Mitchell, D. M.

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

  ‘Doradus finally caught up with Stephen de Bailleul in Suffolk in the year 1929 and with his death I was left completely alone.’ She looked across at Charles Rayne. ‘The body in the barn was Stephen,’ she said. ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

  Charles remembered how she looked all that time ago as plainly if it were only yesterday. All of them gathered in this tiny room to listen to the words of someone who had lived more than anyone else on earth, perhaps. As young, as unaltered, as if she had lived but twenty-odd years. A beautiful casket with the dead weight of many tragic years inside it. And he remembered how he had fallen in love with her, though in truth he’d fallen in love long before he’d even met her. Fallen in love with her from the moment he read about her in his grandfather’s journals and saw her photograph taken in the Shelter at Gattenby House.

  But how could she love him? How could anyone love him? Yet that did not stop the fire within him. He would do anything for her. He even endangered his own friends’ lives to save her. He knew the risks. He knew more about Doradus and the Church of Everlasting Bliss than he’d let on to Baxter and Wood. Poor Baxter. He should not have put pen to paper about Doradus. He may have needed the money, but word obviously got out about his Return to Eden, maybe through the publisher, who knows? But he paid the price for his foolishness; they found him and killed him. As they did with Carl, too. Next it would be him. The net was closing on him fast and he had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, even if he could set foot out of the house, which he couldn’t except at night. He was trapped like a fish in a drying-out puddle of water.

  He put his head in his hands. Oh, Caroline! What have I done, he thought? I have put your life in danger, too. All because I love her; because I still love Evelyn Carter. I would sacrifice you too to bring her safely to me so that I can look upon her eternal beauty once more. I should not have involved you, told you about Tremain killing your mother. But I knew that would draw you in, didn’t I? Forgive me, because I used you. I used your grief to further my own ends.

  He looked up towards the curtained window. It glowed orange from the fire outside. He knew the time left to him was very short. Doradus would soon be here and though he might have destroyed all physical evidence of his lifelong work he still held secrets in his head. She had been wrong. She wasn’t the last. There were more and he couldn’t allow their identity to be discovered by Doradus.

  He went over to a rank of CDs and took one off the shelf. He placed it in his CD player, turning up the volume. Handel’s Sarabande floated around the room like dense smoke.

  He took out his cell phone and sent one final text to Caroline:

  Doradus onto me. Time short. Destroyed everything. It’s up to you. Carry on without me. Don’t come back here. I will always love you. Goodbye. P.

  Charles Rayne opened a box of painkillers, his lifelong companions, and emptied the tablets out on the coffee table before him. He filled a glass with water and sat down to stare at the mound of white pills.

  * * * *

  45

  A Kitten’s Terrified Mewling

  Superintendent Maloney stood rigid by the bed, his cap trapped under his arm. He could hear a bird chirruping outside the window, welcoming the first moments of dawn, its song at odds with the heavy atmosphere in the room. There were two other officers present, standing on the opposite side of the hospital bed. One of them looked pale, as if he were about to throw up; the other could barely contain his anger at seeing a fellow police officer, one he’d known ten years at least, lying critically ill, and seeing the various tubes and wires linking him to unknown instruments and life-saving fluids only incensed him more.

  CDI Stafford lay motionless, his head a mass of bandages and dressings, the only piece of his flesh open to the air being his left eye. His arms were stretched out on the bed, almost entirely swathed in dressings, right down to his hands which were red and blistered. They’d been told that his body, beneath the frame that kept the covers off him, had suffered third degree burns and a broken pelvis where a ceiling joist had come spearing down onto him. He was lucky to be alive, they were informed. And make no mistake he was only just alive. He wasn’t out of the woods by a long chalk.

  As they watched, Stafford opened his eye. It was obvious to them that he was heavily sedated.

  ‘Go easy on him,’ warned the doctor.

  ‘A good man is down,’ said the angry-looking officer. ‘And we need to find out who did this to him.’

  Maloney held up a calming hand. ‘Not now,’ he said quietly. He bent over, closer to Stafford. ‘How are you?’ he said, his manner never quite able to manage empathy in these situations.

  Awareness seemed to flicker on like a light in Stafford’s eye. He grew restless, his head trying to turn, his hand moving on the bed cover.

  ‘Easy,’ said the doctor. ‘Calm down, Mr Stafford.’ He glanced over to the machine at the side of the bed.

  ‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ said the officer. ‘What is it, boss? You know who did this to you?’

  ‘Accidents happen,’ said Maloney and the officer’s lips clamped shut. ‘It was an accident waiting to happen.’

  Stafford raised his arm a little. He pointed to the officer’s pocket. ‘My notebook? He wants my notebook, sir.’ And Stafford’s hand grew more agitated as he said it. Before Maloney could respond the man put the notebook under Stafford’s hand and placed a pen gingerly between his trembling fingers.

  ‘That is not a good idea,’ said the doctor, but Maloney shook his head slightly and let him go ahead.

  The stricken man scribbled something down, then pushed the pad away, exhausted. His eye closed and they heard his breathing rasping in his damaged throat. The doctor stepped between them, grasped the notebook and thrust it at the officer. ‘That’s enough!’ he insisted. ‘Can’t you see the man’s desperately ill?’

  ‘What’s it say?’ Maloney asked.

  The officer looked at the page, sighed and handed it over to the Superintendent. In spidery capitals Stafford had scrawled: STYLES.

  Maloney studied his fingernails. ‘Yes, I know, he was a good man. But I’m afraid he didn’t get out alive. He’d dead.’ Stafford’s frame trembled. ‘He’s taking it badly,’ said Maloney. ‘Probably blaming himself for dragging them out there on a hunch. His body has been formally identified. Sorry, Stafford…’

  ‘Right, that’s enough!’ said the doctor pointedly. ‘You can all leave now and let this man rest.’ He herded them out of the room, closing the door after them. He checked over Stafford’s vital signs, reassured himself that the man was as comfortable as he could be before leaving him alone.

  Stafford woke from a series of nightmares that he could not quite remember, except that they left his mind a boiling pot of fear. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it was dark outside now. A flood of pain swamped his entire being, as if he were lying in a cocoon of scorching flame. He was vaguely aware of his wife’s face hovering near him, hearing her distant voice, but that could have been minutes or hours ago, if it happened at all. But he could almost feel the pain in her voice as if it were something physical. More pain to add to his hell.

  Then a face appeared in view. A man’s. He was smiling.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector Stafford,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk, it will only stress you.’ He sat down on a chair by the side of the bed. ‘You know, you are a resilient old rooster, we’ll give you that. Anyone else wouldn’t have come out of there alive. But here you are!’ Stafford felt something was wrong. He looked across at the man through a drugged, foggy haze. He wore a white doctor’s coat. Stafford struggled to speak but found he couldn’t. ‘The trouble with your kind is that you never give up. As long as there’s a single breath in you you’d keep at it till you found an answer. You had your chance but you wouldn’t listen, would you? Well, we can’t have that.’

  He rose to his feet again, took out a small plastic box from his coat pocket. Snapping open the lid he removed a tiny, v
ery fine syringe. He went over to one of the tubes that fed down into Stafford’s arm and at the top, near the bag of fluid; he punched the needle home and emptied the contents of the syringe. Once finished he packed it all away and stowed it out of sight in his coat again.

  ‘There, all done,’ he said. ‘In approximately twenty minutes your heart will go into arrest. In twenty-five minutes you’ll be declared dead.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘Virtually undetectable, even if you know what you’re looking for.’ Stafford’s eye was glazed with abject terror, his head attempting to move but the pain almost too much to bear. ‘Don’t struggle, Inspector; count yourself amongst one of the lucky ones. Your end will be swift, but for many people it won’t be so. To return to Eden Doradus needs to wipe the place clean of trash. And anyhow let’s face it, a man like you couldn’t live a life like this, could you? Doradus is doing you a big favour. He specifically told me to ensure your end wasn’t painful.’

  The man breezed out of the room and left Stafford to his racing thoughts. Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare? Had he really seen someone by his bed? He let out a scream, but it issued from his throat like a kitten’s terrified mewling.

  * * * *

  46

  Final Solutions

  The wrought iron gates were eaten by rust, so too the links of the hefty chain that bound them together. The padlock, Gareth noticed, was brand new. Caroline Jacobs’ fingers deftly rolled its numbered dials and the lock clicked. She slid away the chain and swung the gates open; they squealed a little in protest. Hopping back into the cab she drove the car beyond the gates and high, redbrick walls and stopped opposite a brooding Edwardian house that stood in almost complete darkness, a blackened lump against a sky bearing an orange wash from the glow of distant street lamps. She went back to the gates, checked outside to see if anyone had noticed their arrival and closed them again. She flicked the dials on the combination lock and went back to the car. She swung open the rear door.

  How is she?’ she asked.

  Gareth’s reply was leaden. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood, Caroline. And I can’t seem to wake her up. She desperately needs a doctor.’

  ‘You know it’s not that simple,’ she said, reaching in and patting Erica’s cheek. ‘Come on, girl, don’t do this to me. Time to wake up.’ She didn’t move. ‘Carry her inside, Gareth,’ she said. ‘I’ve got medical supplies inside.’

  He did as he was ordered, lifting Erica gently out of the car. She moaned in pain but didn’t open her eyes. Alarmingly, he felt hot, sticky blood on his hand and noticed a large dark patch on the car seat. ‘What is this place?’ he asked as Caroline snapped open a padlock on a sheet of steel that blocked the original door.

  ‘It’s just one of around thirty-thousand houses around the country that have been abandoned. This one’s owned by the local council and scheduled for demolition later this year.’ She guided him through the open door. ‘Careful, it’s dark. Take her into the room on the left.’ He carried Erica inside the room. A damp, musty smell assailed the nostrils. ‘There’s a mattress on the floor,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s clean. Put her down there.’ Caroline went over to the boarded-up bay window and bent to her haunches. She ran her fingers across the bare floorboards.

  She lifted up a loose board and stuck her hand deep down inside the hole. She pulled out a black plastic bag, then another, and then reached in again. She removed a primus stove from the hole and out of the black bags she removed a few tins of food, basic items of crockery and a small pan. ‘All the home comforts you could ask for,’ she said. From the other bag she produced what looked like a green army satchel of some kind. He noticed a red cross emblazoned on it. She snapped open the fasteners.

  ‘You think this woman really is my mother?’

  Caroline regarded him from under her brows. ‘Let’s have a look at her,’ she said, ignoring him for the moment. Between them they gingerly removed Erica’s sweatshirt and Caroline screwed up her nose. ‘Damn, that looks real bad.’ She took a pulse. ‘Real bad. I can do my best dress the wound, give her something for the pain, but the bullet is lodged deep inside. She’s bleeding internally, and fading fast.’ She looked up at him. ‘Yes, she’s your mother, Gareth. She put herself between you and a bullet to save her son’s life. If you want final proof then look at her. She’s dying, Gareth. She’s dying because she put herself in danger to save you. And I don’t just mean stopping one of Tremain’s bullets. She could easily have stayed in hiding, gone abroad somewhere, but no, she put her life at risk as soon as she came to warn you. Some might call it motherly love; I call it stupidity. She’d have been better off keeping her head low. But I don’t have kids, so what do I know?’

  ‘She can’t die,’ he said, alarmed. ‘We have to get her to a doctor, get her to hospital.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, Gareth,’ she said, the cotton wool she used to clean the wound sopping wet with blood. ‘I saw plenty of this out in Afghanistan. She’s not going to live long.’ She put on a mock German accent: ‘For her the war is over…’

  ‘How can you be so fucking cruel?’ he cried angrily.

  ‘Cruel!’ she returned. ‘I’m not the one who’s been in denial, especially after all that’s happened to you. This woman, yes, she’s worth it – you, well I’m not so sure. Why have we all put ourselves in danger for you? Go ahead, if it pleases you, take her to the nearest hospital and let’s see how long she’ll live then. I’d give her a day or so before Doradus and his mob got to her, that’s even if she managed to live that long, which she won’t. All we can do now is make her comfortable, give her something to ease the pain, but beyond that if I were you I’d take this last chance to be with your mother. Christ knows, you’ve waited long enough, both of you have. At least you’re lucky; my mother died when I was only a year old, trying to help this woman. I never had that chance. So stop your fucking moaning and make out like a good son whilst you can, eh?’

  She tended to the wound as best as she could, treated it and bandaged it and covered Erica with a blanket. In silence she fired up the primus stove and opened a couple of cans of soup, then left them alone together on the pretext of getting more provisions from the boot of the car.

  Gareth brushed back Erica’s hair from her forehead. Her face was dreadfully pale, her breathing shallow, and he was instantly reminded of the night they first met in the snow-covered lane not far from Deller’s End, an age ago now. ‘Can you hear me?’ he said softly. ‘Erica, can you hear anything I say? Don’t die on me. Please don’t die.’

  He fell quiet when Caroline came back into the room. She dumped a couple of carrier bags unceremoniously onto the floor. ‘Best get something to eat,’ she advised.

  ‘I can’t! How can I eat?’ He stroked Erica’s shoulder. ‘So what, we sit around eating soup till she dies, is that it?’

  ‘It’s all I can suggest. Welcome to our world. You’d better get used to it; it’s your world now.’

  He rose shakily to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go get help. I’m not just going to stand here and watch…‘ He paused, the words lodging in his throat. ‘I’m not going to watch this woman die before my eyes without lifting a finger to help her. I’m going out to get help, phone for an ambulance’

  ‘You can’t do that, and you know it.’

  ‘This Pipistrelle you work for, this Lunar Club – get them to help. For God’s sake, do something can’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m fixing you soup.’

  ‘You’re fucking crazy!’ he said, storming to the door.

  ‘She’ll be dead before you get back,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you rather spend what little time you have with her? For her sake? After all she’s tried to do for you, after all the hell this poor woman has been through for countless years. It’s the least you can do. She’s had to endure severe and crushing loneliness for years, decades, centuries even. Don’t let her die lonely. At least let her die in the company of someone who she loves, and who loves her in return.’


  He was taken aback by the tenderness in her voice, her hard exterior powdering away for a few telling seconds. She poured soup into the pan, watched it begin to bubble furiously under the intense heat. He came slowly back into the room, sat down beside the mattress and took Erica’s lifeless hand.

  ‘But if she’s immortal surely she can’t die,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘She’s not invulnerable. She ain’t no Superwoman. If she got hit by a bus, or a bullet for that matter, the effect is the same as on your ordinary person. We’re all mortal. So my advice is not to go around thinking you’re Superman, either. If I kick you in the balls then you’re going to feel it.’

  ‘What makes you so sure I’m like her? We don’t know who my father is.’

  ‘We’re not sure. But there’s a good fifty-fifty chance you are. Lambert-Chide was willing to bet you inherited her longevity gene, and Doradus wasn’t going to take any chances at all; he was going to bump you off just to make doubly sure. Something he’ll continue to do until he finishes the job.’