by Simon Hall
Dan walked slowly up a path, past some copper sculptures of grazing goats. His feet crunched on the sand and gravel. There was a snake in the picture forming an S shape, but no goats. He looked around. What could the S signify? Just ahead was a children’s interactive exhibit, a board with letters on, letters you pushed to light up an area on the display. A possibility? He hurried down.
A couple of children stood pressing the buttons and he felt an urge to push them out of the way, but resisted it, waited. They quickly got bored and wandered off. Dan reached out and pressed the hexagonal S key.
A display lit up, a message. S is for sand. It looks difficult to live in, but some manage. Cacti love it and snakes slither across it.
He stood back, pressed it again. Cacti and snake, just as in the picture. It had to mean something. He stared at the board, pressed the button again.
A voice rose behind him. ‘Excuse me?’ Dan turned. A youngish man holding a boy’s hand, waiting politely. ‘Do you mind if we have a go?’
Dan mumbled an apology and stood aside, still staring at the board. McCluskey had to have been thinking of this place when he painted it. He was sure of it. Was there anything on the board that could help? He followed the alphabet. Animals, Burrowing, Cacti, Desert. No, nothing he could see. So what else was in the picture?
It was the simplest of the ten. Was that significant? Was McCluskey saying the answer was simple, that it was here, that all the other pictures were diversions? Dan hissed in exasperation.
Cacti feature in the picture, two of them together. Dan walked slowly around the dome. There were cacti everywhere, but only one place where two stood close together, almost intertwined like new lovers. He felt another surge of adrenaline and checked around. No attendants. Dan hopped over the low wooden fence, bent down and quickly examined the ground. No, nothing buried here. He stood up, his eyes running over the firm green of the plants’ flesh and their angry needles. Nothing written here, nothing attached to the cacti. Nothing at all as far as he could see. Cursing he rejoined the path, ignoring the curious looks of the other visitors.
A little further along there was a pond, a big one, more like a small pool, plants dangling thirsty fronds into its still waters. And there was a pool in the picture… He walked over and stared at it, slowly scrutinised the area around, but could see nothing. No obvious S shapes, no numbers, nothing. Even the displays about how water was a precious commodity in the Mediterranean climate didn’t offer any hope.
Dan sat down on a wooden bench in the middle of the dome and looked around him, then down at his prints of the Death Pictures. Nothing. Not a bloody thing. It was tantalising though. It couldn’t be a coincidence, that some of the features here matched the pictures, could it? If the answer wasn’t here, McCluskey must have been thinking of Advent when he created the riddle. There could be a clue here he was missing, or… He remembered what Ed had told him. McCluskey loved getting one over on people. It could just be an intricate joke.
What were his instincts telling him? He knew he believed there was something here. But what? Or was that just wishful thinking? Hoping his journey wasn’t wasted. But it wasn’t wasted, was it? He hadn’t been for a while and it was a good day out.
Dan smiled knowingly, shook his head. He could con many people, but never himself. He stared up at the silver spider’s web of the dome’s supports and felt a tug from the swamp. It was still there, lurking darkly on the edge of his mind, waiting for its moment.
No, not now, he could hold it off. He had this quest to complete. He was here to find the answer to McCluskey’s riddle and he was sure there was something in Advent somewhere. But where? He waited, tried to think, but the stage of his mind remained obstinately empty, no matter how hard he worked to usher ideas onto it. Well, if all else fails, have an ice cream and a wander.
Dan ambled down a sandy hill to the little wooden stall in the corner of the dome and checked what was on offer. A vanilla tub would do nicely, good brain food and fresh, Cornish produce. They were strong on that at Advent, always tried to source their food and drink locally.
He queued behind a couple of old ladies, wearing raincoats despite the dry heat. Then he saw it. A number 559, tiny, ingrained on the base of one of the dome’s metal supports. He’d never have noticed it if he wasn’t so close to the edge of the structure and part of the number hadn’t been flecked with green paint.
Dan strode over and checked the next support. 560 was etched on it. So each was individually numbered. That made sense. He remembered from reporting on the building of Advent that all the supports were different lengths and shapes, depending on what part of the quarry they were designed for. The whole thing had been built from a kit of parts, like a giant model.
He felt his pulse quicken. The ice cream forgotten, he checked picture four. A three-figure number in here? Where? Nothing obvious, it had to be the clock. The drooping hands on a quarter past nine. 915…
He’d been feeling good this morning. The weekend with Annie and Tom had gone beautifully. The whole day together on Saturday, to the beach at Bigbury and blessed with spring sunshine, a kick about in the sand, some rock-pooling, then lunch and a drink at the pub on Burgh Island. Perfect family life and for once his pager hadn’t bleeped its disruptive electronic burble.
The McCluskey case was sorted. The rapist case was… on hold? In the process of being sorted…? Well, whatever, they were doing all they could. His family was keeping it from his mind and he had a chance to try to repair and rebuild the relationship. He hardly dared to believe, but it seemed to be working.
He’d stayed at home – his old home – on Saturday night. He’d cuddled up with Annie in the enveloping, king-size bed, their first joint buy when they moved in together, and tried to forget that cold and lonely one-bedroom flat he was forced to rent.
They’d looked in on Tom before they’d gone to bed. The boy’s hair was sprayed out on his pillow, as always. Adam smiled. His dad’s influence that. His hair could be impossible to shape up in the morning. And that sleeping smile on his son’s face, he saw so much in it. The smile of a contented boy, knowing his father was there to love, help and protect him. In that moment, holding Annie’s hand, them looking at each other, he resolved to make his wife and son his priority. Not his job. Not any more. It was just like the time when Tom was born. He could only remember it as a valium haze of family contentment, centred on that tiny, wrinkled face. Nothing mattered except Tom and Annie.
He’d lain awake thinking about it, Annie’s soft breathing next to him. He’d said it before. Did he mean it now? It felt like he did, but what would happen the next time he was scrambled to a murder or rape? Or if the man they were hunting now struck again? Would it take him over? And what about Sarah? Could he justify it to her now? He was surprised to allow himself to let the thought slip away in his sleepy contentment.
The warmth had lingered until he’d got into work this morning and the call from the Assistant Chief Constable.
‘What the hell’s going on with the overtime budget, Adam? It’s soaring. And uniform are moaning you keep nicking their officers to sit around and do nothing.’
‘The rape case is staff-intensive, sir. We need uniform back-up.’
The phone line burst with a splutter. Brian Flood wasn’t a patient man.
‘Back-up yes, but not the whole bloody Plymouth division! You’ve got three cars out following people day and night. It’s costing a fortune.’
He’d expected the call, knew he wouldn’t get away with it for long.
‘They’re the prime suspects we’re following, sir. And we’re getting results. There hasn’t been another attack since we started following them.’
‘But you haven’t caught him, have you?’
‘We’re working on it.’
Another splutter. ‘Well you’re going to have to work on it some other way. We c
an’t afford the manpower or cost. Today is the last day of your triple surveillance operation, understood?’
‘But sir…’
‘Understood?!’
Adam knew from long experience it wasn’t worth arguing. He’d been amazed it lasted as long as it had. ‘Yes, sir.’
He told Suzanne as he stood with her and Claire in the MIR. She said nothing. Claire turned and mumbled something under her breath.
‘Enough, Claire. He’s the boss and that means what he says, goes.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Her face flushed and she fiddled with one of the buttons of her white blouse.
Adam waited for a moment, then said, ‘So, where are we at the moment and where do we go?’
Suzanne walked over to the felt boards. ‘As was, really, sir. We still have three prime suspects, but no evidence against any of them apart from the circumstantial that they have motives, don’t have alibis and won’t give DNA. And that there have been no more attacks since we’ve been following them.’
A thought hit him. Or since Kid has been in custody... Where did that come from, Adam wondered? They had that hint Dan had passed on, that Kid could have been violent towards a previous partner, the Joanna woman, but that didn’t make him a rapist. It was only talk, just gossip, it meant nothing as evidence…
No, there couldn’t be a link between the rapes and McCluskey’s death. That was only Dan putting a journalist’s fantasies into his mind. But he’d better be ready for it in the trial, just in case. Desperate defence barristers resorted to incredible arguments to fog the evidence.
‘Have we got any more on their backgrounds?’ he asked thoughtfully. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Claire quickly.
Adam ran a hand over the stubble already gathering on his cheeks. A good officer, Claire, he thought, she was going to go far. Cute too, he knew at least one man who was very soft on her. Dan had asked him if she was attached, made that comment about her having the rare combination of looks and intellect. ‘She’s single as far as I know,’ he’d replied. ‘And you leave my staff alone!’
It wasn’t even a half jest, Adam thought. An intertwining between Dan and one of his officers… he didn’t want to think about the possible consequences.
‘Freeman and Godley have been checked as you know, sir, and you know about the previous convictions for violence we found for Freeman,’ Claire continued, checking her notebook. ‘Godley is clean. I also checked Munroe. He’s clean too and he does indeed work for Liberty on a regular basis. He charges only his costs apparently.’
Adam tried to think better of the man, but failed. The current government would surely be impressed by such good work when looking to appoint new judges.
He considered for a moment. ‘So we’ve hit a wall then, haven’t we? I don’t intend to sit around waiting for the rapist to make the next move. We all know what that means. So what do we do next? Any ideas?’
A sullen silence. Both Claire and Suzanne shook their heads. In fairness, he couldn’t think of anything either. That idea about taking DNA samples from Freeman’s, Munroe’s and Godley’s kids had been vetoed by the force’s solicitors. Too many legal and moral problems, the potential for a young child to effectively convict its father. So no evidence, no reason to take DNA, no chance of a search warrant on what they had, and to look for what, anyway? Witches’ hats in their wardrobes? Not a chance. These attacks were carefully planned. The rapist wouldn’t leave any evidence lying around at home ready for the police to find if they happened to come calling.
It was the DNA issue that was most frustrating. They had evidence to prove who the attacker was, but nothing to check it against with their suspects. Could they get some DNA from the men? They’d need just a little hair, blood, skin or saliva. How could they get that without their permission? The only ideas were the stuff of books. Break into their homes while they were out, steal coffee cups from their offices. All impossible in the real world.
‘OK then, let’s think about how this guy works,’ Adam said. ‘The attacks are planned, we know that. He intends to carry out six, he’s managed three. Any ideas what we should be looking for?’
Another silence. They looked at each other. ‘I think we’re stuck, sir,’ said Claire finally. ‘I reckon he’s already planned all six and knows exactly who he’s going to attack next. If he’s prepared it as we think, he’d know there’d be a big operation going on to get him after the first couple. He wouldn’t want to be out looking for new victims during that.’
Adam nodded. ‘I agree. And we’ve got no way of knowing who his next victim might be. We’ve still found no connection between the women, Suzanne?’
‘No, sir. Other than that they got those taxis, which may or may not have been driven by Freeman.’
‘Or it could just have been Munroe or Godley surreptitiously tailing a woman home, then building up his plan from there,’ added Adam. ‘Or it could be some connection we haven’t seen.’
‘Or it could be a totally different man who we haven’t even had a sniff of yet,’ added Claire gloomily, toying with her blouse again.
The door swung open and a cleaner shuffled in, emptied the bins into a black plastic sack and left without a word. They watched the door close again.
‘Listen,’ said Adam. ‘We’ll have to work on the basis it’s one of the three, because it’s no help to us at all imagining someone else out there without any way to find him. So let’s concentrate on what we’ve got for now.’
He pointed to each of the pictures on the boards, the three victims. ‘How long have we got before we get another broken face up here?’
‘If it is one of the three,’ said Suzanne slowly. ‘I reckon we’ve got a few days. First he’ll see we’re not tailing him any more. Then he’ll think we’re tailing him covertly. He’ll keep a look-out. Then he’ll realise we’re not. By that stage, the rapist story will have died down a bit and women will be relaxing and perhaps leaving windows open again. That’s his chance and that’s when he’ll think about striking.’
Adam drummed his fingers on the felt board above the picture of Rachel Bloom. ‘I agree. So, we’ve got just a few days.’ He blinked hard to blot out the looming image of the silhouetted man lurking outside a window, his fingers reaching for the latch… ‘That’s a few days to come up with a way to stop him.’
Dan jogged up to the support with 892 etched on it, then hit a dense patch of scrub. He was sweating again, a dark stain reaching up the back of his shirt. There was a notice about how important scrub was in preventing erosion in Mediterranean farming, but he didn’t see it. Surely he wasn’t going to have to push his way through that lot? The leaves looked dense and tipped with angry needles.
He took a look around. No attendants and only a few visitors. It wasn’t a busy day in Advent and the tropical dome tended to attract the most people. Was he really going to have to wade through those bushes? They looked like nature had designed them to stop an idiot like him trying any such move.
Was the answer in there? That it was difficult and probably painful to get to made him suspect it was. Knowing McCluskey, he could imagine the man standing here and laughing, thinking of the person who cracked his riddle and what their final ordeal would be. At least he was wearing jeans and not the shorts he had half considered when setting off from home. Dan took another look around. There was no one about.
It wasn’t quite as bad as he expected, but it still hurt. The heavy denim of his jeans blunted most of the thrusting needles, but some found a way through, jabbing into the soft skin of his thighs with sharp pricks. He swore quietly to himself and kept wading on, almost at the line of metal supports now, the edge of the thicket.
A needle stabbed hard at the top of his thigh. Another needle, penetrating just beside the kneecap, making him gasp, bringing a hot desire to kick out at the belligerent plant.
He kept going, kept pushing. Then he was through, at the edge of the dome, by the supports. He was at number 909. He followed the line around. 910, 911, 912, 913, 914…
There it was, the one he wanted, just in front of him. He bent down to examine it, looking for a note pinned there, a picture perhaps, some kind of sign he’d finally cracked the riddle. There was nothing, nothing at all. He stood up and checked again. Still nothing. He bent down and stared at the support’s number. It was 001.
Dan waded back out of the thicket, this time not noticing the jabs in his anger. He sat down heavily on the bench, threw the pictures onto the sand by his side and got himself an ice cream. He deserved it and this time he would eat it, regardless of what thoughts came to him.
When he’d calmed down and stopped cursing McCluskey, he picked up the pictures and his notes again and looked through them. There was a funny side, he could see that, but he didn’t feel like laughing. Why did he have that sense that McCluskey was yet again watching, holding his sides to contain his hysterics?
The man had a malicious sense of humour. Clever though, he had to give him that. He’d foreseen all this happening, someone looking at his life, seeing what he’d done, what was important to him, matching that up with the pictures and coming here. He’d been here too and had planned it all. Dan wondered if he was the first to try looking in Advent. He couldn’t see any sign that anyone else had.
On Dartmoor, the National Park Authority had stationed a ranger to stop any more digging. Here there was no attendant, so perhaps he was ahead of the rest in working through what the pictures contained. A comforting thought, but no use if the answer you’d come up with was wrong. The swell of his excitement and anger had waned and he felt the tug of the swamp again. It was stronger now, pulling harder. He wondered whether to give up and go home, take Rutherford out and drown his frustration in a few beers.
