The Sister (32 page)

"Okay, okay - I get the picture, but I'm not promising
anything
until I know exactly what it is you are after."

When he told her, she was incredulous. "What!"

"Yeah, I know, it seems too easy, doesn't it."

"I guess you have your reasons, but I want to know what's going on."

"Trust me, you don't want to know. You want your money back, don't you? You wouldn't
want
, Mr Lynch finding out about your diary—?"

"No – but how do I know you'll give the money back, I can't trust
you
. . . you robbed me!"

"Melissa, the way I see it, you have two choices. Either you do, or you don't. Now, I want you to post on the wall of your Marilyn Mooner Facebook account as soon as he books in with you again. You will announce. 'Can't wait for more birthday celebrations' When I see it, I'll call. You will give me the details and time, and I will give you your further instructions. Do we have a deal?"

With little choice but to agree, she told him, "We have a deal." She put the phone back in its cradle. A sense of unreality hung over her emotions. She could just as easily have laughed as cried. She felt crazy.

What he wanted was ridiculously easy; she knew everything had a price, but what could he be planning to want
that?

As she sat thinking, the telephone rang again, interrupting her. She wasn't in the mood, but she composed herself. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up it. The caller, oblivious to her predicament, sent the sounds of heavy breathing down the line. The relief she felt swung her mood to crazy laughter. It was all she could do to prevent herself becoming hysterical; she knew exactly who this was. It was his calling card.

"Jack?" She managed to pull herself together - ever the actress, she turned in a good performance now.

"It's Mr President, to you!" he laughed, "I'm planning a very private birthday party for tomorrow night. I'd very much like it if I could come over to you . . ."

A weak smile crossed her lips and her mood lifted. If she'd have told him what was happening, he'd have sorted it, but she was now confident the situation was under her control.

"Cheeky! Well, Mr JFK . . . let me check my diary. Oh, it looks like I'm free around 11 o'clock tomorrow night." He had a 'birthday' every week; he reminded her of a man she once saw on the television, who celebrated Christmas three hundred and sixty five days a year. She thanked her lucky stars his sex drive wasn't up to that; it made her smile vaguely. She felt the loose knot in her stomach tighten as her nerves kicked in.

"I'll see you then, Marilyn."

"Yes, Jack, I'll see you then."

She put the phone down and walked over to where her laptop sat and posted the message.

A few minutes later, she received a call.

"Tomorrow at 11pm," she told the caller in a quiet voice. Lynch was due anytime. If he overheard, he would do more than ask questions.

The phone disconnected. She chided herself.
What are you doing Melissa!?

The doorbell rang. She jumped at the sound. Her nerves jangled. It was Lynch.

Chapter 59

Kennedy's mobile rang. It was unusual for Tanner to ring him on a Saturday unless it was important. He answered it, knowing there was every chance his day off would end in a few minutes. He listened as Tanner requested a meeting with him, away from work.

"What's this about?" he said.

"Not on the phone, sir. We need to meet."

"Okay . . . Why don't you come to my house," he checked his watch, "say, in half an hour's time?"

"I'll see you then, sir."

Agitated by the proposition Tanner had put to him, he paced up and down his living room.

"Jesus," he said, chewing on the end of a pencil. "I can't allow that, and you know it!"

Tanner sat forward in the chair to retrieve a glass of water from the coffee table. "Sir, we have him placed him in the pub where Kathy Bird was drinking that night, then later you saw him in the street with her. Now we have a caller, who not only says he knows what happened to
her,
he's saying he has Eilise Staples, as well. What else do you want?"

"John, believe me, I want him nailed as much as you do, but we don't have anything that warrants our going sniffing around in the travelling community. What will we do, if it's just some nut that watched both cases on Crimewatch? I can't risk it, especially at the moment; it's a Human Rights hot potato. I need good, reliable evidence."

"So, you won't allow me to do this," he finished his water and put the glass back down.

Kennedy studied him carefully for a minute. He didn't take his eyes from his face as he spoke.

"If you do anything without my knowledge . . . if
anyone
finds out about it; there'll be hell to pay. Is that clear?"

There was a mixture of messages in the DCI's expression. The way he offered his hand confirmed it.
He never does that.
They shook hands.

Kennedy wanted him to do it.

Later in the afternoon, Tanner switched on his laptop and started to research the history and culture of bare-knuckle fighting among gipsies, he read for around two hours, totally captivated, by a world he hadn't realised still existed. Then he watched a selection of YouTube videos. The fights took place mostly; it seemed, in quiet country lanes, fields and car parks. There was a tradition of settling disputes between families with the fist and not always the fists of those that had the original dispute, but rather more able representatives, usually grown up sons or nephews. It was about honour. The fights were marshalled after a fashion, intervention taking place only if the basic rules were broken, biting being especially frowned upon. The bigger fights had enormous sums of money wagered on the outcome and attracted large crowds. He learned that the venues were never publicised in advance, with arrangements made only in the last moments, because if the police found out they would shut them down. A few of the fighters were clearly legends among the community, but none of them matched the man he was looking for, so he found himself scanning the faces of the people in the crowds. No one bore any resemblance to the E-Fit. No one came close.

He pulled a few strings, someone who owed him a favour, who knew someone else. That evening, he got a call back; he was to meet a fighter Sunday lunchtime, at a pub in Tilbury.

Chapter 60

Melissa dressed in his favourite costume, the white sequined gown and examined the fit in the mirror, smoothing it down, adjusting its lines. It would be off in a while, but still, she liked to look authentic. She rehearsed the skippy, happy moves that came just before the end of her singing routine. She practised it to perfection.

The white telephone rang. She jumped at the sound. It was 11o'clock.

He liked to play these stupid games. She felt apprehensive; she wasn't sure why. Something was happening that she couldn't understand, and if she wanted her life back, she couldn't do anything but go along with it.

"Hello?" she breathed.

"Are you ready to receive your president? I'm right outside your front door."

She opened it. "You could have just rung the bell like anybody else would have . . ."

He breezed in cheerfully, surveying the passageway with his mobile phone; he pretended to be sweeping for hidden bugging devices. He grinned at her. "But I'm not just anybody else, am I?" He had already removed his jacket. His face glowed red with the flush of Viagra.

"No, Jack, there's no one else quite like you . . ." she dimmed the lights." Happy birthday, by the way . . ."

"And there I was thinking you'd forgotten . . ." He was now lying on the bed naked, apart from a pair of black socks.

She slinked toward him, beginning his song . . .

Chapter 61

The caller finalised his plans. He had spent the past week observing the house at random times. The girl was living on her own, which was perfect because although she was only a pawn in his game, she was also exactly his type and lived in exactly the right kind of place, somewhere easy to get into. It had no burglar alarm; it also backed directly onto a park, which proved to be good for covert nighttime observation, as well as for an alternate escape route – if needed.

The night before, something happened that almost changed his plans. As he approached the rear of her house from the darkness of the park, he saw someone else slipping over her back fence.
The Peeping Tom, from outside the blonde's place!

He observed from behind the fence standing on tiptoes. The other man spied in on her through the windows, following her as she moved from room to room. After two hours, the lights downstairs turned off one by one until finally the house was in darkness. A moment later, a light from within set the upstairs windows dimly aglow.

When the Peeper finally stole away, he'd worked out a place for him in his plans.

He followed him home.

When he was sure he'd retired for the night, he broke in. He sifted through everything.
These people with mobile phones that never password protect them.
He smirked when he spotted the clumsy efforts to disguise PIN numbers, passwords and usernames.

What's this, a jar of chloroform? What is this guy up to?
He contemplated his next move, taking his time.

Looking around, he found an empty bottle of vodka in the glass recycling. Quickly and carefully, he poured half the chloroform into it, then topped up the remainder in the jar with water. He moved out of the room, amazed at how fast such a small amount of vapour had affected him; he shook his head, and once he was clear of the fumes, took a deep breath.

A rare smile touched his lips; he was pleased with how well this unexpected development fitted seamlessly into his plans. When he first saw her come jogging out of the back gate into the park, she was wearing tight Lycra leggings that revealed the shape of her legs, the clearly defined muscles rippled with latent power, and she was only cruising. Black pony tailed hair swished from side to side matching the tempo of her pace, checking her watch for the time, she set her dark eyes into a focal point in the distance, sucking in a deep breath, she upped her pace and her full lips pursed into an O shape with each exhalation.

She was one of the stalker's Facebook friends. Her face instantly recognisable from his photographs, but the poise, the power and grace of her movement, needed witnessing in the flesh for full appreciation.

She was a perfect fit, and now he had a scapegoat.

He felt no guilt; the guy was a pervert anyway. There had to be dozens of photographs of women all over his place. It would be only a question of time before this Peeper raped someone. He was performing a public service. Prevention was better than cure.

Looking back from her gate, it was a distance of three houses to the alleyway. He scooted round to the front quickly, then along the pavement, up to her front door. He rang the doorbell just to be sure no one else was there, using the sleeve of his jumper stretched over his thumb, so as not to leave any prints. There was no answer. He walked casually to the side gate, trying the thumb latch to open it, realising it was secured from the other side; he reached over and undid the bolt. Once through, he observed the property through the rear windows. The inside looked as if she'd just arrived and hadn't finished unpacking, there were half a dozen tea chests filled up to the top with items wrapped in wads of paper. From what he saw, there was no sign of another occupant.

She was definitely alone.

Perfect.

Later that night, he unpacked a box of jam-jars that he'd bought from a boot-sale. Cutting a hole in one of the screw-down tin lids, he passed a flexible breather pipe through it and taping it all round with duct tape for an airtight seal, he fitted a mask to the other end and taped that to the pipe as well. He would reuse the lid because it would fit any of the jars in the box.

Chapter 62

Reaching over the top of the gate, feeling for the catch, the caller quietly slid the bolt back and slipped undetected into her back garden.

He squatted in the pool of shadow under a tree, and gripping the corner of his jacket raised it like a dark wing to light a cigarette under. His face flared yellow for a second. He blinked and glanced up at the moon. It looked red and otherworldly; he rubbed his eyes. Its appearance didn't change.

He thought it might be an omen, a warning of danger ahead.

It took another half-hour before the lights began switching off, room by room. The last ones were upstairs, the bedroom and bathroom, he guessed. When all the lights were out, he dressed for the job. Putting on his paper boiler suit and over shoes, he taped the joints to the trousers, to stop them coming off and put on his latex gloves. He pulled up the hood, tightening the draw cord, and then fixed his mask in place. Advancing in the shadow cast by the high fence, he crossed the last few feet and paused by the house to look around. He listened up close to the windowpane and satisfied no one was moving around inside, scored the glass with a cutter, using masking tape to prevent any fragments falling noisily onto the ground. He popped the leaded pane with his elbow. A few moments later, he was inside. A large railway style clock on the kitchen wall told him it was just before midnight.