A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘Go and find Kassie. Go to the office. Do something. Just … give me a bit of space.’

  It was the last thing he wanted to do, but her tone brooked no argument. She walked to the doorway, pausing briefly on the threshold to whisper:

  ‘I love you too.’

  Then she was gone.

  89

  Kassie sat alone at the bar, ignoring the curious looks of the grill chef who was distractedly flipping breakfast pancakes. She spun her cell phone on the brushed steel surface, watching it turn round and round. If it ended up pointing at her she would call, if it didn’t, she wouldn’t. Its movement was mesmerizing, hypnotic, and she kept her eyes glued to the phone as it slowed and slowed, before finally coming to a halt aiming directly at her.

  ‘Best of three,’ she muttered and spun it again.

  The phone slowly completed its revolutions, before repeating the same result. Angrily, Kassie snatched it up and shoved it into her pocket. Who was she kidding? She knew she should call Adam to apologize for her sudden departure, to explain why she had to go, but could she really find the words? Besides, wouldn’t that just draw Adam back in, when she’d already made the decision to proceed alone?

  She didn’t blame Adam for his doubts, his scepticism, but it was clear that he was not prepared to back her any more. He would protect her, guide her, even try to ‘heal’ her, but there was no question of him taking her concerns, her fears, at face value, so there was no point outstaying her welcome. Better to leave Adam and Faith alone – she had caused them enough trouble already.

  ‘You buying anything or just keeping the seat warm?’

  The grill chef was still staring at her. Snapping out of it, Kassie rummaged in her pocket, eventually locating a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

  ‘Two breakfast pancakes, please.’

  She had no appetite, and no intention of eating them, but the diner was warm and welcoming, a temporary sanctuary. She slid the money across the counter towards him, but, as she did so, she suddenly became aware of sounds – words – that sounded ominously familiar: ‘… Jacob Jones … Rochelle Stevens …’ Rotating in her seat, she could see the radio perched next to the chef’s station.

  ‘Can you turn that up a bit?’ she asked.

  Reluctantly, the surly chef obliged. Kassie listened intently, her body rigid with tension.

  ‘… that Kyle Redmond, a former resident of Bedford Park, has been charged with the brutal double murder. We understand that Redmond will shortly be transferred from CPD headquarters to Cook County Jail and that a bail hearing is set for tomorrow. The funeral of Jones, his first victim, is due to take place in two days’ time, and you can expect great media interest …’

  Kassie turned away, scarcely believing what she was hearing. Madelaine Baines was going to die today, so why were the police convinced of Redmond’s guilt? Was it possible that someone else was going to target her? An accomplice? The obvious alternative was that Kassie was mistaken, had somehow misread the experience, but she felt certain she wasn’t. Her vision of Madelaine’s death had been so powerful, so clear – she could still hear that cackling, inhuman laughter.

  No, something didn’t fit. The police might have charged Redmond, might have convinced themselves that he was ‘The ‘Chicago Butcher’, but Kassie knew that something was very wrong here. The only question now was what she was prepared to do about it.

  There was no way she could stand by and do nothing. Her fate, as well as Madelaine’s, depended upon it. So, sliding off her stool, Kassie snatched up her jacket and ran to the door, even as the bemused chef slid her steaming hot pancakes on to the counter.

  90

  The garage doors rose and moments later the black Cadillac Escalade slid out. Madelaine Baines paused briefly on the drive – he saw her hand emerge from the car window, zapping the garage doors with her key fob, once, twice – then drove off. Moments later, the garage doors descended stutteringly to the ground and all was quiet once more.

  He watched the Cadillac disappear around the corner, then eased his cellphone from his pocket. Having cast a quick look around to ensure he wasn’t about to be surprised by nosey neighbours, he returned his attention to the phone, swiftly pulling up Madelaine’s calendar. He was relieved to see that nothing had changed. She was due at WGN this morning and then the Tribune at noon. Relieved, he tucked the phone back into his pocket. He had plenty of time.

  Once more, he swept the street for potential witnesses, but the suburban road was deserted, so climbing out of his car, he hurried across the street to the Baines residence. There was a large shrub to the side of the drive and, not for the first time, he took cover behind it. Another quick check, then he pressed the button on his RollJam and immediately the garage doors started to rise. Once they were five feet up, he entered quickly, ducking low to avoid contact. The doors were still rising, but he pressed the button again and they juddered to a halt, then began to descend.

  Smiling, he turned away, slipping the small gadget into his pocket. It had only cost him thirty-two dollars and was worth every cent. It effortlessly hacked and recorded a key fob’s wireless command, meaning that he could subsequently open garage doors or unlock a car unhindered. The owner of the key fob might notice that their fob didn’t work first time round, but they were seldom suspicious. They just tried the fob again and, once it worked, carried on with their busy lives, little realizing that they had just been hacked.

  The door connecting the garage to the house was unlocked. He had used it a couple of times before and the Baines family never bothered to secure it. Why would they, when they lived in such a prosperous, crime-free suburb? Recent events had not made them alter these arrangements – strange really given the brutality of the crimes – but they hardly expected this thing to have a direct impact on them.

  Closing the door quietly, he paused. If by chance there was someone at home, it wouldn’t be hard to retreat unnoticed. But, of course, the house was empty – he had watched them all leave – so he had the place to himself.

  He stood there, allowing himself to savour the moment. He had done this many times before, in many different houses, but it still gave him a thrill – he was an intruder, an invader, but this was his space now. The Baines family were going about their day, full of their own busy-ness and self-importance, little realizing that a stranger was standing in their front room. He could do whatever he wanted, without fear of discovery or detection. There was much to achieve in a limited time, but he was determined to enjoy this moment to the full. He was still learning, sucking more pleasure from his actions each time, but one thing had become abundantly clear.

  For him, the hunt was as satisfying as the kill.

  91

  ‘Please call me as soon as you get this.’

  The disembodied voice filled the office, as Adam stood by his desk.

  ‘I had a rather worrying chat with Gabrielle Grey yesterday and … well, I’d like to hear your side of the story.’

  The voice disappeared, replaced by a harsh bleep. Adam hit the red button, killing his voicemail, but made no move to pick up his phone. He knew full well what Gabrielle had told Dr Gould, Chairman of the Illinois Board of Professional Regulation, and he had no idea what to say in response, nor how to defend himself. His actions over the past few days were indefensible – to the outside world at least.

  Ignoring his phone, Adam sat down at his desk and turned his laptop on. Following replies to the emails he’d sent earlier in the week, he now had a few regular clients booked in for appointments over the next couple of days. He still wasn’t sure he was up to it, but there seemed no alternative to getting on with things. Perhaps slipping back into the normal routine would do him good.

  But as he opened his schedule he was surprised to see that it was virtually clear. He had had five appointments scheduled in his diary when he checked yesterday. Now he had only two – three clients having cancelled in the last twenty-four hours. It could be a coincidence, of course, but the timing
was curious. As well as being a highly skilled psychologist, Dr Geoff Gould was also a notorious gossip. If he’d spoken to colleagues, friends in the industry, about Grey’s concerns, then it was perfectly possible that people already knew about him revealing Rochelle’s address to a client, breaking into her house, as well as his close association with one of the suspects in an ongoing homicide inquiry.

  Picking up the phone, he speed-dialled Vestra Healthcare, the agency from which he got most of his third-party referrals.

  ‘They just rang up and cancelled this morning,’ his contact explained in a bored voice, totally missing the anxiety in Adam’s inquiry.

  ‘Did you give them a chance to rebook?’

  ‘Yes, I offered all of them alternative times. But they said they’d call back …’

  Adam ended the call, slumping back into his chair. Rochelle was a popular member of the healthcare community in Chicago – rumours implicating him in any wrongdoing concerning her death could be terminal to his career. Chicago was a big city, but his professional world was small, and it wouldn’t take long for his practice to be choked off at source. First things first: he would have to call Gould and see what he knew. But it was a prospect that filled Adam with dread. How honest should he be? How honest could he be?

  His day had started badly and was getting worse. Kassie had vanished – he still had no idea where she was or what she was doing – and Faith had pushed him away. Even at his workplace, a space which had for so long been his sanctuary, things were turning against him. Adam suddenly had the strong feeling that forces beyond his control were at work, tilting his world on its axis, threatening to pitch him into the abyss. It was stupid to think like this, he was being crazy, paranoid even, but try as he might to dismiss his feelings, he couldn’t deny that, for the first time in his life, he felt genuinely scared.

  92

  Gabrielle Grey stared out the window, looking down on the courtyard below. She had chosen this out-of-the-way hallway on the fourth floor because it had the best vantage point, giving unrestricted views of the prisoner transfer area without revealing the watcher. She had used this perch many times before and wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.

  Redmond cut a slight figure in the courtyard below, flanked by burly prison officers. When she’d brought him back up for questioning this morning, he’d refused to play ball. She’d confronted him with the new evidence, to be met first with dull, stony silence and then later with violent recriminations and threats. He had actually spat in her face – a small assault that she had taken great pleasure in adding to his charge sheet. It would never be acted upon of course, given the magnitude of the other charges, but Gabrielle was not the kind of person to let it go.

  Redmond would now be taken to Cook County Jail, where he would exchange his tatty garments for an orange jumpsuit – the first stage in his transition from suspected killer to convicted felon. Sometimes Gabrielle felt sympathy for those she charged – many of them came from desperate, impoverished backgrounds – but not Redmond. His crimes were too brutal, too sadistic, to be excused. She would enjoy watching the cell door swing shut on him.

  Redmond was by the van now, looking on grimly as the back doors swung open to receive him. Gabrielle settled in to enjoy the last few seconds of his discomfort, when she heard footsteps hastening down the hallway. Turning, she was surprised to see Detective Montgomery approaching.

  ‘Now, how would a new officer know about this hidey-hole?’ Gabrielle greeted her.

  ‘Detective Suarez,’ Montgomery replied blankly. ‘He says you’re often up here.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Gabrielle countered happily. ‘Come to enjoy the show?’

  She gestured to the courtyard below.

  ‘Not really,’ Montgomery responded tightly.

  Now Gabrielle paused. There was something in Montgomery’s tense expression that concerned her.

  ‘What is it, Detective? What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Shall we go to my office then?’

  ‘No, I think it’s best we do it here.’

  Gabrielle’s anxiety rose another notch, though she couldn’t say why.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the evidence that was found this morning,’ Montgomery said, keeping her voice low. ‘I’ve got some concerns about it.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Gabrielle replied, taken aback.

  ‘Well, the cufflinks are pretty distinctive. Gold-plated, engraved –’

  ‘And given to Jones by his fiancée. We know this –’

  ‘What I mean is …’ Montgomery continued, faltering slightly, ‘… they are quite recognizable. Which is why I realized that … that I’d seen them before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gabrielle responded, alarm bells ringing now.

  ‘I spotted them at Jones’s house, when we were doing our initial search of the property on April eleventh. They weren’t of any interest, so I made a brief note of them and moved on. But I’m sure they were on Jones’s bedside table.’

  Her words hung in the air for a moment, before Gabrielle responded:

  ‘It could have been another set of cufflinks. How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I remember seeing the engraving. It made me feel a little sad, given that the guy was dead.’

  ‘How certain are you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got my original notes and here …’

  Montgomery handed Gabrielle a see-through file.

  ‘Crime scene photos from Jones’s house,’ she continued, as Gabrielle opened the file. ‘We’ve only got a medium shot of the bed and bedside table, but look …’

  Montgomery pointed at the photo, but Gabrielle had already observed what looked like a pair of gold cufflinks, almost hidden on the table, beside a dark-brown paperback.

  ‘You can’t see the engravings obviously, but I promise you, these are the exact cufflinks – or cufflink – that Bartlett found this morning.’

  ‘So, first thing we do is go back to the Jones house,’ Gabrielle said purposefully.

  ‘Already done it,’ Montgomery said, a little awkwardly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re not there any more.’

  Gabrielle felt her stomach lurch. She wasn’t convinced yet – she would need to see it with her own eyes first. But if Montgomery was right, if the evidence had been planted, then they had just made a terrible mistake – one which could have catastrophic consequences.

  93

  Madelaine shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She was home.

  It had been a gratifying day, but an exhausting one. She had been a bag of nerves before her TV interview, but actually she had performed well under the hot studio lights – the stream of positive Twitter comments attesting to that. She had felt drained afterwards, but there was no time to rest – she had been contacted by two more radio stations wanting interviews and only just managed to fit those in before she was due at the Tribune. This had almost been the most satisfying part of the day – walking into that famous building and being treated like royalty, as she was interviewed and photographed. From nowhere, in a matter of a couple of days, she had somehow become the voice of Chicago.

  The thought made her giddy, but she was almost too tired to enjoy it. Even if she had had the inclination to wallow in self-congratulation, there would be scant opportunity anyway. It was nearly two o’clock and before long she would need to leave the house again to watch the girls’ softball match. She could have asked Paul to do it of course, but actually she didn’t want to. She wanted a bit of normality to balance out the craziness of the last forty-eight hours.

  Shooting a look at the clock, Madelaine hurried up the stairs, pulling off her suit jacket and beginning to unbutton her blouse. If she hurried, she would just have enough time to change and touch up her make-up, before she had to go. Already she was looking forward to the relaxing afternoon and evening, a chance to spend time with the family and have a quiet, unremarkable n
ight together.

  But as she crossed the landing to the master bedroom, she paused. The loft hatch was just above her and looking up she noticed light stealing around the edges. She suppressed a desire to curse – Paul often went up there, fiddling around for tools he’d squirrelled away for a rainy day, frequently forgetting to turn the light off when he descended. She hesitated: she ought to push on as the clock was ticking, but already she knew she wouldn’t – she couldn’t bear to waste electricity. So, removing the stepladder from the nearby closet, she reached up, opened the hatch and clambered into the dusty loft.

  She scanned the scene quickly, with something close to annoyance – the whole space was so cluttered, it really was time Paul did something about it. Shaking off her irritation, she took a few short steps to the light switch, flicking it off with a satisfying click. Gloom descended, the only light now coming from the landing downstairs. But as Madelaine started to turn, this too was suddenly extinguished, the loft hatch closing with a bang.

  What the hell?

  Her heart was racing, but she tried to calm herself. Perhaps she had not opened it fully? Was it even possible that the wind had blown it shut? It seemed unlikely, but still … She turned to switch the light back on, but as she did so, she heard a small creak, as if someone had taken a step towards her.

  ‘Hello?’

  Her voice sounded weak and strangulated.

  ‘Hello?’ she said louder, but still without eliciting a response.

  Now Madelaine was panicking. She had never liked the dark and was starting to imagine all sorts of horrible things. Retreating, she fumbled for the light switch, but even as she did so, she finally got a response – one that chilled her blood. A soft voice whispered two words, so close to her that she could feel his breath on her neck.

  ‘Hello, Madelaine.’

  94

  She stood stock still, taking in the sight in front of her.