Darkness Looking Back, The (16 page)

He laid her carefully in the back seat, and went back for the dented can of Sprite, lying up against the sink. He waited for the foam to stop gushing out, then took a sip. He'd built up quite a thirst. He carefully shut the door behind him as he returned to the car. When they reached their destination he arranged her as he wanted her and stood back to admire his handiwork. As the final bit of garnish, he'd borrowed a knife from the drawer and left it sticking out of her heart. First time he'd done it he almost winced, expecting a rain of blood spraying the walls, but then he realised — it didn't pump if they weren't alive. Cleaner that way, anyway. He washed himself off as best he could, then gave the corpse a last glance.

'You stupid bitch . . .'

Then he went outside to make a phone call.

IT HAD BEEN a quiet night at the Northern Communications Centre. A few drunken hooligans smashing bottles on a beach, a punch-up, a possible drug-related collapse and a loud party that had descended into screaming and curses. Operator Petra Oswald was drumming her fingernails on the desk, trying to stifle a yawn. Opposite her, Chris was on the phone to someone who'd lost their car, by the sound of it. Some nights just weren't worth missing TV.

Another call came through. Petra finished a second yawn before answering.

'Police, what is your location?'

The caller's voice was male, and more wobbly than she'd heard in a while.

'There's . . . There's a dead woman in the Grafton toilets.'

Petra suddenly woke up.

'Are you sure she's dead, sir?'

He started sobbing. 'She's in the toilet. She's face down in the toilet . . .'

CONSTABLE REBECCA WILSON turned her face away from Grafton Bridge, where countless desperate souls had leapt to their deaths on the Southern Motorway below. The curved perspex barriers there now only served as an unsightly reminder. She focused on the empty shops across the road instead.

'Hello?' Her partner's call got lost in the dark, between the two halves of the cemetery to the right and left of the road. The soft distant waterfall noise of the traffic under the bridge was the only other sound.

'Can't have been that upset, then. He's gone,' he said.

Rebecca shivered, glancing at the vacant toilet block with the trees of the cemetery looming blackly behind it. 'Can't say I blame him.'

Her partner shrugged. 'Probably a hoax, but we'd better look into it.'

Silently Rebecca gestured for him to go first, into the gents, not unwilling to stay behind. The old brick toilet block was one of the most unique and decorative in Auckland, complete with a mural to brighten up its Gothic glories. In this light, however, the painted tree branches with hunched birds looked positively ghoulish. The place had a reputation as a favourite haunt for the druggies who hung out in the cemetery and in times past had served the more desperate kind of homosexual. It probably had as many ghosts as its neighbour.

Aside from the empty bus stops and the graveyard behind, there was nothing else on this side of the road for a block. On one of the city's busiest routes, it made its own isolation.

Rebecca's partner was out within seconds. 'Nothing in there,' he said.

Rebecca felt a rush of relief, until he nodded at her. 'Your turn. He could have meant the ladies.'

'What would a man be doing in the ladies?'

He only looked at her, and she felt her stomach shift uncomfortably. 'Unless he was the one who put her there . . .'

She glanced at the second doorway. The lock on the women's toilet door was broken and hanging.

'Hello?' Rebecca's turn to call, but more softly. Almost afraid of getting a response. Her partner shone a torch at the outside of the building, pointing high up on the wall.

'Look at that. Someone's smashed the lights as well.'

'Where the hell are crime squad?'

'Don't be stupid. I'm here.' He shone his torch through the doorway, watching as the light glinted off the cold metal walls of the stalls. 'Ladies first.'

Wilson didn't smile. Gritting her teeth, she stepped inside. Was that metallic smell the usual wet-steel odour of sinks and piping, or something else?

It was just a drug thing. Had to be. It'd explain why the bloke had run off, anyway. The creepy feeling tickling the back of her shoulders wasn't so easy to explain. Rebecca took a few steps closer, and saw her, slumped over the toilet as described, her head completely disappearing inside the bowl.

'She's here!'

Instantly Rebecca felt better. Just a stupid user who was finding the water in the loo harder to inhale than coke. She took a step closer. But when the torch reached the bowl, and she saw the colour lapping round the girl's head, she knew why her shoulders had tingled. Her partner appeared behind her.

Rebecca pushed past him to the door. When he followed seconds later, shades paler, crime squad was outside.

The car was up on the footpath, two wheels barely touching the road. As DS Gardner stepped out, slamming the door, Stirling saw the look on the uniforms' faces. This wasn't the evening they'd expected.

'What have we got here? Definitely a body?' barked Gardner.

'Yes, Sarge,' said Constable Wilson, whose breathing seemed laboured and deliberate. 'A woman, face down in the toilet.'

'Thank God for small mercies,' Gardner said. 'This'll give the lazy buggers in Drugs something to do for once. Come on, let's get her bagged up.' He jerked his head towards the building, his eyes on his three fellow squaddies.

'Sorry, Sarge?'

'Yeah?' Gardner turned round, looking impatient.

The constable shot a look at her partner, who seemed afraid to open his mouth. He looked pale and clammy in the available light. 'I don't think it's a drug thing. I don't think she did that to herself.'

Without another word, Gardner went into the dark building. The waiting group could see his torchlight moving through the doorway. Within thirty seconds he was back out, his face furious. His easy night had just, almost literally, gone down the shitter.

'Who called this in? Where's the witness?'

Finally the other uniform spoke, his voice quiet. 'He's run off, Sarge.'

It was a curious thing, but Gardner's eyes went straight to Stirling, who was standing a few metres in front of him, just behind the uniforms.

'We thought it was a bit strange that a man found her in the ladies,' the policewoman ventured. 'But then, all sorts happen in these loos.'

'Him, do you think?' Stirling asked, more for form than confirmation.

'There's a knife sticking out of her heart. You be the judge.' Gardner nodded at the other detectives, ringing round them. 'You. Constable. You're OC body.' DC Coleman's face freeze-framed for a second — into a darkened lavatory to hold a dead body's hand . . . 'And Ciaran, you're searching the cemetery. Off you go.'

Ciaran Paynter exchanged looks with Coleman. 'Shouldn't I be OC body? I've had a bit more experience.'

'Time he got some then. Off you go.'

Paynter turned to look at the gravestones. Stirling felt a twinge of pity as he watched him trudge off to the car. If he got a word of sense, or any sign of cooperation at all, from the people who slept in the cemetery, he'd be lucky. On an average night, the place was teeming with people who preferred a grave site to their own homes, but tonight they'd all made themselves scarce. No one wanted to be a scapegoat.

As Paynter fetched the evidence kit, another couple of detectives pulled up, and they too were sent to join him. Stirling felt a strange sense of loss. He'd been praying for something new, almost looking forward to his turn in crime squad, just to take his mind off the psycho running around his everyday life. Heartless as it sounded, a pure and simple OD would have been a breath of fresh air. But the killer had robbed him of that too.

A crowd had gathered round now. In the past fifteen minutes the corner had grown a thousand times in popularity. The uniforms had marked off the police cars with orange cones, separating them from the traffic inching past at rush-hour speed despite the empty roads. Stirling couldn't help looking into each face in the crowd, trying to spot a trace of evil, a trace of something that shouldn't be there. What did a murderer look like? He remembered an early lesson in criminal psychology at training college —
is your next-door neighbour a serial rapist?
Everyone had laughed, until step by step, all the little holes in their knowledge were opened up, and none of them ever looked at anyone the same again, not even the copper next to them. Who was the one poisoned apple who'd called the police, then run away?

The thought almost clanged as it dropped into his skull. It was just like all the others — dial a delivery and then sit and wait. It was just that this time the cops were the ones taking delivery of the corpse. To the killer, they were just as useless as a pizza guy. The arrogant
bastard
. The killer was watching them, enjoying the show, and Stirling knew it.

He stepped down from the kerb and strode across the road, into the other side of the cemetery.

He heard an annoyed yell from Gardner. 'Andy! Where the hell are
you
going?' Trying not to stumble over any headstones, Stirling made random stabs with his torch among the trees. He was probably hiding somewhere, crouched behind a gravestone, a tree, a towering angel. They all looked demonic in the dark.

'Andy!' Gardner's face appeared in the torchlight.

'He's watching us, Sarge. Remember the doughnuts? He's got to be around here somewhere.'

Rather to Stirling's surprise, Gardner nodded, grunting. 'You might be right. As it happens, she didn't die here. Not enough blood — I'd say she got here by car.'

Once again, Stirling realised that for all that he hated the DS, Gardner wasn't a sergeant for nothing.

'Then again, he could be long gone,' said Gardner.

He shouted into the silence, his voice bouncing back off the trees. 'Oi! If you're out there I suggest you turn yourself in. The dogs'll be here any moment.'

A few seconds passed, in dead silence. 'Make sure you keep your eyes out for any evidence as well. No good getting hold of him without any proof to tie him in.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

He waited until Gardner had crossed back over the road before calling softly, 'Time to come out now — I know you're there.'

Stirling didn't expect an answer. He went several paces further along the path, headstones jutting out of the earth on either side. Although it was a warm night, and he was lit with anger, Stirling shivered. He dealt with death on a daily basis, but those bodies were things you could touch, if you so desired, the spent shells of people who lived in this world. The dead who lived in the dark unknown were another matter entirely. He thought suddenly of Paxton. This was the Englishman's area, not his.

Then he stumbled as his foot caught on something. He looked down, and saw something pale and shiny spreading tentacles around his shoe. Bending, he saw a silver vinyl evening bag, its long straps winding round his right foot. Stirling gave a yell.

'Hey!'

He turned and hurried back towards the light, where the other detectives were working, scouring for evidence. The SOCOs had arrived, just taking their orders from Gardner.

Stirling waved at them over the road, beckoning hastily. 'Hey! Check out this side of the cemetery. I've just found a bag.'

A couple of SOCOs made a beeline for him, already suited up for the Apocalypse. Stirling, shining his torch on the bag, noticed something white sticking out of its gaping main compartment. A photographer almost elbowed him out of the way. Then Gardner bent down over the bag, peering at the white object.

'It's a letter . . .' He bent even closer, his expression changing. 'What the fuck?' Using the hem of his shirt to protect it from fingerprints, he quickly pulled out the folded piece of paper, reading the outside. He looked up at Stirling. 'It's addressed to
you
!'

Stirling stared at him. 'You're not serious.'

He gazed at the piece of paper as if it was a letter bomb,
but there was no seal, and therefore no trigger. Gardner held it out to him.
Equally carefully, Stirling clutched it in his own hem, nudging open the folds.
Gardner shone his torch onto the paper. Then Stirling saw it wasn't a letter.
It was a menu. To be precise, the menu from Parsifale. Below Fettuccine Carbonara
$14 and Open Steak Sandwich $16, someone had typed in:

POLICEMAN'S SPECIAL:
DOUGHNUTS
WITH A WIDE SELECTION OF TARTS.

Stirling almost screwed it up, before remembering himself. The fucker knew how to get under his skin.

'
Him
again?' asked a SOCO, reading it over his shoulder.

Gardner's face was back to its usual scowl setting. '
Wanker.
Why the hell did he send this to
you
?'

'It's from Parsifale. Who else? I'm the face they always see.'

He thrust the menu into the SOCO's gloved hand.

'Here. Get this checked for prints.' He added to himself, 'And I think I know whose prints to look for.'

'Whose?' asked Gardner.

'Arthur Wong's.'

AS HE STOOD beneath the shower Paxton heard distant music start up in the lounge, and smiled. He felt the best he had in months. The music skipped, then became voices, then became different voices. Then Paxton realised — Lena was listening to the fallout from
Cross
. At first he pricked up his ears, but it was impossible to hear, so instead he listened to the rhythm of the voices, mingling with the spray, enjoying the lulling peace of it all while it lasted. He'd find out soon enough. No avoiding that.

Rubbing the bulk of the moisture out of his hair, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the lounge. He didn't hurry about it. Fuck them all, so long as Lena was happy.

Her head came up as he walked in. She was perched on the edge of the sofa, arms on her knees, listening. She almost bounced out of her seat when she saw him, her eyes round and incredulous.

'Hey, sit down — listen to this!'

Paxton sat. After a moment his mouth fell open. 'Holy shit, is he talking about Veronique?'

'Yes!'

A strange Mancunian hybrid accent was in full flow:
'. . . worked with a more arrogant bitch. She thinks she has God on her speed dial. I swear she thinks she's Joan of Arc reincarnated.'

'That's Bruno,' said Lena. 'He's the Italian tutor.'

'She never consulted any of us about this. And we haven't told Lena, but three of us were going to resign if she lost her job. Sylvie, Thomas and I, we're all sick of her. You know, all four of us have, or are studying for, our university degrees, and she treats us worse than the cleaners.'

When Paxton looked at Lena, there were tears in her eyes. For the first time in days she wasn't just smiling; she was happy. With a wide grin, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

'Well, that's certainly damning testimony, isn't it?'

Paxton recognised the voice — yet again — of Simon Burgess, in his early morning radio slot.

'Thank you, Bruno! And now we have Paula Fischer on the line. Paula, your daughter goes to the academy?'

'Can I just say, it is
Pow
-la — and yes she does. And I think it is terrible the way that poor girl has been treated. I have met her many times and she is always very nice, and a very good teacher. My daughter loves her and says she will not go to the school if Frau Bradley is thrown out. And I agree. Who cares what her partner does; he is not selling drugs to the children. It is all about our children's education, and I think the only person who should go is the woman in charge.'

Paxton whooped. 'Good call!'

'You think Veronique should be fired?'

'Yes I do. She is not Joan of Arc, she is Napoleon.'

Burgess cackled.
'Can I ask you, Frau Fischer, do you believe in psychics?'

'I am willing to be convinced.'

'And you don't think it's colouring your views?'

'Of course it is. But I'm not firing someone because of them. Everyone has a right to their views, and that is something Veronique Rideau needs to learn.'

Paxton sat with his hand still in Lena's, basking in the newness of it all. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. He could have listened all day.

There was a slight pause before Burgess spoke again. When he did, his voice was changed, brusquer.

'We've just got some news off the wire that should ring a bell with Mr Paxton. The body of a woman has been found on Symonds Street in central Auckland. Cause of death is as yet unknown, but the level of police interest at the scene suggests it may be the work of the serial killer already responsible for the deaths of three other women.'

Paxton and Lena looked at each other, but neither of them said a word. They were both speechless.

'The victim is a woman from Ponsonby. According to our independent source, police are investigating a link with the Parsifale café in Ponsonby, where several of the women apparently had lunch not long before they were killed. Viewers of last night's
Cross
programme will recall psychic medium James Paxton making just this prediction. Someone else is going to die tonight, he said. Someone is going to die . . .'

Paxton leaned forward and seized the stereo remote. The voice cut out instantly.

'This is not funny.' His wet shoulders felt cold.

He sat up, then propelled himself to his feet. 'I'm calling Andy.'

'What? For Christ's sake, haven't you learnt your lesson yet?
Don't get involved
.'

Paxton looked back at her, pausing, and frowned, his frustration showing through. 'I know. It's just that I want to make sure I've done everything I can. It's like I can't rest — this whole thing is hanging over me. It's like doing a crossword and not knowing the one missing word because I'm not allowed to use the bloody dictionary.' He spread his palms out wide, trying to convey something he couldn't quite grasp. 'Haven't you ever — ?' The sentence rolled to a stop, and his eyes widened. 'Hey. Wait a minute . . . Look who put me up to this whole detective business in the first place.'

It was Lena's turn to look guilty.

'You
hypocrite
. You seduced me into finding your father's killer!'

'Well — you didn't
have
to go al—'

'You wouldn't let me rest until I found him, but you'd let a mad axe murderer chop up as many strange women as he liked. It's just because they're cheaters, isn't it? If they weren't all sleazy little tarts, you wouldn't have a problem with me going after the killer.'

'Well, I don't like cheats, but that's not it. No one deserves to be murdered.' Lena let out a long sigh, then gave a rueful smile. 'I have only myself to blame, don't I?'

'It's just a
phone call
. . .'

But as he readjusted his towel and wandered towards the kitchen, he knew this was a lie, and so did she. Whether the cops liked it or not, Paxton was a part of this investigation and had been ever since Stirling had first called. The humidity in here was almost as bad as the shower, making movement and concentration equally difficult. He felt beads of sweat mingling with the cold drops from his hair trickling down his forehead.

Stirling answered without any preamble, clearly reading his caller ID. 'Hello, didn't expect you to be ringing me. I hope you're having a better morning than I am.'

'I heard about the murder.'

'That's not the half of it . . . Hang on. Let me call you back, save you paying for the call.'

Paxton had barely hung up when the phone rang again.

Stirling's voice was rushed and miserable. 'Hi. Sorry, I can't talk for long — I'm at the murder scene. Don't know if you've heard, somehow the name of the café's got out to the media. The shit's really hit the fan this time. And guess who they're blaming for it?'

For a fleeting moment Paxton forgot his own troubles. 'Oh Christ. Why?'

'Well, guess who stumbled across this café in the first place? I've been to every single interview on the premises. I'm the logical scapegoat, really.' There was an underlying anger to his tone that Paxton didn't miss.

'And because of me, they think you might have bleated to the radio.'

'I've already had one going-over by the Senior this morning, no doubt because Woodward got onto him, and
his
boss was sitting on
him
. . .' Stirling sounded as lively as a fat can of lager. 'And to top it all off, I got an irate phone call from the café owner. My bloody number-one chief suspect rang up to give me a bollocking for ruining his business! Can you believe it?'

'The café owner's your chief suspect?'

Paxton heard a breath exhaled through the receiver.

'I really can't keep my mouth shut, can I? Shit. I haven't been home this morning.' To emphasise his point, Stirling yawned.

'I've got some news that might wake you up. Dunno if you'll want to hear it though.' He saw Lena standing in the doorway, listening.

Stirling gave a tired laugh. 'Oh come on, tell me. If it's more bad news, just shovel it on me — I'm well buried anyway.'

'I predicted this woman's death.'

'
What
?'

Paxton shifted towards the fridge, reaching for the orange juice with the phone still to his ear. Lena poured them both a glass while he talked. 'I was on
Cross
last night, and I predicted that someone else would get murdered last night.'

Paxton managed to down half a glass before Stirling spoke. '
You
went on
Cross
?'

'It's a long story.'

'And you
predicted
this?'

'Don't ask me how I did it. It just — came out. I'm as freaked about it as you are. And someone round CIB is bound to know about it. It was live on TV.'

Paxton heard a long groan.

'This is just the tip of the iceberg, isn't it? They'll crucify us. We let you go, and now look — someone dies.'

'It's not your fault, Andy. It's no one's fault. Well, except the sicko who's doing this.'

'Fuck fuck
fuck . . .
I've got to go, James. Thanks for ringing. At least now I know what I'm dealing with. See you.'

Paxton put the phone down and looked at Lena, who gazed blankly back.

'Never a damn dull moment.' Paxton shook his head, running
a hand through his hair. He wiped it dry on his towel. 'I'm getting dressed.'

STIRLING WATCHED LUKE Thompson plucking blades of grass, one by one, underneath the tree where he sat. In his exhausted state, he found it mesmerising. Thompson shredded each blade methodically as he watched the SOCO technicians march in and out of the house, like a line of ants in paper shoes. He'd been sitting there for two hours, since he'd returned from identifying Shannon's body. Where he sat, behind the fence, he was shielded from the eyes of people passing on the street, looking curiously at the crime tape strung across the yard. Luke wasn't allowed in the house, nor did he want to be, but he couldn't bear to leave the place either. His phone call had come through at quarter to ten last night — he'd found blood all through the kitchen, and no sign of his missing girlfriend. The splash of vomit in the hallway hadn't been cleaned up yet.

Stirling was about to take his leave, as politely as he could, when he heard another car draw up. Turning, he saw a younger brown-haired man in a T-shirt, his good-looking face scared and bewildered.

'What's going on? What's happened?'

'Do you know the people at this address?' Stirling asked.

'Yeah. I just had a text message to come round!' He reached into his pocket and held out his phone.

Stirling took it, and blinked. The message was from Shannon. It was timed just twenty minutes ago.

'Sarge!' Stirling yelled.

He looked up to see the man staring at his expression.

Stirling tried to keep his voice level, his veins rushing with anger. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news. Shannon was killed last night. This message can't be from her.'

Gardner stepped out of the house. Stirling held up the phone. 'Look at this. It was sent less than half an hour ago.'

Gardner focused on the screen, and his face flushed dark red. 'The little
shit
.'

'He's using her phone.'

The young man's face was white. 'Shannon's dead? What happened to her? Was she — ?'

'Are you a friend of hers? Sorry, I didn't get your name.'

'Mike. I'm her boyfriend.'

Gardner and Stirling both stopped.

'Well, it's complicated, but — '

'What the
fuck
?'

Luke Thompson had come up behind them, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. Stirling hadn't appreciated before how well built he was, as if he played rugby. Opposite him, Mike looked slight and frail.

'What do you mean, you're her boyfriend?
I'm
her boyfriend.'

Mike was stammering, backing away. 'Sorry, Luke. Let's just drop it.'

'Are you saying you were sleeping with her?' Luke's face looked ghastly — mostly white, with spots of colour. 'She wouldn't sleep with
you
.'

'Hey, let's discuss this later, okay? This isn't the place . . .'

'Give me that phone,' Luke said quietly to Gardner.

'I don't think it's such a good idea right now,' Stirling replied, equally quietly. 'Leave it for the moment.'

'
Give me that phone.
'

'It's
my
phone,' said Mike, grabbing it from Gardner and trying to hold it behind his back. With a lunge, Luke snatched it from him. Mike took two tiny steps behind Gardner. Silently, just as he'd stripped the blades of grass, Luke scrolled through the message inbox. He stopped to read one message, his expression giving nothing away. Then he looked up, thrusting the phone back into Gardner's hand.

'Thank you.'

Stirling was already starting to move, but Luke got to Mike first. In a split second, Mike was on the ground, Luke's fists hitting his face with repeated sickening smacks, like hands slapping a side of meat. The first blow burst his nose, sending blood pouring down his front. Stirling dived to pull Luke off, but the man was as single-minded as a pit bull. The speed of his attack was astonishing. Gardner screamed out for help as he joined in, and suddenly a passer-by was jumping the crime tape on the drive, joining in the struggle as one of the SOCOs pelted over from the house. Finally Luke was pulled free, breathing like a horse after a race, Mike's blood all over his front. The other man lay sobbing on the ground, hands over his shattered face.

Stirling felt sick. He knew who'd set this up. He found himself looking round at all the worried faces, into every corner and window. How did he know? Where was he?
Where was he
?