by J. F. Kirwan
Greg closed his eyes a moment, and said it fast. ‘He used something hard, inside a condom. Sarah’s report said there had been vaginal bruising.’
The room went quiet, aside from Greg’s jagged breathing.
Donaldson broke the silence. ‘So, does any of this help us?’
Matthews looked expectantly at Greg.
‘A little.’ The fog had disappeared. It was as if he could see Rickard, but the man’s arrogant smirk was no longer there.
‘He knows we’ll catch him. He also knows he’s on his own.’
‘What about the other killer?’ Matthews asked. Donaldson also looked curious on that point.
‘He’ll cut Rickard loose, because he’s become a liability. He planned it from the start. He even left us a clue.’
Donaldson didn’t look convinced. ‘The letters written in blood by Fergus?’
‘Yeah, about that,’ Matthews joined in. ‘I thought the dead don’t lie?’
Greg shrugged. ‘Maybe they can. Or maybe they can be made to lie.’ He stood up. ‘A–D–A. Not the first three letters of my name. Amelia’s initials.’
Matthews shook his head. ‘Her initials are A. D.’
‘She got married,’ Greg said, sure of it.
‘No, she…’ Matthews scrolled his screen up and down. ‘Wait. Shit. Amelia Dankworth-Allen. A. D. A. But why would the other killer do that?’
Greg knew the answer, but Donaldson supplied it. ‘Because he wants Greg to find Rickard and take care of him. And then he’ll find Greg.’
‘But I thought the killer and Rickard were partners?’ Matthews said.
‘Only temporarily, apparently,’ Donaldson replied. ‘After all, how could they ever really trust one another?’
Greg suddenly felt exhausted. ‘I need sleep, just a few hours, in my bed. I haven’t–’
‘Go,’ Donaldson said.
Greg pointed at the two keys on the table, the ones from Alfred Ellerton’s apartment, attached to the silver skull fob. He walked over to a map on the wall, various red pins stuck here and there. Fergus, Raj, Kate, others The Dreamer had originally killed.
‘Where was Amelia killed?’ he asked.
‘Waterloo Bridge,’ Matthews replied. ‘Hmm… The Dreamer’s corpse was found in Elephant and Castle. Fergus lived and died in Lambeth. Come to think of it, the night-watch security guard killing was in Vauxhall. The bully-boy, near Battersea.’
Greg nodded. ‘Focus the search on south London, between Waterloo and Battersea. He’s there.’ He walked to the door, feeling exhausted.
‘Why there?’ Matthews asked, his voice sounding desperate. ‘Force of habit? We have to be sure.’
Greg paused, the door half-open. ‘Finch made them jump the gun. They had no time to set up a new location. They had to go to a bolthole, most likely somewhere they’ve used before, and the majority of killings are in that area.’
‘You think Finch is there, too?’ Matthews said.
Greg couldn’t be sure either way, but Matthews needed something to cling to.
He stepped through the doorway. ‘We find Rickard, we find Finch.’
29
Finch tried to count her blessings. It didn’t amount to a high number, but still. One – she was alive. She bracketed the for now part in her mind, and dumped entirely the but for how much longer? bit. She was alive. More than her Sarge, or a dozen other soldiers she’d seen cut down. Two – she had all her limbs. Even if her hands were bloody and fresh-scabbed from the inevitable – you had to try, right? – beating and scraping against the brick wall.
She recalled the man who had walled her in. His eyes had been the worst thing. Piggy eyes, red-tinged, looking straight through her, seeing something else. The kind of guy who’d cause you to exit the lift several floors early. Rickard had been careful not to address him in any way. Why was it so important that she – a condemned woman – didn’t know who he was? Did they think she might survive? That there was a minute possibility?
She’d been drugged – conscious but unable to move – when they’d transported her during the night and brought her to wherever this was in a body bag, so she’d seen nothing outside. The drive had taken at least an hour, so she could be anywhere. She’d heard noises on and off, so not the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival, she’d heard a creaking gate. They’d gone down some stairs and through a heavily locked door, along a corridor and down some more steps, steep ones. They’d unzipped her, and she’d seen the bricks all neatly stacked up, a small cement mixer awaiting her arrival. And then slowly, methodically, they’d walled her in.
Rickard had barely looked at her, hadn’t spoken to her. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but the other man was silent, and… it was as if he was training Rickard. The odd thing was that Rickard didn’t look like he was enjoying it. She’d expected him to lord it over her, taunt her with the fact that her lover Simon would never know what had happened to her, and that Rickard would torture him with the lack of information, keep him incarcerated for the rest of his sad, broken life. Yet he said none of those things.
As if he was in too deep.
She’d seen it before. Gung-ho soldiers arrive on a military transport, ready to serve, die and protect, also known as ‘kick Taliban ass’, but by the end of their first tour they just want out, to go back to their brand-new families and stay quiet for the rest of their lives. Of course, most of them can’t, they’re enlisted. They come back for at least one more tour and are changed. That’s when they become useful, all the macho-romantic shit purged from their balls. They become wary, which is halfway to wise.
Rickard looked like he was on his third tour. She wasn’t Greg. Psychology wasn’t her thing. But she figured he was more into the idea of killing than the reality. Once the drug had worn off, which was also well after the cement had hardened, she’d had plenty to say to him. He was long gone by then, but that didn’t stop her. And if she had the chance, which went into the realm of pure fantasy, she’d put a bullet between his eyes.
Okay, back to her blessings. Three – she had a supply of air, even if it was stale. Otherwise she’d have been dead pretty fast. She was on day five, she reckoned. A ripple of nausea began. She knew the ropes. She got into the foetal position, her head on the uneven stone floor as the ripple became a wave that grew teeth and gnawed at her insides, because she was – so – fucking – hungry! It built further and she dry-retched, because there was nothing inside her except vacuum and a digestive system trying to cannibalise her other organs. Any spare fat had been harvested long ago.
The spasms continued a while then subsided. She sat up, back against the wall, exhausted. She had some saliva in her mouth, but didn’t spit, instead swallowing it, because any and all moisture was critical.
Three – no, wait a sec, four – she was used to going hungry. First by training, and then by necessity. Not five days, but three, for sure. Which meant this was really day two, so, no sweat. And – she’d almost forgotten – a bug had found her yesterday. After a brief and, she had to admit, uninspiring one-sided conversation, during which she’d christened him Emerson, she’d eaten him. So, what was the fuss about, she’d eaten two days ago!
Five – no rats. That was her kryptonite, which thankfully no one knew about, except Simon. Rats would have chased her mind over the edge, and then she’d have let down her Sarge, screaming and hopping up and down like a lunatic. She smiled at the thought of it, because he’d have laughed, and slapped her on the back. He’d known her father…
Stop! Don’t go there…
Six – she could hear things every now and again, just on the edge of audibility, and completely muffled, but she could definitely hear something. She’d made a hell of a racket on day two, for hours, and then on the hour every hour as far as she could tell, since she didn’t know for sure when was daylight and when was night-time, because – and it goes without saying that this remained heavily bracketed in her mind – she was in complete darkness since she’d watched
the killer’s eyes disappear behind that last brick as it wedged itself in. She’d only found the bug because the seriously intellectually challenged insect had crawled onto her hand.
Her breathing became scratchy. Where was she? Seven? Yes, seven. She still had her sense of humour. She’d gone through every one of the bawdy jokes her men had told her, and they raised a few smiles, mainly just remembering the guys.
Eight – she’d had a full life, done things, seen things, beauty as well as carnage. Whoa, eight was dangerous territory. Still, she let it linger a while. No need to wallow in it, though. Nine. What was nine? She’d made a difference. Fifteen tricky murder cases solved since joining the Yard. Some pretty nasty men and one woman behind bars on her account. She’d made society a safer place. Had she made a difference out in ’Ghan? Hard to tell. What had Sarge said? It was like a river of shit. You pick up one turd and say, ‘I’m going to fix this.’ A little too black in her opinion. Or brown. In any case she’d loved the people out there. Most people everywhere were fine in her experience, trying to get through life’s trials and tribulations, while a few sick individuals messed everything up.
Ten. She could stop after ten, because she needed some sleep. She knew what ten was, but it was a slipperier – was that an actual word? She wasn’t sure. Anyway, ten was even slipperier than eight. More slippery. She’d look it up later. Hah! She took a breath. Ten – she had people looking for her. The Force took abduction of one of its detectives bloody seriously. She got to her feet. There would be a hundred officers, maybe more, knocking on, and occasionally knocking down, doors, searching with heat scanners and drones, poring over evidence, tracking down that prick Rickard…
‘I’m here,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here!’ She descended into coughing, which brought her to her knees. She punched the wall without even thinking about it. Don’t do that. She sat down, kicked against the wall instead.
Eleven – yes, fucking eleven. She’d only pissed once in her tiny cell, open-bracket – coffin – close-bracket. It had seeped into the ground, the smell gone now. Twelve. After all, she couldn’t very well finish on eleven, could she? Not on a bloody prime number. Bad form. And as for thirteen, well, she wasn’t going to go there. So, twelve. What… Ah, right. Got it. She’d not been molested or raped. She’d presumed that had been on the cards, so there was some kind of relief that it hadn’t been.
Her mind quietened. Did thinking burn calories? She’d have to ask Greg when she got out. That’s the spirit. But she felt wetness in her eyes as all the brackets dissolved and the horror of where she was, and how hopeless her situation was – starving to death and severely dehydrated – closed in on her in her absolute darkness. She gritted her teeth, wiped her cheeks with scabby knuckles and licked off the tears. Don’t waste moisture. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her forearms about them. She wasn’t too cold, they’d left her in her coat after all, and it was her favourite jacket (all right, thirteen). Still, she shivered.
She longed to hear thumps, getting louder, as Matthews swung a sledgehammer like the fucking unsung kid-like hero he was, and broke her free. The thought cheered her a little, but she knew there was only one person who could save her, who could unravel Rickard’s twisted mind and find her, and hoped Donaldson had pulled off a miracle and got him free again.
Enough. She was too tired to think. Time to doze. Not sleep. Just close the eyelids for a while. They’re muscles too, right? So, they burn calories. They need rest.
Just a nap. A short one.
Her Sarge would have scolded her. He’d be yelling at her to ‘Get the fuck up, soldier!’ But she could no longer move. She’d wanted to take a nap, but knew a day had passed, more or less. She’d awoken because a bug had crawled onto her hand. She was too tired to catch it and eat it. Too tired to even shake it off. In theory she should have another day. But Rickard had drugged her with something pretty potent. Invariably such drugs dehydrated the body. So, she’d been disadvantaged even before the final brick had sealed her in. Chronologically, this might still just be day five, or maybe it was already day six. It didn’t matter. Body-wise it was day seven, and her metabolic system and her organs were shutting down.
The bug skedaddled off her hand. Sleep was coming again, this time with a vengeance. She knew how it went. This time she wouldn’t wake up.
She was on her back, and gazed upwards, even though it was completely dark, because the stale air came from somewhere above. With one last supreme effort, too tired to vocalise, her chapped lips moved, ever so slightly, sending one last message through the unseen gap into the sky.
Greg, where the fuck are you?!
30
Greg was at home in Maida Vale. He stared at the empty wall where Kate had been for the past year. They must have bagged it all up for evidence when he’d been arrested and sent to Reedmoor. He hadn’t taken off his coat. Since last he’d been there, so much had happened: Fergus; finding out about Kate’s affair; meeting her ex-lover, Raj, who was promptly killed; Rickard; Reedmoor; Finch’s abduction… He hadn’t been there for Kate when it had mattered most. And now, a year on, he couldn’t find Finch. It was as if The Divine’s taunt – wrong place – still haunted him. Kate’s Colt Detective Special sat on the table exactly where it had been, what, a week ago? More like two; he’d forgotten the ECT sessions. He spun the Colt on the table. All six chambers were full. Before it came to a stop he snatched it up, stashed it in his jacket pocket and headed out.
The night air was cool and crisp. He pulled his jacket a little closer around his neck and trudged aimlessly along a carpet of decaying Sycamore leaves as he tried to think. The clues still hung around him like dust motes, his personal constellation of dark stars. He kept coming back to Fergus, sure he was the catalyst that had unleashed this recent wave of killings. But why?
He knew he hadn’t met the real Fergus, rather the killer, heavily disguised, refusing to look him in the eye, probably speaking with a fake accent, though in practice that was hard to pull off. He paused his walking under a street lamp. He’d met the second killer. If he’d stayed to listen to who the next victim was, would the killer have told him? Or would he have Tasered Greg then and there and got what he ultimately wanted? No. Somehow this was a more complex game, there was more at stake, he just couldn’t see what it was. He resumed his walk, picking up the pace.
He recalled the meeting with Fergus/the killer, who’d said The Dreamer had talked to him from beyond the grave. Why would the killer say that? Had Fergus said that, or did the killer make it up to throw Greg off the scent? Make Fergus seem like a whacko? But all that paraphernalia in his flat… Greg decided to go with the killer repeating what Fergus must have actually said.
Matthews said Fergus had been seeking psychiatric help at St Thomas’. Had he been speaking to someone there about The Dreamer? If so, given Rickard’s extensive professional network, it wouldn’t be too unlikely for the resident psychiatrist to let Rickard know, just in case it was somehow relevant to the case.
Greg stopped again as several motes lined up. Fergus – somehow – knew The Dreamer was dead. Rickard found out, and he and the killer murdered him, and framed Greg at the same time. But how did Fergus know? Greg didn’t believe for a second in supernatural phenomena.
A car horn blared at Greg, who was stationary next to a zebra crossing. The driver leaned out his window and shouted. ‘You crossing, mate, or what?’
‘Sorry,’ Greg said, and hustled across the road.
His mind switched to Finch. Rickard and the Ellertons, he reckoned, had their killing ground in south London, in the area Greg had outlined to Donaldson and Matthews. Walling up someone alive sounded risky in a high-density area like London, but it wasn’t that hard really, the place was perpetually noisy. He was sure Finch was there, somewhere, behind fresh bricks and mortar, clinging to life. His pace quickened. He visualised those two rusty keys attached to the skull fob. He just needed the address.
He stopped again. He was at
the top of the alleyway that led to the Yoga Centre. On impulse he wandered down and entered the studio, after being buzzed through the thick wooden door. He took off his shoes and deposited them dutifully in one of the vestibule’s cubbyholes and approached the counter.
‘Hi, Greg, long time!’
‘Hi, Mary. I just came to…’ To what? He didn’t know. He needed a breathing space, the scent of normality.
‘There’s a class at 9pm if you’re interested; this one’s just wrapping up.’
‘Thanks, I just wanted to take a look around, remind myself.’
Mary smiled and went back to whatever she’d been busy with on her computer.
He knew why he was there. Anonymity, of sorts. The comfort of remote acquaintances and strangers who accepted him at face value, who didn’t know the shitstorm he was weathering. He peered through the glass section of the door. The class were already in Savasana, lying down flat on their backs in the repose posture, completely relaxed, eyes closed, blankets covering most of their bodies. He looked away and walked a few steps down the corridor to the noticeboard, and took a look at the club ads.
One was for a week-long retreat in Spain in January with Rosemary, one of his favourite teachers. He tried to imagine himself there. Couldn’t. The door to the main yoga room opened, and he was doused in a sweaty breeze. It had been a Level Four class. Advanced. Bodies in shorts and sweat-patched T-shirts rushed past him to the changing rooms. One body lingered behind.
‘Greg,’ she said. He turned. Anushka. Her buoyant, yoga-flushed face morphed into a frown. ‘What’s happened to you?’ Her fingers touched his temples. He knew there were two angry red spots there. Too much voltage.
‘You should see the other guy,’ he joked.
She wasn’t buying it. ‘Wait here,’ she said, and before she disappeared into the changing room, she gave him a look. ‘I mean it.’
