Jack in the Box, page 25
‘I don’t think it’s him,’ Slater said, but he didn’t sound sure. He bit the side of his mouth distractedly.
‘Could be Laybourn,’ Tait said.
‘It could,’ Lomond said quietly.
‘Might be Finch. Finch is about six foot. How about Symes? We ruled him out?’
‘He couldn’t possibly have done it, unless he did something very weird with a body double, or something,’ Lomond said, ‘something a bit Agatha Christie. We’ve mapped out that one.’ He nodded towards Slater. ‘But as usual we rule nothing out until we definitely rule it out.’
‘Surely not Symes,’ Smythe said.
‘He was stalking them,’ Tait said. ‘How? Drones?’
‘Yep,’ Lomond said.
‘That points to Finch,’ Slater said. ‘Or Kettles. Both of them used drones.’
‘We’re overlooking the one person we know for a fact has actually killed people. Laybourn,’ Tait said sharply. ‘Part of his redacted career before he started delivering parcels was being attached to a unit that flew unmanned drones to take out terrorists in the Middle East. And we know he personally handled a corpse connected to this case. He’s all over it.’
Lomond raised a hand, cutting off Slater’s twisted-face riposte. ‘Laybourn is probably top of the list on that evidence. But there’re too many things that count him out. Alibis, mainly.’
Smythe frowned. ‘So he’s using drones to scope out his victims and finding out when they’re going to be home alone – right?’
‘Too much of a coincidence to be luck.’
‘There’s something that really jars, though.’ Smythe counted on her fingers. ‘One – a woman on her own. Good-looking, looked after herself. But no sign of sexual contact. No semen, no indication she was touched or violated that we know of. If there was something paraphilic, it’s not obvious. I mean, he got off on it, that’s what creeps do. But not obviously. Then we have victim two – gay guy, young, strong. Again, no sign of any sexual assault. Three – another woman, early middle age, survived. And then we go back to the original victim, if he actually was a victim. Homeless guy, drifting around. All the signs point to him being a trial run, but we can’t know for sure. Let’s assume he was, and we’ve got three people dead and one left alive to mess with her head . . . and ours. What’s the connection? There’s no victim profile here. We’ve got a method, fair enough, and we’ve got a shape, at least. There’s a person there. Apart from that, I don’t get it. This looks so bloody random, but it can’t be, can it?’
‘No,’ Lomond said. ‘In terms of the victims, I’m tempted to say it doesn’t matter. Could be anyone – all that matters is the location, the times, the setting, the circumstances, every element but the face. If Mrs Burgess hadn’t told us about what he said to her, then I’d be tempted to say he backed out of killing her, that something spooked him, or there was a detail he didn’t like, so he aborted whatever mission he has in his head. But he left her alive deliberately. On top of that, there’s the bomb scare at Nicole Kingsley’s.’ Lomond began to pace up and down, touching the empty seat backs as he went. ‘So we know that, as well as being very organised, he’s a games-player. Likes to mess with us. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next attempt to spook us involved an actual bomb.’
‘I agree,’ Tait said. ‘We have to look at stepping up security. It was confident, for a hoax.’
‘He’s a confident guy,’ Slater said. ‘First victim, the homeless guy . . . God knows, he could have been out his mind on smack, but he wasn’t a shrinking violet. Then there’s Rowan Beattie – he worked out, he was fit, it’s not like he was drunk or anything. He had headphones on when Drew left, so he’d have been surprised. Our jack-in-the-box was taking a big chance with him. Even Mrs Symes did boxing training, worked out with a heavy bag; she was physically fit. He’s got away with it so far. So he’s strong and he’s cocky.’
‘Don’t want to do the bias thing,’ Tait said, ‘but I’m saying Laybourn, all the way.’
‘It does fit,’ Lomond said. ‘But I’m open to other ideas.’ He nodded towards Fahey. ‘Niall, thanks. We’re going to head into our briefing room. I need to talk it over with the team.’
‘You’ve got a plan? Catch him at it?’
‘Oh aye. He’s escalating. He’ll do it again, and soon.’ Lomond looked grave for a moment. ‘But we know what he’s about. And I’ve got a wee idea.’
55
Kelly Martin was forty-one, weathering well. Park run every Saturday, spin class on a Thursday, and swimming every other week. She was at home in the water, but pool etiquette killed her. Always some bloody Tarzan zooming past. Not that Kelly wasn’t fast, but it was such a luxury to swim at your leisure, a very human thing. Animals always got hunted. Survival was at the heart of everything they did. Enjoy your swim too much, you forget about the crocodiles, the sharks – the humans.
Kelly was doing an online yoga thing – not live, prerecorded, part of the deal she had with her fitness tracker that probably knew the day you were going to die, but didn’t tell you. Kelly could have done with that sort of forecasting when Louis had left her six years ago. Louis had wanted kids; Kelly had not. They should probably have sorted that out before they married. Now Kelly was seeing a guy she had matched with in Loughborough. Lovely, own house, toilet-trained, knew how to wear his clothes, might even be trusted to buy some for Kelly, as he had done on her last birthday – an upgrade on Louis, that was certain. A decision might have to be made, but not any time soon. She enjoyed the travel, the time away, her own space. There was a sense that she owed nothing, and no one owed her. Kelly hadn’t ever imagined what forty-one would be like, but if you’d asked her even ten years ago she would never have told you it would be . . . all right. There were things to look forward to, places to go, people to meet. Nothing harsh, nothing uneasy.
She lived in the end-terrace house on Killenmuir Close, an unexpected but welcome legacy from a great-aunt in Australia who had met Kelly twice when she was little and adored her. That had come at the right time, make no mistake – Louis fired out the door, then the legacy waltzing in, a gift from the gods. It was cold tonight, everything in Kelly’s garden frosted over – even the imitation lawn (and, yes, she did like it, thank you very much – the bloody bees and butterflies had other places to go, she was sure). Hoarfrost.
On the calendar was a date in two weeks’ time: down to Loughborough to meet Drew, with his crinkly Irish eyes, blue and so sparkly there seemed to be a bit of sunlight trapped in there. Drew. There it was, in black and white on the calendar, with the train time and a starburst around it for good measure. She’d even written Early night before it. Who else would do that?
*
She drank a hot chocolate in the kitchen. There was a dash of blue in the sky that night, and she watched the darkness chase it away, enjoying the conifers’ swaying in the window, jagged black on indigo. At one point a single red eye had blinked somewhere in front of the conifers, enough to catch her eye. But it was soon gone, whatever it was. Weird how the mind played tricks.
She had a cosy evening, listening to the radio turned down low. She was clearly visible through the back windows, but the garden was secluded and the vine-effect hanging she’d left by the far wall meant that anyone who wanted to peer in at her would have to be very determined indeed.
She made sure the door was locked. She made sure to take the key out. She set up the video camera and made sure the security light was armed. She kicked off her slippers and got underneath the covers. It was a big, thick duvet, the best, and the sheets were fresh on that day. The quilt swallowed her up. She was cosy as cosy could be.
Kelly closed her eyes.
Beyond the curtains, the security light came on, an intrusion even through the thick velvet curtains. A razor’s-edge white flare visible through a crack in the material.
56
The trick is to keep breathing. Gets you calm and focused, any therapist will tell you. He’d even said as much to the bitch in the bath. ‘Just slow down your breathing . . . slow . . . slow it down . . .’
On came his spotlight. He should have loved it. Should have taken a bow – it wasn’t like anyone would see it but him – but certain things in the mind told you it wasn’t the right thing to do, even wearing your Sunday best. Part of you wanted to freeze, like an arrow-branded convict in a cartoon. But he knew the science behind it, knew this was part of the plan, knew he’d get away with it. You just had to follow the steps, like mirror, signal, manoeuvre.
A quick hop, skip and a jump, and one of those nasty seconds when the key jingled. This was the moment, now. If they’d taken one simple wee precaution, then the mission was over. It had happened once: that woman up in Bearsden. Next door’s dog had been a problem there as well – simply hadn’t shown up in any previous recces. Usually the four-legged friends barked their heads off at the UFOs, but no dice with that one. It had stayed quiet until he’d appeared on the decking. Had to get out of there fast.
Excitement was kicking up a notch. Several notches.
Clanking key – that would get the bedroom window shoved open. There she was, fast asleep.
This one was to show he was serious. Deadly serious. Do a guy next time, for balance. So they didn’t think he was a pervert. Not an obvious pervert, anyway.
A satisfying click. A well-oiled mechanism, doing what it was supposed to do. No alarm triggered, of course – who did that? Even with dangerous characters roaming around? No one would arm an alarm while they were in the house. And yet it might have saved them. You could isolate it just for the back door. Ironic.
Close the door, carefully now. Wait until the light clicks off in the garden. Naked eye, that was the trouble. All bets are off then. Polis would be over soon if he was spotted, and he couldn’t silence her straight away. Some of them were handy; went to self-defence. You couldn’t be too careful there. Treat them the same way you would some meathead. Cover the face. It would happen fast tonight. She’d see. Or, rather, she wouldn’t. They never saw him if he could help it. They might not even hear his heavy breathing, his excited mutterings. But they’d know, just before the lights went out, who was in their house, snuffing them.
Be funny if he did one of the polis. That baldy pipecleaner one would be good. Give them all something to think about.
Right. Focus. Kitchen. Clean. Tidy. Saw his own shadow on the wall. Scary in silhouette, the hood, the bulky figure. Have to go light on your feet. Don’t want to stand on a cracker she left on the tiles. Don’t want to slip on a puddle of spilled wine or something, and definitely, definitely don’t want to leave any footprints. Time enough to wipe up anything afterwards. He usually did a thorough clean. You could get paranoid about it though. Oh no, I’ve used kitchen towels, but have I contaminated the roll? Left a hair somewhere? That was how they got you. How they’d probably get him. But, whatever, that was fine.
Imagine opening the door and – boom – she’s there, unexpected, having wandered down half asleep to get a glass of water. Imagine the face framed in moonlight, then the eyes widening – you’d be in the game then. You’d need to move fast. You’d have your work cut out.
But he was ready for that, if it happened, and of course it didn’t. Opening out onto the hallway. Jesus, this place was tiny. He’d heard of compact, but this was ridiculous. Guess it was cosy in a way. Made you feel safe and protected, like in the womb. Well, she’d be wrapped up tight soon, right enough. Flip the cover over her, pile some cushions on top, and his body weight would do the rest. Wait till the spasms had stopped . . . they could play dead. You had to be sure.
No creaky stairs – they made these places solid, hats off to Avalon King. The queen bitch didn’t stand for any incompetence, no stupid behaviour, no bottles of piss walled up anywhere. Any hint of any of these things and you got your cards. And you only messed with the queen bitch once.
The anticipation, the jangling nerves as he took the steps, so very slowly. Good thick carpet. Warm in here. Kept the heat in well. Hopefully the sound too. Just in case she got a scream out.
Bathroom, spare room, ninety-degree turn, and there it was. He paused, collecting himself. Breathing. That was the thing. He focused. Everything was throbbing, his head and his entire perception pulsing, like when the waves come in when you’re stoned. Collapsing in on yourself: a dark star, a black hole, where not even light escapes.
No light for this bitch now.
The green-gloved hand quivered slightly as he reached out, and here was the biggest violation yet: into the bedroom. First time he’d done it in the bedroom. Made it special. It had bothered him, a little, that he’d had that Symes bitch all to himself, slick and wet out the bath, and . . . but no. No time for that. What did they think he was, some kind of pervert?
He almost burst out laughing.
No stirring on the bed. One step, two. Then he paused. Felt like she might be watching him. Like when you know there’s a television on in a room, before you’ve gone all the way through the door, even though you can’t hear anything or see any change in the light. There’s a vibration, echolocation, proprioception, something like that. You know, you sense it. She awake?
She wasn’t. Soft, quiet breathing, head turned to one side.
Big wardrobe with mirrored doors. One not enough for her, obviously. Vain. Might let her see herself. Uncover her eyes, just long enough so she can see herself. That could be done.
Another step forward.
The mirror on the left-hand side swung wide.
‘Boo!’ Lomond cried.
57
The bedside light clicked on.
To say he roared would not quite cover it. It was a peal of astonishment, like a church bell cut free from its moorings. Lomond advanced on the ghost, the invisible man, this green swamp creature from a nightmare. It wore a poncho that left the arms free. They were green too, covered in a different material but the same colour. The face was hooded, a vague dimpling in the material where Lomond supposed the eyes were.
The ghost stumbled backwards.
The woman in the bed had kicked back the covers and was approaching from the other side. Not the woman the ghost had been watching: someone equally diminutive but muscular, with black hair swept back across the scalp and intense brown eyes.
‘Stay where you are,’ Lorna McGill said tersely.
Lomond stepped forward, fast.
The ghost backpedalled, collided with a bedpost and fell heavily. With a rebound technique available only to the very supple or very drunk, he was back on his feet almost instantly, diving for the door.
Smythe blocked the way. She locked his hands and kicked away his legs and threw him to the floor. Lomond placed a knee on the small of his back and had the handcuffs over his wrists as if he’d waved a wand. The ghost bucked, writhed and screeched at an unearthly pitch. He dislodged Lomond, got to one knee, then up straight, just in time to aim a brutal kick at Smythe, which she could not dodge. She grunted, taking it high on the hip. The ghost, hands fastened behind his back, leapt for the gap in the door. Lomond extended a leg, and he tripped headlong into Slater, who blocked the doorframe.
Slater finished it with a single meaty punch – a piledriver below the ribs that folded the ghost in half. The sight of it stole the breath from Lomond. The ghost landed on its face with an unmistakable finality, wheezing.
‘Enough of that,’ Lomond said, raising a hand to Slater.
‘Bastard,’ was all Slater said, glaring at the green shape at his feet.
Lomond planted a knee on the hooded figure’s back for the second time. His hands probed all the usual nooks and crannies, where shiny, sharp things were usually kept: nothing.
‘I don’t like doing this, son, and we’d rather not hurt you. Don’t try anything. We’ll let you get your breath back, then we’re heading down to the station. I’ll do the formal thing, first. Shane Kingsley, I’m arresting you for murder. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say may be taken down in evidence and used against you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’
The prone figure’s left foot came up, a lazy gesture reminiscent of a whale’s fluke breaching. Then it fell.
‘You can nod if you like, Shane,’ Lomond said. ‘Can’t hear you. Do you understand what we’re saying, son?’
Smythe, still wincing, lunged forward. Lomond was sure she was going to hit the captive. Instead, she snatched off his hood, biting her lip in compressed fury.
Sure enough, it was just a boy on the floor. Tall, rangy, muscular, but still a boy, eyes liquescent in the soft lighting. He was still struggling to breathe.
‘It would have been funny if we’d got it wrong, you have to admit,’ Slater said, with a wry smile. ‘Like if it turned out to be the butler after all. Worse if it was Laybourn. Tait would have been unbearable.’
The boy on the floor forced some words out. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing.
‘Come again, son?’ Lomond said.
‘I said,’ Shane Kingsley whispered, drooling, ‘don’t call me son.’
‘OK, Shane, joint enterprise here: we’re going to get you downstairs, then after a wee drive, we’ll get a doctor to look you over, then we’ll all have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. Could be a long night.’
58
They headed for Lomond’s car. Blue lights washed the scene, with the SOCOs just arriving. Soon there’d be the tents, the lights, but no body, and – the inspector smiled at the thought – no Lomond.
Shane Kingsley was penned in between him and Slater, his arms gripped firmly. The boy didn’t resist, and it was a short walk, but a chill had come down and the street was icy. ‘Mind your step,’ Lomond said. ‘Looks a bit slippy out the front.’
Having recovered his breath, and a little of his moxie, Shane said, ‘Yeah, someone could come to grief out here if they’re not careful. Maybe we could find some stairs for me to fall down?’
