by J. S. Spicer
Bryan didn’t look her way, didn’t comment.
“Why should he? This has nothing to do with us; nothing to do with what happened to my brother.”
This time Bryan spun to face her. “Jasmine, it has everything to do with it! Why else has he come back here, to a town he visited once as a kid? This all started with Justin. I guess he got a taste for killing.”
She blanched at these words. “We don’t know for sure that he did kill Justin. Nobody saw what happened.”
Doyle made a disgusted snorting sound. “Yeah, why link a suspicious death to Felix? Never mind that you dared him to do it! Never mind that he’s grown up to be a sicko serial killer.”
“Still, it’s been so long, so many years.”
“Maybe there were others, victims that we don’t know about.”
“We should call the police,” said Jasmine. “I have that detective’s number in my phone.”
“No!”
“But…”
Doyle abandoned his post near the door, reached her in three long strides and grabbed her by the elbows. “Listen to me. We will call the police. But first we need to be sure Felix won’t tell them about that day.”
“But Bryan, we were just children...”
“You want people to know you dared Felix to do it, to drown your brother.”
She shook more, tears that had threatened all day spilled over. “I didn’t mean for him to kill him!” Jasmine, with great emotion found greater strength. “Just to dunk him; just to teach him a lesson.”
“I know.” Bryan soothed, loosening his grip, stroking her arm gently. “I know it wasn’t your fault. But people may not understand. We’re both implicated.”
“Even so, we were just kids back then, what can the police do to us now?”
“Probably nothing, but Felix is headline news. Do you want your face splashed across the front page too? Do you want everyone to think you had something to do with Justin’s death?”
Jasmine shook her head, sniffed and pulled back from his touch.
“Me either. It could ruin me, just the hint of something like this.”
Finally she gave a nod. “OK. But I don’t see why he’d listen to what we have to say.”
“We’re his friends. Jasmine, you could always get Felix to do whatever you wanted.”
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
Bryan regarded her carefully for a moment, weighing something up in his mind. Then he reached into his jacket pocket. “Here, take this.”
In his hand was a small pistol. What little colour had remained there suddenly drained from Jasmine’s face.
“Just in case,” he told her. “For your own protection. OK?”
Her hesitation was momentary, then she reached for the gun. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, then slid it into her handbag.
As Doyle returned to his post by the door a small smile crept onto his face.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Max Travers floored the accelerator. The mid-morning traffic was light, even so there were a couple of near misses. Hope and anger flooded his system. Patrick Doyle’s old sweet shop was a new lead. And it was still there, an empty corner of a block of buildings waiting their turn for regeneration. What’s more, it was only half a mile from where Andrew Trent was murdered; the first Blackbridge victim.
Had Vine been using the old shop as a base? Would they really find him there now?
Travers’ anger burned for Doyle today though. Bryan Doyle had withheld potentially lifesaving information. He’d taken it upon himself to make an appeal on TV, without telling the police, without thought for the consequences. The man was playing with fire, following his own agenda recklessly. Max didn’t know what his endgame was; the guy probably had delusions of glory, probably thought he could single-handedly save the day. Most likely he’d get himself killed. It was a prospect that didn’t bother Max as much as it should, not right at that moment. Perhaps Doyle did have it coming. The others hadn’t. All the other victims, including Carrie, had been ignorant of Felix Vine. He was a stranger with some twisted, senseless motive for targeting them. But Doyle, seeing what had happened, was trying to play hero. It sickened Max to the stomach. The image of each dead body flashed through his mind. The sight of Carrie, bleeding and terrified in the dark, lying fragile in a hospital bed. There was no room for posturing. No space for a glory-hound to wheedle himself a bit of publicity.
It was the thought of Carrie which most galvanised Max’s anger and resolve. She might be dead now, if it weren’t for dumb luck. Vine’s usual method was kill first, then dump the bodies. With Carrie he’d taken her alive. Max didn’t understand the difference, probably an escalation in his methodology. It was common enough. Killers evolved their techniques. Whatever the reason it had left open that crack of opportunity and Carrie had been saved.
If it weren’t for her, with her dogged, industrious research and knack for sifting facts that others would drown beneath, they would never have discovered the existence of the sweet shop. At least not so quickly.
As soon as she’d made the connection Max had started making calls. His first priority had been to arrange protection for Carrie. He wasn’t going to risk losing her again.
After that it was mere minutes before officers were homing in on the location of the Doyles’ old sweet shop. Even Lorraine was en-route. Max had told her there was no need; insisted it was still worth checking the other locations. She wouldn’t be swayed. Uniforms were still looking into the other possibilities, but Lorraine knew the smell of a hot lead when it surfaced.
**
They were in there.
He’d seen them arrive. Watched Bryan juggling keys, fiddling with the lock, casting frequent looks over his shoulder. Clumsy, conspicuous, but still as cocky as ever.
Jasmine had made the breath catch in his throat.
She stood a couple of feet from Bryan. It was something Felix noticed, and liked. She’d kept that couple of feet of distance as they approached. When he turned to speak she reeled back, only slightly, barely perceptible, but Felix, in his hiding place, saw her distaste through her body language. She had her arms tightly folded. She was rigid. She was fearful. But her’s wasn’t the same nervousness that jostled Bryan. Felix recognised the look. He’d seen it soon after Justin’s death. Jasmine had battled her own demons since that day. Bryan’s little game had unleashed them.
It was unkind of him.
If it had been just Bryan inside, Felix might have played a different game. A game of slicing and bleeding. But, Felix had to admit, he was only angry at Bryan because he was upsetting Jasmine. So, maybe it could still be OK, friendly, a reunion. Besides, it wasn’t Bryan’s turn; not yet. So perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to at least hear what he had to say. After all, Bryan had gone to all the trouble of going on TV to reach out. Felix could listen to what he had to say.
Though Felix was sure he already knew.
He kept them waiting. It seemed the thing to do. He’d seen enough of Bryan’s home to know the kind of man he was. He’d read his emails, probed his bank statements, felt with his own hands the smooth film of wealth covering everything in the man’s home, in the man’s life. He’d read articles; helpfully mounted and framed in the man’s study, telling of his successes and his charitable acts.
This man, his old friend, Bryan Doyle, was not a man accustomed to being kept waiting. So, Felix decided, let him wait, this time. Let him know, for once, who was really the boss.
**
Jasmine didn’t want to be there.
What the hell was she doing? There had been times, especially during her teenage years, when the pitch and roll of life had pummelled her, leaving her fractured. She remembered the instability of those times, how the very ground beneath her feet seemed to crumble and shift. She felt like that again now. Certainty had fled, confidence had dissolved, all that was left was doubt and fear, quivering and quaking, their vibrations hindering reality and threatening Jasmine’s very sanity.
/>
She hadn’t wanted to come. She didn’t want to see Felix Vine; the prospect too terrifying. Bryan had talked her into it, wheedling and badgering and coaxing, right up until he had her here, in this dusty abandoned building.
At her side the gun added weight to her handbag, tugging downward, throwing her even more off balance. She clung to herself, fighting for some kind of control, just trying not to spin into hysteria. Why had Bryan given her a gun? Why had he brought the weapon with him? Its very presence contradicted his assurances that Felix would never harm her; made a liar of him.
She focussed on that weight, used it as a compass for her thoughts. Jasmine closed her eyes, shutting out everything, listening and thinking. The weight of that gun somehow paradoxically became a comfort. It gave her a power she hadn’t had before. That power lent control, something else that had been missing for a while.
What did control offer?
Choice.
She didn’t want to be there. Therefore she should leave.
Eyes flying open she moved out of the shelter of the corner and headed for the door, where Bryan still patrolled.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I just can’t, alright. I tried, but I can’t. I need to leave!” Jasmine tried to slip past but Bryan grabbed her once more, again gripping her arms, this time with force, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“Just hold it together, Jasmine. Just for a little bit longer.”
She struggled to break free. “You can’t force me to be here. Let me go!”
He pushed, propelling her backwards, away from the door. “You’re fucking staying,” he growled. “We’re in this together. We finish it, together.”
Bryan shoved her hard, releasing his grip but hurling her hard against the wall. A new sensation filled Jasmine, ignited by the jolt of pain that shot through her shoulder as it hit brick. Anger. For so long guilt and loss and shame had diluted any pure emotions, leaching everything of colour. Now what she felt had a righteous edge to it. Who was Bryan Doyle to tell her what to do?
Jasmine reached into her bag. Her fingers curled around the handle of the gun. Then a shadow fell across the open doorway.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Time hadn’t been kind to Felix Vine. Jasmine searched his face, seeking recognisable features, signs of the boy he’d once been. Buried amongst the putty-like skin she found familiar eyes, small and dark, keen but wary. Only the eyes and the smile were the Felix she remembered.
He was smiling.
He was smiling at her.
That same, small, shy smile, like he wasn’t sure if it was OK to be pleased, to be happy.
“Hello, Felix.”
The smile grew a little. “Hello, Jasmine.”
Then he turned to Bryan, who stood in the middle of the room, collecting his thoughts, gathering himself. Jasmine noticed the smile disappeared when Felix faced his old friend.
“Felix.” Bryan extended his arm, offered his hand.
Felix stood motionless, staring at it for a second or two. When he finally stirred himself it wasn’t to take Bryan’s hand, it was to reach into his jacket. He took out a large, fierce looking knife.
Bryan’s hand dropped limply to his side. His face dropped too; for a second the mask slipped. He recovered quickly, forcing a tight smile onto his face.
“No need for that, buddy. Nobody here wants to hurt you.”
“No? What do you want, Bryan? To hand me over to the police? Play the big hero as usual?”
Bryan shook his head. “I’d never do that. I wouldn’t turn you in. But,” he risked a step closer, his eyes irresistibly drawn to the knife, held loosely, almost carelessly, in Felix’s hand. “You know they’ll catch you, soon or later. Maybe you should make things easier on yourself. Be the one to decide when and where it happens. On your own terms.”
Jasmine watched, feeling strangely disconnected now. She was reminded of the three of them as children. Bryan had never really wanted her following them around, but he’d tolerated her, sometimes. She was always just on the side-lines of their friendship though. She remembered how she’d spend hours coming up with wild and imaginative suggestions for things they could do, places they could go, anything to be part of the fun, to get away from her steady, stuffy family, and her annoying little brother.
“I am doing things on my own terms,” Felix was saying. “And I’ve no intention of turning myself in. My work isn’t finished yet.”
Jasmine still had her hand inside her bag, still gripping the gun Bryan had given her. Felix, so calm, so relaxed, talking about finishing his work. What he meant was killing. Justin, her little brother; had he been the first victim? She’d hoped it was an accident, a tragedy without intent. Her brother was such a happy little boy, so buoyant and enthusiastic about every little thing. It was his boundless energy that had grated on her as a child, now she missed it, every day. His high-pitched laugh, his restless limbs, and his unconditional trust and love. Justin suddenly felt so close, closer than she’d known since his death.
“Why, Felix?” Her voice sounded alien, a thrumming rasp of sound coming from between her lips. It wasn’t until Felix turned, not until she saw the sadness and surprise in his eyes, that she realised she’d withdrawn the gun from her bag. It was now pointing right at Felix’s chest, held by a steady hand that she almost couldn’t believe was her own.
The smile was back, rueful now. Not the fake throw-out kind favoured by his friend Doyle, this was resigned, accepting, with no fear or animosity.
“It became so clear to me. Just happened one day. The life those people lived, the possibilities, their joys and woes, the chances they had. Those were my possibilities, snatched away. I was given the briefest glimpse, just a tantalising peep behind the curtain, then it was gone. I could have stayed.” Felix glanced back at Bryan. “I begged your father to let me stay. But when my own dad turned up, he just handed me over.”
“Felix,” a knot of confusion marred Bryan’s forehead. “The summer was over. You had to go home, to your own family. We thought that’s what you’d want.”
Felix barked out a bitter laugh. “Go home! My God, I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay forever.”
Jasmine knew she should be paying more attention, but the world felt underwater right then, smothered and muffled by her renewed grief for her brother. She was horrified by what Felix had done, but really she didn’t know, or care about, his recent victims.
Bryan was talking again; God, the man liked the sound of his own voice. “So you killed people just because they lived in our old house. It makes no sense, Felix. They didn’t steal your life. For all you know they could have been utterly miserable during their time in that house.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t care how happy or miserable they were. They were the stepping stones, Bryan. Their deaths laid out the path I had to follow.”
Jasmine didn’t like where this was going. More than ever she wished she’d stayed away. She should never have listened to bloody Bryan Doyle.
“What path?” asked Bryan.
“The path back to you,” Felix told him, tilting his head slightly to one side, as if puzzled that he needed to explain. “Of course, it would have been best to kill them in the correct order, most recent first, working backwards, until I got to you. But Karl Drummond was too good to resist. So I chose a different order. If you hadn’t thrown away the scrapbooks I made for you, you might have understood.” Felix was still focussing mainly on Bryan, but at his mention of the scrapbooks his eyes found Jasmine. She saw there a mix of anger and betrayal. That look drove a spike of terror into her heart.
“The police took mine,” she said quickly, feeling it was suddenly very important that he know that. “I know the order you’re talking about. The places they found the bodies, they’re all in the book.”
The anger in his eyes faded but didn’t disappear. He wasn’t yet entirely convinced.
“Those pictures you took, Felix,” she conti
nued, fearful despite being the one holding the gun. “They were the last photos I had of my brother, of Justin. He wasn’t in many, but I was. That was the last time I was happy too. I would never throw it away.”
He stared at her, probing for the truth behind her words. Jasmine felt an itch of sweat forming beneath her blouse which had nothing to do with the warmth of the day.
Finally. “I believe you.”
Then he turned back to Bryan again. “But you,” he took a menacing step in Doyle’s direction. “You destroyed my gift, didn’t you?”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
A police cordon a street away from the Doyles’ old shop brought Max to a halt. Scurrying out of his car his first reaction was one of satisfaction; his colleagues had reacted with lightning speed, putting boots on the ground and securing the area. His second reaction was surprise; Chief Superintendent Frank Heritage had planted himself in the thick of the action.
“Sir?” Max hurried to the Chief’s side. “Any activity?”
Heritage crooked his finger at a jittery constable hovering nearby.
“This is PC Patel. He saw our suspect enter the premises about ten minutes ago.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I’m certain,” the constable assured him.
“Who the hell else would it be?” growled Heritage.
“What about Doyle? Any sign of him?” Max looked from his boss to the young constable. Both had blank faces.
“I only saw Vine,” the young man said. “But the door was already open. He just strolled right in.”
“You think Doyle will be here?” Heritage looked like he hadn’t slept well in days, pouchy eyes and patchy stubble weren’t a flattering look on his gruff face.
“Yes, sir. Doyle mentioned the name of their old sweet shop during his appeal; Sweet Memories. Also, comparing Vine’s scrapbook with the crime scene photos showed discrepancies. There were small paper bags in Vine’s pictures, always near to the bodies, the kind you’d get sweets in, but none were found at the dump sites.”