Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ Jamie said, and held out the Photofit of their suspect. ‘I’m here to ask if you’ve seen this man.’

  Hughes shifted position with a grunt, and took the picture. He stared at it for a long while. ‘Why?’

  ‘He is a suspect, wanted in connection with the recent spate of killings in the area,’ Jamie said. ‘We believe he may be pretending to be a member of an organisation such as yours, in order to attract allies.’

  Hughes stared at him blankly.

  ‘In other words,’ Jamie said, ‘he may be using someone like you.’

  Jamie watched a series of complicated emotions pass across Hughes’ putty-like features. He wondered if, in his heart of hearts, this man really thought himself superior to whole other races.

  At length, Hughes said, ‘Haven’t seen him,’ and held out the Photofit.

  ‘Then you’re lucky,’ Jamie replied, taking the picture back. ‘Because whoever this man is using is in terrible danger.’

  He stared again at the Nazi symbols on the wall. ‘Mr Hughes, do you know anything about the Eye in The Pyramid?’

  ‘The what?’

  Jamie described the symbol, modified to include the killer’s scales of justice.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Hughes said, shaking his shaved head.

  Jamie shrugged and rose. He dug into his pocket, and held out his card. ‘This is my name, and I’ve written the number of the Aberystwyth station on the back. If you hear anything you think may be significant, please call me.’

  Hughes took the card and tossed it on a small wood-grain laminate table without looking at it. Jamie moved to the door. ‘Let me stress this, Mr Hughes: no matter what he says, this man does not believe the things that you believe.’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t seen him,’ Hughes said, his voice tinged with hostility.

  ‘Nobody’s said you have,’ Jamie said. He pulled open the door. ‘Take care of yourself, Mr Hughes.’

  Eldon leaned forward on a plastic chair across from Sara. He sat very close to her, but several inches higher than her position on the sunken cushions of the sofa. He held his papier mâché pendant in both hands, his thumbs rubbing the lacquered surface.

  ‘I didn’t give you this gift randomly,’ he said with unusual bitterness. ‘I’m not a little boy drawing a picture for the girl he’s got a crush on. This was intended to make you think.’

  Sara stared at him coolly.

  ‘It signifies something,’ Eldon went on with sarcastic precision.

  ‘We had a specific deal,’ Sara said, her jaw and throat tight. ‘You wanted to be around me, and I wanted to learn what you could teach me.’ She noted his bleak smile and added, ‘For one particular purpose.’

  He blew air between his lips derisively ‘You might have thought that once,’ he said, ‘but you don’t any more. We’re more involved than you can admit. That much was obvious at your dinner party, when you started to wonder how you’d ever get me to go away.’

  Before she could check herself, Sara’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Did you think I couldn’t sense that?’ Eldon asked, furrowing his brow in feigned confusion. He dropped the pendant in his lap and spread his hands wide. ‘Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if you’re tired of me.’

  Sara stared at her hands, and twisted a ring. The tap dripped, pinging rhythmically against the aluminium sink. ‘You know why I was angry about the dinner party,’ she responded in a subdued voice.

  ‘I know,’ Eldon agreed, ‘but you had no right to feel like that. You threw your lot in with mine the moment you decided not to call the police.’

  ‘That,’ Sara countered, ‘was because I understood your reasons for killing. But it doesn’t mean I have to like what you’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sara,’ Eldon barked, ‘you can’t go on denying everything you don’t want to deal with!’ He leaned forward and added, ‘The gift we possess is not pick-and-mix. Face facts – the more you increase your psychic power, the more like me you’re going to become.’

  ‘I’m nothing like you,’ Sara said. ‘I thought you might understand that by now.’ She folded her arms and leaned back in the sofa. ‘You know less about me than you’ve led me to believe.’

  Eldon opened his hands in a gesture of truce.

  ‘Okay ...’ he said softly, ‘let me tell you what I know about you. Despite your tendency to stick your head in the sand, I know you’re honest. You’re also brave, and you have the strength of your convictions.’ He smiled tenderly. ‘I knew all that about you when I first noticed you. But, at the same time, I saw someone in desperate need – a need only I could meet.’ An expression of pain crossed his face and he spoke plaintively: ‘What could I do? Leave you in ignorance, knowing who you were and what you were capable of? I understood that you wanted my gifts more desperately than even you knew ...’

  ‘That all sounds very worthy,’ Sara said with muted irony. ‘But you wanted something too.’

  He nodded firmly. ‘I’ve never denied my desire to be near you – I didn’t lie to you about that. But our trade could never be as simple as you believe. Sara, the gift I have handed you is a poisoned chalice.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, there will come a time when it will start demanding things of you.’

  Sara stared at him blankly, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. ‘Will there, now?’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘In exactly the same way it demanded things of me. Sara, one day you will find yourself knowing, beyond doubt, that someone is going to commit a terrible crime, unless you stop it.’

  He looked at her with piercing eyes. ‘On that day, what will you do? I believe you will not run away from that responsibility.’

  Sara sat very still, and Eldon held out his pendant once more.

  ‘Soon,’ he said, ‘the gift I have given you will reveal to you everything you’ve ever wanted to know about your life. But one day it will also make you a killer.’

  He smiled with compassion, and anguish, and added, ‘Just like me.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Eldon Carson gazed upon Sara Jones’ shocked features with understanding and pity. He realised all too well that this was the first time she had truly related his experience of being psychic to her own. Until now, Miss Sara’s only worry had been learning enough to understand her past. Now, the full truth had hit her, and he understood the plummeting sensation of emotional vertigo she was feeling. It was not unlike his own experience, when he had realised that the fate of Yusuf and Jamila Kapadia lay in his hands.

  He watched as Sara forced the fear from her eyes with steely determination. ‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘I refuse to become what you have become.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ Eldon said with great seriousness. ‘It’s an awful thing to be – but how will you stop it?’

  She thought for several long seconds, as Eldon listened to the tap dripping, and to the buzzing of the noisy electric clock on the wall.

  ‘I’ll tell you how I’m going to stop it,’ Sara said finally. ‘I will resign from the psychic club. From now on, I refuse to accept any more training from you.’

  She moved to the sofa and sat defiantly.

  Eldon smiled with acute, painful sympathy. ‘That won’t work,’ he replied. ‘You’ve progressed too far.’

  Sara’s large, hollow eyes stared at him with sullen challenge.

  ‘Think of yourself as a radio scanner. You may not be tuned to quite the right frequency yet, but you’re close enough to hear the static. That’s enough to keep you from ignoring it.’

  After a full minute’s silence, Sara rose, and walked to the window of the Centre, looking out at the grey day. ‘The street is empty,’ she said. ‘You can leave without anyone noticing.’ She tilted her head towards the exit. ‘Please go now. I never want to see you again.’

  He stared at her, admiring her composure, her strength ... and her beauty. Eventually, he nodde
d. ‘I promise you’ll never see me again,’ he said simply. Eldon watched the shock register in her eyes. He took the pendant, which Sara had refused twice, and placed it gently on the counter.

  ‘You didn’t need to worry about getting rid of me, you know,’ he said. ‘I never intended to stay. All I ever wanted was to help you, and feel what it’s like to know you.’

  Eldon approached her, and held out his hand. When Sara did not flinch, he touched her arm tenderly. ‘You’ve been preparing for this moment all your life,’ he said. ‘From the day your parents were killed. Some kids might have given up – and that would’ve ruined their lives. Others might’ve let the experience twist them into something bitter, less than human. You went into the world and became the person who could get answers. He stared at her with admiration. ‘You made yourself into something very rare – a truly responsible person.’

  Their gazes locked for several seconds before Sara shook away his hand. Eldon held up his palms in a gesture of concession and farewell. ‘I apologise for leaving you to work the rest out for yourself,’ he said. ‘But it’s been an honour to be your teacher.’

  Turning, he walked to the door.

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ Sara said with quiet conviction.

  ‘Maybe not for a long time,’ Eldon replied, turning. ‘You should stay with Jamie; he’s good for you.’

  He stared at her silently for a long time, his expression tender and compassionate.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said hoarsely, and descended the stairs.

  Eldon Carson had driven Trevor Hughes’ car up Penglais Hill with his throat tightly constricted, tears blurring his vision. He wept for many reasons: for the ultimate fate of Sara Jones, because he would never see her again, and for fear that she would end up hating him for what he was about to do.

  And he cried for the fear that in less than a week, he might be dead.

  When he turned onto the road from Bow Street towards Hughes’ house, his self-pity was swamped by an overwhelming prickle of warning. He knew he needed to be on his guard now.

  Carson found Hughes pottering aimlessly about the house. A half-smoked cigarette smouldered in an ashtray, and an almost-full bottle of lager sweated onto the top of the blaring television.

  ‘Hi, mate,’ Hughes said. He tried to sound relaxed, but tension choked his voice.

  Carson sensed immediately that he was nervous, even frightened. He reached into his mind ... there was something else.

  It was expectancy. He was waiting for someone.

  ‘How was your morning?’ Carson asked, as he stabbed a finger at the television button, killing the din.

  ‘Oh, fine, mate, fine,’ Hughes said, his voice rising half an octave. ‘What are you going to do this afternoon? You hanging around here, or –’

  ‘Sit down, Trevor,’ Carson said, pulling a plastic chair away from the wall and shoving it towards him. ‘Right here.’

  ‘Okay, mate ... sure,’ Hughes said, and sat obediently. He was humouring Carson, stalling for time. ‘We can talk, eh? I’ve been meaning to ask ... what lodge of the Klan did you say you’re from? I checked out their home page, like.’

  Carson stood less than two feet away from Hughes, and looked down at him, straight into his eyes. ‘Who was here this morning, Trevor?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Nobody,’ Hughes said, too quickly.

  Carson nodded, but not in agreement. ‘It was Harding, wasn’t it?’ he asked. ‘The Scotland Yard detective.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘He showed you a Photofit,’ Carson went on. ‘It looked like me, didn’t it?’

  Hughes hesitated, his thick lip trembling. ‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ he blurted.

  Carson walked around Hughes in soft, measured steps, until he was out of his line of sight. ‘You don’t trust cops, do you?’

  ‘No, mate, of course not.’

  ‘No,’ Carson repeated in a whisper.

  Hughes tensed. His upper body shuddered and jerked, preparing to spring forward, perhaps to run – but welling terror held him back. Carson laid a hand on Hughes’ clammy, bare shoulder. ‘Relax, Trevor. Just stay there.’

  Hughes allowed his muscles to ease, and began to tremble. ‘You just can’t trust police,’ he said in a wild ramble, ‘’cos they work for the Government and it answers to Jews. Course, you already know that, ’cos you’re with the Klan, right mate?’

  ‘He made you doubt me. Detective Inspector Harding. You believed what he said.’

  Sweat trickled down the sides of Trevor’s face, getting lost in the folds of his neck. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.

  Carson reached into his satchel, and withdrew a disposable pen. Reaching over Hughes’ shoulder, he carefully drew the Eye in the Pyramid symbol on his forearm. ‘Look at that drawing, Trevor,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you’ve seen it before.’

  Hughes breathed hard and swallowed.

  ‘Did the detective show you a copy of it?’

  ‘No.’

  Carson chuckled. ‘I guess he didn’t trust you enough.’

  A car pulled up onto the crumbling tarmac at the front of the house. Two doors opened and clunked shut.

  ‘I’m in here!’ Hughes screamed.

  A pair of Hughes’ skinhead friends fell through the front door at a half-run, to find Carson holding a long knife to their friend’s throat.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ Carson said. ‘Both of you on the sofa, please.’

  Hughes began to blubber. ‘Oh shit, oh shit,’ he said, ‘you should have fucking sneaked up!’

  The skinheads stood uncertainly, staring at the situation. ‘Sit down,’ Trevor screamed, ‘or he’ll fucking kill me!’

  They shuffled to the sofa and sat. Carson reached out and brushed against their minds. He felt no real evil or danger there, only mild malice and garden-variety stupidity. ‘You’ve got a special event on your calendar, haven’t you Trevor?’ Carson said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This October. In South London. What is it, Trevor?’

  ‘It – it’s Race Riot’s March Against the Mosques.’

  Carson nodded. ‘Let me tell you a story,’ he said to the skinheads on the sofa. ‘Our friend Trevor here goes to Peckham, right? ... and he spends the day drinking with his chums. By the time the time the march happens, he’s very drunk. The march pumps him up – by the end of it, he’s unstoppable. Drunk, high on adrenaline and his own white supremacy –’

  Carson dug the edge of the knife harder into Hughes’ throat and the neo-Nazi cried out.

  ‘And looking for trouble. Sadly, nobody wants to fight. Then he spies a Somali kid at a bus stop. Trevor here calls his friends over. They don’t mean anything, they’re just having fun ... but they end up crippling the kid.’

  ‘That never happened!’ Hughes squealed. ‘You just made it up!’ With bulging eyes, he looked desperately at his friends. ‘He’s a fucking serial killer,’ he cried, ‘stop him!’

  Before they could move, Carson had jerked the knife hard through Trevor Hughes’ throat – and when Hughes’ friends moved, it was to dash wildly from the house to their car, and speed away in a shower of crumbling tarmac.

  Carson reached out for Trevor Hughes’ lifeless right arm. Underneath his drawing of the symbol, he carefully etched the name of South London teenager Ashkir Shido Caadil, who would now live a long and healthy life.

  Recently renovated, the Owen Hotel’s dining room aimed at an up-market clientele. It was decorated in shades of cool blue, with heavy velour curtains held back by floral ties. The chairs were ornate, upholstered in rose pink, and the napkins were thick pink linen. Each setting had more cutlery than was necessary.

  Although a long-time resident of the area, Ceri Lloyd had never dined at the Owen. Tonight, Jamie Harding was treating her to a working dinner.

  They sat next to a large bay window, watching the last of the sun drop behind the bay.

  ‘You don’t see sights like that in London,’ Ceri said.


  ‘No,’ Jamie agreed politely. What did Ceri Lloyd know about London sunsets?

  ‘You’ve been here a while now,’ Ceri said. ‘D’you like it enough to want to stay?’

  Jamie cocked his head questioningly.

  ‘It’s not so strange a notion,’ Ceri went on, sounding like a temptress leading a chaste young man to damnation. ‘You and Sara are going to stay together, aren’t you?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Jamie agreed.

  ‘But you’re hoping that she’ll join you in London.’ Ceri fiddled with her cutlery until the pieces were out of order. ‘And she might,’ she added.

  ‘But you hope she doesn’t.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Ceri said. ‘I know that this has been the grimmest summer we’ve seen here in years – and yet, having Sara back has made it the happiest one, too ... at least for me.’

  She looked at Jamie’s compassionate smile and frowned. ‘I wasn’t exactly lonely without her, mind you,’ she said defensively. ‘I’ve got good friends, and my job, and I involve myself in politics ... Sara’s like family.’

  ‘I can understand,’ Jamie said. ‘I feel rather strongly about her, too.’

  ‘London is no good for her,’ Ceri said abruptly. ‘She belongs here. And I’ll bet Wales would be better for you too. Why live in all that filth when you could have this?’ She waved her hand towards the window. ‘You’d get a job in CID here, no problem.’ Her eyes narrowed, those of a negotiator cutting a deal. ‘I’d even help you.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind,’ Jamie said. ‘I’ll – I’ll think about it.’

  Ceri snorted with derision, and a hint of affection. ‘No, you won’t.’

  Shifting in her chair, she placed her elbows on the table, and looked about, ensuring they were alone. ‘The fellow you interviewed this morning,’ she continued, lowering her voice. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Hughes,’ Jamie replied. ‘Trevor Hughes.’

  She smiled. ‘Even paradise has its drug dealers.’

  ‘Drug dealer and Nazi,’ Jamie reminded her.

  She chortled. ‘A busy boy. How did that one go?’

  ‘It was interesting ...’