by Emmy Ellis
The medicine had rendered her so out of it she didn’t struggle, didn’t even know she was in the bloody bath. Didn’t appear to be breathing. He eased her up again and straightened her legs, putting her feet flat against the end so she didn’t slip. At this point he usually let them remain under the water until they went home-home, then pulled them back out so he could hold one of their eyes open with finger and thumb to check for the grey clouds over the blue iris moon. This time he wanted to do it differently. Mr Clever hadn’t said he couldn’t, and that was always a good sign.
“It’s healthy to have a bit of a change, isn’t it, Sally?” He glanced over his shoulder while he knelt.
Sally gave him her vacant, skew-eyed stare. He turned back to face the bath and took the soap from the ceramic pig holder on the corner and created froth in his hands. He washed her face, paying particular attention to her cheek where he’d stroked it. Some bubbles went up her nose as she inhaled, and he was glad. It saved him the trouble of scrubbing up there with a cotton bud. He rinsed her, replaced the soap, then selected a metal nail file. David chose the pointed end to scrape beneath her fingernails, doing the same with those on her toes. He used the green scouring pad of a kitchen sponge to scrub behind her ears and in the creases of her neck. It took half an hour to clean her thoroughly, inside and out.
Next, he tugged out the plug and watched the water drain away. Once it had all gone and she lay with her head at an awkward angle now she wasn’t buoyant, he reached for the shower head. He switched the water on, sluicing her down so no scum from her nails or fibres from his flat clung to her. Happy she was sanitised, he shut off the water and left her to dry naturally.
In his bedroom, he donned his black boiler suit and tucked his hair into a navy-blue beanie.
“I don’t think she’ll wake, David, but you might want to take precautions.”
David didn’t think she would wake up either but folded his mask into four and slipped it into his pocket along with a capped syringe of medicine. Mr Clever had been right with his advice. You could never be too cocky, too sure of yourself, and sometimes people did the strangest things. Cheryl might not be like the others. She might wake up on the way to his car or at least stir as she hung over his shoulder, and if he could jab her with the needle before she woke fully and possibly created a fuss, that would be grand.
He looked at himself in the mirror beside his bedroom door, pleased at his calm expression, his blank eyes. Even if someone stopped him when he carried Cheryl out, by his face they’d see he wasn’t anyone to fear, and his explanation that she’d got drunk and he was taking her home would surely be believed.
“But she’ll be naked, David,” Mr Clever so rightly pointed out. “Why would you be carrying a naked woman home?”
Mr Clever had brought a valid argument to the table, but David had never encountered anyone before, so why would this time be any different?
“Maybe because you’re changing the pattern? There’s a first time for everything.”
That unnerved him. Should he take that as a warning?
David thought for a moment, checked his watch—almost one-fifteen in the morning.
Back in the bathroom, he was pleased to see Sally had kept a sharp eye on Cheryl. He took the doll into his bedroom and settled her against the fluffy pillows. One of her eyes blinked, clicking, and he smiled at her.
Such a good girl.
* * * *
Langham was shattered. He’d eaten some of the stale biscuits, but they hadn’t filled the gap. He sat at his desk, wishing he could be out looking for Cheryl like Oliver wanted, but his team were working their arses off while he held the fort here. Oliver munched on another packet of crisps, sprawled out as well as anyone could sprawl on an office chair, the grey shadows under his eyes bordering on black.
Langham glanced at the wall clock. Well after midnight and time they headed home. He hated to leave, in case something came up, but there was sod all he could do now. Officers had visited the stream and had found nothing. A couple of strategically placed, unmarked cars were positioned on the road at the housing estate, where Langham suspected the killer parked before taking the bodies to the water. They’d remain there throughout the night. Cheryl’s parents had been informed—the police in Scotland had been given the grim task of visiting their home and breaking the news. The field was being watched—there was always the possibility the killer would change his pattern and go there, to revisit where he abducted, for no other reason than to be at a place that held importance to him. Every avenue was covered. Cheryl hadn’t made contact again, and Oliver hadn’t been given any more information dumps. If Cheryl was going to be placed in the stream, they’d catch the fucker before he got the chance to do it. And, if tonight was the night, Langham would be a phone call away should he be needed.
He shouldn’t even be here now. Another lead detective, Fairbrother, had arrived fresh-faced and raring to go at shift change, ready to take over where Langham left off, but, like Hastings, Langham hadn’t been tired, hadn’t wanted to go home. Hastings had finally given in around eleven, saying he’d better get going if he was to be of any use to anyone tomorrow morning.
Yet tomorrow was now, albeit the early hours, and a Saturday at that. Langham had been due a weekend off, but that had gone out of the window as soon as Oliver had turned up with news of Cheryl. It was the nature of the job and something he had to deal with. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
He sighed and stood. “Come on, you. Home.”
Oliver frowned, tossing his empty crisp packet on the desk. It landed near the edge then sailed off, hitting the carpet with a soft crackle. If Langham could be arsed, he’d pick it up, put it in the bin, but he couldn’t—and wouldn’t.
“Home? But what about—?”
“Nothing we can do tonight now,” Langham said. “Until she makes contact or someone calls in that they’ve spotted him, we may as well take the opportunity to get a bit of shut-eye.”
“I doubt I’ll sleep. Not until she’s found.” Oliver got up and scrubbed at his hair, then his face. His stubble rasped against his palms.
“Well, rest then.” Langham handed Oliver his jacket. Then he reached for his own. Put it on. “And I’m hungry. The Indian on Blackwater Road will still be open. Closes at two. Fancy a nice korma?”
“I don’t want anything.”
Langham held back a sigh. “I don’t suppose you do. Bloody crisp fiend.”
He led the way out of his office and down the stairs. He wouldn’t put it past Oliver to have stayed in the office all night, thinking that since Cheryl had contacted him while he’d been there, then that was where she’d be able to get through to him again. But Oliver was often contacted while he was in bed, relaxed, as if him being in that state between awake and asleep was what spirits or people needed in order to reach out and make him hear them.
At the car, Langham clicked it open with his key fob and got into the driver’s seat, waiting for Oliver to join him inside. After picking up a couple of curries, some naan bread, and pilau rice at the Indian, he drove home in silence.
“You might as well kip at mine in case we’re called out soon,” Langham said.
Inside his place, he went into the kitchen to dish up their meals, leaving Oliver to get comfortable on the sofa with a pillow and blanket. When he joined him in the living room with two full plates, he’d expected to find Oliver asleep, completely crashed out, but he was staring at the wall above the TV. Langham stood just inside the doorway and held his breath for a second or two, steam rising off the food and the scents it carried wafting up his nose. He was bloody starving and torn between hoping Oliver was getting something in his head and wanting to at least be able to eat before they had to go out again. Selfish of him to think like that when a woman’s life hung in the balance, but if he didn’t treat his work as just a job, he’d never have a life of his own. Never have any sane moments.
Oliver didn’t have that look he’d had earlier, whe
n he’d been fixated on the office wall, and Langham released his breath.
“Right, food then sleep,” he said, sitting in a chair and passing Oliver his plate.
Oliver ate. After a couple of minutes, he said, “We’ll find her, won’t we?”
“I hope so. But you know the deal, how this kind of thing works—a bit about how the criminal mind works. Sometimes we don’t get there in time no matter how hard we try. You know that from the other cases. It’s a wanker to accept, but there’s nothing we can do about it.” Langham gave him an apologetic smile, toying with some sauce-covered rice. “You know me, I won’t sugarcoat things. It is what it is.” He half shrugged. “I hope we manage it this time, I really do, but if we don’t? We tried to save her.”
“But sitting here doesn’t feel like we’re trying to do anything.” Oliver stabbed a piece of chicken and put it in his mouth. Chewed slowly, staring down at his plate.
“No, it doesn’t, does it, but there are other officers and detectives on it at the moment. You know how we got when we worked Sugar Strands. We kept going through the whole thing, and look how shattered we were afterwards. Remember?”
Oliver swallowed. “But I didn’t know the victims then.”
“No, there is that. But as far as we’re aware, she isn’t dead yet. Yes, he’s on about taking her home, yes, you said it means death, but it might not mean death right now.”
He thought of the other women being dumped, their last hours happening close to the weekends, and knew Cheryl was on her way to the end of her life if they didn’t find her in time. He refused to remind Oliver of that, though. Best to keep a positive spotlight pointed on things, one that only allowed Oliver to see what that light illuminated, rather than what skulked in the shadows. Shadows had a habit of upsetting him.
“I have to be back at work in a few hours, and I want at least four in kip. Fairbrother can deal with it for now. It’s what he’s paid for—and he’s damn good at his job, too. Nothing like Shields was.”
Langham shoved thoughts of Shields away, a detective who’d made it his mission to continually get on Langham’s nerves, a man who’d died in the line of duty in the Sugar Strands case. He’d been a prick who’d tormented him and Oliver, and nothing would change that, regardless of whether he was dead or not.
Oliver nodded, and they ate in silence then, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of their forks scraping across their plates.
Chapter Nine
Langham was in the living room chair staring at the ceiling but not seeing it, a throw pulled halfway up his stomach. He’d started falling asleep five minutes ago and couldn’t be arsed to break the spell by going to bed. No shaft of moonlight broke through the murkiness as it usually did—the curtains were drawn close together as he hadn’t wanted any light in the room at all. No, he wanted blackness, the kind where even if someone lurked in the corner their shadow couldn’t be seen. Oliver was on the sofa, breaths the same as when he was awake.
“You want to talk about it?” Langham asked.
“Could do. Might help.” Oliver sighed.
“Did you get anything from Cheryl you didn’t tell me about? Anything you remember now you’re relaxed?”
“I’d hardly call it relaxed.”
Oliver would probably do that thing he did, where he closed his eyes and either waited for a new information dump or examined what he’d already been given. Langham imagined that if stuff came at Oliver in a rush, he had to focus on either the voice that shouted the loudest or the imagery that shone the brightest. There was no way, with too much data streaming through his head, he could possibly catch hold of it all. It brought to mind earlier, when Langham had been trying to grasp those snippets, eventually rewarded with the one that had broken free. Was it like that for Oliver?
Langham’s need to find Cheryl was somehow stronger, if that were possible, than it had been with the other women. This had got personal now, wasn’t just his job when it was a friend of Oliver’s they were looking for. So far Cheryl was still alive—or was she? She hadn’t spoken to Oliver in a while, so who knew if the man had killed her yet.
He waited, held his breath for a few moments, praying that Oliver got something new. It felt like the air had changed—it had that charged feeling similar to the times in the incident room when everyone was on tenterhooks ready to arrest their man. The hairs on Langham’s arms rose as he expelled his breath, and his heart thumped just a bit too hard.
“You all right?” he asked Oliver.
“Yeah, I’m just… There’s something…I can’t quite get…”
What’s he got? What’s he seeing?
“He’s wearing a dark boiler suit.”
Oh fuck, here it is.
“Like a mechanic,” Oliver said, “except he isn’t one.”
So he’d bought it on purpose? An outfit he used when disposing of the bodies? Was it part of his disguise along with the mask, something he needed to dress up in so he felt…felt what? That he was doing something important, like a job? Did the boiler suit signify just that, a job that he had to get done?
“He’s staring at his face in a mirror,” Oliver said. “I can see him. See exactly what he looks like.”
Langham wanted to get up, switch on the light, and grab a notebook, but he remained in place. Couldn’t risk shunting Oliver out of whatever place he was in. But by fuck, it was difficult to stay put.
“Jesus, he’s about twenty-two, a little bit older maybe. Doesn’t look strong enough to drag women along. Probably why he has to use the drugs. If the women fought, he wouldn’t be able to handle them. Puny, he is, more like a teenager than a man. He’s got streaky, short blond hair, very green eyes. He has a few faint scars running from his forehead to his temple, spaced apart as though someone…yes, someone has raked their nails down his face at one time—they must have gone pretty deep.”
The victims? Had one of the women done that and he’d cleaned all the evidence out from under their nails?
“The scars are old. Years old.”
Oh. That put his theory firmly to bed then.
“There’s a window behind him, and it’s one of those large sheets of glass like flats have.”
High-rise, as we suspected.
“Outside there’s…I can see the clock tower in the city. He’s thinking about things being different, but I reckon this has already happened, like, maybe an hour or so ago. I don’t feel like I’m seeing it in real time.”
“What’s different?” Langham winced in case he fucked up Oliver’s concentration. Why don’t you just keep your bloody mouth shut?
“The way he’s doing things this time. Cheryl isn’t dead. He usually kills them in the bath, holds them under the water, then takes them to the stream. That’s why…why all the others have had bleach water in their lungs. Christ Almighty.” He paused, then, “No, she isn’t dead. He’s going to do it at the stream this time.”
Thank fuck we have officers out there.
“That’s it. That’s all I can get…I’m…”
Langham rang Fairbrother with the new information and told him he’d come back in to work. Fairbrother insisted he shouldn’t—everything was under control. Langham didn’t take much persuading, there wasn’t anything he could do that Fairbrother couldn’t. He gave in too easily and resumed his staring at the ceiling.
Why the change now? What had triggered the man into making a new pattern?
Not knowing got to him. He gritted his teeth then closed his eyes, intent on going through everything from the start. He managed up until about three months ago, then his mind seized up on him, a headache blooming at the base of his skull, information scrambling until it made no sense. He fought to clear his head, to go in reverse and continue sifting, but his brain wasn’t having any of it. He sighed and allowed the data to drift away, letting in the first signs of sleep—sleep he hadn’t thought would come. Darkness converged, slinking into the edges of his vision and obliterated any images that were previou
sly there.
Blank, everything went mercifully blank.
Chapter Ten
Cheryl waited a long time draped over those rocks. She was bloody freezing, her body numb from the cold and the rushing water, but she stayed still, not knowing if he was still there, eyeing her from the bank. She held her breath for as long as she could, until her head lightened and she thought her lungs would burst, and wondered how the fuck she could move without alerting him to the fact that she was still alive.
A swell of water saved her, giving her a chance to naturally lift her head as the rising wet pillow swept past. She turned her head to one side, facing away from the bank, and allowed her cheek to rest on the surface of the icy stream. She remained that way for a while, keeping her breathing shallow and trying to make out any sounds of him watching her. She didn’t hear much beyond the gurgle and bubble of the water, the chattering of her teeth, the whump of her pulse.
Her arms floated, languid buoys, her fingers stretched into stiff star shapes—from the shock, she reckoned. It seemed as though she had no skin, that the cold rendered her unfeeling, that she was just Cheryl in a shell. Holding her head up took a lot of effort—God, her neck ached—and blackness inched into the edges of her mind, threatening to swallow her up until she passed out. But she held on, told herself she’d get out of this alive if she could.
After a while, she twisted her head the other way, hoping with every faint, slowing beat of her heart that he was gone and she was safe. She forced courage up from deep inside her and opened her eyes. The mud and scrubby grass edge of the bank was closer than she’d expected. Then it hit her. She was too cold to move. Unable to move.
