The old man’s terror-stricken features were vivid, the horror clear in his eyes. His thin, cracked lips babbled words that Childes could not hear, and spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled against the straps that restrained him on the narrow bed. The tendons of his scrawny neck stretched loose skin taut as he twisted his head, and the exaggerated bump of his thyroid cartilage constantly moved up and down as if it were swallowing air. His pupils were large against their aged, creamy surrounds, and Childes saw a reflection in them, an indefinable shape that grew in size as someone moved closer to the old man.
Childes slumped back against the wall as a metal object was placed across the frightened man’s forehead, and he cried out when the sawing motion began, bringing his hands up to his own eyes as if to block out the vision. Blood oozed from the wound, flowing thickly down the victim’s head, washing his sparse white hair red, blinding his eyes against the horror.
Movement stopped for a moment, save for the quivering of the old man’s frail body, the surgeon’s small saw fixed firmly into the bone. Recognition streamed through Childes, a touching of minds; but it was the perpetrator who identified him.
And welcomed him.
‘Overoy?’
‘Detective Inspector Overoy, yes.’
‘It’s Jonathan Childes here.’
‘Childes?’ A few moments’ pause. ‘Oh yes, Jonathan Childes. It’s been a long time.’
‘Three years.’
‘Is it? Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr Childes?’
‘It’s . . . it’s difficult. I don’t quite know how to begin.’
Overoy pushed his chair back, propping a foot up against the edge of his desk. With one hand he shook a cigarette free of its pack and grasped it with his lips. He flicked a cheap lighter and lit up, giving Childes time to find the words.
‘You remember the murders?’ Childes said finally.
Overoy exhaled a long stream of smoke. ‘You mean the kids? How could I forget? You were a great help to us then.’
And I paid the price, Childes thought but did not say. ‘I think it’s happening to me again.’
‘Sorry?’
Overoy was not making matters any easier for him. ‘I said I think it’s happening to me again. The sightings, the precognitions.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you saying you’ve discovered more bodies?’
‘No. This time I seem to be witnessing the crimes themselves.’
Overoy’s foot left the desk and he pulled himself forward, reaching for a pen. If it had been anyone else on the end of the line, the policeman would have dismissed them as a crank, but he had come to take Childes’ statements seriously, despite a hardbitten reluctance to do so in earlier times. ‘Tell me exactly what it is you’ve, er, “seen”, Mr Childes.’
‘First I want an understanding between us.’
Overoy looked at the receiver as if it were Childes himself. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘I want whatever I tell you kept strictly between ourselves, no leaks to the media. Nothing like last time.’
‘Look, that wasn’t entirely my fault. The Press have a nose for anything unusual, always will have. I tried to keep them off you, but once they caught the scent it was impossible.’
‘I want your guarantee, Overoy. I can’t take the chance of being hounded again – it did enough damage last time. Besides, what I have to tell you may mean nothing at all.’
‘I can only say I’ll do my best.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘What d’you expect from me?’
‘An assurance, for the moment at least, that you’ll keep whatever I tell you between ourselves. Only if you find some verification will you take matters further, and then only to your superiors or whoever’s directly involved in the particular cases.’
‘Which cases are you talking about?’
‘Just one for now. Another’s possible.’
‘I’d like to hear more.’
‘Do I have your word?’
Overoy scribbled Childes’ name on a piece of paper, underlining it twice. ‘Since I don’t have any idea of what you’re talking about, fine, you’ve got my word.’
Still the other man hesitated, as if not trusting the detective. Overoy waited patiently.
‘The boy whose grave was torn open, his body mutilated: have your investigations come up with anything yet?’
Overoy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘As far as I know, not a thing. Do you have information?’
‘I saw it happen.’
‘You mean, like before? You dreamt it?’
‘I wasn’t physically there, but I didn’t dream it, either.’
‘Sorry, wrong word. You saw what happened in your mind.’
‘The coffin was smashed open by a small axe of some kind, the body laid on the grass beside the grave.’
There was another silence at the end of the line. ‘Go on,’ Overoy said eventually.
‘The corpse was split open with a knife and the organs torn out.’
‘Mr Childes, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but those details were in most of the nationals. I know you had a difficult job convincing me before – I admit I thought you were just another nutter at first – but you managed to in the end. Even I couldn’t dispute the facts when you showed us where the second body was. But, I need a little more to go on, you understand?’
Childes’ tone was flat, without expression. ‘One thing the newspapers didn’t mention – certainly not the one I read anyway. The boy’s heart was eaten.’
The pen Overoy had been restlessly twirling in his fingers came to a stop.
‘Overoy? Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, I heard. The heart wasn’t actually eaten, but it had been torn open; the pathologist found teethmarks. There were other bites on the body also.’
‘What manner of creature . . .?’
‘We’d like to find out. What else can you tell me, Mr Childes?’
‘About that – nothing. I saw what happened, but I can’t describe the person who did it. It was as if I were seeing the mutilation through the eyes of whoever was responsible.’
Overoy cleared his throat. ‘I understand you went to the Channel Islands after the last, er, business. Is that where you’re calling from now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you let me have your address and phone number?’
‘You mean you don’t have it on file?’
‘You’ll save me time looking it up.’
Childes gave the information and then asked, ‘So you’re taking what I’ve told you seriously?’
‘I did last time, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, eventually.’
‘Just one routine question, Mr Childes, and I think you’ll appreciate my reason for asking. Can I take it you were still in the Channel Islands on the night the boy’s grave was desecrated?’
There was a weariness to the reply. ‘Yes, I was here and I’ll give you the names of witnesses who’ll verify.’
Overoy’s pen scribbled on paper again. ‘Sorry about that,’ the policeman apologized, ‘but it’s better to get these things out of the way right at the outset.’
‘I should be used to it after last time.’
‘The circumstances were somewhat unusual, I think you’d admit. Now are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about this particular incident?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
The detective dropped the pen and retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. Ash fell onto his notes. ‘This happened a couple of weeks ago, so I’m surprised you didn’t call earlier.’
‘At the time I thought it might have been a one-off, an isolated sighting, and in any case, there wasn’t much I could tell you.’
‘What’s changed your mind since?’
Childes’ voice faltered. ‘I . . . I had another vision last night.’
The pen was picked up once again.
‘It’s all a bit confused now, li
ke . . . like a dream remembered. I was driving home quite late when an image jumped into my mind, a sensing so strong I nearly crashed my car. I barely made it to my house and when I did manage to get inside, I collapsed. It felt like my mind had gone to another place.’
‘Tell me what you saw.’ Overoy was tensed, expectant.
‘I was in a room – I couldn’t see too much of the place, but it seemed stark somehow, bare – and I was looking down at an old man. He was afraid, terribly afraid, and trying to avoid something that was approaching him. That something – that someone – was me, and yet it wasn’t. I was seeing everything from someone else’s point of view. There was something abhorrent about this . . . this monster—’
‘Monster?’
‘That’s how I felt. It was sick, depraved; I know because I was inside that mind for a while.’
‘Any clue as to identity?’
‘No, no, it was like before, three years ago. Wait – I remember large hands. Yes, it had large, brutal hands. And they carried a bag . . . there were instruments inside.’
‘Cutting instruments,’ said Overoy, not as a question.
‘I didn’t see them all, but I felt that’s what they were.’
‘Did the old man call out anything, perhaps the other person’s name?’
‘I couldn’t hear, everything was silent to me.’
‘Was the old man trying to get away?’
‘He couldn’t. He was struggling, trying to escape, but he couldn’t move from the bed. That was another thing that was so strange: he was lying on a narrow bed, like a bunk, and he was held there by straps of some kind, I think. He fought, but he was pinned to the bed. He couldn’t get away!’
‘Okay, take it easy, Mr Childes. Just tell me what happened.’
‘The hands, those big hands, took a small saw from the bag, began to cut into the old man’s head . . .’
Overoy could sense the anguish in the silence that followed. He waited several seconds before asking, ‘Do you have any idea where this took place, any clue at all?’
‘I’m sorry, but no. Not much help, is it? But you see, the reason I decided to call you was because I’m sure the person who did this to the old man is the same one who mutilated the boy’s corpse.’
Overoy swore under his breath. ‘How can you be so certain? You said yourself that you didn’t see whoever committed these acts.’
‘I . . . I just know. You have to take my word. For a few moments I was inside this creature’s mind, sharing its thoughts. I know it’s the same person.’
‘Did you say this happened last night?’
‘Yes. It was late, after eleven, maybe around twelve, I’m not sure. I looked through this morning’s newspapers and thought perhaps the story was too late to catch the early editions. There was no mention on the radio, either.’
‘As far as I know, nothing like that has happened within the last twenty-four hours. I can check with Central, but cases like this tend to get circulated pretty fast.’ Cigarette replaced pen once more and the detective inhaled deeply. ‘Tell me,’ he said through a cloud of smoke, ‘are these the only two incidents you’ve seen recently?’ Such a question would never have been asked so naturally a few years before.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well . . .’ The word was drawn out as if the policeman were reluctant to divulge too much. He came to a decision. ‘A prostitute was murdered a month or so ago and we believe there’s a connection with that crime and the opening of the kid’s grave.’
‘The same person?’
‘There are more than strong indications. The same kind of mutilations, the body torn open, insides removed, indents in the flesh that proved to be teethmarks, certain—’
‘A month ago?’
The sharpness in Childes’ question brought Overoy to a halt. ‘Roughly, yes. Does that mean something to you?’
‘The first sighting . . . I was swimming . . . I saw blood . . . organs . . .
‘Round about that time?’ the detective interrupted.
‘Yes. But nothing was clear, I didn’t realize what I’d seen. You’re certain it was the same person?’
‘Very certain. We matched saliva left on both bodies as well as wax dental impressions: there’s little doubt. As for motive, well, the insane need no such thing. The prostitute was sexually abused and we believe that took place after her death – no living woman, no matter how far down the road she was, would have allowed such abuse. As far as forensic could tell, no penetration took place – there were no semen traces – but objects had been forced into the vagina, so maybe the killer was frustrated by his own inadequacy. We know he had to be immensely powerful, because the prostitute had been strangled with bare hands, and she was no lightweight. Far from it, in fact: she had a record for violence herself, particularly against men.’
Overoy drew on the cigarette. ‘There was one other thing that makes the connection conclusive. I want you to think, though: did you “see” anything else, anything unusual, something you could identify?’
‘I told you, there was nothing.’
‘Just take time to think.’ Overoy stared down at his notepad and waited. After a while, he heard Childes’ voice again.
‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing more. When I concentrate, it only becomes more hazy. Can you tell me what you had in mind?’
‘Not right now. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Mr Childes. First I’ll check out this old-man business, see if anything’s come in yet. Then I’ll contact the officer in charge of the prostitute murder and the violation of the dead boy’s corpse. I’ll try and get back to you after that, okay?’
‘And you’ll keep this strictly between you and me?’
‘For the moment, yes. There really isn’t much for me to tell anybody, is there? And despite getting a result last time, I’m still the butt of a few jokes around this department for involving myself with you in the first place, so I’ve got precious little inclination to revive the whole matter again. Sorry to be so frank, but that’s how things are.’
‘That’s all right, I feel the same way.’
‘I’ll call you if I learn anything definite, then. It may be a while.’
When Overoy replaced the receiver he stared down at his notepad for some time. Childes was sincere, he was sure of that. A bit weird, perhaps, but that was hardly surprising with the extra sense he possessed. And then again, it was really the gift that was strange, not Childes himself.
The policeman stubbed out his cigarette and examined his fingers, frowning at the nicotine stains between them. He lit another cigarette, then reached for the pumice stone which doubled as a paperweight and began rubbing it vigorously against the stained skin. Childes had been right about the dead boy, yet had needed prompting over the prostitute, and even then had been vague. So what was he, a so-called hardbitten, cynical police detective, to make of it? Maybe nothing. Maybe something. He scanned his notes again. This grisly business of the old man – what the hell was that all about? Overoy dropped the pumice stone and circled one word with the pen.
Straps. Childes had said the old man had been strapped to a narrow bed. And the room had been sparsely furnished – how had he put it? Stark, that was it. What kind of place . . .?
Overoy stared hard at the circled word, then looked blankly at the wall opposite. He could see movement in the outer office through the frosted glass, hear typewriters, telephones ringing, voices, but none of that registered. There was something, a tragic incident the previous night. Could there possibly be a connection?
Uncertain, but more than curious, Overoy picked up the phone.
The policeman waited by the arrivals gate, conspicuous in his uniform of light-blue epauletted shirt and dark trousers. His height made him even more noticeable, and one or two of the passengers who had just alighted from the Shorts SD330 from Gatwick and were approaching the Customs desk eyed him nervously.
The small airport was crowded with seasonal tourists and businessmen. Outsid
e, the sun blazed with a summer intensity, any lingering chill in the air fiercely shrugged off by now. A constant stream of vehicles prowled the non-parking zone, spilling passengers and their luggage, swallowing up arrivals. Inside, the rows of seats were full with travellers, bored, scampering children tripping over stretched legs, weary mothers pretending not to notice, groups of healthy-looking holidaymakers laughing and joking, determined to enjoy even the last few minutes of their vacations.
Inspector Robillard grinned when he spotted the familiar figure striding along the arrivals corridor. At first glance, Ken Overoy didn’t appeared to have changed much over the years, but as he drew closer, the thinning, sandy-coloured hair and the slight bulge of his waistline became more apparent.
‘Hello, Geoff,’ said Overoy, switching his overnight bag to his left hand and extending his right. He ignored two Customs officers waiting by their desk. ‘Good of you to meet me.’
‘No problem,’ said Robillard. ‘You’re looking well, Ken.’
‘Yeah, who you kidding? Island life looks good on you, though.’
‘Put it down to weekend sailing. It’s great to see you after all this time.’ The two police officers had met while Robillard was on a CID training course at New Scotland Yard and later when both were attending an Inspectors course in West Yorkshire. Robillard had kept in contact with Overoy through the years, always seeking him out whenever excursions took him to England, enjoying the stories of intrigues that inevitably went with policing the nation’s capital, so different from law enforcement on the island – although Robillard had to admit they had their share of skulduggery. On this occasion, he took pleasure in being of assistance to the London detective.
He led Overoy from the air terminal to the waiting vehicle outside, a white Ford, the island’s crest on its sides, a blue light mounted on the roof.
‘How’s crime here?’ asked Overoy as he tossed his bag onto the back seat.
‘Increasing rapidly with the start of the tourist season. Wish you’d keep your tearaways over there where they belong.’
Moon Page 10
