There’s an abandoned shipping warehouse down by the river. You can’t miss the place. It’s along
Chester Street. I used it as the setting for the photograph. I once wanted to use it as the location for an exhibition, but the place needed a lot of work to make it safe. It would have been good though to see the sycophants of the art world come out of their ivory towers into the real world. Anyway, we should meet on the 19th at 8 p.m. Reply to let me know this is okay. Wolfe. Although unable to obtain original photographs, Prosper had supplied Wolfe with exact copies. The press released sanitised versions, heavily doctored to save the families concerned from further distress. He remembered Wolfe’s face when he’d seen the photographs: a look caught between awe, shock and admiration.
Fingers shaking, Prosper composed a reply, saying that he would be there, then he pressed send and sat back rubbing his face. Although close when they were young, the intervening years had changed him and all his friends. He had maintained contact with Paris, Ty and Wolfe, and they met up now and again, but recent events had shown him the people he grew up with weren’t the same as the adults they became. Their lives had changed. Irreversibly. The days of innocence supplanted by responsibility. Pocket money had given way to wages, youth to adulthood, immaturity to maturity. And he know longer knew them. They were strangers.
And they were asking him to help commit murder. What the hell am I getting involved with?
He heard a noise behind him and he spun around to see Natasha standing in the doorway, leaning on her crutches. A spear of ice penetrated his heart.
“How long have you been standing there?” he shouted as he swivelled around to shut the computer down.
“There’s no need to shout. I was just going to ask you if you wanted a cup of tea, that’s all. Anyone would think you had something to hide.”
Prosper kept his back to her as he felt himself blush. “Don’t be stupid. I just resent being spied on.”
“I wasn’t spying. The door was open.”
Prosper was sure she was lying, certain that he had shut the door. He hadn’t heard it open though, so she might have been telling the truth.
“Anyway,” Natasha continued. “I wouldn’t have to spy on you if you told me what you were up to. We don’t talk any more. We’re becoming like strangers.”
“So you’re admitting you were spying on me then. Jesus, can’t I have any goddamned privacy in my own house.”
“Privacy for what?”
“Porn. There you go. I was looking at porn. Happy now?” He turned to stare at his wife and saw the hurt look on her face before she hobbled away.
He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and put his clenched fists to his eye sockets, pressing the knuckles in until the pain became unbearable. When he dropped his hands away, his eyes were moist with tears. He hated lying to her, and wished to God he had been looking at porn. She could probably forgive him that. But murder …
CHAPTER 16
As he drove towards the warehouse, Prosper chewed his fingernails and tapped his free foot on the floor pan. Since reading Wolfe’s e-mail he had tried to find a flaw with their plan, something to put a stop to it, but there was nothing. If he didn’t go ahead and help them, he risked Wolfe reporting the nefarious deeds they had carried out in the name of revenge. And he didn’t doubt for a moment that he would do it.
If Prosper wasn’t a police officer, it might not be so bad. But as it was, the courts would no doubt make an example of him, and he didn’t want his family to suffer the backlash that would result.
A dirt track led to the warehouse, which was as easy to spot from the main road as Wolfe had said.
It was a solitary building that loomed from an area overgrown with grass, weeds and plants seeded on the wind. The top half of the structure was wooden, the red paint now faded and the discoloured white lettering of the previous owners’ name peeling like sunburned skin: Henry Tomb & Sons. Missing tiles on the roof left shadows like broken teeth, and the smashed windows looked like crystal Venus flytraps. As he drew closer, a pigeon flew out of one of the windows, speeding skyward as though escaping from the jaws of death. Four stories high, a protruding extension jutted from the top floor housing a pulley with a frayed rope that swung in the gentle breeze like the rope from a gallows.
The setting sun cast a red band across the horizon.
Prosper parked the car and switched the engine off. He heard the pulley creaking through his open window. Large double doors occupied each floor. The set on the second floor stood open like a gaping cavity in a corpse, rotten timbers visible as ribs.
He couldn’t see Wolfe’s vehicle, so presuming he wasn’t here yet, Prosper stepped out of the car to stretch his legs. His grey cotton shirt stuck to his back and felt uncomfortable. He peeled it away like dead skin.
No longer necessary to wear sunglasses, he removed them and clipped them into the collar of his shirt, then he stuffed his hand into the pocket of his knee length, brown shorts and pulled out his cigarettes. He lit one up, and then wandered towards the building. The creaking pulley grated on his nerves and he exhaled a frustrated cloud of smoke.
He wandered around the side of the building, but couldn’t go any further as the structure backed up to the water’s edge. He spotted another pulley on this side of the building too, the housing that once protected it now collapsed, the wooden struts protruding from the murky water like the remains of a Viking long boat.
Small eddies disturbed the water’s surface, and in the distance, the steel hulk of a factory glinted in the fading sunlight.
Prosper turned away and rubbed his eyes, inadvertently wiping sweat into them and making him curse.
He made his way back to the front of the building and approached the front door, intending to have a look around when he heard the grumble of an approaching vehicle. He turned to see Wolfe’s Jeep Cherokee speeding through the dust. Its blackened windows looked funereal and sinister as they hid the occupant from prying eyes.
The four wheel drive vehicle seemed to have no trouble travelling along the dusty track, its suspension allowing it to glide effortlessly across the potholes that had jarred Prosper on the way in.
The Jeep parked alongside Prosper’s Ford Focus, cloaked by resultant dust. As he waited for the door to open, Prosper started to feel apprehensive. His shirt stuck to his back again and he pulled it away, wafting it slightly to cool his torso. Tired and anxious, he approached the Jeep, his dark reflection in the driver’s window like looking at a corpse in a coffin – his own corpse, and he shivered.
A moment later, the door swung open and Wolfe stepped out, his long, black hair uncombed. His eyes looked unnaturally dark, like ink spots, and the corners of his mouth lifted in approximation of a grin. Sporting khaki shorts and topless again, he displayed a well-toned, muscular physique without being too big. Although Prosper had lost a lot of weight, no matter how much he worked out he’d never be able to sculpt a physique like Wolfe’s.
“Hey,” Wolfe said, extending a hand, then feigning a punch to Prosper’s stomach.
Prosper gritted his teeth and stepped back to avoid being hit. Wolfe laughed and then held his hand out. Prosper flicked his cigarette away and shook the proffered limb, surprised by how cold Wolfe’s skin felt. He must have had the air conditioning turned as low as it would go.
“I just had to finish a call with my agent,” Wolfe said. “Damn fool keeps telling me I need to come up with something original if I’m to stay at the top of my game. What the hell’s he know about art? He probably thinks Warhol’s a country.”
Prosper shrugged. Wolfe’s artistic problems were the least of his worries.
“What do you think?” Wolfe asked, spreading his arms to encompass the warehouse.
Prosper scratched his chin. “I haven’t seen inside yet.”
“Ah, the innards of the beast.” Wolfe chuckled. He rolled his shoulder as if relieving a strain acquired while driving.
“Are you serious about all of this?�
�
Wolfe frowned. “We made a pledge.”
“We were kids. This isn’t a game. It’s serious,” Prosper said through clenched teeth.
“Jerel’s in trouble.”
“We could all be in trouble.”
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t, is that what you mean?” Wolfe asked.
“No, I mean damned if we do. Jerel’s just angry. Anyone would be.”
“But this isn’t anyone. This is Jerel. That day when we attacked Gary Smith, did you know it was Jerel that did the most damage? He was like something possessed. And do you know why? I think he always looked up to you. He respected you. Besides, you owe him more than most.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything.”
Wolfe shook his head. “What about when you slept with his wife, Christine. How do you think he’d feel about that if he knew?”
Prosper blushed. “It was just a stupid one night stand.”
“I’m sure Jerel wouldn’t look at it like that.”
“You know what happened that night. Jerel was away on some bloody army training course. You know how it happened; you and the others were there. We got drunk. It didn’t mean anything. I met Natasha not long after, and Jerel was posted to Germany or somewhere, and Christine went with him, so it’s history. Why are you bringing that up after all these years?”
“Perhaps it didn’t mean much to you, but you owe him.”
“But murder—”
“Sometimes, it’s the only way.”
“And what makes you such an expert?”
“I’m not. But I read the papers. I see the news. The world’s a dangerous place, and sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.”
“Even if it means you’ll get burned?”
“Even if it means you’ll get burned,” Wolfe concurred.
Prosper took another cigarette out. As he lit it, he considered Wolfe’s words. After a moment, he said, “Let’s see the photographs you’ve taken then.”
Wolfe grinned and leaned into the Jeep. When he re-emerged, he held a manila envelope, chillingly reminiscent of those that the Oracle used. “Come on, let’s go inside, out of the sunlight, where you can look at them better.”
Prosper followed Wolfe into the warehouse.
Inside the spacious building, metal columns held aloft the ceiling. Sheets of ripped polythene hung from some of the crossbeams, billowing slightly like spectres in the breeze blowing through the broken windows. The wooden planks on the ground looked rotten in places and Prosper took halting steps as they made their way through.
“It's okay,” Wolfe said. “Look.” He jumped up and down. Floorboards whined.
“Okay, okay, I believe you,” Prosper said, waving his arms to make Wolfe stop.
Wolfe jumped one more time and laughed. The sound spooked a couple of roosting pigeons to take flight and Prosper watched longingly after them as they flew through one of the broken windows.
Wolfe grinned. “This way, come on.”
Prosper followed, his gaze taking in the expansive ground floor. Nothing remained of whatever used to be stored here, the building picked clean like a carcass, leaving a skeleton. A staircase to the left led up to the second floor – the stairs looked rickety, and Prosper paused at the bottom, but Wolfe proceeded without hesitating. Hearing the steps creak and groan, Prosper approached them more warily, his hand gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white.
“Hold on,” Prosper said. “Where are you taking me? I can look at the photographs here.”
Ignoring him, Wolfe continued up. Prosper glowered at the way Wolfe took control of a situation, always acting as though he was in charge. When he reached the second floor, he followed Wolfe through a maze of corridors, the walls of which were cracked like varicose veins, the mortar crumbling like dried blood.
“This was where I was going to hold my exhibition,” Wolfe said over his shoulder as he walked. “You know, the one I mentioned in the e-mail. Isn’t it great? I was going to arrange it so each room held a different sculpture ... a bit of ambient backlighting, and some background music. You see the texture of the brickwork; it’s gorgeous. It would have been perfect. Trouble is, the floor’s rotten and wouldn’t support the weight of lots of people.”
Prosper paled as, if in response, the floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
At the end of the corridor, Wolfe disappeared around a corner. Prosper followed and he froze on the spot, his feet seemingly nailed to the floor; a sick feeling spread up from his stomach, his breath caught in his throat and his eyes grew wide as he stared open-mouthed at the exhibition of grotesquely mutilated cadavers. Phoenix, Icarus Fallen, Perpetual Motion: the work of the Oracle.
CHAPTER 17
Wolfe grinned, teeth ominously white. The muscles on his torso flexed as he stood akimbo, his stance in the doorway eerily reminiscent of the Phoenix exhibit.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
Prosper fought to draw breath. Stumbling back a step, he shook his head, unable to blink as he stared at the corpses.
“It’s good, isn’t it? I knew you’d be impressed. Wait till you see the photographs.”
Prosper couldn’t believe what he was hearing and he took another step back.
“Prosper? Are you OK? You look pale.” Wolfe grinned. “Look, I know I should have told you, but I thought it’d be a surprise.”
Surprise!
“I got the tailors’ dummies from a friend that owns a chain of boutiques. They work well, don’t you think. I did them up with some latex skin and wigs. It gives the photographs more authenticity, because with the tight focus, you can’t tell they’re not real, they’re just blurred images in the background.”
Tailors’ dummies! Prosper looked again, shocked and embarrassed as hell when he realised what he was looking at wasn’t cadavers, but shop dummies fashioned to resemble the Oracle’s victims.
He gulped, took a breath, stamped on the cigarette he’d dropped and leaned against the wall, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath.
“Prosper, are you all right?” Wolfe asked curiously.
“Yes, it’s just, you know ... damn it Wolfe, why didn’t you tell me that this is what you’d done?”
Wolfe shrugged. “I wanted to see your reaction.”
“You almost gave me a bloody heart attack,” Prosper snapped.
Wolfe laughed and shook his head. “You thought they were real didn’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t lie, you thought I was the Oracle, didn’t you?”
“Don’t talk stupid.”
But that is what I’d thought. God help me. He rubbed his brow, face flushed. Now that he knew what they were, he couldn’t believe he’d thought they were real, but then, in his defence, he hadn’t been expecting them.
“Then I guess I haven’t done too bad a job,” Wolfe said. Still laughing, he pulled the photographs out of the envelope. “I’m glad I didn’t show you these first, otherwise you’d have put me in cuffs.”
Prosper took the photographs from Wolfe and studied them. They were perfect. The colour, the tone, everything.
Wolfe had recreated the Oracle’s original photographs, using the dummies. Obviously close up the dummies didn’t look like the real victims, but the unfocused exhibits in the background were spot on. If the body in the foreground had been a real cadaver instead of a dummy, it would be perfect.
“Well?” Wolfe asked.
“I don’t know what to say.” The photographs quashed any hope that Wolfe would fail, that his photographs would look nothing like the originals, forcing them to abandon the plan. Instead, the photographs brought it one step closer.
“Well, are they good enough?”
Prosper nodded. He felt as though a snake was slithering around inside his stomach and he rubbed his abdomen to relieve the sensation.
Wolfe grinned.
A floorboard creaked and Prosper turned. He looked nervously back down t
he corridor. His heart thundered, his limbs growing like jelly. Seeing no one, he turned back to look at the dummies. Wolfe’s little show unnerved him more than he realised.
“So we can tell the other’s it’s a go,” Wolfe said.
Prosper turned away and wiped his brow. God help us.
In the car on the way home, Prosper’s phone rang beside him on the seat. Glancing quickly at the display, he groaned, answering on the second ring.
“Jill, what is it?” he asked.
“Prosper, where are you?”
“Why?”
“Someone’s come forward with information about the night Jane Numan was abducted. I thought you might like to be here to question him.”
Hope surged through Prosper’s veins. If the lead led to an arrest, then Jerel’s plan would be dead in the water.
“Give me thirty minutes.” After disconnecting the call, he phoned Natasha to say he’d be home late, and then headed for the station.
“So what is it? What have we got?” he asked, running into the incident room.
Jill looked up from her notes. “I don’t know if it’s reliable, but we’ve got someone who said he saw Jane on the night she disappeared.”
“Why don’t you think the source is reliable?”
“Because he’s a tramp, probably an alcoholic from the looks of him. He said he saw Jane’s photograph on one of the newspapers he was using to keep warm, and he thought it was his civic duty to come forward.”
“Where is he now?”
“Mike’s making him a cup of tea.”
“Great. Come on, let’s see what he knows.”
Prosper let Jill lead the way. He watched the rhythmic undulation of the cheeks of her bottom beneath the taut, blue skirt. Her heels clicked on the ground in time with the beat of his heart.
At the end of the corridor, they entered the interview room and Prosper noticed a rank, putrid aroma of faeces, piss, and decay. The stench emanated from the decrepit sot sitting in one of the cheap orange plastic chairs. He held a Styrofoam cup in shaking hands. A horseshoe of grey hair framed his bald crown from ear to ear. Ruddy faced and corpulent, the newspapers stuffed into the once green – now dirty – long coat he wore compounded his size. His brown eyes looked rheumy and his flesh like dough, the folds of his chin dirty with grime and pitted with nasty looking red spots.
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