What have I done?
Oh God, what have I done?
My heart hammers faster.
I hurry across the room. I have to bolt the door.
I manage three steps.
The knock on the other side of the door makes me jump. I’m too far away to reach the bolts. I’m trapped, a wolf in a snare. There is nowhere for me to run.
I watch the door handle slowly twist round. The door inches open.
It feels as if my heart might explode.
The man in the doorway has dark hair, but blue eyes rather than brown, a smile on his face instead of a perpetual frown.
Bloodhound smiles. ‘Hey, Watcher.’
I’m confused. ‘What are you doing here? How do you know this is my—’
‘Loved your mind-map, very insightful. You might not see it yet, but you’re closer than you think. The Black Rose Chronicles connection and the dental brush, that’s all you really needed. I was already on my way over when I saw you’d discovered my real name.’
‘Your real name?’ I frown. He’s not making sense. I try to push the door shut. ‘I don’t think you should be here.’
He jams his foot against the frame. His blue eyes appraise me – scan from my face, down my body, to my feet and back again. ‘You’re wrong. I’m precisely where I need to be.’
I see the black holdall in his hand. The name badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck – Thomas Leopold. He lied. Bloodhound isn’t called Colin Blunt; that’s why there was so little information about him online, why I only knew the details about him that he shared with the group. Colin Blunt doesn’t exist; Thomas Leopold is his real name.
‘It’s so easy to be anyone you want online,’ he says, grinning. His teeth are white and too perfectly sized and straight to be natural. Lunging forward, he grabs me. His hand closes around my throat, and I realise my mistake too late; Bloodhound is a wolf in man’s clothing. His threat level is off the scale.
He pins me against the wall. I punch at him with my fists but I’m too weak to do him damage. Ignoring the blows, he tightens his fingers around my throat, his eyes boring into mine; watching, waiting.
I open my mouth. Try to breathe.
Fail.
‘Sweet how your detective friend rushed round here as soon as I messaged him that photo, isn’t it?’ Bloodhound winks. ‘Could’ve been a keeper, that one.’
I can’t escape. Black spots jig across my vision and the room blurs. My eyelids feel heavy, so heavy, and through the haze I see Bloodhound grin.
‘Go to sleep,’ he says.
I can’t fight any more. Can’t stay awake. I let the darkness take me.
61
DOM
He’s over the river and almost at Holsworth’s office when he gets the call. The phone vibrates in the cup holder, jumping about making one hell of a noise. Dom doesn’t have hands-free; doesn’t want to look a tosser with one of those earpieces. At this moment, though, he’s regretting it.
Grabbing the phone, he presses answer and speakerphone and drops the handset onto his lap. ‘This is Bell.’
‘Guv?’ It’s Abbott.
‘Yep.’
‘Leopold’s not here.’
Dom takes a left into the road the IPCC office is on. The traffic is stacked both ways. He brakes, taking his speed down to twenty. ‘What?’
‘He’d left the surgery by the time we arrived. We’ve got more evidence against him, though. The CCTV from Eastman’s apartment came in while we were en route. We’ve got clear images of Leopold arriving and leaving. Parekh recognised him. He was in the Wetherspoons the night Kate and her friend were there – Parekh has an image of him from their CCTV.’
Dom grips the steering wheel tighter. Inches the car forward, closer to the bumper of the BMW in front with the Princess On Board sign in the rear window. ‘So he’s definitely our killer?’
‘Yes, but we don’t know where he is.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I’ve got an image, I’ll send it to you.’
‘Yeah. Do that.’ Dom hears rustling at Abbott’s end. ‘So what’s your next move?’
‘We’re driving to his home address now.’
Dom’s phone beeps. He takes the handset from his lap and glances at the screen.
1 new message
‘Hold on, mate,’ he says to Abbott, as he opens the message. A photo fills the screen. Dom recognises him; the bloke crossing the road by Clementine’s apartment as he’d gunned along the street. Dom only glimpsed him briefly so the memory is sketchy: dark hair, medium build, around six foot, carrying a bag. Dom shakes his head, can’t recall what the bag looked like, but as he replays the scene over and over, something else does. The way the man moves – his gait, his posture – reminds him of the man on the CCTV footage outside Kate’s flat.
‘Guv? You still there?’
Dom’s heart rate accelerates. He glances at the clock on the dash; it’s 4.48. He’s already late for the meeting with Holsworth.
He thinks about Clementine Stark. Thinks of how she looked as he asked her if she knew Eastman’s killer; the shock she couldn’t stifle fast enough. She knows more than she’s letting on, Dom’s damn sure of it, but what it is and what it means he doesn’t know.
What if she knows what Eastman knew?
What if she saw the killer’s face?
She could be next.
Checking his rear-view mirror, Dom yanks the wheel and does a U-turn. The noise of his heartbeat is thunder-loud in his ears. If he’s right, if the man he saw is the killer, he’s been at Clementine’s place for over forty-five minutes already.
I can’t let there be another one.
62
CLEMENTINE
The stench of petrol is acrid in my nostrils. I feel the one-two punch as I inhale the smoke and try to exhale. Breathless. Choking.
Father grabs for me, but we’re too far apart and his fingers claw at the air. He’s shouting, telling me to get out of the cottage. Telling me he’s been set up. That he’s not on the take. That he’s doing his job; fighting against corruption at the very core of the police force. That he has to let them think he’s been turned.
I’m crying. I don’t know what to believe. But I’m afraid. The flames rise higher. The lights shut off as the electrics blow, cloaking us in murky shadows.
Father’s gesturing, pointing above my head. The flames are licking along the timber beams, the embers glowing orange inside them like captive fireflies. He lunges for me, pushing me towards the door. The beam cracks and pops, buckling from the heat. There’s a deep groan as it crashes down, hitting Father on the shoulder and showering us in sparks. Father loses his balance, stumbles onto his knees, his teeth bared in pain.
The burning timber divides us. The smoke thickens. Inferno hot. My eyes stream, my vision blurs. But I see movement, behind Father. A shadow dressed in black. It circles Father. I hear shouting, yelling, words too muffled by the hiss and roar of the flames for me to understand.
There’s a strangled cry. Then no more voices.
I hurl myself across the burning timbers. Father’s silent. His eyes are wide, bulging. He falls backwards onto the carpet of flames, his chest a mess of crimson and black.
Dropping to my knees, I press my hands against his chest. It’s wet, sticky, hot. Smoke attacks my eyes. Blinking, I look down and see Father’s blood dark against my own skin. I am crimson and black too.
I can’t breathe. I gulp the air but there’s no oxygen, only smoke and death. Through the gloom I see the dark shadow coming for me. Rough fingers force my hands open; press matches into my left, a knife into my right. I’m too weak to fight back.
Their footsteps fade and I hear the door opening. The flames leap and roar from the backdraught. I look down at the matches and the knife and I know they killed Father. I throw them into the flames. Hear the door slam. The key turns in the lock.
I’m blind from the smoke. My breath comes in strangled gasps.
I smell my own flesh burning
and I know that I will die here.
I lie down beside Father and give in to the nothingness.
63
CLEMENTINE
It’s as if a thousand volts have lit up every nerve ending in my body and brought me back to life. My skin tingles. My mind swirls with the memories of Father, of the fire, of the fresh memory that someone else was there. That dark shadow of a man killed my father and tried to frame me. I have to know why. For the last twelve years I’ve believed I am a murderer. Now I’m doubting that is true.
I hear footsteps behind me. That’s when I remember what caused me to black out – Bloodhound.
Holding my breath, I listen. He’s behind me. Muttering under his breath. I can’t make out the words over the pounding in my head and the music playing; I can’t even recognise the tune. I feel groggy, disorientated.
He moves closer and I hear snippets of his words. ‘… so messy … bad girl, Veronica …’
Panic builds like a rising pressure within my chest. I try to swallow the fear, but my mouth’s dry and the sour taste of bile stings my tongue. That’s when I remember Death Stalker’s files – the police evidence said the Lover uses superglue to fix his victims’ mouths shut and their eyes open.
I try to open my lips, but can’t. I try to press them together and still I cannot move them. The pressure in my chest increases. I try to move my hand, to touch my mouth. My hand doesn’t move. I’m powerless.
Behind me, Bloodhound is humming tunelessly to the music.
My breathing quickens. My heart rate accelerates as the flight response kicks in and adrenaline hits my blood. My vision is blurred. I try to blink but I can’t. I try again, and feel my right eyelid flicker. I wait a moment before trying again. This time I’m more successful. Slowly, my vision clears.
I recognise where I am; my bedroom. In front of me is my dressing table. I’m sitting on my desk chair, and I’m naked, but my skin does not look like my own. The lighter patches on my forearms from the skin grafts used to cover the scarring from the burns now match the rest of my skin. My pubic hair is brown, not black.
My breath catches in my throat as I see the plastic ties binding my wrists to the chair arms. I feel the same tightness from ties around my ankles and throat. Slowly I raise my gaze.
The face that stares back at me, reflected in the mirror, isn’t mine, but I recognise her from the picture on Death Stalker’s phone – the mid-brown hair, the black eyeliner and blue eye shadow, the purple lipstick. It’s the face the Lover’s female victims have all shared. I am next.
Helpless, I watch Bloodhound in the mirror as he finishes lighting a line of candles along the top of my chest of drawers. He’s draped a white sheet over my duvet. Rose petals are scattered across it.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.
He turns and sees that I’m watching. He steps towards me. ‘Don’t fight. There’s no point – the drugs I’ve given you have seen to that.’
The pressure in my chest feels as if it will crack my ribcage in two. I open my eyes wide. Try to scream, but still my lips will not move. The sound is audible only inside my head.
I feel his touch against my cheek. His breath is warm against my skin, and when I inhale I catch the faint smell of mint.
He looks into the mirror and meets my gaze in the reflection. ‘Do you remember how we first met?’
I can’t speak. Can’t move. All I can do is stare at him.
He laughs. ‘Of course you do. It was a month before my twelfth birthday. I was on holiday in South Africa.’
He straightens up and moves behind me. Strokes my hair with his left hand. There’s a wistful look in his eyes. ‘About a mile outside the boundary of my uncle’s farm was an old barn. My cousins and their friends met there every afternoon. They let me go too. We’d play games, daring each other to walk across the high beams, or trying to shoot rats with our pellet guns.’ He glances in the mirror, meeting my eyes. There’s an intensity to his gaze that wasn’t there before. ‘The afternoon we met there was a new game.’
I blink twice. It’s the only way I can respond, to try and encourage him to talk. If I can keep him talking it’ll give me more time to figure out how to get free.
‘Because I was the youngest, I had to go last. I waited my turn, listening to the other boys with you, the grunts and the moans, the giggles and the whimpers. A single scream.’ He frowns. ‘You were quiet when it was my turn. I saw your flowered skirt and red t-shirt folded neatly beside your bag, a copy of Black Rose Chronicles peeking out from inside. You looked so still lying on the hay, the ropes tight against your pale skin, your eyes open but not seeing me … I shouted down to my cousins, told them something was wrong, but they called me names – coward, pussy, wuss – said they’d take the ladder away and leave me there if I failed, if I couldn’t prove I was a man.’ His cheeks flush red. ‘I was just going to untie you at first, so you could rest more easily. I was young, I know, but all the films and books told me there should be romance – wine and flowers, soft light and music. Still, I told myself there would be other times for that. You were so beautiful, but you were so beautiful, and I really wanted to be a man.’ He exhales, long and slow. Grins. ‘You felt amazing.’
Bile rises in my throat and I gag. My mouth won’t open, but I feel like I’m going to be sick. I try to move my head away from him, but can’t. Try to move my hands, but they won’t budge. After all these years of numbness, of believing I killed Father, I cannot let Bloodhound kill me, now that I’ve remembered the truth. I let out a muffled cry.
The grin disappears and his face contorts into anger. His fingers dig into my shoulders. Pain spikes through me. ‘Why did you have to take Death Stalker’s investigation so seriously? He wasn’t a threat before you joined in. I had my eye on him, could misdirect if needed and keep the group in the dark.’ He clutches my shoulder harder. ‘But you went and broke into that crime scene. You had to get chummy with that detective. You ruined everything. I wanted you, but I promised myself I’d save you for last – a proper challenge – but then you met him at that club, and starting putting things together.’ He’s shouting now. ‘You forced me.’
He was following me, not Crime Queen. He went after Melissa when Death Stalker was getting close, and that put him in his sights, too. I want to ask him how Death Stalker found him, but I can’t. My jaw aches. Feels heavy as lead. I keep trying, fighting.
Bloodhound presses his finger against my lips. ‘Hush, Veronica, don’t cry. You’re perfect now.’
I look into the mirror. Veronica’s face stares back at me. She looks afraid.
Bloodhound rummages in his holdall and takes out a pair of scissors. They’re large, like the kind that dressmakers use. As he steps towards me I start to tremble.
Bloodhound looks confused. ‘I won’t stab you. That’s far too messy.’
Opening the scissors, he slips one of the blades between my left wrist and the cable tie that binds it to the chair. The metal is cold against my skin where the dull edge of the blade digs into my flesh. He cuts the plastic, and repeats the process with the tie around my other wrist, then those at my ankles. As he slides the blade between my neck and the plastic restraint, I hold my breath.
I’m released from my bonds and yet still I cannot move. I cannot cry out – even though inside my head I’m screaming for him to get away from me, no sound comes out.
He puts one arm around my back and slides the other under my thighs. Scooping me up, he lifts me from the chair and carries me to the bed. He lays me in the centre of the white sheet and, with a look of intense concentration on his face, pushes my legs apart. I have no choice but to let him.
I wait for the violation to come, but it doesn’t. Instead, he turns away and lifts a small metal tin from his bag. Removing the lid, he takes out a syringe and a vial. His hands are steady as he inserts the hypodermic needle into the top of the vial. He draws the drug into the syringe and keeps going until the vial is empty, then he steps towards the bed.<
br />
No. It cannot end like this. I can’t let it. I concentrate on my hands, my fingers. Will them to move.
Nothing.
I focus on my right hand. Feel my fingers twitch. Try harder.
His eyes are on mine as he leans over me and brushes his lips against my forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Veronica. Now I’m going to have to hurt you.’
64
DOM
She’s not responding. She’s not fucking answering.
Dom stabs the buzzer with his finger again. Repeats the action, over and over.
Nothing.
He steps back from the doorstep, squinting up at the top-floor flat’s windows. ‘Clementine Starke,’ he shouts. ‘Clementine?’
Again, nothing.
He goes back to the entry system. Presses every button in turn. ‘Come on, answer the bloody thing, someone answer, for—’
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice, not Clementine, answers. She sounds pissed off.
Dom talks into the speaker. ‘This is Detective Inspector Dominic Bell. Please open the door, one of your neighbours is in danger.’
Silence. Then the intercom crackles. ‘Show me some ID.’
He looks around. Can’t see a camera. ‘How?’
‘The glass spyhole in the door, hold it ten inches away.’
Dom swears under his breath, but does as she says. He holds his warrant card up and shouts towards the intercom. ‘There. See it? Let me in.’
The door unlocks. Dom shoves it open, not stopping to hear what the woman’s saying through the intercom. His footsteps echo off the black and white tiled floor as he sprints along the hallway. Grabbing the banister, he hauls himself up the stairs, taking them in bounds, two at a time.
Clementine lives on the fourth floor, he knows that from the address she gave earlier. If that bloke crossing the road was the killer, if he came here and she let him in, then he could have been up there for almost an hour. An image of Kate’s body laid out on her own bed pings into his mind.
Dom pushes himself faster. His lungs feel as if they’re about to explode. He reaches the top floor. Sprints towards the only door: 48D. His breath is coming in gasps. He bangs on the door, shouting, ‘Clementine Starke, this is the police.’
My Little Eye Page 31