The Advent Killer (30 page)

The last few steps were torture.

Across the street in front of his flat, through the pool of light under the street lamp, and up the path. Just another member of the public: a New Year reveller, returning home. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

He’d managed to maintain his composure and pace, slow but definite, all the way back. Somehow instinct had guided him, unseeing, along the twenty-minute walk from her door to his, but tonight he had had no impression of how long it had taken, or which route he had used.

And as he reached the entrance and let himself in, the façade collapsed.

He stumbled across the front room, tears welling. Into the kitchen. A room that held nothing of her, no trace at all.

It was no good; they were still there.

The poisonous thoughts.

How could he have expected to ignore these feelings?

He needed shelter, to suffuse himself with her. He fumbled in his pocket for her necklace and held it tight. Then he hauled himself to a chair and collapsed onto the seat.

He looked around, seeking anything that could offer solace. But this place mocked him. He had previously
kept a few of her personal items, stolen from her office at work, but he’d been forced to dispose of them, realizing that their discovery in his possession would become incriminating once she was—

He clutched the pendant, rubbing his thumb hard against the smooth emerald stone. He didn’t hear the chair creaking as he jerked back and forth, or his own whimpers of distress as the tears came again.

He glanced frantically around the room, unable to rid his thoughts of her.

The half-done washing-up was not hers; nor the mud on the floor from her shoes. The empty glass on the table had never touched her lips.

And now it never would.

Then he saw her, just as she appeared in his dreams, standing at the far end of a long passageway. Lights blazed at regular intervals, lining the roof between them. He waved. She smiled and gestured him on.

He began to walk, eager to meet. But as he passed the first light it went out. And so did the second. He sped up, trying to stay ahead of the lights as they extinguished in time with his progress. Soon he was running along the corridor, closing rapidly on his destination, but the lights increased their rate, too, and then the darkness overtook him. He tried to go faster, straining to catch up but, seconds later, he was trailing badly. He shouted at her to get back, away from the advancing shadows, although she didn’t seem to hear, and stayed where she was, smiling, waving.

And then the last light went out.

Blackness surrounded him. He kept going, but something tripped him and he fell, crashing to a halt.

He dragged himself upright, reaching out in the darkness to find the wall. But as his fingers felt something, the lights came on.

And he recoiled.

She lay on the ground in front of him, pallid and motionless, both colour and life draining from her. The way he’d left her tonight.

His mind flashed back to the first incision. Normally it was so
easy
, the pleading eyes of his victims just a reminder of how effective his methods had become. They were so
afraid
. But with her it had been different: his hands had been trembling and he had hesitated.

As he had forced himself to cut her, as the knife sliced into her flesh, he’d seen the fire in her eyes. That familiar mixture of pain, fear, and shock.

Hatred.

And for the first time, he’d felt those things, too. His tears had mixed with her blood and he had broken down, bent over her body, sobbing. It had taken all his strength to leave her for the final time.

He tore himself from his thoughts, opening his eyes, looking down at his hands. A thin trail of blood crept across the heel of his clenched fist and dripped onto his shoe. He stared at it for a moment until his brain fired. He released the necklace, freeing the clasp from where it had punctured his skin.

He didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.

Was this
his fault
?

He clawed at his forehead; he didn’t want these thoughts. Why did it have to end this way? She should have been
his
.

But now she would never betray anyone ever again.

He stood and snatched the glass from the table, launching it across the kitchen to where it erupted against the far wall. But as the fragments scattered, his strength deserted him and he dropped back onto the chair.

He fumbled inside his jacket for the picture and held it up to look at the face of the woman he loved.

This wasn’t right: the pain should have been banished now, yet he felt no release. He clutched her necklace to his chest and searched for answers in the tattered photograph. Was this as close as he had ever truly been to having her?

He shuddered, reliving their last moments together in her kitchen. She’d been pleased to see him after their time apart, and he had been encouraged. He’d even tried to explain his mission. But her eyes had given her away; she hadn’t been able to understand. There had been no chance of reconciliation.

And as he’d described his achievements, she had attacked without warning. He saw her expression now, contorted with rage. Heard her ragged breaths. The scalding water seared his arm once more, and the penknife tore into his shoulder.

The penknife …

Suddenly, physical pain re-entered his sphere of consciousness. He became aware of the intense burning sensation in his left shoulder and realized that he hadn’t been using the arm, cradling it instead against his body. Adrenalin and distress must have masked the effects until now.

Slowly he lifted his coat. The penknife handle lay flat
against his skin, which meant the blade, probably a corresponding three inches of it, was hilt-deep in his muscle.

She had put up quite a fight.

Fortunately, his clothing had soaked up the small amount of blood escaping from the lesion, and the bulk of his jacket had both secured and hidden it since. He touched the skin around the knife, tentatively, in assessment of how painful it would be to remove. The area had swollen, and the flesh was tender.

He scanned the kitchen for something to clean the cut, before awkwardly tearing off three sheets of kitchen roll with his good hand and folding them into a pad, which he placed on the table. He shrugged off the coat, wincing as its cloth grazed the fresh burn on his right forearm, and sat breathing deeply for a moment. Then he gripped the handle.

Withdrawing the blade at a steady pace would provide the best compromise between tolerable pain and the risk of causing further damage.

He closed his eyes and pulled.

His body shook and his teeth ground as the blade moved inside the wound, the metal grating against bone. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and his jaw clenched as he suppressed the urge to scream.

Eventually the knife came free, and he dropped it on the table.

Blood began to ooze immediately from the gash, validating his choice to leave the blade in place when he left her home. Not leaving traces of his blood at the scene was critical.

He stripped to the waist and pressed the pad of paper
over the cut, turning his attention back to the weapon. Apart from his blood, it appeared to be clean and rust-free, although there was no way to tell what sort of invisible contamination it carried.

He needed to clean the wound with some kind of antiseptic, and apply a sterile dressing, neither of which he had. Venturing out in public was something he’d planned to avoid for at least a few days, but this left him no choice. The burn on his right forearm was painful but superficial, and he could use bulky winter clothing to cover whatever makeshift bandages were necessary for his shoulder, thereby reducing the likelihood of unwanted attention.

A tickling sensation ran down his left arm. Blood had already overwhelmed the kitchen roll pad, and was nearing his elbow. He pressed down harder on the pad and walked towards the sink.

Something in the next room caught his eye. The television – he must have left it on. He moved to the archway and stared across the room at the screen, its colours vivid in the darkness. It took him a moment to register exactly what was being displayed, but then he scrambled forwards and grabbed the remote, jabbing at the volume button.

A caption at the bottom of the screen heralded breaking news. Above it, a reporter stood in the entrance to a darkened street. As her voice became audible, he was captivated, oblivious to the blood now dripping from his fingers onto the carpet.

‘Yes, Stuart, this is the road where the attack took place. Details are sketchy at present, but it appears that another Met police detective working on the Advent Killer case
has been attacked, in all likelihood by the murderer himself. Antonia Hawkins, a thirty-five-year-old detective chief inspector, was stabbed here at her home in Ealing less than three hours ago …’

Before the reporter had finished her next sentence, his attention had shifted again, this time to the unregistered mobile phone. He selected his informant’s number and hit dial, hurriedly composing himself as the line connected and started to ring.

He needed inside information, details the news channel did not currently have. And he needed it
now
. If what the reporter said was true, he had made a catastrophic error.

She had survived the attack.

He checked the phone’s display: 3.42 a.m.

No further messages had come in; nothing to contradict the information he had received from the two different Met informers.

He turned off the handset to save its battery and stared up at the tall structure of Ealing Hospital, looming above him. He’d arrived there by taxi within an hour of hearing the news.

There was still time.

It was New Year’s Day – a Sunday morning – so the hospital would be minimally staffed, and as peaceful as it would ever get.

His short conversations with his informants had proved invaluable, confirming also that he’d been lucky. So far.

His sources verified that she had indeed survived the attack, and that she’d been transferred here by ambulance two hours ago, before undergoing surgery. She was still in critical condition, however, and had not yet regained consciousness. But the doctors were hopeful.

And so it was time to go in, and take the biggest risk of his campaign.

Everything hinged on the coming hour.

He cursed, frustrated that his own carelessness had forced him into this course of action. All his other victims had died in his presence; he had been certain of that. But
in his traumatized state just hours ago, he had left her lying in a pool of blood in her kitchen without making sure she was actually dead.

He’d merely assumed his fervent attack had been a success.

And if the doctors
had
managed to save her, as soon as she became conscious she would divulge his identity. With every passing moment, it became more likely that she was saying her first words since the attack. And those words would be ‘John Barclay’.

He began crossing the road towards the entrance, stifling a cough, recognizing the irony: he’d been using the pretence of poor health to avoid compulsory overtime for so long that his cough had become automatic.

He glanced upwards as he neared the threshold to the building. Only half the moon was visible, so the night was dark enough that he still had a good chance of escape, even if the alarm was raised.

The doors slid open as he approached, and he walked into the reception area, relieved to find the desk unmanned. Suddenly conscious of the bulge created by the gun tucked into his belt, however, he disguised it by lifting his hands into his coat pockets.

Pain erupted through his damaged shoulder, flashing like lightning beneath the bandage. For a moment he considered looking for a doctor. If small movements were this painful, despite the heavy dose of painkillers he had taken, the wound probably required antibiotics and stitches. But he dismissed the idea; he had to strike now.

He drew himself up, vowing to let neither emotion nor injury deter him from his goal. And, as he caught sight of
a sign for the trauma recovery ward, he felt his strength return.

He retrieved the photo of her from his pocket. Her creased and faded image smiled back at him. The picture had been taken a few years ago, before they met. Still her face elicited an emotional response. But, whereas it had once invigorated his desire to be with her, his current reaction was entirely different.

He crushed the picture in his fist.

He carried the flowers, taken from a sleeping patient’s bedside, calmly past the double glass doors, looking over at the nurses’ station inside. A lone woman sat in the softly lit area. She was around thirty, with natural brown hair pulled mercilessly into a ponytail, and a compact demeanour that suggested she wouldn’t be easily misled. Her blue uniform and tired features were illuminated by her computer screen. She didn’t look up.

Just before he passed the doorway opposite she raised a cardboard cup and took a sip.

He stopped a few yards past the doors and crouched, pretending to re-tie his laces, checking the corridor in both directions, soon satisfied that he was the only person there. Night traffic on the ward was almost non-existent.

He made a return pass, this time concentrating on the door at the rear of the room. On the wall beside it was an electronic security lock, and beyond that he saw at least two of the secure rooms designed to keep at-risk patients safe, or dangerous patients contained.

And in one of them, his target.

The relative lack of fortification still didn’t make his task easy, however, partly due to the camera visible in the far corner of the room, but mainly because he didn’t know whether she would be alone. Armed guards were a distinct possibility. But his hand was being forced.

Whether he struck or not, his liberty was at stake. But she deserved her fate, and he was prepared for this to be his final act of freedom.

Tonight he would take her life, even if it cost him his own.

He found a secluded corner and shed the cleaner’s overall he’d taken from a storage area on the ground floor, which had allowed him to roam the hospital unchallenged. Then he walked back to the secure area reception and through the double doors, just another confused first-time visitor entering the area.

The nurse – Sarah, according to her name badge – looked concerned. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Hi.’ He held up the flowers, ‘I know it’s not exactly visiting hours, but a friend of mine works in A and E, and she said I could drop these off.’

‘Oh, OK,’ Sarah relaxed slightly, ‘who are they for?’

‘Am I allowed to say?’

She smiled at last. ‘It’s fine as long as I don’t tell you.’

‘Great.’ He arrived at the desk and produced his police identification, ‘They’re for my boss, Antonia Hawkins. How’s she doing?’

Sarah studied his ID. ‘Pretty good, considering. She’s had a hefty operation, so we haven’t rushed to bring her round, but she’s doing OK.’

He feigned relief. ‘That’s good to hear. Everyone at work will be so worried; at least I can tell them something. Have any other night shifters been in?’

‘Not yet.’ She sipped her drink. ‘So far it’s just the guy who arrived with her. He was so distraught that we put him down as next of kin so he can sit with her. He’s in
there now, fast asleep in a chair, poor bugger. Mike, is it?’

Revulsion wrenched at him, but he covered his shock with a hacking cough. ‘Sorry. Damned nights play havoc with your health.’

They chatted for a few minutes about the difficulties of shift work.

He checked his watch. ‘Look, I have to get going, but could I ask a favour? Don’t disturb them, but would you set my mind at rest by checking on her before I go?’

‘Of course.’ Sarah rose and moved towards the security door.

He watched her remove the security pass from around her neck and hold it to the sensor. Then she pressed a concealed button underneath the plate and twisted the handle until a green light illuminated on the panel.

As soon as she stepped through the door, he produced a small plastic bottle from his pocket, leaned over the desk, and squeezed the contents into her coffee. The solution contained a mixture of powdered sleeping tablets and Rohypnol, easily potent enough to render her unconscious, but insufficient to kill.

There was no point disposing of someone who had done nothing to bring death upon themselves. He still regretted having to silence Eddie Connor by such a measure.

He stepped back, aware that his actions were being filmed. But people tended to relax as soon as they knew a camera was observing on their behalf, and it was unlikely anyone was watching live. It would soon be obvious if they were, but that risk was unavoidable.

Sarah reappeared through the security door. ‘She’s hanging in there. Try not to worry.’

‘Thanks for doing that.’ He handed her the flowers. ‘I’ll tell the guys.’

He retreated to the canteen on the first floor and waited impatiently for a full ten minutes, reassuring himself that, as Sarah had confirmed, the next shift wouldn’t arrive until six o’clock.

He returned to find her slumped over the desk, and considered briefly the merits of dragging her out of sight, before deciding against it. Anyone observing her at the moment would likely assume she had come to work poorly prepared for a night shift and flaked out at her post. Only if someone tried to wake her would subterfuge become apparent.

But he didn’t have long.

He walked to the desk and gently removed Sarah’s pass from around her neck, before approaching the security lock and repeating the sequence she had used. The door opened first time and he stepped inside, noting another camera in the adjacent corner.

Three windowed doors lined the back wall of the area, and he checked the view through each from left to right. The first two rooms were unoccupied, and his senses bristled as he approached the last.

In a bed against the left-hand wall, she lay motionless. Myriad wires and tubes joined her to various machinery and screens. And in a chair beside the bed, Maguire sat awkwardly, asleep.

But they were the only people in the room. Obviously, the fact that nobody was supposed to know where she
was hidden had been enough to convince the Met of her safety.

As he raised the security pass to unlock the door to her room, he couldn’t help but marvel at their negligence. Apart from a potentially troublesome escape, this really couldn’t have worked out any better. Here was the perfect opportunity to finish them both. He could even make her watch Maguire die first.

He removed the Taser from his pocket, but left the knife in his coat and the gun tucked in his belt, before he repeated the unlocking sequence. When the green light came on, he eased the handle down and pushed. He stepped into the room and closed the door, hearing the powered lock re-engage.

Maguire stirred briefly but he was ready, lowering the Taser only when he was sure the American hadn’t woken.

He paused, exhilarated by the imminence of his definitive act, enjoying the serenity of the darkened room, its silence unbroken apart from the quiet electronic pulse of monitoring equipment.

His instincts urged him towards her, but he resisted, instead moving closer to Maguire and studying his former colleague in the pale radiance of the weak bedside light.

His hands were sweating, so he pulled at the sleeves of his gloves, lifting the grips to allow air to reach his palms. He toyed with the idea of waking the American, aware that he would still be unaware that his younger colleague was Nemesis. The expression when he realized would be one to savour. But he needed to avoid anything that might necessitate use of the gun, whose noise would expedite attention.

He took a moment to select the ideal point on Maguire’s body for the Taser strike, reluctant to deploy its projectiles in case he should require them later. He unclipped the canister section, leaving the electrodes exposed. He also wanted this experience to be as visceral as possible, and looking into the American’s eyes as he endured a thirty-second blast would be an exquisite start.

He lined up the Taser and positioned his feet, satisfied that the chair appeared sturdy enough to withstand the forthcoming onslaught. Then he filled his lungs and depressed the trigger to awaken fifty thousand volts.

And drove it into the centre of Maguire’s chest.

For a split second his target didn’t react. Then Maguire’s body tensed and his eyes flicked open, their frenzied apertures conveying the obliteration of peace, his mouth gaping in silent shock.

He renewed his efforts, drilling the weapon into his victim, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, determined that contact would not be broken. The chair legs chirped against the polished floor as the opposing forces of his strength and Maguire’s weight brawled. In odd contrast to the nature of events, their struggle remained almost soundless.

And in the midst of their quietly clicking dance, he maintained eye contact, searching for that ineffable clue that Maguire might have recognized the features beneath the long hair of his wig, and realized who was delivering this torture.

But Maguire’s face showed no such emotion, something that might have frustrated him if he had intended to
kill by prolonging the Taser strike. But he wasn’t going to let his two greatest opponents off that easily.

He completed his thirty-second count before forcing himself to release the trigger and step away. Freed from the tensioned state, Maguire slid straight off the chair and slumped to the floor.

He almost laughed.

A glance to his left told him she hadn’t stirred, and a second into the corridor satisfied him that nobody had yet found the nurse unconscious at her desk. But he added a further level of protection by jamming the chair, recently vacated by Maguire, under the door handle. Now, even if they were discovered by someone with a security pass, nobody would enter the room till he was ready.

He returned to the bed and crouched in front of Maguire.

‘Mike? Can you hear me?’

The detective’s eyes were half-open, although there was no way to know if he understood. The dealer who had supplied the Taser had explained that any discharge longer than twenty-five seconds risked permanent brain damage for the target. He’d never tried it before, but he was happy to let Maguire test the theory.

Brain damaged or not, the American was definitely still alive, because his lower lip was shaking ever so slightly, as if trying to voice whatever sentiments he felt in his prison of nervous disability.

He bent, gripping Maguire by the neck with his good arm, and dragged him across the room to prop him against the far wall.

Then he returned to the bed and looked down at her.

She lay on her back, upper body raised on the adjustable bedstead, covers folded down to her waist. An oxygen tube ran from her nose. Sensors peppered her chest. Bandages were visible beneath her robe, hiding the wounds left by his previous attack. She looked dead already, although the quiet rhythm of the monitoring equipment suggested she was anything but.

And yet he felt nothing.

He was free, purged of the irrational affection that had once threatened to neutralize him. She was just another deserving victim, soon to pay the price for sustained and latent contempt.

But he wanted her to
know
that.

He examined the hospital apparatus, aware that it would incorporate alarms to warn of asphyxia or disconnection. Which meant if she was to be roused, full disablement was the best option.

He identified the two main power cables and traced them to the wall, where he found secure plugs that required a key for release, to ensure they weren’t removed by a negligent cleaner. Deciding not to test their strength, he wheeled the two machines away from the wall and followed the cables back to where they entered each box. Then he drew the knife from his belt and pulled the first cable taut across the blade, keeping his fingers on the wooden handle, away from the steel.

He jerked the knife, cutting the cable, hearing the electric fizz as power was disconnected, watching the glow from the screens evaporate. Immediately the unit emitted a tiny, high pitched whine, but this died after a few seconds, and he moved on to repeat the process.

With the second cable cut, he stepped back to the bed and pulled the tube from her nose, and the sensors from her chest. Then he leant over and listened to her breathing.

This was the moment. Without the machine’s help, she’d either slip quietly away, or she’d wake. He waited, watching her face, oblivious to everything else in the room. Seconds passed.

And then her eyelids flickered.