Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  Rhoddo clumps down the stairs in slow, careful steps, like a pallbearer. As he reaches the bottom, the front door yawns open. A rush of chill air sweeps over him. His mother gazes at him stupidly, squinting into the darkness after the brightness of the day outside. He can’t let her see what’s upstairs. He can’t let her face what had to happen.

  The noise is deafening. He hopes none of his neighbours have heard. When Mummy falls, he doesn’t look at her; instead, he watches the fruit and vegetables. The paper bag rips, and they scatter. The oranges roll the farthest.

  ‘You murdered them,’ Sara whispered, horror ripping at her stomach like swallowed glass. ‘You murdered our parents, and then you framed Glyn Thomas.’

  ‘Sara,’ Rhodri whispered, ‘I will explain it all to you, I swear.’

  Sara stood, feeling a cold, penetrating clarity for the first time ever. ‘I don’t need your explanations, Rhodri,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me that I can’t see for myself.’

  She knew that her words were true. She could see anything she wanted to see.

  ‘Please,’ Rhodri begged.

  ‘Rhodri,’ Sara said coldly, a sheet of icy anger spreading inside her, ‘you’ve had twenty years to explain yourself. Instead, you lied, and used me to cover up for your perversions.’

  Rhodri’s blue hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out to her. ‘I couldn’t tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘because I didn’t want to hurt you. I love you, Sara, I’ve always loved you.’

  ‘You don’t love anyone, Rhodri,’ Sara spat. ‘And the person you hate most of all is yourself.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I hate myself,’ Rhodri whispered faintly. ‘I want to be a new person. Please, Sara ... don’t let me die.’

  Sara looked at the telephone that sat next to the bed, next to the corpse of another of Rhodri’s victims. She could still ring for an ambulance, she knew. There was still time to save her brother’s life.

  In a flash, Eldon Carson’s words rang through her mind: ‘There’s only a small number of people in any one place who do all the damage ... they’re like cancer, eating away at the rest of us.’

  She looked back at Rhodri and knew that he was, and always had been, one of those cancers. For years, Sara had buried her distaste towards his dark habits and excused his excesses, blaming them on the tragedy of their parents’ deaths. Now, the irony that weaved through her years of compassion seemed pathetic and bitter. Suddenly, there was no pain involved in watching her brother die. He was not, had never been, the person she had thought he was; he was a stranger whose only link to Sara was that he had murdered her parents. And now he was leaving this earth. There was a certain rightness to that; in a few moments more, the world would be a slightly cleaner place.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rhodri said faintly.

  Sara stood. ‘Goodbye, Rhodri,’ she whispered, the harshness of her tone now distorted by sadness, and stepped quietly towards the door. She turned off the light and squeezed through the gap between her brother’s body and the door jamb.

  EPILOGUE

  Out on the street, sleet splattered the pavement in wet pellets. From Jamie’s old leather sofa, Sara looked through the bay window, up at the sheet-white sky; London’s most threatening skies always turned pale, she had noticed. Grey was a colour for minor-league weather, but white meant business. She half-listened to the icy droplets thrum against the roof of Andy Turner’s Town Car, as Andy played with a string of tinsel from the Christmas tree and reminisced about Rhodri’s funeral.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘Highgate Cemetery is stunning. And with its history, and all the famous bodies ... well, you didn’t make a bad choice. But what I had in mind could have been magnificent!’ Andy sighed with regret. ‘If only you’d let me use the helicopter.’

  ‘Rhoddo didn’t want to be cremated,’ Sara reminded him. ‘He always wanted a burial at Highgate.’

  Absently, Andy taunted Ego with the tinsel. No longer a sprightly kitten, Ego watched from the arm of Andy’s chair with interest, but did not pounce.

  ‘Imagine it, though,’ Andy continued. ‘You could have cremated Rhodri first, then held a massive funeral in Aberystwyth.’

  ‘Massive?’ Sara said. ‘There aren’t enough people.’

  ‘Every Thorndike employee would have come,’ Andy insisted. ‘Anyway, at the funeral’s moving climax – which I would have written myself – a helicopter would appear in the sky and land to the sound of –’

  ‘Wagner?’ Sara interrupted.

  ‘Something appropriate,’ Andy said. ‘You and Jamie would have taken Rhodri’s remains and climbed ceremoniously on board. There’d be a short flight to Cadair Idris, and as you hovered over its summit, you’d open the urn and let Rhodri drift on the mountain’s breezes, to settle across its majestic slopes.’

  He held open his hands. ‘Can’t you see how breathtaking that would have been?’

  Jamie emerged from the kitchen with a tray of mugs: Lady Grey tea for Andy, coffee for himself and Sara. ‘How would anyone know how breathtaking it was?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if only Sara and I were there to see it happen?’

  ‘Simple,’ Andy replied. ‘I would have been on a second helicopter with a camera crew.’

  Over his third cup of Lady Grey, Andy peered at the range of tribal masks and aboriginal paintings that Sara had affixed to Jamie’s walls. ‘It’s nice to see them again,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of all those pleasant hours I spent in your office. I do miss having therapy with you.’

  ‘You never needed therapy to start with,’ Sara said.

  ‘Well,’ Andy demurred, ‘maybe I’ve just missed talking to you.’

  Sara smiled. Returning his gaze to the wall, Andy added, ‘I’m surprised you managed to squeeze your art collection into such a small space.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Sara said. ‘Most of it’s now in boxes at a friend’s house.’

  Sara had put her home on the market the day after Rhodri’s death, then moved in with Ceri to avoid any morbidly curious ghouls posing as homebuyers. Ceri had ordered around-the-clock police protection to ward off the journalists, photographers and TV crews that descended on Penweddig. They still speculated, of course. On television, in the papers, and over the Internet, rumour had been rife that Rhodri’s air show assailant, the late Eldon Carson, had also been responsible for the murders in Aberystwyth.

  The police and Home Office denied it. Officially, the Aberystwyth killer was still at large.

  Although her house had not yet sold, Sara left Aberystwyth in late autumn. With her quest for understanding at an end, she found she no longer wanted to stay in Mid Wales, a place so filled with tragic memories, both new and old. Besides, she was needed here in London; Rhodri had named Sara executor of his will. As it turned out, she was also its sole beneficiary. Rhodri left her his entire estate – house, furnishings, a lump sum from his pension, and a substantial portfolio of investments. There was also a large life insurance policy, but it was very likely to be nullified by his suicide. Negotiations with the insurers were ongoing. Sara guessed it would take the better part of a year before the lawyers finally released any of the money, but she had already promised the family of Maja Bosco – the young woman Rhodri had killed – a sizeable chunk of the proceeds.

  ‘Are you planning to stay here in Brixton?’ Andy asked.

  Jamie caressed Sara’s arm. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Probably not,’ she countered. ‘This flat was okay when Jamie was a bachelor, but for both of us, it’ll be a bit small.’

  ‘What about Rhodri’s house?’ Andy suggested. ‘It’s big enough for the two of you, as well as any new addition to the family.’

  Sara shuddered. ‘No thanks ... I’ve lived with ghosts for long enough.’

  Andy turned to Jamie. ‘And what do you plan to do?’ he asked. ‘I mean, now that you’ve quit the Met?’

  Jamie pursed his lips. ‘I’m thinking about Human Rights Law,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking at u
niversities online. It’s not clear-cut. My undergrad degree’s in Criminology, so I might have to get a graduate diploma in Law before doing an MA.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way to save the world.’ Andy said, and looked at Sara. ‘I suppose you can do anything you want now.’

  He meant, with all of Rhodri’s money.

  ‘What I want is to work,’ Sara said. ‘But not on Harley Street; not now, anyway. Maybe I’ll volunteer somewhere ... it depends on who’s looking for someone like me.’

  ‘Every mental health organisation in London is looking for someone like you,’ Andy told her. ‘Choose the one you want, and I’ll get you the job.’

  Sara laughed. ‘How?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘Most organisations can be bribed with an offer of free consultation and a healthy dose of sponsorship.’

  ‘Don’t make promises you might regret,’ Sara said. ‘Besides, there’s no need for any of us to rush.’ She reached across and squeezed Jamie’s hand. ‘We’ve got time.’

  Sara and Jamie had planned to take the Tube into the West End for a spot of Christmas shopping after Andy left. Although it was Saturday, Andy was on his way to his office; he offered them a lift into town. ‘You don’t want to walk to the station,’ he said. ‘It’s still wetter than Wales out there.’

  The boutique offices of Andrew Turner & Associates were located in a building near the London Library, so Andy dropped off Sara and Jamie outside Fortnum and Mason. They walked the short distance to Piccadilly Circus, and then onto Regent Street. In a crowded cosmetics shop, Sara bought a bag of pricey bath bombs to send to her nursing and social worker friends in Aberystwyth. The American twenty-something behind the counter chatted to her with well-rehearsed enthusiasm – but Sara sensed her yearning to go home for Christmas. Sara pressed deeper into the woman’s thoughts. Home was in Minneapolis, and her parents were going through an ugly divorce.

  In a menswear shop, Jamie surveyed a stack of jumpers. Over the course of the day, the garments had become dishevelled, and a staff member reached in front of him to straighten them. The staffer showed nothing but professional competence, but Sara could sense his resentment towards Jamie. That was unfair – Jamie hadn’t messed up the sweaters.

  Everywhere they went, Sara could feel the frustration, confusion, tiredness, and occasional joy of the holiday shoppers. The gift that Eldon Carson had bestowed upon her had not gone away. In fact, as Eldon had predicted, her powers had strengthened, even in the short time she had been living in London. Sara could now get a strong sense of the thoughts and feelings of most of the people she came into contact with, although she had not yet received any tangible glimpses into the future.

  That is, until later on that afternoon, when she and Jamie were weaving through the throngs on Oxford Street.

  The sleet had died away by then, but the sky was still threateningly white. Sara spotted a homeless man sitting on a wet stone bench in front of Selfridges. Suddenly, she felt as though she could see into his soul. Perhaps the strong connection was because he reminded her of Glyn Thomas, the man she had hated unjustly for so many years, and whose death she had failed to prevent.

  Or maybe it was just because she thought she could help him.

  In a flash, Sara knew a lot about this man. She knew his name – Ken Salter – and she knew that, unlike many homeless people, Salter was not mentally ill. He genuinely wanted to get back on his feet. The trouble was, Ken Salter had a drinking problem, and an explosive temper. It was a bad combination.

  As soon as she realised this, Sara’s head began to tingle. She placed a steadying hand against the shop’s window.

  ‘You okay?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Sara said. ‘Just give me a moment.’

  Instantly, Sara saw a freezing cold midwinter night ... and a homeless shelter on fire.

  ‘We could get sushi,’ Jamie suggested. ‘Sit down for a minute.’

  Sara silenced him with a raised hand. Suddenly, she was witnessing the argument, hours before that fateful night, when staff at the shelter refused Salter a bed. He was drunk and belligerent – he took the rejection badly, staggering into the freezing air with curses, then returning in the small hours with a jug of petrol, some rags, and a lighter.

  Before dawn, seventeen people were dead.

  Or would be dead. Two years from now.

  Slowly, Sara came to her senses, and shook her head. Since the end of summer, she had agonised over this moment, over what she would do when such a vision hit her. Sara had decided that Eldon’s extreme method was not the only way open to her. She was a psychiatrist. She had to believe that people could change.

  Ken Salter was shuffling away now. Sara ran after him. ‘Ken!’ she cried. ‘Ken, wait.’

  ‘Sara?’ Jamie called.

  Salter turned suspiciously. ‘How d’you know my name?’

  She got close enough to smell him, and forced herself closer. ‘I used to work at a soup kitchen,’ Sara lied. Where did this man eat? She reached into his mind. ‘On Tottenham Court Road. You know, in the church.’

  ‘Oh ... yeah,’ said the man, ‘I remember you.’

  Sara noticed that Jamie had gravitated to her side. She suggested he get a table at the sushi place in Selfridges, and promised to join him shortly. Once Jamie left, Sara bought Salter a wrap from Marks and Spencer’s Food Hall, and he ate it on his bench.

  ‘You still work at the church?’ Salter asked her.

  ‘No,’ Sara said, ‘but I still help people.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I help them with their emotions,’ she explained. ‘I’m a doctor. I talk to people, and it makes them feel better.’

  Through a mouthful of chicken, Salter said, ‘That’s great, but I feel fine.’

  ‘Do you want to get off the street?’ she asked.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I could help you to do that.’

  Salter tilted his head. ‘How?’

  ‘You’ll have to see me again to find out.’ Sara opened her purse and pulled out twenty pounds. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back at 10 a.m., Monday morning, and give you some more. But only if you promise to talk to me.’

  Salter took the note and looked at it appraisingly. Then he stuffed it in his coat pocket. ‘OK,’ he agreed.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Sara said with a smile.

  Her smile was genuine; she felt a pulse of exhilaration. Maybe, Sara thought, this was what Eldon’s gift had prepared her for. In a breathless rush of confidence, Sara truly believed she could steer this man away from his anger – away from that horrible moment two years from now, when his drunken fury would take all those lives. Working together, they would create a new, different future for him. She would accomplish what her psychic mentor had never even tried to do – and in the process, she would prove Eldon Carson wrong.

  Sara bid goodbye to her new client, reminding him about Monday. As she made her way through the department store crowds, she reached under her blouse and fingered the papier mâché pendant she wore there. She hoped with all her heart she could change Ken Salter for the better.

  Because, if she couldn’t, she feared she might have to kill him.

  ISBN 9781786153838

  Copyright © Terrence Bailey 2017

  The right of Terrence Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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