Death Trap

by Mitchell, Dreda Say

She could feel the tremble in her finger; she so wanted to pull the hammer back and blast this man away for all the damage he had done.

  ‘You shoot me and you know what’s going to happen?’ the professional killer said as he half-turned, his voice no way as steady as the last time they’d met in the hospital. ‘All I’ve got to do is throw this knife straight into the girl.’

  ‘No, you’re just going to drop straight to the floor like the sack of sorry humanity you are. And, oh yeah, that isn’t the girl.’

  He turned his head slightly as the person on the stool turned. Not his target but the actress.

  Rio saw the muscles contract in the gunman’s shoulder. Only confronted by the possibility of Calum’s death had she figured out she’d been playing the hitman all wrong. Instead of waiting for him to strike, Rio had flipped it around so that she was now the hunter. But it would only play out if Ophelia was willing to play the part of Nikki. Rio had explained the danger involved, but the other woman had immediately risen to the challenge, saying she’d do what it took to keep her daughter safe. Plus, she’d added, wasn’t she an actress? Ophelia Bell had guts.

  Rio took a step closer as she spoke. ‘You should’ve figured out that this was all too easy. The only reason you took Calum’s phone was the hope that the girl would contact you. But it wasn’t her, it was me. By taking his phone you left yourself wide open for a set-up. Don’t they teach you better than that in hitman school? You’re cornered so let’s not do the whole “I’m going to count to three” routine,’ Rio said. ‘Just let the knife go.’

  Rio read the indecision in his eyes. Then his hand came down as his finger loosened around the knife. But instead of the weapon falling, with a quick flick of his wrist and a twist of his body he threw the knife at Rio. She did a quick side step, the knife missing her by inches and hitting the wall behind her. He rushed forwards as Ophelia scrambled down onto the floor. Rio levelled the gun onto his moving figure. Her finger twitched against the trigger. Twitched.

  Go on do it.

  Pull the trigger back.

  Do it.

  DO. IT.

  But she couldn’t do it – couldn’t fire a gun that wasn’t official issue, especially after what had happened on the raid. She wasn’t willing to cross that line. So she ran after him, but it was too late. He hurled his body at the drawn curtains. Went crashing through the window.

  Rio heard a piercing scream from outside. Reaching the broken window, she looked down to see the killer impaled on the iron railings below, two vicious-looking spikes jutting out of his back.

  ‘Make sure Nikki remains in the sitting room,’ Rio yelled at Ophelia as she ran out of the room, rushed down the stairs, flung open the front door. Gun still in her hand, the cold air twisting around her, she ran over to him. His face was flopped forwards as blood leaked down his back. Rio bent down, shoving her face close to his. Laboured breathing and blood oozed from his mouth.

  ‘Tell me who sent you.’

  No response.

  ‘Who ordered you to kill Nicola Bell? Did you murder the gang as well?’

  He shifted his head slightly to gaze at her. Rio could already see death in his eyes.

  ‘You need to tell me . . .’

  A nasty choking sound bubbled up from his throat.

  ‘Tell me . . .’ she shouted.

  The choking sound stopped as his body relaxed.

  ‘Shit,’ Rio savagely swore.

  She knew he was dead as she watched a line of blood stream from his mouth and tumble thickly to the ground.

  ‘You need to get away from here.’

  Rio looked up to find Strong nearby. She pulled herself straight, shaking her head.

  ‘The bastard didn’t tell me a thing.’

  Strong scanned the body. ‘I’d say one of those spikes probably went into his heart, if a man like him possessed one.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Newman told me to keep this,’ he pointed to his eye, ‘squarely on you. You need to be gone before I call this in. I’ll say this was my operation.’

  They turned to find Ophelia and her blood daughter huddled in each other’s arms in the doorway. Both their faces were frozen in shock as they stared at the dead body of the man.

  ‘Find out everything you can about him,’ Rio ordered as if she were still in charge of the case. ‘We still need to confirm who was pulling his strings, although I think I know who it is.’

  ‘Who?’ Strong asked.

  ‘Terry Larkin.’

  Strong swore. ‘That’s going to be a big major deal problem.’

  The skin on Rio’s forehead scrunched together. ‘What haven’t you told me?’

  ‘Terry Larkin is in Northern Cyprus.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice rose. ‘How the hell could he have gone there? Wasn’t anyone—’

  ‘He travelled using his own name because he knows we don’t have any evidence to hold him. If we confirm Larkin is behind it all we’ll haul him back from Cyprus.’

  ‘Do you know how long an extradition can take? Bloody years in some cases.’ She looked Strong square in the eye. ‘I’m going to get on a flight and get that murdering dickhead myself if I have to.’ Rio held up her hand when Strong opened his mouth. ‘I’ve got to find out how Calum’s doing before I do anything else.’

  Then she turned and walked away, rocking with tiredness before she found a steady rhythm as she was swallowed up by the shadows of the street.

  sixty-one

  6:00 a.m.

  Rio was dazed and bone weary as she walked slowly back into the hospital. She needed to be thinking straight if she was going to hit back at Terry Larkin. All she wanted to do now was to finally see Calum. As Rio got midway to the first landing her phone pinged.

  Text message.

  She almost swore but didn’t when she saw it was another message from Skull and Crossbones, AKA Samson Larkin. She scanned the message. No writing, but a photo and a link. The photo was a large red poppy – another reference to World War One. Rio still couldn’t understand the reference. Curiosity made her press the link.

  It was a YouTube video with a painting of Beethoven on it. She recognised the face of the composer because she’d attended a murder scene once where a music teacher had been stabbed to death at home with the bow of her own violin. One of the paintings on the wall, someone had pointed out to Rio, was Beethoven.

  The music video started playing: Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata. The tune Samson had tapped out on the table in the prison. Rio didn’t get why he was taunting her and she didn’t have time to get it. She put the phone away and focused on what she had to finally do – see Calum.

  The inside of ICU held almost the peace of a religious retreat, except for the occasional beep and blare of a machine that was a reminder that people were fighting for their lives. She nodded to the solitary nurse at the medical bay and proceeded to Calum’s room, stopping at the door for a moment to focus on straightening out her breathing.

  She finger-combed her ’fro. One more breath – in – out.

  She entered. And locked the instinctive gasp in her airways as she saw the medical paraphernalia coming out of Calum and beside him. Her husband was pale, his dark hair swept neatly back as if someone had combed it.

  She picked up his rucksack from the chair and gently placed it on the floor; pushed the chair close to the bed and sat down. Then her hand stretched out to grasp his fingers that lay limp against the pale blue bed cover. Just as she touched his cold flesh the door opened. Her hand flew back and she placed it in her lap as she turned to the doorway. Doctor Green stood there holding a manila folder.

  ‘Have you told anyone that we’re married?’ Rio asked

  The doctor shook her head. ‘That’s not my business to tell.’ Her eyes drifted to Calum’s body. ‘We’re taking care of his limb.’

  Confusion stamped Rio’s face. ‘Limb?’

  ‘Yes. His leg. You know . . .’ The doctor abruptly closed her mout
h.

  ‘He won’t tell me how he hurt it, not that we’ve spoken to each other since after the day we got hitched a couple of years back.’

  The doctor placed her arms behind her back, looking very professional. ‘Ah . . . Yes, his leg.’ She frowned. ‘Patient confidentiality and all that, I can’t discuss this further with you I’m afraid. I asked the nurse on duty to alert me if you arrived because there’s something I think may interest you.’

  Rio stood up and moved to stand next to the doctor.

  The doctor opened the file in her hand. ‘When Nicola Bell was first admitted here I requested to see her medical records. We’ve got this new nationwide computerised patients’ record database that has proved to be a real pain in the posterior – a flipping waste of good money if you ask me – so her records have only just arrived.’

  She handed the file, opened at a particular page, to Rio. ‘I don’t really need it now – I mean she’s no longer under my care – but curiosity got the better of me. You’ll see that the girl is no stranger to hospitals. I don’t want to make assumptions, so read this and tell me if you notice anything.’

  It was a standard medical history form: Name; D.O.B.; Address. Past medical history – a tick-box of the usual suspects – diabetes, high blood pressure, heart problems . . . The only box that was ticked was allergies. Further information was provided below:

  Peanut allergy.

  Rio flicked her gaze back up at the doctor. ‘Her allergy is common knowledge. Her mother told you about it if you remember. Nikki’s usually very careful about it—’

  ‘That’s what worried me. Her mother did tell me about it and when I spoke to Nicola she seemed really aware, which is why the medical history just doesn’t make sense.’

  Rio read the papers again.

  Personal medical treatment: three entries older than Nikki’s recent stay at Mission Hill Hospital. All recorded at St Theresa’s private hospital.

  June 8th 2010: Type one hypersensitivity – allergy to peanuts.

  June 8th 2011: Type one hypersensitivity – allergy to peanuts.

  June 8th 2012: Type one hypersensitivity – allergy to peanuts.

  Why were they all on the same date? And that date rang a bell in Rio’s head. Where had she heard it? Where had she . . .? Rio quickly flipped the pages backwards until she was again on the front page with Nikki’s main details.

  DOB: June 8th 1999.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I thought,’ the doctor said. ‘Why was she admitted to hospital for three consecutive years on her birthday?’

  Rio didn’t answer; her mind was buzzing, trying to capture all the conversations she’d had with Nikki. Then it clicked. She heard Nikki’s words:

  ‘Mum and Dad let me stay with Ophelia on a few of my birthdays. Then they stopped me going around to see her anymore.’

  Rio quickly took out her notebook, rushed through the pages until she got to the interview she’d done with Nikki in the hospital. She stopped at the page she was after; the one where Nikki said that one of the killer’s voices had been high. At first Nikki had said that it might be a woman and then she changed her mind and said she didn’t know. Then claimed it was definitely a man. Rio had written down, then scratched out, the one piece of evidence she had immediately discounted. She gazed at the word now in her notebook.

  Woman

  The file dropped from Rio’s hands. Calum was wrong – this had nothing to do with Terry Larkin. Rio ran out of the room thinking she might already be too late. That she had given the girl’s safekeeping into the hands of a killer.

  sixty-two

  6:43 a.m.

  Rio hit every speed camera on the frantic journey back to Ophelia Bell’s home. She didn’t let herself think about the actress helping her a few hours ago; didn’t let herself think about Ophelia being Nikki’s biological mother; didn’t let any kind of emotional attachment get in the way. Only the evidence got a say. Rio didn’t even lock the car as she ran towards the front door of the flat. The place was dark. Rio raised her hand to pull back the knocker, then hesitated. No, she couldn’t alert Ophelia if something dreadful had happened inside. Instead she shifted sideways to the lounge window. The blind was still up, so Rio peered in. The light from a laptop on a table illuminated the room. No one inside, everything appeared to be in place. Rio’s blood pounded through her body when she caught sight of the half-eaten plate of food on the wooden floor.

  There was no entrance point around the back of the flat she could get access to, so she was going to have to get in via the front.

  She used her elbow, protected by the material of her jacket, to punch in the bottom right pane of the window. The glass shattered inside, but a few shards glided Rio’s way. Carefully she pushed her arm through, running her fingers along the frame, seeking the lock – found it – twisted the catch. With steady and slow hands she hiked the window up. Then, bracing herself against the outer ledge, she pushed her way inside.

  The warmth from the room enveloped her immediately. There was silence all around. Rio made her way straight to the plate of food on the floor. It was right in the light coming from the laptop on the table, which was showing an episode of The Wilcotts. She recalled that Ophelia said she would set it up so that Nikki could watch advanced editions of the show. The volume must be on mute because there was no sound coming from the computer. Rio took no notice of the programme as she dropped to her knees beside the plate. She didn’t pick it up, just tried to catalogue the type of food she saw. Mashed-up food, well that’s what Rio called the type of fare she saw on the plate: a little bit of this, a dollop of that. In this instance – although she couldn’t be sure – it looked like hummus, some pink stuff she suspected was taramasalata, and some type of grain. The ideal cuisine to slip in a trace of peanut. But maybe she was wrong and Nikki was snoozing away, comfy and safe, in bed?

  Yeah, but what if she wasn’t? Rio scrambled to her feet, her gaze fleetingly catching the scene from The Wilcotts on the laptop screen. She froze, transfixed by the scene playing out on the computer screen: men in trenches; an officer was speaking to a crowd of muddy and disheartened looking soldiers. It was what the officer held in his hand that gripped her attention. Was it a gas mask? Of course – it was an earlier model, the kind that soldiers had used in World War One. Old-fashioned, large, made with cloth and a hose. Just the way Nikki had described the gunmen’s disguise in the Bell’s house. Ophelia must have borrowed them from the show’s props department. That’s what Samson Larkin had been tauntingly trying to tell her. Gas masks from World War One. Samson’s words in the café in Cyprus came back to haunt her with a vengeance.

  ‘Sounds like a gas mask, except the baggy cloth bit . . .Wait a minute. During World War One, The Great War—?’

  ‘You’re gonna wished you’d listened to me—’

  He was right. She did. A thug with a genius for general knowledge facts had been prepared to tell her what she needed. And what had she done? Told him to shut up.

  A triangular ray of light abruptly invaded the room making Rio slam her gaze up.

  Standing by the side lamp that she’d just put on was Ophelia Bell.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the other woman asked.

  The faint light wiped out all the surface beauty of Ophelia’s face laying bare the skeletal outline of her head, the ravages of a disease that, Rio suspected, she’d never truly been able to beat.

  Rio got to her feet. ‘I need to see Nikki now.’

  Ophelia didn’t move, but her eyes coolly darted over Rio. ‘She’s in bed—’

  Rio strode towards the door as she spoke. ‘Well, I’d just like to see that for my—’

  She didn’t even see the other woman’s hand move; all Rio felt was a powerful pressure to the side of her head. Pain carved deep inside her, as black stole her vision, making her fall to the floor. She knew she wasn’t unconscious because she could hear her own laboured breathing. She lifted the lids of her eyes, pain creeping and numbing th
e side of her face. Ophelia stood over her, the stone carving of a woman and child that Rio remembered seeing during her first visit to the maisonette, clasped tight in her palm. The other woman’s face was cold, the beat of new blood deepening the colour of her cheeks.

  ‘Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?’

  Then, with no hesitation, she bashed the sculpture against Rio’s right knee. Rio bit back the scream of pain so bad it tore through her whole body.

  But pain wasn’t going to stop her from doing her job. ‘It was you and Cornelius who killed your parents.’

  The actress straightened up, staring down dispassionately at Rio. ‘They stopped giving me money. Demanded that I should find a real job—’

  ‘But you’re a well-known actress in one of the most popular shows on television.’ Rio’s voice was strained and full of pain.

  Ophelia scoffed. ‘That’s what everyone thinks, that we get paid bundles. I couldn’t even afford to buy a flat in London. All they had to do was give me enough for the deposit on a mortgage—’

  ‘So you decided to murder them, wearing gas masks you got from the costume department on the show. Once they were dead you and your brother would be in line to inherit their millions.’

  Anger swept the other woman’s face. With fury she licked the sculpture against Rio’s other knee. This time there was a cracking sound and Rio couldn’t help the high-pitched groan that punched out of her mouth. The pain was so strong now she didn’t think she could utter another word.

  ‘Their money?’ the other woman continued. ‘It was our money as well because they were going to leave it to us anyway. So what, we were going to take our inheritance early. Big fucking deal – we were entitled to it.’

  Rio didn’t know where she was getting the strength from, but somehow she was able to speak. ‘But your plans went all wrong because you didn’t factor in Nikki being a witness to the killing and that your parents would leave all their money to their only grandchild.’