Needing (6 page)

“Ain’t seen him. Not since the last copper came along to speak to him, and
he
looked familiar. Like I’d seen him before somewhere.”

Oliver’s stomach clenched, and his arsehole bunched as a wave of nausea came over him. “Something’s fucking off. I feel it.”

“You and me both, man,” Langham said out of the side of his mouth, then to the woman, “Another policeman was here?”

“Yes, I just said so, didn’t I?” She tsked and rolled her eyes. “No idea how you people solve crimes if you can’t even process a simple sentence. Yes, another policeman. Badge just like yours. And Mark lives back there. Second house in on the other side of the road.” She marched down her path towards her house, turning to stare at them when she reached her front door.

“Thank the Lord for nosey old bitches, but fuck me, she’s mean as hell,” Langham muttered.

“Yeah, well, mean or not, let’s interview this bloke and get out of here. This place…it isn’t nice. There are too many ghosts here. I can feel them all trying to speak to me.”

Langham made a U-turn in the deserted road. “So let them in. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

Oliver widened his eyes. “Are you fucking serious? You try having a few of them gossiping in your head all at once. Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too, you moody wanker.” Langham smiled, parking outside number two, the wooden plaque beside the front door announcing the cottage as Reynolds’ Gaff.

The feeling of wrongness was stronger here. This wasn’t unusual in itself. Many places he visited when questioning people with Langham felt this way—just not as strong. Or sinister.

“This is one nasty-arsed case,” he mumbled.

“And the others we’ve worked on weren’t?” Langham cut the engine and slipped off his seatbelt.

“They were, but this one… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“Then don’t. Soak it all up, see what you get when we go in, and tell me once we’ve left. I’ll do the talking. You just concentrate on picking shit up.”

Langham got out of the car, and Oliver did the same, his stomach heavy with dread. He hated this part of investigations. Negative energy always found him, and he saw sights and heard sounds no one should. Terrible things, horrible noises. Voices.

After walking up the paved path bordered by a well-kept garden with a recently mown lawn and pruned hedges, the pair stood on a shiny, red-brick step.

Langham glanced at Oliver before knocking. “Got anything yet?”

“At the risk of sounding cheesy, just the feeling of impending doom, only more so. You know, the usual. Something being majorly off, knowing we’re going to find out some shit we hadn’t expected.”

“Right.” Langham knocked again. “Good.”

They waited a minute.

“Wonder if he’s out?” Langham walked across to the large window beside the door, presumably the living room. “Whoa. If he’s out, he needs to tidy up when he gets home. Looks like someone’s had an unfriendly visit.”

“Shit.” Oliver moved to stand beside him and stared through the glass. “Uh, yeah. Unfriendly is right. We going in?”

“Yep. Could be a man in distress inside, know what I mean?” He went back to the front door. Kicked the damn thing open as though the wood was nothing but flimsy cardboard.

Oliver almost,
almost
got hard again.

Pack it in! Focus on the job.

“I’ll go first. Stay behind me,” Langham said.

Oliver followed Langham inside, hit immediately by the stench of blood. He gagged, breathed through his mouth and stared around a small hallway littered with coats flung down from the hooks on the wall just inside the doorway. Someone had been here, that much was evident, and he didn’t need the growing unease in his gut to tell him that. He stepped over the coats, tailing Langham into the living room. The mess here was worse—sofa overturned, the wall cabinet pulled down and balancing precariously on an armchair, contents strewn over a carpet covered in fluff from inside the throw cushions. One mental motherfucker had been in here looking for something, all right.

Langham turned, cocking his head to let Oliver know they’d find nothing here but chaos. Oliver followed him into the kitchen—more of the same wreckage there—then up the stairs. The detective coughed, gagged and stopped at the top, glancing across the landing at the two closed doors. Oliver stared at them through the baluster rails, a wave of hate flowing over him. The press of spirits wanting to speak to him made him breathless. He swallowed, knowing there was nothing to fear here with regards to another human being. No one was at home.

No living person, anyway.

“Someone’s dead in there,” he said as Langham turned to look down at him. “Probably Reynolds.”

“Yeah, the smell’s unmistakeable, but I told myself maybe he had a dog that had died or something. Ever the optimist, me.”

Oliver smiled, holding back a rejoinder that would proclaim Langham anything
but
a bloody optimist. Now wasn’t the time for their sniping. “Uh, he’s in that room.” He pointed to the door closest to Langham. A snapshot of what lay behind it flashed through his mind. “And it isn’t pretty. You might want to take a few deep breaths. He’s, um, he’s a fucking mess.” He swallowed down bile, shaking his head to remove the image, though why he bothered when he’d see it for real any second now he didn’t know. Habit, he guessed.

“Right. Bloody wonderful.” Langham walked towards the door, taking a tissue from his pocket to turn the handle. “Get ready to be hit in the face by the reek, man.”

Oliver covered his nose and mouth. Langham opened the door, and, expecting the stench to override anything else, Oliver was shocked to find the smell was the last thing he needed to think about. Blood soaked the walls, near-black now it had dried, arcs and splashes, rivulets and streams that spoke of a violent death. The bed was soaked with it, the quilt looking hardened with the stuff, and the carpet was ebony in small, circular patches where the victim had possibly staggered around the room, falling every so often as his life had ebbed away.

But there was no corpse.

“What the fuck?” Oliver said, his frown hurting. “I saw him. Saw the man all cut up and shit. He was on the bed. Face up. Eyes open. Arms hacked off.”

“Well, he isn’t here now.” Langham stepped back—right onto Oliver’s toe.

“Shit! You might want to watch where you’re stepping, man.”

“It would help if you wasn’t right up my arse.”

Oliver refused the bait. He was
not
going there with a ribald response. Not when they stood at the site of someone’s death. And then it struck him. The press of spirits wasn’t plural. It was one spirit. Reynolds. It had to be. “Uh, I’m going to let them in. Him in.”

Langham spun to face him. “You got Reynolds on at you?”

“I think so.”

“Then open the hell up! What are you waiting for?”

Oliver sighed and unlatched the locked door inside his mind. The spirit came tumbling in, as if he’d been leaning against it with all his might, and Oliver
felt
the spirit’s disorientation as it fought to regain its equilibrium. Heavy breathing filled Oliver’s mind, and the sense of a panicked man covered him in a heavy sweat.

“Calm down,” he said. “Take a moment before you speak.”

Oliver waited, staring at Langham. The detective’s face showed how impatient he was for information, but this was Oliver’s domain and he called the shots here. The breathing lightened, became less ragged, and a low humming began, like an abused kid trying to drown out the sound of his parents fighting.

“It’s all right. Just take your time. We’re not going anywhere. And we’re here for you. To help catch who did this to you. I know it’s difficult. Know how painful this is for you. How much hard work it is. But just focus on what you need to tell me, and if you can give me images, too, then that would be great. If not, no worries at all, okay?”

The humming stopped, leaving only the sound of breathing—from all three of them.

“Eyes like madness. Couldn’t get over them, the way they flickered like that. Eyes like madness. Didn’t used to be that way. Weird. Can’t get to grips with it. Didn’t like it. They weren’t real. They were…freaky. He’s been tested on, like those kids. He wasn’t like he was before…he said…he…”

“It’s okay. Slow down. Just take a deep breath and start at the beginning. Don’t tell me about your death, either, tell me about him. Concentrate only on him.”

This guy was going to burn out his connection if he wasn’t careful, then Oliver and Langham would be left with fuck all new to go on. He quickly shielded his thoughts from Reynolds while he awaited his next outburst. It wouldn’t do for the guy to feel under pressure.

A huge sigh filled Oliver’s mind, then—

“Yes, he’s been given that stuff I found out about. Been experimented on. He’s like a super-human. Great strength. His eyes were okay until he…”

Another sigh.

“Mustn’t think about the death, only him. Just think about him and what he’s like. Yes… He had a woman’s wig on. Some kind of mask or makeup. So he knows. Oh, yes, he knows he’s doing wrong—otherwise, he wouldn’t wear a disguise, right? He knows right from wrong, I know that. Yes, he was brought up right.”

“You’re doing well, Mark. Keep going.”

Langham squeezed past Oliver and went to sit at the top of the stairs but changed his mind after staring down at the carpet. It was probably bloodied.

“I ripped his wig off when he… I ripped it off because he shouldn’t be wearing that. Didn’t suit him. Never wore one before. Pulled out some of his real hair. Saw that on TV once. They said if you were attacked to try and rip out some hair, scratch skin so it went under your nails, give the police something to go on. I did that. I was right, wasn’t I? Right to do that? Even though it was him… Maybe I shouldn’t have tried ratting him out like that.”

“Yes, Mark. Excellent. You did good. So where are you?”

“I’m here with you.”

“No, where is your body?”

“He took me out of here. Put me in a van.”

“Think about the van. What colour is it?”

“Um, yeah, think. It was red. Dark red. Small van, like a car without back seats. You know the kind I mean? He’s had it a while. Remember when he showed it to me before…”

“Go on.”

“He took me to this field. Muttered something about some bitch being dumped up the way a bit. I didn’t know who he meant, but I’m guessing I wasn’t his first. Didn’t think he’d come for me. Not him. Thought he was someone else—never thought he’d be like that.”

“Who? It’s like you know him.”

Silence.

“Was there a river nearby, Mark?”

“Yes. I’m… My body’s on a bend of the river. It’s… I’m half in the water, half out. Like, my hands are in the water.”

“Fuck.”

“What? What did I say wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. Keep going.” Oliver thought of the water doing its damage, possibly taking away those hairs, that skin beneath Mark’s nails. The killer knew exactly what Mark had been up to.

“He said, ‘There. A little bit of sweetness for you.’ Then he sprinkled some of those things on me. You know the kind I mean?”

“No. What things.”

“Those things you get on cakes. Sprinkles over icing.”

“Sugar strands?”

“Yes, that’s it. He said Grandmother used to pour them into his mouth when he’d been bad. Said they filled his mouth so he had trouble breathing. And she wouldn’t let him spit them out. He had to sit there until they melted. He said he wouldn’t make me eat them, just sprinkled them on me so everyone would know I’d been bad. But he’s lying. She never did that. And he told me it was ironic the medication was in the same form. Like those strands were haunting him.”

“How do you know he’s lying? And you, bad? You didn’t do anything wrong, Mark, except to try and make this right.”

“I did. I poked into something I shouldn’t have. Found out what they were doing. I’d been in his room before that woman at work showed me the notes. He’ll come for you next because he knows you know. You and him over there. Be careful. He comes quietly—he’s right there before you even know it. With those eyes. And he slices and cuts, stabs and chases you around until you can’t get away anymore. Until… Mustn’t think about the death. Have to concentrate only on him…”

Mark’s breathing intensified, alerting Oliver to his panic returning.

“Well done, Mark. Now, think about that van. Did you catch any of the licence plate? Anything about it that might help us?”

“No. But I know where he lives. I know him.”

“You do?” Jesus, why hadn’t he fucking said so from the start?

“Because I forgot.”

“You weren’t meant to hear that, Mark. I’m sorry.”

“Right. You want to know where he lives, who he is?”

“We do.” Oliver held his breath.

“He lives in the basement of this old house. You know the one I mean?”

“No. Tell me.”

“It’s in Saltwater Street. That old thing on the corner. The one with the dirty windows with filthy net curtains. Grandmother lives there.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Yes. She’s still there. Old as the hills but there just the same.”

“And his name?”

Mark sighed. “
Damn easy to answer that one. He’s my brother. Alex Reynolds.”

Chapter Six

Oliver staggered against the banister as Mark disappeared. The void his spirit left behind took a few moments to fill with questions, ones he knew Langham would also ask or ponder on out loud once he’d told him what Mark had said. Quickly, to save the detective battering him with queries, Oliver related the latest information.

“So,” Oliver said when he’d finished, “do we have the same situation with Alex as we have with PrivoLabs? Only a dead man’s word on Alex’s guilt so we can’t barge in and arrest him?”

“Something like that, but we
can
go and ask him if he knows where his brother is. Make it look like we’re after Mark not Alex. The freaky-eyed fuck might slip up.”

Oliver shivered. “Yeah, or he might well turn
into
that freaky-eyed fuck and do to us what he did to Louise and Mark. This guy sounds like he’s been programmed to prevent people finding anything out about what Privo are up to. Except we’ve got a good idea—and really, we ought to think about telling Shields about this shit, just in case something happens to us and the information we have dies with us.”