Senseless

by Ed James

  ‘I’ll see you soon. Bye!’ I put the phone away and swap my second high-heeled shoe for a trainer, then get up and walk over to the door. Another glance at him, phone out, texting someone, listening to his headphones. Music? A podcast? Maybe an audiobook?

  My cheeks flush with the wine after work and I’m feeling a bit weak. Too much sugar in that wine.

  The train slows, the force tugging at me as I brace myself. Outside, the darkness gives way to a long platform and the train slows to a halt. The door chimes and I release it, then hop off and set off along the platform, following the crowd up and over the bridge to idling cars and taxis.

  I power on past, weaving in and out, still not at the front yet but not far. Up and round the bend, past the shop.

  He’s not there today. Michael, that friendly homeless guy. I hope he’s okay, that he’s getting whatever help he needs, but part of me wonders if he died during the night.

  Jesus.

  I set off again and the crowd thins out, people taking side streets and I can’t help but think about Michael. What the hell is wrong with me? I should find out where he is. He’s sat there every day for the last six or seven months, his little dog at his feet. Took me a week to speak to him at first, but it soon became every day. He told me about his time in Iraq, his difficulties afterwards. I never let him get too close, but I still worry about the guy.

  I turn into my street and stop dead. There’s a burst water main, foamy liquid sluicing everywhere. Men in yellow jackets and hard hats out working. Vans and lorries parked up. The road’s blocked off, a uniformed cop stopping traffic.

  Someone bumps into me from behind. ‘Sorry, love.’ The fit guy from the train powers past, his phone to his ear. ‘Steve, mate, what’s up?’

  I follow him along my street, watching his bum in those tight jeans.

  ‘Yeah, mate, sure thing. It’s not a problem. No, it’s cool. All fine, all good.’ He stops to speak to the cop, pointing at a house past mine. ‘Live along there, mate.’ He gets a nod and the baby policeman gives him a smile and a thumbs up, then he charges off.

  The cop barely looks at me. ‘On you go, love.’ He’s more interested in the cars.

  I set off after him, absolutely powering home, eating up the distance and listening to his call.

  ‘Yeah, mate. Has to be this evening, though. Can’t do tomorrow.’ He slips down a side street and I lose him.

  At the corner, a workman in a digger blocks the path to home. All the upper floors are dark, the lower ones mostly blocked by curtains. The workmen are focused on controlling the chaos. I nod down the street and the workie keeps a gap wide enough for me to pass through. I close in on my house, keys out. A wave of relief hits me as I put the key in the lock.

  Then an arm snaps around my throat, something covers my mouth and I’m pulled off my feet. Someone hauls open a van door. My knees hit something wooden and I go down, face against metal. I try screaming but my mouth’s still covered.

  The van door slides shut and my arms are pinned to my back. Something jabs my neck and I kick and scream and try to lash out but everything’s going numb. I hit the wooden floor and can’t get up.

  The door slides open then shut again. Seconds later, the engine growls into life and I try to scream again but everything goes black.

  Thirty-four

  [Corcoran, 16:24]

  Corcoran stood outside the college, clutching his phone. ‘Alana, if you let me—’

  ‘Aidan, I—’

  The protest band were dismantling their stage but the crowd still lingered, trying to keep their message alive for as long as they could. The local cops in standard formation didn’t look too impressed with the delay.

  He tried to put some distance between him and the clattering. ‘Ma’am, I just can’t hear you.’

  ‘Aidan, I’ve told you, call me Alana.’ He could hear the smile in Thompson’s voice.

  ‘That’s better.’ Corcoran leaned against the wall. The austere colleges seemed to be closing in on him.

  Palmer walked out of the college, looking as though she wanted to talk.

  Corcoran held up a finger to Palmer, one minute, then turned away. ‘We’re working on the assumption there could be another victim. We’ve done some geographic profiling, giving a possible location of Buckinghamshire.’

  A few seconds of muffled speech. ‘Why there?’

  Corcoran felt himself shrug. Involuntary. ‘I’m not the biggest fan of profiling, as you well know, but there’s a pattern to the map that . . . Well, it could be anywhere, but it’s convincing. Their theory is that him burning the car was a mistake and he’s let slip the fact he’s based in that area.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Corcoran blew air up his face. ‘This is mostly based on some arcane mumbo jumbo, but I’ll give Palmer the benefit of the doubt on this. Until now, we’ve been focusing on there being no pattern, just a series of senseless, random acts. But the more of them we find, the more we can potentially draw information from. We might be able to find the next victim in Buckinghamshire, I don’t know.’

  ‘Christ, you almost sound convinced.’

  ‘That burnt-out SUV was the clincher. It’s possible he walked home from there or went somewhere he could easily get home from. Where are we with that?’

  Thompson muttered loudly to someone in the background. ‘You think it’s near where he lives?’

  ‘Assuming he burnt the car, yes.’

  ‘Or he could have an accomplice.’

  ‘Either way, it’s information. Do I need to follow up with the local taxi firms in Amersham to find out if someone stinking of smoke got a lift?’

  Thompson sighed. ‘I’ll have to call you back.’ Click and she was gone. Always the same with her.

  Corcoran took in the sights and smells, trying to process everything before he faced Palmer. The more he thought about it, though, the more it fit together. Or was that just him hoping it did? Making him as guilty of seeing patterns in the fog?

  ‘You okay there, Aidan?’

  Corcoran looked round at Palmer and let out a breath he didn’t remember holding. ‘Thanks.’

  Her forehead creased. ‘What for?’

  ‘That was the right thing to do.’ He waved up at Zoe’s office. ‘We’re searching where we dropped our keys rather than where the light is.’

  She smiled, but soon the frown was back. ‘I know how hard it was for you to trust Professor Wilson.’

  ‘I still don’t.’ His turn to smile. ‘But I appreciate that she might be useful. This could help us. Could be a disaster, too, but you were right to try it.’

  ‘Aidan, about that case. If you want to talk to someone about your experiences, then—’

  His phone blasted out. Thompson.

  ‘Better take this.’ He put it to his ear. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, Aidan, I swear I sent your not-so-little mate Butcher to visit Amersham looking for the taxi companies, but Pete can’t find an update on HOLMES. Got seven there and three in Chalfont St Giles, just down the road.’

  Corcoran ran a hand through his hair. ‘We’ll head there now.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Mr Postman. Are you and your crazy doctor actually going to do some proper work?’

  He spoke quietly. ‘You brought her on the case in the first place.’

  [17:25]

  Vic’s Cabs had clearly seen better days, but whether anyone alive could remember them was doubtful. The place made run-down seem like a lofty aspiration: a front door that didn’t seem to shut, a bell on the counter that clunked instead of ringing, and a disgusting odour of decay that hung in the air.

  Palmer hit the bell and it clunked again. They could barely hear it themselves, so how could anyone through the back? ‘How many is this?’

  ‘Third of seven cab firms.’ Corcoran looked for a gap in the partition, but it wasn’t obvious how you got through. A phone started ringing on the desk. ‘Then there’s Chalfont St Giles. Isn’t that slang for—�
��

  ‘Checking taxi firms is just us validating an assumption.’ Her expression brightened. ‘And excluding them is critically important to our mission. It can add grist to our mill.’

  ‘Add what to—’

  The door juddered open and a middle-aged man in a cardigan darted through, chewing a bacon roll, a half-smoked cigarette wedged behind his left ear. He scowled at them as he answered the phone. ‘Vic’s Cabs, Vic speaking.’ He mouthed: ‘How can I help?’

  Corcoran showed his warrant card.

  Vic groaned. ‘Sorry, love, he should be there any minute. Give me a call back if he’s not there in five minutes, yeah? Cheers!’ He hung up and rested against the partition. ‘What?’

  ‘Charming. I need to—’

  The bell above the door chimed and a cabbie slouched in, slurping through his own bacon roll. ‘Vic.’ He eyed them suspiciously.

  ‘Trev.’ Vic leaned forward, eyes on Palmer. ‘What’s this about, then? Pair of coppers coming in here. I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Then I’m very pleased for you, sir. I just need to know if any of your guys had a passenger on Monday night who smelled of smoke.’

  Vic stood up tall and took a deep breath, like he was inhaling mountain air. ‘There was that one fella, now you mention him. You had him, Trev?’

  But Trev was gone, the front door slowly swinging shut. The bell rang.

  Corcoran followed, racing across the car park and catching Trev as he got into his cab. ‘Sir, need a word.’

  Trev stood up tall and picked at his teeth with his tongue. Fraying jeans, lime-green T-shirt that’d seen more than its fair share of washes, and the overpowering stink of breath mints. ‘What about?’

  ‘What he said in there that made you try to run away from us.’

  ‘You’re imagining things, mate.’

  ‘Sure about that? Vic seemed pretty sure you had a fare who stank of smoke.’

  Trev let out a deep sigh. ‘Mate, I’ve got a code of conduct, okay?’

  ‘A code of conduct?’

  ‘I never talk to the police about a fare.’

  ‘I wonder if your code of conduct might be waived for a case where this guy abducted three people.’

  Didn’t seem to be. Trev went back to picking bacon from his teeth.

  ‘Of course, I could start looking into your background. Maybe you burnt the car. Maybe you’re just helping who did.’

  ‘Desperate, ain’t you?’ Trev laughed. ‘You can look all you like, mate, I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘We just need to find out what we can about your fare on Monday night. That’s it. You tell us, you can go about your day. Get another fare.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to know this is legit? Could be this fella just looked at one of you all funny, and you want to throw him down some stairs or whatever.’

  Corcoran stepped forward. ‘Sir, let’s have this word down the nearest station, shall we?’

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere without you arresting me. I know my rights.’

  Corcoran’s phone blasted out again. He reached into his pocket for it. Thompson.

  Trev laughed. ‘Saved by the bell?’

  Corcoran bounced the call, then took a slow breath while he tried to calm the hell down.

  But that let Palmer jump in. ‘Sir, I’m a criminal psychologist working with DS Corcoran on a serial abduction case and I assure you this is all above board.’ All it did was make Trev fold his arms. ‘Sarah Langton was starved until she almost died. Howard Ritchie was subjected to sleep deprivation and extreme noise torture. Matt Langton was kept in a solitary confinement tank for over five months.’

  It seemed to pierce Trev’s bubble a touch. But he looked away. ‘Code of conduct, love. Sorry.’

  Corcoran shared a look with Palmer, caught sight of an inner rage boiling away in there. She dealt with psychopaths and psychotics and whatever else the terminology was, but this Trev was something else. He stared hard at him. ‘Listen to me. It’s very possible that—’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Don’t you whatever me. Are you telling me that you’re happy for a serial abductor to kidnap and torture people?’

  Trev sniffed.

  ‘We’ll strip you of your licence. You know as well as I do that it’s conditional on you having a duty to report—’

  ‘Fine, fine, fine. I had a geezer stinking of smoke. Can’t remember much about him. It was all dark.’

  ‘Where did you drop him?’

  ‘Princes Risborough, if memory serves. I’ve got a note of it in my cab.’

  ‘On you go.’

  Trev huffed out a sigh and got in.

  Corcoran kept a watch on him in case he shot off. ‘Think that’s our guy?’

  ‘Princes Risborough would certainly fit.’

  ‘I should call—’

  Corcoran’s phone rang. Thompson again. ‘I’d better take this. Keep an eye on him.’ He walked off and answered it. ‘Boss, sorry but I’m—’

  ‘Aidan, shut up.’ She was running, her heavy feet slapping off concrete. ‘I’ve just received report of an abduction in Princes Risborough. Right in the middle of Buckinghamshire.’

  Thirty-five

  Dawn

  My mouth is gagged, tight. I can’t move it. I feel like I’ve died. My head is thumping, worse than the worst hangover, worse than when I forget to—

  My vision swims in front of me. I see two of everything, then four, then back to two. I blink hard and see one thing. Finally.

  And I have no idea where I am.

  In a van, maybe. The rumble of the engine drowns out the radio playing quietly in the front. There’s a mesh panel separating the front and back. Enough to see through, but I can’t breach it. Outside, the yellow glow from the streetlights catches an urban fox rooting through a bin. Whoever is driving is wearing a mask, I think.

  We’ve stopped.

  I push up to standing. Looks like we’re in an industrial estate. He gets out and leaves the van idling.

  I try to budge the door but it’s locked. Or the mechanism isn’t working, or it’s blocked from the outside.

  The door slides open and a bitter wind rattles through me, making me shiver as the cold crawls all over me. A man stands there, dark eyes scowling through the holes in a balaclava. I have no idea who he is.

  His giant hands grab my arms. He lifts me off my feet and puts me over his shoulder but I’m too weak to punch or kick, even to slap. He keeps hold with one hand as he opens a tall gate. A piercing shriek calls out into the night and he walks through. No other nearby lights, no cars, nobody around to hear the banshee cry. No hope. He shuts the gate behind us and powers on, his footsteps virtually silent, carrying me like I don’t weigh nine stone. We pass stacks of ruined cars piled high and I realise we’re in a scrapyard. Across the way, his van sits next to a pile, looking to the untrained eye like it’s going to be stripped for parts.

  In the distance, the gentle curve of the hills is caught in the harsh moonlight, the stars in the sky almost lost in a town’s glow. A full moon, but I don’t know what hills they are. Could be a million miles away; could be just outside town.

  He stops by a hut and puts me down. Looks empty; not even a puff of woodsmoke. A tarpaulin flaps in the breeze. A car passes on the road, a few hundred metres away and too far to hear me, even if I could make a noise. He opens the cabin’s door with a clang and lights flicker on. He steps inside and closes the door with a resonating metallic clunk, then carries me over to a concrete ramp and down a spiral into a basement.

  He sets me down, but he’s behind me and I can’t see him in the soft light. ‘Do you know where you are?’

  Three doors, all open. Inside, harsh lights, brick walls, low ceilings, stripped beds. Cells. Prison cells.

  I shake my head. I’m starting to hope this is a mistake, that he’s got the wrong person.

  He nudges the middle door shut. Midway up, there’s a nameplate: DAWN.

  Panic hits me like a wall. N
o mistake. It’s me he’s after. The gag puffs as my breath speeds up.

  He pushes me over the threshold into the cell and I topple onto a bed. Whatever he injected me with, it’s brutal. He tears my gag off.

  I roar out a scream. ‘You sick fuck! Why are you doing this?’

  He just stands there, listening to my scream. Doesn’t even laugh at me.

  ‘I’m diabetic!’

  No reaction from him. No acknowledgement, even.

  ‘You hear me? I’m diabetic! I’ll die if I don’t get my insulin!’

  He runs his fingers against his palms, licking his lips. ‘I know, Dawn. The clock’s ticking.’ And he slams the door.

  Thirty-six

  [Palmer, 17:54]

  Corcoran drove, one hand casually resting on the wheel, most of his concentration on the case rather than the road. The first knockings of Princes Risborough hurtled towards them, worn-out houses stealing the countryside’s scrubby fields.

  Spiders crawled up Palmer’s forearms, puckering the flesh. ‘This can’t be another victim, can it?’

  ‘Of course it can.’ He looked over at her, then back out of the window at the town centre, upmarket boutique shops lining the streets. ‘Whether it is or not is another matter. Princes bloody Risborough . . . bang in the middle of Wilson’s diamond. Hate to admit it, but this location fits with the others. This could be his home, or near it. And it could be a million miles away.’

  ‘Don’t you think picking his home town to enact another crime is strange?’

  ‘You mean, “Don’t shit where you eat”?’ Corcoran looked over, blushing. ‘Sorry, force of—’

  ‘It’s okay, Aidan, I can swear with the best of them.’ She smiled to reassure him. Kind of touching, in a way. ‘But you’re right, assuming you mean he’s thus far put off committing a crime here because it’s close to where he lives.’

  ‘Why make that shape with his release patterns, though? Seems like a rookie error.’