by Sam Millar
“Your eyes always give you away, Mark. Even as a kid. That’s why Mum and Dad always knew when you had just done something wrong. You’re not good at concealing.”
Wilson seemed to be studying his sister, as if weighing up certain words in his head.
“Things … things have happened between Kane and myself. I can’t go into the details, Lynne. Not even with you. Your ex-husband walks a very thin line in life. That’s all I need to –”
Wilson stopped abruptly. He hadn’t noticed Chambers standing at the door, tray in hand. How long had he been standing there, listening?
“Put the damn tray down at the table, man. We haven’t got bloody giraffe tongues!”
“Yes, sir! I rapped the door before entering. Sorry.”
Waiting until Chambers closed the door behind him, Lynne said, “Now you listen, Mark, and listen good. Do you think for one second that I will allow some bullshit between you and Karl get in the way of my daughter’s safety?” Lynne stared at her brother in such a way it made his balls shrivel inside their sac.
“Lynne, you know I’ll do all in my power to –”
“Don’t. Don’t dare give me one of your press releases,” hissed Lynne, standing. “Between the two of you, find Katie – and quickly. Do I make myself clear?”
Wilson’s eyes could not hold her stare.
“Yes,” he finally said, watching her walk to the door, feeling her presence in the room long after she had left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Memory is man’s greatest friend and worst enemy.”
Gilbert Parker, Romany of the Snows
Karl looked haggard, purple half moons under his eyes. For the past ten minutes or so, since entering Wilson’s office, he had been troubled by a miserable feeling of déjà vu. As the minutes wore on, his apprehension deepened, and he more than once wondered if his anxieties were justified or whether they were nothing more than the product of a stressed mind. One thing for certain, though: he wasn’t looking forward to this meeting with his ex-brother-in-law, despite the good news that CCTV footage had captured some of Katie’s movements before her disappearance.
“I wish Mark would hurry and get in here,” said Lynne, pacing the floor. “I need to see this footage.”
“He’ll get here in his own good time. You can be bloody sure of that,” sniped Karl. “Probably more important things to do, like breakfast.”
“It’s hard to believe I was here two days ago, screaming my head off at him, accusing him of doing nothing.”
“He hasn’t done anything yet, except keep us waiting.”
“Don’t start, Karl. You didn’t help the situation by not informing him immediately. He could have been on the ball a lot sooner.”
“Glad you have so much faith in your brother. Wish I could share some of –”
Suddenly, Wilson stepped into the room, nodding to Lynne, totally ignoring Karl.
It was left ultimately for Lynne to scrape at the icy layer of silence between the two alpha males.
“Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on between you two, and I really don’t care,” stated Lynne, glancing from Karl to Wilson. “But from here on in, all I ask is that we all focus on one thing and one thing only: the safe return of Katie. After that, you two can continue hating each other until the cows come home. Agreed?”
Karl nodded; Wilson mumbled something inaudible.
“Mark? I couldn’t understand one word from your mouth,” said Lynne, fixing her brother with a stare of impatience.
“Agreed,” said Wilson, giving a mutinous glare.
“Okay,” continued Lynne, clearly relieved. “This is your territory, Mark.”
All eyes immediately fell on Wilson as he stood, switching on a TV stationed atop his desk. The screen immediately came to life.
“This is CCTV footage obtained less than three hours ago. It’s a bit blurred in places. That’s why I was delayed, trying to get it as clear as possible.”
Karl felt his face redden.
“This was taken on the day Katie went missing,” continued Wilson. “It shows her emerging from Nick’s Warehouse before walking down Hill Street towards Talbot Street.”
“Oh God, Karl, look at her,” said Lynne, her voice quivering, tears suddenly forming in her eyes.
Karl’s heart went to his mouth, watching Katie walking down Hill Street, cutting across Talbot Street before heading in the direction of Saint Anne’s Cathedral. Her tiny figure looked terribly forlorn, and suddenly he was overcome with guilt and the self-inflicted curse of if only …
Wilson touched a button on the remote, freezing the frame. “We lose her here, at Academy Street, because some of the cameras in that area were not functioning properly, smashed by yobs. Fortunately, the University of Ulster’s security cameras captured her once again, this time heading in the direction of Fredrick Street before she disappears from view altogether.”
“Oh God,” whispered Lynne. “You’ve … you’ve got to do something, Mark. Please.”
“We … we’re working twenty-four seven on Katie’s disappearance –”
“Abduction,” cut in Karl. “She didn’t disappear like some magician’s trick. She was abducted.”
“All resources at hand,” continued Wilson, as if he hadn’t heard Karl’s voice, “are being used to their utmost. I have four detectives working on the enquiry, three of whom are on loan.”
“I hope Smiling Chambers isn’t one of them,” said Karl.
“Right! That does it,” declared Wilson, his face turning red. “I’m not standing here to be ridiculed by –”
“Mark, don’t you dare!” shouted Lynne, before turning her attention to Karl. “What the hell is wrong with you, Karl? Can’t you just shut up and listen for a change?”
“He’s talking a load of bollocks!” snapped Karl. “Ask him why they didn’t raid the premises of the chief suspect, Bob Hannah, even after getting a tip-off from a member of the public.”
The room suddenly fell silent. All eyes refocused on an uncomfortable-looking Wilson.
“Well, Mark?” asked Lynne, breaking the silence. “Is it true, what Karl just said?”
Wilson gnawed at his lower lip before answering. “Bob Hannah is a multi-millionaire businessman. He contributes to numerous charities –”
“How many of those are police charities?” asked Karl.
“He contributes to numerous charities,” continued Wilson, “and is not the sort of person whose premises you raid simply because some anonymous member of the public with a grudge makes a phone call against him, offering no evidence of any sort. That information was passed on to me by one of my men. I told him to disregard it as a crank call.”
“You bastard,” said Karl.
“It was you who made the call, wasn’t it?” accused Wilson. “Didn’t have too much belief in your own information if you had to call it in anonymously.”
“Stop it, the two of you!” yelled Lynne. “For God’s sake, just stop it!”
“You’re bloody good at defending him,” persisted Karl. “Research on serial killers has shown they are generally intelligent, have often suffered serious emotional trauma in childhood, particularly sexual events, and grow up loners. This is a textbook description of Hannah.”
“Serious emotional trauma? You mean his mother being killed when he was young,” stated Wilson smugly. “Couldn’t that apply to you, Kane?”
“Mark! How dare you talk like that to Karl?” said Lynne, coldly composed now, poking her face into her brother’s. “Apologise to Karl, right now.”
“It’s okay, Lynne,” said Karl, forcing a calmness to his voice. “I’m neither rising to the bait nor allowing Mark’s childish remarks to distract us. What Mark really needs to do is uncork his head from his arse.”
“Give me evidence, Kane, instead of slobbers. That’s all you’re good at!”
“Evidence? You want evidence,” said Karl, voice rising. “He murdered Ivana because he feared she would
eventually expose his past.”
“What nonsense. We have the killer in custody. Evidence is mounting against him as we speak.”
“Vincent Harrison? That’s another load of bollocks. He’s being used as a scapegoat for police incompetence.”
“You have evidence to the contrary?” sneered Wilson. “Where is it?”
“You know that Hannah murdered his mother?”
“Now who’s talking bollocks? It was an accident during some hunting party, when he was a kid.”
“Ivana witnessed it.”
“You sure know how to tell whoppers. Conveniently for you, Ivana is dead; therefore you can’t back up your wild allegation.”
“It suits the cops that Ivana was murdered, doesn’t it?”
“What? What did you say? That’s a serious allegation to –”
“Not only did Hannah murder his mother, but he was having an incestuous relationship with her also.”
“Oh my goodness …” whispered Lynne. “Are … are you certain?”
“Ha! He’s certain of nothing,” said Wilson. “It’s all hearsay. Where is your evidence, Kane?”
“My instinct.”
“Perhaps in the middle ages your instinct would have carried weight as a witch finder general. Fortunately for the rest of us, it would never reach a court in modern times. The law demands a more solid foundation to convict a person than your bloody instinct.”
“Tina Richardson. Body found mutilated in the Black Mountain.”
“Evidence?”
“Eileen Flynn. Mutilated.”
“Where is the evidence, Kane?”
“He abducted Martina Ferris, brutally murdered her –”
“Evidence, evidence, evidence.” Wilson was smirking now.
“Cathy McGlone, recently murdered. She was on the run for the last six years for the attempted abduction of a child.”
“Yes. I know that. And?”
“The child lived two streets away from Bob Hannah at the time.”
“Coincidence never makes good evidence, Kane.”
“It’s Hannah, and you damn well know it!”
“You have no evidence to show if any of this is –”
Karl slapped the table with such force that Lynne jumped slightly.
“There’s your fucking evidence!” declared Karl, opening up a group of folded documents. “Right there. Under your snotty fucking nose.”
Wilson lifted the documents gingerly from the table, his eyes skimming over them.
“Photocopies of property deeds? What do these prove?” asked Wilson.
“Check the document in your right hand. See the property?”
Wilson studied the document. “Crumlin Road Prison? And?”
“They all belong to Bob Hannah.”
“And?” said Wilson. “So, he owns the rights to Crumlin Road Prison. Wish I did.”
“Martina Ferris had paint trapped beneath her fingernails. Specialist paint called Neo X2. It’s used to paint military barracks and … prisons.”
“Oh my God,” whispered Lynne, placing a hand to her mouth. “You think … you think Katie is being held prisoner in Crumlin Road? Oh my God, Karl …”
“I have to think something, Lynne, otherwise I’ll go fucking insane. There’s also a skeleton key in Hannah’s movie house. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Are you listening to this, Mark?” said Lynne. “What the hell are you going to do?”
“I … I’m going to have to study these documents carefully …”
“Study? Study!” screamed Lynne. “You’ll do more than study, Mark. By God you will.”
“I’m doing the best that I can, Lynne. This isn’t easy for me, either.”
“Well, your best isn’t good enough, it would seem,” accused Karl. “That other page you’re holding is a photocopy of a Rolodex. Just numbers. No names. But check the numbers like I did. They belong to numerous politicians and judges – including our current mayor, Alan Mosley. No doubt they like watching the same sort of movies as Bob Hannah. Snuff movies. You know what snuff movies are? Women being killed for so-called pleasure.”
Lynne paled. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“And these documents just happen to come into your possession?” said Wilson.
“No. I broke into his movie house, the same place where he’s been living for the last ten years. He has snuff and paedophile movies in there, good enough to warrant a search. Good enough to put the fucker in jail.”
“You’re admitting to breaking and entering?”
“Shocking, isn’t it? Put a hundred unpaid parking tickets along with that crime of the century.”
“You’ve got to go and get this monster, Mark,” pleaded Lynne.
“Kane contaminated the evidence,” replied Wilson. “The court would simply throw it out. It’s going to be hard to –”
“You better damn well do something, Mark – and now,” said Lynne, her voice eerily calm. “Stop making excuses. Get the warrant. Bring that bastard in, or so help me God, I’ll find and kill him myself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“All the misfortunes of men derive from one single thing, which is their inability to be at ease in a room.”
Blaise Pascal, Pensées
The very next morning, Karl and Lynne waited anxiously in Wilson’s office.
“It’s gone well after ten. What the hell’s keeping your brother? He said he’d inform us as soon as Hannah was brought in at ten,” accused Karl, sipping tepid coffee.
“You always think this will happen to someone else’s child,” said Lynne, ignoring Karl’s protestations. “Never your own.”
“We can’t wrap our kids in cotton wool, Lynne, otherwise scumbags like Hannah have won.”
“What if it isn’t Hannah? What do we do then, Karl?”
“It is him,” said Karl, his voice filled with a confidence he did not feel.
Lynne removed a lighter and a packet of cigarettes, easing one out before offering the pack to Karl, ignoring the No Smoking sign resting on Wilson’s desk.
“I’ve …” He could smell the aroma from the open pack. It smelt good. He took a cigarette from the enclosure, placing it in his mouth. It tasted damn sweet. Just one to help calm the nerves.
Lynne’s lighter sparked irritably before breaking flame. She lit her own cigarette before bringing the flame to Karl’s face.
“I’ve given them up,” he said, removing the cig from his mouth before handing it back to Lynne.
“You’re joking? Oh, Karl, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Lynne looked embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about it. I was just testing myself.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Lynne, taking a deep suck of the cig before releasing toxic air into the room. “Wish I could.”
“What’s the smile for?”
“You’ve changed.”
“Me? Ha! I don’t think so.”
“No, really. Something I can’t put my finger on, but you have changed.”
“I’ll have to tell Naomi …” He suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I …”
“I’m sorry for making fun of Naomi’s name. It was so childish of me,” said Lynne, looking away from his gaze. “We had something, Karl, didn’t we? Years ago. We did love each other.”
“Of course we did. How the hell else would we have stuck each other for so bloody long?”
“I … I always thought our marriage would last for ever; like a rock.”
“So did I. Only thing was, it ended up like Northern Rock,” smiled Karl, making Lynne laugh, despite the dire circumstances of the situation.
“Oh, Karl, I do miss you, the way you can make me laugh at life. You know that?”
“I need to take a leak, Lynne,” said Karl, standing, quickly changing the subject. “All this coffee is crunching my bladder.”
“Try not to be too long. Just in case Mark comes in.”
Moving down the corridor towards the toilet, Karl passed
two uniformed officers. Both nodded solemnly at him.
Inside the toilet, he waited a few seconds, catching his breath, untangling his mangled thoughts. Easy. Take it nice and easy. All those visits to this place over the years are starting to pay dividends. You know these corridors like the back of your hand.
Popping his head out into the corridor, he glanced left and then right. All clear. He moved quickly, proceeding down the corridor, turning left before making a sharp right into a rather dingy-looking area masquerading as a tea-room. Stained cups and unfinished sandwiches lay scattered everywhere. Thankfully, the place was deserted. Quickly, he opened a door, leading him out towards his intended target.
Green lights were glaring in the semi-darkness, directly above two doors.
It hasn’t started, yet. Which fucking room are they going to use?
Suddenly, distant voices began filling the corridor. Fuck! Pick a door. Quickly!
Slipping stealthily into a room, Karl welcomed its beautiful darkness, trying desperately to steady his breathing.
The voices became louder, clearer. Suddenly, someone began turning the handle of the door.
Karl held his breath. His entire body felt weak with nerves. The door slowly eased open.
“No, we’ll use B Room, Detective Chambers,” said Wilson’s voice.
“Okay, sir,” came the reply, and the door closed.
Immediately, Karl released all trapped air from his lungs before walking to the two-way mirror. Four lone chairs filled the room. From listening to Wilson over the years, Karl knew that the salient lack of a table was part of the psychological mind games played out in the room. In such a claustrophobic environment, the removal of a table is the equivalent of removing barriers, the interrogator hoping to be perceived as a friend.
The door to the interrogation room suddenly opened, revealing a smiling Hannah and a well-known solicitor by the name of James Johnson. Wilson and Chambers followed.
Hannah’s eyes were shadowed slits.
I wonder how many unfortunate victims saw those eyes before being murdered without remorse or pity, you bastard? And what the hell are those marks on your face? Looks like someone’s tore a good lump out of you. To Karl, the scars on Hannah’s face looked fresh. No more than a few days old.
