A Dark Redemption

by Stav Sherez

  Geneva balanced her coffee on the dash. ‘Singh and Karlson were at his flat but almost everything’s been cleared out; neighbour said she saw him leaving with a big rucksack on his back.’ She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that her first murder would remain unsolved. She’d wanted answers, explanations, a story to make sense of everything – it was one of the reasons she’d hated uniform work and joined CID.

  ‘What’s your take on Gabriel?’ Carrigan crushed his espresso cup and flung it to the floor.

  She thought about it for a moment. ‘I knew a lot of people like him back at university, my mum’s friends too. They focus so hard on one thing, one cause, that it distorts the rest of the world for them.’ She flicked something off her dress. ‘Gets them a lot of girls, though . . . it’s almost always the reason they’re doing it.’

  Suddenly Carrigan sat bolt upright, his whole body shaking into focus as he slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

  Geneva eyes shot wide open. ‘What is it? What did I say?’

  Carrigan turned to her and smiled. ‘I know where Gabriel’s hiding.’

  Back in the incident room Singh and Berman were working late shifts, their eyes sunk deep into sockets from too much screen time, the smell of pot noodles and microwaved lasagne hanging heavy in the air.

  ‘When we arrested Gabriel, did anyone take down the girlfriend’s name?’ Carrigan had barely got his breath back after having insisted on using the stairs when the lift was taking too long.

  Singh opened her desk drawer and flicked through her notebook as Carrigan tapped his feet against the floor.

  ‘Greta Nykvist,’ she said, her eyebrows wrinkling with relief.

  Berman was punching keys before Carrigan could give him the order. ‘What’s this about?’ Geneva asked.

  Carrigan turned to her. ‘Gabriel had a girl at his place when we arrested him. He also mentioned he took the same girl to the concert the night Grace was killed and that he stays with her sometimes. How has he disappeared? How the fuck have we not found him yet? He’s not Bayanga, he doesn’t know all the bolt-holes and underground termini. Like you said in the car, his type are in it for the girls . . . where else is he going to hide?’

  35

  They arrived as dawn broke, the light leaking meanly into the concrete plaza. The Biko estate stood grey and hazy in the early-morning mist, its top floors obscured by low cloud and intermittent rain. There’d been nowhere to get breakfast on the drive over and Carrigan felt stretched at the edges, hungover from too little sleep and too many pills, his stomach burning and his brain reeling with theory and supposition.

  They parked under a grey overhang of concrete, silently got out of the car, checked their equipment and radioed in their position. Singh and Berman had wanted to come as back-up but Carrigan had quickly vetoed the idea – the last thing he wanted was another blazing blue-light entrance freaking Gabriel and making him run. And if they were wrong – if Gabriel wasn’t here at all – then Branch would punish him for wasting resources, use this failure as another reason to pass the case over to the Foreign Office. Carrigan didn’t know how much longer he’d be in the job‚ but he was determined to finish this case regardless of the consequences and it surprised him, this new-found energy and sense of mission – he thought he’d lost it permanently a couple of years ago, that this was what happened when you’d been in the job too long. He couldn’t tell if it was the shadow of Africa, the deviousness of Bayanga, or having a partner like Geneva, but on this cold and grey morning he felt like a rookie on his first big case.

  Geneva put on her vest, mace, belt and gloves. ‘How are we doing this?’ She stared up at the looming tower, tried to count floors, isolate the sixteenth where Greta Nykvist lived, but the building disappeared in a smear of cloud ten floors up.

  Carrigan shut the car door. ‘We’re just going to ask him to come in for a friendly chat and not mention Ngomo at all,’ he replied as she followed him through the path and up to the entrance. He pressed several buzzers, said ‘Parcel for you’, and listened for the sound of the release catch.

  They waited for the lift, silent, each eyeing the doorways either side of them, the dark maw of stairs rising to their left. The lift was surprisingly quick, the numbers flashing by so fast that they were unprepared when it came to a shuddering halt, the door sliding open and depositing them in Greta’s hallway.

  There were three flats to either side of them, an overflowing rubbish bin and a fire escape. Geneva took a deep breath and knocked on Greta’s door.

  She jumped back as it swung open under her fist, the lock unlatched. She looked at Carrigan, saw the same concern darkening his features as he moved in front of her, pulling out his baton, and using the tip of his shoe to hold the door open. ‘Stay here, call back-up.’ He turned to her, his face white and stretched.

  ‘You’re not going in there alone.’

  Carrigan thought about it for a moment, realised there was no point arguing.

  They could both smell it as soon as they walked into the flat. Burning toast, stale smoke‚ and something else underneath it all – fresh and coppery. Carrigan signalled Geneva to follow him as he stepped into the hallway. He could feel every pore on his skin puckering, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, the sound of his own heartbeat, as he slowly opened the door to the living room.

  He stepped inside ready to find anything but there was only a TV, a DVD player, posters of French cult films and a large collection of fashion magazines splayed across the floor. ‘Clear.’ He turned and Geneva followed him down the corridor to the bedroom. He inched the door open and took one step inside.

  From the way his body froze, tension marking out every muscle on his neck, Geneva could tell he’d found them.

  ‘Christ!’ He stared at the two bloodied corpses piled up against each other in the corner of the room. The smell made him gag, swallow, wipe his brow. He heard Geneva behind him, the sharp intake of breath as she saw the bodies – slumped, scarred and lifeless.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  They didn’t move any closer, not wanting to disturb the crime scene – there was no doubt that Gabriel and Greta were dead and that they’d died with the utmost suffering. Wounds covered their naked bodies, the same bite marks Carrigan knew from the autopsy photos and other, more fiendish embellishments. Gabriel’s left eye was missing, his ears loosely hanging by shredded strings of cartilage. The smell of recently burned flesh sat in Carrigan’s throat as he turned and walked out of the room.

  They checked the bathroom, hall cupboard and kitchen. Then they checked the living room again. ‘All clear,’ Carrigan confirmed as they met in the hallway. ‘Call forensics too,’ he told her. ‘Tell them we need them here as soon as possible.’

  Geneva took out her mobile and started dialling as Carrigan stepped back into the kitchen.

  He stood staring at the meagre utensils and charred cooking pots wondering how long Gabriel and Greta had been dead. He could still smell the hot metal of their blood, the perfume of scorched flesh, but there was something else underneath it. Something fresher, familiar.

  He looked down at the kitchen table, a meal left half-eaten on the plate, a glass of milk, the burned-out ends of several cigarettes nestling in an ashtray. Then he bent down, picked up the plate and brought it close to his face.

  His heart began hammering. He put one finger on the surface of the cheese and felt it give, residual heat warming his skin. He looked at the ashtray, the glass of milk, and panic flooded him. He scanned the kitchen but there was nowhere for Bayanga to hide. He called out Geneva’s name but there was no answer.

  Bayanga had been in this kitchen making himself breakfast a scant few minutes before they’d arrived. How had they missed him? There were only two ways in and out of the block – the lift and the stairs – had Bayanga been running down the stairs, making his escape at the very moment that they were in the lift going up?

  Geneva ended the call and placed the phone back in her po
cket. The SOCOs would be here in ten minutes, Berman and Singh in five. She took a deep breath, gagging for a cigarette, something to take away the awful smell residing in her nostrils, and stood in the hallway wondering what Carrigan was up to, trying to shake her mind of the images she’d seen, the two slumped bodies and the things that had been done to them. Something kept niggling at her – she couldn’t quite place it, running a mental checklist of everything they’d seen since entering the flat, the living room, bedroom, hallway, kitchen, bathroom . . .

  What was it about the bathroom?

  She opened the door and stepped into the tiled white interior once more. She looked around but there was very little to see, the long tub with the shower curtain fully drawn, the old toilet, a chipped and dirty sink, towels hanging on a rack, a small cabinet with a broken mirror, a pile of well-thumbed Vogues – and then she looked back.

  Behind the towel rack she could see a door. It looked like an airing cupboard. Big enough for someone to hide in? She couldn’t tell from where she was. She walked over to the towel rack and held her breath as she slowly unhooked it from the latch.

  She heard something from the other side of the door and jumped back, almost tripping over a rolled-up bath mat. A slight clunk like someone fidgeting followed by what she could swear was hissing coming from behind the door. She closed her fingers round the cold metal handle and stopped. There was only one way to do this.

  She stepped back, took another deep breath, and opened the door in one swift motion. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a laugh when she saw the boiler rattling and hissing away. She closed the door, replaced the towel rack, and was about to leave when she stopped, turned and stared at the bathtub.

  The shower curtain was marbled white and she could see the far end of the tub through it, fuzzy and indistinct. She took a couple of steps forward and scrunched her eyes. There was a dark patch at the bottom of the tub, she could see it clearly now and, as she was watching, it began to move.

  She blinked at the exact same time as it uncoiled and rose up. She tried to reach her mace but she never got the chance.

  Carrigan stepped out of the kitchen, turned in the narrow hallway and stopped.

  He saw Geneva first, her face emerging from the bathroom, and he smiled but she wasn’t smiling back. He noticed the hand covering her mouth and then the man behind her and all the blood drained from his head.

  Bayanga had pulled a curved blade out of his jacket and was pushing it up against Geneva’s throat. His other hand was making its way through her uniform. Carrigan saw Bayanga move his hand and suddenly Geneva crumpled, her face turning white, gasping and choking in pain. Bayanga laughed and pulled her upright, placing the knife back against her throat.

  Carrigan felt a white burst of panic and pushed it firmly down. He stared at the man they’d been hunting these past two weeks.

  Bayanga was small and wiry, short black dreads framing his skull, a baggy yellow T-shirt and a pair of worn board shorts revealing skinny scar-crossed legs ending in a pair of outdated hi-tops. He was almost a disappointment.

  ‘Let her go.’ Carrigan could feel the impotence of his words as soon as they were out. He didn’t need Bayanga’s subsequent laugh to realise his position.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Bayanga smiled again and this time Carrigan saw the two sharpened fangs at the front of his mouth. He pressed his left hand against Geneva’s liver‚ probing with his fingers‚ and she exploded in a fit of vomiting. ‘I can do things that will cause her pain for the rest of her life,’ Bayanga said, his voice thin and wheezy. ‘I can make her wish for death, so bad will her suffering be. This isn’t what you want, I know. It is what I want but what I want more is to leave here. Let me do that and I promise I will only hurt her as much as I need to.’

  Carrigan stared at Bayanga, wondering how long until Berman and Singh got here. He saw nothing but a bright hard fury in Bayanga’s eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said, taking a step back into the kitchen, ‘you win – just leave her and go.’

  Bayanga smiled, his teeth gleaming in the bulblight. ‘You know what will happen to her the moment you try anything?’ He pressed the edge of the blade against Geneva’s throat, a small red droplet flowering on her skin.

  Carrigan retreated another couple of steps as Bayanga slowly inched his way up the hallway. There was nothing Jack could do as they passed, Bayanga turning so that now he was walking backwards out of the flat, using Geneva as a shield. Carrigan watched the two of them shuffle through the front door like unlikely partners in some exotic tango. He saw Bayanga take his left arm away from Geneva’s liver and press the lift’s call button, his other hand still firmly holding the knife.

  They faced each other across the open doorway as the lift arrived. ‘Close your door‚’ Bayanga said, walking backwards into the lift. ‘If you open it and I’m still here then I will kill her.’

  Carrigan wondered why he couldn’t hear Berman and Singh’s siren as he watched Bayanga press the button. He closed the front door and stood staring at the coat rack, counting silently.

  At ten, he opened the door, ready to rush Bayanga, but the lift doors were closed and he could hear it making its descent. He staggered out of the flat, flung open the fire door and began running down the stairs.

  How fast had the lift been? He couldn’t remember but it was sixteen floors and if he didn’t fall he might be able to beat it.

  He took the stairs two, three at a time. He gripped the banister, jumped and ran. The pain screamed in his shoulders and back, his lungs searing like they’d been set on fire.

  Three floors down.

  He listened for the lift, wondering where it was, realising that Bayanga might have tricked him, gone up instead of down.

  He slipped on the tenth floor, almost crashing down a whole flight, managing to right himself at the last moment, using the momentum of the fall to leap down even quicker.

  He cornered the third floor, was rushing down the second when he heard the unmistakable hydraulic groan of the lift doors opening. Despite the pain in his lungs, the urge to crumple and puke, he leapt the last few stairs and landed winded on the ground floor just in time to see Bayanga coming out of the lift, Geneva still tightly in his grip, the curved knife at her throat.

  Bayanga stopped just short of the front door and saw Carrigan. He moved his right arm slightly, down and across, almost too fast for Carrigan to catch, and when he pulled the blade out of Geneva’s thigh it was shiny and slicked red.

  Geneva looked down at her leg, her eyes widening, and then Bayanga let go of her and she collapsed hard onto the cement, her head banging against the floor.

  Bayanga wiped the knife on his jeans and looked at Carrigan. ‘You have a choice – her or me.’ He laughed then turned and ran out the door.

  Carrigan looked down at the floor, Geneva passed out, the blood slowly pooling around her, and knew he had no choice. He saw Bayanga disappear over a rise, silhouetted against the early-morning light. He leant down, took off his tie, and used it as a tourniquet. He cursed loudly as he tightened it around Geneva’s thigh, feeling the blood spurt on his hands and hearing her moan.

  He held Geneva as she began coming to, her body shaking in violent convulsions which he tried to contain in his arms, the blood turning his tie black. He took her hands in his and, as the screaming sirens came to a halt, he felt her small fingers entwine in his and press once, gently.

  36

  By the time Berman and Singh had arrived with back-up, Bayanga was nowhere to be seen. They’d spread out and executed a grid search of the area around the tower block but they found nothing. Bayanga could have got on a bus, or had a car waiting, and been out of the area by the time anyone had even started looking for him.

  Carrigan had held Geneva, staunching the bleeding in her thigh, pressing his palm into hers, letting her know he was there watching over her, until the paramedics came. She’d been admitted to hospital, stitched up, given a fistful of painkillers and releas
ed the same evening. He’d waited for her outside the steps of the hospital and when she’d appeared, surprised but happy to see him, he’d driven her back to her flat, refused her offer of a drink and watched as she closed the door firmly behind her. He sat in the car outside her house, yet another darkened vigil, and when morning broke he silently eased it out of its spot and into another day.

  He unwrapped another piece of chocolate, put it in his mouth and let it slowly melt. The rain had stopped for a while, leaving the road slicked with a wet membrane reflecting the passing lights of cars. It was his favourite time in the city – when everything looked mysterious and bright, the red and green traffic lights smeared on the wet road like long neon streamers, the huddled forms of people racing through the blurred streets. He finished the chocolate and took a long slurp from his Thermos. His eyes itched and his head roared. He swallowed two more pills with the last of the coffee and tried stretching his legs.

  He’d spent the last four nights hunched in the car, watching the house, seeing Ursula’s silhouette leak and flitter across different rooms like a dancer who’s forgotten their steps. The car was parked up the road, giving him free view of the garden, the back windows and side wall. Every time anyone approached the house, walked past the gate or crossed the road, his heart ratcheted up, but they always passed by, headed towards someone else’s front garden. He eyes kept drifting back to the piece of paper in his hand, the clipping Geneva had given him, trying to see himself in the stricken expression of the young man climbing onto an aeroplane, one arm draped across his best friend’s shoulders. It looked nothing like him and however hard he stared at the photo he couldn’t persuade himself of its truth.

  He flicked the windscreen wipers, watched the smearing of raindrops and waited for Geneva to show. She’d turned up again the previous night, knocking on his car window, sitting beside him, the heat coming off her in waves. Sometimes they’d talked and sometimes they’d just sat in silence watching the rain. She’d been offered a few days’ leave but had refused, downplaying her injuries, though Carrigan noticed how she kept holding the place where Bayanga had touched her, grimacing in pain every time she had to turn or stand.