by Emmy Ellis
“Yep. Go on.”
“It’s Robert, her new man. She passes him off as a chauffeur, not that I give a toss what he is. He’s the one you want. The one who…who left me outside.”
“What were you doing here?”
“I came to…to warn her. Went to see Mrs Roosay. She spoke to me through the letterbox. Told me the number plate of the car. I knew then…knew I should have said something about Cordelia owning Privo, that I didn’t think she had it in her to be involved in something like this.”
For Langham’s benefit, Oliver repeated, “Mrs Rosé spoke to you through the letterbox?”
Langham blurted, “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
“Langham, testy as ever.”
Oliver smiled. Then a thought struck him—hard. Ronan Dougherty had said one of the dead had lied to Oliver. Implied it had been Louise. Said the owner of Privo was the one they were after. Why had he lied? He asked Shields if he knew.
“Ronan knew about it from the start. Was friends with Robert.”
“So why was Ronan killed?”
“He got greedy. Wanted more than a sixty-forty cut. He wanted the sixty. Said if he didn’t get it he’d tell Cordelia the lot.”
“The bastard lied to me. Anything else we need to know?”
“Glenn Close.” Shields chuckled, ever the arsehole. “She’s planning on going to Mrs Roosay’s later. Can’t imagine the girl will harm the old woman, but you never know.”
“Shit.”
Oliver quickly relayed the news to Langham, who barked orders into his phone. “Send officers to ninety-seven Bridgewater Road pretty fucking quick if someone isn’t there already, and make sure you keep the old woman safe and someone sticks around to get a hold of that girl, got it?”
“So why were you kil… Why are you outside?”
“Robert. He told Cordelia he’d sort everything. Led me into the garden. She doesn’t know I’m…like this. Thinks we were only talking. When she came in after you knocked, she stood at the patio doors, staring out at us. Was holding something. Her diary, I think. I waved, let her know everything was fine. Didn’t…” A sob interrupted his speech. “Didn’t want her to know I had no control at all, that Robert had a gun on me. Pride… Always had a problem with it. Always did think I knew best. He waited until she’d gone before he pulled the trigger.”
“We didn’t hear a gunshot.”
“Silencer. Sounded like a puff of wind.”
“Where is he now?”
“I tried to follow, after…after… He waded through the river. He had a car waiting, some bloke in it I hadn’t seen before. He told me when we were speaking…said he kept the drug formula in his head, knew exactly how to get the strands made elsewhere if the shit hit the fan here. Fake passports, the lot. He’ll be long gone. Private jet, so he said.”
Oliver repeated the information so Langham could alert the airports, then asked Shields, “So what now? Do we have everyone except this Robert?”
“Yes, him and the man who picked him up. The ones who made the drugs had no idea what they were doing. Thought it was just another part of their job.”
“And the kids? Are there more than those we found in Reynolds’ gran’s basement?”
“No. Just them. From what I’ve gleaned from nosing about in this…state…you’ll have Glenn soon. Unless she changes her mind about seeing Mrs Roosay.”
“Who were you talking to on the phone about the case?” Oliver asked. “When we were listening?”
“The chief. I wanted him to see me as working better than Langham. I’m a bastard.”
A gusty sigh blew through Oliver’s mind.
Shields was gone.
* * * *
Langham led the way outside, stride long and brisk. Oliver told him what Shields had said.
Langham snorted. “I’m telling you, he’s having a last little laugh on me. Bloody tosser. What was he up to? After my job, was he?”
“No idea.”
In the garden, Oliver stood on a stretch of patio. Officers milled about, seemingly unsure as to what they were looking for.
“Body out here,” Langham shouted. “Keep searching.”
The policemen were alert now they had something specific to go on. Oliver, although drained from his conversation with Shields, reached out to see if someone, anyone would give him any indication of where Shields’ body was. Water, the image sharp and clear, filled his mind. It seemed to crash over his skin, cold and startling.
“The river. Reckon he’s in there,” he said.
Langham sped off, his vigorous pace taking him to the end of the garden in seconds. Oliver ran after him, out of breath by the time he reached him. They stared down an embankment at the river, a rushing, gambolling mass of frothy water, the current mean and unforgiving.
“Can’t see a thing in this fading light,” Langham complained. “And the spume isn’t helping much either. What’s up with that?”
“No idea.”
“Well, we need to check the water out, whether we like it or not. Fuck’s sake,” he said, navigating the slash of embankment. “Last thing I expected was going out to find Shields’ sorry arse.” Langham paused to catch his breath.
Oliver stood beside him, lungs heavy from the chilly air. It was going to be a cold one tonight. Langham walked towards the bank edge, moving his head left and right.
“Shit,” he said.
“What?”
“There he is.” Langham bent over, hands planted on his knees, laughing.
“What’s so funny? Where is he?” Oliver stared at the water, seeing nothing but rushing froth.
“There!” Langham pointed.
Oliver gazed that way. “Oh fuck.”
Shields’ bare arse stuck out of the water, and nothing else.
“Seems this Robert has a sense of humour,” Oliver said.
“Seems he does. Wouldn’t have wanted to be him, though, pulling down those trousers.”
“Me neither. Bit sick, don’t you think?”
“A little, but people do the strangest things.” Langham used his phone, telling whoever was on the other end that they needed a SOCO team.
How the fuck had the other officers missed a great big arse poking out of the river?
Langham cut the call. “That body needs getting out of there. Photos taken. The way that river’s going, it’ll wash any evidence away.”
“We don’t even know Robert’s surname,” Oliver said.
“No, and that’s something we need to find out.” He phoned the station, ordering some desk jockey to root out the information. He slid his mobile away. “Best part of my job, that.”
“What is?” Oliver stared at Shields’ arse. His vision blurred, mind weary of the constant battering it’d had all day, but not before he caught sight of something he’d rather not have.
“Having someone else do the dirty work.”
* * * *
The call came in that one Robert Sanders and his companion, Peter Newbury, had been caught at the local airport. Robert had been a nightmare to contain, his strength that of ten men. It had taken several officers to apprehend him.
It wasn’t a huge airfield, more a strip of land surrounded by grass and a pitiful excuse for a control tower, which lurched to one side as though the wind had pushed it a little too hard for a little too long. He’d been taken to the station, would be left in a holding cell overnight until Langham could interview him in the morning. He didn’t have time now, so he’d said—they were on their way to Mrs Rosé’s, having received word that Glenn Close had been spotted at the park opposite the row of houses in her street. According to an officer hiding in Mrs Rosé’s front garden, Glenn was flying high on a swing and had been for the past five minutes. So Robert Sanders had said, Glenn hadn’t returned to him after she’d killed her parents, as he’d instructed. She was surrounded on all sides, officers ready to catch her in case she bolted.
“Damn shame, that, when you think about it,” Langham said.
Oliver nodded, staring out of the windscreen at a now dark sky, thinking of Glenn. He saw her on a swing in his mind’s eye, hair flying behind her as she surged forward, the length of it streaming over her face when she flew back. She was doing what she always should have, being a kid with no cares in the world. Except she hadn’t ever had that kind of life, had she? Shitty parents had denied her the childhood she’d deserved, the pair of fuckers.
Yeah, Oliver acknowledged that his anger towards Mr and Mrs Close was probably stronger because he’d had a strained and unhappy childhood himself, knew a bit about what Glenn had gone through. Wished he’d been able to go on the swings without constantly worrying he’d be called a weird bastard or worse. And if he were honest, what they were about to walk into bothered him. He didn’t want to see that kid taken away, treated like a criminal. He hoped the police who dealt with her were compassionate, understood why she’d acted as she had, that drugs had played a major part in what she’d done. It was out of his hands, probably out of Langham’s, too, but at least the detective could keep tabs on her, could let Oliver know how she fared after her fate had been decided.
What had happened to the other kids? They’d been taken to the hospital, but when would they be reunited with their frantic parents? When all the tests on them had been exhausted? When it was deemed okay that they weren’t a threat to society? He had no idea if any of them had killed. He hoped the only murderers were Alex Reynolds and Glenn. No other bodies had turned up, no new spirits had spoken to him, but that didn’t mean sod all.
Langham parked at the end of the street farthest from the park. They got out of the car, closing their doors quietly, and Langham locked them without using his electronic key fob, just the key. The blip-blip-blip of it would have been too loud in the quiet street, alerting Glenn that someone was about.
They didn’t need her running. This had to end. Now.
“How are you going to do this?” Oliver followed Langham across the road to the side the park was on.
“I have no clue. Instinct says to go up to her, see what she does.”
Oliver widened his eyes. “What? And risk her going for you?”
“She didn’t go back to Robert Sanders, so my guess is the drugs will have worn off by now.”
“But what if they haven’t? What if she’s still crazed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m not thinking straight.”
“At least talk to her from the other side of the fence first.”
Iron railings skirted the park, enclosing it as a child’s oasis, supposedly keeping them safe from running out into the path of a car on Bridgewater Road. Fences didn’t stop anyone if they had a mind to do something, and from what Glenn had done, she might have a mind all right.
They came to a stop, level with that little girl coasting through the air. Two streetlamps burned brightly, illuminating the apparatus. Illuminating her. She had a glazed look about her, stare glassy, just one kid going through the motions of making the swing move. No enjoyment, nothing.
“She’s come down off the high,” Langham said. “Reckon I’m safe to go in?”
Oliver shook his head. “Is it wise?”
“I’ll be all right, you know.” Langham smiled, but he appeared tense, like he was withholding something.
“What’s going on?” Oliver swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat.
“The park’s surrounded with trained marksmen.”
“What?”
“Sounds mad, doesn’t it? Guns needed for a kid. But there’s no telling what state she’s in, and kid or not, she’s got to be taken into the city somehow. If she turns feral, well…”
Oliver held his hand up. Didn’t want to hear anymore. “Right. But I’m coming with you.”
“Not a good idea. You’re not trained for this crap.”
Oliver glanced at Glenn. She seemed to have no clue they were there.
Swing-swing-swinging. Hair whoosh-whoosh-whooshing.
“I still want to come.”
“I could get in the shit for letting you.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, so I’ll get in the shit if I have to, so long as you get the fuck away if she goes off on one, you got that?”
Langham pushed the metal gate open. The hinges protested with a whine. Oliver cautiously trailed him, gaze fixed on Glenn, who still swung high. A slight movement from her head, and she slowed, holding her legs out in front of her, pressed together, toes pointed in dirty white pumps, laces hanging.
They reminded Oliver of Louise’s boots, what with the laces being undone.
He shuddered.
By the time they reached the swing, Glenn was still, feet on the ground, and she gripped the metal chains either side of her. Blood stained her—everywhere, everywhere—and he was surprised someone hadn’t noticed that. Where the hell had she been since killing her parents? If someone had seen her, had they been stupid enough to think she was swathed in paint? Had they been so fixated on their own lives they hadn’t seen that this kid needed help? He shook his head.
“Glenn?” he said.
She turned her head slowly, eyes the colour of a boisterous, storm-laden sky. Grey and bleak. No spark. No joy. Shit, he wanted to gather her in his arms and squeeze some love into her, let her know someone cared. Her face, Christ, it was near black with dried blood.
She stood, swivelled to face them.
Oliver did what came naturally and held out his arms.
And Glenn ran into them.
“Hold your fire!” Langham shouted.
Glenn clutched Oliver tightly about the back, the squall of her heart-wrenching sobs tearing a massive rip in his soul.
Chapter Fourteen
Oliver roused but kept his eyes closed, hoping to drop back to sleep. His pillow crackled.
He bolted upright. His chest tightened, and he found it difficult to pull in a decent breath. He cocked his head, thinking, hoping the action would help him realise what was wrong. Something was.
A wave of cold swept over him, and he settled back, drawing the quilt up to his chin. His teeth chattered, the air turning cold, and a nasty pinch in the pit of his stomach was all the proof he needed that it wasn’t someone in this life giving him the jitters.
“Who are you?” he whispered. “What do you want?”
“I heard you’re the one who can help me. You know, because I’m dead.”
The voice wasn’t faint or reedy, full of fear or puzzlement that the spirit had found themselves dead. No, this one was bursting with bravado, confidence, and possibly belonged to a male arsehole.
“Yeah, I was an arsehole. Still am.”
Oliver didn’t feel badly that he hadn’t shielded his thoughts this time. It seemed to him the man would prefer honesty.
“Yep. So here’s some honesty from me. Nice to finally meet you properly, Oliver.”
“Who are you?” he said again.
“Alex bloody Reynolds.”
He laughed—shards of glass splintering, then sandpaper on roughly hewn wood—the sound grating right on Oliver’s nerves.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? So piss off then!”
“Aww, that’s no way to talk to someone who’s just reaching out, wanting contact with someone he kind of knew in life. It’s boring here, wherever the fuck I am. Dark place, trees every-damn-where. And the stink! It’s like rotting veg.”
“You’re in a bad place, Alex. You’re going to wish you weren’t there.” He paused, then a thought struck him. “Hang on, how did you get there?”
“Think I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison? Fuck, no. Coward’s way out for me. I don’t want no dirty bastard fucking me up the arse in the shower.”
“Look, tell me what you want. If you’re only here to mess me about, well, don’t.”
“Listen, there’s one more out there. Just thought you should know. One more like me, getti
ng ready to kill right…this…minute.”
His presence vanished.
Oliver sent Langham a message: THERE’S ANOTHER ONE BEING KILLED.
The unease he’d felt prior to Alex coming disappeared, but another chilling feeling took its place, white-hot in its intensity and not a pleasant sensation. Fingers of fear crept up his spine, and a strange, almost out-of-body-experience occurred. He was above a bedroom, a double divan below with a woman on it, hacked to pieces, fresh blood still dripping from a corner of the sheet that hung over the side.
“You see me? You see me there?”
Oliver nodded.
“He’s only just gone. You can catch him. I followed him. He’s under the bypass, the one off Chaucer Street. He’s… He’s got… Oh God, he’s licking my blood off his hands.”
“Where do you live? Where am I? Your flat?”
“Twenty-seven Portman Street. Bungalow with a green door.”
“Your name?” Oliver couldn’t look at her anymore, the blonde hair streaked red, the torso, arms, and legs God knew where. Stomach gaping open, innards splayed across the bed, a bad impression of modern art.
“Sasha Morrison. He took parts of me. Has them with him. In a…black…rubbish bag.”
Oliver felt her pain, that her life had been cruelly ended. “Why you? Do you know?”
“I’m the last one to know where the main man is. Who he is.”
“The main man? There’s another?”
“Yes. The two caught at the airport, they were just men who acted like they’d masterminded the whole thing. They worked for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Gideon Davis.”
“Where is he?”
“Spain.”
“Oh Jesus. He runs the operation from there?”
“Yes. I… I need to go. I’m getting colder. It’s…things are fading… W—”
Oliver went to call out, to ask her to hold on for a few more seconds, but he was hauled from Sasha’s flat and back onto the bed.
The doorbell rang, and he rushed downstairs.
Langham stood on the doorstep. “What is it?”
