‘Fucking daft question. How long’s a piece of string? Sometimes a week, other times it drags on a while. Southampton, now, that was a big job. Recent, too. Groundworking; digging drains, foundations, all that shit. Stayed best part of a month. Had me a blast down there. Had to go back for my parole meeting, of course. Gave the guy a load of crap about still being in Taunton, not being able to find work.’
‘And Plymouth?’
‘Didn’t see so much of Plymouth. Last September, that was. Shorter gig down there; lasted about a week, as I recall.’
‘I’ve heard it’s an interesting place.’ A non-committal reply, designed to distract Adam Campbell about what lies beneath Mark’s seemingly random questions. Ones that need to be asked, because they’re providing answers to Mark’s itch.
He’s heard enough. Time to wrap up the call.
‘Got to go, Adam. I’ll be in touch. Soon.’
He will, too. First, though, he has to consider what he’s learned.
He feels soiled by his contact with Adam Campbell, contaminated by someone for whom murder is a recreational sport. Christ, the way he exults in roughing up a woman. His expression when they met earlier on, when he tells Mark killing Abby Morgan was fun.
A spot of research is needed. Time to hit the Internet. Once he’s in his bedroom, something about the position of his laptop jars him. Almost as though somebody’s moved it. Get a grip, he tells himself. What with all he’s had on his mind, the neat freakism’s obviously taken a back seat. Not as if Natalie will have been snooping around again, not after their showdown last night. He aligns the laptop flush with the edge of the table before switching it on. A few minutes of searching on Google, and he gets answers to more of his questions.
Shit. Adam Campbell is one sick bastard.
A man who needs his freedom taken away now, before he kills again. A man about whom Michelle Morgan has been right all along when she’s said he should spend his life behind bars.
Especially chilling is the urge he expresses to murder again. More slowly. Take his time; enjoy the process. Mark’s no longer so naïve as to assume Adam is simply bragging. Not after what he’s learned from Google. No, this is a man who makes a study of serial killers and is on his way to becoming one. Time to ensure the bastard doesn’t get to hang anyone else’s life off his trophy belt. A coherent plan is paramount.
Fear, dark and paralysing, strikes Mark. Can he muster the strength to deal with a sadistic killer like Adam? If he doesn’t act, though, the man will kill again, and soon. Weakness isn’t an option any longer. He owes it to Abby, Michelle and Rachel. Not to mention Shaun and Matthew Morgan. As well as the little Italian girl of so long ago.
Not forgetting Mark. He’s spent ten long years in detention, lost most of his family, suffered the wrenching break-up with Natalie. He owes it to himself, too.
He needs to fathom out, and fast, what to do with the knowledge he’s gained from Google. There’s the option, of course, of an anonymous tip-off to the police. About Southampton a few weeks ago, about Plymouth last September. To Mark, though, that’s the coward’s way out. One that neatly avoids the risk of squaring up to Adam Campbell in person; of facing down his fears of the man. One not compatible with his newfound resolve to ditch being weak.
No. He needs the satisfaction of taking the bastard down himself.
Christ, he’s overlooking the obvious, though. Tick, tock, goes the clock. Will Rachel Morgan afford him the luxury of sufficient time to deal with Adam? It’s starting to seem increasingly likely. In a way, Mark’s strangely grateful Rachel’s so emotionally screwed-up. Chances are she’s hesitating over her threat to go to the police. Too ashamed, perhaps, or scared of her mother. Whatever the reason, Mark prays his reprieve will last until he’s managed to nail Adam Campbell.
An idea is germinating in his mind. Two things are in his favour.
Firstly, Adam Campbell is cocky, overly sure of himself. Mark plans to use that to his advantage. Adam won’t expect anything other than compliance from his former sidekick. Not after holding a knife to his throat earlier on. He’ll assume he’s still Buono to Mark’s Bianchi. Time for the two of them to switch roles. Mark intends to become the leader, Adam his sidekick.
Secondly, and most importantly, the man’s a psychopathic killer. He has needs Mark will never comprehend, urges he plans to tap into to prevent him killing again.
Adam Campbell’s arse will definitely land up back in jail if Mark’s successful. Permanently. He’ll only get one chance, so he needs to get this right. Adam has the advantage of size, dominance and sheer brutality. This is, after all, a man who’s drunk on his self-deluded fantasises of being a notorious serial killer.
Yes. His plan is percolating nicely.
A while later, it’s brewed to perfection.
Mark eyes his mobile. He needs to be completely ready for this. The counting starts in his head
. One, two, buckle my shoe.
Half an hour passes. It’s now approaching midnight, but Mark’s finally calm now. Time to call the bastard again.
He picks up his mobile.
26
TROPHY TIME
‘Mate.’ Amusement in Adam’s voice when he answers his mobile. ‘I mean, come on. Two phone calls in one evening? Can’t keep away, can you?’
Mark ignores the bait. ‘The reason I’m calling you - ’ He’s sickened to his core by the role he’s being forced to play. Here comes the hard part. How best to persuade Adam Campbell they’ve been cast from the same mould, even if Adam sees Mark as candyfloss to his steel. Adam’s words come back again to him:
Can’t talk about these things with anyone else.
Mark remembers his plan. Establish a sense of kinship in Adam’s mind between the two of them, that’s what he needs to do.
‘When you mentioned taking the kid’s toy, the green hippo, off her. As a souvenir.’
‘Yeah? What about it? That fucking nosey mother of mine, poking around in my room. Should have hidden it better, seeing how it was covered in the little bitch’s blood.’
Mark would give a lot to have a parent like Adam’s, snooping or not; at least both the Campbells stuck by the bastard. Now’s not the time to drink a cup of bitterness, though. He has a trap to bait.
‘Made me remember. Bagged myself a little souvenir of my own from the occasion.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘See, when I got the chance to think, in Vinney Green, that’s what made me realise we’re more similar than different.’
‘Get to the fucking point.’
‘I took a little token to remember her by.’ The lies come easily, now he’s started. ‘You didn’t see me do it, because I was behind you; you were already heading out the door to clean the knife.’
‘You serious? You’d better not be jerking me around.’
‘Straight up.’
A pause. Then, ‘Fuck me. Bit of a dark horse, ain’t you?’
‘You’re surprised.’
‘Yeah, well. You blame me? A wuss like you.’
‘Told you. We’re not so different, mate.’
‘What did you take?’
Mark tells him.
‘Fuck. Yeah, I kind of remember that. Why’d you take it, though?’
‘Same reason you bagged yourself the hippo.’
‘How come you’re telling me about this now? That’ll have been found when you got arrested.’
‘No. I’ve still got it.’ Mark manages to inject a suitable amount of false pride in his voice.
‘How the hell did you manage that? Once my mother discovered that fucking hippo and my arsehole of a father went to the police, our house got searched pretty thoroughly.’ The suspicion is back in Adam’s voice. Good job Mark’s on a roll with his story.
‘It was tiny, remember. Easy to hide inside a broken Power Rangers toy I had from years before, in an old box in my wardrobe. The police searched the house, sure, but they’d already found the knife you tossed. They weren’t looking for the murder weapon any longer so the whole thing was more or less a routine exercise.’
‘Lucky bastard.’ Adam still sounds pissed off. He won’t, not when Mark dangles the bait in front of him. ‘Having something to remember our Pretty Princess by, I mean.’
‘Yeah, I was lucky. Mum never got rid of any of my stuff, kept my room exactly the same. Got her to pack everything up for me, right before I got my new identity, became Mark Slater. Mum took it bad, the idea of not seeing me ever again.’ Adam won’t know about Joanna Barker’s rejection of her son, what with the two of them being sent to separate detention centres, so it’s a lie Mark can easily get away without arousing Adam’s suspicions.
‘Been thinking.’ Time to hook Adam on the line. ‘I mean, you should have it, really, not me. Seeing as how you killed her. Doesn’t seem fair me keeping it.’
Silence from Adam. He won’t be able to resist, thinks Mark, now I’ve offered it to him so openly; he wants his trophy too badly. Hell, the bastard’s probably getting hard just thinking about it. He adds some extra meat to the bait. Adam’s getting the scent of the lure, nice and strong. ‘It’s yours, if you want it.’
‘You serious?’
‘Yep.’ Reel him in, Mark tells himself. He’ll believe it, simply because he wants to.
‘You’ll give it to me?’ Lust oozes from Adam’s voice.
‘If you want it. Like I said, it’s more yours than mine.’
‘Yeah, I want it. Hell, that’ll be good.’
Job done, Mark tells himself. Now all he has to do is follow through.
They make arrangements. Mark tells Adam he’s free to meet any time. He’ll call in sick to work again. What with the other man not currently working, he figures he’ll want to hook up as quickly as possible to claim his trophy, and he’s not wrong. Adam tells Mark he’ll meet him tomorrow. Thursday. Which, as it’s now well past midnight, is actually today. Same time, same place.
‘Don’t be late, nancy boy.’ The line goes dead as Adam ends the call.
Mark needs to prepare. He goes into his bedroom to rummage around in his bedside cabinet. Does he still have what he’s looking for? Yes, he does. Lodged right at the back of one of the drawers is an old writing pad along with a packet of envelopes. Nobody really writes letters anymore, not the outdated paper type, but the purist in Mark refuses to commit what he has to say to the impersonal tone of an email. Besides, the old-fashioned approach seems appropriate, given how Natalie’s discovery of the letter from Linda Curtis sparked off the events of recent weeks. The important thing is to get both letters written, no matter how tough the words are to write. Mark has it all planned in his mind what he needs to say, but whether it’ll translate onto paper is hard to judge.
The letters prove even more difficult than he’s anticipated, taking him past two a.m., through several drafts, until he’s satisfied. He seals them in their envelopes, ready for delivery tomorrow.
Exhausted, Mark drops into his bed, but his mind has never been so clear, so calm. He’s being strong for the first time in his life, and it feels good. Very good. His sleep is deep, refreshing.
Thursday morning arrives. Shower, clothes, breakfast; his routine’s as precise as ever, in spite of the fact the rest of the day will be far from normal.
Time to call his boss. He registers disbelief, coupled with annoyance, in Steve Taylor’s voice as Mark pleads a continuing stomach bug, but what the hell. He’s taken precious little sick leave in four years and the odds are good he’ll soon be back behind bars anyway. Ensuring Adam Campbell enjoys the same outcome matters more than keeping Steve Taylor sweet.
First thing on Mark’s agenda concerns the letters. He intends to deliver them by hand; their content is too important to entrust to the vagaries of the postal service. Thankfully, Natalie’s an early bird where work’s concerned, often at her desk by eight a.m. No risk of running into her. Same for Rachel, for the opposite reason. She’s mentioned how she frequently sleeps in late, what with doing catering events several evenings a week. God knows the last thing he needs is an encounter with her. He drives over to Natalie’s, hastily shoving her letter through her mailbox. Rachel’s will be delivered to her flat in Exeter before his meeting with Adam in Moretonhampstead.
Next, it’s time to go shopping. Thank God for the Tesco store at Eastville; Mark’s pretty sure they’ll have what he needs. If not, he’ll drive into Cabot Circus. Whatever he buys won’t be exactly right, of course, but that’s not an issue. He’s willing to bet Adam won’t remember the precise details, not after so long.
Five minutes later, he’s in Tesco. Mark can’t locate anything suitable at first, and his chest starts its familiar dance with panic, before he reminds himself an approximation will suffice. Then he spots one of those displays that supermarkets tack on to the ends of aisles; what he’s after is bang in front of him. Near enough in size and shape, and dead right with the colour. Job done.
Back in his flat, Mark pulls a small backpack from his wardrobe, slinging the letter to Rachel and his purchase from Tesco into it. His plan simply requires him to get in his car and drive the now familiar route down to Moretonhampstead, via Exeter. Twelve o’clock will be the last time he’ll ever have to endure Adam Campbell’s shit, if all goes to plan with nailing the bastard’s arse to the wall. No need for any anonymous tip-off to the police as he’d originally considered doing; he’ll inform them later, and he won’t be nameless when he does.
He pulls on his jacket and grabs his mobile phone. Keys, backpack. Breathe. In. Out. One. Two
.
Mark’s apprehensive, despite his resolve to quit being weak. Adam Campbell makes a formidable opponent, one who still holds the power to instil terror. He’s facing the prospect of a knife through his neck should Adam suspect his motives. He forces himself to remember Abby Morgan’s bloodied body; Rachel’s scarred arms. As well as the little Italian girl. He can do this. For them, the ones he’s let down, he’ll be as strong as he needs to. It’ll only be for a short while anyway.
Several rounds of counting later, Mark’s as ready as he’ll ever be.