Return

by Brian Freemantle

  The Return

  Brian Freemantle

  writing as Andrea Hart

  For Nicholas and Helen

  with love.

  Prologue

  The name was unimportant, one of the few accidents of rebirth, but for this return it was Harold Taylor and he was a reincarnation. He also killed people.

  Unlike others who believed themselves to have had previous lives, Taylor most definitely knew: doubly unique, he had total and perfect recall of each existence.

  As Myron Nolan he’d taken Mafia tuition on New York’s mob-controlled waterfront to make millions as a US Army quartermaster sergeant during and after the Second World War.

  He’d discovered the advantages of a military existence – the ability to steal and to kill with impunity – serving as Patrick Arnold in the British Army in the First World War, which had also given him his first experience of a court-martial and on that occasion a firing squad that had reduced that life to his shortest ever.

  Until the public recognition had been so cruelly – wrongly – taken from him, his favourite had been as Maurice Barkworth, a name still listed in the medical reference books of the late nineteenth century, for almost twenty years of which he’d been fêted as one of London’s leading surgeons, specializing in the experimental treatment of the human eye.

  He’d qualified as a doctor in America, where forty years previously, as Luke Thomas, he’d travelled West on an early settlers’ wagon train as far as the then Spanish-governed town of St Louis to establish the first of his several self-patronized brothels.

  It had all begun as Paul Noakes, in the raucous, teeming St James’s streets of eighteenth-century London. There, in the temple of his beloved shaman mystic, he’d literally abandoned himself, body and soul. And in exchange been taught the mantras and the blood sacrifices necessary to return from the afterlife. He hadn’t, of course, believed it. Not then. Not until his death, when the flames in which his parents destroyed him had begun to melt his first body and he’d felt the agony and then the total, moment-of-death peace of meeting his mystic teacher on the threshold of the afterlife.

  Do you want to live again?

  Yes.

  Water – cultivate – every existence with the blood of others.

  That is my pledge.

  And your guarantee of rebirth. Do not fail me and I will never fail you.

  He enjoyed the killing, which he’d been encouraged to do. Offering the sacrifices, which the shaman, who called himself Tzu – ‘master’ – appointed him to perform: who’d taught him the ritual dismemberment, which none of the other reincarnation disciples could bring themselves to perform and who therefore respected him, because he could. It was almost as good as the sacrificial ceremonies themselves, having the respect of others.

  He’d believed in reincarnation when he’d been reborn in America with the power of absolute recall, of course. And from that time the sacrifices continued, his victims always those who’d offended or harmed him in his previous existence.

  This latest time was going to be different, Taylor determined. He’d always remembered and he’d always learned, certainly. But always from the past, never exploring the possibilities of the future.

  This return he would. He felt – he was sure – he could transmogrify. Was even more curious to see if he could bodily transfer, possess the presence and mind and soul of another living being, which Tzu had preached was possible. He could return so much more quickly if, at the very moment of death, he immediately possessed another living being. Transmogrify and possess. Both would be wonderful. Exciting.

  It was time to start. He was ready.

  Chapter One

  London – his first home – was always the best, the place he most enjoyed. Every reincarnation was exhilarating but this time – here, where his life had begun centuries ago – he felt an extra excitement, an anticipation.

  At that moment, standing amidst the vehicle swirl of a Piccadilly he’d first known as a muddied thoroughfare of hand-hauled and horse-drawn carts, the man this time with the name of Harold Taylor determined to make it particularly special. Not just as he had over the past two hundred years with every return. More. Much more.

  Maybe, the most outrageously exciting thought of all, actually to let people – ordinary, stupid, one-life people – know. That would be incredible. Unprecedented. He would become famous. Infamous. Terrify everyone by what he was: what the specially chosen in the supernatural afterlife were capable of. With him, on this occasion Harold Taylor, twenty-five years old, of inexhaustible private means, the most capable of all. The super supernatural.

  He’d definitely do it all on this return! Plan it with the care with which he was planning the sacrificial killings of those who’d hurt him – got in his way – the last time and go through the whole paranormal spectrum. Good word, spectrum. An after-image. That’s what he’d show everyone. The most sensational after-image, beyond their simple conception. No, not inconceivable. Only inconceivable until he proved he could return from a previous life. Indestructible, no matter how hard the ordinary little people tried to defeat him, obliterate him. Beyond mortal harm. Beyond everything and everyone.

  Now was precisely the time for everyone to know. To realize and to worship: the world an electronic global village, no-one, anywhere, separated by more than a television satellite or Internet website. Absolutely perfect.

  Like the killings in America it had taken him more than a year patiently and unhurriedly to prepare, every victim in their appointed place on his death list, each about to die as and when he, the immortal judge, decided. And now here in England, the last two to be fitted into the orderly, infallible scheme. Just one more afternoon of surveillance, ensuring the bastard who probably deserved to die more than any of the others maintained the pattern he’d so far followed every day and it would all be ready.

  Which left the morning for other things: for the reminiscences he’d until now postponed, single-minded in his priorities. For savouring the sights and sounds and smells and memories that went back more than two centuries, sights and sounds no longer here. Not that long since the last time, of course. Just over fifty years. But even in that short time there seemed so many changes. Nothing appeared the same. Everything better. Even the buildings that had been here then, which a lot of them had despite the blitz, looked different. Bigger. Cleaner.

  Cleanliness – always so important, no matter who he returned as – was certainly a positive perception. The old buildings, the historic ones that had survived the bombing, had been soot blackened then, like the people who had hurried head bent and war weary among them. Now those same buildings were proudly scoured white and the people who still hurried did so proudly, heads high, confident.

  The ethnocentricity was very different, too. Just before the invasion of Europe, the period of his last return, there had been Indians and Sikhs from the then existing Empire and the black cannon fodder from America but the coloured faces then had been in uniform, very few on the streets. Now they were everywhere, yellow and brown and black and every colour in between, in clothes of every style and hue, a polyglot society.

  He’d never considered returning as anything but a Caucasian but with his mind so occupied by thoughts of experimentation and sensation-causing he abruptly wondered how difficult it would be to become part of another culture. Probably not difficult at all. There was always the growing up – or had been, so far – in a family of his choice to learn how to behave and adapt and to belong to the current period, even if his personality and perfect recollection of each previous existence remained unaffected and unaltered.

  It might one day be an interesting extension to be Indian or black or native American. Or Chinese, as Tzu had been, with his secrets of ancient teachings and rituals,
cast out by those who’d taught him, vilified as a black disciple for following the supposed evil instead of the supposed good. Or then again as an animal, as so many religions – the Hindu most devoutly of all – believed to be possible. Or a bird. To be a bird – descendant of another unbelievable creature, the dinosaur – would be truly fascinating, literally soaring above the ordinary people upon whom figuratively he had only ever looked down. But it might not be possible to take the body of another animal and retain the human ability to reason and think. Maybe that would have to remain an unrealized fantasy.

  Taylor’s immediate destination was the end of an essential pilgrimage and he went directly to it, on the corner of Duke Street and Mason’s Yard, although he knew from previous reincarnation visits that the temple – his shrine – wasn’t there any longer. Hadn’t been for almost two hundred years, since the terrified church authorities had held services of exorcism before physically urging the mob and the militia to raze it to the ground, burn the debris – particularly the symbols – and scatter the ashes, idiotically believing that would destroy its power. They’d been too late. They’d hanged and burned his teacher, not knowing that Tzu had grown tired of returning and already chosen the disciple who’d sworn the pledge. Give yourself to me, in body, mind and soul and in return I’ll grant life after life, mind upon mind. Take blood. Cause blood. Water every existence with the blood of others, of those that offend. It had been a perfect life, over and over again, the best bargain he’d ever struck, one he’d never for a moment regretted. Nor would he, ever.

  For a long time he remained where the temple had once stood, recalling the sacrificial services and how eagerly he’d done whatever was demanded of him. Most vividly of all he could remember the special prayers and incantations and that morning he silently recited them, renewing the promises that in turn enabled him to renew himself after every death.

  He only moved when he became aware that by remaining so long in one place, head bowed, he’d attracted the attention of people at a pavement café in Duke Street. Still he didn’t hurry, meandering at his leisure through the streets of St James’s. Not just the temple had gone. So, too, had the tenement in which he’d originally been born and so many of the landmarks he’d known in that first life.

  The buildings seemed much bigger, the streets much wider. But he wasn’t sure the atmosphere was better. He’d felt more at home in his true beginning, running the sewered, brazier-lit alleys among the stalls and the barrows, from the meanest selling sour meat to the best like that of Mr Mason who sold the candle-ends they said Mr Fortnum got from the Royal palaces by permission of King George himself.

  Noisier then. More dangerous. Everyone grabbing, stealing, fighting to stay alive. Perhaps more at home but hardly safer. Despite his father’s job – work that made the family rich, judged by the standards of the day – in these streets he’d cut a lot of purses, becoming expert with the knife, and bundled a lot of skirt-lifted whores – bunters, as they were called then – with money he stole, knee-trembling in the archways or more comfortably in the park that was still there, just ahead.

  He walked nostalgically into it, able to find the exact spot, by the lake, where he’d started the terror. Carrie, she’d said her name was. Not a full-time bunter. Scullery maid earning an extra copper. Big tits that had come off clean as a whistle, much easier than the head, which he’d left eyeless – because an eye always had to be offered as a sacrifice to the unseen future – facing Buckingham House, not then the palace it later became for King George.

  Taylor retraced his steps past St James’s, the palace that had then existed, and up to where he’d killed the others, one in the archway, the other in an alley which wasn’t there any longer. What a panic he’d caused! Militia and the Watch on the streets, braziers on every corner for more light, men forming patrols, hullooing one to the other to make themselves braver, the news-sheets talking of a monster and the hand of the Devil himself, not knowing how close to the truth they were. Water every existence with the blood of others.

  Taylor went out reluctantly onto Piccadilly, where that day’s odyssey had begun, crossed it and got to Regent Street, his mind adjusting to another time, another life, another century. Cobbles on the main gaslit avenues that echoed under the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the hansom cabs: child brothels – boys and girls – along Pall Mall: silk top hats and frock coats and dresses dusting the ground: the mourning queen, grieving for Albert: of being honoured – sought out for expert opinion – and of being lionized by society hostesses. The house was still there in Harley Street, the nameplate still that of a doctor. What would have become of the laboratory at the back, the basement dissecting room?

  Reminded by the striking of an unseen clock, Taylor hailed a taxi, discarding the past on the ride to Waterloo station and then during the short journey to Richmond. He was still fifteen minutes early, getting into position in the side street with a view of the old man’s shabby terraced house. The bench on which he sat, appearing to read the Daily Mail, had been vandalized and was uncomfortable with two slats missing.

  His unsuspecting victim left his house precisely at twelve-thirty, as he had every day that Taylor had been watching, a hunch-shouldered, shuffling figure in a stained raincoat, despite warm spring sunshine. It took him twenty minutes to get to the Almoner’s Arms and half an hour to finish the pie and pickles, with two halves of bitter, before shuffling out again. On his way back he bought a Daily Mirror at the same newsagent’s from which Taylor had earlier got his newspaper.

  Taylor filled in the afternoon at the cinema by Richmond Bridge and was back in position fifteen minutes before the old man’s Social Services carer arrived, promptly at seven-thirty. She left just as promptly at eight.

  He was ready to start the killing, he knew, as he turned towards the town and the railway station: ready to start watering a new existence with blood. But not here, not yet. America was where most had to die, so that’s where he’d begin. The old man could wait, until he was ready. He’d do it when he returned to England for the final but necessary stalking of the widow he first located a whole year earlier. He might, he thought, even choose to stay when he’d destroyed everyone on his list. It had been a long time since he’d lived a life in England: practically a hundred years. It was certainly something to think about. So much to think about. So much to plan. A whole new life, in fact.

  Chapter Two

  Beddows said, ‘OK. Life’s not fair. The other guy always gets the breaks.’ He smiled.

  Wesley Powell thought that sometimes Beddows tried just a tad too hard to be Harry-the-Hard-Ass, the headquarters animal who knew all the tricks of Washington survival. Why was he sneering? After the recent fuck-ups maybe he should take lessons. He said: ‘Anyone outside recognized it as serial yet?’

  Harry Beddows shook his head. ‘Texas and Alabama are a long way apart. I hope they don’t, for a while. Don’t want the son-of-a-bitch trying to be a media star.’

  ‘How did we make the connection?’

  ‘Field offices in San Antonio and Birmingham independently filed reports here. Gal in Research and Records, Amy Halliday, made the computer match.’

  ‘You told the field guys yet?’

  ‘You’re the case officer. Down to you.’ The division chief hesitated. ‘Be good for you to tuck this one away, Wes.’

  ‘You telling me something I need to know?’

  ‘Don’t get paranoid.’

  It was becoming difficult not to. They still hadn’t got a killer for the kidnap case he’d co-ordinated and which had gone as cold as a polar bear’s butt. And before that he’d screwed up on a militant group investigation, realizing the lead to their bomb factory too late to prevent six people, one a child, dying in a mall explosion in Des Moines. Powell suspected it was getting difficult for his former friend to keep covering his ass. The unprompted qualification surprised Powell. For the first time he acknowledged he did think of Harry Beddows as a former friend. There was still some kind
of special relationship, certainly, but since Beddows had got the top job Powell had grown aware of a reserve, a barrier, separating them. It wasn’t just professional. In San Diego they’d been a foursome, Beddows and Cathy, he and Ann. But since the divorce from Ann there weren’t any more social situations: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the Beddowses home. Or even had a drink with Harry, after work.

  Powell said, ‘It gone to Quantico yet?’ The FBI’s criminal profiling Behavioral Science Unit was based at the Bureau’s violent crime analysis centre at the Virginia training academy.

  ‘This morning,’ confirmed Beddows. ‘Not a lot for them to work on yet.’

  Powell picked up the two case folders. ‘A twenty-six-year-old trucker with a twenty-one-year-old hooker and a sixty-six-year-old black ex-con. Why the hell choose them?’

  Beddows said, ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I will,’ said Powell, too casually.

  ‘It’s important that you do exactly that,’ said Beddows, at once and very seriously. ‘Keep very closely in touch. Learn to be a team player, not a one man band. That’s not the way to get ahead.’

  His ass was on the line, Powell recognized. And this case had all the hallmarks of being a bastard. Life definitely wasn’t fair.

  Wesley Powell’s first thought at Amy Halliday’s entry was that they should have met somewhere other than in his office, somewhere neutral, which would have avoided any superior-to-subordinate difficulty. And was at once astonished at himself. He was superior, in grade, experience and authority. They were about to embark upon an investigation in which her participation would, at most, probably be little more than peripheral; her involvement was in recognition of her initial identification of the crimes for what they were. Each and all of which made his office the only place to have met. He remained curious at his initial reaction.

  The woman certainly didn’t act as if she felt subordinate. She came in quite confidently, her face relaxed but not smiling. It was she who offered her hand, a second before Powell.