The Yeare's Midnight (37 page)

‘Understood. Lots of people could have used the keyboard after him though.’

‘True. But some of the letters are fairly uncommon: “Z” and “H”, for example. We might get lucky.’

‘All right. I’ll call you.’ Farrell pushed open the double doors and headed back down to the Forensic Laboratory.

Harrison felt paralysed for a second, wondering what he should do. What if Dexter was already dead? He discounted the idea. The killer could have bashed her brains in at the Drury woman’s house but had decided not to. Maybe he wanted her alive. But what for? A secretary leaned out of the door of the Incident Room and spotted Harrison.

‘Sir?’

He turned towards her. ‘What’s up?’

‘That American doctor’s on the phone again. She’s getting a bit stroppy.’

Harrison returned to the Incident Room and picked up the phone. Stussman was on line two.

‘Dr Stussman? This is DS Harrison.’

‘What is going on down there?’ Stussman sounded furious. ‘This is the fourth time I’ve called this morning and no one’s called me back.’

Harrison held the phone slightly away from his head. ‘Sergeant Dexter was going to call you but she’s – erm – indisposed.’

‘Look, sport, I have information about your killer that might be very important. Shall I tell you or shall I just take out an advert in a newspaper?’

Harrison scrambled around his desk and picked up a pen. ‘Go ahead.’

Stussman took a deep breath. ‘OK … When I last spoke to him he asked me, “When is the world a carkasse?”. He asked me twice, so I guessed that he figured it was important for me to find out.’

‘Go on.’ Harrison couldn’t see where this was going but he was getting desperate.

‘The answer is today. 13 December. He referred to a Donne poem called “A Nocturnall upon St Lucies Day”. I won’t trouble you with the details but St Lucy’s Day used to be regarded as the longest night of the year. In Donne’s time that was 13 December – today.’

‘What’s the poem about?’

‘It’s about mourning the death of the loved one. And it’s about suicide,’ said Stussman.

‘You think he’s going to kill himself?’

‘I think it’s on his mind. He’s lost someone close to him; a mother or a sister, I’d guess. Or a daughter, maybe.’

Harrison was scribbling notes, trying to make sense of Stussman’s comments, trying to link them in with Dexter’s disappearance.

‘Where is Inspector Underwood?’ Stussman asked.

‘He’s ill, Doctor.’ Harrison didn’t see any point in lying. ‘He had a heart attack. Sergeant Dexter has disappeared. We think that the killer might have taken her.’

‘Oh my God,’ Stussman breathed.

Harrison put down his pen. ‘Look, Doctor Stussman, if this bastard makes another attempt to contact you, call me immediately. If you’re right about the date, we don’t have much time.’

‘Agreed.’ She sounded scared.

‘You still have police protection there, don’t you?’ He asked.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You’re perfectly safe. This guy is very methodical, cautious. He’s not just going to walk up and knock your door down.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘If you think of anything else …’

‘You’ll be the first to know.’

Harrison put the phone down and looked around the room. It was chaotic with activity and gossip: phones were ringing unanswered, paper was strewn everywhere. He looked up at the photographs of Lucy Harrington and Elizabeth Drury pinned against the board and thought of Alison Dexter.

September 1995

The feeling still thrilled him. Standing in a strange house, enshrouded and empowered by the darkness, Crowan Frayne felt a curious sense of belonging. He enjoyed the strange smells and decorations; the feel of unfamiliar furniture; the rush of power and control. Sometimes he took things, things that might prove valuable when the time eventually came. However, for the most part he just stood, masturbated and absorbed the darkness.

It was useful practice, too. He worked on a variety of houses. He knew that gaining experience and knowledge would prove invaluable when the time came to execute his conceit. This would be his fifth house. It was a large Edwardian building: part accommodation and part veterinary surgery. There was a burglar alarm: he would need to be careful. The surgery might contain equipment that he could use; drugs, even. The back of the building was approachable only via a narrow alley. It was a bottleneck: it made him uncomfortable.

The security light made him feel worse. He accidentally triggered it as he entered the alley. He froze and waited for darkness. There were no further lights at the rear of the house and Frayne moved quickly. He withdrew a spray can from his pocket and sprayed ‘Wanker’ in red paint on the brickwork: better to be thought a vandal than a burglar in New Bolden. He traced an electric cable that powered the burglar alarm down the line of the wall. He used his Stanley knife to slice through the cable. The alarm didn’t ring. Frayne started work on the back door.

The alarm had a silent trigger to the New Bolden police station. A police squad car half a mile away received the alert call almost immediately. The surgery had been identified as a possible target
for drug abusers and the car was outside within two minutes of Frayne cutting the cable. He still hadn’t managed to open the security lock on the back door of the house when he heard footsteps and saw torchlight in the alleyway. There was nowhere to run. He threw his equipment bag over the nearest fence, took a deep breath and sprinted out of the darkness at the two policemen in the alleyway, spraying paint into their eyes as he did. One of them fell, the paint burning at him, but the other caught Frayne around the neck and hauled him to the floor. They struggled and Frayne almost managed to escape when the other policeman regained his vision and kicked him hard in the stomach, driving the breath from Frayne’s lungs. He gasped as they rolled him onto his stomach and pulled his hands up behind his back. The plastic handcuffs were extremely tight and cut into his skin. One of the policeman called him a ‘junkie cunt.’

Frayne gave the address of his temporary lodgings in New Bolden and claimed to have no living relatives. He had no desire to break Violet’s heart again. He was charged and convicted in November 1995 for criminal damage. His legal-aid lawyer explained to the court that Crowan Frayne was unemployed and resentful of affluence. His vandalism was merely a confused act of expression. This was nonsense, of course, but it served a purpose. Frayne was ordered to pay costs of five hundred pounds to the veterinary practice and did not receive a custodial sentence. The judge recommended that Frayne see a social worker.

Frayne didn’t bother.

Violet Frayne didn’t ever find out about her grandson’s conviction. He kept it a closely guarded secret, paid the fine himself and destroyed all the free local papers when they fell through Violet’s letter box. It was an unnecessary precaution. By this time Violet Frayne’s vision had deteriorated so much that she was unable to read any newspaper print without a magnifying glass and she rarely bothered. Much to Frayne’s amusement, Bill Gowers had died of liver cancer the previous Christmas. In a
way this was unfortunate, as Frayne had already developed his own plan for Bill Gowers. He had intended to inject concentrated sulphuric acid into the old man’s stomach if Violet had died before her husband. No need now. Nature had devised a far more uncomfortable and drawn-out torture and Bill Gowers was now just another contortion in the bark of the laburnum tree.

Frayne had escaped prison but at a cost. He now had a criminal record. When he came to realize his great conceit he would have to be extremely cautious: eyes would be upon him. Mistakes would prove very expensive. Planning would be crucial and the experience he had gained would be useful. Timing would be the variable. He would know when the correct moment arrived. Until then he was content to wait, to prepare.

And to dream.

Dexter was suddenly conscious. Her pain centres were firing messages across her brain. She was lying on her side in total darkness. Pain everywhere. She tried to move but something tightened against her neck. Where was she? She couldn’t see. Had he taken her eyes? Had he blinded her? No. Her eyes were stinging with dust. She struggled to remain calm and forced her body to relax. Her hands and feet were bound and there was cord around her neck. She had tape across her mouth. Again she tried to move, again the noose began to choke her. She got the message and lay perfectly still.

Think
rationally
. She tried to brush aside her discomfort and focus on where she was. The floor was cold and she guessed it was concrete. It was dusty too and her eyes were starting to water now. Was he watching her? Was he standing in the blackness, staring at her? She desperately tried to distinguish
shapes and listened for tell-tale noises such as breathing. Nothing. She could see his face in her mind clearly enough. Thin and bony: well-defined cheekbones and a shock of dark hair. He had looked pale, as if his angry eyes had drained the life and colour from his skin. He looked like a ghost.

Where could she be? Concrete floor. Total silence. A warehouse, maybe? A garage? She didn’t think so. The room didn’t smell of oil or machinery. If anything, it smelled of old books: dry and musty. There was no draught. He had gagged her, so he must have been concerned that someone might hear her cries. She found that strangely reassuring. There must be people nearby. Somewhere above her, away in the distance, she heard a car start and slowly accelerate.

Maybe she was in his house. On a residential road. If she was in a house she had to be in a cellar or a shed. She guessed it was the former. Dexter sensed there was a low ceiling above her: the room was tight and airless.

Underwood had been right. The killer wanted her alive for something. What had the inspector said? He wasn’t performing, he was educating. Why had he chosen to educate her? Her mind sought explanations. She had found him at Elizabeth Drury’s house; surprised him. Hadn’t Stussman said that the metaphysical poets valued unexpectedness as a form of wit? Perhaps the killer valued her intelligence or appreciated the stream of connections that she must have made to find him so quickly. Did that mean that he wasn’t going to kill her? She doubted it.

The bindings on her hands were slightly less painful than those around her ankles and Dexter gradually began to move her wrists in an attempt to loosen the tape further. The cord tugged at her neck as she did so but she persevered. It would take time but she was confident that eventually she could work her hands free. She also used her tongue to lick the inside of the masking tape that sealed her mouth. It tasted disgusting but it slowly began to loosen as she moistened the adhesive with saliva. It was exhausting, sweaty work and she had to rest for breath every thirty seconds or so.

She was confident that she was alone in the room. Why had he left her? A car had just driven off. Was it the killer? If so,
where had he gone? How long did she have?
Concentrate,
Alison.
She began to work her wrists once more.

Heather Stussman’s telephone rang at three p.m. The noise smashed through the tense silence like an exploding hand grenade. She sensed bad news.

‘Hello?’

‘When is the world a carkasse?’ said Crowan Frayne.

The voice chilled her to the marrow. ‘Today,’ she replied. She looked out of the window across the old quad. She had an instinctive sense that he was close: as if the hairs on the back of her neck had all suddenly stood on end. There was nobody in sight. Most of the students were at lectures.

‘Why?’

‘13 December is St Lucies Day. The yeare’s midnight.’

There was a pause. Frayne seemed to be digesting the information. Eventually the voice came again: dry and rasping.

‘Are you looking out of your window?’

She froze in horror. ‘Why do you ask?’

Crowan Frayne took a deep breath: it sounded like a wave whispering against dry pebbles. ‘See how the thirsty earth has withered and shrunk as to the beds feet?’

Stussman understood the reference to the poem. Hippocrates said that a dying man will huddle at the foot of his bed. Donne had used it in his St Lucy’s Day poem. She looked again at the quadrangle. There was no one there: he couldn’t possibly see her.

‘I suppose you’re every dead thing?’ she replied after a moment.

‘So are you.’

‘Is that meant to frighten me?’ She tried to hide the tremor in her voice.

‘No. To help you. Listen to the dead inside you. We are only
animations of forgotten souls. Listen to their cries, their anguish. They will give you perspective. They will teach you pity.’

‘What do you want?’

There was another pause. Stussman wondered what he was doing: playing with himself, maybe. ‘What’s the matter?’ she added. ‘Can’t you think of anything scary to say?’

‘Are you acquainted with Detective Sergeant Alison Dexter?’ he asked softly.

Stussman hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘Alison Dexter has short dark brown hair and green eyes that glower like a cat’s. Her blood tastes of sugar for a second; then of rust.’

‘Is she with you now?’

‘She is.’

‘Let me speak to her.’

‘I don’t think I can allow that.’

‘Is she alive? Have you hurt her?’

‘Sergeant Dexter has the ability to make extraordinary connections,’ said Crowan Frayne. ‘I’m sure she is doing so as we speak. She is unable to do much else.’

‘Listen to me.’ Stussman was trying frantically to think of an angle. ‘Killing a cop is heavy shit. You think you’re in trouble now. If you kill her they will tear you apart, mister. No trial, no jury. You won’t make it as far as court. They will crucify you. Every policeman in the country will want your head.’

‘With your cooperation, Sergeant Dexter need not come to any lasting harm.’

‘My cooperation?’

‘I want you to come to the war memorial in New Bolden Cemetery.’

‘Why?’

‘I will explain it to you when you arrive.’

‘I don’t think so, buster.’

‘Alison Dexter has pretty green eyes, fiercely intelligent. She also has surprisingly delicate hands for a policewoman.’

‘Don’t threaten me.’

‘Similarly, if you are not at the war memorial in New Bolden cemetery at five o’clock today I will tie Sergeant Dexter to a
table and cut out her left eye. While she screams into her gag, I will tell her that you refused to help her. She may pass out with the pain, of course: I imagine peeling back her eyelids will cause considerable distress. But then, Sergeant Dexter strikes me as a particularly strong-willed individual. She may remain awake for some time. She may even have the unique privilege of seeing her own eye pulled from its socket.’

‘You are a very sick fuck.’

‘I will then send the eye to a national newspaper – probably a lurid tabloid – with an accompanying note explaining that my actions were inspired by your radical text
Reconstructing
Donne
– rather in the way that The Beatles apparently inspired Charles Manson – and that you had the chance to save Sergeant Dexter but refused. I am uncertain how the university would react but your celebrity would outlive both of us. If I am arrested as a result of your actions I shall instruct my solicitor to post a parcel that I have prepared and entrusted to him, again to a major tabloid newspaper. It will have a similar effect.’

Stussman was being backed into a corner. If Frayne meant what he said, she’d be ruined.

‘How do I know that you won’t hurt me?’ she said. ‘I’d be crazy to swap my life for Dexter’s.’ She would play along with him, then call the police.

‘That may not be necessary. If you trust in your knowledge, if you are confident in your own work, if you are certain of the arguments you put forward with such intellectual force in your book, then you will not come to any harm.’

‘That isn’t very reassuring.’

‘If you contact the police, I shall know. If you are accompanied or followed to the war memorial I shall know. In my house I have a large flask of concentrated sulphuric acid. If you attempt to deceive me in any way I will remove Sergeant Dexter’s eye and then drop acid into the socket, using a pipette. I will then apply the acid to her face, her hands, her nipples and Lord knows where else. I guess that her heart will eventually succumb to the agony but who knows how long that will take?’

‘If I come you’ll kill me, won’t you?’ She was floundering now.

‘Once I have finished with Alison I shall visit you in any case. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘This is your opportunity to live. If you try and fuck me around I will show you every dead thing that crawls around inside you, shits behind your eyes and slithers in your blood. I will take great pleasure and much time in showing you. When you leave the college today, you should assume that I am watching you all the way. I shall know if you are playing with me and I promise that I will find agonies for you and Sergeant Dexter that will burst your brains.’

‘I get the picture.’

‘And I am rebegot,’ said Crowan Frayne, ‘of absence, darkness, death, things which are not.’

The line died suddenly and Stussman put the phone down. Her hand hovered over the receiver. She knew she should call the police. But what if the killer was nearby? What if he was a policeman? The idea made her shiver: there was a policeman outside her door.
If
you
are
accompanied
or
followed
to
the
war
memorial,
I
shall
know,
the killer had said. That meant he must already be in Cambridge, unless he was just trying to frighten her to make sure she’d comply.