by P. R. Black
‘Sounds like an express,’ Becky said. ‘It’ll come through here at a fair old lick. The trains over here are awesome, aren’t they? Put the ones back home in the shade.’ She braced her foot on the stones bordering the tracks, gazing into the heat haze in the distance. ‘I’m not kidding. You’ll just be another suicide. I’ll leave you on the track. You’ll be another mess to clear up. All you have to do is say a name. If you can. Just one name. Who are you working for?’
‘Tullington,’ the man wheezed, at last.
This hit her so hard, she cut it very fine, only remembering to pull the man completely away from the tracks when the train appeared on the horizon. It hurtled past them, at a scarcely conceivable velocity, and if any faces gaped at the two figures on the verge, they were lost to a blur of momentum.
33
Rosie Banning sucked down the last of the pina colada until it gurgled. The sun had brought out a light dusting of freckles on her cheeks which reminded Becky of a favourite dolly in her childhood. Becky recalled that if you’d rubbed the dolly’s belly, it gave off a whiff of ice cream and strawberries.
‘I quite like these,’ Rosie said, pushing the foam-rimmed glass aside. ‘I’m surprised. I thought they were like something your grandma might drink.’
Becky sipped her fresh orange juice. ‘You remember the song? Radio 2? A Ken Bruce classic.’
‘Who’s Ken Bruce?’
‘I hope you’re joking. Never mind. What have you got for me?’
They were still in Spain, in the fishing town where the Ramirez family had vanished in 1992. A Tiki bar on the seafront had seemed a little gaudy when they’d driven past it first time, but it had drawn them in nonetheless. Inside, everything gleamed; it had only been opened a matter of weeks, and the leather on the benches was smooth and the pinewood tables and fittings largely unmarked with graffiti. It had been marketed for surfers and many of the people who passed in and out were in neoprene bodysuits, their hair sometimes clinging wet with the sea.
There was even a place to park one’s surfboard, right next to a freshwater shower on the edge of the beach. Becky had felt a dull ache upon first sight of this place, which had only just begun to show up on tourist websites and yearly ‘best-of’ lists in Sunday supplements.
The weather was perfect. It couldn’t have been less of a holiday, but Becky’s brain was duped by the blue water, the rising heat, the sugar-candy sand, and above all, the white-crested waves.
Rosie turned round a laptop computer. ‘Your theory has made a bit of a splash in the community.’
‘I’m amazed no one put it together before now.’
‘This is the point – no one had heard of these other cases before now. There’s so little information out there. And the police wouldn’t admit to anything.’
‘I got a very polite “we’ll check it out”, when I told them about it. The cases that are unsolved are said to be unrelated. There’s just a little difference in each case, something off about the MO – enough to raise doubt that it’s not the same killer. Then there’s the knife traced to Miles Crandley. That’s the new evidence they thought they had turned up. It seems the DNA evidence is inconclusive and probably couldn’t be used to bring a prosecution. And there’s DNA evidence here and there that doesn’t match, which I must admit counts a lot of cases out.’
Rosie almost bounced on the bench in excitement. ‘But that’s where you might be wrong. A couple of our guys reckon a lot of these murder scenes were staged to raise doubt in anyone who might be looking for a link. The knife left at the scene in the first French case, with the fingerprints no one can match. He might as well have painted “Red Herring Here” on the walls. It’s far too convenient. But that’s by the by. You haven’t asked me for my news.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘We reckon we found another case. In the UK.’
Becky raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Orkney. 1984. It’s not as well-known as you would think.’
‘The Sloans. I know it. I had heard something about that before… but details were hard to find. I spoke to one of the local police, and he basically shut the door on me. Couldn’t work out if he was scared, or just tired.’
‘Well – it’s a big connection. The case involved a family of self-sufficiency nuts, with their own farm. Watched a bit too much of The Good Life, maybe. Went off-grid. Mother and father, six kids. All of them dead; heads removed, bodies burned. All except the father, who seemed to have done it; he hanged himself from a tree just outside the farm. Ritualistic elements, they say. A fatal accident inquiry determined it was murder/suicide; he’d gone mad up there during a hard winter after a lot of their livestock died. Self-sustaining wasn’t sustainable. Not enough for them all to eat, the dream dying, kind of thing. But there was one other thing that rang alarm bells. This was found written in blood on one of the walls which survived the fire.’ Rosie clicked on the mousepad and turned the laptop round.
‘Jesus Christ. It’s him. Or damned close to it.’
‘That’s what we reckoned. Given the year, we could be looking at a prototype version of your friend’s motif.’
On the screen, sketched in thin, brutal strokes, was something very close to the bone mask.
‘Looks a bit like the devil, too, of course, and that’s what the police and the media focused on. Devil worship. Paganism. Self-sufficiency nutter loses his mind, chops up his family. A sacrifice. Some even saw significance in the bloke’s manner of death. He’s the right way up, but his leg was in a funny position. Like the Hanged Man, from the Tarot card. Um, I guess I should warn you, this next shot…’
Becky waved her away. The next image on the laptop was a dead man. Even in black and white you could make out the unearthly tinge and the swollen tongue which gave away anoxia as the cause of death; there was an almost comic leer in the blood-suffused eyes and the jaunty tilt of his stretched neck. He was young, Becky saw, younger than she was, with long naturally curly hair which Marc Bolan would have envied. Helpfully inset, was an image of the Hanged Man Tarot card. Becky scribbled down some quick notes, intrigued.
‘The Tarot thing is new.’
‘Could just be a coincidence,’ Rosie said, frowning. ‘He might have set that way depending on how the wind was blowing.’
‘What does the card mean, again? Is it like a choice, or a contradiction?’
Rosie smiled. ‘Hard to say. The Tarot is like that. Open to interpretation. Could mean a dilemma, a fork in the road. Could refer to an old way of punishing a traitor, and nothing to do with the Tarot. Thought to refer to Judas.’
‘So if our guy was behind this, Mr Orkney could be an associate? Punished for something?’
‘Bit of a leap, there, Becky, but it’s possible. As far as the police are concerned, there’s nothing sinister about it, though. Nothing beyond your regular family murder/suicide, anyway. What was more interesting was the location.’ Rosie called up an online map.
‘A stone circle?’ Becky asked.
‘How did you know?’
‘Oh… just a hunch.’
‘Yep. Standing stones. Thousands of years old. Early Celts, druids. Picts. Whatever you call them. Hardly any of them left, now. It’s kind of overgrown.’
‘Have they accurately dated the stones?’
‘No one’s quite sure. They reckon about the same time as the Callanish stones on the Hebrides. Neolithic. Ritual space. So that’s a direct line between where two families died, taking into account what happened to yours. It’s not an exact fit, but it ticks plenty of boxes – certainly there are more direct links than folk ever cottoned on to. The drawing on the wall is the giveaway, for me.’
‘This is good stuff. Any sexual element to the Orkney family deaths?’
‘No one knows. There wasn’t much evidence left after the fire. The house and all the bodies were burned. But their heads came off at some point, we know that much.’ Rosie raised the straw from her glass, and let the final dr
ops spill out. ‘I think I’ll get another. You fancy one?’
‘I’m good with OJ, for now.’
Rosie gathered her ankles and slid off the table. With a two-piece bikini, a sarong and a frankly ludicrous sunhat, Becky couldn’t decide if the girl was over- or under-dressed for the occasion. She had fine, shapely legs which certainly drew the attention from many at the bar and elsewhere. Something in Becky – either predator or prey – was grateful to have Rosie running some interference.
Since the episode with Leif, Becky had wanted less complicated company around. Rosie had been delighted with the request to come to Spain. She confessed early on that she wanted to write a book about the case.
Without telling her what had happened to Rupert or the phone call, Becky had warned Rosie that being round her could be dangerous.
And at that point, Rosie had simply smiled at Becky, gestured round the bay, and asked what she was drinking.
Orange juice, was Becky’s answer. From now on.
A group of surfers were stationed to Rosie’s right as she ordered her drink – loud, brash and florid-faced after their brush with the elements. One of them, a tall, brawny blond man with thick red cheeks that gave him an incongruously babyish aspect, approached Rosie. He had a deck of cards in his hand, and he used them to facilitate a clumsy grab for her attention. Some trick or other, one hand gesticulating, the other going about its furtive work, expertly separating the card Rosie had chosen from its fellows. Rosie watched the trick, and even gave polite applause before collecting her drink and returning to the table. The blond man pouted for a second or two, then shrugged. In the drama of this gesture, he’d managed to conceal his deck of cards without Becky noticing how or where, which annoyed her.
‘You always look at the hand which isn’t doing anything,’ Becky said, as Rosie returned. ‘That’s the one that’s working the hardest.’
‘I guessed that. I was thinking about saying a completely different card to the one I picked out, just to fuck with him. But some guys see humiliation as encouragement, or a challenge, and he looks like a nuisance. Anyway. Fair exchange: I’ve given you my news. How about yours?’
Becky flipped back a few pages on her notebook. ‘Okay. Letters. There’s been a new development. It seems that Leif was Clara’s mystery pen-pal, after all.’
‘Leif lied?’
‘Oh yeah. Leif lied. But that’s not the most interesting thing. I’m 99 per cent sure that the handwriting on the letters from the American girl belongs to my mother.’
‘Christ. That’s big. What’s the connection?’
‘There are loads of possibilities. I’m not ruling anything out. It could be complete coincidence, and Clara and my mother were looking for the same thing and ended up writing to the same kid.’
‘You mean… your mum was looking for men through lonely hearts’ columns? And got the same man as your sister?’
Becky nodded. There was no hint of annoyance in her voice. ‘Unlikely, but that’s the obvious conclusion to be drawn. We’d be silly to ignore it.’
‘And what do you reckon Leif has to do with the killings?’
Here, Becky’s expression clouded. ‘Again, possibly nothing. But it’s something we can explore. He admitted it himself – even before you factor in the murders, it’s all too much of a coincidence. I’ll rule nothing out.’
‘Okay… that’s interesting. I’ll get looking.’
‘I want nothing in the papers on that one, just yet.’
Rosie smiled. ‘It’s for the book. After we catch him. I promise. Scout’s honour.’
‘You were never in the Scouts, love.’
‘What else have you got?’ Rosie continued, ignoring Becky’s jibe.
‘I was followed the other day, on my way back from the rest home where the Romanian lady was living.’
‘You any idea who it was?’
‘I can give you his National Insurance number and blood type, if you like. His name is Michael Laurel. Private investigator. He was hired by a family friend. A journalist who was friends with my father; his name is Jack Tullington. Semi-retired.’
‘You know him well?’
‘Better than well. He’s like an uncle to me. You could even say he was a father figure, and I wouldn’t get annoyed. He helped me out a lot in the years after it happened. He brought a lot of good things to my life, some good lessons. Plus I was never stuck for somewhere lively to go at Christmas, or somewhere to chill if things got a bit tense in my aunt’s house. I owe him a lot.’
‘So, this father figure… He was spying on you?’
‘I would guess, like everyone else on the planet, he was concerned about my welfare and had decided to check up on what I was doing.’
‘Plausible enough, I suppose.’
‘Yeah. He’s worried I’m going to draw the killer, with no one to protect me.’
‘So you haven’t talked to him about the fact he hired someone to tail you?’
‘Not yet. It’s a tricky one.’
‘How’d you find out the detective’s name? Or that he was a detective?’
‘It was easy enough. I just asked a polite question or two after I’d caught up with him.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Yeah – just like you asked some polite questions when you caught up with me. I remember you, Kung Fu girl. You threw me onto some nasty old rocks sticking out of the ground. You know how long those bruises took to fade on my arse?’
Two hands slammed down on their table, jolting them. A tall figure in a neoprene suit stood at the edge, then lowered himself down so that only a thick, blond head of hair remained at the level of the table. It was the card tricks guy from the bar.
‘Good afternoon ladies,’ he said, in a South African accent. ‘I was just wondering if either of you fancied coming to a party later on?’
‘You know, that’s a little bit rude,’ Becky said, irritably. ‘You interrupted a private conversation.’
‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He grinned, revealing chipped front teeth. His gaze briefly crept over Becky’s neoprene suit. ‘You here to catch some waves?’
‘No, I just enjoy squelching whenever I sit down.’
He grinned again. ‘Okay. I guess you’re a no for the party, then. How about you, Miss… I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Bob,’ Rosie said.
‘Bob. Hmm. You don’t look like a Bob. Is it because you’re a competent swimmer?’
‘I was named after my mother.’
‘I bet Bob had the pick of the boys in class.’
‘To answer your question, no, we’re not interested in going to your party,’ Becky said.
‘Oh, don’t listen to her,’ Rosie said. ‘Tell me when and where.’
The head resting on the table beamed. ‘Great! It’s down by the Banana Boat hut. Maybe half a mile from here, heading east along the beach. You can’t miss it. Big yellow shed, blue letters. Bring yourself. And lots of beer.’
Rosie noted it all down.
A deck of cards appeared in one hand. ‘Hey, can I show you a magic trick?’
Becky raised a hand. ‘Actually, no, you can’t. We’re busy here.’
‘Just one?’ The head turned to Rosie and winked.
Another figure approached them; a tall black man in thick-rimmed glasses and a well-tended Afro, wearing a faded Grateful Dead tour T-shirt and knee-length khaki shorts. This man was so skinny that the clothes might have been draped over his frame to drip-dry.
He cleared his throat and said to Becky and Rosie in an Australian accent: ‘Excuse me. I was wondering – is this man bothering you?’
The blond head on the table turned towards the newcomer; although the flushed pink cheeks remained, the eyes lost any trace of warmth. ‘Say again, mun?’
‘Um, I said, to these two ladies, “is this man bothering you?”’ A tremor had crept into the newcomer’s voice, and the large brown eyes took on a molten quality.
The blond man stood up sharply. He wasn’t as tall as the bla
ck man, but the difference in girth between them was painfully clear. ‘Maybe I am. What’s it to you, four eyes?’
Becky stood up between them, a finger raised. ‘You know, that’s prejudicial against people who wear glasses. Some of my best friends wear glasses, and I’m offended on their behalf.’
The blond man glared at the newcomer just a moment longer. The black man was actually quivering out of the corner of Becky’s eye, his lips twitching. Shivering bones, she thought.
Then the blond man grinned and backed off. ‘Hey, no offence meant. I apologise, on behalf of all non-spectacles-wearers. I’ll see you at the party later, yeah? Even you, if you like, four eyes.’
‘God, I hope not,’ Becky said, smiling. Once the blond man had rejoined his friends, she turned to the black man.
He flinched at the sudden movement. Becky wondered if he might cry.
‘Listen, that was awfully nice of you,’ she said, ‘but at times like this, you need to remember Mad Max.’
‘Mad Max?’ the man said, biting at his thumbnail. ‘How’s that?’
‘Think Thunderdome. Think mullets. Think Tina Turner. ‘We don’t need another hero’. Okay?’
The black man mumbled, ‘Just looking after you, that’s all,’ and returned to the corner table.
‘Worst tough guy act ever,’ Rosie remarked, under her breath. ‘And I’ve seen a few belters.’
‘I’m sure it went really well, in his mind. Even better when he emails his friends about it later.’
‘If he has any. He’s been sitting there on his own since we got here. Nice thing to do, all the same. Does it actually make you braver if you confront people, and you’re a bit of a coward? I think it does.’
‘He could simply be stupid.’ Becky scooped up her notepad and stuffed it in her backpack. ‘Besides, we don’t need help. We’re not damsels in distress. Jesus, to think I came here to escape the drama for five minutes.’
‘I did wonder if drama followed you around,’ Rosie said. ‘Bit uptight of you, all the same. We got invited to a party. Big deal.’
‘You got invited, Mrs Sunhat and Two-Piece.’
