Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  Hooking his camera strap around his neck, Aaron changed the flash setting then signalled to Nat.

  “I believe my hundred covers entry and information, so get yourself in here.”

  He turned back to the gloom and began snapping pictures, lighting up the kitchen in bright bursts.

  Nat, who had taken a few steps inside, shielded her eyes.

  “You want to close the door?” Aaron said as the camera whirred and flashed.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t fancy getting arrested for breaking and entering.”

  “No one’s around to see,” Nat said, closing the door and shutting out the failing daylight. “Besides, I hear the next-door neighbour is easily bribed.”

  “You’re hilarious. You ever consider a career in comedy?”

  The camera hanging from his neck, Aaron took out his phone and switched to torch mode. Pale blue light pushed back the shadows. There was another door at the far end. It was open, but darkness masked what lay beyond.

  “I need more light,” he said.

  “Scared the ghosts will get you?”

  Smirking, Nat pulled her phone from her pocket and activated the torch. More cold light spilled over the room.

  Sucking in a nervous breath, Aaron stepped through the door.

  The hall was damp and musty smelling, the air filled with dust that coated the inside of his nose and the back of his throat.

  Coughing, he swung his phone from right to left.

  Up ahead, two open doors stood on opposite sides. He checked the first, then the second.

  His heart sank.

  Both rooms were empty. It was as Aaron had expected—everything had been seized by forensics.

  “Might as well take pictures, anyway.” Pocketing his phone, he lifted the camera. “Hey, Nat, where are you? I need light.”

  He turned back to find her still standing in the hall, just outside the kitchen. She was staring at a closed door Aaron had missed before. Even in the poor light, he could see fear in her eyes.

  “Everything okay?”

  Nat’s expression quickly hardened. She nodded.

  “Well, let’s see if the police left anything for us upstairs.”

  The steps felt rotten beneath Aaron’s feet. The stink of mould burned his nostrils.

  The first door revealed a bathroom that was cramped and dingy with nothing to show. Aaron snapped a couple of pictures and moved onto the next room.

  The master bedroom had also been cleared. All that remained was an empty bed frame. In the far corner, a dark stain spread along the floor and across the wall.

  Aaron took more pictures while Nat remained on the threshold. “Tell me what happened between you and Spencer. Did you know him well?”

  “I only knew him as my creepy next-door neighbour,” Nat said, digging her hands into jacket pockets. “He was old. Grumpy. Walked with a stick.”

  “Old age or an injury?”

  “No idea. To be honest, I’d never given the psycho much thought until Honey went missing.”

  “Honey?”

  “Rose’s cat. Rose is my. . . She’s a foster carer.”

  Aaron stared at her. Interesting.

  Nat turned away. “There’d been other animals going missing. Margaret Telford found her dog hacked into pieces and left in a sack in her backyard.”

  “She was the one who found Cal on the beach? The papers say he did that to her dog. You think that’s true?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe.” She paused for a second, fear making her eyes glisten in the dim light. “Anyway, Rose was scared something had happened to Honey, so I went looking for her. I knocked on Grady Spencer’s door, asked if he’d seen her. He got me to come inside. Tried to get me to go down to the basement to look for her. He stood so close I could feel his breath on my neck. I knew something was wrong, then. That I should get out. Now I know why.”

  She visibly shuddered.

  “What about the cat?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you find her?”

  Nat glared at him in the shadows. “Yeah, she showed up a few days later.”

  “That’s good. I like cats.” Aaron took another picture. “Grady Spencer had a dog, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Caliban. That sick fuck fed it parts of that journalist he murdered. I wonder what happened. To the dog, I mean.”

  It was a good point. Aaron couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to adopt the animal, considering it had tasted human flesh. More than tasted, he thought, with a shudder.

  “Let’s keep moving.”

  A quick search of the rest of the floor revealed two more empty rooms and a growing stench of mould that made the air hard to breathe.

  “What about Jago?” Aaron asked as they returned downstairs.

  “What about him?”

  He detected a frostiness there. Not aimed at him, it seemed. “You said you guys are best friends?”

  Nat shrugged. “I haven’t heard from him in a while. Not since he moved away with his family.”

  “You have a fight or something?”

  He felt her eyes burning into him. “He’s probably busy taking care of Noah, that’s all.”

  “That makes sense. It’s not every day your little brother winds up inside a cage in a serial killer’s lair.”

  Aaron made his way back toward the kitchen then came to a standstill.

  “You know where they moved to?”

  Nat came up behind him, her eyes fixed on the closed door Aaron had stopped outside. “Yes. But don’t ask me for their address because I’m not giving it to you.”

  “Let me guess. Not until I pay you another hundred?”

  “It’s not about money. They don’t need any more trouble.”

  “It’s not my intention to cause trouble.” Aaron tried the door. It swung open. Impenetrable blackness greeted him. “But if I were to ask politely. . .”

  He could hear Nat’s breaths in his left ear, quick and thin.

  “I said no.”

  Aaron shrugged. He would work on her. Holding up his phone, he counted the steps that led down into darkness. He could just make out another door at the bottom. A chill crept up from there to sink claws into his flesh.

  It was down in the basement that Grady Spencer had done much of his killing. The police had found all manner of terrible torture instruments, along with an old workbench that had been adapted into a crude surgeon’s table, complete with restraints for hands and feet.

  The basement was also where he’d kept Cal Anderson captive for seven years, and where young Noah Pengelly had been found locked in a cage. Who knew what kind of horrors the young child had witnessed or had been subjected to. Or how long the psychological damage would last.

  Aaron shivered.

  Behind him, Nat scraped her boot against the floor. “Well, are you going down there or what?”

  A voice in his mind told him to turn and run. To go back to his car and give up this ridiculous notion of writing a true crime account.

  Staring into the darkness, he slowly nodded.

  “Sure. But you’re coming with me.”

  “Whatever.”

  They took the stairs, one behind the other, gripping the rails.

  There was more light in the basement than in the entire house. The window Aaron had spied through the metal grille in the backyard was like a beacon. The light made him feel safer. Less afraid. Grady Spencer was dead, killed in this very basement, but there was something invisible left behind; a residual energy from all the pain and death and torture that the old man had inflicted upon his victims.

  The basement was L-shaped, and like the rest of the house, its contents had been seized, including Grady’s torture table. The cages, too. Aaron swung his phone to the left, directing the light toward the far end of the room.

  “The tunnel,” he breathed.

  The door frame was still visible, but the entrance had been bricked up.

  “They sealed it to stop kids wanderin
g up from the beach.” Nat stayed close to the stairs, clearly afraid despite her steely expression. “Did you see the hotel? They’re planning to tear it down and use the rubble to fill in the tunnel.”

  Raising his camera, Aaron snapped pictures of the bricked-up door. The flash lit up the basement.

  “Jesus!”

  Startled, Aaron turned.

  “There,” Nat said, pointing in front of him.

  Aiming the phone light at the ground, Aaron peered down at a large black stain. Crouching, he ran fingers along it then held them up to the light.

  Believing his brother was dead, Jago had opened up Grady Spencer’s throat with a scalpel and left him to bleed out. So ended a legacy of abduction, torture, and murder.

  “I’m glad he killed him, even if Noah was still alive.” Nat’s voice was barely a whisper. She moved up beside Aaron and stared down at the long-dried bloodstain. “That bastard had it coming.”

  Straightening, Aaron took pictures of the bloodstain, then explored the other side of the room.

  “What about Cal?” he asked as he checked the empty shelves.

  “Didn’t meet him. Then he ran off, so. . .”

  “Jago must have told you about him.”

  “A little. Did you know he attacked Jago? Bit him right in the neck. Almost ripped his throat out.”

  Aaron glanced at her silhouette. “No, I didn’t.”

  Following the shelves to the far end of the room, he came to a halt. There were marks on the ground—old rust stains from cages.

  He shuddered. As exhilarating as it was to be inside Grady Spencer’s house, he was only too aware of the depraved acts that had taken place here. The rusty marks of the cages were a stoic reminder. He photographed them. Then, the camera swinging from his neck, he lifted his phone and directed the light at the wall.

  Aaron crouched down, drawing closer.

  Nat followed him. She squinted. “What is that?”

  Aaron ran a finger along the wall. There were crude drawings scratched into the surface. Childlike images of people, buildings, and animals, all lined up in vertical rows like ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  Etchings made between bars, Aaron realised.

  One caught his attention. Next to a rectangle house with a triangle roof and broken windows was a Christ-like figure crucified on a large cross, its outstretched arms ending in two claw-like hands.

  Aaron took pictures. These would be great for the book; powerful images showing the innocent side of a tortured, corrupted mind. There was no evidence that Cal was guilty of murder. There had been the animal killings, although his guilt was only based on conjecture.

  But three questions remained unanswered.

  One: why had Grady Spencer kept the boy alive for seven years, instead of killing him as he had done with all his other victims? Two: why had Cal fled after witnessing the death of his abductor? Three: where was he now?

  The police had spent three fruitless months searching for him. At first, speculation had been rife. Some believed he was hiding out in the countryside, living off the land like an animal. Others believed he’d taken his own life, thrown himself off a cliff and his body washed out to sea.

  Now, in mid-December, public attention had already begun to wane. Cal’s name was fading from their minds. Even the police had dialled back their search, citing further budget cuts and a lack of resources.

  Aaron ran fingers along the etchings on the wall.

  He imagined Cal would not be forgotten by the people of Porth an Jowl. Not for generations to come.

  “You seen enough?”

  Nat’s voice startled him. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she glanced over her shoulder.

  Aaron eyed the drawings one last time. This was a terrible place, and he and Nat were breathing in every drop of blood that had been spilled between its walls.

  Neither of them spoke again until they were out of the house and standing in the backyard.

  “What are you doing about that?” Aaron pulled the broken back door behind them, only for it to swing open again.

  Nat shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  “Thought as much.”

  He stared into the darkness seeping out through the door. For a second, he was back in the basement, surrounded by tortured ghosts.

  The daylight was almost gone. Rain clouds were growing thick and heavy above their heads. While they’d been inside, the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees and was continuing in a downward spiral.

  Aaron glanced at Nat. She stared back expectantly. Of course. She wanted her money.

  Fumbling with his bag, he took out his wallet. Turning his back on Nat, he stared at the fat wad of cash inside. His fingers hovered for a moment. Nat was difficult and borderline aggressive, but he could already see she had her uses. Including her connection to the Pengellys. If he gave her what he owed her now, he might lose that connection altogether.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a few notes then snapping his wallet shut.

  Nat flashed him an unimpressed look. “That’s only fifty. We agreed a hundred.”

  “It’s all the cash I have on me.” Aaron held up his hands, half expecting her to swing a fist at him. “I’ll get the rest to you.”

  Nat muttered something under her breath, folded the notes, and slipped them inside a pocket. As they walked back to the road, Aaron watched her drag her boots sulkily against the ground. It had to be dull as hell growing up in a town like Porth an Jowl, especially if you didn’t fit in, and he had a feeling Nat fitted in like a square peg in a round hole.

  “Thanks again for your help,” he said, stopping outside Nat’s house. “Perhaps we could keep our little excursion between the two of us for now?”

  Nat shrugged but made no move to go inside.

  “If you give me your number, I’ll call you the next time I’m back in town.”

  Aaron held out his phone. Nat glared at it, then at him.

  “Don’t you want the rest of your money?” he said. “I’m sure every penny counts if you’re planning to leave.”

  He waved the phone in his hand, feeling like he was coaxing a wild animal with a tasty treat.

  Her eyes fixed on him, Nat reached out and took it.

  “Wonderful.” Smiling, Aaron watched her tap in her number before handing the phone back. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Once he’d crossed the road and made it to his car, he turned and watched Nat disappear inside.

  “Never play a player,” he said, then shivered. This cold was going to be the death of him.

  4

  THE LEMON QUAY HOTEL was located in Truro, a large town masquerading as Cornwall’s only city. It was a nondescript building with four floors of guest rooms that, if they were anything like Aaron’s own, were in dire need of refurbishment. But the place was cheap, the staff friendly, and, importantly, it was warm. Stopping at the front desk, he greeted the young male receptionist.

  As he waited for the man to check for any messages, he looked around the small foyer. No one else was here. A quick glance at the key board behind the desk suggested he was the hotel’s only guest.

  “There’s nothing for you, Mr. Black,” the receptionist said.

  Aaron nodded, arranged for a hot meal to be delivered to his room, and headed for the lift. Halfway across the foyer, he paused and trained his eyes on the smoked glass doors of the hotel bar. He hovered for a moment before continuing on.

  His room was on the third floor. It was a cramped affair, but it had a bed, a bathroom, and a small writing desk—all that he needed. There was also a mini-bar, which, as requested, had been emptied of alcohol and restocked with soft drinks.

  Making a mug of instant coffee, Aaron drank it and then undressed. After taking a hot shower, he slipped into a pair of jeans and an old blue hoodie.

  Room service arrived. Aaron ate a bland-tasting dinner of fish and potatoes at his desk, then set about connecting his camera to his laptop. As he waited for the images he’
d taken to upload, he crossed the room and peered through the window at the dark city street below. The wind had died but the rain now fell in heavy sheets. No vehicles passed. No pedestrians hurried by. A sudden loneliness surged through him.

  He picked up his mobile phone from the bedside table and saw he’d missed another call from Taylor. There was a voicemail too, but he hit the delete key without listening to it.

  Guilt grew heavy in his chest. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to return Taylor’s call and beg for forgiveness.

  He turned away, resisting the urge. To call Taylor would mean a fight. And not only a fight. Taylor was likely angry enough to involve the law.

  The photographs had finished uploading. Aaron returned to his position on the bed. Despite the police having emptied Grady Spencer’s house, he was surprised to find the images had managed to capture the insidious atmosphere that still lingered there.

  It was not the first murder house he’d entered in the name of research, but it was the first belonging to a serial killer of children. He’d created his own fictional psychopaths over the years, all of whom had eventually been brought to justice, but it was a far cry from standing in a darkened basement where very real, unspeakable acts had occurred. The experience had left him marked somehow, like Billy Bones being given the Black Spot in Treasure Island.

  Ignoring his unease, Aaron spent the next thirty minutes examining the photographs and writing up notes. He’d already made a rough outline of how he wanted the book to flow, but until he’d interviewed key witnesses and learned more about Grady Spencer’s past, he had little to go on.

  His thoughts turned to Nat Tremaine. She was an interesting character. He’d been surprised to find out she was in foster care, but he supposed it explained her defensive behaviour.

  Despite her not-so-latent anger issues, Aaron had instantly liked her. She’d proven useful, too; not just by getting him inside Grady Spencer’s house, but because she clearly knew a lot more about September’s events than she’d mentioned. And while she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with her secrets, Aaron was confident that once he’d gained Nat’s trust, she’d eventually give him the Pengellys’ location.