by Ashley Dyer
Milner picked up a three-foot length of wood from one of the smashed artworks and hefted it, testing its weight, watching her, his head cocked in an attitude of listening, a small, self-satisfied smile on his face. But his eyes betrayed him: his gaze darted nervously from the door to the window. Even in bright sunlight Ruth could see the flicker of emergency service lights reflecting off the high brick walls and ceiling of the room. Milner must know that the police would not walk away from this. Careful planner though he was, his luck had turned, and he had no escape plan.
Adam roused with a sudden shout and stared wildly about him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Black,” she said. It would not be good for Milner to know they were related.
Milner laughed. “This situation is a lot of things, but one thing it most certainly isn’t is ‘okay,’” he said.
Adam struggled stupidly with his bonds.
Shock, Ruth thought.
“Why are you doing this?” He looked at Ruth, his eyes glittering, feverish. “Why is he doing this?”
“Mr. Milner thought he’d be able to convince the world that you are the Ferryman,” Ruth said. This was for the tactical squad, as much as it was for Adam: if her phone was still working, they would be listening in. She couldn’t see it, and she could only hope that it had survived her tussle with Milner.
“What? That’s mad,” Adam slurred.
“You think so? I told Sergeant Lake it was you who set up Experiment on a Bird in the Bell Jar.” Milner smiled. “She accepted it without even blinking.”
Adam turned to her, his eyes unfocused. The hurt on his face was almost unbearable.
“Like déjà vu all over again, isn’t it, Adam?” Milner turned his attention to Ruth. “He came to the ethics committee meeting, eighteen months ago, expecting to expose me. Found himself in the hot seat instead.”
Ruth felt a wave of sorrow for her brother. “Milner convinced the committee that it was your design.”
“The truth is, he didn’t put up much of a fight,” Milner said. “When they asked him for evidence against me, he reverted to the inarticulate, moody child he really is.”
Adam made to boost himself up off the floor, but Milner sent him sprawling with a shove from the tip of the hunk of wood. “Stormed off with barely a word.”
“They didn’t believe me, Ruth,” Adam mumbled.
“Milner is a psychopath,” Ruth said, shifting her position to face Adam. “Lying is easy for him.” She felt a subtle shift in Adam’s posture. “That is why Milner managed to keep his job, while you dropped out. Not because you’re not good enough—but because he has an overinflated idea of who he is.”
“Yet you’re the one tied up on the floor,” Milner said.
“Look out the window,” Ruth shot back. “Tell me your hands aren’t tied.”
Milner ran his tongue over his teeth, considering.
“Adam will kill you, but he’ll die in the struggle,” he said. “I’ll barely get away with my life.”
Ruth controlled the panicky flutter of her heart with a few slow breaths. “You can’t implicate Adam in the murders. See, we already had you.”
“Not a chance,” Milner said. “I’ve been careful.”
She held up her hands, bound at the wrists with orange cord. “This rope was used to garrote Professor Tennent.” She saw surprise in the killer’s face. “Yep, you dropped it when you abducted him. What—you didn’t even notice it was missing?” She clicked her tongue. “Sloppy.”
He raised his gloved hands. “My DNA isn’t on there.”
“You’re sure about that?” she said. “And you left a fingerprint in the plexiglass disk you made for Tennent’s ‘exhibit’ . . .”
He smiled, shrugged. “I’ve never been fingerprinted, so . . .”
“Oh, you will be.”
Milner froze.
“Do you really think you can play the victim and the police’ll just take your word for it?” She held his gaze. “That’s the trouble with narcissists—they always think the opposition is too stupid to see through them.”
Ruth glanced toward the window. Where are you, guys?
Were they waiting for her to convince Milner the best out was to surrender? Okay, then—hit him with the evidence.
“The detective you stabbed last night thinks he caught you a good one in the fight,” she went on, satisfied to see sweat break out on Milner’s upper lip. “You bled and fled, Milner. Bet you left DNA at that scene.”
Milner shook his head, but it looked like he was denying the horror of his situation, rather than the truth of what she said.
“You messed up. Your type always does.”
“My type?”
“Psychopaths, narcissists. Killers.”
“Well then, it wasn’t very bright of you, putting him in harm’s way, now was it?” He jerked his chin toward Adam. “You even asked for my help to find him.”
“Let’s face it, you would’ve gotten around to him eventually,” Ruth said, giving no ground, though she wanted to weep at her own gullibility. “You convinced the ethics committee that Bird in a Bell Jar was Black’s work, for what? Don’t get me wrong—I love this city—but a job at a former Liverpool technical college? Really? It’s not exactly the Royal College of Art, now, is it?”
He stared at her, his fingers twitching.
“Must’ve rankled when Black won that prize just months after he left. Nice touch, that, painting it on the college wall.” She faked a wince. “And you thinking, ‘That should’ve been me!’”
“He should’ve been prosecuted.”
“Didn’t you say that challenging works have the most to say to us?”
He chewed the inside of his lip.
“You must have twenty years on Black—how many competitions have you won?”
Milner’s head jerked. An involuntary action that told her the answer as clearly as if he’d said it.
“I’m guessing you sent something in to the Alderson Bank Art Awards.”
She saw a shiver of pain pass across his irises.
“You didn’t even make it past the first round, did you? Poor Marcus Fenst—murdered for good taste.”
Milner stooped suddenly, grabbed her by her jacket lapels, and twisted, raising her a foot off the floor.
Ruth snatched at him, gasping with pain, but her bindings prevented her from gaining a grip. She made herself relax, even dropped her hands, forcing him to take her full weight. He pitched forward and she caught a whiff of something on his hands or clothing.
Oh, dear God—he reeks of accelerant.
“New cologne?” she said. “Or is that turpentine I smell on you?” Another one for the tactical squad. Telling them to get a bloody wiggle on.
“Did you firebomb your own studio?”
Milner bared his teeth, and she smelled the hot stink of his breath in her nostrils, on her skin, but she saw strain on his face; his jaw worked, popping the muscles in his cheeks, and he looked ready to cry.
Abruptly, he dropped her, and Ruth banged her tailbone painfully.
She whooped in air, willed away the pain. “All so you can go back to your old life, watching younger, more talented artists do better than you.”
He booted her in the side and she grayed out for a second. When she came to, Milner had Adam by the ponytail, the block of wood raised in his other hand, ready to strike.
“No!” Ruth screamed.
Her phone rang out.
Milner slammed Adam against the wall and rummaged under the scattered art, finally picking up the mobile and sliding the bar to answer. He placed it to his ear, but recoiled as if he’d been stung.
Ruth guessed it was the police negotiator, and he’d used Milner’s name.
“Smile . . .” Ruth hissed, sucking in air, every breath agony. “You’re on Candid Camera.”
He stared at her. “What? What is this?” He held out the phone as if expecting her to explain its workings.
“I hit the red button,” she gaspe
d. “You hit the red button, the line stays open, no matter what.”
He dropped the phone.
“They heard every word . . .” Ruth said, her voice gaining strength as the pain subsided.
He crunched the phone under his heel, staring at Ruth with such hatred that she steeled herself for another attack. Then he scooped up the twisted remains and flung them out onto the street.
“There’s no . . . way out, Milner. Give yourself up.”
Milner stared down at her. “And go to prison?”
She wondered, for a moment, if it was a genuine question.
Then his face twisted in rage and he reached out for her again.
Adam launched himself at Milner with a roar. And crumpled, a look of astonishment on his face. Blood shone on the back of his leather jacket.
“Ruthie . . . I don’t feel so good,” he muttered.
Ruth reached for his collar and dragged him closer. “You’ve been stabbed.” She tried to put pressure on the wound, but he twisted away from her. “Stay still—don’t fight me, Adam.”
Looking from Ruth to her brother, Milner smiled. “I’ve been puzzling over you two, but now I have it: yin-yang, the Taoist philosophy of opposites.”
Adam was still at last, slumped against her, his weight adding to the strain on her damaged ribs.
“Ruth is yin, the coolness of heaven, and you, Adam, are yang, the heat of earth. The yin is the darker swirl, the female side, but with a dot or seed of yang at the heart of it. Yang, the white, represents fire. It can be destructive, yet it contains the seed of yin at its center. In balance, the two complement and unify each other.”
“Save it for your followers, shithead,” Adam said. “You’re not in the lecture room now.”
Milner blinked like a cat. “Brother and sister, reunited, completed in death. It has a certain beauty.”
He must have seen something in Adam’s reaction because he said, “Of course I knew you were siblings—the second I saw you in the foyer of the police headquarters, I saw it. I see more than you could possibly imagine.”
He turned and paced across the room and, clearing glass and debris, picked up a laptop and flipped it open.
“Still working. How about that?” He thrust it under Adam’s nose. “I’ll be needing the password.”
Ruth swallowed and heard a click at the back of her throat. She knew exactly what he planned: Milner intended to go out with his biggest exhibit yet.
83
Greg Carver stared up at the shattered window Ruth Lake’s phone had come sailing out of exactly three minutes ago. Sergeant Rayburn had sent two men into the building opposite to scout out a vantage point. A sniper would be the obvious solution to the situation, but they would have to clear the area for at least a block in all directions and even then, they’d have to wait for permission from the brass: this was a hostage situation, not a terrorist threat. Listening in one of the Matrix vans, Carver had heard Ruth calmly describe the stink of turpentine on Milner’s clothing and saw again the nightmare image that had haunted his dreams: Ruth drowning in a lake of fire.
“Boss.”
Carver dragged his gaze from the broken lattice of the window and gave his attention to DC Ivey. The young detective’s expression turned his guts to iced water.
“He’s livestreaming them.” Ivey handed over his phone.
Ruth seemed to have her hands at her brother’s back. “Black is hurt,” Carver said.
Ivey nodded. “He’s bleeding.”
Carver stared at the screen; the layout was unfamiliar. “This isn’t Instagram.”
“Milner is migrating his fans over to Facebook.”
“He’s . . . what?”
“He posted a message on his Ferryman Instagram page, told his followers where to find him,” Ivey explained. “This is Milner’s Facebook page, in his own name.” He hesitated. “Boss, Facebook Live lets people post comments and questions—they’re goading him, telling him to finish it.”
“Jesus.” Carver sought out Rayburn. “Sergeant, you need to see this.”
Rayburn strode over to them, tension and subdued excitement sparking off him.
Carver tilted the mobile screen and Rayburn cupped his hands around it to reduce the glare.
“Okay . . .” His expression didn’t change, but Carver knew he would be shifting gear, moving mentally from a containment situation toward active intervention.
“We need to move in,” Carver said.
“I’ll brief the negotiator,” Rayburn said. “See if he can establish contact.”
“You did.” Carver glanced toward the smashed phone, still lying inside the police cordon. “The result is lying in the street over there. We lost audio contact.”
“Yeah, well, now we’ve got audio and visual.” Rayburn winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Sorry. Look, have a word with your forensic psych. I’d bet my next payslip Milner won’t do anything till he’s got a good audience.”
“You’d bet? That’s classy, Rayburn.”
“It’s just a turn of phrase. Come on, man—I’m on your side.”
“Then get them out of there.”
“I will.”
Carver assessed the crowd: residents and workers displaced from the buildings around them; rubberneckers and tourists and Ferryman fans, all jostling for a view. Many of them were recording the unfolding events on their mobile phones. One by one, their expressions changed, people switched from recording to staring at their screens. Word was spreading.
“Look around you. They think this is reality TV.” He wanted to slap the phones out of every ghoulish hand and grind them into dust.
“I know,” Rayburn said. “And I’ll stop the bastard. But, Greg—mate—you need to step back, let me do my job.”
He turned on his heel, and Carver watched him walk away with a sense of helplessness.
“Um, boss,” Ivey murmured, “I’ve got an idea—but it’s a bit of a long shot.”
“Right now, I’ll take anything, Tom,” Carver said, feeling more drained now than he had in three months.
84
I think I’ve chosen the right hashtag for Yin-Yang—#FerrymanFinale has a nice ring to it. It’s satisfying—no, let’s not be coy—it’s exciting to be able to declare my identity, to be recognized at last. Immediately after I post the first few pictures of Ruth and Adam, the images start trending.
A short video of the two on Instagram, followed up by the yin-yang symbol was all it took: my Facebook page has had a solid, but uninspiring, five hundred followers for a couple of years. But now . . . It’s exhilarating to see those numbers rise and rise.
85
Carver put a call through to John Hughes.
“John—”
“Ruth,” Hughes interrupted, “I know—it’s all over the Web. What can I do?”
“Ask your tech-savvy guys to grab their mobile phones, tablets, whatever,” Carver said. “I’ve got Tom Ivey with me—he thinks he can run interference on Milner’s livestreaming.”
“Put him on,” Hughes said.
Carver passed his phone to Ivey. He needed to get inside the building. Ideally, he’d like a plan of the place—but the Matrix team had precedence and Rayburn had already made it clear he was not about to share. Carver left Ivey to talk his plan through with CSM Hughes and went in search of Adam’s paranoid neighbor.
The crowd, held back at the police cordon, was growing by the minute, and Carver was beginning to lose hope when he heard raised voices, and the man came around the corner of the building, just beyond the cordon. He was struggling with an officer in uniform, trying to pull free.
“Get your bloody hands off me!” he shouted.
Carver ducked under the tape and strode to them.
“Calm down.” The cop had a good grip; he was a foot taller and must have a good four-stone advantage over the skinny man. “Now get off home, or I’ll find you a bed for the night down the nick,” the constable warned.
“Last
time I checked, this was still a free country.” The man was red in the face, furious and clearly humiliated at being held against his will.
“Problem, five-three-one-nine?” Carver said.
Using the cop’s “collar number” would prime him that Carver was police, but the constable eyed him with suspicion. “And you are?”
Carver presented his warrant card.
“Sorry, sir.”
“It’s fine. What’s the problem?”
The cop held on to the unnamed man, who for now had stopped wriggling.
“He was trying to gain access to the building next door.”
“Fascist bastard near broke my arm,” the man protested. “I wanna make a complaint.”
The constable’s face darkened and Carver spoke up before he lost patience and arrested the little nuisance.
“Thanks,” Carver said. “I’ll take it from here.”
The cop let go at the same moment the man gave a fierce jerk of his arm, nearly landing him on his face. Carver steadied him, then stepped back, hands up.
Dismissing the constable with a nod of thanks, he drew the injured party to one side. “Why were you trying to get inside that building?” Carver asked.
“What’s it to you?” The man glared at him, his eyes red-rimmed, fingers twitching.
“D’you know another way in there?”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“What if I said we want the same thing?” Carver said, lowering his voice.
The man seemed at a loss, and Carver turned and walked back to the cordon, then raised the blue-and-white police tape, inviting the other man inside to join him.
He hesitated, then moved at a dash as if someone might stop him at the last moment. He glanced nervously over his shoulder before dipping under the tape.
Carver moved away from the crowd, turning his back to it.
“I think you’re right about the risk,” he said.
“Aw, shit.” The man rubbed his chin fiercely and his eyes bugged.
“Look,” Carver said. “I know you’re concerned about your projects, your security.”
