MONOLITH

by Shaun Hutson

  When he’d first heard the words he’d thought he’d misheard. Within the room and surrounded by so much electronic verbiage, he had doubted his own ears but then the same words had been repeated again. And again. Two names.

  And they were names he knew.

  Paxton had swiftly reduced the volume of the other transmitters and receivers so that he could concentrate on the sounds he was trying to home in on. As he had done that the words had come again. Spoken in clipped tones they had been unmistakeable when heard for the third time.

  ‘Anderson.’

  The name was followed seconds later by another.

  ‘Hadley.’

  If the two names had been spoken any other way than together then Paxton told himself he would probably have missed them, probably have lost the references among the other hissing, crackling and garbled speech flowing into the room but the two names spoken so close together and also more than once in such a short space of time had alerted him. Who the hell was talking about Jessica Anderson and Alex Hadley on two-way radios, he asked himself. And why?

  He twisted dials and turned knobs until the interference was at a minimum, checking once more the frequency being used and now satisfied beyond any doubt that the source of the transmission had been a two-way radio. Was it a police radio he wondered? Then he contemplated, with a slight smile on his face, what kind of crime the two of them could have committed that would have the police using their names in such a way. He shook his head. The source of the transmission remained unknown.

  Paxton reached for his mobile and hit the button that brought up his list of contacts. He scrolled down to Jess’s name, his thumb poised over the call option. She ought to know about this he told himself. But should he call her now or wait until he possibly heard something else on the frequency? There was nothing overly sinister in two names being spoken three or four times was there? Perhaps, he told himself he should wait.

  He was still considering his options, his thumb still poised over Jess’s number.

  Then he heard the sound. Something heavy had connected with the wood of his back door.

  Paxton dropped the headphones and looked in the direction of the noise, rising from his seat and moving towards the sound slowly.

  It came again. Louder this time as if the initial impact had intensified.

  Paxton moved into the kitchen, the mobile still gripped in his hand. With the other he snatched a knife from the worktop nearest to him and gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. He glanced at the back door and saw that there were several small pieces of wood lying on the linoleum at its base, presumably knocked free by the impacts from the other side. Paxton swallowed hard and stood motionless gazing at the partition. He glanced at the handle as if expecting it to turn or possibly even be smashed from its position on the wood but it remained where it was. Paxton began to tell himself his imagination was working overtime. And yet he had heard those sounds. He hadn’t imagined them.

  The silence that filled the room seemed oppressive and Paxton was sure he could hear the beating of his own heart as it thumped against his ribs. He took a faltering step towards the door.

  Then the impact came again.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Jessica Anderson glanced at the caller i.d. as she picked up her mobile, rubbing her eyes just to check on the time too.

  She was a little surprised to see that the name SPIKE was being displayed and also slightly perplexed that the time was showing 1.46 a.m. Jess sat up in bed, shaken from the dream she’d been having, the last vestiges of it still clouding her mind as she pressed the phone to her ear.

  ‘Spike,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘What’s going on?’

  She heard a sound in the background that reminded her of someone dropping something heavy from a great height.

  ‘Spike,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear slightly. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘Jess,’ he gasped into the mouthpiece. ‘Someone’s trying to break in.’

  She heard the fear and desperation in his voice immediately.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ she demanded, swinging herself out of bed, brushing strands of hair from her face.

  There was no answer, only another thunderous sound from the other end of the line then a gasp from Paxton.

  ‘Get out of there, Spike,’ she shouted into the phone.

  ‘They’re trying to break in,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  ‘Who is?’ she gasped.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he told her breathlessly.

  ‘Get out of there,’ she shouted once more.

  ‘I heard your name on one of my receivers,’ Paxton blurted. ‘Yours and Hadley’s.’

  Jess felt the colour drain from her face and it was as if she’d been enveloped by an invisible cold hand that was now squeezing tighter.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Your name and Alex Hadley’s name were mentioned in a conversation I picked up on some short wave radios about twenty minutes ago,’ he told her.

  There was another loud crash from Paxton’s end of the line.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Jess gasped. ‘Just get out of there, Spike.’

  ‘No, it’s important, I think the radios were being used by Voronov’s men. The accents were foreign and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, only your names.’

  ‘Call the police for Christ’s sake,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way now.’

  She jumped off the bed grabbing for the jeans that she’d tossed haphazardly onto a chair nearby. She pulled them on and pushed her bare feet into a pair of trainers, almost stumbling as she did so. She snatched up her phone again.

  ‘Tell Hadley, you’re in danger, both of you,’ Paxton shouted and at his end of the phone there was a deafening crash followed by a shout of fear that made Jess’s blood freeze.

  ‘Spike,’ she yelled, glaring at the mobile.

  There was no answer this time.

  ‘Spike,’ she called again feeling completely and utterly helpless. She couldn’t have felt more useless if she’d been standing there watching behind a plexiglass partition but not knowing what was happening made the situation even more unbearable. She screamed his name once again but still there was no answer, just the sounds of destruction from the other end of the line. She heard muffled words and sounds but it was impossible to identify them until she heard a sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  It was a despairing scream of terror and pain that she was only too sure came from Paxton.

  It was followed by a silence punctuated by some minor scuffling and scraping sounds then nothing.

  ‘Spike,’ she shouted, gripping the mobile so tightly it threatened to snap in her grip. ‘Spike.’

  Still nothing.

  Then, as Jess held the phone close to her ear she heard low breathing.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she rasped. ‘I can hear you, whoever you are. The police are on the way. You won’t get away.’

  There was more guttural breathing from the other end of the line and then a crunching sound, as if the phone was being crushed or stepped on.

  The line went dead.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  They saw the emergency vehicles as they hurried across the pavement, both of them gazing raptly ahead, struck by the array of police cars and the ambulance that stood immobile by the kerb.

  Neither Jess or Hadley spoke both of them seemingly hypnotised by the array of blue lights that lit the night outside Mark Paxton’s address. They approached slowly, Jess feeling her heart beating faster. She felt as if iced water had been injected into her veins, she felt cold and, as if sensing this, Hadley moved closer to her, placing one hand on the small of her back to urge her forward with him.

  ‘Perhaps the police got here in time,’ he said, quietly, not sure who he was trying to convince.

  ‘If he managed to call them in time,’ Jess said. She continued to advance until she and Hadley were con
fronted by a uniformed constable who raised his hand to stop them. Judging by the fact that no blue tape bearing the legend POLICE LINE had been strung across the front of the building she decided that the emergency services had not long ago arrived here themselves. There was an ambulance parked at the kerb but the two paramedics were standing idly beside its closed rear doors. How many of their colleagues were already inside Paxton’s place she could only guess.

  ‘You can’t go any further,’ the uniformed constable said.

  ‘We’re friends of Mr Paxton,’ Jess explained.

  The constable looked her up and down, the stern expression still on his face.

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell us where he is,’ the uniformed man said, flatly.

  Jess frowned, glanced at Hadley then back at the policeman in front of her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  The constable was about to speak when another voice lanced across the night.

  ‘I’ll take it from here, constable.’ Jess and Hadley both recognised the voice of Detective Inspector Robert Johnson and a moment later they saw him advancing towards them, his face set in hard lines.

  ‘Is Spike ok?’ Jess asked.

  ‘How the fuck did you two get here?’ Johnson wanted to know.

  ‘He called me,’ Jess explained. ‘He said someone was trying to break in.’

  ‘Well they did,’ Johnson acknowledged. ‘When did he call you?’

  ‘About half an hour ago, I let Alex know and we came straight away,’ Jess went on. ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘To tell you that we’d have to find him,’ Johnson said, flatly.

  Jess looked in bewilderment at the policeman.

  ‘He’s not in there,’ Johnson went on, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s signs of a break-in and evidence of a struggle but no trace of Paxton. Maybe he legged it.’

  ‘What kind of evidence of a struggle?’ Jess wanted to know.

  ‘Blood,’ Johnson told her. ‘We don’t know whose yet.’

  ‘Was anything taken?’ Hadley wanted to know.

  ‘It’s difficult to tell,’ Johnson said. ‘It doesn’t look as if burglary was the motive for the break-in. Stuff’s just been smashed to splinters in there.’ The detective looked at Jess and Hadley in turn then pointed an index finger at each of them. ‘And there’s something else but if this appears in any fucking newspapers I’ll arrest both of you for disclosure.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That dust, the residue we found on Brian Dunham’s body and car, it’s everywhere inside Paxton’s place.’

  Jess let out a low gasp and tried to swallow but her throat was too dry.

  ‘Could his attacker have been the same as Dunham’s?’ Hadley asked.

  ‘It’s impossible to say without analysis,’ Johnson told him.

  ‘What’s your gut feeling, Bob?’ Hadley went on.

  ‘If you put a gun to my head,’ Johnson said, quietly. ‘I’d say that Mark Paxton and Brian Dunham were attacked by the same person or persons unknown.’

  ‘What more do you need to investigate Voronov?’ Jess demanded.

  ‘I need a hell of a lot more than fucking dust at two crime scenes,’ Johnson told her.

  ‘Two murder scenes,’ Jess insisted.

  ‘We don’t know Paxton’s been killed. He’s missing, no one said he was dead,’ Johnson reminded her.

  ‘Then where is he?’ Jess snapped. ‘You say there’s blood in there, signs of a struggle.’

  ‘It still doesn’t mean he’s dead and even if he is it doesn’t mean he was killed by the same person who killed Brian Dunham.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ Hadley interjected.

  ‘Even if it’s true, where’s the motive?’ Johnson insisted. ‘Voronov had issues with Brian Dunham that may or may not have been responsible for Dunham’s death, he had no problem with Mark Paxton.’

  ‘Spike said he’d heard our names mentioned on a two-way radio frequency,’ Jess told the detective.

  ‘And you think one of them was Voronov?’ Johnson said, dismissively. ‘Because he’s the only fucking foreigner in London isn’t he?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Maybe not him personally but his men,’ Jess said.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ Johnson wanted to know. ‘You’re next?’

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Andrei Voronov stood at one of the windows of his apartment gazing out over the city. He slowly sipped vodka from the expensive tumbler seemingly content to gaze at the myriad lights glinting below him.

  Behind him two of his security men stood sentinel, while on one of the sofas a man with a goatee beard sat gazing at Voronov, all of them seemingly waiting for the billionaire to move before they spoke or acted. The same was true of the brown-haired woman in the immaculate navy blue suit who had overseen the Press Conference. She shifted uncomfortably on the edge of her seat, brushing an imaginary piece of fluff from the material then turning her gaze once again to her employer. She was beginning to wonder if it was possible for the billionaire to spend the entire night just staring aimlessly out into the London night. However, in her mind she knew that nothing Andrei Voronov did was ever aimless. Men like him didn’t get to his position in life by pursuing either aimless actions or thoughts. Everything Voronov did had a purpose.

  She glanced at one of the security men who met her gaze but showed no emotion on his features. The same was true of the man with the goatee who also seemed immobile, his movements governed by the actions and reactions of the billionaire. The woman stood, considered approaching Voronov then decided against it. When the time was right he would speak or act. Exactly how long it was going to take before he reacted she could only guess. The glass of mineral water she’d been sipping from was now empty but she still reached for it, turning the glass slowly between her slender fingers.

  All eyes remained on Voronov. It was as if everyone else in the room was holding their breath, waiting for permission to exhale. The billionaire finally turned but he didn’t look at anyone else in the room, he merely walked across to the solid oak table nearby and poured himself another measure of vodka, half of which he downed in one large swallow.

  The brown-haired woman thought about saying something, fearing that the billionaire would return to his position near one of the windows, still lost in his own thoughts and apparently incapable of communicating with those around him but she need not have feared. He looked at each of the other occupants of the room in turn, his gaze moving slowly, hovering over each person like the scope of a sniper selecting a victim.

  ‘Have they been in contact?’ he said, finally, the question seemingly addressed to anyone willing to answer it.

  ‘Ten or fifteen minutes ago,’ the brown-haired woman told him. ‘They will return here.’

  Voronov straightened up slowly, his face impassive.

  ‘There will be others,’ he said, quietly. ‘Many others just like before.’

  ‘You always knew that,’ the brown-haired woman reminded him.

  Voronov nodded slowly.

  ‘It is how it must be,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘And when the police come?’ the man with the goatee offered. ‘You know they will.’

  ‘I have nothing to fear from the police, not here or anywhere else,’ Voronov said. ‘They can prove nothing.’

  ‘These journalists are going to cause trouble,’ the man with goatee continued.

  ‘They have nothing,’ Voronov insisted. ‘Only their imaginations.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Nothing to threaten me with.’

  ‘But they know too much,’ the woman with the brown hair interjected.

  ‘And who is going to believe them?’ Voronov wanted to know. He looked evenly at the other people in the room then sipped from his glass once again. ‘And even if anyone does it will be too late. Too late for them anyway. Let them tell their stories.’

  ‘I think they are dangerous,’ the man with the goatee said.

  Voronov ignored the comment.

&nbs
p; He finished what was left in his glass then set the tumbler down, turning his back on the others. They watched as he walked towards a door at one end of the room, slipping through it and closing it behind him. For a moment none of the others spoke, perhaps fearing that their voices would be heard but after another moment the man with the goatee got angrily to his feet.

  ‘He underestimates those journalists,’ he said.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ the woman said, quietly. ‘He hasn’t been wrong before.’

  ‘There is always a first time,’ the man told her. ‘This is a dangerous game he’s playing.’

  ‘This is no game,’ the brown-haired woman snapped.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  The voice lanced across the room and those in it turned to see Voronov standing in the doorway through which he had disappeared moments before.

  ‘No game,’ he went on. ‘Let them tell their stories, let them come. I will bury them all.’

  SEVENTY-NINE

  ‘It stands to reason that Voronov will come after us,’ Jess Anderson said as Detective Inspector Robert Johnson turned to walk away. ‘He knows we’re a threat to him.’

  ‘Because of this … information you’ve got about him?’ Johnson sneered. ‘Because you know he controls some fucking statue and he’s using it to kill people who get in his way? Yeah, right, you must be at the very top of his list of enemies.’

  ‘I thought you believed what we’d told you about the Golem,’ Hadley snapped.

  Johnson sighed wearily.

  ‘I heard what you told me,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t mean I believe it.’

  ‘But the forensic evidence at the scene of the attacks on Dunham and now here,’ Hadley went on. ‘The dust, the residue you found at all the places where attacks happened. You can’t ignore that.’

  ‘So according to you my number one suspect is a walking statue?’ the detective said.