by China, Max
Martin spoke louder than before, "How did you know that?"
Cathy didn't reply.
Martin then raised his voice, demanding an answer.
"How did you know her name was Eilise?" There was a dread silence and then an accusation. "You've been talking to her, haven't you!"
Eilise agonised as she heard Cathy's muffled protests and the sounds of a furious struggle, followed by a cry of pain, then deathly quiet.
Eilise listened intently. She couldn't hear a sound.
The door opened, sending in a shaft of light, casting his shadow across the floor.
Martin stood there with blood on his hands and murder in his eyes.
Chapter 55
"I told you not to talk to her. This is your fault!" Martin stomped out and thundered up the stairs. Eilise strained to hear what was happening. He crossed the room above three times in quick succession. Then she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It was the sound of something heavy. A dead weight dragged across the floor.
He'd killed her! Surely, she'd be next.
She looked around her cell, desperately searching for a weapon; there wasn't a single thing that would trouble him if she hit him with it. He was going to kill her, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Unless she could convince him, she was worth keeping.
She'd lost all her dignity years before. If she got through this, she might be able to buy herself the chance to escape later.
She stripped naked, sank onto the bed and waited for him.
An hour later, he still had not come for her. She was cold and pulled the covers over her. The stress had given her a dull headache. She wanted some scag; she wanted some sleep, and she wanted her nightmare to end. She prayed. Hovering on the brink of consciousness, about to sleep for the first time in weeks unaided by drugs, she thought she'd heard a woman cry. She sat up, listening. Then she heard Martin's voice talking, low and smooth. She was alive!
The welcome sound of Cathy's sobbing continued for a full five minutes while he tried to soothe her. Soon all was quiet again.
She lay back down and drew her knees into her chest. She heard the tell tale stair creak. Eilise kept herself covered. Martin opened the door.
"You almost killed her . . . what you did." Words formed in her head, but she dared not speak them.
He pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the cage. "I've got business to attend to. I need you to look after Cathy, or she'll die. You owe her."
"What's wrong with her?"
He shrugged. "She took a beating, went too far . . ."
"You should call a doctor . . ."
"She's a tough one; she'll be all right," he said, ignoring her advice. "You can't get out, don't bother trying. Oh, and the place is soundproofed, so don't waste your breath shouting. When I come back, she'd better be alive . . ."
He's mental; she thought.
He walked out down the corridor. She heard the door slam, the deadbolts turning.
She slipped her T-shirt on and made her way upstairs. The stair creaked. "I'm coming Cath," she said, quietly.
Eilise found her propped in bed; her eyes welled up at the sight of her. Her breathing was shallow; although she was breathing through her mouth, a tiny mucous bubble of blood inflated in her left nostril with every exhalation. She looked in a bad way. How a man could do that to a woman, was beyond her. Eilise decided to let her sleep. She lay on the bed next to her, listening out for her laboured breathing, afraid in case it should stop.
It was almost midnight, when Cathy wet the bed.
Oh, great!
Martin was gone for days; she nursed Cathy back to health as best she could. She was still reluctant to talk about him, and she wouldn't hear a word said against him. He was right about them not getting out. Without tools, there was no way. Eilise wondered what would happen to them if something happened to him.
Chapter 56
The caller studied his face in the car's rear-view mirror; he had his father's bony eye sockets, hammered out of shape by many fights, a nose broken so many times it resembled a chimney rock formation. The flinty eyes and bullet head came from his father too, but he had his mother's mouth, fleshy mashed up lips and teeth that whilst even and white, grew inwards and backwards, like a shark's. Few people settled their eyes on him for long. He always got a feeling if someone was looking at him, and he'd often swing around and catch them. Most times, once he'd glared at them, they would turn away.
There was something feral and animalistic about him, something familiar too, like a photo fit, where the top doesn't quite match the bottom. Sometimes, when he was in a mirror gazing mood, he wondered if he'd become what he was because of what he looked like.
Without the benefit of a formal education, he more than made up for it with cunning and deviousness, and a sharp intelligence that belied his appearance. Able to imitate voices, he experimented with speaking in different ways; he could sound posh and well educated and as rough and unintelligible as a raging drunk. On top of that, he was also a master of disguise, frequently changing his appearance, especially after significant events in his life. The disguises were something his father had taught him. Never stay the same… He used them to cover another genetic trait he shared with his father, for which he hated him.
As Midnight, he would wear glasses, wigs, beards, moustaches, skin tan lotions. The clothes he wore ranged from lumberjack work shirts through to business suits. Every job he carried out, he engineered with scenes of crime in mind; he knew what they'd be looking for. Unless he wanted to plant something, he left no clues. During his years on the road, he learned to read, and it helped him make sense of the paperwork he would find at people's houses. In an attempt to control his urges, he applied disciplines that diverted his interests elsewhere.
He learned about people and their quirks. Unafraid to experiment with manipulation he observed the different outcomes, and never stopped asking what if questions, developing scenarios.
An expert in surveillance, he learned to play chess with other people's lives. His plans came about like evolution.
The pills in the bathroom cabinet, and the smell of the empty glass left on the side of the basin confirmed that gin was her extra poison for the night, a dangerous mix. The blonde wouldn't have woken up if he'd driven a truck through her bedroom.
While she slept, he emptied her safe. When he'd finished counting the money, a little over ninety seven thousand pounds, he'd already worked out how to double it. Unable to believe his luck, after stowing the money away in a Harrods carrier bag, he began leafing through the diary she kept in the safe. Why keep it in a safe? Poring over the entries and notes, he found it was a meticulous record of her client's visits. Days, times, what they had done, even what they'd said.
Two in particular drew his attention. One was a police chief inspector who, according to her notes, liked nothing more than having her sing Happy Birthday as part of his foreplay. Alongside his name was the number 1, with a circle drawn around it. The next was someone she described only as the Boss. His name was encircled with the number 2. The other entries too, carried encircled numbers next to them; there were money brokers, city bankers, solicitors. The numbers, he assumed, were based on performance, or the amount of money they paid. He puzzled over it briefly before deciding it wasn't important.
When he'd reached the end, there was a flyleaf with a key to all the numbers listed in sequence. Adjacent to them, were initials and telephone numbers. It took a few seconds for the capital letters to gel in his mind and then he had a moment of enlightenment. There at the top, next to the phone number, JFK . . . Mr President. JFK . . . John F. Kennedy. Could this be DCI Kennedy? He didn't recognise any of the other initials, but he recognised potential when it presented itself, and if it was him, by the time he'd finished digging the dirt . . . If he played his cards right, he would have his revenge. And he would be untouchable.
Reaching for a new mobile phone, he always kept a new one in the car; he unboxed it and
lit a cigarette. After putting the battery in, he switched it on and keyed the telephone number into it.
It answered almost straight away.
He recognised the voice from the television.
"Is that you Jack?" he said into the handset and disconnected without waiting for a response. Beware the ides of March, Jack.
Oh, if his old man could have seen how his apple had grown bigger than the tree.
When Midnight thought about his old man, there wasn't much worth remembering. There were no good times; just the bullshit handed down as if it was the wisdom of the ages.
Old Chinese proverb: He who stands still gets caught. Know when it's time to move on . . . and do it before that!
The fountains of wisdom garnished from a lifetime of lying and cheating were not even correct. His poor mother suffered endlessly, born into a generation where you stood by your man, it never occurred to her that leaving was an option. Her mother's advice would have been. You just grit your teeth and get on with it.
She tried to put some decent values into him; her determination to prevent his turning out like his father backfired, and in a way, she helped make him the same because he resented her for it. He was too much of a chip off the old block. He smoked like a trooper, not as much as the old man did, having no money of his own to buy them, he was obliged to smoke his father's dog ends. He would smoke part of the filter too, by his reckoning, it was the best part.
On reaching his teenage years, he had rebelled; no woman was ever going to control him. He exhibited signs of sexual deviancy; he would spy on neighbours in the hope of catching them undressing or even catch them having sex, which he occasionally did.
Sometimes, the old man would take him off at night, not coming back until the next morning. When his mother asked where they were going or where they'd been, her husband's thin lips would pull back into a wicked smile, and he'd tap his nose as if she should know better and say. "Just a bit of night fishing, girl, that's all!"
She knew they were up to no good.
It was easier to say nothing in the end - to turn a blind eye.
So, it was time to move on, he saw it coming clear as day. One more job and that would be him done. No more Mr Nice guy, no more Mr Midnight. Alice Cooper would have been proud of that little addition to his lyrics; he drew his lips back into a wolfish grin.
Having no friends, he kept himself to himself. It was the best way to keep a secret, don't say anything to anyone and stay away from people. His old man taught him that as well and so far it had paid off. He was much more efficient than his old man, though; he had done bird a couple of times, but then, if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to pass on what he learned in there, so he supposed it was a good thing.
Yeah, the old man, that shining guiding light. His smile pulled his lips against his teeth so tightly he thought they might split. It faded again as quickly as it appeared.
He wasn't as bad as his old man. He was worse.
When he was almost sixteen, his mother died of lung cancer. She'd never smoked a cigarette in her life.
She kept it from the two of them, and neither of them noticed just how frail she'd become until the end. The old man said she was always going to die young, always had a fuckin' headache, always so sickly . . .
"Do you know what, Dad? You're so fucking selfish."
The old man looked at him surprised and considered giving him a beating, but the boy had grown stout; he might turn on him . . . so he just said, "If you feel like that, boy, you know what you can do!"
At the funeral, her three estranged sisters paid their last respects. They all knew the reason she had broken contact was because of him; she wouldn't have wanted them to fret. The old man undermined her and cut her off from everyone who was close. One by one, the sisters fell by the wayside and his mother had allowed it to happen, fearful of the consequences of resistance. Before she died, she sent a letter to the eldest, explaining - or at least trying to - in as much as her limited vocabulary would allow, so they knew. Not one of the sisters spoke to the old man, or even looked at him.
"Evil bitches," the old man muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they stood by the graveside.
There was no wake, but before they left the graveyard, the eldest aunt pulled him to one side. "Martin, if you want any sort of future that's worth having, you've got to get away from him, we'll help you all we can. You know where we are."
Afterwards, Martin packed his things into a single holdall and walked to the door. The old man blew smoke after him, flicked the cigarette end out of the door - right over his head and laughed. "How do you think you're going to get along without me, eh?" He fished another cigarette from the packet and lighting it, blew a long tantalising plume at the boy, the look on his face, smug. "You think you're better than me? Well, let me tell you son, the apple don't fall far from the tree . . ."
At that time, he wasn't sure he knew what he meant. Once outside, he looked down at the smouldering butt and ground it hard into the concrete with his heel.
The old man stood with a smug grin on his face as if to say, you'll be back.
He took one last backward look at him and was gone.
Chapter 57
The caller had resisted the temptation to taunt, but it was time to draw Kennedy into the game. It didn't matter if he got close. If need be, he'd stop him in his tracks. Clearing his throat, he picked up the phone.
He'd seen a film about the Scorpio killer; he used to taunt the police, and they never caught him. It was only after he was dead that they thought they knew who he was. The caller's lips pulled into a sneer, revealing his teeth; he flexed his tongue, preparing his voice. His eyes were flat and humourless. Catch me when I'm dead! I can live with that.
Tanner took the call; he noted the time as 8:57 a.m.
"Jack Kennedy?"
The question itself was innocent enough, but the tone in which it was spoken, immediately put him on the defensive. There was something familiar about the man's voice . . . He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew he'd heard it before. "You mean DCI John Kennedy? Who's calling—"
The caller interrupted him. "He's Jack to me, all right?" the voice was impatient, "and I'm calling about the Kathy Bird case."
Tanner bristled with suppressed anger, but remained calm, his voice smooth. "Do you have some information for us? I'll have to take your details—"
"No time for that . . . I know what happened to her," his voice lowered to a hoarse confidential whisper.
Poised with his pen above his writing pad; the DI noticed a tiny tremor in his fingers as he held it there, becoming more pronounced as he waited for the caller to continue.
"That missing girl, Eliza Staples," he paused for effect. "I've got her."
"Is she safe?" he asked, scribbling notes and then striking a line through Eliza, correcting it to Eilise.
"You asked for a name. Tell your boss, the name is Lee Harvey Oswald."
His stomach turned over. This is no crank caller, crazy, maybe, but no crank. A cold chill ran down his spine. The caller disconnected before he had a chance to ask him anything else. He sat staring bemused at his notebook, he scribbled down the conversation while it was fresh in his mind. When he finished, he rose from his chair and walked out of his office.
It was three minutes past nine in the morning; Theresa had just arrived and was removing her scarf and overcoat by her desk. She caught sight of him looking at her and said, "Good morning, John, how are you today?"
"I'm very well and you, Theresa?"
"I'm fine, John," she said it with a slight smile, and he smiled back, somewhat subdued. When the DCI was around, everyone called him Tanner to avoid confusion, but Theresa always called him John, he loved the way she drawled when she said it, making it sound like Shawn, but with a J. He liked her more than he was letting on, and he thought she felt the same. He shook his head to clear the budding fantasy. Kennedy would make his life hell if he knew; then it dawned on him.
> The caller . . . he suddenly knew who he sounded like; he sounded just like Kennedy.
The lights flickered before coming on fully in the DCI's office. He hadn't seen him arrive. With his notebook in his hand, he sauntered over, knowing that, with his latest tidings, he wasn't going to be popular . . . Yesterday, he had called him a prophet of doom; he had to laugh at that one. That's a bit rich, coming from you, sir. He leaned against the wall, attempting to gauge the right moment to go in.
Theresa caught his attention and pulled a mock suspicious face at him, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips to one side of her face.
He raised his eyebrows at her, and she mouthed a silent question. What are you doing?
Waiting for the chief, he mimed back and then grinned at her as he shrugged himself away from the wall. He turned and taking a deep breath, knocked on the door.
Kennedy's voice bellowed. "Come in!"
The chief glared at him as he stepped into his office, clearly irritated. "Jesus, Tanner, I've hardly got my jacket off – for crying out loud."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help that - it's really important."
"Yes, I'm sure it is, but I need a coffee first."
He related what the caller had just told him, regardless. The older man froze with his hand on the phone. When he'd finished reading, Kennedy shook his head, blinking in disbelief.
"Jesus . . ." he said, lifting the receiver.
"Theresa? Morning, love, can you fetch me a coffee – make it black, thank you – oh, and you'd better get one for Tanner too."
"Did we get a trace on the call?"
