A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  Suddenly the door rattled, snapping him out of his reminiscences. For a horrible moment, he thought his sanctuary was about to be violated … but it was just a co-worker lumbering past the forgotten room, shouting to a colleague as he went. Relieved, he snatched up his rucksack and marched towards the back door. He remained invisible to those dullards, but nevertheless it wouldn’t do to linger. Legends weren’t dreamed up, they were made.

  And he had work to do.

  121

  Jan hung his apron on the hook and hurried away down the hallway towards the back of the building. It had been a gruelling shift and now he just wanted to be away.

  The early rise was a killer and, once he reached the Starbucks, the grind was never-ending. They were short-staffed because of a stomach bug, so they’d all had to chip in, cutting short their breaks to help out at peak times. In this part of town, it was pretty much always peak time – thanks to the suits and nannies, the students and gym bunnies, who frequented it – so the pace was relentless. Still, this would have been fine, he was used to it, were it not for the knot of tension in his stomach, the nagging, debilitating sense of unease he’d had since he’d noticed her.

  He’d hardly registered her at first – she was like so many gawky teenagers, staring at her shoes, swaying nervously from side to side, as she awaited her caffeine fix. But when he’d handed her the latte, something had happened. She’d seemed … repelled by him. So much so that she’d dropped the hot coffee and screamed the place down. She had had a fistful of his shirt, seemed intent on shouting at him or talking to him or something … but then Max had come to his rescue, ejecting her from the shop.

  Though shaken, Jan had relaxed a little afterwards, assuming she would move on or turn her attention to someone else who crossed her path. A wandering nut job in search of trouble. But to his surprise she had remained outside, banging on the glass and staring directly at him. Eventually a patrol car had pulled up and she’d been forced to depart, haring off before the attending officers could talk to her. But the memory of her intense, horrified reaction lingered.

  Which is why he wasn’t taking any chances now. It was quite possible she was lurking outside, so instead of using the main doors he aimed for the fire exit instead. It was strictly forbidden to use it of course, but he was sure he wouldn’t get caught and it would deposit him safe and sound in the back alley behind the store. Pausing by the emergency exit, he peered along the hallway behind him, then eased the door open, slipping out on to the iron stairwell.

  The cold immediately bit him – a nice spring day had cooled quickly and it was now spitting with rain, so he didn’t hesitate, quickly descending the stairs. Less than a minute later, he was by the bins in the stinking alley. Pulling his hoodie up, he hurried away. Already his anxiety was starting to dissipate, the knot in his stomach unravelling. He had made it away – now, finally, he could relax.

  Only as he reached the far end of the alleyway, head down against the wind and rain, did a figure emerge from her hiding place at the other end of the cut-through. She was a slight young woman in tired, second-hand clothes. Silently, she watched as he disappeared around the corner, before setting off after him, quietly dogging his footsteps.

  122

  He didn’t know whether to stay or turn and run.

  Adam had entered Faith’s studio determinedly, shutting the door firmly in Christine’s face. She hadn’t seen him leave, hadn’t noticed his smart suit and anxious manner earlier, so had been alarmed by his sudden reappearance, as if dressed for a funeral. Unnerved, confused, she had interrogated him. But Adam had no desire to rehash the details of his morning’s disgrace with her – she would learn soon enough that he would never practise psychology in Chicago again.

  Fleeing to the studio, Adam had hoped to find some peace, a moment of calm to gather his thoughts. But as he looked around the large, lifeless room, he was suddenly assailed by an overpowering wave of grief. The studio was Faith’s space, this room more than any other had her imprint on it, and being in here underlined just how much he had lost. Her spirit seemed to fill the room – her artwork on the wall, her painting smock hanging on the peg, even a half-drunk coffee, nestling in a cheesy tourist mug she had bought on their trip to Niagara Falls. For some reason that mug had always made her smile.

  Choking with love, Adam suddenly wanted to turn and flee, but that would mean he’d have to face his mother-in-law’s questioning once more, so he remained where he was. And, as each second passed, the pain, though still intense, lessened slightly. There was a great sense of loss in this room, but there was also an element of familiarity that was oddly comforting. Faith was gone, but she had lit up his life for many years and the evidence of this was all around him. In the friends and colleagues she’d painted, in her distinctive, deep-brushstroke style, in the squiggly signature that always adorned the bottom right-hand corner of her paintings.

  Summoning his courage, he made his way across the room and sat down on her stool. He had seldom done so when she was alive – it was very much her stool, and he felt ill-equipped to sit on it, given his complete lack of artistic talent. He’d often thought during their time together that this was why they were so compatible – both of them sincerely respected the other’s calling, but could not hope to understand or practise it. Love had always been fused with admiration.

  This thought had often warmed him in the past, but it had the opposite effect today. Evidence of Faith’s talent was right in front of him – an almost finished sketch of Kassie – but what evidence was there of his? He had not spotted the warning signs, had not provided the necessary support to his wife, even though he knew she was depressed and struggling. Perhaps the Board was right. Perhaps Christine was right. What kind of doctor, of professional, was he, if he couldn’t even tend to his nearest and dearest?

  ‘There is no hope.’ The words sprang into his mind once more. Four wretched words, scrawled on a scrap of paper and left in the nursery beneath her feet. Faith had been in complete despair, unable to see a way forward, and he had not been there to comfort her. This certainty ripped him in two, but also troubled him, convincing him that she must have become delusional. Why was there no hope? They were grieving, suffering terribly, but they still had each other. Communication was fractured for sure, but they had still held each other silently in the half-light of morning, an intimate and tender moment that Adam clung to in his darkest hours.

  Faith had shown moments of strength – when she had kicked him out of the house to go in search of Kassie. ‘I’m not a fucking china doll.’ And there had been odd moments of forward thinking, a will to repair the damage, when she’d asked him if he ever thought they’d be ready to try again.

  Unforgivably, he had missed that opportunity to bolster her sense of optimism, but it was she who had ventured it, which was interesting. Faith had found their numerous failed rounds of IVF emotionally crippling, and had struggled to be around friends who had children, but her determination, her strength of character, had never wavered. Obviously, the stillbirth would have rocked her confidence, but none the less why should she despair? She had conceived once and could do so again. Surely all hope was not lost, unless she knew for certain that she wouldn’t have a baby, which was hardly likely, given that the hospital staff had been at pains to point out that one stillbirth did not mean the next pregnancy would go the same way. So where had this desolation, this despair, suddenly come from?

  Adam rose from the stool – there was no point sitting here, torturing himself – but, as he did so, his gaze fell on the sketch in front of him. Kassie stared back at him, her head and neck expertly rendered in pencil. Or rather she didn’t – her eyes were in fact dropped towards the floor. It was a brilliant evocation of the troubled but beguiling teenager and yet something about it worried him, as he took it in properly for the first time. He had at first assumed Kassie was being bashful, the classic down-turned expression of a teenage girl uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. But now,
as he stared at the picture, he was taken back to their early sessions, when Kassie had talked about her self-isolation, about how she deliberately avoided company and kept her gaze permanently lowered so as not to have to look anyone in the eye …

  And now, as he continued to peer at her face, he began to see it differently. Her averted eyes appeared not innocent or bashful, but guilty and haunted, as if she couldn’t bear to look at Faith, as if she knew something.

  Adam sat heavily back down on the stool, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought. Was it possible that Kassie had foreseen Faith’s fate? Had even communicated it to her? It seemed a ridiculous, preposterous notion, and yet what other explanation could there be for Faith’s sudden certainty that all was lost, that she would never be a mother?

  Despite all the love he had given Faith, despite all their hopes and plans for the future, was this how it was always destined to end?

  123

  ‘Yeah, she was in here last week. Mrs Baines is a regular visitor … was a regular visitor …’

  Jason Schiffer petered out. The manager of West Town’s Phone Shack was not used to being questioned by a police officer, nor to his customers meeting untimely and unpleasant ends.

  ‘When did she visit the store?’ Gabrielle replied calmly.

  Schiffer screwed up his eyes in concentration, raking his memory, then:

  ‘Wednesday. It was definitely Wednesday. She was due a handset upgrade and came in to collect it.’

  ‘And what about this woman?’ she asked, proffering another photo. ‘Her name’s Rochelle Stevens. We think she may have visited the store here on February 19th …’

  Schiffer appraised the photo, intrigued, then rounded the counter to access a computer terminal. As he typed, Gabrielle surveyed the store – it scored low on design, but high on gadgetry – every phone, tablet and device currently available was on display and had drawn a good crowd. The store was obviously popular.

  ‘Here she is. Looks like she’d lost some photos off her phone, wanted to see if we could recover them.’

  Gabrielle’s mind was turning now.

  ‘And what about Jacob Jones?’

  She handed him the final photo. He studied it for a moment.

  ‘Don’t recognize the face. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’m often out back.’

  He typed again, Gabrielle watching him closely.

  ‘No, nothing. No record of him having come here.’

  Not what Gabrielle had been expecting. Or hoping.

  ‘Could you ask some of your staff? I know they’re busy, but it’s –’

  ‘No problem. No problem at all.’

  He scurried off with the photo, clearly enthusiastic about the idea of helping police, but also keen to get to the bottom of the matter. If his store was somehow involved in these murders, he needed to know. Gabrielle watched him interrupt his servers, pulling them aside to ask them discreetly about Jacob Jones. The young blonde shook her head, so he moved on to another server nearby. But he too shook his head, after careful consideration.

  Gabrielle turned away, unable to watch. Suarez stood nearby, looking as tense as her. He was about to say something – make some ill-advised joke to break the tension no doubt – when Gabrielle’s phone started buzzing.

  It was Hoskins. This was not the first time he’d tried to call her since their tête-à-tête. Nor would it be his last. She could imagine him getting more and more irate with each failed attempt to reach her – but she had a sense of what he wanted to say to her. And she didn’t have time for it right now.

  ‘Got someone here who might be able to help you …’

  Snapping out of it, Gabrielle turned to see a young woman being shepherded towards her.

  ‘Tell Detective Grey what you just told me, Jodi,’ he encouraged.

  The woman – who was no more than nineteen – cleared her throat, then said:

  ‘I remember him. He … he came to the store because he had a cracked screen, on his iPhone, you know …’

  Gabrielle Grey nodded, hanging on to the young woman’s words.

  ‘So we fixed it, then he came to the register and I rang it through.’

  ‘It was a drop-in, “while you wait” job,’ Schiffer added, ‘and he paid in cash, so his name wouldn’t show up on our records.’

  ‘When was this?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘About six weeks ago. He wasn’t here very long,’ the young woman confirmed.

  ‘But you’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘I recognized his face on the news, I told my mom all about it. She was as upset as I was.’

  The young woman was becoming distressed, so Gabrielle quickly concluded their conversation. She thought for a while, then turned to Schiffer.

  ‘Would you have a record of who served these three customers?’

  To her immense disappointment, Schiffer shook his head.

  ‘We can tell who rang through the transaction, but not who served them. We operate a hot-desk system here, so …’

  ‘Ok, we’ll need details of everyone who works here. Management, servers, tech guys, anybody who might have come into contact with these three customers.’

  Jason Schiffer looked a little taken aback by the scale of the request and, Gabrielle sensed, the implications of it. But it was clear from her tone that she was not going to leave until she’d got what she needed, so he hurried off to the back room to complete the task. She watched him go with a growing sense of excitement. The adrenaline was beginning to flow – perhaps they had finally turned a corner in this troubling case. She was convinced that someone working at the Phone Shack had synced his phone to those of the victims, allowing him full access to their movements, their lives. This guy was good – a twenty-first-century stalker.

  But his time was running out.

  124

  It had to be today. It had to be now.

  Jan Varga lived in a dilapidated two-bedroom apartment with his girlfriend, Marsha. This had immediately presented him with two problems – first, that there was no garage door to hack for silent, risk-free access, and second, that his girlfriend didn’t have a job. Getting unfettered access to Jan was therefore problematic. Faced with these obstacles, he had at first considered giving up and moving on to someone else, but his pride had stopped him. He refused to be beaten and, besides, the way Jan had treated him demanded payback.

  The guy’s accent was horrible, his English even worse, and he was a barista, for God’s sake, but that didn’t stop him looking down his nose at the overweight, middle-aged man helping him with his phone upgrade. It was a look he’d seen before – from Jones, Stevens, Baines and others before them – a look which suggested that he was not even human, but rather an automaton helping them service their needs. People often made that mistake – assuming that he was a nobody, nothing more than a backdrop to their important lives. The Stevens girl had been particularly bad – not looking at him once during the entire transaction.

  These people – these successful, handsome, arrogant people – had been made to suffer. He had enjoyed their terror, their helplessness, their agony. Jan would suffer too. He might even add a little extra pain this time – he’d never liked foreigners. Marsha was in hospital overnight, thank God. From Jan’s texts, it sounded like a routine procedure, but it would keep her away until tomorrow afternoon, making this the perfect opportunity to strike.

  Access was still going to be problematic, but he’d recce’d the building twice and actually things had gone like clockwork. He got to the second floor of the fire escape without being seen then, donning his mask, used his crowbar to lever up the back window, whose lock was worse than useless and pinged happily from its moorings.

  Climbing inside, he had briefly been unnerved by a dog barking outside, but, pulling the window down quickly and dropping the blind, he hurried away into the interior of the flat. There he stowed himself, in the closet of the guest bedroom, to bide his time.

  He felt confident Ja
n would be here on his own tonight. Which is the way he wanted it. Each attack became more hazardous, more complicated, but the stars were in alignment tonight.

  It was time to kill again.

  125

  Jan was thirty feet ahead of her, head down as he walked the busy streets, intent on getting home. Occasionally he would cast a quick look over his shoulder, but Kassie kept low, ensuring there was a sufficient knot of shoppers in front of her to mask her pursuit. On the odd occasion when the crowds dispersed and she suddenly became more visible, she kept a beady eye open for doorways that she could dive into if necessary. She wondered if the police officers following her were doing the same thing? Probably, though there was little point – their tailing of her was as clumsy as it was obvious.

  Jan turned the corner, arrowing right down West Huron Street. Kassie kept her pace steady, telling herself not to run, casually sauntering around the corner in pursuit of him. This street was also packed, but to Kassie’s alarm Jan was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the sidewalk in front of her, but she could see no sign of his distinctive green hoodie. Where had he gone?

  Searching the streetscape frantically, she suddenly spotted him. He had crossed to the other side of the street and was making good progress down the block. Hopping off the sidewalk, Kassie hurried across the road towards him.

  A horn screamed, as a car came to an abrupt halt beside her. But she didn’t linger, nervously shooting a glance at Jan, fearing the horn may have attracted his attention. Thankfully he appeared not to have noticed, so Kassie kept on going, ignoring the volley of abuse from the startled driver.

  She was now in serious danger of losing him. He was fifty, maybe even sixty yards ahead and there was a host of bodies between them. He kept dropping in and out of sight, so Kassie increased her pace, drawing the ire of shoppers as she barged past them. As she did so, she became aware of something else. The car horn – or a car horn, at least – was still blaring. Putting it out of her mind, she carried on – but the sound seemed to be getting louder. Kassie’s eyes were set dead ahead, but now she became aware that a car was keeping pace with her.