Rattle: A serial killer thriller that will hook you from the start

by Fiona Cummins

  It didn’t occur to him that the police might wish to speak to him. Nor did he properly consider the repercussions of his unexplained absence on his family. He knew he was OK, and that was all that mattered.

  And Amber had been a legend, not blinking an eye when he rocked up on her doorstep at 1 a.m. She had taken in his pulped face, the gaping slit in his jeans where the doctors had sliced through denim to treat the gunshot wound.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were that into S&M,’ she said drily, tightening the belt on her skull-and-crossbones dressing gown, and he had let out a snort of laughter, even though it was the last thing he had felt like doing.

  He could have gone to Axel’s but his friend lived in a grubby flat-share and he couldn’t face the curiosity of strangers. Amber had a spare room, and she didn’t ask questions.

  Before she had left for work that morning, she had opened the thick velvet curtains and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Make sure you ring Lilith,’ she’d said, but he’d pretended to be asleep.

  He knew he ought to go home, or at the very least, pick up the phone as Amber had suggested. That would be the right thing to do. But the part of him that was selfish and irresponsible, and all the other things that Lilith had accused him of being, stayed his hand. He wanted her to understand that her words were not bits of confetti, to be tossed around and lost on the wind, but blocks of concrete that could fell a man.

  There was another, deeper truth that Erdman acknowledged quietly to himself. That he wasn’t ready to return home yet. That he welcomed this unexpected reprieve from a wife who had allowed fear to shrink her, and from the unrelenting effort of worrying about his son.

  For a few hours, he could breathe.

  Amber’s landline rang, its shrillness making him jump. He ignored it and let the message service kick in.

  ‘Pick up, mate. I know you’re there.’ Axel. Erdman made no move to answer it, unwilling to face his friend’s pity.

  ‘OK, I get it. You’re in the khazi. Or something.’ There was a pause. ‘So, the thing is, I’ve got this mate who’s the news editor at a local newspaper and he’s looking for staff. No guarantees or anything, but I can put in a word, if you like. It’s not far; Essex, I think. Near the coast. It’s a bit of a trek, but easily doable. To be honest, you’d be doing him a favour . . .’

  A lump lodged in Erdman’s throat at the generosity of his friend.

  ‘Anyway, let me know. Er, hope you’re feeling OK. Right. Um. See you later.’

  Erdman eased himself off the sofa, limped to the window of the purpose-built flat in Camberwell. It looked out on a residents’ garden where an old man was pulling crusts from a plastic Hovis bag, tearing them into strips for the birds.

  He hoped the police would catch the fuckers who had done this.

  The old man was tipping the bag onto the grass now, pigeons and starlings at his feet like disciples. He was just a pensioner, whiling away the loneliness of his days. But something about the wisps of his silver-grey hair triggered a memory in Erdman.

  Last night, while he was lying, bleeding and broken, in the grass, he had seen a face. He didn’t know who this man was or why he was following him or why he had seemed so familiar, but some instinct warned him that he needed to find out.

  34

  2.54 p.m.

  Jakey Frith was in the toilet cubicles at the back of his classroom, and he was crying. The itch in his arm was a burn that would not stop. And his chest really, really hurt.

  It was a while since he’d felt like this, but he could tell that this flare-up was not good news. He was used to the frustrations and restrictions and irony of a disease which, even while creating extra bone, diminished him. But this pain and heat was a bad sign. He just didn’t know how bad.

  He thought about telling Mrs Husselbee, but she was still cross with him for wandering off.

  ‘You’ll get me into trouble,’ she’d said yesterday, frowning, when he’d limped back up the field. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you.’

  But he didn’t want anyone looking after him. He only wanted his father.

  His mother had been reluctant to let him come to school today, but Jakey had remembered the man’s promise of a puppy, and had insisted he was feeling better.

  He clawed at his arm, his nails raking the tender mound of his flesh. The swelling on his arm was getting larger. He knew it was. And that meant his mother would do as the doctor had told her, and take him to the hospital.

  But he didn’t want to go in case Daddy came back for their bike ride.

  What if Daddy doesn’t come back?

  Two tears leaked out of his eyes.

  He sat on the toilet lid and listened to the rise and fall of Miss Haines’ voice, and knew that Mrs Husselbee would knock on the door in a moment, and ask if he was OK.

  The urge to scratch overtook him again. His nails dug into the site of the inflammation, lacerating his arm in his frenzy to turn the skin inside out. He scratched until his flesh was bleeding, but it only fanned the fire in his arm, so he scratched it again and again.

  Jakey forgot all about the letter and the man in the suit who had promised to give him the puppy that day. He forgot about the worry etched into the lines of his mother’s face. He even forgot, for a moment or two, about his missing father.

  The itch in his arm and the burn in his chest pushed every thought from his brain.

  35

  4.01 p.m.

  Some days, taking the Tube, with its delays and never-ending tourist rush hour, was even slower than going by car. Even so, Fitzroy did not hurry as the escalator carried her out of South Kensington station.

  Around her, the voices of the city merged until she could hardly hear them, lost, as she was, in the rhythm of constant motion.

  She shut her eyes, allowed her mind to wander as the steel staircase climbed upwards. Was it possible? Could this be the breakthrough that she’d been waiting for? It was the last thing she’d expected when The Boss had sent her out to check on the van.

  Fitzroy stepped off the escalator, walked briskly through the tunnel, left and up the stairs.

  It was darker now, and she could see the cold white lights of the ice rink on the corner of Cromwell Road, where she and David had toasted their second anniversary, drinking mulled wine and wobbling on too-tightly-tied skates. The skeleton trees outside the Natural History Museum, bare save for hundreds of fairy lights, reminded her that Christmas was little more than a month away. She prayed Clara’s family would have something to celebrate.

  She ran up the steps, past security, into the cavernous hall with its black-and-white mosaic floor, past the replica Diplodocus, turned left, past the gift shop, past the Mammals, Blue Zone, and there it was: the Darwin Centre.

  Down the steps, turn left again, and she was standing in front of a set of glass doors, decorated with bluebells and butterflies. The Identification and Advisory Service. She pressed the buzzer, and a serious-faced young man with dark hair appeared in the glass. He spoke through the intercom.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Fitzroy?’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  He shrugged, and she stepped through the door. The walls were unnaturally white, illuminated by strips of fluorescent light. A row of green chairs, all empty, lined the corner.

  ‘I’m Dr Dashiell Hall. We spoke on the phone.’ He put out his hand, held her eyes. ‘You have heterochromia iridum.’ His voice lifted in surprised pleasure.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, so distinctive.’ He took a step closer, peered at her face. ‘Brown and blue is my favourite combination.’

  Fitzroy was aware of her cheeks colouring, but Dr Hall didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘You have something to show me?’

  Carefully, she removed the plastic evidence box from the carrier bag, and lifted the lid.

  He raised his eyebrows above his glasses. ‘This would have been much better left in situ,
you know. One of our forensics team could have been with you by tomorrow.’

  Silly girl, she could hear her father saying.

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of time, Dr Hall.’

  ‘Your call,’ he said, already turning away. ‘Follow me.’

  He led Fitzroy past a series of cubicles, each with a computer and microscope, to a row of metal filing cabinets. A stuffed hedgehog in a display case was sitting on top of them, next to a fox. He indicated at Fitzroy to put her box on the table.

  ‘Haven’t had the police here in a while,’ he said, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves.

  ‘That’s a good thing, surely,’ she said.

  His laughter was rich and warm, and reminded Fitzroy that it was a long time since she had heard David make a similar sound. He used to laugh all the time, mostly at her cooking. ‘I suppose it is. I don’t look at the specimens as part of the crime scene, more from a scientific perspective.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘Depends on your definition of “know”. I can tell just by looking that your skeleton is a member of the lagomorph family.’

  ‘And that means what?

  ‘Well, it’s a hare or a rabbit, not a rodent.’

  Her face remained neutral, but her heart was a gallop in her chest. ‘I see. Can you tell how old it is?’

  ‘The skeleton or the specimen itself?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘From its size, I’d say it’s an adult. Look, the bones of the skull and the epiphysis are fused. As for the specimen, it can’t have been in situ for more than a day or so. See, the connective tissues that would have been eaten by carrion insects are still intact. Which is odd.’ He frowned. ‘Was it found in a sealed box or bag?’

  ‘A shoebox, but it wasn’t sealed. It was falling apart in the rain.’

  He moved away from Fitzroy, towards the filing cabinets, pulled out one of the metal drawers.

  ‘Take a look at this.’

  Fitzroy came and stood next to him. He smelled faintly of sweat and the musky scent of andostrenol. In a plastic tray was the skull of a small mammal, its jaw open to reveal teeth as curved as claws. Written on the bone specimen, in black pen, was Oryctolagus Cuniculus.

  ‘Now,’ said Dr Hall, ‘let’s compare these beauties.’

  He removed the skull from the tray and placed it next to Fitzroy’s skeleton, pointed to its jawbone.

  ‘See, the shape of its head and the line of its jaw are pretty much identical.’

  ‘You can narrow it down?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s wild or domestic, and I can’t tell you the species, but I’d say it’s Oryctolagus Cuniculus.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘I assume you know that Homo Sapiens is the collective word for humans.’ Fitzroy gave him a look. ‘Well, Oryctolagus Cuniculus is the one for rabbits.’

  ‘So it’s a rabbit skeleton,’ she said.

  ‘Correct.’

  He placed the specimen tray back in the drawer, pulled off his gloves and turned to Fitzroy with a triumphant grin. She was sagging against the table, her face the same off-white colour as the rabbit skull. His smile faded.

  ‘Oh hell, are you feeling all right? Shall I get you a drink of water?’

  Fitzroy didn’t know what she was feeling. Grace Rodríguez’s case file was flicking through her mind, like the pages of a book. She placed a finger between two of the pages. Brought up the image of a photograph taken in the woods a few hours after her remains had been discovered.

  Deeper into the woods they had gone. The dogs had snuffled the ground in search of reward, twigs cracking beneath their claws. Fitzroy’s flashlight had bounced against the trees, no longer a beacon of hope in the darkness, but of sorrow.

  The wind sliced through her jacket, but she was determined to search these woods until she had found what she had come for. The ballet case had belonged to Grace. There was no doubt. But she needed to find the girl.

  The dogs were a short distance ahead when they began to bark, rupturing the still of the twilit woods.

  A thin moon slid between the clouds. A shouted warning from one of the handlers. Fitzroy had run then, felt the branches beneath her dig into the soles of her shoes.

  And then.

  The horror of discovery, sealed tidily in little sandwich bags.

  Fitzroy and the team had spent hours at the site, collecting evidence and searching for the rest of Grace’s body.

  Then one of the dogs had found the perfectly preserved bones of a small mammal’s skeleton nearby. The scenes of crime photographer had taken a couple of pictures, but no one had paid it much attention, blaming it on the brutality of the natural world. Everyone knew these woods were teeming with life. With death.

  ‘Here, drink this.’

  She swallowed a mouthful of warm water, just to show willing, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, aware of Dr Hall’s eyes upon her.

  ‘I need to know more. As soon as you can.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said Dr Hall. ‘If you give me a couple of days, I’ll tell you its bloody life history.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, holding out her hand, not quite able to look at him.

  His fingers closed around hers. His skin was warm, smooth. ‘My pleasure.’

  She stumbled back across the museum’s pale wooden floorboards, dropped to tie her lace. The grain was riven with the same crooked sewing machine sutures as the fused bones of the rabbit specimen she’d just seen. Hintze Hall rumbled with voices, with footsteps, even this late in the day.

  The Christmas tree outside the gift shop blurred, its silver baubles spinning and drifting in front of her tear-filled eyes. The Boss had warned her last year about getting too emotionally involved in her cases, but she could not help herself.

  In her bleaker moments, when she was suffocating in the memory of her son, the perfectly formed dip between his nose and mouth, the pain of giving birth to a baby who would never draw breath or cry, she blamed herself for his loss.

  For all their losses.

  A child ran, tripped, and his cry pierced her heart.

  36

  4.09 p.m.

  By late afternoon, the Frith house was ablaze, its windows a fierce orange. It was the only bright moment of the day for Lilith, whose optimism was sinking as rapidly as the afternoon sun.

  There had been no word from Erdman. His phone was dead. He wasn’t replying to emails or Facebook messages. Where was he? This was so unlike him. He wasn’t the sort of man who just disappeared. Occasionally he’d forget to call during a bender with Axel, but he always came home to his own bed. To her. Always.

  A couple of weeks before their wedding, he’d gone drinking with a few old friends from university. She hadn’t been too bothered when he wasn’t back the next morning. It was a Saturday, but she was working, snared in the vice of a deadline. By the time she had come up for air it was late afternoon. She had showered and dressed, and stood by the window, watching for him. When the late summer shadows had begun to creep across their garden, a coldness had claimed her and she had gone looking for him.

  The city was stifling, dust and fumes clogging her senses. She had scoured the pubs of their courtship, eyes scanning the crowds for a flash of rust, a pint glass held in a certain way.

  After an hour or so, she found him. He was sitting in a beer garden, a bottle in hand, condensation peeling the label from the glass. The last rays of evening sun had turned his hair into a burnished crown. Across the chattering drinkers, he had looked up, waved and beckoned her over.

  ‘Lilith,’ he had called. ‘Come and have a drink.’

  She had turned on her heels and left.

  He had caught up with her on the way home, panting slightly in the heat. The dampish smell of his sweat, his two-day-old T-shirt, was in her nostrils. She wrenched her hand away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  ‘I was worried.’ Her voice had wavered on the last syllable, loosened by unexpec
ted tears.

  His face had collapsed, stricken.

  ‘We got a bit carried away. I should have called or something.’ He brushed her tears with his thumb. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She wouldn’t look at him, but instead made a performance of rummaging through her handbag, pretending to search for her keys. To show she didn’t care that much.

  He had taken her hand again and this time she let him.

  ‘It won’t happen again, Lilith. I promise. No matter how drunk I get, or how late it is, I’ll always come home.’ He had cupped her chin, looked into her eyes. ‘Deal?’

  She had made him wait a moment or two, but relief had weakened the masonry of her anger.

  ‘Deal.’

  And he had kept his word. Until now.

  She telephoned family and friends to ask if they had seen him. Amber Collins didn’t pick up but Lilith left a message, asking her to check with the rest of her colleagues. She made lists of the places he might be. Even though his phone was off, she sent him a text. I love you. Come home.

  On her way to collect Jakey from school, she had walked across the Heath, right past that bus stop, and seen the fading imprint of blood on the pavement. Erdman’s blood. A wave of dizziness caught her unawares and she clung to a lamp post, as if holding onto a lump of concrete would help rid her of this strange, untethered feeling. It reminded her of the day Jakey was born. Don’t, she told herself. Just don’t. Tears overwhelmed her. I’m so sorry I didn’t appreciate you. I’ll make it up to you when you get home, I promise. Just come home, please.

  Jakey looked exhausted, purpling semicircles beneath his eyes. Heat radiated from him. The school welfare officer had rung her at afternoon break, suggesting she pick him up early.

  ‘Is Daddy back yet?’ he said dully, as if his question was a formality and he already knew the answer. He dropped his Spider-Man rucksack and duffel coat on the floor, and winced.

  ‘Not yet, darling. I’m working on it.’ She bit her lip. ‘How’s your arm? Can I see?’

  But he wouldn’t let her. Instead he’d trudged up to his room, and no amount of coaxing would make him come out. So she left him alone to read his books and play with his toys, to process what was happening.