‘Yeah, weird, like I say,’ the guard was saying. ‘Alarm going like the clappers, someone must have dropped the watch earlier. Scared the bejeesus outta me.’
Footsteps sounded. Harry tensed. This was it. And then the light flickered away as the guard padded out to the corridor, still muttering into his phone. As he shut the door again Harry let out a silent sigh of relief. His palms sweated as he resumed his search of the lockers. Surely one had to open for him soon?
FRAN
I tried to recall what Harry’s files had said about John Paterson. The doctor had been killed in 2012 in Glasgow. In his late fifties, with a wife and three grown-up children, he was beaten – most likely with a baseball bat – close to a nightclub where he was seen drinking and dancing with two unidentified women. The implication in the news reports Harry had gathered was that the beating was meted out by an angry boyfriend: a pre-planned murder dressed up to look like a spontaneous attack.
I turned to the next scrap of paper.
sBadyo Bny
Was this another name? I compared the letters with those from the cipher.
It took a few minutes before I had it: Rashid Ali. I remembered him too: just twenty-five and stabbed to death in Bradford in September 2013.
I stared at the third name:
fBabyBh dwIItBh
The capital letters and the length of the words told me who this was, even as my brain refused to process the information. I forced myself to work through the cipher, heart thudding against my ribs.
The name, decoded, stared back at me.
My murdered husband: Caspian Hoffman.
HARRY
Harry entered the third room, a sense of futility creeping over him. Perhaps he’d got the whole thing wrong. For all he knew he and Fran could have found an ancient, unused key card – or one that belonged to a storage box at the Ed Evans Storage in Birmingham.
He set off down the next row of C-marked containers, holding the key card to each metal lock in turn. The movement was mechanical now, done with virtually no hope of success. Harry’s thoughts drifted to Fran. He had promised he would let her decide what to do with whatever they found. But suppose it was concrete evidence of Jayson Carr’s complicity in the abortion doctor murders? If he let Fran bury it then he would be guilty of covering up a crime.
He would do what she wanted, he had promised her that. But, for the first time since she’d kicked him out of her house on Friday night, Harry wondered if the truth might not destroy their relationship, before it had even begun.
With a faint pop the locker in front of him opened. Harry stared at the door in surprise. It had worked, just as he’d stopped expecting it to. The key card had found its home.
Forgetting the moral dilemma he’d been grappling with just moments before, Harry pulled the locker door fully open and peered inside. A small transparent bag met his eye. He drew the bag towards him and stared at its contents, clearly visible through the plastic.
FRAN
Here, hidden away in my father’s house, was a kill list. And third on that list was my husband’s name. I stared at the scrambled letters that made up Caspian Hoffman. Slowly I put the piece of paper down. I felt sick. The dark of the summer house pressed down on me; outside the wind whistled through the trees. Dad’s house was only fifty feet away, on the other side of the little copse outside, but it felt as if I was in the middle of nowhere, cast adrift from everyone and everything I knew.
Numbly I turned to the next name:
fdsyapwbdrs fBsawh
It took me just over a minute to work out that this was Christopher Carson, close to retirement and killed with a single blow to the head just outside Torquay in Devon in September of last year, 2015.
I had picked up by now that ‘a’ signified ‘s’ and that ‘h’ meant ‘n’, which gave me the next name as soon as I peered at it:
aytwh byhhrs
Simon Pinner
I sat back, nausea roiling in my stomach, and forced my brain to face the truth: these names formed a list of the men my father had ordered to be killed in the name of PAAUL. He was a liar and a hypocrite. A terrorist. He was responsible for murdering all these men. Good men. Doctors.
Above all, he had killed my Caspian. His own son-in-law, the father of his grandchildren.
It was beyond belief. The pain of it deeper than losing Mum.
Just one scrap of paper was left. One name on the kill list.
I hesitated. Was this another victim? Another doctor recently murdered?
I put it down, unwilling to look. I felt dirty, almost complicit. Tears bubbled into my eyes. I wiped them angrily away. This was no time to get upset. I needed to work out what I was going to do with what I’d found. Should I confront Dad? Or just go straight to the police?
The thought of calling DS Smart again was intimidating. After all, what did this collection of scrambled names prove? At face value it was simply a list of murdered men, yet surely the code used to hide the names and the fact that they’d been hidden under the summer-house floorboards, made the list’s existence peculiar, if not downright suspicious?
Why had Dad put them here? I knew from my studies on psychopathy and compulsive behaviour that killers often kept trophies or used signatures to mark their crimes. Was that what he was doing here? It didn’t really make sense.
But what other explanation was there?
With a shudder I stared down at the final set of jumbled letters:
dBssg rnnywp
I stared stupidly at the words, trying to force my brain to unscramble them. It felt like a dream. Dad had killed Caspian. All these others. Which meant Uncle Perry was surely up to his neck in the murders too – he and Dad were thick as thieves. What on earth was I going to do? I felt sick. I would have to tell Harry. Perhaps he knew already. If he’d made it to the storage locker.
If he hadn’t betrayed me too.
Harry.
As I thought his name, the letters of the first word rearranged themselves in my mind’s eye. I clutched the paper, adrenaline racing through me as I stared at the second.
It was him. His real name. The last name on the kill list:
Harry Elliot
HARRY
Holding his breath, Harry studied the contents of the bag he had found. He could make no sense of what was inside. It looked valuable but damaged and, though he needed to take a closer look in better light, not obviously incriminating. So why had it been secreted away in a storage locker? And how on earth was it connected to Jayson Carr and the deaths ordered by PAAUL? Perhaps Francesca would know. As soon as he was outside and had a signal he would call her, as he’d promised. Right now his priority was getting out of here.
He shoved the bag in his pocket and crept into the corridor, ears pricked for any sounds from the security guard on the other side of the door. There was no way he could get out through the front of the building without the guard seeing him.
He had to find another way out. He shone his torch app onto the skirting board. Two thin white wires ran discreetly above the wood. Harry glanced towards the door that led to the guard. It was firmly shut. He tiptoed in the opposite direction, following the wires. They led over each individual room’s doorframe and back down to the skirting boards. Harry knew, from his late teens and early twenties spent working on building sites, that this meant they were part of a system most likely added after the storage facility had been built. As the building was modern it would have been built with an alarm system as standard, so these wires meant an extra level of security. Something that could be operated from the inside, switched on and off to allow the building as a whole to remain secure while bringing items – probably large items – through a separate door.
Which made sense. Harry hadn’t noticed an exit when he’d looked outside, but if it was operated only from the inside, there wouldn’t be any obvious handles or knobs out there. Harry’s heart beat fast as he followed the wires into the only room he hadn’t yet explored fully. He crept up and
down the rows of lockers. There. A double fire door he hadn’t noticed on his initial and cursory sweep of the room was visible in the corner. It should take him out onto the estate just beside the trees and the ditch. Perfect.
Harry examined the wires carefully. They were attached to a small box to the side of the fire door, presumably an alarm. Even though it was clearly designed to protect the facility from external intruders, Harry was pretty sure the alarm would sound if the door was opened from the inside too, unless it was switched off first. But he could see no way of doing that here – there was no switch on the wall or on the box. He shone his light all over the door. Nothing.
Swearing under his breath, he took the small kitchen knife out of his boot and sliced through the two wires. Every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for an alarm to blast out. Nothing happened. He pressed down on the bar handle, then pushed. The door swung open, its base scraping across the concrete ground. The noise filled the night air. Harry slipped outside, sweat beading on his forehead. Had the guard heard? He closed the door behind him and raced to the cover of the trees. He stood in the silence for a few seconds.
Yes. No sign of the guard. Harry shoved the little knife securely back into his boot and reached for the plastic bag in his jacket pocket. Elation swept over him. He had done it.
He couldn’t wait to tell Fran.
Pulling out his phone, he walked as fast as the rough ground would allow, still hidden by the trees, the half-filled ditch just to his right. Its stagnant stench crept into his nostrils but he barely noticed. All he could think about was calling Fran, then meeting her and giving her what he’d found.
He hurried on, his impatience building, until the storage facility was out of sight. He was almost at the edge of the industrial estate. Safety and the train back to Fran were just a few minutes away. He took out his phone. Still no signal. At least he could email her a picture of what he’d found, even if he couldn’t make a call. He’d promised to do that. He bent over, snapping a photo, then attaching a brief message.
Rustling sounded behind him. Harry looked over his shoulder, shivers running up and down his spine.
He couldn’t see anyone. A twig snapped to his left. Then another.
Harry broke into a run.
FRAN
I stared at Harry’s name, the summer house around me and the cold, dark night outside forgotten.
Harry was on the kill list. He was the next victim.
My heart in my mouth, I grabbed my phone and dialled his number. Out of range.
I had to warn him. I dialled again. And again. Still no connection.
I checked the bars on my phone. The signal here was strong. It must be a problem where he was. Unless he’d done something to his phone in order to avoid my call.
No. I didn’t believe that. I just needed to give him a couple of minutes to move into range.
Absently I bundled the list of names and little envelope into my handbag. I replaced the floorboard and the rug and repositioned the wooden box and the cushions that had stood on top of them. I stood up. My breath was coming in sharp jags. Could Dad have really organised all this?
I didn’t understand any of it: not just the sheer impossibility of imagining Dad ordering Caspian’s death, but why he would store the victims’ names here. It didn’t make any sense. Neither did the presence of the key card. Were the contents of the storage locker it opened somehow related to Caspian? Or the other men who’d been murdered?
These questions ran on a loop in my head.
Nowhere near a couple of minutes had passed, but I couldn’t wait. Surely Harry’s phone had a signal by now? I dialled again. Still no connection.
I locked the summer house and stood outside, the chill wind against my face.
I dialled again. Nothing.
I put the key back under the third white stone from the door.
I reached for my phone. Again, nothing.
I couldn’t stop dialling and redialling.
Please be okay. Please.
Harry’s phone rang. At last. I held my breath, waiting, as it rang a second time.
Answer. Come on.
The line went dead.
‘Harry?’ I shrieked into the phone. ‘Harry?’
But there was no reply.
HARRY
Another twig snapped, this time directly behind him. Harry spun around, fists clenched.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
Was it the security guard? Had he been followed?
Fear coursed through him. Harry turned and pelted towards the industrial estate’s iron gate. His breath was harsh and rasping, the ground squelched under foot, moonlight glistening off the water in the ditch just beneath him. Only a few metres and he’d be through the trees. A few more and he’d reach the exit and be close to the lights and bustle of the nearby high street. The phone in his hand vibrated. His heart leaped. He was nearly out, almost safe.
He stumbled over a large stone, almost falling. He slowed, regaining his balance, as his phone vibrated a second time. Was that Fran?
A hand grabbed him, yanking his arm almost out of its socket and twisting it high behind his back. Before he could even yell a sharp prick pierced his neck. Then something cold seeping into his flesh. A numbing sensation radiated across his head and down into his back. His legs buckled underneath him.
Fran. He thought he was calling her name, but no sound came from his mouth. All he could feel was his tongue. The metal taste of blood. He had bitten his tongue as he fell. He couldn’t move. A dark figure loomed over him as the mud met his face. Wet, cold earth. He was pushed, rolled, his legs useless, down, into the ditch.
Face down in the mud, a foot on his neck. He could feel nothing. Could move nothing. He tried to reach for the knife hidden in his boot, but his arm was numb. Pain ebbed away even as wet dirt filled his nose, his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.
A terrible fear gripped him. A silent scream. Lights exploding behind his eyes. And then the world turned black.
HIDDEN
Sunday 17 January 2016–
Monday 18 January 2016
FRAN
1
I stand outside the summer house, shivering in the cold night air.
Where is Harry? Why has his phone gone dead? Is he all right?
Or has PAAUL already got to him? Has my father’s assassin already taken his life?
The list of victims is stuffed in my handbag but the scrambled names on their scraps of paper are burned into my retinas. If I can just reach Harry in time and warn him . . .
I’ve lost complete track of time. It feels like the middle of the night but I know it can’t be much after 10 p.m. Are Dad, Jacqueline and Lucy home from their concert yet? I peer through the trees. Lights are on in the house. I lean against the nearest tree, my stomach in knots. From here I can see into the kitchen. Jacqueline is pottering about, fetching a mug, easing off her heels. Does she know what Dad has done? I’m certain now that Sheila does. Could they all be in on it? Sheila and Jacqueline aren’t close, but they both adore Dad.
Oh, Mum. My heart hurts. Mum loved Dad very deeply, but she was courageous where Sheila is meek and strong where Jacqueline is shallow. If she were here none of this would have happened. I swallow down my misery, watching as Jacqueline leaves the kitchen, plunging it back into darkness. She hasn’t checked the back door, hasn’t realised that it is unlocked, that I am out here.
There’s no way I can face any of them. Not right now. My head is spinning, I need to think through everything I’ve found out. Most of all I need to make sure that nothing terrible has happened to Harry. Still hiding in the trees I try his mobile again. No connection. Which means what?
I try to tamp down the fear that burns through me, but it’s overwhelming. All Harry’s suspicions are confirmed. Everything I’ve seen and read and been told by him and Simon Pinner and Uncle Graham and all those people writing on internet forums . . .
It’s all true: my father is a killer.
The back of the house is still in darkness. I creep across the lawn, then tiptoe over the patio and in through the kitchen door. I lock it softly behind me, then hurry across the kitchen, into the hall.
I can hear Dad laughing as I tiptoe along the hall and ease the front door open. He is in the living room next door, warm and cosy with his wife and younger daughter. I can just picture him smiling at Jacqueline, sharing a joke with Lucy, everything as normal as can be and all the while he knows he has ordered the deaths of six people, including his own son-in-law.
Rage flares inside me. White hot. Impotent.
Caspian was my husband, my life partner, the father of my children. How could Dad justify taking him away from me? From the kids? How can he justify any of it? Even if you are against abortions, it’s still obscene to kill the doctors who carry them out.
And Harry. There’s no reason other than cowardice for killing him.
Harry. Whatever his faults, whatever our future, I can’t bear the thought of losing him.
Should I call the police? Tell them he’s missing?
No. It’s too soon. His phone might simply be out of range.
My mind runs rapidly as I race along the pavement, going over everything. Bitter tears trickle down my cheeks. Dad’s crimes feel so personal, so targeted against me. Perhaps they are. Perhaps his killing of Caspian is the ultimate expression of his control over me? Payback for all my years of teenage rebellion? The assertion of his fatherly power.
I don’t risk a look back at the house until I reach my car. It’s okay. No one is watching from the window. They don’t know I’ve been there.
My hands are shaking, sobs rack my body as I start the engine. Somehow I negotiate the central London traffic, and make it home. I call Harry’s mobile several times along the way. No reply. I realise I’m no longer expecting him to answer. In my heart I’m sure something terrible has happened to him.
The Black Sheep Page 17
