Reaching the landing, he blinked in surprise before turning left, he looked at the door at the end of the shabby corridor and felt the anger build. Arnie Phelps was not a violent man, at least he wasn’t violent to other men. When you were only five feet six inches tall with a flabby body to match, then you tended to avoid violence, especially against those who could fight back. He looked down at his small hands and imagined them clamped around an even smaller arm, a child’s arm. His eyes lost focus and in the semi-darkness he saw a nameless child looking up at him, pleading, begging, her bottom lip quivering, her saucer-like eyes springing with tears as he tightened his grip.
With a snarl of hatred Arnie Phelps walked towards the door, his feet making the floorboards creak, his temper rising until he was blind to everything except the girl who had led him to this shithole of a house, his life, his wonderful life in pieces.
He would make her pay until she screamed, a scream so primal, so blood-curdling, the scream of someone whose mind has just been shattered, the pain so exquisitely intense that it would go on forever, and to his raw soul he knew it would feel like a soothing balm.
75
Bev paced the kitchen, the phone in her right hand, her face creased with anxiety. She had rung Marnie three times and got no reply, on the fourth time she had left a voicemail asking her if everything was OK.
The tension mounted as she tried to figure out what to do. She had gone up to the bedroom and had just been ready to get into bed when she’d heard the sound of an engine outside. By the time she had made it to the window, Marnie had been driving away from the house, the red tail lights vanishing into the darkness.
Now, she paced the kitchen, every few seconds she glanced at the phone willing it to ring. She had worked with Marnie for over three years and in all that time she had never known her to be secretive. In fact, she had been the opposite, willing to share her thoughts on the cases they had been involved in, and more importantly she had listened to what Bev had to say. The total opposite to DI Rogers and his stinking attitude, treating anyone of lower rank as no more than skivvies, simply there to follow his orders and carry out the donkey work.
Marnie understood the benefits of listening to her colleagues, yet it was more than that, more than simply buttering up the people she worked with to get the best results. Bev looked around the kitchen and realised that she now classed Marnie not just as someone she worked with but also as a friend.
‘Come on, Marnie, what are you up to?’ she pondered as the clock on the wall continued to tick away the minutes.
She knew it had to be connected to this latest case, picturing John Hall, dead, his head smashed, lying in his own blood, his daughter missing. She had seen the picture of Rowan on the shoulders of Tom Conway, both smiling for the camera without a care in the world. Marnie had told her about the cellar at the solicitor’s house, the squalid bed, the stinking portable toilet, screwed-up, empty McDonald’s bags littering the floor. The more she turned things over in her mind, the more the feeling of concern morphed into one of real fear.
Marnie must have read the letter and whatever it contained had forced her from the house without confiding in her. She passed the phone from one hand to the other in agitation as she reasoned things out in her faltering mind.
If the letter had contained anything about Jimmy Rae then Marnie would have shared it with her, she was sure of it. The one thing – the only thing – that could have sealed Marnie’s lips was if it had something to do with the missing Rowan Hall. Suddenly, the pieces began to slot into place. She remembered how Marnie had been when she had got the break on Boland, how driven, how reckless she had been to hunt the monster down. Oh, she had put in a call for backup as she reached the burning house but by rights she should have done it sooner, but the hatred she felt for Boland had blinded her to the rules and regulations.
Marnie had never confided in her about what had happened that night at Boland’s house, though Bev knew that ultimately Marnie had been left in the dark about what had happened to her sister. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for her to have Boland chase her through the house, the man who had killed so many children, and yet within the scattering of bones they had discovered none had been a match for Abby Hammond. Boland had died leaving Marnie in a world of impotent rage still not knowing the truth.
Now, Rowan Hall had been taken and all at once Bev Harvey knew that it was the one thing that would stop Marnie from asking for help from her colleagues.
She realised that the letter must have offered some form of clue as to what had happened to Rowan, and Marnie had left the house determined to follow up on the lead no matter what the cost.
Bev glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand as it seemed to increase in speed, every second equating to valuable time lost while she sat staring at her phone.
Taking a deep breath, she came to a decision and rang DCI Reese.
76
Phelps hesitated in front of the door with the peeling paint, his hand hovering near the key, his brain trying to tell him to calm down, that things could still turn out OK.
His hands shook with fear as he tried to regain control of his raging emotions. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, maybe he could simply leave this place, leave the girl, get in the car and drive away. He could head back into town and raid the cash machines with his multitude of credit cards and then find somewhere to lie low for a while until he could make further plans.
He stood on the draughty landing and nodded to himself, then another idea squirmed free of the confusion. The face of Jimmy Rae swam before his eyes and he swiftly realised he still had all the dirt on Rae, he could turn the screw and threaten to expose him unless he helped him get away. Phelps almost slapped a hand to his head, baffled by his own stupidity. Yes, someone had been keeping tabs on him, someone who knew his darkest secrets and sooner or later, they would turn up at this stinking house and he had no doubt they would want more from him, more than he was capable of giving. But if he went now, he could contact Rae and get his hands on enough cash for him to start a new life abroad, somewhere quiet, somewhere where they didn’t ask too many questions about his pastime.
The hope spluttered to life and Phelps nurtured the feeling, convinced that he could escape the steel trap, he wasn’t a stupid man, he could make this work.
‘Yes!’ he hissed as he backed away from the door, his hands still shaking but now they shook with excitement rather that fear.
Turning, he hurried back along the landing, his heart thumping, his gruesome comb-over like a rotting ear of corn on his head.
Reaching the top of the stairs he stopped, one hand grasping the banister he peered down into the gloom. Turning, he looked back towards the door, his face creased with a sour frown.
When he had been forced to keep the girl in his home he had made sure that she had never set eyes on him, he had always been careful when he opened the door and tossed the takeaway bags into the stinking room. In fact, he didn’t even know her name, had no clue who she was or where she came from, let alone why she had been foisted onto him.
Until now.
‘She’s seen my face,’ Phelps mumbled, hesitating at the top of the stairs.
The sense of hope began to fade, the fear came tearing back into his mind. He had no idea what was in store for the girl, or why she had been taken but could he really afford to leave her here, leave her alive? He imagined a scenario, one in which the nameless girl was talking to the police, giving them a description of the man who had dragged her from the cellar and forced her into the car only to lock her up again in a damp bedroom with grey mould flourishing on the walls. He had never hurt her, not really, he had fed and watered the little bitch but that would count for nothing with the bastard police, they would hunt him down and grab him and that would be the end of his freedom.
Phelps tried to rationalise things in his tormented mind, but clarity of thought seemed to desert him as he stood swaying at the top of the stairs. H
e had never actually killed anyone before, though he had come close on a couple of occasions with the children he paid to torment. But the truth was, the disposal of the children had always been done by someone else, someone who had no problem with the slaughter of the innocent. Phelps swallowed the terror as he recalled the conversation he’d had a few years ago with one of the other men in the inner circle. They had been relaxing and drinking expensive brandy in the house where the parties took place and Phelps had made the mistake of enquiring what happened to the girls after they had finished with them.
He could see the man clearly, lounging in the high-backed leather chair, dressed in a white bathrobe speckled with blood, his jowls wobbling as he shook his head.
‘Believe me, you do not want to know,’ he had replied.
Arnie Phelps knew he should have left it at that but he was feeling euphoric after a night like no other, so he had leaned forwards in his chair and smiled.
‘Come on, why the big secret?’ he’d enquired.
The man had straightaway looked uneasy and then he had pulled the robe tight around his rotund body. ‘Let’s just say that the girls are spirited away.’
Phelps had frowned at the words; the truth was he had never given a moment’s thought to what happened to the children when they had finished with them. It was yet another black stain that he had managed to expunge, pushing it away from the front of his mind to bury it deep in the dark places he never ventured.
‘“Spirited away,”’ he had whispered the words before licking his dry lips.
The man had leaned further forwards as if afraid of being overheard. ‘Think about it, the children are provided for us and we pay handsomely for the privilege but I’ve been coming here for over five years and after a while I started to wonder where they got the children from, so I made a few enquires, nothing major, I just looked on the Internet and I found one of them,’ he whispered.
Arnie had wanted to clap his hands over his ears and run from the room but it was as if he were anchored to the chair, unable to move a muscle.
‘She was here in this house just like the others. So, I kept my eye on the news coverage and let’s just say that as far as the police are concerned she is still missing and that was over ten years ago.’ The man had nodded his head and winked before easing back into the chair.
The seconds had stretched out and Phelps had struggled to understand what the fat man was telling him. When the truth hit, it hit like a thunderbolt.
‘She’s dead?’ he hissed.
The man had looked alarmed at the volume in Arnie’s voice and he had quickly put a finger to his lips. Phelps had closed his mouth with a snap.
‘Come on, man, wake up for God’s sake, the children who are brought here are all still missing not one has ever been found, I’ve checked, I know,’ he said sotto voce.
‘You mean …’
The man had nodded again. ‘They’re all dead, dead and buried,’ he finished with a tormented sigh.
It had taken Arnie Phelps months to come to terms with what had been revealed that night and for a few weeks he had managed to convince himself that he would never go to another party, he would stay away and try to get on with his life. After all, he had the money to throw his own parties, he would flash the cash and some nubile hanger-on would blow him as he sat in the recliner surrounded by the young and the beautiful as they guzzled expensive champagne and snorted copious amounts of cocaine.
However, when the call had come through to inform him that another party had been arranged, Phelps had transferred payment to the familiar account without a moment’s hesitation, the excitement already starting to build, the anticipation heightened by facts revealed to him by the man in the blood-speckled bathrobe.
Now, he turned back towards the door, he could feel the erection straining at the front of his expensive trousers, the blood lust rising as he started to backtrack.
This time he didn’t hesitate, suddenly the thought of committing murder overruled all other emotions, instead of his hand squeezing a child’s arm, he thought of them tightening around the young bitch’s throat.
Snatching the key, he twisted it and grabbed the handle, his mind already feeding off the screams and blood and childish pleas.
Arnie Phelps flung the door open, the room was in semi-darkness, he saw the girl standing by the side of the bed, head held high, eyes glaring at him.
‘Cunt!’ he started to run towards her, his heart thudding, the sweat pouring down his pasty face, his man breasts bouncing.
Rowan Hall waited. The man approached, his arms outstretched, and instantly she was in the garden with her dad and he was showing how to defend herself against just such an attack.
Time seemed to slow down, she could see the smear of hatred on his fat, greasy face and she shivered with disgust, then the anger took over, cold hard anger that saw the man for what he really was.
‘Coward!’ she screamed and saw the shock appear on his florid face. Saw his feet slither on the floor as he tried desperately to stop.
Then Rowan sprang low and left, her right arm moved in a blur of speed as she lashed out to the side.
She had the spindle of wood from the bedstead held tight in her right hand and sticking out from the bottom was the long metal screw that attached it the bed frame.
She felt the makeshift weapon slam home and then the man was screaming. Rowan glanced right to see the screw had gouged through his plump cheek, blood spewed from the ragged hole, the horrible mewling sound bubbling out as she yanked the screw free.
Then she pivoted on her left leg and lashed out again, this time the metal tore across his forehead and he staggered back, the blood flowed and dripped down his face, any thought of murder abruptly vanished from his agony-filled eyes.
Rowan waited, her body shaking with dread and fury and then the man collapsed to his knees, his right hand clasped to his face as the blood seeped out between his fingers, his left reaching out to her, the fingers opening and closing, grabbing at the fetid air.
The sight got Rowan moving and she dashed across the room, reaching the doorway she turned and looked at the man, he remained on his knees, his face quivering with pain, the blood splattering to the twisted floorboards.
Stepping through the door, she slammed it shut, turning the key she leaned forward and rested her head against the woodwork, her heart slamming in terror, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts of fear.
She could hear the whimpers coming from beyond the door, the feeble cries of agony as she slowly backed away along the landing.
Then the adrenalin surged again and she turned and ran, feet flying she reached the stairs and thundered down. At the bottom, she turned right and sprinted to the front door. Yanking it open, she felt the wind howl into her face, peppering her with rain. She looked out into the alien world of darkness and trees, the drive ran away from the house before curling left and vanishing through the curtain of rain into the yawning grave of the dark night beyond.
Hesitating in the doorway she felt the fear grow, the fear of stepping out into the darkness matching the fear of staying at the house. Rowan rocked back and forth in indecision then she saw a sparkle of light in the distance and took a step back at the sight of it. The glare from the light increased for a second and then vanished, Rowan blinked and wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her as the terror continued to rumble through her brain. Suddenly, they reappeared – brighter this time – and the fear increased as she realised that a car was approaching the house. Any thought of running forward to meet the occupier of the vehicle vanished and then she heard her father’s voice, so clear that she looked around as if she expected him to be standing behind her watching the proceedings.
‘Run!’ his voice boomed inside her head, and Rowan bolted from the doorway and ran to the left as the car lights flared from behind the trees.
Her feet flying, arms pumping, she listened to the sound of the engine rising, Rowan didn’t dare look as she ran headlong int
o the darkness, the rain lashed at her face, the wind tossed back her hair. She made it to the bank of bushes just as the car reached the front of the house. Throwing herself to the floor she bellied her way through the undergrowth, her clothes instantly saturated, the tears mingling with the rain as the terror ripped through her young mind.
She heard the engine die, the lights vanished and she threw a glance over her shoulder in time to see a man running towards the front of the house, his long coat flapping behind. Rowan swivelled her eyes left – to the outline of someone standing beneath a huge umbrella – the figure didn’t move forward but remained by the side of the car as if waiting for something.
‘You have to move, Rowan.’
This time, her father’s voice was no more than an urgent whisper and Rowan backed off slowly, her eyes still fixed on the front of the house. Then she turned and ran, vanishing into the trees. Rowan Hall ran for her life.
77
Marnie pulled up to the kerb and turned off the lights and engine as Conway eased in behind the car. Large trees bordered the road, dripping water onto the car roof. Pulling out her phone she saw the missed calls from Bev and the two voicemails, sighing she tapped at the screen, the first voicemail was short and to the point.
‘I’m worried, boss, can you give me a call.’
Marnie deleted it and opened the second, as soon as she heard the hesitancy in Bev’s voice she feared the worst.
‘I’ve called Reese, I’m sorry but I didn’t know what else to do,’ her voice held a note of pleading as if she were asking for Marnie’s forgiveness for going over her head.
Cut The Threads: A Serial Killer Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked (DS Marnie Hammond Book 2) Page 24
