Fearful Symmetry

by J. E. Mayhew

  “Ah yes, Detective Blake,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but I must say, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I loved Searchlight.”

  “Right,” Blake said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Thanks. Is Gareth available now?”

  “Yes,” she said, unperturbed by Blake’s darkening looks. “I was so sorry to hear about Ross Armitage. You must have been so upset.”

  “I still am,” Blake muttered.

  “Yes he was such a cheeky chappy, wasn’t he? It must have been awful for whoever found him…”

  “Is Gareth available? Only I’m on a bit of a tight schedule?”

  The woman looked startled. “Oh yes,” she said, clearly disappointed in Blake’s brusqueness. “If you’d like to come this way.”

  She waddled in front of him, leading him into a back room. Blake wondered what kind of shop it had been when it first opened. This room was full of filing cabinets and had another desk in one corner. he followed her through another door and up some narrow stairs into another office where Gareth Cornell sat.

  Cornell was a slight man but tall. Blake recalled Kath Cryer referring to him as a streak of piss once, which seemed unkind. His pale complexion and long, droopy face didn’t really inspire confidence, though. His light brown suit seemed a size too big for him, especially around the shoulders. Even though he’d tried to force his mousey hair into a modern slicked-back style with a gallon of Brylcreem, it still stuck out at the side. Blake wondered if he’d made the right choice.

  “Mr Blake,” Cornell said, offering a clammy handshake. “Great to meet you again. I was sorry to hear about your colleague from the TV show. Terrible news.”

  “Thanks,” Blake said, sitting down in the padded, leather chair clearly reserved for clients.

  “I hear you’ve taken some time away from the Scissor Man case…”

  “Really?” Blake said, bristling at the use of the name. “Where from?”

  “It was on local radio this morning. I must say, I was surprised.”

  “Why’s that?” Blake said. He hadn’t expected Martin to move so quickly in announcing that he was off the case. It felt like they were trying to provoke the Scissor Man, which didn’t seem like a good idea. Blake realised he felt annoyed at the news.

  Cornell swallowed. “Well, I mean… I remember you from the last case we both dealt with. You didn’t seem the kind to take time off… Not that there’s anything wrong with…You just struck me as more dogged, that’s all…”

  “Dogged? You think I’ve given up?”

  “No! Anyway! There might be a hundred and one reasons why you’ve stepped away from the case. None of them any of my business. I can imagine the death of Mr Armitage was a blow. He was a friend after all.”

  Blake leaned back. “The last thing I said to Ross Armitage was ‘fuck you.’ He was a poor excuse for a human being, but he didn’t deserve to die. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to discuss my late mother…”

  *****

  There were several missed calls on the old answerphone in the hall at Rock Lodge. Blake skipped through them. One from Laura. His finger hesitated over the ‘play’ button but then he erased it; she was probably better off without him. It struck Blake that it was February 14th, St Valentine’s Day. He’d never been one for candlelit dinners or grand gestures but it somehow deepened his sense of regret.

  Another message was from Kath Cryer, ‘just checking in.’ This was the woman who called Kinnear a ‘soppy get’ for sending her flowers after she’d saved his life. She always managed to surprise him. Another one from Laura which he also erased without listening to it.

  The visit to Cornell had been fruitful. Blake left with the sense that he was just paying for one of Gareth’s secretaries to fill in a form for him, but at least all he had to do was sign on the line and get on with his life. Cornell’s frankness at the start of their meeting had made him think. The young solicitor didn’t see him as a quitter and yet that’s what he’d done. He’d walked away from Ellen Kevney; left her to fend for herself. and, yes, there were plenty of others on the team, just as diligent, and capable of finding her. But Blake couldn’t rest until he’d found her dead or alive.

  Saturday 15th February

  Chapter 30

  It wasn’t every day Laura drove across Wirral to see an incontinent dog. The owner was tired of mopping up after the poor creature and had phoned quite late in the evening. Laura had suggested a vet, but the man was adamant that the animal had a psychological issue. If she was being honest with herself, she agreed to look at the dog to keep busy and not think about Will. She’d phoned a couple of times yesterday, but he didn’t pick up. Whether he was sulking or just busy, she didn’t know but she didn’t like being ignored. When the call came, she decided a new challenge might distract her. The dog was in Frankby, fourteen Corley Road.

  “Where the hell is Frankby, anyway?” she muttered to herself. It was an old joke she used to have with her sister who always wanted to live there because of the posh sandstone cottages and country lanes. Laura always joked that you could drive through Frankby and miss it completely. Her journey took her across the Wirral and through fields from the industrial side to the more suburban.

  Corley Road struck Laura as being more in Greasby than Frankby, but she wasn’t going to split hairs. The bungalow was wedged between two identical twins and more houses flanked them, all the same. Their gables ran right along the road like pointed teeth. A garage fronted each house, partially concealing the living room window and front door. She got out of the car and frowned. The front room curtains of number fourteen were drawn closed. Family saloons and people carriers stood in front of the other houses, but the drive of this house lay empty. She knocked at the door and it swung open slightly.

  “Hello?” Laura called. A dog barked in the back of the house and she relaxed a little. It was a playful bark, not a warning or distress. A voice called to it and she realised that the owner and the dog must be in the back garden. She stepped into the house.

  “Hello?” she called again. “It’s Laura Vexley, the animal behaviour woman.” She advertised as the ‘Behaviour Saviour’ but always felt a little corny saying it out loud. The hallway lay in shadow and the two living room doors were shut tight. Only the kitchen door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar and light from the back shone through. More barking and a voice again, maybe laughter.

  Uncertain what to do, Laura crept forward and pushed the kitchen door open. The kitchen was narrow with a sink on one side and a worktop and cupboards on the other. An old-fashioned ghetto blaster sat on the cooker, an old cassette tape turned round and round playing the sound of a dog barking and someone calling to it. The moment she saw it, she knew she was in trouble. She turned to run back down the hall, but a tall, rangy figure blocked her path.

  *****

  Blake sat on his mother’s old bed in front of the cardboard box and held his breath. When he opened the lid, he would fall headlong into the past. A past he’d shut down thirteen years ago. Everything to do with Searchlight, contracts, letters, addresses, lay inside. But he was under no illusion. Each piece of memorabilia would be laden with bad memories. Memories of a time when his life had fallen apart. But a woman’s life might depend on it. Last night, he’d decided to see if he could talk on the phone to someone connected with Searchlight.

  The idea worried him because of what happened to Armitage but if he could make contact with someone less well -known, he thought they would be safe; the Scissor Man killed Armitage because he was high-profile and advertised his meeting with Blake. A camera man or runner would be completely anonymous to the killer and so unlikely to be harmed. He pulled open the lid and lifted the contents out, placing them on the bed.

  There was a pile of leaflets, brown envelopes and other things, a framed photograph of Nicole and him and even some magazine clippings identical to the ones left on his dining room table. But there was a book too; a small, red notebook full of numbers. He doubted that many of
them were still operational after all this time but thought he’d try them anyway.

  He punched the first number into his phone and was rewarded with a monotonous beep. The second mobile number had been reallocated to a bad-tempered old man. The third, fourth and fifth, delivered similarly depressing results.

  Blake flicked through the pages, his eye landing on Nicole’s mobile number. Would that be the same? And what would she say if he called after all these years? He shook himself and turned the page.

  The name Amy Tyson leapt up from the page. He’d thought of her the other day when he was talking with Armitage. He smiled. She’d been a runner for the programme; a gopher who brought coffees, winkled people out of their dressing rooms and ran various errands for the crew. He’d liked Amy; she didn’t take any shit from anyone but kept on good terms with everyone, even Ross Armitage, who thought he was God’s gift to everyone, but women especially. As Blake recalled, she lived in Didsbury with her girlfriend and a Great Dane called Henry.

  Ross Armitage had mentioned her sexuality and Blake suspected he’d tried it on with her. Blake grinned, imagining the likely outcome of that scenario. He also knew that Amy was a loyal kind of person; a make-do-and-mend type. If anyone would still have the same phone number, it would be her.

  Blake punched in the number and waited. The phone rang and then a gruff voice answered. “Yes?”

  “Erm, Amy, is that you?”

  “Yeah, this is Amy, who am I talking to, please?”

  “It’s Will Blake… from the Searchlight programme… you probably don’t remember me…”

  “I remember you, Will, of course I do. In fact, I’ve been expecting you to call…”

  *****

  Laura didn’t even think; she swung her leg up as hard as she could. The man who blocked her path had stood legs apart to block the way, leaving him open to a good kick in the crown jewels. She followed it with a sharp punch to the side of his head and then leapt over him as he crumpled to the floor. She noticed he was dressed in black jeans and a Puma hoody. He had a ski mask on, but she could see the edge of a beard around the mouth hole. Panting loudly and her knuckles throbbing, Laura slammed out of the house and sprinted towards the car. She stopped, fumbling for the car keys in her bag and pointing the fob at the car. It chirped in recognition. She didn’t dare to look back, but she could hear footsteps emerging from the house as she flung open the car door.

  Slamming it shut, she pushed the lock button down just as the man threw himself against the passenger window. Laura started the engine and glanced over at him. He grinned at her and slowly peeled his ski mask off. A gaunt, scraggy-haired, bearded young man leered at her, then slowly licked the passenger window. Laura stalled the car, restarted the engine and pulled away, screeching the tyres. She saw him in the rear-view mirror, stumbling into the street and laughing at her. She knew it wasn’t just Ellen Kevney who was in danger.

  Chapter 31

  Amy Tyson sat at a corner table in The Lead Station bar. As it was early yet, the place was quiet and mainly serving coffee to the students and the chic inhabitants of the Victorian houses around Chorlton Green. Blake had spent many a riotous hour in the Horse and Jockey pub just down the road when he worked on Searchlight and knew the area quite well.

  Amy hadn’t changed one bit. Small, dark, hair tied back in a tight bun. Blake was even more surprised to see that she still wore her trademark red check jacket and patched black skirt, a pair of Doc Marten boots poking out from under them. He entered the bar and gave her a wave.

  “This used to be a cop shop, did you know that?” she said, without a ‘how’re you doing’ or a ‘hi.’

  Blake looked around. It was hard to tell apart from a few bits of memorabilia; framed pictures, a truncheon and the like. “I didn’t know that, at all, Amy. How are you doing?”

  “Better than you by the sound of it,” she said, giving him a cheeky grin.

  Blake smiled and nodded. “There’s truth in that.” He ordered a coffee and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You said you were expecting me to call, Amy. What did you mean by that?”

  Amy took a sip of her drink. “I dunno. Maybe it was the sudden demise of poor Mr Armitage,” she said, without a hint of sorrow. “And, believe it or not, a surprising number of people have been following your career quite closely since Searchlight was scrapped, Will.” She picked up her phone, gave it a few swipes with her finger and passed it to Blake.

  Welcome to the Campaign to Bring back Searchlight Website, Blake read. A place for Searchlighters of all ages to exchange their memories and to put pressure on the Independent channels to bring back the valuable and entertaining True Crime TV show.

  “Blimey,” Blake muttered. “Some people need to get a life.”

  He went to hand the phone back, but Amy stopped him. “No,” she said, “scroll down. There’s more.”

  “Oh great,” Blake muttered. “Don’t you just love a ‘where are they now?’ section.” He stabbed the box with his name on it with his finger and then blinked in surprise. “Blimey. There’s loads of it…”

  “I did a bit of research when I heard about Ross and came across this. Somebody has been watching you for a long time. There are details about the cases you’ve worked on, appearances in court to give evidence; any mention of you in the papers, however small is catalogued here.”

  Blake scrolled through the dates and comments, links and pictures. “Whoever did this must be seriously obsessed with the programme…”

  “With you, Will. Not just the programme. You. I’m not saying this person is a killer. But they have a similar obsession with you, and they might swim in the same circles. When the link between these murders and Searchlight came up in the news, this website sprang to mind straight away.”

  “Who runs it?”

  Amy shrugged. “The person who replies to any comments just calls themselves ‘The Gambler.’”

  “But they don’t give any more details. Damn.”

  “It’s a pretty amateurish site and there isn’t any link up with social media. I guess if you knew somebody who had a certain level of computer know-how, they might be able to get more details about who hosts it maybe.”

  “That’s a thought,” Blake said, finding the website on his own phone and saving it. “Thanks, Amy. That’s a start, I think.”

  “You know, there were lots of fans of yours during those years…”

  Blake blushed. “I know. The hours I spent signing those terrible photographs of myself. And answering letters. Funny to think but even then, I got letters, not emails…”

  “It’s a more personal contact, isn’t it? And if you don’t have an email address, how are you going to get in touch with your idol? I mean nowadays, it’s all social media; celebs are almost begging for attention but it was different then.”

  “True,” Blake said, nodding.

  “I always liked you, Will. You were a copper first and a celebrity second…”

  “Don’t think I was ever a celebrity,” Blake said. “I got sucked into Searchlight and it’s been a pain in the neck ever since.”

  “That’s what I mean. You knew it was all bullshit. Some of those fans were quite persistent.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Amy pursed her lips. “Like I said, most people would send letters or cards, but one or two hardcore fans would wait outside the studio…”

  “Really?”

  “Old Gary Churchill, the security guard, you remember him?”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “Ex-copper as I recall…”

  “He was given the run-around by quite a few boys and girls who wanted to see Ross or Emerald. A few of them wanted to see you, too.”

  Blake’s memory was beginning to awaken. “Didn’t one of them make a complaint?”

  “There was a young lad who tried to wriggle past Gary, kicked him in the shins when Gary grabbed him. I think Gary literally threw him off the premises.”

  “That’s right
. Wasn’t there a social worker or something?”

  Amy took a sip of her coffee. “Dunno. You’d have to ask Gary. It might be worth speaking to him. He might remember some of the weirder fans; you know, the ones who had him concerned.”

  “Good idea,” Blake said. “Any ideas where he might be?”

  “Funny you should say that, Will Blake,” Amy said, smiling and picking up her phone from the table.

  *****

  Laura gunned the engine of her car, grinding the gears as she sped down Frankby Road. Houses and trees flashed by. A car blared its horn, but she didn’t care, just as long as she got away from that house. She knew enough from what Blake had told her that this man was dangerous and clever. He’d broken into Blake’s house, so he knew where he lived and if he had her phone number, it wasn’t a huge leap to imagine that he knew where she lived too.

  Turning left, she found herself heading for the M53 and then she was on the motorway, heading South. The exits flashed by and she didn’t slow down until she was somewhere near Ellesmere Port. She turned off and found herself sitting in the crowded carpark at Cheshire Oaks shopping outlet. She let her breathing slow and pulled her phone out of her bag with trembling hands. She glanced around as the phone rang. The man could have followed her. He might be here. “Where are you Will?” she cried to the answering service. “It was him. He was at the house I went to… phone me back. Tell me what to do…”

  She threw the phone back into her bag and took a deep breath. There were crowds here. There was no way the man had followed her here. She should walk a little, maybe get a coffee and calm down. She picked up the phone again and left another message. “Will. I’m at Cheshire Oaks. There are loads of people here. I’m okay. Just ring me back, please.”

  She climbed out of the car and strode over to a Starbucks. She should phone the police, but she needed to get her head straight first. It was a long time since she’d had to defend herself like that and she didn’t like it. It stirred up too many dark memories.