“Theatres reception.”
Another pause of around two seconds. “I would like to speak to Carla Dirusso.” There was something odd about the voice. There was detached and then there was...robotic.
“I’ll get her for you now—hang on.” The call was on hold for a minute, without a sound from the other end of the line.
Finally, a woman’s voice: “Hello?” The quality of the line changed and Amy registered the buzz of static. Digital to analogue. She could hear someone breathing, the heavy pant that Amy expected, and the sound of something with guitars playing behind him. “Hello? Is someone there?” Amy recognised the woman now, the same modulated Welsh tone as the Whitchurch police call: Carla Dirusso. “Tom, this isn’t funny.” She slammed the phone down—the recording ended.
“He learned his trade at the cinema.”
Amy jumped, not realising that Jason had retaken his place at her back.
“Typical Hollywood horror.”
Amy hummed her agreement, dissembling the sound clip into its composite parts. “The parts where he speaks are synthesised. Pretty realistic, so high-end software. You can hear the line switch when she answers—that’s him breathing, playing music to her. Clever.”
“Too clever?” Jason asked, laying his hand on her shoulder.
Amy looked up at him and smiled. “I didn’t say that.”
Chapter Forty-Five: Caerdydd Canolog
Dr. Eleanor Deaver was watching the news. And Bryn was watching her.
Bryn had been stirring his cold cup of coffee for twenty minutes and wondering if she was really looking at the TV or just thinking at it. Bryn used to do that to his ex-wife, working through the finer details of his latest case while she talked at him about her day and the gossip down the chapel. Of course, she’d cottoned on eventually and that was one of many reasons she’d finally called it a day.
“What’s she doing?” Bryn jumped as his boss came up behind him, glad that something work-related was on his computer screen even if he had no idea what. However, Roger was too busy scrutinising the profiler to notice.
“She’s been looking at it for almost half an hour.” Roger shot her a look of disapproval. “She’s meant to be working, not watching telly.”
Owain looked round at his raised tone, somehow still looking like he’d just woken up from a good night’s sleep. “She’s thinking, isn’t she? See that look on her face? She’s about to have a revelation, she is.”
Bryn could admit that there was definitely something working behind the woman’s eyes, a certain pensive expression on her face that could indicate an upcoming epiphany—or the onset of a seizure. They’d all been up since that ugly Friday night at the hospital, and the woman had to sleep soon or fall into a coma like the rest of them. He had to admire her dedication, even if he worried the robot revolution was upon them.
Bryn shook his head. He’d been paying too much attention to Amy if he was thinking about the robot revolution.
Abruptly, Eleanor jumped to her feet, knocking her paper cup flying. “He’s leaving Cardiff!”
Everyone in the office stared at her. Her hands flapped around her head, her words tripping over themselves as she struggled to get them out in her excitement. “Give her time to wake up and try to escape. She’s feisty, isn’t she? She wouldn’t take being kidnapped lying down. He realises this isn’t quite the happy-ever-after he imagined and he sees his face everywhere. On Monday morning, he’ll be missed at work and he can’t leave her alone in the house. He has to get out of the city before they’re discovered. He has to go tonight.”
“How do you know he works?” Owain asked, and Bryn was pleased to hear a note of scepticism in his voice.
Eleanor waved her hand. “He only kills on the weekend—no murders on a school night. He has a nine-to-five and he’s due in work tomorrow. He has to go now.”
Bryn looked up at the clock. It was 8 p.m. on a Sunday. The main roads could be closed, sure, but what about the lanes? Cordoning off the city would take time, and a local could escape before they’d even got their boots on. He might already be gone for all they knew.
His phone started to ring in his pocket and he fished it out: Amy. “Look, Amy, can I call you ba—”
“I was looking for his voice emulation software by his download history,” she began and he realised she was completely oblivious to his protests. “He visited National Rail Enquiries half an hour ago. He’s moving, Bryn.”
Suddenly, Eleanor was a genius and Bryn was declaring himself a convert. “Listen up,” he said, voice carrying across the whole office. “The killer’s looking at train times. We need to get to Central Station.”
Eleanor looked pleased with herself as his detectives scrambled to gather their things and get out. Bryn belatedly realised Amy was talking to him again.
“...no definite destination. Live departures indicate trains to London and Portsmouth leaving within the next hour. North Wales, Shrewsbury, Birmingham—I can’t narrow it down.” She sounded frustrated and Bryn could hear Jason’s voice in the background. Amy sighed. “Jason’s on his way there now. Bryn, how’s he going to move Carla without drawing attention? She won’t be willing.”
Eleanor was pacing. “She’ll be drunk. Or he’ll find another wheelchair, but I think he’s too smart for that. Drunk, large coat, hat. We’d never recognise her from a distance.”
“We’ve got it covered, Amy,” Bryn said. “Any chance you can find out more?”
He heard her fingers dashing at the keys. “I can try, but it will take time.”
God knew they didn’t have that, but he told her to work on it anyway and fetched Dr. Deaver’s coat. “I think you’d better come out with us,” he said, holding out the elegant thing for her to step into. “You’ve got a better idea than the rest of us what to look for.”
Eleanor shot him a winning smile and Bryn decided she wasn’t half-bad after all. “I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
Amy threw a brand-new phone at him as he left the flat and told him to keep the line open. He tried to put the fancy Bluetooth earpiece in place as he marched down the street, but he had to stop under a streetlight to look at it properly before finally shoving it in awkwardly with his left hand.
She called him almost immediately and he picked up, finding it strange to have her mumbling in his ear as he walked through the Cardiff night.
“Are you sure you should be going? The police are on it.”
He danced around icy puddles, his jacket hanging awkwardly over his splinted arm. “I’m the overseer. Can’t expect Cardiff’s finest to find their arsehole with both hands.”
Amy giggled and he grinned. He liked that she laughed when he told naff jokes. Honestly, now that he knew a couple of them, the cops weren’t that bad—maybe he was just growing up. Moving in different circles. His mam would call it bettering himself, but he didn’t think he was better, really. Just less likely to wind up in prison.
He’d had no clue, really, when he’d swaggered around Butetown with Lewis. Prison was what happened to those stupid enough to get caught, and it was so far removed as to be a mythical place where people disappeared for a long holiday at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.
In prison, Jason had been anonymous. A cell, a number, another stupid boy. He’d been beaten, sure, but he’d watched men lose their minds in Usk. That was what made him determined to take something away from it, even if it was only a bit of cookery and the passionate resolution to never go back.
He had no idea how he was going to repay Amy for protecting him from going back, giving him a livelihood from her own pocket. He would find a way to show her how much he appreciated what she’d done for him.
“Do you think we can find her?” he said, after a couple of minutes. He decided to go via the heaving Newport Road and get a train from Queen Stre
et to Central. He tried to tell himself it was because he might catch the killer, but it was mostly because it was bloody freezing and his arm was aching from the cold and the almost-jogging pace he’d set.
“I don’t know,” Amy said, with typical honesty. Jason wasn’t sure she was capable of being positive. “You’re there, Bryn’s there. It’s a fair chance.”
Jason grinned, licking at his chapped lips as he spied the lights of Queen Street in the distance. “I think if I leave your place without getting a broken bone, that’ll be an improvement,” he joked, but the long silence on the other end of the line told him that Amy didn’t find that one funny.
“You could’ve died.”
He shrugged one shoulder, even though she wasn’t there to see it. “I didn’t,” he said and left it at that.
He veered round to the station entrance and immediately saw two coppers, their civilian clothes doing nothing to disguise the fact they were police. “I’m at the station. I might lose signal for a bit. Might get noisy.”
“I have your location,” she said and Jason realised that she would probably track him constantly now. He found the thought oddly comforting. When he entered the building, the barriers were open. There were a couple of tramps hanging out by the ticket machine, reeking of booze, which was more reason to skip the fare and walk through. The screen said it was only three minutes until the next train to Central, so he’d timed that one well.
Jason shifted from foot to foot on the platform, wishing he could rub his hands over his arms to keep warm or stuff them in his armpits. At least his right arm was warm, surrounded by padding, though it hurt like a bitch. To his disgust, the tramps had followed him onto the platform, one holding an open bottle of cheap whiskey. He did his best to ignore them, sure they’d start begging him for money any minute.
The train pulled into the station and he deliberately got into a different carriage, thankful to sit for a couple of minutes. It was practically deserted, only a woman and her kid and an elderly man who’d fallen asleep. Jason rested his arm against the window and studied his own reflection. The bruises were fading. Soon, he might look like a decent citizen again.
“Jason?” Amy’s voice broke his reverie. “The profiler thinks Carla will most likely be drunk. It would be the only way to get her through the city unnoticed.” Drunk. Oh God. “Wearing a big coat, maybe. Sounds like bullsh—”
“I’ve seen them,” Jason said with dawning horror, leaping to his feet and trying to see into the next carriage. “They’re on my train.”
“What? I’ll put you through to Bryn—hang on.”
He couldn’t see them—why couldn’t he see them? “Amy, wait!” But she’d already gone. The next carriage was empty. Had they even got on the train? Shit.
“Jason? Where are they?” Bryn voice came through urgently. The train was already pulling into Cardiff Central and they only had seconds.
“Train from Queen Street. They look homeless, got a bottle on them. But I’ve lost them—I can’t see them!” He clutched his head, cursing himself for ten kinds of fool. It was a fucking brilliant disguise. Nobody looked at the homeless, went out of their way not to look.
“Bryn, the train’s at the station.” Staring out as the platform came into view, looking for police officers or the platform number, he saw Bryn and Owain and let out a breath. The elderly man had been woken by his raised voice, and the woman was eyeing him suspiciously, clutching her child close. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care as long as they caught the bastard.
The doors opened and Jason hurtled out, marching down the train. Only a few people got off, but others were getting on, blocking the doors. Where were they? He was sure they got on this end.
He saw Owain board the train, searching for them inside, and he was heading for Bryn to give him more description when he saw them. They stepped out of the last carriage and made a beeline for the stairs. “Bryn!” Jason yelled, running after them and pushing past the travellers getting in his way.
The man looked up at his shout and Jason caught sight of a beard, glasses. Joke shop disguise. He disappeared down the stairs and Jason, struggling to get through even this meagre crowd, couldn’t get to him quickly enough.
When he hit the top of the stairs, the man was halfway down, Carla slowing him down.
“Stop! Police!” Jason shouted and the man glanced back. In a split second, he made his call—and threw Carla down the stairs, leaping over her tumbling body to make his escape.
Jason was torn—the victim or the killer—but there were already people on her, more poorly disguised policeman, and he ran after the man towards the Bay exit. He was already out of sight, speed on him now that he’d lost Carla and all the furies of hell were at his heels.
Jason hoped Bryn had a man on this side but as he rounded the corner, he saw one guy on the floor, bleeding from his head, as his friend crouched over him. Divide and conquer. Fuck.
He kept on running, out into the night, eyes darting around to try and find the guy. A police car screeched round the corner, sirens blaring, but it was too late. But wait—there! Movement by the trees and Jason took off, running in front of the police car and forcing it to brake. He would have the bastard if it was the last thing he did.
“Do you have eyes on him?” His earpiece crackled to life with Bryn’s voice, and Jason tried to answer between aching breaths. “He’s heading...out for...Penarth Road!”
The car park was badly lit, open ground on Sunday night, but the man was damn fast. Jason tore after him, pumping his arms despite the screeching pain above his right elbow.
“Cars are right behind you,” Bryn said in his ear and Jason could hear the sirens. He didn’t have time to look back, as they ran out of the car park.
The man veered right, running down the road, dodging the few cars coming over the river this late. Jason kept to the edge, ignoring the blasted horns, but slower than his quarry. He actually cared if he lived or died—and the killer didn’t. He was a dangerous man with nothing to live for.
“What’s happening? Where are you?”
Jason didn’t have the breath to answer him, all his energy focussed on sprinting after the man who was increasing the distance between them. “Grange...town,” he managed, hoping that Bryn realised that was the direction he was heading, that Amy was feeding his coordinates into the man’s other ear.
Suddenly, the suspect shot off to the left, heading down a dark unmarked street. Jason was fifty yards back now and he hoped the man wouldn’t vanish down an alleyway before he got there. At the entrance, he spotted a shadow disappearing to the right just ahead and pelted after him. His energy was fading, full stomach threatening to eject its contents. He was never eating spaghetti again.
Jason ran into a narrow alley, dark and filthy, but straight. He ran on, breaths coming harder and faster, as he spotted movement at the end. He was losing ground, tiring too quickly, but he kept on, barely hearing Bryn’s words in his ear, demands for his location.
The alley was now just a space between buildings, with random trees and rubbish piled high, and he nearly tripped over a broken pram. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything beyond his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and he had no idea if he was even on the right track.
He forced himself through the gap between a wall and a hedge, the only way out, and saw open space at last, the moon glittering on water. He was at the river. The path stretched away to either side of him, quiet and shadowed. There was no sign of the killer.
“Bryn...” Jason panted, “I’m at the riverbank. But...he’s gone.” He closed his eyes against the frustration. “He’s gone, Bryn.”
Chapter Forty-Six: Down by the Riverside
The police helicopter flew overhead, the sound of its blades cutting through the night sky. Jason watched it fly across the stars, a rare cloudless night for Cardiff in the autumn.<
br />
There were uniformed police officers, crime scene technicians and detectives swarming over every inch of the riverbank to the south of the bridge into Grangetown. It reminded Jason of the last time he was down by the water, a little place just off the A470 with a pretty girl and dead bodies floating nearby.
He was cooling off in the back of a police car, his legs trembling from their exertion and the adrenaline still surging through his veins. Bryn was talking to a woman in a long black coat, who was pointing at the river and gesturing towards the bridge. If she thought the man had jumped in, she was clearly not from around here—no one in their right mind went for a dip in the Taff, especially not in November.
Bryn broke away from his lady friend and headed for the car. “Someone taken your statement?” he asked and Jason nodded. The police officer had been very patient with him as he’d stuttered over his description and the route they’d taken through the Cardiff back streets.
“Carla’s up at the Heath,” Bryn added.
Jason had almost forgotten about her in the chase, but now the sickening tumble came to mind, how she’d been laid out like a rag doll on the bottom step.
“They’re keeping an eye on her head injury, but she’s mostly sleeping off the gin. She smelled like a distillery.”
“Did she say anything?” Jason croaked, then cleared his throat. That was it—he was giving up the fags for good.
Bryn looked out over the river. “Nah, she can barely remember her own name. We’ll get more sense out of her in the morning. Meanwhile, there’s a copper on her door and hospital security is as twitchy as we can make ’em. They’ll transfer her to Bristol when she’s stable.”
“Do you think we’ll find him?” Jason said, joining Bryn in staring at the river. There were a lot of alleys on this side of town and it had been an hour since Jason had lost him. Bryn didn’t answer and Jason heard what he wasn’t saying. They had to look as if they were doing something, even if the likelihood of catching him was pretty much nil.
Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) Page 22
