Francesca stood looking nervously at him. She handed him a bottle of red wine. ‘You seemed to like this wine the last time we had it, I thought maybe you’d like to try it again.’ This comment was followed by one of her warm smiles, which Saxon had to concede, was extremely endearing.
He had trouble hiding his joy at seeing her and invited her in. She walked through the hallway into the sitting room while Saxon wandered around trying to remember exactly where he had left the corkscrew. I hope it’s not in the sink.
He found it, at last, and he opened the bottle of wine, relieved that the cork came out smoothly. They climbed the stairs to sit on the roof. They sat together in companionable silence, looking out towards the sea.
Saxon was rehearsing a number of things to say, but not finding the right one, when Francesca turned to him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is very pleasant, isn’t it, sitting here like an old married couple.’ She smiled at him and they both laughed. He opened his mouth to reply but she turned back to look at the sea and went on speaking. ‘Paul, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but here goes – why don’t you go and see Emma and just ask her what she’s playing at. Surely, she must know that going off like she has and not contacting you for weeks on end is hardly fair to you.’
She paused and turned back to face him. ‘There, I’ve said it. Now I suppose you’re pissed off with me?’ Saxon remained silent. She closed her eyes and let her head fall backwards. ‘It’s none of my business, is it?’ she said.
Francesca waited for the ticking bomb to explode. Saxon waited for the light to stop reflecting off her hair as it fell back with the movement of her head.
There was no explosion. Saxon looked at her and smiled, but it was a sad smile.
When he spoke, it was slowly. ‘Fran, you have every right to ask. To tell you the truth, I’ve all but given up on her. I came to the conclusion that no matter how much I felt sorry for myself, and moped around being depressed…’ He shrugged. ‘Well, what good was it doing me?’
She was looking at him now. ‘The answer is none,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t doing anyone any good, but particularly not me.’ He shook his head.
Francesca reached her hand across the six inches that separated them and touched his fingers briefly. He looked up and nodded in acknowledgement of her touch. She took her hand back and sipped the wine.
‘You know something, Fran?’ It was clearly a rhetorical question. He was smiling now. ‘I was happy before I knew her, so I can be happy now that she’s gone.’ He sighed with evident exaggeration.
Francesca laughed. ‘Good for you,’ she enthused. ‘Let’s go out and have dinner somewhere – on me,’ she added, smiling broadly.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, why on earth should you pay?’
‘Oh, I suppose because I’m a woman, you think you have to pay for everything.’ She emptied her glass. ‘Well I’ve got news for you, Mr Tough Big Macho Cop.’ She stood up, straightening her skirt slightly as she did so. ‘I’m not a dependant little woman. I’ve got money, and I’m going to buy you dinner – so just this once you just stop being a commander and do as you’re told and follow me.’ She walked towards the stairs. Then she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I mean it,’ she said, with a mock severity. She climbed carefully down the spiral staircase, taking the glasses and bottle with her. He followed, feeling quite pleased with himself and life and the universe in general.
As they left his apartment, Francesca suggested they use the lift rather than the stairs. The lift was small, with barely enough room for two people. They neither of them commented on the fact, although they were both intensely aware of it. His hand brushed hers as he followed her into the lift and turned at her side to face the door.
The journey down took less than thirty seconds but they were a long, slow thirty seconds. He was aware of the faint perfume she’d put behind her ears. It was subtle, but already responding to the warmth of her skin. He inhaled it but not too obviously. It was lovely. It wasn’t one he knew, but it smelt vaguely old-fashioned to him. Emma had once observed to him that the new perfumes tended to be too brash for her taste, too in your face, literally in your nostrils. He shared her preference for the softer, gentler fragrances.
Now here he was, reflecting on Fran’s choice of perfume. And it didn’t seem at all odd. But his heart was thudding against his chest. How strange to be in such a state of anticipation over a simple dinner. He held back to let her leave in front of him, and then closed the lift door.
Francesca smiled and waited for him. Something in the way she was standing, with her hand at her side, just made it very easy for him to link his fingers with hers. She leaned into him slightly and squeezed his hand very gently. Then she started walking towards the door. He hoped desperately that his hand wasn’t clammy. His heart rate had increased.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you in the mood for?’ She had one of those wonderful voices that sounded like laughter, even when the speaker is only smiling. He loved her voice.
‘In the mood for?’ he answered. The question was unexpected. Never normally at a loss for words, he was suddenly off-balance.
‘Food-wise. What are you in the mood for food-wise?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you fancy, Italian, Indian? We’re going out to dinner, aren’t we? That implies an element of choice. We have to decide what we want to eat. Just because I’m treating you doesn’t mean that you’ve surrendered all control. I wouldn’t want you to think that.’ She held his gaze momentarily; her head tilted very slightly on one side, and then she set off down through the square to the sea front.
He pulled gently on her hand to slow her down so that they were walking side by side. ‘I surrender all control,’ he laughed. ‘Until further notice, that is.’
Rottingdean, Sunday, June 16, 11.00PM
He sat in the middle of the room. The lights were off – he had no need for light. Everything he needed to see happened behind his eyelids – if he opened his mind sufficiently to allow the images to be projected in the right place. Controlling his breathing, slowing it down to six breaths per minute, it would take five minutes before the voice would come – would decide to come, if he was considered worthy of a visit.
Sometimes the voice refused to be heard. Sometimes, when it had not been forthcoming, he fell to his knees, pleading to know – to be told, that he was completing his tasks satisfactorily. If approval was withheld, then so was sleep as questions spread wildly through his mind. Had he done something wrong? Maybe the wrong person had been cleansed. Should he have searched harder and longer for more of them to send to the master? Would the master become tired of him if he made mistakes? If so, then what would he do?
But now, his mind was open, searching, probing for the right frequency. When the voice came, ecstasy flooded his body causing him to convulse. And now, he became tense as the first wave hit him in the chest and surged up through his shoulders. Then, as it shot up through his neck, he felt it explode to every part of his being.
He found himself looking around a laboratory, brilliant white, so bright he could barely stand the pain. Such was the pain to his eyes; he was unable to focus fully. Around him he could just make out desks – he was aware that there were people sitting at the desks, but everything was so out of focus they appeared to have no features. He wanted to blink. But there could be no escape from the pain to his eyes as they were already closed. If the master had chosen this to be the image he had to see, then who was he to object.
The voice came at last, so soft and reassuring, with the words he had wanted so much to hear. He was doing well, it told him. He was doing far better than the others. They didn’t have the same background as him, so how could they be expected to perform with the same degree of expertise. The master knew he had chosen well.
However, more work was demanded. More filthy souls were to be sent to the master. His hunger was great. He was told that the meddlers who tried to stop him, were as bad as the rest of them. They must be persuaded, u
sing all methods at his disposal, from their incessant meddling.
The voice faded away, but he was still in the white laboratory. The light faded sufficiently for him to pull his eyes into focus. Gradually everything sharpened up, and he realised that people in white coats occupied all of the desks, but their heads were skulls. Traces of skin and hair hung off all of them, at least the ones he could see. The room had grown to massive proportions, disappearing into the distance in all directions. Each desk was covered with test tubes and various-shaped glass containers. All were overflowing with blood.
He stood transfixed as the skulls first turned to gaze at him. Then, as though all were commanded, they turned to look in the direction of a lone figure in the distance, which appeared to be walking in his direction. Unsure at first, because of the distorted perspective – but eventually, at a distance that he couldn’t begin to guess, he realised that it was a woman, a small woman.
His eyes stung and watered. He wanted to rub them hard, but the voice gently told him to wait. Suddenly his vision seemed to telescope to the face of the approaching woman.
He tried to run forwards as her emaciated face filled out to regain the beautiful features he had known when she was his wife. His legs refused to respond. He called out her name and she smiled, lifting her arm in the air over her head. She began to wave to him, but the flesh on her arm started to decay and drop onto her face. She looked up, surprised and frightened. Her face contorted, as in the split second that precedes a scream.
The scream came as she put her hands to her face. It was a scream that no one could ever forget. As she removed her hands, her face came with them. Her skull looked down at the dripping mass of rotten flesh.
He turned to run away but his legs were not his to use. Turning back to his wife, he almost gagged as the remainder of her flesh slipped to the floor. The cadavers at the desks turned to face him as the blood in their test tubes overflowed onto the floor. Like a vast red carpet, it travelled from the furthest reaches of his vision to the grotesque skeletal figure that was once his wife. As the first drops touched her feet, she slowly regenerated, causing him to experience an overwhelming feeling of elation.
He attempted to move toward her again, but she raised her hands to stop him. Her mouth made the movements of speech, but the voice that he heard was that of the master. ‘This is why I must have the blood and the souls.’
Suddenly, there was nothing. He found himself on the floor beside his chair. He shook violently. Feeling the nausea welling up inside him, he staggered to his bathroom, falling over a coffee table on the way, and emptied the contents of his stomach down the toilet.
His understanding of why he was chosen for the quest now made more sense than ever before. The master had never shown him anything like that before. Surely his reward would be the return of his wife. Apart from removing the disease from the world, the energy from the souls along with their blood would save the innocent ones who had contracted the filthy disease through no fault of their own.
He knew there would never be a cure for AIDS – all that was required was a cull. He reasoned that diseases like that don’t just happen. They are sent. If something or someone sends these things to decimate humankind, then there must be a power that can destroy them.
That power was surely working through him.
Rottingdean, Monday, June 17, 12.30AM
He had no time for sleep. A list had to be drawn up of the meddlers. But no, a list could be found – how would he explain that. Best to keep it in his head. These people would need to be removed, because they were unwittingly assisting the spread of the disease by attempting to stop him. A moment of panic overtook him. The thought of not being able to complete his work frightened him. Fear was an emotion he hadn’t experienced since his childhood – sweat trickled down from the back of his head and his hands grew moist.
It didn’t help that the weather had changed. The heat wave was losing its lust for life, making the air heavy and humid. For the last couple of nights there had been faint, distant rumbles of thunder out over the Channel. But so far, there had been nothing with enough power to clear the air.
He wandered around his house. Twenty rooms in total – not large rooms, but still twenty of them just the same. At one time, when his wife was alive, the house appeared to be so much smaller. There were always friends dropping in for a chat, dinner parties that went on into the night. Sometimes the guests would stay overnight if the alcohol intake careered out of control. With twenty rooms, it was not a problem.
Even when he and his wife were alone in the house, working on the décor and in some parts, rebuilding it together, such was the size of her personality that the house, regardless of its size, seemed to shrink. Her musical laugh would echo from room to room. He and his wife were keen members of the village amateur dramatics society, both accomplished actors, both highly intelligent.
But now he was alone. If silence had a sound, it echoed around the house. The friends no longer came, and he couldn’t blame them – maybe they were more her friends than his, or possibly they were too embarrassed to come. Some people couldn’t deal with death. Or the change that he had gone through made others uncomfortable. He was different now, only smiling when it was expected and only with his mouth, never his eyes. He covered his true feelings with his brash personality, but he thought that maybe he was losing his touch; maybe he was no longer as convincing as he used to be. Whatever was going on behind his eyes was gradually becoming more evident in his expression.
His mental list was complete. But when and where, that was the problem that occupied his mind now. He just had to wait until the voice answered those questions.
Chapter 15
Wednesday, June 19, 8.50PM
The phone on Saxon’s desk rang. Parker slowly leaned over from his computer and grabbed it, ‘Commander Saxon’s phone, can I help you?’
Silence.
Irritated, he slammed down the receiver and moved back to his console. It rang again almost immediately. ‘Commander Saxon’s phone – who is it?’
More silence. ‘Whoever you are, this is a police line and the call is being traced; now talk to me or piss off, I’m a very busy man.’ Then, a second before he was about to slam it down again, he heard the mechanical voice. Instantly he hit the record button. The message was short. The second the caller hung up, he dialled Saxon’s mobile. Shit, no signal.
He quickly rummaged through his address book, and found Saxon’s home number and tried that one. Just an answerphone – but it would have to do. The phone beeped. ‘Sir, Parker here, call me urgently, we’ve had another message from the killer. It involves you. He has made threats against you. I’m sending some lads to your apartment to check it out. I will keep trying your mobile.’
He hung up the phone, and for a second he paused. What if the killer is pulling the same stunt as he did on Mancini? What if he’s already got to Saxon? As this thought struck him, he heard a long distant rumble of thunder.
It took several attempts but Parker eventually managed to get a signal on Saxon’s mobile. Relieved, he left pretty much the same message on his voicemail. The decision to be made was whether to stay in the office or to go to Saxon’s apartment. He opted for the apartment. On his way past Sergeant Dowling, he told him to patch any calls through to his mobile, and if Saxon was to call in on the off chance, then tell him to watch his back as Mr Weirdo was out to get him.
As Parker drove into the square where Saxon lived, he immediately recognised the unmarked police car that seemed to be lurking in the shadows. Much to his annoyance, he had to park his car two hundred yards away as there were no free spaces. PCs Ryan and Ellis stood waiting for Parker to arrive and put out their cigarettes as soon as they saw him approaching.
‘Seen anything?’ asked Parker, gazing up at the elegant Regency building.
‘Not a thing, Sarge. Now, I hate to sound defeatist but how are we going to get in…have you seen the size of that door, and it’s rock solid,’ sa
id Ryan, with more than a touch of despair in his voice.
‘That’s why I’m in plain clothes, Constable – why didn’t you ring one of the other door bells for Christ’s sake?’ Parker couldn’t believe how stupid some of the beat cops could be sometimes. He ran up to the door and pressed the button for the ground floor. After a few moments, the light came on in the hallway and a tired-looking late middle-aged woman half opened the door. She blinked a few times as Parker thrust his warrant card through the gap. She grabbed it and then closed the door. After what seemed like an eternity, she opened the door and was nearly knocked off her feet as the three officers pushed past her.
‘Sorry, love,’ Ryan called back to the grumbling woman who was fast disappearing back into her apartment. ‘Which floor, Sarge?’ shouted Ellis, as he started to run up the stairs.
‘Top,’ answered Parker, deciding to take the lift and at least be left with a little bit of strength by the time he got to the top. They all arrived at Saxon’s door at the same time – Ryan and Ellis gasping for breath. The first thing that sent waves of concern to the pit of their stomachs was the red cross that had been painted on the door, in what looked like blood. It was still wet.
Parker tried the handle, but it was locked. He hammered on the door as loudly as he could. ‘Sir, Commander Saxon, are you in there?’ Silence.
‘Right, lads, let’s not fuck about, get this door open and fast.’
Parker moved out of the way. He was the taller, but the pair of uniforms were built like rugby fullbacks. It took three well-aimed kicks under the door handle before they heard the cracking of timber as the doorframe and hinges gave way. The door fell flat on the carpet of Saxon’s hall.
Cautiously, Parker felt inside for the light switch and flicked it on. No one there. Quickly, they went into every room, looked in wardrobes and checked the roof – the place was empty. Ryan and Ellis walked back to the hallway and stared at the demolished door.
‘The commander’s not going to be too pleased about that,’ said Ryan, picking up splinters of wood that had travelled to the sitting room.
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