Succinctly, Jamie detailed the contents of his conversation with Hughes, but before he had finished, Ceri interrupted: ‘How long did you say he looked at the killer’s picture?’
Jamie frowned. ‘Maybe ten seconds.’
‘That’s a long time,’ Ceri said.
‘It made me suspicious too,’ he agreed. ‘I tried to frighten him into telling me more, but the man is obstinate. Either that or stupid.’
‘Most likely both,’ Ceri said. ‘I’ll bet you were nice to him.’
‘I suppose I was polite.’
‘That was your mistake. Wish I’d been there.’
The hostess returned with two drinks menus. Ceri and Jamie ordered and paused for her to leave; once she had cleared the room, Ceri said, ‘That Hughes character knows way more than he’s telling you.’
‘I agree,’ Jamie said. ‘If you really think you can get more out of him than I did, we can go back there after dinner.’
‘I’d like that,’ Ceri said, and fidgeted in her chair. ‘In fact,’ she said abruptly, ‘you know what? Let’s go now.’
‘Now?’ Jamie said. He had not eaten all day.
When the drinks arrived, Ceri requested the bill. Jamie’s hollow stomach moaned in complaint.
‘Drink up, then,’ Ceri said enthusiastically. ‘I want to pay a visit to Mr Hughes.’
After Eldon had gone, Sara had kept the Centre open, striving for a normality it had proved impossible even to simulate. She had been jittery, and hoping desperately for visitors – people with concrete problems, ones easier to make sense of than her own.
She had imagined trying to tell her troubles to a mental health professional: ‘I’ve been sheltering a psychic serial killer, you see, and he’s been teaching me to be psychic too. But now he expects me to go out and start killing people, and I don’t really feel like doing that ...’
Throughout the afternoon, Sara had experienced one fit of hysterical laughter and two helpless crying jags. No one had come to relieve her solitude; she had been left alone, her mind churning with thoughts that were absurd, unbelievable, and tenacious.
Now she was home, listening to soft jazz in the glow of candlelight. The music, the light, the scent of cinnamon, were all to exorcise his spirit from a house still haunted by his presence. There was the chair on which he’d sat. There was the stable, where she’d imprisoned him, and sealed the fate of five people.
Sara had travelled through so many emotions, and now settled on a feeling of profound sadness for Eldon Carson. The task he had assigned himself was lonely, and Sara had become the one person able to identify with him. He had left her with so many questions. Eldon had described how, as a teenager, he had sought out other psychics, and a few had proved genuine. This implied that there were real psychics who had not ended up murdering people. How could he be so certain Sara would follow in his footsteps? Perhaps she really could quit the psychic club.
How psychic was she anyway, without her mentor’s guidance? She decided to banish her fear by seeing what she could do alone. She crawled under the stairs and dug out a box of old photo albums, choosing a picture of herself from her early days in London. Upstairs, she slipped it inside an envelope and made herself comfortable on the bed.
‘This, Sara,’ she said, ‘is your target. Your random coordinates are six, three, five, seven, five, nine, two.’
‘Now,’ she said, ‘go and explore it.’
Carson drove east in Trevor Hughes’ ancient Ford Escort along the straight, impersonal stretch of motorway that linked South Wales with the south-east of England. His pockets bulged with the wads of cash Hughes had hidden all over his house. Carson observed the speed limit meticulously: he had no intention of wrangling with cops. He would find an anonymous hotel somewhere not too near his destination, and get some rest. Soon, they would be looking for Hughes’ car.
What was he driving towards? Death? Imprisonment? The irony, thought Carson, was that this psychic simply did not know. His own future had failed to reveal itself to him. Even if he survived, he would be more thoroughly an exile than before. He had entered Aberystwyth a troubled young man who did not feel at home anywhere – now he was all that and a murderer too. A murderer who would not, could not, stop killing.
And, from now on, he would have to do it without Sara Jones. She would never want to see him again, even if he escaped the worst of his possible fates. Carson felt like someone who had been given a glimpse of paradise, then denied it forever more.
Feeling more miserable than he had ever felt before, he tuned the radio to a jazz station. Carson had never liked jazz, but it made him think, with bittersweet anguish, of Sara Jones.
The isolated house was dark as the night sky when Ceri pulled her panda car onto Trevor Hughes’ crumbling driveway. She and Jamie stepped out with caution. The light from the inside the car threw a milky glow onto the brick wall. They closed their doors and it vanished.
‘Does he own a car?’ Ceri whispered.
‘You’d think,’ Jamie replied, ‘living out here.’
Ceri moved towards the side of the house, where a carport covered part of the driveway. She saw nothing but the silhouettes of weeds growing through the tarmac, and an abandoned tyre leaning against the wall. ‘Was it parked here yesterday?’ she asked.
‘Strange,’ Jamie said. ‘No.’
He climbed the cement stairs to the front door and pressed the buzzer. It did not make a sound. He knocked loudly and waited, then knocked again. ‘Mr Hughes?’
Silence.
‘He’s not here.’ Jamie noticed that Ceri had not joined him. He called her name.
‘Back door’s open,’ she shouted.
‘Unlocked?’ Jamie asked, rounding the corner of the house.
‘Pushed open,’ she replied.
He stared through the open door, and called, ‘Mr Hughes, are you in there? It’s the police.’
No answer.
Jamie hesitated, and looked at Ceri quizzically. To enter a suspect’s house required at least reasonable belief he was home and evading the police. That meant evidence they could use in court – not simply a police inspector’s hunch.
Ceri sensed the reason for his hesitation. ‘In my book,’ she said, ‘an open door is probable cause.’ She pushed the half-open door wide. ‘You want to go in first, or should I?’
Jamie shrugged and entered the sour-smelling kitchen, flipping on the light. He edged into the hallway, and glanced into the living room. He could barely make out the round black shadow of a chair in the centre of the room, with a large figure sprawled over it.
‘In here!’ he shouted, as he snapped on the light. The bare white bulb flickered overhead. Ceri was already behind him.
They stared at Trevor Hughes’ corpse for no more than a second before Jamie yanked out his phone. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Harding. Please give me CID ...’
Ceri approached the body, and stared at the symbol drawn on its arm. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘It looks like the Nazi’s guest decided it was time to leave.’
Six, three, five, seven, five, nine, two ...
Sara lay on her bed, eyes closed, hands at her sides, and breathed deeply. She listened to the rustle of the trees outside her window, of the bleating of the sheep in the rear field, and emptied her mind of all thoughts. The fingers of her left hand brushed against the envelope, inside of which was her target.
Herself.
Swiftly, she felt her psychic body hurtling downwards through layers of darkness, a dizzying freefall which slowed gradually, and finally stopped. Sara felt queasy, disoriented, but she was tingling with excitement. She did not know where she’d arrived, but she flushed with something like pride, knowing she was doing it on her own.
The effort was hardly easy. Although she got a distinct impression that she’d arrived somewhere, Sara could not steady herself enough to figure out where she was. It was like trying to focus on an object after spinning in circles. Gradually, she wrested control over her perce
ptions, and found herself hovering several feet above a long, narrow strip of ...
Of what?
The view was hazy. She could make out a rough surface. Parts of it glowed soft white, as if lit from within. Rarer sections glittered like diamonds, while other patches were dark grey.
‘What are you?’ she asked aloud.
Then, instinctively, she understood. It wasn’t a place at all, but a symbolic path – her life’s experiences up until this moment. Some of them bright as new life, others dim as the grave. By focusing on spots in the path, Sara could feel faint vibrations of the moments they represented. There – the sadness she had felt when Aunt Issy sold the B&B and moved away. There – her first time in an operating theatre.
And there – way back – a throbbing red pulse of pain. Sara focused. Forced herself to see. Don’t be afraid, Sara. Face it.
She reached out.
The horror of returning home. She could vaguely see the fruit and vegetables scattered on the mosaic tiles. Was that blood? She could hear a young woman’s voice – Ceri’s – like an echo.
Show me more.
The sensations too indistinct – and Sara could not control them. Damn it. She wasn’t strong enough. Her psychic body rose again, away from the pulsing redness. She felt herself separating. Tried to focus. Then she heard a buzzing. Vibrations. Groggily, Sara opened her eyes.
Her phone was ringing.
She fumbled for it, saw it was Ceri and thumbed the screen. ‘Hey,’ she said thickly. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You in the house?’
‘In my bedroom. I was ... sleeping.’
‘Come downstairs – it’s important. I’m at the door.’
In the kitchen, Ceri’s face was a grim mask. Her shoulders sagged wearily. ‘We’ve found where the offender was staying,’ she said.
Sara’s pulse started to race. ‘You’ve got him?’
Ceri shook her head. ‘He’s gone. He’d been living with a racist fanatic. Yesterday he killed the guy and fled.’
‘Killed him,’ Sara repeated flatly.
‘Just like the others. So far we haven’t identified the name written on the victim’s arm, though we’re told it’s Somali.’
Sara’s mind began to whirr. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Scenes of Crime found his bag.’ Ceri rapidly lit a cigarette. ‘Inside were notes and sketches. He’s been planning a new murder.’
Sara’s pulse raced. ‘Who? Where?’
Her friend pulled her close. ‘I don’t want you to worry. Jamie’s notified the Met, and they’re getting in touch with the authorities in –’
Sara shook herself away from her friend’s grasp. ‘Ceri, who’s he planning to kill?’
Ceri stared at her friend soberly. ‘The offender is on his way to the Hampshire Air Show.’
‘What?’ Sara gasped.
‘I’m so sorry – he’s after Rhodri.’
TWENTY-THREE
The town of Weatherby in Hampshire boasted two three-star hotels, a few good pubs, and a large airfield, used by the military and private businesses. Once a year, it became a thriving tourist destination. Cars, taxis and coaches crept along the narrow roads, and streams of pedestrians carried blankets, pillows and folding chairs along the well-tended pavements, all heading towards the Hampshire International Air Show. To locals, the gridlock meant a kind of house arrest. Police requested they stay off the main roads, and they tended to confine themselves to quarters, watching the aerial displays from dormer windows and roof decks. Clusters of police, in cars and on motorcycle and foot, dotted the A road into town, more common than traffic lights.
It was just after ten in the morning and Carson edged Trevor Hughes’ car forward, thankful for the police’s numbing regime of overwork. He could not sense whether Hughes’ body had been found, or, if it had, whether the satchel he had forgotten had been discovered in the exercise room. He was tired. Had he not been driving, he might have been able to lie down and send his mind back to Wales. To be safe, Carson thought, he had to assume that every police officer was searching for him.
Last night, he had changed the registration plates and peeled the swastika and Celtic cross stickers from the bumper. He told himself again this was madness, trying to kill Rhodri Jones at one of the most heavily guarded events of his year ... but he also knew it would be his first and only chance.
Time was running out in all directions. Carson had known his days in Aberystwyth were nearly over: the police were close to contacting his host, and Hughes was too stupid not to arouse their interest. This had also set the timetable for Carson’s leaving Sara, and Aberystwyth itself – likely with the police in pursuit.
Carson had also sensed that Rhodri Jones would leave Sara’s house immediately after her dinner party, and make for a heavily guarded aerodrome in Hampshire. He had considered trying to kill Rhodri before he had left Aberystwyth – but the likely outcome would have been his own capture before getting to Trevor Hughes, and saving a boy from a life-changing injury.
Carson sensed a time limit on Rhodri, too. He knew that he needed to end his life before, or immediately after, his speech at the Air Show. After that would be too late. The Air Show itself would be the first time Carson would be able to gain easy access to the base where Rhodri had imprisoned himself.
Carson checked his watch. It was 10:18; he had left the motor lodge an hour and a half ago. He tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Rhodri Jones was due to make his presentation in just under forty-five minutes.
By the time he reached the base’s car park, a formation of Red Arrows was screaming overhead, the planes trailing red, white and blue smoke. The show was in full tilt, and the lot was full. A giant notice read Alternate Parking, Follow Signs. It took another twenty minutes before Carson had joined hundreds of other latecomers in a wide field beyond the perimeter fence. He sprinted past the long stream of visitors walking slowly along a winding path to a barrier, where two guards were stationed. One stood behind a table, checking handbags. The other ripped tickets beside an open gate. He had little doubt that they had been warned to watch out for him. How seriously would they take their jobs? Carson reached his mind out to one of the men, then pulled back as if he had been burned.
These men were Ministry of Defence police.
He stepped back out of the flow of the crowd, and centred himself. He focused on the ticket-taker, concentrating on blanking all suspicion and distrust from the man’s mind. He worked at removing all thoughts of stopping a man with his description. Finally, Carson approached the ticket-taker and smiled.
‘’Scuse me, mate,’ he said in a passable East London accent, ‘can I get a ticket here?’
The man looked up with alert, intelligent eyes. He stared at Carson for several seconds before shaking his head and saying, ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I don’t have a ticket,’ Carson said. ‘Can I buy one, please?’
The man paused for several beats before saying, ‘Of course.’
Carson sighed mentally in relief as he paid the guard, who ripped a visitor’s pass and gave him the stub, along with a pamphlet. He walked calmly through a small village of Portaloos, and rounded the corner onto a weedy path. A jet shrieked through the sky above him as he eased around a clump of tourists and broke into a trot, dodging bodies as he hurried towards the main car park, and beyond that, the Defence Park. With any luck, he would reach the Thorndike Aerospace pavilion minutes before Rhodri Jones’ speech.
The aerial performance was in full-throttle as Carson emerged from the car park into the throng of spectators. In a centre clearing, a vertical-landing jet made a deafening descent. Nearby, a small child cried out and covered her ears, releasing her Winnie-the-Pooh helium balloon into the sky. Carson squeezed through the crowd, stopping on the periphery to consult the pamphlet he had been given with his ticket. Inside was a map of the grounds: the Defence Park was to the north-west of him, beyond the refreshment stalls and the children’s funfa
ir.
This was where security would be the heaviest, and the guards best-prepared to identify him.
The Defence Park was a series of huge cordoned-off spaces, each with an expensive, temporary building surrounded by an arsenal of weapons and their platforms: planes, missile-launchers, armoured vehicles. Each pavilion housed a major player in the Defence industry. Inside, these companies or governments boasted of their high-tech prowess in the art of war, through glittering audio-visual displays, presentations, and lectures. They were not for the general public, but for those international few entrusted with billions of pounds for military procurement. Each required a special invitation to enter.
Carson pushed through the crowds, past families, businessmen and day-trippers, until the Thorndike area was in sight. It was ringed by a waist-high metal fence with smartly jacketed attendants posted at each gate. They wore Thorndike’s corporate colours, maroon and white. Inside the enclosure, Carson could see uniformed security officers milling about the displays of the aircraft that Thorndike had been partners in creating.
He approached the pavilion. It looked just as he had envisioned it – he knew every entrance, every security station. Those uniformed guards were for show. The real security wasn’t dressed in maroon costumes. Were they armed? Carson couldn’t tell.
He glanced at his watch; Rhodri would make his presentation any moment. Behind Carson, the air display was reaching its noisy climax; he imagined he had at least a few minutes. Thorndike would not begin its presentation until the show was over. He leaned against a large metal rubbish bin and focused on the building, trying to tune in to Rhodri Jones’ particular frequency. Carson sensed him; he was already inside. He gazed into the crowd milling outside the pavilions and defocused his eyes ... who was carrying an invitation from Thorndike?
He concentrated.
There: a man in a Lacoste tennis shirt and chino trousers was approaching. Carson sensed that he was peripherally connected with one of Thorndike’s suppliers.
He hurried to intercept the man.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Andrew Turner, working with Thorndike Aerospace. You’re with one of our suppliers, aren’t you?’
Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Page 22
