The Ghost (21 page)

DAVID BRERETON WAS MURDERED
three days later, sometime between 2am and 3am. He was found the following Saturday, after an anonymous phone-call to police advised them to investigate the locked storage cellar of an abandoned spinning-mill a few miles from Brereton's flat. There, they found a body – sitting, propped upright in a corner, head drooped, arms and legs tightly bound with thick rope, eyelids crudely sewn shut. The wall to the left of the body was splash-scarred in dirty-red, the floor slick with blood and urine. When the coroner lifted the body's chin from its chest, he noted probable cause of death as ‘haemmorhage from the left common carotid artery'.

“Nasty…” said the Senior Investigating Officer to the coroner, as they watched the forensic team go to work. “Why the eyes?”

The coroner shrugged and dragged a palm across his unshaven chin. “Cheaper than a blindfold?”

Dorian Cook did not know any of this, as he sank into the sofa and opened his laptop. He did not know that the boy who used to be so shrewd and elusive had been stalked and cornered and starved and beaten. He did not see the face – so moulded by that signature sly smile – defaced by panic, bruised and bulbous. He did not hear the punching and crunching or the yelps for mercy or the scream, through splintered teeth.

“It was Dorian! Dorian fucking Cook! It was his idea!”

Cook sipped his tea and navigated to the home-page of
PastLives.com
. The site's user interface had been recently overhauled and he had little difficulty setting up a fake profile under the name of ‘Michael Howell'. He carefully confirmed Bethesda in the profile's Primary School field and wired up a few token one-way connections to other pupils. He logged in as himself and found the message he was after, originally sent over three months ago.

‘D'…

He thought of Darren – Darren Ray – and ‘not-nice' Frank. All those fatherly sins, trickling down through the ages, blotting and blossoming. But, although time had rendered a gauze of naivety over his actions as a child, the adult Cook took no comfort in piety. He had watched as the puppies were drowned, he had restrained the bullies as Darren had beaten them, he had pissed into the bottle and conceived the ‘gang'. He had grown tired of his protector fantasy and turned away, stifling the symptoms instead of addressing the cause. A chill had stolen over him and, adapted as he was to the cold – of his bed, his home – he had welcomed it as a pain he was used to.

‘D'…

Before the handkerchief, there was hope that this was all just a David Brereton tease. It was not beyond a man who, as a boy, had chosen to conceal his involvement in a prank by potentially burning the victim alive. Perhaps, in the face of Mountford's paranoia, he had decided to cover his tracks completely – using the handkerchief to implicate Darren, if only to Cook. It was comforting to believe that Brereton would have murdered Mountford's son reluctantly – to eliminate a witness. As he had started the fire to ensure their victim's silence, Brereton would simply be repeating himself, using a different method. Implicating voices had to be silenced, regardless of age.

Cook did not know that Brereton had followed John Ray into the darkness, head steadied between his killer's knees, eyelids stretched and pinched and knitted together with needle and fishing-line. He did not know that his friend had ended his life in abysmal isolation, sealed in a vacuum of hurt, his rage and pain left to incubate for two days, before he was fed and watered and informed – in a whisper – that there was no use in hoping for rescue or respite. He did not know that Brereton had cried at this, or that the tears – unable to escape through unopenable lids – had scorched his eyeballs, or that his keeper had left him alone for another two days before returning to release him with a serrated kitchen knife. If he had known all of this, then Cook would have no need to ponder the identity of ‘D'. He would have recognised the fury in the violence.

He noted the ‘D' profile name, logged back in as ‘Michael Howell' and typed out a message containing the address of the house where Eleanor Finch was being held. He tapped ‘return' twice and wrote:

WILLIAM STONE WALKED INTO
the
Seven Stars
and sat at the usual corner bench, opposite his friend and occasional banker. The pub had only been open for ten minutes, and, as the barmaid upturned the chairs, she regarded her sole customers with more pity than irritation.

“What's going on, Dor? Bit early for you!”

Stone took off his jacket and leaned back, opening his body, offering himself to whatever was coming. It was about time for Cook to ask for some kind of repayment. The items he had sourced were specialist and tricky to obtain, but the summoning suggested there was still debt to negotiate. Stone had calculated he could spare a £1000 severance fee without too much pain.

“Hello, Will,” said Cook, looking up from a cup of black coffee, casting his eyes across the table, around the room – anywhere but Stone's gaze. “I'm a bit off-kilter with timing at the moment. Not really sure if it's day or night – or what difference it makes, anyway.”

Stone reached over and stole a slurp of coffee. “Fuck me, mate. I know it's hard, but – y'know – crisis/opportunity, all that. Get out there! Fill your boots. Empty your bollocks!”

Cook smiled and looked up. “Did you read about the murder last week?”

“Which one? Front cover of
Murder Monthly?”

“The bloke who had his throat cut. He'd been kept at some factory, tied up.”

Stone brightened at this. He was already starting to assign the £1000 to other debtors. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was at school with him.”

The barmaid – drawing blinds, scraping chairs under tables – called over.

“Can I get you anything, love?”

“Coffee, please,” said Stone. “White, no sugar.”

Cook was hardly deflected by the interruption. “Will – how would you feel if…”

Stone cut him off, surprised at his own irritation. “Happens all the time! He was a name, mate.”

“What?”

“You're talking about Dave Brereton, right? Drugs. Small-time, big in his head. Cocky bastard. We've had him on possession a couple of times but he was definitely dealing. I remember he came in a few years ago – speed freak. Maybe even injecting. It's a big drug with chefs and kitchen staff. They work silly hours. Keeps ‘em flying. Most of ‘em are on shit money so they can't afford coke. We think he probably had a steady supply network, then as he got higher up, more funds, more time, started dishing it out himself, thought he was untouchable, pissed off somebody he shouldn't be pissing off – probably one of his dealers went freelance without telling him. That's how it goes. You mess with someone who's fucked-up enough to think he can do it without competition and who has a couple of nasty connections, and you might find yourself dead.”

“Will…”

“They were probably told to scare him but one of them went too far and they finished him off because it was less risky. Seen it loads of times, mate. Yardies or fucking Armenians – they fly in, spend a weekend whoring, do the business and then fuck off on the next flight out. Always helps when the victim is someone who no-one gives enough of a fuck about to follow up on. Either that, or they're too scared.”

The coffee arrived. Stone snatched up the mug, sipped at the milk-foam.

“Will… It said he was blinded or something.”

Stone took out a sweetener capsule and clicked a couple of pellets into his drink. “So? What do you want me to do?”

“Help me!” said Cook, loud enough to divert the barmaid back to the near edge of the bar, within earshot. He softened his voice. “Help me. Well – it's not me. It's Alfie and Gina.”

“And what's going to happen to them? Dor, you're sounding mental, mate.”

“I am not
mental
. You don't know what I know.”

Stone took this partly as an insult. “No. I don't! I'm not as clever as you – well done for spotting that. I'm just telling you what I think, based on my experience. I don't know what this has got to do with your family, but it sounds like you're in a mess. Get away for a bit. Clear your head.”

“Will. There
is
no ‘away'.”

In the evening, Cook dined alone at an obscure Italian restaurant near his temporary home. He sat away from the windows, swivelling spaghetti with one hand, prodding at his laptop with the other. The feed from the Eleanor house was comforting – static and predictable. He pondered the psychology of a captive given hope of rescue, but then abandoned. Would she think of her encounter with him as psychosis? Fantasy? A twisted ruse from her keeper?

And still, the nightmare loop, round and round on his inner widescreen – Gina jumping, screaming. Alfie sobbing. Panic and trembling. A calm voice asking for information. Confusion and fear. Then a louder, more volatile voice – demanding, threatening. Then, Gina dead. Alfie dead. He had sifted through the detail too many times, refining it beyond recognition, scrutinising the connections for evidence of delusion. But he knew that true insanity was a work in constant progress – it could not be soothed by reason or cured by reflection. Cook was still a man in deep sleep, desperate to wake and welcome the world outside the veil. But, however hard he flexed, he could not give clear and tangible form to his torment. It was a terror that coiled tighter the more he struggled.

Will had provided a contact – Avi Ackner, a friend who ran a private security firm. The phone-call had been cordial – Ackner sounded wise and well aged, clearly accustomed to troubled clients. Cook was heartened at how his requirements were absorbed without suspicion.

For two weeks, his family home would be watched, round the clock, by two guards in unmarked cars – one at the front, one round the back.

“Other methods of access?” asked Ackner.

“Not that I know of,” said Cook.

“And this
is
your house, yes?”

Cook resented the implication – of sloppy security awareness, or worse. “Of course. There's a front door and a back door, that's it.”

“Any side entrance? Alley? Cut-through?”

“No. Can I ask – what do they do all day?”

“The operatives? They'll vary their routine, swap positions, plan patrol routes. They won't just sit there – that would obviously attract interest. Don't worry. They're all ex-army. They're used to it.”

“Do they just watch? How do they see detail at night? Binoculars, or infra-red…”

Ackner chuckled. “Some of them use pinhole cameras. Hook them up to the cars. Blends in very well. A lot of employers use them – embedded into ceilings, walls. They can monitor live, images can be reviewed, memory flushed every few days.”

“Yes,” said Cook with a half-smile. “I think I've heard of that.”

They agreed on ‘alert criteria' and exchanged a couple of emails – a disclaimer, photographs of Gina and Alfie. Cook transferred £8500 to
Frontline Protection
and, shortly after, received a text message informing him that the payment had been processed and the ‘operation' would begin the next day. Cook now had a fourteen-day window of opportunity. As ever, his reaction to a solid deadline was a mixture of reassurance and panic.

The restaurant was approaching closing time, and Cook realised he was the only patron remaining, apart from an elderly couple chatting to the owner in tipsy Italian. His waiter approached and offered a scripted endorsement of the chef's ‘special' tiramisu. Cook declined and ordered coffee. He logged into
PastLives.com
on his laptop. The Michael Howell account showed one new message – from the ‘D' profile (status ‘Online').

how do I know your MH

With a flush of smugness, Cook logged out – and back in, via his own account. He swept the messages and profile detail for anything that seemed out of place or indiscreet, reset the password to ‘bethesda' and logged back in to the Howell account. The site offered a live-chat window which could be accessed with a profile-to-profile request. Cook sent:

chat in 2 mins?

Almost immediately, a window popped up.

You have received a request for private live messaging from user >D<. Do you accept?

Cook, light-headed now, accessed the chat window, exclusively shared between ‘Michael Howell' and ‘>D<'. There was a conversation thread already open – a repeat of the inbox message.

how do I know your MH

Cook typed:

Jungle Juice

Instantly, a reply.

?

Cook's stomach lurched. He had mentally rehearsed this encounter, but only after seeing the words on-screen did he realise that Darren Ray (if that was who he was talking to) had arrived after the bottle-pissing and so wouldn't get the reference. He typed:

I saw the dogs but ran away

“Would you like anything else?”

The waiter reappeared with coffee. Cook flinched and almost snapped the laptop shut. “Uh, no. Just the bill, please.”

In the corner of the chat window, a looping animation showed fingers fluttering above a section of computer keyboard and, redundantly, the word ‘Typing'. Cook stared at it, nauseous.

how did you get my profile

Back on-script now, Cook typed:

Hacked DC account. ‘doriancook'. Password too obvious!

Typing fingers.

?

Cook replied:

School name

No typing fingers.

Cook drank the tepid coffee in a couple of gulps. Darren Ray was big enough and scary enough back then. What would he look like now – hunting through Cook's profile, walking over his grave?

Typing fingers.

ok

With a couple of authentic errors, Cook typed:

I didnt knwo about anything else honest

The ‘>D<' profile status changed to ‘Offline'.