Guilty Innocence

by Maggie James

  ‘Yeah, well, I guess that’s down to getting banged up for ten years. Not to mention our new identities.’

  ‘Been mulling things over. What we were talking about before, I mean. How what we did was…’ Mark’s forced to pause before he can bring himself to say the word. Ordinary enough in itself, but grotesque in the context in which he intends to use it. ‘Fun.’ God, how he hates having to come out with such shit, but it’s a means to an end.

  ‘Yeah. Well, I certainly got off on it.’ A pause. ‘You, though, nancy boy - thought you were about to piss your pants at times.’

  ‘Didn’t expect what happened. Came as a shock.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ The word erupts down the phone. Mark’s glad Adam’s not there to witness the way he flinches, as though stung by a whip. ‘Don’t give me that crap. You knew what I had in mind, right from when I persuaded the little bitch to come with us. What the fuck did you think I was going to do with her? Play hide and seek? You fucking stupid bastard.’

  Mark’s confusion at the time, born from his naïveté, as well as a total unawareness of how the psychopathic mind works, comes back to him. Adam’s wrong. He didn’t have a fucking clue back then what was going on, so he needs to ensure this time is different. No more being weak, he tells himself. Adam’s pissed off now, the last thing Mark wants or needs. Time to placate the bastard.

  ‘You’re right, I suppose. I mean, I kind of knew. Just wasn’t sure what exactly you had in mind.’

  ‘Stupid fucker, you are. Always have been.’ The aggression’s gone from Adam’s tone, if not from his words, causing Mark to release the breath he’s been holding.

  ‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. At the time, though, I’d not seen anything like that before. Got to me a bit, I agree. Almost did piss my pants, too.’ True enough, besides which he needs to keep his place in the pecking order. ‘Thing is, I had plenty of time to think things over, once they banged me up. Couldn’t admit it to myself at first, not for a while.’

  ‘What? Spit it out.’

  ‘That I liked…’ The words choke Mark with their vileness.

  ‘What? That you enjoyed seeing the bitch bleed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, fuck me. I was right, then. You got off on it, same as I did.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Took you long enough to realise it.’

  ‘I’m not like you, Adam. I couldn’t do something like that, you see. But watching you - that’s a different matter. Wish I had your guts, mate.’ Mark injects a note of wistfulness into his voice. ‘More of an observer, me. Not got the balls for it myself. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy being an onlooker, though.’

  ‘Well, listen to you.’ The sound of a carton being opened, the hiss of a lighter. Adam drags on his cigarette. ‘The wuss does have a dark side after all. Everyone does; it’s just that most fuckers never let it see the light of day. Too busy playing life straight, keeping in line with all the other sad bastards.’ Contempt fills Adam’s voice.

  Mark makes his tone reverential. An acolyte worshipping at the feet of his master. ‘Not like you.’

  Adam takes the bait. ‘Nah. All the rest of them sad shits; such narrow lives they lead. Trudging to work from nine to five each day, paying the mortgage, hatching out brats. Dickheads who allow others to tell them what to do, how to think. No fucking individuality. Sheep, all of them. Always playing by the rules. What fucking rules, I say.’

  Mark’s silent, unsure how to follow up, when Adam catches him unawares. ‘You should watch me sometime. Be just like old times.’

  Watch me sometime. Words implying more Abby Morgans, either already accomplished or planned for the future. The itch that’s been bothering Mark ever since their earlier meeting flares up again. He scratches it.

  ‘You said…’ Mark licks his dry lips. ‘You said nothing since has come close to her.’

  ‘Too right, in spite of me doing it too quick. But you never forget your first, right?’

  Your first. The itch prickles harder.

  When Mark doesn’t reply, Adam laughs. ‘Listen to me. I need to remember I’m talking to a fucking virgin here. No idea how good it is to snuff out someone’s life, have you? OK, so you watched whilst I killed the brat, but you’re too much of a wuss to do anything like that yourself.’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ Mark forces out. ‘Like I said, I’d rather be an onlooker. Do it by proxy.’

  ‘Yeah. Too fucking gutless yourself.’

  ‘But it works better that way, doesn’t it?’ Now Mark’s found the way forward, he goes for it, his disgust temporarily shelved. ‘Any partnership – someone always takes the lead.’

  His ploy succeeds. Mark can almost hear Adam’s ego inflating. ‘Not many of us around. Like I say, too many sheep-like people in the world.’ He laughs. ‘You’re a prime example, mate. I remember when we were at school. Useless, you were, without me to show you the ropes.’

  ‘We work well together,’ Mark replies. ‘You lead, I follow.’

  ‘Reckon it was probably that way with, say, Leopold and Loeb.’

  Mark’s lost. ‘Who?’

  ‘American killing combo. Did some teenage kid with a chisel, way back when. Spent months planning it.’ Adam’s tone is reverential, before switching to disgust. ‘Stupid buggers got caught, though. And buggers sums them up. A pair of fucking queers.’

  Mark’s chilled by Adam’s study of the murder game. ‘It’s true, though. About one person out of a pair taking the lead.’ He warms to his theme. ‘Look at Fred and Rosemary West. Or Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. One of them the doer, the other the helper.’

  Adam’s laugh is mocking. ‘Always said you were a woman inside. All girlie emotion and such crap. Don’t get any ideas about me riding your arse, you fucking pansy. If I get so much as a hint of you wanting to take a walk down Queer Street, I’ll cut your fucking dick off and shove it in your mouth. Got that?’

  Even over a phone connection, the man intimidates Mark into forgetting where he is. He’s no longer safe at home, with Adam miles away in Taunton. Instead, it’s as if the other man’s beside him, coercing him into submission. They’re back in the park after school; Adam’s pinning him down, his knife at his throat, and the eleven-year-old Joshua answers rather than Mark.

  ‘I got it, Adam.’

  ‘I lead, you follow.’

  ‘Right.’ Mark’s breath is coming more easily now. ‘The thing is - all those people we’ve mentioned. They got caught, same as we did. It doesn’t bother you? The thought of going back inside?’

  ‘I’ve learned from my mistakes. Not going back to jail, not ever.’

  Mark tries again. ‘You’ve kept your nose clean since you got released?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ The voice of an eleven-year-old again, bragging, and Mark’s suspicion that Adam’s nose is pretty damn dirty gathers force.

  ‘Nearly ran into trouble when I first got out. Stupid bitch I’d been fucking gave me some lip one night, so I knocked her around a bit, taught her a lesson. She knew better than to make waves about it, but her fucking mate didn’t. Ran into her the next day and she gave me a load of shit about her pal’s busted nose. Banged on about going to the cops. Who gives a shit about some broad’s nose? Not as though she was much of a looker in the first place. No way will I do more time inside, especially for some bitch with saggy tits and an arse to match.’

  Mark’s mouth is dry. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Knew where the bitch’s mate liked to hang out. Followed her one night. I let her live, but only because someone saw me approach her. Let’s just say she’ll be keeping her mouth shut from now on.’

  Thank God. At least he didn’t kill her. Mark wonders whether Adam Campbell’s pupils, blackened with the lust for murder, have ever been some other woman’s last sight before death, though.

  ‘You ever think about…’

  ‘What? Spit it out, nancy boy.’

  ‘Well, you know. About…’

&nbs
p; ‘Killing again?’ Adam laughs. ‘What makes you think I haven’t?’

  Shit. Draw him out gently, Mark tells himself. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Why, you want to help me, wussy-boy? Be Bianchi to my Buono?’

  Mark’s stumped again. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Hillside Strangler duo over in the States, dickhead. Although, as I recall, one of those fuckers testified against the other to get a lighter sentence.’ Adam’s voice grows tinged with menace. ‘You ever snitch on me and I’ll slice your balls off. That’s assuming you have any.’

  Mark’s transported back through the years once more, to Adam’s threat to kill him if he blabs about Abby. He does his best to tame the unleashed tiger.

  ‘Not going to happen. Didn’t snitch on you before, did I? Besides, you said it yourself. You’ve learned a thing or two. You won’t get caught again.’

  ‘Too fucking right. Been honing my skills.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Not right now. So, you up for doing it again?’

  Mark stalls for time. ‘Might be.’ He needs to establish a rapport with Adam, gain his trust, make him think they’re the same under the skin. How he’s Rosemary to Adam’s Fred West, the other half of a dynamic killing duo. The only way he’ll ever get the better of the man.

  Adam laughs. ‘Think of the fun we can have. As well as giving our do-gooding parole officers the run around. God, those fucking meetings every month, having to fake being all sweetness and reformation, especially after sticking it to some bitch who had it coming to her anyway. Doesn’t it make you sick, having to pretend? Not that you do, what with you living the life of a regular Joe. Working at some shitty builder’s yard. My parole guy, he’s always on at me to find a steady job. Like they grow on trees.’

  Mark’s itch prickles back into life. ‘You get work from time to time, though, don’t you? What is it, labouring, scaffolding, you said?’

  ‘Yeah. Here, there, everywhere.’

  ‘You work away sometimes?’

  ‘Occasionally. The odd contract job. Places like Plymouth or Southampton. Have myself some good times along the way. Cash in hand, as well.’

  ‘How long do you normally go for?’

  ‘Fucking daft question. How long’s a piece of string? Sometimes a week, other times it drags on a while. Southampton, now, that was a big job. Recent, too. Groundworking; digging drains, foundations, all that shit. Stayed best part of a month. Had me a blast down there. Had to go back for my parole meeting, of course. Gave the guy a load of crap about still being in Taunton, not being able to find work.’

  ‘And Plymouth?’

  ‘Didn’t see so much of Plymouth. Last September, that was. Shorter gig down there; lasted about a week, as I recall.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s an interesting place.’ A non-committal reply, designed to distract Adam Campbell about what lies beneath Mark’s seemingly random questions. Ones that need to be asked, because they’re providing answers to Mark’s itch.

  He’s heard enough. Time to wrap up the call.

  ‘Got to go, Adam. I’ll be in touch. Soon.’

  He will, too. First, though, he has to consider what he’s learned.

  He feels soiled by his contact with Adam Campbell, contaminated by someone for whom murder is a recreational sport. Christ, the way he exults in roughing up a woman. His expression when they met earlier on, when he tells Mark killing Abby Morgan was fun.

  A spot of research is needed. Time to hit the Internet. Once he’s in his bedroom, something about the position of his laptop jars him. Almost as though somebody’s moved it. Get a grip, he tells himself. What with all he’s had on his mind, the neat freakism’s obviously taken a back seat. Not as if Natalie will have been snooping around again, not after their showdown last night. He aligns the laptop flush with the edge of the table before switching it on. A few minutes of searching on Google, and he gets answers to more of his questions.

  Shit. Adam Campbell is one sick bastard.

  A man who needs his freedom taken away now, before he kills again. A man about whom Michelle Morgan has been right all along when she’s said he should spend his life behind bars.

  Especially chilling is the urge he expresses to murder again. More slowly. Take his time; enjoy the process. Mark’s no longer so naïve as to assume Adam is simply bragging. Not after what he’s learned from Google. No, this is a man who makes a study of serial killers and is on his way to becoming one. Time to ensure the bastard doesn’t get to hang anyone else’s life off his trophy belt. A coherent plan is paramount.

  Fear, dark and paralysing, strikes Mark. Can he muster the strength to deal with a sadistic killer like Adam? If he doesn’t act, though, the man will kill again, and soon. Weakness isn’t an option any longer. He owes it to Abby, Michelle and Rachel. Not to mention Shaun and Matthew Morgan. As well as the little Italian girl of so long ago.

  Not forgetting Mark. He’s spent ten long years in detention, lost most of his family, suffered the wrenching break-up with Natalie. He owes it to himself, too.

  He needs to fathom out, and fast, what to do with the knowledge he’s gained from Google. There’s the option, of course, of an anonymous tip-off to the police. About Southampton a few weeks ago, about Plymouth last September. To Mark, though, that’s the coward’s way out. One that neatly avoids the risk of squaring up to Adam Campbell in person; of facing down his fears of the man. One not compatible with his newfound resolve to ditch being weak.

  No. He needs the satisfaction of taking the bastard down himself.

  Christ, he’s overlooking the obvious, though. Tick, tock, goes the clock. Will Rachel Morgan afford him the luxury of sufficient time to deal with Adam? It’s starting to seem increasingly likely. In a way, Mark’s strangely grateful Rachel’s so emotionally screwed-up. Chances are she’s hesitating over her threat to go to the police. Too ashamed, perhaps, or scared of her mother. Whatever the reason, Mark prays his reprieve will last until he’s managed to nail Adam Campbell.

  An idea is germinating in his mind. Two things are in his favour.

  Firstly, Adam Campbell is cocky, overly sure of himself. Mark plans to use that to his advantage. Adam won’t expect anything other than compliance from his former sidekick. Not after holding a knife to his throat earlier on. He’ll assume he’s still Buono to Mark’s Bianchi. Time for the two of them to switch roles. Mark intends to become the leader, Adam his sidekick.

  Secondly, and most importantly, the man’s a psychopathic killer. He has needs Mark will never comprehend, urges he plans to tap into to prevent him killing again.

  Adam Campbell’s arse will definitely land up back in jail if Mark’s successful. Permanently. He’ll only get one chance, so he needs to get this right. Adam has the advantage of size, dominance and sheer brutality. This is, after all, a man who’s drunk on his self-deluded fantasises of being a notorious serial killer.

  Yes. His plan is percolating nicely.

  A while later, it’s brewed to perfection.

  Mark eyes his mobile. He needs to be completely ready for this. The counting starts in his head. One, two, buckle my shoe.

  Half an hour passes. It’s now approaching midnight, but Mark’s finally calm now. Time to call the bastard again.

  He picks up his mobile.

  26

  TROPHY TIME

  ‘Mate.’ Amusement in Adam’s voice when he answers his mobile. ‘I mean, come on. Two phone calls in one evening? Can’t keep away, can you?’

  Mark ignores the bait. ‘The reason I’m calling you - ’ He’s sickened to his core by the role he’s being forced to play. Here comes the hard part. How best to persuade Adam Campbell they’ve been cast from the same mould, even if Adam sees Mark as candyfloss to his steel. Adam’s words come back again to him: Can’t talk about these things with anyone else. Mark remembers his plan. Establish a sense of kinship in Adam’s mind between the two of them, that’s what he needs to do.

  ‘When you mentioned taking the
kid’s toy, the green hippo, off her. As a souvenir.’

  ‘Yeah? What about it? That fucking nosey mother of mine, poking around in my room. Should have hidden it better, seeing how it was covered in the little bitch’s blood.’

  Mark would give a lot to have a parent like Adam’s, snooping or not; at least both the Campbells stuck by the bastard. Now’s not the time to drink a cup of bitterness, though. He has a trap to bait.

  ‘Made me remember. Bagged myself a little souvenir of my own from the occasion.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘See, when I got the chance to think, in Vinney Green, that’s what made me realise we’re more similar than different.’

  ‘Get to the fucking point.’

  ‘I took a little token to remember her by.’ The lies come easily, now he’s started. ‘You didn’t see me do it, because I was behind you; you were already heading out the door to clean the knife.’

  ‘You serious? You’d better not be jerking me around.’

  ‘Straight up.’

  A pause. Then, ‘Fuck me. Bit of a dark horse, ain’t you?’

  ‘You’re surprised.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You blame me? A wuss like you.’

  ‘Told you. We’re not so different, mate.’

  ‘What did you take?’

  Mark tells him.

  ‘Fuck. Yeah, I kind of remember that. Why’d you take it, though?’

  ‘Same reason you bagged yourself the hippo.’

  ‘How come you’re telling me about this now? That’ll have been found when you got arrested.’

  ‘No. I’ve still got it.’ Mark manages to inject a suitable amount of false pride in his voice.

  ‘How the hell did you manage that? Once my mother discovered that fucking hippo and my arsehole of a father went to the police, our house got searched pretty thoroughly.’ The suspicion is back in Adam’s voice. Good job Mark’s on a roll with his story.

  ‘It was tiny, remember. Easy to hide inside a broken Power Rangers toy I had from years before, in an old box in my wardrobe. The police searched the house, sure, but they’d already found the knife you tossed. They weren’t looking for the murder weapon any longer so the whole thing was more or less a routine exercise.’