It’s post-rush hour on a weekday morning. Traffic is light on the M5, despite the ever-present roadworks outside Bristol. Mark makes good time. First task is to drop off Rachel’s letter at her flat in Exeter. No sign of her, thankfully, but he can’t shove the letter into the box quickly enough. Time to get to Moretonhampstead. He arrives just after eleven thirty, parking up in the same car park as where he talked with Rachel after the vigil. A ten-minute walk through town takes him as far as Michelle Morgan’s house. Mark forces himself to look this time. No more Mr Weak Guy, after all.
Everything’s more or less the same. The place still wears an uncared-for air, the paint peeling, the gutters as sagging as ever. The garden is more unkempt than he remembers. He stares at the long grass, right where he first saw Abby Morgan. She was playing on that exact spot, he recalls, absorbed with her dolls’ house, the plush green hippo beside her. He hears again the tinny voice singing
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
.
A movement at one of the upstairs windows jerks him out of the past. The drawing back of a curtain.
A woman is watching him.
Michelle Morgan. Has to be, although he only gets a glimpse of whoever it is. Doubtless wary he’s some opportunistic journalist, sniffing out a story.
Mark doesn’t believe in Fate, but eyeballing the woman for whom he’s caused such pain flags itself up to him as an omen. Whether it’s good or bad, he’s not sure, but for now he’ll take it as a sign he’s doing the right thing at last. He turns his back on the house, anxious not to arouse her suspicions further. An actual face to face confrontation with her isn’t part of his game plan. Doesn’t stop his heart from attempting to thud its way out of his chest, however. Once he reaches the sanctuary of the lane leading to the murder site, Mark counts his way back to calm.
One, two, buckle my shoe
, he chants in his head
.
A few minutes later, he’s standing where Abby Morgan bled to death. Now the shed has been demolished, it’s hard to tell. The day is cold but unusually sunny for the time of year, a sharp reminder of fourteen years ago. Adam’s late again, of course, but Mark expects that. It gives him time to breathe, to centre himself, go over in his head what he’s planned, before the other man arrives. Imperative that he doesn’t allow Adam Campbell to intimidate him, whilst preserving the illusion of being an obedient sidekick. Chances are he’ll only get one shot at this. Don’t screw up again, he tells himself.
Ten past twelve. Ah, he’s here at last. Adam Campbell is striding across the field, his bearing as cocky as ever. Despite his resolve, nerves clench Mark’s stomach. He hugs his arms across his chest in mock protection, psyching himself up for what’s to come.
‘Mate.’ Adam’s standing in front of him now, dominance oozing from the man. ‘Don’t see you for fourteen years before the vigil, now it’s twice in two days.’ He glances around. ‘Can’t get enough of this place, even though it’s all different now. Happy memories, eh?’
‘Not the part where we both got banged up.’
Adam shrugs. ‘I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m more careful these days.’
Mark’s banking on the fact Adam’s arrogance has prevented him from learning as much as he thinks. ‘You definitely think you’ll do it again?’
‘We’ve had this conversation before, mate. Don’t you fucking listen? I’ll ask you again. What makes you think I haven’t already?’
Mark’s mouth becomes desert dry. He manages to force words out of it, mindful of the need for Adam to believe he’s on board with this shit. ‘You serious?’
Adam moves up close, his fag-ash breath hitting Mark’s nostrils full on. ‘You don’t reckon I’ve got the balls for it? Is that what you think?’
Fuck. The man’s so near to Mark it’s unbearable, and what’s worse is his expression. Vicious, feral, like he’s itching for any excuse to lay hands on Mark, probably whilst holding a knife to his throat again.
Somehow, Mark manages to speak.
‘Course not, mate. Never doubted you for a minute.’ Breath held, his chest tight with terror, he watches as Adam’s expression tones down a notch, the killer countenance morphing back into mere aggression.
‘You’d better not, you fucking wuss. Or else you’ll end up with my knife blade in between your ribs.’ He steps back, enabling Mark to expel the breath clamouring for release from his lungs. ‘Course I’m serious.’
Get the bastard to brag, Mark tells himself. Best way to get him to spout out what he needs to hear.
‘Who? Where?’
Adam shrugs. ‘Couple of street girls. One in Plymouth, the other in Southampton.’ His self-satisfied ego sneaks a smirk onto his face. ‘All over the news a while back. You can’t have missed it.’
‘I remember.’ Mark does, too. Back in his flat after the break-up with Natalie, reading the report on the BBC website about the Southampton murder. Along with his Google searches of the night before, detailing the deaths of the two women. Sparked off by his suspicions, themselves fuelled by Adam’s unsubtle boasts, along with the fact he works away from time to time. Plymouth and Southampton. Not exactly difficult for Mark to connect the dots.
Two women have died at Adam Campbell’s hands. A stark lack of evidence in both cases, the Plymouth case already cold as far as the media are concerned. The Southampton one is also cooling rapidly. Nobody seems to be linking the two murders, at least not from what’s been broadcast in the news.
The respite in Mark’s chest is only temporary, apparently. He’s struggling to breathe once more. He reminds himself of the end game; Adam Campbell’s arse back behind bars.
‘You killed them both.’ Mark forces reverence into his tone. He needs to put on the performance of his life here; convince Adam the murders of the prostitutes turn him on. Seems the act’s working, from Adam’s next words.
‘Yep. Did a snuff job on both of those tarts. Strangled the first bitch. Stabbed the second one.’ That ties in with what Mark’s found out from Google.
Adam scrutinises him. ‘You like that, wussy boy? Gets your nipples hard, does it?’
Mark nods.
‘Because it sure tweaks mine. I tell you, hearing those bitches beg for mercy didn’t half get me stiff. In all the right places.’
‘You went for a different method with the second one? How come?’
‘Two reasons. One – throw the police off their game. See, those fuckers think they’re so clever, what with all this profiling shit. Figured they wouldn’t connect the two whores, not if I did them in different cities, changed the method.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Second reason – wanted to experiment. Discover what suits. So far, wet work’s definitely more my thing. Next time, I’ll give something else a go.’
‘A new place, as well?’
Smug pride etches itself on Adam’s face. ‘Told you, mate. That’s the plan from now on. Like I said, I’ll go for another street girl, some big city, doesn’t matter where. Leeds, perhaps, or Glasgow. Some clapped-out junkie who nobody gives a rat’s arse about. Find somewhere quiet to take her, so I can have myself some fun. Nice and slow, it’ll be, same as with those hookers, not quick like when I killed the brat.’
‘You made them suffer?’
‘Hell, yeah. They didn’t die easily, that’s for sure.’
Mark recoils before he manages to catch himself. The last thing he needs is for the other man to sense he’s not fully on board with what he’s saying. Adam doesn’t, though. Too wrapped up in reminiscing.
‘Fucking sweet, it was. You should have been there. Not that you’d have done anything, you pussy. You’d have just stood and watched. Like the way you did fuck all when I was having fun with our Pretty Princess. Screaming at me to stop. Leaving me to do all the dirty work. Not that I minded, as it happened. Horses for courses, eh, mate?’
‘I guess. About those two women -’
‘Took myself a little something from each one to remember them by.’ Adam closes his eyes, relish oozing from his expression. Mark’s hardly surprised, not after the pink diary, the green hippo. Adam’s lust for trophies is why they’re here today, after all. Nothing’s been mentioned in the online news reports about missing items, but there wouldn’t be. Not the kind of thing the police release to the media, and besides they might not even be aware something personal has been stolen.
‘What did you take?’
Adam shrugs. ‘Silver charm bracelet off one, a gold ankle chain from the other.’
A bracelet and an ankle chain. Items with edges and nooks, where skin cells can lodge, providing vital DNA. Adam should be easy to flag as the women’s killer, assuming the police can locate the jewellery. They will, Mark thinks. Adam will keep them close by. For him, they’re sacred relics, to be brought out often, caressed, savoured. Probably giving him a hard dick in the process.
‘We make a good team, you and me, Joshua mate.’ Adam swings out a meaty hand, slapping him on the shoulder. His expression turns feral. ‘We should join forces again sometime. If you get my meaning.’
Mark does, dark and foul though it is, and it’s an effort to force himself to nod, as well as plaster an expression of pleased surprise on his face. Make him think you’re gratified, honoured even, that he’s including you in his fucked up plans, he tells himself. Stroke the bastard’s ego. The prick either intends Mark to be a fall guy if things go belly-up, or else he reckons the pleasure he gets from killing will be heightened with an audience watching. Probably both. This is one seriously screwed-up motherfucker, and he intends to relish every moment of taking the bastard off the streets.
Adam slaps him again on the shoulder. ‘You got the goods, mate? Didn’t come all this way for sweet fuck all.’
‘Here.’ Mark delves into his backpack, bringing out the pink plastic child’s bracelet he bought that morning from Tesco. Removed from its packaging, the elastic deliberately dirtied and the beads scuffed to conceal its newness, it looks more or less like the one Abby Morgan is wearing when Adam kills her. What with Adam intent at the time on cleaning the knife, he’ll never know Mark didn’t steal the bracelet or that this isn’t the original one. Adam’s desperate for his souvenir; Mark’s baiting the trap with fresh, tempting meat.
Adam snatches the bracelet, turning it over in his fingers, his expression gratified, like a kid given cake. The bastard’s probably halfway to a hard-on, thinks Mark, although fuck him if he’s going to glance down to check. He doesn’t reckon he can stand much more of this crap; he needs to get away from the sick bastard in front of him, from the pretence he gets off on murder by proxy, before Adam clocks his bluff.
Too late. Adam shoves the bracelet in his pocket. ‘Sweet. Now I’ve got trophies from all three.’ He slaps Mark hard on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s find a pub and get some beers down our necks.’
27
WHAT YOU DESERVE
By the time Mark’s back at his flat in Bristol, Adam Campbell’s warped personality clings to him like a bad stink. He strips off all his clothes and stands under the hottest shower he can bear, scrubbing off the bastard’s vileness, swilling away the memory of having to pretend to be as twisted as the other man is. Being forced to sit with him in a pub, drinking alongside him, as though he’s the mate Adam always refers to him as, makes Mark want to puke. He starts to count, working his way up through the numbers, and gradually the tightness in his chest eases. Once he’s out of the shower and into clean jeans and T-shirt, he’s back on track with his staying strong resolve. Besides, he reminds himself, with any luck he’ll never need to see the fucker ever again, and all that remains is to execute the last part of his plan.
Mark heads back into his bedroom, opening his laptop. He’s aware it’s displacement activity, postponing the inevitable. What he should be doing is phoning Tony Jackson. As soon as he does, though, his freedom will end. Mark’s clinging to his last moments of liberty, procrastinating on his laptop. Eventually he picks up his mobile.
The one recording Adam’s confession to the murders of the two prostitutes. After all, Adam Campbell is a man convinced of Mark’s – no, Joshua Barker’s – unswerving loyalty to him. A killer so intent on bagging himself his trophy he never sniffs out his sidekick’s betrayal. Duplicity that starts when Mark’s fingers initiate the sound clip facility on his mobile, concealed in his pocket.
Shit. His call to Tony Jackson goes straight through to voicemail. Mark leaves a message.
‘Call me. It’s urgent.’
Damn. So much for his hopes of ratting Adam out immediately. Tony Jackson is the only one Mark intends to speak to, at least at first, given his distrust of the police. The obsessive side of him chafes at the delay, but what the hell. They’re due to meet tomorrow for their monthly meeting anyway.
Next on the agenda is Natalie. OK, so he’s already written to her, but she’s made it very clear she wants nothing more to do with him. His concern is she’ll tear his letter up unread. He composes a text.
‘Nat. Read my letter. Stuff you need to know. Sorry about everything. Hope you now understand
.
’ Whether she ever will is another matter, and if he’s to go back to prison perhaps it’s a moot point, but Mark loathes the thought of her believing him an Adam Campbell clone. Moreover, as he’s already informed her, she needs to know certain things.
I’ve got something else to tell you. It’s important. About how we met.
Mission accomplished, via the letter.
Mark retreats to his sofa. He lies down, pillowing his head on his hands, mulling over the afternoon’s events. Weird, sure; terrifying too, but definitely a success. With any luck, today is Adam Campbell’s last day of freedom. His sorry arse will soon be back in custody, with a life sentence without parole for murder heading his way. Mark will take care of the details when he eventually speaks with Tony Jackson. Christ, the man has one hell of a shock about to land on his plate. More than one, actually. First, Mark’s parole violations. Second, the information about the killing of the two prostitutes by Adam Campbell. If that doesn’t shatter the man’s sang-froid, nothing will.