by Steven Dunne
‘I’m flattered by your concern.’
Ray clapped his hands together. ‘You kill me.’
‘I will if you’ve hurt Terri.’
Ray’s grin faded and he nodded at the gun. ‘Speaking of help – it’s time to die.’ He held his finger dramatically above the Enter button on his laptop. ‘Point that at me and your daughter goes before you.’
Brook picked up the gun and flicked off the safety. ‘You know about guns?’
‘Internet,’ replied Ray.
Brook picked up the M9 and examined it. He had never used it before, didn’t even know if it would work. ‘The firing pin was disabled, you know.’
Ray held Brook’s gaze. ‘You think I didn’t try it out first? You don’t know me, Damen.’ He grinned. ‘Shit, I don’t know me.’
‘You fixed it,’ said Brook. Ray continued to smile. ‘Internet, right? How do I know you’ll keep your word, Ray?’
‘If I can keep a promise to a dead man, I can keep a promise to a friend in his final moments.’
Brook nodded and moved his hands over the gun. He checked the magazine. It was full. ‘A friend – so much more effective than a cyber-bully.’
‘Isn’t it!’ exclaimed Ray. ‘Russell made me realise and, well, Deity’s results will speak for themselves.’ He lifted the camcorder to his eye. The red dot appeared. ‘I told you it would be classy, Damen. The Deer Hunter directed by Michael Cimino – Oscar winner, no less. De Niro finds Christopher Walken playing Russian Roulette in a bar in Vietnam and tries to save his friend.’ Ray sniggered. ‘He fails.’ He held a hand ready to start the scene. ‘Ready for close-up. And – action.’
Brook lifted the gun to his temple and took a final look round his sparse kitchen. ‘One thing I need to tell you, Ray.’ He glued his eyes on to his opponent’s. ‘I’m not your friend.’
Then Brook pulled the trigger. There was a loud click and Ray burst out laughing. Brook tossed the gun on the table.
‘Your face!’ Ray giggled and pointed. ‘What am I like? I don’t know shit about guns, Damen,’ he continued, barely able to speak, ‘except it didn’t work when I fired it either.’
Brook stood and walked to the cupboard. Ray readied a finger over the keyboard. Brook ignored him and took out the leaded tumbler and filled it full of whisky. ‘Drink?’
‘I’m driving.’ Ray motioned Brook back to his chair. Brook glanced up the stairs to his bedroom door then took a sip of whisky before reluctantly returning to his seat.
‘Want to know something, Damen? I knew you’d pull the trigger.’
‘Want to know something, Ray? I knew the gun wouldn’t work.’
‘How?’
‘Because now I’ve seen your personality disorder at close quarters, I know a bullet’s too quick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that someone as sick as you needs to see the terror in people’s eyes as they die. You need to know that last second of life is as precious to them as it is worthless to you. You need the dying to see you watching on, living the life that they cling to. And you need to make that sensation last so you can feed on that energy in an effort to revive your own dead soul, if only for a few minutes.’
Ray stared at Brook, his grin absent. The silence hummed between them like an electricity pylon. ‘But Russell was quick.’
‘That’s when you found out you needed more. That’s why Deity is so drawn out. So you can watch the suffering. The parents, the friends, even the policeman trying to catch you.’
Brook’s vibrating phone broke the tension. Brook ignored it.
‘Go ahead,’ said Ray. ‘But don’t say the wrong thing.’
Brook looked at the display. ‘John. She’s fine – false alarm,’ he said. He listened for a few minutes. ‘Understood.’ Then rang off.
‘Progress?’ teased Ray.
‘Becky Blake.’
Ray narrowed his eyes. ‘What about her?’
‘We wondered why she was so upbeat in the last broadcast. Now we know.’
‘It’s because she’s famous now, remember.’
‘We spoke to her friend again. Fern. Guess what? Becky told her she was going away but not to tell anyone. She told her she was leaving the country to disappear like the girls in Picnic at Hanging Rock. She said it was going to be all over the internet and when it was over, she was going to be famous. Then, a year later, she’d turn up alive and well and ready for a life in the public eye.’
Ray searched, thin-lipped, for an answer. ‘No. She couldn’t have, she didn’t have her phone. I checked all their texts and calls at the party. We’d unsubscribed from Facebook—’
‘That’s the really odd thing.’ Brook smiled. ‘They had a conversation face to face. The afternoon of the party, she swore Fern to secrecy, told her to say nothing. That she’d see her soon.’
Ray slammed a fist on the table. ‘I told the cunt a million times. It was because of her I took all those precautions. I’m deleting all her scenes just for that.’
‘Take it easy,’ said Brook, worried that he’d smash his fist on the keyboard in a fit of temper.
Ray took a deep breath and gradually regained his composure. ‘Okay, we misled her. I admit it. I told Adele to spin her a yarn.’
‘A desert island for a year?’ sneered Brook. ‘And she believed it?’
‘We promised to make her famous. She believed what she wanted to hear and Adele was very convincing. I’d be filming the whole time, enough for a documentary, maybe even a movie . . .’
‘And that’s why you all had to have passports, even though you had no intention of leaving the country.’
‘To convince Becky, yes.’ He chuckled. ‘Actually I’m glad. I feel better knowing she betrayed me. It makes deceiving her that much sweeter.’
‘Deception won’t be at the top of the charge-sheet, Ray, I promise you.’
Ray shrugged. ‘I had to teach her a lesson, Damen, while there was still time. See her off to her Maker with a little humility in her bones. You should’ve been there. The others had taken their pill and gone to prepare, but I switched Becky’s to Rohypnol – enough to paralyse her but not enough that we couldn’t have some fun first.
‘You’ve heard of those tribes who pluck out the beating heart of their enemies then eat it while it’s still pumping to assume their power. Well, that’s the way we felt – Becky and me. When she opened her eyes and realised what was happening, man, what a rush. Deity? Fucking A – I was God to her, Damen. I put life inside her and then took it away.’
Brook’s eyes bored into him.
‘Don’t look at me like that, she had it coming. She was a nasty, spiteful bitch and I swore that one day I’d look into her eyes as she died and fuck her. And I always keep my promises.’ Ray took a deep breath and looked into the distance. ‘And boy, was it something – the best I ever had – even better than Yvette, the night after Russell hanged himself. Filmed it too. You want to see it?’
‘I’ll save it for your trial.’
Ray’s eyes widened. ‘My trial? That’s very tempting – almost worth giving myself up so I can be there to watch it.’
Brook stood, pushing his chair back. ‘All this high-minded talk about helping people with their pain and all you are is a tawdry little rapist.’
‘Careful, Damen.’ Ray held a dramatic finger over the keyboard. Brook took a step towards him but stopped, darting a glance at Terri on the monitor. ‘Sit down,’ commanded Ray.
Brook stood, glaring at Ray, aching to put his hands on him. Ray moved his digit closer to the keyboard.
‘Did you rape Adele as well?’ Brook asked.
Ray’s lip curled. ‘Why are you so vulgar! Adele was my friend. I gave her dignity.’
Brook looked across at the image of his unconscious daughter, thinking the unthinkable. Then a minor glitch on the picture darkened his features. All that we see . . . He reached for the glass of whisky and took another step towards Ray.
‘What are you doin
g?’
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Brook. ‘I can’t deny it.’ He raised the glass. ‘To Deity.’ Then he flung the contents into Ray’s eyes as he leaped for the laptop. Ray gasped as the whisky hit him but he was able to sway back towards the keyboard, crashing his hand on to the Enter button.
Brook grabbed him, his face contorted, fist drawn back to strike. ‘Where is she?’
‘I didn’t want that, Damen,’ said Ray, trying to break free. ‘You killed her, not me.’ He ducked out of the imagined assault but Brook had already thrown him to the floor and was bolting up the stairs.
‘Terri!’ he shouted. Brook grabbed the handle on his bedroom door. It was locked. He ran to the end of the corridor, catching sight of Ray through an upstairs window, laptop under his arm, jumping into the VW. Without giving it a second thought, Brook turned and hurtled towards the bedroom door, flinging himself against the frame. The door buckled but didn’t give, so Brook backed up again and this time literally ran through the door.
Moments later, Brook regained consciousness on the floor by his bed, lying amongst shards of lacquered wood. He was aware of blood streaming down his face from several cuts as well as his stitches, which had burst open. He put up a hand to staunch the flow only that he might see better. With a sickening feeling, he saw the bed was empty. He’d been watching a recording of his daughter immobilised in his bedroom and played over and over on a loop. It could’ve been filmed at any time that day.
Brook scrambled to his feet and careered down the stairs in two strides, falling at the bottom. He jumped up, swept the car keys into his hand and staggered to the car, jerking the BMW’s engine into life. He roared to the junction at the bottom of the hill, already debating left or right in his befuddled brain.
At the junction, he turned left and tore through the village at top speed. Within seconds he was out of Hartington and hurtling through dark country lanes. A mile away, on the other side of the valley he saw another car’s lights and gave chase. A minute later, cresting the brow of a hill, two minor roads – one left, one right – sheared off into the darkness.
Brook did a quick double-take and, seeing retreating headlights at the bottom of a long dip, hung a left in pursuit. He realised where Ray was headed but it was getting harder and harder to follow because his vision was blurring and he was drifting towards unconsciousness.
He reached the bottom of the long dip and began to climb. A rabbit caught in the headlights was squashed as Brook pushed the accelerator closer to the floor. It was no use. His head began to sag and the fog in his brain closed in around his vision. He almost crashed headlong into a drystone wall but managed to wrest the wheel round in time and screech to a rubber-burning halt.
He came round moments later, woken by a loud explosion, and saw a bright flash of light in the distance. He gripped the steering-wheel harder and flung the gearstick into first, covering the 500 yards to the junction in seconds.
He staggered out of the car. The wall at the junction had been wrecked at high speed, evidenced by the black tyre- and bright green paint-marks on some of the displaced stones. Several layers of limestone had been dislodged but the VW was nowhere to be seen. When Brook clambered on to the remnants of the wall he saw the flames fifty feet below, down a steep shoulder of land that ended in a dry gulley. Sheep and new lambs were scampering for dear life away from the burning debris.
Brook, however, half-ran and half-fell towards the fireball of blackening metal. Once there, he ran to the blazing boot and, covering his hand with no more than a handkerchief, tried to pull it open.
‘Terri.’ He screamed with pain as his skin sizzled against the metal but still he tugged without success.
Brook removed his hand and felt his skin come with it as he lurched round to the driver’s seat to look for a release mechanism. He could see the burning body behind the wheel but couldn’t get within ten feet as white-hot flames surged from the car. His lasting memory as he passed out was the crackling and spitting of a human being, the acrid stench of melting rubber and the delicious aroma of roasting meat.
‘Terri!’ screamed Brook.
Noble grabbed him around the shoulders and began to push him down. ‘Easy.’
‘I’ve got to find Terri.’ Brook struggled but his strength was gone and he was unable to overcome Noble. His eyes stung with smoke and he closed them to ease the fire under his eyelids. When he was able to open them again, Noble’s face appeared at the end of a long dark tunnel. ‘John.’ His voice was muffled by a face mask which was feeding him the sweetest gas, but Brook yanked it off and tried again.
Noble pushed Brook back down on to the stretcher. ‘Sir. Take it easy. We’ve got to get you to hospital.’
‘Terri,’ pleaded Brook. The sky behind Noble’s head turned into the roof of the ambulance and Brook sat up despite the burst of pain behind his eyes. He saw the flashing lights of police vehicles in the blackness and realisation dawned.
‘Sir, your hand is seriously—’
‘Terri was in the boot of the car.’
‘The VW?’
Brook levered himself off the trolley and put his right hand down on it. He felt a sickening pain. He looked down. His hand had been wrapped in a sterile bandage. At the same time he became aware of a tight wrapping around his head.
‘You need to rest,’ insisted Noble.
‘Then the sooner you let me see the car, the sooner I rest.’
Noble turned to the paramedic behind him.
The paramedic shrugged. ‘There doesn’t appear to be any smoke inhalation but he may have concussion and he needs to be on fluids for those burns.’
Brook cut short the consultation by getting to his feet and hopping unsteadily from the ambulance. He fought off the nausea and stepped gingerly around the loose limestone blocks and over what was left of the wall, then climbed down the slope towards the smouldering car. Noble appeared by his side a moment later and supported him down the slope.
Keith Pullin and his team of emergency workers delicately laid the blistered and charred remains of the body on to a canvas sheet. The knees were pulled up towards the chest and the desiccated hands were held near the face. The mouth was frozen in an oval of agony.
‘Male. About five ten, I’d say, though it’s difficult to tell height when they get themselves into that position,’ said Pullin. ‘Do we have a name, Inspector?’
Brook barely shook his head, gazing intently at the yawning boot of the car that Pullin had crowbarred open at Brook’s request. It was empty. He began to totter back up the slope, Noble in pursuit.
‘Hell of a blaze for a VW,’ said Pullin, taking out his cigarettes.
Brook turned. ‘What?’
Pullin inhaled a belt of tobacco smoke and turned to Brook. ‘Hell of a blaze for a VW. They don’t have large tanks.’
Brook’s eyes narrowed. What we see. . . ‘Think there might have been an accelerant?’
‘Very possible,’ replied Pullin. ‘We’ll know more in the morning.’
Brook walked back to the body and got down on his haunches to run an eye over the corpse. He stood and looked into the blackened shell of the car. The remains of the laptop Ray had gathered up as he made his escape, sat in the passenger-seat well. Brook turned to climb up the slope again.
‘. . . be on the lookout for a black Porsche Carrera, number-plate AFR 110, registered to an Adam Rifkind. Approach with caution and detain all occupants.’ Noble replaced the handset and looked across at Brook in the passenger seat. ‘It’s done.’
‘And we need to upgrade the alert at ports and airports to be on the lookout for Kyle Kennedy.’
‘Care to explain?’
‘It was too easy, John. That’s not Rusty Thomson or Ray down there. And he’s got four passports, remember. I’m guessing he won’t try to leave the country as himself or either of the girls.’ Brook held his good hand up to his head. His vision was blurring again.
‘Sir, you should be in the ambulance. You’re suffering.�
��
‘My daughter’s missing and it’s my fault. Why shouldn’t I suffer? Start the car and follow this road,’ added Brook, able to nod sufficiently to indicate a direction. Noble eyed him, unmoving. ‘Please.’
Noble started the car. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To find my daughter.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Back at the cottage. When I got there, the VW’s engine was warm. Ray had been somewhere before I got home. Somewhere close because Terri rang me from home so Ray only had half an hour to move her.’
‘I thought she rang you on her mobile.’
‘She did but her script for the call was in the kitchen. After she rang me, he took her somewhere then drove back to the cottage.’
‘And you think . . .’
‘I think it was too easy. He could have got clean away but he didn’t. He came for me, John. He wanted me to know about Deity. And he wanted me to come after him.’
‘So he engineered a fake crash?’ said Noble doubtfully.
‘The fire was too strong. Ray used an accelerant to burn the body beyond recognition. We’d think it was him and stop looking. At least until we identified the real victim.’
‘So he buys himself a few days, maybe a week.’ Noble nodded slowly.
‘Time enough to make a fresh start somewhere else. New face, new identity . . .’
‘Okay, it’s a bit of a stretch but I’ll buy. So how did he get away from the crash?’
‘Rusty had a bicycle, remember. I’m betting he stashed it there earlier. He’s been a step ahead all the way. Until now.’
‘He won’t get far on a bike,’ said Noble.
‘He won’t need it for long. He’s got other transport nearby.’
‘You mean Rifkind’s Porsche.’
‘Exactly. It was parked outside Rifkind’s holiday cottage. Remember – Adele and the others had their own house keys. I’m betting Adele also had a key to Rifkind’s cottage so she could let herself in to wait for him.’
‘And now Ray’s got it and can help himself to the Porsche keys.’
‘He took the Porsche keys before, because he gave me Adele’s house keys tonight. Insisted on it.’ Brook pulled out the keys given to him by Ray. ‘I’m guessing one of these gets us in.’
