by Mark Hill
And when she looked up, there was somebody else standing in his place on the landing, face obscured in the dark.
‘Ray?’ she said.
‘No, not him.’ The figure stepped slowly downstairs, the shape of his bald head, the features of his face, that shy smile, solidifying as he moved into the light.
‘Frank?’ said Flick. Her limbs began to shake at the sight of the blood-smeared knife that Frank Wanderly clenched in his fist.
‘Not Frank. That’s not my name.’
Tap.
His upper lip trembled like a snarling wolf’s and she glimpsed his white teeth, as he trod lightly down the stairs towards her, gently tapping the blade along the banister.
Tap, tap.
‘Let me come down and I’ll introduce myself properly.’
55
The skeletal trees lining the pavement shivered in the wind as Drake stuffed the gun into his belt at the small of his back and climbed from his car, walked to the address where the Two O’Clock Boy, or so he called himself, had lived under the name of Frank Wanderly.
He considered phoning Myra, but if she had any sense she would already be in the sticks, settling a few ancient scores with unlucky relatives. Just as April and Amelia would be en route to the safety of Elliot’s home.
The address in Hornsey had been easy enough to find. The small, terraced house sat in the middle of an anonymous row, nothing to distinguish it from the houses on either side except the number embossed in bulging red tile above the door. The curtains on the ground floor were drawn. A security alarm was fixed beneath the bedroom window, but the dummy box was old, the telephone number on it prefixed with the long redundant 0171. Ray Drake glanced along the street to make sure nobody was about and then slipped round the back into a neglected garden.
At the kitchen window, he cupped his eyes against the glass to see a kitchen furnished with beige Formica units. The door was locked, but the frame was rotten. Drake leaned hard into it and the wood splintered. Inside, the kitchen was bare, nondescript, except for a curious collection of objects on top of the fridge. Among them, a horseshoe, a beer mat, an egg timer with mauve sand. There was a replica of Blackpool Tower, a bicycle pump and a china figurine of a maid with a bonnet and a milk pail, similar to the ones in the Overtons’ bedroom.
Drake opened the door to the living room, which was dark behind the closed curtains, and flicked on the light. Dust burned on the bulb beneath a wicker shade. Everything in the room was impersonal, second hand, the atmosphere musty. There was an old sofa and a sideboard. Inside were textbooks, a single, upturned wine glass on a doily, a neat pile of newspapers, a box of matches.
Drake pocketed the matches and was climbing the stairs when his phone vibrated. One eye on the landing, he checked the Caller ID. Flick. She’d already left several messages, he saw, and there were others from Peter Holloway. Upstairs, the bathroom was empty except for a bar of soap, a deodorant, a toothbrush and towel. Strings of dust trembled along the skirting of an empty rear bedroom, below cartoon animals parading on faded wallpaper. No effort had been made to make this house anything resembling a home.
Walking into the main bedroom, he saw a single bed, diminished in a sea of carpet. The duvet was a perfect rectangle, the crisp white sheet beneath tucked with precision. On a bedside cabinet was a lamp and an encyclopedia.
Drake turned to the wall opposite, which was covered its entire length, from ceiling to floor, with photographs and newspaper clippings and documents. Sheets of information detailing victims clustered in groups; images of men and women, photographed going about their daily business; floor plans of properties; street maps; social-media screen grabs; work schedules; diary excerpts. Keys labelled with passcodes hung from pins. Lengths of string raced across the wall, tacking in every direction, mysteriously linking clusters of pages.
Many of the names and some of the faces were familiar to Drake, others he didn’t recognise. Maybe they had all been at the home, or perhaps in his murderous obsession, the Two O’Clock Boy had given innocent men and women an obscure, fatal relationship to the Longacre that they didn’t deserve.
His eyes flitted from one newspaper cutting to another:
… twins were last night killed in a blaze that ripped through a sheltered housing …
… attached a rubber hose to the exhaust of their car on 12 November last year, and died of carbon …
Lifting the cuttings, he found others beneath.
… blamed faulty brakes for the fatal crash, which killed a family of …
… impaled on railings, causing massive internal …
Drake followed the trail of paper until he found his own name contained in a satellite of clippings isolated at the edge of the wall, along with Elliot Juniper and Amelia Troy.
There were photos of Elliot, sitting in the snug of a pub, and walking along a country lane with his stepson. A black-and-white image of Amelia – pale, sad – in a hospital bed after her overdose. And he himself was photographed from a window overlooking the car park at the station, and with his daughter exiting from a restaurant. There he was again with Laura, helping her into the car, probably taking her to a hospital appointment in the weeks before she died. He tugged the photo off the wall – the tack popped out and flew over his head – and pocketed it. Finally, there was a photo of him with the man he had known as Frank Wanderly at some police function.
Drake stepped back to take in the elaborate design in its entirety, its sheer scale. The last thing the Two O’Clock Boy saw before he closed his eyes, and the first thing he saw when he opened them, was this macabre montage of death and conspiracy. Its mass loomed over him as he slept, imprinting itself into his dreams and nightmares. The conspiracy was overwhelming. All the people he had killed, men, women and children – and all the people he was going to kill. He would stare at it, absorbing it, his plans shifting and sliding in the dark, slotting together in his head like elaborate pieces of machinery.
Dead centre on the wall, separated from the other clusters of information by a thin moat of space, was a photograph: Toby Turrell as a small boy, taken at the coast. Wrapped in a windcheater, a big smile on his face, hair plastered to his head by rain. The boy held the hands of his happy parents. In the distance, a rainbow speared the horizon.
Drake looked one last time at the sprawling design, an insane representation of the inside of the Two O’Clock Boy’s head, and went downstairs.
He opened the front door and walked to his car, checking he was alone in the street, and took from the boot a petrol canister. Back inside, he set to work, pouring the liquid across the bedroom, staining the perfect white duvet, and sloshing it on the wall, careful not to splash any on his shoes.
The cold canister ignited memories of that last horrific night at the home – and the lonely death of the boy who had saved him from Gordon, and whom he barely knew. A boy from whom he had taken so much.
For decades he had hidden behind a façade, the smiling face of a man few people really knew. Laura knew him and loved him, despite everything. He missed his wife, but she was gone and he was afraid that Ray Drake, too, would soon slip away.
When the canister was empty, its contents splashed in the kitchen and living room, he took out the matches at the front door.
Drake’s phone rang again – his home number – and some instinct made him answer the call. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m ready now,’ said the voice, this time undisguised by any electronic filter. ‘I’m ready for you to finish what you started.’
Propping the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Drake pinched three matches together.
‘You tell me when you want me to kill you,’ said Drake, ‘and I’ll happily oblige.’
‘It’s time now, I think. Yes, I think so. We’re waiting for you.’
Drake cut the call. He struck the matches and tossed them, watched fire blossom in an orange inferno at his feet, Gordon Tallis’s agonising last moments flickering momentarily on the wall like a shad
ow play.
He considered how he was right back where he had started. How everything he had strived for would soon come to an end.
‘See you soon, Toby,’ he said.
56
Here they were, Amelia Troy and April Drake, pulling up the drive in a fancy sports car. He didn’t want them here – couldn’t stop thinking about what he had done, what he was going to do – but Elliot had made a promise. One more night wasn’t going to make a difference when you were staring eternity in the face.
The wind chime was going nine to the dozen. Elliot loved its gentle tinkle in a soft breeze, but tonight the fierce wind was blowing the tops of the trees sideways – the gales were steadily picking up strength – and its incessant clinking, like a furious warning, made him want to rip it down.
‘Ladies,’ he said, forcing a smile, ‘welcome.’
Elliot felt strangely emotional at the sight of Amelia Troy. He’d expected some butch old painter in dungarees, but when she climbed from the car he saw she was slim and pretty. She hugged him, and he smelled cigarettes on her, which made him like her all the more.
‘Thanks for having us, Elliot.’
They’d gone through the wars together years ago, him and Amelia, but she looked like she’d come out the other side in better shape. She was worth more money than he could imagine – with millions in the bank! – all because she chucked paint at a canvas. Once, Elliot had gone to a gallery to see her paintings, had found them too … disturbing. Elliot preferred more uplifting pictures, like that dancing couple with the butler. Life was hard enough without hanging depressing stuff on your walls.
When Amelia looked up at the cottage, with its peeling paint and rotting frames, Elliot grimaced. ‘Not up to your usual standards; it ain’t exactly a mansion.’
‘It’s comfortable.’ She touched his arm. ‘And, believe me, my place isn’t exactly a palace. This is April, Ray Drake’s daughter.’
He nodded, hanging back, not wanting to frighten the girl. She was a beauty in all her designer gear. Her dad’s princess, no doubt. It couldn’t be easy for her to be here, cowering from a deranged killer in a ramshackle cottage in the middle of nowhere, alongside an oaf.
‘I’ve a son myself,’ said Elliot. ‘Well, a stepson, sort of thing.’ A lump formed in his throat when he realised he’d never see Dylan again. ‘Shall we get inside?’
April smiled, flatly. ‘Do you have a …?’
Elliot blinked, and Amelia prompted: ‘We drank a lot of water on the way.’
‘Of course! Bathroom’s upstairs, first door.’
They watched the girl climb the stairs, disappearing out of sight. Elliot had made a fire, which crackled and hissed, throwing warmth into the small room.
‘I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience to have us here. Your family aren’t going to be put out?’
‘They’re away,’ said Elliot quickly. ‘Staying with friends. Thought it would be best, you know, in the circumstances.’
Amelia nodded thoughtfully, her gaze dropping to his injured hand. ‘I’m sure we were good friends back at the home, but I don’t remember much about back then.’
‘Yeah,’ said Elliot, uncomfortable. ‘We were pals.’
‘Then it’s good to meet again, even if the circumstances aren’t so jolly.’
He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He’d never been a handsome man, what with the nose smeared across his face like gravy across a plate, and he was carrying a few more pounds than he should, but he looked wretched right now. Dark rings cupped his eyes, his skin was grey. Emotion pressed against his ribs. He had given her hell back in the home, her and those others – particularly Turrell, who was now going about murdering all and sundry – and she had every right to hate him. ‘This is my fault.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I just want you to know that I’m not the same person you knew back then.’ He gripped her arm. ‘I treated you wrong, I’m sorry. I was scared, I was … That’s not me any more. I got a partner who loves me, and a son. That’s me now, that’s who I am.’
A look fell down her face – discomfort, maybe even fear. He realised his fingers were digging into her skin, and let go.
‘It sounds like you love them very much.’
He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by his own stupidity. Rhonda and Dylan were the only good things that had ever happened to him.
‘Yes.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘I do.’
‘Whatever you’re thinking,’ said Amelia, ‘I promise you it’s not that bad.’
But it is, he thought. He couldn’t tell her about the dead man hidden in a car boot, and the stolen money, an old couple’s savings, stashed in his wardrobe. He just had to get through this night. Stay focused. He was expected to protect these girls. ‘Look at me, this ain’t no way to welcome an old friend. Let’s have some tea … something stronger.’
‘Tea would be good.’ Amelia smiled. ‘I mean it, Elliot. It’s good to see you. One last time.’
‘You’re safe until our friend—’ He checked himself. It didn’t feel right saying the policeman’s name, he would have to be careful about what he said in front of the girl. ‘Until everything’s good for you to go home.’
‘I just …’ Amelia nodded, her cheerful façade cracking. ‘I just want it to be over.’
‘Do you trust him?’ he asked quietly, nodding up the stairs to where April had disappeared. Her father had changed a lot since Elliot had last seen him, on the night of that fatal fire more than three decades ago.
‘Yes, I do.’
The way she said it, with a quiet confidence, made him feel slightly better about the whole fucked-up situation. He heard the toilet flush and the tap running. The pipes shuddered. An old cottage like this, you heard everything that went on in every room. Then April stepped downstairs.
‘There’s plenty in the fridge,’ Elliot said, ‘but we’re out of foie gras.’
‘I’m afraid that’s utterly unacceptable.’ Amelia tapped a finger on his chest. ‘And I promise there will be serious consequences for you.’
It was dark now, they were a long way from street lamps and the evening dropped like a blackout curtain. The night sky was filled with lumbering cloud. He didn’t like the idea that the poor, insane Toby Turrell was out there somewhere watching, waiting for his moment.
The women sat at the kitchen table while Elliot brewed tea, but the conversation was stilted. The girl, in particular, was subdued. Amelia did her best to put everybody at ease, asking Elliot about his family and his life. But he was nervous in front of April, unsure of how much he could say to her. He didn’t want to tell them Rhonda had left him, and the information that he intended to kill himself just as soon as they were safe would add the finishing touch to an already strained atmosphere.
‘I know you’re frightened.’ He placed a steaming mug in front of April. ‘But your dad – he’ll fix this. He’ll, er, arrest this guy.’
April cocked her head. ‘How do you know him?’
‘An old investigation he worked on,’ said Amelia quickly. ‘Isn’t that right, Elliot?’
‘Correct.’ Elliot cleared his throat. ‘Way back in the mists of time.’
The girl stared doubtfully, looked like she was about to say something, when the doorbell rang. Two angry bursts. April’s hand immediately searched for Amelia’s across the table.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’
‘A salesman, probably.’ Elliot smothered his anxiety with a grin. ‘Get a lot of them around here. You girls stay here, relax.’ He placed a biscuit barrel on the table. ‘Help yourself.’
At the door, Elliot stifled a groan when he saw the shape on the other side of the patterned glass. Slipping his grazed fist into his pocket, he opened the door.
‘Owen!’ he said loudly. ‘What a pleasure!’
The old man was watching leaves blow across the bonnet of Amelia’s sports car. ‘Evening, Elliot.’ He nodded at the vehicle. ‘Been sp
lashing the cash already?’
‘Good one,’ said Elliot tensely.
Amelia called from the kitchen doorway: ‘Who is it?’
‘Just a mate,’ said Elliot, over his shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Owen tried to look inside but Elliot stepped out, closing the door behind him. The black wall of trees across the lane hunkered against the relentless wind. The barn creaked and cracked.
‘Nice to see you, Owen.’
‘Is it?’ asked Owen, dabbing at one of his watery eyes with a knuckle. ‘Is it nice to see me, Elliot?’
‘Course it is.’ Elliot’s laugh was brittle.
Owen nodded at the closed door. ‘A bad time, then?’
‘Got some friends round, that’s all.’ Looking down, he saw the old man’s trousers were neatly tucked into a pair of wellingtons. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sorry for the inconvenience, Elliot, but I want to know where he is.’
‘Where who is?’
‘I haven’t heard from Perry since he left to pick you up. Everything go as planned?’
‘Yeah.’ That bloody chime clanging in his ears. ‘Like clockwork.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘Please, Owen. I’ve people here.’
‘Well, we don’t want to spoil the party. Why don’t we head to the barn? We can talk about it there.’
‘Sure.’
Elliot followed Owen down the drive.
‘Thing is, Elliot, I’m worried.’ Owen’s small frame braced against the wind as they walked. ‘It’s odd for Perry not to get in touch. He usually sticks to me like glue.’
‘He dropped me off and then sped away,’ Elliot said quickly. ‘That was the last I saw of him.’
‘You don’t think he’s trying to pull a fast one, do you, and taken all the money for himself?’