Darkness Looking Back, The (2 page)

'I'D BETTER LET you know — I'm not here officially.' Stirling looked sheepish, peeling at the label on his beer bottle. A lock of golden hair flopped down on his forehead. 'I'm not quite sure what my bosses would make of me talking to an amateur psychic.'

'Would it help if I offered to charge you?'

'Piss off. Amateur, professional, I don't think it matters. It's bad enough I'm talking to you, let alone both.' His gaze settled gently on Lena. 'You might not want to hear this.'

'I'm hard enough. Go on.'

Shrugging, Stirling gave them the facts. 'The woman's name was Charlotte Hiscocks. Found in her home, with severe head injuries. She'd been beaten to death, then stabbed through the heart.'

Paxton shot a rapid glance at Lena. Her eyes remained steadfastly on Stirling, giving no sign of having heard except the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

'A pizza deliveryman found her. There were no signs of a break-in, except that the door was slightly open. Nothing obviously missing, though we'll have to wait until the husband gets back tomorrow. He's been away on business in Australia.'

'Was it a sex crime?' Paxton asked.

'The coroner thinks not at this stage.' Stirling frowned. 'And there weren't even any traces of blood in the rest of the house, except for the golf club in the corner. Didn't need the coroner to tell us what the murder weapon was. Unless the killer few out the window, I'm guessing he took his shoes off to go out the door. I don't see how he could have avoided making a mess otherwise. But the neighbours didn't see anything. Their blinds were shut. And the people on the left were out.'

Paxton was silent, thinking.

Without realising it Stirling read his mind. 'Bloody weird.'

Paxton looked up to find the DC's eyes on him. Even after explaining the limits of his ability, after knowing him nearly six months, Paxton still got the impression that Stirling wanted him to know what he was thinking. Wanted him to prove his gift was real. Lena was worse. She
did
believe unequivocally, but Paxton's inability to read her thoughts was doubtless a constant disappointment.

Paxton sighed. 'What was it you were hoping I'd do?'

'I don't want you to
do
anything, exactly. I really can't have you prowling around inside the woman's house.' Stirling looked uncomfortable.

'So — you don't want me to do anything, but you told me anyway?'

Stirling put his head in his hands. A deep sigh emanated from between them. 'It's sad, isn't it? When it comes to murder, you're the first person I think of talking to.' He raised his head. 'You should have heard the guys at CIB. Making wisecracks about dying in the length of time it takes to deliver a pizza.'

'Whatever gets them through the day,' said Paxton. 'Can't be easy, your kind of job.'

'Nooo,' Stirling admitted, his frustration visible. 'But I mean — you know how Hell pizzas all have those gimmicky names?' He mimicked Paynter. '
Shouldn't she have ordered the Mordor? Get it? Sounds like
murder
. . . Hur hur hur
.'

'Hmmm. So, are you all tossers on the force?'

'Only those of us who can find our own dicks.' Stirling frowned again. 'As a matter of fact, she asked for Trouble. Trouble and a Diet Coke . . .' Taking a long mouthful of beer, he took his time to swallow. 'Except, it wasn't a her, it was a
him
. A man placed the order.'

Lena seemed to get what Stirling was driving at. 'So
he
ordered Trouble? Then took off?'

'Exactly. Supremely ironic, don't you think?'

'And bloody intentional,' said Paxton. 'He was having a
laugh . . .
'

He met Stirling's eyes, and realised he
did
know what was behind them.

'Remind you of anyone?' Stirling said heavily.

TWO HOURS LATER, long after the DC had left, Paxton was still thinking about all he'd said. Part of him wanted nothing to do with any of it, was sure he couldn't be any help, even if he was called on. The other half of him was mentally doing star-jumps. That was what scared him most, even more than the vague recognition that there was another serial murderer on the loose . . .

He liked to play games.

The doorbell rang just as he was scraping his bowl for the last of the ice cream. He cleared it away with Lena's, slotting them in the dishwasher as she answered the door.

'Hey, Mandy. Come in.'

Though he'd been expecting her, Paxton's mood dropped several notches as he heard Mandy's voice in the hall. Her face fell too when he walked into the lounge.

'Oh. Hi, James. I thought you'd be at work.'

'Sorry, no, I work Wednesday to Sunday.' He took a seat, squarely in the middle of the sofa.

Mandy chose the sole armchair, crossing her legs.

Paxton smiled at her. 'So, how's your work going?'

'Oh, not bad. You know.' She shrugged. 'Work.'

'Well,
this
one wouldn't know what you're talking about,' Paxton said, slipping an arm around Lena.

Lena settled back into the sofa, tilting her head right back against the cushions. 'Ahhhh . . . I love school holidays. Specially the Christmas ones.'

'I don't,' said Paxton. 'People get so grumpy and depressed after Christmas.'

Lena laughed. 'Doesn't usually take
that
long. Most people start stockpiling grievances early.'

'Very true.' Paxton put on a falsetto. 'Teddy for little Zoe. Book for George. But if that fat old tart of an Aunty Shirley wants anything out of me she'd damn well better apologise for saying that about my Harry . . .' He grinned at Lena. 'But it's the reformed bingers I hate the most. I see them in the restaurant all the time. They spend December stuffing themselves with cakes and mince pies, and New Year chugging back anything short of oven cleaner, then on January third they suddenly wake up and turn into calorie Nazis! They make it hell for everyone else.
Do you know how bad cheesecake is for you? Ooh, not for me, thanks, I'm being good.
Meaning that everyone else at their table feels like Mr Blobby for even considering an after-dinner coffee.'

'I know! Poor delusional bastards . . .'

'At least they
try
to change things. It's good to have goals in life, you know.' Mandy's eyes returned Paxton's smile with interest.
Unlike you.

Paxton had to give respect where it was due. Nearly half a conversation in nothing but monosyllables — he almost applauded the razor-faced bitch. Except that one hand felt more like ripping her throat out than clapping.

Lena's own smile had faded.

They'd met in this very room. Mandy in striped blouse and shoulder-length blonde hair had come straight from her job as a low-ranking lawyer in some inner-city firm. Paxton offered to make the drinks. Half an hour later, while hunting out an atlas to show Mandy where his home town was, he'd heard her voice coming through the wall.

. . . just using you! Your dad's just died. You're lonely and vulnerable right now.

Then something unintelligible from Lena. Paxton had stopped dead near the doorway, his index finger jammed between the pages of the British Isles.

Oh my God, you poor thing. I know that must feel like some kind of link, but it's not like he knew your father. Face it, he's a bartender. He's never even had a proper job. He's just been drifting through half the known world. He must be jumping up and down at having scored a girl who's just inherited a house and all her dad's money . . .

But all Mandy knew was the précis, from the newspaper clipping. Paxton had discovered Mark's body, and he'd been preying on his daughter ever since. The part where Paxton had gone into the killer's house, saving Lena's life in the process, had been left out of the papers. Stirling had got the sole credit. At the time Paxton had been relieved, but now he would have given anything to drag Mandy down from that ten-foot spike she was wedged on.

He'd tried to make allowances. She did have Lena's interests at heart. On paper he'd even have agreed with her. He had no education, no prospects and apparently no stability. He was average — brown hair, brown eyes, medium height. No underwear model, though Lena said he had no idea how good-looking he was. She could talk. She was a typical Irish beauty, all dark hair, blue eyes and clear skin. And now, pots of money. She was miles too good for him. Mandy herself could have bought all Paxton's personal assets with the earrings she'd lost down her sofa. However, she also made it clear he wasn't worth the lint. Paxton's tolerance had fast run out. She made scarce effort to be polite even for Lena's sake, never mind his, and never made any attempt to see him as something other than a dribbling thug who'd crawled off the set of
EastEnders
. It seemed to be his lot to live in other people's boxes, and Paxton was sick to death of it. And she didn't even know about his gift . . .

The thought hauled him back to the present. 'Did you see the news about that woman who was killed in Epsom?'

Lena and Mandy frowned in unison, but it was Mandy who spoke. 'Yeah, that was creepy. Who beats someone to death and rings up for a pizza? I reckon it must have been the husband.'

'No, it wasn't. He's out of the country.'

Lena's frown turned into a glare of warning, while Mandy's changed to annoyance. 'They didn't say that. The news just said he was returning from a business trip tomorrow. It could have been in Hamilton — plenty of time to drive up and kill her then drive back again.'

'I just . . . don't think it could have been.' Paxton tried to recover from his mistake. 'And anyway, there are only about three businesses in Hamilton. Just give them all a ring now and ask if he got off early.'

'You're so smart, aren't you? Have you even been to Hamilton?'

'Yes. As a matter of fact I have.' Paxton met her stare for stare. 'Believe it or not, I don't try to be an expert on things I know nothing about.'

'James . . .' Lena was shifting unhappily beside him.

Mandy kept her mouth shut, but Paxton could feel the effort it cost her.

He was tempted to ram it down her smug little throat, what it was really like to be him. How it really felt to hear the voices of the dead and feel wretched for every damn person who just wouldn't listen. The ones who wouldn't change, even though it would mean their own deaths, sooner or later. The ones who couldn't accept the truth about what had happened, pursuing some endless vendetta or beating themselves into the ground. Did you leave it all hanging over your own head or did you just walk away? And if you walked away, would it still follow you? The answer, Paxton knew, was
always
.

'It reminds me of
Der Proceß
, in a way. You've got absolutely no idea
why
any of this is happening . . . Eh, James?'

'Eh?' Too late Paxton spooled back through his memory and realised they had moved on to books.

'Have you heard of Kafka, James?' Mandy asked him.

Paxton just stared at her.

Lena gave an incredulous laugh. 'Of course he has! He's actually a lot better read than me!'

It was Mandy's turn to look incredulous. For Paxton it was the last straw. He smacked his knee, idiot excitement lighting up his face like a torch.

'Oooh! Guess what, Lena? They're starting me on the wine labels at work now!' He turned a beam of sub-normal glee on Mandy. '
I'm
learning foreign languages!'

It didn't get a reply. Mandy rolled her eyes, and Lena's own were turned up towards him, pleading.

Paxton leaned forward and kissed her, then stood. 'I'm going home.' He gently cut off Lena's protest. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

He didn't even look at Mandy as he collected his keys from the table beside her. He slammed the door as he got into his car. 'Fucking
robobitch
.'

He stared at Lena's front door, seething with resentment. The
last thing he felt like doing was going home for a sleep. The air was like
hot caramel. He stuck the key in the ignition and snapped on his seatbelt,
still boiling. Then, just as he had his hand on the gear stick, inspiration
hit. He cracked open the door again, making the overhead light come on. The
slight breeze that furled in was welcome. He got the street directory and
flipped through a few pages, until he found Epsom.

YOU COULDN'T, APPARENTLY, see death from the street. The address Stirling had given him looked like any other house on this road, except that no light escaped from behind the curtains. As he pulled in, Paxton was over-aware of the lights in other porches and windows, his mind calling up a neighbourhood of disapproving eyes. He got out of the car, walking slowly up to the foot of the drive. Aside from an Audi parked on the cobbles, there were no signs that anyone had ever lived here, let alone died. Paxton felt rather foolish. There was nothing to be gained from loitering, waiting to feel something that wasn't there. He didn't know what the hell he
was
doing here. He knew better than to suppose he would magically tune in to all the answers, but something in him wouldn't roll over. He'd come this far; he might as well make the best of it. He started cautiously up the drive.

A flash of lights got his back as a car slowed behind him.
The guilt and self-consciousness ratcheted straight back up. He turned to
see a sporty Peugeot hatchback pull into the drive opposite. The garage door
went up automatically as someone tripped the remote inside the car. After
a pause, however, the Peugeot backed out again, and a young woman got out.
She went into the garage and moments later an almost brand-new BMW reversed
out. The Peugeot then drove into the garage, followed by the Beemer. Paxton
watched in idle fascination as two women and a man came out, and the man kissed
the driver of the Beemer goodbye. He then walked down the drive to where a
black Maserati was parked under a street lamp.

'Fucking hell,' Paxton muttered. 'They've got the entire EU in their garage.'

'Can I ask what you're doing here?'

Paxton jumped a mile. The expression on the woman's face as he turned around told him he'd been right to worry about the neighbours. And on top of everything else, she'd potted him talking to himself.

'I was just . . . taking a walk before bed,' he said lamely.

'Oh really? You drove over here to go for a walk?' She looked over his shoulder at the Nissan by the kerb.

Shit. Paxton sighed and dropped the pretence. 'I'd have thought there were better things to do on a Tuesday night than to watch your neighbour's house.'

'What about when one of them's been murdered by God knows who and you live right next door? I think it's a
bloody
good way of spending a Tuesday night.' She was probably in her late forties, with short dark hair. 'And I think
my
excuse is a whole lot better than yours. I saw you go right up the driveway.'

'You didn't worry about going out to confront a strange man hanging round the site of a murder?'

He watched that sink in. She glanced back at the lit windows of her house for a split second before she returned her attention to him, on the defensive.

Paxton sighed again. 'I'm really sorry. I know it looks bad. But I wasn't intending to be nosy. It's just . . . this whole thing brings up bad memories for me.'

This wasn't increasing her comfort levels. 'Bad, as in . . . ?'

'I had a friend who was murdered like this just six months ago.' He didn't mention that their acquaintance had only begun post mortem.

Her belligerence vanished, smoothing the wrinkles from her forehead. 'Really? That's awful.' Then the frown returned, this time of puzzlement. 'I don't quite see why you'd want to be hanging round the scene of another murder. If I were you, it's the
last
place I'd ever want to come. How can you bear to be reminded?'

'That's just it. It reminds me an awful lot of what happened to Mark.'

A flicker of alarm. 'You think it could be the same killer?'

'No.
That
bloke's dead now . . .'

'Really?' She'd said it so many times Paxton almost started a count. 'That's a relief for you, I guess. Did they get him in jail?'

'No, he killed himself. Hanged himself.'

There was a split second of silence. 'Wait a minute. Six months ago . . . That was that serial killer! The Eastern Strangler.'

Paxton felt his customary jolt of surprise that what happened then wasn't just part of his own life, remembered by him and Stirling and Lena. It had been national news, and transfixed the entire city. The woman was staring at him, appalled. 'Oh my God. Was your friend the man who died in the park?'

Paxton nodded, resigned. 'Yeah.'

'Oh my God.'

'So you can see why this has kind of got me worried. Like you, I guess.' He was well aware of the gaping holes in this reasoning, but she didn't appear to notice.

The woman was shaking her head. 'Yeah. It's horrible. Poor Charlotte . . .'

'Were you friends with her at all? How well did you actually know her?'

Now she hesitated, then said, 'I wasn't actually friends with her, no. And I think she hated
me
. She knew I was aware of what she got up to whenever her husband was away.'

Paxton was startled. 'You mean she was playing around?'

'Was she ever.' The woman was smiling darkly now, relishing her role as the insider. She folded her hands in front of her skirt, getting comfortable. 'Shouldn't really speak ill of the dead, but . . . it's Ian I feel sorry for. It's a horrible thing to say, but he's the loveliest guy, and he just had no idea. As soon as his back was turned — boom! Wasn't one for moping all by herself, that's for sure. She caught me glaring at her once, as she was getting out of a car with one of them . . .' She smiled again at the memory. 'There was one man in particular, drove a blue BMW. He was there just a couple of days before she died.'

She paused, thinking it over. 'I did wonder if he might have had something to do with it . . .'

'Didn't you tell this to the police? Have they interviewed you?'

'Not yet. We've just come back from visiting my daughter down in Christchurch. We went down on Friday night — that's when I saw his car at her place — and we few back this afternoon. We weren't even here when it happened. We got back to hear the news. Carol from number eighty-one came and told us. She was
horrified
— she was right next door when it happened.'

'This has to go to the police. This could be exactly the information they're looking for. Do you have any idea who this bloke is?'

'I wondered if he was a colleague. He was always very well dressed, looked like a banking type. He might have been her boss . . .' A front door closed nearby, and she turned. 'Oh, here comes my husband.'

A shape was descending the steps of their house, coming to join them.

'I wondered what was taking you so long.' Now that Paxton could see him better he saw a thinning-haired man in short sleeves.

'Ron! This man here's just been saying the same thing you were telling me. We really should ring the police about that boyfriend of Charlotte's.'

'If that's what you want to call it . . . Well, it might come to nothing, but you never know. Might teach the bugger to keep it in his pants, if nothing else.'

'Are you still on holiday tomorrow?' asked Paxton.

They both stared at him. 'Yes. Why?' the woman asked.

'The police will be wanting a formal statement, first thing.'
He made to go, then paused. 'And don't tell them I sent you.'

'I JUST CAN'T understand it. Why would anyone want to kill her? For Christ's sake, she always went out of her way to help people!' Ian Hiscocks gave a bitter laugh. 'It was her job!'

He was just barely holding it together. Stirling watched Hiscocks's hands on the kitchen table as he spoke, flapping about like dying fish. They weren't conducting the interview in the living room for obvious reasons. Stirling wondered if Hiscocks had even set foot in there. If he'd ever set foot in there again.

'Your wife was a mobile mortgage broker with ASB?' Vicky Nielsen kept things easy, made him focus on one simple thing at a time.

'Yes.'

'And there's no one who might have been jealous? Did she mention having problems with anyone?'

'No! There's no one. She always had plenty of time for everyone . . .'

Hiscocks's voice finally broke, and Stirling had to look away as the man started to cry. He was neither a good-looking man, nor an ugly one. He had sandy hair and an average build, and eyes an olive green, though these were by now turning red.

Nielsen took a packet of tissues from her pocket and held them out to him. Hiscocks took them, unable to thank her, and blew his nose. It was a wasted effort. The tears were still coming down hard.

'She was the only woman . . . I ever loved. We'd been together fourteen years.' Neither Nielsen nor Stirling said anything, knowing he wasn't actually talking to them. Grief was an individual thing. Despite the common guff about sharing one's grief, it was something no one else could take away for you. In the end it was yours alone, to hold close or let go.

Instead of remembering Charlotte Hiscocks's face on that blood-soaked floor, Stirling saw Nicola's. He felt the other man's anguish, understood it completely. Strongest of all was the fervent relief that he wasn't the one in his chair.

Hiscocks was shaken by a fresh bout of sobs. 'Why
her
? What did Charlie ever do to anyone?'

Nielsen rose from her seat. She went over and crouched beside Hiscocks, placing a hand on his shoulder. 'That's what we're going to find out. All right? We're going to find out who did this — that's
our
job. What
you
have to do is just keep on putting one foot in front of the other. Okay? Take it slowly, I know it's not easy, and just do one day at a time.' She rubbed his arm soothingly, her face as sombre and calm as her voice. 'You can do this.'

Already Hiscocks's sobs were quieting. This was why Nielsen was such a damn good detective, thought Stirling. And such a damn good mother. She put all the monsters to bed.

Hiscocks turned anguished eyes on them. 'I shouldn't have been away from her so often. If I'd been here, this wouldn't have happened.'

'You don't know that. You can't —'

A mobile phone started up, cutting off whatever she was about to say. The ring tone was 'The Pink Panther'. It was almost painfully jaunty under the circumstances.

Frowning, Nielsen pulled the phone out of her pocket and skated it across the table to Stirling. 'Detective?'

Recognising the wisdom of leaving her to it, Stirling took the phone into the hall, shutting the door behind him. 'Hello, this is Detective Constable Stirling.'

'Andy? Is the sergeant busy?'

'She's comforting the victim's husband at the moment. Who's this?'

'Sorry, it's Graeme Kirkpatrick here. How are you?'

Kirkpatrick was a detective senior sergeant, next up the ladder from DS Nielsen. He was overseeing the investigation, for which Stirling was grateful. At least with
him
Stirling didn't need a flak jacket just for round the office. Not like some he could have named.

'Oh, I'm good thanks, Senior. Given the situation. Obviously it's a bit more than I can say for the husband . . .'

'He's taking it hard, is he?' There was what sounded like resignation in Kirkpatrick's voice.

'It's cut him up pretty bad. Almost a relief when you rang to be quite honest . . .'

'Well, I'm sorry to do this to you, Andy. I'm afraid there are a few more questions you're going to have to ask him. I was rather hoping I'd get a chance to talk to you, actually.'

At his tone Stirling felt dread stir in his gut.

'Are you still in touch with that psychic bloke, James Paxton?'

That
was a question Stirling hadn't been expecting. He tried to work it out as he answered. 'Yes, I am. Why do you ask?'

'We've just had a statement from the neighbours. The ones from number seventy-seven.'

Stirling involuntarily glanced to his right, as if he could see through several solid walls, then stared blankly at the flocked wallpaper as Kirkpatrick laid it all out.

'They came just now to report seeing a man visiting the late Mrs Hiscocks. Repeatedly. And always while her husband was away.'

'
What?
Are they sure about this?' Stirling heard the pathetic cliché before it dropped from his lips. 'He could have just been a client.'

'What, with his hand up her skirt?'

'Oh Christ.' Stirling's morning was suddenly blacker than charcoal.

'You'd better ask the husband about it.'

'Look Senior, Hiscocks has absolutely no idea. He's sitting in the next room crying his eyes out. He's devastated. This is hardly the time.'

Kirkpatrick sighed. 'I know it's hard, Andy.'

There just weren't any excuses to make. Stirling was going to have to tell a newly bereaved husband that his wife had been shagging at least one other man on a regular basis as soon as the wheels of his plane lifted off the runway. His past would be blown away, just like his future.

At that moment, Stirling hated his job. He looked round for something else to latch onto. 'So why did you bring up James Paxton? What's
he
got to do with all this?'

'Well, apparently he was the one who made them get in touch with us. That's why I wondered if you had anything to do with it. He seemed to know exactly where to go.'

'He was around here?' Stirling couldn't believe his ears. 'When?'

'Last night. Just before nine?'

'Unbelievable.' Stirling was squeezing the phone so hard his fingers started to ache.

'So you did talk to him then?'

Stirling hesitated a fraction of a second before muttering, 'Yeah. I'm sorry to say I did.'

'I hope you're not doing this too often, Andy. Or is it because he's a psychic?'

'I just thought . . .' Stirling didn't know what he thought. Only that he was angry as hell. 'I'm really sorry, Senior. I told him this was
strictly
off the record.'

There was no response from the other end for a moment. Then Kirkpatrick said, 'He told them not to tell us he was there. But I gather the woman was quite fond of talking. I think she just mentioned talking to a young English bloke who'd been friends with the man who was murdered by the serial killer last July. Which gave the game away for
me
.'

'I should never have told him anything. I'm really sorry about this.'