Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  Through Eric and the team, I kept in touch with what Vicki was doing and where she was at any given moment. I was aware that her dancing was the big talking point of the night, though it tended not to get mentioned when I was around. Even so I couldn't help picking up the odd passing remark, all complimentary, but usually couched in terms I preferred not to hear.

  Later on I met with Frank in the office.

  'What did Yashin want?' I said.

  He gave a wary look. 'He's pressing. He talked about things getting worse and that I ought to think about getting rid of you.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I told him I had no reason to do that.'

  'What did he say to that?'

  'He said, I would, soon.'

  After closing, I waited in the lobby to catch Vicki before she left for home. She'd arranged with her police observers that she'd walk into town and hail a taxi rather than using her car. It fitted better with the pattern of the victims, who had all been abducted after either leaving the club on foot or taking taxis. When she appeared and saw me waiting, she came over. She looked nervous.

  'You okay?' I said.

  'Yes.'

  'I'm going to ask again. Are you sure you want to do this?'

  Her lips tightened into a straight line and she took a deep breath as she nodded her reply. 'Yes.'

  For all her previous confidence, I've seen fear enough times to recognise it. Dancing on a podium in front of a friendly crowd is one thing. Walking out into the night to put yourself up for grabs at the hands of a serial killer - police surveillance or not - is something else. As she turned for the door, I grabbed her arm firmly enough it would register.

  'Anything. Anything at all. You call me.' I held her gaze for a long time.

  Eventually she said, 'I will, ' then she was gone.

  I remember how, watching her disappear out through the door that night, I was certain, absolutely cold-dead certain, that I was letting her go to her death. How I managed to stop myself from running after her, wrapping her up safe in my arms and taking her home with me right then, I'll never know.

  CHAPTER 39

  The Man Who Likes To Watch knows he has to be careful. The first follow is always the most dangerous. Not knowing where they are headed, what their routine is, he has to be alert for anything untoward. Something that someone may remember, and which may later cause them to point in his direction. An unusual occurrence. An unexpected meeting. A sighting. Any of them, though innocent-seeming at the time, could stick in someone's memory enough that when later questioned, they may respond with, 'Come to think of it… there was something...'

  He still remembers the near disaster with the black girl. What was her name, Donna? He is sure now she must have spotted him that very first night, trying to stay in the shadows as he followed her through the town. He can think of no other reason why, when he engineered the 'coincidental' encounter that is the oh-so-vital first step to what comes after, she rebuffed him so forcibly - and loudly. For days after, weeks even, he had worried that she may have thought the twin sightings of him suspicious enough to report it to the police. It was a long time before he stopped jumping every time the doorbell went. Even now, so long after, he has to be careful when ever he sees her, which he does fairly often around the clubs. There have been times when he has caught her looking at him with what seems to him open suspicion, as if she is placing him under the same sort of surveillance he once did her. His response on such occasions is to ignore her completely, in the hope that she will eventually be convinced that he has no real interest in her and that what happened was simply the coincidence it was supposed to be. He has, of course, thought about resolving the problem she represents another way. But he cannot be certain that she has not committed her suspicions to paper somewhere, or shared them with a friend. If she suddenly disappeared it could trigger an investigation which might lead to those suspicions coming to light, again putting him in the spotlight. Better just to leave her alone, and remember the lesson he took from that experience - if something does not go to plan, then walk away. There are after all, plenty of fish in the sea. Which brings him back to his present 'fishing' expedition.

  He is surprised by the route the girl is taking, through the centre of town. He thought she normally comes to work by car, though that may be old information. He cannot even be sure she is heading home. For all he knows, she may be heading to another rendezvous. Maybe to meet someone, another club even. So he follows, quietly and waits to see where she will lead. As always at this time, Bridge Street is busy, thronged with clubbers either heading home or just lingering, seeking to stretch their night out as far as they can before their reserves of energy - and cash - deplete and they are forced to call it a night. He is conscious that many amongst them would recognise him if they saw him, so he keeps his hood pulled down low over his face as he matches his pace to hers.

  But caution dictates he should not do so too long. People are alert for all sorts of things these days. A dark, hooded figure matching, exactly, the pace of a lone woman looking as she does, is the sort of thing someone may just notice. So he quickens his pace and, sticking to the side of the street furthest from her, passes her, making for the cross at the top of Bridge Street that marks the centre of town. It is a natural stopping place for many this time of night. There he can observe her approach and evaluate his options, depending on which course she takes from there. Forging ahead of her, he does not look back and resists the temptation to keep checking she has not diverted off somewhere, or changed her mind altogether about her chosen route and turned back.

  Arriving at The Cross, he feigns interest in a men's clothing shop display window, before stepping into the recessed doorway where darkness enfolds him. From the shadows, he is free now to look through the shop's windows and down Bridge Street. She is still there, fifty yards away, marching along at the same pace she was before. As she comes, she ignores the whistles and occasional comments aimed at her by drink-fuelled groups of lads she passes and who hope in vain to grab her attention. Their amateurishness brings a smile to his face. If they only knew what he does, they would know how to grab a woman's attention in such a way that it stays grabbed.

  He is wondering which way she may go when she arrives at the cross - there are four possible options, plus the taxis that wait in line, their 'for hire' signs lit - when something grabs his attention. As she passes Havana-Fiestas, a couple who had seemed locked in the sort of passionate embrace many engage in towards the end of a good night out, break off suddenly to turn and follow her progress up Bridge Street in a way that is similar to what he is doing right now. After a short pause, they set off after her.

  On the face of it there is nothing that marks the couple as different from any of the many others dotted around. A little older maybe than the average, but otherwise the same. Attractive, dressed in clubbers gear - him white shirt and black trousers; she, sparkly red dress and heels that add an extra three inches to her height. But what is noticeable, and what he focuses on is, that from having been clamped together like limpets moments before, now, as they follow in the girl's footsteps, they are not even holding hands. Also, their pace is now matching hers, the way his was before he decided it was time to move ahead. As he follows the couple’s approach, ten yards or so behind her, he sees something that makes him take a further step back into the shadows. Lifting a hand, the man appears to press a finger to his ear. At the same time his lips move as if he is talking to someone other than his female companion.

  Arriving at the cross, the girl stops, almost directly opposite him. If she were to look in his direction, she may even see him. But she does not. She seems to be waiting for something. Behind her, the couple have also stopped and are engaging in what seems a distinctly half-hearted imitation of their earlier embrace. After a minute or so, the girl sets off again, making her way towards the line of taxis to his left. Again, the couple behind part company. The girl approaches the taxi first in line, says something to the dri
ver through the open window and gets in the back. Pausing only to check there is nothing coming up on his nearside, the driver pulls out and heads down Academy Way towards the Ring Road that is the route away from the Town Centre.

  Now opposite the shop doorway, more or less where she stood moments earlier, the couple suddenly come to life again, he pressing a finger to his ear again while seeming to speak to some invisible party, she taking a mobile from her bag and making a call. Right now they look less like a loving couple, than a pair of professionals ringing into their office during a break in a meeting. For The Watcher, it is a telling moment. He waits, tense and alert for whatever will happen next. He does not have to wait long. A black Ford appears driving up Academy Way, towards the taxi rank. At The Cross it executes a U-turn and stops. A man sits next to the driver. Dressed casually, they nevertheless both have the clean-shaven look some still associate with police officers. The couple walk swiftly to it and get in the back, when it leaps forward and follows after in the wake of the taxi.

  The Watcher waits to see if anything else happens that is out of kilter with what he regards as normal, early Saturday morning town centre activity. But there is nothing. Satisfied, he steps out of the doorway and crosses to where he can see down Academy Way, as far as where the road curves round to the left and he can see no more. Both the taxi and Ford are well-gone. He stands there for several moments, mulling over what he has just witnessed. To him, trained by having to research such things for his own ends, it had all the hallmarks of an organised surveillance. And he can think of only one reason why the girl might be the subject of something like that.

  As he turns away to retrace his route up Bridge Street, he allows himself another smile - a knowing one this time. Clever. But he is not discouraged. In fact he is almost excited as he retraces his steps of earlier. His brain is already working away on how he should respond to this new development and what sort of change of strategy will be needed to lure her into his clutches at a time when her own watchers will not be around.

  CHAPTER 40

  Saturday Morning

  I spent the first half-hour after Vicki left, up in the Early Hours Bar with Eric, downing whiskey, though Eric insisted on taking my car keys before letting me have my first. The team would see me home.

  At one stage my mobile buzzed and I grabbed at it like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. But it was only a text from Laura telling me she had finally arrived home after a nightmare train journey. I didn't reply, and went back to the whiskey. Some time after three it buzzed again. This time it was from Vicki. The message read.

  'Home ok. No probs.'

  I let out a long breath, and downed the rest of my whiskey. I closed my eyes.

  'You okay?' Eric said.

  I stood up.

  'Who's driving me?'

  On the way home, with Eve driving, I replied to Vicki's text.

  'Glad ur safe.'

  I thought about adding an, 'x' but decided against.

  When I woke, late Saturday morning, the first thing I did was ring Cliff Kehoe. Cliff's an old mate of mine. He and his brothers have contracts for doors all over Liverpool. They're a bigger outfit than we are, but we run things along similar lines and we've helped each other out the odd occasion we've needed a lift.

  Cliff listened while I explained what I needed.

  'How many?' he said when I'd finished.

  'Six,' I said. He didn't hesitate, as I knew he wouldn't.

  'Okay.'

  Before I rang off I said, 'And Cliff?'

  'What?'

  'They need to be good.'

  'If they work for me, they're good.'

  As I hung up I gave a wry smile. It was what I'd said the last time we helped each other out.

  Next, I thought to try and take my mind off things by catching up on my OU work. I needed to make some sort of effort 'cause earlier in the week I'd had an email off Angela, my personal tutor, pointing out I was falling well behind with assignments. But I was only an hour into it and still trying to get my head round what 'Heart of Darkness' was all about when Carver rang asking for a meet. I jumped at the chance. Being Saturday, the Tesco car park would be busy so we met out at The Swan With Two Nicks - an olde-worlde country pub the other side of Lymm.

  I found Carver tucked away at a corner table with a bloke I'd never seen before. About Carver's age and with greying hair that flicked up off his collar at the back, his thick-framed glasses and brown cord jacket put me more in mind of a teacher than a cop. Carver introduced him as 'Will' and said he worked for the NCA, the National Crime Agency, which I'd heard much about but had no real idea what they did.

  Carver told me Will 'had an interest' in Yashin, but didn't give any details. Over the next hour and a pub lunch that Carver paid for, Will listened mainly in silence as I told him what I knew of Yashin's present and intended involvement in Midnight's. I included the events of the past week and Frank's tale about what had happened to Lily. Will seemed particularly interested in Yashin's hangers-on - women and men - even going so far as to get me to describe each one as their names cropped up. The fact he wasn't taking notes made me wonder if the conversation was being recorded, which wasn't a problem as far as I was concerned.

  As we talked, I had the impression Will was as concerned as Carver over the possibility that Yashin might get a foothold in the clubs. Every now and then I'd say something and a glance would pass between them. Will clearly knew more about Yashin than he was prepared to let on and a couple of times I was tempted to ask. But at the end of the day it was clear that, like Morris and his ilk, Yashin was just another gangster, though maybe nastier and therefore more dangerous than most. It didn't matter to me where he was from or how he'd got to be what he was, or what else he was into. My concern, plain and simple, was to keep him out of Midnight's by any means possible. Which brought us to Winston.

  At this point Will smiled - the first since we'd shook hands. 'Ah yes. The famous, Winston.'

  'You know Winston?'

  'Let's just say I'm familiar with his brothers.'

  The way he said it, I got the impression there was another story there as well. But again, none of my business. I turned to Carver. 'Have you told him what we talked about?'

  It drew a pointed, 'Oh yes.' Will just nodded.

  'So?' I said. 'What do you think?'

  There was a silence during which the two of them looked at each other in a way that made me feel a bit like a marriage guidance counsellor - not that I've ever met one. I knew what was going on. Carver was waiting to see what Will thought about me. Eventually Will gave a nod, before leaning forward, elbows on the table. Carver and I did the same. It felt a bit like we were in some spy movie. I half expected him to look over his shoulder to see who may be listening, but all he did was take a long deep breath.

  'These people of yours. What do you call them? The A-Team?'

  'What about them?'

  'How reliable are they?'

  'They're the best.'

  He looked sceptical. 'Really?'

  'Really.'

  He looked at Carver again, then back at me. 'Let's hope so.'

  He began talking. This time I did most of the listening.

  It was after six and I was at home getting ready to go to work when Carver rang back with two bits of information. The first was to confirm that Will had rung back to confirm his interest in what we'd talked about and would take it forward, which was good news. The second was to do with the murders.

  'We've found a girl who lives over the field from where Naomi Wright's body was found. She says she was walking home in the early hours the night Naomi was killed and she heard music coming from that direction. She says she recognised it as something called the Adagio? Apparently it's popular around the clubs.'

  'The Adagio For Strings,' I said. 'It's a remix of some classical music. It's become a bit of a dance anthem. It gets the crowd going. The kids love it.' Then I added, 'She's a bit late coming forward isn't she? Wasn't Naomi one o
f the early victims?'

  'Second, actually. Apparently the girl mentioned it to a friend but has been scared to come forward in case her name ended up in the papers. Her friend's been trying to talk her into it and she finally rang us yesterday after all the publicity about Agnes.'

  Agnes. Suddenly a mental image formed of her, surrounded by a crowd of fist-pumping clubbers as she lost herself in the piece's pounding electronic rhythms. 'I've just thought, 'I said. The Adagio was one of Agnes's favourites.'

  'Is that right?

  'Might it mean something?'

  'I don't know. Maybe. I'll bear it in mind.'

  'Anything else?'

  'I didn't mention it in the pub earlier, but your girl did well last night. I've got to say she's bloody brave, putting herself forward like this.'

  'I know, but do me a favour.'

  'What's that?'

  'Don't refer to her as My Girl.'

  'Sorry. I thought-'

  'Yeah, well... I just don't think she'd like it.'

  'Okay. Anything I can do in that direction...?'

  'If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have the police trying to sort out my private life, if you know what I mean?'

  'Point taken.'

  'What's happening tonight?'

  'Jess and I are going round the clubs. No doubt we'll see you some time.'

  'Right.'

  After he rang off, I rang Winston. He listened while I told him about my meeting with Carver and 'Will'.

  'I need to speak with my brothers,' he said. 'I'll ring you back.'

  Ten minutes later he came back on to say they'd come to the club that night, to talk, which was what I'd hoped would happen.