by P. R. Black
‘Wait here.’ Labelle stopped the car right outside, and unclipped her seatbelt, switching the engine off before re-triggering the headlights.
The faint light of a mobile phone blinked on in a hallway through a frosted window in the building; then the door opened.
Marcus stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the headlights before intercepting Labelle. Becky opened the door a little to listen to them speak.
‘What are you doing?’ he hissed. ‘And what’s she doing here?’
‘You said you wanted to talk to her first.’
‘Yeah, but down at the station. With everyone else!’
‘It’s safer here for her.’
‘Balls it is. Where’s Hanlon?’
‘Hanlon’s on his way.’ Labelle gestured at Becky.
She got out, wincing as she placed her foot on the ground. The high kick on the pig-headed man had looked spectacular and felt good at the time, but she’d sprained her foot upon connection with his face.
She stumbled. Marcus started forward to help her, but Becky held up a hand.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Go back in the car,’ he insisted. ‘We’re heading back to the scene – lots of people will want to talk to you.’
‘No,’ Labelle said. ‘I’ve got seniority, and I’m saying she stays here.’
‘Can one of you please make a decision? I’m very tired,’ Becky said, hoarsely.
Labelle and Marcus began to argue – so quickly, and so ferociously, that Becky wondered if they were lovers. Then some movement caught her eye in the car.
The bone mask contemplated her coolly from the back seat.
Air escaped from Becky’s lungs, as if from a puncture, and she sank onto one knee. Impossible; she’d even looked in the back of the car, paranoid to the last, before getting in.
Neither Labelle nor Marcus noticed until the man in the mask opened the door, got out, raised a pistol, and fired.
62
Marcus’ mouth jerked for the last time. It seemed to spit in reverse, a red plume erupting from the back of his head. He fell without a sound. His blood was lurid, almost luminous, in the headlights from the car.
Labelle had a gun in her hand, too. She pointed it right at her. ‘Don’t move, Becky.’
Becky did, all the same – backing away slightly towards the woods as Arkanescu closed in on her.
‘I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true.’
‘And yet you went along with it,’ Labelle said. ‘Silly mare.’ The detective giggled – and even through the rising terror Becky felt a faint tugging at her consciousness, as if nagged in the depths of a dream by a sound from the real world.
Arkanescu spoke, the barrel of his pistol levelled right at Becky’s head. ‘She said “don’t move”. So stay where you are. That’s it. Good girl. Now – do you want the big surprise or the little surprise?’
Becky had worked up plenty of spit this time. She aimed for his eyes but fell short.
Arkanescu snorted. ‘Well, after that, I’d say we should start with the little surprise.’ His laughter was like stones grinding down a drain. ‘Who knows how she’ll react to the big one?’
‘I must say, I resent being belittled in this way,’ Labelle huffed. She reached up with her free hand and picked at her eyes. Presently, she took her hand away, blinking, then presented her open palm to Becky.
The contact lenses were still startlingly blue in her hand, even without their common framing.
‘What the fuck?’ Becky screeched.
In a clear English accent, Labelle said: ‘Is that all you’ve got to say to your superior sibling, sister of mine?’
63
Becky found herself bargaining with it, babbling, ‘No. You’ve got the same eyes as her, but… you don’t look like her. So that isn’t true. That can’t be true.’
‘But I cut my own face up, Becky. You remember that part, surely?’ Labelle – or Clara – gestured down either cheek with the barrel of her gun. ‘Plastic surgery took care of it – the best money could buy, in fact. The passing time and hair dye did the rest. There’s some scarring, but not as bad as it might have been. Looks like I’ve got bad skin, rather than scars. I think they made a good job of it. Although I do miss my lovely natural hair colour. Like yours, in fact. That’s one thing I envy about you.’
‘He switched bodies, didn’t he? Placed someone who looked like you at the scene. He’d carved her face up, too. Planned it all out.’
‘Yep. Our mutual friend already had a girl stored away in the forest, alive. He’s always got a spare or two. She was a good match. And he killed her right before he broke into our happy little chalet for the night. Then he swapped her body – and her head, for that matter – for mine.’
On this last two words, Clara laughed hysterically.
‘Clara, he killed our family! Shoot him.’
‘He slaughtered some piggies,’ Clara said. ‘Was there ever a pair of bastards more deserving of the knife as our pathetic parents? Then there’s that little shit of a brother. Wouldn’t have amounted to anything. Abysmal. The runt of the litter. Waste of time and space. God, do you remember how pathetically he died? Pfft. Like a slow puncture. Like a fucking fart.’
‘You know this isn’t right… for god’s sake Clara, I don’t know how much you’ve been helping him, but you have to stop him, now!’
‘She won’t,’ Arkanescu said – again, in an entirely different voice. ‘Don’t waste your time. She is more than a daughter to me, more than a lover, more than a partner. She’s mine. Aren’t you, my clever girl?’ Arkanescu’s hand tickled Clara’s chin, and she simpered, a ghastly parody of affection. ‘She’d no more shoot me than I’d shoot myself.’
‘Interesting, though,’ Becky said. ‘That night at my flat. What was that all about? She interrupted you, old boy, didn’t she? It did seem odd, her and Marcus just showing up like that, rather than uniformed police. And you were surprised. Was it a set-up to make sure I didn’t suspect her… or did she do it without your knowledge? Or…’ Becky’s voice became that of a sour primary school child. ‘Was Clara jealous? Was that it? Was she trying to stop you – but still making sure you got away?’
Clara laughed. ‘You and your stories, Becky. Someone called the police. Marcus and I were in town, liaising with Hanlon. It was luck that we heard the report come in, knew the location, and got there in time. We were lucky.’
Becky arched an eyebrow at the bone mask. ‘I would watch her, if I was you. Not totally trustworthy, is she? I should know, if you don’t.’
‘Let’s not waste any more time,’ Arkanescu said.
‘So what now?’ Becky said. ‘We play happy families? Go on holiday?’
‘Yes,’ Arkanescu said. ‘In fact, we’re going to go back to the place we first met. We’ll find that crooked tree. We’ll spend some time there.’
Becky gaped for a moment. Then sniggered.
Clara and Arkanescu shared a glance, uncertain.
‘Crooked tree? The one near the standing stones? Bent enough for a person to lie on? Is that right?’
‘That’s right. You remember, Becky.’
‘No… I don’t quite recall.’
‘You do,’ Arkanescu insisted. ‘The crooked tree. Where your family died. You know the place. What happened there.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t recall, because it doesn’t exist. I made the crooked tree up. Just a little detail, to see if you were paying attention. Something for you to focus on, to use in your therapy sessions. And it was a guiding light for me, too. So that any time you mentioned the crooked tree, I would know what was real and what wasn’t. It was a safety net. In the end, it’s trapped you. I take it you had a false beard?’
Arkanescu chuckled. ‘Silly me.’
‘That’s right. Silly you. You can take the mask off now, Dr Fullerton.’
And he did.
64
Dr Fullerton grinned.
Even as he laid the
bone mask on the ground, the lineaments of the figure seemed to contract, away from the giant he’d become. With the fake beard and hairpiece removed, the lower half of his face resolved itself into part of the image she’d seen on her camera shots from Romania.
‘You were clever with it, I suppose,’ Becky sneered. ‘Hiding your tracks – literally, I mean.’
He raised one boot. ‘Size fourteen. Platform heels; padded inside. To throw the police off the scent. And to give me a few more inches in height, too. You could say I was forensically aware. You know what they say. Once a copper, always a copper.’
‘I’ll say this for you – you’ve got one hell of a CV since you left the Stasi. IT, psychotherapy… You’re a real renaissance man.’
Fullerton grinned. ‘Isn’t it brilliant? God bless a free education system. I had an interest in the field given my studies back in Mother Russia. The Stasi were keen on psychological techniques. I had a complete education.’ Fullerton affected a mock Eurasian accent at this last part.
‘I got it wrong,’ Becky said. ‘I knew you, from the top of your head to your toes. I always knew I would recognise you instantly – I’d catch your scent. I’d bark like a dog if you got within ten miles of me. I knew… but you were right there in front of me, all that time.’
‘Yep, actually, you knew nothing,’ Fullerton said. ‘You said you were a terrible patient – I say you were superb. I planted all kinds of things in your head – while you were awake, not while you were under. I suggested to you that I was a giant, a monster. Taller than I am. Then I kept suggesting that Dr Fullerton was only a tiny little fella. But I was only little old me, all along. Not quite a short arse, as I’d suggested to you many times, but six foot isn’t so tall these days, I guess. A happy medium, you could say.’
The edges of reality seemed to flicker and warp; Becky no longer trusted her own eyes. Fullerton might have been a black hole, sucking in the light. ‘You couldn’t have got away with this on your own.’
‘That’s right – I had plenty of help along the way. There’s a lot of people like me out there, Becky. Everything’s possible. And as you and your buddies found out, before I offed most of them, I’ve got lots of connections, all over the place. Including my girlfriend, right here, in the police, at the top of the cold case team looking for me. Give us a twirl, Clara.’
And she did, mock-coquettishly.
‘I went by lots of names, but Arkanescu was the one I couldn’t quite let go of. I even carried it into my old job with the police. Over time I scrubbed it. Of course, I led you towards that identity, once I knew you were trying to hack into the police system. I rubbed pieces out here and there, and left crumbs in their place – traces towards the real me. Just enough to get you interested, not enough to blow my cover unless you knew where to look. It’s so easy to move identities once you’re in with the bricks at the police. If you know the right guy, you can create anything for yourself, move anywhere. I even created a fake IT specialist at Interpol. All to throw you off what should have been obvious. That I was grooming you and setting you up. From the very start.’
‘And what about the party tonight? All those people who got arrested? What about them?’
‘That’s taken care of a problem. I’ve enjoyed the January Orchestra over the years. It’s given me a lot of pleasure. They’re like-minded souls. But it was time to tie up some loose ends. Firstly, your annoying little buddies; then January itself. So thanks for that.’
‘You’re dreaming. You’ll never get out of here – every single one of them will rat you out.’
Fullerton shrugged. ‘They can’t rat anyone out – they don’t know me. Never have. Never seen my face. There isn’t a trace of me anywhere. If the police are lucky they’ll find some other fake IDs I left dotted around. Ones I know for a fact you didn’t find. Cul-de-sacs, blind corners. Dead men’s shoes. Meanwhile, they all go to jail, and most likely never get out. But… let’s talk about you.’ He nodded towards Clara.
Becky did not resist as her sister placed her hands behind her back and snapped the handcuffs over her wrists.
‘Oh, I always had plans for you, Becky. Always.’ His fingers ran along the length of her jaw, tilting her head. ‘I know what you’re thinking. “Stockholm Syndrome. I’ll never join him.” But you will. There are so many ways I can convince you. Like I did with lovely Clara. I’ve got so many great secrets to share, so many adventures for us all to have. A family at last.’
Becky’s throat clicked twice, and Clara had to strain to hear her. ‘He’ll kill you,’ Becky croaked. ‘You’re not useful any more. I’m your replacement. He doesn’t need you. You know too much. For god’s sake, shoot him, get this finished.’
Clara stroked her hair; Becky tried to twist away. ‘Silly girl,’ Clara said. ‘You silly, sweet girl. You can’t see it, can you? You can’t see how beautiful it’s going to be.’
‘You can’t be fucking serious.’
‘You know…’ Clara’s eyes misted over. ‘The first time I saw your face on that afternoon, I thought I’d lose control. I was freaking out, seeing you again. I was so sure you’d recognise me. Recognise something. We’d gone over the scenario so many times, but even so…’
‘Let’s go,’ Fullerton said. He shoved Becky, keeping the gun on her.
‘How did you get in the car?’ she asked.
‘The magic of the movies.’
‘You were in the boot. You must have been. Then you got through into the back seat.’
‘Don’t worry yourself about that. I’m surprised you didn’t twig what was happening, though. A police car was the only possible way I was getting out of those woods without being seen. Now, enough of the chat.’ Fullerton clapped his hands.
That sound was followed by a gunshot.
65
Fullerton gasped and jerked forward onto his face.
Behind him, Marcus, eyes bulging above a ruined face still trailing blood, his former smirk obliterated, lurched to his feet. There was no sign of a lower jaw, and what must have been his tongue lolled wetly.
Clara turned the gun towards him.
Becky yelled: ‘Hey! Sis!’
As Clara turned, Becky leapt forward, head-butting her full on the nose.
Clara fell away with a single, high squeak. She landed flat on her back, spread-eagled, blood streaming from her nose, eyes rolled back in her head.
Becky saw the gun in Marcus’ hands waver as she crouched, back turned, her cuffed hands scrabbling for purchase in Clara’s coat pocket. Then she remembered the stun gun, spitting uselessly at Fullerton’s chest. She screamed, ‘Marcus, finish him off – he’s got a bulletproof vest!’
It was already too late; another gunshot convulsed the air, and this time Marcus stumbled backward, hitting the side wall of the cottage then sliding down it, trailing a long crimson curtain down the whitewashed brick.
From the ground, Fullerton fired again, destroying what was left of Marcus’ face. Then he got to his feet and fired twice more at the prone body.
As the gunshots faded, Fullerton winced, rubbing the small of his back. ‘That’s not the first time it’s happened to me… Come to think of it, counting your Taser, it’s not the first time it’s happened to me tonight. I’ll never get used to it. Now come on. Into the boot with you, Becky.’
She stood up; Clara’s gun was in one hand, still behind her back. Fullerton’s brow wrinkled sardonically then he raised the gun at Becky’s head.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Unless you know some spectacular gun stunts with your hands tied behind your back, and I’m talking Sammy Davis Junior levels of talent, don’t bother.’
Becky dropped the gun, then let him approach two more steps.
She kicked out at his knee. He mostly stopped it with his shin, but there was good, satisfying purchase. He stumbled, and she jerked a shoulder, smacking it into the side of his face. Again, this had only a cursory effect, but he was off-balance enough to merit trying something more spectacular.
Becky planted a knee in his groin, then another somewhere around his ribs; as he fell forwards, she hitch-kicked him full in the face. He cried out and tried to turn with the momentum of the blow. As she wound up to crash another kick into his head, he had spun on the heel of his hand and hooked a leg round her calf.
Becky was pulled onto her face, with no means of breaking the fall. Then he was on his feet, and at her.
She turned her head from most of the punches as he screamed in a diabolical temper, flailing at her uncontrollably, but not all of them. Her arms and back were pummelled; one ear exploded, a couple of her back teeth splintered; then another punch smacked her cheek, on the same spot he’d hit her earlier.
She tasted dirt and blood.
A kick into the meat of her thigh deadened her leg. Then she was airborne, lifted cleanly and easily off the ground. She was raised above his head, then hurled downwards. She expected his knee to interrupt her spinal column, but only the ground met her. She had no chance of breaking the fall while still in handcuffs.
The earth stole her breath, shuddering her to the core.
She was aware of Clara stumbling to her feet, hand pressed to her face.
‘Tell them the bitch stole your gun and went crazy,’ he hissed, lifting her pistol from the ground. ‘Knocked you unconscious, stole your gun, shot Marcus. Similar calibres; you couldn’t do that by yourself. It makes sense.’
Clara nodded numbly. Then she saw Becky and ran forward. She managed one kick into Becky’s ribs before he stopped her.
‘Time for that later, my darling. Time enough.’ He slapped her across the back, checking her. ‘Let’s not waste our chance. We can make it look like she escaped and vanished. All evidence will show she attacked you.’
Clara nodded, blood trickling between her fingertips.
‘Good. And now,’ he wheezed, turning to Becky, ‘as I said before we were interrupted… let’s get in the car.’
He left no room for doubt, or manoeuvre. She was hogtied as well as handcuffed, a rope from the back of the car looping round the cuffs and forcing her legs back. Her joints stung.
