Hart felt a chill ripple under her skin.
‘He likes to cut, Naomi.’ Rickman looked at her, and then away, as though he could hardly bear to tell her. ‘You’ve seen the PM photographs — the torture marks on Jasmine’s body — Mrs Lindermann has identical marks.’
Hart winced, recalling the post-mortem pictures. ‘This happened while she was an addict?’
Rickman nodded. ‘He uses junkies — cuts them in exchange for drugs.’
‘Jasmine was clean,’ Hart said. ‘The PM toxicology reports—’
‘Jasmine passed the time while he waited for Mark to show up.’ He smoothed a hand over his eyes as if it would wipe away the stain of the image in his mind. ‘Jasmine was for fun.’ He dipped his head. ‘Maybe payback, too. Apparently, she refused to let him cut her, back when she was an addict.’
Hart felt like she had been punched hard in the stomach. She eased into a chair and thought about it for a few moments. ‘Is this . . .’ She tried to think of a sensitive way of saying it. ‘Was Jasmine the first?’
‘Murder victim?’ Rickman shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’ll need you to check the records — any unsolved murders of drug addicts or prostitutes.’
Hart nodded.
Rickman ran his thumb down a scar on his chin. ‘But I don’t expect you’ll find anything,’ he added. ‘Mrs Lindermann says he liked to use the same girl over and over. She said—’ He broke off, took a breath and exhaled slowly, as if trying to quell nausea. ‘She said it heightens the victim’s fear and sensitivity to pain.’
‘Bastard.’ For a moment, Hart could find no other words and they stared at each other in silence. Hart went through the facts again in her head — something didn’t quite gel. ‘You say he went to Jasmine’s house looking for Mark?’ she said.
Rickman nodded.
‘Why Carter, though?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t Maitland send his hired muscle to find Mark?’
‘I don’t think Maitland sent him — I think Carter went for his own reasons.’
The only reasons Hart could think of were evidenced in Jasmine’s brutalised body. She shook her head, frowning.
‘Snowplough acted on intelligence from one of Cass’s informants — what if that informant was Bernie Carter?’
‘I don’t get it,’ Hart said. ‘Why would he grass up Maitland?’
‘This is highly speculative,’ Rickman said. ‘But let’s say Carter has been skimming a percentage of the profits. As Maitland becomes more legit, the anomalies are easier to spot, more difficult to explain away.’
Hart thought back to their earlier discussion. ‘The outcome of the big warehouse development audit wouldn’t matter so much with Maitland out of the way,’ she said. ‘The deal might even fall through. So Carter cooperates with Operation Snowplough, informs on Maitland, but the raid is bungled—’
‘And Maitland escapes,’ Rickman finished for her. ‘The audit goes ahead, and Carter is in serious trouble.’
Hart nodded, understanding, but not entirely convinced. ‘And you think Carter planned to take over the entire operation?’
‘I doubt it. Even banged up in prison, Maitland wouldn’t sit still while his empire was stolen from under him. But if Carter played it cleverly, it might take months for Maitland to work out who had betrayed him, buying Carter the time to appropriate enough money from Maitland’s businesses to relocate with a new identity, courtesy of Customs.’
‘As you say, it’s highly speculative,’ Hart said.
‘Carter is the one player on Maitland’s team who wasn’t arrested,’ Rickman said. ‘Customs intervention?’
‘He did have a damn good alibi,’ Hart countered.
‘Fair point. But judging by Maitland’s reaction when I asked him about Carter’s disappearance, he’s certainly worried that Carter has full access to his accounts. And I’ve been looking at the dates again. Mark and Bryony were found on Thursday. I did the North West Newsbrief special on Thursday evening. Carter disappeared shortly after that. By Friday, there was a contract out on him.’
‘You think Carter ambushed Mark and took the money and drugs?’ Hart was still struggling to square the image of an accountant torturing young girls. ‘If you’re right, that would make him a triple murderer.’
‘The money from the drugs raid is gone,’ Rickman said. ‘And it would give him some start-up cash, if he needed to disappear fast.’
‘But why leave Mark and Bryony where they were sure to be discovered?’ Hart asked.
‘The coach house looked abandoned,’ Rickman said. ‘Carter couldn’t know the council had surveyors in — he must have thought it was good for a week, at least, giving him time to sort out the mess he found himself in, and arrange for his own disappearance. So, while Mark’s body lay undiscovered, Maitland would blame Mark for the theft, think he’d got clean away. But when the bodies were found—’
‘And with no sign of the drugs or the cash,’ Hart added.
‘The spotlight was off Mark Davis and back on the rest of Maitland’s crew,’ Rickman continued. ‘Not that there was much of a field to narrow down — most of Maitland’s men are either in police custody or in prison awaiting trial.’ He fell silent a moment, and she again had the impression that he found what he was about to say difficult. ‘It’s my guess Maitland would know all about Bernie Carter’s little hobby.’
‘You think Maitland protected Carter, knowing what he’d done to Jasmine?’ Queasy though it made her feel, Hart saw it would make sense in Maitland’s world — his priority was to maintain control over his operations, and you didn’t do that by going to the police. ‘D’you want to call a briefing, boss?’ she asked.
Rickman shook his head. ‘Carter’s gone to ground. I’ll talk to surveillance, tell them to prioritise Carter.’
He hesitated.
‘Sir?’
He looked past her to the door. Hart took the hint and closed it.
‘Look,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I don’t know how involved Dwight’s team is in all of this, but I want people around me I can trust. I’ve already called Foster — he’s on his way in — but I couldn’t reach Tunstall.’
‘He mentioned something about a rugby match,’ she said, feeling a glow of pleasure at Rickman’s trust in her. ‘I’ll call him.’
Rickman fell into a reverie, raking his fingers through his hair, and his face darkened with thoughts she could only guess at.
‘So, what do we do next?’ she asked.
The intrusion was deliberate and brusque and, surprised into an immediate response, Rickman’s anger finally surfaced. ‘We find the sick fuck and put him away.’
‘Finding him will be down to the surveillance teams.’ He turned a glittering eye on her. ‘I mean, won’t it, sir?’
‘Maybe we can hurry things along a bit,’ Rickman said, with grim humour. ‘You and I are going to pay Mrs Carter a visit — see if we can rattle her enough to make a mistake.’
Hart began to feel a little better. Any action would be an improvement on sitting around waiting for something to happen.
‘Would Customs know where he is?’
‘I’ll talk to Superintendent Maynard, see if he can pull any strings. Any immunity Carter’s negotiated would be on the drugs charges. We’re talking murder. In the meantime, I want an alert sent out to ports and airports as well.’
Their eye contact was brief and troubled. Neither one of them wanted to think too deeply about the possibility that Carter had already fled the country.
Chapter 44
Mark Davis had stolen the two sports bags thinking he was stealing two million pounds’ worth of redemption. When he found Jasmine murdered, he’d known he was marked for pain and death, but he’d thought that by leaving Bryony with Ed and Hilary Shepherd, he’d found a way at least to keep her safe — had imagined himself home free when he reached the magic safety of Black Wood.
But even here the darkness seems to crowd in on him and every bush seems to quiver with imminent
threat. He falls, sprawling full-length in the soft mulch of a hundred winters’ leaf fall. Startled awake, the baby lets out a scream, followed by a series of hiccupping cries. Mark scrambles to his knees, soothing the distressed child. If she’s quiet, he’ll find a way through the woods to the big house, flitting from shadow to shadow unseen. But Bryony won’t stop crying.
Another footfall. Still on his knees, Mark gathers Bryony up, holding her close, and takes cover under a rhododendron bush. He sees leather shoes. Maitland’s hard men wear boots or trainers, but these are expensive loafers, gleaming in the twilight. A hand reaches down and drags him into the open. He looks quickly into the man’s face, hardly daring to hope. The face is boyish, despite its forty years, the hard lines of his jawbone softened by business dinners and a life spent poring over account books and computers. He wears a single-breasted jacket over a polo shirt — Bernie Carter’s version of casual wear.
‘Carter?’
‘That’s Mister Carter to you.’
Mister? Bernie Carter was lucky if the men called him by his surname — mostly he got Bernie, or ‘Bernie the Books’.
Carter stares down at Mark and the baby, an amused expression on his bland face. ‘Who did you expect?’
A killer, a hired assassin, a man with a gun and a mission. ‘I — I don’t know. I—’ Mark’s relief is so great that he almost laughs out loud. Bernie the Books never harmed no one.
He begins to get up, but Carter stops him with a curt, ‘Stay there.’
Mark stares into the creeping shadows, seeing movements, threats in every pocket of darkness. ‘You alone?’
Carter smiles, spreading his hands. ‘Just you ’n’ me, Marky.’
Another wave of relief washes over him. There is hope. Mr Carter is a reasonable man. Maybe if I give the stuff back . . . Maybe what? A second chance? There is no second chance. Not for me. Not with Mr Maitland. But Bryony — she deserves a chance.
‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ he says. ‘I’ll go back with you. I just need to see to the baby.’
‘You do that,’ Carter says, with feeling. ‘Its bawling is setting my teeth on edge.’
Mark unwraps the blanket, soothing and crooning while he checks for injuries.
‘Shut it up, will you?’ There’s an edge to Carter’s voice now.
‘I know we need to talk, Mr Carter.’ He’s careful to use the accountant’s title. ‘But see that house?’
Carter glances lazily in the direction of the children’s home. The house is a broken silhouette through the trees. Some of the windows are open, despite the chill.
‘I’ll just take her . . .’ To Ed and Hilary. To safety, he wants to say, but for the first time in his short life, he sees the likely consequences of his actions and makes the decision not to name the Shepherds.
‘I’ll just leave her on the doorstep, yeah?’
‘D’you think this is a fairy tale, Mark?’ Carter walks around him, like he’s inspecting a statue. The constant motion makes Mark feel sick. ‘You want to leave Little Orphan Annie here on the doorstep of the foundlings’ home and one day Daddy Warbucks will come for her and she’ll live happily ever after?’
Mark feels a fresh jolt of alarm. ‘She never hurt nobody, Mr Carter,’ he says. He turns the baby’s face in towards his body, covering her head, as if this will make her less visible, less vulnerable. ‘I just want her to be safe.’ His voice catches on this last word and suddenly he’s biting back tears.
‘Nobody’s ever really safe, Mark. We just fool ourselves that we are, so that we can function in a perilous world. But doors can be broken down, windows can be smashed, and the human body is incredibly fragile.’
The big words confuse Mark, but he understands enough — Bryony is not safe. His daughter, the precious life he swore to protect, is in danger.
Run! Just fucking run! But he is exhausted, sick with hunger and drugs and fear. The weakness in his limbs is beyond the power of his will to command. Carter continues pacing, round and round, till it seems like the whole world is spinning and it’s too late to get off — the worst has already happened.
‘Like you said, Mr Carter. It’s just you and me.’ Mark hears the wheedling tone in his voice and hopes that Carter will overlook it. ‘I’ll tell you where the money is. You can have it — all of it — it’s yours. Take it and walk away. Blame me. Say you couldn’t find us.’
‘Are you trying to bribe me, Mark?’ Carter clicks his tongue against the side of his cheek. ‘Mr Maitland will not be pleased.’ He stops circling. ‘On your feet.’
Bryony’s cries are muffled by the blanket, but Mark feels the baby’s skin hot through the fabric of his shirt. He struggles to his feet. If he goes with Carter, he’s as good as dead. Who will take care of Bryony? Who will care for her?
He shifts Bryony’s weight to his left arm and staggers a little, waiting for Carter to come closer. The accountant moves in, ready to shove him forward, but Mark swings back hard with his right elbow, connecting with Carter’s paunch, and he goes down with a soft ‘Oof.’ Adrenaline and sheer bloody fury carry Mark forward, and he jogs blindly towards the house.
But Carter is faster than he thought. He’s on his feet and after him, running, overtaking, turning to face his quarry. Something glints, then Mark feels heat — a searing burn in the flesh of his cheek. He puts a hand to his face and feels blood trickle between his fingers.
‘Flesh wound,’ Carter says. ‘It’ll hurt like a bastard, but it won’t kill you.’ He takes Mark by the arm and leads him back into the woods. ‘Not yet.’
* * *
The coach house is darker than he remembers — the shrubs around the building seem to crowd in on it, sucking in the light. Carter takes a torch from his jacket pocket and gestures for Mark to go ahead. The door is shut, a steel plate protecting the old wood, but the padlock swings loose on the hasp, and Mark pushes the door open with his fingertips, his heart hammering in his chest. The hallway stinks of piss, his face is burning from the cut and he’s shaking from the incipient cravings of withdrawal and outright terror.
This was their haven as boys, their smoking den, where they would swig cider and talk big, swap dirty stories — Mark always on the edge of the group, there under sufferance. He had always liked dark places, would seek them out as a child. When his stepfather first came into their home, Mark hid under the bed, climbed into wardrobes, burrowed under bedding in a childish attempt to remain invisible.
Later, he’d discovered the school basement, and was comforted by the dark, the secret rush of water in the heating pipes, the close, dusty warmth. Mark didn’t understand that these places represented a return to the dark protective hush of the womb. But he did know that it wasn’t the dark that was scary — it was people.
‘Down there,’ Carter says.
Mark hesitates at the door to the basement. ‘Let me leave the baby up here.’ He has to raise his voice over her screams. ‘We can talk better that way.’
Carter shines the torch beam in his face. ‘Move.’
The steps creak dangerously under his weight. He feels something shift and the rafters crack, releasing a puff of plaster dust and a whispering sift of sandy particles. Mark protects the baby’s head. He doesn’t want to go down there — it doesn’t smell right, not like when they were kids. Then it smelled of cigarettes and cider, but now, as he descends into the darkness, it reeks of damp and decay. Another creak and he grabs the rail with his free hand, his heart racing. He can’t take Bryony into this terrible place.
‘It wasn’t planned, Mr Carter, I swear.’ Bonehead, admitting it straight off. He tries again, modifying the story. ‘I was only keeping it till I could get it back to Mr Maitland. It’s safe — I haven’t spent none.’
‘First you say, “It wasn’t planned,” then, “I didn’t steal it.”’ Carter laughs. ‘You’re burbling, son.’
He lashes out, rapping Mark’s knuckles hard, and the pain and shock makes him he let go of the rail, falling the last two st
eps onto his back. Bryony’s cries ratchet up a notch.
‘That fucking row is giving me a headache.’ Carter’s tone is midway between an exclamation and a threat.
Mark tries to shush the child, but she won’t be consoled.
‘Do something about it or I will.’ Carter is standing on the bottom step, the flashlight in one hand, the knife in the other. It’s a switchblade, and he holds it comfortably, as though he’s used to handling it.
Mark stares wide-eyed into the dark, looking for escape, though there is none. A short distance away an empty cider bottle gleams in the beam of the torch, the neck of the bottle pointing towards him. Truth or Dare? Mark kneels, jiggling the baby, feeling desperate and inadequate. Grab the bottle — use it! The voice he hears in his head is Jasmine’s. Get Bryony out of here, no matter what it takes.
‘Ah-ah,’ Carter admonishes, as though he’s read Mark’s thoughts. He places the torch on the stair post and steps down onto the basement floor, casually kicking the bottle yards out of reach into a far corner. ‘Now, what did I just say?’
‘She won’t stop, Mr Carter — she’s frightened.’
Carter darts forward and Mark tightens his grip on the baby, but instead of grabbing Bryony, the accountant rummages through Mark’s pockets. ‘Hah!’ He steps back and opens his fist. One of Mark’s foil wraps sits in the palm of his hand. Carter uses the knife to unfold it as he speaks.
‘D’you know any history, Mark?’
Mark feels a stab of fear that is as much a throwback to the humiliation of his schooldays as it is to Carter’s grossly out-of-character behaviour.
‘History?’ he echoes.
‘Kings and queens, civil war, the Romans — all that,’ Carter explains.
‘I wasn’t much good at school, Mr Carter,’ Mark says.
Carter snorts. ‘’Course you weren’t.’ He opens the last fold of foil and Mark sees a thin line of white powder. He trembles like a dog straining on a leash, his entire body aching for it.
‘In the eighteenth century, opium was called the “poor child’s nurse”.’ Mark can barely hear him, he’s so intent on the mound of sweet release in Carter’s hand.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 32
