The thing is, Natalie, I don’t want to be weak anymore. Being a coward when I should have shown some balls instead has brought me nothing but grief in my life. I’ve made the decision to change, do the right thing in future, no matter how hard it is.
The irony is, I’ve managed at last to get over my guilt about Abby Morgan’s death. It’s taken me fourteen years, but I now accept I wasn’t to blame. I was eleven years old, still grieving over my father’s death, friendless, with a cold, emotionally abusive mother. A ripe target to be bullied by Adam Campbell. I stood up to him as best I could, though. Something for which I’ve never given myself credit before now. I screamed at him to stop hurting the child, but he had a knife. He threatened to kill me if I implicated him. When the police questioned me, I told them I’d helped kill Abby Morgan. Given how screwed-up I was back then, they were almost as terrifying as Adam Campbell. I ended up confessing to a crime I didn’t commit. Like I said, it’s ironic. I’ve finally forgiven myself for what happened, accepted I do have a right to love and be loved, right at the point I’m heading back to prison.
I mentioned I have two things to tell you, Nat. The second one will bring back painful memories for you, because it concerns the abuse you suffered when you were eleven.
Without you mentioning anything about your attacker’s age, I already knew you’d been hurt by a boy rather than a man. How? Because Adam Campbell is the one who assaulted you that day, Nat. You told me how your attacker smelled bad. I’m guessing you meant cigarette smoke. Adam started on the fags when he was ten. Always reeked of his dad’s Marlboros. He found you whilst on a trip to Bristol with his parents to visit one of his uncles. He got bored, went off exploring and that’s when he attacked you. Nothing you could have done would have stopped him. He’s too big, too strong. You have no reason to blame yourself.
You’ll be wondering how I found all this out. A long time ago, I held your diary in my hands. The pink, flowery one, with your name and address written at the front. The bastard likes to take trophies from his victims, Nat. He bragged about what he’d done, although he didn’t mention the details. You became an obsession with me throughout the years, all the time I served in detention. I promised myself I’d find you one day, reassure myself you were all right, that Adam Campbell hadn’t hurt another child the way he did Abby Morgan.
That’s what I meant before, when I tried to tell you I’d not been honest about how we met. Before that day, I already knew your original name, Natalia Abruzzo, written in the front of your diary. To me, it seemed so unusual, so pretty. One I always remembered, along with your address. When I was released from prison, I fully intended to look you up. Without revealing who I was, of course. I found it harder than I’d anticipated, though, to adjust to life on the outside and the years slipped by whilst I got a job and sorted myself out. The urge to find you never left me, though, and a few months ago, I decided to act on it at last.
I ended up going to your mother’s house in Copthorne Close. I didn’t dare ring the bell. I spoke with one of the neighbours, pretending I wasn’t sure of the exact house where the Abruzzos lived. Found out your mother was still at the same address, an agoraphobic. The neighbour said your mother hadn’t used her married name since the divorce. Told me the split had been bitter, how Callie Abruzzo wanted no reminders of her Italian husband. How she switched both of you back to her maiden name of Richards. Along with changing you from Natalia to Natalie. How you’d moved out from home a few years before, but visited your mother every Sunday for lunch.
I needed more, Nat. However relieved I was that Adam Campbell hadn’t killed you, I had to see you in person to reassure myself. All part of being an obsessive-compulsive, I suppose. I waited for you near your mother’s house one Sunday, sitting in the car until you arrived. You thought I was some random stranger asking for directions, didn’t you? We got chatting and my gut instincts told me we’d be good together. When you mentioned the deli you use for lunch, I went there every day, hoping to see you again.
Then you told me about the abuse. Your fears about your attacker finding you again one day, even though you realise it’s unlikely. The thing is, our deepest emotions are never logical, Nat. I’m hoping what I tell you next will reassure you Adam Campbell will never hurt you or anyone else in the future. With any luck, he’ll soon be arrested for murder. He’s killed two women since his release. The prostitutes who were murdered in Southampton and Plymouth. He’s boasted to me about wanting to kill more street girls. By the time you read this, I’ll have met him again, with the aim of recording him on my mobile as he admits to the murders of the prostitutes. He won’t be able to resist bragging to me about their deaths, seeing how I’ve convinced him he can trust me. He’s also taken trophies from his latest victims, which the police should find. With all that, they should have enough proof to put him away for good.
What I’ve said in this letter must come as a huge shock to you. All I can say is - forgive me, Natalie. Try to understand the reasons I’ve failed you so badly. I’ve done what I can, though, to ensure Adam Campbell never kills again.
Take care of yourself
Yours, Mark
Natalie’s mind is blank, unable to process what she’s read. Everything’s a mess in her head as her preconceptions shatter one by one. In her brain, Mark’s no longer a vicious child killer. Instead, he’s transformed once more into a helpless bystander in a toddler’s death, nearly as much a victim of Adam Campbell as Abby Morgan is. A man who’s finally facing up to his nemesis.
She attempts to digest what she’s read in the letter. Adam Campbell, the notorious child killer, is the bastard who lay on top of her that day in the copse. The memories flood back. His fingers probing and tearing, making her bleed. The stink of cigarette smoke hanging around him. The turd inches from her nose. The damp earth pressing against her body.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’ His taunt, spoken in a pubescent treble, making her aware her attacker’s about the same age she is, although his size and strength belie his years. Something impossible to admit to Mark when she tells him about the assault; bad enough to be overpowered by an adult, but another pre-teen? Shameful. Now, however, her self-recrimination begins to fade, given her newfound awareness of who hurt her that day. No ordinary boy, but one hiding the makings of a vicious killer within him.
The attack pre-dates Callie and Stefano Abruzzo’s divorce. At the time, she’s still Natalia Abruzzo. Half Sicilian, brought up bilingual, her diary written solely in Italian. Forbidden by Callie Richards after her parents’ divorce to speak, read or listen to the language. She recalls how, bloodied and shaking in her bedroom after the attack, she thinks she must have left her diary behind. A casualty of her desperate scramble to shove all her belongings back into her bag and get the hell out of the copse. Now she knows the diary became the trophy of a vile killer.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’ The memory slaps Natalie in the face as she recalls Adam Campbell’s breath against her ear. She’s possibly his first victim, the one with whom he began honing his craft, leading him from finger rape to the murder of Abby Morgan. Dear God. Not to mention the fact he’s killed two women since his release. Boasted about killing more. The memory of biscuits and Crimewatch with Callie Richards floods back to Natalie. Her mother’s caustic comments about men who use and kill prostitutes. The woman in the grainy CCTV footage of the Southampton red light district, walking to her death in her fake fur jacket.
Natalie’s legs tremble beneath her, threatening collapse, forcing her to crumple down on her sofa. Prior to opening his letter, she’s wondered what other shocks Mark might be keeping in store for her. He’s certainly hit her with more information than she can handle right now. Thing is, he’s also given her the assurance she’ll be safe from her abuser forever. Along with reiterating his innocence where Abby Morgan’s murder is concerned.
Natalie no longer doubts Mark Slater. His letter rings true. This man’s no twisted child killer, no Adam Campbell clone. Instead, in her brain he’s morphed, for the final time, into a decent guy who’s had a shit life so far. Undeserving of the crap she’s shovelled his way.
Oh,
fuck
. Shaun Morgan may be at Mark’s place right now, beating him up, hurting him, and it’s all her fault. Natalie grabs her mobile, stabbing at the screen, desperate to call off the hellhound of vengeance she’s unleashed.
‘Pick up, for fuck’s sake,’ she hisses into the phone, but Shaun Morgan doesn’t respond. Straight to voicemail. She leaves a message, the words almost incomprehensible in her desperation to head off whatever retaliation he’s planning. Natalie tries Mark’s number next. One opportunity is all she needs to warn him, make sure he’s safe. Something’s wrong, though. No ringing tone; for some reason, the call’s not being connected. Mark’s mobile seems as dead as she fears he may be, and it’s all her fault. She should have trusted him; instead, she’s been a total bitch. Sobs of self-recrimination choke her throat.
The tears stop abruptly as she pulls herself together.
Think, Natalie, think.
Shaun’s phone being off doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People don’t always keep their mobiles on. Mark, though – he’s a different animal, preferring to leave his switched on all the time. Part of his obsessive nature, she guesses. The fact her call can’t even be connected concerns Natalie. If his mobile’s not working, chances are it’s been a casualty of Shaun beating the shit, or even the life, out of Mark.
Natalie briefly contemplates calling 999, or Tony Jackson – she has his number, after all – but rejects both ideas. What the hell can she say? That she deliberately leaked Mark’s address to someone keen to wreak vigilante action on him? How she’s sorry, concerned she can’t reach him, but all she has to go on is the fact his mobile’s not working?
Yep, that’s guaranteed to end badly. And result in a possibly fatal delay for Mark.
Only one thing for it. Natalie grabs her jacket and keys. If she drives fast, if not much traffic’s clogging the roads, she’ll be at Mark’s flat in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Her hands fumble with everything she touches. Her handbag, her keys, the door latch. Then, once in her car, the ignition, the gearstick. She stalls as she attempts to pull away from the curb. Furious, cursing, she restarts the engine. The voice in her head berates her.
Drive, for God’s sake; just get to him before Shaun Morgan does
.
The traffic-free roads she’s praying for don’t materialise. Twenty minutes of slow drivers, red lights and roadworks grind against her nerves before she pulls up outside Mark’s building.
The light is on in his flat, thank God. Natalie runs from her car, not bothering to switch off the engine. She punches the entry code into the security console, yanking open the door into the communal hallway. Once inside, noises, loud but indefinable ones, reach her from Mark’s flat. Sounds like those of furniture being overturned.
Oh, dear God. Please let him be all right
.
For the third time in recent weeks, she takes his key from under the potted plant.
Then she hears another sound, an unmistakable one this time. A fist hitting into flesh, pulverising muscle and bone. Her fingers still shaking, she pounds her hand against Mark’s door, shouting his name, as she pushes his key into the lock.
30
NO PROMISES
Brightness stabs Mark’s eyes as he peels them open, causing the ache in his face to flare into life. He slams his eyelids shut. He becomes aware he’s lying down, in bed, covered by a thin blanket. He prises his eyes open again, slowly this time.
Fluorescent lights overhead. White walls. Thick swing doors with glass panels. A plastic bag, half-full of a clear liquid, attached to a pole, draining into his arm. Noise, bustle, sounds. A cough to his left. Mark turns his head towards the cougher, wincing as he does so. Another drip bag, another pole. A bed, identical to the one Mark’s in, its occupant an elderly man hacking into his hands.
Hospital. How he got here, though, he’s unable to fathom. Memories of the attack float back to him, despite the fog in his head. Shaun’s knuckles and boots, exacting revenge. Fists and feet on a mission to kill. Mark’s not dead, though, although his nose feels fairly moribund. Nasal breathing is certainly difficult. He remembers the crunching sound as Shaun Morgan’s fist shatters the bone. His last recollection is of knuckles and feet slamming into him, searching out his vulnerable points, reducing him to a grovelling mass of sheer agony. Unable to scream for help. He recalls Shaun’s boot cracking down on his mobile. No chance of him phoning 999, injured jaw or not. So how the fuck did he get here?
Right now, he’s incapable of caring. He appears safe from Shaun Morgan’s fists and feet, and as comfortable as it’s possible to be given the beating he’s received. Moreover, he’s getting pain relief via the tube in his arm. Enough reassurance for now. Mark drifts towards a light doze, allowing his battered body to rest. A short while later, something far more urgent than discovering how he got here slams into his brain, jolting him fully awake.
The murders of the two prostitutes. Shit. He needs to talk to Tony Jackson, and fast. Adam Campbell might be stalking his next prey whilst Mark lies in bed, useless, and his plan for the bastard doesn’t allow for such eventualities. He opens his mouth to yell for someone’s attention and manages about a centimetre’s gap before the ache in his face flares into something much worse. Instead of a shout, what emerges is a strangled gasp of pain. Shit. He’d forgotten his injured jaw. He slumps back, defeated. It’s a hospital, he tells himself. A nurse, a doctor, someone, anyone, will come through those swing doors and he’ll get them to contact Tony Jackson on his behalf. Soon, please God. No time to waste where Adam Campbell’s concerned.