Flicking the roach into the nearest drain and hitching up his ill-fitting jeans, he tried to disregard the silhouette and headed into the dark tangle of trees.
He hated this park. It was a breeding ground for cottagers, muggers, dealers. He didn’t belong here; he was not a predator, not anymore. Since his release from Frankland he had adopted a different lifestyle. The Board had deemed him fit for society but there was no way to turn off the urges. It wasn’t a bloody tap. All those fucking suits thought they knew the score. Truth was they didn’t have the first fucking idea. His current solution was working well. He had developed a strict “look but don’t touch” policy, which was all good, but it didn’t tick all the boxes. He still needed to purchase new material a couple of times a month, and for that he needed his trader.
He considered sparking another blunt. The extra buzz would help pass the minutes. Last time the bloody arsehole had kept him waiting for over an hour.
Unexpectedly his discomfort returned. As the first few drops of rain began falling, as he headed deeper into the bowels of the mist, as he searched in vain for the clearing, he realised he was lost.
He steadied himself and tried to pick a direction, but stopped dead, heart bouncing double-step. Standing ten yards away was a motionless figure, thin grey tentacles of mist swirling like vapour around him.
Panic spread slowly through Derek like syrup. Backing stealthily away from the apparition, he could feel his fists clenching, his arsehole too. In one fluid motion he turned his back on the figure. And ran.
*
The smell out the back of the club was horrendous, but Janine Bluestock needed a minute to herself. She pushed away from the wall, distancing herself from the wheelie bins. They reeked of stale beer and pee.
Pulling down her little dress against the evening damp, she fished in her purse for a cigarette and sparked one up, savouring the first drag. It helped calm her.
She was so angry with Andrew. He just didn’t get it. They’d only been seeing each other for a year and already he was suggesting things like moving in together and engagement. Was he crazy? She was only twenty-three, he a year older, and they both had their whole lives ahead of them. They hadn’t even completed their Masters' yet. It was way too early to consider committing to anything that drastic.
Wasn’t it?
Tonight they were out with Jay and Charley. It was supposed to be a double date of sorts, but Andrew had pulled her aside after only a couple of drinks and told her he loved her. They’d said it to each other before, no biggie. This time, though, she hadn’t said it back. Janine was old school. Her mother had always taught her that to say those three words when you didn’t mean them was sacrilege, unforgivable. The problem was, she didn’t know if she could say them to Andrew with conviction anymore. In the last couple of months that spark seemed to have extinguished. She’d asked herself if it had just been infatuation, mere animal lust. Anything was possible.
In the early days, she’d been mildly obsessed with Andrew, his puppy dog eyes, his big shoulders. But although the sex was still good, she wouldn’t call it “making love”, not in a classic sense. To her it had always been “fucking”.
Listening to the dull whumping beat coming from inside, she took one final drag on the cigarette and flicked it to the ground. She didn’t feel like going back in but the thought of a couple of tequila slammers sounded good – anything to wash away the nostalgia.
A slow rumble of thunder rolled across the London sky. She shivered, hugged herself. Rain was coming.
The beat growing louder, the door swung open. Andrew stood in the doorframe eying the surroundings in disgust. ‘There you are, babe. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Suddenly she needed another cigarette. ‘I wanted some air.’
‘You’ve gone for the fresh variety, I noticed.’
‘Better than in there. What are you doing out here, Andrew?’
Pushing the fire door closed, he stepped into the small courtyard. ‘Just wondered where you were. I lost you after you hit the dance floor.’
She didn’t respond. Instead she plunged back into her purse in search of another cigarette.
Andrew moved closer and placed his hands on her hips. ‘Babe, what’s going on? You haven’t seemed yourself all night.’
She cursed as her search for nicotine became futile. In the name of cutting down she’d only brought a couple out. When they were gone they were gone. And they were gone.
‘Janine?’ he pressed, his voice almost pleading. ‘You’re freaking me out here.’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need a cigarette and I’m out. Quitting's overrated.’
Andrew took a step back.
She didn’t know what to tell him. Instead she tried to compose herself, looked him up and down. He was wearing the grey sweater she’d bought him a couple of months ago. Right at that moment she hated the very sight of it. She hated the very sight of Andrew.
He caught her by the arm. ‘Jan, are we going to talk–’
‘I don’t think I love you anymore,’ she blurted looking into his big brown eyes. She began to add more. Thought better of it. Charley had said earlier that night that alcohol had a way of loosening the tongue. And grass is green and the sky is blue.
Andrew looked amused. Then he realised she wasn’t joking. ‘You…you…what?’
‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this anymore, Andrew. All I want to do is concentrate on my studies, my career, and all you seem to want is me. You’re living in your own little world. I’m not ready to move in with you, I’m not ready to be the happy little housewife you seem to have me down for, and I’m sure as hell not ready to be in love.’
Andrew's face contorted into a twist of shock. He took another step back. ‘You don’t mean that. You can’t!’
‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I just need to be away from you for a while.’
‘A while? What does that even mean, babe? Is this a break? Or are you ending it?’
‘I just need to be away from you for a while,’ she said again. ‘Take my keys, go back to my place, I’ll stay at Charley’s tonight.’
‘I don’t understand this, Jan –’
‘I’ll be back around midday. I need you and all your stuff gone by the time I get home. Please, Andrew, just do this for me.’
She moved for the door leaving Andrew standing. He looked like a lost little boy, surrounded by garbage and stale odours. As she reached the door she heard him call over the music. ‘I won’t let it be over, Jan. I love you. I’m not going to give up on us that easily.’
She pulled open the fire door and dissolved into the music.
*
Derek Holliday tried not to look over his shoulder as he ran blindly into the mist. He was tripping out, he thought, had to be. But the thick fog was no illusion, nor were the slapping footsteps in his wake.
Eyes wide, he ran in a wild panic. Someone had found out about him, there was no other explanation. Someone had joined the dots and discovered he liked little girls. Like-liked little girls! But they didn’t know everything, how could they? He was a changed man now.
Holding the jeans up around his belly, he dashed sightlessly through the huge park. Trees came at him from the mist, but there was no way to tell if he’d passed them before.
If he could just keep moving…
The quick footsteps in pursuit were gaining on him, he was certain.
The damp grass underfoot his enemy, he slid to his knees and slumped onto his front, the breath knocked from him in a sludgy whump. He rolled onto his back and gulped at the air, lungs emptied. He needed to climb back to his feet, keep moving, but there was no use. He was done.
From the mist his pursuer emerged. Derek closed his eyes tight and tensed, arms outstretched pathetically.
‘Derek,’ he heard the voice say. ‘That you?’
He chanced one eye open. Standing above him in his trademark beanie was the trader.
‘Donovan?’ he gasped. ‘Oh,
thank the fucking Lord.’
‘The fuck you doing in the mud, Holliday?’
Derek climbed to his feet and brushed himself down.
‘You fuckin paedos are all alike,' spat Donovan. 'Sickos, the lot of you. Got me chasing you through the park like some bastard relay! What the hell was that about?’
‘You got the stuff?’ Derek managed to splutter.
Donovan held out two blank VHS boxes. Holliday snatched them and turned to leave, relief washing over him.
‘Hey, sicko!’ Donovan called. ‘You still owe me for last month’s stuff. Don’t make me come to your house.’
The park responded with silence. Derek Holliday was gone.
*
Muscling her way to the bar Janine Bluestock caught the attention of one of the bartenders, the best looking one in an open collar black shirt and dark tan, small pendant dangling from his chain. She wanted to flirt with him, take on an instant rebound, but he was dashing around, too busy to stop and talk with her. Instead she ordered three large tequila slammers and hammered one back.
‘One of those for me?’ a voice at her back yelled above the music.
She turned to find Charley’s grinning face beaming back at her. She and Charley had been friends since forever, and she loved her like a sister. With her long legs, peroxide locks and fake double D’s paid for by one sugar daddy or another, the boys loved her too. Janine always felt invisible by comparison.
‘Go for it,’ she said, handing Charley one of the slammers.
They clinked glasses and tossed them back in a wince. ‘So listen,’ said Charley. ‘Where’s Andy? Jay’s bounced. Pussy’s got a lecture in the morning.’
Janine shrugged, unknowing.
‘Well that’s good, cos I spy a couple of hotties ripe for the picking. Check it out, end of the bar.’
Janine leaned forward. Two guys waiting to be served looked over, faces buried beneath cheesy grins and squinty eyes.
‘Get some more drinks, okay?’ said Charley. ‘I’ll go put in some groundwork.’
Charley disappeared into the masses only to reappear between the two guys, all fluttering eyelids and fake giggles.
Janine didn’t order drinks, didn’t hang around. Instead she pushed herself away from the bar and made for the exit. Charley wouldn’t be mad. She probably wouldn’t even notice she’d gone until later in the dorm room when she discovered her in bed.
Outside, Janine found herself enveloped by the loitering fog which had descended over Clapham High Street, the muted whumping fading behind her. She began to shiver, her tiny dress doing little to ward off the chill. It started to rain.
Stepping off the main drag she took the deserted Nelson’s row. The sooner she was out of the rain the better, and cutting across to Park Road would shave ten sodden minutes off the walk.
In her high heels, she clicked hurriedly along the empty street. For the love of God she needed a cigarette. If there was ever a night to break the regime it was tonight.
As she reached the end of the street a car drew slowly to the curb and stopped ten yards in front of her. No one got out. She paused, suddenly dubious. There was no light on the roof, no licence over the plate. It was not a taxi.
Edging forwards, she moved closer to the fence, eyes trained on the mysterious car. Five yards away, four…
It might just be somebody after directions, but something about it felt wrong. She couldn’t explain why.
Three yards, two…
The passenger door burst open and a figure charged her. Instinct taking over, she turned to bolt but she barely made it off the spot. Strong hands caught her from behind and pulled her roughly backwards. She flailed her arms, kicking, punching. She tried to scream but a large hand gripped her mouth, cut off her vocals. A second arm tightened around her throat, lifting her from the ground.
Consciousness began slipping; she could feel the darkness creeping in. Where the hell was everybody? Please, this couldn’t be happening.
The last thing she felt was the hot tears running down her face. Then she faded away, the misty street swallowed up.
21
Standing beneath a flickering tube York dropped the receiver. As the strange woman’s voice reverberated he tried to piece together the five syllables:
Your son is alive…
He’d asked her to repeat it.
There had been no mistake.
Back to the wall he slid to his haunches and removed his hat, running moist fingers through his thick hair. ‘What’re you looking at!’ he snapped at the curious desk clerk. The young officer turned coyly away and went back to the raving woman going on about squatters next door. A giant of a man with what looked like a vandalized pot plant under his arm had joined the queue.
York picked himself gingerly up and left the reception desk circus. Heading straight through the Pit, he avoided eye contact with everyone and shut himself in his office with the familiar stuffy odour. He stood with his back to the door and took several deep breaths. What the fuck was going on? For a man whose emotions changed like the weather, the most frequent being rain, he couldn’t quite dispel the tingling in his gut. Was this what sunshine felt like? Could it be true, could Frasier be alive?
In front of him were the two facing armchairs, battered and scuffed. He’d bought them for his living room, but they’d never made it further than his office.
Falling into the left-hand chair, he stared solemnly at the empty one, the bustle outside the door stepping into his silence. It took him a moment to shut it out.
‘Here we are again,’ he said aloud.
Slowly he moved into the opposite chair. ‘Yeah,’ he muted. ‘Been a while. You missed me?’
He moved back to the first chair, didn’t answer.
He knew if anybody ever caught him using the chairs this way, effectively talking to himself, there’d be questions. Some coppers already thought he was nuts.
Come on, Nick, let the nice men take you away...
‘I don’t get it,’ he said at last. ‘It just doesn’t click.’
‘What’s to get?’ he questioned himself, moving into the opposite chair.
He hopped instantly back. ‘Why send a messenger to pick up the package when he could’ve just as easily come himself? It doesn’t add up.'
'He likes playing games, we know that. Coming himself would have made him feel powerful, even more in control than he does already. And he knew we couldn’t chance nicking him. If he wasn't our guy, both targets would have been murdered. That would have been considered tampering, wouldn't it?’
He moved quickly back to the opposing chair. ‘Whichever it is, he didn’t want to be followed. He made a break for it.’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘But where was he going? This guy is organised, calculated. He’s somebody’s next door neighbour, somebody’s friend, probably charismatic. Most likely has a job, colleagues that have no idea who he is.’
‘Married?’
‘Don’t know, possibly.’
‘So how do you keep that kind of thing hidden from relatives?’
‘You don’t, it’s impossible.’
‘So he’s not doing all this from home. To keep it hidden from his family, he’d have to have a separate life away from home, one that his significant others know nothing about.’
Pause.
Switching back and forth in the chairs was making him dizzy. ‘Agreed. I’d say he has a lair away from home, some address he can give his messenger. An empty house. That way he can come and go and no one will question him. Probably turns up dressed like a maintenance man, or something.’
‘That doesn’t make sense!’ he mused. ‘We’re determining that he has a lair away from home, somewhere away from watchful eyes. But somebody’s got to notice. If the messenger is a whole other person, then two bodies are coming and going? Come on, that’s got to raise question marks.’
He rose slowly from his seat. Something was nagging him. ‘You’re right, somebody would definitely se
e him. He’s a stranger in a strange street, an unknown. Surely someone coming and going from an empty house would raise some suspicion, no matter how much you dressed it up.’
Moving back to the first seat, he clammed up, bugged to death.
Then it came.
Springing from his seat, he bolted from his office and back through the Pit, wary eyes tracking his frantic path. Without question, Newport sprang from her chair and pursued.
Back in the foyer the giant with botany issues had reached the head of the queue. Aside from the clerk, the reception was deserted.
‘The squatter woman,’ yelled York frantically, ‘where did she go?’
Following the clerk’s outstretched finger, York sprinted for the door and out into the car park, Newport hot on his heels.
‘Guv, what’s going on?’ he heard his partner say.
He spotted the woman at the end of the damp lot, heading out towards the road. She was on foot.
‘Hey!’ he called out.
The woman stopped and turned, frowning.
‘Hold up.’
She suddenly looked wary.
‘What’s your name, Miss?’ York asked.
‘What's yours?’ she countered.
‘Oh, of course,’ he muttered breathlessly. He pulled out his wallet and flashed his credentials. ‘DCI Nicolas York.’
‘Ah, the rude one.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You the one who told me to zip it?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Your name?’
‘Angelina,’ said the woman sceptically. ‘What’s it to you?’
Newport loitered in the background waiting for development.
‘You want to come back inside, Angelina? I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘What for?’
‘I want to talk to you. Can’t let a charming personality like yours come into my life and not take advantage.’
‘Oh that’s a shame, you sarcastic prick,’ smiled Angelina. ‘For a minute there I thought you gave a shit.’
Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both! Page 12
