THE JAKE BOULDER SERIES

BOOKS 1 -3

GRAHAM SMITH

CONTENTS

Also by Graham Smith

Watching The Bodies

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

The Kindred Killers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Acknowledgments

Past Echoes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

A Note from Bloodhound Books:

Acknowledgments

Coming Soon

ALSO BY GRAHAM SMITH

Die Cold ( Jake Boulder Book 4)

Do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire

Confucius

Copyright © 2017 Graham Smith

The right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

PRINT: 978-1-912175-15-4

1

When the woman gets within twenty yards of the body he’s dumped, the Watcher presses his body into the earth and raises his binoculars to his eyes.

She’s in her mid-fifties and accompanied by a Labrador puppy on a retractable leash. She’s relaxed, enjoying the walk and the time away from the stresses of work and family life.

Her face is familiar. After a moment’s thought he places her. The woman approaching the body is Mrs Halliburton, his former history teacher.

As she nears the body, his thoughts float back twenty years to a classroom full of bored children feigning interest in the Civil War. Details about the Confederates, the Union, and various characters like Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant are sketchy at best, yet he has total recall about the looks he shared with Jennifer Braidwood.

He brings his mind back to the present as he sees the puppy straining at its leash, tail between its legs. Its nose points at the body as clumsy paws scrabble for purchase on the pine needles littering the trail.

He sees the look on Mrs Halliburton’s face change. She’s spied the bare leg poking out of the bushes, just like he’d planned someone would when he laid the body there. He didn’t plan for her to be the one to find the body, but he did plan for it to be found.

The Watcher sees her cross herself and rein in the puppy. With it stationed at her heel, she takes short, tentative steps forward until she is at the bush. She lifts one foot and nudges the exposed calf with the toe of her hiking boots.

He waits for her to realise there won’t be a reaction. Every detail of her face is observed as she travels from concerned to afraid via a short detour to curious. He sees curiosity return.

A shaking hand reaches out and parts the thin branches of the cottonwood bush. He watches her eyes widen as she sees the damage wrought by his knife.

He imagines he can hear her gasp as she looks at the body. The mumbled words as she pats her pockets looking for her cell phone.

Leaving her to her discovery, he rises and slinks through the undergrowth, his ghillie suit casting debris with every step. Five minutes later he is at a new vantage point, deep in the depths of another cottonwood.

Mrs Halliburton comes down the trail, her feet moving with urgency. He watches as she unlocks a car and removes a cell from a bag.

With his notes made, he leaves before either the cops or dusk arrive.

2

The guy in the check shirt makes two mistakes in quick succession. First, he throws a punch at me. Second, he misses.

I coil forward from my ducking weave and introduce my forehead to his nose. The crunching thunk is more than a little satisfying.

Before he has time to gather his wits, I grab him by the wrist, bend his arm up his back and use his already shattered nose to open the door. Giving him just enough of a shove to propel him down the three steps without capsizing him, I turn, ready to deal with anyone else who wants to be a ten-beer hero.

Walking back into The Joshua Tree, I see three guys holding the one who’d picked the fight. They are having limited success in their efforts to calm him down.

I have to shout in his ear to make myself heard over the strains of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. ‘I’ve tossed him out because he took a swing at me. You gonna make the same mistake?’

A shake of the head is all the answer I get. I don’t expect anything more. Tom Kerslake is a local man with an image to keep. Getting his ass handed to him in a public place won’t be high on his wish list.

I’d been expecting the fight to happen from the moment he’d walked in. A serial cheat himself, he’d been overly aggrieved when his wife indulged in a spot of revenge sex with the oil worker I’ve just ejected.

Seeing the fight drain out of him, I give a curt nod and retake my position by the bar. From here I can see the whole room and observe everything that’s going on.

As its name suggests, The Joshua Tree is a rock bar, where even the music has to be twenty-one or older to get in. Frequented by bikers, rockers, and horny women hoping for a bad boy to take home, it is the most profitable bar in Casperton.

Serving homemade pastrami burgers with a chilli-based fry sauce as a speciality means the Tree, as it is known locally, also turns a steady dime throughout the days.

I toss drunks every Friday and Saturday night. The extra bucks are always useful and the infrequent scuffles keep my appetite for violence satisfied.

The MacDonald blood in my veins has a long history of warfare and when it boils hot, I find myself spoiling for a fight.

Before my mother had remarried and moved us from Glasgow to Utah, my maternal grandfather had taught me how to fight. Not boxing or any kind of martial art. Real everyday fighting. Down and dirty street fighting with fists, elbows and any other part of the body which could be used to inflict pain upon another human being.

Grandpa’s teachings served me well. My burring Scottish accent got me into plenty of schoolyard fights back in the day. For some reason the local jocks took exception to a cocksure fourteen-year-old landing in their midst and winning the attention of almost every cheerleader.

The fact I won enough battles to establish myself as handy didn’t help matters any. They just decided to come at me in a group. I put a few of them down before they put me in the emergency room. One by one I dealt with them, until all had received enough of a beating to keep them off my back.

‘Hey, Jake, you heard about Kira Niemeyer?’ The question comes from Alfonse Devereaux, whose family had migrated from France to Casperton to work the oilfields around the same time I arrived. Short and puny by nature, his bookish personality had attracted school bullies the way Capitol Hill attracts liars. His black skin hadn’t helped either.

I’d taken him under my protective wing and we’ve been the best of friends ever since.

‘No. Why, what’s she done?’ Kira Niemeyer is one of the local party girls who lives life to the full.

‘It’s what’s been done to her. Her body was found up by Kangle’s Bluff. I’ve just had a call from her father. He wants me to look into her death.’ The concern written on his face isn’t just there because he’s never investigated a murder before.

We’ve both known Kira the way single men know single girls.

‘Isn’t it a police matter?’ Alfonse’s detection skills are used to track errant husbands and embezzled money. I help him with the odd stakeout and provide some muscle as required, but the idea of trying to catch a killer is both exhilarating and unnerving.

Alfonse’s raised eyebrow is enough of an answer. The Casperton Police Department has the mayor’s son and a bunch of his crones as its detectives. Ineffectual and incompetent are two words that spring to mind when thinking about them. The chief of police is a new guy who’s transferred across from somewhere in Idaho, but the detectives on the ground have the investigative skills of a half brick.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I said I’d need to speak to my partner.’

Partner is stretching it, but I’m his go-to person for advice and my work for him has steadily increased over the last year or two.

‘We’ve no experience at investigating murders. We’ll be little better than the cops and that’s saying something.’

‘It’s homicide, not murder. Do I take the case or do we pass?’

He never fails to call me on my habit of still using British terms like murder. As with most ex-pats, not only have I retained my accent – it has grown stronger, as has my fondness for the old country.

If we take the case, we’ll not only be up against a killer, we’ll also have to follow in the footsteps of the most useless police force since the Keystone Kops. They’ll have forensic information and coroners giving them aid. We’ll have Google.

Tossing drunks out of a bar is one thing. Going after a killer is another.

On the other hand, the killer is almost certain to get away with murder if we don’t take the case.

‘Have you talked money yet?’

A nod. Three fingers were raised, meaning Niemeyer has offered treble our usual rate.

The money is good, but it needs to be. Catching killers is work for police detectives who carry guns, not investigators who carry an iPad.

‘Call him and take the job.’ I look at my watch. The Tree is due to close in an hour. ‘You go see Niemeyer, I’ll start asking questions round here.’

I scan the crowd with a practised eye to make sure no more trouble is brewing, then go over to talk to some people I knew hung with Kira.

3

Casperton’s police department is located on Main Street, just opposite the dime store. The red brick and clapboard building is half lit up but as expected there is a light on in the chief’s office.

I park in one of the spaces reserved for detectives, lock my ’93 Mustang and go inside.

An overweight sergeant behind the desk greets me with a scowl. My lack of popularity with the police is due to me tossing three detectives and a patrolman from the Tree last week. The fact they’d deserved it seems to have bypassed the rest of the department.

‘I’m here to see the chief.’

The sergeant doesn’t bother to take his feet off the desk. ‘He’s busy.’

‘Then I’ll be quick.’ Not waiting for an answer I stride along the corridor and knock on the chief’s door.

When he opens the door, I see a man carrying more than his own bodyweight of stress and tension. His eyes are full of intelligence, but the furrows beneath his iron-grey hair tell of his mood.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I’m Jake Boulder and I want to talk to you about Kira Niemeyer’s murder.’

His eyes may narrow but his hand comes out when he introduces himself. ‘Chief Watson.’

I take the chair he points to and wait for him to take his own seat. As I look round the room I’m pleased at the lack of a trophy wall. Chief Watson isn’t trying to impress anyone with his history. Instead he’s more concerned with his job. I’ll bet good money the frame on his desk holds a picture of his wife and kids.

With steepled fingers he appraises me. ‘I take it you’re not here to make a confession’

‘You know who I am, right?’

‘Yeah. You’re the guy who made a fool of some of my men.’

‘They didn’t need me to make a fool of them. I just stopped them before someone got hurt.’

His eyes narrow as he assesses me. I sense his conflict between showing loyalty to his men and the fact he knows they don’t merit any.

I hold up a hand. ‘Cards on the table?’

He gives a short nod. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of me and I’m sure that in the four weeks since you arrived in Casperton, you’ve realised your detectives are a shower of useless idiots who only have a job because Lieutenant Farrage is the mayor’s son.’

His face gives nothing away. But the way he settles back into his chair tells me I’m on the money.

‘Nobody in Casperton has any faith in the police detectives. That’s why Alfonse has such a good business.’

‘I’m aware of AD Investigations.’ His tone is soft but there’s steel in his voice.

‘Kira Niemeyer’s father has hired us to look into her death.’

Once again his face reveals nothing. I’ll have to remember not to play cards with this guy.

‘And? You’re here to get my blessing?’

‘No. Your help.’

A wry smile touches his lips. ‘How am I supposed to help you and why would I?’

‘The police have all the resources and information. Unfortunately, you’re probably the only man in the Casperton PD who knows how to use them. If you’re taking the case on yourself, we’ll call Niemeyer and take a step back. If you’re not, we’re your best chance of putting handcuffs on the killer.’ I make a humble gesture. ‘All I’m asking is you share forensic evidence and any other interesting news with us. In return we’ll share anything we find. If we solve the case first, we’ll call you to come and make the arrest.’

I let Chief Watson mull for as long as he needs. I’ve made my pitch and now the ball is in his court.

After a full five minutes he reaches a decision. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is leading the investigation. I cannot go behind his back to give you information. However, I will tell the coroner and other forensic specialists to answer your questions. I’ll also tell my staff not to obstruct you.’

‘Thank you.’ I hadn’t anticipated any more help and my visit is more about courtesy than expectations.

‘Let’s be clear about one thing, Boulder. If I hear of you running your mouth about how I’m helping your investigation, all deals are off. I’ll personally make you and your buddy’s life a misery. His licence will be revoked and you’ll both be prosecuted for every minor transgression imaginable, including jaywalking and littering.’

‘Don’t worry, Chief. We have no intention of blabbing about your help. All we want to do is help catch a killer.’

4

Alfonse hands me a mug of coffee and opens himself a beer. I’m not a regular drinker as when I do drink, I tend to drink way more than I should. The last time I had a drink, I lost three days and wound up in a Salt Lake motel with no clothes and an empty wallet.

‘I can’t believe you went to see the chief of police.’

‘Had to be done. Our paths would’ve crossed at some point and by going to see him on his turf, I showed him respect.’

Alfonse nods as he digests my words. By giving the chief a visit I’ve removed any possible animosity he may have felt when he heard we’d been hired by Niemeyer. Instead of our presence being a shock, it will now be expected. Instead of confrontation there will be grudging acceptance.

‘Never mind that. What did you learn from the Niemeyers?’

‘Nothing much if I’m honest. Kira lived by herself and wasn’t the greatest for keeping in touch with her family. They never knew she was missing, let alone murdered. If one of the detectives hadn’t recognised her, she’d have been labelled as a Jane Doe.’ He points to his laptop. ‘I’ve cloned the hard drive from both her cell and iPad.’

I nod. I’d had the same information from the girls in the Tree. Kira was a girl who’d hang out and party with friends for a few days and then drop out for days at a time. Sometimes she’d keep a low profile for weeks before reappearing as if she’d never been away.

Alfonse shared the details of her life that he’d got from her family and we made a plan of action for the next day.

I read his notes and add my own to them as he starts to dig around in her iPad.

Her father had made a fortune building a pipeline for the oilfields and gave her an allowance that made my eyes water.

She had three credit cards in her name and drove a mid-range Mercedes provided by her father.

Remembering my own dalliances with her, I recall how she’d treated life as a game. There to be played either solo or as part of a team.

Perhaps she had commitment issues or hadn’t yet fallen for anyone, but the more I think about it, the more I realise her relationships had never lasted more than a month or two at most.

My own relationship with her was one of convenience and a sating of animal needs. Twice, maybe thrice a year she’d call asking if I was seeing anyone. If I wasn’t she’d arrive with a bottle of wine and no underwear. She’d be gone by midnight leaving an empty wine bottle and a smile on my face.

I’d seen her around town and she’d been in the Tree once or twice, but she’d seemed to be distancing herself from her old friends.

The girls I’d spoken with earlier had hinted they weren’t as close as they once were, without saying anything definite.

We are now relying on Alfonse’s technical skills to get us a break or a window into Kira’s life. Given time he’ll get her phone records, credit card and bank statements. For the meantime, he is delving into the information cloned from her iPad.

After finishing my coffee, I put on my jacket. ‘I’m gonna go look over her place. See what I can find out.’

Alfonse looks up from his laptop. ‘At this time of night? It’s nearly three o’clock.’

‘Absolutely. Farrage and his buddies’ll be sniffing about there tomorrow and I’d rather see it before they go around disturbing everything. I’ll check it out tonight and see you in the morning. About nineish.’

5

Armed with Kira’s address and keys, I navigate my way to Constitution Avenue and pull up beside the kerb. The house is a good one, in a decent neighbourhood. The kind of house a family will call a home.

All the elements are there. White picket fence, double garage, manicured lawn and floral curtains peeping round the edges of the windows.

It doesn’t seem to fit with her free-spirited lifestyle, but then again it may have been a perfect retreat for her when she wasn’t partying around town.

On the other hand, it may have been her father who chose the house; undoubtedly it will have been his money that paid for it.

I pull on a pair of gloves before opening the front door and listening for the tell-tale beep of an alarm. I hear nothing. Either Kira or her killer hadn’t set it when leaving the house.

I take a slow walk from room to room looking for signs of a struggle or a fight. Or the place where Kira had been murdered. Both Alfonse and I are sure she’d been dumped on Kangle’s Bluff after being killed elsewhere.

Each room is a picture of domestic normality. Magazines adorn the coffee table in the lounge. A vase of flowers and a bowl of fruit sit in the middle of the kitchen table and each of the bedrooms is made up ready for use. Nothing I find gives me information until I open the door to the basement.

I go down the stairs with my nostrils twitching at the smoky aroma of extinguished candles mixed with the strong pheromones released during sex.

My jaw and fists clench as I descend the narrow stairs. Whatever I find down here isn’t going to be good.

When I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the sight that awaits me doesn’t meet any of my expectations.

The basement is filled with restraints, sex swings and many other devices used by people engaging in bondage games. A table bears a selection of whips and paddles. An open closet in one corner holds a variety of leather, PVC and rubber costumes.

I peer at the whips and paddles looking for traces of blood, but none are evident. A proper forensic examination may find some but there’s nothing visible to the naked eye. I repeat the process with the various restraints and toys in the room but find nothing that points to Kira being killed in a sex game.

I take numerous photos with my cell before going back upstairs. Nothing on the lower floor tells me why the basement is kitted out as a bondage dungeon, so I move back to the first floor.

First I try the master bedroom. I look at the clothes in the closet and the drawers. Again, nothing catches my eye as out of place or unusual.

When I check out the closets in a spare bedroom, I find a whole different set of clothes. These aren’t the kind of clothes most women would have in their house. Perhaps one or two of the dresses or skirts but not as many as this.

I take photos of a number of items in each closet and the drawers before moving on to the third bedroom, only to find its closets bare.

My finishing point is the bathroom. I examine the medicine chest and discover only non-prescription painkillers and feminine paraphernalia including the contraceptive pill.

With my search complete, I leave and head back to my apartment while trying to make sense of my findings. The message I send to Alfonse receives no reply.

6

He can’t sleep with the excitement from earlier still coursing through his veins. Mrs Halliburton being the one to find Kira Niemeyer has added a new layer to his project. A layer which adds familiarity.

Since observing her presence at Kangle’s Bluff, strong memories of her lessons have returned after all these years. He remembers the classes more than the tuition for she was a soft teacher. One who preferred to use inspiration rather than discipline or fear as a motivator for teenage minds distracted by the effects of puberty.

As he pads through his home, the Watcher can picture the layout of her classroom just as it was all those years ago. He can even identify who sat in which seat.

With one exception. There was one kid he never got along with. She didn’t deserve his attention. She didn’t deserve attention from anyone.

In his mind’s eye he can see the girl, all hundred and eighty pounds of her. That girl waddled her way through high school lonelier than a desert cactus. Sure, there may have been bigger girls at the school, but they didn’t have the acne, lank hair and suck-up attitude she had. They had fun personalities and more to do with their lives than hang on a teacher’s every word.

It’s just a shame the girl doesn’t fit his pattern. He could have some fun with her.

The pattern is everything though. Having studied many serial killers, he’s never encountered a selection process so simple yet so beautiful.

He wonders if anyone will connect the pattern before he is forced to stop. Or caught. Something deep within him hopes the selection process is worked out. That people learn of his methods while he’s still active.

The challenges presented by such knowledge will make the project even more interesting. He wants his name to go down in history with the greats. Ted Bundy. Jeffery Dahmer. Eileen Wuornos. John Wayne Gacy.

All he has to do is stay alive and free long enough to reach thirty plus victims and he’ll be immortalised.

He walks into the den, boots up his computer and begins to apply the pattern to today’s breakthrough.

Mrs Halliburton isn’t engaged in social media, so he switches to the electoral register and other government sites, which contain endless streams of data about people.

It is there he mines the first nuggets. The primary information needed to carry out the next mission.

After three hours of staring at the screen, tiredness threatens to overwhelm him. Lifting his wife’s picture from the desk he kisses it and tries not to think of what she’d say about the pattern. All those years spent away from her as he toured the world with the Marines now seem wasted. Three years after mustering out she was nothing but memories and worm food.

The essence of his life stolen by an incompetent nurse who used a dirty needle. A needle that held a three-letter virus.

He’d been away at the time. In Afghanistan.

Melanie had undergone a routine procedure to remove a polyp and came out with a death sentence.

Unknowing of the nurse’s stupidity and carelessness they’d lived their lives separately while planning for a future together. A future now denied.

When Melanie had failed to get pregnant they’d looked into IVF. Both had a range of tests. Both had passed every test except the one where a positive result was actually a fail.

A week after Melanie’s funeral he flew to Denver and bought a crummy second-hand pickup. He paid cash and gave the seller a false name. A half day’s effort in the privacy of his garage saw all identifying marks and numbers removed and false plates added.

Three nights later he used the pickup to force the nurse’s car off the road. When the car left the road it rolled down Hilker’s Gulch until it rested on its roof in Marton Creek. There’d been rain. The creek had been in flood, its waters swollen enough to engulf the Chevy.

He’d fled after torching the pickup in the woods.

Three days he’d waited and watched until the waters of Marton Creek shrank and the car was spotted. He saw the person who discovered the car and the pattern was conceived.

He later found out the nurse wasn’t in the car. Her husband had been driving it that night. Watching her grief as she struggled to cope with the loss of her husband was intoxicating.

The ironic symmetry between the nurse’s actions and his own wasn’t lost on him. All things considered, he was now pleased it had been the husband driving that night. Better than killing her, he’d given her years of suffering.

7

I knock on Alfonse’s door with mounting impatience. Just because I am a half hour early doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be ready to let me in. Given the first chance I get, I plan to steal his keys and get myself copies.

When he finally deigns to open the door, he is wrapped in a towel, his hair still wet from the shower.

‘I only got out of the shower because I know you’re enough of an asshole to keep banging on the door until it either breaks or gets answered.’ It’s fair to say Alfonse is not a morning person. ‘Why do you always have to be early?’

I step inside, careful not to slip on one of the wet footprints he’s leaving on the polished floor. ‘Didn’t you get the text I sent last night?’

‘Did I answer it?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if you had.’

‘Question asked. Question answered.’

I leave Alfonse to get dressed and put my notebook on his kitchen table while I brew some coffee and look for his notes. I don’t find any, which is odd. Of the two of us he is the bigger note taker. Either he’s struck out or hidden his so he can gauge my reaction to his discoveries.

Within five minutes he is sitting opposite me, dressed in his usual attire of combat shorts and polo shirt.

I give him coffee and enough time to read my text then raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Wow! I never saw that coming but it explains a lot.’

‘It does?’

‘Yeah. I ran into a complete brick wall with her iPad and cell last night.’ Defeat shows on his face. I know he’s never before failed to get answers from a digital source, so I soften my expression. ‘She was on Twitter, but rarely used it. Her Facebook account has all the usual selfies and party photos along with mind-numbing posts about what she was having for dinner, where she was having her nails done, and a thousand other waste-of-bytes-worth of drivel.’

‘Anything about a man in her life?’

‘Nada.’ Unlike me, Alfonse fully embraces the American language and its slang forms.

‘Emails? Bank accounts? Apps?’

‘Looked at them all. Nothing untoward or underhand in any of them. Just normal everyday stuff for a girl living off Daddy’s dime.’ He takes a healthy slug of his coffee and grimaces. ‘Her monthly allowance from Daddy would keep you and I for a year, but she didn’t squander it. From what I could gather, she was spending a quarter of it, giving a quarter to some charities and saving the other half.’

‘What about her most recent credit card transactions?’

Alfonse hands me a printout of Kira’s bank and credit card statements. ‘The last ten entries are small beer. Groceries, hair salons and so on. A couple of meals out. Nowhere fancy, the kind of places we take dates.’

‘Were the transactions all here or elsewhere?’

‘Most were local, but there were a couple of things bought online from Amazon and other retailers.’

I stop questioning him while I think about what he’s told me so far. Kira Niemeyer had a privileged life, yet she only spent a quarter of the money she received on herself. That in itself was odd.

There were a number of girls in her position living in Casperton and they all spent money as if it were the last day of the sales. The clothes I’d found in Kira’s master bedroom had all been good quality with decent labels, but looking at her bank statements, I see she could have afforded better.

Yet the clothes in the other bedroom ranged from cheap to top dollar fashion. Some could be bought in a thrift store while others bore the fanciest of labels.

‘You see where her credit card was last used?’

Alfonse nods. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘I don’t know. Seems too simple to me. Everyone knows what a pervert he is, but I don’t know if he’s capable of killing someone.’

‘Those were my initial thoughts too, but all the same we’d better check him out.’

Alfonse is looking at me in a way that indicates he has more to say so I give him a nod.

‘She has secrets, Jake. She’s been doing something she’s determined to keep hidden. When I checked the files for her search history there were numerous occasions where I think she’s went InPrivate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With most operating systems there’s a way of going online without leaving an obvious trail on your computer or tablet. Husbands use it for looking at porn or emailing their mistresses without their wives being able to find out.’ He drains his coffee with a noisy slurp. ‘I went onto a hacker’s forum last night and tried to find out if there’s a way to get the data.’

‘And?’ I try to keep the impatience from my voice, but if his sour expression is anything to go by I’ve failed.

‘I was pointed to a program which I downloaded. It’s probing at her iPad now. When I looked before getting into the shower, it still had three hours to run.’

‘C’mon. Let’s go and speak with him now. If we’re in luck we’ll beat Farrage and his buddies.’ I reach for my jacket as I rise to my feet. ‘I’ll tell you more about what I found at Kira’s house on the way.’

8

I pull the Mustang into the yard adjacent to Casperton Auto Repairs and we go looking for Lunk.

The last use of Kira’s credit card had been here.

Alfonse leads the way into the garage. Lunk’s feet poke out from underneath an SUV.

I give his boot a gentle kick and wait until he slides out.

‘We need to talk to you.’

He doesn’t bother getting to his feet, he just lies on his back like an oil-soaked slug. Every inch of his overalls is a dull black where oil, grease and dirt have been ground in over countless months and years. The T-shirt underneath the overalls has the same disgusting patina. The unruly curls of hair sprouting from underneath his cap don’t look any cleaner, while his beard resembles second-hand steel wool.

‘Go talk somewhere else, Boulder. This is an auto repair place not a coffee shop.’

‘Get up, Lunk.’ I let a little menace creep into my voice as we don’t have time for his posturing. ‘This is a conversation you’re going to want to have.’

‘Whaddaya mean?’

‘You heard about Kira Niemeyer, right?’

He gives a slight nod before a lascivious look fills his eyes. ‘I have. Shame, she was a pretty little thing. A real animal in the sack.’

I shake my head at his bull. There’s no way Kira would have let this grease monkey lay a finger on her. ‘Really? AD Investigations has been hired to look into her death.’

I let Lunk bluster until he runs out of steam.

‘That’ll interest Lieutenant Farrage and his detective buddies, because sooner or later they’ll get around to checking her credit card statement. We’ve already had a look. Can you have a guess as to where she made her last payment?’

It doesn’t take him long to make the obvious connection. He’s unhygienic, not stupid. As soon as realisation strikes, his whole demeanour shifts.

Fear shrouds his eyes while his shoulders droop. Watching his face, I can almost see the cogs whirring as he works out he might just end up as chief suspect when the police roll up.

For all his lecherous behaviour and bull he is no fool.

‘When was she killed?’

‘We haven’t spoken to the coroner yet but she was found yesterday evening.’ I shrug. ‘He’ll need to establish a time of death and we’ll need to check people’s whereabouts. As will Lieutenant Farrage.’

The wrinkles on his brow deepen. His hands shake as he spreads them wide. ‘I’ve been working my usual hours. You know how late I usually work, Jake. You can vouch for me, can’t you?’

I do know how late he works. His garage is across the street from the Tree and I often see his lights still on when I leave at the end of a night.

That doesn’t mean I can guarantee he is innocent. But it does mean I can stand as a character witness and state with hand on heart that Lunk can often be found working long after midnight.

It also means I can testify he is a night owl, who is often awake when the night is at its darkest. Perhaps he’ll be safer if he keeps me out of it. If asked in a courtroom about Lunk’s character, my honest answer would do his defence far more harm than good.

He hasn’t been allowed into the Tree since the time he left oil stains on a stool and grubby fingerprints on a barmaid’s ass. This doesn’t stop him hanging around outside so he can ogle the girls and try his sexist lines on them.

I can understand his fear. With no one at home to verify his movements he’ll have no alibi other than being seen to be working. Somewhere deep in his brain he must realise nobody believes a word he says and at best, the girls all think of him as a creep.

We throw questions at him for a while but get nothing incriminating or exonerating. He has no alibi, but then again, he doesn’t seem to have a reason to kill her.

Sure, Kira may have rebuffed his advances with a withering put-down, but I’ve seen him take enough verbal batterings from potential conquests to know he has skin thicker than a rhinoceros.

It all boils down to what the coroner has found. If Kira had been sexually assaulted before she was murdered, Lunk will have a tough time ahead of him.

As we prepare to leave, an unmarked sedan comes to a screeching halt inches from the SUV Lunk has been working on.

The sedan’s doors fly open, disgorging Lieutenant Farrage and one of his detective buddies.

Farrage grabs Lunk, spins him round and slams him face first against the SUV. Handcuffs are snapped onto Lunk’s wrists and a breathless Farrage begins to read him his rights.

‘You got a warrant for his arrest?’

I keep my tone mild, but Farrage is too keyed up to be sensible. Like the imbecile he is, he’d have seen Kira’s spending history and put two and two together. The problem is, he’s not capable of making four. He’d be lucky to make five or three.

‘Butt out, Boulder. This isn’t your business.’

Farrage squares up to me. All posture and no substance, he knows I can kick his ass, but won’t because of the badge on his belt.

At least that’s what he thinks. I know he’ll only push me so far before I snap and hit him. Today wouldn’t be that day though; his incompetence is more amusing than annoying.

Waving a hand in front of my nose as if his breath stinks, I turn to Alfonse. ‘You’re a licensed private detective aren’t you, Mr Devereaux? Did that look like a legally made arrest to you?’

‘Not for a minute. Lieutenant Farrage assaulted the suspect before ascertaining his identity. Then he arrested him without a warrant. A half-drunk law student could get this case thrown out long before it gets anywhere near a courtroom.’

Farrage’s body tenses at Alfonse’s criticism of his professional behaviour. I can see his hands have balled into fists and hope he’ll be stupid enough to throw a punch at Alfonse. That will give me all the justification I need.

However, I recognise the need to calm things down rather than escalate them, so I take a couple of steps to my left, positioning myself at Alfonse’s shoulder.

Getting the message loud and clear, Farrage turns and barks an order at his subordinate. The man possesses enough sense not to get embroiled in the situation and releases Lunk then returns to the car. His silence throughout the exchange is more damning than anything Alfonse or I can say.

Alfonse isn’t finished with Farrage though. ‘I trust you know you have to have your suspect’s name on the warrant when you come to arrest him.’

The scowl from Farrage is a thing of beauty insofar as a twisted expression of hate can be.

It’s a masterful move by Alfonse as Lunk is no more than a nickname, but I’ve never heard of anyone who knows Lunk’s real name. Known only by the nickname, his given name has been lost in the sands of time.

‘Thanks, guys.’ Lunk massages his wrists as he walks us back to the Mustang.

‘If I was you, I’d call my lawyer. It’s only a matter of time before Farrage returns with a warrant.’

9

Our next point of call is the Coroner’s Office. As we drive across town, Alfonse gives me his opinion of Farrage for what must be the hundredth time. Repetition doesn’t make his assessment any kinder.

The Coroner’s Office is located at the east end of town, a half block from the hospital on Route 40. A modern building with a glass and aluminium siding frontage, there is a small car park at the front for grieving relatives and a discreet back entrance for undertakers, ambulances and the coroner’s vans.

We enter the front entrance and speak to the receptionist. Her calm manner and relaxed nature will make her perfect for dealing with distraught families.

‘Doctor Green told me to expect you.’ Her left arm points along a white corridor. ‘Her office is around the corner and second on the left.’

Walking towards the doctor’s office, I marvel at the lack of antiseptic smells. I’d expected to get whiffs of formaldehyde and the strong chemicals used for cleaning; instead I’m getting lavender. Whoever designed the building must have made a deliberate effort to consider the sensibilities of the bereaved.

I knock on the doctor’s door as a technician in scrubs exits from a door encased with rubber seals. A waft of the missing smells emanates from the man until the scented air conditioning regains mastery.

When the door opens I have a split second to get the surprise off my face. Judging by the wide smile on Doctor Emily Green’s face, I’m not sure it’s long enough.

‘Hi, Jake, Alfonse.’

Emily is a regular at the Tree and, although I know she is a doctor, I hadn’t bothered paying enough attention to find out specific details. Alfonse and I had double dated once or twice with her and a friend, but, distracted by my own date, I had done little more than make small talk with her. If memory serves me right, he split with her because she became too clingy.

Hearing Alfonse’s laugh behind me, I know he’s set me up. It is the kind of childish thing we do to each other on a regular basis. Neither of us are looking for a big advantage or prolonged humiliation. Just another mark on the endless scorecard good friends keep.

I hold my hands up in supplication and let them have their moment. Alfonse somehow manages to maintain a friendly relationship with his exes, whereas I either crash and burn or never let them get close enough to be hurt.

‘I got a call from Chief Watson this morning. He told me I’ve to answer your questions.’

At work she is brisk and businesslike, the inane chatter replaced with clipped sentences arrowing to the points she wants to make.

‘That’s nice of him.’ I mean it too. Chief Watson could have paid lip service then ignored me. Instead he’s kept his word and opened up some of the investigation streams. ‘Have you performed Kira Niemeyer’s autopsy yet?’

‘I finished up a half hour ago.’

‘What did you find?’

‘She had seventy-three different knife wounds on her body. All concentrated on her chest and abdomen.’

‘Jesus.’ From the corner of my eye I can see Alfonse crossing himself.

‘How many of them were deep enough to be fatal?’

‘Just one. Whoever killed her pierced her heart to deliver the coup-de-grâce after slashing at her like a madman.’

Alfonse takes over the questioning while I consider the news Emily has just given us.

‘Are you sure the fatal wound occurred last?’

‘Positive.’ Her tone is filled with professional confidence. ‘Although her other wounds would have caused her to bleed to death if left untreated.’

‘Have you any thoughts on the knife used?’

‘The edges of the incisions were rough so my best guess would be the knife used was a typical domestic knife with slight serrations along the cutting edge.’

‘Can you tell if the killer was left or right handed?’

‘Right handed.’ She answers without hesitation, confident in her assessment.

‘What about any sexual activity? Had she been raped or molested?’

Emily consults her notes. ‘There were recent signs of vigorous intercourse although it appears to have taken place two or three days prior to her death.’

Thinking about Kira’s dungeon, I hesitate before asking my next question. ‘Did she have any other marks on her?’

Emily gives me a funny look. ‘She had what looked to be slight rope burns on her ankles and wrists. Just like the vaginal and anal bruising, the marks appeared to be days older than the attack.’

She doesn’t offer anything else. She is following the chief’s dictate to answer our questions without offering anything more.

‘What else should we be asking you?’ Alfonse’s question brings a smile to her face. He’s realised the politics involved and has found a way to get past them which won’t cause her problems.

‘If I was you, I’d be looking at where she died.’

‘Did you examine her where she was found?’

A nod.

‘In your professional opinion, was that where she was killed?’

A shake.

‘So what you’re not saying is that she was killed elsewhere and dumped there.’

‘Exactly.’

Alfonse jumps in again. ‘Is there anything else we should be asking you?’

‘You’ve covered the main points. But there is one thing.’ A thousand-watt smile beams towards Alfonse.

He doesn’t get it, so I get my revenge for his earlier prank sooner than expected. ‘Alfonse was wondering on the way over here if you’re still single. If you are, he said he was going to ask you out to dinner.’ I look at Alfonse who is trying to tell his face to behave. ‘Weren’t you?’

Et tu, Brute.

He nods.

‘Great.’ She hands him a card. ‘I’m free tonight.’

10

After dropping Alfonse at his house to check if the software has finished its task, I go on to my apartment and change into running clothes.

I do my best thinking while running and right now I have a lot of thinking to do. There is so much of Kira’s life that has been kept secret from the world.

After doing a few stretches I set off at a brisk pace, keeping my breathing steady as I wait for the burn to kick in.

The S&M dungeon doesn’t correspond with my memories of her. Whenever we’d hooked up she’d been neither dominant nor submissive. Just normal.

There’d been no suggestion of anything kinky, just two friends bumping uglies to fill a void or sate a need.

The clothes in her spare room are also way out of character. Kira might make a booty call with no underwear, but she wasn’t the kind of girl who flaunted herself around town in micro skirts and low-cut tops. The majority of the clothes in that particular closet were, at best, slutty. At worst, they were the clothes of a cheap hooker.

The exceptions were some very classy dresses bearing expensive tags. Even so, they were a lot more revealing than the bohemian clothes Kira usually wore.

Also present were a selection of sex costumes. The lingerie in the drawers followed the same pattern, either expensive and classy or cheap and slutty.

The obvious conclusion is that Kira was hooking, but she didn’t need the money. I knew first hand she had an active libido, but she was pretty enough to have her desires filled by almost any man she chose.

She had no need to sell herself unless it was a self-esteem issue.

I’d have said she was someone’s mistress, had she not been known to live the carefree independent lifestyle she did.

While the MacDonald blood in my veins eschews the American habit of seeing a therapist, I know one might be able to give us some insight into her life.

As the burn from my run announces itself, I concentrate my mind on the places where Kira might ply her trade and leave my body to look after itself.

Casperton is too small a town for someone as well known as Kira to keep hooking a secret. Therefore, she must be entertaining people from out of town.

The nearest large cities like Salt Lake City and Denver are over two hours away, so whoever her clients were, they must be wealthy and in a position where they could disappear for hours, or a day at a time, without getting awkward questions from their wives or girlfriends.

Next I worry about how she attracted clients, if that is the right word for them. The obvious answer is via the internet, hence the InPrivate browsing. That, however, is Alfonse’s problem to deal with.

My best guess is Kira’s clients must either travel to her place or she left town to see them. I consider checking the local hotels before realising the futility of that course of action. Looking for someone whose name I didn’t know, who possibly stayed on dates I’m not sure of, will get me laughed out of every hotel reception in town.

As I turn onto Constitution Avenue, I slow to a jog when passing Kira’s house. Farrage and one of his buddies are on the lawn holding a small cardboard box.

Altering course I trot over to them, only for Farrage to manoeuvre himself so he’s blocking my view of the box.

‘What you got there?’ Trying not to manhandle or touch him in any way, I strain to look over his shoulder.

His buddy isn’t quick-witted enough to react in time, giving me a look in the box before he whips it away.

An iPhone and a platinum Amex are all it contains.

‘Keep your nose out, Boulder. This is police business.’

‘Haven’t you heard? We’ve been hired by Kira’s father.’

I can see from his reaction he already knows.

‘Maybe so. But we’re the police.’

His posturing gets to me more than it should, making the MacDonald blood seethe in my veins for a split second. ‘A hundred bucks says we identify her killer before you.’

Uncertainty flickers beneath the buzz cut before the bravado returns. ‘Deal. You’ve got no chance, Boulder. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.’

I leave him to it and navigate my way home so I can take a shower and call Alfonse.

11

Twenty minutes after calling Alfonse I am showered, changed, and heading west at ninety-five miles an hour.

Having got past the InPrivate setting he’s discovered Kira was hooking. A quick look through her search history saw him find login details for a site called Fantasy Courtesans. Alfonse found pictures of her on there, along with rates and services offered. Clients made bookings with her through the site.

He’s also found a secret bank account which funded the Amex and the extra iPhone Farrage had found. A quick look at the statement for the Amex told Alfonse she used it to buy sex toys, some of the clothes in her spare room and the occasional flight to LA.

Alfonse had tried digging into her client history on the site but hadn’t been able to identify any of her client’s identities. He has though, managed to trace the owner of the site and get me an address for him.

As the Mustang eats up the miles, I drive on autopilot while creating a mental list of the questions I need answers for.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Salt Lake City, I thread my way through the afternoon traffic, then take the fifteen north until I’m at Feltingville. The traffic is light so I make good time.

I want to do this interview and get back to Casperton as soon as possible. Unless I learn something that takes me further afield.

After pulling over at the side of the road, I fire up my GPS and feed in the required zip code. Before setting off, I check my iPad and see my membership application for Fantasy Courtesans has been accepted.

Having paid a membership fee, I am now part of the club. I scroll through a few pages and try to book an appointment with Kira, or Candice as she calls herself on the site. I get an automated response saying she will get back to me within forty-eight hours.

With the MacDonald blood lava-hot in my veins, I swing the Mustang back into the flow of traffic and carry on.

Feltingville is smaller than Casperton, but being a satellite town for Salt Lake City, it plays home to some of the city’s seedier elements. My destination is a strip club called Bourbon A Go Go.

Located halfway along a dead end off State Street, Bourbon A Go Go is open just as Alfonse told me it would be.

I reverse into a parking bay in case I need to make a rapid exit, and walk towards the club. A doorman gives me a bored look I return with interest. All steroidal muscle, he’ll be too slow in the face of a determined opponent unless he manages to get the first blow in.

As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I buy a beer I have no intention of drinking and take a seat at the edge of the room where I can survey things.

The pounding music is too modern and too loud for my tastes, its thumping bass makes my beer vibrate on the table.

I cast my eyes round the room again and find three visible cameras, several hidden ones and a half dozen perverts. If things get exciting, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t happen in here.

A short girl carrying thirty extra pounds is gyrating on the stage in a poor imitation of eroticism. What little appeal she has is ruined by the disinterest on her face.

‘You fancy a private dance, honey?’

I turn to focus on the girl speaking to me.

‘Not right now. I’ve only just got here.’ I give her a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a beer until I’m ready?’

She lets her eyes flit round the room, no doubt weighing up the odds of someone else paying her to dance in the time it takes to have a beer with me.

‘Sure. That’d be cool.’ She waves to the barman and takes a seat beside me, her cheap perfume catching the back of my throat.

I hold out a hand. ‘I’m Frank.’ Sometimes it doesn’t pay to use your real name.

‘Onyx.’

Onyx is stick thin with a drawn face. A pair of obvious implants strain against the pink bikini she wears.

With a practised spiel she works at my defences, trying to entice me into the private dance.

Ignoring her questions about the existence of a Mrs Frank, I start asking a few of my own.

Onyx isn’t much help as she has only worked here for six weeks. What I do get from her is she doesn’t think the guy who owns the club is as bad as some of the sleazeballs she’s worked for. Although she admits she thinks he has other businesses as well as the club.

I slip her enough money to cover the beer and the private dance I am never going to have and ask where I can find Hank Young.

Her eyes become slits. ‘You a cop?’

‘No. A potential business partner.’ I shrug. ‘For one of his other businesses. Not this one.’

Onyx tosses a fearful glance over her shoulder towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors.’

‘Then be a honey and go tell him to expect me. You can also tell him it’s about Candice and that I’m a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

Onyx stalks off towards the door, heels clacking as she goes; the seductive sashay has vanished from her gait as she tries to guess who and what I am talking about.

Five minutes later she hasn’t reappeared, although one of the obvious security cameras now points at me. I settle back in my seat, give the camera a wave and pretend to drink my beer.

Nothing happens for the next few minutes until Mr Steroids comes over to me. ‘Mr Young isn’t here today. I suggest you try coming back in twenty years.’

I keep my voice even and save the steel for my eyes. ‘He is here and in a moment I’m going to walk through that door marked private. If you try and stop me, you will be responsible for your own injuries.’

He lays a hand on my shoulder pushing me into the seat.

Digging a thumbnail into a pressure point on the inside of his wrist, I use my left hand to remove his and stand up. Thoughts of a counterstrike register in his eyes, so I squeeze a fraction harder, causing him to yelp and reconsider.

I look him in the eye and release my hold on his wrist. ‘You can lead the way, or I can knock you down and walk over the top of you. What’s it gonna be?’

Mr Steroids ambles towards the door rather than giving me a verbal answer.

I follow him but make sure there are a few paces between us in case he gets brave or stupid. There is also the possibility he isn’t the only goon on the premises.

Leading me through the door, he takes me into the non-public areas where there are a storeroom, kitchens, a changing room for the dancers and various other storage areas.

He doesn’t hesitate before knocking on an unmarked door.

This is a good sign as far as I am concerned. Hank Young doesn’t scare him more than I do after a simple move like squeezing on a pressure point. That tells me Hank Young isn’t too much of a tough guy and neither is his bouncer.

‘Enter.’

When we enter Hank Young’s office I get a glimpse of more than just the physical person. There are posters of girls dancing in the club on every spare piece of wall space and there is what looks like a hide-a-bed against the back wall. It doesn’t require too much stretching of the imagination to work out how job interviews go in a strip club.

Hank Young is a stereotype if ever I’ve seen one. Mid-fifties with a bald strip on top of his head, his remaining hair is greased into an oily ponytail. A faded sports coat adorns the back of his chair and his desk is littered with various bits of paper and two huge computer screens.

I wait until Mr Steroids takes up a position in front of the door before I take a seat. Deciding to try a gentle approach first, I lean back in the seat and try to look as non-threatening as I can. ‘I’m not here to cause you any problems, Mr Young. I’m here for information on one of your employees.’

‘So I heard.’ His brow creases. ‘You also said something to Onyx about being a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

His accent isn’t local, it’s more New York than Salt Lake. That is telling in itself. Either he is well-enough connected to keep the local gangs off his back or he pays them off.

‘Kira Niemeyer, who works as Candice for Fantasy Courtesans, has been murdered. Her body was found yesterday and after looking into her life, I was led to your door.’ Pressing home the advantage of surprise, I paint the blackest picture I can. ‘The cops’ll follow the same trail I have and when they come here they’ll tear your businesses apart. Interview all your staff, all your customers.’

I see his pudgy face blanch at the idea of the cops focusing on his business and the customers of Fantasy Courtesans. The investigation would ruin him and probably end in a lot of expensive divorces for his clients.

‘If you help me solve this case, perhaps we can work together to limit police involvement.’

The resistance drains from him. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I want the real names and contact details for Kira’s last ten clients and the dates she saw them.’

He starts to fiddle with his computer, but I’m not finished. ‘I also want references from other girls who’ve seen these ten clients. I want to know about any kinks or attitude problems.’

He looks up from the keyboard he is pecking at. Fear fills his eyes. ‘That’ll take days to do. The police’ll be here soon won’t they?’

‘Yeah, so you’d best get those answers as soon as you can.’

‘There’s no way I can get all that information together before the police get here.’

I throw him a glimmer of hope.

‘Perhaps not. But if you’re in the process of getting it, they may go easier on you.’

My logic gets a nod of approval before he turns back to his computer.

After five minutes he’s scribbled out a list of names and the dates they’d seen Kira aka Candice.

The most recent client had seen her ten days ago, the previous to him had been three weeks ago.

Reading down the list, I see regular gaps of two or more weeks between each client.

I rap my knuckles on the desk. ‘Are there usually gaps this long between clients?’

‘No. The girls who work for Fantasy Courtesans usually only see one client every month or six weeks. Candice is, sorry, was one of our most popular courtesans and she chose to see more clients than anyone else.’

‘Do you know if she worked for anyone else?’

‘She didn’t as far as I’m aware, but she might have.’ Young adds an email address to each of the names on his list. ‘That’s the only contact details I have for them.’

I look at the list again. Some of the dates match Kira’s Amex usage. ‘On some of these dates she flew to LA. Did she visit clients at their own place?’

‘Certainly not! My girls are not dial-a-hooker bimbos. They are high class courtesans.’

I make a point of looking around his office with a cynical expression. ‘So what was she doing in LA, when according to you she was with clients?’

‘Some of our regular clients organise vacations where the courtesans accompany them to various Caribbean resorts. They meet at LAX before flying to the client’s chosen destination.’

I can’t help but notice how he refers to his stable of hookers as courtesans, as if using a classier word makes it less immoral and more legal. No amount of verbal window dressing can disguise the fact he is a pimp based in a strip club.

I don’t expect any more from him, but I push to find out more about the names on the list from his other girls and place a card on his desk as I rise to leave.

‘Call me as soon as you learn anything.’

Young fingers the card I’ve given him. ‘Mr Boulder, while I am sympathetic to your cause and grateful for your coming here rather than just informing the police, I do not like the way you have assaulted my employee. Should you further trouble any members of my staff, you may find you regret it.’

Mr Steroids turns away from the door and opens it for me, but I am not fool enough to go first and present him with a chance to get some revenge. All the time we’ve been in the office, I’ve been watching him from the corner of my eye as he fought the urge to massage his wrist.

‘Watch your security tape again and you’ll see he made first contact. I just made a more telling one.’

While I could use some fancy line about his man’s poor chances, I’ve always thought actions speak louder than words.

I give Mr Steroids a push into the wall he is walking towards and then stand back with my fists in front of my face.

He bounces off the wall, turns and gives a roar as he launches himself forward, his ham-sized hands rising to match mine. My judgement about him is correct and I can see he fancies his chances in a straight fist fight.

Swinging my leg forward I kick him under the knee, my boot lifting the kneecap enough to tear cartilage and sinew. He gives another roar, only this one is filled with pain instead of rage.

He hops on one leg with his injured knee held between both hands. His eyes stay on me as he awaits the next blow.

I put him out of his misery by thumping the heel of my hand against his exposed chin. The blow drops him into an unconscious heap.

Young hasn’t moved from his chair.

‘I’ve joined your sordid little website and you’ve got my joining fee.’ I point at the unconscious Mr Steroids. ‘Consider that me getting a bang for my buck. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause you any problems. But if I wanted to, I could cause you a lot of big ones. Understand?’

I don’t wait for his answer.

Once I’m back in my car, I send the names and email addresses to Alfonse so he can start tracking them down.

12

The Watcher turns from the side road and falls in behind the car, intent on following his next target, prepared to follow him until an opportunity presents itself.

This is what he does when stalking his prey. Observe routines, plan and wait his chance.

He’s four cars behind Paul Johnson as he turns north towards Panchtraik Reservoir. He knows the man works on the reservoir as a technician, managing the flow of water over the turbine blades.

Darkness is falling as he leaves town. Once he’s on the open road, the other three cars accelerate past the slow-driving Johnson leaving the two of them behind. He eases off the gas until he’s a half mile or so back.

Tail lights are visible in the distance and he knows where Johnson is going, so it’s safer to hang back rather than alarm him.

Twenty miles from town, he sees hazard lights come on. The gap between the two cars closes. Fast.

His heart thumps and he can feel his right foot pressing down harder. Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and eases off the gas a little. If this is to be the opportunity, then great, but he’s not going to blow everything by pouncing too soon.

The knife used on the Niemeyer slut has been dumped and his random selection has thrown up a framing hammer for Johnson. It lies in the passenger footwell on top of a few other tools put there as camouflage.

His hand caresses the shaft of the hammer as he approaches Johnson’s car. He’s pulled as far off the road as he can and the Watcher can see the back end of the car is jacked up at one side.

The opportunity is just too perfect to be passed up.

He draws to a halt and parks twenty feet behind the lame Chevy. Johnson rises to his feet and shields his eyes from the Watcher’s headlights with one hand. The other holds a wheel wrench against his leg.

The Watcher climbs out and fixes a smile onto his face. ‘You need some help there, buddy?’

‘I’m fine changing the wheel, but if you could pull your car a bit closer the light would be a big help.’

‘Sure thing.’ He pulls his car nearer to Johnson’s, resisting the urge to floor the gas and crush his target between the two cars.

He chats to Johnson as he removes the wheel and replaces it with the spare. It’s one of those narrow space-savers and looks odd where once there was a fat tyre.

Johnson puts down the wheel wrench and turns to start lowering the jack.

The wheel wrench speaks to the Watcher so he relegates the framing hammer until another time and slips his fingers around the wrench.

A look both ways to check for headlights reveals nothing.

The first blow lands on Johnson’s temple, just below the greying hair. He falls onto his back.

Ten more times the tyre iron smashes into the target’s face. He counts the blows then adds another to make it a round dozen. Odd numbers are just that as far as he’s concerned. Odd.

He pulls back Johnson’s cuff and checks for a pulse.

There isn’t one, so he begins the clean-up before someone comes. His muscles burn as he hauls Johnson’s body into the trunk of his own car. He’s heavier than expected and the virus has weakened him more than he cares to acknowledge.

The jack and wheel wrench are tossed on top of the body. Sometimes it’s safer to leave the murder weapon with the victim rather than get caught trying to dispose of it.

Next he strips to his jockey shorts and dresses in the spare clothes kept in his trunk.

He turns south until he finds a side road where he hides his car and opens the trunk. It only takes him a minute to don the ghillie suit before setting off at a run towards a decent vantage point.

The only thing he carries is a pair of night-vision binoculars and a desire to further progress the pattern.

Hunkering down in a clump of sagebrush, he wriggles until he’s comfortable. A rock is picked from beneath his chest and placed to one side. It may be a long wait but he’s in no hurry. All that matters is having a good view of Johnson’s car.

13

By the time I pull into Alfonse’s drive I am tired, hungry and more than a little irritable. Long drives are part of the American way of life but they’ve been the hardest thing for me to get used to.

Driving mile after mile on arrow-straight roads where the biggest dangers are speed traps and the soporific effect of tyres on asphalt always grates on my nerves. Being a man of action, the two-hour drive each way felt like a waste of time, despite the fact I’d gotten pretty much all the information I’d hoped to get.

I enter the house and find Alfonse beavering away at his laptop. He doesn’t speak, but he does nod his head towards the kitchen. The mixed smells of coffee and chilli were already drawing me in like some kind of culinary mermaid.

After fixing myself a large bowl of chilli and filling two mugs with coffee, I sit down at the opposite side of his paper-strewn desk.

Alfonse pushes his laptop away and stretches without leaving his seat.

I swallow a mouthful of chilli. ‘What you got?’

‘I’ve traced nine of her last ten clients, and read through the messages she received through the site. They’re all about the last visit or fantasies for the next one.’ A shrug. ‘It all seemed rather mundane. At least as far as that kind of thing can be.’

‘Do any of her clients seem like a possible?’

‘Not at all. Judging by the message history the clients are ones she’s seen a number of times before.’ He passes me a sheaf of papers with all the details on. ‘I also found a database she had created on each of her clients and their sexual preferences.’

‘You’ve been busy.’ It may be stating the obvious, but it’s as close to praise as either of us is comfortable with.

He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and leaves me to finish my chilli while I read the notes.

Alfonse’s chilli is just perfect, hot enough to tingle the lips, yet not so hot as to scald the throat. I spoon away until the bowl is empty, my eyes never leaving the spreadsheets he has drawn up.

Eight of the nine live several hundreds of miles away, while the ninth has a number of homes around the world. Each of the men is wealthy in a way I can only dream of.

Thinking about it, I should have figured that out from the prices listed on the website. Kira and the other girls charge ten big ones per visit. And that is for basic companionship. Vacation company is fifteen grand a day plus expenses.

The guys who hire these hookers aren’t your average Joes working behind a desk for someone else. They are guys who own companies, run multinational businesses or live off family money.

In fact, they are guys like her father and brother.

Is that what Kira’s hooking was about? Some distorted way to seek revenge against her father? The secret kept so clients could laugh at him behind his back?

That line of thought doesn’t ring true with my memories of her though. No matter how much I scour my brain, I can’t recall Kira criticising her father or other family members in any way.

Eight of the ten had seen Kira at her home in Casperton. One of the others had booked her for vacations of varying lengths and the final one had requested she join him in LA to entertain guests at his parties. Alfonse’s digital excavations had followed the clients back through time. All bar one had at some point visited her in Casperton.

That meant we had nine suspects who knew where Kira lived.

We know who nine of these men are but the tenth is a mystery. He’s the one with the party bookings. Lifting the spreadsheet bearing his alias, I look at the message history Alfonse has attached and see the tenth man booked Kira on three separate occasions.

Her brief for the parties was simple. She was to be one of a number of girls hired to accompany and entertain her client’s friends.

This gets my brain firing a bit faster and my pulse throbbing with a greater intensity as adrenaline surges through my body. Everything about this booking screams organised crime.

It is one of the oldest tricks in the book: a mob boss would invite a few people to their home for a party. Stunning hookers would be there and when the married businessmen and politicians had been fed enough alcohol, they’d bed one of the hookers. Usually in a room with a two-way mirror and lots of video cameras.

A few days later the hapless victim is presented with a video or pictures of their indiscretion and given a choice. Submit to their blackmailer or face the wrath of their spouse.

If Kira had gotten herself mixed up in anything like that, there could be a whole army of people bearing grudges against her.

The sound of a toilet flushing is followed by light footsteps as Alfonse returns.

‘What do you make of it then?’

I scratch my head. ‘The whole hooking thing has made it impossible. We’d have to fly halfway around the west coast just to speak to everyone and the guy you haven’t yet identified looks real suspect to me.’

He asks what I mean, so I tell him my suspicions.

‘If the guy is involved in organised crime we should steer clear.’

‘Agreed. But how come you haven’t been able to identify him? There’s an address on the first message telling Kira where the party is being held.’

‘The house is owned by what looks to be a dummy corporation operating from a PO box. I can find out who’s behind it given time, but I wanted to take a look at the others first so I had something for you when you got back.’

His words further raise my antenna, but I’m not sure we should be going up against people in organised crime.

Alfonse rubs the back of his neck. ‘If they are involved in organised crime, why do you think they didn’t use some of their own girls?’

The question shows Alfonse’s naivety. ‘Either they’re not involved in prostitution or they wanted stunning girls to act as their honey traps instead of street walkers.’

‘I figure.’

‘You’ve read the messages between Kira and her clients, right? It doesn’t seem like there’s anything she wouldn’t do upon request. Imagine the leverage a few photos of some of that stuff would give you.’

While reading the messages Kira had exchanged with her clients, I had been surprised at her willingness to play whatever part was requested of her. Nothing was too kinky or off limits. By turn she’d been submissive, dominant or compliant to her clients’ most base and degrading whims.

‘So, what’s our next move, Jake? Do we fly around half the country pestering wealthy men about their sexual antics with a dead hooker or do we try another angle?’

I think for a moment. ‘You find out who the tenth man is. I’ll deal with the other nine.’

Seeing Alfonse’s eyes narrow as a thought comes to him, I raise an eyebrow.

‘Do you think it could be her father or brother? I mean, maybe they found out about her hooking and decided the only way to stop her was to kill her.’

‘Why hire us then?’

‘Cover. Or maybe her father doesn’t know and it was her brother.’

‘I don’t buy it, Alfonse. It’s too much of a stretch to be her father. If it was her brother, Farrage and his goon squad will be looking at them as a matter of course.’

‘True.’

‘Besides, what about the forensic reports from where she was found? Didn’t Emily say the tests would be done by now?’

He looks at his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting her in an hour for dinner. I’ve to pick her up at the Coroner’s Office and she’ll let me see the reports before we eat.’

‘Off you go then. Enjoy your date.’ The look he shoots me is pure venom. ‘I’ll stay here and keep digging.’

Setting myself before his laptop, I go to the home page of Fantasy Courtesans for another look around the site. As I search through the various pages, I put in a call to my mother.

I have to ignore the mixed messages my brain is getting from my eyes and ears until we’ve gone through the usual small talk. After five minutes of chatter I’ve got the number of her psychologist so I bid her goodbye and hang up.

My mother has embraced American culture and all of its foibles and nuances with a fervent zeal since we moved here. Her accent is now a mish-mash of Glasgow and Utah, and shows favouritism to one or the other depending on her frame of mind. Seeing a psychologist is all part of the lifestyle for her.

I don’t believe she’ll ever get over the way my father just upped and left one morning, but if seeing Dr Edwards helps her come to terms with his abandonment, I’m all for it.

Calling the psychologist’s office, I manage to catch the receptionist before she leaves for the day. My luck is in. Dr Edwards has a window tomorrow morning.

Laying down my phone I refocus all my brain power on the Fantasy Courtesans website. Earlier, I’d skimmed across the site until I’d found Kira. Now I’m taking a proper look.

Everything I see suggests Young has walked a fine line. The site offers companionship and a girlfriend experience from all its ‘models’. The text indicates the girls would help ‘distinguished gentlemen live out their fantasies’, in a way which promises much without admitting anything illegal.

There are six other girls working for Fantasy Courtesans but their whereabouts are vague at best. Kira’s location is listed simply as Utah.

I’m surprised Young hasn’t taken down the page featuring Kira. In his position it would be the first thing I’d do. Picking up my cell, I call him, intending to apply some pressure.

‘What do you want, Boulder?’

‘I want to know if your girls have got back to you yet. Also I want to know if you’ve had any problems with any of your customers, particularly the ones who’ve seen Kira.’

‘Give me a chance. I’ve only just gotten back from the emergency room. My man is on crutches, thanks to you.’

My natural sarcasm gets the better of me. ‘While I’m pleased to hear you care about employee welfare, I’m trying to catch a killer and need that information as soon as possible.’

‘I’m on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’

‘Make sure you do. The police can’t be far behind me.’

There’s little point pushing him any harder, so I hang up and create a new email address. Then I send the same email to each of the nine people Alfonse has identified.

I’m not happy about the content of the email or the tone it carries, but time is pressing and I know the odds of catching a killer decrease with every passing hour.

14

I stride into the police station and find the same lethargic sergeant as yesterday still rooted to his chair.

He ignores me as I take the corridor towards Chief Watson’s office. I wait for a response to my knock but get nothing. Three more times I knock, hoping the chief is taking a call. Nothing.

A laughing voice echoes up the corridor. ‘Chief ain’t in.’

I return to the desk and ask where the chief is, but the sergeant just shrugs at me with a malicious smirk twisting his mouth.

As I turn to leave, Chief Watson bursts through the door. The way his brow carries extra furrows doesn’t bode well.

‘What do you want, Boulder?’

‘I’m here to update you on what we’ve learned about Kira Niemeyer.’

His eyes flash as he waves me towards his office. ‘You just bought yourself two minutes.’

He makes notes as I speak. I pay close attention to his face when speaking and there is a tiny glimmer of surprise when he hears about Kira’s hooking. That one split second of lost composure tells me all I need to know about Farrage’s progress. I tell him everything apart from the fight with Mr Steroids and the identities of Kira’s clients.

It takes a lot of self-control not to ask him how Farrage’s investigation is going, but I need to keep the chief onside.

He asks the odd question then sits back in his chair. ‘Overlooking the illegal methods you and your buddy used, I’d have to say you’ve made decent progress.’

He speaks again while I am still considering how to reply to his dig about illegal methods. ‘From what you’ve told me, the list of suspects could be massive.’

‘It should also include her family members.’ The chief’s eyebrow lifts. ‘Her father is an influential man who would lose a lot of standing if her secret came out. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he or her brother were responsible. Unlikely, but not impossible. The brother will also stand to gain a larger inheritance now.’

He rises to his feet indicating the meeting is over. ‘Thanks for coming in. Because of your report, I now know which way to point Lieutenant Farrage.’

My nose for trouble has often caused me grief, but it is now twitching enough for me to pay it some heed.

‘There’s something else going on isn’t there, Chief?’

There’s a moment’s hesitation before he answers. ‘You could say that. A man has been found in the trunk of his car with his face mashed to a pulp.’

I can’t stop the low whistle passing my lips. ‘Two bodies found in three days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got a serial killer on the loose.’

The haunted expression on his face tells me that’s what he’s afraid of.

Serial killers, despite all the movies and books suggesting otherwise, are a rare occurrence. Spree killers are more common, but whomever is behind the killings in Casperton it isn’t a spree killer. It may not even be a serial killer as the methods are different.

Somehow I know serial killers are only recognised as such when they’ve been accredited with five or more murders. I guess that when the magic number is reached the feds will swoop in and take over.

I can empathise with Chief Watson. If he does have a serial killer on the loose, he has big problems. Farrage and his buddies aren’t equipped to deal with a high-profile and intense investigation. That leaves him as the only competent detective in Casperton PD.

In all probability, three more people have to die before the chief gets the help he needs.

‘Have you identified the body?’

‘Yeah. I’ve just come back from informing his family.’

I don’t ask the question. I just look at him until he answers it.

‘Paul Johnson. He’s divorced with one kid and worked up at Panchtraik Reservoir. The car was parked halfway between here and there. It looks like he stopped to change a flat and got himself killed.’

‘It doesn’t match, does it? Were his wallet and cell taken?’

‘No. And the keys to his car were in the ignition.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a robbery. Good luck with that.’

‘You’re not taking an interest?’

I shake my head. ‘We’ve been hired to investigate Kira’s murder. It’s your job to investigate every homicide.’

Leaving the chief to his thankless task, I drive towards the Tree. I’m due to start work soon and I’m hoping it will be busy. I have a bunch of questions I need answers for.

15

I wake up feeling only half refreshed. After speaking with dozens of people to no avail, I’d come home and worried at the mystery some more.

Alfonse has emailed me the key points from the forensic samples lifted at the site where Kira’s body was found. Other than specks of blood on a couple of branches, there was nothing of significance found within the immediate vicinity. Considering how Kira had been killed it was almost certain the blood would prove to be hers, but the CSI team will still test every drop found.

A wider search uncovered a few items of trash but they all showed signs of weathering and were probably dropped by hikers or kids partying.

Kira’s body has undergone the routine sweep for forensic samples and drug tests. The results coming back negative isn’t a surprise. Programs like CSI have made the general public forensically aware, which means anyone in possession of live cells takes precautions against leaving trace evidence.

On the other hand, the lack of fibres and hairs tell me Kira’s murder was planned in advance. Therefore, she was a specific target, killed for a reason.

Nobody I’d spoken to at the Tree had given me any information worth pursuing. Tallying with my own memory and impression of her, everyone agreed Kira had been an easy-going person who caused no offence and was more inclined to make friends than enemies.

I log on to my PC and check the email address I created to contact Kira’s clients.

I’ve got two replies already.

Both responders offered condolences and promise to call me at some point today.

I guess some may think it unprofessional of me to email potential suspects suggesting they call me to clear their names. Those people can go take a running jump at themselves. I need to speak to these guys and this is the best way I can think of to get their attention.

Because I don’t have the time or resources to see each one face to face, I’d instilled a measure of urgency into their responses by threatening to go and question them at their home or workplace. As I’d done with Hank Young, I’d reminded them how it was in their interests for Kira’s killer to be caught before the police knocked on their door.

I’m not proud of my actions, but sometimes the means are justified by the ends.

The first call from one of the nine comes as I am stepping into the shower. I lift the new cell I’d bought in Salt Lake City and answer the call. I hang up after five minutes feeling none the wiser.

The person I’d spoken to broke down in tears when questioned about his times with Kira. His protestations of innocence carried a truthful ring. Throughout the call, my bullshit detector had remained silent. While not infallible, it tends to be right ninety-five per cent of the time.

I never feel comfortable with men crying, more so when the man in question is a stranger. To me the whole idea of baring your soul in such a public fashion feels sordid and grubby. My skin begins to prickle and itch as I strike a mental line through his name and climb into the shower, where I scrub myself under a jet of cool water until I feel clean and invigorated.

Forgoing my usual jeans and T-shirt combo, I dress in my best shirt and add a jacket. The shoes I choose are the ones least in need of a good polish.

While I’m not concerned about my appointment with Dr Edwards, I want to make the right impression. It is no secret the good doctor has been urging my mother to have me visit him. For some reason he is positive the issues affecting her will one day manifest themselves in me. He is either caring enough to try and make a pre-emptive strike, or dispassionate enough to get his claws onto my wallet as soon as possible.

Being a fighter by nature, I register the value of a pre-emptive strike better than most, but there’s no way I’m prepared to expose my fears and worries to a shrink.

I’ll deal with my dark thoughts in the usual way, in the company of Jim Beam and Sam Adams.

16

Alfonse munches on a slice of toast as I inform him of my progress. The traces of raspberry jelly sticking to the moustache of his goatee give him a comical look I can’t forego taunting him for.

‘And one of them actually called you?’

‘Of course. I expect them all to call me.’

‘You’ve got some cojones…’ He breaks off at the ringing of my second cell.

Fighting to remove the smile from my voice, I answer it and reach for a pen and paper. Questions are asked and answered once again, although I am grateful this particular caller retains his composure.

I make a few subtle changes to my questions and listen not just to the answers but also to the pauses between them. I also pay close attention to the caller’s tone as he speaks.

Almost a whisper, his voice tells me he is worried about his involvement with Kira becoming public knowledge. I suspect he is calling from home and his wife or girlfriend is also in the house.

I listen as he gives his answers and offers me fifty grand if I find Kira’s killer before the police come to his door.

The extra payday is unexpected and unwelcome. His money is tainted with a sordid momentary guilt. If he really feels so bad about what he got up to with Kira, he shouldn’t have kept a regular appointment with her.

I am about to refuse his money when a better idea comes into my head. The fifty grand can be given to a charity supporting ex-hookers and their offspring.

Finishing the call, I use my pen to strike a line through his name and toss the cell to Alfonse.

‘I’ve an appointment I need to keep.’ There is no way I’m telling Alfonse I am going to see Dr Edwards unless I learn something useful when I’m there. After all the times I’ve decried shrinks of all forms, his mocking will be relentless. ‘You’ll have to answer the pervert hotline.’

‘Where you going?’

‘I’ve half an idea I want to run down.’

‘Do tell.’ I can see my evasiveness is intriguing him.

‘Never mind that. How did your date go?’

‘Five minutes in, I was reminded in stark detail exactly why I broke up with her last time.’ He gives a mock shudder. ‘That screeching laugh of hers goes through me quicker than an express train.’

‘I’m so glad I got you two back together.’

He flips me the bird. ‘She wants to see me tomorrow night and I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for saying no without us losing her help.’

I know I’d better change the subject before his anger becomes genuine, so I tell him of an idea I’ve had and ask him to look into it.

17

I arrive ten minutes early for my appointment with Dr Edwards. My intention is to allow myself time to get a feel for the environment and prepare myself for this step into the unknown.

When I walk into the building, I’m greeted by a pretty blonde receptionist in possession of the highest cheekbones I’ve ever had the good fortune to see.

All thoughts of preparation leave my head when I give an instinctive look at her left hand and see a bare ring finger. Her eyes see where mine go so I take her smile as a sign of encouragement.

Thickening my Scottish accent to the point where it melts the heart of most American girls, I give her my name and ask hers.

She looks for my name on her computer as she gives me hers. We flirt for a couple of minutes until a sobbing woman emerges from Dr Edwards’ office.

As she walks across to comfort the woman, she passes me an appointment card with a time, venue and date on it. I flash her a smile and a nod of agreement as I walk towards Dr Edwards’ office.

‘Come on in, Mr Boulder.’ He points at a huge leather couch. ‘Take a seat, or lie down if you prefer.’

I sit. Looking around, I see his office is all neutral calming tones. No hot reds or cold blues in here. Just soft beiges and creams, although I’m sure his interior designer described the darker colours as mushroom or honeyed teak.

Dr Edwards is similar in his dress sense. Flannel pants with light flecks and a cream shirt adorn his slim body.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m not your usual type of patient.’

‘And what is my usual type of patient? If you know, please tell me – I thought us shrinks aren’t supposed to categorise people. I may have to discharge a few stereotypes to create a better balance.’

I give him a small nod. ‘Touché.’

I’d expected him to be sharp witted but I’m not prepared for caustic humour. If it wasn’t for the twinkle in his eye and his relaxed stance, I’d think he was having a genuine pop at me.

‘What I mean is that I’m not here for you to see me. I need to talk to you about a friend of mine.’ As soon as I finish speaking, I realise how lame my words sound.

‘Ah yes… your friend.’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Let me explain, Doctor, and you’ll see what I mean.’ He waves permission. ‘I trust I’d be insulting you if I asked if this conversation will be kept private?’

‘You would.’ He gives a half shrug accompanied by a small grin. ‘But every new client I’ve taken on for the last thirty years has used the same insult.’

Give Edwards his due, he sits in silence, jotting the odd note as I tell him the basic facts of Kira’s secret life and my occasional times with her.

When I finish speaking he lowers his pen and looks at me. ‘What is it you want to know from me?’

‘I’d like you to make some suggestions as to why she was hooking. What her motivations might have been.’

His lips purse. ‘Are you familiar with the term quid pro quo?’

‘Of course.’ I feel the smile fade from my lips. ‘Are you suggesting you’re Hannibal Lecter?’

‘No. I’m suggesting that before I answer your questions, you must answer some of mine.’

I almost stand to leave but I need his take on Kira. ‘Why do you want to know about me?’

‘To help your mother. I’m not breaking any confidences by telling you she worries about you. That she thinks your lack of a wife and children is due to the fact your father left for work one morning without a goodbye and never returned.’

It was a familiar statement and the cause of many arguments in the Boulder family. Mother always nagged me about finding a wife and giving her some grandchildren to spoil.

When my sister got married I’d thought the pestering would end, but Sharon had been unable to carry a baby to term. After her fourth miscarriage, Sharon and her husband stopped trying and bought a pair of chocolate Labradors.

Bracing myself for his questions, I gesture for him to start.

‘What are your thoughts on your father leaving?’

‘I have very little memory of him. He was this figure who used to come home exhausted every night and climb into the bath after tea. At weekends he would play games with me and Sharon until the pubs opened and then he’d be off.’ I ignore the scratching of his pen and put forward a question of my own. ‘What do you reckon Kira’s motive was?’

‘There are a number of possibilities. The first being she had self-esteem issues and wanted the adulation she’d engender fulfilling men’s basest fantasies. What’s your last memory of your father?’

‘Making sure I was in bed before he came home from the pub. Next possibility?’

‘That Kira resented her father in some way for something and hooked as a way to get back at him.’ He lifts a hand to forestall my interruption. ‘That doesn’t explain why she kept it secret, unless she’d told her family about it and only kept it secret from the rest of the world. What do you remember after your father left?’

I hesitate for a moment as I recall the oceans of tears Mother and Sharon had shed.

When I think about it, I figure he’ll have been told everything by Mother so I give him an honest answer. ‘I was only six, but what I remember is lots of crying and less biscuits. Mother tried to make ends meet on handouts from the government and by taking in ironing, but things were a lot tighter than they were before he left.’

‘I see. And how do you feel looking back on those days?’

‘Proud of Mother for the way she rose to the challenge of raising us by herself. She went without a lot of things so we didn’t have to…’ Realising what he’s done I trail off. ‘That’s two in a row, Doc. You need to give me two more reasons Kira lived the life she did.’

‘She may have resented living off her father’s wealth. Maybe this was her way of building a financially secure future for herself, so she didn’t have to rely on her father’s handouts. Another theory may be that she had a romantic notion that she could fall in love with one of these men. It may seem far-fetched but it’s not unknown for some girls to take up that kind of lifestyle in the hope they’ll snare a husband.’

I shake my head at his suggestions. Kira had no shortage of admirers and was pretty enough to turn the heads of those she was attracted to. There is no way she was lonely enough to use hooking as a way of meeting a husband.

‘What about the bondage dungeon? The submission? That’s a whole different ballgame from plain old streetwalking.’

‘I take it Kira never shared that kind of sexual activity with you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ I feel uncomfortable telling him this stuff but I’m aware he needs to know so he can properly answer my questions. ‘We had steamy passionate sex, but never once did she suggest anything like that.’

He sits without speaking, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. ‘That intimates that she had unfulfilled desires. The submissive aspect itself suggests feelings of low self-worth and a total lack of self-esteem. Yet you said that she would be the dominant one if that was her client’s preference. What is more indicative is the story you told me about one of her clients.’

I know the one he means. His eyes had widened and his scribbles had stopped as he listened to me relate how Kira had taken a trip with a particular client. That she’d taken a trip wasn’t interesting. The client’s requests and the fact she’d gone along with them had been a different matter.

Kira had agreed to meet her client for a one-week trip to the Caribbean. I’d read the message chain between Kira and the client. They’d discussed how she’d drawn looks from every person they’d met. How her nipples had been exposed by sheer material or the cut of her dresses. Together they’d reminisced over a maître d’ who’d been unable to take his eyes off her the night she’d worn a transparent dress and nothing else.

I’d read back to the start of the conversation and saw Kira agree to meet the client wearing nothing but a dress. The client was to provide all her clothes for the week and she was to wear them without question regardless of how revealing they’d be.

She’d agreed without compromise, her only question being if the client had her measurements.

‘To subjugate yourself in a private one-to-one situation is one thing. To do so for a full week, where you are publicly displayed like a trophy is another. It suggests a worrying level of inverted narcissism.’ He strokes his beard. ‘She’s saying “hey look at me” by wearing revealing clothes, yet by letting a man choose the clothes, she is displaying captive tendencies as the client would be with her, lapping up male envy and female disdain. I could write a whole paper based on that one encounter.’

‘Could this trait be something that would lead her into danger?’

‘Without a doubt. Not knowing how long it had gone on for, I couldn’t say if it was in any way responsible for her getting into a situation where she was killed, but it would lead to her seeking greater levels of subjugation to counterbalance the adulation from the client.’ He lays down his pad and looks at me. ‘I believe it’s my turn to ask you a question or two. Leaving your childhood behind and looking at your present life. Are you happy living the life you do?’

‘Absolutely.’ The answer is out before I’ve given it any consideration.

‘From what your mother has told me, your relationships don’t tend to last more than a few dates. Don’t you find it a lonely way to live?’

‘Not at all. I lived in the family home until I was twenty-two. My family are all close at hand and I see my friend Alfonse almost every day. I enjoy spending time at home by myself.’

‘I note you didn’t mention any female company in your reply despite it being the question. Why do you think that is?’

‘Because it’s not relevant. I’m not looking for a wife and the women I date aren’t looking for a husband. We meet up, have a bit of fun and move on.’

‘You said you enjoy spending time at home by yourself. What do you do to amuse yourself? Watch TV, listen to music, build model railways or something else?’

‘I read.’

‘You read?’

‘That’s right, I read. Action thrillers, crime books, classics.’

‘You don’t watch TV?’

‘I don’t own a TV.’

A note goes onto his pad.

‘From what we’ve discussed about Kira, what are your thoughts on her?’

Again his lips purse and brow furrows as he calculates what to say. ‘If she’d been a client of mine, I would have been most concerned about her long-term wellbeing.’

‘Could her family have done anything to stop her pursuing that lifestyle if they’d known about it?’

‘They could have referred her to someone like myself for counselling. Short of holding her captive there isn’t much else they could have done – she was a grown woman making her own decisions. They could have threatened her with calling the police but I’m sure she would be confident enough to call their bluff. Why do you get into so many fights?’

His question throws me for a moment as my thoughts are focused on what he’s saying about Kira.

‘I’m paid to break them up.’ A raised eyebrow invites me to continue. ‘Some of the guys decide they want to fight me when I toss them out or refuse them entry. We fight, they lose. Life goes on.’

‘Your mother worries about the day when you pick a fight with someone you can’t beat.’

‘I don’t pick fights, Doc. I stop them. The last time I started a fight I was still at school.’

He looks at me over his notepad. ‘It’s only a matter of time before you get into a fight you can’t win or go too far.’

I can’t stop the laugh before it bursts free. ‘You make me sound like someone who goes out looking for trouble. I’ve put many a man into the emergency room, but none of them have ended up in the morgue. I put them down and that’s the end of it. If they’re stupid enough to get up and try again, I make sure they don’t get up so easily the next time.’

‘I see a suppressed anger within you, Jake, a rage which will lead you into trouble if you don’t control it. Tell me, has anyone ever attacked you with a weapon?’

‘No.’ I don’t even have to think about the answer.

‘I’m worried that if someone comes at you with a weapon you’ll either get badly hurt or will turn your aggressor’s weapon onto them.’ He pauses. ‘It’s your mother’s worry too.’

That’s a low blow, which hits me twice. The problem is he’s landed the punch on my weak spot. I know that if someone comes at me with a weapon, my blood will boil too hot for containment. It is my biggest worry. Regardless of who comes at me, I make sure that when my hands go up, they stay empty.

I’m not going to admit my fears to him though.

‘You have occasions where you drink yourself into a stupor for days at a time. If someone came at you with a weapon during one of these episodes, do you think you could protect yourself and remain in enough control to not do something stupid?’

I lick my lips to buy a second or two of thinking time. ‘It’s never happened yet. Or at least if it has, I’ve had enough presence of mind to dispose of the body.’

My flippancy sees his top lip curl for a fraction of a second. ‘That’s not exactly a healthy attitude, Jake. You’re more than clever enough to have thought of these scenarios yourself. What do you think would happen?’

I don’t answer him. He has me bang to rights with my deepest fear and there is no way I am prepared to share that with anyone. I haven’t even let Alfonse raise the subject when he gives me one of his lectures.

After every drinking binge I take, Alfonse will regale me with whatever offence I’ve caused or stupid act I’ve committed. Then he’ll lecture me about the consequences of a local hard man being unable to stand when old foes have grudges to settle.

Still, I know leaving this question unanswered will tell the doctor more than anything I do say.

‘I’ve cut right back on my drinking and it’s over a year since I had one of those episodes as you call them.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be. The hangovers aren’t worth the high I get from the first few drinks.’

‘You do know your kind of addictive personality will only drive you on to greater episodes the longer you deny yourself?’

‘That’s why I’ve not had a drink for so long.’ My honesty surprises me. I hadn’t intended opening myself quite so wide.

He looks over his pad into my eyes. ‘Either never drink again, or learn to have one or two drinks once a week. These infrequent binges and the rage inside you will get you into trouble you can’t escape if you don’t.’

18

She’s using the treadmill as the Watcher lifts weights. From his position he can see the beads of sweat beginning to form on her exposed shoulders and the nicotine patch on her upper arm.

In a strange kind of synchronicity, he feels a trickle of sweat run from his forehead into his left eye. A blink clears it and he glances around the room so as not to be so obvious in his observation of his target.

Around the room are the usual suspects found in all public gyms. The elderly battling the effects of time twenty-five years too late, young bucks and does pushing themselves to the limit, as they hone their bodies into whatever sculpture fits their idea of perfection. A pair of morbidly obese guys are huffing and puffing their way towards heart failure or fitness.

One of the sculpted gym bunnies comes over to him and makes a comment or two about his physique.

He smiles, acknowledging her compliments and returns them with praise for her toned body. He can tell she’s into him and plays along a little for appearances’ sake, letting the handles of the weight machine rest against their stops and lowering sweaty hands onto his knees.

Her eyes drift to his left hand. They neither widen nor narrow when they land on the ring Melanie gave him. She talks some more and then departs towards the bank of rowing machines with a wave.

He watches her go, then scans the room for the target, finding her by the wall getting water from the cooler.

She mops her forehead with a towel and totters in the direction of an exercise bike.

While she’s making adjustments to the seat and fiddling with the resistance setting, he switches to a different position and resumes his workout. He feels a sense of gratitude towards her for using the gym he frequents every day.

There’s anything but pleasure on her face as she nestles onto the seat and begins the cyclic thrusts.

The untoned muscle on her legs is flapping as he observes her in more detail. Her face is lined with age and cigarettes. Despite the pumping music and sounds of people working out, he can hear the hungry rasp of her breathing.

Given the choice at her age, he’d forget about exercise and enjoy what little time is left before infirmity takes over.

Tonight will be her last on earth, her efforts at buying more time futile in the face of a scalpel in the wrong hands. His hands.

His plans were prepared long ago for whichever victims fell into the pattern; the method chosen at random from a number of available options.

Once identified, he couldn’t help but select the grandmother who lived alone. It is too easy an opportunity to pass up and he is ready to escalate and gauge the police response. Three murders in four days will give them something to think about.

Her walking into the gym as he worked out was unexpected but not a problem. He’d had no contact with her and his face is here more often than hers.

A yawn climbs his throat and he realises he hasn’t slept for almost thirty-six hours. Knowing he needs to be fresh for tonight, he leaves the others to their workouts and heads for the locker room. A high protein meal, a handful of prescribed drugs and an empty bed seem more attractive than ever.

19

After hearing the growl from my stomach, I delay meeting with Alfonse long enough to catch a burger and fries at Sherri’s Diner.

Tourists visiting the town marvel at its fifties charm and memorabilia. Locals hear their comments about how good a job the designer has done recreating the décor and smile to themselves. Sherri’s hasn’t been refurbished since 1954 and owes its well-preserved state to Sherri’s maxim: ‘It ain’t clean until you can see the face of the person stood behind you’.

Her daughter Terri took over in the mid-seventies and runs the diner with an iron fist wrapped around a gentle heart. Slacking employees and obtuse customers are evicted with a broom print on their ass, while a sob story will always see her reaching for the cash register.

The food is legendary in these parts and many of the higher-class restaurants have tried to lure her cooks away without success. The one time a cook accepted another position, Terri marched into the restaurant and berated the owners in front of a packed dining room.

I welcome the time alone with my thoughts, as I chew through the meat and starch from both my plate and the meeting with Dr Edwards.

His final comments are too informed for my liking, causing me to suspect Mother’s interference. Calling her on it will do nothing more than fuel her concerns. What I want is to quell both her worries and meddling.

There is another suspicion which has plagued me for a while. Perhaps no one has lifted a weapon against me because they can all see I have the capability to take the weapon off them and use it myself.

Am I the only one blind to the dangers of the MacDonald blood?

There are also his suppositions about Kira to consider. The way he’s offered an opinion without questioning me about her family life makes me wonder if one of them is a client of his.

There are few psychologists in Casperton and if Mother is right and Dr Edwards is the best, it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility Kira’s mother or another family member is one of his patients. If she is, he’d have a window into Kira’s family dynamics showing him all the grievances and underlying issues. That would explain why he’d spoken with such confidence when offered so little information.

Eating with one hand, I use the other to switch my cell back on and check for messages.

There are two from Alfonse asking me to call him as soon as possible. The email account I’ve set up has two new messages. The first is from Google trying to entice me further into their net. The second is one of the nine threatening legal action if I don’t stop making unfounded allegations.

My Scottish dislike of the sue and counter-sue culture fills me with contempt for this particular lowlife. I scroll through my memory banks to recall his specific perversions. There’s an acidic burn of disgust in my gut when I recall his messages asking to be bound then used by Kira.

Sending him a short message, I instruct him to call me or I will knock on his door and ask his wife if she can answer my questions. Underneath the threat, I list a couple of the things he’d requested Kira to do. That should have him reaching for his phone.

When I look down at my half-finished meal, I realise my appetite has gone. I cover the uneaten food with a napkin and drop a few bills onto the table. It’s best I leave before Terri cross-examines me about my lack of completion. The last time I’d seen her find a half-eaten meal, one of her cooks lost his job and two waitresses had run out in tears. The guilty customer had received a lifetime ban despite being a regular patron.

I call Alfonse when I get back to my car and listen while he updates me on his progress. He’s had a productive morning despite most of his results being negative.

Six of the remaining seven have called to protest their innocence and offer alibis for the time Kira was alleged to have been killed. None had sounded anything but remorseful. All had been eager to clear their names and help us catch her killer.

Where he has made some headway is in identifying the tenth client, an actor from a once popular sitcom. He’s dug into the client’s life and has found out he’s in LA filming. Once again he isn’t the star, but his part is large enough to keep him in work.

Knowing the odds of getting someone as narcissistic as a famous actor to call us are small, Alfonse has booked me on the next flight to LAX.

He promises to forward the confirmation email and hangs up.

I have a half hour to go home, throw a few things together and get myself to the airport.

20

The heat outside LAX hits me like a wrecking ball; unlike the more temperate climate of Casperton, Californian sunshine blisters uncovered skin for kicks.

The rental car is hotter than a blast furnace, so I climb back out after starting the air-con and wait five minutes under the shade of a nearby tree until the temperature inside the car is bearable.

My GPS says the journey from LAX to Hollywood should take around a half hour but the LA traffic has other ideas. I creep fender to fender for two hours until I can turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

If I had an iota of local knowledge, I’m sure I’d be able to find an alternative route, but in this strange land of eternal sunshine I’m a slave to the GPS. I crawl past surplus marts, gas stations, a score or more of light industrial areas and various stores offering everything from mattresses to fruit.

I’m not sure what I’d expected of Hollywood, but this normal-looking area holds no special attraction for me.

Speeding up to a mighty ten miles an hour, I follow the GPS until it tells me I’ve reached my destination.

Alfonse has tracked down where the actor is staying and arranged for him to be interviewed by the showbiz reporter for The Scotsman – a paper my grandfather read from cover to cover with a religious fervour. It’s good thinking on his part, as my accent will fit the role he’s assumed for me.

The Sunset Plaza is quite unlike any other hotel I’ve encountered. Ten storeys high, it fills a whole block with a regimented white façade giving it the air of a prison. The fact each window has a small balcony enclosed by metal railings only adds to the prison effect.

I re-evaluate my opinions of the actor’s standing. If his studio bosses have lodged him here, it’s obvious he isn’t their prize asset.

With time to kill before my appointment, I take a walk along the street to get a feel for the area.

When I’m on Hollywood Boulevard the area feels more like I’d expected it to. Cinemas line the sidewalks above the famous stars, and most of the people on the streets are tourists trying to spot actors and actresses. Every minute or two a large car with blacked-out windows will elicit pointed fingers and wild guesses as to its occupants’ identities.

I find a diner where I drink a soda and munch a sandwich while I watch the world go by.

After ten minutes I feel the need to shower and it isn’t the diner or the Californian heat making me feel this way. It is the whole falseness of the area. Tourists are being heckled by ambitious touts attempting to sell them trinkets and behind-the-scenes tours. Yet nothing here is real, everything is an illusion.

Hollywood is a place that deals with, and lives in fantasy and escapism. Yet the magic has escaped the conjuror’s influence to permeate itself into the fabric of the buildings and streets. If you close your eyes and listen you can hear the broken dreams of wannabe actors, scriptwriters and directors screaming their angst at the injustice of it all.

It is no place for me and the sooner I’m back on a plane to Casperton the happier I’ll be.

21

I approach the reception desk of the Sunset Plaza, and ask which suite the actor occupies. The interior of the hotel is all muted tones and soft furnishings in an effort to dispel the prison-like exterior. It doesn’t work.

A receptionist with bleached hair and implants that cause her blouse to gape crinkles her nose when she hears me ask for the actor.

Whatever dreams she has about forging a career in acting are sure to be added to the millions of voices I’d heard screaming earlier. If she can’t hide distaste for one customer from another, she’ll never make it in this most critical of towns.

‘Mr Weeper is on the tenth floor in the Rose Suite.’ She points me towards the elevator with a fixed smile. Her eyes tell a different story, wishing me luck in my endeavour.

I join a group of chattering executives in the elevator. It’s all I can do not to punch any of them for their inane corporate language.

Alfonse knows the disregard I have for celebrity and TV, so he’s emailed a picture and a short biography of the actor to me so I’ll at least address the right person in the room.

Striding along the corridor, I find the door to the Rose Suite obscured by a muscle-bound bodyguard with thick arms and a wedding cake neck.

When I tell him my business he grunts and knocks on the door. ‘The dude from the press is here.’

A thin woman opens the door. She’s wearing stress like an overcoat. It doesn’t suit her. Her eyes are beady, an air of annoyance and mistrust hang over her, turning every movement or gesture of the hand that isn’t pressing a phone to her ear into sharp, animated flicks.

I smile and introduce myself, laying on as much charm as possible. ‘Jake Boulder, from The Scotsman. Thank you for arranging this interview with Mr Weeper – I’ve been a fan for years.’

By now I’ve entered the room far enough to see Weeper standing on the balcony looking down. His room faces the centre of the hotel and when I join him I can see a group of young women sunbathing by a pool.

Such is his arrogance he doesn’t bother looking round before he speaks. ‘I’d do them all with the same boner.’

I clear my throat and wait for the next pearl of wisdom. One sentence has just outlined why a famous actor has to use hookers. This guy is a prime example of what Glaswegians call a bawbag.

He turns, right hand reaching for the bottle of beer on the table. I take his hand in mine and shake it with a repeat of my earlier introduction.

He winces at my grip, unaware of the effort it has taken not to crush every bone in his hand. ‘Oh yeah. The reporter.’

He stands an even six foot, but his thinning hair, forgettable face and expanding waistline suggest his best days are behind him.

He looks around until his eyes land on the stress head. ‘Mindy, bring a couple of beers will ya?’

I pull out my phone and fiddle with it as if I’m using it as a Dictaphone.

Mindy deposits a beer in front of each of us. ‘I’m off to collect those scripts. Back soon.’

I wait until she is out of earshot and lean forward. ‘I’m nothing to do with The Scotsman. I’m here investigating the death of someone you hired from Fantasy Courtesans. Girl by the name of Candice.’

‘You can go fu –’

My fist colliding with his jaw finishes his sentence. ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice.’

He launches his bottle towards my head, but I’ve stopped enough bar fights to know better than to get hit by a flying bottle. I hear it crash behind me as I step forward and give him a dig in the ribs.

This is getting out of hand far quicker than anticipated. I’m just glad Mindy is out of the way. I don’t hit women and her presence would have become a definite nuisance, although for her the stress of the fight may well be enough to finish the task working for Weeper has started.

I lift his cell from the table and toss it onto the bed as the bodyguard enters the room. ‘Is everything okay, Mr Weeper? I heard a crash.’

‘No, it’s not okay, Bobby. This jerk-off has just assaulted me.’ The words come out in gasps due to the damage I’ve done to his ribs.

Bobby’s eyes narrow as he looks at me. ‘Time to go, buddy.’

I don’t move.

When he comes forward I raise my hands and get ready to kick his kneecap but he isn’t as dumb as Mr Steroids. Hollywood types must have trained bodyguards. He keeps his hands level with his chest and waits for me to make the first move.

I feint a left jab and throw a right cross which he deflects with a meaty forearm. With my side exposed, he swings a left at my ribs but I roll inside his swing and reverse an elbow into his gut. I try to repeat the action, but his arms encircle me, preventing me from getting any power into the blow.

I’ve been held like this many times and know the best way out of it isn’t to wrestle or to try a reverse headbutt – any fighter worth their salt knows to keep their head well back.

I raise my right leg to waist level and swing it backwards with my heel aimed for his shin. If it lands, my kick is hard enough to break his leg.

It misses, but the momentum of the kick has shifted our equilibrium and we topple forward. I’m ready for this and twist so he falls onto his back with me on top of him. The jarring impact on the floor is enough to loosen his grip, giving me the chance to escape his clutches.

I get to my feet first, but only by a fraction of a second.

He comes at me. His professionalism is replaced with cold anger. He isn’t doing his job anymore, he’s intent on kicking my ass for having the gall to inflict pain on him.

I fend off his punches with my forearms, but I know I can’t do so for long. He’s a big guy punching like a boxer. It is only a matter of time before one of those blows slips through my guard or my arms become too heavy to lift. I’ve already suffered a couple of glancing blows that would have knocked me cold if they’d connected as intended.

It’s time for me to go back on the offensive. When his next barrage of blows end, I strike forward with my own, aiming punches at head, kidneys and ribs until he is so expectant of a punch coming, he doesn’t see the knee I lift into his groin.

Give Bobby his due, he doesn’t go down. He can’t however stop the natural impulse to grab the wounded area. I take a hard shot at his exposed chin, knocking him out.

I’m gasping as I roll him into the recovery position. He’s been a worthy opponent who’s tested me more than anyone I’ve fought for months.

Weeper is sitting on the balcony, one hand on his ribs and a look of incomprehension on his face.

‘When that jackass wakes up, I’m gonna fire his ass.’

His response is typical of the cosseted. Bobby has just taken a beating trying to protect him and Weeper wants to play the big shot by threatening the man’s livelihood.

‘Shut up.’ I glare at him until all traces of bravado have vanished. ‘I’m gonna ask some questions and you’re gonna answer them. If I think you’re lying, I’ll hurt you. If I think you’re holding out, I’ll hurt you bad. Understand?’

What little fight he possesses drains away at my threats.

‘You hired Candice from Fantasy Courtesans on a couple of occasions for parties you threw. Tell me what happened at these parties.’

‘It was just me and a bunch of friends. Once in a while we’d get a bunch of hookers together and have a big old party. The parties would happen at my place – I’m not married and don’t have a girlfriend.’

What a surprise. Even though you’re rich and famous, no girl wants to be seen with you.

‘Why did you fly hookers in from out of town? Surely there must be plenty here in LA.’

He looks at me as if I have two heads. If he does it again he’ll be lucky to have one.

‘Nobody famous uses LA hookers. Half of them tip off the press and the other half are followed by paparazzi. If I hire an LA hooker, I may as well call the LA Times and tell them myself.’

‘So why hire Candice a number of times? I’d have thought you would have got different girls every time.’

‘We took turns organising the entertainment, but Candice was special. She had no limits and would do anything we wanted except one thing.’ I gesture for him to continue before I knock the wistful look off his face. ‘She wouldn’t allow us to film her.’

That stands at odds with everything Kira had done with her other clients and could only mean one thing. She wanted to keep the hooking secret from someone. My guess is her family. Either that or she’d recognised Weeper for the douche bag he is and knew the film would end up in the wrong hands.

‘Did you ever set up cameras without her knowing?’

‘No.’ The answer comes too quick. As if he’s been expecting the question. I don’t trust the sly expression in his eyes so I punch him in the sternum and let him gasp for a while.

When his breath comes back, I wag a finger at him. ‘Try again. And be warned. Next time I hit you, it’ll be your face and you’ll not be able to see a film camera, let alone stand in front of one.’

His eyes widen as comprehension of my threat sinks in. Turning up with a ruined face would halt filming and cost tens of thousands minimum. Hollywood is the kind of town where careers are ended for the slightest mishap unless you are the star of the show.

I guess he is on a sticky wicket with the production company as it is, by the way he babbles his next answer.

‘Okay, okay. I did film her once or twice but not for the reasons you think.’ A smattering of bravado returns. ‘Who needs to film a hooker when you can hire her again?’

‘Get to the point.’ I clench a fist and cock my arm ready to throw it. His new-found bravery deserts him. I don’t want to carry out my threat as once I’ve messed up his face a bit, the only leverage I have is pain and despite him being a bawbag, I don’t want to stoop to outright torture.

‘You’ve got to understand. Parts have been getting thinner on the ground for me. All studios wanted was the latest good-looking kid with straight teeth and a wedge-shaped body. Older, more experienced actors like me aren’t getting the parts we used to.’

‘Your point?’

I know what he is going to say, but I have to hear it from his lips. To get the full confession, I’ll need to take it step by step as I need to know who his targets were.

‘I set up secret cameras in a couple of bedrooms. Then I invited a casting director to a couple of my parties. He didn’t sleep with anyone the first time, but the second time he slept with one of the hookers.’

‘And then you blackmailed him so you’d get parts?’

A nod. He doesn’t even have the grace to look shamefaced. ‘This town is built on secrets. I was just slow on the uptake.’

‘Did Candice find out about the video?’

He looks bewildered. ‘Why would she? The casting director didn’t choose her that night. He hooked up with a black chick with an ass like a hippo. Candice was with one of my friends that night.’

‘Do you remember the names of the other hookers you hired that night and where you got them from?’

‘Nah. Never paid that much attention to be honest. We changed them all the time. Candice was the only one we had on more than one occasion.’

‘Did you ever pull this stunt on anyone else?’

‘No need. I got a part that’ll keep me going for a few years… and when this dries up…’

He doesn’t need to finish for me to get his meaning. The whole journey out here has been a waste of time and money. James Weeper isn’t our killer. He is a sordid little sleazeball who’s happy to prey on others in an industry where only the most ruthless survive.

I stand and hold out my hand. ‘Thanks for your information.’

Like the fool he is he rises to his feet and takes my hand. Jerking him towards me, I plant a full power headbutt onto the bridge of his nose. As he goes down, I release his hand and ram my elbow into his mouth with enough force to smash teeth.

I might not agree with torture, but I’ve never seen anything wrong with dispensing a little justice whenever possible.

When he wakes up tomorrow morning he’ll have a pair of black eyes, a busted nose and a ruined mouth. I’ll have to start reading the entertainment section of the papers to see how his studio deals with him.

22

When I arrive back in Casperton, I fire up the Mustang and head straight for Alfonse’s. The traffic is light as I power into town.

I’m about a hundred yards from his door when my cell rings. Looking at it, I see an unfamiliar number.

‘Boulder.’ There are laws against using cell phones while driving, but there are also laws against speeding.

Chief Watson’s voice assaults my ear. ‘How soon can you get to the station?’

‘What’s up?’

‘There have been developments in the murder cases and I want your take on them.’

I screech to a halt outside Alfonse’s house. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

The Mustang is left running as I dash into the house, tell Alfonse to come with me and turn back towards the car.

I am only in the house for ten seconds, but I don’t miss the auburn hair of the coroner as she lies on the couch wearing one of Alfonse’s polo shirts.

I pull away from the sidewalk before he’s even shut the car door. ‘Some of us have been working.’

‘What can I say? When I told her I was too busy to see her tonight she came round with a casserole.’ Alfonse is a sucker for home cooking and any girl who feeds him will get his full attention. ‘Anyway, it’s twenty after ten and you haven’t even told me where we’re going.’

‘To see the chief, he called just as I arrived to interrupt your lack of application.’

It’s unfair of me to criticise Alfonse’s dedication. I’ve spent most of the day jetting around while he’s been stuck in front of a computer. The anger I feel towards Weeper hasn’t left me yet and like everyone else in the world, I have a habit of lashing out at those closest to me.

Alfonse is too attuned to my moods to let it worry him, although he’ll never take my abuse without fighting back. ‘So what have you done today, Poirot? Cracked the case? Shall I assemble everyone in the drawing room so you can identify the killer?’

My scowl advises him of my progress.

He changes the subject, asking what the chief wanted to see us about.

‘I dunno. He wouldn’t say on the phone and since I was so close to your place, I thought you might as well come along so the three of us can share all our news at once. It’ll save me having to brief you both separately.’

‘I’ve a lot to tell you, so don’t sit there with your mouth hanging open like you’re trying to catch flies.’

23

When we enter the police station we find Lieutenant Farrage and one of his buddies drinking coffee and sharing a joke with the desk sergeant. Their laughter rings around the reception in a way that doesn’t feel right.

Much as I dislike Farrage, I can’t grudge him a break. Emergency service personnel are famed for the grim humour they use to alleviate the horrors they have to deal with. Everyone has to have a release, but I would think even he would know better than to do it front of house.

Chief Watson’s head pokes from his office. ‘Hey! Just for once would you use what’s between your ears and keep your dumb jokes outta the public areas.’

I manage to resist the tempting notion of applauding the chief but it is close. Only the knowledge he is our ally stops me from mocking Farrage.

‘Boulder. In here please.’ His tone has softened a fraction but his anger is still evident. He too knows a worthy ally when he sees one.

‘This is Alfonse Devereaux, my partner.’ I gloss over the fact Alfonse is the real private eye and I do little more than help him out from time to time. Chief Watson doesn’t need to know that just now.

The chief shakes Alfonse’s hand and gets right to business. ‘This Niemeyer case is exploding outwards in a way I never expected. I’ve had Captain Kirrows from Salt Lake City looking at Bourbon A Go Go. Apparently a man matching your description went there yesterday and extracted information from the owner. This man used threats and then assaulted one of the employees. Can you tell me anything about it?’

I tell him everything I left out of my previous report. In detail. How Young was running a number of hookers under the auspices of an escort agency, the ways in which Kira was degrading herself for the paying clients. I even tell him about the way Weeper had blackmailed a casting director to get himself a part in the sitcom he was currently filming.

‘Am I going to get a call from anyone in LA saying you beat up this actor?’

‘You might, but it was self defence. He sicced his bodyguard on me just like Hank Young tried to do.’ I shrug. ‘All’s I did was defend myself.’

‘Really? Because I’d have been tempted to give that douchebag what for.’

‘You could have arrested him for blackmail. I couldn’t do that so I used my own methods.’

I need to move the conversation away from Weeper before the chief realises the actor wouldn’t confess to such a crime without a little coercion from me. ‘You didn’t call me in here to ask me about something we both know all about. What’s developed?’

‘We’ll leave aside the question of how you persuaded Weeper to be so frank with you. For now.’ His tone holds a warning that he can’t cover me for my illegal doings, even though he may benefit from the information I uncover. ‘I had Mr and Mrs Niemeyer visit me today along with their son. I took the opportunity to question them about their daughter’s secret career. I’m convinced none of them knew anything about it.’

‘Fair enough.’ I trust his instincts. They will have been honed through experience. ‘How did they take the news?’

Alfonse speaks for the first time. ‘Not well. Mr Niemeyer called and asked me to go and update them. When I arrived, Kira’s mother was in pieces and her father and brother were ranting and raving at each other. It wasn’t pretty.’

I know how poor Alfonse is at managing conflict in others and hear in his voice the discomfort he felt watching the Niemeyer family tearing itself apart. For his sake, I wish I’d been there. For mine, I’m glad I wasn’t.

‘I told the Niemeyers as much as I could without going into graphic detail, but I could see their devastation increasing with every word.’

Chief Watson nods. ‘I saw the same.’

Alfonse scratches at his arm. ‘Mr Niemeyer wanted to know if Kira’s hooking was common knowledge. I told him it wasn’t as far as we knew.’ His gaze shifts from Chief Watson to me. ‘He travels in different circles to us. It’s not impossible one or two of his buddies knew about it or even hired her.’

‘I know. It’s crossed my mind too. He’s the type who’ll have many business contacts from all over the state or country. Rich men with disposable cash.’

‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before in rich families. Shortly after getting the worst news, they start to think about their reputation and family name. God knows why she was hooking in the first place.’

Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from the attaché case he’s brought with him. ‘I think the answer to that question may be in here. When I was searching through the clone of Kira’s iPad I found a secret folder.’

‘I’ll forego the obvious questions of why you had a clone of her iPad and why you didn’t call me with this as soon as you had it, if the information you have points me towards her killer.’

‘That’s everyone’s goal, Chief. What’s in the folder?’ I give a pointed look at Alfonse to get him to continue.

Attuned to Chief Watson’s impatience-fuelled interruptions he gets straight to the point. ‘There is a journal dating back three years. I’ve only skimmed through the latest entries as I was concentrating on her accounts of recent clients. I was hoping there’d be clues there but nothing jumped out at me.’

I try to redirect some of Chief Watson’s ire away from Alfonse. ‘Surely the police digital forensics guys have got you the same information?’

‘You’re joking. Everything like that has to be sent to West 700 in Salt Lake City. They’ve got three guys to do that job for the whole state.’ He gives a weary shake of his head. ‘They’ve promised to look at it tomorrow, although I know for a fact it’s more likely Captain Kirrows will find a more urgent task for them. If I had the resources I’d outsource it but, because of the low crime levels here, there’s almost no budget when it comes to a real case.’

‘I’m sure Mr Niemeyer will be happy to pay for anything like that.’

As soon as I finish speaking, I realise my mistake.

‘Oh yeah, and how would that look? A few weeks into the job and the new police chief is asking grieving parents to pay for their daughter’s homicide investigation. It’s bad enough he hired you two because he knows that bunch of bozos out there couldn’t find their own asses with both hands. Asking him to pay for the investigation is tantamount to baring my ass on Main Street during the Holly Days Festival.’

‘You still haven’t told us why you called us in yet, Chief.’ It is Alfonse’s turn to change the subject. His words seem to add to the burden the chief is carrying.

‘You remember I told you about the guy who was found in the trunk of his car on 191?’

I nod. ‘What about him?’

‘His sister was the lady who found Kira Niemeyer’s body.’

The room falls silent as Chief Watson gives us time to process what he’s just said.

I’m the one to break the heavy silence. ‘Surely it’s nothing more than one of those nasty coincidences life throws at you just when you don’t need it.’

‘I hope so, because if it’s not, then it’s the start of something horrible.’

‘It’s got to be. What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know, but the fact is I have a bad feeling about this and I’m afraid my bad feelings aren’t often wrong.’

I cast around my mind then come up with the quote I am looking for. ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence and a third time is enemy action.’

‘Huh?’

Alfonse looks blank but Chief Watson gets my reference. ‘He’s quoting from one of the James Bond books. Goldfinger, I believe. What he’s saying is that Mrs Halliburton’s run of bad luck can’t be attributed to anything other than coincidence until a third event happens to her.’

I nod. ‘You’re right, Chief, but let’s just hope your bad feeling is wrong and we don’t have any more bodies connected to Mrs Halliburton.’

24

Leaving the police station, Alfonse gives me the rundown on what little he’s learned from the journal Kira kept in her secret folder. It isn’t much use to me but I’m sure Dr Edwards would have found it fascinating.

The introspection and self-justification passages he tells me about are bland. Some may even go so far as to say they are banal. As far as I’m concerned, they sketch a broad outline of her psyche at best. Even then, the sketch is drawn by an amateurish hand.

What amuses me is the way technology has been used to store her secrets. Where once a diary or journal would have been buried at the back of an underwear drawer, nowadays it becomes another file on an electronic device.

Fair enough, she’d tried to hide the folder and had passworded it, but what she’d failed to realise was, by doing so, she’d highlighted the folder’s importance.

The best hiding places are always in plain sight. Nobody bothers looking at a folder with a boring title like ‘utilities’ or ‘household accounts’.

A secret folder protected by a password will pique the interest of anyone who learns of its existence. The fact it has been found by a professional means it will be scrutinised from every angle.

I can tell by his behaviour that Alfonse has found something in the folder. Something he’s chosen not to share in front of Chief Watson.

‘So. What else did you find in Kira’s journal?’

His reply is hesitant. ‘A few bits and pieces but there’s a recurring theme.’

‘Which is?’ Even to my ears, my sigh is filled with impatience.

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Grow up. I’m a big boy. I can take it.’

Silence fills the car. I guess he’s trying to find the right words.

‘Spill it, Alfonse.’

‘She was in love with you.’

‘What?’ I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. ‘There’s no way she was in love with me. You’re jerking me around.’

‘You can read it for yourself. But trust me, she was deeply in love with you.’ There is no deception in his voice. We know each other well enough to spot misdirection, lies and pranks. None of his usual tells are vocal. Each one remains mute.

Now it is me who falls into silence. Alfonse’s statement has knocked me sideways. I’m glad we are only a minute or two away from his place. I need to verify his claim with my own eyes.

Try as I might, I can’t recall Kira displaying anything more than a passing attraction to me. I was a toy to be picked up and put down at will. The booty call arrangement suited us both. Or at least I thought it had. If she had been in love with me, she’d kept her feelings not just hidden, but buried.

The next thing I start to consider is what bearing this news may or may not have on the case.

Her wounds suggested a frenzied attacker. Hers was the kind of assault which is driven by fury or insanity. If that’s the case, jealousy could have powered the arm holding the knife.

Yet Kira hadn’t told me how she felt. Therefore, it is a stretch to assume she’d told someone else. Her pouring her heart out to someone who also harboured feelings for me pushed the bounds of probability.

Besides, I’m not the settling down type and I’m not conceited enough to believe women are prepared to kill over me.

Reasoning it out doesn’t stop me wondering though.

As I pull up to the kerb and switch off the engine, my memory is doing a roll call of the girls I’ve dated over the last year or two.

There is only one who had been upset about me not wanting to continue the relationship. Six weeks after I’d broken it off she’d come into the Tree with one of the roughnecks from the oilfields on her arm. From what I’ve heard, the two of them are now a solid item, looking to set up house together.

I want to share my thoughts with Alfonse but I can tell he is struggling with the news. He is too respectful a person to mock the dead or speak ill of them, but I have no doubt that in any circumstances other than a murder investigation, I’d have been slaughtered with one-liners and half-assed witticisms.

He’d always liked Kira and while he’d never been intimate with her to my knowledge, I’ve long suspected he carried a torch for her.

I wait until we are in his kitchen with coffee brewing before I seek his opinion. ‘You’ve had longer to think about it than I have. What do you make of it?’

‘Without blowing smoke up your ass, my first thought was that it was a jealous rival who wanted you for herself. Then I remembered what Emily said about the manner of her death. While there were a lot of wounds to make it look like a frenzied attack, the cut that killed her was delivered with precision. That suggests a deliberate attack by someone who knows how to use a knife. My next thought was that it might be a boyfriend who’d flipped after being compared to you. Following this line of reasoning, I went through her journal looking for the names of anyone local she’d dated.’

‘And?’ The sooner Alfonse arrives at the point the better, I’m tired after a long day, and the added mental strain from learning the victim was supposed to have been in love with me has done little to improve my temper.

‘I found she’d only dated three locals in the last eighteen months. Checking the dates against my memory, I figure she only dated when you saw someone more than a couple of times.’

If what Alfonse says is correct – and I have no reason to doubt him – it appears Kira was hedging her bets whenever she thought I might be in a relationship. When my brief sojourns ran their course, she would find a reason to dump the guy.

While Alfonse’s logic may well be sound, I don’t like it. I’m not egotistical enough to think anyone would behave that way over me. I’m nothing special, just a guy who likes hanging out with his friends, reading and earning an honest buck. On the flip side I also like getting into fights and once in a while drinking until I lose days.

Not enjoying this subject, I decide to move on from it. ‘So who’d she date?’

‘Pete Lester, Terrel Upson and George Chalmers.’

I know two of the names. Pete Lester is a builder who runs a small business, Terrel Upson works in a butcher’s shop on Main.

‘Do you know anything about this Chalmers guy?’

Alfonse passes me a sheet of paper across. ‘He’s an accountant. Works by himself and looks after local businesses. Small time and seems to be happy with it from what I’ve learned.’

The paper has a few details on Chalmers and a picture that looks like it has been lifted from a social media site.

While not great leads, they are the best we’ve got. We agree I’m to speak with them in the morning while Alfonse continues his digital excavations of their lives.

25

He waits until the sliver of moon is hidden behind a cloud and moves from his hiding place in the manicured hedge.

Each step is hurried but silent as he crosses the garden and approaches the house’s back door. Using a set of picks, he is through the door and inside the house in less than a minute.

He knows which room she’ll be in. He’s watched the house for hours, observing her movements. A trail of lights being switched off identified her bedroom at the rear of the house.

He is striking when the night is darkest. When the target is deepest in sleep.

She fits the pattern. She will die tonight. Her death will be a quick one. Painful for a brief spell, but quick compared to the Niemeyer slut.

As he moves towards the stairs he’s startled by the angry hiss of a cat. Inside the lounge a mangy tabby with fierce eyes arches its back.

Taking two steps forward, he reaches the lounge door and closes it while the cat is still deciding whether or not to attack.

Step by step he tiptoes up the stairs, keeping his feet against the left wall to minimise the risk of a creak betraying his presence.

The strong aroma of muscle liniment fills his nose, telling him the old girl has overdone it at the gym.

Reaching the top of the stairs he identifies the correct bedroom from the gentle snores.

His gloved hand clasps the door handle and he slips into the bedroom, taking care not to make even the tiniest sound.

Three brisk steps have him towering over her bed, the scalpel in his hand poised ready to strike.

26

I swing the Mustang into a parking bay and step onto the street. Four paces later, I feel the first prickles of sweat begin to encase my body. It isn’t usually this hot at this time of year, but it’s not unknown.

The growing heat causes me to be uneasy for another reason altogether. A friend has decided to take advantage of the good weather. He’s called with an invitation to an impromptu barbecue and pool party.

Claude is a lousy cook at the best of times. As a rule, his barbecuing produces more charcoal than a forest fire. Add to that a thirty by twelve hole filled with water and drunk people and you have a recipe for disaster.

I’d made vague promises, saying how busy I am, but I’ll try to get there if at all possible.

Before entering George Chalmers’s office, I take a moment to assess what I can see through the window.

Chalmers is seated at his desk with a vast ledger in front of him. To his left, nearer the door is the cleanest cut young man I’ve ever seen. He’s staring into a computer screen with serious intent when I hear the muted tones of a telephone.

Clean Cut lifts the telephone on his desk and speaks for a moment before transferring the call to Chalmers. Figuring Clean Cut is some kind of intern or trainee, I wait until the phone call ends then enter the small office. It’s the tidiest office I’ve ever stepped into. Nothing seems to be out of place. Even the papers on the desks are ordered and straight. A hint of cologne hangs in the air rather than the dusty smell of old files.

Before I can say a word, Clean Cut is out of his chair. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Chalmers Accountants. How may I help you?’

Not only is he too polite for words, he is even more clean-cut when close up. I reckon he’s never yet used a razor and won’t need to for at least ten years.

‘I’m here to have a word with Mr Chalmers.’

‘Do you have an appointment, Mr…?’

‘Boulder. No, I don’t.’ I look across the room to where Chalmers is pretending to look at the ledger while earwigging our conversation. ‘It’s to do with a case I’m working on for Devereaux Investigations.’

Give Chalmers his due, he doesn’t flinch at my words.

A shot of excitement fills Clean Cut’s face before professionalism and breeding remove it. He turns to his boss. ‘Mr Chalmers, do you have a moment to speak to a Mr Boulder about a case he’s investigating?’

Chalmers looks up from the ledger on his desk. ‘I have five minutes, Mr Boulder. I am afraid we are rather busy just now.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ I give a sideways nod at Clean Cut. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

He frowns then pulls a dead president from his billfold. ‘Michael, would you be so kind as to walk down to Sherri’s and get me my usual? I will take lunch at my desk today.’

Listening to Chalmers’s educated voice and his mannered speech pattern, the presence of Clean Cut begins to make sense to me. The younger man will be either a relative or a carefully vetted protégé.

As soon as the door closes, I pull up a chair ready to pepper Chalmers with questions about his relationship with Kira.

His nose wrinkles in distaste at my sitting without being invited, but I’m not too worried about his sensibilities. What I have come to discuss is far worse than bad manners.

‘Have you heard Kira Niemeyer was murdered?’

He nods. ‘A terrible business. Whoever could do such a thing?’

Not bothering to answer his question, I lock eyes with him. My intention is to go straight for the jugular with a candid account of Kira’s death. Get him on the back foot by offending his genteel nature. Perhaps I’ll get a flash of a darker persona lurking underneath. ‘Did you also hear how she was slashed seventy-two times before her heart was pierced? That her body was dumped half under a bush on a popular walking trail where it was sure to be found?’

The blanching of his already pale skin is the only answer I’m given. His eyes cloud with sadness as he considers my words.

‘Every cut was on her chest and stomach. Can you imagine what a mess that many wounds would do in such a concentrated area?’

He shoots from his seat and darts towards a door at the back of the room. I am three paces behind him when I recognise the room he’s entered is a bathroom. Chalmers isn’t trying to escape. He’s more concerned with hitting the toilet bowl with the streams of vomit pulsing from his mouth.

I step back into the office and return to my seat. There is nothing to be gained from standing over him, he’ll be out when he’s finished. Having witnessed his upright-citizen behaviour, I guess he’ll be shamefaced about his less than stoic reaction.

When he does emerge from the bathroom, his pallor has dropped a couple of shades to a hue interior decorators call apple white.

‘I am sorry. That was rather embarrassing.’

I wave away his apologies. ‘Don’t worry about it, you’re not the first person I’ve known to be sick after being told something horrible.’

He gives a small nod of thanks as he pulls a bottle of sparkling water from a desk drawer. ‘All the same, it is not very gentlemanly.’

There’s a danger we’ll keep going round in circles if I don’t change the subject, so I get to the real point for my visit.

‘Kira mentioned in her journal you and she dated. How long were you together, and when was it?’

‘We dated for around two months. It would be the middle of last summer.’

I cast my memory back and remember dating a dental nurse who’d wanted to teach me how to swim. Her increasing insistence had brought a swift end to our relationship.

‘Why did you split?’

He shrugs. ‘Why does any couple separate? I guess we were not terribly well suited.’

‘In what way didn’t you suit each other?’

He delays his answer by emptying the bottle of water into a glass. ‘Did you know Kira before she died?’

I nod and wait for him to continue.

‘You are a private detective. I am sure you have assessed me as a person, looked into my background?’

It’s my turn to shrug. ‘A little.’

‘Tell me, Mr Boulder, why do you think Kira and I parted company?’

It’s a good question. One whose answer makes sense.

Chalmers is a prig at best. At worst he’s a prissy little mummy’s boy who’ll expect his wife to conform to the Stepford model.

Kira and he wouldn’t be suited to each other in any way. While opposites are meant to attract, she was an untamed spirit who lived life at a pace that suited the rhythms of mood and moment.

Chalmers, on the other hand, is the type of person for whom routine is everything. A real ‘fish on a Friday’ kind of guy. He’d worship and provide a decent life for her and any kids they produced while suffocating her free-spirited nature.

Sure, physical attraction may carry them so far together, but his sort are planners by nature and Chalmers is at that age where the getting of a wife has been moved from the ‘one day’ to the ‘imperative’ column in his life ledger.

This line of thought almost leads me to discount him as a suspect until I have a second thought.

What if he’d fallen for her and had his marital offer discarded? I’ve learned from many a fight, the quiet ones often prove the most dangerous.

Perhaps her rejection had been the straw that broke the dromedary’s spine, flipping him from prissy clerk into a crazed killer, intent on making sure that if he couldn’t have Kira, no one else could.

As plausible as this sounds at first, the theory doesn’t bear much scrutiny. They’d been together last year. Suppressed personalities can be very unpredictable, but there had been no current trigger. If she’d been listed in the Casperton Gazette’s weekly round-up of engagements, there would be more cause to consider him as a suspect.

It wasn’t outwith the realms of possibility he’d found out Kira was hooking, but I doubt he has. While his office and clothes speak of a decent business, I can’t see an accountant being able to justify spending money on a hooker. Certainly not ones charging ten grand a time. While there is no particular kind or type of person who’d hire a hooker, I just can’t picture him booking one.

Still, I’m not ready to strike a line through his name just yet.

‘Okay, so you were different people who hooked up for a while. Tell me what you two did have in common. Where you hung out together.’

‘We did not exactly have a lot in common. We would perhaps watch a movie or go for dinner and then go back to my place.’ He blushes as his eyes look at anything in the room except me. ‘Our relationship was more physical than cerebral.’

‘I get it. When you first got together who instigated it?’

‘Kira did. I was quite taken aback at her forwardness.’

I have a struggle to keep my reply to that statement unspoken.

Kira would have eaten Chalmers up and spat out a chewed skeleton without her extra-curricular activities. With them it was a complete mismatch, which made David versus Goliath seem like a fair fight.

‘And who was it who called it quits? You or her?’

‘That was her too.’ He looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. ‘I did not let it bother me too much to be honest. The physical benefits may have been enjoyable but it was never true love for either of us. In fact, the night she told me it was over she as good as told me she was interested in someone else.’

‘Who? What did she say?’ My words come out in a hurried jumble. This was the kind of information that could point us towards her killer.

Again Chalmers delays by taking a drink of water before speaking. It’s as if he is searching his memory or is afraid what he says will disappoint me. ‘She told me that she thought a lot of me, but I would never be Jake Boulder.’

I guess I must have gasped as he asks if I am okay. Chalmers could have punched at me for an hour without doing a fraction of the damage his words had.

My skin develops a sheen of sweat. The thoughts and ideas in my head are tumbling around too fast to comprehend.

I haul myself together enough to focus my eyes onto his face. Staring hard at him I find no trace of deception or animosity. There is a tinge of empathy and embarrassment at the confession that has compared us in Kira’s eyes.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’

I nod, not trusting the desert that’s masquerading as my mouth. Taking the water from him, I gulp a mouthful and follow it with a steady drink.

‘Thanks.’ I hand the glass back.

‘I can see that threw you somewhat.’

‘Just a bit.’ I give a brief smile and try to make light of it. ‘It’s just a wee bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘I am sure it was. If it is any consolation, I was most perturbed when she said it to me.’

His use of perturbed jolts me back to a semblance of my regular self. I know what the word means, but I’ve never heard it used in conversation before.

‘Tell me, when you were together did she ever take you back to her place?’

‘No. I suggested it, but she always had a reason why we should go back to mine.’

‘What about her family, did she take you to meet them?’

‘Again the answer is no. I was not particularly bothered about meeting her family if I am honest.’

‘Why not?’ I think I may just be back on track, at least in appearance.

‘I could tell we were into different things and I find the whole business of meeting parents rather intimidating. Especially when you consider how wealthy her father is.’

I couldn’t begin to guess how much Old Man Niemeyer was worth, but then again, money isn’t my God. So long as I have enough bucks to get by from week to week I’m happy. How much or little other people have is their business, not mine.

An accountant like Chalmers will be obsessed with money and will no doubt have a pretty good handle on where in Casperton all the money, and the power accompanying it resides.

Being as he is such a prissy fellow, I figure appealing to his decency will get me some answers. Unless I’ve misjudged him, Chalmers’s moral code won’t allow him to be deceitful on matters which don’t directly affect him.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me that may help catch her killer?’

Chalmers talks for a couple of minutes. I don’t think anything he says is helpful but I let him finish just in case.

27

Next on my list of people to see is Pete Lester. I know Pete from his occasional visits to the Tree. He is a big guy with a cheerful nature and ready grin.

He’s also living embodiment of beauty only being skin deep. Few are the times I’ve seen him without some girl or other in attendance, despite him looking as if he’d fallen from the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch face first on the way down.

As I drive across town, my brain chews at the implications of Kira’s words like a starving rat.

You’re no Jake Boulder.

Whichever way up I stand those words, in any context I can think of, they always return me to the same conclusion. Kira Niemeyer had fallen deeply in love with me. Not the usual hearts and flowers love the gift card industry markets. Hers was the bat-shit crazy obsessive kind of attraction which poisons common sense and taints reason until you have a twenty-four-carat stalker on your tail.

What astounds me more than anything else is the way I’d been left unaware of her true feelings. To my mind I was little more than a booty call or a friendly conversation when our paths crossed.

That Kira had possessed such a depth of feelings for me is a haymaker from a world champion. Whenever we’d gotten together she’d exhibited none of the typical signs of clingy or nesting behaviour which so terrifies both Alfonse and me.

On the contrary, her behaviour often verged on being aloof or distant.

Realisation dawns on me as I pull into Pete Lester’s yard and climb out of the Mustang. Kira had been two steps ahead of me.

Feminine instinct, her natural intelligence or some other factor had warned her of the result of trying to ensnare me into a proper relationship. Recognising my ingrained bachelordom, she’d played a different game – always leaving the door open for a return while seeming indifferent to my response.

Looking back at our liaisons, I realised just how much she’d set the pace and tone. Kira and I had been good together. We both knew it and yet neither of us had wanted to make it a regular thing.

At least that’s what I had always thought.

How the hell had I gotten it so wrong? Not picked up even the slightest hint she’d fallen so hard for me?

I see Pete and a couple of his men loading a pickup with timber windows. As I walk across they begin tossing ropes across the pile.

‘Hey, Jake. Whatcha after?’ A squint-toothed smile follows his words.

‘I’m here to ask you a few questions.’

‘No sweat. What’s your problem, dry rot? Termites?’

‘Alfonse and I are investigating Kira Niemeyer’s murder.’

‘Better you than that dumbshit Farrage and his cronies.’ His own cronies nod agreement.

I can’t help but smile at their endorsement.

‘Thanks.’ I give a nod to the far side of his yard where his office is located. ‘Can we talk somewhere more private?’

‘We can.’ A callused thumb jerks towards his men. ‘But when I get back they’ll just ask what we’ve been talking about. And I’ll tell them. I’ve no secrets about Kira as far as they’re concerned.’

‘Fair enough.’ It isn’t but there is little I can do about it without a badge to give me authority.

Pete’s eyes narrow as he detects the difference in my tone. ‘It’s cool, Jake. I dated Kira for about three months at the start of the year. Neither of us were looking for anything more than a bit of fun and neither of us were exclusive.’

‘Can you tell me about how you two hooked up?’

‘She came on to me. I didn’t have to do anything except not piss her off.’ His smile is joined by a lecherous wink.

We talk. I ask questions, he answers them.

I learn nothing new. He finds out a few details about Kira’s murder which remove the smile from his lips.

Before I know it, I have just one question left. It is the one whose answer I have to have, but am not looking forward to hearing.

‘Who decided you two should split?’

‘I did.’

‘What did she say when you finished it?’

‘She laughed in my face and told me I was just a stopgap until the man she really wanted became available.’

I say nothing. Silence is always a good asker of questions.

It looks like Pete is going to wait me out. After a minute or so his mouth opens. ‘You want to know if I asked who she was waiting for, don’t you?’

I nod and watch him rub the stubble on his face with a meaty hand.

‘I didn’t ask. I figured she was just getting a little payback for me dumping her.’ His eyes widen as a synapse fires behind his gargoylian features. ‘This other guy does exist and you think he’s behind it. I’m right, aren’t I?’

I shake my head, reluctant to tell him how bad Kira had it for me.

‘C’mon, Jake, you can tell me. This other dude, he’s the one who killed her, isn’t he?’

‘No. It’s definitely not him.’ The force of my answer surprises me and makes him lean back as if he’s expecting me to take a swing at him.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me. I know it’s not the person she was waiting for.’

Twenty seconds later I’m driving out of his yard trying to figure out why Kira’s obsession is messing with my head quite so much.

It is getting to me way more than it should. I had no strong feelings for her. No long-term dreams of a life together. I’m mourning her passing as that of a close acquaintance rather than a dear friend or loved one.

On reflection, I realise it’s the fact I’ve been oblivious to her designs on me that is at the root of my distress. If I’d been aware, I’d have had Alfonse forever using it to mock or humiliate me.

With knowledge comes acceptance. All I have to do is accept this new knowledge and use it to my advantage instead of letting it debilitate my thought processes.

I park at the mall and walk along Main Street until I arrive at the butcher’s.

The shop is crowded, so I stand in line and pass the time eyeing up some of the steaks. I plan to grab a couple of fillets on my way out.

A young server with a face full of spots finishes serving a soccer mom and turns to me. ‘Hi – can I help you?’

‘I’d like a word with Terrel Upson.’

‘Sorry, he’s out of town for a few days.’

My interest level in Upson spikes to a new high. ‘Where’s he gone? When did he go?’

‘I don’t know.’ He waves a hand towards a door. ‘One of the guys in the back might though.’

I gesture towards the doorway and lift an eyebrow. He nods, his focus already on the next person in line.

Walking through the doorway, I find three men hard at work with meat cleavers, knives and the odd hacksaw. Two are cutting up sides of beef while the third has half a pig on his table. A ferrous smell hangs in the air from the blood. All three guys are dressed in white overalls with stained aprons covering their fronts.

All three have faces I’ve seen around before, but I can’t say for sure if I’ve ever spoken to any of them.

I have to raise my voice over the latest irritating jingle from KMDZ. ‘Guys, have you a minute to answer a few questions?’

‘What’s it worth?’

The speaker is a slim man with a buzz cut and a Texan accent. His drawl reminds me of movies hammier than the pig he is butchering.

‘Twenty bucks apiece.’

I have no qualms about loosening tongues with a few greenbacks. In this instance our client is more than wealthy enough to cover incidentals like the odd twenty bucks.

‘Make it thirty.’

Tex shoots a furious look at the speaker, a drawn man with long hair bundled into a ponytail tucked into the back of his overalls.

‘I think Jonno meant a hundred.’ His grin shows me ten reasons why he should visit an orthodontist. ‘Each.’

‘Fifty.’

‘Ninety.’

‘Fifty.’

I’m not trying to reduce Old Man Niemeyer’s bill, that doesn’t bother me at all. I am arguing the price down because of my inherent Scottishness and a desire to assume control of the situation. Tex is the kind of man who’ll try and dominate me and steer the conversation his way unless I rein him in from the start.

‘I said ninety.’

‘And I said fifty.’ I make sure the edge in my voice is sharper than the one in his. ‘Take it or leave it. I can always find someone else to answer my questions.’

‘Hey, no need to get so het up. I was just foolin’ with ya. Fifty’s cool.’ Tex gives a forced laugh and looks first at his buddies then me to see if we are laughing too.

They have wary smiles, but I keep my face implacable.

‘Where’s Terrel Upson?’

‘He’s gone to see his folks in Seattle.’ It is the third man who answers. He scratches at his bald head as he talks. ‘Apparently his mom’s not well.’

‘When did he go?’

Again it is the third guy who speaks. ‘Wednesday morning. I dropped him at the airport before coming here.’

That means Upson had left town before Kira had been murdered. Or at least found. I make a mental note to find out if Emily has established a time of death.

‘Do you guys remember him dating Kira Niemeyer?’

‘Sure. He was one lucky son of a bitch to be nailing her. Right, guys?’ Again Tex laughs and looks towards his perceived audience.

The third man ignores Tex’s insensitive behaviour. ‘Yeah, I remember. They dated for a while earlier this year. Terrel was pretty cut up when she broke it off.’

‘Was he?’ I address the question to the third man as he seems to be the most willing to help.

‘Yeah. His face was tripping him for weeks afterwards.’ He gives an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Dumb really. There was no way it was going to last. He was just a bit of rough for a rich little daddy’s girl. Sooner or later she’d have been married off to someone her father approved of. She never even took him to meet her family.’

There in a nutshell is the reason I was so relaxed about hooking up with Kira. Our respective social statuses would always prevent a long-term relationship. Her family would expect to marry her off to the son of some millionaire or other who had the necessary breeding and the right Ivy League education.

In her own way, Kira had rebelled far beyond anyone’s expectations. What intrigued me was the way she had kept her rebellion from her family. Upson, Lester and I all fell into the unsuitable boyfriend category, yet none of us had been paraded in front of her parents. In the same vein, she’d kept her hooking a secret from everyone.

I need to discuss this with Alfonse and maybe Dr Edwards.

Bringing my attention back to the issue at hand, I look at the third man.

‘Why did she break it off?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Didn’t or wouldn’t?’

‘Hey man. When a dude tells you he’s been dumped you don’t ask why. You buy him a beer and tell him he’s better off without her.’

He’s right. That’s exactly what happens. Alfonse and I have done it many a time.

Sensing there is nothing else to learn, I get Upson’s cell number from the third man and reach for my wallet.

Tex eyes the notes with open greed.

‘Yeah, boys. Easiest payday we’ve ever had.’

Tex’s laugh and look combination grate on me so I decide to default on our deal. At least as far as he is concerned.

‘Here.’ I hand the third man a hundred bucks as he was the one who’d answered my questions. Ponytail got the agreed fifty. A crumpled twenty is all I give Tex.

‘You said fifty.’

I hold my fist in front of his eyes and fill my voice with menace. ‘If you speak to me like that again you’ll end up paying your dentist hundreds. Do I make myself understood?’

I walk out while he decides whether or not to make an issue of it.

The spotty-faced youth is poking at one of his zits, so I reconsider my dinner plans. Perhaps a takeout will be healthier.

Climbing back into the Mustang, I see the folder Alfonse had given me last night. In it are a number of printouts from Kira’s journal.

I’ve delayed reading them as long as possible, afraid of how stupid and helpless I’ll feel. Afraid my blood will boil hot enough to have me seeking a vengeance that doesn’t belong to me.

28

The Watcher arranges the scarf around Evie Starr’s neck and checks about one last time.

This is a perfect way and location for her to be left. The scarf covers the incision made by his scalpel. Taking care, he folds her arms and rests her chin on her chest, making her look as if she’s fallen asleep while admiring the view.

The traces of stiffness in her body aren’t strong enough to prevent him from setting her just how he wants her. He’d feared rigor mortis would thwart his attempts to seat her on the bench but her cancer-ravaged body has little muscle to solidify. Draining her blood has helped.

With her in position, he lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow he’s used to transport her from the car. He pushes it into the bushes and trees of a small archipelago jutting into the reservoir. Reaching the water’s edge, he heaves the wheelbarrow into the still water and starts to make his way back to the bush where he’s stashed his ghillie suit and observation gear.

The bush will make an ideal vantage point, which is why he’s chosen it. From underneath its thorny boughs he can watch both the bench and the parking area at the end of the bay.

All he has to do now is wait. And watch.

Soon the next stage of the pattern will begin and he’ll be able to identify his next victim.

The Watcher knows the net is closing on him. Jake Boulder turning up today has taught him that.

The homicides being the subject of an investigation is only to be expected. That Boulder and his buddy Devereaux have been hired doesn’t come as any kind of surprise – everybody in Casperton is aware just how ineffective Farrage and his team are.

Now he’s accelerated his killing, it is only a matter of time before the bigger guns of the FBI are brought in. Their presence will limit his chances to continue, but he plans to keep going until they catch him.

Once arrested he’ll be stopped, but the authorities have nothing they can threaten him with. The nurse has already sentenced him to death with her laziness.

Her ignorance has robbed the law enforcers of their greatest deterrent. By the time he is arrested and a trial date set there is every chance he’ll be dead.

His greatest concern is being stopped before reaching the kind of numbers that will ensure his name goes down in history. With the police as inept as they are, there is little threat from them, but Boulder and Devereaux will bear watching. He knows their diligent attention to detail and intelligence is far superior to any of the town’s detectives.

A teenage couple walk into view. Hand in hand, they laugh and joke with each other as they move towards the bench. The guy leans into the girl and kisses her cheek.

She takes a playful swipe at him, then moves her head so they can have a proper kiss.

When they break apart, the Watcher sees the girl point at the bench. He hears their whoops and laughter abate as they show respect to the elderly woman on the bench.

A new possibility springs into the Watcher’s mind, causing him to stifle a shout of joy.

He watches as the teens walk towards the bench. With every step they take he releases a prayer they will realise the woman’s slumber is of the permanent variety.

If they do, the possibilities for him will become endless.

29

I curse at the message on my cell and put down the papers I’ve been reading. Of all the times to receive a summons from my mother, this is the worst.

Inept with technology at the best of times, Mother has never gotten the hang of messaging via a cell phone.

Trying to explain to her why texting in capitals is akin to shouting is like trying to educate a tiger on the benefits of a vegan diet.

To her the fact she is perceived as shouting is a good thing. She once told me ‘People react quicker to a shout than a whisper’.

While she’s a loving mother, she is still hard to handle. Now she doesn’t have to work or guard every penny, she fights boredom by having a social circle of women in a similar position.

Neither wealthy nor poor, the group has given her the friends she didn’t have time for in Glasgow. When not raising money for one charity or another, they shop, lunch or just interfere in the lives of their families.

Several times I have received one of Mother’s summonses, only to have one of her friend’s daughters ‘drop in’ while I was there.

There have been many arguments ending in a stalemate. She is left with the knowledge grandchildren won’t be along soon and I’m made to feel inconsiderate and selfish.

Still, despite everything, she is my mother and I love her. The text I’ve received has an urgency, beyond the shouting capitals, which makes it impossible to ignore or defer until later.

I enter her house via the side door. Finding nobody around, I am helping myself to a coffee when a loud voice rings out.

‘Jacob Boulder. Get yer scrawny arse in here right now.’

This isn’t good. Not only has she Sunday named me, the Glaswegian accent she’s worked so hard to lose is as strong as I’ve ever heard it.

I follow her voice to the lounge, where I find her sitting in her usual seat. Instead of being reclined in front of the fifty-inch TV, it is upright and facing the kitchen door.

Mother is even more upright than the chair. Her posture indicates a mixture of anger and worry, the crow’s feet on her face transformed into deep furrows.

‘Sit.’ The sole word is a command not an invitation.

I am getting spooked now. Mother deals with life’s blows in a matter-of-fact way. Drawing from her incredible reserves of inner strength, she tends to meet challenges head on and beats them through sheer force of will.

Combined, her posture, summons and accent tell me she is facing something she doesn’t believe she can conquer.

‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ I hate the concern in my voice but I can’t stop its presence.

‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s ill.’

‘Me?’ I start to laugh as relief courses through my body. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘There bloody well must be. Otherwise you wouldna be chasing after thon killer.’

To hear Mother swear is a rarity. Only in times of consternation or extreme sorrow will she permit a strong curse to pass her lips. Her accent has returned not just to Glasgow, but direct to the Govan estate where she’d spent her life before moving to Casperton. In her current state of agitation she looks and sounds just like my grandmother. In the interests of family harmony I don’t inform her of the fact.

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Is it no’? Explain it then. Stop an auld woman from worrying about her only son. Stop her fretting that the only chance she’s got o’ becoming a granny is hell bent on getting his sel’ killed.’

‘Enough!’ I raise my voice enough to shock her into silence. I need to stop her nonsense before she gathers a head of steam. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. You may even have the wrong stick.’

There is no point denying my search for Kira’s killer as she’s obviously heard who hired Alfonse and me.

‘Don’t you be raising your voice at me, young man.’ A knobbly finger points at me. ‘C’mon then. Tell me which stick I should have a hold of and which end.’

I try to play down my involvement as her concerns aren’t groundless. ‘Kira Niemeyer’s father hired Alfonse to look into her death. I’m helping out, that’s all.’

‘So it’s no’ just your own life you’re risking, you’re also putting the life of the best friend you e’er had in danger too.’

This is impossible; once she has an idea in her head it’s easier to move a sleeping elephant than convince her she’s wrong.

‘Settle down. We’re looking into a few leads and are working in full cooperation with the police. If we find a suspect, we’ll hand them over to the police and keep well out of it. We’re not stupid, so don’t treat me as if we are.’

‘So now you’re working with the police. Brilliant. Don’t they have guns?’ A liver-spotted hand slaps her forehead. ‘Of course they do. What have you got? Let me tell you what you’ve got. You’ve a reputation as a hard man, who fights for the fun o’ it. Tell me, Mr Don’t-You-Worry, what do you think this killer is going to do if you happen to confront him? Or get too close to him?’

I don’t have an answer for her. At least not one that will give her the reassurance she craves.

‘Don’t just sit there like a big stookie. Tell me you’re gonna stop this nonsense right away.’

I have to fight to keep my tone reasonable. Raising my voice to her levels will only result in a shouting match that benefits nobody. ‘I’m not going to stop anything. I’ll make sure I don’t put myself in danger, but there’s no way I’m going to stop.’

What I don’t say is that finding Kira’s killer has become personal. If she learns about Kira’s obsession with me she’ll start proclaiming it’s all my fault and that I’ll be the next to be killed.

‘I knew you’d say that. You’ve always been the same, Jake. You’re as stubborn as your bloody father. I’ve lost count of the times you’ve cut yer nose off to spite yer face. You never know when to back off and let it go.’

Try as you might, there’s very little you can hide about your nature from your mother. Mine knows me better than any other human alive and has enough about her to look at me with honesty. To see the real me.

I smile to try and diffuse her anger. A little flattery goes a long way with her. ‘I’m just like my mother. I have all her best qualities.’

‘Aye. An’ you’ve got a lot of bad ones from your faither.’ She isn’t smiling back but I can tell she’s softening.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to tackle a killer.’

‘Perhaps not. But you’ve got the MacDonald temper on you. What I’m afraid of is you getting yourself into a situation you can’t fight your way out of.’ She holds a hand out to forestall my protests. ‘That’s why I’m giving you this.’

She opens the handbag on the table to her left and pulls out a gun, which she proffers to me.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m making sure you have the means to look after yoursel’. You’re too pig-headed to listen to me, so I’m giving you this so you can get yourself out of the trouble I know you’re going to attract.’

‘Here.’ I give her the gun back. ‘I don’t know the first thing about guns. Beyond an air rifle I’ve never held one let alone pulled a trigger. I’ll be more likely to shoot myself than anyone else.’

She pushes her hands into her lap and leaves me standing with my arm outstretched. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jake. You don’t have to be a good shot. You might not even have to fire it. The idea is you have it so you can protect yourself. I don’t want you to go to jail any more than I want you to get hurt.’

I bring my hand back; the gun still rests in my palm. I give it a proper look for the first time – see the name Ruger. It looks small in my hand. Taking care not to point it at my mother, I try holding it properly. It is lighter than I expect a gun to be and despite looking small, it’s a good fit for my hand.

‘There’s a safety catch where your thumb is. I suggest you go out into the hills somewhere and fire a few shots, familiarise yourself with it.’

That’s the only thing she’s said to me today that I may pay attention to.

Her hand dips into the handbag and re-emerges holding two clips and a belt holster. ‘You’re allowed to carry it as long as it’s unloaded and not concealed.’

‘What about a permit?’ I am showing my ignorance, but guns have never held any thrall for me, therefore I’ve never bothered to find out about them.

‘You don’t need one.’

When Mother gets up and goes to the kitchen, I sink back into the seat trying to get my head round the surreal conversation we’ve just had. Not only have I just been given a gun by my mother, but it has been handed to me in a room crowded with porcelain ornaments and some of the chintziest fabrics known to man.

Her concern is touching in one way and insulting in another. Is she afraid for me due to a mother’s love or because she doesn’t trust me to keep myself safe?

Either way, I now have a gun I don’t want and am not sure I could use if the need should arise. Cracking a few heads is one thing. Pulling a trigger requires a whole different outlook.

By the time she returns with two steaming mugs of coffee, I’ve decided to take her advice and fire a few shots in the hills where nobody can get hurt and then stow the gun in the trunk of my car.

‘Now that’s dealt with, I want you to tell me why you’ve started seeing Dr Edwards.’

‘Isn’t what’s said between a psychiatrist and his patients confidential?’

‘Of course it is. But I’m your mother. Do you think so little of me that I’m not curious as to why after years of trying to persuade you to see him, you all of a sudden become his patient?’

‘I’m not seeing him for my own benefit.’

‘Then whose benefit is it for? I can scarcely believe you’re going for my benefit.’

I don’t give her the answer she is after. It’ll be less damning if she works it out for herself.

‘If you didn’t go to see Dr Edwards to talk about yourself… you were seeing him about someone else.’ She pauses as the cogs of her mind turn another revolution. ‘He won’t disclose anything about his patients, so you must have been using him as a consultant.’

I nod.

‘How can you do this to me, Jake? How can you use the man who knows everything about me and my fears like some reference book? Don’t you realise how this makes me feel?’ She pauses her tirade long enough to take a breath and reload her ammunition. ‘I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel sullied and humiliated by the way you’ve crept around behind my back discussing homicide with my therapist. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak to him again.’

This response is typical of her narcissism. I’ve had enough years of it to know how to deal with her though. So I go straight for the jugular and start asking her questions she can’t answer without tying herself in knots.

‘Don’t you think Kira’s killer should be caught?’

‘Of course I do. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘Do you think Farrage and his buddies are up to the job?’

‘No.’ She is hesitant now, suspicious of where I’m steering the conversation.

‘So you agree me and Alfonse are the Niemeyer family’s best hope when it comes to finding the killer?’

‘No!’ The word carries enough vehemence to start a war. ‘They’re rich enough to fly in a private eye who has experience in catching killers. You know, the ex-cop type of guy.’

‘Do you think such a guy would do better than us with our local knowledge?’

‘I don’t care whether or not someone else could do the job. My cares are with you. How am I gonna become a granny if you go and get yourself killed?’

I let that barb slide as I’m happy to let her score the odd point; she’s about to lose the argument and we both know it.

‘We’ve taken the case and we’re working it. I consulted Dr Edwards because you have repeatedly told me he is the best in Casperton. You do think we should have the best help available, don’t you?’

‘You know I only want the best for you.’

‘That’s why I went to Dr Edwards. He’s the best. Your words.’ I leave it there and say my goodbyes, with Mother firmly hoisted by her own petard.

30

I pull a can of soda from Alfonse’s fridge and sit opposite him at his kitchen table. I can tell he’s annoyed and frustrated by the way his normal jocularity is missing. It isn’t just that he’s all business, it is the way he’s carrying himself. The scowl on his face is also something of a clue as to the lack of progress he’s endured today.

He tells me everything he’s achieved today. Listening, I can feel his anger transferring itself to me. Every possible lead or clue he’s pursued has either been verified or resulted in a dead end.

‘I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere.’

‘You’ve achieved a lot. If nothing else you’ve eliminated a number of suspects.’ My words may be the truth, but I recognise their hollowness.

‘So what have you learned?’

‘Little more than you. To sum it up, I’d say I’ve learned Kira was playing those guys she was seeing. That she was obsessed with me. I also found out my mother knows more about guns than I do.’

‘What?’

I give him a condensed version of the visit I’d had with Mother. I can tell from his face he doesn’t know whether to laugh at me or share her concerns.

‘So what did you do with the gun?’

‘I left it in my car. Which is where it’s going to stay.’

He nods his approval.

What I don’t say is the gun will never be more than a hundred yards from me. At the same time, it won’t be at my side, inviting me to use it for all the wrong reasons.

‘So where do we go from here?’

I can’t give him a ready answer as I’m not sure myself. Everything we’ve learned has led us into an end so dead there isn’t enough room to turn around and come back.

His look at the digital lives of Chalmers, Upson and Lester has turned up nothing at all.

He’d called Emily to establish Kira’s time of death. She’d told him a time which was four hours after Upson had flown out of SLC airport. Even if Emily was out by a couple of hours there was no way he could have murdered Kira and still made his flight after a two-hour drive. And he did make his flight.

Like the detective he is, Alfonse had checked this fact as soon as he’d learned of its existence. He’d called Upson’s cell and had put to him much the same questions I’d asked Lester and Chalmers. Alfonse got the same answers I did. This is a shame as far as the investigation goes. Upson is an easy fit as the murderer. Him working as a butcher would give him access to many sharp knives and the knowledge of how to use them.

However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned assisting Alfonse, it’s that the simple option is almost never the real solution. Anything that involves human beings will always turn out to be messier and way more complicated than it ever needs to be.

Nothing in the digital records for the three men has shown up anything untoward. None of them is sitting on a pile of money. There are no convictions for assault. No grievances raised against them in the local courts. In essence they are a bunch of guys who’d happened to date the same girl.

What makes everything more interesting is the girl’s behaviour with each of them and with me.

I got that she was playing it cool with me. What I don’t get is why she bothered seeing those guys at all.

The hooking would satisfy any sexual needs she had and even if it didn’t, there are more than enough sex toys in her basement to make up for the lack of a man in her life. Companionship is out, as she kept her dates at arm’s length. They weren’t invited back to her house, asked to meet her parents or any of the usual stuff that happens in a relationship.

Instead they were picked up and discarded at will with the casual indifference a child has for a less than favourite toy.

None of the three had stood a chance of ever getting close to her, of forming a bond that would last through the decades. Even the priggish Chalmers had recognised his relationship with Kira for what it was.

Try as I might, I just can’t figure out why Kira was seeing them. At least not until I pull out Alfonse’s folder and go through the pages copied from her journal.

No wonder he is laying off with the wisecracks. There is some whacked out stuff on these pages.

Tough as they are to read, I go through them a second time.

Some part of my subconscious is aware of Alfonse moving around trying not to disturb me. I also know he’s keeping an eye on me as I read.

When I am finished my second pass, I get up and pace around the room. My boots sending out a metronomic beat on the laminate flooring as the movement helps me digest what I’ve just read.

Alfonse hands me another soda and takes the crushed remains of the first can from my hand.

‘Well?’

I shrug. I’m not yet able to organise my thoughts into a coherent sentence. It’s not every day you get to read the obsession-fuelled notes of your stalker.

The overriding element I’ve got is that Kira’s obsession with me appeared to be a case of undeclared love with psychotic overtones.

Upson, Lester and Chalmers had been selected as boyfriends so she could parade herself past me with them at her side. Every detail of her frustrations at the ploy not working has been recorded with intimate accuracy. The fact she’d repeated her actions a second and third time after the initial failure is described in self-critical terms where she’d railed at her own stupidity for not being able to make it work.

All blame is laid at her own door while I escape without criticism. The journal’s pages detail every occasion in the last two years when she’d seen me. Whether it is one of her nocturnal visits, seeing me at the Tree or just a chance meeting somewhere in town.

Times and dates are recorded, along with the clothes I wore, the people I was with and how I looked. Comments about any girls in my company are three points north of swivel-eyed jealousy.

Kira had vented against these unknowing innocents. She’d oscillated between describing them in every defamatory term ever uttered about a woman and comparing herself against them.

Every time I turn a new page I see further levels of obsession, self-flagellation at not being able to snare my attention and a further elevation of my appeal to her. It is as though all the setbacks, real as well as perceived, increased her affection for me.

Struggle as I might to get my head round the situation, I know Dr Edwards would find enough material in these pages to write several important papers.

The underlying theme is that I could do no wrong in her eyes and she was prepared to play the long game in her quest to snare me. There are screeds of pages where she is preaching patience to herself, stating I would tire of my single life and turn to her.

She’s even gone so far as to describe her hooking as a means to finance a decent lifestyle for the two of us should her father cut her free for not marrying someone he deemed suitable.

Reading this particular revelation twists a knot of responsibility in my gut. She’s written of her loathing for her clients and the depravities they paid her for. Yet she also rationalises the encounters as a necessary evil to provide a comfortable life for the two of us.

I feel shame that a friend, a sometime girlfriend who booty called me, should go to such lengths to create an imagined future. The fact I hadn’t had the slightest inkling of the depth of her feelings mocks me.

The logical part of my brain is trying to say otherwise, but the MacDonald blood in me is too proud to accept innocence. It wants action. Justice. A resolution for a young life ended many years too soon.

It doesn’t matter which part of my brain or nature I listen to. I know her killer has to be caught and brought to justice. This is no longer a case. It is personal.

‘You ready to talk about it?’ Concern laces Alfonse’s face and voice.

Am I showing my feelings that much?

I dismiss the thought as soon as it registers. He’s been my best friend for twenty-something years. If he can’t tell when I’m upset by now, he isn’t deserving of the title.

‘I guess.’

‘Tell me, what are you thinking?’ The phrase is unlike him. He’s never shy in sharing his opinions and then asking for my thoughts on what he’s said. I can only guess he’s jumped to some of the same conclusions I have and is afraid of putting ideas in my head. Either that or he’s thought of something I haven’t. After all, he’s had longer to digest the content of Kira’s journal than I have.

‘I think I’ve been stupid not to pick up on her infatuation with me.’ I throw a barb at him to keep him on his toes. ‘But then you never spotted it either.’

I get a scowl and a continue gesture from him.

‘For whatever reason, Kira fell hard for me. Yet she didn’t push the issue, preferring to bide her time and wait until I was ready for a proper relationship. She was using the guys she saw while I was dating someone. They meant nothing to her and they were mostly aware there were no wedding bells on the horizon. Therefore, only Terrel Upson was fool enough to fall for her.’

He nods and repeats the continue gesture.

I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before sighing it out. ‘That she was obsessed with me isn’t in doubt. Whether it’s relevant to her murder is another thing altogether. If it is connected, I would have made a better target as her infatuation with me would have prevented her from settling down with someone else. On the other hand, jealous rage isn’t known for promoting logical thought.’

‘The killer could have been a coward.’ Alfonse skewers me with a stare. ‘It’s no secret around here that you can look after yourself. She would present a much easier target.’

He’s struck a low blow, yet I have to agree with his logic. Taking me on would be a much tougher proposition than attacking Kira. ‘You’re right – but it still doesn’t make any sense. By killing her, he’s cutting off his nose to spite his face.’

‘Your face. Remember he’s already lost her by this point. And since when did killing someone ever make any sense?’

‘I’m still not convinced that’s why she was killed.’

‘Of course you’re not. Your subconscious will be trying anything it can to wriggle out of responsibility. Real or imagined.’

I look at him, take in the concern on his face. ‘Suppose her feelings for me are the reason she was killed. Knowing the motive doesn’t help us find the killer.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

He is right. If we are on the money with the motive, we can use this information to direct the investigation.

A thought enters my head. ‘If jealousy is the reason she was killed, we’ve a whole lot of suspects to look at.’

Alfonse’s snort was half mocking and half derisive. ‘You flatter yourself. There can’t be that many people jealous of you.’

‘Who says they’re jealous of me? What about all the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients? Perhaps she had a secret admirer who somehow found out about her feelings for me?’

The dejection in my voice is echoed by the way Alfonse slumps into a chair.

With so many possible suspects it will be tough to get a handle on which, if any, of the wives or girlfriends had learned of their partner’s visits to Kira. Then it will be a case of working out if they’d taken matters into their own hands.

There is always the possibility they’d hired a killer. If the husbands can afford ten grand for sex, the wives would have twenty to hire a hitman.

While investigating this possibility we’ll be up against rich and powerful women with secrets to hide.

‘So what do we do then?’

He is really asking which direction we should point the investigation.

‘You been invited to Claude’s party tonight?’ He nods. ‘We go and hang out. Find out what we can about the guys she dated. If they’ve had any other relationships since Kira. Who they’re seeing. If they’re obsessed with Kira, they may have not bothered with anyone else.’

‘Kira did.’

I scowl at his double-edged statement. ‘Have you a better idea?’

‘No.’

A familiar look crosses Alfonse’s eyes. It’s the one he gets when his mind is travelling digital highways and is about to go off-road.

I guess he is thinking of ways he could learn more about the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients. Whether there is a way he can identify them without their knowledge.

Once he knows who they are, he can begin to trace their movements, both physical and financial.

I rise from my seat. ‘I’ll see you at Claude’s in an hour.’

31

I pull in behind the police cruiser and climb out. Chief Watson had called as I was driving from Alfonse’s.

So here I am. Summoned for the second time today – this one way more intriguing than the first. I doubt Chief Watson will give me a gun, although I hadn’t expected Mother would either.

The plastic crime scene tent erected four hundred yards from the car park is just visible in the fading light. Its presence confirms my suspicions about the reason for the chief’s terse call.

‘Come to the Panchtraik Reservoir public car park and ask for me. I need you.’ He’d rung off before I’d had the chance to agree or refuse.

Insects brought out by the cooling night air are starting their mating calls as I set off towards the plastic tent.

I hang back while the chief finishes his conversation with one of the Tyvek-suited examiners. Farrage and one of his buddies are off to one side talking to a young couple. From their body language and the tears streaming down her face I figure they are either relatives of the person in the tent or they had found the corpse.

Keeping well away from the lake, I skirt the area and take a look around. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just something out of place. Or missing. Or broken.

Like the branches of the dogwood bush by the side of the reservoir.

Not wanting to contaminate any possible evidence, I approach the bush from the side. Using my cell as a torch, I look at the ground to make sure I don’t trample anything I shouldn’t.

Up close and under illumination, the branch of the dogwood looks to have been broken within the last day or two. When I turn my eyes to the ground I find a tyre mark. Not wide like a car tyre but wider than you’d get from a bicycle.

The beam of light from my phone doesn’t extend far into the bush, so I can’t see if the tyre mark goes anywhere. I take care to retrace my steps backwards and grab the nearest officer and show him what I’ve found.

‘Boulder! With me please.’

Chief Watson may have said please, but there is no request in the way he’s called me over.

I match his pace as he strides back towards the car park. There is none of the huffing and puffing you’d expect from a man of his age moving so fast.

As we walk, he gives me the bare facts. An elderly woman has been found by a young couple. They’d thought she was sleeping until they saw the colour of her skin.

The initial examination has shown the woman’s throat has been cut right at the jugular. Beyond that, he hasn’t got much else to tell me. He doesn’t yet know who the woman is or why there is no blood at the scene.

‘Why did you call me, Chief?’

He stops walking and turns to me, one meaty paw massaging the deep furrows on his brow.

‘This is the third homicide victim we’ve had in as many days.’ A thumb jerks in Farrage’s direction. ‘Those assholes couldn’t find their way out of a room with one door and when I asked for a couple of detectives to be sent over from Salt Lake City I was refused. I need your help.’

‘What about the FBI?’

‘They’re not interested. Person I spoke to told me to call them when the body count reaches five. Asshole.’

‘Still, why me? Or should I say us?’ It is only right to include Alfonse.

‘Because you’ve shown more gumption than those morons.’ Again his thumb jerks towards Farrage. ‘You and your buddy achieved way more on the Niemeyer case in one day than they could hope to achieve in a month. I can’t run around wiping their asses while I’ve a whole town to run.’

I can see his predicament. Like every other sizable town on the planet there is an element of society in Casperton who’ll realise when the police are overstretched. Petty thefts will increase; one of the stores or banks may even be held up with the entire police force distracted by the homicides.

It is a balancing act and the keystone for the whole inverted pyramid is Chief Watson.

I want to help, but Alfonse and I are already out of our depth investigating Kira’s death.

‘I’m not saying yes until I speak to Alfonse, but what exactly do you want from us? I’m guessing you’re not gonna toss us a badge and declare we’re now deputies.’

My attempt at humour washes over him. ‘I want to use you in an advisory capacity. So I don’t have to think of everything myself. Those assholes have never had an original idea between them. Go phone your buddy, will ya. I need to get things moving around here.’

As I go back to my car to make the call in private, the officer I’d shown the tyre track to approaches Chief Watson.

Alfonse picks up on the third ring.

When I leave my car to go tell the chief we’ll help, I have to leap out of the way as a tan Chrysler shoots into the car park.

Despite all the police in the area, I run round the Chrysler and haul open the driver’s door. My fist is cocked ready to deliver an unforgettable warning about dangerous driving. At the moment I’m about to strike, I realise the driver is female.

A wave of eye-watering perfume hits me before her words do. ‘You the bozo I nearly run down? You should learn to watch where you’re going.’ She has one of those unmistakable Jewish New York accents. She points at my fist. ‘We both know you’re not going to use that so you may as well put it down and get out of my way.’

When she climbs out of the car the top of her head reaches my shoulder. A cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth drops ash onto her peach-coloured blouse. She doesn’t notice – her eyes are locked onto the tent.

‘So, I’m guessing with all the cops around we’ve got a third body inside that tent.’

I don’t answer. I don’t yet know who she is. The way she dominates everything she does proves she is a force of nature. Until I know more about her, there is no way I’m telling her anything that may come back to bite me.

A young cop runs over, his arms spread as if he’s herding cattle. ‘That’s far enough, Ms Rosenberg.’

‘Is that Chief Watson I see over there?’ She makes to brush past him but he shifts his feet to block her.

‘He’s there and I’m sure he’ll speak to you when he’s got something to say but right now he’s busy.’

I leave the young cop trying to obstruct the formidable presence that is Ms Rosenberg, and head back to the tent and Chief Watson.

I’ve heard of, but never met Ms Rosenberg. She is lead reporter for the Casperton Gazette and carries a reputation as a hard woman who brooks no obstruction in her search for the truth. According to legend, it is so long since anyone has used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is.

Regardless of her nature, she is a good journalist and her scathingly insightful articles are the main reason Casperton has so little corruption in public office. A cub reporter I’d once dated told me how Ms Rosenberg would spend much of her spare time scouring public documents in her search for irregularities in the finances.

She might not be a nice person or a careful driver, but she keeps the local politicians honest, which means we all owe her a debt of thanks.

Chief Watson sees me coming and leaves the dogwood bush to join me. ‘That was a good find you made there. The tyre marks go right to the water’s edge and then disappear.’

‘Do you think they’re relevant?’

He kneads his temples before answering. A sure sign of his stress. ‘I think it’s too much of a coincidence not to be associated. My guess is her killer moved her from the car park using a wheelbarrow, then dumped it into the reservoir to hide the evidence.’

‘Makes sense.’ I am stating the obvious, but it won’t hurt for him to have his opinions verified. He needs support, help carrying the burden before he has an aneurysm. ‘I spoke to Alfonse. We’ll be happy to offer you some help in an advisory capacity.’

‘Thanks.’ Already he is looking younger and less like a condemned man.

I hold up a hand to cut him off before he starts on another tack. ‘You’ll need to put Farrage and the rest of your detectives in the picture. Catching a killer is too important to waste time in pissing contests. If we get any grief from them, I’ll kick their arses then Alfonse and I will walk.’

Determination sets on his face making me fear I may have overplayed my hand by threatening his subordinates.

‘Farrage!’

His voice carries to the lieutenant who turns and walks over, contempt decorating his face and body language. ‘Yeah?’

I keep my face neutral as Chief Watson explains the new regime. Such is the ferocity of the chief’s words and tone, there’s no way Farrage can misunderstand the consequences of failing to obey.

As Farrage makes to return to his interview, the chief has a final warning for him. ‘If I learn there is one missing word or even a comma from any of the reports you send to me and Mr Boulder, you’ll be out on your ass and the first person I’ll explain your sacking to is Ms Rosenberg. Then I’ll take you round to see the families of the deceased so you can explain why playing games was more important to you than catching a killer. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Chief.’

Farrage’s demeanour changes at the threat. Gone are the insolence and contempt. The twin threats of public humiliation and being forced to explain his actions to bereaved families are enough to make him sharpen up his act.

‘I shouldn’t have, but I enjoyed that.’

‘It’s been a long time coming, Chief. He deserves every word.’

I think Farrage has gotten off easy. In the chief’s position, I would have thrown punches at anyone who showed me the same lack of respect.

‘You got a strong stomach?’ Without waiting for my answer he starts walking towards the protective tent.

32

The smell of cooking meat wafts across the air causing my stomach to flip like an Olympic gymnast. I would have eaten before coming, but, after entering that tent, I didn’t trust myself to keep anything down.

The chief had filled me in on the details of Paul Johnson’s murder and had called back to the station to have the desk sergeant email me all of the reports.

Rounding the back gate, I find the party in full swing. There’s a couple of dozen of the usual crowd, plus a few of Claude and his girlfriend’s family members. I know most of the family members from past events. It’s a relief to see Claude has abdicated the chef’s position in favour of the barman’s role. Nobody will be sick from anything other than a hangover.

I grab a soda and join Alfonse who is talking to a group of friends. I hear him asking about Peter Lester, so I turn to a buddy I sometimes played pool with.

We shoot the breeze for a while until his girlfriend ushers him off to meet someone.

I keep my eyes open for anyone who may be able to help with our enquiries. Seeing a couple of girls I know, I wander across and join their company. I start with small talk, then begin to seed in the odd question. They give me straight answers, some of which are useful.

When I leave the group to get another soda, I’m surprised to see George Chalmers talking to Claude. Thinking about it, I realise that since Claude’s business has grown there’s every chance he now needs a professional accountant.

The bigger surprise is the girl linking arms with Chalmers. I’m no expert on the subject, but I’d say she’s at least six or seven months pregnant.

Ever the gentleman, Chalmers introduces me to the girl. ‘Mr Boulder, this is my fiancée, Ruth.’

Ruth’s face is a picture of contentment, and when she speaks her speech patterns and vocal intonations mark her as the perfect match for Chalmers.

Judging by the lilac twinset and the pearls around her neck, I reckon they’ve both met their soulmate. Their lives will be already planned out, right down to the Florida retirement complex they’ll move to.

They’ll live safe and sensible lives together with respectability. A pool boy or a secretary may engage them in a dalliance but they’ll never leave the security of their marriage.

What I can’t believe about their relationship is her being pregnant with only one ring on her finger. As far as I’m concerned, Chalmers is too careful.

As they move off to talk to other guests, I turn to Claude. ‘How long they been together?’

‘I think they hooked up some time last year. It must have been before I opened the new shop. They were at the opening party. They’re a natural couple don’t you think?’

I remember the opening party, but I don’t recall seeing Chalmers there. Although I do remember being somewhat distracted by the attentions of Claude’s rather forward cousin.

Casting my mind back and doing some mental arithmetic, I work out Chalmers must have met Ruth a month or so after splitting from Kira.

I keep my eyes on them as I talk with Claude. Everything about their interaction depicts them as a genuine couple. If Chalmers is faking it to cover his feelings for Kira, he should be a Hollywood star not an accountant in a town like Casperton.

Throughout the evening, I make sure to circulate and speak to everyone I want to. As alcohol loosens tongues, I learn lots of different things but only a small fraction of it is useful. Having already agreed to meet at his place after the party, Alfonse and I stay apart to better talk to as many people as possible.

A game of water polo starts in the pool, but I keep my distance.

As midnight strikes I am talking to a couple of regulars from the Tree when a drunken guest trips over his own feet and cannons into me. I stagger back a few steps before my feet catch on something. Twisting as I fall, I see water rushing towards my face.

Instinct makes my hands go out to break my fall, but they don’t get any resistance from the water as I tumble into the pool.

I go in head first. I can feel my knees hit the edge of the pool as water swirls around my head. My eyes and mouth are pressed shut as I thrash my arms around to try and escape the water. The only effect it has is to draw my legs into the pool after me.

Despite my terror, I feel them slithering over the pool’s edging. I can also feel my heart racing as panic sets in.

With my body submerged, I thrash for what seems like hours until I find the right way up.

Pushing my feet down, I locate the bottom of the pool and thrust upwards, desperate to be out of the water as soon as possible – to feel cool air on my skin.

I just hope I’m not at the deep end. If I am, I’ll have to be rescued.

When my head breaks the surface I gasp in a precious lungful of air. My push off the bottom is so fuelled by terror it sees me shoot so far out of the water that I lose my balance and stumble backwards when I land.

A firm hand on my back stops me going under again. My eyes seek the shortest route to safety. I’m three large steps from the side, but the chest level water slows my exit from the pool.

To my mind it is a living beast, clinging to me, holding on so I can be pulled into its depths and pressured by invasive rivulets, until I open my mouth for air and let it conquer me.

Concerned with nothing but escape, I ignore the laughter of the party-goers. It’s not their fault they don’t know I can’t swim. That any body of water deeper than a puddle scares me witless.

I feel a hand on mine. It’s Alfonse reaching into the pool and guiding me to the chrome steps. I realise for the first time my eyes are stinging and my mouth has clamped shut.

Clambering up the ladder, I see concern in Alfonse’s face and mirth in everyone else’s.

‘Sorry, dude. Dunno what I tripped on.’ The slurred words come from the drunk who’d bumped me.

Knowing that delivering a gut punch to a drunk is a good way to get hurled on, I grab his shirt with shaking hands, shift my weight from one hip to the other and toss him into the middle of the pool. Let the water beast have him.

He’s lucky. If there weren’t still kids running around, I’d leave him lying in a bloody heap.

Claude arrives and tosses a towel at me. ‘C’mon. I’ll loan you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.’

I follow him into the house, happy to be out of everyone’s gaze and away from the water.

33

The Watcher settles down in front of his computer with an energy shake and a packet of power bars.

His fingers tap out the beat of the seventies classic rock songs blaring from his iPod. He’s too young to have liked the bands in their heyday, but when he reached his teens, he fell in love with the riffs and lyrics. It’s a love that has deepened over time. Now he won’t listen to anything else.

He chases threads of intelligence as he probes the lives of those who’ve helped him select his next victims.

He’s thankful for the internet, for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Each of these networks is loaded with information about his targets and helpers.

It doesn’t take long to draw up a list of possibles. After that he just has to whittle down the list until he can select the most appropriate victims. The next ones must have a different connection. Must be able to be taken down together.

The opportunity has come along to throw a delicious curveball into the pattern and he is excited about making the pitch.

He knows how much the police are under pressure. He’d watched the cars arrive at Panchtraik Reservoir.

It had been inspired to place Evie Starr’s body up there.

After Paul Johnson’s body had been found on the road towards the reservoir, the siting of the old woman’s body would make the cops think it was someone travelling that way.

Wait until the coroner got her on the slab, cut her open. Then they’d see the power of what they were dealing with.

Getting the addresses for potential targets and reconnoitring via Google Street View, he learns as much as he can from the internet.

Satisfied he can do no more without carrying out some physical reconnaissance, he turns his attention to the kills themselves.

He writes down a new method on a scrap of paper, scrunches it into a ball and tosses it into the glass bowl with the others.

After mixing them up with a finger, he picks one out, unfolds it and reads the contents. He smiles; the method is a good one. He’s been looking forward to it being selected.

Next he has to work out where to leave their bodies. Unsure whether he should go for two separate dump sites or put them together, he weighs up the pros and cons until an idea strikes him.

He examines the idea from a few angles but finds nothing wrong or dangerous about it. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the better it seems. If set up in the right way, their final resting place will throw police suspicion away from himself. It might only buy him a few days, but any advantage gained can only be a good thing.

Every day wasted by his pursuers will mean another victim to add to his tally.

He only has two concerns now.

The tally.

The pattern.

34

I arrive at Alfonse’s house dressed in clothes loaned from Claude. By a stroke of luck, before I was knocked into the pool I’d passed my cell to someone who wanted to check it out before their next upgrade.

Alfonse and I take our usual seats at his table ready to compare notes. I gesture for him to start and lean back in my chair, hoping he’s learned more than I have.

‘I take it you met George Chalmers and his fiancée?’

I nod. ‘Yeah. I think it’s safe to remove him from our enquiries. He was never a likely suspect. Besides, he’s now engaged and about to become a father. You’d have to be a certified whack-job to get into that position while still obsessed by an ex.’

‘Agreed. I spoke to a few people about Pete Lester. Megan Hutchison told me he’s been seeing her sister for the last six months. Apparently they got together while he was still dating someone else. Megan couldn’t remember the other girl’s name but said her sister had been yelled at by her one night when she was at the Tree with Pete.’

I cast my mind back to try and recall some details but nothing comes back to me. It isn’t unusual for two girls to get into a slanging match at the Tree. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the situation is calmed down by friends or the man whose attention they are competing for.

It is the other occasions when things get out of hand. When men fight they tend to punch or kick at each other. Women, on the other hand, claw, scratch and pull hair, which makes it much harder to separate them. Plus, of course, I can’t retaliate when they start attacking me.

‘So, with Upson out of town at the time she was murdered and the other two in stable relationships, it’s not looking as if it’s any of those three. Agreed?’

He nods. ‘So that puts us back to the wives and girlfriends.’

‘Unless it’s nothing to do with her clients and is something else altogether.’

‘Like what?’

‘A family member doing it to stop her hooking. Or…’ I fall silent, trying to pick the right words.

‘Or what?’

‘Or it’s someone killing people at random. Three people have been found murdered within four days.’

‘You don’t really think there’s a serial killer out there, do you?’

‘I’m not sure, but it’s a big coincidence if there isn’t.’

‘Are there similarities with the victims? The murders? Are the victims connected?’

Alfonse’s questions are good ones. All three answers are negative. Other than the fact all three bodies were found in a public place, there is no apparent link between the victims. There may be when Chief Watson identifies the lady found at the reservoir; until then, there’s nothing to link the three victims.

‘There aren’t any connections or similarities that we know of. But what’s worse – a serial killer targeting the residents of Casperton or three separate killers?’

He doesn’t answer so I explain my theory to him.

‘If it is a serial killer, maybe by helping the police we can use their resources to help us find the person who murdered Kira.’

‘I see your point.’ His lips purse as he gives a pointed look at the clock above the sink. ‘So, what’s our next move gonna be?’

‘You look into the wives and girlfriends angle tomorrow. I’ll read over the police reports and get a handle on where they’re up to. I’ll see you about nine.’

I take his sigh as confirmation. I can manage on less than six hours’ sleep, but he likes a solid eight every night.

Sleep isn’t in my plans when I get home. There are far too many questions assaulting my brain for it to allow itself to be shut down.

35

I dump my keys on the counter and flick on the stereo. It’s not that I’m lonely, it’s just sometimes I need a background noise to keep me sane. Living alone suits me, but whenever I read I like to have other voices around me. I select a playlist comprising soft rock ballads and recline my chair.

I start with the police reports about Paul Johnson.

Like Kira, he lacks any known enemies. It isn’t that he was well liked, more that he was inoffensive. Reading about his life via the statements taken from co-workers and family members, it seems like he was insignificant to a lot of people.

He kept his business private, did what was expected of him and then went home to his apartment.

According to his sister, Johnson’s ex-wife had put him out one day, only to move a boyfriend in the next.

He’d gone without a quibble. It was the sister who’d put a roof over his head and spent long nights talking him through the break-up. When he was ready, she helped him find a rental apartment.

The police report detailing his finances doesn’t show any obvious reasons for him to be killed for money. His alimony payments were made on time and there were regular deposits into his daughter’s bank account. A footnote indicates his daughter is studying sociology at the Community College in Salt Lake City.

A search of Johnson’s apartment has found a life insurance policy naming his daughter as the main benefactor. The payout isn’t enough to put the daughter in the frame. Compared to what he was already giving her, the payout would cover no more than three years in college.

Following the same logic, I look down the columns until my eyes land on the one detailing his balance.

Imbalance may be a better term. He’s five hundred bucks overdrawn.

The next page I read shows his credit card statement. While not maxed-out it is near its limit. A look back at the bank statements and I find what I expect to.

His salary is due to be paid in a few days. Johnson is living in a boom and bust cycle with most of his income going to his ex-wife and daughter. Left with just enough to get by on, he’ll have been ever fearful of unexpected bills. I spend more per week on groceries than he’s got left to pay for food, gas and other incidentals.

It is stories like this that keep me single. A decent man has been discarded by an unfaithful wife and left to live the life of a pauper. With no money to spare on luxuries, he’d struggle in the dating pool. All he had to look forward to were lonely nights and the day when he’d be free of his responsibilities.

The feelings of bitterness would be overwhelming. Like a cancer of the mind, the resentment would devour happiness as his self-confidence plummeted.

These are my fears. After Mother was abandoned by my father, I saw first hand how corrosive rejection can be. I’ve felt it once, and it isn’t an experience I want to repeat. Despite Mother’s reassurances that it was her my father left, Sharon and I had talked long and often about the fact he’d rejected us too.

My realisation of the irony in the situation brings a wry smile to my lips as I turn to the next page. I’m investigating the murder of a woman besotted with me and a man I am terrified of becoming. What Kira wanted from me would leave me as vulnerable as Johnson had become.

The next pages I read tell me little about Johnson’s life, but give me great detail on his death.

In clinical terms, Emily Green’s neat handwriting tells of the blunt trauma from a wheel wrench found with his body. Hedging her bets, she estimates there are between ten and fifteen separate blows to his head.

The terminology is unfamiliar to me, but I don’t need to be a doctor to understand he died from having his brain bashed in.

The accompanying pictures from the crime scene and autopsy don’t make for easy viewing, but I examine them for clues regardless of my distaste.

When I’ve finished with the pictures, I lie back in the recliner and close my eyes. A slide show of Kira, Johnson and the as yet unnamed woman plays as I consider the different methods of their deaths.

Kira died from a precise stab after suffering a frenzied attack and was dumped under a bush.

Johnson’s head was staved in and his corpse bundled into the trunk of his car.

The old woman had her throat cut in a very exact way. Then she’d been cleaned up and deposited in a public place where she was sure to be found.

Considering the attacks as a whole, I look for commonalities. Two of the attacks have shown frenzy at some level. To counterbalance this, there are also elements of precision and forward planning.

There had been no blood on the old woman’s clothes and very little where Kira was found. This speaks of them being killed elsewhere and deposited at the places they were found.

The precise cut on the old woman and the single penetrating stab to Kira’s heart tell of an attacker who knows the human body and how best to attack it.

Johnson’s death speaks of opportunism, the wheel wrench to hand when the killer happened upon Johnson changing a flat.

My next thought is Kira and the woman are connected while Johnson is a random victim, killed as much by chance as by his murderer.

36

The Watcher raises the takeout coffee to his lips as he walks down Third. The early morning light glints off the dewdrops as he savours the Java. It’s a rare treat and is for cover more than anything else.

A dozen or so yards ahead of him is a potential target. The pock, pock, pock of her heels on the sidewalk is at odds with the tree-lined avenue and the hour. It’s the sound of the city, of business. It’s measured and regular, not the arrhythmic clack of a drunk girl staggering home.

Her Facebook status told him she was an HR manager for one of the oil companies. It also told him she had a colleague from head office joining her for the day, which hotel the colleague was staying at and the hour she was supposed to collect him.

Facebook holds a lot of other information about her. Like how much of a dog lover she is; how terrible she feels for her niece who’d discovered a body. Best of all there was even a post detailing the time she’d be dropping off her colleague at the airport.

The three-mile drive from the airport to town would be deserted so late in the day and Facebook had armed him with the perfect ruse to get her to stop.

He watches as she enters the hotel right on time. The business suit and brisk manner speak of a life spent adhering to the clock and a series of deadlines.

A smile crosses his lips. He’s identified a target and the car she drives. If he can get the other in place he can execute the plan just the way he imagines it.

The HR manager’s adherence to the clock will make her an easy target. Predictable in her movements, she’ll be in the right place at the right time. At least as far as he is concerned it will be the right place. For her it will be something else altogether.

He crosses the road and rounds a corner in case she comes out and spots him. He stops at the pharmacy and buys something he hasn’t bought for years, before returning to his car to begin the next phase of his reconnaissance.

Next on this morning’s to-do list is a drive past the homes of two of the boy’s relatives.

It is a toss-up between the boy’s older brother and his uncle as to which one will be the easiest to capture.

Acquiring and taking down two targets in the space of a day will be tough, but the payoff is worth the risk.

Every day will see another kill.

Every kill will add to the tally.

Every kill MUST adhere to the pattern.

37

I reach Alfonse’s house at five to nine. It’s late by my standards, but I’ve spent an extra ten minutes in the shower trying to massage the cricks from my neck.

Falling asleep in the chair had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it hasn’t worked out so well. When I woke, my neck felt like a gorilla had spent the night attempting to twist my head off my shoulders; there was also an unfamiliar taste in my mouth. Of salt and more than a little fear.

The less said about my dreams the better. The few scant hours of sleep I managed were plagued with nightmares of drowning. Of being sucked into murky depths where all I could see were the bodies of Kira, Johnson and the old woman. The mental aberrations of my mind were intense, with a clarity of sound, taste and vision giving a sensory validity to my nightmares. I couldn’t tell where the water was, but I remember sharks and whales swimming in the distance.

I am surprised to find Alfonse sitting at his table spooning cereal into his mouth, while his free hand works the screen of his iPad.

‘I take it you read those reports last night?’

I nod. He knows me too well.

‘So what did you come up with?’

‘Nothing yet. But I was trying to final a connection based on what’s in these reports. If we can find out who the latest victim is, maybe it’ll help us find a pattern.’

‘You’re asking a lot.’

I know what he means. He’s more experienced in these matters than I am, but I’m aware there are times in an investigation when new revelations offer confusion rather than clarity.

‘Have you heard anything from the chief this morning?’

I shake my head as he turns his iPad round and pushes it towards me.

Picking it up, I look down at the email he’s selected for me.

It’s from his best client on the oilfields. The guy is suspicious of a company delivering supplies into one particular area and wants Alfonse to look into it.

He offers double the usual rate for Alfonse to drop whatever he’s working on and start right away.

I wince for Alfonse. This guy gives him at least five months’ work a year. He’s tried to entice him into joining the company full time a minimum of four times to my knowledge.

‘What you gonna do?’

He shrugs. ‘What can I do? I can’t leave a murder investigation just because he clicks his fingers. I’ve explained what I’m working on and that I’ll make him my next priority.’

I give him a silent thumbs up to show my approval.

He is taking a gamble on his future by refusing to be bought. The guys running the oilfields expect local businesses to jump when they speak and there is every chance Alfonse has just burned a very lucrative bridge.

On the other hand, murder trumps theft every time. It all boils down to the amount the guy suspects is being stolen or embezzled and how much stress he is under. The offer of double pay, plus the request for an immediate start indicates both are high.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell. Chief Watson’s name is on the screen as the second ring sounds.

‘Yes, Chief?’

I listen to his rapid words for a minute, then agree to join him.

I hang up the call and look at Alfonse. ‘Your girlfriend did the autopsy on the old woman last night. Chief wants us there when she gives him her report.’

He shakes his head. ‘No point two of us doing the same thing. You go. I’ll stay here, start looking into Paul Johnson’s life a little deeper than the police have.’

What he says makes sense. Farrage and co have performed their search in a professional manner, which smells of the chief’s influence, but their reports lack the details Alfonse would have uncovered. There were no insights, revelations or theories raised. Just flat answers to basic questions.

38

Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting with Chief Watson in Emily Green’s office. His face looks the way my neck felt earlier. I’ve had three hours’ sleep and it looks as if he’s had less.

‘Let’s have it then. What did you find?’ The chief’s brusque manner highlights the stress he’s under.

Emily ignores his rudeness and hands each of us a sheaf of papers.

‘That’s my full report on the autopsy so far. Blood results and toxicology will take a few more days to come through.’ She looks at Chief Watson. ‘If you agree the budget, I can get the lab in Salt Lake to push them up their priority list.’

‘Consider it agreed. I want every scrap of information as soon as humanly possible.’

I speak for the first time. ‘What did you find during the autopsy?’

‘The Jane Doe was riddled with cancer. I doubt she’d have lived more than a year at best. She had a hip replacement.’ A raised hand forestalled the chief. ‘Yes, I’ve taken the serial number from it and phoned the hospital. They’re coming back to me as soon as their records office opens.’

From the corner of my eye, I see the chief looking at his watch and bet myself he’ll be on the phone to them before leaving the building.

‘What else did you find?’

‘It’s more what I didn’t find.’ A carefully plucked eyebrow arches upwards. ‘There wasn’t a drop of blood on her body. Whoever killed her washed the body and dressed her before placing her at the dump site.’

The chief and I don’t speak as we consider the implications of her words.

‘There was very little blood left in her body. When you look at the pictures of her in situ and on my table you’ll see there’s next to no blood lividity.’ She glances at the chief and then me. ‘She’s been drained and then cleaned up. I found traces of soap in her wound. I’ve sent samples to the lab but it’s my guess she was killed at home and the froth will prove to have come from the bottle of shampoo in her bathroom.’

I nod agreement at her logic. ‘I didn’t pay attention yesterday, but what was her hair like?’

The chief fixes me with an incredulous stare but I turn to Emily for my answer.

Her eyes might be red from lack of sleep but they shine at my question. ‘It was flat, unstyled, yet clean.’

‘Like it had been washed, dried and just left?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Any traces of make-up or cosmetics on her face?’

‘No.’

‘Was she wearing underwear?’

‘No, but you’d be surprised how often our visitors aren’t.’

I look at Emily first and then the chief. ‘Well, at least we know her killer is a man.’

It takes him a fraction of a moment to catch up but when he does he gives me a curt nod.

‘You’re right. A woman would attempt to put on her cosmetics or style her hair. A man wouldn’t bother.’

‘Unless it’s a woman double bluffing you.’ The negativity of the words is matched by Emily’s tone.

The chief’s scowl would scare a mountain lion. ‘The hell with double bluffs, we work on the understanding this is a man. What else you got for us?’

‘The time of death is interesting.’

‘Why?’ Both the chief and I speak at the same time.

She grimaces a little and tilts her head to one side. ‘I can’t give you an exact time without knowing how long she was on the bench and where she was before that. But my best estimate is between eighteen and thirty hours before she was found.’

Emily stops talking to answer her cell. ‘Hello… Yes… I see… Is that a definite? … Of course I trust you… You don’t have an address for her, do you?’

The pen in her hand scrawls the address onto a stick-it label.

Finishing the call she looks at us. ‘Your Jane Doe’s name is Evie Starr. She’s fifty-eight and lived at four-sixty-three Park Way.’

Park Way runs north–south through Casperton, three streets east of Main. Four-sixty-three will be at the south end of the road.

‘Don’t suppose they gave you a next of kin?’

Emily shakes her head at the chief’s question.

‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate you working through the night.’

I trail the chief as he stalks through the corridors towards the car park. Both of us have cells pressed to our ears. We relay the same information to different people and make similar requests. I’d bet my dime to the chief’s buck Alfonse gets the information first.

The chief finishes his call and waits by his car for me to end mine.

‘Jump in. I’m going to her house and want you there.’

‘You sure you want a civilian there when you tell the family?’

I don’t want to go with him. The last place I want to be is at Evie Starr’s house when the police turn up to inform the family.

It will be messy. There will be tears, recriminations and questions we don’t yet have answers for. Nothing we can say or do will bring her back to them.

The chief is experienced enough to know what I am thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I had Darla check the electoral register. Mrs Starr lived alone. Darla’s going to let me know the next of kin as soon as she’s got an address for them.’

I guess Darla must be the person who mans the police switchboard. Or considering the quality of Casperton’s Police Department, she could be a civilian secretary who’s earned his trust and respect through the quality of her work.

As I climb into the chief’s car, I wonder just what I’ve signed up for. Does he see me as a partner? A sounding board? Or just another pair of eyes to verify his own thoughts and instincts?

There is one problem we need to address before we get too far involved.

‘Chief. You’re aware a lot of the information Alfonse and I may produce won’t be admissible in court?’

‘You mean the stuff your buddy finds out by hacking into private areas?’

‘He prefers to call it executing a thorough investigation.’

The chief takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘I don’t give a damn what he calls it. There’s a killer or killers attacking the residents of Casperton and I have to stop them. We’ll deal with admissible once we’ve made arrests.’

His pulling of his cell from a pocket signals the matter closed.

39

I pull on the nitrile gloves the chief has given me and follow him towards the house. The gloves feel odd on my hands and there is the faint smell of talcum powder coming from them.

Evie Starr’s is the last house before the road ends and scrubland begins. The garden is neat and tidy but there are the first signs of neglect on the house. Paint is starting to peel from the clapboard walls. The windows are clean but they too need a coat of paint.

My best guess is she’d lost her husband a year or two ago and her family haven’t stepped in enough to help her with all the household maintenance.

‘Do I need to tell you not to touch a thing and take care where you step?’

I give him a stare which tells him that if he does, he’ll be looking for another consultant.

He goes to the front door and tries the handle. Nothing happens, so we move to the back of the house. I’m in front of him so I try the back door.

It opens.

The chief brushes past with his gun drawn. I stay back and take in my surroundings. The kitchen is just like a million others. Or what they would have been like thirty years ago. The only hint of modernity is the coffee machine. The air smells old – not in a bad way, it just carries the memory of a thousand and one home-cooked meals.

Hearing no gunshots, I trace the chief’s footsteps. The lounge is less dated than the kitchen but it’s still not modern. Even the TV is old enough to drive.

I move into the hallway. The newel post at the bottom of the bannister has a pile of coats hanging from it.

The chief appears at the top of the stairs. ‘You’d best come up.’

At the top of the stairs he directs me to a bedroom and puts a hand on my shoulder when I reach the door.

The bed clothes are the dark burgundy of congealed blood. There’s a smell in the air like a butcher’s shop but without the harsh tinge of cleaning fluids.

A closet in the corner is open; various clothes and outfits are strewn on the floor.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see what he wants. A gloved finger is pointing towards an open doorway.

Stepping forward I look inside the door and see a bathroom. The shower has blood stains on all four sides although the tray at the bottom is clean. A plastic bottle lies on the carpet, its open top leaking blue shampoo into the fabric.

Towels lie scattered on the floor as if dropped by a child.

I turn to face the chief. ‘This what you expected to find?’

‘Pretty much.’ He massages his temple with the heel of a hand. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m happy to find it though.’

I’m with him there. It’s bad enough to have guessed what had taken place without seeing the aftermath.

I point at the floor. ‘A dime says those towels are still wet.’

‘A dollar says you’re right. C’mon, we better leave this for the CSI team.’

40

Once the CSI team arrive at Evie Starr’s house, the chief drops me back at my car. Neither of us says much. We are both wrapped up with our thoughts. We agree to meet at six and go our separate ways.

I make a call and find I’m in luck. Or out of it depending on your point of view. Dr Edwards has a window. Still, I’d rather see a psychologist than inform a family of a loved one’s murder.

I sit on the couch in his office, wondering if any of Mother’s friends have spied me. Knowing what vampiric souls they are, I can imagine them shaking with excitement as they fumble with their cells in their desperation to call Mother and ask why I’m seeing Dr Edwards.

‘So, Jake, what can I help you with today?’

‘You’ll have heard about the other two murders by now?’

He nods.

‘Alfonse and I are helping the chief in an advisory role and I want your input on a couple of theories I have.’

‘Okay. Same terms as last time though.’

I expected this arrangement would continue and have tried to prepare some answers to the questions I suspect he’ll ask.

He gets a tight smile as my confirmation. ‘We talked about Kira’s hooking last time I was here. Have you had any further thoughts about that?’

‘A couple but none that will help you.’ He sees me waiting for an explanation. ‘Just that she was either narcissistic or she had an end game in mind. Do either of these options say anything to you?’

I hesitate, not wanting to reveal Kira’s obsession with me. ‘Anything’s possible. Now, about the killings. Two of the three have shown signs of anger or rage but two have also shown a calculating mind. Is it possible the same person has killed all three victims?’

‘Can you give me a few details so I can better answer your question?’

I tell him what he needs to know and allow him time to consider what I’ve said.

‘They sound very different, but I can see why you’re asking.’ He scratches a cheek. ‘First impressions are they’re unconnected. Yet the precise cut on Mrs Starr and the coup de grâce on Kira both speak of a person who can exercise a great deal of self-control. Mr Johnson’s death appears to be frenzied and opportune but there may be more to it than –’

‘What do you mean?’ These insights are the reason I am here.

I get a stern glare for the interruption. ‘As I was about to say. A town like Casperton sees very few homicides, so there’s every chance these killings are connected. If I was you, I’d be looking for a connection between the victims rather than their deaths. If you can find a common thread, there may be a way of identifying the killer.’

‘I’ve got Alfonse looking into it.’

‘So what about you? How do you feel about the idea an ex of yours was murdered by what may turn out to be a serial killer?’

I can’t do anything except be honest with him. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she was cut up before being killed.’

‘And would you like to see her killer brought to justice?’

‘Definitely.’ The word comes out with more vehemence than I’d expected or planned.

His eyebrow lifts a fraction. ‘What do you think would be a fitting justice?’

‘Death.’ I soften my tone. ‘My turn, Doc. If there is just one killer out there, what kind of psychoses may he have? Other than homicidal mania, that is.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not going to attempt a diagnosis on someone I’ve never met. All I can tell you is he is intelligent, adaptable to circumstances and he’s playing a game.’

‘A game?’

‘There’s no doubt in my mind he’s enacting a fantasy or has what he sees as a mission.’ He picks up his pad and pen. ‘You seem very determined this killer deserves to die. Why does it bother you so much? Is it because of latent feelings for Kira?’

I pick my words with care. ‘I believe no man should take another’s life without forfeiting his own right to live. That anyone who kills three people in such a cold manner should be removed from the face of the earth.’

‘So you believe in an eye for an eye rather than the justice system. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

‘No. I’m saying he should be caught, tried and sentenced to death.’

‘What do you think you would do if you came face to face with this person?’

‘I’d take him down and then hand him over to the cops.’

He makes a few notes on his pad. ‘You seem very confident of yourself.’

I shrug. ‘One on one, I haven’t lost a fight for a very long time. So, you think this guy may have a mission or purpose driving him. What might this be?’

‘It could be anything. Revenge against people who’ve slighted him in some way. Not feeling respected or valued can often prey on a person’s mind until they snap. It could be someone they owe money to. Because they haven’t paid up or are disputing the amount, this guy has taken it into his head to get them back.’

‘Could it really be something that mundane?’ It doesn’t seem credible to me. ‘People don’t become serial killers because someone owes them a few bucks or hasn’t shown them enough respect.’

‘Don’t they? You’d be surprised how petty grievances can be blown out of proportion. I take it you’ve heard about how Chinese water torture works? By the slow incessant dripping onto a prisoner’s head.’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘What starts out as a negligible irritation grows through time and repetition into a major source of discomfort. The next drip – or slight in this case – becomes expected. Anticipated to the point where the person on the receiving end is already bitter about it. The resentment is built in before the slight is delivered. Paranoia is a very powerful driver.’

‘I see what you mean. It’s like having a permanent sense of defeatism. Even innocuous comments are taken as digs.’

He smiles at my understanding. ‘Exactly. Now imagine this situation carrying on for months or years until you’re a ball of twisted resentment. Every word or gesture to you scrutinised for insults that may or may not be there. Any kindnesses towards you rejected due to the irrational fear you’re being lured into a humiliation-filled trap.’

His words are painting a terrible picture. It’s hard not to imagine myself being in this position and fighting to retain sanity and decency. It would be too easy to lash out with verbal barbs or physical blows.

I’m aware I have confidence in myself, that I’m unafraid to speak my mind and stand up for myself. If that self-confidence was eroded away, would I still voice my thoughts or raise my fists?

The answer to my question is no. In such a situation the safe mentality would be to keep your head down. To go unnoticed and hope the insults aren’t too cutting and the slights can be passed off as insignificant.

‘So what happens? Does a switch just flick and the person in question turn into a maniac?’

‘It’s not as cut and dried as you suggest. There can be many different manifestations of a complete lack of self-confidence. Self-harming, a narcissistic side, a tendency to overspend and act out in an attempt to impress people into liking you. These are the better options for society.’

‘How so?’ I’m intrigued by what he’s saying but unsure of how any of it is better.

Dr Edwards puts down his pad and looks right into my eyes. ‘The worst-case scenario is if, and I stress if, there is a serial killer lacking self-confidence, he’ll probably be a loner, an introvert who’s never quite fitted into any social circle. I suspect he may have fantasised about killing for years before actually doing it. Once he’s taken the first step, he will have felt a sense of empowerment.’

‘Empowerment?’ I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

‘Absolutely. Imagine, if you will, a constant sense of worthlessness, feeling inadequate at all times, as if everyone looks down on you. Then all of a sudden you have the power of life or death in your hands. You see fear in the eyes of your victim instead of contempt. You hear their pleas, their begging and it strengthens you. Gives you a sense of worth. It may even arouse you.’ His eyes shine as he talks.

‘The murders of Kira and Mrs Starr appear to have been premeditated and acted out to suit his purpose. I’m only guessing here, but perhaps he was trailing Mr Johnson in preparation for an attack when an opportunity presented itself. The seized chance would account for a difference in the method of the kill. Also, consider the fact this attack took place beside what is a fairly busy road. He wouldn’t have had time to fully enact his fantasies.’

I figure Dr Edwards is enjoying this distraction from the usual complaints and worries. He hasn’t even tried asking me a question for a good ten minutes.

‘What you say makes sense, in a scary kind of way.’ I shift position, the frame of the couch squeaking at my movement. ‘I know it may constitute a breach of ethics, but do any of your patients fit into this category?’

His fingers steeple. ‘First of all, I have a duty of care to the community, so it wouldn’t be a breach of ethics for me to warn the police of someone I felt was a dangerous individual. Second, I don’t have any patients who display such a lack of self-confidence. Third, anyone with these symptoms wouldn’t deem themselves worthy of therapy. They’d figure themselves a lost cause, a waste of the therapist’s valuable time.’

I wasn’t expecting him to give me any possible suspects, but it’s still a blow to not get even one suggestion.

‘Considering the way this conversation has gone very much in your favour, I’d like to ask you one question and get an honest answer.’

‘Shoot.’ Answering one question is a small price to pay for all his answers.

‘Every time Kira’s name is mentioned your pupils narrow for a heartbeat. To a psychologist, it’s the equivalent of a distress flare. I want you to tell me why you are reacting this way.’

I want to call him names or storm out rather than give him this information. However, a deal’s a deal. I owe him honest answers in return for his professional opinions.

Ten minutes later he knows everything. His pen scratched all the way through my recital of the facts.

I finish speaking and he lays down his pad and pen to steeple his fingers. I’m now familiar enough with his body language to recognise the gesture precedes one of his pronouncements.

He makes me wait a minute or two before opening his mouth. ‘Stop me at any point where I’m wrong, but I think this has come as a great shock to you. The knowledge of this engenders a feeling of responsibility. You’re no longer after her killer because you’ve been hired. It’s now become personal. There are probably some feelings of inadequacy and self-chastisement for not being aware of her feelings. Knowing how she felt for you has transposed your normal morals with a burning need to bring this guy to justice. There will of course be anger. At Kira for not telling you how she felt, towards the killer for obvious reasons, although most of your anger will be channelled inwards at yourself for not being more aware.’

I realise I’ve nodded agreement to each of his points. There’s no way he will have missed that so I give him a verbal confirmation. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know.’ There isn’t any conceit in his voice, just a statement of fact. ‘You’re a proud man and I’d be surprised if you haven’t wondered how many people knew about her infatuation. If those same people have been laughing at you behind your back.’

I say nothing while making sure I don’t give him a nod of agreement.

‘What I suggest you do is focus on catching the killer or killers. It’s unlikely Kira has told anyone. If she did confide in someone, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

41

I walk up the path and knock on the door of Mrs Halliburton’s house. She’s been top of my list of people to see since I saw her named as Johnson’s next of kin, but it’s only now I’ve had time to make the visit.

I wonder if it’s the same Mrs Halliburton who taught me history. It will be good if it is; common ground always helps people to open up.

The door opens to reveal a woman in her mid-fifties. I recognise an older version of the passionate teacher who’d worked so much harder than her peers to make her lessons interesting to bored teenagers.

I extend my right hand. ‘Mrs Halliburton, I’m Jake Boulder. You used to be my teacher back in the day.’

‘How may I help you?’ She looks me up and down, her red-rimmed eyes registering little.

‘I’m working with Alfonse Devereaux and we’ve been asked to help the Casperton PD with your brother’s murder.’ I make a point of slipping Alfonse’s name into the conversation as he was always popular with the teachers.

‘Yeeess. I remember you both.’

The way she draws out the yes makes me unsure she does remember us, but at least she’s being polite and not asking me to leave.

‘Sorry if this seems rude, but why are the police hiring civilians?’ She gives a dismissive wave. ‘Scratch that. One of their detectives was round earlier.’

I gesture inside the house. ‘I won’t take much of your time.’

‘You can have the next year if it helps catch the swine who murdered Paul.’

The underlying fury in her tone tells me she’s gone past denial and has landed in anger.

I follow her into the house. Like her, it’s homely and lived in. Nothing is dirty except a coffee mug, but there’s enough untidiness to make it a comfortable, welcoming place.

She points me to a seat and pets the Labrador puppy flopping its way around her ankles. There’s no offer of coffee or any other kind of drink.

I sit as instructed before starting with my questions.

‘Can you tell me a little bit about Paul – where he worked, his family, his interests and hobbies, any enemies he may have had?’ I already know the answers to these questions, but I’ve read enough fictional interviews to know you should always start by establishing a baseline of emotions by getting the subject to recount known truths.

She takes a deep swallow. ‘He worked up at the reservoir. His job had some fancy title like systems analyst when all he did was sit on his butt making sure the dials were all pointing the right way. He was separated from his wife, and his daughter is at college in Salt Lake.’

A handkerchief is pulled from her sleeve and used to dab her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, I know this must be tough for you, but everything you tell me can help us catch the man who did this to your brother.’

‘I know.’ The handkerchief is lifted to her face again.

I give a gentle prompt. ‘His interests and hobbies.’

‘Yes. He didn’t have a lot in his life. He worked every hour they’d let him so Leah could go to college.’

‘And when he wasn’t working?’

‘He’d do odd jobs to raise a few extra bucks. You know, mowing lawns, painting. That kind of thing. Virtually every penny he made went to his ex-wife or Leah.’ The amount of resentment in her voice makes me wonder just how acrimonious his divorce had been.

‘He didn’t go bowling or date or anything?’

‘Nothing. He had no life other than work.’

‘What about enemies?’

She laughs in my face. ‘Paul wasn’t the type of man to have enemies. He went through life unnoticed. Nobody bothered with him beyond polite conversation. After the divorce he worked, slept and then worked some more.’

I can tell by her body language she disapproved of his empty lifestyle but won’t put a voice to her criticism in front of me.

Once I’ve exhausted all my questions, I thank her and leave.

Next on my list of people to visit are Evie Starr’s family.

42

I step out of the shower and reach for a towel. After invading the lives of two grieving families, I was left with the need to wash. To cleanse myself of their misery and the dirty feeling I got from causing further hurt.

After dressing I make a sandwich with some cold meats from my fridge and the last slices of bread. The bread is harder and drier than I care for, but with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had time to collect any fresh groceries. The glass of milk I pour myself is a day past its use-by date, but smells okay, so I risk it.

I take a seat and begin a mental recap of everything I’ve seen or heard today. There’s a lot to chew over, but I work my way through it until some ideas have formed.

One idea I can’t shake, despite knowing there’s no way it can be correct, is Paul Johnson is almost a perfect fit for Dr Edwards’ suggested psyche of our possible serial killer. He has the loneliness factor and after the way his ex-wife discarded him, he was sure to be harbouring more than a little resentment.

Every fibre of my body tells me associating a victim with a killer in this way is wrong. While I’m not going so far as to speak ill of the dead, the uncharitable thoughts are still coming.

What I can’t get my head round is how we’re meant to identify the killer. Everything I’ve learned about each of the victims is unique and individual to them. Other than being lifelong residents of Casperton, there is no common thread. No shared interests, hangouts or friends.

Even their ages are disparate, with there being at least half a generation between any two of them.

I make a note to look deeper into the financial side of their lives. If they share a tradesman or professional of some kind, there may be a connecting link to give the investigation a focal point.

This is the type of work Alfonse excels at. It’ll become his task while I busy myself with something more people orientated.

Looking at my scribbled notes, I wonder if either Johnson or Evie Starr kept a diary. It’s a question I never asked and its omission nags at me.

With a half hour to go before I’m due to meet the chief, I call Alfonse asking him to join me there. Having everyone in the same room will save any repeated conversations.

To kill time, I pick up the last pages of Kira’s diary in the hope of finding a clue of some kind. I don’t expect to, but a part of me knows I need to read them just in case.

43

Upon entering the station I’m waved right through to Chief Watson’s office where I find him on the telephone.

I’m not sure who he’s talking to, although it’s a fair bet they’re not enjoying the chief’s words as much as I am.

The handset rattles when he thumps it into the cradle. ‘Sit down, Boulder, and wipe that smirk off your face.’

I obey the first half of the command. ‘That was a great use of language. Most people would have just sworn at him.’

‘I don’t believe in using curse words with my men.’

I get the smirk off my face but can’t remove it from my voice. ‘Sorry, but it’s the first time I’ve heard a detective being described as less use than a syphilitic camel’s rotting carcass.’

He kneads his temples, a grimace turning down the corners of his mouth.

‘He deserved it. I’ve just had Evie Starr’s son in running his mouth about insensitivity. The son said you’d been there too. Said you’d shown way more tact and understanding.’

I give a shrug and a nod of thanks in one movement.

The visit to her family hadn’t been pleasant for anyone, but all through it, I’d known they were suffering way more than I was. It was written on their faces and translatable from their body language.

Interpreting the way he looked at me over the top of his mug as an invitation to speak, I hold up two fingers and pull out my cell.

‘You’re late and the chief’s waiting, where are you?’

‘I’m here.’ I hear Alfonse’s voice in my ear as his head pokes round the chief’s open door.

I scowl my disapproval at his poor timekeeping, but as usual he ignores me.

‘What have you got then?’

The chief’s question is aimed at both of us, but it’s Alfonse who speaks first. ‘I’ve spent most of my day looking at the wives of Kira’s clients in case it was one of them seeking revenge. None of them seemed likely to have gone that far and unless they have secret accounts in false names, none of them have withdrawn large amounts of cash.’

‘I’m guessing you mean to pay a hitman rather than do it themselves.’ The chief’s words are a statement not a question.

‘Yep. There was nothing I could find to suggest any of them had dropped out long enough to travel here. These women have little to do and are constantly updating their Twitter or Facebook feed.’ He gives a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Once I’d identified them, it didn’t take long to rule them out.’

‘Is it possible they have offshore accounts that didn’t show on your searches?’

‘Yes, but it’s not likely. I tapped into their email servers and checked their historical emails to locate their bank statements. Once I’d done that, it was just a case of having a look at their income and expenditure.’

‘I see what you meant about inadmissible.’ The chief shoots me a look then turns back to Alfonse. ‘How do you know their offshore accounts are linked to that particular email and they don’t send their statements in the mail?’

‘Nobody who has a secret offshore account wants their statement put in the mail. Some of them had more than one email, but the software I used to get into their PCs or tablets scans for historical searches on any browser. One of the things it flags up is sign-up pages for email accounts. Therefore, I’m ninety-nine per cent confident I’ve got all their email accounts covered.’

I believe him and can see Chief Watson does too. These days, everyone is tuned in to their cells or tablets as if they are a magical gateway to a better world.

It’s all a nonsense – what’s happening is the erosion of societal manners and consideration for others. Just last week I saw a guy in his late twenties so engrossed with his cell he walked into a busy intersection without noticing. When confronted by angry drivers blaring their horns, he’d flipped them the bird as though they were the ones at fault, before continuing to the nearest sidewalk with his cell still held in front of him.

If just one of those cars hadn’t screeched to a halt, I’d have witnessed Darwinian selection first hand.

‘So you think they should be eliminated from our thoughts?’

‘Yeah. After doing that, I started to look into the other two victim’s finances.’

Score one for Alfonse. ‘I was hoping you would. What did you find?’ I keep my voice matter of fact, not wanting the chief to realise I hadn’t considered it until after it was done.

He addresses the chief rather than me. ‘Paul Johnson lived a pauper’s life only one large bill away from disaster. He had no secret accounts or hidden stash. Unless it was cash stuffed into his mattress.’

The chief shakes his head. ‘We didn’t find anything like that when we searched his house. I saw where his money was going for myself when I looked through his statements. You would too, Boulder. What about, Evie Starr?’

‘She had some money, but not what you’d call a lot. Ten grand and change in a savings account, plus a pension which paid enough to cover living expenses so she could use the savings for luxuries.’

‘Where’s the pension from?’ I’m wondering if a small businessman is cutting off bad payers and trimming outgoings from the firm’s pension fund.

‘One of the oil companies.’

His words nix that particular theory. It is enough of a stretch a local firm was protecting their pension fund, but the global companies involved in the oilfields wouldn’t care about such trivial amounts.

‘Did you find any common purchases? Had they all had building work done by the same firm or something like that?’

I’m pleased the chief and I are on the same wavelength. Not only does it validate my own thoughts, but it’s good to see he is smart and capable of independent thought.

His predecessor had been rooted in the old ways and had all but condoned the lacklustre efforts of Farrage and his buddies. With Victor Watson, Casperton, for the first time in many years, has an intelligent and decent man as chief of police.

Alfonse pulls three sheets of paper from the leather document folder he brought with him. ‘I haven’t had time to cross-reference them yet but these are the last six- month’s-worth of purchases for each of the three victims.’

He hands me a sheet and another to Chief Watson. ‘I’ve put them in alphabetical rather than date order.’

Five minutes later we’ve finished checking the lists. Only four businesses feature on all three: Casperton Auto Repairs, a fuel stop in the centre of town, the 7-Eleven and Sherri’s.

Almost everyone in Casperton uses the 7-Eleven, Sherri’s and the fuel stop. Their inclusion was a given for any local. I use them myself, as does Alfonse.

Johnson had visited Sherri’s just once, and by the time of the transaction and amount paid, I’d guess his daughter was home for the weekend.

Which means the one common business used by each of the three victims was Casperton Autos. This brings us back to Lunk.

Again, a lot of people use Casperton Autos. Whatever else he may be, Lunk is a fine mechanic and his rates are way more reasonable than the dealerships on the edge of town.

‘Did you have a chance to look at the accounts of Casperton Autos?’

Alfonse and I exchange knowing glances at the chief’s question. Like everything else about Lunk, his accounts will be a mess. It would surprise me if his accounts are on paper let alone a computer.

Any bill I’ve ever had from him was handwritten on cheap paper headed with nothing more than a variety of oily fingerprints. For minor jobs like new tyres or an exhaust, he’d pull a number out of his head and I’d pay cash without ever seeing a check. I’m sure the IRS are long overdue an investigation into his accounts, but that, quite literally, is his business.

‘What about you, Boulder? What have you learned today?’

I tell them of my day, the visits to the grieving families and the hour I spent with Dr Edwards.

He listens without interrupting, the pen in his hand scratching out notes onto the cluttered desk pad. His scrawled handwriting follows no logical pattern or direction. Notes are jotted at random points of the compass, the text assuming whichever direction his hand finds easiest. How he makes sense of it is beyond me, but it must work for him – he’s too experienced not to have learned the best way to work.

When I finish he lays down his pen with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve learned more from you two than I have from any four of my detectives.’

There’s nothing we can say to this so we stay quiet waiting for him to continue.

‘You mentioned Evie Starr’s family were adamant she was loved by all who knew her. It’s a cliché, I know, but did you get any feeling they were looking through rose-tinted glasses?’

‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I spoke to one of her neighbours as well. She was always the first to contribute to bake sales or to help others whenever they needed it. She was so popular the kids in the neighbourhood called her Auntie Evie.’

The chief kneads both temples at once.

Now we’ve given him his information, it’s time for him to reciprocate. ‘Have you heard anything from the CSI team?’

He nods and consults the mess of scribbles on his desk pad. ‘They found everything we expected them to and nothing we didn’t.’

I know what he means. What had happened in her house was pretty obvious, but still we’d had an idea or two, which may help the CSI team get us a suspect, our best theory being the killer may have removed his gloves to wash the blood off her body.

‘Did they find any fingerprints in the shower?’

‘Only hers. The shower controls all had partial prints, which had been smudged. Piers, who was the lead investigator, said it’s typical of what happens when someone wearing gloves touches something.’

The fact I was expecting this news doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

‘What else did they find?’

Again the chief’s fingers reach for his temples. ‘Nothing that tells us anything new. Everything they told me just confirms what we suspected.’

‘What about how he got her from the house to the reservoir?’

‘There were no tyre tracks in her driveway other than the ones from her own car. A shed at the back of the house was found to have its lock broken.’

A thought hits me. ‘Did you find the keys for her car?’

‘I didn’t know we were supposed to look for them.’

‘A dime says you don’t find them anywhere you’d expect them to be.’ The chief scowls so I keep going. ‘I’m guessing he used her car to drive to the reservoir. The broken lock on the shed is too coincidental not to be connected. Therefore, I figure he stole a wheelbarrow from the shed to carry her from the car to the bench. Once she is in place he takes the car back and walks away.’

‘Goddamn it, I think you’re on to something. If you’re right it explains why the neighbours didn’t see any strange vehicles in the area.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve been at the house – you’ve seen how easy it would be to approach from the back without being seen.’

He reaches for the telephone on his desk. Dialling a number from memory, he waits for an answer then barks out a series of instructions. Whoever is on the other end of the line is left in little doubt of how quick the chief wants them to act.

Ending the call, he turns to me. ‘That tyre print you found. I’ll bet a week’s salary it was the killer dumping the wheelbarrow into the reservoir.’

I’ve had the same thought. ‘Do you know anyone with diving equipment who can find out for you?’

A malicious gleam twinkles in his eye. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is always talking about pool parties. I’m sure he’ll be able to swim down a few feet and find out if we’re right.’

As much as I hold Farrage in the contempt he deserves, I don’t envy him the task of having to swim into the cold depths of the reservoir. Down below the surface in the shade of the trees there will be murky blackness, indistinct shapes and the pressure of the water squeezing his body.

The water will push at his closed mouth, trying to force a way into his lungs. If it finds no entry there, it will refocus its attention on his nostrils. Whatever other faults he may have, Farrage will earn my respect if he can propel himself into the depths and find the wheelbarrow.

‘Here.’ The chief passes a folder to me and one to Alfonse. ‘I got these reports just before you arrived. I haven’t had time read them myself yet.’

All three of us read in silence. It doesn’t take long to go through the pages. Not only are there few details to consider, but the detectives have shown their laziness by only recording the barest information in the briefest way possible.

I expect their training will have taught them to record only the pertinent facts using the fewest words possible, but their idleness has progressed to new levels, thereby robbing the reports of any character. Not once is a theory offered forward, there’s just fact after fact delivered as a series of bullet points.

There are statements from the young couple who found Evie Starr and the report from the CSI team who’d examined the dump site.

Nothing my eyes land on does anything more than confirm what I already know or suspect.

The chief slaps his papers onto the desk and glares at us. ‘Nothing. That’s what I get from these – absolutely nothing. Tell me you’ve got something.’

Alfonse shakes his head while I remain still and silent.

‘You found something, Boulder?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what it is.’

‘Figure quickly.’ Yet again the chief’s hands stray to his temples. ‘I want you to focus on the two women. The more I think about it, the less I believe Johnson’s murder is connected to the others.’

I disagree with his way of thinking, but I’m aware he has more experience than me when it comes to hunting killers. Besides, unlike Farrage and his cronies, I don’t have to follow his every order.

The chief looks at his watch. ‘We’ll meet here at noon unless something breaks through the night. If you think of anything, call me, regardless of the time.’

44

I get home and settle into my recliner with the reports. The thought nagging at me hasn’t come into bloom yet, but I intend to read them as often as necessary until it steps forward and identifies itself.

Finding a rhythm, I pour over page after page until I’ve read every report twice.

Inspiration eludes me as I try to reshape my questions to fit the knowledge accumulated so far.

I make some notes which I score out when I realise other facts refute their validity.

No matter which way I approach the problem it stays resolute, defiant of my attempts to solve it.

I pick up the remaining few pages of Kira’s journal. Perhaps a change of focus will freshen my tired mind.

As is always the way, it’s one of the last pages that gives me the breakthrough. There, among her ramblings about me, is a passage that makes my heart beat faster as the jigsaw in my mind begins to form a clear picture.

If I’m right, there’s a serial killer targeting Casperton with a bizarre way of selecting his next victim.

I grab my iPad and begin to seek out the registries Alfonse has shown me. I type in the hacked password he gave me and start my search.

First I look at the local births and marriages register, tracing back the family tree of Evie Starr. Knowing she had two daughters and a son helps and it doesn’t take long to pinpoint their dates of birth.

Finding the son’s children is easy as they will have the family name. He is the proud father of two sons. Both are unmarried so I can strike them from my thoughts.

I cross-reference the dates of birth of the two daughters against the register of marriages. Using their married names, I return to the dates of birth and check for any children. One has two daughters but neither carries the name I’m looking for.

Next I look at the second daughter and learn she’s been married twice. I’ve been looking for children from her second marriage. The first one only lasted two years but she’d produced a pair of twins.

There in a small font is the name I am looking for. To be certain I have the right person, I enter her name into the search box. It comes back with one entry. Hers.

I realise with a jolt I’ve gone about this the long way. If I’d started with her name and traced backwards I would have gotten the same verification of my theory two or three hours ago.

I call Chief Watson. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message and call Alfonse.

He listens as I tell him my theory and the research I’ve done. He agrees with my logic and promises the information I need within five minutes.

Feeling adrenaline pulse through me, I try the chief again. He answers with a gruff voice laden with the nuances of the recently awoken.

45

The chief looks extra stressed as I stride into his office. One hand appears to be fixed to his temple as he speaks into the phone. The fact he’s not getting any joy with his requests for help shows on every crease of his face.

The phone slams down and he glares at me as if it’s my fault. ‘Are you positive about this, Boulder?’

‘I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t.’ I pass across the printouts I’ve brought with me and hope he notices the needle in my voice. He can treat his subordinates however he likes, but I don’t take insults from anyone.

He scans the pages and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. They are connected.’ He grabs a folder off his desk and waves at me to follow him as he moves towards the door.

As we pass the front desk he leans over it, invading the desk sergeant’s personal space. ‘Get every officer you have the number for into this office in the next twenty minutes. I don’t care whether they’re traffic, detectives, off duty or retired. I want them here by the time I call you. Am I understood?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, so I match his pace as he hurries outside. I climb into his car without bothering to ask if he wants me along.

The chief stands on the gas with vehemence. The tyres lay down a strip of rubber as the car shoots out of the parking lot with lights and sirens in full operation.

‘That’s a good call you made, Boulder.’ He sighs as his mind realigns itself from administration to action. ‘What put you onto it?’

‘I was reading Kira Niemeyer’s diary when I found out her cousin had discovered a person who’d hanged themselves. I remembered Kira’s body was found by Mrs Halliburton who is the sister of Paul Johnson. Two coincidences like that seemed a bit of a stretch, so I looked into the person that found Johnson’s body. She turned out to be Evie Starr’s granddaughter.’

He negotiates a corner so fast the protest of tyres can be heard over the siren.

Upon reaching our destination, the chief screeches to a halt on the wide road and jumps out. I’m a half pace behind him.

He bangs on the door of a stereotypical house until the glass splinters. Still he bangs and hollers until a light comes on and a dark shape appears behind the glass.

The door opens to reveal a man shaking off the effects of the sudden awakening. Stepping back, I can see other lights in the house turn on.

‘Mr Masterton, I’m Chief Watson and I need to talk to you at once. You are not in any trouble but members of your family may be in danger.’

Masterton looks at me, then the chief and back to me, his brain still too near sleep to process the information it is being given.

I step forward and usher him backwards. ‘Your family are in danger. Get everybody in the house downstairs. Now!’

My last word being shouted jolts something inside him. He stumbles up the stairs shouting names as he goes.

Two minutes later his family are gathered in the lounge. There’s a son of college age, another in his mid-teens and a wife. All of them are sleep-tousled and the wife’s expression is that of a professional lemon taster. A cat stalks along the floor then leaps into the lap of the youngest son.

The chief points at the elder son. ‘When Frederick here found the body of Evie Starr, we believe he was being watched.’

‘By whom?’ Even in her current state, the sour-faced woman gets her grammar correct.

‘The person who killed her and dumped her body there.’

‘I presume you’re connecting that lady with the two murders in the Gazette?’ Again it’s the woman who speaks. It doesn’t take much deduction to work out who rules this particular roost.

The chief raises a hand towards his temple only to stop the movement at shoulder height. ‘Our intelligence leads us to think the killer watches to see who finds the bodies. Once he’s identified them he selects a member of their family as his next victim.’

What little colour is in their faces drains away as the chief’s words sink in.

‘We need you to provide us with a list of your family members, their addresses and phone numbers.’

‘Beth. What about Beth? She was with me. Won’t she be at risk as well?’

I turn to Frederick. ‘We’re going there next. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

Mrs Masterton takes control of the situation. ‘Frederick. Will you bring me a pen, some paper and my cell please? The sooner we do this, the sooner they can go and warn her.’

Her eyes lock onto the chief. ‘What happens when I give you this list?’

‘I’ll send officers to everyone’s house and your entire family will be escorted to the station for the rest of the night. We’ll look at getting some more comfortable accommodation for you tomorrow. We’ve only just made this connection and don’t have anywhere else we can guarantee your safety.’

‘Is it safe to go upstairs and get dressed?’ It’s the younger son who asks. He’s close to tears and has an arm round the father.

I give him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but would you like me to go up and check for you?’

He nods so I make my way towards the stairs I’d passed on the way in. Not having any official capacity leaves me feeling like a voyeur. The chance to check through the house in case the killer is lying in wait is too good to pass up.

I give the house a thorough if unconcerned search. Any killer present is bound to have heard the chief’s banging and hollering. Half of what I’m looking for is signs of forced entry.

With both halves of my search coming up empty, I return to the lounge where the chief is on his cell, relaying the details noted down in Mrs Masterton’s neat script.

Hearing a knock at the door, I look out and see the two patrolmen the chief had summoned on the drive over.

The chief ends his call and issues his orders to the patrolmen.

As he strides towards the door he throws me a sideways nod. ‘C’mon, Boulder. We’ve got the Tanners to see now.’

What neither of us have mentioned is how the killer identifies the people who find the bodies. It’s not the kind of information shared with the press or mentioned outside of law enforcement circles.

Therefore, the killer is either being fed information by the police, is a member of the force or is watching the dump sites.

It’s a question which cannot remain unanswered. ‘How does the killer know who finds the bodies?’

‘Lord knows.’ He scratches at his chin while screeching around a corner. ‘I looked into all my men when I moved here. They may be useless and in some cases downright stupid, but none of them have been in trouble for excessive force or anything like that. I don’t know them well enough to vouch for them, but for the most part I’d say they’re too damn lazy to go to all this trouble.’

For the most part I agree with his assessment, but there is always the element of the unknown.

The idea one of them is sharing information with the killer doesn’t fly. As soon as they’d worked out what was happening they’d have stopped. The only way they’d have continued is if the killer had threatened their families.

Which is possible, but not likely.

That leaves a third option. ‘Do you reckon he’s watching the dump sites then?’

‘What other explanation is there?’

I can’t think of one. I would push a bit harder, but we’ve arrived at the Tanner’s house.

46

When we return to the station, I find a seething mass of bodies crushed into the reception area. The adults are sitting on a variety of office chairs while the children are either sitting on their parents’ knees or are cross-legged on the floor.

Every face is filled with worry and anger. I can empathise with their concerns. Nobody enjoys being roused from sleep and told they or their loved ones may be in danger from a serial killer.

Farrage is being harangued by a group of angry men who demand he leave the station and catch the killer at once.

Frustration and a feeling of impotent rage fills the air with a noxious tension, turning the room into a powder keg of emotion. One wrong word in here could start a fight as discomfort and worry combine.

As soon as the chief is recognised, the men surrounding Farrage abandon him and focus on the higher power. At least Farrage has the decency to hide his face so nobody except me sees his relief.

The chief lifts his hands, palms outward. ‘One at a time please.’ His voice isn’t raised but it carries enough of an edge to cut through the chatter and silence the room.

‘You first.’ He points at the man on the left of the group. ‘What is it?’

The man is mid-forties and carries himself well in spite of the situation. ‘It’s my wife. She didn’t come home tonight. He’s got her, hasn’t he?’

‘We don’t know that for certain. Boulder, take him to my office. I’ll be there directly.’ The chief turns to the next man. ‘Yes?’

I lead the man into the chief’s office.

‘What’s your wife’s name?’

‘Wendy… Wendy Agnew.’

‘What time was she due home?’

‘Around midnight. She was dropping a colleague at the airport after work.’

I look at my watch. She’s two hours late.

‘How come you’ve just noticed she is missing?’

Guilt replaces the worry on his face. ‘I knew she was gonna be late so I went for a couple of beers after work. Had a couple more when I got home. When I got woken and brought here, I never looked at the time. I just assumed she wasn’t home because it was before midnight.’

I don’t know what to say to that. If he’d been sober he would have noticed sooner. Yet I know all too well the pull of another beer. It’s one of the reasons I drink so rarely.

‘Have you called her cell?’

‘Of course. It just keeps going to answer phone after a few rings.’

The fact it is ringing is good news to balance the bad of it not being answered. If it was going straight to voicemail there is a chance it has been destroyed or isn’t picking up a signal.

I pluck a pen from the desk and point at the chief’s desk pad. ‘Write her number on there for me.’

I pull out my own cell. Alfonse picks up before the first ring is complete.

‘Run a trace for me.’ I recite the number Agnew has written down. ‘Call me back as soon as you have a location.’

‘Do you think he’s got her? Do you think she’ll be his next victim?’

I don’t reply because my answer to both of his questions is yes. Instead I change the subject. ‘What car does she drive? What’s her licence plate?’

My distraction works. A part of him understands giving me information is more important than anything he wants to know. I jot the details down on the corner of the chief’s pad and tear it loose.

A thought enters my head before I leave to get the chief. ‘Have you called her work to check she left?’

‘No.’ Hope springs into his eyes as he reaches for his cell.

‘Are you part of the Tanner or Masterton family?’

‘Tanner.’

He turns away as his call is answered.

The hunch of his shoulders as he asks his questions relaxes for a moment before returning with more intensity.

When he turns to tell me what he’s learned, I see fat tears tumbling down his cheeks. ‘She left at eleven-thirty.’

I’m about to leave the room and get the chief when he enters with a woman. She’s in her forties and is dabbing at reddening eyes with a paper tissue.

The chief is the first to speak. ‘This is Gayle Prosser. Her husband Donny went to work at seven this morning and never came home.’

I get her attention by touching her elbow. ‘Are you related to Frederick Masterton?’

‘He’s my nephew.’

I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’

‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’

‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’

Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’

‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitates. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.

I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.

Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.

As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.

I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.

Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.

47

I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.

‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’

I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.

With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.

My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.

When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.

We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.

My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.

I glance at the odometer. It shows seven point two miles travelled.

As I draw up beside the car, the chief uses his radio to summon two deputies. We climb out and circle the car, looking around as we do so. Finding nothing obvious, I stare out into the blackness as the chief shines his flashlight inside.

‘There’s nobody in the car.’

He gives me a pair of nitrile gloves and pulls on a pair himself.

We’ve found the car, but not the owner. The car being left here is odd. There is no real place for parking, no junctions or side roads. There isn’t even a track leading into the scrub.

I hear the chief trying a door handle as my eyes scan the darkness again. I can’t see anything due to the cloud cover but it doesn’t stop me sensing there’s something out there.

There’s a slight creak from the hinges as the car door opens. The chief reaches in and presses the button to release the trunk.

There’s a thunk as the mechanism releases the catch.

We move to the back of the car as if choreographed. My eyes never leave the wilderness surrounding us. My vigilance is involuntary, fuelled by an instinct borne of some primeval sixth sense.

The way the chief doesn’t comment on what I’m doing makes me realise he feels the same way. That he’s trusting me to keep lookout is a comforting endorsement, only offset by the fact he shares my nerves. When an experienced law enforcer like Chief Watson gets the jitters, it’s not without good cause.

‘It’s empty.’

He takes over guard duty while I sink to my knees with his flashlight and look underneath the car.

There’s nothing there except a small patch where oil has dripped from the engine. Standing up, I shake my head and return his flashlight.

I leave him shining his flashlight into the nearby brush and lean into the car. There’s an open handbag in the passenger footwell. It’s filled with the usual paraphernalia along with a cell phone and a woman’s purse.

I fish the scrap of desk pad from my pocket and use my cell to dial the number Agnew gave me. The cell in the bag rings, providing all the confirmation we need.

So where is she?

I don’t profess to be an expert on women, but I’ve met enough to know there are very few who’d leave their car in the middle of nowhere and go off without their bag or cell.

Therefore, this is the site of her abduction. Which brings us back to trying to work out who took her.

The realisation does something to me. I’m not sure whether it provides adrenaline or a higher state of consciousness, but I no longer fear whatever may be hiding in the shadows. The killer won’t be watching the abduction site. His style is to watch the place where he dumps his victims.

Looking around I see enough brush and scrub bushes fleetingly illuminated by the chief’s flashlight to know we’ll never find Wendy Agnew’s body tonight even if it’s twenty feet from here.

‘When the deputies get here, I’ll leave them to guard the car. We can start a search in the morning. You heard from your buddy yet?’

I shake my head. The chief’s subtext is I should call Alfonse to ask. There’s no point, he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s located Donny Prosser’s cell.

A check of my watch shows the time as five after three. If Alfonse takes the same time tracing Prosser’s cell as he did with Wendy Agnew’s my cell should ring within ten minutes.

We wait in silence until a patrol car arrives. When it does, the chief walks over and starts issuing orders before the patrolmen have fully exited the car.

I stare at my cell, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

The chief joins me in my car, his raised eyebrow asking the question again.

I ignore him and start the engine.

We’re a mile or so from Casperton when my cell rings. I listen to what Alfonse has to say without commenting. There’s not a lot I can say, but an inner cussedness is making me enjoy the chief’s exasperated impatience.

Making a mental note of Alfonse’s directions, I end the call and hang a left at the first opportunity.

‘Well?’

The chief’s sole word carries insistence along with the full burden of his worry.

‘His cell was at his place of work until six thirty. After that Alfonse traced it to a couple of bars.’

‘I don’t want its family history, Boulder. I want to know where it is now.’

‘The last signal he got from it was a half mile out of town. He says it was near the bridge over Hangman’s Creek.’

‘That’s on the Forty towards Denver ain’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

I’ve forgotten just how new he is to Casperton. He’s still finding his feet in this town, learning the place and the people.

Like me, Alfonse and a lot of the other incomers, he’ll never achieve total acceptance by the town’s original inhabitants no matter how long he stays. If I have any children born and educated in Casperton, they’ll be classed as locals, but it’s not a status granted to anyone who moves into the town.

I ignore him as he pulls out his cell and starts issuing orders. My concentration is on my driving as I throw the Mustang into corners and hurtle along the deserted streets until I link with the Forty.

As we leave town, I slow in case Prosser’s cell is lying in pieces at the roadside. Nearing the bridge over Hangman’s Creek, I can guess why the trace on Prosser’s cell ended here.

The creek may only be a few feet wide at this time of year, but I can hear its roar as I park my car on the bridge.

The chief plays his flashlight down and picks out the frothing waters of Hangman’s Creek. I grip the railing a little tighter and try not to think of the water below me tumbling and fighting to gain passage through the rocky gulch.

I turn to face the chief. His silhouette shows against the first rays of morning sun. ‘How much do you want to bet Prosser’s phone is down there somewhere?’

He scowls at me. ‘You don’t know that for sure. Could be he just decided to skip town after fighting with his wife. Tossed his phone over the bridge on his way to a new life.’

‘So he worked all day, went for a couple of beers then just up and left town. Didn’t go home for a change of clothes or to say goodbye to his kids.’ I scowl back at him. ‘Do you believe that’s what happened?’

‘I’d like to, but no.’

We spend a few minutes scouting about the area without finding anything except scrub and rocks.

‘Take me back to the station, Boulder. I’ve search parties to organise.’

I keep my thoughts to myself as I drive him back. I’ve nothing useful to say and I know he’s got some thinking to do. If he kneads his temples any harder his knuckles are going to meet in the middle.

As we approach the station, I ask what he wants me to do next.

‘Obviously my priority is finding these missing people. I need you to help me speak to their families, while I send my detectives out to speak to anyone who may have seen Prosser last night.’

48

I let myself into my apartment and decide not to bother Alfonse until I’ve had a shower. The need to wash the night’s discoveries off me is more compelling than checking a simple fact with him.

After scrubbing myself for five minutes, I drop the water temperature as low as it will go. The cold water does far more to energise me than yet another cup of coffee will. My body and brain feel sharper and more able to tackle whatever else the day throws at me.

Once dressed, I call Alfonse. For once, luck is on my side. Now I have this piece of information it shouldn’t be too hard to verify or discount an idea which has been bugging me.

The last two hours had been spent trying to extract details of favourite haunts, drinking buddies and so on from Prosser’s wife and his brother. While there was always the possibility he’d loaned his cell to someone or had it stolen, I don’t think that is the case and neither did his wife.

She had been so vehement about him never lending his cell to anyone, including her, it made me wonder if there was a specific reason he never let her use it. Being a cynic, my first thought was the reason may have blonde hair, long legs and a less confrontational nature than his wife.

A quiet word with Prosser’s brother when she nipped to the restroom had nixed this idea. With constant glances at the door, he’d told me how Prosser had been caught straying in the past and how close he’d come to losing his family over it. He described his brother’s experience as a hard-learned lesson.

I drink the last of the orange juice in my fridge and lift my keys from the counter. When I leave my apartment building I find a car blocking my Mustang into its usual space.

It’s a black Lincoln, which makes the FBI my first guess. My second thought is that unless Mr Steroids works for the FBI, my first guess is wrong.

Three of his fellow drug abusers clamber out of the car. They flex their muscles and throw mean stares around as if they want to intimidate someone or something.

I look behind me and see nobody else to intimidate, their target must be me as the garden doesn’t look scared.

It’s a shame they’ve travelled so far to waste their scowls. I’m guessing they aren’t here for a gurning competition.

Mr Steroids points at me. ‘That’s him. That’s the jerk who put me in plaster.’

I take a better look at the three lugheads as they lumber towards me. The one on the left is the same height as me but twice as wide, giving him the appearance of an orangutan. The one in the centre is the tallest, has a bald head and a goatee, while the final one is wearing a vest top which shows off full sleeve tattoos. The ones on his right arm appear stretched where the steroids have added bulk to an already tattooed arm.

It’s obvious why they’re here, so I start calculating the best way to deal with them. Three against one isn’t a fair fight, but I’ve faced worse odds.

They have muscle on their side but I have unpredictability and intelligence. It’s only Goatee who shows any spark in his eyes. The others have the dull bovine look of a cow being led into a slaughterhouse wondering why it can smell blood.

I’ll need to be quick about this. Superior strength and numbers will always beat a cunning fighter in a long-drawn-out battle.

Orangutan swings his arms wide, completing the look as he pumps himself up for confrontation. ‘You hurt our buddy. We’re here to make you pay.’

I reach into my pocket and pull out a dime which I flip at him. ‘That’s all you’re getting from me.’

It’s a petty insult but he charges at me with a great bellow. The move so predictable I have a smile on my face as I duck his flailing arms and deliver a thumping blow to his solar plexus. He falls, gasping for breath.

One down, two to go.

The other two are cagier now they’ve seen I can handle myself. They advance as a pair, shoulders a scant inch apart.

Goatee feints a right as Tattoos throws a left. My right arm flies up instinctively and makes enough of a connection to turn the punch into a glancing blow rather than a direct hit.

With my attention on Tattoos, Goatee grabs hold of my left wrist and delivers a savage tug.

It feels as if my shoulder has been torn from its socket but I don’t have time to dwell on the pain.

I dance two steps to my right so Tattoos is in Goatee’s way and then stride towards him feinting a left and delivering a roundhouse right. He ducks back causing me to miss, but there’s a thud as the back of his head collides with Goatee’s chin.

My foot connects with his groin before he has a chance to recover from the clash with Goatee. As he clutches his groin, I send a second roundhouse which connects with his chin.

‘Just you and me now.’ I accompany my words with a devil-may-care grin.

I see a hint of doubt in Goatee’s eyes, but still he presses forward.

He feints a couple of times then springs at me. A jab connects with my chin but I’m moving back so it doesn’t do too much damage. The right to my ribs does though.

Taking advantage of the blow’s impact he wraps his hands around my throat and slams me against the wall of the apartment block, pinning me against the rough bricks.

As his grip begins to tighten and his thumbs dig into my larynx, I kick out at his legs. My kicks land but with my back against the wall I can’t get enough of a swing to hurt or unbalance him.

With that tactic out, I have no option but to raise the stakes to another level.

I throw my hands out until my knuckles touch brick. Jerking them together in a pincer movement, I slam the heel of each hand into Goatee’s elbows.

The way he’s got me held, with his arms extended and his elbows locked, makes him vulnerable to this kind of retaliation. There’s a dual snap as both joints shatter.

He yelps and staggers back with his arms hanging and a dumb look on his face as if he doesn’t know what to do.

I solve his problem with a nose-destroying headbutt followed by an uppercut, which drops him in a heap.

Crossing to the Lincoln, I fix Mr Steroids with a more intimidating stare than his buddies could ever manage. ‘This ends here. This ends now. If you come after me again, I’ll finish you and anyone you care to bring with you. Do you get what I’m saying?’

‘Mr Young ain’t gonna be happy with you for this.’ There is bravado in his voice but fear in his eyes.

‘How happy do you think he’d be if I got a friend of mine to tap into his website and identify all the people who have ever hired one of his courtesans? How happy do you think he’d be if my friend was to send an email in Mr Young’s name blackmailing all those clients?’ I’m making this up as I go but pricking his bubble is too much fun to pass up. ‘How happy do you think Mr Young would be if my friend was to send a full list of his clients to every journalist, blogger and radio station in the country?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to go back into my apartment for a shower. When I come back out, which will be in approximately ten minutes, you and anyone you brought with you are going to be gone.’

I turn to see Orangutan trying to rise from his knees; Tattoos is sitting up attempting to clear his head by shaking his brain some more and Goatee is still lying where I’d left him.

My second shower of the day sees me turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Now the adrenaline has left my body, the pain from Goatee’s punches and the yank he gave my arm is kicking in.

A check out of my kitchen window shows Mr Steroids and his friends have left.

The chief calls as I’m locking the apartment door. I’m half expecting this call, but being right doesn’t make the news any easier to accept.

49

The Watcher enters his kitchen and takes a mouthful of pills. He has two hours to spare before he’s due at work. As a rule, he should have started by now, but he’s lied about a visit to the dentist as a way to buy himself a late start.

He’s pleased with today’s finder. She was a good friend of Melanie’s and as such he knows a few things about her family.

Never caring for the woman himself, he’d tolerated her non-stop chatter because she and Melanie had been friends since childhood, the two of them inseparable until marriage and careers had forced them apart. Still, there had been the obligatory dinner once a month where he’d have to listen to the woman’s husband bitch about taxes and how supermarket chains were destroying small local stores.

His career in the Marines had spared him from these get-togethers but once delisted he’d endured them for Melanie’s sake. Putting up with a chatterbox and a bore for a few hours, twelve times a year was a tiny sacrifice he was happy to make for his wife.

Now the woman’s gabbling has proven useful. He knows about her family. Where they work. Their passions.

Her father seems to be the easiest target. He has spent time in his company at one or two social occasions.

Getting close to him won’t be hard. His place of work is an ideal location to dump a body and remain unseen.

He lifts his bowl and stirs the scraps of paper before selecting one. Opening the scrap of paper, he finds a single word. ‘Seppuku’.

He laughs. Using the Samurai’s method of self-disembowelling as a way to kill is something he’s been waiting for. He’s even managed to get his hands on the correct type of short sword for the ritualised death: the Tanto.

He remembers what he’s learned about Seppuku – the various rituals, the way Samurai warriors used it to avoid shame or falling into the torturous hands of a victorious enemy. For a time it was also used as a form of capital punishment.

Laughing again, he looks forward to plunging his Tanto into the engorged belly of the chatterbox’s father and moving the blade across and then up. Setting the scene will be important on this one too. He’s keen to observe the ritual as closely as possible.

He will act as the father’s Kaishakunin. It will be an honour to deliver the death stroke.

With a glance at his watch, he gathers what he needs and sets off to hunt his next victim.

The kill won’t take place this morning. He’ll do that later when he can watch the corpse without being missed by anyone.

He knows his cover of being at work won’t last much longer, but he needs to eke out every last scrap of benefit it can afford him. With so many homicides in such a short time, it can only be a matter of days before the authorities start to close in on him.

Yet the pattern must not alter. It and the tally are the points that matter, the staging of the bodies nothing more than a delaying tactic designed to confuse those investigating the murders.

50

The chief ushers me towards his office. Where the reception was awash with a throng of people earlier, it’s now littered by a scant few members of a different family. The smell of stale bodies and nervous tension lingers on, infecting the new arrivals with its all-pervading tentacles of fear.

In his position I’d do the same. After rousing two families from their beds, he’d kept them at the station all night, until he had to deliver the news none of them wanted to hear.

‘So tell me about the bodies that were found.’ I take a seat by his desk.

‘Kelly Oberton was out for an early morning run when she saw a car with bloodstains on the window. She went forward to get a closer look, hurled her guts up, then she ran home to call us.’ He scratches at the white stubble on his chin. ‘As soon as I heard, I sent the boys out to round up her family.’ His voice holds strength and conviction in his decisions, but there is a hint of resigned fatality seeping in at the back.

‘Have you got them all?’

‘No. Her brother left town to go to a conference in Vegas and her father refused to come into custody. Said he’s got too much to do at work without the police jumping at shadows.’

‘So what have you done with the father then?’

He raises his hands from the desk. ‘What can I do, arrest him? He doesn’t want our help and we’re already getting slaughtered by public opinion. I haven’t read it myself, but apparently that Ms Rosenberg took more than a few potshots at us in yesterday’s Gazette.’

‘I trust you’ve got someone on him?’

‘I wish I had the manpower. If I start providing detectives or even patrolmen as bodyguards for every family member who doesn’t do what I ask of them, there’s no way I’ll be able to look after the ones who do. Let alone the rest of the town.’ His scowl lifts for the briefest moment. ‘At least that’s what I told his daughter.’

I smile at the chief’s cunning. He’s using the father as a tethered goat. By not assigning an obvious bodyguard or shadow, he’s creating an opportunity to catch the killer before his selection process becomes public knowledge.

Once that news breaks, the killer may change his methods, move on to a different system or leave town and start all over again in a different town, city or state.

A thought comes to me. ‘Have you tried the FBI again? Got them to check their records for anything similar in other states?’

‘No. The thought occurred to me, but I haven’t had time to follow it up yet.’

‘You said their bodies were found in a car. What have you learned from the scene itself?’

‘To be honest, I’ve never given it a thought. At this moment in time, I’m more concerned with protecting the Oberton family than chasing after the killer.’ He shrugs. ‘If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to keep them safe until an arrest is made.’

‘Your best chance is that he targets the father and whoever you’ve got on surveillance duty catches him before he strikes.’

‘Right now it’s the only chance we’ve got of catching this guy.’

It’s a rare admission from the chief and it makes me understand just how much the strain is affecting him. Not only are the words semi-defeatist, his tone is riddled with the cancer of utter dejection.

‘Do you mind if I go and have a look at the scene?’

The gratitude in his face makes me feel as if I’m the one doing him a favour.

‘Not at all.’ He lifts the phone on his desk and presses a button. ‘Boulder is coming out there. I want you to make sure he gets treated the way I would. If I hear any different, you can leave your gun and your badge on my desk.’

As I reach for the folder he’s handing me, he notices the bruises on my neck and the swollen redness of my knuckles.

‘Have you been fighting, Boulder?’

‘I got jumped by three bozos connected with the strip joint near Salt Lake City.’ I wave a dismissive hand. ‘They attacked me. I defended myself. They learned not to attack me.’

I leave the room before he gets too far into it. There’s nothing to be gained from telling the chief of police how I beat up three men on a public street at eight o’clock in the morning.

51

As I drive to where the bodies of Wendy Agnew and Donny Prosser had been found, I find myself thinking about what I’m about to witness, the questions whose answers I will be seeking and the direction this investigation has taken me.

What started out as helping Alfonse look into Kira’s murder, has in a few short days seen me become the chief’s go-to option in the search for a serial killer. From my initial request for assistance by way of information sharing, I am now being relied on to help steer the investigation.

The responsibility weighs heavy on me, yet I am experiencing a fraction of the burden the chief will bear. In addition to the multiple homicides, he has the everyday concerns of keeping order in a town of twenty-odd thousand.

The biggest worry I’m facing, is the feeling I’m to blame for the latest deaths. If I’d made time to read all of Kira’s journal sooner, both Prosser and Wendy Agnew may still be alive.

While my rational brain tells me it is only a perverse masochistic streak that made me read them in the first place, I’m aware the best breakthrough we’ve made so far has been identifying the killer’s selection process. While not helping us to catch him, it at least gives us a chance to prevent his next strike.

Another part of my psyche is pointing fingers. It has the voice of my mother and the critical attributes of a scorned lover. Like a devil nestling on my shoulder and whispering into my ear, it is telling me I’m out of my depth. That a doorman at a bar shouldn’t be playing detective. It tells me I’m going to fail and people will die because of my failure.

I hear it whispering their blood will be on my hands. That my incompetence has already caused two deaths.

It takes an effort, but I cast the demonic utterances to the back of my mind and force the doubts away.

The road twists and winds its way through the woods. Beristow’s Bluff is a local beauty spot by day and a make-out place by night. Named after one of the founding fathers of Casperton it holds memories for almost every resident.

I reach the car park and leave my car next to Ms Rosenberg’s Chrysler. She’s arguing with a patrolman. He tries to deny me access, but Lieutenant Farrage shouts across and the patrolman steps aside ignoring the protestations and insults coming from Ms Rosenberg.

Give Farrage his due, while he might not like me being there he accepts my presence. The strain of the investigation is starting to show on his face too. Thinking about it, I realise he’ll be under pressure from the chief. As mayor, his father will also be pressing him to solve the case and to top it off, Ms Rosenberg has spent months lampooning him and his abilities. Add the fact no sane person likes to see another human lose their life and it’s no surprise he’s looking so punched out.

His being unfit to lead the investigation is bound to be another factor eating at him. He’ll know for certain he’s out of his depth. The chief bringing Alfonse and I in to help is a public slap to his face, yet he has gone beyond bitterness. For perhaps the first time in his gilded life he is seeing the bigger picture.

Some CSI guys dressed in hooded Tyvek suits complete with overshoe booties are searching the car for evidence.

I see a number of square foot pads leading to the car. I know from my reading it’s how CSI teams approach such a scene. First the ground is scouted for evidence. When the search is done a foot pad is laid and they move forward a couple of feet.

Farrage approaches me. Extends a hand. ‘Look, Boulder, I don’t like you being here any more than you can imagine. But the fact is we need all the help we can get. I can put our differences aside. Can you?’

The gesture and his admission take me by surprise but I don’t hesitate to shake his hand.

‘Of course.’ I point at the car with blood on the windows. ‘What have you got from the scene?’

‘Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’ He reaches into the CSI van and brings out a Tyvek suit, gloves and a pair of overshoe booties.

‘Sure.’

The word carries more than acceptance. It unites us as witnesses to the horror man can wreak on his fellow human beings.

It’s a struggle to wrestle my frame into the suit but I manage not to fall over or rip it in the process. Clad in the protective gear, I place one foot after the other and step onto the foot pads.

As I approach the car, I see the residue of brain matter mixed with the blood on the windows. The stench of vomit carries across from where Kelly Oberton voided her stomach.

I’m glad I haven’t yet eaten. The inside of the car is a grisly mess and has me fighting back the dry heaves. It takes a couple of manful swallows to get me close enough to peer through the windshield. The tableau inside tells a complete story.

Wendy Agnew is sitting in the passenger seat. Her blouse is unbuttoned and one breast has been freed from the functional bra. There is a neat hole in the left side of her face and a larger hole above her right ear.

Around the smaller hole are what look to be scorch marks caused by muzzle flash.

I turn my attention to Donny Prosser and make mental notes of the facts. He’s shirtless, the bullet hole in his right temple shows no burn marks and there are no wounds on his body. His right arm is slumped between the two seats. The dark shape of a handgun lies in his palm.

Looking away from the bodies, I let my eyes wander around the interior of the car. I see a couple of things which suggest a scenario. However, it’s not one I’m inclined to believe.

Breathing only through my mouth, I study the car for a few minutes, then step away with ideas bombarding my brain, twisting and contorting known facts into the semblance of actual events.

I return along the path of foot pads and strip off the protective clothing.

Farrage is waiting for me with an expectant look. ‘What do you think?’

‘It looks like they were about to get it on when he shot her. Then realising what he’d done he turned the gun on himself.’

‘I agree. I’m not sure it’s connected to the other homicides.’

There. Right there in one sentence is the reason nobody in Casperton trusts his detective skills.

He is investigating a serial killer and has taken a look at a dump site and believed everything he’s seen. Without the capacity to think along different lines, everything presented to him is taken at face value, regardless of how much it contradicts known facts. Used to the straightforward and predictable he can’t get his brain to think beyond the obvious.

Some tact is required to avoid disrupting our new-found truce. ‘It looks that way, but maybe the killer wants you to think it’s not connected. Maybe he’s staged the bodies to look this way. Right down to the open box of condoms on the floor.’

‘Why would he do…’ Farrage stops mid-sentence as he realises why a killer would stage a dump scene.

As I watch his face, I can see his mind trying to work out what the next move should be. Fun as it is watching him struggle, I need answers to some questions and his men can be used to obtain them.

‘We need to eliminate the murder suicide angle.’

I spend the next five minutes making suggestions as to what his men should be asking the families of the two victims.

Ms Rosenberg tries to question me as I return to my car, but I blank her, my mind focusing on what to do next.

52

I drive back to Casperton still unsure of what our next move should be. As I’m driving towards the police station, a newspaper headline displayed on an A-frame causes me to pull over.

After snatching a copy of the Gazette from the pile, I start reading while I’m waiting to pay for it. The headline that caught my eye is repeated at the top of the front page.

Serial Killer Stalks Casperton Families

I scan the front page but see few details and a lot of conjecture. The most disheartening thing about it is the journalist has also recognised the pattern. Tracing my finger down the page, I look for the byline. As expected it bears the name of a certain Jewish lady with a New York accent.

This revelation will throw the local population into a state of fear. It’s bad enough there’s a killer on the loose, without every man, woman and child in the town being terrified to call the police in case someone they love becomes the next victim.

I wonder what the chief will make of this latest development. In my mind’s eye, I see him kneading his temples in a forlorn effort to relieve stress.

When I call his cell, I’m met with a recorded message. I leave a short one thankful I don’t have to look at him when he learns of this news.

Next I call Alfonse and get him to check the credit and debit cards of the two latest victims. His voice carries surprise when I tell him to share his results with Farrage as well.

My thinking is Farrage’s men can check the restaurant and hotel spends with their families. It may be tactless and even cruel to make such insinuations, but as improbable as it may be, we need to discount the theory of them having an affair.

Something about the dump site is nagging at me so I call Dr Edwards’ office. I’m not expecting a full appointment to be available at short notice, but after a little pushing I’m granted fifteen minutes on the condition I’m there within five.

I make it with seconds to spare and may get a ticket for the way I’ve abandoned the Mustang, but I’m here.

Taylor the receptionist smiles at me as I burst through the door.

‘Do you always cut things so fine?’ There’s a mocking glance at her watch as she ushers me towards Dr Edwards’ office.

I take my usual seat on the couch and remain silent until he looks up from the notes he’s studying.

‘We don’t have much time, Doctor, so I’ll agree to an appointment where you can ask me anything and get an honest answer if you answer my questions now.’

He scratches at his beard. ‘I trust you to be a man of your word so that’s acceptable to me. What do you want to know?’

I explain how the way the bodies have been arranged is bugging me. How I can’t seem to make sense of, or find a pattern to it.

He scratches his lips and leans back in his chair to think. When he straightens he reaches for the intercom on his desk.

‘Can you reschedule Mrs Harman to a five-thirty appointment please, Taylor?’

When she replies her voice is distorted. ‘Will you need me to stay late?’

‘No, I’ll manage, thanks.’

He releases the buzzer and looks at me. ‘Working on the presumption the latest two deaths are connected, I can think of a number of different scenarios which may be at play here. As you suggest, the killer could just be toying with the investigating officers. Another theory is that he is recreating scenes which are relevant to a hero of his.’

‘A hero?’ I fight to keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. It’s not a battle I win.

‘Yes, a hero. I am by no means an expert on the subject, but it is entirely normal for people to copy or imitate those who they look up to. Add in whatever psychoses this man is suffering from and it is not beyond the bounds of belief the person he worships is a famous serial killer.’

I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the horror of what he’s suggesting.

‘Another theory is he is working to a pattern. The semi-random choosing of the victims gives him an element of control while also leaving some in the lap of the Gods.’

‘So the way he’s leaving the bodies is him saying something?’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ He jots a note on his pad and then lays down his pen. ‘Have you also considered the methods he’s using to kill these people?’

I have and I haven’t. Being forced to think about it makes me realise it is controlled yet random. Two separate victims died of knife wounds. A third was bludgeoned to death while the last two were shot. Probably within seconds of each other.

Dr Edwards looks at me with expectation.

‘Not enough to draw any firm conclusions. What are your thoughts?’

It’s a cheap shot, turning the tables on him like this, but I’ve won plenty of fights using cheap shots.

His smile acknowledges my sidestep. ‘From what you’ve told me, four different weapons have been used to kill five people. This suggests pre-planning to me. As does the various ways he’s left the bodies to be found.’

‘What about Paul Johnson? He was bludgeoned to death and dumped into the trunk of his car.’

‘He fit the pattern, didn’t he? Both before and after his death. What does that tell you?’

I’m here for answers not questions, but the solution comes to me. ‘It tells me the killer was following him waiting for an opportunity. He found Johnson changing a flat and took his chance. It may not have fit his plans but he reacted to the situation.’

‘Precisely. And what does that tell you about him?’

I think about the physical and biological person rather than the psychological make-up. ‘He’s clever. Adaptable. Resourceful too. The change in his plans didn’t throw his pattern. He still managed to watch to see who found Johnson’s body.’

I remember Johnson was found at night. The killer must have used some kind of night-vision goggles to observe the person who found the body. Those aren’t the kind of things you carry about with you. Unless you’re expecting to need them.

‘He’s prepared. Either he always carries a few different weapons and other things he may need in his car or he takes them with him so he’s always ready.’ I think of the gun in the trunk of my car. ‘He’s also in a position where he can afford the time to commit these murders, therefore it’s unlikely he has anything of a family life.’

‘Good. I’d add that he’s either never been in a long-term relationship or has been on the receiving end of a vicious divorce.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Both situations foster anger, depression and a need to exert authority or control over others.

‘I’ve never been married or in a long-term relationship.’ I keep my tone mild, but he recognises the challenge of my words.

‘No, but you like to fight, don’t you?’

He has me there.

‘I thought we’d agreed to talk about me another time. What about the staging of the bodies? Do you have any idea why he’s leaving them in such ways?’

He leans back in his chair again. His eyes close and the forefinger of his right hand wags from side to side as he considers my question.

When he leans forward his eyes reflect troubled thoughts.

‘The dumping of the bodies in a way they’ll be found is important to him. It helps him select a new target. It also matters that they are found. Most people who kill try to hide the bodies. He’s doing the opposite, which tells me he wants attention. The pattern he’s using as a selection process is complex and requires either a lot of local knowledge or good research skills. It is very important to him otherwise he would have abandoned it.’ He scratches his beard and scribbles a note. ‘I think he started off with basic dumps, and as he’s escalated the killings, he’s tried to misdirect the investigation by changing the scenarios and locations.’

A thought hits me and it isn’t one I care to have. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll have to rush home to verify the details before I pass the thought on to Alfonse and the chief.

‘If as I suspect he’s intelligent, doesn’t he realise that sooner or later someone will realise how he’s selecting his victims?’

‘Of course. It’s why he’s trying to mislead you with the various ways the bodies are arranged. The individual tableaus won’t hold any significance for him unless he’s replicating a hero’s actions. He may feel an element of smugness or self-satisfaction from his own cleverness, but I don’t believe there’s anything more to it. All he’s doing is buying time so he can claim more victims. He knows he will be caught or killed by the police but he won’t be worried about that. All he’ll care about is the next victim.’

‘You think he’s prepared to be caught or killed?’

‘Absolutely. He’ll keep going until he is stopped one way or the other. If there is an element of hero worship, he’ll be determined to match or surpass the number of kills his hero was credited with.’

The doctor’s theory collides with my earlier thought and chills my blood.

53

The Watcher pulls into a parking bay at Stanforth Lake Nature Reserve. A call to his boss claiming a bad reaction to the dentist’s anaesthetic has bought him time to observe Angus Oberton. In his rucksack he carries the Tanto and a short-handled woodsman’s axe along with his usual equipment.

He always enjoys stalking his prey, although he’s not sure of the best place to dump this body. It’s something he’s given a lot of thought to. The random choice of method has given him a glorious opportunity but also a problem as far as setting up a dump site.

The murder won’t take long, but it may have more of a noise element than the others and he doesn’t want to move this one. Seppuku has many traditions and he wants to observe as many as possible.

He enters the visitor centre and pays the admission fee. Seeing the newspaper headline in the gift shop, he buys a copy and scans the relevant pages.

The news of the police’s breakthrough in identifying his pattern doesn’t surprise him, but he’d hoped it would be another few days before they made the connection.

Scanning the page, he sees a special edition focusing on the serial killer is due to be published later in the day. Reading it will be fun. Educational even.

He pushes the news to the back of his mind and concentrates his brain on the matter at hand. This will be the last of the easy ones.

He waits for an opportunity as he walks around the public areas. When it comes he hops over a fence and hides in some of the bushes. After a short crawl through the underbrush he finds a well-worn trail.

Turning right will return him to the visitor centre with its tacky gift shop and overpriced cafeteria. Left will take him further into the reserve.

He turns left. The target is zealous about his work and had jabbered about the breeding pens hidden in a small cleft in one of the valleys. Knowing how involved Oberton is with the breeding programme, he’s sure he’ll either pass this way or visit the pens at some point during the day.

After a few yards the bushes thin out, allowing him to see a half mile along the trail. Someone dressed in a ranger’s outfit is walking away from the visitor centre.

A movement off to his right catches his eye. It’s human shaped so he locks onto the person with his eyes while fishing a pair of binoculars from his rucksack. As he does this, he takes a few steps to his right and several backwards until he is shrouded by a chokecherry bush.

He adjusts the focus, finds the man and takes a proper look. The guy is dressed in store-bought camouflage. It’s a desert pattern, which doesn’t quite match the local terrain.

Examining him in detail, he sees a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck and an unnatural bulge at the back of his waistband. When he wriggles into a more comfortable position the Watcher sees the glint of gunmetal.

The man settles himself and puts the binoculars to his eyes. Provided the Watcher’s memory of Oberton’s enthusiastic spiel is correct, the breeding pens are just beyond the corner the binoculars are aimed towards.

If the guy in the ranger’s uniform is Oberton, why is the guy on the hillside watching him?

He remembers the newspaper. The guy must be a cop trying to protect Oberton.

He smiles. The game just got interesting. Challenging. It’s what he’s been waiting for. Anticipating.

Now it has become a real battle of wits and skill between him and the police. Every successful kill will be a victory for him. Capture or death are the only ways he can now be defeated.

He packs away his binoculars and starts to move, his intended course a wide circle. The destination being the cop on the hillside.

It takes him an hour to get within a hundred feet of the cop. Every step is taken with care. No branches are trodden on or bushes rustled. His feet placed with gentle steps so as not to send loose stones tumbling downhill.

The one thing he has in his favour is the cop is an amateur at this kind of thing. He is observing Oberton from a position where the sun is in his face. Every look through the binoculars will send glints of sunlight flashing across the valley.

When he gets within fifty feet of the cop, he drops to a crawl. Foot by foot he closes the gap on hands and knees.

Now close enough to grab the prone cop’s boot, he wraps his fingers around a fist-sized rock.

Bracing his toes against a large rock for purchase he launches himself forward, his right hand swinging a powerful arc towards the cop’s temple.

He makes the perfect connection. The cop is out cold, his limp body easy to secure with the duct tape in his backpack. Binding the cop’s arms and legs takes less than a minute, gagging and blindfolding him seconds.

His old Marine drill sergeant would have found a number of faults with the takedown, but he’d been a hardass for a reason and the Watcher is content with his actions.

He steals the cop’s gun, binoculars and a knife shoved into the top of a boot. It’s tempting to kill him, but it doesn’t fit the pattern so he lets the man live.

When he looks down the valley, he sees he has a good view of the breeding pens. He pulls out his binoculars with the anti-flash lenses and watches Oberton.

The ranger works alone and is wrapped up in his task. Never once does he look around or bother with anything that isn’t part of his job.

The Watcher tweaks his plan and decides on a course of action.

He returns to the trail making regular checks on Oberton’s whereabouts as he goes.

Ten minutes later he’s a few yards from the breeding pens.

‘Hey, Angus. How ya doin’?’

‘Hi, Norm.’ The Watcher sees the surprise on Angus’s face. ‘You said to drop by sometime, so here I am.’

Angus recovers his composure. ‘Would you like to see round?’

‘Sure.’

Norm follows him round the breeding pens, feigning interest in Angus’s litany on each animal.

Once that part of the unofficial tour is complete, Angus leads him around some of the behind-the-scenes areas.

Norm is keen to get on with the kill before someone joins them or they reach the more public areas. Being introduced or recognised will result in him having to abandon Overton as a target. He points at a small building. ‘What’s that, Angus?’

‘It’s our reptile house. We keep snakes and a variety of insects in there.’

Norm catches glimpses of the public areas, so he decides it’s the perfect location for the kill.

As Angus gazes towards the reptile house and recites a list of its inhabitants, Norm pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

Next he removes the Tanto from his backpack, takes a silent pace until he’s behind Angus and crashes the sole of his boot into the tendons at the back of the older man’s knees.

Angus drops to his knees. Norm reaches the same position a fraction of a second after him.

Norm stretches his arm round Angus’s body and plunges the Tanto into the left side of his stomach. Pulling the Samurai knife to the right he opens the ranger’s belly, before drawing it three inches upwards.

The wound is a total of eighteen inches in length as it traverses the bloated stomach. Angus’s hands clasp at it, trying to hold in the wriggling eels that are his intestines. His mouth hangs open but no sound comes out. Shock from the sudden pain has immobilised his body.

Norm removes the woodsman’s axe from his rucksack as he rises to his feet.

He glances around. Seeing nobody watching him, he lifts the blade above Angus’s exposed neck.

The axe drops.

Five minutes later, he’s a quarter of a mile away, wearing his ghillie suit, and has his binoculars to his eyes. Ready to meet the next link in the chain.

54

I rifle through the pages printed from Kira’s journal until I find the one I’m looking for. Scanning down the page, I locate her cousin’s name.

The entry doesn’t name the dead person, but there’s enough information there to get me started, or rather sufficient for me to ask the right questions of Alfonse and the chief.

It’s the chief I call first. He listens in silence. When I’m done talking, he lets out a string of inventive curses about the killer, before telling me he doesn’t have a spare body with enough live cells to follow the lead I’m suggesting.

I put Alfonse’s name forward and he agrees. He also suggests Alfonse goes to the station and gets Darla to show him how to use the police computers so he can go through their records.

After telling the chief what I learned from Dr Edwards, I hang up and call Alfonse.

With twenty minutes to spare, I embrace the chance to do a spot of uninterrupted thinking.

There’s a lot to consider. Such as what motivates the killer; who his possible hero might be, and whether there would be any point in me also staking out Kelly Oberton’s father.

It’s not so much that I don’t trust any of the Casperton police, it’s just they are all way out of their depth. I can’t think of one who has the subtlety and intelligence to stay unseen by someone as cunning as the killer.

The peace is shattered by my cell ringing. I look at the display and see ‘Mother’. Since first seeing the newspaper headline, I’ve been waiting for her to call.

It’s a wonder it’s taken her this long to find out.

My finger hovers over the cell. If I answer it, there will be another narcissistic tirade dressed up as motherly concern. If I don’t she’ll keep calling until I do. Worse, she might even come looking for me. I may be the wrong side of thirty, but that won’t stop her voicing her concerns in a public place.

I decide it’ll be easier to take the call here in the privacy of my own home; I press the green area of the screen.

She talks for ten minutes straight without giving me chance to try and answer even one of her rhetorical questions. Realising there’s nothing I can say to calm her, I let her say her piece and promise to go and see her later.

It’s a promise I daren’t break, much as I’d love to.

55

I find Alfonse has been afforded a side office in the station. He is sitting with a heavy woman dressed in a blouse loud enough to require ear defenders.

Even while she’s teaching him about the computer system, it’s obvious she has the kind of personality you can’t ignore.

Her voice has a booming quality and her round face has more than its share of laughter lines. The earrings she wears could be used as lures for barracuda and her fingers have more garish rings than Saturn.

‘Thanks Darla. I think I’ve got it now.’

Darla is old enough to be his mother’s elder sister but the difference in their ages doesn’t stop her flirting with him as she leaves the room.

In other circumstances I’d be ripping him to shreds over his new admirer. This is neither the time nor place, though I do flash him a grin to warn him of what is to come.

‘I hope to God you’re wrong, Jake.’ There’s fear in both his face and voice.

‘So do I.’

As he gets to work, I lean back in my seat and think about the information Farrage’s men have given me.

I’d given them a series of questions to ask the families of Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew. Most of the questions were the same for both families but I’d added some questions to only be asked of Prosser’s family.

Neither family had the slightest cause to suspect the victims were having the affair suggested by the way they were found. A check of their credit card statements further disproved the theory as every item listed could be accounted for.

Both parties were more accustomed to family activities than solo pursuits.

The final clinchers for me are the answers to the questions I’d had asked of Prosser’s family.

He was left handed.

He didn’t own a gun.

He had no interest in guns.

This contradicted the suicide tableau which had him using his right hand to hold the gun to his temple.

Before I’d driven away from the scene, I’d sat in my car and mimed out the sequence of events for the deaths to be the murder suicide the crime scene suggested.

Even pretending the gun was kept in a door pocket, there was enough time for Wendy Agnew to turn away from him.

When I’d recreated where the gun must have been fired from, I’d had to twist and contort my body into an uncomfortable position to get my right hand into the right area.

There were easier ways to position myself so I could fire with my right hand, but none of these put the gun in the correct place.

When I’d checked their bodies for marks or signs of a fight, I hadn’t seen any fresh scratches or bruising where Prosser had perhaps held Wendy against her will. His body was also free of injuries, which told me any fight between them must have remained verbal. That it hadn’t escalated to any kind of physical violence before a gun was introduced made the two shootings even less believable.

When I add all these facts together, it becomes obvious the killer is trying to deflect the police investigation by staging the bodies in a way that indicates something other than murder.

The chief has done a good job rounding up all of the Oberton family. For the sake of their comfort, he’s even managed to get them into a hotel on the east side of town.

I don’t know what security arrangements he’s made, but it’s a fair guess a number of detectives and patrolmen will catch a shift or two on sentry duty.

Hearing the gruff tone of his voice accompanied by rapid footsteps, I stick my head out of the office door. ‘We’re in here, Chief.’

‘I’ll be there in five.’

Leaving him to do whatever he needs to, I throw a questioning glance towards Alfonse.

He doesn’t see it despite looking right at me. Or to be more accurate, right through me.

‘What you got?’

‘Uh?’

I repeat the question without ire, aware his attention is focused on the computer and the information he’s extracting from it.

‘I’m sorry to say you’re right. I’ve found three before Kira and there are a number of deaths that have been ruled as suicide or accidents which may also prove to have been his doing.’

I keep quiet as he reaches for the mouse again. Being right has never seemed so wrong.

I feel the determination compelling me to catch this killer being replaced by a cold anger. I no longer want the killer to pay for his crimes. I want him to suffer for them.

My fury isn’t the religious eye-for-an-eye type. It’s the rage of the aggrieved, the empathetic person who’s seen too much suffering and needs to nullify the cause.

I’ve no doubt the chief feels a similar way. Yet if I’m confronted by the killer I would not want to end his life myself. I’d rather he receives his retribution at the hands of the state than stoop to his level myself.

Barring an insanity plea, he’ll be an odds-on favourite to spend a few years on Death Row before being strapped down and given a lethal injection.

The idea of him having years of false dawns as appeals fail is one which pleases me.

I’ve read how studies have proven Death Row inmates suffer in a way no other prisoners can begin to comprehend. After preparing themselves for death, they are given a stay of execution for one reason or another. Full reprieves are rare, but there are many reasons why the carrying out of their sentence may be delayed.

By the time they make the final walk to the execution chamber they are so mentally weary of the torturous process they are looking forward to the escape death brings.

I recognise this is a cruel thought, but I believe it’s no less than this monster deserves.

‘Well?’ The chief strides into the room. ‘Was Kira his first victim or not?’

‘She wasn’t the first. Without looking at coroner’s reports I can’t be sure, but I’ve traced four other deaths before hers which have the same connection between the person who finds a body and the next victim.’

Four? How many deaths is this guy responsible for?

‘The son of a goddamn bitch. Are you telling me there’s been a serial killer at large and we’ve only found out after he’s killed nine people?’

Alfonse fails to meet the chief’s eye. ‘Like I say, I need to verify the details, but that’s what it’s looking like.’

A thought occurs to me. ‘What’s the time frame on these deaths – and were they recognised as murder victims?’

‘They span over the last three months give or take a week. Two were classed as suicides, one was misadventure and the other was a hit and run that was never solved.’

‘How far apart did they occur?’

Alfonse checks the notes he’s made. ‘Working back from Kira, they were ten days, fifteen days, four weeks and three months.’

The chief and I exchange a knowing look. The killer has escalated in the last few days, going from sporadic unconnected dates to regular daily attacks. It is classic serial killer behaviour right out of the big book of clichés and stereotypes.

‘At least he’s broken cover now.’

The chief’s words stand at odds with his position within the community, but I know what he means. Until Kira Niemeyer was discovered as an obvious victim of a violent attack, nobody had thought to consider that a killer was preying on the residents of Casperton.

By changing his methods, he’s alerted us to his existence. There’s no telling how long he could have stayed under the radar if he’d stuck to his earlier routines and kept passing the murders off as something else.

Now we are aware of him we have a chance of ending his spree. Or at least of getting some help from the FBI. When all is said and done, one police chief, a squad of inept detectives and a pair of amateurs is nobody’s first choice to go after a serial killer.

I look to the chief. ‘Surely the FBI will step in now.’

‘Once I have proof of this guy’s count I may be able to bring them in. Until then I can’t expect to, and I quote, “call the FBI for help every time one of my detectives comes up with a half-assed theory”.’

His words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Their abandonment of him in his hour of need is typical of beaurocratic organisations. Always quick to protect their own careers, they’ll be only too happy to demand proof from the chief before allocating any of their precious resources.

All possible future blame for a false call will lie at his door, while they’ll be safeguarded.

A devil’s advocate may suggest they can’t come running every time someone cries ‘wolf’. While that position may be understandable, this is a case of life and death.

I try another tack. ‘What about the commissioner in Salt Lake City? The mayor? Can’t they get you some help?’

‘The commissioner’s office told me I should contact the FBI as they have no spare bodies. And as for the mayor.’ He gives a snort of disgust. ‘He’s only helpful if you want something opened or have a camera to point at him. The rest of the time he makes his son look like a picture of efficient ability.’

‘You’re joking.’ I know Farrage is little more than a waste of space, but to hear his father is worse comes as a shock.

‘Believe me, I’m neither joking nor exaggerating. The mayor is brilliant at civic functions, but as a politician he’d be outclassed by a stuffed bear. The people in his office run this town while he swans about playing golf and posing for the camera.’

‘Never mind the mayor, you two.’ Alfonse’s voice is raised to attract our attention. ‘I’ve got another here. A Miss Ganderson was found dead on the college campus with a needle sticking out of her arm. The cause of death was a heroin overdose, but the coroner’s report says there were no signs of a history of drug abuse. Her death was passed off as someone who’d experimented and gotten it wrong. She was found by the sister of the next victim.’

The chief’s face turns from puce to ashen and back to puce as anger and shock compete for control of his arteries.

I make a slight change to the subject before the chief has a coronary.

‘This is all useful information, but it’s not going to help us catch this killer.’ I point to Alfonse but keep my eyes on the chief. ‘If he gets all the information and the necessary proof, have you a spare body who can write it down in cop-speak so you can present it to the FBI?’

He nods. ‘Darla could do it.’

‘Then let them do that while we try and figure out a way to catch this guy.’

The chief lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, relief of a shared burden in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Boulder. You make good sense.’

We move to his office to give Alfonse peace to work. On our way, the chief stops Darla and informs her of what he wants done.

‘Sure thing, honey.’ Her tone is rich with her native Caribbean patois, but it’s the way she calls the chief honey which grabs my attention. From anyone else the word would be met with a scowl at best. On her lips it sounds like a natural term to use when referring to a boss.

The chief and I stare at each other for a moment when we reach his office. I’m waiting for him to speak first but a wave of his hand indicates he wants me to lead.

‘I’m not convinced about the safety of the Oberton guy. I think you should bring him in. By force if necessary.’

‘I would agree if it weren’t for one fact.’

‘Which is?’

‘He’s a vet. Spent time in ’Nam. Our killer goes after him – he may just bite off more than he can chew.’

‘It’s still a hell of a risk with a civilian.’

‘He’s under surveillance, remember?’

I get what the chief is saying and I can see why he’s prepared to use Oberton as a tethered goat, but the Vietnam war happened a long time ago. Once-sharp fighting skills have had many years to dull.

Age weakens the body far more than the mind accepts. I guess the chief is much the same age as Oberton and still believes his generation capable of putting up a good fight against a younger, fitter opponent.

‘Supposing your man does spot this killer stalking Oberton. What then? One man can’t be expected to take down a serial killer.’

‘He’s to call for backup and protect Oberton. If possible he’s to make an arrest.’ The chief’s voice is strong but lacks conviction. His eyes are landing on everything except mine.

‘Seems like a lot for one man to do, doesn’t it?’ I keep my tone conversational but I can tell he doesn’t like what I’m saying.

A hand slaps down onto the desk. ‘Have you a better idea? I’ve got no spare manpower and cannot guard every damn fool who refuses to heed my advice.’

‘We’re repeating ourselves. We went over all this earlier. I’ve been thinking about it and while I know you’re doing the best you can, I feel there’s more that can be done to protect him.’

‘You got a squad of detectives I don’t know about? Or perhaps a few trained bodyguards?’

I pay no heed to his sarcasm. In his shoes I’d be way more caustic.

‘I’ve got me.’ I fix him with a determined stare. ‘Until something else happens, there’s nothing I can do but sit and think. I don’t believe the coroner’s report is going to contradict anything we’ve already worked out about the last two victims. If I’m going to be sat motionless, I may as well do it where I can be of some other use.’

His head shakes left to right in a slow deliberate motion. ‘Thank you for offering, but there’s no way I can let you put yourself at risk like this.’

I stand up. ‘Is there a way you can legally stop me from going where I want provided I don’t break any laws?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t move from his seat, but a hand snakes across the desk and lifts the telephone. A button is pressed on the console before he puts the receiver to his ear. ‘When did you last hear from Steve?’

He listens with an inscrutable expression on his face then fixes me with a stare. ‘Last we heard from Steve was an hour and a half back. Everything was okay then.’

‘When’s he due to check-in next?’

The chief’s face takes on a sheepish expression. ‘There’s no fixed schedule.’

‘Then at least get someone to message him that I’m going to be in the area too.’ The last thing I want is for some overeager cop to put a bullet in my back by mistake.

He nods. ‘Is there nothing I can say to stop you going out there?’

The click of the door latch is my answer.

By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.

56

I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.

Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.

I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.

I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’

Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.

The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.

Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.

I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.

It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.

I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.

There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.

ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.

As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.

I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.

As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.

I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.

There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.

The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.

I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.

Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.

Covert or blatant?

As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.

It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.

Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.

My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.

I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.

I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.

The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.

My fist is clenched and travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.

He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.

I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.

This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.

‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’

The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.

‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’

She doesn’t answer him. Her head saws back and forth. Another scream escapes her lips, this one longer and more piercing now her brain has had time to process and embellish whatever caused her screams.

I catch the mother’s eye. ‘Where was Harriet when she first screamed?’

She points at a seat cut from a tree stump.

‘Wait here, please.’ I walk over to the seat, conscious of the fact that if Oberton has been killed, this family is next in the killer’s sights.

Standing by the lump of rough-hewn wood, I rotate through three sixty degrees but find nothing. I stoop until my head is at much the same height as Harriet’s would have been. I repeat my sweep.

Still I see no cause for her terror.

Thinking like a pre-teen, I climb onto the seat and stand on its highest part.

Before gaining enough balance to straighten up, I see the cause of her terror. The sight of Angus Oberton’s mutilated body elicits a sharp gasp from me, despite the fact I’m expecting to find something horrible.

It’s bad, as savage as Kira’s death, with none of the finesse shown to Evie Starr.

Oberton is in a kneeling position. His head is three quarters severed from his body. A flap of skin holds it upside down with his nose pressed against his breastbone.

Below the white stubble on his head a large gash has opened his stomach. Blood covered hands appear to have tried and failed to hold in the slippery coils of intestine.

The wooden handle of a long knife sticks out from a belly swollen by years of unhealthy eating.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and force myself to observe every detail I can.

The only thing holding him in position is his obese frame. Even sliced open, there’s enough gut to support the rest of his body.

Lifting my eyes, I examine the stump of his neck. The bizarre hinging effect of the remaining skin is unsettling. I can see the severed remains of his spine, throat and arteries. A cloud of flies is already swarming around his head and it’s only a matter of time before other insects and animals become attracted to this unexpected buffet.

I’m unsure what to do next. I need to keep Harriet and her folks close so the rounding up of her family can start as soon as possible. I also have to make sure nobody tramples over the crime scene.

Then there’s the question of where Steve is. He could be lying dead somewhere close by or he could be in pursuit of the killer.

Plus, there’s a possible chance one of the other visitors to the reserve has seen something which could help identify the killer.

Staying on the stump chair, I pull out my cell and call the chief to break the news and seek guidance.

He doesn’t answer so I leave a message demanding he call me at once.

Harriet and her mother are being guided back towards the entrance by Olly. The move is understandable. I don’t want to be here, and I’m an adult who was expecting to find something grisly.

Jumping down, I run after them, circling round so they can all see me.

I give Olly a sideways nod. ‘Can we talk?’

He’s on the ball and understands the females in his family shouldn’t hear what I’m about to say.

‘Harriet sweetie, Daddy needs to talk with this man for a minute.’ He points to a small pool twenty yards away. ‘We’re gonna be just over there where you can see me the whole time, okay.’

There’s a sniffling nod before she buries her tear-streaked face back into the mother’s neck.

I follow him towards the pool.

‘Let’s be quick about this. I need to get her home.’

I’ve never had to break any kind of bad news before so I’m unsure of the best way to do it. Guessing it boils down to the same theory as the removal of a sticking plaster, I opt for the quick method.

‘Your daughter has just found the latest victim of a serial killer.’ My soft tone so as not to be overheard is at contrast with the hard news it delivers.

His eyes widen in disbelief and fear. ‘You mean the guy who is targeting family members of the people who find the bodies?’

Damn that Ms Rosenberg for her publicising of the killer’s selection method.

‘Yes.’ I seize the moment and use his fear to my advantage. I don’t like doing such things but sometimes it’s better to save lives than feelings. ‘You need to tell your wife and daughter and then get every member of your family who lives in or near Casperton to report to the police station as soon as humanly possible.’

‘I’ll tell them and then we’ll go and start getting the family together.’

‘No. You need to stay here where I can protect you. Call your family. Anyone who doesn’t answer will be rounded up by the police.’

Fear overtakes his features. The hand lifted to cover his mouth shakes as his body reacts to the news of the peril he and his loved ones are in.

‘Olly!’ My raised voice causes his focus to snap back onto me. ‘You need to be strong. Your wife and daughter are relying on you right now. I know it’s tough, but you have to go over there, break the news to them and then start calling the rest of your family. I’ll be within twenty paces at all times and promise to protect you until the police get here.’

Olly’s back straightens as he pulls himself together and faces up to his responsibilities as a husband and father. ‘Thank you.’

I just hope my promise isn’t put to the test. Whoever the killer is, he’s got a supply of different weapons and the knowledge of how to use them. All I’ve got is a history of bar fights and a gun locked into the trunk of a car parked a quarter mile away.

With Olly returning to his wife and daughter, I try the chief again. He answers this time.

I deliver a brief but potent report.

When he stops cursing, I ask what I should do. He tells me to look after Harriet and her parents and to make sure nobody goes near the body until he gets here. He’ll get Darla to call Steve’s cell. If there’s no answer he’ll organise a search party for him when he arrives.

I understand the chief’s torn loyalties. On one hand there’s a police officer who may be lying injured or dead, but on the other, there are members of the public who are definitely at risk.

Choosing one over the other is a gamble either way, but his sense of duty compels him to protect the public.

While I agree with his choice, I hope for Steve’s sake that if he’s unhurt he’s got an unimpeachable reason for not preventing the murder of Angus Oberton. Never mind what the chief may say to him, or the fact he could lose his job and the associated pension, if he’s been idiotic enough to fall asleep or become distracted playing on his cell, he’ll have to live with the knowledge a man has died because of his negligence.

57

Norm hands money and a false smile to the storekeeper. In the bag on the counter are four cartons of cigarettes, a copy of the Casperton Gazette’s special edition and a bag of apples.

The cigarettes aren’t for him. He doesn’t yet know who they’re for, but he knows they’ll kill whoever he gives them to. Not the long slow death of a smoker, but the sudden death of someone who has ingested a deadly poison. All he has to do is prepare the cigarettes in the correct way and introduce one or two drops of the resulting mixture into the target’s body.

The solution will be so potent it can be added to a drink or meal with fatal consequences. If the target is already a smoker, by the time a blood sample is taken, the traces will be so insignificant they’ll fail to alert even the most diligent coroner.

Driving home, Norm lifts the six-page special edition at every pause in the traffic. Skim reading the articles, he grasps the basic facts, leaving the detailed analysis for later.

One thing is clear to him by the time he pulls into his drive. Jake Boulder is becoming an increasingly sharp thorn in his side.

He wonders if there’s a way to deal with Boulder without compromising the pattern. It would be good to take him down, to send a message that no one is untouchable.

The flip side of this is Boulder won’t be the kind of easy target he’s grown accustomed to. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but he’s confident of his own abilities.

Norm enters the house and dumps the apples into the fruit bowl. He selects one, polishes it on his shirt, then pours himself a glass of milk.

The picture of him and Melanie pinned to the fridge door by a magnet bought from some place or other draws its usual smile from him. They’d just gotten engaged when the picture was taken. Melanie’s face radiates utter joy as she cuddles against him, left hand raised to show her new ring to the camera.

He remembers the night well. Sitting in the restaurant with the ring in his pocket he’d been more nervous than the first time he’d faced combat. After their desserts were cleared he’d gone down on one knee to ask a question which would change their relationship forever. His mouth had been an arid wasteland in which his tongue had stumbled from one mispronounced word to the next.

When she’d said yes, his entire being changed. Gone were the dry mouth and the uncontrollable tongue. Nerves were chased away by a new-found confidence.

He’d felt ten feet tall and invincible, his natural shyness dissipated by the feelings of euphoria. When the news spread throughout the restaurant and a round of applause started he’d lapped it up.

One of the waiters had produced a camera and taken the photo which had adorned their fridge ever since.

Pushing aside thoughts of what Melanie would think of him, Norm crosses to his computer to start researching the next target.

With the police aware of his pattern, things have become harder. Yet the extra challenges make it more interesting. If he can continue raising the tally his reputation will be enhanced. With luck he’d join the greats.

To those who follow, he’ll be a deity. FBI students will be taught about him and his methods. Psychologists will analyse his psyche from afar and make spurious pronouncements on his motivations.

He may even be included in true crime books or one of the many books about serial killers. Perhaps one day someone will write a book solely about him or commission a TV documentary.

Maybe they’ll even turn his story into a movie. Sure, Boulder, the chief or some FBI guy will end up as the hero, but his story will still become famous.

Norm is aware of just how captivating a villain can be in the hands of the right actor. British actors like Alan Rickman and Anthony Hopkins have more than proven that particular theory.

He ignores the sudden urge for some fava beans and refocuses his mind onto the research he needs to do.

It takes him ten minutes to get a name for the finder. Next he identifies family members who live in the area. Of the twelve names he jots onto the pad at his left, three are under the age of eighteen and therefore discounted as not being viable targets.

That leaves nine. The parents, both sets of grandparents, two aunts and a cousin.

He fancies going for the cousin or an aunt but now the pattern is public knowledge it’ll be good to have one of the parents next.

With his research done until the surveillance can begin, he moves to a more comfortable chair and sits down with another apple and the special edition.

Reading between the lines of conjecture and speculation he finds there is little he doesn’t already know, other than just how involved Jake Boulder has become.

The beginnings of an idea start to form in his mind as he absorbs the articles. Each is written with a sense of detachment apart from a strong opinion piece by Ms Rosenberg.

Never one to hide her views, she takes multiple potshots at Casperton PD, the chief in particular, and the whole law enforcement system within the state of Utah. Only Boulder seems to avoid her scathing rhetoric, although his presence is used as another stick to beat the police with.

Even though he’s the cause of the fear-inspiring piece, he thinks she’s being harsh.

A government trained killer, selecting what appear to be random targets, then killing them in a variety of ways, is something no police department is equipped to deal with.

Norm knows he’s gotten away with the first twenty-five killings. They’d all been passed off as accidents or suicides just like he’d planned.

The Niemeyer bitch had been the breakthrough for him. Number twenty-six was the one he’d selected as the first to be an obvious murder. To escalate the game and invite an investigation. To provide an opponent.

It had succeeded twofold. Chief Watson and Jake Boulder now stood against him.

Soon it will be time to find out who is the worthiest.

58

The station is awash with agitated people when I return. A pair of patrolmen are trying without success to manage the crowd.

I hear their complaints as I push and wriggle my way through. They range from queries about past deaths being related, to demands the killer be caught before he strikes again.

Lord help Chief Watson when he gets back from the nature reserve. He’ll be mobbed. If he stops to answer each person, there’s no way he’ll be able to do his job.

Seeing Harriet ensconced once again in her mother’s arms, I make my way towards them.

Olly is off to one side. He’s neither part of the crowd nor separate from it. Instead he’s hanging in limbo as he tries to gather information, while also being there for his family.

I can tell from his face he’s achieving neither and feels useless because of his failure.

Taking his arm, I guide him off to one side. ‘Are all your family here?’

His nod elicits a mental sigh of relief from me, as his eyes wander across the crowd.

‘Gather them up and tell them to leave the people on the desk to do their jobs. As soon as the chief has something to tell you, he will. All they are doing is making things harder for the police.’

I can see my words are being taken in, but his mind isn’t working at full speed and it takes a few seconds to process the data I’m giving him.

His gaze locks onto Harriet. ‘You’re right. The sooner we leave them to do their jobs, the sooner all this will be over.’

I cast my eyes across the reception area and see Kelly Oberton’s grief-stricken face, Mrs Halliburton’s mouth set with grim determination and a host of other faces filled with sorrow or anger.

Taking the coward’s way out, I slip unnoticed into the office where Alfonse was working earlier.

He’s right where I left him, staring at the screen in front of him with furrows across his brow.

‘What you got?’

There’s pain in his eyes when he looks at me. ‘I’ve now got fifteen definites before Kira and I’m working on the sixteenth now. Every one of them has been made to look like an accident or suicide.’

‘That’s surely enough to convince the FBI.’

‘Darla typed it up and made an official request when I had proof of six.’ He gives a helpless shrug. ‘The sooner they get here the better. We’re way out of our depth with this one.’

‘You gonna give up when they get here?’ It’s a cheap shot from me but I need to know where he stands.

His eyes flash. ‘Of course not. But this guy scares the life outta me and your name is all over the paper. It’s only a matter of time before you or someone close to you gets hurt.’

‘What?’

He hands me a special edition of the Casperton Gazette. ‘Darla brought this in earlier. Read page two.’

I take the paper from him as he turns back to his screen. There’s a hunch to his shoulders which tells me his mindset.

Alfonse doesn’t get angry often, but when he does it’s always with good reason. I open the paper and see the headline.

Local Man Shows Inept Police Way Forward

Below the headline is Ms Rosenberg’s name and a stock photograph.

Local hero, Jake Boulder, has stepped in to show Casperton’s

inept police force how to conduct a proper investigation. Not even a private detective himself, he has nevertheless proved to be a far more competent investigator than any of Chief Watson’s so-called detectives.

Regular readers of my column will be fully aware of the disdain in which I hold the town’s detectives. Never has the curse of nepotism imperilled the good townspeople so blatantly.

It is a poor enough state of affairs – Mayor Farrage is the current incumbent due to nothing more than a family name and a lack of credible opposition. That his college-dropout son is the town’s lead detective is risible to say the least.

Surely once this heinous killer is apprehended, Chief Watson’s new broom will sweep clean the ranks of his detective squad. Anything less than five competent trained detectives and he will be failing in his basic duty. Leaving Lieutenant Farrage in his current position neither serves nor protects us.

My sources have been adamant every breakthrough in the pursuit of the killer has come from Jake Boulder. I can reveal to you that I have personally seen him attending the locations where three of the victims have been found.

From my personal observations, it would not be amiss to suggest our new chief of police has more faith in a man with no investigative qualifications or training than he has in his highly paid detective squad.

I say the chief is right and we should all be thankful Jake Boulder, and not Lieutenant Farrage, is the man he turns to.

Should Jake Boulder ask you questions, I implore you to answer them honestly and without agenda. Lives may very well depend upon it.

I slap the newspaper onto a desk when I’ve finished reading it. ‘It doesn’t read well for Lieutenant Farrage. Or the chief come to think of it.’

Alfonse scowls at me. ‘Never mind them. What about you?’

‘It’s nice for the ego but other than that it doesn’t mean anything.’ A thought strikes me and it’s not a nice one. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

‘Jealous? No, you fool, I’m not jealous. I’m afraid for you. If you were the killer and you read that article what would you think?’

I wave a dismissive hand at him. ‘I’d ignore it as a piece of journalistic embellishment.’

‘Really? You’ve lived here as long as I have. Tell me, how often are her columns and pieces embellished? She may go over the top with her rhetoric but the logic and facts are spot on. She’s well known for preferring accuracy to sensationalism.’

‘So?’ I try to brazen it out but he’s got a point and it appears he wants to impale me with it.

‘Do you need words of one syllable?’ Getting no answer from me he continues. ‘If the killer is a local and he reads this piece what do you think he’ll make of it?’

I think about shrugging but decide against it. Instead I keep my mouth shut, lest I give him another reason to rail at me.

‘I’ll tell you what he’ll make of it if you won’t answer me. He’ll think you’re a threat. If he’s as deranged or psychotic as Dr Edwards has suggested to you, he may just think he’ll stand a better chance of not getting caught if you’re out of the picture.’

‘I don’t fit his selection pattern.’

‘No you don’t. But you’re an annoying fly buzzing around his head. Sooner or later he’s going to swat you and speaking for myself, I’d rather that didn’t happen.’

‘Thanks for caring but don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’

‘That attitude is why I’m worried.’

I’ve had enough of this. ‘Back off, Alfonse. I’m getting enough grief off Mother without you joining the chorus.’

He’s out of his seat in a flash, hands planted on the desk as he leans towards me. ‘So the great Jake Boulder is pissed because the two people who know him best are afraid he’s going to do something stupid and get himself killed. C’mon man, you’re too smart not to see that article has made you a target.’

He sits back down and makes a point of studying the screen in front of him.

Instead of pursuing an argument I can’t win, I pull out my still silenced cell, dreading what I’ll find if Mother has read the article.

Judging by the number of missed calls and messages, she’s read it and would like a profound discussion on its literary merits.

I read a few of the messages and send a short one back. There are no emoticons or snarky comments in my reply. Instead I try to placate and reassure her. It may or may not work but I don’t have time for anything else.

59

A commotion in the reception area has both Alfonse and I turning our heads. A sharp New York accent can be heard above all others and it sounds like its owner is trying to pick a fight.

Alfonse turns back to his computer as I walk across to the door. The voice I can hear is unmistakable and I pity anyone caught in the sights of Ms Rosenberg.

I peek round the edge of the door to take in the atmosphere. It’s not good. Ms Rosenberg is haranguing both Chief Watson and the mayor.

The chief is standing his ground in the face of her questions, but the mayor is a quivering lump of jello. Every utterance from his mouth is a pile of stammered bull dressed up to resemble a decent soundbite.

Surrounding the trio, reporters from other news outlets are mingling with family members. Everyone is talking at once, and while the collective volume is increasing nobody is getting heard.

However compelling everyone’s thirst for knowledge may be, there are more important things for both those men to be doing.

Reaching for the light switch with one hand and a chair with the other, I plunge the room into darkness for the count of three. When I flick the lights back on, I’m standing on the chair.

I yell for quiet. As they start to obey, I hear my name being whispered by a host of different voices.

Every micro and Dictaphone in the room is pointed my way. I’m not big on making speeches, so I keep it short.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. For those who have questions about family members, I know this is a trying time for you. You’re worried about your loved ones. I would be too in your position. However, to best serve and protect those you love, Chief Watson must be allowed to do his job. If he’s talking to you he’s not catching the killer, is he?’

The room falls silent as they digest my logic.

After a moment a voice from the back rings out. ‘How do we find out about our families then?’

‘Good question.’ I point at Mayor Farrage. ‘I’m sure the mayor will be only too happy to provide a number of his staff to help out with keeping you all informed. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he has a contingency plan for just such a necessity.’

The mayor gives frantic nods. He’s obviously delighted to have been removed from the firing line into a position where he can be seen as a source of help for his constituents.

I point to the journalists who have pushed their way to the edge of my chair. ‘I’m sure that while all of your readers would like a statement from either the chief or the mayor, I think it’s fair to say they have more important things to be doing than writing press releases.’

There’s a few calls of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘well said’ from the back of the crowd.

‘However, I’m sure they also understand it’s vital the public are informed of what’s going on, so I would urge you to ask people to stay calm and use the information centre set up by the mayor, while leaving Chief Watson to catch a killer.’

I stop talking to take a look at my watch.

‘Shall we say Chief Watson will host a press conference later at…’ I throw a quick glance at the chief and count the fingers he’s showing me. ‘Nine o’clock.’

There are a couple of grumbles about deadlines, but the journalists are astute enough to realise the majority of the crowd is on my side. Calling me out will lose them readers.

‘Shall we?’ I usher the chief and the mayor towards the office where Alfonse is working only to be confronted by Ms Rosenberg.

‘Masterfully done, Mr Boulder.’ Grudging respect at being outmanoeuvred fills her voice and eyes.

‘Thank you.’ I lean into her just enough so I can whisper without invading her personal space. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put my head in any more nooses though.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Her tone is indignant, but the shock on her face makes a liar of her mouth.

I’m not prepared to let her denial be the last word. ‘Then you’d best read your article from the killer’s point of view.’

She regains control of her face, although I’m sure there’s a comment or two she’s biting back.

I close the door of the office and find Alfonse being introduced to the mayor.

‘Thank you, Jake. Thank you.’ The mayor’s face is full of gratitude.

Now isn’t the time to give in to the temptation of telling him only my friends and family call me Jake. I accept his pumping handshake and give him a curt nod. ‘You have any idea how to set up that kind of information resource?’

His smile goes, knocked away by the thought of having to do something other than be a crowd pleaser.

‘I’m sure one of your staff will be able to arrange a practical solution for you.’ It’s the chief who rescues him.

‘Yes, yes of course they’ll be able to.’

I press home my advantage as his smile is returning. ‘Good, because I want twenty men from you.’

‘What for, Boulder?’ There’s a scowl in the chief’s voice as I step all over his toes once again.

‘I want them to help your men guard Harriet’s family. You and all your men are stretched to breaking point. If the twenty men from the mayor can work in two shifts it’ll free up a lot of your guys. They can either work the case or get on with keeping order in town.’

I may be answering the chief, but I make sure my eyes never move from the mayor.

He licks his lips. Left and then right, just as he did when he was outside getting hassled by the crowd.

‘What type of men are you talking about?’

‘Big men. I don’t care if they are refuse collectors, teachers or your political advisors. As long as they are fit, strong and big enough to scare off most would-be attackers.’

‘I think that can be arranged.’

‘Don’t think, make it happen.’ There’s enough steel in the chief’s voice to repair the hole in the side of the Titanic.

The mayor’s back straightens and he draws himself to his full height. ‘When do you want them?’

‘As soon as you can get them here, please.’ I beat the chief to it, but it is a close thing. Him throwing one of his sarcasm laden replies at the mayor won’t help in the long term, especially if he has to sack the man’s son.

‘How many you got now?’ The chief is turning to Alfonse before the mayor has closed the door behind him.

‘Fifteen confirmed.’

A desk tidy flies past my head and shatters against a wall spraying pens, markers and paperclips across the room.

I look at the chief and see him forcing his knuckles against his temples so hard the skin is turning white.

There’s a feral look to his stare, but it’s aimed a thousand yards away. I imagine he’s thinking about what he’d do if he could get his hands on the killer. It’s something I’ve been thinking about too. At this particular moment, the chief is more likely to take the law into his own hands than I am.

60

The plate is slid onto the counter with a gentle burring scrape. I’m not hungry, but I know I need to eat.

I’ve forgone my usual chilli burger and settled for an old-fashioned plain burger. No cheese, no bacon, relish or anything save a few slices of raw onion. The server raised an eyebrow when I deviated from the norm, but the last thing I need today is more fire in my belly.

As expected it’s delicious. The meat tender and juicy, yet cooked enough to remove all traces of redness. There’s a couple of herbs added, but they’re so faint as to be unidentifiable.

While eating the burger I mull over the various things I’ve learned today; what must be done to prevent more lives being taken and various ways of catching the killer.

Nothing I come up with helps or makes any sense.

A thought about the way Oberton’s body was displayed is nagging at me. The cut across his belly reminds me of someone committing Hari-Kari but the way his head was half-severed contradicts what little I know about the act.

Using my cell, I Google the term. The first result directs me to Wikipedia. While not always the most reliable source, it gives a broad enough outline for me to see just how closely the traditions of Hari-Kari, or ‘Seppuku’ to give the act its proper term, have been observed.

The cutting of the neck is done by a ‘second’ or ‘Kaishakunin’. The aim is to cut the neck in such a way as to leave the head hanging as if bowed in shame. Reading on, I learn the ceremonial robes are often tucked under the knees to hold the body upright after the act has been completed.

As I finish the last of the wedges, I compare Oberton’s death to the others but come up with none which share the ritualistic elements. It’s as if he’s selecting the weapon or method of murder at random.

While it seems as if that’s what he is doing, I’m not so sure. His victims seemed unconnected until I realised how he chooses them.

Tracing back through Alfonse’s notes on the earlier victims, I look for a pattern or escalation in the weapons used, but with his latest kill, he’s downgraded from a gun to a sword.

He’s also changed from trying to mislead the investigators to leaving a blatant kill.

I’m getting nowhere with this train of thought, so I again try and figure out how he is identifying first the people who find his victims, and then their families.

There’re two parts to the solution and the first has to be that he’s watching the dump sites. The more I consider how else he could be getting this information, the more I’m convinced he’s got some kind of surveillance operation in place.

Once identified, he can trace the victim’s families in the same ways Alfonse and I have been following his trail.

He will have seen Harriet find Oberton today. Having got a face, he’ll have slipped into the crowd and followed them – her red One Direction T-shirt an easy thing to keep an eye on.

I remember following Olly’s car back to the station in a convoy led by a police cruiser. If the killer saw them getting into the car, all he’d have to do is run the license plate through the DMV website and pay the fee for a trace.

There may be a way we can use the site as a way to trace the killer. I call Alfonse and make the suggestion. He’s still sore at me, but agrees it may work.

I hope he gets a quick result. Either it will identify the killer or let him return to his task of tracing back the kills. I have a feeling the first one means something to the killer but until we’ve identified the first victim, we can’t make any assumptions or start looking for clues.

With that done, I move onto the next issue. The protection of Harriet and Olly’s family.

They’ve all been rounded up and are under guard at the motel. Fear has kept their grumbles to a minimum, but they’d all wanted to know how long they’d be there.

It is ironic we’ve had to half-imprison potential victims while the killer is running free.

Those staying in the motel are all connected to Harriet by birth or marriage. Looking at Alfonse’s notes, I check the family connections and see a distinct pattern emerging.

Each of the victims has a direct blood link to the finder of a body. Step relations and those affiliated by marriage have never been selected. It’s always genuine relatives who fall within his range of targets.

It’s tempting to share this news with the chief, but now we have a family under the protection of guards, it seems foolish to release some of them or think the killer won’t change his methods when thwarted by our security measures.

I pay the check and head for home. My plan is to get a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Everything has been taken care of so far and there’s nothing more I can do unless something else breaks or the killer is foolish enough to try and storm the motel.

61

Norm curses as he realises the extra work he’s going to have to do to put his new plan into action. If the idea wasn’t so good, there’s no way he’d let it delay adding to his tally.

Yet it’s just too perfect to pass up on. This is the kind of thing that will elevate him from being yet another serial killer to becoming a legend.

His story will become famous – the way he outsmarted the police, how he eluded capture despite being so close to the investigation.

The question that will be asked most of all: how he could be cold-blooded enough to kill his own family just to keep his pattern going?

Before he can set any of that into motion, he has to do some research, a spot of surveillance and a learning of routines.

If executed in the right way, he can remove himself from suspicion. Get it wrong and everything will come to a shuddering halt.

Now the game is afoot, he’d prefer to be captured so he can see how it all plays out, but he is still comfortable with the idea of dying. Perhaps in the greater scheme of things it will be better to die with some mystery to him. He may even be attributed with a few extra kills as the police look to clear one or two of their unsolved files.

Norm knows he’ll spill everything for the sheer hell of it if he’s taken alive. The thrill of telling his interrogators will be too great to resist. He knows he’ll want to see the look on their faces as he details each of his kills. The methods, research, selection process and the takedowns.

He’ll give them what they want and a whole lot more.

Gathering up his gear, he piles what he needs into his rucksack and sets off to check something he’s discovered on the sister’s Twitter feed.

Working in reverse a whole kill ahead is throwing his usual preparations. He’s not sure whether he should target the mother or sister first. Either will do, it’s just a question of which will be the easiest to set up. That’s what the watching is for. To make his decisions more logical and practical.

Chance is not allowed to figure in this one. Lady Luck mustn’t play a part unless he’s directing her.

62

When Alfonse lifts his eyes from the computer, they’re red from straining at the screen for so many hours. His voice and posture tell me the anger he felt earlier has been replaced by tiredness. A pang of guilt for my snatched two hours hits me before I dismiss it. He’ll be able to go home and rest now this task is complete.

‘That’s it. I can’t find anymore.’ Defeat rather than satisfaction for a job well done fills his voice. ‘As far as I can tell his first victim was Roger Ingerson. He was run off the road into Marton Creek just over four years ago. His car was found upside down in the water after a flood had subsided.’

‘What do you know about him?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I’ll have a look, see what’s on the system.’

Alfonse’s fingers rattle a couple of keys and he reaches for the mouse. A clacking whir comes from the corner as a printer starts to spit out sheets of A4.

I take them from the printer and sit back down.

Alfonse rises to his feet with a groan; he’s unsteady through exhaustion, but I’m not prepared to let him go just yet. ‘What did you get from the DMV?’

‘They wouldn’t speak to me so I got the chief to put someone onto it. Let me grab a few hours’ sleep and if we haven’t heard anything I’ll find a way into their system.’

I don’t like the delay, but recognise his brain and body need a rest.

He stops at the door and turns to me. ‘Stay safe, Jake. Before Kira, this guy had killed twenty-five times.’

I do a quick calculation. The total number of victims is thirty-one and we have no idea who he is or why he’s killing.

Reading the details on Roger Ingerson, I find there isn’t much to tell. At the time of his death he was married with a nine-year-old daughter. He worked the oilfields as a roustabout. His listed address is in one of Casperton’s less salubrious areas. Not the worst, but I don’t expect he had a white picket fence or a neighbourhood watch he could rely on.

From the report and its official language, I glean his death was listed as misadventure and hadn’t been investigated in any fashion. His body was trapped in the wreckage of the car and the coroner’s report stated his cause of death as drowning.

His legs were both shattered and there was internal bleeding, which would have killed him if he hadn’t drowned. I can only hope for his sake he was knocked unconscious by the crash.

I go in search of Chief Watson. He’s busy conducting the press conference I’d set up earlier, so I make a couple of calls.

When the chief is finished with the press, I manage to get him and the mayor to see me in his office.

‘What you got, Boulder?’

I tell him what Alfonse has uncovered and my thoughts about how Ingerson may have been specifically chosen as a starting point. The chief accepts the news with a sigh and a closing of his eyes. The mayor on the other hand looks as though he’s just caught his wife in bed with his brother. There’s anger, denial and incomprehension flashing across his face as he tries to come to terms with the number of homicides.

‘Any specific ideas about Ingerson?’

‘No, but Ingerson’s widow has agreed to see me so long as I’m there before ten.’ I hesitate, knowing what I’m about to say is crossing a boundary. ‘I’m going to have to tell her his death wasn’t an accident.’

The chief purses his lips. ‘Yeah, you’ll need to. I’d come with you, but the FBI have called. They’ll be here in an hour.’

‘That’s fine.’ I’m happy to go alone. To slip under the radar and steal a march. ‘That’s great about the feds. Have you heard anything from the DMV?’

‘I called and tried to light a fire under them. They told me the one guy who knows how to do that won’t be in until tomorrow morning.’ He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Perhaps the FBI will be able to put more of a squeeze on them, or go to a national source who can get that information.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

I don’t think there’s anything else to say just now, so I leave them to deal with their end of things and head off to see Faith Ingerson. On my way past the reception desk, Darla waves me across and hands me a bunch of files.

‘Hey, sugar. The chief told me to give you a copy of these.’

Flicking through the files, I see they are reports from the coroner and the CSI team.

With a glance at my watch to check I have time, I find a seat and skim read them.

Five minutes later, I’m handing the files back to Darla. Nothing in them came as a surprise, although I was interested to learn Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew’s bodies had both displayed the tell-tale marks left by a Taser. According to the report, Prosser had been zapped four times.

That explains how he’d been put into the car where he’d been murdered. As a final nail into the coffin of the killer’s romantic-tryst-gone-wrong set-up, the coroner’s report also noted Wendy Agnew was on her period.

The CSI team’s report is filled with lots of little pieces of evidence which would have to be analysed in a lab before a firm conclusion is made. Due to the public location of where the bodies were found, I don’t hold much hope they have found something which will help identify the killer. Their evidence will be more use in the courts than the investigation.

Both had filed preliminary reports on Angus Oberton, but neither is detailed enough to tell me anything new.

63

Since the spat with Alfonse, I’ve taken to checking my rear-view mirror a lot more than usual. I don’t spot any particular set of headlights tailing me, but I’m not what you’d call an expert at this kind of thing.

I reach the edge of Maesher and turn onto sixth. There’s the odd street light not working, a pair of sneakers hanging from an overhead cable and there are cars on bricks in two driveways, but the area’s not as bad as I remember. One of the mayor’s programs must have actually worked for a change.

As I park outside the Ingerson house, I notice a bunch of youths playing a game of pick-up across the street.

Part of me half expects them to try and hustle me for a few bucks against the safety of my car. Considering my current frame of mind, it will be a whole lot safer for them if they don’t.

Maybe it’s my body language or the look in my eyes, but not one of them so much as steps towards me.

The door opens before I get to it and a teenage girl runs outs. ‘Screw you. I’m going to Sophie’s.’

I step forward and knock on the still open door. Getting no answer, I rap my knuckles against the faded paint a second time and call out.

The woman who comes to the door is a sight and a half. I don’t know whether her appearance is a direct result of the loss of her husband or the constant battle of raising a headstrong teenager, but she doesn’t look good.

Her hair is matted and the clothes she wears are stained and shapeless. The look on her face is one of uncaring indifference to the world.

I can’t decide if she’s let herself go or was never together. Still I have questions to ask her.

‘Are you the guy who called earlier?’

‘That’s me. You must be Faith.’ I offer a hand and a smile. ‘I’m Jake.’

The smile proves to be a mistake. She toys with one of the knots in her hair and shows me her teeth. Or at least what’s left of them.

‘Come on in.’ Not waiting for an answer, she turns and tries to sashay down the hall. With her undernourished frame, it’s not a move she can pull off.

I follow her into the house. There’s mess everywhere and a smell so repugnant I have to breathe through my mouth. I decline the offer of a seat.

The state both she and the house are in speaks of laziness. I’m no neat freak, but I could keep this place clean with minimal effort. That she hasn’t bothered tells me she has no pride in herself or her belongings.

‘What can I help you with? You said it was about Roger. I told his bosses at the time he didn’t steal nuthin’. That it was all a set-up. Why’d you come botherin’ a grieving widow after all these years?’

The grieving widow must have a taste for cigars and mens’ footwear if the things lying about the house are anything to go by. On the other hand, if the rest of the house is anything to go by, they could well have belonged to her late husband.

‘I’m not here about anything to do with Roger’s work. I’m here about his death.’

‘You from the insurance company? I never got a red cent ’cause he was late with one payment. His pension is worth squat ’cause of him dying so young.’ There is the bitterness of the self-entitled in her voice.

Life hasn’t been kind to her, but she is the type who will see fate’s blows as a personal slight. While some people pick themselves up more determined than ever to succeed, she is the kind of person who blames others and expects those she deems responsible to help her.

With the news I’m about to break, my name is sure to be added to the list of people who’ve caused her life to get worse.

While I’m not informing her of a death, I’m exhuming an accident so I can turn it into a murder. It might not be as bad as breaking the initial news, but it’s still a task I’d be happy to avoid.

‘Faith.’ My use of her name grabs her attention just as I’d intended it to. ‘I have reason to believe Roger’s death wasn’t an accident.’

‘Whadda ya mean?’

‘Have you heard about the killer who’s targeting local citizens?’

‘Dolores said somethin’ ’bout it.’ From the way she waves her hand to the left, I guess Dolores is a neighbour. ‘Can’t say I was listenin’ too good though.’

‘It’s like this. There’s a serial killer working to his own twisted pattern.’ I don’t bother giving her the finer details. Whatever she’s been on before I arrived has dulled her comprehension. ‘There is a way he’s connecting all of his victims. Working backwards, we’ve traced his kills. The trail ends with Roger, so we believe he was the first victim.’

I give her a moment to digest what I’ve just told her.

Hope shines in her eyes. ‘Does this mean I’ll be able to claim off the police?’

Not being enamoured with the claim culture, I can’t begin to imagine what type of lawsuit she’s considering. If the world has any justice left, she’ll be sent packing by even the most fervent ambulance-chasing lawyer.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She may be able to detect the contempt in my voice. I don’t care either way. ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about your husband in the hope we can find out who killed him.’

‘Oh yeah. Sure.’ Now there may be a chance for her to make a few bucks she’s all ears. No contrition or emotion, but plenty of ears.

‘The obvious first question is – did Roger have any enemies?’

A shrug. ‘We all got folks who don’t like us.’

‘Was there anyone he’d fallen out with? Argued over money, perhaps?’

‘You didn’t fall out with Roger. Not if you knew what was good for you.’

I try again. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’

‘He owed on the car but it was some kind of lease deal.’ She looks at the carpet. ‘Roger didn’t believe in running up debts.’

I detect a subtext to what she is saying. Looking at her and her home it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she’ll be lucky if she has two cents to rub together.

Nobody with her lack of personal hygiene and general appearance will be hired by anyone looking to fill a customer facing position. Therefore, the only work she’ll be eligible for will be factory style work. Except Casperton doesn’t have any factories.

With debts looming over her, the future will be bleaker than the past. Every day the debts remain unpaid will see them grow. With her as good as unemployable, state handouts will stop her starving, but there will be little quality to her life. By today’s standards, the twenty-four-inch flat-screen in the corner is a sign of poverty.

The man whose boots lie discarded on the carpet won’t be a prize catch if he’s prepared to tolerate the filth she lives in.

I try another angle. ‘You may not like this, but was he seeing anyone else?’

‘No!’ The word and shake of her head both carry vehemence.

‘Are you sure? You didn’t hear anything after his accident?’ Sometimes people learn a lot about their partners after they die or part from each other. Friends and family members fall over each other to break the news they didn’t dare beforehand. In a twisted way, they believe they’re helping with the healing process. What they’re actually doing is rubbing salt into an open wound. Instead of being thankful for the good times and happy memories, the person remaining has nothing left to cherish.

‘I’m positive, damn you.’ A sneer curls her lip. ‘Don’t think I ain’t seen the way you’ve been looking down on me. I ain’t always looked like this.’

To emphasise her point, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a framed picture. When she shows it to me, I see her arm in arm with a tall beefy guy.

Perhaps it’s the nurse’s uniform distorting my opinion, but while she’s no knockout in the picture, she’s several leagues above where she is today.

‘Sorry if I’ve offended you, but it’s something I had to ask.’

She doesn’t speak. Again her eyes fall to the carpet. Or whatever is covering the carpet.

I don’t tell her, but her logic is wrong. Working at the Tree for so long, I have seen every possible reason for a fight and the majority have been started over the fairer sex. Either one man is chasing another’s wife, or a woman’s flirting achieves the desired effect and makes her partner jealous. Hands get raised and blood gets spilled.

The next night, or week, the drama will be repeated by different characters. There may be a subplot or a twist, but it’s the same drama every time.

One thing it’s taught me is, regardless of who’s waiting for them at home, some people will always stray. It’s one of the reasons I stay more or less single; I’m one of them.

‘What about his work, you mentioned something of a… dispute?’

‘Asshole foreman thought Roger was on the take. He mighta been a lotta things but he wasn’t never a thief.’

‘You said before, people who knew what was good for them didn’t argue with Roger. What did you mean by that?’

She turns her head to one side. ‘Just that he was a big man who could take care of hisself. He weren’t no troublemaker, but when it found him he could deal with it.’

Alfonse probably says the same about me.

‘Was there any trouble he dealt with that might have come back to bite him?’

‘No. He did what he had to do and stopped there.’ Her fingers pick at a spot on her forehead. ‘He never whaled on a man who couldn’t fight back.’

‘Do you keep in touch with Roger’s family, or any of his friends?’ Perhaps one of them will have the information I need. Faith may have it, but she isn’t prepared to share it lest she inadvertently cuts off a source of possible money. ‘And if you do, have you got a contact for them?’

She reaches inside her shirt and pulls out an old model cell.

I try not to think too hard about where she was keeping it as she gives me a couple of names and numbers.

64

I notice a different air in the police station when I enter the reception. Even Darla appears subdued. Two men with dark suits and cropped hair stand by the desk. Their faces are serious yet blank. Neither looks as if a winning ticket or the death of a family member will change their expressions.

The door to the chief’s office is closed so I give a knock and wait. There’s no answer although I can hear voices inside.

A hand touches my shoulder. It’s one of the statues from reception. He’s being gentle so far, but I know a firmer, more insistent grip is seconds away. ‘Please step away from the door, sir. Chief Watson is busy with Special Agent Doenig. They are not to be disturbed.’

‘I’m working the case and need to update the chief.’ I keep my tone level and fight the impulse to engage him in a staring match.

‘Tell me what you got and I’ll inform them both when they’re finished with the current briefing.’

‘No. This is too important to wait.’ It isn’t, but he doesn’t know that.

Taking advantage of his indecision, I’m two steps into the room before he’s had time to react.

‘What is it, Boulder?’ There’s irritation in the chief’s voice, but I’m confident I’m not the source.

I make a point of acknowledging the squat guy wearing a dark suit and darker expression before turning to the chief. ‘Thought you’d want an update.’

‘What you got?’

‘Ingerson was a big man who knew how to take care of himself. The wife says he hadn’t made any enemies but I’m not so sure.’

‘So you know him better than his wife?’ Doenig’s voice is the raspy drawl of someone who smokes rough tobacco too often. The smell of nicotine hangs over him like a damp hammock.

‘Of course not.’ I’m not trying to antagonise the guy, but it has been a long day and I’m too weary to keep the scorn out of my voice. ‘But I do know guys. Ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t tell their other halves when they’ve been fighting unless there’s no way they can avoid it. Then they make a point of being the one to break the news.’

I get a scowl but no further argument because I’m right. As much as women may like us to assume the role of protectors should trouble come along, deep down they hate to see us fighting because they’re afraid we’ll get hurt. Or worse, too used to solving problems with our fists.

My father never showed Mother the hairy side of his hand, but she’s told me how my paternal grandfather used to beat his wife. Growing up I never knew about it but armed with hindsight and more knowledge, I remember the constant stream of bruises dismissed as ‘silly old granny falling over again.’

‘Thank you, Mr Boulder, your cooperation is appreciated by the United States Government, but I think it would be appropriate for you to stand down now.’

I look at the chief as he’s the man who hired me. It may be a technicality, but there’s no way I’m being sidelined.

The chief is motionless, his face gives nothing away. Perhaps he’s auditioning for a role as a feebie statue. Then again, he’s a wise old bird who knows how to play the political game when he has to.

By staying mute and still, he’s showing allegiance to both sides while leaving us to sort it out between us. As a law enforcer, he operates in a hierarchical system and the special agent outranks him, the counterbalance being this is his patch and the FBI will find things a lot easier with his cooperation.

‘You didn’t hire me, therefore you can’t fire me. I have been assisting the police, and everything I’ve learned has been shared with them at the earliest possible opportunity. I’d like that situation to continue.’ I spread my hands out. ‘You can make the arrests and take the credit. All I want is to stay involved.’

‘The FBI does not work with amateur sleuths, Mr Boulder.’ His face softens a fraction of a fraction. ‘But in respect of what you’ve already achieved, I think Chief Watson should one day hire you as a detective. If today should be that day…’

The chief gets his inference a second before I do. A gnarled hand leaves his temple and opens a drawer. A badge flies my way along with a pointy-fingered admonishment.

‘You’re on probation until this case is over, then we’ll review your situation. You ain’t getting a gun until I know you’re competent. Understand?’

‘Yes, Chief.’ I decide this isn’t the best time to ask about a 401K.

‘Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Mr Boulder. The FBI leads and you as a rookie detective follow.’

Doenig waves me to a seat and starts to pepper the chief with questions about the case. His instincts are good and the points he’s interested in are the ones which have been puzzling me.

He suggests a profiler, so I tell him what I’ve gleaned from Dr Edwards. I get a firm nod as a sign of approval but he still wants to speak to his own guy. It’s only right he does. However good the advice we’ve gotten so far may be, an experienced FBI profiler will always have better insights than a small-town psychologist.

When Doenig is finished questioning the chief, I tell them what little I’ve learned from Faith Ingerson.

I can see the special agent is sceptical about Ingerson being the first victim, so I explain how Alfonse traced the murders back from Kira.

He listens, but his eyes flit around the room as I’m talking. He’s not taking it in properly, which means he’s either fixated on something else or he’s learned the hard way not to trust evidence handed to him in a nice neat bundle. If I was a gambler my money would be on the latter.

While not accepting our evidence, I’m sure he’ll follow a lot of our footsteps. In the meantime, I can forge ahead and work the leads already developed.

One of the FBI statues bursts in. His face grave but otherwise immobile. ‘Sir, there’s been another body found.’

65

Norm puts the cell back in his pocket and waits for the police to come. This is going to be fun. His family will be gathered together by the police for safeguarding, just like the families of his other victims. Not only will he be inside the police’s circle, they’ll be protecting him from the killer.

It’s something he’s prepared for.

His cousin wasn’t prepared. Her lack of preparation is the reason her corpse is lying naked on the trail behind Sharon Linskey’s house.

It hadn’t taken much effort to get her alone. Always keen to interfere, she’d welcomed him into her home when he’d said he wanted advice regarding a girl he was seeing.

Being prepared he’d brought wine. While she’d finished her dinner, he’d poured her a glass of wine and added a few drops of the poison distilled from the cartons of cigarettes. The random selection of kill methods had thrown back the latest addition.

After just two sips of the full-bodied Merlot, she’d been lying on the floor complaining of stomach cramps. Convulsions followed, along with rapid breathing.

Five minutes later, her breaths began slowing. After ten they stopped altogether.

Then it was a case of stripping her body and dumping it into the trunk of his car. The implants she’d been so proud of looked odd against her flaccid body with its rolls of untoned flab.

She won’t be missed until after she’s been discovered. Her parents had moved to Florida and her husband had run off with his secretary a couple years back.

Lights flash as two cars travel round the corner.

Norm waves with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.

The cars approach and park off to one side. Four men get out. As they move towards him they are illuminated by a streetlight. Norm recognises Chief Watson and Jake Boulder but not the other two. Judging by the way they are dressed, they could be feds. He hopes so. It’ll make everything so much more interesting. Plus, if the FBI are involved he’s been officially recognised as a serial killer.

A warm feeling envelops his body.

‘It’s over here.’ Norm points towards the alley where he’s dumped the first body.

He takes them behind the dumpster and lets them admire his handiwork.

His victim lies face down. If there wasn’t a pool of blood showing by the faint glow of a distant streetlight, he could be mistaken for a sleeping drunk.

Chief Watson uses his flashlight to sweep the area while one of the feds checks for a pulse.

Norm knows he won’t find one. He’d made sure the man was dead before dialling 911.

The four men say nothing, but he knows they’re thinking plenty. Each one is doing a cursory visual examination of the scene.

The chief finishes the general look with his flashlight and starts a slow pass over the body from the feet upwards.

Norm has to fight to make his face show revulsion instead of pride when the flashlight lingers at the top of the body’s legs. The chief steps forward for a better look at where he’d severed both femoral arteries with a scalpel.

There’s a gasp from someone – he thinks Boulder, but he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter who, what’s important is he’s drawn a reaction.

One of the feds touches Chief Watson’s elbow and he steps away from the body.

Norm approaches the fed who seems to be in charge and puts panic into his voice. ‘Is this a victim of the serial killer who’s in the newspaper? Will my family be safe? Will I?’

The fed takes a moment to answer. Norm can see him working out the correct response. ‘It’s too early to tell at this stage. As a precaution we’d like to know the names and addresses of all your family members who live in Casperton.’

Jake Boulder picks up on the fed’s unspoken request and takes him to one side. As they go, Norm hears the chief being asked if he knows the identity of the victim.

66

As soon as I see the tattoos on the victim’s bare arms, I recognise him. Ian Yarwood drank in the Tree every weekend.

A die-hard rock fan, he’s had the emblems and motifs of all his favourite bands immortalised onto his arms. In just one pass of the chief’s flashlight I’d seen the Guns ‘N’ Roses crucifix, Aerosmith’s angel wings and the Rolling Stones’ lips and tongue.

Try as I might, I can’t recall Yarwood’s name being mentioned by Harriet, Olly or any of their family.

Another point to consider is Yarwood’s body has been found inside the town’s limits, whereas all the obvious murder victims were dumped or displayed in more rural areas.

The clinical way the man has been murdered smacks of our killer, yet he may not fit the selection process.

If it’s the same killer, I wonder if he is getting cockier, more confident. The worst-case scenario is he’s started a new string after being thwarted by the chief’s preventative methods.

The thought he may start choosing victims totally at random isn’t something I care to think about. Should his pattern have changed, he’ll be even harder to predict, let alone stop.

I don’t know the guy who found the body, but I’m sure I’ve seen his face somewhere.

As the chief and the feds talk among themselves, I approach the guy and start asking questions like the detective I’ve suddenly become.

‘Norman Sortwell. Everyone calls me Norm though.’

‘What time did you find the body?’

‘A couple of minutes before I called the police.’ He gives a helpless gesture. ‘I tried for a pulse first. When I couldn’t find one, I made the call.’

‘Did you see anyone else in the alley? Or someone coming out of it?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you go into the alley in the first place?’ This has been troubling me since I got here. The alley is a dead end. Only refuse collectors have a good reason to go down there.

Norm gives a rueful smile. ‘I needed to take a whiz. It was quiet so I ducked into the alley.’

‘Fair enough.’ It is as good a reason as any. ‘Where have you been tonight?’

‘Nowhere special. I came out to get some milk and decided to grab a couple of beers.’

I nod at his answers. They’re commonplace and banal, which is normal for Casperton. Only in the movies do people find bodies while doing something exciting. The exact statistic escapes me, but I know for a fact most bodies are found by dog-walkers.

‘We don’t know for certain if this man has been killed by the person we’re hunting, but to be on the safe side, we’ll need to bring your family into protective custody.’

It’s hard to judge his reaction in the dim light of the alley, but I’m not convinced he’s too worried about his family.

‘All of them or just the ones who live in Casperton?’

‘Just the ones who live locally to begin with.’

After that, who knows? There are far too many possibilities to consider.

Has our killer made a mistake and jumped his pattern or have we missed a connection between Harriet and Yarwood?

Perhaps it’s a copycat killer aping the guy who’s got a whole town gripped with fear. If it is we’re going to need a lot more than three FBI guys.

I get the details from Norm. We’re in luck this time. His only relatives in town are his parents and a cousin. As we’re talking, I recognise him as one of Pete Lester’s workers.

The FBI statue comes over and starts asking Norm the same questions I’ve just gone through.

I leave him to it and go to update the chief. As we talk both of us are watching Doenig. He’s over by Yarwood’s body. While not close enough to contaminate any evidence, he’s near enough to inspect the body. A pen light held by a steady hand throws a narrow beam of light onto the areas he wants to inspect.

In his other hand, his cell is displaying a faint glow as he holds it out and speaks with a soft tone. I guess he’s using it as a Dictaphone rather than having a conversation.

The fact his face still hasn’t changed expression makes me wonder if Botox injections are part of the FBI toolkit.

‘What’s your thoughts on this, Boulder?’

The chief’s face has shed weariness in favour of exhaustion.

‘The clinical manner of the execution points to our man, but I’m not so sure. Dr Edwards was convinced his selection process was highly important to him, but the victim’s got no connections I know of to Harriet or her family.’

‘You know him?’

‘He’s a regular at the Tree. Got a wife and two young boys.’ I remember the pride in Yarwood’s voice whenever he discussed his sons. ‘Don’t let those tattoos fool you. He was a stand up guy. Never got a whiff of trouble and I’ve often seen him play peacemaker.’

The chief’s eyes close as he takes a deep swallow. He’ll be thinking about what he has to do next. ‘I’ll need to inform his wife before I can start asking if he’s related to Harriet or Olly.’

I shudder at the thought of Chief Watson or another cop knocking on Yarwood’s door to tell his wife. It’s bad enough anyone getting killed, but the idea of young children losing a parent to mindless violence is abhorrent.

Kicking the tyres of the chief’s car, I imagine coming face to face with the killer. It’s a nice thought. I won’t be worried about making an arrest. Not until I’ve inflicted some pain onto him.

67

Doenig takes me back to the station, leaving his cohort to protect the crime scene. The chief is on his way to break the news to Yarwood’s wife after calling Darla to get an address.

Neither Doenig nor I discuss the body as we travel back. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. There’s every chance we’re thinking the same things, but you’d never know.

Norm sits in the back of the car for his own protection. I’m certain Doenig will give him another round of questions back at the station.

He is chewing at his nails and moving with a nervous energy. He’s called his parents and told them to expect a visit from the police. He is trying every minute or so to contact his cousin, but whenever he tries he ends up cutting the call after a few seconds.

My suggestion we go round to his cousin’s house is met with a blank stare by Doenig. Norm keeps at him though and he relents to the detour.

Getting directions from Norm, Doenig drives fast with skill. There is no flamboyance, just careful considered movements of the wheel. Every turn is indicated and his braking and accelerating don’t cause the car’s occupants to be thrown forward or back. His instructors at Quantico would be proud of the way he’s travelling at twice the speed limit while still observing the niceties of driving.

When we arrive at Norm’s cousin’s we exit the car and approach the house. It’s in darkness but so is every other house on the street.

It’s a typical house on an average street. Nothing is remarkable or unique about it. The car parked on the drive is a mid-range saloon. Everything about the area screams bland domesticity to me. I want to leave in case it’s contagious.

We knock on the door and ring the bell. There’s no answer.

Doenig beats me to the obvious questions. ‘Is your cousin married? Does she have kids?’

‘No. Her husband left her a couple of years ago and they didn’t have kids.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’

Norm tilts his head as he thinks. ‘She did say something about seeing a guy. His name was David, or Daniel. It began with a D. Do you think she’s with him?’ Hope has filtered into his voice.

‘Perhaps.’ I point at the car in the drive. ‘If she is, he’s picked her up.’

Doenig’s face registers its first expression. Exasperated impatience.

I’m guessing he wants to be away from Norm and I so he can start making calls to other agents without being overheard. If he doesn’t, he should.

I turn to Norm. ‘Do you have a key or know if she keeps one hidden somewhere?’

‘No, I don’t. Sorry.’

I start looking in the obvious areas. Under the doormat, behind the plant pot. Doenig joins in with a scowl while Norm stands around looking helpless.

Finding nothing we go round to the back of the house and repeat the process with the same result.

‘Nothing doing. She must be at the boyfriend’s. Come on. I’ll have someone run a trace on her cell and track her that way.’

As we’re travelling the mile back to the station I have a thought. It’s not one I want to share in front of Norm so I keep it to myself until we’re at the station.

Entering the reception, I’m about to get Doenig to one side when he’s approached by the colleague he’d left behind.

While they’re talking, I introduce Norm to Darla and give a quick explanation as to why he’s here. She grasps the situation at once and leads him away with the offer of coffee.

With Doenig tied up and the chief away, I find a seat and rethink my latest thought a second and third time.

However I poke and prod at the idea, I keep coming back to the same conclusion. There’s a way I can check, so I pull out my cell and make a call.

It’s late but something tells me nobody at the motel is going to be sleeping.

The detective who answers hands his phone to Olly Vernal. I question him about any possible connection his family has with Yarwood. He denies any but checks with other family members.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can hear the low rumble of voices interspersed with the odd indignant shriek.

Olly comes back on the line and tells me there’s not even the most tenuous link.

It’s what I was expecting, but I still needed to check it out before making any rash statements.

With my facts established, I go in search of Doenig.

I find him still in conversation with the other agent; I hesitate to interrupt them. My involvement is limited despite the fact I’ve been deputised. While there’s no open hostility from Doenig, I’d have to be stupid not to recognise his tolerating of me is only one step above humouring.

His eyes land on me, so he turns away from his colleague. ‘What is it, Detective?’ There’s the lightest trace of a sneer in the way he uses my job title.

‘I don’t think Harriet Vernal was the first person to find Angus Oberton’s body.’

I can tell I have his full attention by the way his eyes widen. ‘Why?’

‘We know the killer is targeting the families of those who find the bodies. Thanks to a newspaper article so does the public. We’ve assumed he’s been finding out who the person is from press releases or by watching the dump sites.’ I lick my lips. ‘With the public aware of his selection method, the first person to find Oberton may have thought they were protecting their family by not reporting it.’

He raises a hand. ‘I’ve got it. What you’re saying fits.’ The tolerance in his eyes is replaced by a fleeting gleam of respect.

Neither of us speaks. The same thought assaulting my brain will be laying siege to his; the only way to verify my theory is to ask Ian Yarwood’s relatives if they found a body.

The questions will be taken as accusations, as instruments of blame by even the most sensible. At a time of grief, of self-recrimination, we may have to get heavy with members of his family to identify the person.

If I am wrong, none of this will play well in the media or coffee shops. When the public hear how the police and FBI harangued grieving family members for something they didn’t do, there will be a closing of doors and a withdrawal of information and cooperation.

FBI man or not, Doenig is a human being. Like me he won’t want to be the one to raise the subject with distraught relatives, even if I am right.

We are given a temporary reprieve by the appearance of Darla. She points at Doenig. ‘Chief Watson is on line three. He wants to speak to you.’

Doenig takes the call while I hover, unsure whether or not I should leave the room.

Darla stays, so I do the same.

It’s a one-sided conversation, filled with ‘I sees’ and ‘okays’.

He hangs up and turns to me. ‘You were right. After hearing the news Yarwood’s wife called her parents. The father told Chief Watson he’d found Oberton but didn’t dare call it in.’

‘Now the link has been confirmed we’d better get Norm’s family rounded up as soon as we can.’

68

I toss my keys onto the counter and brew a strong coffee, intent on washing the taste of failure from my mouth.

The last three hours have been spent chasing after Norm’s cousin. Doenig’s trace revealed her cell hadn’t left home after returning from her work.

He’d contacted her work colleagues, while I had banged on the neighbours’ doors until I got a response.

Neither of us had learned anything useful.

Fearing the worst for her, Doenig had picked the lock on her door and led the way through her house with his gun drawn.

The empty bottle of wine on the counter had given me hope – she may just be asleep and dead to the world. Doenig pushed each door open and shone his penlight into every room with the same result. Or lack of it.

Finding no sign of the woman, we switched the lights on and looked for clues as to her whereabouts.

Her cell was on the armrest of a chair, but when we tried to access it we found its battery dead. A tablet lifted from a table had been accessible. Her Facebook status was last updated at five twenty and complained about a busy day being a terrible way to prepare for a date.

I found a charger and plugged in her cell only to find it locked. Doenig had contemplated taking the cell so a tech expert could access its secrets but until we knew for certain she was missing he decided it was a step too far.

Her purse and cell being left at the house was enough for me, but he’d be bound by a set of unbreakable rules. You don’t become a special agent by being a loose cannon or habitually breaking the rules. The position is awarded to the most diligent and robotic of their ranks. Individual brilliance will help, but the main criteria will be team ethics, sound investigative procedure and an ingrained willingness to follow orders.

He justified not taking the cell by saying he could have someone tap into it and retrieve any information on it.

It was a compromise, but I accepted it as he was the one holding all the cards. One act of serious insubordination from me and I’d be out on my ear. Not something I was prepared to allow. Not only was I pursuing the killer for the families of those he’d killed, I was seeking justice for the victims, for the two friends he’d killed.

After finishing my coffee, I stretch out on my bed and wait for my restless mind to slow. Tomorrow will be another long day and I have a feeling when Norm’s cousin is found, things will get a whole lot worse.

69

The insistent ringing of my cell wakes me. My sister’s name on the display is worrying. Whatever she’s calling for won’t be good. Calls before six are never anything but bad news.

‘Jake, I’m scared. I’ve just found a body on the lane behind my house.’

Her words shake the sleep from me. I don’t bother to think of anything beyond the safety of my family.

‘Don’t bother calling the police. Get Ted and go to the station in person. Whatever happens, stay put until I arrive.’

A minute later I am dressed and calling Mother. She doesn’t answer so I keep trying as I leave the apartment and climb into my car.

She picks up when I’m halfway to her house. I tell her to get dressed and wait for me, then ring off before she can start asking questions.

I run three red lights on my way across town, but traffic violations are the least of my concerns. Right now all I care about is making sure my family are safe.

Mother’s door is open when I get there. She’s dressed in dark green velour sweats and has the kind of expression which inspires gargoyle sculptors.

‘I’ve spoken to your sister, young man.’

I’d hoped to be able to break the news myself, but it seems events have conspired against me. The ‘young man’ at the end of her sentence as telling a sign of danger as the hissing clatter of a rattlesnake.

‘Good. Then you’ll know we need to move right away. Where’s Neill?’ Her husband is a good man but lacks any sense of urgency. The only time I’ve known him to show anything approaching hurry was when he’d had diarrhoea a few years back.

‘He’s upstairs getting dressed. He’ll be a minute.’

I know his idea of a minute, so I go to the foot of the stairs and look upwards. There’s no sound of movement. ‘Neill. Get down here at once. This is serious.’

Perhaps my shout will do more good than any of Mother’s nagging. Over the years he’s shown an impressive immunity to her exhortations for rapidity.

Mother has followed me. There’s a fire in her eyes which threatens to become an uncontrollable forest blaze.

‘Do you really think so little of us that you’re happy to risk all of our lives by continuing with this ridiculous charade?’ The heat of her anger is counterbalanced by the arctic intensity of her tone. ‘It’s bad enough you running around playing detective but what about the rest of us?’

I don’t give her an answer. There isn’t one that can explain how important this is to me without further angering her. As this isn’t a good time to inform her of my deputation, I give Neill another hurrying shout.

‘Tell me, Jacob. Do you think it’s any kind of coincidence that the day after you’re lauded in the local paper as the man to identify a serial killer’s pattern, your sister finds a body and puts you and your family into the killer’s sights?’

It was my first thought after realising I had to make sure Mother and Sharon were safe. It’s been my only thought ever since.

The macho part of me welcomes the thought of coming face to face with the killer, but the more realistic side of my nature tells me it’s a fight I will probably lose.

Whoever this person is, he’s organised, resourceful and knows lots of different ways to kill.

Mother interprets my silence as contrition and hammers her point home with a series of demeaning attacks on my sanity, my failings as a son and somehow ends up back on the tired old subject of grandchildren.

Neill’s footsteps as he comes downstairs act as a welcome interruption. His lined face shows puzzlement at the disturbance and raised voices.

‘C’mon. I need to get you to the police station as soon as possible. That way the police can keep you safe.’

Hearing the words come out of my mouth I realise what I’ve just said and the subtext behind it. Mother and Sharon will be kept safe along with their husbands. I won’t be joining them. My place is continuing the investigation.

I get them bundled out of the door and into my car and drive them to the station. Mother complains all the way about the lack of legroom in the back of a Mustang while Neill concentrates on not commenting about the speed of my driving.

A tightwad by nature, he always drives at the optimum speed to get the best mileage possible. To be crossing town in the high sixties will seem nothing short of reckless to him.

Mother has travelled far enough with me to become unconcerned by my driving. Although she will on occasion, cite an inevitable crash as yet another way I’m preventing her from becoming a grandmother.

70

Entering the station, we find Sharon and her husband Ted talking with Doenig’s sidekick.

When she sees Mother she runs across and wraps her up in a big hug. I get a similar one from her. Ted’s politeness makes him shake my hand despite the accusation on his face.

Mother will be glad of an ally in her campaign against me, although Sharon and Ted’s presence will keep her away from the ever-present subject of grandchildren.

Doenig and the chief emerge from his office. The FBI man looks fresh whereas the chief’s face and body show his exhaustion. His movements are clumsy and he’s dragging his feet.

I take the initiative. ‘What’s the next move, Chief?’

‘You and your family go to the motel and stay there.’ Doenig’s tone brooks no argument. ‘This has to end here. No more deaths.’

‘We thought that yesterday with the Vernal family.’ I’m not prepared to be sequestered away. By dragging Sharon and Mother into this mess, the killer has made it way too personal for me to allow myself to be shunted aside.

Besides, the thought of being cloistered away with Mother when she’s got full justification to rail on me isn’t an attractive one. She’ll rattle on for hour after hour, attacking me from every possible angle. As a rule I would be able to mount a defence against her, but on this occasion I’m guilty as charged.

It won’t be long before the others side with her. Even in silence, their faces will show what they think of me. There’s no way I want to be in that position. Not when I can be stopping a killer.

‘I’m not going to the motel. I’m staying on the case.’

‘No you’re not.’ The chief’s voice is as tired as the rest of him. ‘That’s how we lost Angus Oberton.’

‘If you stay on the case you’ll be a target. I’m not having one of my officers at risk.’

I hand the chief my badge. ‘Problem solved. I’m a civilian now.’

‘Which means I can arrest you if I want to.’

‘Enough.’ Doenig keeps his voice low, but there’s a quality to it which cuts through our bickering. He looks at me. ‘If you don’t go to the motel, you’ll become a target. But I’m not sure the killer will take you on. I think he’ll be expecting you to be protected or guarded. And he’ll be right.’

Which means that if the killer doesn’t come after me, his pattern will have to be broken as I only have four direct relatives in the US and they’re all under police guard.

Only, the killer isn’t going to move onto someone else. I don’t for one minute believe he dumped the latest body outside Sharon’s home by chance.

It is a deliberate act, designed to hamper the investigation. With me either distracted or stationed in the motel, I’ll be less effective.

Yet looking at it from his point of view, there is the danger he won’t be able to get to me. I don’t think he is ready to stop, so his involving of my family is the laying down of a challenge.

He’s asking if I’m man enough to face him. He wants to take me on. The realisation of what he wants firms my resolve.

I take a deep breath and make a suggestion which might get me killed. ‘He’s coming after me, so use me to catch him.’

The chief is the first to speak. ‘No way. Forget it, Boulder, there’s no way I’m risking him getting to you.’

‘You’re not the one taking the risk. I’m in charge.’ Doenig looks at me with respect in his eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’

I swallow. ‘Can you think of any other way we’ll catch him?’

Neither of them reply, which is all the answer any of us needs.

The chief tosses the badge back to me and pulls a gun out of his drawer. ‘Do you know how to use this?’

‘No, but I’ve got one I do know how to use.’ I’m stretching the truth a bit, but I’m trying to reassure him.

‘Where is it?’

‘In the trunk of my car.’

‘Go get it. Keep it with you at all times.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Round up a couple of patrolmen and take your folks to the motel. When you’ve done that come back here and make sure you have a patrolman with you at all times.’

I sense he is getting rid of me on purpose, so I leave him and Doenig to it.

After getting the gun from the trunk of my car and stuffing it into my waistband, I go to join my family.

There are two patrolmen watching over them, so I approach the nearest. ‘Chief says they’re to go to the motel. I’ll take the guys in my car, you take my mother and sister.’

I plan to inform Neill and Ted what I’m doing on the drive over and leave them to break the news. It’s a cop-out but I’ve enough self-critical thoughts of my own, without Mother dripping scornful vitriol in my ear.

71

When I arrive at the motel I see two burly workers and a cop stationed at the entrance. Another civilian and a cop are standing by the fire exit. They look bored but their heads are in constant motion as they sweep the area for possible aggressors.

The patrolmen gain us entry and a couple of rooms are secured for my folks. They look stunned but there’s little I can do to change things. It’s about to get worse for Mother and Sharon when their husbands repeat the news I’ve given them.

As they are escorted down the hall, I pull my cell out and read the message I’ve just got.

It’s a picture of a woman. Her face has a deathly pallor and the dewdrops coating her cheeks look like tears.

A second message comes in, followed by a third.

The second is from the chief asking me to show the picture to Norm Sortwell to see if it’s his cousin.

I check the last message and sigh when I see who it’s from.

YOU ARE AN IDIOT JACOB BOULDER. WORRYING ABOUT YOU WILL PUT ME IN AN EARLY GRAVE. I EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU EVERY TWO HOURS.

Stuffing the cell back into my pocket, I go to the receptionist and ask which room Norm is in.

As I make my way along the corridor, I’m rehearsing what to say, the tone to use and guessing what his reaction may be. This is new ground for me and I curse the chief for making me walk it.

How Norm will react depends on the closeness of their relationship. It was tough to gain any insights last night. He’d been questioned to the point of distraction by the feds, then brought out here with his parents.

I knock on the right door and hear a TV being turned down. Norm’s face appears as the door opens. He looks as if he’s had less sleep than me.

Seeing him in proper light for the first time I notice how gaunt and drawn his face is, that his belt shows wear on each of the holes. He must have lost weight recently, although his bare arms show tight knots of muscle.

‘Morning.’ I drop the good from the greeting on purpose. If we’re right about the body, there isn’t going to be anything good about today. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but there was a body found a couple of hours ago. It matches the description you gave us for Josie.’

His hand flies to his mouth and he takes a few steps backwards until his legs collide with the bed. As he sits, springs creak. He raises his eyes to my face. ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’ll need someone to make a formal identification.’ I’m winging it, but to my ears the words sound like something a cop would say.

I pull my cell out. ‘I have a picture of the victim on here. Do you think you could take a look and see if it’s Josie?’

Norm doesn’t speak, but his arm extends in my direction. Handing over the cell, I watch to see his reaction.

It’s a muted one. He looks at the image for a few seconds then passes the cell back. ‘It’s Josie. She looks so peaceful.’ His voice is a whisper.

‘Thank you.’

‘How did she die? Will there need to be an autopsy?’

‘We’re not sure yet, but there will be an autopsy and it should tell us how she died.’ I’d like to tell him she didn’t suffer, but without knowing the details, I’m reluctant to say anything in case I’m wrong.

‘Will we be able to go home now?’

I’m not sure if I have the authority to make this decision, but I make it anyway.

‘I don’t see why not.’

I leave him with his thoughts and a promise someone will bring them more news as soon as we have it.

Before climbing into my car, I call Alfonse and point him at Roger Ingerson. I want to know anything and everything he can dig up about the first victim, as I’m sure that’s where the key to the killer’s identity will lie.

72

Norm lies on his bed and savours the irony. His next victim asking him to identify the previous one is delicious. It’s more than enough to make up for having to spend the night in this crummy motel.

He’d made sure to give Boulder a careful look over when acting shocked about Josie. The man was in good shape, his movements fluid despite an obvious discomfort at the news he was delivering.

There had been a temptation to attack him there and then. A solid blow to the solar plexus followed by a sleeper hold would have done the trick nicely, but in doing so he would have unmasked himself as the killer.

Plus, he wants the random selection of the method to throw up one of the delights he still has in store.

When Boulder left, he’d noticed the bulge at the back of his waistband.

There is no telling how proficient with a gun he is, but the information is collected and stored as he begins to plot ways to capture him.

He gathers his jacket and leaves the room. Five paces along the hallway he knocks on the door of his parents’ room. Mom answers and lets him in. He feigns shock as he informs them of Josie’s death.

They sit in silence for a time, then Norm leaves them to come to terms with the news.

As he hands the room key back to the receptionist, he sees which other keys are missing from the row of pegs. He knows from a conversation with a cop the whole corridor was reserved by the police. The empty pegs tell him which rooms Boulder’s family have been allocated.

Norm smiles as he realises the significance of just two keys being missing. Boulder’s sister and mother are here but the man himself isn’t staying to be guarded.

Instead, Boulder is still active. If he’s active he’s vulnerable.

The feds and local cops will be watching his back, but Boulder is unpredictable and will at some point do something that puts him at risk.

He’ll be there, ready to kill him.

Norm leaves the motel and decides to walk home. The fresh air and exercise will invigorate his body. He wants to be as energised as possible when he tackles Boulder.

He passes a 7-Eleven but turns back and walks in. He buys a copy of the Casperton Gazette, scans the front-page headlines and skim reads the article by Ms Rosenberg outside the store. She’s covering the murder of Angus Oberton. What pleases him most is the nickname she’s given the killer.

He loves being called ‘The Watcher’; it’s perfect as it’s exactly what he does. He watches. If he’s lucky it will stick. A good nickname will help secure his place in history.

73

I find the press camped out in the station’s reception area. Ms Rosenberg is at the head of their ranks as they clamour for more information about the two latest victims.

Her eyes pick me out as I try to sneak into Chief Watson’s office. She approaches with a raptor-like expression. As usual she’s wearing enough foundation to support a skyscraper.

‘Are you any nearer to catching the Watcher? Have you any leads? How many more people must die before he’s stopped?’

I keep my mouth shut. I’m not even prepared to say ‘no comment’. It’s the chief and Doenig’s place to speak to the press. Maybe the mayor’s too.

Their moniker for him is apt though. ‘The Watcher’ is the perfect fit.

When I enter the chief’s office, I find him and Doenig briefing one of the FBI agents.

Doenig sees me enter and points at his colleague. ‘This is Agent Cuthbert. He’s going to be your bodyguard.’

I flick my eyes at Cuthbert. He’s dressed in a sombre dark suit, has the necessary cropped hair and the stance of someone expecting trouble. The way his arms are held makes him look like a cross between a gunslinger and someone carrying two rolls of carpet.

‘No offence, but isn’t he a little obvious as a feebie?’

Doenig scowls at me. ‘He’ll lose the suit and get some normal clothes. We do actually train for this type of situation in the FBI.’

I mumble an apology and avoid his eye. I can feel colour filling my cheeks at my naivety.

Cuthbert leaves the room so I use the distraction to ask the chief what he wants me to do next.

‘I want you to go over all the reports. The ones from the CSI teams, the coroner, the investigating officers. You’re looking for anything that can possibly be used to identify the killer. You need anything, ask Darla.’

I understand he is both dismissing me and keeping me close.

He doesn’t dare have me running around town where the Watcher can attack me. Therefore, he is using me to double check and reassess all the details in the safe environment of the police station. Cuthbert is sure to be the pedantic type who’ll never be more than six feet away.

There is no way the Watcher will try anything when I am so well protected. He’ll either wait until the levels of security are lessened, or abandon his selection process and find another victim.

I’ll need to find a way to persuade Cuthbert to give the Watcher enough space to feel confident he can attack me but not so much my life is at risk.

After leaving the chief’s office, I ignore Ms Rosenberg again and speak to Darla. She promises to bring me the reports I’ve asked for.

I choose to use the office Alfonse used yesterday. It’s hot and stuffy with the aroma of stale sweat and junk food, so I open the windows and take a seat where the breeze cools me while also taking the worst of the nasty smells away.

‘Here you are, sweetie.’ Darla dumps a stack of files onto the desk nearest me. ‘Good luck with that lot.’

I know what she means. I’ve read most of these files already and I haven’t seen anything of note. Perhaps getting all their information into my brain in one pass will make the details more pertinent in relation to each other.

When Cuthbert arrives back, I’m so engrossed with a report I don’t notice him until he’s at my side.

‘Are you serious? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ His blank face is showing its first impression and it’s one of complete disgust and amazement. ‘You’re the target of a serial killer and you’re sitting by an open window. Not only that but you’re so wrapped up in what you’re doing, you’re not paying any attention to what’s going on around you.’

As he’s berating me, he goes round the room closing windows and dropping blinds. I can understand his frustration and anger. In his position I’d be the same.

Not only is he tasked with a dangerous duty, the person he’s protecting seems to have no idea about basic common sense precautions. For him, this is the type of assignment on which careers are made or broken. Anything bad happening to me will, for him, be the equivalent of writing a letter of resignation.

Seeing the scale of his reaction, I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to persuade him to let me draw the killer out.

I try to placate him by apologising then asking his opinion about the facts I’ve gleaned so far.

The distraction works. There’s every chance it’s the first time he’s been asked to contribute on anything other than guard duty since arriving in Casperton.

We settle into an uneasy truce and each pick up a file. The room becomes stuffy again, but Cuthbert ignores it and I think better of asking for an opened window.

We’re reading the files in chronological order. From time to time, he’ll ask me a question. It’s usually something to do with local knowledge, but one or two of his points are good ones.

After six hours with nothing more than coffee I call a halt and stand up. ‘C’mon. We need to eat and I want to speak to someone who’s doing research for me.’

Cuthbert reaches for a phone. ‘We’ll order in.’

‘No we won’t. It’s the middle of the day and we’ll be eating in a crowded public place.’ He doesn’t put down the phone so I push harder. ‘Trust me, it’ll be fine. My treat.’

He wavers so I walk towards the door forcing him to make a decision one way or the other. He puts down the phone and picks up his jacket.

74

Instead of my usual seat at the counter, he directs me to a booth at the back. I can see why he’s chosen the booth. From our seats we have a full view of the diner and can see both entrances and the doors to the bathrooms. Nobody can approach us unseen by his watchful eyes.

He surprises me by foregoing the chilli burger I recommend and selects a vegetable and pasta bake. I’d pretty much assumed all FBI agents would be macho dudes who’d eat plenty of red meat and drink bourbon by the bucket.

He doesn’t offer an explanation and I don’t ask for one. His diet is his own business.

I ask about his family and where he’s from, but other than the barest details he doesn’t tell me anything.

Giving up on the small talk, I concentrate on my burger, savouring the burn from the jalapenos and the spicy wedges accompanying it.

As I’m eating, my mind is still leafing through the files. Checking and cross-checking details. After everything I’ve read this morning, I’m still no closer to making a decent connection.

My only hope is Alfonse has something for me. The lack of contact from him suggests otherwise though.

I pay the check as promised and leave Sherri’s with Cuthbert’s understated praise for the diner making me smile.

The gun nestling in the small of my back is uncomfortable, but there’s no way I’m going to remove it.

When we arrive at Alfonse’s, I reassure Cuthbert he can talk freely in front of my friend. The last thing we need is FBI reticence impounding on our conversation.

His mouth and eyes give me two different replies.

Alfonse is at his desk with his laptop open. He looks pissed and not just with his results.

Cuthbert positions himself by the door and leaves us to talk.

‘What you got?’

He pulls a face. ‘Little more than nothing. Ingerson was no saint, but his record is clean enough and the friends of his I spoke to said he was never one to start a fight.’

‘His wife intimated he finished a few.’

‘Sound like anyone we know?’ If his tone drips any more scorn he’ll have to wipe his chin. His eyes bore into mine. ‘By all accounts he’d do enough to stop them and leave it at that.’

I give a half shrug. Big deal, Ingerson’s philosophy matches my own.

Once you’ve knocked the fight out of someone, there’s little point in continuing to hit them. All you do is create room for grudges to develop. Hospitalising people comes with its own risks, namely incarceration and a heightened desire for violent revenge.

‘Did you speak to any of the guys he fought?’

‘Most of them. They all said they’d picked the fight for one reason or another and had their ass handed to them.’

‘What were the reasons they gave?’

He spears me with another glower. ‘Flirting with their girlfriends mostly. The friends I spoke to said he was like that. He’d chat to women and flirt with them but would never follow it up.’

Again it sounds familiar, but at least I try not to flirt with anyone who’s already dating.

‘Any other reasons?’

‘There was an accusation of him being a card sharp during a game of poker which turned into a fight.’

I feel my pulse quicken; money is one of the main reasons for crime. ‘What happened?’

‘After a couple of punches were traded Ingerson showed the guy his cards.’ Alfonse grimaces. ‘A two, six, seven, jack and king spread across all four suits.’

I wince. Even with what little I know about poker, I recognise it’s a poor hand.

‘Did any of the people you spoke to know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

‘None they’d admit to. Even the guys who’d lost to him said he could have pounded on them more but stopped as soon as they went down.’

I get the picture. It’s an unwritten dude rule. When someone hands you your ass, but stops as soon as the fight is out of you, you accept the better fighter won and leave it there.

It’s something I’ve seen many times at the Tree. Two guys will knock seven bells out of each other one night, then get drunk together and reminisce over the fight the next.

‘Is there anybody worth taking a closer look at?’ I’m thinking a couple of hours being grilled by the FBI will shake loose any details someone’s holding back on.

‘Nobody I’ve found yet.’ For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me without anger or fear. ‘I’m gonna keep digging in case I’ve missed something.’

Cuthbert’s pronounced tones enter the conversation for the first time. ‘You sure Ingerson was the first of the Watcher’s victims?’

‘He’s the first as far as the chain is concerned. There may be others who don’t match the Watcher’s methods, but he’s definitely where the chain begins.’

I have a thought. ‘Try looking at his family as well. Perhaps one of them has wronged the killer and he’s exacted a twisted kind of revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s targeting family members of those who find the bodies he’s left. Perhaps one of Ingerson’s family found out something about him.’

Alfonse’s face lights up at my suggestion and Cuthbert nods his head. ‘Good idea. I like your train of thought.’

From the taciturn agent, the two sentences are equivalent to a ticker tape parade.

75

Norm watches as the Mustang turns off Main Street and pulls into the police car park. The man with Boulder is a new face in town, but he pegs him as an FBI agent who’s been given bodyguard duty.

The man has the institutionalised air of conformity about him. From the buzz cut to the square stance and expressionless face, he may as well be wearing a windbreaker with ‘FBI’ stencilled on the back in yellow letters. The clothes he wears still carry the creases from where they’ve been folded into their sales packaging.

The man has a bulge in his jacket where a left-handed person would carry a gun. There’s no sign of a shoulder holster but he knows it’ll be there. The lump in the jacket is as obvious to his trained eye as a signal flare.

What he’s waiting for is that fraction of a second when their guard is down and he can make his move.

One positive thing he’s learned from tailing them is Boulder’s unfamiliarity with the gun stuffed into the back of his waistband. Every minute or two he slips a hand round his back, either to check it’s there or to move it into a more comfortable position.

The way his shirt hangs over it is no problem to a trained professional, but a panicking amateur is more likely to get his gun or hand tangled. He might free it in a second or two, but two seconds in a takedown situation is a long time.

Add the element of fear and he’ll only have to worry about the feebie in the first five seconds. Fingering the Tasers in his pocket, he’s content with the time frame; all he needs to do is wait for the right opportunity.

The draw he made earlier has thrown up the one method he’d been hoping not to get. He’d wanted something gorier and more painful for the man whose investigative prowess has caused so many problems. While enjoying the challenge, he’d hoped there would be more time wasted by the town’s detectives before the pattern was recognised.

Boulder’s interference wasn’t something he’d expected, but the fact the FBI would become involved was anticipated.

Whatever happens now, his place in history is cemented. All he has to do is keep going as long as possible. The higher the tally, the greater his legend.

76

I toss the last report onto the pile for Cuthbert and stand up. Arching my back, I go through a few stretches to try and remove the stiffness.

The smell in the office is now of stale bodies and despair. The chief and Doenig have joined us at regular intervals but we’ve had nothing worthwhile to tell them.

Everything we’ve looked at has checked out the same way, and the crime scenes are too public to yield specific samples.

Cross matching the samples for DNA is something Doenig has pushed through the FBI lab, but as with every government department, they’ve suffered cutbacks in both personnel and budget. The soonest they can get us the answers we need is two days away.

My cell beeps, but when I pull it out expecting yet another snarky message from Mother, I see it switching itself off. The battery has given up – I’ve never thought to charge it.

The chief walks into the room, his face all grey stubble and greyer skin. If we don’t catch the Watcher soon, he may well die of exhaustion. He needs twelve hours’ sleep, a hearty meal and then another half day in bed.

Cuthbert takes the opportunity to head for the bathroom. Since being detailed as my bodyguard he’s never been more than six feet away from me.

‘Got anything yet?’

‘Not a thing. What about your end?’

‘Zilch. We’ve traced as many of the people at the nature reserve as we can, but none of them saw anything.’

‘What about the last victim? She was supposed to be meeting her date at seven, wasn’t she?’

‘We’ve spoken to him. He was at work all day and then his roommate vouches for him from the time he left work until he went to meet her.’ He kneads his temples. ‘After being stood up he sank a couple of beers and went home. Her cell had four missed calls and a succinct message from him, but his whereabouts are vouched for from leaving work until he went to bed.’

I know it isn’t the date, but he still has to be checked out. There’s something nagging me about the last kill, but I can’t figure out what.

The timeline between Norm Sortwell finding Ian Yarwood’s body and his cousin dying is so short it means the Watcher is escalating his kills with increasing rapidity.

There were less than eight hours between the two events and it doesn’t seem credible someone could have learned who Norm was, traced his family, executed a kill then dumped a body in such a short time frame.

If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d start to think Norm was supposed to find Yarwood’s body.

Alfonse bursts into the office as Cuthbert is closing the door behind him. Cuthbert’s hand flies into his jacket and emerges with a gun. He’s halfway towards aiming it when he recognises Alfonse.

‘I think I may have found him.’

‘Who?’ Three voices speak as one.

‘When I started looking into the first…’

The chief beats me to the interruption. ‘Tell us the who first. Then you can explain how you’ve found him.’

‘It’s Norm Sortwell.’

There’s a stunned silence until I wave a hand at Alfonse. ‘Why do you think it’s him?’ It’s tough to believe when his cousin is the latest victim.

‘As I was saying. When I started to look into Ingerson’s family, I found out his wife used to be a nurse. A few weeks after he was killed she was fired.’

‘Why?’

‘The clinic she worked at was sued for infecting a patient with HIV from a dirty needle. She was the nurse who had used the needle. The case was settled out of court by the insurers.’ Alfonse gives a grim smile of self-congratulation. ‘The patient who was infected had already died by the time this all happened. Her name was Melanie and she was married to Norm Sortwell. The same Norm Sortwell who found Ian Yarwood’s body.’

The chief shakes his head. ‘Coincidence. His cousin was killed.’

‘Here, I’ve printed out everything I found so you can check it for yourselves.’ Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

He sits down at a desk and starts to boot up his laptop while we absorb what he’s told us.

I let the chief and Cuthbert read the printouts Alfonse has supplied. I trust his judgement, but I need to work it through my own mind before fully accepting his accusation.

Starting at the beginning I put together a mental chain of events. Faith Ingerson’s stupidity or laziness caused Norm’s wife to catch a deadly virus. He’d sued the clinic after Melanie’s death. The settlement he’d received wasn’t enough for him though, he had wanted to see her punished.

After losing his own spouse, he must have decided it was fitting for her to lose hers. Where his selection process had come from or why he’d carried on killing is still unknown but there is always the possibility he’d got a taste for it or had suffered a mental breakdown of some kind after his wife’s death.

‘Did you have chance to look into him?’

‘Yeah. It’s not pretty. He was in the Marines for years. Done all the usual tours, Helmand, Baghdad and so on. I also looked at his medical records. He’s now got full blown AIDS.’

I think of Norm’s appearance. The gaunt face, depleted body tissue and the belt showing used holes where he’d lost weight.

He is dying and knows it. Perhaps he wants to go out with a bang or just get even with the world for the hand he’s been dealt. Maybe the twin blows of losing his wife and contracting a death sentence saw his mind disintegrate.

The chief’s voice is laced with doubt as he turns on Alfonse. ‘Hang on a minute. Sortwell was under police guard from the moment he found the body until his cousin was discovered. There’s no way he could have killed her.’

Alfonse’s face is filled with dismay at having his logic unpicked.

‘I think you’re wrong, Chief.’ I ignore his sneer and press on. ‘I reckon the cousin was killed and dumped before he called in the body he supposedly found. He’s using us to provide the alibi you’ve just stated. Have you had a time of death for her yet?’

He doesn’t speak. Instead he reaches for the nearest telephone.

Cuthbert has a cell to his ear and I can hear him requesting someone joins us. I guess it’s Doenig.

Since Alfonse arrived, a new energy has filled the room. It’s banished the odours of defeat and helplessness and is energising tired limbs with a sense of purpose.

The more I think about it, the more I believe Norm Sortwell is the Watcher. As a former Marine he’ll have the necessary skills to have made the kills. Plus, he’d be able to get close to his cousin to kill her. While we still don’t have a cause of death, there are too many inconsistencies about her death fitting into the narrative of someone else killing her so soon after Yarwood’s body was discovered.

First there was the missed date. She’d posted about it on Facebook and there were clothes laid out ready on her bed. Judging by the length of the skirt and the fancy underwear, it wasn’t a date she planned to miss.

Second, if she’d changed her mind about the date why hadn’t she called or messaged the guy. She was a professional woman in her forties, not some immature teen. With the ease of cell messages as a way of communication, being stood up is becoming a thing of the past.

Third, if she had decided to miss the date, why weren’t the clothes put away? Where was she for the five and a half hours between leaving work and Norm finding Yarwood?

Fourth, no woman I’ve met in the last five years would go anywhere without her cell and purse. Both of which Josie had left behind if she’d left the house of her own volition.

Everything I can think of suggests Josie had been killed before she was due to go on the date. Therefore, the Watcher had got to her between her arriving home at five-thirty and getting dressed for the date at say six-thirty. This left a one-hour window.

Remembering how long Sharon used to spend in the bathroom, I know an hour isn’t a lot of time for a woman getting ready for a date. Especially the kind of date the lacy underwear on the bed suggested.

Josie wouldn’t have wanted anyone to disrupt her. All but close family members would have been shunned or rescheduled. Norm was family and would be allowed in, even if only for a few minutes. A trained Marine wouldn’t need more than seconds to kill a defenceless woman.

The chief hangs up his call as Doenig enters the room. His expression is unchanged apart from a slight lifting of the eyebrows.

‘You’re right, Boulder. Dr Green says the time of death was around seven o’clock last night give or take an hour or two.’

As the chief brings Doenig up to speed, I ask Alfonse what he’s working on.

‘What you got, buddy?’

‘I’ve been taking a closer look at Norm Sortwell. His Marine psyche evaluation has him as a natural killer. He felt no emotion or compassion for his targets, he just did what he had to do.’ He looks at me with fear in his eyes. ‘A lot of what he did was classified and passworded to death. I’ve only scratched the surface, but from what I’ve seen, I would guess he was one of the go-to-guys for the really crazy missions.’

‘So we’ve got a trained killer who is dying from an incurable disease.’ I shoot a look towards Doenig and the chief. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a good combination.’

Doenig fires a lump of questions at the three locals in the room and then lays out what we’re going to do.

I like the sound of his plan. As much as I’d like to pound on Norm, taking down someone as dangerous as him when he’s nothing to lose is a job for the SWAT team Doenig’s going to call in.

The one part of his plan I’m against, is that I’m to join my family at the motel.

Any protestations I make are shouted down by three different voices. I do everything apart from get down on my knees and beg, but they are resolute. My place is with my family under armed guard.

With the decision made, Doenig spits orders at everyone in the room including Alfonse.

He wants to know everything about Norm. His address, the car he drives, its licence plate, hangouts, friends, credit card history and a dozen other details including the National Guard strength in Casperton, the number of police officers and the weapons the chief has.

Alfonse gives him most of the answers he’s looking for regarding Norm and the chief supplies the rest.

77

Cuthbert is with me as I leave the police station. His instructions are seared into my mind. Move fast, but don’t run. Keep your eyes open, but don’t gawp like a tourist.

The idea is simple. He’s taking me to the motel without causing a big fuss about it. A full phalanx of armed guards would be a serious giveaway if Norm is watching. It would show that all of a sudden we’ve got more nervous. If he’s as bright as we think he is, he’ll know why.

The last thing Doenig wants is for him to go to ground or disappear. He’d much sooner leave him be until the SWAT team arrive and then pinpoint him by triangulating his cell.

It makes sense. Other than knocking Steve out while killing Angus Oberton, the Watcher hasn’t harmed any innocents. I’m not sure if Cuthbert falls into that category as an FBI agent, but I’m glad he’ll be with me.

The bulletproof vest I’m wearing under my shirt is cumbersome and inhibits my movements but I didn’t grumble when it was suggested and I’m not complaining now.

All of the Watcher’s kills have taken place up close, but I’m not prepared to gamble on being his first distance kill.

As I climb into the Mustang, I wonder if turning the key will trigger an explosion. I hesitate for a moment before rationalising it has spent the day sitting outside a police station beside a busy thoroughfare.

I turn the key as Cuthbert reaches for the door lock. Three times he presses the button down without success.

‘It’s bust.’ I’ve been meaning to drop it off with Lunk for weeks now, but have never gotten around to it.

His sigh carries more criticism than a dozen of Mother’s shouty messages.

We’re halfway to the motel when Cuthbert startles me with some of his typically abrupt sentences.

‘There’s a red suburban three cars back. It has followed us from the station. Norm Sortwell drives one of those.’

I curse myself for missing it and resist the urge to bury my foot into the gas pedal. It’s tempting to floor it and get to the safety of the motel quicker but the sudden burst of speed would be a red flag to Norm. So would me taking detours along side streets in an effort to lose the tail.

What is needed are calm nerves and a steady behaviour. There’s two of us, we’re both carrying guns and we’re in early evening traffic. He’s never broken cover by doing anything in a public place. As long as he thinks he’s undetected, he’ll wait for a chance when he feels the odds are in his favour.

Taking a left onto Fourth, I’m watching the mirror as much as the road ahead when I hear the parp of a horn. Seeing I’ve crossed halfway onto the other side of the road, I jerk the wheel to return the car to where it should be and fix my eyes on what’s in front of me.

Clearing Fourth I swing onto I40 a half mile from the motel. It’s a straight drive now along a nice piece of highway. If it comes to it, I’m confident my Mustang will outrun his suburban.

As we’re approaching the railroad crossing the barrier starts to lower and the lights flash their amber warning. I consider stamping on the gas but the gap is too small and there’s no point risking our lives to escape someone who isn’t yet trying to kill us.

I glance in the rear-view mirror as I draw to a halt. I see nothing but darkness behind us. No headlights, no dark shapes that could be cars without lights on. Nothing.

The train arrives at the crossing in a rumble of clanging metal and repetitive clatters as it thunders across the rails. It’s one from the oilfields, which means it’ll be a long one. A mile or more in total, still accelerating, it’ll take a couple of minutes at least to pass.

Reassured by the lack of headlights behind us, I relax a little and rotate my shoulders to try and alleviate the tension which is knotting them. It doesn’t work.

Cuthbert is looking round the car like a human lighthouse. The faint light from the train is casting shadows and shapes back at us, along with our own reflections in the windows.

Something hard lands on the car’s roof just above my head causing both Cuthbert and I to look to my side of the car.

There’s the tiniest fraction of a second between a second clunk and the passenger door being opened. Norm Sortwell is there and he’s holding a Taser in his free hand.

There’s a buzzing sound and a blue flash as the Taser hits Cuthbert’s neck. So quick is Norm’s movement, the FBI agent never gets a chance to even see his aggressor.

I know my hand is reaching for the gun I’ve placed in the centre console, but all my senses are focused on Norm and the gadget in his hand.

A whiff of scorched flesh assaults me as I fumble for the weapon.

I’m too slow.

The last thought I have as Norm reaches over Cuthbert’s twitching body and presses the hot tines of the Taser against my neck is that I’m about to be at his mercy. Instead of trying to get the gun I should have been trying to knock the weapon out of his hand. Or maybe opening the door so I could stand up and fight him.

As he presses the button on the Taser, I feel my body convulse as the current does its job and incapacitates me. There’s pain at first, but that gives way to a confused anger as my limbs refuse to obey any command I try to give them.

I’m aware of things but they don’t make sense. All five of my senses are gathering information as usual but my brain isn’t able to process it. Instead there’s just a jumble of mixed-up data.

The rattle of wheels on rails is fighting the smell of cooked flesh. My limbs bang of various parts of the car as they spasm. My eyes see the kaleidoscope of shadows thrown by the passing train and my mouth is filled with the acrid taste of defeat.

I don’t know where Norm has got to, but I can’t control myself enough to look in one direction with any clarity. Even if I do know where he is, I can’t mount any kind of defence in this state.

Nothing happens for a minute except Cuthbert and I thrashing about as we try to garner control of our bodies. He’s making some kind of gargling noise. At first I think he’s struggling to breathe, then I realise he’s trying to speak. Maybe it’s his tongue or my confusion, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.

My door opens and a shadow appears. I recognise Norm as strong hands bunch into my shirt, haul me out of the car and dump me onto the tarmac.

I try to fight him as he drags me by the collar, but the Taser’s effect hasn’t dissipated enough to give me any control of my arms or legs.

Norm stops dragging and stoops over me. I feel my shirt being torn off my back and the bulletproof vest being removed. A hand grasps my belt and another rests underneath my armpit.

The tarmac below me gets further away as Norm lifts me into the trunk of his car. My feeble attempts to struggle resemble a baby splashing in a bath. The lid comes down and I’m left in darkness. Cramped in a small space with twitching limbs.

78

I focus on my watch’s second hand to drive away the confusion in my mind. As the pointer begins its fourth trip around, a measure of control comes back to my arms and legs.

From the front of the car I can hear loud music. It’s the kind of stuff played at the Tree. I recognise the song as ‘Drowning Man’ by U2 just as it fades out and the bluesy opening of ‘Black Water’ by the Doobie Brothers filters in.

With brain and body functioning again. I run through my options. They’re more than limited.

First I concentrate on trying to escape. The lock mechanism of the trunk is encased in the bodywork of the car. If I had a set of wrenches and sockets I may be able to gain access and pop the lock.

Wriggling around, I use my fingertips to search for a release lever. If I can get into the back seat, there’s a chance I can overpower Norm before he brings the car to a halt. I fumble along the rear of the seats but find no release catch or lever.

With escape ruled out, I shift my focus onto defence. Believing attack is always the best kind, I start feeling around for a weapon. Anything will do – a screwdriver to jam into his gut, a wrench I can use as a club or ideally one of his murder tools. All I find is a plastic bottle filled with some kind of liquid.

I unscrew the cap and sniff the contents. I’m not certain, but I think it’s brake fluid. It might work as a temporary distraction if I can splash some onto his face and eyes. While he’s recovering, I can jump out and land a few heavy punches before he gets his sight back. If he drops the Taser so he can rub his eyes I’ll be able to use it against him.

As much as the confined space allows me, I stretch and move my limbs to prepare them for a sudden assault.

I hear the familiar and distinctive riff of Smoke on the Water followed by Ian Gillan’s voice as I reach down and unpick my laces. I kick off my boots, gather them to my chest and re-thread the laces through the top eyelets only.

Wrapping my left hand into the loose end, I leave a clear foot between my hand and the boots. It’s a rudimentary weapon, but it’s the best I can come up with.

A pat of my pockets shows I have my cell with me. The battery might be dead but it may still be traceable. As soon as Cuthbert raises the alarm, Alfonse’s first idea will be to triangulate my cell. I just hope he’s quick.

Another concern is Cuthbert has been killed. While taciturn and monosyllabic, he isn’t a bad guy. I’d hate to be the reason he lost his life. I know I’d feel guilty for the rest of mine.

The music changes again, but I don’t know this song. In the quiet of the changeover, I also detect the sound of tyres on gravel. The car is moving slower and the road rougher.

I tense, expecting the car to stop as soon as it reaches its destination.

79

The car draws to a halt. Every fibre of my body is tensed ready to spring into action. I’ll only get one chance to attack Norm. I have to make it count.

I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind at least a dozen times. Splash the brake fluid in his eyes, leap out and swing the boots into the side of his head. Then it will be a case of throwing endless punches until I’ve subdued him.

Like all plans it can fall apart due to the slightest miscalculation.

I hear the car door slam and footsteps crunching gravel. The trunk pops open but the lid doesn’t rise at once. I wait for a Taser wielding arm to snake in.

It doesn’t come.

There’s two more footsteps, then the trunk lid is raised.

I don’t see any sign of Norm.

What’s his game? Is he playing with me? Hunting me?

Whatever he’s up to, I can’t do anything about it lying here. I swing my legs out and look around. It’s too dark to make out where we are, but my nose is picking up country smells.

I see him standing at the side of the trunk, out of immediate reach.

I try throwing the brake fluid anyway, but he sees it coming and ducks his head away.

Using his movement to my advantage, I stand up and swing my improvised weapon at his head.

A boot catches the edge of the trunk and collides with its mate, knocking my swing off target. The boots hit Norm’s shoulder, but they’ve lost most of their momentum and don’t have the desired effect.

He straightens as I throw a vicious right cross. It’s a glory punch, but I’m desperate. My intention is to lay him out with a single blow and end this fight.

Norm sees it coming and jerks back, roaring in pain as my fist crashes into the side of his nose.

The momentum of my punch carries me past him and I feel a solid fist hitting my ribcage a second before I feel the sting of his Taser on my chest.

Once again it incapacitates me. I lie on the gravel trying to force some control into my thrashing limbs without success.

I’m aware of him wrapping something around my arms, but confusion has returned to my mind and I know little other than the fact he’s binding me.

I also know I’ll be unable to offer any resistance if I’m tied up, so I struggle harder but with the same lack of cohesion. If I can’t get free he’ll be able to kill me at his leisure.

It’s useless; the jolt from the Taser has done exactly what it’s supposed to.

His hands grab my ankles and I again hear the rasp of tape being pulled from a roll. He turns me over and puts a knee in my back as he binds my feet together.

The rough gravel scrapes my face but it’s the least of my concerns. Now I’ve been tied up, I’m at his mercy. My only hope of rescue comes from Alfonse tracing my cell via a signal that may no longer be transmitting.

Norm flips me onto my back and raises me to a sitting position.

Strong hands grab my arms and I’m hauled upright. He bends a knee and places his shoulder into my gut.

A second later he straightens and sets off walking with me slumped over his shoulder.

He’s only been carrying me for a minute before I hear a sound that chills me to the bone. It’s a pleasureable sound to most, but it scares me more than anything Norm can do.

The smell of lake water rises to my nose. Combined with the lapping of small waves, I figure we must be at Panchtraik Reservoir.

Norm carries me along a small jetty and dumps me into a small motor launch. It’s about twenty feet long at most and there must be a dozen or so of them on the reservoir. They’re used for fishing and family days out.

As I’m dumped into the stern seating area, I spot the name Melanie stencilled onto a life preserver.

It was his wife’s name. Therefore, this must be his boat.

Terror freezes me as I remember the songs he was listening to as he drove here. There’s no question about it. He plans to drown me. The watery thread running through his choice of music was him wringing every drop of pleasure from the experience.

I search the bottom of the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes find nothing but shadows. As my night vision increases, I see there is nothing there but the sterile base of the boat.

He starts the engine and casts off. The engine putters until he clears the jetty and then as he opens the throttle it deepens. I get the impression he could go faster but he’s wanting to draw this out for me. He wants me to know what’s coming and fear it.

I won’t admit it to him, no matter what he does to me. But if he’s trying to terrify me, he’s more than succeeded.

As I try and struggle free of the tape binding my wrists and ankles, I feel something scratch my arm. It’s a rough screw head or something like that, but it may just be sharp enough to cut the tape.

I wriggle until I can feel the screw head snagging on the tape. Moving with care, I rub the tape back and forth hoping it doesn’t resist the short spike. Another concern is the noise of the tape snapping could alert Norm. I have to do this in silence.

I feel it digging into the tape without any of the effect I’m desiring. Pressing harder, I keep going in the hope it will wear its way through.

My shoulder aches from the yank it received yesterday. Although the pain is a lot easier to ignore than the prospect of drowning.

Five minutes of rubbing later, I hear the engine note change. It softens to a gentle throb as it slows until it’s ticking over on idle. Putting my muscles to work, I pull against the tape and feel less resistance.

80

Norm turns away from the controls and faces me for the first time since casting off.

‘You’ve gotten off lightly, Boulder.’ His voice is filled with contemptuous malevolence. ‘I wanted a far worse fate for you than drowning. One that would have you screaming in agony. Leave you begging for death. Instead the fates have been kind.’

I want to ask him how, but the tape over my mouth prevents it.

‘When I picked the method out of the bowl, you got lucky. They say drowning is one of the most peaceful ways to die.’ His grin is wicked in the pale moonlight. ‘You’ve dodged being doused in gasoline and set alight, being buried alive or having your flesh peeled off as I towed you along the highway. But instead of getting any of those excruciating ways to die, you got lucky, you got an easy way.’

Listening to him speak, I’m struck by the lack of reality he’s experiencing. He’s not just killing people; he’s selecting the most horrific ways imaginable. Not content with taking their lives, he has to exercise his superiority by having them plead and beg.

It’s what he wants from me.

As much as the thought of drowning terrifies me, I’m not prepared to give him the satisfaction of hearing me ask for clemency. Given the choice, I’d take buried alive over drowning every time. Even the short-lived but excruciating agony of incineration seems preferable to having water force its way into my lungs.

‘I see the terror in your eyes. You know I’ve won. As clever as you may think yourself, you’ve just lost the most important game of all. You’re going to be my thirty-fourth victim. I’ll be remembered as one of the greatest serial killers ever. You’ll be just another line on the list of my victims.’ He raises a hand as if scanning a headline. ‘Jake Boulder. Drowned.’

Not if I can help it I won’t. His megalomania isn’t going to cost me my life. All the time he’s been talking, I’ve thrashed as if trying to free myself, while continuing the sawing movements against the sharpness behind me.

I can feel my bonds starting to give. Not enough to break free, but enough to suggest that moment isn’t far away.

He bends down and looks at me from a distance of two feet. Too far to strike with a head butt, yet far closer than I want him to be. The meek Norm has been replaced by a feral killer enjoying his work.

He pulls a knife from his pocket. Despite being stiletto thin it catches the moonlight and my attention.

What I wouldn’t give to be the one holding the knife. I’ve never before felt such fear. Or the level of hatred I’m experiencing. The MacDonald blood may be rushing in my ears, but my every focus is on the knife as it moves towards my face.

Norm is in no hurry. The knife takes an age to come forward. So long, I have time to consider throwing myself forward onto it. If I get the angle right, the knife should slide through my eye and pierce my brain.

A far preferable death to drowning, it will also rob him of his chosen method. It would be a hollow victory, but a hollow victory is always better than a resounding defeat.

I dismiss the idea. I’m not ready to die yet. There’s still fight in me.

‘Keep very still and you won’t get hurt.’ He gives a maniacal laugh, uncaring about anyone else who may be on the lake. ‘Yet.’

The tip of the knife pushes at the tape covering my mouth. Once, twice then a third time he makes a tiny hole.

I understand what he’s doing. Air and water will get in but shouts for help won’t get out.

The knife is returned to his pocket.

The clenched fist that hits my temple moves so fast I don’t see it coming.

I almost black out, but manage to retain some kind of awareness.

He stoops over me and removes the rope holding me in position. Stepping back, he grabs the lapels of my shirt and yanks me out of my seat. I fly past the point of balance and plunge head first over the side of the boat.

81

I slip into the dark water and the first thing I feel is cold. Not just the cold of the water, but utter, bone-chilling panic. I feel momentum pushing me down. Gravity and my struggles are helping me to sink ever deeper, so I try and force myself to be calm.

I fail. Badly.

As I thrash around under the water, I feel every sinew stretching itself to breaking point. The tape binding my arms snaps under the stress of my frenzied contortions. Having them free takes the edge off my terror. I have never learned to swim, but at least I have a half chance of not drowning if I have the use of my arms.

Slamming the panic down, I use brain instead of brawn for a moment.

My lungs are full of air but I know it won’t last me long. Not with the way I’ve been fighting my bonds. Not with my head so far from the surface.

I blow a tiny amount of precious breath through my nose and feel the bubbles pass over my chin.

Now I know which way is up, I claw towards the surface. My movements are ungainly but I feel the weight of the water pushing down on me lessen. I’m making progress.

My head breaks the surface for a second and then I start to sink all over again.

Is this what is to become of me? Bobbing up and down from the depths to the surface until my strength wanes and I inhale lake water?

The other danger is Norm sitting on his boat watching. A crack from the boathook he’d used to push off from the jetty will knock me unconscious. Hell, he won’t even have to hit me with it, he can just use it to hold me under the water.

As I flap my way to the surface for a second time, I dig a nail under the tape over my mouth and yank the tape free. It stings, but a kiss from a supermodel couldn’t open my mouth right now, so there’s no way a yelp of pain is going to happen.

This time when I break the surface, I get a decent lungful of air. I also open my eyes for the first time since entering the water.

Norm is standing on the boat with his back to me. I see him turning as I slip beneath the water.

While I know I can’t keep up this rhythm for long, every time I break the surface feels like a victory as well as a chance to replace the spent air in my lungs. With two of Norm’s three pieces of tape removed from my body, I start figuring how to remove the third.

Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I draw out the key to my apartment. It’s a Yale key with a rough serrated edge. With it clamped between my fingers, I saw at the tape around my ankles.

It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.

With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.

This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.

Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.

Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.

My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.

I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.

While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.

I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.

Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.

When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.

I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.

If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.

The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.

Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.

Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.

A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.

A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’

82

I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.

Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.

The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.

Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.

His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.

I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.

He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.

I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.

It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.

I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.

It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.

I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.

Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.

A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.

The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.

I have seconds to decide what to do. If I was a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.

The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.

I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.

As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.

The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.

If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.

This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.

His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.

Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.

Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.

I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.

A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.

The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.

His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.

There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.

I let the rubberised tip find its mark.

When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.

The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.

Norm lets go before he’s dragged into the water, but I’ve got him off balance. His arms windmill as he tries to retain his equilibrium.

The water doesn’t let me swing as hard as I’d like, but my aim is good.

The wooden pole hits him on the side of the kneecap, the blow enough to finish what the yank started. He topples into the water with a violent roar.

I take the chance to fill my lungs as I spin the boathook round so I can hit him with the business end. My fear of water has been dispersed by the fiery MacDonald blood surging through my veins.

Trained Marine or not, right now I’m fancying my chances.

My legs’ rhythmic kicking keeps my head above the water as I wait for him to surface.

He doesn’t.

Instead I feel strong hands grab my waistband.

There’s no time to grab another breath before he drags me under. The wooden boathook in my hands pulls upwards towards the surface.

I have to choose between having a weapon or two hands to fight him with.

Fingers grasp at my throat.

Instinct makes me release the boathook.

I scrabble at his hands as the pressure on my throat increases.

My fingers find and isolate his pinkie. A sharp tug back breaks it. The hand around my throat doesn’t loosen, so I move on to his ring finger.

It takes a firmer jerk to break it, but I don’t stop there. I keep pulling as his hand slips from my throat.

Extending my hands, I reach for his face.

After showing him how to defend against strangulation, I’m not stupid enough to go for his throat.

My thumbs find his eyes, but he shoves me away before I can put any force behind them.

I thrash upwards and bang my head against the boathook as I surface. My fingers grasp it as I peer into the blackness searching for Norm.

He’s a few feet away. I think about taking a swing at his head but he’s out of reach.

He ducks under the surface after drawing in a rasping breath.

Expecting another attack, I pull the boathook into a vertical position with the curved lug pointing down.

Nothing happens. There’s no pulling on my legs, no stiletto piercing my skin.

I listen for him splashing, in the hope he’s given up and is swimming away. I’m just starting to believe he has, when I feel the water behind me swirl and an arm snaking round my throat.

He isn’t trying to choke me. Rather than pulling me back against him, he’s leaning forward using his weight to push my face into the water.

A knot of muscle pressing against my left cheek tells me which arm he’s using. This knowledge lets me know where his face is.

I tilt the boathook as I straighten my arms.

Thrusting backwards with every last morsel of strength, I drive the boathook into his face. There’s a sudden halt to its momentum so I repeat the blow a second and third time.

The arm leaves my neck and I kick my way towards some precious air.

As I fill my lungs, I turn to see him thrashing in the water. He has both hands pressed against his face. There are unintelligible screams of pain and frustration coming from him.

Whatever damage I’ve done to his face gives me enough of a distraction to do one of two things.

I can make my way to the boat and escape to summon help to round him up. Or I can raise the boathook above my head and save the taxpayer an expensive trial.

There’s no real decision to be made. If I leave him here, there’s a chance he will make it to shore and evade capture.

He may take a while to heal, but one day soon, he’ll be ready to kill again. I can’t allow that.

Taking a careful aim, I slam the lug of the boathook into his temple. It doesn’t just collide – it penetrates. His contortions slow to a judder then stop.

The only movements he’s making are caused by my efforts to free the boathook.

Pulling him towards me, I place my hands on his shoulders and push down.

I start to count. It’s a slow count, which may be out by thirty seconds either way.

It doesn’t matter how accurate I am. Six minutes under the surface with a crushed temple will make sure this ends tonight.

When I reach three sixty, I let go and allow him to drift face down. I’m certain he’s dead by the way his limbs hang low in the water.

I turn my head, locate his boat and set off in the worst backstroke known to man.

THE END

Copyright © 2017 Graham Smith

The right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.

Martin Luther King

To my son, Daniel. May he never grow up in a world where hate triumphs love and the acceptance of cultural differences

1

I wake feeling like an NFL tackle dummy after a rigorous training session. Every muscle in my body aches and there appears to be an orchestra using the inside of my head as a rehearsal space. I don’t know much about orchestras but I can tell the one in my head isn’t the New York Philharmonic.

After a moment of rubbing at what feels like dried blood, I manage to force an eye open – only to wish I hadn’t. I’m in a room I don’t recognise. My first guess is that it’s a motel room. I can’t be bothered to make a second one.

There’s a woman next to me and her face is covered with fresh bruises. A trickle of red has congealed on her top lip and there’s no way she was born with a nose shaped like that.

Beyond her I see the detritus of passion. Clothes lie in a tangled heap on a chair. A bra hangs from the handle of a closet and, more telling, an open condom wrapper sits atop the bedside table.

The woman beside me is a stranger. While it’s not unusual for me to pick someone up for the night, as a rule of thumb, I tend to remember their name the next day. Or at least their face.

I sure as hell remember their existence. All I know about this woman is she’s not the one I’m supposed to be dating.

None of that matters. What’s more worrying is the mess her face is in.

Who’s been beating on her? Was it me? Was I so out of it that I raised my hand to her?

Another more worrying thought enters my head.

Is she still alive?

I put my fingers to her throat.

There’s a pulse. Slow, regular and steady. Just the way it should be with a sleeping person. A wave of relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived. I see raw and bruised knuckles when I draw back my hand. A check of the other hand finds the same.

If the marks on her face are my doing, I’ll never be able to look at myself in a mirror again. It may be a cliché, but it doesn’t stop me feeling like a low life. I’ve never liked men who beat women and the thought I may have become one is abhorrent.

I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that I had been fighting and gotten laid last night. What I need to do now is find out in which order and with whom.

A spear of agony runs through my body as I swing my feet to the floor. It’s bad but not unbearable. Or unfamiliar. As a doorman, I’m used to getting into fights. It’s a long time since I lost one, but when two men go toe-to-toe, more often than not, both will suffer.

I take a look around the room and confirm I’m in a motel. The bare threads in the carpet tell me it’s not one of the most expensive motels I’ve ever stayed in.

The woman groans in her sleep, rubs an eye and flops her arm onto the top of the sheet. I see needle marks. Lots of them. I take a closer look at her face and the body below it. She might be draped in a sheet, but I can see that she’s so thin she almost appears emaciated. The unbruised parts of her face are layered in thick makeup and there’s a lankness about her hair.

Her appearance makes me wonder if she hires the room by the hour. My next thought is one of relief as I remember the condom wrapper. I may have been drunk enough to sleep with a drug-addled hooker, but at least one of us had the sense to use protection.

I totter into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Its pressure is feeble at best and never gets above lukewarm, but the water combined with slow movements does enough to restore a degree of suppleness to aching limbs.

When I return to the bedroom, the woman is sitting with her back resting against the headboard. Her head is held in shaking hands. I pull on my pants and look for my shirt.

‘Thanks for last night.’ Her voice is thin. I’m unsure whether she means it or not. She may be trying to keep me sweet; fearful of me and my intentions.

I look at the condom wrapper. It’s not the same brand as the ones in my wallet, but that means nothing when I’ve been drinking. It could be one she’s provided – in which case the sex was consensual after the fighting, and everything will be cool.

If it’s one I’ve bought in a drunken stupor, there’s a chance the marks on her face are my doing. A worse thought hits me, but it’s not one I’m prepared to give brain space.

‘What do you mean?’ I keep my tone even and my posture unthreatening.

She looks at me with a bloodshot eye; the other is swollen to a slit. ‘Don’t you remember?’

I shake my head. It’s a serious mistake. The movement knocks the orchestra further out of tune and makes my neck feel as if my head is being pulled off.

She gives a tight grin. ‘You saved me from a beating.’ A shrug. ‘Well, a worse beating.’

‘Did I?’ I hear the relief in my voice. I didn’t believe I’d been the one who hit her but, not being able to remember anything about last night, I haven’t been able to rule it out.

I sit on the edge of the bed and look at her. ‘I’m sorry, but I was wasted last night. I don’t remember anything.’

‘You sure were, honey.’ There’s a hint of southern drawl to her accent. ‘Didn’t stop you kickin’ Benji’s ass though.’

‘Was that who did that?’ I point at her face.

‘Yeah.’

I rub my bruised face and body. Whoever this Benji was he either put up a good fight, or I was so drunk he managed to land a few blows of his own. It doesn’t surprise me that I stepped in to protect a strange woman. I’ve never approved of men who hit women and the trace of MacDonald blood in my veins doesn’t need much provocation.

That’s the trouble with my drinking. I don’t do it very often, but when I do I drink so much I lose all memory. I’m not even sure where I am.

‘Where are we?’ I remember driving into a town called Hayden, although I’m not sure it was yesterday.

Her face shows understanding and a little sorrow at the blankness of my memory.

‘We’re in Steamboat Springs. It’s Wednesday, and after you’d kicked Benji’s ass you carried on drinkin’. By the time you were on your second bourbon, he’d came back with his buddies.’

This information gives me some reassurance. I’d left home on Sunday night, so there are only two days unaccounted for. Steamboat Springs is about three hours east of Casperton, or two if I’m driving. My injuries are the result of fighting a gang rather than an individual. I can accept that. There’s no shame in being beaten up by a gang.

Still, there’s always pride. ‘Did I take any of them down before they got me?’

‘They didn’t get you. You kicked all their asses.’ She looks at me with a mixture of awe and respect. ‘There was six of them. Ain’t never seen anyone fight like you before. Every time they knocked you down you got back up. When you knocked them down they stayed where they was.’

I should ask why Benji had been hitting her, but I don’t want to get myself embroiled in her life. Whatever happened between us last night was an isolated incident; I’ll return to Casperton and she’ll carry on with her life. If she has any sense, she’ll keep away from Benji.

‘You saved me last night. If it hadn’t been for you, Benji woulda used his knife on me.’ Her head dips. ‘Nobody’d pay for a hooker with a ruined face.’

She doesn’t need to continue; the holes in her arms explain why she’s hooking. I can’t help my eyes straying to the condom wrapper.

Her eyes follow mine. ‘You passed out before I could say thank you.’ She climbs out of the bed and stands naked before me. ‘I still want to say it.’

I’m saved from having to decline her offer by a hammering at the door. As I don’t even know where I am, it can only be bad news. I pull on my boots as the banging continues.

The noise abates and a familiar voice rings out. ‘Jake! It’s me. Get your shit together and get out here. Now!’

The voice belongs to my best friend and sometimes employer, Alfonse Devereaux.

I push away thoughts of how he found me and concentrate instead on the key points of his four sentences: he’s sworn – something he only does when he’s under great stress or is emotional; he’s come to find me, and therefore needs me. As a rule, when I have one of my drinking binges, he leaves me to my own devices or comes to retrieve me when I call him.

The woman pulls the sheet back over herself. ‘By the way, I’m Leigh.’

There’s no point in pretending I’ve remembered her name. ‘I’m Jake Boulder. If Benji bothers you again call me.’ I pass her a card – unsure whether to kiss, hug or shake hands with her. In the end, I do none.

I open the door to be confronted with Alfonse’s anxiety-creased face.

‘C’mon. I need your help and I need it now.’

2

Alfonse doesn’t say another word until we’re travelling west on the Forty. He hands me deodorant, breath mints and a scowl in one movement. When he does speak his voice is filled with urgency and worry.

My comprehension is a little slower than usual. I struggle to grasp what he’s telling me.

‘So your cousin and his wife have left home in a hurry. I don’t see what the problem is.’

‘Weren’t you listening? They didn’t leave home in a hurry. They were taken.’

I rub over my face with both hands until I reach the back of my neck. Alfonse isn’t one to jump at shadows, but I can’t believe a family of four have been abducted from their home. Kidnappers take one family member and they would target a wealthy family. I don’t know Alfonse’s cousin too well, but I know he’s a regular guy who draws an honest wage for an honest day’s work. All four of them being taken suggests something else.

I’m guessing someone else has hit the panic button, but it’s not like Alfonse to get this worked up over a mistake.

‘Say they were taken.’ I raise a hand to forestall the indignant protest I know he’s going to make. ‘What reason is there for taking them? None of your family are rich enough to make kidnapping worthwhile. He’s a lawyer and she works in a bank. There’s no real motive.’

Alfonse shakes his head as he powers the SUV past a slow-moving suburban. ‘That’s what scares me. If they’ve been snatched for no obvious reason, there’s something we don’t know or someone intends to hurt them.’

‘What makes you so sure they’ve been taken? Have there been any demands?’

‘Not yet.’ A shrug. ‘Aunt Nina visited them and found the back door open. When she went in, it looked like there had been a fight.’

‘Has anyone called the police?’ It’s a silly question I wave an immediate apology for. Alfonse makes a good living as Casperton’s private detective. The new Chief of Police hasn’t been in office long enough to sort out the nepotistically appointed detective squad.

He gives a grimace of distaste. ‘It was the first thing Aunt Nina did. Farrage and one of his buddies trooped over, had a bit of a look around and then dismissed it as a domestic.’

‘Sounds about right for him. I take it you want me to help find them?’

He doesn’t say anything, but the look he fires my way screams ‘well duh!’.

‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate here; what about the house convinced you and Nina they were taken against their will?’

‘You don’t know what Sherrelle’s like. To say she has OCD would be an understatement. Everything in her house has its place and she freaks out if the slightest thing is in the wrong place.’ He slows to avoid getting caught by a speed trap. ‘She once lost the plot because I returned two DVDs in the wrong cases.’

I start to get why he’s so worried. I had a great aunt in Scotland who was much the same. Visits to her house always filled me with dread as she had a sharp tongue for anyone who upset her carefully arranged home. As an act of revenge for one foul-mouthed rant, my sister and I waited until she was in hospital for a minor operation, and rearranged all her cupboards and drawers into a haphazard mess.

‘When were they last seen or spoken to?’

‘Monday night. Darryl spoke to Aunt Nina about a party he and Sherrelle were planning for Robyn’s birthday. When she went round yesterday morning…’ He tails off, knowing he’d be repeating himself.

At least we have a timeframe for when they went missing, or were taken. ‘Why didn’t you call me or come sooner?’

‘I called you last night. We spoke for half an hour and you promised to get back by midnight.’

There is accusation in both his voice and his words. I’ve failed him as a friend. He called out to me in his hour of need and I made him a promise I didn’t keep. Instead of getting my act together and going back to help him, I got into a fight and then went to bed with a drug-addicted hooker.

‘I’m sorry, man.’ There’s not much else I can say; he knows what happens when I start drinking.

‘You’re here now. Let’s concentrate on finding out what’s happened to them.’

He doesn’t say it, but the subtext is that at some point he’s going to rail on me for letting him down. There’s no answer to that; he has every right and we both know it.

Whatever happens, I have to make sure I redeem myself in his eyes. Right now the road to redemption is a one-way street leading to an investigation into a mysterious disappearance.

We cover a few miles in silence until we reach Hayden. It’s a small town in the Yampa Valley. Once home to coal miners, it now supports small businesses and an airport bringing skiers to Steamboat Springs.

As we pass through the town he pulls into the car park of a bar. My Mustang sits askew in two parking spaces.

‘Can I trust you to follow me back or are you gonna walk in there and have another beer?’ His tone is mild, but his words cut deep.

‘I’ll be back at Casperton before you. Pick me up at my place.’ I plan to race ahead so I can brush my teeth and change into clean clothes. My hangover is kicking in big time and I want to be presentable for his family.

I have another thought as I climb out of his car. ‘How did you know where to find me, and where my car was?’

‘You’re the smartass, work it out for yourself.’

He’s not the type to screech off in a cloud of tyre smoke, yet when he leaves it’s as close as he’ll ever get.

Five minutes later I pass his SUV on my way back to Casperton. With peace to think, it doesn’t take me long to work out he must have been tracking me. The way he arrowed in on my precise location can only be explained by some kind of tracking device. I’m guessing both my phone and car are bugged.

3

I’m waiting on the sidewalk when Alfonse draws up. I’ve shaved, changed, and swallowed a couple of Aspirin dry. I need a coffee but there’s no time. Having let him down with my selfish behaviour, I need to repair the damage to our friendship. It’s rare he asks for my help and I’m appalled at myself for letting him down.

‘How long you been tracking me?’

‘Since you got your new phone.’ He skewers me with a glare. ‘Knowing your talent for finding trouble, I thought it would be a good idea to be able to find you at any time. It was supposed to be a way to bail your sorry carcass out of trouble. Instead I had to use it to bring you back to reality.’

I don’t answer him, and stay quiet as he drives towards his cousin’s home.

While his words are barbed, I know he’ll have added the trackers for a dual purpose. He’s slated my drunken binges too often for me to not realise how much he worries about me when I have a drink. It’s the one subject we’re likely to fall out over.

We’ve been friends since the day we met in high school as a pair of imports: he from France and me from Scotland. Some of the redneck kids had railed on him because of the colour of his skin, but my fists soon ended the racial abuse and monkey noises for the bookish new boy.

The last thing my grandfather did for me, before I left Glasgow, was take me into the garden and teach me how to fight. Not any kind of martial art or restrained discipline like boxing.

He’d taught me how to use elbows, knees and my forehead. His lesson was filled with street-fighting techniques learned in Glasgow’s shipyards and back-alley boozers. He’d taught me well. The only time I’ve lost a fight since his tutoring, was when I got ambushed by a gang of football-playing jocks.

Alfonse parks behind the police sedan sitting across the drive. It’s a good neighbourhood; there are children playing in the street and the gardens are all tidy. What cars I can see are new models and the general feel is one of refined domesticity.

While the street is twee, it’s not one which reeks of opulence. I guess the occupants are professional folks like accountants, lawyers and doctors. Rich enough to enjoy a good lifestyle but not so wealthy they can give up work.

I’m sure there are secrets held behind the net curtains and clapperboards, but they’ll be bland ones kept inside four walls for appearances sake. A short dalliance with a secretary or co-worker; a small gambling debt or a minor felony buried in their past.

There are two cops talking to Alfonse’s Aunt Nina. Her voice has lost its usual sonorous quality and has risen to a shriek as she berates the pair.

The elder of the two tries placating her. ‘I’m sorry ma’am, but there’s not enough evidence for us to start the manhunt you are asking for. I’ll pass on your concerns to Lieutenant Farrage but that’s all we can do at this stage.’

‘Don’t be bothering that fool. I want the chief to look into this. Farrage is a waste of space and you know it.’

I feel for the cops. Nina might be speaking the truth, but there’s no way they can be seen to agree to her assessment – despite its accuracy. Her demands for the chief’s personal involvement are also unrealistic. He has a whole county and town to run, that’s why he has deputies and a squad of detectives. As soon as the public start calling the shots there will be an inevitable breakdown in law and order, as competing factions waste the chief’s time fighting for his attention.

Alfonse takes Nina’s arm and calms her down with promises I’m not sure he can keep. I hear my name mentioned but I avoid eye contact with Nina; lest she see the bloodshot pits I saw in the mirror. If I’d had my head screwed on I would have grabbed a pair of shades before leaving the house.

Alfonse takes a small step back from his aunt. ‘Why were there cops here?’

‘I called them. They weren’t doin’ nuthin’ to find Darryl so I called them.’ She beams at her own cleverness. ‘Called 911 so they’d have to respond.’

Alfonse clasps her hands in his. ‘Aunt Nina, you’ve got to trust me and Jake. Don’t bother the police again until we have some evidence they were taken against their will. As soon as we’ve got that, the police will have to act.’

‘Is this true, Jake, are you going to help Alfonse find my boy and my grandchildren?’

‘Of course I am, Nina.’ I shift my gaze to Alfonse. ‘Whatever he wants me to do, I’ll do it.’

Give Alfonse his due, he makes sure Nina doesn’t hear his snort or see the glare he throws my way.

She gives a decisive nod and takes a step to one side. ‘Then quit gabbin’ with an old woman and go find your evidence.’

Alfonse leads me to the back of the house and into the kitchen via a utility room. What he said about Sherrelle’s OCD strikes a chord before I’m two steps into the house. Everything is aligned in neat perpendicular rows. The footwear on a rack in the utility room is even arranged from small to large.

The kitchen is cleaner than a lot of the showroom display models and more orderly than a hospital ward.

The smear of blood on the wall by the door stands out like a nun in strip club. It has four tails where someone’s fingers have been scrabbling for something to grab onto.

Alfonse leads me into the lounge where another example of showroom perfection is marred by an upturned coffee table. A ceramic coaster and a women’s magazine lie on the carpet beside the table.

I get why Alfonse and Nina are so worried. Someone with Sherrelle’s fanaticism for neatness and order could never have left the house in this mess. It would have driven her to distraction. Something tells me if I look in Sherrelle’s closets, I’ll find clothes arranged by size, purpose and colour.

While I like to keep my own apartment clean and tidy, I prefer a lived-in look to the sterile atmosphere of this house. The Xbox games and the DVDs lined up on the shelf beside the TV are sorted by age then A to Z.

Even now, with it looking as if they’ve been abducted, I feel like a voyeur peering into her home uninvited.

To make matters worse I’ve had a thought which doesn’t improve my mood, but any investigator has to look at situations with an open mind. Alfonse may have come to the same conclusion himself, but there’s a strong possibility his emotional connection with the potential victims has affected his judgement.

Unpalatable as the suggestion may be, I still have to raise it.

‘What are your thoughts, Alfonse?’

‘I told you what I thought when I picked you up from Steamboat. I want to know what you think.’ He doesn’t snap at me, but I can tell he’s not far off it. If anyone else had spoken to me like that they’d be unconscious by now.

‘The blood trails on the kitchen wall look quite narrow as if they were made by a woman’s hand. I’m guessing Sherrelle, or possibly Robyn.’ He nods in agreement. ‘Therefore, Darryl was incapacitated and unable to help, or he was the aggressor.’

Alfonse scowls at me. ‘The thought did cross my mind. Then I thought about how they were together. I’ve never known a more loving couple. Whenever I teased Sherrelle about her OCD, it was always Darryl who sprang to her defence. They did everything together and were so well matched they would each have died to save the other.’

‘Sorry.’ I spread my hands wide. ‘I had to consider it.’

‘I know. It just sounds crappy when someone else says it.’

‘Is there blood anywhere else?’

He looks shamefaced. ‘What with looking after Aunt Nina, and coming to get you, I haven’t had time to conduct a thorough search.’

Again, I’m left feeling like a douche for letting him down. The time used retrieving me would have been far better spent working the case. Yet he’d wanted me alongside him badly enough to waste half a day getting me. I make a silent promise to myself that he’ll get unconditional help and support from me until we find Darryl and his family.

I look him in the eye. ‘You speak to your family, find out everything you can, and I’ll search the house. When you’re done speaking to them, start on their tablets, phones and finances. I know the idea sucks, but keep an open mind. Nobody ever knows what goes on behind closed doors.’

His face is grim as he turns away. The tasks I’ve set him are what he does best, but there’s no easy way to pry into your own family’s secrets without upsetting those you love.

With Alfonse gone, I turn back to my examination of the lounge. The creams and beiges of Sherrelle’s choosing are a godsend when looking for blood specks. Not finding any, I move to the stairs.

Halfway up is a large globule of dried blood. Judging by its size and the way it has splashed on the carpet, I’d guess it’s been spat from a bleeding mouth.

Skirting the blood spatter, while taking care not to upset any of the perfectly aligned pictures on the wall, I reach the landing and try the first door on my right. It opens to reveal a closet filled with towels and bedding.

The next door I open belongs to a bathroom. Again, the earthy tones fail to show any sign of blood.

The third door reveals the room of a pre-teen boy. The posters are of WWE stars, supercars and a model whose swimsuit covers just enough flesh to get the poster past any maternal censorship. While it may be the least tidy room I’ve seen in the house, it would take a determined person less than a minute to bring it into line with the rest of the home.

I double back and try the next door. It must be Robyn’s room. Here the posters depict what I figure are R&B and rap artists, coupled with teen heartthrobs. The mess of the room must be like nails on a blackboard to her mother, or it’s the girl’s way of rebelling. The colours are darker in here but I still don’t find any traces of blood. Perhaps a proper forensic examiner might find something with a can of Luminol and a UV light, but there’s nothing which stands out to my naked eye.

The next door leads to a room which is made up ready for use, but has empty closets and a lack of family comforts. Figuring it’s a guest room, I try the final door on the landing and enter the master bedroom. It’s as neat as I expected it to be. Everything is in the required place and is lined up ready for use. Deodorant and perfume bottles on the nightstand are arranged in order of size; their labels all front-facing.

They don’t hold my attention for long though. The splatter of blood against the pale peach wall is much more demanding of my interest. I’ve thrown enough punches to recognise what happens when a fist ruins a mouth. There’s always a string of bloody saliva accompanied by a spray of droplets. From what I can gauge, the owner of the blood was standing a couple of feet from the wall as the tails of the splatter indicate the drops were on a downward trajectory when they hit the wall. A glance beside the unmade bed shows a chick-lit novel at the side where the blood-spattered wall is.

The blood would be Sherrelle’s. The handprint in the kitchen from where she’d nursed her mouth.

With the beds in the kids’ rooms also being unmade everything pointed to them being abducted in the middle of the night.

This wouldn’t favour any neighbours observing them being hustled out of the house. Still, there’s always the chance a parent was nursing a young or poorly child. Perhaps an elderly neighbour had risen to visit the bathroom and seen something.

Hope dies within me as soon as it flares. In a street such as this, the neighbours would have been falling over themselves to report anything suspicious. These residents aren’t gang-bangers struck dumb by questions from an investigator; they’re law-abiders and carers.

Not for the first time I wonder if Lieutenant Farrage, and the others who make up Casperton’s detective squad, had to fail an intelligence test to qualify for the job. With the correct response from them, a team of forensic investigators would have swooped through the house and gathered enough samples to help identify a suspect or secure a conviction. Now it may be too late, or the scene may be too contaminated by me, Nina, Alfonse and any other of their family members who’ve been for a look.

I have no idea how much it would cost to hire the forensic team, but I’m sure it’s more than Alfonse and I have. Especially now the scene is so contaminated.

It’s something he and I can discuss when I’ve finished my search.

Now I’m finished looking for blood, I turn my attention to the next big tell in any household.

The medicine cabinet in the en-suite contains prescription drugs, feminine hygiene paraphernalia and a box with a blister strip of contraceptive pills.

With the medicine cabinet a bust, I reach into the drawers of the fitted units and, working by touch, I try to find a diary. Looking would be quicker, but there’s something degrading about a man looking through a woman’s underwear drawer. The voyeuristic feelings I had earlier have come back in spades.

I find a hard-backed diary.

The diary has a picture of a meadow printed onto the front and back covers. When I open it and scan a few pages I find the one thing in Sherrelle’s life which isn’t tidy. Her handwriting.

It takes me a few false starts, but I begin to understand the scrawls. I pick out pages at random, but the general feel of the ones I read are that of a journal, rather than a diary of feelings and otherwise untold emotions.

She’s chronicled the achievements of the family and their day-to-day events – the only hint of personal details are expressions of love and pride.

I skim the pages looking for anything which speaks of arguments with colleagues, neighbours or people represented by Darryl. There’s nothing apart from banal dealings recorded on those fronts. A snippet of gossip here, a pleasant comment or two about a co-worker there.

Were the contents of the diary not so potentially important in finding who’d snatched the Fourniers, I’d launch it across the room in disgust at its saccharine wholesomeness. Sherrelle loved her husband and kids, championed them and crowed about their achievements.

If there had been any animosity in their relationship it hadn’t come from her. There were no suspicions written down nor complaints about Darryl working late. Her comments on the subject were supportive of his dedication to providing for his family.

I put the diary back and return to Robyn’s bedroom. Her diary is harder to find, but when I remove the bottom drawer of her dresser it is lying on the floor behind the kickboard.

Robyn has a neater script than her mother, yet her diary is no better as a source of information. She talks of what I assume are school friends. The main topics are unrequited love for a classmate, and her girlfriends’ relationships – both actual and desired. Her parents barely get a mention, and when they do it’s for tension between her and them rather than arguments between Sherrelle and Darryl.

I’m about to head back downstairs when my cell rings. It’s Chief Watson.

4

The chief is waiting for me when I arrive at the police station. His face is grim and there’s a set to his jaw which speaks of determination. When I meet his eyes, I see pain and despair for the depths of depravity he encounters.

‘You sure you want to come with me?’

‘No, but if I don’t come Alfonse will.’

He gives a terse nod to show he understands the sacrifice I’m making for Alfonse. His craggy face softens. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t want to go either.’

Alfonse had argued to come with me when I’d broken the chief’s news to him. It was only the disintegration of Nina which had seen him back down. She needed him more than he needed to see what may be the bodies of Darryl and his nearest and dearest.

I sit in silence as the chief drives us north on the 191. The radio in the pickup crackles with chatter, but there’s nothing interesting enough to wrest my thoughts away from what lies ahead.

Halfway to the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area, he slows to a halt behind a police cruiser. An officer standing beside the cruiser points us towards a rough track leading into Ashley National Forest. I notice how he doesn’t look at either of us. His thoughts elsewhere.

The chief engages a low gear and sets off up the track. Before he’s travelled fifty feet I realise it’s a mistake.

‘Stop. Stop right here.’

‘Why?’ There’s a mix of ornery and curiosity in his voice.

‘How would you get four bodies to where we’re going?’

‘I’d use a pickup truck or an SUV.’ He looks at me without understanding. ‘Goddamn it, Boulder, what’s your point?’

‘How many trails are there to the dump site?’

He shrugs, getting exasperated. ‘I don’t know. One, two maybe?’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to use them.’ I pick my words with care. While I may have assisted with stopping a twisted serial killer a few weeks back, I am only here on the chief’s sufferance. ‘You never know what evidence or clues you may hide or contaminate by driving over them.’

An expletive escapes his lips as his hand reaches for the SUV’s radio. ‘I want four good men with hiking equipment to search the trail. They’re looking for tyre prints, discarded litter and possibly footprints. If any of the men you send are in the detective squad, I’ll consider their presence as your letter of resignation.’ His eyes flick towards me. There’s a touch more colour than usual in his cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.’

I try a spot of reassurance. The chief is a good man and a better ally. ‘If I had to think of everything you have to, I’d probably not have thought of it either.’

We climb out of the SUV and look at where the track disappears into the forest. ‘You know we’re two miles or so from the dump site?’

‘That’s good. It means there’s more chance of getting a tyre print.’ I point to the right of the track. ‘If we walk a few feet out from the track we can still follow it and see any big pieces of evidence.’

‘Don’t push it, Boulder. You might have gotten the jump on me once, but I give the orders round here.’

I step back and let him lead. He chooses to follow my suggestion. It’s tempting to point this out, but I remember I’m only here at his request.

The going is easy at first with gentle slopes and a clear passage through the trees. As we travel further into the forest the hill becomes steeper and the trees closer together. Fallen branches and treetops, snapped off by high winds, litter the ground causing minor obstructions.

My boots are good enough to keep my feet dry, but their soles are worn smooth from walking on paved areas. As we make our way up a steeper bank I can feel them slip and slide on the loose pine needles. If I’d known I’d be hiking in the woods I’d have worn something more appropriate. The jacket I’m wearing is fine for town but, up here with the sun hidden from view, it’s too thin, and the exertion of the climb is all that’s keeping me warm.

The chief is wearing a windbreaker pulled from his jeep. For a man of his age he’s showing remarkable resilience to the strains of the exercise. The pace he’s setting is a fast one.

With no landmarks to guide us, there’s no way of knowing how far we’ve travelled. Considering the terrain I reckon we’re making about two miles an hour which means it’ll take around an hour to get to our destination. A glance at my watch shows we’ve still got at least another half hour of hiking ahead of us.

We encounter a small glade, and use a few exposed rocks to cross a stream without getting our feet wet. The bright sun in the glade raises my temperature enough to give me the sweats.

Five steps after re-entering the forest I’m drenched with perspiration. The beer and liquor I’ve consumed over the last few days is now leaking from every pore. My thin jacket now feels like a heavy winter coat as the alcohol escapes my body. While there’s a certain level of discomfort and embarrassment to my situation, I welcome the sweats. Combined with the exercise and fresh air, they are chasing away the hangover which has dogged me since I first opened my eyes in that crummy motel room.

The roiling in my gut is easing and the orchestra in my head has better learned its tune and settled down to play a gentle number which has a familiar but unidentifiable sound. With every passing step I can feel strength returning to my body.

‘You okay?’ The chief looks at me with scant concern.

I toss him a grin. ‘Fine. It’s just a while since I’ve been hiking.’

‘From what I’ve heard it’s a while since you done much but drink yourself stupid.’

His words sting. I respect him, but from his tone I can tell I’m losing his respect. I could make hollow promises about never drinking again, but neither of us would believe them.

He stops walking and looks at my face. ‘This hike is helping you. Your eyes are a damn sight clearer than they were when I first saw you.’

‘You should try looking at them from my side.’ I set off again, making sure I set a brisk pace. He may be the chief of police and a man I respect, but I’m too old to accept lectures from anyone.

We’re both quiet as we walk. My thoughts are on what lies ahead – as I’m sure are his. So far, we’re working on descriptions of the scene only. I catch a whiff of cooked meat and have to fight a gag reflex. I hear the chief give a big sigh and know he’s caught it too.

He pulls a tub of vaporub from his pocket and dabs some on his top lip before offering it to me. It’s a trick used by law enforcement officers and coroners the world over.

I take it and thank him. The strong fumes of the vaporub clear my sinuses with a minty aroma, but they can’t eradicate the scent I’ve already caught.

We press on. A natural reluctance to face what lies ahead slows our pace a little, but not enough to stop us.

Voices carry to us. They’re engaged in conversation, but we can’t make out what they’re saying or see the people they belong to.

‘Teasle, Mavers, is that you I can hear?’

‘Yes, Chief.’ Two cops appear from behind the trees. The way they’re dusting the seat of their pants tells us how seriously they’ve taken their guard duty.

As the chief berates the two men for their dereliction of duty, my eyes are drawn to a huge oak tree. Four charred crosses hang from one of its lower branches. On each cross is a blackened, twisted body.

5

The chief instructs his men to put crime scene tape from tree to tree in a fifty feet radius of the giant oak.

I stand in silence beside the chief. Neither of us comment on the horror before us. From where we are there’s no way to conduct a close inspection, but I’m not sure either of us wants to get any nearer. There’s always the danger we’ll contaminate vital evidence which will either thwart the investigation or allow a slippery lawyer to have his clients acquitted.

There’s a strange eeriness to the area. There’s none of the birdsong I heard on the way up; the only sound is a gentle breeze rustling the upper branches of the trees. The smell of burnt pork, hanging in the air, threatens to evict what little alcohol the hike hasn’t removed from my system. The lack of animal presence in the area makes me wonder if they can sense the evil which ended four lives. Even the flies and insects, which have been ever present in the forest, are missing.

I examine the ground first; the action nothing more than a distraction to delay the moment when I have to look at the crosses and their grisly burden. Everything I’m looking for is missing. I see no obvious footprints and no empty cans used to transport gasoline or other accelerants.

When I scan the ground below the crosses, I see burnt needles where burning clothing has dropped from the crosses.

The fact there is more than one person involved in this is obvious. The crosses dangle two feet above the ground, hanging from wire ropes thrown over a sturdy branch. The other ends of the wire ropes are shackled to chains which are wrapped around the base of other trees. No one man could haul a body on to a cross and then fit the shackle. Therefore there must be more than one person involved. My guess is at least four.

I don’t want to but, unable to think of another reason to delay the moment, I turn my attention to the body on the nearest cross. There are large nails protruding from each wrist and both ankles. The body is nothing more than a twisted, blackened husk. It doesn’t take much to imagine their pain and terror as they were nailed to the cross and incinerated. The agonised contortions remain in death, and their mouth is open in a wide scream.

Beside me, I notice the chief shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Well?’

His one word carries every emotion I’m feeling, including the determination to find whoever did this and punish them.

I shrug, unable to tell him the one thing he wants to know. ‘It could be them. If my memory serves me right the bodies look to be about the right size for the Fourniers, but I’m loathe to make any definitive identification in case I get it wrong.’

‘I don’t expect any more than that.’ He wipes his face with one hand and kneads his temple with the other. ‘What other thoughts do you have?’

‘That whoever did this was organised enough to bring the wire ropes, crosses, nails, chains and some kind of accelerant with them. There were also enough of them to haul the crosses up and secure them in place. They also policed the area when finished. There’s not a footprint or tyre mark to be seen anywhere. The cleanliness of the scene makes me wonder if the killers used branches to sweep the forest floor.’

‘That’s a given. What else did you get?’

I pick my words with care. ‘The burning of the bodies on crosses speaks to me of racial hatred. I hate to say it, but if that is the Fourniers on those crosses then you’re looking at a possible revival of the Ku Klux Klan.’

‘The last time I heard of them being proactive was the early eighties.’

‘Maybe so.’ I look into his eyes. ‘But if a black family has been crucified and then incinerated it’s got to either be Klan, or someone trying to make us think it’s Klan activity.’

‘Us? There’s no us in this, Boulder. You’re here in the hope you can make a provisional ID on the bodies. I don’t want to drag a member of your buddy’s family down to the morgue to make a formal identification only to find out I’ve distressed the wrong family. If you can’t do that you’re not involved.’

‘If it is the Fourniers, do you think Alfonse and I are going to sit back and let Lieutenant Farrage lead the investigation? He’s already dismissed the possibility a black family were abducted, and now you’re up here with four victims whose deaths bear all the hallmarks of a racial crime. We’ll be investigating the disappearance of the Fourniers, and, if that’s them,’ I jab a finger towards the oak while staring into his eyes, ‘we’ll be investigating their deaths too.’

He sighs, long and low. ‘I cannot allow you anywhere near this investigation. The last time you got involved, you killed the main suspect.’

‘Bull. I defended myself when a serial killer tried to add me to his list of victims.’ I lower my tone to a more reasonable one. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but I believe they will turn out to be the Fourniers on those crosses. You know as well as I do, Lieutenant Farrage isn’t up to leading an investigation of this scale. If it is the Fourniers we’ll give you every possible assistance. If it isn’t, we’ll keep out of your way and let Farrage screw things up.’

‘You don’t get to set the terms around here, Boulder.’

‘Neither do you. You still haven’t been able to hire a decent detective, have you?’ It’s a low blow. Mayor Farrage will always protect his son, and everything the chief tries to replace him will always be thwarted. ‘Look, Chief. You’ve been dealt a poor hand you can’t fold on. Save the bluffing for others and accept a better card if it comes your way.’

‘Damn you, Boulder. Even when you’re recovering from four days spent in a drunken fug you make sense.’ He fronts me up, but there’s no threat in his body language. ‘If it’s them, we’ll exchange information. If it’s not, and your buddy’s family turn up, you may well find yourself deputised.’

I nod. More from a feeling I need to make a gesture than any great sense of agreement to his proposed deputation. ‘Can we go closer, see if we can find anything to help with an ID?’

His lips purse as he considers the trade-off between getting information sooner and the possibility we damage the crime scene.

‘Step only where I step.’ He takes measured strides towards the cross bearing the largest body.

I understand his logic but I have more knowledge of the potential victims. ‘Chief. If you’re going towards the biggest body thinking it’s Darryl, you’re mistaken. Sherrelle is the taller of the two.’

He changes direction without comment.

I follow him, taking care to step where he does. My eyes flicking between the ground and the stomach-churning scene before me.

Rage is building within me. That anyone could have committed such a despicable act as this is beyond my comprehension. Whether or not it’s Alfonse’s relatives on those crosses, I believe the victims will have been selected because of their skin colour.

What makes it worse is that two of the bodies are notably smaller than the others. It’s bad enough for adults to be murdered, but the killing of children elevates an already terrible crime to one which has a horrific intensity.

The chief stops and examines the body on the cross. Using a gloved hand, he spins the cross so he can see every angle. The body is wider than the lumber used to make the cross.

There’s less burn damage on the back and the remains of a pair of pants show. The chief tries to pull something from the pocket but the material comes away in his hand. He snorts in disgust until he turns the material over. Half visible through the soot-blackened grime is a hand-sewn label.

I’m not close enough to read it, but the chief is. When he speaks there’s sorrow filling his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Boulder. The name on this label is Darryl Fournier.’

My eyes close as the confirmation of identity sinks in. Not only has my best friend lost family members in the most horrible fashion. There’s the added insult of the fact they may have been targeted because of their skin colour.

‘I take it you’ll need to do a formal ID on them all?’

‘We will. The label is enough to point us in the right direction, but we’ll have to get the coroner to match DNA from each body with samples taken from their home.’

I know what that will entail. They’ll collect some personal items to get test samples of the Fournier’s DNA. Tooth and hairbrushes will be their best options.

Officer Teasle comes across. ‘Chief. I’ve just heard the coroner has arrived and the CSI team are on their way.’

‘Thanks. You and Mavers are to stay here and guard the scene from wild animals and other hunters. I’ll send someone to relieve you later.’

As the chief and I start the hike back down the hill, he pulls a radio from his windbreaker and starts issuing a string of orders to various people.

While he’s doing that, I busy my own mind with people to question and the answers I need to find. The reports from the coroner and the CSI team will be worth double, or treble, what Farrage and his cronies produce. Whereas Alfonse and I will learn far more from people and technology than he could hope to.

6

The chief and I make good time as we head back to the road. Both of us are too wrapped up in our private thoughts to speak much. There’s the odd comment or question, but all we’re doing is affirming ideas and seeking support from each other.

Around half-way down we meet the CSI team working their way along the track.

The chief beats me to the obvious question. ‘You guys find anything worth finding?’

A man in a protective suit lifts his gaze from the trail and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Chief. There’re too many pine needles on the ground for there to be any tyre marks. We’ve picked up a couple of cigarette butts and a food wrapper, but they look as if they’ve been lying there a good while.’

I know what he means about the pine needles. The track has had too little traffic to create ruts and muddy patches where tyres would have left a discernible tread. It could be years since it last saw regular use.

Having seen the organisation and preparation behind the executions – I can’t think of them as murders – I’m not expecting the CSI team to find anything left by the killers.

As we reach the treeline we see a half dozen cars parked at the side of the road. I hear the chief utter a curse under his breath, and follow his gaze.

A certain Ms Rosenberg is busy haranguing a sergeant. The Casperton Gazette’s lead reporter is a short New Yorker of Jewish extraction. Legend has it, it’s so long since anyone used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is. A fearsome nature combined with an evangelical desire to unearth the truth makes her one of the main reasons there’s so little corruption in Casperton’s political figures.

Her flitting eyes spy us as soon as we emerge from the treeline. She turns away from the sergeant and marches over to us trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke and noxious perfume.

‘Chief Watson, can you confirm the rumour that a family of four has been crucified and then incinerated?’

I see from his face he’s loath to tell her anything at this stage of the investigation. Yet it seems she knows too much for him to give a flat denial.

With a long sigh he faces her. ‘At this moment in time, we do not have a confirmed identity for the victims of what has been a heinous crime. As soon as we have identified the bodies and informed the families, we will release a statement to the press.’

Her eyes shine as she digests his words. As expected she reads between the lines on her first pass. ‘You’re not denying four people have died that way.’ It may be a statement she makes but there’s no doubt she means it as a question.

‘I’m neither denying nor confirming anything at this time, Ms Rosenberg.’ He gives her a tight smile borne out of politeness rather than pleasure. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a busy schedule.’

‘One last thing, Chief. Why is Jake Boulder here with you?’

It’s a good question. Ms Rosenberg has championed my investigative ability in the past. Once again, she’s found me accompanying the chief at the scene of a serious crime.

‘He’s here at my request because he hikes up here all the time. His local knowledge has just saved me an hour’s hiking. As you so rightly pointed out in your column, he has the makings of a good detective.’

I try not to show any surprise about my new-found love of hiking. Her eyes narrow as she assesses our faces. She’ll have been shovelled enough bull in her time to have good instincts for when people are telling the truth and when they’re lying. She must take the chief at his word, as she turns on her heel and heads towards her car.

I look at the chief. ‘You may regret that last part.’

‘I doubt it. She’s right.’ He kneads his temples. ‘I’m guessing you’ve come to the same conclusion as me regarding a rough time of death.’

I haven’t, but a moment’s thought gives me enough time to make an educated guess. ‘They were taken in the middle of Monday night, stroke Tuesday morning. I reckon they were taken straight there and executed.’ I wipe a hand over my face. ‘What I don’t understand is how the fire didn’t burn them, and the crosses, more thoroughly.’

The chief gives me a strange look. It un-nerves me and I wonder what he knows that I don’t.

‘Do you remember anything about yesterday?’

I feel my cheeks burn. I want to lie to protect myself, but there’s no point; he’ll see right through me. ‘No. I can’t remember any of it.’

‘Well if you could, you’d remember waking up to a huge rainstorm.’

He doesn’t need to continue. While most people would assume gasoline drenched bodies and timber crosses would burn away to nothing in a matter of minutes, the truth is they’d take a lot longer without other fuel to create a heart to the fire. It might be an effective way of ending lives, but without the wood usually found in a funeral pyre the bodies would never have been disposed of.

Left to burn, the fires would have smouldered for hours. The heavy rain would have cooled them; robbing their heat and extinguishing them far earlier than the executioners had planned.

7

I catch up with Alfonse at his place. He looks dejected and frightened in a way I haven’t seen since our high-school days. As his friend I need to salve his wounds and rid him of the despondency he’s feeling.

We’ve always given each other straight talk when required, yet I know he doesn’t need me to tell him to stop moping, and start thinking of ways to catch his cousin’s killers. He needs reassurance they will be caught, confirmation I’ll help no matter what it takes, and guidance in the best way to find these excuses for human beings so they can be brought to justice.

What he needs most of all, is to know that the remaining members of his family are safe. That has to be the first priority in our investigation. Once we can determine whether the Fourniers were selected at random, or specifically targeted, we will be able to assess the risk to his mother, Aunt Nina and both his brothers and their families.

‘What did you learn from your family?’ I lead as he is still too shocked to think properly.

His head shakes. So do his hands which isn’t normal for him. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing to tell. No affairs, no known money trouble. They were excited about planning Robyn’s birthday party.’

His voice is on the point of breaking and taking his composure with it. I pour him a mug of coffee and help myself to one. While he has my pity for what he has gone, and is going through, I need him operating at a higher level if we’re to have any success with our investigation. My mind can’t comprehend the trauma of having loved ones go missing, only for them to be reported as the victims of what appears to be a hate crime.

‘Have you had a proper look at their finances yet, or a look through their online presences?’ I don’t mean a scan of their bank accounts and a glance at their social media profiles. I mean an in depth forensic look at expenditure, cross-referenced against social media posts and family events. To be specific, I’m looking for the stuff other members of the family may not know about. Things like debts, illicit trysts and a hundred and one other clues which may give our investigation a focus.

‘Not yet.’ His voice is flat. Devoid of his usual excitement for life.

I pass him a sheet of paper. ‘Write down where they worked. I’ll go and see the people there. Ask a few questions.’

I would question their neighbours but the police will be doing that. Instead, I plan to look at their professional lives in case their killers are someone they’ve crossed.

He takes the paper and scrawls down the information I’ve asked for. I consider asking if he knows of anyone I should speak to at their workplaces but change my mind. It’s better I go in cold and work through the hierarchy myself to find out who to speak to.

I fold the paper as I stand. He doesn’t lift his head to follow my movement.

It’s time for some tough love and hard logic. Not something I want to do, but he needs to lose the melancholy and find some fire in his belly. ‘I’m going to go speak to whoever I can find at these places. I need you to get off your backside and start working. It’s only a matter of hours before Lieutenant Farrage and his buddies take all the computers, tablets and phones from your cousin’s house, along with all their financial records.’

‘They’ll never think of that. Wouldn’t know what to do with them if they did.’ There’s self-pity in his voice as he mocks the detective squad.

‘You’re right. But Chief Watson will, so you better do it first while you still have access. I know how much it sucks. How work is the last thing you want to be doing right now, but,’ I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder as I let the word hang, ‘you can do your grieving when this is all over. Right now, we’re the best and only chance there is of justice being delivered.’

‘I don’t want justice. The assholes who did this don’t deserve justice. They deserve to die screaming in agony. Just like Darryl and his family did. If they were here right now, I’d kill them with my bare hands if I could.’

I’ve mistaken him. I thought he was beside himself with grief. In reality he’s overcome with rage and thoughts of vengeance.

He should be careful what he wishes for. Normal people like him and I aren’t equipped to take lives. There is a toll. A cost which I was neither expecting nor forewarned of.

A murderous revenge may seem like a good idea to Alfonse at this particular moment in time. I know from experience that as soon as the deed is done, he’ll regret it. That’s what I now have to live with. I’m the tougher of the two of us, both mentally and physically.

The man I killed deserved to die. He’d killed others and was trying to kill me. None of these facts matter when you wake up tangled in sheets and soaked in perspiration. Nor do they count when you look in the mirror and see the face of a killer. They matter least of all when you are considering your own worth to society and realise you’ve committed a worse crime than many of those incarcerated in prisons across the land.

You can try to justify it any way you like. It all boils down to one thing. You killed someone. Took a life. The worth of the life is irrelevant.

I’ve got to live with the knowledge of what I’ve done. He shouldn’t have to do the same.

He’s not equipped to handle the guilt. The constant self-recrimination.

Every day since I took another man’s life, I’ve examined my actions with a forensic scrutiny in a vain attempt to justify every choice I did and didn’t make.

The results of this examination oscillate between crippling guilt and a powerful certainty I did the right thing.

Even so. I killed in a life or death situation. Alfonse is talking about something different. He’s talking about pre-meditated murder.

I know him too well to believe he means what he says. It’s just surreal to hear him saying it.

8

Gazala puts the three shirts returned by the obese man back on the correct rails. She returns to her post by the cash register straightening various displays as she passes.

Her preference would have been to work in a fashion house, or at least in a store which sold women’s fashions, but in a town like Casperton you have to take what jobs there are.

C-Dude is all about men’s clothing for those who want to look good. It sells shoes, hats and everything worn in-between. The quality of the clothing is reflected in the pricing. C-Dude isn’t a discount store and everything on sale has a definite brand.

The one upside of the job is the number of good-looking and financially-sound men who walk through the door. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, she’ll get to help out with a spot of personal shopping. This allows her to play dress-up, with the man in question assuming the role of her personal model.

Her sales technique is a mixture of honesty and knowledge garnered from a fashion course at Salt Lake University. With a flirtatious nature and pretty face she makes sure none of her customers leave empty-handed. Her skills at upselling ensure her monthly commissions are the best in store by a considerable margin. By never being greedy or pushy with her colleagues she retains good relationships with all but one of them.

The exception is the matriarch of the group. Neither liking nor liked by any of her colleagues: Marjorie does things her own way. Often discussed rumours of an affair with the owner are the only explanation for her continued employment.

Gazala knows when the day comes that she opens her own store there will never be a place for anyone with as poor people-skills as the ageing woman.

The dream is still a couple of years from being realised, but the groundwork is being laid every day. Still living with her parents, she’s managing to save almost every penny she makes. Her father has agreed to put money into the business providing she can raise fifty thousand dollars of her own. Bank loans are not an option. She has to raise the money herself with no ties.

Gazala’s days off are spent researching female fashion trends and travelling to Salt Lake City to observe the higher-class stores she plans to emulate. Her own group of friends have long bemoaned the lack of a decent women’s clothing store in Casperton and it’s a gap in the market she intends to fill. Nights are spent mining her father’s vast experience in starting businesses and making them a long-term success.

A man walks in and starts to look around. It’s Jenny’s turn so she approaches him asking if he needs help with anything. A smile is flashed and the two of them head towards the section of the store where the shoes are kept.

‘You there.’

Lost in her thoughts Gazala jumps and lets out a squeak. The speaker’s voice is gruff and domineering. She suspects that whomever it belongs to will be a demanding customer who’ll take up a lot of her time and buy little.

‘Yes, sir. How may I help you?’ Her smile is bright as she tries to turn this customer into a decent prospect.

She feels the man’s eyes bore into her face as he points towards her. ‘I want a new suit and I want a good one.’

‘Very well, sir. We have a range of suits for all occasions. Can you tell me what you need the suit for?’

It’s a standard sales technique. Find out the occasion and the intended venue so you can best advise the customer. Once they’re taking your advice it’s easier to upsell to them. A nice shirt and tie combo to complement the suit, or a pair of shoes which are a better match for the colour.

‘None of your business, girl. Just show me the suit.’

Gazala doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t see the point in explaining herself to someone who won’t listen. The best way to deal with rude, obnoxious cretins like this guy, is to serve them what they want and get them out of the store as quick as possible.

As she shows him the suits, Gazala can feel his eyes examining her body. The blouse she’s wearing is open enough to flash a tiny bit of cleavage. Her pencil skirt is above the knee, but only just. The way it accentuates her thighs and butt often helps with the light flirting she uses to make sales. She knows her light brown skin looks good against the white blouse and grey skirt. Depending upon the time of year, Jenny spends hours sunbathing, or a fortune on tanning lotions, so she can darken her skin to a similar hue.

Today, with this customer, she feels like she’s exposing herself to a predator. He looks at her as if she’s a piece of meat. When he’s not looking at the suits he’s towering over her; his eyes travelling past her face into her blouse. There’s no lust in his face. Just a cold expression of bored indifference. He’s ogling her, but doesn’t seem to be interested in dating her.

It’s not the first time she’s been ogled and she knows it won’t be the last. Yet the lack of manners, and the dominant manner of this man, turn an everyday occurrence into something more sinister. Gazala can feel her skin prickle as the man makes no attempt to disguise where his eyes are landing. Backed up with friendly conversation, and a little flirting, his wandering eyes wouldn’t bother her. But his eyes are cold and give nothing away at all.

To fasten another button would be obvious, so she keeps moving around to minimise the number of times his gaze finds its target. Every time she turns her back on him she can feel a visual handprint on her butt and legs.

‘Do you know your sizes, sir?’ God forbid she has to measure him.

From across the room a peal of laughter comes from Jenny as she jokes with her customer. To Gazala it sounds almost mocking. Matters are made worse by the rude man looking at Jenny and smiling.

‘Of course I do, girl.’

Gazala listens as he give her his measurements. Her teeth biting the inside of her lip to prevent her giving voice to her dislike for the man and his derogatory use of ‘girl’ to address her.

She picks out a couple of suits and shows them to him. He snatches one and stalks off towards a cubicle.

Gazala takes the opportunity to fasten all the open buttons on her blouse. It’s a small show of defiance but there comes a point when the customer is no longer right.

When the man exits, he’s wearing the suit and it’s a good fit on him. He admires himself in the full-length mirror before returning to the cubicle.

A minute later he throws the suit at her. ‘Bag it.’

As she’s removing the anti-theft devices the man switches his gaze from her to Jenny. He’s all smiles for her. There’s a flirtatious nature to him now. That is until Gazala gives him his receipt. The simple act of looking at her wipes the smile from his face and the warmth from his eyes.

It’s at this moment she realises the man’s issue. He doesn’t like her because of the colour of her skin. To him she’ll just be another ‘damn A-rab’. In his secular world, all brown-skinned people will be either terrorists or illegal Mexican immigrants. If he wasn’t such a douche about it she’d pity him.

9

I pull into a parking space and switch off the engine. While Darryl’s co-workers may have heard of his death, my turning up asking questions will bring it home to them. I’m sure he’ll have been popular. He was a stand-up guy with empathy for others and had a generous nature.

People are often granted a saintly status upon their death. In a lot of cases, bad tempers, drink problems and all kinds of other anti-social behaviour are airbrushed from their lives. Nobody wants to speak ill of the dead; to be critical of them.

These are the very details which can drive, or at least direct, an investigation. Amid the grief and shock I’m going to have to dig for dirt that may or may not be there.

I’ve been home and changed into clean clothes after my hike with Chief Watson. A quick shower has washed the smell of death from my body, but there’s nothing I can do to rid the scent from my memory.

By rights, Lieutenant Farrage, or one of his cronies, should be here by now. It’s their duty and job to seek the same answers I am. Their absence says more about their ineptitude than anything I could say ever will. They’ll get here in time. But the smart money would be on it being at the chief’s insistence rather than their own inspiration.

I enter the law office and approach the desk. A receptionist with a false smile greets me and asks me if I have an appointment.

‘I don’t. I’m here from AD Investigations and I need to see the managing partner at once.’

Something flits across her eyes but there’s no guessing what it is. ‘I’m afraid Mr Ligotti is in a meeting. I have strict instructions not to disturb him.’ Her eyes flit down the corridor.

A part of me wants to storm down the corridor knocking on doors until I find this Mr Ligotti. The more sensible part is aware that this is a time for guile rather than aggression.

‘It is imperative I speak with Mr Ligotti at once. It’s a sensitive matter regarding Darryl Fournier, and he will be pleased you let me speak to him.’

My tone is level and I keep a bland but serious expression on my face.

There’s hesitation as she reaches for the telephone on the desk so I give her a smile of encouragement.

She relays my request and answers a couple of questions. There’s a slight whine that’s crept into her tone – as if she’s being chewed out by the person on the other end of the phone.

‘You’ve got two minutes. They’re in the end room on the left.’ Her arm points along a corridor; after me earning her a telling off, she’s not going to get up and show me the way.

This act of rebellion doesn’t bother me; I’ll get there quicker without her. If there’s any justice in the world, whoever gave her a hard time will apologise after hearing what I have to say. I’m not holding out much hope though. Lawyers can be an arrogant bunch.

I knock on the door and wait for it to be answered.

‘Come.’ The voice is loud and commanding. It’s the voice of someone who is used to being in control and dominating conversations. Such a manner seems out of place in a law firm with two partners and four lawyers. Perhaps in a large city-based practice that kind of demeanour will be necessary. In Casperton it reeks of egotism.

When I enter the office I see a table with a dozen chairs and two men around it. Other than perhaps a full staff meeting I don’t see the need for such a large table. There’s a desk at one end of the room; it looks way too neat to be used on a day to day basis, but it supports a metal nameplate with Ligotti’s name on it. On another occasion I might spend a moment or two wondering if the oversized table is some kind of penile substitute, but I’ve got more important things to consider today.

‘What do you want?’ Ligotti’s tone has traces of impatience and hostility. A horseshoe of hair, too dark for his age, rings a bald head.

The temptation to deliver the bad news in a style and tone as blunt as his almost gets the better of me. Something holds my tongue though. Perhaps it’s a realisation that his bluster and manner will ensure he lives a lonely life with no true friends. Or perhaps it’s because to do so would be irreverent to the deceased.

‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that Darryl Fournier has been the victim of a brutal homicide.’

The colour drains from their faces as they digest the news. It’s the other man who speaks first. He looks every inch the corporate lawyer and his tone is authoritative in a way Ligotti’s will never be. ‘That’s terrible news. How is Sherrelle? If there’s anything we can do to help her, please tell her all she has to do is ask.’

‘That’s very kind of you Mr—?’ I let the sentence hang so he’ll identify himself. I don’t want to tell him everything without at least knowing his name.

‘Hall. Eddy Hall.’

The law firm is called LH Associates so it doesn’t take much guesswork to figure out Mr Hall is where the H came from.

There’s no easy way to break this piece of news, so I go for direct. ‘Unfortunately Darryl was found with three other bodies. At this moment in time, we’re working on the assumption they are his wife and children.’

From the corner of my eye, I see Ligotti reach for the phone on his desk. ‘Bring a pot of strong coffee in here at once.’

Hall’s face has a ghostly hue and he looks as if he’s had a gut punch from a heavyweight. His mouth keeps opening and closing as he goes to speak and then loses conviction in the words he’s about to use. In other circumstances I’d enjoy leaving two lawyers speechless. Today I feel dirty.

I know the questions going through their minds; most of them have already gone through mine. I’m pretty sure that while Hall is considering the horror to befall the Fourniers, Ligotti is already wondering about the implications for LH Associates.

‘I don’t mean to be insensitive, Mr Boulder, but why are you here instead of a police detective?’ Ligotti has gotten control of his tone, and his question is a good one.

‘I’m sure they’ll be here soon. My partner, Alfonse Devereaux, is Darryl’s cousin.’ There’s no point saying anything else; lawyers should be smart enough to figure the rest out.

‘So you’re here ahead of the police.’

I shrug at Ligotti’s comment, ignoring the snide element which has crept into his tone. He will know better than I, the competence of Farrage and the other detectives.

‘What do you need to know?’ Hall points to a seat at the conference table as a knock on the door is followed by the receptionist entering with a tray of coffee and a timid expression.

I wait until she leaves, and Hall finishes passing out the cups. ‘I know Darryl was a lawyer for your firm, but I don’t know what kind of cases he dealt with. Which field did he practice in?’

‘He was corporate through and through, he specialised in mergers and takeovers but did a lot of work advising local companies of their, and their customers’, rights. Most of the small businesses he worked for got him to draw up their terms of service.’

My brain is firing off all kinds of ideas as I listen to Ligotti speak. Mergers and takeovers can be hostile affairs and, if someone has been screwed over by a store or company who hid behind their terms of services, Darryl may well have been targeted on purpose.

A counterpoint to this line of thinking is the fact we’re talking about Casperton not New York. Mergers and takeovers here were likely to be a small business changing hands or expanding when a rival decides to retire. It would also be a massive leap to kill the lawyer who wrote the rules under which a small store operates. To also target his family with that kind of brutal execution even more improbable. It will all still need to be checked out though.

‘Do you recall any instances where things got nasty or acrimonious?’ I’m fishing here. With luck, a particular client Darryl has advised will have had a beef with him. I don’t expect it, but you never know. ‘A client who felt screwed over, or perhaps someone who felt aggrieved at how good a deal he got one of his clients?’

‘Did you know Darryl yourself?’ I nod at Hall’s question, unsure where he’s going. ‘Then you’ll probably have found him to be a stand-up guy. Someone who cared about people, was fair with them, and generally tried to help whenever he could.’

‘I did yes. I guess you’re about to say he was the same in his work life?’

‘He was. He always played fair with his clients and often acted as a mediator to ensure both parties were happy with the final deal. The other lawyers in town all liked dealing with him.’ He shrugs. ‘Casperton is too small a town to screw people over.’

‘Fair enough.’ I’m not sure Ligotti agrees with his sentiments, but that’s their issue not mine. ‘What about clients of his who wanted to screw people over – how did they react when he sought to find an acceptable middle ground?’

‘He either brought them round to his way of thinking or he refused to work with them. There was one guy who pushed it though.’ He strokes his chin in thought and turns to Ligotti. ‘Made a complaint to you, didn’t he?’

‘He did yeah.’ Ligotti scowls at a memory. ‘Guy was an asshole looking to force a buyout. He thought his lawyer should do as he was told, no questions asked.’

‘What was the outcome?’

‘I backed Darryl so he went and hired some out of town shyster. The guy did what he wanted and would have screwed over a family business if they hadn’t hired Darryl themselves.’

I feel my pulse quicken. ‘What happened?’

‘Darryl gave his client good advice on a fair deal and, when the asshole didn’t get his way, he went back to wherever he was from.’

‘Do you remember his name, when this happened and where the guy was from?’

Ligotti looks at the ceiling. ‘Sorry. I don’t recall any details. It took place a few years back.’

‘I’m sure we can retrieve the details from our files though.’ Hall moves towards the phone. ‘Elizabeth, can you come to Mr Ligotti’s office please?’

My pulse slows back to its normal pace. If this all happened a number of years ago, it’s unlikely it has anything to do with the case. It will have to be checked out though. For all we know, it could have been the catalyst to a downward spiral.

A moment later the door opens and a woman comes in. She carries a notepad and an air of professionalism.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hall?’ A pen hovers over the notepad awaiting instruction.

Her accent is local. I guess she’s Casperton born and bred. Something about her body language tells me she’s never married. A glance at her ring finger finds it bare.

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Elizabeth. Darryl Fournier has been killed.’

A hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh his poor wife. Those poor children.’

From my seat I can see the tears glistening her eyes. Her sense of pride will not let them be shed before her bosses.

‘Sadly he was the victim of a homicide. We need to go through his files in case it’s connected to any of his cases. Are you able to bring me a short synopsis of each of his cases for the last few years?’

‘Of course.’ A desire to seem efficient battles with her grief. ‘It’ll take me a couple of hours to get them printed, but I’ll start work straight away.’

‘Thank you. Please start with the cases he handled six years ago.’

I like how Hall didn’t mention the possible deaths of Sherrelle and the two children. Or that there is a particular case we believe may be relevant. His request she starts with cases from six years ago brings a frown to her brow.

‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’ It’s Ligotti who’s speaking, his tone less polite than his words.

‘I’d like to know how he got along with his colleagues, with you two as his bosses, if he ever confided anything personal with anyone, who his friends at the office were.’

Hall gave a long deep sigh. ‘He got on well with everyone, from partners to interns. He treated us all with respect and wasn’t the type to share confidences in the workplace. Anything he did share was the mundane stuff about everyday life or work. As far as I know he didn’t socialise with anyone from the office on a one to one basis. Any time I saw him socially, most of the others were there too.’ His eyes flick to Ligotti. ‘What about you, do you know anything different?’

‘Not at thing.’ Ligotti looks at me. ‘Sorry, but what Eddy says is true. Darryl was a valued member of the team and he got along with everybody just fine. Such is his standing, we were going to make him partner next year.’

I sense Ligotti is starting to hide behind corporate speak, and needs some time to discuss things with Hall, so I rise from my chair. ‘I have other people to see, so I’ll leave you gentlemen to sift through the reports from Elizabeth and will call back later. If I was you, I’d expect the police to visit. The sooner you get the required information for me and the police, the sooner we can get a vicious killer behind bars.’

10

The bank is just how small town banks are. A row of customers waiting to be seen by a row of tellers. Some are bringing money in, and some taking money out. With the invention of digital banking it’s nowhere near as busy as it was when I first walked in, all those years ago, with an acne-covered face and a wad of dollar bills earned by cutting lawns.

It’s ten years since I was last in here. With my mortgage secured, I have my salary paid into my account and go to the machine when I need a few bucks. Everything else is managed online.

As ever, there has been a human cost to the digital mechanisation of yet another industry. Now, the majority of those who enter the bank on a regular basis are store owners depositing cash, and the elderly who don’t understand computers or are just longing for some interaction with other human beings.

I join the short queue and take a look at the four tellers to see if I know any of them. Two are strangers but the others are semi-regulars at the Tree. I’ve tossed drunks from the Tree long enough to know most faces in the town, but I can’t put a name to either of these two.

In an ideal world I’d get one of the known faces, or at least the pretty blonde I could melt by thickening my Scottish burr. Instead, I get the dude who seems to be more interested in clock-watching than working.

‘Good morning, welcome to the Utah Community Bank. How may I help?’ His obvious boredom sucks the joy from the corporate greeting.

I can’t blame him; if I had his job I’d end up growling the mantra. Still, good manners cost nothing. ‘Good morning. My name is Jake Boulder and I’m here representing AD Investigations. Could I speak with the manager please?’

‘I’m sorry, but if you don’t have an appointment then you won’t be able to see her.’ He looks at the screen on his desk. ‘I can arrange one for Monday at three o’clock if that helps?’

‘It won’t. I need to see her today. Ideally within the next two minutes.’ He hesitates; unsure of how to deal with my forceful tone. A glance is tossed over his shoulder towards a closed door. The frown that flashes across his face tells me plenty about his relationship with whoever is behind the door. ‘Trust me. You’ll be in more trouble from her if you don’t let me in.’

I can see his indecision, so I lean against the counter in a relaxed manner. The suggestion that I’m prepared to wait him out works. He rises from his seat and knocks on the manager’s door.

Five minutes later he’s ushering me into her office.

‘Mr Boulder. I’m Miss Oliver.’ She doesn’t rise to greet me and just waves at one of the chairs on the other side of her desk. ‘Take a seat.’

She’s prickly to the point of frosty. She looks to be in her mid-thirties but her clothes and styling are those of a woman twenty years her senior. Everything about her screams career-driven and I guess she runs the bank as if it’s a personal fiefdom.

There are no rings on her fingers or pictures on the desk. She’d be pretty if she removed the stern expression from her face. I’d bet a hundred bucks that the only thing that gives her pleasure is a balanced balance sheet.

When I tell her why I’m here the hard mask she wears crumbles, but doesn’t break. Her already pale skin drops a couple of shades.

I let her have a minute or two to digest the news then start asking questions.

Most of them are answered without hesitation but there are a couple she jots on a pad for later investigation.

Just like her husband, Sherrelle was popular with colleagues and customers alike. There were no known issues.

‘What about friends in the workplace? Was she close to anyone in particular?’

Miss Oliver almost smiles at a memory.

‘Sherrelle would always hang with Charlie when she got chance.’

Excellent. I’ve now got the name of a friend of hers who may be able to shed some light into areas of her life where the killer may be found.

‘Is Charlie in today? Can I speak with her?’

‘Charlie is a he.’ She taps a few keys on her computer and scribbles a note. ‘Here’s his address and cell number. I’ll speak with the others and get you the answers to your questions.’

The fact Charlie is male gives me a shred of hope. Perhaps he tried his luck with Sherrelle and was spurned. The executions his way of taking revenge. His thinking that if he can’t have her nobody can.

It’s a stretch though. There’s no way one person could have captured all four of them and got them on the crosses, let alone hauled them up and secured them. Charlie may have attacked them after being rejected, but it doesn’t explain the motivation of whomever he enlisted to help him.

I’d hoped for nothing more, so I rise and say my goodbyes. As I leave the bank my cell beeps; I have a new message.

I read it as I walk to my car. There are two parts to it, and neither is good.

11

Gazala slings her bag over one shoulder and sets off along Main. Her thoughts are fixed on the new lines that were delivered this afternoon. With so many of Casperton’s executives being male, female fashion in the town is always at least two steps behind.

While others may be jealous of the bias, she revels in it as it will give her the opportunity she craves.

Crossing at a junction she toys with the idea of getting a bottle of wine from the 7-Eleven, but decides against it. Her mother never gives voice to her disapproval of midweek drinking, but she does allow her face to display her opinion.

Gazala is so wrapped up in her thoughts she doesn’t notice the van following her.

There’s nothing remarkable about it. No decals advertising its owner’s business; no pimped-up wheels or tinted windows. The tyres may be off-road ones and the suspension may have a slight jacking to increase ground clearance, but many vans have those modifications. It’s a typical white panel van similar to a million others in the country. Except this one is driven by someone who is proud of his racism.

She’s unaware of the two masked men sitting in the back. Unknowing of the bag they hold ready to pull over her head.

Perhaps if she was more alert to her surroundings she’d recognise the threat presented by the slow-moving van and its occupants.

After buying some of the latest fashion magazines at the 7-Eleven, Gazala bumps into a neighbour.

They talk as they walk the half mile back to their street. A hundred yards behind them is one of the men from the van. Shorn of the coveralls and mask he’d worn ready for the pickup, he looks like any other guy as he strolls along the street.

His detail an obvious one.

He has to follow her home. Once they know where she lives, as well as where she works, they can pick her up at any time. It’s a blow not to get her tonight, but there’ll be plenty of other chances.

With her address memorised, he walks until he’s three blocks away before calling for the van to come and collect him.

Gazala doesn’t know it, but meeting her neighbour has saved her life.

12

Alfonse meets me at the door of the Joshua Tree, or ‘the Tree’ as everyone calls it. The Tree is a rock bar where even the music has to be twenty-one to get in. A diner-cum-restaurant through the day, it stops serving meals at eight and the music is turned up at half past. Friday and Saturday I mind the door, and eject six-beer-heroes who start fights they mostly can’t finish. The work pays well and satisfies my natural blood-lust.

The two-part message from Kenneth, the owner, has both irritated me and piqued my interest.

‘What you got?’ Alfonse asks the question before I’ve even climbed out of the Mustang.

I shrug. ‘Got a few possible leads but nothing I believe will pan out. You?’

‘I got nothing.’

The dejection in his voice tells me of the strain he’s feeling. Of the way this most personal of cases is getting to him despite only being a day old. I want to reassure him that we’ll catch whoever is behind the murders. At the same time I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.

However much I want to make up for letting him down, I’m not prepared to offer him false hope.

‘You’re gonna have to work tonight, aren’t you?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ I don’t want to and plan to do everything I can to get out of it as I figure Alfonse’s need is greater than Kenneth’s.

The only reasons I haven’t pulled a sickie are that Kenneth would find out, and I want to know more about the man that the second part of his message said was looking for me.

It seems too short a space of time for Benji to have tracked me down for a spot of revenge so it must be someone else who’s asking around.

When you’ve kicked as many asses as I have, there’s always some fool with a grudge or a point to prove. Whoever it is, they’ll have to stand in line. I don’t have time for petty vendettas.

Alfonse follows me as I lead the way to Kenneth’s office.

I don’t bother knocking as Kenneth is too down to earth to exercise authority with such formalities.

Kenneth lifts his hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, but I need you tonight. Mabel has taken a table of twenty. It’s booked in the name Augiers.’

The name tells me everything I need to know. The Augiers family are a bunch of deadbeats. If they lived further south they’d be best described as rednecks. Every one of them is slow of mind and quick of temper.

‘He’ll be here, Kenneth.’ Alfonse’s words cut across the tension in the room. He looks me in the eye. ‘I’m not pointing any fingers, but if I was I’d point some at them.’

I get what he’s saying. The Augiers are backward in their thinking and casual racism is never far from their lips. The last time they were in the Tree, Kenneth had three staff refuse to serve them. By the time I threw them out, six chairs, two tables and a couple of dozen glasses had been smashed.

‘Why did Mabel take the booking?’ I fix Kenneth with a determined stare. ‘Can’t you cancel on them – blame a double-booking or something?’

Whether I’m here tonight or not, there’s going to be trouble. The family are troublemakers, and once alcohol is consumed at least one or two of them will kick off.

Kenneth’s eyes blaze back at me. When he speaks his voice is laden with impotent frustration. ‘I tried. When I called them to tell them of a double-booking they told me to cancel the other one. Maisie-Rae also told me they’d wreck the place if they turned up and there wasn’t a table for them.’

He’s between a rock and a hard place. I can’t let him down, not after everything he’s done for me.

‘I’ll be here.’ I rest my knuckles on the desk and lean close to Kenneth. ‘If they as much as belch too loudly, I’m throwing them out and barring them. You okay with that?’

It’s not his permission I’m asking for and all three of us know it. He should have barred them last time around but he bottled out of it.

‘Damn straight I am. I’ve had to rearrange the roster for tonight as it is.’

‘Time’s their booking for?’

‘Seven.’

I jerk my head at Alfonse and make for the door. ‘I’ll be here at six. I want to greet them personally.’

When I reach the door, I turn back with a change of subject. ‘Who was the guy asking for me?’

‘Just someone who asked if you were around and left when I told him no.’

I feel like pushing for a description but there’s little point. Kenneth’s eyesight isn’t the greatest and I don’t remember fighting with Benji, let alone what he looks like. Whoever is trying to find me knows where I work so it’s inevitable our paths will cross.

13

Noelle Holten rubs a loving hand over her stomach and thinks of the new life growing inside her. The home pregnancy tests’ results had been confirmed by Dr Potter earlier in the day.

She lays two places at the table and checks the oven. Dinner smells wonderful and will be ready for Oscar when he returns from work. Tonight is when he’ll learn of her pregnancy and she wants everything to be perfect.

Her first instinct was that they should dine out, but it was soon dismissed. She knows by cooking his favourite meal and cleaning the house from top to bottom she’s already starting to nest, but doesn’t care.

Even Buster, her black Labrador, has been scrubbed in preparation for the moment she tells her boyfriend he’s about to become a father.

All she has left to prepare is herself.

The clothes are laid out on the bed ready. There’s just enough time left for her to grab a quick shower, do her hair and makeup, and dress before Oscar returns.

The one thing she’s been unsure of all day is what to wear. Oscar’s Latino blood runs hot when he’s happy – which made her think of a dress she knows he likes combined with her best lingerie.

Another part of her is questioning whether it’s appropriate for an expectant mother to prepare for seduction. She doesn’t want to go too far the other way though, and appear frumpy before the little man, or lady, swells her belly.

In the end, she chooses a less seductive dress but keeps the lingerie to go underneath it.

Twenty minutes after stepping into the shower she’s pulling a pair of heels onto her feet. Whatever else happens tonight, she wants to be ready to welcome Oscar with a kiss and a beer when he arrives back from the oilfields.

Today more than any other, since meeting him eighteen months ago, she realises just how much she loves him.

The numerous failed relationships she has behind her, had made her worry she was destined for spinsterhood. Yet Oscar is everything those other men weren’t. Dependable, loving, funny, passionate, gentle and honest are just some of the qualities he possesses.

The hardest part of tonight will be not blurting out the news before dinner, or showing her goofy happiness and causing him to guess.

A proposal from him is the only thing in the world that could make her feel any happier.

14

I knock on Charlie’s door and survey the neighbourhood while I wait. It isn’t quite in white picket fence territory, but we’re no more than a street or two away. It’s a solid working class area where collars will be white.

The door is answered by a slim man wearing designer jeans and a branded shirt. He has one of those complicated beard arrangements which must take forever to keep trimmed. I’m already starting to dislike him and I don’t even know his name.

He nods when I ask if he’s Charlie.

‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about Sherrelle Fournier.’

‘Is she hurt? In trouble? Why do you want to ask me questions about her?’

I gesture at the open door. ‘Can we talk inside?’ Charlie can’t have heard about the murders and I think he may break down when he does. If that’s going to happen it will be best for him to be in a private environment.

He’s not stupid. He reads between our lines with ease. A hand rises to his mouth. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

He bumbles his way into the house so I follow him. He makes for the kitchen and throws his arms around the guy standing beside the stove. ‘Sherrelle’s dead.’

The house is a home. Not a woman’s home with splashes of colour and soft furnishings; a guy’s home with pale colours and clean lines.

The man doing the cooking makes comforting noises as he returns Charlie’s embrace. No great insight or deduction is required to connect them as a couple.

I don’t judge. There’s enough condemnation in the world without my adding to it. As far as I’m concerned, people can do whatever they like – providing it doesn’t break any laws and they don’t force their opinions or beliefs on me.

When they break from each other it’s the cook who speaks first.

‘Sorry to be impolite, but who are you?’

I identify myself and learn that his name is Pete.

Charlie slumps into a chair by the table and looks at me with glistening eyes. ‘The fact you’ve come here to talk to me means she wasn’t killed in an accident. That you’re looking into her death … or should I say her life, means she was murdered. I’m right aren’t I?’

‘I’m afraid you are.’

There’s no easy way to tell him how she died so I skirt round the how, and focus on the fact that Darryl and their children were also killed.

He’s astute enough to recognise I’m sparing him the gorier details and doesn’t push me for them.

The existence of Pete has changed my thinking. Where my initial thoughts had centred on Charlie and Sherrelle engaging in an affair or Charlie lashing out against unrequited love, I now realise those scenarios aren’t likely. The relationship on display in front of me is filled with intimacy and tenderness.

Charlie may be bisexual, which re-opens those lines of investigation, but I just can’t see it. Pete’s hand rests on Charlie’s shoulder in a gesture of support and companionship.

Even as I ask a few questions, I’m striking a mental line through his name as a suspect.

If he’s not a suspect he can still be a source. I change both tack and tone as I redirect the conversation.

‘Forgive me if I sound rude, but did you and Sherrelle ever discuss discrimination?’

Again his intelligence shows as he digests my words.

‘You’re asking me about discrimination for a reason. You’re thinking they were killed because of the colour of their skin.’ His tone takes on an aggressive note for the first time. ‘You think a gay man and a black woman are only friends because they’re both discriminated against?’

I shake my head while raising my hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I’m asking because I’m not gay, black or female. Some folks have tried to call me on being Scottish, but that’s not the same thing.’ I choose not to mention how much it pisses me off to be called English. This isn’t the time to explain about Highland clearances and a thousand other slights.

Pete gives Charlie’s shoulder a slight push. There’s enough force to show admonishment but not enough to fan the flames of anger.

‘I can see why you’re asking.’ The admission comes after a moment’s thought. ‘I guess it’s a valid question but I’m not sure it’s relevant in the twenty-first century.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Maybe once or twice a year I get called faggot, or some such insult because a customer doesn’t get the answer they want.’ He gives a shrug. ‘Anytime it happens, I get the feeling I’ve been insulted with whatever obvious trait I display. You know – like fat, or black, or bald.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s just dumb people giving vent to their frustration and lashing out without imagination.’

I know what he means. I’ve been called lots of names by drunks I’ve thrown out of the Tree. None of them serious – although the ones who call me English will always earn a somewhat more forceful ejection than necessary.

‘Did you ever feel intimidated, or worried that the person would attack you with more than words?’

‘Never.’ He wipes a hand over his face. ‘And if Sherrelle ever felt discriminated against, intimidated or threatened, she didn’t share it with me.’

I can’t help but notice how soon he’s adapted his speech to talk about Sherrelle in the past tense. When my time comes, I hope my friends take longer to adjust than he has. ‘You said earlier that people called you a faggot at the bank because they didn’t get the answer they wanted from you. Did you ever see, or hear, anyone abusing Sherrelle the same way?’

‘Not that I noticed, but she worked mostly on small business accounts while I deal with personal ones.’

I try a different angle and enquire about her relationships with colleagues at the bank. Friends and colleagues know stuff that bosses don’t, but again Charlie’s answer is negative. ‘Nobody had a bad word to say about her. She got on with everyone and was good at her job. No one had to pick up her slack and she always helped others whenever she had a spare moment.’

I thank him for his time and leave. I have ten minutes to get to the Tree. My plan to see what Elizabeth has turned up in Darryl’s past cases will have to wait until morning.

15

I watch as the Augiers family clamber out of a collection of decrepit pickups. As is typical of their uncaring arrogance, they’ve abandoned their vehicles in a way that shows no consideration for others.

The entire family is here and their brooding malevolence travels across the road like an advance party.

Maisie-Rae comes first like a general leading troops into battle. Flanking her are eldest sons, Jim-Bob and Butch. Jim-Bob’s face is still raw from the last silver medal he collected. By contrast, Butch’s face is unmarked and his nose has its original shape.

He’s the real threat; people with battle scars have been hit, guys without, are either too quick or too clever to let their opponent make contact.

I shift a half pace so I’m blocking the door; my feet planted shoulder width apart and muscles tensed.

Jim-Bob scowls at me in a way that’s meant to be intimidating but isn’t.

Butch gives a measured stare.

Maisie-Rae opens her mouth wide enough to show all three of her teeth. ‘What’s your problem? We got us a booking.’

‘I know.’ I lift my head and look straight at Butch. ‘The last time you were here three staff walked out after your family abused them and a bunch of stuff got broken. That’s not going to happen tonight. If there’s one hint of trouble, I’ll throw the cause out and then I’ll come looking for you.’

‘You don’t want to do that, buddy. You’ll get your English ass kicked all the way home.’

In one swift movement I have Jim-Bob pinned against the wall. What little patience I have is removed when I’m called English by a moron. Doubly so considering the fact I’ve spent the day recovering from the mother of all hangovers while battling guilt at letting Alfonse down. Besides, people listen a lot more closely when you have your hand around their throat.

‘I’m Scottish, not English. You’ll behave yourselves tonight or leave with your asses kicked.’

There’s enough menace in my growl to put uncertainty into his eyes as I release him.

‘Ignore Jim-Bob, he still hasn’t learned how to behave.’ There’s enough contempt in Maisie-Rae’s voice to convey a lifetime of disappointments. ‘We’re here for a meal and a few drinks. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘That’s fine. Just make sure nobody abuses the staff, or other customers, and you’ll have a great night. Cross the line just once and your night will end immediately.’

I don’t bother to say they’ll be barred, they’ll expect nothing less.

The family file past me into the Tree. Some throw malevolent looks while others make an elaborate show of ignoring me.

Kenneth has used his common sense and made sure their table is as secluded as possible, so other diners aren’t disturbed. The waiting staff are male with one exception, but I don’t have to worry about Kenneth’s wife. She’s more than capable of holding her own with the Augiers. He’s also taken the precaution of making sure the waiting staff are white to prevent any racial slurs.

The Augiers family are well known for their lack of tolerance towards other races, and as such I have their names in mind for the killings. To that end, I want them to behave themselves long enough to get drunk. With luck, one of the two dictaphones I’ve taped to the underside of their tables will pick up something incriminating. It’s a longshot, but at this moment in time I’m willing to try anything to get a solid lead.

The evening passes with me never being too far from the Augiers table. I don’t get close enough to be antagonistic or overhear their conversations. At the same time, I’m near enough for them to know I’m watching, and waiting for them to screw up.

Until ten o’clock their behaviour is restrained enough. There are a few bursts of sudden laughter and one curse-laden story, but nothing that gives me good reason to toss them out. When all is said and done, the Tree is a bar and people laughing and swearing is par for the course. Butch quells any potential trouble with a quiet word, or a scowl as appropriate.

I see one of the younger family members coming back from the bathroom. He’s unsteady on his feet and tries to engage a girl in conversation. She gives him a polite smile and turns to go back to her seat.

The smile was a mistake. It encourages him.

I know the girl. She’s a regular and she’s here with her boyfriend.

The Augiers lad follows ten paces behind her as she heads back to her seat. I’m five behind him.

He reaches her table. I hang back but make sure the boyfriend can see me. If he gets up and takes a swing at the kid, all hell will break loose.

The drunk Augiers kid slurs something to the girl. She responds by gesturing to her boyfriend.

The kid points at the boyfriend and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. The boyfriend doesn’t move so the kid pushes at his shoulder.

I’ve seen enough. I stick my own thumbs out and bury them into the kid’s armpits. Applying just enough pressure to lift him onto his toes, I direct him back to his family. If he had any brains he’d raise his arms to neutralise the pain of my thumbs digging into his soft skin. He though, is a drunk kid with more arrogance than intelligence. His attempt to salve the pain consists of clenching his arms by his sides. A move which intensifies, rather than alleviates his pain.

When I release him, he whirls round to face me with raised fists. The drink he’s taken makes him rotate a few degrees too far. By the time he’s corrected himself, a meaty hand has landed on his shoulder.

‘Sit. Down.’

The kid obeys Butch without hesitation, leaving me facing the real head of the family. There’s a challenge in his eyes. I dare say he sees one in mine.

‘You gonna put us out over that?’

‘No. But if there’s anything like it again you’re out.’

He gives a small nod. ‘Fair enough.’

While I’m happy enough to fight him if needs be, I would like to keep him onside if possible. If he and his family aren’t behind the killings, they may know who is. He travels in different social circles to me and his is a community I don’t know. My only access into that element of society will have to come through him.

The rest of the night passes without incident until it’s time for them to leave. Most, if not all, of them are fully in their cups. As they walk away from their table Jim-Bob fronts up to me.

I back away from him as he tosses abuse towards me. It centres on the fact that I manhandled his kid. He thinks I’m retreating when all I’m doing is leading him outside so I don’t have to worry about damaging anything belonging to the Tree.

As I back-step down the three steps at the entrance, he uses them to launch himself forwards onto me.

Thanks to the steps he’s got a height advantage to add to his weight. My advantages are sobriety and intelligence. His advantages aren’t going to be enough.

He swings his right fist as he flies through the air. I take a swift step to one side and reach for his other arm. I grasp his wrist and lever him round to further emphasise the spinning momentum caused by the wild punch.

Because he’s airborne he can’t counteract the move by shifting his weight. When he lands, he’s on the half turn and staggers with his arms out as he tries to stay upright. Before he can react, I step forward and deliver a sharp uppercut to his jaw.

I turn without waiting for him to drop. There’s too many of them to stand around admiring my handiwork.

The kid is two paces away. His fists are raised, but he’s so drunk and inexperienced he’s lifted them so high they’re blocking his view. A solid dig in the gut leaves him doubled over, regurgitating everything he’s consumed.

The females in the group are shouting abuse at me as Butch elbows his way forward. There’s a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he gazes over his fists.

He’s leading with his right but I know it’s a trick because I’ve made a point of identifying his dominant hand.

I don’t have time to reflect on the wisdom of researching possible opponents as he feints twice with the right and steps forward to throw a couple of left jabs.

I lean back to dodge the blows and duck under the right cross he follows them with so I can deliver a couple of hard lefts to his ribs.

He grunts but doesn’t stop swinging. I manage to dodge the first couple of punches until he lands a roundhouse that restarts the amateur orchestra in my head.

The realisation he wants to keep this as a fistfight makes me change my tactics. When he sends out his next punch, I grab his arm and wheel inside twisting and bending as I go.

I’m sure the move wouldn’t work against anyone with martial arts training, but he spins over my shoulder and lands on his back as intended.

My knee drops into his gut and then I’m on him. My blows rain down on him as my self-loathing for letting Alfonse down finds an outlet.

It takes all my willpower for me not to pound him into mincemeat, but when I feel his struggles wane I stand up and wait to see which, if any, of the family are willing to continue the fight.

None are, so I push through them and make my way back into the Tree.

16

Gazala closes the door behind her and retrieves the slice of toast from her mouth. The sun is alone in the clear blue sky but it’s too early in the day for its warmth to be felt yet.

She sets herself a brisk pace to counteract her late start. She hadn’t meant to oversleep, but she’d worked into the small hours composing the first draft of her business plan. Every point on her father’s list had been addressed. She’d known that she ought to have stopped hours sooner, but she’d hit a stride where solutions to the myriad of problems were coming to her.

As her feet pound the sidewalk she is working on refinements to last night’s work. The tiredness she feels is insignificant when compared to the elation of having gotten through so much work.

The business plan was a chore she’d been putting off until her savings were sufficient to make the dream become a reality. Its daunting presence has loomed over her since her father first suggested writing it six months ago.

Now the task has been started, she understands her father’s insistence that she writes the business plan as soon as possible. Like the wise owl he is, he’d known how it would focus her mind on the financial aspects of the business, and help her to identify the flaws in her current thinking.

A copy of it rests in her handbag, ready to revise at lunchtime. Already in her head she’s redrafted the paragraphs on cash flow and unforeseen expenditures.

So wrapped up is she in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice the panel van fifty yards behind her.

Gazala takes a left turn and sets off through the park. At this time of day, it’s deserted – bar one lady walking a golden retriever. She passes the woman and exchanges a nod with her.

As she nears her intended exit, a panel van comes to a stop beside the sidewalk. It has no markings on it but she doesn’t give it any thought.

As Gazala leaves the park, the racist from yesterday leans out of the window. ‘Excuse me, girl. Can you tell me where I can get some gas?’

Against her better judgement, Gazala steps forward with her left arm pointing. ‘Go three streets down and take a left…’

The side door of the panel van slides open and strong hands grab her. She’s hauled into the van before she can offer any resistance or even finish her sentence.

Gazala is thrown onto her stomach and has a rag stuffed into her mouth and secured in place. Her arms are held behind her back while packing tape is wound around her wrists. She tries to kick out but she feels powerful fingers grasping her ankles.

The only thing she’s sure of, is that she’s about to be raped.

17

I enter LH Associates and make my way along the corridor to Elizabeth’s office. I’m hoping she’s got the information I requested. There’s precious little in the way of leads so far and I’ve lost a few hours with having to work last night.

Alfonse had spent the evening talking to Darryl and Sherrelle’s friends, looking for enemies, but had turned up nothing. None of the people he’d spoken to had said a bad word about them. That was to be expected as nobody wants to speak ill of the dead.

What’s strange, is that none of their friends knew of anyone who didn’t like them. At times like this people fall over themselves to help, and in their efforts to offer information they can often conjure up scenarios which never existed.

With no obvious enemies to focus the investigation on, their deaths are taking the shape of a hate crime. The list of suspects for such an act is an unknown quantity – made worse by the resurgence of open Klan activity. Marches have taken place throughout a number of states. Utah has a history of being a Klan stronghold and Casperton is a remote enough town for members to believe they can act as if it were still the twenties.

Another thing chewing at my mind is the conversation I had with Kenneth after I’d dealt with the Augiers. He told me a little more about the man who’d been looking for me. A man with an accent like mine.

I need more time and less of a workload to try and figure out who the man may be. The fact he sounds like me means he’s Scottish, which suggests a relative across on vacation. Yet it can’t be as simple as that. If a relative was across visiting, I’d have known about it.

My mother would have organised a big dinner and a party for them; if for no other reason than to be the centre of attention. The relatives would have been regaled with tales of my sister’s successful business, and my refusal to settle down and provide my mother with grandchildren to spoil.

The fact this hasn’t happened suggests the person looking for me is an unknown quantity. From Kenneth’s sketchy description of the man it’s hard to determine if he’s someone sent over by a lawyer, or if he’s a former acquaintance who’s travelling across the States and has decided to look me up.

It’s a stretch though, as it’s twenty odd years since I left Glasgow and I’ve not heard from any of my old friends. I made promises I didn’t keep and as soon as I realised what my Scottish brogue did to the local girls, all thoughts of Glaswegian mates were forsaken. If I’d been a few years older, there’s a better chance I’d have somehow kept in touch, but I wasn’t the only one to blame. None of them had written to me either.

If social media, or even emails, had existed, keeping in touch would have been a lot easier. Teenage boys are not renowned for their letter-writing skills.

The one ghost from my past that I expect to never turn up is my father. He walked out of the family home when I was six and hasn’t been seen or heard of since. It was Mother remarrying which brought us to Casperton.

Elizabeth greets me with a tight smile tinged with sadness. My presence here is a reminder of the horror which has invaded her world.

She’s brisk and business-like as she hands over an envelope.

I take a seat and break the seal. Inside is a single sheet of paper.

Below the letterhead is a name and address. Below that, a date and a brief outline of the case Darryl had fought against a Mr Jefferson.

‘I’m guessing this is all you can give me without breaking attorney-client confidentiality?’

‘I’m afraid it is. However, I can tell you from personal experience that when Mr Jefferson lost the case he flew into a rage, and shouted a lot of dumb threats.’

I like what she’s saying, but all of this happened long ago. It’s a stretch to think this Jefferson guy has killed a lawyer who defeated him five years ago.

Still, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Perhaps Jefferson has pinpointed losing that case as the beginning of a slide his life has taken; I need Alfonse to dig into the guy’s life.

A chime from my phone as I leave LH Associates makes me reconsider my plans for the day.

18

Dr Edwards looks at me over steepled fingers, as is his way, his face as inscrutable as ever. I would have blown off the appointment but I know Dr Edwards may be able to help me understand the killer’s motive.

‘I need your help.’

‘Do you realise the implications of what you’ve just said?’ His face still hasn’t changed. I must remember to never play poker with him.

‘You don’t understand, Doctor. I need your help with a case I’m investigating.’

His lips purse beneath his beard and fine lines appear at the edges of his eyes. ‘Would I be right to assume you’re looking into the murders of the family found up at Ashley Forest?’

I nod. ‘I need your opinion on what mind-set the killers may have – to commit a crime like that.’

‘I’m not a criminal psychologist, Jake. I’m just a plain old regular psychologist who’s trying to help a man who has some issues he needs to work through.’

‘And I’m a layman. Your knowledge and insights can help me.’ It’s not the first time we’ve done this dance. ‘They have before.’

He rests back into his chair. ‘Same arrangement?’ I know I’ve got him on board although it’s going to cost me more than I want to pay. It would be easy if it was money he was after. Instead he wants the truth about my feelings. Why I have stayed single and how it’s connected to my father’s abandonment of us. It works like a quid pro quo deal; I get his insights on the case but in return I have to give honest answers to his probing questions.

I tell him how the bodies were arranged at the dump site. His eyes widen as I speak. It’s good to see him have a human reaction to a horrific situation. I would think less of him if he didn’t.

‘So, you’re investigating their deaths and, by extension, their lives.’ His words are a statement rather than a question. ‘I presume you’re looking at possible enemies and, because of the way they were killed, you’ll also be considering hate groups.’

‘You’re right with your presumptions. So far, we’ve uncovered no known enemies, and everything we’ve learned points to them being well liked. This, in turn, suggests it’s a hate crime rather than a targeted one.’

He leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on steepled fingers. I let him think in peace. What I’m asking him is outside his area of expertise and I want him to give me a properly thought out answer.

I look around the office while he thinks; its muted tones are supposed to be calming. A couple of framed certificates hang on a wall. A watercolour of Kangle’s Bluff is the only splash of colour.

‘I can only judge hate groups from what I’ve seen in the media as I have no personal experience of them. Taking the Ku Klux Klan as an example, it would seem they are organised and have some kind of code of conduct. Their activity seems limited to marches. Their days of burning crosses and hangings, thankfully, seem to be in their past. I also think that if it was them, there would be other incidents across the country.’

He makes sense and I tell him as much. ‘What about other groups?’

‘Neo Nazis wouldn’t stage it to make it look like a Klan killing. They’d do it their own way and leave something there to claim the credit.’

‘Are you suggesting it’s an unknown group?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just giving you my interpretation of the facts.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘My turn. What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?’

‘About three months. What about the mentality of these killers?’

‘I can’t answer that because I’ve never met, or treated, anyone who’d do such a thing. The best I can imagine is that they are aggrieved at the Fourniers for no other reason than their skin colour. It may be the twenty-first century but there’s still a lot of nineteenth century thinking. Racism isn’t something that can be quickly eradicated from a person’s beliefs. Especially not if they are surrounded by like-minded people.’ He scratches his ear and picks up a pen. ‘Why do you think three months is the longest relationship you’ve had?’

‘Because I’ve never wanted to settle down with anyone.’

My answer is trite even to my own ears and I just know he’s going to follow it up.

‘Why is that, Jake? Have you not found the right woman, or is it a fallout from your father’s abandonment?’

‘I’ve never pictured myself with a wife and kids. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids, I just don’t think I’m cut out to look after one.’

He gives a little chuckle. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. Most of us pick it up as we go along.’

I’m making excuses and we both know it. The real truth is that I remember the pain when Dad left and I know how badly my mother blamed herself. I don’t want to be the one to cause such hurt. On the flip side, I never want another person I love to abandon me.

‘These killers, what about their mind set? I mean, c’mon, they’ve nailed a family of four to crosses and then set them on fire. They must be psychotic, right?’

‘I can’t answer that without asking them how they feel about it. If they’re now feeling remorse, then strictly speaking they are not psychotic. I suspect they will be though. The level of preparation needed for what they’ve done speaks of premeditation rather than impulse. My fear is this may only be the start. To kill in this way shows signs of egotism – megalomania even.’

‘How?’ The Glasgow use of the word slips out unbidden. It’s a long time since I lived there, but it’s where my roots are.

‘To take a life is a big step. To do so deliberately is a bigger one. To pre-plan to kill, and persuade others to help, shows a huge ego. The driving force behind this attack is an extremely dangerous person. I suspect they enjoyed what they did. Not in any sexual way, just as a means to an end. They’ll be fanatical in their beliefs like religious zealots. I believe they’ll see the murders as just.’

As I’m digesting what he’s said, he catches me with a broadside.

‘I trust you’re not serious about Taylor?’

I don’t answer him. I can’t without confirming I’m dating his receptionist and putting her job in jeopardy.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not trying to trick you. I overheard her talking to a friend about you.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t expect it to last this long.’

He’s been honest with me, so I give him the truth. ‘I don’t plan how long I’ll be with someone. It’s just when women start looking for commitment from me, or for the relationship to progress, I find myself drawing back. Things peter out and we part company.’

‘Then all I can say is let her down gently.’

As I make for the door he offers a final word of caution. ‘These people you’re hunting are dangerous, amoral killers. Like it or not, your accent marks you out as a foreigner. Stay safe.’

19

The van takes a sharp turn causing Gazala to slide into the boots of one of her captors. He straightens his leg, pushing her back into the centre of the floor.

Try as she might, Gazala can’t keep the fear from her eyes. Now the initial shock of being abducted has worn off, and her efforts to fight back or escape have proved futile, she has realised she is going wherever the men are taking her.

The gag in her mouth prevents her from begging for her life. The only part of her body she can use is her eyes.

She can see the three men guarding her. Two are older and the third is around her age. One of the older ones looks as if he’s been beaten up, the other has a bald head.

Figuring that the younger man offers her the best chance of some sympathy, Gazala tries to give him a beseeching look.

The bald man beside him is the one who reacts first. ‘Look, boy, she’s giving you the eye. Reckon she wants you.’

‘She can want. I ain’t puttin’ my dick in no chink slut.’ The youth’s disgust at the suggestion fills the back of the van with enough contempt to start a fight with the stench of sweat.

‘You dumbass. She ain’t no chink. She’s brown not yellow.’

‘Yeah? What is she then?’

‘Damned if I know. Korean maybe, or somewhere like that. She’ll be one of them Muslim bitches though.’ The bald man scratches at his ear, a lecherous grin splitting his face. ‘So you wouldn’t, huh?’

‘No way. Dunno what I’d catch from screwing a Muslim.’

Gazala bites down on her gag. Even though she’s Hindu, not Muslim, she knows these men are prejudiced against her. Telling them her true religion will achieve nothing apart from increasing the number of potential rapists.

The man with the battered face speaks for the first time. ‘You might think different if you could see what I can see. It might be the wrong colour but I’m sure it’ll work mighty fine.’

Gazala turns her head and sees the man has knelt on the van’s floor and is looking up her skirt.

She forces her knees over and manages to roll onto her side.

‘Don’t matter what you can see, I ain’t interested.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missin’, boy. That warm pussy will squirm like a snake. Do you see her eyes? She’s a fighter. Fighters make some good lovin’.’

‘You do her then. I ain’t puttin’ my dick in no Muslim bitch.’

‘You sure? We’ll hold her down for you.’

‘No way.’

Their callous words bounce off Gazala as she realises a new truth. She expects to be raped. Without being conceited, she knows she’s pretty and has a decent figure. That they plan to rape her is a terrible thing for her to know.

It is the youth’s disgust which makes the synapses in her brain make the necessary connections. He doesn’t want to rape her. He’s disgusted by the idea. Not the rape itself, but the contact with her.

While they’re talking about raping her, they’re not actually touching her yet. When they hauled her into the van, held her down and bound her, there was no sexual molestation.

Her biggest concern is that their faces aren’t covered and their tattooed forearms are on display. Even the most dim-witted abductor would know to hide their face, and recognisable features like tattoos, from their victims.

This can mean only one thing. They don’t care about her being able to identify them because they plan to kill her.

A thought crash-lands in her head; a vague memory of a news item half-heard over family chatter.

Something about a family being murdered. Something about crosses and fire.

The bad news synapse fires again.

The murdered family were black.

Their bodies were found on charred crosses.

Only racists would do such a thing.

She’s been snatched by a group who despise her for what they perceive to be her religion.

The man driving the van had looked at her as if she was the lowest of the low. He’d been checking her out as a victim not a conquest.

Religious and racial hatred often walk hand in hand.

Her brain shuts down as complete terror envelops her. She’d renew her struggles to break free of her bonds if her body wasn’t suffering such extreme shakes. Her teeth are sawing at the gag as her head thrashes about.

Her final indignity is her bladder emptying itself.

The drawl of the bald man rises above the thuds of her body on the van’s aluminium floor. ‘Looky here, boys. Our girl is getting all wet thinking about us.’

‘Dirty Muslim bitch. She’s filth and deserves to die.’ The youth’s heavy work boot swings out and catches Gazala’s chin knocking her out.

20

I switch off my phone and think about my conversation with Alfonse. He has computing skills far beyond the average person and can track, trace and find out information which is inaccessible to ninety-nine percent of the population. There are very few databases he can’t hack his way into when the notion takes him. Ideally he should be in Washington or New York working for a three letter agency, but he’s never been drawn to that kind of life.

I’ve asked him to find Jefferson for me. I have the address from Elizabeth, but it’s several years old and a three hour drive away. Once he’s confirmed an address, I can go and speak to him. Another thing I’ve asked him to do is to look into the Fournier’s finances and through their computers. It’s a long shot, but we have to consider every possible avenue of investigation.

The main thing I want him to look at though, is the Deep Web. That area of the internet where sites don’t try to be found. Rather they stay undercover. This is the area where the worst of the internet lies. The sites featuring Islamic activists beheading their captives; suicide forums; the worst kinds of extreme porn and a hundred and one other illegal services. If you need anything from fake ID to a contract killer, the Deep Web is the place you can buy it.

The brief I gave Alfonse is very specific for someone looking in a hidden place, for something that doesn’t want to be found, but if anyone can find it, he can.

I’m about to turn onto Main when my phone informs me of a message from Mother. As usual she’s typed in block capitals. Whenever Sharon and I explain that block capitals are akin to shouting, she just nods and tells us we always did respond better to shouts.

MEET ME AT SHERRI’S. 30 MINS

I send one back saying I’m too busy. Her reply comes back within seconds.

IF YOU DON’T COME I WILL REDECORATE THE TREE WITH YOUR BABY PHOTOS.

Knowing her, it’s not an idle threat. What I thought was a lunch invitation is really her summoning me. There are only two reasons for the summons. One is a set-up with the daughter or niece of one of her friends. The other is that she’s heard about the investigation I’m working on and wants to berate me for risking my life chasing killers. I hope it’s the first one.

As I’m walking into Sherri’s another possibility strikes me. Perhaps she knows who the mysterious stranger asking about me is, and is going to tell me about him.

Sherri’s is a fifties diner which has preserved its original décor, rather than a modern place fitted out to look like one. It’s ruled by the iron fist and soft heart of Sherri’s daughter and is the kind of place where you get reprimanded for not cleaning your plate. I eat here on a regular basis.

Mother is sitting in one of the leather seated booths at the back of the diner. She’s alone and wears an expression that would frighten a gargoyle.

I slide in beside her and offer a peck to her cheek.

She turns her head away. Not good.

Her eyes flash with anger and worry as she looks at me. ‘You’re investigating those murders, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am. I can’t let Alfonse down. He needs me.’

‘The police are paid to chase killers. You’re not.’

I can’t prevent the scorn in my voice. ‘Oh c’mon. You know how useless they are. You’re not seriously saying I should leave Alfonse to investigate it himself, are you?’

‘I’m saying you shouldn’t go risking your life again. You were lucky once, you might not be so lucky a second time.’ There’s a fierce intensity to her expression and tone. ‘Promise me you won’t risk your life again. It’s bad enough not being a granny without having to bury my one chance of grandkids.’

There it is again. Even when she’s worried about my safety she manages to bring children into the conversation. The desire for grandchildren fuels everything she says to me. With my sister unable to conceive, I am Mother’s only chance and she’s forever on my back about settling down and starting a family.

‘Nobody’s getting buried. I’m helping Alfonse identify the people who killed the Fourniers and that’s all. As soon as we have a suspect we’ll hand the information over to Chief Watson and step back.’

Her snort draws the attention of other diners. ‘Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Remember the last time you said that to me? You damn near got yoursel’ killed.’

She has me there. I have no defence, so I don’t offer one. Instead, I wave away her concerns.

‘This is different. He ended up hunting me.’

‘You carrying that gun I gave you?’

During the search for a serial killer, she gave me a gun to protect myself when I ignored her entreaties to drop the case. It’s now under the spare in the trunk of my car. Guns scare me. I don’t know how to use them and, as such, I’ll be a greater threat to myself, and those I’m trying to protect, than my intended targets. Besides, pulling a weapon of any kind escalates the situation.

‘I’m involved in the investigation, not the hunt. Taking down a bunch of racist killers is a job for law enforcement officers with a SWAT team at their disposal. I’m a doorman at a bar – not a vigilante or an avenging angel.’

‘You’ve got MacDonald blood in your veins.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Plus a nose for trouble and a stubborn streak that’s got you into more than your fair share of fights.’

‘I’m telling you, don’t worry. One fight to the death is more than enough for me. It’s not an experience I plan on repeating.’

I stand and leave before she can reply. That last outburst was perhaps a little harsh considering how I’ve dodged her questions on the issue, but at the same time it may well give her the reassurance she craves.

What I haven’t told her, or anyone else, is how I can’t sleep due to reliving the moment.

Were there a Catholic church in Casperton, I dare say I’d end up in a confessional booth. A Glasgow upbringing isn’t something you can escape.

Considering Mother’s concerns, I’m glad I didn’t quiz her on who might be asking around town for me. She’s worried enough as it is without me adding to her burden.

When I have a spare moment I’ll call my sister. She’s the one who keeps in regular contact with the family back in Glasgow. If it’s anything to do with the family, she’ll know.

21

Chief Watson is at his desk when I stride into his office. The desk is neat with only a large sketchpad, telephone and framed photo on it. As ever, the sketchpad is littered with scribbles and notes in his scrawl. I know from experience they are placed in no kind of order. He just writes wherever his pen lands. It wouldn’t work for me, but everyone has their own methods and he’s the only law enforcer within fifty miles who I trust to run a proper investigation.

‘You got anything, Boulder?’

His tone is full of stress and it’s only a matter of time before he starts kneading his temples.

I fill him in on what Alfonse and I have learned and give him a moment to digest it.

‘You reckon it’s this Jefferson?’ He scratches his chin. ‘It doesn’t seem likely to me.’

‘Nor me. I’m still gonna check him out though.’

‘I like the idea about the Augiers. They seem much better candidates for this kind of thing.’

‘Are you thinking it’s Klan related?’

The chief fixes me with a scorn-laden stare. ‘Of course I am. What else can it be? Those rednecks sound like they’re the type to get mixed up in that kinda thing.’

‘Perhaps they are; perhaps they’re not.’ I shrug. ‘I know they’re not the finest part of society, but I’m not sure they’re that bad.’

‘If not them, then who?’

‘That’s the big question. As horrible as it seems, it’d be better if the Fourniers were targeted because of a grudge rather than the colour of their skin. I’ve got Alfonse going through their computers and their finances.’

‘I wish I could share your enthusiasm for it being anything other than a hate crime. The nature of their deaths screams Klan activity to me. Nobody else would do such a thing. Can you imagine how they suffered?’ He doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer. ‘Those poor, poor people. Tell me something, Boulder. If that’s not a hate crime, then what is it?’

‘I think you’re right that it’s a hate crime. I just don’t want to jump to any conclusions before there’s evidence to back up the theory. If I wanted to shift the blame for a murder I’d committed, this seems like a pretty good way.’

‘You’re saying the method was chosen as a distraction to the investigation?’ His knuckles begin to knead his temples. ‘If it’s not hard enough looking for unknown Klan members, now we also have to identify a group who’re impersonating them.’

I don’t bother to answer his question. It’s three parts rhetorical and we’ve already been over this ground. Instead I tell him about the things I’ve asked Alfonse to look into.

He nods in agreement as he listens.

‘Can he really search in those places?’

Being mindful of who I’m speaking to, I hesitate before answering. The chief waves a hand and tells me not to worry about him going after Alfonse.

‘Alfonse can get into all kinds of places. If anyone can pinpoint things on the Deep Web, it’s him. Haven’t you got your tech guys looking at their stuff?’

He follows my change of subject. ‘Yeah, but they’re not what you call quick. Or efficient. Tell you the truth, Boulder, I only ever understand one word in three when they send me a report.’

I keep the smile off my face but it isn’t easy. Chief Watson is of a generation where computer usage is a necessary evil. He’ll have limited skills with those programs he needs to use. Internet browsing and email will be familiar to him as will whatever software the police uses.

The science behind computers will seem like witchcraft to him. How things actually work, and the technical terms used, may as well be Sanskrit for all his understanding of it.

‘What about the pathologist? Have you got any results from the autopsies yet?’

‘I have. They were alive when they were nailed to the crosses and alive when they were set alight.’ He pauses to let me ponder his words. It’s not a pleasant experience.

‘What about the toxicology reports?’

I’m stretching here. Hoping they were sedated before their murders. The chief shakes his head, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘Still awaiting results.’

I leave it a couple of minutes before speaking. The silence in the office is almost ethereal in its quality. Sure, the noises and chatter of the police station rattle on in the background, but I feel as if I’ve been transported elsewhere. From the look on his face, the chief is in a similar place.

‘Have you any ideas on the dump site?’

Do you mean why it was chosen?’

‘I do. It seems odd to me.’

‘Not to me. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Those poor folks could scream their heads off and there wouldn’t be a single person to hear them.’

I fix him with a stare. ‘That’s my point. Klan activity is usually more overt. Burning crosses used as warnings. Gangs of people at hangings. You saw the track up to the dump site. Didn’t look like a whole lot of people hiked up there.’

‘What are you saying, Boulder?’

His use of my name is a warning so I pick my words with care. ‘If those hunters or hikers hadn’t found the Fourniers they could have been there for weeks – or months. It was a horrific act carried out in secrecy. The Klan are no longer about being secretive; they have marches, websites and even spokespeople. The Klan want people to know about their activity. To be scared by it. Their goal is to have only white Christian men in positions of power. They consider themselves to be knights. They use terms like Imperial Wizard to describe their big kahunas. Their websites preach non-violence and show dates and times of future meets.’

His hands slam on the desk as he stands up. ‘What, you’re telling me they’re all just horribly misunderstood? You’ll be telling me that piranhas make great bath toys next.’ There’s enough scorn in his voice to flay a walrus.

If anyone else spoke to me like that, I’d have made them horizontal by now. Laying out the chief of police however, is a bad idea. Doubly so when you need his help.

‘You’re not a stupid man, Chief. I suggest you stop acting like one.’ If I can’t slug him, I’m sure as hell going to bring him down a peg or two.

We stare each other out for a moment until we’re interrupted by the desk sergeant. He passes the chief a message.

The paper is tossed onto the desk as the chief slumps into his chair. ‘An Indian girl has gone missing.’

‘Don’t you mean native American?’

‘I mean Indian, as in, from the country India.’ He’s calmer but not by much. ‘She left for work this morning and didn’t get there. Her purse and cell were found lying on a sidewalk halfway between work and home.

The implications of the girl’s heritage isn’t lost on either of us. Her purse and cell being found on a sidewalk indicate she’s been abducted and her belongings discarded. These days even the densest of criminals knows to dispose of their victims’ cell phones.

It’s too early for a normal missing person’s report to be filed and acted upon. Twenty-four hours is the starting point for that. Neither of us say that though.

My immediate thought is that, if she’s been snatched by a person or persons unknown, she’ll be terrified she’ll be raped, or if she’s seen the news, of being crucified and burned alive.

If she’s been grabbed by the gang who killed the Fourniers, her chances of survival are so low as to be negligible. Provided she hasn’t already been murdered.

The chief is on his feet – the hat in his hands a sign our meeting is over. I promise to call him later, and leave.

My next stop is Green River. It’s a hundred and eighty miles or so to the south. I plan to be there within two hours.

22

Gazala comes to, only to find she’s still in the back of the panel van. The floor pitching and yawing causes her to slide around, bumping into the boots of her captors.

Their conversation has moved from rape to sports. They’re discussing the pitcher for Salt Lake Bees and his recent game stats.

Her jaw hurts and she’s desperate for a cold drink. Neither of these things worry her too much. In the greater scheme of things such minor discomforts as thirst and a sore chin are the least of her problems.

It doesn’t take her long to work out they must be travelling along a rough track. The movement of the floor tells her as much.

This can mean only one thing: she’s being taken somewhere remote. Somewhere her captors can rape or kill her without being disturbed.

Every time the van lurches into a hole, or over a rut, she picks up another bruise. It doesn’t matter; she wants the journey to last forever. Whatever happens when she is taken out of the van will be far worse than anything she’s endured so far.

The van draws to a halt and her captors clamber out. The bald man slides the door shut behind him.

Now she’s alone she begins to fight against her bonds. Her efforts cause her body to wriggle across the floor. Something pointed digs into her back and snags at her blouse.

She can feel where it’s drawn blood and the realisation is a welcome one. If it’s sharp enough to cut her skin through the blouse, it’ll be sharp enough to cut through the tape binding her wrists.

It takes a lot of wriggling for Gazala to manoeuvre her body so she can saw at the tape binding her wrists. Once in position, she saws her arms back and forth until she feels the tape begin to part.

After what seems like an age, the last strand of tape parts and her hands are free. As she picks at the end of the tape around her ankles with her right hand, she rubs her left hand against her side in an effort to restore some blood flow.

After a minute she changes hands and uses weak fingers to grasp the end of the tape which her nails have worked loose. Thirty seconds later her ankles are free.

She grits her teeth and pulls at the tape holding her gag in place. However much it hurts, she mustn’t cry out. If they hear her cry out they’ll know she’s broken free of her bonds.

One quick yank and the tape is on the floor of the van, along with the other pieces. The skin around her mouth burns but no sound escapes her lips.

Now she has a decision to make. Does she try and escape now or does she wait until the men come for her, and burst out of the door as soon as they open it?

Both options are fraught with danger. If the men are outside the van, they’ll react as soon as she opens the door. Waiting for them to open the door is also full of risk. Instead of getting away unseen she’ll be entering a race right from the start. As her captors have the van, the only way she’ll be able to escape is to go across the countryside.

Not the best of ideas when the men are sure to know this area much better than her. It’s still a better idea than letting them do whatever they’re planning to do though.

To help her decide she puts her ear to the back door and listens.

She hears voices. Not loud, not quiet, just the voices of a group of men chatting. She guesses they are about eight or ten feet from the back of the van.

Too close for comfort. By the time she’s opened the door and taken a step they’ll be on her.

This means she’ll have to burst past her captors and hope she can outrun them.

Now she knows what she has to do, she starts looking at ways she can give herself every possible advantage.

Her shoes are ballet style flats. Great for comfort and work but not good for running. If she loses a shoe and has to run barefoot she may as well stop and let the men recapture her.

She remembers the man who bound her dropping the roll of tape into a tool locker at the front of the van. The youth and the bald man had used the locker as a seat.

When she heaves the lid open she finds the roll of tape sitting on a bag of tools. She removes the tape, a screwdriver and a utility knife.

The knife blade is an inch in length. Long enough to do some damage with a slash but no use as a stabbing weapon. That’s where the screwdriver comes in. It’s the kind of long, thin, narrow type used on wall sockets or other fine work.

A hammer, or something else that could be used as a club, would have been a good find, but there wasn’t one. It could be a good thing; the extra weight may slow her down or at least upset her rhythm.

She moves on, conscious the men may come back for her at any moment.

Using the weapons is a last resort to prevent recapture. There are at least four men outside the van and she knows there’s no way she can fight them all off. The weapons are there for defence should one of them manage to grab her.

She puts the weapons on the floor and winds the tape around each foot in turn. With her feet secured into her shoes, Gazala turns her attention to her skirt. It’s tight enough to hinder her legs at full stride.

That can’t be allowed to happen. She can either remove the skirt or hitch it up over her hips.

Gazala is about to hitch up the skirt when her eyes land on the knife. Rather than risk the skirt lowering itself as she runs, she slips it off and cuts a slit in both sides before pulling it back on. Now her dignity will be more or less maintained and her skirt will provide no hindrance to her planned sprint.

With her preparations complete, she goes through a series of stretching routines to make sure her muscles are ready for the sudden burst of exercise she’s going to give them.

Five minutes into her exercises she hears a hand grab the handle of the van’s back door.

She tenses herself, ready to dash; to stab and slash if need be.

It’s the youth who opens the door. Gazala’s hand turns at the last moment so she delivers a backhanded punch to his face rather than a slash.

Unprepared, and off balance, he staggers backwards before tripping into the bald man.

Gazala sees none of this. She’s travelling past him as soon as the blow lands. Ahead of her is open land. A track runs from left to right and there’s a ranger, or forester station a few yards to the right.

She runs straight ahead. Towards the open land where the van can’t follow her.

With the possible exception of the youth, she reckons she’ll be fitter and faster than any of them.

Shouts follow her. Gunshots don’t.

She hears heavy footsteps, and heavier breathing, for twenty paces but it starts to fade as she outruns her pursuers.

If she can just keep going for a few more minutes she’ll be far enough ahead to slow to a pace more suited to the rough terrain. That she might turn an ankle is a constant fear.

23

I pull into the car park of a motel. Jefferson’s listed address is next door and I want to have a scout of the area.

Green River is one of those cities that populate all the main interstates. Spaced every hundred miles or so, their main trade comes from gas stations, diners and motels servicing the passing travellers. Garages and mom and pop stores also do a decent turn and the rest of the economy supports itself with local services. Casperton would be the same if it hadn’t got lucky by establishing itself beside some oilfields.

A rumble of my stomach tells me it’s time I ate. I want to ignore it, but I know I need sustenance of some kind. Discussions with strangers always go better if your body doesn’t embarrass you. A bathroom would also be good. I made the drive from Casperton in a little over two hours, but only because I’d shattered the speed limit and managed not to get pulled over.

I take a look along the wide street and spy a diner halfway along the next block. The walk is a short one taken with long strides as I welcome the chance to stretch my legs.

The diner is like Sherri’s without the authenticity; or the high standards of hygiene; or the friendly staff.

Most tables are occupied, although none of the patrons seem too enamoured with the place. Off to one side a mid-forties couple are engaging in a hissed argument while another couple are struggling to contain their young children from burning off steam now they’ve escaped the confines of a car.

A trucker shovels food into his mouth as if it’s the first meal he’s had for weeks, while a man who must have waved goodbye to his eighties several years ago, stares into his cup with rheumy eyes.

The server greets me with a bored expression. She looks as if she’s spent her life making bad decisions, and waiting tables is her punishment.

‘C’n I getcha?’

Even her voice sounds defeated. There’s no effort to add warmth or basic civility. I stop short of pointing out that friendly waiting staff can double, or treble, their wages with tips, and order a well-done burger and some fries. It’s hard to get food poisoning from well-cooked meat, and the heat of the oil in the fryer will see off any germs on the fries.

While I’m waiting, I focus my mind on the same things I’ve been looking at all the way down here: the questions I want to ask Jefferson, the missing girl, whether Alfonse has learned anything, and whether the search team found any clues on the trail up to the dump site.

The questions are all no brainers – depending upon Jefferson’s answers I may have to think on my feet. I’ve tried to foresee as many comebacks as possible, but don’t expect I’ve thought of them all.

The Indian girl who appears to have been snatched is a worry. I should have asked Chief Watson for more details. The obvious ones like her name, age and where she was travelling from and to.

It was stupid of me not to do so. My job at the Tree means I know a lot of the people in Casperton and there’s a chance I know her. I can think of three girls whose race could put them in the frame, but know only one of them well enough to do anything more than pass inane greetings. I hope it’s not the one I know as she has two young kids.

The chief won’t be able to start an official investigation into her disappearance until the obligatory twenty-four hours have passed. In normal circumstances he’d be able to start looking for her pretty much right away. He’ll be annoyed and frustrated there’s no way he can redirect any of his resources away from the investigation into the multiple murders, regardless of how much he may suspect the Indian girl’s life is at stake.

My last thought jars with me. I’m thinking of this missing girl as the Indian girl. That’s wrong. She’s a girl with Indian parents. I think of myself as a guy, rather than a Scottish guy. Why should she be any different?

This is the kind of natural and casual racism that creeps into society and goes unnoticed. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be, but it’s still there in all of us. My grandfather’s tongue was laden with terms like darkie, chink or wog. While those terms are now outdated and offensive, racial stereotyping and grouping still goes on in our subconscious.

Alfonse is my best friend and I’ve never thought of him as anything other than a guy, a mate, a buddy. Not once in all the years I’ve known him have I used his skin colour as an identifier or as the butt of a joke. Yet when someone adds a country of origin to a person’s sex, my subconscious pounces on it and gift wraps the whole package into one racist parcel.

My burger and fries arrive as Darla answers my call. The chief’s assistant gives me the information I need and manages to call me sweetheart twice, and honey four times, in a three minute conversation.

The missing girl’s name is Gazala Kulkarni. She’s twenty-two and was born and bred in Casperton. I wasn’t, and as such will never be classed as a true local. Gazala lives with her parents and works at C-Dude. According to the report filed by her father she left home at eight-thirty and never arrived at work. Her boss had called at ten after nine demanding to know why she wasn’t at work.

I’ll refocus on her disappearance as I drive back to Casperton. For the meantime, the Indian girl shall no longer exist. Her name is Gazala and that’s the way she deserves to be thought of.

The burger and fries are better than expected and the plate is in good condition with no bacteria-laden chips or cracks. The chef must care more about hygiene than the waiting staff.

I call Darla again and get answers to the questions I forgot to ask the chief.

The search of the trail uncovered three faded candy wrappers, six cigarette butts, one cigar butt and, best of all, a few flakes of white paint. The paint was from where a vehicle appeared to have slid from the trail and scraped against a tree.

What is most encouraging is that the searchers’ report stated the tree showed a recent gouge which had led them to finding the paint flakes.

I’m no expert on the subject, but I’ve read enough crime novels to know automobile paint can be traced to a particular vehicle. It’s just a matter of time before the lab results come in and give us a make and model.

Saliva from the cigar and cigarette butts would be better than an ID on the paint. A quick run through a DNA database or two and the chief could be on the phone to the nearest SWAT team.

The torrential rain on the night of the murders is likely to have ruined any chance of a DNA trace. I’m sure Chief Watson will have sent them for tests anyway. The odds are it’ll be a waste of time and money, but he’ll have procedures to follow and he might just get lucky.

I’m tempted to call Alfonse, but I know he’ll call me as soon as he has some news. I also know disturbing him when he’s deep in a project is a bad idea. Once he gets himself on the digital highways he’s lost to the world. Interruptions are met with biting sarcasm. The fact I’ve directed him off the highways, onto the back roads, will at least double his displeasure at my calling for an update.

I decide against calling him and count out the exact change to pay the check. As an insult to the least-welcoming waitress in Utah, I leave a solitary dime three inches to the side of the check. It’s tight of me, but no more than she deserves.

Once I’m outside, I walk round to the back of the diner and find the trade entrance. My knock is answered by a homely woman with a natural smile.

‘Yes, sugar?’

I hand over a five dollar bill. ‘Your waitress will come back here in a minute. She’ll be bitching about a customer who left her a dime tip. Tell her it’s a statement of customer satisfaction, and share the real tip among those who’ve done their jobs the way they’re paid to.’

The waitress’s voice comes storming out the door carrying its own weight in expletives.

I get a knowing smile and a wink as the homely woman pulls the door closed.

24

The house is a nice one, even if it is next to a motel. The Mercedes on the drive is a recent model. The guy who lives here won’t be rooting down the back of his couch for loose change. If Mike Jefferson is the man who answers the door I’ve wasted my time coming to Green River.

He stands five-three in his sandals and has the build a supermodel would consider too thin. Not only that, his skin is two shades of ebony darker than Alfonse’s.

Still, I’ve made the journey, so I might as well ask my questions, stupid as they now seem.

I’ve learned that telling the truth about why I’m asking questions, can distort, or even prevent, the answers. I proffer my hand and get ready to shovel some bull. I’ve done this enough times to know I need to speak fast and with conviction.

‘Hi. Are you Mike Jefferson? I’m Jake Boulder, you don’t know me, but my lawyer has told me about you. Said you were the right man to offer me a lifeline.’

He’s intrigued. Who wouldn’t be, upon learning that a lawyer has said they could save a stranger.

He smiles. ‘You got two minutes, Mister, and then I’m going to close this door.’

For a little man he’s got plenty of arrogance. I may have to give him a focussing dig in the ribs if he gets too cocksure.

‘You tried to buy the Railroad Inn in Casperton a few years back. I bought it last year and can’t make a go of it. My lawyer told me you might be the man to take it off me and turn it around.’

His eyes narrow as I speak. He’ll be remembering his conduct at the time.

‘’Fraid you’ve had a wasted journey. Best thing that happened to me not gettin’ that place. I’m guessing your lawyer is the guy who kicked my ass in court. Didn’t know it at the time but that dude did me a big favour. When you see him, tell him I apologise for all the stuff I said back then.’

He goes to close the door. My boot gets in the way.

‘I’m curious, why is it the best thing that happened to you?’

He glares at me until I change my expression. All of a sudden his cockiness goes. Perhaps he’s realised I might just be pissed enough to lash out. He’d be right.

Problem is, it’d be like smacking a child. There’s no glory or satisfaction to be had from winning an unfair fight.

‘When I didn’t get that place, I bought a motel instead. Got four now and it’s easy money. Once you own all the places along a section of highway, you can charge whatcha like.’

I try another angle. Honesty. ‘I’m not really looking to sell the Railroad to you. I’m investigating the murder of the lawyer you threatened.’

‘I knew you was spinning me some line.’ He taps his nose. ‘Got me a damn fine bullshit detector. When was he killed?’

There’s no worry in his face. Curiosity, yes. Concern for his own implication, no.

‘Two nights back.’

‘Figured it might have been. You’re wastin’ your time again. Just had me a few days in Vegas. Only got back a couple of hours ago.’ He pulls out his phone. Shows me his Facebook feed. It’s filled with selfies in front of Sin City’s various landmarks.

It’s a dead end. It was always a long shot, but Jefferson’s alibi makes it feel like a wasted effort.

I point the nose of my Mustang towards the 191 and lean on the gas pedal.

It doesn’t take me long to start second-guessing myself.

Jefferson could have taken those pictures at any time and just uploaded them over the last few days. He could have been lying about owning four motels.

I make a mental note to get Alfonse to check out his story, for no other reason than to stop me doubting myself. Whichever way I look at it, I can’t see a black man setting up a murder scene in a way that suggests Klan activity.

What if it’s a deliberate set-up by members of the ethnic community who are trying to trigger a race war with the Klan?

The thought is so extreme it makes me question my own sanity.

I prod at this theory for a mile or two and then discard it as stupid. My brain has more important things to think about than ridiculous ideas. Today’s multicultural America is too advanced for a full hate war. Sure, there are pockets of idealists all over the country, but they lack the support of the general public and, as such, are only a threat in isolated areas. Most of these will be on the radar of at least one government agency and will receive close scrutiny.

25

Gazala’s arms pump as she hurtles her way through the brush. The rough branches of scrub tear her skin as her legs thrust her forwards, but she doesn’t feel anything except terror.

She can hear the panting of her captors and the heavy thuds of their boots as they chase after her. Their shouted curses fly past her ears, each one creating an extra prickle of urgency. And terror.

The ground is rough underfoot with a myriad of loose stones and small pebbles to slip on, yet the tape binding her shoes in place does its job and she’s able to run at three quarters of the pace she could manage on a racetrack.

Her eyes are fixed ten feet in front of her. They’re looking for the easiest path, the worst obstacles and hidden dangers like snakes and animal burrows.

A hundred yards from the van she finds a narrow animal track. It may be less than a foot wide and nothing like straight, but, compared to the terrain she’s already crossed, it’s a godsend.

She stretches her legs, further increasing her speed.

The shouts behind her are getting fainter.

She risks a look over her shoulder. Sees the youth fifty yards behind her. The bald man some twenty paces behind him.

Looking back is a mistake. When she returns her eyes forward she sees a twist in the trail later than is wise at the speed she’s running.

Her ankle bends as she makes a sudden change of direction to avoid the foot-high cactus. She misses the spiky plant but sprawls in a tangled heap; her grip on the makeshift weapons loosening as instinct opens her hands ready to break her fall.

She tries to rise. To resume her dash for safety.

Her ankle gives way as soon as she puts weight on it.

The scream which escapes her mouth is divided equally between pain, frustration and sheer unadulterated terror.

The younger of her captors catches up with her. Sees her clutching her ankle and starts to laugh around his gasps for air.

His panting adds greater insult than the laughter. It shows he is nowhere near as fit as she is. If she hadn’t injured herself, there is no way he would have caught her.

He leaves her half lying, half sitting, until his breathing settles. When his chest stops heaving, his fingers grasp her arms as he stands her upright.

She expects him to hit her. Or kick her ankle.

He does neither. His back bends and she feels his bony shoulder dig into her gut as he straightens with her over his shoulder.

‘You hit me just once, I’ll stand you up and drag you back by your hair.’

The pain receptors in Gazala’s ankle make the decision for her.

She knows there’s no way she can manage to walk back to the van. If the youth is true to his threat, she’d end up being hauled over the rough ground like a sack of garbage. Her skin would be flayed by a thousand sharp rocks and thorny bushes.

The youth hasn’t gone three paces before the other two men from the back of the van join him.

Every step the youth takes sends a jolt through Gazala as his shoulder echoes his footfall. She doesn’t know whether the nausea she feels is due to the bounced impacts of his shoulder on her stomach, or fear for what awaits her.

The youth drops her in a heap on the dusty track. Another scream forces its way out when her injured ankle bangs off a stone.

The van is on one side of her and to the other is the hut she glimpsed earlier. Her feet point to a forest but she doesn’t know which one. Doesn’t care. Whatever happens now, knowing the name of the forest isn’t going to make it any better.

Gazala can feel the adrenaline leave her body. In its wake are shaking hands, tiredness and the tears she’s held back since being abducted. The spasms of her stomach cause her to retch.

The pain in her ankle settles from white hot to a deep dull ache. It was better when it hurt more. She’d been able to fantasise about passing out and escaping this nightmare.

She watches as the bald man pulls a knife from his pocket and unfolds the blade. His familiarity with the weapon is almost as frightening as the blade itself.

‘Please. Please don’t kill me. Whatever you want, I’ll do.’

‘I know you will.’

It’s the driver who speaks to her. His tone is measured, calm, confident.

‘Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.’ A thought comes to Gazala. She’s disgusted she didn’t think of it sooner. It’s obvious why she’s been snatched. ‘My father is a wealthy man. He’ll pay your ransom. Don’t worry about that.’

‘We don’t want your filthy money. Do we?’

Three heads shake in answer to the driver’s question.

Gazala swallows. If they don’t want money, the only other thing they can want is her body. ‘Is it me you want?’

‘You’ll serve a purpose. Nothing more, nothing less.’

His words are non-committal, neither confirming nor denying a desire for her.

The bald man tosses the knife, end over end, and catches it by the blade. If the gesture is meant to scare her it works.

She knows she’s powerless. That she can’t escape these men and save herself. Therefore she has to make a decision. When they start to rape her she can either fight back or lie still in acceptance of the inevitable.

It’s a terrible choice and not one she knows how to make. Fighting won’t change the end result and is certain to add to the number of injuries she has. Yet, it would be good to bury her good foot into one of their crotches. To gouge at eyes and scratch any exposed skin, or even grab that knife and bury it hilt deep into one of them.

The chances of it working are slim and there are enough of them to hold her down while turns get taken. The thought of letting them mount her unchallenged goes against every instinct she possesses.

Logic says otherwise. It’s telling her to go along with their wishes and give them what they want. To give them so much pleasure they’ll keep her alive. Logic tells her she’s seen their faces and that they plan to kill her. It whispers to her that she must give them a reason to keep her alive.

Gazala can’t decide which will be worse. Giving herself to them, or death.

She wants to fight, but knows she can’t.

When the bald man reaches down and uses his knife to cut away the rest of her skirt, Gazala’s survival instinct makes the decision for her.

She doesn’t offer resistance.

When the knife is pointed towards her blouse, her fingers get to the buttons first. They fumble but achieve their task. She pulls her blouse off and uses it to wipe her tear-stained face.

‘Well looky here boys. This here Muslim whore is gettin’ herself all pretty for us.’

The bald man’s words are full of glee, but they bounce off Gazala. Now a course of action has been decided upon, she has a focus. In the greater scheme of things, a little name calling is the least of her problems.

The driver is less impressed. ‘Just you watch her. She’s already tricked you once.’

Gazala focusses on the bald man and his knife. He points it at her chest and cocks his head. She understands his meaning and reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra and lowers it onto her blouse. Her mouth is kept closed, lest they see how hard she’s gritting her teeth.

She’s looking at her feet rather than him but she can feel his gaze locking onto her exposed breasts. It’s like the prickle of a thousand insects’ feet walking across her chest. Every last pore is being examined and lingered over. It takes all her self-control not to shudder in disgust and shield her breasts behind folded arms.

‘You ain’t finished yet.’

When she looks up the knife points at her crotch and then bounces twice.

She can’t prevent the frustrated sigh from escaping her lips, as she slips her thumbs into the sides of her panties.

Her attempts to remove them without aggravating the injury to her ankle fail, and a pained yelp passes her lips.

‘Now!’

The single word from the driver is a barked command.

Three pairs of hands grab at her. Pinion her.

The youth has her shoulders. The bald man and the guy with the battered face hold her feet.

She bucks and twists in their hands. It’s not what she planned to do; the suddenness of their attack has thrown her planned acquiescence.

A twist of her foot from the bald man stops her resisting him as he parts her legs.

The driver comes into view.

He’s holding something in his hand. It’s a long bar with a pointed end. Not sharp like a spear, but kind of tapered to a blunt point. He lays it between her legs. She feels the point against her thigh. It’s cool, even in the morning sun.

When Gazala sees the driver lift a large hammer with his free hand, she realises the bar being cold is the least of her worries.

26

None of life’s daily irritants matter to Noelle today. The computer crashing five times in a row, her boss acting like a fool in front of a new client, the customer who spent twenty-five minutes bitching about something which turned out to be his own mistake; every one of them are irrelevant.

Oscar had been delighted when she’d told him her news. He’d beamed with joy, kissed her stomach and dropped to one knee.

She’d said yes before he was even finished asking the question.

Dinner had to be thrown in the bin. By the time they came back downstairs it was ruined. Neither had cared. They’d ordered a pizza and set about calling their families.

Whenever she can grab five minutes without her boss hanging around she is researching wedding venues on Google.

Oscar was insistent that they must be married before the baby arrives. The time frame is a double-edged sword; she wants to be married to Oscar as soon as possible, and agrees with his sentiments that their baby shouldn’t be born out of wedlock, but there is no way she wants to waddle down the aisle eight months pregnant.

Together they’ve decided to marry in two or three months’ time. Their wedding is to be a small affair. Close family and one or two friends will make the guest list. Neither want a grand affair with hundreds of guests; they just want a simple ceremony, observed by those closest to them.

She knows that the biggest problem she’s facing, is finding a decent venue which has a free date. Horrible as it is, Noelle is aware that her best chance of finding somewhere may lie with the cancellation of someone else’s dream.

So far she’s managed to find three venues she likes, and she plans to call them in her lunch break to check availability.

Her sister and best friend have agreed to join her on a trip to Salt Lake City to look for a wedding dress on Saturday.

Noelle leaves the office and heads towards a sandwich bar. Ten minutes later she’s on a bench in the park wiping traces of mayo from the side of her mouth.

She’s too involved with mentally planning her wedding to notice the man watching her. He’s just another piece of background in a world which has a new focus; a minor detail of little consequence.

If she was paying attention she’d notice his dead eyes, the way he’s pretending not to observe her every move, and the way everyone else is keeping out of his way.

The man thinks of her as a canuck and Oscar as a beaner. She can be tolerated. Her fiancée can’t.

27

I let myself into Alfonse’s apartment; there’s coffee brewing so I help myself after using the bathroom. Alfonse is in his office. I can hear his fingers rattling across a keyboard.

He’ll be using his PC rather than the laptop. Whenever he does a big hacking job he always uses the PC as he ends up pounding the keys in such a frantic manner he breaks them.

Two keyboards tossed into a corner tell their own story.

Various sheets of paper are pinned to the wall. He flicks glances at them as he types.

A look at his computer doesn’t educate me as to his progress. He’s got several different windows open and he’s jumping between them, firing in commands or printing results.

I make him a coffee and drink mine as I watch him work. As usual, he has total focus on what he’s doing. The serious expression on his face is a mixture of concentration and revulsion at the things he’s looking into. It can’t be easy for him to read the propaganda and hate on the various Klan websites he’s investigating. From time to time his face wrinkles with disgust.

His first acknowledgement of my presence is a sheet of paper thrust my way. I whip it from his hand before he drops it at my feet. His racing mind accelerates everything he does and he expects others to match his pace.

I read with hope, rather than expectation. He’s given me the intimate details on the Fourniers.

Their bank accounts are healthy enough to suggest a comfortable, if not affluent, life. Bills are paid direct from their bank and their credit card spend is nothing to write home about.

A look at their respective browsing histories shows nothing untoward. The sites they visited were entertainment, retail or informational. Tyrone had managed to get round the parental lock on his iPad, and looked at a few websites with wet T-shirt videos. If I didn’t know his morals so well, I’d suspect Alfonse’s hand in the hacking.

Alfonse’s report also covers the family’s social media feeds, email and cell communications. Or rather it doesn’t. A single line states, no hate mail, no bullying, no issues.

The line is typical of Alfonse’s dryness. He’s detached himself from the personal element and is treating the case like any other. Or at least that’s what he’s trying to appear to do. I’ve been his friend too long to be fooled by words on a page.

The printer kicks into action with a whir and a snap as the paper is grabbed by the mechanism.

‘Yours.’

Alfonse doesn’t even look at me as I take the pages.

I leave him to his task and look at the spreadsheets he’s generated. There’s only a handful of people in the country who can get into the places he can. Without his skills, we’d be chasing our tails – three steps behind the idiots who comprise Casperton’s detective squad.

The spreadsheets are filled with the details of Klan, Neo Nazi and various other hate groups. He’s got their websites, basic propaganda, contact details and many other points listed. One of the key things he’s done is dig into the people who created, maintain, or are the listed contact for the websites. In most cases it’s the same person.

The printer’s next whir is accompanied by a command from Alfonse. ‘Read that and tell me what you think.’

I lift the paper from the tray and scan the page. It’s a draft copy of a letter. Not just any letter. An email which purports to be from the FBI.

You and your organisation are on our watch list. To date we have not had any strong concerns regarding your activity which is why we’re requesting your help. We’re looking for potential or ex members of your organisation whose behaviour, actual or intended, was so extreme you took the sensible step of disassociating yourselves from them.

We urge you to contact us by return at once. Time is of the essence, so if we do not hear from you within twelve hours, we will impound all your electronic communication devices.

Special Agent Devereaux

This is a big step he’s planning to take. One from which there can be no going back. Not only could he be in serious trouble with the FBI, if any of the groups who receive this manage to trace it back to him, his life will be in danger.

I read the letter again, aware he’s stopped typing and has risen from his seat.

He leaves the room as I work through my reactions to this letter. When he returns, he’s got two fresh cups of coffee.

‘I presume you’ve fully thought this through?’ I put concern in my voice rather than a challenge. ‘Once you send that email there’s no recalling it.’

He gives a thin smile. ‘Actually, I can recall emails.’

‘So what do you expect to happen when this gets read? I take it you realise the first thing the recipients will do is delete their files?’

‘Of course they will. That’s what I’m planning on. I’ll be attaching a hidden program to the email. Anything deleted or removed from the devices that open the email will be sent to me. It’ll also send me anything from linked devices. The few who reply will be quicker to deal with than the ones whose deleted files I get.’

‘And what happens if someone traces the email back to you?’

‘They’ll find the IP address belongs to the FBI press office.’ He shrugs. ‘Or the Office of Public Affairs, if you want to give them their proper title.’

I don’t bother grilling him further. He’s on top of the obvious stuff I can think of. If this were a chess game, he’d be working out how to corner my king while I am still moving my first pawn.

‘Have you had any luck on the Deep Web?’

‘Some. It’s tougher to find stuff on there. I had to write a program to search for sites that show recent usage, along with key phrases and words. Once that’s done, I’ll have to examine them to see if they’re relevant to our search. After that it’ll be a case of getting their details and emailing them.’

‘That sounds like a mammoth task. How are you going to deal with all that yourself?’

‘Henry is coming over. It’s better that he’s here. Gives him something to do.’

I know what he means. Henry is Darryl’s brother and the most volatile of Alfonse’s family. There have been one or two occasions in the past when I’ve thought I may have to subdue him.

By enlisting his help, Alfonse will be able to keep an eye on him while also giving him a focus. Henry isn’t a bad guy, he just possesses more energy than he knows how to manage.

I tell Alfonse what little I’ve got, and leave. He needs peace and I need to keep moving.

28

The Augiers’ place is only forty miles from Casperton, but the journey takes me the best part of an hour. The road is narrow, and littered with sharp corners which prevent me from building up a decent head of steam.

I’m quite happy to drive fast on a good road, but only a fool drives round blind corners at speed. The last three miles being nothing more than a gravel track doesn’t help.

Sometimes you can judge people by the kind of home they keep. This is one of those times.

The Augiers live in the kind of place Jed Clampett left when moving to Beverley Hills. It looks as if a violent sneeze could demolish it. Some of the repairs to the timber walls look as if care has been taken, while others look like the hasty efforts of an uncaring oaf.

There’s a shack in a similar state of disrepair off to one side. Around it are a number of trucks, four tractors, and a couple of what I guess are farm implements. None of them look at all modern.

There’s not a lot of farming land around here once you get too far from the river valleys. What little there is will be fraught with hard labour and poor returns.

A door opens and Maisie-Rae steps out with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the late afternoon sun. The scowl on her face when she recognises me shows I’m going to get the welcome I expect.

I’m not surprised by her reaction, it shows a mother’s instincts.

I lift my hands in a surrender gesture. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble. I come with an olive branch.’

She looks puzzled. Her eyes dart to my hands, looking for the branch I’m talking about. Not finding it they flick across the yard towards the shack.

‘Butch. Jim-Bob. Freddie. Get your asses over here.’

I lean against a sun-bleached post and wait for them with my legs crossed at the ankle. Before they get all uppity, I need to show them I’m relaxed – that I’m not here for confrontation.

The door of the shack opens and three denim-clad bodies file out. As they walk across, I realise I’ll have to examine every word before I speak. Butch looks angry, but also curious as to why I’d show up. He has a hand on Jim-Bob’s arm, lest he get yet another silver medal.

It’s not them I’m worried about though. It’s Freddie, the drunk wannabe Lothario from last night, who has my full attention. Or rather the shotgun he carries does.

Even from twenty feet away I can see the redness of his eyes and the shake of his hands. The barrel of the shotgun points at the ground, which is something, but it’s the ground near my feet not his.

I can’t see if his finger is on the trigger and I have no way of knowing if the shotgun is loaded. The only safe option is to presume the answer to both of these questions is yes.

Jim-Bob points at me, and then my Mustang. ‘You got a lotta nerve showing your face here. Get back in your car and beat it ‘fore you get yo’self hurt real bad.’

‘Not so fast.’ Butch tosses a contempt-laden glance at his brother. ‘I want to know why he’s here.’

I keep my gaze steady when returning his. Well, as steady as anyone can when a still-drunk youth with too few live cells is pointing a shotgun at them. ‘I’m helping my friend investigate some murders. Was hoping you guys could answer a few questions, maybe help me identify a killer.’

‘Why’d we want to help you?’ Jim-Bob pushes past Butch and squares up to me. ‘You beat up on us and then come a-crawlin’ ‘specting we’ll help you out. You must be outta your mind, Mister.’

‘Shut up numbnuts. He didn’t beat up on us. If you remember what happened last night, you’ll perhaps recall it was you who started throwing punches around. He defended himself, nothing more, nothing less. You were wasted and picked a fight. When you lost, I stepped in and lost too. He coulda pounded on us a lot more, state we were in, but he didn’t. I’m interested in knowing why.’

‘I ain’t wasted now and neither are you.’

Jim-Bob’s hands curl into fists. He’s too close to me for Freddie to even consider pulling the trigger. It’s the one time I’ve been pleased to be close to him.

‘You heard your brother. Shut. Up.’ Maisie-Rae’s voice is laced with menace. ‘I saw what happened last night. Ain’t no difference if you’re wasted or not; he’ll kick your ass again. Don’t your face hurt enough already?’

Butch fixes me with a stare. ‘Say what you gotta say, Boulder.’

I let out a long sigh, relieved the conversation has got back on track. All the time Jim-Bob has been talking about fighting, young Freddie has been shuffling his feet while raising and lowering the shotgun.

I’m not used to having people aim guns at me. It’s an unnerving experience. Doubly so when the person holding the gun is a hungover halfwit.

I give them the background on the Fournier’s deaths and how I’m helping Alfonse investigate them.

Their reactions are telling. Freddie blanches and gives a little gag. The brothers remain implacable, bar the faintest trace of revulsion.

Maisie-Rae is the odd one; her face shows nothing but disinterest. ‘You come up here askin’ ‘bout some niggers who got themselves killed. You’re wasting your time, Mister. Ain’t nuthin’ to do with me, nor anyone else up here.’

The scorn and casual racism in her diatribe is lost on Jim-Bob and Freddie. Butch notices it though. He even goes so far as to wince.

‘I’ll deal with this. You get back to work.’ Butch points at the house and the shack.

There are grumbles, but the other three do as he says. Freddie’s offer of the shotgun is refused with a snarl accompanied by a violent push.

He leads me away from the house and we sit on the stump of a felled oak. His eyes hold intelligence and understanding.

It doesn’t take much to imagine him in a better setting, surrounded by people who are his equal. Instead, he’s scratching out a living while looking after his less intelligent family members.

As I watch his face, waiting for him to speak, I can almost see the cogs of his brain turning. He’ll be trying to work out how to neutralise his mother’s racist words, his nephew’s threatening behaviour and whether to tell me anything he may know.

‘She’s from a different time. Doesn’t know words like nigger are no longer deemed acceptable. I’ll be honest, I don’t know any well enough to form an opinion. I keep myself to myself and my family with me.’

I get his meaning. The unspoken words.

He’s living out here for the benefit of his family. With their attitudes and limited intelligence, they’ll end up incarcerated, or dead, if he doesn’t keep them in check.

Trouble attracts people like the Augiers, and Jim-Bob and Freddie are dumb enough to go looking for it on the occasions when it decides to leave them alone. Smarter guys higher up the food chain will rope them into stuff beyond their means and use them as fall guys.

Butch doesn’t let that happen. Keeps them out here, out of the way. Keeps them in a place where they’re no danger to others and therefore not to themselves. Once in a while a marriage to someone from a similar family will dilute the blood or offer an avenue of escape.

The Augiers’ lifestyle is one canoe and a banjo away from being a scene in Deliverance. It’s no wonder they go overboard when they do come into town. With little schooling and even less social skills, there isn’t one of them other than Butch who knows how to treat others with any glimmer of respect.

Compared to his family he’s a prince among men, yet I’m not convinced he’s going to win a Noble Peace Prize anytime soon.

‘These murders. You said they were crucified, then burned. Bad way to go that.’

I nod. ‘Let’s be clear. I’m not accusing you or any of your family. I’m here because you know people I don’t. You may know the kind of people who would commit a crime like this.’ I hold his gaze. ‘Do you know anyone who’d do such a thing?’

His jaw sets as he thinks. I have no idea whether he’s giving my question serious thought, or concocting a lie.

When he speaks his tone is measured. His eyes make contact with mine and don’t keep looking to the left or overdoing the looking at mine.

All of these are signs of lies being told. His voice is without stress. Lying increases stress levels.

The right side of the brain is both the creative side and the one which controls the left side of the body. Liars keep looking to their left when fabricating their stories. When they’re not doing that, they overcompensate eye contact and give themselves away.

‘My mother may use out-dated terms, but we don’t hate those folk enough to kill ‘em.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see why you came here – after all the spouting off when they get drunk. You’re wasting your time though. We sure as hell didn’t do it and I don’t know anyone dumb enough to start killing black folks.’

I press a little harder. ‘You sure? Seems like your brother was in the wars before you all came to the Tree. What happened to him?’

‘I punched him for talking back.’ There’s no guilt or pride or shame on his face or in his tone. He’s just matter of fact. As if hitting your brother is an everyday occurrence which bears no comment. I suppose in his world it is.

We talk for a while and then I leave.

As I drive back, I can’t help but think about Butch and the sacrifice he’s made for his family. He maybe wouldn’t have made Senator if he’d left his family to look after themselves, but he’d have a better life than he does scratching a living out here.

I realise what had struck me as being odd about the Augiers last night. They’d sat at their table, ordered meals and then eaten and drank while talking to each other. Sure, the conversation hadn’t been scintillating but it had been actual conversation rather than a group of people staring at their phones and communicating with strangers via Twitter or Facebook. Maybe they know something I don’t.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen one member of the family carrying or using a cell phone. In today’s world the lack of a cell is a sign of poverty. Still, what use would cells be where they live? Mine had lost its signal halfway from Casperton.

As if by psychic methods, mine starts to beep. I must be back within range of a mast.

I glance at the screen. There are two missed calls from Alfonse and three from Chief Watson.

29

The chief meets me outside the station. He comes out of the door as I’m climbing the four steps into the building. I’m no expert on the subject of body language, but I don’t need to be. His stress-filled scowl tells me everything I need to know.

‘Boulder, with me.’ The order is barked at me as if I’m a new recruit.

I let it slide. He won’t be asking me to accompany him for any other reason than he needs my help or wants to share information with me.

He reaches his truck in six brisk steps. I run around to the passenger side and clamber in as he’s twisting the key with enough force to break it.

His manner suggests either major developments in the case or none at all.

‘You know all that bull your friend was spouting about his cousin and the cousin’s wife being deeply in love?’ It’s a rhetorical question as he doesn’t pause long enough for me to gather my thoughts and formulate an answer. ‘Well let me tell you, bull is exactly what it is.’

My instinct is to defend Alfonse, yet the chief is obviously in possession of information I don’t yet have. A situation that needs to change.

‘Why is it bull, Chief? What do you know that I don’t?’

The Chief realises I’m in the dark and some of his pressure-fuelled anger dissipates. ‘The coroner’s report came in. Darryl Fournier has syphilis and his wife doesn’t. Only one explanation for that.’

I don’t even attempt to answer him. My mind is whirling at this latest development and the questions it has generated.

‘So, where are you taking me, and have you identified who Darryl was sleeping with?’

‘We’re going to the coroner’s office. I want to know more about this disease. Specifically, if it’s an old infection which could have flared up again or if it had been caught recently.’

What he’s saying makes sense. The fact that only Darryl had it speaks volumes.

Never having passed the three months’ stage in a relationship, I have no idea how long a regular sex life carries on. For all I know, happily married couples make love twice a day or once a year. What goes on in other people’s relationships is none of my business. The only person I can ask is Sharon and it’s not an easy thing to discuss with your sister.

I’m tempted to ask Chief Watson but fear it may just tip him from irate to catatonic. Besides, he’s a whole generation older than Darryl and Sherrelle. His is a generation that doesn’t share discussions on their sex life with anyone.

At a guess, I’d say Darryl and Sherrelle would bump uglies once a month at best. Perhaps more if a special occasion or anniversary was marked on the calendar.

If I’m right, Darryl cheated on his wife in the last four weeks. Six at the most. A look at his movements should pinpoint the possible opportunities for indiscretion. Then it’ll be a case of just asking the right questions of the right people.

Identifying the right questions will be the easy part.

The chief interrupts my thoughts. ‘You up to speed yet?’

‘I think so. I’ve no personal experience of syphilis, but I do know that with some strains, once you’ve had it, it’s with you for life and can come back at any time. So I think we have to find out if it has come back or is a new infection. If it proves recent, we’ll have to find out who passed on the disease. For all we know, he could have contracted the disease through some way other than sex and Sherrelle knew all about it.’

His lips purse in thought as he pulls into a parking bay outside the coroner’s office. ‘True.’ He looks at me as he unbuckles his seatbelt. ‘Homicide motives rarely extend beyond sex or money. Follow the dick and the wallet, they’re what leads you to a killer.’

‘I take it you’re guessing their murders are a revenge attack?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘A hate group. Remember how they were killed? That’s not the work of one man. It’s the work of a group.’

I give him time to reconfigure his thoughts. It’s too easy when following an investigation to get swept along by a new discovery. When that happens, key facts get overlooked as the evidence is made to fit the new theory. I was almost swept with him until I started questioning how his news fit with the known facts.

There’s grudging respect in his voice when he speaks. ‘You’re right. It’s still the best lead we’ve got though.’

‘Perhaps. But what about the wife and kids? A vengeful husband or boyfriend wouldn’t have killed them as well. He may have ruined their life by exposing Darryl’s infidelity, but there’s nothing to be gained by killing them. It’s one thing to kill and a totally different thing to enlist help to commit multiple murders.’

‘Dammit, Boulder. Do you always have to make such sense?’

He leads the way towards the entrance and crashes through the doors. His police issue boots squeak as I match his stride down the corridor.

He knocks on the pathologist’s door and enters without waiting for an invitation.

There’s a flash of irritation on the pathologist’s face at the chief’s rude behaviour. She is, however, wise enough to let it pass without comment.

Doctor Emily Green is pretty with auburn hair. She’s intelligent, professional and has been dating Alfonse for a few weeks.

‘How’s Alfonse today?’

I make a non-committal noise, then add a few proper words. ‘Busy. He’s trying to find their killer.’ I don’t bother saying it’s his way of managing his grief, she’s smart enough to work that out for herself.

She accepts what I say, understanding that this kind of talk isn’t what we’re here for. Or good at, if I’m honest with myself.

I don’t talk about my feelings with other guys and I don’t expect them to talk about theirs. I have feelings and if they bother me, I deal with the root of the problem. If they still bother me after that, I tend to find myself waking up God knows where with the mother of all hangovers.

‘Right then, Doctor. What can you tell us about Darryl and his syphilis?’

Emily turns her head so the chief can’t see her rolling her eyes at the way he’s given ownership of the disease to Darryl. ‘When I ran the bloods as normal, we found traces of penicillin, and the natural antibodies which the body produces to fight syphilis, in Darryl. Sherrelle’s tests showed the birth control pill. I’d also guess she was taking vitamin supplements as her levels are too good for her not to have taken them.’

‘What about the kids?’

I don’t like where Chief Watson may be going. I understand he has to go there, but I’m glad Alfonse isn’t here to hear it.

‘They were clean. No traces of anything.’

I throw a question at her. ‘Was there any alcohol in Darryl’s or Sherrelle’s blood?’

‘None.’ She lets the information sink in. It doesn’t take long. The single word is damning enough.

This is perhaps the most disturbing thing she’s uncovered. All four of them were clean and straight when they were taken. None had drugs or alcohol in their systems. Nothing to dull the pain of nails being driven through flesh. Of flesh being ignited.

The chief lets out a long exasperated sigh. ‘Is there anything else you found?’

‘Just that…’ Her eyes dart towards the exam room, then close for a brief second. ‘Just that their lungs showed signs of scorching which are synonymous with inhaling a burning accelerant.’

I close my eyes while the chief lets out a string of curses.

My mind creates a distraction by focussing on the fact Sherrelle still used birth control. It shows she was still sexually active yet she hadn’t caught her husband’s syphilis. Therefore, the birth control was a years-long habit maintained for those times she and her husband made love, or she too was playing around outside the marriage.

Not knowing what goes on behind closed doors, I let flights of fancy have their moment and imagine the Fourniers wife swapping and attending swingers’ parties.

Reality bites when I remember how devout they were. How they attended church every Sunday. Just because I don’t practise religion myself, doesn’t mean I don’t recognise the good it can do for those who worship on a regular basis. My own issues with the church are aimed at the extreme groups who try to indoctrinate all others, or bend them to their way of thinking. Too often religion has been used as an excuse for war; not just in today’s world, but right back through the annals of time.

I tune back into Emily and the chief’s conversation. She’s telling him she called Darryl’s doctor and learned that the syphilis is something Darryl had contracted just three weeks ago.

The doctor hadn’t been too forthcoming, but he’d said Darryl had suspected that he’d caught it on a recent trip to Las Vegas.

What happens in Vegas didn’t quite stay in Vegas this time around. It never does.

Las Vegas didn’t acquire the name Sin City for no reason. The identity of the person who passed the disease to Darryl is unimportant. Whether a bored housewife, cougar, hooker or male escort is responsible for the infection is irrelevant. A Vegas hook-up is the ultimate one-off experience. Names will have been optional or false; alcohol will have been consumed to the point of inebriation.

I’ve been there, done that. Somehow I’ve always dodged the bullet that’d have me visiting the clinic.

The chief scowls as I beat him to the obvious question. ‘I don’t suppose the doctor told you who Darryl went to Vegas with?’

‘No.’ Emily’s head shakes. ‘I’m sure his family will be able to tell you though.’

The chief’s scowl is transformed into a questioning look.

I don’t have to be a genius to know he wants me to ask the question of Alfonse and his family. It’s not something I’m keen on broaching with him, but someone has to and the chief’s heightened stress levels have made him gruffer than usual.

‘I’ll ask him. I was planning to see him anyway.’

‘Good man.’ His eyes turn back to Emily. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’

She hesitates, but decides against whatever she was about to say. Either it isn’t relevant or she’s not convinced enough to put voice to her thoughts.

The chief’s eyebrow raises and his eyes bore into hers. ‘What is it, Doctor?’ His tone has a sharp edge to it.

‘The way you keep rubbing your temples – I’m guessing you suffer from stress headaches?’

‘So? I’m trying to catch a killer. I wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t feel stressed.’ The chief’s voice is a growl but there’s an admission in his words.

‘Well you’re not helping yourself kneading away at your temples like that.’ Emily’s tone matches the chief’s for intensity. ‘Give me your hands and I’ll show you how to do it properly.’

Before the chief can protest, she rises from her chair and takes his hands in hers. I spend a surreal couple of minutes watching the pathologist give the chief of police a lesson in head massage. When he’s not looking, I grab a quick picture with my cell.

As we leave he’s still massaging away. A faint redness touching his cheeks. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone about this, Boulder.’

‘You’re too late. I’ve already tweeted and Facebooked it.’

I let him curse and threaten me for a solid five minutes before telling him I haven’t.

His final word on the subject questions my parentage.

30

Noelle smiles at Oscar and slides onto the chair he’s pulled out for her. Taking the other seats around the table are members of her family. Oscar’s parents and sister are here too.

The rest of his family remain in Mexico, although she has travelled to Ciudad de Durango with him and met some of his many relatives.

Ciudad de Durango is the capital of the Durango municipality and Noelle had fallen in love with the city. The architecture reminding her of cities like Barcelona and Paris.

Oscar had given her a complete tour of the city, showing her the memorable landmarks and the unforgettable slums. So obvious was Cuidad de Durango ingrained into Oscar’s blood, Noelle had suggested they leave Casperton and move there. He’d smiled, kissed her fingers, and told her he would never again live in Mexico.

Noelle’s father raises his glass and starts another toast. His smile is wide and his words are nothing he hasn’t already said in either of his first two toasts. Nobody minds, least of all Noelle and Oscar. Tonight is a celebration. Of love. Of new life. Of new beginnings.

Menus are distributed by the servers. A wine list is handed to Noelle’s father. Tonight is his treat and he’s intent on celebrating with style.

Gallo Vermiglio is the finest restaurant in Casperton. It’s owned and run by a husband and wife team. She cooks while he runs the front of house. The business has been on sale for three years and isn’t likely to be sold anytime soon. Every prospective buyer recognises the fact that Debora and Seppe are the business. The only people who could continue their success are those looking to build their own business, not pay the price of an established one.

Noelle runs her finger down the menu and tries to decide what to have. She fancies mussels but knows shellfish can be dangerous to pregnant women. Instead she opts for a steak: well done rather than her usual medium rare.

As the evening progresses, Noelle and Oscar bask in the celebrations. In the joy shared with those closest to them. Nothing is amiss. Everything is wonderful.

The one tiny issue is nothing more than a nagging doubt.

There’s a man dining alone. He sits a couple of tables away and has a battered paperback in front of him. His face has a familiar look to it. Noelle doesn’t know where she’s seen him before, she just knows she has. She guesses he’s just one of those people she sees once in a while, and when seen out of context is unrecognisable. Like a pharmacist without his white coat.

There’s nothing remarkable or distinguishing about the guy. He’s mid-forties with short greying hair. He’s eating with one hand and his eyes are lifting from his book to make regular scans of the restaurant. There’s nothing odd with that; she does the same herself when alone. She likes that he reads, tries to see the cover. Even in this moment of celebration, she wants to meet the stranger and talk books with him.

31

Alfonse looks weary. It’s not something that surprises me; he’s spent all day staring at a computer screen and no sane gambler would bet on him having slept well last night.

Henry looks worse. He’s not just tired, he’s angry.

Not ‘bad day at work’ angry; ‘someone’s killed my brother and I want to kill them’ angry. In someone with his energy and intellectual capacity it’s a dangerous anger to have.

Assuming he gets his revenge without being killed himself. Aunt Nina has lost one son to a killer. She doesn’t need to lose another to the prison system.

I can only hope Alfonse’s calming influence rubs off on him long enough to prevent him doing something moronic.

Alfonse leads me through to the kitchen. Defeat fills the areas of his face untouched by exhaustion. ‘I hope you’ve learned more than me. I’ve got the square root of diddly squat so far.’

I try not to grimace but he knows me well enough to spot a minor tell. It’s a shock when the heel of his fist thumps the worktop. Perhaps Henry is rubbing off on him.

‘I haven’t got much. And what I do have is mostly negative.’ I tell him of my conversation with Butch Augiers. He doesn’t make any comment, but then again he doesn’t need to. His face says enough.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.’ I was going to try and break the news in a gentle fashion. His mood tells me that would be a mistake. He needs straight talking from me, not a pair of unfamiliar kid gloves. ‘When Emily ran the bloods she found Darryl had syphilis but Sherrelle didn’t.’

A curse escapes his lips. In all the years I’ve known him, it’s only the second time I’ve heard him use a four letter expression of such powerful emotion.

I keep my mouth closed. He needs to work this out for himself. Reach the same conclusions and questions I did a couple of hours ago.

Give him his due, he doesn’t pepper me with a dozen variations of the same question, nor does he doubt the results.

When he does speak, his words echo those of anyone who cares about their family’s public image. ‘Who knows?’

I know he’s not worrying about himself. His concern is for Aunt Nina, Henry and Sherrelle’s side of the family. About their shame and anger if Darryl’s infidelity becomes public knowledge.

‘As far as I know, it’s just us, Emily and Chief Watson. Perhaps a couple of others at the coroner’s office will know.’

‘It’s not going to stay that way for long is it?’

I don’t answer him. His question is at least three parts rhetorical. All investigating officers will find out and, regardless of how slim the chances of their killer being someone connected to Darryl’s indiscretion are, it’s still a line of enquiry they’ll have to follow.

Farrage and his cronies will ask their questions. Sooner or later one of them will say the wrong thing to someone they shouldn’t. Word will spread from person to person. The news will move with stealth and subtlety at first, but will gather momentum and embellishment with every re-telling. Rumour will become fact and in a few short hours Darryl will be accused of having long-term affairs with every woman he’s ever spoken to.

Alfonse sticks his head into the hallway. ‘Henry. You better come through.’

Henry repeats Alfonse’s curse and adds a few of his own when Alfonse finishes bringing him up to speed. His long legs propel him across the kitchen in three strides before he changes direction.

‘Are you sure? Who knows about this? Why are they trying to destroy my brother’s memory? They’ve got it wrong, haven’t they?’ His eyes bore into mine with such intensity I shift my feet so I’m better balanced if I need to defend myself. ‘Tell me they’ve got it wrong.’

Alfonse lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘They haven’t got it wrong. Nobody is trying to destroy Darryl’s memory. It’s just a crap fact that’s been found in the search for his killer.’

I have an idea which may help appease their distress. ‘Darryl told his doctor he thought he contracted syphilis on a trip to Vegas. If we can find out more about this trip, and who Darryl had slept with, then perhaps we can contain this information.’

‘How?’ Alfonse and Henry speak as one person. That is, one person with two different voices. Distress and fury separate their tones.

‘We get the information first and present it to Chief Watson. If it’s the dead end I think it is, he’ll focus the investigation elsewhere.’

Henry’s voice is laden with contempt. ‘How does that help?’

‘It keeps the information in the hands of as few people possible. Those who went to Vegas with Darryl will almost certainly know what he got up to there. I’ll find out what happened and then ask them to keep that information to themselves.’

I don’t mention that I intend to use threats of violence to keep Darryl’s secret. Alfonse wouldn’t approve and Henry may want to come along to emphasise my point.

‘So, what do we do?’

I look at Alfonse as I answer Henry’s question. ‘You tell me who Darryl went to Vegas with and then you get back to work. That’s where the key to the killers’ identities lies. This syphilis thing is nothing more than a side-line. If this were a movie, or a book, it’d be nothing more than a red herring. The sooner I can draw a line through it, the sooner we can all focus on the real leads.’

Alfonse looks at Henry with a raised eyebrow. ‘Who’d he go with?’

‘He went with one of his bosses and another lawyer.’ A shrug. ‘I didn’t listen too close when he was telling me about it. He was more interested in the conference than anything else.’

This is good news from my point of view. Lawyers understand the need for discretion better than most. Businessmen who rely on a good reputation are easy to threaten. Violence isn’t always the answer; though when it is I’m seldom found lacking a decent response.

Alfonse spends a minute telling me about his lack of progress, but after a few words he starts using technical terms which move the conversation several feet above my head. I glean enough to know he’s got a lot of data still to process, and he’s trying to narrow things down to people who live in the local area to minimise the number of potential suspects.

I’m about to leave when my cell beeps.

It’s a message from Taylor. If the number of exclamation points after the three words are anything to go by, there’s every chance I’m going to be single again before the night ends.

The realisation that I’m bothered surprises me.

Before I deal with that, I need to find out why Taylor is asking where I am. And where she expects I should be.

I scroll past the message she’s just sent. What I find neither impresses me nor fills me with any confidence. The chain of messages shows me arranging a date for tonight. I’m supposed to have met her for dinner an hour ago.

Armed with this information I can at least reply to her.

On my way. Long story.

I have the five minutes it’ll take to travel across town to work out why I’d poured my heart out to her in a message.

Sure, the time and date against the message shows it was sent on Tuesday night. The lack of grammar, decent punctuation, and the terrible misspellings attest to how drunk I was at the time of typing.

None of this changes the fact that I’ve opened up to a girl I am dating. Told her my innermost feelings.

I could blame the drink, but I’ve been drunker without doing this before. They say a drunk man speaks the truth. If this is true, I’ve been lying to myself about my lack of feelings for Taylor.

She’s good company, intelligent, and has cheekbones higher than a seventies rock star. Her manner is easy-going and I can relax with her. She doesn’t try to change me or feed me quinoa at every opportunity. I enjoy her company, want to keep on enjoying it.

I stop thinking about my feelings for Taylor and concentrate on getting across town.

32

Taylor is sat in an alcove when I arrive at the restaurant. Even when she’s pissed she’s beautiful. Her blonde hair and blue eyes hint at a Scandinavian heritage, but there’s no trace of an accent when she speaks.

‘What kept you? I’ve been here an hour.’ Her tone is cool. Not quite glacial, more like the first frosts of winter.

I take a seat opposite her without trying to offer a kiss. She’s not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been helping Alfonse look into his cousin’s death.’

Her eyes widen with understanding, the coolness gone from her voice. ‘You mean those poor people who were found up in Ashley?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Concern fills her face as tears touch the corners of her eyes. She stands and reaches for her purse. ‘You should have blown me off. We can have dinner anytime. Alfonse needs you more than I do.’

Three sentences containing just eighteen words make my heart somersault. Taylor understands the way things are. The way things have to be.

‘I have to eat sometime. May as well be in a swanky restaurant with a beautiful girl.’

‘That is so, like, totally, corrrrrrrny.’ Taylor’s mocking of my compliment is softened by a melodic giggle.

The waiter comes and offers menus. I suspect from the way he’s eyeing Taylor, he’s a little bit in love with her.

After our order is taken, I give Taylor the broad outlines of the case. The only key fact omitted is the syphilis. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s just not something I want to speak about in a public place.

As she listens her face depicts her horror.

I like that she’s outraged. That she wants their killers locked away on death row. It shows Taylor shares my morals, my principles and my belief that perpetrators of criminal acts deserve to be punished.

A group of happy people brush past us. They’re all toothy smiles and glassy eyes. I give a smiling nod to the blonde holding hands with a Mexican. Noelle is a nice lady – we’d dated. The relationship ran its course and we split by mutual consent.

Noelle looks sober compared to the rest of her group, she also looks happier. I guess it’s her occasion and broaden my smile.

A pungent aroma makes my eyes water. There’s puzzlement on Taylor’s face as she looks over my shoulder.

I turn and find myself just three inches from Ms Rosenberg’s chest. The power of her perfume is enough to make my eyes water as she moves round me and dumps herself into a chair without waiting for an invitation. A click of her fingers alerts a waiter who does well to hide his irritation at her lack of manners. ‘You. Scotch on the rocks. Pronto.’ Despite her size, she manages to overfill every room she enters.

‘Good evening.’ Taylor is polite although I can tell she’s not pleased at the way Ms Rosenberg has gate-crashed our evening.

A fake smile is tossed her way. ‘Hello, doll. I need to talk to Boulder. He’s a hero you know. Treat him like one.’

‘What do you want?’ I’ve learned that Ms Rosenberg has no social skills. The only way to communicate with her is to be as blunt as she is.

‘Have you learned anything useful yet?’

‘No comment.’

Her eyes narrow as they examine my face. ‘You’re not saying that because I’m a journalist and you’re working a case. You’re saying it because you have nothing to say but don’t want me to know it.’ The waiter places a Scotch on the rocks in front of her. ‘About time. Bring me another.’

However brief, the interruption has given me a moment’s thinking time. She’s on a fishing trip and is trying to get me to confirm something. I need to find out what.

‘You can believe what you want. I have no comment to make because I have no information to give. And I know from past experience how dangerous information can be when it gets into the wrong hands.’

She ignores my barb and twirls a fork between nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I need something from you, Boulder. All I got so far is the husband was definitely playing away. I don’t for one moment think that’s why they were all killed, but I need a story and that would be a good one. I’d sooner write about what’s really happening, than follow that idiot Farrage around chronicling his mistakes.’

‘You’re obviously not after job security. Farrage could keep you in stories as long as he has a badge.’

Her laugh is an ass’s bray. Heads at nearby tables rotate to look but she is uncaring. Half her Scotch disappears in one slug.

‘I don’t know what leads you’re working on, but if I was you I’d be looking at money not sex. One drunken Vegas fumble does not a hate crime make.’

It takes me a second to reorganise her words into a coherent sentence. She uses the second to drain her glass and send a hurrying scowl towards the waiter.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’ve been around stories all my life. Ain’t much I haven’t seen, heard or written about. Murder is about money and sex. I figure sex is pretty much off the table so it’s about money. Sure it may be about race as well, but there has to be a selection process. Find the reason they were chosen as the victims and that will lead you to their killer.’

She’s right. While it is the line we’ve been pursuing, we’ve also had an open mind with regards to the fact it smacks of racial hatred. Instead of focussing all of our resources on the why, we’ve split ourselves so Alfonse is looking for a fictional who.

I need to return the favour she’s just done me. ‘Instead of writing about the investigation, why don’t you write about the reaction to the crime? Get some quotes from a couple of churches, some community leaders and so on.’

‘Boring. Predictable.’ A half inch of Scotch is poured between bright pink lips.

‘Perhaps.’ I play my ace. ‘But are you aware there’s a Klan Chapter operating out of Salt Lake City? They have a website that gives the contact details of their spokesman, and also their grand panjandrum or whatever they call him. Get a quote from one of them and your piece will be neither boring nor predictable.’

A notepad has appeared from nowhere. She’s filling it with indecipherable squiggles as I speak.

‘Boulder, you’re a star.’ She rises from her chair, draining her glass as she stands. A turn of her head gives her eye contact with Taylor. ‘You’re lucky, doll. If I was twenty years younger you’d have yourself some serious competition.’

Somehow, Taylor and I manage to contain our laughter until Ms Rosenberg moves out of earshot.

33

I slip out of bed and tiptoe into the lounge without waking Taylor. Sleep is eluding me so I figure it’s kinder of me to leave her in peace while I go through some mental gymnastics.

The thing bothering me most, is Ms Rosenberg’s insistence that money is the reason the Fourniers were selected. I know she’s right but I can’t see how.

Alfonse has been through their bank accounts looking for anything amiss. He found nothing. Their regular expenditure was around eighty percent of their income. They had no debts, no expensive bad habits and no secret funds. As an experienced detective and successful hacker, these were the first things Alfonse looked for. The reason he didn’t find them is because they didn’t exist.

Other than a night of passion in Vegas, the Fourniers were squeaky clean. Tomorrow’s first task will be to find out about Darryl’s Vegas trip. Second up will be another visit to the bank to dig a bit deeper into Sherrelle’s work life.

I’m also concerned about the amount of time Alfonse is spending chasing after shadows. While his probing may give us a number of suspects, it won’t do anything beyond identifying a number of people who happen to be racist. There will be no evidence to link them to the crime we’re investigating.

Either Alfonse has to give up his search for the time being, or I have to find some suspects of my own so his findings corroborate my suspicions.

Running the Vegas angle seems like a waste of time but Alfonse and Henry are relying on me to keep the news contained. Ms Rosenberg’s comments earlier, proved the news is already out there. To be fair to her, she’s not talking about printing the story. Her threat no more than a bluff to get information from me.

Through Taylor, I’ve learned that Dr Edwards has a free space around lunchtime. I plan to take the appointment. I want to know more about the mind-set of the people we’re looking for and the kind of people they might be. In its own way this may be as vague as what Alfonse is doing, but the more I know about the kind of person I’m looking for, the better equipped I’ll be to spot them.

I remember about the missing girl. Nobody’s updated me on her status so I assume there’s no news.

To make sure, I call the station. It’s Farrage who answers the phone. He’s not happy I’m asking him questions but he gives me the answer I need, even if it’s not the one I want.

I realise I’ve been hoping the girl would turn up somewhere unharmed and surprised at the fuss. A moment of impulse causing an unnecessary panic.

She hasn’t turned up yet and the family have contacted every known friend. A social media campaign has been started. So far there have been no sightings. Farrage admitted that Chief Watson has called in a couple of retired cops to look into her disappearance.

This last piece of news is both reassuring and worrying. The chief bringing someone in is a good thing because every minute counts in cases like this. His doing so before the girl is officially missing means he believes she’s been abducted.

The more crimes committed, the more chances there are of criminals making mistakes. I hope Gazala is returned safe and well but, if she isn’t, her death may prove useful in the most awful way. It’s crass and thoughtless of me I know. But if she is the next victim of whoever killed the Fourniers, her death may give us the clues we require to catch the killers. Having a second victim allows cross-referencing.

I want to add investigating the missing girl to my list of things to do, but I can’t gamble on allocating the time until it’s known if she’s alive or dead.

Sleep is starting to beckon me. I need it; my mind is travelling in circles and until I have more information I won’t be able to make sense of anything.

34

Noelle caresses her bump as she walks along the bank of the stream. Little Eduardo, or ‘Eddie’, is holding both her and Oscar’s hands. The sun is shining and the grass underfoot is lush and green. Oscar has proven to be a wonderful husband and father. Caring, devoted and selfless, he puts her and Eddie first every time. Life just couldn’t be any better. The one blot on the landscape is a barking dog. It’s not a welcoming bark, it’s one of protest. Of indignation.

Her eyes snap open. She’s wide awake at once. The barking wasn’t in her dream. It’s Buster who’s barking. She suspects next door’s cat is sitting on the window ledge again.

Oscar is dead to the world. He’s a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and the wine and beers her father kept pressing on him have taken their toll.

Her feet grope for the slippers she keeps beside the bed. Buster’s barking ends with a strangled yelp.

Her ears pick out heavy footsteps on the stairs. The noise is too great for it to be just one person. There are a few of them.

Terrified, she leans across the bed and shakes Oscar but he’s too near unconsciousness to wake. For the first time in her life she wishes she owned a gun. She clenches a fist and punches his arm.

He doesn’t react.

A creak on the stairs tells her they’re near the top.

She hasn’t time to start questioning who has invaded her home, or worry about what they’re after. Just so long as they take it and go without harming either her or Oscar she doesn’t care.

A scream pierces the night air, startling her until she realises she’s the one who’s screaming. The volume and shrillness combine to raise Oscar from his slumber.

‘Huh. Wass goin’ on?’ Even as he’s speaking, Oscar snuggles himself comfortable.

‘We’re being burgled.’

Her eyes search the starlit room for a weapon. Any weapon at all will do but the best she can find is Oscar’s tin of deodorant. If she can spray it in their eyes she may be able to fend them off while they take what they’ve come for.

The bedroom door bursts open and a pair of flashlights shine right into her face. She turns away from the blinding lights. ‘Take whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt us.’

She feels rough work gloves on her bare skin. Her arms are pinioned behind her back and fastened with tape. Another length of tape is used as a gag. She wants to fight back, to kick and thrash against her captors. Thoughts of the baby in her belly stop her.

More than anything, she wishes she’d had the sense to shout that she had a gun. That would have stopped them. Kept her and Oscar safe.

One man holds her while three others bind a still groggy Oscar with tape. The room isn’t dark enough for her to see the men properly. All she can tell is that they’re wearing ski masks.

Their smell has invaded her home. It’s a pungent odour borne of unwashed bodies, stale smoke and a bad diet.

Once they’ve bound Oscar, two of the men pick him up and head for the door. It’s at this point she realises what the men have come for.

They’re not here to steal. They’re here to kidnap her and Oscar.

She feels the prick of a knife in her back and hot breath at her ear. ‘Follow them. Be a good girl and don’t try to escape. If you do, it will go worse for your beaner lover. Do you understand me, bitch?’ The voice is muffled, as if there’s a hand over the speaker’s mouth.

Noelle nods. Her brain is turning somersaults as it tries to work out what is happening. Why they’ve been kidnapped. Who the kidnappers are. Whether their families will be able to pay a ransom.

35

Eddy Hall ushers me into the boardroom of LH Associates. He’s too polite to show his displeasure at me interrupting the start of his day, yet I can tell I’m an inconvenience. Perhaps my standing outside the door with a cup of take-out coffee is too public for his sensibilities. Too bad.

‘What can I help you with?’ There’s a subtle edge to his voice. He’s saying one thing with his words and another with his tone. His glances towards the clock and his wristwatch are designed to let me know he’s a busy man.

His workload or schedule isn’t my greatest concern. I’m trying to catch a gang of killers. Somehow I stop myself from pointing this out.

‘Darryl took a business trip to Vegas a few weeks ago. I’m told he went with some colleagues. I’d like to speak to them and find out why they went to Vegas.’

Hall stops looking at the clock. He takes a seat and gestures I should too. ‘Ursula and I went to Vegas with him. There was a conference about employment law which is an area we’re considering branching into.’

That he went has taken me by surprise but it shouldn’t have. Bosses are always the first to get the perks. ‘Who’s the Ursula, and can you ask her to join us?’

‘Ursula Clague. She’s the head of our acquisitions department.’ He uses the desk phone to summon her. His telephone voice shows deference.

I wonder if she’s the one who Darryl caught syphilis from. Two co-workers on a junket to the most sinful of cities. It’s the oldest story in the book. A few drinks are consumed and they start to see each other in a different light. Before either realises what’s happening, they’re all hot and sweaty and naked together.

One look at Ursula Clague kills this theory. She has a certain look of intolerance about her. Her eyes are small, beady and critical. When they flick over me they show disapproval.

Ursula’s posture is statuesque in its rigidity. All things considered, Ms Rosenberg has the personality of a Playboy Bunny when compared to the stern features of Ursula Clague.

‘You asked to see me, Mr Hall.’ She keeps her eyes on me. Perhaps she’s trying to work out why I’m here. Her expression suggests she expects me to steal something.

‘I’m not going to insult either of you by asking you to keep what I say to yourselves. You’re both lawyers and understand the need for discretion. Blood from Darryl’s body was tested as a matter of course. It was found he’d contracted syphilis. A conversation with his doctor informed us Darryl had suspected he’d caught the disease in Vegas.’

Ursula Clague gives a snort. ‘Well that doesn’t surprise me. That place is like a modern day Gomorrah. The only surprise is that Mr Fournier was fool enough to be seduced.’

Her defence of Darryl makes me warm to her a little. She’s portraying him as a victim. As if no seductress can be refused. It’s unfair to speculate that nobody has ever tried to seduce her, but life is unfair and she comes across as a harridan. Besides, Gomorrah was nothing more than the blueprint for Las Vegas.

Hall looks uneasy. He’s licking his lips and a sheen of sweat covers his brow. If he doesn’t look like a man with a guilty secret, no-one does. ‘Are you sure he caught syphilis in Vegas? Are you even sure it was on the trip with us?’

‘The dates match up.’ I look at them in turn. ‘Can either of you identify who he may have slept with?’

I’m hoping it was another lawyer. Someone they’d met at the conference. Someone easy to trace. Both shake their heads and give negative answers.

Hall is lying and he can tell I know it. His eyes flick at Ursula Clague and the door.

He’s asking me not to push it until she’s left.

Whatever he’s hiding will be told if I play the game.

‘Thank you very much for your time, Ms Clague.’ I rise and offer my hand. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your day.’

She retains her position a heartbeat too long before making for the door. It’s obvious she knows she’s been dismissed so the boys can talk. Her sensibilities are not my concern as she won’t be the hardest person in the world to offend.

‘Spill it.’ My words follow the click of the door catch by a fraction of a second. Eddy Hall isn’t the only one who needs to be somewhere else. I also want to let him know who’s in charge of the conversation.

He glances at the seat his colleague has just vacated. ‘As you can imagine, Ms Clague isn’t the type of person who enjoys a trip to Las Vegas.’

I nod agreement and gesture for him to continue.

‘On the last night, Darryl and I went to the Bellagio for a few games of roulette.’ He shrugs. ‘I hit a lucky streak and won a couple of grand. I had enough sense to cash it in and walk away before I lost it all again.’

Despite being able to see where this is going, I roll my hand a second time.

‘One of the managers came over and congratulated me. Took us to the bar and comped us a couple of drinks. As we were drinking them, two women came over.’ Another shrug. ‘They were all over us. I can’t speak for Darryl, but I felt like a god. I’d just won two grand and a pair of beautiful young women were practically launching themselves at us.’

‘What happened next?’ I can guess, but I want him to put it in his own words.

He mops his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I took one of the girls back to my room and left Darryl with the other. Until you started asking questions today, I wasn’t even sure if he’d slept with her.’ The handkerchief takes another pass. ‘When I woke up she was gone and so were all my winnings.’

‘Thank you for your honesty.’ I mean it too. He’s given me a lot of information with very little persuasion. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about what happened there.’

36

The chief is silent as he drives. It’s part concentration on the road and part thinking time. His knuckles form white hillocks as he grasps the wheel. There are no lights or sirens on his pickup but that doesn’t slow his progress.

Gazala has been found. Or rather her body has. The chief has told me she’s been murdered but he hasn’t said how. I’m guessing the how is either unknown or something we have to see for ourselves.

The crime scene tape beside a forest ranger’s hut is a surprise, as is the crime scene tent. I’ve been expecting another charred body on a burned cross in a woody glade.

A team of white suited crime scene workers are milling around, their eyes above the protective masks grim. The customary black humour used as a coping mechanism is missing. More than anything else, it tells me that whatever is in the tent is horrific.

The chief pulls two forensic oversuits from his trunk. He curses as he struggles into his. I stay quiet.

This second death has far-reaching implications. If it’s another racially motivated murder, the focus of the investigation into the Fourniers’ deaths has to change. If unconnected, the chief has two big problems instead of one huge one.

The chief retrieves a picture of the missing girl from a folder and nods at me. ‘You ready for this?’

‘Yeah.’ It’s all I can say. I’d rather go anywhere but in that tent. I need to though. Need to experience the horror for myself and make my own judgements. It’s not that I don’t trust other people’s accounts. I just trust my own more.

The chief approaches the fluttering tape and steps over it. A path of foot pads have been laid by the CSI team. We follow them. I’m happy for the chief to lead.

A man with a camera emerges from the tent. We perform an awkward shuffle to let him past without anyone stepping off the foot pads.

I don’t mind the delay, but the chief’s growl indicates he does. He pushes the flapping canvas aside and enters the tent. I take a deep breath and a hearty swallow then follow him in.

What greets me is a medieval torture scene. Gazala Kulkarni would have been pretty in life. In death, pain has transformed her into a hideous grotesque creature.

The cause of her death is obvious. That she suffered unimaginable pain in her last moments more so.

She’s naked. The blunt end of a thick iron rod protrudes from her vagina. The other pointed end has come out of her neck, pushing her head to one side.

My teeth grind as I concentrate on not losing the contents of my stomach. The stench of voided bowels is bad, but not as bad as the trail of destruction on Gazala’s corpse.

There are bite marks on her body where wild animals have feasted on a free meal. Her nose is missing and so is most of her right breast. I’m guessing foxes or maybe a bobcat. The damage speaks of small solitary animals. Had she been discovered by a bear, wolves or other pack animals there would be a lot more of her missing.

A stream of blood has passed from her vagina. None is evident at her neck which means she died as the iron bar was forced through her body. I can’t stop the shudder that runs up my spine.

I have an idea and it’s not a welcome one. I check my cell and find I have no signal; confirmation of my idea will have to wait until I can speak to Alfonse, or at least use my phone to search the internet.

The chief touches my arm and points to the exit from the tent. I don’t need told twice.

We walk back to his pickup in silence. I strip off the protective suit while he starts issuing orders to his men and making requests of the CSI team.

My mind is chewing over the various aspects of my idea. If I’m right with my suspicions this death is linked to the others, and will without doubt be classed as a hate crime.

If, however, I’m wrong, there are two groups of killers out there. Killers who don’t just kill, but who use horrific methods.

Dead may be dead, but there are good and bad ways to die. None of these deaths could ever be described as good ways.

I daren’t voice my suspicions to the chief until I have confirmed them as accurate in case I steer his investigation the wrong way. I’m lucky to be here and that’s not something I want to change.

37

The chief is talkative on the way back to Casperton. He’s bouncing ideas off me and looking for my take on the body we’ve just viewed. I don’t have a lot to offer him but I do share his belief that a gang of racists are behind these killings.

The big question is how we’re going to identify the group. So far we have no leads worth following and can’t make anything except wild guesses at who may be potential suspects.

As soon as my cell shows a solitary bar on the signal icon I call Alfonse. ‘Drop whatever you’re doing and have a look at Google for me. I want to know ten methods historically used for punishment or ritualistic killings in Asia. Let me know as soon as you have them.’

Alfonse hangs up before I do. He’ll know from my tone and lack of salutation I’m in a hurry for the information.

‘What you thinking, Boulder?’

‘She was impaled. The Fourniers were crucified then burned alive. I’m wondering if they’re being executed in a way that’s relevant to their heritage or nationality.’

He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘That’s a good shout. I hope to God you’re wrong though. Because if you’re right, this is only the beginning.’

‘If I am, you’ll be able to call in the FBI.’

‘Doesn’t matter if you’re right or not. It’s a call I’ll be making as soon as I get back from informing the family. You know what that means for you though, don’t you?’

He’s meaning my involvement will become limited at best. While he can flaunt the rules, and consult a civilian when he’s nobody to answer to, the FBI agent or special agent who gets sent to investigate will want me kept out of sight and mind.

‘I’m not bothered about being involved if the FBI come. I just want those killers found and locked up.’

It’s the truth. Or at least it’s the truth if the FBI are quick about their job. I sure don’t want to face off against any more killers. Once is more than enough. I don’t need any more fights to the death. Or nightmares.

Anyway, just because the FBI roll into town, it doesn’t mean Alfonse and I have to stop our enquiries. It’d be easier to stop the proverbial runaway train than get Alfonse to drop this case. Anything we learn will be fed straight to Chief Watson.

A beep from my cell indicates an email has landed from Alfonse. I send the acknowledgement of receipt he’s requested and scan my eyes down the screen as I scroll. He knows I understand the things I read better than those I hear.

The third one down is what I’m looking for. He hasn’t just given me the requested information, he’s also included a few brief details about each one.

Impalement is an historical execution method used in several Asian countries dating back to the fifth century BC.

This information is all I need to know. Twice now, killers have struck against the residents of Casperton.

The victims have been innocent people. Their only crime being the colour of their skin.

I tell the chief about Alfonse’s email. He curses for a whole mile without repetition.

When he stops cursing he looks at me with a heavy expression. ‘What kind of monsters are we up against? It’s bad enough killing people of a different creed, but to make them suffer like this…’

He tails off his sentence, unable to find the right words to describe what he’s feeling. As far as I’m concerned, curse words are the best fit.

‘Are you going to alert the public?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell do you want me to say? That there’s a gang of murderous psychos who are targeting people of colour, or that all blacks should stay home?’ There’s enough scorn and incredulity in his voice to strip paint.

‘Of course not.’ I match his tone as my own frustrations pour out. ‘You’re the chief of police and you have a responsibility to protect the citizens of Casperton.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are, telling me about my responsibilities?’ The chief takes a corner too fast and has to swerve to avoid a truck coming the other way. Lights flash and a horn sounds. I have just enough time to see the truck driver flip off the chief.

The near collision gives us both a chance to take a deep breath and calm down.

‘My point is that it’s better you put out a warning of some sorts, than the public reading about it in the Casperton Gazette.’

‘Dammit, Boulder, why do you always see things before I do?’

I don’t answer him. The truth will do neither of us any favours. I’m a cynical pessimist by nature. I expect the worst and prepare methods to combat it.

Trust isn’t something I give away easily. Not to people I don’t know well, or to the government and certainly not the press. Even a free-speaking crusader like Ms Rosenberg puts her own spin on things. Her exposés may keep local government in line, but Ms Rosenberg is a journalist which means she’s a sensationalist. Whatever life event moved her from New York to Casperton may just be reversed if she’s the one to break the news of a hate group escalating from preaching to heinous murders.

The chief, by contrast, is an accepting man. For a police chief, he’s too keen to see the best in people. By now he should have replaced Lieutenant Farrage and all his deadweight cronies. I suspect he hasn’t because he feels he can train them into becoming good detectives. Perhaps they’ve got down on their knees and begged him with tears in their eyes. He’d fall for that. He doesn’t possess the cynical nature of a hard-bitten detective who’s met so many kinds of liar he doesn’t even trust himself.

I respect him for not being like me. He’s a good man. If I’m honest with myself, a better man than I.

38

Noelle cradles Oscar’s head in her lap. He’s done little but groan in pain since they were pushed into this shack.

Upon leaving their house, she’d been pushed into the back of a van. Oscar had been tossed in to land at her feet. Two of their captors had joined them. They’d been silent and still. Their only movement had been kicks aimed at Oscar whenever he rolled near them.

Once the van had stopped, Oscar had been dragged out, the back of his head bouncing off the tow-hitch as he fell to the ground.

The masked men had laid into his body with their heavy work boots. She’d yelled at them to stop but they’d ignored her. If her hands hadn’t been bound she’d have tried to intervene; to shield him.

They’d concentrated their kicks on his body. From his chest down the blows rained, but never above the line from his nipples. With hands and feet bound he’d been unable to defend himself.

The one saving grace was the fact they’d removed his gag prior to their attack. Coupled with the excessive alcohol intake the previous night, the kicks to his stomach, ribs and kidneys had sent violent streams of vomit from Oscar’s mouth.

As a final insult, to add to the multiple injuries, one of the men had the others hold Oscar in place while he delivered a serious of vicious kicks to Oscar’s groin.

They’d cut Noelle’s bonds free and had pushed her into this rough shack. Oscar had been dragged in after her. His bruised body too damaged for him to offer any resistance.

For some reason she’d looked at her watch then. That had been five hours ago.

It’s now twenty after eleven and Oscar still hasn’t regained any strength or reasonable degree of consciousness.

The knot in her stomach could be there for a dozen various reasons. Hunger, revulsion, a desire to go to the bathroom, or just plain fear are her best guesses. Any one of these would explain it but she knows fear is the greatest contributor.

Not fear for herself – while they’d been rough with her, the men hadn’t gone so far as to strike her. She was afraid for Oscar, the beating he’d taken must have caused some internal damage and the Lord alone knows what may be ruptured inside him.

There’s also fear for their baby. There’s no way the variety of hormones her body is dumping at the moment can be good for a baby.

It’s bad enough she may lose Oscar. The added horror of potentially losing his baby as well is more than she can take.

She digs a nail into the soft skin between her left thumb and forefinger. The pain serves its intended purpose. It focuses her.

A few cracks between the boards forming the walls allow slivers of light into the shack. It looks bare in the dimness.

Noelle uses gentle movements to lower Oscar’s head to the dirt floor and tries the door.

It’s locked.

A search of the shack’s walls reveals one boarded-over window and no weak spots. The dirt floor offers the possibility of tunnelling under the walls. Or at least it would if the dirt wasn’t so hard packed.

Five minutes spent pawing and scratching earns her two torn nails and a hole the size of a soup bowl.

She looks round for a tool of some kind. Her eyes find nothing but dirt on the floor.

The walls are bare timber. There are no shelves or anything that can be pried loose to aid her digging or use as a weapon. The men will have to open the door at some point.

It’s better if they don’t. If they open the door it will mean more pain for Oscar. She’d face the pain herself if it wasn’t for the baby.

She has another, more terrifying thought. What if they never come back? What then?

She knows Oscar will die from his injuries and she’ll starve. As her body starts to devour its fatty tissues, the baby will suffer from malnutrition first.

The dryness of her mouth gives her another, greater fear.

Starvation won’t be what kills them. Dehydration will.

She’s aware the human body can survive three weeks without food, but only three days without water. Oscar’s alcohol intake last night will have put him at a minus to start with.

Noelle presses her ear against the door but hears nothing.

Her eyes peek through the one crack she’s tall enough to reach. She sees brushwood and scrubland surrounded by hills. Her best guess is they’re in a valley somewhere.

With nothing left to gain by stealth, Noelle resorts to desperation.

She yells for help. None comes.

She screams, hoping the shrillness will carry further. Nothing changes.

With no reaction to her yelling and screaming, Noelle figures the men have abandoned her and Oscar to die.

Noelle reasons that the door is the weak point and backs herself against the opposite wall. She runs the four paces and throws her shoulder against the lock side of the door.

This time her scream is fuelled by pain rather than fear. The shack’s door stands firm against her assault, making her shoulder numb with the impact.

If there’d been the slightest hint of give in the door, she’d try again regardless of the pain. She’s about to try kicking out at the boards forming the wall when a voice interrupts her. ‘Hey, bitch. Stop your hollerin’. From now on, every time you make a noise or try and escape, we’ll come in there and beat your beaner lover some more.’ Just like the previous night, the voice is muffled by a hand.

Noelle sinks to the floor and goes back to cradling Oscar.

Tears run down her face and fall from her jaw as she wonders why they’ve been kidnapped, and what the men plan to do to them.

39

I can tell the chief is close to losing his patience and unless the person he’s speaking to is an imbecile, they’ll know it too.

He’s spent the last five minutes getting the run-around from someone I presume is a junior desk clerk at the FBI office in Salt Lake City.

While he drums frustrated fingers on his desk, I read through the file he handed me after glancing at it himself.

The file is an initial report from the CSI team detailing the items found in the immediate vicinity of where the Fourniers were discovered.

I ignore the technical jargon and look for the salient facts.

The crosses were three by six-inch pine – available from any lumber yard. They’d been jointed with a half lap joint. I don’t know a lot about carpentry, but I do know that a half lap joint doesn’t require a cabinetmaker. Despite this, the report says the joints were well made and showed a degree of skill.

The nails used to affix the Fourniers were standard six-inch nails which could be purchased at most hardware stores or builders’ merchants.

There’s nothing enlightening in the report until I reach the pages concerning the items found on the track. Various candy wrappers and so on are all discounted due to them being aged by weeks, or months, on the forest floor.

The cigar butt offers more. It’s a rare brand called a Royal Jamaica Extrafinos No. 4.

A quick search on my phone shows them to be retailing at over ninety bucks for three. The fact I can source them on the internet with less than a minute’s searching says more about their retailer’s marketing expertise than the actual rarity of the cigars. Tracking down local retailers – and purchasers – of the cigars is a job best left for Alfonse.

The next page is about the paint left on a tree by the vehicle that left the track. Chemical analysis shows it to have come from a Ford E250 panel van. The problem is that the paint is white, and therefore the van must be too. White Ford vans are commonplace.

I’m familiar with the model, having driven one in a previous job. They’re workhorses for builders of all trades, delivery firms and a thousand other drivers. Even when I lived in Glasgow, the most common van on the road was a Ford.

What helps is that the few tracks they found were made by off-road tyres. This means the van has been modified to some degree. It’s not much of a clue, but it’s a clue if it helps to narrow the list of suspects.

I keep turning the pages, but find nothing more of any possible use.

All we need to do is find someone who drives the right kind of vehicle, smokes the correct brand of cigar, and has a history of racial violence or hatred and we’re home and hosed.

If only it were that easy.

The chief’s tone has changed. He’s now talking to someone with a bit of authority. The report he’s giving is brief and to the point. Key facts are covered and questions fielded with straight answers.

He thanks the person and ends the call.

‘FBI are sending over a half-dozen agents. I spoke to the SAC at Amelia Earhart.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘I didn’t get his name.’

Amelia Earhart Drive is in Salt Lake City. I look at my watch. ‘Supposing they leave in half an hour and don’t worry about the speed limits too much. It’s still going to be three when they get here.’

‘Your point?’

‘We’ve got almost three hours to run down some leads before they take over. The more we can give them, the sooner these killers can be stopped.’

‘Agreed. I’ll get my boys to do a door-to-door where the girl was taken. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get Alfonse to chase down people who’ve bought those cigars. I’ll also get him to find out who owns a white Ford E250 in this area. Once I’ve spoken to him, I’m going to find out what I can about the second victim.’

Even as I say it, I feel as if I’m betraying Alfonse. I know it’s not true, but I can’t help the pang of guilt. My aim is to get as much information as possible so the lives of the Fourniers can be cross-referenced against Gazala’s. The points where their lives intersect may just give us the break we need.

‘Me too.’ His voice trips with foreboding. ‘Except I have to get my information from the family. I sent Farrage over to do the death knock.’

I’m not sure how to answer him; the thought of Lieutenant Farrage breaking bad news to a distraught family is an uncomfortable one, so I ask a question. ‘What do you know about her?’

He gives me a few bare facts. Other than her age, address and where she worked there’s not much to go on.

It’s her place of work that strikes a chord.

40

C-Dude is just as I remember it. I buy clothes here on occasion. Not the high-fashion stuff – the end-of-season lines suit me best. They’re cheaper and I’ve never been worried about staying close to the latest trends.

There’s a young woman with a deep tan working behind the sales counter. She looks close to tears as she bags something for a guy in his early twenties. He’s trying to flirt with her, but she’s not interested. While I can tell she’s struggling to hold it together, the guy is oblivious.

It doesn’t take much effort to work out why a colleague of Gazala’s is upset. News travels fast in a place like Casperton. Bad news travels faster.

At the back of the room a woman wears a disapproving look as she hangs suits on racks.

I wander round until the unsuccessful Romeo realises he’s fighting a losing battle, and leaves.

The tanned woman is wiping her eyes when I approach.

‘Sorry. Must have an allergy to something. How can I help you?’

The lie is unconvincing. I don’t challenge it though. Instead, I nod at her and lean on the counter.

I keep my tone as casual as I can. ‘I’m here for some information. About Gazala.’

‘So it’s true, she’s dead?’

She crumples when I give her confirmation.

Brisk clacks forewarn the older woman’s arrival. She comforts her younger colleague in a way that’s not natural to either. There’s too much stiffness from both of them. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ Her free arm points at the door.

I don’t move.

She points again. This time she accompanies the gesture with a stamp of her heel. ‘Sir, did you not hear me ask you to leave?’

The stamp itself is enough to make me dig my own heels in. I do, however, recognise this isn’t a fight I should have – let alone try and win. Finesse is called for here.

‘I did indeed hear you, Ma’am, I’m investigating Gazala’s murder and just wondered if your colleague could answer a few questions.’ I almost say daughter instead of colleague as a way to emphasise the woman’s age.

The older woman is pushed away. ‘It’s okay, Marjorie. I’ll be okay. If this man wants to ask me some questions; it’s the least I can do for Gazala.’

I give the girl a mental round of applause for her strength and moral fortitude. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ I look around the store.

Marjorie points towards a door in a far corner. The girl leads the way, telling me her name is Jenny and she’s worked with Gazala for almost a year.

Jenny’s face isn’t familiar, but I wouldn’t expect it to be. She’s too young to be part of the regular crowd at the Tree and, if her appearance is anything to go by, there’s no way she’s a classic rock fan.

The door opens into a stockroom. There are piles of boxes stacked in neat rows. Rails are laden with unpacked clothes and covered with clear sheets. A coffee machine sits atop a small fridge in one corner.

Jenny leans her butt against the fridge. Her eyes are red and she looks as if tears are never going to be far away. ‘What do you want to know?’

I throw a few questions her way. She bats the answers back. There’s nothing untoward or interesting about her answers.

She and Gazala were colleagues for the eleven months she’s worked here. They get on well and share a dislike of Marjorie. That’s not a big surprise; two young women are always going to make friends with each other rather than a grumpy older woman in a position of authority.

They may be friends at work but they don’t socialise together. Jenny admits she’s out most nights while Gazala chooses to stay in.

I move the conversation onto life in the store, ask about customers falling out with Gazala or giving her a hard time.

She rubbishes the idea. ‘Gazala is loved by the customers. She never has any problems or issues with them. Most times she manages to upsell to them as well.’

‘What about boyfriends, do you know if she was seeing anyone?’

‘Nobody that I know of.’ Jenny picks at her top lip, glances towards the door. ‘She is all about getting her own store. She doesn’t seem interested in meeting a guy.’

‘Surely she had guys chasing her? She was pretty enough.’

A sob catches in her throat making me wonder if my use of the past tense is causing unnecessary distress.

‘She flirted a little to make a sale but never accepted any of the dates they offered her.’ Jenny switches to past tense now that realisation and acceptance have arrived.

‘Have you heard about the family that was murdered?’

‘Yeeesss.’ Confusion spreads on Jenny’s face as she stretches the word.

I show her a picture on my cell. It’s one Alfonse sent me of the Fourniers. ‘This is them. Do any of them look familiar?’

‘The girl does.’ She points at the screen. ‘Most weekends she hung outside with a couple other girls.’

This puzzles me until I remember that the adjacent store sells video games. Where better for a bunch of teen girls to hang out, giggling about boys and hopefully meeting some, than here?

‘Did Gazala ever talk with her?’ I have to fight to keep the excitement from my voice. This may be the connection I’m looking for.

‘Yeah a few times. The girls can be pests at times, but Gazala would always chat to them when Marjorie wasn’t about.’

‘Do you know what they talked about?’

A shake of the head. ‘I never asked.’

The cynic in me says Jenny would only be interested in a bunch of young girls if they had older brothers or perhaps a single father. Even in her state of grief I’ve caught her giving me the once over.

‘Do you know who the other girls are?’

‘I don’t, sorry.’

The rap of knuckles on wood makes us both look to the door.

Marjorie walks in followed by Lieutenant Farrage. Both fix me with a glare although Marjorie is the one to speak; her voice full of accusation. ‘I thought you were the police.’

Farrage answers her. ‘He’s not the police, he’s not even a private detective.’

I look directly at Marjorie. ‘He’s right, I’m not a trained detective. But I’m more of a detective than he’ll ever be. And what’s more, unlike him and his buddies, I’m not getting paid by the state to let you all down with my incompetence.’

Her lips purse tighter than usual. I think it may be my disregard for Farrage’s authority. She’s the type who feeds off the class system. Competence is not a necessary qualification in her world. The existence of a badge enough to ordain a higher communal standing.

She’ll no doubt be aware of who his father is. This will further elevate him when compared to me.

I’m wearing jeans, heavy boots and a plain shirt. Farrage is wearing a tailored suit with polished shoes and a tie. His accent is local, mine foreign. In a mind as narrow as hers it’s no contest.

For once, Farrage has enough about him to know when to keep his big yap shut. He wants to reply, to put me down with a sharp witticism, but he knows he’s out-classed. His sole response is to point at the door.

‘Thank you detective.’ I toss him a sweet smile and a patronising look. ‘That’s a door. Spelled d-o-o-r.’

Marjorie’s admonishments, on the subject of disrespect as I leave the store, are wonderful in their primness.

41

Noelle starts as the door opens and daylight floods the shack. She’s been lost in a world of self-pity, her mind worrying at possible reasons for their kidnap.

She knows the chances of them being rescued are slim. At Oscar’s suggestion, they’d both taken the day off work to look at potential wedding venues. Nobody except a couple of wedding planners will be missing them, and they’ll be used to broken appointments.

The men who come through the door are again wearing masks. They grab her, drag a hood over her head and lead her outside. Oscar is left lying on the floor, still on the point of unconsciousness.

She feels the men guide her around the shack. When they reach what she assumes is the far side, they push her backwards until her shoulders touch rough wood.

The hood is pulled off and one of the men thrusts a sheet of paper at her. Another is holding a cell phone. She recognises the pink case as hers.

Noelle looks down at the paper. At the top of the page is a terse instruction to read the page aloud. As her eyes flit down the page she recoils in horror. The hand clutching the paper moves away from her body, as if distancing it will make her feel safer.

It doesn’t.

The third of her captors steps out from behind the one with her cell. He’s holding a shotgun. He points it at her with a lack of urgency. The end of the barrel bounces twice; its meaning unmissable.

She starts to read the words on the paper. Every one of them is an affront to her. Even saying them under duress is an effort. She expects to die when she reaches the end. Her voice falters but she does not allow it to fail. As she resigns herself to death, her resolve grows stronger.

The man with her cell phone is holding it up. She guesses he’s recording her.

As Noelle speaks, her eyes flit between the paper and the masks hiding the men from her view. She finishes the message with her head up and her voice strong.

‘So, what now? Are you going to kill me?’

Another piece of paper is produced and handed to her.

She reads the instructions with dread, tears pouring down her cheeks as she realises what they mean for Oscar.

42

I knock on the door and try my best to look respectable and unthreatening. A grown man asking to speak with a teenage girl is sure to raise any parent’s suspicions.

The street where Ashlyn Sampson lives is a good one. The cars on the driveways are new models, the lawns are well kept and there’s a general air of respectability. It doesn’t surprise me; Robyn was a good girl from a decent family, it stands to reason her friends will be similar people.

The woman who answers the door is mid-thirties and mumsy in every way possible. Her blonde hair is in an unkempt ponytail and her clothes are stained with the detritus of child-rearing. A meaty smell fills the air with a promise of sustenance.

I explain why I’m here. Her initial friendliness turns to suspicion until I request that she sits with Ashlyn while I ask my questions.

She invites me in and calls out for her daughter as she leads me to her lounge.

Two toddlers are playing on the carpet, both pulling on a ratty doll. From their comparative sizes, I guess they’re twins.

‘Tyson , let Anna have Dolly.’ The boy lets go of the doll and starts pulling at the nose on a stuffed bear.

A girl with a shock of frizzy hair and too much make-up enters the room.

‘This man is here to ask you a few questions about Robyn. Okay?’

Ashlyn rejects the mother’s patted cushion next to her and stands by the fireplace in a show of independence.

‘Hi, Ashlyn. I’m told you were one of Robyn Fournier’s best friends.’ I want to ask what they did together, but can’t think of a way of asking without it sounding creepy. ‘You used to hang around outside C-Dude, didn’t you?’

‘Not, like, very often.’ The glance at her mother tells me lies have been told regarding her whereabouts.

‘That’s fair enough. I believe Robyn was friends with one of the staff there. A woman called Gazala. What did they talk about?’

‘School and stuff. I think, like, Gazala used to, like, sit Robyn when she was younger.’ The unnecessary ‘likes’ in her speech pattern are irritating but irrelevant. She’s giving me a genuine connection between the victims.

‘Were they friends? Did they see each other anywhere else?’

Her face twists in disgust. ‘They weren’t, like, BFFs or anything. She was, like, way old. She was just, like, kind to us and knew Robyn best. Not like that Marjorie. She was a… cow.’

I hide the smile I can feel coming. Ashlyn was about to swear and just remembered in time that her mother was in the room. The mother is worldly enough to have a tinge of a smile in her eyes.

‘So, you never saw Gazala anywhere else?’

‘Once or twice at the mall, or by the park. Mostly at C-Dude though.’

I repeat the questions in different ways but don’t learn anything beyond the fact Gazala had been polite to a kid she used to sit for.

43

Noelle trembles as she waits in the back of the van. The hood is back over her head but she estimates there’s at least one of her captors in here with her.

For the first time since being snatched she fears rape. When she was loaded into the van after making the video, a gloved hand cupped her left breast through the flimsy material of her chemise. It had lingered and given a firm squeeze before being removed.

Every part of her wants to do whatever she can to learn the identity of her captors but the risk of them hurting her as punishment is too great. If it was just her she had to care for then it would be different. With a baby growing inside her there is no way she can take the chance.

It feels as if she’s abandoning Oscar. That she’s leaving him to his fate without a fight.

The pragmatic side of her recognises there’s little a pregnant woman can do against four men. Especially when one of them has a shotgun.

She feels the van draw to a stop.

Remembers her instructions.

Wonders if she’s about to die. Thinks about the life forming inside her.

Rough gloves filled with strong fingers grasp her right arm.

She’s lead out of the van.

Footsteps sound.

Another set of gloves take her left arm.

More footsteps.

A punch hits her square in the gut.

The gloved hands on her arms hold her upright; prevent her from doubling over.

Another punch lands. Then a third, fourth and fifth. Each one a little lower than the previous.

The final punch lands at the top of her pubic bone.

The gloved hands lower her to the ground. Through the pain she feels rough tarmac beneath her butt.

Somehow she remembers her instructions.

The racking of a shotgun fills the quiet as her count reaches three.

Tyres screech as metallic doors slam.

Noelle reaches fifty and pulls the hood off.

The first thing she does is lift her chemise and look down. She’d felt her panties filling with moisture and she can now see it’s the blood she’d feared.

Sobs wrack her body as she howls in pain and anger.

It’s a full ten minutes before she collects herself enough to think about finding help, when she does, she starts clinging to the faintest of hopes the baby has somehow survived the assault.

Her eyes blink away the tears and find a focal point in the distance. She looks around and finds she’s on a deserted road.

Her cell is four feet in front of her. She groans in pain as she crawls towards it.

911 is the first number she calls. The need to get help for Oscar is an equal priority with summoning an ambulance for the baby.

The voice at the other end of the line goes through the usual routine in calm, measured tones: identifies the caller, asks which service and wants to know what has happened.

Noelle can’t answer the question about her location. Frantic, she looks around to try and find a landmark she recognises.

As she turns to look along the road, she screams and drops the cell.

44

I’m sitting in Miss Oliver’s office. The atmosphere is, as my grandpa would say, ‘colder than a polar bear’s left bollock’. She’s not trying to be frosty, she just doesn’t know how to be anything else.

Every question I’m putting to her is being deflected. It’s as if I’m prying into her personal life or asking for state secrets. I suppose to one as career-minded as her, it will seem as if I am.

‘I’m sorry, but I cannot disclose that information.’ She has the poor grace to look self-satisfied at her thwarting of my enquiry. ‘We pride ourselves on our client confidentiality.’

‘I’m sure you do. Perhaps it’d be better for all concerned if you wait for the FBI to arrive with a warrant.’

Her eyes narrow at my bluff. I can see her trying to work out why I’m doing an about-turn. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you wait until the warrant comes you’ll be standing by the bank’s principles. I guess someone in your marketing team may even use a strapline such as – “your privacy means so much to us, we’ll obstruct homicide investigations”. Your head office and regional manager will be proud of you. I bet you’ll get a promotion out of this.’ I turn the screw a little tighter. ‘I’m certain Ms Rosenberg will give you a good write-up in the Gazette. Not sure how that’ll play out with the families of the deceased though. You may lose a few customers until the marketing bods get the new slogan out there.’

‘Why should I give this information to you rather than the police? You’re not even licensed as a detective.’

We both know she’s going to cave and this is her last act of defiance. It’s one thing to protect your clients, another to hold up a major investigation. It would be career suicide.

There’s no way she wants to attract the kind of public attention I’m suggesting she’ll get, not when the FBI will force her to give them the information I’m after. I’m just here a couple of days ahead of them with less to lose by making threats.

‘Any information you give me will only be shared with the police and my partner. I have no interest in breaching your bank’s ethics. I’m just trying to identify some possible suspects.’

She’s too young to purse her lips, but she does it anyway. ‘It’ll take time to get the information you need. It’s not something I can do at the push of a button.’

‘Poppycock. You should be able to have that information within five minutes.’ I point to the computer on her desk. ‘Are you telling me that you can’t log in as Sherrelle and do a search for loan applications?’ She doesn’t answer me. Or meet my eye. ‘That you can’t segregate those approved and those denied? In this day and age I find that totally unbelievable.’

She blusters for a moment or two but my patience has worn through. I stand and move towards the door. ‘Forget it. I’ll just call Ms Rosenberg. I’m sure she’ll be fascinated at the lack of functionality of the computer system in a bank that sells “digital banking for the digital age”.’

My use of the bank’s current advertising slogan breaks her.

‘Sit down, Mr Boulder. I’ll get you your information.’

Her face twists into a scowl as she stabs at the keyboard, muttering un-bank-manager-like curses under her breath, but she’s getting me what I want.

Her printer spits out a sheaf of papers.

She hands them to me without a smile. ‘This is everyone Sherrelle turned down in the last five years. They’re listed by the value of the loan request. It should make your search quicker.’

She’s come through in spades so I resist adding, ‘it wasn’t that hard, was it?’ when I give her my thanks.

45

I pull into the lot and find a space to park. There’s a young couple holding hands as they push a buggy; a mother of three is yelling at her kids to watch where they’re going.

Taylor rearranged my appointment with Dr Edwards when I called earlier. He agreed to hang back and see me after his last patient. Before I even get in there, I know he’s going to exact a heavy price for this favour. My being five minutes late will only raise the cost.

As I stride in, Taylor is waiting for me. ‘Go right in. And mind what you say, he’s in a funny mood today.’

His door is open so I enter and take my usual seat as I apologise for being late.

He looks at me over steepled fingers. He has a way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’m a specimen in a lab.

‘Let’s not waste each other’s time. You want answers for the case you’re investigating and I want to know how you feel about killing a man. Shall we start with you telling me what you felt the moment you knew he was dead?’

His directness is unusual. I know he’ll be expecting the same from me. I also know he’s wily enough to use it, and rapid-fire questions, as a way to unsettle me and get quick answers, rather than considered, more ambiguous ones.

‘I was glad I’d killed him. It was me or him and I didn’t want to die.’ I see no harm in giving him an honest answer. ‘There’s been a second murder and it’s got loads of racial symbolism attached to it too.’

‘Tell me more about this murder. Just the key facts though.’ I like that he uses my word for the deed and doesn’t correct me. I’ve been in Casperton a long time, but I often find myself still thinking in Scottish terms rather than American ones. What I don’t like is him limiting me to key facts. It’s his way of controlling the conversation.

When I’m finished, he leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling. It’s a new gesture.

He sits back upright and scribbles a note or two onto his pad. ‘A message is being sent. Not only are they targeting black people, they’re attacking all non-whites. Their motives are unknown at this time, but I’d speculate they’re waging some kind of racial war based on the principles of terrorism.’

‘Why do you say terrorism when they’re racially motivated hate crimes?’ My thinking has been along clearly defined racial hatred lines.

‘Terrorism is defined as an unofficial or unauthorised use of violence and intimidation in the pursuit of political aims.’ He lays down his pen. ‘How do you think the black and other minority communities are feeling right now? It’s only a matter of time before they either start leaving town, or lashing out at those they deem responsible. These are the kind of things which instigate race-riots. You may have killed in self-defence, but now, weeks after the event in the cold light of day, how do you feel about the fact you took another man’s life?’

‘I’m comfortable with it for the reasons I already explained. He picked the fight with me. He lost. I’d rather not have sunk to his level but he took the decision out of my hands.’

‘Interesting that you use the word “sunk”. You’ve told me previously that you can’t swim, and are in fact afraid of water.’ Another note gets added to my file. ‘The message being sent out is that people of colour are unwelcome – that they should leave. The methods of execution are symbolic as well as barbaric. Everyone fears death to some degree. We all hope we’ll die in our old age after a long life. Most people’s preference is to slip away in the middle of the night in their own bed. You’ve faced death a lot more closely than most. What’s worse for you, is that you faced dying in an environment you feared. You’ve been there. Can you imagine the terror of the black community; they’ll all be worrying that they’ll be the next ones to be nailed to a cross and incinerated. How did you feel when you were dumped into the water and left to drown?’

I take a moment to digest his words. I’m focussing on the statements rather than the question.

‘I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t scared. There’s no shame in that. Anyone would have been scared in that situation. What do you think is next for this group of killers?’

‘I don’t know what they’ll do next, I suspect it’ll be bad though. Whether they attack a different ethnic group or revisit one of those already targeted, I think their next strike will come soon. The chief of police will be calling in the FBI and will, I’m sure, be reassuring a scared public while also giving them advice on how to stay safe. Their mission will become harder with every passing day. It’s also a basic principle of terrorism to keep the pressure on. As you say, there’s no shame in being scared. I’m sure drowning was the subject of your worst nightmares. I would imagine you were angry as well. Am I right?’

‘Yeah. I was angry. Furious in fact. With him, with myself for being captured. I used that anger to survive. To do what needed to be done.’

Fingers get steepled. The ceiling gets another examination. ‘Tell me, Jake, how are you sleeping?’

He’s done it again. He’s steered me one way with his answer only to ambush me with a perceptive question. This is the one I’ve been dreading. I know how much emphasis psychologists and their ilk place on the power of dreams. My options are either lying, or admitting I suffer from terror-inducing nightmares. I choose to do both.

‘I have the odd bad dream, that’s all. I expect it’s to be expected really.’ His face remains blank at my blasé response. ‘Can you give me any pointers towards identifying these killers?’

‘I’ve told you before, Jake. I’m not a criminal psychologist. I’m an everyday psychologist. I can only give you guesses based on the information you give me.’

‘Then guess.’ The desperate anger in my voice catches us both by surprise.

‘Okay then.’ There’s no resentment in his voice. ‘My best guess is that they are a tightly knit group – family or co-workers kind of thing. Their education levels will not be as high as ours. They’ll have police records for violence and petty thefts. Most will be single men.’

He doesn’t know it but he’s describing the Augiers. Or at least people like them.

‘Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.’

I stand to leave, but as always Dr Edwards has a cautionary word for me. ‘You may try and pass them off as bad dreams, Jake. We both know they’re more than that. Next time we speak, I want to discuss them further.’

We both know he means I have to tell him everything about the dreams. I thought I was tenacious until I met him.

46

I’m a quarter of a mile from Alfonse’s place when my cell rings. I answer it without looking, only to be met by the gruff tones of Chief Watson. From the stress in his voice I get a mental picture him of kneading his temples.

He tells me about a call that came in via 911. A woman had been dumped on a back road off the 191. They’d lost the connection with her but had put a trace on her cell as a matter of routine. The responding patrolman had found her.

Before getting the woman into the patrol car, she’d led the patrolman off the road and into the scrub. Had shown him a tethered wild goat with a human head tied between its horns.

I ask who the woman was; if the patrolman recognised either her or the head.

The chief says no to both questions and tells me to get my ass to the station as quick as I can.

I call Alfonse. ‘Put your shoes on and meet me on the sidewalk.’ I hang up before he has time to ask questions.

As I turn the corner he’s locking his door.

I’m at the sidewalk a second before he is. Two seconds later I’m accelerating away.

He tells me of his day in six succinct words. ‘I got nothing. Waste of time.’

I tell him about my day and the latest developments. He gasps as I tell him about the the goat with its gruesome burden.

It’s also another different racial group to be targeted. A new section of the community struck with terror.

Casperton is set to become famous for all the wrong reasons. It’s nothing more than a matter of time before the news of these killings goes national, or global. I might not own a TV, but I spend enough time online to know how these things can go viral . Social media sites will throb and hum as the public have their say. I just hope things don’t get so bad that it’s discussed in congress.

As a tactic to raise the profile of the killings, it’s a brilliant one. The more I think about it, the better it seems.

I don’t envy the chief his job at the best of times. Now it must be a torturous world of high stress and higher stakes.

The FBI coming to take over will ease a lot of the burden. Fingers will still be pointed at the chief though. Columnists with vitriol-filled pens and empty heads will file copy laden with criticism of a man who deserves better.

When we enter the station, Farrage is leading three of his sidekicks from the chief’s office. To say they look chastened would be an understatement. Each carries an air of humble determination.

I poke my head around the chief’s door. He’s got the phone to his ear but he waves us in.

Alfonse and I sit in silence, like obedient children, until the chief crashes the phone into its cradle.

‘You got the drift of this?’ The chief’s words come out as a scowl.

The pressure is taking its toll on him. His knuckles are kneading his temples in the familiar gesture. The newer technique, demonstrated by Emily Green, has been forgotten and he’s back to using brute force.

‘We’re up to speed, but only as far as you’ve told us.’ I hold his gaze. ‘I take it you realise how big this is going to become when word gets out?’

He nods. His face etched with consternation. ‘Yeah. I’ve threatened the jobs of everyone who knows, to try and keep it contained for now.’ He makes a helpless gesture.

Someone will leak the news. The woman herself, a nurse or a patrolman struggling to pay their mortgage may take a few bucks for a newsworthy tip.

‘Where is the woman now, is she hurt?’

‘The patrolman who found her radioed for help before bringing her back. She’s just been admitted to the hospital and is currently under evaluation. Both psychiatric and physical.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’ve been told I should be able to see her in an hour or so. According to the patrolman, she’s in an extreme state of shock and was just babbling. She kept pushing her cell to him but when he tried to take it she wouldn’t let him.’

‘Do you know her name yet, or whose head it is.

‘Not yet. The head is still out there on that damned goat .’

‘Why? Surely the patrolman brought it in?’ I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. The police around here might be rubbish, but they should at least know better than to leave a goat wandering around with a human head between it’s horns.

‘It’s not that simple, Jake.’

I turn to face Chief Watson . ‘What do you mean, not that simple? It’s obvious that you retrieve the animal and the head for evidence.’

‘You can’t just go interfering with a crime scene like that. It needs to be done by a specialist forensic team”

My eyes fall the floor as I realise my mistake .Tell me you’ve got someone capable on their way ?’

‘Of course.’

‘What about the FBI? Are they here yet, and have you updated them?’

‘I spoke to the special agent in charge and he’s been held up with car trouble. He said he’ll get here in an hour, so I told him to go to the hospital.’

‘So, we’ve got an hour before anything happens.’ I stand up and make for the door. ‘I suggest we use that time wisely.’

‘What you sayin’, Boulder?’

‘I’m saying you’ll have things to organise. A press conference for one. A higher police presence for another. While you’re doing that, Alfonse and I will make ourselves useful. Can we use the other office?’

‘You do what you gotta do. Just stop tellin’ me how to do my goddamn job.’

‘Chief?’ Alfonse receives an enquiring glare. ‘What was the colour of the skin on the head?’

‘Brown. Marcus reckoned the guy looked Mexican.’

I’d never asked the question myself because I knew what the answer would be. There’s no satisfaction in being right though.

47

I park beside the chief’s pickup and follow him into the hospital. I’ve left Alfonse working his way through the list of people Sherrelle had turned down for loans.

The chief marches to the Emergency Room counter and growls his query to the receptionist. She gives him the information he needs and points the way.

A minute later we’re standing outside a cubicle while the chief argues with a nurse. It’s a fierce argument which neither participant shows any desire to lose.

Neither party should lose either. Both are doing their jobs. The nurse is protecting her patient; the chief the townsfolk.

A doctor steps out from the cubicle and I get a look at the woman. Not a proper look, just enough of a split-second glimpse for me to recognise the fact that I know her. Try as I might, I can’t put a name to her.

In the woman’s dishevelled, grief-stricken state, her appearance will be a far cry from her usual look.

I need to see her again, for longer, to put a name to her. Her voice may be the better trigger.

The doctor is responding to the chief’s demands. The nurse wears the smug look of a child whose parent has just told off another child. ‘Chief. I fully understand your position, but there’s no way you’re going to be able to interview her. Her emotional state is too fragile for her to be able to answer your questions. She’s also incredibly lucky not to have lost the baby she’s carrying. I’ve given her a sedative to help her rest. She needs to rest. Not just for her own sake but for the baby’s too.’

I step in front of the chief. Him snapping and growling threats isn’t what’s needed here. The doctor is using calm measured tones, so I do too.

‘We appreciate your position, Doctor, and of course your patient’s health is a priority for everyone. Do you know who your patient is yet?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Once she wakes up, we’ll have her talk to a psychologist. Perhaps the news of her baby’s survival will help her emotional state. All she’s doing now is babbling incoherently.’

‘I’ll be honest with you. When you came out, I got a glimpse of her. I think I may have recognised her.’

‘Who is she? Dammit, Boulder, you tell me who she is right now.’ The chief steps forward. For a moment, I expect him to grab fistfuls of my shirt.

Even the sullen nurse is looking at me with expectation.

‘I think she’s Lydia Young.’ It’s a lie. I’m still not sure who it is but I’m trying to buy us enough of an audience with the woman to make a positive ID.

‘Who’s Lydia Young?’

It’s the doctor who answers the chief. ‘She’s the administrator’s daughter.’ It’s not the strip lighting which makes his face looks pale.

I take a tentative half-step towards the cubicle. ‘Can I have a minute to see her, check I’m right?’

He steps aside and follows me in.

The figure on the bed is curled into a ball. I keep my distance so as not to alarm her, and bend down so my face is on the same level as hers. I take in every detail of her face: the pointed chin, high cheekbones, and opal eyes that pour tears. The woman’s mouth is pulled wide as sob after sob wracks her body.

Crouching here looking at this wreck of a human being, I can feel the MacDonald blood in my veins boil. Not just for her, but for all those whose lives have been shattered by the killers’ actions.

It isn’t just the victims who have suffered. Their loved ones will be torturing themselves, imagining their pain and fear.

I keep my voice as soft and gentle as possible. It’s almost a burr when I address the woman I suspect is Noelle Holten. ‘Hello, I’m Jake. We used to date. Do you remember me?’

The tiniest of nods interrupts her sobbing.

Now I know she remembers me, I need her to confirm who she is. ‘The doctor needs you to say your name, can you do that for me?’ He doesn’t, but she won’t know that.

She moves her head off her chest and looks at me with unseeing, tear-filled eyes. I last saw her less than twenty-four hours ago, but she’s aged at least a decade since then. Her voice when she speaks is faint, and slurred by whatever sedative the doctor has given her. ‘No… No… Noelle.’

‘Do you know who did this to you?’ I hear the doctor tutting but ignore him.

Noelle’s hands force their way free of the thin hospital sheet covering them. Clutched between white knuckled fingers is a cell phone with a pink cover. She slides it towards me. ‘Vi… Vi… Videos.’

I take the cell from her fingers and give her hand a gentle squeeze as I push the cell into my pocket. She doesn’t return the squeeze.

The doctor isn’t stupid but you don’t get to be a doctor by flunking out. ‘You tricked me.’ Curiosity sits where anger should.

I wait until we’ve left the cubicle before answering him. It’ll save me repeating myself to Chief Watson. ‘She’s Noelle Holten, she’s in her late thirties and lives on the other side of town.’

‘And the other guy?’ I pick up the chief’s meaning. ‘I’m guessing he’s her boyfriend, and father of her baby. I saw them at Gallo Vermiglio last night with a bunch of folks that looked like family. They were all celebrating. Noelle was radiating happiness.’

A burly man in a dark suit strides towards us. He’s almost a poster boy for the FBI with his upright posture and implacable face. He jerks his head to one side whilst looking at the chief. ‘A word.’

I guess he’s called Special Agent Doenig for information on Casperton and the law enforcers he’s likely to encounter. Even forgetting the uniform, Chief Watson’s iron grey hair and world-weary face are distinctive.

His lack of manners grates, but there are bigger issues at hand so I don’t call him on it. The dark hue of his skin combined with the brusque voice are good indicators of how seriously he’ll be taking this case.

He remains silent until we’re alone in a corridor. When he does speak, his eyes are on Chief Watson.

‘I’m Special Agent Gaertner. I’m guessing you’re the chief of police.’ He throws a disdainful glance my way. ‘This one of your detectives?’

I’m not insulted by his pre-formed opinion. If he thinks I’m one of the local detectives, it’s no surprise he’s classing me as a moron.

‘He’s Jake Boulder, a private detective who’s helping me out.’

Gaertner looks me head to toe as he reassesses. ‘I’ve heard about him. Report I got was of a bright fellow who got lucky.’

I wonder what else Doenig has said about me. The FBI may be a bureaucratic organisation at heart but it’s still staffed by human beings. Away from the public they’ll have the same water-cooler gossips as every office in the world. There will be friendships, rivalries and a general sharing of experiences relevant to the areas they work in.

The chief springs to my defence. ‘He’s a good man to have around. He’s been helping me on this case and I value his opinion.’

It’s the nicest thing the chief has said about me but it doesn’t have any effect on Gaertner.

‘I’m sure you do. The FBI however, does not work with civilians.’ Gaertner turns to me. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done so far. You can go home now. My colleagues and I will take it from here.’

The chief bristles and is about to respond to Gaertner’s flat monotone with one of his rants, when a pair of orderlies wheel a gurney past us. The patient on the gurney is either asleep or unconscious. If the orderlies’ expressions are any indication, his chances aren’t good.

I hold up a hand to silence the chief. ‘You know you can’t stop me running my own investigation don’t you? Four of the six victims are known to me and so is the survivor in there.’ I jerk a thumb towards the cubicle.

‘I don’t want you interfering in the case, speaking to witnesses or running your own investigation. If necessary, I’ll arrest you.’ Gaertner’s tone and face don’t alter as he speaks. All human emotion is missing from his personality, it’s as if he’s a trained robot. ‘And don’t expect the chief to deputise you again. I will not allow that.’

I walk away without arguing with him. I’d sooner disobey him than wheedle and beg for him to feed me scraps. Behind me, I can hear the chief’s remonstrations about this being his territory.

The inter-departmental pissing contest was always going to happen. I don’t need to hear it though.

48

Noelle’s eyes flicker open. Everything she sees is a blur. The drugs given by the doctor are stealing her consciousness. They’ve lessened the pain in her belly, but done nothing to end the agony in her heart.

Antiseptic smells and the beep of machines give constant reminders of where she is. Not that she needs reminders. She remembers everything, but wishes she didn’t.

The doctors have told her the baby is still alive but she doesn’t believe them. She remembers the measured punches working their way down her belly, the pain, and most of all the blood pouring from her vagina. The baby can’t have survived that.

Deep inside her, Noelle feels she could have coped with losing the baby if Oscar had been by her side. Together they could have managed the grief, healed each other and tried again. Many women miscarry. Few lose a baby to malicious violence; fewer still witness the horror she has.

In her bereft mind, the future looks bleak, unwelcoming. Everything she was looking forward to yesterday has gone. Stolen by maliciousness.

She can almost hear the platitudes friends and family will offer her. They’ll talk about time being a great healer, about God’s grand design. In time they’ll insist Oscar would want her to move on, find someone else and be happy again.

That’s not a future she can even hope for, let alone imagine.

Seared into her eyeballs is the image of Oscar’s decapitated head. Try as she might, she can’t picture his face any other way.

Not only has the love of her life been taken from her, the memories of him have been eradicated. How he looked when happy, angry, sad or a thousand other emotions, has been erased. Over-written by his face in death.

Every time she tries to think of him, his gentle touch and ready smile, her mind shows her the horror of his death.

She’d known, when she was reading out the men’s words, that Oscar was going to be killed. It was only when she’d been given the sheet with her instructions, that she’d realised she was to be spared. The cruel way she’d been punched had stolen their baby. Robbed her of the life growing inside her. Never would she look at the child he’d fathered and see his face again.

The one thing stopping her from wanting to end it all, is a desire to see the masked men face justice for their crimes. That’s why she held onto her phone until she saw Jake. She knows she can trust him to investigate the video she made. Her instructions from the men had told her there’d be another one on there. That she was to show both to the police.

Jake would make sure the videos are seen by the right people. She had feared the patrolmen would pass her cell to Farrage or one of the other detectives. Even in the depths of her grief she had known they shouldn’t be the first to see them.

Noelle’s eyes close as the medication takes full control of her body.

49

I feel something dig into my butt when I climb behind the wheel. Reaching round, I pull Noelle’s cell from my pocket.

I’d forgotten she’d given me it. I ought to go back and give it to the chief or Gaertner. Curiosity gets the better of me.

The engine burbles as I drive across town. I call Alfonse and we arrange to meet at my place. It’s closer than his.

I want to see what’s on the cell before I hand it over. Now I know the FBI’s stance, I need to keep ahead of the game. Gaertner can arrest me if he wants, but I’m not giving up because of a threat that is three parts bluff. There are no laws against asking people questions. He can arrest me all he likes; I don’t plan on doing anything that’ll give him grounds to charge me. The best he can do is delay me.

Right now I could use some thinking time. Events are moving so fast I haven’t been able to arrange my thoughts.

I expect the chief to realise that I walked away too easy. He knows me better. Once he calms down and manages to get away from Gaertner he’ll be in touch. While the FBI will now bear the public responsibility for the case, like Alfonse and I, he’ll still want to solve it himself.

With luck, the chief will keep us in the loop in exchange for first dibs on anything we learn. If not, we’ll just have to manage.

Before I give Noelle’s cell to the chief, I want Alfonse to have a look at it.

He’s waiting at the door for me, his feet marching him back and forth. Restless energy is driving his limbs despite the fatigue on his face.

I don’t recognise the set of his jaw or the growl in his eyes. He’s not just angry, he’s murderous. He wants blood and he doesn’t care who knows it.

He speaks as I’m climbing out of the car. ‘This better be good. I have too much to do to waste time yakking with you.’

I let the jibe slide over me as I put my key in the door. He’ll apologise when he calms down. ‘The FBI have stamped their foot and want us cut out.’

‘So you’re quitting. Is that it?’

Alfonse’s hand lifts by way of an apology when he sees my face.

‘This has gotten bigger than just being about your cousin and his family. It stands to reason the FBI don’t want what they see as “a couple of amateurs” getting in their way. We’ll do our thing and let them do theirs.’ I hold up Noelle’s cell phone. ‘This might just give us the inside track.’

‘Whose is it?’

‘Noelle Holten’s. She’s the woman the patrolman picked up. When she handed it to me, she kept saying video.’

I hand it to him and he fiddles with it. He shows me the screen and there’s an image of Noelle’s head. She’s speaking but we can’t hear her words. Alfonse finds the button to turn it up.

We listen and watch together. His mouth hangs opens. Mine might be too but the words I’m hearing are too destructive for me to care about anything else.

When the video ends I get up and go for a pen and paper.

Alfonse replays the video in short segments while I jot down the words. In stark black and white they look innocuous until they’re read.

My name is Noelle Holten and I’ve been chosen to read out this statement because I fell in love with a beaner.

The Christians of America have had enough. For too many years our proud heritage and gene pool has been diluted by niggers, Jews, beaners, and a thousand other inferior races. We, The Christian Knights of America are declaring war on all lesser species. Our aim is to rid the country we love of all impurities. What is happening in Casperton is just the start. We have chapters in every state, every city. The white Christian population is what made America great. We built this country and now we’re taking it back. We shall not surrender. We shall not be defeated. If you’re not a white Christian you’re going to die. Die horribly screaming in agony. Leave our wonderful country now and we’ll spare you.

Offensive as the message is, I can’t stop reading and re-reading it. I hear Alfonse’s teeth grind as he does the same. He’s the first to speak. ‘This has to go to the FBI as soon as I’ve cloned it.’

He pulls his laptop from the case he always carries. He plugs in a USB lead and selects one of the multiple heads at the other end, and connects it to Noelle’s phone.

I go to my PC, type out the message and print six copies.

‘Shit.’

The intensity of Alfonse’s curse makes my head snap round. Alfonse is looking at his laptop. ‘What’s up?’

‘The video has been uploaded to her Facebook page.’ He grimaces. ‘It’s not the only one.’

I stand behind him as he shows me the other video.

A Mexican man is being held down by two men wearing Klan robes. His neck is placed across a post and a woodsman’s axe swings down. It takes three attempts to sever the head. A gloved hand grabs the head by the hair and carries it towards a tethered goat. The head is wedged between the goat’s horns and bound into place with a rough twine. The video ends.

I’m reaching for my cell to call the chief when it starts to ring.

‘What can I do for you, Kenneth?’ He must sense something in my tone as he says what he needs to say before ending the call without any greetings or salutations.

‘Don’t tell me he wants you to work tonight?’

‘No. It’s something else. Remember he said someone had been asking for me? Well Kenneth said the guy was there again today. Said the guy was gonna come back tonight around nine.’

‘You planning to meet him?’ Alfonse’s tone is sharp, but I ignore it.

‘Yeah. If I’m back in time.’

‘Back from where?’

‘Seeing Butch Augiers. Apparently he went there looking for me too. Left a message with Kenneth saying I should go see him.’

‘So, you’re going to go running, are you? I need you here, with me, working the angles. I’m good at running down the obvious and getting into online places where I shouldn’t be. You’re better at coming up with ideas, theories and lines to pursue.’

I wave away his compliment. ‘I’ll only be gone a few hours. I’ll drop Noelle’s cell at the station, go see what Butch wants, and meet you at the Tree around nine. You run a trace on the cell movement and get everything you can from it. Then carry on with looking into the people on the list. I’m convinced Darryl and Sherrelle were chosen for a reason other than their skin colour.’

‘Fair enough.’ He points at his laptop, his face full of anger and frustration. ‘They haven’t just posted to her Facebook. They’ve put it up on YouTube, Vimeo, Twitter, Google+ and LinkedIn. They’re telling the world, Jake. Trying to instil fear and cause trouble where there isn’t any.’

‘Are you able to take them down?’ The sooner they’re off the internet, the less potential they have to cause further trouble.

‘Of course I can.’ There’s professional affront in his voice. ‘You’d better check with Chief Watson and the FBI first though.’

He’s right. Interfering with evidence is a serious crime.

I’m reaching for Noelle’s phone as I dial Chief Watson on mine.

Alfonse is right about what they’re doing. Their stating that they’re not alone is the biggest worry. The only saving grace, if it can be called that, is there aren’t huge swathes of under-privileged areas filled with ethnic minorities. If this had happened in certain parts of New York or Los Angeles there would be race riots to contend with. Tensions will still rise when the news of this breaks, but at least it’s not happening in a place where racial unrest is already an issue.

50

A reception committee is waiting for me at the steps of the station. It’s safe to say they’re not impressed with me. Even Gaertner’s implacable face is covered with a scowl as I screech to a halt.

His hand extends without a word. He takes the cell from me and hands it to one of the two subordinates standing at his shoulder.

The subordinate wheels away and heads inside. I don’t need a Harvard degree to work out he’s Gaertner’s techie guy.

‘Listen to me, Boulder.’ Gaertner’s nose is a quarter inch from mine. If anyone else invaded my personal space this way, I’d spread their nose across their face with my forehead. However, FBI special agents get a free pass when I’m in the wrong. ‘I don’t buy your tale about forgetting you had that cell. I think you kept it back so you could continue your own investigation.’

His eyes bore into mine, defying me to deny his charge. I can’t. I’ve been busted and we all know it.

I hold up my cell. ‘It was a half-hour delay at most once I realised I had it, and it was a genuine mistake. Do you want me to get Alfonse to remove the videos?’

His temper drops from incandescent to furious as he sees the sense in what I’m saying. However good his man is, he’s still going to be a few steps behind Alfonse. ‘Do it.’

I make the call. I look at both Chief Watson and Gaertner as I add my own little request. They both nod approval.

The chief rounds on me as soon as the station door shuts behind Gaertner. ‘You are a prize idiot, Boulder. And what’s worse is you’re making me look like one too. Here I am trying to fight your corner and you’re running off like some damn renegade. This isn’t like TV, or the movies, where the hero finds clues by good luck. This is real life where processes have to be followed. You’re a smart man, Boulder. Stop acting like a wise ass and start thinking about the big picture. Your selfish actions have set the FBI investigation back.’ His finger jabs into my chest. ‘I can’t protect you much longer, and if you do something else like this I won’t even bother trying.’

I find myself looking at my feet as I mumble an apology. I hadn’t considered the chief going to bat for me. Hadn’t thought how I was making a fool of him. Just because catching the killers is the most important thing to all of us, it doesn’t give me the right to act like an ass.

‘So, what are you going to do now?’ The question is part a request for information, and part a demand for my good behaviour.

When I tell him, his eyebrows lift a full inch.

The Augiers live a few miles from where Noelle was picked up. He tells me to make sure he’s kept updated and turns away. I can tell from his body language he thinks I’m wasting my time.

He may be right. The Augiers are just a couple of steps above the Amish in their lack of understanding modern devices like cell phones.

51

Will Pederson pays his check and leaves a decent tip. The server is a cutie, but the attraction only flows one way. His batting average has dropped since passing his sixtieth birthday a couple of years back.

There was a time he could bank on hooking up with someone every week. Now he is lucky if it is once a month.

He knows age is a big part of it. While his body is still trim, despite his bulky frame, he is starting to look every minute of his age. It doesn’t help there are younger, tauter men competing with him. His natural charm can only mask so many of his age-induced deficiencies.

As he stands, the room takes a wobble. He hopes it’s the drink rather than his lack of youth. As a precaution he takes shorter, more considered steps than usual.

The lights flash on his car when he presses the blipper. He’s got the door open when someone speaks to him.

‘You off home, buddy?’

Pederson turns and sees a guy who had also been eating solo. They’d exchanged polite nods across the barroom but that was as far as things had gone.

‘Yeah. Unless I get a better offer that is.’ Pederson widens his smile.

Nothing about the man suggests to Pederson that he’s gay. Yet he was dining alone in a bar where the majority of patrons are.

Pederson figures the man to be bi-curious. There’s a hesitancy to his movements and a certain shyness. The guy had made the first move though, so he sticks out a hand. ‘I’m Will. You are?’

‘Brian.’

Pederson suspects the name to be an alias. It came after a moment’s thought in which the eyes flicked left. A sure sign of a lie being concocted. The lie doesn’t bother him. It just tells him the so-called ‘Brian’ has something he wants to keep hidden. Or private.

It also informs him that whatever happens will be a one-time affair. A situation which suits Pederson just fine.

The hand is rough and callused which contradicts the tailored suit and silk tie. Pederson guesses that Brian has chosen to wear his best clothes to try to satisfy a curiosity.

It’s a familiar scenario. Some go for Sunday best while others dress like the TV stereotypes they’ve seen. Neither get it right. Gay people wear the same clothes everyone else does.

‘Do you, uh, fancy a nightcap?’ Brian flashes a wide smile. ‘I’ve a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch I’ve been waiting to try.’

Pederson gives his lips a mental lick. Malt whisky and a handsome man in his early forties. The evening ahead has just gotten a whole lot better.

Pederson drives as Brian gives directions from the passenger seat.

Brian is aware a panel van is following them.

Pederson isn’t.

52

The light is starting to fade as Butch Augiers walks towards me. His face is grim but there’s no animosity on it.

None of his family can be seen. It doesn’t matter. It’s him I’m here to see.

A suspicious part of my brain makes me check out the landscape in case he’s got a nasty surprise waiting for me by way of retribution.

He hasn’t.

Instead he’s appraising me. His eyes travel over every inch of my body as if I’m an animal to be observed. I find it unnerving, but keep my face straight.

He gestures to a tree stump where we sit.

I want to ask why he’s asked me to come out here, yet a sixth sense holds me back. Whatever he’s got to tell me has to come forth without pressure.

As I wait for him to speak, my eyes follow the silhouette of the hills against the night sky. It’s picturesque out here, peaceful. I could live in a place like this – provided I got a cell signal and a decent internet connection.

‘What I’m about to tell you goes no further. If you take it to the cops and they come looking, I’ll deny everything. Then we’ll come for you.’

I detect fear, worry and hesitation in him. Whatever is coming next is a big thing for him. He feels as if he’s betraying someone by telling me. Or worse, putting his family at risk. Yet, he’s still asked for me to come and see him. This tells me he knows something worth knowing. Or at least suspects he does.

He takes my silence as agreement of his terms. ‘I spoke to the family’ bout what you were asking. To cut a long story short, Freddie has a buddy who’s trouble. I don’t mean gettin’ inta fights or stealin’. Real trouble. The kid has gotten himself mixed up with somethin’ real bad and he’s trying to drag Freddie in.’

‘Into what?’

‘Freddie said the kid wouldn’t tell him details. He’d just said he was doin’ real work. Makin’ a difference.’

My pulse quickens and I have to suppress the excitement in my voice. ‘Who is this kid?’

‘David Jones.’ Butch shrugs. ‘Known as “Young David” because he got his grandpappy’s name.’

‘Where does he live? The police need to speak to him.’

‘Him getting hauled off by the police won’t do no good. Boy’s dumber than a fence post.’ He scratches his chin. ‘If he’s mixed up in anything his family will be too. Ain’t no way they’d allow him to work for someone else.’

‘Then the police can round them all up.’

‘What good do you think that’ll do?’ Butch shakes his head at me. ‘They’ll deny everything then start wonderin’ why the police came a knocking on their door. Ain’t no evidence the cops can use, is there?’

‘So how do we get some evidence?’

‘That’s your problem. They’re organising some fights. Running a book on them.’

‘You mean they’re fixing boxing matches?’

He chuckles at my question. ‘Ain’t no ring or a referee. These are real fights.’

I get what he means now. Bare knuckle bouts where the winner is the one left standing. They’ll take place at some isolated location. Attendance will be by invitation only. Bets will be made; money won and lost.

The combatants will be tough grizzled men with few teeth and fewer brain cells. Their punishment nothing more than entertainment for a baying crowd. Each spill of their blood greeted with enthusiastic roars.

It’s not a world I know or care about. ‘So how does this turn into something the police can use?’

‘Freddie says Young David has told him about a big fight happening tomorrow night. Says there’s also supposed to be a fight to the death.’ He spreads his hands wide. ‘I don’t know how much of this is true and how much is the kid running his mouth to impress Freddie. Could all be bullshit.’

‘What does your gut tell you?’ Men like Butch are all about instinct. Their primal senses more attuned than their brain.

He wipes a hand over his face. ‘It tells me not to trust the kid as far as I can kick him. On the other hand, I know the family has a history of fighting. Fought quite a few of them over the years.’

‘You were a bare knuckle boxer?’

He gives another chuckle as he gestures to his property. ‘How do you think I got this place? When my great-grandpappy came over from France he had nothin’ but the clothes on his back and the strength of his character. He, my grandpappy and my father all worked for someone else. I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I found a way of making some money. I fought twice a month for two years to get enough money to buy this place. Didn’t get much for the fights but I had some friends who laid bets for me.’

I look at him with different eyes. Ten or twenty years ago he must have been one hell of a fighter. His face doesn’t bear the scars of defeat. His nose is straight and unflattened; his teeth aren’t the best, but the fact they’re there pays testament to his fighting ability.

I’ve never thought about it until hearing his story; his surname speaks of a non-American heritage. It’s something I should have realised a long time ago. His family will have grown up with tales of the hardships faced by an immigrant family settling in a new land. They should never have been suspects.

‘Maybe I should go visit them myself.’ Unlike the police and the FBI, there’s very little to stop me extracting information with violence if necessary.

‘That’s not a good idea. There’s a whole bunch of them and if they don’t like the look of you they’ll run you off their land quick as look at you. And, if you got any sense, you’ll go without a protest. With your accent you’ll be lucky to say more’n three words before they want you gone.’

Interesting. They sound like a bunch of racists who’re used to violence. Just what I’m trying to find.

After my suspicions of the Augiers, I’m wary of jumping to conclusions again. The Jones family seem like perfect suspects but perhaps they’re too perfect. There’s also the question of evidence. At least some will be needed to convince the chief and Gaertner of the family’s involvement, let alone guilt.

I figure Butch already has a solution worked out. I’m just not sure I’ll like it. ‘So, how do I find out what I need to know?’

‘You go up there and impress them. This fight tomorrow night is your chance. Old Man Jones was round here askin’ if I wanted to make a comeback. I told him I’d think on it and let him know later.’

‘You’re proposing I enter one of these fights?’ The idea is ludicrous. ‘I fight when I need to – when the situation is forced upon me. I don’t fight for other people’s sport so they can make money off me.’

‘It’s the only way you’ll get close to them. They’re a fighter short for tomorrow night, they wouldn’t have asked me otherwise. They’re desperate. It’s your best chance.’ He strikes a match and lights his smoke. ‘Once they accept you as a fighter you’ll just have to keep your eyes and ears open. Make your own judgements.’

‘Why are they a fighter short at this late stage?’

‘Young David’s father went and got himself into something he couldn’t handle. Took enough of a beating to stop him taking part.’

I don’t care for what he’s saying. It’s making the wrong kind of sense. I’ll be better accepted by them if my presence helps them out of a hole. Their natural suspicions of a stranger dissipated by their gratitude to me for completing their bill.

Going back on my principles is my biggest problem. I don’t fight at the request of other people. I don’t take orders on who to beat up and when. I use my own judgement and hit only those who either deserve it, or those who try and hit me.

In the greater scheme of things, such concerns are of little importance. It’s better to compromise my principles for the greater good, than to stand by them and wonder if I’m in any way responsible for further deaths.

I’m still cagey though. ‘So what do I have to do, turn up and fight whoever is in front of me?’

‘Pretty much. Either the fights will be pre-arranged or they’ll be drawn on the night. Depends on how they’re plannin’ to run the book. Knowing Dave’s grandfather, my guess is it’ll be pre-arranged. He likes to control things and I’m sure whoever is runnin’ the book will be givin’ him a sizeable cut.’

‘Will they accept me as an unknown, give me a chance at a fair fight?’ The last thing I want is to find myself becoming cannon-fodder for one of their champions.

He gives a knowing smile. Now he’s broken his silence, he’s enjoying my discomfort. ‘They’ll not throw you to the wolves. There’s no money to be made from a mismatch.’

There’s no avoiding this. If I’m to find out if the Jones family are involved, I’m going to have to go undercover as a fighter. I give a sigh before answering him. ‘I’m in. What rules are there, if any?’

‘Only rules is you don’t pound on a man who can’t fight back and you don’t go gouging no eyes. Other’n that, there ain’t no rules. Be here for seven and I’ll take you up there.’

53

Alfonse is waiting for me in a quiet booth at the Tree. He wears the look of a man carrying several times his own bodyweight in stress. As ever, his laptop is open in front of him.

I point at him. ‘You first.’ I’m still not sure if I should tell him, the chief or Gaertner about tomorrow night.

‘I deleted the posts after adding a searchbot to them like you asked. They’d been shared or downloaded by two hundred and seventy-two people by the time I took them down. Noelle’s post by a hundred and five, and the other one by the rest.’ His fingers hover over the keys. ‘Say the word and I can trash every one of those computers.’

‘Don’t do it.’ The words pour out in a hurry. Alfonse’s finger is too close to the button for comfort. ‘Some of those computers will be at the police station. If you trash those, all hell will break loose.’

‘Well, duh.’ It’s nice to see his natural sarcasm has replaced the earlier anger. ‘I know their IP address and have removed it from the trash list.’

‘What about the FBI, do you know their IP addresses? What about the other agencies they’re bound to have alerted over this? They’re sure to have downloaded the videos for analysis.’

He looks shame-faced.

‘Don’t sweat it. You’re too close to this – too angry and upset to see beyond your immediate focus.’

‘Are you saying I’m useless?’

‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ A passing waitress pauses in surprise at my raised voice. I take the heat out of my next words. ‘You’re angry because you’re grieving. It’s natural you want to trash those computers. It’s a way you can take revenge, fight back. Your thinking is clouded because you’re a decent, caring human who’s suffered a personal tragedy.’

Alfonse gives me a tight grin. ‘Aren’t I the one who usually has to calm you down?’

‘What did you find in the cell records?’ I want to move the conversation away from thinking of his errors, to something he’s good at. ‘I’m sure you’ve got something from them.’

If anything, his mood darkens.

‘The videos were both shot around noon today. Noelle’s being the first. They were uploaded to the social media and sharing sites from her cell and left to go viral.’ He grimaces. ‘When I checked her email logs, I saw the videos were sent to CNN, the Washington Post, New York Times and several other major news outlets. And before you ask, as soon as I saw that, I let the chief know.’

I shudder to think of the conversations taking place at the station. Gaertner will be reporting back to various superiors and mobilising a small army of agents with the goal of neutralising the news carriers. The chief will be pacing like a caged beast, pausing only to spit orders at his men.

Stress levels will be through the roof; tempers frayed and arguments breaking out over the smallest things. Sure, they’re all professionals, but they’re also humans. Never before has a mess like this erupted. The power of social media and smartphones mean news travels faster than ever.

‘Have you run a trace on the cell’s movement?’ It’s a formality the FBI will have replicated, but every piece of information tells us a little bit more. ‘Can you tell where it was when the videos were sent and uploaded?’

‘The cell’s trace disappeared at 2.15am which coincides with a battery failure log. The logs show it was switched on at 12.13pm and 1.05pm but never picked up a signal. The signal and battery returned at 2.56pm. A quick run of the co-ordinates show it was more or less where Noelle was picked up. That’s also pretty much when the videos were sent.’

Everything slots into place. They took her cell when they abducted her. To prevent the cell giving away their location or movement they removed its battery. When they knew it would have no signal, they switched it on long enough to make the necessary videos then pulled the battery again. They re-inserted it to send the emails and post the videos at the drop off point.

‘There are clues in there. There is an almost two hour gap between the last video being made and the phone being switched on at the drop off point. They’re not going to have done what they did anywhere public, so I’d say they’d be lucky to do more than fifty miles an hour on the back roads. That gives us a hundred mile radius.’

Alfonse beats me to the math. ‘Which means we’re looking at a search grid of thirty-one and a half thousand miles. We’ve practically found their doorstep.’

I ignore his sarcasm. ‘I reckon I can get it down to about a fifth of that, a quarter tops.’

‘How do you plan to do that?’

I point at his laptop. ‘Bring up Google Maps and centre it on the area Noelle was dumped.’

When he does, I use a straw as a pointer and indicate the area a half-hour north east of Casperton where Noelle was released. ‘Think of a circle two hours from this point. To the west and south there’s Indian reservations which means a lack of privacy. To the east is the dinosaur monument which always has tourists around. Going north there’s Rock Springs and that’s without discounting the forested areas. If you remember the video with Noelle, she was standing with her back against a wooden shack.’

‘So, how does that help us?’

‘The skyline behind the shack showed a bare ridge. That tells me she was in the wilderness somewhere rather than a forested area.’ I point at the map again. ‘My guess is that shack is only about fifty miles from where she was found. It’ll be in the north east quadrant, away from busier roads, respectable farmers, and places where hikers or rangers frequent.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘They’ve also shown they understand technology and how best to wage a terror campaign.’

Alfonse makes a connection. ‘It must have been planned in advance. They pulled the battery from her cell before they even left the house. That speaks of preparation.’

‘So does the goat. They’re not something you find lying about. Especially ones that size.’

‘True.’ I’m about to suggest we leave the resources of the FBI to try and trace the animal’s origin, when someone approaches our table.

I look up into the face of a familiar stranger. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing a younger version of myself.

The stranger is hesitant. He too must be unnerved by our similarity.

I’m glad of the moment – it gives me a chance to unscramble my brain. Or at least try to.

Alfonse pushes the lid of his laptop down and shifts round in his seat. ‘I’ll give you guys a minute.’

I reach for his arm. ‘It’s fine. Stay where you are.’ The stranger still hasn’t spoken. A closer examination reveals he’s got a pallor about him. Not just the usual Scottish whiteness, but the grey skin symptomatic of illness.

The stranger points at his face and then me. ‘There’s no point in asking if you’re Jake Boulder. It’s pretty obvious you are.’

His accent is Scottish. Not the Glasgow one that comes from my mouth; his is a softer rolling burr, the kind I’d associate with the better areas of Edinburgh or perhaps the Borders.

‘I am. And you are?’

‘John…John MacDonald…I’m your brother.’

54

Alfonse puts a coffee in front of me and opens his laptop. He’s aware that John’s appearance isn’t something I’m ready to discuss yet, and has re-directed us back to mine so we can discuss our next moves.

‘Did you get anything on the paint sample or the cigar butt?’

I expect the FBI to run these angles as well, but the more information we have the better. There’s also a chance the FBI are focussing on the other end of the investigation as well as trying to protect the public.

Like me, Alfonse doesn’t believe the Fourniers were chosen at random. This belief is what we’re basing our investigation on.

He consults his laptop. ‘There are eighty-six Ford E250s, with white paint, registered within fifty miles of here. A hundred and fifty-two within seventy-five.’

The numbers are higher than I expected but not by much. Those vans are popular and, since hearing of their involvement, I seem to have seen them everywhere.

‘And the cigar?’

‘I’ve checked the ten biggest internet sellers. In the last six months only two boxes have been sold to people in this area.’ I feel a buzz of excitement. The lower the number, the better the chance of a decent lead. ‘They were bought by Mayor Farrage and Darryl’s boss, George Ligotti.’

He lets the sentence hang. Those two names are big ones. While nobody should be above suspicion, those names are tough to point a finger at. Mayor Farrage might be pretty useless, but he’s backed every programme going for the betterment of the poorer areas of society. Areas which are predominantly filled with a hodgepodge of racial mixes.

A big cigar is part of his image. Like Groucho Marx and Winston Churchill, Mayor Farrage is rarely seen without a huge stogie.

Ligotti, on the other hand, has obvious Italian descent. He employs people of various races and, while a businessman at heart, he showed genuine compassion when learning of Darryl’s brutal death.

Both men have too much to lose by resorting to murder. While it’s an accepted fact that psychopaths often succeed in business and political ventures, they tend to achieve more than either Farrage or Ligotti have. Whichever way I analyse my thoughts, or examine their possible motives, I just can’t see them being involved.

‘What about local stores, does the place in the mall sell them?’ Another thought strikes me. ‘How many places on the internet sell them?’

The keys of his laptop chatter as he searches for the answers. He looks up after less than a minute. ‘The place in the mall doesn’t list them on their website. As for the internet, I’m getting dozens of possible retailers.’

‘You’ll need to trace as many of them as you can. See if you can widen the search. I’ll speak to Ligotti and the Mayor tomorrow.’

We chase around one or two theories without creating anything tangible. After a while, we’re both out of ideas so we fall silent rather than repeat ourselves.

There’s an elephant in the room and its name is John. Neither of us approaches the subject, but we both know it can’t be ignored forever.

‘What did Butch want?’

I’ve been hoping Alfonse wasn’t going to ask this question. I still haven’t decided how much to tell him.

‘He’s got a suspicion about who might be involved.’

‘Who is it? Why haven’t you mentioned it until now?’

I bring him up to speed and watch the fire in his eyes dim.

‘You’re not going to go through with it, are you?’

‘Of course I am.’

He scowls at me, his face twisting into unfamiliar viciousness. ‘Then you’re a fool. You’re not going to be fighting six-beer heroes who know your reputation and quit at the first sign of retaliation. You’ll be fighting real fighters who’ll know how to punch without getting hit themselves. Stop trying to be the hero and start using your head. It’s brain we need right now not brawn.’ He throws his hands up. ‘All that’s going to happen is you’re going to waste an evening getting your ass kicked in some bullshit machismo display. You’re a good fighter, Jake, but you’re not that good.’

‘I’ve always been good enough to protect you.’ I’m on my feet now, full of anger and bitterness at his words. ‘Or have you forgotten that?’

He leaves without saying another word.

It’s for the best. Both of us are too angry for each other’s company right now.

I shouldn’t have said what I did, but his lack of faith in my fighting skills hit me harder than any punch ever has.

Now I’m alone, I let my thoughts focus on John.

His resemblance to me is strong enough for any instinctive denials to be quelled before they gain any traction.

It stands to reason my father had found love again after walking out on us. It’s just not something I’ve given any consideration. Any thoughts I’ve had of him, or discussions with Sharon about him, have all been focussed on why he left. As we got older and learned more about the world, we hypothesised he’d left mother for another woman. We just didn’t envision it working out for him.

Him settling with another woman long enough to have children, isn’t something we’ve ever discussed. I expect our subconscious minds were protecting us, shielding us, from the despair of supplication. The alternative is that neither of us wished him any happiness, and therefore didn’t ever raise the possibility of him finding some.

My father had stayed true to form. He’d walked out on John’s mother three weeks after John’s fifth birthday.

Like the strangers we are, we talked round the edges of things and passed on general information. He’s married with two daughters, and his younger sister Sarah is a single mother with one son.

All of a sudden I have two half-siblings, a brace of nieces and a nephew.

What Mother will make of all this is beyond me, I’m an uncle, but she still isn’t a grandmother. I suspect that, when she gets over the initial shock, she’ll try to use John’s proven fertility as a way to goad me into giving her the grandchildren she so craves.

I’m not yet ready for her to find out about John. I need to get the case out of the way first.

My thoughts wander their own sweet way.

It’s a beep from my cell that brings me back to reality. Taylor has messaged asking why I’ve just rang her and not spoken.

I call her back, and this time I do speak. My subconscious has betrayed me by selecting the one person I want to discuss this with, and making contact.

As I open up to Taylor, I start to accept I’m developing real feelings for her. A situation I find more concerning than tomorrow night’s fight.

55

I force my eyes open and look for my cell. Once again I’ve fallen asleep in my recliner rather than going to bed. I find the cell between my legs where it has slipped from my hand.

Chief Watson’s gruff tones complete the job of waking me.

I listen to what he has to say and give him the answers I can. He’s reluctant to return the favour when I put some questions to him, but I get most of what I ask for.

His calling me at six in the morning is a sign he still values my input, but is either unable or unwilling to contact me when Gaertner is around.

The most significant things about the call are him informing me that Will Pederson can’t be traced, and that all the news outlets who’ve been sent videos, have discredited the footage and therefore will not be running the story.

At first I sense Gaertner’s hand in the latter, but on reflection I realise any pressure or mention of the videos from a high-ranking FBI man would give the papers and news channels all the confirmation they need.

It’s only a matter of time before the videos are reposted by those who downloaded them. Once that happens, and the media pick it up, they’ll run the stories with added intensity.

I know Will Pederson. He spends a couple of hours drinking at the Tree every Saturday evening, before heading across to the Manhattan Bar on the other side of town. He’s a decent guy and, as an ex-cop, has plenty of stories to tell. In his own way he’s fought discrimination since coming out at his retirement party five years ago.

The chief had tried to raise him when rounding up all local law-enforcers – past and present. He’d been unable to contact Pederson and, while a player like him could be anywhere, it’s unusual for an ex-cop to drop off the grid.

Pederson might well be a white Christian, but his sexuality could see him become a target. Without any of his own men to spare, the chief has asked me to check on Pederson’s whereabouts.

Alfonse won’t be happy to hear from me – especially at this time of the morning – but I select his number and make the call.

His cell rings out and goes to voicemail. I’m not sure whether he’s blanking me or sleeping. Regardless, I leave a message suggesting that he traces everyone who’s downloaded the videos. If the killers are as clever as they appear to be, there’s a chance they’ve downloaded the videos to another computer so they can be re-shared in the event the cops or the FBI took them down.

Whoever is in charge of the killers possesses more than a little intelligence. The using of Noelle and her cell as conduits to social media proves as much.

Without any physical evidence, other than the bodies, there are few leads to follow. If there had been a note, the paper could have been analysed; the handwriting or printing used as factors to help secure a conviction, or possibly even give a firm lead.

I haul myself up and begin the process of making my first coffee of the day. While it’s brewing I slump myself in front of my computer and start browsing Facebook. I’m not a big user of the site and for me it’s nothing more than a way to connect with other keen readers and a few authors I admire.

I’m looking for something in particular and it doesn’t take me long to find it. I check Twitter and discover #HeadOnAGoat is trending.

As ever with social media, there are some who endorse the actions of the killers. Others with a more sensible and decent nature, rage against the killers calling them worse than scum.

Arguments are breaking out between the two factions, and every thread I look at sees a rise in the aggression levels of those championing the racists’ actions.

This is what everyone involved in the investigation has been dreading. The video has now become a recruitment poster for the Christian Knights of America. Once it got noticed on social media, it was always going to go viral.

While the social media sites will do everything they can to take it down, it will already have been seen and downloaded by many thousands of people. It’ll feature on blogs and websites where opinions are given and rants made.

I curse myself for delaying until I was with Alfonse before viewing it. That extra half hour could have been the difference between the video being suppressed and it becoming the hottest topic in the world.

Gaertner won’t be impressed when he learns how this has all blown up. He for one will be quick to point a finger in my direction. I wasn’t to know its incendiary content, but that doesn’t change the fact I made a conscious decision not to look at it at once.

Next I check the websites for the major newspapers. Every one of them is now running with the story. None have yet gone as far as writing an opinion piece, but that’ll come along once the world wakes up.

So will responses from the so-called great and good. It’s only a matter of time before statements are issued by the FBI director, the senator for Utah and various members of the political elite. With the president being black, there’s every chance he’ll want to have his say too. And that’s before all the celebrities see voicing an opinion as an opportunity to get themselves in the limelight.

The only people to benefit from this sorry mess will be Casperton’s hoteliers, as reporters are dispatched to the epicentre of the story.

I’m about to try Alfonse again when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Taylor, and she’s carrying takeout coffee and a baggie filled with donuts. ‘Here. Since you’re doing police work, I thought you’d like some police food to go with your coffee.’

‘Thanks.’ I take the baggie and put it on the counter without telling her I don’t much care for donuts. She’s trying to be kind and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ll give them to Alfonse later, that is, if he’s still speaking to me.

‘I just wanted to drop by and see you’re okay. You sounded really stressed last night.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to talk it through with someone. Sorry to have bothered you.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s what you do when you love someone. Relationships aren’t all hearts and flowers you know.’

That cherished little word has crept into the conversation between me and women before. Whenever I hear a woman say love, I feel myself clam up, my mouth goes dry and I start looking for a way to let the woman down gently. For some reason I’m not feeling that way today.

I pull Taylor into an embrace and kiss the top of her head. With so much going on in my mind right now, her arms offer a temporary respite to the horrors of the investigation.

In the last twelve hours, I’ve fallen out with my best friend, agreed to become a bare-knuckle boxer, and potentially worsened racial tensions across the whole of the United States through my pig-headed selfishness in wanting a first look at the videos on Noelle’s phone. On top of all that, I’ve met a half-brother I didn’t know I had.

Whatever the next twelve hours has in store for me, things can only get better.

56

Will Pederson comes to with the slowness of someone awakening from an alcohol induced stupor. His mouth dry and tongue furry. There’s a pounding in his head that’s all too familiar and he’s not sure how long he can go without hurling. His body is stiff and uncomfortable and when he tries to raise a hand to his face his arm won’t move.

‘Oh look, the faggot is awake.’ The voice is unfamiliar. It’s not the man who called himself Brian.

He remembers Brian pouring the whisky; an eighteen-year-old Glengoyne from the highlands of Scotland. Smooth and rich, Brian’s generous measures had gone down a treat. Conversation had flowed around the usual topics of sport and, by following Brian’s lead, he’d realised nothing was going to happen.

The last thing he recalls, from the night before, is sitting in a chair with a glass in one hand and his eyelids growing heavier by the second.

He forces his eyes open. Finds himself staring at a pair of scuffed work boots. Above the boots are a pair of worn jeans and a plaid shirt. The face above the shirt belongs to a stranger. A stranger who’s been fighting. If the marks on his face are anything to go by, he didn’t win.

They’re outside somewhere. He can see rocks and scrub bushes. There’s a gurgle of nearby running water but all he can smell is his own foul breath. He tries moving his arms a second time. Fails.

When he looks down he sees his hands are tied and his clothes have been removed.

‘What’s going on, who are you?’ Pederson hates the fact his fear is showing.

The stranger looks at him with disgust. ‘I am a Christian Knight of America. Along with my brethren, my purpose in life is to rid this fine country of ours from all the inferior races, and to cleanse society of its perversions. You are to be cleansed today.’

The words make no sense to Pederson’s groggy mind. He feels rough hands grabbing at his naked body, hauling him to his feet. He’s too weak with nausea to offer more than growled threats and weak kicks as resistance.

Once upright, the hands push him towards the watery sounds. A minute later he sees the narrow creek. At best it’s six feet wide and three deep.

A violent shove propels him forward until he’s at the edge of the water. Another sends him stumbling into the cold clear water. A gasp escapes his lips as he trips, and falls headlong into the water.

The shock of the cold water is enough to kick-start his body into a semblance of normality. His hands being tied make it hard work, but he manages to right himself and rise to his feet.

He sees them all now. The stranger, a bald man and a callow youth. Their faces are blank apart from looks of disdain. It’s as if they’d rather eat their own shit than look at him. It’s a look he’s used to. While he’d made the step of coming out at his retirement party, he’d never hid his sexuality. For a man of his generation it had meant stares, pointed fingers and a barrage of homophobic comments.

Twice in his life he’d endured physical assaults. He guesses today is going to be the third. The guys in front of him are stupid; they’re showing their faces. He uses his training to memorise the details – the shape of noses, eye and hair colour and everything else he can.

The stranger points at him and the bank of the creek. Pederson thinks about disobeying, but decides obedience is his best bet to minimise the forthcoming beating. Retaliation will do nothing but increase the levels of anger, therefore increasing the amount of punishment.

The idea of defending himself is discarded at once. Nothing will increase his suffering more than antagonising the men by hurting them. Three onto one is a tough proposition at the best of times, plus he’s bound, hung over and years older than his adversaries. Not even the most optimistic gambler would bet a red cent on him winning.

He feels a tremor in his limbs as the men lead him towards a spruce tree. Whatever beating he’s in for, will take place here. A rope hangs from a branch. He’s delighted to note the end isn’t tied into a noose.

The youth throws a punch into his stomach, doubling him over in pain. Before he can straighten up, the loose end of the rope is looped around the one binding his hands, pulled tight above his head and tied in a rough knot.

Pederson can move three or four feet in any direction before the rope prohibits him from travelling further.

The stranger approaches, malice written all over his face. ‘Leviticus; chapter twenty; verse thirteen; states: “if a man lie with mankind, as with womankind, both of them have committed abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them”.’ Pederson’s bowels empty as the stranger continues. ‘In accordance with God’s holy law, we, the Christian Knights of America, sentence you to death for the crime of lying with other men.’

Two of the men facing Pederson bend to the ground and pick up fist sized rocks. The youth holds a cell phone which Pederson recognises as his own.

The first rock misses. The second crashes into his left foot making him yelp as he hops on his one good foot.

57

I look around the waiting room and find nothing of any interest – there are bland pictures and out of date magazines just as there are in waiting rooms the world over. Ligotti being with a client has me kicking my heels until I can speak to him.

Before coming here I’d swung by Will Pederson’s place. It was deserted with no car on the drive. A peek through some of the windows had revealed nothing beyond a typical man’s home. Tidy and minimal with no soft furnishings or floral touches. Pederson might be gay, but he isn’t effeminate.

I’d tried a couple of Pederson’s neighbours. They’d known nothing of his movements, but had said it wasn’t unusual for him not to come home.

Whichever way up I stand it, Pederson is missing, but until we know whether he’s alley-catting as Granny called it, or has been abducted, there’s nothing we can do.

I’ve emailed Pederson’s cell number to Alfonse with a request he run a trace on it.

A secretary or paralegal walks in. ‘Mr Ligotti will see you now.’

Ligotti is pacing when I enter his office. Any thoughts that his last meeting is the source of his agitation are blown away when he opens his mouth. ‘What is it this time? We’re trying to run a business here and, as you well know, we’re now short-staffed.’

His sarcasm is aimed towards the wrong target at the wrong time. I only hit him once. A short dig to the underside of his ribs. Just hard enough to knock the breath from his body and double him over.

While he’s gasping for breath I explain some facts of life to him. Perhaps it’s harsh of me to have lashed out, but his priorities are in dire need of re-calibration.

‘Now that we’re on the same page, Mr Ligotti, I want you to understand that I, my colleague and the police will come here as often as is necessary. And if I should hear another complaint from you about being short-staffed because of Darryl’s murder, I will make a point of informing Ms Rosenberg, and all your staff, just what a callous piece of crap you are. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, damn you. There was no need to hit me.’

I disagree. Unlike him, I’m not going to waste time arguing semantics. We’ve established I’m the alpha male in the room. ‘You bought some cigars. One was found on the trail leading to where Darryl and his family were found. Can you explain that, or should I call the police and have them arrest you?’

It’s not often you see a face pale when it’s gasping for breath. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no way I was involved in what happened to him and his family.’

I sit in Ligotti’s chair and cross my feet on his desk. ‘I didn’t ask if you knew about it, I asked you to explain.’

‘I don’t smoke – cigarettes or cigars.’

‘Then why did you buy them?’

‘To use as gifts. From time to time we throw parties for our best clients. Sometimes I buy a box of cigars to hand out and other times I’ll get a few bottles of cognac or malt whisky.’

What he’s saying makes sense. He’s not someone I suspect, but it doesn’t hurt to make him think I do. ‘The cigars I’m interested in are Royal Jamaica Extrafinos No. 4s. Can you remember who you gave them to?’

‘Those are the ones I always buy.’ He looks at the ceiling as he thinks. ‘The Mayor, Eddy Hall, Darryl and—.’

I don’t hear any more names after Darryl’s. We know the killers help themselves to things from their victims’ houses. Noelle’s cell being grabbed has taught us as much. I’ve attended many parties where Darryl has been present. Cigars have been handed round and he’s never accepted any. I figure he didn’t want to refuse his boss’s generosity, Ligotti doesn’t seem like the kind of employer who’ll tolerate a subordinate refusing a gift.

Give Ligotti his due, he’s not just telling me who was at the party, he’s scribbling their names down on a legal pad. He passes the sheet across when he finishes writing. ‘I shudder to ask, but is there anything else I can help you with?’

Traces of sarcasm have returned, but he’s smart enough to stay out of reach. It wouldn’t be fair to hit him a second time just because a lead has turned into a dead end. He doesn’t need to know it though.

I stand and move towards him. ‘Next time I come here, you will drop whatever you’re doing and offer me full co-operation, won’t you?’

He gives a quick series of nods as he backs himself against a wall.

58

Dr Edwards greets me with a quizzical look when I walk into his office and take my usual seat.

‘Why is it that my receptionist gives you every free appointment I have?’

I don’t bother answering his question, instead, I throw one of my own at him. ‘Have you heard about the latest killing?’

‘The last one I heard about was the Asian woman who was impaled. Has there been another?’

I bring him up to speed with a few short sentences. He makes notes as I speak and twists his lips at the more graphic details.

‘You’re not here because they’ve broken cover and escalated their profile. You’re smart enough to recognise that yourself. I’m guessing the FBI are now involved and they’ve cut you out. They’ll have their own psychologists and behavioural analysts who’ll be far better suited to making speculative guesses than me. So, Jake, why are you here?’

It’s a good question. One I’m not sure of the answer to. When Taylor had told me about the free appointment I’d jumped at it without thinking what I wanted to talk to the doctor about. Perhaps a latent part of my brain wants me to discuss the feelings I have for Taylor, or maybe I know I have to talk about the nightmares; a third option is John. It’s not every day your family tree grows a new branch.

A thought strikes me and I use it to get myself out of the hole. ‘I’m pretty sure that whoever is masterminding these crimes is a very intelligent man. He’s smart, organised and, now they’ve broken cover, it’s clear he knows how best to maximise their exposure. What’s your take on him?’

‘Like you say, he’s clever. I’d guess he’d be accepted into any Ivy League College he applied to. He’s also attuned to social media and is a manipulator.’ The edges of the doctor’s mouth twitch as he warms to his theme. ‘It’s a given that he or she is charismatic. To get others involved in homicides is one thing; to have them believe they can drive out what they deem as undesirable elements, with vicious executions, is another. There’s also the name they’ve given themselves; Christian Knights of America has Klan connotations.’

‘It’s grandiose isn’t it?’

‘That, and pretentious. It’s also a clarion call to the right wing elements of Klan memberships. In fact, it will appeal to racists and bigots worldwide.’

‘You mean like David Koresh?’

‘Similar, but his goals are more along the lines of ethnic cleansing than messianic. Think Hitler, not L. Ron Hubbard.’

It takes a conscious effort not to gape like an idiot. ‘Seriously, you’re comparing this guy to Hitler?’

‘Absolutely. From what you’ve told me, I’d have to say this guy is a charismatic megalomaniac, who sees murder as a way to dispose of the elements of society he doesn’t like. How have you been sleeping?’

His attempt to catch me off guard almost succeeds. ‘Not too bad. So how are we supposed to figure out who this guy is?’

‘You’re the one assuming the role of detective. That’s something I can’t help you with. You say you’re not sleeping too bad, would I be right in also interpreting that you’re not sleeping too good either?’

‘I killed a man. I wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t have the odd dream about it. Leaving the main man out of it for a while, what would his followers be like?’

‘Good question. They’ll be tough men who’ve had hard lives. They’ll be nothing like as smart as their leader is, but they won’t know it. He’ll show just enough of his intelligence for them to be compliant. If they feel he’s too smart, they’ll figure he’s using them. You say you lose the odd night’s sleep. Not just a few hours here and there. Do you worry about the nightmares before you go to sleep?’

I don’t know how to tell him that I’m terrified of my nightmares – I’m not even sure I want to. There’s no way I’m prepared to tell him I’m reluctant to go to sleep in case the nightmares come. The physical experience was bad enough without reliving it on a nightly basis. ‘What age will these men be?’

‘Your failing to answer my question means I’m going to assume you do worry about the nightmares coming.’ He adds another note to my file. ‘The killers could be of any age. Or gender. Are you taking anything to help you sleep?’

‘Nothing.’ I don’t mention the occasional gutful of alcohol. The less he knows about my drinking habits the better. ‘You think women might be involved? That sounds like a bit of a stretch to me.’

‘Perhaps, but look at the way sex is used as a sales tool. Sexual manipulation happens all the time. Who’s to say the brains behind these crimes is male or female? While males are more commonly associated with these kinds of crimes, there are many women who have committed despicable acts.’

There’s not a lot I can say to that, so I say nothing more than goodbye. I’ve learned a little and I’m sure he has too.

When I check my cell on the way out, I find an email from Alfonse telling me to get to his place as soon as I can.

There are no clues as to the reason, just a terse message.

He may still be pissed at me, but at least he’s communicating.

59

When I leave the office of Doctor Edwards, I find the ever pernicious Ms Rosenberg leaning against my car. A half dozen cigarette butts litter the ground at her feet.

She’s wearing her usual two-piece – today’s is grey with irregular flecks. Perhaps they’re not flecks but ash from the constant stream of cigarettes she devours.

As ever, her perfume reaches me before the cigarette smoke.

‘Morning.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Good morning and all that.’ She talks round the cigarette which dangles from her mouth. ‘You’ve got the inside track again, Boulder. Tell me, what’s going on?’

‘Bad people are killing good people in really bad ways.’

My flippant reply gets me a mouthful of second-hand smoke. ‘Don’t give me any sass, Boulder. I’m not in the mood.’

I’m not surprised. A whole media storm has erupted in her backyard and she wasn’t invited to the party. Her omission from the killers’ list of people to notify, will rankle on both a personal and professional level.

As a rule of thumb, major stories filter up from local to national level. The alteration to this status quo has left her floundering. The only way she can now compete with the big boys, is to use her local knowledge to get an inside scoop.

Having seen me with Chief Watson at two crime scenes, she’s now looking for me to be the one to reinstate her edge.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know what the police are doing to protect the local citizens; what the FBI are doing to catch these killers; and what you yourself are doing.’

‘I can’t help you. The police and the FBI are the ones you need to ask the question of. Surely they’ve arranged a press conference?’

‘Yeah. The director of the FBI is giving one right about now. In the J. Edgar Hoover building. In Washington.’

The way she’s fragmenting her sentences doubles the frustration in her tone. It’s no wonder she’s annoyed – the biggest story of the year is happening on her doorstep and she’s being kept inside.

‘What about Mayor Farrage, isn’t he going to say a few words, try and reassure the locals?’

‘Pah. Any cub-reporter can take down what he says and write up his statement. I’m after a story not a script. Why are you seeing Dr Edwards, are you consulting him?’

I don’t want her to know about my meetings with the doctor so I try a little deflection. ‘I went in to see Taylor, his receptionist. She’s the girl you saw me at dinner with the other night.’

‘I know who she is. I’ve been watching her through the glass door for half an hour. I never saw you until a few minutes ago. You spent no more than a minute or two with her before coming out here. Now, are you going to tell me the truth, or have I got to make up a story about how the heroic Jake Boulder is so traumatised by his exploits he’s now seeking counselling?’

‘Your threats won’t work on me.’ They would if I wasn’t so convinced they are an empty bluff. ‘You don’t want to write a speculative piece about something that’s now a historical event. You want to be in at the heart of the story that’s breaking. If it was any other way you wouldn’t be talking to me in the hope of getting a scoop or an angle.’

‘Touché.’ She gives what she thinks is a smile. It’s more of a pained grimace. ‘So, what angles are you investigating?’

If it wasn’t for the fact that my actions, since being chased off the investigation by Gaertner, have all been wrong, stupid or both, I’d give her something to work with. The last thing I need is for her to celebrate my involvement in print. Gaertner would use it as an excuse to imprison me for interfering in an FBI investigation.

‘None. The FBI are in charge now. This is too big for me, they have all the resources and training.’

‘You make a poor liar, Boulder. The family who were killed are related to your buddy. There’s no way you’re giving this one up. You just don’t want me knowing. Or perhaps more pertinently, you don’t want me mentioning it in print. Did the FBI toss you out on your ear and tell you to stay clear?’

I don’t answer her. She drops her cigarette and pulls another from a pack in her purse. She waits until a young mother loads her children into the car parked next to mine before continuing. ‘C’mon, Boulder, you’re bound to have something you can give me.’

I’m not sure I have anything of any use to her, but I do have an idea she may find useful. ‘You’ve railed on Lieutenant Farrage and his cronies often enough. Why not go the other way this time?’

‘I can’t praise them. Not after everything I’ve said in the past. I’d be contradicting myself.’

I shake my head. ‘You misunderstand me. I mean you should say the task is beyond them, but that’s okay, no small town police force is equipped or trained to deal with this kind of threat.’

‘Why should I give them an easy ride this time? Lots of other journalists will be writing the same kind of thing. What’ll make mine unique?’

‘Your local knowledge. Leave the eulogies to someone else and write about the effect this is having on Casperton. Only a local can gauge the mood with any accuracy. Every other journalist will be getting soundbites from those brassy enough to speak to them. You know yourself, those who speak out rarely give a true feel for a community’s mood. With your local knowledge and list of contacts, you can become both the barometer and voice of Casperton.’

‘You make a good point, Boulder.’ She drops her cigarette and marches off in her hurried style that’s more movement than progress. As short as she is, she can’t take big strides at the best of times, let alone when hampered by a tight skirt and four inch heels.

60

I let myself into Alfonse’s place. While we’re still frosty to each other, I don’t help myself to coffee or anything else.

He doesn’t look as if he’s slept. Bags hang under bloodshot eyes and his natural ebullience has all but vanished.

He needs a friend, and I need him to be my friend. Our spat has to be resolved before it becomes a rift.

‘About last night, Alfonse. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’

He doesn’t answer me for a full minute. He just sits there, staring at me. ‘No, you shouldn’t, but you’re not the only one who said the wrong thing. I just don’t see how you going off and fighting for other people’s sport can help catch whoever killed Darryl.’ He flaps his hands. ‘Now I’ve had time to think, I’m still not convinced, but I trust you know what you’re doing. I should have trusted you last night.’

The more time I’ve had to consider it, the less sure I’ve become. I could be setting myself up for a beating or just wasting my time. I can live with the beating, if getting it progresses the case.

Wasting time isn’t something I can countenance though. New victims are turning up every day. Each one killed in a horrific manner.

The publicity garnered by the videos has given the investigation a different dimension. We need to start closing in on the killers instead of reacting to their latest atrocity.

Alfonse hands me a sheet of paper with an address on it. ‘This is where Pederson’s cell was last sending out a signal.’

I fold the paper and stuff it into a pocket as he tells me about the traces he’s run on the IP addresses that downloaded the original videos.

‘Have any of them re-posted after they were taken down?’

‘Six.’ He rubs his nose. ‘I’m running traces on them now.’

‘Good. As soon as you have anything solid, let me know and also send it to Chief Watson.’

‘Well, duh.’

Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it’s how Alfonse and I communicate. The fact he’s starting to use it again is encouraging. It gives me hope that his black mood will soon lift.

‘I’ve also heard from Emily.’ Again he passes me a sheet of paper. ‘We’re not supposed to have this. She called me late last night and told me her findings from the autopsy on Gazala Kulkarni. These are the details.’

I glance at the sheet. It’s got a lot more information than the first sheet.

‘Is she doing the other autopsy yet?’

‘No. The FBI have brought in their own guy. She’s mighty pissed at being kicked out of her own morgue. Hence the fact she’s breaking rank and giving us information the FBI wants kept private.’

Emily is taking a risk and putting her career in our hands. If Gaertner finds out about this, he’ll make sure she’ll never again work as a coroner anywhere near Utah.

I let my eyes focus on the page. The details are all there, specific information lies in silent rows saying nothing. The entire page is mute.

Perhaps if I hadn’t attended the scene with Chief Watson, the report would be more informative. All it does now is force my mind to revisit the horror.

I don’t need the technical medical speak for the manner of her death. I saw how she died, the agony on her face and the brutality of her execution. What I want to know is if Emily found any clues when performing the autopsy.

Was there any foreign skin under her fingernails from where she’d scratched her attackers? Were any fingerprints found on her body? Had she been drugged? If so, what with? Were there other wounds or injuries to her body which may be used to identify a specific weapon, or location where she’d been held?

Only one of these questions is answered. Admittedly it’s answered on multiple fronts. Traces of adhesive have been found on her wrists, ankles and feet. A spectrograph test of the adhesive shows it to be from a generic brand of duct tape; a killer’s first choice of restraint.

What’s odd is that it’s been found in strips on the tops of both of her feet. She’s also got torn and strained ligaments in one ankle.

I lay the paper down, and stare at the coffee machine for a moment as I process these details along with the other facts I know about her last day on earth.

Alfonse dumps a cup of coffee in front of me with enough force to slosh half a mouthful onto the table. ‘You could have made it yourself, or even asked.’

His words jolt me back to the present.

I was imagining a young woman running for her life. Terrified that the chasing men would catch her. Arms and legs pumping like never before as her tape wrapped flats protected her feet. Breaths would be ragged as surges of adrenaline filled her mouth with a coppery taste.

She was young and fit. Her pursuers may not have been. Did she think she was getting away when her ankle twisted? I’ll never know the answer to this question, but I’ll always want to.

How she got the chance to wrap her feet and make a break for it will also nag, yet it’s her state of mind that interests me most. I hope she had the euphoric feeling she was escaping, that some part of her ordeal let her have the tiniest glimmer of hope. She deserves that much and more for her guts and ingenuity. I never knew her in life, but I find myself respecting her in death.

I narrate the movie in my mind to Alfonse.

His jaw hardens and his breaths grow loud and deliberate.

‘Stuff the police. Stuff the FBI. We’ve got to get these guys. They can’t get away with this. With killing Darryl. With kill—.’

His vehemence ebbs away as sobs wrack his body. He sinks to the floor and cups his head in his hands as his shoulders heave.

I slip down beside him and rest a hand on his shin. There for him yet not intruding. He needs the release – for too long he’s kept it together, been strong for others and not faced his own grief.

To my knowledge he hasn’t cried since his father’s funeral six years ago. Since then he’s taken care of his mother and stepped into his father’s role as head of the family. Even then his father had passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer; his death an escape from suffering, rather than a shocking act of violence.

I sit with him until he recovers his composure and stands. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We’ve been friends for too long for words to be necessary.

He goes to the bathroom and I brew more coffee.

Alfonse returns and gives me a small nod. I respond by pointing at the coffee I’ve poured him. We might talk about this one day and we might not. It’s his choice and I trust him to make the decision that’s right for him.

‘I’m going to head now. Can you cross-check the names on the list of people who Sherrelle refused loans to, and the owners of the vans?’

61

I follow the coordinates on Alfonse’s notes and park behind an aging station wagon. The house I’m looking for is at the end of what looks to be a good street. Lawns are trimmed and there are decent cars in most of the drives. The station wagon in front of me will be the oldest car on the street and if the jumble of tools in the back is anything to go by, it doesn’t belong to one of the residents.

The low bungalows, and lack of children or toys, make me wonder if this area of town is a kind of retirement village. The one person I see on the sidewalk is walking with a cane in one hand and a hunch across his shoulders.

A car is parked on the driveway. It’s the same make and model as Will Pederson’s. A check of the notes Alfonse gave me verifies the licence plate as his.

This is the sticky part. The last thing I want to do is knock on the door and bother them if they’re still in bed. It’s bad enough Chief Watson jumping at shadows without me being guilty of coitus interruptus.

There’s no sign of another car at the house so I take a walk around the garden wall and peer through the garage window. I see a lawnmower, various other gardening implements and a variety of hand tools. The space where a car would go is empty.

I switch my gaze to the house, specifically the windows. The drapes are all open and the longer I watch, the less I see. No shadows pass the windows as people in the house move around. There’s no flicker from a TV or any other signs of life.

A mental image of the chief kneading his temples makes me circle back to the street and walk up the path. When I knock at the front door there’s no answer.

With Pederson’s car left here there are a dozen reasons why the house would be empty – them having gone out for breakfast being the most obvious.

I try again with the same result.

I’m at the point of giving up when a woman crosses the street. The pink tinge to her hair and velour sweats remind me of Mother.

‘Can I help you, Son?’

It’s well over a decade since I came of age, but I recognise her use of son is a generational thing. Her words are more polite than either her expression or tone.

I decide to bluff it out with an outrageous but heart-rending lie. ‘Hi, I’m wondering if you can help me? I’m looking for my uncle. My mother has taken another turn for the worse. I’ve heard he’d be at that house over there but I can’t find him. Please lady, my mother’s real sick and she wants to say her goodbyes while she still can.’

Her face softens. ‘Is that his car?’

‘Yes. Have you seen him?’

‘Not today I haven’t. There was a stranger there yesterday. Said he was a nephew of the Nelsons and was spending the night there while he repainted his own bedroom. I didn’t believe him, but he had a key so I went back to minding my own business.’

I have to bite down on a snort at the thought of a busybody minding her own business.

‘Has everyone gone out then?’

‘Who’s the everyone? The Nelsons are away on a tour of Europe.’

‘What about the nephew, have you seen him this morning?’

‘I never saw nothing of him earlier, although I heard a noise around two this morning. When I got up, I saw a panel van pulling away from there.’

I can feel a sense of dread enveloping my body, only for a wave of excitement to wash it away. If this lady has spoken to the supposed nephew there’s every chance that if Pederson has been snatched, we’ll get the first positive ID on one of the killers.

‘This nephew of the Nelsons, can you describe him for me?’ I give a helpless shrug. ‘I’m going to try a couple of places, see if they went out for breakfast.’ I repeat the shrug. ‘My uncle has a weak bladder and may well be in the bathroom so it’d be good if I know what his buddy looks like in case I miss him.’

She looks me up and down. ‘He would be about your height, perhaps a few pounds heavier although he wasn’t fat. His hair was dark, with some grey starting to show.’

‘What age would you say he was?’

‘I’m not much good at guessing people’s ages. Never have been.’

‘Go on take a guess.’ I give a conspiratorial grin. ‘He’s not here to be offended if you get it wrong.’

She returns the smile. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say he’s about forty.’

‘What about his clothes, how does he dress?’

‘He dresses well, real well. But then again, he’s a very handsome and charming man.’

‘Did he give you his name?’

‘He said it was Brian, but I’ve never heard them talk about a Brian.’

This is the kind of lady who gossips with her neighbours and pries into their family. Her not hearing of Brian speaks volumes. ‘Did you notice anything else about him; eye colour, accent, anything like that?’

Her eyes narrow. I fear I’ve overstepped the mark.

‘No. I only spoke to him for a moment.’ She folds her arms together. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help. Good day to you.’

I have my cell in my hand as I stride towards the Nelson’s front door. When I lift the fake brick from the porch I find it empty.

Perhaps the Nelsons removed the spare key before going to Europe. I’ll bet they didn’t though. This would explain why the man calling himself Brian has a key to their house.

The chief answers on the third ring. By my fourth sentence he’s barking orders and demanding to speak with Gaertner.

I finish my report and end the call before Gaertner comes on the line to yell meaningless threats. When he’s had a chance to digest this new information, he’ll realise that, while I’ve gone behind his back and carried on with my investigation, I’ve also uncovered what may be the best lead yet.

She doesn’t know it yet, but the pink-haired lady is going to be talking with a whole lot of special agents.

62

The woman’s eyes show hostility and mistrust, but those emotions are something Ms Rosenberg is used to. When you’ve earned a reputation for bringing errant politicians to account, you learn to grow a skin thick enough to cope with preconceived ideas about your motives.

Natural persistence helps, as does a dogged refusal not to accept anything but the truth.

‘I just want to get your opinion on these killings. You’re an important person in your community and as long as those heinous killers are at large, those you represent will turn to you for guidance.’

‘I ain’t no Martin Luther.’

Ms Rosenberg pounces on the softening of the woman’s expression. ‘Perhaps not, but you’re the one they come to when they need help.’

‘P’r’aps. It ain’t right for me to speak for them unasked though.’

‘I don’t want specific names or instances. You’re the only person whose name will appear in my column.’ Ms Rosenberg gives what passes for her gentlest smile. ‘Like it or not, you are the one who represents your community and, as such, your views and opinions are important. You won’t just be speaking for the black community in Casperton. Everything you are thinking and feeling will be reflected across every state in the country.’

The woman’s resistance breaks and she starts talking. Ms Rosenberg’s pen scratches out her own bastardised version of shorthand as she listens to the stories of people afraid to go about their normal lives; of rosters being drawn up to share the burden of watchfulness as the community bands together to protect itself.

When she hears of parents refusing to let their children go to school unless armed guards are present she feels her heart race as she imagines headlines. School shootings are all too common in the US and, while Casperton is under siege from racial attacks, a school in the heart of the black and Mexican community makes an inviting target.

Everything she hears makes sense and ties with her own imaginings. The minority communities are working together in the right way to protect themselves. It’s not that they don’t trust the police, it’s more them recognising how impossible their job is.

The police are doing their best to reassure the locals – she’s seen more police cars patrolling the streets than ever before – and now the FBI are involved, the level of protection is bound to increase.

She’s planning the column in her mind as her pen scratches out the woman’s words. Even though it’s only a first draft circulating in her brain, she knows it’s going to be a powerful column.

Instead of her usual diatribe against an individual, she’s planning a different tone: one of a community banding together in the face of adversity. She’s still planning a certain amount of censure, but that will be aimed towards the racists behind these brutal killings.

She knows all too well about racial targeting. Her parents were smuggled, along with a dozen other children, from the village of Otterwisch, southeast of Leipzig, into Switzerland when the rounding up of Jews began.

They’d been relocated to an orphanage in Queens and had never parted until her father passed away.

She’d done everything she could to find out about her grandparents and other family members left behind. She’d taken a trip to Otterwisch after getting a tangible lead through the JewishGen website. The trip had been poignant but worthless. All traces of her family were gone. Lost as part of Hitler’s pogroms. The Germans may have tattooed prisoners, and kept records towards the end, but in the early days of the Holocaust no records or identifications were made. Jews were simply executed.

Growing up, she heard countless tales of the hardships and bigotry her parents had faced as they forged a life for themselves and their only daughter.

Now she has the chance to kick back at bigots and racists, she plans to take it. The black community’s plans for self-preservation will provide the meat of her column, but she intends to add her own fiery sauce to show defiance and revulsion.

This is no longer about reporting or getting a scoop before rivals, it’s now become a personal crusade against oppression.

63

I take a seat opposite Mother and wait for the usual bout of narcissism. She examines me from her chair. As ever, she sits bolt upright surrounded by the chintziest room imaginable.

‘What brings you here today, why aren’t you out risking your neck like before?’ She fixes me with a glare. ‘Are you trying to see me into an early grave, is that your aim?’

‘Enough.’ It’s only one word but I say it in a way that silences her. ‘We need to talk. About Dad.’

‘That worthless piece of garbage. You haven’t asked me about him for years. Why are you asking now?’

I’d believe the sneer in her voice if it wasn’t for the uncertainty in her eyes.

‘Are you sure you can’t guess?’

‘Why would I? I haven’t heard anything of that scumbag for years.’

I pounce on her mistake. ‘Don’t you mean since he walked out on us?’

‘Don’t you be arguing semantics with me, Jacob Boulder.’ The return of her Glasgow accent and use of my full name prove she’s rattled. I’m not here to upset her, but I need to know the truth about my extended family. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

‘I want to know what you do know, not what you don’t.’ I soften my tone and relax into the chair to remove some of the confrontation from my words. ‘Like, if you knew Dad remarried. That he has two more children.’

I stop short of mentioning his grandchildren. She may be a domineering narcissist, but she’s still my mother and I have no intention of causing her pain.

She looks away without giving one of her normal snarky retorts.

I wait five minutes for her to speak.

When she does, her voice is frail and laden with unresolved pain. ‘I knew. I just didn’t know how to tell you and Sharon. I haven’t heard anything for years. I’m sorry but you and Sharon had a rough enough time without telling you that some other children got to grow up with the father who abandoned you.’

‘They didn’t though. He abandoned them too.’

‘He did? What a douchebag.’

I smile at Mother’s use of an American insult. When we’d moved here she used bawbag as her insult of choice. Now though, she does everything she can to Americanise herself.

‘When did you divorce him?’

Since hearing John’s mother was married to my father, I’ve realised Mother must have been aware. He couldn’t remarry without first divorcing Mother. I’ve only just figured that she too needed to have gotten divorced so she could remarry.

‘Three years after he left, I got a letter from a solicitor that said he wanted to divorce me. I spoke to your Grandpa and he told me your father was looking to marry some other woman. Trust me, Jake, signing those papers was the best thing I ever done.’ She takes a slug from the ever-present glass of water at her side. ‘What brought you here asking questions about him anyway?’

‘My half-brother turned up.’

‘He did, why?’

‘I don’t know. Curiosity I guess.’ I make a dismissive gesture. ‘I’ll find out tomorrow night. I’m meeting with him then.’

Pain and longing lace her next question.

There’s no way to soften the answer so I keep it as brief as possible. ‘Two daughters. His sister has a son.’

‘Does he look like you?’

‘Yeah. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you’re the double of your father. Always have been. Stands to reason his other son—.’

My cell interrupts her. It’s Chief Watson.

I walk into the kitchen and take the call. I listen to what he has to say and thank him for keeping me updated.

Returning to the lounge I catch Mother wiping tears from her eyes.

‘Damn that man. I thought he’d hurt me for the last time.’

I’m not through with my questions. ‘Tell me the truth. When did you last hear from him?’

She takes a few slow breaths to recover her composure. ‘A month after our divorce was finalised, he sent me a letter apologising for walking out on us.’

‘Have you heard much about him since?’

‘Only that he married that other woman at Gretna Green. I didn’t know he’d left her too. Serves her right anyway. She deserves to feel how I felt when she stole him from me.’

I recall Gretna Green being famous for weddings, but can’t remember why.

It’s hard to concentrate on the conversation with Mother when my thoughts are centred on what the chief has just told me about Will Pederson’s murder.

In a moment of weakness, I decide to brighten her day. ‘Keep next Friday night free will you? I’ll take you and Neill to dinner. There’s a girl I’d like you to meet.’

Her smile is wide as she walks me to the car. I’ve never done a ‘meet the parents’ dinner before and she’ll be getting all the wrong ideas about me and Taylor.

I just hope Taylor recognises what I’m doing. The act of kindness to Mother may well turn out to be one of cruelty to Taylor.

64

As I drive home, I call Alfonse to bring him up to date and request he grabs a copy of the latest video – if the feds haven’t already taken it down. He tells me he’ll email the coordinates for Pederson’s cell movement.

The information swirling around my head is threatening to overwhelm me. Tonight’s fight may turn out to be a good thing – I need a physical release from the contortions of my thoughts.

When I get back to my apartment I grab some energy bars and go back over what Chief Watson told me and try to work out how the details can be used.

Will Pederson’s naked body has been found on the Eastern boundary of the Uintah and Ouray Reservation. He’s been stoned to death: his entire body smashed with rocks.

Once again, the killers have used their victim’s cell to make a video and post it online. Pederson’s cell was left at his feet as was a message from the killers.

Spelled out in pebbles and small stones was the reference ‘Leviticus 20:13’.

A Google search brings up the right passage. Cutting through the biblical speak, it basically advises that homosexuality is punishable by death.

Again, the chosen way to murder ties in with the perceived offence from the victim. Stoning is an ancient method of execution with many biblical connections.

Pederson has been killed because of something in his biological make-up; a thing as fundamental as the pigment in his eyes or the genes that govern height and weight.

The killers are setting out their stall and defining their targets with more than just words. Every death makes a statement.

Each victim highlights an element of society.

Now they’re posting their kills online, their supporters will amass in every state. Decent people will of course decry them, but the potential victim groups will either live in fear or get angry and start fighting back.

The email from Alfonse comes in and I reference the location against Google Maps. It’s pretty much where the chief told me Pederson was found.

When I read more of the email I kick myself as I realise the mistake Alfonse and I have made in not keeping a full trace on Pederson’s cell.

If we’d done that, we’d have known the exact moment the cell came back online, and could have sent Chief Watson and the FBI towards the location.

Alfonse has included this data in his email. He’s also included the video.

The video was sent to the press at 9.24am and uploaded to YouTube at 9.25am. He goes on to list all the other places the video was uploaded to.

I don’t bother reading the list beyond a quick scan. There’s nothing to be gained from knowing where it’s gone and when. The FBI will chase all those leads down. We need to pursue something else. What the something else is, I have no idea at this moment.

Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, I click play and watch the video with a growing revulsion. I’m not the kind of morbid ghoul who delights in the suffering of others and this is a truly revolting spectacle. The video is fifteen minutes in length. I pause it after six.

It’s bad enough watching a man die, without having to listen to him screaming in pain and begging for mercy. I know I need to watch the whole video in case there are any clues, but right now I don’t have the stomach.

Time after time, fist-sized rocks were thrown at Pederson’s feet and shins until they were too smashed and broken to support him. As Pederson hung by the rope binding his hands, the rocks moved upwards onto his thighs as the killers worked their way up his body.

When I pick up the video, the rocks are thudding into Pederson’s waist. They move up to his chest, leaving behind a trail of bloody welts and torn skin from their rough corners. As they reach his chest there is enough focus on the video for me to see ribs being broken.

The step up to Pederson’s head is sickening. His chin starts off resting on his chest, either his heart’s given up or the pain has knocked him unconscious. With luck he won’t awaken to suffer more.

A rock thrown to his forehead knocks his head back, exposing his throat. The killers adjust their aim.

The next missile smashes Pederson’s jaw sideways. Others shatter his nose, cheeks and eye sockets with repeated dull thuds, transforming his face into a bloody pulp.

Rocks continue to be driven into his face with vicious malice until a smaller one buries itself into one of his eyeballs. A larger rock thumps into the smaller one, driving it into Pederson’s skull, sending his body into a series of twitching convulsions.

The person recording the execution zooms in on what’s left of Pederson’s face and switches off the video.

I have to run to make it to the toilet before the heaves in my gut start ejecting the coffee, power bars and fruit I’ve consumed today.

65

A check of the major news outlets shows they’ve received the new video. None go so far as to display all of the footage, but each has taken screenshots to use in their updates. Nothing they say is anything other than wild speculation, or evangelical criticism against the horror of the killing.

They’ve pixelated Pederson’s face and privates in their copy. It doesn’t work, the images are still repugnant. The news outlets all state the existence of a second statement from the killers – I don’t want to think of them by their self-appointed moniker, to do so will legitimise their existence. The fact that none of them have printed, aired or even commented on its content tells me the latest communique has rhetoric nobody wants to broadcast.

I go back to the email from Alfonse and find he’s included a copy of the statement. He’s transcribed it from the video which he says is nothing more than a series of still photographs stitched together with online software; each still a photo of a typed sheet of paper.

A deep exhalation is necessary as soon as I click on the file:

Our beloved nation has become overrun with undesirables and it’s time to fight back.

We, the Christian Knights of America, are calling for all true-blooded patriots to take up arms and help us eliminate the many scourges defiling our wonderful country.

White Christians are welcome to stay and live in safety. Others are not.

Niggers, beaners, Japs and all other non-whites should leave.

Jews, Muslims, Hindus and those who worship anyone other than the Lord should leave.

Our latest victim was a white Christian, an ex-cop. These facts were not sufficient to save him. The man was a homo. Homos, gays, lesbians, transgenders or whatever they call themselves should leave too. Their acts of coupling are nothing more than an abomination in the eyes of the Lord and they shall be punished for it.

All who stay shall be executed in a way relevant to their ancestry.

Those who choose to leave will survive.

We’d rather there were no more deaths, but we will not flinch from the unpalatable acts necessary to cleanse this great nation of its diversity.

Again, we urge the white Christians of America to join us in this war against those dragging our nation down. Our economy, heritage and racial superiority are all suffering because of these infiltrators of our lands.

God bless America and its rightful inhabitants.

It’s no wonder this hasn’t been broadcast to a wider audience. At best, it’s propaganda. At worst, inflammatory rhetoric, designed to incite others to join their crusade and murder innocents in their name.

Any news outlet who published this in any context would find themselves the recipients of serious censure – not just from the public, but from the myriad of government agencies handed the task of extinguishing the fires their callousness has fanned the flames of.

I read the statement five times so I can absorb every nuance and shift in tone. With each reading I notice more and more amiss.

The rhetoric is both messianic and megalomaniac. While its message is clear, the writing is jumbled and repetitive. Too many specifics litter a document intended to be general.

No mention is made of Native Americans which is a contradiction to their message; surely no other group can have a higher claim to be the rightful inhabitants of the United States? The killers can hardly claim superiority over the people who preceded them, but Native Americans are neither white nor Christian which means they fit into their target demographic.

As much as I’d like a philosophical debate about irony and hypocrisy with the person who wrote this statement, I’d much prefer we spend five minutes in a dim alley with no witnesses.

Another factor to strike me is the intellectual feel of this communication. It’s not as polished or erudite as it should be, if the leader of this group is as intelligent as Dr Edwards suspects.

I wonder if the man is dumbing down on purpose so as not to alienate those in his target audience. If he is, he’s cleverer than I’ve given him credit for.

66

The keys chatter under Ms Rosenberg’s nicotine stained fingertips. The column flows unbidden – the way all her best ones do. Whenever hands take over from brain, she knows what they produce will be some of her finest work.

She clucks her tongue as she reads what her hands are communicating from her subconscious. Her very soul is being laid bare on the screen before her, as the affront to her beliefs and heritage is given voice.

Her plan had been to create a column praising the stoicism and bravery of the ethnic groups targeted by the killers, but the column she’s writing has a darker, more confrontational tone. Instead of decrying the killers for the heinous monsters they are, she finds herself crossing into more personal insults as the anger inside her spills onto the page.

In a brief crisis of confidence she wonders if she’s just venting at them because they didn’t include her, or the Casperton Gazette, in their first communique.

She shakes her doubts away. Her last column addressed that issue so well that the Gazette received the latest video, and a new statement from the Christian Knights of America.

The words keep coming and coming as her subconscious continues to pour forth with criticism and vitriol. She feels a paragraph about the newest statement may be too strong until the next one validates the anger with an eloquence she doesn’t recognise.

When finished, she gives it a quick read, changing the odd word here and there, before emailing it to her editor.

She lifts her cigarettes from her pocket as she strides outside. The flame of her lighter kisses the tip of one as she passes through the doorway.

Not being able to smoke indoors is a constant irritation to her. When she cut her teeth on the Staten Island Advance, the room had a constant blue-grey fug hanging from the ceiling. Every person who worked there was a character with a thousand stories and a unique way of telling them. Desk drawers were filled with used notebooks and bottles of whisky.

The act of looking back with nostalgia makes her feel old, but those had been good days. Each one was filled with laughter and enthusiasm, where all she feels now is a wearying outrage at the injustices of life.

Few things worked out the way she’d planned. An unreliable source had made her dangerous enemies, forcing her to leave New York and find a new home. An editor had taken a chance and hired her after a telephone interview, so she’d packed what she could into two suitcases and left the vibrancy of New York for the sleepiness of Casperton.

New York she could live without. Halvard’s refusal to come with her was what had broken her heart.

She’s never given another man a serious look since leaving New York. After all the years that have passed, she knows he’s never going to come for her, but if he does, she’ll be ready.

The temptation to look him up never leaves, yet she knows doing so will only cause her pain. If they are ever to re-unite, it has to come from him.

She arcs the cigarette butt into a drain and lights another. When it joins its predecessor, she turns and marches back into the office ready for a fight.

‘My office. Now!’ The words greet her as soon as she walks through the door. Forest Clapperton is the editor who took a chance on her. They have aged and raged together in a dance familiar to newsrooms the world over. Star reporters and editors have different agendas, they may be friends, lovers even, but they’ll argue at least three times a week as each battles for supremacy.

‘Your column is likely to get us either killed or fired.’ Clapperton runs a shaking hand over his liver-spotted head. ‘Not only that, it’s fifteen hundred words too long. What the hell were you thinking, woman?’

Ms Rosenberg straightens her back, to maximise her meagre height, as she stands her ground. She’s known for twenty-five years how to win an argument with Clapperton, and only loses the odd one as a way to keep him thinking he’s the boss. The fact he’s already brought word count into play shows he doesn’t expect to triumph.

‘Are you white? Yes. Christian? Yes. Gay? With three failed marriages and countless affairs, I hardly think so. Tell me, Forest, what makes you think you’re going to be killed? Your name isn’t on the piece, mine is.’

‘Good God woman, you can’t antagonise killers like that. Calling them cowards, scum and what was it, oh yes, impotent weasels lacking the intellectual capacity to lead themselves out of a dead end, let alone lead a nation as great as the one they claim to love.’

Ms Rosenberg takes a seat and gestures for Clapperton to do the same. He does, oblivious to the fact it’s his office and he’s her boss. ‘What, d’ya think they’re going to target me because I call them a few names? Every sensible person in the world will be calling them worse than shit, and rightly so.’

‘Perhaps they will. And perhaps they should. But they don’t announce their Jewishness in a rant that practically throws down a gauntlet. Tell me, how many of these keyboard warriors live near where the killers are active? How many have newspaper columns?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. You know as well as I do, what’s in that column needs saying and I’m not afraid to say it, even if you are.’

Clapperton’s smile makes Ms Rosenberg uneasy. For the first time since coming back into the office she feels she might not get her way. ‘Don’t try that old line on me. And don’t ask for a box so you can clear your desk either. That article is as inflammatory as the killers’ call for support and you know it.’

Ms Rosenberg rises from her chair and slaps both hands on his desk, her chin jutting forward as she breathes stale cigarette smoke at him. ‘Where’re your balls man?’

‘In a security box where my ex-wives’ lawyers can’t get their hands on them.’ His face softens. ‘It’s a great column, possibly the best ever written for the Gazette. Certainly the best in my time. If I could afford to hire a bodyguard for you, I’d print it like a shot.’

‘Print it. I’ll get my own bodyguard.’

‘No way. I don’t trust you. Besides, don’t you spend all your money on cat food and cigarettes?’

Ms Rosenberg brandishes her cell at him for a moment then starts to scroll through her contacts list. When she finds Jake Boulder’s name she first presses the call button and then selects the speaker option.

When it goes to answerphone she scowls until she hears the beep. ‘Boulder, Rosenberg. I need a bodyguard and you’re the only man I trust to protect me. The Gazette will pay your check. Call me when you get this.’

‘I just told you the Gazette couldn’t afford a bodyguard.’

‘Boulder’s not a bodyguard. He’s smarter than anyone else who’s trying to find out who those killers are. I’m going home to feed my cats and then I’m going to book a room at the Holiday Inn. They have night porters so there’s no way anyone can get to me. Satisfied?’

67

Butch Augiers is sitting on the hood of his truck when I arrive at his place. He’s not alone. Jim-Bob and Freddie are loitering around him, as are a few more members of his family.

Most are holding beer cans and Freddie looks to be at least half-way into his cups.

I draw the Mustang alongside Butch’s truck and kill the engine. ‘Climb in, I’ll drive.’

Butch spits out a gob of tobacco juice as he clambers down. His finger is pointing at my car. ‘Ain’t no way your fancy low-slung car’s gonna git us where we’re going.’

I don’t like relying on him for a lift, but it doesn’t look as if I have a lot of choice in the matter.

Jim-Bob gives me a thorough looking over as I walk across to Butch’s truck. I’m not surprised he’s looking at me with puzzlement. I’m wearing an old pair of paint-splattered jeans and a vest top that’s seen better days. Win or lose tonight, there’s going to be blood spilled and possibly a roll in the dirt depending upon the rules. I don’t see the point in ruining decent clothes and, by looking more like a bum, I may just get my opponent to underestimate me. Every little advantage counts when fists are raised.

Butch twists a key in the ignition and the truck roars to life. Other family members pour into the other trucks and a small convoy forms with Butch in the lead.

As he navigates the back roads with care and familiarity, I ponder two things. Upmost in my mind is the fear I’m walking into a trap. Now I’ve been separated from my Mustang, I’m reliant on the Augiers for transport. Should they decide to exact a little payback for the other night, I’ll have no option but to stand and fight them.

While retreat isn’t a word or action I’m fond of, or use, it’s nice to have the choice. This situation has all the hallmarks of a set-up. I’m being driven into the middle of nowhere by people I’ve established an uneasy alliance with after kicking their asses.

Less of a concern and more of a puzzle is the voicemail I’d gotten from Ms Rosenberg. Try as I might, I can’t figure out why she thinks she needs a bodyguard. Regardless of her reasons, she’ll have to look elsewhere. I don’t fancy spending my days under siege from clouds of cigarette smoke and semi-toxic perfume.

I didn’t bother returning her call. It’s a task that can wait until I get home.

Butch slows to navigate a sharp corner. His truck may look like a beat up old wreck but the engine is sound and the suspension is doing an admirable job of coping with the rough tracks. The inside shows signs of wear and age but none of neglect.

‘You nervous?’

‘No.’ It’s a fib rather than a full-blown lie. I don’t admit weaknesses to myself, let alone other men. ‘Should I be?’

‘Hell no. You get nervous, you’ll get your ass whupped.’

My nerves are more about the possibility of a set-up than about the fight. I’ve fought too often to worry about catching a few blows. Adrenaline will get me through tonight and, if necessary, I’ll take some painkillers tomorrow when the pain has had time to corral its forces.

Before leaving my apartment, I spent an hour stretching various muscles to improve blood flow and suppleness. I also rehearsed a few combinations in a spot of shadow boxing to sharpen both mind and body.

‘So, what’re the rules then? Is it fists only, or is it just a straight-up fight?’

‘That depends on how Old Man Jones is feeling. He’ll tell you any rules before your fight starts.’

‘You’re such a font of information. It’s a wonder no one has asked you to become a teacher.’

Butch laughs at my sarcasm. ‘You maybe ain’t nervous, but you’re plenty keyed up. Take my advice, listen to what you’re told and make sure you hit first, hit hardest and hit most often. You do that, you’ll be okay.’

His advice is good. If I’d been asked to pass on some fighting wisdom, I’d have said much the same thing.

Another issue on my mind are the odds on me learning what I want to know. It seems improbable I’ll overhear a conversation where someone owns up to the murders. Those of us who are fighting may well be kept to one side.

On the other hand, knowing how men like to shake the hand of a winner, there’s every chance we’ll be feted and liquored up. If we are, I’m prepared to act the racist when I join conversations. I’ve been Alfonse’s friend long enough to have heard plenty of racial slurs. The hard part will be not showing my revulsion.

A full hour after leaving the Augiers’ place, we arrive at our destination. I can’t guess the exact location as there have been too many turns, and changes of both direction and speed, since we crossed the 191 and turned west. I figure we’re south of Ashley National Forest by about five to ten miles which means we’re about forty miles north west of Casperton. The fact I could be out by five miles in any direction doesn’t matter too much.

I’m here with no hope of back-up, no transport and a cell I’ve left charging in my car. Whatever happens tonight, I’ve got nothing but my wits and fists to get me out of tight spots.

I’ve faced worse situations. Those who can’t be reasoned with can always be pummelled. The only variable to cause me concern are the numbers I may be up against and the possibility they’ll be armed.

68

The track rounds a bluff, and I see a collection of trucks, pickups and a few panel vans. Groups of men stand around chatting. Their hands clutch beers, cigarettes and in the odd case a bottle of liquor.

Off to the right someone is standing behind a portable barbecue. The smell of grilled meat elicits a growl from my stomach. If it wasn’t for the impending fight and the fact I’ve retched up what little I’ve eaten today, I’d be over there like a shot.

‘Stick with me and don’t get smart with anyone. Let your fists do most of your talkin’. You’re here on my recommendation ’cause I figure you might learn something that’ll help you catch the men you’re hunting. Don’t go runnin’ your mouth off with your educated talk, you might well be the smartest man here, but lettin’ people know won’t help you none.’

I’m comfortable with his suggestion. Playing dumb and keeping quiet is part of my plan anyway.

A man with a rugged face and no hair comes across. ‘This your fighter, Butch?’

‘Yeah. This is Jake. How ya doin’ Connor, is your father here?’

Connor looks me over without speaking. I keep my features unconcerned and nonchalant. When the examination is over he points to a wizened old man.

‘He’s disappointed you’re not fighting. Your man better be good value.’ He jerks a thumb towards his father. ‘Go let him know you’re here.’

Neither of us speak as we walk over to the wizened man. He sees us coming and repeats his son’s evaluation of me.

‘Mr Jones, this is Jake. He’s the guy who’s takin’ the place you offered to me.’

Jones doesn’t speak. Perhaps he’s afraid the cigar will fall from his lips if he does.

A guy with a battered face stands at his side like a lieutenant. With a face like his, he’s more like the private who gets all the crappy jobs than someone of officer class. I guess he’s Freddie’s father: the man whose place I’m taking.

‘Hi.’ I offer a hand forward. ‘Thanks for letting me take part.’

Old Man Jones squints at my accent as he ignores my hand. ‘You English, boy?’

‘Scottish.’ I give him the benefit of the doubt. He has the look of a man who has never left the county, let alone the state. His face is etched with years of hard work and harder living. Despite this, his eyes are flint hard and brighter than the noon sun.

I reckon Old Man Jones is a tough, intelligent man who has battled all his life. The deference shown to him by Butch is part respect and part fear.

‘Scottish eh? Just as well, Butch. If you’d brought me an English pussy, we’d’ve had a need to be having words.’ He looks at me after glancing at his watch. ‘You get a thousand bucks for takin’ part. If you’re confident, you can bet on yourself. First fight’s at eight, rules’ll be explained then.’

I spend twenty minutes walking around, doing a series of muscle loosening exercises and stretches as I go. The movement gives me the chance to move among the vehicles with impunity. Of the three white panel vans present, two have scratches on their sides. None of them look recent, but I memorise their licence plates all the same.

A foghorn sounds and everyone starts to assemble around the pickup Old Man Jones has clambered into the back of. Beside him stand Connor and the battered man with an easel bearing a chalkboard.

Old Man Jones removes the cigar from his mouth and slugs from a beer can. ‘Gentlemen, you are here to see some fightin’ and some fightin’s what you’re gonna see. We’ve got us eight brawlers and we’re havin’ us a tournament. You can bet on each fighter and ev’ry ’dividual fight. The rules is, fighters can’t use no weapons. Fists, heads, elbows and feet is all they got. And that includes pounding another man’s head against any rocks. Other’n that, anythin’ goes. Only when a fighter concedes, or can’t get back to his feet, is the fight over.’

I try not to act surprised as he starts drawing names from a hat. I now face having up to three fights instead of one. The possibility of me escaping with a few minor cuts and bruises has all but disappeared. A few minutes ago I had a fifty-fifty chance of victory, I now have one in eight.

My name is read out fourth which means I’ll be able to at least watch one match before it’s my turn. Every little scrap of information will help.

Connor produces a stick of chalk and starts marking up odds. Because I’m a stranger, the odds on me winning this tournament aren’t what you’d call favourable. Again, me being an unknown quantity, they’re not making me a rank outsider either.

I walk up to Connor and pull the ten c-notes from my pocket. ‘Five hundred on me to win your tournament, and another five hundred on me in the first bout.’

He licks his lips as he scrawls out the bets on two slips of paper and throws a look to his father. Old Man Jones mumbles a few words and Connor halves the odds on me winning down to five-to-one.

Butch puts a couple hundred bucks on me to win the first fight but doesn’t look at me when placing the wager. Whether he’s backing me out of belief or a sense of duty isn’t important, failing to do so would have lessened him in Old Man Jones’s eyes.

I run myself through a few more stretches and out of interest check the odds for the guy I’m fighting. He’s the second favourite.

69

My opponent stands before me. And over me if the truth be told. He’s a big guy known simply as Crusher. There’s something about his bovine face which makes me suspect the nickname wasn’t earned because of his crushing intelligence.

He gives me a toothless grin filled with confidence in his superior size and strength. If I’m supposed to be intimidated, it doesn’t work. His downfall will be a lack of mobility and speed.

After watching the first bout I know what’s expected. The first two fighters had flown at each other with a flurry of blows lacking in direction. Noses and lips were bloodied before a telling punch was landed. Even then, the eventual winner had taken four wild swings to finish his opponent when one should have sufficed.

Crusher advances with a huge blow. I dance to one side and throw a punch into his bulging gut as I duck under his arms.

He grunts, but wheels to face me undeterred by the blow. Again, he launches himself forward hoping I’m stupid enough to get ensnared by his arms.

I’m not.

This time I duck without throwing the punch to his gut. Instead I stay outside his arms and deliver a vicious elbow to his face when he wheels to face me. Before he can recover his wits, I whirl behind him and stamp on the back of his right knee.

Him going down to one knee gives me the opportunity to rain a few hard punches to the side of his head. I don’t expect him to be beaten like this, but every punch I land weakens his spirit.

To escape my punches, he rolls himself forward and spins until he’s crouched in the position of a linebacker. I wait for him to charge at me.

He doesn’t. He’s learned I’m too fast and too wise to get caught that way.

When I don’t advance on him, he straightens and waves me forward.

I raise my hands and creep forward a pace or two. I’m up on my toes, ready to dance away from his longer reach.

Crusher apes me by raising his hands so we’re matched like a couple of boxers. His left hand snakes out, but it’s a range finder and falls short by a good foot. I bat it inwards and deliver a hard blow to his kidneys as I wheel behind him.

He spins faster and throws his right elbow at my face. My still raised left catches the blow, but there’s enough force in it to send me staggering back.

I don’t have time to recover my balance before Crusher swings a wild left at me. Rather than let it connect and do its intended damage, I throw myself to the ground. Even as I’m falling, I’m dropping my left hand into a position of support and lashing my right foot in a wide arc.

I connect with the side of Crusher’s knee as planned. That’s as far as the plan works though. The minimal time to build up speed or power, and the lack of rigidity from connecting with the top of my foot, rather than the toe of my boot which carries the support of the sole, means the kick’s impact suffers a dramatic lessening.

Crusher stands over me and roars as he swings his foot back. With no time for defence, I roll away from him as quick as I can.

His toes catch my spinning body and deliver a hard kick to the side of my chest. The fact I’m moving away from him prevents any ribs from breaking, but I still yelp at the pain. Encouraged, he throws the other foot towards my head.

I block it with both hands, but the impact pushes me backwards. I feel the exposed skin on my back tearing on the coarse rocks beneath me.

My hands now grasp Crusher’s ankle as he changes his tactics and tries to stamp on my head. The more weight he puts behind his foot, the harder it is to prevent him making contact.

With both hands occupied, the only weapon I have is my feet. He’s too close to my head for me to reach him with my boots, so I shift the thrust in my hands from upwards to sideways forcing his foot past my head so he’s momentarily off balance.

I release his foot and throw a punch upwards between his outstretched legs. While he’s doubled over and cursing, I wriggle free and scramble to my feet.

We straighten at the same time. I’m less injured, fitter and quicker than he is. My uppercut hits his chin as his hands release his balls.

Crusher wobbles but doesn’t go down. I repeat the blow with a little more venom. I’ve no problem with knocking him out, but I don’t see the point in breaking his jaw. There’s no glory for me in gratuitous brutality.

The second uppercut does its job. He topples forward into an untidy heap. His only movement the rise and fall of his back as he breathes.

70

Connor scowls as he gives me a sheaf of notes. I’ve made a five grand profit which isn’t bad for a few minutes work.

One grand goes back in my pocket to replace my original stake. The other four and a half I give back to Connor. The odds on me winning, either the tournament or my next bout, have shortened to three-to-one.

The extra money isn’t something I’m interested in. The laying down of a challenge is my primary intent in gambling. I want them to know I intend to win. Sometimes you have to push a rock over to see what crawls out from underneath.

I watch the next two fights with Butch. One is a bloody, drawn out battle that leaves even the winner looking like he lost. The second is over in three seconds. The winner pulls off some weird handstand arrangement and delivers a roundhouse kick to the side of his opponent’s head.

My next fight is against the guy who won the fight before mine. His face is swollen from the damage caused in his first bout, and his left eye is one decent punch from closing.

As tempting as it is to target the damaged eye, I don’t want to risk blinding him. For me the point is to win, not maim. The crowd can get their kicks from the others; I’ve no intention of causing lasting damage.

We’ve both seen each other fight and know what to expect. He’s a brawler whereas I’m a counter attacker. Or at least that’s what he thinks.

To confound his expectations, I step forward and follow a left jab with a swinging right. He ducks back to avoid the jab which leaves his gut wide open. My fist connects with his solar plexus and removes every last trace of breath from his body.

He backs away, fighting to regain some air in his lungs. I follow him and wait for the moment when he recovers. As soon as his back starts to straighten, I throw a couple of combinations at his face.

He goes down but tries to get back up. I stand a pace away, then step forward when he makes it to one knee. My fists are ready but my heart isn’t in it. ‘Do you really want to get up just so I can put you down again?’

The fight goes out of his eyes as my words settle in his brain. His head shakes and he sits on his ass.

Nobody brought any water, so I pick a couple of ice cubes from a cooler and suck on them as I watch the next fight. The first cube hasn’t melted before the dancing gymnast pulls off another feat of acrobatics and lays out his opponent with an elbow to the jaw.

Old Man Jones and the guy with the battered face are watching as I roll my winnings over a second time. I’m now betting eighteen grand at two-to-one. There’s also the original bet of five hundred bucks at ten-to-one. If I win this next fight, I’ll clear fifty-nine thousand five hundred bucks.

Winning may be something of an issue though. The dancing gymnast is fast and deadly. While my fights weren’t long knock-down drag-out affairs, I still caught a hefty kick from Crusher which has made my ribs tender. As soon as I settle into one position, stiffness will arrive with a side order of pain.

During the fifteen minute lay off before the final, I walk around keeping muscles loose and eyes open. The real purpose of my being here isn’t to fight, it’s to investigate. The fighting nothing more than a key I’m using to enter a locked room.

As I make a circuit I notice another two white panel vans have arrived since I checked earlier. One has no scratches or anything remarkable about it. The other has a slight jacking to its suspension, off road tyres and a fresh scratch on the driver’s side.

What I wouldn’t give to have my cell in my hand right now so I could call in the police, FBI and any other government agency who wanted to come along. Out here it wouldn’t pick up a signal and would amount to nothing more than a collection of useless microchips and plastic.

I memorise the licence plate and keep moving in case the van’s owner notices the attention I’m giving his vehicle.

‘Hey, Boulder. How you planning to not get your ass kicked in the final?’

It’s a good question Jim-Bob has thrown at me. I’m not sure of the answer so I give him a flippant one. ‘I’m going to pretend he’s as slow and dumb as you are.’

I walk away leaving Butch laughing at his brother’s consternation.

Freddie and another young lad are cavorting around trying to emulate the dancing gymnast’s moves when Old Man Jones throws a handful of pebbles at them. ‘Quit yer foolin’, boy.’

They stop their antics and the stranger gives a shameful excuse for an apology. As they wander off, I hear Freddie call his buddy Dave. His name doesn’t matter to me – other than it being a way to connect some more dots.

Like everyone else here, I disappear behind a parked vehicle to take a leak. When I return, I’m called forward for the final.

Old Man Jones gives the kind of introduction Liberace would consider over the top.

As I square off against the dancing gymnast, I realise I still haven’t worked out a way to combat his athletic prowess. The mismatch in our sizes is similar to my first fight with Crusher, only this time I’m the bigger slower fighter.

He comes at me, bouncing on his toes. There’s no way to predict how or where he’ll attack. I feint left then step right hoping an opportunity will present itself.

It doesn’t.

I don’t want to go on the attack too much as he’ll pick me off, but I’ve always rated attack as the best form of defence and so far his defence remains untested.

He shifts back as I push forward. I’d like to pressure him a little but don’t want to make the mistake he’s waiting for. I see a change in his eyes a millisecond before he drops into a crouch and tries a leg sweep.

I lift my right leg up, just enough for his leg to pass underneath, then flick my foot towards his head.

He’s seen me counter a similar move and mimics me by grabbing my foot. Not being as reliant on brute strength as Crusher, I release the weight from my standing leg and drop my knee into his gut.

A grunt is all I get for my efforts, so I drive an elbow into his face. His lips split, but his exceptional agility comes into play as he wriggles himself around me.

Through some kind of wrestling move or other, he manages to roll us over so he’s on top of me. My left arm is pinned beneath my back leaving only my right for defence.

I deflect some of his punches but most find their target. One breaks my nose and I feel at least two teeth loosen.

His weight on my chest prevents me from wriggling free so I grab a fistful of his collar and pull his head towards mine.

With my head on the ground I can’t get any purchase on the headbutt, but I can direct him so his nose strikes my forehead. The buck from my hips adds to his momentum.

Instinct makes him rear backwards. As he does so, I hook a hand under his knee and help him on his way.

He gets to his feet before I do, but he wastes a second wiping blood off his face. I don’t care whose blood it is, the action gives me time to brace for his next attack.

Now when we face off, I see fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I hope he sees triumph and confidence in mine.

He feints left then right before pulling one of his gymnastic moves. Instead of doing the expected, and trying to dodge or defend the coming blow, I ignore it and step forward throwing off his aim. Instead of his foot crashing into my head, his knee bounces off my shoulder.

I press home my advantage and nail him with a left right combination as he tries to recover his balance after the failed attack. He goes down but doesn’t look as if he’s staying there so I follow him.

His arms are covering his face, but his legs are free. I feel one snake its way around my neck and press me backwards. His other foot appears, but rather than join the first in an effort to push me back, the dancing gymnast throws his heel at my face.

I roll away before it connects and this time he’s the slowest to regain his feet.

Next time when he throws a punch it’s not a feint. His knuckles slam into my jaw, but it’s not the hardest I’ve been hit.

With his high impact moves causing him more problems than successes, he’s switching to more orthodox tactics. His greater hand speed will wear me down unless I manage to land enough decent punches of my own.

We trade punches like a couple of twelfth-round boxers, convinced we’ll get the judges’ decision.

I can see I’m wearing him down, but I can feel myself slowing too. Rather than wait to see who tires first, I decide to take a chance.

When his next punch comes at me, I deflect it and take a quick step forward, arching my back as I go. My headbutt slams into his nose and sends him reeling backwards. I follow him and throw several combinations until his knees give way.

I stagger away to a large rock and sit down to catch my breath. When I collect my winnings I want to be in the best possible shape – in case Connor or anyone else has any silly ideas about me not getting the money.

71

Butch is the first person to come across to me. His face is beaming as he shakes my hand and claps me on the back.

Others follow him, and a bottle of beer is pressed into my hand. I want to drink it, but know I shouldn’t. One beer has never been enough for me and I need my wits about me for whatever may come.

The dancing gymnast is picked up by his friends. He steadies himself and comes across to me. I clench my fists ready, but I’ve misread his intentions. He proffers a hand and gives me a bloody smile. ‘Well done.’

I hand him the beer and head off to where Connor is handing out money to the few who’d betted on me.

He greets me with a smile. ‘Hey, Boulder. That was a good show you put on. Anytime you want to come back, we’ll be happy to see you.’ As he speaks he pulls out a sheaf of notes and starts flicking through them.

Two minutes later I have my winnings and appearance fee in my pocket and no idea what to do with the money. The only thing I know is that I won’t be keeping it. However the money has gotten into the hands of the Jones family, I’m positive it’s not got there legally.

So far as I’m concerned, other than my initial stake money, every cent I’m carrying is tainted by a victim’s misery. The sooner I can pass it on to a charity or two the better.

Butch comes back with some beers and frowns when I refuse one. I want to get back to civilisation, to call Alfonse and Chief Watson, tell them about the white van with the fresh scratch, but there’s no way Butch is ready to move.

A group of shady looking characters come my way. The leader of the group stands in front of me. ‘We lost a lot of money betting against you tonight. We’d like the chance to make some of it back.’

I don’t say anything. I want to hear what they have to say before I tell them no.

‘Y’see we know you earned big betting on yo’self. We can double or treble that money.’

‘How?’ My interest is now piqued. I’ve no intention of doing anything with the guy, but Chief Watson may be interested in hearing about his business proposition.

‘You come and fight for me. Depending on the purse, you make up to a hundred grand a night. Plus you c’n bet on yourself. You interested?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’ He passes me a card with nothing but a cell number written on it. ‘When you’re ready to fight again, call me.’

I’m more likely to juggle rattlesnakes than call him, but I stuff the card into a pocket.

A foghorn blares and is followed by Old Man Jones’s voice.

‘Gentlemen, we got one more fight for you and it’s gonna be a good un. We’ve seen some fine battles tonight, but what we’re offering you now is gonna be somethin’ real special.’ My stomach flips as I wonder if he’s about to drag my name into things. All of a sudden, my plan to challenge them by winning their money doesn’t seem anything like as smart as I’d first thought.

‘We got us two men, two knives, but we only gonna have us one survivor. I give you a fight to the death. In a moment you’ll meet our fighters, but first I’d like you all to follow Connor and Kevin.’ He points to a cleft in the rocky wall of the small valley we’re in.

Unsure of what’s about to happen, I hang back until I’m the last to pass through the cleft. We’re in a kind of hollowed out basin whose walls are ten feet high.

Connor climbs a ladder at the far end and everyone clambers up after him. Being last doesn’t seem such a good idea anymore, so I push my way past one or two guys who look at me in amusement.

Try as I might, I can’t work out why anyone would agree to take part in a fight to the death. I’m interested in seeing the two modern-day gladiators on an anthropological level.

What I’m not wanting to witness is their fight. As much as I enjoy a punch-up myself, I get little pleasure from watching others do it.

72

When the last person climbs the ladder out of the basin, Connor and Kevin climb back down and take the ladder back to the cleft.

A white panel van reverses into the opening. Connor opens the back door and hauls a black man into the centre of the basin. Kevin does the same.

They use the ladder to climb onto the van’s roof. I check the licence plate. It’s the jacked van with the scratch on the left side.

The driver is dressed in the same jeans and shirt as everyone else, but his look is better quality. He’s a handsome man who is treated with respect and deference by the Jones brothers. I don’t recall seeing his face, but there are others who’re also unfamiliar. What is familiar, is the description given by Will Pederson’s neighbour of the man calling himself Brian.

Everything I see leads me to think I’ve stumbled on the killers through dumb luck. Where the luck has run out, is the fact I’m in the middle of nowhere with no way of contacting the authorities, and no transport of my own.

I look at the two black men who are standing in the centre of the basin. There’s fear on both their faces and their close proximity to each other speaks of comradeship rather than enmity. Their clothes are soiled with the detritus of rough living.

I figure that Brian has picked up a couple of street bums and plans to use them for sport. The colour of their skin the deciding factor in their selection.

A feeling of helplessness washes over me as Brian exits the back of the van, and walks towards the two fearful men with a pump action shotgun in his hands and a cigar in his mouth.

They shrink back from him, but he waves them forward. I see his lips move as he gives quiet instructions to his two latest victims.

They shake their heads at him. As he retreats, they try to follow him, their protests snatched away from my ears by the breeze. Brian answers their protests by aiming the shotgun at them as he backs away.

When he gets to the van he clambers up the ladder. Connor hands him two hunting knives, which he tosses to opposite sides of the basin, while Kevin pulls up the ladder.

The black men stay where they are so Brian lifts the shotgun to his shoulder. ‘Begin.’

I pity the two men. They’re in a situation neither has chosen. There is no escape for them. Brian’s shotgun and the van block the cleft, while the rock walls of the basin form a natural arena for their bout. Even if they could climb out, without being stabbed by the other, the spectators at the top wouldn’t let them leave. Their only hope is winning.

The two men split and run to the knife nearest them. As soon as they turn with the knives in their hands I know who the victor will be. The taller of the two waves his knife as if it’s a sword, while the shorter man with the greying hair holds his blade steady in a backhand grip.

Neither advances too close to the other. The taller one is slashing a lot of air without ever threatening Grey Hair. A lunge from him sees an attempted stab miss by at least two feet.

I want to intervene, put a halt to the horror unfolding before me, but there’s nothing I can do. Any attempted intervention will be ended by Brian’s shotgun.

Grey Hair dances away from a slashing lunge. His counter splits open the taller guy’s left bicep. The crowd roars in delight while Freddie and Dave do a happy jig.

The taller guy’s left arm hangs loose by his side as he continues his wild slashes. A second counter-attack gashes his knife arm causing him to drop his weapon.

Grey Hair steps forward, preventing the taller guy from retrieving his knife. Without his given weapon, the taller guy shrinks to the back of the basin and lifts a fist sized rock. The way his arm is held, it’s clear he plans to use it as a missile. He advances towards Grey Hair, who stands his ground.

When they’re five feet apart, the rock is launched at Grey Hair. It smacks into the middle of his chest a split-second before the taller guy throws himself after it.

The two men land in a heap, each wrestling for control of Grey Hair’s knife. The taller guy is on top of Grey Hair when a violent thrust sees him spasm in panic as the blade slices his throat.

Grey Hair rolls the dying man off his chest and crawls away. When he’s three yards away he wipes the blood off his face, then hurls his guts up.

I know how he feels. I’ve only been watching and I feel sick. At least when I killed a man, I didn’t end up covered in his blood.

Brian approaches Grey Hair and gestures for him to return to the van. Grey Hair seems to refuse. A lifting of the shotgun changes his mind.

The van moves away and Connor brings back the ladder. As we walk back towards the various trucks I touch Butch’s elbow. ‘You ready to get out of here?’

‘Hell yeah. That ain’t what I call entertainment.’ His words are no more than a whisper but I catch the disdain in his voice.

He rounds up his family and tells Freddie to get in the back seat of his truck.

As we’re climbing into the truck, a single blast of a shotgun rings out. I can only hope Grey Hair didn’t see it coming.

Butch drives back with little regard for the punishment his truck is taking from the rough tracks. The main focus of his anger is young Freddie, who he berates with a constant stream of abuse and vilification for his actions and conduct.

He uses his superior intelligence to ask the idiotic boy a series of questions which cannot be answered without dropping himself deeper into trouble.

73

The chief is waiting for me when I pass through the media scrummage and enter the station. My call on the way back from Butch’s had been passed straight to Gaertner.

There’s not a trace of the FBI anywhere in the station. Even Gaertner has scrambled to the Jones’s place.

When he sees the cuts and bruises on my face, the chief hollers for Darla to bring the first aid kit.

As I give him a fuller account of my evening, Darla fusses round me wiping away blood and dirt from my face.

Resisting Darla is a waste of time. She just agrees with you and carries on doing what you’ve asked her not to. Her personality is louder than the Hawaiian blouses she wears and her rich booming tones are only ever one syllable away from calling people sugar or honey.

‘The licence plate you gave us for that van is registered to an address in Salt Lake City. It’s also registered to a twenty-twelve Chevrolet Spark. The owner of the Chevvy is in her eighties.’

‘You got someone going to see her?’

‘FBI have.’

We share a grimace. The licence plate on the van is so obviously false, it’s not worth discussing. The little old lady will have to be interviewed, but as a formality rather than a serious line of enquiry.

‘I presume you’re on the lookout for it?’

‘It’s just as well you mentioned it. I never thought of that.’ His scornful tone is powerful enough to shrivel rock. ‘You’re the amateur here, not me.’

I ignore his ire. I need to know what the police and FBI are doing so I don’t waste time doing the same thing.

Chief Watson snatches up his phone before the first ring finishes. ‘Yes?’

I watch his face as he listens to the caller. Whatever he’s being told, isn’t good news. The knuckles of his free hand are at their usual place, massaging his temple.

His end of the conversation doesn’t give much away, but I can guess the general topic.

As soon as he hangs up I speak. ‘Well?’

‘None of them were there except David and the women.’

‘Young David was there. Are they bringing him in?’

‘Not the young David, his grandfather. Gaertner is bringing them all in, but David Jones is denying all knowledge of the fight tonight, and says he’s never left the house. The women are all backing his story up. They’re lying of course, but at the moment it’s your word against his.’

‘I’ll take you up to where the fight was. Show you the blood.’

He raises a hand. ‘I believe you, Boulder. We just need to get proof they were there.’

‘What about Kevin and Connor, where does he say they are?’

‘He claims they had a falling out and he hasn’t seen them for two years. It’s bull and we all know it, but if he and those women all stick to the story there’s damn little we can do without proof.’

‘What about this Brian guy, did Gaertner ask Jones about him?’

‘He didn’t say. They’re bringing them back here and will sweat them, see if someone breaks rank.’ His head shakes. ‘If anyone does, it’ll be one of the women. Can’t see it myself though.’

I don’t like his assessment, but I have to agree with it. While people like the Jones and Augiers family aren’t what you’d call rednecks, they’re only a half-step away. They have a natural distrust of what they think of as city folks. Authority figures like the police and FBI are viewed with suspicion. Gaertner and his men will have a tough job breaking their resistance. Threats of jail won’t work. For people used to scratching a living from unforgiving territory, a vacation at the government’s expense holds no threat.

The other overriding factors will be their fear of Old Man Jones and Brian; plus the fact that any admission they make could mean life imprisonment, or Death Row, for their loved ones.

‘You say you saw this Brian guy?’

‘That’s right.’ I give him the best description I can. The distance between us and the horror of the knife fight prevented me from getting as good a look at him as I had wanted.

He opens a file and passes me a sheet of paper. It’s a computer generated picture of a man. It’s a fair approximation of Brian, but I’m too sketchy on the details to point out the flaws that prevent it from being a perfect likeness.

‘That’s him. Have you run him through your computers?’

‘Gaertner has. Says they didn’t get any hits.’

That’s telling in itself. If the guy isn’t on the FBI’s radar, or that of any other agency, there’s little chance of getting his real identity without one of the Jones family spilling their guts.

If Connor, Kevin and Young David aren’t at home, they must be with Brian. Which means they’re either acting out their next atrocity, or they’re planning it.

‘You heard news bulletins today, Boulder?’

‘No.’ My answer is hesitant as a growing feeling of dread envelops me. ‘Why?’

‘The copycats have started. There have been three stonings and one beheading. There’s also been a serious upsurge in Klan style activity all over the country.’

‘I take it there’s been an increased police presence in sensitive areas?’

‘Hell yeah. The national guard has been called out in a lot of places.’ He gives a scowl of annoyance. ‘Domestic shootings have doubled in black households because they’re so damned scared they’re shooting at the slightest noise and killing their own family. Wouldn’t be so bad if they were shooting burglars.’

When the wider media starts tracking back, and learns about the burning crosses and impalement, things will get worse in a hurry. I’m all for free speech and a free press, but there are times when they ought to display a better social conscience about what they publish. I’m not convinced their editors and shareholders will share my sentiments though.

He doesn’t mention the pressure of having the world’s eyes watching Casperton. He doesn’t need to, it’s evident on his face and in his every gesture. However he’s feeling, Gaertner will have it double or treble. It’s only a matter of time before the Special Agent in charge of Utah, or a bigwig from Washington, comes to take over from him. The second they arrive in Casperton, his career will be tarnished and he’ll be forever thought of as the man who failed.

I leave before Gaertner returns with the Jones family. He’ll want to bawl me out, and if Old Man Jones sees me he’ll want to issue whatever the hillbilly equivalent of a fatwah is.

74

Alfonse’s face shows concern when he sees mine. I wave away his worries and change the subject to the matter at hand.

He’s up to speed because, as soon as I’d finished speaking to Chief Watson on my frantic drive back to Casperton, I’d called him.

‘Those names I got from the bank, how’d you get on with them?’

He smiles. ‘Well. Working from your description of the guy calling himself Brian, I’ve pinned it down to three people.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Ian Lindstrom, Vern Tate and Penelope Anderson.’

‘What you got on them?’

He gives me three sheets of paper, and time to read them. As ever, Alfonse has provided a detailed report on each person.

Ian Lindstrom’s loan application was turned down because his business plan wasn’t considered to be viable. Since being refused by Sherrelle, he’s failed to secure funding elsewhere and his bakery store has closed.

To confound matters, his listed address has changed from an upscale location to an apartment in a block nicknamed the Lonely Hearts Club, due to the number of recently divorced people passing through its doors.

Alfonse’s notes state that his Facebook pictures are all images of delicacies from his bakery. Dr Edwards would suggest he’s living in the past. I’d agree with him.

It’s almost too pat, how his life has nosedived since Sherrelle rejected his loan. A nagging doubt pulls at the back of my mind.

‘Did you Google him, see what’s in the local news items?’

He pulls a face. ‘Nine out of ten times, doing that is a waste of time.’

‘Humour me.’

He blows a raspberry as he reaches for his laptop.

I read the report on Vern Tate next. It’s a similar tale with two key differences. Tate’s business has survived, although it’s only just breaking even. He’s also still with his wife. A picture gleaned from his Twitter account shows a family portrait of them and their daughter. Without being judgemental about his wife, it’s hard not to think Tate is punching above his weight.

‘Dammit. Strike Lindstrom from the list, he’s black.’

‘Why dammit? Surely it’s good to eliminate a suspect?’

He scowls at me. ‘Of course it is. I just had him as my favourite.’

I hide my smile from him – aware of how much he hates it when his hunches are proven wrong.

I change the subject. ‘What do you make of Tate?’

‘Not a lot. He’s not fared well since being turned down, but he’s still got his business and his family. He’s a possible. What about the woman?’

‘Brian is a man.’

‘Well duh. Read the report, Jake.’

For once in my life, I do as I’m told.

Penelope Anderson tried to borrow a hundred thousand bucks so she could open a health food shop. Her husband’s name is also on the application: Richard B. Anderson. At this minute, I’d bet every one of the sixty thousand dollars in my pocket that the B stands for Brian.

Other than an address, there’s no other information on either of them.

‘What else you got on them?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve programs running their details now.’

I’m about to call Chief Watson when Alfonse shakes his head. ‘I Googled their address along with the other ones. Their house burned down two years ago. I’ve been through the postal service trying to find a forwarding address for them but I’ve come up blank.’

‘We should still tell the chief. The FBI may know a way to find out where he lives now.’

‘They might. I doubt it, but they might.’

I’ve hurt his professional pride as a hacker. Tough. There are bigger issues at stake than his feelings. I try another tack. ‘Did you try the DMV to see if any vehicles are registered in his name?’

‘Of course.’ He’s sullen now. ‘He’s got a white panel van registered to the house that burned down.’

‘No other vehicles?’

‘She has a Ford Taurus registered in her name.’

She has a nice car and he has a van. The set-up is quite typical for families where the husband works with his hands rather than his head. ‘Do we know what the husband’s occupation is?’

‘It’s listed on the application as construction worker.’

Which could mean he’s anything between a manual labourer and a skilled tradesman with a decent income. If Brian is as clever as we think he is, my guess is he’s an electrical engineer, or something equally requiring of intelligence. As much as the desire to work with your hands may steer your career path, intelligent human beings also need to challenge their brains, otherwise they soon become bored.

It’s why I read so many crime novels. Working the door at the Tree doesn’t require a great amount of thinking, so I read mysteries to give my brain a workout.

While waiting for his programs to finish their sweep, Alfonse tells me how he traced a reposting of the first two videos to a library in Rock Springs, and the second two to Casperton’s library.

It’s a smart move by Brian. Libraries offer free internet, and because it isn’t sourced to his own address there’s no way to trace anything he does back to him.

He passes on some more details that are nothing but background information.

‘This is no use, Alfonse. We’re being reactive here. Instead of following the snake’s tail we should be trying to cut off its head. We need to find a way to find the man.’

‘How?’ Frustration adds a nasty layer to his tone. ‘We can only work with the facts we’ve got.’

‘We need to think about the ways those facts can be used proactively. Can you write a program you can lock onto any new videos posted, and have it notify you if they’re reposted along with the location?’

‘Yeah. It’ll take a few hours though.’

I stand and move towards his kitchen. ‘I’ll get you a coffee and then leave you to it. If your searchbots produce anything let me know.’

‘Gee, thanks buddy.’

I let his snarkiness wash over me. I’m going to head home and get some rest while he’ll be working through the night.

75

I groan at the stiffness in my body as I reach for my cell. For once my sleep has remained uninterrupted by nightmares of drowning. Instead it’s lone blasts from a shotgun that have disturbed my slumber.

I look at the screen before answering. See Alfonse’s name. ‘Yeah?’

The excitement I’d felt at the call disappears as I listen to what he tells me. By the time he’s finished speaking I have the shower running.

I spend five minutes longer than usual in the shower. I could kid myself I’m thinking about Ms Rosenberg’s disappearance. The truth is, I’m trying to ease the pain from muscles that are all but seized up.

When she hadn’t made a seven o’clock meeting with her editor he’d called her hotel. The member of staff who’d answered had refused to bother a guest, but he’d shown a journalist’s persistence and had gotten a manager. After a month’s free advertising had been discussed, the duty manager had used a passkey to check her room.

Her room was empty apart from a small case, her bag, two notepads and a dicta-phone. The bed was still made as per the hotel’s style. A check of the car park had found her car.

The clincher had been a discussion with a night porter who’d seen her making frequent short trips in and out of the hotel. He’d seen her exit around eleven-thirty but hadn’t noticed whether or not she’d returned due to dealing with other customers. The porter had figured he’d missed her and that she’d gone to bed.

Chief Watson has ignored the twenty-four hour rule and put out an APB on her.

I agree with his instinct. Her column, in a special late edition of the Gazette, was tantamount to a challenge. A beautifully eloquent piece of writing, it was laden with venomous barbs and even went so far as to question not just the motives, but the manhood of the person masterminding the killings.

It’s little surprise she’s been targeted – what makes less sense is the time frame. Brian had been out at the fight, as had Kevin and Connor. I don’t see how they could have left there, read the article and located Ms Rosenberg in such a short time.

I wonder if I’m wrong about his involvement. That I’m not just barking up the wrong tree, I’m in the wrong forest.

The one tiny positive from this situation, is that we have a chance of doing something proactive now that we have a confirmed disappearance.

More than anything else, the dicta-phone and notepads being left in her room tells me she didn’t run off after a story. Even when I’d seen her at dinner the other night, there had been notepads bulging from the bag slung over her shoulder.

I dismiss any ideas of a romantic tryst. She’s not the type to engender amorous feelings, let alone run off with someone new at the drop of a hat. According to Alfonse, when Chief Watson had asked the question of the editor he’d been laughed at.

76

Ms Rosenberg thrashes at her bindings for perhaps the hundredth time. Like the ninety-nine previous attempts she achieves nothing beyond chafed skin.

She has no idea where she is, other than the fact it’s dark, cold and the floor is made of unforgiving concrete.

She moves herself around her tiny cell as best she can with bound hands and feet. It’s about eight feet square. Not once does she feel anything that might be a door handle, a ladder or a trapdoor.

Unable to smoke in the hotel room, or open a window far enough to lean out, she’d gone downstairs every half hour to satisfy her craving. As a precaution against being seen, she’d exited a back door and smoked at the edge of the hotel’s car park.

On the eleven-thirty visit she’d been approached by a man whose face had never been on the winning side of a fight. He’d smiled at her and glanced at the cigarettes they both held. ‘Filthy habit.’

A scream had rang out from the other side of the car park. It had been a girl’s voice. The man had run towards the scream and she’d done the same. When she’d rounded a white panel van the man and a bald guy had grabbed her.

They’d bound, gagged and thrown her into the van in less than a minute. As they’d driven off with her lying on the van floor, the bald man had mocked her by replaying the scream from his cell phone.

She’s enough of a realist to know she’s going to die. Even at her youthful best she’d attracted few admirers, so it’s unlikely she’s been snatched by rapists. Besides, after the column she had published, there could only be one group who’d choose to abduct her.

All she can hope for is a quick, painless death. She doesn’t want to die but knows that, considering how many cigarettes she goes through, she’s already cheated the Grim Reaper by making it to her early sixties.

The fact she may have brought on her abduction and eventual murder by writing the article doesn’t worry her. Free speech always has a price. Over the years her articles have brought many threats of lawsuits and physical harm. That one will be responsible for her demise is something she’s always known could happen. After all, she’s spent the last thirty-nine years hiding from the New York mob.

While she doesn’t expect to become a martyr, there will be a certain amount of backlash from the media at large when one of their own is targeted.

Nothing engenders communal feelings quite like a shared fear. She knows that, in death, she’ll be clasped to industry bosoms in a way quite opposite to how she was treated in life.

With nothing to do but think, she tries to divert her thoughts away from how she’ll be killed, to what she can do to assist in the catching of her killers.

Her hands are bound in front of her but she can still move her fingers. If she gets an opportunity, she plans to scratch any of her captors who come within reach. She doesn’t expect to hurt them, her aim is to get something under her nails for the coroner to find.

She runs her hands over the floor until she finds a pebble.

It’s not easy to write on a wall in the dark using a pebble, but she does what she can. Her words start off describing the two men who abducted her, before morphing into what will be her final article.

77

I call Chief Watson as I drive to Alfonse’s. He gives basic answers to my questions, making me suspect Gaertner is with him.

This is confirmed when the FBI man comes on the line. He gives me a hard time about the fight until I force a grudged admission from him that he at least now has some suspects to investigate.

He wants me to come in for a full debrief. I tell him that Chief Watson knows everything and hang up.

There’s no point in wasting time repeating myself when there’s a chance Ms Rosenberg may still be alive.

The coffee in Alfonse’s pot is stewed to the consistency of treacle but delivers a welcome hit. I pour him one. His bloodshot eyes are a sure indication he needs the caffeine even more than I do.

‘What you thinking, Jake?’

‘Everything and nothing. I’m trying to think like the killers. Trying to figure out how they plan to kill her.’

‘She’s Jewish, right?’ He slugs his coffee and pulls a face at the taste. ‘They’ll gas her.’

‘I got that far. The question is how?’

‘Simple. They’ll bind her hands and feet, toss her in a car and run a hose from the exhaust.’

He’s giving voice to thoughts I’ve already had and dismissed. ‘I doubt it. Like you say, it’s too simple. It’s also not symbolic enough. Every death so far has been a statement. A direct affront to whichever racial or social group they’re targeting.’ I point to his laptop. ‘What does Google have to say about methods used to execute Jews?’

His fingers dance across the keys. Where their usual pace would be a quick-step, exhaustion has slowed them to a waltz.

‘There’s stoning, burning, slaying and strangling on the first site.’

‘We’ve had stoning and burning. What does it say about the other two?’

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Slaying is what they call beheading, which is another we’ve had. The strangulation is done by burying a person shoulder deep in mud. Two handkerchiefs are tied together, wrapped around the victim’s throat and pulled in opposite directions.’

Strangulation has a dramatic sound to it. The biggest flaw is the digging of a hole to put the victim in. Around here the ground is hard and unforgiving. Even a hole big enough to contain the diminutive Ms Rosenberg will entail a couple of hours hard work with a shovel.

‘What else you got?’

‘The burning is different to the way Darryl and the others were killed. It’s much the same as strangulation except the cloths are on fire and, when the victim’s mouth opens for air, molten metal is poured down their throat.’

‘This sounds more like something Brian would do. It’s not what you’d call synonymous with Jews though. We’ve had to do research to discover the method. Burning crosses, stoning and heads affixed to wild animals are things most people would know about. As is gassing.’ Unable to sit in one place, I pace around the room to help my muscles deal with the stiffness. ‘However accurate its historical connections may be, it’ll never carry the same association as gassing. I think that’s what they’ll do.’

‘Thought you said a hosepipe through the window wasn’t symbolic enough for them?’

I go to pour myself some more coffee then remember its taste and don’t bother. ‘It’s not. But there is more than one way to skin a cat.’

He scowls at the Scottish phrase. ‘What you on about?’

‘I’m saying, the method the Nazi’s used when they killed Jews, was to gas them when they thought they were taking a shower, right?’

‘Yeah, but how does that transfer into what we’re talking about?’ He slaps his forehead in a mock Eureka moment. ‘Of course. That’s it. You know of some gas chamber the Nazis built. Next you’ll be telling me it’s only a mile along the road.’

My hand slamming down on the counter makes him jump. ‘You’re tired, I get that. But instead of ripping it, why don’t you listen for a moment? You remember the local make-out places – specifically that place down the forty-five, across the river?’

His eyes widen. ‘You mean the former military place?’

‘Yeah. That’s the one. We’ve got a Jewish person lined up as the next victim, an abandoned military bunker and some twisted killers. What do you think is going to happen?’

‘Dammit, you’re right.’

I’m already calling the chief as he speaks.

The chief listens, then puts Gaertner on the line again. He too listens to my theory.

When I put the cell in my pocket I have very little respect left for the FBI man. It’s one thing him disagreeing with my theory – I could even stand a chuckle – but to be laughed at, and called a stupid fanciful idiot, takes the biscuit.

‘You still got that tracker in my phone?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well if it stops moving for more than twenty minutes, send the police and the FBI to wherever I am. I’ll be in trouble.’ I’m moving towards the door so he can’t waste time trying to stop me. ‘Check wherever you need to check and get me the coordinates for every abandoned bunker or building around here. You’ve got ten minutes before I’m out of signal.’

78

The Mustang growls as I hurtle south along the forty-five. On the seat to my right, my cell is beeping as a series of emails come in. I guess they’re from Alfonse. If I know him, he’ll be sending each set of coordinates as he discovers them. I don’t like the number of beeps it’s making.

I pass over the Green River at twice the speed limit, with no idea of what I’m going to do when I arrive at my destination.

There are at least three killers, four if Young David is involved. Brian has a shotgun, I have fists and feet. The odds of me having a cell signal to call for help are slim to non-existent.

None of these negatives are enough to make me turn back. The more I think about Ms Rosenberg becoming their next victim, the angrier I become.

I round a corner and stamp on the gas once more. A Winnebago trundles along in front of me. As soon as we round the next corner, I drop two gears and rocket past the Winnebago. The driver flips me off as I pass.

Now I’ve crossed the Green River, I have to slow down. Where the exact location of every make-out spot was once committed to memory, time has blurred things for me. My recollection is vague and I have to look for familiar markers.

In-keeping with the base’s secretive nature, it was never sign-posted.

I have to stand on the brakes when I do spot the right turning. A haul on the wheel steers me onto the new road where I feather the gas until the Mustang’s rear straightens out.

A mile later, asphalt becomes gravel. Perhaps the military budget ran out when they got this far. More probable is that they hoped the lack of a decent roadway would prevent inquisitive visitors.

Another mile on is a sweeping bend the width of an interstate. It’s here where all the parking takes place. If the number of used condoms littering the gravel are any indication– it’s still a popular spot.

I push fond memories aside and fight to keep the balance between speed and control. A powerful rear-wheel drive Mustang is not designed for gravel roads. Every bend sees the rear step out in an effort to pass the front.

If the reason for my journey wasn’t so important, I’d be enjoying the continuous sideways motion. Instead, the reduced traction is nothing more than an irritating delay.

The gates of the former military installation hang from their hinges. Beyond them, gravel returns to asphalt as the road continues to the actual base.

Two minutes after my tyres leave the gravel, they ease to a stop. I’m no special forces commando with years of training, but I know rescue attempts from armed captors are best conducted without announcing your arrival. The grumbling exhaust of the Mustang does a fine job of impressing pretty girls. It’s not so good at stealth.

I get out and search the trunk for something I can use as a weapon. I’m looking under the spare for a tyre iron when I see the gun my mother gave me. If I was twenty years younger I’d facepalm. Instead I curse.

Half-forgotten instructions on how to use the pistol flicker through my mind as I pull it from its hiding place, check it’s loaded, and stuff it into the back of my jeans.

Three paces towards the first building and it’s in my hand.

As I search the deserted buildings, every action thriller I’ve read, or seen at the movies, has me peeking round corners and holding the gun at my chest with the barrel pointing upwards. When I round the corners the gun is extended in a two-handed grip. I’m not convinced I’d get a commendation from a drill sergeant, but it makes me feel safer to know I’m ready to shoot when I could encounter shotgun-wielding killers at any moment.

Every room, every corner or closet I examine is empty of life. There’s plenty of human detritus left behind. Food packaging, soda cans and other litter abandoned by campers or partying youths decorates the floor in each room.

Not once do I encounter a door that hasn’t been kicked in and left to hang on its hinges or lie where it landed.

Fifteen minutes after searching the first building I’m scrolling through emails. The number of beeps I heard was worrying, but I’m happy to find that most of them are junk or unconnected.

Alfonse has sent me two. I work out which of the abandoned bases is nearest and run back to my car.

79

Ms Rosenberg lifts her head when she hears scraping. Light pours into her prison, forcing her to look away as her retinas contract.

Three men and a callow youth walk in.

Using what she can by way of speed and surprise, she throws herself forward and tries to claw at the nearest face.

She’s a foot away from the bald man’s face when he grabs her wrists. No matter how much she tries to wriggle, so her nails can collect that vital evidence, he thwarts her.

The handsome man stands back while the others help the bald man chain her to a hook in the ceiling. He’s the obvious leader of the group.

It’s him she addresses. ‘Why have you got me here? You won’t get away with this you know.’ Her every instinct is telling her not to antagonise these men but she can’t prevent herself. Deep inside, she knows they’re going to kill her. If she can’t stop them, the least she can do is harangue their worthless hides. ‘You claim you’re Christians. You’ll spend an eternity in hell for what you’ve done.’

‘I’d rather meet Beelzebub himself than live in a world where niggers, Jews and faggots infest every street. The United States of America was founded by brave men who followed the Lord’s word. Not the lowlifes who’re now usurping everything that once made this country great.’

Something about the man is familiar to Ms Rosenberg. A former story comes back to her – along with the man’s name. ‘You’re Richard Anderson: your wife burned down your house.’

The man delivers a heavy slap to her right cheek. ‘Leave her out of this. My name is Brian now.’

‘Call yourself what you want. Your wife had mental health issues, didn’t she?’ Ms Rosenberg draws herself up as high as her bindings will allow. Whatever happens, she’s determined not to show any fear. ‘Was she your first victim?’

‘I told you to leave her out of this.’ Brian’s hand wraps around Ms Rosenberg’s throat.

She glares up at him. ‘Why, who are you afraid I’m going to tell?’

He laughs and releases her. Takes a step back and brings himself back under control. She can see him working out whether he should continue talking to her.

It’s an effort, but she manages to keep the fear from her voice. ‘You said to leave her out of this. Is that because you feel guilty for killing her?’

‘She’s not dead. At least, not what society considers dead.’ Ms Rosenberg detects sadness in his tone. ‘I didn’t kill Penelope. She’s alive, but she might as well not be. She lives in an institution over at Salt Lake.’

‘Is she ill, or was she hurt?’ Somehow she manages to achieve a gentle tone. It’s bad enough that she’s going to die. To die without getting answers to her questions would be unbearable.

‘Neither. Her mind went when that nigger bitch turned her down. Now she just sits there rocking.’ His eyes flash as ancient hurt is exhumed. ‘My beautiful, funny wife now spends her days either rocking in a corner or staring at her hands and crying. And it’s all because she was turned down by that nigger bitch.’

Ms Rosenberg stays quiet for moment, then speaks in the softest tone she can manage. ‘I don’t understand. Why did the nigger bitch turn her down?’ The derogatory terms offend her, but it’s important that she connects with Brian on his wavelength.

‘Penelope applied for a bank loan. The nigger bitch refused. Said Penelope would never manage the repayments. That her business plan didn’t account for seasonal variations in prices.’ The explosion of anger Ms Rosenberg expects doesn’t come. Instead his voice falls to a whisper. ‘She didn’t have any faith in my Penelope.’

Again Ms Rosenberg lets silence fill the room. It doesn’t take her long to recall that Sherrelle Fournier worked for a bank. After that, it’s just a question of joining the dots.

‘Why kill others and not just her? You’re not a stupid man, you know it’s not gays or Asians or Jews who turned down your wife. I guess you know the banks have criteria that potential loanees have to meet. The nigger bitch would have just been doing her job.’ She knows there’s little chance her words will affect his thinking, but she’s willing to try anything that may just save her life.

Behind Brian she can see the two other men carrying in some kind of portable engine in a tubular metal frame. There are plug sockets on one side of it.

When she recognises it as a portable generator, she begins to tremble as fear makes her muscles judder. Her imagination is depicting a hundred and one power tools being used against her body.

Brian squints, then stoops to read what she’s written on the wall. When he straightens, there’s amusement on his face. ‘Very good. I always did like your columns. You have an excellent way with words. The one you wrote last night was quite possibly your best.’ He picks up a stone and scores out part of her writing. ‘You’ll understand how I’d rather your descriptions of my colleagues aren’t left for the police to find.’

Ms Rosenberg finds his urbane nature unsettling. He’s praising her writing while preparing to kill her. ‘Then why have you brought me here?’ She licks her lips and asks the question she most dreads the answer to. ‘You are planning to kill me, aren’t you?’

He smiles as he checks her bindings. ‘You’re here because you’re the most high-profile Jew in the area. It’s nothing personal. Only the nigger bitch’s death was personal. Like you, the others were only chosen because they made the best victims.’

An abstract part of Ms Rosenberg’s brain can follow his logic. The Asian girl with a pretty face, the well-known and respected ex-cop, the Mexican whose death could be made to contribute to their publicity campaign, and now her – a local journalist. Every one of their deaths would speak to a different section of the community.

Another question pops into her head. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘I’ve been following you for the last two days. I knew you were staying at the hotel because I saw you put a case into the trunk of your car. I also knew you’d have to come outside for a smoke at some point during the night.’

Ms Rosenberg’s head droops forward. She’d been chosen before writing the column; before it hit the newsstands.

The bald man approaches Brian. ‘That’s everything ready.’

Brian moves across to the generator. He bends over and gives the starter cord a strong pull. The engine fires first time, rumbles and then settles into a gentle putter.

From her position against the wall, Ms Rosenberg can see its controls. There are a pair of levers she guesses will control the throttle and possibly the fuel mixture. A red knob provides the on/off switch.

Ms Rosenberg’s shakes worsen as she tries to keep the fear from her voice. ‘What, no last cigarette?’

Brian laughs as he walks to the door. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

The door whispers as he pushes it to. As the light fades, it dawns on Ms Rosenberg how she’ll be killed.

The fumes from the generator’s exhaust are pulling at her eyes within a minute. She can taste them when she breathes. Her stomach heaves as the room starts to spin.

Not that it’s in any way reassuring to her, but she knows carbon monoxide poisoning isn’t the worst way to die. If it was, a lot fewer people would run a hose from their tailpipe.

As her chest tightens, silent tears run down her cheeks as she prepares for nothingness. Her last conscious thoughts are of Halvard. His smile. The way his arms would encircle her body. His laugh.

80

The Red Wash Road isn’t much of a road. The one thing it does have going for it is its destination.

It comes out at Jensen which means it’s going pretty much where I want it to. The nearest former military base is along the forty. According to Alfonse’s email, it’s backed up against the Stuntz Ridge.

A heavily loaded semi chugs along in front of me, its driver creeping over the road just far enough to stop me passing. I flash my lights and give him a blast on the horn.

He moves over two feet. To his left. Any chance I have of passing him is cut off.

I bob right and try undertaking but he sees me coming. His blocking manoeuvre causes me to stand on the brakes.

He’s treading a fine line. If I didn’t have such an urgent mission, I’d follow him until he stopped and spend a moment or two shortening his nose.

I drop a gear, feint left, then duck right when he moves to block me. As soon as I’ve gone right, I weave left again and stamp on the gas. By the time he’s realised his error I’m alongside his cab and travelling too fast for him to risk blocking me.

With him out of the way I can open the taps on the Mustang and get into three-figure territory.

Either side of the narrow road the scrub dissolves into a continuous green sludge as the bushes flash past my windows.

I get to Jensen and swing right onto the Forty.

While it’s in much better condition, and wider than the Red Wash Road, it’s also a lot busier.

Even while driving along, I’m thinking about why there are so many military bases in the middle of nowhere. I can understand them being near borders, or veritable targets such as Fort Knox, but why there would be three within an hour’s drive of Casperton, is beyond me. For all I can imagine there would be a need for cold war monitoring stations and training centres, I still don’t see the need for so many in such an empty area.

As I duck and weave between traffic, I keep a constant eye out for police speed traps. My cell is propped in a holder stuck to the dash. The GPS tells me that I have a half mile to go before I reach my turn.

When I leave the Forty, the road I join is a half-step above being a dirt track. It’s twice the width of my car and is under encroachment from the scrub and rubble at either side.

None of these obstacles are enough for me to temper my speed. I’m working on the theory that anything coming towards me will be raising the same amount of dust I can see in my rear-view mirror.

When the GPS says I’m a mile from my destination, I ease off the gas and slow to the speed limit. Once again, I don’t want to announce my arrival.

When I get within a half mile, I give the engine just enough gas to stop it from stalling.

81

Even as I approach the base, I get a sense of foreboding. There are tracks in the road ahead of me where there shouldn’t be any. Either I’m at the right place, or the military are still keeping an eye on it.

As soon as I see the rusted chain link fence, I pull over.

Behind the fence is a plethora of temporary wooden buildings jutting from the bottom of a cliff face. Each is around a hundred feet long and they are uniform in their appearance. There are rows of windows and metal chimneys at regular intervals.

Time, rather than vandals, has worn these once proud structures. Now they sag and droop where aged timber has been affected by the elements.

I’d guess at them being barracks if it wasn’t for the lack of a parade ground, or any kind of sports field.

I get to twenty then stop counting. It doesn’t matter how many huts there are. I will have to search them all until I either find Ms Rosenberg, or prove she’s not here.

A set of tyre prints go through the gate and turn right. When I pass through the gates I notice the rusted padlock has a fresh cut through it.

I check my cell to find it lacking a signal. The only thing I can do with it is lay it against a gatepost and wait until its lack of movement prompts Alfonse to summon backup.

As I walk between the tyre marks, I notice one of the huts is constructed from bricks rather than timber. My immediate assumption is that it’s the former officers’ quarters.

A sign on the end of the building changes my mind. Underneath every line of English words are a row of symbols. I don’t know their meaning, but guess they are an Asian translation of English instructions.

Their presence tells me that this isn’t an army barracks. It’s a former internment camp. Rather than spend money decommissioning it, the army have left it to rot because it’s not in a place frequented by large swathes of the populace.

The tracks in the dust swerve towards what I thought were the officers’ quarters, but are more likely to have been the guards’ barracks.

I cross to the side of the nearest building and peek round the corner at the guards’ barracks. I’m looking for movement inside the building; a change in light values when someone passes a window.

There isn’t one so I creep across until I have my back against the barracks. Every sense in my body is heightened as I hear the murmur of voices. A whiff of rotting wood and decay fills my nose, but so does the pungent odour of a cigar.

I manoeuvre until I have an eye at the corner of the nearest window. The glass has half a century of grime covering it, but I can see enough to know there’s no-one in the room I’m looking into.

My feet are placed with caution as I pad to the other end of the gable. Taking great care I inch my head across, bringing more and more of the space between this building and the next into view. Every muscle I possess is tensed, ready to snap me back to the cover of the building if I see someone.

The first thing I spot is a white panel van. It’s too far away for me to read the licence plate, but the fact it’s jacked up and parked next to a pickup truck identical to the one belonging to the Jones family is all I need.

It’s decision time. I can go back and raise the alarm. Get every cop, FBI agent and state trooper in the area to descend on this place with their training and superior firearms. Or, I can play the hero, attempt a one-man rescue mission. I have a gun in my hand but I’m not sure I could point it at another man and pull the trigger.

If I knew Ms Rosenberg’s life status, or had a cell signal, the decision would be a damn sight easier. The fact she can be killed at any moment, and her killers can escape along any one of the dozen tracks I’d passed on the way here, makes going for help appear selfish and cowardly.

The counterpoint to this is, there’s nothing to be gained by me throwing my life away on a suicide mission.

I grip the gun in my hand a little tighter and think about putting a bullet into the front tyres on both vehicles. The idea is dismissed almost as soon as it registers. To be sure of hitting the target I’d have to get a lot closer. Plus, four gunshots are bound to summon, Brian and whichever members of the Jones family are with him.

Whatever my decision is to be, I know I need to make a choice and act upon it. I risk another peek around the corner.

The decision is made for me. Young David is now leaning against the pickup smoking. He sees me and lets out a yell.

I wheel round the corner aiming my gun at him. ‘Freeze.’

He does. I’m not confident I could shoot him at this distance but at least I have one of them somewhat under my control.

‘Down on the ground. Now.’

I find myself looking at Young David, through tunnel vision, over the sights of a shaking gun. Aware it could get me killed, I refocus my eyes so I’m looking at the whole alleyway.

Adrenaline floods my body. A coppery taste fills my mouth.

Shouts fill the silent air as the other killers react to my shouting at Young David. Kevin appears from behind the van; a shotgun held at his waist.

I see him find me and adjust his aim.

I’m back cowering behind the bricks of the barracks by the time he pulls the trigger. Lead pellets strike the wall but rebound away from me. If this was an action movie, the hero would dive out from cover and put three well aimed bullets into Kevin, before landing in a controlled roll, allowing him to drop any other combatants with a headshot.

It’s not an action movie and I’ve never shot a gun beyond a rough practise with tin cans. Doing anything like that will result in several wasted bullets and one wasted life. Mine.

Kevin blasts away with the shotgun a second time. Perhaps he’s under the mistaken impression I’m some kind of action hero.

As long as he’s shooting at a place where I’m not, I’m happy. He’s wasting ammunition with every shot he fires. At some point he’ll have to reload which may be the only chance I get.

The issue there is that I don’t know what type of shotgun he has, let alone how many cartridges it holds. To slow his progress towards me, I fire a shot round the corner.

Unless he’s on top of the next building it has no chance of hitting him, but it’ll give me chance to check none of his fellow killers are trying to flank me.

They’re not.

This tells me one vital thing. The shotgun is the only real weapon they have.

Kevin fires another three shots while I’m checking my rear. That’s five he’s used.

I could now double back round the building and try to flank the others. The problem with that is I’ll need to take either one of them hostage, and put a gun to their head, to persuade Kevin to lay down the shotgun. That means catching Brian or Young David without getting caught myself. There’s also the chance Connor is around too.

One or two may be ambushable, but not three. I fire another shot, this time from a lower position. My aim is more threatening and, while I don’t hear the thwack of a bullet hitting flesh, I hear Kevin curse before he pulls the trigger twice more.

I hear him rack the slide a third time. There’s a faint click. The racking sound comes again as he searches for another cartridge. It clicks again.

I step round the corner and point my gun at him. ‘You’re out of ammo. Throw it away and lie on the ground.’

He’s ten feet away. Even with my lack of gunmanship, I’m confident I can hit him at this distance.

Kevin complies with my demands with a deliberate slowness. When he’s laid out on the ground I grab the shotgun and, using my left hand to hold the stock, swing it in a vicious arc so the barrel smashes into the sharp brick corner of the building. The barrel kinks as the reverberation shakes the shotgun from my hand. Even if they have extra ammo, the shotgun is now out of action.

I’m now at a crossroads; I have nothing to bind Kevin with, and I’m not convinced the others will give themselves up if I put my gun to his head. If captured by the police and FBI, they’ll be looking at life imprisonment or Death Row.

A movement off to my left catches the corner of my eye. It’s Young David, he must have circled the next building along to ambush me. His hands are empty but he lifts the shotgun and holds it like a bat.

‘Drop it.’ I wave my gun at him, indicating he should join Kevin. ‘Do it. Now.’

He stands defiant until I point my gun at him.

I’m covering him and Kevin when I hear the insistent thudding of heavy footsteps. I whirl round just as Connor launches himself at me.

Somehow I keep a grip on the gun as we crash to the ground. I’m on top, but Connor wraps one hand around my right wrist and the other around my throat.

The gun is pointing at nothingness so I keep squeezing the trigger until the bullets are all spent. I’d rather the gun is empty in case I surrender the weapon to their control.

I drive my left fist into the inside of Connor’s right armpit. The blow causes him to release my throat. I follow with a couple of lefts to his jaw. They’re not as hard as I’d like due to him twisting beneath me. A third blow sees his fingers slacken on my right wrist.

Young David slams the butt of the shotgun into my back as I’m rolling off Connor. It lands on the same rib Crusher kicked last night.

I scramble to my feet in time to duck under Young David’s next swing. As he has the weapon he’s the most dangerous foe at the moment – if not the most intelligent.

His swing of the shotgun is so powerful, the lack of contact with me twists his body. With both hands on the shotgun he can’t defend himself. An uppercut drops him in a heap at my feet.

I whip round and catch a right cross from Kevin on the side of my head. Connor is at his side. Both of them throwing punches in wild flurries.

I make sure not to trip over Young David’s prostrate body as I retreat backwards. With my arms busy defending my head, I have only my feet left for attack.

As I back off from them, I’m sidestepping so Kevin has to move round Connor to get at me. My first kick misses, but the second connects with the bottom of Connor’s left kneecap with enough force to tear cartilage and break bone.

He falls, clutching his knee with both hands. Pained screams replace the curses he’s been uttering.

Kevin lands a body shot on my already damaged ribs. It’s an effort to not double-up but, somehow, I manage.

His next shot lands on my cheek, before another body shot is thrown. This time I can’t stop myself doubling over. He’s too dumb to lift a knee into my face, and instead aims his blows at the back of my head.

I let out a scream of pain as I swing a vicious right at his crotch. Kevin drops to his knees, both hands cradling his damaged groin. I take a half step back, straighten up, and introduce the toe of my right boot to his chin.

He goes down. Hard. All three of the Jones family lay around my feet as I look round expecting Brian to join the fight.

82

My gaze finds Brian sitting on the hood of the Jones’ pickup. He’s relaxed, casual, as he slides to the ground.

I pick up the shotgun. His confidence as he approaches me is unnerving. He stops, pulls two knives from his belt, and tosses one towards me. It lands point first a foot in front of my toes and sticks in the loose dirt.

‘You man enough, Boulder?’

I’ve never liked anyone who’s challenged me. People who lay down challenges always have something to prove. Brian has seen me fight. Not just last night, but here today. He’ll know my strengths and my weaknesses. I don’t have a clue about his.

Another reason I don’t care for people challenging me, is the fact that I’m self-aware enough to know I’m the kind of macho asshole who never backs down. Especially from bullies trying to get their own way through verbal challenges.

‘One moment.’ I don’t wait for him to answer me. Instead, I bring the butt of the shotgun down on the left ankle of each of his three accomplices. ‘I don’t want anyone knocking my brains in from behind.’

I throw the shotgun off to one side and pull the knife from the ground. It’s a hunting knife with a sharp blade and serrations on the back.

Even as we face off, I’m thinking about how Alfonse wanted me to kill the man responsible for killing his cousin. Now I’m locked into a knife fight with the person behind the heinous killings, I’m still not convinced I have the right to take another life.

That Brian deserves to die, is a given. His actions mean he’s not fit to live in a decent society. By the time the world calms down from the anger his incitement has caused, there will be many more deaths than the ones he’s orchestrated.

The nature of the kills is another reason he should be removed from the living. His victims would have died screaming. Not a quick and painless death for them. Instead they endured a slow, agonising demise at the hands of a monster.

I can’t say I have the right to act as his judge, jury and executioner. All I know is, Brian deserves to meet the last of the three.

This knife fight is his idea, he wants to best me in single combat to prove his manhood to himself. He wants to kill me. I want him to die, but would rather the state appointed the person who ends his wretched life.

The counterbalance to this, is the way he’s promoting his message on social media. To similar thinkers he’ll be a champion for their cause. They’ll rally to his side and protest outside courtrooms – raise money to fund his defence.

He’s urbane enough to come across well in a courtroom. His poisonous rhetoric will be scribbled down by every journalist present and broadcast to the world. More innocents will die if he is given a platform to spread his vile opinions.

Brian gives a wicked grin and steps forward, his knife held in a backhand grip in his left hand.

I do the same but hold the knife in my right.

As he comes at me, he moves into a martial arts style crouch.

Not good.

I fake a few wild slashes to see what he makes of them. The action also gives me a chance to rotate my upper body and find out just what damage has been done to my ribs.

They’re sore as all hell but I don’t think they’re damaged beyond a crack.

Brian laughs at me. ‘You ain’t fooling me with them wild slashes, Boulder. I know you’re better’n that. Saw you wince though. Your ribs hurtin’?’

His voice is more country than I’d expected.

He lunges at me and gives a flashing backhand swing from waist to shoulder.

I dance backwards, but in one move he’s shown his speed. There was no time to counterattack as he moved away before I had chance to react.

Brian feints another sweeping diagonal attack, then throws a right foot into my bruised ribs while I’m off balance from my dodge. It sends me stumbling backwards, but the rush of adrenaline numbs the pain of his blow.

Instead of waiting for him to come at me, I advance – my knife hand weaving at the wrist.

I feint a slash to gauge the speed of his reactions. He’s quick.

I try again, only this time I follow the feint with an attack. Brian counters by slamming another kick into my ribs.

It’s a favoured move of his. The problem with favoured moves is once you know your opponents, you can use them to your advantage.

He comes forward, the knife in his hand slashing towards my face. I take a half step back and when he launches the kick to my ribs, I’m ready for him. I catch his leg and trap it against my body, making sure to lift it high enough to unbalance him without landing him on his back.

Brian thwarts my attempt to cut his Achilles tendon by kicking his standing foot at my head, forcing me to use my knife arm to defend myself.

Even as he’s falling to the ground he’s kicking out with his free leg. I slash at the leg and manage a superficial cut along his shin. Rather than have him stamp against my kneecaps, I drop his other leg and take a half step back.

The distance keeps me out of reach while also allowing me room to aim my own kick. The toe of my boot connects with his ankle. He grunts rather than yelps.

I repeat the kick but he rolls away and rises to his feet. Some bounce has gone from his step due to the injuries to his right leg, but they are too minor to have a telling effect.

He throws a punch and follows it with a slash of the knife. I feel the sting of his blade across my chest. My ribs stop the diagonal cut going deep, but blood soaks my shirt in seconds.

His next move opens a two-inch gash on my left forearm.

He lunges forward with cold steel flashing towards me. I parry the blow, knocking his knife arm high and wide. My left fist connects with the side of his head, but it’s not the best punch I’ve ever thrown.

As he disengages, his knife stabs down into my shoulder. Pain shoots through me as the tip of his knife scrapes on bone. He’s trying to draw it towards my neck where it can pierce soft flesh. I escape by dropping to the ground.

A thrust of my right arm towards his groin sees him draw back. An ugly cut on his thigh wells scarlet, but it’s little more than an inch long.

So far our knives have drawn blood five times. His two wounds combined aren’t as bad as any one of mine.

I need to shift the momentum of this fight but don’t know how to. Accepting his challenge was an act of stupidity. I should have kept hold of the gun and used its longer reach to ward off his attacks. Instead, I let him choose the rules of the fight.

He catches the flick of my eyes as I search for the shotgun. Smiles. ‘You should have kept hold of the gun, shouldn’t you? You’re losing. Don’t worry, I’ll take my time. Once your fight’s gone, I’ll peel you a little. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling until you beg me to kill you.’

I’m expecting the lunge which comes at the end of his sentence. I’ve been in enough fights not to get taken by surprise anymore.

Instead of blocking him outside my body, I swipe his knife arm inwards as I wheel round him. The blood that has run from the cut on my left forearm makes my grip slippery, but I hold his wrist long enough to run my blade along the inside of his elbow.

I could have stuck him in the kidneys, but some primeval element of my psyche wants him to taste his own medicine. Choking on it would be better.

He yelps and drops his knife. The lower part of his left arm hangs useless as he spins away from me.

For the first time I see fear in his eyes. He backs away. As he goes, he’s trying, and failing, to regain control of his arm.

I advance on him. Momentum has swung my way. A slash at him slices open his bicep. He counters with a hard right to my ribs. Breathing becomes difficult as he sidesteps around me and delivers a hard elbow to my head.

I whirl round to see him lifting the knife with his right hand. His grip is orthodox as he leads with his right foot like a fencer.

He’s making wild slashes as he comes forward. I retreat; happy to wait for a safe opportunity; happy to let him tire himself out.

He puts in a quick step and stabs the knife forward.

I twist left and counter-stab as I back off. Steel collides with steel rather than flesh.

Brian pushes forward with a mixture of stabs and slashes. All thoughts of making me suffer must have been cast aside in a desire to kill me before I kill him.

Not sharing his urgent desire to kill, I keep myself out of harm’s way.

It’s a mistake. He’s not been trying to get a quick kill. He’s been steering me in a set direction.

A muscled arm snakes around my throat. Squeezes.

I’d stab the arm in a heartbeat if I didn’t need the knife to keep Brian at bay.

With my eyes kept on Brian I throw my right heel backwards. It strikes bone.

I repeat the kick until I feel the grip on my neck loosen. I drop the knife, put two hands on the muscled arm, and fall to my knees twisting as I go. Connor Jones rolls over my shoulder and crashes into Brian’s feet. There’s a pained yelp as his broken ankle twists beneath him.

There’s no way of knowing Connor’s agony as he clambered from a prone position to stand on his one good leg to set the trap I’ve just fallen into. It doesn’t matter. For his part in events, he deserves nothing but suffering and pain.

When I rise to my feet, I’m once again holding the knife in a backhand grip. Brian is upon me before I have time to set myself. Steel flashes and he opens a wound on my left bicep as I slash at his chest.

Connor’s hand grasps my ankle and I fall backwards.

Brian follows me down. His left elbow slams into my face. The forearm still loose and uncontrolled.

My right arm is trapped between our bodies.

I manage to get my left hand onto his right wrist. He’s pushing down. His knife three inches from my eye.

His weight is pinning my body. Pushing down on the knife.

Two inches.

Neither of us are using our dominant arm, though he’s able to put his shoulder behind the knife.

One inch.

He smiles as he senses victory. Stale garlic pollutes his breath.

I twist my right hand and punch upwards. His eyes widen, and the pressure on his knife hand lessens, as my blade pierces his heart.

Pink bubbles decorate his lips only to be replaced with crimson ones.

I push him off my chest and leave him to gurgle. My knife protrudes from his chest so I lift his from where it dropped.

Young David is a moaning heap of undeserved self-pity.

His eyes snap open when he feels steel pressed against flesh. ‘Where is Ms Rosenberg?’

If the ominous threat in my voice is a surprise to him, it’s a shock to me.

Young David presses himself into the earth as if he can burrow away from the knife at his throat. ‘The journalist?’ I nod. ‘She’s in a fridge at the end of the building.’

I resist the temptation to punch him and stagger off towards the door of the guards’ barracks.

83

Drops of my blood leave a trail as I stumble towards the door of the guards’ barracks. Some are larger than others and some are halfway to becoming clots.

I go up the three steps and burst into a hallway. To my left is a dormitory, a sign above the door to my right says ‘Kitchen’.

The door is stiff. Aged hinges creak as I force it open. Everything smells dank. Dust motes that I’ve disturbed float across the beams of sunlight which manage to fight their way through the dirt on the windows.

A low rumble fills the air. It’s the steady sound of an engine running a few beats above idle.

I cross the kitchen – past the old units, abandoned cookers and the serving hatch.

As soon as I haul the fridge door open, I cough and choke on the fumes that pour out to attack my senses. My eyes water as I peer into the fridge.

Ms Rosenberg is slumped against one wall. A chain through her bound wrists secures her to a hook screwed into the ceiling.

There’s a portable generator in a corner. Its engine the source of the rumble; its exhaust the source of the fumes.

All this information is absorbed and processed in a fraction of a second. I screw my mouth tight and step forward.

I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead, but I do know she has to be removed from this fume-laden environment if she has any chance of survival. I stride to the generator, knock it off, then put my fingertips to Ms Rosenberg’s throat.

I might be wrong. It might be wishful thinking, but I convince myself of a faint throb. Slight as she is, her unconsciousness makes her a dead weight as I lift her high enough to allow me to release the chain from the hook.

When she’s free, I get her in a fireman’s lift and rush outside.

I lay Ms Rosenberg down in the fresh air and look at her. Her eyes are closed, her lips are blue and there’s not so much as the slightest hint of movement. She’s covered in blood, but it’s mine not hers. My wounds haven’t stopped leaking just because I’m trying to save someone else’s life.

There’s no doubt she’ll have carbon monoxide poisoning after being enclosed in such a small space with a running engine. I don’t know how to treat it though.

Should I administer mouth-to-mouth to drive fresher, purer air into her lungs, or should I let the poison work its own way out of her system?

I check her pulse again. This time I’m less sure of its presence.

Again, I become stricken with indecision. Should I administer CPR or go for help? She’ll be dead for sure by the time I return with help but, in my current bloody and weakened state, I won’t be able to maintain the necessary treatment for more than a half hour without collapsing from exhaustion.

The wail of a police siren in the distance makes my decision for me.

I draw a huge breath into my lungs and blow it into her mouth.

When Chief Watson’s truck roars into view I’m on my tenth repetition of chest compressions.

He jumps out and runs to the back of his truck. He reappears with a medical kit and what I hope is a portable defibrillator. A deputy appears from the passenger side.

‘She’s been gassed.’ My words come between pants as I continue with the compressions.

The chief shoulders me out of the way, rips open her clothes and applies two pads to her chest. The pads are connected to the defibrillator by thin wires. He presses a button on the machine and her body jerks.

I check for a pulse then draw my hand back. ‘Again.’

He does as I bid.

She doesn’t respond.

Three more times we try.

Three more failures.

We look at each other and, in unison, stop our efforts at resuscitation.

The chief removes the pads from her chest, and I try to preserve her decency by fastening the buttons not ripped off by the chief’s hurried efforts to get the pads onto her skin.

I look round as another vehicle approaches. It’s Alfonse. After summoning the police he must have raced over here. I’m not sure how he planned to help, but I’m glad he’s tried to come to my aid.

He runs across as soon as he sees me. Worry etched into his face. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just a lot of little cuts.’

The chief steps between us, gestures at the two dead bodies and the cursing Jones family. ‘Want to tell me what went down here, Boulder?’

‘These are the guys who’ve been killing people because of their skin colour, religion or sexuality.’ I point to the barracks. ‘Ms Rosenberg is their latest victim. They imprisoned her in an old fridge with a running generator.’

84

I awaken to a nightmare of stiffness. Every part of my upper body aches. The bandages and dressings applied to my various wounds itch as well as restrict what little movement protesting muscles allow.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

It’s Taylor. Her voice as sweet and melodic as ever.

‘Yeah please. Time is it?’

‘Twenty after one.’

The light pouring through the window tells me I’ve slept for twelve hours solid – even if my body thinks otherwise.

The events of yesterday descend into a blur after the point where Alfonse arrived at the former detention centre.

I have vague memories of deputies having to restrain Alfonse from kicking Connor and Kevin while a paramedic fussed over me. Alfonse and the chief had bundled me into an ambulance once my various cuts were attended to.

Gaertner had been waiting for me at the hospital. He fired question after question at me as a doctor stitched me back together.

At some point Alfonse and Taylor appeared at the hospital. There was something of a disagreement when I left the hospital, but all I can remember about it was a determination to come home.

I remember failing to save Ms Rosenberg. Perhaps she’d still be alive if I’d driven there a bit faster, or shot Kevin instead of aiming wide, and claimed the shotgun. Letting myself get drawn into a macho situation by Brian had wasted minutes which could have made the difference. If I’d known first aid a little better, I may have been able to save her. Whichever way I look at it, I find I’ve made mistakes which could have been the difference between life and death.

Taylor puts a mug of coffee on the bedside table and drops a straw into it.

I lift the mug and am about to launch the straw across the room when I realise how much pain it’ll save me.

‘You’re due two more of these.’ Taylor rattles a pill bottle.

‘Don’t want them.’

‘Cut the crap, Jake. You’re lucky to be alive. Every movement you make hurts you. Why aren’t you taking something for the pain?’

‘I need to keep my wits clear.’

‘What do you mean, keep your wits clear? You’ve solved the case. Disabled three sick killers and killed another. It’s over, Jake. You’ve won.’

‘Pass me my cell, will you?’

She frowns but hands it over. I show it to her. ‘You see all these messages and missed calls? I’m willing to bet at least three quarters of them are my mother. She’ll have heard about what happened and will want to tell me how stupid I am. I’m not engaging in a battle of wits with her at anything less than full strength.’

‘You’re scared of your mom?’ Taylor dissolves into fits of giggles. ‘That’s priceless. Jake Boulder, the rough tough hero who keeps chasing killers is frightened of his mommy. Who is this matriarch and what makes her so scary?’

If her peals of laughter weren’t so musical I might fall out with her. I’m not in the mood for levity.

‘Don’t laugh. We’re having dinner with her and my stepfather on Friday.’

It’s not the smooth way I had planned on telling her about the meeting, but it’s fitting revenge for her mocking laughter.

‘We are?’ She leans over and kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you.’

‘You won’t be thanking me after Friday night. You’ll be ditching me for someone whose mother isn’t an interfering narcissist.’

My words and tone are deliberately gruff. It’s my way of stopping myself from saying the three words I want to say to her. So often when those words have been said to me, and I haven’t reciprocated them, I’ve seen pain. Not the kind of pain prescribed drugs can fix. The kind only time and love can heal.

I’m not sure if I can face the pain of her responding to me with any other answer than ‘I love you too’.

‘Nonsense. Now just you lay back and let me take care of you.’

85

It’s dark when Alfonse draws up outside the Tree. The usual Sunday night crowd are hanging outside – smoking, laughing and filling the air with enough bullshit to give a horticulturist a wet dream.

Taylor skips ahead to get the door and Alfonse leads the way, making sure no-one bumps or barges into me. He’s perhaps the smallest blocker I’ve known, but his heart’s in the right place and I’m grateful for his help.

John is waiting for us in a quiet booth near the back of the room, his face pale and grave. The bottle on the table in front of him is sparkling water. Perhaps he too has issues with alcohol.

We go through the usual small talk greetings until Alfonse and Taylor make their excuses and leave us to it.

‘You’ve come a long way to find me, John. Other than a desire to fill out another branch of the family tree, what brings you here?’

The question is a lot less polite than he deserves, or I intend, but I’m tired, sore and more than a little pissed at myself for not saving Ms Rosenberg.

He looks nervous. Like he’s about to ask for something he’s not going to get.

If it’s money he’s after, he’s asking the wrong man. Other than the money I won betting on myself, I have little more than a month’s salary to my name and I’ve already earmarked the sixty thousand I won for a children’s hospice in Salt Lake.

‘What is it, what do you want from me? If it’s money you’re out of luck.’

‘It’s no’ money. I’ve got plenty o’ that.’ Nerves are thickening his Scottish accent.

‘What is it then?’

‘I’ve got leukaemia.’ A lick of the lips. ‘I need a bone marrow transplant.’

My bad temper evaporates as I digest this news. All of a sudden my long-lost, unknown-about half-brother is about to be snatched away from me before I get to know him.

The reason for his visit becomes obvious. Common sense tells me that bone marrow isn’t something you can donate like blood so it can be stored until needed. He’ll need to find a family member who’s a match for whatever element needs to be matched.

I may well be wrong with my assumptions but they explain his presence here.

‘You’re asking me to donate. Your mother and sister aren’t matches?’

‘Mother died two years ago. Sarah is pregnant and both she and the baby would be at risk. I can’t ask her. Won’t ask her.’

I admire his stance. ‘Cousins, aunts, uncles?’ I would add grandparents to the question but guess they’ll be too old.

He pulls a face. ‘There are none. The old dear was an only child and well… you know about the old man.’

I struggle to keep a grin from my face at his use of the Scottish terminology for parents. It’s not a smiling situation.

‘You’re wanting me to donate, aren’t you?’

‘Would you?’ There’s hope in his eyes. He sees a chance to watch his daughters grow up. Perhaps he’s picturing himself walking them down the aisle in a typical Scottish kirk, or some grand cathedral. ‘There’s no great risk for the donor. The side effects are only bone and muscle pain, a bit of nausea, headaches and fatigue.’

It’s clear he knows his stuff, but in his position who wouldn’t? In these days of online doctors and medical websites it’s only natural for the person with the illness to research everything about it.

This may be my chance at redemption. I’ve never been a great believer in karma or the yin and yang balance of life. Yet twenty-four hours after taking one life and failing to save another, I’m being granted a second chance to be a saviour.

‘If I’m a match, I’ll do it.’

The End

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to take this opportunity to say extend my grateful thanks to all at Bloodhound Books for their professionalism and hard work in bring this book out. Special thanks must go to Sarah Hardy for her excellent work in publicising my writing.

I’d also like to say a huge thank you to all the bloggers who’ve taken the time out of their busy lives to support me. They are the unsung heroes of the book world and their support really has made the difference. Noelle Holten especially deserves a mention as the self-appointed leader of my cheer. I may owe her an apology for what happened to her in the book.

Thanks also go to those who’ve supported me in my writing, my good friend and mentor, Matt Hilton, Col Bury who brainstorms ideas with me late at night over the odd glass of something hangover-making, the Crime and Publishment gang, all my writing and non-writing friends and of course my family.

Humble thanks also to Rebecca Higgs, who answered many stupid questions with intelligence and good grace.

Last but by no means least, my readers. Without your support, kind reviews and enthusiasm for my writing, I’d be nothing more than a stenographer for the voices in my head.

Copyright © 2018 Graham Smith

The right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

To Daniel, for being the kind of son who makes a father proud to share his life.

‘History rarely repeats itself, but its echoes never go away.’ – Tariq Ali

1

The four guys who surround me are all holding weapons. The ones to the north and east have baseball bats, South holds a bike chain, and West a police baton. I could make a run for it, but I’d like to know who they are and why they think attacking me is a good way to spend their evening.

I don’t dwell on the thought, but I’m happy their weapons have been chosen to inflict pain rather than end life. Had they held knives or guns, I’d be more worried. The problem is, I’d rather not feel any of their intended pain.

As they advance on me I assess the various threat levels. North and East are the biggest danger, followed by South. The police baton held by West could inflict a lot of pain in the right hands, but he’s twirling it around as if he’s leading a marching band, when he should have it grasped by the handle; ready to use in either attack or defence.

The streetlights are throwing orange glows into the night sky and weird shadows on the ground. There’s the sound of late-night traffic in the distance, but there’s nobody else in sight. That doesn’t bother me as I’ve always fought my own battles, and there’s no way these bozos are intimidating enough to see me run, or to shout for help.

I keep rotating so I can watch all four of them as they inch forward. It could be my reputation as a fighter that’s making them cautious, or maybe they’re just biding their time until their leader instigates the attack.

I don’t think it’s prudent to wait for them to strike first; I take a step towards the gap between North and East, spin, and run at West. He’s too busy acting like a majorette to get any menace into the blow he flaps at me.

His baton thumps against my ribs. There’s enough force behind it to cause me to grunt, but not so much that I feel or hear any bones breaking. This changes when my elbow slams against his jaw.

As he wheels away, clutching at his shattered mandible, I stoop to pick up the police baton and spin to face his buddies. When I see they are still a couple of paces away, I drive the baton’s short point into West’s right kidney.

He drops to one knee with an anguished howl. I’m confident he won’t trouble me anymore tonight.

When I look behind me, North and South are fanning round to fill the gap left by West’s departure. There’s an extra level of caution in their eyes, but none of them have woken up to the fact they’re about to get their asses kicked.

East looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Now isn’t the time to worry about who they are. That can be learned once this is over.

I now have the baton’s handle gripped in my right hand with its shaft running along the outside of my forearm. So long as I can use the baton to protect my arm, I can offer a form of defence against the baseball bats.

The bike chain is another matter though. Should that wrap itself around my arm I’ll be in trouble. Not only will it nullify my weapon, it could be used to imbalance me. If I hit the ground in front of these three guys, I’ll be lucky to get to my feet before one of them lands a game-changing blow.

North is holding his bat over his left shoulder, which suggests he’s left-handed. East has his bat in front of him like it’s a sword.

I take three quick steps towards North.

He’s slow to react and, when he does swing, I’ve got my right arm extended to deflect his blow. The bat only travels a couple of feet at most, but North’s swing is powerful enough to send juddering vibrations throughout my right arm. Had I not held the baton at an oblique angle to deflect the impact, my arm would have been numbed to the point of uselessness.

The punch I throw at him with my left hand crashes against his cheek, but it does little more than turn his head.

Me driving the point of the baton into his solar plexus has a rather more impressive outcome. He falls to his knees gasping for air.

I’m about to reposition myself, so I can bury a foot in his groin, when I feel something slam across my shoulders that causes me to stagger forward.

I recover my balance and whirl round to confront whoever hit me. East’s bearded face wears a nasty grin, topped by a confident expression.

His denim jacket is covered with various badges that have been sewn on in a haphazard fashion. Some represent liquor brands and others are the logos of rock groups. Right about now, I’d like to hit him in the Rolling Stones.

He comes forward, the baseball bat making whooshing noises as he puts his not inconsiderable muscle into swinging it time and again.

His aim changes as he swings at my body, head and knees.

I move back and wait for him to make a mistake. He doesn’t make one.

I can see South circling round to East’s right.

When my back touches metal, I realise they’ve been driving me into a corner formed by a pair of stationary pickup trucks.

South and East are too close to afford me time to clamber over the pickups; which means I’m trapped.

I keep going until I can retreat no further.

South pushes his buddy to one side. ‘You’re mine now.’

He swings the chain at my head. I duck below it, but it’s close enough for me to feel the air move with its passing.

My lowered stance has given me an opportunity I can’t refuse. I spin the baton around in my hand and sweep it up towards South’s groin.

The half step he takes back means I miss his balls. The baton still collides with his bulging gut but it doesn’t impact hard enough to elicit more than a slight “oof” from him.

He swings the chain at my head a second time, but he’s gone from the horizontal to the vertical.

I throw my right hand up and yelp as the chain encircles my arm, trapping the baton.

In one move I yank the chain from South’s hand as I whip round and launch a backhanded blow at his chin.

South ducks to avoid the blow and my chain-wrapped arm crashes into his temple.

The thudding footsteps of East running away can be heard before South has finished falling.

North is trying to get back to his feet but he’s still gasping like a landed fish, so I revisit my earlier plan and bury the toe of my boot into his squishy bits.

I don’t want to hurt him too much. South is unconscious and West’s jaw isn’t in what anyone would describe as a natural position. If I want to get answers, North is the only one who’ll be able to speak to me.

A look up and down the street shows we’re alone so I unwind the chain from my arm, and use the baton to prod North’s shoulder.

‘Want to tell me who you guys are and why you’ve attacked me?’

The answer he gives me isn’t anatomically possible.

I put a different edge to my voice as I repeat my questions.

He gives me the same answer with a few extra curses thrown in for good measure.

It’s a shame for him that he’s more tough than he is smart.

The police baton catches him with enough force to stun him a little. If I have to persuade him to talk, I’d rather move him somewhere more private.

2

Lunk scratches at his scouring pad beard and wipes his hands on oil-blackened overalls. He doesn’t look happy about me turning up with a semi-conscious stranger and throwing him out of his workshop, but he has the good sense not to argue.

I lead North past the sedan with its engine in pieces, and steer him towards Lunk’s anvil. As I pass a cluttered workbench I grab a length of electrical wire.

Two minutes later I’ve got North exactly where I want him and I’m looking around for some water to throw in his face.

It’s late, I’m tired, and I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I’ve never tortured anyone before, and I can’t say I’m terribly pleased about having to do it now.

I find a tap and pour a half gallon of water into a dirty bucket.

North lets out a string of profanities when he regains his senses.

I let him swear and writhe as he tries to pull his hand free.

He can’t. I’ve fed some of the wire up through the square hole in the anvil that was designed to locate different sets of dies and moulds. The wire holds North’s left forefinger tight against the oil-stained anvil. I’ve also tied his right hand to his left ankle to prevent him taking any more swings at me.

North realises he’s not going to escape without my help, and looks up at me. ‘You better let me go, Boulder. You don’t know who you’re messing with.’

‘You’re right, I don’t.’ I lay three hammers of varying sizes on the anvil. ‘But I’m about to find out.’

Everything I know about torture comes from the thrillers I’ve read and the movies I’ve seen. I’m working on instinct, as plan A is nothing more than make-it-up-as-I-go-along.

One passage I read has particularly stuck with me. I’m sketchy on the exact details, but I’m three parts convinced that the story was written by an ex-CIA operative. He floated the idea that the most important tool to any torturer, is the mind. Once your victim fears the pain you’re about to inflict, you can multiply their fear until they divulge what they know with relatively little physical torture.

It’s this psychological effect that I’m gambling on, as I’m not sure I can bring myself to hurt someone beyond what can be classed as self-defence.

I pick up the smallest of the three hammers and touch it against the nail of North’s trapped forefinger. It’s not heavy in any way and is the kind of hammer that’s used for fine, delicate work.

‘This is what’s going to happen to you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’ I raise the hammer a half inch and let it drop on his fingernail. North flinches but stays silent. ‘I will hit your finger hard enough to blacken your nail. If you haven’t told me who you are, and why you were attacking me, by the time I get to ten, I will hit your nail again. If you still haven’t told me by the time I’ve hit you three times, I’ll move on to the next hammer.’ I rest my hand on a two-pound lump hammer and caress the wooden handle of a twelve-pound sledge. ‘Do I need to explain what happens if you don’t tell me after three hits from the lump hammer?’

North’s eyes widen in fear and his head shakes. I’m not surprised he’s scared. If I were to bring the twelve-pound sledgehammer down on his finger, it would pulverise his flesh against the anvil.

There’s also the fact that I’ve kept my tone conversational, and I’m doing everything I can to appear calm; as if torture and mutilation are a normal part of my day. In short, I’m making sure he fears me, and the hammers, more than the person he’s protecting.

Another factor in my favour is that virtually every guy alive has hit a fingernail when using a hammer. Therefore, North will know how much it will hurt if I carry out my threat.

A sheen of sweat appears on North’s face, and if it weren’t for Lunk’s all-pervading body odour, and a mixture of gasoline fumes and waste oil, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to smell his fear.

I lift the small hammer until its head is six inches above his nail. ‘Who are you?’

He swallows and I can see him trying to decide between pain and betrayal.

I flick my wrist and land the head of the hammer square on the end of his fingernail.

He gives a loud yelp, and curses me out until he realises I’m counting. I’ve got to eight by the time he stops cursing and says, ‘Okay. I’ll tell you.’

Beneath his fingernail I can already see the colour of his flesh turning dark as the bruising begins to take effect. I know, from careless occasions in my own past, how much his nail will be throbbing.

‘Who are you?’

‘Donny. My name is Donny.’

I’m not bothered that he doesn’t give me a surname; his Christian name isn’t that important to me either. The real information I’m after, is why they ambushed me. Plus, there’s the psychological effect: now he’s broken his silence, each new morsel of information will be easier for him to release.

‘So, Donny. Why did you and your buddies attack me?’

He swallows and looks from side to side as if expecting help to arrive.

I raise the hammer six inches, and an eyebrow one.

‘We were paid.’

‘Who by?’

He hesitates. Swallows again.

My wrist flicks and the hammer smashes into his nail for a second time.

I wait until he’s finished cursing, and ask again who paid him.

‘Benji.’

The name comes through gritted teeth. I’m not sure whether it’s pain, or hatred for me that’s gritting his teeth. I’m not bothered either way. I just want him to tell me what I need to know before I have to hit his finger a third time. The second blow has more than doubled the discolouration and there is a trickle of blood seeping out from under his nail. It must be throbbing like crazy, and I know from my own experiences there is very little that can be done to alleviate the pain.

I don’t need to ask who Benji is. A couple of weeks back, I kicked Benji’s ass when he was beating on a girl. The only issue I have with the memory is that I don’t actually have it, due to being flat out drunk at the time.

A thought comes to me. ‘Was Benji here with you tonight?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He the one who had the other baseball bat?’

‘Yeah. What of it?’

‘When I dropped you and your two buddies on your asses, Benji ran away. That’s the kind of man he is. A coward who gets others to do his dirty work, then runs off like a scared kitten when things don’t go his way.’

A look of disgust and anger overtakes Donny’s face.

I lay the hammer down. There’s no need for further hurt. ‘How much did he pay you?’

‘Three hundred bucks apiece.’

‘How bad was the beating to be? Were you here to kill me or just put me in hospital?’

‘Hospital, but Benji wanted your arms and legs busted.’

I lean against a workbench and look at Donny. He cuts a pathetic figure – strapped by the hand to an anvil. His demeanour is one of defeat, and fury at being set up and abandoned.

‘What will you do if I let you go? Will you raise your hands to me, or will you go off plotting to come back and try again?’

‘Ain’t gonna take you on again. Might have me a few words with Benji though.’

Donny nurses his injured hand as I set him free and watch him leave Lunk’s workshop. I’ve gotten the answers I want, and I suspect that Donny and his buddies will deal with Benji for me.

Now the threat is over, I turn my mind to the reality of the situation. A guy I’d once beaten up, with good cause, had decided to exact a spot of revenge. The price of this revenge, three lots of three hundred bucks, and maybe another hundred on gas to get them here.

I don’t know the going rate for henchmen, but I’d like to think I deserve more than a thousand bucks’ worth of mindless thugs.

Whatever the price, it says something that a guy whose ass I kicked has taken the trouble to hunt me down, and has shelled out his own money on accomplices.

That it’s taken him almost three weeks to come looking is neither here nor there. It might have taken that long to track me down or to persuade his buddies. Perhaps he was saving up.

3

The office is typical of small law firms the world over. There’s a desk with overflowing in and out trays, a phone, and the obligatory picture depicting the lawyer’s loved ones. A potted plant in one corner looks to be in rude health and there’s a lavender smell coming from what I presume is a hidden air freshener.

Alfonse and I take the chairs we’re waved towards and wait for the lawyer to take her seat.

Neither of us know why we’re here, other than the fact that there has been a formal request for our presence. I can understand Alfonse being asked to come in: he’s a private investigator, and in a small town like Casperton he picks up plenty of work. The local detective squad being worse than useless means there’s always plenty of work coming his way.

The lawyer puts down the phone and smiles at us. She’s the homely type, and I can picture her baking cakes or carrying out a huge pot roast.

The thought of food makes my stomach rumble. It took me a while to calm down after last night’s events, meaning I didn’t get to sleep until almost four, and didn’t have time for anything more than a banana before making this nine o’clock appointment.

When she speaks, Pauline Allen’s voice is stronger than expected, although there’s a little edge, almost as if she’s afraid of something. ‘Thank you for coming in, gentlemen. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting.’ Alfonse and I nod. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I’m the executor of Ms Fifine Rosenberg’s last will and testament. She made a codicil, which, I’m afraid, concerns the two of you.’

‘What’s the codicil?’

It’s Alfonse who asks the question. I’m still trying to align the name Fifine with my memories of Ms Rosenberg. She was a diminutive woman with a huge personality. As the star reporter for the Casperton Gazette, her crusades kept corruption from the political offices. She had a fondness for cigarettes, scotch, and perfumes that could bring tears to a glass eye at twenty paces.

Ms Rosenberg may have had a viperous tongue and a complete lack of social graces, but she was always entertaining to be around – once your eyes had stopped watering.

Not being able to save her has kept me awake on more than one occasion. If she’s left me any amount of money in her will, I’ll never be able to accept it; there’s no way my conscience will allow me to profit from a death I blame myself for.

It wasn’t right that her funeral hadn’t taken place until ten days after she’d died, but the FBI had insisted on having her body undergo three separate autopsies. I was told, off the record, by Chief Watson, that they had been done to counteract whatever moves the lawyer of the men who killed her may have made.

I get why they did it, and technically agree with their reasoning, but I do know that according to the Torah, Ms Rosenberg should have been buried within twenty-four hours of her death.

Her funeral was a lonely affair. The only mourners were myself, Alfonse, Chief Watson and a small handful of people from the Casperton Gazette. The paper’s editor delivered a heartfelt eulogy and we all went our separate ways.

Alfonse’s shoe bumps my ankle hard enough to bring my attention back to the room.

Pauline’s voice now shows irritation. ‘As I was saying, my client left instructions that, in the event of her death, I was to hire AD Investigations and hand this envelope to the two of you.’ She passes an envelope to Alfonse. ‘And that I am to instruct you to find her sole beneficiary.’ She hands a folder to me.

I share a glance with Alfonse and open the folder. There are two sheets of paper. The first is a photocopy of an old picture. It’s black and white and shows a young couple holding hands and wearing the goofy grins that are shared by lovers the world over. By the look of their clothes and hairstyles, I’d say it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. When I take a closer look, I can see the woman is a younger version of Ms Rosenberg.

The second sheet of paper holds some details about Ms Rosenberg’s former beau. His name is Halvard Weil, and the address she’s given for him is in Brooklyn, New York. I’ve never been to the city that never sleeps, but I’m guessing Brooklyn has its fair share of Jewish residents.

Halvard’s date of birth shows him to be in his early sixties and there’s a place of employment listed.

I shift my eyes from the page to the lawyer. ‘Why do you need us to find this guy? All the information on here should be enough for you to track him down with no more than a few phone calls.’

‘Read the footnote.’

I do as I’m bidden and realise why AD Investigations are required. The footnote admits that the information on the page was correct when Ms Rosenberg left New York forty years ago. Through online enquiries, Ms Rosenberg had learned that the apartment block where Halvard had lived, had been torn down. She’d also admitted that Halvard would change his job every few months as he didn’t have any clear career goals other than making money.

From the corner of my eye I can see Alfonse stuffing his papers back in the envelope and looking at his watch. That he’s impatient to be out of here means he wants to discuss the contents of the envelope with me when there isn’t a lawyer present. I guess the pages he’s read are self-explanatory as he’s not bombarding Pauline with questions.

I have one or two for her though. ‘This Halvard, do we know if he’s still alive?’

Pauline’s mouth tightens. ‘I don’t know. If you do find that he’s no longer with us, the inheritance is to pass to any children he may have.’

‘Fair enough.’

I say the words without thought as I’m trying to find a delicate way to ask the size of the inheritance. In the end, I abandon all subtlety and ask outright how much we’re talking about.

‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and one letter. Once her house and its contents have been sold, those monies are to be forwarded to him as well.’

A whistle escapes my lips. I didn’t expect a six figure sum, let alone one that’s within spitting distance of a million bucks. Not for a reporter in a town as small as Casperton. She’d be well paid by the Gazette, but I can’t see her earning enough to squirrel away that much money.

I feel Alfonse’s gaze coming my way and glance at him before looking at Pauline. ‘Where did she get that kind of money?’

‘Not that it’s important you know; she was an author as well as a journalist. I handled some of her affairs for that side of things as well. Mr Weil will also receive her book royalties.’ Pauline’s face takes on a gentle expression. ‘I read one of her books. It was a beautifully haunting tale of a lost romance that was never rekindled.’

‘Did she write under her own name?’

‘No, absolutely not. She had a pseudonym and she refused to do any public appearances, or have her face on any of the books. She even paid a model, so she could use her picture for any online publicity that her publishers insisted on. One or two of her books even hit the bestseller lists.’

‘What was her pseudonym?’

‘Lorna Noone.’

The name isn’t familiar to me but, if she wrote romantic fiction rather than crime or thrillers, it’s unlikely our paths would have crossed in a literary environment.

Like Alfonse, I have a hankering to leave, but I have a final question for Pauline before we go. ‘Assuming that you’ve passed on everything Ms Rosenberg asked you to, is there anything you should tell us that she hasn’t already covered?’

She shakes her head. ‘I’ve told you everything. And quite possibly more than Ms Rosenberg would have approved of, had she been alive.’

Pauline’s final sentence is enough to embed a mental note never to hire her. Any lawyer who is as free and easy with their clients’ information as she has been, can’t be trusted. It’s one thing to give a little more information when pressed for answers, it’s another altogether to overshare without good reason. Ms Rosenberg may have died, but she should still be afforded the same respect as the living.

4

I park outside the bank and turn to look at Alfonse. As we were travelling across town from the lawyer’s office, we swapped information on the contents of the folder and the envelope given to us by Pauline Allen.

The point I can’t get past, is Ms Rosenberg’s second life as an author. That she’d trodden the well-worn path from journalism to novel writing didn’t make her unique. The way she’d hidden behind a pseudonym didn’t mean much on its own, lots of authors do that, but when you add in the fact that she had turned down all public appearances, and had gone to the length of paying a model for an image to pass off as herself for publicity material, you have a situation that doesn’t add up.

My experiences of her may have been limited, but I’d learned she was more of a towering sunflower than a shrinking violet. The desire to remain unknown is one that many people have, but few of these people carve out a career where they are constantly in the public eye. It would be fair to say that Ms Rosenberg’s journalistic skills hold a large amount of responsibility for the lack of corruption in local politics. Alongside the regular news articles that she contributed to the Gazette, she had a weekly column that carried her picture at the top of the page.

Try as I might, I can’t connect the vivacious and often abrasive Ms Rosenberg I knew, with the reclusive Lorna Noone. It’s like they were twins: identical in looks but poles apart in personality.

There’s also the envelope Alfonse was given. It contains a sheet of paper, and a key for a safety deposit box. The sheet of paper holds instructions for Alfonse and me. It tells us that we are to open the corresponding box in the Grand Valley Bank, and use what we find to unleash justice.

It sounds melodramatic, on a bright sunny morning, so I pass her choice of words off as journalistic embellishment.

The bank is busy. The advent of online banking has meant there are three tellers working at a counter set out for eight.

When our turn comes, Alfonse shows the safety deposit key to the teller. She asks us to wait a moment and fetches the manager.

When the manager comes, he’s tall, thin and wearing the kind of suspicious expression the public usually reserve for politicians.

‘Gentlemen. If you’d follow me, please?’

The manager doesn’t give his name, and I don’t ask, as he leads us to a small consultation room. A whiff of expensive cologne emanates from him, but a look at the poor fit of his suit tells me he’s not a preening showbird. I guess the cologne is a gift from a long-suffering wife or lover who are doing all they can to smarten him up.

The three of us sit down and the manager rests his hands on the table with his fingers interlocked. If I was a cynical person, I’d suspect he is using his body language to forewarn us of a refusal.

Alfonse must have had the same thought. Before a word can be said he passes across a letter of authority from Pauline Allen, which grants us access to Ms Rosenberg’s box.

The manager reads the brief letter with furrows lining his brow. Once or twice his mouth opens and closes again, as if he’s about to say something and thinks better of it.

He can act like a goldfish all he wants in his own time. We’re here on business and the sooner that business gets done, the sooner we can get on with finding Halvard Weil, and inform him of his inheritance.

I’m happy to try being polite first, but have no issue escalating to rude, or even intimidating, if necessary. This guy is the type of pen-pushing jerk who makes me glad I toss drunks for a living. ‘I think you’ll find everything is in order. If you’d be so kind as to fetch us Ms Rosenberg’s security box?’

The manager scowls at me and takes another look at the letter of authority. I presume he’s trying to find a loophole that’ll allow him to refuse our request. His next scowl is aimed at the paper, and he pushes back his chair as he rises.

‘One moment, gentlemen.’

Something tells me he’s going to keep us waiting as an act of defiance. I’m glad to be proven wrong when he returns within two minutes, carrying a flat oblong box – an inch or two bigger than a regular sheet of copy paper and four inches deep.

Alfonse uses the key to open it.

I find I’m holding my breath, but I don’t quite know why.

Alfonse removes two standard envelopes from the box, takes a quick look at them, and hands them to me.

They both have my name on them, written in an old fashioned cursive script. They’re also numbered 1 and 2.

The manager’s face now has an inquisitive expression.

I’m tempted to open the envelopes straight away but something tells me that their contents shouldn’t be advertised.

Before we leave, I have a question for the manager.

‘When did Ms Rosenberg first take out this safety deposit box?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s been open as long as I’ve worked here and that’s coming up on twenty-five years.’

Judging by his age, I’d say he must have started here the day after he left school and worked his way up to manager.

There’s no way those envelopes have been waiting for me for twenty-five plus years.

‘When did she last come in and ask for this deposit box?’

The manager looks to the wall, in thought, before answering. ‘I’m not sure exactly, but I’d say it was about a month ago.’ He flaps a dismissive hand. ‘We only have a dozen of these security boxes in use, and in all my time here I’ve only known Ms Rosenberg to access hers on a couple of occasions.’

What he says makes a certain amount of sense. Ms Rosenberg must have updated the information in it to correspond with the changes to her will that Pauline told us about.

My desire to open the envelopes is growing by the second, but I’m more convinced than ever that they should be opened somewhere where only Alfonse and I will see their contents.

5

Cameron lifts his eyes from the paperwork strewn across his desk and rubs his nose. He hopes he’s wrong in his suspicion that the tickle is the beginning of a cold.

Whether he’s getting a cold or not, he has work to do. It’s not the type of work he can boast about in the bars that he frequents on a nightly basis. Rather it’s the sort of job you keep quiet about, say nothing to anybody, and hope like hell that the wrong people don’t find out what you do for a living.

The house he lives in is functional with a lot of clean space and bare walls. To some people it would be empty and lifeless; to him it’s just perfect. He has no need for clutter and no desire to burden himself with belongings that have no practical purpose.

Possessions are anchors to a free spirit, who drifts with the wind and makes occasional lurches upstream when he senses a better opportunity.

The thought of calling his work “a way to make a living” always raises a wry smile from Cameron, as he knows that his job may one day be the death of him. Not the industrial accident kind of death: the buried-in-a-shallow-grave-with-a-bullet-in-the-back-of-the-head kind.

He blows his nose on the pristine handkerchief that he keeps in his pocket, and returns his eyes to the rows of columns. To a lot of people, they’re just rows of numbers, listing income and expenditure for a lot of different businesses, but to Cameron they’re something else. To him they are evidence, confirmation and opportunity.

Evidence for his employer.

Confirmation of the suspicions he shares with his employer.

Opportunity for him, and him alone.

With his sixtieth birthday fast approaching, Cameron wants to settle down to a life that doesn’t involve regret, fear and debt.

He’s a smart man and he knows that, were it not for this opportunity, he wouldn’t be able to dream of a future without fear and debt. The regrets he learned to cope with long ago.

Yet here it is. The possibility of enough money for him to see out the rest of his life in comfort has dropped into his lap with the softness of a falling feather.

There are risks attached to the opportunity, but he lives with risk daily and, if all goes to plan, there will be sufficient money available for him to start over with a new name, in a new location. He’s good at doing that. He’s done it twice so far, and he’s already laid the groundwork in case he needs to move on at short notice.

His pen traces row after row as his brain seeks out weaknesses he will be able to exploit. The more he assesses, the more he formulates his plan to seize the opportunity that has been granted to him. His planning is in the early stages but, if he gets things right, he’ll be able to make sure the finger of blame is pointed elsewhere.

Whatever happens he knows that, if he puts his plan into action, he’ll either live a life of luxury, or die screaming.

6

It took all my self-control to not open the envelopes once we’d climbed back into my Mustang, but Alfonse made the excellent point that we’d be better waiting the five minutes it would take us to get to his apartment, so I could give the contents my full attention.

He switches his coffee machine on while I sit myself at the breakfast bar and tear open the first envelope, only to find a typed letter:

Boulder

If you’re reading this, I’m dead.

Not that you would, but I don’t want you to weep for me.

What I want, is for you to do something I had neither the skill nor the nerve to do.

In the second envelope there are clues for you to follow. They will explain why I left New York, fearing for my life, forty years ago.

I would like to have been less cryptic with my methods, but behind my brash exterior, I’m still the scared little girl who trembled listening to the tales her parents told of the pogroms, and of how entire families were snatched in the night and never seen again.

I cannot claim to know you well, but what I’ve seen of you tells me that you believe justice should be delivered to those who deserve it.

Many years ago, through fear for myself and my beloved Halvard, I failed to ensure that justice was delivered, by running away to Casperton.

I’m asking you to deliver this justice for me.

Please, Boulder. Show the courage inside you, follow my clues and find what I left. When you find it, raise all the hell you can behind a cloak of anonymity.

I implore you, if you do take on this task, not to expose yourself. You may think me melodramatic, but when you see what I have left for you, you’ll understand that attaching your name to any of this, is akin to putting your head in a noose and insulting the hangman’s wife. Your buddy, Devereaux, will be able to put this information in the right hands without anyone knowing where it came from.

Read the second letter now, and know that if you choose to have nothing to do with an old woman’s regrets, I cannot blame you for fearing to do something I dared not.

Ms Rosenberg

P.S. I’m guessing that by now you’ve learned my Christian name. If you tell it to anyone I shall haunt you until the end of time.

I can’t help but chuckle at the postscript she’s left me. It shows the prickly, vivacious carapace that encased a soft heart, and, what I can only guess is a lifetime of regret and self-recrimination.

As the pieces of her life are being shown to me, I’m starting to form a picture of her that she didn’t present to the world. Behind her bluster and putdowns, she was still pining for the man she’d left behind in another place and time.

I can imagine her torturing herself with questions about Halvard’s happiness; whether he had found a new girlfriend and settled down to raise a family. She’d probably tried to imagine what he looked like as he’d aged.

I begin to wonder what she had done by way of tracking him. Had she scoured online obituaries – the print ones in major newspapers? Had she hired a private eye to track him down and update her on how Halvard’s life had turned out?

Everything I think of paints a picture of a lonely old woman, filled with regret at a road never travelled.

My thoughts return to the real purpose of the letter. It’s a clarion call to arms. She’s given enough details to pique my interest but held back on the real story. The letter is also written in the way a psychologist would call coercive, as she invokes words like courage and justice to request my help. There is a get-out clause for me, but it’s laden with reverse psychology.

Every part of me is intrigued by her big secret and, combined with the guilt I carry for her death, I feel compelled to open the second letter and follow her clues.

Except it is never quite that simple. I’m of a different generation, religion and mind-set to Ms Rosenberg. What she deems as a worthy and understandable clue, may well be indecipherable for me.

The chances of failure are high, and there is the certainty that if I do fail, I’ll have let her down in death as well as in life.

‘Jake.’

I look up at Alfonse. He’s holding the first letter. ‘What?’

‘Stop beating yourself up for something you haven’t done yet and open the other letter.’

I’d scowl at Alfonse but there’s no point: he knows me too well and would know that the scowl was really aimed at myself.

There’s no way I can, in good conscience, refuse Ms Rosenberg’s request, and I’m aware that my delay in opening the second letter is nothing more than my psyche girding its loins for whatever may come next.

Alfonse and I know that as soon as I find the clues in the second letter I’ll be hooked, and will follow them doggedly until I have solved them all.

I open the envelope and pull out a sheet of paper and another key for a safety deposit box.

I lay down the key and look at the paper; I see a list of names.

My coffee goes cold as I puzzle over the names.

Watson

Marshall

Evans

Devereaux

Clapperton

Devereaux

Boulder

Devereaux

Boulder

Clapperton

They don’t make sense to me, not on any level. I’m on there, as are Alfonse and Chief Watson. I don’t know who the Marshall or Evans are, but I’m guessing the Clapperton is her editor at the Gazette.

What’s even more puzzling is the repetition of our names. I get two mentions, as does Clapperton, Alfonse gets three mentions, and the other names feature only once.

I pass the paper to Alfonse, and have a look at the key. It looks old and there are a series of numbers etched into both sides. One set of numbers has faded with age and the other looks as if it has been added recently.

1 7 7 3 6 7 6 2 2 4

I figure that the old ones denote the box number and the new ones are relative to the list of names. I can’t see how yet, but I’m determined to figure it out.

7

I can’t help but pace back and forth across the waiting room. John, on the other hand, sits with his legs crossed at the ankles in a way that suggests he’s calm and relaxed.

It should be the other way round. He’s the one who needs bone marrow if he wants to see his children grow up. I’m nothing more than a possible donor. Well, perhaps a little more: I’m the half-brother he tracked down to hopefully save his life.

I want to ask what’s keeping the doctor, but it would be a stupid question. As always, I’ve arrived early.

John has leukaemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. His sister, Sarah, is pregnant and he’s flat out refused to ask her. Like me, he doesn’t have any aunts, uncles or cousins. So, left with no other option, he travelled to Utah and, metaphorically speaking, knocked on my door.

If learning that my family tree has a whole other branch wasn’t enough to sideswipe me, the reason he’d looked me up was an unexpected gut-punch.

We met up a couple of times for a coffee or a bite to eat. Our conversations were stilted at first, but after a while we found that we had a surprising amount of similarities. Our music and film tastes run along the same lines but, where I’m a reader, he’s a devoted TV fan.

I’ve seen pictures of my nieces, and his sister’s son. I know their names and their ages.

What I haven’t been able to get past, so far as John and his sister are concerned, are their names.

I don’t mean their surnames. I was a MacDonald myself until mother remarried and I became a Boulder.

It’s my newfound siblings’ Christian names that trouble me: they are John and Sarah.

I’m Jake, and my sister is Sharon.

My father and his new wife chose the same initials for their children as my father did with my mother. This kind of coincidence doesn’t happen by accident – not when the initials are even gender matched. Had they been called Simon and Jenny I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid; but John and Sarah? Those names had me thinking all manner of things about my father.

On the one hand I wondered if he was trying to replace the children he’d lost, but on the other hand I hated him for supplanting us. I don’t know which version is right and it’s not like I’ll ever find out. It’s nigh on thirty years since my father left our home, and just over twenty since he walked out on John’s mother.

It’s unkind of me to even think it, but I can’t help speculating if there is perhaps a James and Susan out there, or a Jason and Samantha.

Whether there is or isn’t, it doesn’t matter. Right now, my every thought is on whether or not I’ll be a match. If I am, I’ll be able to save my half-brother’s life and, in some karmic way, atone for the fact that I couldn’t save Ms Rosenberg’s.

A buzzer sounds and a tinny voice announces my name.

I toss a “here goes” look towards John, and lead him down the corridor.

Dr Becker has been the family doctor since we moved here. As the years have passed I’ve seen his waist expand in perfect synchronicity with the receding of his hairline. He’s a kindly man who genuinely cares for his patients.

His face is grave but I don’t read anything into it. Grave is his natural expression.

‘Come in, Jake, take a seat.’ He glances at my half-brother. ‘I’m guessing you’re John?’

I make sure John takes a seat before I do.

There’s a folder on Dr Becker’s desk and I can see my name on the label.

Dr Becker doesn’t miss much, and he picks up on where my eyes are. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush here, Jake, John. I’m afraid the results are negative.’

I’m at a loss for anything to say.

John isn’t. He looks at Dr Becker with a forlorn expression, thanks him, and stands to leave.

I grab John’s arm and look at the doctor. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Dr Becker’s expression softens. ‘You’re aware of the Human Leukocyte Antigen markers we test to see if you’re a match?’ I nod. ‘We got a match on five out of eight, but you need six HLA markers to match before any hospital will even consider it.’

I want to swear and rage at the world in general, but I don’t. If John is taking this news in a respectful way, I must too.

With me being out of the running for a transplant, our – or should I say John’s – options are slim to zero. Sharon’s results came back yesterday, and they too proved negative.

Like blood, many people donate their bone marrow to be used by strangers. Because John’s blood is the rare AB negative – as is mine and Sharon’s – the odds of him finding a match from an unknown donor are much slimmer than usual.

John is stoic and silent as we clamber into my car.

I don’t know what he’s thinking but, if I had to guess from his expression, I’d say he’s trying to find a way of breaking the news to his wife.

It’s a train of thought I’m determined to derail.

‘There’s only one thing for it: we’ll have to find our father.’

I can’t use the word “dad”. Dads are loving and caring. They teach their kids things; nurture and support them. They build toys on Christmas Eve and go out searching for batteries on Christmas Day. Dads get kites down from trees and defend you when your mother complains that you’ve come home covered in mud.

Nor can I use our father’s given name. To do so would afford him a respect he doesn’t deserve.

I think of him as Father. Not as “a father”, just “Father”. Like the stern Victorian patriarchs who only saw their kids once or twice a week and expected children to be on their best behaviour at all times.

‘How?’

‘I have no idea how to find him.’ I toss John a smile. ‘But I know a man who will.’

Alfonse already has one old man to find: Halvard Weil. What’s another?

8

As usual when he’s working at his computer, Alfonse is oblivious to the world around him. I’ve let myself into his apartment, made us a coffee, and sat puzzling over the twin problems of finding a father and making sense of Ms Rosenberg’s clues, without him even looking up.

His hand releases the mouse long enough to reach for the cup I’ve placed on his Simpsons coaster.

Whichever way I look at it, the trail to find my father will start with my grandparents. I haven’t seen them since I visited Glasgow a decade back and they were pushing towards frail then – Granny told us the same things numerous times, while Grandad sat with rheumy eyes and his typically proud expression.

The Christmas letter they send each year is increasingly hard to read as Granny’s handwriting worsens.

It goes against my instincts to try to find my father. Many years ago, Sharon and I resolved together that we would forget about the man who’d walked out on us without a goodbye. We told each other we were better off without a father, that we didn’t want the return of one who didn’t have the guts to be honest with his kids. Together we welcomed Neill Boulder into Mother’s life, as it was obvious that he put a song in her heart and the smile back on her lips.

Neill possessed enough tact not to try and replace our father. Instead he assumed the role of a favoured uncle. He would offer advice when it was requested and silence on matters we didn’t share with him.

He is a good man who chose to take on a sullen girl, and a boy who couldn’t help but get into one scrape after another. I was never the kind of teen who stole, or got involved with drugs, but I did more than my fair share of fighting and there were several incidents when I was caught in compromising situations with different girls.

Now I’ve decided to look up my birth father, Neill’s feelings must be considered – along with those of my sister and mother.

Sharon has a good heart and I know she’ll understand. Mother, on the other hand, will use it as a stick to beat me. Mother is a narcissist who’s never encountered a topic she couldn’t make about herself. I know she’ll rant about how I’m being insensitive and inconsiderate – for a few hours – before she concedes that I’m doing the right thing.

Alfonse pushes his keyboard forward and gets to his feet. ‘How’d you get on?’

I shake my head.

‘I’m sorry, man.’ He nods. I know he’ll leave my feelings alone unless I tell him how the news has affected me. ‘How did John take it?’

‘Like he didn’t expect good news. There is another option though.’

Alfonse studies me and wipes an imaginary crumb from his polo shirt. ‘Your father?’

‘Yeah.’

There’s not a lot else to say. Alfonse is the one person in the world, other than Sharon, who I’ve shared my real feelings about my father with.

‘I thought it might come to this if you weren’t a match.’ He looks me in the eye and holds my gaze. ‘Whatever you need, buddy, I’m here.’

I don’t need to thank him any more than he needs to hear the words. He and I are tight. We’ve had each other’s backs since the days when a bookish nerd helped a lazy Scot pass exams, and a lazy Scot stopped a bookish nerd getting his ass kicked.

‘Let’s recap the case first, then we can discuss what needs to be done to find Father.’

‘Fair enough.’ Alfonse lifts a sheet of paper from his printer and hands it to me.

He knows I absorb things better if I read, rather than hear, them.

His report is as brief and blunt as ever.

Alfonse has checked the usual sources and come up blank. For the last five years, Halvard Weil has been living at no fixed abode. His last address is a few hundred yards from the one Ms Rosenberg gave us.

His social security number showed him as being employed by a small pawn shop in Brooklyn, but when Alfonse called them, they said he’d quit some years ago.

It’s possible he’s slipped through the cracks in the system, but not probable. I don’t know what to make of it, and judging by his defeated expression neither does Alfonse.

All along we’ve thought it would be a simple case of tracking down Halvard, and either calling him or sending him a letter to request that he contacts Pauline. Now that he can’t be easily found, we’ll have to take other measures. The first of which, will be a visit to the pawn shop.

It will be me who’ll travel to New York. Alfonse’s skills are with a computer, whereas I’m better at questioning people and getting information from them.

‘What about the clues Ms Rosenberg left us? Where have you got with them?’

‘Nowhere. I looked at them all ways, and have as much idea now as I did when I started.’

I’m not considering the clues she’s left us as a priority, and I’m only asking as I know that Alfonse will have tried to crack them.

When I think about them a little more, I realise they maybe should be higher up our list of priorities. Alfonse and I agreed that the safety deposit box key she’d left in envelope 2, was most likely for a box held in a New York bank. The clues would tell us which bank.

If I am going to New York to track Halvard, it would make sense to locate the bank, and claim the box’s contents, when I am in town.

‘I’ll take a look at them. See if I get anywhere.’

‘Cool. I’ll get you booked on a flight to New York tomorrow morning.’

‘Don’t book it just yet.’ I swallow before continuing. ‘Taylor’s going to a wedding in New York in a couple of days. I wasn’t going to go, but if I’m going to be in New York …’

He chuckles at my discomfort. Taylor is my girlfriend, and all the signs are there that she’s going to be around longer than the usual three months my relationships last. For the first time in my life I’ve done the whole meet-the-parents thing. Both ways.

Within ten minutes of meeting Taylor, Mother had produced my baby pictures and started discussing possible names for the grandchildren she wanted Taylor and me to supply her with.

My cheeks had burned for the whole evening, and I only managed to refrain from drinking myself into a stupor by focussing on the fact that I should never share the same space as hard liquor.

Always a step ahead, Alfonse hands me a notepad, pen, and the phone from his desk. Letting Taylor know I can join her in New York will be easy; asking Grandad about Father, not so much.

9

It’s good to hear Grandad’s voice. He’s the one who taught me how to look after myself. Not in a metaphorical way, more physically.

Before Mother, Sharon and I left Glasgow, when Neill’s new job relocated him to Casperton, Grandad took me into the back garden and spent an afternoon teaching me the fighting skills he’d learned in the Clyde shipyards.

None of the methods he showed me could be considered fair, moral or anything other than dirty, but he taught me that fair fighters are rarely victorious fighters.

I explain to him about John and hear his breath catch. It catches again when I tell him that neither Sharon nor I are matches.

‘That’s not a good thing to hear, son.’

Despite all the miles between us, I can picture him sitting in his chair with his back ramrod straight and his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. It’s how he reacts to bad news. Grandad isn’t a man who shows his emotions. Like all Glasgow’s sons, he frowns upon lavish praise. If Grandad tells you that you look “no’ too bad”, or that you “didnae dae ower bad efter a’”, you’re getting his equivalent of a ticker tape parade.

The counterbalance to this is a conversation I once overheard him having with a neighbour. He was praising Sharon and me to the rooftops, with one endorsement after another. While he’d never give compliments to your face, he was your biggest champion when you weren’t there to hear the pride in his voice.

‘I can only think of one other person who might be a match.’

The line is silent for so long I think he’s hung up on me. ‘Yer faither?’

‘Aye.’ As always, when speaking to Grandad or Granny, I’ve slipped into Scottish terms and slang. ‘Or possibly his other children, if he has more I don’t know about.’

‘Naw. There’s jist the four of you.’ I can hear his breath rasp down the phone as he composes his next sentence. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to ken where he is?’

‘Aye.’

One word seems to be all I can manage. This is a conversation I’d promised myself I’d never have. Yet here I am, having it.

The fight with the compass points last night was a doddle compared with this. Physical pain is something I can handle and am used to. Emotional hurt is something else altogether.

What’s making it worse is that I know it’s not just me who’s suffering. Grandad will be too. He never liked the way my father had walked out on us, and would have liked it even less when he did it to John and Sarah’s mother.

My call will bring it all to the surface. Worse than that is the news I’ve given him about John. People don’t expect to outlive their children, let alone their grandchildren. It’s the natural order of things, and here I am upsetting the balance of his life.

I hear a hearty sniff and remember Grandad’s misshapen nose. What makes my heart ache is that there’s no trace of a cold in Grandad’s voice.

‘I’m sorry, son. I dinnae ken where he is. He calls when it’s oor birthdays and at Christmas, but he never gies me a number I can call him on.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be honest, Grandad, I expected as much. Did he say where he is living?’

‘I asked him last Christmas. He said he was in the States and wouldnae be more specific.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t remember, but when are your birthdays?’

‘They’re past for this year, son. Next call will be Christmas.’

Christmas is three months away. Three months is a long time when you’re dying from blood cancer. John can’t wait three months for someone who may only be a possible donor.

‘What dates are your birthdays, Grandad?’ He tells me and I write them down. The more information I can give Alfonse, the better he’ll know where to start looking. ‘Can I speak to Granny?’

‘Of course you can, son. Jist dinnae say oot aboot your brother. There’s nae point worrying her aboot things she cannae dae onything aboot.’

I spend a pleasant few minutes letting Granny tell me all about what’s happening in her neighbours’ lives, and promise to call her more often.

We both know the promise is made with the best of intentions and the worst of odds.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy speaking to them, it’s that every time I plan to call them something gets in the way, and by the time I clear the obstruction another week or month has passed.

10

I stretch my legs as much as the seat in front allows and focus on the sheet of paper in my hand for what seems like the thousandth time.

No matter which way I look at it, I can’t make sense of Ms Rosenberg’s clues. The names and numbers do not speak to me in any way.

Alfonse has managed to book me on the same flight as Taylor, but we aren’t sitting together, and all the seats around us are occupied by families so we are unable to swap.

It’s not too much of a bad thing. I need to solve Ms Rosenberg’s puzzle and Taylor has the ability to distract me with nothing more than a flick of her hair.

I’ve thought long and hard about Ms Rosenberg’s chosen pseudonym and the way she hid behind it. I now know she was scared that she might be tracked down by whoever forced her out of New York, but another thought about her pseudonym has stayed with me.

It’s the surname Noone. When someone tries to hide, they become faceless and blend in. They choose a place where nobody knows them, and they do their best not to draw attention to themselves. They don’t fulfil their potential, nor do they strive to become famous. Rather, they try to be no one. Or, in Ms Rosenberg’s case, Noone.

While Ms Rosenberg was well known in Casperton, nobody living fifty or more miles away would be aware of her. Rather than pursue any dreams of journalistic stardom and Pulitzer prizes, she’d hidden herself away in a backwater town and settled for being a mid-sized fish in a small pond.

I’m sure the choice of pseudonym has something to do with a professional writer’s love of words. Maybe it was her extending a middle finger to those who’d driven her out of New York. She was still successful, she’d just been unable to publicly accept the acclaim that came her way.

The other thing that’s distracting me is the conversation I’d had with Mother. She’d pursed her lips, scowled, and proceeded to insult my intelligence when I’d told her that I was going to find Father. When she’d finally stopped railing on me, I’d asked her if she thought I was doing it for any reason beyond a desperate attempt to save John’s life.

She hadn’t known how to answer, and had sat staring at me, making no effort to hide the tears in her eyes.

I’d tried to reassure her that, once Father had agreed to help John, I would leave them to it and have no further contact with him. She’d shaken her head with a vehemence I had never seen before, and told me that if my father wanted to reconnect with me, he’d find a way of persuading me to do it.

In the end, it had been Neill who’d settled Mother, and got her to see what I was doing was for John’s benefit, rather than my own.

Mother had insulted me a little more before telling me she couldn’t add to what I already knew.

I had relayed her answers to Alfonse who, with his typical grace, had told me to worry about tracking down Halvard Weil and to leave finding Father to him.

Now I’m sitting on a plane with time to think, I wonder about the searches he’ll run. Alfonse is a master hacker who can penetrate anything he wants. He’s got my father’s full name and date of birth. From those he’ll be able to look in all the government databases, such as social security, immigration, and police files. If Father has been picked up for anything he’s done in the USA, Alfonse will be able to find out.

The sheet of paper in my hand mocks me with its silent tease. Each word or number is mute against my thought processes.

Alfonse has tried using the numbers as map references, but there should be six numbers for each reference. Having ten, meant the references were five by five. Regardless of the numbers, without knowing which map to use, the numbers were useless.

I turn over my sheet of paper and try something else.

Watson – 1

Marshall – 7

Evans – 7

Devereaux – 3

Clapperton – 6

Devereaux – 7

Boulder – 6

Devereaux – 2

Boulder – 2

Clapperton – 4

Assigning each name with a number from the sequence, I take the corresponding letters and write down what they spell – the first letter of Watson, the seventh letter of Marshall, and so on, until I get to Evans – not enough letters in the name Evans – W L ? V E A E E O P.

I spend a while trying to rearrange the letters into a word, but I can’t form one that makes sense to me.

My heart isn’t really in it as I’m not sure I’m on the right track – Evans contains five letters and its corresponding number is seven.

I try reversing the order of the numbers against the names: C R A U E R E V A S are the letters offered up to me, and as there are ten of them, I’m more confident they will tell me the location of the safety deposit box.

A flight attendant brings the trolley up the aisle. There’s no grace to her movements and she’s using the trolley as a battering ram against the elbows and feet, which overhang the narrow seats, protruding into the aisle.

I raise a hand to halt her stampede, and buy a few pieces of over-priced fruit rather than subject myself to the airline’s sorry attempt at a meal.

While I usually enjoy puzzles, to keep my brain active, I can feel my frustration growing at my failure to assemble the random letters into words or names I recognise.

The crying toddler two rows in front doesn’t help my mood; neither does the gangly teen surfer-type behind me who keeps bumping the back of my seat.

There’s nothing I can do about the crying toddler, so I rise from my seat, turn to the teen behind me and lean in close to his ear. When I speak, my Scots accent is thickened to a growl. ‘The next time you bump my seat I may well give in to my growing desire to shorten your nose. Do you understand me?’

He nods.

I pat his ridiculous hairstyle and tell him he’s a clever boy.

By the time I reach the toilets I’m starting to feel the first prickles of guilt for acting like a bully. They disappear when I consider the fact that the teen is old enough to know better than to be an inconsiderate nuisance to other travellers.

My mood lifts further when I see Taylor walking towards me with a salacious twinkle in her eye.

11

A solitary phone call is all it takes for Cameron to break down the barrier between a possible opportunity and a life changing decision.

The call is made from a public booth at the other side of town. It could have been made from his home phone or his cell, but that would have left a trail. When you’re running off with seven figures of someone else’s money, not leaving a trail is a good idea.

With a new identity being prepared for him, he is one step closer to having his escape route in place.

Next on his to-do list is opening a new bank account. The money he plans to appropriate – he doesn’t think of himself as a thief, therefore he won’t be stealing the money – needs a new home. A home that can’t be traced.

Swiss bank accounts, and those in offshore banks, are very good at refusing the authorities information on their customers. Where they have problems, is in the protection of their employees and their employees’ families. The people he’s appropriating the money from won’t hesitate to threaten a bank manager’s family to get the information they need.

This means he needs to be clever with where the money will end up. There’s no point exchanging it for cash or gold. There would be too much to move around without a van.

Cameron has an idea though. It’s a good one that he knows just how to execute. His employer has shown him a different world and he intends to utilise his knowledge of it to enact his plan.

The best part is, he’s known to the people who’ll facilitate his deception. He has traded with them on his employer’s behalf in the past and all the correct protocols have already been established. All he needs to do is lie convincingly and all will go well for him.

It won’t be easy, but earning millions of dollars in a day was never likely to be. His plan to make the money untraceable is a simple one that needs no real brilliance.

All it needs is a fair amount of organisation, the establishing of some credentials, and a few forged documents.

These will all be established before he goes to the bar on the corner, for his usual steak dinner washed down with beers and a few whisky chasers.

Once that part is in place, there will be no way that either he or the money can be traced. He’s even prepared to write off a few hundred thousand as expenses if necessary.

12

The pawnbroker’s shop is nothing like my expectations. In my head I had a vision of an over-filled room, crammed floor to ceiling with random objects in a style that was haphazard and precarious. I’d imagined the sign above the door to be faded and that the proprietor would be a bespectacled man with grey hair and a shabby cardigan.

What I encounter instead is a slick, modern building with glass cabinets, ample lighting and a collection of styled youths behind the counter. There’s music playing through a hidden speaker and, while I don’t recognise the tune, I know it’s not a song that’s likely to achieve classic status before another decade has passed.

It’s only when I look at the store’s merchandise and its clientele that I realise why my expectations were wrong. My thinking was of hard-up homeowners, pawning beloved items until they’d saved enough money to pay off the loan from the pawnbroker.

I’m decades out with my assumptions. Today’s pawn shops are more like a trading post. Teens with pasty complexions are buying video games by the handful, couples are examining the cabinet filled with jewellery, and there is a group, of what I can only assume are traders, scouring the cabinets containing cell phones, iPads and other digital equipment.

As I look for a member of staff who may be classed as a manager, or has at least started shaving, a pre-teen boy leads his father in and heads straight to the exchange counter. I watch idly as the father empties various video game boxes out of the backpack he carried in.

I pay attention to the boy and his father. The official buyers in a place like this must have a certain amount of seniority. I take Taylor’s hand and lead her across the room until we’re standing in line behind the boy and his father.

The words I whisper in Taylor’s ear get me a stern look, but she does as I ask and removes her necklace and places it into my hand.

My plan is a simple one. While there will be some known information about a video game’s value, jewellery is a different matter altogether. That requires someone with a certain amount of proper training and years of experience.

Taylor’s necklace is a good one. She told me it was a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Having been invited to her parents’ home to meet them over dinner, I know for a fact they’re not worrying about where their next buck will come from. Everything about them spoke of quality, without crossing the line into ostentation. I could tell from the one meeting that they dote on their only daughter, and I’d be happy to bet that Taylor’s necklace, while not overly fancy, will have a recognised hallmark and a price tag that’d equate to several months of my salary.

The boy’s father tries to haggle a better price than he’s offered, but the server is resolute and doesn’t budge. The father huffs and puffs a little but, after a minute of trying to wangle a more favourable deal, he gives up and takes the handful of dead presidents the server has laid on the counter.

I smile at the server and lay the necklace on the counter. ‘I’m told this is valuable. How much are you willing to offer me?’

The server runs a hand through the mop of un-styled blonde hair on his head, lifts Taylor’s necklace and squints at it.

‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks.’

‘Try again. I’ve heard it’s worth a lot more than that.’ I fix him with a stare. ‘You’ve just looked at it. Closely. You’ll have seen the hallmark. If a hundred bucks is all you’re offering, I’ll take it elsewhere.’

‘I … I’ll need to speak to my boss. He may be able to offer you more.’

Now we’re getting somewhere. The server was chancing his arm. I half expected as much. He’s played safe after seeing the hallmark. Perhaps he thought he’d get a promotion if he managed to buy cheap and sell dear. On the other hand, there may be a Miss Blonde Server he wants to impress; a necklace like Taylor’s would go a long way towards impressing whichever girl he had his eye on.

He goes into a back room and I hear him call out to a Mr Weil. I share a look of excitement with Taylor. This has been too easy. If it’s Halvard who comes through the door, we’re home and dry. If it’s not, I’ll lay a cent to a dollar they’ll be a close relative of his.

The man who appears isn’t Halvard. Not unless he’s been drinking an elixir of youth. Our man is in his late twenties, or early thirties.

He smiles at us and glances at the necklace. He takes another look at Taylor and me. It’s a scenario that’s familiar to me. With her elevated cheekbones and flawless complexion, Taylor has a timeless beauty; whereas I’m average. Average height, average looks, average build.

I’m punching above my weight with her and I know it. Fortunately, I’m good at punching. In fact, I almost consider it to be a hobby.

Weil pulls a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and examines the necklace. When he lays it on the counter it’s with a delicate, almost reverent, care. The loupe is returned to his pocket.

When he speaks his tone is respectful. ‘I am prepared to pay you five thousand dollars for this exquisite necklace.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s not actually for sale.’ I keep my voice low to remove any offence from my words.

Weil sighs, takes another look at the necklace, and another look at Taylor. ‘Six thousand and that is my final offer.’

I pull a sheet of paper from my pocket, unfold it and lay it on the counter so it’s the right way up for him to read.

‘The necklace isn’t for sale. I’m sorry to have jerked you around, but I needed a way to get to the person in charge.’

Weil’s eyes are fixed on the paper; I’m guessing he’s fighting back surprise. The paper holds the image of Halvard Weil, which Ms Rosenberg had so treasured. Alfonse has cropped her from the picture to maintain her anonymity.

I figure Weil is experiencing a gamut of emotions as he looks at an old picture of a younger version of himself. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s a close relative of Halvard. The hook of their noses is the same, as are the shape of their eyes and their chins. My guess is that he’s Halvard’s son or, at the very least, his nephew.

He looks up from the picture and into my eyes. His pupils are full of questions but his face is otherwise implacable.

I realise he’s not saying anything for a reason. He’s waiting for me to speak. Like all experienced negotiators, and that’s a lot of what pawnbrokers do, he knows when to ask questions and when to wait for someone else to speak.

‘I’m not going to insult you by asking if you know who’s in that picture. I’m going to tell you that I’ve been hired to find Halvard Weil by an attorney. The attorney is the executor of a will that Mr Weil is the main beneficiary of.’

‘I see.’

His words may not be a lie, but there are still questions in his eyes. He doesn’t see, not really. If I’m right about him being Halvard’s son, he’ll be busy trying to work out who’s died and why he hasn’t heard about it.

Maybe he’s too polite to ask, or he’s keeping his cards close to his chest like all good negotiators, but again he waits for me to speak.

I’m happy to oblige. The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner I can spend a little time exploring New York with Taylor. I’ve heard plenty about the Big Apple, but this is my first visit and I want to see as much as I can while I’m here.

‘Would I be right in saying your father is the man in this picture? That you’re Halvard Weil’s son?’

He nods.

‘I hope you’ll forgive my bluntness, but I take it your father is still with us?’

Another nod.

‘Would you be prepared to give me his address?’

A baleful look is followed by a shake of his head.

I begin to wonder if Halvard is fit and well. He may be in poor health and living in a care home somewhere; either waiting to die or being tormented by the imaginings of his mind.

It’s my turn to wait Halvard’s son out.

He’s stubborn and resolute.

So am I.

He cracks first.

‘I cannot give you his address as I do not know who you are, who you represent, or if my father will welcome a stranger coming to his door talking of an inheritance when nobody likely to leave him money has died.’

Now it’s me who nods at him. I understand where he’s coming from. His very presence indicates the existence of a Mrs Weil, which is why I’ve not used Ms Rosenberg’s name. The last thing I want to achieve is disharmony. I’m here to deliver a message of newfound wealth, that’s all. Causing trouble isn’t part of my agenda.

‘In that case, can you arrange for me to meet him?’ I spread my hands wide. ‘I can meet him at any time over the next three days.’ Taylor’s elbow connects with my ribs. ‘With the exception of tomorrow afternoon and evening.’

I write my cell on the reverse of Halvard’s picture and tell him there are several hundred thousand reasons why he should get his father to call me.

Other than a slight widening of his eyes, he doesn’t react to the hint I’ve dropped about the size of his father’s windfall. Either the sum isn’t that significant to him, or he doesn’t believe me.

13

I shift from foot to foot and try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. The suit I bought off-the-peg after visiting the pawn shop yesterday had seemed a better fit at the time. Now it is bunching where it shouldn’t and hanging loose in all the wrong places. To compound matters, every other guy in the room is attired in expensive, fitted tuxedos.

The wedding dinner is a meal comprised of several courses of foods I couldn’t easily identify. My tastes are simple when it comes to food. Give me a hunk of red meat and a heap of fries and I’m more than content. I’m not yet at the point where I need to eat again, but I’m not far off. With luck there will be a decent buffet that will allow a spot of light gorging before my stomach starts to protest its emptiness.

Taylor is never far from my side but I’ve long given up trying to remember the names of all the people she’s introduced me to. There have been lots of polite handshakes, some hearty backslaps and enough air kisses to make a Hollywood actor feel at home.

It’s the backslaps that bother me the most. Every one of them seems to land on the same part of my back that East’s baseball bat has left bruised and tender.

There’s a hum of conversation in the air and, as befits the occasion and plush venue, it’s polite and reverent. The people are nice enough, but there’s so many of them I know nothing about. They are all talking about past experiences I haven’t shared and people I don’t know.

For Taylor’s sake I keep my smile fixed and my tone polite. This is her family occasion and I’ve come along as a last-minute addition. It’s also her Fifth Avenue hotel room I’m sharing, so the whole trip to New York does have its upsides.

While I may have been raised in a city, Glasgow never had the same metropolitan feel that New York exudes. This is a busy city, peopled by people who are important. Or at least to themselves they are. Glaswegian streets were busy, but not so busy that you couldn’t make progress round a slow walker. The Glasgow I grew up in was one where I knew, and was known by, every neighbour within two streets. It was a community within a city.

New York is different. It’s all hustle and bustle as its inhabitants strive to get from one important place to another. The importance of their journey is set on their faces but, to an outsider like me, the relative merit of any individual’s perspective is subjective.

I didn’t help myself when I was walking the streets – I’m sure my constant stopping, to look up at one landmark or another, was a nuisance to other sidewalk users. Sometimes I would just stand by a crosswalk and gaze along the streets, or look up at the towering skyscrapers that dominate the skyline.

The subway has been the worst part of my time in New York.

I’ve never been properly underground before, and my first experience being one that included huge crowds, a lost sense of direction and the impersonality of city life, didn’t endear me to subterranean travel.

Had Taylor not been with me, I would no doubt have gotten myself thoroughly lost. It’s not that I can’t find my way about; I’m spending so much time working out where I am, and where I need to get to, my progress is that of a geriatric sloth compared to the rest of the thronging crowd. This in turn made me feel rushed, which led to me making snap decisions about which direction to take.

Along with the sights, come the sounds and the smells of the city. In one block you can catch a whiff of coffee, burritos, hotdogs and a dozen other foodstuffs from around the globe. There is a constant pick-pocking of heels on concrete, car horns, and the murmur of a crowd as they grumble, cajole or shout into their cell phones.

Like many others before me, I’ve found New York to be an exciting and vibrant living beast that can turn intimidating at a moment’s notice.

The high point of my morning was a text I received from Halvard’s son. He suggested a meeting place from where he could take me to meet his father. I agreed to his terms at once to hopefully show integrity, but looking back I maybe should have been a little less eager.

Yet another member of the waiting staff offers me a flute of champagne, which I refuse. I’m quite happy with soda, and when I’m unhappy with a soft drink I’ll make damn sure I’m nowhere near Taylor or any member of her family.

Alcohol and I have an understanding. I don’t consume it and it doesn’t make me do stupid things like start fights, or wake up in a motel room, hundreds of miles from home, with no memory, wallet or clothes. Once in a while I’ll take a drink, but only after making sure I’m not in a place where I could hurt those I care about.

‘Hey there, gorgeous. You’re looking as good as you always have.’

The speaker is someone I don’t know. His whole demeanour is that of Ivy League entitlement. He’s got an arm draped over Taylor’s shoulders and his eyes halfway down her dress. I fight every one of my instincts that are telling me to punch him as hard as the garlic on his breath is hitting me.

I toss my gaze at Taylor’s face. Her expression is one of infuriated tolerance.

Behind Ivy League, trails a young woman who’s pulling at his sleeve. Her face bears a pleasant smile, but her white knuckles on Ivy League’s sleeve tell me she’s every bit as angry as Taylor is. When she speaks, her voice has the whiny tone of the long-sufferer.

‘C’mon, Jason. I want you to meet someone.’

‘Goodbye, beautiful.’

Jason goes to plant a kiss on Taylor, but she turns her head at the last minute so he connects with her ear.

‘Who the hell does that guy think he is?’

‘The groom’s brother. He’s got a trust fund big enough to give him a life of luxury, even if he lives to be a thousand.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sadly though, he can’t buy class.’

I chink my soda against her champagne flute. ‘Very true. You, on the other hand, don’t need to. Me? I can’t afford it. Just say the word and I’ll follow him to the bathroom and recalibrate his sensibilities.’

Taylor’s melodic giggle draws a few smiling glances. ‘Every woman in this room under the age of forty would love to say the word. It’s not going to happen though.’

One of the things I appreciate most about Taylor is that she recognises me for what I am and doesn’t try to change me. My being in a lower social class than her isn’t an issue, but then again, class distinction is much more a British thing than a US one. Nor has she shown much concern about my tendency to use violence as a first option.

The only fear I have about our relationship, is that one day she’ll tire of her “bit of rough”. It’s not a scenario I enjoy thinking about, so I only give it brain space in my darker moments.

I see Jason coming back so I suggest Taylor makes herself scarce.

‘Hi, buddy. Great place this, isn’t it?’ Jason goes to walk past me, after Taylor, but it’s what I’m expecting and I sidestep so I’m in his way. Sometimes you have to take one for the team. ‘That meal was delicious, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, very good.’

His eyes focus on me, which gives me hope that Taylor has escaped his gaze. His head turns and he locates a member of the waiting staff. His fingers click and he waves her over.

‘About time, girl. Damn near died of thirst.’ His tone is full of entitlement as he grabs two glasses from the girl’s tray.

I have to give the server credit. She doesn’t rise to his rudeness and gives a polite smile as she turns away.

He thrusts a glass towards me. ‘Here, it’s a wedding. You should be drinking champagne, not soda.’

‘Not for me thanks.’ I keep both of my hands on my soda glass, and try not to picture what he’d look like after a few well aimed punches. The temptation to find out if my imaginings are accurate may just get too much for my self-control.

‘You’re Scottish right? Thought you Scots were big drinkers?’

‘We can be.’

The glass is pushed forward a second time. ‘Then have a drink and don’t be such a pussy.’

There is nothing but challenge in him. He’s used to being the Alpha, and someone refusing him isn’t something he’s familiar with.

‘Thank you, but no.’ I keep my tone polite but I can hear anger at the edge of it.

‘I said … take a drink.’ He holds the glass in front of my face. His voice is cool enough to freeze the drink solid. ‘It’s my brother’s wedding and I think you should be celebrating it with a glass of champagne.’

‘Thanks, but alcohol doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘What are you? A man or a mouse?’

I toss a devil-may-care grin at him. Perhaps it’s the fact I’ve gone from picturing him bruised and bloody, to imagining what he’d look like on fire, but I’m calm and relaxed enough to let my smile be natural, as I lean forward and whisper into his ear. ‘I’m man enough to turn down a drink I don’t want. I’m man enough to refuse to conform to another person’s wishes when I know doing so is a bad idea. I’m man enough to stand up to bullies.’ I know I shouldn’t say what comes next but I’ve held temptation in check long enough. ‘I’m also man enough to kick your ass up and down Broadway, if the notion takes me.’

For a moment I think he’s about to do something stupid like curse me out, or even throw a punch. If he hits me, I’ll have to let him land a few before I subdue him. Any other course of action will see me labelled as the bad guy. That’s not what I want at an occasion where I am trying to put my best foot forward with Taylor’s family.

He throws his head back and guffaws loud enough for heads to turn. He’s the centre of attention again, which is just how he likes it.

I slink away, hoping those who matter notice how unimpressed I am by him.

14

Halvard Weil’s son opens the door of the Brooklyn coffee shop a few seconds after I knock. He’d told me the coffee shop was one that closed due to a lack of business. It doesn’t surprise me that it failed. It’s down at heel, and a bright new Starbucks sits gleaming across the street.

Consumers are fickle beasts who’ll decry corporate monsters while shovelling money into their coffers, while mom-and-pop businesses are closing their doors on a daily basis.

The coffee shop is empty, save for a couple of tables laden with upturned chairs and a thick layer of dust.

‘Is your father here?’

‘Not yet, Mr …?’

‘Boulder. But most people call me Jake.’ I hold out a hand. ‘And you are?’

He hesitates for a moment until his manners get the better of him. ‘Gavriel.’

I turn as I hear footsteps. Two men emerge from a back room and they’re both so large they need to duck as they pass through the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Boulder … Jake, but for reasons that will become apparent when you meet my father, I’m going to have to ask you to allow my cousins here to search you for weapons.’

This is a surprise I wasn’t expecting, but it doesn’t bother me. I hang my jacket on a skyward-pointing chair leg, and lift my hands to my head. ‘Feel free. I have no weapons on me. My jacket has my wallet and cell in the inside pocket, and I have my car keys in the front right pocket of my jeans.’

As Gavriel’s two hulking cousins pat me down, I assess their actions from a different point of view. The need to assume this level of security tells me a few things.

First off is the fact that Halvard, his family, or both, do not trust me. Second, they are not going through these measures because they’re jumping at shadows. There must be some kind of clear threat to Halvard. Third, the level of threat is a significant one – the presence of guys as large as Gavriel’s cousins is a serious deterrent.

I can handle myself, yet I don’t fancy my chances against guys this big. To compound matters, they move with economy and grace rather than the lumbering bovine movements usually associated with huge men. It’s quite probable that they are trained in a martial art. Krav Maga, as developed by Israeli Special Forces and Mossad, would be my guess.

Two shaken heads receive a short nod from Gavriel. If his cousins are the brawn, he must be the brain, or the son of the brain, as the power in the room lies with him despite him being the smallest of the four of us.

My jacket is checked for hidden weapons and handed back to me.

‘Now you’ve established I’m unarmed, do you trust me?’

Gavriel’s smile is the wrong side of patronising. ‘Jake, I’m a New York pawnbroker. I’ve learned not to trust anyone.’

I return his smile and wait for him to tell me what’s next. This situation is one I don’t care for, but I’m here to deliver a message of good news. Once it’s delivered, I’ll say my goodbyes and walk away leaving their distrust behind.

‘Follow me.’

Gavriel leads me through the back of the coffee shop and into a narrow alleyway. I’m flanked by the cousins as I follow him, through a mesh of dirty stinking alleys with overflowing garbage bins and high brick walls, until he comes to a door.

Should I decide I don’t want to be here, my only hope of extricating myself from this situation is to be fleet of foot. It’s not a theory I want to try out. The cousins are close enough to assume the role of jailers as well as bodyguards.

Gavriel gives a complicated knock, and the door is opened by someone who looks as if he’s the cousins’ big brother.

I’m crowded through the door and led up a stairwell, which has a threadbare carpet, peeling wallpaper and the strong ammonia stench of cat urine.

Gavriel leads me along a corridor and into what was once someone’s lounge. He gestures for me to sit on the sofa and, when I do, I find myself wedged between the cousins. Gavriel leaves and Big Brother takes up station in front of the door.

I could try and make conversation but not one of the three has spoken to me since I met them. Besides, I don’t want them to hear any catch of fear that may feature in my voice.

I’m not so much scared as unnerved. The dramatic way of bringing me to this room, when I would have happily met Halvard Weil in a public place, is nothing more than a display of power and control. They want me to feel intimidated and at their mercy. The three giants add to the menace with their indifferent silence. The only thing I’m pleased about, is that Taylor isn’t here with me.

To pass the time I try to spot some doorframe behind Big Brother. I fail.

In their own way they’re testing me: seeing what I’m made of and how far I’ll go to speak with Halvard Weil.

Their test isn’t one I plan to flunk, so I sit quietly and look out of the grimy window at the bricks of the neighbouring building.

The door opens and Gavriel enters with a man who can only be his father.

Halvard Weil has aged, compared to Ms Rosenberg’s picture of him, but there is no mistaking that he’s the same man. He sits in the single chair opposite me and looks me over, from head to toe.

‘You say you’re here because I am the beneficiary of a will. None of my friends or family have died, so I’m sure you must understand my caution at meeting you.’

The look he gives me is part suspicious and part apprehensive. I get why he’s cautious, but I don’t say that I think he’s overcompensating. Instead, I ask myself why he’s so cautious, and what he has to be fearful of. Once I have an answer to my question, I’ll be able to understand his point of view.

‘Your benefactor is someone I believe you haven’t seen for nigh on forty years.’

His eyes close and his head droops forward. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a pained whisper. ‘Boys. Leave us please. I need to talk alone with Mr Boulder.’

15

When his son and nephews have padded their way out of the lounge, Halvard lifts his chin from his chest and looks at me with tear-filled eyes.

‘Are you talking about who I think you are?’

‘If you’re thinking Fifine Rosenberg, then yes, I am.’

His face somehow manages to convey pain and love at the same time. ‘My Fifi still thought of me?’

I’m reeling at the thought of the formidable Ms Rosenberg being called Fifi, so I give him a shrug and a nod. The unspoken truth is that she must have thought of him every day. That she’d left him her fortune was a red flag regarding her feelings.

Another sure indicator were the books she’d written. I looked them up online and saw they all dealt with lost love. The reviews they’d garnered were positive, but many of them mentioned a melancholy feel. Lots of the reviewers said the books “perfectly encapsulated their feelings about a love that had never blossomed into fullness”.

His chin returns to his chest and rises again so he can look me in the eye. ‘I can’t take her money. I can’t accept it. Not after the way I failed her.’

Pauline had hinted that Ms Rosenberg had anticipated this reaction, and that I was not to take no for an answer.

I like to think I have principles, but I’m not sure I’d be able to turn down the kind of money he’s been left.

‘I think you’d be failing her again if you refuse to accept her last request.’ I let my words have a moment to register, and point out that he hasn’t asked how much the inheritance is.

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s one dollar or a billion. My feelings on the matter are the same either way.’

This isn’t the reaction I was expecting, but I have to admire him for his principles. ‘You should know that Ms Rosenberg was insistent that her money be handed to you. Should you not have been alive, it was to be passed to your descendants.’

‘Tell me, Mr Boulder. If you had let a good woman go, and had regretted it every day for forty years, would you take her money when she died? Would you take her money when you had been too selfish to accompany her when she’d fled town in fear of her life? Would you take her money knowing you’d broken her heart?’

‘No, I guess not.’ The admission is out of me before I realise it’s damaging my side of the argument. I pick my next words with greater care. ‘But I’d also want to respect her last wishes. She chose you as her sole beneficiary for a reason.’

His chin saws against his chest as his head shakes from side to side. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Don’t think of it as profiting from her death.’ I recognise that he’s starting to waver, so I press home my slight advantage. ‘Think of it as enduring proof of her love for you. If not for yourself, accept her gift for your family. Use it to give them a better life.’

I know better than to mention numbers at this point. It’s principle we’re discussing, not dollar signs.

‘I didn’t give my Fifi a better life. I made hers worse by not having the courage to go with her.’

‘Do you think she saw it that way? Do you think she blamed you? That she hated you for not going with her? She loved you. From the day she left New York, until the day she died.’ I make sure I have eye contact with him. ‘I talked to her editor at the Casperton Gazette. She never dated anyone since you and she said goodbye. She didn’t sleep around or join the dating pool. Your Fifi didn’t want anyone but you, and if you ask me, the reason she left you her money is because she had forgiven you. To refuse her last request would be to refuse her forgiveness. You’ve lived with the thought of failing her for forty years. Can you live the rest of your life knowing you’d spurned her forgiveness?’

‘You, Mr Boulder, are a very persuasive gentleman who knows how to press the buttons of an emotional old man.’ He pauses to lick his lips and wipe a tear from his cheek. ‘If I took the money and put it into a trust for my grandchildren, do you think she would consider that I had accepted her forgiveness?’

It’s a compromise for all concerned, but I’m sure Ms Rosenberg – she’ll never be Fifi to me – would agree to his terms were she here to speak for herself.

Halvard calls out, something I don’t catch, and Gavriel walks in with a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses.

‘Now then, Mr Boulder. Will you join an old man in toasting a remarkable lady? I have a lot of questions to ask you about my Fifi.’

16

Halvard pours me a generous slug of whisky for the third time, and raises his glass in a silent toast.

I’ve told him everything I can about Ms Rosenberg, and he listened with teary eyes as I praised her determination to get to the heart of the stories she’d covered.

When I told him of her secret life as an author, and the pen name she’d adopted, he twisted his lips into a tight grin and told me she’d loved the novel Lorna Doone.

Now that I’ve answered all his questions, I have a few of my own I want to put forward.

‘Ms Rosenberg left New York in what I gather was rather a hurry.’ I pull the paper that has the list of names and numbers on it from my pocket. ‘She left me this and told me to raise hell with what I find. I can’t crack her puzzle, nor can I begin to guess what I’ll find that will raise hell. Can you help me at all?’

He falls silent as he looks at the sheet of paper.

I nurse my whisky and wait him out. The whisky is a good one, but I’m doing my best not to drink too much of it. One more glass will tip me past the point where I can stop. After that it’ll be a race to the bottom of this, and any other bottles I can find. No doubt I’ll wake up somewhere I shouldn’t and there may or may not be a fight involved.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you with this.’ He pauses, looks out of the window and then at his shoes. ‘But I can tell you a little of why my Fifi left New York.’

The whisky I’ve consumed makes me want to giggle at his insistence on referring to Ms Rosenberg as Fifi, but I manage to control myself as I gesture for him to continue.

‘You told me she was determined to get to the heart of a story; she was the same all those years ago. Dogged and persistent. The problem was, she’d uncovered the wrong story. She had it all written up and, when it went to her editor, it got deep-sixed.’ He takes a gulp of his whisky. ‘Naturally she had demanded to know why, but he’d told her to leave it and said no more on the matter. The next day I got a visit. The person who visited me was what they called a “made man”. If you know what that means, I don’t have to spell things out to you.’

I nod to show that I know what a made man is. The term is a mafia one for those who’ve been formally accepted as a member. This puts a whole different slant on things, but my thought processes will have to wait until I’ve finished speaking with Halvard.

‘The visitor told me to tell Fifi that she had twelve hours to forget everything she knew about her story and leave New York.’ He grimaces. ‘It took me three frantic hours to find her, and another two for me to persuade her that her life was in danger. Two hours after that, I was at Grand Central Station waving at a train.’ His voice falls to a whisper. ‘Don’t say anything to Gavriel, but I’ve spent the last forty years of my life regretting not being on that train with her.’

I’m desperate to ask what the story was about, but recognise he needs a moment to salve painful memories. I go to take a sip of my whisky, only to find my glass has become empty.

Halvard notices and splashes another three fingers of amber liquid into the glass.

I take the tiniest of sips and put the glass on the floor. If that glass gets emptied a fourth time, there’s no guessing the trouble I’m likely to find myself in.

‘You probably want to know what the story was?’

‘Hell yeah.’ As soon as the words are out, I regret the flippancy the whisky has brought to me.

Halvard doesn’t pay my rudeness any attention. ‘So would I.’ His head gives a sad shake. ‘She refused to tell me. Said it would be safer for me not to know.’

I fall silent and think of the old man in front of me. He’s spent forty years regretting actions he didn’t take. To make matters worse, he never knew the reason why his girlfriend had to leave town, and him.

Whichever way up you stand it, their situation is nothing less than heartrendingly tragic.

17

Cameron exits his car and takes a look at his surroundings. Around him are the trappings of wealth. Not the comfortable lifestyle, kind of wealth: more the serious kind of wealth where a top-of-the-range Ferrari will be one of several cars in the garage.

The man he’s here to see has dealt with him before. Granted, Cameron was acting as an intermediary for his employer, but the relationship was established all the same.

More important than any other part of Cameron’s plans, is the fact that a protocol has been established. He isn’t some chump walking in off the street with a bag full of empty promises. He is a recognised employee of a customer you don’t say no to.

As is befitting of his employer’s status, Cameron deals with the owner of the dealership, rather than one of his sales team.

‘I trust you can accommodate me with something suitable?’

‘Of course.’ The salesman’s smile is far wider than it is sincere. ‘What will your budget be?’

Cameron sees the dealer’s head bob when he tells him how much he is willing to pay. The guy is probably working out how best to flannel him with a line of sales bull. He needs to make sure he gets the right end of the bargain.

‘We’ve traded before. There’s every likelihood we’ll trade again. I’m trusting you to discount one of your better ones to fit our budget rather than mark up a lesser priced one. Do I have to remind you whose trust I represent?’

‘No, no, of course you don’t.’ The dealer makes a dismissive gesture, as if the idea he would cheat Cameron is ridiculous. ‘I have several options available that would suit your needs. If you’ll give me a moment I’ll get some brochures and, if you like any of them, we can go and take a look.’

Cameron looks at his watch and takes a moment to admire the view from the dealer’s window. The sun is glinting off the water and there is a beauty to the scenery that reminds him of another country. He still pines for the land he left all those years ago. Not the weather or the grimness of life in Glasgow, more the people. Glaswegians are a garrulous bunch who are welcoming, loud and, when the occasion calls for it, hard. They’ll feed and water you with a smile on their face, but should you step out of line they’ll think nothing of dressing you down.

As well as the people, he misses other staples of Glasgow life as well. The greasy mutton pies, the roar from Hampden when Scotland score, the banter between Celtic and Rangers fans and the walk home from the pub with a bag of chips and a deep-fried haggis in crispy batter.

He knows he should miss his family and feels bad that he doesn’t. Not bad for them, bad for himself, as he recognises he must have something missing in his psychological DNA.

Life in America has been good to him and, as far as he’s concerned, it’s about to get a hell of a lot better.

The dealer returns with the brochures.

As he leafs through the various options, Cameron is recalling the research he did online before making this visit. He dismisses three of the seven options as being marked up to match his budget, and concentrates his attention on one he’s seen advertised elsewhere for a million dollars above his proposed expenditure.

‘This one looks very nice. I trust you’d still make a profit if you sold it to me for the agreed figure?’

Cameron is pleased to see the dealer squirm a little. He’s caught him trying one of the oldest tricks in sales: learn your customer’s budget and persuade them to exceed it.

‘I’ll be honest, Cameron, I’d need another five hundred thousand for this one.’

‘That’s such a shame. It’s by far the nicest option, but you’re not exactly showing me, or the man I represent, much respect by trying to upsell, are you?’

The dealer’s hands rise in a surrender gesture. ‘Please, Cameron, I don’t mean any disrespect. I guess I’ve been a salesman for so long, upselling has become a habit.’

Cameron waits before answering. All the power is with him and he’s drawing out his response to make sure the dealer will do what he wants. He may have trained as an accountant, but his real skill is in negotiating purchases.

Cameron is the official buyer for his employer’s many legitimate businesses. He is also tasked with getting the best deal when it comes to vehicles, properties, and any fripperies he decides he wants. In the last month he’s closed deals for a work of art, two bars, one vintage sports car, and a whole range of smaller items.

‘I think if you were to agree to waive the extra half mil, I could find a way to forget the disrespect you’ve shown me.’ Cameron smiles. ‘Subject to a viewing, and my approval of course.’

Cameron can tell from the look in his eyes that the dealer will lose money on the sale, but he doesn’t care about that. His concern is with himself and the purchase he’s making. This is his way of laundering the money he’s planning to appropriate from his employer. Once the money trail becomes evident, the dealer will have other issues to think about.

The dealer’s hand trembles as he offers it to Cameron. ‘Subject to your approval after viewing, I can let you have it for your budgeted amount.’

Cameron has the grace to keep his smile the right side of smug. He’d always expected to get a good deal, just not this good.

As for the dealer, Cameron expects him to fold and tell everything at the first sign of trouble. His employer’s men won’t ask polite questions, they’ll threaten, intimidate and use violence as a matter of course. He knows that the dealer’s betrayal won’t be personal, and that the man’s instincts will concern his own survival.

18

I don’t like the way the bartender is looking at me. It’s a look I’m more than familiar with. Hell, I’ve used it myself on many occasions when door-minding at the Tree. It’s telling me I’ve had as much drink as he’s going to give me.

His judgemental attitude can take a hike. I don’t need some snooty bartender in a fancy hotel deciding when I’ve had enough. If he won’t get me another whisky, I’ll get it someplace else.

From the corner of my eye I can see a pair of managerial types. Their heads are close together but, from the glances they’re flicking my way, I can tell it’s me they’re discussing.

This little tableau is typical of a high-class hotel. The staff aren’t used to tossing drunks, and as such, they’re nervous about how I’ll react when they try to manage me. Were this to take place in a less genteel establishment, there would be either security at the door or a weapon under the bar.

I pick up my glass and wobble my way to a cream leather sofa, where I collapse in a heap of whisky fumes and troubled thoughts.

The last thing Halvard told me was that, when Ms Rosenberg’s murder had made the news, he’d received a visitor who’d requested that he pass on information about anyone who came to see him regarding her.

That means the mafia are still fearful of the story she wrote all those years ago.

Halvard assured me that he wouldn’t tell them about my turning up, but their contact with him highlights the seriousness of the task that Alfonse and I have been given by Ms Rosenberg.

Never once have I considered that I would be going up against the mafia; that the secret I have been tasked to find would damage them. I can think of other ways of putting my head in a noose, but none of them seem as foolhardy.

Yet, I’m a believer in justice. My moral code tells me that the good guys should defeat the bad guys; that heinous crimes should never go unpunished.

In my drunken state, I’ve decided to carry on searching, and make a judgement call when I uncover whatever Ms Rosenberg has stashed in the safety deposit box.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ It’s the female managerial type. She’s holding a tray bearing a large coffee pot and a cup, along with a plate of cookies. The tray is placed on the table I’m slouched beside. ‘Compliments of the hotel, sir.’

Her smile is bright, although I can tell she’s nervous. She has no need to be.

The coffee is what the hotel will class as a masterstroke. It will give me something other than alcohol to drink, and the cookies will be intended to soak up some of the whisky swilling around inside me.

It’s a shame she doesn’t know much about alcohol and its effects on the human body. Coffee is a stimulant, which will make me more active. The cookies are a nice touch, but the alcohol they’re intended to soak up will be absorbed into my bloodstream by now. Sure, they’ll help with any future intake, but neither they nor the coffee will do anything to sober me up.

All the same, the hotel management have managed me with dignity, so I decide that my next whisky should be drunk in a place that will serve me as many as I care to order.

Even though I’m three parts drunk, my brain hasn’t stopped chewing over the puzzle left by Ms Rosenberg. An idea comes to me, so I lurch my way to the bar and ask for a pen and some paper.

I slide a ten across the bar and ask the bartender to list all the New York banks he can think of.

Ten minutes later I have his list and I’m scribbling away. My thought patterns aren’t brilliant, but there’s no way I’m going to stop what I’m doing.

Except I do stop, or rather, pause. The papers and pen are stuffed in a pocket and I’m on my feet heading for the exit as fast as my unsteady legs will carry me.

There’s neither a crisis nor an emergency – other than the empty whisky glass that I’m sure won’t be refilled here.

The street is packed but I don’t care that I’m unsteady on my feet or bumping into random pedestrians as I go looking for my next drink.

19

The call from Alfonse has given me more to think about. It was a brief call; his tone had changed as soon as he heard the slur in my voice.

I know I should go back to the hotel and sleep off the drink I’ve already had so I can deal with everything with a clear head. Had Alfonse not suggested I do so, there’s a good chance it’s what I would have done.

He did suggest it though. This means the contrary asshole in me must to do the opposite.

I order another bottle of beer and a whisky. I’m not sure how many I’ve had, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does.

Alfonse has managed to locate my father. I have a vague understanding that he tracked the calls that Father had made to Granny and Grandad and worked back from there.

That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Father lives in a place called Clifton, which is one of the towns surrounding New York.

This means I could be knocking on his door in a couple of hours. Introducing myself to the man who walked out of my life without so much as a goodbye.

I realise that a selfish part of me had been hoping Alfonse wouldn’t be able to find Father. That way I wouldn’t have to confront the man I least want to meet.

A slug of whisky doesn’t wash the sour taste of self-loathing from my mouth. My brother needs me to find my father. It couldn’t be simpler. It’s a matter of life or death, yet I don’t want to do it.

Of course, I will do it. But every moment I spend with him, I’ll be expecting to once again feel the pain of his rejection.

The door of the bar opens and a vision of beauty walks in. At least, she’s beautiful when she first walks in. As soon as she sees the shape of me, some of her beauty is tarnished by the scowl that covers her gorgeous face.

Taylor sits opposite me and lets her expression and body language do the talking for her. They speak of disappointment and exasperation.

She glances at her watch and I remember we’re supposed to be having dinner with her parents before they fly back to Casperton.

‘I’m sorry. Halvard wanted to toast Ms Rosenberg and I kinda got the taste for it.’

Her nose wrinkles and she pulls away when I reach for her hand.

‘I trust you are aware that I’ll have to lie to my parents about your absence from the dinner table.’ Her top lip curls into a breaking wave. ‘I hate lying to my parents.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Her face tells me that words aren’t going to be enough to sort this; I’ll have to prove myself to her all over again.

The strange thing is, I want to prove myself. Letting her down doesn’t make me feel good.

I stand up and wobble for a moment until my muscles hold me more or less upright.

‘Hey, sugar. Don’t you be after wasting none of your time on that bum. You come over and talk to Old Fred here and he’ll make sure you’re looked after real good.’

I refocus a bloodshot eye on Old Fred. He’s about my age, a couple of inches taller than me, and a damn sight nearer sober. Because Taylor is with me, I choose to ignore the urge to see what he looks like with a broken nose.

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m quite happy with Young Jake.’

Taylor’s words are a joy to behold as they show loyalty and commitment. They’re also the type of putdown that generally sees egos deflated.

Old Fred’s ego doesn’t like being punctured. It compels him to cross the room and square up against me. ‘Let’s see how much you like Young Jake once Old Fred has kicked his ass.’

Taylor goes to step between him and me but he shoves her aside.

So far as I’m concerned that’s all the provocation I need, so I thrust my forehead towards his nose.

He’s ready for me and recoils, causing me to miss. I haven’t just missed, I’m off balance.

The punch he throws collides with my ribs. This is a good thing. Had he landed the blow to my stomach, there’s every chance I’d be splashing his boots with beer and whisky.

I grab his shirt with both hands and throw another head-butt at him.

This one lands on target and busts his nose. I follow it up with a hard uppercut that drops him to his knees.

The kick I deliver to his balls leaves him lying on the ground in the foetal position; a mixture of moans and curses spill from his lips. Old Fred may talk in the third person, but he’s less than half the man he thinks he is.

I don’t have time to celebrate my win as I’m grabbed from behind by what I assume is one of Old Fred’s buddies. A man wearing anger like an overcoat steps in front of me.

He’s a big guy and I’m guessing the bulging muscles he has on display are forged through hard work rather than gym training and steroid abuse.

His first punch splits my lip and loosens a tooth or two.

I don’t intend him to land a second.

To free myself from the guy holding me, I bend at the knees and throw my head back as I straighten them.

I wriggle my left arm from his grasp, whirl to the side, and use his right arm to throw him towards his buddy.

Lady Luck has decided to favour me, as Mr Angry’s next punch lands square on his buddy’s chin, knocking him out.

That just leaves Mr Angry to deal with.

The problem he’s got is, I’m angrier than him. It’s one thing some bozo chancing his arm with my girl; when said bozo gets his ass kicked for pushing her, his buddies should have the decency to recognise he had it coming.

My retaliation is neither pretty, nor filled with technique. I launch myself forward, intent on throwing punches until Mr Angry joins his buddies on the floor.

I catch a few punches as I move forward, but Mr Angry is too busy defending himself against my onslaught to mount a decent counterattack.

A pair of right crosses, and a straight left followed by a gut punch, see him double over and sink to the ground.

I’m about to follow him to the floor so I can deliver a memorable life lesson, when I feel a hand on my arm and hear Taylor’s voice.

‘Jake. That’s enough!’

20

I wake to discover someone is using the inside of my head as a squash court. At least, that’s what it feels like.

The dryness of my mouth is Saharan in its intensity, and I think my stomach may have been replaced by a decrepit cement mixer.

I try and recall what happened last night until I’m brave enough to open my eyes. Vague recollections of a fight explain the tenderness of my face and I have no trouble remembering Taylor railing on me.

As I run my hands down my body, I find that I’m still wearing my jeans although my shirt has been removed. There’s what feels like a decent sheet covering me, so I surmise that I made it back to the hotel.

I open an eye to confirm my whereabouts but there’s nothing but dark shadows. For a moment I fear the fight has caused damage to my eyes.

The fear is dispelled when I see the luminous hands on my watch. It’s just after three, which I’m guessing is a.m., therefore it’ll be dark outside.

I slide a hand slowly across the bed and touch silky hair. A sniff gives me the familiar aroma of Taylor’s perfume.

So far, so good. I’m in the right bed with the right girl. Yeah, she might be pissed at me, but I’m confident I can change that state of affairs.

Truth be told, I’m pissed at myself. There was no need for me to continue drinking once Ms Rosenberg had been toasted. It was an indulgence that I’m going to spend the rest of the day paying for.

What’s more, it was stupid of me to go on one of my benders when there are so many things that need my full attention. I’ve completed one of two tasks for Ms Rosenberg and I still have to face my father. If he’s anything like the man I think he is, he may need to be persuaded to help John.

My bladder reminds me why I woke up so, taking care not to wake Taylor, or distress any of my aches, I slip from the bed and pad my way to the bathroom.

The face I see in the mirror doesn’t look good, but I’ve seen it look worse.

As I’m finishing in the bathroom, I remember that I’d been trying to crack Ms Rosenberg’s code, and recall stuffing the notes I’d made into my jacket pocket.

I don’t feel like sleep, so I retrieve my shirt, jacket and boots, and return to the bathroom to dress before going downstairs in search of coffee.

The doe-eyed receptionist greets me with suspicion, but arranges to get me the coffee I request.

I take a seat in the empty bar and unfold the crumpled pages of notes. Each has the names and numbers listed along with the words they spell out. In my drunken state, I’d rotated the numbers against the names looking for a solution.

It’s the sixth page that holds my interest.

In a scrawl I hardly recognise as my own, I have written:

Watson – 6 N

Marshall – 2A

Evans – 2V

Devereaux – 4E

Clapperton – 1C

Devereaux – 7A

Boulder – 7R

Devereaux – 3V

Boulder – 6E

Clapperton – 7R

It might not look like much, but the list of banks someone has written down for me includes one called Carver. This must mean N A V E is an address for the specific branch of the bank to go to.

I work on the assumption that A V E is short for avenue, which means I need to find a street beginning with the letter N and ending in avenue.

Google gives me the answer in thirty seconds. There is a branch of the Carver bank located on Nostrand Avenue.

I’m tempted to go and check it out, but it’s not the best idea for me to go wandering around Brooklyn in the middle of the night with a bad hangover and very few city smarts. The fact I’m battered and bruised from a bar fight will attract trouble like flies to dung.

Instead of action, I opt for coffee and thoughts.

The coffee is good and the thoughts are bitter.

21

The Carver Federal Savings Bank is nothing like I was expecting. I had pictured a grand, old building which would dominate the space around it, with an imposing frontage and an air of respectability.

Instead I’m faced with a wall of glass and a single-storey building. It doesn’t match any of my pre-conceived ideas, but then nothing about Ms Rosenberg has. I spent several hours this morning thinking about her life, as well as the secret she has charged me and Alfonse with not just finding, but sharing too.

My best guess is that she had uncovered a crime and was hounded out of town because of it.

The anonymity Ms Rosenberg enjoyed in life, wasn’t afforded to her in death. As the final victim of a bunch of twisted racists and bigots, her death had hit the headlines at a national level alongside the other victims.

That Halvard was visited so soon after Ms Rosenberg’s murder, shows that the person implicated in the story is still very much alive.

I also chewed on the fact that blowing her secret open, may present a level of danger should the implicated person or persons find out who is behind the unveiling. I have to trust that Alfonse will find a way to inform the necessary people without leaving a trail to us.

‘Do you want to stop standing there, looking at the bank, and go in?’

It’s not like Taylor to be so caustic, but considering how she was when she woke up, she’s come a long way. She’s decent enough to have accepted my heartfelt apologies, but she’s not beyond putting me through the mill a little to make sure I’m reminded of her displeasure.

I give her a nod and stride into the bank. It’s just like any other: there are a number of tellers dealing with business people, depositing the weekend’s takings; a young mother with a kid in a stroller is speaking loud enough for everyone to hear her displeasure at the bank’s refusal to raise her credit limit; and there are a dozen or so people waiting their turn with bored expressions.

Taylor and I join the queue and wait. I should probably try and make small talk to show contrition, but I’m not sure she’s ready for it yet. Besides, my focus is on what we might discover in Ms Rosenberg’s safety deposit box.

It takes fifteen minutes for us to get to speak to a teller. The one we get is a guy in his early twenties, and I can tell by the lack of emotion in his greeting that he’s less than ecstatic to be here. Teller Boy wears enough hair product to pollute the Pacific Ocean and his beard may well thicken out in a decade. Or two.

‘I’d like access to my safety deposit box please.’ I hold up the key in case he’s too dumb or disinterested to understand my words.

The lie that the box is mine isn’t the worst one I’ve ever told and I’m not sorry for it. The last thing I want to do is draw the bank staff’s attention to me, and whatever Ms Rosenberg may have left.

‘Take a seat. I’ll have to get Mr Nolan.’

He levers himself off his padded stool and approaches a door. He knocks, opens it, and walks through it, without waiting for an answer.

Taylor and I take seats as instructed. Now that we’re this close to finding out what’s in the box, I start to doubt myself. It’s not that I think I’m wrong; more that I begin to wonder if I’m going to be left looking stupid when the key doesn’t open the box.

Another part of my brain imagines a different scenario. One that has me and Taylor bundled into the back of a panel van by a bunch of gun-wielding hoods. Ms Rosenberg’s secret will be taken from us, and Taylor and I will be sent to sleep with the fishes.

I know I’m jumping at clichéd shadows but, after hearing Halvard’s story, I can’t stop thinking that every person looking our way is a mafia spy watching us.

I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds. If the mafia were watching this bank they’d know more than just the branch details.

None of this does anything for my jitters though. I can fight, I’m good at it, and on primal levels, I enjoy it, but there is a world of difference between tossing drunks and fitting people with concrete overcoats. Sometimes in life, you have to recognise your limits.

I see a man emerge from behind the counter. He’s dressed the way a bank manager is expected to dress. His shoes are buffed to a glossy finish and his suit is sharper than anything that’s ever been in my cutlery drawer, let alone my wardrobe.

It’s his head that lets the side down. He probably imagines that the stubble makes him look cool; instead it makes him look uncouth. Coupled with the horseshoe of hair that hangs to his shoulders, it destroys everything his clothes set out to create.

‘I’m Nolan, the manager.’ He proffers his hand for a shake. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, ma’am.’

Nolan’s hand is rough and his grip strong. I now have a mental image of him dressed in denim and leather, sitting astride a Harley. In the pillion seat is a wrinkled woman with more tattoos than teeth.

Nolan leads us through a side door, taking care to make sure we don’t see the number he keys in. We’re in a short corridor with four closed doors. He takes us to the door at the end of the corridor and repeats his secretive number pressing.

When Nolan opens the next door he reveals a staircase. The cloying smell of decay and age wafts up at us, making me think that the door hasn’t been opened in a long time.

He sets off down the stairs and I gesture for Taylor to go after him. When we get to the bottom, we are confronted by the kind of huge door I’ve seen in a thousand heist movies.

Nolan spins the dial on the front of the door through a series of clockwise and counter-clockwise turns, until there’s a faint clunk. Next he grips what looks like a ship’s wheel and spins it. The whine that accompanies his exertions makes me think this door is rarely opened.

The door doesn’t creak when he hauls it open, but I can see beads of sweat covering his forehead as he battles against unoiled hinges.

‘Which box number is it, sir?’

I read the number on the key and watch as his eyebrows rise.

‘Interesting.’

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t make anything of his comment. Instead, I wait for him to take me to the actual box.

His interest is intriguing to me though. I’m guessing he and his staff have wondered about this box many times. The fact it’s lain untouched for forty years will probably have puzzled them and led to wild speculation. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he, or a previous manager, has had a peek at the box’s contents out of curiosity. I know it’s unfair of me to malign bank managers this way, but they are a section of society I’ve never felt able to fully trust. To my mind they are money-grubbers, whose main aim in life is the collection of other people’s assets.

Nolan leads us into the vault and I see a range of different sized safety deposit boxes. Some are like drawers in a dressing table and others are large enough to be used as football lockers. If Ms Rosenberg has one of the larger boxes and it’s full, there’s no way the backpack I’m carrying will suffice.

Nolan stops before a column of the smaller boxes, points at the third from the bottom, and steps aside. ‘This is the one.’

I could blame the dusty air and the confined space for my dry mouth and shortness of breath, but it would be a lie. This is the moment of truth. I’m about to find out what’s in the box.

I look at Taylor and get a nod as confirmation that I should open the box. Nolan, to his credit, has retreated to the door and turned his back.

The key doesn’t slide into the lock with ease; I push it a little. Not hard enough to jam it, but with sufficient power to force it through decades worth of dried oil.

It’s the same when I try to turn it. The key goes a fraction clockwise then stops dead.

I press a little harder, fearful that the key will snap in the lock.

It doesn’t budge, so I turn it counter-clockwise until it is back to its locked position. I draw the key out and use my fingers to remove the fragments of dried oil.

The key slides in easier the second time, but it still won’t turn past that first fraction.

A touch on my arm alerts me to Taylor. She’s holding the miniature bottle of perfume that she keeps in her purse.

I get her meaning at once and remove the key, clean it with my fingers again, and give it a liberal spray of perfume. I scoosh a few squirts in the lock and try inserting the key again.

This time, after a few gentle twists in either direction, it rotates through ninety degrees.

I pull on the box’s handle and the drawer slides open with a tortured screech.

The lid lifts with ease. All I can see is a large brown envelope and, while it doesn’t look full, there are enough papers inside to give it a bulge.

I lift the envelope from the box and slide it in my backpack. Whatever it contains has waited forty years for discovery. Rather than open it in front of Nolan, I decide that its secrets can wait another few minutes until we’re somewhere private.

When the safety deposit box clangs shut, I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I draw in some air and leave the dusty vault, which now has a hint of summer flowers from Taylor’s perfume.

As we leave, I hand the key to Nolan and tell him that we have no further need for the safety deposit box.

22

Taylor sends me to the bathroom while she orders coffee. I don’t need the bathroom; we both agree I should open the envelope somewhere private. The coffee shop was her idea.

I also think she’s making sure I have plenty of fluids, although I’m already energised by coffee after spending half the night either drinking or thinking. I still haven’t told her that Alfonse has given me an address for my father.

I tried to assess my feelings about meeting him, as an adult, but didn’t get very far. The whisky that was still in my system had me oscillating between wanting to punch his lights out, and hoping he would break down in tears, proclaiming that leaving Mother, Sharon and me was the biggest mistake of his life.

Now I’m sober again, I know that hitting him isn’t the best idea when I need his help, or should I say, my half-brother needs his help. Nor do I believe he’ll show any degree of repentance. If he had wanted to connect with me or Sharon, it would have taken one call to my grandparents to find out where we were. That call may have happened, but whether it did or not, he never turned up on my doorstep with a hangdog expression and a mouthful of apologies.

When I spoke to Grandad on the phone, I was on the point of asking him if he’d kept my father updated on my life, when something stopped me. Looking back, I think it was the fear of Grandad telling me that Father had never asked about us. Whatever else happens when I confront him, I know I’ll be guarding myself against the pain of further rejection.

A cubicle becomes free so I enter and concentrate on not breathing through my nose.

When I pull Ms Rosenberg’s envelope from my backpack, I see a signature has been scrawled across the sealing flap.

I take a close look at the signature and see the envelope has remained unopened. Either Nolan and his predecessors are unworthy of my distrust, or they’ve been deterred by the signature.

I’m not. I tear the sealing strip back and fish out the contents.

There are some pages that have been torn from ring-bound notebooks, two typed pages, six black and white photographs, and a small envelope.

The envelope can wait. I look at the loose notebook pages first, but see nothing except a series of indecipherable squiggles. My best guess is that it’s shorthand. With luck, Taylor will be able to translate it for me.

Next, I look at the typed statements. After reading them, the reason I’m holding my breath has nothing to do with the cubicle’s previous occupant. What’s on these pages is huge. Not quite earth-shattering or world-changing, but still huge. I now know why Ms Rosenberg had feared for her life. In her place I’d fear for mine.

Except, I am now in her place. I’m the one who holds damning proof.

I tear open the small envelope and find a key to a post office box. There’s no mystery to this one. Just a scrap of paper with an address.

I don’t know what it contains, but if it’s as incendiary as this envelope, the country will be rocked by the level of corruption.

The people in the pictures aren’t anyone I recognise, but I’m sure they were recognisable when they were taken.

Taylor’s face is expectant when I join her at the small round table in the centre of the room. Nobody is paying us any attention – other than a pair of city workers who’re probably entranced by Taylor’s beauty.

Regardless of our anonymity, I’m nervous about bringing Taylor up to speed in a place where so many people could overhear us. I lean towards her and whisper that I’ll tell her everything as soon as we’re alone.

We take a walk after finishing our coffees. Half a block along from the bank we find a children’s playground. We sit on a bench with graffiti scratched into its paintwork and I let Taylor see the contents of the envelope.

When she’s finished reading she looks at me and gives a grimace. ‘It’s a long time since I learned shorthand, but I can make out most of what Ms Rosenberg has written. We can pick up a notebook on the way to that PO box.’

I’m so pleased by her willingness to help, that I could kiss her. So I do.

She breaks after the kiss. ‘Maybe we’ll get some mints for Mr Whisky Breath before you get your usual ideas.’

This tells me I’m forgiven for last night’s mistake. Sex hasn’t been on my mind this morning, but it is now. With luck, we’ll get to the PO box, retrieve its contents, and be back at our hotel soon.

It’s then that I remember my father’s address. It’s within striking distance of New York. Any romantic thoughts will have to be shelved until I’ve met the last person I want to introduce myself to.

23

Taylor brings me a coffee, takes a seat and sips at her water, leaving a smear of fuchsia lipstick on the glass. On the table in front of us is a great sheaf of envelopes that we’ve retrieved from the PO box. Some are yellowed with age, whereas others are crisp and bear postal stampings with recent dates.

We’ve kept them in the order they were put into the PO box, and we start with the first. It’s a newspaper cutting with notes about the people mentioned, and their involvement in the crime Ms Rosenberg had uncovered.

I’ve known the secret for over an hour now and I still can’t get my head round it. I’ve read the evidence Ms Rosenberg had compiled, more than once, but I’m still struggling to take it all in.

Taylor’s expression tells me she’s going through the same thought processes I am. Neither of us follow politics with any great attention to detail, but we’re both aware of the major issues.

‘This is amazing, isn’t it?’

Taylor’s voice is low, but she needn’t worry. The dive bar we’re in isn’t the kind of place where people care about the conversations of others. There’s two guys sitting at opposite ends of the bar, drinking themselves stupider, and what I presume is a hooker, numbing herself ahead of her working day.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

She looks at me, all hazel eyes and prominent cheekbones. ‘To think he’s built his campaign on exposing his opponent’s links to organised crime, and this …’ – she waves a hand at the envelope-strewn table – ‘… this just proves that he’s worse than they are. We have to expose him, Jake. There’s no way he can be allowed to become Mayor of New York.’

‘You’re right. The thing is, the minute we put our names to exposing this, we’ll be painting huge targets on our backs.’

Taylor looks scared. She should; it’s not some random bunch of thugs or bad guys who’re involved in the mayor-elect’s corruption. It’s the mafia.

The mafia cannot ever be allowed to identify us as whistle-blowers. If that happens, Taylor, Alfonse and I will die. Their numbers and contacts are too great for us to believe that exposing their links to the mayor-elect will lead to their incarceration – and that of anyone who may exact revenge on their behalf.

Every envelope we open is filled with details of the mayoral candidate’s career, first as a lawyer, then a judge. Specific cases are highlighted with examples of links between the defendants and organised crime.

Three of his rulings as a judge, favoured what Ms Rosenberg had revealed as shell corporations, owned by known mafia individuals.

This case may have cost Ms Rosenberg her job and a life with Halvard, but it was quite obviously never been one she could stop building. Her dedication to compiling evidence crosses the line into obsession.

It’s going to take a while for Taylor and me to collate all the evidence, then we must find a way of duplicating it all, so it can be shared with as many news outlets and law enforcement agencies as possible.

I’m not sure if this should go to Homeland Security, the FBI, the police, the NSA, or some other three-letter organisation. Although I am sure that it should go to as many as possible to ensure it gets into the right hands.

For someone to get into office as the mayor of New York with such a corrupt background is unthinkable.

I need to speak to Alfonse. He needs to know what we’ve got, and I’m hoping he’ll come up with the best way to distribute it without putting a noose round our necks.

24

Cameron has everything in place. All he needs to do is transfer the money, wait until it’s been verified as received, and he’ll be able to start his new life. Or as he likes to think of it: his final new life.

He logs on to the site and keys in all the necessary passwords. A minute later, he’s ready to make the transfer.

Seven million dollars are moved from his employer’s account and into the account of the dealer.

He reckons that by the time he turns up at the dealership, the money transfer will have gone through and he’ll be able to escape with his purchase.

He only needs an hour or two head start and he’ll be home and dry.

Everything he needs is in his car apart from one bag, which is sitting by the door ready for collection.

The only way his plan can go wrong, is if his employer checks his bank account before he gets to the dealership. Cameron knows the odds of this are small, as it’s his job to manage the accounts for them.

He throws the bag over his shoulder and opens the door.

There’s a man standing on the porch, with his hand raised as if he’s about to knock. The man looks uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

None of that matters to Cameron.

All that matters is that he recognises the face.

It’s the face he used to see in the mirror many years ago. This version has a cut lip and scrapes synonymous with received punches, but it’s still the same face.

‘John? Is that you, John?’

‘I’m Jake. Your firstborn son.’

Cameron doesn’t know what to say. All of a sudden, his legs are weak and he’s aware of his breath shortening.

Despite the fact he’s kept moving around, and has changed his name on several occasions, he’s always feared the day that one of his children would turn up unannounced.

He finds his voice, but still isn’t sure what to say.

Jake is looking at him in a way he can’t fathom. Cameron isn’t sure whether his son is getting ready to punch or hug him.

To say something, and break the silence, he looks at the woman with Jake. ‘Sharon, my little girl, you’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman.’

‘This isn’t Sharon. This is my girlfriend. She’s called Taylor.’

Even when Jake speaks, Cameron struggles to gauge his mood. Right about now, Cameron could use a stiff drink. And if his son hadn’t picked the worst moment in the last twenty years to show up, he’d damn well have one.

He knows he needs to get this unwelcome reunion over and done with so he can make his escape. Every minute spent playing happy families, is a minute stolen from his getaway.

‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t the best of times for me. Perhaps we can arrange to meet somewhere later?’

Cameron knows he should feel guilty about arranging a meeting he’ll never attend, but he feels nothing except a burning desire to get to the dealership.

‘You haven’t once asked how I am, how my sister is, or if our mother is still alive.’

Jake’s tone holds a ferocity that rocks Cameron. He takes a look at his son’s hands and sees the white-knuckled fists; he knows what happens when the MacDonald blood gets heated.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just such a shock seeing you here.’ An idea comes into Cameron’s mind. Another pair of hands may be useful, and having the boy’s girlfriend around will certainly improve the scenery. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I can drop you at the station as I pass it.’ He hands Jake the keys to his car and the bag from his shoulder. ‘Jump in. I’ll just be a second.’

Cameron goes back into the house and into the kitchen. He turns on the gas stove, but doesn’t spark the igniter, and lays a can of gasoline on its side after removing the top. Standing behind the front door, he sparks his lighter and touches the flame to the wick of a candle. By the time the gas fumes reach the candle that one of his lady-friends brought over, he’ll be at least a mile away.

25

Now that I’ve met my birth father, all the years I’ve spent hating him seem justified. I can’t think of him as my father anymore; he may be, biologically speaking, but having experienced the offhand way he greeted me, his long-lost son, I’m beginning to think that him walking out on us was a good thing.

The moment I’ve both dreaded and rehearsed for many years has come and gone, and none of it happened how I’d imagined. Sometimes I’ve thought he’d welcome me with open arms, other times I’ve imagined him spurning me.

Disinterest wasn’t a reaction I’d anticipated, not even once.

It’s like my visit is a nuisance to him and he’ll be happy to be rid of us.

He’s asking me questions, but since I had to give him prompts, I don’t believe he’s asking out of genuine interest. Rather, I believe he’s controlling the conversation so I don’t ask him for any answers.

Finally, he asks the question I’ve been waiting for.

‘The reason I looked you up, is because my half-brother John came looking for me.’

Cameron nods. I can’t even call him Father in my head anymore. Mr MacDonald would be another option, but that term would afford him a respect he doesn’t deserve. I could call him a derogatory name, but that would indicate I care enough about him to get angry. There’s no way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m still hurting. As far as I’m concerned, he’s Cameron.

‘It’s nice that he found you. I’ve always thought boys should have a brother.’

It takes all my self-control not to ask why he didn’t stick around to give me a brother. Instead of snarling abuse at him, I decide to use bad news as a sucker punch. ‘John needs a bone marrow transplant, otherwise he’ll die of leukaemia. He looked me up hoping I’d be a match.’

‘For his sake, I hope you are.’

‘I’m not. I was close, but not close enough.’

I fall silent and let him join the dots by himself.

His eyes close for a moment and then he swallows.

‘So, you looked me up to tell me your brother is dead?’

‘No. I looked you up to tell you my brother needs you to save his life.’

It’s Cameron’s turn to fall silent.

I let him have some thinking time. My own moral compass would never require time to consider a request such as this but, while we may have similar genetic codes, I have morals that were instilled by a strong woman with bags of determination and a good heart. Mother may be a narcissist but, regardless of how much she complains, she would always put Sharon and me first.

His behaviour promotes a different set of values that centre around the sole needs of Cameron MacDonald.

As I look out of the window at the streets of Clifton, I try and guess what brought him to live in New York’s commuter belt. Sure, there will be anonymity, but he could find that wherever he went. His house, if it is his house, looked like a good one. I’ve no idea what house prices run to around these parts, but I’m guessing it’ll be worth at least three times what I paid for my apartment.

Part of me is willing him to make the right decision; to save the life of a son he abandoned. Not just because it means my brother will get to live, but because it means that whatever relationship I have, or don’t have with Cameron in the future, I’ll know that for once in his life, he has stepped up and done the right thing for one of his children. I never had a proper father I could look up to – although Neill Boulder was everything a stepfather should be – so I would like my one association with Cameron MacDonald to be one I could think about with something akin to pride.

When he speaks, his voice wavers. ‘How urgent is it that he gets the bone marrow?’

‘He’s got another three weeks. After that, he’ll be flying back to Scotland so he can die with his wife and daughters at his bedside.’

Some people might consider mentioning John’s wife and daughters to be a low blow. They can go screw themselves. I’m trying to persuade a selfish prick to save his son’s life. I’ll hit as low as I need to.

‘You mean he’s here? In the States?’

Cameron hasn’t asked about John’s daughters, which doesn’t go unnoticed by me, but it’s hardly a surprise. If he can abandon his own four children, he’s not going to suddenly care about grandchildren he’s never met.

‘Yeah. When his rare blood type prevented any donors being found in the UK, he came looking for me and Sharon. With neither of us being a match, you’re his last chance.’

‘Jake, I want to help. Please believe me, I want to help.’

His tone is plaintive, almost pleading, I get what he’s saying. More important, I get what he’s not asking. Namely: how he can help and where he should go to give bone marrow or at least get tested.

The problem is, there’s a but coming. I decide to wait him out; give him chance to ask how he can help.

‘I’m sorry to have to say this, Jake.’

I feel Taylor’s knee press against the back of my seat. She’s probably warning me to proceed with caution. Warnings never did go down well with me.

‘Say what? That you can’t help him? Or that you’d rather your son died, than inconvenience yourself for a couple of days?’

‘Dammit, boy. Don’t you give me any of your snash. You make out like I should just drop everything and ride to his rescue. Things aren’t that simple you know.’

The anger in his tone takes me aback for a moment, but I use the time to gather my wits and fire back at him in a low growl. ‘Growing up without a father wasn’t simple. Neither was trying not to expect him to come home at any minute. Listening to your mother cry herself to sleep every night, because your father had abandoned her, wasn’t simple. Trying to work out if you had left because you hated us, wasn’t simple.’ I rest my hand on his leg and squeeze until he bats it away. ‘My life hasn’t been simple, but I got by. Tell me, what’s so complicated that you’re prepared to let your son die?’

Cameron begins to speak. His words sound foreign to my ears. What he’s telling me, doesn’t happen to people from Glasgow. Certainly not to people like him.

The sad thing is, what he’s telling me is too far-fetched to be made up.

I turn and look at Taylor. I’m hoping for advice from her, but she stays silent. Her point is clear: the decision is mine. It’s one I’ll live and quite possibly die by.

It’s not a choice I should have to make, yet there’s no escaping the fact it is one I have been presented with.

To save my brother I have to help my father commit a crime. Not a small crime against a faceless corporation; a personal one against his employer. That there will be repercussions is a given.

The only saving grace is that his plan seems as if it will work, and it should allow him to drop off the radar.

‘I’m in.’

A warm hand caresses my shoulder and I feel a brief squeeze of support.

I hide my sigh of relief. Apart from everything else I’m risking by agreeing to help Cameron, my relationship with Taylor may not have survived my decision.

26

I want to cross-examine Cameron about the crime he wants me to help him commit, but instead I stay quiet. Sometimes knowing everything isn’t a good idea. He’s given me the broad strokes and that’s enough.

That he is working as a double agent for two warring businessmen is all I need to know. The heist he’s been tasked with seems simple enough on the surface. While nothing ever runs according to plan, I can’t see any massive danger in what we’re about to do.

In a lot of ways this heist is quite ingenious and, while I’d be the first to confess that my only experience of crime is in the novels I read, I believe we can get away with it. Once the job is done we’ll be able to hop on a plane back to Casperton.

I want to send John a message, telling him we’ll be there in a couple of days, but something makes me hold back. If I’m honest with myself, I think it’s because I don’t trust Cameron.

It’s an odd sensation not trusting the person who sired you. I guess it’s akin to having a spouse be unfaithful, or a sibling con you out of money. It’s not a feeling I’m comfortable with, and part of me wants to point the finger of blame at myself for having unfounded suspicions.

Yes, he’s let us all down in the past, but it’s one thing walking out of your children’s lives, and another thing condemning them to death. I guess, because I share his blood, I don’t want him to be callous to the point of being uncaring.

When he opened the door, and I saw him for the first time since childhood, I got a glimpse of my future. I’ve no doubt the surprise in his eyes was reflected in mine.

On the rare occasions I’ve imagined what I’ll look like in my sixties, the images I’ve conjured have been more or less what Cameron looks like now. Perhaps a little less stressed and with more of a twinkle in my eye, but still very much like him.

All I can hope is that the only things I’ve inherited from him are the MacDonald temper and his looks. The last thing I want to be, is as selfish as he is.

There have been times in my past when Mother’s narcissistic ways have made his leaving understandable. What hasn’t been easy to comprehend, is how he could leave two children who idolised him. I guess at some point over the next few days I’ll sit down with him and pick at those scabs, but I’m determined to wait until he’s saved John, before I start asking the kind of questions that could see Cameron walk out of my life for a second time.

I turn my mind away from thoughts I’m not yet ready to give voice to, and start paying more attention to where we’re going. Or rather, where Cameron is taking us. So far as I can tell, we’ve travelled south, past the western edge of New York, and swung east. I see a sign for Staten Island, but Cameron has pulled into a lane that, according to the road markings, will take us to a place called Perth Amboy.

Cameron seems assured with his driving. He’s not bothered to set the GPS and he’s always in the right lane at the right time. It’s a sure indicator that he’s come this way on more than one occasion. This wouldn’t concern me, were it not for the constant looks at his watch.

He’s worried about the time, which means he’s worried about how long it’ll take until he can get on with his plan.

I get that a heist has to run to plan, and that timings will be a crucial part of said plan; I don’t get why he’s not driving a little faster. The traffic is light enough for us to add another five to ten mph to our speed without any trouble. He doesn’t though, which rings alarm bells. I just need to listen to those bells and interpret their tune.

27

The dealer is all smiles for Cameron as he rounds his art-deco desk. The rest of his office is styled the same way and, just like the dealer, it lacks any real personality beyond that necessary to make the sale.

‘You have the deeds?’

‘But of course. Can I get you anything: a coffee, something stronger?’

‘Just the deeds, thank you.’

The dealer lifts a folder from his desk, opens it and hands the papers inside it to Cameron.

An old hand at legal documents, Cameron only takes a moment to pick out the salient points.

Number one: the deeds are in the name of the shell corporation he’d told the dealer to register his ownership in.

Number two: neither his real name nor the one he’s been using in the US are on the documents.

Number three: the documents are a perfect match for the uncompleted ones in the briefcase resting in the trunk of his car.

‘Very good.’ Cameron gives a curt nod and makes for the door. ‘Shall we?’

When he emerges, he sees Jake and the girl standing by his car. Jake looks pensive while the girl has a red tinge to her cheeks that he puts down to excitement. He guesses she’s never so much as jaywalked before, so this experience will be a new one for her.

He might not know his son, but he’s always been a good judge of character. What’s more, Cameron is self-aware enough to see his own faults being reflected at him. He figures the girl may well be trying life with a bad boy.

If he can avoid Jake’s notice for a while, maybe he’ll see if the girl would like to try upgrading to a bad man.

Cameron resists the urge to keep checking his watch, as the dealer insists on showing them around the motorised yacht.

The two crew members he’s hired are busy loading the yacht with the provisions from the trunk of his car.

His crew aren’t the professional sailors you would normally find on a seven million dollar yacht, but they’ll do for the short time he needs their services.

Cameron manages to get the dealer off the yacht, and is on the harbour wall helping to cast off the mooring ropes, when he hears a name he was planning to leave behind. His head snaps up and he sees three of his employer’s enforcers.

They’re not the top enforcers, but they are still vicious thugs who’re surrounding him. Once upon a time, he’d have been confident against any two of them. Now, he’s too old, too slow and too out of practice to make more than a token gesture of defence.

28

I see the three men surrounding Cameron and know at once that something is wrong. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting trouble; instinct made sure the first thing I did when I got on the yacht was to find a vantage point where I could keep an eye on Cameron.

I dash towards the gangplank and run across it, trying not to picture myself falling into the water.

There’s a definite menace about the men, so I slow to a brisk walk as I approach the nearest of them. He’s got slicked-back hair, tied in a ponytail, and looks as if he should be directing bad porn movies. When he turns, he suggests I go away and multiply with myself.

He’s trying to keep things private, but I see one of his buddies reaching into his suit jacket.

I decide to err on the side of caution and presume he’s not going to pull out a pen and ask for my autograph.

He sees me halt, and draws his hand back a couple of inches. It’s all the advantage I need.

By the time I’ve dashed the six paces between us, his hand has just got inside his jacket. To keep his gun away from me, I thrust my shoulder against his arm and barge him towards the water.

I drop to my knees at the last second and let him topple the twelve feet into the harbour.

As I spring to my feet, I hear the thud of knuckles on flesh behind me.

The wannabe porn director has a broken nose, but the other guy is raining blows towards Cameron. As he’s the biggest threat, I go for him first.

I use the distraction of him beating on Cameron, to get behind him where I can bury a fist into each of his kidneys. First right, then left.

He drops to one knee and gasps in pain. Long term, repeated blows to the kidneys can cause damage but, after a few days of pissing blood, this guy will recover.

His buddy pulls a knife and uses the back of his free hand to wipe away the blood that’s dripping from his chin.

I step between him and Cameron.

‘Get the yacht ready; now!’ I push Cameron towards the gangplank while keeping my eyes on the guy with the knife.

He’s twisting his arm at the wrist as he waves the knife around. His grip is assured and his eyes are filled with confidence.

‘Leave now, buddy, and you won’t get hurt.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s not gonna happen. Why don’t you leave? I’ve already taken care of your friends. That knife isn’t going to stop me taking care of you.’

He lunges forward. Fast.

The knife flashes across where my stomach had been a second earlier, then he follows up the move with a backhand slash towards my head.

His eyes gave away his intentions, but it’s still too close for comfort. I don’t even have time to counterpunch.

He smiles at me and reveals a missing tooth. He’s confident that he’s got the better of me.

I feint a step forward and dance back as he repeats his earlier move.

When his knife arm passes me on his backhand stroke, I pounce.

My left hand grabs his right wrist, preventing him from using the knife on me, as I use my right hand to grab his collar and drag his face towards my thrusting forehead. If his nose wasn’t already broken by Cameron’s punch, it will be now.

I lift a knee to his groin and give a vicious twist on his knife arm. In his beat-up state he drops the knife.

A blow to the temple drops him.

Five seconds later his knife plops into the dark harbour water, and I’m yelling at Cameron to set sail.

29

Cameron watches as Jake bounds up the gangplank. As soon as his son’s feet hit the deck, he barges the crew member away from the controls and rams the throttle against its stops.

The motor yacht gives a deep roar as its engine reaches maximum output. The stern settles lower in the water, and after a minute they’re speeding through the harbour at a gathering pace.

What happened on the dock is way too close a call for his liking. His employer must have been watching their bank account. That spoke of distrust.

It’s now imperative that they put as much distance as possible between themselves and New York. There will be a pursuit, that’s for sure. So long as he can get out of their sight for a few hours, his plan will still work.

A small sailing boat is crossing the harbour, and its path means a collision, but Cameron is in too much of a hurry to slow down. Instead, he waits until the last moment and spins the wheel over, so his yacht rockets between the stern of the sailboat and the side of a pleasure cruiser that is taking tourists on a sightseeing trip. The wash from his yacht rocks the sailboat, and threatens to swamp or capsize the small vessel, but Cameron doesn’t care. All that’s on his mind, is getting the yacht out of the harbour and over the horizon.

Jake appears at his elbow. He’s wrestling with a life preserver, but Cameron knows that the struggle he’s having with the straps, isn’t responsible for the anger in his eyes. If his assessment about his son is right, he’ll be demanding better answers than the lies he’s been told so far.

The lie he’d spun Jake earlier hadn’t been one of his best, but Cameron put it down to being in a state of shock. He was used to having his life planned out in great detail. Surprises don’t happen when you anticipate everything, and he’d long given up expecting one of his children to track him down. That one had found him, and brought news of another’s dire need, had been unforeseeable.

Still, it had rocked him, stolen his usual composure and delayed him long enough for his employer’s men to arrive at the dock before he’d set sail. He knew his employer must have been either suspicious or contacted by the dealer. He guesses the former. Had the dealer contacted his employer, the enforcers would have shown up at his home or would have been waiting for him on the yacht.

Once he’s passed the north part of Sandy Hook, Cameron allows the crew member to take back the controls. The guy looks pissed about being shoved out of the way, but Cameron knows he won’t press the issue. His crew are being well paid for a couple of days’ work and will tolerate whatever he decides to throw at them.

Cameron turns and sees that Jake has got the life preserver fastened, and is watching him with a look that’s part anger, part bewilderment, and part assessment. He knows his son is re-evaluating him and is keen to learn the truth.

‘Not now, Jake. We can talk once we get clear, but now isn’t the time.’

He catches the nod his son throws his way; knows that if Jake is as smart as he thinks he is, it would be wise to speak to him before he works out for himself what’s going on.

Cameron turns and scans the sea in front of them. The waves are kicking up now and, free of the calm waters of the harbour and the bay, the yacht is beginning to pitch and yaw as it crests waves at an oblique angle. So far, it’s nothing the yacht can’t handle, but it was designed to be a rich man’s plaything rather than an oceangoing racer. If the swells get larger, they’ll have to slow to a more sensible pace.

He casts a look back at the bay, squints, and lets out a low curse. The motor boat coming out of the bay is sleek and nimble, and travelling like the person at its helm is trying to beat a world record.

There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s being piloted by one of the enforcers.

30

I watch as the motorboat powers alongside us. Since its arrival from the bay, Cameron has been hidden below decks. So far as I am concerned, it’s the best place for him.

The breakneck race from the harbour and out through the bay would have been exhilarating, had it not been for the whirl of nasty ideas forming in my head. Most of these ideas involve me falling from the boat and being swallowed up by the murky depths of the water. Sometimes, to add a neat twist to the horrors of drowning, I’d imagine a many-toothed sea creature eating me, as the water forced its way into my lungs.

The worst ideas though, are the ones about my father; they’re all about betrayal, double-crossing and manipulation. The stealing of this yacht is no more to do with settling a debt than his lies which brought Taylor and me with him.

Guys with guns don’t attack you on a harbour wall over a dispute between rival companies; unless those companies are the non-legitimate kind.

This is the second time in as many days that I’ve gotten myself mixed up in something that concerns organised crime. I’m big enough to look after myself and make my own decisions; it’s Taylor who worries me. She’s been stoic and has kept a brave face, but I can tell she’s scared witless by the events at the harbour.

If I thought it would be safer for her, I’d insist she be dropped off at the nearest port or harbour, but there’s every likelihood she would be picked up by their accomplices.

The motorboat coming after us is another worry. It may be some rich guy playing with his toy, or it may be the coast guard coming to reprimand Cameron for his mad dash through the bay, but deep inside I know that both of these ideas are nothing more than wishful thinking.

Even as the motor yacht rolls its way through the swells, the motorboat is barrelling forward, cresting waves and slamming down into troughs. The roiling of my stomach is a mixture of the boat’s gyrations and the sense of impending doom as the motorboat narrows the gap.

It catches up and rolls alongside us, fifty or so yards away, close enough for its crew to communicate that they want us to stop.

Of the four men aboard the motorboat, I recognise two from the harbour wall. They don’t look like there’s much fight left in them, but the other two are fresh.

In this situation, freshness doesn’t matter. There’s four of them and, counting my father and the two crewmen, there’s four of us on this yacht.

This wouldn’t be a problem, as I’m confident I could soon get the odds firmly in our favour, were it not for one little fact.

Each of the four men have guns.

Granted, the guns are pistols, which means they are all but useless at fifty yards. Doubly so when they are shooting at a moving target from an unstable platform.

They don’t need to shoot us though. All they have to do is force us to stop, or follow us until we do.

I have no idea how far the fuel in our tanks will carry us, but it’s a moot point. If they are representing organised crime they will have the resources to summon help. They’ll be able to get another boat to take over from them when their tanks threaten to run dry.

That’s not something we can do. We have to keep moving and somehow evade them at a dock or harbour somewhere.

The sound of the engine throttling back makes me look towards the bridge. The crewman at the yacht’s controls has raised his hands above his head and is making sure the four gunmen know he’s being compliant.

I can’t blame him for his actions. To the best of my knowledge, he owes Cameron no loyalty other than a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.

It’s not the crewman’s place to risk his life.

Me, on the other hand; I’ve beaten up two of them and dumped their buddy in the harbour. If they get on the yacht, I don’t think they’ll be asking my name so I can be added to their Christmas card list. It’s much more likely I’ll receive a severe beating, or a bullet in the brain.

With nothing to lose, I dash towards the bridge as the motorboat closes the gap between us.

I’m four paces from the yacht’s controls when I hear a shout.

What I see when I look back is the last thing I’m expecting.

31

Cameron has a submachine gun in his hands. There’s a yell from the other boat that is drowned out by the deafening chatter as Cameron opens fire.

All four men dive for cover but there aren’t many places for them to hide.

Splinters of wood and fibreglass fly from the motorboat, as Cameron empties the entire clip at them. I don’t see any of the rounds strike flesh, but that doesn’t mean much. The sea breeze carries wisps of smoke past me and I get the unfamiliar smell of cordite.

There’s another short burst of noise from the submachine gun as Cameron empties a second clip at the motorboat and its occupants, although as far as I can judge, he still hasn’t managed to hit any of the men. There’s no attempt to return the gunfire, perhaps they know they’re out-gunned. Or maybe, just maybe, they have no intention of pulling their triggers.

The person trying to control the motorboat is spinning the wheel – as am I, on the yacht – and within a few seconds we’ve pointed our sterns at each other. I push the throttles as far forward as they’ll go.

Another option is that they have orders to deliver Cameron to his employer, so he can either witness or carry out whatever punishment he deems appropriate for Cameron’s deceit.

After a minute or so, the motorboat turns and hangs a couple of hundred yards behind us.

I count four men standing at the back of the motorboat, and reason that Cameron’s ability to surprise is far superior to his aim. The guys in the motorboat have wisely decided that surveillance is the most prudent course for them.

Cameron producing the submachine gun has raised more questions in my mind. On the one hand he repelled the boarders and possibly saved all our lives; on the other, the father I’ve known for less than four hours has turned out to be a gun-toting thief who’s mixed up in organised crime.

It does, however, explain why he didn’t break any speed limits on our way to the harbour. Had he been stopped, and the submachine gun found in the trunk of his car, his plan would have surely failed.

‘Here, you take the wheel.’ I wave the nearest crewman forward. He looks nervous, but I smile at him. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t come back anytime soon.’

He swallows the bull I’m feeding him and takes control of the boat. ‘Where are we going?’

‘South,’ Cameron’s voice booms from the rear of the bridge. ‘Stay far enough out to sea to keep the coast out of sight. Our fuel tanks are full. They’ll run out long before we do.’

I’d marvel at his confidence were I not dumbfounded by his behaviour.

I walk over to him. ‘It’s time we talked, you and me. I’d like to know what’s really going on, where we’re headed and why a sixty-year-old man is auditioning for the next Rambo movie.’

32

Cameron is sitting on a chair in the rear deck area. His legs are crossed and there is a relaxed quality to his posture.

Like so many things about him, it’s a lie. There’s a tremor in his hands and the submachine gun rests on the table beside two spare clips.

‘Well?’ I glare at him for a moment and continue speaking. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or will I just turn the wheel and head for shore?’

He gives a knowing smile that doesn’t so much as threaten to touch his eyes. He’s faker than a five-buck Rolex and can’t be trusted on any level.

I decline the bottle of beer he tries to hand me. ‘Talk.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ There’s a smugness to his voice. He holds all the cards and he knows it. I need him way more than he needs me, and it’s obvious he’s going to milk the situation like it’s a prize cow.

‘This yacht. Who does it belong to?’

‘A company I own. It’s all legal and above board.’ He shrugs. ‘I just got someone else to pay for it, that’s all.’

‘Who?’

He shakes his head. ‘That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know, is the bozos in that boat,’ he uses the submachine gun to point at the motorboat, ‘represent the person whose money bought this boat.’

‘Would I be right in saying that the person whose money bought this boat may be a tad displeased with you using their money?’

‘I think it’s fair to say that he’d be displeased to death.’ A nonchalant shrug. ‘My death of course.’ Another shrug. ‘And the death of anyone who’s with me.’

His lack of concern is pissing me off, and intriguing me. Like a grandmaster playing chess against an amateur, he’s many steps ahead of me.

I need to fight him at his level, not mine. I lean against the rail and stare at the motorboat while I think things over.

When I turn to face Cameron, he’s looking at me with curiosity, trying to assess what I’ve figured out.

I gesture at the motorboat. ‘You’re not worried about those guys, which tells me you have a plan. The fact you had a gun indicates forward planning. Your gun being bigger and better than theirs, means you had foreknowledge of your opponents.’

He gives a nod to validate what I’m saying, and rolls his hand for me to continue.

I watch the motorboat for a minute, but I don’t really see it, as I’m composing my thoughts.

‘The boat that’s following us doesn’t worry you. I’ll credit you with enough brains to know they’ll be calling for reinforcements. That could be anything from a boat with a sniper on board to a helicopter. Yet you’re still looking calm. This tells me you have a plan to deal with whatever, or whoever comes our way.’

Another nod. ‘What time is it, Jake?’

I take a look at my watch. ‘Twenty after seven.’

Cameron doesn’t speak. He just raises an eyebrow and waits for me to work things out for myself.

I give my watch another glance and cast my gaze around. When I notice there is less light on three sides of us, I realise his plan. He intends to wait until dark and use its cover to escape from our pursuers.

I look at the sky and see a thick cloud cover; the kind of clouds that threaten rain and hide moonlight. Both welcome qualities.

‘So, once we’ve gotten away from these guys, what’s your plan?’

A smug look appears on his face. ‘I sell the boat. We do what needs to be done for your brother, and we go our separate ways.’

‘You make it sound simple.’ I tap my toes on the deck. ‘I’ve no idea what this yacht is worth, but I’ll be surprised if it’s less than a few million. Who has the money to buy such a thing with cash?’

‘Everything in life is simple provided you do the necessary planning. I know of twenty boat dealers who would be able to buy this boat without having to check that their account has the necessary funds. Especially if I make the price appealing. I paid seven for it; I’ll take five and a half.’

Something about Cameron has changed. He’s stopped showing his usual signs of deceit. I figure he’s now trying to impress me with his cleverness, and his newfound wealth.

Money has never held much sway for me and, while I appreciate intelligence, unless Cameron can find a cure for cancer, end worldwide famine, and put an end to all wars, he’s never going to be my favourite person.

‘It’s time.’ Cameron stands and heads for the stairway towards the bridge.

It’s his way of telling me our conversation is over and, in a way, I’m glad – despite still having unanswered questions. I have some thinking to do, and I want to find Taylor and make sure she’s okay.

33

For the first time since boarding the yacht, I notice its plushness. Every surface is polished to a glimmering sheen and there is little that doesn’t suggest extravagant opulence. Cameron said he had paid seven million bucks for it second-hand, but it’s a fair bet it was worth twice that brand new.

When I find Taylor, she’s huddled between two cream leather sofas. She hears my voice and lifts her head.

‘God, Jake. I heard the gunfire and I was so scared. I thought you’d get shot and the man with the gun would come for me.’

I bite down on a flippant remark before it passes my lips. The rush of adrenaline I felt when it kicked off has left me keyed up, but I can tell Taylor needs reassurance rather than wisecracks.

‘Don’t worry. Cameron has a plan and it’s a good one.’

While my words may be factually correct, I can’t help feeling that Cameron has overlooked something, or will be caught out by a counter to one of his strategies.

Taylor hugs me and nestles her head against my chest. The gesture is for reassurance, not romance, so I keep my breathing level and hope that if she can feel or hear my heartbeat, it’s now back to somewhere near its usual rhythm.

I’ve left the cabin door open ready to react should I need to. When nothing happens but the disappearing of the coast, Taylor and I watch as dusk turns to night and the sky darkens towards black.

There are a few slow drops of rain that become heavier and thicker until they form a proper downpour.

Despite knowing I’ll get a soaking, I venture outside for a quick look around. Cameron is hunched beside the guy by the wheel and he’s urging him to go faster.

I’m not sure this is the best idea: not only are the waves increasing in size, we’re also running without any lights in near zero visibility. This has disaster written all over it.

I keep my reservations to myself. It may not be the safest way to travel but the Atlantic Ocean is a big place, and the odds of us colliding with another vessel are slim.

The presence of what looks like some kind of radar on the yacht’s bridge is reassuring; as is the fact that, no matter how hard I peer into the rain-drenched gloom behind the stern, I cannot see even the merest sign of the motorboat.

My fears subsiding, I retreat to the cabin and re-join Taylor. Her face is more relaxed although I can tell she’s still walking the tightrope between composure and emotional collapse.

‘Jake?’

‘Yes?’ I return the serious look she’s giving me.

‘Did you mean what you said last night? I know they say a drunk man speaks the truth, but I also know that you need to come to things in your own time.’

I rack my brains and try to recall the conversations we had. I remember her railing on me for getting drunk and for fighting; I also have memories of us sitting side-by-side on the bed, me talking to her as I clasped her hands in mine.

It’s no good. I can’t remember what she’s talking about, which leaves me with two options. Number one is to lie, and number two is to admit that I was so out of it I can’t remember what I said.

I try to think of a third option but I strike a blank. Option one has to be out as I am not a liar and I don’t know what I said to her. In my befuddled state I could have said anything from “we’re finished” to “will you marry me”. Telling Taylor I meant what I said isn’t something I can do until I know what I said.

She gives one of her gentle smiles. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

I shake my head.

Her smile broadens and lights her eyes. This is why I love her: she’s so forgiving, wonderful, and most of all, she gets who I am and allows me to be me.

This realisation brings a memory with it. Last night, for the first time in my life, I looked into a girl’s eyes and told her that I love her.

Granted, the moment should have come after a romantic moonlit walk, over dessert in a swish restaurant, or perhaps when we’re goofing around enjoying each other’s company. Not when I’m only halfway coherent and stinking of whisky.

My eyes fall to the floor in shame, but Taylor is better than that. She lifts my chin. ‘I can see you remember now.’ She smiles. ‘For the record, I love you too.’

‘I’m sorry, Taylor.’ I look into her eyes. ‘You deserved for me to say it sober, but it’s true. I do love you.’

The kiss she gives me is long and deep; it suggests more than forgiveness to me. I feel a stirring in my loins as Taylor presses her body against mine. I’ve heard about the effect that exposure to danger can have on some women, but this is the first time I’ve experienced it.

She pushes me onto a couch, walks to the door and locks it, a hungry expression in her eyes.

34

Banging on the cabin door wakes me. After a quick check to make sure Taylor’s decent, I unlock the door to be confronted by Cameron. If the set to his jaw is anything to go by, he’s not in the best of moods.

His eyes flicker around the cabin and he gives a snort. ‘So, while we spend all night out there, you’re in here getting laid.’

I square up to him and meet his gaze with enough ferocity to see his anger and raise him a psychotic rage.

‘You are the one who decided to rip off a criminal gang. You are the one who stands to walk away with more than five million dollars. You are also the one who’s lied to, manipulated and used every other person on board this yacht. Forgive me if I don’t work myself to death on your behalf.’

Cameron moves forward until our noses are less than an inch apart. There’s no way I’m going to back away, but there aren’t many people I’d allow to invade my personal space like this. If I didn’t need him to save my brother’s life, and if I didn’t respect the fact he is my father, despite not respecting him as a man, I’d make him bloody and horizontal.

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. I need you topside. There’s work to be done and the sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get back to dry land. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

I hate the fact that he’s not only making sense, but that he’s cottoned on to my biggest fear: drowning.

I can swim, but it’s not what anyone would call graceful or balletic. Like a kid in water-wings, I make a lot of effort, and splash a great deal of water, without making any significant forward motion. Only once in my life have I been out of my depth in water and I still have nightmares about it.

I pull on my life preserver and head out to see what he wants done. A look at the morning sun tells me we’re now heading north rather than south. It’s a simple deception that might or might not work.

Both crewmen are on deck, along with an array of packages and a selection of tools, and the sun has burned away last night’s rainclouds.

Cameron passes me a cordless drill with a screwdriver bit, and a few of the packages. ‘Go and change these. Toss the old ones overboard.’

Each of the brown paper-wrapped packages bears a shipboard location, handwritten in thick black ink.

I go to the bridge and unwrap the first one. It’s a nameplate, the same size as the one screwed to the central console.

Less than five minutes later, Lady Ursula has become Dunsettlin. Well, on the bridge at least.

As I work my way around the boat, replacing nameplates, I have to fight not to smile at Cameron’s choice of name. Dunsettlin is the kitsch name that people give to houses back in Scotland. Dunroamin was a popular one for those who’d tired of frequent relocating.

It also shows his inner humour. In his own way, he’s flipping the bird at the people he’s ripping off. Socking it to them with a dry joke at how he’s no longer prepared to settle for the scraps they toss his way.

I’d let myself smile were it not for the fact I share his humour and, therefore, I recognise that I’m more like him than I want to be.

As I make my way around the yacht, I see that Cameron is directing the crewmen as they complete another task.

Both crewmen are in a life-raft and they’re working at the stern of the yacht as it bobs on the waves.

Cameron passes the men a couple of spray paint canisters, and I hear the hiss of escaping paint a moment later. A large cardboard tube is wedged between Cameron’s feet, and I presume it’s a premade sticker to replace the now painted-over Lady Ursula.

The people Cameron has stolen from will be on the lookout for Lady Ursula being sold. By changing the name, Cameron has at least bought some time to get away from anyone who may be pursuing him. Who knows, he may never be traced.

It takes me an hour to locate and replace all the nameplates. When I’m finished, I join Taylor on the rear deck and watch as the crewmen complete their task at the yacht’s stern.

35

It’s early afternoon when we sight land. I have no idea where we are until one of the crewmen shows me a map and points to our destination.

Cameron’s plan appears to be working as there is no sign of any pursuit. He looks more relaxed after grabbing a few hours’ sleep in the stateroom. His demeanour is one of confidence and there’s a certain smugness about his face.

His phone has been pressed to his ear throughout the day and, although I’ve never heard what he’s said, his expression has always suggested that the calls were important.

He joins Taylor and me on the rear deck and offers us a bottle of beer. I refuse mine, but Taylor takes one and rolls it across her forehead before taking a sip.

‘I’ve got someone meeting us at a marina. He’s interested in buying the boat.’

I don’t answer him. I’ll be glad to get my feet back on terra firma, but something is nagging me; there’s something going on and I can’t yet identify what it is or who’s behind it. All I know is that I’m not happy with the setup.

For me, Osterville, on the peninsula that forms Cape Cod, is too near New York for comfort. Had we travelled down the coast to Florida, I would have been more confident that our docking would be a safe affair.

To my mind, trying to sell the boat only a few hours’ drive from NYC is foolish. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for double bluffs, and doing what your opponent least expects, but there’s also the fact that he used to work for the people he’s stolen from, therefore they’ll know what a tricky, contrary person he is. They’ll expect him to do the unexpected and will ensure that his unpredictability plays into their hands.

The yacht putters its way through an opening between two headlands and into a calm bay. We continue past various yachts, sailboats and other boats, before a stilling of the engine signals that the yacht is preparing to dock.

There’s a marina, and the crewman manoeuvres the yacht until its bow is swinging away from the floating pontoons that comprise the dock. The deck vibrates beneath my feet as the crewman puts the boat into reverse and starts edging the yacht towards the pontoons.

Taylor touches my arm. ‘You’re quiet. What are you thinking?’

I don’t answer. My eyes are scanning everywhere and there’s a sense of foreboding that is dominating my thoughts. Something is wrong here.

I look around the marina. The car park is empty; there isn’t a single person working on a boat, ferrying supplies back and forth, or doing any of the other things you’d expect. Other than the seagulls, I can’t see another living creature.

I look at the bar and restaurant building next. With so many yachts and pleasure craft moored here, the bar and restaurant should be booming. It looks closed.

Something moves on the roof of the building. It’s a human shape and is holding a long, thin item. It could be a worker hiding on the roof with a mop, but I don’t think so.

‘Ambush.’ My yell startles everyone on the yacht, but I’m not worried about hurt feelings. I point at the man piloting it. ‘Get us out of here. Fast!’

He leans on the throttle lever but the yacht is a pleasure craft, not a racer, and despite getting full power, it reacts with the kind of sluggishness you’d expect from a vehicle this size.

There’s a crack, and a hole appears in the bridge’s windshield. Cameron and Taylor are on the exposed rear deck, while the two crewmen show their loyalty to Cameron and jump overboard. I’d do the same myself were it not for the girl I love and the brother I’m trying to save.

With nobody at the helm, the yacht will crash into another boat before it has gone two hundred yards. I give myself a mental crossing and dive for the helm. I’m trying to make myself as small a target as possible, when I hear another crack of rifle fire.

Not feeling any pain, or being aware of the bullet striking anywhere near me, I turn and look to the others. Cameron is backing away towards the cabin but, like the coward he is, he’s using Taylor as a shield.

His arm circles her chest and he’s keeping his body behind hers.

I forget all about steering the craft and leap over the rail so I can separate them and get her into the safety of the cabin.

My feet land with a thud and I roll towards them but, as I’m straightening my legs, I hear another crack.

This one is followed a millisecond later by a dull thunk that snaps Taylor’s head back, over Cameron’s shoulder.

A mess of red and grey splatters the side of his face and the bulkhead.

Cameron drops Taylor at his feet and dives into the cabin.

As much as I want to follow him, and punch him until my hands are raw and broken and his head is a squashed pulp, I know what my priority is.

The man with the rifle will just train his gun on the cabin door, and wait for us to emerge while his buddies close in on us.

I scramble up the stairs and take control of the yacht as another bullet smacks into the windshield.

I keep myself as low as I can as I twist the wheel left and right to make sure the gunman’s opportunities to score another kill are as limited as possible.

Once we’re away from danger, I’ll deal with Cameron.

36

There are three more cracks and three slaps, as bullets crash through the windshield or into the timber deck.

I chance a look back, see the sniper on the roof has raised his rifle, and surmise that he’s given up. From nowhere, a bunch of shapes are running towards the pontoons. I figure they mean to steal another boat and follow us.

That won’t do them a whole lot of good. Not with what I have in mind.

Cameron’s actions have turned my veins into glaciers. To say I feel murderous is an understatement.

Despite my anger, and the urge to go down into the cabin and beat my father to death, I have a cold, dispassionate part of my brain, and this is controlling my actions and working out ways to survive.

As furious as I am with Cameron, I know that killing him will sentence John to death. Even in my fury, I still have enough control not to submit to base emotions. There will come a time of reckoning between me and Cameron, but it cannot happen until John’s transfusion has gone ahead.

With the yacht on a course that’ll keep it free from any possible collisions, I clatter down the stairs and go to the cabin. The door is locked but I’m long past the point of caring about the yacht’s resale value.

My foot crashes against the lock side and it splinters inwards. A second kick sees it swing open.

‘You.’ I point a finger at Cameron. ‘Get to the bridge now. Things have changed. I’m in charge now.’ My tone doesn’t leave room for argument, and he’s wise enough to do as he’s told.

I grab my backpack and return to the bridge.

I cannot bear to look at Taylor.

It’s bad enough seeing bits of her smeared across Cameron’s face, without looking at her ruined beauty for a second time.

When Cameron joins me on the bridge, I hold out my hand. ‘Cell.’

He hesitates, so I double him over with a powerful gut punch and pluck it from his pocket. It’s sailing over the rail before he’s finished his second gasp. The punch felt good to me. Too good in fact. It is all I can do not to give in to the desire to throw a few more. Say, a million or two; that might be enough to sate my need for revenge.

I put my own phone to my ear and connect with Alfonse. I give him Cameron’s cell number and tell him to do a trace on anyone who’s been tracking it. He goes quiet when I ask him to make sure he can’t be tracked himself. I want to tell him about what has happened to Taylor, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Acknowledging her death will make it real and definite.

Deep inside, I know she really is dead, it’s just I can’t yet bring myself to believe it.

I cut the call and turn to Cameron. ‘You have one minute to get anything you think we may need, and then we’re leaving this boat.’

His face goes ashen as he realises that I’m serious. He’s not going to get the windfall he was hoping for.

Cameron nods as he faces up to his new reality. There are now finger trails running through the remnants of Taylor on his face. It’s obvious he’s disgusted by the gore and has tried to scrape it from his cheek. The sight offends me as much as him, so I toss him a rag. ‘Clean your face. I don’t want you touching her ever again.’

He ducks away. The sniper attack has shaken him. He’s been outclassed and his plans have turned to crap. I’m his best chance of survival and, as much as I’m furious with him, he knows that, for John’s sake, I won’t kill him.

As I plan a way to get us off the boat without getting shot, I’m thinking ahead: analysing the ways our pursuers can track us, and how to evade any traps they might set.

I’m not just thinking about the next few hours, I’m thinking about tomorrow and the days after that.

John needs Cameron to be in Casperton. As soon as I can find a way to lose our tail, I can then begin to consider how to get Cameron to the hospital.

The only thing I’m certain of is that Cameron cannot be trusted not to disappear the second I stop watching his every move.

A second thought dominates my mind. One of vengeance and violence; retribution and revenge.

Once I get Cameron to Casperton I will act upon my second thought.

My fingers grip the yacht’s wheel until they turn white, as I imagine myself killing the man responsible for Taylor’s death.

I make a vow to myself that Taylor will be avenged, or I will die in the attempt.

‘Cameron?’ His head snaps towards me. ‘Hold on. Things are about to get bumpy.’

37

Cameron sees what Jake is planning and grips the rail surrounding the rear deck with both hands. What his son is doing will cost him millions of dollars, but right now he doesn’t care. With his plan ruined, the only thing on his agenda is staying alive.

It’s a shame the girl died. That wasn’t part of his calculations. He hadn’t expected the sniper to fire at him when he was shielded by an innocent. Still, better her than him.

Cameron knows that Jake will blame him for the girl’s death, due to the way he’d used her, rather than the man who had pulled the trigger. The look in his eyes had been murderous, but the fact that Cameron’s bone marrow is needed for John was enough to save his life.

That will continue to save him until he can slip away from Jake and start a new life again. Money will be tight to begin with, but he’ll find a way. He always does.

Cameron knows he should feel guilty about abandoning John to his fate, but really, he thinks it’s a bit rich – only looking him up when they need something from him.

He left both of his families behind for a reason. The same reason each time: they suffocated him; made demands on his time that he wasn’t prepared to give. Sure, reading a story to a pyjama-clad child is endearing. But only if you do it once in a while. To do it twice and thrice a day is monotonous and stultifying. Doubly so when it’s the same story, night after night.

His ex-wives were no better, with their nagging about the lawns that needed cutting, or the shelves they wanted erecting. On and on they’d droned until he’d lost sight of the thing that had attracted him to them in the first place.

The yacht falls silent as Jake cuts the engines and lets momentum carry them into the shore.

Cameron braces himself and only just manages to stop himself from being thrown forward, as the bow digs into the soft sand, ten yards from shore.

The yacht’s momentum carries it a few yards further before it grinds to a complete halt and then slowly, it lists twenty degrees onto its starboard side.

Cameron goes to the front of the boat and looks down. It’s ten feet from the rail to the waves lapping on the beach. The water is perhaps a foot or two deep, which means a five foot drop if he hangs from the deck.

It’s doable. The water and sand will cushion his blow and prevent him from breaking any bones.

He looks at Jake.

His son has gone to the rear deck and is kneeling by the girl’s body. It’s the perfect chance for him to get away.

Cameron slides his body over the lip of the deck and hangs by his fingertips for the briefest of moments before letting go.

38

I crouch beside Taylor’s body and take a last look at her. Were it not for the hole that has shattered her right cheek, she could be mistaken for being asleep.

As I bend forward to kiss her lips, I reaffirm my earlier vow to seek out the person who ended her life. Not just the person who pulled the trigger, but the man who put the gun in his hands and money in his pocket.

I hear a splash and turn my head.

There’s no sign of Cameron so I give Taylor’s forehead a kiss, and dash to the bow as best I can on the tilted deck.

I see Cameron; he’s forging his way up the beach towards the many trees that shield rich men’s houses from prying eyes.

He’s not looking back, or even making a pretence of waiting for me.

I’m neither surprised nor disappointed. All his escape attempt has done is confirm my fears that he will dump me at the first opportunity.

I grab my backpack, stride back from the rail, take three quick steps and throw myself forward, hurdling the rail before gravity takes hold of me.

I land in a foot of water and manage to stagger forward until I stumble into an ungainly roll at the edge of the water.

In less than a second I’m back on my feet and chasing after Cameron.

When I reach him, he’s trying to pull himself over a six-foot wall. I’d throw a punch or two as retribution, but I need him to be both compliant and fit to move without being carried. Laying him out will only add to my problems. Plus, there’s the issue of him turning up at the hospital with obvious signs of a beating. Should I give him a black eye or two, the doctors may well decide he’s being coerced into donating the bone marrow, and refuse to do the transfusion.

As much as it galls me to keep my hands off him, I know that I must, for John’s sake.

Cameron sees me and jerks his head. ‘Good. You’ve caught up.’

Had I not seen him use my girlfriend as a shield, I might have bought his comment, but I let it wash over me rather than waste time and energy challenging him on it. We need to get out of here before the guys with guns either storm up the beach, or circle round and get to us from the land side.

There’s a guy cleaning a pool. He’s engrossed in his task and has the ubiquitous leads trailing from his ears. It’s the first bit of luck we’ve had since getting on that damned yacht.

I lead Cameron through the heavy bushes and skirt behind the pool guy. The house is large and expensive, and there’s little doubt that the pool guy’s truck will be sitting out front.

Rather than take the home owner’s car, and risk it being fitted with a tracker, I plan to steal the pool guy’s truck. I don’t need it for long and don’t plan to damage it in any way. I’ll even leave him a few bucks for gas if we travel far.

As I anticipated, he’s been kind enough to leave his keys in the ignition.

What little luck we’ve had, runs out when I see there are huge wrought iron gates barring our exit from the house’s grounds. As I stop in front of them, they open with a subdued whine.

I glance to my side and see what must be a sensor, disguised as one of the rocks lining the driveway.

Two minutes later I’m powering along the road as fast as I dare go without attracting too much attention.

Cameron is silent in the passenger seat, but he can do as he pleases as far as I’m concerned. I’ve no doubt that he’s plotting his next move. I know I’m planning mine.

‘Did you bring your gun from the yacht?’

‘Of course.’

‘Next time we go over a bridge, toss it into the water.’

‘No way. I’m keeping it.’ His jaw sets in determination. ‘It’s saved us once and may save us again.’

‘Agreed. But it may well condemn us.’

‘How?’

I can’t believe he hasn’t figured this out himself. He’s obviously good with pre-planned situations, but is unable to react, or think on his feet when the need arises. I’m the opposite; I don’t ever plan too far ahead and tend to go with what seems right in the moment.

‘If we get pulled by the police and they find that gun, we’re done for.’

I choose not to mention the papers in my backpack. They are nothing more than another complication, should we find ourselves talking to the police.

Another thing I don’t mention is how I don’t trust him not to pull the gun on me.

‘I have a permit for it.’

‘Maybe you do.’ I take my eyes off the road for a second to look at him. ‘What do you think the police will want to talk about when they find that gun on you? When they get our fingerprints from the yacht we’ve just left? You know, the one with my girlfriend on it; you must remember her? She’s the one who caught the bullet intended for you.’ I make no effort to hide the resentment and anger in my voice.

He scowls at me, but even as he’s scowling he’s nodding his head.

There are still a lot of points to consider. The first being that the people we’re up against have resources, enough manpower to scramble a team to be ready for us when we docked, and no fear of killing.

As soon as we were free of the ambush, I realised that the only way they could have tracked us was Cameron’s phone. The same thing will be true for his credit and debit cards.

For the time being I reckon I’m clean, but it’s only a matter of time before they find out who I am. This gives me a window of opportunity.

I hand Cameron my cell and tell him to bring up our location on the maps app. I need to know where we are, so I can plan our next move.

We need to draw as much money from our banks as possible. My account is pretty much empty and I’m against using our cards as they’ll leave a trail.

Cameron shows me the screen and I see the nearest town in the direction we’re travelling is East Falmouth.

It will have a bank and so far, that’s all we need.

When we have some money we can hole up in a motel, while I try to figure out a way of getting us back to Casperton.

39

As we’re driving through Mashpee on our way to East Falmouth, Cameron points at a building I’ve missed due to a suburban that was threatening to cut me up.

I glance at where he’s pointing and see a bank. There’s an ATM beside it.

I swing the wheel over and park fifty yards from the bank. Cameron has the door open and is about to climb out when I grab his arm. ‘Not so fast. I’ll get money here. As soon as your card goes into one of those machines, it’s at risk of being traced.’

Alfonse answers my call on the first ring. He tries to speak but I cut across him. ‘Listen, don’t talk. Put a thousand bucks in my account and find me a place where I can rent a car in the nearest place to Mashpee. I think it’s on Cape Cod, but I’m not sure. Let me know when you have done each task. Move quick, Alfonse. We’re quite literally on the run from bad guys.’

I hear the low whistle from him before I end the call. Two minutes later I insert my card and check my balance. It’s up by a thousand bucks.

My card limit is set at three hundred dollars a day. I could get it raised but it’s wiser for me not to. On the rare occasions I drink, I tend to burn through money, so the less I have access to, the better.

Rather than raise suspicions by walking into the bank and withdrawing all the money that’s just appeared in my account, I use the ATM to get my daily allowance.

Cameron goes to do the same, but again I stop him. His card will be used to hire a car. The blandest, least conspicuous car it’s possible to rent. The car we get will blend in with all the other similar models on the road.

Life in Mashpee is moving with the gentle pace of a retirement village, or perhaps a vacation destination. Nobody has any sense of urgency and people are travelling around in languid fashion as they potter about their business.

Alfonse delivers the details for the nearest car rental place and as soon as I read his email I know what to do.

The guy behind the counter at the Enterprise branch hardly gives us a second glance. His attention is focussed on the red-haired, fish-lipped secretary who’s using one hand to hold a phone and the other to twirl her hair.

The car we get is nothing special, but that’s perfect. We’re trying to hide, not draw attention to ourselves.

40

The Bourne Bridge spanning the river, or canal, has arched metal framework. Instinct makes me want to speed across it, but I play it cool and drive slow enough for Cameron to launch his submachine gun into the crisp blue water.

The map on my cell had shown there were only two bridges that cross this river, or canal, or whatever it is. Both are ideal bottlenecks for those looking to catch up with people driving away from Cape Cod.

As I cross the bridge, I maintain the same vigilance I’ve had for the last twenty or so miles.

I haven’t seen any person or persons who could be watching for us, but I’m not James Bond: I don’t know what I should be looking for beyond the obvious. Put me in a bar and I can tell within five minutes where the trouble lies, who’s most likely to kick off, and which order I should deal with people. Spotting tails, however, is not my area of speciality.

Behind me, Cameron lies across the back seat out of sight. I’m now wearing a bright red shirt, baseball cap and a pair of cheap shades. As disguises go, it’s not the greatest, but it was the best I could do without wasting a lot of time.

Our passing across the bridge goes smoothly, and I am approaching the turn for a highway when my lizard brain starts dumping hormones throughout my body.

There’s a car sat by the highway and there is an SUV beside it. A young woman is chatting to an older guy who is changing a wheel. Her hair flutters in the breeze and she wears her boredom like it’s the latest designer outfit.

The scene is so innocuous that I look elsewhere, until something draws me to look back at the girl, and what appears to be a gallant old gent who’s stopped to help her.

Neither are looking our way, but when I look at them I see her put a foot on the wheel that’s just been removed from her car. Her foot rests on the tyre, and she straightens her leg until she’s lifted from the ground, supported only by the foot on the tyre.

She’s standing on the tyre that’s just been changed because it’s flat. However, the tyre doesn’t buckle under her weight; it doesn’t even give a little. That means it’s fully inflated. Which means the girl and the guy aren’t really changing a wheel.

They are a plant. A reason for the SUV to be parked by the road.

I make a point of not staring at the SUV, but I look at it as much as I can without making it obvious. There’s someone in the passenger seat and he’s not watching the Good Samaritan. This guy is young enough that he should be doing the work rather than the older guy.

The back windows of the SUV are blacked out, but I’m sure if I could see through them, I’d see a car filled with muscled heavies, with a penchant for mindless violence.

I take the turn and head away from town. It’s bad enough that Cameron and I may be at risk, but I’m not going to speed around streets where innocents may get hurt.

My plan was to head north until I got on a road to Boston, then follow that until I found a motel where we could hole up.

With the surveillance operation on the bridge potentially identifying us, I now need to get on the back roads and do a lot of direction changes so I can throw off anyone who decides to follow us.

A glance in my rear-view mirror confirms that the SUV has re-joined the flow of traffic. It’s not certain they’ve pinpointed us yet, but I’ll know in a minute or two.

41

I grip the wheel a little tighter and check my rear-view mirror again. The SUV is where it has been since re-joining the road.

It’s three cars back and seems to be content with just following us for the time being. Although the road isn’t too busy, there is enough traffic for them to worry about witnesses.

I figure they’re either waiting for us to drive somewhere remote, or they’re just keeping tabs on us until reinforcements arrive. Neither of these scenarios appeal to me so I decide to do what they will least expect.

There’s a chance I’m wrong about the SUV, and I should stop jumping at shadows, but I need to know one way or another.

The rental car slows as I remove my foot from the gas. I check the mirror and see the car behind me indicate and pull out to pass us.

Now there’s just one car between us and the SUV.

Another look in the mirror sees the final car pull out without signalling.

The SUV is hanging back. Its pace matches ours.

If they are tailing us, they’ll know they’ve been made.

The SUV creeps past us, its driver doing a scant mile per hour more than I am. He doesn’t look at us but I’m sure that, behind the blacked-out windows, his buddies are giving us a thorough examination.

I should have followed my original instinct and hidden Cameron in the trunk. When I hired the car, I pulled what I’d hoped would be an effective deception: hiring one car in my name, and a second, from a different company, in Cameron’s name, using his card.

The car I’d hired in his name was an ice-blue suburban, whereas the one we’re in now is a tan compact.

We dumped the suburban at a marina, two miles from the rental office, in the hope of convincing our pursuers we’d gone back to sea.

Now I realise that all we’ve achieved is a waste of time and money.

The SUV pulls in front of us and slows, so I have to choose between slowing further or overtaking it.

There’s no way I’m prepared to let him draw us slower and slower, so I wait for a gap in the traffic, indicate, and pull over.

I draw past him at a steady pace and when it’s time to pull back into the slower lane, I stomp on the gas.

The traffic ahead has thinned so it’s not long before I have the compact up to seventy. I’d much sooner be driving my Mustang than this crappy rental thing, but there’s no point wishing for something I can’t have.

I check the mirror; the SUV has pulled into the same lane as me and, from what I can tell, the driver is trying to close the gap.

There’s a turn ahead so I take it as fast as is safely possible. Again, I wish I was driving my Mustang. Not only is it fast enough to outrun the SUV, but I’ve put it through its paces often enough to know its limits. With the compact, I don’t know how hard I can push it in the corners before passing the point of no return.

Cameron says something but I tell him to shut up and keep down as I don’t have time to deal with his questions.

The SUV appears in my mirror as I swing the wheel left and head for a back road. There’s a squeal as the tyres protest at my sudden change of direction, but they get us around the corner with only a little bit of understeer.

I straighten up the car and try to push the gas pedal through the floor.

A check in my mirror shows the SUV has made the same turn.

There is no point trying to cling on to faint hopes; the SUV is officially following us. Now I know for certain, I can plan how to deal with it.

‘Cameron. You might as well get up now. There’s an SUV behind us. I’m pretty sure it’s your friends.’

My use of the word friends is laden with sarcasm, but I’m not terribly worried about hurting Cameron’s feelings. If we get out of this alive, he and I are going to have serious words – once he has done right by John. Should he not say the right things, I plan to hurt a lot more than his feelings.

The SUV looms in the rear-view mirror as Cameron hauls himself up.

His face is grave, and he casts a look out of the rear window.

‘I bet you wish I still had that gun you made me throw away.’

I’ve been thinking the same thing, but my intentions were right at the time and, if nothing else since meeting Cameron, I’ve learned that you can’t change the past, regardless of how loud its echoes reverberate into the present.

I squeeze on the gas even harder, but the compact is no match for the SUV, which is now hanging a foot from our rear fender.

The SUV’s driver knows this, and slows a little, then accelerates until the SUV’s front fender rams into the back of the compact.

42

The SUV hits us hard enough to shake the compact but, other than a little squirming, the impact isn’t hard enough to cause any major problems.

I’m sure the driver will learn from his mistake. Next time he hits us he won’t hit the full width of the car. He’ll target one side or the other.

Maybe he’ll pull alongside us and slam into the rear wheel area.

I don’t intend to wait and find out.

There’s a bend ahead that I take as fast as I dare. The greater weight and higher centre of gravity force the SUV’s driver to ease off before he can catch us.

This teaches me a valuable lesson: he might have more straight-line speed than me, and better acceleration, but I can get around corners a lot quicker than he can.

A car appears in front of me as I throw the compact around the next corner.

I swing out, and pass it before its driver has the chance to even register I’m behind him.

When I check the mirror, I see Cameron’s face. He’s wide-eyed as he looks back and forward.

I’m pushing the compact to its limits and taking stupid risks as I hurl it round blind corners.

I glance in the mirror again and see only Cameron’s head.

‘Sit at one side or the other. I need to see.’

I hear a rustle as he moves across. There’s also the click of a seatbelt being fastened. It’s the smartest thing I’ve known him to do.

The SUV looms large in the mirror, but I overtake a panel van and use the manoeuvre to buy myself a little time.

There’s a junction ahead so I swing the wheel right and join the new road in a four-wheeled drift that I’ve only got the merest control of.

Behind me I hear Cameron gasp in fear. He’s mumbling something but I doubt it’s the rosary he’s saying. A selfish, conniving, inconsiderate prick like him isn’t the kind of person who worships another.

Taking this turn was a mistake. We’re on a wider road, which is dead straight, there’s little traffic to protect us, and there are deep ditches at either side of the road.

The SUV appears behind me and I can imagine its occupants smiling as they realise there is little I can do by way of defence, let alone mounting a counter attack.

There’s a crack and I hear Cameron throwing himself down on the back seat.

I take a glance in the rear-view mirror and see the guy in the SUV’s passenger seat hanging out of his window.

It’s the gun in his hand that gives me the greatest concern.

43

To throw off the gunman’s aim, I swerve from side to side as much as I dare. It’s a risky tactic and it bleeds some of the compact’s speed.

The driver of the SUV only needs to nudge the rear of the compact, at one end of my sweeping arcs, for me to lose control.

With ditches at either side I have nowhere to go but forward.

The SUV holds left as I veer right, and a surge of power from its engine sees it gain enough ground to prevent me from cutting back to the left.

I see a vicious smile on the passenger’s face as he points his gun at the rear of the compact.

Whether he’s trying to kill Cameron, or shoot out our tyres, is a moot point. At a range of five feet, the odds of him missing are low.

There is only one course of action available to me, so I take it.

My foot slams down on the brake, causing the SUV to fly past us. There’s a shot fired by the passenger but I don’t hear the bullet striking the car.

As soon as we’ve slowed enough to turn, I wrench on the wheel and plant my boot back on the gas.

The SUV will catch us again, there’s no doubt about that, but at least I’ve bought us a couple of minutes.

I look in the mirror and see they have turned and are coming after us.

The move won’t work a second time, but I’m not done yet.

As the SUV hangs on our rear again, a truck lumbers into view. It’s laden with a large bulldozer, which overhangs its trailer-bed.

I weave a little but there is no sign of the gunman now the truck is here. I have the beginnings of a plan, but it’s risky at best; downright suicidal if it goes wrong.

As I weave, I increase the amount I cross the road. The truck is still approaching, and the SUV is hanging at the centre of the road as the driver waits for the optimal time to give us a nudge that will send us careering either into the oncoming truck, or one of the roadside ditches.

I keep this up until the truck is less than fifty yards away.

The compact is on the right-hand verge of the road when I stamp on the brakes for a second time. I have to give the SUV driver credit when he reacts a fraction of a second after I do. Just as I had hoped he would.

He’s too late though. We’re side-by-side now, with him between us and the truck.

While he’s still braking, I haul the wheel left and slam the side of the compact into the SUV.

My foot is hard on the gas and I am holding the wheel over, forcing him towards the truck.

The SUV brakes.

The truck swerves.

I keep pushing the SUV towards the truck’s chrome fender.

At the final second before impact, I tease the wheel right and disengage the compact from the SUV.

It takes me a second to bring the compact fully under control, and when I look in my rear-view mirror I see the SUV’s crumpled front end and the truck’s brake lights.

For the time being, the SUV is out of action.

The damage to the compact will cost me at least a couple of thousand bucks when the rental company gets it back but, so far as I’m concerned, it’s worth every cent. We’ve survived and that’s all that matters.

As Cameron straightens in his seat I realise that my mouth is dry and I have sweat oozing from every pore.

Like the damage to the compact, it doesn’t matter in the slightest.

It’s now time to start thinking about our next step. ‘Cameron. Use my phone to find out where we are and how far away Boston is.’

44

Cameron doesn’t like the way Jake has taken over, but he knows that challenging him would be a bad idea. Not only has Jake proved resourceful – saving their lives twice now – he’s also beyond furious at the way his girlfriend was killed.

For the time being he has to go along with Jake, and wait for a chance to arise for him to slip away.

Since the incident with the SUV, his son has been quiet and aloof. Cameron is sure that Jake is plotting their next move, as well as trying to come to terms with the girl’s death. As he knows he’s due some blame, he keeps his mouth shut and tries to figure out a way to regain his control over events.

Dusk has now fallen and the faithful little compact’s engine has never missed a beat as they’ve travelled north. When they stopped for gas they examined the car, and saw that one side and the rear end were dented far beyond the talents of even the best panel-beater. A headlamp was also smashed and the front fender now hangs lower than it should.

The car’s wounds are superficial but they are noticeable, so he agrees with Jake when he parks the compact in a multi-storey car park and leaves it to its fate. As a rental car it’ll have a tracking device, so the company will find it in a day or two.

They’re in a town near Brockton, twenty or thirty miles south of Boston. Their exact location isn’t important to Cameron. What is important, is that they have escaped their pursuers, and for the time being they are safe.

Jake uses his phone to find a motel, and his charm to borrow a charger from the receptionist. The only bags they have are Jake’s backpack and the laptop case Cameron uses as a briefcase.

‘First we eat. Then we sleep.’

Those six words are the most Jake has spoken to him in an hour, but Cameron doesn’t take offence; he might have, if he cared what Jake thought of him.

All of Cameron’s thoughts are on how to rebuild his life. With what amounts to a death sentence hanging over him, should his employer catch him, his options are somewhat limited.

Not exhausted though.

Cameron still has a few cards up his sleeve to enable him to start anew in relative safety – providing he picks the right location and deals himself the right hand.

Jake leads him out of the crummy motel and along the street until they find a diner. They look at the menus in silence, only speaking to give the bored-looking waitress their orders.

‘Look, about what happened on the boat with Tanya. I’m sorry. I didn’t for one minute think they’d shoot when there was a woman in front of me.’

‘Her name was Taylor. Not Tanya.’ Cameron sees Jake’s fists clench and unclench. ‘Now sit there, and don’t say another word about her, because if you do, I’ll be coming over this table and condemning John to death by beating the living shit out of you.’

Cameron heeds his son’s warning and doesn’t speak. Getting the girl’s name wrong was a tad clumsy, but he’s seen enough of Jake’s determination and resourcefulness to know that he’s more than capable of carrying out his threat.

As soon as Cameron finishes his food, Jake stands and nods towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’

As much as Cameron wants to discuss their next move with Jake, he can tell his son is hanging on to both his temper and his composure by the slenderest of margins. One wrong word or another ill-timed comment will be more than enough to tip Jake’s scales towards violence.

On the walk back to the motel he sees a liquor store, but decides that alcohol would not be a good addition to their current situation. Not only do they both need to keep their wits about them, he doesn’t want to make a drunken mistake. Plus, he doesn’t know if Jake is a mean drunk.

Maybe once Jake has calmed down he can get him drunk and wait until he passes out to make his escape.

Under the shroud of darkness the motel looks even more depressing. It looks as if rooms are available by the hour, and the fact there’s a titty bar across the street does nothing to give him confidence that he’ll get a good night’s sleep. After being awake most of the previous night, and the stress of today’s attempts on his life, Cameron is starting to feel every year of his age.

If this were a normal day, and he was alone, he’d get his head down for a couple of hours, have a few drinks in the titty bar, and wait to see what offers came his way.

A jaw-clicking yawn drives that idea from his head.

Back at the motel, he washes his face in the bathroom and dries it with the threadbare towel that has been provided.

While in there he dismisses the idea of climbing from the window as it’s way too small.

Cameron leaves the bathroom to find Jake unplugging his cell from the borrowed charger.

‘I’m gonna make a couple of calls. You stay here.’

The second the door closes behind Jake, Cameron moves to the bedroom’s only window. He tries to open it but it’s jammed fast. Decades of being painted without being opened, have locked the window’s sash in the closed position.

With that escape route closed, he puts his ear to the door and hears nothing.

Neither the door’s handle nor its hinges squeak when he teases it open and looks outside. He turns his head left, then right.

Jake is at the end of the corridor, looking his way. Cameron gives his son a thumbs-up and retreats into the bedroom.

45

Now I’m alone, outside the crummy motel room, I start to shake. Today has been the most intense day of my life. I have no military training to prepare me for gunfights, or life and death situations with a murderous SUV. All I have are my wits and a refusal to quit.

I want to rage and shout and scream at the world for the injustice that saw Taylor catch that bullet instead of Cameron. I also feel an intense need to hate myself – for bringing Taylor along on this crazy trip, for not protecting her, and most of all, for leaving her body on the yacht.

As much as I want to berate myself, and find a bunch of guys to fight with so I can vent the fury that is threatening to overwhelm me, I stay calm and pull my cell from my shirt pocket.

I’m dreading the first call, and what I’m going to ask the second person I have to call is beyond any call of duty, or blood. That will be the most difficult conversation of my life and I’d make the first call a thousand times before making the second even once.

I select Alfonse’s name and press call.

‘What’s going on, Jake?’

I tell Alfonse everything in brief, clipped sentences that don’t allow my voice to crack, as the grief of verbalising Taylor’s death envelops me.

Alfonse’s response is a ragged breath followed by soft-voiced condolences.

I don’t acknowledge them. Can’t.

‘Right. So, you’re holed up in a motel with your father and you want to get him back to Casperton ASAP for John’s sake; you’re pretty sure that your father will abscond at the earliest given opportunity, and the guys who are after you are powerful enough to track cell signals. Have I missed anything?’

‘Just the fact that if Cameron gives me so much as half a reason, I’ll not be able to stop myself pounding on him until he’s nothing but a bloody pulp.’

‘I feel the same, Jake. However, as nice as the idea seems, beating on your father isn’t going to get you out of the mess you’re in. From what you’ve told me so far, you’re lucky to be alive. What we need to do is work out how to keep you that way. Options for travelling back to Casperton include, road, rail and air.’

‘Rail and air are out. The minute our names go on a passenger list we’re at risk of being traced by the guys who are after us.’

‘Agreed. That leaves road. Even if you could trust your father—’

‘Please don’t call him that. He’s not my father. I don’t want him to be my father. Call him Cameron.’

Alfonse inhales deeply. ‘Even if you could trust Cameron to not run off, and shared the driving so you didn’t have to stop travelling, it’d still take you a couple of days. If you’re travelling with someone who’s a prisoner in all but name, then you’re looking at three to four days by the time you add in rest stops.’

Alfonse isn’t telling me anything I haven’t already thought myself. Four days of being trapped in a car with Cameron is more than I can bear.

My need to avenge Taylor’s death is growing by the hour and if it takes four or more days to get to Casperton, I’m not sure Cameron will be alive when we get there.

It’s time to get to the real reason for my call. ‘I was hoping you could help me out there.’

‘Say the word and I’m on a plane to share the driving with you.’

‘Thanks, but after what happened to Taylor there’s no way I’m letting anyone else join us until I know we’re safe.’

‘So how can I help you?’

I spend five minutes explaining my plan to him and listening to his suggested refinements.

Alfonse isn’t just my best friend, he’s the best kind of friend any man could have. His loyalty is unfailing, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to help me and he’s secure enough to tell me when I’m wrong. I’m lucky to have him in my life.

Right now, I want to do anything bar make the second call.

I take several deep breaths, offer up a blasphemous prayer to the gods of forgiveness, and hit the call button once again.

46

The ringing of my cell wakes me from the fitful slumber I’ve experienced since climbing into the motel’s ratty bed.

As a precaution against Cameron absconding during the night, I had positioned my bed behind the door; it also prevented anyone getting into the room without me knowing.

I answer the call and listen to what Alfonse has to say.

As always, he’s come through for me and has fulfilled my request to the letter. Now it’s just a case of Cameron and me getting ourselves to the collection point, and we’ll be flying back to Casperton.

I look at my watch and see we have two hours to make the journey. How Alfonse has managed to get this organised during the night, I don’t know. All I can guess is that he’s called in some favours and promised a lot more in exchange.

Alfonse bids me goodbye. The exact details of what he’s told me are sketchy in my head, but it’s not a worry as I know he’ll also email them to me.

My cell sounds its email tone less than a minute after Alfonse has hung up.

I open the email and start reading.

Cameron and I have to be at Hopedale Airport by 10 a.m. It’s 6 a.m. now so I’m sure there will be enough time. I use my phone to check, and it’s just under an hour away. Time is on our side.

I go back to the email and absorb its details, and the probable cost to Alfonse in terms of favours.

There are few implications that I can see, so I think about the person who has helped to make this possible.

Claire Knight is a rising star at the company that controls the oilfield to the north of Casperton. A good-looking woman, who’s forsaken romance for a career in a male-dominated industry, she is hard and ruthless when she needs to be, yet kind and compassionate when a gentler approach is required.

That she’s getting the company jet to make a detour to pick up Cameron and me, is testament to her kindness. On the other hand, she’ll have extracted her pound of flesh from Alfonse for the favour.

I know from first-hand experience that Claire gets what she wants. The night she lured me into her bed is a case in point. She seduced me, set the pace, and asserted not just her body, but her personality on me.

Cameron grumbles in his sleep but I can’t make out the words. As much as I’m loath to touch him, I grab his shoulder and give him a shake. ‘Wake up. We leave in ten minutes.’

There isn’t a big hurry, but I want to take a slow meandering journey to the airport rather than a direct one.

It’s not that I think we’ll be followed again, more a precaution in case we are.

Now that I’ve got my plans in place, and will soon be arriving in Casperton with Cameron, I have to share the information.

I can make a call or send a message.

I chicken out and send a message. The reply won’t have an aggrieved tone and there will be plenty of opportunity for my character to be assassinated when I get back to Casperton.

Cameron heads to the bathroom and I hear water running.

While he’s in there, I put my bed back where it should be and check how much money I have in my wallet.

There’s enough to buy us breakfast and put enough gas in the compact to get us to the airfield. Beyond that, I’ll be relying on my card for any expenses we run up.

Cameron exits the bathroom and I sling my backpack over my shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘Casperton.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve chartered a plane. Get your ass in gear.’

47

Hopedale Airport is little more than a single runway that bisects a small industrial estate. I watch in trepidation as a small jet swoops in over the trees and touches down.

The plane taxies to the end of the runway then turns in its own length as the pilot stands on the left brake.

A door folds open and Claire Knight’s face appears. Her long, brown hair flaps in the breeze from the engine as she walks down the steps. She’s dressed in a pastel skirt-suit and, as is her way, wears her clothes as if they are an advertisement for her sexuality. Her skirt is at least an inch too short for the boardroom and the cut of her blouse shows a generous amount of cleavage.

This is typical of her. She does things her own way and is happy to fly in the face of convention. Anyone foolish enough to think she’d slept her way to the top would learn of their mistake when confronted with her sharp mind and instinctive cunning.

The clack of her heels can be heard over the rumble of the plane’s idling engines as she marches towards us. Her expression is business-like, but I can see a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and offers her hand to Cameron.

He smiles what appears to be a genuine smile and introduces himself.

‘I know who you are, Mr MacDonald. Alfonse filled me in on the need to rush you back to Casperton. I think it’s very noble of you to help your son in this way.’

‘I insisted on helping as soon as I heard about my poor boy.’

It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Alfonse has given Claire a potted version of the truth. To me it sounds like he’s omitted all the unsavoury details and has pitched our need for transport as a mercy dash, rather than the hot extraction it is.

What he’s said to enlist her help doesn’t bother me. Desperate times call for desperate measures; without her aid there’s little chance of me getting Cameron to John’s bedside.

The thing that bothers me most is the charm that Cameron’s displaying. As soon as he heard Claire suggest he was doing an honourable thing, he twisted the dial to maximum. Within seconds he was all smiles as he offered Claire his arm for the walk to the plane.

The fact that my father is an instinctive player shouldn’t have surprised me. I was one until I fell for Taylor. I had to inherit the trait from somewhere, and I’d much prefer it to come from an absent father than a narcissistic mother.

I buckle my seatbelt and watch as Claire takes the seat beside Cameron.

The jet engines roar as we hurtle down the tiny runway. I don’t know a lot about aeronautics, but to me, the runway seems too short for the jet to build up enough speed to take off.

Claire’s pilot must know better. He lifts the nose of the plane and we soar into the sky.

I’m tempted to look out of the window to see how much we clear the trees, but sometimes it’s better not to know.

Once the plane levels out, I unclip my seatbelt and take a few paces up and down the aisle to stretch my legs.

I make sure, when I sit back down, that I can establish eye contact with both Claire and Cameron. She might be doing us a huge favour, but she’s a sexual predator who’s sitting next to a slippery liar who’ll do and say whatever he thinks will earn him any kind of reward.

Claire is a big girl and I know she can take care of herself, it’s Cameron I’m blocking. My girlfriend died because of his selfishness and cowardice; there’s no way I’m going to stand by and allow him to seduce a woman young enough to be his daughter.

I don’t particularly want to tell Claire what he’s really like yet. It’s bad enough that she’s been spun a line to help us, telling her while we’re mid-air will only lead to a frosty atmosphere for the rest of the journey.

I couldn’t give two hoots about having a pleasant atmosphere; however, I do want time and peace to think.

Getting Cameron to Casperton is only part of what I have to plan.

48

I look out of the window as the plane taxies towards the low building that is Casperton Airport’s terminal. I can see Alfonse’s car and I know he’ll have followed my instructions regardless of his own feelings.

Casperton Airport might not be much, but compared to Hopedale’s tree-flanked runway its wide, open space makes it feel like JFK or LAX in size, if not in volume of traffic.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder once the plane has stopped near the terminal. There are no elevated walkways here, just flat tarmac and a building that houses the requisite amount of security guards, a fast-food outlet, and a car hire firm.

The air is hot and dry as we walk across the tarmac.

As we exit the terminal, Cameron freezes.

I know the cause of his sudden reluctance to move. To a certain degree I can understand why he doesn’t want to go any further.

Tough. He’s the man who walked out on my mother, my sister and me. He’s the man whose actions caused the death of my girlfriend.

‘Why did you have to bring her here?’ Cameron looks at me with panic on his face. ‘Jesus, Jake. You’re ripping the piss here.’

‘It’s nice to see you recognise her after all these years.’ I raise an eyebrow at him. If my face is giving away any of my thoughts, he’ll know to shut his mouth. ‘She’s going to look after you. Make sure you’re comfortable. You’ll be able to catch up on old times.’

The one word he gives voice to has seven letters.

My reply doubles him over.

I’ve been called a lot worse, but when a father uses a term that implies illegitimacy to his son, I figure the only fitting response is violence.

I’ve thrown harder punches and, if he’s mixed up with the people he says he is, it’s a fair bet that at some point in his life he’ll have been hit with a lot more intent. All I did was remind him to watch his manners around me.

Alfonse looks grave standing beside Mother. Compared to her though, he’s wearing the expression of someone who’s just checked their lottery numbers and found out they’ve won the jackpot. I’d expected to see a wateriness to her eyes, or a tremble in her jaw. Neither are evident.

Thirty years of hate now have a legitimate target.

None of us speak, but the look I get from Mother is sharp enough to eviscerate a concrete elephant. She’s gone beyond grief and self-pity. She’s now in the land of controlled fury. I swear, if she was holding a gun, she’d put it to Cameron’s head and pull the trigger without hesitation.

I slump down in the back of Alfonse’s car and keep my face turned away from the window. It’s only a matter of time before my name is connected to Taylor’s death. Her bag is still on the yacht and will contain enough details to identify her.

Once Taylor’s parents have learned of her death, they’ll tell the police she was with me when they last saw her.

This is not the first situation I have been in where people have died, so my name will be at the top of what I don’t expect to be a long list of suspects.

As soon as I get Cameron to the hospital to be tested, and deposited at my apartment with Mother as his guard, I’m going back to New York.

Claire Knight is returning there at midnight and I’ve managed to talk my way onto the plane for a second time.

Mother doesn’t know about my plans, but Alfonse does. He’s tried without success to dissuade me.

Before I go, I need to have a brief talk with Cameron. At least I hope it will be a talk. If he listens to me, and trusts me enough to share what he knows, it’ll be a conversation.

Should he have other ideas, I may have to persuade him the same way as I did Donny. I don’t like the idea of using torture, or even threats of it, with Cameron. When all is said and done, I still have his blood running through my veins.

On the other hand, I’m not going to let my respect for the status of fatherhood stand in the way of what needs to be done to avenge Taylor.

My trip to New York has another purpose. It’s one thing delivering vengeance, but for justice to be done I need to make sure that my innocence in Taylor’s death is proven beyond doubt.

Even if I die in my attempts, I don’t want my name to be associated with a murder I’m innocent of.

Alfonse parks a hundred yards from the hospital’s main entrance.

I stare at Cameron and wait until he looks at me before speaking.

‘Are you going to man up and walk in there like a proper father, or do I have to lay you out and carry you in?’ I give a nonchalant shrug to emphasise my point. ‘You don’t need to be conscious for them to test your bone marrow.’

Cameron scowls and makes a growling noise.

I lift an eyebrow and point to the hospital. He may be the parent, and I the child, but we both know, in our relationship, that the young bull has superseded the old one.

As soon as he opens his door, I open mine. Alfonse follows suit, but Mother sits with her arms folded. This isn’t something she wants to be part of.

We leave her to intimidate the cars in the parking lot and escort Cameron into the hospital.

49

Cameron settles himself on the bed and looks around the room. It’s spartan to say the least. There’s a bed, a boarded-up window, and an ensuite bathroom. A series of indentations in the carpet show where furniture usually stands.

His stomach still aches from Jake’s punch, and there’s a residual numbness in his pelvis where the bone marrow sample was taken. As the numbness is wearing off, a dull throbbing is settling in.

With everything that has happened today, he’s shattered, and welcomes the bed with its clean sheets and plump pillows.

Seeing Ivy again was something of a shock, but he should have guessed she’d need to be involved.

The room he’s in is his son’s. Before he was ushered in here, Jake had sat him down, outlined a wild plan, and asked one question after another.

Cameron had thought for a minute or two as Jake had talked, and had decided he had nothing to lose by giving honest answers to Jake’s questions.

If Jake’s plan works, his name will be cleared as his bosses will be either imprisoned or dead. This means he can live the rest of his life with considerably fewer looks over his shoulder.

Should Jake fail, he will die, and his death will attract all the attention, thereby giving Cameron a better chance at starting a new life. Plus, without Jake’s brawn, he can easily get away from Ivy and the puny guy who’d done the driving. Noble as it would be to save a life, Cameron’s priority is preserving his own.

The only way things could go bad for him, is if Jake falls into the hands of his former bosses. Jake may be tough, but Cameron doubts he’s tough enough to withstand the torture he’d be sure to face.

Cameron doesn’t believe his son will triumph. Jake might be a good bar room brawler, but he’ll be going up against professional hoods and hitmen. They’ll have guns and experience; he’ll have anger and fists.

Cameron has seen enough fights to know that the man who keeps a cool head will, more often than not, beat the guy who throws wild punches and doesn’t worry about defence.

All he has to do is wait to see who opens the door. If it’s Ivy, he’s home free. If it’s Jake, he’ll have to wait around to help John before he can get on with rebuilding his life.

‘You make sure you get a good night’s sleep, Cameron. Because tomorrow, starting at six, I’m going to read you the diaries I kept after you broke the hearts of a good woman and two innocent bairns.’

It isn’t tiredness that closes Cameron’s eyes.

50

I head into my bathroom and grab a quick shower. I don’t bother shaving. The clothes I put on afterwards are clean, comfortable, and importantly, if things go the way I expect them to, disposable.

I pick up my wallet, a cheap cell, and the backpack containing Ms Rosenberg’s evidence.

The contents of the backpack will be handed to Alfonse, so he can assimilate all the information, scan it onto memory sticks and distribute it to all the major news channels and law enforcement agencies.

Rather than take my own cell I have bought a new one – so I can use Google and other services. No numbers will be stored in it lest it falls into the wrong hands and paints a target on the back of someone I care about.

I open my wallet – my Glasgow roots don’t let me think of it as a billfold – and remove all the cards and licences from it.

Alfonse has advised me to have the back up of a credit card, but I don’t think running out of money is going to be the biggest issue I have.

I pull out the handful of receipts in the back of my wallet and flick idly through them. There’s a receipt for a meal Taylor and I had enjoyed, and one for a film we hadn’t.

The next receipt I look at isn’t one I recognise, so I look at it a bit closer. It’s dated two days ago, and when I see what it’s for, my breathing stops.

Somehow I manage to wobble my way to a chair and sit.

I breathe again and it feels ragged and uncomfortable. However, compared to the sudden and debilitating ache in my heart, it is painless.

Mother looks at me with concern.

I shake my head and hope I’m wrong.

On my last night with Taylor, I’d told her I loved her.

It wasn’t a sudden thing; I’d just gotten myself drunk enough to realise it.

‘What is it, Jake? What’s wrong?’

I open my mouth, but words don’t come out.

I try again but still have no success.

I give up trying to speak, and hand Mother the receipt.

She holds it at arm’s length and squints at it.

Her mouth twists as she battles her emotions. Strength in the face of adversity, beats complete meltdown by the tiniest fraction.

She walks across, lays a weathered hand on my arm and looks deep into my eyes. ‘Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry.’

We sit together in silence for a while then Mother leaves me to manage my grief alone. I want to scream to express my feelings, but I don’t. Neither do I lash out and punch the walls or a door. There will be plenty of opportunity to release my emotions when I get to New York; hurting my hands now will achieve nothing bar shortening my odds of success.

My anger needs a temporary outlet, so I pick myself up, change into running sweats and go out for a run. I have an hour before Alfonse picks me up and takes me to the airport.

Taylor told me that a drunk man speaks the truth.

I’d spoken the truth to her and my actions had spoken louder to me.

When I close the door behind me, the receipt for the deposit I’d put down on an engagement ring is clasped between my fingers.

51

I part company with Claire Knight outside the arrivals lounge. A town car and driver awaits her; I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me to Queens.

First on my to-do list is to get some weapons. After that, I need to hole up somewhere until it’s evening.

As we drive through the streets the cab driver regales me with his opinions on the mayoral election.

It’s tempting to inform him how crooked his preferred choice is, but I keep my mouth shut. When Alfonse gets the word out, the last thing I want is some random cabbie going to the press with tales of a passenger who’d told him everything they’d printed before they got the information. I have enough potential threats to my life without going public and giving people a trail to follow.

I suffer his forthright views without comment and pay him what he asks, with a tip, when he drops me off on Metropolitan Avenue.

There are a multitude of shops here, and while travelling in the cab I saw a few where I could begin to build my arsenal.

The first store I enter is an everyday convenience store. It has the usual aisles lined with food, and people shopping for groceries. A young mum pushes a trolley in which a toddler is screaming for attention while she focuses on her cell phone.

I make my way to the back of the store and check out their cookware range. Were it not for the rage inside me, I’d give a smile of triumph.

I select four knives of various sizes from the range that have stainless steel handles. I also pick up one of those little blowtorches. Next, is a ten-inch sharpening steel. Not only will it sharpen knives, it’ll work as a club and is compact enough to slide inside a sleeve.

The guy who takes my money looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than working in a convenience store. I’m all for free expression when it comes to piercings and tattoos, but with the amount this guy has on his face and hands, I guess this may well be the best job he’ll ever have.

With my purchases in my backpack I start to walk along the street. There are still a number of items I need, and the newspaper I buy will help me identify the best place to complete my list of weapons.

Knives are a good weapon for a close up fight, but guns have range and a far greater threat level.

If I buy a gun from a shop, there is bound to be a registration process. The last thing I want to do is put my name against a weapon that will be used in a murder.

Only the most stupid of gun shop owners would fail to have a CCTV camera watching over their store. This means my new unshaven look will be connected with me from the word go, should the authorities trace the gun I plan to use.

To counteract this, I plan to get a gun another way. Hence the newspaper. There are some things you just can’t Google.

52

The list of businesses I got from Cameron is extensive, and I make sure I take a walk past as many of them as I can.

They are all typical looking businesses. None are remarkable in any way other than their ownership and randomness.

My walk takes me past auto repair shops, hotels, bars, a convenience store, and many other seemingly unconnected businesses.

Cameron’s employer owns a wide cross-section of companies to give a legitimate front to their crime empire. He didn’t say as much, but I’m ninety per cent sure that Cameron was involved in laundering money through these businesses. They are too eclectic to be anything other than laundromats for money generated from prostitution, drug dealing and other illegal activities.

I spy a traditional barbershop and walk through its door.

There’s a scuffed leather bench where a row of guys are waiting their turn. A melancholic blues track is playing in the background and there’s a whiff of grooming products in the air.

Four barbers are snipping, styling and shaving away at their customers.

My turn comes and I take a seat in front of the mirror. The barber I get is an old man with steady hands and bright eyes.

‘Whatcha after, son?’

‘Shave off all my hair and give my head a wet shave please.’ I see the puzzlement in his eyes and give a shrug. ‘It’s my girlfriend’s idea.’

He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Damn, son, you gotta give the ladies what they want.’

I sit and listen as the barber does as requested while regaling me with tales of the things he’s done for the various ladies who’ve been in his life. Despite my serious mood, I can’t help but chuckle with him, as he tells of a former lover who would only make love to him if he was dressed as a fireman. The mental image of this frail old man being swamped by a fire helmet and flameproof clothing is just the kind of thing that tickles me.

I leave the barbershop and resume my walking. As far as disguises go, a bald head and two days’ worth of stubble is not what you’d call innovative, but we all have to start somewhere.

There’s a different feel to having all your hair shaved off. It’s more than just a change in look, I feel the heat from the sun more, and when I step into shaded areas I notice a breeze that wasn’t apparent before.

53

I find a cheap hotel and book a room for a few hours. Although I’m wired, I know I should try and get some sleep.

When I open the door to my room I find the hotel is worse than crummy. The fact I’d been able to book a room by the hour had indicated the level of luxury I could expect but, despite having low expectations, I find myself underwhelmed nonetheless.

The room looks as if it was last refurbished when Jesus was in nursery school, and the furnishings are exhausted rather than tired. Sure, it might be the kind of place where hookers bring their johns, but jeez, who’d want to have contact with a woman who’d put her bare skin on a bed this ratty?

I pull back the top sheet and get a whiff of something that was once a bodily fluid. The towels in the bathroom are damp and there’s a trickle of lukewarm brown water when I turn on the tap.

That someone has bathed in this water is enough to make my gag reflex spring into action, before I crush it down and think of the person as one of life’s unfortunates who is unable to enjoy the basic comforts I’ve always taken for granted.

The room may have been cheap, but there’s no way I’m putting any part of me, other than my hands, on the bed or bedding. Instead of trying to sleep, I reach into my backpack and remove one of the knives and the sharpening bar.

It takes me a few minutes to build up the right rhythm, but I soon get things right. Once the knife is sharp enough to shave the hairs on my arm, I return it carefully into my backpack and pull out the next one.

After an hour I have all four knives sharpened to a degree that I’m satisfied with. I dare say a professional chef would have done the same job in less time, with better results, but now I’ve decided to forego sleeping in this room I have time on my side.

To make the best use of that time, I secrete the knives around my person and practise drawing them out at speed.

The paring knife I hide in my boot is the biggest problem. Not only do I have to bend to get it, but I have to make sure it doesn’t turn and slice my foot as I walk.

I open the drawers of the dresser and find what I’m looking for. What’s better is that it is largely untouched. This isn’t the kind of place where the clientele will hunt out the obligatory bible therefore, other than a coating of dust, it’s clean.

It’s sacrilege to slice the cover from a bible but I do it anyway. My next move is to slide the piece of hard-backed cover into the gap between the bathroom door and its frame.

A little pressure and I have a ninety-degree fold. I reverse it and do the same to the other side.

I press the two folds inwards until they form a narrow cardboard sheath.

With the homemade sheath wedged between the outside of my foot and my boot, I practise drawing the knife again. It is much quicker and allows me to arc the knife several different ways as I straighten after gripping it.

The next thing I want to practise isn’t something I should do in here, but I figure that the management of this so-called hotel will either curse and do nothing, or be prompted to make improvements that will only benefit the room’s next guests.

I position myself six feet away from the bathroom door and throw one of my larger knives. My throw is an underhand one, aimed about four feet above the floor. The torso is the largest target on the human body, and I know I don’t have time to perfect my technique enough to accurately hit someone in their throat or eye.

The knife’s handle bounces off the stained wood and it falls to the floor.

I try again with the same result.

It takes another fifteen attempts before the blade strikes the door, and forty-three before it sticks in.

A half hour later, the knife blade is striking the door with every throw, and sticking in it every other time. The bathroom door is suffering under the knife’s onslaught and bears a two-foot circle of chipped and splintered paintwork.

I step back and try from a longer range. It takes me a few dozen throws to get my eye in, but I achieve similar results to the first position a lot quicker now I’ve learned the correct amount of power and spin to put on the knife.

My next step back puts me a good twelve feet from the bathroom door. This proves to be harder than either of the previous two stances, as the ratio between power and spin has changed exponentially now that I’m throwing further.

It takes me a half hour to master this distance, but I train myself to at least hit the door with the knife’s blade – even if the point doesn’t stick in. The human gut is a lot softer than the bathroom door, and the knife will inflict damage whether it pierces enough flesh to impale or not.

I step forward and back again between my three points and at random intervals between them.

The bathroom door is disintegrating as the knife either digs in or gouges out yet another splinter.

I move, throw, move, throw, until I’m happy that I can change distance if necessary.

I try a few throws with my left hand but they prove a waste of time. Not only can I not get the blade to hit the door, sometimes I miss with the handle as well. Giving up on that as a bad idea, I try moving around to see what results I get. They’re not great, but I take heart from the attempt that sees me whirl round from having my back to the bathroom door.

The knife embeds itself right in the middle of the destruction I’ve wrought on the door and wavers back and forth until its momentum is spent.

I retrieve the knife and thumb the blade.

The repeated strikes against the door have dulled its edge.

I retrieve the sharpening steel from my backpack and hone the blade to its former sharpness.

54

Cameron unclamps his hands from his ears and marvels at the quiet. Ivy has sat outside the door, talking to him all day. Except it hasn’t been a conversation. It’s been a constant diatribe that has ranged from soft verbalisations of long ago feelings, to snarled abuse about the way he abandoned her and the kids.

At first he’d listened to her with an uncaring indifference, but her words had penetrated the tiny portion of his heart he reserved for feelings about others. Once the penetration was complete, she’d twisted the verbal skewers, and reiterated key points, before attempting to shame him with the results his actions had had on Jake and Sharon.

The problem Cameron has, is that he doesn’t regret anything; other than the fact he’d tried to play at being a husband and father when he’d known it was a mistake from the day he’d put a ring on Ivy’s finger.

He knows he’s not the considerate type, that he always puts his own needs before those of others, that if he’d stuck around any longer he would have turned on Ivy and quite possibly the children.

Walking out on them was a terrible thing to do, but he’s spent years justifying that it would have been worse for them had he stayed.

His second marriage was an even stupider idea. Vanessa had fallen pregnant and he’d been so infatuated by her beauty that he’d believed he could change. Six months after John was born, he’d started making plans to leave when Vanessa had told him she was expecting again.

He’d stuck around until she’d had the baby and left before she’d returned from hospital. John had been deposited at his grandparents without an explanation, and once again Cameron had done his bit to improve the lives of his wife and kids, by not being around to be a failure to them.

A pizza box slides under the two-inch section that’s been cut from the bottom of the door.

Cameron opens the box and sees a pepperoni pizza. His stomach growls: it’s the first food he’s had since a pre-packaged sandwich at the hospital.

He picks up a slice and stuffs it into his mouth. It’s not as warm as he’d like, but he’s too hungry to care. As he chews on the pizza he feels his tongue and lips start to burn. There’s some spicy sauce or chilli flavouring on the pizza. He’s never liked spicy food and the few times he’s tried it he’s felt unwell afterwards.

Cameron puts the pizza box on the floor and fills a plastic beaker from the bathroom sink. It takes five beakers of water before his mouth is somewhere close to normal. So far as he’s concerned, the pizza is inedible.

He closes the box lid and slides it back under the door.

Ivy’s response is immediate. ‘That was quick. Oh, you’ve not eaten it. Aren’t you hungry?’

There’s something in her tone that Cameron recognises from all those years ago. It’s triumph. She always did like getting one over on him when they’d argued.

‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’

‘Did what?’

Cameron isn’t fooled by the innocence in her voice. ‘You deliberately got me a hot and spicy meal because you knew I wouldn’t be able to eat it.’

‘Why, Cameron, what an awful thing to suggest. Why would you think I would do such a thing?’

His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak. Ivy has had her petty revenge and she’ll be delighting in it. He’s prepared to let her have a small victory – at least for the moment.

He’ll let her have her moment of triumph, and in an hour or so he’ll point out that if he’s to donate bone marrow, it would probably be best for John if he’s fit and well. Being starved, or given foods that prompt illness, will not have him as fit as he may need to be.

‘Of all the things you’ve done to me and my kids, do you know what is the worst?’ Ivy doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You’ve stolen my only chance of grandchildren. Sharon can’t conceive, and Jake has never had a relationship that’s lasted more than three months until he met Taylor. She was the only girlfriend he’s brought home. She was the one he wanted to spend his life with. When you used her to save your own miserable hide, you didn’t just kill her; you killed any chance of Jake ever settling down.’

Cameron pulls the pillow over his head and presses it against his ears. He can’t be bothered listening to Ivy any longer. So, Jake isn’t going to settle down, boo hoo. The decision to let his kids live their own lives without him had been taken, and acted upon, many years ago. To come complaining about it now, when they need him, is hypocritical. If he was such a loss to their lives, why has it taken them so long to hunt him down?

Ivy’s voice carries through the door and the pillow. ‘What’s worse than him never settling down, is that he’ll never experience the joy of being a parent. You may not think it’s a joy, but believe you me, those kids of mine have made me proud every day since they were born. Since they grew up and left home, all I’ve ever wanted for them was to be happy, and to have the love and pride for their children that I have for mine. Jake will never settle now. Never experience that joy. You took that from him and, despite everything else you’ve done, that’s what I hate you for most of all. You may not know it, but you’re a grandfather thrice over. Your other son has two girls and his sister has a son. You’ve turned your back on your grandchildren the same way you turned your back on your children. Can you imagine how much it hurts me to know that you have grandchildren you don’t want, while I want the grandchildren I’ll never have?’

Cameron knows he should feel shame, or self-loathing, or something other than what he’s feeling. He doesn’t though. He just feels hungry.

55

The young woman, who opens the theatre’s back door an inch, gives me the once-over with a brown eye and a suspicious expression.

I give her a smile, and the false name I used when making this booking.

She nods and the door opens a foot. ‘Sorry about that. You gotta be careful.’

‘I can imagine.’

The theatre isn’t in the best of areas and I’d say it gets used more by community groups than budding impresarios.

‘I’m Melody. Come on in.’

When the door opens I see she’s had a friend provide backup. He’s a hippy type with lank dreadlocks, and provides the same level of intimidation as a goldfish. Unless he’s a closet martial artist, he’ll be easier to drop than the proverbial hot potato.

I follow Melody to a dressing room.

There’s the obligatory bulb-surrounded mirror, and a clothes rack with a variety of different costumes hanging from it. A toolbox is open on the worktop and while it looks well stocked, it doesn’t allay my doubts that Melody isn’t as good as she makes out on her website.

The rundown theatre and the fact she’s nervous don’t give me confidence in her professional skills. However, it’s too late to find an alternative, so I either have to let her do her stuff, or forego this part of my disguise.

‘Have you just had your head shaved today?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘The skin on your head is a different colour to your face and neck. I’ll need to match the colour because it looks a bit odd.’

‘Okay.’

Melody arranges me in a chair by the mirror with the bulbs and flicks a switch. She gives an embarrassed grimace when only three of the bulbs light up.

As she goes to work, Melody gives a running commentary while I watch her actions in the mirror. I feel her draw a short line on the back of my head, then she opens a vial of liquid that has a brush fitted to the lid.

A strong, unpleasant smell fills the dressing room and makes my nose wrinkle. It’s similar to the chemical scent of lacquer. Melody doesn’t react to the smell – other than a fast disappearing smile at my reaction.

She paints the liquid several times over the same area that she’d drawn the line, blowing gently on the back of my head to dry it between each new layer.

The sensation of her warm breath is accompanied by what I can only describe as a contracting of my skin in the area where she’s applied the solution.

Melody works quickly and without hesitation. More products are retrieved from her toolbox and applied to the back of my head.

‘Done.’ She turns me to face the mirror and, like a barber, uses a second mirror to show me the back of my head. ‘What do you think?’

‘Looks good to me.’

The scar she’s drawn looks so realistic I want to reach back and touch it, feel its rough edges and caress the puckered skin of what looks like a scar I’ve had for years.

The scar she creates on my cheek is even better, although she makes it look as if it’s a recent addition.

As she’s using the foul-smelling liquid on my cheek, I have an idea. It’s an impertinent one, but I’m long past the point of worrying what other people think of me.

I wait until she’s finished doing the second scar, and ask a few questions about the liquid. It turns out to be a specialist scarring product called Rigid Collodion.

Melody explains that as it dries, it puckers up loose skin to form the effect of scars on flesh.

My idea is beginning to look as if it might just work. ‘Could I buy the rest of the bottle from you?’

‘Sure.’ She looks a little apprehensive. ‘It’ll be twenty bucks though.’

‘No problem.’

The look of relief on her face tells me that Melody has just overcharged me. I’m not worried, I’d have paid fifty bucks if she’d asked.

I thank Melody, pay her the agreed price for my makeover, and leave.

The alley at the back of the theatre is deserted, so I paint my left forefinger with a liberal amount of the Collodion. Once it has dried, I wipe the screen of my cell on my shirt until it’s clean and press my left forefinger against it.

As I’d hoped, it doesn’t leave a fingerprint.

56

With my disguise complete I have one more part of my plan to finalise before it’s time to go on the attack.

I may well have a disguise, and a minor level of proficiency at throwing knives, but the people I’m going up against can track cell phones, bring in a sniper, and will have countless goons in their employ. I need a gun before I engage in any conflict with them.

I’m sure buying a gun is easy enough, provided you have the right kind of ID with you. Mine has been left in Casperton on purpose.

There is always the black market, but it will take time I don’t have to identify the right person and establish my own credentials.

As always, there is another solution. One that involves me finding someone who has a gun they no longer need.

First though, I stop at a twenty-four-hour mini-market and buy myself a hoodie. The scars have given me a much tougher look than I normally have, and I need to hide them if I want to get mugged.

The newspaper has given me a location that will heighten my chances of being rolled over, and as I stride towards it I feel my jaw setting and my heart blackening.

I stop at a bar, a half block from Union Hall Street, and order a whisky.

Rather than drink it, I dip my fingers in the liquid and dribble it on my neck and rub it into my clothes.

Now that I stink of whisky, I put my hands beneath the table and paint all my fingertips with three coats of the Collodion.

The smell of the scarring agent causes one or two of the bar’s patrons to look at me, wrinkle their noses and move seats. I figure they think I’ve soiled myself. They can make whatever assumptions they like.

I leave the bar and make my way towards Union Hall Street. According to the newspaper’s reporting of crimes, it’s one of the worst areas in Queens. If I can’t get mugged here, I can’t get mugged anywhere.

With my hood pulled over my head, I stagger and lurch my way onto Union Hall Street. It’s a residential area and it wouldn’t look too bad were it not for the occasional boarded window, and the basketball courts encased by rusty, broken, chain-link fences.

Some young punks loiter across the street, and there are a few knots of girls – three parts attitude, one part scared children – who’ve been forced by circumstances to grow up way quicker than is natural.

None of them look like they’ll tackle me, so I cut through a side street and find myself in a different kind of place.

The buildings here are taller and closer together; there is an air of menace, and those who inhabit these streets are older and meaner than any of the kids on Union Hall Street.

Beneath the cover of my hoodie, I smile.

57

I exaggerate my lurch into the alleyway. It’s dim, dark, and has piles of garbage everywhere. Most people would have more sense than to go anywhere near a place like this, but I feign a stagger as I walk halfway along it.

I pause by a dumpster, undo the zip on my jeans, and widen my feet to shoulder width. Anyone looking at me will think I’m taking a whizz. Anyone who wants the contents of my wallet will think all their Christmases have come at once.

I hear footsteps behind me but I don’t give a visible reaction. Instead of turning my head, I’m listening, and calculating how many would-be muggers there are and where they are positioned.

A hand grips my shoulder and I smell breath that’s even fouler than the stench coming from the dumpster.

‘S’matter? Can’t a dude take a whizz?’ The slurring I add to my tone isn’t perfect, but it should be good enough to convince the hand’s owner.

I feel something press against my right kidney, and get a second, stronger, blast of the foul breath.

‘You forgot to pay the tax, buddy. Just hand over your wallet, cell and watch, and you can walk outta here.’

The speaker’s accent is low and guttural. There is no refinement in his voice, no suggestion that he’s had even a half-decent education. The wisecrack about the tax shows as much. It’s the kind of line you’d get in a bad movie.

From the corner of my eye I see a second person. If Bad Breath is at my six o’clock, Compatriot is at eight.

The fact they’ve pulled a weapon so early on, neutralises any qualms I have about hurting them.

The hand on my shoulder removes itself, as Bad Breath waits for me to turn round.

When I do turn, it’s a lot faster than he’s expecting; I drive myself round and throw my left elbow towards his head. As I spin, my body whirls away from whatever weapon he’s holding against my right kidney.

My elbow catches the side of his jaw; whether it’s dislocated or broken isn’t important. My right hand follows up and slams into his temple.

As Bad Breath is collapsing, I’m stepping towards Compatriot.

He pulls a knife from his pocket and waves it in front of my face. I raise my hands into a boxer’s stance and watch his eyes. There’s uncertainty and fear.

I feint a jab. He slashes his knife wide.

A fraction of a second later, my hand is on his wrist and I’ve got it twisted until he’s in an armbar.

I drive the heel of my hand into his elbow and hear the double crunch of breaking bone and tearing sinew before he howls in agony.

Compatriot drops to his knees so I introduce his chin to my boot. They don’t get on.

I search the two prone bodies for weapons, and find two knives and just over a hundred dollars.

The knives get tossed into a dumpster and the money goes into my pocket. I’m not a thief and this is the first time I’ve ever taken something that wasn’t freely given to me. The money I’ve taken from them will find its way to a charity. I’ve only taken it as it seems like poetic justice to mug the muggers.

The next two alleyways I walk down see me collect another one hundred and fifty bucks for charity. The nearest emergency ward also got another three patients, but hey, while I may have intimated I was an easy target, I didn’t force them to mug me.

I pass an alleyway between two apartment blocks but choose not to go down it. There’s too much light and there is nobody around to follow me.

Perhaps the local muggers have seen me followed three times already, and emerging unscathed. If that’s the case I may have to give up on my plan.

I decide to give it one more go and cross the street. There’s an alleyway on the left that I stagger along. I have one hand on the coarse brick wall, and I’m going through my taking-a-whizz routine when I hear footsteps.

I stay in position and wait to see what happens.

‘Yo.’

I don’t answer.

‘Yo, dude. I’m like, talking to you.’

I turn around and see three people. All are wearing hoodies that shade their faces.

Their faces don’t matter.

What matters is the gun the one in the centre is holding. It’s pointed at my nose and he thinks he’s being cool by holding it at ninety degrees from upright, but he’s being stupid and reducing his chances of firing with any great accuracy.

I give up the pretence of drunkenness and address the man whose gun I plan to steal. ‘I’m listening.’

‘We been watching you, dude. You think you can come here and take my bros down? You think you’re some vigilante? Man, you are sooo wrong.’

He adds an insult which suggests I have intimate relations with my female parent.

I’m from Glasgow, where the c-word is used as a term of endearment. If he wants to insult me, he’s going to have to try a lot harder.

‘I’m not a vigilante. I’ve just come here for something, and I’m not leaving until I get it.’

The calmness and certainty in my voice triggers something in him. He steps forward so his gun is three inches from my nose.

‘All you’re getting, is your ass well and truly whupped.’

As Gunman speaks, his buddies circle round from behind him.

‘You’re wrong. Let me tell you what I want, and if you give it to me, I’ll let you walk away unhurt.’

Gunman’s buddies halt. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve kept my tone conversational, or that I have never flinched, despite having a gun inches from my face. Whatever the reason, it’s enough to make them cautious.

‘Before we kick yo’ ass, you can give us a laugh and tell us what you want. Whatcha after, Mr Vigilante? What’s down here that you want?’

I duck my head left as my right hand grabs the gun and twists it upwards, breaking the finger he has in the trigger guard. As he drops the gun, I smash an elbow into the face of the guy on the left. The guy on the right is coming for me with balled fists, so I let him throw a wild punch and counter with a hard shot to his gut.

The gunman is kicking at me, so I grab his raised foot and twist it until he flips and lands face down. My boot connects with his genitalia hard enough to score a fifty-yard field goal. His buddies have recovered enough to straighten up, and the guy on the left is pulling something from his jacket.

I charge at him and drive him backwards towards an abandoned shopping cart. He falls over it and smashes his head on the hard cobbles of the alleyway. While he’s still groggy, I arrange a meeting with my boot for his already shattered nose.

A hammer blow to the back of my head has me reeling forward. The guy I turn to face is the one who thinks he’s a boxer. Tempted as I am to prove him wrong with a sustained series of punches, I just want to get this over with.

His right hand snakes towards my head, I duck back and use the toe of my boot to lift his kneecap upwards. He yelps, and hops on his good leg with both hands wrapped around his broken knee.

One quick punch to his temple crumples him into an unconscious heap.

It’s taken me no more than ten seconds to drop these three, and it takes me another twenty to search them. I get the best part of five hundred bucks for charity, one gun, and a collapsible baton.

The collapsible baton goes in my pocket as I walk towards the entrance of the alleyway – I need more light for my next task.

I position myself where I can’t be ambushed and check out the gun. It’s an automatic. Guns are not my area of interest and as such I don’t know a lot about them.

I fiddle with it and find a lever that releases the magazine. I count the bullets in it. All seven of them.

There’s another lever, which I presume is a safety catch, but in this light, I can’t see which way is on and which is off.

I return to the three bozos and reach into the right pocket of Gunman’s hoodie for the lighter I’d felt earlier.

It sparks on the first flick of the wheel, and illuminates the gun enough for me to ensure the safety catch is on. I stuff the gun into the waistband of my jeans, cover it with my shirt and, for the first time in my life, set off to commit murder.

58

I dump my hoodie in a trash can and cross the street. The neon lights of The Elite Club flash in a cursive script that suggests familiarity and welcome.

Like titty bars everywhere, there’s a person on the door who resembles a gorilla that’s been levered into a suit, and fed a regular diet of steroids until the suit bulges at every seam.

There’s red rope hanging from brass pedestals to give the illusion of class. As if class can be associated with disillusioned women painting on fake smiles and stripping for men they would normally cross the street to avoid.

A bunch of guys wander towards The Elite Club and the gorilla lets them in. I might be a half block away, but I can tell from the way they’re shouting and laughing that they’re liquored up.

I approach the door and wait for the gorilla to step aside. He gives me a long, hard look; I know he’s looking at my scar, trying to work out how much trouble I might be. I keep my face neutral and voice polite when I ask what the entrance fee is. The last thing I need is for him to refuse me.

The gorilla moves out of my way, so I pay the bored-looking woman in the kiosk and walk into the strip club.

It’s as bad as I’d expected. All the tropes are there in evidence. Red flocked wallpaper adorned with pictures of models who’d refuse to set foot in here, let alone perform a strip.

The bar is long and in need of some maintenance, let alone a thorough cleaning. When I look at the seats I see a synthetic covering that may, just may, have resembled leather when it was installed.

Bad music is blasting out with an emphasis on the bass. I guess it’s that way to give the dancers a rhythm, or it would be if any of them were actually in time with the music. Every one of them is dancing to a different beat with a fixed smile and a marked lack of sensuality.

I buy a soda and take a seat at the back of the room to observe things. The girls range from nearly pretty to somewhat attractive. They aren’t ugly, they’ve just buried their true selves beneath a thick layer of cosmetics.

An inspection of the security arrangements confirms two roving doormen, six CCTV domes, and a pair of doors with electronic keypads.

Another look at the bar makes me reassess my count of the doormen – two of the bartenders are also big enough to stop most patrons who decide to act out.

I take a sip of my soda and ponder on the cliché that is organised crime and strip clubs. It’s like one can’t exist without the other. I guess it’s because they are a good way to launder money, and recruit girls into prostitution, while providing criminals with a steady income.

Whatever the case may be, The Elite Club is owned by Cameron’s employer and is the place he was always summoned to when his boss wanted him.

Alfonse has done a thorough search on the name Cameron gave me. Olly Kingston features on a few business pages here and there but, even when Alfonse had dug deep, he’d found nothing to suggest that Kingston was anything other than a self-made man. This tells me he’s clever, well-connected, and has enough steel about him to hold an elevated position in a very dangerous industry.

The one thing Alfonse couldn’t find, was an address. Cameron was no use on that front either – he’d always met Kingston at one of his businesses. He may have been trusted – wrongly, as he proved – but he either wasn’t close enough, or liked enough, to be invited to his boss’s home.

Cameron’s insistence that Kingston likes to be known as The King, implies delusion regarding his status, or a serious obsession with Elvis Presley.

I see one of the girls wander among the rows of seats. Her eyes flit back and forth as she seeks out a likely target. I’m given a half-second glance as she moves on to the bunch of guys I’d seen entering before me.

A moment later she’s leading one of them by the hand towards the private booths.

They emerge a song later with him grinning like someone who’s just been promoted from village to town idiot, and her already looking for her next mark.

59

A dancer approaches me and introduces herself as Mandi-with-one-I. Despite her having two eyes, I can’t help but think of her as Cyclops.

‘You okay, sugar? You been sat here all on your lonesome and you ain’t had no company.’

‘I’m fine.’ I give her a tight smile.

‘Sure you are.’ The hand she lays on my leg is warm and has false nails that resemble talons. ‘A twenty buck dance from me will make you even better.’

If I let her dance for me, I’ll blend in.

‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

Not only do I want to stand out, but strip bars have never been my thing. I have no interest in paying a woman to take her clothes off for me. Even less so when I’m avenging a murdered girlfriend.

I watch Cyclops as she walks away. She turns her head to the barman and gives it a little shake.

The barman plays it cool, but two minutes later he’s chatting to one of the roving doormen.

It takes a few minutes, but the roving doorman eventually speaks to a dancer who is wearing a long silky dress.

She doesn’t look my way, but she does work her way round the room until she’s heading in my direction.

As she approaches me, I give her a thorough appraisal. She’s the most attractive girl in here by a considerable distance. She moves with a seductive sway and she has the quiet confidence of a woman who’s used to manipulating men. In another time and place, I know I’d find myself attracted to her.

When a guy goes into a titty bar and doesn’t engage with the titties, or the bar, people notice. When the right people in a bar notice something, they get antsy. When people get antsy, they react. Sending the best-looking girl in the place over here, is their reaction.

She takes the same seat that Cyclops had and crosses one leg over the other, causing the slit in her dress to part enough to give me a good view of her upper thigh.

She doesn’t speak as she returns my appraisal. Her eyes lock on to my new scar; that’s the reason the scar is there.

It’s a focal point, not just for the eyes, but also the memory. Anyone I encounter tonight will be able to describe my scar in detail, but when pressed about the shape of my nose and jaw, or the colour of my eyes, they’ll struggle to recall details.

She curls her lips apart and uses a forefinger to caress them, before dropping her hand back in her lap. ‘You’ve got us puzzled, mister.’

Her words are an opening gambit, in what I’m sure will become a discussion about why I’m not having any dances. Or why I’m not sitting near enough to gawp at the girls doing lazy gyrations on the stage. Perhaps she wants to know why I’m not drinking alcohol.

‘I’m a puzzling kind of guy.’

‘You sure are. You’re not interested in the girls, and you’re not hitting the beer – despite stinking of whisky.’ She slides her tongue from left to right between plump lips. ‘So, Mr Puzzle, why are you here?’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Nobody you know.’ That might be a lie, but while I have no cares about henchmen and muggers getting hurt, I don’t want to see any innocents harmed.

‘Are they meeting you here?’

‘Possibly.’ I give a nonchalant shrug and adjust my position so the gun isn’t digging into my back. ‘I’m waiting to see what happens.’

She gives a nervous smile. ‘Can I interest you in a dance?’

I shake my head.

The girl stands and leans over me. At first, I think she’s trying to use the view I’m getting down her dress to change my mind about the dance, until she opens her mouth. ‘Please leave. They’ll hurt you if you don’t.’ Her words are little more than a breathy whisper.

‘Thanks.’

I wait until she’s crossed the room then haul myself to my feet. It’s time I got another soda.

60

I watch as one of the bartenders leaves the bar and speaks to a roving doorman. As soon as the bartender pulls back a half step, the doorman walks to the entrance.

The suited gorilla walks in and scans the room. His eyes find the bartender, who’s standing by the DJ’s booth.

A moment later the bartender is walking my way, with the gorilla following at his heel like a well-trained puppy.

He stops a respectful distance away and gives me the once over. It’s nothing more than a show. He’s sent two dancers my way, so he’s aware of what I look like and has the information I want him to have.

The gorilla at his heel is also for show. He wants me to feel intimidated. If he thinks that King Kong’s baby brother is going to scare me, he’s very much mistaken.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The bartender motions at the seat opposite mine. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a brief chat?’

‘Be my guest.’ I slump back in my seat to show how unconcerned I am. ‘What would you like to chat about?’

‘Your presence here. You’ve told my colleague that you’re waiting for someone. May I enquire as to whom it is you’re waiting for?’

Like his polite words, the tone used by the bartender is neutral and respectful. This informs me that I’m not yet deemed a threat. The gorilla is there to make sure I don’t become one. Or at least, that’s what he expects to happen.

‘Actually, he’s just arrived.’

The bartender looks over his shoulder, then back at me with a puzzled expression.

I clear up the confusion by pointing at him. I’m still mostly prone on the fake leather couch so he gives a thin smile.

‘If you were looking for me, then you coulda just asked someone. The guys here know who I am.’

I nod. ‘True. Problem is, I didn’t know your name. Still don’t. Didn’t even know it would be you that I wanted to speak to.’

‘I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me. Is it me you’re looking for or not?’

‘I’m looking for the person in charge of this place. If it’s you, then I’ve found who I’m looking for. If not, I’ll have to ask you to lead me to them.’

His expression darkens, and he straightens up. ‘I’m in charge. What do you want me for?’

‘To see how much this place is selling for.’

He throws back his head and guffaws. The gorilla laughs too, although I doubt he’s bright enough to have understood the conversation.

‘You’ve had a wasted trip, buddy. The Elite Club. Is not. For sale.’

I figure he’s emphasised those last four words for the gorilla’s benefit rather than mine.

My eyes never leave his as I give a series of slow nods. ‘I think you’ll find that it is for sale. The people I represent have decided that they would like to buy The Elite Club. Therefore, it is for sale.’

‘And exactly who do you represent?’

I toss him a name. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet when you have a friend who’s as good at running searches as Alfonse is.

The bartender blanches and I don’t blame him. He works for a guy who runs a sizeable portion of Queens. The name I’ve just given him controls all the Bronx.

There’s a change in the bartender’s expression. All pretence of politeness is gone as he looks at me with a shrewder focus.

‘You’re not one of their men. There’s no way they would employ an Englishman.’

I raise a hand in a halting gesture. ‘I’m Scottish. And if you ever call me English again, I’ll pour a pint of gasoline down your throat and throw lit matches at you.’

The gorilla takes a step forward, but the bartender waves him back. ‘I apologise. I took a guess. No offence was intended.’

His words would be mollifying were it not for the look in his eyes. He doesn’t trust me.

‘I am who I say I am, and if you want to sit there insulting me, then I won’t bother suggesting that we buy this place.’ For the first time in the conversation, I add a snarl to my voice. ‘Instead, I’ll prepare a hostile takeover.’

The bartender doesn’t flinch.

‘Nice try, buddy, but I’m not buying what you’re shovelling. There isn’t going to be a sale, or a hostile takeover. This place isn’t on the market. If it were, I’d know.’

I hand him my cell. ‘Call The King and tell him what I’ve just told you. Then we’ll find out if this place is for sale.’

‘I’ll call him, but not here.’ He stands. ‘I’ll call him from the office; you’re welcome to listen.’

His words are a direct challenge. If I were who I’m implying, I wouldn’t fear going somewhere private with him and his pet gorilla. On the other hand, if I’m some random chancer, there’s no way I’d be stupid enough to take that level of risk.

It’s a lot of years since I backed down from a challenge.

I stand and put a happy expression on my face. ‘Finally, we’re getting somewhere.’ I gesture towards the two key-padded doors. ‘After you.’

He leads, I follow. The gorilla follows me.

By the time we get to the office, one of the roving doormen has fallen in behind the gorilla.

Three against one isn’t the worst odds I’ve faced but, in a cramped office, there isn’t a lot of room for manoeuvre when one of the room’s occupants fills almost half the space.

I lean nonchalantly against a wall as the bartender goes towards the cluttered desk. The office is a functional one. It has painted block walls and a number of filing cabinets. Cameron told me about a second office, which has a boardroom table, where he would meet Kingston and his lackeys whenever a face-to-face was required.

As soon as the barman hears the click of the door closing behind the roving doorman, he whirls and throws a shot at me.

He connects.

But not with me.

I’m wise enough to anticipate a sudden attack, so I push myself backwards in time for him to miss me, and thump his fist into the block wall.

The crack of his knuckles breaking is followed by a yelp of pain.

As the bartender is cursing I throw a kick at his knee and an elbow towards the gorilla.

The kick connects but the elbow doesn’t.

Something akin to a freight train collides with my ribs, and I see a cheerful smile on the gorilla’s ugly face. This is what he likes: attacking smaller men and inflicting pain on them. He’s even got a buddy as backup should he need any help. Perhaps the buddy is just here to observe the beating so the gorilla has someone who can support his retelling of the event.

I bounce off the wall and back towards the gorilla. Using my forward momentum, I arch my back and plant my forehead on his chin. Head-butts are best aimed at the nose but, short of jumping, there’s no way I’m tall enough to connect.

He roars and comes at me with his arms held wide.

I don’t have time to do much but drop to my knees. As the gorilla’s arms swoop over my head, I throw an uppercut at his balls.

He grunts and doubles over. I repeat the blow and force my way up between him and the wall.

I push the gorilla and he falls over the prone bartender.

With them both vulnerable, I whip the sharpening steel from my sleeve. I’m just about to crash it down on their limbs when the roving doorman speaks.

‘That’s enough!’ His voice isn’t quite a yell, but it’s not far off. ‘Drop the weapon.’

I glance at him and decide to do what he says. After all, he’s the one with the gun.

There are soft moans coming from the gorilla, and curses from the bartender, but it’s the roving doorman I’m listening to.

I think about the gun nestling in the small of my back. It’s accessible, but I don’t for one minute think I can whip it out, take aim, and shoot the doorman before he pulls his trigger.

He motions for me to sit in the office’s chair.

I sit.

He throws a left cross at me that reopens the split on my lip and loosens a tooth. Considering it’s his weak hand, it’s a good solid punch.

I straighten my head and look at him. ‘Is there any need? Your buddies jumped me. I defended myself. Now you’re waving a gun around like you’re John Wayne.’ I shake my head and make sure I have eye contact with him. ‘The people I represent will not be happy about this. You can make it easy on yourself by putting that gun down right now.’

‘No way.’

There’s uncertainty in his tone, so I try again. ‘I’m telling you. Keeping that gun on me is a very bad idea. Either you’ll shoot me, which will start a turf war, or you’ll miss me, and I’ll kill you before I leave this room. The longer you have that gun aimed at me, the shorter your life expectancy gets.’

His eyes flick to the floor, and the gun droops an inch, before his attention is snapped back to me and the gun’s aim returns to my face. I guess he got a signal from his buddies.

It’s the second time tonight that a fool has pointed a gun at me. I’d rather there wasn’t a third.

If the guys on the floor are sending the doorman signals, it means they are recovering from the damage I inflicted upon them. With a gun on me, and two pissed-off guys seeking retribution, I don’t much fancy my chances of leaving this office without a serious injury.

As I look at the gun, it’s being traversed up and down my body. One minute it’s pointing at the top of my head, the next my balls. I should be scared that the doorman is picking his spot.

Instead I’m glad he’s so cocky.

As he gets to the top of his range I make a mental note of the position of his arm, and wait while he goes down and up again.

I throw myself under his arm as the gun’s aim passes my nose and is still moving upwards.

By the time his brain has told his finger to squeeze, I’m below the bullet’s path and am driving him against the wall with my shoulder. The gunshot exploding so close to my head is deafening, but now isn’t the time to wiggle a finger in each ear.

I wrap two hands around his gun wrist and twist his arm to the point of dislocation. And beyond.

He screams as he drops the gun.

I keep hold of his wrist and swing him round until his head collides with a wall. He drops in an untidy heap so I turn my attention to the gorilla and the bartender. The gorilla is holding both hands against his gut and there is blood seeping between his fingers, while the bartender is trying to pull his leg free from underneath the gorilla.

I guess the shot fired by the doorman has hit the gorilla.

I retrieve the gun and aim it in the general direction of the bartender as I pick up my sharpening steel. My next move is to slam the steel against the knees of the doorman, before I use it to knock the gorilla out cold.

The bartender eyes me with fear as I approach him. He’s still trapped by the gorilla’s bulk as I use the sharpening steel to smash his right elbow.

I sit myself back in the office chair and wait for his groaning to subside. When it turns into pleas for mercy, I hold a finger to my lips.

He shushes.

‘Where can I find The King?’

He shakes his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. It’s more than my life is worth.’

I could point out that his life isn’t worth anything to me, but I don’t think he’d appreciate my honesty.

‘I’ll only ask you nicely once more. Where can I find The King?’

He doesn’t answer. There’s defiance in his eyes.

I walk the two steps towards him, place a boot on his left wrist and open my backpack. The chef’s blowtorch fits nicely in my hand.

I press the button and a blue flame springs from its nozzle. I show it to the bartender, see the terror in his eyes, and take a sweeping pass of his fingertips.

He yelps, but otherwise remains silent.

I bend to take another sweep and his hand curls into a fist. Improvising has never been an issue for me, so I hold the flame against his knuckles for the count of three. I can see his skin blistering as the air fills with the smell of burnt pork.

He howls and tries to wriggle free, but my boot holds him in place.

I hold the unlit blowtorch in front of one of his eyes. ‘Where can I find The King?’

‘I … I … I don’t know. If I need him I have a number to call.’

He gives me the number.

I write it down on a piece of paper that gets stuffed in my pocket, and take a roll of duct tape from my backpack. Tying people up with duct tape might be an overused cliché, but hey, it works.

Five minutes later I have the three of them tied up and I’m leaving the office. Had they not started throwing punches around, and refused to answer my questions, they would be in a lot less pain. They struck first so I feel no guilt about their various agonies.

I now have two guns stuffed into the small of my back. I’ve checked the new one and it has eight bullets in its cartridge. Fifteen bullets, when you’re as inexperienced with guns as I am, isn’t a lot, but it’s eight more than I had. If things go the way I’ve planned, I won’t be getting myself into any gunfights.

Rather than let any of the staff release the bound men and alert The King, I find one of the roving doormen and tell him that The King is coming for an urgent meeting, and that he's to close the place for the night and send all the staff home. He tries to resist me giving him orders, but I drop the wrong kind of name and he does as I bid.

It takes him twenty minutes to get the doors locked, but finally the last member of staff leaves.

I make sure the club is secure and let myself out of a side door.

61

I take a zig-zag route away from The Elite Club until I find myself on a busy street. There’s a club across the road where throngs of people are hanging outside, chatting and smoking.

The scene is one I see three nights a week while tending door at The Joshua Tree: Casperton’s rock bar, where even the music has to be twenty-one or older.

The club will be noisy and filled with laughter, arguments and people shouting into their friends’ ears to be heard over the music.

I need somewhere quieter, but not so quiet that my conversation is overheard.

I look along the street and see a collection of bars. I head towards them in the hope of finding one with a working payphone.

Two girls are walking towards me; one is carrying her shoes, while the other totters on impossibly high heels. They see me walking their way and cut their giggling.

While it’s not my intention to frighten innocents, I guess my scars are doing their job. I also figure that my recent fight, on top of all the other events, has left me looking a lot grimmer than usual.

I reach the row of bars and look for the least classy. It’ll be the quietest one, devoid of shrieking laughter and booming music.

When I enter, I see the kind of place that’s been around for decades – one that uses its original features to give it character. The problem is, this bar has all the character of a speakeasy that’s fallen silent.

The fittings may tell of a bygone age, but they also tell of a bygone cleaner. Every piece of chrome or brass is pitted with rust spots and discolouration. The furniture is the uniform brown of dirt accumulated by a century of use, and there’s no way I would drink from any of the glasses behind the bar.

I order a bottle of soda from a bartender, who appears old enough to have been Methuselah’s headmaster, and ask if they have a payphone.

He puts my drink on the counter without a napkin, and points to a cubbyhole. ‘Phone’s in there. Don’t know if it still works. It’s been a while since it was last used.’

I wipe the rim of my soda bottle as I walk to the cubbyhole.

The phone has a dial-tone when I lift the handset, so I feed a handful of coins into it and punch Alfonse’s number into the keypad.

Sure, I could have used my new cell to call him, but this phone is anonymous, and therefore won’t leave a trail pointing to him should the worst happen to me.

Alfonse picks up on the second ring.

I spend two minutes talking to him and hang up.

To avoid suspicion from the biblical headmaster, or the bar’s four patrons, I finish my soda and head out to the street.

There’s a bar across the street that looks like the one I’ve just left, so I head over there to kill the ten minutes Alfonse has told me to wait before calling him back.

This bar is only half as old as the other one and, when I check, on a fake trip to the bathroom, the payphone has a dial tone.

62

‘You’re nothing but a waste of space. I can’t believe I once loved you. Do you hear me, Cameron? You’re a waste of space. A complete and utter bawbag, whose only achievement in life is the infliction of misery upon those foolish enough to love him.’

Cameron gets a pang of nostalgia at Ivy’s use of the Glaswegian insult, bawbag. Her abusive rants have lasted so long he’s now immune to them.

If he cared about her opinion of him, he’d have been wounded by her words, but he’d lost the few feelings he’d had for her a long time ago. Now she’s nothing more than a distant echo, shouting back at him from the cavern of history.

He’d thought about telling her that he wasn’t listening, but decided against it. Knowing her, she’d just raise her voice.

A part of him feels sorry for her. Not for the damage his actions have wrought; more for the years she’s spent accumulating bitterness. Emotions like that eat into happiness the way a starving lion gorges on a fresh kill.

Just two days after losing the fortune that would have funded his retirement, he’s cast aside any thoughts of allocating blame for his misfortune, and is looking forward rather than back.

‘You remember when your mother contacted me saying you wanted a divorce? That was the day I found out what you really were. She cried on the phone to me that day. Have you any idea how often we pictured your body being found somewhere? How many times we speculated that you’d been killed, or committed suicide? Were you even aware that your mother aged twenty years in the two years it took for you to get in touch?’

Before he can stop himself, Cameron rises from the bed and bangs on the door. ‘That’s enough, Ivy.’

Cameron hears a throaty chuckle. ‘So that’s your weak spot is it? Your mother? Not your kids. Not your wives. Your mother. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. The thought that I ever let you touch me makes my skin crawl. You broke my heart and those of my kids. Not content with breaking three hearts, you did the same with your other wife and kids, and yet, big tough guy that you are, you’re only bothered about your mammy.’

‘You’ve said enough, Ivy. Leave my mother out of this.’

‘Why, what you going to do? I saw the pain of worry age her. I remember the haunted expression she took on after you’d scarpered. She’s a good woman who loved the bawbag that was her son. You’ve never cared about your children, but you listen to me: just like your mother, I love my children. I’m proud of them and their moral fibre. They are fine, upstanding citizens who’ve thrown off the grief of being abandoned by a worthless bag of skin that’s not fit to say the word father, let alone behave like one.’

‘You’re full of pish, Ivy. You don’t know your boy as well as you think.’ Cameron slams the heel of his palm against the door. ‘Do you hear me? You have no idea what Jake is doing now, but let me tell you, there’s nothing about murder that speaks of moral fibre.’

‘What do you mean murder? What does homicide have to do with anything?’

The American word sits odd in Cameron’s ears when delivered in a thick Glaswegian brogue. He gives it a moment’s thought and remembers how Ivy had always tried to fit in. Her using the local terminology would be natural for someone who’d been out here as long as she had.

‘Jake hasn’t gone back to New York to speak to the police about what happened. He’s gone back to kill the person who shot his girlfriend. He’s going to either get himself killed, or arrested and jailed for murder. I said my goodbyes to him a long time ago, Ivy. It’s about time you got ready to say yours.’

As Cameron lies back on the bed he can hear Ivy’s sobbing recede as she walks away. He lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes. A part of him knows he should feel cruel for shattering her illusion of Jake. Another, larger part, wishes he’d thought of it sooner as it has shut Ivy up and he can now get some peace to sleep.

63

I make the second call to Alfonse and listen as he gives me a location for Kingston. He’s as succinct as ever with his report, but I feel there’s something nagging at him. He gets to the point and tells me that Mother has been in touch with him, demanding that he tells her where I am, and that he’s to tell me “to return home immediately before I do something stupid”.

I thank him for his help and end the call. He knows me well enough to know I won’t go running just because Mother has told me to come home.

Alfonse has yet to share his opinion on what I’m planning to do. The fact he has held back from telling me, lets me know he at least agrees on some level that a biblical eye-for-an-eye justice should be delivered, rather than one meted out by a court.

It’s a big step, planning to kill someone, and the aiding and abetting of a planned assassination will incur stiff penalties for him should I get caught or be killed. This is why I’m doing everything I can to isolate his involvement from my activities.

His digital searches will be registered on his computer, but he’s more than smart enough to erase them in case anyone should come looking for him as my accomplice.

That mother has found out about my mission is disconcerting to say the least. While she and I may have a tumultuous relationship, we still love and respect one another.

It shouldn’t surprise me that Cameron has told her what my plans are. He’s possessed by a self-interest that makes Mother’s narcissism seem charitable. Plus, I’m confident that she will have relished giving him a piece of her mind.

Thirty years is a long time to store hate, and there are few things Mother likes better than delivering a well-deserved bollocking.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Mother will have heaped abuse and derision on him from first light until last. Mother may well be in her sixth decade, but she’s still got enough fight in her to see her take on far greater targets than Cameron.

In my mind’s eye I can picture them either side of the door. Her, furious and vitriolic as she lambasts him for all his failings; him, aghast and repentant at the hurt he’s caused.

It’s an idea that gives me the greatest of pleasure. There are few people in this world that I hate, but my father tops the list. A day or two having Mother give him a good old-fashioned Glasgow slagging is the least he deserves.

I know my mother though. She’ll go too far. She always does.

Cameron telling her that I’m planning to kill is a sure-fire indicator that she’s already crossed his red line. Alfonse telling me that Mother has just called him advises me that the line has only been crossed in the last few minutes.

It’s a worry I have to shelve. I can’t be thinking about what Mother will say, when I’m storming The King’s castle.

64

The cab drops me a quarter mile from Olly Kingston’s house as I don’t want any witnesses.

His house is a good one. It sits on a good street, in a good neighbourhood. It’s almost a shame I plan to do bad things in it.

I scout the house from the road at first. It has a seven-foot wall – like most of the houses in the street. There’s also a pair of wrought iron, ornamental gates that look strong enough to resist anything less than a bulldozer. A plaque on the wall bears the name of the house.

It isn’t Graceland, so I decide that The King has delusions of grandeur, rather than a love of a certain rock and roll star.

I’d jump up and take a peek over the wall were it not for a fear that the concrete coping stone was layered with broken glass.

A walk past the gates shows the house to be ablaze with lights and the drive littered with expensive cars. There’s a little gatehouse to the right of the opening and I can see a pair of feet and a screen.

A party is not what I was expecting, and the presence of a goon at the gate makes entry a little bit tougher. The gates can be climbed in a matter of seconds, but having someone shouting the alarm will not simplify things.

I dare say I could try and bluff my way in as a late guest, or as an employee of someone attending the party, but those paths are filled with hazards. There’s no telling whether the party is for legitimate or illegal friends and, either way, if I was escorted into the house and the party, I’d be recognised as a stranger as soon as they saw me.

The scar on my face will go against me, should it be a legitimate party, and I’m confident there will be guns pointed at me if The King and his associates have learned what happened at The Elite Club.

I continue my walk until I’m two houses along from The King’s. Neither of his neighbours, nor the houses opposite, have lights on – except external ones.

This gives me hope that the party is a legitimate one, and that his neighbours are on the guest list.

I double back to his nearest neighbour’s house, and peer through their gate. The house looks to be asleep, so I ignore the pain in my ribs from the gorilla’s punch and clamber up the wrought iron framework of the gate. When I reach the top I cast my eyes towards Kingston’s house.

It’s not the house I’m looking at, but the wall surrounding his garden. There’s no glint of reflected light from any glass embedded into the top of the wall. I tell myself to get with the times and stop looking for things that went out of fashion thirty years ago. Any security arrangements Kingston has will be modern ones, backed up by gun-toting henchmen.

I’m listening for the bark of dogs, or the howl of sirens that have been triggered by a hidden alarm. Hearing neither, I creep my way through the bushes until I’m halfway along the wall between this house and Kingston’s.

My next move is to get on the porch and climb slowly onto the veranda rail. As I straighten myself, my eyes are watching for anyone looking out of a window at Kingston’s house.

There’s nothing to see but, until the party reduces itself to the last few guests, I can’t begin to think about crossing the wall.

I climb down and prepare myself for a wait, as I listen for the sounds of people leaving.

As I wait, I put myself through a series of stretches so I’m as supple as a man my age can be. A pulled muscle will almost certainly make the difference between life and death.

I marvel at how steady my hands are, and how controlled my breathing is. I should be a shaking mess, fighting my emotions and the adrenaline that’s pumping its way around my body, but I’m not. The only thing I’m afraid of tonight, is failure.

My anger has robbed me of my instinct for self-preservation. I’m not suicidal; I have a mission to carry out, and I’m not afraid for my well-being so long as the mission is a success.

65

When I hear a series of car doors slamming, followed by the sound of engines purring and the crunching whisper of tyres on fine gravel, I shin up the first few branches of a tree and peer over the wall.

There’s little sign of life from Kingston’s house. The drapes are pulled and only half of the rooms that were previously illuminated now show lights.

With just a few guests left, I figure I should get myself over the wall before he switches on any electronic security.

I drop from the tree to the ground, and leap up and grab the top of the wall with my hands. It takes a little scrabbling with my feet, but I manage to haul myself up and over the wall.

My feet land in the soft soil of a flowerbed, as I intended, and I pad over to the house’s outer wall, pressing myself flat against the stonework.

A quick check reassures me that I still have all my weapons in place, so I creep towards the rear of the house – taking care to duck below any lit windows. When I near the corner, I inch myself forward so I don’t walk right into someone’s view, and so I can observe each new part of the garden as it is revealed.

There’s a swimming pool, which is lit with underwater lights; while it may be too late in the year for swimming, I guess Kingston has made sure his pool is lit up to impress his guests. Like every other part of the garden, the area around the pool is manicured and sculpted to perfection.

I press forward a little further and see an empty sunroom attached to the back of the house.

As I round the corner, and crawl towards the sunroom on my hands and knees, I adopt caution as a middle name.

A quick bob of my head confirms it’s still empty, so I manoeuvre myself to the door and tease the handle down. The door opens without a sound.

I get inside the sunroom and crouch beneath a rattan couch that sports cream cushions. From here, I can see the sunroom is connected to the house by a hallway, which has openings left and right and runs through the main building.

This is bad. Whichever way I choose I’ll be leaving myself open to an ambush from a minimum of two directions.

On the other hand, should I need them, I’ll have three escape routes.

A more immediate worry is that the door from the sunroom to the hall could be locked. I get up and move towards it with a blend of speed and silence.

This handle is stiffer than the other, but it opens with the faintest of noises when I put a bit more weight behind my hand. Before I step into the hallway, I crane my head left and right while listening for movement.

Of the three doors leading from the hall, only the one to my left has light showing beneath it.

As a precaution against ambush I open the door straight ahead, and the one to my right, but find a large empty lounge and a deserted kitchen that looks more like a showroom than the heart of a home.

With Kingston’s money, it’s probable that he dines out most nights, and for an event like tonight’s he would hire caterers.

I pull both guns from the small of my back and make sure their safety catches are off. I tuck one under my right armpit, while I grasp the door handle, and with a deep exhale I throw the door open and stride into the room.

‘Nobody move.’ My voice is raised, and I have both guns pointing at the men sitting round a large dining table.

One of the men disobeys my command and rises from his seat. As he stands, his right hand dives beneath his jacket. I pull both my triggers twice, and see a spurt of red leap from the side of his neck. As he falls to the floor a thick geyser of arterial blood sprays the guy next to him.

I keep my face stern and try not to show relief that I’ve hit him. I’d aimed at the centre of the guy’s stomach; therefore, I’d missed my target by between fourteen and eighteen inches. Another inch to the right and it would have missed him altogether.

With four bullets gone I have eleven left. A quick head count shows there are six men seated around the table.

The air hangs with expectancy and cigar smoke.

I lay down the gun in my left hand, and cover the men with the one in my right, as I fish the roll of duct tape from my pocket.

‘You.’ I point at the nearest man – a thin streak of nothing with a greasy ponytail – as the roll of tape flies towards him. ‘Bind your buddies. If any of them manage to escape, I’ll shoot you first. Understand?’

He goes to work, and the man I’ve recognised as Kingston slowly rises to his feet with his hands above his head. He looks a little older than he does in the only picture that Alfonse was able to find of him on the internet. His jowls hang lower and there’s less hair surrounding his baldpate.

‘You’ve made a grave mistake, Buster.’

I point one gun at him while keeping the rest of them covered with the other gun in my right hand. ‘Really? I could say the same about you. You are behind the death of someone very dear to me. That’s something I take exception to.’

The calmness I felt earlier is still there and I have to fight my amazement at it. To me, this feels right. I’m here to deliver justice and to make sure Kingston pays for his part in Taylor’s death.

I glance at the men and see that Ponytail has secured three of them and is working on the fourth. Once he’s finished the next guy, he’ll only have Kingston left. My plan is to knock Ponytail out and bind him myself.

I’ll have plenty of time to persuade Kingston to tell me the name of the man who pulled the trigger. I am certain that, while he may have instructed the man to shoot, there is no way he did it himself. To do that would implicate him in ways that are undeniable to law enforcers.

‘FREEZE!’

If the shout doesn’t make me obey, the gun pressed against the back of my neck makes it a no-brainer. I have no option but to allow Ponytail and Kingston to take my weapons from me.

When the gun is removed from my neck, I see a woman whose face is a rigid mask; it’s either Botox, or Kingston’s wife is more than a little miffed with me for getting blood on her carpet.

66

Credit where it’s due, neither Kingston nor his men do anything to harm me as they drag me to an ornamental steel pillar, which supports an ornate staircase, wrap my arms around it and bind my hands with duct tape.

I’d expected a few cheap shots on account of the man I’d killed, but not only are they professional, they’re obedient, and follow Kingston’s quiet commands without question.

They’ve positioned me so that my back is to the room and they have me at their mercy – the only defence I can mount is mule kicks.

A fist slams into my kidneys and sends spasms of pain throughout me.

‘Okay, boys. You all get one punch each, and then we’ll see what Buster has to say for himself.’

It’s not Kingston’s words that scare me, it’s the matter-of-fact tone they’re delivered in. This is all in a day’s work for him. A man has been shot dead at his dining table, by a gun-toting stranger, and he’s speaking in the calm, measured fashion that I used when I met Taylor’s parents for the first time.

Four more blows land on my kidneys, but it’s the final punch that does the most damage. It lands on the back of my head and drives my forehead against the ornamental pillar. I hang on the edge of consciousness with my arms supporting me where the duct tape has snagged on a decorative feature. The sudden halt as I fell was akin to having my arms yanked upwards.

It could be worse. The clock had struck twelve long ago, and there are enough whisky fumes in the air to suggest that these men have all had a good drink. Therefore, they’re not at their peak when it comes to punching. Even if their target is bound and unmissable. Had they been sober, I dare say I’d be on my knees by now.

I force myself to my feet, as much to relieve the ache in my arms as to show defiance.

Two goons turn me so Kingston can see my face.

‘So, Buster. Who are you, and why are you here?’

‘I’m a friend of a friend. I heard you were looking for staff.’

My answer is a shock to me, but there’s no way I plan to tell him the truth.

‘So, instead of applying for a job, like any normal person, you sneak in here and kill one of my associates?’

‘He killed himself when he didn’t listen. It’s not my fault you hired a moron.’

There’s a curse, followed by rapid footsteps. I brace myself for the blow, but a word from Kingston is enough to make the aggressor stop.

‘Forgive William. The man you killed was his brother, so it’s only natural he’s rather upset with you.’

I don’t say anything. William may be controlled by Kingston, but there’s no point in pushing him further. Should I say the wrong the thing, William may just ignore his boss and kill me.

‘So then, Buster, do you have a name?’

There an oddness about Kingston calling me Buster, and his polite tones. It’s like he’s either struggling to shake off his roots, or is dumbing himself down so his men don’t feel inadequate at his superior intelligence.

‘Buster is as good a name as any.’

Kingston looks over my shoulder and does the peace sign. ‘William, if you’d do the honours, please?’

Unsure of where the blows will land, I tense my body and make sure my head can’t be knocked against the pillar for a second time. William’s fists collide with my kidneys.

My right kidney has taken more damage than the left one, but I can tell that William is left handed from the power of his punches. It’s a fact that may or may not come in useful.

‘I think William would rather like it if you don’t tell me your name. Do you want to make him happy, or do you want to tell me your name?’

I’ve held on to this minor detail for long enough. While I’m taking a pounding they’re not killing me. The longer I can draw this out, the better my chances are of finding a way to escape, or at least killing Kingston before his goons kill me.

By the same token, I don’t want to stretch credibility by not giving up a fact as inconsequential as my name. So long as I seem to give them each piece of information they want with a grudge, it will add a layer of validity to the lies I tell.

‘My name is Brian Johnson.’

I’m not sure if they’re fans of AC/DC. In a lot of ways, I don’t care. Even if they do recognise the singer’s name, Brian Johnson is the kind of everyday name that is believable. Had I told them my name was Mick Jagger, or Axl Rose, I would have given them such grounds for disbelief that I may as well beat myself up.

‘So, Brian, you said you came here looking for a position within my organisation; perhaps you can enlighten me as to your qualifications? Also, tell me, who is this friend of mine who suggested you come and see me?’

The way Kingston says “Brian” suggests he doesn’t believe it’s my real name. He doesn’t push it though. I suppose in his line of work, false names are given more often than real ones.

A bigger issue is that he wants to know who has sent me. Cameron’s name will get me a bullet in the back of the head, and I don’t know any of Kingston’s friends who might have made a genuine recommendation.

However, I’d always known this moment may arise, and I’ve taken a few steps in preparation.

I give him the name of the man who controls the southern half of Staten Island.

Kingston purses his lips and takes a seat as he thinks about the name I’ve given him. He keeps his head down so his face can’t be seen.

Federico Peccia is not a name to be said without reverence. I only know about him because I had Alfonse dig into the files of the NYPD to find the three-letter agency that deals with organised crime, and get me their most wanted list. I might never have been a boy scout, but their motto of “be prepared” is a good one.

Peccia is known to be one of the most ruthless of the various crime lords. His signature punishment is to flay his victims, roll them in salt, and dispatch them with a bullet to the back of the head when he tires of hearing their screams.

Kingston may, or may not, have met Peccia, but the two men will be aware of each other. They’re far enough apart territorially for there to be no encroaching of boundaries, but while Kingston may be a big fish in his own area, compared to Peccia he’s little more than a shrimp.

He’ll now be thinking about his life expectancy and trying to work out if my presence here is enemy action, along the lines of infiltration, or if my story is genuine.

I let him think for as long as he needs. If he’s thinking, nobody is punching me.

His goons are silent and there’s no noise other than the faint echo of music. I can’t say I know anything about classical music, but the tune I hear is dark and brooding, and I can tell it’s building its way towards a thundering crescendo. I hope it isn’t symbolism at work.

Kingston lifts his head and licks his lips. His expression is grave when he addresses me. ‘Buster, you don’t know much about Peccia if you thought you could come here saying he sent you. He doesn’t do favours. Not for you, not for me.’

‘I didn’t come here because of a favour.’ I make sure there’s plenty of scorn in my voice. ‘I’m here because I get around and I hear things. A lot of what I’ve heard is not good news. At least, not for you.’

‘So, what have you heard?’ Kingston picks up one of my guns and points it in my face.

I try not to show fear. ‘Shooting me won’t get you the information that will save your life. It might be Peccia that’s coming for you, it may well be someone else.’

‘Gentlemen, we are saved. Brian here, has come to rescue us from our enemies.’ Kingston turns to his goons and laughs until they join in, like the good little sycophants they are. It’s a false laugh, derived from fear and uncertainty.

‘You made a mistake killing the girl on the yacht. That’s brought you a lot of attention. Trust me, it’s the wrong kind of attention.’

Kingston’s laughter stops dead and his eyes narrow. ‘What do you know about the yacht?’

‘Everything.’

‘Would you care to elaborate, or do I have to ask William to encourage you?’

‘You got shafted by one of your own. Gave chase, killed the wrong person, and became a laughing stock when the guy you were after disappeared.’

Kingston puts the gun on an occasional table, three feet to my right, and returns to his chair. ‘You seem well-informed, but only to a point. We didn’t make it public knowledge, but we got the guy we were after, and his buddy. Therefore, your information is wrong.’

I’d laugh if my life wasn’t in imminent danger. Kingston is bluffing and his face says he believes the lie. Perhaps he’s been told it as a truth, by men who’re afraid to give him bad news.

It’s time for me to ramp up the tension. ‘What about the girl? My sources tell me she was the daughter of a senator. I shouldn’t think the police will be allowed to not solve her murder.’

‘She’s a senator’s daughter, is she?’ His face changes. ‘It would appear to me that your sources are less than accurate. Either that, or you’re being economical with the truth. William, if you’d care to go first, I think two blows each this time.’

I hear footsteps approach me and I tense myself, ready for the pain that may well be coming my way.

67

I’m not looking forward to getting hit ten times, so I attempt to make a bid for freedom. I lift my hands as high as possible, and drive them down with as much force as possible while tucking my elbows into my sides as they descend.

Just like the books I’ve read suggested, the motion is enough to free my hands from the duct tape binding them.

I feel William’s fist collide with my left kidney. Now I’m free of the restraint provided by the pillar, the blow is enough to send me staggering.

This is a good thing, as it propels me towards the gun that Kingston laid on the occasional table.

As I snatch it up I look at it and assess which one it is. It’s the one I got from the mugger in the alleyway. That means it has three bullets.

Six opponents, three bullets and one bad shot: me.

Those aren’t good odds, but they are better than the ones I was facing when bound to the pillar.

As I whirl round to face them, I bring the gun to bear and pull the trigger.

Three deafening shots ring out and three of the men fall to the floor. Not that I hit them with a careful aim: they were so close to me it would have been harder to miss.

I don’t waste time checking the severity of their injuries. Instead, I point the gun at the nearest man, who is stumbling over his buddies.

Momentum is carrying him forward, so I slip my finger from the gun’s trigger guard, and use the palm of my hand as a hammer to smash it into his face. I follow up with a left cross to the temple.

As he’s falling, I weigh up my last two aggressors.

One of them is Kingston. Like the hero he is, he lets his goon come at me first. I can see the snarl on the goon’s face, as Kingston heads towards the dining table where my other gun still rests.

The goon has to go down quick if I’m to stand any chance of catching Kingston. Because of the bodies on the floor, he takes a circuitous route to get to me.

I use the time he wastes to grab a chair and throw it at Kingston. The chair hits the back of his legs and he stumbles to his knees.

The chance is too good to waste, so I launch myself forward and plant the toe of my boot in Kingston’s unmentionables.

As I take a step towards the gun, a strong arm wraps itself around my throat and hauls backwards to exert maximum pressure on my larynx.

I throw my elbows back, but the guy holding me has positioned himself to use my body as a shield.

He has me standing on my toes, so it’s no use trying to use my weight to draw him to the ground – he’s too strong for that. Instead, I swing a foot forward, as far as it will go, and thrash it backwards with enough force to break his shins.

My foot misses his leg, but I’m not worried. My leg flies past his and alters our balance. Instead of me being stretched back against his chest, he’s now hunched over my back.

I twist, and let my standing leg go weak.

I throw my head back as we are falling, and it collides with his as it lands on the polished wooden floor.

His arm loosens its grip on my throat long enough for me to break loose. I spin round and crash my forehead into his nose. His head goes back and presents me with the target I’ve been looking for.

I punch the goon with my knuckles extended. He may recover from the blow to his larynx, or he may spend the next couple of minutes gasping his way to his grave, that’s his problem; for now, he’s out of action.

I look for Kingston and see he’s picked himself up and is reaching for the gun. I charge towards him and hit him with a running tackle that slams him into the table and drives the breath from both of our bodies.

The table overturns and I hear the gun skittering away. I’m gasping for air as Kingston picks himself up. He’s unsteady on his feet but, after the punishment I’ve taken tonight, he’s in better shape than I am.

He lifts a chair above his head and crashes it down on my chest.

What little air there is in my lungs gets driven out.

68

I’m fighting to breathe and I see Kingston take a frantic look around him. I guess he’s looking for a weapon and pray he doesn’t find one.

Kingston’s eyes don’t rest anywhere for long. Some air enters my lungs and I feel strong enough to move, just as he launches himself towards the door that I came through.

I know, if I let him out of my sight, I’ll have to leave with my mission unaccomplished. There’s no way it would be safe to look for him in his own house. He’ll know where his weapons are, and the best places to ambush me.

Somehow I haul my aching body upright and stumble after him.

He’s ten feet ahead of me as he goes towards the door that leads to the kitchen. The door hangs open behind him and I see him reaching for the knife block as I enter.

His fingers grasp a large carving knife and he gives a vicious smile. ‘You’re a dead man, Buster. Even if I don’t kill you right now, my men will hunt you down. Nowhere will be safe for you. You’ll die screaming, begging for the pain to end.’

I ignore his taunts. He doesn’t know who I am or where I’m from. There’s no way his men can find me once I leave here. All he’s trying to do is goad me into going for him, putting myself within reach of the knife he’s holding.

He advances towards me as I round a granite-topped island that has a sink in the middle.

I throw various items from the worktop at him, but none are substantial enough to do any damage.

He tries to come around the island at me, but stops when he realises I’m circling round to where the knives are. I glance over my shoulder and see a full wine rack.

I grab two bottles by their necks.

As weapons, they are not the greatest, but they’re strong enough to deflect a blow from the knife, and heavy enough to numb a muscle if I can get sufficient power into my swing.

Now it’s me who advances.

‘Come on then, prove you’re The King. I’ve dropped all your henchmen, this is your chance to prove to them why you’re known as The King. If you can take me down you’ll become a legend.’

I see the flicker of excitement in his eyes. He wants that veneration; he wants to be classed as better than his thugs.

Inside me I know this has to end soon. If we get drawn into a long battle, the beating I’ve taken will give him the advantage. There’s also the fact that one of his goons may not be sufficiently hurt to stay down for any length of time, and his wife could make another appearance. She’d looked wasted earlier, so I’m hoping she’s passed out in her bed.

Kingston takes a dancing half-step forward, flashes his knife, and leaps back two steps as I retreat a pace. His move works for him and he grabs another knife from the block.

We face off against each other: him with a knife in each hand, me with a bottle of wine in each of mine.

He flashes his knives in front of my face in a steel blizzard as he advances on me.

I throw the bottle in my left hand at his head and, when he lifts his knives to deflect it, I strike forward with the bottle in my right. I don’t care what I hit, so long as I hit something.

The bottle crashes against his left forearm causing his fingers to involuntarily open. His knife clatters to the ground.

He still has the advantage of knife against bottle, but now I’ve had a chance to judge how quick his reflexes are.

They are good, but not necessarily good enough.

I transfer the bottle to my left hand and wait for him to slash or stab at me.

When he does move to attack, it’s with a mixture of short controlled movements that could become a slash or a stab at any time.

I swing my bottle towards his knife, deflecting it away from his centre, as I wheel inside his arm and throw an elbow at his head.

The bottle slips from my fingers and falls to the floor, sending broken glass and red wine across the cream tiles.

My elbow collides with something that’s too hard to be anything other than his forehead. The pair of us slump to the ground, fighting for control of his knife. I can feel pieces of glass digging into my back as he wrestles himself on top of me.

Instead of defending myself, I use both my hands to twist his knife arm until I feel him release his grip. While I’m doing this, his free hand is throwing short hard punches at my face.

I feel my nose burst and my lips split, but I don’t change my tactics.

With the knife released from his hands, I writhe and twist underneath him until I can buck him off me.

I straddle him and throw punch after punch at his face, turning it into a bloody pulp. I feel a sharp pain in my leg and see he’s grabbed a knife and stabbed me.

As he pulls it out to stab me a second time, I twist his arm until the knife drops and I hear the crunch of his wrist bones breaking.

I deliver a thundering punch to his jaw that leaves him fighting consciousness.

I lever myself off him, open a cupboard, and pull Kingston into a position where I can rest one of his legs on the bottom shelf.

I stamp down hard enough on his shin to break the bone.

I kick anything that could be used as a weapon away from him, and return to the dining room. One of the goons has gotten himself into a sitting position, but the others are all lying where I dropped them. Four chests are rising and falling, which tells me only one of them is dead.

The guy sitting up watches me in fear as I gather up my jacket, backpack and the two guns.

‘I’m going to talk to Kingston. Are you going to be stupid enough to interrupt our conversation?’

His answer is the defeated shaking of his head as he presses his hands against a bloody stomach wound.

69

I arrange Kingston into a sitting position, fill a bowl with cold water and throw it in his face. A second bowlful of water gets tipped over his head.

He needs to be awake and fully alert for what I’m about to do.

I place my backpack on the floor opposite him and drop my denims before I sit beside it. He’s watching me with confusion in his eyes.

I get my supplies within reach and stare at him. ‘Pay attention.’

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I remove the lid from his bottle of cognac and pour the contents on the stab wound on my right thigh. I don’t know what damage has been done, I just know there’s more blood coming out than I’d care for.

The brandy stings, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the pain I’ll feel in a minute.

My next move is to empty a bowl of water over the wound to cleanse it and wash the brandy away.

Kingston’s eyes widen in surprise when I remove the blowtorch from my backpack and put one of his wooden salad forks between my teeth.

I wet the fingers of my left hand and use them to prise open the wound in my leg.

The blowtorch crackles into life; the blue flame, an inch and a half long, hisses with contempt.

My mouth tightens, and I almost chicken out of what I’m about to do, but a memory of Taylor spurs me on.

I point the tip of the blue flame into my stab wound and hold it there for two long, agonising seconds.

I clamp my teeth down on the salad fork as the pain becomes unimaginable. Were it not for the fork, I’d be screaming. Beads of sweat appear all over my body.

I put down the blowtorch and look at my leg.

The sides of the wound are red and inflamed but that doesn’t worry me, it’s only pain. What’s important is that the blowtorch has done what I’d hoped it would do, and cauterised the veins split by Kingston’s knife.

I pull some antibiotics, which I got from a pharmacy, out of my backpack and take a handful to counteract any infection that may have gotten into the wound.

Next I use my T-shirt to form a rudimentary bandage.

I pull up my denims and look at Kingston as I button my shirt. His eyes show a mixture of respect and revulsion.

‘You’ve seen what I’m prepared to do to myself. Can you imagine what I’ll do to you if you don’t answer my questions?’ I lift the blowtorch. ‘Who shot the girl on the yacht?’

Kingston swallows and looks to the door, hoping for a rescue that doesn’t come.

‘So that’s what this is about. She was your girl.’

‘You have five seconds to give me an answer.’ I don’t bother telling him what the consequences will be if he doesn’t. The blowtorch hissing in my hand is enough of a threat.

‘She wasn’t meant to die.’

‘Four.’

‘It was Henderson who was supposed to die.’

‘The Scottish guy? Three.’

‘Yeah.’ Kingston squints. ‘Hey, he looks a bit like you.’

‘He’s my father. It was me on the boat with him. Two.’

Kingston swallows and shakes his head. His eyes show fear.

‘One. Who pulled the trigger?’

‘It wasn’t one of my men. They’re okay with a pistol, but I needed someone who could shoot a rifle.’

I move the blowtorch until its flame is two inches above his shattered leg. ‘Zero.’

I pull back the leg of his trousers.

‘Wait. It was a guy I hired from a business associate.’

‘Names.’

‘The shooter is known only as The Mortician.’

‘And the man who gave you his number?’

The name he gives sends my blood cold. It’s not only that the guy is connected, it’s also the people who are connected to him. Of all the gangland figures in New York that Alfonse had named for me, Genaro Chellini’s name topped every list – whether you looked at wealth, influence, reputation or reach.

He is not the type of man who’d hire an amateur. Therefore, The Mortician will be a deadly foe.

I hold the blowtorch near enough to Kingston’s ankle for him to feel its heat without being burned.

‘Who was the trigger man and how did you find him?’

He repeats the names, and the fear in his eyes indicates that he’s telling me the truth.

‘How can I find this Mortician?’

He tells me the name he’s stored The Mortician’s number under in his cell, and pulls an iPhone from his pocket.

‘Thank you.’ I put down the blowtorch and look him in the eye. ‘You set The Mortician after my father and got my girlfriend killed. That’s not something I can forgive.’

I plunge one of my knives into his heart and watch the light fade from his eyes.

It doesn’t feel good, but it does feel like justice has been served.

70

I grab a set of car keys from a bowl at the front door and make my way out of Kingston’s house.

I press a button on the key fob and the indicators flash on a Bentley. I climb in, fasten my seatbelt, and listen to the engine burble as I let it crawl its way to the gates.

The guy in the gatehouse doesn’t look up as I pass through.

I drive without aim, until I see a sign for a subway station.

I stop by the sidewalk, spend a few minutes checking Kingston’s cell, and put my plan into action. A search for “me” in the contacts gets me Kingston’s number. I test it with my cell and his phone rings.

His call history doesn’t show any contact with The Mortician, but I didn’t expect it to. Text messages also come up blank.

Next I check his apps and see he has Snapchat. The criminal’s favourite app: once a message has been viewed, it disappears.

Or at least that’s the theory.

The reality is quite different. Someone with Alfonse’s skills can access a person’s Snapchat history and see every message. All he needs is a phone number.

I use my burner cell to call him. He answers on the fourth ring and is groggy with sleep. He sounds pleased to hear I’m alive, but I still detect a large amount of worry in his voice.

I spend five minutes giving Alfonse a combination of requests and instructions. He promises to have answers by 9 a.m.

I look at my watch and see I have five hours to kill. Some rest, a new pair of denims, and a few proper dressings for my wound are the order of my day.

It’s time for me to move on. The longer I stay in one place, with Kingston’s phone and his Bentley, the greater the odds are of any pursuers being able to find me.

A couple of young dudes are lurching their way towards the subway, but I don’t think they’re worthy candidates. Instead of bequeathing the car to someone, and possibly having Kingston’s goons hunt them down, I leave the key in the ignition and his cell on the passenger seat.

I dismantle my burner as much as I can. Each piece will find its way into a different garbage bin in the subway.

I’m only halfway through the subway’s entrance when I hear the roar of a large engine. Someone has already claimed the Bentley. Perhaps Lady Luck will allow them to keep it.

I plan my route back to Brooklyn and think about what I’ve learned. It would have been far better if the trigger man had been one of Kingston’s own men.

Now The Mortician has become involved, things have ratcheted up another level.

He is a professional killer; I’m a doorman.

He will be calculating; I’m following a loose plan and improvising as I go along.

He will have a cool head; I am filled with a burning rage.

He will probably have had some military training; I was taught to fight in a garden by my grandfather.

He will have access to a personal armoury; I have three knives, one blowtorch, one gun with six bullets and a second gun with none. I don’t even know what ammunition it takes so I can’t buy any more; I’ll get rid of it in the first drain I pass in a secluded area.

None of The Mortician’s advantages are enough to make me think about giving up. Not one of them compels me to return to Casperton rather than risk my life.

The Mortician killed Taylor. I can’t rest until I’ve killed him.

71

The guy behind the counter at the all night convenience store looks more tired than I do. There are bags under his eyes big enough to be slung between two trees and used as hammocks, and the pallor of his skin doesn’t suggest good health.

Those are his issues though.

I pay for the antiseptic cream, bandages, a new pair of denims and a packet of power bars, and limp out of the store.

My leg has been a constant source of agony since the adrenaline rush I experienced at Kingston’s house dissipated. I could have added strong painkillers to my shopping list but I don’t want anything to dull my wits.

The only hope I have of beating The Mortician is to outsmart him, and to do that I need to be sharp.

An all-night diner provides fuel for my body, and their coffee is stewed enough to resemble treacle. In my weakened state it’s just what I need.

I have an hour to wait until it’s time to call Alfonse. I’ve worked out what my plan should be and what I need Alfonse to do to make it happen.

My plan isn’t foolproof, of that I’m sure, but it will be good enough to give me a chance to kill The Mortician. That’s all I ask.

Also on my shopping list is a replacement burner.

There is the possibility that The Mortician will not fall for my ruse. Should that happen, I will have to hunt him in a different way.

The base of another plan forms in my head, but it’s riskier than the first one, and may well require me to recruit some assistance.

I return my thoughts to plan A, and cross-examine it for flaws. There are far more than I am comfortable with, but I have time to smooth out some of the wrinkles. Should other failings arise, I will have to improvise as best I can.

Despite all the coffee I’ve had, tiredness is threatening to overtake me. As soon as I’ve called Alfonse, I will find myself a bed and get some rest.

72

Cameron rubs at his eyes and lifts his head from the pillow. His watch shows he’s slept for a solid eight hours. In years past he’d always needed a minimum of seven hours sleep before he could function at a reasonable level. Now he is getting older, five hours tends to be as many as he can get.

He glances around the room and sees nothing has changed since he closed his eyes. A plate appears through the gap under the door. It has two slices of buttered toast, with a blob of what he presumes is jam on it.

He lifts the toast and sniffs it. There’s no hint of spice or pepper, so he takes a tentative bite. His mouth isn’t set on fire, so he chomps the rest without fear.

‘Good morning, Cameron. I’d ask if you’ve slept well, but if I’m honest, I’d prefer it if you’d tossed and turned all night, wracked with guilt.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Ivy, but I slept like the proverbial baby.’

As soon as he’d said it, Cameron knew he’d made a mistake. Goading Ivy is not a good idea; giving her ammunition is a terrible one.

‘So, you slept like a baby, huh?’ Even through the door Ivy’s tone is cold enough to deliver frostbite to uncovered flesh. ‘Your firstborn child is out there trying to avenge a girlfriend who was killed due to your cowardice, and while he’s risking his life at every turn, you get a solid night’s sleep. Tell me, Cameron, when you look in the mirror do you see a man, or a selfish bawbag who’d be doing the world a favour if he took his own life?’

‘Jake is a big boy. He makes his own decisions, same as you and me. Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him, but let’s be honest here, I haven’t been part of his life for thirty years, and he hasn’t been part of mine.’

‘He’s my son. He’s your son, you pig. For all we know he could be dead or dying right now, and you’re bragging about having slept all night. If not for his sake, or your own, consider me. I’m the wife you abandoned, the woman who brought your kids up alone. My boy is out there doing God knows what, and I can’t help him. Every second I don’t hear from him sees me imagining his death. You might not care about him, but right now, at this specific moment in time, he’s the only thing I care about.’

‘So, you haven’t heard from him. That’s a shame.’

Ivy is silent for a minute, then she speaks. ‘Why do you care if we’ve heard from him?’

As tempting as it is to give a trite answer, Cameron picks his words with care. ‘Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him. Plus, the sooner he returns, the sooner I can help John and be on my way. Let’s face it, Ivy, none of you want me to stick around, and I don’t have a reason to stay where I’m not wanted.’

‘He’s been in touch with Alfonse a couple of times during the night. The last time was at four a.m.; that’s five hours of worry for me. Five hours of sleep for you. Jake has now got the name of the man who pulled the trigger and he’s going after him. My boy is going after a killer, and it’s all because of what you’ve done. If he survives this he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in jail, and it will all be your fault.’

Cameron listens to the rustle of clothing and pictures Ivy slumping to the floor, aghast with worry. While she had only made him happy for a brief period, he’d never grown to hate her. She was, and still is, a good woman with a kind heart and generous nature.

Ivy may have a strong sense of narcissism, but she would have been a good mother, and he is sure that her morals will have been passed on to her children. He knows he should think of them as his children as well, but after so many years of separation he feels detached and remote. Yes, they are his children, but he’s never had a connection with them, and as the years had passed, the less thought he had given them.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Ivy. The people Jake is going up against are dangerous. But, see when he was with me, before and after the girl was killed, he was something else. He took on three guys and won. He made the right decisions and kept us both alive when it seemed we were sure to be killed. I can’t claim to know him, but I’ve spent a lot of my life around dangerous people, and Jake is right up there. He’s smart, resourceful, brave, and when necessary he’s more than capable of winning a fight.’

‘Is that supposed to comfort me? Are you saying my boy is good enough to survive this stupid revenge mission he’s on?’

Cameron licks his lips and decides to tell his ex-wife the truth.

‘I’m saying he has a chance, that’s all. Perhaps not fifty-fifty, but still a chance. I don’t know anyone else I’d be able to say would have better odds.’

The only answer he gets is a sob.

73

I find a payphone and call Alfonse. He punctuates our conversation with huge yawns but, as always, he’s come through for me.

He gives me the information I’ve asked for and I give him an outline of plans A and B. He likes A better than B and I agree with his assessment.

When I ask him if something else is possible, he falls silent. I wait him out, aware he’s thinking through my request and the best way to do it.

He says it’s possible but it’ll take a few hours.

I tell him I’ll do things at my end and will be in touch.

The hard part of our conversation centres around Mother, and her insistence that he passes on her instructions to give up my foolish mission and return home.

When we say goodbye, he doesn’t waste his breath telling me to take care of myself. He knows I’ll do what I need to do.

As sensible as it would be to return to Casperton and resume my normal life, there’s no way I can do that until The Mortician has paid, with his blood, for taking Taylor’s life.

Anyone who is a hitman for criminal gangs deserves to die. His moniker of choice tells me everything I need to know about him. That he’s chosen such a macabre name will be, I’m sure, standard in his profession. Whether he is a mortician, or just likes the nickname, is neither here nor there.

The mental image I have of him is a tall, thin man, dressed like a 1920s undertaker, with a long, cadaverous face. I know I shouldn’t assign a look to him, as I may fail to recognise him when the time comes, but I can’t help myself.

I find a store where I can buy a new cell without a contract, and five minutes later I’ve let Alfonse know its number from a payphone. I may be paranoid, keeping this level of separation, but if last night’s events have taught me anything, it’s that things can turn bad in the time it takes to say my name.

Walking around isn’t helping my leg so I find a hotel. The room is a little spartan, but that’s not important; it’s clean and that’s all I care about.

I strip off and take a shower, making sure the wound on my leg is as clean as I can get it. Once I have smeared it with antiseptic cream and bandaged it up, I lie on the bed and close my eyes. As much as I’d like to picture Taylor as I fall asleep, I can’t rest for too long. Instead of her, I create a clock in my mind’s eye and position the hands to indicate one o’clock. Three hours of sleep isn’t a lot but it’ll do for now.

I’ve used this method of sleep management before and have learned to trust my body’s internal clock. Quite how it works is beyond me, I just know that it works.

74

I wake and scowl at the world. My leg has stiffened, and even doing something simple, like swinging my feet to the floor and standing up, sends waves of pain shooting from my toes to my hip.

My teeth are clamped firmly together and by the time I’ve pulled on my new denims, and tied the laces on my boots, there is a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and limp out of the hotel. There’s a diner across the street and I head towards it.

With a cup of coffee in front of me, and a burger with fries ordered, I look at what I can prepare before speaking to Alfonse.

First, I download the Snapchat app to my new phone, then I use the diner’s payphone to call Alfonse.

A minute later I’m sitting down and composing a Snapchat message.

At my request, Alfonse has done some of his digital wizardry. This new, disposable cell, has been cloned to be Olly Kingston’s. It contains all his contacts, therefore I’m able to request the services of The Mortician under his guise.

As Kingston, I’ve requested a hit on the man who stormed my house.

The criminal underworld is a small environment, and all the major players will know each other. That means only one thing: word about my visit last night will have travelled.

I get a reply at the same time my burger appears.

The two things are quite contradictory: a staple part of the American diet and a message from an assassin. Strangely, I’m more excited about the message than the food.

I heard you were dead.

This is where I have to box clever. Kingston may have been a gang boss, but he was erudite and well mannered; cultured even.

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

Sometimes you have to be deceitful in public.

Perhaps the Mark Twain quote is a step too far, but to my mind it’s the kind of thing Kingston would have said.

Pleased to hear it. Who was it?

My reply is sent without a moment’s hesitation. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

A guy calling himself Brian Johnson. Said he was looking for a job, then went all Rambo. I lost four men. I want them avenged.

It will happen. The usual fee and the usual terms of payment.

My curse draws attention to me and heads turn around the room. I give an apologetic grimace and turn back to the cell phone.

Not only do I not know his payment terms, I don’t for one minute think Alfonse and I will be able to scare up the amount needed to pay him.

I have a thought and head to the payphone with a handful of fries stuffed in my mouth.

Alfonse picks up on the third ring and he struggles to understand me as I speak through the fries.

‘I said, can you find out Kingston’s banking details?’

‘What do you need them for?’

‘So we can use his banking app to trace the last payment to The Mortician, and pay him this time using Kingston’s money.’

‘It’s a good idea, but it won’t work.’

‘How?’

Alfonse is familiar with the Scottish use of the word “how” to mean “why?”

‘Because you can’t use a banking app without a password. That’s why. I daresay I could crack that password, but it will take many hours. days even.’

I want to slam the phone’s handset into its cradle, but that won’t achieve anything. As much as it frustrates me, Alfonse is right.

Another option is for Alfonse to tap directly into The Mortician’s bank and pretend to put the money there. Not only is that too much to ask of Alfonse in terms of risk, we would need The Mortician’s bank details to fake the transaction.

The burger is two parts cold when I return to my seat and take a bite, but I force myself to eat it anyway. I need the energy and, thanks to Mother’s teachings, I hate to see food wasted.

I decide to roll the dice one last time to see if I can engage The Mortician.

Dratted neighbour called the cops. Don’t want to move money just yet as they are looking for an excuse to nail me. How does double once Johnson is dead sound?

The Mortician’s reply comes as I’m finishing the last few fries.

These terms are acceptable. Do I need to remind you of the consequences of non-payment?

I tell him the payment will be there, as well as where Johnson can be found, and exit the diner.

75

I make my way across town to where I’ve set up it up for The Mortician to execute his hit on me. It’s beyond dangerous to hire a hitman to kill you, and be there when he shows up, but that’s what I’ve done. Or at least, something like that.

My plan is a simple one. I am going to observe him as he arrives and wait until he’s given up trying to find me. Then I’ll follow him.

Once he’s in one of New York’s many crowds, I’ll put a knife in his back and then his heart. As plans go, it’s not quite the D-Day landings, but I don’t see the point in over-complicating things. The crowds will cover the early part of my escape, and by the time people realise a murder has been committed, I’ll be the best part of a hundred yards away.

While it sounds simple, I know that someone who does what The Mortician does for a living will not leave themselves vulnerable. I expect him to run a certain level of surveillance to ensure what I plan to do to him doesn’t happen.

I can’t decide what to do with my disguise. The scar makes me instantly recognisable, but if I remove it, I’ll be showing my real face.

There is a queue of people at the subway but I’m not in any hurry. The location that Alfonse has picked up as The Mortician’s home or base, by tracking his cell signal, is a lot further away from the deserted warehouse, which I’m supposed to be holed up in, than I am.

Time is on my side, but I want to get there at least an hour before he does.

The subway is crowded and while I’m used to seeing people from all walks of life, New York is as eclectic as things get. A man dressed in the pinstriped suit of a banker is sitting beside a Goth with dyed black hair and a plethora of studs and rings in her face.

Opposite them is a woman in her early twenties who is wearing a ripped prom dress with torn fishnet stockings and the kind of work boots normally found on a building site. Her face is made up and is pretty, but the further south you look, the more her outfit contrasts with it.

After a couple of stops and one change of line, I exit the bowels of New York and find myself on a street that has seen better days. Nothing looks as if it’s been maintained for years, and the better days must have taken place decades ago.

Stores have boarded-up windows and there are gangs of homeless people lining up at a door that hasn’t seen fresh paint since Reagan was president.

I feel a vibrating in my pocket and pull out the cell. Only one person can contact me on this number, so it has to be The Mortician.

What I see on the screen makes me launch the cell at the nearest wall with all the force I can muster.

I have made enquiries. Olly Kingston is dead. You are masquerading as him and targeting me. This is a bad idea. You should leave New York in the next hour. Failure to do so will have fatal consequences.

I go back into the subway and think about the ways I can still get to The Mortician. I can only surmise that The Mortician has spoken to one of Kingston’s men. If I’m right, he’ll have a description of me. At the risk of being conceited, I know that when he is told about what I did last night, I will go up in his estimation. This will make him far more cautious as he goes about his business.

Without the cell he has no way to track me so, despite his threat, I’m safe for the time being. My disguise will have to go, as it’s a ready identifier.

I leave the subway and find a store where I buy two more cells. One is a base model, which I plan to use for communicating with Alfonse, the other is more sophisticated and will allow me to access Google, among other things.

As soon as I’m in any situation that could get dangerous, the Alfonse phone will be disposed of.

Never mind the trail of bodies I’m leaving as I cross the Big Apple, I’m tossing cell phones as if they were confetti.

I wander along the street as I bring Alfonse up to speed on the latest development.

He already knows.

To take away my despondency he shares two pieces of news.

Both work for different reasons.

76

With the cell phone still pressed to my ear, I hail a cab and tell the driver there’s a hundred bucks tip if he does as I say without question.

I sit in the front and repeat the street names and numbers from Alfonse to the cabbie.

The cabbie has the kind of rough leathery face that needs to see a razor every few hours, and there are several years’ worth of stories in his eyes.

I guess an experienced New York cabbie has seen pretty much all there is to see about human behaviour.

Alfonse’s directions are only coming every five minutes or so, as he has to constantly update the triangulation of The Mortician’s cell.

It isn’t a problem for me though. I’m just happy that I still have a chance to find and identify him.

The cabbie asks if we’re going to Long Island and I just shrug at him. I know the name, but have no idea where it is, other than it’s near New York.

When I give the cabbie the next instruction, he tells me he’s sure we’re going to Long Island.

Pleased that I have someone with knowledge of the local geography with me, I think about the few things I do know about Long Island.

To the best of my recollection, it’s a place full of holiday homes, retired people, and those rich enough to own a beachfront mansion.

Life on Long Island is taken at a slower pace than that in the centre of New York. This becomes evident as soon as we leave the bustle of the city. There are fewer blaring horns and the drivers are less insistent on going first at all costs.

As the roads widen, there is a sense of space that’s absent from the city.

We follow Alfonse’s directions until we’re at a place the cabbie tells me is called the Hamptons.

My chauffeur seems like a decent guy. He’s amiable, and when he tells me about his children and grandchildren I can hear love and pride in his voice. Cameron could learn a lot from him.

After we’ve taken a road into a suburb, Alfonse tells me that The Mortician has stopped moving. He gives me the general area, so I get the cabbie to drop me a few hundred yards away and walk the rest.

I duck into a small bar and use the bathroom to wash my face and remove all traces of the scars.

Alfonse directs me to the house where The Mortician is holed up.

I give Alfonse the house’s number and wait for him to tell me who owns it.

When I hear his answer, I gasp in amazement.

77

The name he’s given me doesn’t mean anything to him, but it rings the wrong kind of bells for me.

Before I can be sure of anything, I need more information. Over the phone I can hear Alfonse’s fingers pounding his keyboard.

‘Got some pictures coming your way.’

I cut the call, look up and down the street to make sure I’m unobserved, and access the pictures Alfonse has sent me.

It’s just as I had thought. Part of me would like to have been mistaken, but the more primeval part of my psyche is glad he’s mixed up in this. It means I’ll have a chance of following up on my offer to Taylor to recalibrate his sensibilities.

Jason Tagliente, is the drunken lech from the wedding and, according to what Alfonse has told me about him, very much more than that.

A beep from my phone alerts me to more news from Alfonse.

I read the details, with frequent looks up and down the street to check nobody is observing me.

Tagliente is a second cousin of Genaro Chellini, and features on several lists compiled by various law enforcement agencies. While he is not thought to be directly involved in mafia activity, he’s known to be a shrewd investor on the stock markets, and has thrice been investigated after accusations of insider trading were made.

None of these were upheld, but I suppose someone with a talent for making money on the stock exchange may well face such finger-pointing as a matter of course.

The picture in my head is clearer than the pope’s conscience. Chellini will tip off Tagliente regarding a deal, hit, or some other move he’s going to make.

Tagliente will act based on his own predictions as to how the company’s share prices will react. He’ll buy when the price is low, only to sell at the peak of the market when Chellini’s influence has been felt. In other cases, he will know to sell before huge losses are incurred, and then he can swoop in and replace all his sold shares at a fraction of their original value.

For these financial sleights of hand, Tagliente won’t just be using his own money, he’ll be using the money of whichever corporation Chellini has set up for such purposes.

With this information stored for a better examination at a later time, I take a casual walk up the tree-lined street, with my phone pressed to my ear, and peek through the various gates at the supercars on the drives.

I see plenty of Ferraris and Lamborghinis, and a couple of Rolls Royces before I pass Tagliente’s house.

His gates are solid timber, with the same studs you’d see on a medieval castle’s door. There are no chinks I can peer through, and the last thing I want is to be caught spying by The Mortician.

As I’m passing the next house along, I hear the muted putter of an engine kicking into life behind me.

I slow my pace and wait to see what kind of vehicle appears.

A small Ford comes out of Tagliente’s drive and passes me as it heads to New York. I snatch a glimpse at the driver and see a short man who can barely see over the steering wheel.

His face is unremarkable and has a general meatiness to it that suggests the man has muscle that’s turning to fat.

I dismiss the man as a staff member who’s just finished work. There’s no way he looks dangerous enough to be The Mortician.

I’ve covered less than a hundred paces when I get a message from Alfonse telling me The Mortician is on his way to New York.

That I’ve been in close proximity to him doesn’t worry me. He doesn’t know what I look like, or that I’m tracking him. I dare say if he has tried to track me, the same way Alfonse has tracked him, he’ll have figured I ditched the phone after getting his message instructing me to leave town.

Whether I ditched the phone or smashed it in a fit of temper is neither here nor there. It’s no longer with me.

His choice of car is interesting. It’s by no means a base model, but at the same time it’s not a fire-snorting racer that announces its passing with a grumbling exhaust and a paint job a six-year-old could design.

He’s gone for something innocuous, yet pacy. The little Ford will be good in the city and will have a decent amount of grunt should he find himself in rural areas. It’s the kind of car I’d have given my eyeteeth for when that SUV was chasing me and Cameron.

I’m left with two choices. I can either follow The Mortician back to New York, so I can attack him in his lair, or I can do something intelligent instead.

Intelligence wins out. After my attempt to lure him into a trap, The Mortician will have raised his security levels and general awareness. I’m guessing, but I’m pretty sure that as a professional hitman, his base level of home security is akin to Fort Knox’s, lest he be attacked by those seeking to avenge a fallen comrade or family member.

Now I have to choose between asking Tagliente a few questions, and learning more about what I may be facing should I go and knock on Tagliente’s door.

78

Cameron’s head snaps up when he hears a key turning in the lock. He pulls on his shoes and waits to see who comes in.

First through the door is Ivy, and she’s followed by six guys – their presence forces him back, onto the bed.

His first thought is that she’s organised a beating for him. His second thought is that the beating is coming because Jake has failed.

‘Good news, bawbag. The hospital has called John with your results. You’re a match.’

‘Excellent, I’m so relieved.’ Cameron tries to make his voice sound like he means what he’s saying.

An arched eyebrow shows her disbelief. ‘Of course you are.’ She waves a hand at the six guys. ‘Some of Jake’s friends have come to help you get to the hospital. Isn’t that nice?’

Cameron sees the sense in what she’s done; he’s a definite flight risk and he can’t help but admire the way she’s thwarted any attempt at escape he may try. Or, he would do, had he not spent the best part of his life working for men who were devious, underhand and downright violent.

Everything about this situation makes him afraid: from the grim, silent faces, to the twitching gait of the six guys with Ivy. Maybe twenty years ago he might have managed to put a couple of them down and have it away on his toes, but there is no chance of that now. He will be going wherever they decide to take him.

Ivy positions herself in front of him and looks him in the eye.

‘You look scared, Cameron. Are you afraid these fine gentlemen are here to harm you? That you’ll be taken into the wilds and killed?’ She gives a little smile. ‘Once, I might have wanted you dead, but I’ve moved on with my life. I’ve healed from all the pain you caused, and found happiness again. There’s no way I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life worrying about going to jail for your murder. You took my happiness once, I won’t let you take it again.’

Cameron sees the truth in her eyes, and his fear seeps away.

This might be for the best anyway. Sure, having to hang around and donate to John will delay him getting on with the next phase of his life, but at the same time, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can leave town.

With luck, he’ll be long gone by the time Jake returns. Cameron knows his son carries a lot of anger about what happened with the girl, and once he’s donated to John he’ll no longer be of value to Jake.

He doesn’t think Jake would go so far as to kill him, but he does believe his son would use fists, where his ex-wife had used words.

Sometimes, the best defence is not to be on the battlefield.

79

My journey back to New York is a train ride that costs about one eighth of what I paid the cabbie to get out here.

Neither time nor money are what’s on my mind though. My thoughts are somewhere else altogether.

Jason Tagliente’s half-cousin is Genaro Chellini, the notorious mafia head. The wedding I’d met Tagliente at, was that of his brother to one of Taylor’s cousins.

Therefore, knowingly or not, my girlfriend’s family are connected to the mafia by marriage.

A part of my mind is wondering if there is any way that Tagliente was in contact with The Mortician; whether he’d offered a bonus to the hitman if Taylor were to die as well as Cameron.

While it seems far-fetched on a train in daylight, I know the question will nag at me as darkness falls. I’m aware I may be pointing fingers at everyone I dislike, so I can justify killing them as an act of vengeance, but I do wonder about the possibility. Until I realise there’s no way that Tagliente could have known who the girl on the boat was.

I get off the train and make my way across town until I’m back in a familiar area. It’s too late for me to make my planned visit so I hole up in a cheap hotel for the night.

Gavriel is opening the pawn shop when I arrive. His expression when he sees me is one of surprise. He goes to speak, and then his mouth closes.

I follow him inside.

Once the door is locked behind me, he takes me to a small office, which has two chairs and a desk that’s covered with invoices and bills of sale.

He looks at me with expectancy, and a docile expression. I know he’s prompting me to speak and I have no problem with that. I’m here for help – from him and his father. Not practical or physical help; all I want is information.

‘I’m here because a situation has developed and there are questions that I need answered. Nothing I’m going to ask will put you or your family in danger, but I would very much appreciate honest and full answers.’

Gavriel stays silent and stares at the wall above my head.

I match his silence and let him have some thinking time. He’s smart enough to guess that my questions are about the mafia.

‘We have heard some things that we think you may already know something about.’ His lips purse as he stifles a yawn. ‘I think my father may be a better person to answer your questions.’

He casts me a strange look. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something and his manners are preventing him from asking me whatever he wants to know.

I could play games and stay quiet to wait him out. If his name was Alfonse, I most certainly would keep my mouth shut, but you can’t be an asshole with people whose help you need.

‘What is it, Gavriel? What’s going on?’

‘You haven’t heard?’ There’s incredulity in his voice.

‘Heard—’ I stop talking. There’s only one thing he can be talking about. Alfonse has released Ms Rosenberg’s evidence. ‘It’s out there?’

He nods. ‘It’s more than out there, it’s everywhere. The police have been rounding up lots of people. Lots of important people. People who think they are either above the law or out of its reach.’

‘Sounds perfect. Has the source of the information been identified?’

‘No. There are lots of theories floating about, and the most popular is that it’s an ex-cop who has spent years compiling the case.’

To my mind, the idea of an ex-cop doesn’t just sound plausible, it goes louder and shouts probable.

I start to picture some grey-haired guy, poring over dusty files, but I stop myself. I know who built the case – over a forty-year span. Ms Rosenberg wasn’t close enough to me to be called a friend, but I enjoyed her company, and found her to be a decent person who expected the world to share her values and not impede her progress.

‘I guess we’re going to have a lot to discuss then.’

While I’m pleased that Alfonse has broken Ms Rosenberg’s story, I’m worried what effect this new state of play may have on my own mission.

If the guy I’m after is running scared, or incarcerated, I may never get to deliver the justice that Taylor’s killer deserves.

The sooner I find out what has happened, and is still happening, the better.

‘I will take you to my father, but first you must leave here. I don’t know if I’m being watched, but after hearing what you may have done, I can’t be seen with you.’

‘How will I get to meet your father?’

Gavriel gives me directions to a diner four blocks away. I’m to go there and wait until he passes.

80

As instructed, I wait for Gavriel to pass the diner and fall in fifty yards behind him. He’s not setting the fast pace of someone who is in a hurry, or is fearful. Rather, he’s adopting the gait of someone who has neither purpose nor urgency.

He leads me a few blocks worth of detours until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I glance behind me and see the largest of Halvard’s three nephews. For him, the laying of his hand and the squeeze of my shoulder probably has gentle as the intent, but to me, it feels like the jaws of a vice have attached themselves to me and a maniac is winding them tight.

‘Come with me, please.’ His voice is as deep and melodious as befits his bulk.

I follow him into an alleyway where he leads me to a doorway.

The door opens at his first knock and I see his two brothers.

Two minutes later I’m sitting round a kitchen table that is big enough to seat twelve. Or in this case, just large enough for me, Halvard, Gavriel and the three bruisers.

Halvard’s eyes are weary, and belie a lot more than his age, as he tells me about the arrests that have been made and the chaos that has been brought about by so many mafia men being arrested.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that there have been moves made by most gangs against others, as they use the arrests as an excuse to muscle in on new territory. Halvard hasn’t gone so far as to describe a full-on turf war, but I’m sure it isn’t far away.

‘My Fifi really did a number on him, didn’t she?’

I shrug. ‘I guess she did.’

I’d say more, but I’m still playing catch-up on the implications and don’t want to speak out of turn.

‘Gavriel says you want to know more about the mafia connections.’ Halvard breaks and glances at his son with fondness. ‘I can only tell you about those I know, but what I do know, I’ll tell you.’

‘Thanks. First off, Genaro Chellini is a big noise and he’s not been implicated in this business with Gabbidon’s corruption. Does that mean he’s clean, or not connected?’

Halvard chuckles. ‘He’s clean, so far as Gabbidon is concerned. He has many city officials either in his pocket or under his thumb, therefore he has no need to get involved with the mayor as he’s already got the other key people on board.’

‘Fair enough, what about Jason Tagliente? Is he just a money-man or is he in deeper?’

‘He’s deep. Chellini has no sons and those in the know, say Tagliente is a definite candidate to succeed him.’

‘Interesting. What do you make of that?’

Halvard screws up his face. ‘Tagliente will be good for the business side of things, but he won’t be as committed as Chellini. He needs to grow up and quit the party life.’

‘What connection will he have to The Mortician?’

‘Tagliente?’

I nod.

‘He’ll know him. Perhaps he’s even used him.’ Halvard’s eyes narrow. ‘Tell me, Jake, why do you want to know about The Mortician?’

Both Halvard and Gavriel close their eyes in sadness when I tell them about how Taylor died, and my quest to bring justice to her killer.

After I finish speaking, we all sit in silence until one of the cousins speaks. It’s not the massive guy, just one of the huge ones.

‘Baruch, Yerik, I think we should help out here. If Mr Boulder is going to take on The Mortician, he’s going to need all the assistance he can get.’

Massive nods his head and looks to the huge guy who hasn’t spoken. ‘I’m with Ike. What about you, Yerik?’

‘Totally.’

‘No. I can’t allow it.’

‘I’m sorry, Uncle, but you can’t stop us.’

Halvard’s face drops and his jaw tightens as he looks to me for support.

I keep my face implacable as I work through the idea of having them alongside me.

If there’s any kind of fisticuffs, having Halvard’s nephews on my side will be enough to guarantee success against any opponents who fail to bring less than a couple of dozen friends to the party.

A counterpoint to this is the glaring fact that the three brothers take up one hell of a lot of space. If bullets start to fly, there’s a better than average chance they’ll be hit. I’m not by any means a good shot, but I’d be confident of hitting any one of them at twenty paces.

Another point is, being of average height and build, I can use subterfuge and sneak in and out of places. The chances of sneaking these guys in or out of anywhere are zero, unless I find myself storming the elephant enclosure at the zoo.

On the other hand, the extra muscle would be helpful if The Mortician is as deadly as his reputation suggests.

I look at each of the men in turn, assess their resolve, and see only determination. ‘What I’m planning is very dangerous. You could end up being killed, having to kill, or being imprisoned if things go wrong.’

It’s Baruch who answers for them. ‘The Mortician threatened our father and made him sell his business to Chellini. We’ll take whatever risks are necessary. You did what you had to do with Kingston, we respect that and want to help you take out The Mortician.’

I give them another good looking at, making sure I hold each of their stares. ‘If you’re coming with me, you must do as I say, when I say it.’

‘Agreed.’

The three deep voices, speaking as one, almost create a sonic boom.

81

Dusk is falling as Ike drives us out to Long Island in a silver SUV. I’d have preferred something a little less conspicuous, but at least it has tinted windows to hide the men-mountains we’ve shoehorned into the back seats.

I’m in the front passenger seat and it’s been pulled all the way forward to better accommodate Baruch’s bulk. I’m more than a little cramped, but the SUV isn’t big enough to accommodate three bodies as large as those belonging to the Weil brothers. Perhaps a stretch limo would be big enough, but it would be a close thing.

The SUV smells of testosterone and sweat, with a hint of lavender coming from the air-freshener. For big, silent guys, they’re making a lot of nervous chatter.

I shush them and lay out my plan of attack. They agree with it in the main and their suggestions are a mixture of insightful and downright suicidal.

Yerik seems to be the most hot-headed of the three. He wants to storm Tagliente’s house, guns blazing, so we can kill everyone we encounter.

Baruch’s voice is full of scorn as he rounds on his brother. ‘What about innocents? There may well be servants, or other people there who’re nothing to do with the mafia. What do you think will happen if we do as you say? Do you think the police will arrive? Or the guys we’re shooting at will start shooting back?’

He gets nothing but a harrumph for an answer.

I leave them to stew for a moment then continue explaining how the attack will take place. I’m more about infiltration than frontal assault and, should things go as planned there will be a lot of guns waved around, but very few, if any, shots fired. Tagliente may well have mafia connections, but it’s a fair bet that his neighbours don’t. Gunshots may go unreported in certain areas of New York, but it’s a racing certainty that out here they would have the locals instructing their servants to call the police at once.

Ike gets us to Tagliente’s street without incident, but when he nears his house, I tell him to make sure that he keeps his eyes on the road and his speed consistent. The last thing I want is to raise the suspicions of an observant guard.

He does as I’ve instructed, while the two in the back crane their necks to look through the blacked-out windows. I get a good look at the house through the open gates as a pizza delivery scooter leaves.

A low whistle emanates from the back seat, followed by Baruch’s sonorous voice. ‘Man, that’s some place he’s got there. Did you see them cars?’

If they are the sports cars I saw earlier, there’s no point Baruch, or either of his brothers, getting all wistful. It was a struggle to get them in the SUV, there’s no way they could squeeze themselves into a sports car.

‘Describe the cars, please?’

Baruch replies and I let out a sigh of relief. None of them are a small Ford. Therefore, The Mortician isn’t here. It’s one thing to lure him into a trap, quite another to walk into his.

As per my instructions, Ike parks a quarter mile along the street, in a cul-de-sac. None of us are carrying anything that identifies us, and if we should fall, we are to be left behind.

We’re all wearing ski masks, although I know them by the British term of balaclavas, and there’s a generous coating of the rigid collodion on our fingertips.

I roll my balaclava into a hat and walk up the street towards Tagliente’s house.

There’s nothing underhand or sneaky about my movements: I’m just a guy walking along the sidewalk. I have a pair of earbuds in. They’re not connected to anything, but they do make it look as if I’m enjoying a pleasant dusk stroll. My pace is leisurely without being a dawdle. To anyone who’s watching, or just sees me as they drive past, I’m not worthy of a second look – at least, that’s what I’m hoping they’ll think.

When I’m fifty yards from Tagliente’s gate, I point across the street and listen for the roar of an engine that my signal should generate.

It comes at once.

I duck against the large hedge of a neighbour and make my way towards Tagliente’s medieval gates. As I get closer, I press my back against the privet and look to my left, so I can watch proceedings as I inch closer towards the gates.

As planned, the SUV gets there at the same time I do. There is music emanating from it, but not so loud as to be of nuisance value. Yerik’s head pops out of the passenger window and he lifts a pair of shades to better look at the guard who pokes his head round one of the gates. ‘Yo, man. Open up and let us in, Jase is expecting us. We got him a real nice present. She’s blonde and in possession of the prettiest little ass you ever did see.’

The guard hesitates, looks at Yerik and then back at the little guardhouse.

From the guard’s actions, I’ve learned two things: the first is that people turning up unexpected is nothing unusual to him; the second is that he appears to have company in the guardhouse.

I plant my right foot hard on the ground and get ready to move.

The guard licks his lips, casts another look at the guardhouse, and gives a nod. He steps back so the opening gates don’t catch him.

I use the SUV as cover and, just as it passes the guard, I take three rapid steps and throw a hard punch to his temple.

Before an alarm can be raised I continue my run and head for the guardhouse.

A second guard is on his way out of the door and he’s raising a gun.

I knock his gun hand skyward with my left hand and bury my right into his gut. He’s still doubling over when my knee crashes into his face. It’s not enough to knock him unconscious, but it doesn’t need to be.

The SUV stops and Yerik gets out.

With his help, I bundle both guards into the guardhouse. I leave them there with Yerik and a roll of duct tape.

Not only will he be able to delay any would-be rescuers for Tagliente, he’ll also be able to warn us of any law enforcement that comes our way.

I jog behind the SUV as Ike steers it up to the house.

Tagliente’s home is all Georgian uniformity and Grecian pillars. It might not look so bad if it wasn’t for the concrete lions flanking the front door.

Either the lions are new, or the gardener has a special trick that prevents them from growing the layer of algae that coats most stone items this close to the ocean.

Baruch and Ike take up station beside a lion’s ass and wait for me to open the door. I can’t speak for them but my heart is pounding, and I’m feeling a rush of adrenaline as my body prepares itself for what is on the other side of the door.

Whatever it is, we have the element of surprise and all three of us have guns in our hands.

82

I twist the doorknob with my left hand and push hard enough to make the door swing back. My eyes are flicking everywhere and the gun in my hand is the briefest of seconds behind them.

There’s a hallway containing the usual hallway furniture. It’s just this hallway furniture looks more expensive than my entire apartment.

I see a stairway, three doors, and no human beings. Loud music is coming from upstairs, and there’s a rhythmic thumping from an overemphasis on the bass levels.

With a wave, I direct Ike left and Baruch right, and I head to the far door. Upstairs can wait – I’ve already been ambushed with near fatal consequences, and as I’m still pissing blood from that mistake, I don’t plan to repeat it.

The two brothers have their brief. Shots are only to be fired if guns are pulled by those we encounter. It’s not that I care about the deaths of mafia men, more that I don’t want innocents harmed.

There’s also the issue of guns being rather noisy things when they’re fired indoors. The music upstairs may well be booming but I doubt it’s loud enough to cover gunfire.

Ike has an automatic pistol like me and Baruch has a sawn-off shotgun that looks like a child’s toy in his huge hand. If he pulls his trigger, all attempts at subterfuge will be over before his shots hit their target.

The three of us stand in front of our respective doors, and I count down from three using my fingers.

When I get to one, I drop my hand and reach for the door handle.

The room I enter is a study – not the man-caves Alfonse and I have, a proper study – with a teak bookcase filled with what looks like first editions, a desk that has been polished to such a level of glossiness it wouldn’t go amiss in a Ferrari showroom, and the ubiquitous pair of Chesterfield wingbacks.

A quick scan of the room reveals no human life. Neither does a proper, albeit rapid, search.

So far, so good.

At least it is until I hear a shout, a slap, and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

I set off running, wondering which brother needs my help.

A muffled scream comes from the door Baruch had opened so I go that way first. I see him with one of his huge arms wrapped around a girl, and his gun trained on a man sprawled on the floor.

There are groans coming from the guy but very little sign of movement.

I glance at Baruch who shrugs. ‘I only slapped him.’

The guy got off lucky. If this is what one of Baruch’s slaps does, there’s no telling what damage would be caused by a full-blooded punch.

I drag the moaning guy to the middle of the floor and use some duct tape to gag him. I do the same with the girl and, with Baruch’s help, bind the two of them together.

Rather than risk them being able to move in unified co-ordination, I put them back to back and head to toe. The guy’s arms are taped to the girl’s legs and vice versa. For them to be able to move, they’ll have to be either Olympic gymnasts or circus freaks. Judging by the girl’s muffin top and the guy’s spare tyre, it’s a fair bet they’re neither.

With them secured I check for other doors and find none. This room is a drawing room or lounge. It has more floor space than my whole apartment and the TV fixed above the fireplace is only inches smaller than the bookcase that covers an entire wall of my lounge.

Baruch and I head out of the room and follow Ike’s footsteps.

There’s a dining room and there’s no sign of life. Or death. Just one mahogany table with eight chairs, a dresser, and some fancy paintings on the wall.

There is another door.

A dime gets you a dollar there is a kitchen on the other side of that door.

I push it open and win my dollar.

Ike has his gun trained on two women and a man, who are cowering against the units. Each looks to have Hispanic blood and they all look terrified.

My best guess is that he’s startled the help, and there are too many of them for him to have risked tying them up without one of them being able to get away, or, at the very least, letting out a warning shout. Rather than panic, he’s shown the guts and gumption to stand his ground and wait for our arrival.

We bind the three of them into a top and tail sandwich, with the guy in the middle, and then we head back towards the stairs.

As we’re about to exit the dining room I hear footsteps. The brisk, fast footsteps of someone walking with a purpose.

83

The footsteps come our way. Ike and I take one side of the door into the hallway, and Baruch takes the other.

As it opens, Baruch’s left hand snakes out and drags a man into his right fist.

The man drops in a heap with a rustle of clothing. He’s dressed like a prep school student, which is enough reason for me not to care about the damage Baruch’s punch may have done to his face.

I have nothing personal against the prep school type, it’s more a general dislike of rich people who have life’s opportunities fed to them with a silver spoon. Those who are self-made get my respect, because they’ve created their own success.

I guess my feelings stem from a lingering resentment of some of the high school jocks I was educated alongside. They had behaved in a way that spoke of entitlement and assumed superiority. I hadn’t been liked by them and the feeling was mutual.

Ike and Baruch hog-tie and gag the unconscious man while I take a few tentative steps towards the staircase.

Like everything else in this house its opulence is hard to ignore. The treads look to be marble and the four-foot-wide strips of carpet are plush and thick.

I take slow steps up with my gun in front of me. I’m watching for any sign of movement, listening for any out of place noise, and sniffing, hoping a waft of cologne or perfume will give me warning.

While the carpet’s plushness will hide our footsteps, it will also mask those of anyone on the upper floor.

The three of us crest the stairway and find a long corridor. To the right, are four closed doors.

On our left there are three closed doors and an open one.

Through the open door I can see shadows on the far wall of people dancing.

It’s logical to assume that’s where Tagliente and his guests are, so it’s my first target.

Baruch and I pad our way across the corridor and position ourselves by the door. Ike is left behind to cover our rear in case anyone comes out of the rooms on our right.

I hear women’s laughter and the jokey tones of horny males, as the music segues from one dance track to another. So far as I’m concerned, Tagliente deserves everything I’m about to do to him for his taste in music alone.

‘Freeze. Nobody move!’

Somebody tries reaching for a jacket until Baruch’s shotgun, which blasts a hole in the middle of the TV, makes him think that becoming a statue would be an excellent idea.

Baruch takes a swipe at the stereo system, causing it to career halfway across the room.

With the room silent, I waggle my gun at the five women and three men. ‘On the floor, everyone.’

‘I have money. There’s a safe behind the picture. The number is 57-98-43-82. Take everything, but please don’t hurt us.’

I kick Tagliente in the ribs and tell him to shut up.

As everyone is congregating in the middle of the floor, I pay attention to the women. They are all beautiful, which, considering Tagliente’s money, is a given. They’re all wearing slutty clothes, which tells me they’re either wisteria girls – who are, by nature, fragrant, decorative and ferocious climbers – or they’re hookers.

My money is on hookers because of one simple fact.

None of the women have a full complement of arms and legs.

Each one of them is missing at least one part of a limb, and when the redhead cranes her head to look my way, I see the left side of her face is covered with scar tissue that only a third-degree burn would leave. The eye on that side of her face is a glass one. Sure, it looks expensive, and the colour is a close, if not exact, match for her right eye, but it’s still a glass eye.

Something inside me chills my already arctic blood several more degrees. People living with disabilities should have the same lifestyle choices as anyone else; the fact that Tagliente has found five, beautiful, disfigured women and got them all round to his place, has a deeper meaning.

His actions are not philanthropic or charitable. To me this exposes his desire to feel superior in every way, to those he’s rutting on top of.

It’s all I can do not to put my gun against Tagliente’s balls and pull the trigger.

I plant a boot into his groin as a salve to my temper, and bind the other men together as best I can while Baruch covers me.

I guess my anger stems from the fact that all the girls have a disability. Had there been only one of them with a limb missing, I dare say I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.

‘Hey, Mister. You let us girls go, and we’ll give you and your buddies the best night you ever had. Ain’t that right, girls?’ It’s the redhead who speaks and her accent is pure New York.

The other girls echo her sentiments.

‘Thanks, ladies, but lovely as you all are, I’m spoken for. If you don’t cause us any trouble, no harm will come to you.’

I place a strip of tape over each girl’s mouth and smooth it with a gentleness I hope they recognise. A slow wink from the redhead tells me she understands.

With the others bound and safe, I tie Tagliente’s hands behind his back and bind his body three times until his arms are taped to his torso. A quick pat down of his pockets locates his cell. I stuff it in my pocket and start believing that my plan will work.

Ike joins us as Baruch grabs one of Tagliente’s feet and drags him to the next room.

I police the room, gather up all the cell phones from the folk on the floor, and make sure I have ripped the telephone from its socket. The cells get tossed along the corridor out of harm’s way, and I make sure anything that could be used as a weapon, or a tool to cut their bindings, joins the cell phones.

When I join Baruch and Tagliente, I find the latter has been tossed into the middle of a huge bed, which has black, silk sheets and a mattress that is sprung better than an Olympic trampoline.

‘Please, please don’t hurt me. Whatever you want, I can get you.’

Tagliente looks at Baruch, which is typical of his kind of small man thinking. Baruch may be the largest of us, but it’s me who’s in charge. In Tagliente’s narrow mind, size is in direct proportion to authority. It’s the commonly held belief of the small man.

‘I only want one thing.’ I waggle his cell at him. ‘I want you to call The Mortician and get him over here. If you do that for me, you’ll be alive when I leave.’

For the first time since we appeared, his eyes show fear. I can tell he was expecting us to be thieves. Now he knows our real purpose, he’s scared.

I don’t suppose my threatening to kill him will have given him a lot of reassurance.

Tagliente’s head shakes back and forth as he babbles a series of denials about knowing The Mortician.

Rather than wasting time making empty threats, I use a knife to slice away his shorts, and retrieve the blowtorch from my backpack.

I press the ignition button and sweep it over his legs. Not quite close enough to burn, yet near enough to singe the hairs on his legs. His yelp is driven more by fear than pain, but I’m cool with that.

Much as I despise him and everything he stands for, I’d rather not have to resort to torture in front of Baruch and Ike.

Tagliente doesn’t need to know that though.

I hold the unlit blowtorch above his singed pubes. ‘Do you want a moment to think whether or not you know him, or should I jog your memory?’

‘I know him, I know him. Please; if you make me call him, he’ll kill you and then he’ll kill me.’

‘It’s your choice: either you call him, and gamble what you say isn’t true, or, I kill you right now and find another way to get to him.’

‘What if he doesn’t come?’

I waggle the blowtorch. ‘I’ll burn as many parts of your body as it takes to make you beg me to put a bullet in your brain.’

Tagliente thrashes on the bed but achieves nothing except a bouncing motion.

I hold up the cell and he nods.

‘Good man. Do I need to tell you what will happen to you if you try and warn him?’

He shakes his head.

I lie on the bed beside him, so I can hear both sides of the conversation, and scroll through Tagliente’s contacts until I find The Mortician’s number.

I press call and hold the cell to Tagliente’s head.

Give Tagliente his due, he does a good job of convincing The Mortician that he not only has a job for him, but that he must come over and see him right away.

The Mortician agrees and promises to be here within three hours. I expect him to be here in around two and a half.

84

We now have a minimum of two hours to kill; time I intend to put to good use. I instruct Ike to check the prisoners are okay, and dispatch Baruch to check on Yerik at the gate. Their secondary tasks are to secure the house and make sure every door that can be locked, is locked.

As for me, I plan to have a further chat with Tagliente.

I could tell by the way he looked at me that he hadn’t recognised my voice as the guy he’d spoken to at his brother’s wedding. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. People like Tagliente don’t pay attention to the little people like me. Unless we can provide them with a service, we’re of no interest to them.

I’m pleased he hasn’t identified me as I haven’t yet decided whether he deserves to live or die.

I pull a padded chair to the side of the bed and look at him. A part of me is enjoying the terror in his eyes, while another part feels revulsion at what I’ve become.

‘We need to talk.’

The old favourite break-up line makes his eyes widen, and there’s a tremble to his voice as he begs me not to use the blowtorch.

It’s good that he’s afraid I’ll use it to make him talk; it means I don’t have to stoop to that level again. I’m fully prepared to use the blowtorch on him, but only if I have to. Every step I walk along the road to vengeance is costing me a piece of my identity.

Last week I was a doorman who broke up fights – sure, I have taken a man’s life on two previous occasions, but only as a matter of self-defence.

Since Taylor’s death, I have set out to kill. I have planned murders and have executed my plans – and anyone else I felt may have impeded my path to Taylor’s killer. A line has been crossed and, while I know I can never undo the implications of my crossing it, I don’t want to travel so far over to the dark side that I lose sight of the line.

‘I want to know all about The Mortician. Who he is, where he’s from, where his loyalties lie, and his background.’

Tagliente’s head thrashes against the silk sheets as he shakes it. ‘I can’t help you. I don’t know any of that stuff.’

I pick up the blowtorch. ‘What do you know about him?’

‘Just what he does. And that he’s very good at it.’ He yawns but I ignore it. It’s almost midnight, I’m threatening him with a blowtorch, and a paid assassin is coming to his house. I’m confident he’s tired rather than bored. ‘The tales I’ve heard about him are the stuff of legend. He kills his targets and never leaves a trace.’

‘Why do they call him The Mortician?’

Tagliente gives a sigh of relief; this is the kind of question he’s happy to answer. ‘It’s because, after meeting him you’ll be needing a mortician.’

‘Where do his loyalties lie?’

‘You mean whose side is he on?’ I nod. ‘He works for the Italian families as far as I know. He is freelance and has a rule that he won’t take out a target who works for any of his regular employers.’

‘How much does he charge?’

Tagliente is a money man. He will know the answer to this question.

‘It starts at fifty thousand and goes up from there depending on the difficulty of the job.’

‘What is his background?’

He shakes his head.

A press of the blowtorch’s ignition doesn’t make him talk, but as soon as I lean forward with it aimed at his pecker, he starts chattering.

‘It … it’s only rumours, but I heard he used to be Special Forces; that he’s done tours in both Afghanistan and Iraq.’

What he’s saying makes sense. A former Navy SEAL or Army Ranger would make for a good hitman. They are trained killers who’ve been taught to use guns, knives, and their bare hands. I’m no expert, but I’d expect them to have a working knowledge of explosives as well.

None of this information is comforting, but I’ve no plans to take on The Mortician in either a shooting match or a one on one fight. Instead, he’ll be ambushed, told the reason he is going to die, and executed.

‘Is he right or left handed?’

‘I don’t know.’

It’s a shame he can’t answer this question as the answer may prove useful. I don’t push him though. It’s too easy for him to lie and I’d rather not find out the hard way that he’s spun me a line.

I’m about to leave him be when I hear the creak of a floorboard.

I turn, expecting to see Baruch or Ike, but the person creeping my way is a stranger. He has a baseball bat in his hands and fury in his eyes.

As I turn my body towards him, he dashes forward and swings the bat at my head.

I have enough time to duck beneath its tip and shoulder charge him against the wall before he can halt the vicious swing.

I’m inside his arms, throwing punches at his kidneys and ribs, and he’s banging the bat against my back and shoulders.

When he catches the back of my head with his bat, I disengage myself and put some distance between us.

‘You chickenshit pussy. Come and fight like a man.’

He’s misunderstood my reasons for finding space. He thinks I’m running away.

As he advances, I pull out the carving knives and wait for him to reconsider his options.

He smiles at me. ‘They ain’t gonna help you none.’ He strokes his bat with one hand. ‘This here, has got way more reach than your knives.’

‘You’re right, it has.’ The knife in my left hand flies towards him.

He swings the bat at it, but he’s too slow and the handle of my knife bounces off his thigh.

Before the first one has fallen to the floor, the second is arcing its way towards his stomach. This one needs to be accurate and successful, otherwise I’ll be fighting him with my bare hands.

The knife digs into his skin and its handle flops downwards as gravity takes hold.

As he’s dropping the bat and reaching for the knife, I’m on the move.

I get to him as his fingers grasp the knife’s handle.

Instead of wrestling for control of it, I deliver a hard palm-strike to the top of the handle, driving it further into his gut.

He yelps, giving me a strong whiff of stale barbecued meat.

My next blow strikes his hands, driving the knife in his gut sideways. I grab his wrists and shake them until he loosens his grip.

The knife is slick with blood as I grasp it and open his stomach.

Entrails slither from the wound as he crumples to the floor.

I put him out of his misery with a stab to the heart and turn away from him. He’s dying, and I don’t want to watch the light in his eyes diminish.

Who he is doesn’t matter. He’s not The Mortician; that much I do know. This guy is tall and thin, whereas the glimpse I got of The Mortician confirmed that he’s short and stocky.

I check there are no more unexpected assailants, and leave Baruch standing guard over Tagliente and the people in his upstairs lounge.

With that dealt with, I find a quiet space and call Alfonse. We talk for a few minutes and hearing his voice makes me feel normal again, but I don’t learn much beyond the fact that he changed his plan for the release of Ms Rosenberg’s information, and sent it out under the cloak of the Anonymous Hackers Group.

It’s the thing he excels at and I don’t need to ask him if he’s protected himself from detection.

The most important thing he tells me is that Cameron’s donation has gone ahead, and John has received the necessary treatment.

I cut the call and offer up a silent prayer that it works.

85

While searching the house Ike found the intercom, which connects the house with the guardhouse where Yerik is stationed.

When its buzzer goes off, Baruch, Ike and I tense. My hand reaches its telephone first and I put it to my ear.

‘What is it, Yerik?’

‘There’s someone here. I don’t think it’s him because he’s driving an SUV, not a Ford.’

I relax a little and tell him to get rid of whoever it is.

Baruch and Ike join me at an unlit window and together we watch as Yerik leaves the guardhouse and walks to the gate.

The garden’s lights cast a mixture of shadows and glare and it’s not easy to see much more than a silhouette, but Yerik is more than big enough to stand out.

For some reason I start to get an uneasy feeling. It doesn’t just tell me things aren’t right, it tells me they are very wrong.

Before I can verbalise my concern, I see the driver’s arm snake from the SUV’s window.

There’s a gun at the end of the arm and, as Yerik halts and returns to cover, it flashes.

Yerik drops to the ground and doesn’t move.

Beside me I hear an outburst of Yiddish from Baruch and anguished wails from Ike. There’s some scuffling and more Yiddish, but neither man leaves the room.

I leave them to manage their grief and keep watching. The car’s door opens and a short, stocky man steps towards the gate. He slips through the opening, puts his gun against Yerik’s head and pulls the trigger before dragging him behind the wall. As with his first shot, there’s no sound. His pistol must have a silencer.

A minute later he’s opened both gates and is driving the SUV in.

He turns the vehicle so it’s facing the gate and climbs out.

I watch as he reaches into the back seat and pulls out what looks like a machine pistol.

There’s no doubt in my mind that this man is The Mortician, despite being way ahead of his stated ETA.

This, along with the way he dispatched Yerik, tells me a few things. First, he is not here answering Tagliente’s call. Instead, he’s got his own reasons for being here, and the way he killed Yerik suggests they’re not friendly in nature.

Second, he straight away murdered an unknown, and then prepared his SUV for a swift exit which tells me he’s got his own agenda.

Third, you don’t pack a machine pistol when you’re making a social call, even if it’s dressed up as a summons. Therefore he either knows we’re here, or his agenda has something to do with Tagliente.

I whirl to face Baruch and Ike. We have seconds to make a plan that will see three amateurs face a trained assassin.

We have two automatic pistols and a sawn-off shotgun, while he has a machine pistol, plus the silenced pistol he used to kill Yerik. That’s before we even mention his superior training and the fact that he does this for a living.

All we have going for us is the element of surprise as he’ll be expecting no defence from Tagliente.

As he’s coming through the front door, Baruch and Ike move an antique dresser so it will provide cover for us should we need it.

I pull out my gun and check the safety is off – and that the spare clip is easily accessible from my jacket pocket. I’d gotten more ammunition courtesy of Baruch, and I wasn’t dumb enough to ask questions about where it had come from.

With the barricade established, I make my way to the far end of the landing.

The Mortician has been here before, therefore he’ll know the layout of the house and will probably head for the upstairs lounge and Tagliente’s master bedroom when he breaches the top of the stairs.

I plan to creep up behind him and put a bullet in his back. It may not be gallant, but that’s tough; he killed my girlfriend. So far as I’m concerned, the normal rules of engagement don’t apply.

There’s no sound of footsteps but I hear the racking of a gun’s slide an instant before a deafening clatter erupts.

86

I don’t see The Mortician, but he must be firing both ways as I’m forced to duck back into the bedroom of the doorway I’m hiding in. All I can hope is that neither Ike nor Baruch have been hit.

To limit the possibility of detection, I lie prone on the floor with my gun in front of me.

The Mortician’s voice rings out. ‘I know you’re there. I’ve seen you’ve tied up some folks downstairs. Where’s Jason Tagliente?’

‘I’m here. There’s two of—’

A heavy slap silences Tagliente.

It’s too little too late. The Mortician now knows there’s at least two opponents and that at least one of them is with Tagliente. Our only hope is that The Mortician thinks Tagliente was giving him a total head count, rather than the full locational information I’m sure he was about to give.

I should have either gagged or killed him when I had the chance.

It feels strange that I regret not doing the latter more.

I crane my neck so my line of sight increases and I can see more of the upstairs corridor. Where the bedroom door blocks my vision I can see the outline of a man’s arm.

I’m about to crane further when the arm whirls round and I see a gun pointing down the corridor towards where I am hidden.

I hold my breath, afraid to move lest it attracts him.

The arm turns round, so I crane an extra couple of inches until I can see The Mortician’s back.

He whirls again after a second step.

Like the trained professional he is, he’s keeping a good watch on his rear. My plan wasn’t much, but it’s useless in the face of his superior firepower and techniques. Unless we get lucky, or take near suicidal risks, he’ll pick us off one by one.

I hear the double boom of Baruch’s shotgun and see large amounts of plaster blast from the corridor’s rear wall.

The Mortician fires off a couple of bursts and I hear a pained yelp, followed by the considerable thud of Baruch falling to the ground. He’s moaning, which means he’s still alive, but it doesn’t mean he will be for long.

Ike bursts from the lounge where he’s been hiding. His gun is blazing but he’s shooting in anger without any amount of thought for his aim.

I’d join in with his fusillade were I not more fearful of us hitting each other than The Mortician. I’m maybe twenty feet away, and I know that’s further than I can aim with any level of accuracy.

The Mortician’s first bullet hits the shoulder of Ike’s gun arm, the second and third blast into his kneecaps. He falls with a scream and does his best to press his hands on his wounds.

I watch as The Mortician approaches the stricken Ike and kicks his fallen gun away. ‘Oh dear, has baby got a boo-boo?’

The Mortician drags Ike into the master bedroom and props him next to his brother. ‘It’s time for you to tell me a bedtime story before you go to sleep. First, you can tell me who you are and why you’re here, then you can tell me who sent you.’

Ignoring the fact that he’s killed one new friend and crippled two others, I’m pretty sure I’d hate The Mortician based on the way he speaks to his victims.

I rise and take slow, tentative steps towards him as he pulls a combat knife from a sheath on his leg.

‘Who wants to tell me a story?’

87

I’m twenty feet away and closing when Baruch roars with pain as The Mortician buries three inches of steel into his leg. Beside him, Ike is fighting to stay conscious, his face slick with sweat and twisted in agony. The wound in my leg aches in sympathy with Baruch’s injury.

The Mortician gives his knife a twist, but Baruch’s elephantine head just shakes. His jaw is set and he’s not letting another sound escape his lips. His hands are clasped against his stomach and blood is oozing out between his fingers.

Eighteen feet. Every step is taken with caution as there’s nowhere for me to hide should The Mortician become aware of me sneaking up behind him.

The knife is removed from Baruch’s right leg and plunged into his left. His face judders, but he maintains his silence.

Fifteen feet.

The knife is removed and wiped clean on Baruch’s pants.

The Mortician uses a gloved hand to remove Ike and Baruch’s ski masks.

‘Your buddy looks awful like you. I’m guessing he’s your brother, or a cousin. If you’re not going to talk for your sake, perhaps you’ll talk for his.’

The Mortician moves his knife until it’s within an inch of Ike’s left eye.

Twelve feet. If I can get within ten feet, or less, I’m confident that I can put a bullet in The Mortician’s body without missing, or hitting Ike or Baruch.

My knuckles are white as I grip the pistol. My entire concentration is on what I can see over the gun’s sights.

Ike turns his head, so his eye is moved away from the knife, and his left eye is now looking my way. He sees me.

Eleven feet.

‘Screw you.’

As he speaks, Ike throws his head forward, driving his right eye onto the knife, and twists, so the knife is wrenched from The Mortician’s hand. He screams as he reaches up with his good hand and plucks the knife, complete with his eyeball, from where it has lodged.

I see all of this from the corner of my eye as I pump two bullets into The Mortician’s back.

Ike slams the knife into The Morticians leg then collapses to the floor and howls in agony.

I keep my eyes on The Mortician as I dash forward. My gun is trained on his back and as much as I’d like to kill him outright, now that he’s down and wounded, I need to tell him why he’s going to die. I want to see the fear in his eyes fade to nothing.

I’m two feet away when I realise what I’m seeing, but not seeing.

There’s no blood on the Mortician’s back; I’ve shot him twice yet there’s no sign of any blood.

I realise why there’s no blood at the same time The Mortician flips over and fires his silenced pistol my way.

The only reason his shots miss is because my lizard brain must have arrived at this conclusion before the rest of me, and therefore instigated the necessary dive for safety.

The two bullets I put in his back had enough force to knock him flat, but not so much that they were able to penetrate the bulletproof vest he must be wearing.

88

I roll to my feet and dive into the lounge where the hookers and Tagliente’s buddies are. My gun is in my hand as I look for cover and an escape route. There are French doors leading to a balcony, but to get the doors open I’ll have to turn my back to the entrance. The idea of doing that doesn’t seem appealing.

There’s a sturdy occasional table in the middle of the room. It looks thick enough to stop a bullet, so I tip it over. If nothing else, it will protect me enough to give me a chance.

I hear The Mortician’s voice – he’s singing a lullaby; there’s a cough, followed by a loud scream.

The screaming must have come from Tagliente, as the pitch is way too high to be either Ike or Baruch.

As much as I want to go to their rescue, I know The Mortician is trying to draw me out, rather than come hunting for me. He’s aware I have a gun and, while I know a little about him, he knows nothing about me.

He’ll be wondering if he’s facing someone as good as he is, or a rank amateur. In his position, I’d assume I was facing a pro and take the necessary precautions. So far as I can tell, that’s pretty much what he is doing.

I risk a peek over the upturned table. There’s nothing to see, other than an empty door showing me the corridor. I’m about to make a run for the French doors, when I notice the light in the doorway changing.

The machine pistol comes around the door frame and starts barking as it spits out bullets.

I duck behind the table and watch as The Mortician stitches bullets one way then the other.

The table holds firm when a bullet hits it, but the glass of the French doors shatters, as do ornaments and various other fripperies that decorate the room.

When the machine pistol clicks empty, I bob up and train my gun at the door in case The Mortician has entered the room.

He hasn’t.

Instead, I see him whirl across the doorway with his silenced pistol looking for a target. I fire a couple of shots his way, but I don’t hear the slap of a bullet hitting flesh.

The fact he’s wearing a bulletproof vest makes things even more difficult for me. It means I have to aim for either his head or his legs. Both of these targets are far smaller than the torso, and both are liable to be in constant motion.

That Ike has wounded one of The Mortician’s legs gives me something of an advantage; yet my own leg is stiff, and it aches whenever I move with anything approaching urgency.

I put another shot through the doorway and turn to run through the starred glass of the French doors.

My shoulder charge sends square marbles of safety glass cascading across the balcony.

As soon as I reach the railing, I vault onto the sloping roof and slide towards the gutter.

Not knowing what I may land on, I flip on my stomach and use my toes as brakes. They don’t work too well, and I bounce over the gutter when I reach it, but the action has at least slowed me enough for me to grab it with both hands.

I hang on to the gutter until I have seen how far I have to drop, and what I’m going to land on.

My feet slam down on the pathway and I throw myself into a roll to break the impact. It was only ten feet or so, but the paving blocks are hard and unforgiving.

I swap the used magazine in my gun for the full one in my pocket. I now have ten shots again, plus a spare five should I need them.

I hope to God I don’t.

89

Cameron eases his feet to the floor and levers himself upright. He’d seen no point in staying in hospital, but had gone along with it for one simple reason: when he’s in here, he’s not under Ivy’s watch.

He retrieves his clothes from the cabinet beside his bed and tiptoes to the bathroom.

It takes him longer than usual to dress himself, as he feels weak and unsteady, but he doesn’t worry too much about time. The nurse did her hourly check a few minutes ago and he’s content in the knowledge that he’ll be gone before she returns.

Taking an extra two minutes to dress won’t matter either way; once he’s out of hospital, he’s answerable to nobody.

He peeks through the door’s porthole and sees the nurse’s station is devoid of life.

Ivy is sitting on a chair in the corridor, outside his door, but her head is on her chest and he can hear her gentle snores.

He makes his way past her with his shoes in his hand.

Cameron chooses the stairs over the lift – it’s only one floor and there’ll be no beeps or floor announcements to wake a sleeping dragon.

The news broadcasts he’d watched on the hospital TV had brought him the best of news. Somehow, Jake had prevailed and had managed to take out Olly Kingston.

This means the price on Cameron’s head will be lifted; that he won’t have to spend the rest of his life looking over both shoulders at once.

He sits on the third from bottom step, pulls on his shoes and ties the laces.

While today is the first day of the rest of his life, the last day of his old one had turned out well enough.

He’d saved the life of one son, while another had eliminated his enemies. On the whole, Cameron figures it has worked out even.

He doesn’t know which way he’ll go, or where he’ll end up, but that’s fine by him.

Life is an adventure, and he plans to live it to the full.

Cameron whistles as he walks out of the hospital and looks for a taxi.

Behind him, unseen, a woman places her hand flat against a first-floor window and tries to suppress the tears pricking her eyes.

90

I get back into the house via a door that leads into the kitchen. The people we’d left tied up now have bullet holes in their heads.

All my senses are on full alert as I try to not only locate The Mortician, but get the jump on him too. I’m positive he’ll be doing the same as me, and although I’m feeling a massive amount of guilt at leaving Ike and Baruch at his mercy, I’d be less use to them dead.

I hear a rustle and whirl towards it with my gun extended, ready to fire, but it’s only the breeze blowing a drape. The last thing I want to do is pull my trigger and alert The Mortician to my location.

I grab a vase with my left hand and launch it from my vantage point at the base of the hall. It arcs through the air, bounces off a wall, and lands on the thick stair carpet.

The crash of breaking glass I’d been hoping for doesn’t happen, but there is a dull thud.

I wait for a reaction.

Gunshots at the vase would be ideal.

The sound of running footsteps would do.

I hear neither.

What I see is something I don’t want to.

There are wisps of smoke coming from the door to Tagliente’s study.

As I’m becoming aware of the smoke, I see the door to the downstairs lounge teasing its way open.

I sight my gun, but The Mortician sees me and whips up his machine pistol as I pull my trigger.

There’s no way I could have hit him – I was ducking away as my finger tightened on the trigger. The bullet will have been wild and, so far as I’m concerned, it’s a waste of a precious round.

I retreat to the kitchen and wait for him to come to me.

The position I’ve taken up gives me cover behind a central workstation and I can see the doorway clearly. As soon as he steps through it, I’ll have him.

I hear footsteps and there’s a sudden crash as he charges through the door. He’s less than a step inside when he pulls the triggers on Baruch’s sawn-off shotgun. I get a shot off, but there’s no way of knowing if it’s hit him.

The top of the workstation erupts in splinters by my head and I feel a thousand pinpricks in my scalp. While it hurts like hell, I don’t think there’s any real damage done.

I hear his machine pistol chatter, and as soon as it clicks on empty I whirl to the opposite side and fire three shots of my own.

We’re now on either side of the workstation.

Both of us have to guess which way the other will go.

To go the wrong way will bring us face to face. To go the right way, but too slowly, will expose our backs.

I pull a pan from a cubbyhole and toss it to one side.

He shoots at it and there is the clang of metal as his aim is accurate.

I dive to the other side and aim two shots at the booted feet protruding from the safety of the workstation.

One of my shots produces a puff of red from his ankle and a pained yelp.

First blood to me.

In a fight like this it doesn’t matter who draws first blood, only who is left standing.

At least my bullet will have further affected his mobility.

Above anything else, I now have the advantage as I’m able to move more freely.

‘Hey there, Mr Mortician. How does it feel to be shot?’

My taunt is enough to make him fire a couple of shots my way, but he recovers his composure far quicker than I’d hoped.

‘It stings a little, but don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.’

He fires three shots my way and there’s a clicking sound.

I throw myself towards him with my gun firing, until it too clicks on empty.

91

The Mortician is unscathed by my bullets but he’s on his ass, while I’m on my feet, so I aim a kick at his head.

He ducks under my boot and one of his hands snakes out and grabs my ankle. He yanks, and I fall.

I land face down and he clambers up my back.

His fists batter at my kidneys and ribs until he’s in a position where he can land his blows on my head. Due to his wounded ankle he’s lying on top of me, instead of properly straddling me, and getting plenty of purchase behind his punches.

Rather than squirm round to offer him my face, I lever both of us from the floor and whip my hands on the one he’s trying to snake round my throat. We fall together, but now one of his hands is beneath me and that means he’s off balance.

I push up with one hand while holding on to his wrist with the other.

I tip him off me and whip myself away from him, delivering a kick to his ankle as I go.

He yelps and suggests I’m of a similar nature to Oedipus.

I pull myself to my feet and kick him in his gut as he tries rising to his knees.

He grunts, but the bulletproof vest must have taken most of the venom from the blow.

I’m about to deliver another kick when his hand grasps at his jacket and produces a knife.

Ike’s blood still taints it, and I’m not fool enough to go near him while he’s holding it.

The Mortician uses my reticence to clamber up to his good leg.

I use the time to pull out my own knives.

He’s better than me with a knife, I have no doubt about that.

His eyes flick to my knives, and an understanding brightens his face when he sees they are ordinary domestic knives, rather than the hunting knife he holds.

He now knows I’m an amateur, that I don’t have any great amount of training, and that every piece of hurt I’ve inflicted on him so far has been achieved by dumb luck.

‘If you walk away now, there’s very little I can do to stop you.’

‘You shot my girlfriend. I’m only going to walk away when you’re dead.’

He pauses.

‘The girl on the boat?’

I nod affirmation as he slashes his knife towards my throat.

Instinct makes my hands go up to deflect his blow and I feel his knife slice through my jacket, opening deep cuts on my forearms.

One of the knives slips from my hand as the pain causes my fingers to uncurl.

Adrenaline takes a stance and my empty hand grasps the handle of a large frying pan.

It’s longer than his knife and, with the right amount of force behind it, is heavy enough to break a bone.

I take a few half-assed swings with the frying pan. I’m not trying to hit him: I’m judging his range and the speed of his reactions.

He’s quick and there’s a certain mobility to him despite the fact he’s only putting any real weight on one leg.

I swing the pan again, taking care not to put so much power into a missing swing that the momentum carries me to a point where I’m vulnerable.

His face shows he’s assessing me as much as I’m assessing him.

A spark in his eye warns me of a counter lunge, and I deflect his attempted stab with the frying pan.

With his arm knocked out wide, I swing the frying pan upwards towards his balls. It gets trapped between his legs, but he’s off balance. A yank on the frying pan forces him to put weight on his smashed ankle and he yelps as I bury my knife into his bicep.

His knife goes into my shoulder and I feel it scrape my collarbone as we fall to the floor.

We both roar in pain as we fight for control of the knives.

I use both my hands to twist his wrist to breaking point. He drops the knife and I give his wrist a sudden rotation that makes the bones crack.

I’m not done there though. I lever myself off him and do the same to his other arm.

He’s now only got one limb that doesn’t have broken bones.

I pull my knife from his arm and lay the blade against his throat.

There’s fear and pain in his eyes, but also acceptance. I guess with his kind of profession you expect that one day it may well be you who dies.

‘This is for Taylor.’

I slide the knife across his throat and leave him gushing arterial blood onto terracotta tiles.

92

When I open the door from the kitchen to the dining room, I see the room is already filling with smoke.

I double over, and half limp, half trot, to the door that leads to the hall. It’s warm to the touch, but there’s not a lot I can do about that.

I duck lower to avoid the billowing flames that come in when I open the door. Once the initial gust has passed, I dash through the burning hallway to the stairs as fast as my wounded leg allows.

My thoughts are on those who’re left upstairs: Baruch and Ike; Tagliente and his buddies; the five hookers.

The heat is intense, and the smoke has me coughing and choking by the time I reach the foot of the stairs.

I reach the upstairs corridor on hands and knees to keep the worst of the smoke from being sucked into my lungs. While the heat hasn’t yet reached here, the smoke is thick and noxious. It pervades the whole building and shields the ceiling from view.

The pain in my shoulder is riotous to say the least, but I ignore the agony as I scurry, still on my hands and knees, to where Baruch and Ike are.

Ike is unconscious, but I see a spark of life in Baruch. I go to lift him and fail.

He shakes his head. ‘That ain’t gonna happen. I’m done for, and so is Ike. Ain’t no way you’re gonna be able to carry us out of here before the fire gets all three of us. Even if you do, I can’t see us making it.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ I try to be sincere and determined, but he looks at me knowingly.

‘You got a gun? Burning and screaming in agony ain’t the way I want to go.’

I pull out the gun I retrieved from the kitchen floor, and insert the clip containing five bullets.

Baruch lifts his good arm, with his hand open, and I lay the gun in his palm. The pistol looks tiny in his great paw.

I look at his face and see nothing but calmness.

‘No regrets, Jake.’ He swallows and coughs. Bright arterial blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. ‘Now, get yourself out of here.’

I give him a nod of thanks and sneak a look at Tagliente before I leave.

He’s still laid out on the bed, but now he has a bullet wound in his left side. I stand and take a better look. There’s a huge, ugly exit wound on his other side, but his chest is still rising and falling.

I’m hit with a sudden new level of comprehension. The Mortician was here ahead of schedule because he was coming here anyway. His purpose was murder. Whatever had gone on between him and Tagliente had angered someone to the extent that Tagliente’s death had become a priority.

Perhaps he’d pissed off The Mortician, but my guess is that he’d tried to hire him to take out Chellini, and whoever else was in the running to take over Chellini’s organisation.

The length of time The Mortician had been away was enough for him to have been able to get to New York, speak with Chellini, and return.

The damage that The Mortician’s bullet will have wrought to Tagliente’s intestines is unimaginable and, while I’m the first to acknowledge I’m not a doctor, I really don’t fancy his chances of surviving a rescue attempt.

With the fire blazing away downstairs, the only way left for us to escape is over the balcony I’d used earlier.

I take the gun from Baruch, put its muzzle against Tagliente’s forehead, and pull the trigger. It’s a mercy killing and, while I’m not sure he deserves my mercy, I feel released from murderous instincts and the desire to inflict serious pain now that both The Mortician and Tagliente are dead.

Baruch takes the gun from me and looks to his brother. As I leave the room, he’s lifting the gun towards Ike’s head.

He shoots once as I cross the hallway, and again when I reach the lounge door.

Their deaths, along with those of Taylor and Yerik, are something I know will eat at my conscience, but that’s a matter for another time.

93

I enter the lounge and slam the door shut. It won’t stop either the fire or the smoke, but it will slow them. The open French doors that were smashed by The Mortician’s bullets, and my mad dash, are drawing the fire upwards, so everything I can do to limit the free movement of air will buy us time.

There are seven bodies lying on the floor but only six of them are trying to look my way.

The redhead with the scarred face is motionless and there’s a crimson stain on her white dress. One of The Mortician’s bullets must have caught her when he was raking the room trying to kill me.

I check for her pulse without success.

I pull the knife from my boot and free the other six. Twelve eyes show fear as they stretch their limbs and massage tender areas to stimulate blood flow.

Tagliente’s two buddies look reasonably buff. Whether their muscle comes from the gym or hard work, they’ll be able to help the girls.

‘Right, you lot. Listen up. This is the plan. We’re going to go over the balcony, slide down the roof, and drop to the ground.’ I point to Tagliente’s buddies. ‘You two go first, and I’ll lower the girls as far as I can so you can catch them. Don’t worry, ladies, it’s only a few feet from the edge of the roof to the ground.’

One of the guys says something about being afraid of heights, so I drop him to his knees with a gut punch.

‘Listen up, douchebag. I killed The Mortician tonight. You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll be next. Do you understand me?’

He nods as he clambers to his feet.

I lead everyone to the balcony and take the two guys to where I’d made my escape earlier.

‘Guys. There’s a drop of roughly ten feet once you go over the gutter. Don’t try and stay on your feet; roll like you’ve done a parachute jump. I’ll do my best to make sure the girls come down as slowly as possible, but you’ll have to catch them. Can I trust you to do that, or do I have to make threats?’

The guy I hadn’t punched shoots me a look of disgust. ‘Shit, man. You came back for us and the girls. You coulda left us to burn, but you didn’t. We’ll help them all we can.’

I nod, and point to the edge of the balcony.

He climbs over the rail and slides down the roof.

When I hear him shout a confirmation that he’s down, I help his once-punched buddy over the balcony. He’s shaking like a plate of jello being driven over a mountain track, but he doesn’t hesitate for more than a heartbeat.

The girls are jostling for position, but I halt them with a raised hand and clamber over the end of the balcony myself.

With one hand wrapped around the balcony rail’s corner post, I help the first girl over the rail and hold her arm as she slides down. My arms burn at the strain, but that’s nothing compared to the agony of where The Mortician’s knife dug into my shoulder.

When I can extend myself no further, I let go of the girl’s arm and release her. She slides down the roof and disappears over the edge.

A moment later I see the two guys laying her on the manicured lawn behind the house.

The second and third girls follow without incident, but the fourth is a different proposition.

She has most of one leg and all of one arm missing. That’s a problem, but not an insurmountable one.

The real issue is her state of mind. She’s gone beyond fear, passed terror, and totally ignored petrified. The girl is having a full-blown panic attack and is wailing and thrashing herself around.

I gently take hold of her and try to use a soothing tone without letting too much urgency creep into my voice.

‘You killed Ruby; you and that other man. You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?’ She swings her arm at me.

Her hand bounces off my head as an explosion fills the air. The lounge door crashes to the floor and a huge fireball billows towards us.

I throw myself on top of the girl and use my body to shield hers from the fireball’s volcanic breath.

She squirms beneath me until I realise there’s no way I can calm her down before we either get incinerated, or die from smoke inhalation.

From inside the house there’s the sound of collapse, so I make a fist and hit the girl just hard enough to make her groggy.

It’s wrong on many levels, but I force my aching leg to carry me back into the lounge. Somehow, I can remember the code Tagliente gave us for his safe when he thought we were burglars. The dial spins beneath my fingers and I get the safe door open in less than a minute.

There’s a stash of money and what looks to be a variety of drugs. The money goes into my backpack and I toss the drugs onto the floor by the door so they’re sure to burn.

I don’t like stealing and I don’t consider myself to be a thief. The only reason I’ve taken this money is to repay Alfonse what he’s loaned me, and so I can afford to finish this affair in a way that’s right for all concerned.

With the money stashed, I head back to the balcony and lift the final girl’s inert body over the rail.

Now when I put my hands on the slates, they’re hot from the fire below. Not twenty feet from us a section of the roof falls in and sends a shower of amber sparks billowing upwards.

I lay the girl on the slates and lower her to the extent of my reach before letting her fall.

Beneath me the roof creaks and shifts downwards a little.

As soon as I see the guys are out of the way, I release my grip on the corner post and slide down the roof.

There’s no attempt at braking this time, and I don’t even try to grab the gutter. Instead, I’m preparing myself for a hard landing.

I thump to the ground, roll twice, and come to a halt in a row of rose bushes.

The pain from their jagging, scratching thorns is welcome: it tells me I’m alive; that I’ve survived this ordeal.

I drag myself to my feet and thrust a hand into my backpack. I grab a bundle of money and toss it towards the girls. ‘That’s from Tagliente.’

Next, I lurch round to the front of the house.

Ike’s car is still there.

For the first time tonight I have a spot of good luck: the keys are in the ignition. So are the keys to The Mortician’s SUV.

I back The Morticians car up to the guardhouse and haul Yerik’s body into the driver’s seat.

After opening the fuel cap, I plant Yerik’s foot on the gas pedal, release the parking brake, and send the SUV tearing off toward Tagliente’s burning front door.

The fire ignites the SUV’s gas tank as I’m climbing into Ike’s car.

Whether the fire will burn hot enough to destroy the bodies of my three new friends is anybody’s guess, but I’ve done as much as I can to make sure there’s no trail leading back to Halvard and Gavriel.

94

I dump Yerik’s car in an alleyway and clamber out. There were several moments on the drive back to New York from the Hamptons when I thought the sirens arrowing towards Tagliente’s house were about to turn and pursue me.

None of them had, and because I was afraid of being spotted I took back roads wherever possible.

I’m at the point of exhaustion when I totter through the door of Halvard’s pawn shop and approach the counter.

Gavriel sees me coming and lifts a flap in the counter with one hand, waving me through with the other.

Halvard is sitting in the office chair, and the way he looks over my shoulder before examining my face tells me everything I need to know.

‘They fell?’

‘They did.’

I’d say more, but there are times when words are useless.

What could I tell him? Would it help, knowing that one nephew had been murdered by a ruthless killer? That his other two nephews were so badly injured they couldn’t escape the fire he’d lit?

His eyes are rheumy and there are occasional tears running down his cheeks.

He looks at my dishevelled state and goes back to staring into space. I wonder if he’s remembering them – as children, attending their bar mitzvahs and watching them grow from children into the huge men they’d become.

‘Did they die in vain?’

‘No, they didn’t. The Mortician’s dead and they died heroes.’ I lick my lips and ponder on how much to tell him. He won’t want to know about individual suffering, or how Baruch had killed his brother out of mercy before turning the gun on himself. I decide Ike’s bravery, in spearing his eye on The Mortician’s knife, is worthy of telling, even if the details are best left unsaid. ‘All three of them were heroes, but especially Ike. His courage knew no limits.’

Halvard gives the faintest of smiles. ‘Ike always was fearless. There was nothing that boy wouldn’t try to climb.’

We sit in silence for a while and then I rise to leave. I still have one task left before I catch a plane back to Casperton.

95

Alfonse picks me up at the airport. His face is full of concern and there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s had very little sleep since I returned to New York.

As I walk towards him I see his eyes watching my every movement. He’ll be noticing that I can barely lift my feet, that one arm is tied up in a rudimentary sling, and that my face and scalp are covered with minor contusions.

‘Is there any part of you that isn’t beat up?’

I shake my head.

‘This isn’t you, Jake.’ He pulls a face. ‘You may have seen yourself as an instrument of vengeance, but that’s not what you are. You know it and so do I. I’m not saying the people you have killed didn’t deserve to die, I’m saying it’s not your place to decide who lives or dies, and it’s not your job to deliver that kind of justice.’

I’d hang my head in shame if I was still a kid. ‘I know. I knew it before I went after them, but haven’t you ever been so angry?’

I let the question tail out; there’s no rationalising what I’ve done, not to him, not to anyone else, not even to myself.

Alfonse turns out of the airport parking lot and heads towards town. ‘Have you any idea how often Chief Watson has been in touch, demanding I tell him where you are?’

‘I guess it’s a lot.’

I want to apologise to Alfonse for everything he’s been through on my account, to thank him for his support, but the words won’t come out. All he’s doing is putting a voice to the thoughts that have plagued me since I climbed in Yerik’s SUV and drove away from the disaster zone that was Tagliente’s house.

Nothing he can say to me will be as harsh as what I’ve been thinking myself. Every criticism he voices is nothing more than a faint echo of what I’ve been whispering into my own ear.

‘What now?’

‘I better go see Chief Watson.’ I hesitate and sneak a sideways look at him. ‘And Taylor’s parents.’

‘I’m sorry, man.’ Alfonse lays a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Taylor’s father has been in touch with me. He doesn’t want you going there, offering your condolences. He’s even said that if you try and go to Taylor’s funeral, he’ll have you arrested.’

I close my eyes and accept the bitter pill of rejection. Taylor died when she was with me, and nothing I can do or say will ever change that. Only Alfonse and Mother know the truth about her death. Everyone else has been told that she and I had fought and parted company.

‘How’s John?’

‘He’s doing well.’ Alfonse pauses. ‘There’s something else you should know though.’

I look at his face. It’s serious, but not grave.

‘Don’t tell me. Cameron has shot the crow.’

‘Huh?’

The Scottish term for running off has confused him. I explain what I mean, and he tells me I’m right. Well, correct. Alfonse and I never tell the other when they’re right, only when they’re wrong.

Cameron being gone doesn’t matter. We’ve got what we needed from him and there’s nothing to be gained from him staying around.

The news from New York is good too. Gabbidon has been arrested and is under investigation for events that span several decades. Even if he is acquitted on all counts, there’s enough mud sticking to his name to ensure he never becomes mayor.

96

Three nights after arriving back in Casperton, I leave my apartment, throw a couple of backpacks into the trunk of my Mustang and put the key in the ignition.

Since getting back, my time has been spent answering questions from Chief Watson and some FBI suits who flew in to interrogate me.

I played dumb and stuck to my story, and they couldn’t break me. The lies I concocted pained me to say, but the alternative was admitting my part in a killing spree, to people who could imprison me for life.

My first stop tonight is Alfonse’s place.

I put the keys to my apartment in his mailbox, along with a letter explaining that I need to leave town for a while.

With everything that’s happened running through my mind, and my newfound dislike for myself growing every day, I need to find some space to try to re-find the Jake Boulder I was a week ago.

Another reason for me to get out of town is the way people have been dying when they’re in my company. After losing Taylor, I’m left with Alfonse, Mother and my sister, Sharon. I can’t bear the idea of another person suffering because of me, so it’s best for them if I’m not around to attract trouble.

With the keys and letter secreted in Alfonse’s mailbox, I take a slow drive to the edge of town.

Casperton cemetery is well kept and lies on the town’s western fringes. It takes me a while to locate the right grave in the dark, but I use my cell’s torch to read the inscriptions attached to the fresh flowers on the most recent graves.

My heart catches when I read Taylor’s name.

I clench my jaw and think only of her smile as I bend down and roll back a slice of turf.

My hand shakes as I pull the ring box from my pocket and place it on Taylor’s grave. ‘I love you, Taylor, and I want you to have this ring. I would have preferred to have put it on your finger, to hear you say yes when I proposed, but I never got the chance. I love you.’

To my ears, my voice contains nothing but the truth. It’s there in every crackle, in the pauses I make as I fight for composure, and in the quiet, heartfelt whisper I use to say the words I’d never expected to say.

I’m halfway back to the Mustang before I’m confident that the tears blurring my eyes aren’t going to fall.

The End

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Readers who enjoyed Past Echoes will also enjoy the James Ryker series by Rob Sinclair :

The Red Cobra ( James Ryker Book 1)

The Black Hornet ( James Ryker Book 2)

My Book

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to take this opportunity to say extend my grateful thanks to all at Bloodhound Books for their professionalism and hard work in bring this book out. Fred, Betsy, Sarah, Alexina and Sumaira have helped my writing soar, yet it’s Jo whose keen editing eye has kept me grounded, and improved my writing with every comment or suggested change.

Thanks also go to those who’ve supported me in my writing, my good friend and mentor, Matt Hilton, Col Bury who brainstorms ideas with me late at night over the odd glass of something hangover-making, the Crime and Punishment gang, all my writing and non-writing friends and of course my family.

I’d also like to say a huge thank you to all the bloggers who’ve taken the time out of their busy lives to support me. They are the unsung heroes of the book world and their support really has made the difference.

Last but by no means least, my readers. Without your support, kind reviews and enthusiasm for my writing, I’d be nothing more than a stenographer for the voices in my head.

COMING SOON

Jake Boulder Will Return !.

Watch out for Jake Boulder Book 4 , coming Winter 2018 .

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

Also by Graham Smith

Watching The Bodies

Epigraph

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

The Kindred Killers

Copyright

Epigraph

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Acknowledgments

Past Echoes

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

A Note from Bloodhound Books:

Acknowledgments

Coming Soon