Stepping inside the room, Frank slowly began to pace its perimeter. He smelled Janet everywhere, even above the cloying coppery odour of her blood and that of her lover. Her silk kimono hung on the wardrobe door. The sight of it stabbed him. His gift to her, two Christmases ago. They had made love while she wore it that same night. Two black stockings lay draped across a pine ottoman. On the floor beside it were a black suspender belt and a black lacy bra.
So, you wore them for him, did you? You wouldn’t for me. Not even when our sex life was on the wane. Not even when I told you I thought it would spice it up a bit for both of us. So why him, Janet? Why did you wear them for him and not me? Why?
Frank looked away, needing to get his mind back on track. There was no time for petty jealousies, and he saw now how futile such feelings were. His eyes flicked everywhere, narrowing in concentration as he tried to smell the beast, tried to know him. Not that he ever expected to get deep inside the man’s mind. That would almost certainly prove too harrowing an experience. No, his own initial investigative methods were not intended to understand why someone did what they did, more to learn how they had discovered their victims. If he could find that out, then maybe he could also trace a route back.
One thing was clear: they hadn’t been chosen at random. The abducted girls were the lure. All were of an age, similar build, similar hair colour and style. But where had the monster first seen them? At what point did he decide to kill and abduct? For that matter, why kill anybody, why not just abduct the child? There was far more risk involved in taking on an entire family, so why kill them?
Frank nodded to himself, the answer both obvious and familiar. The man killed because that was the part he enjoyed. The abduction was necessary, the reason for being there at all, but the killings were a pleasurable aside. And not even the blood spilled by two adults had satiated the beast. Gary would not have put up much of a fight, he could easily have been subdued and left alive. Instead the man had murdered him simply because it gave him a thrill. Because he could.
For a second, Frank felt something stir within him. For the briefest of moments, he felt as if he himself was a monster, looking down on this family in the dead of night, wondering who to slaughter first, smiling and laughing as he wielded the blade. In that instant he was no longer himself, but a man he did not recognise as human.
No person, no sane person, could possibly choose to inflict such horror upon an innocent family. No animal, either. Only a monster could do such a thing. And whoever had visited this house with such evil intent had been a monster, but a monster of the very worst kind.
A monster in human guise.
11
Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Frank steadied his breathing, allowing the giddy moment to pass, slowly bringing himself back. In his mind, he saw the outline of a man edging through the garden, keeping to the shadows, slowly making his way to the kitchen door. A man of great cunning. A man apart.
You came in through the back door. Just took the fucking lock apart, didn’t you? Then you killed the cat – Laura’s cat. Not just any cat, you fucker – and then you went hunting. You found Clarke and Janet asleep. Did you know they’d already made love? I do. The semen inside her was Paul Clarke’s and had been there for several hours before she died. Sebastian Reeves says she may have been entered again later, when she was dry. Was that you? Or was it him? Did you make them do it, but he couldn’t come a second time? Or did you do it and pull out at the last moment?
He hung his head and shook it. No. If it happened at all, it was Clarke. Had to be. If you had put yourself inside her, you wouldn’t have wasted your semen on her face. You kept to your usual MO, but it must have been tempting. Janet was fit, she had a terrific body. Didn’t you want to enjoy it? Be a part of it for just a few seconds? Be inside her. You had the control, you had the time. But just as before, you masturbated instead. Such a waste for you. Why? Why do you not rape them?
Frank’s eyes sprang open again. So, after you’d shot your wad you killed them. Who first? No contest. Him: a quick slash across the throat. Then Janet: several quick stabs. Immobilise her while you run around the bed to finish him off. Clarke staggers away from the bed, but you reach him easily. You put him down, then back to her. Taking it in turns to ruin them.
Why so many wounds? Though your purpose here was to abduct a child, you enjoyed every second of this violence, but even then, just killing them wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to butcher them, disfigure them, too. Are you disfigured? Is that why?
Angle of entry tells us you’re right-handed and probably taller than average, and we also know by the depth of penetration that you are strong. Even managed to carve your way through a few bones. Some of your type like to mess their victims up even after they are dead, but apparently, you don’t get your kicks that way. You enjoyed yourself for a while, but when they were gone that was it. Game over. Move on to fresh prey.
His mind tossed stray images and thoughts around like leaves in a gale. You’re damned good. You plan and execute with great precision, and you don’t panic. You give us nothing, yet you give us nearly all we need in your semen. So why don’t you care about DNA? Are you stupid? No, that doesn’t feel right. Maybe you’re clever. More clever than we are, at least inside your own head where it really counts. With nothing else to go on, your DNA doesn’t matter a damn. It’s worthless unless we catch you. So why so careful not to leave fingerprints? Because we have them on file. That’s the answer. Are you aware of that? Is it that you’re clever, and not a fool? Are you teasing us? Is that what you’re doing? I’d like to know. I really would.
Frank took in the room once more. Death lived here now, its fierce anger reverberating between the walls. Did they cry out? If so, they failed to disturb either Laura or Gary, and the neighbours heard nothing. You were so cool to begin with, then so frenzied. A rage overtook you. But why? Or was it controlled aggression after all? Are we mistaking frenzy for pleasure? I think we may just be. You’re an organised killer, not prone to emotion. However it was, you must have used up a lot of energy, so I suppose you took a breather. Then a soft-shoe shuffle down the landing and on into my son’s room.
Following in the monster’s footsteps, the trail of blood was clear. You didn’t care about footprints, either. Why not? Fortunate for you that we weren’t able to get a clear marking. Fortunate? I wonder. Or did you deliberately muddy them? Another tease as you thought ahead to the investigation that would follow? You know a lot about our procedure, that’s all too obvious, but what does that mean these days? There are so many books on the subject, dozens of TV shows, it wouldn’t be hard to discover how to hide your tracks.
Gary’s room was even more painful.
On the wall beside the boy’s bed were his beloved football posters. Something snared Frank’s attention, and when he stepped forward to take a closer look, the breath froze in his lungs. Gary’s favourite player was Jack Wilshere. There was one drop of blood on the entire team poster. It covered the Arsenal midfielder’s face.
Did you do that deliberately? Did you ask my son who his favourite player was before wiping his own blood across the player’s face?
On a bookshelf was an autographed football. Frank blinked. He and Gary had waited outside the Arsenal training ground one afternoon for the players to leave. They managed to get eight signatures. Frank could still see his son’s face, beaming as his heroes made their scrawls, some even taking time for a word or two. It was one of the few treasurable moments, from too few hours spent together. Frank turned away before the rest of the room fully registered.
Laura’s room was next, and it was disturbingly normal. She obviously hadn’t put up a fight. What did you tell her to keep her quiet? Laura would not go with you willingly. Here again there were so many things that had once been in her bedroom in his own home. Would she ever see them again? he wondered. And if so, would they forever be tarnished?
He stared for some time at the bed, quilt drawn to one side. The
n he stepped forward and touched a hand to the bottom sheet. For one impossible moment, it felt warm to the touch, as if his daughter had left it only seconds before. When the moment passed, the sheet just felt cold and somehow repugnant to him.
Frank searched the wardrobe and found a small leather holdall, into which he carefully placed some of Laura’s clothes. Enough for a few days. He was about to walk out when something seemed to leap out of her dressing-table mirror at him. Laura didn’t have many stuffed toys left from her younger days, but the few she had kept were cartoon characters. Of these, her favourite was Tigger. Frank popped him into the bag, too.
Downstairs, in the large and comfortable conservatory, he found Tom Whelan once more. ‘Okay, you can send the team back up now,’ he told the sergeant, who swiftly passed on the message.
When they were alone once more, Frank felt the weight of Whelan’s shrewd scrutiny for several moments. The DS eventually shook his head and said, ‘No tears? That’s bad, Frank. Very bad. You’ve just seen the rooms in which your wife and son were brutally murdered. It’s okay to cry for them, mate.’
Frank looked at him and spread his arms. ‘I know it is. And I will. When the time is right.’
‘There’ll never be a better time. And it’s not just okay, it’s expected. Let it go. You have to let it go, Frank. It’ll eat you up inside otherwise, as well you know.’
‘I will, but not right now, Tom. I’ve done some crying. The rest, the real grieving, will have to wait until I know about Laura. My life can’t continue until then.’
With obvious reluctance, Whelan accepted the assurances. He walked with Frank back outside into the hazy sunlight of another hot June day, small trees in the garden providing pockets of shade on the lawn. Frank realised how dark and cold the house had seemed. Had death left its mark here? He thought so. He also believed it would remain for a long time yet to come.
He and Tom shook hands again. ‘I have to complete the cremation arrangements later on today,’ Frank said. ‘Will you come to the ceremony?’
‘Do you really have to ask?’
‘I guess not.’
‘What about the inquest?’
‘It’s set for tomorrow morning. Short and sweet. Seb Reeves is releasing the body to the coroner. He’s satisfied with the post-mortem. He didn’t say, but I think he hurried it through to spare me the delay.’
Whelan smiled. ‘That sounds like Seb. You going to the hearing?’
‘I doubt it. It’s cut and dried. But at least I’ll know I can go ahead with the ceremony.’
‘Well, let Nicky know the where and when. I’ll be there. Is it open invitation to the squad?’
‘Yes.’
As Frank stepped towards his car, the media again swarmed forward, shouting questions, cameras zooming in on his face, a clamour of noise and confusion. Beat constables in blue short-sleeved shirts pushed back the tide, causing a great deal of anger and resentment once more. As before, Frank ignored them and sped away from the scene. He didn’t look back.
He still felt so terribly detached, as though it were just another case. Someone else’s wife and son. Some other poor bastard’s misery. As he had told Tom Whelan, grieving would have to wait. The living, as always, took precedence.
It was during the seemingly endless drive home that Frank realised for the first time that, by the end, he hadn’t loved Janet any more. Perhaps any residue of love had been torn from him during their months of separation. Maybe she had taken it with her into Paul Clarke’s bed. Or, more likely, it had simply not been strong enough to linger beyond the walls of their relationship.
He would still mourn her, he decided. She had, after all, borne him two children, and they had spent many years together. But there would be no real grief. That he would save for Gary. Gary, but not Laura. Because his little girl was still alive, and he was damned if he was going to let death lay its hand on her shoulder.
Not while he had a single breath left in his body.
12
Laura Rogers had blinked rapidly for several seconds when the thick woollen hood was finally removed from her face. She winced at the harsh intrusion of light, squinting at first, then took the room in with one careful sweep of her frightened, pitiful gaze.
The room was cavernous; long, wide and tall. It reminded Laura of the classrooms in her primary school. The ceilings were high, with moulded cornices and picture rails, and ranged along the wall opposite the door were several tall sash windows, now boarded up; wooden cataracts erected over glassy eyes.
Two rows of lights hung from the ceiling on long black cords, their shades laden with dust and cobwebs. Attached to each fixture were a number of green air-fresheners in the shape of trees, similar to those Laura had seen swinging from the rear-view mirror in her father’s car. The walls had long since lost their painted sheen, and chunks of plaster had fallen to the floor.
Two tea chests lay overturned in the centre of the uncarpeted floor. Clothing spilled out of one, while inside the other lay scraps of paper, a plastic bag containing drawing equipment, and several dog-eared paperbacks. By far the most remarkable item in the room took up almost a quarter of the available space. It was a doll’s house, immense and skilfully constructed from floor to ceiling. Curtains adorned all four windows, a painted display of creeper and flowers surrounded the perfectly hung panelled door. Great care and attention to detail had been lavished on it, yet its size, its sheer perfection, was somehow repellent. It was too big, too precise – and completely unwelcoming.
As her gaze swung full circle, Laura finally turned to face the man for the first time.
He smiled at her, though only one side of his face seemed to move. His thin lips became a jagged slash. ‘What do you think, Laura?’ he asked.
Laura said nothing. She continued to study him, natural defiance triumphing over fear. The man’s appearance now looked far more normal than she had expected, much kinder than she had dared to hope. It was a face you might see anywhere, at any time. A face you would not look twice at. His bald dome gleamed, reflecting the glaring lights, picking up a hint of the pale green walls. The man who stood before her did not look at all dangerous, hardly the type to snatch a child from her room in the middle of the night.
Or to commit murder.
Even as the thought came to her, so the man’s features changed. His eyes narrowed and hardened, became spiteful, his mouth a downward arc of displeasure. He repeated his question, only this time the tone of voice was harsh, perhaps even cruel.
That was when Laura felt the first flash of recognition. It wasn’t just that she had seen this man before, or that she had previously laughed and smiled in his company – though she could not recall where or when. More importantly, she knew exactly what he was thinking: he wanted her to be pleased with her surroundings. Somehow, she knew that he had built the doll’s house, and that he was desperate for her to enjoy what he had created. And while all Laura really wanted to do was break down and weep for her loss, she also knew it was important to please this man; that her life may depend upon it.
‘It’s very nice,’ she said at last, trying to keep the terror from her voice. It wasn’t easy. She had often received praise from her father for being mature beyond her years. Now, more than ever before, she needed to prove him right.
She was rewarded with the smile once more. It cast a different shadow across the man’s face. Laura had no idea why he had taken her from her home, why she had been chosen by him, or what his intentions were towards her. But she intuitively knew that the only chance she had of emerging from the nightmare was to play along with him, to become whatever he wanted her to be.
‘I’ll leave you for a moment,’ he said, making a small gesture with his hands. ‘You can play with anything you find … except for the doll’s house. The doll’s house is special and must be kept for later – when you have proven yourself worthy.’
‘What about my mother? And my …?’ Laura bit her lip, eyes snapping closed in a vain effort t
o ward off the image of the man in her kitchen, climbing into the tracksuit. She saw the blood anyway. Black in the moonlight.
‘What about them?’ His eyes devoured her.
‘What … what did you do to them?’
He chuckled, eyes widening as if in surprise. ‘Killed them, of course. All of them. Mummy and Daddy and brother Gary, too.’
Laura swallowed back her pain. She had known, of course. As soon as she saw the blood, knowledge filled both her head and her heart. Its awful truth seemed to swell inside her now, causing a sharp band of pain to squeeze and probe behind her eyes. Her body swayed, the room began to spin, and its peculiar odour suddenly seemed more apparent. For one dreadful moment Laura thought she might be physically sick. Her mind screamed at her, begging to be shut down, to close itself off against the misery. Her eyes filled up, but she refused to shed the tears, refused to faint, refused to throw up. Instead she latched on to the single crumb of comfort in his words.
Mummy and Daddy.
No. That wasn’t right. He meant Paul, the man her mother had lived with these past ten months or so. He meant Paul, but he thought it was her father. This was the truth she clung to, the knowledge she embraced fully. It was the only truth she allowed herself to recognise. She had to be strong. Any weakness would be latched upon by this man, and God alone knew what he might do to her then.
As he retreated, the man blew a kiss, offered another smile, then stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Laura heard a key turn in the sturdy-looking lock. As his footsteps echoed and faded away, so a violent shudder ripped through her body, a spasm she thought might actually snap her bones and see them crumbling to dust.
Degrees of Darkness Page 7
