by ML Rose
“What do you think will happen?” Rebecca asked.
The dark pupils in Christine’s blue eyes constricted. Age strips away the vigour of youth from all of us, but in some it replaces that with a toughness, a sense of reality that only experience can bring.
“Well, he’s going to get what he deserves,” Christine said, her nostrils flaring as her back teeth clamped down tight. She handed a cup of steaming tea to Rebecca. “You must take care of yourself, darling.”
They went upstairs, to Rebecca’s old room, which had been converted into a nursery for Reggie. It was still inexpressibly sad to be here, Rebecca thought. The walls had been painted blue.
Roger was so overjoyed at having a grandson he had even hired an artist to paint Superman and Batman figures on the wall. Rebecca stared around the room, at the fluffy cushions on the bed and the cot next to it. She didn’t want to change anything. The word ‘mausoleum’ was a bitter, cold, dreary word. This was where, she realised, Reggie’s spirit would live on. True, Reggie had his own nursery back at her house. But the house belonged to Jeremy. The only place she had to call her own was her parents’.
Christine was observing her daughter with steady, calm eyes. “And are you okay, dear?”
“Yes, Mum. I like this room.”
Something broke inside Christine’s heart, a ripping that was so intense and profound it almost drove her to her knees. She had never experienced sadness like this before. It had changed her as a person, maybe more than her daughter realised. The sadness was so deep, she could only express it with a ghostly smile as tears prickled the corners of her eyes.
“I know you do, dear. So, don’t worry. It will stay like this as long as you want.”
They picked up a few things from the room, then went downstairs and walked over to the barn. Christine had got the farmhand to clear up Rebecca’s old hideout. The carpets were hoovered, all the surfaces scrubbed and polished, and even the old bookshelves had been dusted. Rebecca went over to the bed and sat down. “This place looks great, Mum. Thank you.”
Christine put down the things she was carrying and Rebecca helped her mother. They rearranged the furniture, putting the table over the small door at the back, barricading it. When they were done, Rebecca wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead. “I think I’m going to rest here for a while, Mum. Shall I see you back in the house?”
Christine hugged her daughter and gave her a kiss. “As you wish, dear.”
CHAPTER 42
Grant Stone walked slowly out of the surgery. Several people turned and pointed at him as he walked past them, whispering. It was unwanted attention and it irritated him a great deal. A doctor’s appointment wasn’t the place to take smiling selfies with strangers. He enjoyed doing it at social occasions, but not now.
The catheter was inserted and the contents of his bladder were emptied. The nurse had kept the catheter and given him a new bag, and he carried the paraphernalia in a backpack. It was bloody painful, he mused, when that damned tube went up his penis. Grant had a condition called gonococcal urethritis, a disease which causes a stricture, or narrowing, of the urinary passage. Grant’s case was not severe, but it still caused intermittent urinary retention or blockage of urine. He knew first-hand how painful that condition could be, and it was also a medical emergency. He had been taken by ambulance twice to the nearest hospital, and the second time he had insisted on being taken by helicopter to shorten the time.
He opened the boot of his car and flung the backpack inside in disgust. It struck him as very unfortunate that despite the fame, adulation, and money he had earned throughout his life, one sexual encounter in the backstreets of Tangier, Morocco, had left him with this condition. Admittedly, he visited Tangier and also Sri Lanka frequently, as it was easier to get boys there. No one knew he was a rock star in Tangier and he could live there for weeks in total anonymity.
Grant got into the car and sighed. Well, life was what it was. He had lived it to the fullest, and he had no regrets. He could only be himself, and in that way, he was no different to any other human being.
He had needs and desires that seemed natural to him, although he knew the rest of the world wouldn’t see it that way. Hence, he had learned to keep his sexual life private. Tongues wagged about him being a sixty-five-year-old playboy. He had never married, and he wasn’t gay. The media thought him to be gay and he had never agreed with nor refuted that opinion. Because in his own mind, he didn’t feel the need to accept a standard that society set on him. Why could he not be who he was?
It never struck Grant that the way he thought and felt was wrong. Indeed, he was narcissistic to the point where he cultivated his deviant tendencies with great care.
The world would never know who he really was. The few children he had abused in England had taught him a valuable lesson. It was hard to keep them quiet. That was why he travelled abroad frequently. In third-world countries, adults seldom had a voice, never mind children.
Grant pressed on the accelerator as he hit a country road, and was satisfied with a mighty growl from the four-point-six-litre engine. He zoomed down the road but had to slow down as a junction arrived. He stopped to let a tractor pass. He heard his phone beeping and glanced at it. A text message flashed on the screen.
“Hi. This is Rhys Mason. Remember me?”
Confusion mounted inside him as he stared at the screen. Then a light bulb clicked, flooding his mind with clarity, then drowning it with dread. Rhys Mason. How the hell. . . ?
Grant indicated left and turned in to a smaller lane, where he could pull up on the grass verge. He grabbed the phone and stared at it. Maybe he could just ignore it and it would go away. Was this a prank? If it was, then how did someone know. . . ? In fact, what did they know?
Could it be Rhys, after all these years? If it was, Grant wasn’t that worried. Rhys had an enviable career, thanks to him. And if he bore a grudge and wanted to go public, Grant had his army of lawyers to come down on Rhys like an avalanche. No. Rhys wasn’t going to be a problem, if this really was him.
The phone started to ring. Grant didn’t recognise the number and stared at it, feeling a cold knot encircle his gut. He also heard a different sound. A buzzing, a vibration, like something rattling inside a pipe. It came from deep within the car, faint but present.
Grant frowned and lowered the phone. He turned his head backwards, listening intently, wondering if he had something in the boot. Did the nurse put her phone in his backpack by mistake? That would be highly unusual. Grant opened the door of his car.
He put a foot on the grass when a loud explosion ripped through the Porsche. The fuselage ignited and a red fireball lifted the car with savage force, hurling it several feet forward. The force of the blast cleaved the car in two, crumpling the steelwork with heat, showering glass fragments in the air. The shock waves rippled through Grant’s body as well, fracturing his spine, pushing his shoulder joints out from the sockets. He ignited like the wicker man in a bonfire, flames consuming his body. He screamed in agony, but the sound was lost in the blast of the explosion.
The last thought in Grant Stone’s mind, as he died, was of the boy he once knew as Rhys Mason.
CHAPTER 43
Rebecca looked around the well-lit room in the barn, a sense of comfort settling inside her.
She could be alone here, far away from the real world. The distance insulated her from the harsh blows life had dealt her. Her defences had crumbled, but one by one she would build a brick wall, enclosing her grief and solitude. Here, she would be like a plant that grows bereft of light, possessing a life of its own, its roots piercing into the velvety darkness of her soul.
Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. It was Christine. “Jeremy’s here, darling. He wants to speak to you.”
Rebecca’s jaw hardened. “On his own, is he? Karen’s not with him?”
Christine sighed down the line. “Becky, please. You know there’s nothing going on between Jeremy and Karen.”
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sp; Rebecca hung up. She had stayed the night here, and Jeremy had come to check on her. Well, she had nothing to say to him. But it would be rude not to see him. Despondently, she made her way across the field, wishing she could stay back in the barn.
Jeremy was seated in the living room, and after Rebecca entered, Christine discreetly shut the door behind her. Jeremy stood and spread his arms.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls? I was worried stiff.”
Rebecca shrugged, not saying anything. She stood behind an armchair, opposite Jeremy. He frowned. “Why are you giving me the silent treatment?”
Rebecca’s sea green eyes were naturally luminous, but they sharpened.
“You gave me the silent treatment during the pregnancy. And after Reggie was born, you acted like you didn’t want him.”
Jeremy hung his head back and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he put both hands on his waist. “Come on, Becky. I never did that! I don’t even know what you mean by not wanting Reggie. He was my pride and joy! And after he came, you know how busy I was with getting this new production off the ground. I was travelling all the time.”
“Of course, that was so much more important. You’ve got your priorities all sorted out, haven’t you?”
“I was there for you. Who took you to the doctor’s? Who bought you medicine when the heartburn was so bad you couldn’t sleep?”
Rebecca held up two fingers. “Like a broken record, Jeremy. You keep talking about those two times. What about the rest?” She huffed in frustration. “Why can’t you just admit that things changed between us after I got pregnant? It’s not been the same since.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked down at the carpet. A bubble of silence enveloped them both. When Jeremy spoke, his voice was scratchy, barely audible.
“I know what you, we, have been through.” He shook his head. “But don’t let that break us, Becky.”
“What’s left to break?” Rebecca said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I just feel like there wasn’t much to begin with, anyway. I thought Reggie would make a difference, but I was wrong.” Her eyes widened, then became glassy as she stared at him. “It made things worse,” she whispered.
“What are you talking about, Becky?” Jeremy’s voice was plaintive, entreating.
She didn’t answer. Jeremy sat back down on the sofa, then leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. “You’re overthinking this. Maybe you need some time to . . . just rest.”
Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut. The buzzing headache was back, a swarm of insects pinging against her skull. She put her hand to her forehead and pressed. Sometimes that helped, but not now.
Jeremy said, “Staying here with your parents might not be a bad idea after all. I think you need a break. Karen said the same thing.”
The buzzing sharpened to a scalpel point in Rebecca’s brain, slicing through the misty fog that engulfed her. Rage erupted inside her, a heatwave that flooded her body. Her spine snapped straight. “You love discussing me with my sister, don’t you?” Her voice was shrill and high-pitched and Jeremy looked up, startled.
Rebecca pointed a trembling finger at him. “What else has she told you about me? That she was Miss Perfect and I had to live in her shadow? That stupid, arrogant, selfish cow!” Rebecca stepped forward, her eyes blazing, teeth grinding. “How dare you conspire against me behind my back!” She didn’t care that she was screaming.
Jeremy stood, a scowl appearing on his face. “That’s total bullshit, Becky, and you know it. Karen’s just concerned about you, as any sister would be.”
She shook her head, a smile appearing on her face, mirthless. “You don’t know the first thing about Karen. The only things that matter to her are money and career.”
Jeremy said, “I’m not here to discuss your relationship with Karen. I’m here to talk about us.”
Rebecca stared at her husband for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Her anger faded suddenly, leaving her weak, washed out. She stumbled backwards and sat down on the sofa.
“Just go. Leave me alone.” She closed her eyes, pressing the sides of her forehead as she leaned her head back on the sofa. She heard the door open and then her mother’s voice. “Is everything okay?” Christine asked. She had obviously heard her shout, Rebecca realised.
“Yes,” Jeremy said, his tone low and resigned. “Becky wants to stay here for a while, and I think it’s a good idea. I’ll be in touch.” He brushed past Christine and left.
Rebecca opened her eyes when she heard the front door click shut. She rose, not meeting her mum’s eyes.
“I’m going to the barn, Mum. Leave me alone for a while, please.”
Rebecca walked through the frost-hardened field, over the stone slabs that had been put down as a pathway. She entered the barn and stood still for a while, listening to the silence. Her nose crinkled at an unfamiliar smell. She sniffed. It reminded her of filling her car up with petrol. Was it a diesel can that her dad had left lying around when he filled up the tractor?
She froze when she heard a sound behind her. She turned around quickly, but she wasn’t quick enough. A hand closed over her mouth, and the stench of diesel and smoke was stronger. Another hand restrained her arms as she was pulled tightly against a hard body.
“Alone at last, Becky,” Rhys Mason whispered. “It’s been a long time.”
CHAPTER 44
Arla looked over the rows of expectant faces in Major Incident Room One.
The room was packed with forensics staff, financial and cybercrime officers, and extra uniformed units who had been pulled up from the surrounding stations.
The whiteboard next to Arla had Rhys Mason’s photo on it. There were also two photos below it, of Rhys when he was a child actor.
“Okay, people, so this is our man. He is upping his game, and we need to catch him before he strikes again.” Arla glanced down at the notes in her hand. “He was born in Southampton; his mother was a cleaner and his dad left when he was a baby. His mother moved to London and they lived in a council flat in Battersea. From the age of nine, he started winning local talent shows. It’s well-known that Grant Stone took Rhys Mason under his wing. Rhys was a talented singer and actor and Grant helped to sharpen his skills. Through his mentor, Rhys landed several film and TV contracts. We have contacted Grant Stone, right?”
Arla glanced at Roslyn, who nodded. The detective sergeant said, “Grant Stone spends a lot of time abroad. However, he still does concerts and occasional interviews. I have contacted his press secretary and am waiting to hear back from her.”
“Thank you, Roslyn,” Arla said. “After Rhys left school, he gave up on his lucrative showbiz career. No one seems to know why.” She frowned as she glanced at her team. “We know that Grant Stone, despite his fame, is quite media-shy. Maybe Rhys learned that from his mentor?” Arla faced the room and shrugged.
“Anyway, after quitting showbiz, Rhys joined the army, which seems quite a sudden move from his previous life, but there you go. He was in the army for two years and even completed a tour of duty in Afghanistan. But he was kicked out from the army for his views on soldiers bearing children.”
Arla paused. She met the eyes of the people staring at her. “This is the first time we’ve heard of Rhys’s thoughts on children. Quite simply, he didn’t believe soldiers should have children as they serve long tours abroad, and in general, he seems to think a lot of children should not be born.”
Arla picked up a battered and torn notebook. “Uniforms raided Rhys Mason’s house in Brixton. We found this notebook and it expounds his philosophy.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“He encourages the government to start forced sterilisation camps. He wants the population of the UK to go down by a million a year, and he says this can be achieved by less babies being born. He says it’s a sign from God that fertility rates for Western women are dropping.”
Behind her, Lisa muttered, “What a freak.” It was loud enough to be picked up by the first few ro
ws, who nodded in agreement.
Justin Beauregard asked, “What happened to his mother?”
“That’s a good question. After Rhys left for the army, we don’t hear of Cheryl Mason anymore. Maybe she changed her name, or is living under a different identity. But we have looked up and down and there’s nothing in our databases.”
Another hand went up; it was one of the new detective sergeants, James Conrad. “So, the evidence that Rebecca Stone collected from Rhys Mason’s house proves that Rhys killed her baby?”
Arla held up a finger. “The boots are definitely his, as Mary has confirmed now. And the blue cloth definitely belongs to Reggie. Matching DNA is found from the cot in the nursery room. We are still waiting for the analysis of the mud sample from the boot to see if it matches the Common.”
Arla looked pointedly at Parmentier. The veteran scene-of-crime officer cleared his throat. “I checked that. The mud on the boot has the same chemical composition as mud from the crime scene.”
Arla smiled. “Then, beyond the shadow of a doubt, it puts Rhys Mason there. So, he had the opportunity. His toxic ideology provides the motive. And we all know the means he used.” Arla shuddered as she thought of the plastic bag baby Reggie was found in. But now she had a textbook murder case: motive, means, and opportunity.
Another inspector asked, “What about DNA samples from Rhys Mason?”
Parmentier said, “We don’t have any, unfortunately. The house in Brixton doesn’t have reliable human skin samples. It’s been derelict for too long.”
Harry said, “He’s an actor, and Rebecca mentioned how he likes his disguises. We are looking for a person who has several identities.”
“E-fit images are circulating later today,” Harry continued. “I’ve asked for his face with a beard, glasses, and also bald. We are putting posters up all around Brixton, Lambeth, and southwest London.”
