Jack in the Box, page 17
On the other side: open the box. or else. call no one.
Lomond crossed to the kitchen table.
‘Gaffer . . .’ Slater began, bracing himself.
‘What do we do?’ Glennie croaked. ‘Call bomb disposal?’
‘Never mind that. We get out of here,’ Slater countered. ‘Grab the boys and run.’
‘Just a wee minute,’ Lomond said, surprised at how level and reasonable his voice was. ‘The suggestion is, we’re being watched.’
‘So?’
‘So if it’s a bomb and we don’t run for it, he might get in touch.’
‘This is a gamble, gaffer. I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’
‘He,’ Glennie said. ‘You know who this is?’
‘Yeah, fairly sure. Just a few details to work out.’
‘It’s him,’ Glennie said, his hands braced on the back of a stool. ‘This guy they’re calling Jack-in-the-Box. Isn’t it?’
‘I need you to be calm, Mr Glennie.’ Lomond placed the piece of paper on the kitchen worktop, holding one corner very delicately between thumb and forefinger. Then he placed his fingers on the edges of the box lid.
‘I think we should do nothing,’ Slater said. His face twitched. Lomond felt sweat prick his armpits and spine. He peered at the sliver of sky above the treeline beyond the window. A single red light blinked, silently, above them.
He flipped open the box lid. Slater let out his breath in a slow sigh, like a surfacing diver releasing the air in his lungs. The red scarf dropped in languid coils to the floor.
Nothing else happened.
Lomond peered inside. At the bottom, a laptop computer – vintage, by the look of it, maybe a decade past its prime – was opened up at ninety degrees. Next to it was a block of greyish material, rectangular, regularly cut. Wires and crocodile clips, a card and an elderly digital alarm clock, with red LCD characters showing four zeros, flashing impatiently. The card read, go ahead, switch it on.
Lomond reached into his pocket and withdrew a sealed pack of rubber gloves. ‘Never leave home without them,’ he quipped weakly. He struggled to fit them, his hands sweating. One finger hovered over the slow-pulsing on button on the laptop.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Glennie protested. ‘This is madness. This is–’.
‘Just wait a minute,’ Lomond said. ‘Both of you, get behind the breakfast bar.’
‘Gaffer, if that’s what he says it is, it doesn’t matter if we stand behind a tank in the street,’ Slater said. ‘Your man here’s spot on. We shouldn’t touch it.’
Lomond paused. He kept one eye on the trees. A green light flickered. Then he pressed the button.
*
White text on black, scrolling across the black screen. THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING THE SLOW DEATH. HAD YOU AVOIDED THE BUTTON, IT WAS THE FAST ONE. Lomond waited. The cursor blinked, then the screen went blank. A new message appeared. THIS IS A MESSAGE TO LANDOWNERS, GRIFTERS, THIEVES, ROBBER BARONS AND EVERY OTHER GREEDY CAPITALIST. I AM OUT THERE. I AM AMONG YOU. AND I WILL DO MY WORK.
Lomond felt a sense of relief, but he said nothing to the other two men. Glennie had done as requested, and was crouching behind the bar. He even had his hands over his ears.
The cursor blinked and the screen wiped again. More text came down. IF YOU RUN OR ARE DISTURBED, I’LL KNOW. IF YOU SEND THE PIG OUT, I’LL KNOW. IF YOU MAKE THE PIGLETS RUN, I’LL KNOW. AND I WILL PRESS A BUTTON.
‘What do you want, then?’ Lomond said. He had enough awareness left to feel ridiculous.
The screen continued. I WANT YOU TO BEAR WITNESS. I WANT YOU TO TAKE A MESSAGE TO YOUR SUPERIORS AND THE MEDIA. I CAN BE AMONG YOU IN PERSON, OR AT A DISTANCE. I CAN PRESS A BUTTON OR SQUEEZE THE LIFE OUT OF YOU. I CAN TAKE YOUR WIVES AND DAUGHTERS, I CAN BEST YOUR SONS AND FATHERS. YOU WILL ALL GO THE SAME WAY. I CANNOT BE CAUGHT OR STOPPED. I’M JACK.
‘Sure you are,’ Lomond said.
The door creaked. All three men flinched.
‘What are you doing?’ Glennie cried.
Shane, the older boy, stood in the doorway, frozen in the act of removing his ear pods. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked, grinning at first, then sensing that all was not well.
‘Get out of here,’ Glennie said. ‘For God’s sake – where’s Jared?’
‘He gibbered something about having pizza delivered, then he ran out into the garden. Why? It’s not a bomb, is it?’ He blanched when a sudden silence and tense expressions answered the question.
‘Just get out!’ Glennie hissed, flinging an arm out. ‘Run!’
But Shane took a step closer. ‘A bomb – what, seriously?’
‘Yes, seriously,’ Lomond said. ‘Or as serious as we can be.’
‘That’s not a bomb,’ the boy scoffed. ‘It’s a wind-up, isn’t it?’
Lomond peered out the window. Another reddish pulse. ‘Can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘Best we treat it as if it is.’
‘Then what’re you all standing here for?’
‘The person who sent it might be watching us,’ Glennie said. ‘Now don’t make me tell you again. Get out – now.’
Slater raised a hand, standing between Shane and the box. ‘No, don’t do that. We were warned not to let the . . . to let anyone leave.’
‘Piglets,’ Glennie sneered. ‘Sounds personal. He’s watching, is he? Knows us, does he?’
‘Can we all just calm down?’ Shane said. ‘It’s not a bomb.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Lomond asked.
‘Well, it looks like plasticine to me.’
‘That’s why they call it plastic explosive.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not plastic explosive, it’s plasticine. New plasticine, by the look of it. You can still see the furrows.’
‘Furrows?’
‘That’s what it looks like when it comes out the pack. See?’ The boy moved closer.
Slater shoved him aside. ‘Don’t get smart. You don’t know what it is.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I do. I know what the wiring and stuff is, as well.’
‘And what’s that?’ Lomond asked.
‘Well, the alarm clock’s got a battery compartment, and those wires are just crocodile clips. And the timer’s not been set. Pull the wires out and nothing will happen. It’s a wind-up.’
TOY WITH ME AND YOU’LL ALL GO, the scrolling message continued. Shane giggled. ‘What’s this, The Phantom Menace? Guy’s winding you up with an old BBC Micro screen. Here.’ He bent forward and pulled one of the clips, a second before Lomond and Slater grabbed him. The alarm clock began to buzz.
Then the door creaked again, and Jared gasped at the sight of the two men struggling with his brother. ‘Daddy?’ he said, eyes brimming.
Glennie crossed the kitchen faster than anyone would have thought possible, grabbed the boy and darted out of the door with him, the soles of his son’s tiny training shoes pinwheeling on his thighs.
A loud pop sounded inside the box.
Slater flung himself to the floor. Shane dived under the table, hands over his head. Lomond merely blinked, as the air filled with golden confetti.
REMEMBER WHAT I SAID, the computer text added. Then there was another pop, this time a genuine explosion, and a steady flame rose from the laptop keyboard.
39
Tait actually put his tongue in his cheek, and said, ‘That’s some fancy make-up, sir.’
Lomond brushed at his lapels and shoulders, the way you might if you felt a cobweb trailing over your face. Gold dust sparkled in the fading afternoon light. ‘Thanks,’ he said drily. ‘I was thinking of glamming up. Changing my style.’
‘Suits you.’
‘And you too, pal,’ Lomond told him.
‘Report’s in. It was what the boy said – a bunch of wires, plasticine and an old digital alarm clock. Hard drive effectively burnt out. Techies are seeing if anything’s retrievable, but they told me to offer up prayers to St Jude. I presume that’s some sort of in-joke.’
‘Well. Hang on to St Jude’s number. We might need it before the week’s out.’
They were standing at the bottom of the driveway. Nicole Kingsley was remonstrating with the uniformed officers guarding the front door. Lomond had tried to keep out of her way, but she had managed to chew Slater’s ear for a full five minutes while the DI waited in the trees. It wasn’t often you saw Slater cowed, Lomond had reflected. That’s where Tait had caught up with him.
‘Mind if I ask what we’re doing out here, sir?’ Tait asked mildly.
‘Nice spot for a pee . . . That’s a joke, Myles.’
‘Sir.’
‘Actually I’m trying to get an angle on the kitchen.’
‘Sir?’
Lomond was ebullient. This wasn’t usually the case after he’d thought his life was in danger. It was the case, though, when he’d had a decent idea. ‘Look towards the kitchen. You can just about see it through the conifers.’
‘Can’t see much from here, sir. Some lights . . . looks like the SOCOs passing the big windows.’
‘That’s just it. From ground level you can’t see much. From above the treeline you can probably see right into the room.’
Tait glanced skyward. ‘Say again, sir?’
‘We need to think drones. I saw one. And I think I know what it was looking at. Besides us. In the kitchen.’
‘Drones?’
‘Aye. Let’s go a bit closer.’
Tait followed Lomond towards the stone pathway. On catching sight of movement beyond their own reflections in the dark, the masked SOCOs glanced up from the bright kitchen space.
‘Now what do you see?’ Lomond asked.
Tait, irritable at the best of times when he was put on the spot, said, ‘I dunno. Flowery wallpaper? That coming back in again? Bit too busy for a kitchen, in my opinion.’
‘I’d agree, Myles. But keep looking at the wallpaper. What’s there?’
Tait sighed and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like playing. Then he opened them and scanned the room. ‘Clock . . . bad art, I presume by the younger kid . . . and a calendar.’
‘That’s right. But not just a calendar, a big old organiser. Detailed too. Mainly filled in by Nicole Kingsley, to judge by the neat handwriting.’
‘The drone was checking out their schedule?’
‘Among other things. And, look . . . it’s the sort of thing that doesn’t seem important straight off, but there’s a photo of an inside wall facing a window at Myrtlewood Crescent, where Kathryn was killed.’
Tait zoomed in on the image Lomond presented on his phone, and smiled wryly.
‘OK. Now, you want to bet what those boys had on their wall at Craigan Walk?’
‘I’m guessing a calendar you could see from the garden.’
‘Spot on,’ Lomond said. ‘And I saw a drone out here. Daniel Laybourn talked about UFOs – there’s your drone. That’s the link. I want you to trace it, any way you can. Talk to neighbours, see if anyone saw anything. Check the register, see who owns one around here. It had a red light – that’s about all I could make out, but it must have a camera on it. He’s spying on them, Myles. I know it. That’s how he knows when they’re going to be alone.’
‘They weren’t alone in the house today.’
‘No, but then I don’t think our guy was trying to kill anyone today. He was trying to wind us up.’ Lomond picked at the golden specks in the crook of his elbow. ‘Successfully, I might add.’
‘But how’d he know you’d be here? Following you from a distance?’
‘Clever what they can do with these drones, if you’ve got good enough gear. If you’re smart with it.’
Tait nodded. ‘I’ll get on to it.’ Then, seeing Slater approach, he walked off in the opposite direction.
Slater’s face was grey. ‘I see you managed to duck your way out of the chat with the homeowner, gaffer. Now I know how you got promoted.’
‘I’m putting the case together, Malcolm,’ Lomond said neutrally. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said something about suing us into the afterlife if we damage her house in any way. Those exact words.’
‘All happy about her kids being OK, was she?’
‘Barely mentioned them.’ Slater sucked at his teeth. ‘She mentioned she’s got an oak floor. She ever say that to you?’
‘Guess that means she won’t be burying anyone under it.’
‘Wouldn’t have stopped her dad.’
‘Allegedly, Malcolm.’
‘Allegedly. So definitely a wind-up?’
‘Seems like it, though the SOCOs will check out the gear. Plasticine’s awful handy for trapping hairs and fingerprints. Could be our man has made a mistake. And we’ve a fair idea he’s using drones, as well.’
‘So what next, gaffer?’
‘We’re going to find out if Daniel Laybourn’s van was around here anywhere.’
‘Bomb deliveries, now?’
‘Worth a shot. Then we’re going to talk to Vincent Finch.’
‘Kingsley’s ex?’
‘Yep.’
‘If it’s him, he just threatened his son. The older boy.’
‘With a dud bomb. Be decent cover, wouldn’t it? If you were trying to cover your tracks.’
‘What’s that based on?’
‘Got a report from Laybourn himself, would you believe,’ Lomond said. ‘Apparently he’s seen Finch cutting about the woods.’
‘Maybe he’s out looking for ghosties and UFOs as well?’
‘Maybe he is.’
40
Lorna McGill had insisted on picking up Smythe, but Smythe rather regretted accepting the offer when she saw the car. Half of McGill was visible backing out of the front passenger side of a black Renault that was no stranger to a sore face, going by the meteor-shower scrapings along the wheel arches. Smythe was reminded of an auntie struggling to move child seats from the back of a car to make room for relatives at a funeral.
Finally, panting, McGill heaved out a bashed black case, out of all proportion to its handler. She almost backed into Smythe as the latter darted forward to help.
‘What the hell is that?’ Smythe said, helping her right the thing on the back seat.
‘Euphonium.’
Smythe blinked. ‘I believe it.’
‘It actually is.’ McGill’s plump cheeks coloured. ‘I play it. But it’s bloody awkward getting it in the back; it’s better in the front. Sorry.’
Smythe laughed. ‘Christ almighty, Lorna, it’s bigger than you!’
‘Heightist! It’s my thing. I squeezed in a quick practice with the band. I don’t get much time to do it, not as much as I’d like.’ She shrugged. ‘The job.’
‘I wish I had a thing. I keep trying to have things.’
‘What, like hobbies?’ McGill said the word as if it were her darkest fear.
‘No, not exactly . . . interests, you know? Stuff with a skill. Exactly like your euphonium. I thought I could do art, then the Ferryman thing happened, so I gave that up. Then I thought I’d try birdwatching. But I got bored of pigeons and I’m terrified of seagulls.’
‘Ah, keep looking. You’re still young enough to find your thing.’ They got into the car. It might have been bashed on the outside, but inside it smelled of cherry cola, pleasingly so.
‘Right. I’ll stick Myrtlewood Crescent into the satnav, gimme a second . . .’
*
‘You going for it, then?’ McGill whispered as they wandered along the path.
‘Going for what?’
‘The job that came up on the intranet.’
‘Oh, right.’ Smythe paused. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe.’
‘Tailor-made for you, surely.’ McGill’s voice was very low.
‘It definitely isn’t.’
‘So you’re not going for it? Detective Inspector Smythe? I can see you getting it, if I’m honest.’
‘I’m flattered. But, well, I doubt it.’
‘You should give it a go. I’m going to.’
‘Good luck to you’ was all Smythe could think to say.
‘I mean, I’m two minutes in the door, I get that. But show willing, and all that.’
‘Slater will get it.’
‘The tall baldy guy, like Nosferatu’s handsome wee brother?’
Smythe grinned, tickled at the description. ‘That’s him.’
‘Lomond’s boy, is he?’
‘Nah, Lomond doesn’t work that way. Doesn’t get on with the high-heid yins. They probably can’t wait to put him out to pasture. But Slater would be good in an interview scenario. And he’s not even close to as stupid as he comes across.’
‘Kind of depressing if he gets it, though.’
‘Kind of. We’ll see.’
‘I’m not sure why we’re whispering,’ McGill said, after a pause.
‘Me neither. You started it.’
‘Scary woods, I suppose.’ McGill sighed. ‘Why’s Lomond so keen for us to talk to Finch again?’
‘We need to find out about his hobbies.’ Smythe cupped her hand over her phone, so that the light wouldn’t carry between the trees. ‘The path through to the street’s just here.’
‘I don’t know why we came this way,’ McGill said, kicking dead branches. ‘We could just’ve parked nearby.’
‘Then they’d have known we were coming.’
‘So? Are they suspects?’
‘Aye. So I want to keep an eye out, just in case, for the thing we’ve missed.’
‘There’s always a thing,’ McGill said, whispering again.
*
Belinda Finch was an imposing figure. Arms folded, framed by bright light, she was full-figured, blonde, unsmiling. She wore a tasselled black shawl that aged her, like a Spanish widow, thought Smythe.
‘He’s out,’ she declared.
‘We were told he would be here,’ Smythe said. ‘We came here specifically to talk to him.’
‘And I said he’s out.’
‘Out where?’ Smythe said, summoning her patience.
‘He’s out the back, looking for clues.’
‘Come again?’
‘Doing his Scooby-Doo thing.’
‘It was more Velma who looked for the clues, not Scooby-Doo,’ McGill ventured.
There was a silence then, lasting a beat too long, in which the three women’s breaths fogged up.
