by Michael Kerr
“Hurry, Mark. I need you here.”
“I’m on my way. I love you, Amy.”
She went through the house and made sure that every window was both closed and locked. She then double-checked the front and back doors. Still feeling like a goldfish in a bowl, she withdrew a teak-handled carving knife from the block next to the bread bin, immediately feeling better for having the heavy, razor-sharp knife gripped tightly in her hand.
Mounting the stairs, with the feeling that she was overreacting to a nonexistent situation that was not about to happen, Amy tried to calm down and evaluate the facts. It was broad daylight. Cain was not going to appear like the unstoppable guy in the Halloween movies. And he wasn’t the fucking Terminator...Tell Larry Holden that, she thought, not able to stop hearing the killer’s voice, or the things he had said, which kept repeating over and over in her mind.
Standing on the landing, Amy felt irrationally vulnerable and defenceless. If Cain came, then a knife would in all likelihood be useless against him. Barney had said he had a gun. She needed to hide...but where? He would systematically search the house; every room, cupboard, wardrobe, and any other place that was big enough to conceal her.
Retracing her steps downstairs to the kitchen, she rummaged through the cupboard under the sink unit and pulled out a canister of Raid. ‘Kills bugs dead’, the label proclaimed. Cain might not be the type of insect that they had in mind, but a shot of the spray in the eyes would temporarily blind him, giving her enough time to follow up with the knife. Her instincts told her to run, get the hell out of the house and drive away. But what if he was already out there, watching and waiting? Better to face any danger on home territory. At that moment, soaring through the skies in the Cessna would have been the only place where she would have felt truly safe.
A quick stop at an internet café was all it took to find Amy Egan’s name and address in the UK online phonebook. He drove to the location and could see no sign of police in the area. He would have seen or sensed them as he cruised the streets in the proximity of Amy’s house near Richmond Park.
There was a Nissan standing at the kerb outside the well-kept Georgian gaff, which he presumed was Amy’s. She would be at home alone, of that he was positive. The police would not be watching her; would believe that having abducted Caroline, he would be fully, if temporarily engaged.
He parked almost a hundred yards away, behind a Volvo estate, then walked – his leg now only sore, not causing him to grimace with pain as he put weight on it, or to limp – past her house, turning left at the bottom of the street to find a passageway that separated one row of back gardens from those opposite.
The loud noise was sudden; a crash that only lasted for half a second, but Amy knew that it was the back door exploding open. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Cain. She felt panic rising, threatening to paralyse her and prevent her from taking any evasive action. She bit down on her tongue, hard enough to make her grunt with a level of pain that freed her locked limbs.
Moving fast across the first-floor landing, she entered her bedroom and quietly eased the door shut behind her. He would come, that was as sure-fire as night following day. Shit! She had forgotten to pick up Mark’s mobile; had isolated herself. Stupid bitch. No matter. When he opened the door, she would be behind it, ready to spray the mace substitute into his eyes, and to bury ten inches of Sheffield steel into his chest.
After what seemed an interminable length of time, a board on the landing creaked under weight. He had obviously searched the ground floor and satisfied himself that she was not there. Now, he was only a few feet from her. Almost crippled with terror and knowing exactly what he was capable of doing, she raised both the knife and canister, to see them shake in her trembling hands. This was not a burglar, or someone that she could talk down and deal with rationally. Cain was a monster, infinitely more dangerous than any run-of-the-mill thief or rapist. His motive was known, and his past crimes only too graphically illustrated what he would do to her, given the chance.
With nowhere to run, she would have to face death head on, and hope that she could thwart it.
The round, crazed porcelain knob began to turn, and Amy watched; breath held and heart thudding, spellbound as the faded rose that decorated it slowly revolved through 180 degrees. She readied herself, biting back a cry that was aching to be released.
The door burst open and was thrown against her, knocking her hands back, sending the can of Raid flying through the air, and pushing the edge of the knife’s blade into her face to produce a short, deep cut down the centre of her chin.
He was fast. He rounded the now wide-open door, and his left hand snaked out, gripped her by the wrist and jerked her brutally away from the wall, to throw her across the room. She pirouetted off balance and slammed into the edge of the solid oak wardrobe, crying out as the bone-jarring collision between her back and the unforgiving wood winded her, causing her to sink to the floor in a splay-legged sitting position. Instinctively, she attempted to push herself up, simultaneously thrusting her hand out, only to discover that it was empty; the knife gone, now lying four feet away on the carpet, out of reach.
With her lungs cramping, Amy looked up into the black, emotionless eyes of the Park Killer. He was of average height, broad, and wore a black parka, blue jeans, and a long-billed baseball cap with a patch of the Warner logo ‘What’s up, Doc?’ embroidered on to the front of it. The expression on his wide, high-cheeked face was one of undisguised delight, as he pointed the silencer-equipped pistol at her chest.
“Where’s Ross?” he said, taking a step towards her.
“Where’s Caroline?” she countered.
“Under all your noses on her now ex-boyfriend’s houseboat,” Bobby said, grinning, happy to give up information that would never find its way out of the bedroom. “Your turn. Where is Ross?”
“On his way, and so are the police,” Amy said, annoyed to hear the tremor of fear in her voice.
“In that case, I’d better hurry,” he said. “Stand up, Amy, and take off your sweater. Be aware that if you try to fuck me about, I’ll gut shoot you.”
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she whimpered, climbing slowly to her feet and cringing back into the niche formed by the wall and the side of the wardrobe. If he thought that she was too scared and intimidated to offer any resistance, then a chance might present itself.
“The sweater,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got under it that the Yank finds so attractive.”
Amy pulled the sweater off over her head and dropped it at her feet.
He moved closer, grasped the front of her blouse and ripped it open, popping buttons. As the garment came apart, her breasts, unfettered by a bra, spilled out. She wanted to knee him in the crotch, or make a bid to jam her fingers into his eyes, but the cold, steel end of the silencer on the gun was pressed against her now bare midriff, almost on the scar left by the bullet wound. She remembered the agony she had suffered, and the blood in her veins seemed to thicken into syrup and render her incapable of any action.
His free left hand reached out and latched on to her right breast, causing her to draw even further back, to shudder with revulsion as he massaged the flesh, then squeezed hard enough to make her yelp.
“Nice tits,” he said, his breathing quickening as he moved his hand down over her flat stomach, to release the stud on her Levis and lower the zip. “Take them off, Amy.”
His voice was catching, full of urgency as he became aroused. She slid her jeans and panties down over her hips, and he backed up as she bent forward, which gave her room to manoeuvre. She stepped out of the garments, kicked them aside and then straightened up.
He moved in close again and began to thrust against her. She responded. Jabbed her hips forward to meet the bulge at his crotch with simulated ardour, and reached behind him to hold his quivering buttocks in her hands.
“Yes, baby. Yesss!” he groaned, and his gun hand went behind her lower back, to crush her to him as his
mouth found her lips.
Loathing welled up as she smelled his sour breath.
I don’t want to die. He wants to fuck me, and then kill me. Stop it from happening. Do not become another of his victims.
Amy reacted on automatic, spontaneously, channelling her whole being into a single all out bid to survive. As his left hand slipped down between their bodies, she clamped her teeth on to his bottom lip and bit down hard, positioning her right leg between his legs and bringing her knee up simultaneously with all the force that she could muster.
He bellowed with the sudden pain that knifed through his mouth and testicles, and before he could recover his wits, Amy wrenched her head sideways, slicing her teeth through his lip. She gripped his gun hand and brought it up, transferring her bloody mouth to his wrist, to bite deeply, to the bone.
He made a whining sound, hardly recognisable as human, then dropped the gun and stumbled backwards. And as he did, Amy bent her arm and brought the edge of her hand scything across his throat.
Yes! Yes! She had beaten him. Breathless, she watched as he sank to his knees, clutching his throat with both hands and making wheezing, gagging noises as he fought to breathe.
He, or in this case, she who hesitates, is lost. For just a split-second too long Amy admired her work, and even contemplated retrieving his gun and shooting him dead. The urge to flee won out, though, and she moved around him to the door.
The pain was excruciating, and he thought he might pass out. His vision was darkening as he sucked small amounts of air into his windpipe, which felt as though it was going into spasm. Only the fear of being caught gave him the willpower to react. The bitch had seemed too scared and demoralised to present any problem. He had wanted to screw her, as a precursor to dismembering her for the Yank to find. And his lust had cost him dearly.
As she darted past him, he regrouped, ignoring the pain, to throw himself sideways, tripping her with his body, reaching out blindly and managing to grasp her ankle with his uninjured hand.
Face down on the carpet, Amy felt his weight on top of her, as he crawled, dragged himself up her body. Her unexpected cunning and ferocity had saved her once, but now his hands had reached her neck and were digging into the flesh. She knew that he would not let go until she was unconscious or dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The seat belt saved Mark from going through the windscreen. He slammed into the kerb in front of Amy’s house, brakes squealing as the discs reneged against the amount of friction they were subjected to. The whiplash hurt his neck, but he ignored the discomfort and left JC on the run.
Unlocking the door, he entered the hall and paused to take in the surroundings. He almost called out, but stopped himself. In the thick silence that pervaded the house, he looked about, saw spots of blood on the floor. His heart sank. He moved quickly through to the kitchen. The back door stood ajar, and the damage to it was proof that it had been forced open. More teardrops of blood laced the vinyl floor covering, the tails of their elongated pear shape evidence that whoever had been bleeding had been heading out of the house.
Knelt on one knee, Mark touched a crimson spot with his fingertip. It was fresh. He ran back, through the hall and out on to the street, but there was no sign of anyone, and no vehicle suddenly pulled away at speed.
In almost blind panic he checked every room on the ground floor, then mounted the stairs and immediately saw a red smear on the jamb of Amy’s open bedroom door. He walked in stiffly, heart thumping, fully expecting to be confronted by his worst fears. There was no body. But this had been the scene of whatever had transpired. He could see patches, streaks and spatters of blood on the carpet, a wall, and lacing the side of the bedspread.
Staring at Amy’s discarded clothing, Mark fought back hot tears, trying to hold on to the thought that she had been taken, not killed. Logic told him that if Cain had murdered her, then he would have left a macabre calling card in his wake; an exhibition of his work. But if he had abducted her, why no note to taunt him? Or a message scrawled on the wall in her blood. It didn’t add up.
The only logical conclusion he could come to, was that Amy was injured, bleeding, incapacitated and probably unconscious. Cain must have risked taking her away in broad daylight, and decided that the bloody scene and the fact that she was missing was message enough. He would no doubt make contact when he was good and ready. Mark smashed his fist into the wardrobe door in frustration, tormented and almost overcome by misery at the thought of Amy being tortured and probably made – when Cain called him – to scream into the mouthpiece of a phone, in much the same way as the bastard had forced Larry to, before butchering him. He had never felt so alone or so desperately helpless. If he couldn’t find Cain, and quickly, then the only person who mattered in his life and gave it meaning, would be lost to him forever.
Think, damnit. Cain has found somewhere safe to keep prisoners. And if by handling Caroline’s nightie, Billy had really experienced some weird form of second sight, then the killer’s new lair may well be near or on water. But where? Who did Caroline know who owned a boat?
The rich boyfriend, Payne. Could it be that simple? Doubtful. But when you’re drowning at sea, anything that floats by is a possible lifesaver. Just shake the dice, pray for a gambler’s lucky streak, and throw a seven.
Back downstairs in the kitchen, Mark phoned the Yard and asked to be put through to Barney’s extension, for it to be answered by Mike Cook, who gave up Payne’s landline and mobile numbers without subjecting him to an inquisition.
“Simon Payne speaking.” An Oxbridge accent.
“Mr Payne,” Mark said. “This is Detective Sergeant Mike Cook.”
“Have you heard anything? Have you found Caroline?” Simon said, his voice full of concern and anxiety.
“Not yet, sir. But you might be able to help. Do you own a boat, or any property near water?”
“Yes, why?”
Mark’s grip on the phone tightened, and his stomach rolled as he picked up a ballpoint and made ready to write an address on a Post-it notepad.
“It may help with our investigation, sir.”
“You think he may have taken her to my houseboat…the Pandora?”
“Tell me its location, sir. And then wait for us to get back to you. Under no circumstances must you take any independent action. It could very easily cost Caroline her life,” Mark said, hoping that Payne had enough commonsense to keep out of it.
Armed with the location, the name of the houseboat, a tyre iron and his mobile phone, which he had found on the coffee table in the lounge, Mark drove to Laleham. He knew that he should call Barney with what he now knew, and twice picked up the phone from the passenger seat next to him, but tossed it back. If he involved the police, then he would lose control of the situation, and Amy’s life would be further compromised. Cain would not respond to negotiators. Should he find himself surrounded and with no possible avenue of escape, then he would kill Caroline and Amy, and in all probability eat a bullet, rather than spend the rest of his life in prison without a cat in hell’s chance of parole. Mark was certain that independent action was the only game in town, and that what he did would be the deciding factor as to whether the women, if still alive, would remain so.
Parking at least a quarter of a mile from the houseboat, he approached it on foot, glad of the fading afternoon light. He stayed close to the trees on the river side of the lane, using other craft and foliage as cover.
Hunkered down amid a sprawling thicket of gorse, Mark surveyed the unlit houseboat. He had the gut feeling that the Pandora – as the box of Greek mythology – would, in addition to hope, still be holding the blessing of life. The only ill on board was Cain, who he counted on not surviving their meeting to be let loose again on mankind. He had come prepared to use extreme prejudice if necessary, deeming Cain’s life totally irrelevant, when measured against saving the lives of the man’s two prisoners.
“It’s Jane, Barnaby,” the pathologist said. “I was expecting you t
o give me a call over the PM report on Larry Holden.”
“Events have overtaken Larry, Jane,” Barney said. “Our killer has murdered four officers and abducted Caroline Sellars since then. We know who he is, but not where he is.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Barnaby. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Was there anything about Holden’s death that I should know?”
“Only that you’re dealing with a devil. Larry’s face was excoriated...peeled off while he was still alive. It wasn’t the stab wound to his kidney, or the removal of his face that killed him. He died as a result of a ventricular fibrillation of the heart.”
“He had a heart attack?”
“Yes. You could say that he died of fright.”
“Thanks, Jane. I’ll let you know if we get the bastard.”
“Do, please.”
Barney hung up as Mike entered the office. “Anything?” he asked his DS.
“Not yet, boss. There was no paperwork with any addresses at Cain’s that could be relevant to his whereabouts. And nothing from Caroline Sellars’ flat is paying off. We can account for all her friends and work colleagues from her address book. I think Cain must have found an empty house, or maybe a closed down factory or warehouse to hole up in.”
“If that’s true, we’re fucked,” Barney said, stooping and crushing out the cigarette he’d been smoking on the inside of the metal waste bin next to his desk, before immediately lighting another.
“You’re chain-smoking, boss,” Mike said.
Barney just glared.
“I’ll keep on it,” Mike said as he retreated back through the door, to return to the squad room.
Mike had been close to Gary Shields. They had been firm friends from way back, when they had roomed together at the training school in Hendon. Should the opportunity arise, Mike had made the decision that he would forsake his career for just five minutes alone in a cell with Cain, when the psycho was apprehended. The killer needed some of his own medicine. Sod right and wrong. Mike wanted a large portion of good old-fashioned revenge. Prison was too good for the likes of Cain. The best he could do for Gary and all the other victims was to paralyse Cain from the neck down. Spending the rest of his life as a quadriplegic might concentrate his mind to the fact that there were worse things than being incarcerated and coddled behind bars. The pressure within Mike had to be released. He picked up his coffee mug and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, and shards of pot showered the top of a filing cabinet and bounced off on to the floor, as the coffee fanned out and ran down the wall; brown rivulets on once white emulsion. He didn’t feel any better for the physical expression of his overwrought emotions, and none of the other team members in the room said a word. Mike’s action reflected how they all felt; angry, exasperated, and almost choked with a need to get their hands on the psycho that had murdered Gary.
