by Jane Adams
Mike sighed. It had been a wasted evening all round, it seemed. He suddenly felt surplus to requirements and bitter about having lost time with Maria to no purpose. ‘The boyfriend. What did he have to say?’
‘Briefly, that she’d stormed off after a silly argument. He’d let her stew for a while then followed her.’ Price smiled tightly. ‘Seems she’s the fiery type. He generally gives her a bit of cooling off time before he tries to make peace. Anyway, he got concerned and went after her. Followed her and realized when he reached that dead end near the park gates that she must’ve gone through. Just gets over the gate and he hears her screaming. The bastard’s on top of her by the time lover-boy arrives and drags him off, and of course he’s too busy comforting the girl to go chasing after her attacker. Just knows he ran off towards the main path.’
‘How long before our people were on the scene?’
‘Less than seven minutes. We beat the ambulance. The boyfriend had a mobile, called it straight in. No sign though. It’s pitch black in the park that time of night.’ Mike nodded thoughtfully and skimmed through the written statement. ‘She fought back?’ he asked, picking up on the one thing Price hadn’t mentioned.
‘Yeah.’ The sergeant sounded chuffed at the thought. ‘Like the boyfriend said, she’s got a temper. She’d got her keys in her hand and hit the bastard at the side of the face with the sharp end. Pity she didn’t take his eye out. As it is, he’ll hopefully have nice, visible scratches to remember her by. We’ve told the press office to make a big thing of that. Might shake a few trees.’
Mike nodded. Anything new would be welcome just now, though it was just as likely to result in the exposure of anyone who’d cut themselves shaving that morning.
‘Right then,’ he said, getting wearily to his feet once more. ‘Nothing more to be done tonight.’ He paused at the door. ‘Eight thirty at the hospital. They should have breakfast over by then.’ He grinned wryly, remembering his own recent stay. He’d returned to full duty only two weeks before and been landed with a serial rapist.
‘Sick leave,’ Superintendent Flint had told him ironically. ‘DI Pike’s been handling it but he’s off with a hernia. Caseload too heavy for him, no doubt. So I’ve put it in your in-tray. Time for a fresh eye.’
Making his way down the stairs to the front office, Mike wondered vaguely why he always managed to get landed with the messy ones.
Chapter Four
Friday, 16 December, 2 a.m.
Jake had been waiting for close on an hour. He was good at waiting, patient that way. What he needed now was a little luck. The right person to come out and to do it soon before the crowd started to leave en masse. It was always a gamble, when Jake was asked to make something to order like this. However much forward planning he did there was also an element of luck in casting the right person for the role and, sometimes, luck wasn’t available for hire. Jake figured he had maybe another fifteen minutes of clear time; after that, the game would not be worth the risk. There would be other nights.
The street was off the main drag; there was little passing trade not headed for the club. By two in the morning even the doormen had retreated inside. Usually, by that time, more people had already been crammed inside than would upset the local fire chief. After that, the doors opened at intervals only to let people out.
That suited Jake. Standing in the shadows, he could see with little risk of being seen and those that occasionally emerged were far too drunk or otherwise involved to take notice.
Jake was about to give up when the right one came out. First, two young men, arms thrown about each other, sailing through the door on a raft of music. The one Jake wanted was with them. His blond hair brassy in the street-light, tight shirt and jeans accentuating a lithe body. He stood almost still, pulling on a leather jacket, shivering against the sudden cold.
He was perfect, Jake thought, just perfect.
Jake waited as the three of them went through their farewells, the small ritual, exaggerated by alcohol becoming stumbling pantomime. Jake could hear their laughter from where he stood across the street, invisible and silent until the couple finally helped each other stagger on their way and the one he wanted wandered on alone down the empty street.
Jake waited a little longer, knowing there was no hurry. The sound of the young man’s uneven footsteps were audible even when he turned the corner into a side road. Jake followed then, not wanting to be too far from his car. His rubber-soled shoes made little sound on the wet path and he moved without hurrying, not troubling to hide himself now. Anyone looking would just see a man walking as though he had somewhere to go, he wouldn’t even get a second look.
Turning the corner, Jake saw the one he wanted right ahead. He was making slow progress, his steps meandering, body swaying slightly as though he had forgotten that he’d left the club and could still hear music. Deliberately, Jake crossed the road, not following now, but seeking to draw level, then a little ahead. His target saw him, glancing his way briefly but seeing only a man who’d stopped and was searching through his pockets to find a cigarette. Glancing across the street, Jake put the cigarette between his lips and patted at his pockets, frowning a little. Then he crossed the road.
‘Scuse me, mate, you haven’t got a light, have you?’
‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ the man shrugged. His words were slightly slurred, then he swayed backwards slightly, taking a step to steady himself. He pointed. ‘There’s a little shop round there somewhere. Always open. Bet they’d have some.’
‘Right, thanks.’ Jake took the cigarette from between his lips and put a hand in his coat as though to find the pack. The younger man began to turn away but Jake had fired the Taser before he took another step, and he fell down, gasping, trying to cry out, as 25,000 volts surged through his system, the wire pinned to his body gleaming in the street-light. Then Jake had the hypodermic in his hand and plunged it into his victim’s arm.
Bending, he hauled the young man to his feet and pulled a limp arm around his neck. The victim was just about conscious enough to move his feet as Jake half-dragged him along the road. His car was parked only a street away, and Jake didn’t hurry; he slurred his footsteps and his speech, falling off the pavement and stumbling along in the gutter, enjoying the role even though there didn’t seem to be anyone to hear.
Then he dumped the now unconscious body into the boot of his car and settled himself in the driver’s seat. Jake was smiling as he drove away.
Norwich 2.15 a.m.
The silence of the sleeping house was soothing as he sat alone, television on, sound turned right down.
His face was sore where she’d caught him with the keys and his jaw ached from where the man had thumped him in the mouth.
The physical discomforts, though, they were nothing compared to the piercing anger at having been interrupted.
He had hung around the park afterwards, staying in the shadows just feet away from the police searchers storming their big-footed, cocky way down the narrow maze of paths. One passing so close he could have reached out and tripped him. Watched him break his great fat face falling on to the concrete.
It gave him one hell of a buzz, that. Knowing he was so close and they knew nothing about it. Almost made up for what he’d lost. Almost . . .
Time for another letter, maybe, telling them just what great clumsy fools they’d been.
He’d been disappointed when they hadn’t published his letters. Not even mentioned them in any of the reports that he had read or seen on the TV.
It did cause him a moment’s worry, that they knew. Knew about him and about the other one. The one who’d started the whole game.
Chapter Five
5 a.m.
DCI Charlie Morrow sat at his desk in Devizes HQ with his back to the radiator, steaming gently. It was a filthy night. Charlie was soaked through despite his coat and there had been no sleep and bugger all to eat.
He glanced at the pictures in front of him. The first ones, processed i
n a hurry and rushed through to him only moments before.
The photographs made the crime scene look like a film set. The bright glare of the dragon lamps and the eerie flaring from the lights of the fire tender heightened contrast and detail. Blackness beyond the rough circle of light and activity, though even the darkness was in turn swallowed up by the mist rolling wetly across the downs.
What the photographs could not show was the cold misery of spending the best part of the night waiting for a bloody car to cool down enough for SOCO to get a proper look.
He pulled the photos of the body closer to him and stared hard at the charred remains. Contorted legs and arms, blackened torso. The whole looking more like a lump of burned carpet than what had, a short time before, been a human being.
The growling of his stomach reminded Charlie that he was hungry. He was also dead tired and not in the best of humours. Impatiently he shoved the photographs into the folder and dumped it on top of the pile of telephone statements. Then he heaved his not inconsiderable bulk out of his chair and ambled towards the door.
The car was stolen, that much they knew; it had gone missing from its owner’s drive two nights before. The owner had not been best pleased to find his pride and joy was now not only a burned-out wreck but had a badly fried body in the driver’s seat. He’d been even less pleased to be woken at three in the morning to be apprised of the fact.
Charlie lifted his coat from the peg and shrugged into it, shivering slightly at the feel of damp clothes beneath. He really ought to go back and change before the morning’s briefing. At least that would give Mickey’s place a chance to open and he could fit breakfast in before the hired help arrived. Brightened by the fact that he’d solved at least one of the morning’s problems, Charlie Morrow switched out the light and headed for home.
Chapter Six
7.50 a.m.
‘Will you need a lift back to town?’ Maria asked.
Mike shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no. Price is coming out to pick me up; the garage should have finished with my car by midday.’
‘Why don’t you just give in and part-ex it? Get something like mine.’ Maria’s new Mazda was her pride and joy.
‘He wouldn’t get part-ex on a roller skate, the state his old wreck’s in,’ John began.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my car . . .’
‘That a can of petrol and a lighter wouldn’t solve,’ Maria put in swiftly. ‘Seriously, Mike, it’s about as reliable as a burnt match. This is the third time in a month you’ve had problems with it.’
‘I know, I know, but it would be like trading in an old friend.’
‘I hope when I get that decrepit you’ll have sense enough to give me a decent burial,’ John told him. ‘You’re heading straight to the hospital?’ he continued, changing tack.
Mike nodded. ‘Said we’d get there early to talk to the girl. And the initial forensics reports should be back this morning.’
A car horn sounded from the narrow road outside John’s cottage. ‘That’ll be Price.’ Mike bent to kiss Maria. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
‘I must be off too,’ she said. ‘I’ll just give you a hand to tidy up, John. Then back to it, I guess. You’re out tonight, aren’t you? Your wife’s old friend?’
‘Yes, Theo Howard. You’ve got a busy day?’
She nodded. ‘Full case load today and some private stuff tonight.’ She grinned. ‘Got to pay for the car somehow, you know.’
The cottage seemed very empty after Mike and Maria had gone. Tynan finished putting away the breakfast things and then wondered what to do with the rest of his morning.
A small Christmas tree stood in the hall, ready to be trimmed. First time he had bothered in years, since Grace had died in fact. Mike and Maria would be spending the holiday with him this year. Grace had loved this time of year. John was used to being busy and retirement had not come easily. There had been a time, while his wife Grace was alive, when the prospect of time at home without the pressures of police work had been a very attractive one. But Grace had died. Cancer taking her from him. Nothing had ever quite filled the gap.
Tynan wandered into the living-room and switched on the radio. It was still tuned to her favourite station. Tchaikovsky, one of the few composers he could actually recognize, flooded the room with richness. Impatiently, Tynan wiped the blurring of tears from his eyes.
8.00 a.m.
Cavendish Road in Norwich was a quiet street. Ordinary and suburban. A row of what had once been prosperous Victorian villas, complete with basements, lined one side of the road. They were now mostly divided into flats and bedsits. The other side, slightly later and more modest terraces, occupied for the most part by young couples buying their first home.
The street behind Cavendish Road, Sullivan Avenue, still retained its sense of grandeur. Tree-lined, habited by prosperous family houses, Edwardian semis with sweeping bay windows and cramped but well-paved driveways.
At the end of Cavendish Road itself stood a terraced block of five, divided from the rest by an alleyway. Their small rear yards backed on to the gardens of Sullivan Avenue. This was a neat, red brick row, each with a little forecourt, net curtains at the windows and a couple of steps leading up to the front door.
Theo Howard stood on the steps of the end one of these five, clasping her pink towelling robe tightly closed over her half-dressed body as she bent down to collect the morning’s milk. Despite the robe, she looked neat and wide awake. Her thick grey hair was already combed and her make-up carefully applied to make the most of her large blue eyes.
She straightened up and took a moment to survey the street before turning back inside. Watching as the milk float trundled its noisy way around the corner. Waving briefly as her neighbour got into his car and left for work.
A few of the older children were already on their way to school, wandering towards the main road to catch their bus. She watched as the boy went by. His dark hair needed cutting again and his trainers, as usual, bore the traces of last night’s football game. Theo almost lifted her hand to wave to him, but resisted at the last moment, knowing there would be no response. He was far too aloof to hope for that. Instead she smiled and, clutching the milk bottle with both hands, ducked back inside and closed the door.
Davy was already engrossed in the morning papers.
‘More tea?’
‘Thanks.’
A lock of dark hair had fallen forward across his forehead, reminding her of the boy, making Davy look even younger than he was. She flopped down in the chair opposite and reached out for the teapot. Sitting there, his mind absorbed by breakfast and the morning news, Theo could watch him at her leisure. Admire the dark curls and the smooth, clean-shaven face. The way the muscles of his jaw dimpled and the brows creased as something in the paper caught his eye.
Theo shook her head, laughing inwardly at the butterfly feeling in her stomach that happened every time she looked at him. If only, she thought with a deep and wrenching sadness, these moments could go on for ever.
She gave herself a little shake and looked around for distraction from the melancholy that threatened, glancing instead at the headlines on the morning paper.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Aston Park.’
‘What?’
‘The headlines on the paper,’ she pointed them out. ‘Another girl. Whatever is it all coming to?’
He nodded. ‘You take care tonight. Get a taxi back from night school if you decide not to drive yourself.’
‘Oh, I will, I will. Not that anyone’s going to bother with an old thing like me.’
She caught Davy’s smile from across the table. ‘Fishing, Theo?’ he asked. Then put the paper down and drained his tea. Even at fifty-two, they both knew that Theo could still turn heads.
‘Got to go,’ Davy said. ‘Take care today. I mean it.’ He came around to her side of the table and kissed her lightly on the cheek, avoiding her lipstick. Then gathered up his coat and briefcase, his mind already on the
day ahead.
‘What did you do to your face?’ Theo asked him. ‘You never did get around to telling me.’
‘Oh,’ he said, touching a finger lightly against his temple. ‘Cupboard door at work. Some fool left it open.’ She watched him go, finishing her tea, the pleasure brought by Davy’s company dissipating as she thought of her own day.
Sighing, Theo got to her feet and took the pots over to the kitchen sink.
‘Oh damn,’ she said suddenly, looking out of the window to see if Davy’s car had already gone. She’d meant to remind him to be home on time. John Tynan had telephoned the evening before and confirmed, after all, that he’d be coming to dinner.
She reached into the pocket of her robe. Inside was a folded piece of paper covered with neatly written words. It began: ‘Right now; I do not need to be told truth.’
* * *
The boy with the unruly hair and dirty trainers hesitated at the corner of the road and stared, frowning towards Sullivan Avenue. His frown disappeared as the girl came racing around the corner. She stopped, catching her breath as she got to him and fell into step.
‘God, I thought I was going to be late. Trying to get my homework finished. I’ve been up since six. You done yours?’
Terry shrugged. ‘Got the maths done. English doesn’t have to be in till tomorrow.’ He scuffed his feet. ‘I looked for you last night at the recce. Waited till nearly nine.’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ Sarah told him. ‘I did say I didn’t think I could get out and my dad was fussing round, looking at my work and stuff. You know how he is.’
‘Sure.’ He fell silent for a moment, then brightened. ‘Still on for Saturday?’
‘Course it is. I’m going Christmas shopping with Maddie in the afternoon so I’ll be getting changed at her place. We’ll go to the party from there.’
