by Luke Delaney
He slumped against the wire and wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, smiling and quietly laughing to himself. As he studied the woman lying in front of him, the laughter turned to sobs. Blinking away heavy tears, he reached out to touch her convulsing body. Gently stroking her hair, he murmured ‘Look what they made you do.’ Then, as the stinging pain in his face reminded him of his own injuries: ‘Look what they made you do to me — trying to turn us against each other, just like they did before. Just like they’ll always try and do, Sam. But I won’t let them take you. I’ll never let them take you.’ She mumbled a reply, but he couldn’t understand the obscenities she tried to spit at him. ‘Rest,’ he told her. ‘You should rest now.’
He crawled from the cage and locked it behind him, pulling himself upright, heaving in lungfuls of air to feed his exhausted muscles before staggering to the stairs and beginning his ascent to the daylight, each step a mountain, until finally the cool spring air revived him sufficiently that he was able to snap the padlock into place and walk slowly, carefully across the courtyard.
Submerged in a tide of sorrow and loss, he couldn’t hold back the tears. When he made it to his ugly little cottage, he fell to his knees and crawled across the floor to the cabinet. He took out the shotgun and thrust the barrels between his teeth, resting his thumb across the double triggers, teeth clanking against the metal as he tried to control the terrible sound coming from deep within him. He bit down hard on the barrels and tried to force his thumb to press the triggers, but it refused to move. He screamed into the room, his words turned to an incoherent babble by the cold metal tubes obscuring the movement of his tongue, the meaning clear only inside his mind: ‘Please. I can’t do this any more. I want to end this,’ he pleaded with himself. ‘Just fucking do it, you fucking coward!’
But he couldn’t, not yet. As much as he thought he wanted to take his own life, deep inside his tortured soul he wasn’t ready. He wouldn’t end it until they had suffered more, until they knew he had the power to shatter their lives, to make them pay for all the years he’d had to survive alone in the jungle of children’s homes and vast, anonymous London state schools, preyed upon by the strong, ostracized by the other children who treated him like a leper.
His thumb eased off the triggers as he slowly slid the barrels from his mouth, their ends wet and shiny from his saliva and tears. He uncocked the gun’s hammers with the barrels still pointing towards his face and threw it across the vinyl floor where it slid to rest under his kitchen table. He buried his face in his hands and keeled over on to his side, lying on the floor sobbing like an infant, overwhelmed by emotions he could neither understand nor control. In the midst of this self-loathing he drew a hand away from his face and down his shivering body, fingers working their way under his waistband and inside his underwear, his shrivelled member slowly swelling as his hand gripped it and began to stroke up and down, faster and faster, images of the women from the cages flashing in his mind, their lips, skin, breasts and pubic triangles — their scent. His snivelling turning to moans of pleasure as their images mixed with other scenes playing in his head, pictures inspired by his favourite song: the story of one boy’s bloody revenge.
10
Sean sat in his office poring over information reports gathered from roadblocks, open-ground searches and every other aspect of the investigation. Anna sat to his side having insisted on reading each piece of paper his eyes passed over, her presence tolerated only because she worked quickly and quietly, never interrupting him and thus derailing a train of thought. Instead it was the phone ringing loudly on his desk that made him jump and scramble back to the real world. Annoyed at the disturbance, he snatched it up and barked his name into the receiver. ‘Sean Corrigan. What is it?’ The voice on the other end didn’t seem to have taken offence.
‘Sir, DC Croucher speaking — Paul Croucher from Lambeth Borough CID.’ The name meant nothing to Sean. ‘I understand you’re interested in missing persons?’
‘Only of a particular type,’ Sean pointed out.
‘How does white, female, about five foot six, twenty-seven years old, slim build, shortish brown hair, green eyes sound?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Deborah Thomson, a nurse at St George’s Hospital in Tooting, home address 6 Valley Road, Streatham. She left work some time after 2 p.m. yesterday, hasn’t been seen since. She failed to turn up for an evening out with friends and this morning she failed to turn up for breakfast with her new boyfriend. He’s the one who reported her missing after he got no reply on her home and mobile numbers. No answer at her home address either and her car’s gone. He called around her friends and found out she’d stood them up too, which is when he came down to the nick and reported it. Interested?’
‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
‘We do.’
‘Can you email it to me?’
‘No problem.’
‘Stay on the line while you do it,’ said Sean. ‘I need to see her face before I make a decision.’ But the sick, tightening feeling in his stomach already told him his worst fears had been realized.
‘I’m sending it now,’ DC Croucher confirmed. Sean pulled up his emails on the screen and waited for the message to appear in his inbox. A few seconds later it jumped straight to the top of his unread list. As quickly as he could, he directed the arrow to the New Mail and double-clicked. There was no text, simply an attached document. He double-clicked again and waited for his antiquated hard drive to produce a picture on the screen. After what seemed like minutes the image of a young, attractive woman jumped on to his monitor. The similarities between her and the other victims were striking. As he stared into her green eyes he had no doubt she had been taken and that Louise Russell was now rapidly running out of time.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Anna when she saw the likeness. ‘Trouble?’ she asked.
Sean’s response was a curt shake of the head. It would take too long to brief her. She’d have to pick up the pieces as they went along.
‘We’re taking over this Missing Persons inquiry,’ he informed DC Croucher. ‘I need you to get round her home and check it out yourself, just to make sure she’s not lying in bed with flu. Force entry if you have to, but preserve the scene for a full forensic examination. Understand?’
‘It’ll be done.’
‘Phone me as soon as you find anything.’
Sean hung up, immediately leaping to his feet and striding into the main office, one hand raised to warn the occupants he wanted their full and immediate attention. Donnelly saw him first and quickly made his way to Sean’s side. ‘Where’s Sally?’ Sean asked.
‘Chasing down some dead-end leads from Featherstone’s TV appeal. Why? What’s going on?’
Ignoring the question, Sean called out: ‘All right everybody, listen up.’
Donnelly decided he hadn’t shouted loudly enough. ‘Whatever you’re doing,’ he boomed, ‘stop doing it and start listening.’
The office fell silent as all heads turned towards Sean.
‘Thanks,’ he told Donnelly before addressing the rest of the room. ‘As soon as this briefing’s over I’ll be emailing you all a photograph of a woman called Deborah Thomson. She just became our third victim.’ The room filled with disgruntled murmurs of disbelief. ‘Last time anyone saw her alive and well was when she left work sometime shortly after 2 p.m. yesterday. She failed to meet friends for a night out and didn’t turn up this morning to meet her boyfriend for breakfast. She’s not answering her phones and there’s no answer at her home address and her car is missing. When you see her photograph and read her physical description you’ll understand why I believe the man we’re after has taken her. Her abduction means more crime scenes to examine, more door-to-door, more roadblocks, more witnesses to trace, more everything — so call your wives, your husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, whoever and let them know they won’t be seeing much of you for a while, not until we find this prick and bury him. E
at as and when you can, sleep where and when you can, but do it on the hoof. Our chances of finding Louise Russell alive are shrinking by the hour, so you’re all going to have to push yourselves to the limit. Any of you feel you’re beginning to unravel, speak to me or Dave and we’ll see what we can do. Paulo — ’ Sean turned towards Zukov.
‘Yes, guv’nor.’
‘How are you getting on with the transfer found on Karen Green?’
‘I’m speaking with the companies that make that sort of thing, but so far it means nothing to them. They’ve promised to check through their back catalogues, but it’s going to take time.’
‘Well, keep on them. I want to know everything about it as soon as possible.’
‘Why’s it so important?’ Zukov challenged. ‘It’s a mass-produced transfer, nothing unique, so why waste our time on it?’
‘Keep looking,’ Sean snapped back. ‘I’ll decide what is and isn’t important. Understand?’
Zukov knew when to wind his neck in. ‘Yes, boss.’
‘Everybody needs to keep pushing,’ Sean reminded them. ‘Get your actions from Dave and Sally and do them immediately. As soon as they’re complete, come back for more — and there will be more. Keep on the move, you don’t have to come back here to tell me what’s going on: use your mobiles, email me — tweet me, if you have to, but keep on the move. Make something happen, don’t just wait for it to. Fiona?’
DC Cahill straightened. ‘Yes, guv’nor?’
‘Get hold of Sergeant Roddis and tell him the good news about our new scene.’ She nodded her understanding. ‘And everybody needs to be aware our man could be disguising himself as a postman. I think that’s how he gets the front doors open.’
‘Where’s that information come from?’ one of the weary detectives asked.
‘A witness I spoke to,’ Sean replied, keen to avoid details. ‘I also think he could be posting junk mail in the streets he’s taking the women from, so he blends in better. When you’re doing your door-to-doors, ask the occupants if they’ve had any junk mail in the last couple of days. If they have and they’ve kept it, seize it and preserve it for forensics. Everybody clear?’
The response was a mix of mumbled agreement and softly spoken questions.
‘Just one more thing — ’ Sean looked around the room, meeting their eyes, making sure the message hit home — ‘the pub’s off limits until this one’s in the bag. I can’t afford to lose a single soul, especially not to hangovers.’
The mumbling grew louder. Sean ignored it and headed back into his office, closely followed by Donnelly.
Sean slumped into a chair and waited for the inevitable cross-examination.
‘Disguised as a postie, eh? Interesting idea,’ Donnelly began.
‘One of Louise Russell’s neighbours had junk-mail deliveries stopped, but round about the time she was taken he got a pile through the door. He was not a happy man.’
‘That’s it? One neighbour and a bit of junk mail?’
‘It makes sense. That’s how he gets the doors open without anyone thinking too much about it. It’s probably how he researches the woman as well. Who’s going to pay attention to a postie walking along the street? Which sorting office covers the venues?’
‘Sorting office?’ said Donnelly. ‘Hang about, I thought you were looking for someone disguising themselves as a postie. Why the interest in sorting offices?’
‘I have to consider the possibility our man’s a real postman.’
‘Consider it, or believe it?’
‘The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that he could be a real postman. Everything he needed to know he could have found out by reading their mail. Where they work, whether they were married or had a partner, whether they had children. He could even have found out when Karen Green was due to leave for Australia. Everything he needs to know comes straight to him through the mail. If he was just disguising himself as a postman he’d have to watch them for weeks and hours at a time — constantly having to re-visit them to make sure nothing’s changed. But if he’s a real postman …’
‘He only needs to monitor the mail.’ Donnelly gave a low whistle. ‘A fucking postie. Why didn’t you tell the rest of the team?’
‘Featherstone gave me the gypsy’s warning about openly mentioning the postman theory. Doesn’t want posties getting the shit kicked out of them all over south-east London, so keep it on a need-to-know basis for the time being.’
‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘And it’s South Norwood — the sorting office that covers our venues.’
‘All three?’
Donnelly scrunched his eyes as he tried to recall previous inquiries that had involved checking mail coverage zones. ‘Aye, I’m pretty sure it covers all three.’
‘OK,’ Sean sighed. ‘Let’s go there.’ He jumped from his chair and started gathering his belongings.
‘The sorting office?’ Donnelly checked.
‘Why not?’
‘Surely the scene’s more important?’
‘No,’ Sean disagreed, looking for Sally’s number in his iPhone. She answered it within a few rings.
‘Sally, we’ve had another abduction.’
‘I know. Paulo texted me.’
‘I need you to check out the victim’s home address. Fiona will meet you there. I’ll get her to send you the address. As soon as you find anything, let me know.’ He hung up before she could protest, stalking through the main office until he found DC Cahill at her desk on the phone.
‘Just a second,’ she told the person on the other end, covered the mouthpiece with her hand and looked at Sean.
‘Fiona, I need you to text the victim’s address to DS Jones and then get down to the scene and meet her there.’
‘OK,’ Cahill agreed without question.
‘Any luck with Roddis?’
‘I’m on the phone to them now.’
‘Good. Have the informant meet you at the address. Find out everything you can from him.’
‘Her boyfriend?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Sean. ‘And get the details of her missing car. If our man’s following his normal pattern, he would have taken it and dumped it in a park or woods. We need to find and preserve it.’
‘I’ll make sure it’s done,’ she assured him.
‘Good,’ Sean replied, suddenly sensing Anna close behind him.
‘Is it OK if I go with Fiona to the scene?’ she asked. Sean studied her for a few seconds before answering, trying to work out her intentions. She felt his wariness. ‘I’d like to see the scene from the suspect’s perspective, see if I can’t learn something more about him.’
‘OK, fine,’ Sean finally agreed, turning to Donnelly and nodding towards the main office door. ‘Keep me updated, everyone,’ he called, striding from the room without a backward glance. ‘As soon as anyone finds anything, I want to know about it.’ He waved his iPhone above his head to make his point and disappeared through the swing doors.
As Sally pulled up outside Deborah Thomson’s home she was immediately struck by the similarities between it and the homes of the other women who’d been taken. Another uninspiring, featureless, modern townhouse with a private drive and garage and a concealed front door. She almost called Sean straight away, but decided it could wait a little longer. DC Cahill was already standing outside the address with a short but muscular man in his early thirties, well groomed and well dressed. For the boyfriend of a missing woman he looked remarkably calm. Sally decided not to judge him until she had some more facts. She gave herself a few seconds to get into character before climbing from her car and walking towards them.
DC Cahill did the introductions. ‘Sam, this is DS Jones. DS Jones, this is Sam Ewart, Deborah’s boyfriend and our informant about her disappearance.’
Sally held out her hand. Underneath his slicked-back hair and tan Sally could see fear in his eyes, but what had aroused that fear — concern for Deborah or the prospect of being found out? Working on the assumpti
on that DC Cahill had already done the softly-softly bit, she decided to jump in with the serious questioning and find out what Sam Ewart was really all about.
‘What makes you think she’s missing, Mr Ewart? Maybe she just doesn’t want to see you?’
‘No,’ Ewart replied, sounding sad and anxious. ‘She was supposed to meet me for breakfast — she was looking forward to it, I know she was, and so was I.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Only a few weeks.’ Sally looked him up and down, the reason for his appearance becoming clear to her now — he was still trying to impress Deborah, keep the fledgling relationship on course. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know about the other two women. The women that went missing. I saw it on the news. He’s already killed one. He’s taken her, hasn’t he? That’s why you’re here, because you think he’s taken Deborah?’
‘We don’t know anything for sure yet. Let’s try not to get too far ahead of ourselves, eh? Sometimes people take off, you know. They need a little time alone. That might be all-’
‘Not Deborah,’ Ewart snapped. ‘He’s taken her. I’m certain of it.’ He was shaking as he tried to hold back his tears of frustration.
