Cry for Help (30 page)

He sat in his car a little way down the road from Sarah Crowther's house and watched the rain gradually obscuring his view. The car was quiet: he'd turned the engine off to make the phone call, because he'd never been able to concentrate on more than one noise at a time. If he had the television on when he made a call, he had to mute it, or else the words all got jumbled together and he ended up replying to some vapid actress rather than the person on the other end of the line.

Something similar was occurring in his thoughts right now. What he wanted to do was call the police and tell them everything. After what Dave had told him earlier, he was sure it was the right course of action, and he'd nearly dialled them several times already. Each time, he'd stopped himself. Common sense was trounced by instincts he couldn't properly explain, but which he knew were stupid.

I couldn't handle it if I could have saved her.

Rob put the phone down on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. The car grumbled and the radio flared into life mid-shit-song. A second later the wipers squawked across the windscreen, blurring the glass, then swept back the other way and cleared it. Immediately, more drops pattered the window and rolled down like tears.

The truth was that Rob felt more loyalty to Dave than he would ever have been able to articulate or explain. He'd never really had many friends; most people didn't get past the first hurdle with him, even if they made the effort. It was fairly obvious that Sarah didn't particularly like him, but that was okay. Most of Dave's other girlfriends hadn't liked him all that much, either. He could live with it. Because he knew that, without a single exception, he'd always had his best friend's interests at heart, and he always would.

That was why he was here - waiting outside the house of a girl he barely knew - when there were so many better places he could be. Dave had said her name back at the field when the man had phoned him, and then taken off like the devil. Which meant something was wrong here. And Dave didn't want him to call the police, so what else could he do? Sarah was important to his best friend, so whatever she thought of him, Rob intended to look out for her and make sure she was okay.

The windscreen wipers squawked across and back again. One, two.

You should phone the police, he told himself again.

Because having his friend's best interests at heart didn't mean simply doing what he asked him to, did it? He glanced down at the phone.

Another squawk of the wipers.

Rob looked back up. Through the clear glass, he saw a man standing at Sarah's door. He turned the handle and went inside.

It happened so quickly, he might never have been there at all.

Rob blinked. His mind had taken a snapshot of the man. He'd been tall and thin, with grey, receding hair, and was wearing a black coat and dark blue tracksuit bottoms. He was in his fifties, at least, probably older. And he'd just walked in as though he owned the place.

Call the police.

He went to pick up the phone, but then hesitated - because, actually, he had no idea who the man was. For all he knew, the man might own the place. Or be a friend of Sarah's.

His fingers twitched. What to do?

Check on her, then. He'd wanted to keep his distance and not let her know he was here, simply because it would lead to questions he wouldn't be able to answer. But at heart, he'd come to make sure she was okay. She might not like him being there, but that wasn't the point. The man had looked old - frail, even - but it didn't mean he wasn't a danger to her.

Rob thought about it for a second longer, then turned off the engine and got out of the car, taking his phone with him.

Jesus, it was properly pissing down. He grimaced, then ran awkwardly up the pavement until he reached Sarah's house. The door was shut, and he wasn't quite sure what to do. Knock? It was the polite thing to do, obviously, but if she really was in trouble in there . . .

He knocked twice, hard, then turned the handle, stepped into a kitchen, and shouted as loud as he could.

'Sarah?'

Nothing for a second - and then he heard someone upstairs. The pipes were churning and the air was warm. Maybe she was in the bathroom.

So where was the old man? He'd come in less than a minute ago.

Unless you saw him at a different house, you fucking idiot. Which was possible. The windscreen wipers could have obscured his view, and he'd not exactly been concentrating.

He crossed the kitchen and went into the hallway, glancing around. There was another small room to the left, and then stairs went up to the first floor. He shouted up them.

'Sarah?'

Immediately: 'Hang on.'

Fucking hell, he was relieved. Of course, now he had to explain himself. He heard a door up there open, and then her feet came pounding down the stairs.

'Dave, I'm so glad . . . oh.'

She stopped halfway down, frowned, then continued the rest of the way a little more cautiously.

'Rob?'

'Yeah.' He ran his hands through his hair. 'Sorry. Listen--'

And then the old man stepped out of the room to his left and punched him in the stomach.

It was fast and hard and created a jumble of sensations. The sight of the man - mouth twisted up in anger, eyes wide - and then the wall of the hallway as his back smacked into it. The pain in his gut was just wrong; it felt like the punch had gone halfway through him and knocked everything loose. His legs were faint, then gone. Rob slid down the wall, his vision sparkling. The man stared at him. One of his eyes was out of place.

It was only when Rob noticed the knife in his hand, covered in blood, that he glanced down at his stomach and understood what had just happened. As he did, the man reached down and wiped Rob's blood onto his shoulder; the knife went slick, slick against the leather.

And then he turned and walked towards Sarah. She was just standing on the stairs. Frozen in place.

'Hello, Mary,' the man said. 'Your brother's been busy, hasn't he? I think we should go and see him now.'

Chapter Thirty-two

Saturday 3rd September

'This is her place?'

I was still squashed up in the middle in the back of the car, but at least I hadn't had my face pinned to my knees for this journey. I leaned forward between the seats and peered out through the rain-specked windscreen.

Number thirty-two.

'Yeah.'

My stomach felt tight.

Looking at it, I saw the same building I had that morning - just another anonymous, terraced property in a reasonably bad part of town: two storeys, a muddy front garden. But it was different, somehow. Below the surface, the house now seemed darker and more malevolent than the ones around it. There was no obvious reason it should stand out from its neighbours, but it did. Rain lashed down in front, and every brick of it was pale and grey. Sitting there behind the wet dirt of the garden, it looked like something dead on a riverbank.

There was no way I could know it - I told myself that - but I felt it anyway.

We're too late.

'Park up outside,' Choc told the driver.

I felt the windows impassively staring at me.

'She's not there,' I said.

'We'll see.' Choc threw something over his shoulder. 'Put these on.'

I picked them up. 'Gloves?'

'Yeah - gloves. I don't want you fucking things up for me any more than you already have.'

I put them on. Outside the car, the rain felt heavier than before, flicking and pestering me. To one side, water was flowing out of the guttering on the roof of someone's garage, spattering down and cracking against the concrete. The air was full of the soft hiss of it.

'Come on.'

Choc headed up the front path. I started to follow him, then looked behind me. His guys were staying in the car.

'Just us?' I said.

Choc squinted back at me. The rain on his face looked like tears, and his expression was unsteady. He hadn't quite let the emotions rise up, not yet, but they were close. And it looked like the rage he had inside him could take out half the house.

You don't fuck with me or my friends.

I said, 'Remember he might not have Tori with him.'

'Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself.'

I nodded.

We reached the front door to find it closed and locked. I was about to hammer on it and call out her name, but Choc grabbed my hand without thinking. Then he looked around the street, gauging how much the neighbours might be able to see or hear, or perhaps simply care. Not much, apparently: he took the gun out of his pocket, holding it down by his side.

'We do this in one go,' he said quietly. 'And you follow me in. Quick. Right?'

I nodded.

Before I'd had a chance to think about what he was going to do, he planted a kick at the edge of the front door. I had a snapshot image of him standing there, his whole body tensed, a massive bang - and then the next thing I knew he was over the threshold, gun held up in front with one hand, his other holding the door open against the kitchen counter.

One explosion, immediately controlled. Then silence.

He glared back at me: what the fuck are you waiting for?

I followed him in, and he used his free hand to close the door behind us. A strip of wood on the lock-side was hanging off, but it still fitted into the frame. If anyone outside had heard the noise, they'd look out of the window a few seconds from now and have no idea where it had come from.

Choc moved across the kitchen, holding the gun with both hands. He looked as professional as a cop, and I was suddenly incredibly glad he was here. As he moved towards the hallway I held back a little, listening. Sarah's house was absolutely silent. Either nobody was here, or else they were keeping very still.

The memory of finding Emma's body flashed into my head.

Please no.

'Dave?' Choc said. 'Here.'

He'd paused in the doorway. I moved over.

Then I saw what was there--

'Oh, Jesus. Rob.'

--and pushed past Choc without a thought, kneeling down beside my friend. His body was sitting propped up against the wall, legs splayed out across the corridor, head tilted away from me and resting on his shoulder. Motionless. There was blood all over him.

We've been best friends for ten fucking years.

'Rob?'

We've always looked out for each other.

'Rob--'

His head moved slightly. My heart leapt.

'Can you hear me?'

He turned to face me - very slowly, but that didn't matter because at least he wasn't dead. He was pale, though, and his eyes were closed. I glanced down at his chest. He was breathing, but it was fluttering, uneven.

'What are you doing here?' I said.

'He took her. Sorry.'

Jesus. He'd heard me say her name in St John's Field and come here to make sure she was okay.

'Have they gone?'

Rob tried to speak, but couldn't manage it. He nodded his head slightly.

'Okay, don't. I'm going to get you an ambulance.'

I stood up, looking around the hallway. There. I stepped over Rob and ran down to the table by the back door. There was an old phone balanced on several dusty old phonebooks. I picked up the receiver, heard the tone, and dialled 999.

Choc was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

'We need to go, man.'

'We're not going anywhere yet.' I glared at him. 'I'd have been here in time if it wasn't for you. Do you know any fucking first aid?'

He glared right back, but shook his head.

I looked down and saw that Rob was trying to get something. His hand was moving awkwardly inside his jacket.

'Help him.' I pointed - then turned away as someone came on the line, interrupting them: 'I need an ambulance now. A man's been stabbed. In the chest, I think. He's still alive, but you need to get here as soon as you can.'

I gave them the address, then hung up and ran my hands through my hair. I wanted to collapse against the door and wait for the ambulance and the police to turn up. Rob was badly hurt, maybe dying. Sarah and Tori were both gone. And I'd missed any chance I had to confront the man who'd done this.

'Dave.'

My legs were about to go. And the most pathetic part was that I wanted them to. Because then someone else would have to deal with this.

'Dave.'

'What?'

I turned around and saw that Choc was holding a piece of paper, striped and spotted with blood. Rob's hand was resting on his lap now, his head resting forward. His chest was rising gently, almost imperceptibly.

'Hang on, Rob,' I said. 'They're coming.'

'He was trying to get this from his pocket.'

'What is it?'

Choc unfolded it, then frowned at whatever was written there. Cocked his head to one side curiously.

'Thom Stanley contact,' he said. 'And an address.'

Chapter Thirty-three

Saturday 3rd September

Currie clicked the mouse, taking the cycle of images back to the beginning. He was looking through the pictures the IT technician had provided from the shopping centre CCTV footage. Searching for Frank Carroll. They were working on the assumption that Carroll must have been following Dave Lewis that day - trailing him - so he should have appeared on camera close behind the man. In fact, he had to be there.

But he wasn't fucking there.

Currie picked up the photograph of Carroll from the file and studied it intently. Then he put the picture back down and started clicking through the images. Perhaps he'd missed him first time round, despite practically having his nose within the screen. Or maybe Carroll had already been inside the shopping centre somehow.

So you'll have to check earlier as well, won't you?

Currie looked at the phone, willing it to ring. Swann should have been there now. He was trying his best not to think about the hundred things it seemed he could have done differently. What had Bright said? People always see what they want to see. Or what they expect to.

But he should have been better than that, and now another girl's life might be in danger. One who had begged him to help her, while the whole time he refused to listen . . .