Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  She pulled another file and said, ‘Now, here’s a group of real Celts: druids in Aberporth.’ She shrugged. ‘Mostly middle-aged men who wear robes and get pissed. Our villain wouldn’t get much joy out of them, unless he likes real ale and poetry.’

  In their brief time in Penweddig, Jamie had found himself warming to his new, unofficial, partner. He had wanted Ceri to like him – mainly so she would not cause trouble between him and Sara – but he had never bothered to wonder whether he could like her. He admired her sly, subtle wit, and her fierce loyalty to anything she gave time to.

  They requested the necessary files and were offered a small meeting room to work in. Now, papers covered the table before them. Ceri pulled a file at random. ‘Where do we begin?’ she asked. ‘This lad’s a lefty-anarchist type, while these ones,’ – she spread a few files before her – ‘are neo-Nazis.’

  One document caught her eye. ‘We’ve got this guy on file in Penweddig, too,’ she noted. ‘A real charmer – a neo-Nazi and drug-dealer.’

  Jamie caught a brief glimpse of Trevor Hughes’ photo before Ceri slipped it back in the pile.

  It was just after noon when Carson pulled onto the weed-covered tarmac outside Trevor Hughes’ bungalow. He entered through the side door, and climbed the three stairs into the mildew-smelling kitchen. As he gulped a glass of water, he sensed Hughes struggling awake in his bedroom. Carson lightly touched his mind, and felt consciousness returning sluggishly, followed by a flash of anger.

  Hughes stomped out of his bedroom, still naked and sweaty from sleep. Rolls of tattooed flesh jiggled as he bounded towards Carson. He had an Iron Cross tattooed above his groin. ‘Where you been with my motor?’ he shouted.

  Carson finished his water, and placed the tumbler gently on the cracked Formica counter.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ Hughes continued. ‘I invite you into my house, feed you, and what do you do? Piss off with my motor for fucking days!’

  Carson winced at the shrill voice. His nerves twitched from the poison Sara Jones had shot into him. ‘I apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘I had business.’

  Hughes sidled up to Carson until he was only a few inches away; this oaf badly needed a shower. ‘Not good enough, mate. You can buy a mobile phone for ten quid.’ He grasped Carson roughly by the shoulder. ‘I needed my car! I had business too!’

  Carson took a deep breath, and fought to control his temper.

  ‘I missed my connection in Liverpool because of you,’ Hughes spat. ‘If you weren’t an Aryan brother, I’d crack your skull with a spanner.’

  Without a second of warning, Carson pistoned his stiffened palm into Hughes’ face, sending him reeling into the plastic garden furniture he used as a kitchen suite. Before Hughes could right himself, Carson was over him, his knife jerked from his boot and pressed into Hughes’ meaty throat. Hughes goggled at the American, his nose streaming crimson.

  ‘I told you – I had business, too,’ Carson said. ‘And there were complications. Okay?’

  The neo-Nazi nodded rapidly.

  Carson eased his grip, but only slightly. ‘Please don’t shout or touch me again. It irritates me.’

  He stepped back, allowing the larger man to stand.

  ‘Yeah, mate ... all right,’ Hughes said, scouting the room for a napkin. ‘I can go to Liverpool tomorrow, like.’

  Carson turned away, looked through the rotting window frame. Patchy grass dotted with beer tins and takeaway containers. Strewn tyres.

  ‘I’ve had times when things turned to shit, too,’ Hughes went on. ‘Once in Cardiff, me and some mates had words with these Pakis. They got their whole family out, swinging these metal pipes. We spent three hours in the cellar of an off-license.’ He brayed with laughter. ‘They weren’t so brave later on that night, let me tell you.’

  Carson squeezed the excess water from a tattered dishcloth and handed it to him. Hughes dabbed at his nose and scratched his groin.

  ‘So tell me about your business problems.’

  Carson stared at him blankly. ‘Why don’t you get dressed?’

  The next day, Sara had lunch alone at a small whole food café on Pier Street, idly reading the cards and posters tacked to the walls. She was always amazed by the eclectic spectrum of life that congregated in such an isolated place as Mid Wales. Photocopied flyers pointed to Buddhist meditation classes, Reiki training, aromatherapists, women’s healing circles, and a seemingly endless variety of other esoteric pursuits.

  She returned her plate and bowl to the counter, and thanked the proprietor. He looked up from his iPad and smiled, but his reaction seemed sad. Sara sensed there was a piece to his life that was missing – something he had come to Aberystwyth long ago to find, but was still looking for. It was as if yesterday’s experiment had left her with a heightened sense of awareness. All morning, she had felt able to look at strangers and sense their hidden emotions. She wondered if all psychiatrists should be made to undergo some form of psychic training.

  Sara stepped outside, and turned towards Marine Terrace. It was a dull day, and fog was rolling off the sea, thinning as it drifted across the pavement. Sara wondered if she would ever be able to read Eldon Carson himself. She had no idea why he wanted to train her, or what he expected to get from it. Nonetheless, he offered something she wanted: the truth about her past, and a sense of direction for her future.

  She crossed the street at an angle, heading towards the concrete steps leading to the door of the Drop-In Centre. Suddenly, Sara felt certain she was being watched, indeed, studied. She could feel the heightened state of someone observing her with intense concentration.

  Slowing her pace, Sara tried to get a fix on its exact location.

  It came from over her right shoulder. She braced herself and spun around. Half-obscured by a parked car stood a bearded man in filthy clothing – the same person who had accosted her in the Centre. He twitched nervously, torn between running and approaching.

  ‘Please,’ she said, edging closer. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said, his speech rapid. ‘Do you want to talk to me?’

  His head bobbed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Daffy.’

  ‘Come upstairs, Daffy,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a biscuit.’

  Sara moved away, willing him to follow, but he remained secure behind his barricade. She stopped and held out her hand.

  ‘Come on.’

  Tentatively, he edged around the car, and offered her his shaking, dirty hand. She took it firmly, and he allowed her to lead him up the stairs.

  Daffy sat in a plastic chair, cradling a cup of coffee and rocking back and forth rhythmically. Once Sara had calmed him, he spoke in disjointed monologues. He admitted spying on her, describing his several-mile walk between Penweddig and Aberystwyth. Finally, he related the events of their first meeting from his point of view. Sara saw herself through his eyes, strong and powerful.

  ‘Why’d you try to stab me with that thing?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sara said gently. ‘I didn’t know you then. I thought you were going to hurt me.’

  His gleaming eyes widened. This surprised him.

  ‘Why have you been watching me?’ Sara asked as she reached out mentally, trying to feel his thoughts.

  ‘I wanted to see what kind of person you were,’ he said. ‘Where you go, who you see.’ He looked at her with puzzling irony. ‘You can tell a lot about a person by the company she keeps.’

  Sara nodded without understanding. ‘And what did you see?’ she asked. The emotion she felt in him wasn’t fear; it was the jittery recklessness of a man who believed his cause had already been lost.

  ‘A man,’ he whispered, ‘in your window.’

  ‘Was it the police officer?’ she asked with some trepidation. ‘The one without a uniform? Inspector Harding?’

  ‘He wasn’t police,’ Daffy replied with certainty. ‘His hair was too shaggy.’


  Trepidation gave way to dread. ‘Did you recognise him?’ she asked. She recalled her first encounter with Daffy, when he had said, I know about the killings.

  Daffy frowned. ‘Should I have?’ he asked.

  This startled Sara, but there was no duplicity in his thoughts. ‘No,’ she said.

  Daffy set the coffee cup on the floorboards next to him, and rose stiffly. ‘I won’t spy on you any more,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You can’t help me.’

  Sara stood quickly. ‘I can help, if you’ll let me,’ she replied.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘I see it now. Nobody can really help anyone.’

  Daffy looked as if he were swallowing bitter medicine, or equally bitter words. ‘I should never have come back here,’ he said finally, and made for the door.

  Years of life on the streets had taught Daffy that the homeless were as diverse a group as any other. Many had mental health problems and could be dangerously unpredictable, but the range of their likes and dislikes was as broad as anyone’s. Some preferred to be alone, others looked for agreeable company. Daffy had learned to be wary, but not to reject the advances of a potential friend.

  He was leaning against steel sea rails on a stretch of road beyond Aberystwyth’s South Beach. He stared at the faint line where the dark sea met the black sky, wondering where to go now. The tide was in; he enjoyed the soothing sounds the water made as it lapped against the wall below.

  He heard he crunching of footsteps over pebbles on the pavement, and a man in a loose overcoat stood next to him.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ the man said, ‘and I’m celebrating.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Daffy said. The man smelt like he’d washed his face in strong liquor.

  From his overcoat, the man pulled a bottle of expensive cognac. It was a quarter full. He handed it to Daffy. ‘Toast me,’ he said.

  Daffy accepted the bottle, and swallowed. ‘Here’s to you,’ he said.

  Together, they finished the bottle. The stranger cradled it in his arm, and whispered, ‘I’ve got another one hidden.’

  ‘Have you?’ Daffy asked.

  ‘Over there, by the harbour,’ he said, gesturing to the end of the jetty. ‘Do you see where the railing’s broken?’

  Daffy looked down South Marine Terrace, past the Lifeboat Station. One section of railing was missing, right at the end of the pavement. It was blocked off with metal barriers and orange tape.

  ‘There’s a hole in the pavement,’ he whispered, and winked conspiratorially. ‘That’s where it is.’ He tugged at Daffy’s jacket. ‘Let’s go get it.’

  Daffy hesitated. For no reason he could put his finger on, he was suddenly wary of this man’s insistence that he drink with him, out there, in the empty harbour, in the dark.

  ‘Come on,’ the man said insistently. ‘It’s my birthday.’

  With a growing feeling of unease, Daffy surrendered to the man’s pleas, and allowed himself to be tugged towards the broken sea-rails.

  At the broken rail, the man separated the orange tape from one of the metal barriers.

  ‘It’s down there,’ he said. ‘See that crack?’

  ‘Where?’ Daffy asked.

  ‘You’re not close enough. You’ve got to move in.’ He reached over and tugged on Daffy’s jacket.

  ‘Hey! Careful,’ said Daffy, drawing back.

  ‘Go on, get it for me,’ the man said.

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Cause it’s my birthday.’

  ‘I can’t see it,’ Daffy stammered. ‘I don’t know where it is.’ His words were now racing as quickly as his pulse. ‘Maybe you should get it. You put it there, after all ...’

  The man slipped behind Daffy, and shoved him towards the break in the rail. Daffy could hear the tide smacking against the sea wall far below. He leaned backwards, into the man’s hands, and the man thrust with force. Suddenly, Daffy felt his legs kicked out from under him. His knees impacted with the pavement in a nauseating pop.

  Daffy cried out.

  ‘Shut up!’ the man snarled, and swung the empty cognac bottle at the back of Daffy’s skull. Daffy jerked forward as blinding sparkles exploded before his eyes. The man wheeled Daffy around and pushed him down. With the second blow, the bottle shattered against Daffy’s forehead. He wailed. Blood streamed into his eyes.

  Daffy felt a sharp stab as the neck of the broken bottle pressed firmly into the spongy flesh under his right ear.

  Before the bottle-thrust seared red pain through his neck, before one thudding kick sent him plummeting over the edge, Daffy heard the man’s breathless voice from far away.

  ‘Sorry, mate. This isn’t personal.’

  NINETEEN

  The grounds of Ceri’s sloping garden were large and well-manicured; several beds of beautifully arranged plants and flowers framed a pond stocked with koi carp. Sara sat with Ceri and Jamie at a picnic table positioned at the garden’s highest point. Although it was only eight-something on this midweek evening, the sun had already started to set over the bay. It burnished the roof of Ceri’s modern house, and made the grass turn the colour of rust. Sara drained her third glass of Chardonnay and wondered where the carp went over the winter.

  ‘There was one guy,’ Jamie said with a chuckle, ‘who looked as nervous as I’ve ever seen anyone look.’

  ‘That skinny kid who sends hate mail to the National Assembly?’ Ceri chortled.

  ‘I’m sure he was about to confess to something ... until he found out why we were there. When I mentioned the murders, he relaxed.’

  Maybe the fish just stayed in the pond whatever the weather, Sara thought. Ceri might have to cover it, though, so they wouldn’t freeze.

  ‘He’s the only lad I’ve ever met who finds murder reassuring,’ Ceri said, then laughed while trying to swallow smoked salmon. She began to cough, and eased her throat with a swallow of bourbon. Sara helped herself to a fourth glass of wine and made a mental note to Google koi carp.

  Ceri wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Whatever the bugger’s really done, we’ll catch him,’ she said. ‘It’s only a damned shame that none of this has brought us any closer to the bastard we’re actually chasing.’

  Sara found it odd that her friends had formed this unexpected alliance. For the past two weeks, they had interviewed an assortment of occultists, witches, ritual magicians, psychics, anarchists, and left- and right-wingers. When necessary – but only then – they had shown a reproduction of the killer’s symbol, at least to those who had some grounding in reality. None of these efforts had advanced their investigation, but the experience had done wonders for their friendship.

  Sara took another large swallow of Chardonnay. She had to admit, she was relieved that Jamie and Ceri had come no closer to their prey; as they travelled the length and breadth of Wales, chatting with fantasists, the man they were trying to catch had been visiting Sara nearly every day. Eldon Carson served as an unsettling reminder of Sara’s culpability for the Shrewsbury deaths ... but time spent with him was also tremendously exciting. Eldon would choose a photo from a magazine, and quite often Sara had been able to describe it. When the images came, they appeared as a series of shapes – a flat plane here, a right angle there – and then in greater detail, including sounds, textures, and feelings. Sara had grown increasingly excited about what she might be capable of doing, and anxious to learn more.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Ceri was saying, her tone growing indignant. ‘You wonder what goes through some people’s minds ...’

  Sara would not have predicted it, but she was finding Eldon himself fascinating. When leading Sara through her psychic exercises, Eldon spoke with authority. At other times he seemed eager to absorb all the knowledge she could give him. He was especially curious about art. As a sculptor, he found the objects that filled Sara’s house a source of constant wonder, and demanded impromptu courses in Primitive Art history.

  ‘What’s this one?’ he would ask, picking up a thin stick, carved with figures perched one
on top of another.

  ‘It’s called an Ifa Divination bell. It was carved by the Yoruba tribe in Nigeria in the late nineteenth century. Ironically, it was used to predict the future.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘A headdress carved by the Baga people in Guinea-Bissau. It’s in the form of a woman, and represents motherhood ...’

  Sara was shaken from her reverie by Ceri, who had begun to pontificate in full throat. ‘It would be laughable if it weren’t so goddamned serious,’ her friend said. In a short time, Ceri seemed to have advanced from indignation all the way to outrage.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ she said. ‘What would be laughable?’

  ‘Our serial killer,’ Jamie explained.

  ‘He’s like something from a black comedy!’ Ceri wailed. ‘This maniac wanders into a town where murder’s practically non-existent, and some clairvoyant mojo tells him every other person’s about to kill somebody. That is, unless he intervenes. Soon, there really are bodies everywhere.’

  She took a pull of bourbon and muttered, ‘People. They’re so stupid.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sara heard herself say, ‘but what if he’s right?’

  Immediately she flushed, realising she had spoken those words out loud. She cursed herself for letting the wine loosen her tongue.

  Ceri gawped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh ... it’s nothing, really.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Ceri persisted. ‘How could he be right?’

  Sara drew in a slow breath and tried to recover the situation. ‘All I’m saying is, what if someone were about to commit an atrocity and you knew about it?’

  ‘All right,’ Ceri said. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, under those circumstances, stopping that person might be the moral thing to do, right?’

  Ceri nodded. ‘I agree.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Sure. If I could go back and kill Hitler, I would. I might even take a pop at Stalin while I was at it.’

  Ceri finished off her bourbon and leaned forward. ‘But here’s the problem, Sara – I don’t have a time machine. And that buffoon cannot see the future.’