by E C Deacon
“Probably not. I’m here unofficially. I’m on sick leave. I’m telling you that because you will undoubtedly check. You represent the estate of Miss Lewis and Laura Fell – and before you start quoting ‘client confidentiality’ I already know that you do…”
Peter, who was about to do just that, took a precautionary step backward and said nothing.
“I’m not asking you to disclose anything about the contents of the will; if needs be I’ll subpoena you for that. But I urgently need to know the contact details of Kieron Allen.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
Everton groaned, grabbed the wrought-iron handrail and hauled himself wearily to his feet. “Look, mate, I don’t care about your code of bloody conduct, Allen is the prime suspect in three possible murders! If you’re withholding information–”
“I’m not withholding information. I’ve never heard of anyone called Kieron Allen.”
“Bullshit. Laura Fell met him here. He told her he had an appointment with you.”
“Not with me he didn’t.”
“She met him coming out of this office, mate.”
“That’s impossible. For security reasons, access to this building is strictly by appointment only. And I have never had an appointment with anyone called Kieron Allen. Check with my secretary if you don’t believe me.”
A blizzard of white noise threatened to overwhelm Everton, as he realised that the solicitor was speaking the truth, and that Laura Fell could be Kieron Allen’s next victim.
Kieron left the car in the Watlington Hill car park and they walked to the top of the eight hundred-foot escarpment. The view of the vale below them was spectacular and above them red kites freewheeled in the darkening sky.
Laura was surprised how tired she felt. She was an avid walker and had often hiked the eight-mile perimeter of Richmond Park with Gina and Iris before meeting Frieda in Pembroke Lodge for coffee and well-earned carrot cake. But now her legs felt heavy and the biting wind chafed at her skin. It was embarrassing; she didn’t want to ask Kieron, who was clearly in his element, if they could turn back, but she was beginning to feel queasy.
“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” he said. “It reminds me of the Sussex Downs. It’s beautiful up there, Laura. It’s weird. After she left – my wife – I was on my own for months. I couldn’t really face anyone but up there on the hills with only the skylarks for company I never really felt lonely. They were like my guardian angels. I would walk for hours and never see another soul and yet I never felt alone. Nature can do that. Transport you… Take you out of yourself and make you forget your problems.”
“I go… to Kewww…” The words congealed in her parchment-dry mouth. Her limbs felt heavy, like she was walking through treacle, like gravity was pressing down on her. “Gaaarrrrdensss...”
Kieron smiled, content that the Rohypnol was doing its work, and helped her out, “You know why that is, Laura? When you’re looking at something really beautiful, like a flower or a perfect sunset or a view with no people to spoil it, there’s a sort of purity to it, an honesty, and it makes you forget how shitty life and the human race really is.”
For some inexplicable reason, Laura wanted to laugh. What was he going on about? Flowers and perfect sunsets and purity? She stifled the desire, lost her footing and stumbled. Kieron reached out his hand and, taking her firmly by the arm, steadied her.
“Oops. Careful. It’s like the Grand Canyon. Have you been there?”
“Whaaat? Uh… No–”
“You’re tired. We’ll sit.” He helped her down onto the tufted grass and sat beside her, draping his arm protectively around her shoulder as he continued, “The Grand Canyon, Laura, is honestly mind-blowing. Only a god or one of his angels could have made it. But the thing is, you have to see it properly. Actually, I went there with Gina.”
“I dooon’t… understaaaand?” Her voice echoed in her ears and seemed to mingle with the distant calls of the red kites, forming a weird duet.
“It was our secret. I treated her. It was on one of those fly-drive holidays. We drove from Los Angeles to San Francisco, all the way up the coast along Big Sur. It’s one of the most scenic drives in the world. Then headed to Yosemite, which was amazing; waterfalls falling thousands of feet. And then on to Las Vegas, which was amazing for different reasons – I booked the honeymoon suite at the Marriott – and finally on to the Grand Canyon.”
“Honeymoooon… suiiite?” Laura couldn’t understand what he was talking about. “Sorry… dooon’t feeeel well.”
“You won’t. I’ve drugged you. Anyway, this receptionist in the hotel told us that the only way to see the Canyon properly was to cover your eyes an hour before you get there.”
“Kieeeeron…?”
“Shut up! For Christ’s sake, woman, I’m trying to share something important!”
Laura couldn’t believe the savagery with which he’d turned on her. Her glassy eyes brimmed with tears that began to run down her cheeks.
“And stop snivelling!” He pulled his arm from around her shoulder and let her flop sideways onto the grass. “Imagine that… You have to keep the hood on for a whole hour because the Canyon is that big; it stretches for over 250 miles. Its twenty miles wide and almost a mile deep. Of course, she didn’t get to see any of it until she got to the rim. I walked her right up to the very edge and whipped off her blindfold and she went “wow”. I put the blindfold straight back on and told her she should never look at it again… She told me afterwards that’s what she imagined love at first sight must feel like.”
He looked down at Laura, hoping for some response, but she was barely conscious. “Have you ever felt something like that, Laura? Probably not. No, you’re too busy looking for Mr Right in all the wrong places. It’s a shame, you have a nice figure, but women of your age shouldn’t dye their hair blonde…” He lifted up the hem of her skirt, exposing her thighs and panties to check. “It doesn’t look natural.”
Laura opened her mouth to scream but her voice wouldn’t work anymore.
She awoke five hours later and in her confusion thought that she’d been having a nightmare about dying. She was lying on her side and her mouth was sealed with gaffer tape. When she tried to remove it, she realised that her wrists and ankles were bound too. She tried desperately to focus but it was impossible – something was covering her, shutting out any light. She thrashed from side to side in an attempt to wriggle free, then froze as she realised that she was not alone. Something was behind her, lying against her back. Something cold and waxy that smelt of soil. She eased her head around and looked directly into the cloudy lifeless eyes of her best friend, Gina, and screamed.
Kieron yanked open the boot and slapped her into silence. The moon, haloed behind him, told Laura that it was night, but she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. He ripped the tape from her mouth, pinched her nose and, as she gasped for air, squirted the contents of a syringe into her throat. Then, he re-taped her mouth and slammed the boot shut.
After a number of unanswered calls and a fruitless trip to Laura’s Kew flat, Everton downed a Zolpidem with a glass of five-year-old rum and fell into a dreamless sleep. He barely heard the insistent ping of his mobile, only reluctantly rolling over on the sofa and fumbling for it on the floor.
“Hello?” he said, and groaned as he realised it was not a call but a text. He blinked himself awake and tried to focus on the Caller ID. Thank God, he said to himself as he saw the name Laura Fell and quickly opened the text. It simply read “OX49 5HG”. He pressed redial but the number was unavailable. Hauling himself to his feet, he stumbled over to the sink and, shoving the dirty pile of plates aside, splashed his face with water from the cold tap. Grabbing his ASP baton, he headed for the door.
It was beginning to rain and he hadn’t brought a coat but it was too late to go back for it. Besides, he reasoned, the cold would help keep him awake. He climbed into the Corsa and as the engine grumbled to life ent
ered the postcode into Google Maps on his mobile, mumbling to himself, “Where the fuck is Christmas Common?”
Thirty minutes later, windows wide open and eyes streaming, he was hitting a hundred as he headed west on the M25 towards the M40 turn-off to Oxford. And less than twenty minutes later, he was wide awake and turning left onto the A40 towards Stokenchurch.
A sopping drizzle hung in the air over the National Trust car park like a grey blanket, obscuring the corners where the encroaching trees seemed to cast shadows even in the darkness. Everton switched his headlights to full beam and eased the Corsa around the muddy potholes, scanning the area for any sign of Laura. Suddenly he saw it. A dark Mercedes Estate, half-hidden underneath the overhanging branches. The hairs on the back of his hands began to prickle as he drew closer and saw the colour. Midnight blue. The same colour and model as the one used to abduct Tessa Hayes. He cut the engine, reached over for his baton and stepped cautiously out of the car.
“Laura,” he called. “Laura! It’s me. Everton Bowe.”
His voice echoed and dissolved into the darkness. He flicked open his telescopic baton and felt the reassuring heft of the twenty-one inches of steel in his hand. Slowly, he approached the Mercedes. Someone – or something – appeared to be sitting in the front seat. It looked like a shop-window dummy. He inched closer, his eyes focused on the figure, checking for any sign of movement. He was barely five feet from the car when he stopped in his tracks, realising that it wasn’t a dummy. It was Laura Fell.
“Oh, Jesus.”
He ran forward and yanked open the door. Laura toppled sideways into his arms. She was naked and her body had been completely shaved of hair, which was in two clear plastic evidence bags on the seat behind her. He laid her gently back across the seat and checked for a pulse in her neck, and let out a sigh of relief as he felt warmth and a faint beat beneath his fingertips.
“You’re alright, Laura. It’s me, Everton,” he whispered. “Laura. Can you hear me?”
Her eyes popped open, revealing hugely distended pupils. Everton eased the tape from her mouth and she began babbling incoherently, repeating the same word over and over again. He couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. It sounded like gibberish. Like she’d been drugged and was hallucinating.
“Ronkier! Ronkier!” she screamed. “Ronkier… Ronkier… Ronkier…” Her eyes widening in panic. “Ronkier, Ronkier…”
“Shh. It’s okay, Laura. You’re safe now,” he reassured her.
“No no no – Ronkier, Ronkier!” she shrieked, desperately trying to warn him. But it was too late. Ron (Kieron) rose like a ghost from the rear of the Mercedes and struck Everton a sickening blow with a tyre wrench.
Kieron laid the unconscious Everton and Laura beside the body of Gina in the trunk of the Mercedes. Then took Everton’s hand and scraped the nails across the inside of Laura’s thigh. Rifling in his pockets, he found Everton’s mobile and deleted his own earlier postcode text. He switched it to camera mode, pulled Laura into position and took a number of nude photographs of her. Finally, he replaced the mobile, took a second syringe from his kit and administered a dose of Rohypnol to Everton before easing him out of the trunk and dragging him over to the passenger seat of the Corsa. Satisfied with his work, he re-covered Laura and Gina with the tarpaulin, picked up his medical kit, locked the Mercedes and climbed into the driver’s seat; for the car, and Everton’s, final journey.
Stokenchurch Gap was less than a mile away. He’d decided on the location two days before when he formulated his plan, and knew it was ideal because its elevated position offered an uninterrupted view of the headlamps of any approaching vehicles for miles.
He parked in a lay-by on the brow of the hill and turned off his headlights, climbed out of the Corsa and hauled Everton into the driver’s seat. He took the clippers, scissors, shaving foam and razor that he’d used on Laura from the medical bag, wrapped them in a towel and placed them into the passenger footwell. He took a half-bottle of vodka from his pocket and poured a large slug into Everton’s mouth before placing it in the glovebox. He removed his surgical gloves, replaced them with a fresh pair and dropped the soiled ones into the driver’s footwell, alongside the other “proof”. Finally, he took Everton’s head in his hands, twisted it into the correct position, and smashed the wound against the steering wheel.
Satisfied that he’d left no incriminating evidence of himself, he switched the ignition and headlights on, shoved the car into Drive and steered it out onto the brow of the hill. There was nothing but darkness and the slippery incline receding beneath him, but he knew from his recce that two hundred metres down the road turned sharply left, and a sign warned “DANGER”. He slammed the door shut and released the car. He watched it gather speed down the hill, smash through the retaining barrier and launch itself into the gulley below.
It took him another hour to reach the farm. He was dog-tired and every muscle in his body ached. Removing Gina’s body from the grave and reinstating the earth had taken two back-breaking hours, even though the soil was still relatively fresh, and he wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing how they’d butchered his beautiful dove. His only comfort was that her post-mortem scar almost perfectly matched his own and that the pathologist had unwittingly made his preliminary work much easier. Now all he had to do was make her beautiful again. And Laura Fell, her closest friend, would witness the transformation and eventually become a part of it herself.
He gently removed the bugs from Gina’s hair and sponged the mud from her alabaster skin. Then he scrupulously washed her body with CHG, a powerful anti-bacterial liquid soap that he’d used at work and found very effective. He lifted her out of the bath, laid her onto a clean sheet and patted her dry with a towel. Then dusted her with perfumed talcum powder before wrapping her in a fresh sheet and carrying her downstairs. Manoeuvring into the boot room, he prised open the lid of an industrial-size freezer that took up most of the space with his knee. He laid her inside and adjusted the temperature to three degrees above freezing. He toyed with the idea of putting Laura in with her but, attractive as the idea was, he didn’t have the energy; so, he emptied the bath, wrapped her in a blanket and dumped her in the bottom, ready for an early start in the morning.
He hated sleeping in his mother’s brass bed; the memories of her leery smile as she patted the empty space beside her still haunted and humiliated him even in his dreams. She’d given her “bastard son” nothing in his life but loathing and a genetic mutation in his MLH1 gene – the Lynch syndrome – that carried a high risk of stomach and colon cancer. And like all good curses it had come true and he’d been forced to have most of his lower intestine removed. He had little choice but to use her bed since he’d used all the other bedroom furniture as fuel for the chicken pit, and he was too tired to drive back to London.
He peeled off his wig, shook it clean and draped it over the bedside lampshade, prised out his Instant Smile cosmetic teeth and placed them in their Tupperware container. He pulled the eyelid of his left eye open and, leaning close to the silver dressing-table mirror, eased the russet-coloured contact lens to the outer corner of his eye before lifting it out with his finger and thumb. He did the same with his right eye, placed both lenses into their individual plastic containers, added cleaning solution and shook them clean.
Satisfied, he sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his desert boots. He stood and removed his chinos, precisely folding them before placing them on the end of the bed. The room was freezing and he couldn’t risk getting a chill, so he was forced to keep his shirt and socks on before sliding under the musty merino-wool counterpane. He pulled it up around his chin and said a silent prayer of atonement to Gina; the same one he’d said every night since her death. Then Nephilim rolled over to sleep, content that the body of the interfering black copper would soon be found and allow him time to complete his sacred work without interruption.
He had no idea that Everton’s body had already been found by a sixteen-year-old stud
ent called Pauline. Who, by a strange quirk of fate, not only shared his estranged wife’s name but had also just lost her virginity to a fellow student. They were interrupted in their shared sleeping bag, like young lovers in a low-budget horror movie, by the sound of something crashing through the trees towards them. Pauline pulled on her tracksuit bottoms and peeked out the tent flap to be confronted by a scene of utter carnage. Everton’s Corsa came to a metal screeching halt barely ten feet from the Duke of Edinburgh Award hiker’s campsite, wedged on its side between two silver birches. Behind it lay a trail of devastation, as if a tornado had ripped through the coppice, and in front of it Everton sprawled in a bloody heap, as if spat from the wreckage. Without a second thought, Pauline ran towards him and called for help.
Her tutor, Lionel, who’d taken a Valium and zipped his sleeping bag above his head to help him sleep, hadn’t heard a thing in his tent. He was staggered when he eventually answered his student’s panicky calls and saw the drama being played out in front of his tent.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded of Pauline, who was kneeling beside Everton, pounding his chest.
“Giving him CPR. He’s not breathing. There’s been an accident.”
“Pauline,” Lionel said, asserting his authority. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I did first aid for my Silver Award. I need blankets and clean towels. He’s bleeding.”
“Alright! Someone get Pauline some blankets and towels!” Lionel shouted to no one in particular. “And call an ambulance! If you can’t get a signal go to the top of the hill!”
“Done that, sir,” said Pauline’s boyfriend, who was standing amongst the half a dozen students gathered in an awed semi-circle, watching Pauline working on the black man.
“Right. Good. Phone the police.”
“Done that too.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, move back and give her some room! And keep away from the car; it could be leaking fuel. Do not light anything. It could explode.”