Cry for Help (11 page)

Of course, looking back as an adult, I could appreciate their behaviour for what it was - their way of dealing with the impossible grief of losing a child. At the same time, I could still sympathise with the way I'd reacted. Not only did I lose my older brother, but it felt as though I'd lost my parents too. Following his death, they were always far more preoccupied with his absence than my presence, and kicking back at them had been a thread that ran all the way through my life from that day to the present. I was older now and understood things better, but attitudes become ingrained over the years. Right up until my parents died, I couldn't think of them, my father especially, as anything other than combatants.

'So,' Sarah said, 'your skills are purely down to teenage rebellion. '

I smiled, but it faltered a little. 'You could say that, yeah.'

'And the magazine, too.'

I'd told her about my job in our email exchanges, mostly because it gave her a way of checking up on me and making sure I was legit. I was fairly sure the percentage of ice-pick-wielding men on the internet was higher than that of their female counterparts.

'The magazine started off as just a hobby. I never imagined I'd end up rebelling against my parents full time.'

I supposed that was the ultimate irony of the situation. When my mother died, most of the money went to my father, but she also left me a lump sum; then, after he died, it all came to me. Without it, I'd never have been able to afford to rent the flat I lived in now, or survive long off the pittance I earned from the magic or the magazine. It was my inheritance in every sense of the word.

'I think it sounds fun,' Sarah said. 'Investigating all that stuff, I mean.'

'Ghosts and ghouls and mediums? I used to enjoy it a lot more. It can be soul-destroying at times.'

'Soul-destroying?'

'Not that I believe in souls.' I put my glass down. 'It's just tough to see how manipulative it can all be. Like mediums, for example. They take advantage of people's grief; they milk it. I get annoyed at them more than anything.'

I stopped, knowing I was in danger of going off on one.

'Your mother's not a medium, is she?' I said.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. 'No, you're okay. And I see where you're coming from. To be honest, though, I have a weird attitude to these things.'

'Which is?'

'That I'm not sure the truth matters so much.' She shrugged. 'You know? People lie to themselves all the time. I mean, I do it. I bet you do, too. We all fool ourselves so we can feel better, don't we?'

I smiled. 'Yeah, I know that in my saner moments, honestly. Whatever gets you through the day.'

'Exactly. Or the night.' She raised her glass of wine, then immediately put it down. 'Not that I'm finding this traumatic, by the way. In fact, I'm pleasantly surprised. I'm already hoping we're going to do this again some time.'

'I'd like that. Next time, I promise not to get annoyed about anything.'

'Don't worry about that. I like it.' She sipped her wine and gave me a pointed look. 'A bit of passion is good.'

We both let that one hang for a moment, and then I checked my watch. It was coming up on nine. We'd met properly only two hours ago - which even a fruit-fly would class as early days - but it was obvious there was some kind of spark there. The conversation had come without a hitch. Sarah was attractive, articulate and intelligent. She'd made me laugh and - at the least - she'd been gracious enough to act as though I was funny as well. It all seemed very promising.

Early days, I reminded myself.

'We should head for a taxi, maybe?' I said.

'Sounds good.'

'I'll get the bill.'

I went across to the counter to pay. As Sarah headed towards the door, she called over to me.

'Oh yeah - can I have my ring back, by the way?'

'Of course.' I glanced over. There were two baskets of flowers on either side of the entrance. I gestured uncertainly at the one on the left. 'Check in there.'

I turned back to the counter and sorted out the money.

'Hey!'

'What?'

Sarah was standing, hands on hips, staring at me. Not only had I made the ring vanish, but I'd made it reappear again several metres away from where I'd been sitting, without moving a muscle. God-like genius.

That was when she asked me the second inevitable question.

'How did you do that?'

'You have no idea how much effort it took.'

I put fifty pounds down on the counter - the bill, plus the ten I'd agreed in advance for the waiter to deposit the ring in the flowerpot on his way out to smoke. He'd found it in my napkin, from when I'd brushed the ring into my lap the second time I 'picked it up'. Dull, really.

But it's good to maintain a slight air of mystique in the early stages; not so good to reveal the boring truth straight off, whether about a magic trick or anything else. I was no more going to tell her I bribed the staff than I was about to start belching words or leaving my pants scattered around. Those are third-date tasks at the earliest.

Sarah and I headed to the taxi rank down the road, her still pestering for the truth, me playfully resisting. The city centre streets were busy with people - couples and groups - but by this time most of them were just getting started, and there was no real taxi queue, just three cabs parked up, engines idling. Sarah slipped her arm into mine. It was the first solid physical contact we'd had, and it felt good. As we approached, she pulled back slightly, using the weight of her body to stop us both before we reached the taxis.

'Maybe we should get this out of the way first?'

She leaned in and kissed me, slipping her arm properly around me. I reached round and held her, marvelling at the sudden sensation of her lips and how slim she felt. Her personality had been so strong that it seemed there should be more to her than this, but I could feel her spine through her shirt. She was light as air. Then I smelled the faintest trace of it.

A flower in a bottle.

Tori's perfume.

But that was okay. In the week and a half since I'd seen her, I'd stuck to the decision I'd made. No texts, calls or emails. The association was still strong, of course, but I was determined. They had the same perfume - so what? Maybe it wouldn't be too long before I smelled it and thought of Sarah instead. I hoped so. And as she continued to kiss me, I hoped so more and more.

'Figured that would make things easier.' She smiled.

'It did. Thank you.'

'So . . . are you going to ring me, or shall I ring you?'

'Those are the options,' I said.

'Ah, but there's also that other option. The one where neither of us rings the other.'

I shook my head. 'Not going to happen.'

'Well, that's all right then. We can sort out the details later. I've had a lovely night, Dave. Thank you for dinner.' She held up the ring. 'And this.'

'Me too. We'll sort something out soon, I promise.'

'Cool.' She gave me another quick kiss and then headed for the taxi. 'See you, then.'

Definitely.

I took the second taxi in the queue, gave the driver my address, and we set off. The nightclubs and restaurants and bars began to flash past in the window, but I wasn't paying attention to anything apart from the feeling of excitement in my chest. It felt like a small sun was shining behind my ribs, warming my whole body with its energy. If I hadn't been strapped into the backseat - and if there hadn't been anyone around to see - I might actually have jumped up and down a bit. As it was, it felt like I wouldn't be getting to sleep any time soon - and for a good reason, this time.

Great, great night, I decided.

Bad morning, though.

I woke up with a dull ringing in my ears.

The ringing stopped. I groaned to myself and opened one eye to look at the clock on the bedside table. Quarter to eight. Why had I set the alarm for that time?

The ringing returned, and this time I recognised it for what it was. Someone was at the front door. I clambered out of bed and over to the bedroom window, and lifted it up. The sounds of traffic on the main road blew in on a blast of cold air.

Two floors below, a couple of men were waiting outside. One was in his mid-forties, the other slightly younger. Both were wearing identical long black overcoats.

'Hey,' I shouted.

They looked up. The older one called up at me.

'Dave Lewis? Police. Could you open the door, please.'

Shit. Eddie.

'Give me a minute.'

'Quick as you can.'

I hunted around for clean clothes to wear, feeling sick.

Just keep calm.

I managed to get dressed, then went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, pausing to inspect myself in the mirror. My expression bothered me. It was too nervous. I leaned on the sink, my shoulders hunched, and stared myself right in the eyes.

That afternoon, I thought, nothing happened.

You don't know anything.

Nothing happened.

Then I clicked off the light and went downstairs.

Chapter Ten

Monday 29th August

The weirdest part of not sleeping, in Currie's considerable experience, was when you looked back on yesterday morning and realised you'd actually been awake since then. It always felt like those things must have happened at least a week ago, and perhaps even to someone else. Just after midday, he walked down to the department's press room, finding it hard to believe that a hazy but continuous chain of events connected him to a breakfast he'd eaten nearly thirty hours earlier.

And one of those events seemed like a nightmare, even though he'd been awake at the time. Yesterday evening: standing in Julie Sadler's bedroom, looking down at her small, wasted body, while crime-scene cameras flashed around him.

The image of her lying there still haunted him, even more so than Alison Wilcox's body had. In the tilt of Julie Sadler's head, he saw an accusation; in her outstretched fingers - frozen in the act of straining - he sensed outrage. It was as though she'd screamed questions out as she lay there, slowly dying, and the ghosts of those words still hung in the air, a challenge to anyone that dared enter.

Why didn't you save me?

Why did nobody care enough to come?

The sorrow he'd felt in that tiny bedroom was so overwhelming it bordered on profound. It was the closest he'd ever come to tears while attending a crime scene, despite the absence of mutilation or even blood. What had been done to this girl - to all of them - was an affront.

Currie looked around the press room as he entered. It was heaving today. The seats, split into two columns by a central aisle, were all taken, while more reporters were packed in at the back and down the sides by the arched windows. Television cameras were perched on wheeled tripods, or shoulders. The polished floor was a snaking mess of cables.

The scent of blood, he thought.

Swann was already sitting at the top table. Currie walked over, cutting through the solid heat of all these hostile people, and took a seat beside his partner, placing his notes down in front. Along with the official microphones, the table was strewn with small, rectangular handhelds, which appeared to have been thrown there almost as an afterthought. The desperate, haphazard sprawl of them symbolised everything he disliked about these press conferences.

'Good afternoon,' he said, not looking up. 'I'm Detective Sam Currie. Thank you all for coming. I'll be reading a short statement and after that there'll be time for a small number of questions.'

He heard the quick, swishing click of cameras, and a couple of lights flashed across him. The memory of Julie Sadler's house rose up again. Sweat prickled on his forehead. He looked up.

'At five p.m. yesterday evening,' he said, 'officers were called to an address in the Buxton area of the city. Upon entering the property, the body of a young woman was discovered inside. We are treating her death as suspicious. At this time, we will not be releasing or confirming the woman's name to the media.'

None of which, he thought, will deter any of you bastards.

'We are in the process of talking to the woman's friends and family, and the investigation is progressing along a number of different lines. We ask for the media's co-operation in this matter, and will make a further announcement as soon as possible. I'll now hand you over to my colleague, Detective James Swann.' He glanced sideways. 'James?'

Swann nodded and turned to the crowd.

'I'll take any questions you might have.'

There was a predictable flurry, both of hands and camera flashes, but Currie allowed himself to relax a little.

He had a certain amount of respect for the press, in that they could be useful, but after Alison Wilcox had been killed the media had teased out the connection to the two earlier murders and Currie had found himself becoming increasingly tight-lipped. As he saw it, the dead girls were reduced to lurid details - morsels of gristle to keep the pages wet and the papers shifting - and he began to find the whole thing difficult to stomach.

Swann seemed more able to keep his cool in the face of it, so they'd agreed that he would handle the questions from now on. In truth, the press probably liked him more, anyway: thirty-five years old, muscled, photogenic. People generally wanted Swann to like them, and he had a knack for smiling without appearing flippant. When Currie saw himself on television, even he thought he needed to cheer up. He couldn't imagine what he looked like today. His face felt like old rock.

'Are you connecting this death with the earlier murders of Vicky Klein, Sharon Goodall and Alison Wilcox?'

'As mentioned, the investigation is proceeding down a number of lines.'

'And that is one of those lines?'

'It's one of the possibilities we're looking at, yes.'

'Was the victim tied up?'

'The victim was restrained. We can't go into detail on that for reasons I'm sure you'll appreciate.'

'Are you close to making an arrest?'

Currie thought about Frank Carroll: the amused look that had appeared in the man's eyes under questioning. The GPS tracking on his ankle bracelet put him entirely in the clear, and their IT tech had assured them the device hadn't been tampered with. It was a disappointment. Frank Carroll had never been near the girls' houses, or even the locations from which the texts had been sent.