by Seb Kirby
“OK. Dr. Fuller can see you at three o’clock.”
I take a deep breath. “Where do I find you?”
The voice on the other end of the line can’t help but betray a sense of surprise. “Why, on Harley Street, of course. We look forward to seeing you this afternoon, Miss Chamberlain.”
CHAPTER 34
Cargill waits all night for the opportunity he thinks might never come.
Throughout that time, the routine at the Finch house is maintained as, on the hour, a hired guard emerges and inspects the grounds before returning inside.
But now, in the clear light of morning, the pattern is broken.
Cargill has his binoculars trained on the door that the suited heavy exits from. The guard has failed to relock the door as normal. This means that for the few minutes he patrols, this point of entry is open and available. A small, understandable, yet crucial mistake.
He climbs over the compound wall in a region of shadow from the three security cameras Finch has installed. He then waits in a recess close to the door to which the guard will soon return.
As his man comes back from his search of the grounds, Cargill takes him from behind and breaks his neck with a muscular twist, allowing him to fall to the ground without a sound. It’s regrettable he had to die since, after all, he was only doing his job. But there is no other way.
Cargill gives a smile as the door opens as he turns the handle and pushes against it.
Inside, all is quiet. Despite being a big man, he moves without disturbing the silence, first to the foot of the grand staircase, then up it to the bedrooms on the floor above.
It isn’t difficult to identify the master bedroom. A doorway larger than those of the surrounding rooms.
Cargill tiptoes inside and surveys the scene. Two bodies still asleep. Too many late nights and the celebrity lifestyle. The woman, must be the wife, nearest to the door. Finch, the target, on the other side of the bed.
He would never want to harm a woman, yet she’s here in the room and, at the least, will be a witness, at the worst a barrier that would give Finch time to react. So, there is no choice. He has deal with the woman first.
He creeps towards the bed and stands over her for a moment. Perhaps what is about to happen will appear to her first as a dream. If he acts with precision, it might never seem to be anything more than that.
He’s learned in his dark ops training how to disable a passive subject. The pressure point in the neck, just below the ear is the place to aim for. The way she sleeps, on her side, presents this opportunity. He reaches forward with a gloved hand and finds the pressure point, pressing hard into it with a giant thumb and forefinger. Her body pulses. Her breathing quickens, as if she were about to come screaming out of sleep, but then falls away as she slumps back into an even deeper slumber.
Looking across to the other side of the bed, Cargill can see he hasn’t been stealthy enough in disabling the woman. Finch is sitting bolt upright, a look of terror on his face.
Cargill makes his way around the bed to reach his victim but not before Finch has picked up a smartphone from the bedside cabinet and is typing in the code to unlock it.
Has he activated some kind of call for help? Cargill can only guess. It means he needs to act and accomplish his mission at speed.
No time for explanations. No time for his man to know the reason for his fate. Just the need for a quick kill.
Finch lets out one of the loudest screams he’s ever heard as Cargill pulls out the hunting knife and pounces.
“What do you want with me?”
Cargill plunges the blade into the man’s throat, twisting the knife as it bites home. “You know why I’m here.”
Clutching his throat, the man struggles to rise but Cargill propels him back down with a thrust of the knife deep into Finch’s abdomen.
He lies dying in a suffusion of blood that discolors the expensive silk bed linen.
There’s a sound behind Cargill as the bedroom door bursts open.
This must be the assistance that Finch has called from the smartphone.
In comes a bulky man who could be the cousin of the guard that Cargill dispatched in the compound yard. Worse, the man holds a gun, aimed straight at Cargill.
There is an impasse, a silence broken only by Finch’s death rattle, as the two men stare at each other.
As Cargill turns and makes a move to take the guard, the gun fires. There is searing pain in Cargill’s right shoulder where the bullet lodges itself. But he is used to surviving pain. So much pain. And this has never stopped him.
Before the guard can fire again, Cargill is on him, tearing the weapon from the man’s hand and aiming it at his head. The victim falls back, shot through the right temple. Cargill allows the weapon to fall to the floor.
Are there more of them? Cargill realizes he doesn’t know this, and he’s been foolish not to factor in this possibility. Even so, there is still work to do.
He returns to the bed and looks down on the blood-soaked body of Finch, his eyes now open and staring. Cargill slits open the man’s bed shirt and carves the two long slashes between his nipples that have become his calling card.
Cargill creeps back down the stairs and finds the side door through which he entered. No one stops him. Finch must have been depending on just those two men for his protection.
Things haven’t gone according to plan. He’s been forced to kill two innocent men to reach his victim. And forced to disable a woman whose only crime is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He is hit and in need of medical attention. The pain in his shoulder is overpowering and set to get worse.
But he’s removed another name from the list.
CHAPTER 35
In the morning meeting, McLeish gives me faint praise for the inflation story, saying it’s a competent piece of journalism, delivered on time.
When the priorities for the day are discussed at length, everyone receives a mention except me. It’s right at the tail end of affairs that McLeish offers up my task for the day. One of the train unions has announced a strike. I have to interview commuters to paint a picture of how the disruption will affect their lives.
As the meeting ends, Angela Smith gives me a knowing smile.
I have to stay strong. No matter what’s happening in my personal life, I won’t give in and let the likes of Angela Smith drive me out of my job.
This means delivering today’s story on time to McLeish and, though I want nothing more than to sit down with Sophie and talk, that will have to wait. I need to head for London Bridge station.
It isn’t difficult to find disgruntled passengers who will be affected by the upcoming strike. Though many express sympathy for the train drivers and think the government should intervene to broker a deal between them and the train company, most are still annoyed at the disruption to their lives that will result. The cost of train fares into London has risen each year as the carriages become more overcrowded and the service suffers more cancellations.
Within an hour, I have recorded enough vox pop on my phone to form the basis of the story. I still need comments from the union and the train operator and, for balance, from a government spokesperson but I’m confident I’ll have time for that and to write up the story before McLeish’s deadline.
My phone rings. It’s Sophie. “The house in Morden. It’s up for sale. I’ve managed to get an appointment with the agent. Point is, the only slot she has available is in the next hour. I could come over and pick you up.”
I steel myself. This is an outcome I’ve been dreading yet I must face whatever awaits. “I’m on London Bridge station.”
“I’ll call by the main entrance.”
Sophie drives us to Morden and parks in Gardeners Close, a quiet cul-de-sac. “You’re sure you want to go through with this?”
I’m busy looking at the row of semi-detached houses with their well-kept gardens. “Looks just like the one in my photo, don’t you agree?”
“They all look like the ones in your photo.”
“Well, I’ll know for sure once I get inside.”
We are met by the estate agent, an enthusiastic brunette who introduces herself as April Melia. “Pleased you could come. I know you’re going to love it!”
The house at 41 is back on the market for the fifth time in as many years. April Melia tries to make light of the facts. “It’s the kind of property that appeals to the upwardly mobile. The kind of people who want to move on with their lives.”
I whisper to Sophie. “Or because they weren’t told what happened here.”
What no one wants to admit is this is the house where a notorious double murder was committed.
April waves us on along the narrow pathway that leads to the front door. “I’m sure you’re both going to like what you see. And, what I want to make sure you’re in no doubt about, this is a great investment opportunity.”
It’s clear that April regards us as a couple. We exchange ironic looks and say nothing.
The moment I walk through into the narrow hallway, I know this is the place. I’ve always felt that the character of those who have lived in a house remain there long after their souls have departed. It’s a resonance that I can feel, a sense that history is in some sense less a series of events in the past and more a reality in the now that can be touched, sensed and felt. This has remained part realized, something just glimpsed when I visit certain buildings that provoke a response. But here I’m stopped short by the strength of the presences around me.
April is talking, extoling the merits of the house as a family home and a wise investment. Sophie is being polite and is listening but I’m hearing none of it.
I’m overtaken by the enormity of the feelings aroused in me by the simple act of being here.
Sophie is shown into the front room but I don’t follow. I’m staring down the length of the hallway where a young, blonde-haired girl in a nightdress is running away from me.
I give a silent call. “Jenny!”
The girl stops, turns and smiles in recognition before turning and running to the foot of the stairs.
I follow but, by the time I arrive there, Jenny has begun to ascend the stairs. Hurrying on and, fearing I might lose her, I bound up the stairs and reach the landing.
Jenny is nowhere to be seen. I try the bathroom door and then each of the bedroom doors. Pushing open the door to the smallest bedroom, the box room, I stop.
Jenny stands there, with a look of deep despair and tears streaming down her cheeks.
I stand on the threshold, afraid to enter the room. A dark feeling of dread invades me. It claws at the pit of my stomach. Depraved and abhorrent events have taken place here. The resonance is so strong it overwhelms me. Tortured souls crying out for help. Immense sadness. Agony. The sound of children crying and screaming. And permeating throughout it all, the stench of death.
I can go no further.
Jenny looks back with an immense sadness. She mouths words that I can’t hear but recognize without a doubt.
Find them.
Find them.
There’s a noise on the stairs behind me.
It’s April. “I thought we’d lost you.”
I shake my head to clear my mind. “I just wanted to get a look upstairs.”
“No problem.”
I glance back into the box room. Jenny has gone.
Sophie comes up the stairs and shoots a look at me. “Are you all right? You look pale and shaken.”
I give a weak smile. “Nothing that won’t pass.”
As we’re shown the rest of the house, I say nothing more.
When we return to Sophie’s car, I speak again for the first time. “That is the house. And I’ve been here before.”
CHAPTER 36
At her screen in the incident room at Lions Yard, June Lesley curses that she hasn’t seen it before.
She’s staring at images of the naked torsos of the murder victims, trying to understand the meaning of the markings left by the serial killer. On a notepad beside her, she’s drawn a doodle of what she’s looking at; the two long straight cuts made into the chest between the men’s nipples:
._ _.
And that’s when it comes to her. She hurries into Ives’ office, entering without knocking.
“Steve, I know what it means.”
He looks up from the paperwork before him and waits.
“The marks on the chests of the victims. We were right. It’s a message.”
“You’re going to tell me what it is?”
She shows him the doodle. “Morse code. Spelling out the letter ‘P’.”
Ives blinks and wonders why he’s not been able to see this for himself. “June, you’re a star!” He feels like giving her a hug and a kiss. “So, what does that stand for?”
“That’s the next question.”
“Could be his name. His way of telling the world it was him. We’ll call him Peter.”
“Why Peter?”
Ives gives a shake of the head. “Can’t say, just seems right, somehow.”
“OK. Peter it is.”
CHAPTER 37
Back at my desk at the Herald, I find it’s an unexpected struggle to complete the train strike story. Comments from the company and the unions have been easy to obtain but no one at Downing Street is available for comment for at least two hours. Without that balance, McLeish will bin the story.
All things considered, I decide to keep my appointment with Montago Clinic. There will be time to get over there and back before the Downing Street response comes in. I slip out of the office without Angela Smith noticing, walk over to Sumner Street and hail a black cab.
Harley Street is infamous for expensive medicine. I wonder what I’m doing here as the taxi cruises the length of the street, searching for the Montago Clinic.
I find it on the third floor of a large Victorian terrace at the less fashionable end. Even so, the property must be worth over ten million.
Looking up over heavy black-frame spectacles, the receptionist eyes me with suspicion as I approach.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Fuller.”
“OK. Please take a seat.”
The place is plush in an exaggerated way, with Persian rugs and pink velvet curtains that remind me of a bygone era.
Fuller keeps me waiting, causing me to keep looking at my phone for the time. Unable to wait any longer, I approach the reception desk again. “When will Dr. Fuller see me?”
The receptionist retains her deadpan expression. “I’m afraid he’s overrunning with an earlier patient. I’ll call you when he’s ready.”
Returning to my seat, I question the wisdom of being here. A scribbled telephone number on the back of the photo of the house in Morden is all this is about. Somehow, these people assumed I wanted an appointment. Maybe it’s a scam. Perhaps they offer appointments to everyone who phones them. They must have to make a great deal of money to keep a place like this going.
I’m on the point of walking out when the phone rings at reception.
“You can go in now, Miss Chamberlain.”
Fuller is younger than I expect. He welcomes me into a well-appointed office and makes me comfortable in a leather upholstered chair facing the desk.
“So, Miss Chamberlain, where’ve we got to?”
Peering at the screen on his desk, he begins searching. “You’ve not been to see us for a while.”
I dig my nails into my wrist. I have no recollection of ever being here. How could they have any kind of records about me?
Fuller continues. “You were with Bernard Kautek.” He pauses and looks at me in a way that combines reassurance with pity. “I need to tell you that Dr. Kautek is no longer with us. He died three years ago. But he’s left a note on your file about what should happen if you returned here.”
I’m more confused. “What do you mean?”
Fuller stands and walks over to a large set of filing cabinets that line one wall of h
is office. “I’m afraid that Dr. Kautek never caught up with the digital world. What we’re looking for is very much paper based.”
He rifles through the files held in the cabinets until he finds what he wants. It’s an old grey box file, one of those with a large metal spring inside to hold all its contents in place.
Opening the file, Fuller pulls out a single large brown envelope. He hands it to me. “Here it is.”
I stare at what is a written on it as I weigh it in my hands.
For Emma Chamberlain
I push the envelope into my bag and head back for the office to complete my story.
CHAPTER 38
The journey back to Bankside takes too long. The taxi I’m travelling in is caught in traffic on the Tottenham Court Road and the driver is more interested in watching the cost of the fare ticking up on the display beside him than finding a route round the blockage.
“There isn’t much I can do. Until we get to Southwark there’s no way of skirting this lot.”
I get the time from my phone for the fifth time. “But I have to get back to the office. I have a story to file.”
The driver takes this as an invitation to digress. “Journalist, are you?”
“Yes. But that’s not what matters now.”
“My wife had a spell as journalist. Local paper. But she didn’t take to it, if you know what I mean. Irregular hours. Wasn’t suited to our lives together.”
“When is the traffic going to clear?”
“Could be awhile. Yeah, we like to take at least three or four holidays a year, somewhere warm. Only thing that keeps me sane doing this. So, her job with the paper didn’t fit in with that. Put a strain on our relationship.”
I sink lower in the seat and try to tune out the monologue from the front where I’m being told about the places the taxi man and his wife holidayed. When I look at the phone again, I realize I’m not going to make the deadline for the train strike story.
When I arrive at the Herald, there is a yellow sticky note sitting there on my screen telling me to report to McLeish.