by Caro Savage
Amber then proceeded to reprimand Rong and Keisha.
‘It’s not very nice to sing nasty little chants like that.’
‘We were just having a bit of fun,’ said Rong.
‘You’re little better than playground bullies,’ chided Amber.
‘So why don’t you put us in detention,’ hissed Keisha.
‘I’ll put you on the nicking sheet if you don’t watch your tongue.’
Keisha sneered at her and said nothing. Bailey watched them face off and knew that Amber’s intervention was partially for her benefit. She was making a point to Bailey that she was hanging out with the wrong type of people.
Bailey made a mental note that someday, when this was all over, she would catch up with Amber, buy her a drink and explain the truth of the situation.
But for the time being she couldn’t break cover.
61
Sharon thought about her cellmate as she walked through the prison. She was an odd one, that Bailey. She kept her cards close to her chest that was for sure, but could she really be an undercover police officer? The very idea of it seemed beyond belief.
But then Spyros was an unusual name. And that contract on his head… there were plenty of people chasing after that. And those scars… Sharon had never been a big one for coincidences.
If she was an undercover cop, then what exactly was she doing here? If she was an undercover cop… well, that offered up a whole realm of delicious possibilities, the prospect of which filled her with relish. She could think of plenty of people who would be very interested in knowing that kind of information. All for a price, naturally.
It would require a little more probing of course, just to be certain. A little more teasing and tormenting to worm open those cracks in the facade that she was so diligently trying to maintain. And then Sharon would have her trapped like a fish on a hook, ready to reel in at her leisure.
But Bailey would have to wait for the time being. Today Sharon had a slightly bigger and more immediate fish to fry. She glanced at her watch and quickened her pace, keen to get to the rendezvous point ahead of time.
Pushing open the door to the canteen, she stood there motionless for a few moments, glancing around at the empty tables and then up at the CCTV camera fixed to its bracket directly above her. She pressed herself up against the wall, keeping within the blind spot of the camera, and edged along until she reached the door to the prison kitchen. Easing it open, she slipped inside, relieved to be in a camera-free zone.
Just like the canteen, the kitchen was silent and deserted. The hobs were cold. All the pots and pans were hanging up on the rails. The extractor fans were silent. The stainless-steel work surfaces were scrubbed clean, ready for the next set of meals to be prepared.
The inmates ate breakfast in their cells, having received a breakfast pack the night before with their evening meal, and so lunch was the first meal of the day to be prepared in the kitchen. Sharon knew they wouldn’t start making lunch until 10.30 and that gave her a good forty-five minutes or so until anyone would begin to turn up here, more than enough time for what she needed to do.
Sharon spent several hours each day working in the kitchen. That’s why she knew the schedule so well. She worked there because it meant the added wage put a little more money into her canteen account, enabling her to buy extra goodies each week. But also, occasionally, she liked to slip laxatives into the inmates’ food just for a laugh.
She had chosen the kitchen as a meeting point because she knew it would be empty at this time of day. For a sensitive issue such as the business she was about to conduct, a little privacy was likely to be necessary.
She looked at her watch. The person she was due to meet would be here in just a few minutes’ time. Leaning against the counter top, she crossed her arms, carefully adjusting her poise so she looked composed and self-assured. She always liked to be early to meetings; she felt it gave her the psychological upper hand in any subsequent ‘negotiations’.
Nonchalantly surveying the empty kitchen, her eyes came to rest on the open storeroom door at the back. She knew the rules of the kitchen well and she knew that particular door shouldn’t have been left open. One of her sloppier colleagues had obviously neglected to close it the previous night. The storeroom door had to be kept shut because that’s where all the non-perishable foodstuffs were kept and if the door was left open then the rats might get in, and that just wouldn’t do.
Sharon pushed herself off the counter and walked over to the door in order to close it. But as she got there, she was suddenly seized by the irrational notion that maybe someone was in there. Quite why anyone would be in there was beyond her, but there was something about the crack of darkness behind the partially open door that ignited a tiny ember of uncertainty.
She paused in her tracks, her hand wavering a few centimetres from the door handle. Should she close it or should she check inside? And if she did look inside, what would she find?
She took a deep breath and, with a firm shove, she pushed the door wide open.
Inside it was dark, dry and cool. She reached in and switched on the light. Nothing but the shelves stacked high with big sacks of rice, pasta and sugar, and industrial-sized drums of cooking oil. There was no one in here.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Switching the light off, she pulled the door firmly shut behind her. What had got into her all of a sudden? Probably all these damn murders, secretly eating away at her nerves without her noticing. And now she was all keyed-up for no reason. She cursed under her breath. Get a grip, Sharon, she told herself. You’re not some chicken-hearted scaredy-cat.
She turned around and made her way back to where she had been standing before. As she did so, she noticed a motion out of the corner of her eye. She looked around sharply.
On the far side of the kitchen, one of the shiny steel saucepans was swinging on the hook from which it was suspended, as if someone had knocked it whilst walking past. It certainly hadn’t been her.
Was there someone else in here? Another one of the workers? That’s all she hoped it was. Just another one of the workers.
Turning in a slow three hundred and sixty degree circle, she scrutinised the kitchen. Apart from the swinging saucepan, there was no motion and no noise.
But then, on the glass surface of one of the oven doors, she caught a flicker of movement.
She spun around. There was no one there.
Maybe this was a set-up.
She glanced around anxiously, her gaze coming to rest on the knife rack. One of those would come in handy. Unfortunately, however, all of the knives were locked and tethered behind reinforced glass in a special cabinet and only the kitchen supervisor had the key. She cursed again under her breath and looked around for a suitable means with which to arm herself.
The cheese-grater? No.
The garlic crusher? No.
The skillet? Yes.
She eased the heavy iron skillet off its hook. Brandishing it before her, she padded warily along the kitchen aisle feeling slightly more at ease.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she uttered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Suddenly someone was right next to her. She jumped back in shock, holding the skillet up in front of her, but then she realised that it was just her own reflection in the steel door of one of the refrigerators, warped by the slightly bowed surface of the metal into a grotesque caricature.
She sighed in frustration, lowered the skillet and turned away. She didn’t like this game any more. It was starting to make her feel almost… frightened. She tightened her grip on the handle of the skillet, her palms sweating.
Suddenly, it became obvious who was in here. It must be the person she was supposed to meet. They had got here even earlier than she had with the aim of trying to unnerve her, trying to get the upper hand. Well, she wasn’t that easy to rattle.
‘I know your secret,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re up to. Sharon knows exactly—’
A pair of black l
eather-gloved hands shot out from underneath the kitchen counter and wrenched her feet away. She crashed forwards onto the tiled floor. The skillet flew from her hand and clattered away out of reach.
She lay there stunned for a moment. Then she tried to get up. But whoever had tripped her up now rolled out from under the counter and jumped onto her back, their weight pinning her to the floor. She gasped, winded.
A hand grabbed her hair and viciously yanked her head back. Then she felt a sharp biting sensation at the top of her forehead as a blade began to slice into the flesh, cutting its way upwards.
The sharp burning pain was beyond anything that she had ever experienced. With a colossal lurch of horror, she realised what was happening to her. She was being murdered. Just like the others!
Still too winded to scream, she could only flail and struggle as the knife sawed away at her scalp, scraping over the bone of her skull, making a ghastly scratching noise unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Blood poured down her face, hot and wet, getting in her eyes, running into her gasping open mouth, filling her throat with its iron tang, making her choke. And then the blade sliced through the last remaining shreds of flesh, severing her scalp completely.
Her bleeding head jerked forward, released from the grip, and finally she managed to catch her breath. Evacuating all the pent-up terror inside her, she ejected a shrill penetrating scream. She drew her breath to scream again, but before she could do so the knife sliced deep into her windpipe, severing her vocal cords and silencing her forever.
62
Crazy Mel’s bloodshot eyes popped wide open at the sound of the scream. She clenched her fists, her entire body stiffening in response to the awful sound that had just ripped through the smoky cell.
Kay and Seema snapped out of their stupors a few moments later, vaguely disconcerted, puzzled as to what they had just heard. But Mel knew what it was. Oh yes, she knew all right.
‘It’s him,’ she gasped. ‘Him cum bak again. Cum bak to kill. Come bak fi Mel!’
Her face had morphed into an ashen mask of pure dread. She pushed herself along the bunk into the corner of the cell as far as she could go until she was hunched into a ball, staring petrified at the open cell door.
‘De duppy ah guh fi guh kill wi aal,’ she panted. ‘Everi lass one of wi…’ Then, with an awful realisation, she lifted up a clenched fist and slowly uncurled her fingers.
The three of them stared transfixed at her outstretched hand as it became apparent that lying there in her palm was a crushed origami duck.
63
Amber had just about finished berating the gang when a scream echoed through the prison, instantly stopping them all in their tracks.
High-pitched and agonisingly drawn-out, it hit Bailey like an icicle jammed down her spine.
‘What on earth?’ exclaimed Amber, looking up and around, trying to locate its source.
The gang perked up like meerkats, their ennui instantly dissipating. It sounded like something highly unpleasant had just occurred. In other words, it sounded like it could be interesting.
There was one other prison officer in the atrium. Bailey recognised him as Brian. He had been standing over on the other side.
‘Canteen!’ he barked, his eyes bulging in alarm. ‘It came from the canteen!’
He beckoned furiously at Amber and she sprinted after him in the direction of the prison canteen.
A fraction of a second later, all of the inmates in the atrium followed suit in a ghoulish stampede to see what had happened. A red-faced Brian led the way, panting with the effort, his bald head shining with perspiration.
Bailey raced along with them, hot on the heels of the prison officers, starting to form her own uneasy ideas about what they might encounter.
They burst into the canteen, scattering the chairs asunder in their mad rush, looking around wildly but seeing nothing amiss.
‘The kitchen,’ panted Amber. ‘Must be in the kitchen.’
En masse, they piled into the kitchen.
And stopped dead. Silent. Struck dumb by the gory tableau which confronted them.
The stainless-steel surfaces were splattered with blood. Everywhere.
At first, Bailey didn’t recognise that it was Sharon who was lying there on the floor. Her head was covered in blood, the glistening raw surface of her skull clearly visible where her scalp had been hacked off, her eyes half-open in the dull vacant stare of death.
She lay on the floor between the counter top and a row of steel cupboards. One arm was stretched out before her in a final plea for escape, the splayed fingers of her hand dripping red.
Amber, who was standing right over the body, had visibly blanched. Even Bailey, who had become relatively inured to the sight of dead bodies as a policewoman, was shocked by what she saw, not least because the victim was her very own cellmate.
‘Stand back!’ shouted Brian, ineffectually trying to shoo the inmates away. ‘There’s nothing to see here!’
The inmates ignored him, jostling for position, trying to get a better look.
‘Fuck me!’
‘Holy shit!’
‘Is that Sharon?’
There was a retching sound as one of them threw up.
Bailey looked at Toni and the others as they craned their heads to take it all in. They seemed just as surprised as she was. Her mind raced, reassessing everything she’d come to believe up until this point.
Sharon had quite obviously been scalped, yet the gang appeared to have had nothing to do with it. When this had occurred, they had been upstairs with her getting scolded by Amber. Likewise, Terry couldn’t have done it because he was in police custody.
It begged the question – who had done it? If the perpetrator of this crime was the same one who’d killed the others, then she’d have to re-evaluate her entire theory around who’d murdered Alice.
She peered closer and noticed that something was scrawled crudely in blood on the steel door of one of the cupboards close to Sharon’s head. It seemed that her dying act had been to write something in her own blood, hence her outstretched arm and fingers.
Bailey pushed her way to the front of the crowd and bent down to take a closer look. Four letters, jagged and uneven, but legible all the same.
First, the vertical line and two crossbars of a capital ‘F’. Next came the straight downward slash of an ‘l’, the tail of which then jerked sharply to the right to become the inner curl of a shaky lower-case ‘e’, itself followed by a separate, even wobblier lower-case ‘e’.
‘Flee,’ she murmured, forming the four letters into a word.
Amber noticed what she was looking at. She knelt down on her haunches and squinted at it in puzzlement.
‘Flee? What does that mean?’
‘It’s almost like… like some kind of warning,’ said Bailey.
The sight of that single word sent a chill through her. There was something deeply ominous about this stark and fatalistic call to action.
Flee.
Get out of here now.
There is no hope.
Just get out while you can.
Unfortunately, most of them didn’t have that option.
Bailey was starting to get the nasty feeling that there was a whole other dimension to these murders, something much darker and more frightening than she had previously been aware of.
64
The mournful opening piano arpeggios of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ tinkled away down the earpiece of the phone.
‘Hello, Bailey,’ said Frank, the music cutting out. ‘I’m glad you called.’
Bailey opened her eyes.
‘She was my cellmate, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Sharon Finn. The one who just got scalped.’
‘Oh… I’m sorry.’
‘I wasn’t close to her. In fact, I didn’t really like her one bit. And I think she was onto me. I guess I should almost be glad that she’s no longer a threat in that respect. But I wouldn’t w
ish her fate on anyone. It was pretty unpleasant.’
‘That’s an understatement. I saw the crime scene photos.’
‘How are her family taking it?’
‘Well… it turns out she’s estranged from most of them. We spoke to an aunt, who seems to be the only one who was on speaking terms with her. Reading between the lines, she screwed over most of her close relatives at one point or another, they all hated her and none of them are particularly surprised that something like this has happened to her. Still, I thought it best to recommend a closed-casket funeral all the same.’
‘Please tell me the canteen CCTV captured something useful.’
‘I’m afraid not. You can just see the edge of the kitchen door opening but you can’t see who went in because they were outside the camera’s cone of vision. Whoever did it is well aware of the limits of CCTV coverage within the prison.’
‘Shit!’ She chewed on her knuckle. ‘This messes up everything, you know. If we assume that it was the same person who scalped and murdered all of them – Alice, Poodle, Natalie, Sharon – then it can’t have been the gang because they were with me when Sharon was killed. We were being told off by one of the prison officers. And Terry can’t have been involved because he was in police custody.’
‘Like I said, I’m glad you called when you did because I’ve got some news for you on that front.’
‘What news?’
‘We’re going to have to release him.’
‘What?! Release Terry? Why?!’
‘No evidence. We didn’t find any drugs on his person, in his car or at his house. He’s not saying anything and there’s very little we can do about it. Either your intel was wrong or he’s much more careful than we gave him credit for.’