by Luca Veste
It was nice not to be alone any more. She’d been alone for so long.
The walls didn’t talk to her any more. Every now and again she’d wake up after eating to find things had changed, the air in the room smelled differently. Expensive aftershave, a musky scent lingering in the air.
And then the silence. Stretched out for so long. She slept often, her dreams becoming more vivid as time had gone by.
She dreamt of Rob.
She’d heard him recently. She thought he’d been here, but he couldn’t be. Not here. Not down in the darkness.
‘My name is Jemma. Jemma Barnes.’
She repeated it to herself often. She was scared of forgetting. She couldn’t remember so much now. Her thoughts ran into each other, not making any sense. She heard noises coming from the walls one second, then she’d listen more carefully and not hear anything.
He hadn’t touched her. Not there.
She’d know. ‘I’d know,’ she said towards the dim noise she could constantly hear. It sounded louder sometimes. Things kept changing around her, she was sure of it. ‘Don’t think you’d get away with it.’
She paced out the room again. ‘One, two, three, five, six.’ She’d forgotten again.
‘Four!’
She sat down heavily on the floor, pain shooting up her back. She enjoyed it now. The pain she could inflict on herself. She could bang her head against the wall until something cracked. Or she knocked herself out. ‘Make it permanent.’ She laughed, the sound echoing in the room. It didn’t sound like her.
‘Who’s there?’
There was no answer.
He’d been here. Rob had been down there with her. She’d heard him through the walls.
‘No. No he wasn’t. My name is Jemma Barnes.’ Her throat was sore. She shouldn’t shout. She needed water.
She scrabbled across the floor to find what should be there. She couldn’t find it.
‘Where is it? Come on, I know it’s here.’
Her fingers brushed against something solid. She brought it up to her face, the coolness now gone. She unscrewed the cap and poured the contents down her throat. The water was warm, but no less soothing.
She found the food next. She remembered food. She hadn’t eaten for four days. That was her best guess.
‘Four,’ she muttered to herself. She took the food and turned to face the opposite way whilst still sitting. She got to her feet, walked slowly forwards, stopping when her right foot hit the toilet. She squatted down and put the food in the bowl.
It had come to her when she’d heard Rob.
‘Not him. It wasn’t him.’
She felt guilty. She was worried, about the conversations she’d had with her mum and friends. About Rob.
A drama queen, that’s what she was. Needed a little more excitement so she’d exaggerated things with them, made them believe her and Rob were having problems. One argument became so many more.
She needed to get out. She wanted to make sure. That it wasn’t him. She could take being locked away in the darkness. The man had told her she’d be let out eventually. She just had to be patient. But then she’d heard his voice, his pain, and she was no longer certain.
So she’d begun looking for a way out again. She spent so much time trying to force her way out the solid door, open the hatch from the inside so she could crawl out. She’d ran her hands down her sides, feeling the rib bones poking out from beneath the thin t-shirt she’d been wearing recently. Sometimes the man had put her in a jumper, they always smelled the same.
Sweet, like lavender.
It had come to her quite soon after she’d lost half her right index fingernail, trying to create an opening where one wasn’t to be found.
She could block the toilet somehow. He’d have to come down there, and she would claw her way out. With all nine fingernails. A kick to the bollocks, and he’d go down quick enough. Whatever it took to get out of the room.
She’d kept some toilet roll to one side, just in case, and then stuck the rest of the roll down the toilet. Then she’d put food wrappers down there.
Then the next time the hatch opened, she’d drunk the water and not eaten. Putting the sandwiches and chocolate down the bowl.
That time was the eighth.
The man hadn’t been down there. She hadn’t gone to sleep without wanting to. She was hungry, she worried about not having any strength to fight him.
She moved over to the mattress in the other corner, sat with her back against the wall. She could see Rob’s face in the darkness, a blurred memory now. She couldn’t remember if he’d had stubble or a full beard when she last saw him.
‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll be home soon,’ she whispered to him.
Her dad sang to her.
‘Frère Jacques, frère Jacques. Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don.’
She smiled. Then lay down her head on the mattress, and closed her eyes, letting her dad’s voice sing her to sleep.
She hadn’t wanted to sleep.
36
Wednesday 6th February
2013 – Day Eleven
They showed ID to the uniform standing at the door and climbed the stairs to Rob Barker’s flat. Nicotine-stained ceilings in the communal hallway, black mould patches in the corners, the wallpaper peeling away from the damp.
Murphy wanted to smoke. A nice pack of twenty L&B would do nicely. Smoke them down to the filter and then light another as he was putting out the last.
The craving never leaves you.
‘When did he move here?’ Murphy said, as they entered the flat.
‘He had to give up the house three months ago,’ Rossi replied, looking through the notes she’d scribbled down on the way over. ‘It was in his name and when his partner didn’t come back, he couldn’t afford to keep it. Mortgage was too high.’
They walked up the small, narrow staircase, a small wattage bulb hanging in the entrance providing the only light. The flat smelled musty, dirty dishes and damp clothes emanating from inside.
‘Do we know when the last sighting of him was?’ Murphy asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
‘He called in sick to work two days ago. That’s the last we know at this moment.’ Rossi replied.
They were wearing gloves, SOCOs coming up the stairs behind them. They went left at the top of the stairs, entering a small living room which was slightly lit by the rising sun streaming through the uncurtained window. Someone behind Murphy, switched a light on bathing the room in starker light.
Murphy was taken aback by the sparseness of the room, just a small sofa and TV taking up most of the space. There was a desk in the opposite corner to the TV, which Murphy thought he’d have a lot of trouble sitting at, given its size. A door to the right of the desk was open, and Murphy could see a small kitchen leading off it. Murphy and Rossi stood aside as the SOCOs took their time taking photographs and labelling anything of interest. Only a few days since they’d done something similar. There was no evidence the killing had taken place at the flat, but with four bodies in total and DCI Stephen’s orders still ringing in their ears, they were looking for any clue they could find.
They were allowed to start looking around after a while, Murphy already having taken stock of the room from his position near the doorway.
‘Laptop on the desk.’ Rossi said as Murphy approached it. ‘Is it on?’
Murphy stopped in front of the desk, bending slightly to miss the ceiling which dipped at that point. He lifted the lid and was surprised to see it running. It was plugged in, the lead running alongside the laptop. ‘It’s on. No password either. Take a look, Laura.’
Rossi moved over, sitting in the small chair as Murphy took the piles of paper stacked next to it on the desk. Murphy walked over to the sofa and began going through the pieces. A couple of pages down, Murphy read a few hurried notes, and set the page aside.
‘His homepage is a missing persons site.
He’s automatically logged in. Just having a look around it.’
Murphy grunted in reply, reading through another page. It seemed to match the page he’d set aside, notes and notes about someone called Harlow. Monkey experiments, isolation, and other words had been underlined. He set it on top of the other page, going through the other pages which were more scrawled notes than the carefully made ones on the first pages.
‘Have you heard of a “Harlow”?’ Murphy asked as he reached the end.
‘Isn’t there a Sergeant Harlow, works over the water?’
‘Probably, but I’m talking about someone else. There’s a lot of notes here about a Dr Harlow, stuff with monkeys and experiments. Given what’s been said in the letters, this has probably got something to do it.’
‘There was a psychologist called Harlow. I remember from the psych class I did in first year,’ Rossi said, looking up from the laptop for the first time. ‘He did some weird experiments with monkeys, or something. That’s about all I can remember.’
‘Right. We need to look into that.’ Murphy stood up, and went through to the bedroom. The door was open, a couple of people milling about inside talking quietly. As Murphy entered, they stopped talking and went back to looking through what little was in there. ‘Just looking,’ Murphy said as he entered, taking up the rest of the available space in the room. Most of the room was taken up by the bed, neatly made against the wall. A small bedside table next to it held just a clock radio on top. And something underneath.
Murphy walked over and lifted the radio up, freeing what was underneath.
‘It’s him,’ Murphy muttered to himself.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘This is a letter from him. The killer.’ Murphy read the short message, recognising the mixed handwriting scrawled across the page.
‘Harlow was the first, I’m just taking it further,’ Murphy read aloud.
He moved quickly back through to the living room.
‘Laura. The killer was in contact with Rob.’
‘I know.’
‘How? I’ve just found this in the bedroom.’ Murphy said, holding the letter up.
‘Because he contacted him through the missing person site first.’
Murphy stopped dead. ‘When?’
‘A week ago,’ Rossi said, writing notes in her book. ‘First message is to tell him Jemma, his partner, was still alive and set up a meeting at the Albert Dock. Victim was at work after that day, so explains why he was there. Turns out there was another message later that night, which seems to be carrying on from something that may have happened that night. Something about Harlow again. It links in with his latest letter as well.’
‘How so?’ Murphy sat down on the sofa, the pages he’d collected still in his hand.
‘He talks about how Jemma is the focus of his research. One he’s been working on for so long.’
‘His experiment is Jemma?’
‘Or that’s how he got him to comply. He could have just used that to get to him.’ Rossi replied, sitting back running her hand over her head, smoothing her hair back down. ‘She went missing …’ she checked her notes, ‘… almost a year ago.’
‘It would fit,’ Murphy said, the gravity of the situation weighing down on him as he worked through what that meant. ‘Holding someone for a year?’
‘Harlow. One of his experiments was with isolation.’
‘We need to know what the full story is with this Harlow.’
‘I think you’re probably holding most of the answers in your hand.’
‘He’s only been active in the past week though. Would he keep someone prisoner for a year and then start killing people?’
Murphy wasn’t sure. He looked down at the pages of notes. ‘I don’t think I’m going to make much sense of these, Laura. Probably best if you go through them back at the station.’
‘No sign of it yet? Right. No, that’ll be it for now. Call the second he shows.’
Rossi sat across from him, staring dead eyed at the computer screen in front of her, making notes every now and again. She’d been sitting there for an hour or so, Murphy occasionally asking how she was getting on, receiving grunts in reply. A meeting was scheduled at six p.m. as usual, and Murphy was attempting to put his thoughts in order for it.
He watched as DCI Stephens entered the incident room, talking to a couple of DCs on the way in before reaching her office. He knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer, and crossed the room towards the office. He knocked confidently, waiting to be allowed in.
‘How are we getting on, David?’
Murphy sat down in the chair opposite her. Stephens was looking harassed, yet still maintaining an air of authority. Even if the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her calm exterior.
‘We have a lead on what may have happened to the victim’s partner. But we can’t locate the cab yet.’
‘Sorry, why are we concerned with the victim’s partner at this moment, rather than the murderer?’
Murphy brought her up to speed with the early morning’s events, the DCI’s expression remaining neutral until he began talking about the possibility someone may have been kidnapped a year earlier.
‘Jemma had a history of running off. Looked like a simple case of someone packing off to sunnier climes. I don’t think anyone thought she was in danger, apart from the mother and partner.’
‘And she is in danger?’
‘I think so. Rossi is currently looking into it further, but given that he started with these psychology experiments, and that his latest letter confirms there’s an ongoing one, I think we should face the fact he may have been holding Jemma Barnes for almost a year.’
DCI Stephens leaned back in her chair, removed her glasses and shook her head. Murphy shifted in the small seat, the atmosphere in the room changing as the weight of what may have been going on without their knowledge became apparent.
‘When the papers find out about this … we’re royally fucked.’
Murphy raised his eyebrows; it was the first time he’d heard the usually mild-mannered DCI swear. ‘I think that’s the least of our problems, with respect.’
‘Of course. We need to find her as soon as possible.’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘Okay. You and Rossi talk to any family members, and also Jemma Barnes’s mother.’
Murphy nodded, stood up to leave.
‘Wait,’ DCI Stephens said before he had chance to leave. ‘Have you seen the counsellor yet?’
Murphy sighed turning back around to face her. ‘I haven’t had a chance with everything that’s been going on.’
‘How are you feeling?’ DCI Stephens said, a concerned look on her face which reminded Murphy of his mother after he’d got himself in trouble.
‘I haven’t had time to worry about it.’ He sat back down. He didn’t know if it was tiredness or something else, but he suddenly had an overwhelming urge to release so much of what he was feeling.
Instead he blurted out, ‘I’m going to speak to Sarah, see if we can meet up.’ It surprised him. He hadn’t thought of doing that.
‘That’ll be good,’ DCI Stephens replied.
‘I need to see her.’ Murphy hadn’t said that out loud before, but now the words were out there, he realised how true they were. He did need to see her. ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to say yet.’
‘Well, my door’s always open, David. But if any of this is affects your work, I won’t hesitate to remove you from the case. It’s too big for any mistakes to happen.’
Murphy winced, but forced himself to bite his lip. ‘I’m focused only on bringing him in. Whoever he is.’
‘Good. Get back out there.’
Murphy left the office, the DCI’s words burning in his ears. The truth was, he didn’t know if he could focus. Everywhere he looked he seemed to be surrounded by darkness. He was trapped, closed in from the outside.
He was tired. Tired of it all.
He had
to do this. He had to find him.
Experiment Two
Jemma was sitting in a restaurant. The Italian place on the corner of Ranelagh Street, opposite Central station. It was warm outside, and they had a table in the window, causing Rob to shield his eyes with the menu.
‘Let’s get a different table.’
Rob laid the menu down. ‘No. This is where you like to sit, so we’re staying. What’s a bit of burned retina between lovers.’
Jemma rolled her eyes at him. ‘Lovers? Ugh. Don’t say that.’
‘Isn’t that what we are?’
‘Well … yeah. But it just sounds like a bad romance book.’
He laughed. Jemma smiled back.
‘Okay. I won’t say it again. What are you getting?’
Jemma looked at the menu again. ‘Bruscetta and the cacciatore.’
‘Good choice. I’m going for the lasagne.’
Jemma chuckled to herself. ‘Of course you are. That’s what you always get. Why not try something different?’
Rob shook his head. ‘I know what I like. Why take a chance and get something I don’t like?’
‘Because you might end up finding something new.’
‘Nah. I’ll stick with what I know. The grass isn’t always greener you know. That’s why I keep you around.’
Jemma threw a breadstick at him, laughing loud enough to earn stares from some of the people sat at the closest tables.
‘Fucker.’
‘Mind your language, Jemma Barnes. This is a posh place you know.’
Jemma gave him a sombre expression. ‘Posh? I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘I would. Have you seen all these knives and forks? They should come with labels so I know which one to use.’
Jemma laughed again. ‘Just work from the outside in.’
‘My, my. You really are losing it, Jemma.’
The restaurant began to fade, growing darker and darker. She felt the walls closing in around her, as her face fell and reality became clearer.
‘Where do you think you are?’
The voice wasn’t coming from Rob. It surrounded her.
‘No. This isn’t real. Let me go back.’