by J. S. Spicer
They watched in stunned, open-mouthed silence, as Doyle, smooth as a snake, took part in an interview, talking fondly about his memories of Vine. He painted a rosy picture, with nothing to hint there was anything amiss with the quiet little boy who’d come to stay with his family in the summer of 1989.
The newsreader clawed around the interview with professionally coated patience, trying to get to the juicier subject of the murders.
“So, as a boy, you never saw Felix display any disturbing behaviour, acts of violence say?”
Doyle shook his head, emphatic but sad. “No. Felix was a sweet kid. A bit on the shy side. I don’t think he had many friends growing up. It’s a pity our families lived so far apart, I’m afraid we lost touch after that summer.”
“So, no idea what changed? How he went from ‘a sweet kid’, to a cold blooded killer?”
The news channel must have thought they’d hit the jackpot, finding a former friend of the most newsworthy person in Blackbridge right now, but Doyle wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t dishing dirt, preferring to speak of the innocent boy of his past, not the guilty man of right now.
“I don’t know what happened to Felix to make him do these terrible things. I’d like to find out. I’d like to help him.” Doyle looked directly into the camera, his elegant features trying out a mask of compassion. “Felix,” he said into the lens. “If you’re watching this, please, come forward. You can always talk to me. Remember the old days, and our time together. Remember all the sweet memories.”
“Thank you, Mr Doyle.” The interview was quickly wrapped up, the interviewer retrieving the spotlight and quickly dispelling the sheen of disappointment left by Doyle’s sugar-coated comments.
Max put the phone back to his ear. Heritage, momentarily forgotten, was still there, ranting like an angry boar across the airwaves.
“Sir, sir?” Max prodded to get his attention. “Sir, we need a copy of that interview. I think he’s just sent Vine a hidden message.”
CHAPTER FORTY
It took an hour to get a copy of the recording. Or it only took an hour, depending on your perspective. Frank Heritage’s point of view was that everyone in Blackbridge should jump to attention and do what he said until this killer was caught. He cast his net wide; cajoling, bullying, calling in favours. He trusted Max’s instinct on this one. Unless Doyle was just a jumped-up glory hound, there was no point to the interview he’d given, other than to communicate something to Vine. It didn’t help the public, the police, or the families of the victims. His motivation therefore must be personal.
“I have it.” Carrie called out, already loading the interview onto her laptop.
Lorraine was already pressed to her side. Max came running in from the hall, stuffing his phone into his pocket with a mild look of disgust on his face.
“No luck?” asked Lorraine.
“Doyle’s not answering his phone. His PA hasn’t heard from him, and he hasn’t returned to his house.”
“Mmm. Well, aren’t those the actions of a man with something to hide!”
“Yeah, but what?” Max bent towards the screen on Carrie’s other side. “Run it.”
They watched it four times, paying attention to Doyle’s words, phrases, mannerisms, body language, even his clothing.
“Maybe he does just want Vine to give himself up?” Lorraine offered, then looked as though she wished she hadn’t said it.
“If he’d urged Vine to turn himself into the police, I might go for it. But he looks right into the camera, practically begging him to get in touch.”
“Max’s right,” agreed Carrie. “If they haven’t seen each other in over twenty five years, why is Doyle so bothered? If a kid I’d known years ago turned into a psycho killer I’d be locking the doors and windows, not going on TV inviting them to come and find me!”
Lorraine began slowly pacing as she worked it over in her mind. “He doesn’t tell Vine how to get in touch, how to find him. They must both know by now we’re watching Doyle’s home, so where would they meet up?”
Carrie picked up Vine’s album again. Max thought he saw her shiver slightly. Perhaps still suffering from the rigours of the night before, maybe in disgust at touching something so personal to her attacker. “Maybe one of Vine’s dump locations? Or one of the places he hasn’t revisited yet?”
“OK,” Max straightened, rubbing distractedly at a knot at the base of his spine. “Let’s run through the locations.”
Carrie didn’t need telling twice. She was glad she’d managed to do so much background the day before, and by the time she was able to stream the interview on her laptop, they’d already scoured every inch of Felix Vine’s scrapbook. The bodies were in the same locations, same exact positions, as detailed in the crime scene notes. No revelations had jumped out so far though.
“First location, the garden at my, well, at Doyle’s family home. The second site is the kitchen, so again, at the Station Street address.”
“We’re keeping your home under observation,” muttered Lorraine, still pacing.
“OK, next was under the Black Bridge. Then the boating lake. After that the tunnel near the flats and the playground.”
“All public places,” Lorraine noted.
“The bridge site is pretty hidden.”
Lorraine shrugged. They were clutching at straws; again.
“Next is the woods.”
Max and Lorraine looked at Carrie, how was she really bearing up after her abduction? She offered them nothing but the back of her head.
“It is secluded,” Max said. “But given it’s our most recent crime scene they’d have to be pretty reckless to meet there.”
“Still, worth a look. What about the locations after that?”
“The next photo was taken in a school yard. I checked, its Blackbridge High School. Bryan Doyle attended that school from...”
“Another public place,” Max cut across her.
“Yes, but,” Lorraine halted her pacing. “It’s the school holidays, so it’ll be empty.”
“But Vine didn’t go to that school. Would it be special for them both? Carrie, keep going.”
“Alright. After the school there’s an amusement arcade. It used to be in the old town, but that row of shops was torn down and there’s a block of flats there now. The next picture was taken in the High Street, and the last one in the bowling alley, the one on the retail park. It’s still there.”
The room was silent for a moment, each of them mulling things over privately. Lorraine broke the silence, practical and keen to be doing something as ever.
“Carrie, do you have a pen and paper.”
She handed her a shorthand pad and biro.
“Right, this is what we have.” Lorraine quickly listed each location. “Now, these are either being monitored or are way too public. I doubt Vine’s stupid enough to show his face in Blackbridge right now.” She started crossing out the least likely places that Doyle and Vine could meet. “That leaves four locations; under the bridge, the playground, the woods, and the school yard.”
“The playground?”
“It was run down and deserted when I was there, Max. I’m not saying it doesn’t ever get used, but not a lot.”
She saw Max’s dubious expression. “I know, it’s not much. But we have to check, don’t we?”
He nodded. She was right. He couldn’t see that these places would make a safe place for a wanted man to risk, but where else could they look?
“OK, I’ll take some uniforms, check these locations.”
“I’ll help..,” he started to say.
“You stay here,” she told him firmly, with a knowing look towards Carrie. A shadow of the guilt he’d felt the night before passed over him. He couldn’t risk leaving Carrie alone. He could get a constable to come and stay with her at the house, but he didn’t argue. Not least because in his gut he thought visiting those four sites was little more than a wild goose chase.
Despite his misgivings, Max watche
d Lorraine getting into her car from the window, rueful that he was stuck there. Even if he didn’t believe Vine would be at any of those sites, it would be better to be out there, looking, doing something, anything, rather than sitting around waiting for another tragedy to happen.
“I’m going to watch the interview again,” Carrie said, sensing Max’s frustration. “Maybe we missed something. Here,” she held out Vine’s scrapbook. “You have another look at this.”
He tore himself from the window, taking the book with weak enthusiasm.
“That’s Vine’s record, Max. A record of his happy childhood summer, and of his recent killing spree. Whichever way you look at it, this is probably the most important thing he owns.”
In the quiet living room Max flicked slowly through the album, looking at each picture, each caption, over and over again. In the background Carrie kept playing Doyle’s interview, keeping the volume low, but Max still heard Doyle’s words, drifting around along with the dust motes. He soon tired of looking at the bodies. He was tired of the blood, the death, the hopelessness the images injected into him. He focussed on the surroundings, perhaps some change, some alteration, to the locations might help.
He didn’t pay too much attention to a tiny bit of litter next to Andrew Trent’s left leg, a crumple of white paper, not until he saw something similar in the picture taken at the playground.
“Carrie, do you have the crime scene photos.” It was slim, but each crime scene would have been meticulously combed through and recorded, down to every tiny detail. She handed him the files.
He looked first at the pictures of Andrew Trent. No sign of the paper. He read the notes, reading every observation. No mention. It could have just blown away before the police arrived. He started looking more carefully at every photo, comparing them to the crime scene pictures and notes. In each picture, somewhere close to the body he located a small scrap of litter, white, like paper, but very small, usually crumpled into a ball.
After a while Carrie joined him, sensing he was on to something. “What have you found.”
“Probably nothing, but it’s a discrepancy. Look.” Max showed her each photo in Vine’s album. “There’s a similar piece of litter near each of Vine’s victims. But it doesn’t appear in our crime scene pics. It might be something, but I don’t know what it means.”
Carrie squinted at the scrapbook. “Can’t really see what it is. Come on, I’ll scan these in so we can blow the images up onscreen, see if we can get more detail.”
Heads together they squinted in unison at the screen, Carrie minutely tweaking the zoom, searching for the ideal view.
“Definitely paper,” Max said, tilting to the side and bumping against Carrie’s ear. “White paper.”
“Yeah.” She absently rubbed her ear, eyes not leaving the screen. She switched to another scan. “Small though, not like a sheet of paper.”
“Maybe from a small notebook, pocket-sized?”
She leaned in, leaned back, blinked for clarity. “They’re not single sheets. Max, I think they’re bags. Tiny, white paper bags.”
She scrolled through again. “Yes, definitely tiny white bags. But what are they for? Something that small, what would you put inside?”
Max sat back, mind whirring, in his head he was hearing Doyle’s voice, his words during that morning’s interview.
“Sweets.”
“What?”
“Sweets. Little bags of sweets. What did Doyle say, Felix was a ‘sweet’ kid, and something else, sweet something.”
“Memories! He said remember the sweet memories.” Carrie’s hands flew to her keyboard, fingers bouncing erratically in a sudden onrush of excitement.
“Carrie?”
She opened a file, tutted, shut it down, tried another. Max kept quiet. She was usually slicker than this, homing in on what she needed without hesitation, without all this trial and error. But she’d been through a lot.
On her third attempt the trembling in her hands lessened, her expression focussed, as she scrolled slowly down the page.
“Yes!”
“What? What have you found?”
“Bryan Doyle’s father ran a shop, a sweet shop. Max, the name of that shop was Sweet Memories!”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
The uncertainty was back. He knew why.
Trust.
The very notion blackened his heart. Too many years lay on him, years of disappointment, betrayal, the bitter taste of crushed hope.
But perhaps this was meant to be. If Bryan was disloyal, Felix was now equipped to deal with that. His knife lay on the bed beside him. Jasmine’s bed. He had slept, wrapped up in her scent, floating in dreams which could never touch down in this reality.
It was love, he now realised. He loved Jasmine. Utterly.
If he died now, if he was caught, at least he’d had this night. Jasmine wasn’t with him, but he felt close to her here. Unlike his stay at Doyle’s, Felix had been respectful of her privacy. He had searched, but only to see if she still had the scrapbook he’d given her. He didn’t find it. Still, he hadn’t violated her. A journal in the bedside table remained unopened by him. Her underwear drawer quickly closed after the most cursory look. This was Jasmine’s place, these were her things, her toiletries and soaps and soft fabrics. His only incursion was to sleep in her bed. That, he’d been unable to resist, a warm embrace; the only one he’d feel, probably.
Even as he debated the point, Felix knew he would go.
He would meet with Bryan, see what he had to say, despite the sad predictability of it all. Bryan Doyle sought only to protect himself. He’d been the same as a boy. Nothing ever stuck. Blame would fly and when it came to rest, Bryan was always just out of reach of it, blinking widely in mock innocence. This would be no different. Bryan, self-preservation to the fore, would need to make sure Felix wasn’t going to make life difficult for him.
The only question was how he would go about it. As a boy Bryan had relied on persuasion with a smattering of goading. What about the man? Would he play fair? Would he really be the caring friend so eloquently appealing to him out of the TV screen?
That appearance on the news had been ridiculous. Felix had chuckled at Doyle’s saccharin display. It felt good to laugh. It was too rare. That was one of the reasons to meet up; Bryan had always been amusing, entertaining. His plan for luring Vine out of the shadows was a weak one, lucky enough to succeed only due to Felix’s perfect timing in switching on Jasmine’s tiny TV in the bedroom. Sure, bits of the interview were replayed, snatches repeated later in the programme as the news was regurgitated over and over for the bleary morning viewers. But the crucial part, the message Bryan was sending to Felix, was just in that last sentence, and the broadcasters had better taste than to repeat that part. So yes, luck had played its part, but whether good or bad was yet to be revealed.
Felix didn’t hurry. The meeting with Bryan felt too much like coming full circle, it felt like an ending. Felix wasn’t finished, his ending could not be written, not yet. So he took his time. He made the bed, tidied Jasmine’s flat, washed the cup he’d used, dried and put it away. The place was neater and cleaner than when he’d arrived. He thought of leaving a gift, but he had nothing, and feared she’d throw any token away, just like with the scrapbook. Finally, after breathing deep of the still, warm air for a few last precious moments, Felix slipped out the front door, carefully closing it behind him with a dull click.
**
Bryan Doyle was losing patience with Jasmine. She’d been shaky from the start. He was sure if he blew hard enough in her direction she’d scatter like dandelion seeds on a breeze.
She stood in the corner, eyes wide and liquid, a doe catching the predator’s scent on the air. She’d barely spoken since they’d arrived, except to voice doubts. He’d only managed to get her here by reminding her of what had happened to her brother. The memory was painful for her, but it also drove her; thinking back to that tumble of joy and vivacity that had been Justin Burke
, until his spark was snuffed out, doused, dampened and swallowed whole on that fateful day. At the time everyone so easily believing it was an accident, terrible, tragic, but no-one’s fault. Justin had been fascinated by the pond; his eager little fingers loved to probe for fish and snails, to poke at frog spawn with disgusted delight. Time and again the adults had shouted for him to be careful, not to lean so far over the water in case he fell in.
But he knew better. Doyle kept having to remind Jasmine; to hold in front of her the ugly truth. They’d always enjoyed daring each other, pushing their boundaries, testing their limits. Felix was the easiest to manipulate. During their summer together they’d persuaded him to do all kinds of things, watching with glee as he did their bidding. Jasmine had been an artist at manipulating Felix to create her canvas of chaos. The quiet boy had been incited to shoplift, to stuff excrement through the letterbox of one of her school rivals, to pick up a maggot-riddled squirrel. She’d even goaded him into getting into a fight with an older boy. Felix hadn’t done too well, only his scrappy desperation not to lose face in front of the other two had saved him from a bad beating. That and his surprisingly swift legs when things got too violent.
Perhaps they’d been cruel, mentally torturing little Felix Vine. But the boy never complained. He laughed along with them. He lived to please them. Especially Jasmine. Doyle could take her or leave her, the gobby kid who’d grown up next door to him. But with Felix, he was enraptured. At the age where girls were suddenly materialising firmly onto his radar, with Felix the effect was enhanced by his own shyness, his deep sensitivity.
That’s why Jasmine had to be here. She was crucial to disarming Felix; perhaps literally.
Doyle paced near the door, ostensibly to keep an eye out for Felix, but also to block the exit in case her nerves got the better of her and she tried to bolt.
“Maybe he won’t show.” It was a hope on Jasmine’s part, not a doubt. Every sound sent a thrill of fear through her. She couldn’t reconcile the boy from her past with the monster stalking the streets of Blackbridge.
