by A D Davies
He put the glass back on the bar, the single malt untouched, then downed his Coke and left the pub. He was lucky with the number 46 bus and it dropped him half a mile away from his destination—the less-than-affluent suburb of Chapeltown.
The cold bit deep, chafing his face, his cheeks in particular. He pulled his cap down low as he passed the groups of young black men and spotty white youths huddled on the corner of the chip shop, avoided their curious stares, and pulled his coat tighter as a police car glided by. The loud crack he heard moments later, he told himself, was a car backfiring, not a gunshot. He wondered what Gillian would make of his behaviour, whether one destructive act was worse than another, and if such things can be quantified.
Like most nights in this neighbourhood there lurked a road lined with horrible women in short skirts and way too much makeup, most smoking and shivering and trying to catch his eye. A street with so many displaying their goods, though, was likely to be run by a pimp or gang, and such men repulsed Richard to a degree that he would not dare give his trade to one of them. Instead, he made his way to the adjacent road, where a gaggle of skinnier women loitered; pale, gaunt, skin hanging off them through rapid weight-loss; dregs for whom the only trade was the poorest of clients.
The first woman Richard stopped next to could have been mid-thirties or she could have been late-forties but when he studied her a moment longer he realised she was probably under thirty. Yes, this one needed him.
“Fifty for full sex,” she said.
Richard said, “Thirty.”
She took a deep, deep drag on her cigarette, her fingers trembling, eyes up and down over Richard. “Forty.”
“Thirty’s enough for a hit around here.”
She shrugged, nodded, and tossed her fag into the gutter. “Where you wanna go?”
“This way. I have a place.”
Richard held out his free arm and she took it, and they walked like any couple, except for her staggering gait and that she had to keep pulling her skirt down. The woman attempted small talk but Richard deflected her questions. He tried to imagine they were strolling the banks of the Seine, but the woman’s perfume was so pungent the image faded to black. At least the scent drowned out any lingering memory of whiskey.
What made him do this? Why seek out this woman, rather than, say, pick up a normal person? He was handsome enough, he knew that. Heck, Alicia’s body language suggested he could attract a woman some fifteen.
And yet he resorted to this.
Yes, he expected the therapist-speak was “self-destructive”, a synonym for “committing acts he knows to be wrong to deflect his own attention from more hurtful aspects of life.” If Katie had not been kidnapped, he would not be here tonight. He was certain of this because it was only the second time he’d indulged since leaving the States.
The other was in the weeks after Gillian died and he thought his body would eat itself if he continued to resist.
“Here we are.” Richard presented a small complex of lock-ups, deserted at this time of night. Many of the iron doors were warped and rusted but Richard’s was still in fine nick, only damage being graffiti and a few dents. Of course, the lock had been destroyed and the handle ripped off by would-be thieves, but that was Richard’s own doing, illusions that served as better security than any real lock. Plus, there was a remote system that alerted Richard to any break-ins here, so he knew it had not been breached in the year since he last checked up on the place.
In the wooden frame he found the recessed flap, enabling him to get his fingers into the real lock mechanism and swing the door. It opened the same way as a domestic garage but the hinges were to the side, swinging it out then in, revealing a tidy workspace and a 1995 Ford Escort van.
“Wow,” the woman said. “That is going to be cold.”
“I have blankets,” Richard said, and ushered her inside the lock-up and shut them in.
He flicked on the light and led her to the back of the van and opened the doors. It was dark inside the van but easy to make out a mattress, two pillows, and a duvet that Richard bought from Marks and Spencer after the last time. He glanced at the woman and she seemed impressed—a hint of life in her sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“By the way, I’m Mia,” she said.
I doubt that, Richard thought, but said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Brian,” and took off his coat.
“Mia” crawled into the van on her hands and knees, a rustling noise all around her, then turned to face him, leaning on her elbows, knees in the air. “So how you wanna do this?”
“Slowly,” he said, and climbed in beside her. He laid out the pouch he’d taken from under his spare tyre.
“What’s that?” Mia asked.
“Something I used to rely on a bit too much.”
“Yeah, I can empathise with that.”
Richard raised an eyebrow at the three-syllable word.
She said, “Oh, yeah, I went to school. Quite clever, me. But I doubt you’d guess, cos of, y’know…” She mimed injecting her arm then stuck her tongue out and pretended to be high.
“Indeed.”
“People think I’m just some skank junkie, and hey they’re right about that, but—”
“Why don’t you quit?” Richard asked. “If you’re so clever?”
When she laughed, her head rocked too far back, revealing her answer to be practiced and well-worn. “I never got round to it. Maybe I will next week or something. Right now we got business. You gonna shag me or what?”
Richard sat up and placed the pouch on the wheel arch. He gripped the zipper in his thumb and forefinger, and pulled. The teeth clacked open one by one.
The black pouch opened on a hinge like a book.
Inside were strapped six clean, bladed instruments. Richard selected a slender knife with an ivory handle and a jewel in the hilt.
“This,” he said, holding it in front of Mia’s face, “is a stiletto. The shoes that slags and hookers wear are named after it due to the thin blade and sharp point.”
Mia’s wide eyes followed it. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.” Richard slid it back into place and removed a military knife with a thick handle and serrated edge and held it firm in his hand, again close to her face. “This is a titanium MPK as used in the US by their navy SEALs. MPK stands for Multi-Purpose Knife and is utilised during active missions because of its durability in seawater and other harsh conditions.”
Mia didn’t seem to like that one as much. “Why exactly are you showing me these?”
“Well, it’s like this,” he said, and slammed the blade hard into Mia’s chest.
In these situations, Richard liked to think he felt the heart beating around the metal of the blade. He imagined it labouring to carry on its function, but withering, flapping uselessly, then giving up and sagging like a deflated balloon.
Mia’s blood was surprisingly warm on his hand, and he almost regretted killing her. She had a little potential. That one word “empathise” had piqued a moment of regret but ultimately it was her own life, and she had chosen drugs over a decent future. That was the reason she was on the streets of Chapeltown selling her scrawny body for thirty quid a ride. If she’d chosen more wisely she would not be dead right now.
It didn’t take long for Richard to clean up. He folded in the plastic that had rustled so loudly when Mia climbed in, taped up the sides, rolled her up like a carpet, and sealed the ends with cable ties and packing tape. He took his MPK to the sink in the corner and opened a pre-prepared bottle containing diluted sulphuric acid, poured a good depth, and dropped in the knife. It hissed briefly and once it was clean of blood and other evidence he took it out using tongs. He emptied the sink and filled it with water and added a lot of salt, then submerged the knife again, swilling it clean of any trace of the dead prostitute. Finally, he rolled up his sleeves and cleaned himself.
Back in America he would have been far more careful than this. He used to wear two pairs of surgical vets’ gloves—t
he sort that go right up the arm—and over them a pair of leathers, then he’d burn everything he was wearing along with—usually—the instrument he used. As far as he was aware no one ever suspected him or found any of his clothing or weapons.
And now, a victim of kidnapping and near-grieving, who would even suspect him of this? One final risk to take, though.
He opened the lock-up door, fired up the van and drove out into the night with the plastic-wrapped corpse in the back.
It was the most dangerous part of this, he thought, the idea that he might be caught by a curious copper or by a drunk driver shunting him, or simply falling asleep at the wheel. But with the pouch beside him, all the knives now back where they belonged, he felt safe. In fact, he felt like he could go out there and find Katie himself.
Actually…
Richard should understand her captor, be able to all but see him. Who better than someone who had avoided detection for so long? Not that dizzy copper, no matter how cute she was or how much she made Richard smile. Or her sad lanky partner. Richard should know this man, how his mind worked.
How to find him.
And that was Richard’s new target, his latest aim in life: to find his little girl before she died, no matter what stood in his way.
So, sticking to the speed limit, with one eye out for drunks and coppers, Richard Hague drove out of Leeds to the place he last disposed of someone whom he encountered during a weak moment. To where, he knew, that body had never been found.
Chapter Five
Murphy’s incident room was basically a vacant office in Glenpark Police Station, a building that had stood for decades but was in the process of being dismantled, its services to be absorbed by Sheerton and Chapel Allerton. Although the new police commissioner would not allow redundancies halfway through his tenure, he had initiated a region-wide freeze on recruitment, and mentioned—in passing—that “natural wastage” was unlikely to be back-filled. For now, though, the room was sufficient: four desks, two computers, a large whiteboard, and one phone. No windows, though.
He and Alicia returned from re-interviewing witnesses—at Alicia’s behest—at nine p.m., and hammered out a timeline on the whiteboard. If nothing else, the girl had energy. And, once Murphy persuaded her that love hearts over the “i”s were not appropriate, he was able to concentrate, eventually agreeing with her that Katie had to be found within the next three days, or else Wednesday would see them inform a third father that his daughter would never come home again.
At ten p.m., the extent of Murphy’s night shift team—Ball and Cleaver—hustled in and Ball asked, “Who’s the bird?”
Murphy knew what was coming but was a too tired to stop it.
Alicia held her hand up and said, “Oh, that’s me. Me! I’m the bird!”
Ball said, “Hi.”
Cleaver looked at Murphy. Murphy nodded. Cleaver said, “Hi.”
“Alicia Friend, this is Sergeants Ball and Cleaver.” Murphy indicated each of them, and explained Alicia’s status on the case.
Ball was verging on nominative determinism, that is to say his name being “Ball” increases the chances of him becoming a ball in later life; to Murphy’s recollection, Ball’s double-breasted suit jacket had not been buttoned for a good two years. His usually-unkempt beard made him ideal for undercover vice work—the dirty old man incarnate—but whilst working with him Murphy had insisted on smarter, trimmed face fur. He was assigned to the case because Pippa, the first victim, was assumed to be a prostitute, and they called in Ball to help identify her. He was twenty-four hours in by the time they discovered she was not a sex-worker, and Murphy came along to relieve him. The ground Ball made by going through witnesses and other detritus meant he was already full of knowledge, so in the end he just stuck around; Murphy suspected his DCI was happy to loan him out. When the second girl went missing, they suspected a connection, and Ball recommended his colleague.
From what Murphy recalled, Cleaver had always been skinny. Now in his late forties, though, middle-age spread ate into the ample cloth of his suits, and his years were beginning to show. But he was an analyst, and a decent one at that. It was why he and Ball were paired so often; Ball’s people skills—at least reading people—set off against Cleaver’s ability to spot a financial or chronological inconsistency from thirty yards.
In another time, Murphy might have liked these guys. But they were both supposedly mature men who too often acted like juveniles, and sometimes were downright rude. Now, despite their skills on the job, Murphy could barely stand the sight of them.
“Alicia,” he said, “Ball and Cleaver have been working nights on this—it’s where the majority of witnesses seem to live—but I’ve put them on your theory as of today. Came in a little early to set up the civilian researcher team.”
“Yeah,” Ball said. “Five hours ago. We’re back in his life and now we’re in yours.”
Cleaver formed a gun with his finger and fired it at Alicia. “Lucky you.”
Neither had taken their eyes off her since they came in. She leaned over one of the tables and pouted like Marilyn Monroe, then spoke breathily like her too, “Well, boys, we have a lot of work to do.” She snapped into business mode, running down everything she told Murphy—the sinking mud, the local angle, the sketchy psyche profile of Katie Hague and her “nice dad.” All the while, Ball and Cleaver sat with their arms folded—schoolboys, with a crush on the teacher. Murphy didn’t see the attraction. Alicia was cute, sure, but like a kitten or a puppy; nothing sexual about her at all. Yet, guys like Ball and Cleaver don’t always think the same way as guys like Murphy.
“Any questions?” Alicia asked.
Ball raised his hand. “What time you get off?”
Cleaver added, “New members of the team get the first round in.”
Alicia smiled patiently. Again, the teacher analogy occurred to Murphy, as if Alicia were mulling over how to deal with the class clown or aggressive I-know-my-rights-you-can’t-do-nuthin’-to-me kid. She held their eyes and went over to the board, took one photo of each girl, and stood over the pair of sergeants.
She slapped a photo of Hayley Davenport’s corpse on the table in front of them.
“Dead.”
She slapped down a photo of Pippa Bradshaw, the one of her grinning, holding the koala, helping its paw wave for the last photo of her young life.
“Pippa Bradshaw. Dead.”
She held up one of Katie Hague’s photos, another grinner, this time in an England rugby shirt. She waved it in front of their faces.
“And this is Katie Hague. Missing. Probably being held by the same gentleman who killed the other two. We have about fifty hours before he kills her, possibly less if his mental state is deteriorating.”
She turned away whilst tossing the photo. It span in the air and came to rest on Ball’s lap. He wasn’t smiling any more.
He said, “I was trying to lighten the mood.”
“And I appreciate that, Sergeant Ball, really I do. I wish more coppers were a bit more cheery.” She glanced at Murphy. “But for now, let’s focus. It’s late, and I need my beauty sleep.”
Murphy reluctantly entered the conversation. “Sergeants, I’m assuming you would have called me if anything turned up regarding parolees?”
Cleaver nodded. “No bites so far. I’ve only examined that pattern you specified, though. Tomorrow I’m going through all violent parolees released in the past year. Civvies’re combing through the records tonight, should have a full list soon. We’ll get some kip for now, then start checking alibis as they come in.”
“Good,” Alicia said at Cleaver accepting Murphy’s order. “Ball?”
Ball nodded. “I’ll have a crack at the ones that don’t check out on paper.”
“And the Hayley Davenport forensics should be here first thing too. So we’re all agreed? Nothing more to be done tonight except wait?”
“Agreed,” Cleaver said. “Unless the civvies turn up something big. But I’ve given th
em the boss’s number, so they’ll wake him up if we need to move.”
“Thanks,” Murphy said.
Ball stood and turned to the door, but couldn’t resist a final dig. “I guess our new assistant didn’t like your other theory, then?”
Alicia lasered in on Murphy. “There’s another theory?”
Murphy closed his eyes. Not only was he physically tired after a fifteen-hour day, he was pretty sick of getting the piss taken out of his “alternative” theory on the case.
“Oh yeah.” Cleaver already had his coat on. “Hasn’t he shown you the forbidden file?”
Alicia practically bounced. “Ooh, ooh, a forbidden file? I love forbidden files. Who forbidden-ed it? Is that the word? No, can’t be. Forbade. Who forbade it?”
“The big man,” Ball said, zipping his coat, the only garment that fit him properly. “Chief Super Rhapshaw.”
“It’s nothing,” Murphy said. “Let’s get our beauty sleep.”
“No way I’ll be able to sleep now,” Alicia said. “Talk. What’s the forbidden file?”
Murphy intentionally took a long time digging the file out of his personal briefcase. Not the official casebook, naturally. He set it on the table at the head of the room, standing hunched over it before explaining.
The “forbidden file” was a missing persons case. Tanya Windsor. “No relation to the queen,” Murphy said, “but by all accounts her family rarely correct people who assume they are.”
Alicia grinned at that. “The little Windsors pretending to be the big Windsors.”
The little Windsors lived in a house that wasn’t quite a mansion and wasn’t quite a house in the traditional sense. Eight bedrooms, a study, two living rooms, a dining room, a huge kitchen, a staff of three—cook, cleaner, and live-in butler—and ten acres of land stretching like a finger into National Trust moorland. Their money came from the nineteenth century and it fluctuated along with world economies: tough in the 30s, booming in the 50s, stuttering in the 70s, peaking in the Thatcher-driven 80s. The crashes in the 90s barely touched them, and the recession of the late 2000s was of less concern still, largely thanks to heavy investment in one of the few industries unaffected by any economic downturn.
