Kaleidoscope (10 page)
"What pub is that?" Lewis asked.
"The Golden Anchor, about a mile from here. Craig goes in there for a beer from time to time."
Lewis made a note in the pad, the first legible piece of writing he had made since arriving. He wasn't sure why he made the note; the description the old woman had given him had been based on second hand information and wasn't particularly detailed in any case. But it was something. He wrote down the name of the pub and then put a note next to it about the little finger and straggly blonde hair.
"What about the other man? Did he say anything about him to you?"
"Nothing really... something about a tattoo on his arm - it was of a bird or something I think he said. He only saw it briefly through the spy hole you see. You'd have to ask him yourself about that, I really can't remember. But all that doesn't really matter now anyway." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "The police say that Craig made it all up. They tested his DMA and it matched some blood that was under the girl
’
s fingernails."
Lewis frowned for a moment before realising she meant to say,
DNA
.
"Craig had a big scratch on his neck you see and the police asked him where he got it. He told them that some woman was pestering him on the street the night before when he was coming home from the shops. He didn't know who she was, but said it wasn't... the girl
…
you know
…
Hannah. He said this woman kept asking him rude things, offering him things for money, you know..." Mrs Blaine stubbed out her second cigarette as Lewis listened. He watched as her hand immediately went back to the packet, but she didn't remove another one this time. She just held the small box in her lap, as if it was some kind of security blanket, as she continued to speak. "She was some whore you see. Craig said that he kept refusing and pushed her away but then she got angry an
’
pulled his hair then scratched him and ran off. He said it hurt really badly and his neck was bleeding as he walked back up to the flat. That was how he got the scratches. But of course, the police didn't believe that, especially when they tested his DMA and it matched what was under that girl
’
s nails."
Lewis scribbled more lines in his pad, outlining what he had just been told and churned it over in his mind.
"Make sure you write all this in your paper Mr Lennon," the old woman said, restlessly turning the packet of cigarettes in her hands. "My boy's slow and lazy, but he ain't no murderer."
Lewis nodded and closed the notepad. "Thank you for talking to me Mrs Blaine. I'll... I might be in touch."
He got up and went to shake her hand, but she had already turned away and had begun to light a third cigarette.
"You can let yourself out right?" she said through tight lips which held the latest cigarette in place.
"Of course."
Lewis turned and walked from the room. He opened the door which creaked loudly and shut it behind him. He glanced at Hannah's door one more time, before turning and leaving.
Chapter 11
The trees blurred as they rushed past the train window. Hannah Jacobs stared out, leaning her head against the glass as the sun bathed the passing fields in a beautiful yellow glow. She glanced down to her watch. The train had been delayed and she was going to be arriving later than she had hoped, but that didn't really matter; she was too excited to let something like that matter. It was a spur of the moment trip - a sudden impulse had taken her hostage and had forced her to go to the train station. This wasn't completely out of character for Hannah, but she had still felt equal degrees of apprehension and exhilaration as she purchased the ticket that morning.
She should have been studying for an exam that she had in two days, but that could wait she told herself as she pulled a small book from her bag. The book was bound in pale brown leather and had a tiny gold clasp to fasten it shut. On the cover was a picture of a single rose. She opened it and flicked through the various entries she had made in the diary since purchasing it, two years earlier. She turned to the end of the filled pages and read the letter that she had drafted earlier that morning, before deciding on her journey. She read the words she had used in the letter - words such as
‘
hope
’
and 'love', but they came across as trite and overly sentimental. Hannah wrote them on a whim after waking, but they didn't really express how she truly felt; the exception perhaps being the last sentence.
‘
I love you.
’
She knew that the letter didn't read correctly, and wasn't written in the way she usually spoke, so she had been compelled to make the journey. She would see him in person to tell him.
Hannah already suspected that he felt the same way, but they had a close friendship, which paradoxically made expressing something like wanting to be together all the more difficult. She couldn't explain why and didn't try to over think it either.
She read the letter three times, before closing the diary and placing it back in her bag. The train slowed as it pulled into the station. Hannah got up from her seat and stepped out, onto the platform. It was busy and she jostled her way through, looking for the exit. After negotiating her way through the crowd and up the stairs, she left the platform, walked through the station and stepped out onto the street. There was a line of waiting taxis outside and Hannah gave one of the driver
’
s the address for Lewis's halls of residence.
***
The carpet in the corridor was thin and worn down the centre. It was the same as the type of carpet that was used in most student accommodation; cheap and unfit for the huge amounts of traffic which it would inevitably have to carry. Hannah recognised it from her own accommodation, two hundred miles away.
She knocked on the door to Lewis's room and waited. She could hear loud music from a room further down the corridor and some of the other doors were open. Students were going in and out of each others rooms indifferently; it was a casual, aloof existence and privacy was something that was voluntarily handed in at the gates. This was, for most of the students, their first time of living away from home and they wallowed in the freedom it provided.
There was no reply, so Hannah knocked on the door again but was surprised when the door to the room next to Lewis's opened and a short, thin man stuck his head out.
"You looking for Lou?"
Lou?
"Lewis Foster, yes," Hannah replied.
The man was in his early twenties but his face was covered in large, red spots which, to Hannah, looked extremely painful. He raised a hand and slowly began to pick at a sore area on his forehead.
"Think he went out. He shouldn't have really; we've got a test tomorrow. I told him, but he wouldn't listen." The man pulled something from his skin, examined it and then threw it to the ground.
"Any idea where I could find him?" Hannah asked, trying to ignore his grotesque display.
The man rolled his eyes, "Hold on."
He stepped out of his room, wearing long shorts and no socks, and walked across the hall to the opposite door. He pounded hard on the wood.
"Aaron! Aaron!" he yelled as he continued to thump his fist.
The door opened suddenly and a large man with a shaved head answered.
"What the fuck is it? Jesus, I was sleeping!" Aaron rubbed his face with chubby fingers.
"She wants to know where Lou is," the first man replied, nodding his head in Hannah's direction.
"Erm..." Aaron frowned and dragged the back of his hand over his brow. "I think he said he was going down to Mindi's Bar with Abby... yeah I'm sure that was it."
"Thank you," Hannah said. "You couldn't tell me how to get there could you?"
Aaron sighed and then gave her directions to the bar. He said it was only a ten minute walk.
Hannah thanked them both again and left the building. She followed Aaron's directions and found the place easily in spite of the exterior being narrow and set back from the main line of surrounding establishments. She stepped inside and the small entrance opened out into a huge area which was filled with people talking loudly, over even louder music. From the outside, Mindi's Bar looked like an ancient, rundown pub, but inside it was fitted with shiny metal surfaces and abstract art hung on the plain brick walls. There was a small dance floor over to one side, but it was early afternoon and so was empty; waiting for the evening to arrive when the lamps would be dimmed and flashing lights would encourage people to fill it.
Hannah walked through the bar, craning her neck, searching for Lewis as she held her bag close to her side. A man, who was carrying three drinks, knocked into her and the alcohol sloshed in the glasses, splashing onto her top.
"Sorry," Hannah said, but the man just frowned as he pushed past. Hannah glared at him for a second before continuing.
She managed to make her way to the bar and leaned against it as she looked around. After a few minutes and still no sign of Lewis, she was about to give up, assuming that Aaron had been mistaken. But then she glanced further down and saw him.
He was standing, back to the bar, holding a bottle of beer. His hair was longer than the last time she had seen him and it looked as though he was cultivating the beginnings of a beard, but she recognised him immediately. She smiled and called his name, but the music was too loud and he was too far away. She moved closer, manoeuvring herself around the frustrated people who were waiting to be served, and approached him. When she was ten feet away, she saw him stand upright and a broad smile opened up his face. She watched his eyes sparkle as a pretty, blonde woman came up to him. Hannah paused and watched as they said something to each other through wide lips and then leaned in. They kissed and Lewis put his arms around the woman, pulling her closer. When they separated, Hannah felt her own smile evaporate; carried away by the gathering hollowness inside.
She moved backwards, still watching as Lewis and his girlfriend spoke to each other. He ordered her a drink then they both walked over to a table where they sat down and held each other's hand. Hannah suddenly felt hot and she turned around. She walked through the crowd, towards the exit as a twisting knot tightened in her stomach.
The air was cool as Hannah stepped outside, the loud music falling away behind her and she walked briskly down the street. She felt a tear gather and fall from her eye, down her check, but it was brushed away with the back of her hand as swiftly as it had appeared. For a reason she couldn
’
t quite understand, she smiled and forced a chuckle. It was almost an odd validation; she was being silly. Lewis wasn
’
t someone for her to own; he had his own life. Of course he had a girlfriend, why wouldn
’
t he? Hannah had woken up that morning with an intention to do something, and in her own mind she had idealised it. It suddenly appeared so obvious now that it could never have happened the way she had hoped - it was a fantasy.
She wandered the city for a while; stopping for a coffee after an hour or so and watching the sky grow dark. People began to appear on the streets, ready for their night out and Hannah took this as a cue for her to leave. She caught a taxi back to the train station and, after waiting for half an hour, boarded the next train home. Her carriage was almost empty, apart from an elderly couple sitting further down.
She watched the same trees and fields pass by her window in reverse, this time silhouetted against the mellow light from a half-moon. She pulled the small, leather bound diary from her bag again and flicked to the letter she had written to Lewis that morning. She read it again, through eyes which were only a few hours older, but years wiser. Carefully pulling at the paper, she tore the letter from the book and folded it into quarters then pushed it underneath the leather that enclosed the rear cover. After placing the diary back in her bag, Hannah allowed her head to fall against the seat and she closed her eyes.
Chapter 12
Hellam listened to the hum of the TV in the background as he read the newspaper and was sitting in the huge, leather sofa in the front room of his house. The article he was reading was positioned in the mid-section, but filled half a page.
'Local businessman and philanthropist donates over
£
2m to charity.'
There was a large photograph of Joseph Hellam standing outside the school to which he had recently donated
£
50,000. The story highlighted Hellam's charitable contributions over the years and praised him for all the good work he had done for the local community in Surrington.
He smiled quietly to himself as he read the article and absorbed every mention of his name, reading certain passages several times. He felt a warm sense of pleasure rise through his stomach, but the sense of wellbeing wasn't acquired by how much good he had done, or how generous he had been, or even that he was finally getting recognition for all his charitable donations. It was from one, simple thought that overwhelmed all others:
How easily they were fooled.
He knew that he had a higher than average intelligence, but this article had fed his self-satisfaction and perhaps, he thought idly to himself, he was a genius. The way he separated his legitimate and criminal business practices was a work of unequalled brilliance in his opinion. Here he was, being openly praised for his philanthropy and the simple fact that he had fooled them all gave him something he could treasure - the knowledge that he was
better
than them.
He finished the article quickly, ignoring the final paragraph which mentioned an investigation into his business by the police seven years ago, linking him by several degrees of separation to organised crime networks. The investigation had fallen flat when all ties had been severed and covered up months before the police had gained access to any incriminating files.
Hellam knew they were still watching him closely, as Carl Richards had proven, but he was careful and had contacts within the police who would keep him informed.
Psychopath...
That word again. The thought suddenly fizzed and crackled in Hellam's mind unexpectedly, taking him by surprise. That was what the girl had said to him. No one had called him that before and Hellam had given his own psychological profile very little thought before she uttered that word. He had always known that he thought differently from most people, but to him that was just an advantage he had over others which he could use for manipulation and control. But since that day, he had found himself dissecting his innermost thoughts more and more: why didn't he really care for anybody else?
When he was younger, he thought that everyone was the same and they were simply pretending to be upset or affected when someone close to them had suffered some serious injury, or even died. He simply couldn't comprehend how they truly felt pain when something bad happened to somebody else. It didn't affect them directly; they weren't being harmed, so why should they care? It had been only later that he had realised that these people really did
feel
things that he could not; and that realisation gave him a tremendous advantage over them.
'These people are real, they're being murdered... my god, you're a psychopath,'
was what she had said.
The words buzzed around his head for a while as he thought of the girl. Her name was Hannah and they had met a few months before she had found the snuff films on his laptop. He couldn't allow her to live after seeing them; she would have eventually told the police and Hellam wouldn
’
t allow them to start sniffing around again.
But one thing stuck in Hellam's mind from the night Hannah had found those films; her emotional outburst towards him was something that he found himself regurgitating and analysing again and again. It was such a pure reaction of horror, disbelief and incomprehension. It still amazed him that she could feel all of these things and express them with such unreserved passion. She didn't know those people and even if she did, it was
them
being murdered, not
her.
Of course he knew the learned protocols which could guide him through how 'normal' people thought and could use these to present a false image of himself. He too could be outraged at the suffering in third-world countries when the reports were on the news, or even produce false tears as he saw the innocent victims of 9/11 fall to their deaths as they jumped from the twin towers in order to avoid the horrific fires behind. But the simple truth was he felt nothing.
It was after Hannah had said that word to him that Hellam had glanced through an article on the internet describing psychopathic and sociopathic behaviour and discovered that perhaps she had been correct in her impromptu psychoanalysis. But even this fact didn't particularly concern him; it just gave him a word for what made him different; a difference of which he was more than accepting. It was because of that difference that gave him such power over people. When push came to shove, he could turn and walk away without a single shred of remorse for his actions or empathy for those he had destroyed.
Hannah had learned that
, he thought to himself quietly and his lips momentarily expanded. He took a sip from the drink that was resting on the table, before opening the newspaper again and reading the article through from the beginning.
***
The small, porcelain face of the girl stared up with open, shimmering eyes as she rested in George Langton
’
s arms. The eyes were moist; water had gathered at the corners as her huge, dilated pupils gazed through him. A few seconds earlier, those eyes had been darting around the room as Langton tightly held a hand over her mouth.
Langton could see red blotches surrounding the irises, where tiny capillaries had burst, releasing the scarlet fluid into an ocean of white. He screamed as he stared down at her, his own terrified reflection gazing back at him from the black marble pupils.
He woke up, still screaming. He jerked upright and stared around at the darkness of his bedroom. The thin bed sheets were wet with perspiration and stuck to his clammy skin. He wrenched them away, throwing them to the floor then got up and began to pace the room, heavy gasps escaping from his lungs as he rubbed his trembling hands together. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but as the image of the dead girl faded, he felt it slow and breathed a deep sigh.
This wasn
’
t the first time he had experienced the nightmare - not by a long-shot; when he wasn
’
t haunted by the dead eyes of the girl during the day, they haunted him at night. Sometimes in his nightmares, she came back to life and spoke to him. She asked him why he had killed her, but Langton could never answer that question
–
it seemed to him like it was a question without an answer.
He flicked on the light and went down the hall to the kitchen. He pushed a glass under the water dispenser of his fridge and gulped the cool liquid down in one. He placed the glass on the side as he took another deep sigh.
What
’
s done is done,
he told himself,
it
’
s in the past now George, forget about it.
But that was part of the problem
–
he couldn
’
t forget. The man who wrote him those letters, Concerned Citizen, wouldn
’
t allow that to happen. C.C. had found out about what Langton had done, Christ knew how, but he had found out nevertheless, and had exploited that knowledge. Why C.C. wanted the documents which he had asked Langton to copy for him over the years was something Langton also didn
’
t have an answer for. But that was a question which had seemed to grow far less significant as the years passed. Langton could only guess what the documents were being used for; evidence against Hellam was obvious. But who would require that evidence over a period of years? Like an earthquake, the revelation unexpectedly rumbled through him.
Carl Richards
…
Langton hit the kitchen work surface with the palm of his hand as the pieces of the jigsaw came together. Why hadn
’
t he thought of that before? He had found out that Richards was an undercover police officer almost a week earlier. It seemed so obvious now; it must have been Richards who had been blackmailing him all along. He had obviously been desperate to gain access to documents detailing Hellam
’
s criminal organisations.
Langton felt a wave of relief wash over him and a spontaneous smile appeared. Richards was dead now; he was certain of that. Hellam would have had no choice but to dispatch him after discovering who he was. Did that mean that the evidence had also died? Langton thought about this for a moment and these thoughts began to disintegrate the relief he had felt just seconds earlier.
Carl Richards had only been working for Hellam for the past few months, yet Langton had received the first letter from C.C. years ago. Langton supposed that he could have been working the case for up to a year before beginning his undercover work
–
but for up to four years? That didn't seem right.
Then there was the blackmailing itself. If Richards really was the man responsible for the letters
and
he really was an undercover police officer, then how did he find out about the girl? Surely, as soon as a police officer found evidence that it had been Langton who had killed her; he would have been arrested immediately; not simply used as a source to get at the shady activities of his employer.
Langton shook his head and frowned. No, it simply didn
’
t make sense for his blackmailer to have been a member of the police, and that discounted Richards altogether.
He picked up the glass and poured some more water then he carried it back to the bedroom. He placed it on the bedside table, got back into bed and flicked off the light. He leaned back on his arms and gazed up, through the blackness, and thought.
The image of the girl formed in the ripples of his mind once again, like a reflection in water regaining its clarity after a pebble had broken the surface. Langton closed his eyes as he thought about that day.
It had been almost twenty years ago. Langton and his wife had been living on the street for a couple of years, having moved there when Langton had been dismissed from the school he had been working at in Surrington. He had been a secondary school teacher in that life and the circumstances for his dismissal were such that he felt it wise to move away for a while. He had managed to convince his wife that the move was a good idea and they had made the one-hundred mile journey to the small
village
of
Alderidge
in
Somerset
. Langton managed to find work as a freelance accountant, finally using the degree he had gained several years before.
Working from home, George Langton and his wife settled down and enjoyed life in the small village. They got on well with the people who lived on the street and would often attend the dinner parties that were arranged by their neighbours. The street was small and quiet with only seven other families, in houses which sat on spacious plots of land.
Langton had been living in Alderidge for two years when Michelle Layne, a thirteen-year-old girl from the house next to his, had knocked at his door. It was a Thursday, just after lunch, and the street was quiet as he opened the door. He knew Michelle quite well and had been to a New Years Eve party with her parents the previous year.
"Hello Michelle, what is it?" Langton had asked, smiling pleasantly at the girl.
"Sorry Mr Langton, but I've been locked out of my house, my parents aren't home. I wondered if I could come in and call my dad's work?"
"Of course, come in." Langton had opened the door wide and closed it behind her when she stepped into the hall. "Shouldn't you be in school today?"
Michelle frowned at him, as if he had lost his mind. "No, it's the summer holidays."
Langton had nodded and smiled again, feeling idiotic for not knowing. But he didn't have any children of his own, so he often forgot about the timetable which the schools kept to. He led her into the lounge.
"I was round my friend's house today," Michelle continued. "I was going to be there all day but we had an argument and I decided to come home. Only, like an idiot, I forgot my stupid key!" She slapped her head and smiled.
