The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 14
I’ll fucking well tell you what she did.
When she lost sight of me, she went as quickly as she could to the nearest policeman. She explained what had happened. The copper then radioed for help. Two coppers in a police car, when the crowds had parted, drove down the high street to where she was waiting for them. She got in the police car and they drove into these back streets behind the town.
How do I know this?
Easy. I just put two and two together. Two and two makes four.
And the proof of all this?
As I come down the hill I see the police car further down turning in and coming up from the bottom. Any second now, the police car, with the woman and two fit young coppers in it, is about to come fully into view.
I am just standing here.
They will spot me.
And then I’m done for.
33
7.21pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Nat peers out of the windows in the back of the police car as it’s driven up into the maze of back streets. She moves quickly from one side to the other, leaning forward and wiping the steamed-up windows for a clearer view of the street.
“He snatched my boy,” she shouts frantically, almost to herself, over and again. “He snatched my boy.”
“Keep looking to your right, please,” responds the policewoman in the front passenger seat. “I’ll look for a man and a boy to the left. PC Wilson will look ahead.”
“He won’t be far,” replies Nat. “Will can’t walk fast. Even if he carries him, he won’t have got much farther than here . . . what’s that?”
She cries out in alarm as she sees the police cars and the forensics team coming in and out of the terraced house.
“Oh God,” she cries, “what’s happened? Pull over, please. Pull over.”
The police car stops and the policewoman turns to face Nat. “It’s a domestic incident involving a middle-aged woman. It’s not your son. We don’t think there’s any connection.”
“He won’t have gone up here with Will. He’d have turned back or gone into one of the private roads – the alleys - when he saw all this.” The young woman looks out of the windows again, first to the left and then to the right. “It’s too late. We’ve missed him. He must have gone another way.”
“We’ll get out of the car and walk up and down with you. Let’s see what we can see.”
“I need to get hold of Rick, my husband,” she answers, opening the car door and stepping out. “He’s down at the seafront waiting for us. He’ll be worried; he’ll think Will has wandered off.”
In the car, the radio crackles and the policeman leans forward to listen. A report of a child taken away from foster parents by his biological father and a man taken into custody. He gets out of the car, looking at the policewoman and the frightened young mother walking up the hill. He whistles at his colleague for attention but she does not hear. He walks briskly towards them.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, as he catches up with them. “From what I can make out, and it’s a little confused, they’ve made an arrest down on the seafront. Come back to the car and we’ll get you to the police station. You can ID the man and collect your son.”
Nat almost collapses with relief. “Thank God. Is Will safe? Are you sure he’s okay?”
34
7.23pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Did they see me?
Did they fuck.
It was close, mind.
The second I saw the front of the police car turning, I snatched William without thinking, swung open the front gate of the terraced house next to us, slipped inside, and crouched down low behind the brick wall.
That’s where we are now.
I’ve got him in a grip, I can tell you.
Daren’t take any chances. He has to be quiet.
I’m kneeling, crouched over, sideways on to a waist-high brick wall that separates us from the pavement.
The little fellow’s jammed tight between my legs, my hand clamped hard on his mouth.
He’s struggling and he’s a determined little chap.
I have to hold him tighter.
Not a sound, sweet William, not a sound.
The police car’s come to a halt and is parked in a space a little way down from me, I reckon. May be uphill, to my left, though. I can’t quite tell. I think we’ve got coppers up to the left of us, by that woman’s house, and the sister-in-law and the coppers are down to the right.
I daren’t sit up and even look over the wall. They might see me.
From the left?
To the right?
I can’t even look up and over at the terraced houses on the opposite side of the street.
Know what? The whole street, from top to bottom, is soon going to be lit up.
I can hear the sister-in-law’s voice; she’s just yards away from us now. From the left, hurrying along.
Now going past.
Now gone.
She’s normally loud and strident, though this time she sounds scared and whiny. I can’t make out the words, but she’s obviously telling the coppers what happened again. I can hear them talking, moving quickly away.
A whistle.
Someone running.
A flurry of voices. It sounds like they’ve stopped, are turning, are coming back up, this time more slowly.
I guess these coppers have put two and two together. She’s told them about me and my William. They’ve probably had a report about Veitch being beaten up by the toilets. Then there’s this business with the woman up at the top. Never mind what happened in Nottingham – those three things occurring in a town of this size, on the same night, all within an hour or so of each other. Well, it’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?
I crouch down low, still holding William tight.
I can’t breathe, daren’t. William’s the same, I can sense it.
I hold him tight, so tight, I imagine my fingers turning stiff and white.
They’re almost upon us again, walking up towards that woman’s house where all the police are gathered; that’s where the coppers, constables, most probably, will hand the woman over to whichever CID man-in-a-suit is coordinating everything.
From there, once they’ve heard her story, know who it is they’re looking for, they’ll flood the town with coppers, roadblocks on the way in and out, helicopters, dogs, the whole fucking lot.
I feel the little ’un twitch and jerk violently in my arms.
Have I held him too tight? My hand clamped over his mouth and his nose together?
Or is it some sort of fit? He twitches again suddenly as I hold him down; we daren’t make a noise. It’s for his own good. Really it is.
Then they’re alongside us, no more than a foot or two away, moving ever so slowly it seems. If they turned, maybe heard a noise, looked over the wall, we’d be done for. I can hear one of the coppers clearly now, just a snatch of conversation, “ . . . tor Hudson will know”.
What’s that? Hudson will know? Was it Inspector Hudson will know? Know what? What’s happening?
My guess is that Inspector Hudson – whoever he is – is up at that woman’s house. He’s CID and coordinating it all.
He’s the copper in charge I reckon; he’s getting everyone together at the house to compare notes. The neighbour who raised the alarm – what did she hear or see? Veitch? Maybe the coppers who attended to him have reported back. The sister-in-law? She’s the final piece of the jigsaw for sure. The coppers will know I’m in town and I’ve got little William. That’s all they need to know to trigger the full-scale, bells and trumpets, whistle and drums alert.
If only they knew where I was.
Just a stride away, hidden behind a garden wall.
I hold William ever tighter, willing him now to be quiet.
And then, as quickly as they came, they’re gone. The coppers and the sister-in-law. They’re up and by us and on the way to the woman’s house, their voices drifting into the distance. Simple as that.
It’s okay, William, it’s okay. My darling boy.
I loosen my grip, remove my hands, turn him over.
He’s lifeless in my arms. I’ve killed William.
35
7.31pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Nat steps back when she sees Rick. She is shocked. His face is bruised and battered.
“Rick, Rick, where the hell is he? Where’s Will?”
Rick steps forward quickly, moving to put his arms around her, to make that comforting gesture.
She shrugs him off, twisting towards the policewoman and men standing close by them in the police station reception.
“You said you had Will, that you’d made an arrest. Where is he? Where’s Will?”
The police officers look at each other, waiting for one of them to speak.
“He took him off me, Nat, took Will away,” answers Nat, his voice shaking. “Down at the beach. He hit me, look, here . . . he took me by surprise. I couldn’t stop him. He’s out there somewhere. I keep telling them but they won’t listen.”
She spins back towards the police, focusing on the policewoman who seems to be in charge.
“I saw him, running away with Will. Along the parade. I chased him, but it was too crowded. I told you this. I thought he’d gone up the hill down by the bakers, out of town. You said . . .” She turns towards the policeman next to her, “he’d been arrested. This is Rick, my husband, Will’s dad . . . You’ve not got him, have you? He’s still out there somewhere with Will.”
Nat and Rick, feeling helpless, stare at each other in complete and utter despair.
They embrace.
“He won’t hurt him, whatever he does,” murmurs Rick to her. “He’s his son . . . and he won’t do anything else. He’s never been that way inclined.”
She pushes him back. “So far as we know. He’s mad, Rick. And nasty. You don’t know what he’s going to do or when. Look what he did to Katie. She said he never knew what he was doing himself from one minute to the next.”
“You have to find him . . . quickly,” says Rick, turning back suddenly towards the police. “Nat, where did you last see him with Will?”
The police officers look at Nat, seeming now, so Nat thinks, to realise exactly what has happened.
“He was running along the high street, the other side of the parade. I thought he’d turned and gone up the hill but I think he must have kept going back towards . . .”
Nat and Rick stare at each other.
“Shit,” says Nat, “he knows we were down this end of town. He’s gone to the cottage to get our car – he’ll use that as a getaway.”
“He’s going to need my keys,” adds Rick. “And my parents will be in the cottage when he arrives.” He gulps in air. “Seriously . . . please . . . you have to be quick. You have to get there before he does. It may be too late . . .”
36
7.33pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I turn, oh-so-slowly, and look up at the terraced house behind me, then, ever so carefully, along the row of terraces, both up and down the street.
I’ve got lucky.
All I can see are lights on two or three doors down and more lights, farther up, towards the woman’s house. It’s a blaze of lights up there and all eyes, anyone looking out of any window, will be towards that, not me.
In between, nothing.
This house, the one I’m in front of, and the ones to either side of it, are dark.
I reckon the owners are at the seafront or maybe, just maybe, like that woman, they’re from London and these are their holiday homes left empty most times.
I’ve got lucky again.
Told you I’m a lucky fellow, didn’t I? Remember?
It gets better.
The house I’m crouched in front of has a pathway between it and next door. The pathway goes between the two houses and into an alley with what look like back gates to either side. All I have to do is step over the knee-high wall to the side and onto the pathway, take a dozen steps into the alleyway, open the back gate and I’m out of sight in the back garden.
Know what I’ll do? I’ll break in.
Lie low as the coppers flood the streets in the next half-hour. Stay still as the helicopters fly over.
Put my head down as the storm rages around me for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours at most.
Then, on Monday evening, nice, quiet Monday evening when the storm has subsided and everyone assumes I’m long gone, I’ll slip out in the dead of night, make my way along to the car from Nottingham that’s parked at the far end of the seafront and away I go.
What’s to link me to that car from Nottingham? Nothing.
Who’s to know it’s there? Nobody.
What’s to stop me simply driving away? Nothing at all.
It’s all going to go just as I planned. Down to Thurrock, onto a coach to Disneyland, over into Paris and away down to the south of France. A new life.
But not with little William.
Not my little man.
God help me, what have I done?
I have to hold myself together, not break down and sob; I have to do this quickly but oh-so-carefully. I have to concentrate on the task in hand. I have to put everything else – awful though it is – out of my mind.
I look up and, ever so slowly, peer over the wall that faces the pavement and the houses opposite. If anyone looks out and sees me, a man kneeling in someone’s front garden, I’m done for.
The houses opposite all look quiet, some dark, some lit, but all, so far as I can see, with blinds down and curtains drawn.
No time to waste.
My only chance.
Have to do it now.
I scoop up William’s lifeless body – I know, I know, but what can I do? – and turn and step over the brick wall to the side.
I glance backwards, I can’t help myself, to check the houses and the street are still quiet.
They are.
Thank God.
My luck holds.
I walk swiftly down the pathway, William’s body held upright against mine, his head lolling. It breaks my heart, but, from behind, from the houses opposite and the street to the left and right, no one would see William. They’d just see a man walking, between the two terraced houses, along the alleyway and out of sight.
I have to be strong; it was an accident, after all.
I have to be practical. I can’t break down and cry, not here, not now.
I can’t think about what I’ve done, I still have to get away. It’s what William would want with all of his little heart. I know it is.
I’m at the back gate now. On a latch or bolted? I can’t put William down in the mud; no matter what, I can’t do that.
Supporting William with my right arm, I push the gate handle down with my left hand. The gate swings open, we’re inside, the gate’s shut, we’re safe, at least for now.
Moving quickly, no time to waste, I lay William on the patio, and peer up at the house. It’s hard to see much inside, everything’s so dark.
For the next hour?
For the winter?
Who’s to tell?
I’ll worry about that later. First things first, I need to get into this house with as little noise and damage as possible. If not, someone may hear me break in, maybe a copper will spot a broken window when they make house-to-house enquiries in the morning.
I try the handle of the back door, which opens on to the kitchen.
It’s locked.
I’m not bothered. Want to know why?
Most people leave a spare key outside their back door somewhere – it’s a proven fact: something like eight out of ten homeowners do it. Holiday home or not – it’s just in case they lose their keys or maybe, with a place like this, they have a cleaner come in the day before they travel, just to give everything a going over. That spare key is somewhere close to me. I know it.
Doormat? No luck.
Beneath the plant pot by the door? No.
Round the soil of the pot. No.
There’s a ledge above the door. I run my fingers along it. No, nothing there.
I stop, turn round. Not much of a garden really. Fifteen feet wide maybe, twenty feet long.
So where’s the fucking key?
There’s a tiny shed at the end of the garden. That’s where it will be, for sure.
I glance up at the windows of the houses to either side. Dark, all quiet.
Four, five, six strides is all it takes.
It’s locked.
Not there then. Where next?
I look down. There are rows of different-sized pots to either side of the shed; full of straggly, half-dead plants by the look of it.
That’s good – it tells me that this is a holiday home that’s not used that much. Not lately anyhow.
If it’s not used for the next forty-eight hours, I’m in luck.
Even better, I’m lifting up one pot after another and, under the fourth one, at the back to the right of the shed and well out of sight to the casual eye, I find it.
A nice and shiny key.
All I need to do now is let myself into the house and we – I still think of ‘we’ rather than ‘me’ because that’s the kind of daddy I am – can lie out of sight for a day or two.
Easy to do.
Nice and simple.
Behind me, I hear a cough.
37
7.39pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“I’m not going to come here again,” says the old woman finally, looking at the old man opposite, reading an Agatha Christie book by the fire. “I’ve had enough of this. It’s my last visit. It’s too . . . much.”
He sighs, seeing that she has worked her way slowly through more than half a bottle since he’s come in from chopping wood at half past five or six. No mixers either, he notes.
Lifting himself slowly up and out of the armchair, he reaches for the axe resting by his chair and uses the head of it to prod the fire in the grate back into life. “I’ll need to get some more wood,” he answers, ignoring her comment. “I didn’t do enough . . . some of it may be damp.”
He smiles grimly to himself, realising that, for all the household DIY and chores he does, he has never really got to grips with chopping wood and lighting fires. Even now, he wonders what he’d do without a firelighter and newspapers. He isn’t very good at handyman jobs, he thinks. The place is too old-fashioned and has never really been updated since the 1970s, maybe earlier. There is simply too much to do now. He does not know where he’d begin to fix all of it.
