Vanishing Point

by J G Alva

  “Occupational hazard. It looks worse than it is.”

  “I hope so. Because it looks bloody awful.”

  “Why is Bill Mackenzie on forced leave?”

  Alastair sighed, staring at Sutton’s face…trying to decide how much to tell him. And maybe wishing he hadn’t brought it up at all.

  “It seems Mr Mackenzie has been doing things off campus that he shouldn’t have. With some of his students.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Hm. There is something of a tradition in the Social Sciences Department, dating back to the first years of Busbar. Anglesea started it – he was head of Social Sciences back then – and when Bill took over, he kept it on. It’s meant to be a study group, but by all accounts very little studying goes on. They called themselves the Jacobin Group, in reference to the 1792 renamed Society of the Jacobins, Friends of Freedom and Equality – the most influential political club during the French Revolution. Think of it as…a sort of…Dead Poet’s Society for students of the Social Sciences. That kind of thing. A select few, usually no more than a dozen. The high achievers. They would meet, once a week, at agreed upon venues, to discuss society and all its devices. All its evils. There would usually be alcohol involved – as the Great Uninhibitor – which is not a problem in itself, as all the students are old enough to drink. Except…this last meeting seems to have gotten out of hand.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last night.”

  “How did it get out of hand?”

  Alastair shifted in his seat and pulled a face.

  “Bill made sexual advances on one of the female students present.”

  “And she complained?”

  “A full complaint, in writing, with subsequent interviews with our illustrious leader, Patrick Lodey. As I understand it, the university is taking her story very seriously. Hence the forced leave.”

  “Do you know who the student was?”

  “No idea. What’s worse is, this last meeting was held at Bill’s house. A definite no-no in the university handbook.”

  “Does this seem like something Bill would do?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t really know Bill that well, except to have an occasional lunch with.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No. And no kids. Thank God. I suspect a mid-life crisis. He’s had all the symptoms.”

  “Like what?”

  Alastair made a see-sawing motion in the air with one hand.

  “Different clothes. Younger clothes. Not here, mind, but I saw him in town two weeks ago, and I hardly recognised him, his clothes were so out of character. New car, some kind of a sporty thing – a convertible. Next, he’ll have a twenty two year old girlfriend on his arm.”

  Alastair realised what he had just said, and he looked shocked. Sutton put into words what they had both been thinking.

  “Looks like he already tried that.”

  “Yes,” Alastair said, sounding slightly winded. “Yes. He did.”

  A mid-life crisis…

  Sutton conjured Bill Mackenzie up in his mind, and then tried to dress him in young clothes: skinny jeans, V neck slim fit pastel tops, terracotta chinos. He couldn’t do it. Then he tried to put him behind the wheel of a sports car, but he couldn’t do that either. He seemed too…sober. Steadfast.

  A mid-life crisis…

  Or something else.

  “What are you thinking about?” Alastair asked, a suspicious eye on him.

  “Nothing good,” Sutton admitted gloomily.

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, 6th June

  “We got another case,” Sutton said.

  “What?”

  He ducked his head down to look out of the windscreen. Light was leaking out of the day but it wasn’t quite twilight yet. Hermanos was doing slightly better than the last time he had visited; Sutton could see silhouettes of customers sitting in booths against the windows.

  But he hadn’t seen Steve Cook yet.

  “You’re not going to like it though,” Sutton added.

  “Why not?”

  Fin’s voice was tinny. He never got a good signal in his flat, and Hermanos was at the bottom of the hill, a combination that made the 21st century tech in his hand struggle to connect the two disparate people.

  “Drugs.”

  “Ah God.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me the basics.”

  Sutton did, all the while keeping watch over the cocktail bar entrance.

  “Sounds God awful,” Fin finally remarked.

  “Detective Bocksham’s posting me all the specifics.”

  “Okay. We can take a look when you have them.”

  “In the meantime, can you look up this Zabijak.”

  “Did you know it’s Czech for ‘killer’?”

  “I do now. A warm man obviously.” Sutton swivelled his head and scanned the road behind him. Nothing. “Did you get the list of suspects from the Dunbar Group?”

  “Yep. Already came in.”

  “Anything leap out at you?”

  “Not really. It’s pretty comprehensive. They even put the victims in the suspect list. You know. To rule them out. That’s nice lateral thinking going on there.”

  “Impressive.” But Sutton wasn’t really impressed.

  “I’ll come over tomorrow if you want. We can go through it then.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Has he turned up yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s late.”

  “He’s an asshole. What do you expect?”

  “You remember what he looks like?”

  “I saw the photo. Shaven head. Dark goatee. Thin.”

  “He reminded me of Christian Bale in The Machinist.”

  “Not seen it.”

  “Do you ever watch any films?”

  “Real life’s too exciting. I don’t have the time.”

  On the other end of the line, Fin sighed. As if he was a lost cause.

  Maybe he was.

  “Alright. Let me know how you get on.”

  “That’s a ten-four, rubber ducky.”

  “Hey. You said you didn’t watch films!”

  Sutton grinned.

  “I can’t be expected to tell the truth all the time, can I?”

  ◆◆◆

  It was another twenty minutes before a figure that might have been Steven Cook trod the pavement to the cocktail bar entrance.

  If it was him, he was late.

  The man was wearing a dark hoodie. He had his hands in its pockets. He slunk into the bar. Slunk. That was the word. Sutton didn’t get a proper look at his face, and wouldn’t until he came out again. Then he would know for sure.

  He waited.

  Just under six minutes later, the door opened, and the man in the hoodie stepped out on to the pavement. He paused, scanning the street, and Sutton was finally able to see his face.

  It was him.

  Sutton caught just a glimpse of his profile in the half-light: the hollow cheeks; the peaked chin; the dark lines of a goatee framing his mouth. Briefly Sutton wondered how he had pacified the unhappy owner so quickly. Had he managed to secure the funds to pay off his loan?

  Cook hesitated a moment, looked in both directions, and then headed off to his left. Sutton waited to see where he was going before doing anything. He wasn’t surprised when he turned into West Park.

  Going home.

  Sutton got out to follow him.

  But he remembered to leave his mobile in the car’s glove box.

  ◆◆◆

  There were no lights visible in the windows on the top floor, but as he watched, Sutton saw the flash of a torch wash over the curtains in the main room briefly.

  He was home.

  Sutton climbed the stone steps on the side of the building as quickly – and as quietly – as he could in the dark.

  He waited at the top. The street was quiet. He could not detect anyone
in the near vicinity. Briefly, he scanned the windows on the opposite side of the street, but nobody was in them, no silhouetted figure looking out. A fox cried from the back garden and then was silent.

  Sutton pressed his ear to the door.

  Muffled thumps, and the muted sounds of conversation. He couldn’t hear the words, but it sounded like two people. So maybe Vicky was home too.

  He stepped back and was about to kick the door in when he had a thought.

  It was an old fashioned door, a six panel Edwardian design, heavy, tall, and sturdy. And with an exterior doorknob. Maybe it was too old fashioned to have a latch. From the state of the building, it wasn’t inconceivable that the landlord hadn’t made the necessary alterations.

  He reached out and turned the knob.

  The door opened.

  The sound of voices, louder.

  Gently, he opened the door enough to squeeze through, and then just as gently, he shut it behind him.

  He could see Vicky in the kitchen. She had lit a candle and put it on the countertop. She was going through the cupboards. There were lines of tin cans at one end of the counter. Her back was to him.

  “I don’t want to go back to them,” she said miserably.

  “Then it’s the farm,” a male voice said.

  Steve?

  Sutton couldn’t see him, as a corner of the wall obscured the lounge. But he could hear him moving stuff around in there. Items had been piled on the table against the wall: bags full of clothes, a laptop, cardboard boxes.

  They were leaving.

  “I don’t know where else we can go,” Steve continued.

  “Your father hates me.”

  “He doesn’t. I wish you’d stop saying that.”

  Sutton moved further into the flat.

  “It’s true,” the girl protested. “How can you not see it?”

  Sutton had reached the wall. He poked his head around the corner of it. Steve was down on one knee, bent forward, his back to Sutton, putting items in a suitcase open on the floor. He was only using one hand; the other hugged his ribs.

  “You’re paranoid. I can see that.”

  “Why would I make it up?”

  As if that wasn’t enough, leaning against the wall by Sutton was an aluminium baseball bat.

  “Why don’t you –“

  Steve got up, turned…

  And stopped when he saw Sutton.

  His eyes automatically went to the baseball bat, and then he lunged for it.

  Sutton got there sooner.

  Steve grabbed empty air and lost his footing, falling on to one knee and hitting the wall with his shoulder. He grunted in pain.

  As he got to his feet, Sutton brought the baseball bat around. Steve managed to get his left arm up – to protect his head – and Sutton connected with it just above the elbow. Steve cried out, falling back on to the sofa and then rolling off it on to the floor, where he cried out again.

  Sutton turned to the girl. She stood in the kitchen doorway brandishing a large knife. Her hand shook as she pointed it in Sutton’s direction.

  “Get out,” she said. Her once beautiful face was tear-stained and distorted with misery. “Get out or I’ll call the police.”

  “Fine,” Sutton said, and then used the baseball bat to smash up the items on the table, before knocking them all to the floor. He made a mess. “Call the police. Do it.”

  “I will!”

  “Good. Call them up. We’ll have a party. You can tell them how I entered your flat illegally, and I can tell them about the time you attacked me with baseball bats outside of my home.” He held up the bat for her attention. “Baseball bats not dissimilar to this, I might add.”

  “You’re nuts,” Steve said. He had got his wind back, and had made it up to his knees. “You’re fucking nuts.”

  “Am I? Well then, I suppose I’ll just have to tell them how you had Chris Masters killed. It might sound nuts, but they’ll be duty bound to investigate. My guess is they might suspect you already, but just don’t have any evidence. I can fix that.” He smiled, to show how easy it was going to be…but of course he had no evidence tying them to anything. This was poker, and he was calling them out. “Then I won’t seem crazy. Then they’ll listen to every little thing I have to say. How about that?”

  A moment of complete, shocked silence.

  “We didn’t!” Vicky almost-screamed.

  “Convince me,” Sutton said.

  “We didn’t! We couldn’t!” Vicky cried.

  “It wasn’t us,” Steve pleaded.

  “Convince me,” Sutton said again. He pointed to Vicky with the baseball bat. “You can start by putting down that knife.”

  She stared at him, and then looked at Steve.

  Tiredly, he nodded.

  She dropped the knife, and it hit the kitchen linoleum with a clatter.

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 18

  Monday, 6th June

  The mark under Vicky Clapham’s chin was an ugly tangle of black and yellow bruising.

  She sat at the table while Sutton directed Steve to pull out the remaining chair and sit behind her, next to the kitchen doorway. So Sutton could keep an eye on them both. Steve struggled with the chair; one arm cupped his ribs, while the other arm must be hurting from Sutton’s attentions upon it; he was in considerable discomfort. Sutton didn’t let it upset him.

  “So if it wasn’t you, then who was it?” He asked.

  Vicky stared at her hands on the table top. She had suddenly been struck mute.

  Steve looked at the back of her head. But when he realised she wasn’t going to answer, he said, “another student.”

  “Who?”

  Steve shook his head.

  Sutton waited, but Steve didn’t answer.

  Fine. He’d come back to that.

  He tried another angle.

  “Why?”

  Steve wiped at his nose.

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  “I’m reasonably intelligent.”

  Steve shook his head and sighed. Tired.

  “Chris was helping us,” he said. “There have been a number of deaths of university students. People we knew. Four, in all.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  Steve stared at him.

  “I suppose you’ve also heard that they were accidental.”

  He nodded.

  “Except for the one who died from alcoholic poisoning. Although I suppose you could call that an accident as well.”

  Steve shook his head again.

  “That wasn’t an accident either,” he said.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  He shook his head once more.

  “That’s what Chris was helping us with.”

  “Why would he help you?”

  “Because he was a good person,” Steve said.

  “He was The Rumbler.”

  Vicky visibly stiffened. Steve glanced at her.

  “You knew?” Sutton pressed.

  “Yes,” Steve admitted, almost reluctantly.

  “Both of you?”

  After a moment, Vicky nodded.

  Sutton stared at each of them in turn.

  “I’m still not convinced.”

  “What?” Steve said, surprised. “About Chris? Or about the other students?”

  “About any of it.”

  Steve took a deep breath…and winced.

  “Alright,” he said. “So let me convince you. But we’re going to have to go back to the end of last summer. To when I first met Chris.”

  “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  “Alright.” Steve paused, staring at the carpet. Gathering his thoughts. “I’m not very good with computers. I grew up on a farm, if you can believe it. We never used computers, I didn’t even really get to use one until about three years ago. I heard through another student that there was a really good evening class, a computer class, taught by this guy – by Chris. Appare
ntly, he had a knack for making complicated things seem easy. So in August I started on his course, and we ended up becoming friends – probably because he had to hold my hand through most of the lessons. I mean, I was terrible. Clueless. But Chris was patient, he wasn’t patronising, and he really knew what he was talking about. He was a really good guy. Almost a…reluctant teacher. If that makes sense. Not very confident. On the spur of the moment – this was in late September – I invited him round for dinner. Didn’t I, Vic?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s when Vic first met him. And we had such a good time, all three of us, that it became a regular thing. Just the three of us. Every couple of weeks or so.”

  Steve paused then, as if he did not know how to proceed.

  “But something happened,” Sutton guessed.

  Steve pulled an unhappy face.

  “The Jacobin Group. That’s what happened.”

  “Bill is what happened,” Vicky said quietly, accusingly.

  “Bill,” Steve confirmed scornfully. As if he was disgusted. “Both Vic and I take Social Sciences at Busbar. That’s how we met. This year, Bill invited us to be part of the coveted after hours group. Called the Jacobin Group. It was meant to be an honour. He only invited his top pupils to be part of this group. At the time…at the time I was really chuffed.”

  “What did you do in this group?”

  “Nothing particularly exciting. Mainly we held long group discussions.”

  “On what?”

  “The big social issues of the day. Or an assignment we were having difficulty with. Or something that had happened in the news that had upset someone. Some reflection of society’s downfall…Something like that anyway.”

  “But then he started setting us tasks,” Vicky said, raising her head to look at him. The thick dark hair hung in wings around her face. “He challenged us to change society. He said that if we were unhappy with it, then it was our duty to arouse change.”

  “Or to force it,” Steve added.

  “How were you supposed to do that?” Sutton asked, intrigued.

  Steve shrugged.

  “Any way we could. Any way we thought would be most effective. You could go out in to the street and try and arouse public interest to a particular plight or problem by shouting about it, by handing out pamphlets. We did that once or twice, didn’t we?”