What Lies in the Dark (18 page)

They had even less evidence than usual. She had been alive when found. Instead of officers looking over every little detail on the scene, paramedics had trampled through it all. Instead of the photographers documenting every little detail, her clothes had been cut off in an attempt to revive her. They were investigating her now, hours later, looking for any small little trace. Anything now was likely to be contaminated but it would be a start. It would have been worth it had she survived. But instead she had slipped away at the hospital, just to spite him. Had she died with her eyes closed but someone opened them? Or, or … why is he focusing on the fucking eyes. Where the fuck is Bullface? Bullrush? Bullface? He really needs to focus, needs to get away from the scolding eyes. He needs to talk to the off-duty paramedic, which will be hopeless but he still needs to. He needs to have a shower. He needs to go Christmas shopping. He needs to get away from the woman whose kids are expecting her home. He needs to get the fuck together and get some sleep. Man up. Thirty fucking eight. It is just a joke now, isn’t it?

“Where have you been? I have been looking all over for you,” Fletcher mutters, truth be told, he hasn’t been looking for Bullface, the last thing he wants is another fucking criticiser.

“I have been going over the evidence from the previous murders.” She has been staring at the faces of the women young enough to be her daughter and nothing else.

“Anything?” Please don’t let him have missed something, he would be lynched at this point.

“Nothing.” Bullface’s voice is laced with defeat.

“Do you think he targeted Shannon Leona on purpose? Knowing she was a cop, knowing it would damage the people investigating the case? Destroy morale and such?”

“It is possible, she was a visible cop most of the time. Lots of the public knew her.”

“So maybe we should look at questioning those who knew we would be searching? It was a planned attack wasn’t it?”

“Great idea. Since it was announced on the radio and the television it will only be what a hundred or so people …”

“It was just a fucking suggestion. Have you got anything better?”

“Calm down.”

“We need to do more, the press is all over the fact that the police released a suspect on the same fucking day a mother of three was killed.”

“What did they want us to do? Arrest an innocent man because his neighbour is an interfering old bat?”

Fletcher never thought he would see the day when Bullface called a member of the public anything even remotely disrespectful.

“Are we even sure he is innocent?” Shit, Fletcher is even starting to doubt his decision, “Hundreds of people can’t be wrong can they?”

“The officers I had tailing him confirmed he went straight home. He spent the night blasting rock music, drinking and stomping around his living room before passing out.” The officers hadn’t seen the brief moment when Elizabeth Mitchell had peeked out of her window to see an angry John Roberts glaring at her, they had unfortunately seen him turning and mooning her. Bullface thought there will be a better time to tell Fletcher about that.

“You had officers tail him?” Why hadn’t he thought of that? Fuck, he is messing up. Then again he doesn’t trust the other officers any more. They are just out to get him.

“I thought it would be wise to keep an eye on him and his neighbour.”

Bullface had his back, even though she wouldn’t say it. Fletcher gives a dry half-hearted laugh, some of the anger balled in his stomach subsiding.

“Fill me in on Kim Donaghue,” she says and there it is, back again.

He is worried. For the first time since he started killing, he is worried. He is listening to the news report that the woman has been taken alive to the hospital, he is worried. She had seen him, hadn’t she? Looked straight in his eyes as she crumpled. He is going home now, to shout at his wife then blame the Christmas stress. Stupid cow will believe him. She is too stupid to put anything together. The stained coat was going in the bin. He never liked it anyway. His wife had brought it on sale, sale! He is worth more than that! He will blame the Christmas pounds if she says anything. Not that he gains anything at Christmas, not like her. He sits, watching, waiting for an update, trying not to seem too eager. Hell, nothing wrong with seeming too eager. He can just say he is hoping she will survive. Most people are glued to the sensation eagerly, aren’t they? He is just part of the masses. Finally an update, she is dead! Thank Santa, she is dead! But then … what if … what if she is still alive and this is how they are protecting her? No, they wouldn’t have shown her sobbing brats on the news if she had lived. They wouldn’t have put the children through that. He might have but they wouldn’t. The bitch’s throat was cut, there was no way she could have said anything. She is dead now. Dead and dissected. He has other work to do. He should have done two tonight, taken advantage of their relief, it is too late now.

It is supposed to be a friendly. A little match to help relieve some of the stress. Perhaps even work away a few unwanted pounds before the engorging Christmas season. Fletcher wants to play because his mind will not shut up. He is being driven insane by hundreds of voices whispering problems, advice and criticisms. A thousand nagging mothers-in-law all proclaiming quite simply,
‘I told you so.’
Fletcher just wants a break, a few hours of running up and down after one simple little ball. A chance to clear his head.

It is supposed to be a friendly. Just some of the police force, the lads playing against other lads. Fletcher knows just
about everyone on this pitch, everyone knows him. Drank with him on special occasions, endlessly discussing every single aspect of the winning games. He has spent the last five years of his life playing friendlies against these lads. Usually a friendly means a friendly.

Fletcher has already had his ankle kicked. Joe had accidentally kneed him in the back and Mark had trodden on his hand. Fletcher suspects that one of his own team is responsible for the stomach blow which leaves him dry retching for nearly a minute. “I am sorry mate,” is beginning to sound like an insincere chorus. Fletcher isn’t even sure what is keeping him on this pitch as their piñata. Whatever it is, it is urging his tired beaten body to keep running, despite all the muscular protests. He can hear Joe’s footfalls pounding behind him, slowly catching up. Joe seems to be incensed by the rag-tag row of supporters, screaming for blood from the sidelines. Fletcher can’t even see where the ball is any more. He just seems to be running away from the fate behind him.

Should he just give up now? Why is everyone so angry at him today, he can’t send an innocent man to prison, what good would that do? He can’t make evidence magically appear that isn’t there. He can’t do anything, they can’t do anything. Except kick him further down into the mud. Fletcher can’t hear Joe any more, he is hoping that somehow he has run far enough to be out of the game, just to take a quick breather. That’s all he needs, just to breathe for a few … the whistle blows from a far off right corner as the ball sails past his head. Fletcher turns to run away from it just as Joe lunges forward, knocking him down into the freezing cold mud.

“Foul.”

“Sorry ’bout that, Fletch.”

“Fletch?”

Oh just fuck off.

“What happened to you?” They haven’t spoken in days. Fletcher wasn’t even expecting Claire to be home.

“I tripped.”

“Well, I am not washing those filthy clothes.”

Christ, Claire isn’t even going to let him through the fucking door without starting. Why has he bothered coming home? Why is he bothering with anything? He spent part of his day interviewing people who were as dumb as monkeys and twice as curious. The paramedic had seen nothing more than a shadow retreating in the dark. He was more concerned with trying to save Kim Donaghue. More concerned with doing the impossible, what if it had been someone else? What if they gave Kim up for dead and went running after the bastard? Everything would be different then wouldn’t it? The bastard would have been caught. No, he can’t think that way. Shit, he just needs to get through the door in peace. Take some aspirin; put some more ice on his knee. But no, Claire has to be there, waiting.

“Aaron?” Fletcher doesn’t recognise his own name for a minute, he is Fletcher to everyone but Claire. He tries to swallow the growing anger, he doesn’t want another shouting match, not now.

“Claire,” he says finally. “Don’t worry, I will wash them.”

“I think we need to talk.”

Shit!

Christmas arrives subdued and dark. Some greet it with relief, any excuse to try and forget what is going on. Some greet it with anger. It was spring when Fran Lizzie Taylor’s discarded body had been found. They still haven’t got anywhere. No leads, no real evidence, nothing. All due to incompetence, and the police who don’t know their ass from their elbow. They hadn’t even found the other bodies. Everyone knows that there are other bodies. It has leaked out that Kim Donaghue was branded with a number 38. Fran Lizzie was been 22. It doesn’t take a cop to make a connection. They had only found six bodies! Six out of sixteen or thirty eight! Fail! The police are failing. The police don’t even know if there is one killer or more. The amateur detectives think there are at least two, maybe even three. They might all be working together. That would explain how they are able to overpower so many different women. Why are the police only looking for one man, not three? Why haven’t more details been released? They could help if they knew more. Why could the cops on TV catch a man within half an hour but these fucking useless guys are taking well over a year? Security is at an all-time high this Christmas. Security locks are selling as fast as they can be ordered. No one is going anywhere alone. Bosses are encouraging everyone to take taxis home from Christmas parties and even then, two people at least in the taxi. More houses go up for sale; more people go to the in-laws for Christmas and never come back. It won’t last. People always value convenience over safety; they will start to relax again. Until the next one.

Brandi Parr is having an insufferable Christmas. She is back to being the office weirdo again. She hasn’t had so much as a Christmas card from Mike Jones, and he had spent the Christmas party locking eyes with Marcella. Slut! He is walking her home every day now, has been since Kim
Donaghue’s murder. Bet they are doing more than kissing under the mistletoe. What was it going to take for her to be noticed?

To make it worse, her sister has invited everyone over to her mansion. “You don’t want to spend Christmas alone, Sis.” Yes, yes, she does want to spend Christmas alone. Alone, away from her mother and her constant ‘helpful’ tips. Her sister will insist on giving them a tour of her massive, luxurious mansion and her mother will give Brandi nose-hair trimmers for Christmas. Her sister’s man will be irritating. Her mother should give him the nose hair trimmers.

Kain has been saving the last turkey-flavoured noodles for Christmas and sits slurping down the warm strands eagerly. Kain had wanted to order in a few special things for the occasion but the door bell has been ringing a lot lately, and Kain can’t face going upstairs just yet. Not while Kain still has cigarettes, coffee and an internet connection. Why did they keep coming? How did they even know? Kain is not enjoying Christmas, well hasn’t enjoyed Christmas in a few years. But now, this one is the worst one. Even Kain has heard about the murders, has spent days frantically searching the internet for more information – all the more reason to stay down here. But then is it really safe down here? The cooling remains of the noodles are abandoned for the twentieth cigarette of the day. Fear sets in again. Kain begins frantically assessing and replanning escape routes out of the house. Should Kain stay in the cellar? It feels like the safest room, no windows for people to break through. It would be the last place anyone would think to look, the cellar’s door is almost completely camouflaged. If anyone did break in, Kain would hear their footsteps upstairs and have enough time to … but what if they saw the cellar door and came downstairs first. There is nowhere to escape to if they did that. Maybe Kain could hide somewhere down here, the cellar is dark, lit only by computer screen glare. But then how hard is it to remain quiet and hidden? They could be in the house for a
long time, waiting … what if they lit a fire? There would be no escaping but then upstairs, upstairs … can’t go upstairs. But the disused kitchen, that has cupboards, doesn’t it? Or would that be the first place they looked? They could already be watching the upstairs couldn’t they?

No, an inner voice tries to soothe, it’s OK, no one is watching, that’s crazy talk. It’s OK, no one knows we are here. It’s OK. We are safe. I am safe here. I am safe here. I am.

Bullface has no time for Christmas. She had asked her sons to decorate and they had, technically, if putting two strands of tinsel on the tree was decorating. They knew they were getting gift vouchers anyway. They have never really been a Christmas family, not since the boys were little. Bullface and her husband had agreed not to do presents. He understood exactly why she wasn’t feeling very Christmassy and to be fair, it wasn’t as if Bullface was easy to buy for anyway. She never liked anything he bought. He is actually quite happy to relax on the sofa and watch movies with the boys. Chewing chocolates and sipping a beer. Today and tomorrow would be the only days when he could be irresponsible.

Bullface has nowhere to go to escape. They had finished working on refurbishing their latest house but have to sell it before buying another. Not that anyone wanted to move into the city right now. It will be a while before it sells, a long while. She wants to give this house to the boys. Just to get them away from her for a while. But they are still too young. They would kill each other before the last box was unpacked. Bullface is feeling a little frustrated. She really just wants to go somewhere and take her mind off everything. She just wants to spend a few hours away from the murders, away from Christmas. She can’t just sit with the others and watch mindless nonsense. She isn’t a relaxing type of person, can’t switch off – can’t go into work either. She has looked over everything to do with the case to the point that she can almost recite it. Bullface closes her eyes, they are missing something. There is nothing to tie these women together.
Nothing they had in common. That is what made some things even more difficult. They can’t warn anyone to take precautions because everyone is in danger. Everyone who is female.