Darkness Looking Back, The (10 page)

THE STREETS WERE blessedly quiet as Paxton drove home. No black dogs rushed out from the park on Patteson Avenue. Now that he'd managed to afford a new car stereo he could also listen to music on the drive, and tonight he'd chosen Linkin Park. Lena called it screaming music but it was perfect for relieving tension. Towards the end of the ride Paxton found himself drumming on the steering wheel, spitting the end of every line. In his room, he threw his clothes on the floor and crawled into bed, the lyrics running in his head until eventually he fell asleep.

A knock on the door woke him sometime around eight the next morning. He heard the door open and close before he'd managed to get out of bed, still in last night's boxers. He called out, feeling his heart speed up.

'Who's there?'

'It's me.'

Next moment, Lena appeared in his bedroom doorway. Paxton was not a little surprised to see her. Out of habit, and because her place was nicer, they always met at her house. He half-lived there himself. He saw the tired look on her face.

'Hey, what's up?'

'Did you see this morning's paper?'

She showed him the copy in her right hand. He glared at it.

'What is it this time? I'm tipping off Osama about the American bombings?'

Lena turned and walked into the lounge, dropping onto the sofa.

'They've even put where you work . . .' She unfolded it and turned to page three. Paxton took one side, reading it with her. The edges of the paper were crumpled, as if she'd been gripping them hard.

'Shit, they've taken a photo!'

The invasion of privacy was somehow worse than being discussed in the news. This was another layer of anonymity they'd just stripped away. Now anyone in the street could recognise him. They'd captured him walking into work in his black uniform. It wasn't the most flattering photo, but no one had ever managed one of those. After recapping the murders so far, and Paxton's involvement with the police, the article went on to say:

Mr Paxton is an Englishman by birth but little is known about his background. He has no known relatives in this country, and neighbours say he is extremely private.

'He keeps to himself pretty well,' said Debbie Morehu. 'Never had a word out of him in all the time he's been here. Only time I've heard him say hi is when some of the rellies were having a beer out front late at night, and called out to him as he was coming home.'

Mr Paxton has been a bartender at Anubis, an Egyptian-themed
restaurant in Mission Bay, for the past twelve months.

PAXTON DROPPED THE paper on the floor. 'Good to know you can rely on your neighbours to air your dirty laundry for you when you're laid low.'

'That's not the worst of it,' said Lena. 'Take a look at this.'

She handed him another page she'd been keeping aside — the letters to the editor. Paxton read them in silence.

There were several letters under the subheading 'PSYCHICS FROM VENUS, POLICE FROM MARS'. It didn't seem to matter that Woodward had said Paxton wasn't getting paid — either no one had listened, or no one had believed.

B. White from Waiuku wrote:
It beggars belief. The police complain that they can't even solve burglaries with clear camera footage and several eyewitnesses, because they're underfunded. And here they are spending taxpayer dollars on a psychic! No wonder the streets aren't safe these days. Our police aren't even on Planet Earth.

The others were in a similar vein, calling it political correctness gone mad. Someone else got in a dig at Auckland City Council, asking if a psychic could finally reach an answer to the morning traffic jams. The last letter was downright scary:
Perhaps James Paxton should go through what these poor women have gone through. He might think again about cashing in on their murders.

'Bloody hell.' Every nerve was twitching with the urge to shiver. 'That's almost a death threat.'

He didn't want to mention the exchange with Mandy. It would only have made things worse. Lena was watching him, her face expressing nothing but deep gloom, her eyes empty.

'What's up, Lee?'

She came out of her trance. 'Oh, I just think it sucks the way they're treating you! It's like you're Rasputin, or something. Some kind of charlatan holding the country to ransom.'

'So how does it feel to be Rasputin's girlfriend?'

Lena smiled. 'That makes me an empress, doesn't it?'

'That makes you dead at the hands of the revolutionaries.'

When Lena didn't reply Paxton took her face in both hands.

'Going to stop pretending this is about me?'

She laughed softly. 'I'm never going out with another psychic. Can't I keep
anything
to myself?'

She pulled back and looked him full in the face. 'My coordinator said she had three phone calls yesterday. All from parents wanting to know why the school's hired a tutor who's linked to all that New Age rubbish on the news. They think you're some sick devil-worshipper or something, or at least wrong in the head, the way you keep getting involved with murders. They think I must have something wrong with me as well.' Lena gave a bitter laugh. 'They're phoning each other up, trying to gather support for a formal complaint.'

'But what about . . .? You're a
great
teacher! All those bouquets you got from students and their families when your dad died . . .'

' . . . don't mean anything now, apparently. It's not "respectable" to talk to spirits. At the very least, it's bad business sense. I might be giving their kids lefty ideas.'

'But you're not even a medium.
I
am! You haven't done anything!'

'I know. But they want me gone.' Her face grew even more pained. 'The upshot of it is, Veronique's asked me whether I'm really serious about coming back this term.'

'What
?
'

'They're not
firing
me, she said. She said they don't want to lose me.' Again that off-pitch laugh. 'They just want me to think very carefully about the image of the school and my responsibility to the students to set a good example.'

Paxton looked down at the top of her head. He was angrier than he had ever been in his life, even while fear stuck a knife through his chest. 'Meaning . . . what?'

She paused for a long time. 'I don't know. I just
wish
. . .'

'You wish I'd listened to you,' Paxton said fatly.

'I didn't say that, it's just . . . You said you didn't want to get involved, then you drove straight over to that woman's house.'

'Well, what was I supposed to do? Stay here and let Mandy treat me like a rotting sardine? You weren't exactly defending me very hard.'

'That's not fair! I defend you all the time, when you're not even there.'

Paxton looked away from her, folding his arms. 'Well, that's brilliant, isn't it?' he muttered.

After a moment he heard a long sniff. 'I'm sorry, James. I just don't know what I'm going to do . . .'

Paxton turned and hugged her fiercely as she cried into his shirt. Inside he was raging, but for Lena's sake he kept his cool. He contented himself by saying, 'That woman sounds like a right
bitch
.'

Lena's crying jag didn't last long — he suspected she'd wrung herself almost dry long before he came over. She sniffed, rubbing a hand across her face in an attempt to wipe off the tears.

'Veronique is a snooty cow — the kind who thinks that because she's French she's more cultured than anyone else. Truth is, she's from a tiny village in the French equivalent of the Fens. Their version of a cultural revolution is dumping bulldozers of horseshit over the town McDonald's.'

When Paxton spluttered, she gave him a small, grateful smile that almost immediately dissolved into sadness.

'Thing is, these people are really well off. They're not parents, they're customers. Whatever they want, we have to listen to.'

'What about the union? Isn't there a teachers' union you could go to?'

'The PPTA. But it's only for state schools, not private. And I'm not on a permanent contract. If they decide they don't want me this year, there's nothing I can do.'

'Can none of your work friends help you out? I mean, they have to know you're not a fake.'

She drew herself out of his arms, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them under her chin. 'They're all angry at me,' she said. 'They want to know why I never told them — about you being a medium, I mean. They were all so good to me after Dad died, Sylvie especially, and . . . I guess they're all really hurt.'

Once again, the familiar cloud of guilt rose up in Paxton's head. 'Did you tell them I asked you not to let anyone know about me?'

'Yeah.' But from the tone of her voice, it hadn't helped.

'Oh shit, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.'

'No it's not. It's theirs.' She sounded so drained and hopeless that she might as well have screamed abuse at him, for all the comfort it gave. She shook her head, as if to clear it. 'I just want this all to
stop
. I feel like an outcast.'

And at that moment, Paxton realised, she'd become like him.

HE DIDN'T KNOW how long he could hold out this time. It had been too long since the last, and he could feel his instincts fighting his reason. There were more police on the streets these days; they were stupid fuckers, but they were like pit bulls after blood. He knew full well it would be fatal to act without carefully weighing up the circumstances, but it was becoming harder and harder, knowing she was waiting there, for him. He could see the light in her window from here.

Some people out there would call it wrong, he knew, would call him a monster. They didn't know what living was. Every man dreamed of this; anyone who said different was lying. Fucking hypocrites, all of them. Who wouldn't want such power, if he could get it? And the line, once crossed, could not be crossed back again. This was who he was now.

He saw a movement through the window, and his chest tightened. He moved closer, under cover of the trees and the dark. The tiny stirring among the leaves could have been the wind.

STIRLING WOKE TO the smell of baking. Even the clanging of a spoon on the side of a metal bowl was comforting, so reassuringly normal. And he wasn't due at work till one o'clock. He drifted into the kitchen, following his nose.

'Should have known you'd turn up about now. Five minutes and the coffee cake'll be ready,' said Nicola, smiling at him over her shoulder. She was rolling out something else on the bench.

'Mmm, yum.' Stirling came up behind her, wrapping his arms round her waist and giving her neck a lingering kiss. 'What's that you're making now?'

'Gingerbread men.'

'Gingerbread men? Those are kiddie biscuits.'

'I like them. And I notice they don't usually last long. Try not to pick the buttons off all of them this time. I went to eat one last time and they were all naked and missing their eyes.'

'That's your fault for putting M&Ms on them instead of icing. You know I eat any chocolate going.'

Ignoring him, Nicola gave a tremendous yawn. 'Might go back and eat breakfast in bed,' she said. 'Can't go staying up this late when I'm back at work.' She took the gingerbread cutter and started stamping out the little men. Seeing his chance, Stirling sneaked a few M&Ms from the packet.

'Oi!' She dropped the cutter and grabbed the packet from him. 'Thief. Cops are supposed to cut down on stealing.'

'Price of the job, Nics. You don't enter the criminal underworld without picking up a few tricks.'

'Yeah, well I'm in marketing, but you don't see me making you buy your own biscuits. Or anything else.'

'Oh no. That's not fair. I have nothing else to look forward to!'

Nicola laughed in his face, feeding him another M&M. She turned back to the bench, where the gingerbread cutter was still lying, half-covered in four and dough. It was as if Stirling were seeing it for the first time. Instead of a harmless plastic man he saw a corpse outline, marked in four instead of chalk.

Strange situation here, guys. All the limbs are stiff from rigor mortis, but the bodies were still warm when we found them . . .

He was beginning to realise the real price of the job. Normality, whatever that was, was gone for ever. The absence of Alicia's body was bothering him. And the doughnuts. If the killer had photocopied his backside and nailed it to the front door he couldn't have been more deliberately insulting. There was no doubt in Stirling's mind that the killer was losing any nervousness about his chosen career. He was just hitting his stride. Sure, that might cause him to slip up, but things were bound to get a hell of a lot nastier before he did.

Stirling didn't hold out much hope that the paper would take his mind off things. Reporters made their money from crime almost as much as the police did. He smoothed it out on the table as he sat with a cup of instant and a plate of still warm coffee cake. However, the front page was a pleasant surprise. It was all about the surfer who'd nearly drowned on Boxing Day while saving a pair of kids testing their new boogie boards in a fast-moving rip. He was now back on his board, just two days after leaving hospital, and swearing he'd do it all again. Stirling skimmed it and turned the page.

'Oh
fuck
!'

He put down his mug, grabbing the paper to read it more closely. The headline at the top of page three read: 'MURDER CASE GETS SUGAR-COATING'. Below the pictures of the three murdered women, the doughnut delivery was described in full, as was the police's current inability to find a body. To Stirling's relief, the names of the suspects weren't mentioned, but there were several quotes from people close to Alicia Schofield, expressing their outrage at the prank. Some suggested the police somehow deserved the insult. What was worse, the article went on to explain that Paxton had been given the boot after dissension in the police ranks and media scrutiny. The overall picture was of bumbling boys in blue, a force in disarray that was barely in touch with reality. Then he noticed a small advertisement for the magazine section in the weekend paper. He took a closer look, and swore again.

There was a picture of the TV psychic, Cristiana Austin, on the cover, dressed in a business suit with a crystal ball in front of her. Smaller twins of Cristiana were reflected in the ball, shrinking into nothing.
Canvas
's lead was 'Profiling the Profilers: Inside the world of psychic detectives'.

'What's wrong, sweetie? What are you swearing about?'

Her face flushed from bending over the hot oven, Nicola came into the room, rubbing her eyes. Stirling didn't even look up as she sat down and pulled the cake towards her, cutting a slice.

'Some
bastard
at work has been leaking to the press. They know that James was thrown off the case, and they know it was because the higher-ups were embarrassed about having him all through the papers. They think it's funny. Because he won't talk to them, they're using the predictions of this Cristiana woman, making him look like an arsehole!'

'Right.'

Nicola jerked the paper out of his hands and promptly ripped it in half. Then ripped it again.

'Give me a bit,' said Stirling. He took a piece from her and joined in the shredding, every loud tear making him feel better. He smiled at the pile of confetti on the table.

'You're cleaning that up,' said Nicola. 'I've just sat down.'

With less enthusiasm, Stirling obeyed, but no sooner had he scooped up a handful of paper than he heard his cellphone in the bedroom. He dropped the scraps in the bin as he jogged to get it, taking a look at the display. New number. He pressed the button to answer.

'Hello, Andy Stirling.'

'Oh hello, Detective. It's Arthur Wong. There's something I think I should tell you.' He sounded worried.

Stirling was suddenly alert. 'What is it, Arthur?'

'I was just reading the paper this morning, and saw the article about Alicia Schofield. From the radio.'

Stirling said nothing, feeling something else coming.

'She was one of our regulars too. I recognised her.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes.'

'Sit tight, Arthur, I'll be there shortly.'

The café owner's voice cut in urgently. 'But that's not the only thing! You see, I recognised the other woman as well.'

Stirling paused, hardly daring to believe it. 'Are you talking about Helen, or Charlotte?'

'Charlotte, that's her. I knew Helen.'

'You mean all three of the women were customers of yours?' Stirling's heart was beating at twice its usual speed.

'Yes! We're all scared out of our wits.'

'Be there in twenty minutes. See you soon.'

'THEY'RE USING MY café as a stalking ground! I'm tempted to shut it down.' Arthur was throwing his arms around.

'I can see why,' said Rees. 'But that could destroy the best lead we have.'

Once again he'd accompanied Stirling to the café. Ordinarily there was no one Stirling preferred to work with more, but the tiny cracks of doubt in his mind had turned into gaping chasms of misgiving, into which all the facts were falling. Stirling cursed his detective's brain, which couldn't let a friendship stand in the way of rampant suspicion.

'Did the killer really send you doughnuts?' asked Nathan. 'I shouldn't laugh, but . . .' His smooth face cracked into a smile and he shook his head. 'Fuck, that's twisted.'

A knock sounded at the door, and they all turned. A woman had pressed her face up to the glass, shading her eyes to see in past the closed sign. Arthur shook his head at the woman, who gave him a snotty look and walked off.

'Hope we're not getting up your customers' noses too much, Arthur,' said Stirling.

'There are more important things right now,' he replied, shrugging.

'If this goes on, we could all lose our jobs,' said Nathan.

No one was naive enough to disagree with him. Nathan's eyes suddenly flashed.

'Hey, but speaking of customers, there's that one guy who always comes in and just watches people, eh, Arthur?'

'Yeah, he's
weird
!' A girl with a brown ponytail whom Stirling had never seen before was nodding. Her name was Lauren. 'It's like he has no friends. He keeps talking to me all the time.'

'Can I have a description?' asked Rees.

'Um, what would you say? Kind of wishy-washy hair, sort of blond?' said Lauren. 'He'd be in his mid-thirties, I guess.'

'Yeah, and if you wanna know who ate all the pies, look no further,' said Nathan. 'They're almost all he ever orders, and it shows. I call him Simon the Pieman. I reckon he'd be capable of murder if someone else got the last steak and cheese.'

'Or there's the newspaper man,' said Arthur. 'He just sits and reads the newspaper for an hour. He's in here every day.'

He too went into Rees's exercise book.

'Man, it's creepy,' said Nathan, looking unhappy. 'I know some of the customers are freaks, but . . . And you still haven't found Alicia yet?'

Stirling shook his head.

'God,' said Lauren. 'She was really cool. It's just unbelievable.'

Arthur just sighed, looking deflated. He wasn't his usual sparky self this morning. In the lull, Rees opened his folder and pulled out a series of photos. He flung them on the table with his usual blank expression.

'How about these people?'

All three of them took a good look, as did Stirling, wondering what Rees's game was. The café staff needed only three seconds. Arthur raised his head sharply, pointing at a mugshot towards the bottom of the pile, of a good-looking man in a smart shirt. He was probably in his forties, and he was smiling for the camera.

'I've seen him before!' His eyes dropped back to the picture, fascinated. 'He was the first lady's boyfriend. Charlotte What's-her-name.'

As Stirling tried not to hold his breath, the others were craning their necks. It was the same man Paynter had told them about, the one from Australia.

'Oh yeah! They were in here all the time!' Nathan was saying.

'Is he a suspect?' asked Arthur.

Stirling's eyes met Rees's. He certainly was now.