Keeping (9 page)

If one more person calls me sir tonight…

“Well send a couple of pairs out anyway!” he shouted, frustrated and ready to punch the first unfortunate sod to get in his face. “Specifically have a pair of you on the estate behind the forest. Go out in casual clothes, walk around like you live there. Get a feel for the fucking place. Stand around at the point where the estate meets the forest, chat like you’re just taking a breather, and have a good gander at the route he might be taking once he enters the forest. While he was Witherspoon, now’s the chance to go there without him copping on to us.”

“Who should go?” someone asked.

“Fuck me sideways! Think about it, yeah? Shitty estate, filled with the younger generation. So, two of you who could pass for twenty-somethings, all right? Get clothes from the undercover store. Just get on with it!”

He stormed back to his office. Oliver was awake, staring at the wall behind Langham’s chair, his face pale, his hands shaking. Langham’s stomach muscles bunched.

Jesus fucking Christ, she’s made contact…

Langham went to his chair and sat, though God knew how he’d manage to stay put. Oliver continued to study the wall, his eyes glazed. He no longer had his feet on the desk but on the floor, and he fiddled with the zip on his lightweight jacket.

Langham swallowed. Waited. Swallowed again. What the fuck was going on inside Oliver’s head Langham couldn’t imagine. Being given facts by some unseen
thing
wasn’t anything Langham thought he could cope with.

As Oliver twitched—his body jerking every so often as it did when he was on the verge of falling asleep, his muscles relaxing—Langham bit his tongue. Oliver narrowed his eyes then sighed, as if he were trying to understand, to make sense of the data. Langham longed to go over and hold his hand, show how he wished his man didn’t have to go through this, but it was best to leave him be. This
knowing
was such a recent development and he wasn’t sure if, as with sleepwalkers, it was advisable to let things play out with no interruption. Besides—and he could kick himself for thinking it—Langham needed that information whether it disturbed Oliver or not.

I’m so fucking torn with this psychic shit…

“He’s got a doll,” Oliver said. “A fucking creepy-arsed doll.”

Langham leaned forward, clasped his hands and rested them on the desk. Unable to stand looking at Oliver while he struggled to make sense of things, Langham stared at the gouge in the desk, at the cookie crumb and dust he’d failed to get rid of.

A doll. What the hell?
Were
they dealing with a woman? No, no, they couldn’t be—unless that woman had the ability to grow stubble. So what man had the need for a doll?
Why
did he have a doll?

“It’s staring at her,” Oliver said. “Watching while he…he dances to this…this horrible music. It tinkles. Like a music box, except it isn’t right. It’s just not right. Creepy. Makes me think of horror movies, the bit where the music starts just before something nasty happens. He’s got Cheryl’s bra and knickers on over his clothes.”

What the fuck?

So they had a man who liked wearing women’s clothing, spoke like a lady, and had a doll. What, did he think he
was
a woman, was that it?

“He kept stroking her cheek,” Oliver said, “calling her a good girl and telling her she had to go home.”

Langham wanted to ask when, and why Cheryl was allowed home and the other women weren’t. He kept his mouth shut, though, shifting his gaze to the open packet of cookies he hadn’t put back in the drawer. He took one out. Nibbled on it. Yep, he’d definitely need to buy a plastic tub.

Oliver sighed. “Except it isn’t home. He means death.”

Oh, God…

“He gave her some medicine, but she didn’t take it. Didn’t inject herself. She put the needle between her toes and squeezed the drug into the mattress.” Oliver paused, waiting as though he was being spoken to or he was deciphering images. “Cheryl? Is that you?”

She’s talking. She’s got through!
Langham resisted punching the air. His heart rate sped up, adrenaline streaking out of the starting gate and romping down the stretch. It sent him momentarily giddy, and he inhaled and exhaled a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He had the urge to get up and pace, to be out there searching for this woman, but with no information on where the fuck she was, his actions would be a waste of time.

“You what?” Oliver said. “Say that again. Right…yes, try and keep talking to me. I’ll help you through this, tell you what to do. Yes, you did the right thing with the needle. Pretend you’re asleep, okay? Whatever happens, just do that—unless you can get away safely. Don’t try anything stupid, though, all right? Just…just let him do his thing.”

Langham tossed his cookie onto the desk then drew a notepad across and started writing everything down.

“No, he won’t hurt you,” Oliver said. “Remember the others? None of them had been hurt. None…touched like
that
. He’s not interested in getting thrills via sex, so stop panicking about that. What? Repeat that for me… No, I don’t know why he’d want to wear your things… He’s not right, Cheryl, I know that, but maybe wearing your clothes isn’t anything to do with what he’s doing. Maybe he just likes wearing women’s clothes in general. For all we know he could wear them a lot, you know?” He sighed. “Right, so he hasn’t worn them before now? Okay, fine. Just… No, don’t panic. Just stay where you are, do what you’re doing. We’re all working on this. We’ll get to you before it goes much further, okay? We’ll find you. So long as you can stay in contact with me, we’ll find you.”

That’s a promise you shouldn’t be making. We might find her all right, but it could be too late. We know her destination, know where she’ll bloody end up, but we need to find her before the water finishes her off.

“Fuck!” Oliver said. “Cheryl? Are you there?”

Langham looked up at Oliver, who snapped out of his trance and smacked the side of his fist onto the desk.

“She’s gone. Fucking hell, she’s gone.” Oliver stared at him, clearly trying hard to keep his emotions in check. “We have to…” He jumped up. Paced. Head bent, hand up to his mouth. “We have to get out there. Do something.
Find
her.”

They’d been through this before. And, as before, Langham told him they were doing all they could and haring out into the night with no idea where they needed to be wasn’t going to help. And shit, he’d ordered a couple of young officers to hang about on that estate. He quickly put a call through to the main office, getting someone to call the two officers back for now. The last thing they needed was inexperienced uniforms prowling around down there and scaring the man off. If he spotted them, he might change his dump site, then they’d be well and truly fucked in trying to find Cheryl. He’d get some more experienced officers down there instead.

“I
hate
this part!” Oliver said, flinging himself into his chair so it scooted backwards and barged into a filing cabinet. “I feel so fucking
helpless!
”

“I know you do,” Langham said, walking over to him and pulling Oliver’s head so his cheek rested on Langham’s stomach. He stroked his hair, feeling the warmth from Oliver seeping into him. “So do I, but we have no bloody idea where she is.” He brought Oliver up to speed on what had been happening while he’d dozed. “So we’ve got things covered. Nothing else we can do.”

The phone rang. Langham let Oliver go and leaned over the desk to answer it.

“The staff at Morrison’s café have been interviewed, sir.”

“What the hell are you still doing here, Higgings? Didn’t you hand everything over on shift change?” Langham asked.

“I did, but I’ve got caught up in this and I…I’m not tired. Thought I may as well stay until I am.”

“Right.”
Good lad.
“Got anything for me?”

“Seems that man who was asking questions at the newspaper also went to Morrison’s. He eats there most mornings, apparently, with some other bloke.”

“Okay.”
Who is that fucker?
“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. We think we have him.”

“What, you think you know who he is?”

“No, sir. As in, we have him downstairs. He’d been to the field this evening, asking people questions, whether they’d seen Cheryl and whatnot. And he found her dog.”

”What!” Jesus! Why hadn’t the uniforms found the fucking dog? Had they even gone out there yet? “Where is he?”

“Interview room two, sir, waiting for you.”

* * * *

Langham sat across the table from the same man who had been the star of the CCTV footage. He looked shaken up—that or he was coming down from an adrenaline rush. He’d certainly been busy today, gallivanting about, poking his nose into things he shouldn’t. Langham briefly entertained the idea he might be the one they were looking for but dismissed the thought. Although he could wear a wig and contact lenses to make people think he was blond and green-eyed, it didn’t sit right. Didn’t
feel
right. This man didn’t appear to have it in him to abduct women. Bit of a wet blanket. Still, he’d been wrong before and decided to wait and see what the interview brought up.

“So, explain to me again…Conrad…why you’ve been asking questions,” Langham said, knowing Oliver watched through the two-way glass behind him, ready to pick up on anything that might present its ugly self to him.

Conrad Leddings sighed. “I was supposed to meet Cheryl for a date. I’ve liked her for ages. We exchanged numbers, and I thought…I thought she liked me.”

“Where did you meet?”

“She works in the café in Morrison’s. The early morning shift. You know, breakfast and whatnot.”

“Go on.”

“But she didn’t turn up for the date. I went home, thought nothing much about it except maybe she didn’t like me after all. I was well gutted, know what I mean, but I can’t force her to like me. Then the next day I went to Morrison’s and she wasn’t there. I knew something was wrong. She’s always there, and what with that weirdo going around taking women… Please, there’s something wrong.”

It isn’t him.

“Yes, something’s most definitely wrong.” Langham waited for the shocked, panicked look to clear from Conrad’s face before he went on. “Tell me what you’ve done today.”

“It isn’t me, I swear to God it isn’t me!” He clenched then unclenched his fists on the table, as though he were fighting to remain calm. He definitely had the air of panic about him, the air of a concerned person, not that of a killer wanting to involve himself on the investigation on the police side.

“All right.” Langham cleared his throat. “So, tell me what you’ve done today.”

Conrad bounced one leg and his body shook. His mouth downturned as though he were holding back tears. “I said to my friend something was up, and he said she was probably ill, and I thought he might be right, because people do get ill, don’t they, but something inside told me different.”

Langham tilted his head, raised his eyebrows so the man stopped waffling and told him what he damn well wanted to hear.

“Anyway,” Conrad said, “I went to her house—she’d told me where she lived after we’d arranged our date. No one in. So I knocked on the doors either side of her place and asked the neighbors if they’d seen her.”

“And had they?”
Yes, taking her dog out for a walk, as usual.

“Yes. When she went out to take her dog for a walk.”

“And then what did you do?”
You went to the newspaper.

“I went to the newspaper. She hadn’t called in sick. So then I went to Morrison’s, asked if
they’d
seen her, and no one had. She hadn’t been there this morning at breakfast—she always waits on us,
always
serves us breakfast and a pot of tea and…” Conrad swallowed. Blinked a few times.

“Carry on.”

“So I got to thinking. And I waited until this evening to go the field and ask people there if they’d seen her. One man had—the night her neighbors had last seen her taking the dog out. Said he’d seen her about eight. He didn’t seem weird, not the kind who’d take a woman, and anyway, he had his kid with him. Little girl of about seven.”

People with kids and family lives still take women and kill them, Conrad.

“So then what did you do?”

“I went over to where the forest starts. I don’t know why, just felt the need to do it. I walked through for a bit, not far, and saw this lump. Made my guts roll over, I can tell you, like I just knew something was up with that. I went closer and…oh, God, it was a dog. Big thing, long-haired. And I knew, I just knew it was hers, you know?”

Yes, I know.
“So then you called the police.”

Conrad nodded. Leg still bouncing. Body still shaking. “They’ll be looking for her now, won’t they? Please tell me they’ll be looking.”

“Oh, yes. They’ll be out there all night.”

“Oh, thank God. No one seemed to want to listen to me. No one seemed to
care
, not even David.”

“Who’s David?”

“My friend. I meet him for breakfast most mornings.”

“Good sort, is he, this David?”

“Yes, yes, he is. Nice man.” Conrad absently stared at the tabletop. “So will you let me know? I mean, if things…if she’s…” His lip wobbled.

“We will.”

“And that psychic bloke? The one who’s always in the paper. Is he on the case?”

“He is.”

“Thank you, God,” Conrad said, looking at the ceiling, his bottom lip wobbling.

“And believe me,” Langham said, “if the ‘psychic bloke’ gets anything, we’ll be on it immediately. We’ll find the man responsible, Conrad, no doubt about it.”
We just don’t know when.

“But what about Cheryl? Will you find her before he…before…”

I hope so. Christ, I fucking hope so.

Langham gave a tight smile, deciding not to answer that particular question. He stood. “We’ll be in touch at some point, Mr Leddings. I have to go now, sort through some things, but I’ll send another detective on my team down to go through this with you again. You know, a full description of the man with his daughter, things like that. Maybe get an identikit done of him. That’ll be a help in eliminating him from our enquiries should we come across him ourselves at some point. I appreciate your help, but it would be better if you didn’t go around doing any detective work yourself now. Stay out of it—you wouldn’t want us thinking it was you now, would you?”