A Cry From Beyond (30 page)

“There
was a car,” he continued after another pause, “It was seen in the
vicinity around the time of the disappearances of Rosie Dixon and
Thelma Wilcox. A red Ford Orion, but the vehicle was never traced.”
He looked at me, and frowned slightly, “They died, those girls, and
the child; they all perished. We suspected Martin Willis. I guess
you know that. But we never got the chance to prove he was involved
because he took the coward’s way out, ensuring we’ll never know for
sure. As for me, I failed and I lost everything as a result.”
Sounding bitter he said, “Do you know what my colleagues said about
me at the time? They accused me of lacking the necessary moral
fibre for the job! Fifteen ruddy years of blood, sweat and tears,
working my way up from rookie cop to Detective Sergeant, commended
for bravery in the process, and they dared say that about me! I’ll
show them who’s got moral bloody fibre. I may not have caught the
killer the first time round, but this time is different.” He
managed to calm himself and nodded towards my BMW. “I couldn’t help
noticing,” he said, “Your car...”

“What of
it?”

“It’s the
same colour as that driven by the suspect I mentioned.”

“What’s
your point?”

“I
would’ve thought it was obvious.”

“The
colour of my car is a complete coincidence, Mr
Ridgecroft.”

“You
really expect me to believe that?”

I’d had
enough and told him to leave, but he ignored me and edged a little
closer. Lennon barked another warning.

“The way
I see it,” he said, unperturbed, “there are two possible
explanations for what is now happening. Either the original
murderer has returned to re-enact his earlier crimes, or we have a
copycat killer in our midst. I personally go for the latter
theory.”

“And what
the hell has that to do with me?” I snapped, finally out of
patience.

“Everything,” the ex-cop retorted, “it has everything to do
with you! You turn up here in Ashley, occupy the cottage where two
of the original victims lived and quite suddenly and for no
apparent reason, people disappear, just like before.” He looked
over at the BMW again. “Red car, Mr O’Shea: you even drive a red
car.” He allowed the sentence to linger, before adding, “How’s that
for adopting the copycat persona?”

“You’re
crazy,” I said.

He smiled
with apparent amusement. “Want to tell me how you do it, Mr O’Shea?
Want to tell me where you hide the bodies?”

“I
thought I told you to leave!”

Lennon
barked and yanked at his leash.

Ridgecroft’s response was to dip a hand into his coat pocket.
A second later he was pointing a snub nose pistol at me.

“Inside,”
he ordered, motioning towards the cottage.

“Y-You’ve
got this all wrong,” I told him.

“Just get
inside.”

With
mounting dread, I started up the path to the front door.

Once
inside the cottage, Ridgecroft instructed me to lock Lennon in the
kitchen.

“That’s
better,” he said as I carried out his demand and pulled the kitchen
door to.

“What
now?” I asked.

Keeping
the gun trained on me, he said, “I’ll ask you again, Mr O’Shea,
where are the bodies?”

I was
suddenly unable to think. Get a grip, I told myself, for God’s sake
get a grip. I took a deep breath in an attempt to clear my head.
Glancing over at the kitchen door, about three metres away, I tried
to evaluate the chances of escaping into the kitchen and out
through the back door before the ex-cop caught up with me: too
risky, I decided. But if I failed to take some form of evasive
action, I was as good as dead.

“I’ll ask
you one more time,” Ridgecroft said, looking grimly determined,
“how do you do it?” He scanned the room as if searching for
something. “Where are the bodies? Where are the murder victims? Are
they here in the house? Tell me, damn you!”

“The
cellar,” I lied out of sheer desperation. “The bodies are in the
cellar.”

Ridgecroft, the gun raised threateningly, stared in utter
astonishment, barely able to believe his own ears. He stepped
towards me, his dark sunken eyes suddenly invigorated by the
admission. “Confessing, are you confessing?”

“Check
out the cellar,” I said, playing for time.

He waved
the gun, indicating I make my way out into the hall. I started
walking, feeling totally defenceless. In the kitchen Lennon barked
repeatedly, as if he realised I was in danger and was trying to
raise the alarm. Then he was pawing at the door in an attempt to
escape his surroundings. Walking ahead of Ridgecroft, I wondered if
the ex cop would shoot me first, get it over with, or take me down
into the cellar and do it there, having first of all discovered my
little fib about the location of the lost ones.

We
arrived in the hall. The cellar door stood to my right. I turned to
face it like a man turning to face a firing squad. Ridgecroft,
stinking of alcohol and BO prodded me in the back with the gun
barrel, forcing me forward.

“Open
it!” he said referring to the door.

I raised
the latch and pushed it open; saw the fuse box on the wall to my
left and the steps leading down, into dark oblivion.

“The
light, switch it on.”

Again I
did as I was told and tried not to think about what might happen
next, but the thought came anyway. Would he use the gun now, or
would he simply push me? In the kitchen, Lennon scratched
insistently at the door in a frantic attempt to break
out.

The steps
and the quarry tiled floor at the bottom of those steps were fully
visible now. I got a very real sense I was staring into an open
grave.

“Step
down,” Ridgecroft ordered.

My heart
hammered wildly. This is it I thought, the end of the road. I
gripped the rail and took the first step.

Suddenly,
there was an almighty bang as a door rebounded off a wall, and
frantic barking. It seemed Lennon had somehow freed himself. The
door latch, faulty since the day I moved in, must have given! At
the sound of the dog’s approach, Ridgecroft turned automatically.
As he did so I took my chance and pushed past him, effectively
reversing our positions. The next thing I knew, Lennon burst forth
into the hall and sprang, catching the ex cop square in the chest,
sending him crashing backwards down the cellar steps. As he
tumbled, he let out a horrified cry. There followed a solid thud as
he hit the cellar floor, and then silence.

Meanwhile, I’d managed to stupidly trip and fall, cracking my
head against the windowsill, almost knocking myself unconscious.
Coming round, I looked up to see Lennon standing over me, panting
wildly. The retriever pawed at my shoulder as if trying to alert me
to the danger we were still in. My head banging, I glanced round
and spotted the gun near the far wall, the end of its barrel
pointing directly at me. At least the maniac ex cop was unarmed, I
thought fleetingly. As I rose to my feet, Lennon took the
initiative and disappeared down into the cellar. I quickly
followed, pausing at the cellar entrance. Below me the retriever
guarded the prone body of the ex cop, whilst barking repeatedly. I
descended the steps dry mouthed and with my heart racing, at a loss
to know whether Ridgecroft was alive or dead.

The first
thing I did when I got to the bottom was to calm Lennon. Then I
checked the ex cop for signs of life, nudging him with my foot,
careful to keep as much distance as possible between us in the
unlikely event he regained consciousness. Hurt and unarmed he would
still be more than a match for me. He was a lot bigger for a start
and being an ex cop, he would undoubtedly possess superior
combative skills.

Banging!

I spun
round to face the steps leading back up into the hall.

Someone
was banging on the front door for Christ’s sake! Before I could
react, Lennon was off on his travels again, barking madly as he
bounded up the steps, Ridgecroft suddenly forgotten. A moment later
I was following his lead, my aching head spinning with crazy
theories as to who the caller was. On my way to the front door I
had the presence of mind to retrieve the gun from the floor and
conceal it in the pocket of a coat hanging on a wall hook. I took
time to compose myself, then went to the door and opened it, having
to restrain Lennon as I did so.

“Got ya
stuff fella.”

It was
Irish, visiting with the fresh supply of coke I’d requested a
couple of days ago. He frowned suspiciously when he saw the state I
was in. “What’s the matter? You look kinda strange; what’s
happened?” He glanced down at Lennon. The dog was trembling and
panting from the adrenalin rush, his hackles still raised in
aggression. “And what’s with your mutt?”

“There
isn’t time to explain,” I told him quickly. “I need a favour. Go
upstairs to the master bedroom. In the left hand side bed cabinet,
in the bottom drawer, you’ll find my stash. Take it and leave
immediately. I’ll call you when it’s safe to return.”

“What the
hell is this?”

“Please,
do as I say.”

But he
just smiled and shook his head. “This is a wind up,
right?”

“No wind
up,” I said, frightened and frustrated. “I’m deadly
serious.”

Still he
refused to buy it. “You won’t be able to survive without your daily
fix O’Shea.”

“Are you
going to do as I ask or not?”

He stared
at me as if I was crazy, but then, perhaps finally sensing I was
earnest, he relented and headed upstairs.

I
immediately got on the phone to the emergency services and reported
what had happened. As I did this I returned to the top of the
cellar steps. Ridgecroft hadn’t moved a muscle, raising questions
as to the seriousness of his injuries. I decided to keep vigil at a
safe distance. If he happened to come round I’d have no other
option but to run for it. Guess I should’ve got a damn lock put on
the cellar door when I had the chance.

Irish
returned soon enough, having pocketed my illegal stash, together
with the stuff he’d brought with him that evening.

“Go,” I
urged as he re-entered the hall.

“What’s
the problem with the cellar?” he asked, guessing something was
afoot down there.

“Just
go!” I repeated more firmly. “The cops will be here any
minute.”

He
frowned in bewilderment.

“Cops?”
he said dumbly.

“Yes,
cops. Now get going!”

He nodded
automatically and hurried off into the night.

Ten
minutes later the paramedics arrived, followed shortly afterwards
by the police. While the paramedics dealt with Ridgecroft I was
questioned by a plain clothed cop. When I handed over the gun,
which I later discovered was regular police issue during the
eighties and early nineties; he thanked me, before advising me of
my rights and placing me under arrest.

“But I’m
the victim,” I protested.

“That’s
yet to be established,” he said, motioning towards the front
door.

Down at
the police station I was taken to an interview room where I was
questioned by two detectives, whose names were given and
simultaneously forgotten. The detectives were polite, but to the
point. I was cooperative and answered their questions as best I
could. I had nothing to hide, after all. The interview lasted
almost two hours, during which time I got through three cups of
strong black coffee, whilst wondering what the hell I’d done to
deserve this amount of aggravation. Finally, I gave a formal
statement, along with a DNA sample, before being released with the
proviso that I did not leave the area and reported daily to the
police station until further notice. I was also asked to surrender
my passport.

The
following morning I turned up there as instructed with passport in
hand and learned that Ridgecroft had suffered concussion and a
broken arm from the fall he’d taken, but was otherwise all right.
He’d already been questioned and stood by his story that I was
responsible for the recent spate of disappearances.

Towards
the end of that week I received a visit from my old friend PC Derek
Morgan. Morgan asked me further questions related to what occurred
the night Ridgecroft visited the cottage. Once again I was
cooperative.

Gentleshaw caught up with me a few days later and was good
enough to give me the low down on ex-Detective Adam
Ridgecroft.

“He was a
decent cop in his day, Mr O’Shea, but sort of went off the rails;
not surprising really, given what he went through with all those
disappearances.”

“What
happened to him?”

“He was
granted early retirement...”

“And?” I
said, sensing there was more.

Gentleshaw sighed. “Soon afterwards his wife left him, taking
the kids with her. He threatened to kill himself if they didn’t
return. When that failed to work he tried to commit suicide. He
ended up being sectioned for his own good. Rumour has it he only
got out a few months ago.”