Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both!

by Jeremy Costello

  ‘Angelina, I heard you talking about squatters. I want to hear it.’

  ‘DCI? Don’t you like, deal with like, killings and stuff?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Like I said to that lad in there, I don’t know nothing really. All I wanted to do was give the address and have someone come and have a butcher’s. Not much to ask, is it?’

  ‘It’s not,’ York agreed.

  ‘I don’t want them to get settled. Few strange noises at night but that’s all they done.’

  ‘How long have they been there, Angelina, a week, two weeks?’

  ‘Something like that. Last time it happened I had to move. Coppers wouldn’t do nothing. That’s why I came down here.’

  The sky began to grumble again. More rain?

  ‘Inside,’ he urged, moving closer, ‘you said someone else turned up tonight. How’d you know?’

  Angelina stared at him like he was stupid. ‘How’d you reckon? I saw him.’

  York went to say something else but stopped.

  Newport waited.

  Angelina said, ‘You want me to tell you what I saw? Easy. He was going into the house when I was going out. I saw him over the fence.’

  He glanced over his shoulder. Newport was checking her watch.

  ‘Angelina…’ he pressed.

  ‘What do you want me to say? Tall, white, dark hair. And he had these cold eyes, looked right through me. Gave me a bloody chill. Handsome, though. I remember him because he looked like he’d been running, all sweaty and that. But he couldn’t have been because he was wearing jeans. No one runs in jeans, do they? Mind you he was wearing a sweater. This bulky green thing with a hood.’

  22

  Clocks had ticked past midnight. Rain had stopped. Mist remained dominant. An unnatural quiet hovered over the residential street, a macabre, almost sinister noiselessness.

  No one spoke.

  From the staging area, a tactical unit parked a hundred feet from the house, York and Doug Player silently viewed a plan of the street. Player had been in charge of CO19 Special Firearms Command for as long as York could remember. He liked him. Hair severely graded down, shoulders like engine pistons, the forty-something bulldog resembled a machine; no-nonsense, no bravado, just precise and efficient. Each member of his unit was likewise. York knew some of them well. They lived for this.

  In the background, Newport and Mason donned stab-proof vests and were waiting patiently for Player to give the nod. His unit was patterned strategically along the street, obscured in the convenient mist.

  The only reason Mason was here was to take the credit if the raid was successful. If they captured the suspect it wouldn’t take long for the street to turn into a media catalogue, and Mason was a public relations guru. York had no qualms with that; credit could gladly be hers.

  Masked behind a row of conifers, the target house was still. No one had gone in or out since they’d been watching. If anybody was inside, they were keeping quiet.

  Doug Player gave the signal.

  York stood enthralled as the shadowy forms emerged from their positions in perfect unity and advanced on the terraced house. From the back, Doug Player co-ordinated via a headset, talking his guys through it. The indiscernible unit reached the house, waited, instructed to listen for internal sounds. Whispers came back over the radio: it was quiet inside the house. Through the uncurtained windows only empty and bare rooms were visible. Same thing at the rear.

  The team leader, a snappy character with cropped red hair, asked Player if they were certain this was the right house. Player assured him it was.

  ‘Okay, take it down, Williams,’ he instructed.

  From where York was standing, he heard the crunch as the Enforcer, a huge battering ram, slammed into the front door of the house, tortured hinges screeching in agony. Over the static came the muffled sounds of the unit filtering into the premises, clearing rooms. After what seemed like an eternity, Williams emerged from the front of the house and jogged towards them, eddies of mist swirling in his wake.

  ‘No one’s in there,’ he reported to Player.

  ‘Shit!’ spat York as Mason and Newport joined them. ‘You certain?’

  ‘Went over it twice, sir,’ Williams assured him. ‘But I’d recommend you get CSU down here. There is something you’re going to need to see.’

  *

  Inside the house smelt fusty, unused, but certain factors begged the contra. Footprints in the dust, an open kitchen window, drip patterns in the sink, all indicated recent activity.

  With no electricity provider to the property, Will Graham and his team had set up bright battery-powered lamps to work under. Jonathan Wheeler had arrived too, chewing on a huge baguette, and asking if another recording had been found.

  Team Leader Williams waited patiently as York milled on the landing. Finally he nodded and followed Williams into the master bedroom.

  Barely over the threshold York stopped dead, a thick bubble of saliva catching in his throat. He edged across the thin carpet, taking in the message scrawled on to the back wall. He could have sent Williams away, have Player ready another staging area, but he did nothing.

  Edging further into the dim room, he became overwhelmed with a need for a hit. Beneath his jacket he had begun to sweat. His back felt wet, his chest tight. His vision began to blur as he read the jeering sentences again, scripted neatly in red.

  ‘Blood?’ he asked Graham quietly.

  ‘Original, isn’t it.’ said Graham.

  Next into the room was Newport. She read the message. ‘What is that, Nick?’

  It was uncommon for Newport to use his first name, especially on scene, but he let it go. He backed into the opposite wall and sank to his haunches, eyes fixed on the blood.

  ‘Anyone hear me?’ Newport snapped. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’

  Nobody responded, not even Graham.

  ‘What does that crap even mean?’ she almost yelled. ‘Williams? Graham?’

  She turned on the forensics man like a tiger on prey.

  ‘Holly, I…I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want you to explain that to me!' she snarled, nodding at the blood. 'That is not your everyday occurrence, Will, even in our profession. And you!’ she turned on York’s bland expression. ‘How can you be so calm about this? I mean, what's wrong with you, you bloody robot!'

  ‘Holly…’

  ‘No, don’t try and brush me off, Nick. This is getting stupid and we’re not even twenty-four hours deep! For Christ's sake, show me some emotion, show me you give a shit!'

  York pushed himself back up, wincing as Graham took Newport’s arm in an attempt to calm her. She grabbed the forensics man by his thin wrist and spun him away, pushing his arm up against his back and driving him into the wall. ‘Don’t fucking touch me, Graham!’ she bellowed into his ear. ‘Don’t you ever fucking touch me, understand?’

  York wrapped his arm around his partner and yanked her away. ‘Outside,’ he snapped at her. ‘Now!’

  Newport’s face suddenly changed. ‘But I – ’

  ‘Did I stutter, Sergeant? Get out!’

  Knowing she was beaten, Newport glanced at the wall once more and then back at York. Then she left the room.

  Will Graham massaged his wrist. ‘My God, Nick, what was that all about?’

  ‘You alright?’

  Graham nodded meekly. He looked ready to sob, like a bullied kid.

  ‘When you have something, you let me know straight away!’

  The forensics man nodded again.

  ‘Williams, get a message to Doug. Tell him to move the unit.’

  ‘Already on it, sir.’

  ‘Straight away, Graham, okay!’ York said again and followed Williams down the stairs.

  The student or the paedophile, Nicolas, which will it be?

  Three houses down, my friend, one, two, three!

  23

  With little need for discretion now, marked police units had arriv
ed on the scene, flashing beacons painting the street in a brushstroke of primary colours. Mason was blasting out instructions to uniforms, one of which was cordoning off the area from the advancing crowd. At the tactical van he could see Doug Player talking animatedly with Williams.

  Along the street, precisely three doors down, was another For Sale sign standing lonely in the mist, guarding the soulless house. Three doors in the opposite direction, a couple was standing in their yard rubber-necking.

  He spotted Newport, still in the stab vest, perched on the bonnet of a marked unit. As he neared she looked up, hard eyes showing no remorse. He took a seat next to her, stared ahead. He sniffed and adjusted his trilby.

  ‘You going to lecture me now?’ she said at last.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then what? I’m guessing I’m off the case?’

  ‘No,’ he said again.

  She looked sideways at him. ‘You’re not making this very easy, guv.’

  ‘Neither are you, Holly. You want me to be on your side, you want me to open up to you? Then you need to reciprocate. You want to tell me what that was in there?’

  She examined the blacktop. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Then why are you asking me?’

  He ignored the question. ‘Who’s Kellie?’

  Newport’s head snapped up. She didn’t question how he knew the name. ‘Kellie is none of your business!’

  ‘You're my business. You just lost it in there, almost broke Graham’s wrist, and I think the reason you’re so fucked up is because of something going on backstage. So, want to try again?’

  Doug Player’s team was advancing on the second terrace, their method and efficiency equalling the first. An excited gasp travelled across the wave of gatherers, hoping for another Fred and Rose West scandal right on their own doorstep.

  As the door of the empty house caved inwards with a resounding crunch, Newport said, ‘I just need you to trust me on this one. Please. I need time to take care of something.’

  York paused thoughtfully. ‘One more incident like that, Holly, and you’re off this thing, do you understand? These guys rely on us to keep it tight. When we fall apart, they fall apart. So get your shit together! Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ she acknowledged. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  York nodded. 'I want you to apologise to Will, and then I want you to grab a couple of uniforms and interview the crowd.’

  ‘Interview the crowd, are you kidding?’

  ‘Sometimes these guys return to the scene to watch us stepping on each other’s toes. Gives them a hard-on, you know that. Find out where all these people live, what they’re doing here, everything.’

  She looked morosely into the gathering of spectators. ‘You’re not letting me into the house this time, are you?’

  He turned and looked her in the eye. ‘Nope.'

  She simply nodded, eyes sad.

  Then turmoil broke out by the front of the house. Both York and Newport jumped from the car and sprinted to the terrace, Player and Mason too. One of Player’s team had burst out the front door, assault rifle hanging limply around his neck, and was retching on the path, a tendril of vomit stretching from the corner of his mouth.

  York ground to halt at the gate. This kid’s violent response had nothing to do with a living suspect.

  This was all about the dead.

  *

  They found the body in the master bedroom. A young girl in her early twenties lying naked on a wooden trestle table, arms by her side, gaping hole in her chest. The rest of the house was empty as predicted. Williams and his team had taken seconds to clear it.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ Judy Mason declared. ‘Do we know who she is?’

  Nobody did.

  ‘And I suppose this means the paedophile gets off scot-free,’ she added. ‘Not the way you planned it, is it, Nick?’

  Will Graham and Jonathan Wheeler moved solemnly into the room, pushing through the small gathering of officers milling on the landing. York turned away from the body.

  ‘How do you suppose he knows your name?’ Mason pressed.

  York didn’t answer. He felt steam-rolled.

  ‘Nick,’ Mason pressed, her cold eyes penetrating. ‘I’m talking to you!’

  He turned to the Pit Bull, focused in on her chips of ice. ‘I told you this was going to happen. Didn’t I tell you it was going to get personal?’

  Mason held his stare. ‘I didn’t disagree with you.'

  ‘He knows my name, Judy. And he’s not afraid to let me know. He’s saying “Come and get me, I dare you,” because he knows he’s untouchable.' From the background, Graham and Wheeler stood eavesdropping, their faces masks of bewilderment. ‘How can he be gone from this location before we get here? How is it he knows my name? How is it that he’s one step ahead on every single level? He’s smarter than us. He knows that and he’s exploiting it.'

  ‘Almost sounds like you admire the bastard!’

  ‘Admire, no,’ he replied quietly. ‘Respect…of course.'

  Mason’s hard boyish features softened. To blink would be to miss it. ‘Okay,’ she said aloud. ‘Listen up. Will, I want you to comb every surface of both houses. Look for a hair, a fingerprint, anything. Jonathan, use Will’s team to search for another recording. If this bastard’s the cocky shit I imagine him to be, he’ll want to brag again.’

  ‘And me?’ York asked.

  ‘You take Holly and go see Charles Kilroy. He should have finished with the Fullers’ bodies by now, see if there’s anything to learn.’

  He nodded and turned to leave. ‘Wheeler, you’ll find the recording in the light fixture.’

  Fighting through the drama of badges, York found himself in the terrace’s tiny back yard. It was deserted. Closing the door behind him, he took a seat on the single garden chair. It looked like it had been placed there solely for him.

  Scratching at the crux of his arm he closed his eyes, tried to shoo away the burn. He began to shake, almost convulse as several sharp stabbing pains punctured his midriff. He doubled over, cramming a hand into his mouth to stop him from crying out.

  ‘Still playing this game, Nicky?’

  York looked up, rubbed his eyes.

  ‘You’re going to keep on punishing yourself until it kills you, you know that? And you’re still no closer to pushing that demon out. Are you?’

  Stamping down the agony, York tried to clear his blurry vision. From somewhere within, he managed to find some vocals. ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Your son may be alive, Nicky. You and I are the only ones who know that. Do you think the demon can be driven out by the truth?’

  ‘Everybody has demons,’ he muttered. ‘Theirs are just less compelling.’

  ‘Theirs are countered by an angel. The demon in you is more dangerous than the one you seek in reality because there is no black and white. There isn’t even room for shades of grey.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘There is only black.’

  York continued to pick at the scabbing needle marks. ‘When my family left me, I died inside. My faith has gone.’

  ‘Oh, listen to yourself, Nicky. Woe. Is. Me. My heart bleeds. Children believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy. Some of them even believe in God. Are you telling me you have no fight left? I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’

  ‘I just need some time,’ he insisted. ‘I just need to get my head straight.’

  ‘I know you do, Nicky. I know.’

  He turned his head at the sound of the door clicking open behind him. Newport stepped through. ‘Boss? What you doing out here? Mason wants us out of here. Kilroy’s waiting for us at the Dungeon.’

  He climbed from the seat.

  Newport glanced around the yard. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  York dismissed the question and filtered back into the house.

  24

  In the catacombs beneath the Pit, Newport grimaced at the
stench. Intolerably sanitised, the green-tiled tunnels reeked of pine disinfectant and death, like the entranceway to some recently cleansed abattoir. She hated it down there, but like every other aspect of her life she displayed a bravado that wasn’t necessarily real. York would tolerate no weakness, not now.

  She’d been itching to ask how he knew about Kellie. She thought she’d kept her affair completely severed from her working life, and her home life. His perception infuriated her.

  Next to her, York took long confident strides through the tunnel, hands dug deep into his jacket pockets. She had to struggle to keep up. He once told her that he liked it in the Dungeon, as it was nicknamed, that he could happily work down there. She’d asked him why and his reply had been simple: the dead don’t talk back.

  Pushing through the double doors she followed her partner into the Dungeon: metal slabs lined the floor, only two in use for Michael and Harriet Fuller, thin plastic sheets covering their departed modesty. The ancient brickwork of the room curved above them in graceful reinforced arches, modernisation and dim florescent tubing having done little to tone down the room’s morbid depth.

  Charles Kilroy was writing a toe-tag at his desk when he realised he wasn’t alone. He looked up, a huge beam splashed across his face.

  ‘Nicolas, my boy,’ he sang, ‘how are you? And Holly, my-oh-my, look at that face. I swear you get younger every time I see you.’

  Kilroy climbed to his feet, white lab coat covering one of his trademark ill-fitting suits, and limped towards them. Nobody quite knew why the aging pathologist walked with a limp, or how old he actually was. Nobody ever asked. Newport had him pegged for somewhere between fifty-five and a hundred and five, and yet his tidal wave of silver hair helped him maintain an almost handsome edge. He hadn’t bothered to wage war with the indifference of time, graceful was his way. But one thing that was certain about the man was his utter charm. Never married, most officers in the building believed him an inveterate womaniser. It was an easy rumour to accept.

  ‘You don’t look well, Nicolas, my boy,’ said Kilroy sporting a paternal frown. ‘Have you been sleeping?’