by Helen Phifer
Steve, who was up his ladder replacing the missing part from the camera, turned to look at her. ‘I’ve already eaten, but I’d love a coffee if that’s okay.’
She stood up, making him his drink in one of the huge mugs she’d bought and didn’t really use. He finished screwing the camera back together and climbed back down. He walked into the open-plan kitchen; Beth pointed at the mug, which he picked up. Inhaling the aroma, he grinned.
‘There’s nothing like a decent cup of coffee to set you up for the day. I don’t mind buying a sausage sarnie from greasy Joe’s burger van, but I draw the line at his shite coffee.’
Beth laughed. ‘Urgh, rather you than me. I’d be scared to eat something from a roadside van.’
‘Needs must, I was too late to feed myself today. Hey, are you going to the pub again tonight? I’ll be there; you said I could buy you a drink another time.’
She felt her cheeks turn pink. He was nice even if he was a little bit forward.
‘It depends how busy work is.’
‘Don’t you go to self-defence on a Wednesday?’
She frowned, wondering how the hell he knew that.
‘Sorry, God, that makes me sound like a right stalker. I’m not, I swear. I know Phil who runs the classes, and I was talking to him after you left the pub the other night. He mentioned that you were a regular, sorry. I wasn’t talking about you. I should probably shut up now.’
His cheeks had turned even pinker than hers, and she couldn’t help but smile at him.
‘I do, I really enjoy it. Sometimes I fit in an extra class, but you’re right: Wednesday’s my usual night. I’ll be going to class – work permitting – and as long as I don’t get called out there’s a good chance I’ll be going to The Stag for a drink after.’
His smile was so big it actually melted her heart a little. ‘Wow, that’s cool. I’ll probably see you there then.’
He finished his drink and Beth wondered how on earth she’d just managed to agree to go for drinks with the security guy. He walked to the sink and rinsed out the mug – which raised him slightly in her good books. Then he set about snapping shut his toolbox and carrying his ladders back out to the van. Beth walked him to the door; out in the drive he turned to wave at her. She lifted her hand and waved back, then closed the door and let out a laugh so loud it filled the hallway. She watched him leave on the camera and shut the gates behind him then set about rinsing her own breakfast dishes.
Once they were stacked in the dishwasher, she opened the sliding doors and stepped outside. The sun was warming up nicely over the lake and she watched as one of the steam boats full of tourists sailed past. It was busy despite it being early; this weather was clearly good for business.
As Beth turned to head back inside, she noticed something fluttering on the patio table. She strolled over to pick it up, wondering who could have left it there.
For a few seconds she couldn’t take in what she was seeing, and then tilting her head she let out a gasp: now she understood what it was. She was looking at a bloodied acrylic fingernail. It had been placed on top of a photograph of a girl who’d been tied up. It was dark, and her expression showed she’d been startled and scared by the bright camera flash that had gone off inches from her face.
Beth bent to examine it more closely: she knew better than to pick up potential forensic evidence. The woman’s wrists were tied together, her fingers all bloody and torn. For the first time in days Beth felt a full-blown panic attack begin as her lungs constricted and she struggled to breathe. The longer she looked at the photo, the harder it was to suck in any air to feed her racing heart.
Who had put this there?
More to the point, how had they even got inside the perimeter of her property?
She ran back inside, slamming the doors shut and locking them. Her hands shaking, she dialled Josh’s number and swore when it went straight to voicemail.
Sixty-Six
Josh watched James Dean walk out of the station with his solicitor on the cameras inside the custody suite. They didn’t have enough to hold him or charge him with, and he’d been released on bail pending further enquiries. James stopped before he got into the passenger side of the solicitor’s car, turned and stuck two fingers up at the camera.
‘Bastard,’ Josh muttered. The custody sergeant just shrugged.
‘You win some, you lose some.’
‘He’s an arse. I wish the search team had turned up something better.’
‘Like what, a body?’ The sergeant let out a snigger. Stan had filled him in on the embalmed body that had been smack bang in the middle of their fingertip search of the funeral home.
‘There were plenty of bodies, just not the one I was looking for.’
Josh walked away before he lost it. He was tired, angry, hungry and wanting to argue with anyone looking for it. No sleep tended to have that effect on him. He’d sent Sam home late last night; she had a family and a life to take care of, while he had endless hours to spend questioning James.
It hadn’t worked, though; not once had he tripped himself up. He admitted to associating with Chantel Price, said she would hang around, and yes he’d had sex with her a couple of times, but that was it. He didn’t have any reason to hurt her and he definitely did not kill her. They had nothing of value forensically to link him to the crime. So where did that leave this investigation? Up shit creek, that’s where.
Jason Thompson was nowhere to be found and a search of his flat and workplace had yielded absolutely nothing. Sykes had reported that when the care home staff had been questioned, they’d found that Chantel Price would sleep with anybody for a bit of money or recreational drugs. Walking into the office, he checked the whiteboards; someone had put a big tick next to James Dean’s name, and the search of the funeral home had been ticked off. There was still a question mark next to Thompson.
Sitting down at his desk, he opened the drawer and took out his phone. It had died whilst he’d been in his marathon interview with James Dean. He plugged it into the charger and set about making a mug of coffee. He then logged onto the computer and began scrolling through the missing person’s report for Annie Potts, needing to check which tasks had been completed. They couldn’t perform cell site analysis on her mobile phone because it had been left behind in her room. If she’d had that on her when she’d been taken, they would have been able to pinpoint her location to within three kilometres. Something to go on, at least. They could have flooded the area with officers. But there was no trail for the dog to follow. The press release hadn’t come up with any leads that helped; family and friends had been interviewed; Estelle had been in and done a video profile of the man she’d slept with. Everything was being done to trace him: the profile was being printed in tomorrow’s local paper with the caption ‘Do You Know This Man?’ They’d drafted in extra staff to answer the phones in case they were flooded with calls in the morning. Somehow Josh didn’t think it would be the case. If Annie’s abductor was smart, he would have worn some kind of disguise.
Josh looked down at his notes. Most of the tasks had been completed: ticked off with no result, nothing to move the investigation forward. They were no closer to finding Annie Potts than they’d been on Monday, and the trail to Chantel’s killer was as cold as his last cup of coffee. Under normal procedures, the next thing would be to draft in extra officers to organise a search of every derelict building in the area – but that was a big job, and he knew they could potentially waste valuable time. He considered what he knew about the killer, assuming still that the killer and the kidnapper were the same person, and worked up a list of further tasks to be ticked off.
Likely to be local, knowledge of the cemetery, the area, camera aware.
All recently released violent offenders spoken to and their home addresses checked.
Possible local accent, witness Estelle Carter not a hundred per cent sure.
CCTV footage from the nightclub sent off to be enhanced.
Get a phot
ofit made up.
Hotel to be searched from top to bottom again by task force and dog handler.
Chase up detailed site plan of the cemetery with council.
Any abandoned, disused buildings to be searched.
PCSOs out canvassing local businesses, speaking to members of the public, tourists.
He couldn’t think of anything else for the time being.
His phone began to vibrate with missed calls and messages. He glanced at it. A missed call from Beth. She’d left a voicemail, too.
Sixty-Seven
Beth ran to check the front door was locked. It was, thank goodness. Then, running into the kitchen she picked out the heavier of the two hammers she had in the tool drawer. She knew the score: self-defence with a household item would hold up much better in court than if she used a knife – not that she’d hesitate if she had to use a knife. Her legs were shaking, but not as much as her hands. She didn’t understand how or why someone had left the photograph and the fingernail on her patio table, or how long they had sat there, exposed to the elements. She thought back over the last few hours; she’d come home last night but hadn’t gone outside. She’d been in and out of the house all day, so it could have been left there at any point.
Tucking her phone in her pocket, she held her breath as she heard the floorboard above her creak ever so slightly, as if someone had put their weight on it and had stopped, mid-step. She thought about running to her safe room and locking herself in, but fear took over. She wanted to get out of here, as far away as possible and not give anyone the chance to get the better of her.
Beth’s blood went cold; it was happening all over again, just like the last time. She gripped the hammer, picked up her car keys and began to edge towards the front door. Pulling out her phone, she dialled 999 and heard a voice tell her she was being directed to Cumbria Constabulary. The automated voice sounded too loud in the house, which was too quiet; whoever was up there would hear the voice on the end of the phone and she didn’t want them to know she knew they were up there. She hung up, knowing that the police would trace the abandoned treble nine call and send officers round to investigate. But she couldn’t take the chance of whoever was upstairs getting the upper hand. She needed to get out and she needed to get out right now.
Phil reminded them every week there was no shame in running in a dangerous situation, that it was much safer to try and run to safety than to stay and fight. She was almost at the front door, her heart pounding so hard she slid the bolt back with a loud thud and threw it open.
‘Thank goodness you’ve come!’ she screeched, and instinctively dived towards the person standing on her doorstep. She was surprised to see him but without wasting a moment she lifted her finger to her lips to keep him quiet.
He looked puzzled as she ran at him and whispered, ‘There’s someone in my house, we need to get out now.’
She fell into his open arms and he pulled her close then ran with her towards the car. Beth clambered inside, simultaneously starting the engine and frantically pressing the button on the remote to open the gates.
She turned in surprise when he jumped in beside her.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve phoned the police; there’s an intruder in my house. We have to get away from here.’
He glared at her. ‘There’s no one inside your house.’
She slowly turned to look at him, dread filling the pit of her stomach. ‘You don’t know that.’
He smiled. ‘I do, because I’m right here. Beth.’
She tried to open her door, but he lunged for her; grabbing a handful of her hair, he launched her head against the steering wheel so hard she felt an explosion of pain and darkness seep into her mind. She clawed at his hands, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but he pulled her hair even tighter and smashed her head into the driver’s window so hard it cracked the glass. With his other hand he pulled a cloth out of his pocket and the strong, sweet smell of chemicals filled the car.
She tried to scream, but he rammed it into her mouth and under her nose. Already feeling faint and disorientated, her mind began to drift and everything turned black.
Sixty-Eight
Josh rang her back, but Beth’s phone kept on ringing. Next, he dialled his voicemail and his blood froze as if he’d been dunked into an ice bath.
‘Josh, I need you at mine now. Someone has been here. Th-there’s a f-f-fingernail and photograph. Please ring me back as soon as you get this; please, Josh. Hurry.’
Josh’s hands were shaking as he scrambled on his desk for his police radio.
‘Control, this is 1195; send a patrol IR over to Water’s Edge on Fell Road. This is urgent, I believe the occupant is in danger.’
‘Sarge, we already have one on its way,’ came the reply over the airwaves. ‘There was an abandoned treble nine call. Over twenty minutes ago now.’
‘I want as many patrols as possible sent immediately.’
‘Roger.’
Josh took his CS gas from his top drawer, then handcuffs and his baton that he hadn’t had cause to even think about using in at least eight years. Sam walked in, took one look at his face and did the same. She followed him out of the door as he raced down to the car park.
‘Josh, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Beth Adams, I think she’s being targeted by the killer.’
‘Do you want me to drive?’
He shook his head, grabbing a set of van keys off the board by the rear doors, and ran out into the car park.
Sixty-Nine
As he drove out of the gates and along the road, his heart was racing. This had been so bold and so brilliant it couldn’t have gone any better. It was broad daylight, so he couldn’t take her to her final resting place until the sun set. He could take her home, but he’d rather not have her in his house; if things got out of hand it would make an awful mess and that might blow his cover. He didn’t want to ruin it now he finally had her. He heard sirens coming along the quiet stretch of road from the distance and put his foot down. He needed to get away from here as quickly as possible without drawing attention to the fact that, as well as having an unconscious woman in the back seat, he was driving her car.
He’d made it a fair distance from the house before a police van came speeding towards him from the opposite direction. He held his breath, wondering if it was all over, but he slid past unnoticed. Taking the road into Bowness which would lead him down to the marina, he formed a plan; it wasn’t perfect, but it would buy him plenty of time to spend with her before it got dark.
As he drove past the florist’s he considered stopping off to buy her some flowers, then he realised it was too risky. It was a shame, though; another time, another place, he’d really like to get to know her more intimately. Woo her with flowers and fine wine, keep her locked up beside him. The two of them could have been so happy, but unfortunately for her he couldn’t do that. If he’d had a place he could keep her captive for more than a few hours and not get caught he would have. It wouldn’t work out, though, he knew. She’d battle her way out of it. He was just going to have to enjoy what precious time he had with her.
Seventy
Robert Hartshorn began to cough – that familiar painful, throaty, chesty cough that was killing him. Opening his eyes, he had to take a moment to get his bearings; someone was helping him to sit up. He got a whiff of the strong smell of disinfectant that permanently lingered in the air of the hospital wing of the prison and realised exactly where he was. He looked at the unconcerned nurse holding his frail arm. She placed the plastic mask of the nebuliser over his nose and mouth, telling him to just breathe. He stuck a thumb up at her, and she backed away from him. Life was cruel. He’d never smoked in his life yet here he was dying of lung cancer.
It hadn’t all been a waste, not at first when he’d been an excellent orthopaedic surgeon, cared for his patients and made a difference to their lives. He just wished he’d never met him. Before that day his own sick fantasies we
re nothing more than that: fantasies, not something he ever imagined he’d act out. Yes, he was a narcissist who’d enjoyed bullying his staff and making their lives a misery for his own pleasure. He’d thrived off belittling Beth, tearing shreds off her and then forcing her on rounds where he’d charm his patients until they were putty in his hands.
He’d been fascinated to discover several well-known killers had cited The Collector as the inspiration for their murders. Leonard Lake and Charles Ng had particularly made their mark on him. What had tied them and him together was that book. If that man hadn’t overheard him asking for it and then offered him a copy, they never would have forged their deadly friendship. He’d wanted to feel what it was like to kill someone, to take control of them. To have the power of life or death, and Beth had seemed like the perfect victim; she had no close family, friends that were used to going weeks without seeing her and she already looked up to and trusted him. If he’d had a place to keep her captive, he would have.
Doubt had begun to creep in, though, before the night of the party; even though he’d planned it all down to the last, minute detail he had almost backed out. Aware of how selfish he was being by depriving the world of a talented doctor, a tiny seed of guilt had been planted. Now after all these years of not seeing her that seed had grown. Some would say it was his conscience kicking in. But he wouldn’t.
As his breathing began to ease and the tightness in his chest became bearable, he knew what he had to do. The bitch had never replied to his letters; he didn’t think she bothered to read them. He’d never considered speaking to the police about him before, but he knew that he had to before it was too late. She was his to kill and he had no right to take that one thing, the only thing from him.
