Mimic

by Daniel Cole

  ‘You sound unhinged.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’ Chambers asked him, wearing a desperate smile.

  Winter shook his head: ‘I’m not helping you. Please don’t come here again … Goodbye, Chambers.’ And with that, he turned round and walked away.

  Tobias Sleepe left the alarm blaring in the darkness as he hurried back inside, a trail of blood winding its way behind him as he dropped the saturated rope onto the floor. Tied into a neat noose, it had been dumped on the bonnet of his van – a clear message of intent from a homicide detective who didn’t know when to quit, one that would cost him dearly.

  Wiping his hands on his apron, he climbed the metal staircase up to his office, taking a seat in front of the flickering security monitor. He clicked through the feeds, rewound the relevant tape a couple of minutes and then hit the play button. The untouched van stood just about visible in the bottom corner of the screen. Thirty uneventful seconds passed, Sleepe edging closer and closer to the black and white image in anticipation …

  A shadow spilled across the concrete in front of the vehicle, seemingly appearing from nowhere … And then the heavy rope landed in a heap on the bonnet, tossed from the bridge above in order to evade his cameras.

  Sleepe screamed in anger and slammed his fist on the desk, the monochrome recording scrolling down the monitor like the credits at the end of a movie.

  Chambers was still scrubbing his hands in the sink when Eve arrived home from her evening class. Setting her weighty law books down, she gave him a quizzical look:

  ‘You’re doing washing?’ she asked, the machine whirring away in the cupboard.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Of your own free will?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘… Why?’

  ‘Being helpful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just was,’ he shrugged, struggling to remove the last of the blood from under his fingernails. ‘Want to go out tonight?’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Pictures?’

  ‘I’ll just fall asleep.’

  ‘Can go and see something I want for a change then.’ Turning the tap off, he dried his hands on a tea towel. ‘Come on. I feel like celebrating.’

  ‘Only almost getting yourself fired?’

  ‘Not just that.’

  ‘What then?’

  Chambers walked over and embraced her:

  ‘I don’t even know: us … you … everything. I’m in a good mood. I just feel like everything’s going to be all right.’

  Robert Coates passed beneath the street lights that fended off the bitter night. Noting the absence of the silver MG Maestro he’d seen parked outside his cottage twice over the weekend, he turned into his garden. Spotting the envelope placed neatly in the centre of the doormat outside rather than posted through, he crouched down and picked it up, pulling the paper apart to unfold the short note written in what appeared to be blood:

  Though your sins are like scarlet,

  they shall be as white as snow.

  Looking back at the deserted road, his eyes scanned the line of dark cars: empty, still and cold. The only sound came from the trees, the wind rustling through the leaves as their branches danced shadows in the patches of orange light. Unconcerned, he carefully folded the note up, placed it back inside the envelope, and opened the door to his little house.

  Tuesday

  CHAPTER 12

  Almost nine hours into his shift, Chambers’ enthusiasm was starting to wane. The forecast snowfall had manifested instead as a relentless deluge of sleet and rain, reducing the number of calls he was being asked to attend while quadrupling the travelling time between those he did receive.

  His mind was all over the place. He’d spent an hour in the office that morning but had thought better of enquiring about the Alphonse and Nicolette Cotillard investigation, conscious that he was already on very thin ice. It had been the most sensible course, a rare flicker of self-preservation, but after an entire day driving himself crazy wondering whether there had been any progress, he was beginning to regret not taking his chances.

  Giving up on the traffic jam otherwise known as Great Portland Street, he parked up, fate depositing him directly across the road from a pet shop. An idea coming to him, he decided to brave the weather, weaving between the stationary traffic to reach the unassuming little store.

  ‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there!’ the owner greeted him.

  Presuming this an attempt at that infamous pet shop humour, Chambers smiled politely and made his way over to the accessories, immediately drawn to a dog lead with the silhouettes of different breeds decorating the leather.

  ‘Need any help over there?’ the owner asked him.

  ‘No,’ replied Chambers with a smirk. ‘I think I’ve found just what I was looking for.’

  Two-and-a-half hours later, Chambers found himself in the vicinity of Birkbeck College. Hoping to avoid catching a call with just thirty minutes of his shift remaining, he figured he’d sit tight, instinctively heading back to the same spot he’d parked in the other evening to stare up at the same second-storey window.

  A familiar bespectacled face turned to peer out over the street. Although confident there was no way Coates could see him inside the dark car, Chambers slumped down in his seat until the window was empty once more. Nervously checking the time, he fiddled with the radio, having to turn it right up just to hear it over the storm.

  Three songs later, whatever heat had been trapped inside the car with him had found a method of escape, and although Coates’s office remained illuminated, Chambers hadn’t actually laid eyes on the man himself for a little while. He watched the window, finding some solace in knowing precisely where either Coates or Sleepe were at any given moment.

  The inevitable hiss of static crackled through the speakers, interrupting Bon Jovi’s latest offering. He glanced at the dashboard clock and sighed.

  ‘All units. All units,’ the dispatcher called over the airwaves. ‘Possible attempted murder in progress at the British Museum.’

  Typical, he thought, knowing he was just around the corner from it:

  ‘Yeah, it’s Chambers. Allocate to me.’

  ‘Received. Caller states he was attacked by a man with a syringe and can no longer feel his legs.’

  Chambers sat up straight and turned on the engine, the wiper blades springing into action as he switched his lights on.

  ‘Any further details?’ he asked, already accelerating down the road.

  ‘Caller is hiding in a staffroom in the Greek sculpture section … Now saying he can’t feel anything below his navel. He says he can hear his attacker, but he’s trapped.’

  ‘All received.’

  ‘Backup en route.’

  ‘Much obliged.’

  Four miles away, Winter and Reilly were listening to the short exchange over the radio, Winter still gazing down at the little black box long after the static had dissipated.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Reilly warned him, for the first time ever, her terse tone giving way to genuine concern for him.

  Fifteen minutes from the end of their shift, they were already going to finish late, and there would be dozens of resources far closer to back Chambers up.

  ‘Winter … Winter!’ He stared at her blankly. ‘They won’t tolerate any more. They told me as much. Let it go.’

  He rolled them to the end of the street and paused at the junction – left would take him home, right to Chambers and more than likely the end of his career …

  Abandoning the car in the middle of the pedestrianised square, Chambers sprinted up the steps towards the columns that lined the museum’s grand façade. Passing through doors so massive they looked ready to welcome a proud God dropping in to admire his handiwork, he looked up at the list of exhibition halls pointing in all directions.

  ‘Greek sculpture?!’ he yelled, ID card held out on show. The woman behind the desk just stared at him. ‘Greek sculpture?!’ he demanded aga
in.

  She pointed across the hall.

  Entering the maze of hushed corridors, Chambers followed the arrows overhead, surreal images flashing past but lingering in his mind: an open sarcophagus, dragon-like creatures carved from stone, the colossal half-head of a bearded deity. Finally, he reached a sign pronouncing: Greeks and Lycians 400–325 BC.

  Taking out his non-issue flick knife, similar to those carried by half the force as a last resort, he entered the first moodily lit hall, a gauntlet of gods waiting for him like sleeping giants. Feeling worryingly exposed, he stuck to the thin pathway of light running the length of the room, as though it were a bridge spanning a void, to reach the entrance to the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos.

  Long shadows were thrown from spotlit sculptures, incomplete and ravaged by time. Noticing an inconspicuous door set into the wall, he made his way over, finding only cleaning supplies inside. Sensing something move behind him, Chambers raised his weapon and spun round, the gallery looking every bit as still as before … but then heard hurried footsteps coming from the next hall.

  Chasing the sound, he found himself in yet another deserted room, the ambiance disrupted by a rectangle of warm light spilling from an open doorway. Conscious of his surroundings, Chambers approached slowly, more of the room coming into view with every step until he reached the threshold: the office empty, a phone off its cradle and left to sing its disconnected tone.

  The sound of running footsteps returned.

  Chambers reacted too late, feeling a sharp pain in the back of his neck, but lashing out with the knife as he fell forward and somehow managing to kick the door into his attacker as he hit the floor. The flimsy wood sprang back, but Chambers kicked again. This time, the catch reached the frame as he scrambled up to twist the lock. The door trembled and split as it was assaulted from the other side, the handle jerking back and forth of its own accord as it was tried repeatedly to no avail.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet.

  Chambers held his hand up to his neck, fingers returning wet with blood. Trying to remain calm, he reached round and squeezed the wound as per his training, bleeding it as he would any other needle-stick injury, feeling the warm droplets run down his back. Ignoring the pins and needles in his fingers and toes, he picked the knife up off the floor and pulled the door open: no trace of his attacker anywhere until an alarm went off nearby.

  Feeling as though he were drunk, he ran towards the noise, bursting out through the emergency exit and into a service alleyway. As a vehicle started up, he was thrown into stark light, the sleet distorting the air around him as the Ford Transit reversed aggressively. Chasing it out to the front of the museum, Chambers’ vision felt slightly delayed, giving his movements an almost dreamlike quality, the tingling in his fingers spreading to his palms. The burnt-orange van bounced down the kerb backwards and then sped off as he dashed back to his own car.

  Groping blindly for the handset, he fired up the engine and took pursuit:

  ‘Control? … Control?!’

  ‘Receiving.’

  ‘Chambers. In pursuit of orange Transit heading east on Bloomsbury Place,’ he slurred.

  ‘Repeat. Which street?’

  ‘Boom … sby Pace.’

  ‘Detective Chambers, I can’t make out what you’re saying. I need to know where you are.’

  The van accelerated, speeding through a red light. Chambers stamped on the pedal in response, his left arm hanging limply at his side as bright lights blurred past the windows, the engine screaming at him to change gear, the car continuing to gain speed: 50mph … 55mph …

  Slumping against the steering wheel as they passed the Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel, Chambers pulled up alongside the speeding van, unable to make out the figure in the driver’s seat. Feeling the numbness climbing his neck, he pulled on the wheel in a final act of desperation.

  The car smashed into the back end of the van and sent it into a wild spin while his own vehicle hit the crossing and flipped, rolling devastatingly again and again, spraying metal and glass into the air before finally coming to a rest on its side.

  Chambers regained consciousness. He was lying face-down on the road, having been thrown from his crumpled mess of a car that was still rocking precariously beside him. He couldn’t move a single part of his body, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything more than watch as the damaged van reversed back up the street towards him.

  He tried calling out, a feeble groan all he could muster as a set of boots came into view, retrieving something from the back of the vehicle before strolling over. He tried to shout, to plead, tears of frustration running down his face as a rusty saw was placed on the ground beside him. Sensing the figure standing over him, he watched its shadow kneel down, overcome with panic and helplessness when a gloved hand reached over to pick up the saw.

  Unable to feel any pain, Chambers could still feel the hair pulling against his scalp when the shadow repositioned his head, just as he could feel the pressure of the serrated blade against the back of his neck, the vibration of the teeth catching on bone …

  The roar of an engine preceded the arrival of a patrol car skidding around the corner, blue flashing lights making the carpet of broken glass sparkle beneath him. The sirens blared in warning, the shadow releasing Chambers’ head and running back towards the van.

  ‘Orange van, damage to the rear end, currently on Bernard Street!’ Winter shouted into the radio as Reilly flung her door open and took off after the suspect. ‘And I need an ambulance to the Kimpton Fitzroy! Now!’ he added as he climbed out, taking a few seconds to process the devastation before him. The wrecked car was littered all over the road, its one working headlight shining back over its chaotic path.

  His mouth fell open when what appeared to be a large snake started slithering towards them, piercing green eyes catching in the light.

  ‘Police! Stop!’ he heard his partner yell.

  Forcing his attention away from the surreal scene, he rushed over to Chambers, on first glance believing him to be dead – pale bone visible from within a horrific wound across his neck, the sight of his right leg stripped of flesh and still partially crushed beneath the unstable car stealing his breath away.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Reilly as the orange van crunched into gear, its tyres squealing and rear door hanging uselessly as it skidded down the street.

  Winter knelt beside Chambers and was relieved to find a weak pulse, the smell of petrol intensifying as the car bled out over the tarmac. Quickly removing his belt to form a makeshift tourniquet, he watched a sea of flashing lights appear in the distance, the retreating van slamming its brakes on and turning round before accelerating back up the road towards them.

  ‘Hey. It’s Winter,’ he told his gravely injured colleague. ‘You’re gonna be all right,’ he promised, one eye on the vehicle heading straight for them while an obliterated bollard threw sparks at the growing puddle of petrol and oil. He pulled the leather belt as tight as he possibly could, only slowing the bleeding.

  The van’s throaty engine growled as it gathered momentum.

  ‘Get out the road!’ yelled Reilly, sprinting back towards their patrol car.

  Winter attempted to lift Chambers but couldn’t, his foot firmly pinned beneath the upturned vehicle. He tried again just as a single spark landed in the dark puddle, setting the road alight, the van less than a couple of hundred metres away.

  ‘Leave him, Winter!’ his partner cried. ‘Leave him!’

  Wincing, Winter grabbed hold of what remained of Chambers’ leg, twisting it as he pulled, the trapped foot finally coming free. Grasping the incapacitated detective’s hand, he dragged him away from the car only moments before it caught light, the ruptured fuel tank combusting almost instantly.

  The explosion momentarily blinded them all, Winter rubbing his eyes and watching in horror as the orange van swerved off course, now heading directly for the patrol car.

  ‘Reilly!’ he called out, his dazed partner fold
ing under the wheels like a ragdoll as the van mowed her down and sped off into the night. ‘Reilly?!’ he yelled, staring at the motionless heap bathed in firelight. Taking a step towards her, he noticed the fresh pool of blood he was standing in, still flowing copiously from Chambers’ leg.

  In stunned shock, he dropped to his knees and readjusted the tourniquet, adding his entire weight above the artery just to stem the bleeding, only to be faced with an impossible choice when his crumpled partner reached out for him, Winter unable to move, unable to go to her.

  ‘Help’s almost here!’ he shouted desperately, the flashing lights closing in fast. ‘I’m here, Reilly! Just hold on! Thirty seconds, I promise! Just hold on!’

  Her hand flopped to the concrete.

  ‘Reilly?’ he called. ‘… Reilly?!’

  A chorus of sirens filled the night sky. Breaking down, he watched the sleet fall in the glow of the boutique shops that lined the road, such a mundane setting for so life-changing a moment, no sign of the jet-black serpent he’d seen only sixty seconds earlier. Wondering whether it had even been real, whether any of it was real, Winter closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up.

  Seven years later …

  Friday 15 November

  1996

  CHAPTER 13

  She wasn’t quite sure what had woken her up: the tainted sunlight jaundiced by the stained curtains, the November chill breathing over her exposed shoulders, or the slamming of car doors out on the street.

  Freeing her arm from under her emaciated friend-cum-dealer-cum-casual companion, she sat up on the ripped mattress, the bed sheet slipping away bit by bit, as if unveiling a work of art. Intricate tattoos fought to stake their claim to goose-bumped skin, pouring the length of both arms and even spilling onto her hands once they’d completely filled her back and chest. Careful not to tread on the discarded needle she had to thank for her restful night’s sleep, she got up to put some clothes on, hearing the front door burst open downstairs: