Fade to Black (9 page)

Two metallic sounds from the other end of the lane told her that the team from Forensic Services had arrived. She was fortunate to have had an unfettered first look at the scene, but it was time for her to leave them to it. They would not take kindly to her possibly contaminating the crime scene. Turning, she glanced back at the suspended body. The girl lunged off the wall, arms now free of the ropes, a low, gurgling scream issuing from her throat. Allie reeled back. A slapping, sucking sound, like boots being pulled from deep, wet mud filled the air. A foul, suffocating odor assaulted her. Arms flailing, she fell backwards, trying to scream and panicking because she could not. She hit the cobblestones hard, her hands and arms instinctively trying to cover her vital organs. But there was no attack. Allie lay on her back, panting, the rain running in rivulets down her face. George Houghton was yelling and running down the lane toward her, his boots throwing water up into the rain.

Allie was lifted to her feet. She shook badly. She felt her wet back where rainwater had invaded her leathers. A cut on her hand stung. Stepping back from a worried George Houghton, she stumbled, then straightened, nodding her thanks. She headed back to the comforting lights of the relative normality on the corner. The lane closed on her like a coffin. She quickened her step.

DC Mathew Connors was briefing the forensics team at the head of the laneway. She saw he at least had recovered his composure. Allie heard him say, “Here she comes now.” She didn’t recognize any of the team and didn’t think she needed to tell them anything–they’d do their best work unhindered and would deliver their report later that morning. She beckoned Connors over to her. He broke immediately from them.

“You ok now?” she asked, looking at him closely.

Embarrassed, he confirmed that he was now in control.

He was as white as a sheet, hardly in control, but he’d have to deal with it.

“Have any witnesses presented themselves to you by any chance?” Allie asked, still shivering inwardly.

“No, not a one. It’s very quiet here.”

“We’ll need bodies on the streets first thing, then. Are you ok to stay here with George… Sergeant Houghton, for a little bit?”

Connors confirmed that he could, not that he had any choice, of course.

“Alright, we’ll talk later. Thanks, Mathew.”

Connors watched as St. Clair walked toward Sergeant Houghton. He would comment later to the team that she was ice-cool and hadn’t even blinked at seeing the carnage down the lane. “
Ice in her veins,”
he would say.

St. Clair sought out George Houghton for a quiet chat, leading him under the verandah, out of the rain.

“Did you notice anything when you got here, George? Any cars leave, anybody hanging around? You know the drill.”

“No, didn’t see nobody.” He jerked his thumb toward the restaurant behind him.

“Mr. Lin from the Golden Bamboo called it in at eleven oh-five and we were here by eleven ten. Other than a very agitated Chinese restaurateur and his diners, there was none about at all.”

“Who’s
we
?”

Houghton pointed out a short, thickset officer with an outstandingly large nose. He was scribbling on a notepad.

“PC Crowley and I. Brett Crowley, do you know him?”

She replied that she did not and asked George if he had noticed whether Connors had interviewed Mr. Lin before she arrived. George Houghton looked uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, George. I know Mathew is badly shaken… I’m not too flash myself.”

He smiled apologetically. “No, I haven’t actually seen him do that, Allie.”

She smiled her thanks and suggested he try to stay warm. Moving away from the crime scene, she flipped open her mobile phone. She called Mathew Connors even though he was only yards away. He answered on the first ring, looking over at her as he did so.

“Ma’am?”

“Mathew, I’ll be interested to talk to you later this morning about your interview with Mr. Lin and what follow-up we can do with his staff and customers. How about 9:30 a.m.?”

He threw his head back and then waved a placatory hand.

“Sorry, ma’am. Yes, yes of course. I’ll go straight up to your office?”

“That’ll be fine. Thanks, Mathew.”

She knew he’d gotten the message and that he was chastising himself for not getting to Mr. Lin earlier. She saw him hurry toward the restaurant owner as she snapped her phone shut.

Reaching her bike, she glanced across the road. A big, black Triumph motorcycle was parked facing slightly in to the gutter. She didn’t think it had been there when she arrived, but the rain was heavy then too. She walked over to it, making a note of the registration number. There was no sign of the owner, but she was almost sure it was the bike she had admired at the Chelsea Hospital last night.

Her mobile phone chirped announcing a text message.
No, I am not the killer, so don’t be afraid. It has begun. I’ll be outside your house in thirty minutes. Michael

Of course, it was the mysterious Michael. Who else? She looked around and saw no one, but decided to up the ante. She typed:
Why don’t we just meet here, now?

His reply was instantaneous.
That’s not my bike, Allie. Wait there as long as you like, but I’ll be at your house in thirty minutes

A million questions flashed through her mind. This was bizarre. If he wasn’t here somewhere, how did he know she was standing by a motorcycle? But the strangest thing was, she already knew deep down that he wasn’t the killer. And she knew with absolute certainty what he’d look like when they met.

*****

Arthur Wendell curled into a fetal ball in his tiny, tiled bathroom. He did not want to live a minute longer. He knew what he had done earlier that night. The girl’s desperate pleading was still competing in his head with his own moaning. Clamping his hands over his eyes, he also tried to shut out the images. But it was not to be. His mind watched the movie reel as the scene replayed itself again and again for him. He saw himself standing above her, almost
hovering,
as she begged for her life, her eyeballs having already been nonchalantly flicked over the high wall. He watched as he calmly bent down and ripped out her long tongue with a pair of electrician’s pliers, the muscles attaching her tongue to the back of her throat coming away with a crisp
pop.

He convulsed at the vision. He saw again how she vomited great gouts of blood as she gurgled and clutched at her throat. He saw his own impassive face, but yet, not
his
face. It was as if an image superimposed itself on him. Arthur thrashed about in his bathroom, desperate to put an end to the images. But the scene continued on in living color. The girl,
Georgie,
now lay on her back writhing and gargling blood, finally exposing her bare stomach to him. He saw himself calmly look over at the restaurant with its lantern lights and chattering diners. They only had to glance up from their Char-Su for a moment to pick him and the girl out of the gloom in the lane. But no one did. He saw the filleting knife appear in his hand—God only knew where he had gotten it from—and watched as it approached her alabaster white abdomen. Arthur Wendell, Chartered Public Accountant and Tax Advisor, vomited into his shiny, white hand basin.

Chapter Eight

Donning her helmet and glancing back at the now brightly illuminated laneway, Allie mounted her bike, turned the key to start, and promptly stalled the engine. She knew without looking that everyone had noticed. As calmly as she could, she started the bike again and described a graceful arc in the street, sweeping past the black Triumph and accelerating south on Earl’s Court Road.

Mercifully, the rain had eased enough for her to throw back the dark visor on her helmet. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she felt claustrophobic with the heavy polymer barrier across her face. She wanted to feel cold air on her skin, subconsciously hoping it would cleanse her mind of the frightful images from the lane. The road was slick and shiny. A mist formed. She came out of the corner of Earl’s Court Road, flicked her indicator on and worked the throttle hard, eager to get home and see how this crazy meeting would play out.

The bike shot out from under her like a wet piece of soap and at once, she was airborne, hurtling toward the ripsaw surface of the road. She watched almost in slow motion as the old Yamaha clattered in a shower of sparks toward a parked car. She noticed dreamily that it was a white Ford Focus. She looked down at the black, gleaming road rushing up to meet her, powerless to act. She hit the road hard, face-first. She felt her body jackknife at the impact. There was a moment’s silence, then a kaleidoscope of lights and colors, followed by a mind-numbing collision—her right side slammed against a concrete and metal light pole. She heard a canon shot a split-second later, realizing it was her helmet smacking with incredible force against the unyielding structure. The rain hissed.

She listened from afar to the bike’s motor still screaming as it lay on its side, still in gear, the throttle jammed against an unknown object—maybe a wall—she didn’t know, couldn’t turn her head to see.

She was propped-up in an awkward sitting position, her back against the light pole, her legs splayed out at impossible angles. She finally managed to screw her head around and gaze in a detached way at her bike. She had to turn that bloody motor off; it was really annoying. She simply stood, walked over, squeezed the clutch handle and turned the ignition key. The engine died. Silence trilled in her ears. There was no traffic and she was glad. Looking down at herself, she wondered how she had stood. Her legs must be barely attached. Her leathers were ripped to shreds and her jacket had no left elbow. Her visor had been smashed off, the remains strewn in a jagged trail down the road. She remembered now how she had hit the road face-first and had thought before she even hit the light pole how she’d probably need plastic surgery to sew her face back on.

Distractedly, she peered at the road, stupidly expecting to see her face sitting there.
What a night
, she thought. Sighing, she effortlessly picked the bike up and wrenched the handlebars back into square. Had there been a witness to this, they would have been amazed at the feat of strength this broken and bleeding being had just displayed. She noticed her hand trembling, then felt the tremble vibrate out to all of her limbs. Shivering set in. Reality had arrived as the shock of the accident moved to another level. Shivering gave way to uncontrollable, force-ten shaking. Unconsciously, she propped the bike on its amazingly still-functioning stand and sat abruptly down on the wet road. Somewhere amid the shaking, she knew she had to screw-up the courage to check herself out in the bike mirrors and then call an ambulance.

She knew in a moment of clarity that in all probability, she looked like she’d slid face first down a cheese grater. She presumed that shock was anaesthetizing her, masking her true condition. Another text message came in. She decided to look at it—anything to delay looking in a mirror. She stood and fished in what was left of her pocket, surprised that the phone was still in one piece and working. She squinted through the heavy rain at the short message.

Bummer. Get back on your bike and get home as fast as you can. You’re ok… this time.

Well now, she thought. I’m ok, am I, Mr. Know-it-All? Let’s just see. With that, she bobbed down so she could look squarely into the damaged mirror on the side of the bike nearest her, the rain so heavy now that it bounced off the road, speckling and distorting the image in the mirror. She lifted her helmet off and took the plunge, taking a long, hard look. She still had two eyes, a nose and a jaw.
A great start
, she thought with huge relief. She smiled at her reflection and noted that she still had teeth—the nice white, even ones that Rachel hated. She smiled a little more broadly at that thought.

She swept aside her dark hair, which now plastered to her forehead by the rain, and took the time to assess her legs and arms. She could see no blood through the holes that rent her leathers. She windmilled her arms and kicked her legs in a comical rendition of her usual karate training moves. No problem. In fact, she concluded, she had not a scratch and could feel no particular pain at all. The thought that she might be dreaming crossed her mind. A vicious wind tore down through the buildings, hurling horizontal bullets of rain at her. It was a frigid, stinging reminder that she was firmly rooted in reality, as frightening as that had now become.

Twenty blurred and uncomfortable minutes later, Allie crossed Putney Bridge, less than a kilometer from her home. She was cold, very wet, unbearably tired and amazed her battered motorbike had not only started, but had also run like a dream. The rain and gale-force winds had been unrelenting and the sheer effort of staying upright on her bike had been exhausting. Despite this, she felt her pulse quicken. She wondered whether this Michael would show up and whether she was being a complete idiot in meeting this guy alone in the middle of the night. Of course, she knew she was. But if he turned out to be the guy from the photo and the Feathers Inn, there was a mystery to be uncovered. Plus, she felt no danger from this man and that was something she could not explain even to herself.

She slowed and scanned the narrow street ahead as best she could in the heavy rain—the narrow beam from her headlight barely carrying fifty feet. As much as she could determine, the curving row of identical terrace houses stretching before her contained nothing out of the ordinary, just the normal parade of expensive cars parked on either side, most of which she recognized as those belonging to fellow residents. Bringing her motorbike to a halt directly outside her own front door, she paused with the engine still running, just in case. Not one light glowed from any of the houses on the street. Rainwater thudded on her helmet in a great lump, dislodged from the tree that guarded her apartment. There was no movement on the darkened street.