by Mark Hill
His consciousness was as shattered as the bones of Kenny’s brat when he fell to his death. It was always a relief to step into the skin of another person, and another, and then another. Physically, he’d learned to alter every aspect of his appearance and personality: his gait, the very cadence of his speech. He’d mastered new accents and mannerisms, taken jobs up and down the country and abroad.
Say what you like about the boy, grind his reputation into the dirt, but he’d always been clever.
Years ago, he’d discovered it was easy to ingratiate yourself into other people’s lives. Nobody remembered the child he’d been, nobody wanted to remember him or the home. Damaged and unhappy, those people smeared their fear and paranoia onto everybody who came into their orbit, so that it was easy for him insinuate himself into their lives. As a social worker, a well-heeled neighbour or work colleague, a friend in the pub. It was sickening the way they threw themselves at him, leeching comfort, love – and money, always money. He hardly had to do anything. These people, the kids who had let him kill his parents – caused him to stove in their skulls until the head of the hammer was matted in hair, gristle, splinters of bone – circled him like ravenous hyenas, darting in to greedily snatch what they wanted. Their lives were as useless as boneless limbs. When you thought about it, he was doing them a favour, putting them and their dismal kin out of their misery. It wasn’t right that they were able to live their lives as if nothing had happened, and he had nothing. They were guilty, every single one of them.
It had been easy for him to find the people from the Longacre. They left a paper trail – of institutions, criminal records, benefit claims – and Amelia Troy lived a life in plain view. The boy looked long and hard, he never gave up, and eventually he found them all, with a single agonising exception.
There was only one person who had managed to evade him, and his absence left a massive, angry hole. The boy had come to the conclusion that he was dead – a bitter pill to swallow. And it was only by blind luck, or perhaps it was destiny, that the boy discovered him.
Short weeks after he’d driven Ricky and his family into the river, he’d been sitting in a café vacantly staring at a television. The news was on, a report about the completion of a criminal case. A high-ranking policeman was making a statement outside a court building. News cameras pressed forward, microphones jutted into the scene, flashes exploded.
We are pleased to get a conviction, blah, blah, blah, justice has been done. The policeman’s chest puffed out. The end of a long and difficult investigation, and so on, thanks to Detective Inspector Raymond Drake …
Detective Inspector Drake looked none too pleased about being identified. He stood at the edge of the throng, trying to melt into the background. Physically shrinking from the attention. Mesmerised by that grim expression, the boy felt a surge of joy, a moment of rapture the likes of which he’d never dared to hope to experience.
And then the report ended. The boy tried to organise the euphoric feelings that ricocheted around inside him. There was no TV in the bedsit he lived in at that time, so that night he stood in the sheeting rain to watch a bank of televisions in the window of an electrical retailer. He was petrified that the story would be dropped for the evening bulletin. But there it was again, the same footage: the bustle outside the court, the high-ranking policeman droning on – and the man identified as Ray Drake trying to make himself invisible by the sheer force of his will.
The boy stood outside that shop and wept. He felt complete, even as his tears of happiness, tears of powerful rage, were washed away in the deluge.
Take my hand. Take it.
You’re alive.
You can go home.
If the policeman had let the boy die that day, if he had let the flames consume him, then all those others would be alive. All those men, all those women, all those children.
This, then, was the endgame.
As he shifted up a gear to slip past a green light, he accepted his own imminent death. The Two O’Clock Boy was tired, he didn’t want to live. If people believed he had sailed through life without a thought to what he had done, and what he had become, they were sorely mistaken.
He was ready.
‘This isn’t the way,’ said a voice.
Blinking, he remembered the girl in the back – April Drake. She perched forward, reading the street signs. He smiled in the rear-view mirror.
The conclusion was near, and it would be sweet.
43
The call came from April’s phone. It barely rang once before Drake snatched it up, expecting to hear her. Instead, the electronic voice said: ‘I have your daughter.’
Drake’s stomach churned. Phone clamped to his ear, he stumbled against his desk. ‘Where is she?’
‘Remember what I told you,’ said the Two O’Clock Boy, his anger twisting and surging in the synthetic swirl. ‘You are to blame.’
‘Please, don’t hurt her.’ His own voice was faint, as if it were coming from the end of a long tunnel.
‘I wanted to die. If you had let me go to sleep, those others would still be alive. Say it.’
‘I’m to blame,’ said Drake. ‘I’m guilty. Let me talk to her, just let—’
The line went dead and his mind whirled. The gun Myra had given him was in the boot of his car – if he only knew where to go, how to find April. But when he turned, Flick Crowley was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.
‘Why have I been taken off the investigation?’ she asked.
Drake scooped up his car keys. They scraped loudly along the desk in the quiet of his office.
‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said.
But Flick blocked his way. ‘I’ve a right to know.’
‘Not now,’ he said, stepping forward.
‘You can’t just—’
‘April is gone,’ Drake said. ‘She’s—’ He stopped himself saying it, wanted to get out of there and find his daughter.
If he had her – oh God.
The fear, the anger, made his head swim.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Never mind,’ he said, but she wouldn’t step aside.
‘I was with her this afternoon.’
‘Where?’ Drake grabbed her upper arm.
Flick stared at his hand. ‘We met at a café in Camden. Jordan’s thrown her out. She needed to talk to someone but was too afraid to contact you; she thought you’d be angry with her.’
‘Where?’ His mouth was dry. ‘Where did she go?’
‘To a friend’s.’ Flick warily absorbed the alarm in his voice. ‘I put her in a cab.’
I have your daughter.
He pushed her against the doorframe, fingers pressing into her shoulders. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’
Flick cringed in shock and disgust, and Drake’s head dropped. He closed his eyes to stop the room spinning. April could be anywhere by now. Could be dead by now.
He killed all those others. Men, women, children. Didn’t think twice about it.
‘Who is Connor Laird?’
Flick’s question jolted him back into the room. When he opened his eyes, she was looking straight at him.
‘I think he’s alive,’ she said. ‘I think Myra is afraid of him, and I believe you are, too.’
‘No.’ He wanted to tell her everything, but couldn’t. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to do.
‘Who is Connor Laird?’ she repeated.
‘The investigation is drifting.’ He cleared his throat, tried to sound authoritative. ‘Upson told me you led him on a wild goose chase around town. I’m taking over.’
‘Who is Connor Laird? Why were you tampering with evidence?’
‘I told you to leave Myra alone.’
‘Who is Connor Laird?’ She kept hammering him with that question. All he heard was that damned name in his head. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. ‘Why did you destroy that cutting?’
‘You’re not—’
He needed to be out of there, looking for April, for his daughter. ‘You’re not making any progress.’ It was all he could think to say. ‘We need to get the investigation back on—’
‘What was in that photo, Ray? What was in it that you don’t want anybody to see?’
‘Go home, Flick.’
‘Or what?’ She didn’t look away. ‘What will happen?’
Drake didn’t have time for this, didn’t—
‘Who is Connor Laird?’
Drake stared.
‘Is he alive?’ she barked.
‘He’s gone,’ whispered Drake, his fingers digging into her shoulders. ‘Long gone.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said softly. ‘He’s out there, and he’s very dangerous, and I think you know who he is. Tell me.’
‘You don’t understand … the Two O’Clock Boy …’ Drake needed to find his daughter, had no time to spare, but he was weary – his life was fragmenting, shattering into a thousand pieces – and all the secrets, all the lies … it wasn’t worth it any more.
He would tell her. ‘Connor Laird is—’
‘What’s going on here?’ asked a voice. Peter Holloway stood in the corridor. His gaze dropped to Drake’s grip on Flick’s shoulders. ‘Take your hands off her, please.’
When Drake let go, Flick quickly slipped past Holloway and out of the room. He heard her slam through the fire door along the corridor.
‘What on earth is going on?’ asked Holloway.
‘It’s none of your concern.’
Drake moved to go, but Holloway held a hand to his chest. ‘On the contrary, it looked to me very much that—’
There was a knock on the door and Holloway turned irritably to see Frank Wanderly, knuckles raised to the wood, a scrap of paper in his other hand.
‘Sorry to barge in, gents. I was looking for DS Crowley.’
‘Not now,’ said Holloway.
‘I’ve been asked to give her a message.’
‘She’s not here, Frank,’ Holloway snapped.
Wanderly blinked, his gaze moving from the CSM to Drake, who pushed roughly past him.
‘DI Drake, wait!’ Drake swung open the fire door to drop into the stairwell, flew downstairs as fast as he could. But Holloway kept pace behind him. ‘Ray! Is there anything I can do? Please stop and talk.’
Drake didn’t look back. ‘Mind your own business, Peter.’
‘I heard how you spoke to DS Crowley, and you can be sure I’ll be taking this further.’
At the landing Drake whirled. ‘Do what you have to do.’
‘You can speak to me, Ray, I’m a friend. And now Laura is gone …’
When Holloway attempted to place a hand on his shoulder, Drake jerked away.
‘I appreciate your concern, Peter. But there’s nothing you can do. My daughter, she … I wish I’d taken more care of her.’
‘Let’s go to the canteen,’ Holloway said kindly. ‘My shout.’
Drake ran down the rest of the stairs, leaving Holloway behind.
In the car park, he opened the boot and took out a plastic bag containing the gun, slipped it in his pocket. Climbing behind the wheel, he called April’s phone again. It rang and rang and rang.
Drake smashed his hands again and again against the dashboard. When a pair of uniforms came through the gate, he fired up the engine and accelerated onto the High Road.
Flick said Jordan had thrown April out. Hours later, she’d been taken. Drake didn’t believe in coincidences. Besides, he had a score to settle with the kid.
He drove to the Docklands, hands shaking on the wheel, willing the phone on the passenger seat to ring. The evening traffic was thick. Drake forced himself not to panic, to stay focused, as he edged forward, each slow yard of the commuter snarl pure torture.
44
The first thing she would do when she got home was get it all on paper. Ray Drake in the Property Room; his old mother’s connection to the home; the way he pressured Flick to ignore the cuttings. And how he lost control in his office. Holloway had seen everything, so she had a witness – that episode, at least, wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She would hand her report to DCI Harris and he could decide what action to take. Whatever happened to her, it was clear to Flick that Drake was losing the plot. He was still grieving for his wife, that much was clear; he was in no fit mental state. He needed to take compassionate leave, seek medical help.
Taking long, calming breaths, trying to get her head on straight, she just wanted to get out of the station as quickly as possible. But slamming through a fire door, her heart sunk when she heard Millie Steiner’s voice behind her.
‘Ma’am, wait up. Flick!’
Flick composed herself and forced a smile onto her face.
‘I was hoping to catch you,’ said Steiner. ‘I’m so sorry. I feel like we just haven’t been able to deliver for you.’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ said Flick. Her removal from the investigation was obviously big news by now. ‘We haven’t been looking in the right direction.’
If Steiner had asked her to elaborate, she would have blurted it all out there and then, shared her concerns and suspicions, but instead the young detective said: ‘DS Kendrick is going to take charge with DC Upson assisting, that’s what we’ve been told, and DI Drake will give us more of a steer.’
Drake will take you in completely the wrong direction, thought Flick. He’ll let the investigation go cold, let it fade away. Because there’s something about the death of Kenny Overton and countless others at the hands of a remorseless predator that he doesn’t want you, or any of us, to know about.
Drake had been ranting about April going missing and somebody called the Two O’Clock Boy, she remembered that now, and it made her uneasy.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Steiner.
‘Go home, take a bath, drink wine.’ Too shocked after her encounter with Drake, she wasn’t going to get anything done here. She wanted to talk to Nina. Her sister would know exactly what to do. ‘I’ll catch you later, Millie.’
Buzzing out of the exit, Flick took out her mobile to call her sister – it would also provide a useful human shield if anybody else tried to speak to her, but there was no answer on the home number – which was unusual. Nina was like an old person with her mobile, she regarded it strictly as something to be used in emergencies, if she broke down on the motorway or if there was some kind of alien apocalypse, but Flick tried it anyway.
The phone rang and rang. Flick was nearly at her car when the call connected. Nina spoke loudly, as she always did when she had a couple of drinks inside her.
‘Hello, darling!’
‘Are you in?’
‘We’re out tonight,’ said Nina, over loud conversation in the background. ‘Meeting bigwigs from Martin’s new company. They’re visiting from Down Under. Oh, Flick, I was really worried about moving to the other side of the world and knowing hardly anyone, but they seem really nice people.’
‘Who’s looking after the kids?’
‘They’re on a sleepover at Imogen’s next door.’
‘I can pick them up and stay over if it helps.’
‘Oh, thank you, darling.’ Nina’s voice was almost lost against a burst of laughter at her end. ‘But they’ve been so looking forward to it.’
Flick climbed into her car, slammed the door. The traffic noise from the High Road dulled.
‘Dad said he saw you,’ said Nina. ‘Said you looked great. He was so happy, Flick, he was so excited.’
‘Nina, we didn’t—’
‘You don’t know how pleased I am, what a weight it is off my mind to know the pair of you are talking again. Thank you so much. I feel much better about everything. Oh Christ, someone’s put another glass of champagne in my hand. The last thing I want to do is get pissed. Tell me to watch my step.’
‘Three glasses and then you’re on the water.’
‘Go
t it. I want to see you as much as possible in the next month.’
‘Month?’
‘We’re leaving in a month. Not much notice, is it? But they’re keen for Martin to start work as soon as possible.’ She hesitated. ‘Is everything okay there, you sound … quiet.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Flick. ‘You’d better go.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll call tomorrow and we can talk properly. Love you.’
Flick threw the phone on the passenger seat and turned on the heater. It throbbed loudly. The gate rattled open and a patrol car pulled in.
She’d go home, change into her pyjamas and try to relax. Write up those notes. Then she’d message some people on Facebook, maybe even arrange a few catch-ups. There was a sudden rap on the window, and she flinched in momentary terror when she saw Frank Wanderly hunched there, bald head ghoulishly haloed against the sodium lamps in the car park. He spun his fist – wind down the window.
The glass lowered with a whine, and Wanderly stuck his head in. ‘Glad I caught you. Someone’s been trying to get in touch.’
He handed her the scrap of paper. Above a number was a name: Trevor Sutherland. She stared at it, expecting it to make some kind of sense. She’d no idea who it was.
‘Thanks, Frank.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ He waved over his shoulder as he headed towards the gate, and out of the station.
Flick dropped the paper beside the phone, started the engine, wincing again at the sudden, unwelcome memory of her confrontation with Drake in his office, and drove to the gate. As it trundled open, the penny dropped and she snatched up the note.
Trevor Sutherland, the photographer who took the image at the Longacre all those years back.
She called him straight back.
45
The Thames churned angrily, a speedboat bumping across the choppy water, as Drake arrived outside Jordan’s apartment building. He flew into reception.
‘You can’t just …’ The porter stepped forward, but Drake headed straight to the elevator.
On Jordan’s floor he heard the throb of music inside. He knocked on the door, stepping aside to avoid being seen through the spyhole, and when it opened, Drake kicked at it, sending Jordan stumbling backwards.