The Essence of Evil

by The Essence of Evil (retail) (epub)

  ‘Through here,’ Francis said, leading Grant through to the sleek and modern kitchen that was pristine and so tidy it almost seemed unused. They headed on into a small utility room.

  Grant kept alert as he walked through. For what, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. One thing he did know, was that there was no sign at all of Julie Francis. Not even a photo of her.

  ‘You’re on your own tonight?’ Grant asked.

  Francis gave him a look. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not seen Julie for a few days. She working away or something?’

  ‘No.’

  Grant wasn’t sure what else to say to that. Francis bent down to a cupboard, opened the door and started rummaging around.

  ‘I’ve got these,’ Francis said, handing Grant a small box without looking up from the cupboard. ‘Or these. Or these.’

  Grant looked at the three different types of bulb in his hands. The first one was most like the type he’d described to Francis at the door.

  ‘This one’s perfect,’ he said.

  ‘Just the one?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Two would be ideal.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Francis gave him another one and took the unwanted boxes back, then shut the cupboard.

  ‘Anything else, neighbour?’ Francis said as he straightened up. ‘Some sticky tape? A couple of screws?’

  ‘I think I’m all good. Thanks for these.’

  ‘Any time. I’d offer you a drink, but I really was just in the middle of something. Maybe next time though, right?’

  ‘Yeah, next time.’

  Grant followed Francis back out through the kitchen and into the hall. Other than the lounge, dining room and kitchen there was one other doorway there. That door was ajar a couple of inches and as Grant passed he tried his best to peek inside.

  No, it was too dark. He couldn’t see anything. Not even if it was another room beyond that door, a simple cupboard, or the entrance to a basement. Francis’s house was a similar age and style to Grant’s so it would probably have one.

  He continued to look around, and spotted something past the open door of the lounge. On a small bookcase that was only partly filled, the spine of one of the books caught his eye. He’d seen that damn book enough times to recognise it anywhere.

  Grant stopped walking. ‘You’ve got my book.’

  Francis stopped too and turned, his forehead creased, his eyes beady – clear signs his agitation was growing.

  ‘Yeah. The Essence of Evil. Not read it all yet. It’s not my usual thing, I must say.’

  Grant took a step forwards, towards the lounge, intending to get a better look inside. Francis stepped past him and darted in. He went to the bookcase and picked the book out, then quickly leafed through it. As if satisfied with his inspection he tossed the book to Grant who caught it one-handed.

  He looked down. The edges of the book were clearly aged, the inner pages yellowed. The book was old, and well-thumbed. Grant thought it looked like the one Jessica Bradford had shown him the other week. Frowning, he opened the cover, to take a look at the title page. It wasn’t there. Torn out.

  ‘Got it from a charity shop,’ Francis said. ‘Twenty pence. Can you believe it? Looks like it’s been read a hundred times over, but still, can’t argue with that price.’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  Francis moved forwards and took the book out of Grant’s hands. He placed it on a side table then turned back to Grant.

  ‘I really do need to get back to what I was doing,’ Francis said.

  ‘Of course. Thanks for the bulbs.’

  ‘Anything to help a neighbour and friend.’

  Francis showed Grant out and he made his way back across the street. What he’d seen, and the words Francis had spoken, swam in his head.

  Friend? Grant wouldn’t call Francis a friend. Not at all. Quite what his neighbour was though, Grant really couldn’t be sure.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  She wasn’t sure if she’d been asleep or not when she heard the footsteps coming down the stairs. She was drowsy, groggy, but she didn’t think it was from lack of rest; she must have been drugged.

  The footsteps got louder, closer. Her heart drummed in her chest, the tempo upping with each beat and with each tap of the feet on the solid floor.

  How long had she been here now? With the sack over her head most of the time, and no evidence of any natural light coming into the room, it was virtually impossible to know.

  Memories of the night in the bar, last Friday, flashed in her mind as she listened to the footsteps coming down. The last thing she could remember was walking for a taxi, on her own, but that memory was foggy and patchy. Had she already been drugged by that point? She certainly hadn’t hooked up with anyone in that bar, but could only assume that was how she’d come to be in this ghastly place.

  She held her breath when she realised the footsteps had stopped, right by her. When the sack was removed from her head she thought her heart had burst right out of her chest and for a few moments she could do nothing but try to get her breathing under control. As ever, she could see little of the room beyond because of a bright white light blaring into her eyes. The place smelled dank and was echoey. All she could make out other than the light was the shadowy outline of shelving filled with nondescript items. It wasn’t a big place. A store room? A cellar?

  ‘Good evening, Jessica,’

  A voice as smooth as silk. No hint of strain or animosity. Quite caring and kind, which only made it all the more chilling.

  Jessica Bradford tried to scream, to moan, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. A fabric gag stuffed in her mouth prevented anything more. She was sitting on the cold, hard floor, arms behind her, handcuffed around a metal post. She still had on the same mini skirt and lycra top that she’d worn to the bar however many days ago it’d been, though her clothes were now dirtied and torn, revealing even more of her cleavage, and her knickers and legs had been soiled more than once.

  The figure in front of her, cast in shadow from the glare of the light, moved forwards and pulled the gag from Jessica’s mouth, then stepped over to a workbench barely visible at the side of the room. She realised now, as her eyes continued to adjust, that her small handbag sat atop the wooden worktop.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Jessica murmured, after taking a few moments to compose herself. ‘They’ll find me,’ she said, now showing a bit more fight.

  Of course, she’d already begged and pleaded and shouted and threatened plenty since she’d been here, but it had made no difference and now her efforts were far more half-hearted and desperate.

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘My friends. My family,’ she said. ‘The police. Whatever you do to me, they’re going to find me. And then they’ll find you. But if you let me—’

  ‘Uh-uh, not another word. Please don’t attempt to make promises that you can’t possibly keep. If I let you go you won’t tell anybody? I mean, Jessica, come on. Have you any idea how silly that sounds? Do you really expect that I would ever believe that?’

  ‘I promise,’ Jessica sobbed.

  ‘No. That’s enough of that. And you’re wrong about them finding you. Very wrong.’

  ‘They’ll find me!’ Jessica blasted. ‘My parents will never stop looking.’

  ‘Now that’s two different statements, Jessica. One is possibly true, the other absolutely isn’t. Perhaps your mum and dad really will keep on looking, once they realise you haven’t jetted off with a new love. But they’ll never find you. Not even a trace.’

  The figure picked up Jessica’s handbag and started rummaging through the contents.

  ‘I read an amazing story recently, about a man and a woman who were hiking in Yellowstone National Park in America. I’ve never been but I really would love to go. Anyway, these two were hiking, but they decided to head off the beaten track, going beyond warning signs which indicated the dangerous nature of the landscape. Perhaps they were daredevils and wanted to
see something that all the other tourists don’t get to see. They wanted to go hot potting. Have you heard of that?’

  The figure paused and turned back to Jessica. She made no attempt to answer the question either with words or gesture. She was too scared to.

  ‘I hadn’t,’ the figure said. ‘Hot potting is when people go for a dip in a thermal spring or a geyser. Apparently it’s quite a thrill. Yellowstone is famous for springs and geysers, if you didn't know. The whole point though, is that this area of the park was off limits for a good reason. Those springs weren’t created by Mother Nature as a reward for eager tourists. They’re unforgiving and deadly. The temperature of the water can be close to boiling, and it’s often very acidic.

  ‘Anyhow, the poor chap goes to dip his toe to test the water. He slips, he falls. What happens? He gets boiled and burned alive by that hot acidic water. His companion is there, filming the whole thing on her mobile phone, their perfect getaway taking quite an unexpected turn.’

  The figure pulled out Jessica’s small leather purse and stepped to the large glass jar sitting at one end of the worktop. The figure put on a heavy-duty rubber glove and lifted the lid off the jar, which was half-filled with liquid.

  ‘The man was dead within seconds. He had absolutely no chance of survival. The friend raised the alarm immediately but due to a turn in the weather, the rescue team couldn’t even attempt to recover what was left of him. When they returned a day or two later, do you know what they found?’

  The figure turned to Jessica and waited for a response. Once again no words passed her lips.

  ‘They found absolutely nothing. No trace of the man whatsoever. No skin, no flesh, no bones, no teeth, no clothes. The acid had dissolved him. Whatever atoms used to be a man were just part of that deadly acidic mixture.’

  The figure took the purse in its gloved hand and lifted it towards the jar.

  ‘And remember what I’m talking about there is just a natural mixture of water and acid from dissolved rocks. Imagine how much more powerful a heavily concentrated and deliberately manufactured substance could be. Imagine what that kind of substance would do to a human body.’

  The figure moved the purse down inside the jar and the outer edges of it touched the liquid which sizzled and bubbled. Jessica began to shudder and tremble with fear. She felt her bladder release, began to whimper and plead, incoherently.

  Carefully, the figure dropped the purse into the jar and placed the lid back on top. The acid fizzed and frothed ferociously as it worked on devouring the leather, fabric and plastics that had been thrown its way.

  ‘So, Jessica, coming back to my point. When you say they’ll find you, perhaps now you can understand why that really is never going to happen. Because quite soon, there will be absolutely nothing left of you to find.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The whole way in the taxi from Knowle, Dani fretted about what would await her when she arrived at her apartment. It wasn’t just what Jason had said to her on the phone, but the way he’d said it. Like he didn’t trust her. Like he really thought she had something to do with the murders. Like he half expected her to do something stupid now.

  But then, could she really trust him? What she’d just learned from Georgia Draper put quite a different spin on the tale of Jessica Bradford. Someone was lying to her. Was it Steven Grant, who definitely had lied about Jessica? Jason? Someone else within the police?

  She got out of the taxi outside her apartment block without incident. There were no flashing lights, no gaggle of policemen and policewomen lying in wait to haul her into jail. Just Jason, standing by the outer doors to the building, his head ducked down into the collar of his thick overcoat.

  ‘Dani, about bloody time. I’m freezing my bollocks off here.’

  ‘It was your choice to wait there,’ Dani said, with not an ounce of sympathy.

  She moved past Jason and opened the door then stepped inside, not bothering to turn to look whether he would follow. She walked over to the lift and pressed the button, her eyes focused only on the closed lift doors. When they opened she looked around to see that Jason was indeed right there behind her.

  They rode up without speaking, and Dani kept her eyes front and centre, though she felt Jason watching her the whole time. They exited on the sixth floor and walked in silence to Dani’s apartment. Only once they’d both stepped inside and Jason had shut the door behind him, was the silence finally broken.

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ Jason said.

  Dani didn’t like the way he said it. ‘Do I?’ She stomped away, into the lounge. Jason followed a step behind.

  ‘Yes, you bloody do. What’s going on, Dani?’

  Dani stopped halfway into the lounge and looked over at the dark windows, the orange of streetlights and the apartments across the water visible beyond the glass. She didn’t turn to face Jason.

  ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘You’re going to need to think of a better explanation than that.’

  She spun around. ‘An explanation for what?’

  ‘For the notes.’

  ‘What? Of course you found my prints on them, I picked the damn things up! Are you saying you think I wrote them?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Dani glared at Jason as hard and as coldly as she could. ‘I’m not even going to answer that.’

  ‘And what about the things at Harland’s house? The knife? The clothes? Jesus, Dani, your fingerprints are on a murder weapon.’

  ‘I’ve… I’ve no idea how that happened.’

  ‘You searched that apartment, didn’t you? The day Harland was killed?’

  ‘It wasn’t a search. I just had a look around.’

  ‘And did you pick anything up? That knife? It wasn’t in your notes that you did anything like that.’

  Dani slumped, confusion taking over. ‘I don’t think so but… no, I really don’t think I did.’

  ‘Don’t think?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, ok!’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure? You’re on your meds still, aren’t you? Could they have clouded your recall?’

  Dani’s face screwed in anger. She was about to bite back, but really, she didn’t know what the right answer was. Had she taken her meds that day? Were her memories solid and… real? There were plenty of times since the accident when she’d hallucinated, or where reality had blurred, but that had all been many months ago. Hadn’t it?

  ‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ Dani said, sounding anything but. ‘Unless I really am going mad.’

  She dropped down onto the sofa, her head a muddled mess. All of those times she’d thought she was being watched. Her leaps to believing there was a serial killer out there. Was it all the meds talking? Or was it even just her mangled brain?

  ‘Jessica Bradford knew Steven Grant,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grant said the name meant nothing to him, but her friend told me the two of them had had a one-on-one meeting not long ago.’

  ‘Dani, what the hell? You’re suspended. Do you have any idea how much shit you’ll be in if McNair knows you’ve been out speaking to witnesses?’

  ‘I’m not going to sit around while a murderer is out there taunting me!’

  ‘But Jessica Bradford’s not even missing, never mind a murder victim. We’ve already been over that.’

  ‘Not missing? Then where the bloody hell is she?’

  Dani slumped back. Her head was pounding. She couldn’t take this anymore. She shot up from the sofa and stormed out and into the en suite, slamming the door behind her. She turned on the taps in the sink then opened the cupboard and stared at the pill bottles.

  She wanted to be strong, but she really needed the release. She needed the clarity of mind, too. She grabbed two different bottles, opened one and threw some pills into her hand and then into her mouth without even seeing how many she’d grabbed. She ducked her head under the water, swallowed, then did the same with the next bottle. She sla
mmed the bottles onto the side, shut off the taps then stared at herself in the mirror for a few seconds. Ashamed.

  When she found the strength to come back out, Jason was standing right there in the hallway, arms folded, glaring at her grumpily.

  ‘You really think that’s going to help? Maybe that’s why you’re in this mess in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Jason.’

  ‘No. And neither do I.’

  ‘But I didn’t have anything to do with Reeve’s death. You can’t possibly think I did?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  His tone wasn’t particularly convincing and Dani took little comfort in it. She moved forwards and past him, into the kitchen. She headed for the fridge; the bottle of vodka her next stop. As she reached forwards for the handle Jason’s arm came in front of her, pinning the fridge door shut.

  ‘That’s not going to help.’ His voice was stern.

  ‘I was going for some chilled water, idiot.’

  She let go of the handle and turned to look at him. He hadn’t bought the lie.

  ‘So what now then?’ she asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Am I under suspicion?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not yet? That’s not a great answer. Does McNair know?’

  ‘No. These results came directly to me. I’ve not passed the forensic results on to her, and they haven’t been logged in the system yet. Look, you need to be one hundred percent straight with me here. I’ll only help you if you tell me everything.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell! What are you expecting me to say?’

  ‘That you fucked up? That you went around that flat gung-ho, picking up things right, left and centre without recording your movements. That you didn’t find anything of note, because at the time neither Harland or Grant were suspects in your case. That you then forgot to write up in your notes exactly what you’d seen and done in that flat so we could properly eliminate any fingerprints you left. Maybe because you were too traumatised by what happened to Harland that day, or maybe because of your meds. You made a mistake. The notes created a false impression of what you did in the flat, but at the time you had no reason to suspect that the place was a crime scene, and you thought nothing of it.’