by Steve Mosby
I reached the main street and glanced back. Nobody was following me. Up above, an enormous plume of thick, black smoke was drifting away in the sky, like something slowly migrating. When I'd first arrived, it had looked as though an entire corner of the city had been set alight. Once in the square itself, it had been obvious where the blaze had started. Or been started.
And then I'd seen the policeman.
It came to me then. I'd spoken to him after Marie died. When he'd first sat down with me, I thought he was some kind of victim liaison worker, simply because he was so sympathetic compared to the others. He waited with me, talking quietly, and it had felt like what happened had genuinely affected him too. It wasn't until afterwards that I learned he was actually a detective.
I reached the entrance to The Duncan.
It would only be a matter of time before the incident from earlier was reported to the police. Someone had set fire to Christopher Ellis's flat, and the last time he'd been seen he'd been running for his life. They'd get a good enough description of the man chasing him, and the policeman I'd seen would be able to fill in the rest. If he couldn't remember my name now, I was sure it would come back to him.
Which meant I was running out of time.
Time for what was a question without an answer right now, because I knew deep down I should turn around and go back: tell the policeman what I knew, even if I had no idea right now what it meant. But something inside kept me moving. My chest was tight and my heart was fluttering.
You were right, I'd told Sarah. You have to face up to these things.
I hadn't done that, but I was doing it now. And I was determined to carry on, for as long as I could. To figure out what had happened and what it meant, and to take responsibility for whatever part I had played in it.
When I got back to my hotel room, I turned on the television, found a twenty-four hour news channel, then sat down at the desk and booted up the laptop. As the machine flickered slowly to life, a report about Sarah came on the TV, and I turned to watch.
There had been a press conference while I was out, and the report showed clips from it now. Three policemen were sitting at the end of a hall, with large blue banners stretched down behind them, and glasses of water and microphones on the table in front. The man in the middle wore a suit, and was reading from a sheet of paper, occasionally looking up for emphasis. Camera bulbs chattered in the background. When he explained that they believed Sarah's body had been moved from the field, the sound intensified. It looked and sounded like a flock of birds had begun pecking hungrily at him.
A handful of questions followed. Yes, the detective repeated, they believed Ms Pepper's body had been in the field, and it had since been removed by person or persons unknown. No, there was no obvious connection with the arrest of Thomas Wells at this time, although police were pursuing a number of possible leads. Any members of the public who had been in the vicinity were being encouraged to come forward. And so on. The report cut to the field, and then back to the talking heads in the newsroom.
There was nothing I didn't already know.
As it finished up, I turned my attention back to the computer, which had finally managed to boot up. I opened the browser and navigated to doyouwanttosee.co.uk. There was still a small possibility - one I was clinging to - that I was misremembering what I'd seen last night. I'd been sober when I saw the photograph Ellis had posted, but more than a little drunk afterwards. Maybe the fog in my head had obscured what I'd really seen. Made me imagine a connection that wasn't there.
I searched for 'Hell_is' again.
When the screen came up, the same posting was still at the top: 'Dead woman in wood'. I clicked it open, willing it to be different. But, in the centre of Ellis's last post, there was now only a small white box with a red cross inside it: a broken link. The image had been stored somewhere, and the page was failing to find it where it expected to. Error.
Just like the body itself, the photograph had been removed.
And Ellis's flat had been burnt out.
'Emily Price,' a woman said.
I jumped. The voice startled me so much it took a second to realise it had come from the television. A reporter - a prim woman in a grey suit - was standing outside the Crown Court in the city centre.
'But police are still questioning Thomas Wells over the disappearance of twenty-eight-year-old Rebecca Wingate.'
The red banner at the bottom:
MAN CHARGED WITH 'VAMPIRE' MURDERS
'They also wish to question this man, Roger Timms, an artist local to the area.'
The screen changed to show a man with a rugged, tanned face, and dyed blond hair stroked into a ridge on top of his head. He was smiling and shaking someone's hand while photographers leaned in around him. There was a brief cut, and then he raised a glass to the camera. The reporter continued the voiceover.
'Police are asking anyone with information as to his whereabouts, or that of his vehicle, to come forward. Rebecca Wingate remains missing.'
Fears for missing Rebecca.
I remembered that front-page story from the taxi two days ago; I'd scanned it briefly, but been more interested in finding the article about Sarah. Up at the Ridge, I'd thought the name 'Emily Price' was familiar. That was where I recognised it from. The fucking news.
I opened a fresh window on the computer, searching for 'Thomas Wells', 'Emily Price' in Google News.
Over three hundred results.
I sorted by date and opened the most recent. Emily Price's name was in the last paragraph.
Wells is also charged with the murders of Melissa Noble, 22, and Emily Price, 27. Their bodies have never been found.
Today, a representative of the Noble family stated: 'We hope that, if nothing else, the arrest of this man will soon allow the families of all his victims a sense of closure'.
I read it again. Just to be sure.
Their bodies have never been found.
But Christopher Ellis had posted a photograph of her online, which meant that someone had found her. And there was a trail up on the Ridge: a secret path that led to the place her body had been left. You could only follow if you knew what to look for. The trail was hidden, but it was meant to be followed.
I went across to the bed, and scattered Sarah's research notes until I found the sheet with the symbols drawn on it. My hand was trembling as I picked it up.
I wasn't imagining this. But why would anyone want to…?
I glanced across at the laptop.
Do you want to see?
Something began crawling inside my chest.
Was that possible? That people might share this information, in the same way they posted photographs? Rather than trading images, they went out into the real world and looked. Ellis had known how to find Emily Price's body, and when Sarah spoke to him, he gave her the map.
What had he said about capturing Marie's death on camera - he couldn't wait to share it? And I'd noticed he was a heavy user of that site, keen to show off. Maybe he hadn't been able to resist telling her what he knew. That was probably a part of it, but I wondered if there was something else: if Sarah's fascination with death had been as obvious to him as it always was to me. Perhaps when Ellis looked at her, he had recognised a kindred spirit of sorts. Different sides of the same coin. I didn't like that idea very much.
I looked back at the television again. They'd moved onto a different story now, but I remembered what the reporter had said. They were still looking for Roger Timms. And they were calling these things 'vampire' murders. That fit with the bottle of blood I'd found - so was it his rucksack I'd found at the Chalkie?
Christ, had James sent me there expecting me to run into Timms?
It was another idea I didn't like very much, and I was still considering it when my mobile vibrated against my hip.
A call. I was expecting it to be from Mike, but when I picked the phone out of my pocket, the screen said [number withheld].
I paused for a second, then accepte
d it anyway.
'Hello?'
'Is that Alex Connor?'
It was a man's voice. Unfamiliar.
'Who is this?'
'This is Detective Paul Kearney.'
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Kearney. That was his name.
I pictured him now, and remembered him being very direct and intense. Very involved. He was only a small man, but there was something about his physical presence that could be either reassuring or intimidating, depending on how he wanted to use it. His eyes, too. Looking at him had been like being hypnotised.
I waited.
'Alex?' he said. 'Are you there?'
'Yes.'
'We need to talk to you. I'm sure you know that already.'
'How did you get this number?' I said.
'We're the police, Alex. Don't be naive. We need to talk to you about the deaths of Christopher Ellis and Mandy Gilroyd. I understand you were at their flat earlier today. Is that right?'
I thought about that.
'Yes,' I said eventually.
'But we've also been speaking to your brother. He had quite a story to tell, and, to be honest, I'm not sure what to make of it. It seems very far-fetched on the surface. He told us you might have information that could help us make some sense of it.'
I glanced at the papers on the bed, still thinking.
'Where are you?' he said.
After a moment, Kearney lost patience.
'This isn't a request, Alex. I'm not asking you for a favour here. You're currently a suspect in the deaths of Mr Ellis and Ms Gilroyd. Do you understand that?'
The room felt closer and more claustrophobic than ever.
My mouth was dry. Time to make a decision.
'Yes,' I said.
'Where are you? A hotel?'
'No. I'll be back there in about half an hour.'
He sighed.
'Where you are now? I'll have someone pick you up.'
'No,' I said. 'The things you want are in my room anyway. Give me half an hour and I'll meet you outside.'
It was Kearney's turn to be silent for a moment.
'This is me trying to help you, Alex,' he said. 'Don't mess me around. There's a young woman's life at stake here. You know that, don't you?'
'Half an hour,' I repeated. 'It's the Everton Hotel, behind the train station. I'm in Room 632. You can ring up and confirm it with reception.'
Another pause. He was writing something down, and I thought I heard him click his fingers at someone.
'I'll be outside,' I said.
'OK, Alex. Half an hour.'
I cancelled the call.
Then went to the bed and started gathering Sarah's research notes into a pile and jamming them into my rucksack. My heart was thumping. Thirty minutes wasn't long. I doubted I even had that.
We're the police, Alex. Don't be naive.
Naive was one thing, but I hadn't given my name when I bought the mobile. The only person who could have told them the number was Mike, and I couldn't imagine why Kearney hadn't just said so. Not to mention how he'd had time to find that out. Even if he'd remembered my name, it couldn't have led him to Mike that quickly.
But that wasn't even the main thing.
I understand you were at their flat earlier today, he said. The phrasing there was all wrong. We'd stared right into each other's fucking eyes, whereas he'd said it as though someone had told him second-hand.
I tried Mike's mobile. There was silence for a second, followed by a series of beeps in my ear, like an alarm. Unavailable. I tried his home number instead. It rang and rang, and nobody picked up.
Keep calm, Alex. You don't know anything's wrong.
Except I did. I tapped out a quick search on the Internet and found the last number I needed.
'Hello,' the woman said. 'Whitrow Police Dep—'
'Detective Paul Kearney, please.'
She paused. 'Transferring. One moment.'
Another two beeps, and then the number was dialling.
'Kearney,' a man said.
The voice was different.
'Did you just phone me?' I said.
'I'm sorry - who is this?'
I hung up. Not the same voice, and the confusion in it was genuine. That hadn't been Kearney on the phone. I disconnected the laptop and tossed it, still powered-up, into my bag. The cable could stay. I patted my pockets. Wallet. Phone. Passport.
According to my watch, I still had twenty minutes until the man I'd spoken to turned up. Except I was quite sure that I didn't. There was a wooden wedge by the door to my room, and I jammed it under, as hard as it would go, then walked back across to the window. It was small, but large enough to fit through.
I took the fire escape.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Wetherspoons pub was at the back of the train station, and the main entrance was from the concourse. I was sat by the open glass doors there. From behind me, I kept hearing the chatter of the large black screens, as yellow letters fluttered into place, updating departure and arrival details. Occasionally, it was all interrupted by the bing of the tannoy, and then a calm voice would announce a train had been delayed.
The first thing I'd done was to call the police from one of the payphones out there and give them Mike and Julie's address. Something might have happened to them, I said. To speed them along, I said it was connected to the murder of Christopher Ellis.
Even now, I was still hoping I was wrong.
Christ, they've got a baby.
That was the last thing I told them, and I'd felt something fall away inside as the words came out of me. Until then, I'd actually forgotten.
After hanging up, I found myself a nice, innocuous seat in here. Parked myself up at this flimsy metal table. And waited.
It was heaving, and there was some comfort in that. The bar itself was thick with men: forcing their way in and then, more carefully, out again, with pint glasses and bottles gripped between splayed fingers. On the wall, muted plasma screens showed silent dance videos.
My attention was focused on the far end of the pub.
It was glass-fronted there as well, but this side faced out onto a patio area at the back of the station. Metal chairs glinted in the early evening sun and, at the edge of the pavement, people stood with clumps of luggage, waiting for taxis or lifts. Beyond all that, across a curl of road, was the entrance to the Everton. And from this safe distance, occluded from return view by panes of glass and at least fifty people, I sipped my drink, and watched as the three men came back out of my hotel.
I know you.
I'd sat down just in time to see them arrive, pulling up in a smart, black BMW. All three were neatly dressed in suits; I didn't think they were policemen, but they had a quiet air of authority about them. Two were young, dark-haired and dark- suited, and solidly built. They wouldn't have looked out of place jogging alongside a presidential cavalcade, fingers touching their ear-pieces. The third was older, and he wore a grey suit that matched his thinning hair. He had the same sense of physical power as the others, but seemed more relaxed about it. More casual. The first two moved like they knew they were stronger than you, whereas the older man moved like it wouldn't matter.
And I recognised him - or I thought I did anyway. He looked a hell of a lot like the guy I'd seen earlier on, leaning on the balcony in the block of flats opposite Ellis's, watching the world go by.
Or maybe scoping the place out.
The chain of events came together from there. He'd seen me call at Ellis's. Afterwards, he'd gone over and killed them both. But before he did, he must have asked them about me, and, although I hadn't left my name, I'd been asking about Sarah Pepper and James Connor. The link after that was missing, but somehow those names had led him to Mike, who had told him who I was and given him my phone number.
I watched them walk back out again now. The grey-haired man led the way. The other two headed straight back to the car, but he stopped on the pavement i
nstead. He looked around, turning his head slowly from one side to the other. It was frighteningly clinical - like a security camera doing a steady sweep of a room. When his eyes fixed on the large windows of the bar, he stopped.
I felt a chill run through me.
He was at least a hundred metres away, and there was no way he could see me: the sunlight would be turning the glass into a mirror, so that even the people sat closest to it would be invisible, Never mind me, right at the back. But I shivered anyway. Because he understood exactly what I'd done, and he knew I was here somewhere, watching him. As much as I could make it out, his expression was blank and impassive. Coolly weighing up the options. Deciding on a strategy.
I stared back, waiting to see what he would do.
Who were these people?
If I was right, this man had killed Christopher Ellis, and I was guessing he'd also taken down the photograph Ellis had posted of Emily Price. I wasn't quite sure why, but one explanation occurred to me now: that the information Ellis had shared around was intended to be kept private.
There was certainly something secret about the trail up on the Ridge. For Emily Price's body never to have been found, it had to be that way. So it was forbidden knowledge, designed to be spread discreetly around.
Here. Do you want to see this?
Back in February, Sarah had been investigating rumours of another victim - Jane Slater - appearing on the Internet. Maybe there had also been a trail of symbols leading to her body, and Ellis was the one who'd posted that photograph as well. He'd taken it down for some reason, but not been able to resist for ever. Couldn't keep it to himself. He hadn't been content with just seeing; he'd needed to show, and perhaps that was what had cost him his life.
It made a degree of sense. When I caught up with him in The Duncan, he'd clearly been terrified. While it was flattering to imagine I was that intimidating, my guess was that he'd mistaken me for someone else.
For one of these people, whoever they were.