by Mark Hill
‘It’s nothing.’ Amelia’s face was pale and strained. She wore a yellow windbreaker and red jeans, dirty white trainers. An overnight bag sat at her feet. ‘It looks worse than it is.’
‘Amelia is a witness in the case.’
‘You’re not telling me everything.’ April frowned. ‘What’s going on, Dad?’
That word, Dad. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him that. It filled him with gratitude, relief – and hope for the future.
‘I want you to go away for a couple of days,’ he said.
‘What does any of this have to do with me?’
‘April …’ Amelia took a deep breath. ‘Someone very dangerous attacked me tonight, and your father saved my life. I have absolutely every reason to trust his judgement. I’m as much in the dark about what’s happening as you are, but as I understand it, there’s a slim chance that this person may try to get revenge against your father. The last thing he wants is for you to be placed in any danger.’
‘I know somewhere you can go, out of the city,’ said Drake. ‘You’ll be comfortable there. You’ll have space to think about what you want to do next, whether you want to come back to live with me and your gran, or …’ He didn’t want to consider other possibilities. ‘Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.’
‘So I am in danger.’
‘Probably not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.’ Amelia smiled. ‘Believe me, I know.’
‘I can’t, there’s Jordan – what if he tries to make contact?’
‘Forget Jordan,’ Drake said shortly.
‘There you go again.’ April removed her hand.
Drake rubbed his face. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I loved him, Dad.’
‘I know,’ he said, and she slipped her hand back into his.
For the first time he imagined a scenario where everything would be okay. Now he knew the assumed identity of the Two O’Clock Boy. One look at Jordan’s phone and he saw, with shock, who it was. All this time the murderer had been close, too close. But now Drake knew where to start looking for him. April was here with him, safe and sound. His daughter was back, and it was a start.
‘And what about Gran, isn’t she coming?’ she asked.
‘She’s away, visiting relatives.’
When she blinked, Drake sensed the enormity of the situation hitting home to her. April knew that Hell would have to freeze over before Myra agreed to leave her precious house.
‘We can look after each other,’ said Amelia warmly. ‘Trust me, I’ve plenty of experience of unsuitable men, and I’m a good listener. And like you, I could really do with a friend.’ She turned to him. ‘Give us a moment, Ray.’
Drake scraped back his chair and walked onto the concourse. Someone was playing one of the upright pianos placed along the crowded precinct. Drake watched April and Amelia talk, heads bowed across the table, and scanned the jostling crowd of commuters who marched past him. When he returned to the two women, Amelia threw him a reassuring glance.
‘So I’ll be under police protection?’ asked April.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m the only person who’ll know where you are.’
Amelia nodded encouragingly. Drake wished he could tell April more, but it was impossible. Well, when all this was over, that would change. He would do everything in his power to make things better between them. She would be his main, his only, priority in life.
‘When do we leave?’
Amelia stood. ‘No time like the present, my car’s around the corner.’
‘Can I go to the toilet first?’ asked April.
‘Rather now than in my car.’ Amelia laughed. ‘I’ve just had it valeted.’
Drake wanted to escort his daughter to the toilet at the rear of the café, but Amelia touched his arm, leave her. He watched April all the way to the door.
‘I haven’t had the chance to say thank you,’ said Amelia. ‘If you hadn’t got there in time … I still don’t know why he didn’t kill me.’
‘He wanted me there.’ Drake reluctantly tore his eyes from the door. ‘He wanted us to watch each other die. It’s what he did with the Overtons, I think, and probably the others.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she asked, bewildered. ‘Why does he want to kill us?’
‘His experiences at the Longacre unhinged him. He … went through things.’
‘But why target us?’
‘He blames the kids he knew back then for what happened to him.’
To his surprise she slipped her fingers into his. ‘And am I to blame?’
‘None of this is your fault. He’s sick, deranged.’
‘And what about you? Are you to blame for what happened to him?’
Drake thought about that last catastrophic night at the Longacre, a night that changed the lives of those who survived it for ever. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I doubt it. I married a violent man, but I’m not to blame for that. If Ned hadn’t died when he did I’m sure he would have ended up killing me eventually. Well … my husband will never touch me again. I’m sorry I freaked out on you at the pub, I was scared. Were we … friends, back then?’
‘Yes.’ Drake decided that, whatever happened, he wanted to see Amelia Troy again. He looked away. ‘We were friends.’
‘Where did you get that gun?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t think the police …’
‘When all this is over, I’ll explain it to you.’
She smiled. ‘And what if I don’t want to know?’
‘Then I won’t.’
She smiled. ‘Decisions, decisions.’
She was a tough lady, Amelia, thought Drake. The vulnerable young girl with the precocious artistic talent had been knocked down so many times in life, and yet she kept going. ‘You’re a survivor.’
‘Yes, I am.’ She nodded, as if it had only just occurred to her. ‘Hooray for me. But I’m not sure I want to know anything about the Longacre. When this whole nightmare is finally over, I just want to enjoy the rest of my life; I don’t want to look back.’
‘It’ll all be over soon.’
Amelia squeezed his hand. ‘Yes, it will.’
He wondered if that meant she wouldn’t want to see him again, and the idea jolted him. Drake felt an unexpected affinity with Amelia. She was a survivor, but he was too.
When he blushed, she smiled wryly. ‘Let’s just see what happens?’
‘Let’s do that.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s someone who knows what’s going on, he was at the home.’ Drake didn’t want to send them there, it was difficult to know how far to trust the weak-minded, anxious man he once knew, but he didn’t know what else to do. At least now the so-called Two O’Clock Boy was in his sights. ‘You’ll have safety in numbers there.’
The toilet door opened and their hands separated.
‘Right, then,’ Amelia said to Drake and April. ‘What now?’
‘We’re going to get you out of the city,’ he said, ‘and when you come back, I promise it’ll all be over.’
He was about to take his phone out of his pocket when his daughter threw her arms around his neck. She held him tight, clung to him, sending shooting pains through his battered body that he barely noticed.
53
What nobody had expected, least of all Elliot, was that he would be left all on his lonesome with a gun at his disposal. Slumped on the sofa, the ugly thing rising and falling on the crest of his stomach, he thought about what to do next.
One thing came to mind.
He couldn’t understand how everything had spiralled out of control so quickly. Just a few days ago he was letting that madman smooth talk him into handing over thirty grand. Just a deposit, the man calling himself Gavin had cheerfully explained. Elliot had never been so excited about anything, had believed it was a beginning for him, a successful new phase, which would prove, once and for all, that he was marching triumphantly forward in life.
But Elliot sh
ouldn’t be allowed to tie his own shoelaces, let alone make his own decisions. He had always hidden behind other people – Rhonda was just the latest – because he couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing. Everything had been looking up – he had a home, a family, everything he needed – but then he had to cozy up to a multiple murderer, a man who wished him dead. Now, here he was, days later, and Rhonda was gone, Dylan was gone. He had killed a man. It would have been better if Perry had put him out of his misery.
There was no future that he could see.
She’ll know the kind of man you are.
But at least he had a way out. The gun was not at all like the muscular-looking things in the movies, but it would do a job. So, sprawled there, smoking a last cigarette – because smoking inside the house was the least of his worries – Elliot decided that if the Two O’Clock Boy was so keen to kill him … well, he would save him the trouble.
All he had to do was flick off the safety; he wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake that Perry had made. The trick was to stick the gun in his mouth, not to press it against the side of his head where it could slip. He’d heard the horror stories of the poor souls who botched it. Blown half their brains out and spent the rest of their days drooling vegetables hooked up to beeping machines. That would be typical of Elliot.
He had to focus on the tension of his finger against the trigger, concentrate on that, and nothing else, and then …
It would all be over.
All his memories of the Longacre would be gone. Of those summer days delivering Gordon’s drugs; of a tearful Turrell gagging on the cockroach, the crunch of its shell in his mouth, the brown juices dribbling down his chin; of Tallis dashing the paperweight on Sally’s head; of him and Connor burning her body, the smell of soil and petrol and burning flesh filling his nostrils, to this day as vivid a memory to Elliot as anything else in his life.
And that final, terrifying night in Gordon’s office when he held them prisoner—
His phone rang.
Owen’s number. Elliot killed the call.
His fist throbbed from pounding it into Perry’s face. He would never truly accept that the Two O’Clock Boy was right about him. That wasn’t the kind of man he was – he couldn’t be. He wasn’t a bully, or a murderer.
Except he was.
The phone rang again, and he was going to turn it off, because he was sick and tired of the endless calls from Owen. But when he saw who was calling – and although it didn’t matter now, nothing could make Rhonda come home, or Perry return from the dead – something, a faint glimmer of responsibility, made him answer.
‘I need you to look after my daughter,’ said the cop.
‘Still ain’t got this thing done?’ Elliot had at least hoped that lunatic would be taken out of the equation.
‘I’m working on it. But I need to think of my daughter’s safety. Get her out of town till it’s over. I’d be grateful if you could put her up for the night, maybe two. You’ll be safer together.’
‘Sure.’ Elliot massaged his temples. ‘Why not?’
‘Unless explaining to your family—’
‘That’s not going to be a problem. They’re gone, I sent them away.’ One more night on Earth wouldn’t make a difference. He touched the gun. ‘She’ll be safe here.’
‘She’ll be coming with Amelia Troy.’
‘Amelia,’ Elliot grunted. It was turning out to be something of a reunion. ‘Be nice to see her after all these years.’
‘Everything okay, Elliot?’ Maybe the policeman could detect the weariness in his voice, the exhaustion.
‘Yeah,’ he said quickly. He didn’t want to let him down, didn’t want to get on his wrong side, not him, not on top of everything else. ‘I’m good.’
Elliot scrambled off the sofa. He’d have to tidy the place, get a fire going. He should shower, spray on some Lynx. That would be a start.
‘And, Elliot … She doesn’t know about me; she can never know.’
‘I got that.’
‘Make sure you do. He’s coming for us, Elliot. If we let our guard down, he’ll kill us all. Me, you, Amelia, the people we love.’
‘If he dares to show his face here,’ he said, trying to sound confident, ‘I’ll finish it.’
Elliot had killed a man already, had beaten him to death. But if it came to it, if he was forced to protect April Drake and Amelia Troy, he hoped to God that he could find the strength in himself to do it again.
54
Peter Holloway was sitting on the front steps of Ray Drake’s house when Flick arrived. The side-panel lights on her vehicle winked when she locked it.
‘What are you doing here, Peter?’
He stood. ‘Since your … episode, DI Drake has been ignoring my calls. He’s usually very prompt in getting back, and I’m concerned. He’s my friend, DS Crowley.’
For the first time Flick detected a tension, an edge of vulnerability to the man. Maybe the officious Holloway was more human than she’d given him credit for. ‘You old softy.’
‘Myra Drake rarely leaves the house,’ he said. ‘I rang and rang on the doorbell but there was no answer.’
‘When I knocked yesterday she came to the door pretty sharpish.’
Holloway regarded her curiously as they approached the door. ‘You were here?’
‘Long story,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she’s gone out.’
‘I could have sworn I heard somebody moving about inside, and … you should take a look around the back.’
‘Stay here,’ she told him, and walked down the alley at the side of the house. The glass in the patio doors at the rear had been smashed, the door forced.
‘You understand now?’
Jumping in terror at the voice, she turned to see Holloway behind her. ‘I told you to wait, Peter.’
‘I would never let a lady go in alone. It’s not in my nature.’
‘Have you been inside?’
He held up his hands and Flick saw he was wearing nitrile gloves. ‘I’m a very good boy, DS Crowley, and decided it best to wait for you.’
She’d left her own gloves in the car, but Holloway took out a spare pair and she snapped them on. ‘This time, stay where you are.’
‘Not a chance,’ he said.
She led them into the big kitchen, which was more sleek and modern than she expected, and spotlessly clean, calling as she went, ‘Myra! Myra, are you there?’
A door led into a long central hallway. More doors led off either side Flick knew the old woman lived in a basement flat below the main house. The internal connecting door was sure to be one of those. Holloway drifted ahead. Flick recalled his comment about hearing somebody in the house and was about to call him back, when he shouted her name.
When she followed him into a spacious reception room, she saw Myra Drake on a sofa, hands folded in her lap.
‘Myra?’
The old woman didn’t answer. When Flick came closer, she saw she was trembling. ‘Myra, speak to me.’
Myra’s hooded eyes were wide and round. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. Holloway crouched to check her pulse. ‘She’s in shock,’ he said. ‘Lay her down.’
‘No,’ croaked the old woman. Her arms fluttered as Flick tried to ease her shoulders down.
‘Make her comfortable, I’ll get a blanket.’ Holloway left the room. Flick heard his shoes clip across the parquet floor in the hallway and up the stairs.
‘Peter,’ said Flick, alarmed. ‘Wait!’
Myra resisted Flick’s attempts to lay her down and snatched at Flick’s wrist, pulling her close. ‘Listen to me, you must—’
‘Is Ray here?’ Flick tried to free her hand, but Myra’s grip was surprisingly firm.
‘It’s not safe.’ The old woman’s eyes bored into hers. ‘He’s here!’
‘Who’s here, Myra? Ray?’ Flick barked over her shoulder, urgently, ‘Peter!’
Myra’s fingers rubbed anxiously at her locket. ‘You must go!’
‘Let�
��s get you out of here.’
Her bag, with her phone, was at her feet. She’d leave it. The priority was to get Myra outside. Myra swayed unsteadily when Flick helped her up. They moved slowly, taking small, hesitant steps into the gloomy hallway. The front door was just ahead. Something creaked on the floor above.
‘Keep going, almost there,’ said Flick in as calm a voice as she could manage.
Crossing the parquet, she peered up the stairs, which doubled back out of sight. A vase surrounded by photo frames stood in an alcove on the half-landing.
Flick rattled the handle of the door, but it was locked. ‘The key.’
‘The key?’
‘Where do you keep it?’
The old woman blinked. ‘He’s here.’
‘The key, Myra … Never mind.’ She turned, intending to lead Myra out the back, when a shadow moved across the half-landing. Making sure the old woman was upright against the door, Flick went to the bottom step. ‘Peter!’
Gripping the banister, trying to avoid looking at the happy family photos of Drake, Laura and April on the wall, she called again. But there was no answer. The shadow shifted. Flick planted a foot on the bottom step, but thought better of going up. Myra stood, ashen, against the door.
What was that she heard above her – a voice?
‘Peter, what is it?’
Against her better judgement, heart clattering in her chest, Flick climbed a couple of steps.
‘Peter, is that you?’
Footsteps stumbled along the landing hidden above, and she edged back down.
Moments later, Holloway appeared at the turning, standing very tall and straight, his features hidden in the gloom.
‘Peter!’ She let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him, but when he didn’t respond, she asked angrily: ‘Have you called the Incident Room?’ Holloway swayed gently, snorting loudly through his nose. ‘Peter, don’t play silly buggers!’
Holloway lifted his arms and stumbled to the edge of the landing. Knees buckling, he tipped down the stairs, fell forward onto her. His forehead slammed into hers, and she crumpled beneath him. Her spine jarred painfully against the parquet beneath Holloway’s dead weight. Too stunned to feel the impact, stars bursting in her eyes, Flick scrambled from under him, scrabbling away on her hands and heels, sliding in the blood seeping from him, smearing it into the tile. Holloway lay face down, unmoving.