Hurt (The Hurt Series) (31 page)

‘’Course. Where else would he be?’

‘Hang in there, sweetie. I promise − ’ but there was no one on the end of the line to make the empty promise to.

She grabbed the vodka and heaved herself from the floor. Her legs wavered and she reached for the bed for balance. Fell on to the duvet and cursed as she lost her bearings and the phone.

‘Catherine?’ Ray’s voice, distant and small.

She scrambled through the duvet, chasing the voice, knowing she hadn’t long to respond to it.

‘Catherine, you there?’

She spotted the phone on the carpet next to an open file on Chambers. Reached for it with her free hand, brought it to her ear and pushed herself into a seating position. ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

‘You alright?’

‘Fine. Is Chloe alright?’ She stole a quick pull on the vodka.

‘She’s worried about you.’

‘I’m not the one she should be worrying about. It’s
you
she should be worried about.’

Ray sighed. ‘I’m doing okay. Listen, Cathy, we’re all going stir crazy here. So as much as we all want to hear your voice, the last thing we need is you calling up drunk every week and telling us you’re closer to catching Chambers and getting us out of here when you’re clearly not. It’s not fair on any of us.’

She swallowed more vodka, a sudden fury igniting within her. ‘Wait a minute, Ray. So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t lie to my daughter to spare her feelings? Is that it?’

‘I’m saying − ’

‘Because if that
is
what you’re saying then do you know what that makes you, Ray? Huh? It makes you a hypocrite! You hear me! A fucking hypocrite!’

Ray didn’t hear her because the line was dead.

Chapter
Eighty-four

Wednesday, December 6
^th

Again.

‘One, two, three…’

‘Knowledge in my pain… Or was my tolerance a phrase. Empathy out of my way… I can’t die. I can’t die. I can’t die…’

Such was the noise from her music she continued the count in her head, striding across the carpet of files and paperwork toward the door. ‘…eleven,’ she said when finally her forehead met resistance.

Ignoring the pain in her forehead, she turned and planted her bare heels against the door. Again.

Took a step. ‘One, two…’

‘Never ever surrender
−
I won’t allow it! Never ever surrender
−
despise! My state of mind gets so one sided. Despise, despise, despise….’

‘…eight, nine, ten…’ She reached the window opposite and pushed her nose against the drawn curtains. ‘…eleven.’

Again she turned. Paced the room until her forehead was pressed hard against the picture of the ex-sniper with the scarred face taped to the door. ‘…ten.’

Ten?

How can that be?

How can it be ten when all the other times had been eleven?

She hadn’t altered her pace or lengthened her stride. And as much as she felt as if the walls were closing in on her, logic dictated the room hadn’t actually suddenly shrunk.

So where had that one step gone? It couldn’t have just vanished. This was no random act of God that was out of her control. No game devised by Chamber’s to mess with her head.

She
controlled the steps, not God or Chambers.
She
controlled them. They did not control her. They were of her doing, her creation.

She. Is. In. Control.

She blinked against something wet and warm that had trickled onto her eyelid. The liquid spilled onto her cheek and trickled down to her top lip. She didn’t need to see or taste the tear to know it was blood. She could smell it.

She knew the smell well. It was the smell that had overpowered the aroma of her mother’s chicken casserole when Hoyt had come calling. It was the smell that had stayed with her ever since, dictating her life both personally and professionally to this point in time. To this room.

To this exact place in the room. Standing before the door staring at the man who wanted to kill her. Corporal Phillip Chambers, who had watched his best friend die in his arms and had found salvation in the experience.

‘Try listening to your whole family die. Then tell me you’re a better person for it.’

She dabbed at a sticky red smudge on Chamber’s forehead. No doubt there was a similar one on hers. She smeared her blood over her nemesis’ shrapnel scarred face. Smiled as she imagined it was his own blood, spilt from the bullet she would plant between his eyes when finally he found came for her.

Chapter
Eighty-five

Saturday, December 9
^th

It went like this: Today room 199 to the right of her room through the adjoining door was occupied by Mr Chan, a Chinese banker over here on business. Yesterday the room’s occupants were a Mr and Mrs Smith, who were spending a seedy night away from their respected partners. Tomorrow the room will be home to a Mr Prior, who worked for a sporting goods company in town for a conference in one of the hotel’s three conference rooms.

None of these people actually existed, except in her head.

She decided who the room’s occupants were to be, and for how long they stayed. She footed the bill, and considered it money well spent.

Whenever she required room service, she would phone from 199 then return to her room to watch whoever entered next door on the tiny security camera she’d strategically hidden beneath a pillow. Safe in her room, she would watch in real time as room service would keep up the pretence, greeting whoever she had instructed them to pretend resided there, before leaving what she had ordered on the table. They would then lock the door on the way out, and she would wait until she was satisfied they and her cover had not been compromised.

Once satisfied, she would enter the room, Webley in hand, collect her order, and retreat back to the sanctuary of the room in which she felt safest.

The same rules applied to visitors, the last being Mason some time ago, who, after she was convinced had not been compromised by Chambers into betraying her, had been ushered into her safe haven. And then, to her utter disbelief, had dared to comment on her method of survival.

‘Okay, Detective Inspector,’ she’d said. ‘If you were me, what would
you
do?’

‘For a start, I’d stop feeling so damn sorry for myself, drag my arse out of this room, and help us catch the bastard,’ had come Mason’s reply.

‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself, you condescending prick. I’m looking out for myself. Staying. Alive!’

‘You keep sucking vodka for breakfast, lunch and dinner and you won’t be alive for much longer.’

‘Yeah, well, at least I’d have died by my own hand and not by some fucked-up jarhead’s.’

‘Right, and I’m sure Chloe and Ray would understand.’

‘Don’t you
dare
to presume to know what my family is thinking.’

‘I’m not presuming. I
know
what they think of you, and that aint much.’

‘Yeah, well fuck you, Scott! If
I
can’t catch the bastard, what the hell makes you think
you
can?’

‘For a start, I’m sober.’

‘You’ve also outstayed your welcome. Now fuck off!’

That had been the last she’d heard from any of her team.

Chapter
Eighty-six

Sunday, December 10
^th

Today Alistair was on room service duty. In his early twenties, Alistair had a soft, friendly voice and kind smile, neatly combed brown hair and wide, attentive eyes. He appeared comfortable in the hotel’s uniform of white shirt, burgundy bow tie and waistcoat, and black trousers, wearing them as if they were his own clothes. She figured he saw himself running the hotel in the future, and she liked that about him. Such ambition showed responsibility and trust. And she needed all the responsible, trustworthy people she could find.

Alistair entered the adjoining room and placed the tray with the orange juice, bottled water, and two fresh glasses on it down on the table. There was no water in the bottle, only vodka. After all, who ordered vodka at ten in the morning other than a paranoid cop too afraid to leave her room?

Via the tiny concealed camera hidden beneath the pillow, she watched on her laptop as Alistair began to leave the room. The next thing she knew, she was through the integral door and calling to the young waiter. ‘Alistair, right?’

Alistair stopped at the door, seemingly frozen by the voice he had only ever heard over the phone.

‘Just thought it would be nice to say hi in person,’ she said with the warmest smile she could muster. ‘So…hi.’

Alistair returned the smile, but it lacked any sincerity. ‘Hello.’

She pulled the integral door shut behind her, aware of the mess and the stench of stale cigarette smoke beyond. ‘Listen…what you and the hotel are doing for me, well, I really appreciate it.’

‘Not at all.’

‘You know why I’m here, right?’

Alistair looked at his feet, reluctant, she thought, to look her in the eye. ‘I’m aware of your circumstances, madam, yes.’

‘Please, call me Catherine.’

Alistair acknowledged the courtesy with a polite nod.

She noted his awkward posture, finding it endearing. She moved to the table and retrieved the tray with the disguised vodka. ‘For later. You’re on until seven tonight, right?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Meeting your girlfriend after your shift I suspect.’

‘I − ’

‘Sorry, none of my business.’ She walked slowly back round the bed towards the integral door. ‘You like vodka, Alistair?’

Alistair shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘I’m more of a lager man to be honest.’

‘Lager, huh? Good for you. Tell you what… I’m partial to a couple of cold ones myself, especially around seven in the evening.’ She gave Alistair a wink and swore she saw him blush before he looked back at his feet. ‘Just so as you know.’

Watching Alistair leave, she shuffled back through to her room, where she was greeted with her reflection in the full length mirror.

Dressed in black knickers and nothing else, she didn’t think she looked too bad for her age.

Did
Alistair agree?

Maybe around seven o’clock she’d be able to ask him.

Maybe.

Chapter
Eighty-seven

Wednesday, December 13
^th

She gnawed on the biro top and scanned the word search puzzle for that elusive final word.

‘You’re always here,’ she hissed at the page. ‘I’m just not looking hard enough.’

The elusive word in the 90’s action films puzzle she now hunted was PREDATOR. She blinked at the blurred grid of jumbled letters on the page.

The word was not there. Simple. The publishers of the puzzle book had made a mistake − again! This was not the first time they’d neglected to include a word in the grid of jumbled letters. Every one of the hundreds of puzzles she’d begun in the dozens of books strewn across the room’s floor had been missing that final word.

She knew it was not her who could not find it, because she had never failed to complete a puzzle...Ever.

She swapped the biro for a cigarette, lit up, and scrutinised the grid one last time: top to bottom, left to right, corner to corner.

‘Nope. Definitely not there.’

The books were defect. Every damn one of them.

She flipped the page and began another puzzle. The subject was insects, and instantly she found FLY. By the time she’d finished the cigarette, she’d found all the insects except for one: SPIDER.

She hadn’t found it because it wasn’t there. So why waste anymore time looking for something that could not be found?

This was the question she had posed to The Undertaker when he had called her yesterday.

‘Because it’s my job,’ had come the dry reply. ‘Just as it is yours.’

‘Chambers
cannot
be found,’ she’d said. ‘That’s the point. Has he killed again?’

‘No.’

‘That’s because I’m next on the list and he can’t get to me.’

It was then her boss had broken the news she’d been dreading. ‘Commissioner doesn’t think so. Chambers last struck over a month ago, Catherine. The threat level toward you and your family is being dropped.’

‘Yeah, and according to Daniels, a sniper’s greatest asset is patience.’

‘And if you include Gavin Miller and Terence Randal, that totals ten victims.’

‘They don’t count,’ she’d protested. ‘They were a means to an ends.’

‘Maybe, but this is not my call. Funding has been cut on your security detail.’

‘How long?’

‘End of the week.’

‘Then I’ll pay for myself.’

‘That’s your choice. But I’ll have to consider your position on my team.’

‘Just as I’ve been considering why Andy Dodd called you direct the day I visited his brother.
Sir
. Tell me, why
did
he call you? Why didn’t he call the complaints commission? Why you, the only person who knew about my connection with his brother and Malcolm Hoyt? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

The answer she’d received was that of a flat dial tone.

With its electronic guts spilled out, her mobile still lay in the corner of the room where she’d
thrown
it.

The defective puzzle book she was working on now joined it.

Chapter
Eighty-eight

Friday, December 15
^th

Every half an hour she would perform the search, crawling on all fours, as had become her way. She would begin in the bathroom, checking behind the shower curtain, then move onto to the wardrobe and finally beneath the bed. She would then repeat the ritual in the adjoining room, Webleyfirmly in hand − never not so. Once satisfied she was alone, she would crawl to the window and take up her seated position facing the door. From there it was impossible for anyone to enter the room without her seeing them first; even a decorated sniper.

‘Just fucking try it,’ she snarled into the vodka bottle poised at her lips. ‘Pleeeeeeeease, just fucking try it.’ She sucked on the bottle and swapped it for the shaving mirror she’d taken from the bathroom. Slowly she poked the mirror up between the curtains and the window and angled it to reflect the grey sky outside.