by P. R. Black
That was when one of the phones ranked on top of her dresser rang.
The sound of Micky Mouse whistling in Steamboat Willie caused the man in the mask to flinch in surprise.
The phone’s lockscreen flashed as the handset jolted into life, jostling its stablemates.
The police phone.
He crossed over to the dresser and peered at the handset. ‘Interesting,’ he whispered.
Becky’s voice hitched and caught once, twice. With one more huge effort, lightning pulsed across her visual field as she said, in a voice like grinding metal: ‘You’re… fucked.’
He crossed over to the net curtains and peered out.
The phone rang off. Then the intercom buzzed, long and hard. Then it buzzed again. A voice sounded at the speaker.
‘Becky?’
It was Labelle. Labelle was at her door.
‘Becky, are you in there? Is everything all right? We need to talk to you.’
‘Little bitch. Lucky little bitch.’ His shoulders quivered with rage, his fist tightened on the knife handle, and she thought: now he must stab me. He has to.
But he didn’t. He turned to a holdall he had left on the floor, unzipped it, and stuffed in her machete. Then he threw the quilt back over her, before turning his back and removing the mask, giving her a view of white hair with patches of black. He pulled a beanie hat over his head, then threw the mask, the knife and then her teacup into the holdall. Without looking back, he whispered, ‘Until next time. It will be very soon. I’ll get you. You can’t hide forever.’
‘Neither can you,’ she breathed.
He vanished into her front room. He snatched something off the kitchen counter – teabags? – then she heard the balcony door slide open. The wind howled.
The intercom buzzed again. ‘Becky? We’re coming up. We’re going to come in.’
A short farce ensued as the door crashed, heaved and buckled. Becky had barely moved, only managing to turn her head to the side.
Labelle and Marcus thundered along the corridor before finally finding the room; light flooded the scene. Becky could only half-close her eyes against the glare.
‘Holy shit,’ Marcus said, his face pale. ‘I think she’s dead.’
Labelle was aghast. ‘Becky – are you all right? There was a report of a prowler in your street. We were in town. Becky, can you hear me?’
Labelle lifted Becky and her head sagged at an awkward angle, the replaced quilt sagging off one shoulder. She croaked, ‘He was here. The balcony!’
Marcus sprinted for the corridor. The wind howled again as the balcony door slid open.
Marcus returned, shaking his head. ‘Nothing. And if there was someone out there – he must have been Batman to get over the roof, or land on the ground.’
Becky’s head leaned against Labelle’s shoulder. The detective smoothed back her hair, tenderly. ‘Becky, what’s wrong? What’s the matter with you?’
Marcus snorted. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s drunk. Let her sober up. We’ll give her the news in the morning.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Labelle barked. ‘And get out of this room. She’s not decent. I’ll get her clothes on and we’ll take her somewhere safe.’
50
Becky tried to sit up straight. She was in a cosy but functional little room. It was warm and sunny beyond the window, but a chill clung to her that no amount of heat or layers of clothing could remove, as if she’d been for a long swim. She took sips of warm tea, her hands shivering.
Inspector Hanlon, Labelle and Marcus faced her across a table. They’d spared her the harsh lighting of the interview rooms, but Becky’s eyes and head still hurt.
‘Tell me this, though,’ she said. ‘I was right about the burial site in Spain, wasn’t I?’
Hanlon leaned forward. ‘Yes, you were right. But we don’t know that there is any link between that case and yours.’
Becky glared at him. ‘You know I’m right. You know the man who killed my family is the same man who abducted and murdered other families across Europe. Who knows how far he’s travelled; how much he’s done?’
‘As I said,’ Hanlon continued calmly, ‘we’re looking into everything.’
‘And what about the gaps in the database? The evidence removed from your files? I’m guessing they simply don’t exist in paper form.’
Marcus frowned. ‘How do you know about this?’
‘Newsflash – I’m a journalist. I did some digging. My job, in other words.’
‘And does “digging” mean “hacking”?’
‘Oh, take a wild guess, hotshot. Christ’s sake, I’ve done your job for you, and you still just sit there chewing your own face! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to catch this fucker?’
‘We’ll come back to that,’ Labelle said, placatingly. ‘I promise, we’re doubling back on every case file, checking everyone who’s accessed it over the years.’
‘You’ll find nothing,’ Becky said. ‘But with the gaps, you can triangulate. You can at least look at when and how he managed to remove your records.’
‘He’s a policeman, you’re saying?’ Hanlon asked. His tone was neutral.
‘Not necessarily, though if I was to put a bet on it, that’s where my money goes. If he is a policeman, he’s not a bobby on the beat, or even a detective. He’s most likely in admin, maybe IT, a computer expert. If he’s not, then he’s working with someone who is.’
‘We’ll check every angle,’ Marcus said. ‘Be sure of it.’
‘I wish I was.’
Labelle said: ‘Regarding your prowler, someone called to say they’d seen a man lingering on the stairwell of the building, shortly before the stairhead lights were cut off. No firm description – a tall man dressed in black, is as much as we were able to get.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Nothing,’ said Labelle. ‘Not in the building, and nothing in the streets nearby. It shows the lights going off in the stairwells, the timestamp is pristine. No sign of anyone coming into the building after you arrived until we appeared.’
‘And you’ll find the same on my computer, minutes before it cuts out. It’s as if he wasn’t there. He’s extremely clever. He managed to hack into my security system, and the building’s.’
Marcus took a deep breath. ‘There was also no evidence so far of anyone being in your room. The only thing to note was that your balcony was unlocked.’
Becky sighed. ‘From memory, there’s a drainpipe which he could climb down to the flat below, which was empty… in fact, that’s more than likely where he was hiding all along. He’s still agile. I can say that for a certainty.’
Marcus nodded. ‘We checked that. There’s no sign anyone’s been there since a letting agent arrived to check over the place two weeks ago. No electricity usage, nothing.’
‘Okay. Maybe he bypassed the flat, and just dropped down onto the grass… in fact, that’s possibly what he did. He’s shown some skills in getting into and out of difficult places. He probably dropped onto the patch of grass in the garden, then vaulted the wall. Difficult, but he could have done it. It’s a plausible solution.’
‘It could be that.’ Marcus’ mouth slanted. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Or it could be that he was Spider-Man.’
‘Look, I know how it must look to you. But I can assure you he was there.’
‘You suffer from night terrors, don’t you?’ Marcus asked. ‘This is from statements you gave recently on the anniversary of the killings. You see figures coming into your room, dark shadows. Is it possible…?’
‘No, it’s not possible.’
Labelle coughed, and her eyes met Hanlon’s for a second. ‘Becky… can we ask about your drinking? You seemed very confused at the flat.’
‘I told you why that was. And I didn’t call you – someone else did. To report a prowler.’
‘The person who called didn’t give their details,’ Marcus said.
‘Well, it wasn’t me, was it?’ she spluttere
d. Then she realised what he had said. ‘You don’t believe me. You think I called for help, but I didn’t need it.’
‘No one’s said that.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Becky got to her feet and winced as a bolt of pain shot through her. She needed a bath; to sink up to her neck in it. This was a comedown from the drugs he had used. She entertained a slight fear it might never wear off. ‘Do you think I’m making all this up? A cry for attention, maybe?’
Labelle got up but held back from patting Becky on the arm. ‘No one’s said any of these things. We have to ask questions because we want to catch this man. We believe someone was in your house. We believe you. Okay?’
‘The bollocks you do.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Then why don’t you do what I say? Check the information trail. If he’s not behind it, someone close to him is. Someone who’s part of his group – the same group Edwin Galbraith was in.’
‘He checked out,’ Marcus replied. ‘We’ve looked, very closely – there’s no trail whatsoever. Edwin Galbraith isn’t linked to any crimes. He may have had some strange interests, and his wife backs this up, but he was not a criminal. He was depressive, if you must know. His medical records show a history of treatment.’
‘And why do you suppose he’s not linked to any crimes? Why do you suppose all reference to him has been deleted off the dark web? It wouldn’t surprise me if his suicide was staged.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ Marcus said, not unreasonably. ‘Everything you’re looking at seems to tie in to this man you’re hunting. Everything, in your view. You’ve uncovered this big web of lies and deceit which no other police officer has. In thirty years, all these inquiries, all these police officers… thousands of hours, millions of pounds… somehow, you think it’s all connected to you. Then you claim the guy has been in your house, but there’s no sign of a break-in.’
‘What about the library in Romania?’
‘No one saw anything. According to the librarian, you pushed over some library racks and went crazy.’
‘That’s nonsense, absolute nonsense… the lady was there, the librarian. She saw the guy come in. She must have a description… There was another man there, too. He speaks good English. Ask them.’
‘We did. They saw nothing.’
‘And the guy that broke into my hotel room?’
‘A burglar. A flat was broken into across the road, a couple of hours later. There’s been a spate of break-ins in the past year or so in that area. Pretty standard.’
‘What about the face on the photo?’
‘It’s indistinct. What we can see doesn’t match anything on our files… facial recognition turned up a blank.’
‘I don’t believe this. Fullerton’s daughter – Christ, you’ve got to give me that.’
Labelle cleared her throat. ‘She got in touch.’
‘Your arse, she did!’ Becky spluttered. ‘Did you actually speak to her?’
‘Yes,’ Labelle said, quietly. ‘There was a misunderstanding. On several levels. She played a trick on her father; walked out after he wouldn’t give her money for a gap year.’
‘A cry for help,’ Marcus said.
‘She ran off with a boyfriend,’ Labelle continued. ‘She left cryptic messages about being “taken away”. You misunderstood what Fullerton said. He misunderstood what she meant by her note. Nothing more. There’s no kidnapping. We’ve spoken to her.’
‘I can’t understand it. I don’t believe you’ve been taken in by this. Knowing what you know. I just don’t believe it.’
Marcus leaned forward. ‘No, you don’t, do you? As far as you’re concerned, it doesn’t add up, unless it relates to you. And that’s the problem. Only you can see this big conspiracy. Maybe you should start believing what you see and hear instead? The hard evidence, in other words.’
‘Don’t say another word to me.’
He sighed. ‘Becky, I don’t doubt you’ve done amazing things. You’ve struck on something – on your own initiative, you’ve found a burial site. You’ve turned up a link which we are now taking seriously. As far as catching your guy goes, the one good piece of intelligence you’ve given us relates to the standing stones, and stone circles. That does seem to match up. There’s something in there that we can work with. There are links between the cases, we’re starting to believe that now. It may bring us closer to the killer. And I accept, there is something odd about the missing data on our computer systems. But you’ve got to be objective about the rest…’
‘How objective do I need to be? He was in my room! He’s attacked me twice! Oh, bollocks to it. This is a waste of fucking time.’ She turned to Hanlon. ‘You agreeing with this?’
Hanlon folded his hands and sighed heavily. Becky stood up before he could speak and headed for the door.
‘Wait a second,’ Marcus snarled. ‘Wait and listen. Listen to my point of view. There’s possibly a link between the cases. Possibly. But all the same, you’re making a lot of leaps of logic.’
‘Are you even paying attention to what I say?’
‘Yes,’ he snapped, ‘in great detail. And every instinct is telling me you know more than you are telling us. I want you to tell me something new – something I can use. Why don’t you tell us how you found all this stuff out? What is your link? What’s the source? Are you withholding something? For your book, perhaps? Or is there another reason?’
‘Everything I know about this guy, I’ve already told you. It’s up to you to chase it. You’re the police, not me.’
Marcus checked himself; he bit at the side of his mouth in frustration. Something went wrong in the weaning there, Becky thought.
‘We’re doing everything we can, Becky,’ Labelle said.
‘Good. Please keep me informed.’
‘Wait,’ Hanlon said. ‘Before you go – do you have somewhere to stay? We’ll be carrying out tests on your flat – you can’t go back. Not tonight, anyway. You’ll also be given police protection for the time being.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Becky said. ‘And protection won’t be necessary. He’ll assume I’ll be under police guard, for the time being. I’m probably about as safe as I can be, for now. I’ll see myself out.’
*
She felt the phone shiver in her pocket – the clean one she’d kept hidden in her car. Only Bernard had the number. She called him back as she sat in the car.
‘Becky? Everything all right? I couldn’t get through. I was worried.’
‘Everything’s okay, Bernard. I guess. Listen, before you start, I need you to find somewhere safe to stay. I’ve been as careful as I can be, but all my data might have been compromised… everything. And he’s looking for you. Same way he was looking for Rupert. He’s a hacker, I think, and a good one – maybe as good as you guys, or better. Either that, or he knows a hacker. He knew Rupert was poking around some files that related to him and tracked him down from that. He might have access to better equipment, better systems. Government grade. You’re in danger. So’s Rosie. Jesus…’ She pinched the bridge of her nose, and shivered. ‘And it’s all my fault.’
‘Wait, it’s okay. It’s all right. I’ve got him.’
‘Say again?’
‘I’ve got him. It took a while. I fed in the name you gave me… Nico Arkanescu? I ran a fuzzy search. It’s like what we use to crack passwords. Instead of swapping letters for numbers or other characters, I messed around with different spellings. It looks at English variants, French variants… really, really clever software. This guy I know in Belgium wrote it.’
‘Skip that. You said you’d got him? Who is he?’
‘Nicholas Arthur. That’s the name he’s using now. And get this. He’s a consultant, a freelancer, but he works at Interpol. He lives in Brussels. Born in Bucharest. Changed his name. That much is on file, buried very deep. A paper scan that was made recently from old records. He maybe doesn’t know about that, so he couldn’t remove it. But there’s nothing else, I’ve checked �
�� no sign of his birthdate, birth certificate, nothing. That’s weird. It looks like he’s probably physically removed the rest. You thinking what I’m thinking?’
Her hands shook as she scribbled down a note. ‘Yes. I think I am.’
‘You going to tell the police?’
The pen wriggled out of Becky’s fingers and rolled into the footwell of her car. She clenched her fist. ‘Not yet.’
51
The man at the front desk seemed too young for his suit, as well as his job. The collars reached up high into his chin like a pair of encircling hands.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I don’t – I’m happy to wait.’ Becky had dressed up for the occasion, and she allowed what she hoped was a dazzling smile to break over her face.
Poor boy; he actually blushed. ‘It’s very unusual for us to take visitors here – it is not a working police station where you can just walk in.’
‘It is a police station, though, isn’t it? I have some vital information about an investigation.’
‘Which one?’
‘The inquiry which is ongoing at the dig site in Spain. Plus the Becky Morgan probe.’
The young man’s fingers didn’t skip a beat on the keyboard. He accessed something, frowned, then looked up at Becky.
‘That’s right. I’m Becky Morgan.’ She smiled again.
‘Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll see if Mr Arthur is busy.’
‘That’d be fine.’
Each exit was watched; if not by Rosie Banning and Bernard by the main doors, then by two private investigators she had hired. No one knew what Mr Nicolas Arthur looked like – no pictures of him existed anywhere on the net, and there was certainly nothing on the Europol site – but anyone leaving in a hurry would be noticed, and every detail recorded. Tracking him and having him arrested from there would be an easy matter. (‘Unless the bugger invented teleportation,’ Bernard had added.)
After a while the young man turned to Becky. ‘Mr Arthur is free at the moment,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘He’ll be happy to see you now. Hold on and I’ll provide you with a guest pass.’
