A letter, lying face up on the desk, snagged his attention. It was from his bank, requesting a meeting to discuss the business. Collecting debts was the last thing on his mind at that moment, but he knew that if it was ignored for much longer, he would lose the company altogether. Frank shook his head at the thought. The least of his concerns right now, perhaps, but a worry he could do without.
The telephone rang. He snatched it up, irritably.
‘Frank Rogers.’ His voice was harsh. Dry and brittle. He cleared his throat.
‘Hello, my dear special detective.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, you know who I am, Frank. I’m the man with the power.’
Frank’s mouth was suddenly drier still. A chill, an insect’s swift scuttle, passed between his shoulder blades. ‘How did you get my number?’ he managed to ask.
‘Oh, it was simple enough. It’s amazing how much information one can purchase these days.’
Shocked as he was by this intrusion, Frank remembered what had to be done. ‘I told you I wouldn’t talk again unless I knew my daughter was still alive.’
‘Oh, yes. Your question. I assure you, Frank, Laura is alive. And well, given her unusual circumstances. Here, let me play you something.’
A moment later, the man could be heard asking, ‘What's your favourite place, Laura?’ His voice echoed, its pitch slightly higher.
‘My favourite place?’ A pause, then: ‘School.’
There was a distinct click, followed by the caller speaking again. ‘You must be proud to have a scholar in the family, Frank.’
Frank had closed his eyes. It was his little girl. His heart sang at hearing Laura’s voice again. But school?
Frank was frowning, deep ridges sagging on his brow like paint applied too thickly and left to dry. It had to be a clue, because Disney World was her favourite place, and no way would this creep come up with such a bluff. Laura liked school well enough, but her favourite place? No. No, it had to be some kind of clue. But what? Is that where he had her, in a disused school? Such a place would be big enough, out of the way even, perhaps in a rural location.
‘Still there, Frank?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m just relieved to know my girl is okay.’
‘Don’t worry yourself about that for now. Worry about this: another gift has been left for you.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, no need to rush, Frank. It’s far too late for you to help my latest piece of work.’
Frank closed his eyes, callused fingertips tracing their edges. There really was no rush. This bastard was as good as his word. He’d let them know where to find the body, right enough. It was his way. Part of his MO. But he would do so in his own good time. Two so far. Number three wouldn’t be any more dead for the delay. But what did he mean by ‘piece of work’?
You have to know, Frank. This has gone on too long. You have to know this man. You have to see him in your mind.
‘What work?’ he asked.
‘My art, of course. One can do so many wonderful, creative things with the human body, special detective.’
Frank’s face began to burn. The two previous examples of this madman’s creativity still haunted him. The question was, did the monster truly believe in his own words, or was he merely playing to an audience? The beat of a drummer no one else was able to hear.
Frank wrestled with his thoughts for a heartbeat or two.
‘Some would say you have other, less aesthetic reasons for what you do,’ he said.
‘Oh, I know them all, Frank. Believe me, I’ve heard the tired ramblings of expensive meddlers. But no, I have no desire to sleep with my mother. Even if I had, necrophilia is not my style. You know that. I don’t fuck ’em once they’re dead, special detective. Not in the given sense. I just work on them. I am not impotent, nor am I shy around women. I had a decent childhood, I was kind to our pets, and I am not a loner. In short, I am not a stereotype. I am me. My own man. I remain true to myself. But tell me something, Frank. Do you?’
‘I think so, yes,’ he muttered, distracted by the man’s words. ‘Expensive meddlers’. The phrase stuck in his mind. ‘Expensive meddlers’. Psychiatrists?
‘‘Think so’. Come, come. That’s nowhere near good enough for a man of your calibre. Be more positive.’
‘I am, then.’
‘Really? Perhaps. We shall have to see. I have a feeling your true worth will be put to the test before long. I see your face in the newspapers, Frank. I like what I see. And no, I am not a homosexual. I prefer the female of the species. You only have to see what I make of them to know that. But you look to be a worthy opponent. Women, alas, are not. Your new woman looks nice though, Frank. Capable, I’d say. Quite a candid picture one tabloid ran of you and … Debbie this morning. The name suits her. Nothing flash or whimsical. Nothing above her station in life.’
Frank felt himself shake with anger. The press must have been watching him from a distance since the case broke into the news. Grubby people spying on him, waiting for that first photograph of him breaking down. Instead they got some dirt.
‘You leave Debbie out of this.’ His voice was low, imbued with controlled aggression.
‘I don’t know that I can. She interests me. But then, so did your wife, though for entirely different reasons. The new floozy is so much nicer than Janet, Frank. Your good wife’s photo may not have done her justice, but you’re better off out of it, I’d say.’
‘Now listen! I’m warning you …’ Frank’s hand squeezed tight around the receiver.
The cold, mocking voice interrupted him. ‘A natural reaction. But a waste of your precious energy and emotion. Why not save it for Debbie? I’m sure she’s demanding. Is she, special detective? Does she like to experiment in bed?’
‘I told you to leave her …’
‘Her breasts. About a thirty-six C-cup?’
Exactly, Frank had time to think.
‘Do her nipples taste good?’
Frank continued to fight it. The urge to slam the phone down, to shut out that terribly confident voice, was almost overwhelming. But he couldn’t react. He had already shown far too much weakness.
‘I bet they do, Special Detective Rogers. I bet if I ran my tongue over them they would taste so sweet. But tell me, how do you think those milky white breasts would look and feel if I took a nice sharp chisel to those darling buds?’
Snapping point. The pencil Frank had been balancing between his fingers broke in two with a loud crack. ‘You bastard! You low-life, scum-sucking …’
‘Now, now. Is that any way to talk to a taxpayer?’
‘You and me, filth. Just you and me. I challenge you to meet me face to face, you fucking cowardly prick.’
‘You sound so sincere, Frank.’
‘I am. Believe me, I am.’
‘A little sincerity is a dangerous thing.’
‘Don’t fuck about, you coward. Meet me. Do it. If you’re man enough’
‘Oh, I don’t think that would be wise.’
‘So, I was right. You’re just a common coward.’
‘I am anything but common, Frank.’
Frank clamped down on another outburst. No. Goading this man would not work. Never, no matter how often he did it. He was playing into the bastard’s hands. And he still has Laura. Don’t forget that. Never forget that.
‘Okay.’ Softer now. Controlled. ‘Have it your way. Tell me where I can find the latest victim.’
‘I’ll tell you in a moment. First, I’d like to find out how well you know the delightful Debbie.’
‘Forget it. I won’t discuss her with you.’
‘You already are. Still, I’d watch out for her dark side if I were you, Frank. She must have one. Why else do you interest her? You’re so dark yourself. Only you don’t know just how dark. That’s why you are working on my case. Kindred spirits, you and I. Kindred spirits.’
Frank let it wash over him. He waited until the silence had soaked up all the menace
. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.
This time the madman told him. Then he laughed. ‘As for doubting my manhood earlier, Frank. Perhaps I will have to now do something to prove it to you.’ Then he hung up.
Frank slammed the phone down. He sat there for a few seconds, fighting the bile-black rage that threatened to envelop him, a rage that wanted to chew his heart and soul and mind to pieces. A hot coal burned in the pit of his stomach, churning, eating into his nerve-ends. He willed it away, eyes closed in concentration, sweat beading his hairline.
A noise startled him. His head jerked around in a blur of motion. Debbie was standing in the doorway. Her face was pale, one hand clutched to her throat.
‘How long have you been there?’ he asked.
Debbie was wearing his towelling dressing gown. She pulled it tight against her body, hugging herself, clearly distraught. ‘Long enough,’ she said. Debbie hung her head. Then added: ‘In fact…too long, Frank. Way, way too long.’
31
Laura raised her head from the soft pillow she had made from the pile of clothes. Her sleep had been fitful again, filled with terrifying images she could not remember clearly, but which had left her with an immense feeling of dread. A scuffle of movement outside the room had alerted her, and now both eyes were fastened on the door. Would one of them come for her now? Did it even matter? Perhaps she was already past caring.
She had no idea what time of day it was, and the rumblings in her stomach gave no clue. The deep growl was permanent – or so it seemed. She was constantly hungry, the meagre scraps they fed her barely enough to keep her alive. What little routine there was in this terrible place revolved around irregular meals and visits to the toilet. They would bring food and drink to her when they felt like it or thought about it. Some time after, one of them would collect the dishes. Later still she would be taken out of the room and led along a wide, bright passageway to the immense lavatory; the only other part of the building they had so far allowed her to see.
Mealtimes terrified her.
When the rattle of keys came in the lock, Laura’s dulled senses seemed to kick in, releasing a flood of adrenaline. Anxiety took her by the hand. The trouble was, she never knew what to expect from either of them.
There was never much in the way of sustenance: a bowl containing a small amount of rice and a single potato; a thin soup, perhaps; watery porridge, which reminded her of the thin gruel her grandmother used to make when she and Gary stayed over at their grandparents’ house. There was never any meat, nor bread. Even so, she welcomed any of these meals, and ate voraciously, all the while telling herself to slow down, to savour each mouthful, even as she shovelled it into her mouth with her fingers.
Occasionally, however, there would be an unwelcome surprise waiting for her. Rancid milk had appeared on the menu again. Once there was a thin gravy liberally poured over a dead mouse, its intestines bursting through a gash left by the spring-trap it had blindly wandered into. She didn’t eat this, but the thought of the man forcing her to do so stayed with her for hours afterwards. Another time she had spooned into her mouth a quite presentable vegetable stew, only to discover that its ingredients included wood-lice and tiny spiders, some of which were still alive.
Her captors had scarcely spoken to her since the initial flurry of exchanges. The woman would study her more closely than the man did, her eyes roaming, exploring Laura’s developing body. The girl felt unveiled by the scrutiny, its touch like the brush of a cobweb in the dark.
The woman worried her.
But the man petrified her.
He hadn’t touched or physically abused her in any way, yet his presence filled her with absolute dread every time he entered the room. She wouldn’t have been able to explain her terror to anyone, it was just instinctive, a sense of … of something evil and brooding and deadly. If he was in the room she had to be on her guard all the time, speaking only when he did, and only then after careful consideration. It demanded enormous concentration, and sometimes Laura felt it was beyond her. The man was unstable, seeming to teeter wildly on the edge between normality and madness. It was like being locked in a room with a rattlesnake, or a scorpion.
At one point, the growing stench of being unclean making her feel nauseous and degraded, Laura asked if she might have a wash. The man had turned his cold eyes upon her, a blank and glassy, pitiless gaze.
‘Wash?’ he said. It was as if the word meant nothing to him. ‘You want to wash?’
‘Yes, please.’ Laura offered a tired smile.
Without a word he left the room, returning moments later with a large red pail, the word FIRE stencilled on its side. She thought he would set it down and leave her to it. Instead he launched its contents over her with one sudden movement, the icy water drenching her frail body, its impact stalling her breath. He then hurled the pail across the room and turned on her as it first smashed against the wall then clattered to the floor.
‘Next time I’ll hose you down, you little bitch. Would you like that?’ He bent forward, glowering, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Well … would you?’
‘No.’ Laura sat there with water dripping from her nose and chin, hair plastered to her scalp, the thin cotton dress soaked through and clinging to her body.
‘I guess you won’t want to wash again, will you?’
Laura shook her head. Tears now rushed down her cheeks, merging with the foul-smelling, stagnant water.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ he said melodically, almost singing the words. One hand cupped behind his ear.
‘No. I won’t.’
‘No. Of course. I thought not. You sluts are all the same.’ He shook his head as if disappointed in her, then stormed from the room.
After that she had to fight an inner battle to stop herself from flinching every time he came near. The trouble was she was unable to decipher his moods. Smiles were swept away in an instant, replaced by a savage intensity that threatened to explode at any moment. He seemed to bring a chill into the room with him.
And every time he left he paused at the doorway and asked the same question: ‘Have you been inside my house?’
And always she would answer ‘No’.
Now she heard the familiar jangle of keys once more. The lock snapped back. The door inched open. The girl swallowed hard. It was him. It didn’t feel like mealtime, and she wasn’t due to use the toilet. This just seemed like a different sort of intrusion from all the others. So, was this it? Had her time come? Was she about to discover the purpose of him taking her, the reason behind the slaying of her mother and brother?
She thought so.
As the door swung fully open and she saw the detached look on his face, she really did think so. And she hoped she would be strong enough not to beg for mercy.
32
Another deserted building. Another murdered child.
This time they found the body in a disused multi-storey car park next to an outdoor market in Acton. All gates leading into the car park were securely padlocked, but the lock of a door at the side of the building had been removed, and entry gained away from prying eyes. The corpse was left sitting propped against one of the concrete pillars, like a beggar waiting for the next handout.
Detective Superintendent Foster was conspicuous by his absence. Nicky Loizou had handled everything with the scene of crime officers, ensuring the chain of evidence, such as it was. Frank Rogers managed to stay in the background, observing from a distance, trying to remain objective if not detached. Geraldine McGiven was now confirmed as the second victim. If the monster was playing true to form, Frank thought, as he and Nicky finally left the SOCO to it, this would be Tracey Edmunds from Sheffield.
Sebastian Reeves was attending the scene of a fatal shooting in Finsbury Park, but Ernie Chalk, another pathologist well known to Frank, had arrived and would also be able to perform the post-mortem. More to the point, he was willing to do so even on a Saturday.
As with Geraldine, the girl had not been disfigured in the w
ay the first victim had, yet there was something different about the body. The child’s flesh was a little less decomposed than the others, but it hung on its skeletal framework like an ill-fitting suit. It sagged and drooped obscenely over her slender frame, and across her stomach was a gaping maw, out of which bulged the purplish remnants of her stomach and intestines.
Returning to the annexe from the scene, Frank and Nicky arranged to meet the following day. Nicky appeared exhausted from the now constant throng of crime scenes to attend, young victims to take care of, reports to complete, next of kin to inform, and identities to confirm. Frank was simply overwhelmed by all that his mind fed to him in a drip-feed of dark imagination. He was literally worn down by fear.
‘You seeing Debs tonight?’ Nicky asked. He now looked as crumpled as his clothing.
‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’ll see her until Monday at the crematorium. I probably won’t be fit company until afterwards.’
‘You think it’ll work out? You and her.’
Frank gave an expansive shrug. ‘Who can tell? It’s perhaps something and nothing. I can’t see that far ahead.’
‘But you like her, yes?’
‘I love her, Nicky. We love each other, but sometimes that’s not enough.’
‘But it’s a damned good start.’ Nicky smiled. ‘Just go with it. See where it leads.’
‘Maybe. But I’ve got a bit on my mind just now, mate.’
‘Debs is the kind of woman who’ll understand. She’ll give you all the space and time you need.’
Degrees of Darkness Page 17