The needle pushed towards a hundred and I stared through the windshield. All I could see were streaks of snow and the occasional red tail light. This was crazy, completely suicidal. I was driving blind. I gave the car more gas and the needle crept past a hundred.
‘Who’s Cutting Jack?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Plausible deniability,’ I reminded him.
‘If anyone asks, I’ll lie. As far as I’m concerned Cutting Jack is Darren Webster, and that’s the way it stays until you realise you’ve made a mistake and tell me otherwise.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay, his name’s Adam Grosvenor. I was pretty sure it was him, but I needed to be totally sure. Sumati got me the confirmation I needed.’
‘Why him?’
‘Because of the geography,’ I said. ‘Adam lives at Waverley Hall, a large country house on the outskirts of Redbourn. The village is near junction nine of the M1, which gives him easy access to London. And it’s only five miles from St Albans, which explains why he dumped Patricia Maynard there. Basically he got greedy. He dumped Patricia Maynard then twenty-four hours later he abducted Rachel Morris. He needed to cut corners, so he dumped Patricia Maynard close to home. Also, out of all the seven possible locations we had, Redbourn was furthest away from Charles Brenner’s dump site. Even back then he wanted to mislead you.’
‘So what’s the story? Is he working alone?’
‘No. Adam’s the submissive and his mother, Catherine Grosvenor, is the dominant.’
‘So, his mother’s alive?’
‘Just. There was a car crash two and a half years ago. Adam was driving. He ended up with a broken arm, but Catherine Grosvenor wasn’t so fortunate. She suffered a C4 fracture and is paralysed from the neck down. She spent almost a year in hospital. Halo traction, operations, the works. After she was discharged she went home and Adam took responsibility for her care.’
‘That’s why you wanted the medical companies checked out. Adam would need medical equipment to look after his mother. You suspected this had happened.’
I nodded. ‘Either this or something similar. Something that left Catherine Grosvenor incapacitated, like a stroke, or motor neuron disease. It explains the lobotomies. Catherine Grosvenor is alive but she’s reliant on Adam for everything. Eating, getting dressed, going to the toilet. She wants the victims to suffer like she’s suffering.’
‘But they’re not aware of their condition so it’s not the same.’
‘It doesn’t matter. This is a symbolic act.’
‘She got out of hospital eighteen months ago. That was around the time Charles Brenner was murdered.’
‘That was the trigger,’ I agreed. ‘Catherine Grosvenor is almost at the end of her life. Her looks have gone and now her body is failing, too. She’s a very angry woman, and Adam bears the brunt of her anger. He’ll have been abused since he was a kid. Psychologically and physically, but it’s likely he suffered some sort of sexual abuse as well.’
Hatcher was nodding. ‘Yeah, that makes sense.’
‘There’s more. Get a photograph of Catherine Grosvenor in her prime and you’ll be looking at a brown-eyed brunette who’s confident and self-assured. Just like Sarah Flight and Margaret Smith and Caroline Brant and Patricia Maynard. And just like Rachel Morris. It’s not just Adam she’s taking her anger out on. She looks at these women and sees all the things she has lost. Her looks, her youth, her mobility. So she gets Adam to torture them while she watches, and she plays dress-up with them because for a time she can remember what it used to be like to be young and beautiful.’
‘What about Catherine Grosvenor’s husband? Where does he fit into all this?’
‘He doesn’t. He died when Adam was a kid.’
‘Natural causes?’
‘According to the coroner it was a heart attack.’
‘But you’re not convinced?’
I shook my head. ‘Catherine’s husband cheated on her and I’m sure she murdered him, and she got away with it. Nobody worked it out at the time because nobody dug hard enough. They looked at her, saw a heartbroken, distraught widow with a young son, and they stopped looking. Dig deeper and you’ll find I’m right. All the victims’ husbands were unfaithful. That’s not a coincidence. All the victims were angry wives whose husbands had wronged them. That’s no coincidence either. Catherine Grosvenor is reliving her past, Hatcher. The victims represent the person she was thirty years ago.’
68
Adam dragged a chair over to the side of the hospital bed, slowly, eyes fixed on Rachel. The legs scratched against the vinyl floor covering and let out a high-pitched screech. A shiver ran through her and she tried to hide it. She stared at the wall through the nearest bouquet of flowers and told herself everything was going to be all right. Even though she knew it was a lie, she kept repeating that thought in her head.
It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.
Adam wanted a reaction, but he wasn’t going to get one. He turned the chair so it faced the television screens.
‘Number Five will sit down.’
Rachel complied and Adam grabbed her arms. He pulled them behind her, then fixed her wrists to the chair back with cable ties, securing them tight enough for the hard plastic to dig into her skin, but not tight enough to cut off her circulation. Next he fixed her ankles to the chair legs and clicked the cable ties tight. Rachel stared at the wall. She wanted to escape back to the beach, but the memory eluded her.
Adam left the bedroom. Footsteps along the corridor, then on the stairs. His footsteps faded out of earshot and the dead silence was filled with other sounds. The wind in the eaves, the snow hammering the windows, the creaks and groans of the old house, the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor, the soft breathing of Adam’s mother. The television screens were dark and reflective, four black mirrors that cast distorted reflections that looked like melted wax creations.
Rachel glanced over at the bed. The old woman caught her staring and smiled warmly. Rachel looked away quickly and stared at the TV screens. If they’d met outside of this time and place she would have viewed Adam’s mother as just another harmless old woman who whiled away her twilight years having afternoon tea with her slowly diminishing circle of friends. She might even have felt sorry for her. And how wrong she would have been.
Like her father had told her so many times, you judged a person by their actions, not their words. How many times had she seen news reports where neighbours and friends of some psycho shook their heads and expressed their disbelief? He was just so normal, they’d say. He kept himself to himself. He couldn’t possibly have done the things he’s been accused of. Back then, Rachel had wondered how they could be so clueless. How could they not know? Now she knew.
‘Camera four zoom in,’ the old woman said. Her diction was perfect, every word pronounced with care.
The picture on the bottom-right screen got larger, green and black resolving into a clearer image. Rachel could see Sophie thrashing back and forth on the thin mattress, struggling against her restraints, fighting to get free.
‘Camera three zoom in.’
The picture on the bottom-left screen got larger. Sophie on the mattress from a different angle, feet first rather than head first. The beep of the heart monitor had dropped back to seventy-eight. Rachel stared at the screens so she wouldn’t have to look at Adam’s mother.
She watched the old woman’s warped reflection in the glass. The only part of her body she seemed able to move was her head. Everything from the neck down was completely still. Adam’s mother suddenly started to blink rapidly and the heart monitor beeped quicker. Rachel glanced over. The old woman’s eyes were watering and she was desperately trying to clear her vision. A tear slid across the make-up on her cheek. Except this wasn’t a tear. Adam’s mother was incapable of tears, incapable of love. The only emotions she experienced were the darker ones. Hate, anger, loathing.
Rachel could sense the old woman’s frustration, her utter helplessness. The irony of the situation struck and, despite everything, Rachel felt a small wicked glow light up inside her. If she hadn’t been bound to this chair, she could have helped the old woman. Then again, if she hadn’t been bound to the chair the temptation to put a pillow over her face would have been too great. She had no idea why Adam hadn’t done that years ago. Living with his mother must have been hell. If he chose to he could kill her easily. It wasn’t like she was going to put up any sort of fight. And if he didn’t have the bottle to do that he could walk away at any time, just head out the front door and keep on going and never look back.
But he chose to stay here. The old woman was completely vulnerable, yet she held all the power. Rachel didn’t get it. She doubted she would ever fully understand what was going on there. The dynamic of their relationship was just too screwed-up for her to comprehend.
All four screens suddenly flared white, like the basement was ground zero for a nuclear blast.
‘Night vision off,’ said the old lady.
The pictures changed to colour, the definition got sharper. Sophie stopped struggling. She lay there totally still on the mattress, arms pulled tight behind her back, and stared at the door. Her grey top was soaked through with sweat and she was breathing hard. Rachel glanced at the top-left screen. The door was closed, so was the dog flap. She looked back at the bottom screens where Sophie was still staring at the door, body tense, eyes wide and alert.
‘Sound on.’
Sophie’s breathing filled the bedroom. Rapid, shallow breaths. Scared breaths. Rachel looked back up at the top-left screen and saw the door swing open. Adam entered, the garden snips in his right hand, the cattle prod in his left. Rachel had told the policewoman what had happened to her, so she knew what was coming next.
Her mind would be in overdrive right now. It would be filled with thoughts of pain and escape and retribution, a whole jumble of random useless ideas and images. Adam walked past the chair and disappeared from the top screen, reappearing a couple of seconds later on the bottom screens. There were two Adams now. One screen favoured his left profile, the other his right.
Adam held up the snips and Sophie let out a small gasp that sounded like a shout through the bedroom speakers.
‘Turn over,’ said Adam.
‘Go to hell.’
Adam held up the cattle prod. ‘Turn over or face the consequences.’
Sophie glared and Adam lunged forward. He jammed the cattle prod into her stomach and held it there while she howled in agony, held it there longer than he needed to. The louder she screamed, the wider his smile got. He put down the cattle prod and grabbed hold of Sophie’s shoulder, flipped her roughly onto her front and pushed his knee into the small of her back.
The first snip cut through the cable tie around her ankles and the second snip cut the tie that bound her wrists. He jumped to his feet and bounced back from the mattress, gracefully, keeping his distance in case the policewoman retaliated. Sophie rubbed her wrists and ankles and glared at him. She winced when she touched the raw spot on her stomach.
‘Sit on the chair.’
Sophie didn’t move.
Adam jammed the cattle prod into her stomach and followed her as she squirmed across the mattress. Her agonised howl was worse than before, higher-pitched and more desperate. Adam stepped back and the noise subsided. Sophie was lying on her side curled into the fetal position, biting back her sobs, her breathing ragged and harsh.
‘Sit on the chair,’ said Adam.
Sophie hesitated and Rachel was sure she was going to defy him again. Adam waved the cattle prod back and forth in a tick-tock motion. Sophie glared, then walked across to the dentist’s chair. She sat down and Adam buckled her in tight.
He left the basement and returned with the trolley. He parked it in front of the chair, picked up the chef’s blowtorch, lit it. Adam reached for the knitting needle and heated the tip in the flame until it glowed. Sophie shrank back in the chair. Her face was filled with fear, eyes frantically searching for a way out.
‘Please stop him,’ whispered Rachel.
The old lady smiled sweetly. ‘Earlier you said you believed in judgement, my dear.
This
is judgement.’
69
It was blowing a blizzard by the time we reached junction nine of the M1. I’d eased the Maserati back to seventy, but that was still way too fast for the conditions. For the last couple of miles I hadn’t said a word because I needed all my concentration to keep us alive.
The roads got progressively worse the further we drove from the M1 and the snow got deeper. My speed was right down now, but I still almost lost the Maserati a couple of times. The car wasn’t designed for these conditions. It was designed for wide open stretches of straight road. What we needed right now was a 4×4, not a sports car.
High hedges had turned the lane that led to Waverley Hall into a narrow tunnel, and the wind had pushed the snow into a high bank on the right-hand side. A thick layer of snow covered the road. The Maserati crawled along at ten miles an hour, the tyres struggling for traction on the packed ice beneath the snow. The wipers were still fighting a losing battle. If this blizzard kept up, the road would be impassable within another half an hour.
Waverley Hall was surrounded by a high wall and hidden by tall fir trees that rose like spectres out of the snow. I cruised past the main entrance and peered through the gateway, stared hard into the snow and tried to make sense of the blurred white shapes. I could just about make out the driveway that cut between the trees for about twenty yards before turning sharply to the right. This tallied with the aerial image we’d gotten from the internet.
The best way to approach the house was from the east. The area to the front was too open. There was a gravel courtyard for parking cars and an unkempt lawn and too much open space. We’d be sitting ducks. Same for the area to the rear. The grounds stretched for four hundred yards, all the way to the trees that marked the southern boundary. Again, there was far too much open space. The west side was difficult to access, which left the east side.