by Sarah Flint
His face was getting redder and redder. He looked as if he was about to burst with rage. Instead he took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.
‘No comment,’ his voice was controlled and icy. She paused deliberately. Justin had sat up straight now, his chair pulled in to the table; his hands placed palms down on the surface in front of him.
‘Well did you?’ she said calmly, looking straight at him. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
He stared back at her intently, but it was his eyes, rather than hers, that were the first to shift focus. He smiled then as if he suddenly understood, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
‘Read my statement,’ he said calmly now.
‘I did. You only mentioned you didn’t know her location now, not what happened the day she disappeared. So I’m asking you if you know what happened at the time of her disappearance.’
‘No comment.’
‘We will be looking further into your relationship with Julie. You’ve lied to us once before already, are you sure you don’t want to tell us all about it now before we can prove that you’ve lied again?’
‘No comment.’
‘Because I’m in no doubt that there is more to your relationship than you’re telling us.’
‘No comment.’
‘And I’m sure you’ll agree that if you’re found to be lying again to us, we’d be totally within our right to assume that you’re trying to hide something.’ She accentuated the word lying. She’d managed to repeat it several times just to make the point.
Justin stayed quiet.
‘So is there anything else you want to say before we conclude this interview?’
He didn’t say a word.
‘OK then. Interview terminated.’
Hunter reached over and pressed the switch to stop the recording. With a flourish, he pulled the tapes out from the machine and sealed them.
‘Until the next time, Justin. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again very soon.’
Chapter 19
The new pit was finished. It was ready and waiting and the trap was set. He couldn’t wait to pick up his victims. It wouldn’t be long. They were primed and ready. He’d known Helena a long while ago but recently he’d seen her and her daughter in the paper, smiling proudly, showing off the ballet medals the darling daughter had won in the national show. Spoilt little bitch! She was obviously the apple of her mother’s eye, after all she’d been included in The Times cultural section.
So fucking what! Daisy McPherson could dance. She could spin around and stand on tiptoes. Why did that make her better than her sister? Why was her older sister, Abigail, forced to watch, time and time again, as her younger sibling got all the praise? No doubt she was told she should be proud: that Daisy was doing it for the family, that the family should support her. Bullshit, total and utter bullshit. Daisy was obviously Mummy’s favourite and Abigail would know it. Deep, deep within her core, she would know she wasn’t good enough, she never would be. She would always be in her younger sister’s shadow.
He knew what it was like. He felt Abigail’s pain. He hated Daisy McPherson and her snivelling, tedious, dreary mother, Helena, for what they were doing to Abigail. Very soon though Abi would be number one. Very soon!
He nudged the seat upright in his hired BMW and pulled his sunglasses into place. They were barely needed as the car already had tints. The fake driving licence which he had used to hire the car was safely in his pocket. Helena and Daisy McPherson would be climbing into his car soon to be driven to their deaths. He shuddered with the thrill of the chase. Didn’t he love this bit the best? It was so fucking good!
Taking the side roads, he gradually made his way to the McPherson house. As he neared, he pulled on his chauffeur’s cap, straightened his tie and adjusted his black leather gloves. He was well disguised today, gold tooth, brown wig that was held in place by the cap, fake scar that ran from the centre of his left cheek down to the corner of his mouth, not too vivid but evident enough to be remembered, sunglasses. He’d thought carefully about the disguise and he was pleased. All of the additions were intended to be memorable, to divert attention away from his normal features but easily removable when the job was done. Even the chauffeur’s uniform was a triumph; Helena McPherson and Daisy would be so stupidly pleased that he looked so official. It was so faultlessly simple. It would increase their feelings of self-importance, when really they were nothing.
They were standing on the door-step when he pulled up outside and he heard Daisy’s squeal of pleasure and saw Abigail’s sad, jealous face as she stood next to her. Both girls ran towards the car.
‘You can’t come with us today,’ Daisy scoffed at her sister.
He hated her the moment she said those words.
‘We’ve got time for a quick ride around the block,’ he found himself saying to Abigail. ‘Here, sit in the front next to me.’
Helena McPherson bustled towards them with a large bag before dropping it in the boot and squeezing in next to Daisy, who was slumped malevolently in the rear. Abigail sat up tall in her seat in the passenger side. He drove around the block slowly, carefully, taking sideways glances at Abigail, recognizing the conflict in her eyes. She loved her sister but she hated her too. She wanted her to do well, but not at her expense. Why couldn’t she do well too? It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t hide her delight at this small gesture though and her eyes shone when she smiled at him. And he wondered whether that was how he had looked when he had made his own mummy smile, pleased and proud, happy for once in his life. He nearly missed the house, so carried away in his own memories was he, and if Daisy hadn’t cried out he would have kept going.
‘We’re back now. She has to go in. She’s not allowed to come with us today.’
He broke hard at those words, stopping suddenly, but the temptation to take Abigail with them nearly overcame him. Wouldn’t it be nice to show her what he was about to do to snooty Daisy and her pathetic mummy? Maybe Abi would enjoy the show, just as he had enjoyed watching his own brother die; but what would he do with her then if she saw? He would have to kill her too or keep her locked away, and she was too nice to die or be caged. It was risky enough knowing that she had seen him. She’d seen the scar; he’d caught a glimpse of her staring at it through the corner of his eye. She’d no doubt remember his counterfeit features, but would she recall the face underneath? He had to hope she wouldn’t. No! He’d accepted the risk. She deserved some time being indulged by her father. She deserved to live.
He got out and opened her door and she jumped out, leaning over spontaneously to kiss him quickly on the scar-free cheek and say ‘thank you’ and then she was gone, scampering back up the garden path into her house without a word to her mother or sister.
He missed her immediately. She was nice, ordinary, not spoiled like her little sister. What he was about to do would make things better for her. What he was about to do would make her number one.
Daisy was squealing again now, once more centre of attention. He glanced into the mirror and saw her pretty, doll-like face and it made him angry. He could see only ugliness and pride. He watched her crane her head up to see out of the window better and noted the way her neck stretched and twisted, so long, so graceful, so easy to slit open. It would be a pleasure after the way she’d treated Abigail.
Helena could not take her hands off Daisy; brushing her hair, adjusting her clothing, pampering and preening.
Mother and daughter were so wrapped up in their own world they didn’t even realize they were going in entirely the wrong direction and he wouldn’t say a word until he’d got them to the old deserted hospital. It didn’t take long. As he turned into the site, Helena’s head popped up, staring out the windscreen from the back seat. She had been so busy organizing her daughter she’d barely said a single word to him.
‘Where are we?’
‘Never you mind where we are. Just shut the fuck up and do what I say.’ His voice was gruff and hard.
; He saw the expression on her face change from mild interest at where they were, to sheer terror as it dawned on her what was happening. He loved watching that. He loved that look of terror so very fucking much. It was what made him come back day after day after day to see that same expression, to watch it change again from terror to hopelessness as their favourite offspring gradually decomposed next to them.
He watched her hand go to the door and slowly pull at the handle, but the door remained shut. Did she think he would be stupid enough not to put the child locks on? He was in control, after all. They would leave the car when he said they could; and not before.
He couldn’t help the grin from spreading across his face.
‘Give me your bags and your phones,’ he said quietly but firmly. ‘And no more messing.’ He pulled out the hunting knife he’d placed carefully in his door pocket. The blade was so sharp that even the slightest brush against skin would cause the blood to flow.
‘Where are you taking us?’ her voice was shaking with fear. Even Daisy was silent now.
‘You’ll see. It’s lovely. So quiet. No one will ever know we’re here.’
He pulled the bags across to the passenger side and went through them, swiftly removing the mobile phones and switching them off. He didn’t trust her though. He would be watching her every move. He lifted the knife up so that she could clearly see it.
‘Don’t do anything stupid now, will you? Or Daisy will pay.’
The message was simple and he could see she understood. What she didn’t realize was that Daisy was going to pay, whether she behaved or not. In fact, he couldn’t wait for the moment when he would shut her precious daughter up for good.
The entrance to the deserted hospital had long since fallen into disrepair, but he’d put his own padlock on the new security gates. It took only a few seconds to remove the padlock and open the gate, but even so, he took his knife and keys, locking them in as he did so and leaving the handle of the knife in full view. They always did as they were told. The threat was too great to ignore.
The small country hospital with just a few red-brick wards was surrounded by the most beautiful woodland. He had been born there, many years before when the hospital had been fully operational, serving the immediate community that was clustered around it. He had gone there alone as a boy for the broken wrist he’d sustained falling from a tree and the jagged cut across his chin where he’d been thrown from his bike. His mother had refused to accompany him, even though he’d wanted her there, more than anything. She had never been there for him; even when he was in pain. Never. His body had been mended, but his spirit further damaged; each absence a nail in her coffin.
He tore his thoughts away from his mother to the job in hand.
The trees were still, motionless, the calm before a storm. They hardly dared move, as if waiting for the impending slaughter. He grinned at the thought, navigating carefully through the secluded, overgrown avenues.
No one overlooked the hospital. No one cared about it anymore. It had been left for years now to deteriorate and die. Only he came back, wanting to relive his memories. Only he walked the woodland trails at the rear of the buildings. He had never seen anyone else within the confines of the grounds. Everyone else heeded the asbestos warning notices and security signs to keep out. Children, too, kept away, frightened by tales of ghosts of the dead. The only dead there now were his own; still he was glad of the tales to keep out prying eyes.
He was driving slowly through the grounds now. The small internal roads were still in reasonable repair, though weeds had forced weak spots in the concrete apart and congregated in clumps along the edges. The evening light was just beginning to fade, the sun casting long shadows as it eased itself from the sky. Helena and Daisy should have long since been settled in the theatre in which Daisy was just starting a background role three times a week. The producers would wonder where she was, debate whether her absence showed a lack of commitment. Little would they know that their new protégée would never be seen again. Little would Daisy know just how short her rise to fame was destined to be.
Glancing in the mirror, he saw Helena’s protective arm around her favourite’s shoulder, pulling her close. Daisy was crying, noiseless tears that spilt down both cheeks, leaving streaks in her theatrical foundation. She didn’t look so doll-like and perfect now. She didn’t deserve her mummy’s love. But she still fucking got it! Whatever she did and however she looked, she would always know her mummy loved her, only her, exclusively her. Abigail would never know her mummy’s love like Daisy would. He had never known his mummy’s love, like Tommy had. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. It was wrong.
The road was coming to an end now. It ran into the small building that had housed the laundry. Part of the roof had caved in, but a good part of the building was still intact. He drove the car into the courtyard and turned to face his prey.
Both were white with fear. He could see their limbs shaking, the way they huddled together for comfort.
‘What are you going to do with us?’ Helena whimpered; her eyes wide with fear. ‘Please don’t hurt us.’
He said nothing.
‘If it’s money you want I can get some for you. We haven’t got much, but you can have everything that we’ve got if you’ll just let us go, please.’
He didn’t want her money and he didn’t want her speeches. Her high, simpering voice was grating on him already. Ignoring her, he picked up the knife again and held it up so that its blade could be clearly seen, watching with pleasure as his captives shrunk as far away as they could possibly get from him.
He was acting out his own show now; the opening ceremony and Act One nearly concluded; the audience would be captivated at the next act. They would be open-mouthed with awe and expectation and he wouldn’t disappoint. He would lead them through every twist and turn, every emotion until the finale, not grand and spectacular like the audience would be hoping, but final, full of pathos and angst until the light was finally snuffed out. He smiled at the thought. It fitted perfectly with Helena and Daisy fucking McPherson. Their first show would be their last; but now the show must go on. The stage was set for Act Two, the props prepared, the ending planned.
He looked at the knife, its blade so intensely sharp, and began.
Chapter 20
Charlie had one last visit she wanted to make before heading home. She cast her eyes round the small, scruffy yard, its paving slabs slightly askew and cracked at the corners. A small pile of fast-food containers and crisp packets, blown in by the wind, nestled near to the fence and a wheelie bin lay on its side to the rear, its lid flopped open, yawning against the concrete. A couple of small circular urns sat at either side of the pathway, completing the run-down appearance of the yard, with dried soil and the remnants of golden marigolds from at least two summers previous hanging out over the edges. Stairs led up to a small open porch at the front door, with a set of buzzers positioned halfway down on the right side of the frame. The one at the bottom was lit up with the name B Jacobs, in faded black print.
The house stood in a backstreet of Brixton, bought cheaply at a time when the Brixton riots had left the area unwanted and uncared for. Years of regeneration, however, had now made Brixton, with its easy transport links to Central London and eclectic population, highly sought after. Properties bought a few years earlier had rocketed in price, along with the rents, leaving local people, on low wages, struggling to survive. Ben Jacobs fell into this category.
The house itself was large, valued at a million pounds at least if it had been kept whole, but even more divided up into separate residences. It was split into four flats. Ben’s was on the ground floor. The curtains were still open, a window ajar and a TV was on in the front room, its moving picture flickering across the walls and out across the front yard.
Charlie wondered again whether she should have come. It was getting late and she hadn’t been able to phone ahead as there was no number shown for him as yet, his mobile having be
en stolen during the robbery. She wanted to check he was all right though, and was hoping that her slightly spontaneous decision would be appreciated. Anyway, this was how she rolled, she never really planned ahead, believing that what was meant to be would be.
She leant forward and pushed the bell.
‘Who is it?’ Ben’s voice was loud in the quiet.
‘Hi Ben, it’s Charlie, your very own personal police officer, come to check on your welfare.’ She tried to keep the lightness in her voice but then wished that she had made it a little more formal.
‘Oh wow, Charlie, this is a nice surprise. Hang on! It might take a few minutes. I’ve got to retrieve my crutch that I managed to throw at the TV earlier.’
‘No worries, take your time.’ She heard Ben clattering around and the odd curse as he tried to get to the door and was immediately guilty that she hadn’t given him advance warning. A few seconds later his head appeared at the window.
‘Here, let yourself in! My crutch is wedged underneath the table. And don’t disappear and go getting another key cut, though I’m sure you’d like to?’
She caught the keys that were lobbed out at her.
‘You wish.’
She opened the external door and then the door to Ben’s flat and was hit with the smell of cigarettes and beer. Taking a deep breath, she walked through, looking around sadly at the disarray. Clothes and dirty food plates lay on various surfaces and a pile of empty cans were stacked haphazardly next to the chair that was obviously Ben’s favourite. A small wooden table stood in front of the chair with overflowing ashtrays, crushed, empty cigarette packets and a can of Special Brew.
‘Excuse the state of the place.’ Ben was yanking at the crutch which was stuck firm between the table and the TV unit while balancing on his good leg. The table was tilting precariously as he pulled at it. ‘Had a bit of a weekend of it. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have been more prepared.’
Charlie lifted the table carefully, allowing him to free the crutch. He shoved it under his armpit and hobbled over to his armchair, falling into it heavily.
