Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  Styles stepped closer. ‘I smell piss,’ he said. ‘Someone’s been using it as a doss house.’

  ‘I think it’s gas.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, faintly,’ said Styles. ‘Residue from a severed gas pipe, no doubt. The place looks empty, sir. This Courtney man’s playing games with you.’

  ‘Not his style,’ said Stafford.

  They passed the stairs that divided the house up the middle, as it was in a lot of two-up, two-down terraced housing, and moved slowly into the kitchen area, shining the torch into the gloom. The windows were blacked out, with boards nailed on the outside.

  ‘Empty,’ said Stafford. ‘What’s that man playing at?’

  Styles froze and lifted his head. ‘You hear that?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘There’s someone upstairs, sir.’ He shone the torch back to the stairwell and made a move as if to investigate.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ he said. ‘Courtney’s twitchy at the best of times. He’ll freak on seeing you.’

  He began to climb the narrow wooden treads which gave painful creaks as he put his weight on them. He reached the tiny landing at the top, a bedroom directly on either side of him. He shone a torch inside one room. It was totally empty. ‘You in here, Courtney?’ he said, stepping across and into the other room. Again it was empty, save for a pile of soiled rags in a corner of the room. The windows boarded up. ‘I’ll have your guts for garters when I get my hands on you, Courtney,’ he said under his breath, carefully descending the stairs. ‘Let’s get out of here, Nobby,’ he said, his frustration mounting. But he didn’t get a reply. The smell of gas was becoming stronger. There certainly was no mistaking it now. He reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Styles?’ he said. ‘Where the hell are you?’ What the fuck was going on here, he thought. With a grimace he choked on a sudden wave of gas and put a hand to his mouth. He looked towards the kitchen and saw something dark and formless lying on the floor. To his horror his torch beam revealed it to be a body. ‘Styles!’ he said.

  He couldn’t explain why but in an instant his mind was filled with the vision of Inspector Thomas Rayne of the Yard being put out of action by his own nark, and how the case of the Body in the Barn had become his lifelong curse.

  ‘Christ, no!’ he said, just as the explosion threw him off his feet and a massive fireball bowled through the rooms, engulfing him completely. He had no time to scream, no time to shield his face. As he hit the floor, the searing heat enveloping him like a thousand slashing razors, he was vaguely aware of the fragile ceiling above him giving way and come crashing down in a deafening cacophony, his helpless body being pummelled by falling timbers.

  * * * *

  41

  A Higher Calling

  He did not recognise the reflection in the mirror as belonging to him. In Lambert-Chide’s mind he remained young, but this perversion, this dried-up, time-eaten man in the mirror stood like a skeletal reminder that though he might control almost all his life with the flick of a finger, he could not exercise any control over this, the most fundamental aspect of all. He could not control growing old.

  He had been so close all those years ago and it had been snatched from him. And now, just as he thought it might once more be within his grasp it might all be an illusion. DNA tests would prove if Davies and the woman were related one way or another, but the thought that the woman locked away downstairs might not be Evelyn caused his insides to screw into a tight ball. Time was fast running out, he knew that, even for one as powerful and as tremendously wealthy as he. He didn’t like to dwell on the fact that even if she were Evelyn there wouldn’t be enough time to unlock her secrets, despite the huge amount of revenue at his disposal. And in truth did he really care about immortality for the masses? No, he cared only about finding it for himself first and foremost. Yes, find it soon and he’d become one of the world’s most powerful men, but what use to him the discovery after he had died?

  On his dressing table was an ebony-framed photograph of his mother and father on their wedding day. A mother he had loved and lost, with that loss in some way being the font of his all consuming bitterness and selfishness. Strange how such things can stain you from an early age, he thought, and the remnants of that emotional stain still in evidence all these years later, fainter perhaps, but there all the same and carried with you always.

  He envied them. They had found love. A deep, trustful, complete love that he had never known in all his long years. Money acted as a wax jacket to that particular commodity, he soon realised, but somehow allowed the false to soak through. Money couldn’t buy him love, as the old song went, not the kind his parents had. It bought only cheap, shallow substitutes. It bought him his young wife, whom he knew cringed at the sight of his old, naked body, though she’d never let it show. She was hanging in there, waiting for him to kick the bucket, like so many of the hangers-on were. Vultures in suits. Hyenas in Gucci. He didn’t care she slept in a separate bedroom. She was there if he needed her. But he couldn’t sleep with a lie.

  It riled him all the more to think on these things. Made him determined to hang onto every last breath in his body; made him determined to try to live forever, and no jumped-up little con artist was going to stand in his way. If that’s what she turned out to be she was as good as dead. Davies as well. He had ways and means of efficient, discreet disposal at his command. He’d employed it before to great effect.

  Tremain was a problem, though. In the past he’d been very good, progressed swiftly to become his trusted right-hand man. But lately he’d become careless. Perhaps he was too old for the job now, he thought. Perhaps it was time to end his service. Time for his retirement.

  David Lambert-Chide got into bed, the room now in almost total darkness. That’s when the fear began in earnest. It had been a gradual thing, becoming more pronounced the older he became. The thought that he’d close his eyes and never open them again. Death, that King of Terrors, would come stealing into his bedroom whilst he slept and snatch him away forever. So he fought sleep as long as he could. He took a variety of drugs, drank copious amounts of black coffee, anything that helped him stay awake at night. He was grateful that as his body had aged it had required less and less sleep, but he could not resist it entirely. There was always a black curtain of unconsciousness ready to be drawn and that was the time he feared the most.

  So he sat in the dark, his eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, feeling his heart beating, the sounds of silence rushing in his ears, growing ever more afraid. Staying awake in order to cheat death.

  But of course he could not resist indefinitely. His thoughts began to fuse and take strange detours as his mind gradually succumbed to slumber, distantly aware that he ought to fight it, afraid of something but not knowing what.

  He was brought abruptly awake by a sharp stabbing sensation in the side of his neck, just below his jaw. His instinct was to rise, to move, to lash out at whatever was pressing painfully into his flesh. But a voice close by his ear made him freeze.

  ‘Not one move, not one breath, or I’ll sink this knife into your gizzard.’

  He could not mistake the voice. ‘How did you get in here?’ he asked, careful not to move his jaw any more than he had to.

  ‘Access is something I’m good at,’ said Caroline Cody. ‘Keep your hands inside the covers for now, away from any panic button you might have.’

  He strained in the dark to make out the blurred, pale disc of her face, heard the telltale squeak of her leather jacket as she reached across for the bedside lamp. She flicked the switch and he screwed his eyes up momentarily against the bright light. ‘What is it you want?’ he said.

  ‘I want you,’ she said. ‘I want you out of bed and dressed.’ He hesitated so she pressed the knifepoint in a little deeper. ‘Time is of the essence.’ As he rolled back the duvet and slid his feet out onto the thick carpet she gave another warning. ‘Don’t try anything stupid. No heroics. At all times keep your hands where I can see them. And, oh, I also
have a gun…’ She tapped the weapon she’d tucked into her jeans.

  ‘Where is my security?’ he said, his composure returning to fill his words with venom.

  She put an index finger to her lips. ‘Quiet, please, there’s a good little billionaire. One of them is still outside in the corridor. Not very bright, if you don’t mind me saying. Really, I am surprised at you; all that money and you hire some of the worst gorillas in the zoo. But there again you hardly expected anyone to get this far inside, did you?’ She gave a mocking shake of her head. He could smell the perfume of her skin wash over him. She stood close by him as he began to get dressed.

  ‘What do you want? Money? Aren’t we paying you enough for what you did for us? You want more, is that it?’

  ‘Alas, not quite that simple,’ she said.

  He paused in putting on his shirt. ‘Look, you’re good, damned good. You helped save Tremain’s bacon by revealing Muller’s double-cross, getting Davies to us. That has to be worth something. I’m in the market for a new Head of Security. You know what, you’d be perfect.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s very flattering of you, David. You could turn a girl’s head. Not. Now hurry up; we haven’t got a lot of time.’ She waited till he was fully dressed and then held out a mobile phone. He recognised it as belonging to him. ‘Right, tell Tremain to call off the security on Davies and the woman.’

  ‘I won’t do that,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘Yes you will,’ she said, the knife aimed at his throat. ‘I will use this. You know I will. Now once they’re called off ask him to meet you outside their cell in twenty minutes.’

  He reluctantly lifted the phone, did as he was bid. She heard the buzz of Tremain’s voice querying the order, but Lambert-Chide told him sharply to do as he was told and finished the call. ‘Anything else you’d like? Room service, perhaps?’

  ‘One more thing: have a car ready and waiting for us outside the rear entrance, the old tradesman’s entrance. A fast car, fully tanked-up. No driver.’ She waited till he finished the call and snatched the phone from him, whipped the gun from her jeans. ‘Now we’re going to take a little walk downstairs, breeze past the gorilla in the corridor as if there’s nothing unusual in him seeing you leave your bedroom with a pretty young woman. Oh, I forgot, there isn’t anything unusual in that is there?’ She smirked and he glowered icily in return. ‘After you,’ she said, holding her hand out towards the door. ‘I’ll be at your back like I was your shadow, David, so close you’ll be dead in an instant if you try anything funny. You don’t want to die, do you? No, I thought not. Lead on McDuff!’

  The dark-suited man rose quickly from his chair, ejected as if by a spring on seeing the pair coming out of the bedroom. Lambert-Chide said nothing as they approached him. The man nodded almost imperceptibly at his boss, glanced briefly at the woman accompanying him, then averted his eyes deferentially. They tramped slowly on the soft carpet till they rounded a corner, out of sight of the guard.

  ‘You can’t get away with this,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Get away with what?’ she asked. ‘You’ve no idea what I’m going to do. Just take me to Davies and the woman.’

  ‘So who are you working for? How much are they paying you?’

  ‘Money doesn’t come into it. Mine is of a much higher calling.’

  They took an elevator down to the basement floor and Lambert-Chide led her down a number of bland-looking corridors, utilitarian, probably once used by staff a long time ago to get around Gattenby House unseen by their betters. Eventually they reached the door to the room where Davies and Erica were being held.

  ‘If you’re after Evelyn Carter then you’re wasting your time,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘The woman in there is probably nothing more than a con artist and the man a dupe.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said absently. She looked at her watch. ‘Tremain should be here soon.’

  ‘So what do you want with them?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Did Doradus send you?’

  She stared at him, unblinking. ‘Which part of my business don’t you understand?’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We can come to some arrangement. There is nothing here that can’t be resolved in an amicable and mutually beneficial way.’ Her expression remained implacable. ‘Don’t harm them. Don’t kill them. Not yet. Let me do what I must with them, and if they’re impostors I’ll kill them; if they are genuine, let me finish my work and then I’ll hand them over to you. You can do with them what you will then. Look, I’ll pay well to keep them. What’s your price? Name it you can have it.’

  ‘A higher calling,’ she reiterated vaguely.

  They both raised their heads to the sound of footsteps down the corridor, and observed Tremain’s unmistakable form striding towards them. As he drew closer it was easy to read the mild annoyance he was feeling at being disturbed at such an hour. He frowned on seeing Caroline at Lambert-Chide’s side.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. Something made him suspicious. A hunch. Years of training. He didn’t know what it was, but something didn’t feel right. Before he could make a move towards the weapon he carried Caroline had raised her gun.

  ‘Slow down, Tremain. Don’t do anything too hasty.’ She held out her hand. First hand me the gun – gently – then your swipe card to get through this door.

  Tremain passed his gun over, speechless.

  ‘My offer still stands,’ said Lambert-Chide.

  ‘The money or Tremain’s job?’ she asked, next taking the card from Tremain.

  Tremain’s brows lowered. His cheeks flushed as fury built up.

  ‘Both,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘If you want them.’

  Caroline paused, cocked her head in thought. ‘You know what, your working conditions suck.’

  She swiped the card in the lock and green lights flicked on with a buzz.

  * * * *

  42

  Right Here, Right Now

  He rose quickly to his feet on hearing the door lock’s distinctive click, and saw the door begin to open. This was his chance, he thought, his heart beginning to crash wildly in anticipation.

  ‘Maybe we could rush them,’ he said, but she reached up and grabbed his wrist, anchoring him firmly.

  ‘Don’t risk it,’ Erica said. ‘I know these people.’

  It was Tremain who entered the room first, but Gareth noted how his face was different; the mocking self-assuredness had been wiped away, replaced, he thought, by tight-lipped edginess. The reason became immediately apparent; there was a gun being held to the back of his head.

  ‘Inside,’ said a voice very familiar to him.

  Tremain was followed closely by Lambert-Chide, both men avoiding eye contact with the prisoners. Erica got up, but her grip didn’t loosen on Gareth’s wrist. He peeled her fingers away. ‘The bitch is back!’ he said, when the red hair and leather jacket of Caroline Cody appeared in the doorway. The comment didn’t appear to register with her.

  ‘Right, Tremain, I want you over there, by the far wall.’ Caroline gave him a hefty prod with the gun as additional encouragement. As Tremain did as he was told, the gun swung in a fast arc to settle on Gareth and Erica. They stared anxiously at the weapon.

  ‘Don’t harm them!’ pleaded Lambert-Chide one last time.

  ‘Give it a rest,’ she fired back in return. ‘Well you two, are you going to stop gawping and get your arses over here?’ she said, frustrated.

  ‘Don’t trust her,’ warned Gareth, feeling his stomach tightening like a twisted rope on seeing her again.

  She rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘I’m busting you out,’ she said. ‘Get over here. You too, lady.’

  ‘You expect me to fall for that again?’ he said.

  ‘You have no other choice.’

  ‘I trusted you once before and look where it landed me.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to fire up your trust again, won’t you?’

  Erica came forward. �
��I know you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Not me, lady,’ said Caroline.

  Tremain’s face had been changing shades, from an angry red to a volcanic puce. ‘I’m going to kill you, you bitch!’ he snarled. ‘Wherever you go I’m going to find you, and then I’m going to watch you die for this.’

  Caroline handed over Tremain’s gun to Erica. ‘I know you’re familiar with using these,’ she said. She nodded at Lambert-Chide. ‘Cover him. He may be over ninety but he’s as sharp as a needle and as slippery as a grease-covered banker. I have to take care of some unfinished business with Tremain here.’ The tone of her voice had changed dramatically, dropping instantly from cold to Siberian winter. She went over to him and put the gun to his forehead. Tremain didn’t flinch, his eyes twin balls of loathing. ‘You think I won’t use this, don’t you, Tremain?’

  ‘You know you won’t,’ he said.

  ‘You’re wrong. I came here for two reasons. Number two was to get these guys out of your filthy clutches. Number one was to settle an old score. I came to kill you.’

  Something in her threat caused Tremain’s self-assurance to weaken. He felt the barrel of the gun press deeper into the skin of his forehead, saw how the knuckles of the woman’s hand whitened.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of an old friend of yours,’ she said. ‘You might know her, since you murdered her.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ he said, wincing at the discomfort.

  ‘Crazy? Yeah, maybe you’re right. On your knees, Tremain.’ He gave an obstinate shake of the head. Caroline lashed the gun across his face and he uttered a grunt of pain. He dropped to his knees, blood beginning to drip in a scarlet rivulet from a gash on his cheek. Caroline went calmly around to the back of the man, the gun now pressed against the base of his skull. There appeared to be no emotion in her face; even her eyes looked glassy and lifeless.