Never Say Goodbye: An edge of your seat thriller with gripping suspense (Detective Tom Fabian Book 1)

by Richard Parker

  ‘So you know about the Samsung?’

  ‘Yes. Look, don’t worry about it. We took out insurance, remember?’

  ‘I think somebody slipped it out of my bag.’

  ‘It happens. Go ahead and get another and let me have the number as soon as possible. How are things there?’

  ‘A lot to take in.’

  ‘Making friends?’

  A pause. ‘Yeah…’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘There’s a guy here I know,’ she admitted coyly. ‘He applied same time as me.’

  Fabian was a little taken aback. ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ Maybe Toby had been right about her seeing someone else. Or had he been talking about Harriet? ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Mason.’

  ‘And where is Mark staying?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she giggled. ‘He’s off campus.’

  He wondered why she thought that would be a reassurance. ‘Remember, studies first, Mark second.’ He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard his daughter giggle like that.

  ‘I know.’ She seemed slightly annoyed.

  Fabian immediately regretted it. ‘OK. Lecture done. I know you’ll be sensible.’ Which signalled the lecture was far from done. And he still left a pause for it to sink in.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘How are your digs?’

  ‘Dad, everything’s good.’

  ‘You have a roommate?’

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘Mum said you were out with her last night.’

  ‘She’s great. I think she’s disappointed I’m so dull though.’

  That made Fabian feel a little better. Even though it reminded him of what Ria Campbell and Kirsten Parr had said about Candice Langham. ‘Don’t let her lead you astray.’ There was the lecture again.

  ‘Dad, you just can’t help yourself, can you?’ But there was humour in his daughter’s voice.

  ‘Both of us are just doing our job.’ He tried to repel the image of Harriet with Toby.

  ‘Well, you can afford to have some time off now.’

  The traffic started moving and Fabian accelerated. ‘Look, I’m in the middle of something.’ It was the same well-worn line he used to Harriet. ‘Do me a favour. Give your mum a call.’

  ‘I just spoke to her.’

  ‘I know. It’s not been long but she’s missing you more than you know.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘Call her again.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do that.’ Her tone mellowed.

  Fabian knew she was sensitive enough to understand. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Say hi to Mark for me.’

  ‘Dad…’ she warned. ‘Love you.’

  She rang off before he could say the same.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Marcia wasn’t at home when the man knocked on the door, so he ventured down the side of the West Acton house to confirm there was no easy entry to the rear. The black metal gate leading to the lawn was locked shut as it had been the last time, so he strolled nonchalantly back onto the street and scrutinised the windows of the properties opposite. Big screen TVs glowed in most of the lounges that didn’t have their curtains drawn. Nobody was watching him.

  He walked three doors along and down the narrow alley beside the last house. There was a high wooden fence bordering its garden but he knew there was a gate. He painstakingly shot the handle and pushed in. The rear kitchen illuminated the lawn but there was nobody at the window. He crossed the grass and stepped over the wire fence and entered the next garden.

  He circled behind the trampoline there and passed through a gap in the hedge before crossing a small patio to the last fence. It was waist height and he grunted as he scaled it and swung his leg over.

  Dropping down onto the mossy lawn the other side, he walked briskly towards the back door of the house. The landing bulb was burning but he knew that was on a timer.

  Suddenly he was blinded by a motion-sensor light. He checked the upstairs windows of the houses either side that overlooked the garden but the lit one had curtains drawn and the other was in darkness. He scuttled forward so he was underneath the sensor, his back pressed against the pebble-dash wall, and waited for it to turn off.

  The police would be all over Jim Newman’s boy by now. A neighbour had screamed at him as he’d left the house. If it had gone to plan, Adam should have been left to mourn his father. His youth would have carried him through the trauma. Having to bury your own child though…

  He focussed on who was still ahead and the time frame he believed he still had. He would have to finish quickly. The longer he took the more likely it was the police would identify him. He’d elected to stick to his original targets, even if that meant travelling and revealing himself to surveillance cameras. He doubted they had a good description yet. He was sure nobody had seen his face as he’d left the house in Tooting, and he’d been careful to keep it concealed when he’d escaped through the supermarket car park. Soon though, he was positive they’d have his image. Then it would be difficult to move around.

  The light went out and he was in shadow again. He waited, breath slowing, light drizzle hissing against his hood every time the wind gusted across the garden. It was too late to stop. Had been the moment he’d first used the blade on Candice Langham. But now others would dictate the pace. He’d recently spoken with DI Fabian but had no idea how fast the investigation was now progressing. It didn’t matter. Everything would become known in time.

  He suddenly felt exhausted. The adrenaline had ebbed and the exertions of the past few hours were playing catch-up. His head and right shoulder throbbed angrily. He would close his eyes, just briefly. Remain standing but try to shut off for a minute or two. He had to be careful though. Nowadays, the veil between consciousness and sleep was becoming thinner.

  ‘Custard!’

  The word was accompanied by a fierce banging, and he snapped out of the surreal tableau he was becoming immersed in. He slunk away from the sound, lifting his body from the wall so his coat didn’t make a noise.

  ‘Custard!’ The woman was standing at the back door striking an empty metal bowl with a fork.

  He hadn’t heard Marcia get home. Had he dozed off for longer than he thought? There was only an overhang of dead wisteria to conceal himself under.

  But as he cowered there the woman’s attention remained in the garden. ‘Custard!’ she called hoarsely and whacked the bowl again.

  The sensor light came on and he froze as he was bathed in its brightness. Her grey shorthair cat had activated it as it stalked towards her over the lawn.

  ‘There you are. Sorry dinner’s late,’ Marcia apologised. ‘Come and get it.’

  He watched the cat hasten towards its meal, but then the animal slowed as it spotted him. He willed the owner to go inside.

  ‘Come on!’ She was still lingering at the door.

  The cat’s head swung between him and her.

  He slid his hand into his pocket and touched the cold handle of the blade.

  ‘Custard!’

  Like it was watching a tennis match, the cat tried to make its mind up between hissing at an intruder and filling its belly.

  His thumb tip clicked the latch to release the handle.

  Dinner won out. The cat scampered into the house, and the door closed behind them.

  He didn’t budge but took a breath, his hand remaining inside his pocket. He could hear the fifty-year-old chattering to the cat. Marcia lived alone. The sensor light went out again, and he padded to the door, taking care to remain out of its range.

  Minutes later the chattering had stopped and all he could discern was the click of the cat’s tongue in a bowl of water. Custard was going to be easier to handle than the basset hound. Marcia had gone into one of the other rooms. He looked upwards but no lights came on in the window above.
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br />   A low chatter. She’d turned on the TV. He tried to identify the programme. Sounded like the news. He wondered if he was on it. Whether or not he was, he would be the last thing she knew about.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  ‘Ssssss!’ The man hissed and stomped his boot on the kitchen floor. It didn’t matter about footprints anymore.

  The cat immediately took flight and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Marcia demanded from the lounge a few seconds later.

  He didn’t care if she’d heard him. He had to be swift. ‘Marcia?’

  ‘Answer me!’ Hysteria in her husky voice now.

  He stepped to the doorway of the lounge. Heavy brown curtains were drawn and there was a single lamp on in the corner behind the TV. Marcia Cleveland was standing in front of her couch, long strawberry blonde hair still wet from the rain, body bent as if she’d been punched in the stomach and hands clenched to her.

  ‘Get out of here!’ she yelled.

  She was making too much noise. He advanced, and she dropped backwards on the couch and curled into a tight ball.

  ‘Please…’

  He suspected she knew she was about to die. That no amount of screaming or resistance—

  Her slippered foot shot out and connected with his balls and the agony was crippling. He doubled over, and she leaped off the couch and headed for the hall. He tugged in a breath. His intestines felt as if they were bunching up.

  ‘Marcia!’

  She shot into the passage, and he stumbled after her and found her at the front door fumbling with the chain. She rattled it out and opened it wide. He reached her and forced the panel shut but she was half through and screamed as it trapped her shoulder in the frame.

  The agony suspended her there. He slammed the door against her body again, and she crumpled, pitching forward onto the outside steps, her legs still inside the hallway.

  He grabbed the waistband of her long tweed skirt and hauled her to him, but she twisted out of his grip and onto her back, kicking out at him as she slid down the steps on her spine.

  ‘Help me!’

  He couldn’t believe the volume and depth of the scream that escaped her. Her slippered foot caught him hard in the chin but he got hold of her thigh.

  ‘Get off me!’

  He was momentarily stunned by the guttural exclamation that broke out of the woman’s throat and that was when he realised he was actually fighting a man. That was why it was so difficult to subdue Marcia.

  Marcia’s shoulders had hit the path that led to the gate.

  He glanced to the street beyond. There was nobody around but the neighbours would soon come out to investigate. He dragged Marcia’s body back up the steps.

  ‘No!’

  Both feet pedalled at his face but he jerked them up hard so they were trapped against his chest. His hands were grasping her blouse. He slugged Marcia in the nose, and the struggling abated but didn’t cease. The wig of strawberry blonde hair was now askew though, and he cursed not having had time to do more surveillance. But now he had to work with what he had. He cold-cocked Marcia again; blood burst from her nostrils and she was still.

  The TVs on the opposite side of the street flickered in their front rooms, several windows blinking the same colours of one particular channel. He waited for signs of anyone responding to their struggle.

  A light came on in the top window of the house adjacent and slightly to his right. Not taking his eye off it, he quickly dragged Marcia back into the dark hallway. He watched as a female figure approached the glass and gazed out at the open front door. He considered shutting it but wanted to see what she would do. She couldn’t see him crouching there.

  She stood there for what felt like minutes, her focus unwavering.

  Marcia groaned.

  He pulled the knife out of his pocket and thrust it into her chest four times.

  Marcia gurgled.

  The woman moved uncertainly away from the pane but he couldn’t tell if she’d left the room. Perhaps she was picking up the phone.

  He closed the front door and flinched as Marcia’s cat brushed against his back. ‘It’s OK, Custard.’ He stood and flicked on one of the wall switches. The landing light came on but it was all the illumination he needed. He knelt and quickly carved three deep cuts into Marcia’s face.

  Custard watched him, blue eyes unblinking.

  Blood welled out of the cuts on Marcia’s chin, and he stood and limped tenderly into the lounge where the TV was still muttering. He tugged the heavy curtain and peered across the street. The woman wasn’t back at the window.

  Movement at her front door. She was standing outside it, wearing an overcoat, her arms folded as if she were waiting for somebody. The police? He hurried back into the kitchen, out through the door and into the garden again.

  The light came on as he activated the movement sensor. Hobbling down the lawn to the fence he’d entered by, he slipped away, mind fixated on his next destination and hoping he wouldn’t have any more painful surprises waiting for him there.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Fabian and Banner strode briskly through the A and E department of Ealing hospital.

  ‘Which ward?’ He resisted the temptation to break into a run.

  ‘C6 West.’

  Fabian studied the blue sign on the wall and hit the button for the lift. They both watched the digital red arrow indicating its sluggish descent, and Fabian glanced at his watch. ‘Marcia Cleveland was still conscious when they got her here?’

  ‘Barely.’ Banner jabbed the button for the lift next to it.

  ‘And probably awake when she was mutilated,’ Fabian stated grimly.

  ‘Says she saw his face. You’re right; he’s hurrying now. Making mistakes.’

  ‘He could have already reached his next victim. But why the hell has he doubled back?’

  Banner’s lift doors opened and they stepped inside.

  Banner took out her phone and magnified the Fitzrovia map with her fingers. ‘He’s reversed up Newman to Cleveland Street.’

  ‘What leads off it?’

  ‘Plenty. It’s a long road – Tottenham Street, Pearson Square, Riding House Street again, Foley Street, Howland Street, New Cavendish Street, Clipstone Street, Maple Street, Grafton Way, Carburton Street, Fitzroy Mews, Greenwell Street, Warren Street and Euston Road.’

  Fabian sucked in a breath as the doors closed.

  Banner pocketed the phone. ‘Maybe he’s improvising. He could more easily find a Cleveland.’

  ‘It’s been such a specific route so far. Perhaps there’s a legitimate reason for it.’ Fabian felt his stomach lurch as they ascended.

  ‘Do you think the fact Cleveland’s transgender is relevant?’

  ‘He’s been attacking people from all walks. Maybe that’s part of the message.’

  ‘Or, like you say, the street names are the only reason he chose them.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can get a description from Cleveland.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s in a pretty bad way.’

  ‘I want to try and talk to her before Metcalfe intervenes.’ He checked his own phone and saw a missed call from him.

  The doors parted and they walked around a patient in a bed being pushed by a porter and walked onto the floor of C6 West.

  ‘Visiting hours are over,’ the rotund female ward clerk sharply informed them.

  Fabian was first to pull his ID. ‘DI Fabian. I understand a patient, Marcia Cleveland, has just been admitted with multiple stab wounds.’

  The ward clerk’s expression changed, and she nodded wide-eyed. ‘They’re still in surgery.’

  ‘No. They’ve just come out.’

  Fabian could see the top of another seated woman’s head peeping over the reception desk. He leaned over, and the bespectacled Japanese girl there looked up at him from the computer display.

  ‘Recovery room G. End of the corridor.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fabian could hea
r Banner’s footsteps keeping up with him.

  He came to a private room where there was a huddle of doctors and nurses around the bed. He held up his ID again.

  ‘Do you mind if we ask Marcia some questions?’

  A tall female doctor still wearing a green surgical hat turned in his direction. ‘Not right now.’

  ‘What’s her condition?’ Banner asked.

  ‘Multiple stab wounds. We’ve just drained the blood out of one of her lungs.’

  Fabian watched the patient’s bandaged face turn towards him and heard an incoherent mumble. ‘It looks like she’s conscious.’

  ‘Sir.’ Banner only ever called him that when he was overstepping the mark.

  ‘Marcia. Are you OK to talk?’

  ‘Wait in reception,’ the doctor barked at him.

  ‘It’s OK,’ a weak voice murmured.

  The doctor heard but ignored it. ‘Do as I say.’

  Fabian looked past her. ‘Marcia, would that be OK?’

  ‘Yes… please. It’s fine. I want to talk,’ Marcia hacked.

  ‘You have to rest,’ the doctor insisted.

  But Fabian entered the room. In the time it took Marcia to recover another person could be dead, if they weren’t already.

  ‘It’s very important. Is this the man who attacked you?’ Fabian produced a printout of Garth Brennan.

  Marcia’s bandaged features paused then shook from side to side. ‘No. That’s not him.’

  Fabian held it closer. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. The man who attacked me looked older, heavier brow. Different shaped face altogether.’ Marcia coughed again and started to choke.

  ‘That’s enough.’ The doctor put her hand firmly on his arm. ‘You have to leave.’

  ‘Marcia?’

  ‘Now!’

  Fabian backed out of the room. He had to get a description but now the doctors had gathered around Marcia again.

  Banner’s phone buzzed. She checked it. ‘Metcalfe.’

  He was going to have to take the call. And now he’d have to tell him that they had no idea who the killer was or where he would go next.