by China, Max
Then he was on her.
"Oh, n--mmph!" A huge hand clamped over her mouth.
"Is she here?" The voice was low, distorted by the mask. Her situation and the menace he managed to inject into just three words left her wide-eyed with fear. She shook her head at the question, desperate to protect Tina . . . and Eilise.
He pushed himself closer. The cold perspex touched her face. "I'll kill you if you're lying!"
She could smell his smoker's breath, even through the mask. A wave of revulsion washed over her, quickly overtaken by terror. She was about to be raped and murdered. The ordeal she'd endured years ago came back in an instant, crippling her limbs; she couldn't move. Jackie - the girl who vowed never to be a victim again, the girl who'd decked a soldier once – had gone to pieces, her muscles turned to jelly.
Her vulnerability excited him; he was too far gone to turn back now. He forgot about gassing her, there was only one thing on his mind.
His breathing ragged and amplified by the mask, he squatted next to her and parting her knees easily, ran a latex gloved hand up the inside of her thigh, hooking a finger into the crotch of her panties; she gagged dryly - a double retch.
Of all his victims, only one other had reacted that way. His mind accelerated back in time. He pushed her hair back with his free hand, scrutinising her closely. It was her! Older, plumper, but her . . . The one that got away. The Cornwall Girl! His penis stiffened as blood surged into it, throbbing in anticipation.
Jackie caught a movement in the corner of her eye. Was it one of the girls? She fixed her stare on the masked face holding his attention. He stared back with an all-consuming intensity and ripped off her knickers.
"Do-not-touch-me!" she shouted, no longer worried about waking the girls, the words empowered her limbs; she struggled wildly as his weight pressed down on her.
He ignored her efforts to fight back, overpowering her with ease. Only one thing was on his mind, as a cat fixed on its prey; nothing could distract him.
The Gasman pinned her to the floor. He wrestled himself into a position where he could easily control her with an arm barred across her neck. Her flailing hands didn't bother him. He didn't even care about the noise now. His free hand unbuckled his belt and started down his fly.
Jackie's eyes bulged as she strained against choking; her voice sounded strangulated, but the words were clear. "For God's sake get it over with!"
Behind the mask, the man sneered.
An explosion went off inside his head.
"Leave – my – mum – alone!"
The girl's voice… What the…! She'd hit him with something. Instinct kicked in; he rolled over and caught himself on one knee, not quite going down. A ten count started in his head. Ten-nine . . . Got to get up! He closed his eyes. An unbearable brightness scorched them and intensified in the same way a light bulb flares before it dies. S-she's b-broken your head! A stuttering voice told him. In no position to defend himself, he had to get out.
Eilise brought the rounder's bat down hard again, catching him on the shoulder as he stumbled to his feet. Through a bloody mist, he saw Eilise with a younger girl behind her. Jackie was on her feet screaming, "Get out. GET OUT!" Her tiny fists bunched; her face contorted with anger; she activated the screamer.
For a few seconds, he stared balefully, gathering his senses. Eilise raised the bat above her head to warn him off. He faltered as he turned unsteadily, loping off. Eilise followed a few feet behind, to make sure he really did leave the house.
Chapter 148
S-she's b-broken your head! His father's voice ridiculed him from where he hid in the dark recesses of his mind. Won't be long now, son, and you'll be stood before your maker. Remember who that was? Yeah, that's right, me. And I'll judge you. I ain't forgotten what you did to me…
Boyle lurched the last few yards to where he'd left the car. He had trouble unlocking it. Once inside, he settled into the back of his seat. You're concussed, don't go to sleep. She's stoved your head in. His fingertips gently traced the source of the pain; an area of his skull felt dished. Maybe it was always like that. He couldn't be sure. The sticky dampness of his fingers confirmed what he'd already guessed; he was bleeding. Got to get out, got to keep moving… Starting the engine, he drove carefully to his lock-up situated in a quiet and respectable part of town.
The drive took a matter of minutes. He clambered from the car and opened the garage door. Once inside he stripped his outer garments leaving him wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He threw the gasmask and the suit into a corner and then wheeled his motorbike out. Somewhat revived by the crisp night air, he scanned the windows of nearby houses, absently wondering if the pounding in his head could take the pummeling of a lengthy motorcycle ride. Just got to do it. He put the car away, shut the doors and donned his crash helmet, flinching as the inner lining scraped over his wound. He turned the key and pressed the starter button. The engine purred into life and then he roared out into the night.
The motorcycle's steady drone did nothing to ease the throbbing pain in his skull. He summoned thoughts to take his mind off it. Amidst the myriad of memories to choose from, one kept returning. He couldn't shake it out. After his mother's funeral, he'd left home, but returned a few days after to see his father…
I was thinking about the other day—
Why do you always speak wit' anyone else's voice but your own? Fucks me off something chronic the way you do that . . . You ashamed of your voice, sonny, is that what it is?
I'm g-going f-fish-fishing. D-down C-Cornwall f-for a f-few days. C-Camping out. I-I t-thought y-you m-might l-like to c-come—
What, wit' you? I don't think so!
On the long drive down, his father didn't stop babbling on at him. A couple of times he pulled over to check the boot . . . make sure he hadn't come back like Lazarus.
He humped him all the way down the hill from the barn at the top, down to the pond. In the early morning mist, visibility was down to twenty yards. The dew clung to his clothes and sparkled like diamonds. He wrapped him up and weighed him down. Smoked a last cigarette in his company and then heaved him into the black water. The font of all his dark obsessions gone, he wondered if he'd ever be free . . .
A couple of hours later, in the countryside not far from where he was born, he followed a footpath for a short distance, until he came to a fence with a stile. Crossing over the top, he veered immediately to his right, into a row of bushes at the top of a deep ditch, exactly five paces from the style. Lighting a smoke, he inhaled deeply, and then used the lighter to locate the protruding head of a tent guy pin pushed deep into the ground. He withdrew it and with it dug out a buried biscuit tin. The metal had started rusting, but the plastic sandwich box within was intact. The waterproof container held the only tickets he needed to start a new life, a new passport and driving licence, a razor for shaving his head and a blonde moustache. Peeling the lid off, the orange glow of his cigarette tip revealed other contents. His fingers found five slim bundles of fifty-pound notes and lingered over a well-wrapped gramme of heroin. He thought about his head and grinned as far as his lips would allow. Another drag revealed something else in there, too. Forty cigarettes, he'd thought of everything.
Chapter 149
Eilise struck the intruder with such force it opened up a gash in the back of his head, which bled profusely. When they checked the blood against the national database, the DNA wasn't a match for that previously left by the Gasman. Tanner immediately thought there was a copycat on the loose. He thought about Kennedy. It was a significant piece of evidence, but not conclusive. He still might have a copycat on his hands. When Kennedy dropped off the face of the earth, and with everything else that was stacked against him, it seemed his guilt was assured. Yet something niggled at Tanner; he'd never really believed it was Kennedy enough to take it further. He didn't report the case to his superiors.
Half an hour later, a contact of his in the Forensic Science service called him.
"We've got a m
atch for that sample. It's a match for DNA recovered from a rape, which took place in Cornwall in 1991. It's quite incredible really as we've only just reviewed that particular evidence using the new technology—"
"Have you got a name?"
"No, it's unidentified."
"I've got to go. Ping me an email with the details you do have."
Tanner was in a contemplative mood; he pondered on how Kennedy's fate had been hastened and sealed by wrong assumptions and bad decisions. If he hadn't allowed the blind desire for Theresa and the resentment of Kennedy to get in the way, he might have handled things differently. Although he knew self recrimination would make no difference, he couldn't shake its heavy mantle from his shoulders.
The computer chimed its electronic delivery tone, announcing the arrival of a new message. He opened it. The contents proved Kennedy was no rapist, but raised disturbing questions. First things first . . .
He picked up the phone and dialled.
"Mrs Solomons, there's been an important development regarding the blood sample we analysed from your house . . . I think it's best if we talk about this face to face."
"Is it that serious? Look, I'm not leaving Tina," she said firmly. "Can you come here?"
"I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, but it's best I see you. Are you there for an hour or so?"
Tanner arrived within the hour, and she let him in. Tina stood protectively by her side. "Mrs Solomons," he glanced at Tina. "We need to speak in private."
"Call me Jackie," she turned Tina to face the stairs. "Wait upstairs for me; this will only take a minute."
"What's going on, John?"
"I think you'd better sit down," he said, steering her towards the couch. "You won't believe this, but the DNA we took from your house. It's a match with the sample taken from you, from when you were raped sixteen years ago."
A stunned silence reigned for a complete minute while Jackie struggled to comprehend.
"But that must mean…" Tears welled, and she wiped them away on her sleeve. "John, I need to get my daughter back from social services. Will you help me?"
"As soon as I get back, I'll have someone call you. Are you sure you'll be okay, just you and your daughter … she seems a bit young."
"We'll be fine; I just need a moment alone."
He let himself out and strolled to the car. So, Kennedy was no rapist.
After the suicide verdict, Kennedy's funeral took place on a wild, wet and windy day. Over a hundred people packed into the tiny church for the service. Tanner welcomed the invitation by Rose and John Kennedy to deliver a eulogy on behalf of his friends and colleagues.
"Not many people knew John Kennedy like I did…"
He spoke of him warmly. His eyes settled on Kennedy's parents, Rose in a wheelchair, and John senior as always, by her side. He thought they'd diminished in physical stature, seemed to have shrunk since the last time he saw them. Their wet eyes shone with pride, as Tanner listed their son's many achievements.
"…and he was a great friend, and I wish he could have confided his troubles in someone, but that was the sort of man he was, fiercely private … he wouldn't have wanted to burden anybody else with his problems," he looked up, eyes focused on an infinity beyond the roof of the church. "John, heaven will be a safer place now you're there, and knowing you, it won't be long before you start going after the top job…" Faces lit with smiles through the tears. "Rest in peace my friend."
Theresa dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
Miller didn't venture far inside, preferring to observe the proceedings from behind everyone else.
The discovery of Melissa Lake's diaries in a hollowed out section of Boyle's bathroom door had exonerated Kennedy of all suspicion over the Gasman attacks. The detailed chronicles that she'd kept as her life insurance proved to be the salvation of Kennedy's reputation.
After the burial, Tanner caught up with Miller in the car park and confided in him.
"I can't tell you how bad Theresa and I felt suspecting Kennedy was behind a lot of the things that were going on."
"Such a shame for his parents…" Theresa lamented.
"It wasn't all bad," Miller told them. "It led to the arrest and conviction of Danny Lynch and the key members if his gang." He folded down his fingers as he continued. "What happened to Kennedy led directly to the rescue of Stella Bird, and the release of her long lost sister. It brought about the reunion of the missing girl, Eilise Staples, and her real mother. And one other thing…" Miller paused. Some things have to happen, before other things can happen. Was she behind all this? He wondered just how far she would have had to stretch her self-imposed 'cameraman' limits to engineer all those things.
Tanner interrupted his thoughts. "I'm still waiting for the report on how you found Boyles flat…" he winked, "and let's not forget, we solved a lot of old cases out of it too. Even if Boyle is still out there."
Miller nodded, "Yes that's true. Something I have to say to you though Tanner. I know you think Kennedy was the Vigilante killer."
"Who told you that?"
"I just know," he said shrugging his shoulders. "It wasn't him, it was Boyle again. He knew Kennedy would likely struggle with an alibi, so it was another way of keeping the poor guy under pressure… The thing is - and I know it's a bit controversial, but it's just us talking here - in those cases, Boyle actually did some good."
Tanner shook his head. "I can't say I disagree with the sentiment, but I can still see Kennedy doing it. Anyway, the official line is that those killings remain unsolved."
Miller ran his fingertip over the scar on his chin, thoughtfully, and raised his eyebrows at Tanner.
"What are you looking at me like that for?"
"You didn't ask me what the other thing was."
"Come on, Miller, don't beat around the bush."
"A little bird tells me you two are getting married."
"How did you know that? We haven't told anyone yet"
Miller touched his nose and winked.
He smiled as he walked off. Sometimes, Sister, surely the wildlife cameraman should be allowed a little fun.
He didn't attend the wake afterwards, preferring instead to go for a long walk in the rain. Along the treeline, out of his line of sight, someone walked with him.
In court months later, Eilise gave evidence against her foster parents. Eileen received a reprimand in the strongest possible terms for her failure to act. Frank Staples was gaoled for seven years. The day of the sentencing would be the last time she ever saw them.
Jackie started a process she could have never foreseen a few months earlier; she applied to adopt the daughter she'd given up for adoption sixteen years before. We'll hire a private tutor to finish off your education. On Saturdays, you'll come and work in one of my agencies.
Eilise already felt she belonged more with her than she did with the Staples' family. Closing her eyes, she shut the memories out. She had a new life now, with her real mother, and a half-sister to get to know.
Eilise made a solemn vow. She would never touch drugs again.
Chapter 150
They arrived in the weak yellow sunshine of early morning from opposite directions and within minutes met as arranged, at a fashionable pavement café near Kew Gardens.
Carla caught sight of him first. "Hey, Miller!" she called.
He turned at the sound of her voice. Her hair was longer than he remembered, but still short and spiky enough to bounce with every movement of her head.
"Miller, how are you?" She held out an elegant hand and raised both eyebrows, greeting him. A smile started in her eyes and spread quickly over her face, the friendliness and warmth genuine.
He'd forgotten how long her fingers were; he took her fingertips and folded them over his, so the back of her hand faced upward. Returning her smile, he bent and kissed it. "I'm very well and you?"
"Careful, Miller, I might start to think you're a gentleman and you know what that means?"
Miller cocked his
head to one side. "No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You'll have to start treating me like a Lady," she said.
"I don't think I'd have too much trouble with that." Her fingers slowly slid away from his.
"It's good to see you again. It seems like forever ago…"
"I know what you mean. I've been run ragged. Are you hungry?"
"I'm Hank Marvin."
He queried her with a raised eyebrow.
"Starvin'," she said, laughing. "Surely you've heard that expression before?"
"Nope, never heard that one before . . ." He pulled a chair out for her and moved around the table to sit opposite. "Are you sure you're okay with sitting outside?"
"When I can see the sun it always makes me feel warm, even if I'm not." She zipped her bomber jacket right up into the collar. "I'm fine, really I am."
"Remember that story you told me about, on the train, about the lake with all the bodies in?"
"Yes, I do. It's not something I'll ever forget." He laid his menu back on the table. "What about it?"
He turned to signal a waiter, who approached. They ordered breakfast.
Half-barrels planted with shrubs surrounded by brightly coloured flowers, helped screen them from the bustling pavement. Birds hopped between unoccupied tables beneath a green and white awning. What she was about to tell him was to be her next big article; she held back until the waiter was out of earshot.
"I've been digging and delving since we last met. There were a couple of things you got me into, and since I stalled on the vigilante story . . ."
"You stalled on it?" He couldn't hide his surprise.
