by Tania Carver
They kissed.
Deep. Hard. A kiss of life. Their mouths breathing a new cycle of existence into each other.
Eventually they pulled apart. Smiled at one another.
There was so much Phil wanted to say. So many emotions threatened to spill out of him. Marina sensed this. Put her finger to his lips.
‘Later,’ she said. ‘Let’s catch a killer first.’
Renewed, Phil turned on the ignition. The stereo came on. He drove away, The War on Drugs singing about how they were lost in the dream.
83
They’re closing in. That was all he could think. Those three words. They’re closing in.
He had pulled himself up off the floor after they had left – the angry-eyed copper and that bitch who though she was so clever, so fucking, fucking clever – and tried to get himself together. He paced his room, measuring the footsteps. The width. The length. Thinking, thinking all the time.
They’re closing in. They’re closing in.
He wanted to scream, to shout. To rend his clothes and grind his teeth. There were things inside him that were too big to stay inside. Feelings. Emotions. The way his mind was working, his heart. They should be let out, needed to be let out. He imagined them as if they were Hollywood special effects in the final reel of a film, shooting from his body, wraiths and ghosts, memories and previous lives. Filling the room, the city, the world. Exorcising himself. Ridding himself of them. So he could go on. Complete the ritual he had set out to do. Be the perfect man he knew he could be.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Not here, not now.
Because they were on to him.
He knew that. Knew it from the way those two had talked to him. He had been playing her and she had been playing him. The bitch. Rage welled up inside him once more at the memory. He had reached her – both of them, but mainly her. He knew their problems. Not that it had done him much good. Because she had turned it back on him. Got inside his head. And no one had ever done that before. Never even come close.
It was only a matter of time before the police arrived. Before his house was raided, his workroom, his ritual room. Before he was stopped. He knew it. Could sense it. He had to do something about it.
But what?
Pacing. Pacing. Thinking. Thinking.
He could cry again, tears of rage and self-pity. But he had done that and it had got him nowhere, so it was time to think.
Think.
He weighed up his options. What to do?
Run. Take what he could. Get out. No. Not an option. They would find him. He wasn’t equipped for escape. Besides, his work wasn’t finished. And that was the important thing. His work.
So he had no choice. Not really. He had to go back. Home. The ritual room. Complete his work.
Just move the schedule forward, that was all.
But what about the woman? The police detective? Would she do?
She would have to. She wasn’t perfect; he had been duped into taking her. But he would have to make her perfect. Or at least as perfect as he could manage. She would have to do.
He would make her do.
He grabbed what he could, left his room. Ignored everyone on the way out.
Headed home.
He had work to do.
84
Imani had never known such agony.
She stretched and pulled her hand once more, felt the flesh and bone grinding against the metal cuffs, knew from the wetness round her wrist, the ragged, pulpy squelch she felt, not to mention the pain that accompanied it, that the only thing she had done was drive the metal further in.
She had tried to escape, but he had been too clever for her. The cuffs were tight round her wrists. If she kept on doing what she was doing, pulling at them, she risked disfiguring her hands. She had tried squeezing her thumbs into her palms, pressing them into the flesh as tightly as she could and pulling against the cuffs like she had seen in films. No good. The hero or heroine always happened to be double-jointed or could shrink their wrists or something. Imani could do nothing like that. Except pull as hard as she could, try to wriggle her hands free. It was no good. She couldn’t do it.
Then she had tried to grip the chains that held her, attempting to twist her fingers round the links, pull against the bedstead. She had hoped that the bedstead, being old, would be weak in places. It was up to her to find those weaknesses, exploit them. There was rust on the frame. At least she assumed it was rust; it was dark brown in colour. But the more she pulled and heaved at the metal, the more she realised that the bed wasn’t going to give. And it wasn’t rust. It was dried blood.
She flopped back on to the metal mesh. Felt the sharp edges rip and tear at her once more, work their way into fresh wounds. But tetanus was the least of her worries.
Imani sighed. She had always been so self-sufficient, so driven. Refused to let anyone else dictate how she lived her life. She had never felt so helpless as she did now.
She felt herself giving in to panic and self-pity once again. She had held it off so far, tried to concentrate, focus on escaping. But the longer she spent there, the more she realised she wasn’t going anywhere.
Possibly ever again.
No. No. Don’t think like that. They would be looking for her. The team would be looking for her. They had to be. They had to be…
She looked round once more. She had lost all concept of time. With just that one bare bulb shining down remorselessly on her face, she didn’t know how long she had been there or whether it was day or night. It shone on and on, like its own special kind of torture. She was hungry, that much she did know. But that was it. She couldn’t even trust her own body any more.
She sighed. Thought once more of Avi.
Oh God, Avi…
No. No. Don’t think about him. He was all right. He was sure to be. She had enough to think of without worrying about him too. Right now he was probably tracking down where she was, joining the team in hunting for her. Finding her.
Yes. That was it.
She sighed once more. Shook her head. Felt tears well at the sides of her eyes. No. She wouldn’t give in. No. They were looking for her. They had to be.
She thought of all the cases she had worked on. All the times they had been hunting some missing person, knowing that the longer the hunt went on, the less likely they would be to find them. Alive, at any rate. Knowing all too well that moment that a hunt for someone missing turned into a hunt for a murderer.
She just hoped it wouldn’t happen to her. But she knew that every victim of every crime thought that.
She tried not to give in to tears.
85
Claire Lingard hadn’t gone to work. She had got Edward ready for school, taken him in, then come back home. After everything that had happened recently, a killer migraine had put her back to bed. After a few hours’ sleep, however, the worst of it seemed to have passed and she felt able to get up. If not strong enough to go to work, then guilty enough to try and do something productive with the remains of her day.
Head still throbbing, she moved slowly round the flat, like she was a reluctant ghost, haunting it.
And saw the door to the other flats.
With that, she remembered the night before.
She had heard Keith come in. Creeping round, trying not to wake her. She heard him showering, coming to bed. She had checked the clock: past three a.m. And she was sure she had heard him in the flats before that.
‘Bad stomach,’ he had said when she had moved, looked at him. ‘Been up for hours. Don’t worry about it, go back to sleep.’
But she hadn’t gone back to sleep. At least not until the safety of the morning had crept round the bedroom curtains.
So where had he been? With Brendan, he had said. Until that time? Was he seeing another woman? Or was he the serial killer, even? She felt ridiculous thinking such a thing.
And now she looked at the door to the other flats. She was sure she had heard noises from there last night.
It couldn’t hurt…
She went back into the bedroom. Found Keith’s clothes. Taking a deep breath, she started looking through the pockets. Trousers, jackets, nothing. The bedside table drawer held nothing out of the ordinary either. She went into the room Keith used as a study. And there, hidden amongst documents and files, she found the keys for the rest of the flats.
Not hidden, she told herself. No. Just… buried under all these papers by mistake. That was all. A mistake. Yes.
She took the keys and walked towards the door that joined them to the rest of the block. She’d never ventured further. A whole two houses that had been converted into flats. Keith had told her it wasn’t safe. Too many loose or rotting floorboards. She had taken him at his word, stayed in the downstairs one they lived in, treating it like a bungalow. But now, fingers trembling, heart and head pounding, she put the key in the lock, turned it. Opened the door.
And stepped into the hallway.
She found the light switch, flicked it on. And sighed. Relief. She didn’t know what she had been expecting to find, but this wasn’t it. Building supplies lined up against the wall. Lengths of wood. Coving. Skirting. Pots of paint piled at one side. An opened tool box. All pointing to ongoing work being done.
She looked around. Except, she thought, that it didn’t look like much had actually been done. Not considering the time Keith had been taking.
She tried to dislodge the thought from her head. He said himself he wasn’t good at DIY, that he was learning as he went. He was probably going as fast as he could.
She walked on. Everywhere was less than half finished. As if any attempts at renovation were cosmetic, just there to show that something had been done.
She came to a door. Tried it. Locked.
Her heart skipped a beat. Why a locked door? Why here? She rationalised her anxiety, tried to calm herself down. Maybe this was where Keith kept his expensive tools. An extra deterrent if the flats were broken into.
She took the key ring out, tried the keys on it until, hands still trembling, she found one that fitted. She turned it, felt the lock open. Slowly she pushed the door.
She looked round before she entered. Like she was expecting to see someone there, some friend of hers, or Keith himself, even, laughing, telling her that there was nothing to worry about. But there was no one there. No reassuring, consoling voice.
She stepped into the room.
Found a light switch on the wall. And frowned at what she saw.
A desk and chair. On the desk, a laptop, one she had never seen before. It was set up with some unfamiliar equipment: a headset, earphone and mic. She had no idea what any of it was, what it did. Then, with a shudder that almost threatened to tear her apart, she understood.
This was where he must have intercepted the calls to the refuge. This was how he did it.
Claire’s legs felt weak, her head spun. She needed to sit down, grabbed the chair and almost fell into it. As she did so, she touched something and the screen of the laptop lit up. Numbers scrolled there. She looked closely, recognised one.
Safe Haven.
Oh God…
She didn’t know what to feel, how to think. It was as if she had realised her whole world was built on a lie – a succession of lies – and it was crumbling away. She stared at the screen feeling like she had been physically attacked.
She didn’t move for a while. Couldn’t move.
Then she noticed another door, at the end of the room.
Oh God… Oh God… Oh God…
Standing up, like her body was hollow, being controlled by a puppet master, she made her way to the door. She’d found this room, she thought; what could be worse?
Numbly, she tried different keys until she found one that fitted. Turned it. Opened the door.
Stepped in.
And realised just how much worse things could be.
86
In front of Claire were shelves. All round the room, rows and rows of them. And on those shelves were boxes. She looked closer. Beside some of the boxes were other things. She walked over to one, picked up the things beside it. Photos. She looked through them. Keith when he was much younger. With another woman. Pretty, long curly hair. Not at all like Claire, she noted. Underneath the photos were a couple of sheets of writing paper. Taped to the first one was a lock of hair. It matched that of the woman in the photo. The paper had writing on. Keith’s handwriting. She started to read:
I found you. Or someone like you. Near enough like you. You didn’t think I would, did you? Not after the way you left it with me. Well, I did. And I told her – or you – everything you’d done to me. I got you back for all the hurt…
She read on. And wished she hadn’t.
Feeling physically ill now, she let the papers drop to the floor. Her head was spinning. She was nauseous, as if she was going to throw up or faint. She grabbed the side of one of the shelves to steady herself.
The boxes. There were still the boxes.
She didn’t want to open them. Really, really didn’t want to open them. But knew she had to. Like Pandora, she didn’t know what she would let out, but she knew it wouldn’t be good.
She reached for the nearest one. Dark carved wood. Took it off the shelf, flipped the lid open.
There was a heart. In formaldehyde.
She was physically sick then.
She dropped the box, the heart and the liquid going all over the floor, mixing with her own vomit.
Tears in her eyes, pain in her heart – pain like she had never experienced before – she spun round, desperately trying to get away, knowing there wasn’t really anywhere for her to go.
She ran through the room with the laptop and radio equipment, back out into the hall. She flung herself against the wall, sliding down to the floor, sobbing all the while. Eyes screwed tight shut, knowing that all her worst fears were confirmed. She didn’t think she could have felt worse if she’d been diagnosed with a terminal disease.
Eventually she opened her eyes. And saw another locked door ahead of her.
Oh no, no, no, no, no…
She put her head back down, closed her eyes once more. She didn’t know what horrors that room would contain, what could possibly be worse than the room she had just been in.
Get out. Now. That’s what I need to do. What I should do. Get out.
She looked at the locked door once more. There was a smell emanating from it. Creeping under the wood, around the frame. It wasn’t good.
Claire stood up. Keys in hand. She had to do it. Had to see what was behind it. She had no choice. She knew that now.
She found the right key. Opened the door. And entered.
Jesus…
Imani Oliver was chained to an old metal bed frame, gagged and naked. She stared at Claire, eyes wide with shock, infused with just the slightest bit of hope.
‘Imani…’
The room stank like an abattoir, old blood and animal waste. Claire wanted to be sick again, but seeing the other woman there in the state she was in, she knew she didn’t have time for that, couldn’t think about herself. She got the key ring out once more, went through the keys looking for the one that would fit the handcuffs. Couldn’t find it. She threw the useless keys to the floor, undid the gag.
‘Thank you…’ Imani was gasping in air, trying to speak at the same time. ‘Thank you… Oh God, I thought… I thought…’
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She struggled not to give in to them.
‘Get a… get your phone. Call Cotter. Tell her… tell her…’
Claire understood. She took her phone out of her pocket, made ready to call.
‘I’ll have that.’
A voice from behind her. She turned.
There, looking like someone she had never seen before, a malevolent stranger, was Keith.
87
Keith tried to grab the phone from Claire, but she moved out of the way.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he said. ‘Well. An
ything more stupid than you’ve already done.’
‘Keith, I…’ Claire stopped. She had no words.
‘You dared to enter my trophy room,’ he said, face contorted with rage.
She had never seen him like this before. It was his features, his body, his clothes. But his expression… it looked like a demon had entered him, possessed him.
‘You… fucking… dared… to go into my trophy room…’
‘I… Keith, what have you done?’
‘That room isn’t for you. It’s for me. Only me. You’ve… defiled it. Spoilt it. Spoiled the ritual…’
He kept moving towards her. She backed away. Glancing down as he advanced, she noticed he was holding something in his hand. It looked like an overlarge door handle.
Imani saw it too.
‘Claire,’ she managed to call, ‘that’s a stun gun he’s holding, be careful…’
Keith turned to her. ‘Shut it, bitch.’ Spitting the words. He turned his attention back to Claire. ‘And you…’ Pointed at her with his free hand. A long, accusing finger. ‘You are going to do what I tell you.’
Claire found her voice. ‘Why did you do it? Why? I can’t…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘No,’ he growled, ‘you don’t. You wouldn’t. You’re too…’ He searched for the word. ‘Thick. Unambitious. Useless. You think because you wrote poetry that made you special? Fuck you.’
Despite the fear she was experiencing, Claire was still hurt by his words. ‘Keith…’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Keith, this… this isn’t you. You’re a good man. A kind man. Why…’
His eyes flared. ‘I’m not good, I’m not kind…’ He said the words like they were alien, hateful objects in his mouth. Then, having rid himself of them, he smiled. ‘But I will be. Soon.’
‘What d’you mean? What are you talking about?’ Real incomprehension in Claire’s voice.
‘Perfection. All the damage women have done to me, all the hurt, the broken hearts… soon it’ll be gone. Cleansed from me. And once my rituals are completed, I’ll be perfect. The perfect man.’