by Max Manning
The Boyfriend
Bentley put the last file in his desk drawer and locked it. If he left in the next few minutes, he’d be home earlier than Gem would be expecting. He let himself imagine the look of relief on her face and smiled.
He stood up, pushed the chair closer to the desk, and bent down to pick up his briefcase. As he straightened up, the office door opened, and a tall, hooded figure stepped into the room. Bentley froze. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The man half turned, closed the door, and pulled the hood of his jacket back onto his shoulders. “Good evening, Andrew,” he said.
Bentley dropped the briefcase and gaped. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. He’d assumed that Norton would never be stupid enough to confront him again.
“What the fuck are you doing in my office?” he said.
Norton took a couple of steps closer. “Now, that’s not a very nice welcome. I’ve been here before, remember? I’m back because we have unfinished business and you know it. You didn’t think I was going to let it go, did you? You know me better than that.”
Bentley pulled his chair back. He’d been caught by surprise, but the shock was starting to wear off, and he felt that psychologically, he’d a better chance of controlling the situation from behind his desk. He sat down and gestured for his unwelcome visitor to do the same.
Norton stayed where he was, his lips curling into a sneer. “I’m not one of your self-important, puffed-up clients. I’m not here to sit down and listen to you spouting bullshit. You owe me, and I’m here to collect.”
Bentley put his hands on the desk and clasped them tightly. His heart had stopped hammering, and he was feeling confident again. There was no reason for him to worry, he told himself. He was skilled at this. He’d always been a talented negotiator.
“I’m not aware that I owe you anything. Not a single penny. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Norton threw his head back and laughed. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. I shouldn’t need to do that. But it’s typical of you to think that this is all about money. Do you really think you’d be here if I hadn’t saved your skin?”
Bentley shook his head slowly. He didn’t want to go there. “How did you get inside the building?”
“I forced the back door. It wasn’t a problem. You know, it’s surprisingly easy to creep up on somebody when the place is decked out with plush carpets. I knew the alarm would be off because you were still here, working late like a good little office boy.”
“How did you know I’d be here at this time?”
A familiar smile slanted across Norton’s face. “I’ve been watching you for a while. It might surprise you, but I’m very methodical. I’ve always been much more organized than I let on. I know what sort of hours you’ve been putting in. I’m not sure whether you’re trying to impress the boss or simply desperate to avoid going home to that bitch of yours. Knowing you, it’s probably both.”
Heat flushed Bentley’s cheeks. “What’s to stop me calling the police right now? They’d be here in a few minutes. You know, for the life of me, I can’t understand why you’ve been making such a nuisance of yourself. The clever thing to do would have been to go to ground, keep your head down for a while.”
Norton lifted the hood back over his head, pulling the top down low over his forehead. “I’m done with keeping a low profile. It doesn’t suit my personality. Go ahead, pick up the telephone, and call the police if that’s what you really want. Or maybe you’re scared. Frightened about what I might tell them? I wouldn’t blame you. You’ve good reason to be frightened. Now, are you going to give me what I’m owed, or am I going to have to take it from you?”
Bentley licked dry lips. Nobody liked being threatened. He wasn’t going to accept it. He hadn’t been talked to like that for a long time. He had to make it clear to Norton that he wasn’t in a position to get away with anything.
“There are cameras in all the common areas of this building, the stairs, the lobby areas, every corridor on every floor. They are the best security cameras money can buy, and the quality of the footage is exceptional. You’ve been captured on film getting to this office, and you’ll be captured on your way out.”
Norton shrugged. “I’ve been caught on CCTV cameras plenty of times, and I’m still walking around this city, doing as I please. The truth is I don’t mind being filmed. I like people seeing exactly what I do. I’d hate to be accused of something I hadn’t done. Actually, because I knew there wouldn’t be a camera in your office, I’ve brought my own along.”
Unzipping his jacket, he reached inside it and pulled out an expensive-looking digital camera. He walked across the room, positioned it on the top of an oak-and-glass filing cabinet standing against the wall, making sure that the lens pointed at the desk.
“I’ve switched it on, and it’s recording now,” he said, striding back and checking over his shoulder to make sure he was in shot. “This baby shoots good-quality video too. I’ve tested it out.”
Bentley jumped up, balled his hands into fists, and stalked around to the front of the desk. “What the hell are you playing at? I haven’t got time for this.”
Norton whipped his right hand around to the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back, pulled out a black-handled hunting knife, and jabbed the blade in Bentley’s direction.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve got all the time in the world.”
Bentley’s brain raced with possibilities. He knew what Norton was capable of. He held up his hands in a placatory gesture. “There’s no need for that. If you feel so strongly about this, I’m willing to pay you something, even though you messed up.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a black leather wallet. “Here you go then,” he said, slapping a wad of notes on the desk. “Two hundred and fifty pounds in cash. You can take that, then make yourself scarce. Leave the city for a while. That’ll be the best thing for the both of us.”
Norton stepped closer, holding the knife in front of him. Bentley winced as the point of the blade pierced his shirt, nicking the skin above his navel. A blood rose bloomed on the crisp white material. He tried to back away but found himself trapped against the desk.
He unclenched his fists, then clenched them again, weighing up whether he had the strength and speed to grab Norton’s hand and wrench the knife away.
Norton sneered. “You’re dying to have a go, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Go on then. Show me what you can do. Have you got the guts? Not if I remember correctly.”
Bentley had always considered himself the stronger of the two. Now’s not the moment, he told himself. Too risky. Keep him talking and bide your time.
“Listen to me,” Bentley said. “There’s no need for any of this. Consider that cash a first installment, a down payment. Take it for now, and I’ll get you more, no problem.”
Norton pulled the knife back a couple of inches. Bentley groaned with relief.
“How do I know I can trust you?” Norton said. “Forget that. Stupid question, because I know I can’t. You’ve always been as slippery as a fucking eel and twice as slimy.”
Bentley pressed the palm of his right hand tentatively against the patch of blood on his shirt. The wound was sore but superficial.
“I’ll get you more money, I swear. I’ve got plenty of it. Think about it. You’re going to need a lot more than two hundred and fifty pounds if you’re going to leave London and set yourself up somewhere else.”
Norton stayed silent, but Bentley thought he was getting through to him. He’d always been unpredictable, but you could usually get him to come around to your way of thinking if you were smart enough.
“Take that cash now, then give me a couple of days, and I’ll get the rest of what I owe you. More if you want.”
Norton lifted the knife and wiped a smear of bri
ght-red blood off the point of the blade with his thumb and forefinger. Bentley took that as a good sign.
“Don’t even think about moving,” Norton said. He picked up the money with his left hand and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. A couple of notes came loose and fluttered to the floor. He bent down to scoop them up, placing the hand gripping the knife on the edge of the table for support.
Bentley tensed every muscle in his body, ready to launch himself at Norton. His heart hammered as adrenaline surged through his body, but he didn’t move. The moment seemed to stretch out in slow motion. Bentley’s gut urging him to attack. His head telling him to hold back. There was no need to take a risk. He could talk Norton around, have him eating out of his hand within the hour.
Norton stood up and flexed his shoulders, his eyes like ice.
“That’s it then,” he said, moving closer.
“What are you…”
Before the words were out of his mouth, a muscular forearm slammed into the side of his neck. The force of the blow sent him crashing to the floor, dazed and writhing in pain. Before his head cleared, a hand grasped his throat. Norton’s speed and power had surprised him. The man was so much stronger than the boy.
The grip on his throat loosened, and he coughed and spluttered as he tried to suck in air. He closed his eyes and let his breathing settle. When he opened them, Norton was staring down at him, shaking his head. Bentley opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Norton jammed a forearm hard across his windpipe. Bentley flailed his arms and kicked his legs in panic, his lungs crying out for air. This can’t be it, he thought. There’s no way this is it.
Norton shifted his weight until he was in a position to bear down harder. Bentley stopped kicking. His skull felt like it was about to split open. His vision blurred, then dimmed. He tried to focus on Norton’s face, but it faded to nothing.
The last words he ever heard were whispered in his ear.
“Game over. I win.”
38
Surrender
The Detective
Day flicked through Kev Finch’s postmortem report while he waited for Shields to arrive. As he’d expected, there were no surprises. It was murder. He’d been beaten then set alight.
Likely cause of death: multiple organ failure brought on by agonizing pain and massive shock to the system. The presence of ash and soot in his trachea showed the poor bastard was alive when engulfed by flames.
Shields entered the office, closed the door behind her, and took a seat. Day thought she looked tired.
“How are the children’s home checks going?” he said.
“Nothing so far.”
Day picked up the pathologist’s report, waved it at Shields, and let it drop back onto the desk. “Definitely murder,” he said. “Not that there was ever much doubt about it. It seems that Finch was very alive when he was set alight. Alive and probably conscious.”
Shields winced. “To burn someone alive like that. That’s pure evil.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Day. “According to the pathologist and the fire brigade, the seat of the blaze was actually the body. Finch was doused in gasoline, then Norton tossed a lighted match on him. In other words, he used Finch to start the fire, turned him into a gasoline-soaked pile of human kindling.”
Shields raised a hand to her face and rubbed her eyes. “There’s no way we can keep this one to ourselves.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that. It would be impossible. Finch’s death is being passed on to the murder investigation team immediately.”
“With the name of the suspect?”
“We’ll give them everything we know about Norton. Why wouldn’t we? In fact, I’ve already set the process in motion. The Gem Golding carjacking is technically still our case though, so I don’t see any reason we should stop going after Norton. With a bit of luck, we’ll get to him first.”
Shields tilted her head to one side and frowned. “What about Drew Bentley? We’re pretty sure he was pushed under the train by Norton. Surely Scotland Yard needs to know the man they’re hunting has killed at least two people so far.”
Day thought for a moment, then nodded. “I agree. Let the coroner’s office know Bentley’s death is no longer thought to be suicide and notify the murder team of the link to Finch’s death. I’m sure they’ll be grateful that we’ve already done a lot of their work for them.”
At that moment, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Shields stood up and opened it to find a sheepish-looking Stock holding a cup of coffee.
Day looked at Shields and rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, I take it you’re knocking on my door for a reason, so quit messing around, get in here, and tell us what it is.”
The young detective hurried into the room, put his coffee on Day’s desk, and slipped both hands into his pockets. He slid Shields a flustered glance and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“The thing is, Boss,” he said, “we just received an email from Scotland Yard letting us know the name of the DCI who’ll be leading the investigation into the Finch murder.”
“Right, that was quick,” Day said. “Is this a guessing game, because if it is, then you’ve got to give us some kind of clue.”
“It’s…er…apparently, it’s Detective Chief Inspector Rob Hardy, Boss.”
Day sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, the reason for Stock’s awkwardness clear to him. Everyone in the station knew by now that his wife had packed her bags and left him for Hardy. They’d been having an affair for months.
The one positive thing was that when he felt low, he could always conjure up the memory of Hardy stretched out on the floor, the smile wiped off his smug, fat face, blood dripping from his mouth onto the squad room carpet. That always cheered him up.
“Well, I’ll tell you both something for nothing,” Day said. “It’s a good job that we’re still going to be doing our best to hunt this psychopath down, because Rob Hardy is one of the worst senior investigating officers I’ve ever worked with. To make matters worse, the irritating little shit actually thinks he’s some kind of hotshot.”
Shields gave him a half smile. “Right, Bill, now that’s dealt with,” she said. “What’s the latest on Norton’s children’s home history?”
Stock rummaged in his jacket pocket, dug out a crumpled notebook, and flipped it open. “Well, I think we’ve hit the jackpot there. I was going through the records of children who were resident at a home called Greenhills in Croydon in 2008, and on the list is a Connor Norton. It’s not a common name. It must be him.”
“What age was he then?” Day asked.
Stock consulted his notes again. “It says here that he was sixteen, so that sounds about right, doesn’t it?”
Both Day and Shields nodded. Encouraged, Stock carried on. “Greenhills closed down four years ago, something to do with local government funding cuts, but I have got some names and addresses of staff who were working there at the time Norton was a resident.”
Day stood up quickly, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and slipped it on. “Good work,” he said. “We need to interview those home workers as soon as possible. You stay here and see what else you can dig up about Norton in the foster care system.”
Stock smiled and squared his shoulders. “That’s not all, Boss. There’s more. There was another name on the Greenhills list that jumped out me. A resident called Andrew. Andrew Bentley, aged seventeen and a half.”
39
Fight
Gem the Warrior
Gem sat on her bed hugging her knees, wiped her bloodshot eyes, and wondered if she was going crazy. Drew was dead. Murdered in his office. Her initial reaction to the news had surprised the detectives. She’d laughed. Not because she thought it was funny but because it had to be a sick joke and breaking down and crying would make it normal. Make it true.
When Drew hadn’t come home and wasn’t answering his cell phone, she’d known deep inside that something was seriously wrong. It was out of character for him not to let her know if he’d had to change his plans. He’d always insisted that she do the same. Even so, she’d waited another hour before calling the police.
A rap on the door made her start. “It’s Carol. Are you all right in there, Gem? I’m putting the kettle on. Would you like me to make you a tea or coffee?”
The family liaison officer was only doing her job, but Gem found her irritating, especially the shrillness of her voice. She didn’t want tea or coffee. She didn’t want anything or anybody, except Drew. If she couldn’t have him, she wanted to be alone.
“No thank you, Carol,” she said. “Nothing for me. I’m tired and am going to try to get some rest.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything for breakfast? A bowl of cereal or some toast?”
Gem didn’t answer. She didn’t want a conversation. She wanted silence. After a minute or so, she heard Carol retreat on the landing, then her footsteps heavy on the stairs.
Gem looked across the room at the silver photograph frame on the dressing table. It contained a picture of her and Drew sipping cocktails on the beach in Barbados during their first holiday abroad. They both looked tanned and deliriously happy. It was their favorite holiday snap.
She slid off the bed, picked up the photograph, and stared at it for several seconds, her eyes fixed on Drew’s smiling face. Draped over the back of a chair beside the wardrobe, she noticed one of his black cotton T-shirts. She lifted it up to her face and smelled it, smelled him. She folded the shirt carefully around the photo frame, lay back down on the bed, and curled into a ball.
