What Lies in the Dark (17 page)

John is still trying to figure out why he is here, at first he thought it was a joke. Plenty of people are jealous of a cool guy like him and would love to ruin him. Plenty of people! John knows the old bat across the road has been watching him too. She could be the type who would be out to get him, she has already tried to organise a petition to get him out of her neighbourhood. She claims that he devalues the property. It’s just a few rubbish bags, it’s no big deal, they are just
jealous that’s all. Yes, he thinks, I bet it was her. It’s her who should be the one sitting here, she is the one who should be arrested, after all if they found evidence in his house because of her … well, excuse me, but isn’t that something called breaking and entering? Let her be the one, he is just being victimised now. They are all out to get him, all of them, just because they are old and jealous. John’s glare turns malicious as he thinks to himself, I am going to get her for this.

Fletcher catches the malevolent glare and feels uneasy. Even he can tell how badly this interview is going. It is time to prove himself, to dredge up every little piece of information or evidence, an onset of attacks. He needs to either prove John’s innocence or guilt. Those people behind the door are listening, making notes. They are getting ready to pounce on his case, just waiting to prove his incompetence. Claire would love that, she would never let him live this one down. The kid is laughing at him too. Right it is time. No more Mister Nice Cop.

“Where were you on the evening of March 9th?”

“That was months ago, how am I supposed to remember?”

“Several witnesses reported seeing you that night.”

“Good for them.”

“They say they saw you yelling into a mobile that it was not your fault.”

“So?”

“Well let’s say that on that night, when you were heard yelling over and over again that it wasn’t your fault, a young girl lay dying, quite close to where you live.”

John looks stricken for a moment then something seems to ting in his mind. Fletcher can almost see the light bulb flash. Whatever is coming next has to be an elaborate lie … or the realised truth.

“I was talking to my mother.”

OK, that was a little surprising.

“What happened?”

“I had crashed her car. Some idiot rear ended me, but
she kept insisting that it was my fault, that I hadn’t checked my mirrors.”

“Were the police called?”

John snorts, Fletcher glares at him annoyed. John is mocking him again. Those people behind the window are probably mocking him as well.

“The asshole drove off. What good would calling the police do?”

“Is there any evidence of the crash?”

“My mother will back me up,” John says determinedly, unaware that she hadn’t when interviewed earlier. Fletcher would have to interview her again.

“Of course there is the £500 bill from the mechanic.” John continues with the bitter tone of someone who still really misses that five hundred.

“Which mechanic?”

“I don’t know, my mother sorted it out.” She didn’t trust her son to find a good mechanic. He thought she had found the most expensive one on purpose.

“Where you on Friday, 21st August?”

“With my girlfriend.”

“And she will be able to confirm this?”

“Well she and several hundred other people. We went down to a festival for the weekend, drove her and two of her friends down.” The girlfriend would confirm this, yes, but quickly adding that she wasn’t with him the whole time and she was pretty drunk. Given that this festival was being held over a hundred miles away from the city, it made for a pretty good alibi. The friends would kindly confirm that they left early on the Friday morning and came back late on the Monday evening, an alibi for both the murders of Adelina Sasha and Stella McQam, yes, but not a strong one.

“And where were you on Sunday, 30th August?”

“In bed.”

“All day?”

“Yup.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

The two men glare at each other, John has reverted
back on his defences, reminding Fletcher almost of Jack Sasha. Maybe John had reminded Adelina of a younger Jack Sasha, maybe that’s why she had went with him. But then Adelina had been portrayed as sophisticated, elegant almost, she would not have gone for such a greasy young man. John doesn’t seem like the type a girl like Fran Lizzie would trust either.

“I was at a gig the night before, we were out drinking till 5,” John sullenly admits. Gig or no gig, John did spend a lot of his weekends sleeping.

“On November 10th, a girl named Isobel Hilarie was murdered. Her purse was stolen.”

John gives a half shrug, as if to say, ‘So?’ But then his eyes suddenly widen.

“We found Isobel Hilarie’s wallet in your bedroom.” Fletcher smiles, try and talk yourself out of this one, Punk. He sits back, to watch the young man squirm, feeling suddenly quite triumphant. Maybe this would shock out a confession.

He doesn’t know whether to be angry or happy. He has heard through the whispers that they have finally caught the bastard. He knows they haven’t, of course. He doesn’t particularly like being a bastard either, but oh well. He is angry because someone else is taking his credit, he has worked hard at this. It has taken years and years of fantasising and planning, carefully studying every inch of the city, surveying dump sites, of befriending police officers, subtlety providing leading questions so he learns what corners to avoid, where the best CCTV is filmed. It has taken years to be this good and now some two-bit punk is taking it all away. He can feel the fear that engulfed the city retreating. Even his wife looked relieved earlier, all happy and smiling. That is definitely not allowed. She is talking about leaving the house, “to be social,” wanting to join him in whatever he is doing – for the first time in months. That is definitely not allowed.

But then he is also happy. The fear is subsiding,
people are taking chances again. While they believe that he is behind bars, he can hunt a lot more easily. People, well, women will look at him tonight with opening, welcoming smiles. Hell they would be easy tonight, the months and months of stress, of not being able to go out will mean one big crazy party tonight.

Brandi isn’t invited. Brandi is never invited to anything and it just isn’t fair. Mike Jones had promised to walk her home tonight. She had thought that they were getting along well and maybe, just maybe something was happening, but no. The news of the killer’s capture had reached her office, and Marcella had suddenly become the shining bubbling blonde, bouncing around the office talking animatedly about going out for a drink and Mike had looked up and enquired what pub and maybe they could make it a group thing. The bitch already had a boyfriend! It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t said,
‘Brandi why don’t you join us?’
Oh no, she was ignored. Mike was going for a night out with Miss Perfect, Miss Slender Thighs and Miss Bouncy. While Brandi has to walk home, alone in the rain. It isn’t fucking fair!

“I can’t believe you let a fucking killer go.” The officer hisses at Fletcher, an hour after they had released John. Did the reporter hear that? Fletcher quickens his steps, appearing all the more guilty. The press are trailing the officers closely, hungrily demanding updates, has the killer been caught? Who has been released?

Later, Fletcher would see the photo of himself, behind him stand several officers. Fletcher thinks they all look angry, like moments after the picture had been taken, they would have pounced. When the next body falls, Fletcher will be blamed by that same officer, but at that point he will be beyond caring.

John Roberts was an asshole, yes, but Fletcher knows he is not a killer. Not yet anyway. John is too easily angered to be a calm precise killer. If John ever killed anyone, it
would be someone he knew in a moment of anger. He is not the type to plan and hide, he is a striker. If John did kill someone he would be easily caught, he could barely clean up after himself let alone clear away a corpse. No, John’s DNA would not match anything they had, Fletcher would put money on that, if anyone would just listen to him. Fletcher believed John when he stammered that he had found Isobel’s purse, on the street close to the convenience store. Normally he would have just handed it in but he vaguely knew Isobel, had rocked out with her boyfriend Frank a few times and thought he would be seeing him again soon. Like the next night, but when Frank hadn’t shown at the club it had ended up on his dresser, forgotten, work had been stressful and he had been drunk a lot lately. Frank would grudgingly confirm most of this – although this casual interview ruins any molecule of friendship between Frank and John. It gives Frank a tantalising hint of who the murderer might be. Frank will be openly hostile whenever he sees John after this. Not that John will leave the house much.

John leaves the police station angry. Anger that increases as he listens to a voicemail from that pathetic twat of an employer.
“Oh heard about your recent trouble with the police, we don’t want that kind of image for the store, already on thin ice due to attitude …”
Bullshit and more bullshit.
“Will put the redundancy check in the post.”
Fuck … that stupid bitch has ruined everything. Rage just swells through his body as he stomps home, unaware of what is following him. He is his own tornado of fury.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?”

She pauses and looks down at her watch. That pause is all he needs, striking, ripping across her throat and stepping back as she falls. He is well practised now, has this down to an art. She looks up, locking eyes as she falls. He smiles down at her then kneels and picks up her left hand. Slips off her watch and then begins to cut. There is just enough time to
cut and listen to her choke and burble. She doesn’t die instantly. He leaves thinking that it won’t be long, just a few more seconds, he is in a hurry, has just enough time to prove to the city that they are wrong and stupid. Quickly, he turns his jacket the right way round, the little blood splats safely hidden … not that anyone ever looks that closely. No one is around to see.

It’s mid-December, extremely cold, the woman is still alive, still clinging on. It’s going to be Christmas soon, she wants to live so badly, she has three young daughters and just wants more time. The cold is keeping her alive, slowing down her heartbeat but it’s not enough. An off-duty paramedic finds her and rings for an ambulance. But it is not enough. It is enough though, for the reporters, who say that she was taken to hospital alive. It is enough to scare him for the first time.

Elizabeth Mitchell is livid, she has seen John storm into his house, heard the loud slam of his broken door, it has sent shivers pacing across her skin. The police have let him go after what he had done to those girls. Her hands wrinkle into tight fists. They have let him go despite all her evidence? All those hours of watching for nothing. After all she had risked going into that house, despite what she had seen in his bedroom, they had let him go? How could they?

She is alone tonight, he could easily come for her. She won’t be able to protect herself against him. If those younger stronger girls couldn’t do it, what chance does she have? Maybe she should call her husband and ask him to come home, but he would be no match for that murderer. Maybe she should call her son, he would laugh at her of course but maybe if she told him what had happened, maybe he would come over for a while, maybe even invite them to stay with him for a while. Just a little while, surely it wouldn’t take long for the police to come to their senses and arrest him again.

Her hands shake as she reaches for the phone, out of habit her other hand reaches for the blind. The phone smashes into the floor before she has even begun to dial.

Looking at her from across the road, from his own window, he stands watching in the dark.

Most people don’t expect to die. These people don’t close their eyes and peacefully slip away. Inconsiderately they keep their eyes open, staring at those around them with astonished or accusing eyes. This is especially true of those who die suddenly or violently. They stare directly at you, Fletcher decides, blaming you. Mrs Donaghue especially had a questioning stare, a frozen expression of accusation. The officers around him are also shooting reproachful glares his way. Angry mutters occasionally buzz like wasps, directed at
him out of his hearing, as they move around Mrs Donaghue, photographing and swabbing. One officer is now lifting her left hand so Fletcher can see, and so that another officer can photograph, the rushed angry red scratches that formed the number 38 on her arm.

Thirty fucking eight.

Thirty fucking eight. Number 39 might be Claire. Maybe he deserves it. He failed to protect Mrs Donaghue, maybe now he should be punished. Maybe of all the people in the world, he deserves to be punished. Maybe he should know how it feels to really lose a loved one to violence. This is the price of failure. Thirty fucking eight. Fuck he is tired. He is fucking trying, OK, and he just needs you to stop fucking staring.

Mrs Donaghue’s blue eyes, just like fucking Claire’s eyes, seem to fixate on him. He, the bastard, had stood over her like Fletcher is now. If only Fletcher could see what she had seen, right now, he would give up everything just to see what she has seen.

She had been on her way home from a pre-Christmas party, the first of the season. She was dressed in a glittery silver number, festively tinted with red jewellery and … her thick black leather gloves meant that there would be absolutely nothing under her nails belonging to the killer, even if she had fought against him. (Why couldn’t they catch a fucking break?) The evidence seems to be showing she was caught unaware, just like the others. He is smooth. He could stop a girl innocently in a city where everyone is going crazy. He must be handsome, but a trustworthy handsome.

They had done all they could but Kim Donaghue died on the way to the hospital. They had let the killer go, hadn’t they? He had been allowed to leave, as angry as hell, No one is blaming you Fletcher – wait no, everyone is blaming you, Fletcher. This seemed a rushed fast kill, and not a well thought through kill. The kind of kill Fletcher thought John Roberts was capable of, isn’t that what he had been thinking when John left the station and now…? No, this was a well-planned kill. No one had been around to hear any attempt at a scream. It was fast but he was careful. He must
have been waiting around for someone like her, just waiting in the shadows. It was fucking December, too many people in hats and dark clothes – thick, concealing coats. Too many people with their heads down, rushing to be somewhere.