by Oliver Stark
Eddie had done a job on this one too. He hadn’t told Tom a thing. They pulled into the car park of North General Hospital in East Harlem and there in front of them were six detectives from the NYPD. Cops who had not taken to the mayor’s bureaucratic reforms. They wanted to help out a cop with good instincts. They also wanted to shake the hand of the man who’d floored Lieutenant Jarvis, twice.
A detective called MacGyver spoke for the group.
‘We understand you need help on this. Help of the unofficial kind. We’re happy to do charity work, we’re that kind of people.’
Harper smiled. He outlined the case against Redtop. He was the last person to see Lottie Bixley alive and he was spotted moments before Lucy James’s disappearance. And the bonus was that this kidnapper might have some connection to the serial killer called the American Devil. All the team had to do was to spread out and get the low-down from every wino, lowlife and prostitute in the area and then see if they couldn’t track Redtop down.
They worked in pairs. Harper teamed up with a rookie cop by the name of Shane Dell. He was a clean-cut redhead with a clear sense of justice.
They walked the area non-stop for a couple of hours. They must’ve stopped and talked to over a hundred people. Some just ignored them, others tried to help but had nothing. There were a couple of near misses — people thought they recognized the picture but then changed their minds. They had one thing that was helping them, though: solidarity. This was a man who might have murdered a prostitute, so they found the hookers happy to talk for once.
At the western side of Marcus Garvey Memorial Park, they got their first positive identification. Shane Dell approached a group of prostitutes sitting on a low wall next to a basketball court. He talked to them for five minutes and then called Harper across.
‘This is Tom Harper. He believes someone took the woman we were talking about.’ They looked up and nodded. ‘Tell him what you told me.’
A black woman in her late twenties moved her head back and forth and looked around her suspiciously.
‘I’m only saying we’ve seen that guy. Don’t know who he is. He’s one of the roaming-lonely you see around. Always carrying a heavy bag. Lost his mind.’
‘Where have you seen him?’
‘Around. Nowhere in particular. He sits in the parks. I seen him sitting in the parks.’
They couldn’t help any more so the two policemen thanked them and moved on. At six, the unofficial search team all met up at a restaurant.
Bridges and Swanson had the same experience. Plenty of interest, not a lot of positives, but two who’d definitely seen him around. MacGyver and Lacey had nothing. Eddie and his partner had had better luck.
‘We got a positive who identified him as “Redtop”,’ he said.
‘Anything we can go on?’ asked Harper.
‘They’ve seen him twice around East 126th Street. We could put a couple of guys on the street corner and see what comes up. How about it?’
Harper agreed and they sent Bridges and Swanson to watch East 126th Street. The rest of them drank their coffee and went back to the search.
Chapter Sixty-Six
East Harlem
November 28, 8.12 p.m.
Mo was standing in a shop front with his suitcase by his side. His coat was buttoned up high to hide his red rollneck. The cops were after him again. He’d seen them around the store and called Benny from a callbox. Benny told him that they wanted to speak to him. They thought he’d murdered someone. Mo hadn’t murdered anyone. He’d only ever loved Lottie. He was terrified. He didn’t dare go home or back to the store. So he had to hide out in an abandoned building for most of the day, but he couldn’t stop himself worrying.
The thought of having no more nights with Lucy was hard. He loved Lucy now. She was warm like a big hound and her skin was soft. She was just about perfect. And now she was up in his dirty little apartment with no one to care for her. It was breaking his heart.
At one time during the evening, Mo walked by the end of his street and saw a cop standing right there, only a few hundred yards from his building and from Lucy James. The fact of the matter was Redtop wasn’t going to be able to visit the girl from the park again for a while — not while the cops had his apartment covered. Lucy would just have to wait until this whole thing had blown over. Then he could go back to see her and give her some yoghurt and fresh fruit. In a couple of weeks or so, he could fetch her.
In the doorway, Mo entertained himself by capturing moths that flew towards the bright shop light. He had caught three already. He liked the sensation of their flapping wings in his hand. It tickled him. Then when he opened his hand and they flew out, it was like he was a magician or something.
He wanted to see Lucy so damn much, though. It meant that he’d have to sleep alone for a few days on a hard stone floor. Mo sat down in the doorway and cried.
Less than half a mile away, Lucy James was tethered to the bed in the disused school building where Mo lived. The effect of the chloroform had worn off and no one was there to give her a fresh lungful. Lucy opened her eyes. The room was not hers. She could smell that straight away. It smelled bad. Very bad. She looked up at the cracked, dirty ceiling. Her limbs felt leaden. They ached. In fact, she ached all over. As consciousness began to piece together her situation, she felt her head throbbing. She looked around, left to right, unable yet to lift herself.
The room was dark and cold. She was lying in a bed. The memory was quick. It came in a flurry, like a door opening on to a wall of water — suddenly everything flooded in. The night in the snow, Seth, the fear, the blow to her head.
She tried to sit upright but her arms and legs were tethered to the bed with restraints like they had in mental hospitals. Someone could be in there with her. She looked about. The room seemed clear. There were two doors, one either side of her. She wasn’t one of life’s copers. She had been spoilt from birth with all kinds of stuff. Daddy and Mummy had spoilt her with toys and gifts when she was little because they never saw her. They both worked so hard. But she had a nice nanny. Then when Daddy and Mummy got their divorce, they both spent all their time spoiling her. So she had never thought about anybody but herself. And she always got what she wanted. And now Lucy was in real trouble and she had no idea what to do.
She prayed first. Tried to think about God and asked him to protect her. Then she began to assess her position. She tried to look under the bedclothes. She could see by her arms and shoulders that she was wearing a nightdress. Across the room, her clothes were lined up all neatly folded. This was so weird, it felt dream-like.
She’d also soiled herself. The smell was coming from her. Jesus, what the hell was going on! Lucy looked about her for something to help her, but there was nothing. Her incapacity was terrifying. She couldn’t even raise her hand to her face. What had her captor done to her? He might have done anything. The white flashes of fear kept washing away her thoughts. It was all too frightening. Even worse, what might he do next?
The man who’d been holding her in this room was clearly deranged, but she didn’t know yet what he wanted from her. She shuddered with the thought and pushed it from her mind. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of dwelling. She had to do something. She needed a plan. If he came back, should she be nice, or resistant? Which way would save her? She had no idea.
Mummy and Daddy would be going crazy. She had no idea how long she’d been gone for, but even a few hours would freak them out. They’d be in pieces and then they’d start arguing over whose fault it was. She could hear them in her head.
As she lay there, another thought occurred. This was worse. What if he wasn’t going to come back at all? It made her cry as she lay there, the tears welling in her eye sockets and streaming down her face. She couldn’t just lie here and die. She knew nothing about living, let alone dying. But if no one came back… what would happen?
She was already thirsty. How long could a body survive without water? She’d done it in biology. Was it
a few days? Something like that. Yeah. There was time. About three days. She could survive. But Christ, what she’d give for a glass of Evian.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Senator Stanhope’s Home
November 28, 8.30 p.m.
The limousine cruised powerfully over the Hell Gate Bridge. At night, New York had to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world, sparkling with lights over the stretch of water known as Hell Gate. There was nothing like coming home to Manhattan. Nothing in the world, according to Senator John Stanhope. He loved New York. He’d given his life to New York. He’d worked his ass off to represent the 34th Senate District at the New York State Senate and now he was a state senator and everything was groovy. His daughters made him promise not to use that word, but in secret he still did. It made him laugh. Why not laugh? You had to, right?
At fifty-five years old John Stanhope was a family man, a Protestant who worked hard and believed in America. He was brought up very modestly in West Virginia, on a farm in the north-east of the state, and had worked himself into the privileged position of senator after becoming CEO of a pharmaceutical company. It didn’t concern his morality that this company was making millions selling drugs to African nations, that was just business. John knew how to separate business from private morality and the lessons of the Bible.
His second wife, Caroline, was a political lobbyist and she got on with his two daughters, Mary and Rose, who were twenty-one and nineteen. And all four of them got on real well. He was delighted with that. A real happy family.
It had been a busy day for him. It started with a run round the park at 6 a.m. and then breakfast with several newspapers before his briefing at 8.30 a.m. and his first committee meeting at 9.30. He was a member of quite a few committees so he was always back and forth from the State Senate to deal with aspects of Security, Education, Armed Services, Housing, Health and Urban Affairs.
It was amazing what you ended up dealing with, but you just had to listen closely, remember what you were there for and vote or decide accordingly.
Now he was whacked and ready for a whisky by the fire with Caroline and a cuddle from the girls.
His security men got out of his car and stood still, their eyes scanning around. Senator Stanhope climbed out and walked across the drive behind the tall electronic gates.
‘We’re okay, Bill, don’t fret,’ he said and saw Rose, his little girl, standing in her socks on the porch. ‘Bless her, still like when she was four years old running out to greet me.’
‘We’ll be here tonight, Senator.’
‘There’s no need, boys. Go home, see your wives.’
‘Even if we wanted to, Senator, we couldn’t. We’ve got orders. So don’t you worry. Go and see your family.’
‘I insist. I’ll see you at six a.m.’ Senator Stanhope shook Bill’s hand and thanked his driver, then strolled up to the house.
‘How you doing, honeybunch?’
‘Good, Daddy. How was your day?’
‘It was okay but I’m glad to be home with you. Is Mary here?’
‘Yeah, you know she is. It’s your birthday, you big fool.’
‘Oh, that. I forgot all about that.’
He went into the house and his small family was gathered by the open fire in the living room. His heart melted when he saw them. There had been years when he’d worried about the effect on Mary and Rose of giving so much time to politics, but they both seemed stable and settled.
There was a simple banner saying Happy Birthday Dad above the fire and a pile of presents on the table. Mary and Rose hugged and kissed him and Caroline brought him his favourite tipple, a twenty-year-old malt from Islay far away in Scotland.
He smiled. Life had been good to him.
Outside in the car, Bill and Adam flipped a coin to see who was going to do the perimeter one last time before they called it a night. Bill lost and he got out of the car. The thing was, the fence was high and electronically monitored so there wasn’t a lot of point in walking the perimeter.
Sebastian would have agreed: there wasn’t much point at all. He was already in the house.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Senator Stanhope’s Home
November 28, 9.00 p.m.
Getting into a senator’s house, Sebastian had discovered, was a lot easier when no one but the maid and gardener were at home. Then it was fucking easy. You ring the bell, you deliver some flowers, you flatter the stupid bitch and tape the lock. She goes in, you wait. Count to five, go in after her and wham-bam, you’re in the house that John Stanhope built.
Of course, then you had to make sure you were able to wait it out, so you hid in the roof space and read books or just sat thinking.
You couldn’t turn the security system off either, even if you’d watched her punch in the eight-digit code, because it was a manual system linked to a company who had a pre-agreed list of times for locking or unlocking the system. If it varied by any time without a call, then they’d be there.
So it was best to hide and wait it out. He’d been there all day, as soon as he’d made sure Marty was too scared to tell the cops anything that Nick might have told him. Dee had taken the kids to visit her mother on that tedious retirement estate, but it was good because it freed up his time to hang around inside the senator’s house.
And there’s nothing more difficult than to kill a senator’s daughter and her family in their own home. It would strike fear in the heart of America. Rose was girl number seven. And that was all he needed for his sculpture; one more part and The Progression of Love would be complete. He had an idea about where he’d show it, too. The people who were going to look at it wouldn’t know what it was. The public were that stupid. They’d always underestimated him and now he was going to make fools of them all. Sebastian listened to the sound of family life emanating from below. Happy families made him want to exert his God-like power of life and death. He wanted to kill happiness and leave fear and pain in its wake.
And why shouldn’t he do it? Who said good is good and bad is bad? Who said anything? No one. The universe, as far as he was concerned, was silent, so you just did your own thing. Some worked at being senators’ daughters and some worked at killing senators’ daughters. That was the happy balance of the universe.
He’d been in the house half the day when Mrs Stanhope came home. She was pretty and organized with a hurried look in her eyes and a hatred of anything out of its place. The first hours after she arrived, he climbed out of the roof space when he heard her shower. He stood and watched her. She had a nice peaceful face. Nice long legs.
It had been hard to resist taking her there and then. It’d been too long since he’d had someone. The delicious Kitty in her own bed. He thought the desires had gone. He actually wondered whether the heat cycle had come to an end, but staring at Caroline through glass as it misted up he felt the surge of desire again — the powerful internal command to control her destiny.
But he resisted. It would be better with the whole family, with an audience to watch his depravity. It would make more of a splash. He had no idea what he was going to do with them all. It was going to be an impromptu party of his own.
That afternoon, he’d watched from a round window in the attic as Mary and Rose returned. Rose was all excited and full of life. She had a beautiful lithe figure that looked about as graceful as a flower. Mary looked a sullen academic type, staring with some deep disapproval at everything she saw. He would enjoy humiliating her. Rose reminded him of his sister, Bethany. Long time before. Sad times, too. He tried not to think of it again.
His golden princess with sunlight in her hair.
When Senator Stanhope returned, the killer was back in the roof. He needed to wait until they were all together; then he would make some theatrical entrance. He wanted to kill them in front of each other. He thought that would give him the sensation he craved. It was getting so difficult to feel anything at all. Each time, he felt the need to go one step further, cross one more ta
boo just to feel the same deep buzz of sensation.
He listened to the popping of champagne from below and heard the warm conversation of their party.
Enjoy the moment, he thought to himself. It will not last.
Sebastian’s plan for the Stanhopes was growing by the hour as he lay in that hot close loft. He was getting all horny too, reading about the thoughts and deeds of the psychopaths in a book called The Mask of Sanity. He liked to read about sexual murder and mutilation. He had never known why it made him excited. He’d never chosen it. He was just getting his inspiration.
He lay on his back as he read again about his hero Neville Heath. Heath was a good-looking all-star with a strikingly intense appearance who carried out a series of sexually perverse murders. They were remembered for one reason — they were horrifyingly brutal.
Sebastian repeated a phrase from the book. Acts of memorable brutality and horror. Such reverence the writer had for the killer. The world was terrified of but half in love with killers. Heath had tortured, killed and butchered two young women, gaining obvious sexually sadistic pleasure from his acts. Sebastian read on, getting more and more excited.
Sebastian was about to try it out himself. He had used Heath’s methods before. Heath had used a poker, but Sebastian had not found a poker to hand in his own murders. Open fires were not as prevalent as once upon a time. He had used a knife instead. He intended to re-enact the Heath murder with Rose and Mary. Except he was going to go one better: he was going to let Mummy and Daddy watch.
It was five to eleven. Eleven o’clock was party time. Sebastian took up his book again. He had to go through Heath’s murder one more time. Just to make sure he’d got it all right.
After all, he wouldn’t have time to consult the cookbook when he was baking the cake.
