Scream, You Die (8 page)

Scarlett could feel her eyes getting heavy. She finished the paragraph she was reading, folded down the page and placed Horace Walpole’s
The Castle of Otranto
on the bedside table. It had been a long time since she had read a classic but she had been gifted the book by the head of the university as a thank you for her sensitive approach and support to the students in the course of the rape enquiry and she had promised faithfully to read it. Well, she’d started it, but it was heavy going. Alex King’s revelations had tormented her thoughts all that afternoon and they were still distracting her. From the moment he’d told her about Rose she had not stopped thinking about her. She couldn’t even remember eating lunch in the pub or anything she and Alex had said to one another following his shock disclosure. All day it had been as if she and her thoughts had been wandering around surrounded by a fine mist. The reading had probably done her good; even though she had not immersed herself into the story it had certainly made her feel tired.

Checking the alarm was set on her BlackBerry she turned out the light and snuggled beneath her duvet. For several minutes she lay with her eyes open listening to the sounds of the house settling and thinking about tomorrow. She really hoped it was Rose. She needed some answers.

Scarlett closed her eyes.

A dream visited her. It was the dream she used to have as a young girl. It hadn’t visited her during her teenage years but had reappeared following the murder of her parents. With counselling it had disappeared again and so for the last seven years her subconscious had been undisturbed by the terrors. Now it was back.

As always, it began with her walking along a corridor lit by old flickering gas lamps which gave off only a dull glow. Heavy panelled doors lined either side for as far as the eye could see. She could never see the end of the corridor. The building she was in was old and decrepit and for some reason she knew it was Victorian Gothic, though she didn’t know why, because her only view of it had always been among the corridors and the rooms behind the doors. Moving along at a slow pace, a familiar feeling of dread overcame her for she knew what was going to happen next. It was always the same.

Ahead she heard the creak of a slowly opening door and stepped forward tentatively. To her right the door was ajar, though the gap was not wide enough for her to see what lay beyond, and as she pushed the panel inwards fear rose within. The room she entered smelt fusty and looked cluttered. She tried to pick out the shapes in the gloom but everything appeared to be covered in dark dust sheets. Although nothing inside the room was discernible, the surroundings reminded her of an old Victorian parlour. Heavy drapes hid windows, woollen rugs covered a polished wood floor and the walls were adorned with Christian artefacts. She walked to the centre of the room and someone whispered her name. She froze. Before her, in the left hand corner, was a rocking chair, slowly rolling to and fro. Someone was sat in it, though she couldn’t pick out any features, only a shape. She couldn’t even tell if the silhouette was male or female. Her name was called again but she was confused. The voice that called her contained a mixture of sounds from her father’s and mother’s mouths. And there was another voice among them. Hearing it speak chilled her to the core. Her eyes searched within the dimness. Someone else was in here, hiding in the shadows. She turned to run and she felt a presence stir. Then it was if she were stuck, as if someone or something was holding her back. She fought to free herself, willing her legs to move, but they were like lead and a feeling of panic and dread overcame her. Her heart began to pound against her chest as she exerted more pressure and finally she was free and back in the corridor again, running for all she was worth. Doors clattered behind her. At the far end a light appeared. It was getting brighter.

Scarlett flicked open her eyes and found herself in her bedroom. She heaved a sigh of relief.

Sanctuary. The demons hadn’t got through.

She saw that the duvet was half on her, half hanging over the bed and she was covered in sweat. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She began to shake.

The thought of Rose had stirred the haunting again.

It was lunchtime before Scarlett’s languor had dissipated. The half a dozen cups of coffee and the two Pro Plus tablets had helped by giving her the hit she needed to challenge the fatigue from her restless night.

Despite her weariness and her thoughts continually drifting to that evening’s plans she had managed to make a dent in her paperwork. The four hours she had spent rooted at her desk, without interruption, had enabled her to make some in-roads into the Lycra Rapist investigation, especially with the preparation of an updated remand file, adding the rape of Claudette Jackson to the list of charges. Other pieces of information she had gone through had focussed on James Green himself, though the feedback and findings from her colleagues had disturbed her. Despite a search team and Forensics going through his flat with a fine-toothcomb and extending house-to-house enquiries, they had uncovered very little about him, especially his past. It was that part which especially concerned her. She was no further forward in knowing when he’d arrived on their doorstep, where he’d lived previously or even where he’d worked. On that score she had left enquiries with the Housing and Benefits departments, but no one had come back to her yet. It was on her list of chase-up calls. Thankfully, they had Claudette’s clear identification of Green to back up the charge, and Scarlett had tasked her partner Tarn with logging the clothing recovered from Claudette’s room and bagging them for forensics, in the full expectation that a positive DNA match would be made affirming that James Green had carried out the attack. Holding those thoughts, she glanced up from her keyboard to catch Tarn’s attention only to find him levelling his gaze at her.

“What?”

Tarn tapped his watch. “Lunchtime. Do you fancy going out for a sandwich?”

Pushing herself back in her chair, she teased out the stiffness in her spine and gazed across her desk, locking onto Tarn’s enquiring gaze. Tarn was probably the best partner she had worked with. He not only shared her enthusiasm and tenacity for hunting down criminals, but matched her professionalism as an investigator. Their first job together had been a series of robberies on lone women leaving railway stations late at night, the offender being a fifteen-year-old boy already hooked on cocaine. He was caught because he got sloppy. Three of the attacks were at a station close to his home in Fulham and she and Tarn had spent a couple of nights on stake-out there, catching the BMX-riding youth as he targeted a young woman just walking to her car in the car park. Tarn had a brought him down, bike and all, with a neat rugby maul. He was currently doing four years in a young offenders’ institution. Since then they had also worked together on a number of murder enquiries, complementing their individual skills. When she had been offered the DS’s post on the HSCU two years ago, and there had been a gap in her team, she had immediately thought of Tarn. It hadn’t been difficult persuading him to join and since then he’d been her regular working partner.

“Under normal circumstances I’d say yes, but I want to get this file ready for  court tomorrow. If you’re going for one can you bring me something back?”

“What’s the rush? You’ve got all day.”

“I need to get a flyer.”

Arching his eyebrows he said, “Got something on?”

She hadn’t told him about her meeting yesterday. In the past she had confided in him about her younger sister Rose, but as she’d climbed into his car that morning she had decided that it would be best if she left him out of it for now. That way he would be protected. Especially given that Rose was still officially circulated as a suspect in her father’s murder. “Let’s just say I need to get away early.”

His frown tightened.“Very mysterious.”

“Not really. I’ve just got some personal stuff to sort out.”

“So personal you can’t share it with a friend?”

Scarlett threw him a scolding stare.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, this interview is terminated.”

She smiled. “Good. And as you’ve got nothing better to do, I’ll have a ham and salad on brown.”

****

By three-thirty p.m. Scarlett had finished her work for the day. She printed off her documents and after checking that the numbered pages were in sequential order, tapped them together neatly and dropped them into her pending tray. Then, lifting her coat off the back of her seat she waved a hand to catch Tarn’s attention, and with a flick of her head towards the door she mouthed him a silent goodbye and left the office.

Twenty minutes later she was at Richmond railway station catching the train to Waterloo. There she alighted, crossed the bridge and caught an overground train to Charing Cross, where, jostling with commuters making their way home, she fought her way up the escalator and along the corridor towards Trafalgar Square. She emerged from the exit facing Nelson’s Column and cast her gaze around. As usual the square was busy and she noticed that in the short time she had been on her journey day had given way to evening and the weather had changed – dark, brooding, pregnant rain clouds filled the sky. She pulled up the collar of her coat and headed towards the National Gallery.

Passing the fountains she spotted Alex at the top of the steps leaning against the balustrade. He gave her a wave and skipped down to greet her.

“No problem getting away then?”

“No, although I had to be a bit discreet getting away from the office. Tarn is the only one who knows I needed to leave early but I didn’t tell him why. The fewer who know, the better.”

“Okay then, are you good to go?”

She eagerly rubbed her hands together. “You bet.”

He lifted up a carrier bag he was holding and delved into it, pulling out a lightweight outdoor jacket. “You need to put this on.” He handed over a Gore-Tex coat. “It’s reversible, just in case we need to do a couple of sweeps past our target.”

Scarlett threw him a look. “Alex! What do you mean target? The target might be my sister. She’s called Rose.”

He met her gaze. “You know what I mean.” He fished a hand back into the bag and withdrew two woollen hats. He handed one over. “You might need this as well.”

As Scarlett pulled the grey coloured hat down over her ears she glanced at Alex and smiled. From their relationship she had learned he was a former senior non-commissioned officer in Military Intelligence, specialising in global terrorism. He had once been attached to the SAS, involved in the targeting of terrorist groups in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now – so he had told her – he was employed by a London-based specialist security company advising international organisations and Third World countries on their security measures. As she watched him pull on his own hat she couldn’t help but think, from the look on his face, how much he was revelling being back in action, organising and playing his part.

As Scarlett pulled on her jacket Alex reached across and tucked in some loose strands of her hair. “You’ve got to hide that red hair. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” Then looking her up and down he added, “This might be daft question but have you done surveillance stuff before?”

“Watched a few villains from the back of an unmarked van many a time.”

“But have you followed anyone before?”

She shook her head.

“Right, pin back your lug-holes, Scarlett Macey, I’m going to give you a crash-course in foot surveillance. Fortunately for us this shouldn’t be too hard. Our target” – he paused, smiled and continued – ”sorry, Rose, is more than likely going to be static, so it’ll just be a matter of getting yourself in a position to observe. But what you mustn’t do is hang around too long or you’ll draw attention to yourself and blow it. Okay with that?”

Scarlett nodded.

“Right, what we’re going to do is split up at the top of the escalator and head down to the platform. I’ll go first and do a recce and then pull away and tuck myself to one side. You’ll follow up and see if you can get a good look at the girl and see if it is Rose. Don’t do anything if it is. Join me and we’ll plan our next move. And if you’re not sure and need to do another sweep, reverse the jacket and take off your hat.”

“But then my hair’ll be a mess.”

He shot her a disbelieving stare.

Scarlett returned a scolded little-girl look. “Only joking.”

“You’ll be the death of me, Scarlett Macey.”

She swiped a hand down in front of her face. “Serious head on now, Alex. I’m ready for the off.”

“Okay, we’re going down the same entrance I’ve used the last couple of times when I’ve spotted her.”

With that Alex set off, taking Scarlett by surprise. She quick-stepped after him, falling in beside as they marched past the statue of Sir Henry Havelock towards St Martin’s Place, where they crossed over the road to the tube entrance by the South African High Commission. Here they descended the steps and took the white-tiled tunnel towards Charing Cross.

A hundred yards in Scarlett felt the atmosphere warming up and she picked up on the rumbling, echoing sounds of the trains trundling through the station below.

Alex slowed his pace. Softly he said, “I saw her just after I got off the escalator, she was to the left in front, okay?”

Scarlett nodded as they stepped onto the down escalator. She could feel her stomach flipping over and for a couple of seconds she was overcome with nausea. She took a deep breath.

“I’ll flick my head if she’s there,” Alex said, picking up his pace.

By the time Scarlett had reached halfway Alex was leaping off the bottom. She closed in behind a man wearing a large overcoat, almost breathing down his neck. She stiffened as her view of the bottom began opening out. A couple of seconds later she spotted the pair Alex had mentioned: a young man and woman, resting back on their haunches, backs pressed against the wall. On the floor between them was a cap with coins inside. Scarlett zoned in on the girl. Because she was crouching it was difficult to judge her height, and the green combat-style jacket she was wearing disguised her size, though she could see she definitely wasn’t of a big build. Although straggly, the girl’s hair was fair, the same colour as her own before she had dyed it, with a centre parting. It framed a thin pale face, without make-up, and as she drew nearer she noted the girl’s eyes were ringed with dark rims, a distinct sign of exhaustion – or drug abuse. The girl was reaching out a begging hand to passing commuters.

Scarlett was so focussed, drawing on her memories, trying to determine anything familiar in the girl’s features, that she missed the man in front of her stepping off the escalator and her body jarred into the ground, causing her to stumble forward as she was dumped off the moving staircase.

The sudden movement caused the girl to divert her gaze and she locked onto Scarlett. Scarlett knew from the returned look she had been clocked.

The girl’s reaction was instantaneous. She launched herself up and a split second later she was bolting for the southbound platform.

Scarlett wasn’t far behind but found herself meeting headlong a wall of rush-hour commuters all coming towards her and in only a matter of seconds she had lost sight of her quarry. She clawed herself forward, squirming and pushing between disembarking passengers who cursed after her. As she rounded the bend onto the platform she faced a standing crowd of people all waiting for the next train. She drew to a halt and began probing a sea of faces before her and beyond. It was hopeless. She couldn’t even see if Alex was among them, never mind the girl. Through gritted teeth she let out a note of frustration. Then she stepped forward into the foray and slowly began weaving her way left through the crowd. Within thirty seconds she heard a loud rumbling noise and felt a rush of warm air brush her face, heralding the approach of the next train. A couple of seconds later she saw the engine come thundering through the tunnel up ahead. It swept past, giving off a long metallic screeching sound as it lurched to a halt. Then there was a hiss and the doors of the train opened. The throng of commuters began to edge forward, brushing their way past as they made for the carriages. Scarlett stood her ground and began scouring the sea of faces. For a few seconds her sight was overwhelmed by the numbers moving onto the train. She could feel herself getting anxious. Her chest tightened. Finally the platform cleared and she began searching the carriages, breaking into a jog, heading towards the back of the train. This was no better. Every coach was full to bursting.

Too many heads to count. Too many faces.

She had just reached the second-to-last coach before the tunnel when she picked out the face she had been looking for. For a couple of seconds she zeroed in on the girl but it was two seconds too long; as she stepped forward to board the train there was another loud hiss and the doors slid shut before her. Spurred into action she leapt forward and attempted to prize them open, but to no avail. The train lurched forward. In a panic she began running beside the moving carriage, peering intently through the glass doors, willing them to open, her face a mask of agony. She caught sight of the girl and watched on helplessly as she stared back at her, a self-satisfied smirk stretched across her face. The girl gave her the finger, but just before she disappeared from view Scarlett saw that her expression had changed. For a brief moment she thought she saw a look of recognition. Then her view of the girl had gone. Scarlett stopped running and in an act of embittered defeat banged the side of the departing train with her hand.