From the Dark

by K. A. Richardson

  ‘Three, I think. Wonder who did it. I was at home with the kids last night – we watched Miracle on 34th Street, the old black and white version. It was on BBC1. How about you?’ Duke narrowed his eyes at Francis. Not falling for your traps, idiot, for all I know you’re recording this conversation.

  ‘Oh this and that, you know how it is for us childless men in the run up to Christmas.’

  Francis turned to walk away, but not before Duke caught the flash of ‘what if’ on Francis’s face. It was too hard to resist getting a little snidey comment in himself. ‘How’s Lee? That’s his name, right? The blond kid you were fucking?’ He made sure his voice was loud enough to drift on the wind in the direction of Mark McKay, who stood near the police tape, with his phone to his ear. Duke had seen McKay eye Francis up twice since he’d been standing there – a few mere minutes. He knew McKay was in hearing distance. He also knew McKay hadn’t seen him or all hell would have broken loose after the incident with Toni.

  Duke tempered the simmering anger that suddenly wanted to burst into the temperature of a boil when he thought about McKay being with his woman. It wouldn’t do to get caught.

  Not now, not ever.

  Francis hadn’t even spotted McKay, Duke was sure. He was too wrapped up in his concern over his latest conquest.

  He paused at Duke’s words, turning back to face him. Francis’s face was pale against his Harris tweed flat cap, and the maroon scarf wrapped around his neck. ‘I don’t know – I ended things with him after me and you had coffee yesterday – too much baggage. Haven’t been in contact with him since.’ The fleeting eye movement towards McKay told Duke that Francis wasn’t as dumb as he’d thought: he had clocked the cop after all.

  Good to know.

  ‘Shame about that. I know you were really into him. Or was it that he wasn’t really into you?’ Duke’s sarcasm made Francis flush red in anger and he turned and rushed off without responding.

  Deciding he’d spent enough time in the city centre in potential view of the police when he was a wanted man, Duke made his way down past the church and back towards the car park where he’d left the van. Once inside, he vented his own anger that had slowly been burning by punching the steering wheel hard. How the fuck am I going to get out of this?

  22nd December, 0930 hours – street entrance, vaults under The Royal Mile

  Mark watched as Wright practically ran from the street – he’d heard the throw-away comment about Wright shagging someone called Lee and it had been filed away in his brain for a later time when it could be analysed in context.

  Strange that Wright should show up at the scene of the latest murder. Everyone knows serial killers like to revisit. Is that what this was?

  The reporter from The Edinburgh Daily was standing beside the church, her photographer aiming his lens at the entrance to the vaults. Mark frowned. Of all the reporters to be there, it had to be the one who’d ran the story behind Francis Wright walking free from the courtroom. Emily Wagner – bitch extraordinaire. Mark paused, glaring at her. Ideally, he’d have liked to speak to her boss, but she was there and he needed the information. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before marching over.

  ‘DS McKay! How apt that you’re dealing with The Postcard Killer. Ready to give me an exclusive?’ her voice was soft, and almost welcoming, or would have been if he didn’t know she could strike him down with one sentence from that vile tongue.

  ‘Absolutely not. I just have one question for you.’

  Emily cocked her head to one side, her shoulder-length blonde hair fluttering as she focussed her attention. She made a slight hand-movement, and Mark saw the camera change angle ever so slightly. He knew his face would fill the frame. He didn’t want this on camera for the world to see and he was almost certain they would show it. If nothing else, it could be viewed as police incompetence if it was cut which he had no doubts Emily would stoop as low to do.

  ‘Can I have a word off the record, please? It’s a little personal.’ Mark smiled briefly. He’d been told numerous times that his smile would light up a room. He was counting on it now to get a grip on Emily.

  Emily’s smile widened. She clearly thought he was interested in her. That beaming grin couldn’t mean anything else, and she was so self-absorbed that she couldn’t imagine anyone not fancying her. He didn’t, though – a shudder actually passed down his shoulders at the thought. Give me Toni any day. She’s ten times the woman this bitch is.

  ‘John, why don’t you go grab us a coffee from the little van parked further up. I’ll have a very brief chat with my new friend here.’

  The camera man nodded once, turned the camera off, and headed away from Mark and Emily.

  ‘We’re alone. The camera is turned off. What would you like to ask me, sugar?’ Emily took a step forward and laid her hand on his arm, her head still cocked to one side and a lazy ‘everything’s on offer’ grin.

  He put his own hand over the top of hers, ignoring the fact her skin felt like ice. Which was pretty much what he thought she had running through her veins so it was no real surprise.

  ‘I want to ask…’

  ‘Yes?’ she questioned, her smile widening.

  ‘How did you find out about the postcards being left on the bodies?’

  Just like that her seductive smile vanished, and her resting-bitch-face appeared. ‘We had a tip-off. Confidential, of course. You are going to give me an exclusive, right?’

  ‘Telephone or email?’

  ‘Phone, I think – they didn’t ask for me. You’re not just leading me on are you, sergeant?’

  ‘I absolutely am – no comment on any of the cases involved and you can trust that I’ll be speaking to my inspector, who’ll talk to your boss about the newspaper withholding vital evidence in an ongoing murder case.’

  ‘You won’t have a leg to stand on.’ Her voice only faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered.

  ‘Watch me.’

  Mark made sure his last words were heavy and he turned and stormed away from Emily. Whether McPhee would or wouldn’t want to know was beside the point. Emily now knew she’d never get one over on him. And, for an inane reason, that felt important to Mark.

  22nd December, 1620 hours – Edinburgh City Police Station

  The tinny voice on the end of the phone was annoying Mark – he hated speaking to the submissions team. Trying to explain to them why he needed to obtain mitochondrial DNA from the hairs found on the last body was like trying to get blood from a stone. To him, it was obvious that if they could trace the mother then they would have a familial link to the offender. It wasn’t like there was much else to go on at that point. The killer was pretty meticulous about clearing things up. Mark knew this indicated that the offender had some forensic knowledge, even if it was just based on what anyone could learn from watching TV or reading a book.

  It would be no surprise to learn Wright was responsible. All he needed was evidence to prove it.

  Wright was a learned man, he enjoyed the finer things in life like good books and fine wine. Being able to cover for himself was something that he could even put down to plain old human instinct. And Wright definitely had access to the knowledge to do that.

  There were some things that matched all the scenes: the forensic strategy meeting he’d just come out of showed matching red fibres at each scene; and they had two partial footwear marks – from the same shoe, though there was nothing on the database to indicate who owned them. The knife used was believed by the medical examiner to be the same for each incident and the MO was identical. Whoever it was plainly had prior knowledge of the vaults. Mark would even go so far as to say knew them intricately.

  From what he’d seen, the vaults were a mass of interlinking rooms and streets. A person would have to have been down there an awful lot to be able to navigate freely. But at this point he didn’t even know how the offender was getting inside.

  There was a lot of lore about the vaults. He’d assigned one of
his detectives, Walter Ince, to look into them more in depth. If they could find the entrance, they might find something additional there. Walter was accompanying Annie back to the vaults this evening with one of the more knowledgeable tour guides and a uniformed cop to try and navigate a way out of the vaults. The guide reportedly had some crude map that he thought might lead them out.

  McPhee was already in talks with the editor-in-chief at The Edinburgh Daily about how they knew about the postcards. Mark knew McPhee would be pissed at the change to the killer’s nickname: he’d been obsessed with calling him the Cave Killer. The Postcard Killer had a much more defining ring to it. And it was already in use with the press. Mark knew McPhee would have little choice but to stick with it.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He had a headache the size of Mount Everest. Reaching down he pulled a strip of paracetamol from the top drawer of his desk and swallowed them down with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. What he really needed was some more sleep. Last night was the first time he’d slept so deeply in a long time. Bizarrely he knew that was because he’d been next to Toni.

  Wanting her to know he was thinking about her, he grabbed his phone and sent her a quick text.

  22nd December, 1650 hours – Wright’s flat, Canaan Lane

  Francis had been pacing in his flat for the better part of two hours. His legs ached, his feet hurt and he was still no further forward in knowing what had happened to Lee. If anything had indeed happened.

  Duke had hinted at something. And if it was Lee down in the vaults there would be an awful lot of things leading the police to his door, he was sure. Evidence of conversations, for one. He didn’t know an awful lot about forensics but he’d seen enough TV shows to know they always downloaded all the data off the victim’s phone. That evidence would be circumstantial at best but he knew it showed sexual interest. He and Lee had discussed on occasion what Francis wanted to do with Lee. It might be enough for a warrant. Maybe he was being presumptuous but he needed to ditch his laptop for sure. No way they could get their hands on that. He needed it for work tomorrow but after that, he’d hide it somewhere – somewhere the police would never think of looking.

  Knowing he needed to clean the flat to reduce the likelihood that any of Lee’s hairs or skin cells could be found, he grabbed the hoover, bleach spray and cloths and started cleaning. The foyer had CCTV but all the residents knew it had been broken for months. It was a residential street and Francis was pretty sure there wasn’t any cameras on the street itself.

  While he wanted to know what had happened to Lee, he was more disappointed that they hadn’t got past the vanilla sex level. He had taken advantage of Lee when he’d stayed over and been unconscious, but it hadn’t been that great. He much preferred movement and involvement from his partner. He liked the gasps of pleasure-pain and a little struggling against the ties. He’d been looking forward to getting to know Lee much more intimately.

  No harm no foul. I’ll move on as soon as the season is over. Whatever happened to Lee isn’t my fault anyway. I can’t be held responsible as long as anything the cops have is hearsay. But he did wish it had gone further, that he’d had his way with Lee. There was no doubt in his mind that the wait would have been worth it.

  He sighed deeply.

  For a minute he wondered if it would be Mark McKay coming to his flat to look for evidence. Not likely, not with the threat of a lawsuit hanging over their heads. Even the police can’t be that stupid. He was past the stage of revelling in Mark’s constant guilt now. He knew if he saw Mark outside his home once more, he’d have to ring the police. Trouble is where trouble arrives.

  Francis cleaned methodically – one room at a time. He cleaned all the top surfaces and ornaments with the bleach spray and then hoovered from the back of the room to the front. He was a clean-freak anyway so getting the flat spotless and spick and span didn’t take forever. He even remembered to clean all the paintwork – door frames and windowsills and skirting boards. There would be no evidence that Lee had ever been inside this flat.

  He doubted very much his semen would still be inside Lee – it had been several days now and for all he knew, Lee had slept with other men since. Semen didn’t last that long regardless. Of that much he felt certain.

  Chapter 19

  22nd December, 1720 hours – South Cantow Traveller Site

  ‘You’re crazy. You need to get the hell away from me and your kids, Duke. How many times do I have to tell you, grabbing that bitch is not going to work. She will never be welcome here. It doesn’t matter whose son you are. She abandoned the community, ran when her gran died and hasn’t ever made any effort to apologise since. Antonia Baillie will never be welcome back here. Get that stupid idea out of your thick skull!’ Adeline Bain’s voice was screechy and loud – and Duke was instantly pissed off.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Mum? Telling me what I can and can’t do. You’re my mother not my bloody keeper. If I want Antonia here, then she will be coming back. She was betrothed to me. I will not let you keep her away.’ Duke’s voice, by contrast, was soft and controlled, his anger almost at boiling point.

  Adeline didn’t speak again. She raised her hand and slapped the side of Duke’s face with all the force she could muster. The sound resonated around the whole caravan, and his daughter Ashleigh who was standing in the doorway watching, gasped in shock.

  Duke ground his teeth together, and reacted, raising his own hand and punching his mother, connecting with her nose. Blood burst forth and she cried out, cowering at his feet. There was no escaping the feeling of power that gave Duke. Even though he knew it was wrong, it felt so right. She should be scared of him. She should be worried he’d hit her again. That was how women should always be.

  Beside him, Ashleigh screamed loudly, and ran for the caravan door. Not even really understanding his actions, he blocked her. ‘Go… to… your… room.’

  Tears streamed down his daughter’s face and for a short moment, he felt remorse. When his cousin Carl burst through the static’s door, though, that remorse quickly ebbed.

  ‘What the fuck is going on? Shit, Adeline, you okay?’

  Carl pushed Duke aside to check on Adeline. Duke pushed back, sending Carl flying backwards back out of the door. A loud thud sounded as his arse connected with the decking. ‘Doesn’t concern you, Carl. It’s a family matter. Fuck off back to your own van.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You hit your mother?’ Carl was incredulous, jumping back to his feet with his fists readied at his side. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

  ‘And I think you’d better mind your own bloody business.’ Duke was beyond the point of caring how his actions looked. He didn’t step back as Carl took a step forward.

  Blocking the incoming punch from Carl, Duke grabbed hold of him and they grappled with each other, both tumbling onto the deck with a thud. Duke felt pain explode in his face as Carl’s fist caught him hard on the side of his cheek. Carl was on top – the power position – and more punches rained down, some connecting and some missing. Duke heaved himself upwards, throwing Carl from the top position and now Duke had control. He punched back. Carl’s face quickly became bloodied.

  Strong arms grabbed Duke from behind and lifted him off Carl, restraining him by pinning both his own arms behind his back. ‘Calm the fuck down,’ hissed his uncle, yanking hard at Duke’s arms, causing his shoulders to protest painfully.

  ‘He punched Adeline,’ said Carl, leaning to one side and spitting out the blood from his mouth.

  ‘You punched your mother? Are you nuts?’

  ‘Bitch thinks she knows best,’ Duke’s anger was barely contained as he spat the words, his face turning bright red, struggling against his uncle’s hold.

  ‘That’s usually because mothers do,’ said his uncle, his voice full of disgust. ‘You need to cool down. Me and Carl are taking you out of the gates. The codes will be changed when you’re gone. You can take the van so you’ve got somewhere to sleep. This w
on’t be tolerated. We’ll speak to the others tomorrow but suffice to say, my word is normally law around here. You won’t be coming back for a while – and only then if Adeline says it’s okay. Adeline, pack him a bag, please. If you’re able?’

  Adeline nodded from the doorway, her hand to her nose stemming the bleeding. Her face had hardened. Her eyes showed nothing but contempt for Duke.

  Finally, a sliver of shame made its way down his back. What the hell have I done?

  22nd December, 1855 hours – Toni’s flat, Harrison Gardens

  Toni had just had the text off Mark saying he was finally done for the day at work. They were going out to dinner tonight – an official date. It’s strange how our feelings have just fallen back into place. It’s like the last twenty years just didn’t happen.

  ‘Fate,’ Sam’s voice whispered in her mind, and Toni smiled. Fate it was.

  She checked her phone one last time before making her way to the front door. Darkness suddenly crashed around her mind and she stumbled, grabbing on to the wall for support.

  Toni sniffed the darkness, her senses screaming at her and telling her she was in danger. The scent of death hung in the air, familiar yet unknown to her. It wasn’t until the large metal hook burst into her senses that she realised, she was back in the vision of the young man, hanging there, his mouth open in pain. Except, as she looked around, he wasn’t there. There was the same dark presence, a hint of a whistle in the darkness that set all the hairs on her body on alert. Her fear was palpable – but despite the fear, she was struggling to see what this vision was about. Her mind tried to make connections. Was it that another man had been taken? She moved her head from side to side, taking in the faint glow from the windows at the end, the false yellow hue of electric lights. And finally, the angle of her view.