie hooker mom of a serial killer son.

  46

  Ren called Gary on the drive to the airport and filled him in.

  ‘So,’ said Ren, ‘depending on the relationship – if there is any – between Duke Rawlins and Chloe Farraday, he could have access to an apartment in Denver owned by a man called Benny Jakes. Everett is checking that out.’

  When Ren and Joe arrived at Dallas airport, they found out their flight was delayed. They sat in the airport lounge and ordered a round, and then another.

  After another round, Joe was getting a little drunker than Ren.

  You’re on something else. Painkillers. Something.

  Meds, meds, everywhere.

  ‘I won’t lie,’ said Joe, leaning forward, ‘but if I lay eyes on Duke Rawlins, I will kill him.’

  Finally, he admits it. ‘You won’t,’ said Ren.

  Joe raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve a six-year-old daughter,’ said Ren. ‘You won’t.’

  Joe looked away, pressed his fingers into his jaw, like a doctor checking for pain.

  ‘You know that if you kill him, you lose,’ said Ren. ‘I know you know that. However, you will win if he is jailed.’ She paused. ‘And ass-raped on a loop.’

  Joe was momentarily quiet, then burst out laughing. ‘I thought you were going to say something honorable. But “ass-raped on a loop” …’ He nodded. ‘I can get on board with that.’

  Ren took her chance. ‘Joe … could you please take Grace away from Denver, totally away, somewhere no one knows about, only you and Camille? I … didn’t tell Gary, but I think Duke has targeted me. Someone close to me was in an accident and I think I was the intended target. Then how close he got to Karen Dettling. For you, I just don’t think it’s a risk worth taking.’

  He didn’t reply.

  As they got steadily drunker, he got more maudlin.

  ‘Anna dying in childbirth,’ said Joe, ‘which I didn’t think was even possible these days … it was just so … shocking. Duke Rawlins had physically damaged her so badly, her body couldn’t hold up … she had wounds to the kidney, the bowel. Scar tissue. I can’t tell you the hell I would like to see that man go to. Grace saved my life. She saved my life. I was right there when she was born. As soon as I held her in my arms, I fell in love with the most perfect little human being I had ever seen.’

  As your wife lay dying … Jesus Christ.

  Joe laughed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my son, but he’s a young man now, he doesn’t need me, and I screwed him up along the way. He’s been through a lot. Everyone who comes near me goes through a lot.’

  ‘You’re carrying around way too much guilt,’ said Ren. Though I would be no different.

  ‘It’s like on that one day, ten years ago, boom, shots fired, Donald Riggs goes down and the course of my entire life was changed,’ said Joe. He stared into her eyes. She could feel her heart rate accelerate.

  Uh-oh.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ said Joe.

  Uh-oh.

  ‘I don’t want you to be me.’

  Phew. I won’t be. Not a chance.

  ‘You’re thinking you won’t be,’ said Joe. ‘I used to think the same when I looked around at the guys at work. I wouldn’t be the divorced one, the drinking one, the lonely one, the bitter one, the cheating one, the damaged one. So … I didn’t cheat, I didn’t divorce. Where does that leave me? One of the lucky ones?’ He paused. ‘Do you have a good life?’

  Um … ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a good man in your life?’ said Joe.

  Pause. ‘Yes.’ Why the pause?

  ‘Treasure it,’ said Joe. ‘Look after yourselves. It might not always be there.’ He stood up. ‘That’s our flight.’

  Ren watched him leave the bar.

  Oh, God, I do not want to be you.

  Joe slept through the entire flight. By the time they reached Denver, Ren wrote a text to Ben: This NYPD guy has sucked the lifeblood out of me.

  She re-read it. That’s pretty shitty. She deleted it. She sent a new one: I love you. We are lucky. XX

  Now, let’s not fuck it up.

  And when I say ‘us’, I mean me.

  Ben replied with a photo.

  It was him sitting on her sofa with a beer. And: Surprise!

  No waaay!

  She replied: Can’t make you out. Too many clothes in way.

  47

  Ben welcomed her straight to bed when she got home.

  ‘You are too good,’ she said afterwards. ‘I almost can’t handle it.’

  It’s overwhelming.

  Ben laughed. ‘I’m not sure you’re old or obese enough to have a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Why do I feel so overwhelmed?

  She rolled over on her side, out from under his arm and got up.

  ‘Aren’t you staying in bed?’

  ‘Killers gonna kill …’

  ‘A few hours won’t make a difference …’

  ‘You know lots of things, Ben Rader, but that, you do not.’ She leaned down and kissed him. ‘Grabbing my tits is only going to make this harder for both of us.’ She paused. ‘Don’t even say it. Don’t show that to me.’

  Goddamn it.

  Ren sat on the sofa with Chloe Farraday’s notebooks open around her. They seemed to span her high school years, sophomore to senior, and one more after that. They were part-journal, part creative writing, part music manuscript. There were unsurprising threads of darkness through all of it, along with drawings of pretty girls, and pretty things.

  I can relate.

  Chloe was fervently anti-drugs, had been a leader in the Say No campaign, designed posters for it, given speeches.

  ‘Hey,’ said Ben, walking into the living room.

  Ren glanced at the clock: 4 a.m.

  ‘You need to get some rest,’ said Ben.

  ‘I can’t. I’m in the middle of this.’ She paused, her hands resting on the open notebook.

  ‘You won’t be able to think straight if you don’t rest,’ said Ben.

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ said Ren. ‘You know that. And I’m thinking very straight.’

  ‘Your sleep is all over the place—’

  ‘It’s not!’

  ‘I’m not trying to interfere—’

  ‘Yet, here you are …’

  ‘Come on …’ said Ben.

  ‘OK, look, if I can just keep working here, then I’ll be able to come to bed quicker—’

  ‘It’s four a.m.—’

  ‘Who gives a fuck?’

  ‘You need to look after your … health …’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘“Health”? I’m sitting here with eight notebooks to get through, trying to fucking absorb all this shit, trying to … to … I mean, fuck! This woman –’ she stabbed the photo of Hope Coulson – ‘delivered food to lonely fucking old people! And she gets raped and murdered! This woman was in her garden in the sunshine hanging out her fucking washing … No, fuck this, Ben. The world has gone to shit. It has gone to shit. And I’m trying to play my part in shoveling it off the side of the fucking earth, down into the burning
center of hell, I don’t care, where ever. The idea that the city is filled with potential victims is traumatizing me.’

  ‘Ren, Ren, calm down,’ said Ben. ‘Calm down.’

  I want to hurt you.

  ‘You are not my shrink!’ said Ren.

  ‘Well, where is your shrink is what I want to know?’ said Ben.

  ‘Asleep – where else would he be? Or in a psychiatric unit helping people who really need help.’ She paused. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? What’s your point?’

  Ben sat down.

  Why are you sitting down? Why are you breathing?

  Ben looked pale. ‘Ren …’ he said, his tone gentle, ‘… do I have your permission to call Dr Lone?’

  What the FUCK? ‘Are you high? Are you out of your mind? Do you know what you’d sound like to him if you called him up about me? You’d sound like dictionary-definition first-world problem. You’d sound like a spoilt brat whose girlfriend is giving him a pain in his ass. Dr Lone would be like “I’m dealing with suicidal, psychotic, violent, sexually deviant crazy people and you’re calling me about your FBI agent girlfriend? And you’re an FBI agent yourself?” He’d be like: “Get a fucking grip!”’

  ‘Ren …’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation. I have work to do. And if you stand in the way of that—’

  Ben walked quietly out of the room. Ren got up and walked after him.

  ‘I can’t stand this,’ she said.

  ‘I just want to go to bed,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, I want to talk to you,’ said Ren.

  ‘I thought you wanted to work.’

  ‘Well, you’ve ruined that now.’

  ‘Ren, go back to work.’

  ‘No! I want to talk about this.’

  ‘It’s late, I’m exhausted, so are you—’

  ‘I can’t deal with this,’ said Ren. ‘You monitoring me like this.’

  ‘Well, go, then,’ said Ben. ‘Just go.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ll leave?’ said Ren. ‘You never do! Men never think you’re going to leave … until you do. And do you know what?’ Do not finish that sentence or you can never come back from it.

  ‘What?’ said Ben.

  I always do. I always leave.