Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  Frank had an almost overpowering urge to race to the window. He held himself in check. The silence in the room was complete. Neither man even took a breath.

  The radio squawked again. ‘Warren to Nicky. He’s inside the building. He’s all yours, guv’nor.’

  43

  Frank and Nicky stood behind the door, bracing themselves against the wall. Nicky had inserted an ear-piece to keep any radio transmissions to himself. Frank watched him closely, tense, nervous, overwound.

  ‘Warren to Nicky. Target has entered the lift. We are about to surround the building.’

  Nicky depressed the button on his radio. ‘Nicky to Tom. Target in the lift.’ He described their quarry, then added, ‘Make sure everyone is absolutely clear about what they have to do. And for God’s sake, don’t jump the gun. He must be allowed to enter this room.’

  ‘Tom to Nicky. Understood, boss. Will let you know as soon as we have eyeball.’

  Nicky blew out his cheeks. He caught Frank’s scrutiny, gave a nod and a wink.

  It seemed an age before the ear-piece hissed again. ‘Tom to Nicky. Target has just stepped out of the lift…’

  Nicky grasped Frank’s arm. He put a finger to his lips. Both men held their breath.

  ‘… moving down the corridor … slowly … taking something out of his jacket pocket … okay, here we go … it’s keys … putting one in the slot … turning … he’s all yours, boss.’

  What followed took only a matter of seconds. The door opened inwards. A tall figure stepped over the threshold, his shadow spilling across the beige cord of the office carpet. Frank heaved his shoulder against the door, sending the figure crashing against its frame. Before the man could recover and react, both Nicky and Frank were all over him.

  Nicky went for the man’s upraised hands. Frank threw himself forward, hitting the man’s chest with his forearm. The man went down with a gasp that sounded like a broken air-line. No sooner had he hit the floor than Frank fell forward, ramming his knees into the nape of the man’s neck. Nicky crouched low, pulling the flailing hands together, reaching for the plastic cuffs in his back pocket.

  It was no contest. Frank rolled the man over as Nicky began to read him his rights. Long before the figure was secure, Tom Whelan had appeared at the door with his team in tow. They stood back, ready to act if necessary.

  It wasn’t him. Frank knew right away. He knew as soon as he looked into the man’s terrified, bewildered eyes. Knew long before the man’s cap was torn off, revealing a mop of gelled hair, pulled back and tied in a small pony-tail.

  Vincent Tanner sat at the office desk, sore and bruised, but mostly undamaged. Around him, Tom, Warren, Nicky and Frank paced uneasily. They had been firing questions for a little over an hour, and each of them knew in his heart that the man was telling the truth.

  ‘One more time,’ Frank said. He stopped pacing, looked down at the man, thankful that his inner fury hadn’t taken a hold at the wrong moment. This man would be dead, otherwise.

  Tanner looked up. His mood had turned from fear, to incomprehension, to anger, and finally to outrage. ‘Again? How many more times? You say I’m not under arrest, but you won’t let me go. I have rights, you know.’

  ‘Mr Tanner,’ Frank sighed. He felt so weary. ‘Terrible crimes have been committed. Vicious murders. The man responsible is either you or the person you claim to work for. Now, I’m telling you that I believe you when you say you are innocent of these crimes, but we have to be absolutely clear in our minds about everything before we can let you just walk away. So, you can either sit here and go through it again, or we can bring you in for questioning and hold you in a cell for the next thirty-six hours. Which would you prefer?’

  He didn’t like bullying Tanner. The man had received a big enough shock already. But time was wasting, and it was too precious a commodity to let trickle away on posturing.

  ‘You can’t treat me like this.’

  Nicky stepped forward and slapped a hand down on the desk. His face was creased with anger and frustration. ‘Look, Mr Tanner. For all we know you could be a part of it. You could be the front man or his partner, so don’t think you’re off the hook. Now, run through it again, or we’ll do it down at the nick.’

  Tanner gritted his teeth, but nodded. ‘Okay. About a year ago I answered an advertisement for someone wanting a photographer. Old school. None of this digital lark. Proper film. I was interviewed at one of his shoots at a Mothercare in Southall. I was told that I would be shooting kids at shops, doing my own developing, virtually being my own boss. The money was good, the hours suited, so I took it.

  The guy told me he would be travelling all over the country for long periods, so we established a routine. He asked me to set up an office and darkroom, which he paid for. He would come and go as and when he could, would leave me a schedule, I would do the jobs, develop the shots, and he would see to the business side of things. I was told to leave the weekly prints in an envelope which would be collected from this office. Once a month an envelope would be left for me. He paid cash, making me self-employed. He also left the money for the rent, though it was paid in my name for tax purposes.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Tom Whelan asked.

  ‘Jesus! I’ve told you …’

  ‘So, tell me again.’

  ‘He was a big guy. Six-two, maybe taller. Skinny. Like me he wore a baseball cap, but it looked as if he might be bald underneath.’

  ‘Scars? Any other distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Yeah. He had a scar just under his left eye. About an inch long.’

  Frank sat down opposite Tanner. ‘Okay. How many times have you met with your boss since you started?’

  Tanner crossed his arms. ‘Not once. Haven’t seen him since that day I was interviewed.’

  ‘Talked with him?’

  ‘Many times. If ever I had a query I used to leave him a note. Sometimes he would call me about it.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it was a peculiar arrangement?’ This from Nicky.

  Tanner nodded and shrugged. ‘Sure. But when you have a good deal like I have, you don’t rock the boat. Know what I mean?’

  ‘About that interview. Where was the job advertised?’ asked Frank.

  Tanner stroked his chin. ‘You got me there. I was out of work, so I was scouring all the papers and websites. Could’ve been from anywhere.’

  ‘Think harder,’ a thick Irish brogue insisted. Whelan moved a little closer, his presence intended to intimidate.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  Frank leaned back in the chair. He closed his eyes. Nicky took over. ‘Okay, Mr Tanner. So, you have this nice little earner, the boss is a bit peculiar, but you don’t care as long as you get paid. Nothing wrong in that. You said he wanted you to do shops. Tell me, did you ever do schools?’

  Tanner frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that. I never did. I wondered about it. I used to do a similar job some years ago, but then I did shops, playgroups, schools, Santa’s grotto … you name it. With this job, I only ever did shops and department stores.’

  ‘Did your boss ever ask you to sound the children out?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, for instance, did he ever ask you to find out whether the children had any pets?’

  ‘No …’ Tanner shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Not really. He said that I should put them at their ease. You know, talk about things they enjoyed. Get them in the mood. But never any specific questions.’

  Frank rubbed his eyes. Tanner’s response worried him. They now knew that out of the seven girls, five had their photos taken at school shortly before being abducted. That still left two taken in shops. He flipped open his notebook. ‘Tell me, Mr Tanner, are your negatives and customer records stored here?’

  ‘No. Whoever collects the weekly contact sheets, also takes the negs, prints, and does all the business records elsewhere.’

  Capel cursed. ‘So, you have no direct way of con
tacting your own boss, and we have no way of tracing him.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘That’s about it.’

  Frank got up and walked across to the window. The traffic outside was stalled, steaming in the ever-increasing heat. There was a smell of hot oil and muted irritation. He pushed up the lower sash, but only warm air wafted in. There was no breeze. He turned slowly.

  ‘You can go,’ he said to Tanner. ‘Carry on with your schedule as if nothing had ever happened. Do so until we advise you otherwise. What day does he come to pick up your weekly output?’

  Tanner got to his feet, dishevelled and still simmering. ‘Monday mornings. I get here first thing as usual, drop everything off. Tuesday morning they’re gone.’

  ‘Okay. Now this is very important, so listen close. If your boss calls, you don’t breathe a word about this. It never happened, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Frank stood right in front of the man, locking eyes. ‘I mean it. I know you’re not happy about this and you may feel like getting back at us, but that would not be a clever thing to do. You warn him off and I’ll see you inside as an accessory. I’ll also make sure that you get placed inside a very hard jail, and then I’ll make sure that every con on your wing knows that you sided with a child killer.’

  Tanner nodded once, mute with fear. Nicky showed him out. Someone said ‘Bastard.’ All eyes turned to Tom Whelan, who slammed the door shut behind Tanner. ‘Fuck it!’ he added.

  ‘Well, lads,’ Nicky said, now perched on the edge of the desk. ‘It looks like we bring the whole show back on Monday.’

  ‘Too long,’ said Frank. He looked as if he had aged five years in the past few hours. ‘Three days is too long. He’ll call before then. And my little girl is running out of time.’

  ‘Not a lot else we can do, Frank,’ Whelan said. His whole frame indicated his state of mind far more eloquently than words ever could. His shoulders were slumped forward, chin down, muscles relaxed. ‘This is the only place we can trace him back to. If he doesn’t pick the stuff up himself, someone else must. Eventually something or someone must lead back to him.’

  After a final search of the premises the four men left the office, disenchanted, frustrated with life. Frank wished he shared Tom Whelan’s confidence. Whoever their man was, he was cunning. He had himself covered all the way, leaving the police to chase their tails. If he had slipped up so far, Frank hadn’t noticed. Why should he slip up now?

  Too long, he thought again. By the weekend, he’ll give us another gift. And this time it could be Laura.

  44

  His name was Lawrence Swain, and the office he visited that morning had no connection whatsoever with either of the two so far uncovered by the police. He leased the entire top floor of a three-storey corner building just off Great Eastern Street in Shoreditch, EC1. It was where he kept all his records and negatives, where he did all his own developing.

  The floor had once been leased by a printing company. It comprised three partitioned offices, a wash room and toilet, and an open-plan room where the marks of old machinery still lingered on the vinyl floor. It was a vast area, yet just about every inch of wall space was now taken up by photographs of varying sizes. In the largest of the three offices, a life-size print of Laura Rogers hung on the back of the door. It was a shot he had taken at the school with a small Olympus as she had settled herself before the backdrop. In it, Laura was sliding onto the stool, and her grey skirt had hitched up. It revealed a tantalising glimpse of her thighs.

  He spent no more than an hour there. He didn’t have far to travel that morning, and wasn’t supposed to begin snapping until eleven.

  Since taking Laura, he had made sure that his work was confined to the London area. He no longer had any desire to travel great distances, to stay overnight in towns he did not know and did not feel welcome in, not when his Laura waited for him at home.

  Today was a simple four-hour appearance at a major newsagent chain at Euston Station. Easy money, and maybe even someone to replace Laura if and when she had run her course. If he needed a replacement at all.

  Swain was confident that once he had sucked Laura’s marrow dry, she would be his best work yet. Taxidermy, he had discovered to his distaste and enormous discomfort, was not an easily acquired art. He had made such elementary mistakes with the first few. Eventually he had sought professional help, had learned enough to make his amateur attempts better each time. The last three were holding together very well, yet he still had not been pleased with them. They weren’t quite right to begin with, he decided.

  Laura was.

  Would be.

  She would be perfect. Finally. But first he would enjoy her body. The thought left him short of breath.

  Having arrived at Euston a little after ten-thirty, he did not get away until almost four. During that entire time, he was the consummate professional, casting all thoughts of Laura aside. Face set into a smile, mind attuned to children and parents – mainly mothers. Boys and girls ranging from toddlers to those just entering their teens sat before him.

  The little darlings, his understanding smile said throughout.

  Little spoilt bastards was what they mostly were. Whining little shits who got their own way simply because their parents couldn’t be bothered to deal with them, to instil a little discipline. Lawrence Swain knew how to deal with the little darlings. Fucking right he did. They could all go and ask Laura Rogers her opinion as to whether he knew how to deal with children.

  These thoughts chased across his mind, but he continued to treat the little darlings as if they were fragile glass. He made them laugh beforehand, putting them at their ease, caught a smile each time he depressed the shutter button. Any girl aged between eleven and thirteen he took particular notice of, although outwardly his demeanour remained exactly the same.

  But none was Laura. None came anywhere near. In a way, he was glad. Laura would live a little longer. And he wanted to enjoy her to the full.

  When the last of the little darlings had gone, he packed away the backdrop, tripod, lighting rig, the reflectors, three different cameras, various lenses and filters. Then he set off through the growing throng of traffic, the day’s heat dying quickly with the onset of a cool westerly wind that hurried through the streets as if fleeing something monstrous. He wondered how Tanner had fared today, whether he had managed to capture another Laura. Just thinking about her made him smile and sigh.

  Laura said nothing as the woman paraded around the room, pausing every so often to strike a pose, attempting to tease with her body. Laura let her do all the talking.

  ‘Has my Larry told you how much we love you?’ Her mouth was curled into a smile, but her eyes were distant. ‘Because we do, you know. We both love you so very much. We’re so glad you decided to come home, that you came back to us. You were away too long, you naughty girl. We missed you terribly.’

  Laura stared back at the crazy woman. She had revealed the man’s name, a slip quite out of character. Laura smelled the man on her, a sweet, pungent odour that was disturbing more than it was unpleasant. But her words didn’t make any sense. The woman was looking directly at her, but seeing someone else entirely.

  One of the other girls? A friend, perhaps?

  Laura stayed quiet. There was nothing she could say. At least not yet.

  ‘Now that you’re back with us,’ the woman went on, ‘we can play games again. We can have fun just like we used to. Would you like that? Of course you would. Our little Princess loved playing games, didn’t you? Ah … we had such fun. It wasn’t the same while you were gone.’

  Her head suddenly snapped to one side, her gaze narrowing as she stared hard at Laura. It was as if a storm-laden cloud had passed across her face.

  ‘You really shouldn’t have left us, you know. We were very unhappy. Larry was miserable, and took it out on me. And it was all your fault.’ She stepped closer to Laura, hands raised as if to strike out, her fists balled.

  Laura didn’t move, didn’t ev
en flinch. She saw the woman’s right fist arc in a wide loop, arrow down, grow larger until it filled her vision. It took a moment to realise that she had actually been struck. Then a bolt of pain shot between her left eye and the prominent cheekbone beneath. Her head jolted back and rocked unsteadily. There was a brief explosion behind her eyes, like the opening volley of a firework display. And although the woman now stood with a mortified expression on her face, both hands raised to her open mouth, Laura felt as if the hard bones of the woman’s knuckles were still buried in the side of her head.

  She had no time to react before the woman dropped to her knees and wrapped both arms around her neck. She felt the woman’s stale breath whisper against her skin, the caress of her wispy hair, the touch of dry lips against her brow. The woman’s body reeked with stale sweat, and something sweet and nasty that seemed to lodge in Laura’s throat. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the woman rocked back and forth, sobbing now.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ the woman moaned, her voice cracking and pitched so high the sound hurt Laura’s ears. It was almost a squeal of pain. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. Honestly I didn’t.’

  She pulled back, and Laura could see her eyes brimming, red lines swarming all over the whites. ‘Please forgive me,’ she begged, the expression on her face was one of utmost mental agony. ‘Please, please, don’t tell my brother.’

  At first Laura continued to say nothing, but her mind began to work once more. The woman was distressed beyond all reason. She was scared. More, she was terrified. But of what? Laura asked herself. Or … of whom?

  Him, of course. ‘Your brother?’ Laura said, her voice cracking through lack of use. ‘I thought he was your partner.’

  ‘And so he is in many ways. We’re very close. Closer than usual, maybe. But please say you won’t tell him I hit you. Not even that I was in here.’