Will to Live

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Will to Live Page 17

by Rachel Amphlett


  His hands shook and as he turned to pick up the glass of water next to him, he caught the scent of his own unwashed body and clothes. He had managed to hold himself together so that when he spoke with the police, they wouldn’t suspect anything. But now, as the ending drew near and his project delivery programme drew close to its foregone conclusion, his own hygiene had fallen away.

  He tried to regain control, pushing down the anger with the large gulp he took before replacing the glass on the table.

  He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. Until now, he had worked without interruption. Despite the unfortunate events involving the dog walker, he had regained his confidence in his abilities to deliver his projects on time. He was further emboldened following his conversation with the police.

  They had no idea who was carrying out the killings, that much was clear.

  He clenched his fists.

  He reached for his diary – the one he completed each night in careful handwriting using a soft pencil and neat, precise sentences. It sometimes took an hour or two to note down all his thoughts and plans, but there was no rush. There was nowhere else he needed to be.

  Afterwards, he would take an eraser and rub out all trace of his meanderings. The words weren’t important; what mattered was getting them onto the paper and out of his mind.

  When Alison had died, his doctor had told him that keeping a diary might help him cope with his grief. It had turned into so much more than that. Sometimes he would write for what seemed an age, and then stop and read what he had written. The words often surprised him. He didn’t know where they came from, but he recognised the frustration and anger they held.

  He placed the pencil between the pages and closed the journal. He hadn’t finished yet – his mind still somersaulted – but the words hadn’t yet formed. He had learned over the past months to take his time. He ran his hand over the embossed leather cover and sniffed before rubbing at his eyes with a knuckle. Alison had bought the journal for him for his birthday the previous year. She alone understood his busy mind.

  His chest ached with the pain of losing her. His throat tightened, and another wave of tears threatened, his eyes stinging. He didn’t believe the heartache would leave him, not ever, despite the kind words his doctor had conveyed as he’d thrust a handful of sombre-coloured brochures at him with titles such as “Understanding Grief”.

  He understood grief, all right.

  It was savage; all-consuming. Every waking moment was spent wondering what it would be like now if she were still alive.

  He reopened the journal, the page blurring as he continued to write despite the tears that tracked down his cheeks. Sometimes, it was almost as if he was talking to Alison directly, as if she would hear the words he set down.

  He could imagine her, her head leaning to one side as she always did when she concentrated on what was being said to her. She’d wait until the person had finished speaking, wait a couple of seconds, and then her eyes would light up and the debate would begin.

  What if? Why not? And how could they?

  His mind at rest, he set aside the journal once more.

  His thoughts turned to the metal toolbox he kept under the table that held the model railway. Crouching down, he flipped open the lid, removed the inner tray, and pulled out the bottles of pills he had been saving. He straightened, and unscrewed the lid of the bottle. Tipping out the contents into the palm of his hand, he counted the number of pills that remained.

  He didn’t have many; the keys he’d found in Lawrence Whiting’s pocket had slipped easily into the lock of the door to the man’s flat, and a quick search of the bathroom cabinets had revealed a half-used prescription for the antidepressants. He had worn gloves, like he’d seen the police wear on television and made sure not to touch anything else in the flat before retreating and quietly shutting the door behind him.

  He reached for his notebook and pen, where he had jotted down his estimate for Peter Bailey’s weight after following the man home from work earlier that week.

  He had hung back in the shadows, convinced that the man knew he was being followed. He checked the dosage against the man’s weight. No matter what Bailey said, he had to meet with him.

  He had to find a way.

  There were enough pills to complete the final project, as well as enough for him. He tipped the pills back in the bottle, tightened the screw cap, and returned them to the toolbox.

  He flicked a page in his notebook. And as he did so, his eyes fell upon the framed photograph he’d arranged next to the model railway controls.

  He had done all of this for her. It was their fault she had been taken from him so early. They should have been looking out for her. They had always told him she was like a little sister to them, so why didn’t they look out for her and keep her safe from harm?

  Forty-Five

  The sound of Barnes’s fingers tapping away on his keyboard provided the perfect white noise for Kay as she sifted through the information they’d received from both Alison and Kevin’s employers.

  She’d spend half an hour speaking with her insurance company about the break-in upon their arrival back at the incident room. By the time she’d been put on hold three times and then jumped through all the hoops to arrange for an assessor to visit and for a copy of the police report to be sent in to them in order for her claim to be processed, the afternoon light had faded and she was relieved to return to her work.

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  Barnes tapped his screen. ‘As part of Kevin’s employment package when he started with the engineering company, he was provided with a mobile phone. Says here that it was never returned.’

  ‘He never mentioned a second phone when I interviewed him.’

  ‘Now, why would that be?’ Barnes raised an eyebrow.

  Kay checked her watch. The afternoon briefing was due to start in five minutes. ‘Only one way to find out. I’ll phone him and ask.’

  She drummed her fingers on the desk while the number connected and then rang, before giving up when it went to voicemail. She shook her head and disconnected. ‘No answer. Do you have the number there for the work mobile?’

  Barnes read it out to her, then peered over her head. ‘Looks like Sharp’s about to start the briefing.’

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Kay keyed in the numbers for the second mobile phone and waited.

  Again, the call connected but this time went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Can’t be charged up,’ she said.

  ‘You need to see this, Sarge.’

  Kay looked up from the mobile phone at the sound of Carys approaching. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘I thought I’d do another search for Kevin McIntyre to finalise the statement we have from him. Take a look at this.’ She handed over the document. ‘It’s a record of a phone call Cameron Abbott made to the desk duty officer the week before his death. ‘

  ‘Why’s it taken until now to find this?’

  ‘His name didn’t turn up when we ran the searches on the database earlier this week, because it’s been spelled differently in this report.’

  ‘What did Abbott report?’

  ‘Cameron said that McIntyre was harassing him – phone calls, following him, threatening him. McIntyre had a different mobile number at the time. He was cautioned, but nothing else. Cameron died three days later.’

  * * *

  Kay hung on to the strap above the passenger door as Barnes slewed the car around a mini roundabout and accelerated once more.

  In her other hand, she held her mobile phone, relaying instructions to Carys to organise the nearest patrol car to meet them at McIntyre’s address with a search warrant.

  Her seatbelt dug into her chest as Barnes braked outside the house, and she ended her call.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’

  ‘Yes. It all makes sense. He blames everyone on the project team for Alison’s death. He refused to accept t
he coroner’s findings at the inquest, and couldn’t accept that she killed herself. He still believes that they should have done something to save her.’

  ‘You think the outcome of the inquest tipped him over the edge?’

  Kay nodded. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  She launched herself from the car and strode towards the house, pushing open the garden gate.

  Seconds later, she hammered on the door despite the fact that she’d already rung the doorbell three times with no response. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  ‘The bastard,’ said Barnes. ‘He was fooling us all along. How the hell did we miss it?’

  Kay ignored him and rang the doorbell again, keeping her finger pressed on the button as a series of chimes echoed through the hallway beyond the door.

  ‘Do you want me to try to pick the lock?’

  ‘No – we need the warrant, and it’ll be quicker to break it down anyway.’

  She brushed past Barnes and stepped over to the front window. The orange glow of the streetlights reflected in the glass, and she leaned forward holding up her hand to shield her eyes and tried to peer into the house.

  Net curtains prevented her from seeing into the room, and she cursed under her breath.

  She turned and surveyed the darkened street, wondering what to do next.

  She was about to ask Barnes where the hell the uniformed patrol were so they could break down the door, when she heard footsteps approaching. She spun round on her heel to see the next door neighbour hurrying up the garden path.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Do you know where Kevin is?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry – I don’t. I haven’t seen him for a few days. He was looking a bit run down.’

  Barnes snorted at the unfortunate turn of phrase, and Kay glared at him before turning back to the neighbour.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I think it was two days ago. I’m glad you’re here. I was starting to get worried about him.’

  A police car, its blue lights ablaze, screeched to the kerb and two uniformed officers climbed from the vehicle before hurrying towards them. One of them carried a battering ram; the other handed her the executed warrant.

  ‘At last,’ said Kay. She checked the warrant before pointing at the front door. ‘Get us in there.’

  The neighbour’s eyes opened wide. ‘Wait – I think I’ve got a front door key somewhere.’

  ‘Hurry – go and get it.’

  Barnes paced the paved area in front of the front door, and Kay tried to ignore the itching in her right eye while they waited. After a couple of minutes, the police officer with the battering ram raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Shall I?’

  Kay sighed, and checked her watch. As she was about to give the order, the neighbour appeared at the garden gate and hurried towards her.

  ‘I found them. Here you are.’

  Barnes held out a pair of gloves to Kay. She pulled them over her fingers before taking the keys from the neighbour and inserting one into the lock.

  The door swung open easily. She kicked aside three envelopes from the doormat, and called over her shoulder.

  ‘Barnes, you’re with me. Everyone else, stay outside.’

  Forty-Six

  The first thing Kay noticed was the smell. It was if her nose and throat were being assaulted. The stench of rotting food, unwashed clothing, and a blocked drain filled her senses.

  ‘No wonder he wanted to come to the station to speak with us,’ said Barnes. ‘This place is a dump.’

  The neighbour gasped from her position on the doorstep. ‘I had no idea. What’s wrong with him? Is he all right?’

  Kay didn’t respond, and instead pushed open the door to her right. It led into a medium-sized living room, which hadn’t been cleaned for months. Being careful where she trod, she began a slow route around the edges of the room first, her eyes roaming over the dusty bookshelves, the television that didn’t look like it had been switched on in weeks, and the various coffee mugs that had been left to moulder on different surfaces.

  Takeaway boxes littered the floor, together with an assortment of soft drink cans that had been crushed in the middle and tossed onto the stained carpet.

  She moved closer to a set of silver-framed photographs on one of the shelves, and peered at the images.

  In one, McIntyre stood with his arms around Alison Campbell, huge smiles on their faces. Kay’s eyes were drawn to the large engagement ring on Alison’s left hand, before she swept her eyes over the other three photographs.

  ‘These must’ve all been taken to mark their engagement,’ she said, and pointed to each. ‘Professional photographer, too, I would imagine.’

  Barnes peered over her shoulder. ‘He’s fallen apart, hasn’t he? I can’t imagine it looked like this when Alison was alive.’

  Kay murmured her agreement. She’d seen it before – a grief-stricken spouse or partner who retreated into themselves over time, gradually withdrawing from society and not caring whether they ate or slept.

  She’d never seen someone actively create two lives for themselves though, not to this extreme. The time and effort McIntyre had gone to in order to give the impression to his neighbours and to the police that he was functioning normally had provided an effective smokescreen from the reality of his existence.

  ‘Kay, you need to see this.’

  She turned to where Barnes was standing with his hands in his pockets next to the coffee table, his head bowed.

  Kay leaned over and picked up a manilla folder covered in coffee stains. Opening the flap, she tipped out the contents onto the low table.

  ‘Photographs.’

  They crouched and began to sift through the pictures.

  Level crossings, platforms, pedestrian crossings, footpaths beside railway cuttings and footbridges over rail lines flickered before Kay’s eyes.

  ‘This is an obsession,’ she murmured.

  ‘Here. Timetables. He’s highlighted the express services, look.’

  Kay traced her finger down the page. ‘And the last service.’

  ‘Ties him to Jason Evans’ murder.’

  Barnes dropped the timetables and pointed at the documentation spread across the rest of the table. ‘Maps, calculations.’ He leaned down and picked up a notebook and began to leaf through the pages, before stopping and holding it up to Kay. ‘I think we’ve found our killer.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘We need to tell Sharp.’

  Kay’s heart lurched, and she grabbed the sleeve of Barnes’s jacket and began to drag him from the room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, as he stumbled to keep up with her.

  They reached the front door and Kay gestured to the two uniformed officers waiting on the doorstep.

  ‘You two stay here. No one enters until the CSI team get here.’ She pulled Barnes down the garden path towards the car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he said.

  She stopped, and let go of his arm. ‘We need to make sure Peter Bailey is okay. We have to make sure McIntyre hasn’t got to him first.’

  Forty-Seven

  Kay hammered her fist against the front door of Peter Bailey’s flat a second time, cursing under her breath.

  McIntyre had managed to fool them all, and as she’d stormed up the stairs to the third-floor flat, she’d wondered what she’d have done differently given another chance.

  She knocked again, then put her ear to the door.

  Silence.

  ‘Out of the way. We don’t have time to wait for another uniform patrol to get here. I’ll use my lock picks,’ said Barnes.

  ‘Hurry, Ian. I don’t like this.’

  He pursed his lips before crouching in front of the lock and extracting a leather pouch from the inside of his jacket. He withdrew two picks, sized them up against the lock, and set to work.

  Kay paced impatiently behind him, her mobile phone to her ear while she brought Sharp up to date so he co
uld organise the rest of the team, and tried to ignore the distinct marijuana fragrance escaping from underneath the door opposite to the one Barnes worked on.

  Right now, her priority was finding Peter Bailey.

  A door slammed at the end of the corridor and a woman edged towards them, an anorak pulled down low over blue jeans, her face hidden by a headscarf and her eyes wary at the sight of two strangers trying to break into her neighbour’s flat.

  Kay ended her call and pulled out her warrant card. ‘Do you have a spare set of keys to this flat?’

  The woman shook her head before lowering her eyes and hurrying past.

  ‘Friendly neighbourhood,’ muttered Barnes.

  ‘Would’ve been too easy.’

  ‘Here we go.’

  He straightened, and turned the handle.

  The front door opened into the living area, the light from the communal hallway pooling over a threadbare green carpet.

  ‘Peter? It’s DS Hunter from Kent Police. Are you in here?’

  When she received no response, she nodded to Barnes and pulled on a pair of gloves. In the soft orange light from a streetlight outside the front window, her immediate thought was that the room was sparsely furnished and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Her next thought was that the whole atmosphere held the air of a life in limbo.

  She sniffed, the scent of recent cooking activity wafting from the direction of a small kitchen off to one side of the living room.

  ‘I’ll take the bathroom and bedroom.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Kay waited until Barnes had disappeared through a low arch that separated the rest of the flat from the living area before she moved past a low coffee table and cast her eyes over the papers laid across its surface. She sifted through the motorbike magazines and a holiday brochure from one of the local travel agencies, but found nothing to indicate where Bailey could be.

  Next, she pulled the cushions off the sofa, grimacing at the age-old pizza crumbs and other detritus that had fallen between the cracks, before tossing them to one side and moving through to a small kitchenette off to the side of the living area.

 

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