by Mark Timlin
‘Don’t worry, Peter,’ the voice went on. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Not you. I’m your friend. I want you to believe that. Even though when we spoke on Monday night I got the impression you didn’t like me. You cut me off, didn’t you? That wasn’t friendly. And you didn’t believe what I said, did you? You cut me off again on Tuesday. I think you got me mixed up with someone else, didn’t you? I don’t think you’ll make that mistake again. Not since you got what I sent you.
‘I brought you another present today. Delivered by hand. That’s quite funny if you think about it. Have you seen it yet? Even if you haven’t, I’m sure you know about it. There’ll be more, Peter, I promise you. There’s plenty more meat where they came from. It’s like a great big supermarket out there, and I just choose what I want and take it. People are stupid, Peter. But not you, I’m sure. I’ve been listening to you long enough to know that.’
I switched off the machine and took out the tape. Friday. The day after the show had been taken off the air, and the black woman’s finger had been delivered to Sunset.
Shit! I thought.
I put the tape back in the machine and pressed the ‘Play’ button again. That dreadful voice continued. ‘Eventually you’ll learn to love me, Peter, I’m sure,’ it said. ‘In time. And we both have plenty of that. I’m going to make you a star, you see. In fact, I’m going to make both of us stars. I’ve already started, haven’t I?
‘Did you read about us in the papers? You must have done. We made quite a splash, didn’t we? I like the name they’ve given me, don’t you? “The Midnight Crawler.” How apt. I’m saving all the cuttings. You should too. Maybe one day you’ll write a book about it. We’re going to be famous. You’ll be on TV. I look forward to watching that. We’re going to get to be good friends, you and I. Really good friends.
‘I know they tried to take your show off, Peter. I read that in the paper too. But I think they’ll change their minds now. Maybe they already have. Maybe that’s where you are now, or are you at your local pub? The next time you’re in having a drink, look round. I might be there. I might even send you over a bottle of Beck’s or a scotch. That’s what you like to drink, isn’t it? I might be the bloke sitting right next to you at the bar. Anyway, wherever you are now, this will be waiting for you when you get home. If you haven’t spoken to anyone at the radio station today, I suggest you do right away. But, Peter, don’t tell them about this message. Don’t tell anyone. Especially not the police. I want this to be our little secret. Don’t try to be clever, will you? You see, I’ll be watching you constantly from now on. You don’t know who I am, but I know you. Everywhere you go, I’ll go. So keep looking over your shoulder.
‘I’ll call you again at home soon, but I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave the answering machine on all the time. I’m so glad you’ve got one. It was something I had to make sure of. The only time I want us to speak to each other is on your show. And tell the police not to bother tracing the calls. They’ll be wasting their time. But then I’m sure they know that already.
‘I’m going now. Remember what I said about telling no one about this. And remember another thing, Peter. Nothing’s for nothing. I’m going to make you famous just like I said, whether you like it or not. But I’m going to want something in return. I’m not sure what yet, but I’ll know it when I see it. I’ll call you tonight at the station, same time. You’d better be there, or it’ll be the worse for someone.
‘Play me some pretty music, Peter, and I’ll know you want to be friends. Goodbye till then.’
And that was the end of the message.
I hit the ‘Stop’ button. I felt cold and sweaty. The sound of his voice made my flesh crawl, like he’d touched me with freezing fingers. I went over to the sideboard and poured a large scotch. My hand was unsteady and the neck of the bottle rang on the rim of the glass. I drank most of it in one swallow, and poured another and went back and re-wound the tape and listened to the message again. As his calm voice filled the room, I sat on the sofa and drank the second scotch.
It was him all right. The Midnight Crawler. I knew that he’d like the name.
I ejected the first tape and put the one marked with a ‘2’ and dated the previous Saturday into the slot. I pressed the ‘Play’ button again.
It was the same voice.
‘Hello, Peter,’ it said. ‘I knew you’d be back. I was so pleased to hear you last night. But calling me mad won’t do. It won’t do at all. I think I might have to teach you a lesson. But never mind that now, we’ve got better things to talk about. I hope this call isn’t being traced, Peter. I do so hope that you’re being good, and doing as I say. I’m taking a big chance trusting you, Peter. A very big chance. But I think you’re the kind of man who’ll appreciate that.
‘I won’t stay long today, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you, Peter. I’ll be listening on Monday. Have a pleasant weekend. Bye.’
And there was the sound of the phone being hung up.
I picked up tape number ‘3’. This one had been made on Tuesday. Two days ago.
‘Hello, Peter,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve found what I want from you.’
I listened carefully.
‘Something I think you hold dear. It’s a fair swap. Something you hold dear, for being famous. Don’t you agree? Or maybe you don’t. You won’t know until it’s gone. I’ll talk to you later. Bye bye.’
Followed by a click and dead tape.
Sophia. Could it have been her he was referring to?
I leaned forward and picked up the next tape. As I moved I felt sweat, cold and slick, under my clothes. I looked at the door and wondered about going to find Day. But my curiosity won and I put the next tape on to the machine. It had been made on Wednesday, after Day had freaked out on air. And the day that Sophia had vanished.
John’s voice was different now. Harder, but there was a hysteria in his tone if you listened for it, and the mode of the message had changed.
‘Peter, why did you say those things? You had no right. I thought we were friends. I send you things and you say that to me. You’re just like my father was. A horrible, wicked man. That’s another reason why I started to call you. You reminded me of him. He was never my friend. He hated me too. I thought you might be different. But I was wrong.
‘I thought if we could be friends, it would make up for all the years he treated me so badly. But you’re the same as all the rest. The same as him. You don’t want my friendship. You don’t want my love. Neither did he. Well, he’s gone now.’
As he spoke, his voice got higher and more fragmented.
‘I’m going to pay you back, Peter. I intend to make you sorry that you’ve treated me with such disrespect…’
There was no more speech on the tape. Just silence punctuated with breathing. Then not even that, until the inevitable click and the sound of the dialling tone, then the machine cut it off.
There was one more tape. It had just ‘5’ marked on it. I knew it had been made today. It started abruptly.
‘You haven’t got many friends, have you, Peter? I’m not surprised, the way you treat people. But I know you’ve got one. Or at least you had one. Because I’ve got her now, and I’m going to send her back to you piece by piece. You should get the first piece today. She’s a beautiful woman, your friend Sophia. Or at least she was. I’m afraid she’s not so beautiful now. And it’s all your fault. I hope you remember that. She’s dead, you bastard, and you killed her.’
And with that, the last of the tapes finished.
Dead, I thought. Although deep down I’d known it all along. Since the day she’d disappeared. Dead, but not forgotten. And I knew that I’d never rest until her murderer was caught.
I sat holding the glass with the remains of the scotch coating the bottom. I could feel it slick in my sweaty grip. I squeezed it tightly until I knew that one more ounce
of pressure and my hand would crush it and send shards of sharp glass into my palm. To cut and slice and gouge, and the pain of the wounds might take away some of the other pain I felt. I wanted to do just that. To feel the pain and see the blood flow. But I resisted the temptation, and eased the pressure, then I swirled the few drops around, swallowed them, and placed the glass very carefully on the low table in front of me.
I collected the tapes together neatly, in order of their being made, and lined them up on the table next to my empty glass.
I wondered if Sophia’s voice was on any of them, with a last message for Peter Day, and briefly I thought about going through them all to find out.
But I resisted that temptation too, switched off the machine and left the room.
34
When I walked back into the kitchen after listening to the tapes, I was so angry, I wanted to hit Peter Day. To drag him out of the chair that he was sitting in and smash his head against the kitchen wall until his skull fractured like an eggshell.
I was so angry that I wanted to punch him low down in the gut where it really hurts, so that he’d throw up all down his shirt. Or clap my hands hard across both ears and possibly rupture an ear drum. Or kick him between the legs and make it impossible for him to stand up or sit down comfortably for days. Or anything.
But I didn’t. What would have been the point? He had to live with what he’d done, and I knew that it would bring him more pain than any that I could inflict on him with my fists or feet.
‘Outstanding,’ I said as coldly as I could. ‘You do realise that you’re responsible for Sophia’s murder, don’t you?’
His face appeared to collapse upon itself. ‘No,’ he protested.
I wanted to hit him again, but held myself in check. Once I started I didn’t think I’d be able to stop. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘But there’s nothing on those tapes that tells anyone who he is.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’ I exploded. ‘Maybe there’s not, but he told you what he was doing. What he was going to do.’
My anger bubbled up like a well of bad water.
‘And he almost certainly made the calls from where he lives or works. They weren’t made from a call box. If the police had been able to put a trace on the line, they might have been able to catch him days ago.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I don’t not know it. That’s not the point.’ I threw up my hands in sheer exasperation at the man. ‘How the hell could you do it, Peter? Is having your picture in the paper, and your voice on the radio, more important than catching this fucker? He’s been killing people. Don’t you understand? Christ, you saw some of what he’s been doing. You touched it. I saw your face. He’s been killing people and mutilating them. God knows how many. And even when he got hold of someone you cared about, you still did nothing. What kind of person are you?’
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I was coming close to losing it, and it would be worse for him if I did.
‘I told you,’ he said.
‘Too late,’ I said back. ‘Too late. I want you to call Harper now. Get him down here with his blokes in case there are any more calls. Although God knows after what you said the other night, I doubt it. He’s gone right over the edge now. You can hear it by the way he’s talking.’
Just looking at him filled me with disgust, and I went over to the sink and found a clean glass on the draining board and filled it from the tap. Good fresh London water that had probably been filtered through at least a dozen people’s kidneys before I drank it.
I stood by the kitchen window staring through the slats of the venetian blind that was pulled down tightly, thinking about the messages I had been listening to, and looked at the street outside as I drank. I could feel a tremor of anger in my fingers as I raised the glass to my lips.
I thought about everything John had said on the tapes, searching desperately for a clue to his identity as I idly gazed at the small group of journalists and photographers and the occasional sightseer standing outside, waiting for something, anything, to happen. I looked for Piers but he wasn’t there. He must have been on another story.
‘Are you going to call Harper or am I?’ I said.
‘I’ll call him,’ said Day tiredly, and I heard him get to his feet behind me.
‘Do that,’ I said, and as I said it, outside on the pavement, one photographer turned to speak to another, and as he did so the lens of his camera caught a ray of the afternoon sun and flashed into my eyes like a signal, and I thought once more of John’s words.
‘I’ll be watching you constantly from now on. You don’t know who I am, but I know you. Everywhere you go, I’ll go. So keep looking over your shoulder.’
‘From now on’ he’d said. And that had been Friday. The day after the story broke in the media.
And then I remembered Sophia saying that one of the photographers had tried to chat her up. When had that been? Monday? Tuesday? I couldn’t remember. But I was sure it must have been just about the time that John had found what he wanted to take from Peter Day.
And I knew where John was. Suddenly I just knew. I was looking at him right then. He was outside watching the block. One of that group down there in the street was the man who had kidnapped Sophia and killed her before or after mutilating her body.
I dropped the glass into the sink where it smashed into a thousand pieces, turned, shoved Peter Day out of my way and ran out of the flat, shouting as I went, ‘Get Harper. Now!’
I hit the button for the lift, but it wasn’t on Day’s floor, and I was in too much of a hurry to wait, so I took the stairs, three or four at a time, risking the chance of a broken ankle or a recurrence of my old foot trouble as I went.
I slowed as I reached the foyer. I didn’t want to frighten my prey. I turned the handle, opened the front door and stepped calmly out on to the shallow front steps of the building where the policeman guarding the place stood in solitary splendour.
He turned and looked at me. A look that said that he was aware of who I was, and didn’t like it much. ‘Do you know this lot?’ I asked.
‘Do what?’ he asked suspiciously. He was about twenty-two, with very white skin and a very dark beard that he had to shave so closely he’d cut himself at least twice that morning.
‘The journalists,’ I said, but I knew it was pointless even as I said it. What would he know? He came on duty, stood around, then went back to the section house to have a laugh with his mates. He was just a kid.
‘Know ’em?’ he said. ‘I don’t know ’em. They’re just there. Every bloody day. Bunch of bloody vultures, wasting my time. If I had my way, I’d run the lot of them back where they belong.’
That was a good attitude, I liked that, and thought I might be able to capitalise on it. ‘I think one of them’s the killer,’ I said.
‘Killer?’ He looked perplexed. Who could blame him.
‘The bloke who’s been cutting up bodies and sending them through the post,’ I said patiently, as if to a five year old.
‘Why do you think that?’
Good question. But the explanations would take too long.
‘Could you check their credentials?’ I asked.
I just knew he was going to say, ‘Do what?’
‘Do what?’ he said.
‘Their credentials,’ I said patiently again. ‘I think one of them isn’t really a journalist or photographer at all.’
I looked at the group bunched up on the other side of the brick wall that separated the garden of the block from the pavement. They were smoking and chatting and casting covert glances at the pair of us. They just looked so right, standing there, that I wondered if maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was one of the smattering of the general public who had stopped to see what all the non-excitement was about. But then if one of them was always there, even a copper as stupid as th
is one was fast turning out to be might get suspicious. No. If he was there at all, he was one of them.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I should call in.’
‘Call in then,’ I said. ‘Speak to Sergeant Harper. Better still, get him down here to do it himself.’
The constable drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m quite capable of looking at their credentials myself,’ he said.
So do it, I thought.
He grinned, all of a sudden, and looked about twelve years old. ‘And it might break the monotony.’ And miraculously he moved from where he was standing in the direction of the press corps.
I stayed on the steps as he walked out on to the pavement and buttonholed the nearest journalist. ‘Excuse me, sir, could I see some form of identification, please?’
The journalist looked amazed. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘Just a formality, sir. Purely routine.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You know who I am. I don’t have to show you anything,’ said the reporter. ‘I’m here doing my job.’
Bad choice of phrase. And he shouldn’t have called the copper stupid. The young constable drew himself up to his full height again. ‘And I’m here doing my job, sir. One part of which is to keep the thoroughfare clear. If you can’t or won’t show me identification, I must ask you to move along.’
I thought the reporter was going to laugh in the copper’s face. ‘This is crap and you know it,’ he said. ‘We’ve been here for days, and no one’s asked us to move.’
‘There’s always a first time, sir,’ said the policeman.
The journalist pulled open his jacket to show a laminated pass tagged to his shirt pocket with the word ‘Press’ prominently printed on it. He shoved it in the policeman’s direction. ‘Happy now?’ he said.
Wrong attitude. The copper might have been young and stupid, but he had his fair share of self-importance. He glanced briefly at the badge then said, ‘Any other form of identification, sir? I could run one of those off on my John Bull Printing Set.’