The Reckoning on Cane Hill: A Novel (25 page)

‘I know.’

‘But you’ve done good work for us in the past. It’s been so many years now, hasn’t it?’

Peters nodded. ‘As long as I can remember. It all catches up with you in the end.’

Merritt looked at him, then shook his head.

‘And I don’t dislike you. I never have. I have my instructions, but since you and I are the only ones who’ll ever know what happens here, I’m going to give you a choice.’

Merritt showed him the piece of paper, with the designs that had been drawn on it. He should have been afraid, he supposed. Perhaps it was the drugs, but instead of fear, he felt almost
ready for this. Merritt put the paper on the floor, then pulled out a knife. He held it up beside the gun.

‘I can do the cutting before or after.’

It was an act of mercy, Peters realised. If he asked for it, Merritt would put him out of his misery before he started the cutting. If he didn’t, he would do so afterwards. Both things would happen regardless, but at least one route would be painless.

Beep
.

Peters’ gaze flicked to the front-room door. Another ghost coming in. So many now. He deserved each of them and more. He looked back at Merritt, standing in front of him, and thought about the cutting and the killing. Both things would happen regardless. In the end, it was an easy choice to make.

‘Do the cutting first,’ he said.

Part Four

And They asked Her whether men were born with evil or good in their hearts, and She told Them this was so, but that circumstances would test that, and that the point of each Man’s life was to settle the battle within and without himself
.

Extract from the Cane Hill bible

Mark

Visualisation

I didn’t sleep well after the nightmare, and ended up getting up early, just after five. I drank coffee and paced the kitchen, trying to work out what I was going to say to Sasha. It was obvious I needed to talk to her about what was really bothering me. This worry, this irrational
fear
– it was my problem to deal with. But I needed to at least let her know what was on my mind.

It’s not you, it’s me
.

Clichéd but true.

I want you to know that I really love you
.

Better not to rehearse it, though: leave it to the moment, and keep it simple, so as to make it clear that it was really no big deal, and that I was going to sort myself out and stop acting so tense all the time.

Before work. Just mention it.

Hey – I had the dream again last night, but it was different this time, and it got me thinking
...

I checked my watch. Sasha wouldn’t be up for an hour or so yet, and I didn’t want to spend my time pacing and overthinking things before then. So I went through to the front room and turned on my laptop, opening two separate windows.

The first showed a photograph of Rebecca Lawrence. Just as I’d thought when meeting her parents yesterday, there was
no way to be certain, and there probably never would be, but the resemblance to Charlie Matheson was uncanny, and the circumstances of her disappearance suspicious. Out of all the unresolved missing person reports I’d found, this was the only serious candidate. I was fairly sure Rebecca was the real victim found at the scene of Charlie’s car crash.

Which was frightening.

I flicked to the other window, which had my provisional timeline open in it. Bare bones still – exceedingly thin. But at least I had another date to add into it now.

Provisional timeline

19 June 2010 Rebecca Lawrence reported missing (14th?)

3 August 2013 Charlie Matheson’s car crash

4 December 2013 Death of the 50/50 Killer

28 July 2015 Charlie Matheson reappears

The 19th was the date that the Lawrences had reported their daughter missing. Because of the note, it had then taken a little longer before the disappearance was properly followed up. The actual date she went missing was likely to be the day her savings were withdrawn, which was the 14th. But what were a few days here and there? The concern I felt was because of the
year
.

Assuming the body at the crash scene had been her, over three years had elapsed since Rebecca Lawrence was abducted. If true, that meant she had been held for even longer than Charlie Matheson had been. We’d already noted the patience and planning of the individuals behind Charlie’s kidnapping, but this seemed to indicate another level altogether.

I rubbed my mouth, looking down at the screen, considering it. That was when my mobile rang in my pocket. I took it out and answered the call.

‘Mark?’ Pete sounded shaken. I could almost picture him running his hand through his hair while he spoke. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at home.’ I checked my watch again. No, it really was only just after seven. ‘Where are you?’

‘Got an address for you. Simon’s there right now. Greg and I are up and on our way.’

I clicked my laptop through to the mapping system.

‘Shoot.’

‘Eighteen Forest Lane.’

When the mapping software found the property, it showed me that the street was situated in a neat little suburb to the west of the city. Nice area. Affluent.

‘Fifteen-minute drive,’ I said, gathering up my things. ‘Depending on traffic. What have we got?’

‘A dead man. Face apparently cut up like Charlie Matheson’s. But there’s more. A lot more.’

When he told me what else they’d found at the property, I was completely silent. For a few moments, it became hard to think.

Talking to Sasha was going to have to wait.

‘I’ll be there in ten,’ I said finally, and hung up.

As I approached the address Pete had given me, I saw that there was already a substantial police presence in the street. The end was taped off several houses down from the crime scene, and much further ahead I could see a corresponding barrier at the far end. A few of the residents were out on their doorsteps at the nearest houses, and I was pleased to see officers standing with each of them, ostensibly reassuring them but also doing their best to keep them separated for the moment. Assuming any potential witnesses were willing to cooperate, it was much better to get stories individually, uncontaminated by even a few moments of idle gossip while the police went about the necessarily slow business of dealing with the crime scene itself.

I showed my badge to the officer at the cordon.

‘Detective Nelson.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He lifted the tape so I could duck under and gestured up the street. ‘It’s number eighteen, just up—’

‘I see it, Officer. Thank you.’

It would have been difficult to miss, the epicentre of all this activity. Number 18 had three police cars parked directly
outside, and two vans on the opposite side of the street. There were also two ambulances I could see, the nearest one with its back doors open and people standing around it.

I walked up slowly, trying to get a vague sense of the street. This suburb was mostly residential, and the properties on Forest Lane were prestigious and desirable: detached mini-mansions, their double-barrelled frontages set back from the road behind spacious driveways. The pavements were broad, with well-tended grass verges. The trees there had grown so tall that the uppermost branches met over the centre of the street itself, giving the road a warm, contained feeling. Charlie had been right yesterday – the weather had broken, and it was raining gently. The sound overhead reminded me of the comforting patter on a conservatory roof.

Most of the people I could see outside the houses were middle-aged or older. They looked shell-shocked – afraid, even. Murder was not the kind of thing that happened in areas such as this. It would make the door-to-doors easier. They would be cooperative, I thought; they would want reassurance; they would be respectful of the police. It’s not always the case.

I reached the first ambulance. Three paramedics were attending to an elderly woman perched on the edge at the back. She had a blanket draped over her shoulders, and was holding a plastic mask over her mouth and nose.

‘Detective Mark Nelson.’ I showed the nearest paramedic my identification. ‘How are we doing here?’

‘We’re doing okay. This is Mrs Sheldon, who lives in the next-door property to the scene you’re here for. She’s the one who discovered the body this morning.’

‘Is Mrs Sheldon up to talking?’

The paramedic shook her head. ‘Maybe in a bit. She’s had a rough morning. But I can run you through a little.’

The two of us moved over to one side, out of earshot.

‘We got the call just after seven,’ she said. ‘Mrs Sheldon called an ambulance first, police second. Not that we could do much when we arrived. You’ll see what I mean when you go inside.’

‘Right.’

‘She told us she was just out collecting the paper and noticed the door was wide open, said that wasn’t like him ... you get the drift. Something bothered her anyway, so she went round and knocked. No answer. So she goes in, finds him in the living room.’

I glanced over at the woman, who still looked like she was struggling with the shock of what she’d seen. From that description of events, it didn’t sound as if she’d have much of immediate importance to tell us. Talking to her could certainly wait a while.

I thanked the paramedic, then approached the house itself. The front door remained open, but the property now cut a very different scene from the one Mrs Sheldon must have encountered first thing. The large garden was half filled with officers and members of Simon’s CSI team, and I had to show my ID again before crunching up the gravel drive to the door. It led into a wide, ornate hallway with a staircase in the centre, the oak fittings gleaming. At the top was a half-landing, where a vase of fresh flowers was silhouetted against the window.

She goes in, finds him in the living room
.

There was an open doorway to my right, the room there busy with people. I saw Simon, dressed in white scrubs, standing beside a man with a camera, gesturing towards something I couldn’t see, his hands forming a frame for it, directing him as to how to take the necessary photographs.

Let’s see it, then
.

I took a deep mental breath and stepped through the doorway. It was immediately apparent that the man had been murdered, and even though I had known as much already, the sight in front of me was still jolting. The victim was seated in a wooden chair towards one edge of the room. The chair was old but looked sturdy – one from a dining set, I thought – and the man had been bound tightly to it using coils of sharp wire. His head was angled forwards, as though he’d fallen asleep, but it was obvious he was dead from the injuries. While his torso seemed mostly unmarked, the whorls of grey hair on his chest
were crusted with the blood that had poured down from above. From what I could see of his face, it had been cut to pieces.

Jesus
.

I’d seen bodies before, of. course, but rarely encountered savagery on a level like this. I felt a beat of sympathy for poor Mrs Sheldon. No wonder the woman was in shock.

I waited for the man with the camera to take shots from this angle before stepping a little closer, mindful of the blood spatters on the soft carpet around the chair, then crouched down for a better look at the victim’s face. In the torn and tattered skin it was just about possible to make out what had been done to him. The cuts weren’t random. There were patterns there: curls and loops. It was reminiscent of Charlie Matheson’s face, but in an entirely different league. Her injuries, while extensive and elaborate, seemed precise and delicate in comparison to the damage that had been inflicted here. This was an entirely more crude version. A rough and ready first draft.

‘Unpleasant, isn’t it?’

Simon was standing next to me, his hands casually thrust in his pockets. I stood up.

‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Oh yes. I’m well aware of that.’

Simon glanced behind him. I followed his gaze. A cluster of people, Pete and Greg amongst them, were standing by the fireplace, blocking my view of the wall. I wasn’t ready to look at what had been found there. I turned back to Simon instead.

‘First impressions?’

‘While the injuries themselves are horrific, there’s nothing that strikes me as a definitive cause of death. The cuts to his face are extensive but relatively shallow. He’s lost a fair bit of blood from them, but not enough to kill him.’

‘So ... ’

Simon shrugged. ‘So I can’t say. You’ve noticed the track marks on the inside of his arms, of course.’

I hadn’t. I looked now and saw the dots and bruising. An
addict, then, despite the rich surroundings. I gestured at the wires around his wrists and ankles.

‘I can see a few possible obstacles to him shooting up.’

Simon laughed softly. ‘Which doesn’t mean he didn’t overdo things beforehand. Perhaps that’s even why he was subdued so effectively, which I’m only saying because I can’t see any obvious defensive marks on first inspection. Regardless, his system will have been weakened by it, and he was old. If I was a betting man, which I am resolutely not, I’d put money on a boring old heart attack. Although not boring in the circumstances, I suppose. Not considering what brought it on.’

‘Any initial idea of the weapon used?’

‘I can’t say for sure. Not fingernails, if that’s what you’re thinking. A knife of some kind, but one with a very thin blade. Even so, the cuts themselves are quite ragged and awkward. There’s a significant degree of tearing to the lines.’

‘Perhaps the victim was moving his head?’

‘You’d imagine he would be.’

‘It’s a little less
artistic
than what was done to Charlie Matheson.’

‘Yes. But similar enough.’ Simon looked over at the fireplace again. ‘Of course, that’s only one of the connections to our current investigation right now. I’m sure you remember your first day, Mark.’

‘Very clearly.’

‘I thought you might.’