Rattle: A serial killer thriller that will hook you from the start

by Fiona Cummins

  Take this afternoon. Etta had staggered into the maternity unit, carrying a ridiculous gigantic stuffed elephant.

  ‘Erm, thanks, sis. That’ll fit nicely into our box-room-cum-nursery.’ She had smiled to soften the sting of her sarcasm.

  Etta had waved an airy hand. ‘It’s a collector’s item.’

  Nina had thought she was joking, but when she had checked the Internet on her phone after Etta had left, she’d been shocked by the price. She tried not to mind that such a large sum of money would have paid for a shiny new Travel System instead of the second-hand buggy they’d borrowed from a friend.

  She had tied the balloon to Max’s cot before lifting him out.

  ‘Do you want to hold him?’

  A look had passed across Etta’s face, and she had waved her mobile at Nina.

  ‘Better not. I’m waiting for a call and I might need to rush off in a sec.’ She bent her head, refreshing the screen. ‘I shouldn’t even be here. The Boss thinks I’m at a suspect’s house.’

  It was a thinly disguised excuse but Nina didn’t challenge her. Her sister had her reasons, even though the dismissal of her son pierced in ways she hadn’t expected.

  Instead she had guided his mouth to her nipple, ignoring the pull of her scar. Don’t lift anything heavier than your baby. She felt her sister’s gaze and dragged herself from his perfect features to smile at her with the sheer joy of it all, but Etta’s eyes had slid away.

  ‘He’s such a hungry little one,’ she said. And then: ‘If he carries on like this, he’s going to drink me dry.’

  Etta had pushed her chair back. The scrape of its legs made a passing nurse stare.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  ‘But you’ve only just got here.’ Nina shifted against the pillows. ‘I didn’t hear your phone ring.’

  ‘Text.’

  Etta had brushed her lips against her nephew’s downy head, and squeezed her sister’s hand.

  ‘You’ll make a brilliant mum,’ she said, and then she was gone.

  Nina rubbed her eyes and yawned. The air was sticky with the smell of milk and meconium.

  A cleaner working the night shift walked past her bed, pushing his ancient mop over the vinyl floor, sticking it beneath the iron bedsteads and bedside drawers and chairs for visitors. Nina held her breath, praying he wouldn’t knock the plastic crib and jolt her son awake. In that way unique to babies, Max was fast asleep again, his tiny hands curled into fists which rested either side of his head.

  The ward settled back into a kind of dazed quiet. Nina dozed off, occasionally opening an eye to marvel at the newness of her son.

  Minutes passed. A faint clink of china suggested breakfast was on its way. Soon, the first of these young mothers would shuffle from their dirty sheets in search of sustenance.

  Across the city, dawn rinsed the darkness from another night, and its inhabitants went about their business.

  The cleaner washed out his bucket and mop, and stowed them in a cupboard. Then he changed out of his uniform and found his outdoor clothes.

  Dr Hassan dried his hands, zipped up his jacket and thought about the way that new agency nurse had smiled at him, and how his wife rarely smiled at all.

  Fitzroy, who had spent a second night in the Major Incident Room, watched a fiery orange sun paint the sky. She thought about her nephew’s smell and wondered who was hiding Clara Foyle.

  Lilith and Erdman Frith made breakfast without speaking to one another.

  Miles Foyle woke at dawn, listening for the treacherous thump of the Sunday supplements on his doormat.

  And all day, Amy Foyle waited for news. And waited. And waited. And waited.

  MONDAY

  13

  9.54 a.m.

  The office of the 387th biggest-selling magazine in the country was fittingly housed in a grimy warehouse conversion off Borough High Street.

  Visitors to this unremarkable building could turn right at reception to The Domination Station, an online company selling sex toys with such enticing names as Fuck-a-Duck, or journey upstairs and Sprinkle a Little Magic into Your Life with Psychic Weekly.

  That glittery, over-the-top pink-and-purple sign hanging above the door yielded a snort from Erdman every time he arrived at work. Psychic Weekly’s few but loyal readers might subscribe to that kind of bullshit but he couldn’t take it seriously, not when he was the one making most of it up.

  He was now officially Very Late. Usually, it wouldn’t matter, but Daniel Jarvis, Psychic Weekly’s thrusting new editor, was watching the clock in the same way a compulsive eater eyes a hamburger.

  ‘S’all right, he’s in a meeting with the publisher,’ called Amber the Goth.

  Thank fuck for that.

  Amber swept some papers aside and plonked her generous backside on the edge of Erdman’s desk. Her dye job looked like the synthetic hair on a Barbie doll and, despite the early hour, her thick black eye make-up was already smudged. She wore a skull stud in her slightly wonky nose.

  ‘Can’t be mithered today. Wanna brew?’ Her nasal Mancunian was always more pronounced when she had a hangover. She pointed to the fat white slug on his finger.

  ‘What did you do to your hand?’

  ‘Had a run-in with a carving knife.’

  ‘Self-harming, were you . . . ?’

  ‘Nah, sex game gone wrong.’

  A low laugh rumbled up from Amber’s belly. ‘Course. Should have guessed.’

  Erdman switched on his computer and leaned back in his swivel chair, gazing around the office. The wallpaper seemed shabbier than usual. He had to find his way out of this dead end.

  He had long fantasized about writing a book. He just hadn’t got round to it yet. He’d always assumed it would feature his experiences as a journalist for National Geographic or Paris Match, but he hadn’t got round to that yet, either.

  When he’d finally got back from the hospital on Friday night, soaked through, his finger throbbing, desperate for a beer, he found Lilith in the spare room, brandishing a recycling sack.

  ‘Do we really need these?’ she had asked, gesturing at the piles of mint-condition back copies he’d painstakingly tracked down online or bought from his favourite store, the Vintage Magazine Shop on Brewer Street.

  He snatched one up and waved it at her. It had a black background and a black-and-white image in the centre of the cover, Mort de Kennedy. A collector’s item.

  ‘This is a collector’s item.’

  ‘No, it’s an old copy of Paris Match taking up valuable space in the study.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick ’em in the loft.’

  An hour later the magazines were neatly packed into boxes, waiting to be photographed and sold on eBay. There was no room in the loft, apparently.

  Not that there hadn’t been the odd chance to boost his career. The news editor at his first newspaper, Russell Shoesmith, had landed a job at the Daily Mirror, and invited him to come in for shifts, but Erdman didn’t want to spend his weekends being some up-himself journo’s runaround when he’d been working all week. Besides, the pay was crap. So he slept the hours away, or played computer games, and then he met Lilith. Now Russell was Head of Content at the Sunday Times and Erdman was a feature writer at Psychotic Weekly.

  Amber looked up from her computer. Her face was scrunched up, her head cocked to one side.

  ‘Erd,’ she called across the office. ‘Do all angels have wings?’

  He almost spat out his tea. Amber appeared to be suggesting that angels exist. That was like believing in the Tooth Fairy. Or ghosts.

  Before he had a chance to answer, a familiar voice echoed up the stairwell. Erdman quickly began a one-fingered tap: A unicorn is the physical representation of Divinity; its arrival is often heralded by the sound of tinkling bells. It is an incarnation of purity, and it has the power to bestow wisdom upon those who are lucky enough to see one.

  ‘Goooooooooooood mooooooooooooorning, Psychic Weekly,’ boomed
Jarvis, all slicked-back hair and designer glasses. Erdman doubted he’d ever given a moment’s thought to the nuanced commentary of the Oscar-nominated Vietnam War comedy.

  Daniel Jarvis was everything Erdman was not. At only twenty-six, he’d been promoted from a features editor role at a men’s magazine to his first editorship. His boss was going places, thought Erdman gloomily, while he was still at the bus stop.

  ‘Right,’ shouted Daniel, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m assuming that everyone’s copy is ready to go, as per my request last week. Deadline day tomorrow, folks.’

  Fuckety fuck.

  ‘Which means’ – he grimaced at his team – ‘we better get on with the Christmas issue. Pronto. We’re running seriously behind. Editorial meeting in five.’

  Double fuckety fuck.

  Erdman clicked on the Festive Copy folder on his desktop. It was empty. He wracked his brain. It was empty. He prepared himself for another bollocking.

  Daniel Jarvis sat at the head of the table, sipping coffee and shuffling papers. Erdman watched him watching his newly inherited team. Jarvis stared at Amber’s dyed-black hair and sack-like dress, his lip curled back in a sneer. His disdain was palpable. Then his eyes flicked to Elodie, Psychic Weekly’s young trainee, before dropping to her cleavage.

  On Jarvis’s first morning, while Erdman was waiting outside his office for what his new boss termed his Getting to Know You sessions – the staff had renamed them Getting to Blow You – he had overheard him on the phone.

  ‘Yeah, right bunch of losers,’ said Jarvis. There was a pause while the other person spoke, and then Jarvis had guffawed loudly. ‘They’ll close it down if it doesn’t start making money. Bet none of their psychics have told ’em that.’

  Jarvis hadn’t mentioned redundancies again. But it was a worrying development.

  ‘Right, my earnest team of Hemingways,’ he said, chortling at his own brilliance. ‘I’m in charge now so no slacking. I’ve never seen such a bloody shambles. We’re almost three weeks behind schedule so it’s noses to the grindstone from now on. Right, any great ideas for our festive edition?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence as three sets of eyes looked at their notepads.

  ‘Um, could we introduce a section called Ho Ho Holistic?’ suggested Amber eventually. ‘Lots of info on how holistic therapies can help you cope with the trauma of Christmas.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Like it. Next.’

  Elodie’s timid suggestion followed. ‘How about something like Dreams Can Come True? We can ask our readers to send us their best examples of dreams which have actually happened in real life.’

  ‘Not bad. Get ’em to send in their photos, too.’

  Elodie gave a tight smile and scribbled a note on her pad. The silence in the room seemed to grow and blossom. Daniel fixed Erdman with a pointed stare. ‘What about you, Nerdman?’

  ‘I was, er, thinking we could do something about the symbols of Christmas and what they mean, er, like a holly leaf or candle.’

  ‘Crap. We did that last year. Did you seriously think I wouldn’t bother to check?’ He shook his head. ‘What else?’

  ‘Um, what about—’

  Jarvis didn’t wait for Erdman to finish. ‘I want a piece on the mystical qualities of the pomegranate. And make it good. Remind our readers that there’s more to Christmas fruit than a bloody satsuma.’

  In the Bank, Erdman ordered a reviving lunchtime pint and a Laphroaig, just to take the edge off.

  The Orange Tree pub – the Bank’s official name – smelled of toilet cleaner and stale beer. Long ago, Erdman had devised a clever scheme for when he fancied a swifty. ‘Just popping to the Bank,’ he’d tell his boss. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie, just a . . . nickname.

  Huddled over a menu with Amber and Elodie was Erdman’s friend and colleague Axel.

  ‘All right, mate?’ said Erdman, raising both glasses at him. He looked around the pub. ‘Where’s Jarvis?’

  ‘Coffee, Borough Market.’ Axel licked the foam from his lips. ‘Is it true that prick called you Nerdman?’

  Erdman slid his eyes away and changed the subject. ‘Where were you this morning?’

  Axel looked shifty. ‘Doing a bit of this and that.’

  When it was Axel’s round, Erdman offered to help him carry the drinks. As they walked to the bar, Axel bumped shoulders with a skinny dude in a pinstripe suit, who, in turn, bumped up against Erdman. ‘Sorry,’ muttered Axel. The man held up a placatory hand, his fingers splayed like sticks, and disappeared into the gents.

  ‘Actually, mate, I’ve got a bit of news,’ said Axel, his attention back on his friend.

  Erdman placed his empty pint glass down carefully on the bar. When people said things like that, it meant one of two things. They were having a baby or had got a new job. As Axel was single, he could guess which it was.

  ‘Where you going, then?’

  His friend beamed. ‘To LA. To a lifestyle magazine. Can you believe it? Cool or what?’

  ‘Yeah, way cool.’

  Listening to Axel jabber on about where he was going to live, and all the hot women he was going to meet, was almost as uncomfortable as that morning’s editorial conference.

  Fifteen minutes later, Erdman told his colleagues he was feeling unwell and took himself home to bed.

  14

  2.17 p.m.

  Jakey screwed up his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the walls of his classroom and the drawings that never changed. The classroom where he practised his phonemes, where he ate his lunch, where he’d spent every playtime since starting Year One at South Side Primary School.

  Outside, he could hear his classmates shouting to one another, the high-pitched shrieks of children playing football or tag or hopscotch.

  He was allowed to pick one person every day to stay inside with him and play cars or Lego. Today, he had chosen Joshua Carruthers. On hearing this news, Joshua had wrinkled his nose and said, ‘Oh, but Miss Haines, I promised I’d play football with Samuel’, but their teacher had shaken her head, and said, no, no, he had to stay in with Jakey.

  It wasn’t that Jakey didn’t have friends. He was a personable child, well liked by his classmates, but the lure of fresh air and freedom to run was difficult for small boys to ignore.

  When they had eaten their afternoon snack, and Mrs Husselbee, his one-to-one, had told them she was popping to the toilet, Joshua had gazed longingly out of the window.

  ‘I’m going to the toilet too,’ he said. He still hadn’t come back.

  Jakey placed his car on the table, drew it back and let it go. It flew off the edge and bounced onto the carpet. He picked at a spot of dried Ready Brek on his trouser leg. From the corridor came the low rumble of male voices. He tried to ignore the pain in his arm, the growing ache in his chest. Then he limped to the window and looked out at the playground, and the playing field beyond.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, Jakey opened the door and went outside.

  Children whirled past him, shouting to each other, running, running, running everywhere. One child, a much bigger boy, almost crashed into him but swerved around him at the last minute, the fronds of his scarf brushing against Jakey’s face. A gaggle of girls, Year Two, screeched at him to move out of the way, to stop blocking their running game.

  Jakey wasn’t allowed in the playground. There were dangers everywhere, his mother said. He could get knocked over and break an arm. Or he could trip over his feet and bash up his knee.

  Or – and this was not a reason his mother ever voiced – no one would want to play with the poor little boy who couldn’t run or catch. And so he had to stay inside. With Mrs Husselbee. Even though school, with its central heating and overattentive staff, was so suffocating that at times he couldn’t breathe.

  The November air slapped his cheeks, and he shivered, suddenly aware that he had forgotten to put on his coat.

  He should go back inside. In a few moments, Mrs Husselbee would return, see
his empty chair and come looking for him. But he didn’t want to be in that stuffy classroom. He wanted to be like everyone else.

  Jakey inched his way around the edge of the concrete rectangle that was South Side Primary’s playground, towards the field that bordered it.

  A few boys were playing football, matchstick figures against the grey winter sky. He watched them for a bit, marvelling at the ease with which they ran, ducked, controlled the ball with a fluidity of movement that was alien to him.

  He lurched a couple of steps closer.

  Outside the school, a man watched his faltering progress across the damp earth towards the perimeter fence at the far end of the school grounds which kept children in and strangers out.

  The man buttoned up his pinstripe jacket.

  Jakey hadn’t noticed the way his shoes sank into the mud as he made his way across the field, or heard the distant whistle which signalled the end of South Side Primary School’s afternoon break. He hadn’t realized how much his arm was hurting, or how his breath came in wheezy gasps. He rested his face against the cool mesh of galvanized wire, and counted the cars driving by.

  A movement on the other side of the pavement caught his eye. A man was crossing the road. He was wearing a dark suit and hat. He saw Jakey peering through the diamond-shaped gaps in the fence.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘’Lo,’ mumbled Jakey.

  ‘Not playing football?’

  Jakey gave a sort of half-shrug.

  ‘Never mind. You can talk to me instead.’

  Jakey looked at the man’s black eyes. He should go back. He shivered again.

  ‘Rabbits grow a special winter coat at this time of year.’ He pointed to Jakey’s jumper. ‘Looks like you could do with one of those.’

  Jakey thought for a moment. ‘That would be cool.’