The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 16
The copper turns away and I can hear his footsteps on the path.
I slump to the floor, loosening my grip and then cuddling William, reaching for the packet he’s still holding. “Here,” I say, “William, have another biscuit.” I’m drenched in sweat, can feel myself shaking. That was close, the closest yet. I need to sit here for a moment or two, get my breath back, just settle myself before we take ourselves upstairs to bed down for the night.
To be expected, really – the copper. House-to-house enquiries about the woman up the street, that’s all, that’s what’s happening now. Of course, it is. Or is it for me? Either way, there’s no point in the coppers waiting until the morning. They need to walk up and down the streets, knocking on doors, asking householders if they’ve seen or heard anything. Stands to reason, that does. Little point in doing it tomorrow.
Problem is – for the coppers – most of the people up and down this street aren’t actually in. They’re down at the seafront for the fun and games. Most of them won’t be coming back for another hour or so yet, later if they haven’t got children. So the coppers have no one to interview about what they might or might not have seen. All the coppers can do, when they get to a darkened house, is what this one here did.
Ring the doorbell.
Wait a minute or two.
Check all is secure front and back and then go.
The copper would have scanned the front windows for a break-in as he walked up the path. He’d have listened out for sounds inside as he rang the doorbell. Checked the front door had not been broken in by pushing it with his hand.
Front and back.
He’d turn and go down the pathway to the back.
That’s where he’s coming now.
To the back of the house, to make sure there’s no sign of any break-in there. He’ll check the back gate (which is shut and as it should be). He’ll look up and down the garden, maybe shake the shed door (which is just fine too, all locked and undamaged). He’ll walk up the back path, looking over the windows upstairs and down as he does so (nice and tickety-boo). Finally, just before he leaves, he’ll look quickly through the back door (and see everything just so). Give the door a final push and away he goes.
That’s the thing, though, thinking about it.
The back door has a handle he might turn.
And, for the life of me, I cannot remember if I locked the back door or not.
40
7.53pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Do I wait here and hold my breath or try to get that back door locked before the copper reaches it?
No choice.
Can’t fight for my life in front of the little ’un, can I?
Just not right, is it?
I rip open the biscuits, scattering them over the hall floor.
“Tea time. Eat up, William, eat up every last one,” I say, pushing William to one side so I can pull open the door to the kitchen.
(For God’s sake, William, be quiet about it, though, please be silent.)
I peer cautiously round the door into the kitchen, looking up at the back-door window. I hadn’t noticed before, or at least hadn’t registered, but it’s glass from the top to halfway down.
No blind.
No curtain.
Nothing.
If that copper looks in now, he’ll see me. No doubt about that. I have to be quick. Take my chance. On my hands and knees, I crawl into the kitchen, keeping my head below the level of the back-door glass. It gives me crucial seconds while the copper comes down the back path, checks the gate, enters and, what next, looks over the shed first like I did? I have to believe that he will. If not, if he comes straight to the back door and peers in, I’m done for.
Head up slightly, looking about.
Key on side, must have put it there without thinking.
Thank God, I have a chance, a real chance if I’m fast.
I daren’t look up and out of the back door as I shuffle forward as quickly as I can. If the copper’s walking towards the house and sees even the top of my head, I’m fucked. He’ll radio for back-up immediately and the place will be surrounded in minutes.
I’d have no chance to get away, even leaving my little lad behind. I couldn’t tackle a strong young copper, not without an element of surprise. If I broke out of the front door – could I leave William behind? – I’d be running into coppers to the left and coppers to the right of me.
How far would I get? I’d be hunted down in an alleyway within minutes, for sure. Know what, the police might even be armed at this stage if they’ve got their act together and have this down as a child abduction. I’d die fighting, but what about sweetpea? He’d end up back with the sister-in-law and Veitch. No Disneyland trip. No new life in the south of France. No happy ever after for him. Truth is we’d both be better off dead. You know that, don’t you?
The key is in the lock. I must have put it there without thinking.
I twist it ever so gently, making certain it doesn’t make even the tiniest scraping sound.
There, the door’s locked. The copper can’t just walk in.
I turn, ready to crawl back out of the kitchen towards William, when I hear the click of the back gate. It’s the copper, has to be. He’s in the garden. Standing there, taking it all in. House to his left, dark and shut up for the winter. I will him, please, please, please, to walk down to the shed first just like I did, giving me precious seconds to get away.
But what if he comes straight to the back door, looks in and sees me crawling? Why would he check the shed first? I’m screwed, well and truly. I shrink, as far as I can, to the floor, tight up against the back door. My only chance, really it is. If the copper looks in, just a cursory, not an up and down, glance, I may get lucky. My only hope now anyway.
William calls out, more of a cry.
Dear God, sweet William, stay where you are. Please do not get up and walk into the kitchen. Do not come striding in here with your empty packet of biscuits with your mouth wide open and wanting something else to eat because, if you do, we’ve had it.
William’s in the kitchen.
I’ve no choice now.
No choice at all.
I have to take the copper out as he gets to the back door or at least die trying. I struggle to my feet, turning my back to William as best I can so he won’t see what’s happening.
I unlock the back door as fast as I can.
Wrench it open.
Launch myself out towards the copper.
41
8.25pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Nat, we have to sit down and wait like the police said.” Rick looks at his wife pacing back and forth in the small living room of the cottage, her eyes fixed on the screen of her mobile phone. He glances towards the policeman and woman standing and talking quietly in the kitchen and adds, “There’s nothing we can do . . . this doesn’t help.”
“You should have brought your phone,” she snaps. “They had your mobile number on file. If you’d brought it, we’d have known he was out immediately.” She stops and thinks for a moment. “If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, we’d have picked up that phone call before we left home. That would have been the police.”
“We weren’t to know that, Nat, how could we? How could anyone?” Rick looks to his parents for some form of encouragement. “How could he have got out anyway? He was meant to be in a secure unit. Under lock and key.”
His mother looks back at him, not saying anything.
The old man edges forward on his cushion, leaning towards his son. “Whatever’s happened, happened. Nothing anyone can do about it now. There’s no point in falling out. We’ve got to sit and wait for the family liaison officers, like the police said. They’ll then keep us in touch just as soon as they have any news.”
Nat turns towards him, waving her phone at him in frustration. “How can we just sit here and wait? While he’s out there with Will doing God knows what to him . . .”
Both men go to answer at the same time, the younger man deferring to the older, who says, “Goodness knows, I can understand you hate him for what he did with . . . did to your sister. But he’s the boy’s father after all . . . he’ll see himself as the father anyway . . . and he’s not going to hurt his own flesh and blood, is he?”
He looks at the old woman next to him knowing exactly what she is thinking – ‘Men do’ – but she ignores his gaze.
He continues speaking, “Let’s just think about things in a logical way . . .”
Nat snorts instinctively, “He’s mad, he doesn’t think at all, let alone logically. Whatever comes into his head he does. If he gets angry, he hits someone. If he loses his temper . . . if he really loses his temper with Will . . .” Her voice tails off.
“That’s all as maybe, generally, with most people, yes, but William is his son, come what may . . .” He goes on, dropping his voice so that the policeman and woman cannot hear. “What we need to do is think what he might do, where he’d go, what he’d do . . . anticipate him if you like. He’s obviously got enough about him to get here from wherever he was and he’s going to want to get away from here again as quickly as he can.”
Rick adds in a low voice, “He’ll have to get a car if he hasn’t got one already . . . but he won’t come here . . . not now . . . when he sees the police car out front.”
“Won’t he?” whispered Nat in an angry voice. “I wouldn’t put it past him, would you? A spot of vengeance? He hates you, Rick . . . and he hates me even more.”
The old man shakes his head. “He’ll be out of here as fast as he possibly can. Faster than they can get roadblocks in place. He’ll be heading for a back street, if he has a car he’d have left it there. If not, he’ll try and steal one from somewhere quiet.”
“What if he doesn’t come here? What if he’s gone already?” she says, her voice catching. She struggles with her composure. “It’s been more than an hour since I saw him. Maybe he won’t still be here . . . and Will’s medication, he needs that, soon. What will happen if . . .”
The old man starts to speak but pauses as he hears the noise of the police radio from the kitchen. The four of them, including the old woman, turn to try to hear what is being said.
After a hurried conversation between the policeman and woman, the policeman comes into the room, moving quickly to the front door and opening it. He steps outside. There are more urgent words and whisperings and then the policeman comes back in.
“That Renault Megane over there. It’s been reported stolen from Nottingham. Two officers are setting up an observation point over the way, keeping watch in case your man comes back.” Rick and Nat move towards the door.
“He’s coming back,” says Rick triumphantly. “He’ll be here any moment. We just have to sit and wait and he’ll walk straight into the trap.”
The old woman speaks at last, rising stiffly to her feet. “He may, but he won’t have the child with him.” They all turn to look at her.
“He wants to punish you both . . . for taking the child away from him; having him locked up. He has nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing to offer. He will have killed the boy by now. The boy is dead. And he’ll be long gone.”
42
9.09pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Once upon a time,” I say softly, “there was a dog called . . . Scruffy.”
(Okay, okay, I had to think for a second or two; I’m not good with bedtime stories, am I?)
“Scwuffy,” repeats little William, looking up at me with a very serious expression on his face.
(We’re sitting next to each other on the bed, him under the duvet, me on top, while he gets used to me.)
“Scruffy was a naughty little dog who was always getting into mischief and he . . .”
“Like Ben?” pipes up William. “Ben?” he repeats, twisting to face me.
(Who the fuck is Ben? Some dog he knows, maybe a neighbour’s?)
“Yes,” I say, “Just like Ben. What does Ben look like, William? What sort of dog is he?”
He looks at me vaguely, and settles down as if he’s ready to fall asleep.
(Thinking about it, you can’t really expect a little chap to know a dog’s breed. Then again, maybe Ben is a cat.)
I yawn. Ever so loudly.
(A bit faked, really, because, being a clever sort of chap, I know that, if you yawn, the other person will automatically yawn in response and, in the case of a tired little lad like William, they will probably fall gently asleep.) William yawns.
Just like I thought.
Perfect.
You’re probably wondering – as you would – how me and the little fellow are now in bed all snug as a bug in a rug.
I got it wrong.
Earlier on.
The click of the gate, remember?
The copper wasn’t by the back door and he wasn’t even in the garden. I reckon he opened the gate, could see all was as it should be and went out, to go on to the next house. That’s what I think. The click was the copper putting the gate handle back onto the latch as he left.
Lucky fucker, I am.
No doubt about it.
Touched by Lady Luck.
I stood there, shaking – adrenalin, stress, I don’t know what – in disbelief. It took me a minute or two to get my bearings, adjust myself to the silence, at least in the garden. I could hear noise, comings and goings and all sorts of revelry, in the streets beyond the house. I turned, went back in and locked the back door this time, putting the key in my pocket. Gathered up the other packet of biscuits and bits and pieces from the larder.
“Scwuffy and Ben?” says William, focusing on me again.
“Yes, Scruffy and Ben, that’s right.”
(I’m thinking, okay? I have to tell some sort of a story until the little laddie drops off to sleep.)
“Scruffy and Ben were best friends and they went for an adventure. In a park. And do you know what they saw there?”
William looks up at me; frankly, he’s going to be absolutely no help with this story, no help at all.
“What . . . do you think . . . they saw in the park?” I say slowly.
He smiles at me, a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile just like mine. I told you about them, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I did.
(But he’s not going to answer, that’s for sure. He’s going to sit there looking around dreamily.)
“A rabbit,” I say, finally, and quite firmly so he knows it’s not open for discussion. “Scruffy and Ben saw a rabbit in the park. And what do you think they did?”
(Where am I going with this? The dogs would chase the rabbit and kill it, wouldn’t they? What sort of bedtime story is that with entrails everywhere?)
“Jolly?” He sits up again. “Where Jolly?”
Now he’s looking around. The arms go up. The hands go out.
The fingers are twitching back and forth.
Who the fuck’s Jolly?
Okay, I’m guessing a bunny rabbit.
Must be his bedtime toy?
I backtrack, talking over William, distracting his attention, “Scruffy and Ben – you know Ben, don’t you William – went to a park and they saw a big red bouncy ball and it . . . boinged up and down like this.”
“Boiinng!” I go, lifting William out from the duvet and bouncing him up and down.
“Boiinng!” I go again, hoping to God this does the trick.
“Boiinng!” and William giggles. Okay, he’s not going to go to sleep now but at least he’s not going to have a fit of the screaming ab-dabs over some missing fluffy rabbit.
“’Gain,” he laughs out loud. “Do ’gain.”
And so we do, again and again and again, three, four, five times and more until he’s laughing, I’m laughing and we collapse together into a heap upon the bed.
“’Gain,” he says once more, but quieter this time, as if he’s saying it to himself. “’Gain,” he mumbles and his thumb goes slowly into his mouth.
He’s asleep, bless him.
I sit here for a while; it’s nice, really nice.
Peaceful it is, restful – I’ve never had much of that, not lately anyway.
Almost nodding off, or maybe I’ve been asleep, I hear the click of a gate. Footsteps on the path. A man and a woman’s voice. I sit up straight. Is it that copper back? With a colleague? I hold my breath. Maybe CID has made all the local beat bobbies check all the houses again in pairs this time, one at the front, the other at the back?
Just have to sit tight.
Not a sound, little William.
Not a sound.
No, not coppers, thank God. They’re arguing – the man and the woman. Quite nasty it is too, I can tell you. I can’t make out the words exactly, but she’s angry with him, very angry, her voice raised and accusing. He’s replying, bluntly, denying whatever it is he’s supposed to have done, in a deep, rumbling voice. I hear the voices coming closer now, up the path. Next, a key in the door, turning. It takes all my willpower to lie here and not move. Sounds as though it’s this house. But it’s the other side, it has to be the house next door. The neighbours are back from the seafront, I think.
I can still hear them. Arguing. Getting nastier too, it is. It’s in the distance now, though, far off – maybe the front room of the house next door. Arguing on and on they go, both voices now raised to screaming pitch. They won’t hear us, that’s for sure – not like that. But we have to be quiet. For as long as we’re here. They’ll come up the stairs soon, to bed. Leastways, she will – I reckon he will be on the settee tonight for certain.
I need to make sure we don’t make any noises. The lights will have to stay off. We’ll have to keep away from the windows. I won’t even draw the curtains. Neighbours, you see, and not just next door. All of them, both sides of the road, will be alert to what’s going on by now. Will spot anything out of the ordinary, maybe even looking for it.
We’re safe as snuggles here just as long as we don’t make any noise.
The doors, front and back, are locked.
Everything is in its place and just as it should be.
William turns on to his side. He still has his thumb in his mouth.
That’s sweet.
