Authors: A.J. Waines
That evening, I was all ready to watch
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
with a dish of Twiglets on my left and a glass of Merlot on my right, when the phone rang. Blasted thing. I lifted the phone from the cradle and made my hello as polite as possible.
‘10.48 on November 9
th
,’ said a male voice.
‘Hello? Sorry? Who is this?’ The voice was unclear, distorted.
‘10.48 on November 9
th
.’
A banging started in my chest like a steel demolition ball.
‘Is this another murder?’ I said. ‘Where is it? Which bridge?’
The man repeated the same sentence in exactly the same tone, as if it was on a tape-loop. I ran over to my wall calendar. Today was November 8
th
, so the date the voice was referring to was tomorrow.
‘Please tell me. Please…’ I sank to the floor, clutching the phone like it was the most precious thing I’d ever held. ‘Don’t go…’
There was nothing coming back to me except a faint roaring in the background. Interference? Traffic?
‘Hello?’ I said again, my voice struggling to get past the lump of concrete in my throat.
‘10.48 on November 9
th
.’
That was it. The phone went dead. I laid on the carpet in the foetal position, holding the receiver to my chest. My sleeve was wet and it took me a while to realise I was crying. I was paralysed with fear and indecision. Then the phone rang again and I thought I might have a second chance.
‘Detective Inspector McKinery here, Ms Grey. We heard the call come through. Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I lied, getting up from the floor.
‘We’ve got it on tape and we’re tracing the call. We’re getting an officer over to you now. Did you recognise the voice at all?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘The officer will bring over a recording of it, so you can listen to it again,’ he said. Lucky me, I thought. ‘DS Broxted will be with you shortly.’
Why couldn’t it be DCI Madison, the terrified five-year-old in me wanted to ask, but the DI had rung off.
By the time the doorbell rang, my head was already spinning with ideas. I’d switched on my laptop, but didn’t know where to start. If this was a clue to another bridge it was damned obscure.
DS Broxted came in holding out a USB stick, as if he was offering me a cigarette. I slotted it into my laptop and we heard the recording of the phone call. We both agreed that the man’s voice was muffled as though he’d held a cloth over the mouthpiece. The voice was stilted like he was reading it.
‘We’re getting straight on to the bridge expert,’ said the DS, tucking the tail-end of his tie into his waistband for the third time. It was too short and it wasn’t going to stay put, but he kept trying anyway.
‘There’s not much to go on, though, is there?’ I said. ‘It’s the first time we’ve had a date, but there’s no bridge, no location.’
‘I’m taking over outside for the night shift, by the way. In the brown Volvo. Just in case.’
Just in case it’s
me
, you mean, I wanted to say.
Me
, who is going to come to a nasty end at 10.48 tomorrow morning. I had a sudden thought.
‘Is it 10.48 in the morning or evening?’ I said, staring at DS Broxted. After all, he was trained in these things and should know. He opened his hands and flapped them about. I think he was trying to indicate he didn’t have a clue. He used the loo, then left to spend a cold night with a fellow officer outside on the street. I didn’t even contemplate inviting them to stay in the flat. I had things I needed to do.
First off, I rang Cheryl.
‘I know it’s late, but I’ve got something really important to ask you.’
‘Juliet?’ she said. I hadn’t bothered to introduce myself.
‘Can you come over. I live in Fulham. I’ll pay for a taxi. Someone’s life is in danger.’
‘It’s nearly 9pm.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.’
I think she could tell by the resolve in my voice that I wasn’t messing around.
‘Give me the address.’
While I waited for her, I paced up and down the sitting room trying to get inside the killer’s head. The previous communications I’d had from him had all given some clue as to where the murders were to take place. The text telling me to go to Hammersmith Bridge, the text with the measurements pointing to Richmond Bridge and the email with the old etching of Battersea Bridge. They were all bridges. Was this clue referring to another bridge? Or was it a departure from the other messages? Was he telling us
when
, instead of where? And if so, what use was that to anybody? We didn’t even know if he meant morning or evening. I was starting to wear a groove into the carpet, when the doorbell rang.
Cheryl was standing beside DS Broxted. The look on her face would make anyone think she’d been arrested.
‘This lady said you’d phoned to see her.’
‘Yes, it’s fine.’ I gave a blanket ‘sorry’ to both parties and hustled Cheryl inside.
‘This really does look serious,’ she said.
I sat her down and offered her coffee. She asked for a herbal tea instead. I gave her an update on Operation Chicane and played her the recording DS Broxted had left with me. She put her hands together in her lap as if she was going to pray.
‘Play it again,’ she said. ‘I need a candle.’
‘No problem.’
I stood a large white candle on the coffee table in front of us, lit it, then turned off the light.
‘Let me hold your hand,’ she said.
Hers was cold, but firm. We sat in silence for a minute or so, then Cheryl started to rock slowly backwards and forwards. Her eyes began to flutter and then her head dropped down. At this stage I didn’t care if she started wailing or throwing herself around. I just wanted to get information from her - anything - that might give the police a fighting chance of getting to the murder victim before the killer did, this time.
‘I’m getting water,’ she said. ‘It’s cold.’
She started a low hum that carried on as she breathed in and out. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to join in. Instead, I decided to try to focus on the message, myself. Maybe, if I stopped panicking for a moment, something might strike me, too. I closed my eyes and ignoring Cheryl’s hum, I tried to see the words of the message printed in the flickering black void behind my eyes.
10.48 on November 9
th
.
I repeated the process, breathing deeper, trying to open up some space inside my head.
I was getting nothing at all. Cheryl was still in her trance and I started to find the humming oddly soothing. After a few more minutes, the sound came to an abrupt stop.
‘I need a glass of water,’ she said.
I put the light back on and went to the kitchen, picking up a notebook on the way back.
‘What can you tell me?’ I said, my pen poised over the blank page.
‘It’s definitely tomorrow,’ she said. ‘In the morning.’ She put up her hand. ‘There’s something about royalty. Kings and queens.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m getting something to do with Queen Victoria, but it’s not directly connected with her. She’s not it.’
‘What else?’
Cheryl let out a heavy sigh. ‘I think that’s all I’m going to get this evening. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m better in the mornings.’
My hands were making fists. ‘But tomorrow morning is
the time
. That’s it. We’ve only got until then.’
‘Juliet. The sense I get is that the time, 10.48 in the morning, is definitely correct. But it’s correct as a
clue
- it’s not the time something bad is going to happen.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘As sure as I can be. The death won’t happen at that time in the morning, but it will happen tomorrow, I’m afraid…later tomorrow, after dark.’
‘Really?’ So we still didn’t have much time.
She got to her feet and I could see our meeting was over.
‘Thank you so much.’
‘I don’t know what it means. I’m not sure if it gets you anywhere. I’ll think about it again, tomorrow, and I’ll call you if I get anything else.’
‘Please do, that would be brilliant.’ I realised I’d been squeezing her arm.
It was late by the time she left, but I knew Brad would be on duty, on high alert. I picked up the phone, but was in two minds about using it. I had nothing that was verifiable, nothing concrete, but if I didn’t pass on something that turned out to be important, I’d never forgive myself.
I pressed Brad’s number into the keypad.
He answered straight away. ‘I hear you had another call,’ he said. ‘You okay?’
I cut to the chase. ‘I wanted to get some information to you and for you to pass it on to the bridge expert.’
‘Have you had another call? We didn’t pick anything else up —’
‘No.’ I took a deep breath. ‘My friend Cheryl from Holistica…’
‘The psychic woman you mentioned?’ He sounded wary.
‘Yes, that one…well, she’s been over here. I asked her for help with the message.’
There was a silence. ‘She’s been at your flat? She’s heard the message?’
‘Yes - what’s going on, Brad? Why are you being so cagey?’
‘She’s come onto our radar lately, I’m afraid.’
‘What?’
‘Remember we discussed that the killer might be someone who takes an interest in the case, who might seem to want to help?’
‘Yes - but, I’ve been the one to approach
her
, so far - about the etching, about the fire, about this latest message - she’s never come to me.’ I was stunned for a moment, until I considered that she did seem to know certain things about me, about my past. She knew Pamela Mendosa hadn’t drowned, knew about Battersea Bridge, Luke’s fire, my old house in Norwich. She was also well-built with big hands. ‘Has she been in touch with you, separately, to try to help?’ I added.
‘I can’t say too much now, Juliet. How much do you know about her?’
I tried to recall the few proper conversations we’d had.
‘She’s travelled a lot, been married twice, I think. She used to be a pilot.’ I was struggling to say more, realising I knew very little about her life, apart from the few anecdotes she’d told me involving exotic places. ‘Surely, you can’t think she’s involved?’
‘She could be an accomplice. Her brother has got a checkered past. I don’t think you should be alone with her.’
‘
Brother?
’ Cheryl had never mentioned a brother, never mind one with a checkered past.
‘Look, I can’t go into all of this now,’ he said. ‘What happened when she came over?’ He sounded as though he expected her to have come at me with a machete.
‘Nothing,’ I said, vacantly. ‘DS Broxted let her in.’ I was still reeling with this new information.
‘She wouldn’t try anything with our guy right outside.’
‘I invited her over,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘She was reluctant to come. She told me her…insights…about the phone call.’ I told him about the royalty link and the fact that Cheryl thought the time the man gave was part of a clue and wasn’t actually the time the next murder was going to occur.
‘Right,’ he said, stretching out the word. ‘We need to bear in mind that she could be trying to throw us off the scent…’
Did the police really believe Cheryl could be an accomplice to murder?
‘Surely not…’ I still couldn’t see her playing a part in any of this. I’d always seen myself as a good judge of character. But, I’d been caught out by Andrew recently - maybe I was losing my touch.
There was a long gap. Eventually, he spoke. ‘I’ve got someone checking the tide-tables to see if high tide falls at exactly 10.48, morning or evening, at any of the London bridges.’
‘The other victims were all killed during the night weren’t they?’
‘It makes sense, especially in London, fewer people about. But we’re checking the morning tides too. He’s given us a very precise time.’
‘Which is the closest bridge to Buckingham Palace?’ I asked.
‘Westminster Bridge or Lambeth Bridge to the south. Look, Juliet, this royal idea - it really isn’t worth following up.’
I tensed. ‘Can you afford to dismiss it out of hand? I don’t know what you think you’ve got on Cheryl, but you haven’t arrested her, so it can’t be conclusive. You could at least check out those bridges.’
‘Sorry, Juliet, but we’re the professionals here. Let us handle this.’ His tone was sharper than he’d used with me before.
‘Okay. I’ve told you - that’s all I can do. I’m going to carrying on looking for more on my laptop. I’ll stay up all night if I have to.’
He rang off. I tried to see it from his point of view. He had to be suspicious of everyone - it was his job, after all. And he couldn’t afford to spend time following up fanciful whims and speculation.
I thought again about Cheryl’s part in this. Had she got details of the case spot on because she was truly psychic, or because she was secretly involved? The murders seemed to be as much about me as they were about the unfortunate victims, but Cheryl had never seemed the least bit hostile towards me, so it didn’t add up for me.
I put my laptop on the dining table and set my alarm clock beside it, for 7.30am. My body baulked at the hard-backed chair, but sitting on the bed or sofa would have lulled me to sleep. I made myself some strong black coffee and propped an opened packet of crunchy breakfast cereal beside me. It was going to be a long night.
There were nearly four-thousand hits in the UK for
10.48 November 9
. Cheryl insisted that the time referred to morning and that brought it down to two-hundred. Until Brad came up with something more concrete, I was prepared to trust the information she’d given me. I could backtrack if it led to a dead end. I scrolled through every one of the entries. I then added
bridge
to the mix and started wading through those. At 3am, I got up to put loud music on my headphones and did jumping-jacks on the spot at regular intervals to keep me awake.
Next thing I knew, the alarm was jangling in my ear. I lifted my head from the table and slapped my hand on the off button. My first thought was:
where am I
? The next was:
today is the ninth of November
.
I quickly dressed and splashed water on my face between more sips of black coffee. I hadn’t got anywhere with my surfing last night and was angry with myself. Had Cheryl given me a red-herring or had I missed something? Returning to the royalty link, I went back to the laptop and punched in
10.48am November 9 Queen
, and scrolled through all of them. Then I tried changing the last word to
King
. I clicked from one page to the next until suddenly something caught my eye. It was a reference to Edward VII. I ran my eye along the next line.