And at that point, under the cover of the noise of the shower he screamed out in anger and despair.
The tears mixed with the jetting water around him, and amongst it all he did not hear his mobile phone go off again, showing off his new ringtones.
“Meet you at the watering hole!”
It was another message, something familiar to greet him when he emerged from the shower.
“You are Cain.”
11
Conner sat on the edge of the plastic chair, hands clasped around a polystyrene cup, pushing it out of shape. Caleb sat on one side of him, Alex on the other. Caleb was scribbling a note in the margin of a typed sheet. Across the table from them, two policemen sat forward in their own seats frowning. A tape whirred languidly in the machine placed between them, and Conner was silent,
“Can you remember anything about the journey in the car?” said the Sergeant, a shiny man with small pale blue eyes and cropped grey hair. He had the look of someone who had spent too much time listening to people who he knew were lying.
“We were in the car for about half an hour, maybe an hour – a black Volvo estate, I think. I didn’t look at the number plates. We drove around in the country; I’m afraid my sense of direction is bad, I’m sorry.”
Conner adjusted his gaze away from the walls of the interview room and faced his questioners. Then he looked over at Caleb.
Still he said nothing.
“Okay,” said the Sergeant, “tell us about the guy who took you to the house.”
Caleb leaned in towards Conner.
“The way out of this is to go through it,” he whispered, “you can be the brave man that I know you are. The people who did this to you have taken nothing that is really important from you, nothing.”
“What?” said Conner, “but they…”
“You,” interrupted Caleb, “are made in the image of God, everything you do and everything you say should be inspired by that fact.”
Conner looked at Caleb, and then at the police officers, who were now staring at him.
“I think he was wearing brown corduroy trousers,” said Conner, “the driver, I remember that, and a jacket, it was kind of green, like a military jacket, and he wore a flat cap, pulled down over his eyes.” I
“What about his features?”
“I’d say he was in his fifties. Beard, sandy coloured hair, rough skin, and maybe a scar on his cheek, I didn’t really get a good look at him.”
“Did he speak with any kind of accent?”
“Yes, actually he did, like he was German maybe. I think the girl called out his name at some point: Jeff or Joseph, Joseph I think.”
“Okay,” said the Sergeant, “let’s talk about this girl.”
Conner nodded and sipped the black coffee they’d given him.
“Can you describe her for us?”
“She looked strong, athletic, I’m guessing she was early twenties, she said it was her twenty-first birthday. And she had blonde hair, tied back, and dark eyes very dark eyes; I’m assuming the girl I saw first is the same one who, well…”
“…who attacked you,” said the Sergeant. “Yes, let’s assume that for the moment.”
“I think it was her,” continued Conner. “She had very sharp features, her chin and nose.” He paused trying to recollect any other detail about the girl. “She called herself Jessica, but who knows, maybe that wasn’t her name at all.”
The Sergeant raised an eyebrow, as if impressed by Conner’s deductive powers.
“Okay,” said the other officer, “anything else?”
“Yes,” said Conner, “she wore a dress to start with, a turquoise dress, and then obviously this mask thing,” he indicated the photo on the table in front of them, “and I thought she was crying at one point.”
The Sergeant leant forward. “You thought she was crying? Why did you think that?”
“I saw a tear in her eye, through the eye slit of the mask she was wearing,” said Conner. “It was there all the time, of course, but somehow it was more obvious when she had the mask on.”
“Which eye?” asked the Sergeant.
Conner thought about it for a moment. “Left,” he said, “her left eye.”
He glanced at Caleb, who was still busy scribbling notes.
“Thank you, that’s all for now, Mr Adams,” said the Sergeant, stopping the tape. “We’ll be in touch with you if we need anything else.”
* * *
Alex took him back to her apartment afterwards and made him some tea.
“I should be angry,” he said, sipping at the mug. “I should be angry at them but I don’t feel anything.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I know what it is like to feel nothing when you should be feeling everything.”
He thought about the car crash that took both of Alex’s parents; years later she had described feeling nothing but numbness for months afterwards.
“Yeah, of course you do,” he said, “sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and smiled. “So, what are you going to do now?”
“What can I do? I need to keep going, for you and for SUMMER and for just everyone.”
“And Poppy?”
“What about her? I don’t want to think about Poppy, I can’t talk to her about this. What is she going to think?”
“You need to tell her,” said Alex gently, “before she finds out some other way.”
“I know, but…”
“But what?”
“Alex, there’s something else going on, it may be connected.”
“What do you mean?” said Alex.
“There’s something else I need to tell you, I’ve been getting text messages,” said Conner. “It’s really weird stuff; the number’s withheld but whoever it is just sends me the message ‘You are Cain’. You know, like as in Cain and Abel from the book of Genesis. I’ve been trying to work out what it means.”
“Is it one of the lads in the band messing you around?”
“No, I asked them, but I knew it wasn’t one of them, it just didn’t feel like a joke one of them would have played on me.”
“When did it start?”
“That day when Daisy did her presentation of all those designs, it was that evening.”
They were silent for a moment and Conner buried his face in his hands.
“Talk to her,” said Alex. “From what Daisy’s told me, she has a good heart, tell her the truth, trust her with it.”
Conner kept his face in his hands but Alex could see that he was crying.
“Okay,” he said finally, “okay, I’ll talk to her.”
She came to him and hugged him, and he felt her love for him, her desire to protect him from further pain.
“I am so sorry, Conner,” she whispered.
They stayed like that, motionless on Alex’s couch for a minute longer, and then Conner stood up.
“Thanks sis,” he said, “I’d better go.” He moved towards the door of Alex’s flat, but before he reached it he turned back to her.
“You know the thing that sticks most in my mind is that this girl looked like she was crying as she did what she did to me. I could see a tear in her eye, through the mask, like she was crying. I mean if she hated it so much why the hell did she do it?”
“I don’t know, Conner. Go home and get some rest.”
Conner left Alex’s apartment in a daze. He’d been offered a lift, and his parents had wanted to pick him up and take him back to the family home, but he didn’t want any of that, he wanted to be on his own.
He got on the train and sat by the window, and watched the countryside slip by. He felt dirty and guilty, and he didn’t even know what he was guilty of. He could not remember the last time he had cried. He touched the scar on his chest, still raw and painful. He looked down at his hands and caught sight of the wristband he always wore.
“What would Jesus do?” he whispered, but he could feel no response, no emotion, no answer within hims
elf to answer that question.
Eventually he fell asleep.
Caleb spent the next day forgetting tiny details. He had difficulty in concentrating on his day job, his mind drifting back to the crisis of the attack on Conner.
He had not mentioned it, but he was convinced that the attack on Conner was the work of the enemy. He knew the mark of his enemy well enough, and he could see it here. What he couldn’t see was a clear motive for this attack. Of course this could stop Conner from performing, but it seemed like a crude and risky action if that was their motive.
There was something else, he was sure of it, especially in this reference to Cain, and he feared it was some hold, some leverage that the enemy had over Conner.
He prayed on and off all day, trying to sense the Lord’s will in what had happened, asking for protection for this young man, but he was distracted and he felt no clear insight into what was happening.
Once his other duties were completed, he applied himself to the other challenge in his life – the identification of Bridget’s killer, and more particularly, the man who controlled Bridget’s killer. He was sure the assassin had not acted alone, but under orders. Dinner had come and gone almost as an inconvenience; he had had no appetite, not even for a helping of Mrs Wicks’ apple and blackberry pie, and that was as good an indication as any of how distracted he was. They had talked together over dinner about everything that had happened to Conner and he was, as ever, reassured by her promise of prayers. That evening he felt restless and so he gathered his papers together and headed out into the bitter early evening chill, towards the SUMMER offices.
The sky outside the office windows had darkened enough to show up the stars, little points of light in the darkness, and he prayed for the Light to guide him now. When he got to the office he let himself in and sat at the same desk where he always sat – the idea of hot-desking made no sense to him at all – and he took the evidence he had out of his briefcase.
He spread out the material he already had on Bridget’s killer, and next to it he placed the documents and six photos he had received from Orlando Shand. He was particularly drawn to the black and white images of the figure that Shand was convinced was the person who killed Bridget. Caleb Wicks studied the images carefully and after a minute or more he separated the four photos into two piles of three each. In three of the photos the man seemed to have a smooth face beneath what was no doubt a false beard, in the other three there was the faintest of lines, possibly a scar beneath the facial hair.
“Now what,” he said to himself, “would Lewis, and Conner, and Alex make of you?”
He glanced back at the documents. There was a handwritten note on the cover of one of them with a question mark after it: “What have you done, MARTIN?”
He thought about the man who had visited Alex’s café. If there was a conspiracy against SLaM, and even against Alex, could it be that the man who murdered Bridget was also the man who terrorized the customers in Alex’s café? And if that were true, could it be that this was also the man who assisted in the attack on Conner.
“Oh, dear Lord,” said Caleb sitting back and staring at the photos. He felt pleased that he might, at last, be getting somewhere, but everything he had discovered pointed to more danger for those he loved.
If all of his suppositions were true then “Joseph” was out there, acting against SUMMER now, and he was capable of murder.
Caleb knew it was urgent that they identify this man, and he hoped that through him, they would then be able to uncover the man holding the assassin’s leash, the controlling mind behind all of this.
“My enemy,” whispered Caleb, “I will find you, God willing, and I will stop you.”
He thought back to what Orlando Shand had said about Bridget’s comments; phone conversations between Martin Massey and someone else, someone who did not want to be disturbed too early in the day.
What was it Shand had said?
“Apparently, he told Massey only to call in future well after ten thirty in the morning.”
But who would not want to be disturbed before ten thirty? Caleb turned it over in his mind, trying to find a way into this puzzle. His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Aiden.
“A late one tonight then, Caleb?” said Aiden.
“Trying to fit some pieces together you know,” said Caleb. “What brings you in this evening?”
“Just needed to pick up some papers I left here,” said Aiden. “So what are these pieces you’re working with? Is this about what happened to Conner?”
“Indirectly yes,” said Caleb thoughtfully. “I’m trying to find out more about Bridget Larson’s killer, or more precisely, the person who gave the order for her to be killed by this man.” He pointed to the photos. “I have some clues, but none of them make sense, yet; and my fear is that, yes, somehow Bridget’s death is connected to what is happening to Conner.”
Aiden stared at the photos on the desk.
“So you think this fellow is the monkey; but you want the organ grinder,” said Aiden, “is that it?”
“That’s one way to put it,” said Caleb, smiling. “Actually you might be able to help me, can you think of a job that someone would have which would mean they don’t want to be bothered before ten thirty in the morning?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” said Aiden. “Perhaps he’s a market maker of some kind; maybe based abroad in a different time zone?”
“Possibly, although I think he is based here in the city. By the way, how is the money going for SUMMER?”
“We’ll be fine with the money, Caleb, leave that to me. What we really need is to make sure our main asset can function properly. It’s all going to be pretty academic if everything that’s happened to Conner damages him so much that he can’t perform.”
Aiden opened the safe they had installed in one of the cupboards and pulled out some papers.
“Nearly done with the company name change,” he said. “SLaM is out and SUMMER is coming.” He winked and then smiled at Caleb.
“I am looking forward to summer,” said Caleb. “I sense that this current battle might be over by then. Well, goodnight, Aiden.”
“Goodnight, and don’t stay too late, Mrs Wicks will be wondering where you’ve got to.”
“Mrs Wicks knows exactly where I am,” said Caleb, sighing. “Although both of us wish I was at home, with my feet up, relaxing.”
Caleb was tired, but he hadn’t just come into the office to get some work done, and he was pleased to see Aiden leave, not for any personal reason but because he was expecting another visitor at the office with whom he wanted to have a private conversation.
Caleb wandered into the kitchen, made himself some tea and sat back in his chair.
It seemed to him that these new office chairs were designed to be uncomfortable, as if, in keeping with the spirit of hot desking, no one should sit still for more than ten minutes at a time.
He breathed out a long sigh and was overcome with a feeling of weariness, confusion and even despair. It was really hitting him these days, and it wasn’t just for lack of sleep. There was something else, something working against him, sapping the life from him. This wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this feeling; it was, he knew, part of the battle. He shut his eyes for a moment and thought about Alex, and Conner, and Daisy, and this new friend of Conner’s – Poppy. He didn’t really know why, but he was very glad that Poppy had appeared on the scene, very glad indeed.
He woke with a start, the taste of disorientation in his mouth. He had lost thirty minutes, and the tea he wanted to drink was now cold. Now he had no time to prepare for the arrival of his guest. Whatever thinking and praying he had done would have to be enough.
He looked down again at the photos scattered on his desk, and then glanced up as the office door opened again, and, on cue, Lewis Ashbury appeared.
“Hello, Caleb,” he said.
“Good evening, Lewis, thank you for coming.”
Lewis lau
ghed. “You’re welcome. I was quite intrigued when you invited me to some clandestine late-night meeting at the office. Are you sure Alex or any of the others won’t suddenly turn up unannounced?”
“Alex is at home group this evening,” said Caleb. “We won’t be interrupted.”
“Okay,” said Lewis sitting down, “so, any more developments on what happened to Conner?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Caleb. “The police have drawn a blank so far, and young Conner has taken it quite badly.”
“I can imagine,” said Lewis. “Anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so.” Caleb shook his head. “But I do appreciate you coming in here for a chat.”
“No problem.” Lewis leant back in the chair next to Caleb’s desk. “So what can I do for you?”
“I thought I might show you some pictures,” said Caleb, smiling. “Let’s start with something you’ll have seen before.” He spun round the photo-fit picture of the supposed window cleaner, and prime suspect for Bridget’s murder so that Lewis could see it.
“Seen this a few times,” said Lewis. “I presume this is just your warm-up act, is it?”
“Something like that,” said Caleb. “We’ve all seen that photo-fit many times before, but what you won’t have seen are these.”
He spread out the images that Orlando Shand had sent him, and Lewis studied them closely.
“That’s the same person,” said Lewis.
“Yes,” said Caleb, “I think it’s very likely to be the same person, but there’s more.”
He took another piece of paper from his case, this was a drawing of a man in a long overcoat. There was a livid scar along his cheek.
“This,” said Caleb, “is a rather sketchy drawing of a man who walked into Alex’s café a year ago and upset some of the customers. This incident happened shortly after Bridget’s murder.”
Lewis laughed. “Oh yes, I remember her telling me about that. Didn’t Alex tell him to get out? I wish I’d been there to witness it.”
“That’s right,” said Caleb, “she did.”
Lewis frowned. “You think it’s the same person, don’t you.”
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