by Ashley Dyer
Carver shook his head. “I’m sorry, she wouldn’t say.”
Jansen eyed him with contempt. “You’re a disgrace to the service. So is she.”
Carver leaned against the window, gripping the ledge hard, knowing that if he let go, he’d fall down. “I may be,” he said with an effort. “But know this: everything DS Lake has done is to find out the truth of what happened.”
Jansen turned away.
“DC Ivey”—Jansen pointed at Carver without looking at him—“watch him.”
Jansen was out of the door, Parsons close behind him.
Carver moved to the armchair, using the furniture to keep upright.
“Are you okay?” the younger man asked. “Should I call a nurse?”
Carver shook his head. “I could use some water.”
The detective poured him a beaker of lukewarm water from the jug on his bedside table, then took a respectful step back.
Feeling better after a couple of sips, Carver studied the young man. His pale skin and reddish hair, the keen, hungry look. Suddenly, he remembered.
“DC Ivey—you were with DCI Jansen when he came to question me the first time.”
He stood to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what happened, Ivey?”
He saw a flare of emotion, but Ivey said quietly, “No one does, sir.”
“But you do know something.”
The younger man stared at his feet, and Carver watched a swirl of confused colors coalesce around his head and chest.
“You care about her.”
“We all do.”
“But you know her. I can tell by . . .” He changed what he was about to say to, “By your reaction. You know Ruth Lake is a good person—a brilliant detective.”
Ivey nodded.
“Don’t you want to help find her?” Carver didn’t need to read the man’s aura to see how desperately Ivey wanted it. “Then tell me what you know.”
“She went to LC&K Assets, like you said,” Ivey began reluctantly. “Chris Barrington said he had a few words with her, sent her off with his PA.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“The staff we spoke to said she was only there a few minutes—they saw her walk out of the office with Barrington’s PA. But she didn’t sign out at reception.”
“What does the PA say?”
Ivey shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“DC Ivey.”
“He’s missing as well,” Ivey said.
“He? His name is Chris, isn’t it?”
The young detective gave a curt nod.
The floor seemed to drop away, and Carver closed his eyes. “Jesus, Ruth . . .”
“He’s got no criminal record, nothing to mark him out, so maybe they just—”
“What?” Carver said. “Went off for coffee and a chat?”
“I was gonna say . . .” Ivey bit his lip. “Never mind what I was gonna say.”
Carver’s thought processes were slow, as if every packet of information was having to be rerouted around the parts of his brain that had gone through the bruising experience with the psychologist the previous day. Now, a fresh realization jostled to the forefront of his consciousness: he had a right to be questioned by someone of equal or senior rank, but that didn’t explain why both Parsons and Jansen came all the way to the hospital.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said.
A shimmer of green clung close to Ivey’s silhouette.
“For pity’s sake, man—she’s my friend.”
The glow of light flared, changing to electric blue, as if all the contained energy of Ivey’s emotional pain had gone beyond his control for a second. He rubbed his chin and nodded, twice, as though settling some internal dispute.
“Okay,” he said, “you should know. I’m sorry, sir . . . there was blood in the lift.”
Carver wiped a hand over his face.
“They’ve sealed the building,” Ivey added quickly. “A senior PolSA is advising on the search.”
Carver shook his head. “I don’t care how senior the search adviser is. They’re wasting time, he’s long gone. And so is Ruth.”
“It’s possible,” Ivey agreed. “But our lot’s got every angle covered—all available personnel are looking for her—for both of them—sir. They’ve got people checking ANPR recordings around the city center; there’s an all-points warning out for Chris Lomax; a Matrix unit was on its way to his flat as we left HQ. If she’s there, they’ll find her.”
“Her phone?”
“Switched off, or destroyed,” the young detective said, looking sick. His own mobile phone rang and he jerked as if it had jolted forty thousand volts through him. He dragged it from his pocket, almost dropping it in his hurry to answer.
Carver watched as anxiety changed to confusion and despair. Ivey finished the call and turned a stricken gaze on him.
“They’ve found Lomax in his car—it was dumped within sight of Merseyside Police HQ.”
“Was Ruth with him? Is she all right?”
Ivey shook his head. “Lomax was jammed in the boot—serious head injuries. He died at the scene.”
“And Ruth?” he said again.
“Her mobile phone was in the boot—wrecked. And . . .” He stared at Carver as if he couldn’t make sense of what he’d been told.
“What?”
“They found a .22 pistol in the glove compartment.”
Chapter 46
DC Ivey left the hospital shortly after the phone call, meaning Carver’s only access to updates was BBC News 24. He watched, afraid to blink in case he missed something. The latest images showed a reporter talking from the edge of a police cordon. The mud-colored block of Merseyside Police headquarters was visible in the distance, but as the camera focused in on the reporter, a gray Audi A3 saloon car came into view. The rear end of the car was shielded by a white forensic “incitent.”
Carver recognized the reporter as one of the regulars from BBC News North West. He faced the camera and checked his earpiece before launching in.
“The body of a twenty-eight-year-old man was found in the boot of this car at two forty-five this afternoon,” he said, gesturing to the car behind him. “Merseyside Police have named the man as Christopher Lomax. He was wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of Detective Sergeant Ruth Lake, who was last seen with Mr. Lomax at the offices of LC&K Assets, a short distance from here.”
The presenter in the studio butted in: “Now, Andy, Detective Sergeant Lake is a senior member of the team investigating the so-called Thorn Killer murders in Liverpool.”
“That’s right,” the reporter said. “But in a bizarre twist, police say that they do not believe Detective Sergeant Lake’s disappearance is linked to the Thorn Killer inquiry, but instead, may be connected to the murder of a local businesswoman and the shooting of another Liverpool detective over the Christmas period. Detective Chief Inspector Simon Jansen, who is leading the inquiry into the murder of Adela Faraday, made a brief statement in the last few minutes.” He lowered the mic as the news bulletin switched to the interior of a briefing room at the headquarters at Canning Place. DCIs Jansen and Parsons sat at a table. On a screen behind them, the Merseyside Police logo.
An array of at least twenty microphones was set up in front of them, and cameras flashed as Jansen began: “Detective Sergeant Ruth Lake spoke to a senior manager at the offices of LC&K Assets at nine thirty this morning,” he said. “She was last seen being escorted from the offices by this man—Christopher Lomax.” An image of a defensive-looking man in a business suit and tie appeared on the screen. The photographers went wild, and the room lit up for a few seconds.
When the activity died down, Jansen went on: “We have no knowledge of events after that point, but we do have reason to believe that Detective Sergeant Lake may be injured.”
The blood in the lift.
The screen switched to an image of Ruth, and for a momen
t, Carver couldn’t catch his breath.
“We would ask members of the public to look out for Sergeant Lake,” Jansen said, allowing time for the flurry of camera flashes to subside again. “Please report any sightings to the hotline that has been set up for this purpose.” He gave the number, which simultaneously appeared on the news ticker at the bottom of the screen.
“We would stress that Sergeant Lake may be disoriented, so proceed with caution. Call the hotline number and wait for police and emergency medical support to arrive.”
What the hell was he implying—that Ruth bashed Lomax over the head and bundled him into the boot of his car?
Jansen was hit by a barrage of questions and as he waited for relative calm, Carver’s mobile phone screen lit up.
Number withheld.
He slid the icon to answer.
“Is this enough to get you back in the game?”
A chill ran through him. The caller was using a voice distorter, but he knew without question that he was speaking to the Thorn Killer, and that he had Ruth.
“What d’you want?” Carver said. These first few words had no power, and he forced some steel into his voice before he tried again. “D’you want me? You can have me—just let her go.”
A soft chuckle. “I thought I’d made myself clear. I don’t want you—I want your attention. Do I have it?”
“One hundred percent.”
“It’s good to have you back.”
“Now, let her g—” Carver heard the tumbling notes of the disconnect before he even finished the word.
He rose to his feet, reached to the call button on the trolley by his bed, misjudged the distance, and knocked the plastic beaker, the water jug, and the TV remote control onto the floor.
The clatter brought a nurse running.
“I have to leave,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid—you’re not fit to go anywhere except back to bed.”
“I’m leaving,” he said, “whether you like it or not.”
The nurse tried to ease him backward to his chair, but he shook her off. A second nurse appeared at the door and she called over her shoulder: “Get the ward doctor—we might need the neuro consultant, too—he’s having an episode.”
“I’m not having an episode,” Carver said. “I just want to leave.”
The nurse didn’t try to force him into the chair, but she held her arms wide, moving left and right as he tried to pass, effectively corralling him.
“Can I help?”
Carver looked past the nurse and saw Dr. Pendinning, looking with apparent surprise at the mess on the floor and the nurse trying to control her patient.
“You could talk some sense into him,” the nurse said, without turning around.
“Okay. Do you want to let me try?”
Pendinning remained where she was, a quiet calm presence in the midst of all the chaos, and Carver felt somewhat abashed; the nurse, too, it seemed, because she dropped her hands and straightened her uniform.
Carver felt suddenly exhausted; he staggered back a couple of steps to the window and leaned against the ledge for support.
“I don’t know what the hell’s got into him,” the nurse said.
“I expect he’s been watching the news,” Pendinning said, glancing toward the screen.
The nurse followed her gaze and gave a little wince of apology. She turned off the TV and, after another silent exchange with the psychologist, walked out of the room, taking the remote wand with her.
Carver stared at his phone.
“There’s nothing you can do, Greg,” Pendinning said. She sounded compassionate, but rational.
“Knowing it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I know.” She waited, and that pause—her taking the time to consider what he’d said—made him feel like she really did understand. Finally, she asked, “What do you think you should do?”
“Get out of here and look for her.”
“You think that will help?”
He closed his eyes, exhaled in a long sigh. “No.”
“So . . .”
He looked into her face. The last time he saw her, Pendinning looked tired, but today there was a slight flush to her cheeks, and he wondered if she was more disturbed by his behavior than she was willing to admit. As always, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but the habitual twinkle of humor was gone from her eyes.
“They have squads of people looking for her,” Pendinning said. “If she’s wandering the streets, they’ll find her.”
“That’s just it,” Carver said. “I don’t believe Ruth overpowered Lomax and just wandered off.”
She looked genuinely curious. “What do you think?”
“The Thorn Killer has her.” He stated it as fact, and just saying it made him feel weak.
She took a breath. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I just spoke to him.” He clenched his jaw to stop it trembling.
“My God . . .” Pendinning said. “You have to tell someone.”
He hadn’t thought of that. What the hell is wrong with you? He fumbled with his phone, got through to the Canning Place switchboard, and was put through to Parsons.
“A crank call,” Parsons said. “Must be.”
“No,” Carver said.
“The hotline has been inundated.”
“The call came through to my new smartphone. I’ve had it for less than a day. How would—”
“All right,” Parsons said. “Give me the number, I’ll have someone check where the call came from, get back to you.”
“Thank you,” Carver breathed.
He had felt Pendinning’s gaze on him during the entire call, and when he closed the line, she said, “Is there anything I can do?”
He flashed to the cognitive interview experiment the day before, though he couldn’t say why. Whatever information lay buried in his subconscious about the night he was shot was buried too deep.
“Help me get out of here,” he said.
Chapter 47
Darkness. A stillness in the air that feels familiar, oddly comforting. A whiff of dusty cobwebs and autumn woodland fills Ruth Lake with a warmth and peace the like of which she hasn’t felt in almost twenty years. She realizes she is in her grandfather’s “sanctuary,” his secret place in a neighborhood so crowded and oppressive he used to joke there wasn’t room to have a private thought without asking someone to shove up a bit to make room for it.
Her grandparents’ house is in a shabby Victorian terrace of two-up, two-down dwellings with shallow-pitched roofs of slate. Crouched in the shadow of Goodison Park football stadium, it is narrow and pinched and smells faintly of damp. The front door opens to a tiny porch, and the parlor is screened off from the street by a red velvet curtain. To Ruth, coming in, it always feels like she might lift that curtain and step through a magical doorway into a strange and wonderful story. Sometimes, if Granddad is in yarn-spinning mood, those stories do unfold, and Ruth never tires of listening to his tales of adventure.
But that was years ago, she thinks. Granddad is long gone . . . I must be asleep, dreaming. I need to wake up.
For a few more seconds the feeling of comfort and warmth persists, then she hears a sound. A footstep.
Someone is moving around her, in the dark.
You need to fight this. But she can’t move, can’t even open her eyes.
She remembers the lift. The PA coming at her. Sees Lomax draw back his fist to punch her a second time. A splintering of light as he drives his fist into her face, sending shards of pain into her brain. Then the reek of oil and engine fumes. Lomax, forcing her into the boot of a car. Her heart is beating so fast it hurts. She grabs his wrist, but she has no strength; he shakes her off, pulls his fist back. She waits for the impact. Hears a soft thud. Lomax turns, shock on his face, his arm raised in defense, now. He’s too slow. Ruth sees the killer blow, feels Lomax’s blood spatter, warm on her face. He drops and she hears a dull, wet thud she knows is the soun
d of his head hitting the concrete.
She tries to boost herself out of the car and a strong hand reaches in to help her. But relief quickly turns to fear, as the hand shoves her back. She feels a hot needle of pain.
Wake up!
Ruth opens her eyes. Tries to make sense of where she is.
So dark . . .
She is parched; a metallic taste at the back of her mouth reminds her of a novocaine injection she once had for a dental procedure, and she realizes she’s been drugged.
She senses, rather than sees, a shadow off to her right but can’t turn her head to look. She tries to lift her hand; there is no feeling in it.
A searing flash. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she sees the silhouette of a figure, magnified by the intense light and her blurred vision. It looms, huge and dark for a second. Then it vanishes and there is only the light, unbearable, blinding. She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, hears the clang of a metal door closing, and is plunged into darkness again.
Chapter 48
By three fifteen, Carver was stepping out of a taxi outside Ruth Lake’s house. Dr. Pendinning had phoned Emma on his behalf, since she was blocking his calls, had even persuaded her to bring some clothing and the personal effects she’d been looking after since his hospital admission.
The sun was already setting, casting an angry red pall over the street, and his shadow fell long and alien on the gray pavement. The front door was secured and a quick recce revealed that the alley at the back of the row was barred by a steel gate that he was in no condition to climb.
His mobile rang. It was Parsons.
“Where are you?”
“Did you trace the call?” Carver said.
“Yes. I sent someone to talk to you at the hospital, but you weren’t there.”
“Did you get a location?”
He heard a long exhalation at the other end of the line. “It was made from a pay phone at the hospital.”
Carver leaned against the side wall of the house.
“We’ve got people on-site, now,” Parsons said.
