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

by Fiona Cummins

  ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  A couple of seconds was all it took. ‘Yeah, I know him. He’s one of my team. His name’s Brian Howley.’ She picked up the glossy print. ‘What’s he done, then?’

  Fitzroy did not hear her final question. Time was slowing, the room fading to a blur. Inside her body, her blood pressure was rising, the veins constricting and expanding to flood her brain with oxygen.

  She shared a brief, triumphant glance with Chambers.

  We have a name. Halle-fucking-lujah, we have a name.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could keep this conversation to yourself,’ she said instead. ‘Just for the moment.’

  The human resources manager, she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name, handed her a pale brown folder from the stack on the desk. BRIAN HOWLEY was typed on a white label stuck on the front.

  ‘He’s a domestic,’ said the Man With No Name. ‘Cleaning floors, that kind of thing. He’s here at night, been at the hospital a long time, you know.’

  Fitzroy didn’t know. She rather hoped that this Brian Howley might enlighten her. But she needed to find out who she was dealing with first. She poured a glass of water and wished it was coffee. Or Red Bull.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Forty years or so.’

  She heard again the words of retired Detective Inspector Felix Tapp. ‘Then Erdman was sick all over the head honcho’s office, and they had to call someone to clean it.’

  She tried not to think of the families, of Lilith and Erdman Frith, of Miles and Amy Foyle, of the brief flare of hope she had heard in Conchita Rodríguez’s voice. She could not bear to let them down.

  ‘So he works nights?’

  Karen gave a slow nod. ‘That’s right, and the odd day, here and there.’

  Fitzroy glanced at the notes in the folder. ‘On the maternity ward?’

  ‘Usually, yes. But sometimes he gets moved around if we’re short-staffed.’

  ‘Has Mr Howley ever behaved in a manner that has caused you or your colleagues concern?’

  ‘To be honest, I hardly notice he’s there. He doesn’t say much. Just gets on with the job. I do know he lives at home with his wife. She’s not well, I believe.’

  Chambers wrote something in his notebook.

  ‘Is he a good employee?’

  Karen laughed. ‘Who is? He’s a bit late, now and then. Could do with a decent wash and a squirt of deodorant.’

  ‘Is he at work now?’ said Fitzroy.

  Karen pulled a crumpled rota from her pocket and unfolded it.

  ‘No, he left at seven a.m.’

  ‘Due in tonight?’

  ‘Monday’s his night off.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Should be in his file. Near Catford, I think. Or Bromley. Somewhere like that.’ Karen gnawed at the skin around her nail. ‘Is that all? I’m happy to help, but I need to get back to work. I’ve got to leave by six, to collect my son from nursery.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fitzroy, standing up. ‘Let us know if you remember anything else, won’t you?’

  The Boss moved quickly. An elite team of senior officers was put together to raid Howley’s address in a few hours’ time.

  ‘I want to be there,’ said Fitzroy.

  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulder, looked into her eyes. ‘I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Fitzroy—’

  ‘I said I’m fine.’

  ‘And I said no. I know what this means to you, and I want you in the interview room when we bring him in. But I can’t have you in a high-pressure field situation, you must realize that.’

  Every syllable resonated with empathy. Fitzroy couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s because of last year. I know what I did was wrong, but I’ve paid for it a hundred times over. I lost my temper but it won’t happen again, I promise.’

  ‘You leapt to conclusions, Fitzroy. It was a mistake, yes, but it diverted our attention from the search for Grace.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘It cost me an experienced DS.’

  ‘But I’m back now, aren’t I? So use me. Please.’

  But The Boss wouldn’t budge.

  ‘As soon as he arrives in the interview suite, hit him hard. Don’t give him room to fucking breathe. I’ll keep you updated, I promise.’

  She waited for him to leave before punching the wall and proving his point.

  Evening fell upon the city. The hospital corridors filled up with visitors, laden with carrier bags of sandwiches and biscuits to supplement the mealtime slop. Fitzroy slipped past them all, like a fish swimming against the surging tide.

  The familiar tang of antiseptic reminded her of bleaker times. Of that awful weekend she had spent here, alone and bereft. Before David. Before she had properly understood what it meant to be a mother. It was another time, one she had worked hard to lock away beneath the layers of her life.

  Unwelcome tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away. Crying on the job wouldn’t do.

  Outside, the cold air hit her like a slap.

  They would be planning it now, meticulous, detailed. Who would lead it? Whether to set up covert surveillance first? How many specialist firearms officers to utilize? How soon could they safely move in? Chambers was on the operation. She was not. Despite everything, The Boss was not ready to trust her again. She had let emotion get the better of her during the Girl in the Woods investigation, and he seemed to think she would do so again. She rubbed her knuckles. Perhaps he was right.

  Fitzroy wandered across the hospital car park, towards the alleyway that would take her back to her flat. She had a few hours, at least, before she was needed. David would be at football training. She could grab a snack, a shower.

  A frost was already beginning to settle on the cars. A figure hurried past, hood pulled up. The stars were hard jewels against the sky.

  And a set of footsteps, echoing across the concrete path.

  Her fingers found the keys in her pocket. She turned around, not sure what to expect, but always prepared.

  It was Karen Matthews, the cleaning operations manager.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ she said.

  Fitzroy released a breath, and let the keys drop. Karen was pulling a pair of leather gloves from her bag.

  ‘Got Mum to pick him up in the end. She didn’t half grumble, but she loves to see her grandson and I did say I’d bring in fish and chips.’

  At the mention of food, Fitzroy’s mouth watered. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything, let alone a decent meal. Karen was now buttoning up her coat.

  ‘Blimey, it’s freezing. I’m sure I heard on the radio that they’re forecasting snow. I love it when it snows.’ She grinned. ‘Or at least I do until I have to drive in it.’

  Fitzroy gave a smear of a smile. She was tired and pissed off. She wanted to be on her own. Away from this brick edifice of a hospital with its secrets and its sadness. ‘You said you were looking for me.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Karen, pulling down her hat over her ears. ‘I was just about to go home when I remembered something about Brian Howley.’

  75

  9.14 p.m.

  Lilith was sleeping again. It worried him, this endless sleeping. Like she was shutting off from the world until, one day, she simply wouldn’t wake up.

  Gently, Erdman pushed on the door, peered into the room. Her bedside lamp was lit, a glass of water and an open bottle of sleeping pills resting on the table. She was pale and still.

  Time stopped.

  She exhaled.

  Time started again.

  Her breath was slow and steady, but even in sleep, the lines on her face marked out her grief.

  He shouldn’t have taken off like that. He should have stayed with her. She was prickly, yes. But she shouldn’t be on her own. He loved her. He should be taking care of her. Instead he had spent
all day walking the streets of the city, visiting his usual haunts, looking over his shoulder. And for what? ‘Come and get me,’ he had wanted to yell to the widening grey skies.

  But the man was nowhere to be seen.

  Erdman arranged a blanket over his wife, and shut the door on his pain.

  The landing was cold in the winter gloom, Jakey’s bedroom door slightly ajar.

  An invitation.

  He hadn’t been in there since he’d walked out on Tuesday. But now he wanted to punish himself.

  Erdman Frith was crowned Loser of the Decade last night for failing to protect his only child. The father of one had only himself to blame.

  The police had tried to leave the room tidy, but how were they to know that Jakey preferred his Lego models on the windowsill because he couldn’t reach the shelf? That his dressing gown was never hooked on the back of the door, but hid the ‘eyes’ of the wardrobe knobs instead.

  A guttural sound, base, anguished, tore from him.

  Erdman moved around his son’s bedroom. He gathered all of Jakey’s soft toys, arranged them on his pillow. He folded his Spider-Man pyjamas, slipped them into his cold bed.

  Picked up his school jumper, flung carelessly across the top of the wash bin, and inhaled its worn, dirty smell, seeking traces of his boy. Threw it, along with his disappointment, into the jumble of unwashed uniform.

  Silence, endless silence, was everywhere.

  He looked back at the row of soft toys watching him, and felt a prickle of panic.

  Mr Bunnikins. Where’s Mr Bunnikins?

  A compulsion seized him. He must find Jakey’s stuffed rabbit. The one he’d had since he was born. The one he took everywhere with him. The one he knew smelled of his son, because he was always teasing Jakey that it needed a wash.

  Erdman’s fingers groped the dusty underside of Jakey’s bed, the gap between the mattress and the wall, behind the toy boxes, the little nooks and crannies of his bedroom, the hidey-holes. Nothing. Where could it be? Think, Erdman, think.

  Perhaps Jakey had taken it to school. They were allowed, he knew, to take one pocket-sized toy with them. Pocket-sized was stretching it, but it wasn’t the first time Jakey’s illness had allowed him some exemption from the rules.

  He cast around for Jakey’s school bag. No luck. Thudded downstairs, to the hall cupboard filled with old coats and shoes and memories.

  And there it was. His son’s Spider-Man rucksack.

  Erdman’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the zip. His fingers closed around a Lego brick, a pen missing its lid, a couple of football trading cards.

  But no Mr Bunnikins.

  Had Jakey taken him to the hospital? He wracked his brains, tried to remember the soft rabbit, tucked in his son’s limp arms.

  He checked again, as if, by some miracle, he had missed it. Jakey’s reading book. His water bottle. An unopened envelope.

  Erdman slid out the white rectangle and stared at the handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Haines, Jakey’s teacher. But neither he nor Lilith had written it.

  He tore it open, scanned the lies scratched into paper in a hand he didn’t recognize.

  Fucker. The fucker had been planning this all along.

  He grabbed his jacket, laced up his trainers, tucked the letter into his pocket to show Fitzroy. He would let Lilith sleep on, but his son was out there, and he was going to find him for her.

  And he would start with Mr Bunnikins and the hospital.

  A couple of streets away, a family was sitting around a big kitchen table in a beautiful house. Anyone glancing through the window would have believed that the light of good fortune was shining upon them. A lamp was warming their faces, and the expensive artworks on the walls. A young girl was talking animatedly to her parents, hands flying about. The mother was sipping from her wine glass, the father, head slightly bent, enjoying his girls.

  Inside, though, the Foyle family was breaking apart.

  Eleanor was waving her arms around, but in distress, not joy.

  ‘Where’s Gina?’

  ‘Her mother’s ill. She’s had to go home.’ Amy almost believed it herself.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘That’s right, sweetie.’ He didn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘So when’s she coming back?’

  The silence filled the kitchen.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Amy rose from her seat and put an arm around her daughter, smoothing back her hair. ‘I’m not sure she is, El. Her mum’s pretty poorly.’

  ‘She was the only person left in this house who cared about me and now she’s gone too.’

  Eleanor had run, crying, from the room. Amy let her go. She wasn’t quite sure what had happened, only that her eldest daughter had been very upset after their argument, and wouldn’t talk to either her or Miles. She had her suspicions, of course. Gina could barely look at her when she’d mumbled she needed to return home to Lincolnshire in a hurry, and when Miles had got back from running her to the station, he was wearing that hang-dog expression she had come to recognize. She wasn’t even sure she cared. She was beginning to realize how disengaged from her family she had become, how she had gradually withdrawn into her own brittle world of manicures and lunches and shopping, and what an empty and insubstantial place it was.

  Miles was still sitting at the table, sipping a glass of Merlot and fiddling with his iPad. She watched him for a while, and feeling her gaze on him, he looked up. His eyes were clouded with – what? Guilt, she decided. The colour of lust was not red, after all, but a pale, watery blue.

  She turned her back on him without a word and climbed the stairs to begin the job of becoming a mother to her remaining child.

  76

  9.37 p.m.

  A surly darkness had staked its claim on the room, the threads of twilight spooling through the window long vanquished.

  The lamp glow slipped between the gaps of the vertebrae of the skeletons suspended in a crescent shape from the ceiling, illuminating the curve and length of their bones. The echoes of their former lives drifted through his museum like music.

  The glass cases in the strange Ossuary downstairs were filled with bone deformities, cortical and cancellous oddities, each a tribute to misfortune and pain.

  But the bones of these skeletons – hidden upstairs in the attic of this brick box of a house in an anonymous street – were ordinary, unremarkable.

  Abandoned.

  Night was falling, the darkness seemed thicker, more dense. The faint sounds of traffic seeped in through cracks in the walls.

  Footsteps skittered across the floor. Mice, probably.

  Shadows moved and danced as moonlight caressed the horizon.

  In the room next door, a young boy opened his eyes and coughed twice. He screwed up his forehead in pain. The burn in his lungs was extreme, but his fever had broken, his skin now cool and dry. The ferocious ache in his forearm had also eased. A new lump of bone had frozen his ‘good’ arm against his abdomen, but he had escaped this flare-up with movement in his hand.

  Although he didn’t know it or feel it, Jakey had been lucky.

  He was no longer on the cold, hard floor, but lying on a lumpy mattress with no recollection of how he had got there apart from the memory of a young girl’s singing.

  Jakey’s head swam as he sat up, the light from the lamp making him squint. His pyjamas smelled stale and unpleasant. A piece of bread with tiny blue spores of mould was on the floor and he tore at it, crumbs spilling from his mouth. The glass of milk tasted chalky, but he gulped it down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  His bladder pulled at him painfully, and he shuffled to the bucket in the corner. Back to the mattress.

  He tried very hard not to think about what had happened that morning.

  How he had been woken by the sound of a door opening, and a child’s voice rising, asking questions. A low voice, two sets of footsteps, one lighter than the other. No sounds of a struggle, no tears, and then they were go
ne, leaving behind them the silence of an empty room.

  How, in a state of half-delirium, he had crawled across the concrete floor, pressed his mouth to the vent.

  ‘Clara?’ he had whispered. ‘Are you there?’

  But she did not answer.

  She did not answer when he tried a couple of hours later, or when a weak afternoon sun warmed the cold sky outside, or when night spread its stain across the city and the stars hid their light.

  77

  10 p.m.

  Clara was not in his cutting room, or his museum. She was not in the house at all. The girl the whole country was looking for was asleep in ice-tainted darkness in a place she’d never been to before.

  Mercifully, she would stay that way until the first rays of dawn touched her skin, and so would not hear the rats who made their home beneath, or the cries of the barn owls at hunt.

  When the Night Man had come to collect her that morning, he had promised to take her home to her mother, if only she would drink her milk, and walk nicely down the stairs and into the van.

  That was the conversation, the footsteps that Jakey Frith had heard.

  Clara had done as he’d asked, even though the milk’s warm sourness had made her gag. Despite the fear stippling her insides, she had climbed into that hated grey box, and she had tried hard not to cry.

  On the floor of the van, she had found a stuffed toy rabbit, so loved its fur was rubbed bare in places. She had pressed its floppy ears against her cheek and wondered if it belonged to the boy in the room next door.

  Jay-key.

  She hoped he would be OK now she was going home.

  The motion of the van and the effects of the drugged milk lulled Clara to sleep. She did not know that the city’s narrow streets had widened into a trunk road, that, in turn, the high-rises and advertising hoardings forming an urban guard of honour had become trees and lonely, flat fields, bracketed by the sea.

  Eventually, the man named Brian Howley had turned left down a lane, the van bumping over uneven ground until it reached a field with a padlocked gate. The rain-dirty sky was vast above Clara’s head as he carried her through a gap in the fencing and across the sandy grass to the new hiding place he had chosen for her.