by Steve Mosby
Sasha was sleeping with her back to me. I watched the covers rising and falling, listening to the soft, slow sound of her breathing. I wanted to put my arm around her and press myself against her, but for some reason I didn’t. I was thinking about the panic I’d felt when I’d picked her up from the hospital, and about the way I’d been recently. About the fact that while the wounds from Lise’s death might have healed, for a long time they had hurt very badly indeed.
That’s what’s wrong with me, I thought eventually. That’s the truth of it. It’s not that I don’t love you. I love you more than anything.
I’m just terrified of losing you too.
Dr Gordon Peters
Ghosts
Ghosts.
That was what it always made him think of.
Gordon Peters stood in the brightly illuminated bathroom, listening to the silence of the house below him. It was nearly midnight, and all the other lights were out; he was standing in the only pocket of brightness in the whole property. His mind’s eye tracked along the dark hallway outside the bathroom, down the stairs to the entrance hall, with its old alarm system on the wall by the front door. It had been there when he bought the property, years ago now, although he had long since given up using it.
He counted the silent seconds. Almost dreading it.
The alarm sounded again. Two quick beeps: one high, the second lower in tone. It was the noise the front door made when someone opened or closed it.
And then silence again.
At some point over the past few years, the alarm had taken on a life of its own. It needed servicing, presumably, but he’d always been too distracted to bother. Easier by far to put up with it than go to the trouble of calling a tradesman in. The bell box on the outside of the house was similarly temperamental, and tended to screech and chatter to itself when the weather got too hot. But the door alarm was more disturbing. Anything could set it off. Sometimes he’d run the hot tap in the kitchen, and when he turned it off the alarm would sound. At other times it seemed to go off entirely randomly, occasionally even in the dead of night, like now.
It was just a glitch, of course, but it always made Peters think of ghosts: as though the sensor wasn’t malfunctioning, but registering the passage into the house of people and things invisible to the naked eye. And always coming in, he thought to himself. Never leaving again. He had lived by himself for many years now, and yet he hadn’t felt alone for a long time. Over time, the house had slowly filled up with ghosts ...
Another beep. Quick and shrill in the dark house.
There were so many of them to arrive, weren’t there? God help him, he had been responsible for more deaths and ruined lives over the years than he could count. Even if for most of them his involvement had been tangential, he knew there was little mitigation he could expect on that level. He remained culpable. From the vantage point of these advanced years, it was difficult to remember how it had all started, or why he had allowed himself to continue. The money, of course. There had been fear. And there had also been awe. Those latter feelings had never quite left him. But it was hard to recall now how quickly he’d felt trapped – entwined by the snakes of what was done – and also that, once upon a time, he’d been able to suppress the guilt. Now, it weighed so heavily on him it was hard to bear.
Peters stared at his face in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet, waiting for the alarm to sound again, for another ghost to arrive. You couldn’t run forever from the repercussions of what you’d done; they always found you eventually. The light in here was harsh and unforgiving, and Peters could see the shape of his skull. His skin was pale and sweaty. How had he become this old? His whole life seemed to have slipped away behind him in minutes: a walk so familiar you forgot to notice the scenery. His face was wrinkled enough for him to look like one of them. The lines might have been drawn by time rather than cut in by hand, but what difference did that make? He could see a sin in each one regardless.
Another beep from downstairs.
There had been good done too, of course, and he tried to concentrate on that. The lives saved in his day job: there had been a handful of those. But lives saved didn’t provide a counterbalance to the ones he’d helped to take. The world didn’t run on that kind of calculus.
God help me, he thought, still staring into the hollow eyes of his own reflection. And even that was no good. If God existed, He had turned his back on Gordon Peters a long time ago. Thou shalt not follow false idols. But he had chosen to follow a different God, a self-made one, and he suspected that one wouldn’t help him now either.
He listened, waiting for the next beep to come.
Silence now. Perhaps the house was full for tonight.
Peters’ reflection swung away from him as he opened the medicine cabinet, retrieving the items he needed: the needles and packets; the misty plastic tubing. As he prepared the syringe, he knew he was taking too heavy a dose – that his hand had been altogether too heavy recently – but he just tapped the plastic, no longer caring.
To hell with it, he thought, then smiled to himself at the choice of words.
To hell with ... them.
He pressed the plunger home.
When he woke in the middle of the night, Peters thought he must still be dreaming. His mother was standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at him. She was a pale grey figure in the darkness, dressed as he remembered her in childhood, just before she’d died and he’d been taken away, and everything had gone wrong. Before all the hospitals. She was far younger than he was now, and shimmered slightly in the air. The expression on her face was kind and sad.
I’m sorry, she mouthed.
He sat up, frightened now. ‘What?’
I’m sorry for ...
But he couldn’t make out the rest from the way her mouth moved, and she seemed to realise it, and stopped. Instead, she reached out to him, with a hand that was only just there. Out of instinct, and a sudden childish desire – Mum! – he reached back, but he blinked just as they were about to touch, and she was gone, and he was alone in the room again.
He woke up properly then, his heart hammering in his chest. Too hard. His body, drawn taut and fragile by age and drugs, couldn’t handle how fast and hard his heart was beating. The dream still felt real.
If I’m going to die, he thought, why didn’t you wait for me?
It brought a memory of bitterness and resentment with it: a childhood feeling he hadn’t experienced in longer than he could think.
A noise from downstairs.
He listened carefully.
A scratching noise. It was only faint, but the chill came immediately, and he found himself swinging his legs out from under the covers and rising uneasily to his feet. The effects of the drugs remained with him; he made his way around the bed on unsteady legs, pressing his hands against the walls for guidance. When he reached the bedroom door, he stepped out on to the dark landing.
No sound at all now. The drugs were just messing with him. Even so, Peters made his way downstairs, each one creaking slightly under his slender weight. In the entrance hall, he stared at the closed door to the front room. He reached out and rested his hand against the wood, ready to push it open.
Beep.
His heart leapt as the alarm sounded directly behind him. He whipped round. The front door remained closed, but it felt fuller down here than it had a moment ago. The pitch-black air seemed to be coiling, trying to form a shape from the darkness. He turned back to the front-room door, blinking. Enough. He pushed it open, stepping inside, flicking the switch on the wall to the right.
And froze.
The man was standing in the centre of the room, dressed in a neat black suit and pointing a silenced gun directly at Peters’ face. Peters swallowed, but it didn’t quite work.
‘Mr Merritt,’ he said.
‘Gordon.’ Merritt nodded. ‘Have a seat, please.’
The slightest gesture of the gun, and Peters saw the dining chair that Merritt had brought t
hrough into the room. He considered running, but knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Even stone-cold sober he wouldn’t have stood a chance, never mind as blurry as he was right now. And he was so tired of it all. Hadn’t he known this day would come eventually? Like everyone, he’d just deferred thinking about it.
‘I messed up,’ he said. ‘I know. Too big a dose.’
‘Have a seat.’
Merritt’s eyes were such a pale shade of blue that they seemed to bore into him. Peters did as he was told. Merritt began securing his arms and legs to the wood, then stepped back, considering him.
‘You’ve been too loose for a while now, Gordon.’
‘I know.’
‘But you’ve done good work for us in the past. It’s been so many years now, hasn’t it?’
Peters nodded. ‘As long as I can remember. It all catches up with you in the end.’
Merritt looked at him, then shook his head.
‘And I don’t dislike you. I never have. I have my instructions, but since you and I are the only ones who’ll ever know what happens here, I’m going to give you a choice.’
Merritt showed him the piece of paper, with the designs that had been drawn on it. He should have been afraid, he supposed. Perhaps it was the drugs, but instead of fear, he felt almost ready for this. Merritt put the paper on the floor, then pulled out a knife. He held it up beside the gun.
‘I can do the cutting before or after.’
It was an act of mercy, Peters realised. If he asked for it, Merritt would put him out of his misery before he started the cutting. If he didn’t, he would do so afterwards. Both things would happen regardless, but at least one route would be painless.
Beep.
Peters’ gaze flicked to the front-room door. Another ghost coming in. So many now. He deserved each of them and more. He looked back at Merritt, standing in front of him, and thought about the cutting and the killing. Both things would happen regardless. In the end, it was an easy choice to make.
‘Do the cutting first,’ he said.
Part Four
And They asked Her whether men were born with evil or good in their hearts, and She told Them this was so, but that circumstances would test that, and that the point of each Man’s life was to settle the battle within and without himself.
Extract from the Cane Hill bible
Mark
Visualisation
I didn’t sleep well after the nightmare, and ended up getting up early, just after five. I drank coffee and paced the kitchen, trying to work out what I was going to say to Sasha. It was obvious I needed to talk to her about what was really bothering me. This worry, this irrational fear – it was my problem to deal with. But I needed to at least let her know what was on my mind.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Clichéd but true.
I want you to know that I really love you.
Better not to rehearse it, though: leave it to the moment, and keep it simple, so as to make it clear that it was really no big deal, and that I was going to sort myself out and stop acting so tense all the time.
Before work. Just mention it.
Hey – I had the dream again last night, but it was different this time, and it got me thinking ...
I checked my watch. Sasha wouldn’t be up for an hour or so yet, and I didn’t want to spend my time pacing and overthinking things before then. So I went through to the front room and turned on my laptop, opening two separate windows.
The first showed a photograph of Rebecca Lawrence. Just as I’d thought when meeting her parents yesterday, there was no way to be certain, and there probably never would be, but the resemblance to Charlie Matheson was uncanny, and the circumstances of her disappearance suspicious. Out of all the unresolved missing person reports I’d found, this was the only serious candidate. I was fairly sure Rebecca was the real victim found at the scene of Charlie’s car crash.
Which was frightening.
I flicked to the other window, which had my provisional timeline open in it. Bare bones still – exceedingly thin. But at least I had another date to add into it now.
Provisional timeline
19 June 2010 Rebecca Lawrence reported missing (14th?)
3 August 2013 Charlie Matheson’s car crash
4 December 2013 Death of the 50/50 Killer
28 July 2015 Charlie Matheson reappears
The 19th was the date that the Lawrences had reported their daughter missing. Because of the note, it had then taken a little longer before the disappearance was properly followed up. The actual date she went missing was likely to be the day her savings were withdrawn, which was the 14th. But what were a few days here and there? The concern I felt was because of the year.
Assuming the body at the crash scene had been her, over three years had elapsed since Rebecca Lawrence was abducted. If true, that meant she had been held for even longer than Charlie Matheson had been. We’d already noted the patience and planning of the individuals behind Charlie’s kidnapping, but this seemed to indicate another level altogether.
I rubbed my mouth, looking down at the screen, considering it. That was when my mobile rang in my pocket. I took it out and answered the call.
‘Mark?’ Pete sounded shaken. I could almost picture him running his hand through his hair while he spoke. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at home.’ I checked my watch again. No, it really was only just after seven. ‘Where are you?’
‘Got an address for you. Simon’s there right now. Greg and I are up and on our way.’
I clicked my laptop through to the mapping system.
‘Shoot.’
‘Eighteen Forest Lane.’
When the mapping software found the property, it showed me that the street was situated in a neat little suburb to the west of the city. Nice area. Affluent.
‘Fifteen-minute drive,’ I said, gathering up my things. ‘Depending on traffic. What have we got?’
‘A dead man. Face apparently cut up like Charlie Matheson’s. But there’s more. A lot more.’
When he told me what else they’d found at the property, I was completely silent. For a few moments, it became hard to think.
Talking to Sasha was going to have to wait.
‘I’ll be there in ten,’ I said finally, and hung up.
As I approached the address Pete had given me, I saw that there was already a substantial police presence in the street. The end was taped off several houses down from the crime scene, and much further ahead I could see a corresponding barrier at the far end. A few of the residents were out on their doorsteps at the nearest houses, and I was pleased to see officers standing with each of them, ostensibly reassuring them but also doing their best to keep them separated for the moment. Assuming any potential witnesses were willing to cooperate, it was much better to get stories individually, uncontaminated by even a few moments of idle gossip while the police went about the necessarily slow business of dealing with the crime scene itself.
I showed my badge to the officer at the cordon.
‘Detective Nelson.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He lifted the tape so I could duck under and gestured up the street. ‘It’s number eighteen, just up—’
‘I see it, Officer. Thank you.’
It would have been difficult to miss, the epicentre of all this activity. Number 18 had three police cars parked directly outside, and two vans on the opposite side of the street. There were also two ambulances I could see, the nearest one with its back doors open and people standing around it.
I walked up slowly, trying to get a vague sense of the street. This suburb was mostly residential, and the properties on Forest Lane were prestigious and desirable: detached mini-mansions, their double-barrelled frontages set back from the road behind spacious driveways. The pavements were broad, with well-tended grass verges. The trees there had grown so tall that the uppermost branches met over the centre of the street itself, giving the road a warm, contained feeling. Charlie had
been right yesterday – the weather had broken, and it was raining gently. The sound overhead reminded me of the comforting patter on a conservatory roof.
Most of the people I could see outside the houses were middle-aged or older. They looked shell-shocked – afraid, even. Murder was not the kind of thing that happened in areas such as this. It would make the door-to-doors easier. They would be cooperative, I thought; they would want reassurance; they would be respectful of the police. It’s not always the case.
I reached the first ambulance. Three paramedics were attending to an elderly woman perched on the edge at the back. She had a blanket draped over her shoulders, and was holding a plastic mask over her mouth and nose.
‘Detective Mark Nelson.’ I showed the nearest paramedic my identification. ‘How are we doing here?’
‘We’re doing okay. This is Mrs Sheldon, who lives in the next-door property to the scene you’re here for. She’s the one who discovered the body this morning.’
‘Is Mrs Sheldon up to talking?’
The paramedic shook her head. ‘Maybe in a bit. She’s had a rough morning. But I can run you through a little.’
The two of us moved over to one side, out of earshot.
‘We got the call just after seven,’ she said. ‘Mrs Sheldon called an ambulance first, police second. Not that we could do much when we arrived. You’ll see what I mean when you go inside.’
‘Right.’
‘She told us she was just out collecting the paper and noticed the door was wide open, said that wasn’t like him ... you get the drift. Something bothered her anyway, so she went round and knocked. No answer. So she goes in, finds him in the living room.’
I glanced over at the woman, who still looked like she was struggling with the shock of what she’d seen. From that description of events, it didn’t sound as if she’d have much of immediate importance to tell us. Talking to her could certainly wait a while.