Darkness Looking Back, The (7 page)

'SHIT! JAMES!' LENA'S voice rang through the house. 'Come and look at this!'

'I'm just cleaning my teeth. What is it?'

'You're in the
Herald
.'

Paxton went cold all over. Hastily he spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, almost missing the sink, and sucked in a handful of water to rinse. Then he yanked a towel off the rail and rubbed his face as he hurried into the dining room. Lena sat at the table in her satin pyjamas, the paper open beside the remains of her breakfast. He watched her face as she stood and moved aside to let him see it.

Paxton speed-read the first few paragraphs, although the headline told him everything.
Police enlist psychic in hunt for killer.
The truth was out. Now everyone would know what he was, and it would all begin again, just like back in England. The demands, the pleas, the condemnation, the jokes . . .

'Couldn't help yourself, could you?' Lena said.

He braced himself for the onslaught. Instead she sighed and shook her head. 'I knew it was only a matter of time . . . If you
really
want a normal life bartending, I'm Josef Stalin.'

Paxton didn't know whether to protest or laugh, but the phone got in first. Lena went into the bedroom to answer.

'Hello?' She frowned at the response. 'Who am I speaking to, please?' Someone gave the wrong answer. Lena rolled her eyes in Paxton's direction, shaking her head. 'I don't think he wants to talk to you right now. He's not interested in publicity, thank you.'

Shit. Paxton motioned at her to hand the phone over. Reluctantly Lena let go of the receiver. Glen wandered in, alerted by the tone of her voice, and she stroked his flank as he leaned against her legs, but she was still listening.

'James Paxton speaking.'

'Hello James, it's Philippa Grant from
Cross
.'

It had just gone from bad to worse — national current affairs.

'Sorry to disturb you, but I just thought you might like to give your side of things on tonight's show. What sort of predictions have you made about the crime?'

'I'm not allowed to discuss that, I'm sorry.'

'I guess that's understandable. But there are a lot of myths about mediums and the like, and I thought you'd be interested in showing people it's not all hocus pocus. You're obviously performing a service for the police, and Simon's really keen to have you on the show.'

'Sorry, Philippa, but I'm really not interested.'

'If you're worried about being reimbursed for your time off work —'

'It's more the loss of reputation, to be frank.'

'Well that's what you'd be defending! You could show people —'

'No, I'm talking about what people'd think if they saw me with Simon Burgess.' Paxton dropped the phone back on the hook. Then took it off again, and left it lying beside the bed. Lena was incredulous.

'How the hell did they find you?'

'One of the muppets from work must have given them my number.'

'But how did they get hold of the news in the first place?'

Paxton frowned. There was only one possible answer to that, and an ugly one. 'It would have been the police. There's no way the neighbours could have guessed.'

'But why would they want the media to crawl all over them? If they don't get pilloried, they'll get laughed at.'

'Perhaps it's someone who doesn't want me helping them. One name already springs to mind.'

Lena looked into his eyes, reading his thoughts. 'You think Gardner did it?'

'Mr Friendly? Nah. We're meeting up for a drink later.'

'You'd need to find a man with two penises to meet a bigger wanker.'

Paxton cracked up, despite his anger. 'Where did you get
that
from?'

'I'm quite proud of that actually. Oh, not
again
!'

This time it was Lena's mobile. She dived over the bed to fish it from her handbag, answering it on the fourth ring. At the response her eyes iced over. 'I'm sorry, you've got the wrong number.'

Then Paxton saw her expression change abruptly, her gaze locking on his in panic.

'I beg your pardon. I thought you were the press. Just one moment please.' She held the phone out. 'The police,' she hissed.

Paxton closed his eyes. 'Fuck.'

It was an effort to lift his arm and take the phone. Foremost in his mind was the thought that they must have got Lena's number from Stirling. The DC would kill him for this. If his superiors left him any remains to dispose of.

'Hello, James Paxton speaking.'

'Hello James, Graeme Kirkpatrick here. Did you happen to see the papers this morning, by any chance?'

'I'm just thankful I got breakfast out of the way first, that's all I can say.'

'Was it a surprise to you?'

Though it was phrased carefully, Paxton caught his meaning at once. 'I didn't say a word of this to anyone, Graeme. I've got my girlfriend here wanting to kill me for leaving
her
out of the loop.'

'Hmm.' The detective was silent for a beat. 'We're all a bit disappointed about this. We're not sure who the leak was, but we're going to get to the bottom of it. I don't mean to accuse you personally, but you were the first port of call, being outside the force. When it's someone
on
the force, it gets one hell of a lot harder.'

Paxton felt sorry for him, but not much better for himself. 'Could you please tell Andy Stirling that I'm not the one who let him down? I don't think he's sure.'

Kirkpatrick sounded surprised. 'He's standing just outside. I'll let him know.' Paxton could feel something else coming. 'Um . . . I should probably add, we're not sure if we'll be calling on your services again just for the time being. The fellas upstairs want to monitor what happens with the media, public response, that sort of thing. You may have noticed, image is a bit of a weak spot with the police at the moment.'

'Yeah, that's all right, I understand.' But he still felt it like a heavy boot in his backside. The distancing began.

'You may or may not hear from me again. Sorry I can't be more precise than that. I'll have to ask you to keep clear of the murder locations in the meantime as well, just for the look of the thing.'

'Of course.'

'Thanks, James. I'm sorry to spoil your morning.' He sounded like he was trying to find a gentler way of ending the conversation, but realised there wasn't anything more to say. 'Goodbye.'

'Bye.' Paxton pressed the off button and let his head fall to his chest.

'The police have just canned my involvement.'

Lena looked at him.

'They don't want anything more to do with me — and I'm not sure Graeme was convinced I wasn't behind it all.'

Lena sighed. 'It's probably for the best.' She noted Paxton's silence. 'I wish I knew who
was
behind it. Then I could kill him for you.'

Paxton barely mustered a smile. 'The only thing that could make my morning better would be a phone call from Immigration telling me I have to go back to my parents.'

'If you're going back to England, I'm going with you.' Lena put her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his own.

When the mobile rang again, it was barely a surprise. Paxton took it himself.

'James. Better be quick. They'd have my nuts if they knew I'd called you.'

Andy Stirling — who else? Paxton braced himself.

'Hey. I just wanted to say, you were right.'

Paxton's jaw fell open. This
was
a day for surprises.

'About Warren, the book. Dammit, I don't know how you did it, but I just wanted you to know. All right? And I'm getting the feeling this has got something to do with cheating. Think about it — Helen had more than one lover, and so did Charlotte. Something's going on.'

'Hmm. I think you might be onto something there. It'd make a lot of sense. But Andy, any ideas on the leak? Who the hell did this? You
know
I didn't.'

'Yeah, I know that. But you're not one of us.' Stirling sighed. 'Some of the people round here have moss growing inside their skulls. Yeah, it's — okay, bye darling, love you too!'

Abruptly a disengaged signal cut in. So Stirling wasn't allowed to talk to him. Welcome back to your childhood, James.

He sat on the edge of the bed and let himself fall back, feeling Lena crawl into his arms.

HE FELT THE itch in his feet, again, the urge to go out into the dark and become a part of it. At night he felt invisible, and unafraid, able to be himself as he couldn't during the day. Instead of looking through him, as if he were nothing, they'd stare straight at him, seeing nothing else, their eyes full of fear. He was everything to them in that one long night, and they'd never forget him again.

Not that he left them capable of telling . . .

He put on his shoes, running shoes with soft, silent soles, and went into the kitchen for a knife. She might be alone tonight, might not, but sooner or later, they'd finally meet. He felt like he knew her already.

NO ONE AT work would know, surely. Paxton wasn't sure Brent could read, and Adam . . . Adam didn't get the
Herald
, did he?

That last hope fell over the instant he walked into the room, and caught Adam's eye.

'Is it true what they say in the papers for once?' Adam's face was unusually serious. It gave Paxton a horrible jolt. This was the conversation he'd been avoiding for months.

He mumbled, 'I didn't think you ever read the papers.'

'Jade rang me.' Jade was Adam's girlfriend this summer. Paxton had met her a few times, but he was surprised she'd been aware of his presence, let alone remembered his name. All Adam's relationships were as intense as they were short. 'She was flicking through the paper in the staffroom at her work. She was at me to ask if you do tarot readings.' The contempt in Adam's voice was subtle but obvious; whether it was directed at him or at Jade, Paxton wasn't sure.

'You can tell her I don't,' he said quietly. 'I never touch the stupid things.'

Adam gave him a long look. 'So that's what you weren't telling me. That time you ran out, and you ended up in hospital.'

'I didn't think you'd want to know.'

'You mean you didn't want to talk about it.'

'You going to be starting work anytime soon, you two, or are you just gonna stand there costing me money?'

They both turned to see Brent, the bar manager, standing over them with a glass in his hand. It would have been easy to point out that Brent wasn't actually the owner, but instead they silently took their places. It was busy till six-thirty. Being a Friday it was after-work-drinks night and, for many, the first week back after the summer break. Everyone was still trying to hang onto their holidays, swapping stories with colleagues not seen since before Christmas.

Finally the place emptied a bit. Adam grabbed a cloth, making a show of wiping down the bar, his back to Paxton. After a few seconds he glanced round to check Brent had gone.

'Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come after you.'

'Would you? If I'd said I had a psychic message that a serial killer was just outside?'

There was a long pause. Adam shifted his weight to his other foot. Then he jumped as the phone went off at his elbow. Reluctantly he answered it. 'Hello, Anubis Restaurant and Bar.'

Even from a short distance, Paxton could hear the excitement in the caller's voice. It sounded high-pitched, female.

The next second Adam's eyes shot towards him in astonishment. '
Eh
? You're joking.' He shook his head, placing his hand over the receiver. 'You're on TV, man. Change the channel.'

'
What
?' Something nasty kicked Paxton in the stomach. 'What the hell? Who's that?'

'It's Mel.'

Mel was the student who worked both the bar and the restaurant. It was her night off.

Adam was waving a hand at him. 'She says you're on
Cross
. You're up next.'

Paxton grabbed the phone. 'Mel, what the fuck?'

'James! Is that really you they're talking about? Are you psychic?'

Every muscle clenched in Paxton's body. He wanted to crawl under the bar, then punch something. 'I'm a medium,' he muttered.

'Oh my God. It really
is
you. I can't believe it. I just saw an ad. It's on after the news — some psychic woman's going to be making predictions about those women who were killed. They mentioned your name!'

Adam was already going up to the TV, flicking from Sky Sport to the news. Though his back was to it, Brent sensed the change immediately, his gleaming bald head swivelling round.

'Why didn't you tell me? I can't believe I work with a psychic — a
famous
psychic. God, you should have told us!'

'I can't talk now, Mel, sorry. It's a bit busy.'

'Okay, but you have to tell me —'

'Brent's coming. I'll see you later. Bye.' Paxton hung up and turned to face the half-empty restaurant. Brent was on the other side of the room, next to the TV mounted on the wall. Paxton caught the look Brent sent him a moment later, when Adam had finished explaining. It was the look he might have given if one of the All Blacks had been outed as a transvestite: sheer incredulity, and denial. Paxton willingly broke eye contact as a customer came up to the bar. When he'd finished pouring him a beer, Paxton risked another look at the TV. Brent was still standing there, his arms folded, gazing up at the screen. It was possibly the first time in his life he'd ever watched current affairs. Adam was heading back in Paxton's direction. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

'Go on, go watch it. I'll guard the fort here.'

'I'm not sure I
want
to see this. I told those bastards I
didn't
want an interview.'

His anger felt like poison in his own veins. God only knew how the police were going to react to this one. The newspapers were bad enough, but national TV . . . Paxton pushed through the flap in the bar and took up a position behind Brent, who glanced at him, but said nothing. The news was just wrapping up. Without any ad break, it cut straight to a preview for
Cross
, hosted by Simon Burgess, the man who believed in nothing.

'Just what is the world coming to? Murders in our largest city, police without leads, investigations in disarray — so much so, they're consulting a psychic! Tonight I'll be talking to Detective Inspector William Woodward of Auckland's Criminal Investigation Branch and a well-known local medium, Cristiana Austin, to get the
other side
of the story.' Burgess gave a cynical little smile.

Brent, seeing a line-up of people at the bar, went to give Adam a hand, leaving Paxton alone in front of the TV. He stood fidgeting until the ad break finished, and Burgess's face was back on the screen. He had the silvering hair and strong features of a born statesman, except that Burgess had a healthy contempt for anyone on either side of the political line. He got involved only to stir. Paxton's hostility multiplied tenfold as soon as Burgess opened his mouth. He was smiling.

'Good evening. Just
where
are your taxpayer dollars going these days? In this day and age of the latest computer technology, when every schoolkid knows all the forensic jargon from the cop shows, when DNA tests are solving cases decades old,' Burgess paused for breath, 'the New Zealand police are resorting to fortune tellers. Sorry,
mediums
, who say they can communicate with the dead. What is going on? Two women dead, possibly thanks to the same killer. Charlotte Hiscocks, a mortgage broker from Epsom in Auckland, and Helen McCowan, a pensioner from Grey Lynn, both brutally murdered in their own homes. And, according to our sources, police are consulting one James Paxton, a local
bartender
and sometime psychic.'

Paxton felt his fingers curl at Burgess's tone.

'Who, if you remember, was first on the scene of one of last winter's murders. Does anyone else see a pattern here? Well, here to explain we have Detective Inspector William Woodward of the Auckland Central CIB, and professional medium Cristiana Austin. Thanks for coming, Inspector.'

'Evening, Simon.'

So this was Kirkpatrick's boss. The camera had shifted to a solid-looking man who radiated unruffled calm. Paxton had expected someone harried, or at the very least angry and defensive, but he was surprised. Burgess was going to have a hard road taking the piss out of him. Woodward would piss on him right back.

'So tell us, Inspector,
why
go to Mr Paxton? Is this a sign of desperation?'

Woodward smiled. 'No, Simon, it most certainly isn't. And I think you'll find that psychics have been employed by the police on a number of occasions, across the world as well as in New Zealand. It's no new phenomenon. We use animals with extra senses humans don't have, so why not people?'

'But wouldn't you say this is, well, all a bit flaky? What do you think the public will have to say about a supposedly First World police force using their money to pay a fortune-teller? It doesn't make a good impression, surely. I mean, when can we expect the voodoo dolls and the witch doctors?'

'I don't know where you get the fortune teller bit from, Simon. As I understand it, fortune tellers predict someone's future, and I'm afraid these poor women don't have one.'

'Come on, Inspector, that's a bit flippant —'

Woodward cut calmly across him. 'No, Simon, I'm not the one being flippant at all. As far as I'm concerned, this is no laughing matter, and we shouldn't be poking fun at it. If you think that this sort of thing is an imprecise science, no doubt you're right. But unfortunately, so is all police work. Even the boys in the labs at ESR, overworked as they are, will get it wrong. Samples will get contaminated or misfiled, witnesses give faulty or false statements. When you work in my job, evidence is very rarely perfect.'

Burgess opened his mouth again, but Woodward didn't let him get started. 'But the main thing is doing
something
, getting as
much
information as we can to get these criminals off the streets. Because the more we have, the more likely we are to find the truth. I have implicit faith in Mr Paxton's ability — and might I add, he is
not
being paid for his help — and I'm not going to apologise for doing everything I can to track down a very dangerous person and bring relief to the grieving families.'

He sat back, everything in his manner proclaiming he was finished. Paxton wanted to cheer. He was startled to hear such a glowing reference from a senior member of the police, someone he'd never met. Clearly a lot more went on behind the scenes than he'd ever know.

Without a word Burgess turned away, meeting the friendlier gaze of his second guest. She was probably in her forties, with black hair pinned up stylishly, understated make-up, and wore a Celtic cross around her neck, underneath a smart silver blouse. If she was indeed a medium she looked as though she charged well for it.

'Cristiana. What have you got to say about the psychic process? You've been a medium for the past twelve years, is that correct?'

'A professional one, yes, that's correct. I've been doing it for quite a bit longer than that.' She was friendly without being air-headed or sprout-eating earnest — not your average fake.

'And what are your feelings about these cases? Can you tell us who this killer is?'

Cristiana took a moment. 'Well Simon, I've been focusing on that all afternoon, and what I'm being told is that this is the work of someone who doesn't know either of the women personally, but who has a severe mental problem. He'll have been in trouble before. I'd say he's male, Maori or Pacific Island, in his late twenties. And I'm getting the name George. George or Jordan, something like that. I —'

Burgess interrupted. 'Well that's all very well and good, but how do we
find
this George? Or Jordan. How do we stop him killing again?'

'I sense he's somewhere near the water. In a white wooden house with a fireplace, and a white car in the driveway. He will be caught sometime soon, I feel.'

'Well, that's good to hear. I hope there won't be too many more murders in the meantime. Now, Inspector, how does that information tally with what you've heard from your own source, Mr Paxton? It's a pity we couldn't have him on the show tonight, but he tells us he's under a confidentiality agreement.'

'Yes, that's correct. And I'm afraid that even if this lady here had given us a phone number, there's no way I'd be letting on. There's still an investigation under way, and I don't want to make our offender go underground.'

'He's
already
underground, Inspector. No one can find him!'

Woodward smiled. 'Sorry, Simon, he's not underground yet. He's still very much on the surface, walking around with you and me. He's somebody's next-door neighbour.'

For once, Burgess didn't respond. Woodward went on, 'You can bet we have some leads, but at this stage I can't tell you what those are. I can only appeal to the public to give us any further information they might have.'

Paxton was pleased to note that Burgess looked distinctly disgruntled. He thanked Woodward and Cristiana, then ran off the contact numbers for the police. The segment was over.

That hadn't been so bad. Paxton had actually sort of enjoyed it. He was bloody impressed with that DI, wished he could have met him. He'd made mincemeat out of Burgess. And thank God they hadn't brought
him
too much into it. He pondered what the TV psychic had said. He'd be delighted if he could be even half as accurate as she was. Not only a rough age, but the ethnicity, part of a name and a description of the man's house. Jesus. Paxton was lucky if he even got past the roar of blood in his ears. Perhaps it was just sour grapes, but he'd bet everything he had she was fake.

He turned around to head back to the bar, and promptly met Brent's eye. The bar manager had come up behind him silently. How long he'd been listening was impossible to tell.

'Bit of a dark horse, aren't you, James? You mean to say you can talk to ghosts and stuff?'

'I didn't mean to say anything,' Paxton muttered.

'Didn't think you were the sort to
believe
in that stuff, let alone go around chatting to them.'

'Do you believe in spirits?'

'Only the ones behind that bar.' Brent looked over at the familiar ranks of bottles, all neatly, comprehensibly labelled.

'Well done. Everyone else grins like a mental patient whenever they say that.'

Brent smiled, then gave him a long, scrutinising stare. 'What other secrets are you hiding, I'd like to know?'

'Next week I'm booked in for a sex change, and then I'm converting to Islam,' said Paxton sarcastically.

Brent gave him another look. 'Shit you're weird, mate.' He walked back over to the bar. Perversely, Paxton felt better.