Darkness Looking Back, The (8 page)

'YOU'RE AS BAD as he is. He was all over me for shopping him to the media last time, when all the time it was the people from over the road! You're both bloody paranoid.'

Stirling gave Gardner a contemptuous look, forced to be even closer to him than he liked in the crowded office. 'Well, you tell me who else'd want to discredit him so badly. If anyone's got a stronger motive than you for getting Paxton thrown off the case, I'd like to know who.'

Gardner merely rolled his eyes. 'As far as I can see, he doesn't even need the help. What do
you
think, Tony?'

When he so desired, Rees's face could out-granite a cliff's. 'I went to a fortune teller once. As a kid. She told me I'd become a reporter, because I asked so many questions.'

Gardner and Nielsen laughed.

'Guess that answers that then,' said Gardner. 'Flipping journos. She might as well have told you you'd become a rent boy. Same difference really.'

Stirling glared at him. 'If you don't believe in psychics, then how do you explain James Paxton knowing the name of the second lover, as well as smelling the Scotch?'

'I dunno. All those years working in a bar, he could probably smell vodka from half a mile.
And
tell you if it was Smirnoff or Stolichnaya.'

'I'm telling you, there's no way he could have known. We need his help.'

Rees looked awkward. 'Listen, Andy, I know he's a friend of yours, but these people have all sorts of tricks. He might not even realise he's doing it, but he's getting the information some other way. Maybe he
did
smell the whisky somewhere, or saw an empty bottle of it in one of the rooms.'

Stirling was hurt by Rees's disbelief. Of all his colleagues, the solid South African was probably his closest mate, the one he could always count on to sail him through rough waters. Rees was the last person he ever wanted to brawl with, even if only metaphorically. 'Then how do you explain him knowing about Warren?' Stirling asked.

Rees shrugged, shaking his head. 'I can't.' It looked as though it were killing him inside. 'But there's bound to be something. Call me a suspicious copper — the job's soaked through to my bones.'

'So you reckon Paxton's the leak then?'

Rees's tone was careful. 'I'm not saying anything, mate.'

'Says it all, I'd say,' said Gardner.

Rees gave him one of those impenetrable glances. Stirling knew he disliked the sergeant as much as he did; it was only that he kept his personal demons on a short leash.

'They're all as bad as each other,' Gardner went on. 'Did you hear that medium lady say the killer was somewhere near water? We're on a bloomin' isthmus! I read about that once in a book on English murder cases. Some idiot phoned in saying the body was within fifty miles of water. I mean, Christ.'

Frustrated, Stirling slumped back in his chair, sending it rolling into the side of the desk. 'I guess it doesn't really matter. The media's got their little burning man, and God forbid we should let him anywhere near the investigation now.'

'I don't know why Graeme thought it was such a great idea in the first place,' said Gardner.

'Well, don't forget it was Woodward's too,' Nielsen said, reminding them all of her presence. She sat on the edge of her desk, sipping a cup of coffee. For some reason, after Stirling had invaded her office, Rees and then Gardner had followed, pursuing his own little vendetta. At her remark, everyone looked surprised.

'I thought Wooden Willy just okayed it when Graeme asked him,' said Gardner. 'Then had to cover Graeme's arse on TV.'

'Oh yeah, Graeme approached him about it, but Willy was all for it,' said Nielsen. 'He's had dealings with mediums and psychics before. Apparently they've been a real help in the past.'

'You mean he actually meant what he was saying last night? I never thought Willy would be the sort to go for all that mumbo-jumbo.' Rees was doubtful.

'He didn't get to the top for being closed-minded and just your average plodding copper,' said Nielsen equably.

'Yeah, well, we're not getting anywhere on this investigation if we're all just sitting round discussing the afterlife,' Gardner replied, stepping towards the door. 'We deal with enough psychos out there without having to work with one.'

Stirling took a deep breath. 'Paxton
didn't
go to the media. Which means that one of
us
is behind it.'

He couldn't help looking at Gardner.

An amused smile broke out on the DS's face. 'When you wake up screaming in the night, Andy, am I the one who jumps out of your wardrobe?' He leaned in closer, knowing full well how much Stirling hated having anyone in his personal space. 'Don't make me your personal bogeyman.' He smiled, making sure the insult went home, then left.

Rees had a glimmer of movement at the edge of his mouth. 'Fuck, I don't even want to think about having him in my room late at night.'

Reluctantly, Stirling got up from his chair and forced himself to follow Gardner. Behind him he heard Rees excuse himself and trail after them towards the tearoom.

'So, were you planning on following up that lead I gave you?' Stirling called. 'I think you can hardly go past the cheating lovers angle.'

Gardner shrugged, turning. 'It has as much value as any of the other clues we've got, I guess.' For Gardner, that was tantamount to a huge pat on the back and a cigar.

'Oh yeah, is that the old engineer you were talking to yesterday?' Paynter came out of the tearoom, coffee in hand. 'I heard about that. Didn't you get a tip-off from that psychic friend of yours?'

'Yes I did,' Stirling answered, not letting himself look at Gardner.

'Did he dangle one of those crystals around when he was doing his thing?' Paynter went on with a grin. 'Surprised that psychic on TV last night didn't bring a crystal ball along.'

'Piss off, Ciaran. I want a coffee.' Gardner stepped round him into the tiny kitchen.

Even Stirling had to force back a smile. Gardner's rudeness was wholesale; it spared next to no one. 'Found Charlotte Hiscocks's killer yet, Ciaran? Why don't you go and investigate your own case?'

'Not a lot to investigate at the moment,' admitted Paynter, shrugging, a defeated expression on his usually cheery features. 'Those other boyfriends of hers have both got alibis. I was hoping you'd be able to tell
me
something. Can't you get your friend to give us another clue?'

''Fraid not. He's been sidelined till further notice.'

'That's one thing the media's done for us anyway,' came a mutter. The contents of the fridge door rattled as it slammed shut.

'One of us must have
something
. Give me something to work with here.' All of them recognised the plea as one that had entered their own brains. 'Are we even dealing with the same killer?'

'Course we are,' snapped Gardner, reappearing with a mug.

'But I can't say our much-feted medium's given us much,' said Rees, speaking for the first time. 'Come and listen to this. God knows we all need a laugh . . .'

Stirling watched Rees and Paynter go, stung.

Heading past them up the corridor was Graeme Kirkpatrick, fresh from a private briefing with DI Woodward and the super, who in turn were no doubt reporting to the commissioner himself. Of course the brass were getting involved — the media were giving them a pasting. The police badges were already tarnished enough, and now they were hiring psychics and allowing another serial killer to roam free, just six months after the first. Perhaps 'fresh from a briefing' wasn't the right phrase, thought Stirling, watching as the senior got closer. As usual, Kirkpatrick had spilt coffee down the front of his shirt, and he looked old.

As for himself, he had no desire to go looking in mirrors.

THE TV WAS on, but only for the pictures. The sound came from the CD playing on the stereo. After spending all day surrounded by music, Alicia could no longer deal with silence. If music wasn't playing in her house, she was either out or asleep. Even then, she could easily fall asleep with the stereo on. It drove some of her boyfriends crazy, especially if they didn't have her taste. Brendan hated Christina Aguilera, but Alicia had always admired her. The girl had talent. She made a point of playing Christina whenever Brendan was home.

He was out somewhere now with the boys. Probably pissed off his face again — odds on he would need a hand getting past the lounge when he rolled in at three, if he even managed that. Not that she minded a night alone. Alicia smiled as the phone buzzed again in her lap. The message said: 'What r u wearing?' Alicia looked down at her green T-shirt and old grey shorts. With a flirtatious grin, she typed back: 'How bout u get creative?' She hit send, then stretched, yawning violently. The heat was making her even sleepier. The clock on the video read only nine-thirty, but she'd been up since half past four. She thought idly of locking up and going to bed. Serve Brendan right if the door was locked when he got home.

The man who'd just entered her kitchen was thinking the same thing. It did serve him right. Two months' worth of watching, and the boyfriend was only home one Friday out of eight. Hardly a surprise she was playing around — women like her would take every opportunity you gave them. Well, so would he.

Another text came in, just audible over the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 'Ski jacket and high-heeled boots?'

Alicia grinned widely, and bent her head over the little screen, trying to think of a smart answer. A pair of shoes stepped into her lounge, just out of her sight. She hit send. Then a tiny movement out of the corner of her eye made her look up and she jerked back in her seat. A man in a dark jacket was standing there, calmly pulling a pair of gloves tighter on his hands.

'Who are you texting?' he asked. He was smiling.

Alicia yanked her knees up beneath her, into a protective ball. 'What are you doing in here? Get out of my house.' She tried to sound commanding, though her voice shook.

'You should lock your doors.' He was coming towards her, still scarily calm.

'Get out,
now
.' Making an effort, Alicia stood, backing away towards the hall. In her panic, she wondered irrationally why he was wearing a jacket on such a hot night.

'You weren't texting your boyfriend, were you?'

For the first time she looked directly at his face. She blinked, realising she'd seen it before. The
where
danced around just beyond the edges of her mind. She opened her mouth to speak, eyes wide in astonishment, but whatever she was about to say came out as air. His hands had slid free of his jacket, bringing something shiny with them. A knife. A sharp one. Alicia met his eyes again, and, without thinking, her thumb went automatically to the keypad in her hand.

One, one —

Her scream died instantly as he clamped one hand round her throat, pressing her into the wall. With his other he thrust the knife into her stomach, and twisted. She made a choking sound, looking down to see the front of her top stained red. As her trembling hand went to touch it, the next thrust struck her chest, upwards, piercing a lung with a hiss and making her cough up blood. He held her shoulder, steadying her as the third blow went into her throat. The coughing stopped. Stab number four went through her heart, but by then she was already dead.

He watched her for a few seconds, seeing his own refection in her dilated pupils. Catching sight of blood on his shoes, he took them off. He knew all about prints; everyone did, these days. Then he quietly let himself out the back door, and walked back to his car.

Alicia stared off into a corner. The blood had stopped gushing now. There was a moment or two of silence, then a whirr, as the CD shuffled. A new song started playing. Christina Aguilera, as it happened. 'Beautiful'. If Alicia could have heard the opening lyrics, she would have thought it was funny.

LENA WAS WOKEN by the phone. Perhaps Paxton's premonitions were catching, but she was already preparing herself for bad news when she picked it up. She tried to clear her throat before she answered, vainly trying to conceal the fact she'd been sleeping at quarter to nine.

'Hello?'

'Hello, is that Lena Bradley?'

'Yes?'

'Hello, Lena, it's John Merchant from the
Herald
here. Sorry, have I woken you up?'

'Yes, you have,' Lena muttered, shutting her eyes.

'Oh. I'm sorry about that. But would it be possible to chat to you for a few moments? Seeing as you're already on the phone.' He laughed.

Lena didn't smile. 'What about?'

'Just about how James Paxton helped you last year. I hear he's your partner now.'

'Look, sorry John, I'm really not interested in giving an interview. I went through a lot back then and I'm just trying to get on with my life. I've already been rung several times.'

'I'm sorry about that, but all I'm asking for is a quick word on what convinced you that your partner is genuine.'

'Sorry John. I know you're just doing your job, but you'll have to find another story to fill the space.' She put the phone down, and jerked it out of the wall. She wavered for a moment, then bent to plug it back in and dialled Paxton's number.

Paxton was still livid by the time he arrived. 'Do you know, I just had a phone call from the
Herald
myself, before I left. Then just as I was going out the door, I got the
Courier
. The reporter was one of my regulars, so I was a little bit politer about telling her to stuff off, but even so . . . I'm just glad we're not in the UK. They're bloomin' frightening.' He came over to touch Lena's shoulder, his voice softening. 'Are you okay? I'm really sorry about this.'

'Yeah,' she said, snuggling into his shoulder. 'It's just like before, isn't it? Only this time, instead of the police hounding us, it's the media.'

'Have you burned this morning's
Herald
yet? God knows what they've said about our relationship.'

Lena stared at him. 'They haven't printed anything yet, I thought. They just rang up.'

Paxton saw the look of horror on her face and felt terrible. 'Actually, the guy I spoke to said he wanted my side to flesh out what was already in there.'

Lena let him go and slipped past him to the front door, going straight down the drive to the letterbox. The
Herald
was still coiled and waiting in the slot.

The story was at the top of page three, headlined
Psychic no stranger to serial killings
.

James Paxton was first on the scene when optometrist Mark Bradley was murdered by the serial killer dubbed the Eastern Strangler in July 2003. A source close to the investigation has revealed Mr Paxton was also a person of interest in that inquiry, and was questioned on numerous occasions following the deaths of Gloria Tan, Stacey Ryan and security guard Dion Mihaljevich. Mr Paxton's partner is Lena Bradley, daughter of the murdered man.

'Done their homework, haven't they?' said Paxton. It unsettled him, and made him angry. There seemed little they couldn't find out.

'That clever dick source of theirs is a cop,' said Lena. 'That's obvious. I don't see how the police can justify dropping you after this.'

Paxton looked at her with a small smile. 'And you were worried about me working with them in the first place.'

'Well, it's not fair.'

'No, but that's the law for you.' He read the rest of the article intently, wondering just how bad it was going to get. He nearly choked when he got to the sidebar. 'What the hell? Where did they get
this
from? There's a story here about how Helen McCowan had a jealous lesbian lover.' He cracked up, shaking his head. 'This isn't a newspaper, it's a soap.'

'So she definitely wasn't a lesbian?' Lena asked, smiling.

'Hell no! Not unless she kept it from her husband and her two boyfriends. Don't know where she'd have found the time for another one.'

'Funny how they can make up as much as they want and still have space to print the truth about us,' said Lena with a sigh.

'Are you sorry people know you're with me?'

'No, it's not that . . . I like the sympathy.' She ruffled
his hair, giving the smile that killed him every time. 'I just want to be
left alone. It looks like that's not going to happen now.' She sighed again.

'SHE WAS IN here every other day. It was her local café. We called each other by our first names.' The regret on Arthur Wong's face was plain. He was sitting for once, in a chair opposite Stirling.

'Did you ever see her with anyone else but Warren, the man I was with yesterday?' asked Stirling.

Arthur met his eye, and gave him a knowing look. 'I think you already know the answer to that. She was a very friendly lady. Very
young
for her age.'

They were in a secluded corner of the café, which wasn't too busy at ten o'clock on a weekday.

'Could you describe the other gentleman? If it
was
just one other gentleman?' Stirling didn't even want to think about it.

'No, there was only one. He was a Scottish man. Very strong accent. He had mostly grey hair — he would have been about the same age as Helen, I guess.'

Stirling exchanged looks with Rees, seated beside him. 'That's Rob all right.'

'You don't think
he
—' Arthur looked incredulous and worried.

Stirling put up a hand, soothing. 'I can't say too much at this stage, but we're not too concerned about Mr Reid.'

Rees took a sip of his cappuccino and plunked the cup back in its saucer. 'The question is, have
you
seen anyone who looked suspicious? Anyone who might have paid a bit much attention to Helen?'

At that Arthur smiled slightly. 'Everyone noticed Helen. She was always laughing — people looked at her all the time.'

'No one you noticed in particular?'

Arthur thought about it hard, then shook his head. 'No. I'd love to say there was someone who always followed them, and read a newspaper, like in the movies, but this is a café. The only excitement we get is an extra bag of coffee they forgot to charge us for. Maybe Nathan or Morgan have seen something. Nathan! Morgan! Could you come here for a moment please?'

The friendly bloke with the muffins and a young girl with red hair answered the summons, but neither had seen anything suspicious. Morgan's face, lightly sprinkled with freckles across her nose, was as upset as Nathan's.

'No! They told me all about it, it's awful. I wish I could help.' She shook her head. 'She never treated us like wallpaper, like a lot of people. Usually she'd say something, even if it was just about the weather. She was one of my favourite customers.'

'Yeah,' said Nathan. 'I wish I'd been keeping an eye out. You just don't think anything like this is going to happen.'

'It still shocks me at times, and I'm a homicide detective,' said Stirling, giving a wry laugh. 'It's a sad state of affairs when you rely on dead people to put food on the table.'

'Beautiful image there, Detective Constable,' said Rees. 'Very tasteful.' He nodded at the wall behind Stirling. 'Speaking of which, I like the artwork in here. Kind of a medieval theme or something.'

Stirling twisted in his chair to look. 'Oh yeah,' he said in surprise.

A rustic stone portico was festooned with vines and dangling grapes, while deep inside the garden a beautiful woman in a long flowing dress was attempting to charm the pants off a young man. Now that he looked, there were several other artworks like it, all with attractive scenery such as the wall of a castle or a cavern as the main focus, and small mythical figures somewhere inside the frame.

Stirling liked them. He wasn't a fan of abstract art; he preferred places and people. Things you could read.

'Ah, we have a resident artist,' said Arthur, smiling at Nathan.

'You like them?' asked Nathan, beaming. 'The paintings all ft in with the name of the café —
Parsifal
's an opera by Wagner.'

'I just picked it because it sounded good,' said Arthur with a cheeky smile. 'And then I made it Italian because the food is better. Note how all the paintings have some kind of food in them: the grapes . . .' He pointed to the one with the castle wall. 'See the orchard beside the castle? And even in the cavern, there's a goblet and a few loaves of bread on the floor. Make the customers hungry, that's my theory. Makes them buy more. Is it working?' He gave the detectives a sly look.

Rees reluctantly pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. 'Speaking of working, we'd best be going. Thanks very much for your help on all this — we've just got to keep ploughing on.'

'But if you
do
think of anything, let us know,' said Stirling. He slid his card across the table to Arthur.

'We will.' Arthur got up too, clapping his hands together. 'Now, what would you like? You must take something when you go.'

Stirling and Rees exchanged glances again, each seeing who would give first.

'Oh, we couldn't take anything from you,' Stirling said. 'We're just doing our job.'

'Oh, no, no, no, don't be silly. You are strong, healthy men. You work hard! You need food to keep you going. You can't just live on coffee. You won't catch bad guys with no meat on your bones. Look at you!'

He had to be talking about Stirling, not Rees, who was built like a draught horse.

'No Arthur, you're the one who's been helping us, not the other way round. I've got lunch back at the office.'

'What do you have? Sandwiches?'

Actually Stirling was lying through his teeth. 'Yeah. My wife makes them. I can't disappoint her.'

'All that healthy food's not good for you. You need starch! Gives you energy. Here.' Arthur twisted his head, looking at Nathan. 'Go get them something. Better say what you want, quick, or he'll give you anything.'

The two detectives grinned, not at all minding that they were being bribed.

'I'll have a piece of that orange cake with the almonds on it if it's all right,' Stirling told Nathan. 'Thank you.'

'Mud cake, please!' called Rees to his retreating back.

'Hell, Tony, that's got to be the worst thing on the menu.'

'Is that all?' asked Arthur. 'Throw in a scone or something,' he called to Nathan, his eyes twinkling at the detectives. He shrugged. 'If you don't eat it all, you can share it.'

'Thanks very much, Arthur,' said Stirling.

Rees watched the cakes going into a bag. 'You'd make some lucky woman a wonderful husband.'

Stirling blinked. He realised that despite making friends with the little man, he'd never asked. 'Oh yeah! Where
is
your wife? Chained her in the kitchen?'

Arthur shook his head, and shrugged. 'She didn't like New Zealand. She stayed in Malaysia. Better for business. But at least now she doesn't nag me about wasting the sugar.'

Nathan came back over, handing them a bag each. 'I thought you should try Arthur's shortbread,' he said conspiratorially. 'He makes it himself. It's got a lemon glaze.'

Both men had to stop themselves drooling. They thanked the café staff in unison, trying hard not to walk back to the car too quickly.

'That might just be the best interview I've ever given,' said Rees, peering into his bag and giving it a sniff.

'We didn't even learn anything!'

'Are
you
complaining?'

They got into the car, starting on the cake without even turning on the ignition. Stirling took a look at the clock, and laughed at himself. 'It's not even eleven o'clock yet.'

Rees didn't say anything, the corner of his mouth smeared with chocolate icing.

Stirling leaned across him and turned the key with his free hand, bringing the radio to life. 'Better see what we've missed. How many Subarus have been broken into while we've been inside?' He bit into his cake, leaning back in his seat.

But there was nothing on the police radio, so he switched to the music stations instead, flicking through until he found a song he liked. He and Rees peacefully chewed their weekly allowance of fat and sugar, drifting away into the music and their own private thoughts. Stirling was listening with only half an ear when a news segment came on.

'The case of missing JaFM radio host Alicia Schofield has been fled with the police. The DJ is part of the morning show with co-hosts Joel Moorside and Curtis Webb, who raised the alarm when she failed to arrive for work this morning and could not be contacted. One of the show's producers went to search for Ms Schofield at her home, where bloodstains were found.'

By now, both Stirling and Rees had stopped eating, almost forgetting to breathe. They stared at the radio as if to look away meant certain death.

'However, there is still no sign of the young DJ, despite her friends and colleagues joining in the search. It is thought that her co-hosts will not return to work tomorrow.' There was a moment of dead air. 'God man, that's terrible. I know they're the competition, but that is just too awful for words. Our prayers are with you, my brothers. Fuck the playlist, this one's for you.'

The radio cut to 'Ain't No Sunshine' by Bill Withers. Stirling stood it for a few bars, then leaned forward and twisted it off, looking grimly at Rees, whose expression was almost identical.

'Bet you a thousand, Andy.'

Stirling shook his head. 'Bets are off.' He went for his cellphone and thumbed rapidly through the menu.

'Gidday, Andy,' Kirkpatrick answered. 'How are you getting on?'

'Dick all, Senior. What's this about a DJ going missing?'

Rees signalled to him to put the phone on speaker.

'Thought you might have heard that story . . .' There was a slight grunt, as if Kirkpatrick were taking a seat. 'It's a lot worse than you think.'

'How could it be worse? He did it, didn't he?
He
did. And now he's hiding the bodies.'

'There's a hell of a lot of blood, from what I've heard. John Blundell's on it. He's notified all the hospitals, but if the unthinkable happened and she actually turned up, it'd be in the freezer section.'

'He's never hidden them before . . .'