by Huw Thomas
His face was against the woman’s leg. Part of him wanted to move it away. When she first laid his head on her lap, he was horrified and, despite the pain, tried to resist the contact. But he was in too much pain and too frightened to really struggle and got over the worst of his embarrassment by not thinking about the fact he was touching a strange woman’s skin: let alone quite where on her body that skin was.
Now, however, his tears were starting to leak out. They were trickling down out of the corner of one eye and off the end of his nose. And they were dripping onto her bare flesh: exposing his cowardice and reminding him where his head was lying.
He hated the fact he cried so easily. But he always had. Other boys never let him forget the fact, provoking him so they could laugh at his tears. He was aware he was a disappointment to his father, who would have loved a big, brave, strong son, instead of the small, weedy nerd with which he had been landed. That was the trouble with being a real know-it-all: it was possible to even see the flaws in yourself. He tried to be brave, not to let people realise when he hurt himself or when something happened to him but he was not very good at that kind of deception.
Like now: his leg really hurt. So did his arm and his side but not as badly. It was his leg that was agony. And he was trying to pretend the pain was not there but it was not working, which was why he could not help the tears. Alone, he would have sobbed until it went away and then got up and tried to limp along as if nothing had happened. This time though, it felt worse and he was not even sure where he was or what had happened. All he knew was that he was in more pain than he could ever remember feeling before, lying with his face against a strange woman’s bare leg and his tears pouring onto her skin.
As Ahmad snuffled, Louise tugged at the loose sleeve of her top and wiped his eyes as she tried to hold back her own tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
She squeezed his hand tight. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘There’s no need to apologise. I’d be crying if… it was me that had hurt my leg.’
He gave a short nod.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ahmad.’ His voice was very soft and muffled by her thigh. ‘Ahmad Baroudi.’
‘Ah… mad?’
He nodded again. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘For what? For falling down a hole?’
He gave a little shrug.
Louise ruffled his hair. ‘I thought that was what little boys did.’
He sniffed. ‘Yes. But I’m not a little boy any more.’
‘No? How old are you?’
‘Twelve.’
Louise’s eyes widened. She had taken him for about eight or nine. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I came in because of the rain.’
Louise nodded slowly. She still had no idea where she was. It dawned on her that if the boy had found his way in by accident then he should know where they were. She was unsure what difference it made but knowing there might be other people close by gave her hopes another lift. ‘So… Ahmad, where are we?’
He sniffed and twisted his head to look at her, frowning. ‘Don’t you know?’
Louise shook her head, tasting the blood on her lip as she sucked it nervously.
‘How did you get here then?’
Louise smiled weakly. ‘That doesn’t matter. Where are we? How did you get in?’
‘It wasn’t locked,’ he said palely. ‘I didn’t break anything to get in. I just wanted to get out of the rain. Then I used the toilets to dry off. I didn’t want to go outside again so I explored a little bit. I didn’t mean to fall down here.’
His voice trailed off and Louise brushed his hair back from his face. His skin seemed hot and, although she could hardly make him out in the thin light, she sensed that the shock of his injury was starting to take its toll. She spoke softly but firmly. ‘Where are we, Ahmad?’
He gave a brief whimper and twitched as a spasm of pain hit.
‘Where are we?’
‘I… I don’t know what it’s called. The old Army place by the river.’
Louise frowned. ‘You mean the Caledonia Barracks? The site that’s all shut up.’
He gave a slight nod. ‘I think so.’
‘Where in the barracks?’
‘It’s… I don’t know,’ he said feebly. ‘Some building.’
‘What kind of building?’
He was silent for a moment, shaking slightly.
‘What kind of building?’ she repeated, trying to reign in her impatience but desperate for any information that might improve their prospects.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘There are so many. But it has a garage and a really big space for storing things.’
‘A shed, a warehouse?’
‘Maybe.’
His voice was pitiful and she winced as she bit her lip again and tasted fresh blood. ‘Where did you get in then? Along the dual carriageway?’
‘The river.’
Louise’s hopes sank. She had hoped he would name somewhere in the middle of the city. Somewhere where there was a hope of being found. Somewhere people might hear them if she made enough noise.
But the barracks?
The Caledonia Barracks was a huge site and, apart from the guardhouse, all the buildings were set way back from the road: behind high fences and long stretches of open ground. And if they were down near the river they were at least half a mile from the nearest bit of public land. The whole site was mothballed and awaiting redevelopment. The only hope was if a security guard or maintenance team noticed something amiss but they were more likely to patrol the perimeter than worry about a load of sheds and buildings all due to get knocked down anyway.
She stiffened. That was probably why her captor had chosen the site. They might even work here as a security guard.
Louise looked around anxiously. The prospect of being found by chance was so remote she might as well forget it. She also had no way of knowing if her captor would ever return, what he would do if he did and how he would react to the boy’s presence. Her only hope was to escape and Ahmad’s arrival at least proved there was a route out. If he could get in then she would have to find a way out. All she needed to do was to work out how to get her five foot four inch frame from the floor to the opening eight feet above her head and then through what looked like a four-foot shaft.
It did not sound like much but she was starting to realise that the distance represented the difference between life and death. And not just for her.
44. I Predict A Riot
Friday, 4.08pm:
Harper was still arguing with Brendan when Cash arrived. The artist strode into Brendan’s flat with brisk enthusiasm and a sardonic salute. He had abandoned the grey cloak of the previous day in favour of a tattered black leather jacket, torn combat fatigues and paint-spattered Doctor Marten’s boots. With his greying hair swept back and hawkish features, he looked like an ageing punk.
Cash looked around curiously, taking in the room and both occupants. Brendan nodded at the artist warily.
‘Paul,’ said Harper. ‘This is my friend, Brendan Teague.’
Cash grinned. ‘Oh yes, the photographer. I remember you well.’
Brendan’s smile was sheepish in response. ‘Ah, you may have the advantage of me there, Mr Cash. Some of my recollections of last time we met are, shall we say, a bit lost in the mist.’
Harper raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve met before?’
Cash gave him a sly look. ‘You don’t remember?’
Harper frowned then nodded. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘The party. You told me about it the other morning.’
‘Yes.’ Brendan gave a sigh, lost in the regret of good times gone. ‘Now that one must surely be in the running for being the mother of all parties. I’d be surprised if anyone can remember the night well.’ He shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. ‘I hope we didn’t behave too disgracefully, Mr Cash.’
The artist smiled. ‘No, I’d say you behaved suitably disgracefully, Mr Teague. I do
ubt if anyone present would have been offended and the two of you certainly kept quite a few people entertained. Some of your routines were quite an eye-opener.’
Brendan shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I want to know too much more.’
‘Well,’ said Cash. ‘You’re probably fairly safe. I don’t imagine many people were sober enough to recall what went on. I won’t say any more and your partner in crime here apparently isn’t the same person anyway.’
Brendan gave Harper a sideways glance and nodded.
Cash pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down backwards, resting his arms across the back. ‘So?’ he said.
Brendan looked surprised. ‘Er … a cup of tea or would you prefer something stronger?’
The artist grinned. ‘That wasn’t actually what I was implying but a coffee would be good if you’re putting the kettle on. What I meant was, what plan have you two come up with?’
‘Ah,’ said the photographer. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He glanced again at Harper and made his exit to the kitchen.
Harper gave a wry smile. He leant back against the windowsill. ‘We hadn’t got very far. I was trying to come up with a plan but Brendan’s a bit wary of getting involved. I’m not sure he believes me about Van Hulle.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ came a voice from the kitchen. Brendan poked his head around the corner. ‘It’s just… well, to me it seems more like the sort of thing we should leave to the police. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve got any proof or anything.’
Harper scowled. ‘But that’s what we need to find.’
Brendan shrugged: unconvinced. He disappeared back into the kitchen and they heard a clattering as the photographer began to wash a couple of the mugs stacked beside the sink.
‘And how do you propose to find your proof?’ asked Cash languidly.
‘That’s the problem. The police didn’t find a body in the sewer off Smith Street, so pointing them down there didn’t work. If there had been someone there, they would still be all over the place and it would probably be on the news by now. I’m not sure there’s anything else I can safely do to point them in the right direction.’
Cash raised his eyebrows. ‘So what do you know about what happened. And how did the police get onto Van Hulle?’
Harper shook his head and pulled a face. ‘Well, like I told you yesterday, everything started with the accident at the Kavanaugh Centre site. A wall collapsed and they found Stacey Cole’s body buried inside. The wall gave way the Sunday before last. The bizarre thing is, Brendan says I wrote a news story that ended up disrupting work on the site and putting it back a couple of weeks.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘They’ve only just finished preparations for the wall now. I’m assuming that if I hadn’t interfered maybe the same thing would have happened again.’
He closed his eyes, trying to recall the sequence of events. ‘They found the body on the Monday morning during the clear-up operation. Van Hulle was arrested the next day but I’m not certain how they linked him to the murder. There was some connection to the security firm guarding the site. The police went to their offices and were going through all sorts of stuff. Maybe there was CCTV footage or something.’
Cash nodded. ‘But you said there were other bodies? How many?’
Harper looked uncertain. ‘I can’t remember for definite. It was an absolutely massive story. First there was just this one body. Then the police arrested Van Hulle. It came out a couple of days later, on the Thursday I think, that they were investigating the disappearance of a number of other women.’ He exhaled and shook his head. ‘That’s when it started to get really huge media attention. A whole load of places across the city were cordoned off and police investigations were going on all over the place. They weren’t giving much away but it sounded like Van Hulle was going to turn out to be another Fred West or Yorkshire Ripper.’
He shook his head. ‘There was something odd about the police statements too. They said a person had been arrested in connection with the murder of Stacey Cole and they were investigating a number of other cases involving missing women. And they confirmed Van Hulle had been arrested but… how did they put it? It was something like “the person known as Isaiah Van Hulle”.’
Harper shrugged. ‘There was much more going on than the police were letting on. They were being even more tight-lipped than usual. I don’t know for definite if they had actually found more bodies at that stage. We were told about Stacey Cole and we picked up rumours the other missing women were prostitutes. There was certainly a forensic team at work in the sewer off Smith Street; that’s why I thought that was where there was another body. They’d sealed off Van Hulle’s offices and his home, plus the security firm.’ He bit one of his thumbs and frowned, trying to remember. ‘I wasn’t dealing with the story direct. Tony Wright was organising the reporters; we had practically everyone working on the story. I wasn’t working at the weekend and the last update I got was on Friday afternoon. I think the police had sent teams to a couple of other locations but I can’t remember for definite where they were. I think one was out near the hospital.’
Harper sighed. ‘Trouble is: things have obviously happened differently here. We know something’s going on. That’s clear enough from what Nelson Cole has said. But if Van Hulle doesn’t know anyone’s onto him, he could still be snatching women off the street. We don’t even know for certain whether Stacey Cole is dead in this world. He might still have her and be looking for somewhere to dispose of her body. And although things here haven’t taken place in the same way, we do know that Stacey Cole has disappeared. And if Van Hulle is looking for somewhere to get rid of her, or any other woman, the Kavanaugh site has got to be a prime contender. He chose it once, he may well choose it again.’
Cash nodded. ‘And so?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Harper. ‘There’s not much point saying anything to the police. If there’s nothing there, they’re not going to just sit and wait for something to happen. They want to question me already and I can hardly tell them what I’ve told you. We need to have some kind of evidence; then perhaps I can go to the police. That’s why I think the Kavanaugh site is the obvious one to try. Me and Brendan talked about staking it out, hiding down there with a camera, but I don’t think he’s convinced.’
Cash nodded. ‘It could be a long wait. And what if your killer uses somewhere else to dump the body? If there is another body.’
‘My point exactly.’ Brendan’s voice came over the sound of the boiling kettle.
‘But, the thing is,’ said Harper. ‘If he follows the same method, I know where on the site he’s going to hide the body. And if he’s going to use the same spot, he’ll have to do it soon or otherwise it’s going to be built over.’
‘And what if he uses somewhere else entirely?’ called Brendan.
‘Ah, but,’ said Cash, switching sides of the argument without missing a beat, ‘if there’s a spot he’s picked as ideal once before, the chances are he’d choose it again. And if he were going to dump a body, it would have to be when the site isn’t in operation. And he’s unlikely to do it in daylight. It’s Friday now. The next three nights would seem ideal.’
‘Exactly,’ said Harper.
‘And why not Monday night? Or Tuesday night? Or Wednesday night?’ added Brendan’s voice. ‘Or somewhere completely different?’
‘Hmm.’ Cash tilted his head to one side. ‘He’s got a point? Any other ideas?’
Harper smiled. ‘Well there is one other option.’
‘What’s that?’
He shrugged. ‘Well it was partly your idea. You said something last night about rattling Van Hulle’s cage. I suggested to Brendan we go and call on him. Say we’re investigating reports of women being abducted and murdered and that his name has come up. Try and interview him for the paper and see how he reacts.’
Brendan reappeared in the doorway, steaming mugs in his hands. ‘I told him it’s crazy. The boy got himself beaten around by some dodgy charac
ters on Wednesday night when he tried to do a bit of late-night snooping. Now the police are looking for him this afternoon and he still wants to go waltzing into the offices of some property developer accusing him of being a mass murderer.’
Harper shook his head. ‘I didn’t say I was going to accuse him of anything. I just want to see if I can rattle him.’
Cash smiled. ‘Sounds a fine idea to me. Can I come?’
45. Fish Out Of Water
Friday, 4.20pm:
Cole nodded at Harrison. They were back in the city councillor’s office but this time with Harrison behind the desk. It was starting to grow dark but neither man made any move to turn on the lights in the room. A hazy glow from the lights in the corridor outside filtered through a series of glass panels in the dividing wall. Shapes passing in the corridor hinted at the gradual drifting away of staff as the weekend exodus began. The door to the office was shut.
‘That’s it?’ asked the redhead in a low but unsatisfied tone.
Harrison spread his hands apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Nelson,’ he said softly. ‘I really am. And like I said, I’ll keep listening. I’ve got a few people who will let me know if they hear anything else but well… for the time being…’ The councillor’s groomed features gave an exaggerated wince and he leant forwards, sympathy oozing. ‘Trust me: if anything else comes up, anything at all, I’ll call you straight away.’
