DEAD GONE (25 page)

Rob shook his head, smiling. ‘I expect that won’t go down too well.’

‘You’re probably right. I expect Garner will have me in his office this afternoon.’ Dan said with a sigh, before taking a swig of his pint.

‘Your pinkie’s showing Dan.’

Dan almost choked on his drink, it was an easy joke, one he used to say a lot until Jemma left. Rob enjoyed ribbing Dan about his auspicious background.

‘Haven’t heard that one from you in a while Rob, what’s with the good mood?’

‘Nothing.’ Rob replied.

‘Pull the other one Rob. Something’s going on. You’ve been moping about the place since Jemma left …’

‘She didn’t leave,’ Rob said, punctuating his words with a slam of his pint on the table.

‘Well, that is what her mother told you. We’ve been through this numerous times. Don’t you think it’s time you listened?’

‘No. She’s out there somewhere and she needs me.’

Dan sat back with a heavy sigh. ‘Look, Rob, if you need anything let me know. I’m here for you.’

‘I’m fine. I just have another lead is all.’ Rob decided not to say any more than the minimum. ‘Possible sighting of Jemma.’

‘Oh right. Well, sincerely Rob, I hope it comes to something. I really do.’

The sandwiches arrived and they ate in silence, an uneasy atmosphere between them. When they were finished, Rob went outside for a smoke, his apprehension about that evening becoming nervousness. He’d overlooked something, lost in the thoughts of having Jemma back. He didn’t really know anything. He’d spent eleven months taking days off every other week, travelling across the country trying to find her, with no luck. Now, a message on the internet of all places had lifted him out of the dark mood. It couldn’t be as simple as that.

He entered the pub again, seeing Dan writing something on a notepad. He looked up and caught Rob’s eye, stopped writing. ‘Just got the call from Garner,’ Dan said as Rob sat back down. ‘Office at two. As I suspected.’

Rob smiled. ‘Not the first time, and I reckon not the last. Share a packet of crisps before we go back?’

‘No, I best not. I have papers to grade before seeing him.’

‘Okay. I’ll get a paper on the way back and read for a bit.’

Rob stared at the front page of the local paper. So this was him. This was the man who had Jemma.

A killer.

The
Liverpool News
already had a nickname for him. ‘The Uni Ripper’. Two students, both at his university.

He’d obviously heard about it. He just hadn’t thought about it all that much. Too consumed in himself. His own problems.

Which raised the question if the person who had contacted him was the same person who had killed two women, then why was Jemma still alive?

Rob checked the time on his phone display. Two thirty a.m. Still half an hour early. He’d walked into town, down Scotland Road, an hour earlier.

The only sound encroaching on the silence was sporadic traffic from the main road which ran alongside the entrance to the Albert Dock. The water which separated the dock’s bars and the main road, Salthouse Dock, was moving silently in the biting wind.

Rob felt alone.

He made his way over to the corner he’d been directed to in the email, and leaned against a small concrete post, the streetlights illuminating him.

Droplets of rain began to fall, soft on the ground in front of him. Rob checked the time again; only five minutes to go. Too late to back out now. He glanced about, aware he was at a disadvantage if he was rushed from behind, open ground all around him.

Three a.m., and nothing happened.

He waited, feeling more foolish by the second for thinking anything would. He thought he could feel eyes watching him, the trees seemingly taking on form, hidden shapes lurking behind them.

‘Are you watching me? Come out, face me.’

There was no answer. Rob sighed, stood up preparing to leave, berating himself for having wasted a night on a stupid prank.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He’d turned it to silent, fearing noise from an unexpected call would scare someone away. It didn’t matter now he supposed, pulling the phone from his pocket. Unknown number on the display.

‘Hello.’

There was static on the line, muffled traffic in the background. ‘Hello, Robert. Leaving so soon?’ The voice was distorted, the pitch shifting around meaning he couldn’t work out what the real voice was.

Rob stopped in his tracks, looking around for any sign of the caller. ‘Where are you, where’s Jemma?’

A low laugh came down the phone, Rob gripped the phone tighter. ‘Where is she?’ he said, his teeth grinding around the words.

‘All in good time,’ the voice replied. ‘First, I’m so glad you came tonight. Alone as I asked. It pleases me you can take instruction.’

‘How did you get my number?’ Rob asked, scanning his surroundings for some sign of the caller.

‘Oh, I have my ways and means of getting what I require. Right now, I believe I have something you need.’

‘Just tell me what the fuck you want.’

‘Now now, keep that temper under control, Robert. It won’t help you. For now, just walk back towards town. Near the Liver Building, there’s wooden benches in front. Underneath the third bench on the left, there’s something there I’m sure you’ll be happy to see. I’ll be in touch soon.’

The phone went dead, Rob looked at it, before turning and hurrying towards the Liver Building. The main road to his right was quiet, just the odd taxi passing.

When he got to the bench, he reached underneath, sweeping his hand across the wood. His fingers brushed against something, he pulled it out and walked away.

He came to a stop beneath a streetlight and inspected what he’d found.

An envelope.

He knew he should go the police now; they could fingerprint it, he thought, CSI it or something. But the overwhelming feeling of what it could contain took over. He lightly opened the end, and pulled out the contents. One sheet of paper.

One sentence, written in sloping handwriting.

Harlow was the first, I’m just taking it further.

Rob looked around, noticing a few cars on the road. A black hackney cab or three driving down the main road.

‘Who’s Harlow?’ he whispered quietly into the wind.

Rob gave the taxi driver a five-pound note. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, exiting the car. The rain was now pouring down, a large puddle forming in the gutter outside his flat. He strode over to the front door, which led into the communal hallway, opened it as quickly as he could and closed it quietly behind him. He stood still for a second, his heart hammering in his chest, as he realised the full scope of what had happened that night.

In the past, if he felt threatened, he knew what to do. Get the first hit in. Sort out the rest later. At this moment however, he was at a loss.

Once inside, his wet coat hung on the back of his desk chair, Rob typed
Harlow
into his computer, and waited for the results. A couple of seconds later and he was going through Wikipedia, looking at the different uses of the word.

One stood out instantly. Harry Harlow, American Psychologist.

He clicked on the article and read.

Ten minutes later, he was sure what had happened to Jemma.

Rob went back to his homepage, opening the mail box. He clicked on the message he’d received earlier that day, ignoring the words and hitting reply.

I know what you’re doing. Harry Harlow, American psychologist. You’re replicating him in some way, and you’re using Jemma.

What do you want?

Rob waited thirty minutes before getting a reply. Pacing around the flat, his fists clenched, attempting to will the man into existence in front of him, so he had something tangible to release his anger on. He just wanted a minute alone with the bastard, that’d be perfect.

That didn’t take long at all! My, my, I may have underestimated you. The cat is out the bag I guess. The infamous Harry Harlow, an incredibly intelligent man. Of course, what he carried out back then would never pass an ethics board today. Even if it was just monkeys. No, sadly, that sort of groundbreaking research wouldn’t happen these days.

Not officially, anyway.

I’ve been carrying out my own research, with little progress. Of course, I’ve learnt a few things, but it’s not as exciting as I thought it would be. The only one of any interest seems to involve your precious Jemma.

It’s coming to the end of her time with me. Now, I don’t see many options open here. If I let her go, I may be under threat … even if there’s little chance she could tell anyone a thing that would lead to me.

I don’t care for loose ends.

You showed courage earlier. It’ll be fascinating to see how far that takes you. Once again, contact anyone about this, and she dies.

And not a quick death, Robert. I’ll make sure it’s slow. That I take pictures of every second of her agony. Share them with her mother and friends, so they know exactly what you were responsible for doing.

Once again, I’ll know if you tell the police anything.

Rob began typing a reply, before stopping himself. He had to keep control. Let himself be led back to her, and then make his move.

He needed to get fit and strong again.

He needed to be ready.

He was awake for the next few hours, reading as much as he could on the experiments carried out by the psychologist. He couldn’t make sense of most of it.

But he knew who could help him.

He crossed to the laptop, the screen coming back to life once he’d pressed a button. He typed out a reply to the last message.

I’ll wait.

The next day the police came.

His first instinct was to run, scared something would happen to Jemma if he was seen with them.

So he had. Within seconds, his decision to start smoking again caught up with him. That, and a clothesline from a large detective.

He wanted so much to tell them everything.

But those last words he’d been sent played over and over in his mind.

So he stayed quiet. Answered ‘no comment’ as the solicitor had informed him to do.

Hoped to be released before anything happened to her.

They’d lost time interviewing Rob Barker; the weekend was soon over. Nine days in already and still they were no closer. Interviews with staff at the university were giving them nothing.

‘You coming, sir?’

They were back at the university, Rossi eager to move on. Murphy had slowed down as they passed a small pub on the corner, recognising the man sitting inside. Rob Barker. Talking to a tall, well dressed man. He’d caught his eye, and Rob had quickly averted his gaze quickly.

He still wasn’t sure about him.

He was tired, unbroken sleep a distant memory at that moment. Images of darkness creeping into his vision at every turn.

‘Yeah, Barker is in there. Either a victory drink or consolation. Hard to tell.’ Murphy replied,

Rossi looked through the pub window. ‘Guy he’s sitting with seems nice.’

Murphy rolled his eyes at her. ‘Can you wait until this is over before going out with our suspect’s friends please.’

She stuck a tongue out at him.

‘You’re getting too comfortable around me,’ Murphy continued, ‘I might have to get rid.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Rossi replied, stretching her legs to catch up with him as he walked off. ‘You’d sooner have me than any other DS back there.’

Murphy sighed. ‘True.’

They passed the library once more, a lot more activity around the area than the last time they were there.

The university felt different to Murphy the second time around. Instead of the endless maze of funny little corridors, it began to feel more like a coffin, a cocoon of madness. The passages smaller, the walls closer. His eyes were playing tricks on him …

Dozens of clever and bright men and women locked away in small offices, thinking up new ways to test society. It was at that moment Murphy become sure the killer was among them. He’d always known that on some level. It was proving it which would be harder.

‘Do you think he’s doing it on purpose?’ Rossi said as they waited for the lift.

‘Who’s doing what?’

‘The killer. We’re dealing with a supposedly highly intelligent guy, who thinks everything through. Is it really likely he would lead us straight to his place of work?’

‘Possibly. He wants us to know what he was doing, maybe to be in awe of his work.’ Murphy stepped back to allow Rossi into the lift first.

‘Hmm,’ she said, pressing the second floor button. ‘Just seems a bit neat, that’s all.’

The professor was waiting in his office, opening the door with a solemn look on his face. ‘Detectives, I wish we were meeting in better circumstances.’

‘Likewise,’ Rossi replied. ‘Can we use the meeting room again?’

‘Of course. Follow me.’

They followed the professor as he led them around the corridors. As they passed an open office, Murphy took a look inside, seeing a spiky haired, young-looking guy in front of a computer. He recognised him as the lecturer who had brought them to Garner’s office the first time around. The man wasn’t what he fixed upon however; rather, the copious amounts of alcohol surrounding him. Boxes of bottled lager, large bottles of vodka and other spirits. Murphy caught up to the professor as they walked, touching him lightly on the arm. The professor jumped slightly, stopping in the middle of the corridor, looking between the two detectives.

‘Sorry professor.’ Murphy said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. I just wanted to ask about the office we just passed.’

‘No bother,’ Garner said, walking on again. ‘Just the old heart isn’t what it once was. That would be Tom Davies, a lecturer here. He does a lot of work looking at the affects of alcohol in society. He’s published some very good work.’

‘Really? People drink too much, get drunk … what else is there to know?’

‘You’d be surprised what we can learn with a bit of initiative,’ Garner replied, showing those nicotine stained teeth once more. ‘Here we are.’