Stone Cold

by J. D. Weston

  The days that followed were not guilt-ridden. Harvey had no sleepless nights over his actions. The truth is, he slept better than he had for a long time. If the police drove past while Harvey jogged along the streets, he didn’t lower his head. Harvey didn’t stay in hiding either as many other killers might have. The fact that Harvey soon learned was that the police didn’t actually try to find the culprit at all. Minimum effort. Harvey had done them a favour.

  Since then, Harvey had targeted known sex offenders either wanted for their offences or recently released from prison. He’d honed all the skills that Julios had taught him on the men that society rejected. Each time he’d given a little bit of retribution back to Hannah. But he wouldn’t fully rest until he’d found the man that did it. With each kill, Harvey had developed a style, a way to glean a confession, and had discovered various ways to kill slowly, prolonging the suffering. It was, in Harvey’s mind, the suffering that brought balance to their actions. Once the balance had been achieved, Harvey would finish them.

  Harvey rode past Potters Bar police station to get a look at the layout, then he turned into a side road and worked his way through the back streets so he could take another pass at the police station.

  According to several reliable news reports on the internet, Shaun Tyson, Harvey’s latest target was due to be released from Potters Bar police station, pending his court appearance. Harvey would watch him, he would plan, and then he’d execute his plan, just like Julios had taught him.

  As Harvey turned into Cotton Road, which would take him back to the adjoining High Street where the police station was, he saw that a white van had pulled alongside the curb. The passenger was talking to a man on the street through the van’s window. At first, Harvey interpreted the scene as somebody asking a local for directions, but something about it wasn’t right. The man on the street had the hood of his jacket pulled up around his face, and was definitely up to something; it just looked and felt wrong to Harvey.

  Harvey slowed to allow himself a good look at the nervous man on the footpath. He was sure it was Tyson, the descriptions matched and it made sense that he’d be on the back streets and not walking through the centre of town. But who were the men in the van?

  Harvey passed them but couldn’t just stop in the road, it would be too obvious. He rode to the end of the road and turned left onto the High Street, then immediately found a place to turn round. But by the time he rejoined the traffic and pulled back into the side road, both the van and Tyson were gone.

  Gunning the throttle, Harvey reached the end of Cotton Road, where he was presented with a choice of left or right and no sign of the van in either direction. He chose right, knowing that a left turn would lead him back into the maze of back streets. There were thousands of white transit vans in the UK, the chances of him finding it again were slim, but Harvey knew that the people he hunted usually turned up someplace, sometime. Patience was the key and Harvey had plenty of it.

  Harvey fell in with the traffic on the M25 and cruised, while deep in thought. Who would have picked Tyson up? Did he have friends? Did he know the men in the van? Ideas bounced around his mind while he rode in the middle lane at a comfortable sixty-five miles per hour. Cars shot by in the outer lanes and weaved in amongst other cars in an endless mishmash of average people who had to be somewhere more urgently than Harvey.

  One car decided to pull into the middle lane directly in front of Harvey. The move caused Harvey to brake; he quickly but casually changed lanes. Harvey remained calm, an invaluable trait that he’d learned from Julios. He changed down while offering a touch of brakes, and the car moved across yet another lane without any indication. A roar of angry horns from the slower, and less agile lorries behind chorused their disapproval. Harvey rode on but watched the dangerous driver in his mirror for a moment before returning his attention to the traffic in front of him. It was then that he noticed the white van in front that had begun to pull off the motorway onto the slip road.

  Harvey slowed a little and moved over into the next lane. It was the same van, he’d made a mental note of the number plate. He hung back and put some distance between them.

  A few miles later he found himself on the M11 northbound; the roads were quiet which made staying invisible difficult, so he dropped back some more. The van turned off onto the A11, then left the main road once more for the winding lanes that filtered throughout the English countryside. The smaller lanes worked in Harvey’s favour, and meant that Harvey was able to keep a safe distance and watch the white van, which was prominent against the green hedgerows. It turned left into another smaller road and then turned right into an old farm two hundred yards later. Harvey stopped his bike, and stood atop the hill overlooking the little house and its two surrounding buildings. He studied the area around the property. It was surrounded by fields that long ago probably belonged to the farm.

  Harvey saw a route across the fields to the rear of the property. It was early evening, and darkness fell early. A gap in the hedge that lined the road had enough tree cover to hide the bike from passers-by. After hiding his bike, he began the walk on foot, using the fields as cover to get down the hill. Then he crossed the smaller lane that the buildings were on, and made his way to the rear of the property. He stayed in the shadows the entire time, moving slowly and cautiously, alert for any sign of movement.

  He thought about what Julios would do and quickly came to the conclusion that Julios would walk the perimeter, make a note of the security and identify any weaknesses or entry points, as well as exit points. Keeping to the perimeter, Harvey walked the long way around the two-acre patch of plowed earth. He came to the rear of the property, which had an eight-foot brick wall surrounding it, to protect the small cluster of buildings from unpredictable strong winds and prying eyes.

  Harvey remained motionless in the shadows of the trees for a while, listening to the sounds of the open countryside. He moved to another patch of trees and bushes further along the wall, keeping an eye out for motion sensors or cameras. Harvey found the perimeter to be solid until he reached the rear of the property, where there was an old gateway in the wall. It was presumably for farm vehicles and machinery to get out into the fields beyond, back from when the farmhouse had been a working one.

  There were no cameras, so Harvey tested the strength of the double-gates by carefully leaning on the panels, hoping one of them was loose. No panels moved or budged, but the door itself opened inward a fraction as if the deadbolt into the floor hadn’t been properly located. The doors creaked open a fraction and stopped once more as the thin chain across them drew taught. The metallic sound was loud in the dark and silent night. A mistake, thought Harvey. He needed to slow down. The gap between the doors was big enough for him to slip his arm through, but he waited in case the sound had caught somebody’s attention.

  He waited Julios’ standard one minute but heard no other sounds, so he slid his arm through the gap to feel around for the chain release. Before he slipped the chain from its hook, he withdrew his arm and stopped for another full minute. No sounds anywhere.

  The standard one minute wait was Julios’ way of ensuring an entry remained undetected. If a guard or a dog had heard a noise, Harvey would have heard footsteps or the dog barking.

  He quietly slipped the chain off its hook, stepped through into the rear courtyard and pushed the gate closed, but not fully, he left one side slightly ajar for a quick exit. The ground inside was gravel, but inside the perimeter wall, rows of conifer trees stood in a raised brick flower bed covered in scattered tree bark, presumably to prevent weeds coming through, just like John’s gardener did at the house in Theydon Bois.

  Harvey stepped into the shadows of the conifers and worked his way around the rear of the house; he was hidden by the trees and left no footprints in the bark. Harvey’s senses were heightened by the small dose of adrenaline that his body had released into his blood. He was in his element.

  The cluster of buildings comprised of three rectangle
structures in a U-shape. The centre building was two storeys and clearly the main house, while the two adjoining side structures each only had a ground floor. Harvey was stood at the rear of the U-shape.

  Two lights were on, both on the ground floor of the left-hand side building. One of the lights lit a large room with a few fancy, leather couches in various seating arrangements and one large desk at the far end. The office reminded Harvey of John’s office in the house, where, years ago, John’s men would come for gatherings and meetings to discuss the firm.

  Further along the building, the second light showed what looked like a small bedroom as wide as two beds. Possibly a small guest room, it had a cot and a wall mounted TV that was switched off. Harvey waited, he thought he saw the movement of a shadow on the plain, featureless wall. Then somebody stood up and moved to the window. Harvey froze. The person drew the thin net curtains back and tried to open the window, but it was locked. The man stared out into the darkness, looking directly at where Harvey stood in the shadows. Harvey was sure he couldn’t be seen. He was also sure that the man he was looking at was Shaun Tyson.

  “Found you,” he whispered to himself.

  “Get in,” the passenger's voice said, and he nodded to indicate the open side door.

  “Eh? Who are you?” Shaun was frightened, he knew people were out to get him now that he’d been caught. But he hadn’t been charged, they couldn't prove anything, not yet, but these men didn’t know that.

  “Are you getting in or what?” the man’s voice said in a thick East London accent. Shaun peered into the dark space, the rear of the van looked empty. He thought about it, they weren't violent, they hadn’t put a bag on his head and manhandled him into the back. He wasn’t being kidnapped.

  “Shaun, seriously mate, I won't ask you again. Get in the van, it’s not safe out here,” the man said, his voice was getting slightly worked up. A motorbike turned slowly into the side road ahead of them and made its way along the straight road toward the van; the rider's helmet turned to look at Shaun as he rode past, but Shaun couldn’t see the rider’s eyes through the visor.

  “Who are you? How do you know my name? You can’t expect me to just climb into the back of a van and not ask?” said Shaun.

  “Shaun, we are here to stop you getting into any more trouble. Do you know how many people in this place want to rip your nuts off right now?”

  “No,” Shaun mumbled.

  “All of them, get in the van.” The man finished with a backward jerk of his thumb and wound his window up as a sign that the chat was over.

  Shaun climbed timidly into the back of the van and slid the door shut. He sat on the wooden panelling over the wheel arch; he was in total darkness. He felt the motion of the van pulling away from the curb and wondered what he’d just done. Doubts about his decision went through his mind; what a stupid idea. What would they have done if he’d run away? Would they have caught him? Probably. If they’d have caught him, then he’d probably have a bag on his head and would have been manhandled into the van. He tried to hold it together, but the past forty-eight hours in the police station had been horrific. He’d been beaten; sly digs from officers as they moved him around had left bruises on his ribs and legs. But it was the looks he got from them that were worse. He was a degenerate and the looks they gave him told him so. He’d fallen to the lowest rung of society’s ladder and become an outcast. The hated. He knew that the same officers that told him to go home and not leave the house would be part of the mob that, should he venture away from the relative safety of his home, would rip him apart, balls first.

  He felt so alone.

  The journey seemed endless, although the driver was calm, made no sudden turns and braked gently. Presumably because of the cargo. He tried to guess where they were taking him; he tried to follow the roads in his head. But a small turn here and there had left him doubting his location until they hit the M25 and the van picked up speed.

  The M25 ran around London in a full circle. It cut through the countryside that surrounded the city, the green belt, Shaun had heard it called. He always thought it ironic that the green belt had a river of diesel and petrol fumes spewed into it twenty-four hours a day.

  After more than an hour of being sat in the darkness, the van pulled off the motorway. A few minutes later, Shaun felt the van slow, and then turn. He heard the indicator clicking away and wondered if kidnappers generally followed the rules of the road. But he guessed they were avoiding getting tugged for a road offence and risk having the police find him in the back. That would raise a few eyebrows and take some answering.

  The reality of Shaun’s mistake began to sink in. He’d stepped out from the police station and was set free until the court date when, though it was her word against his, he would surely be found guilty. The officer had told Shaun that the date would be prioritised so the family could move on with the knowledge that he was behind bars, and their daughter could sleep at night.

  Shaun thought about his mum. She would be worried when he didn’t come home. He had let her down, and he could never ever even begin to explain what he’d done, and why he’d done it to her; the girl. He didn't even know himself why he’d done it. A dark side of him had taken control.

  He knew though, deep down, that she was his mum, and she’d always love him. Though he might never see her again. He pictured her sitting at the kitchen table on her own. In Shaun’s imagination, she wore her tatty dressing gown as she always did in the mornings. She drank her tea and smoked as she always did. Shaun was sure she’d be smoking too much, and definitely crying. He wondered if the tears would be for her lost son, or for her monster son. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he didn’t come home again. His mum would be devastated, of course, but at least she’d be able to walk the streets with her pride intact. As soon as the court date came around, he’d be charged, and she’d be labelled as the woman with the monster son.

  Shaun’s head filled with warm waves of blood, and his eyes began to burn. The tears followed. Hot tears that ran down his bright red face. Snot rolled from his nose and hung in the darkness until he caught breath enough to sniff. He sat silently on the wheel arch in the darkness, alone.

  He’d end it as soon he got the chance. It would be closure for his mum, and hopefully, she’d remember him for all the times they had before. Hopefully, the last few weeks of his life would be forgotten in mourning. He pictured her again; he imagined the photo of them both from one Christmas, the photo was on the fridge in the kitchen. Shaun looked like an embarrassed teenager, his mum looked like she’d won the lottery. She was so happy. He hoped it would be those memories that rose to the top of the pile.

  The van pulled forward after a short pause, and dropped down onto what felt and sounded like a gravel track driveway full of potholes. He heard the sound of puddles swishing as the van's tyres rolled through them, throwing water up onto the underside of the vehicle. Then the van stopped and shuddered as the engine was killed.

  He heard the front doors shut, and squinted his eyes when the side door was unlocked and pulled open; the inside of the van filled with harsh light. The man was silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Come on. Out.”

  Shaun hesitated, afraid to move. The journey had allowed his mind to make all sorts of wild presumptuous guesses, but none of them followed up with any course of action.

  “Are you deaf or something?” The voice came again, “Out!”

  Shaun heard the driver call from the other side of the van, “Come on, Lenny, what are you playing at?”

  “It’s not me, I can’t get him out of the van. He wouldn’t get in without a note from the queen, now he won't get out?”

  “Well tell him he can sleep in there if he wants, or he can come inside and have a nice cup of tea.”

  The man at the door spoke quietly. Shaun’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the light so he could see the man’s face more clearly.

  “Mate, we’re not going to hurt you, we’re going to help y
ou. Trust me.” He held out his hand to help Shaun up, “Come on.”

  Reluctantly, Shaun rose and stood hunched against the low ceiling of the van. He timidly stepped out onto the gravel and took in the surroundings.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “You’ll see, this way.” Lenny slammed the door and followed the other man into the building.

  Shaun was led from the van into a converted barn fitted out to be an office, with a small kitchen and a bedroom off the short corridor. The wooden floor inside the office looked expensive, and the finish of the decor was immaculate.

  “Take a seat, Shaun,” said the wiry old man who was sat behind the desk at the far end of the large room. The old man was small with thick horn-rimmed glasses and looked like wealth had given him the confidence of a large man; his eyes had a brutal intelligence behind them. He offered Shaun the seat with an open palm, indicating that he should sit in that particular seat, not any of the comfy reddish, leather sofas that were scattered around coffee tables.

  “Lenny tells me you often need telling more than once, and that maybe you’re a bit slow. Well, Shaun, my old son, I’ll tell you this once, so listen very carefully.” The old man cleared his throat, “I do not intend on repeating anything I say just so that you can stand and stare at me gormlessly. Understood?” Shaun nodded. “Now, sit down and listen.”

  Shaun sat in the offered seat and placed his hands on his lap as if he were in an interview.