by J. S. Spicer
If they knew about the woodland clearing, maybe they knew about the other places too.
That meant only one thing. They had a scrapbook.
There had been three; his, Bryan’s and Jasmine’s.
He hadn’t found Doyle’s copy at the house, assumed it was long ago destroyed. He still believed that to be the case. Doyle had left the country before the police tried to get hold of him. The house showed no signs of intrusion – other than his own.
That left two.
The police either had his own scrapbook, a notion which threatened to pitch him into ferocious madness, or they had Jasmine’s
Weighing his options, weighing the risks, he made his decision.
The Doyle house may now be compromised.
But Jasmine, she’d left town, scuttling away like the other frightened insects, darting for the shadows to avoid his blinding light. That meant her flat was empty. No need for the police to watch an empty place, he hoped.
If she’d kept the album she may have passed it to the police before she left, maybe. Still, the more he thought of it, the more appealing was the idea of going to Jasmine’s. It felt safest, and if he found her scrapbook he’d know for sure they had his copy.
He drove part-way there but ditched Bryan’s car a few miles from his destination. If the police found the car he didn’t want them to realise where he was headed.
He walked the rest of the way.
It was dark but not late. He passed plenty of people, mostly young; that age range where strangers are invisible, uninteresting, when you’re too wrapped up in your own bubble. Felix made no attempt to hide, was ready and willing to meet the gaze of passers-by. But he was ignored. So ordinary, so unremarkable, that even carrying the burden of his rage like hot coals he didn’t register to those around him.
Just as well. The mood he was in, a challenge would have been dealt with in a swift and deadly manner. But that would throw him off, upset the pattern. And he needed to stick to his plan. These obstacles, they were trials, tests of his resolve. He wouldn’t fail.
Walking helped. It siphoned off the most toxic layer of his wrath, leaving just a rumbling undercurrent of resentment. By the time he arrived at Jasmine’s place calmness had risen like cooling waters, just in time to make him careful, furtive, and successful in his attempt to break-in unseen.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Gus Travers stood just beyond the automatic doors, the toes of his shoes shying from the block of light spilling from the entrance. All of the years that had passed, all those long and lonely stretches of time, suddenly bunched into insignificance; it was the blink of an eye since he was here last. The deep searing, wrenching pain of loss swamped him, suddenly, violently. For several minutes he fought a silent battle with his grief, staring hopelessly at his shoes, as though they had the answer.
Despite the late hour there were a lot of people around, many gave him strange looks. A few gentler souls asked if he was OK. He muttered something polite, surprised by the effort involved in so simple a thing.
In the end it was Max who got him moving. Gus clutched a carrier bag in each hand. From one he pulled out a pair of woolly, mismatched socks. They were the first he’d came across, but on the drive over he’d been concerned Max would be annoyed by his father’s choice of hosiery. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it, to worry over something so trivial. But thoughts, like breadcrumbs, could lead the way.
Max, with his mother’s penetrating blue eyes and knack for immediacy. Penny had been vibrant, like their son, living in the moment with laser-like intensity. Gus was a different creature, his focus diluted, spread thin to take in past, present, future, scanning the wider vistas of life. He could miss important moments right in front of him. He knew this difference was a source of frustration for Max. At least Penny had understood, even though she too could become impatient.
Penny was gone, lost for ever. And this was where she had died.
Blackbridge Hospital.
Gus hadn’t returned since that day.
When Max had called with news about Carrie, Gus hadn’t hesitated. He’d dashed about doing his best to be practical, helpful, throwing a few bits and pieces into plastic bags. On the drive over his mind had been clear, focused. It hadn’t occurred to him how difficult it could be to return to the hospital. Not until he hit a brick wall five feet from the entrance.
Now he gripped the socks desperately, stupidly. His son needed him. Carrie needed him. All he had to do was step across that threshold.
**
Carrie had a private room; one of the perks of being targeted by a serial killer. Max didn’t think she’d be there for long. Her injuries weren’t too bad; some nasty welts around her wrists and ankles, a few bumps and bruises, a sprained wrist. Nothing serious. She’d been checked and given the thumbs-up by her doctor. But because of the blow to the head and brief loss of consciousness it had been suggested she stay overnight at least, just to keep her under observation.
Max was determined not to leave her side. He was still reeling inside from the events of the night. Still riding high on the relief he’d felt at finding her alive. Carrie had been quiet at first, as the doctor examined her, as she was cleaned and bandaged. Max stayed close, made sure those shock-glazed eyes could find him easily at all times. And they did. Every few minutes she’d look up, quickly skimming the faces around her, locking briefly onto Max’s, then dipping away into numbness again.
Now, with care, and time, and maybe a few drugs, she was more her old self. The first words out of her mouth were, ‘Where’s my stuff?’
Max, of all people, understood using work as a distraction, knew focussing your energy on the job gave clarity. He also knew it was an effective way to avoid dealing with what you were feeling, just another bandage wrapped around Carrie’s poor battered self.
She was being stubborn about it. They compromised. He promised to have all her equipment and files picked up from the station and taken to his house. They’d be there when they returned in the morning. Even then she insisted on listening in to his phone call to make the arrangements. After that, finally, she relaxed. Moments later she was fast asleep.
When Gus arrived Max was sitting quietly next to Carrie’s bed, watching her sleep, watching over her.
“Hey, Dad. Thanks for coming,” he whispered.
Gus placed the carrier bags on the floor, moved a second chair next to his son, careful not to make too much noise.
“How is she?”
“She’ll be fine. Physically.”
Gus nodded, looking appraisingly at the sleeping young woman. Her caramel skin had a sallowness that hadn’t been there when they’d breakfasted together. He took in the bandaged wrists, the scrapes across her cheek. In just those few hours, less than a day, life had dealt her a harsh blow. Gus hadn’t even met Carrie until Max had started working this case, but he’d liked her immediately. Intelligent and serious, but with a joyful kind of tenderness cushioning her fierce work ethic. There were few people Gus Travers could sit in easy company with, and this young woman was one of those rarities. Again emotions threatened to overwhelm, but he wouldn’t weaken again. His son needed him. Carrie needed him.
They sat in silence for some time, father and son, for once with a common interest.
Max finally broke the silence. “You brought her a change of clothes?”
“Yes. For you too. Thought you might need it; looks like I was right.”
Max glanced down at his muddied jeans and shoes, saw the spots of Carrie’s blood dotted onto his shirt. He must look a sight, but he hadn’t given that a thought. Didn’t care. He wasn’t the one who’d been attacked, kidnapped, tied up and taken to the pitch dark woods. He shivered as he again thought about how easily things could have ended differently for Carrie.
“He’s still out there,” he said, almost as if to himself. “After everything, every opportunity, he still got away.”
Gus laid a hand on his son’s arm. “But this time, you were
n’t too late. You were able to anticipate where he’d take her. You are getting closer, son. You will find him.”
Max nodded, an action devoid of conviction.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said after a moment.
“Oh, I’m fine just here,” said Gus. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. Why don’t you get a bit of rest? I’ll keep an eye on Carrie.”
“I’m OK,” Max insisted.
Fifteen minutes later Gus found a spare blanket to lay over his son, who had fallen fast asleep in the chair.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Lorraine sat for a few minutes in the car. After all that had happened she shouldn’t even be thinking about the fact that Max had kissed her, let alone giving it any credence. Still, she needed a few moments, to strengthen her resolve, to put her persona back in place, re-fix the mask of her indifference, before she could face him.
It would be easier if they were at the station; coming to Max’s home, with his father lurking in the background, surrounded by his childhood memories, seemed to shave some of the professionalism away. At least Carrie would be there. Lorraine’s visit to the hospital the night before had been too brief; she felt bad about that. She knew she’d had to go and see Carrie, check up on her. The younger woman had the haunted look she’d seen in so many victims, eyes wary, unfocussed, like looking at them through thick glass.
It was easy to cut the visit short, minimise the discomfort she always felt around people who were hurting, especially people she knew. She was busy chasing down leads on Felix Vine; it was true, but she still felt guilty at the relief she’d felt as she hurried out of the hospital.
Now though, Carrie’s presence would hopefully ease the situation.
After a final check in the rear view mirror Lorraine got out of the car. From the boot she retrieved the backpack found at the Doyle house the night before, the one belonging to Felix Vine. It was a discovery that had felt like a mini victory. Vine had been hiding out at Bryan Doyle’s empty home. The fact he’d left his personal items there meant he’d intended to return. He wasn’t expecting the police to find him there. OK, they still didn’t have him, but now they were anticipating his moves; the Doyles house, the woods. Their actions had saved Carrie. Vine was running out of places to run.
Carrie had been more than keen to get out of the hospital. Overnight her terror had solidified into quiet hatred. She wanted, needed, to be working, to be back on the case. They arrived back at the Travers’ house a little after 8am. By 8.30am she had all her equipment set up in the living room, basking in the comforting glow of her laptop, surrounded by files. Max urged her to rest. She ignored him. He didn’t push it.
By the time Lorraine arrived Carrie once again had all the crime scene pictures up on her screen, forcing herself to look. Jasmine Burke’s scrapbook lay open in her lap. Somewhere, lying between the innocent childhood photos and the gruesome crime scenes, there had to be something they could use to find Felix Vine.
Gus let Lorraine in, offered tea, she declined. He showed her to the living room, now converted into Carrie’s own private nerve centre, then the old man quietly vanished to his own work.
“How’re you feeling?”
Carrie gave her a weak smile. “Much better, thanks.”
Lorraine took it all in; the photos, the files, Carrie’s tight-jawed determination. She hesitated barely a second.
“I have something else for you.”
Carrie looked up, curious, as Lorraine delved in the backpack. It had already been fingerprinted, combed for skin, fibres, clues of any kind. Heritage had, for once, listened; since they knew who they were after she’d convinced him it was more important to analyse the meaning rather than the items.
Carrie’s eyes lit up, a glimmer of her old self, when Lorraine extracted Vine’s scrapbook.
“Is it the same?” She indicated Jasmine’s album on her lap.
“He’s updated it.”
“Hi.” Max had entered the room behind her, startling her, she covered it quickly.
“Vine’s backpack, left at Bryan Doyle’s house. Clearly he intended to return there.” She waved the bag proudly.
“Meaning he didn’t expect us to look for him there.”
“We’re close, Max.” She really felt it too, could feel the thrill of chasing down their prey. “He won’t like losing his little mementoes.”
Carrie, slipping from her chair to the floor, laid the two albums side by side on the coffee table. Max saw her wince slightly, the wrist she’d sprained giving her trouble, but she made no complaint. Seeing the first page of Vine’s scrapbook he dropped to the floor beside her.
“Is that Jasmine Burke?”
“Looks like her,” said Lorraine, moving to the other side of the table and pulling up a chair opposite her colleagues.
The top half of the page was just the same as Jasmine’s scrapbook, which lay open right beside it. There was the photograph showing the four children, standing in a garden, dappled in sunlight, with a pond glistening just in the background. Presumably the very pond where Justin Burke had drowned.
In both books just beneath was the date and their names, scribbled out in the very same handwriting. However Felix had added another photograph to the bottom of his page, one showing a cemetery, a grave, and a female mourner, back to the camera, head bowed. It looked like Jasmine.
“I’m guessing this is her brother’s grave then?”
Lorraine shrugged. “We could ask her, but it’s a fair bet. Vine must have been spying on her.”
Next to Max, Carrie gave an involuntary shudder. Jasmine Burke had been lucky. So very lucky. Vine was within a few yards of her, taking her picture, but he’d let her live.
Pulling herself together, Carrie reached out to turn the page. Lorraine quickly took her hand. “Carrie, you sure you’re up for this. The rest of the pictures Vine added are of his recent victims. It’s not pretty.”
Carrie couldn’t help but think it was the first time Lorraine had acted out of concern for her, rather than putting a case first. They all knew how crucial it was to catch Felix Vine. Not just because he’d killed, but because he’d killed all his victims in such quick succession. Any planning must have been done well in advance of the murders; now he just struck like a snake, snatching away a life before anyone saw him coming.
Carrie gave Lorraine’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine.”
Then she turned to the next page.
Again at the top, the childhood picture, this time just three of the kids, bunched together in the kitchen at Station Road. Beneath lay a new photograph; Karl Drummond sprawled across a hexagon-patterned tiled floor.
Carrie poked it with her finger. “This reinforces what I thought yesterday.” She looked up, saw she had their undivided attention. “It was speculated that Vine may have just snapped and killed his colleague, and then that set off this killing spree. But I think it was carefully planned. I noticed things in the kitchen at their office had been shuffled around, so that they matched things in the Doyles kitchen. See?” She pointed out the clock, the kettle, the carefully folded tea-towel. “The fact that he staged the scene, and had both the murder weapon and a camera with him, confirms my theory that it was premeditated.”
The two serious-faced detectives nodded their agreement.
Carrie turned another page. Again, there were the children smiling broadly, carefree in the shadow of the old Black Bridge.
The picture at the bottom was the same location; there the similarity ended. Vine must have taken the shot at dawn, pale light just about creeping into that concealed place. Instead of cheeky carefree kids, there was the bloody body of Andrew Trent, slumped against the dark brickwork, face so pale you could tell there was no life left there.
“Are they all the same,” asked Max, glancing at Lorraine.
“Yep. Each victim photographed after they were dead. Each picture placed beneath its earlier counterpart, showing the same location.”
Max rocked back
on his heels. Carrie worked her way through Vine’s scrapbook, turning the pages rapidly. She wanted to see it all. Get the horror over with. Then she could begin to examine the pictures properly, analytically.
Max watched, but his mind couldn’t move past the first picture.
“Why is the first picture different? Why take a photo of a live person, when all the others are of his victims?”
Lorraine shrugged, propping her elbows on her knees. “Justin Burke’s death was ruled accidental. Maybe seeing the boy’s body was significant for Vine; his first taste of death.”
Further speculation was halted by Max’s phone, ringing and jumping on the coffee table. All three saw the caller ID on the screen. It was the Chief.
He exchanged a look of comradeship with Lorraine before picking it up. The Chief’s exasperation was reaching heart-attack levels again.
“Sir?”
Lorraine saw confusion mist up in Max’s eyes.
“What?”
She heard the rasping yell of Heritage as Max snatched his ear away from the phone. To her surprise he reached for the TV remote. Was he planning to watch TV whilst on a call to their boss? Carrie looked just as bemused. Until Max flicked through a couple of channels then halted on the local breakfast news.
A photo of Vine briefly filled the screen, grabbing their attention. Then the view switched to the newsreader, a well groomed vision of early morning glamour on a bright yellow sofa. Sitting next to her was a man in a navy suit which he wore almost as easily as the air of confidence he was projecting.
Crossing her legs, the newsreader beamed into the camera. “I’m joined in the studio by Bryan Doyle, a childhood friend of Felix Vine, the man sought in connection with a series of recent murders.”
