March 31, 2011
She thought it had been some hours since the video and the vehement tirade that followed, when Fitzpatrick came to sit with her. She was lying just as he’d left her, on her side with her hands and feet tied behind her and tethered to her neck, forcing her to keep her body arched painfully backwards, gagged and mute with nothing to do but stare into the dark and silently weep.
He was different; neither his cool and flippant earlier self nor the raging demon of the morning… She thought it had been morning when he had her make his message for Ian, when she’d tried to escape. He sat down on the edge of the little camp bed and stroked her hair, touching her bruised cheek and tracing the trails of her tears with his fingers.
He didn’t wear his mask this time. She could see his face; the precisely sculpted mimicry of Ian she’d so obediently followed down from her window, but it looked nothing like him now. The muscles twisted differently under the skin. His scent was wrong and one eye far too deep and dark a brown. Still, she tried her hardest to pretend, telling herself that Ian was here now, that it was his touch she felt on her face, that everything would be better now. And cried a little more that it wasn’t true.
Derek’s voice was so soft she barely heard it. She tried to move her head to listen but the rope immediately began to haul at her neck; all she could do was whimper and arch back, rolling her eyes sideways to try to see her captor speak.
“I’m so very, very sorry.”
Then he got up and walked away, the stairs creaking beneath his steps, but the light from the door at the top didn’t go out.
Not immediately. Instead, it slowly narrowed and rose, climbing up the far wall of the room while heavy rhythmic clicks and scrapes drifted down the stairs, blending with the static and the ringing in her ears until she lost the sound and could only follow the light. It grew shorter and shorter as it rose higher and higher and then, almost placidly, it narrowed in from the sides and finally vanished, leaving her all alone in the dark.
Time lost all meaning. She slipped in and out of dreams, sleep several times almost causing her to strangle as her aching body tried to relax or stretch, snapping the rope taut. While awake, she simply cried; not the labored breathing and wracking sobs of a temperamental child, but the silent, free-flowing tears that come with a growing sense of despair.
If she’d lost hope entirely, she could easily have rolled onto her stomach. The throbbing muscles in her back and neck would have eventually given out and, survival reflex or not, she’d have strangled herself with her own weight. But one silent mantra kept her waiting, one heartbeat after another.
Ian will come.
She was just frightened she wouldn’t be able to hold on until he did.
It could have been minutes or hours later when she heard sounds coming again from upstairs. At first, she thought the pounding that resonated through the room was her own heartbeat, echoing inside her skull, or the footsteps of a giant, another hallucination come to join the miasma of voices, static and music that drowned her ears.
Then she thought she saw light. Just the faintest, swiftest glimmer, there then gone. Another thump shook the walls. The light was there again. Larger, stronger, infinitely more real and there was the cool touch of fresh air on her face.
Another blow and a slew of shattered bricks came tumbling down the stairs, flooding the room with dim light from the hallway above. She fixed her eyes on the light and her exhausted body shook with anticipation.
The red Audi was in the driveway. Carlyle ran his hand over the rear bumper as he strode past it, dry blood powdering his fingers.
The front door. His foot met the lock full force, not kicking the door open as he’d expected but tearing the whole thing off its hinges and sending it falling back into the hallway. It was too slow for him – he stamped it down with a foot and fired a shotgun blast into the hallway behind it.
Nothing. He pumped the gun with a swift flick of his arm and walked on, swiftly turning to the left to check what was once a living room, then right to scrutinize the stairs.
The shot echoed like thunder in the narrow space, followed by a low groan. He pumped a second shot into the darkness at the top of the stairs, then felt around on the wall for a light switch.
In the dim, yellowish light, he moved towards the crumpled, black-clad mass on the landing. Derek groaned and rolled over as he approached. Buckshot had torn his clothes and pounded his chest to so much red meat; his left knee seeped purplish blood into flattened pile of the carpet. Ian stared for a long moment into his own face – the solid line of the jaw bore no trace of the stubble his own chin sported, but the plane of the cheekbones, the arch of the brow, were his own. His nose crinkled and he swung the shotgun muzzle down over his foe when pain suddenly exploded in his hip, throwing him back down the stairs. He landed breathless, on his back, firing wildly once, back up the stairs, before grabbing for the wall to pull himself upright. Derek was doing likewise, clinging to the wooden balustrade with one arm, leaning against it to keep the weight off his leg, the pistol wavering as he tried to aim through shock and blood loss.
Cursing under his breath, Ian abandoned standing and simply rolled, back into the hall and dived for cover in the living room. Rapid stumbling steps came down the stairs after him. With no time to think of his wounds, Ian spun the shotgun to the thin, plasterboard wall and fired blindly through it, then reached out, snatching the edge of the open door and slammed it hard, a brief, satisfied smirk crossing his lips as he heard Derek smack face-first into it. He stepped out from beside the wall and fired right into the door, ripping the cheap wood paneling apart. Something gleamed in the new opening and Ian threw himself down, bullets ripping over his head, smashing the screen of the 1970’s television set in a spray of thin glass shards and stitching a pattern of holes into the far wall. He went to pump another shot into the wall and something jammed, the trigger stiff and rigid under his finger.
Silence fell, then he gradually picked out the sound of hard, fast breathing from the hallway, the metallic sounds of reloading.
“I didn’t think you’d be this pissed off, Ian!” Derek’s voice was clear enough through the shredded door, the American drawl sounding alien and theatrical after Carlyle’s months back in England. “I mean, come on! I’ve done you a favor! You’re young, career’s just starting and let’s face it…” He broke off to cough and the sound was wet and laden. As quietly as he could, Ian set down the shotgun and reached back, pulling the snub-nosed Stabba PIG from the back of his trousers as Derek went on. “… we’re a good-looking guy!” The laughter that followed broke occasionally to suck in air and Ian picked out the snap of a magazine clicking home. “Who needs to be tied down with a wife and a baby, eh?”
Ian ground his teeth in suppressed fury. “You’ve already signed your own death warrant, Fitzpatrick. Don’t make me want to take my time about it!”
The door flew open; he rolled and fired the PIG while bullets spat into the floor where he’d lain. He saw the sparks as the twin darts hit even as he registered a sudden, searing heat across his bicep. The swinging door hit an armchair and slammed closed before he could fire the second shot that would bring the man down. He heard Derek move back into cover, cursing as he yanked the darts from his body.
“Aw, that’s sweet! Tell me the truth though, man to man… That question that’s whirling in your head, the one that’s been keeping you awake at night… Are you scared I fucked her for her sake, or because you’re afraid she might have liked it?”
Ian grabbed the coal-scuttle and threw it at the door as it opened, the metal bucket knocking Derek’s aim wide, giving him time to take cover behind a couch that smelled of piss and mildew and start loading a set of darts into the PIG.
“Anything you touched her with, you sad little rapist fuck, anything, I will show you the insides of.”
“Aw, hey!” Another stream of bullets kicked flocking out of the sofa cushions. He heard the thud of one lodging in the thick wood of the padded armrest near his head. “It ain’t rape if she begs, is it?”
Ian gritted his teeth and popped up from behind the sofa, but rage shook his aim and only one of the two darts hit, the other harmlessly tagging the door. The charge fizzled, nowhere to go. He ducked again, avoiding the bullets that followed.
“What did you think, Ian? That you were going to get her back in pristine condition and everything would be just like it was before? Even if you kill me, think she’s gonna be so keen to suck you off now?”
Holding his breath, Ian flattened himself to the floor and crept slowly along the back of the couch, listening to Derek’s shots as they picked away at the arm covering his last hiding place. The enforcer was still talking, trying to push him over the edge, to make him lose the last of his control and become easy prey.
He worried that it was working.
“Seriously man, what did you think I’d do? Keep a hottie like that locked in the cellar and go buy porn? Learn to share your fucking toys!” He barked laughter, but Ian could see his narrowed, calculating eyes now, scanning the room.
The darts hit them. Derek screamed like a tantruming child. The second pair flew wild as Ian stood.
Then he hit the blind man in the face with all his fury. The snap as his jaw broke was audible. Breathless and soaked in his own blood, Ian fell to his knees beside him. Felt for a pulse in his throat and, finding it, poked at the wound in his chest for a response.
Nothing. He was out cold.
Ian tried to stand up again but his head was spinning, the room swooping in and out of focus, canting at precarious angles. Instead, he clutched at the floor and slowly dragged himself along the hallway, calling for his wife.
Cellar. The enforcer had mentioned the cellar.
He found it, the door open, a metal-headed sledge-hammer lying beside it. He used it as a crutch, levering himself to his feet and tottering onto the landing of the wooden stairs inside.
The room was empty.
A burst of renewed strength sent him tearing through the house, ripping the kitchen apart, overturning beds and tearing open closets.
When his strength finally failed him, he knew for sure the house was empty. He fell to his knees on the pavement outside, fists clenched, and railed up at the sky.
March 31, 2011
From his parked car, two streets away across a tumbled expanse of stony earth that proclaimed, by signage alone, that it would someday offer 50 new luxury apartments, Chris watched the house. Even without his binoculars, he could see the way the light from the back window flickered as Derek moved back and forth, but that was all he saw. The remaining rooms at the rear of the house were dark and a brief drive past the front had shown no signs of life at all. Chipboard covered the windows and the lower panel of the front door. The garden was weedy and untended and the bricks on the leftmost side of the house slanted in towards the middle as the house gradually sank into the Mersey floodplain.
The other houses on the street were equally derelict, either abandoned entirely or overpopulated, used as squats by students and transients, doorsteps bleached with ancient, alcoholic vomit and walls stained with urine. The only new things in the entire block, in fact, were the shining, heavy brass lockplates on the front and back doors of number 19.
And all he saw in there was Derek.
He drove closer, parking behind a skip a few yards away and walking in. Rather than stop at the front door, he jogged around the side. The back yard was the same as the front, home to nettles, thistles and vines of old man’s beard that clung to the cuffs of his trousers with its tiny velcro fruit and dragged along behind him, rustling in the wet grass. The only sound from the house was the wet metallic rattle of an ancient heating system.
He took a deep breath, hunching his shoulders inside the pale yellow parka, and strode boldly across the muddy mire of the yard, heading for the back door and at last, the confrontation with Derek.
A red ripple of light from the evening sun stopped him.
Stooping, he clawed through a pile of wilting foliage to find the source of the reflection, a slow, cold fear winding slowly tighter in his chest. The metal he found, however, was not the knife, the saw, the blood-sticky implement of death he expected. Just a simple, straight bar of metal welded down the join of two metal cellar doors.
Chris inhaled sharply, half-lifting a hand to rap on them before he looked to the kitchen. No shadow had fluttered across the lit window in the last few minutes.
Derek was waiting.
Every muscle in Walsaw’s body was tense, his stomach taut and fearful as he strode the last few paces, hesitating in front of the door. Every move, his mind replayed and be-devilled with second thoughts. But he and Derek were partners. The code of that was so ingrained in every cop, every enforcer and he’d given Derek no real grounds on which to betray him.
They didn’t match well. They had no respect for each other. But still, they were partners.
As far as Derek knew. Chris’ thumb flickered over the keys of his phone, sending a text to his new – and equally temporary – partner. Carlyle would be on his way the moment the message arrived, he knew. He would be there just in time, if things went wrong.
And just too late, if they went right.
He knocked on the door. Derek opened it instantly.
“You disappoint me, mate!” He stepped back, clinging to the shadows, and invited Chris in with a sweep of his hand. “I thought you were going to come crashing in through the windows on a white fuckin’ horse!”
Walsaw blew a few stray strands of Titian hair back off his face and grinned back. “Oh, come on. I told you years ago that I don’t ride that horse.”
“And that would be your loss entirely. But speaking of riding…” Derek walked to the sink and pulled out a wet can of beer that had been cooling there, offering it to the other man. “I assume you’re here about the filly?”
Chris noted the slight jerk of Derek’s head towards the hall and had to fight to still his own instinctive nod in response. He waved a “no” to the beer instead, half-sitting on the edge of the table to indicate he was relaxed without giving up his footing. His partner swept him with his eyes, noting the careful pose, the bulges of concealed weapons, but seemed to take it in his stride.
Thinking back, the old cop wasn’t surprised. Derek could take him easily, armed or not, and the young enforcer knew it. Normally, Chris would have agreed with the assessment, but today…
Today was different. Nervous, yes. Tense, yes, but the adrenaline was pumping through his veins, fizzing in his fingertips. Even his hair felt alive, somehow electrified. It was as if, like the samurai of ancient Japan, this battle had already been fought and won in Chris’ mind. Now all he had to do was dance the steps again.
“I am. Derek, you can’t do this. You have to let her go. Let me take her into custody, take her back to San Paro and a proper court…”
The dark-haired young man snorted. “God, listen to yourself, man! You’re obsessed! You’re the one that teaches profiling, knows all the psych games. Look at the language you’re using! You just said ‘take her‘ like, twice!”
Chris ground his teeth in mock-frustration. “You know what I mean, Derek! You’re crossing way over the line here. You’re becoming one of them!”
That was the line he had always used in the past, and it had always worked. For a half-instant, he wondered what he would do if Derek stepped back from the brink this time too.
His partner shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, man. You know I’d give her to you if I could, but it’s too late. What’s done is done.” Chris stopped breathing for a moment as Derek carried on. “You were… are a good cop, a good enforcer, even. In spite of yourself… But this fixation on her, it’s not good for you. You need to let go and get over it.”
The laughter that broke out of him wasn’t fake. “You… You are telling me to let it go? You are telling me to get over it? Jesus god, Derek, look at yourself! Look at Ian fucking Carlyle!”
“But see, Chris, I have something you don’t.” Derek bent forward to stare into Chris’ eyes, bringing his face into the light, the hazel of his replacement eye at odds with the deep brown of the other. “I have an ending. I know where this stops. You don’t. You just have half a dream and no balls and no idea of how to make it happen. You should have just fucked her at the detention center, let her go and gone on with your life. Then you’d be a lot happier and none of this…” He gestured angrily around the shabby kitchen, then stabbed a finger up at his own remade face. “None of this would ever have happened.”
Chris was already moving even as Derek spoke. Invisibly at first, tension flowing into the right muscles, weight shifting, his hand sliding slightly backwards in his pocket. Everything seemed slow, burdened down as if under water. Everything except him. He moved faster and more lightly than he ever had in his life. His right knee came up under Derek’s chin as his left hand grabbed the man’s right shoulder, pushing him down to meet the blow then pulling away, twisting him further off-balance. As his foot glided through silky air back to the grease-stained floor, the other swung forward and swept round, dragging Derek’s ankles with it. As he turned, he snapped his elbow back and felt the sharp jolt of connection, heard the slow, sparkling rattle of a tooth bouncing across the tiles. As Derek fell, Chris turned fully around, bending his knees and sliding forward, landing with his taser already dug deep into his partner’s ribs. It took the blue spark of electricity to bring him out of his trance.
He turned up the voltage and jolted him again, to be sure.
The third time was just payback.
Then he was running, skidding for a moment on the slick tiles before falling to his hands and knees on the damp carpet of the hallway. Not the stairs. Derek hadn’t looked up. Just a low doorway painted with cheap emulsion, a big, heavy metal toolbox beside it. There was a hasp and padlock, but it was unlocked.
There was blonde hair caught in the hasp. Blood on the door jamb.
He ripped it open, braced to fling himself down into whatever tiny cellar appeared, and slammed face-first into a brick wall.
A freshly made brick wall.
March 28, 2011
He hit play again.
“You’re supposed to be protecting her.”
The red bruise on her cheek tinged with purple. The diamond-shaped insignia of some class ring embossed on her face. The livid finger-marks on her throat. The blood running from her nose and swollen lip. Her pallor and the way her cheekbones stood out more starkly from the soft oval of her face. The blood in her hair, the eyes red from weeping.
His mind itemized them all, noting them down like items for a shopping list.
Buy milk, tomatoes, get car serviced, mutilate Derek Fitzpatrick.
He hit play again.
“You’re supposed to be protecting her. Get your arse over here and kill this fuck, already.”
The fist tangled in her hair, pale gold strands wrapped around and over the knuckles, holding it like a leash. The man’s body, clad in black, pressed tight against her back.
The white clothes, pristine in places, torn and grubby in others.
With no sign of the clothes she had been wearing.
And Fitzpatrick… touching her like that.
He hit play again, listening to her voice speaking words that weren’t hers. Peony. The sister in her head. Long-dead but still alive in poor Dolly’s fractured, swirling mind.
Until he’d come along. Ian had thought he’d silenced Peony for good, that with him to love and support her, Dolly had been whole. And she had been.
And now something had happened. Something had made his wife’s mind go away, hide somewhere deep in the complexities of her subconscious and now Peony was back. Her sister-protector.
But she was still alive. Only hours ago, she had still been alive.
There was no rage. Only a cold, sick place in the pit of his stomach that it all went to, leaving his mind free to work, to plan, to prepare. His hands clicked the spring of his N-TEC back into place, then hit play again. Walsaw would come through soon. He had to. And then, the only thing standing between Fitzpatrick and death was the space of minutes and the traffic in Anfield.
And Ian knew how to deal with traffic.
The video scrolled to its black end and he hit play again.
The beeping was incongrous; it hadn’t been on the clip before. He’d wound back and replayed twice before he realized it was his phone.
A text from Walsaw. An address.
He didn’t run. He just strode out to the garage and got in the Bishada.
And inevitable as death.
March 25, 2011
The search hadn’t gone quickly, not as quickly as Chris would have liked. He’d spent the best part of the day on the phone to San Paro, and he’d quickly discovered that among Derek’s friends, the truth wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“So? Who the fuck cares about some crim girl?”
“Are you asking me to sell out a bro, dude?”
“Look Walsaw, even if he’s gone off the rails, Fitzpatrick’s still your partner.”
“Way to go, Derek!”
“Better dead than on the streets.”
“Sorry mate, I’m not selling out another ‘forcer.”
“Fuck off, Walsaw, you ginger cunt.”
So he’d changed his tactics. Anton had been in Derek’s old unit, but he’d been in hospital for the last two months recovering from a spinal injury he’d incurred in the line of duty. He felt like a shit for lying to the guy, but he was least likely to have been tipped off by the men he’d already spoken to. Anton and Derek had been close and Chris could have bet money that he’d know how to reach Derek.
“Walsaw! Didn’t expect to hear from you! No, I’m doing a lot better, can walk a little now. Few more weeks of physio and I’ll be back on the streets.”
Chris took a deep breath. “Look, Anton, I need a favour. I’m looking for Derek… I think he’s in trouble and I can’t reach him.”
“No shit? Well, I told him that English guy was trouble. We lost Alex and Fredrickson chasing him, remember?”
“Yeah… Do you know anyone he might have been in contact with, here? Derek, I mean… I really need to find him before Carlyle does.”
“Yeah, I can give you a couple of numbers. Some guy in the Met he knows, used to work over here.”
That was the start of the trail. Derek’s friends in London had put him onto a real estate agent in Liverpool: one Mr Eltham, who, they had told Derek, could help him out with short-notice, short-term lettings, no questions asked.
The emphasis on “short-term” chilled Chris’ spine.
Eltham wasn’t answering his mobile. He left him a message, then forced himself to eat, choking down a slightly sweaty cheese sandwich from a nearby supermarket with the mug of coffee that had gone cold in the hours that he was on the phone. Earlier, Carlyle had sent him a copy of the video Derek had left when he took Phorbes. Watching it, seeing Derek cool as a cucumber with his face spattered in blood and fine flecks of bone, a dripping power-drill in his hand… It didn’t leave him with much of an appetite, but Chris had learned over the years to take food when there an opportunity, whether he wanted it or not. Low blood sugar slowed your wits, slowed your reflexes, made it easy to lose control.
And he was going to need every edge he could find.
Waiting for the agent to call hadn’t been easy. He phoned twice more, got no reply, left no message. He paced, forced himself to stop and sit down, got up and started pacing again. He did push ups, took a second shower, paced some more. Checked his kit bag through four times, unloaded and loaded his guns, checked the charge on his taser, paced again. Phoned the agent again, left another message asking him to call urgently.
Finally, cursing Derek, Carlyle, England and God under his breath, he’d slung his bag over his shoulder, torn a page out of the phone book with the agent’s office address on it and driven down there.
Eltham was out. The building’s security guard told Chris he had a secretary, however, and let him go into the office to look for her. A lot of small business shared the building; he found the sign for Atlantis lettings on the third floor and followed the wall round to a reception desk and a tired-faced red-head who, at first glance, he’d have guessed to be in her mid-to-late-40s, though he had a sneaking suspicion she might be younger, with hardship and frustration lining her face instead of time. The sign on her desk identified her as Pam White. He rested one hand on the desk and gave her a warm smile.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but would you happen to be Mr Eltham’s PA?”
She straightened in her seat, flashing him a smile that was wooden at first, then gradually warmed as the eye contact and his American accent worked their charm.
“That’s me! Welcome to Atlantis Lettings. I’m afraid Mr Eltham’s out at the moment, but if I could take your details I could get him to call you later?”
He leaned in a little further, lowering his voice conspiratorially even though there was no-one else in the room. “Actually, Ms. White, perhaps you might be able to help me?” He slipped a hand inside his coat and pulled out his badge and ID, placing it into her startled hands. “Now, you’re not in any trouble and neither is he. I’m an officer with the CSA in the US of A and I’m not here officially, but please…” He reached out to grip her shoulders. “I need to find a property your boss rented in the last 36 hours, probably by phone, to an American man with an accent like mine. I’m sorry to pressure you like this, but…” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “…it’s a life or death matter.”
“Oh god!” Fuchsia-tipped fingers flew to her lips. “Well, um, I handle most of the admin for the business, I’m sure I can…” She started flipping through a notepad next to the telephone. “Oh! I know which call it was! It’s not been a busy week and I remember his voice!” She spun her chair around and rolled it to the right, dragging open a steel drawer on one of the filing cabinets behind her. “He was trying to be flirty and stuff, like I don’t get enough of that all day… Here, here it is.”
She rolled back to the desk and plopped the file on it in front of Chris. “19 Beech Street in Kensington. Rented for 1 week, paid with a banker’s draft sent by bike courier.”
Chris stared at her for a long moment, shock turning his face as white as bone. She cringed down in her seat under his furious gaze. “Someone you never even saw paid this much…” He stabbed the relevant digit in the file with a stiff finger. “…For a piece-of-shit-hovel like this…” He flicked the picture at her. “…For just. One. Week… And you didn’t tell the police? What, aside from murder, did you think he could possibly want to do there?” The little vein on his temple was throbbing and the cords in his neck stood out as he glared down at Pam while she whimpered and babbled apologies and excuses.
His hand was inside his jacket, curled around the butt of his pistol. He forced himself to let it go, one finger at a time, then stalked towards the exit, pausing just long enough to turn and shoot her an icy glare. “If I don’t get there in time, be proud of yourself. You’ll have killed a helpless little girl.”
March 22, 2011
“I… need your help.”
Carlyle’s voice sounded different. Cracked. Broken somehow. As the story unfolded, Chris understood why. Here he was, with all his money, his rep, his guns and all the muscle and reflexes in the world couldn’t help him find the one thing he needed.
The blow to his ego must have been staggering.
He was helpless, a child pulled out of his safe little playground and dumped into the adult world, where every action had consequences.
Except he wasn’t the one paying the price. Chris stared into empty space for a long moment, then nodded to himself. “You’ll have to get me out of here, then.” He glanced round at the plain, slightly dingy office of the police station. Someone had tried to brighten it up with posters and pictures of cats around their little cubicle; he stared for a long moment into the pleading eyes of a black-and-white moggy that plaintively requested a “cheezburger.”
Lady officer, he’d bet. Overweight. Didn’t quite fit in, with her homely sense of humor, her yearning for fluff and cuddles. Within a year, he’d bet, she’d be off the streets, vanishing into Human Resources to become the woman who brought the morning doughnuts and the retirement cakes, begging for acceptance with a tray full of food and the power to fire you with one bad psych report.
“I’ll be there as soon as they open,” Carlyle rasped. Chris nodded again, hanging up the phone, then turned to the waiting officer with his best smile and signaled that he was ready to return to his cell.
The waiting was nearly over. Time for the grown-ups to take charge.
The two men were sitting in a corner table in a nearby pub. The light slanted fustily in through warped, nicotine-stained windows, highlighting the slow swirls of dust circling above a group of breakfasters clustered at a table at the other end of the room. They were more or less alone, barring the occasional delivery of a free pint for Carlyle and an early-drunken demand for a handshake, a photo or an autograph.
Local celebrity. On top of everything else, the tool was a fucking hero to these people, all because he could kick a ball.
Briefly, Chris thought of San Paro. All the cops hurt, crippled or killed in the line of duty. He’d known a few of them; good men. Honest men like him. Then the CSA had come with its concept of “enforcement.” Hundreds of cops had been laid off, with more facing redundancy every day. Yet enforcement had turned San Paro from a quiet, middle-class burg into a war zone, and the people charged with its protection were, to a large extent, exactly the same as the people they were protecting it from. People who got innocent bystanders killed.
People like Ian Carlyle.
Chris set his glass of whiskey back on the table with a snap that made the ice cubes chink against the sides of the glass, and threw a challenging glare at the man facing him. The sunglasses turned Carlyle’s eyes into blank mirrors; he stared into them for a long moment, then dropped his eyes back to his whiskey. Iridescent ripples formed in the liquor as the ice melted, slowly lightening its amber hue. “Alright, so… Whatever game Derek is playing, he’s still an enforcer. All of this…” He swallowed, remembering what he’d been told of the events in London, the attacks on Carlyle’s family. His own imagination provided the rest in gory technicolor. “It’s all aimed at punishing you. For hurting him, maybe, but most of all, for defying him.”
He lifted his head to look back into the twin mirrors. “You’re supposed to be afraid, you know? You’re supposed to beg, to bribe, to plead… to give him that little power buzz of acknowledging that he can take you. But you didn’t. You walked into Detention Center 14 like you owned the place. You put him down, took what you came for and left, and you did it all like he didn’t matter at all.”
“So what?” Carlyle’s face didn’t change, his voice didn’t waver. Just a low, calm, even tone. “I pricked this cunt’s ego, so I should fucking let him…” His jaw snapped firmly shut on the end of the sentence but Chris heard it anyway.
…kill my wife?
“Don’t be stupid.” Carlyle’s hand curled into a fist and Chris was surprised to find himself smiling inwardly and continuing regardless. “I’m not saying anything of the sort. What I’m telling you is that he wants that power back, so he’s not going to hurt Peo…”
“Dolly.” Carlyle cut over him.
Chris sighed and pushed on. “He’s not going to kill her if he can use her to control and intimidate you.”
Probably. He probably won’t kill her. But the girl, as far as Derek was concerned, was just a crim. She couldn’t claim the innocence Jacob Carlyle had. Chris kept his mouth shut about that and stuck to his point. “But he’s clever – he’s got to know that you’ll count on that and that’ll be part of his plan. He wants you to find him, that’s for sure.”
The Liverpudlian’s fingers clenched again, the knuckles flushing white. “Well, we have something in common then. But there’s nothing to follow, no trail. Tracing her phone went nowhere and he’s got it switched off now. ”
“No.” Chris thought about it for a moment. “He won’t lead you to him, not yet. He wants you to sweat, to suffer… While you don’t know what’s happening to her, your own imagination is probably seeing worse than he could even think of doing.”
Chris pictured Jacob Carlyle again, held and tortured with drills, screwdrivers, saws. Thought of their father, Robert Carlyle, still in intensive care in London, and wondered if he was lying.
Ian just thought of that photograph, his wife lying bound, limp and bloody, tangled in plastic sheeting, dumped in a car boot like so much refuse.
Congratulations on the birth of your baby boy.
Consciously, he steadied his breathing, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest. Forced each muscle to relax. Kept his face still. “I’m not prepared to wait for his schedule. I need you to find her and then you need to get the hell out of my way.”
“The man should be in prison, Carlyle. Or in a secure hospital. That doesn’t mean you can just walk in there shooting…”
Carlyle lifted a hand, palm towards Chris, the quiet gesture stopping him in his tracks.
“Just find her.”
Chris swallowed hard, then nodded. “I need to contact some people. He had help in London… someone back in San Paro has to know who they were, how he found them.”
Carlyle nodded curtly. Chris carried on. “And… uh… I need your… uh… debit card. I can’t… I’ve run out of money and I might need to…”
The footballer snorted, pulling out his wallet and flipping a card onto the table. “Bunch of corrupt fuckers. By all means, pay them as much as you need to stop one of their mates mutilating a 19 year-old girl.”
The old cop couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes, even through the sunglasses. He just stared down at the card, then took it, nodding as he swallowed again.
“I’ll… I’ll be in touch.”
“Be in touch soon.”
The two men left the pub by separate doors and walked in different directions, heads down and hands in their pockets. And the specter of Derek Fitzpatrick walked with them both.
March 18, 2011
They’d traced the call and Ian had driven there as fast as humanly possible, only to find himself staring across the near-vacant parking lot of a DIY store near the motorway, knowing, as a sick emptiness in his stomach, that Derek was long gone. Still, he’d prowled there for a while, watching the shoppers come and go from behind the safe, isolating barrier of his sunglasses.
He only really took them off when he played. Or when he was with Dolly.
A woman’s laugh made his head snap around, but he knew even before he saw her that it wasn’t his wife. The sound was too forced, too full of artifice, held too much of the world to be hers – that child’s laugh he was sure no-one living had heard before him. Her parents, perhaps; her sister, surely. Then ten years of dead nothingness until he’d drawn it from her again.
“Oh, come on! I think you know exactly how handsome you are, peacock!”
“It’s true. I am very good-looking.” He’d peered at her over the tops of his shades like a professor confirming a fact to an uncertain student.
And then he’d heard that silvery peal of laughter and it had told him, for sure, that she was going to be his.
He looked away from the red-head with her shopping cart and four rambunctious children, feeling an odd disgust that the woman was here, walking and laughing, going about her banal little life, while Dolly was…
He stopped himself thinking for a while, walking across the car park to examine a newly arrived station wagon.
No red Audi. No suspicious vans. No-one who looked or sounded like Derek.
From time to time, in his search, he’d forget, reaching for her hand or starting to turn to tell her to keep up. Every time he met her absence, the world would lurch in the same way it had when he’d looked into the empty bedroom. Seen the curtain blowing in the breeze.
He rubbed idly at the tattoo on his left arm, remembering the supple curve of her back, the smoothness of her skin beneath his hand as he traced the pattern there – a scarlet, elongated “I” crossed by a “C” of such a dark red it was almost black. The way it led the eye down to the hypnotic sway of her hips, his tag proudly displayed along her spine to boast to anyone who looked (and oh, how they had looked) that she was his.
In the tattoo parlour, she’d trembled from time to time as the needles pierced her skin, but the smile had never left her lips.
“You don’t have to do this, you know? I mean, it’s kind of cool, but…”
“I want to.” She’d smiled in that naughty, secretive way that was just for him. “I want to be yours in every possible way, and I want everyone to know it.”
“Jesus! … Have I ever told you that you’re perfect?”
“It doesn’t mean I get tired of hearing it.”
It had never even crossed his mind to ask what would happen if they split up.
The wind blew an empty fast-food wrapper past his feet. He went back to his car – the bishada Dolly had painted for him in Liverpool’s bright red, team captain Gerrard’s “8” splashing the roof in mimicry of his hero’s jersey. He rested his head against the steering wheel, suddenly aching for those stolen, innocent moments back in San Paro, just kicking a ball around with his girl or lounging on a rooftop watching the world go by.
He drove home to his empty house and made the last call he’d ever expected to make.
March 10, 2011
“Where have you been?” Ian lay beside her under the warm red-and-gold of their duvet, running a fingertip down the side of her cheek so the loose strands of sweat-stuck hair pulled free of her skin and slithered back off her face.
Dolly stared, baffled, at the blank white walls before her eyes fastened and clung to her lover’s face. “It… I…” She shook her head. Her voice sounded high in her own ears, the whimper of a frightened child. “I don’t know…”
His arms wrapped around her, drawing her close against him. The fluttering of her heart slowed to match the deep, steady thud she could hear as she rested her head against his chest. “Shhh… It’s OK now. I’m here.” He kissed her brow tenderly, still stroking her hair. There was a slight smile on his lips and his naked eyes were unworried, sending soft waves of relief through her aching muscles.
“There was… I thought… There was something… something bad. Something terrible.” She licked her lips and swallowed, looking up at Ian as if he could explain it for her. She had no memory of how she’d gotten home, no idea what had happened since… A flurry of lurid images slewed through her mind and she screwed her eyes closed, willing them away.
“It’s OK. It’s OK, Doll.” He cupped her chin in his hand, looking into her eyes and letting her see his sincerity. He gave her another smile and pulled the covers up over their heads. “But just in case, we can hide under here.”
Body-warm darkness surrounded her and she pressed her face into his chest, drinking in his scent while he continued.
“Nothing bad can happen to you while you’re with me; you know that, right?”
Something prickled at the inside of her skull. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth guiltily. “But… but what if I went away? Just a little bit, like… to another room or something? What if… what if you couldn’t see me?”
He sounded wry, the rich, dark tones of his voice rippling with amusement. “Well, you’d better not do that, then. Just stay in here with me, where the bad things can’t find you.”
Tears leaked from her eyes for no reason she could name. She wished she could burrow closer, be held tighter, but she was already pressed against him, his chin tucked against the top of her head, her feet twining amidst his ankles, strong arms wrapping her up and protecting her from all the evils in the world.
“I think I lost something… Oh!” She gasped as a thought struck her. “What about Gerry? We can’t leave him out there! He’s only a puppy!”
She started to sit up but he gently pushed her down again. “It’s OK. I’ll get him, you stay here, OK? Stay right here. Don’t get up and I’ll be right back.”
There was a brief flare of brilliant white light as he slipped out of the bed. She heard his voice, muffled by the duvet that covered her head. “Remember – don’t wake up!”
Then there was silence. No more words, no footsteps, nothing. Her face throbbed dully on one side.
Slowly, heart in her mouth, she slid up the bed and peeked out from under the covers. There was nothing but blinding light.
“Come on, wake up.” A hand slapped her solidly across the face for what she was sure wasn’t the first time.
“You’re not Ian.” She spoke accusingly, eyes narrowed against the glare, her waking awareness bringing with it slowly growing waves of pain.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Derek grinned. “Have a nice nap?”
March 9, 2011
Everything was quiet when he pulled up to the house. Derek had driven around the streets of this so-called city for an hour, waiting for darkness to fall, getting to know the lie of the land, then driven through the tunnel under the river and to the house his agent had found and pulled right up to the front door.
It fit the spec. Fairly isolated. Cheap. Absentee landlord, so no surprise visits. Good security system.
And a cellar.
It had to be a fast deal, of course, but three months’ rent up front in cash had answered a lot of questions the letting agency might otherwise have had. And it seemed like they were more than used to the occasional “questionable” deal. If this was San Paro, he’d have made a point of going back to visit the guy later, but this was England. Not his beat.
He put the handbrake on and listened for a moment. All quiet. He picked up his duffel bag from the front seat and got out to dig through the litter of cracked plant pots housing dry, dead weeds until he found the key, then let himself in to the house to look around.
The front hallway was stuffed with crap. Free newspapers, bills and threatening collections letters for a variety of people he’d never heard of, takeaway menus for Chinese and Indian takeaways, kebab shops and fried chicken and some place serving the most depressing cardboard pizzas he’d ever seen. He pushed the front door wide, shoving it all back into a corner and cleared up the stray real estate leaflets that had slipped under the door.
The thought of slipping and fucking up his back while carrying a kidnapped woman inside made him chuckle.
A quick sweep of the rest of the house told him the rest of what he wanted to know – no hobos, no squatters. A few boarded-up windows, but the boards were tight and intact. The beds were without linens and the mattresses were cold and damp, but he didn’t care. There was hot and cold running water and it looked clean enough to drink, the electricity was on and when he found the thermostat, the heating went on amidst a chorus of groaning and screaming pipes.
Dusting his hands with a satisfied little nod, he went to check the cellar.
Access was via a tiny door he had to crouch to get through and the stairs down were shaky, with uncomfortably long, open gaps between the treads and no handrail. They seemed to have been crudely mended in places, replacing broken steps with solid planks of chipboard he suspected were left over from some other DIY project. The only light came from a single bare bulb in the ceiling, too high to reach without a long ladder – the only switch that he could find was back in the kitchen, by the door.
The room down there was surprisingly spacious. There were bundles of old newspapers; some British rag mostly concerned with what they called “football” here and women with impressively huge tits. He laughed to himself. “Already got one of those in the trunk.” He took the papers out to the back yard and dumped them, along with a reeking bag of garbage. There was also a workbench and a set of rusty, long-unused tools that made him smile grimly. He packed them away, then unfolded the camp bed he’d found in one corner. He had to kick one of the legs a bit to get it to lock into place; one of the springs was broken, all were rusty, and there was a patch of mildew growing on the mattress the size of his head, but it would do.
The coal chute bore examination – he had to climb up, awkwardly bracing his feet against the opposite wall and shuffling along sideways with his knees almost against his chest, dragging his bag along behind him. The outside entrance seemed solid – two metal leaves held closed by a triple set of long, steel bolts on the inside. He opened his bag, feeling around in the darkness of the chute and locked them in place with three large, sturdy padlocks. He’d weld them closed later in case the girl had a knack with lock picks and managed to find something to pick with.
He slid back down the chute and returned to the car.
Ian drove like a man possessed, expressing his anger through the accelerator. He’d torn the house apart, some part of him hoping she was just…. hiding somewhere in some misguided prank. Then he’d found the footprints outside the window – a man’s boots and a woman’s bare feet. But only the boots walked back to the drive, indenting deeply in the grass as if the wearer bore a burden.
If he hadn’t had the curtains shut to hide the interrogation of the ginger cop, he’d have seen her.
He’d called all his contacts. The fight to keep his rage in check made him chilly, commanding… and desperation had made him promise a lot. They were searching, through the various means available to them.
He hadn’t called the police yet. Too much risk. And they might get in the way, when the time came that he could do what needed to be done.
And with those things done, he was left with… nothing. The neighbors had found his questions… unusually strange. Some had simply shaken their heads, unable to help, but others had looked at him as if he’d gone mad. He’d finally managed to get a description – a red Audi – from a grinning real estate suit who kept asking if he was on TV.
A red Audi. In Liverpool.
Why were her footprints on the ground outside the window? Why was the window unforced?
He kept driving, turning, driving. Searching. Waiting for the phone to ring.
When it finally did, he braked so hard his chest thumped against the steering wheel. A buzzer went off and he managed to lean back before the airbag hit him. Swearing, he got out of the car and pulled his phone from his pocket, fumbling it open to look at the screen.
A text. Dolly’s number. Heart hammering with relief, he opened it and watched in bafflement as an e-card furled open on the screen.
A pale blue picture frame decorated with white storks, each carrying a bundle in a sling. Some tinkling little tune from a nursery rhyme played as a photo started to render fuzzily in the middle of the frame.
The boot of a car, a polythene sheet spilling over the lip of the trunk. There was blood on it. A lot of blood. Smeared and spattered and lurking in thick clots.
Dolly lay in the middle of it. Her hair was plastered to her skull with sweat and there was a red stripe up her cheek that he couldn’t, in that moment, understand. Her eyes were closed. Her wrists and ankles were tied with plastic binder strips and Ian never heard the pleading “No!” he whispered as his eyes picked out the blistered and bloody welts they’d left. Then his eyes followed her legs up and the phone fell from numb fingers, clattering to the tarmac of the empty street.
The image was still in front of him.
The blood had painted her thighs red. Caked the crotch of her shorts. The caption.
“Congratulations on the birth of your baby boy!”
Carlyle clenched his fists and screamed to the sky.
March 8, 2011
Dark. It was dark with not even a line of light as a promise, a potential exit, some mark of a door. The air was stuffy and reeked of chemicals, of petrol and car exhaust. It was hot and hard to breathe; she drew swift gulps of air that made her chest jerk spasmodically upwards, fighting to get enough until rigid lines of pain pressed in across her breasts and ribs, squeezing until the air rushed soundlessly out of her nose. As her weight fell back on her hands, trapped beneath her, they pulsed with hot red pain and tingling numbness surged up her arms. Eyes watering with pain, she tried to raise her knees, spread her feet apart and lift her body up between feet and shoulders to let the blood return to her hands. Almost immediately, her knees thumped into something solid roofing her in and her feet gave the same numb scream as her hands.
While her mind reeled, flooded with a million terrified questions, her body wanted to scream or sob, to make some sound, but something hard was jammed inside her mouth, holding it open yet sealing it tight, something that bit into the corners of her lips and left them feeling raw and chafed. There was another layer, too, that she couldn’t quite understand – something that pulled in and almost sealed her nose when she inhaled, something that muffled sound and crackled when she tried to move.
Nothing made any sense. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d got there. She didn’t know why she was shut in this terrible, small, airless, dark space, didn’t know what she could have done to deserve it. The tears started to flow in earnest, their torrent streaming down over her temples and into her hair, somehow falling back on her face from above. She twisted and turned frantically, trying to find some way she could move but blocked by hard surfaces in every direction. She thought she felt an object move and thrashed more desperately, trying to find it, trying to kick it away with stiff, aching, bloodless legs – anything for just a little more room.
Then a red haze of agony spread through her torso. It felt as if she’d been folded in half and then carefully creased across her stomach with a thin pinch of giant fingers. Eyes popping wide in her skull, she screamed mutely into the gag then bit down, every muscle contorting as a second wave came.
The pain stopped and she panted desperately for breath, small whimpers coming from her throat as she tried to comfort herself, managing to rock herself to her side and curl her body slightly in the narrow space. A thin trickle of liquid warmth ran down her thigh, clinging to the – plastic? polythene? – that entombed her and smearing itself back on her bare legs. Then the pain came again, worse this time, as if hands had reached inside her and were wringing her innards between them.
The scream had barely started in her throat when she blacked out.
March 8, 2011
Footsteps and muffled voices echoed along the tiled corridor, sometimes coming closer, sometimes passing over her and fading away. She stood, feeling utterly lost, at the top of the stairs, looking at the clean white surfaces that stretched out in either direction.
Left. Intensive Care. Her husband, Robert.
Right. The Queen Victoria Ward. Her son, Jacob.
And somewhere else, her younger son, her little boy, her Ian. Running for his life. She hoped he was running.
She couldn’t decide, couldn’t make her legs move one way or the other.
The plain-clothes officer a few meters behind her half-turned his back and studied his coffee as she lifted both hands to her face and silently wept, fidgeting awkwardly as he kept one eye on her without wanting to intrude. After a couple of minutes, he cleared his throat loudly and approached, wrapping one arm around the woman’s shoulders.
“Your husband will probably still be sleeping. Why don’t we go see Jacob, hmm?”
A startled laugh broke from her lips in sheer relief that there was someone else to make decisions. Then she gripped his lapels and cried into the stranger’s chest.