by Ed O'Connor
Doreen wondered what her dreams were. One had always been to travel abroad and now she was on the verge of achieving that. Uncertain, she looked down the hotel’s list of attractions: pool, gymnasium, restaurant, snack bar, air conditioned rooms with balconies, hair drier and tea making facilities. She imagined herself sitting on her balcony with a glass of white wine and a box of chocolates in the warm shades of early evening. That would be a dream. Far away from blank, damp Cambridgeshire with its cantankerous old ladies and wet toilet tiles.
Underwood and Sauerwine arrived half an hour later. Sauerwine had received Mary Colson’s message via an amused control centre. He had told Underwood on the latter’s return from Cambridge. Doreen made them both a cup of tea and remained in the kitchen listening, suddenly nervous at the regular police visits as her dream neared its realization. She sucked on a cigarette as she concentrated.
‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs C?’ Sauerwine asked. ‘We were worried about you.’
Mary Colson was watching a television programme about apes.
‘Don’t you think it’s sad, Mr Underwood, about them killing all the gorillas?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it to be honest,’ Underwood conceded.
‘Chopping all their forests down so they’ve got nowhere to live. It makes me very angry.’
‘Ah,’ Underwood noticed the documentary, ‘I see. Yes, it’s a terrible thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Can I ask why you called us, Mary? Was it something else about … about my friend? The one who died?’
Mary Colson reached into her handbag and withdrew a sealed white envelope. ‘I’ve written some things down for you both.’ She was coughing quite badly, irritated by the smoke drifting from the kitchen.
‘What things are these, Mrs Colson?’ Underwood took the envelope from her but didn’t open it.
‘My dream,’ she said, ‘it was clearer last night. I felt closer to it. I understand it better now. The dog-man has killed other people. Not just your friend.’
Underwood looked down at the envelope. ‘What have you written, Mrs Colson?’
Mary rubbed her tired eyes. ‘After I woke up this morning, I wrote down all the details I could remember. It was a terrible dream. Worse than before. Your friend was in it. And a woman. I’ve never seen her in my dream before. I forget things as the day goes on. I get tired very easily these days. So I wrote it all down for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs C,’ Sauerwine thanked her, ‘and don’t you worry about being tired. You’ve always got more energy than me!’
‘The planets haven’t made you any more virile, then?’ Mary joked.
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’ Sauerwine turned to Underwood. ‘Mary’s my personal astrologer. There’s some planetary alignment thing this week. Mary reckons it’s good for the old love life.’
Mary had stopped smiling. ‘He’s coming for me now,’ she said quietly.
‘Who, Mary?’ Underwood asked. ‘Who’s coming for you?’
‘I was in the dream, Mr Underwood. The dog-man is going to kill me too. I was inside a box.’
‘Now, Mary, you listen to me,’ Underwood said crisply, ‘no one is coming for you. You are safe here. No one knows about your dreams except PC Sauerwine and myself. We will make sure that no one else sees the notes you have made.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise. You have any fears or concerns, you just call the station and we’ll have a car here in a couple of minutes.’ Underwood knew that the control centre would love him for making that pledge.
‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ she said, her gaze floating up to the window. ‘I know my brothers and my son will be waiting for me. You know, my mother used to say that life is like a lullaby: a pretty song that sends us to sleep. I used to like that idea but my dreams aren’t pretty anymore. I don’t want to go to sleep now.’
‘Come on now, Mrs C, we’ll look after you.’ Sauerwine crossed the room, took Mary’s empty tea cup away from her and held her hand as she started to cry.
Underwood left them for a moment and walked through to the kitchen. Doreen started as he opened the door.
‘Mrs O’Riordan?’ he asked.
‘Ms,’ she corrected, stubbing out her cigarette on a saucer.
‘Ms O’Riordan, Mary is rather upset today. She had a bad night’s sleep. You may want to keep a close eye on her for the next hour or so.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Yes,’ said Underwood, ‘it is. Planning a holiday?’ He gestured at the brochure on her lap.
Doreen was suddenly flustered. ‘Greece. Corfu.’ She pronounced it ‘Cor-phew’. Underwood found that immensely irritating.
‘Well deserved, I’m sure,’ he said dryly.
‘I can’t wait.’
‘Mrs Colson seemed to be a little upset by your smoking.’
‘Oh.’
‘Maybe you should avoid smoking inside in future.’
Fucking old bitch.
‘She should have said,’ Doreen said tartly.
Underwood looked around the small kitchen. ‘You know, Mary was asking about her fudge. She wondered what had happened to it.’
Doreen shrugged, ‘She’s got you looking for it now, has she?’
‘Oh no,’ said Underwood. ‘I know what happened to it.’
Doreen remembered that someone had cleaned up the microwave. She’d assumed it had been Mary.
‘You do all Mary’s shopping do you, Doreen?’ he continued.
Doreen was nervous now. She was being escorted into a minefield. ‘Unless it’s my day off or a weekend. Then there’ll be another carer on cover.’
Underwood smiled. He’d expected that. Doreen O’Riordan was no mug. ‘Perhaps you could do me a favour.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Mary is worried that her money is going missing. She thinks it’s being stolen. Now, you know what these old folks are like – forgetful, aren’t they? But maybe you could give me your duty schedules and any till receipts for the last month or so. That would show when you did her shopping and when one of the other carers covered for you, wouldn’t it?’
‘It should do.’ Doreen was already trying to think of a way out. ‘How would that help?’
‘I could cross-check with Mary’s records. See what she thought had been spent and what the reality was. If I had your duty rotas I’d know who had done her shopping on certain days.’
‘She keeps all the till records then?’ Doreen asked in surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ said Underwood, ‘she keeps records.’
Half an hour later, in Dexter’s office, Underwood opened Mary Colson’s envelope and read the details of her latest dream. He noticed the date at the top of the first page and was reminded for a second of his own mother. The tenth anniversary of her death was approaching.
‘Dear Mr Underwood, I am very sorry about what happened to your friend. But now we are friends and I hope that this might help you. Yours, Mary Colson.’
Underwood felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t regarded Mary Colson as a friend. Maybe he had forgotten how to recognize them.
‘First there is a man tied to a table. His hands are bound underneath him and his head is in a box. This was your friend: I know that now. He has spoken to us already. His spirit is restless. I told you his message about the keys. He has also appeared in other parts of my dream. There’s a woman too, crying in the dark. She’s terrified, screaming.’
Underwood found Mary’s words more disturbing when written out in front of him. He didn’t like to think of the dead sending messages: standing in massed, whispering huddles around him. Underwood had long since given up on hopes of salvation. The death of his parents and the implosion of his private life had eradicated any last vestiges of his Catholic belief system. He found the idea of an afterlife, of sharing eternity with all the spirits he had disappointed, utterly depressing. He had reconciled himself to death by imagining it as nothingness: a return to the same state of blissful unawareness we
enjoy prior to birth. Underwood regarded awareness as a curse: becoming aware of things was, for him, a prelude to becoming disillusioned with them. That was why he opposed capital punishment: better to let the bastards rot in boredom.
He stopped drifting as he felt the tide lapping at his feet and tried to focus on Mary’s letter:
‘Then there is a pile of bodies: people hidden in different darknesses. They are together but separate. They are inside but outside. It’s like a room with no building around it. There are children playing nearby. Maybe there’s a school. I can hear them laughing and shouting. They are running in and out of the trees. Sometimes I can hear loud cracks like stones being smashed or gunshots.’
Underwood paused for a second. He had two problems: the first was that he had no evidence that there were bodies waiting to be found. Jensen and Rowena Harvey were missing but even though he sensed Jensen was dead it was standard procedure to assume abductees were alive until proof was found to the contrary. However, he reasoned, if his theory about the coins was correct, that the killer was counting down, then he could easily have dumped them somewhere together. Maybe the countdown was already complete.
His second problem was that Mary’s dream was still vague. It gave him no real sense of where to look. ‘Inside but outside. It’s like a room with no building around it.’ Underwood was frustrated. The statement could mean anything. Maybe Mary had imagined a cellar: a building that had been demolished above the surface but whose basement remained. It seemed the most plausible explanation.
‘But where?’ He looked again at the page in front of him.
‘There are children playing around the trees nearby. Maybe there’s a school. I can hear them laughing and shouting. Sometimes I can hear loud cracks like stones being smashed or gunshots.’
Underwood discounted the idea of children playing: it was too vague. It could have referred to a school, or a playground, a field, anything. He focused on the last sentence of the section. ‘Sometimes I can hear loud cracks like stones being smashed or gunshots.’ That was potentially more useful. Perhaps, Mary had seen a quarry in her dream. Underwood felt a spark of excitement. A quarry might have underground chambers that resembled a ‘room without a building.’
He reached into Dexter’s drawer and withdrew her road atlas of Cambridgeshire. His finger quickly located three quarries: Melbridge Clay Pits, Little Elstead Gravel Quarry and Paxton Gault Stoneworks. He hesitated. He knew at least two of the three were still working quarries and the more he thought about the logistics of moving four or five bodies the less viable leaving them in a quarry seemed.
It would take the killer time to move and conceal so many bodies. He would not want an exposed area. He would want the privacy afforded by woodland or deserted buildings. Still, he would give the names of the quarries to Harrison to check up on.
‘Like stones being smashed or gunshots.’ He paused. What if the latter half of Mary’s statement was correct? That the area was located near to the sound of gunshots. Underwood racked his brains. Where would you hear gunshots? On farmland possibly but that would only be intermittently; on organized shoots for game birds maybe.
Organized shoots.
He looked back at Dexter’s map. There were two major rifle ranges that he knew of in the county. He wrote down the locations of both. The remainder of Mary’s letter was disturbing and unstructured. It seemed merely a collection of strange images that lacked clarity and meaning.
‘I know, Mr Underwood, that the dog-man is going to kill me. You see, it happens in my dream. I fall to the floor and the dog-man rises above me. I feel a terrible pain in my head.’
Underwood skipped through the next two paragraphs, which developed the image in greater detail. However, the conclusion of Mary’s account drew his full attention.
‘The dream ends with me in a box. That’s how everything ends, I suppose. Your friend is in the box with me. I try to get out but I can’t. Then the lid closes. The thing is, Mr Underwood, that it’s you who closes the lid on the two of us. I have had the dream for months without knowing who finally buries me. Now I know that it will be you. I knew it was you when I first met you. I find that reassuring. As I said, you have a kind face.’
Underwood folded the letter up and placed it in his inside jacket pocket.
38
Dexter returned to the office shortly before lunchtime. She had driven home and tidied herself up; washing her face and trying unsuccessfully to scrub the redness out of her eyes. Underwood got up from her desk as she arrived and politely moved out of her way. Dexter dropped her radio and mobile phone on to her desk.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Marvellous.’
‘Sorry I was using your office,’ he said. ‘It’s just, well, I don’t have one anymore.’
‘Not a problem.’ Dexter’s eyes were glazed and unfocused. It was unlike her. Underwood was concerned. He decided to concentrate on business.
‘If you’ve got a moment, Dex, I’d like to run through what we’ve got so far.’
‘That won’t take long.’
Underwood smiled. Dexter was in there somewhere: under the fog of unhappiness her redoubtable spirit still glowed. ‘I’m not so sure. We’re building a clearer picture of the “how”, it’s the “why” we’re not so hot on.’
Dexter pulled open a drawer and took a bottle of mineral water from her desk. Her head was throbbing with dehydration. She unscrewed the cap and took a large and grateful glug. ‘Two deaths, two abductions,’ she said. ‘We know that the two murder victims were injected with some mixture of organic poisons. The most likely sources for those poisons were the mushrooms our friend Dr Miller showed us.’
‘Amanita Muscaria and Amanita Virosa,’ Underwood added.
‘Whatever. Does that matter?’
‘I think it might.’
Dexter shrugged. ‘So they are injected with this crap. It kills Ian Stark and would probably have killed Jack if the killer hadn’t cut his head off.’
‘I don’t think the injections were designed to kill the victims,’ Underwood observed.
‘What, then?’
‘I’m not sure. That’s the key to all this. The “why” that we are missing. The murderer wants to send them on some sort of trip before killing them.’
‘Why did he cut Jack’s head off? That’s another “why” we haven’t figured out yet.’
‘Maybe he wants to take the symbols of their knowledge, of their intelligence away with him.’ Underwood was struggling now, his ideas were still fragmented. ‘You know, like a trophy. It’s the coins that bother me.’
‘How so?’
‘If I’m right and they do represent some form of countdown. We still don’t know what he’s counting down to.’
‘You’re saying that he’s collecting heads in anticipation of something?’
Underwood still hadn’t figured it through properly. ‘Maybe. By the way, I’ve asked HQ at Huntingdon to send you a list of all the police referral cases that Jack has been working on.’
‘Why to me?’
‘Two reasons: you’re in charge and I’m one of the cases.’
‘Okay. You think this fruit might be one of Jack’s patients?’
‘It would make sense.’
‘There’s another element here which I haven’t discussed with you.’
Dexter raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
Underwood took a deep breath and told Dexter about Mary Colson and her dream of the dog-man. To his surprise, Dexter didn’t laugh him out of the room.
‘You say she has been specific? Specific about things she couldn’t have known?’ Dexter asked.
‘Enough to freak the shit out of me. She knew about Jack’s hands being tied under the table, she knew he was my friend, she said something about “remembering my keys”: Jack said much the same thing the last time I saw him.’
‘And she says there’s more bodies?’
‘About half a dozen.’
/> ‘Bloody hell.’ Dexter thought of Rowena Harvey and Jensen.
‘She’s described a possible location. It’s vague but I’ve given some suggestions to Harrison.’
‘Do you believe in this stuff, John? All this psychic business?’
‘Never encountered it before. The Met have used psychics in some cases, haven’t they?’
‘Yeah, as a last resort,’ Dexter said darkly.
‘Well we don’t have a huge amount else to work with, do we?’ said Underwood patiently. ‘Look, Dex, if we do use Mary Colson, you need to be okay with it. Ultimately, if we catch this nutcase, no one will worry too much how we did it. On the other hand, if we don’t catch him …’
‘Everyone will say “why did you waste time talking to some cranky old bird?” And my arse will have a target stamped on it.’
‘Something like that.’
Dexter thought for a second. ‘Our priority is finding Rowena Harvey and Jensen. We have to assume that they are alive until we find evidence to the contrary. If this person is working to a timetable – counting down to something – we need to work quickly. We haven’t got a lot of information to work with. I say let’s use what she says.’
Underwood nodded. ‘You want to hear the rest of it?’
‘I’m all ears,’ she said with the ghost of a smile.
Encouraged, Underwood related the dream of the dog-man.
39
It was a beautiful sunset: orange and white swirls reaching across the dizzying East Anglian sky. Max Fallon found himself sitting on the riverbank at Ely watching a university women’s boat crew paddling back after a training session on the fens. He had little idea of why he was there. He lay back on the damp grass and listened to the vague quacking of ducks and the gentle slapping of oars on the water. The moon was starting to emerge above him.
He knew that the moment of his final incarnation was close. He couldn’t see its twisting, momentous, approaching beauty through the glowing fuzz of clouds and sky but he sensed its inevitability. The idea was enervating. Rowena Harvey would be the willing vehicle for his chariot ride to immortality. He had already investigated her body in great detail, tracing her skin for blemishes, washing her in the morning. It was testing his reserves of self-control to the extreme. However, the moment had to be right and the moment was now a mathematical certainty.
