Assassin's Web

by Richard T. Burke

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  I described the route of my walk past the scene of the murder but omitted the note from my description. The policeman asked me whether I had seen anything suspicious in the vicinity, and I answered in the negative. He requested that I come into the local police station to make a formal statement. I agreed to drop by the next morning. The man ended the call by thanking me for my assistance.

  My head was spinning in a whirlwind of indecision as I replaced the handset. Had I been right to omit details of the note? I could always mention it the following day during the face-to-face interview. But wouldn’t they wonder why I hadn’t referred to it tonight? I let out a groan of frustration. My actions had placed me in an impossible situation. Why had I picked up the damned thing in the first place?

  I hardly slept that night. My brain refused to turn off, spinning round and round, trying to find the solution to an unsolvable problem. Central to everything was the note and the website it pointed to. Perhaps the police could use the site address to track the murderer. By keeping the information to myself, I might be denying them a vital clue that would allow a killer to go free.

  I knew it was selfish to think about myself when two people were dead, but I continued to worry about the anonymity of the dark web. Was it possible for the site owners to trace my location? I reassured myself that even if it was feasible, the only time I had successfully connected to the page was from the café. Would they be able to track my attempts after they took down the site? I assumed not, but I had no idea how the system worked. In my head, I made a further list of questions to ask Jamie the following morning.

  If it was possible to link the successful login attempt to a location, would they be capable of tracing it back to me? I wracked my brains, trying to think how I had paid. With a surge of relief, I remembered handing over a five-pound note, so they wouldn’t be able to trace me through my payment details. That only left anything the computer might reveal. Jamie had checked the machine for malware and found nothing. He also reassured me it was highly unlikely they could obtain my identity by monitoring my access to the site.

  After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I gave up trying to sleep. I turned on the lamp and reached over to grab the paperback from the bedside cabinet. It was an action thriller and the sort of book that didn’t stretch the intellect: exactly what I needed to distract me from my troubles. I finished the page and realised that despite reading all the words, I hadn’t taken in any of the meaning. In frustration, I tossed it on the floor and threw back the covers.

  I shuffled along the hall and into the lounge. There, I flicked on the television and channel hopped until I found an old episode of Star Trek. If Kirk and Spock couldn’t distract me, then nothing else would. I put my feet up and watched the programme with one half of my mind while the other half spun over the events of the previous day.

  A tap on the glass jolted me from my contemplative state. For a moment, I seriously considered leaping off the sofa and using it for cover. The sound repeated, and the rational part of my brain took over; it was highly improbable that anybody wishing me harm would alert me first. I crept to the window, my pulse rate soaring, and pulled back the curtain in one sudden movement. The tapping noise grew louder, but the source soon became apparent; a shrub adjoining the house was badly in need of a trim. The strong breeze was causing the branches to scrape against the pane.

  When the hammering of my heart had slowed a little, I rearranged the cushions and lay across the sofa. I lowered the volume and closed my eyes. After what seemed an age, I finally drifted off. When I awoke, it was five o’clock in the morning, and the light was seeping around the edge of the curtains.

  I didn’t know it then, but my fears were well founded. The people behind the website were already on my trail.

  Chapter 10

  Twenty-five years ago:

  Wednesday, 8th February, 1995

  Something woke me. The glow from the streetlight on the main road crept around the edges of the curtains, casting orange bands against the walls. Rather than being disturbed by the bright patches, I found them a reassuring relief against the darkness. My gaze tracked the familiar lines from halfway up the wall onto the ceiling.

  I lay with my eyes open, my ears straining to pick up any unusual sounds. The distant buzz of a motorbike carried through the night. Over the course of the next few seconds, the engine note changed pitch as the driver accelerated rapidly, then gradually faded away. I turned on my side and was drifting off when a thud from the hallway dragged me back to full wakefulness.

  My hand reached to the ceiling-mounted pull-cord above the bed. I blinked as light flooded the bedroom. Pushing myself upright, I stared at the white, wooden door, listening hard for a repetition of the noise. A glance at the red digits of the alarm clock revealed the time to be a little after two-thirty. After several early morning visitations, my parents had given me strict instructions to stay in my room if I woke before seven o’clock.

  Throwing back the covers, I swung my legs to the side of the bed. My foot landed on something cool. I looked down at The Magic Faraway Tree. My mother had left the book on the carpet after reading to us.

  I padded across the floor and stood with my ear pressed to the painted wood. The only sound I could hear was the thudding of my heart. A shiver ran through me although I couldn’t tell if the cause was the chill of the early morning or the strong sense that something was wrong.

  I remained in the same spot for over a minute, listening for a repeat of the noise. There was no recurrence, so I gave up and turned towards my bed. That was when the unmistakable click and swish of the front door opening reached my ears. I rushed back, opened my bedroom door and stared along the corridor. A nightlight cast a circle of illumination from its position on the floor, revealing the open doorway to Elena’s room.

  Unsure what to do, I raced to my window and threw aside the curtains. A figure dressed in black hurried across the short drive. He carried a white shape slung over his shoulder. Upon reaching the closed gate, he fumbled with the latch for a moment, then bent down and deposited the object on the frost-encrusted grass.

  He stepped forward to fiddle with the mechanism. With the shock of realisation, I identified what he had been carrying: my younger sister. Dressed in a white nightie, she lay unmoving on the frigid ground. My fists hammered against the glass, and I screamed at the top of my voice. The man twisted his head and stared up at me. Then he crouched, picked up Elena’s inert body, and jogged through the gateway to the road.

  Seconds later, the flare of taillights lit the night. I watched in horror as a dark-coloured car—the orange streetlights made it impossible to determine the exact hue—raced along the street away from the house.

  Day Two:

  Tuesday, 28th July, 2020

  Chapter 11

  The television was still turned on, showing a sitcom from the eighties. The black bands down the sides of the picture, the bouffant hairstyles and the canned laughter provided a good indication of the era. I switched over to the twenty-four-hour BBC news channel without changing my position on the sofa. I watched for over thirty minutes until the headlines repeated.

  The politician who had been at the centre of the political scandal the previous day was under intense pressure to resign. The death toll in Egypt had risen to over forty, but the newsreader made no mention at all of the murders a few miles away.

  It wasn’t yet six o’clock when I shoved myself off the cushions and padded along the corridor to the study. There, I spent another fruitless hour searching the online news feeds. It seemed little had changed in the police investigation. They were still appealing for witnesses and apparently had no suspects. One story suggested the male victim may have had links to organised crime, but the article was careful to avoid an outright accusation.

  Part of me considered making another attempt to access the website on the piece of paper. I convinced myself
it would be a bad idea; if the page was operational once again, I would feel obliged to inform the authorities, and that might put my career in jeopardy. No, it was far better to steer well clear of the dark web and all its secrets.

  My stomach lurched as I contemplated the statement I had promised to give that day. I had no idea what time the police station unlocked its doors or even whether it closed overnight. A quick Internet search confirmed that on weekdays, the front desk opened at eight in the morning and remained open until eight at night.

  Lack of sleep and worry combined to limit my appetite. All I could manage for breakfast was a single slice of buttered toast. I showered until the hot water turned cold then dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. When I slipped the watch over my wrist, it was a little before seven thirty. I did a quick mental calculation and worked out that if I set off now, it would be after eight o’clock by the time I parked the car.

  I emerged through the front door to discover a clear morning. An occasional puddle provided the only remaining evidence of the previous night’s torrential rain. The air had that warm, slightly earthy scent that always reminded me of British summers. As I navigated through the gate posts, I glanced to the right. Fifty yards away, Mrs Owens waited while her tiny dog sniffed at the roadside bushes. She squinted in my direction, removed a notebook from her pocket and made an entry. Shaking my head in disbelief, I turned left, watching her in the rear-view mirror.

  I battled my way through the rush hour traffic and found myself a place in the pay and display car park. By the time I bought a ticket at the machine, it was twelve minutes past eight. The short walk to the police station added another ten minutes. I pushed through the outside door into an area with three reception desks, only one of which was occupied.

  A variety of posters adorned the walls, ranging from an exhortation for females to be alert when walking alone to an advertisement for men to call a helpline if they needed help to control their anger. Other than the white-shirted policeman, the room was deserted.

  The man glanced at me briefly then continued to study the computer screen in front of him. I approached the desk and waited for him to acknowledge my presence. A rectangular sign alongside a pushbutton read, ‘Press for attention’. For a fleeting moment, I considered pressing the button but thought better of it. Finally, he raised his eyes and asked how he could help.

  “I spoke to a police officer yesterday on the helpline about the murders on Mill Lane. I’m here to make a statement.”

  The policeman’s interest perked up. “Oh, right. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll get somebody to have a word. Can I have your name?”

  “Alex Parrott.”

  The man stared at me suspiciously, studying my face as if he didn’t quite believe me. Finally, he gestured towards some chairs. “Wait there, Mr Parrott. Someone will be out to see you in a minute.”

  I crossed the room and lowered myself into a wooden chair covered with lumpy, yellow padding. The police officer waited until I was far enough away not to eavesdrop on his conversation then spoke into a telephone handset with a hushed voice. His eyes flicked towards me several times during the discussion. He ended the call and returned his attention to the computer screen.

  A few minutes later, a door to the side of the reception desk opened. A uniformed policewoman surveyed the waiting area. “Would you like to come with me, Mr Parrott?”

  She stepped back to allow me to pass then led the way along the bare corridor to a steel door labelled ‘Interview Room 1’. As I followed her, I picked up the scent of a soapy smelling deodorant. She gestured toward a chair. “Please take a seat.”

  She smiled as she sat on the opposite side of the metal table. “Thanks for coming in, Mr Parrott. My name is Sergeant Susie Mayhew. I believe you called the helpline yesterday evening. Please tell me what happened. Just so you’re aware, I’ll be recording this conversation.”

  She reached forward and pushed a button on the electronic device occupying the middle of the shiny, metallic surface. Now I had the chance to study her, I could see she was in her early thirties. Her hair was dark and cut short, framing an attractive, open face. I found my gaze wandering to her left hand. No ring.

  I went through the events of the previous afternoon, gradually relaxing as she asked me to clarify a few points.

  When I had completed my story, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I’d like you to confirm you didn’t encounter anybody during your walk.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you saw nothing suspicious?”

  If I was going to mention the note, now was the time. “Um ... no, I don’t think so.”

  She seemed disappointed. “Well, if you remember anything else, you can contact me here.” She pushed a business card across the table.

  I picked it up and, after studying it for a second, shoved it in my back pocket. “I will do.”

  “One last thing; were you carrying a phone during your walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I take your number, please?”

  “Of course.” I dictated the digits. “Are you going to call me?”

  Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “Probably not.”

  “So why do you need my number?”

  “The software inside a mobile is always trying to connect to the strongest signal. The telecoms providers maintain a log of the devices in range of each cell tower at all times. It might help us track the perpetrator’s location if he was carrying a phone and left it turned on.”

  “How do you know it was a man?”

  An amused expression worked its way across her face. “Statistically, over ninety per cent of homicides are committed by men, so it’s a fairly safe bet.”

  “Does that make me a suspect?”

  She laughed. “Not at the present time.”

  Unfortunately for me, that was all about to change.

  Chapter 12

  I left the police station far happier than when I had arrived. The surge of relief at having given my statement combined with the lack of sleep made me feel lightheaded. I smiled to myself as I reran in my head the conversation with Susie Mayhew. There were probably rules about police officers fraternising with witnesses. When they had caught their man and the court case was over, I might pay her a social call. I suspected I wouldn’t have the bottle to follow it through, but there was no harm in fantasising.

  As I settled into the car, my thoughts turned to the plans for my holiday. When I arrived back home, I would go online and book my windsurfing package deal. Before that, however, it was time I paid my mother and sister a visit. From my present location, it would take me less than a quarter of an hour to reach the house where I grew up.

  According to the dashboard clock, it was just after nine o’clock. My mother was always complaining I didn’t call around enough, so that’s what I planned to do. The girls had started their school holidays that week and my sister’s job as a teaching assistant meant she too would be at home. It might have been a bit early for most people, but Cathy wasn’t one to lie in bed on a day off—even if her two daughters would allow it.

  As I turned into the leafy avenue, my feeling of wellbeing waned a little. The house held many memories, not all of them good. Whenever I saw the stone frontage, it took me back to the events of that night, twenty-five years ago, when my baby sister was taken. For a year or two, our family became a hot news topic as the police searched for the kidnapper.

  I wasn’t sure how my mother could bear to live where it all happened. If it was my property, I would have moved out long since. She justified her continued habitation there on the basis that if my missing sister ever escaped from the person holding her, this was the first place to which she would return. Although my mother wouldn’t admit it, we both knew Elena was dead. She had told me many times that, as a parent, you can never give up on your child, no matter how unlikely the probability they are still alive.

  I pushed the negative thoughts to the back of m
y mind and rolled onto the gravel drive, parking behind Cathy’s people carrier. I had barely opened the car door when the squeals of delight and the sound of running feet reached my ears.

  “Uncle Alex. Did you bring us a present?”

  The elder of my two nieces, Sophia, flung her arms around my midriff in a tight hug. Zoe, the younger of the siblings, followed three paces behind. I swept her into the air and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Giggling, she promptly wiped it off with the back of her hand.

  She was the same age as my baby sister when she had been abducted all those years ago. The similarity in appearance was startling. The blond hair, blue eyes and gap-toothed smile were exactly how I remembered Elena. Every time I looked at her, it generated painful memories.

  “How are my two favourite nieces?” I asked, forcing a cheery note into my voice.

  “We’re your only nieces,” Sophia replied in the confident tone of an eight-year-old.

  “You’re still my favourites, though.”

  “Put me down,” Zoe demanded, wriggling in my arms. “Did you bring us something?”

  It was my fault. Every time I came around, I gave them a small gift. Now they expected it. I rummaged in my pocket and pulled out two one-pound coins. “Here you go, girls. Don’t spend it all at once.”

  “Thanks,” they chorused together as they skipped through the front door. I heard an excited voice announce, “Uncle Alex is here,” as I followed them in. “He’s given us a pound each. I’m putting mine in my piggy bank.”

  “Come and play with me on the computer, Uncle Alex,” Sophia called from her room.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” I replied. “Let me have a chat with your mum and nanna first.”

  My sister emerged from the kitchen and enveloped me in a hug. “You’re spoiling them.”