Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  Sem Culpa patted the top of Alexina’s head as she walked away, leaving her whistling in and out of nostrils still clogged with the remnants of vomit. She stretched her neck and shoulders, preparing for the final tasks. There was a vat to fill with water, and it would take a while to get it sufficiently full for her purposes. Then she’d need the generator working. Nothing was going to go to plan without electricity.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  ‘The police are on their way,’ Salter said. ‘There’ll be units here any minute. The best thing you can do is let the knife go.’ Salter glanced at Gladys Talthwaite, fearful that at any moment the kitchen knife would slice the papery skin of her neck.

  ‘She deserve to die,’ Grom said. ‘She moan, she spit at me. You sit down!’ he yelled as Salter tried to get up from the kitchen chair.

  ‘All right,’ Salter said, her voice not rising a notch. ‘I’m sitting back down. What can I do to help you? Whatever you want, I can arrange it for you.’

  ‘Already ruined. Everything lost,’ he said, moving towards the hallway, positioning both the knife and Gladys so that Salter could not mistake the imminent threat.

  ‘There’s always something,’ Salter said. ‘You’re here for a reason. I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to see if we can find a way to end this. My name is Christie. The lady you’re holding is Gladys. What shall I call you?’

  He was huge, Salter saw, as he blocked the doorway from the kitchen with his sheer bulk. The crushing injuries to Helen Lott made much more sense. Looking at him, Salter was surprised he’d bothered using the furniture. He could easily have killed her with his bare hands. Probably with just one of them. Salter glanced around. Piles of wood had been thrown into untidy stacks in the hallway. Four coils of rope hung from coat hooks on the wall and below them a can of petrol sat half in, half out of a carrier bag on the floor. If nothing else, a fire would be an effective way of ridding the house of his DNA and any trace evidence of his time there. The worse case scenario was that the fire was intended for something more than just the destruction of evidence.

  ‘Police lady, come with me,’ Grom said, grabbing a rucksack from the hallway and dropping Gladys in a heap as he shoved a few items of clothing into it. Salter held a hand out to Gladys and Grom flashed the knife at her. ‘No, you no touch.’

  ‘She must be in shock,’ Salter said. ‘It would be better for you if she didn’t die. Would you let me put a blanket around her shoulders? Or you could, if you don’t want me near her.’

  ‘She need die,’ Grom shouted, allowing himself a quick kick to Gladys’ legs. ‘Bitch,’ he added.

  Salter didn’t like the way the woman barely flinched. Her eyes were only half open and her head was nodding forwards. There were two large bandages around each of her arms, and a smaller one around her right hand. All were bloodied and dirty, but better than nothing. At least an effort had been made to control the bleeding. A meaty, ripe smell indicated how little washing of bodies, clothes or anything else had taken place in the last five days.

  There were no sirens yet, that was all Salter could think about. It wouldn’t take Grom long to be ready to leave. She tried not to think about what he was capable of, forcing herself to concentrate on the kitchen, spying out anything that might prove a useful weapon. All the cutlery had long since been hidden away. There wasn’t so much as a frying pan handy.

  Grom was rummaging around noisily in the lounge, casting an eye back into the corridor every few seconds. The clanking of tools accompanied his frenzied packing.

  Salter took the opportunity to put an arm around Gladys and assess her condition. ‘Gladys,’ Salter whispered, ‘Gladys, if you can hear me, turn your head to me. Don’t try to get up. It’ll be all right. Help will be here soon.’

  Gladys turned her head a fraction and Salter could see the lobeless ear, crusted with dried blood and oozing a watery yellow fluid that had crystallised in her white hair. It was a miracle that Gladys Talthwaite was still alive. Or perhaps sheer bloody-mindedness. Like her own grandmother, Salter thought, Gladys was of a generation raised to smile through poverty and fight like hell when called upon.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ Salter said, wondering if there might be anything more resemblant of a weapon in the loo.

  ‘Do what old woman do,’ Grom said, walking back into the kitchen with his coat on. ‘Piss where you sit.’

  ‘I need more than a pee though,’ Salter explained.

  Grom glared, checked his watch, and stormed towards her. He grabbed her by the arm. ‘You not lock door,’ he said. ‘Fast.’

  Salter took the few steps into the bathroom as a distant sound, almost imperceptible, hit the air like mechanical birdsong. She glanced at Grom before shutting the door, praying he hadn’t heard it, but his face had tightened.

  ‘You shit later,’ he said, shoving the bathroom door fully open and grabbing Salter by the hair. He adjusted his backpack, carrying a tool roll in his free hand, rushing towards the back door. In her palm she concealed a metal nail file she’d found abandoned beneath the bathroom sink, sliding most of it up her sleeve. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could find.

  As Grom checked the windows, looking to see which direction they would come from, Salter tried not to think about her baby. She didn’t want Grom’s hands on her, bringing bacteria and defilement to her skin. It took just one moment for her to dismiss any idea of pleading for her daughter’s life. A man like this, so distantly related to the rest of humanity, what would he care for the innocent life inside her? And worse than that, her darker fear, that he might hurt the baby deliberately, get some perverse kick out of it. Salter offered a silent deal to the god she had long since ceased believing in, and waited for an opportunity to get Gladys Talthwaite, her unborn baby and herself out alive.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  ‘I appreciate that DCI Edgar is busy,’ Ava said, waiting for the inevitable further suggestions. ‘Yes, I have tried his mobile.’ She was sitting in her car outside Wesley O’Rourke’s house wishing she wasn’t making the call. Or at least wishing she didn’t feel like such an idiot doing it. ‘No, the point is that I know he can’t be reached, and leaving a voicemail message won’t work. I need you to go into the interview room and get him out.’

  ‘Sorry ma’am, but I can’t do that,’ some cardboard cut-out version of Joe told her. ‘And to be honest,’ the volume of the voice dropped considerably, ‘I don’t think you’d want to speak to him at the moment …’

  ‘Yup, got it,’ Ava said. ‘He’s busy. I, however, have a missing woman presumed about to be pretty fucking dead, so get DCI Edgar on this phone right now.’

  There was silence then the sound of a door opening, voices, the receiver muffled but not enough to drown out the string of expletives, then Joe’s voice. Ava took a deep breath.

  ‘Joe,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re in the middle of, but I understand you have a man named Ben Paulson in custody.’

  ‘I can’t do this now,’ Edgar said, his tone a shade away from fury.

  ‘We need him, Joe. He might be able to access website files that will help us locate a missing woman …’ Ava persisted.

  ‘Do you have any idea what I’m going through? Do you even care?’

  ‘This isn’t about you, Joe. The man you’re holding is the only person with the skills to save her life.’

  ‘And you want me to put him on a computer so that he could potentially log back into his own files and wipe whatever evidence still exists.’

  ‘It’s not the way I’d have chosen it, but isn’t that a risk worth taking to save a life?’

  ‘Meaning that my career and my investigation are somehow worth less than yours. It’s only data and numbers so it doesn’t matter, is that what you think?’

  ‘I think you’re being an ignorant dick, if you really want to know. You know what’s at stake here. It could have been anyone who was taken. Would you be this unhelpful if it was me waiting to be rescued from this psychopath?�
�

  There was only a heartbeat of a pause, but it was there. The tiniest splinter of glass that would never be pulled out of the finger, Ava thought. It would always sting, no matter how many years might pass.

  ‘Of course not,’ Joe’s voice came softly now. ‘But you don’t understand, Ava. There’s a lot of pressure on me from people who won’t be sympathetic if I let Paulson back on a computer. And once he’s there pressing keys, we won’t be able to control what he’s accessing. There was an incident, a bit of a cock-up to be honest, during the arrest. It may be that …’

  ‘Joe,’ Ava cut him off. ‘Yes or no. Are you going to let Paulson help us or not?’

  ‘Once we’ve downloaded all the evidence from his files, got everything backed up and checked, I’ll give you access to him. You can ask him to do whatever you need at that point.’

  ‘Hours, right? You’re talking hours. Not just five minutes?’ Ava checked.

  ‘Of course hours,’ Joe snapped. ‘This stuff is incredibly complicated. Have you listened to nothing I’ve told you?’

  ‘Alexina O’Rourke will be dead within a couple of hours, maybe less. Are you willing to let that happen while we wait for you to get what you need?’

  ‘Ava, you need to take responsibility for your own investigation. Don’t try the guilt card with me. If Ben Paulson is your last hope, then maybe you need to think about why the Major Investigation Team has so few leads.’

  She hung up.

  DC Tripp was trying to ignore the conversations in the corridor from various members of the Cyber Crime Unit, in order to focus on his own job. All he had to work with was one email address and vague descriptions of a woman driving away from the general area of Alexina O’Rourke’s house in a new-looking four-by-four. DS Lively walked in.

  ‘Sir, how many car hire outlets are there around the city, do you think?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Maybe a dozen’ Lively said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if that was our killer in the four-by-four, then it’s unlikely she drove it to Scotland. This has all been impromptu depending on where she needed to go and what she needed to carry,’ Tripp said, already searching a list of rental companies.

  ‘And if she’d bought it from a dealer she’d have needed all sorts of ID and a bank account. They’d have got suspicious if she’d handed over that much cash,’ Lively finished for him. ‘There aren’t that many four-by-fours for rental. It’s mainly saloons or smaller cars. Let’s get phoning.’

  Ten minutes later they had a complete list of rented out four-by-fours. Tripp double-checked the details against the email address Callanach had given him and came up blank. None of the names were foreign and they had no mobile numbers for reference. Tripp dropped his head onto the desk.

  ‘That’s another waste of time, then,’ Lively said. ‘I’m heading back over to the O’Rourkes’. Call me if you come up with anything else.’ He was slipping his arms into his jacket as PC Biddlecombe ran in, skidding as she rounded the corner and barrelling into Lively’s legs. ‘What the hell?’ he shouted, picking her up from the floor. ‘Would you mind yourself, ya dozy …’

  ‘It’s Christie Salter,’ Biddlecombe shouted. ‘I didn’t take the call. There are uniformed units on their way. I didn’t know when I sent her over there.’

  Lively took her by the shoulders and held her still while she calmed down.

  ‘Get a grip, constable,’ Lively said. ‘Where’s Salter and what’s happened?’

  ‘I asked her to check a missing person report while everyone else was out. The control room got a call a while ago from a lady in the same road. Didn’t make much sense. She just said the policewoman had asked her to get help.’

  ‘The uniformed patrols are on their way, right? And we’ve no information that anyone’s injured or in any danger. Salter’ll be fine,’ Lively said, letting go of Biddlecombe’s shoulders. Biddlecombe wasn’t ready to be released though, gripping Lively’s sleeves as he turned away.

  ‘No, sir. I made a follow-up call. The neighbour didn’t mention it when she first phoned in, but DC Salter asked for backup when she learned that the missing woman is a retired lollipop lady.’

  The silence began with Lively and moved from person to person like a virus until the whole office was still and staring. Tripp was the first one to break.

  ‘Address,’ he shouted at Biddlecombe. She held out a piece of paper in reply. He snatched it. Lively was right behind him. ‘Let Callanach know,’ Tripp yelled. ‘And email him the document on my screen at the same time.’

  They ran.

  Ava was jogging back across the road when Callanach took the call. She’d stayed put after her conversation with Joe, having to remind herself that her mother had died earlier that day, justifying why she was at work instead of with her family. Avoiding asking herself why – even allowing for all the craziness and wrong-footedness – Joe still hadn’t asked her if she was doing okay. And now she had to explain to Luc that her fiancé was more intent upon securing a conviction in a theft case than helping save a woman’s life. She felt ill.

  Callanach shouted to a uniformed officer, giving brief instructions which had the constable sprinting into the house, before getting back on his mobile. Ava hurried her pace, choosing her words.

  ‘Luc,’ she said, ‘I spoke to Joe …’

  ‘No time,’ Callanach replied. ‘Get in my car. Salter seems to have found Helen Lott and Emily Balcaskie’s killer.’ He started the car and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  ‘Salter?’ Ava said. ‘She was supposed to stay at the station.’ An officer ran to stand in the middle of the road, waving a piece of paper as Callanach performed a tyre-shredding three-point turn. Ava wound her window down and grabbed the sheet as they went past. ‘He’ll kill her.’

  ‘Look down that list,’ Callanach said. ‘Those are details of four-by-fours matching the rough age and description of the one seen leaving the road behind Alexina O’Rourke’s house.’

  She knew he wasn’t being cruel or dismissive, and that focusing on the job at hand was the only way to use her energy constructively, but the words kept moving in front of her eyes. Ava took a deep breath, forced herself to concentrate, started at the top again and studied each entry.

  It was there in the back of her mind, the first clue that something didn’t fit, and it still took another five passes up and down the list of email addresses before it hit her.

  ‘Dot pt,’ she said, her thumbs tapping furiously on the screen of her mobile.

  ‘What?’ Callanach asked, but Ava was already dialling a number, one finger against her lips to quieten him.

  After introducing herself and making some preliminary enquiries, she began making notes.

  ‘And she picked the car up when?’ Ava asked. ‘Last night. You use a vehicle tracking system presumably? Locate that car right now and call me back.’ She turned to Callanach. ‘You don’t notice it in the list at first because the name doesn’t stand out. I think the email address Sem Culpa used was paula@brisket.pt. The pt part indicates that the email provider is Portuguese. Paula turns out to be the surname she hired the car in, not a first name. Pretty common in parts of Europe.’

  Ava’s phone rang again and she scribbled down GPS co-ordinates as Callanach pulled over.

  ‘Do you have a location for the car?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Yes, but Salter is almost certainly in the hands of a monster. All I have is a hunch that a Portuguese email address might belong to Alexina’s O’Rourke’s abductor. I could be completely wrong. Either way, you’ll have to decide. I have no faith in my judgement any more.’

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Gladys had remained on the floor as Grom dragged Salter to the front window to check if the police were pulling up. The siren, however, had done nothing more than tail off into the distance. Salter wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disheartened. At least Grom had relaxed his hold on her once he seemed certain he had not yet been discovered. Grom took one last look a
round and changed position to lead Salter by the wrist instead. She felt a jolt of panic before he selected the hand without the nail file. It wouldn’t do much damage, but aimed correctly into an eye, up his nose, or into his ear, she could cause sufficient pain to buy her and Gladys the moments they needed to get out. After that, she had no plan. Adrenalin would do the rest, she reckoned.

  ‘Keys,’ Grom said, checking the landscape beyond the back door. ‘Where?’

  ‘In my pocket,’ Salter said, one option for a getaway disappearing unless she could get them back once she had him at a disadvantage. Grom reached into her trousers and took them.

  ‘We go,’ he said, tugging open the door. Gladys had crawled into the kitchen and was in a huddle on the floor, clutching her hands around her stomach. ‘You, old lady, I let you live. Is more funny than kill you.’

  Gladys spat at him, a huge mouthful of saliva that sprayed down the right leg of his trousers, as if she’d been saving it up for precisely that moment. For a second he managed to maintain his motion towards the door, then he shook his head, swung his body round, took a step back towards Gladys, dragging Salter with him. He raised his free left fist high above his head, taking aim, snarling as he brought the vast flesh and bone hammer down to strike.

  Salter knew that the force of the blow would be enough to end Gladys’ debilitated existence. She waited until he was ready to deliver the battering, keeping her back towards him and her stomach out of harm’s way, steadying her body to absorb the shock, her shoulder barging into the space between Grom and Gladys’ head. She made it, too. Salter’s body filled the space between attacker and would-be victim at exactly the moment Gladys Talthwaite anticipated the attack.

  The old woman’s arm lashed forward faster than Salter could see, harder than she would have thought possible from someone who looked so frail. In her hand Gladys held half a cat food bowl, ceramic, smashed into a spike several inches long.