by Michael Kerr
“I guess I was always a tomboy. Dolls, prams and pretty dresses were wasted on me. I was forever climbing trees, playing football, and fighting. I was going to join the armed forces, but thought it a bit mindless to be told who this week’s enemy was. I wasn’t prepared to kill strangers, who like me would be tools of the government of the day. I’m an individual, not expendable fodder. I had an uncle who was a copper in CID, and I thought he had an exciting and rewarding career. And I came to believe that it was. But after I got shot, I had a lot of questions and not many answers. I don’t know if in the end it was fear or just a reaction to the whole sordid business, or both, but I couldn’t go back to it.”
“Do you ever miss it?”
“For a while it was as though I’d lost an arm, and there was a lot of guilt. I felt a coward, who’d run home crying after having my eye blackened.”
“You’re no coward, Amy. You just knew when it was time to move on.”
“We both chose a new path to follow, and look at us now, up to our necks in what we walked away from. It must be kismet.”
“It’s not destiny. I didn’t make a clean break. I still work with convicted killers. And for some reason I can’t say no if I’m asked to consult on pattern or ritual murders. There’s a side of me that still wants to be in the game; a part that I can’t deny. You’re only involved in this case through association...because of me.”
“I could have kept my nose out of it. I wanted to be included.”
Mark got up and poured more coffee for both of them. His face and mood were equally grave. “I should have given more thought to your safety,” he said. “I was stupid. I drew Cain out and put you in danger.”
“The next time you agree to work up a profile, don’t cross the magic line, then. Distance yourself from it.”
“I’d like to think that I could say no, period, if I’m ever approached again. But I might not be able to.”
“I know. We are what we are. How do we go forward with this case? There has to be something we can do.”
“I don’t think there is. It’s up to Barney and his team to flush Cain out.”
“But they don’t have what you’ve got. They can’t get into his mind.”
“I can’t either. I couldn’t foresee him executing three cops. He even took the time after he’d killed them to let Caroline get dressed,” Mark said, and then fell silent, suddenly consumed by intense rumination.
Amy watched as Mark figuratively detached himself from his surroundings and drew inward, to another place; a corner of his mind that allowed him to see more clearly what eyes could not.
“Billy!” Mark said after less than ten seconds had elapsed, almost causing Amy to spill her coffee. “It’s insane, but I’ve got a real off-the-wall idea.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Billy Hicks at the hospital. You know, the young guy who sees auras around people. I’m wondering if he can do the same with personal effects.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure. Cain made Caroline get dressed. She was in bed when he broke in, with cops in the house. She would have most likely been wearing a nightdress, T-shirt or something.”
“True. I doubt that she would have been starkers with armed police in the next room.”
“Even if she was, the pillow or sheet that she was lying on would do.”
“Would do what, Mark? Explain where you’re coming from.”
“I want Billy to see and hold something that Caroline had contact with when Cain went into that bedroom and was with her.”
“You think he’ll have some psychic vision?”
“I don’t know. It may be the most stupid and way-out idea that I’ve ever had. But when there’s nothing to lose, then what the hell. Police forces world-wide have used psychic investigators and clairvoyants. And some have proved uncannily helpful.”
“It’s better to have tried and failed―”
“Than to live life wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t tried,” Mark said, finishing off the Alfred Lord Tennyson quote.
Not allowing himself time to change his mind, Mark phoned Barney.
“You want the nightie she was wearing?” Barney said, taken aback by Mark’s request.
“Yeah,” Mark said, glad that he could not see the expression on the veteran cop’s face. “I need to play a hunch.”
“Give me some more, Mark. I don’t understand how it will help with the investigation.”
“I know someone who gets insights. Just run with this, Barney. It can’t do any harm, and there’s a chance we might get a break.”
“You’re talking about a bloody psychic. We don’t recognise or rate them.”
“You use me and other psychological profilers. This is just one step beyond that. And you wouldn’t be compromised. The person I plan to approach would not be given any details of the case.”
“The garment is with forensics.”
“Get it back off them, for Christ’s sake. Fibres and hairs won’t help you. We already know who he is. We need to know where he is.”
Barney evaluated the situation. It was true what Mark had said. Currently they had nothing that would help them home in on Cain.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Amy’s.”
“Stay put. I’ll get it to you ASAP.”
“Thanks, Barney,” Mark said before the line purred.
Forty-five minutes later, a patrol car pulled up at the front of the house. Mark went out to take possession of the paprika coloured cotton nightie, which was stuffed into a transparent, zip-locked plastic evidence bag, which he had to sign for.
Minutes later, Mark was ready to go. “Make sure that the doors and windows are locked,” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” Amy said as they walked over to where he had parked JC. “I want to soak in a hot bath. And I may even go into the office later. They’ll be starting to think that I’m taking the urine.”
“Okay. I should be back before dark,” he said, climbing into the Cherokee and keying the engine.
She kissed him, then closed the door and stepped back, watching until the four-by-four reached the end of the street and vanished from view. Back inside the house, she noticed that Mark had left his mobile phone on the kitchen table. In his haste, he had forgotten it.
It was over an hour later when it rang.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello. You must be Amy,” a pleasant male voice.
“Who’s speaking, please?” she said, knowing that it wasn’t Barney’s voice, but believing it to be the police trying to contact Mark.
“Is Dr Mark there?” the caller said, ignoring her question.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The guard in the gatehouse raised his hand to Mark, recognising the doctor and his vehicle, but still checking the plate number against his list before pushing the button to activate the opening of the large gates, and hoping that the doctor would allow them to open fully this time.
Mark gave a lazy salute and drove through, to skirt the lakeside, having to almost brake to a stop as a couple of geese waddled unconcernedly in front of him, oblivious to what the effect of impact with a Jeep Cherokee would result in.
Entering the building, Mark collected his security keys, went to his office and draped his navy fleece over the back of a chair, before heading for the residential wing on which Billy was located.
Dr Jeremy Pank, a rotund little man in a too-tight white coat – and wearing what were deemed nowadays to be John Lennon glasses, with a pink cast to their lenses – approached him. “The director is infuriated, Mark,” he said with a smug smile. “He doesn’t like the attendant publicity that your article has brought to his door. I wouldn’t be surprised if he suspends you.”
“Jeremy, fuck off, why don’t you?” Mark said as he shouldered past him without breaking stride.
“You can’t just come and go as you like, and treat people with such disrespect,” Jeremy called out, his face flushed
with anger.
“Sit on it,” Mark said, raising his right hand and extending the middle finger, but not turning.
Making his presence known to the orderly in the wing office, and telling him that he was there to visit Billy, Mark went to the young man’s room.
“Hi, Dr R... Ross,” Billy said, a smile lighting his face at Mark’s surprise visit.
“Hi yourself, Billy. What kind of day are you having?” Mark said.
“A g... good one. I’ve been reading some Shakespeare,” he said, holding up a thick copy of the bard’s complete works. “I don’t really understand th…that much of it, but I like the old-fashioned w... words. I have the feeling that he was a very special and g... gifted person.”
“He was, Billy. And so are you, in a different way. I’ve come to ask you for some help.”
“I’ll help you in any way I c... can, Dr Ross,” Billy said, and with a fleeting, guileful look added. “Would it merit another walk b...by the lake?”
Mark smiled. “Yes, Billy, it probably would.” He was not offended by the request. If you don’t ask, chances are you won’t get.
“What d...do you want me to do?” Billy said.
Mark took the nightie out of the bag and held it out. “I want you to take this, and tell me any thoughts or impressions you have about it.”
Billy reached out and gently took the garment, to close his eyes and crush the material between his hands, then to his face, to smell the fabric.
Billy had sometimes experienced ‘vibes’ from inanimate objects. It wasn’t a sense like the auras he saw around people; that was a constant facility he possessed. The images that touching articles could induce were haphazard and periodic; another talent he had never mentioned to anyone. Now, holding the flimsy nightie, his mind was filled with a rush of powerful emotions, and images that made him moan aloud.
Mark neither spoke nor moved. He did not want to break the concentration that was etched on the young man’s face, as Billy lowered the nightie, but kept his eyes tightly closed.
Billy was transported. He was sitting on another bed in another room, which was dark and full of oppressing shadows. A figure moved towards him from an open door, and he felt numb, rooted to the spot, entangled in an invisible net of fear. Someone, a woman, was in mortal danger. Then a few scattered, random images from the woman’s memory banks half-formed in his mind; of people’s faces, a collie dog, the BBC and a houseboat. That was all. He had gleaned all residue of events that had somehow been conveyed by the fabric, which had become like chewed-out gum; bland and bereft of all flavour, and now no more than the sum of its fibres. He was wholly back in the safety of his room with Mark, relieved to be away from the distressing situation that he knew was real and ongoing.
Mark waited.
“I was in another place, Dr Ross,” Billy said, his voice now fluent and without the trace of a stammer, as he reported his experience. “I was wearing this nightie. Someone came for me in the darkness, and I was terrified. But it wasn’t me. I was looking out through the eyes of a young woman in grave danger. I think her captor is going to kill her.”
“Anything else, Billy? Anything at all?” Mark said, though he was more than impressed by what he had already been told.
Billy seemed to shrink visibly, his shoulders sagging as his head dropped forward.
“Only that I f... felt the presence of great evil, Dr Ross. The person who t... took her has no conscience. He believes that life is a c... commodity, which he has the right to take as h... he sees fit. And I don’t know how b... but I got a glimpse into the he woman’s memory and saw images of people, a dog, and a boat among other things.”
“Can you describe the boat, Billy?”
“No. It was j... just a quick flash of white on water. I think it could have been a houseboat.”
“Okay, Billy. Thanks for what you just did. I’ll arrange for us to take that walk in the next day or two. You’ve earned it.”
“I’ll look f...forward to that, Dr Ross. Be careful, though. You’re still in g... great danger.”
“I’ll watch my back, Billy. I’ll see you soon,” Mark said, taking the nightie back and stuffing it into the bag. He then let the orderly know that he was leaving the residential wing, and headed back to his office.
Writing down all that Billy had said, he was unable to begin to understand what power enabled the young man to somehow see what he had from holding the nightie that Caroline had worn. Could it all be just a figment of Billy’s strange mind? As he pondered what seemed to be an impossible feat with no rational explanation, Mark noticed the blinking red light on the phone. There was one message. He hit the play button and listened to Amy’s voice. She was trying to keep it even and controlled, but the pitch and tone gave away the underlying agitation: ‘Mark, phone me, it’s urgent. I’ve just spoken to Cain’.
Snatching up the receiver, he punched in Amy’s number. The presentiment of imminent disaster enveloped him, with what would prove to be good reason.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Who is this?” Amy repeated the question, although deep down she had no need to ask. She knew that it was Cain.
“You know exactly who it is, sweet lips. Now be a good girl and put Dr Mark on.”
“I can’t do that.”
A pause. “I understand. You aren’t with him, but you have his phone. Where are you, Amy? Tell me.”
“If you really expect me to do that, then you’re more insane than I thought, if that’s possible.”
“Be very careful, Amy Egan. Don’t say things that you will regret if we happen to meet. Tell the Yank that I will dedicate Caroline to him. She will be punished for his past insults. Larry lost face because of him, literally. And now he can add what Caroline will shortly suffer to his guilt-ridden conscience. His inefficiency is mildly disappointing. I expected much more from him and thought he may at least live up to his third-rate book.”
“You can tell him all this yourself, when he finds the hole you’ve crawled into, you sad, out of control, pathetic little shit,” Amy said, finding some small pleasure in badmouthing him.
“I am in total control, you stupid slut. Think of the pleasure and sense of well-being that fulfilling your own pathetic needs gives you, and try to comprehend that what I do gives me tenfold the gratification that you have ever experienced. I am unrestricted in my actions, and allow myself to indulge in the ultimate game, without fear of retribution. It all comes down to different strokes for different folks.”
“Normal people don’t get their rocks off by mutilating and killing, Cain,” Amy countered, her anger rising, overcoming the initial shock and fear of his disembodied voice. “You are one seriously fucked-up disease. Why don’t you just put your sick head on the nearest railway line and wait for the next train to hell?”
“You interest me, Amy,” he said, not rising to her artless bait. “You have grit, over the phone that is. I wonder if you would be so forthright in the flesh, face to face. I think not. Perhaps we’ll find out. When I have a spare hour or two, I might just make your acquaintance. I’d enjoy that, but you most certainly would not. For now, just give the good doctor my regards, and let Barney Bear know that young Gary is rotting in a shallow grave, somewhere in Epping Forest. If he starts looking now, he may come across the bones in twenty years or so.”
The phone went dead, and Amy began to shake. The killer, albeit only his voice, had entered her home unbidden. And like a rat that had died behind a skirting board, it had fouled the atmosphere, contaminating every inch of it with its stink.
Blink.
He was driving through Laleham, on his way back to the houseboat. He had left Caroline tethered to the bed and driven away from the area to phone Ross, but had ended up speaking to Amy Egan. And then another fugue had robbed him of awareness.
Back on board, he sat in the murky saloon, blinds closed, staring unseeing into the shadows. A thin, glistening slug-trail of saliva ran from the right corner of his open mouth, and h
is expression was one of untenanted lunacy.
After a while, the storm in his neural pathways subsided, and normal service resumed. He looked about, as though he were seeing the interior of the houseboat for the first time. The episodes were becoming far more frequent. Maybe he just needed sleep, he thought, absently wiping the drool from his chin. Standing up, he massaged his temples and then went across to the fridge, took out a four-pint container of milk and drank over a pint of it.
Ross would no doubt think that his having abducted and being preoccupied with Caroline would buy him some breathing space. Wrong. Now was the perfect time to up the anti and really hurt him. Mr Ex-FBI had not answered his home number, and was not with his woman. Amy Egan was alone. He would drive to Richmond, check the local phone book, and if she wasn’t listed, then find her through the electoral role. The psychologist would soon need extensive counselling himself, if he were ever to come to terms with what he would find. The love of the shrink’s life would be the living palette; the walls of her house the canvas on which he would produce a masterpiece in blood, and entitle it: The Art of Death.
“Amy?” Mark said, weak with relief when she picked up.
“Thank God you got my message, Mark,” she said. “Cain called me. He rang your mobile number.”
“What did he say?”
Amy had written down as much of the conversation as she could remember, and read it to Mark from the notepad in front of her.
“Did you call Barney?” Mark said.
“Yes. I told him what I’ve told you. He’s trying to trace the caller number from your phone.”
“Okay. Don’t go to the office, or anywhere. Just stay put. I’m leaving Cranbrook now.”
“He wouldn’t come here, Mark,” Amy said. “He’s got Caroline. You said that the heat was off us for the time being.”
“That was before he called you. The son of a bitch might do anything. We have to believe that you are in his firing line. The guy is totally unpredictable.”
