Hidden ( CSI Reilly Steel #3)

by Hill, Casey

  Lucy was experiencing a similar situation upstairs. The bathroom was immaculate, the bedrooms clean, the bed unslept in, not even a toothbrush or hairbrush to be found.

  Like Gary she peered beneath the furniture, in the backs of the closets, all the usual places where they might find trace. Whoever he was, he wasn’t leaving any signs of his existence.

  She focused on the bathroom again – her father would love it. Jack Gorman was fastidious about cleanliness in the home, and liked nothing better than a gleaming bathroom that smelled of bleach. He would be right at home here, she thought as she turned back into the hall.

  And it was right there and then that something caught her eye. Was that a stain on the bathroom floor?

  Lucy paused, moved back into the room, and stared. Wrong angle. She stepped back again, paused in the doorway, and this time she could see it. A faint shadow of a stain on the tiles. She dropped to her knees and sniffed. The smell of bleach was especially potent in the flooring.

  ‘Nice view.’

  Lucy peered over her shoulder at Gary who had come up the stairs.

  ‘Stop gawking at my ass and hand me the luminol,’ she ordered.

  ‘Think you’ve got some blood?’ Gary pulled out the spray bottle and handed it to her.

  ‘There’s a faint stain, there and there,’ she pointed to the places she had seen, ‘and a strong smell of bleach.’

  Gary watched as she sprayed luminol across the floor, up the tiled wall and the side of the bath.

  As the fine drops of liquid settled they stared – slowly but surely, in several places on the wall, a bluish luminescence glowed in the brightly lit bathroom, the tell-tale sign of blood.

  ‘Camera.’

  Gary handed it to her, and she took several pictures of the gleaming patches before the luminescence faded. Finally she stood up and handed him the camera.

  He scanned back through the shots she had just taken.‘Well spotted.’

  Lucy smiled, quiet satisfaction on her face. ‘If that isn’t blood spatter, I don't know what is…’

  As they said it, the implication sunk in for both of them. Gary met her eye. ‘Better call it in. I’ll go check the rest.’

  While Lucy was on the phone, Gary got out a stepladder and positioned it on the landing beneath the hatch to the attic. He climbed halfway up, and took out his dusting kit. Setting up a tool tray on top of the stepladder, he placed dark fingerprint powder, a brush, some print tape and a knife into the tray. Then he gently dipped the brush into the powder and used light, short brushstrokes to apply the dust to the door.

  ‘You beauty …’

  Almost immediately several good fingerprints started to appear as the powder stuck to the oil and grease left behind by whoever had been accessing the attic.

  There were lots of them too; the attic had obviously been frequently used. Unusual in itself, perhaps.

  He took the tape and cut several strips, placing them over the fullest prints collecting as many variations as possible before storing the samples away in his kitbag.

  Then he climbed a little higher and placed two hands squarely onto the hatch itself, not sure if it opened up or down.

  He pressed against the door as one edge lifted and the other stayed fixed on a hinge, then pushed the door all the way until it stayed upright on its own. Inching higher on the ladder, he twisted his body so he could reach the inner ledge and stuck his head though the attic opening.

  The first thing that struck him was a musty smell; the odor of long-dead mice he thought, unable to see a thing in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted he reached for his pocket torch, lifting it up while using his other hand to keep his balance on the ladder.

  Flicking on the beam, he reeled back in terror. His heart pounded in his chest and his heavy breathing through the dust mask caused a mixture of sweat and condensation to build up around his mouth and nose.

  What the fuck…?

  Dozens of eyes were staring back at him.

  Chapter 38

  Reilly could feel the butterflies in her stomach as she made her way down the laneway towards the old smelting house. The van had been ordered, but would wait by the trailer until she called and okayed it.

  While everything sounded good in theory, she knew from her previous conversation with McAllister that he had an ever-changing grip on reality, so she only hoped that by the time she got there, he wouldn’t have changed his mind about talking to her in person.

  No, Reilly thought, dismissing any doubts. She would convince him, she was confident of that. The children were going to come out safe and sound, and she was going help to reunite them with their families.

  She moved past the last turn before the gate, and just as she did so, something in the darkness caught her eye, a movement.

  A man darted from the bushes and scampered across the muddy ground onto the driveway. His camera bounced against his chest as he ran.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Reilly demanded, her voice a low hiss.

  He held his hand out. ‘Paul O’Connor. Sunday News.’

  Reilly’s heart thumped. ‘I don’t give a damn which rag you work for, you shouldn’t be here!’

  He shrugged, as if such abuse was part of the job.

  ‘Get out of here now! You’ll ruin everything ...’ Reilly shoved him away to the side, out of view, terrified of the implications. Had McAllister seen him?

  If he had, what would he do? She pulled out her phone to call Jacobs – the best thing to do was try and get rid of the photographer.

  She pressed the call button, all the while berating O’Connor. ‘Get the hell out of here – now,’ she repeated hoarsely. ‘Do you hear me? Better get out of my sight if you don’t want to spend the next seventy-two hours in a jail cell.’

  ‘Oh come on, give us a break …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, there are children involved here!’

  It was as far as Reilly got – one glimpse at the guy’s face told her that her plans for a smooth resolution had already gone to hell. She looked round – standing in front of them was David McAllister, his shotgun pointing right at them.

  ‘I thought we had an arrangement, Miss Steel. I thought I could trust you. But you are the Leanan Sidhe, whispering all I want to hear while plotting against me.’

  Leanan Sidhe … Reilly had gleaned the name from the Irish mythology books they’d taken from the lake house. Right then she couldn’t remember the details but knew it wasn’t good.

  O’Connor looked worried, but he kept his wits about him. ‘Ah it’s not her fault, boss, blame me, I tried to sneak in.’

  The shotgun didn’t move. Reilly could see that McAllister now looked tense, edgy – dangerous.

  ‘I’ll just stay here,’ the photographer offered, ‘and you and the lady go right ahead with what you were doing, all right?’ He took a step backwards, his hands up to signal his intent.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  O’Connor froze in mid-step with the shotgun aimed right at him.

  ‘Mr McAllister, please, just let him go and you and I can talk,’ begged Reilly. ‘It’s as he says – he just sneaked up behind me.’

  ‘Liar. You’re all a bunch of liars.’ McAllister flicked the shotgun to indicate that they should move towards the building. ‘Come on, let’s go. The only way to stop a beast is by taking its head.’

  Back at the house, it took more than a few seconds for Gary to realize that the deadened empty stares weren’t alive or even human, but dolls.

  No, not dolls, he realized then – mannequins.

  Mannequin heads to be precise. They reminded him of a toy his sister got for Christmas once; just a disembodied head with all this hair she used to spend hours arranging in different hairstyles. He shone the torch around; there must have been two or three dozen heads with hair, all of varying lengths and colors.

  ‘Anything interesting up there?’ Lucy called out.

  ‘You are not going to believe this. Here, take a look,’ he said, descend
ing the ladder and handing her the torch.

  ‘What is it?’ She looked uncertain.

  ‘You tell me – some weird shit that’s for sure,’ he said, as Lucy climbed the ladder and shone the light around inside.

  ‘Oh God, that’s seriously creepy! It’s no wonder dolls always freaked me out when I was small. They’re evil-looking.’

  ‘I’ll put the ladder up through the trapdoor so I can get in there properly. I got some prints from the hatch; we might get more up there than we did in the rest of the house.’

  ‘The Diary of Edmund Harold …’ Lucy mused.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of the books I saw downstairs – it’s about a wigmaker.’

  ‘You think that’s what the guy does for a living?’

  ‘Either for business …’ Her eyes widened, and she got back up to take another look. ‘Oh Jesus, Gary…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hair …there’s some skin attached.’

  Gary felt sick. ‘You’re not suggesting …’

  ‘It’s definitely human,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But where the hell would anyone get that much hair?’ Gary asked. But already afraid of the answer, Lucy didn’t reply.

  Chapter 39

  Reilly and O’Connor edged forwards into the old smelting house; it smelled of mildew but there was a fireplace, a makeshift kitchen and a door off to one side. She wondered where the kids were, but couldn’t make out much detail. Only a thin trickle of light came through the windows due to the security grille on the outside and layers of dust on the inside.

  ‘On the ground, now!’ McAllister was wound up tight, his tone of voice leaving no room for discussion.

  Reilly and the photographer threw themselves down on the damp floor. She could feel the cold against her cheek, through her clothes. She tried to keep an eye on what McAllister was doing, but he stepped quickly round behind them.

  ‘You're a cop,’ he snapped at Reilly, ‘do you have any handcuffs, restraints, in your bag?’

  She lifted her head slightly to look at him, and shook it. ‘I’m a forensic scientist, not a police officer.’

  She could see him thinking – this had taken him by surprise, and he was not sure what he was going to do next.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ began O’Connor again, ‘just let us go, that will be the easiest thing for you.’ He began to climb to his feet and turned towards the door. ‘We’ll get out of your hair and—’

  It was a bad decision, and helped make up McAllister’s mind. As O’Connor moved, a loud blast echoed off the bare walls.

  In the time that it took Reilly to realize what had happened, the photographer had slumped forwards, his wide eyes staring at Reilly as he hit the floor. He scrunched his face up in pain. ‘He fucking shot me!’ he cried.

  McAllister loomed over him. ‘I told you to lie down.’

  Reilly looked up, horrified. ‘What have you done?’

  The older man looked almost as shocked as O’Connor. ‘What I had to do.’ He looked down dismissively. ‘He’ll be all right. It’s only a seat full of pellets.’

  The photographer groaned. ‘Oh God, oh God…’

  She glanced up at McAllister. He was watching her carefully. ‘I’ll need to call in now,’ she said, ‘and let my team know what’s happening. They’ll have heard the shot; they’ll want to send people …’

  ‘You call in – but you tell them exactly what I say.’

  ‘I won’t lie.’

  ‘You’ll do what I say.’

  He hurried over, reached into her coat pocket for the phone, and shoved it in her hand. ‘Call them. Tell them everything is fine. Say there’s an idiot intruder here and I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘And what do I say about the shot?’

  ‘Tell them there was an accident, but everything’s fine.’

  Reilly looked at his wild eyes. She could see how the pressure was mounting on him, how he was changing. The earlier trust they’d built up was disintegrating.

  She took out the mobile and called Jacobs, putting him on speakerphone.

  There was an almost immediate response, the negotiator’s calm voice filling the room. She felt instantly better, reassured. ‘How are you doing?’

  Reilly kept her eyes on McAllister. He hovered over her, so tense it almost seemed that he was holding his breath too. ‘Everything is fine.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Jacobs’s voice was warm, but she could hear the hint of enquiry.

  ‘We have a problem though.’ McAllister’s jaw muscles tensed as she said this but she hurried on. ‘A photographer got through the police cordon somehow, he sneaked up to the house alongside me.’ She stopped, wanting to give Jacobs time to absorb the information, give him time to think.

  His response was measured. ‘I see. That is … awkward.’

  She could imagine him back at the trailer, trying to figure out what was going on. ‘Inspector O’Brien is with me now. Is there anything else we need to know?’

  There it was, in the question. He had heard the gunshot, but Steve was smart enough not to ask about it directly. And O’Brien also now knew she had gone rogue. She felt her throat go dry.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered quickly.

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  He had understood. Reilly was fine, but not necessarily everyone else. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘David understandably isn’t happy about the photographer being here,’ she said, using his first name to suggest familiarity. ‘It has complicated things.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jacobs. ‘I’m sure he feels betrayed, even though you knew nothing about it and there was nothing you could do.’

  Clever. Express McAllister’s feelings, but exculpate Reilly. ‘David and I need to make the photographer more comfortable for the moment,’ Reilly informed them, ‘then we’ll call you back.’

  ‘Very good. We’ll listen for your call within fifteen minutes.’

  Exactly what she needed – a commitment, a deadline, something to get McAllister to understand that this could not continue indefinitely.

  He was picking up some of this, and looked angry. He grabbed Reilly’s arm, and chopped his hand across his throat to indicate that she should end the conversation.

  ‘OK, I have to go now. I’ll update you in a little while.’

  ‘Good talking with you, Reilly.’

  The line went dead. McAllister grabbed the phone from her, and slammed it down on the table. ‘I suppose you think that’s clever?’

  Reilly pointed at the photographer, lying on the floor, eyes scrunched shut in pain. ‘Look at him. He needs proper medical treatment, we need to get him to a doctor …’

  ‘Not yet we don’t.’ McAllister stepped back. ‘OK, on your feet both of you, move into the corner.’

  Reilly helped O’Connor to his feet – he was panting, wincing, blood seeping through his pants. He limped, leaning heavily on her, groaning the whole way.

  As soon as they stopped he collapsed to his knees and looked up at McAllister, who still held the shotgun. ‘I need a doctor.’

  ‘You’ll see a doctor when I say so,’ he growled. He circled around them. ‘If you’re a scientist, then you can treat him.’

  ‘I’m used to examining dead bodies,’ Reilly told him, ‘and unless you want him to become one, you need to let him go.’

  ‘Treat him. Tell me what you need. We have supplies here.’

  Reilly sighed in exasperation. She had medical training, yes, but was not exactly experienced in treating gunshot wounds. ‘OK, put the shotgun down – believe me, neither of us is about to run out of here.’

  He looked dubious, but after a moment placed the gun down by his side.

  ‘OK,’ Reilly continued. ‘Help me to get him up onto that,’ she said, pointing to a nearby table.

  McAllister quickly cleared the table, then grabbed O’Connor under one arm while Reilly held the other. Together they manhandled
him up onto the table, the photographer groaning in pain the whole time.

  ‘We’ll have to get your clothes off,’ Reilly told him.

  She slid the trousers down – they were quite bloody, and he looked to have at least a dozen pellets in his legs and backside. She tapped the camera bag he wore and slid his pack off – it was dripping wet. She set it down, looked inside, and raised an eyebrow as she pulled out his dripping thermos. ‘Saved by your tea.’ She held the thermos up for O’Connor to see – it had four holes in it.

  Now he could see the damage he had caused, McAllister looked contrite. ‘So what do you need?’

  Reilly quickly examined O’Connor’s injuries.‘I can’t get the pellets out – he’ll need a hospital for that … I guess water, a couple of clean cloths, then whatever you have for these wounds – dressings, tape…’

  He nodded to another door to the right. ‘Running water’s in there, and some towels in that box by the door.’ As he spoke he rummaged in the bottom of a larger box just inside the entrance. He retrieved a large biscuit tin. ‘First aid kit,’ he informed Reilly, setting it on the table.

  She ran some water in a bowl she’d found amongst the supplies, grabbed two towels, and returned to the table. She looked down at O’Connor. ‘You all set?’

  He nodded, and closed his eyes.

  Reilly set to work cleaning the wounds.

  As she did so, she thought about what would happen next – O’Connor’s appearance had completely changed the rules. Where did they go from here?

  Chapter 40

  ‘Jesus Christ. You let her go out there alone?’ Chris had returned to the trailer with Kennedy and O’Brien and was outraged to discover that Reilly had been sent to talk to McAllister. God only knows what that madman could do to her …

  Jacobs gave him a cool, detached look. ‘Detective, I understand that you have strong feelings for Miss Steel—’