Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Not too bad. Debs is here with me, and things are moving on the investigation. It may all be over tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Frank. I hope so. For your sake. For Laura’s sake. And for my sake.’

  ‘Your sake?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, me in a suit?’

  Debbie stayed up with him long into the night. They talked about all manner of things, none of which were to do with the case or anything that had happened to Frank’s family. He played a little music, keeping the volume low, looking for a mellow sound to complement his mood. They held each other for hours, polished off a bottle of Merlot, before Debbie eased herself away.

  Kneeling in front of him, she kissed the tip of his nose and said, ‘I love you, Frank. Take care of yourself tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. Sleep tight.’

  ‘You, too. And Frank, don’t lie here all night winding yourself up. The last thing you need to do tomorrow is what you’d actually like to do to this man.’

  Frank leaned up. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, don’t work yourself up so much that you hurt him more than you need to. He’s no good to you dead, Frank.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t …’

  Debbie put a finger to his lips. ‘Yes. Yes, you would. All I’m saying is, think of the bigger picture. You need him if you’re going to get Laura back. Just remember that.’

  He nodded. Debbie stood, both knees cracking, and moved to go upstairs.

  ‘Debs,’ he said.

  She turned. Smiled at him questioningly.

  ‘I love you, sweetheart,’ he went on. ‘When this is all over, how about you and me sit down and talk about our future together?’

  It may have been the dim light, perhaps even a trick of the eye, but for a moment Frank thought he saw Debbie’s smile falter. For a few seconds she made no reply, then her voice came out of the shadow.

  ‘The future starts tomorrow, Frank. As it does every single day. Take care of that. We’ll see about the rest afterwards. Just concern yourself now with getting our girl back.’

  It was fully ten minutes before he realised what she’d said.

  Our girl.

  50

  Brother and sister basked in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Violet was sore all over. Larry had pinched her flesh too often and too hard this time, his hips had pounded her with the intensity of a piston. He had used her, but she did not mind. Her Larry was still the best thing in her life. She adored him, would do anything for him, and he knew that. So, she was shocked more than hurt when he suddenly squatted above her and slapped her face.

  The sound as his open palm met her cheek was like a gunshot. Violet’s head snapped to one side, and a trickle of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth. As she parted her lips to speak to him, another blow threw her head back the other way. Then he was kneeling on her stomach, raining blows upon her, both open-handed and close-fisted, onto her face and chest. She howled in pain, tears forced from her eyes, but not once did she reproach him or plead with him to stop. She knew either would serve only to fan the flame of his anger.

  When his rage was spent, and he sat above her, shoulders and chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead, Violet closed her eyes and prayed for the pain to lessen. When she opened them again, Larry was staring at his hands, knuckles smeared with her blood. She felt the swellings begin to rise on her flesh, and she felt sick. Not physically, but sick at heart.

  And when she somehow managed to dredge up the strength, she asked: ‘Why, Larry? Why?’ The words leaked out through her swollen, cut and heavily bruised lips.

  By this time, he had moved away from the bed. Naked, he sprawled across their small sofa. He looked at her as if she were demented.

  ‘It’s one thing for that little bitch to think me stupid,’ he said. ‘But entirely a different matter when you do.’

  Violet shook her head. The movement sent tiny sparks dancing before her eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He sat up, spine rigid. He reminded her of a cobra about to strike. ‘Secrets,’ he said softly. ‘All of a sudden you like secrets. Well, I’d expect nothing less of her. She, after all, knows nothing of the cameras and the microphone. But you do, Judas. You do. And still you made a pact behind my back. A pact with that filthy piece of garbage, and not a piece of silver in sight.’

  Tears dribbled between the swiftly closing slits of Violet’s eyes. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. You must have known that. I wouldn’t really keep anything secret from you, Larry.’

  He got up, walked across the floor to stand over her. ‘But you didn’t tell me, did you? You didn’t tell me that you went to her. That you struck her, that you made a bargain with her. Why didn’t you tell me, Violet?’

  The woman sobbed, shrinking away from him. ‘I didn’t think. After I’d left the room it was as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t remember any of it until you just mentioned it. Honestly. How could I lie to you, Larry? I love you. I love you.’

  His face softened. Creases stretched across his forehead as he surveyed the results of the beating he had administered.

  He’d gone too far this time, Violet realised. The darkness had swallowed him whole. It wasn’t supposed to happen with her. His very own sister. She wasn’t supposed to fear him in this way.

  It was Laura’s fault. Fucking little darling she turned out to be. The worthless piece of shit was nothing but a troublemaker. Her and her blonde hair with strawberry tints. So proud of it once. Now it hung on her like a nest of rats’ tails. She would cut the lot off, shave the girl’s head with an open razor until her scalp bled. Then she would cut out her tongue.

  No. No, that would all have to wait until after Larry had recorded Laura’s screams. Screams he would later play to Frank. Special Detective Frank Rogers. Hear your little girl one last time, Frankie. Hear her last pleas for mercy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Violet,’ Larry whispered, his face turned to the ceiling. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She smiled up at him. On her battered face she was sure it must look obscene. ‘That’s all right, Larry. Come to bed. Make love to me. Fill me.’

  Yes. That was better. He was calm now. She would keep him that way for the night. In the morning he would get to know Laura in that special way. And after that he would wrap his hands around her neck. And finally … well, then he would kill her, of course.

  After that, who knew what he might do to pass the time?

  51

  Frank Rogers was a tight bundle of nerves, strung out through lack of sleep, nervous tension exhausting him all the more. Yet still he could find no way to rest. After three sweaty hours tossing and turning on the sofa, he spent the remainder of the night sitting at his desk in the study.

  A police artist had visited Karen Redbridge, hoping to elicit an approximate likeness. According to the report Frank read, Karen gave her all, but the impression was vague at best. When the artist had finished, Karen stared at the drawing for a moment before shaking her head. It wasn’t him, but she couldn’t give any more.

  So, the spectre inside Frank’s own head had no real features still, other than that it was tall, with no hair with which to restructure its appearance. It was just a shadow, permeating Frank’s every waking thought.

  Light crept into the furthest reaches of the sky, sending shadows scuttling and hurrying across the land. Frank stared out through the study window, watching dawn’s steady approach. And he wondered how his little girl had fared during those hours of darkness, whether she was able to see the frigid light, whether she could feel the gradual warmth upon her flesh. For a time, he put his head in his hands, all out of tears, but sorrow seeming to seep from his pores into his palms. When he looked up again, he knew it was time.

  Again, it was Nicky and Tom Whelan who called for him. Their journey across to the other side of London was busier than it had been three days earlier. The atmosphere and tension inside the Ford Mondeo was almost physical, an entity all three men thought they could touch. Its fog clo
uded their thoughts and clogged their throats.

  As they drew behind the observation vehicle, Frank swivelled in his seat. His eyes switched from Nicky to Tom, as if reaching into their souls. Finally he nodded. ‘Are we all ready for this?’ he asked.

  They were.

  Slice.

  Three fingers.

  Laura was actually able to put three fingers into the gap she had created. Her fingers and thumbs were beyond pain, both wrists ached terribly, and her nerves were coiled like a spring as she strained to listen for the keys. It would take only one lapse. One lapse, the door opens, one of them catches her at it. But that lapse was never going to happen.

  Three fingers.

  When she could put four in with any amount of comfort, that was it. She would yank on that board with all her might, she would summon up every single ounce of power within her slight frame. And if justice and willpower had anything to do with it, that board would fly off in her hands.

  Three fingers.

  One more to go.

  Slice.

  The same three teams positioned themselves in much the same way. Everyone remained perfectly calm on the surface. But beneath this thin veneer, their nerves jangled and their doubts began to gnaw. Several of the more experienced men knew something big was about to happen. What they didn’t know, couldn’t be sure of, was the outcome. They were all so on edge. What if their target spotted the observation vehicle? What if someone gave the game away? What if someone scared him off? What if Tanner had already betrayed them to his boss?

  Nicky Loizou had no time for these thoughts. Although every single one passed through his own mind, he showed them the back door. Only positive thoughts were needed here. He glanced up at Frank. His friend’s face was cadaverous, teeth fastened together, lines taut, eyes narrowed. He was ready. They both were. The trap was set, and the beast was on its way.

  Slice.

  Four fingers.

  The sun had risen just above the horizon, and she could now put four fingers into the space. She forced them in, the wood smooth where she had shaved it. The grip was good. She gave an exploratory tug. The boards seemed to move almost by will alone. She pulled, tensed her feet against the wall beneath, pulled harder still. One slat detached itself so suddenly that Laura fell backwards to the floor. She stared at it for a moment, not quite able to comprehend the enormity of what had happened. She hardly dared believe that she had done it. Then she sprang to her feet with a stifled cry of triumph.

  Using the first piece of wood as a lever, the rest of the slats gave way easily, affording her a glimpse of a blue sky for the first time in many days. She placed each strip of wood on the floor with care. Now was the tensest moment of all. At any time before she could have moved away, even denied all knowledge, blaming the cuts on some previous occupant. But now the shutter was down. If someone came into the room, she was done for.

  Shit or bust.

  It was one of her father’s favourite expressions, one her mother had often chided him for using in the presence of her and Gary. But in the circumstances …

  ‘Shit or bust!’ she said. And felt better for it.

  Laura had prepared a small box to stand on. She’d already tested her weight upon it. Now she hefted it across and clambered on top. She reached up to find the window’s lock. It was the type that simply swivelled open. There were husks of dead insects there, bound with spiders’ webs. She ignored both the touch and the thought, pushed the metal lever with her thumb, and offered another prayer.

  The prayer worked, and so did the lock. It gave a tiny squeal and swivelled open. Laura felt her heart about to burst out of her throat.

  This was it. She was almost free.

  Now. If only the window hadn’t been painted closed. She pushed up the lower sash. At first it resisted, but on the second attempt it moved grudgingly on tired cords. Fresh cool air rushed in through a six-inch gap, its touch a distant memory. Laura drew it into her lungs, tears filling her eyes. She knew she was up at least one flight of stairs, but didn’t give a damn at that moment. She was going to jump no matter what.

  Laura hefted herself up onto the ledge and peered out.

  She looked down upon what appeared to be a car park. A high wall with a trim of barbed wire stretched around its perimeter as far as she could see. Beyond the wall was a large expanse of open scrubland that led to a light commercial development. The wall was a barrier she hadn’t considered, but in no way, did it detract from the feeling of euphoria that had swept over her. She was going to be free.

  Free.

  Then she leaned forward and heaved the window up some more. Except that it didn’t move. Laura pulled on it again. Put her back into it for a third time. Only then did she notice the wooden blocks screwed to the outside, preventing the window being raised any higher than it already was.

  The gleam of victory was snatched from her eyes as if it had never been. A feeling of utter hopelessness filled Laura’s heart. A black wall of frustration descended upon her, crushing her spirit with its bulk.

  She had dwelt upon the fact that the man might sneak in and catch her at the window. Had considered so many times what she might find behind the wooden slats. What she had failed to take into account was the sadistic nature of her tormentor and captor.

  There was no escape after all.

  The fresh air of a new day meant nothing, the sunshine meant nothing, the cloudless sky meant nothing. Not if she had to remain in this room. There was to be no escape after all. Merely a choice of deaths.

  Laura slowly got down away from the window, put both hands to her head and opened her mouth to scream. That was when, in the periphery of her vision, she noticed the door to the room standing ajar. And when at the same time she felt sour breath upon her neck.

  52

  Though later that day, Nicky Loizou would blame himself for poorly planning a straightforward operation, it was mostly due to circumstance and sheer bad luck that it all went so badly wrong. None of which was any comfort to the distraught DCI, his thoughts burdened with the deaths of two officers, a third with critical injuries, and one who would probably never walk again.

  It had always been Lawrence Swain’s custom to travel to the Hammersmith office by road, leaving his van in a small car park directly opposite. Had he done so again, he would have been in full view of the observation vehicle from the moment he drove up. This morning, however, buoyed by a wonderful start to the day, he decided he wanted to spend some time in the West End. There were music, book and video stores he wanted to visit, a play he wanted to see. He would turn himself off from everything else for a few sweet hours.

  He had driven himself to the nearest underground station, where he took the tube. Because of this, he arrived at the building from the rear. As on Friday, Warren Capel’s team would only move around to the rear of the building after their quarry had entered through the front doors. The rear of the building had been checked over, but its single door was for emergency use, and should have opened from the inside only.

  It was not an entrance. Only an exit.

  Perhaps the check had been too cursory. During the inevitable resulting inquiry, investigators would discover that the door had been rigged to open from the outside as well. That the man they were hunting had previously demonstrated a knack with door locks was something that had not been considered during the tense moments of planning.

  It was to be a costly error.

  No one saw Swain enter, so no one was aware of him as he came up in the lift. No one was aware of him as he strode briskly along the passage. And because no one knew he had entered the building, Tom Whelan spoke into his radio without a second thought.

  Nicky had not yet plugged in the ear-piece. There hadn’t seemed any need. Tom’s sharp voice came bursting out of the radio’s speaker. Outside in the passage, Swain couldn’t hear the message that passed between the two officers, but he could tell that both the voice and the static burst had emanated from inside his own office space.


  Swain froze. His mind threw a thousand questions at him, a thousand separate answers. Finally, it screamed at him to get out of there. He turned sharply and, as he moved, his rubber-soled Reeboks squeaked on the cold marble floor. The sound echoed along the passage like the wail of a banshee. As the sound reverberated down the short corridor, Swain forgot all about stealth. Instead he bolted.

  Frank Rogers heard the harsh squeak. His head jolted up. Nicky heard, too, and reached for the radio. ‘Tom, what the hell was that?’

  Whelan put his eye to the door’s spy-hole. He was in time to see a fleeting figure duck through the door that led to the stairway. A figure wearing a baseball cap.

  ‘Target sprinting away from you,’ he snapped into the radio.

  Frank was already up and running. He and Nicky raced into the passage moments before the sergeant and his entire plain-clothes team hurtled through. Tom was screaming into the radio. ‘Warren, who came into the building? Did you see anyone? Anyone at all?’

  ‘Negative. No one’s been in or out this morning.’

  ‘Bastard came in the back way,’ Tom bellowed. There was no need to use the radio now. He and his four-man team were in the wake of Nicky and Frank as they leapt down each flight of stairs, heedless of the potential dangers.

  Frank couldn’t see their man. The sound of running feet was so loud in the confined stairway that he couldn’t even be sure there was still anyone in front of him. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need any audible confirmation. The man had come, now he was going. Frank had to get him before he was gone for good.

  As they raced down the stairwell, Warren Capel and his team came across to the front of the building. All were armed, as was every other man there that day except for Frank. Capel sent three men around the back, before arranging those who remained with him. They spread themselves out across the pavement, crouched low and sideways, pistols and semi-automatic H&K assault rifles extended in standard firing position. No one was slipping out this way.