Keeping (11 page)

Oliver finished chewing then swallowed. “But I didn’t know the victims then.”

“No, there is that. But as far as we know she isn’t dead yet. Yes, he’s on about taking her home, yes, you said it means death, but it might not mean death now.” He thought of the other women being dumped, their last hours happening close to the weekends, and knew Cheryl was on her way to the end of her life if they didn’t find her in time. He refused to remind Oliver of that, though. Best to keep a positive spotlight pointed on things, one that only allowed Oliver to see what that light illuminated, rather than what skulked in the shadows. Shadows had a habit of upsetting him. “I have to be back at work in a few hours, and I want at least four in kip. To be fresher, more alert. Fairbrother can deal with it for now. It’s what he’s paid for—and he’s damn good at his job too. Nothing like Shields was.”

Langham shoved thoughts of Shields away, a detective who had made it his mission to continually get on Langham’s nerves, a man who had died in the line of duty in the Sugar Strands case. Whatever had happened, though, Shields had been a homophobic prick who had tormented him and Oliver and nothing would change that.

Oliver nodded, and they ate in silence then, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of their forks scraping across their plates.

Chapter Eight

Langham was on his back in bed staring at the ceiling but not seeing it, the quilt pulled halfway up his stomach. No shaft of moonlight broke through the murkiness as it usually did—the curtains were drawn close together as he hadn’t wanted any light in the room at all. No, he wanted blackness, the kind where even if someone lurked in the corner their shadow couldn’t be seen. Oliver was beside him, breaths the same as when he was awake, and Langham felt for him not being able to sleep.

“You want to talk about it?” Langham asked.

“Could do. Might help.” Oliver sighed.

Langham reached out and patted the bed, searching for Oliver’s hand. He found it and grasped it lightly, then gave it a quick squeeze, just enough to let him know he was there for him, that he wasn’t alone. “What…” Langham paused then decided to try again, hating himself for wanting to ask questions. “Did you get anything from Cheryl you didn’t tell me about? Anything you remember now you’re relaxed?”

“I’d hardly call it relaxed, man.”

“You know what I meant. Now we’re home.”

“I’ll have a think.”

Langham knew Oliver would do that thing he did, where he closed his eyes and either waited for a new information dump or examined what he’d already been given. Langham imagined that if stuff came at Oliver in a rush he had to focus on either the voice that shouted the loudest or the imagery that shone brightest. There was no way, with too much data streaming through his head, he could possibly catch hold of it all. It brought to mind earlier, when Langham had been trying to grasp those snippets, eventually rewarded with the one that had broken free. Was it like that for Oliver?

I’m such a fucking shit, expecting him to do this now when I told him he ought to rest.

But Langham’s need to find Cheryl was somehow stronger, if that were possible, than it had been with the other women. This had gotten personal now, wasn’t just his job. It was encroaching on his relationship, the well-being of his bloke, and he was buggered if he’d sit back and let that go on indefinitely. And if it meant pressing Oliver again now, hurting him a bit in the process, but ultimately preventing more hurt in the future, it was something he had to do. The situation was precarious, though. So far Cheryl was still alive—or was she? She hadn’t spoken to Oliver in a while, so who knew if the man had killed her yet.

He waited, held his breath for a few moments, praying—and hating himself for it all over again—that Oliver got something new. It felt like the air had changed—it had that charged feeling similar to the times in the incident room when everyone was on tenterhooks ready to arrest their man. The hairs on Langham’s arms rose as he expelled his breath, and his heart thumped just a little bit too hard.

“You all right?” he asked Oliver.

“Yeah, I’m just… There’s something…I can’t quite get…”

Christ, was Langham picking up on things now? He shuddered, wanting no part of that weird crap where he sensed shit. The thought of it gave him the fucking creeps. Instincts or hunches were enough for him, and even those gave him pause at times, where he questioned whether he ought to act on them or if it had just been a passing fancy in his head.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on regulating his breathing, wanting his heart to stop kicking up such a fuss. He’d picked up on Oliver getting information—that was all. It could have been the subtle change in Oliver’s breathing, the slight flutter of his fingers beneath Langham’s—that was all.

What has he got? What is he seeing?

Langham tried to imagine what it was like, knowing things as though he’d known them all his life, being convinced they were truths. It must be the same as seeing something for yourself and knowing it to be real, like witnessing a car accident and staring at the devastation afterwards, taking it all in and filing it inside your mind ready to be examined at a later date—you’d seen it, you knew it, and there was no getting away from the facts.

Oliver shivered then sighed. “He’s wearing a dark boiler suit.”

Oh fuck, here it is.
Funny how he’d wanted it yet now it was here he suffered a strange smack of foreboding. Guilt too.

“Like a mechanic,” Oliver said, “except he isn’t one.”

So he’d bought it on purpose? An outfit he used when disposing of the bodies? Was it part of his disguise along with the mask, something that he needed to dress up in so that he felt…felt what? That he was doing something important, like a job? Did the boiler suit signify just that, a job that he had to get done? Or was he being fanciful again, and the boiler suit had just been on hand the first time the man had killed and he’d continued to wear it out of habit.

Fucking hell, my mind’s on high alert now. No way I’ll sleep even if I try.

“He’s staring at his face in a mirror,” Oliver said. “I can see him. See exactly what he looks like.”

Langham wanted to get up, switch on the light and grab a notebook, but he remained in place. Couldn’t risk shunting Oliver out of whatever place he was in. But by fuck, it was difficult to stay put.

“Jesus, he’s about twenty-two, a little bit older maybe.” Oliver shook his head, the pillow rustling. “Doesn’t look strong enough to drag women along. Probably why he has to use the drugs. If the women fought, he wouldn’t be able to handle them. Puny, he is, more like a teenager than a man. He’s got streaky, short blond hair, very green eyes. He’s got a few faint scars running from his forehead to his temple, spaced apart as though someone…yes, someone has raked their nails down his face at one time.”

The victims? Had one of the women done that and he’d cleaned all the evidence out from under their nails?

“The scars are old. Years old.”

Oh. That put his theory firmly to bed then.

“There’s a window behind him, and it’s one of those large, one-window sheets of glass like flats have.”

High-rise, as we suspected
.

“Outside there’s…I can see Big Ben—miles away but I can see it. He’s thinking about things being different, but I reckon this has already happened, like, maybe an hour or so ago. I don’t feel like I’m seeing it in real time.”

“What’s different?” Langham winced in case he fucked up Oliver’s concentration.
Why don’t you just keep your bloody mouth shut?

“The way he’s doing things this time. Cheryl isn’t dead. He usually kills them in the bath, holds them under the water, then takes them to the stream. That’s why…why all the others have had bleach water in their lungs. Christ Almighty.” He paused, then, “No, she isn’t dead. He’s going to do it at the stream.”

Thank fuck we have officers out there.

“That’s it. That’s all I can get…I’m…”

Langham got out of bed and jogged into the living room. He rang Fairbrother with the new information and told him he’d come back in to work. Fairbrother insisted he shouldn’t—everything was under control. Langham didn’t take much persuading, there wasn’t anything he could do that Fairbrother couldn’t. He gave in too easily and returned to bed, pleased to find Oliver sleeping soundly, light snores puffing from between his lips. The day had finally caught up with Oliver, that last bit of contact taking away any remaining strength he’d had left. Langham climbed in beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much, and resumed his staring at the ceiling.

Why change now? What had triggered the man into making a new pattern?

Not knowing got to Langham. He gritted his teeth then closed his eyes, intent on going through everything in his mind from the start. He managed up until about three months ago then felt his mind seizing up on him, a headache starting at the base of his skull, information scrambling until it made no sense. He fought to clear his head, to go in reverse and continue sifting, but his brain wasn’t having any of it. He sighed and allowed the data to drift away, letting in the first signs of sleep—sleep he hadn’t thought would come. Darkness converged, slunk into the edges of his vision and obliterated any images that were previously there.

Blank, everything went blank.

* * * *

Diary Entry #309

Quote of the day: Instinct is a valuable thing

No one approached me and I was able to lay CheRYL in the back seat of my car and strap her in with both seatbelts. The drive to my usual street by the stream didn’t take long, but I didn’t park there. Had this dodgy feeling in my gut, didn’t I, and decided to park somewhere else. I had this idea that someone was watching. Like, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I got goosebumps that matched CheRYL’s. So I went down this side street then turned off onto a track. Left the car behind some bushes and carried her as far as I could away from Morrison’s. And I mean
way
away. Further than I’ve been before. It took a while, what with having to trek through the forest first, and a few times her hair snagged on tree trunks and low branches. I thought that gave everything a nice touch, know what I mean? As though some beast of a bloke had dragged her through the woods before dumping her arse. Not a little man like me, some bloke that others would think couldn’t even carry a bag of shopping without it hurting their arms. Mind you, people didn’t realize what the push of unfairness could do, how it gave you the strength to do shit you could never imagine doing. I’ve learnt that on this journey. You don’t need muscles, just the intent to do what you have to do with the help of Mr Clever.

Everyone needs a Mr Clever.

By the time I’d left the forest and tramped over some fields, got to what I felt was a safe part of the stream, I was fucked. Panting and shit. My arms ached—she’d grown heavier than when I’d lifted her off the bed before her bath—and I wondered if she’d snuffed it, but I realized it was just my muscles aching from carrying her so far. Still, I was proud of myself for being able to manage holding her for so long.

I kept walking until I found some rocks like the ones I’d chosen before and placed her over them, belly down. She looked like a hill, a stark, white hill in the darkness. I put her face in the water then clicked the light on my watch so I could see two full minutes tick by. I’d planned to wait longer, to make sure she drowned—five minutes or more—but something rustled in the field behind me and I shit myself.

I wasn’t scared, don’t know why I wrote that. It was just an expression.

Mr Clever told me to get going, get home, so I left. It was best to, although I doubt it was a
person
making that noise. Even so, there could have been a dangerous animal about. Mr Clever said there couldn’t be, that we don’t have them here, but what about that sighting I saw reported in the nationals a while ago about a big cat on the common? You just can’t be too sure, can you?

Instead of going straight home I visited The Stick after. You know, gave myself an alibi. Not that I need one. It was just in case. A precaution. That place is so weird, all rusty oil drums and bummed out people with greasy hair and dirty clothes. I look like I kind of fit in when I go there in my boiler suit, and the beanie makes me look like one of those grunger types.

It’s weird, but I feel at home there with the down and outs, but
only
if I’m my other self. But now, I’m sickened by the shithole and the people in it. They’re misfits, scum of the fucking earth, addicted to God knows what.

As my other self I’m a misfit, or as Conrad would say, a weirdo.

I’m laughing. What the fuck does he know?

I can’t wait to see him tomorrow. Well, it’s later today, isn’t it. Time to get a bit of shut eye. We usually meet about nine o’clock. I’ll clean my place when I come back home after breakfast.

I won’t be going in to work. Too damn tired.

* * * *

Cheryl had waited a long time draped over those rocks. She’d been bloody freezing, her body dead from the cold and the rushing water, but she’d stayed still, not knowing if he was still there, eyeing her from the bank. She’d held her breath for as long as she’d been able to, until her head had lightened and she’d thought her lungs would burst, and wondered how the fuck she could move without alerting him to the fact that she was still alive.

A swell of water had saved her, giving her a chance to naturally lift her head as the rising wet pillow had swept past. She’d turned her head to one side, facing away from the bank, and allowed her cheek to rest on the surface of the icy stream. She’d remained that way for a while, keeping her breathing shallow and trying to make out any sounds of him watching her. She hadn’t heard much beyond the gurgle and bubble of the water, the chattering of her teeth, the
whump
of her pulse. If she had been able to feel anything beyond cold, she’d imagined her shins and knees would hurt from the sharp debris that had dug into them when he’d first put her in the stream. And her arms had floated, like languid buoys, her fingers stretched into stiff star shapes—from the shock, she thought.