by P. R. Black
‘Wait!’ was all Rupert said. Then the knife quickly and expertly plunged home just under the jawline.
Rupert’s body tried to arch backwards, but it was held immobile. His eyes screwed tight and his teeth clamped shut. He emitted one quick snort of pain or astonishment as the blood gushed out.
Another savage thrust from the knife, and the blood gouted in a surreal, near-horizontal splatter, dousing the stacks of data CDs in the background.
Becky watched as the figure standing behind Rupert began to saw at the gory ruin of his neck, rills of blood coursing over the fingers of two large gloved hands.
She sat there in complete stupefaction as the blade reached bone, finding a seam somewhere and sawing through with a sound like skis slicing the snow. She heard heavy breathing, then a wet wrench, and then she finally remembered to clamp her eyes shut.
After silence returned, she made herself open them.
She saw Rupert’s body, shoulders relaxed but nothing above them, his black clothes having taken on a soggy sheen in the flickering gloom.
She saw Rupert’s head placed on the desk, in extreme close-up, his expression blank, jaw sagging, eyes closed.
She saw a pair of bloody hands, smoothing away stray hairs from Rupert’s brow.
She saw one finger dipped in the spreading pool of blood beneath the head, then tracing two tear-tracks down each cheek.
The fingers forced Rupert’s eyes open. His head was glaring right at the screen, at Becky. There was no light in those eyes now.
The killer spoke. Deep, harsh, rasping.
‘Can he still see? I like to imagine that he still can. There may be a crackle of activity in that brain of his, even now. Some little spark.’
It was a voice she knew.
Becky could not muster her own voice; it had been stolen from her throat.
Then the killer bent down and levelled his head close to Rupert’s.
He wore the mask. It had to be the same one; the skull of an animal, maybe a stag, possibly a bull, but sewn up and reconstituted in sections, a yellowish patchwork death’s head. Behind that black-and-white pattern were the eyes she could not forget – huge, black, with just a hint of white, like the corona around an eclipse. They radiated hate, malice, perhaps a trace of amusement.
A finger pointed towards one of Rupert’s eyes.
‘I’ll see you soon.’
He raised a hand, the material of the glove infused with blood, and wiggled the fingers – a child’s goodbye.
Then the connection was cut.
25
Becky had never liked the white, ergonomically designed edging on her kitchen table, so she had no problem with obliterating the laptop against it. One swing was all it required; she gave it everything she had, raised overhead, crying out as she brought it down.
The machine exploded in shards, splinters and wiring with an alarming crackle. She stamped on the hard drive until its front end appeared melted, and then flat. She brought her heel down on anything that looked in good working order, then snapped the pieces. Keys broke off like squares of chocolate, a jumbled snowstorm of characters; an exclamation mark cartwheeled across the floor.
After sweeping up the bits she turned to the mobile phone Rupert had called her on. Her breathing and heart rate were not under control, nor would they be for a while. Tears dripped off her chin and the end of her nose. She had just placed her finger on the off-switch when the phone went off.
She allowed it to ring for a few moments, numb in the flashing blue glare. Whoever was calling wasn’t using Rupert’s phone.
And Rupert was the only person who had ever had the number.
She answered. ‘Hello.’
The breathing told her everything she needed to know. It was someone slightly winded by exertion. She could tell by the muffled quality of his voice: he was still wearing the mask.
‘Hello again, Becky.’
She knew the voice immediately, of course. It was one you wouldn’t forget no matter how long you’d waited to hear it again – like a hated teacher, an old friend, or perhaps your aeons-dead father.
European – eastern, surely. Very rough; perhaps a smoker’s voice, but not uncultured. Maybe the passage of time had smoothed some edges, or roughened others, but it was clear as day.
As he spoke, Becky’s head felt like the inside of a bellows. It might reverberate forever, from this moment on.
‘Who is this?’
‘You know who I am.’
Becky said nothing. There was no point; there was no doubt.
‘I killed your mother. I killed your father. I killed your sister. I killed your baby brother. And it was the best day of my life.’
No phrase came to her lips; no riposte, no comeback, no glib retort. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to cut the call.
‘And now, I’ve killed your red-headed friend here. Do you have anything to say? After all this time?’
There was nothing. He might as well have had her by the throat. Everything in her flat was unfamiliar, warped, a hall of mirrors, a funhouse after dark. All that was familiar now looked alien; every shadow radiated threat.
‘It seems you are trying to find me.’ He sounded amused.
She croaked, ‘It seems I was getting close. You wouldn’t have done this otherwise.’
‘Did you miss me? Do you want me again?’ He chuckled dryly.
‘Perhaps we should meet up? I’d like that.’
‘That’s good! You’re thinking. That’s a start. I knew I had a bright spark. I spotted your talent, all right. That’s why I let you go, of course.’
‘I escaped.’
‘Did you really? I plan very well. I know every path, entrance and exit, where I carry out my work. You wouldn’t have got away. You know that by now, don’t you? I was meticulous.’
‘I don’t buy that. I think you got sloppy. You made mistakes, and I got free. Maybe you got over-excited?’
He paused. ‘You know, there are times when I look back, and I wonder… You were so very young, of course, but… perhaps I awoke something in you? Only you can know for sure, of course. Tell me: at night, do you still dream of it?’
Becky made a fist with her free hand. She forced herself not to disappear into the flashbacks, into the memories that still haunted her. She clenched her teeth for a second or two before speaking. But her voice was calm.
‘You left a loose end, didn’t you? That loose end was me. I think you’re going to have to close it. I’m the danger you can’t afford to have. So long as I’m alive, there’s a chance you’ll be caught.’
He exploded, in what sounded like genuine mirth. ‘Oh, you are a loose end – but a deliberate one. When I started to build my career, I began to crave more and more intense pleasures. Higher stakes. There were a few near-things, but I was just too well prepared. Too well controlled.’
‘You weren’t controlled. Not that I remember. You were the opposite. You were an animal.’
He ignored this. ‘One day – not long before I met you, in fact – I decided that there was one thing I hadn’t tried yet. One high that I hadn’t sampled. It seemed such a simple thing – I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before.’
Becky remained silent. Keep him talking. Take something, anything from this.
‘I realised: what could be better than to leave one alive? It’s a great pleasure to take a life. It’s an even better one to make them suffer first. You know, your sister died with the most beatific look in her eyes? It was like a figure from Caravaggio. Well, ignoring what happened to her face. I admit, even for me, that was harsh. But I do appreciate beauty. And she was a beauty. That’s why I chose to keep you alive, and indulged myself with her. She had something you don’t. I took more pleasure in her.’
‘You didn’t choose to keep me alive. It’s a lie. Why keep saying it? I know the truth.’
‘Think about it, Becky. Tripping on a tree root? You think that would have slowed me long enough to let you go? The little
double-bluff you pulled with the knife dropped beside the hawthorn bush, while you ran the other way? Smart thinking; when we are pushed to our limits, we find solutions, don’t we? But I let you escape. I used the time to prepare the scene for my departure. Though I admit, seeing your terror… hearing the sound you made… that cry of fear. You know, there are some sounds that touch human souls to their very core. Babies crying. A cat purring. Or a young girl screaming in terror. It’s a pitiful sound. You can’t help responding to it.’
She took to her feet, pacing the flat. ‘Interesting hobbies you must have had as a child. So tell me this, genius. If you wanted me to escape, why did you scrabble round, shouting and bawling? I heard you do that. You didn’t sound like a man with a plan. You sounded like the kind of lunatic you see under a bridge. Roaring at the traffic.’
‘Wasn’t it convincing? I’m a fine actor. I have to be, in my chosen career. The mask has to fit. It’s all part of a very careful plan.’
‘And I guess you just happened to plan for someone to come along at the right time to save me? Did you set that up, too?’
‘You haven’t asked me why I kept you alive.’
And you haven’t answered my question about Leif. ‘Whatever you say, it’ll be bullshit. So spit it out. Get it over with.’
‘I kept you alive because you’re my ultimate goal. You’re my masterpiece. A life I created. You’re my dark daughter. Every single day, you fight against the darkness. I am that darkness. I made it; I gave it to you. Because of it, your life is mine to control. All of this stems from that one fine morning, in the deep dark forest.’
‘Your masterpiece,’ Becky said, numbly.
‘That’s right. The nightmares you suffer… the post-traumatic stress … the dark shadow cast over every single human interaction you can ever have… the memories that haunt you when you make love… the panic, the hand about your throat. The blood that roars in your veins, the stutter in your brain chemistry, the barrier you can’t climb over. The heart racing in your chest right now, right fucking now. I am its maker. I can almost hear it. Is your heart beating fast?’
Becky resisted the urge to snatch the phone away from her head and finish it like the laptop.
‘I made that happen. That was me. I was the creator. The architect. You belong to me. I own you.’
‘So what is the end goal? What’s the purpose? There must be a reason. Shall we meet and talk about it?’
‘We’ll meet when I wish it, and not before,’ he said simply. ‘What I want you to do for now is exist. I want you to keep going, and to know that the hand which grips your shoulder belongs to me. I can keep you fixed in place or push you in other directions – or off a cliff, if I choose. I am still here, I am still watching, and I am always waiting.’
‘I’m not buying your explanation. You tried to kill me. You told me everything you were going to do to me, just like you did with Clara. Keeping me alive… your masterpiece? It sounds like something you told yourself to feel better about fucking up. The word is rationalisation.’
‘That sounds like something your therapist told you.’
‘I am looking for you. There’s only so long you can stay hidden.’
‘Indeed. So are the police, I see. Lord, but they are persistent. I drove at least one of them to his grave, you know. A drinker. Well, if he wasn’t before, he was after he came across my work. But the question for you is… do they know about your handiwork?’
‘What?’
‘Did you ever tell the police what you did, Becky? I wonder if they ever knew. I always assumed they had buried it. Perhaps they realised it was a horror too far; they turned a blind eye. They understood. It was never made official, was it? But it strikes me that they simply didn’t know. That you didn’t ever tell them. And that interests me. That interests me very much. Perhaps, if they knew, you would be a suspect?’
Becky’s fear had almost fully worn itself out, now. It had been substituted for a cool, clear river of anger. She stood tall and straight, shoulders taut with tension.
‘I can tell you one thing that is the absolute truth,’ she said. ‘You’re scared. Aren’t you? You’ve just done something desperate. That’s not the work of a rational man. You have things to lose. That’s why you’ve acted. You’ve tried to shut me down because I’ve got close to you. And I want you to know: I’ll get closer. I’ll get so close, you won’t even see me.’
‘You can’t stop me. It’s impossible.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ she spluttered. ‘What are you, I wonder? A banker? Civil servant? Someone with a home, a mortgage? You’ve probably got a family. A wife, drugged to the eyeballs, maybe self-medicated. Too scared to leave. Or too stupid.’
She heard only breathing, in response. She allowed this to continue for a couple of beats.
‘She’ll be a doormat. I doubt you’re the tolerant type. Do you have a son or a daughter? They’ll turn against you, for sure. How does a mass murderer deal with a stroppy teenager? Sweetness and light? A soft touch? It’s all going to come crashing down. You must know this. The end is coming.’
He sighed. ‘So sad. You don’t know what’s coming your way. You don’t realise how tightly I have you on a leash.’
‘Really? What am I going to do next?’
‘Well, if I was you, I’d contact your French friend. But now I must take my leave; I have one or two duties to attend to here. I do hope you’ll excuse me. But we’ll speak again, child of mine. Dear, sweet, fresh Becky. What are you like, with a few years behind you, some miles on the clock? A wild one, I bet. My wild one.’
He hung up. She didn’t hesitate. Becky picked up one of the burner phones, set up in a row on the kitchen tabletop.
‘Hello?’ He was outdoors, somewhere public, going by the voices. Perhaps a market; a distant machine-gun burst of French in the background sounded like a sales pitch.
‘Leif? It’s me. Becky. The English girl. Don’t hang up. Your life is in danger.’
26
Inspector Hanlon should have been a butcher, Becky decided. That was who he would have been in a children’s picture book, rather than a policeman. His ruddy complexion, the girth, the hair bristling at his earlobes, and the tweed jacket, all spoke of flesh, sizzling fat and bloody greaseproof paper.
At that particular moment, anger had made him even more rubicund, and he tucked his shirt in and squared his shoulders before speaking.
‘I’ll be honest, Becky. I suspect you might have gone ever so slightly off-message. Trips to Europe… this stuff in the papers… the detail… There are some things we hold back. And with good reason. People get in touch, you know. People pretending to be involved. There’s been a few already. Nutters, for want of a better word. Attention seekers. They don’t help. We have to check them out. These details are how we weed ’em out.’
‘I didn’t let slip every detail. I hope you’re not telling me what I can and can’t say to people, Inspector. The goal is to catch this guy. Nothing else matters. I recall you saying that in the run-up to the Crimewatch Special appeal.’
There was silence in Hanlon’s office for a moment, aside from the gentle roar of London traffic outside. The room was a complete mess apart from the desk, which Becky supposed had been swept entirely clean, papers, coffee cups, dirty cutlery and canteen trays all shovelled into the drawer at his knees seconds before she entered. Inspector Hanlon rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. His shoulders seemed to block out the light; Becky decided she wouldn’t like to see him lose his temper.
‘Becky, I can’t stress how important it is that we cooperate fully. There are a number of reasons for this. First of all, we need to liaise constantly. There is a danger in putting yourself front-and-centre like this. If this guy is still out there, there’s every chance he could come after you. It’s unlikely, but given the nature of the crime, and the type of person we’re dealing with here, it’s not impossible. I like to have every possible angle covered.’ He sighed, and the shoulders relax
ed a little. ‘I’m not trying to curtail your human rights. I’m not trying to disrupt your freedom of speech. I want you to be safe.’
‘I want you to catch this guy – I’ll share everything I know with you. We want the same thing, I can guarantee you that.’
A cough came from the side of the room, where Hanlon’s other two guests sat tight against the blinds. Seated against the back wall were Labelle and Marcus.
Inspector Marcus, he of the lop-sided smirk, said: ‘I don’t think you’re telling the truth, Becky.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Well…’ Marcus consulted some notes. ‘It looks like you didn’t mention a word to Inspector Hanlon about your trip to Europe. That’s hardly close cooperation.’
Becky sighed. ‘I’ve already explained that to you. It was research for an article. I’ve even given you a copy of what I’ve written so far – my editor would blow a gasket if he knew that.’
Marcus held up a hand that was probably meant to be placatory but came across as patronising. ‘Okay. We appreciate that. But you also met up with the reporter, Rosie Banning, did you not?’
‘It wasn’t a rendezvous. I’d never met her before in my life. She followed me – she’s probably been following me for some time, in fact.’
There was a death-ray chill to Labelle’s eyes. She said, ‘You also contacted Leif Fauré, did you not? More than once, in fact.’
Becky’s guts contracted. Leif must have got in touch with the police, after she’d called him. But why, then, had he arranged a meeting with her? ‘That’s true, yes.’
‘Why was that?’ Labelle asked.
Becky closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He’s the missing link.’
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
‘He’s a straight line between me, the killer, and that place. He is the missing piece.’
Hanlon had studied this exchange warily. ‘It seems to me that you’re taking an awful lot on, Becky. If I was to suggest you were carrying out an investigation off your own back, how would you respond to that?’
