by J. A. Gill
Fifty-Four
Guy Lyons pushed against the wall and stretched out his hamstrings. At fifty eight he could feel he wasn't getting any younger and stretching was now vital before a run. He'd just recovered from a painful calf strain injury and where in the past he felt invincible, today it was a case of prevention being better than cure. He swapped legs and stretched again. He pictured his route in his head and then headed off at a slow warm up pace. Summer was his favourite time of year for his morning run and the earlier the better. He pretty much had the route to himself. Little pausing for traffic, few cyclists and rarely other runners. It sometimes felt he was all alone in the world. The stillness and quietness was the thing he cherished most and a real incentive for getting up at such an ungodly hour.
He passed through town and shifted gear as he reached the bridleway. It had rained a little in the night and the path was nice and soft underfoot. The air felt fresh and he looked out across the fields to where he often saw hares sat like boulders. He settled into a comfortable pace and let his mind drift off. The run became a meditation as his breathing fell into a steady regular rhythm.
Not a soul in sight. All he could see ahead was the bridge that lead to the small beech wood which in turn lead on to the open wetland and the nature reserve. The estuary was the noisy part of his run. Birds would be making all sorts of calls but that sort of noise was welcome. He picked up the pace a little as he crossed the wooden bridge and passed his favourite oak tree. How old must a tree like that tree be? Two hundred, three hundred years? It must have seen so much. So many people must have passed by, so many generations come and gone.
The path curved left, and now the sun was on his back. He could feel it's warmth. He felt good, he felt strong, so he lengthened his stride. He passed tall willowy reeds and headed along the narrow path which would take him back to the bridle path. Here the path curved right. He rounded the bend and almost tripped over the back wheel of a bike. Sitting up and leaning against a tree was the cyclist. His helmet was cast aside and he was holding his head. His legs looked bloodied and there was blood pouring from an apparent head wound. The cyclist looked up as Lyons approached. 'Good morning,' said the cyclist who then raised his eyebrows in a way that said, this is a great start to the day!
Lyons stopped. 'What happened? Are you okay?
'I'm not sure, I think the front wheel caught a root or a rock or something. I went straight over the handle bars, I must have blacked out for a while but I'll be fine. A little dizzy, a little nauseous but I'm sure it's nothing. I just wish I could get this bleeding to stop.'
'I can't leave you like this, let me call an ambulance.'
'I don't want to be any trouble. Besides, they'd never get an ambulance way out here.' The cyclist closed his eyes and began retching as though he were going to throw up.
'You might have a serious head injury, I need to call an ambulance, it could be serious.'
'Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it's more serious than I first thought. I keep dabbing it but the blood just won't stop. Damn, I feel such a fool.' The cyclist lifted his hand and looked at the blood-soaked tissues. 'If it's not too much trouble, perhaps you could call my wife. My phone is here in this pocket.' The cyclist looked down at his jacket pocket.
Lyons knelt beside the cyclist and unzipped the pocket. He reached inside but felt no phone. At the same time he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach. He looked at the cyclist whose face was now covered with a wide and knowing smile. Confusion spread across Lyons's mind.
'Hello, Guy. It's me, Simon Baker.'
Lyons stared at the cyclist, first in surprise, then recognition, then disbelief. Another sharp stabbing pain. Another. Another. Lyons stumbled and slumped to the ground. He watched helplessly as the cyclist got to his feet and towered over him. In his hand Guy saw a knife.
'Guy, you're going to bleed to death now. You were part of the conspiracy to bring me down. The lies you printed bled me of the life I should have had, so I think it's only fitting I return the favour. I picked a beautiful spot for your death, and what a glorious morning for it. What did you think of my acting skills? I even rehearsed it you know, just for you. I wanted to make sure I got everything just right for when you and I finally met. And here we are. Perfect. Please don't try to get up, you'll simply bleed out faster. Gosh, lots of blood isn't there.'
Lyons could only watch as the cyclist bent over and stabbed him again several more times. He felt no pain, only a thump, thump, thump as the knife was thrust again and again and again.
Behind him Lyons could hear a bird singing, he wished he had the strength to turn and look at it. He thought of his family and wished he'd stayed in bed this morning, stayed at home with his family. Lyons turned his head toward the path he'd come along hoping for a Saviour to rescue him. Instead he caught sight of his beautiful oak tree. He felt an overwhelming urge to touch it but no longer had strength to move. He lifted his eyes and could see the very top of the great oak pointing up to the heavens. Its ancient canopy rising high above everything around it. Magnificent. If that great oak could speak, how would she judge us? What would she say of what she saw here today?
Fifty-Five
As soon as the murders of Toby Fielding and Faye Wells and the attempted murder of Matt Swift had been confirmed as the work of one man, a milestone had been reached. Interest in the investigation escalated and the story was now hot news around the world. The press conference was the busiest I'd attended in a long time. Serial killer cases have a way of capturing the public imagination and the news networks know that. As sad as it sounds a serial killer story sells and the press know it. All the networks would be there poised to latch onto any new angle they could get a hold of. I peered out from back stage and recognised faces from the BBC, Channels 4 & 5, Sky News, CNN, ABC and Fox. Journalists from the broadsheets and the tabloids were either talking, typing or making calls. The place was packed and I wasn't looking forward to this one bit.
I'd been under pressure for several days to make a statement and with Mat Smith's close shave I was unable to delay it any longer, I'd received my orders from above.
I always felt press conferences were like walking a tightrope. I didn't want to release certain facts yet I needed to use the press to my advantage. At times like this I remember advice given to me by a senior detective, now long retired, when preparing for my first press conference. 'They don't expect you to have all the answers, they've got a job to do just like you. Plan what you want to tell them and tell them no more. They need words on a page and you need answers. Go out there and give a little to get a little.'
I knew the victim's families would very likely be watching and there was also a very good chance the killer himself would be interested. The aim of the press conference was to make a public appeal for witnesses and information leading to an arrest, it had to be more than just answering the news media's questions and dismissing rumours and speculation. What I didn't want to do was in any way boost the killer's ego by implying we had no leads or lines of investigation as that might embolden him and put others at risk. While detectives tracked down Simon Baker I also didn't want it going public that Matt Swift had identified who he believed the killer to be.
I reluctantly walked to my seat accompanied by the Chief Superintendent, a lawyer, a public relations officer and a couple of other suits. We'd gone over what we would and would not disclose and I felt well prepared. Though I'd still rather be doing almost anything else.
I started by introducing myself and confirming a few details about the case we had decided to release and one or two I hoped would benefit the investigation. After what felt like thirty to forty minutes I opened the floor to questions. I answered a few questions from faces I recognised and I knew to be professional and reliable. At the back of the room I could hear rumblings which I ignored. Then an inaudible question from a journalist I didn't recognise came from the back of the room. I could see the face of the journalist calling out but I didn't recognise it. I assumed
he was a big mouth, a new guy, trying to make a name for himself. There are plenty out there like that, often they're on the fringe and sometimes they're after nothing more than a conspiracy theory. The discontent grew louder and I watched as an officer moved to the back of the room to help contain whatever was happening. Then the journalist broke through and moved forward so I could see him. I was sure I didn't recognise him. He had a shock of red hair and a goatee beard. I caught an accent, perhaps Australian, perhaps South African or Irish or Scottish, over the disquiet I couldn't make it out. Then a hush came over the room and Paddy Coben repeated his question. Australian. His voice suddenly became clear and in an instant all eyes were on me for the answer to an impossible question. 'Paddy Coben, Coben's News Desk. What hope is there of catching this 'Gallery Killer' before he kills again when Inspector Hardy, one of Scotland Yard's leading homicide investigators, has no clue whatsoever to the killer's identity? How safe are the streets of London right now, Inspector?'
I said nothing, my press officer was shaking her head at me in a way that said. Don't you say a bloody word. Not one bloody word.
Paddy Coben started pushing his way to the front. Cameras and microphones were now swinging from him to me, back and forth, to and fro as he launched question after question. 'Okay, try answering this one, this one's a bit easier: What would you like to say right now to the family of the next Gallery Killer victim, Inspector, the next victim who will be tortured and then murdered because you're not as smart as the Gallery Killer? I think, mate, everyone here and everyone watching would like an answer to that one.'
I was on my feet in an instant, which I knew looked bad. The Chief Superintendent grabbed my arm, which made the situation look worse still. It looked like I was ready to go toe to toe with this idiot, which under different circumstances I may well have done. The room erupted. Cameras and microphones turned from me to him and back again. He was taunting me. I knew it. Baiting me for a response. Here was someone out to create headlines of his own, out to make a name for himself at the expense of the victims and the progress of the investigation. This guy was more interested in creating a story where there wasn't one.
'That's all for today,' I said. 'As soon as we have more we'll let you know. Thank you for your time today and for the professionalism from the rest of the room.' I turned and the left the meeting, behind me I could hear his protestations as Paddy Coben was escorted out of the building. I too felt the frustration of the journalists at having the press conference cut short. I was angry, at this point I couldn't work out how much of a disaster the press conference had been or how it was going to look in the morning. I assumed I'd find out soon enough. Nothing I could say now would change tomorrow's news and how it would be perceived. The press conference had been hijacked by an egotistical idiot. I took off my tie and thrust it into my jacket pocket. I'd made Scotland Yard look bad which hurt and I was worried the perception of the families might be that the whole investigation had become a circus. What hurt more was that they might feel we're no closer to bringing anyone to justice. I had to put this behind me and focus. My overwhelming feeling now was to get out of the building as quickly as possible and get on with the job, go visit a crime scene again or interview a witness or speak to some neighbours. Anything that meant solid progress.
Fifty-Six
I needed space to calm my overloaded brain and so I drove to Mum and Dad's to see everyone and soak up some love. It was time to recharge my soul by getting some family time. Alice and Faith were sat cross legged on the living room floor watching, Hetty Feather on TV. They both looked up and waved. 'Hi Daddy. Nana's in the kitchen with Monica. I think they've been waiting for you. We don't think it's anything you've done, this time.' That sounded both good and bad. Alice and Faith must have been discussing what was going on with Monica and Nana. From what they'd heard and what they'd seen, they'd drawn their conclusions. They truly were the daughters of a detective.
I stopped off and gave my girls a hug. 'Can I stay here with you?' I tried to sit down between Alice and Faith. 'No you can't. Go face it like a man,' said the Faith and the two girls began pushing me away. I gave them both a kiss then headed to the kitchen to discover what fate was in store for me this evening.
Mum and Monica were at the kitchen table studying a letter. I liked that Monica felt she could turn to Mum for advice. For a moment they were silent and then finally Mum spoke. 'Monica's had a letter from Scott's solicitor,' said Mum. 'It's about the divorce.'
I looked at the two women. I assumed this would be a good thing, I assumed wrong. I must be missing something. Neither said anything so I stuck my neck out. 'That's good news, right?' I felt like I was being forcibly blindfolded and pushed into oncoming traffic.
'He's changing the agreement we had, he's filing on grounds of adultery, he's claiming it was all my fault and that I had an affair,' said Monica.
I opened the fridge and took out a cold drink. I took a long sip while I waited for the punchline. None came. 'That's ridiculous,' I agreed. 'But so long as you get shot of him and the sooner the better. He's bad news and the more distance you can put between you and him the better.' They were both looking at me and saying nothing.
'Have a seat sweetheart,' said Mum. I looked at Mum and then at Monica. What was I missing? Then the penny dropped. I didn't need to ask but I played along. 'Who is the affair with?' I could see in their eyes what was coming next. I knew Scott and the way a mind like his works. He'd turned bitter and spiteful and wanted to lash out and hurt as many people as possible, my family included.
Monica was visibly shaken. 'I'm so sorry James...'
Mum put her arm around Monica. 'Don't you apologise for that rat of a man,' she said. Mum gave me one of her looks that got me to stand up straight and focus on what was being said. 'Scott is claiming you had an affair with Monica. Scott is also claiming that it started just before Helena's funeral. That you were having an affair with Monica while your wife lay dying. We all know this is... I won't swear, not even under these circumstances. But you know what I'm saying.' Mum gave me a look that said. You idiot. Say something to show you understand it's not Monica's fault.
Inside I was reeling, I knew Scott was angry about losing Monica but I really had no idea he could sink this low. He knew what he was doing. He knew how this would strike a blow. This felt like a knife to the heart and it was just what Scott intended. I left the bottle of beer on the worktop and sat down next to Mum. She put one hand on mine and the other on Monica's. I was feeling torn between what was best and what was easy. Should we simply accept the grounds for the divorce so we could be rid of Scott and all move on. I was worried what effect accepting this might have on Alice and Faith if they ever found out. And the fact that I was willing to allow Scott to denigrate the memory of my marriage and their mother for the sake of ease and less conflict. Monica could protest, there were no children involved, Monica and Scott had no children. The only real winner by prolonging the divorce was Scott and the solicitors. How could I do this to Helena? Would she want me to accept the lies and rise above them for the sake of the girls? Or would she want me to fight for the truth for the sake of our daughters and the memory of our marriage? Looking round the table I could see we were all angry and upset and that was just what Scott wanted. If he couldn't be happy then why should anyone else?
It was Mum who spoke. 'This family,' she said as she squeezed our hands. 'Has had more pain than it should, but what that pain has done is bring us closer. It's made us stronger in a way many families will never understand and will never be. Now you two need to talk and together you need to decide what should be done. And I want you to know that whatever you decide - we in this family - well, we know the truth and that is all that matters. We around this table know the truth. Those girls in there are what matter and so long as I have breath in my body I will do all I can to protect them and all those I call family. Now what that - please excuse my language - shit of a husband of yours is doing is not right and is not decent, but
you both need to look to the future and not to the past.'
I opened my mouth to speak but Mum stopped me with one of her looks. She was going to speak her mind and I knew better than to interrupt, especially in her own home.
'Now I am not going to try to figure you two out and it's not my place and even if it was this isn't the time. But what I do know is that Scott has a temper and unfortunately he's been poisoned with hatred, we've all seen it,' continued Mum as she pressed a finger on the letter in front of us all. 'This is one of those times when the Hardy family unites, and Monica you know in my eyes you're family, I've known you your whole life. And don't you ever, ever, apologise for what that obnoxious man has done. We know the truth. Helena, God rest her beautiful soul, knows the truth. We all know there are battles worth fighting and battles that are not. That man is poison. He was poison when you left him and he's poison today. What is important right now is that we permanently extract his poison from our family and we do it quick.' Mum stood up and squeezed us and kissed each of us in turn. 'Now I'm going to see my granddaughters and you two are going to think about what I said. And Jamie, this is one of those times you give in to that stubborn streak of yours and you listen to your mother.'
I knew she was right. I hadn't given Scott's frame of mind much thought with everything going on but he was hurting and people have a strange way of behaving when they are in pain. I had no idea what he might do if we put up resistance and I for one didn't want to risk finding out. I could see Monica was hurting. Inside I was hurting too but largely due to my anger at the false accusation, my male pride also hurt because I always like to win and that was pretty pathetic under the circumstances. Mum could see this from the expression on my face and gave me another of her looks. Do what's right for your family, they come first.