by Michael Kerr
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“You’re going to die now, you bitch,” Bobby lisped through his torn and swelling bottom lip; his voice harsh and gruff, due to the blow that had struck his throat.
His hands locked on to Amy’s neck, and his thick fingers sank into the flesh, cutting off her air supply.
Her heartbeat raged in her ears; the pulsing of ventrium and atrium pounding so loud within her skull that all thought was nullified by the booming, echoing resonance. Red motes appeared, dancing in front of her eyes, and a growing enervation robbed her muscles of all strength.
I will not die like this, Amy’s mind screamed in defiance, and she summoned up the last ounce of her depleted vigour, to snap her head up and back, to hear a loud crack as Cain’s nose fractured under the impact.
His hands disengaged from her throat to cradle the new source of pain, and she scuttled crab-like, sideways, out from under him, then flipped over, coughing, fighting to push back the greyness that threatened to overcome her.
He was knelt, an eerie keening issuing from his bloody mouth as he tried to contain the fresh agony.
With no hesitation whatsoever, Amy snatched the tall and heavy bedside lamp from the top of the cabinet next to the bed, and with a sweeping round-house swing brought the oak base full force against the side of his head. He keeled over and was still. But his eyes were wide open; black, staring, blood-chilling.
Lifting the gun from where it lay on the carpet, Amy crawled back out of range, climbed shakily to her feet and levelled the weapon at his head. Her hands shook as the silenced barrel wavered on and off target. It was not easy to kill someone in cold blood. She took up the small amount of slack on the trigger, ground her teeth together and determined to finish it and be done with him; to end it there and then. If he had been conscious, still attacking her, then she would not have faltered in emptying the pistol into him. But to premeditatedly execute a defenceless, unconscious man, however evil she knew him to be, was an act beyond her capability. Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks as she lowered the pistol.
He groaned, and she fled from the bedroom, paused for a second outside the door, and then went up the stairs to the top of the house, not down to the ground floor. She knew that he was coming around, and that he would no doubt rush after her when he was able, expecting her to run out into the street and call for help.
On the top landing, Amy looked up at the trapdoor to the loft. She needed stepladders to climb up to it, and they were out in the garage. But where there’s a will there’s a way. Climbing up on to the bannister rail, she was able to stretch out, reach the hatch and push it up and backwards one-handed without losing balance and falling. Tossing the handgun up into the gloom, she then somehow found the strength to grip the edge of the frame with both hands and lever herself up after it. Within ninety seconds of having left the bedroom, she was huddled in the darkness of the loft, next to the hissing water tank, her bare back against the cobwebbed bricks, with the gun pointing at the now closed trapdoor.
Blink.
Where was he? He moaned aloud and the pain from his groin, throat, nose, head, wrist and mouth brought back images of the dire struggle that he had evidently lost.
There was no time to nurse his wounds. He looked around for the gun, but there was no sign of it. No surprise there. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, or in the grip of a fugue. The bitch would have called the police. They may already be outside, approaching the house, or inside, on the stairs, armed and trigger-happy. All he could do was attempt to escape, and hope that only seconds had elapsed, not minutes.
In a fit of near hysteria and fuelled by savage ferocity, he ignored the combined pains that caused a greasy nausea to swirl in his stomach and chest and made his way down the stairs, reeling from side-to-side like a drunken sailor on a rolling ship, to go out through the kitchen and head back to the car, expecting to hear the sirens of police vehicles with every step he took.
He reached the car and drove away from the scene. Opened the glove compartment and removed a handful of tissues from the box inside, to clamp against his nose and mouth, which were still bleeding profusely.
What the fuck was happening? One minute he had been in total control, with the bitch almost naked and at gunpoint in front of him. She had been shaking with fear, begging him not to hurt her. They had been kissing, thrusting against each other. Everything had been going just fine, and he had been only seconds away from screwing her stupid against the wardrobe. And then she had almost fucking killed him. His injuries were to say the least painful, but not life-threatening. He ascertained that his nose was definitely broken, his bottom lip felt like chopped liver, and his balls ached, on fire, sending tines of agony up into his stomach. His wrist was pounding and his head splitting. He was in a deep, dark place and needed to return to the houseboat, tend to his wounds and get some rest.
In the aftermath of the violent struggle – which had resulted in him being knocked unconscious and simultaneously suffering one of his episodes – he had no memory whatsoever of telling Amy, in passing, that Caroline was on Payne’s houseboat. Unbeknown to him, Amy knew his hideout, as did Mark, following his phone call to Payne.
She grunted and came awake shivering and sore. Her throat was swollen and tender, and the muscles in her back were contracted and aching from the collision with the wardrobe.
Myriad beams of light shone through small gaps in the tiles and pinprick holes in the roofing felt above, reminding her of stars on a trip she had once made to the Planetarium. Making her way across to the trapdoor, she eased it open a fraction, saw that the landing was clear, and lowered herself down, to drop to the carpet in a crouch. If Cain was still unconscious on the bedroom floor, she would tie him up and then call Barney. If he had gone, she would still call Barney and tell him what she now knew. She had let panic take the reins and had fled when she could have ended it. Hard to imagine that she had been a copper. She had acted more like a frightened schoolgirl; should have bound Cain up when the chance presented itself. It had been an opportunity thrown away.
Slowly, edging down to the first floor with the gun held out two-handed in front of her, its barrel moving in coordination with her eyes, she approached the bedroom door, summoned up the courage and kicked it open.
He was gone. She followed a trail of blood that showed his passage, down the stairs, into the kitchen and out through the back door.
Still holding the gun, Amy lifted the phone, then paused as she saw the Post-it pad and recognised Mark’s handwriting: Pandora, Bridge Lane, Laleham.
Jesus! Mark must have returned while she was in the loft, and after Cain had left. He had obviously called someone, and written down the address of Payne’s houseboat. What had Mark thought? That Cain had taken her? Of course. The blood, and the lamp with its cord ripped from the wall the shade crumpled and bulb broken. He had seen the evidence and come to the wrong conclusion.
Dropping the phone, Amy ran back upstairs, planning as she dressed, ignoring the drying blood that had run down her body from the cut to her chin. She knew that Mark would be heading for Laleham, and not in a cool, dispassionate and professional state of mind, but with a sense of urgency that might make him reckless. She was tuned-in to how he thought. He would not have phoned Barney; wouldn’t risk her life by putting Cain’s back against a wall with nowhere to go and nothing to lose.
She drove fast but carefully, concentrating on holding her emotions together, fighting the panic and instinctively slipping back into police mode. She reached within herself and found a measure of the cool composure that had made her a good, hard-arsed vice cop. The gun, ugly but reassuring, was on the rubber mat between her feet with a bullet chambered, ready to go.
The cold water made him cry out as he rinsed the blood from his nose, mouth and wrist. He gently patted the wounds dry with a towel and then searched the units and drawers until he found a well-stocked first-aid box. After gingerly applying iodine with a wad of cotton wool –
which made his eyes water as the yellow antiseptic burned into raw flesh – he used butterfly stitches to hold his torn lip in place, and finally bandaged his bitten wrist, before going aft to check on Caroline.
She raised her head, and her eyes widened at the sight of his puffy, discoloured face. A blow that had obviously broken his nose had given rise to swollen purple bruising that had also blackened and slitted his eyes. She thought he looked like a boxer; how Stallone had appeared at the end of most of his Rocky movies, after receiving a brutal pummelling before ultimately being victorious.
As he studied Caroline’s naked body, Bobby suddenly wanted things to be as he had once envisaged. A part of him craved a normal life. He could imagine his Caroline framed by sweet-smelling climbing roses, standing in the doorway of a picturesque country cottage, welcoming him home from work, and maybe cradling their child in her arms. That was what he really wanted and believed he deserved. Could he make that dream come true?
He went to her and used his knife to cut the tape away from her mouth.
“W... What happened to you?” she said, having decided that in a bid to live, she would offer him the illusion of unswerving affection and obedience.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, talking without moving his lips a fraction more than absolutely necessary, like a ventriloquist. “Do you need anything?”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. And to her surprise he untied the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles.
“Go on, then,” he said. “But leave the door open. And don’t do anything that would make me hurt you, Caroline.”
“I won’t, I promise,” she said, rubbing her wrists, which throbbed with pins and needles as the circulation returned to her hands. She climbed off the bed and hobbled past him; her feet almost unfeeling. He seemed different. His mood had changed, and an unexpected melancholy and gentleness in his manner gave her renewed hope. His bruised eyes said it all. The bottom line was that in his own warped way he really did love her. If that all-powerful emotion wasn’t enough to use as a weapon against him, then nothing else would be.
In the bathroom she relieved herself, washed with scented soap, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Finished, she stood at the open door and waited for him to tell her what to do.
“Put a robe or something on,” he said, speaking from where he was now seated in the gloom. “Then make some coffee for us both. And if you’re hungry, get something. But no lights.”
She went back into the bedroom, took a silk kimono from the wardrobe – a gift from Simon – and slipped it on, then returned to the spacious saloon.
“You remind me of my mother,” he said, a wistful quality to his voice. “As she looked when I was a young boy. She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said.
“No, I don’t think you are,” he said, the trace of a pained smile on his face. “You’re understandably too preoccupied with your own predicament to give a shit about my mother, my life, or anything else. But please don’t patronise me, or I’ll have to tie you up and gag you again.”
“Why do you hate me so much, Robert?” she said. “What did I do to make you so angry?”
He stared at her for an age before answering. “I tried to reach out, to be close to you. But you made it quite clear that I wasn’t good enough for you. I cared for you, and...and wanted your friendship; to be a part of your life, and you treated me with disdain. You made me feel unworthy, and I realised that you were just the same as all women; a taker.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “I was in a relationship. I had no idea how you felt. And I certainly didn’t think that you weren’t good enough. If I upset you unknowingly, then I’m truly sorry.”
“That’s easy to say, now. But it’s too late, Caroline.”
“Why is it?”
“Because there’s nowhere for us to go, to be together. And I could never trust you.”
“I can start afresh, if you can,” she said.
“Make the coffee,” he said. “I need to think.”
She made them both a mug of instant coffee and then went to sit next to him, as though they were a couple and not two individuals; one a gaoler, the other a prisoner.
“This is nice,” Bobby said, sipping his milky drink through the left side of his mouth, which was not as damaged as the right. “Hold my hand.”
Caroline reached out, took his hand in hers and imagined that she was role-playing; acting out a part in a play. Whatever she might do to try to save herself, she would deem as not being reality, but the enactment of a script. She would have to become a character that was separate and apart from the real Caroline Sellars. And the performance would have to be of BAFTA winning quality, or he would see through it and no doubt punish her severely.
After a while, Bobby put the mug down and leant his head on her shoulder. She could feel his whole body shaking slightly; Robert Cain, the Park Killer was crying.
Putting her arm around him, Caroline held him close, rested her cheek against his bald head, and prayed long and hard for a miracle to happen.
After a while, he raised his face and looked into her eyes, searching them, plumbing their depths. In them, he saw fear, but also compassion. She did not hate him. Could it be that she understood that it had been his love for her that had caused him to strike out at others, rather than harm her? God she was so beautiful, and now she would belong to him, forever, however long that might last. He needed a plan, but was tired, hurting and could not concentrate. Maybe it would be better if he just cut her throat now, then his own wrists, to end it all in the peace and quietude. That might be the only way for them to stay together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It was bitterly cold and almost dark. The waiting had been a necessary ordeal, but Mark was now on the move, keeping low as he covered the last few yards towards the houseboat. He had begun to lose hope. There were no lights or sounds or sign of life to suggest that the craft was inhabited. And then he saw a car parked in the shadows and doubt was replaced with the conviction that his initial suspicion was well-founded.
The moment was nearing when he would meet Cain face to face. Mark’s whole being was now charged with deadly intent. He looked at the ground around him, found a heavy length of windblown tree branch and hurled it through the air with the action of a circus knife thrower. The gnarled limb pin-wheeled end over end and crashed into the bonnet of the car as Mark stepped aboard the houseboat as lightly as possible and made his way forward, to where he expected the cabin door would be located. When Cain came out to investigate the noise, he would strike swift and hard with the raised tyre iron that he held.
Bobby’s head snapped sideways at the loud sound, and without a word he pushed Caroline down, beneath the table, withdrew a set of handcuffs from a pocket and once more cuffed her to the single central leg.
“Not one sound,” he whispered, and then moved away from her towards the door.
No response. Mark took shallow sips of breath through his mouth. Had Cain stolen another car and moved on, with the two women bound and gagged in the boot? Or were Amy and Caroline inside, and dead?
He waited and then edged forward to the corner of the cabin, bending low to look around it, so as not to present himself at an expected height.
Nothing.
Using his left hand, he pushed the edge of the sliding door, and it began to move. Why wasn’t it locked? But then, Cain would have no reason to lock it when he left.
Still no sound or movement from the darkness within. His adrenaline rush began to recede. He now thought he had made a mistake. Cain was not here. He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to use a refuge that could be linked to Caroline through Payne. It had been too much to hope for, and the sickening sense of disappointment crushed him. But no, he caught the aroma of coffee escaping from the cabin, a fraction of a second too late.
The door squealed back on its runners, and something dropped over his head, to be drawn tightly around his neck
and immediately begin to choke him. He struggled, lashed out with the tyre iron, but was hauled forward, face down into the saloon.
Dropping the weighty tool, Mark put both hands to his neck and felt the rope that was biting into it, but could not find space to insert his fingers to relieve the crushing force.
I’m about to die! The words screamed through his mind as the pressure on his carotid arteries cut off the blood supply to his brain, causing the world to spin, to carry him down, rushing at dizzying speed into a bottomless pit.
Amy’s heart skipped as her headlights swept across the rear of Mark’s Cherokee. It was parked on a wide grass verge, nose in, up against a mass of thorny bushes. She pulled in next to it, got out and tucked the handgun under the waistband of her jeans, then zipped up her blouson.
Taking her time, she moved furtively along the lane, approaching each houseboat in turn, to check the names on their hulls.
Pandora. She sucked in her breath. She had found it. Now what? Fear pricked her, and the scar tissue on her stomach actually hurt and began to itch and burn as though a stinging nettle had been pressed up against it. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths and remembered an old quote: ‘Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear– not absence of fear’. She would harness the negative qualms that threatened to immobilise her, and convert them into positive action. She had the advantage. Cain did not expect her.