by Huw Thomas
‘Exactly.’
‘But Danny.’ Brendan leant forwards. ‘He hasn’t killed anyone I know of. What’s he supposed to have done?’
Harper shook his head. He had been jolted just to see Van Hulle sitting across the room; to realise the man was walking around free seemed too much. There was enough wrong with the world without this. He swallowed and screwed his hands into his hair, staring intently at Brendan as if willing his friend to wind back the clock and change the night’s events.
‘Oh Christ, Brendan. You don’t know? Nothing?’
His friend shook his head. ‘I know who he is.’ Brendan paused and shrugged uneasily. ‘I’ve taken his picture a few times. He’s a bit of an odd one if you ask me but I don’t know about anything like murder. What’s he done? Who’s he killed?’
‘Women, a number of them.’
‘Jesus!’ The photographer looked horrified. ‘How many?’
Harper shook his head uncomfortably. ‘I’m not exactly sure. This only happened last week but I know the police were saying there were a number. They weren’t being too precise. There were at least three dead though and the suggestion was that was just the start.’
Brendan looked pale. ‘What the hell is he, some kind of Jack the Ripper?’
Harper shrugged. He looked uncertain, trying to remember the details. ‘I don’t know but, whatever he is, it isn’t pleasant. The story only started coming out at the beginning of last week. It all began after they found the first body at the Kavanaugh Centre.’
Brendan looked confused and Harper waved his hand. ‘That’s another story. But this woman’s body turned up and she’d obviously been murdered. Turns out she was some kind of high class call girl and then, the next thing is, these other stories start to come out about all these other women going missing. Mostly prostitutes but not all. Then the police find a link with Van Hulle and he’s arrested.’
Harper shook his head slowly. ‘It was the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on. We’ve had all the nationals down here covering the story. The Sun christened him ‘Van Hell’. All kinds of rumours were coming out about what he’d done.’
‘Like what?’ Brendan’s tone had a kind of shocked fascination to it.
‘Well, you know he always came across as a bit of a religious nut?’
The photographer nodded.
Harper exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know the facts. It was only the end of last week that he was arrested. I’m not sure he’s even appeared in court yet. But, the first woman they found, she’d been buried alive inside a concrete wall.’
For about the fiftieth time, his eyes flicked nervously to where Van Hulle was sitting blandly drinking coffee. ‘The police were looking at a whole load of other sites. They had forensic teams all over the city.’
Brendan’s face was pale. ‘You seriously reckon this has really happened? He’s done these things?’
Harper closed his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
He looked again at Van Hulle. ‘Maybe I should go and ask him.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Brendan looked horrified. ‘What if he’s innocent? I mean, nothing has happened here.’
‘No.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Not as far we you know. But I think I know why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Harper. ‘But just because no body’s been found doesn’t mean he hasn’t done anything. But you’re right. I can’t simply go up to him. Even if I catch him by surprise, he’s hardly going to suddenly confess is he?’
‘So what the hell are you going to do?’
Harper leant back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes wide. He shook his head as if clearing his mind. ‘I’m not sure. Tip off the police somehow? But what do I tell them?’
His eyes narrowed as he considered the problem. ‘The first body certainly won’t be in the same place but the other places… he might still have used them. And… I could try and find the woman, the first one, see if she’s okay, whether anything has happened to her.’
20. She Bangs The Drum
Wednesday, 9.32pm:
Paul Cash leant back. His pale eyes were wide and a smile played around the corners of his mouth. He picked up his wine glass and rolled the drops around inside, idly watching the play of light in the purple dregs.
‘Well, that was wonderful.’ The artist shook his head. ‘No question about it. That’s far and away the best story I’ve heard in a very long time.’
After a meal cooked by Cash, they had taken their current bottle of wine through into a huge lounge. Around the room’s stone walls hung a mixture of ancient flags and ethnic hangings, plus some antique-looking maps that looked suspiciously like flagrant works of fantasy. Now, the pair of them sat ensconced in wing-backed leather armchairs to either side of a roaring log fire.
‘You don’t believe it?’ she asked.
‘No. I don’t think I do,’ said Cash slowly. ‘On the other hand, I wouldn’t say I disbelieve it.’ He paused and then shrugged lazily. ‘On the face of it, the facts are incredible. I’m sure many people would say that what you’re suggesting just isn’t possible. But… let’s just say… not everything in this world obeys the rules like it’s supposed to.’
He laughed. ‘And we shouldn’t forget our old friend Mr Holmes.’
Rebecca squinted at Cash. Telling the story had taken time and considerable intensity. On finally reaching the end, she slumped back in her chair, relief overcoming her as she realised she had said everything needing to be said. Now, Cash’s words were forcing her reluctant brain to work again. As she tried to make sense of the comment, it occurred to Rebecca that focussing across the fireplace seemed to have become a little tricky. ‘Mr Holmes?’
‘Sherlock.’
‘Sherlock Holmes? What about him?’
Cash smiled. ‘What was it he said? “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remain — however improbable — must be the truth”.’
‘Hmmph.’ Rebecca frowned. She wrapped a lock of dark hair around one finger as she considered the comment, before giving up and shaking her head. ‘Sorry. Don’t understand. Explain.’
‘Well,’ said Cash. ‘Your Mr Harper appears to know things he shouldn’t. Including things about you. Correct?’
‘Yup.’
‘And these things, I presume we’re talking about the kind of secrets perhaps only you and one other person would know about.’
Rebecca nodded cautiously.
Cash gave a wicked smile as he saw Rebecca shuffle uncomfortably. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t be so sordid as to ask for the details. And believe me, whatever it is, I’ve probably done far worse.
Rebecca pulled herself back upright. She gave the older man a haughty glare. ‘Hey. I never said I’m talking about anything I’m ashamed of.’
‘No,’ said Cash. ‘But you’re not admitting what it is either.’
‘No, but…’
‘Anyway, as I was saying, the details aren’t actually important. What matters is that this fellow Harper knows your secrets. Not just one of them. Several.’
‘Umm. Oh… I don’t know.’ Rebecca shook her head. The whole thing was too confusing, particularly at this stage of a long evening. ‘Maybe he does. Yes. He does. Too many things. Yes.’
Cash smiled. ‘And my point is that from what you’ve said it’s highly unlikely he could have found out any of this information in any normal way. So unless, he’s some kind of really devious Machiavelli the chances of him having learnt all your secrets is so unlikely it’s as good as impossible. Which brings us back to the other possibility; that he’s telling the truth. He got them from you.’
Cash shrugged and shook his head. ‘Like I said, I don’t believe or disbelieve it but it’s an amazing story.’
They were both silent for a while, lost in thoughts, eyes drawn to the hypnotic flicker of flames licking up from the fire’s golden heart. Rebecca sensed her eyelids drooping but found herself powerless to fight the
inexorable downwards pull. Her head tipped back and the arm with the wineglass slumped to the floor, spilling the last of its contents across a Moroccan rug.
Cash smiled as he watched her succumbing to sleep. The combination of wine, food and a warm fire was having a soporific effect on him as well but his mind was too busy for him. Besides, he had reached the age when sleep seemed much less necessary. And, although she had not noticed, he had drunk far less than Rebecca.
The painter watched his guest for a while, storing the image away amongst the many potential canvases in his mind. After a few minutes, he slipped out of the room; there were things he wanted to do before he went to bed.
The thud of another log being thrown onto the fire, sending a stream of sparks up the chimney, jerked Rebecca back to consciousness. She sat up with a start. Cash smiled back at her and returned to his seat.
‘Oh god. Did I fall asleep?’
Cash shrugged. He picked up his empty glass and began to twirl it in his hands. ‘Just for a while. It doesn’t matter. I take it as a compliment if my guests feel relaxed enough to go to sleep on me.’
Rebecca lowered her eyes. She felt a little embarrassed but also surprisingly at ease considering both what she had been told about Paul Cash and how little she knew him. ‘Well, I’m sorry. It doesn’t seem much of a compliment to me. Particularly seeing as I’ve eaten all your food, drunk your wine and then made you sit through my mad stories.’
Cash shrugged. ‘Strange but not necessarily mad.’
Rebecca sighed. ‘No, at least I hope not. He doesn’t seem mad. Strange yes, and sad but… I don’t know.’
Cash raised his empty glass to Rebecca. ‘I’d love to meet him.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Whatever the explanation, the story makes the man an absolute must. It’s possible he’s a complete rogue, some kind of obsessive with an instinct for the fantastic. Alternatively, he’s a fairly normal man who’s experienced something completely bizarre. Either way, I want to meet him.’
‘Yeah?’ Rebecca raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay.’
‘Give him a call.’
‘What, now?’
‘Why not?’ Cash shrugged. ‘By the sound of it, I’d guess he’s desperate to hear from you. Ring him. Invite him over.’
Rebecca looked at her watch. ‘You want him to come over now?’
‘Sure. Tell him to get a taxi.’
She smiled. ‘Out here? At this time of night? That’ll cost a fortune.’
‘I’ll pay for it.’
‘Okay.’ Rebecca fished down by her side for her bag. Inside it, she found her mobile and a piece of paper with Danny Harper’s number scribbled on it. She entered most of the number and paused, then handed the phone to Cash as she connected the call. ‘You speak to him.’
Cash dialled the number and listened for a while before closing the phone. He handed it back to Rebecca. ‘Shame. He’s not answering.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘So much for being desperate to hear from me.’
Cash shrugged. ‘More wine?’
21. Breaking Into Heaven
Wednesday, 10.11pm:
It started to rain just as Harper reached for the edge of the roof. He blinked away the moisture falling into his eyes and grabbed the edge of the gritty felt that covered the roof of the garages.
He hesitated a moment, getting his balance as he teetered on the edge of the wheelie bin’s plastic lid, then went to pull himself up in one smooth heave.
But his muscles refused to respond as expected. The necessary strength was missing. Well before his chin reached the level of his hands, Harper felt his arms begin to quiver. He bit his lip and swung sideways. One foot connected with a downpipe from the gutters on the adjoining building and he braced himself against it.
Another tug with his arms, a push with his legs and then his shoulders were level with the garage roof. He half-pulled, half-flung himself over the edge and rolled onto the wet, dirty gravel.
Harper lay in the rain. His arm muscles were burning and his chest ached as it wheezed for air. He closed his eyes, angry at the lack of care that had been taken with his body, cursing any idiot who ever smoked a cigarette.
Finding the place had been simple enough. He remembered it from when the story first broke. To begin with the address led both police and press to assume the victim was a respectable, high-earning professional. The neighbours all claimed to have been astounded when it emerged she was a prostitute; some appearing more horrified by that fact than by the details of how she was killed.
Now, Harper could only work on the assumption that the woman lived — or had lived — at the same address in this life too.
He had tried the direct approach first, ringing the doorbell, hoping for but not really expecting a reply. The entrance to the luxury apartment was lit up but there were no lights visible inside and no one responded to Harper’s ring. However, he was unable to see any further than the stairwell leading up into flat number eight. Although on the ground floor, the block was built against a hill and the front of the flats were raised too high for him to peer into any windows.
Unwilling to give up so quickly, he circled round to the back of the building. He found the rubbish bins in a service area near the block of garages and dragged one across the tarmac. There were few lights on in the building and the whole complex seemed quiet. Harper just had to hope no surveillance cameras watched his actions.
Pulling himself to his feet, he trod cautiously across the garage roof. Large courtyard gardens lay behind the flats but they were secure behind a high wall, the gates bolted and locked from the inside. If he could find his way through the gardens, he might be able to peer in through the back, get a clue who lived there now and whether they were around.
The rain was getting harder as Harper dropped off the far side of the garage roof, now on the inside of the walled gardens. He kept close to the building, ducking beneath a lit window in one flat. He tugged his jacket over his head, partly to shelter himself from the weather, partly to hide his face in case any of the occupants noticed an unexpected movement outside.
Each apartment had its own garden. Low walls and thick plantings divided most of them; wet leaves and scratching branches clung to Harper and clawed at his face and hands as he pushed his way through.
A tall fence, however, marked the boundary of number eight, and Harper swore when he met it. There was nothing next to the building to help him climb the barrier and he had to follow the fence for some distance, looking for a way over. Eventually, he found a small tree growing next to the boundary. A fork in the trunk gave him somewhere to put his foot and Harper pulled himself awkwardly over the fence, hoping no one inside would spot him or hear his clumsy progress.
He crunched down into loose gravel on the other side, his boots wrecking the raked patterns. The tall fence made it darker in number eight’s garden and Harper crouched in the rain, trying to check his bearings.
As he set off up the garden he nearly tripped over a large boulder. After regaining his balance, he moved on more slowly, using his hands to help him explore. Beyond the gravel bed, a miniature bridge led across an ornamental stream that curved around the bare frame of a small maple tree and a stand of bamboo. Having negotiated the tall canes, Harper made his way onto a wide wooden deck and finally reached the rear windows of the apartment.
He stepped up to the wet glass, leant forward and peered through, his face almost pressing against the French doors.
A flash of light momentarily blinded him and he stumbled backwards, raising one arm to block the brightness and squeezing his eyes into narrow slits. For a moment, the tableau remained frozen, the only sound and movement coming from the rain that continued to patter down.
Harper shot a glance to the side. The security light glared back.
He breathed a slow sigh of relief, still tense as he waited for any further response to his presence.
But there was no obvious indication he had done anything other than trigger an automatic sensor. After a few seconds of indecision, Harper’s pulse slowly began to calm.
The light stayed on, its stark blast of white illuminating the whole deck and a chunk of the garden beyond. Harper glanced around, still nervous but the initial rush of fear under control. He debated what to do, then went and stood right under the light. He was against the wall of the house, beside one of the windows looking into the lounge. It was actually slightly darker directly beneath the light and he hoped he would be less noticeable to anyone looking out from another flat. Plus, if and when the light cut out, there was less chance of him immediately triggering its sensor again.
In the meantime, some of the glare from the security light spilled into the flat inside. It was immaculately furnished and obviously lived in. There were flowers in a vase on a table and fruit in a bowl. But no real clues as to the occupant and no sign of immediate life.
Harper took a deep breath. He knew that in another life Isaiah Van Hulle had murdered the woman who lived in this flat. Finding out whether or not she was now okay had seemed a logical step in the heat of the moment. But so far, coming here had proved nothing. It was too late at night to start knocking on doors asking after whoever lived at number eight and the most likely result of any more prowling around private gardens was getting arrested.
He shook his head, pulled his collar up and buried his face as much as possible as he turned away. The light came on again but he ignored it, walking swiftly away from the flat. He made for the gate at the end of the garden. After going around the bamboo and the maple, he crossed the little bridge and followed a line of stepping-stones that wove through the gravel and its heavy boulders.
Behind him, the security light went off and darkness descended like a welcome blanket. Some of the tension went out of Harper’s shoulders and his body relaxed a fraction. He began to think beyond just getting out of the garden.
Then.
The sound of a key turning. Ahead of him.
