Prey (14 page)

Winter walked up to the tall iron cemetery gates and peered through the bars. Hundreds of gravestones stretched out into the distance, following the gentle downward slope of the land. At the far edge of his vision the gravestones and darkness merged together, making it difficult to tell them apart.

The gate was padlocked shut, but that was no real deterrent. If anyone wanted to get in all they had to do was climb over. Winter was betting that plenty of kids had done that over the years. This was the perfect place to come and share a bottle, or a few stolen teenage kisses. He rattled the chain a couple of times. It was pulled tight and, at first glance, it seemed secure enough.

He checked both ways along the street to make sure he was alone. There were a few lights on in the upstairs rooms of the nearby houses, but aside from that this stretch of Main was deserted. Winter reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and found the leather wrap that contained his lock picks. He took one last look to make sure no one was watching, then inserted the torsion wrench into the big brass padlock and pushed it all the way to the back of the lock, away from the pins. Next he inserted the feeler pick and used it to put pressure on the pins. Ten seconds later there was a click and the padlock sprung open.

Winter put his picks away and loosened the chain, carefully so he didn’t make too much noise. He opened the gate just wide enough to slip through, then pulled it closed behind him. Within a dozen yards the darkness had claimed him, the night turning him into a shadow. He followed the access road a bit further then stepped on to the grass and wound his way between the headstones.

Clarke had mentioned that Lester and Melanie were buried here and he spent the next half an hour trying to find their graves before giving up. The problem was that the cemetery was just too big. Locating theirs in the dark would require a whole load of luck, and the whole concept of luck was something that made him uneasy. He’d been looking out for Nelson Price’s grave, too, but wasn’t expecting to find it. Cremation was more likely there, the symbolism of the flames too strong a lure for a small town like Hartwood.

Winter stopped at the next grave, flicked his beat-up Zippo to life, and read the inscription in the dancing light.

VICTORIA BURGESS

24th
SEPTEMBER
1911–30th
MARCH
1944

LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER

CALLED HOME TOO SOON

Winter did the math. Victoria had been thirty-three when she’d died, which was definitely too soon. He wondered how many kids she’d had. However many there had been, they would probably have been young when she died. And how had she died? Long and slow like the way Granville Clarke was dying, or quickly like Jocelyn Clarke?

What story is your mystery woman trying to tell you?

The memory of Clarke’s words drifted through his mind. Winter had to concede that the old guy had a point. The problem was that he was just too close to this one. Usually when he walked into a crime scene, he was able to view it from at least one step removed. That hadn’t happened here because he’d been part of the scene. Yes, he’d approached the investigation in his usual logical, methodical manner, and, yes, he’d listened to what the victims had to say and followed the trail step by step. But that was where the similarities ended. Instead of looking down from the high ground, he was looking up from the low ground, and the perspective was all wrong.

Question: if he walked into this scene cold, what would he see?

To begin with he’d see an incredibly well-executed murder. It was unlikely that this was the blonde’s first. Nobody showed that level of proficiency first time out. If it had been, she would have hesitated. She would have pulled that punch. Stabbing someone wasn’t as simple as the movies made out. How hard did you have to thrust? What angle did you go in at? Where did you need to be standing? And that was before you got on to all the added complications, like the fact that she’d been punching through the bone at the back of the eye socket. Also, her choice of weapon made life difficult. Stabbing someone in the eye with a food knife wasn’t easy.

Another thing that would have jumped out at him was the fact that this wasn’t a robbery. Nothing had been stolen from the till. And nothing had been taken from Omar. The reason Omar had been killed was because she’d wanted to get Winter’s attention. The problem with this motive was that it spawned a whole load of new questions. Like why did she want to get his attention?

Earlier he’d told Mendoza that he had never seen the woman before, and he still believed that. If he had met her before he would have remembered her face. Another possibility was that she was connected with someone he’d put in prison, just like Mendoza had suggested. One of the main reasons he tried to stay under the radar was to avoid reprisals. He never gave interviews and did his best to avoid having his photograph taken. The last time he Googled his name all he’d found were some newspaper articles where he’d gotten a short mention. In addition, there were a couple of features on his father and some press releases that dated back to his FBI days, but that was it. There had only been two photographs.

That said, despite the precautions he took, it wouldn’t be the first time an irate relative or lover had sought him out. He’d spent eleven years with the FBI, and since quitting he’d worked more cases than he cared to remember. Add it all up, and you were looking at plenty of potential grudges and a whole lot of motivation. Even if Mendoza was right, it didn’t really help. Without knowing specifically who he’d pissed off, there was no way of using this to work back to the woman.

Winter rummaged in his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one then stared up at the sky, smoking and thinking. He loved these big skies, the ones that stretched on for ever where you could imagine that you were looking at the whole universe. Occasionally it was good to get a reminder of how insignificant you really were. Without those perspective shifts it was too easy to get lost in your own dramas and crises. A seventy-year lifespan wasn’t even a blink of the eye when measured against the 13.7 billion years that the universe had existed. It was less significant than a single heartbeat. No matter how important you thought you were, the truth was that you weren’t. In the grand scheme, your actions accounted for nothing.

Rather than depressing him, he found the idea appealing. He now understood what Clarke was getting at when he said that his cancer was liberating. Basically, if nothing you did mattered a damn, then you might as well go and do whatever the hell you wanted.

He walked back through the cemetery, glancing at the graves he passed on the off chance he stumbled across Lester’s or Melanie’s. He reached the gates and let himself out, then headed across the street to Myrtle House. For once, insomnia wasn’t an issue. Within minutes of letting himself into his room he was unconscious, his sleep dreamless.

‘Wakey, wakey.’

A soft voice tickled Winter’s ear, cutting through the fog in his brain. His first thought was that it was Isabella. But that couldn’t be right. He’d left Izzy behind seven hotels ago. She was the reason that he’d stayed in Rome a week longer than he’d needed to. She’d been a distraction of the best kind, a welcome change in focus, albeit a brief one. It wasn’t Izzy, though. The accent was all wrong, the pitch of her voice, the cadence.

These thoughts took a millisecond to process and were immediately replaced by a more worrying one.
What the hell?
Winter’s eyes snapped open and the first thing he saw was the beam of a flashlight. Then he saw the shadow of a woman standing beside his bed, the unmistakeable silhouette of a gun in her hand.

‘Don’t move or speak.’

Winter kept completely still. It wasn’t easy. The adrenaline was pumping and his breath was coming in fast shallow gasps. He concentrated on his breathing, willing it to slow. Although this latest development was surprising, it wasn’t completely unexpected. She’d said that they’d meet up again, but he hadn’t expected her to be this brazen. Then again, she did like dramatic gestures. The woman took a pair of handcuffs from her bag and tossed them on to the bed. They landed with a rattle and a clink.

‘Attach one end to the headboard and the other to your wrist.’

Winter complied. The click of the bracelet was loud in the silent early morning stillness.

‘Tighter.’

He clicked the cuffs two notches tighter and the cold steel dug into his wrist. She turned on the bedside lamp and the narrow beam of the flashlight was replaced by a weak jaundiced light that struggled to fill the room. She was wearing the same baggy leather jacket that she’d had on in the diner, the same sneakers. He glanced over at the nightstand. His cell phone was next to his watch, within touching distance. It was almost three-thirty. She saw where he was looking and slid the phone to the edge of the cabinet.

She positioned a chair next to the bed then sat down, crossed her legs and leant forward. She was close enough for him to catch all her fragrances. Deodorant, soap, shampoo, laundry detergent. A delicate mix of flowers and fruit. Close enough to reach out and touch her white skin. Close enough to see the slight ridges at the edge of her irises, and know for definite that she was wearing lenses again. Close enough to see she was wearing a wig. Close enough to see how painfully thin she was.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking you should put the gun away. You’re not going to use it.’

‘You sound pretty sure of that?’

‘I am. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m a part of it. If you kill me, that’s going to spoil your fun.’

She aimed the gun, her finger curling around the trigger. Her left hand was supporting the right, which implied a degree of competence. That said, it was a moot point. Even if she had been holding the gun side on and pointed downwards like a street punk, there was no way she could miss at this range. Her face and eyes were empty, and Winter wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

‘You’re not going to shoot me,’ he repeated.

‘Bang, bang,’ she whispered. She gave a quiet playful laugh, then lowered the gun and laid it across her lap. ‘So what conclusions have you drawn with regards to the murders?’

‘Nelson Price did it. His prints were all over the murder weapon and there are witnesses who place him at the scene of the crime.’

‘But?’

‘But you know this already, because you were there. You’re Amelia Price, aren’t you? You’re Nelson’s sister.’

For almost a whole minute she just sat there. While she studied him, he studied her. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, he could see her better. Her eyebrows were darker than the wig, her teeth slightly crooked. She wanted him to believe that she was relaxed, that she was taking all this in her stride, but he could see the tension in her face and shoulders.

‘You’d like me to be impressed,’ she said eventually. ‘After all, that’s the way things work in your world. You come strolling in, solve the crime, and everyone cheers. I’ve got to tell you, though, I’m really not impressed.’

‘I’m right, though.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘You set the table after the Reeds were murdered, didn’t you?’

A nod. ‘Yes, I got to play mother.’

‘Why?’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

‘In my experience, yes there does.’

‘So what’s the reason?’

Winter fell silent while he thought this over. ‘The Reeds were already dead so laying the table had no direct bearing on the actual murder. Nor did it help you when you escaped. You could argue that it gave the cops something to think about, and anything that muddies the water could be advantageous, but I don’t think so. That would require the local cops to be operating with a degree of subtlety that I just don’t see.’

Amelia nodded for him to go on.

‘Therefore the act was a symbolic one. There were four places set at the table, and that was symbolic as well. Why four places? Why not three? Or five? Or six?’ Winter thought this through for a second longer, then shook his head. ‘Wrong question. The correct question is who were those places laid for?’

Amelia just stared, her face blank.

‘Dinner time was a big deal in your family, wasn’t it? Your father wanted everything set out in a certain way, and he wanted everyone playing their parts. I’m guessing that you only got to speak when you were spoken to, right?’ When it became clear that she wasn’t going to answer, he added, ‘Did he make you wear your best clothes? Did he make you sit just so?’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘That’s the thing, we both know that I’m not.’

Amelia picked up the gun and aimed at his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Okay, I’m wrong.’

He glanced at the gun, then shifted his focus so he was looking at Amelia. She took a couple of deep breaths and the moment passed. She was still pointing the gun at him, but he sensed that he was out of danger for now. He needed to keep her talking, needed to stretch things out. The longer she talked, the more he could learn. A dozen questions jumped into his head, two dozen. What he needed was one where she had the opportunity to show how clever she was.

‘Tell me about the file.’

‘What file?’

‘You stole the Hartwood PD’s file on the Reed murders. Why?’

‘Why do you think? After all, you’re the ace detective. The go-to guy who’s got all the answers.’

‘You stole it because you didn’t want me to get hold of it. And the reason for that was that you didn’t want to make things too easy for me.’

‘Not everything’s about you, Jefferson. Try again.’

Winter shook his head. ‘I don’t know then.’

‘And I’m betting it kills you to admit that.’

‘Why did you kill Omar Harrak?’

She frowned. ‘Are you talking about the cook?
’

Winter nodded.

‘I killed him because I needed to make sure that you were taking me seriously.’ She paused. ‘He was my first, you know.’

It was Winter’s turn to frown. ‘No he wasn’t. It takes time and practice to get that proficient.’

‘And you’re sure about that?’

Winter studied her carefully, but saw no evidence that she was being disingenuous. For a split second he was back in the diner again, reliving Omar’s murder. Amelia’s attention had been fixed fully on him. It was almost as though Omar was an afterthought.

‘You’re a psychopath, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said. ‘But killing doesn’t really do it for you. It’s all about control, isn’t it? That’s what gets you off. So how long did it take to persuade Nelson to murder Lester and Melanie?’

Amelia tapped her fingertips against her lips. Winter watched them move. One, two, one, two, his heart thumping in time with the beat. She stood up abruptly, placed the gun on the nightstand, then unzipped her jacket and lifted her top. Her pale stomach was covered with cigarette burns. There were dozens of them, ugly patches of scar tissue erupting through the smoothness. She ran her fingers across them, the tips reading the shapes.

‘There are sixty-three burns in total, and I remember every single one.’

‘And I guess this is how you justify things to yourself. How you sleep at night. You were abused, therefore that gives you a licence to destroy. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that particular story? Do you have any idea how tedious it is?’

Amelia tugged the top down and pulled it straight. ‘You think you’re so clever, but you’re not. Not really. When you get right down to it you don’t know anything.’

‘I know enough to guess that the person who did that to you was your first.’

‘And I’ve already told you: the cook was my first.’ She paused a moment. ‘You talk about firsts like they’re important. They’re not. Does it matter if the cook was my first, or my second, or even my tenth?’

‘His name was Omar.’

‘So what? If he’s got a name that somehow makes him more real?’

‘He was real.’

She smiled but didn’t say anything.

‘Okay,’ he went on, ‘if he was your first like you claim, I want to know how you were able to kill him so efficiently.’

The smile widened to show the tips of her teeth. ‘Cat skulls aren’t as thick as a human’s, but I was able to get a good idea of what was involved.’

Winter was studying her carefully again. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t lying. ‘Thank you for sharing.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The smile slid away and her face turned serious. ‘Where’s your passport?’

‘Excuse me.’

‘Your passport. Where is it?’

‘It’s in my suitcase.’

Winter watched her walk over to the stand. She popped the catches on the Samsonite case and lifted the lid, rummaged around until she found the passport. She held it up for him to see, then very deliberately dropped it into the pocket of her leather jacket.

‘Why me?’

‘And you call me a narcissist.’ She smiled. ‘You know, not everything’s about you, Jefferson.’

Winter shook his head. ‘No way is this random. You’ve targeted me. Why?’

‘Maybe you’ll have that one worked out by the time we next meet. Then again, maybe you won’t. I guess this is where we find out if you’re as smart as you think you are.’ Her smile turned into a laugh. ‘As much as I’m enjoying this little chat, I really should get going.’

‘Before you do, I’ve got one more question. Back in the diner you said that I was a work in progress. What did you mean by that?’

For a moment Amelia looked as though she was going to ignore the question. ‘We’re more alike than you think.’

Winter shook his head. ‘I’m nothing like you.’

‘Yes you are. You’ve been shaped by your experiences, the same as I’ve been shaped by mine. The difference is that I wear some of my scars on the outside.’

‘Don’t think for a second that you know me. You don’t.’

‘Don’t I? When you shut your eyes I’m betting that you dream of blood. Isn’t that right? Your dreams are decorated with arterial spray patterns, and your head is filled with thoughts of what it’s like to play God. There’s nothing more thrilling than being the breath between life and death. I know that, and you know it, too.’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘That’s the thing, I’m not.’

Before Winter could say anything else, Amelia leant forward until they were almost touching. He could smell her scent again, and he could see the tell-tale signs of her disguise. He could see the tight angles made by her bones. She was so thin she might blow away. She paused for a moment then started moving her head gently from side to side, her eyes scanning every inch of his face like she was trying to memorise it.

‘You don’t scare me,’ he whispered.

‘Yes I do.’

Amelia stood and picked up his cell phone from the nightstand. She looked at it for a second, then tossed it across the room. It tumbled through the air and come sliding to a stop next to the dresser.

‘Lie down on your front with both hands above your head.’

Winter shuffled down the bed and a couple of seconds later heard the click of a handcuff bracelet being unlocked. He tilted his head and saw her winding the chain around the headboard. She grabbed his uncuffed wrist and fastened the bracelet to it. Then she took out a large handkerchief and motioned for him to raise his head so she could gag him. The handkerchief was dry and abrasive against his lips. She checked everything was tight then turned to go. Before leaving she turned off the bedside lamp and turned her flashlight back on. The door opened, then closed, and he was alone again.

So what now? The handcuffs meant that he couldn’t move from the bed and the gag meant that he couldn’t shout for help. Not that it made much difference if he was gagged or not. Even if he could call out, Mendoza wouldn’t hear him. There were two fire doors, two staircases and another floor between them. No matter how loud he shouted, it wouldn’t be loud enough.

He looked around for something he could use to pick the handcuffs, but there was nothing he could reach. His lock picks were in his jacket pocket in the closet, and, even if he could get hold of his watch, the prong on the buckle wouldn’t be long enough. As far as he could see there was only one option open to him.

Winter shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep.