by A. S. French
Astrid ignored the scorn in her voice and peered down the street to see Laurel. She brought the car up to them as Astrid switched to stare at the agents in the distance, making sure they were unmoving. She opened the Vauxhall’s back door and shoved Davis onto the seat, moving next to her.
‘You need to head out of the city as fast as possible.’
She emptied all the car keys onto the floor as the car sped down the road. A mile later and the bag of phones disappeared over a garden wall.
‘Am I part of your villainous gang now?’
Davis spat the words into the air, summoning a vestige of courage missing since Astrid had grabbed her by the throat. Astrid swivelled her head to one side to make sure nobody was following them. They had five to ten minutes at best to put some distance between themselves and the inevitable pursuit. Then she returned her attention to their captive.
‘Sure, if you can come up with a fancy name for the three of us.’
They were leaving Brighton in the distance as Laurel kept her foot on the edge of the speed limit.
‘Did you kill Frank Delaney because of his sister?’
Davis was like a dog with a bone with her crackpot theory.
Astrid shook her head. ‘Who do you think broke us out of the van?’
Her eyes narrowed with apprehension, happy but cautious to ensure they were the only vehicle on the road. ‘I don’t believe you.’
The words slithered out of Davis’s mouth with a painful croak. Her throat was now a vibrant shade of purple, reminiscent of a sizeable leathery grape.
‘It’s true,’ Laurel said from the front of the car.
Astrid peered deep into Davis’s eyes and confirmed what she’d suspected after spending the first five minutes with the other woman: she didn’t care about the truth; she just wanted to hurt Astrid.
‘What have I done to make you hate me so much?’
The outside world whizzed by as she waited for an answer, her mind looking for the best spot for them to pull over and deal with the belligerent director. Davis shifted in the seat as the car slowed to a halt at a set of red lights.
‘You’re a murderer, Snow, and we catch murderers, even when they’re one of our own.’
Astrid sighed at the futility of trying to get any sense out of her, deciding it was time to put her out of sight and mind. They approached an industrial part of the city, which was the perfect place to stop.
‘Laurel, turn left and head for the alley beyond that derelict building.’
She did as instructed without question. Astrid leant forward to put her hands on Laurel’s shoulders, resting them on the bright red silk scarf she wore. Tiny yellow stars dotted the material, which glittered in the gloom.
‘Did you find this in one of George’s cupboards?’
It was as dazzling and distinctive as he could be when he wasn’t working.
‘It was draped over a chair in the kitchen looking lost and lonely, so I liberated it for myself. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not; but I need it now.’
She slipped it from Laurel’s neck with gentle precision, careful not to disturb her movements as she pulled the car into the shadows. As they stopped, Astrid tore the scarf in two.
Laurel grimaced. ‘What are you doing?’
She ignored her and reached for the director.
‘We don’t have long, so I’ll make this quick.’
She was ruthless, but she was getting sloppy, and it warmed my heart. It was nearly twelve hours before she’d realised there were agents around the house; that would never have happened if she’d been thinking straight. I sat across the street from them all, well hidden in the bungalow I’d rented three months ago. Everything happening inside Cross’s home played out on my laptop.
The sex infuriated me for more reasons than one. She should have concentrated on the plan, but she couldn’t help herself. I could have turned away, but didn’t, becoming more annoyed when it was impossible to see what was happening inside the shower. My frustration dissipated in the steam when I made a mental note to make her suffer even more.
But there was much to do before then, as long as she escaped from the house. It was a curious gambit by Davis, to go into the place on her own. Her agenda, whatever it was, had been a happy coincidence for me, helping my plans along in ways I didn’t imagine possible. It was a shame what happened to Frank, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. It was the one kill I didn’t enjoy. I needed to feel the rush again to wipe him from my mind.
As soon as the three of them came out of the house, with the blade pressed hard against Davis’s throat, it was apparent what she was going to do. I quickly formulated my response, leaving the house through the back door and slipping into my rented car. I drove down the street parallel to them as they completed their scenario. I waited at the bottom of the road as Agent Lee broke into the silver Vauxhall. After that, it was a simple matter of keeping my distance as they left the town.
I thought they’d dump Davis at the first available opportunity, was surprised when they pulled into the industrial estate and the director fell out of the car and hit the concrete hard
I observed from a distance, hoping she’d snapped and was about to murder Davis with what appeared to be the prettiest of scarves.
26 Feel the Pain
She kicked Davis from the car, the director rolling through dirty water on the ground, scattering a murder of crows into the derelict factory ahead. Astrid followed her into the industrial wasteland, pulling on the scarf in her hands. They didn’t have much time, so she had to get this done quickly.
Davis crawled through the dirt, scrambling as Astrid reached for her. She had one hand close to the director as a shout forced her to glance backwards. Laurel jumped out of the car, her arms shaking and face flushed. She stumbled towards the women, mumbling something Astrid couldn’t hear. She was distracted as Laurel tripped over a piece of wood hidden underneath the pool of water she’d stepped in.
Laurel hit the ground with a thud and rolled towards Davis. Her shoulder smacked against the concrete, letting out a loud cracking sound. The cold water covered her face, the smell of industrial waste drifting in the air. She lay between Astrid and Davis, a human barrier of crocked flesh. It was all the director needed to grab the wood which had felled Laurel, push herself upwards and strike Astrid across both knees.
Astrid’s legs gave way. An electric current shot through her knees, turning her bones to lead, before rushing through the rest of her. She peered at her reflection in the muddy water, observing the pain painted into her distorted face. She grabbed her knee as she tried to stand, finding Laurel next to her. The air around them was a stagnant engineering waste pool, with an aroma of festering grease and rotting chemicals.
Astrid grasped her legs while Davis sprinted away.
‘Shit,’ she shouted as Laurel stood and pulled Astrid with her. Davis disappeared into the shadows as if she’d never been there at all. They were the only things moving in the wasteland, surrounded by abandoned concrete structures and gloom hanging in the air.
‘Do we look for her?’ Laurel stretched down to examine her feet.
‘No point,’ Astrid replied. ‘I was only going to gag her and dump her in the boot, but now she can run to wherever she wants. She did us a favour, but I could have done without the agony.’ She was also embarrassed at how easily she’d been distracted and knocked to the ground. Her concern for Laurel when she’d fallen over had outweighed her desire to deal with Davis. ‘We need to get back on track before they catch up with us.’ A quick look at their surroundings confirmed they were in an isolated spot on the road to Worthing. ‘There isn’t anything residential here, so she won’t find a phone anytime soon.’ Astrid ignored her discomfort and focused on Laurel. ‘Are you up to driving with your bad foot?’
Laurel brushed water from her face and flexed her leg. ‘Yeah, it’s only numb. I’m more annoyed by my stupidity. How are your legs?’
They dra
gged each other along and back to the car, feet swimming through substantial puddles and discarded nuts and bolts. Laurel returned to the driver’s side while Astrid slipped in next to her.
‘It’s like a thousand tiny fists punching away inside both kneecaps.’
Laurel drove away, reaching the main road and searched for a sign pointing towards Portsmouth. ‘I thought you were going to strangle Davis.’
Astrid rubbed at her damaged knees. ‘Strangled like a victim of the Reaper, you mean?’
Laurel shook her head. ‘No, not like that; I know you’re not the Reaper. But after what Davis said about your niece, I saw the hate in your face. I guessed anything was possible then.’
Astrid dismissed Laurel’s concerns and returned to the death of Delaney. ‘Somebody followed us to Frank’s house.’
She tried to stretch her legs as she spoke, little twinges of sharp pain sprinting through her knees, more so on the right, which had caught the majority of the blow.
‘Not somebody; the Reaper,’ Laurel said.
‘Frank’s murder means they’re probably following us now.’ She didn’t bother to check, but Laurel gazed into the rearview mirror. ‘They’re too good to be spotted.’ Astrid tried to massage the fire from her bruised knees. ‘Let’s see if we can put enough distance between them and us, but it’s good to know they’re there.’
‘Why?’
Laurel focused on the road. The discomfort started to wane in Astrid’s knees, her back sinking into the seat.
‘Always keep your enemies nearby, and if they’re close, it’ll be easier to find them when we get to Portsmouth.’ She twisted her body in the car, struggling to get comfortable.
‘And then?’
‘I get her to confess to her crimes while you record it. We need to buy a cheap phone when we get there.’
‘Buy a phone with what money?’
Astrid squeezed a hand into her trouser pocket and pulled out a shiny plastic credit card. ‘George kept this for emergencies. There should be enough for what we need. It’s not in his name, so the Agency won’t be able to trace it.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘I have many powers of persuasion.’
‘What about your father?’
Astrid peered into the darkness outside the car. ‘What about him?’
‘Davis said he’d gone missing years ago. Maybe he’s spent all this time planning this for revenge on you. You could’ve been wrong about it being a woman. All those things you said about who women would trust and the Reaper having to push the men down as they killed them could apply to an old man as well as a woman.’
Astrid’s eyes shrank as she listened to what the younger agent said. ‘You’re comparing an old man to a woman?’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
Astrid clicked her knee to ease the pressure. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’
If one person in the world truly hated her this much, it would be Lawrence.
‘Are we still heading for Portsmouth?’ Astrid nodded, painful thoughts flooding her mind. ‘Does this mean the agent in Portsmouth, Anne Dvorak, is not our suspect?’
‘We can’t rule anything out, Laurel.’
‘Of course. Plus, the Reaper might be more than one person.’
Astrid closed her eyes and recalled her time with Sophisticated Annie: a fierce intellect, permanently sarcastic, with anger fuelled by volcanic lava. She had the temperament for murder, and the history, but this type of vengeance appeared beyond her. Or perhaps it was all part of some murderous artistic project she was creating.
Annie was frustrated because her creativity was unfulfilled by the world. Initially, it was the rejection of her paintings, mocked by the art world she was desperate to be part of. Astrid tried her best to console her, reminding Annie her prime purpose in life was working for the Agency. Then Annie tried her hand at writing the great contemporary novel, which also ended up in disaster and a multitude of cruel rejections. So perhaps those rejections could have tipped her over the edge. Or the blow on the head with the mini shark had brought out all her evil proclivities. But it hadn’t all been arguments and violent encounters with poorly made works of art. There’d been an attraction between them on their first meeting, staring at the Astarte Syriaca in Manchester Art Gallery before finding each other’s eyes.
‘Annie worked undercover for the Agency for a long time, so we’ll have to be careful about how we approach her.’
Astrid’s mind returned to the present as they continued along the A27, and Farlington Marshes passed them on the right; they were fewer than ten minutes from the city.
‘You don’t have a home address for her, just where she works?’
‘That was all the information George had in his database.’ Weariness seeped out of her in great waves, her voice struggling to keep pace with her brain.
‘We better find a hotel then, get some rest for the morning.’ Laurel stretched her hand away from the wheel and intertwined her fingers with Astrid’s.
‘Head towards Gunwharf Quays; the gallery is nearby, plus there are plenty of places where we can get a room for the night.’
Astrid had only visited Portsmouth a few times, but her mind hadn’t forgotten how to get to Sophisticated Annie’s art gallery. Laurel drove by the tourist sights, past the turnoff for the Mary Rose Museum, seeing the sign for an express hotel and heading towards it.
‘How long before the Agency knows we’re here?’ Laurel pulled the car into the first free parking spot.
‘They have little idea as to where we went, plus they’ll be more focused on finding Davis before getting to us. We should have enough time for some sleep and what we need to do.’
Astrid wanted it to end here, to get it over and done with so she could return to Olivia and make sure she was safe. There was no doubt in her mind she’d find this Reaper and clear her name, but she needed to rest. As keen as she was to keep things moving, she was all too aware tiredness would lead to mistakes, and mistakes would get people killed.
It was early, but as Astrid got out of the car, lethargy leaked through her legs. It was more emotional than physical, as if the sun slipping from the sky had settled onto her shoulders, weighing her down to the point of discomfort.
Laurel put a hand on her arm. ‘You need to sleep.’
She shrugged her off. ‘You wait here, and I’ll book a double room for one. There’s no need for them to know two of us are staying in case the Agency comes sniffing around.’
She stepped into the building and waited in reception. A news channel blared from the TV in the corner, and she stared at it as the camera focused on Frank Delaney’s house. She dug her nails into her palm and pushed all thoughts of his death from her mind. It was a success, but all it led to was the image of Davis scampering inside that darkened alley.
27 Pretty Hate Machine
It didn’t take long before Davis crept from the dark corner concealing her from the kidnappers. She was nervous at first, cautious in case it was them coming back for her. As soon as Davis grasped it wasn’t, she couldn’t wait to scramble towards me. I must have appeared an unusual sight in the impending gloom, wearing dark glasses, a large hat and the floppy blonde wig I’d borrowed from Cross’s wardrobe. But she didn’t care or notice, grateful I wasn’t one of her abductors.
‘Can you take me to the city?’
The bruises on her throat were visible even in the dark, her voice more rasping than when she’d smoked twenty cigarettes a day. I moved closer to her, seeing the finger marks embedded in her flesh, smiling at the thought of her trying to strangle Davis. It was another indicator of how her mind was slipping from its usual precision, which was precisely what I’d wanted.
‘What did you do to upset her?’ I asked.
My right hand was clenched, not for a punch because it was possible I could break my hand on her face, but to lift my arm and catch her on the neck. But not yet; I wanted to hear her speak first. There wa
s no rush to get to Portsmouth. The spyware on the laptop meant it was no secret where they were going, and they wouldn’t be heading to the gallery before it opened in the morning. I knew how her mind worked better than she did; how could I not?
‘What?’
Davis stumbled towards me, splashing through puddles and dirtying those nondescript shoes she always wore. She hadn’t seen me in some time, but recognition stole out from behind her eyes, then something else: anxiety. She was in the grip of silent panic, face growing wild, pupils dilated large enough to fall out of her eyes, internal organs throbbing at a thousand beats a minute. The place stank of chemicals and petrol fumes, the alleyway darker than my past, surrounded by the sour relics of abandoned buildings. I put my hand onto the fresh pain on her neck and forced her to the floor, until she was kneeling at my feet in agonised supplication.
‘There is misery in this country, desolation and gloom glued to the insides of all its citizens. It has seeped out of its industrial heritage in great waves, washing over the majority of the population to the point where most of them don’t even realise they’re drowning in mediocrity and despair.’
Davis stared at me as if I was mad, looking like she wanted to be back in that car with those that took her. The phone was in my hand as I snapped away at her.
‘Who are you?’
‘The misery is endemic and everywhere, transforming good people into bad, the hopeful into the desperate. The only respite from their pain is a flickering screen like this digital device which present the trivial and mundane as modern religion. Is it any wonder we believe the only way to fend off the unknown abyss is to find solace in someone else’s pain, in someone else’s death?’
I didn’t expect her to answer or understand; I just needed a body to talk to. I brought my forearm down into her right cheek, knocking her to the floor, not quite unconscious as her lips dripped blood into the water.
There was damp in her eyes, but it wasn’t from the splashes of the puddle, her face grasping the truth as I removed the plastic bag from my pocket, pulling it over her head and caressing the bruises on her neck. Her eyes grew larger as I squeezed the bag tighter. It was only as her orbs popped that she truly understood who I was.