Sam conceded he would have to leave his own car where it was for now. Not having wheels was going to slow him down. His original intention had been to go back to the flat, connect his camera to the computer and look at the photo on the screen. Then a thought struck him.
Why not look at the actual original?
***
Sam got the cab to drop him a street away from Benjamin's bungalow. He wanted to approach with caution even though he was using the back route. Once again, he jumped over the fence into Benjamin's garden and scuttled up to the back door. This time Benjamin hadn't left the kitchen window open. Sam checked his pockets and swore softly. He had left his cutting tool back at the flat.
Drastic measures were needed.
If Sam felt guilty at trespassing on Benjamin's property last time, it was nothing to how he felt now as he jabbed at the window pane with a small rock. The glass cracked, creating a spider's web all the way up the pane. Moving fast, he deftly pulled the shards out until there was a gap big enough to climb through.
He scrambled into the kitchen, jumped down onto the floor and whispered a quiet apology.
'Sorry, Benjamin.'
Then he was off, finding the personal items from Geoffrey's cottage in exactly the same place he had left them. He extracted the photo and gazed at the bottom of it. The writing was a lot clearer.
14 July.
A date without a year?
That made no sense to Sam. Such historic memorabilia should have been dated fully, marking the moment in time properly for posterity. Sam flipped the picture over in his hand absent-mindedly and gazed around the room, considering whether the date in July made any difference now. Apparently, it didn't.
He looked down, dejected.
Writing.
On the back of the photo.
The same spidery writing as on the front.
Another list.
Five entries, each containing a single letter followed by a date.
G 23 September 1992
B 14 July 2009
H 14 July 2010
W 14 July 2011
G 14 July 2012
Sam compared it to the list of names he had deciphered. George Howell, Billy Dunker, Henry Burton, William Pearce, Geoffrey Compton.
The first initial of their names matched.
Sam blew out his cheeks.
He had it. Sam finally had the pattern.
Other pieces began to fall into the place.
George Howell's death had been an accident. A multiple pile-up of that magnitude couldn't have been arranged. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, he was not part of the list. He may have been targeted if he had lived longer, but for some reason, this macabre hit list was only activated four years ago.
Three or four years.
That's how long Barry Rogers had been receiving junk mail from Lexbury Car Rental. The man killing these people was renting a car each year to carry out his gruesome task. He had started his mission in 2009. His first target, George Howell, was already dead, so he turned his attention to Billy Dunker. Pushed him down the stairs. Then, the following year, he set fire to Henry Burton's home. The year after that, he caused William Pearce's fatal fall. Then, last year, he tried to kill Geoffrey Compton.
Sam loaded up the internet on his phone and checked the date Geoffrey had been attacked.
14 July.
Sam was sure if he checked the dates of the previous three deaths, they would all be the same.
These people had been murdered on the same date in consecutive years. Picked off one by one to mark some mysterious anniversary.
But why that particular date?
Sam was struck by something so powerful, so simple.
What was today's date?
He looked at his watch.
14 July.
He felt his pulse quicken. He had been right. The killer had been hanging around for a reason.
Somebody else was due to die today.
Chapter 29
Sam racked his brains. He might have worked out what had happened, but he still had no clue who the killer was, or the reason for these murders. Sure, he knew what the man looked like, but that mattered little without identification. More worryingly, Sam had no idea where this man was going to strike next. He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. The deed could have already been done. Sam had to presume it hadn't. He had to keep searching.
Then he had a thought.
Geoffrey had messed up the murderer's plan by surviving last year's attempt on his life, forcing the killer to wait another year, postponing the inevitable until the sacred date came around again.
Only Geoffrey had known someone was coming back for him.
This was his writing on the back of the photo. Someone had pointed out the dates of the deaths to him, and he had jotted them down. Sam was reminded of the phone call the next door neighbour had overheard two weeks before Geoffrey's death. John Carr had talked of Geoffrey having an upsetting conversation, muttering at the door that nothing mattered anymore.
That was when Geoffrey Compton knew he was going to die. He had escaped his fate the previous year, but he was under no illusion the killer was coming back to complete the task.
It was the reason for his suicide.
He knew he was a dead man walking.
However, Sam was puzzled. Why hadn't Geoffrey gone to the police if he knew he was in danger? He had been attacked the previous year, meaning the police would have given him a fair hearing. It seemed he had spoken to no-one of this impending peril, simply accepting his time was up, knowing death at somebody else's hand was bound to be more violent and horrible. So he had taken his own life and carried his secret to the grave.
Something else troubled Sam. Where did Erica Wright fit into all this? The date she died was completely random compared to the other deaths. Sam had worked out why George Howell's passing didn't fit the pattern, but the timing of Erica's death was a mystery. Sam was taken back to his first meeting with her, in the Ex-Servicemen's Club. She had been so happy, delighted to see her relations again. So content, despite being the only one of her generation in attendance.
Sam ran it through his head.
Somebody was going to be killed today.
It should have been Geoffrey, but he had bailed out early by his own hand.
There were six names on Sam's muddy list.
He had the first five.
He had presumed the final one was Erica, but it couldn't be. Not if the killer was still in the vicinity. Not if the punishment had to take place on this destined day.
The only one of her generation in attendance.
The killer didn't know that. He had no idea the last time Erica stepped foot in this country was before he was born. All he saw was a person familiar with Geoffrey, someone the same age as the other victims.
Someone who might know the final name on the list. The last person due to die.
Erica Wright hadn't been an original target at all.
The killer hadn't intended her dead.
But he was the man responsible.
She had died of fright at his hands. Scared to death by his demands for information. He had a name, but he wanted more.
Why? The name should have been enough. Any further details could easily have been tracked down. He hadn't needed to confront Erica.
Sam looked at that final name again on the list. The one practically obliterated by mud. He took the magnifying glass out of his pocket, having asked Denny if he could borrow it. He hadn't needed it for the photo, but now...
He let it hover over the muddy smear, trying to make out the one letter that was visible. In that moment, it became apparent why the killer had been so desperate for information.
It wasn't a letter.
It was a question mark.
Sam rubbed his eyes. The killer hadn't known the name of his final victim, but as Geoffrey was already dead, the pre-ordained date for this year was free.
The fourteenth of July had been app
roaching fast and he wanted to finish his list off.
He had wanted that name.
That begged one question.
Had Erica given it to him before she drew her last breath?
***
Sam still had the number for Emily Pearce. He got on his phone and rang her, hoping she wouldn't mind talking to him again so soon after this afternoon's visit.
'Mrs Pearce, there's a couple of questions I forgot to ask you.'
'Yes?'
Her voice was cooler than it had been earlier.
'Just to complete my records, can you tell me the precise date of your husband's death?'
'Fourteenth of July, 2011.'
The tone was definitely different. Tentative, almost wary.
'One last question. Do you know Henry Burton's-'
'The same date,' she sighed. 'I didn't realise until a friend mentioned it a few months back.'
Sam gazed out the window into Benjamin's front garden. He had his confirmation now.
'Okay, Mrs Pearce. Thanks for that, I appreciate your help.'
He sensed hesitation down the line. However, he wasn't really paying attention. Something had caught his eye in the road. The sight of Benjamin's Volvo. As far as Sam was concerned, it should be parked somewhere in London right now.
'Mr Carlisle, there were some people asking about you.'
Sam turned his attention back to the phone conversation. What had she said?
'People asking about me? When was this?'
'Not long after you left this afternoon. They wanted to know why you were here. To tell you the truth, I'm not really happy with all these people-'
'I'm sorry, Mrs Pearce. You shouldn't have anyone else bothering you from now on.'
'Don't get me wrong, Mr Carlisle. You're a nice young man...so were these gentlemen. Very polite and smart in their suits. It's just a lot at my age.'
Smart suits? They seemed to be everywhere right now. Sam said his farewell to Emily Pearce and continued to gaze out the window. Sam had told Benjamin to drive straight down to London and not to stop for any reason, most definitely not to return home. Yet here his car was, parked outside his front door. Sam went into the hallway and found the key hook. On it were the car keys. Sam shook his head. Why would he have changed plan and dropped his car off?
Unless he wasn't in London.
Sam looked down at the telephone, saw the pad next to it and started leafing through the pages, searching for the number of the hotel Benjamin had booked. He found it and rang the number, dreading what he was going to find out. He asked the receptionist if a Benjamin Compton was staying there.
'Mr Compton? Yes, he has a room reserved with us for the next-'
'Has he arrived yet?'
'No, Sir. Mr Compton hasn't booked in yet.'
He tried Benjamin's phone, but only got a dead line. Now, Sam was worried. The man who had broken in here and threatened Benjamin couldn't have grabbed him. He had been tailing Sam at the time Benjamin was supposedly driving down to London. Sam was at a total loss.
Where was Benjamin?
Chapter 30
Sam hadn't a clue where to start hunting for Benjamin. He could be anywhere. Wherever it was, Sam doubted he had gone there of his own accord.
Sam needed wheels to get about. He looked at the key hook in the hallway and cringed. He had already broken into Benjamin's bungalow twice. Now, he was contemplating stealing his car. Sam shrugged and lifted the keys off the hook. Technically, he wasn't trespassing or stealing. He was just carrying out the necessary actions required to continue the investigation. It just happened to be Benjamin's home and car that were being violated. The man who had asked him to carry out the investigation.
Sometimes, the world was a strange place.
Sam quickly adjusted to the controls of the Volvo and headed towards the War Museum once more, hoping to find it still open. He was curious to know why they couldn't locate the same information about Geoffrey's photo he had found with a couple of clicks of a mouse.
The museum's car park was still relatively busy. Sam parked Benjamin's car as far into a corner as possible and headed back through the car park to the museum entrance. The same man he encountered earlier was on the reception desk. His eyes widened when he saw Sam approaching, photograph in hand.
'Oh, hello, again.'
'Hello, mate,' said Sam, holding up the photo. 'This picture I brought in earlier...'
The man coughed and started retreating.
'Sir, I'm just going to get my manager to speak to you.'
Then he was slinking off through a door marked Staff Only. Through the small glass pane in the door, Sam watched him stride down a corridor before disappearing through another door. Sam waited. For some reason, he started thinking of the undercover cops outside the Barton Arms. The twins protecting Alice and Moira. In particular, the way they had tackled him outside the pub. The way they stayed cool while following him down to the beach to apprehend Richard Brown.
Then Sam thought of the men in the Bentley who had accosted him in the car park. They had used the same methods as the undercover boys. They had the same mannerisms.
Sam had been taught those things once.
He had received exactly the same training.
Through the glass pane, Sam saw a line of men file into the corridor. Men in suits, with grim faces and intent in their eyes, heading in his direction.
Something was wrong.
Sam needed to get out of the building.
He started back-pedalling as the staff door opened and the men appeared. Their faces flickered with recognition as they caught sight of him beating a retreat. They moved towards him with purpose, their demeanour calm and unruffled, striding confidently in a smooth manner that raised no alarm.
Sam didn't care if he raised a whole load of alarms.
He sprinted for the entrance doors, flung them open and ran down the steps. Spots of rain were falling, the sky having darkened during his short time in the museum. At first he was confused, wasting valuable seconds scanning the car park for his Capri. Then he remembered he had the Volvo and dashed towards it. He had just climbed into the driver's seat when he saw the men appear at the top of the steps, looking out into the car park, trying to spot him. He ducked down out of sight and weighed up his chances of driving past them unnoticed. Rating them as low to non-existent, he peeked back over the steering wheel.
To his alarm, they were heading his way. The front man was talking into a mouthpiece, receiving instructions into his ear at the same time. Sam looked above their heads. The cameras perched outside the museum had followed him into the car park. Now, those operating the equipment were directing the men his way.
More pieces fell into place.
Sam realised that was how they had tracked him down after his last visit. He had parked right outside the museum on that occasion, opposite the cameras, making it simple for them to study the footage of his Capri and trace him to his flat. Sam let out a deflated sigh. Really, there was no outfit as good as this...and it was very difficult to beat them.
Then Sam was off again, scrambling into the back seat of the Volvo, opening the far rear door just wide enough to squeeze out and drop onto the floor. Lying flat, he crawled around the back of the car and crept along behind the next vehicle, and the next, continuing until he reached the last one right in the corner of the car park. Then, breathing hard, he raised himself into a crouching position and peered around the final car.
Through the falling rain, he could see them approaching the Volvo.
Sam had been on guard from the very moment he received that email from the War Museum. The curt, reticent reply, denying knowledge of the photo despite information being readily available online, followed by the intimidating threat and the subsequent stalking. It had all aroused his suspicion about this place. So, this time, Sam had taken the precaution of parking out the way. He had noticed on his arrival that the car park itself had no cameras. Those on the museum wall couldn't pick
up anything this far away. It had been a wise move. The cameras might be showing which direction the Volvo had gone, but they hadn't spotted Sam escaping out the blind side of the car and sneaking away.
Now he had to make the most of it. He could slip through the trees behind him, disappear into the fields, and make his way into town in the hope of reclaiming his car.
Sam studied the vehicle he was hiding behind.
Or he could take advantage of the fact one of the doors on this car hadn't been shut properly. Discreetly pull out the wires. Start the motor up. Sam peeked into the back seat. A rain mac and shades.
That made his mind up.
***
Sam left the stolen car at the end of Eastern Green Road and walked the rest of the way to the property. With the spare key, he let himself in and strolled from room to room. The place was totally empty now. All the furniture had been removed, giving the interior a sad, hollow feel. The For Sale board was still outside, harshly adorned with vivid graffiti. The place would be occupied again soon. A new life, all trace of the old one extinguished for ever.
Sam was back at the start.
Geoffrey's cottage.
The suicide that had so confounded Benjamin.
The reason Sam was now flitting all over Newgate, breaking into properties and hi-jacking cars, trying to shake off those chasing him, attempting to solve a mystery that seemed constantly out of reach.
Sam continued to pace the cottage, considering the questions running through his head, aware he would have a death on his own conscience if he couldn't come up with answers soon. Where was the killer right now? Who had he in mind for his next target? And what terrible event had provoked such horrendous repercussions? Then there was Benjamin...
As Sam re-entered the front room, a fork of lightning lit up the brooding sky. Moments later, thunder rolled and the rain began to pour down. Sam watched a patrol car flash past the cottage at speed. That would be another problem soon. He was steadily leaving a trail of cars in his wake, and the police would be-
Death in July Page 17