by J. S. Spicer
One of those awful convict shots of him that made him look sinister when he’d really just been pissed off at getting caught. It was the local news, a ten minutes slot after the national news had finished, and he was the headline.
The words from the TV seemed to drift towards him through fog; ‘person of interest’, ‘police appeal to the public’, ‘do not approach’, ‘wanted for questioning in connection with a murder’.
Oh God, he was wanted for murder.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
He was coming back. Again.
His footsteps echoed off the wooden stairs. His pace was slow, leisurely. She wondered if he was deliberately taking his time, knowing that she could hear him getting closer and closer with each heavily placed foot. Was he intentionally trying to heighten her fear? If so, it was working.
This would be his second visit since he’d brought her to the empty house. During his first visit she’d lost it. The sight of the guy standing over her, grinning would you believe, had just tipped her back over the edge of sanity that she’d been desperately trying to cling on to. She’d screamed and scrambled into the corner, like a terrified animal fleeing a predator.
He’d looked confused by this. Then he’d looked; what? Annoyed? Disappointed? He’d watched her blankly for a minute or so then turned and left.
Now he was returning.
She still didn’t know what she was doing there, but it must have something to do with her boss.
She was sure Hugh Bishop was dead. Her captor had held him under the water for so long; long after the Bank Manager had stopped moving.
Hugh Bishop had attacked Jennifer because he was after information. Lying in the dust on the floor of the room that had become her prison she’d had time to sift through the memories and events which had led to her current predicament. He thought she knew something about the robbery at the bank. He had thought she was involved.
It all had to be some horrible mistake, a tragic misunderstanding. She wondered if this guy could be the bank robber, but that didn’t make sense either. It didn’t explain why he turned up in her bathroom, or why he killed Hugh Bishop. Whatever was going on, maybe, if she could just stay calm and use her head, maybe she could get out of this alive.
Jennifer focused on her breathing. The fact she’d been forcibly brought to this place couldn’t mean anything good, but so far her captor hadn’t hurt her.
She sat up and leaned against the wall. Not in the corner, not this time. She felt too exposed in the centre of the room; she wasn’t that brave yet. She tightened her robe around her and continued to breathe in and out slowly. She was shivering again, but told herself it was just from the cold.
The footsteps had reached the top of the stairs and halted outside the door. Jennifer’s heart thumped in her chest. She watched the handle turn. She gripped the cuffs of her sleeves tightly, like she needed to grab on to something to keep in touch with reality; to keep her terror at bay.
He wasn’t grinning this time, but he did smile, almost sheepishly. Jennifer forced her mouth into her best attempt at a smile. It worked. He looked pleased and took a couple of eager steps towards her. Jennifer tried not to flinch at his approach. She failed, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He just stood over her, like before, smiling gormlessly; his eyes glued to her face.
One more deep breath and she spoke. It took a couple of attempts to form the words; at first they crackled and faded in her throat. Finally she found her voice.
“Why am I here?”
Her question seemed to confuse him for a moment. Perhaps she’d spoken too quietly. She repeated the question.
His confused expression remained. After a moment he replied, “To keep you safe, of course.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
He leaned forward. He smelt of fried food and stale sweat. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore.” The smile was back. Reassuring? Pleased with himself?
His expression and attitude seemed wildly inappropriate to the situation. Jennifer didn’t know what to say for a moment. Then he was walking away again, heading for the door.
Her confusion and desperation brought her feet under her. Using the wall for support she pushed herself upright.
“Wait. You can’t do this. I want to go home.”
He turned. Confusion again. Then, once more, that stupid grin. “But you are home, Jennifer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
He’d walked miles. He didn’t want to risk the brightly lit buses, and there was no way he could go to the train station now. He was a wanted man, a fugitive. Aubrey had had run-ins with the law before; lots of times.
But this was different.
For one thing he’d never been in trouble for anything this serious before. Also, this time he wasn’t even responsible for the crime he was accused of. Yes, he’d robbed the bank; with help. But there was no way he was going to let them pin Carol Bishop’s murder on him.
The rain had let up but darkness had fallen early under heavy skies. The damp streets glistened beneath orange streetlamps. He was only about a mile away from home.
Home. Could he still call it that?
He’d decided to leave, and Gemma might not welcome him back. He’d messed her about plenty of times in the past. This could be the final straw. She’d probably seen the news. The whole world thought he was a murderer; he didn’t know what he could do about that right now. But Gemma had to know the truth.
He’d made one potentially risky stop since leaving The Admiral. He’d needed a phone. He couldn’t use his own mobile phone, they might be able to track it.
Were the police pulling call records and trying to pinpoint GPS locations right at this moment? Maybe. He had to assume the worst and take every precaution. The pre-paid phone now in his pocket was cheap and basic, but he could call and text from it. That’s all he needed right now. He’d written out any contact numbers he might need on a scrap of paper before removing the battery and SIM card from his own phone. The contact list now crumpled in his pocket next to the new phone was pitifully short.
He’d been as careful as possible when purchasing the replacement. Aubrey had avoided the high street shops; too much CCTV both inside and outside the stores. Instead he’d found a Sunday market down one of the side streets. He’d paid in cash, so no trail. Hopefully.
He was more cautious now, stopping frequently, stepping into the shadows at the slightest sound. The police might be watching the flat; he had to assume they were.
Their flat wasn’t in the best part of town. Aubrey had often wished they could move but they never seemed able to afford it. On the plus side he’d lived in the area for years. He knew it well; the squat blocks of cheap flats and housing snuggled against the edge of an industrial estate. Several companies had moved on or gone out of business over the years. There were a few die hard businesses hanging on, but the plethora of empty warehouses and offices was just too tempting. He could stay close to Gemma and his home without being seen or caught.
He diverted off the streets and headed across some waste ground; a brief strip of no-man’s land between residential and industrial. He hurried across the open space; home only to soggy litter and spiky grass.
As he pulled his coat tight against the cold wind whistling past him he could see the soft glow of lights coming from the buildings off to his left. One of those lights was his flat. Was Gemma at home right now? If the police were watching out for him then he’d be watching out for them too.
A rusty chain link fence was no barrier to a man with Aubrey’s abilities. Soon he was skirting the breezy yard of the empty building he’d decided on. The choice was a good one he saw as he made his way to the small padlocked door in the corner of the yard. The upper windows had a good view of the surrounding area; the flats, the open ground, even parts of the surrounding streets.
Aubrey made short work of the padlock. In a matter of minutes he was inside, securing the door shut behind him and pulling a torch out of his ba
ckpack. It was good to be out of the wind. The corridor he’d stepped into was quiet, still, but not significantly warmer than outside. He looked around. Downstairs there was a small office and kitchen. Aubrey tried the light switches and taps. All power and water had been turned off. Beyond some double doors stretched an expanse of warehouse; vast, dark and empty except for a few mouldy pallets and some flattened cardboard boxes. Later, in the small hours when the streets were empty, he’d fetch his van and hide it in the warehouse.
He moved up the stairs. At the top was a small square of hallway. Doors on either side led to offices. Ahead was a toilet, again without running water.
He moved into the office to his left, clicking off his torch as he did so. The wide window gave him the view he’d hoped for. Once again Aubrey dug into his backpack. He’d made another purchase at the market; a lucky find.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and wiggled the dial gently to get better focus. He felt a thrill of satisfaction as he realised with these to help him he could pinpoint his own flat, picking it out easily from amongst the neighbouring properties.
He thoroughly scanned the vicinity. No sign of the police, but he was sure they’d be keeping tabs on anyone close to him.
Aubrey relaxed for the first time since he’d seen his own face on the lunchtime news. He’d found a secure place to hide until he could plan his next move. He’d need to get some essentials; food was top of that list. For now though he was safe. He was hidden.
He made one last sweep of the abandoned building; checked every door and window. Once he was satisfied no-one else could easily get inside he went back out to the warehouse and began collecting empty cardboard boxes. They would help a little with the cold. By the time he’d dragged a dozen or so flattened boxes upstairs and laid them in the corner for his bed Aubrey felt exhausted. Checking his watch he cursed his bad luck. He could have been halfway across the channel by now, if only his face hadn’t been plastered all over the media so quickly.
Lying on top of some of the boxes he pulled others over him. He used his backpack for a pillow, pounding its lumps and bumps until it was a comfortable place to rest his head. As Aubrey closed his eyes and his breathing steadied he thought of Hugh Bishop; maybe that bastard would get away with murder, but at least Aubrey had the jewellery.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
They’d had absolutely no luck tracking down Aubrey Davis; he was in the wind. Max didn’t want to lose momentum. He may still not have a clear picture of what had happened but he had leads to follow. The key one, other than Davis, was Hugh Bishop. The bank managed had failed to materialise over the weekend. They’d kept an eye on the house after the forensics team had finished combing over the property but he hadn’t returned home. Max had checked with neighbours and relatives, the latter were thin on the ground, and Hugh Bishop didn’t really have many friends. There were a few guys he played snooker with at the local pub but even that wasn’t a regular thing, and they seemed to know very little about the man. With personal acquaintances coming up short Monday morning brought the next logical step.
Max swung into the small gravelled area that served as a car park behind the bank and pulled up near the back door. He spotted the VW that belonged to the Assistant Manager, but there was no sign of Bishop’s car. That would have been too much to expect.
Only Bishop and his Assistant Manager had parking spaces, the rest of the staff used local car parks or public transport. Thinking about the staff brought Jennifer to mind. He should have called her, but the weekend had been crazy. Plus the discovery of Carol’s Bishop’s body and the disappearance of Hugh Bishop complicated things. A lot. The initial crime hadn’t really deterred him from asking her out, even though it wasn’t strictly ethical to do so. Her appeal had been twofold; attractive, yes, but also new to the bank. As much as he’d wanted to get to know her, the policeman in him also saw the benefit of talking to a staff member who’d been there for just a matter of days. She hadn’t yet fallen into cliques. She wouldn’t be silenced by loyalty to her colleagues. He’d felt guilty though, and conflicted about their date. He wasn’t even sure if it had been a real date. There’d been a rocky start, followed by a very pleasant time lingering over coffee then an awkward ending; she’d insisted he drop her at the end of the road and when they’d said goodnight she’d shaken his hand before hurrying out of the car.
The sensible thing to do was back off where Jennifer was concerned. So why was he suddenly so eager to get inside the bank?
Max forced himself to stay in the car a little longer; to focus his mind on the job.
The bank staff had their morning routine. Computers, lights, and most importantly the coffee machine, were all switched on. Kieran Banister, the Assistant Manager, was striding around in a cheap suit all puffed up like a peacock. The absence of his boss gave him his chance to shine. His subordinates looked unimpressed, rolling their eyes when he turned his back after giving out some pointless instruction. They already knew what to do. Max didn’t like him. He knew exactly how to take the wind out of his sails. It was petty, but what the hell.
“Mr Banister.” The young Assistant Manager swung round. His eyes widened with surprise at the sight of the policeman.
“You’ve just had a burglary at this branch, Mr Banister.” Max made no effort to keep his voice down. “Yet I’ve just walked straight in through the back door. Do you usually leave it unlocked?”
Kieran flushed, his face mottled with bright spots of humiliation.
“I, um…”
Max saw the barely disguised glee in the other employees faces; they were enjoying the young man’s discomfort. He was also aware there was no sign of Jennifer Kim. Maybe she was still back in the kitchen.
“Yes, of course, we do keep it locked. At all times.”
“Except this morning?”
“Ah, well, I was expecting Mr Bishop.”
“You were? Has he been in touch?” Now Travers was genuinely interested, not just goading the guy.
“Well, no, not as such. But he’s usually here by now.”
“What about when he’s sick? Does he usually call?”
“I don’t recall Mr Bishop ever having time off sick,” Kieran said, looking a lot less cocky than he had moments before. “But he’d certainly let me know if he was going to be late, and as I hadn’t heard to the contrary I assumed he’d be arriving any moment.”
Travers nodded. This guy knew nothing. “I’d just like a brief word with all the employees again, it won’t take long or interfere with your work. Is everyone here today, aside from your boss of course?”
Kieran glanced around as if it had only just occurred to him to register the faces of the people he was so keen to boss around. “The new girl’s late.”
Travers extracted the small jotter from his pocket and pretended to check through his notes. “Jennifer Kim?”
The Assistant Manager nodded his confirmation.
Maybe the break-in had scared her off and she’d decided the banking industry wasn’t for her.
Max made a quick call to Carrie asking her to text him Jennifer’s exact address. He’d stop by there once he was finished with his interviews.
He hadn’t expected much from revisiting the bank. He was right, it was superbly unenlightening. He checked his phone as he left by the back door, leaning against his car to enjoy a rare strip of sunlight that had broken through the grey above. Carrie had sent two texts. The first gave an address for Jennifer Kim, Flat B, 58 Boulder Terrace. He checked the second text. He was already dialling as he got into his car and started the engine.
“What can you tell me about this disturbance?”
“Good morning to you too, Detective.” Carrie wasn’t her usual friendly self; probably because, like him, she’d had no weekend to speak of.
“Sorry, Carrie. Morning. Your text said a disturbance was reported at Jennifer Kim’s address?”
“Well, it didn’t specify her address. Just that building. It was on Saturday
night. One of the neighbours phoned the police to complain about the noise coming from there; some shouting and banging about.”
“Did we check it out?”
“Uniforms went by within the hour but no-one was home at number 58. They had a nose around; all looked peaceful so that was that.”
“OK, thanks. I’m heading over there now. Jennifer Kim didn’t show up for work this morning.”
It wasn’t the best neighbourhood. It wasn’t the worst either. Boulder Terrace was crammed with narrow houses. The only parking was on the road; the cars and vans Travers saw were all several years old. At this time of day at least there were a few spaces. He pulled in as close to number 58 as he could. It was near the bottom of the street, squeezed between a carpet shop and a grocer’s. Neither store looked prosperous; their ‘open’ signs didn’t seem to be enticing many customers. Max wondered who’d reported the disturbance. The shops would both most likely have been closed at that time. Maybe there were flats above them.
His eyes moved to number 58, which was a small house that had been converted into two tiny flats; one downstairs, one upstairs.
There were two doors, one to the centre and one to the side. The side door was labelled Flat B; the upstairs flat. Shielding his eyes with one hand Max squinted up at Jennifer’s windows. Why were the curtains closed? If she was ill she may still be in bed. That could explain the drawn curtains.
As he pushed the doorbell he realised how much tension had built up inside him since he’d read Carrie’s text message.
People reported disturbances all the time. In a street like this there would be plenty of noise on a Saturday night.
Not from Jennifer though.
He pressed the bell again, twice in quick succession. He could faintly hear it buzzing somewhere up above. He waited.
He remembered he’d taken down her mobile number. Scooping his phone out of his pocket he quickly scrolled through his contacts until he found her. As it started to ring Max crouched by the letter box. Pushing open the slot he pressed his free ear to the gap. As with the doorbell he could just make out the faint ringing of a phone somewhere in the flat above. He tried dialling twice more before the sick feeling in his gut won out. He called the station.
