The Advent Killer (18 page)

He stared at the kitchen door.

Without his consent, his fingers reached up and found the latch.

His mouth was dry, and he flinched as the stiff mechanism scraped upwards. The sound would have alerted anyone on the other side, but he kept pushing until the latch snapped open.

There was rarely any pattern to his mother’s moods, but if she was in the kitchen, one look would tell him what sort of reaction to expect. This was no longer about getting a drink; he was worried about her.

Surely she’d understand that.

He swallowed and pushed, scanning the room as the door creaked open, gradually revealing the farm kitchen. The light wasn’t on, but the moonlight filtering through the large window provided light for him to see by. The door swept open revealing the sideboard, then the chairs and table. Still no sign of his mother. Then the back door, cupboards and hob. The sink came into view, and above it the high shelves for plates and cups. Still nothing.

Confused, he listened hard, but the noise of the hinges covered any other sound. He stepped, heart pounding, into the room.

A soft thump broke the silence, and he spun to see that the door had stopped against something.

Then somebody whispered his name.

He reached out and swung the door back the way it had come.

His mother lay slumped in the alcove behind the door, her long
red hair pulled back in a ponytail. At first she seemed fine, but as he got used to the shadows he noticed that her make-up had run, and her eyes were glazed. And when she looked up at him, her eyes rolled back in her head. He counted three bottles on the floor. All were empty; one smashed. Glass shards littered the tiles.

She repeated his name, as if trying to wake him. She sounded more tired than angry, yet he couldn’t respond.

He’d seen her sleep on or against every piece of furniture in the house, but now there was something different in the set of her limbs, the angle of her head.

Then he saw the bruising and the deep, red furrows in her upper arms.

Gouges grouped in sets of four. Bleeding.

‘Please … baby,’ she whispered. ‘Come here.’

His legs felt weak as he stepped forwards, and his cheeks were suddenly wet. But as she reached out to him, he caught sight of the jagged slits in her wrist. Blood ran from the torn skin, and he saw pieces of flesh sticking out of the wounds.

He was barely aware of his attempt to scream as he backed away. His hand found the bench, but it served little purpose as he slid down the cupboard door and curled into a ball.

Then he saw the blood-soaked patch on her skirt under her other arm, and the kitchen knife beside her on the floor. He stared at her through the tears, his breathing rapid and uneven.

He sat, trembling, watching his mother. Her head had dropped back against the wall, but she was still breathing.

He forced out the words. ‘Mum … what have you done?’

For a second there was no reaction, but then her head tipped towards him.

‘Come … here.’

This time it wasn’t a request.

He stood slowly. ‘Why did you … cut yourself?’

Her tone hardened, I didn’t.’

This reaction seemed to cause her pain, and she shut her eyes tight. But when she opened them again, her expression was softer.

‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she slurred. ‘Didn’t mean to up–… set … I promise, not angry … with you.’

He crouched beside her, bringing their faces level.

‘I’m here,’ he whispered.

‘This is … it, darling.’ Her voice wavered. ‘… you need to listen … carefully … important.’

Her hand moved, knocking into his knee. She slid it behind his back, leaving bloody smears on his T-shirt. He wanted to run.

‘Sorry for … hurting you, baby. Don’t know what I’m … doing, sometimes.’

‘It’s OK. You’ll be all right.’

‘Don’t … think so.’ She made a sound almost like laughter, which turned into a wheezing cough.

‘I’m scared, Mum. Why did you do this?’

‘I told you, darling … I … didn’t. Your … father … did it.’

‘What?’

‘Listen, baby … in a minute, I want you to … call the police. Tell them … your father did this to me, and then … left. Tell them—’

‘
Dad
did this to you?’

‘He did … he did it … he’s done it, before. Lots of … but … never this bad.’

‘Why?’

‘Look … tell them, he’s done it … before. They might, not …
believe you, but that’s … what he wants. Promise … you believe me, baby … please?’

‘OK.’

Her arm dropped from his back. He reached down and held her hand.

‘They might … try to tell you, I did this.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘Your father … did a good job. But you’ll always remember … it was … him, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He held her hand tighter as tears ran down his face. ‘I’ll remember.’

His mother’s breathing had slowed, but she seemed calmer. He looked around the kitchen for anything he could use as bandages, but suddenly he realized his father might still be in the house, and he picked up the knife instead. He’d defend them both if he had to.

‘Mum?’ He touched her shoulder. ‘What if Dad comes back?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Her eyes didn’t open this time. ‘He’s … long gone. Just, call … police. They’ll put him in … jail … if he comes back.’ Her head dropped back against the wall, and she made a low groaning noise.

He waited, watching her face in the half-light. She had stopped breathing.

And beyond them, out in the hall, a slow scraping sound preceded a small thunk, as the grandfather clock struck one.

‘Mum?’ He pulled at her, breathing in bursts. ‘
Mum?
’

But she didn’t respond.

He let go of her hand and ran to the phone. He dialled 999 and told the controller their address and what had happened.

Then he ran outside and rode his bike to the deserted watermill where he sometimes went to play. He hid the knife in an old chest he
had buried in nearby woods, so he could use it to scare his father away should he ever return. Then he went back to the house to wait with his mother until the ambulance arrived.

It was only then that he noticed the pain from the glass shards lodged in the soles of his feet.

The ringing sound was distant at first, but by its fourth repetition the noise was cacophonous, dragging Hawkins unwillingly into the beginning of another day.

She didn’t bother moving; wouldn’t make it out of bed and downstairs before the answer machine kicked in, anyway. If it was important they’d try her mobile, which was on the bedside table. Within reach.

The noise stopped and she heard the muffled sound of a message being left, although she couldn’t tell who it was. She rolled over and picked up her mobile, expecting it to ring.

Sunlight probed through the thin curtains as Hawkins rubbed her eyes, wondering whether remembering to use the blackout blind would have improved the quality of her sleep.

She felt like shit.

Thirty seconds of silence later she managed to relax, but only until she read the display on her alarm clock.

She groaned and lifted her feet.

Hawkins heaved herself upright and sat there, rebooting. Without permission, her mind began rattling through the day’s job list, one piling in on top of the next and then round again, corrupted by a mixture of anxieties and concerns.
Tumble-drying
she called it.

She shook her head and stood; walked across the landing to the bathroom. She stared at her face in the mirror. If mornings felt like this at thirty-five, it was amazing anyone bothered to live into old age. The stress of the Nemesis case was partly responsible, of course, and yesterday’s encounter hadn’t helped.

Tara Connor had been courteous and controlled throughout her brief visit, but it was obvious the woman was in shock. The delay in her reactions, and the Christmas presents still piled under the tree in the Connors’ lounge had been testament to that. Tara had offered tea, which Hawkins had accepted only in order to break the vacant stare Eddie’s widow had fixed on the space above her head. They had waited in the front room, surrounded by a sea of photos, each showing two beaming faces. Moments later, her host had drifted back into the front room carrying a single mug of tea, made with stone-cold water.

Hawkins had left feeling more awkward than when she’d arrived; almost wishing she
had
been blamed. Even some yelling would have helped. Somehow, promises of justice being done seemed so empty in response to stoicism.

After that, she had needed some sort of release, although she hadn’t realized it at the time. But she found it by unloading on Mike.

During the journey home, Hawkins had blurted out all of her concerns regarding her shortcomings as DCI. Had she lost control of the investigation; pushed too hard for a promotion she didn’t deserve?

Was she responsible for Eddie’s death?

Mike had listened all the way back to Hawkins’ house,
and for a further fifteen minutes in the car outside, before he insisted on making her dinner. He had prepared spaghetti Bolognese while she talked at him from the corner of the kitchen, and for another half an hour as she’d shifted pasta around her plate, before he attempted to respond.

When he had talked, however, Maguire had made a pretty impressive job of giving Hawkins back a degree of self-confidence.

Unfortunately, whether he had known the effect his words would have or not, Mike was also a gentleman. Just when Hawkins was ready to drag him off to bed, he had made a gracious excuse and left her alone to get some sleep.

She pulled at the bags under her eyes, unconvinced that she had actually benefited.

Hawkins showered and dressed. She flicked on the TV while she made some toast, catching the end of a report about the case.

‘The Met commissioner says the investigation into the murder of thirty-one year-old Summer Easton is his top priority. But he’ll be very much aware that the countdown to the next attack, due on New Year’s Day, is underway. So for now at least, the Advent Killer case continues. Back to you, Sophie.’

Hawkins switched off the television and dumped the remnants of her breakfast in the bin.

She walked into the hall and picked up her bag. As she straightened, she caught a glimpse of the new message light flashing on her answer machine, and remembered the call from earlier. She looked at her watch. Her train wasn’t due for a while yet.

She pressed the playback button, noticing there were two messages she hadn’t listened to.

The machine started reeling off yesterday’s date and the time the first message was left. Hawkins made use of the wasted seconds by running her hand along the top of the hall mirror. She tutted – the whole place needed a good clean.

At last the message kicked in.

‘
Antonia, it’s your mother. Your father and I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. It was nice to see you on Sunday, though it would have been nice if you’d stayed for dinner. We know work runs you ragged. Anyway, I hope you haven’t forgotten your dad’s birthday. We’re having a get-together three weeks from Saturday, so I’ll cross my fingers and put you down as a maybe
.’

Hawkins wiped the message, making a mental note to call back on the way to work. But her eyes locked on to the machine as the second message began. There was no mistaking that voice.

Paul’s tone was more positive than she’d heard it in months.

‘Hi, Ant, it’s me, pick up if you’re there … OK, I guess not. Look, I wanted to apologize for not being around recently, and for the way I acted after, well, you know. I just needed time to get everything straight in my head. But I’ve done that now, really, and I wanted to clear the air. It’s high time I picked my stuff up, too. Don’t want you charging me for storage, ay? OK, call me when you get this. Bye.’

The machine beeped and said there were no more messages, but Hawkins remained rooted. Was this some sort
of ploy, a change of tactics now she’d lost patience with his attention seeking?

She played the message again, listening for inflections – any indication that Paul’s apparent mood wasn’t genuine. There were none.

She glanced at the nearest box. If he was going to collect them, she’d have to put back his
Star Trek
DVDs. And the cycling helmet.

She stood there, trying to make sense of the situation. Then another glance at her watch convinced her she’d have to think about it on the way to work.

Hawkins paused at the top of the west stairwell in Becke House.

Directly ahead were the double doors of the serious incident suite; its purpose to house, in one place, officers drafted in from all over the country to work on major investigations like Operation Charter.

Currently, an average day would find nearly a hundred officers in the room, split into four teams of twenty-five, comprising every rank from detective inspectors down to typists. Hawkins’ destination, the main operations room, lay opposite this entrance, beyond the open-plan desk area.

The thirty-yard walk was something she’d been so proud of five months ago when she’d first made DCI. She used to feel like the guest of honour at some big award ceremony whenever she strode along the central walkway. Recently, though, it felt more like a walk of shame. Every day, the distance stretched as she sped through, expecting the arrival of rotten fruit hurled by once loyal subordinates.

The investigation surrounding Connor’s death, and especially her prospective culpability for it, was supposed to be a secret. Unfortunately, in the real world, there was rarely such a thing, and Hawkins had noticed changes in her colleagues as the rumours got around. They weren’t
obvious, but they were there. Some people overdid courtesy or politeness, while others would become suddenly distracted in her presence, thereby avoiding the need to acknowledge her.

All of this lay beyond the double doors. But while opaque glass panels prevented her from being seen by those in the room, they also gave no indication of how busy the place would be.

She took a deep breath and smoothed her jacket. Time to go.

Hawkins broke cover, pushing open the door, thankful that she’d arrived fifteen minutes before most officers rolled in. The office was only sparsely populated, with just a few analysts and indexers dotted around. And most of them appeared too preoccupied with whatever they were catching up on to notice her arrival.

She bowled along, bidding as nonchalant a greeting as she could manage to anyone crossing her path. She reached the operations room and breathed again as she pushed down the handle. She entered, scanning the room for Mike.

To her left, a large map of London dominated a whiteboard, stickers marking the locations of major incidents in the Nemesis case, thick annotation lines leading out to photos of the victims, crime scenes and post-mortem reports.

At first Hawkins thought the room was deserted, but then she noticed her trainee detective constable at his workstation.

Barclay sat hunched forwards over his desk, staring blankly at the tabletop. His diminutive frame was lost
inside his ill-fitting black suit, and his mousy hair obviously hadn’t been brushed.

She’d have to talk to him. They were all feeling the pressure of this case, but they’d never catch Nemesis if the team fell apart now.

‘Morning.’ She moved towards him. ‘All alone?’

Barclay nodded without making eye contact. She noticed his eyes were red, although that wasn’t surprising given recent events. Connor’s death had been a blow for everyone, but he and Barclay had become friends immediately.

‘So how’s it going?’ She arrived at his desk. ‘Any leads … John?’

Barclay flinched, as if he’d just woken up, and looked at her. Neither of them spoke, until he broke eye contact and sagged, as if somebody was letting the air out of him.

‘Look,’ Hawkins began, ‘I know you and Eddie were … friends.’ She trailed off, wishing she’d considered the end of the sentence before launching in like an idiot.

A noise from behind her dragged Hawkins’ attention away. She glanced around to see Amala Yasir entering the room.

‘Ah, chief, I’m glad you’re here.’ Amala came towards them as Hawkins looked back at Barclay, whose gaze had returned to the middle distance. ‘Not interrupting, am I?’

‘No.’ Hawkins turned to face her. ‘What’s up?’

As she spoke, she heard Barclay push back his chair, and he drifted past them, out of the office.

‘Is he OK?’ Yasir asked, as the door closed.

Yasir’s demeanour, Hawkins was reassured to notice,
was as bulletproof as her appearance: both were sharp as ever, despite the recent death of their colleague.

‘He’s just feeling the pressure, I guess. Like the rest of us.’

‘I understand, ma’am, though I always think you deal with everything so well. There aren’t enough strong women in positions of responsibility like yours. How do you stay so focused?’

‘Amala.’ Hawkins resisted shaking the sergeant, not wanting to damage the faith this young woman obviously had in her, ‘Everybody feels pressure. I
definitely
feel pressure. And if you end up like me, honestly, you’d be taking a step backwards.’

‘But,’ said Yasir, looking confused, ‘how could I …? You’re so—’

‘Enough.’ Hawkins held up her hands. ‘We’ll have to do this another day. What did you want?’

‘Of course.’ Yasir’s professionalism returned as if someone had switched her back on at the mains. ‘I have good news. Frank said you wanted us to look into possible connections between the first two victims and spiritualism. Well, it didn’t take long for us to find one. It turns out that Tess Underwood’s cousin was what they call a “spiritual healer”. She claims to use spells and charms to cure people’s ailments.’

Hawkins perked up. ‘What about Glenis?’

‘Tenuous,’ Yasir admitted, ‘but according to some of her former AA acquaintances, Mrs Ward placed a huge importance on her daily horoscope.’

Hawkins felt her brow contract.

Yasir must have seen it, because she rushed to qualify: ‘They say Glenis lived by the things. Wouldn’t make a choice without reading at least two different astrologers.’

It was enough.

‘Great work.’ Hawkins smiled. ‘Let’s get after this. Speak to Frank. Put a few teams together and talk to every London-based spiritualist you can find. Start with Faith Easton – see if she knows any of Summer’s mentors or colleagues. Then move onto celebrities and advertised businesses. It’s probably an occupational hazard for these people, but ask about former clients they’d describe as notably unusual. Or threatening. Keep me informed, OK?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Yasir moved to leave.

‘Amala?’ Hawkins waited until she turned back. ‘this needs to get done fast. We’re running out of time.’