The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  1.37 a.m.

  The video lasted for only five minutes fourteen seconds. It began with The Host’s usual message, then it faded to Howard. He was on the screen for only three of the five minutes fourteen seconds. The final image of Howard before The Host reappeared was one that would stay with me forever.

  ‘Where are Becca and Jess?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘They are safe.’

  ‘Public reaction?’

  ‘They’re already back in the streets. More vigils, more candles, quite right too.’

  ‘And the organiser of the vigil?’

  ‘No one specific, as far as we can tell. People have found their own voice with this.’

  I nodded; my eyes glued to the screen.

  ‘It seems, DI Holt, you didn’t catch up. Pity, you can always try again. The next Game is in motion, and I will play at 10 p.m. tonight.’

  The screen went dark, and I could see my reflection. My shoulders were slumped, my head heavy. The clue was clear as day. The cadets’ symbol wasn’t pointing towards a building, but a person. Howard had even told me many times he was a cadet and I still didn’t see it. He had targeted Howard, and he dangled it in front of my face. He was smarter than me, and it had cost Howard his life.

  I couldn’t help but shoulder the responsibility for what I had just seen. If I kept out of it, like I had been ordered on several occasions, The Host would have no reason to target Howard. I had dragged him into this, made him be my eyes, made him come with me to the rowing club building where The Host filmed him and – thanks to the media – identify him. I didn’t doubt I would have played if The Host could have got to me. Howard was my substitute. I had been rash with my video, and after, I only focused on Sam, not thinking for a second I was also putting Howard’s life in danger. No one would say it, no one would need to, but Howard’s death was on me.

  ‘Karen?’ Bradshaw said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. ‘I don’t know the first thing to say here. But…’

  I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, pushed out my jaw defiantly.

  ‘Play it again.’

  ‘Karen, I don’t think—’

  ‘Play it again. I need to hear the message again. This guy hides his clues in plain sight. He will have given us something to go on.’

  ‘No, you need to step away from this.’

  ‘We don’t have any more time to lose.’ I looked at my watch. ‘We’ve got less than twenty hours until The Host plays his eighth game.’

  When Bradshaw didn’t argue, I leant forward and replayed the video. I heard nothing new in The Host’s words, nor did Howard say or do anything that could generate a lead. I took solace from that. His final moments were filled with nothing but love for his family. He wasn’t thinking of work, of regret, just love. As it should be. Once the video stopped, I sat back, my head lowered.

  ‘Can you even begin to imagine what Becca and Jess are feeling right now?’

  ‘No,’ Bradshaw said.

  ‘Can I contact them?’

  ‘It’s best you didn’t, not right now.’

  ‘When you speak to them, tell them I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘Of course. Karen, can I be frank?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This is fucking shit, all of it. And I don’t know how we are going to stop him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. What else could I say? The Host was one step ahead, one thought quicker. We knew from the beginning that he was clever, but so far he’d outsmarted everyone.

  ‘Sir, we need to find that train mark.’

  ‘We have a team in Howard’s house right now, if it’s there, they’ll find it.’

  ‘It won’t be inside. The Host stencils before he…’ I couldn’t say before he played, before he made my friend kill himself. ‘It will be outside, somewhere close to Howard’s house. He hasn’t left a clue in the video, not that I can see anyway, so the clue will be with the train.’

  Bradshaw nodded, grabbed his phone and stepped away to make the call no doubt to one of those drafted in from other forces, as it would be impossible for anyone in our team to be objective and process the room properly. As Bradshaw spoke in clipped, commanding tones to the officer on the other end, I knew I needed to get up. Showing defeat wouldn’t stop him, it wouldn’t bring The Host to justice, nor would it avenge Howard. I would have time later to process all the sadness, regret, shame and grief I was feeling. But now was not that time. Now I need my rage to be in the driving seat. Standing took much more effort than it should, and as Bradshaw gave instructions, his back turned, I slipped out of his office. I needed to act and find The Host. I needed to end his Game, with or without help.

  As I stepped into the incident room, the atmosphere was subdued, people were working, trying to follow leads, speaking with neighbours, accessing all available CCTV in the area. Dealing with the press, too. As I walked to my desk and sat down, each colleague fought a battle to scrutinise and yet not look at me. I sensed everyone felt as leaden as I did.

  My desk was still covered in notes I had scribbled weeks before, notes about the Grayson James investigation. I saw a question on a scrap of paper I’d scribbled to myself the night before we went to his house. Flight risk?

  I knew the answer now, I probably did then too. The night before we attempted to bring Grayson James in for questioning, Howard and I had gone for a meal together. We knew, with the evidence building against drug-dealing Grayson James, his arrest was imminent. We shared a curry, drank a few beers, speculated on how soon it would be until we would raid his house. We were just waiting for the CPS to green-light it. I thought we were still a few days away, Howard bet it would be the following morning. He was right.

  I stopped myself remembering that evening; it was the last time I felt OK, the last time we’d managed a conversation that wasn’t about a suspect’s death or the national interest. The last time he and I were just friends.

  Standing up, I had to move to shake myself from thinking too much about Howard’s last moments. Collecting the notes stuck to the side of my monitor, I threw them in the bin. I wondered about Howard’s own notes on this case. Did he have any thoughts on The Host that we hadn’t had the chance to discuss? I wandered over to his desk, and sat in his chair. His desk was clean, there were pictures of Jess as a newborn, a toddler covered in food, her first day of school. And one of him, Becca and Jess together, recent, smiling for the camera. It felt strange to be in a space that was his. He’d only been gone a few hours, and yet it felt like the chair had been long abandoned. But he wouldn’t ever be forgotten, not by me, not by the team, nor the world. My eye was drawn to a single Post-It note on the top of his monitor, a question in large, capital letters.

  IS HE RETURNING TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME?

  I got up and went back to my desk. Bradshaw had finished his phone conversation and hastily joined me as I sat down and tried to log in.

  ‘Karen?’

  Although my password worked, and allowed me to access the home page, as soon as I tried to log on to the internet, I was blocked. My restricted duty only allowed me to see emails.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Karen, what’s happened?’

  ‘Sir, I need to go online – can you lift my block.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s an IT thing. Use my office.’

  I didn’t wait for him to lead, and before he entered the room, I was already sitting at his desk, logging on to YouTube.

  ‘Karen, what is it?’

  ‘Sir, Howard had a note on his desk, it’s made me think. It’s been well documented that serial killers sometimes return to the scene of the crime, to relive what they have done.’

  ‘Sure, think of Manson, think of Son of Sam.’

  ‘Right, to name a couple. What if ours is doing the same?’

  ‘But how would we know? We have no profile of him, only that he is male, wears a motorbike helmet, and is around five feet nine. It’s not a lot to go on.’

  ‘I’m not thinking about him.
I’m thinking about her. If it’s who I think it is, I’ve seen her face.’

  ‘Could you pick her out of a crowd?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  YouTube loaded and I typed in PETERBOROUGH CITY CENTRE VIGIL. After a few seconds, videos loaded. The first one on the list was what was happening right now in the city in response to Howard’s death. Grief panged in my stomach, but I fought it back. Scrolling down to the third video, I clicked the link. It was the footage from the Bridge Street vigil, a reporter talking with a swarm of people behind. I watched them, hoping to see the young girl amongst the faces. But I couldn’t. I loaded another video, one from outside the Chinese takeaway, close to the underpass I first saw her. She wasn’t there either.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said, feeling the thread begin to slip from my grasp.

  ‘What if she was back at the place where she felt the most guilt?’ Bradshaw asked. He was right, she would go back to where she committed the crime. To her location. No more than ten seconds into a video of a reporter on the footbridge over the A15, I saw her in the background.

  ‘There,’ I said, standing up so Bradshaw could get a look at her.

  ‘How sure are you?’ he asked.

  ‘A hundred per cent, sir. That’s the girl.’

  Bradshaw nodded, and played some more of the footage. She wasn’t aware she was in shot, and I could see her twitching, her anxiety close to spilling over.

  ‘She looks terrified,’ Bradshaw said.

  ‘She is, sir. I think she was sold on the ideology of our guy – a girlfriend, perhaps, who is desperate to be close to him. But in practice, she isn’t in the same place as he is.’

  ‘But she’s trying.’

  ‘Yes, sir, she’s trying.’

  ‘So how do we draw her out?’ he asked quietly. ‘She’s been back to her scene; I doubt she’d go again and there is no way she was the one in Howard’s house.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said.

  ‘So we have to make her feel responsible for what happened tonight.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Karen,’ Bradshaw began, his face suddenly not looking so drawn and beaten, ‘what if we did something we shouldn’t?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘What if you posted another video?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The whole world knows you and Howard were partners, friends. What if you spoke out, in an unofficial capacity again? What if you said someone knows who he is, and by hiding him, they are just as responsible? Then you could ask the public to hold a vigil at Howard’s home. State that you’ve gone into hiding, for your own safety. Say you want people to pay respects, light candles at his house like they did for the others, because you cannot be there to mourn your friend. Let’s give it a set time, say noon.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to hold the vigil in the evening like the others?’

  ‘No, we want to get to her and have time to squeeze until she tells us where he is.’

  ‘And you want me to use Howard’s death to draw her out?’

  ‘It’s horrific, I know, but it might just work.’

  I thought about it, wondering what Howard would say. I could hear him telling me to nail him, do whatever it took.

  ‘Karen, I know it’s really shit to even think about doing this, but if there is a glimmer of hope—’

  ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to stop him.’

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  9.17 a.m.

  Twelve hours, forty-three minutes until the next Game

  I thought I could hear Howard’s voice. Jolted awake, I opened my eyes and looked around for him. But then it hit me, Howard was gone, and I’d never hear his voice again. Sam, who was sitting next to me on the sofa, took my hand.

  ‘How long did I sleep?’ I asked her.

  ‘Ninety minutes, tops.’

  ‘And you? Have you slept?’

  ‘No. Not since you got back earlier this morning,’ she said, shaking her head.

  From the kitchen, I heard Jake talking and a moment later there was a knock on the living-room door.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you two, it’s Superintendent Bradshaw,’ he said, holding out a phone to me.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘We found the train stencil, across the road from Howard’s house.’

  ‘Any obvious clues?’

  ‘One thing about this train is different to the others.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘One of the train’s wheels is a small compass.’

  ‘A compass?’

  ‘I’m sending it across to this phone now.’

  ‘I’ll put you on loudspeaker.’

  The mobile pinged and the image of the train symbol filled the screen. The first wheel of the old steam train was definitely a compass. The needle was pointing a few degrees south of east. The train symbol and compass were in the usual black they had been in all but one. Only the needle wasn’t. That was in the same green as yesterday’s train symbol, Howard’s symbol. The Host was goading me. He knew I would hate myself for not seeing his clue yesterday, and he was rubbing it in my face.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ Bradshaw asked.

  ‘The east of the city, perhaps?’

  ‘I thought that too. We have people out already, trying to find the next train mark. If we find it, we can be in place before him. But as you know, the city is big; it could mean the East of England Showground, or somewhere like Eye, Parnwell. Christ, even as far out as Whittlesea, or anywhere else east side of the city. It’s a needle in a haystack. We need the girl to help us narrow our search. It’s time to draw her out. Are you ready? Remember everything we discussed you’d say?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m ready.’ My nerves began to twitch. The first time I posted a video, it was reactive, in the moment. I wasn’t so sure about it this time. Using Howard’s death to bring out the girl felt cheap. And waiting to do it made it staged. I wasn’t an actress and prayed it wouldn’t show. I hoped I didn’t forget any of the points Bradshaw insisted I say. I thought of Howard, I thought of Becca and Jess who would have to live the rest of their lives without him. I had to do this for them.

  ‘Good luck, Karen,’ Bradshaw said, hanging up the phone.

  Turning to Sam, I smiled. ‘Can I have a minute?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be right outside.’

  Opening up my camera, I turned it to video mode and looked at myself in the screen. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot. My skin drawn and as pale as I could ever remember. Stress showed itself on my neck in the form of a rash that was creeping up and under my jaw. In any other context, I wouldn’t want anyone to see me, but now, as I hit the record button, I knew that very soon many would. The recording had begun, and taking a deep breath, I spoke.

  ‘I am DI Karen Holt. I am the officer who tried to help Maggie Stroud by the rowing lake. I am the one The Host has been speaking to. I am the woman who pleaded to the side of The Host that I know doesn’t want to do this. I begged for you to stop.

  ‘Last night, at just after 1 a.m., a video was posted of my –’ I paused, swallowed, fought with myself to not cry – ‘friend and partner DS Howard Carlson. We know what happened, we all saw the sacrifice he was forced to make.’

  I blinked, a single tear escaped and ran wildly down my cheek.

  ‘Due to the threat on my life, I cannot be actively involved in this investigation. But what hurts most is I cannot see my best friend’s surviving family to comfort them and pay my respects.’

  I paused again, collecting my thoughts. What I said next was important to get right.

  ‘The police know that The Host is acting alone. But surely someone must know something. By not coming forward, by not talking to the police and aiding us in stopping him, you are just as culpable for DS Carlson’s death. His daughter will now grow up without a father, his partner will forever remember that awful night. Someone knows more than they’re telling us, and I blame you as much as I do The Host. As far as I’m concerned, you have my
friend’s blood on your hands.’

  I wiped tears from my eyes.

  ‘I’ve been informed the police will allow people close to his house soon. I want nothing more than to go myself, light a candle for my friend, for his courage, for his sacrifice. But I cannot. So I ask the public, will you go light a candle, offer your prayers? Please, will you do it for me? It won’t bring back a good person, but it will help those who have survived him, including me, deal with what The Host has done to him and his family. Today at noon. I will watch on the news to see the tribute you’re making on my behalf.’

  I took a breath, ready to launch something towards The Host, a defiant comment about how we would stop him but as I opened my mouth, the words wouldn’t come. Stammering, I stopped the video. I didn’t review it, didn’t hesitate, I just uploaded it, and locked my phone.

  Cradling my head in my hands, massaging my temples, I took deep breaths and tried to stop the headache that was beginning to push behind my eyes. The door opened, and Sam came and sat beside me.

  ‘Is it done?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yeah, it’s done.’

  ‘OK,’ she nodded. ‘All we can do now is wait.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The Host

  9.54 a.m.

  Twelve hours and six minutes until the next Game

  As he watched Karen Holt’s desperate video, he bent and shaped two more pipe-cleaner figures, one smaller than all the others, and placed them both with the group on his shelf. Jess and Becca. Turning back to his computer, he picked up his Karen Holt figurine, straightened her legs, held her arms up into the air, like she was reaching up towards God. He pitied her for the depths to which she would sink to try and win. And following her second Facebook stunt, he would humiliate her, embarrass her. All her video did was tell him the police were completely powerless to stop him. He had won.

  Once the video had finished, he rang the girl; he needed her again for the next Game. The phone rang and rang, and there was no answer. Hanging up, he tried again, this time the phone went straight to voicemail.

  Johnny Ormo > Peterborough Free Discussion