Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  ‘Why? Why are you doing this?’ she asked, pain pumping like lava through her head.

  ‘I can tell you later. Now, are you going to trust me?’

  She nodded, held out her arm. Stephanie swabbed and injected. ‘You should start to feel its effects in a minute or two. Until then, slip this on.’ She handed her the lab-coat.

  ‘I’ve not seen you before,’ said the woman, doing as she was bid and threading her slim arms into the sleeves of the coat.

  ‘I work in a different part of the complex ordinarily. I got myself posted here, when I heard about you. When I was told about you.’

  ‘Came to stare at the freak?’ Her fingers fumbled over the buttons, but she felt strength beginning to seep through her body again.

  Stephanie helped pin the name badge on the coat pocket. ‘Not a freak. You’re someone very special. And I don’t agree with any of this,’ she said, her hand flapping dismissively at the room. ‘It’s wrong, it’s vile, and it will end tonight. Hurry, someone is waiting for us outside.’ She could hardly disguise her nervousness.

  The young woman slipped her feet into the shoes, bent to tie the laces. She was aware of her swollen midriff pressing against her upper thighs. ‘So who is waiting for us?’ the suspicion strong in her voice.

  ‘Pipistrelle,’ Stephanie replied.

  ‘And who is Pipistrelle?’

  ‘A friend. He knows all about you. All of you. Now please hurry, we must be going.’ She helped the woman to her feet. She tottered uncertainly. ‘Are you able to walk alright? It’s important that if we are stopped you must be taken for one of us.’

  ‘Yes, I can walk,’ she said.

  Stephanie checked the corridor was empty before beckoning the woman follow. They turned immediately right, the hard tiles amplifying their urgent steps. They passed through double doors and into another stretch of corridor. At the head of this stood a security guard.

  ‘Leave all the talking to me,’ said Stephanie.

  The uniformed guard watched them intently as they approached, his cold, boulder-like expression gave the impression he was going to pose a problem, but he hardly glanced at the name badges. He didn’t say a thing as he stepped aside, and did nothing to hide his leering stare at Stephanie’s breasts.

  The women passed through the door and halfway down the corridor Stephanie paused and looked back. ‘We need to go this way,’ she said, nodding to a metal door, taking out a bunch of keys and fumbling through them till she found the one she was looking for. She unlocked the door and pushed at it. The hinges gave a high-pitched squeal which caused Stephanie to wince. ‘Quickly, inside,’ she beckoned, and all but dragged the young woman inside with her.

  She flicked a switch. A single low-wattage bulb lit the interior of the small room with a cold glow. It was empty, its concrete walls dripping wet, a choking, musty smell hanging in the air. There was a door at the far end, this one coated in a layer of rich red rust.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked the woman. ‘It’s like a Second World War bunker.’

  ‘That’s because, after a fashion, that’s what it is,’ Stephanie explained quickly. She found out another key. ‘This entire building is deep underground. It was designed as a chemical warfare research centre during the last war, both secret and bombproof. Very few people know of its existence. There’s more than one entrance to this complex – this is one of those that isn’t used anymore.’ She pushed open the door and removed a flashlight from her coat pocket. The concrete-lined tunnel ahead was pitch-black, the small beam hardly putting a dent in the dark.

  ‘How do you know about all this?’ the young woman asked.

  ‘Pipistrelle; he told me.’

  ‘He knows quite a lot,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ she said. ‘He’s made it his business to know. Without him you’d be in here till you died. You’ve a lot to thank him for.’

  With the door closed behind them the darkness appeared to press ever closer, eating away at the feeble torch beam. Stephanie set off with a purpose, the young woman following as close as she could, her legs at times hardly able to support her. She was grateful when they came to a stop beside a metal ladder bolted against the wall. Stephanie shone the light up the narrow, metal lined shaft above their heads.

  ‘Up here,’ she said. ‘You go first; I’ll help you if you need it. It goes up for fifty feet or more and then there’s a trapdoor. It’s unlocked; you just need to push it open.’

  They started to a noise coming from the way they’d come, back down the corridor. Voices, raised in concern. The young woman, her face wreathed in alarm, looked at Stephanie. ‘Are they onto us?’ she asked nervously.

  It fell silent. They both strained to listen. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘You must hurry, up the ladder. We’re almost there.’

  Her fears were confirmed when she heard at the end of the corridor, from behind the closed metal door. ‘Doctor Jacobs, are you there? Do you have her with you?’ She’d locked the door but it wouldn’t be too long before they sourced another key or realised which exit they were headed for. ‘Open the door, Doctor Jacobs. You know you can’t go far.’

  ‘We have to get to the top before they send someone to cover the exit,’ she said, pushing against the young woman who’d begun to ascend the ladder.

  With every minute stretched taught and long they eventually reached the trapdoor and the young woman heaved her shoulder against it. The metal lid swung open and clanged shrilly against a stone floor. They clambered out of the shaft and into another empty room, a broken window letting in a pale wash of moonlight. In an open doorway stood the silhouetted figure of a man, waiting for them.

  ‘Pipistrelle!’ said Stephanie breathlessly. ‘She’s here. Take her, quickly. They can’t be far behind us.’

  The man stepped forward. His lower face was swathed in a large scarf, all but his eyes visible. He held a blanket, which he draped across the young woman’s shoulders. ‘This way.’ His voice was peculiarly warm and reassuring. ‘We’re here to save you,’ he said. He turned to Stephanie. ‘Make for your car, draw them off if needs be, and we’ll meet at the arranged place.’

  ‘Do you have my daughter?’ said Stephanie.

  ‘She’s safe. Don’t worry about her. Now hurry.’

  The yard had fallen into disuse many years ago, the tarmac heavily cratered, with weeds forcing up tiny black hillocks so that it looked like a vast volcanic landscape in miniature; the wire fence that encircled it, with connecting concrete posts, was still in place but heavily twisted and rusted, in some areas split open. They rushed towards a gate, the padlocked chain having been cut open. They entered another similar yard, treading over the ghostly outlines of buildings long since demolished. Through another gate at the far end they emerged onto a side road. Waiting for them was an old, pale- green Commer van; sat behind it was a Volkswagen Beetle. Pipistrelle opened the door of the van and Stephanie helped the young woman up into the seat. The engine spluttered into noisy life.

  She slammed the door shut as the van drove off, its wheels giving a tiny squeal as they sought purchase on the icy road surface, and she launched herself into her Beetle, her breath pumping out in clouds as she fumbled with the ignition key. She’d avoided the staff car park tonight. Once locked behind those gates it would have been difficult to get out with the girl. She wondered how Pipistrelle knew about this exit. There was much about him she did not know.

  She looked through the side window at the rear of the looming, dark hulk of the squat Art Deco building, sitting there like a malevolent behemoth. She turned the key in the ignition and the car refused to start. Her urgent breathing fogged up the windows, which iced up on contact, pasting a thin diaphanous glaze on the glass. At length the engine exploded into motion. She stuck the car’s heater onto full, knowing even on high they were lukewarm at the best of times, when they worked at all. She had not expected such a sharp frost tonight, and she cursed herself for not having placed something over the windscre
en to keep it clear. The windscreen wipers scraped a few channels in the frost. She had no choice, she could not hang around.

  Through the fogged screen she saw the twin specks of car headlights in the distance and instinctively knew they were headed for her.

  She hit her foot hard on the accelerator, the car taking an infuriatingly long period of time to get moving on the ice. When it did eventually get going it slewed dangerously from side to side until she managed to get it back under control. Then she was off, taking the corner ahead, her heart pumping, her temples throbbing, the sound of coursing blood loud in her ears.

  It was her fault, she said over and over to herself; her fault she hadn’t gotten out without being discovered. They should have had plenty of time. It shouldn’t have come to this. She swung the car around corners, determined to lose the car before she headed out to the meeting place arranged with Pipistrelle. She had to be doubly sure she wasn’t being followed.

  But to her horror she saw the car’s headlights blazing behind her. It was still some way off but the Volkswagen wasn’t built for speed. Ahead of her the bright moonlight made the frosted road appear as if it were silvery, sweating skin.

  ‘Come on, you old pile of junk!’ she ordered the car, and it ignored her. She felt the rear tyres swing alarmingly as she rounded another corner, narrowly missing a series of parked cars. Panic welled up within her; she saw a one- way sign and took the street, the wrong way. A brief thought flickered in her mind that she was ordinarily such a law-abiding person. Wouldn’t even throw litter on the ground. Never put a step out of line her entire life. That particular Stephanie was long gone. Too many things had happened. Now it was survival at any cost.

  On either side of the car was a stretch of waste ground where once there had stood rows of back-to-back houses, the sad reminders of the bombing during the Blitz, land due for development shortly according to the signs on the wooden fence that encircled the area. She checked the rear-view mirror; she was clear of them, lost them somewhere.

  Her attention returned to the road a split second too late for her to slow down to take the bend ahead. She yanked the wheel hard, the car hitting a patch of black ice and spinning wildly in the middle of the road. The Volkswagen mounted a curb and ran headlong into a concrete street lamp. Stephanie Jacobs’ head lurched forward as the front of the car crumpled up like tinfoil. With no seatbelt to protect her she smashed into the windscreen, her world engulfed by a deafening blackness.

  The Rover came to a halt beside the wrecked Volkswagen. Petrol was leaking onto the road, as if the car bled away its lifeblood. The windscreen was completely shattered. The front of the car a mangled, unrecognisable lump of distorted metal. Two men exited the Rover. One of them glanced nervously around him but there was no one around.

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘What a fucking mess!’ He wasn’t simply referring to the car. He went over to the Volkswagen, peered through the cracked glass of the heavily dented driver’s door. Stephanie’s head was resting against the wheel, a cat’s cradle of deep gashes, her entire face lathered in blood. ‘Christ, she wouldn’t win any beauty competitions now,’ he said.

  The other man came to his side. ‘Is she dead?’ he said dispassionately.

  ‘She’s moving, Mr Tremain. I reckon she’s only just this side of alive.’

  Randall Tremain was angry. So fucking angry. Bitch, he thought. For her to escape on his watch was not what he wanted to hear. He was in danger of slipping down the ranks because of this, unless he could put some of it right. He yanked open the door. ‘Pass me your flashlight, quickly,’ he rasped.

  He handed him a heavy-duty metal flashlight from the Rover’s glove compartment. ‘What are we gonna do, Mr Tremain?’ he asked. ‘It’s one hell of a shit hole we’re in now.’

  Tremain turned on the flashlight, shone it at Stephanie’s bloodied face. He lifted the torch then brought it down hard on her head, three, four, five times. The sound of splintering bone caused the other man to step back, his face screwed up in horror. Tremain calmly handed the torch back, reached in and took Stephanie’s pulse.

  ‘Now she’s only just this side of dead,’ he said.

  The Rover drove away, its exhaust fumes lingering over the Volkswagen like a sad spirit that whirled in the still air and quietly faded into the chill night.

  * * * *

  6

  What’s in a Name?

  He checked his watch again. She should be here now, he thought, scanning the country road, his breath being pumped out in clouds into the frosty night air. He’d pulled off into the entrance to a farmer’s field, the spot where they’d agreed to meet up. But there was no sign of Stephanie’s Volkswagen.

  He took one last glance at his watch. He’d already hung around for half an hour longer than they’d planned. He couldn’t wait any longer. He clambered back into the Commer van and reached under the wheel for the ignition keys. They weren’t there.

  The next second there was a screwdriver held at his throat, pressing through the scarf and into his flesh. He gingerly lifted his hands away from the steering wheel.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, pushing the screwdriver harder.

  He gave a little groan of discomfort. ‘Put it away,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean you any harm.’

  ‘Are you from Doradus?’

  ‘Doradus? No, most certainly not!’ he turned his head to look at her. ‘The point of all this is to save you and your babies from him, from anyone who seeks to harm you.’ His voice was slightly muffled by the scarf. ‘Stephanie risked her life to save you. Who knows what’s become of the poor woman. This isn’t helping us; we have to be moving on.’

  ‘Take off your scarf, let me see you,’ she said.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  She drove the screwdriver deeper. ‘I’d rather you did,’ she said.

  He lifted a reluctant finger, hooked it into the folds of his scarf and peeled it down from his face. His skin was an alarming bubble of growths, like cists, ranging from very small to an inch across. He sat in silence for a while and then pulled the scarf back into place. ‘It’s part of a condition I have to live with. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me. They’re not malignant, yet, but I realise they’re not pretty either.’

  She lowered the screwdriver and then tossed it into the footwell. ‘We all have our cross to bear,’ she said. ‘So you say you’re not with Doradus, or with Gilgamesh. So who are you? Stephanie called you Pipistrelle.’

  ‘A nickname. Otherwise known as Charles Rayne.’ He nodded at the bulging midriff. ‘You are due in April.’

  Her hand brushed the firm rise of her pregnancy. ‘So they tell me. Where are we headed?’ She handed him the ignition keys.

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ he said, gunning the engine. But he hesitated, his hands planted on the wheel. Then he took another look at his watch.

  ‘She’s probably dead,’ she observed.

  He took in a slow, deep breath. ‘Yes, probably. That was always the risk,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t make it any easier.’ He reached over, lifted the blanket she had let fall. ‘Cover yourself; this old thing hasn’t got a great heater and it’s freezing cold outside. Keep yourself warm, we’ve got a long way to go tonight.’ He drove the van off the track and onto tarmac, out of the corner of his eye seeing her pull the blanket right up to her chin.

  He was reluctant to wake her. She looked so peaceful, as still and as perfectly formed as a porcelain doll, he thought. Unconsciously Charles Rayne ran a light finger over his own blemished cheek. She was pretty. Perhaps her pregnancy added to that, he thought, as is the way with some women. His heart sank again when he thought of Stephanie. But there was always hope, he thought. He eased over and tapped the woman on the arm.

  She snapped awake like a trap jumping to its prey, her eyes saucer-wide and immediately on the alert. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Home,’ he returned, getting out of the cab. She followed.

  It was still very dark. They were in a village,
but there were few streetlights to illuminate the few stone buildings. Against the slightly lighter grey that was the sky she made out the rise of bleak, brooding hills. There was even more of a chill in the air here, and snow lay in faintly luminescent swathes on the ground, lining the base of snaking dry-stone walls, capping some of the high hills.

  ‘Where is home?’ she asked.

  ‘Derbyshire. A small place called Elldale,’ he explained. ‘This is my house. Quickly, get inside before you catch your death of cold.’

  The house was constructed of dark, severe stone, solid and oppressive, she thought, with a low grey slate roof and small windows. It was set back from the side road, in grounds of its own, and sat in total darkness. She felt the cold touch of snow tapping her warm cheek.

  ‘Careful, let me give you a hand over these rough stone slabs,’ he offered, reaching out to help her, but she shrugged him off with a fierce glare. ‘I have a room prepared for you,’ he said, opening the door. She paused at the doorstep, her expression one of fretful mistrust. ‘It’s OK, you’ll be safe here.’

  ‘I am not safe anywhere,’ she said dryly, and stepped over the threshold.

  ‘Please forgive the clutter,’ he said. ‘The life of a scholar is forever dominated by paper. I swear one day I will drown in it.’

  ‘You live here alone?’ There was a table in the centre of the room piled high with paper and books, more books crammed onto an inordinate number of bookshelves.

  ‘Yes, all alone,’ he said. ‘I never married…’ He coughed lightly. ‘Both my mother and father passed away rather suddenly – they were on the older side when they had me. The house was left to me. I stay because it is all I have known.’

  They entered the study and two men rose from their seats. The woman flinched at seeing them. ‘You said you lived alone.’

  ‘And I do, ordinarily. Please forgive me for not mentioning them earlier. I did not want to unnerve you any more than you are already. Let me introduce you to the two other members of The Lunar Club, myself being the third – Howard Baxter and Carl Wood.’