Scare Me

by Richard Parker

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “I’ve spoken to Libby.” Will was slouched against the back seat of the cab.

  There was no audible response from Carla, but Will waited a few moments.

  “It was only brief, but it was definitely her.”

  “What did she say?”

  The taxi’s wipers noisily cut semicircles out of the rain.

  “The line was pretty bad. She recognised me though. It sounds like she’s being held in a different place.”

  “You’re sure it was her?”

  Through a clamour of renewed energy Will felt a tiny surge of doubt. No. He couldn’t have been mistaken. “It was definitely her.” He slid the cursor over the image on the wet laptop screen. No specifics, but he could see the red dot had appeared on the GPS map of Dundee.

  “This confirms what I was saying. They’ll do anything to make you finish this.”

  Libby was alive. At that moment, it was everything they could have hoped for.

  “I’m being driven into town.” Will sat up and peered through the rain hosing down the side window. He could see the dark green of the golf courses against the skyline.

  “She’s stopped near the university.”

  Will got dropped on the edge of the pedestrianised high street of the city. He paid with the crumpled British currency he had tucked behind the Singapore dollars and put his hand on the door. The driver had already stepped nimbly out and opened it for him. He’d barely registered him as he’d got in the back, but as he stood up he took in his furrowed features for the first time.

  “Will you be needing any help?” His enquiry was deliberately measured, his accent soft. The man’s silver moustache met his neat beard so no trace of his mouth was visible. His pale blue eyes searched Will’s.

  Will knew he wasn’t referring to the laptop in his hand. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure? Sounds like you’re in a heap of trouble. Do you want me to call somebody?”

  “No.” He considered what the driver had overheard from his conversation with Carla. “Please don’t.”

  The man nodded slightly. “You take care then.” He held Will’s eye briefly, then got back in his taxi.

  Still alive.

  Carla filled her chest with air for what seemed like the first time in days. Then sobs of relief squeezed it out. She fought to restrain them. The ordeal was far from over, but her fear that they were obeying the kidnappers’ instructions, even though Libby had suffered the same fate as Luke, had briefly been suspended.

  She repeatedly speed-dialled the kidnappers’ number, getting an engaged tone every time. She had to speak to her. Tell Libby they were doing everything they could to free her.

  Two more addresses were left, including their own. The revelation of the reason for the torture they’d been subjected to suddenly seemed imminent. She looked up at the TV. There’d been no new developments in the US manhunt. All the channels were still running the same story and artist’s impression.

  Will stood at the glass doors of the Overgate shopping centre in the high street, but they were locked shut. It didn’t open until nine. The rain slanted at him in the doorway and he zipped the laptop under his jacket before making a dash for cover.

  He dodged around the revolving circular brushes of a street cleaner, its driver hunched over the controls in a DayGlo jacket, and turned right into West Marketgait. He hoped to find somewhere he could boost himself with caffeine. The street was a mixture of old properties and newer five-storey buildings, but everywhere was still closed. He had to escape the downpour by sheltering in the doorway of a modern, concrete Methodist church.

  Hearing Libby’s voice had given his body the shot in the arm it needed. He put his back to the rain and, as he lifted the laptop to open it, noticed a dent and a dark smudge on one side. He’d almost forgotten his confrontation with the mugger in Singapore. He leaned the edge of it against the wall, booted it up and then the screen wavered and cut out.

  Not now. Could it have run out of power? There was no way of knowing if the second-hand piece of equipment had been pawned for a good reason. It looked like it had fallen apart before he did. He shook it a few times. Everywhere was closed. Where would he get Internet access? He shook it again.

  The screen flickered and glowed. He didn’t pause to register relief. He quickly opened a window to the site and put the cursor on the Dundee house.

  18 Stirling Crescent,

  Dundee,

  DD1 3HT

  He opened the GPS map and confirmed she was there.

  Carla sensed a movement outside the office, vibrations through the floor. She turned down the TV with the remote and listened.

  It was nearly six in the morning. Most of the Remada staff would have gone home to grab some sleep before returning in an hour. The cleaners came in on Fridays only. A security guard?

  Carla picked up the telephone and dialled the security desk. A shadow fell across the blinds that were slatted against reception. Somebody was stood outside. She watched the door handle to her office pulled down from the other side. She’d kept it locked. Security picked up.

  “Who’s come up to my floor?” As she spoke into it, she gripped the handset tighter.

  “It’s OK, Mrs Frost. It’s the breakfast you ordered.” The security guard reassured her cheerfully.

  “I didn’t order any and I told you no unauthorised personnel were allowed up to my level.”

  “I understood that,” he said, his voice hardening. “But as he has a staff pass…”

  “Who?”

  “Mr Iman.”

  “It’s Mr Iman?”

  “Yes. He said you were expecting him.”

  Anwar was obviously still suspicious about what they were hiding and was going out of his way to find out.

  “OK… apologies.” Carla replaced the receiver and walked to the door.

  She’d send him on his way. There was no way she would jeopardise everything at the last moment. But however briefly it took her to repel him, she was glad she’d see a friendly face.

  She opened the door and there he was, in an immaculate, olive wool suit and clutching two paper bags.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Will turned off West Marketgait into Candle Lane and had already given up on finding a cab. Stirling Crescent was tucked behind the university and his shoes squelched and slapped the wet pavement as he jogged the route he’d memorised from the laptop.

  His clothes were saturated and the rain blurred his vision as it gathered in his eyebrows and ran off his face. The painkillers were rapidly wearing off, failing to cushion his injury from the pounding of his feet.

  The bumper of a car chopped his shins as he gambled with the lights at the crossroads. He halted, waiting for the agony. He could feel the sting of the impact, but his legs still supported his weight. Will turned and briefly registered the shock of the woman who’d barely braked in time. He headed into South Ward Road, vehicles blasting their horns as he weaved through them.

  He hoped nobody thought he was a thief fleeing with a stolen laptop and tried to restrain him. He felt safer when he’d rounded the corner into Barrack Street. The buildings dampened the sound of the cars and he could see the red sandstone of the university at the end of it.

  Stirling Crescent was a street in disaccord with its surrounding area. The small run of debilitated council houses seemed to double as a permit-free car park for four-wheel drives. Will squeezed past the vehicles obstructing the pavement until he’d found 18.

  Only ripped bin liners occupied the crazy-paved area at the front of the dirty, yellow property. Eggshells and unidentifiable packets faded blue by the sun had blown under the window. A grubby net curtain hung off a rail along the top. It was in significant contrast to the other addresses he’d visited. Did anyone really live here?

  He knew better than to linger at the front door. The gloves slid easily on now as he made his way down the narrow passageway at the side of the house. The space between 18 an
d its neighbour was waterlogged, beer cans and cigarette ends bobbing away as his shoes became submerged up to the ankles.

  The small back garden was stacked high with more bin liners, as if they’d just been slung from the back door. Movement amongst the bags confirmed the presence of rodents. A rusted rotary washing line lay out of reach beyond them like a forgotten idol. Will squinted through the open, chipped wood door to the tiny kitchen. Rain poured down a green patch on the back wall from a broken gutter above. The water splashed onto the dirty lino inside.

  Will’s quickened breath reverberated inside his head. His body quivered against the cold and wet. The noise of the drumming rain changed as he moved inside and shook the water from his hair.

  The kitchen didn’t appear to have been used for its legitimate purpose for a very long time. There was a spoon with burnt sediment in its bowl beside the sink. Looked like the home of an addict. He could hear water leaking inside the room and moved past the filth-caked oven to the hallway.

  A thick, sulphurous aroma pervaded the downstairs. The rooms off the hall looked more grimy and dingy than they had in the stark flash of the pictures on the site. In the front lounge was the cabinet of figurines. No sign of the occupants.

  He climbed the small flight of stairs and stood at the top looking at the three partially stripped doors closed to him. “I’m here,” he said combatively, his words filling the confined space.

  He booted the first door. It opened into a compact, turquoise tiled bathroom and juddered against the wall. There was nothing but a ladder of different tidemarks up the side of the bath. He kicked the next and it revealed the empty spare room, curtains drawn.

  He turned to the last and noticed the piece of paper jammed in the doorframe halfway down. He yanked it out and unfolded it. The words were hand written.

  sorry I couldn’t wait

  have to be somewhere else

  nobody could have saved this one

  you know where to go now

  Will pushed the door wide.

  He didn’t know if it was a trick. Wasn’t sure if she would be concealed somewhere in the room. But as the door swung inwards he quickly realised the spectacle that greeted him was one she wanted him to absorb alone.

  There was no immediate cause of death visible. No traces of blood on the emaciated figure lying on her back in the dirty blue nightdress. Her right arm was draped over her eyes as if the bulb in the heavy shade over the divan was too bright. It illuminated her pale, white body through the diaphanous material. The other arm hung over the far side of the bed and the soles of her feet were black with dirt.

  Rain sizzled behind the closed curtains. Will quickly scanned the shadowy bedroom for someone else. The only other piece of furniture was a dressing table at the window. There was nowhere for anybody to conceal themselves. Was she here?

  He stepped further into the room, the cold air heavy with the aroma of the woman’s demise. A shiver reactivated the chattering of his jaw. Will put his hand over his mouth and nose and moved to the foot of the bed to examine the corpse. Which item was to be collected? Her body had no adornments.

  Then he saw the thin, purple leather strap of the watch on the wrist across her eyes. If she was a junkie, it seemed an odd thing for her to wear. He moved round to the other side of the bed, knowing he’d have to lift her arm away from her face to retrieve it.

  Will angled his body to sidle along the gap between the mattress and the dressing table. He was halfway to the head of the bed when he saw her opened wrist. Her left hand was glued to the floor. She’d bled out through her arm and Will was standing in the pints of blood the carpet held.

  He remembered the Ambersons and the noise the rug had made when he’d stood before them. Footprints of blood, he’d followed them and left them in his wake. He looked down at the liquid pooled around the leather of his shoes, its darkness up to the stitching of his soles.

  Closer up he could see track marks on both arms, a mottled rash of multiple pinpricks amongst the purple bruising.

  He heard the blood squelch as he leaned forward to the silvery, pale limb hiding her face. Will reached out and lifted it away. It was almost weightless.

  Her eyes hadn’t been removed, glued or mutilated; they were open. They fixed him, lustreless pupils slightly rolled upward so she appeared to be glaring at him.

  Above her on the wall was a small, black-framed photograph. Clarity and simplicity was the key in this his most squalid destination. Its isolation meant there was no possibility he’d misunderstand. It was a group shot that contained Will.

  The body’s eyes had been left intact for a reason. It was so he could recognise her. And now, despite her cadaverous features, he did.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Carla had seen the new address posted on the site and had reached standoff point with Anwar. After deflecting his breakfast ploy she’d told him he had to leave. But he’d repeatedly attempted to re-engage her so he could remain in the office.

  She picked up the telephone and kept her voice as level as she could. “Anwar, I’ve told you to go. Do you really want me to have you removed by security?”

  He frowned theatrically. “Carla…” He aimed his dark eyes at her and relaxed his shoulders as if his body language would do the same to her.

  “Why do you think you have a share in everyone you meet?” She surprised herself with the statement.

  His humour briefly evaporated. A nervous smile appeared, unsure if she was joking.

  “You don’t own us, Anwar.” She had no time to spare his feelings. She just wanted him gone.

  He stiffened. “You and Will are my friends…”

  “Or is it because you want what Will has?”

  He held her gaze, confirming she referred to what he thought she did. “If you mean what I said to you last summer, I know it was…indiscreet.”

  It had been during her early convalescence after the miscarriage. Anwar had visited Easton Grey and got drunk with Will. She’d thought it was exactly what Will needed, but in the small hours Will had been calling him a cab and he’d chosen his moment. Anwar had set out his stall, promised her a better life with him. She’d dismissed it as nonsense, told him he needed to sober up. But he’d held her arm and repeated the offer until she had to prise away his fingers. “I love Will.” She said it again as she had said it then. “I’m always going to be with him.” Carla declared it as emotional policy. Something Anwar would understand. “If you have any respect for me, you’ll leave now.”

  He clasped his palms to his chest. “You can’t possibly hold things together here without him.”

  She was about to screw her eyes shut and yell at him, but at that point the artist’s impression of Will appeared on the TV beside Anwar. It accompanied the same news report that was being televised on a loop.

  Her eyes darted to the screen and back to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “His absence from the office, him not answering my calls, you pumping me for the sort of inside track he normally does. Where has he gone?” He took a step towards her. “Are you telling me he hasn’t walked out on you?” And another step, hands extending.

  Carla felt her buckled patience snap and pressed the number.

  “Mrs Frost?” The security guard’s bored tone failed to defuse her anger.

  “I need someone removed from my office.” She didn’t take her eyes from Anwar. He halted and she watched his face shift through a spectrum of mortification.

  “Removed?” The security guard seemed equally surprised.

  “Now.” She slammed down the receiver.

  Anwar’s palms were turned outwards now. “OK. I’ll leave. I can see you’re becoming upset.”

  “Go!”

  The harshness of the word registered like a physical strike. His fingers scrabbled behind him for the handle.

  Carla watched him leave before the door clicked shut behind him. She dialled reception and told the security guard to stay where he was, but to take Anwa
r’s pass and make sure he left the building. When she dumped the handset back on the cradle it rang immediately.

  She drew in breath to repeat the instructions, but it was Will.

  “The body.” She could hear rain rattling around him. “It was Eva. Eva Lockwood.”

  Will stared at the Eva’s body. He couldn’t look away.

  “Wait, the GPS says she’s still in the house,” Carla said.

  “We can forget tracking her.” Will recovered his phone from where it had been left for him on the dressing table. “She’s ditched it here.”

  “She found it?” Carla’s dismay was palpable. “That was our insurance against Pope.”

  “Who?”

  A pause, then Carla said, “A US TV reporter found the website and knows about the kidnap. He’s promised to keep a lid on the story in return for the GPS coordinates.”

  Will absorbed the revelation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was the last thing you needed to deal with. He’s told me he’ll suppress it until we get Libby back. But now we’ve got nothing to trade off. He knows our home is the last on the row.”

  “So he’s been tracking her as well as us?”

  “Was. But as soon as he finds out she’s dumped the phone we’ll probably have the international media descending on the house.”

  “But he doesn’t know yet?”

  “He hasn’t contacted me or responded to my calls for hours. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Don’t engage with him again. As far as he’s concerned, she still has the phone. I’m following the same route so he’ll think I’m her.”

  Carla digested what he’d said. “For how long though?”

  Will’s mind assimilated the new obstacle.