by Luke Delaney
‘Maybe,’ Levy stumbled, ‘I suppose so, I mean, I don’t really know. Why are you telling me this?’
‘I was just thinking about you being in all day, most days anyway, and how a man like you, Neighbourhood Watch coordinator and all that, would have noticed someone hanging around.’
‘I would have, but I didn’t,’ Levy answered, the little patience he had failing, exactly as Sean had hoped. ‘And I’m not in all day, every day.’
‘No, of course not,’ Sean patronized him, walking along the corridor to the lounge at the rear of the house, Levy pursuing him closely. ‘I see your lounge is at the back of the house, not overlooking the street, so even if you were at home, you’d be in here all day watching telly and wouldn’t have seen anything.’
‘I’m a very busy man, Inspector. I can assure you I do not waste my time watching daytime TV. I have the Neighbourhood Watch to see to and I’m a local councillor too – and have been for many years.’
‘So where do you work?’ Sean asked. ‘Where do you attend to all these important matters?’
‘Here, of course. In my office upstairs.’
‘Really?’ Sean strode past him and up the stairs, searching for Levy’s office and finding it – a converted bedroom that had an excellent view of the street outside. He entered the room and walked to the window, sensing Levy’s presence close behind. ‘Nice view,’ he said, without turning away from the window.
‘I don’t work in here for the view,’ Levy replied.
‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘but if someone was hanging around out there, someone you didn’t know or recognize, you’d have noticed them, wouldn’t you?’ He turned to Levy and then back to the window to make the point. ‘How could you not?’
‘I don’t spend all day spying on my neighbours.’
‘I never said you did.’
‘I mean I don’t spend all day staring out of the window – I have work to do.’
‘But if someone was out there, you’d sense the movement and look up, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so, possibly, I don’t really know.’
‘But this is a Neighbourhood Watch area, isn’t it? You know that better than anyone – you’re the coordinator, after all. You did say you were the coordinator?’
‘Yes, I did … I mean, I am.’
‘Then you must be a vigilant man, yes? A more than vigilant man if you’re responsible for the success or failure of the local Neighbourhood Watch. So you would have noticed a stranger in the street below. Maybe you would have even called the police, or at least made a note of it somewhere? Maybe you’ve just forgotten? Maybe you’re embarrassed that you forgot to mention it to me last time we spoke?’
‘No,’ Levy protested. ‘None of what you’re implying happened.’
‘So you’ve never seen anyone suspicious in the street? You’re telling me you never looked out of this window and saw someone suspicious?’
‘Well, yes, of course I—’
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘I can’t remem—’
‘You can’t remember? The Neighbourhood Watch coordinator can’t remember what he did when he saw someone suspicious in his own street?’
‘Maybe I reported it to the police, I’m not sure.’
‘When did you report it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. You’re confusing me.’
‘Can you remember anything?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory.’
‘What does your local Home Beat Officer look like?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What does your local Home Beat Officer look like?’
‘Well, I …’
‘What’s his name?’
‘It’s … I have it written down somewhere.’
‘When do the bins get collected?’
‘Pardon?’
‘When were there last roadworks in the street?’
‘I’m not—’
‘What does the guy who comes to read the meters dress like?’
‘I …’
‘What does the local postman look like?’
‘He’s, well he’s—’
‘Do you know anything, Mr Levy? These are the things you see every day, but you can’t remember any of it.’
Levy looked crushed. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he pleaded. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
At Levy’s words, Sean froze. For a moment he stood in a daze, as if only now returning to himself, bewildered and afraid of what his alter ego might have done in his absence, like a drunk waking the morning after, unable to recall the events of the previous night. What worried him most was the fact he’d enjoyed being cruel to Levy. Was that why he’d come back to interview him for a second time, so he could be cruel to him? Was that why he’d come alone, so no one would witness his cruelty or try to stop him? He decided both were probably true, and in the pit of his soul he knew why – he was drawing closer to the killer he would one day be face to face with. Across a street, across an interview-room table? He couldn’t be sure where their confrontation would take place, but he knew it would happen soon. Already he was beginning to think like him and feel what he could feel.
At the same time, he’d felt sure Levy had some vital piece of the puzzle locked away in his uncooperative memory, something he needed to squeeze out of him, no matter what. Now he was less certain. He forced himself to speak: ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying a new witness interview technique,’ he lied. ‘It’s supposed to distract the witness by making them feel angry, allowing suppressed memories to be freed subconsciously.’
Levy studied him, deciding whether or not to believe him. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t seem to work, does it?’
‘No,’ Sean pretended to agree, still feeling numb. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve wasted enough of your time.’ He almost pushed past Levy in his haste to leave the neat little office and escape his house and all the pointlessness it stood for. He began to descend the stairs with Levy in close pursuit, hell-bent on haranguing him all the way to the front door.
‘And just for the record, I do know what the local postman looks like, now I’ve had time to think about it.’
‘What?’ Sean snapped at him, interested. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Well, he’s black for starters – which no doubt explains a thing or two – about fifty, short and stocky, with a beard and moustache.’
‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Sean lied again. The age, colour and build of Levy’s postman were all wrong. ‘It may come in useful, thank you.’ The front door glowed in front of him like a porthole to another, better world.
‘I distinctly remember him because I had to complain about him a few days ago.’
‘Really?’ Sean’s hand was reaching out for the door handle.
‘I’d specifically asked the Post Office to stop putting junk mail through my letter box – damn stuff was filling my recycling bin. Miraculously, I thought they’d actually listened, but then the other day a bloody great pile was pushed through my door. So I phoned them and gave them a good dressing down. Anyway, it did the trick – no more junk mail.’
For the second time Levy’s words made him freeze. ‘Sorry. What did you just say?’
‘Excuse me?’ Levy replied, suspicious of Sean’s interest in his petty complaint.
‘Someone put junk mail through your letter box, although previously you’d stopped receiving it?’
‘Yes,’ Levy answered, confused. ‘Because I’d told them to stop posting it, and for a while they did.’
‘But it started again?’ Sean asked, the fluttering in his chest and bright whiteness behind his eyes telling him he was close to something he needed, close to a key that would unlock the way to the man he had to find and stop.
‘Yes, a few days ago.’
‘How many times?’
‘I told you, just once, because I phoned them and gave them a—’
‘When?’ he cut Levy dead.
&nbs
p; ‘I … I’m not sure, a few days ago. Why?’
‘I need to know when – exactly when.’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘Morning? Afternoon?’
‘Morning, definitely morning.’
‘How can you be so sure? What were you doing?’
‘I remember, I was walking down the stairs, I was dressed and ready to go out, so it must have been late morning. I saw the mail spilled over the floor as I walked downstairs.’
‘And it made you angry?’
‘I was annoyed, yes.’
‘So you phoned the Post Office straight away?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I needed to get away.’
‘Get away for what?’
‘I’m—’
‘You put off calling the Post Office, so it must have been something important. What were you getting ready for?’
‘Brunch,’ Levy remembered, the weight lifting as soon as he said it. ‘I was going out for brunch, at the garden centre in Beckenham.’
‘What?’ Sean snapped.
‘It’s half-price for pensioners on Tuesdays.’
‘Tuesday – Jesus Christ,’ Sean said to himself, ‘he’s dressing as a postman. That’s how he gets the doors open, he dresses like a fucking postman.’ The images played in his mind like a short film, the faceless man walking along Louise Russell’s street, dressed in a postal uniform, Royal Mail bag over his shoulder, calm and relaxed, knowing exactly what he was doing, every so often casually walking to other front doors and dropping junk mail through letter boxes. The perfect urban disguise.
Levy chased the images away. ‘What are you talking about, Inspector?’
‘Nothing. I have to go.’ He turned his back on Levy and pulled the front door open, leaving without another word, oblivious to Levy shaking his head in disapproval as he closed his front door. As he walked to his car he talked to the faceless man whose features were beginning to appear more distinct: ‘I can feel you now, my friend. We’ll be seeing each other soon.’
The car bumped wildly as Thomas Keller drove too quickly over the uneven surface of his driveway, rocking him violently in his seat. Hearing the loud banging from the boot as his precious cargo was tossed around, he frowned with concern. He didn’t want her damaged. He needed her pristine if she was to be everything he wanted her to be.
By the time the car slid to a halt outside his ramshackle breezeblock cottage it was gone 5 p.m. Darkness would be closing in within another hour or two. Wanting to make sure everything was ready before night descended, he grabbed the keys from the ignition and jumped from his old Ford Mondeo, tripping and stumbling as he hurried to the front door.
Ignoring the squalor and filth, he ran through the house to the tiny spare bedroom, just big enough for a single bed – not that there was one. The room was in semi-darkness, its one window facing north, away from the sinking sun. He kicked aside piles of boxes and worn, tattered clothes until he uncovered what he was after: an old, thin, stained single mattress that was folded in two but sprang open as the weight was removed from on top of it. Taking hold of the mattress as best he could, he tried to shift it. But it was heavier than he’d remembered and he struggled to haul it through the confined space, cursing himself for not having moved it earlier. He’d planned everything so meticulously, weeks and weeks of making sure there would be no mistakes, yet somehow he’d failed to ensure things would be ready for her once he got her home.
Next time, he vowed to himself, he would be better prepared. The admission that there would be more, that his chosen one was already damned, was a paradox his consciousness did not dwell on.
He dragged the mattress from the room and along the narrow hallway, trying to suppress the anger and frustration welling within him as he battled with the inanimate foe. Passing through the narrow entrance to the kitchen, he scraped his knuckles on the door frame and let out a scream of pain. Throwing the mattress to the floor, he sucked on the blood that trickled through his broken skin. Then, as if trying to exorcise the rage from his body, he gave vent to his fury, stamping on the mattress and yelling abuse. Instead of receding, his anger grew; he tugged open a kitchen drawer and snatched a knife from inside, dropping to his knees on the offending mattress and plunging the blade deep into the foam, over and over again until fatigue weighed down his thin arms and calmed his frantic mind.
As his self-control gradually returned he loosened his grip on the knife and let it fall to the floor. He knocked it away, not looking as it slid across the old linoleum surface, his focus now on the damage to the mattress. There were two or three dozen stab marks, mostly in the centre, but fortunately it was made of foam and would still serve its purpose. Thomas crouched over it, waiting for his breathing to slow, feeling the sweat running down his back grow cold, making him shiver as it reached the base of his spine. He sniffed loose mucus from his nose and stood, then he took hold of the mattress once more and hauled it outside.
As he dragged it past his car he could hear knocking coming from the boot, reminding him of the need to be quick – the boot wasn’t air-tight, but she couldn’t survive in there indefinitely. But despite his efforts the journey across his courtyard took for ever, the mattress snagging on every obstacle, forcing him to wrestle it this way and that to get it loose. Eventually he reached the cellar door and undid the padlock, pulled the door open and threw the mattress down the stairs. The one already down there was moving around in her cage, no doubt startled by the noisy arrival of her soon-to-be companion’s makeshift bed. He descended the stairs slowly, brushing dust from his postman’s uniform, feeling physically and mentally exhausted, but at the same time exuberant at having achieved what he set out to.
When he reached the bottom step he saw her cowering in the far corner of her cage, the duvet wrapped around her for protection as much as warmth. As he approached, she tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere for her to go. Producing another key from his trouser pocket, he unlocked her cage door and swung it slowly open, crouching down to peer in, but averting his eyes from her face, as if she were a Medusa with the power to turn him to stone merely by looking at him.
‘Give me the quilt,’ he demanded. She neither said nor did anything. ‘Give me the fucking quilt,’ he repeated, shouting now, but still avoiding her gaze.
His anger made her jump. Her face distorting in readiness for the tears that welled from her emerald green eyes, she unpeeled the duvet and pushed it towards him with her feet, her legs kicking it away quickly as if it were an intruding rat or spider. He grabbed it by the corner and pulled it off her and out of the cage in one movement, slamming the door shut and re-securing the padlock before moving to the other cage, dragging both the mattress and duvet with him. Stooping to pass through the entrance, he hauled the bedding inside, taking care to straighten out the mattress and lay the duvet on top of it so he could wrap her inside once she was in her safe place.
Happy with the arrangement, he left the cage and walked as quickly as his exhausted body would allow back to the car, looking up to the sky to ensure he still had plenty of daylight to play with, giving himself a few seconds to gather his composure before meeting her properly after all this time. When he was ready, he leaned into the front of the car and removed the bottle of chloroform and pad of material from his bag, stuffing them both into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled the lever that unlocked the boot and stepped away from the car. Breathing deeply, as if preparing himself to receive some life-changing news, he walked the few steps to the back of the car, coiled his fingers under the boot latch and pressed. The cover popped open, slowly and quietly rising with a pneumatic hiss.
Deborah Thomson blinked fast and hard against the punishing light that swarmed into the boot. She tried to speak, to call out for help or mercy, but her incoherent cries were prevented from escaping by the thick black tape fastened across her mouth. Before her eyes could adjust the light began to recede again and she felt a presence
above her, the outline of someone leaning in. Despite the chill of fear running through her, she kicked her legs, trying to find purchase, her feet scraping and scuffing the interior surface of the boot.
The shape came closer and closer, her vision improving quickly, enabling her to make out the shape of a head and shoulders. More detail soon followed: his unkempt brown hair, strands of which had stuck to a forehead slick with a sheen of sweat; his crooked stained teeth glistened in the faint light; the writhing sinews of his thin arms, hands and neck, all latticed with swollen blood vessels. She saw his lips open and close and realized he was speaking, his words seeming to reach her seconds after he’d spoken them.
‘Don’t struggle,’ he warned her, ‘you could hurt yourself. I’m taking you to your safe place now, but you’ll still be a little woozy because of the chloroform. You’ll have to let me help you walk, but first we need to get you out of this boot.’
Her eyes betrayed the horror she felt, the sheer disbelief that this could be happening to her. She struggled to recall the last thing she could remember before the darkness came, her mind awash with tentative images of being in her bedroom, being annoyed by someone unexpected calling at the front door … Then the nightmare overtook her, the feeling of being unable to move, unable to run from danger, followed by darkness and suffocation, confinement and the sensation of being buried alive. As his long, insect-like fingers reached for her, Deborah knew this nightmare was real. She felt his clammy hands touching her, one sliding under the back of her neck as the other coiled around her upper arm, gripping it tightly.
‘Sit up,’ he instructed, tugging roughly on her arm and neck, gritting his teeth with the effort. Instead of cooperating, she pushed against him, burrowing as deep as she could into the boot. He tightened his grip and pulled her, his face flitting between a thin, forced smile and a grimace of anger and effort. ‘No, no,’ he told her, ‘don’t do that. We have to get you out of here. It’s not safe. They might be watching us. I can’t do this on my own. I need you to help me.’ He tugged her again, making her cry out with pain, but ignoring her muffled pleas he carried on pulling until he had forced her to bend at the waist into a sitting position. ‘That’s it. Almost there now,’ he panted.
