Cucumber Coolie (7 page)

A piece of paper I’d seen very recently.

I gulped. I didn’t want to look at this note. I didn’t want to see what the damned hell was written on it, because I had a feeling I knew already.

Karma’s way of kicking me in the nuts for turning a blind eye on what was staring me in the face.

I steadied myself. Tried to hold on to the piss that was almost creeping out of me.

I unfolded the note.

My stomach dropped completely.

I have your girlfriend.

I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

If you go to the police, I will kill her.

I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

I will torture her even more if you do anything stupid.

Twenty-four hours started at 2a.m.

Look around.

The route is nearby.

Use your mind.

—Hose.

PS: I’m expecting big things from you, hero. ;)

My vision clouded. The whole room around me seemed to drift away. My breathing intensified. I looked at my phone screen. Nine a.m. Shit. Seven hours gone already. Shit, shit, shit.

I wanted to get out of this house. I wanted to get the police right away, but the letter told me not to.

I wanted to understand why this was happening to me.

But all I could do was empty the second thing from the jiffy bag.

A Mini DV tape hit the bed.

TWELVE

I ran back to my flat at the Docklands without even thinking about it.

My mind raced as I put one foot down in front of the other. My entire body felt numb, like every muscle had been coated in a layer of ice. Rainwater splashed up under every step, covering my scruffy jeans, but I didn’t care.

All I cared about was that note.

All I cared about was Danielle’s disappearance.

All I cared about was the Mini DV tape shaking around in my pocket.

I turned the street towards the docks and almost ran out in front of a car, which honked at me. I’d tried calling Danielle. Tried calling her a few times, but no response. Answerphone. “Welcome to T-Mobile, the person you are calling is unavailable…” over and over and over again.

I tried to think properly as I ran back to my flat, the late summer rain sprinkling over me. Tried to work out whether to go to the police station, or whether to just get back and watch the tape. Try and work out the answers for myself.

My breathing was shaky.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to tell.

I crossed the road again, by the roundabout this time. More cars honked at me, but it just went over my head. Usually, I’d have stuck a middle finger up at the bloody things, but today wasn’t the day for that.

I’d screwed with karma enough as it was.

I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

I clenched my fists.

I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

That’s it. I needed to go to the police. I needed their inept ruddy help.

If you go to the police, I will kill her.

Police idea drifted out of my mind.

I approached my apartment block. In the corner of my eye, I saw a newspaper stand. The words “VIDEO KILLER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM” were splayed out across it.

The second tape. The second husband had failed.

The second wife had died.

I couldn’t let Danielle become the third victim.

I reached the rotating doors of the Wilmslow Docklands Apartments. Felt sick to the stomach when I thought of seeing James Scotts there, desperate for my help.

I could’ve helped him. I could’ve tried to save his wife.

I could’ve stopped him killing himself.

I could’ve stopped the killer before he kidnapped Danielle.

My bottom lip quivering like hell, I charged through into the reception area. I stormed past the desk and jogged towards the stairs. Didn’t have time to wait for the bloody lift today. Besides, the idea of small-talk was a frigging grim one, that’s for sure.

I threw open the stairway door. Jogged up the steps, jogged further and further and further until eventually I reached my flat on the forty-eighth.

“You okay, mate?” a woman asked. She looked at me all sweaty and panting, with narrowed eyes.

I ignored her and fumbled my way into my flat.

Time was of the essence.

I couldn’t waste a second.

I slammed the door shut and charged into my bedroom. Slid onto my knees, pulled out a plastic container that I kept a load of camcorders and electronics in.

I searched through the wires. Searched through the Mini DV camcorders. “Come on… come the fuck on…”

Where the hell was it? I’d definitely had one at some point. One or five, anyway. Just my luck. Just my shitting luck.

As I searched the next plastic container, I couldn’t help but imagine Danielle. Imagine where she might be, what the killer might be doing to her. “Hose,” he called himself.

I thought back to the footage of the hose wedged down Denise Scotts’ throat and I couldn’t help but see Danielle in her place.

I searched some more. “Come on, come on, come… Argh!”

I punched the container, which probably was a shitty idea considering how much it stung my bloody knuckles. I collapsed onto the floor beside my bed. Shook my head, squeezed my eyes shut.

I knew what was on that tape anyway. Why did I have to see it? Why did I have to watch what I already understood?

I sniffed up. Soppy bastard. It was my own fault for caring about Danielle. This was what happened when I cared about people. First, Grace Wallens all those years ago. Now Danielle.

This was exactly the reason why I was never going to settle down.

I tried to steady my breathing as I lay there on the floor. My mind raced. Colours drifted through my vision, and I realised how tired and shaky and generally shitty I was.

And then I heard my watch ticking and realised I’d better get a shitting move on because every second counted.

Even if there was nothing I could do to save Danielle.

No. Don’t think like that. Watch the tape first. This could all just be some ill-judged joke. A Lenny wind-up.

Telling myself that just made me hate Lenny even more although he’d not technically done anything.

I lifted my head. Grabbed the next plastic container with my shaky hands. The camcorder wasn’t in here. I was almost certain it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be in the last bloody box I’d search in.

It was there.

I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or relieved when I lifted the camcorder from the box. Probably a mixture of both.

I plugged it in. Let it get some juice. Ejected the tape inside that I’d done some test footage on once upon a time, and clicked in the Mini DV tape that had come in the jiffy bag.

And then I opened up the little windowed screen beside the camera and I pressed play.

This tape started much like the Denise Scotts tape. Grainy. Dark. Impossible to figure out.

But then the sound of heavy breathing cut through the static. The sound of wind, and of…

Of footsteps echoing.

An image appeared on the screen. Garbled and fuzzy, but definitely something. There was a light. A streetlamp. And houses. Semi-detached houses. Danielle’s house. And there was…

My stomach sank when I saw the man staggering down the street towards Danielle’s house.

Me.

Drunken fool me.

I watched myself look right at the camera, eyes all over the place. The bloke with the bin bag. The bloke with the frigging bin bag. So it wasn’t just drunken paranoia. He really was watching me. He really was crazy.

I watched myself walk to Danielle’s door, all the while listening to the cameraman’s heavy breathing, his muffled laughs.

My muscles tightened when I saw Danielle open the door.

I watched us chat. Watched us stare into one another’s eyes, like I was a fly on the wall seeing our relationship from a distance. Shit, she meant a lot to me. Meant the bloody world. I’d give any number of iPads up to get her back.

Well. Maybe not
any
number.

I watched myself go inside.

Watched Danielle shut the door.

And I watched the tape fizz out to static.

A few seconds later, the tape came to life again. I saw a quick shot of the door opening, and then a jump.

A jump shot to me, snoring on the sofa.

A jump shot to… shit.

The cameraman prodded a syringe into my neck and I stopped snoring.

And then the next shot was upstairs. Upstairs in Danielle’s bedroom. She was all alone. All alone, fast asleep, blonde hair covering her eyes.

I watched the cameraman bring the syringe closer to her and I wanted to scream out at her to wake up.

I tasted salt on my lips when the syringe touched her neck. When her eyes opened up, and the cameraman covered her mouth with his black-gloved hand.

I tasted more salt on my lips as I watched her eyes fully water up, her eyelids droop, and her fall to sleep.

There were more shots. More little cuts to me on the sofa, then to Danielle in the back seat of a car, and then back to me, only I was on Danielle’s bed now.

But I didn’t take them in. I couldn’t process them, or what they meant.

I was too busy sobbing my frigging face off to care.

I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

It was half ten. Which gave me fifteen and a half hours.

If you go to the police, I will kill her.

I couldn’t tell the police. Tell the police, and she would die.

I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

It was that part that got me most. Because no matter what happened from now on, I’d failed Danielle. She’d been taken away and I’d failed to protect her.

I could’ve stopped this.

I wiped my eyes. Rewound the tape to the beginning and hit play, still unable to focus properly.

Look around.

The route is nearby.

Use your mind.

I lifted my phone with my quivering hands and rang the only person in the world that I thought might stand the tiniest chance of helping me.

THIRTEEN

I watched Martha’s face go from bemused to quizzical to full-on frigging pale as she watched the tape from start to finish.

“Well?” I asked. I was sat on my sofa staring at her. There was a complete silence around the flat, as she rewound the tape, started from scratch. She cleared her throat and avoided all eye contact with me, twiddling with the collar of her white shirt.

“It’s… And you’re sure—”

“You’ve seen the bloody note,” I said. I held the note I’d received out to Martha again. My mouth absolutely hung with menthol, and my nose was streaming with my opened airways after necking a whole packet of Halls cough sweets.

“Alright, alright,” Martha said. She scratched at her cheeks, digging into her makeup with her fingernails. Squinted into the darkness of the camcorder screen, the darkness outside Danielle’s house last night. “I just… I dunno, hun. You’re gonna have to call the police.”

I laughed. Wafted the note in her face again. “You’re seriously suggesting I call the bloody police? Let’s forget about their ineptitude for a minute and address the fact that Danielle’s kidnapper says he’s gonna bloody kill her if I go anywhere near the police.”

“Hey!” Martha said. She raised her hands. “You called me for help. I’m giving it, sunshine. If you don’t like it, then don’t take it out on me.”

I kind of wanted to apologise to Martha, but I figured I had a more than adequate excuse for my dickish move.

“I could’ve stopped this,” I said, shaking my head. “I could’ve… I could’ve helped Lenny or—or James Scotts, and I could’ve stopped this.”

Martha tutted. “So you’re saying this is my fault because I talked you out of getting involved? Jesus, Blake. Grow up.”

“I didn’t say that, mard-arse. I just… I was ready. Ready to commit to Danielle last night. Ready to tell her how frigging much I care about her. And then… and then this.”

Martha raised her eyebrows. “It does sound typical of your shitty luck, I’ve gotta admit.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

I knocked back a few more Halls cough sweets and let my mouth ignite.

“Okay we… So there’s no police involvement, the letter says. But what’s this about ‘looking around’? And the ‘route being nearby’?”

I shrugged. “I… I dunno Martha. I can barely watch that bloody tape without my eyes going fuzzy.”

“Teary?”

“No, not—not teary. Just… angry fuzzy.”

Martha narrowed her eyes. “Angry fuzzy. Right. Well I… I dunno what to suggest Blake. I mean… watching this tape, all we know is that there has to be CCTV footage of this guy somewhere. But the only way to identify him is—”

“Through the police. Sure.”

Martha closed her mouth and sighed.

“Don’t you… don’t you know someone?”

Martha frowned. “Know someone? I know a few people, yeah.”

“No I mean like, people who could get us CCTV footage. Place round Goosnargh where it’s all recorded nowadays, right?”

“You want to break into a CCTV facility?”

“Not break in. Just… just borrow.”

“And then what? Find a guy all wrapped up outside Danielle’s house on camera? See exactly what you know’s there already, only no closer to identification?”

I started to object but I couldn’t. Martha had a point. She had a frigging good point.

I leaned back on my sofa. Covered my eyes with my hands. Every time I closed them, I had to open them again fast because I just saw Danielle. Saw what might be happening to her.

The cuts.

The screams.

The hose…

No. Don’t think like that. Don’t do it.

Martha squinted at the letter. “It just seems… weirdly worded.”

I leaned towards her. “Weirdly worded?”

“Yeah, like… I dunno. Like the tape is a distraction from the letter, or something like that. A diversion tactic.”