The Helper (28 page)

‘Your reaction. All wrong. All the help I’ve been giving you, and this is how you repay me. No gratitude whatsoever. Just insults. So now you have to suffer the consequences. Maybe
Tabitha Peyton is safe. For now. But she’s not the only one on my list. There are plenty of others. And so I think the next one will have to be something pretty spectacular to make up for
Tabitha. I’m not sure I’m even going to offer you any help to work out who it is. Whoever it is, their death is on you, Cal. It’s all your fault.’

Sure, thinks Doyle. Like he’s going to stop if I give up Tabitha. He’s just trying to make me feel bad again. It’s the only way he has left to retaliate for the name-calling.
It’s just another attempt to mind-fuck me, and it’s not even a very good one.

‘Whatever, man. Do what you have to. Time’s running out for you, and I am really looking forward to stringing you up. Start looking behind you, asshole. You got a cop on your
tail.’

‘Do what I have to? You’re going to regret saying that, Cal. Someone is going to die, and it’s really going to be painful. For them and for you.’

‘What do you mean, painful for me? If you’re thinking about going anywhere near my family—’

He’s interrupted by a chuckle. ‘No, not your family. I keep telling you, I’m here to help. How would their deaths be classed as helping anyone? Now enjoy your day, Cal.
I’ve heard the weather’s going to be nice again.’

He hangs up. Doyle checks the time on his phone and sees that it’s four in the morning. He weighs up the good news against the bad. The good news is that the killer doesn’t know
where Tabitha is, and so she’s safe for the moment. The bad news is that someone is about to die in her place.

And he has no idea who.

She has never spent the night with a geek before.

Dorks, yes. An abundance of them. Even a few downright freaks.

But nothing compares to Gonzo for sheer strangeness. He’s in a world of his own there. And it seems to be a world that doesn’t sit comfortably anywhere in this corner of the
universe.

She’s not sure she can pin it on any particular facet of his personality. He’s just generally . . . well, odd.

The staring, for example. He does a lot of that. And she’s convinced that, half the time, he’s not even aware he’s doing it. She can be in the middle of something totally
mundane – washing up a mug, say – and she’ll turn around, and there he’ll be. Just standing there, looking at her. And instead of wigging out she’ll remain the polite
guest and say something like, ‘Are you okay?’ And it’s as if that causes him to snap out of some kind of trance, and he’ll say, ‘What? Oh, yeah,’ and he’ll
look around the room as if trying to work out what fantastic forces caused him to be transported there.

She went straight to bed last night. Would have done so anyway, what with all that had happened. She felt mentally and physically drained. But even if she’d had the energy of a nuclear
reactor she would have escaped to the bedroom. Just to be away from His Weirdness.

Sleeping was a different matter. The bedroom just wasn’t conducive to rest. She could put up with all the posters from movies such as
Terminator
,
The Matrix
, and
Alien
. She could even live with all those huge plants crowding around her bed like some flesh-starved triffids. What she couldn’t get out of her head, though, was Gonzo’s
vagueness about his changing of the sheets. It kind of left her with the impression that he hadn’t changed them in weeks. Maybe even months.

She wasn’t about to put it to the test. There was no way she was going to permit her skin to come into contact with . . . well, whatever had been allowed to permeate or encrust those
sheets.

Instead, she changed into pajamas, spread her old clothes across the bed and pillow, then lay on top of those, covering herself over with her night robe. In that situation, and with the thoughts
and images rushing through her head, sleep was fitful. At one point she came awake crying out Helena’s name.

And so this morning she is tired and cranky. There is nothing in the refrigerator – not even any milk. For breakfast she had to make do with toast and peanut butter washed down with black
coffee, and she never takes her coffee black. Gonzo munched his way through an overflowing bowl of Coco Pops. Also without milk. Said he prefers it that way, the weirdo.

Small talk is a no-no. She tried it a few times, and it just got too bizarre. Like when she said to him, ‘So, do your parents live in New York?’ and he replied with, ‘Depends
on what you mean by parents.’ Or, making breakfast, when she asked him if he wanted coffee, and he started telling her about the effects of that beverage on his bowels. Oh yeah, and why does
he keep asking her which brand of corn chips she prefers?

She spoke with Doyle about it an hour ago. This was after she’d phoned Mrs Serafinowicz. She stuck to the story. Told Bridget she was fine, there was nothing to worry about, she just
needed to get away from that building for a day or two, blah, blah, blah. Then, when Doyle called, she said what she really thought. Took the phone into the bedroom and let rip. Told him this
wasn’t working. That it was like being cooped up in a mental asylum, and that she would sooner take her chances with a homicidal maniac than go stir-crazy with this nut-job.

Doyle calmed her down, as she knew he would. He has a gift for that. He only has to open his mouth for her to feel instantly more secure, more serene.

Unlike the freak who’s sitting across from her at the table right now, staring at her while she skim-reads a magazine article on the success of Microsoft. Yes, he has a gift too, she
thinks. The gift of turning me into a fucking nervous wreck.

Why couldn’t Doyle stay with me? If he’s so worried about my safety, why didn’t he abandon whatever personal plans he had last night, and spend the night with me? If he had
stayed . . . If he had held me in his arms . . .

‘Is there anything I can do, you know, to make you happy?’

She wants to keep staring at the magazine. Pretend she didn’t hear that. If this is his idea of coming on to her . . .

‘What?’ she says. ‘What was that?’

Directly challenged like this, he suddenly looks like he wished he hadn’t said anything.

‘What I mean is . . . What I’m trying to say is . . . If there’s anything . . . that I can do. You know?’

She closes the magazine. Which is crap, anyway. Written by geeks to be read by other geeks.

‘Actually, yes. There is something you can do for me. You can make me happy in bed.’

He flushes the color of his hair. His head is like a tomato with spectacles.

‘What? I, uhm . . . What?’

‘The sheets, Gonzo. They need changing. If I have to stay here another night, then it has to be with clean sheets. Do you have any?’

Gonzo looks around him, as if he is thinking they ought to be in plain sight.

‘I, uh, no. I don’t think so.’

‘Is there a laundry room in this place?’

‘Sure. In the basement.’

‘Okay, good. We’re getting somewhere. Then what you need to do is strip the sheets from the bed, take them down to the laundry room, and get them clean and dry.’

He looks at her as though the notion is an alien concept to him.

‘I . . . I can’t do that.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t do it? How hard can it be? You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Please tell me these sheets have been cleaned at some point since you bought
them.’

‘No. I mean yes, they have been cleaned. But I can’t. Not now. Detective Doyle said that we can’t leave the apartment. I have to be with you, at all times.’

‘He meant the apartment
building
, Gonzo. I’m not asking you to head across to New Jersey. Just the basement. For half an hour. Okay?’

He scratches his head. ‘I don’t know. I think I should give Detective Doyle a call first.’

She loses it then. ‘Jesus Christ, Gonzo. Will you just go wash the fucking sheets before I throw the whole bed out of the fucking window?’

Gonzo stands slowly, uncertainly. ‘Last night Detective Doyle called you a lady. Ladies don’t talk like that.’

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I should have said please. Now please go wash the fucking sheets. Okay?’

Doyle’s shift won’t start until four in the afternoon. Which is killing him. Wandering around the apartment like this, trying to find chores to occupy his mind, trying not to get in
Rachel’s way, is just not working. He finds he’s constantly checking his cellphone to make sure he hasn’t missed a call. He feels like a man whose wife is about to give birth.

He needs the distraction of work. He will be kept busy in the aftermath of the Helena Colquitt killing. He will follow the procedure, the routine. He will talk to the people he is supposed to
talk to, put the questions he is supposed to ask, write the reports he is meant to write.

All of which will be hard given that he suspects none of it is worth jack shit.

What will keep him going on this seemingly fruitless task is the possibility that somewhere, buried deep perhaps, is a clue to the unraveling of these apparently random killings. Okay, Helena
wasn’t the intended victim. But the killer thought she was. So why? Why did he think that? And why target Tabitha anyway? What links her to the other victims?

And the more important question right now: do any of those victims provide pointers to the next one?

He believes the killer when he says that he isn’t going after Doyle’s family. For one thing, the man hasn’t lied to him once so far. He’s provided Doyle with uncertainty,
ambiguity, clues which are open to interpretation. But no downright lies. And deep down, Doyle knows that his own family doesn’t fit the pattern of killings. He has no idea what that pattern
is, but for some reason he knows that Rachel and Amy aren’t part of it.

So how does he know that? What is he missing?

Laden with a plastic basket containing a mountain of washing that threatens to landslide and bury him at any moment, Gonzo has to wrestle with the basement door to get it to
open. He snakes his arm round the door jamb, feathers it up and down the rough wall in search of the light switch. He finds it, clicks it on.

Nothing. The bulb must be dead.

He exhales. Steps gingerly through the doorway. Tries to make his feeble eyes gain mastery over the dimness in here.

The blow to the side of his head sends him reeling across the room. He bounces off the wall, hears his glasses clatter to the floor. He puts his hands up to fend off his attacker, but it’s
a pathetic defense. Another cruise missile pilots its way between his hands and zeros in on his cheek. When it slams home, it feels as though it detaches his head from his shoulders, leaving his
body to crumple to the floor. His gargantuan brain, capable of composing complex pieces of software without going anywhere near a computer, scurries for the panic button and allows his survival
instincts to take the helm. He tries to push himself up from the floor, because that’s the only message he’s getting.

And then something soft and warm is pulled over his head. Musty cloth presses tightly against his mouth and nose. He tries to suck oxygen through the weave, but it won’t come quickly
enough. The claustrophobia and the pain make him want to vomit, but he swallows it back, knowing that he could drown in his own sick. He feels an asthma attack coming on. He’s going to die.
He knows he is going to die.

Everything turns to black.

She had hoped for at least an hour of peace and solitude, maybe even longer given the amount of washing she made him take downstairs – Jesus, does he actually wear those
clothes? An hour without the staring, without the randomness. Time to reflect. To think about Helena, her parents, her life. To decide what to do with her future when she gets out of this damned
city.

So when there’s a rap on the door barely ten minutes after Gonzo left the apartment, she is not amused. Can’t he even manage a simple task like—

Oh.

She doesn’t recognize the man standing there in the hallway when she opens the door. But he’s tall, he’s good-looking and he’s holding up a leather wallet containing a
police badge.

‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Didn’t Detective Doyle tell you not to open the door to anyone?’

‘I . . . I’m sorry. I thought it was . . . Who are you, exactly?’

‘Detective Todd Morton. I work with Cal Doyle in the Eighth Precinct. He sent me to get you. We don’t have much time.’

She stares at him. Keeps hold of the door, just in case.

‘What do you mean, not much time? Time for what?’

‘I hate to tell you this, but we think the killer’s on to you. He knows where you are. We need to move you out. We’ve already got Gonzo in a car downstairs.’

‘He knows? How could he know? Detective Doyle said I was safe here.’

The man sighs. She thinks he looks embarrassed.

‘We think he must have been tipped off somehow. It’s the only way. Maybe Gonzo . . . We don’t know.’

‘Gonzo? No. Not him. He couldn’t . . . I mean . . .’

‘Whatever, we’re taking you to separate places. Just to be on the safe side. From now on this stays with you and the police. Nobody else will know. We’re organizing a
twenty-four hour guard for you. Detective Doyle has offered to do the first watch.’

She feels her heart skip a little. Doyle? Spend a whole day with her?

‘Where are we going?’

He smiles. ‘Didn’t I say? Your place. I’m going to take you back to the apartment Mrs Serafinowicz put you in. Right now it’s as safe as anywhere else, especially with
police protection. Are you okay with that?’

She scans him up and down again. He looks like he could be a cop. He knows too much for him not to be a cop. He knows about Cal Doyle, Gonzo, and Bridget Serafinowicz. He even knows that Bridget
put me up in a vacant apartment after Helena was killed. How could he know all that and not be a cop?

But still . . .

‘I think I should call Detective Doyle. You mind if I do that first? Just to check with him?’

Another sigh. Exasperation this time. ‘All right. But can you make it quick?’