Truth or Dare (16 page)

T
he Lawgiver was not happy. Really, really not happy. He paced the floor, up and down, across, around. Clenching and unclenching his fists. Grinding his teeth. Breathing laboured, ragged. Unaware of what he was doing, where he was going. Pacing and snarling like a caged animal.

‘Bastard… bastard…’

What you’re doing is wrong
…
 

How dare he? How fucking
dare
he…? After everything he had said, the conversations they had already had. How he thought he had found an ally in Detective Inspector Phil Brennan, been led to believe that he would be amenable to what he was trying to achieve. Well, he wasn’t. The Lawgiver had been lied to. Brennan was just like all the rest. Things are black and white. The Lawgiver knew that. No doubt. It was at the core of what he believed in. Why he did what he did.

To think or not to think. That was always the question. He had chosen to think. To question. He had chosen to confront those who wilfully made a mockery of society – the whim-worshippers and hedonists, the sub-humans – and do something about it. He stuck to his code of ethics. Had to. Had no choice. It was the only way he could live his life, the only way he knew how. But his actions, his glorious actions, made others see the correct way to live. Or should do.

And he thought Brennan would help him to achieve his aims.

How wrong he was. He should have known.

He stopped pacing, tried to get his breathing under control once more. He played back the whole of the press conference in his mind.

The first thing he had noticed was that Brennan looked different to when he had seen him last, how he had imagined him to be. A free thinker. Someone different. He didn’t look different. He looked like all the rest of them now. An ordinary man in a cheap-looking suit. Another dull, boring copper. Had he known that, he might not have approached him in the first place.

What had Brennan said?
Talk to me. I know you want to
. Really? Really? They had talked. And look where it had got him. Nowhere. Lied to again.

Lied to again. Sometimes he thought there was no one left in the world that he could trust, believe in. His father had told him the truth.
Never be dependent on someone else. Never ask anyone to be dependent on you. Never live for another. Or ask him to live for you. Or to help you
. His father’s mantra. The words that he had literally lived by. And that he had tried to do also. He should have known. Should have known.

His father had found strength through his philosophy of Objectivism. Live your life to make yourself happy. That was the only thing that mattered. Freedom through work, strength through work. A man works, a man sells. There is no such thing as society. He had stuck rigidly to that all his life.

And that’s what this work as the Lawgiver was supposed to be. A life’s work. A life’s philosophy.

He crossed to the jukebox, scanned the lists, trying desperately to find something to play, something that would soothe him, take him out of himself, take him to a better place. He flicked the entries over and over until he reached the end. Then he began to go backwards. Eventually he turned away from the machine.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

‘You okay?’

He felt fingers stroke along his shoulder. He shuddered at the touch, turned, smelling that familiar perfume. His sister was back again. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t hear you. Didn’t know you were back.’

‘I’ve just arrived. You seem cross. Can I help? Let’s talk.’

He sighed. ‘It’s… maybe. Maybe you can. But not at the moment. Later, perhaps.’

‘Would you rather I left you on your own?’

‘Please. I need to think this through. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you later.’

Her fingers lifted slowly from him as she left the room. Her perfume hung in the air then was gone. He was alone once more.

He tried to sit down. Tried not to think about Brennan.

No good. The suited bastard kept popping up in his mind’s eye. Looking directly at him, his eyes honest and sincere.

It was enough to make him throw up.

He stood up once more. Inaction wouldn’t solve anything. He didn’t want to resume pacing so he stood still in the middle of the room. Closed his eyes. He had to think. Plan. Turn this negative into a positive. This setback into a leap forward.

Think. Think logically
. He almost laughed. Logically. What other way was there to think? Objectively logical.
Think
.

He had accomplished a lot. Two successful missions. Perfect results. He couldn’t have hoped for better outcomes. The second one had been the most exciting. Especially the phone call and what followed. The escape. That had been the kind of thing that they would remember. All of them. It would contribute to his legend in years to come. Keep it alive, let it grow. And best of all, they would never work out how he had done it.
Never
.

He had been meticulous, scrupulous. There was none of his DNA left at the scenes. Nothing that anyone could use to trace it back to him. He had covered his tracks well. Obsessively well.

But now this, now Brennan’s betrayal…

He had to do something. He thought. He crossed to a locked antique desk, took a key from around his neck, opened the first drawer and took out a folder. No computers. Too dangerous. Too risky. Any online searches he had done had been made on different machines, none of them owned by him, in different locations around the city.

He placed the folder on the desk. Looked at it. This was it. The work. The missions, the calling. All in here. He opened it up. Riffled the pages, checking for the next one. That’s what he had to do. Step it up, get it moving. He had their attention. Now he had to make sure he kept their attention. It could be risky, they would be looking out for him, the city on alert. But that didn’t worry him, not really. Because he knew how to make himself invisible to them. How to move amongst them undetected. Oh yes. Just walk right past them and not be spotted. Brilliant. All he needed was to choose the next victim…

And there it was. Staring up at him. Perfect, he thought. Perfect.

And then the doorbell rang.

‘H
ere to see Darren Richards.’

Sperring leaned over the counter at the nurses’ station on the ward, flashed his warrant card. The nurse on duty was reading an instructional magazine informing her of the weight losses and gains of bikini-clad celebrities. Sperring glanced at the photos. There was no one there he recognised or was interested in so he promptly dismissed them.

Double-checking, that was all he was doing. Following up the correct procedure, seeing if the horrible little scrote – he mentally corrected himself – the poor victim had had any more thoughts.

He was glad that Phil was otherwise engaged. He had mellowed in his opinion of his new immediate boss – and he still thought of him as new – but they still rubbed each other up the wrong way. And the mellowing was only up to a point. Fair enough, his visit to Letisha Watson hadn’t gone as well as he had wanted it to. But that was fine, live and learn. This time, the interview would be handled the way he wanted it to be. The way he thought it should be. And Phil wasn’t around to say otherwise.

‘Down there, third bed on the left,’ said the nurse, irritated to be drawn away from her magazine.

He thanked her but she had already dismissed him quicker than he had her bikini-clad celebs.

Darren Richards was lying in his bed, iPhone buds in his ears. His thumbs were moving over the glass screen. Sperring approached him.

‘They let you use phones in the hospital now, Darren?’

Darren Richards looked up. His face initially registered shock at being disturbed, but a distrustful cunning entered his eyes when he realised who it was.

Never met me before, thought Sperring, but he’s already made me as a copper. Not surprising. Sperring smiled, sat on the edge of the bed.

‘How you feeling, Darren?’ Sperring’s smile was as big and false as a clown’s red nose.

Darren Richards reluctantly removed his earbuds. ‘Whah?’

‘I said how are you feeling? Are they treating you well? Looking after you?’

Richards became suspicious. ‘Yeah… Why d’you want to know?’

‘Just wondering, Darren, just checking.’ Sperring, still smiling. ‘It’s what we do with victims of crime. Try to look after them, be concerned for their welfare.’ The smile dropped. ‘Course, you wouldn’t know that, being as you’re usually the one responsible for the crime in the first place.’

Darren Richards stared at him, trying to look defiant, not sure whether his fear was showing. ‘I’ve… If you’ve come to harass me, I’ve already spoken to my solicitor. He’ll, he’ll have… he’ll have you.’

Sperring gave an elaborate shrug. ‘Harass you, Darren? Now why would I want to do that? You’re a victim of crime, and as such entitled to all the help the police force can give. Including trying to catch the person who killed your girlfriend and daughter.’

Richards looked suspicious, eyes darting about. ‘What d’you mean? What you tryin’ to say?’

‘I’m not trying to say anything. I am saying it. Now cast your mind back. What can you tell us about that night? You remembered anything more that might help us?’

‘No.’

‘Take your time, Darren. Think about it.’

Darren Richards gave a short, barking laugh. ‘I know what you’re doin’. You don’t fool me.’

‘Don’t I?’ Sperring fought to keep the amusement from his voice. ‘Am I trying to?’

‘Yeah. You’re tryin’ to get me to confess, that’s what you’re doing.’

‘Confess to what? Did you do it? Did you pull the trigger?’

‘No…’

Sperring made a show of slapping his head. ‘Oh, I get you. You think that because you let him kill your girlfriend and daughter, because you said the word, told him to, you think that we’re holding you responsible, is that it?’

‘Well, that’s what you’re doin’, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Make me confess to it, make me an accessory, or somethin’.’

‘Why, Darren, do you think you are responsible? Do you think it is your fault?’

Darren Richards sat further up in bed, his earphone cable tangling with the drips and monitor lines. ‘No, none of it’s my fault. None of it. I had nothin’ to do with it. It was him.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Yeah, nothin’.’

‘Well, that’s one way of lookin’ at it, I suppose. Of course, if you hadn’t killed that woman and her child, none of this would have happened, would it?’

‘So you’re sayin’ it is my fault?’

‘I’m saying what I’m saying. If you hadn’t killed that woman and her child, this killer, whoever he is, wouldn’t have given you the choice of living or letting your girlfriend and kid die.’

Darren Richards looked away, shaking his head.

‘I’m innocent. And this is harassment. I’m phoning my brief.’

‘Do what you like. Another question. Letisha Watson. Moses Heap. What’s the story there?’

Richards’ eyes clouded over. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Exactly that. What’s going on between them? How do they know each other? How come you’re involved? That kind of thing.’

His face became stone. ‘I don’t know. I know nothin’ about them.’

‘Bullshit, Darren. Tell me. What’s the connection?’

‘Nothin’ as far as I know.’

Darren Richards swallowed hard. It looked like he had a rock in his throat, thought Sperring. A rock in his throat and fear in his eyes.

‘I think you do.’

He shook his head, too quickly. ‘I don’t… I don’t… now leave me alone. I’m… I’m callin’ my brief.’

Sperring stood up. ‘Do what you feel you have to do, Darren. But there’s something going on with Moses Heap and Letisha Watson. And you’re involved.’

More head shaking, more fear in his eyes. ‘I’m not. I’m not.’

‘Suit yourself. But I’ll be back. And if I find out you’ve been lying to me, then I’ll be very cross. Very, very cross. And I’ll let you know it. Victim of crime or no victim of crime.’

Darren Richards said nothing. Sperring could smell the sweat coming off him.

Sperring was about to leave, but paused, looked at Richards again, scrutinising him. ‘Darren.’

‘I told you I don’t know nothin’.’

‘Yeah, you said that. But I want to know something. You sat there and let your girlfriend and daughter die. Right in front of you. What did you feel when that happened?’

Another short, barked laugh. ‘Like I’m goin’ to tell you.’

‘No, Darren, do tell me. I want to know. What thoughts went through your head when you saw that happen? How did you feel?’

Darren Richards gave a sigh so heavy it was of Atlas-like proportions. ‘It was, like, it was horrible. Horrible. I couldn’t stop screaming. I just… couldn’t stop screaming. Horrible.’

Sperring nodded. ‘Right. That was how Graham Marshall felt.’

Richards frowned. ‘Who?’

‘The husband of the woman you killed. The father of the child you killed. Maybe this bloke’s got a point after all, eh?’

Sperring walked away. A sound like an animal caught in a trap started to grow behind him.

Darren Richards was crying.

N
adish stepped back from the door, waited. He looked up and down Legge Lane. The derelict building was still cordoned off, uniforms and SOCO combing the floors, walls and surrounding debris for clues, patterns. He was back at his allotted task, going door to door, asking who, if anyone, had seen anything.

It was a fruitless task. Most of the buildings were on their way to being like the one Darren Richards and the bodies had been found in, waiting for time or an urban developer to either kill them or resurrect them. Once-solid brickwork now crumbling, rotting wooden window frames holding streaked and blackened windowpanes gently blowing in and out in the breeze, waiting for that one gust to shatter them on the pavement below.

Most of the buildings were like that, but not all. The one Khan was calling on was a much smarter affair. The brickwork had been looked after, the window frames replaced over the years and now barred too. The door looked like wood but on rapping his knuckles against it before he found the bell, he realised it was heavy metal. He didn’t know what the story was, but it wasn’t abandoned.

This was another part of the job he hated. Add that to the long list. It was all right when there was a few of them, then they would have a laugh, make it enjoyable. Race with each other to see how many doors they could do in an hour. Trade war stories about the state some people lived in, or the things they came out with. Have bets with each other over which phrases would be most overused. And best of all, give marks out of ten to the desperate housewives who wanted to go out of their way to help the strong, young policeman. Some of his mates even took phone numbers, went back round when they were off duty. Nadish hadn’t done that.

At least not yet.

No. Doing the rounds on his own wasn’t nearly as much fun.

He reached out again to try the bell one last time before moving on, when the door was jerked quickly open.

‘Yes?’ The voice was irritation bordering on anger.

Nadish was startled at the abruptness of the action but quickly regained his composure, his professionalism. He took the man in: white; late twenties or early thirties; medium height; slight build; mousy-brown hair cut neatly, unimaginatively and conservatively, parted on one side. Wearing a pair of dark cords, V-neck sweater and a plaid shirt underneath, he looked as non-descript, unremarkable and memorable as a lump of supermarket cheese.

But the eyes were different. They blazed with a fire at odds with his appearance, like they belonged to someone else, someone more dynamic, more angry.

‘Yes?’ he said again, impatient this time.

Nadish held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Khan. Have you got time to answer a couple of questions? Won’t take long.’

The eyes narrowed, became suspicious. ‘What about?’

Nadish tried to keep his voice as matter-of-fact as possible. Doing the job he did, it was a well-practised skill. He turned, gestured to the building opposite. ‘Just about what went on there the other night, if you saw anything. That kind of thing.’

The eyes were clouding over, becoming harder to read. ‘I didn’t. See anything.’

His abrupt, evasive responses were making Nadish become interested. ‘Just a couple of questions, like I said. Won’t take a minute.’

The man folded his arms. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘Well, who I’m talking to for a start.’

‘Hinchcliffe. Stuart Hinchcliffe.’

Something in the way he said his name – formal, studied – made Nadish think the man was older than he seemed. Or wanted to appear older.

‘Thank you, Mr Hinchcliffe. Could I come inside a minute? Bit easier than doing this on the doorstep.’

Hinchcliffe thought it over then reluctantly stepped backwards, allowed Nadish to enter. ‘Thank you, Mr Hinchcliffe. Sooner I ask my questions, sooner I’m gone.’

As the door closed behind him, Nadish Khan had a feeling that he was on to something.