by J. E. Mayhew
Blake pressed the buzzer on the intercom and waited. There was no guarantee that Armitage was even in. He could be filming anywhere in the country. What was he doing here anyway? Just as he was about to turn and head back to the car, the intercom fizzed and clicked. “Yeah?” Blake recognised Armitage’s faux-cockney voice at once. He stepped into view of the CCTV on the panel.
“Hi, Ross. It’s DCI Will Blake. I wondered if I could have a brief chat?”
“What’ve I done, now, Blakey?” The crackly voice said and a throaty chuckle followed.
Blake ignored the joke. “Just wanted to pick your brains about something if you’ve got the time.” The gate buzzed and he pushed it open.
Bramble Cottage hadn’t changed; a two-storey pile with a dizzying number of windows. Blake’s feet scrunched on the gravel drive that cut through the shaggy, unkept lawn surrounding the red brick house. He felt faintly ridiculous walking up the long drive which was clearly meant for cars. Nobody walked up to the house; they either left letters in the post-box built into the wall or they drove up.
Armitage stood on the steps up to his front door, dressed in a sloppy, but very expensive, tracksuit. A phone was pressed against his ear as Blake approached.
“Yeah. Just hurry up, okay? Good,” he said and shoved the phone into his pocket. He’d grown his old spiky hairstyle out and now had it greased back; cut short round the back and sides. Blake noticed he hadn’t gone for the beard; Ross Armitage’s cheeky chappie image wouldn’t survive under any serious growth.
The celebrity jigged down the steps as if he was in the opening scenes of a quiz show and shook Blake’s hand vigorously. “Will, good to see you, mate. How you doing? Weren’t you just in the papers or something? That Scissor Man case?”
Blake suppressed a groan; that name seemed to be getting everywhere. “Probably, Ross. That’s what I’m here about.”
Ross Armitage raised his hands. “Weren’t me sir! I was with a Lithuanian prostitute all night,” he laughed.
Blake winced. This was Armitage’s stock-in-trade when he was off-camera, laddish banter, smut, and wearisome innuendo. He may appear slick and professional on television, but the man was somehow still trapped in the late nineties in real life. The reference had also brought Katerina Dragavei to mind and with it a whole host of uninvited images.
“It’s probably nothing and I’m probably wasting your time,” Blake said, almost choking on the half-apology.
“No worries, Will. Always glad to be of assistance, you know me,” Armitage said, his face creased with concern. Of course, the man was working out an angle already; Blake could tell. Armitage might appear shallow and superficial but, before he jumped into the celebrity swamp, he was a trained journalist who cut his teeth on major national and international crime reporting. The man wasn’t stupid, and he followed the news avidly. Blake suddenly felt the urge to walk away. Anything he said would be leaked if it benefited Armitage’s career. The man was as watertight as a colander.
Blake gave an awkward cough. “It may be that the person we’re interested in may have some connection to the Searchlight programme.”
“Connection? What d’you mean connection?”
“I can’t really say, Ross. Sorry.”
Ross squinted at Blake and he could see the incisive journalist come to the fore. “So, the killer has left references to the programme or to someone in the team?”
“I honestly can’t tell you, Ross. More than my job’s worth.”
“It’s you isn’t it? The killer’s fixated on you!”
Blake frowned. “Fixated? No! What makes you say that?”
“Behave, Blakey. I can see a guilty look a mile off and you can’t hide that from me. What’s he been doing? Writing you love letters?”
“If I could just ask you a few questions?”
Armitage threw his arms wide. “Ask away!” Blake noticed there was no invitation to come inside and, for a moment, he wondered if the joke about the prostitute was, indeed, a joke.
“So, you must have had your fair share of fan mail and crank calls. But does anyone stand out? Can you remember any names of people who bothered you?”
Armitage thought for a moment or at least made all the right noises. “There was that flash bird who used to hang around the stage door. You know the one with the big…” Armitage lifted his hands to his chest but the look on Blake’s face stopped him from making the full gesture. “Oh, come on, Blakey, it was years ago. I can’t remember members of the public I met last week let alone thirteen years ago. Can you?”
“As a matter of fact, I can. It’s my job. There’s nobody you can think of who stood out. Gave you the shivers? Maybe more recently. Has anyone contacted you about the Searchlight programme? Or just mentioned it in passing? It’s important, Ross. Lives might depend on it.”
Ross Armitage frowned and pursed his lips. “Nope,” he said at last. “Your best bet would be to track down some of the runners or security people from the time.”
Blake nodded. “There was Amy Tyson. Remember her?”
Armitage pulled a face. “God, yeah, mate. Wasn’t she a dyke or something?”
“I wouldn’t know, Ross,” Blake said, grimacing. He did know, he just didn’t like Armitage’s turn of phrase. “Have you got her number?”
“Yeah. I might have actually. Give me a second. I might have it in an old diary. Bear with me…”
The oak door closed on Blake’s face and Armitage disappeared into the house. For a moment, Blake wondered if he was ever going to return. There were raised voices behind the door as if Ross was telling someone off. Blake frowned. He was speaking urgently but there was nobody replying. He reappeared with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, buddy, can’t find it. She lived in Manchester somewhere. Didsbury or somewhere like that. I tried it on with her once, but she wasn’t having it. Told you, bats for the other side.”
Blake shifted back a little from Armitage. He’d always seen something flaky in the man when he was younger but thirteen years later, it suited him even less. “Right. Thanks. I should be able to find her anyway.”
Ross Armitage took a step closer to Blake, so that their shoulders almost touched. “Funny to be fixated on you, though, eh?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, like, not being funny or nuffin, Blakey but you weren’t the star of the show, were you? I mean, why not get hung up on Emerald… or me? We were front and centre.”
“Like I say, I can’t comment,” Blake said. “Thanks anyway. I’ll have a look for Amy.”
The sound of cars pulling up and doors opening and closing drifted from out in the lane. Blake frowned but couldn’t see anything beyond the trees and bushes that fringed the grounds. “Tell me you haven’t, Armitage.”
From inside the house the buzzer sounded. “Hello,” a crackly voice said. “Mr Armitage, It’s Phil Planter from the Sun. Is he still here?”
Ross Armitage gave him a maddening grin. “Called ‘em as soon as I saw you through the intercom. This could be an opportunity, Blakey,” he said, suddenly draping an arm over Blake’s shoulder and whipping the phone out of his pocket. “Have you thought about that?” he said and gave a brilliant white smile. Blake pulled away but the damage was done.
“What’re you playing at?”
“Just a selfie, mate. For old time’s sake. You and me. The old team. If you track this fella down, well, what a story, eh?” Armitage had dropped the cheeky chappy act and looked as sharp as a razor.
Blake took another step back. “Delete it,” he said. “Get rid of it now or I’m telling you…”
“What?” Armitage said. “You going to wrestle me to the ground? Assault me? That’ll be one for the press pack at the gates.”
“Come on, Ross. This character is deranged. I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but any publicity could endanger the life of Ellen Kevney.”
“Don’t worry, mate,” Armitage said. “Just want to get myself in the picture, that’s all. This
kind of thing is great for my profile. Just one little tweet, that’s all. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Fuck you, Armitage,” Blake said and stalked across the gravel, wondering what kind of nightmare Armitage’s ego would bring down on them all.
Chapter 22
The front door hung open again. Just like it had two years before. Sitting in his Opel Manta, Blake found himself back at that time once more. That moment when all his fears came to pass.
It had been a long day, what with Armitage and the press scrum outside the house. Blake had managed to escape without having to say anything, but several pictures had been taken and Ross Armitage had even managed to entice a TV camera down there, too. No doubt, he’d followed Blake out to give a full statement about the nature of his ‘cooperation’ with Merseyside Police. After all, he wouldn’t want to leave anything up to speculating journalists; he knew his own tricks best.
Blake had returned to the office and kept his head down. The journey home had flashed by. He hadn’t noticed the tunnel or the roundabout or much of the route home at all; he’d driven them in some kind of flow state as he mulled over the various ways in which the next day might pan out. None of them were good. Lost in thought, he’d turned the car into the drive and seen the door. And he’d been dragged back to that moment when the door stood ajar.
He’d been caring for his mother for some time and had watched her slowly slide into confusion. He should have known that this was a possibility. That his mother would just open the front door and walk out. Behind him, just at the end of the drive the River Mersey flowed black and cold.
Blake shivered, snapping himself back to the present. The front door shouldn’t be open now. Climbing out of the Manta, he crept towards the front of the house, wincing at every scrunch of gravel underfoot. Somebody was moving around inside in the dark.
“Don’t move!” Blake snapped and flipped the light on. He glimpsed Laura’s startled face and then saw her fist fly up. Stars blossomed before his eyes and he fell to the ground.
*****
Paul White frowned at Tina and slumped his shoulders. He looked like a little boy who’d just been told he couldn’t have an ice cream. As the hours ticked by, Tina wondered more and more what she’d actually seen in this man. “Come on, love. It’s big money. You haven’t really been online for a few days and we’re skint.”
“I can’t Paul,” she said. “All I keep thinking of is Ralph and that room and the idea of a dead body… the last thing I want to do is get glammed up and show myself off for a load of dirty old men.”
“He’s offering £500. Just wants me to tie you up tight. No sex. He just wants you to wriggle around on the bed. Not even costumes. Just office wear.”
Tina sighed. “Bloody hell, Paul. We’ve been in police custody all day. Can’t you see I’m upset?”
“That’s the beauty of it, love. You can be upset. It’ll turn him on. Just an hour, that’s all. Think about it. Five hundred quid!”
“Are we really that skint?”
“We spent a fortune at the shops the other day, remember? We need some cash to go into the bank. How about it?”
Tina shrugged. “Okay fine but not sex. Just ropes and a ball gag and I’ll roll around on the bed trying to get free. Okay?”
“Great!” Paul said, grinning. “I’ll message him back now.”
Tina rolled her eyes and dragged herself off the bed. Who found that sexy anyway? A woman hogtied and rolling around. I mean, she could understand voyeurism, the thrill of watching something forbidden or just plain flaunting it if you got it. They kind of went together in her mind, like they were complimentary. But a lone woman tied up? Just dressed in a pencil skirt and a blouse? It never made sense to her. It was easy money, though.
She opened her wardrobe and pushed aside the slips and costumes and dragging out a coil of rough, hemp rope. She threw it on the bed and took a ball gag out of the drawer. “Paul,” she called out of the bedroom door. “I’m gonna need your help, you lazy git.”
Paul reappeared looking a little flushed. He switched on the spotlights dotted around the room and booted up the laptop. He took the dust cap off the expensive camera that stood on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Tina sighed and held up the rope. “I meant these!”
“Oh! Right, yeah!” Paul said and took the gag from her. He tied one end of the rope around her wrist and pulled her arms tight behind her back.
“Ow! Careful!”
“Sorry. He wants them tight, love.”
“Yeah, well there’s no need to rip my arms out of their sockets is there?”
Paul nodded and slipped the ball gag between her teeth. “Should’ve done that first,” he muttered.
“Gnff!” Tina grumbled. She fell flat on the bed, her face down, arms tight behind her back.
Paul switched the camera on and gave Tina a thumbs up. She watched him make a little mime of drinking a cup of tea and then he tip-toed out of the room. She lay alone, straining at the ropes, testing them a little. When they did bondage sessions for the camera, Paul usually left a little slack. This time the ropes felt tight and unforgiving. She gave a little squeak of protest and rolled over onto her back.
Time slowed down. She wriggled a little and then pulled violently at the bonds. Paul had tied them well.
A moment of panic swept over Tina and all the anxiety of the last few days burst through. Her heart thumped in her chest and she felt clammy. She twisted and turned, kicking her legs to get free but the ropes seemed to tighten, if anything.
The camera light winked red and suddenly, Tina felt cold. Why would anyone in their right mind pay £500 to look at a woman tied up on a bed? She didn’t even get that much for the more intimate sessions she offered. This was all wrong. The ropes bit into her wrists and she struggled to get free. What was Paul playing at?
A dull thud from the hallway made her stop and flinch. She tried to say Paul’s name, but the gag reduced it to a grunt.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall towards the door and Tina wriggled to get free.
Her wrists and ankles burned against the rope, but it held tight.
The half-open bedroom door creaked slightly, and a shadow filled the gap.
*****
Will Blake sat in his armchair, pressing a cold flannel to his eye. Laura leaned over him. “I’m really sorry, Will, I thought you were…” she broke off. “I didn’t know who you were.”
Serafina rubbed around his legs, trying to find an opportunity to jump onto his lap.
“It’s fine,” Blake said, wincing and taking the flannel away from his eye for a second to squint at her. “That’s quite a hook you’ve got on you. Where did you learn to punch like that?”
Laura shrugged. “I took some self-defence lessons a while back,” she said and grinned. “Plus a bit of boxercise.”
“Why were you sneaking around in the dark like that?”
“The door was open,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb any would-be burglar.”
“The door was open when you arrived?” Blake said, frowning. He looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. He’d seen plenty of burglaries and normally, the thieves didn’t worry about searching carefully for valuables; things would be strewn all over the place, furniture turned over, even slashed. He had even known some burglaries where the thief defecated on beds and living room mats.
Stepping into the front room, he stopped. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Laura said hurrying into the room.
“He’s been here.”
Chapter 23
Ross Armitage held up his phone and grinned, bracing himself for the flash. Looking down at the result, he grimaced and flicked through the filters. Another notification from Twitter popped up and he smiled again. Flicking onto it.
“YISSS!” He hissed, punching the air. “At last. A bloody retweet from Emerald Fisher!”
Emerald had been his co-host on Searchlight and had gone on to greater things; she’d done a couple of
stints on the One Show and reinvented herself as a healthy eating guru. She was never off Breakfast Television, or any number of variants of Bake-off.
Another ping told him that hardman TV presenter Troy Griffin had retweeted, too. Once one of them did it, they all would; fearful of missing out on the tiniest glimmer of reflected limelight. This was doing his profile no harm at all.
The impromptu press conference had been a masterstroke. Ross had been following the Hilbre Grove case in the locals and a few of his old contacts in the force had given him some juicy morsels of gossip. When Blake turned up at his front gate, Ross hadn’t hesitated to phone the press and tell them to get down here right away. Once Blake had wrestled his way through the crowd of eager journalists, Ross had sauntered out of the gate behind him and held up his hands for calm.
He told them there had been a few developments in the case, that he was working with Blake in an advisory capacity and couldn’t divulge any details; then he went on to divulge all the details he’d picked up from his sources at Canning Place. He dropped in the killer’s apparent fixation with Blake; maybe garnishing it with a few exaggerations.
Ross looked at the selfie he’d taken on the doorstep before Blake left; it was perfect. Blake looked suitably morose in the shot, almost downtrodden whereas Armitage positively shone. The actual tweet had said, ‘The dream team together once more. Watch out criminals!’ He’d posted a few different tweets, same picture but new text: ‘The Fun-Loving Crime busters’ was one of his favourites as Blake’s hangdog face screamed anything but fun. It made them seem like characters from a buddy movie; Armitage was the wild cheery one. He stood up and looked in the mirror, imagining himself as Mel Gibson to Blake’s Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon. Ross gave a white smile and nodded; he was good-looking enough and he certainly drank as much. It was time for a relaunch. He was sick of those voice-overs; playing to the crowd of boomers, sitting in their living rooms, drunk on the Friday night bottle of red and terrified of the chavs they watched and sneered at.
Armitage sat down again. He had dismissed social media at first. Once he saw how Emerald Fisher had nailed it with her healthy eating YouTube channel, he’d changed his mind. It was so frustrating trying to catch up with it all.