The Evil Beneath Read online

‘Leyton Meade?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. He hasn’t put a foot wrong it would appear, since he’s been in the UK.’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ I said. ‘He was with Cheryl at the clinic.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He seemed incredibly sweet - but Cheryl certainly had a problem with him.’

  ‘I wonder what that’s about,’ he said, pensively.

  ‘Was William’s flat obsessively neat?’ I said.

  ‘Stacks of magazines, backdating to 1990. Everything arranged in odd ways. His dinner plates were set out for the whole week side by side, with the knives and forks already in position.’

  ‘How weird…it does fit with Asperger’s, though.’

  ‘And we found lots of handwritten sheets with figures in columns and hand-drawn maps, diagrams of circuit boards, newspaper clippings…we’re looking into those.’

  ‘It’s not enough - but you seem pleased.’

  ‘We’re on to something. At last. And this hot-chocolate is great. And I’m off-duty.’

  I noticed that he’d said that twice now.

  I put some music on and asked him if he wanted to stay for supper. He accepted without any reservations. Spaghetti bolognaise wasn’t much, but the bottle of Chardonnay helped it go down. We managed to steer ourselves away from the case and he talked about his childhood; how his father had been in the navy and met his mother at a barn dance in Italy, how he’d persuaded her to move to England.

  I took a sip of wine and stared at the glass. ‘But, with a father in the navy, how come you never learnt to swim?’

  ‘I fell in an outdoor pool when I was four and panicked. I hated the water after that. I knew Dad was ashamed of me. A Commander in the Royal Navy and his son can’t even swim.’ He frowned. ‘He tried everything to try to get me in the water again - special navy trips, swimming pools, the seaside - but I couldn’t do it.’

  I could picture him as a four-year-old boy floundering, out of his depth in the water, swallowing, choking, going under. I squeezed his arm and he put it around me. He seemed engrossed in his past and it was almost as if he hadn’t realised he’d made such a decisive move. It felt natural to be wrapped against him.

  ‘How did you get out that day?’

  ‘We were at a neighbour’s house and the dog started barking. The neighbour jumped in and pulled me out. I was unconscious and they got me to hospital. It gave my parents a real scare.’

  I thought of Lynn Jessop’s son; his head pushed under the water by cruel, malicious boys. I nearly mentioned it, but remembered the look of horror on Lynn’s face when I’d proposed the idea.

  ‘You mentioned an incident in the water, yourself,’ he continued. ‘The Lake District, I think you said. I’m not sure when we ran through your history that I got down the full details, in the end.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you about that. It wasn’t a big deal. It was a school trip and our dingy went the wrong way around some rocks. We ended up in rapids and the two other girls in my boat fell out. I managed to save them, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  He tipped my face up towards his and gently rubbed my chin.

  ‘They had life-jackets on. They would probably have been okay, but there was no one else around. We were the last boat to go through.’

  ‘And you jumped into the rapids and got them both out?’

  I’d always seen the incident as trivial in my mind, but now that I was explaining it, I realised that it was probably a life-threatening situation.

  ‘There were two of them. Emma Brockley was in my class at school, I swam towards her first. She admitted she wasn’t a great swimmer once we were on the water. She was nearest to me and I suppose, because I knew her, it was instinctive to get her out first. The other girl, Angie, was sixteen, in the year below me. She didn’t seem to be doing anything to save herself once she fell in. She bobbed under the water a few times before I could haul her back into the dingy.’

  Brad made a noise like a steam engine. ‘Flippin’ heck, Jules…’

  I gave his cheek a tender peck. ‘It’s only because you can’t swim that it seems a big deal.’

  ‘You’re right…saved two girls’ lives…no big deal…’

  His skin smelt a dizzy mixture of cocoa, faint spice and fabric softener. He pulled me to my feet, both his arms around my waist. Those lagoon-blue eyes were playing havoc with my breathing.

  ‘I wanted to apologise,’ he said, smoothing loose strands of hair away from my forehead.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For being such a dork…the other time…when you…’

  ‘It’s okay…I was probably too emotionally charged.’

  ‘And what about now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He ran a finger along my neckline and something hot and compelling burst into my bloodstream. ‘Shall we do this properly?’

  I didn’t need to stop and think. I didn’t need to consider Andrew, anymore. I was free and I was ready. This man; half Italian waiter, half airline pilot (but really a detective) was filling my veins with urgency, making the muscles behind my knees go soft. It made what we were going to do next seem as inevitable as a bomb exploding, once the fuse has been lit. Which, by now, it well and truly had been. Right there, right then. Unstoppable. Everything about me; my weak limbs, my dreamy eyes gave him his answer.

  He pressed his mouth against mine, at first hesitantly and then as I responded, with more pressure, his tongue searching inside, exploring, caressing. We moved, joined as though in an inelegant three-legged race, through into the bedroom. There was no time to put on the light or draw the curtains. We bundled straight onto the bed. I could feel his hands making their way under my jumper, urgent, pulling at my blouse. I started wrenching at his shirt, smoothing my fingers over the thicket of dark hair on his chest. I pressed my face into it, breathing in the musky oil of his skin and ran my tongue down to the top of his jeans.

  At that moment the phone rang. Rude and abrasive in my ears.

  ‘Ugh…’ I said.

  ‘You going to get that?’ he muttered between kisses.

  ‘Do I look like I am?’

  We both heard the answer-phone take over and would have ignored it had a man’s voice not filled the space in the sitting room. We both froze as the voice reached us.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ said Brad, clawing his way to the edge of the bed.

  I followed him into the next room and we both stood staring at the phone, as if it was a deadly reptile we’d never seen before.

  The voice was the same muffled monotone as before. William Jones.

  ‘Are you ready to take me down? Clean and close to the edge?’ came the voice.

  ‘What the hell does he mean?’ I said.

  ‘Shush!’ said Brad.

  ‘Are you ready to take me down?’ the voice repeated. ‘Clean and close to the edge?’

  ‘Should I pick up?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’

  ‘Hello?’ I said, my voice fragile and small. Brad squashed his head against mine, trying to listen in. There was a silence the length of an inhalation and then the voice repeated the two questions.

  ‘Mr Jones? Is this another..?’ I whispered into the mouthpiece.

  The phone went dead.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Brad. ‘What on earth does it mean?’

  ‘Another clue?’ I said.

  ‘What kind of a clue is that?’

  ‘There’s no date, no place, there’s nothing.’

  The phone rang again and I answered straight away. It was the police saying they’d heard the call and had recorded it. We both sat on the edge of the sofa staring into our own murky visions of what could happen next.

  He slapped his hands onto his thighs. ‘I’ve got to go. They’ll buzz me any minute.’

  ‘I thought you were off-duty.’

  ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure we get another officer back outside straight away.’

  He grabbed his coat and disappear
ed, leaving a delicate kiss brushed across my lips.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I don’t know how long I stood there in my bare feet after Brad had left, my jumper around my neck, my blouse half-open. I noticed one button had been snapped off during our brief, but unfettered moment of passion. The clock said 11.30pm. I wasn’t the least bit tired. I stomped into the kitchen, infuriated by the interruption to our special moment, but also angry and bewildered by the ridiculous clue we’d been given. Was it really a clue to another murder? How on earth were we going to prevent this one?

  I poured boiling water on to a bag of camomile tea. We couldn’t even be sure we had prevented a murder at Kew Bridge. Nothing appeared in the water, but perhaps there was still a body lying in hiding somewhere. Maybe that’s why the latest clue had come along so soon afterwards. Just two days after Kew.

  If we had managed to prevent the latest murder, it would make sense that the killer would raise the stakes by making the already cryptic clues even more tenuous. Was it really William Jones? Jones with someone else?

  I took a sip of tea and tasted bits, like sawdust, in my mouth. The teabag had burst. I poured it down the sink and wandered into the sitting room, automatically gravitating towards my laptop. It had helped in the past, but this time? The clue consisted of two silly random questions. My search engine wasn’t going to be able to pin anything down from those, surely. I didn’t even bother to punch in the message. There was no point.

  Instead, I emailed everyone I could think of, asking them if they could think of any link, however weird, between Are you ready to take me down? and Clean and close to the edge? I didn’t give the reason, just said something vague about a competition. I expected to receive some puzzled responses as a result, but I didn’t hold out much hope that they were going to lead anywhere.

  There was nothing else I could do. I went to bed.

  First thing on Thursday morning, I phoned Cheryl and told her about the latest message.

  ‘You were so helpful last time, Cheryl, do you think we might —’

  I was interested in her response. If, in some way, she was involved with her brother, she might try to throw me off track - although the royal connection she’d come up with after the last message had eventually taken us to the right bridge. I still wasn’t ready to condemn her.

  ‘Say the questions again,’ she said.

  I heard her breathing, then she said she was picking up nothing at all. ‘It’s sometimes like that. Sometimes there’s no connection, nothing happens. Nothing at all.’

  ‘But, if we could meet - sit together, like we did last time…’

  ‘I’m not getting a thing, Juliet.’

  ‘I could get the recording of his voice. You might be able to —’ I didn’t care that desperation was oozing from my voice.

  ‘You can’t switch these psychic powers on and off, Juliet. I’m sorry. I’ll call you if anything comes to me.’

  She cut me off and I sat holding the handset in some vain hope that I’d misheard her and she was on her way over. The room suddenly felt hollow and I was acutely aware of being alone. Was Cheryl telling the truth or was she deliberately holding back this time?

  I knew Cheryl had no appointments at Holistica that day, but I had one supervisee I had to see. Feeling isolated and burdened with the excruciating pressure of stopping another murder from taking place, I was pleased to turn my attentions somewhere else. I caught the Tube - I couldn’t trust myself to drive.

  Clive had dyed his hair pink, looking as if he’d been in the same wash as his red t-shirt.

  ‘Nice,’ I said, realising as I said it, that it sounded half-hearted.

  ‘I know, I know. Supposed to be “burgundy”,’ he said. ‘A friend did it. Never trust amateurs.’

  There was no one waiting in the reception area and Clive was keeping himself busy by painting his toe-nails black.

  I had a thought. Clive was an off-the-wall sort of bloke. It was worth a try. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know a link between “Are you ready to take me down?” and “Clean and close to the edge?”, would you?’

  Clive let out a little laugh that sounded like a Pekingese sneezing. I took that as my answer and turned to go, but he spoke before I got to the stairs.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’ I said.

  ‘Both of them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Clive, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘They’re both songs.’

  ‘What are?’

  ‘Those phrases: “Are you ready to take me down?” and “Clean and close to the edge?” - they are both song titles…by the Federal Jackdaws.’

  I could feel my face twisting into a something resembling a gargoyle.

  ‘Federal Jackdaws? What on earth..?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw them in concert last year. Bloody good they are too. “Are you ready to take me down?” was a single; came out earlier this year, and “Clean and close to the edge?” was released ages ago. 2003, I think.’

  It didn’t make any sense. What did this band, the Federal Jackdaws, have to do with a London Bridge or the river Thames? I found myself sitting down on the edge of one of the chairs.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour.’

  I thought that was ironic, coming from him. He got up, after rolling up the legs of his jeans to avoid smearing his toenails, and brought over a plastic cup of water.

  ‘It’s not what I expected, that’s all,’ I said. I rang and left a message for Brad, hoping it would mean something to him.

  ‘Why do you ask? Pub-quiz?’ asked Clive.

  ‘They don’t have any link to a bridge in London, by any chance, do they? Those songs, or the Federal Jaybirds…’

  ‘Federal Jackdaws, if you don’t mind.’ He made a little ‘humph’ noise. ‘A London bridge? Sorry - I can’t help you with that one.’

  After seeing my supervisee, I wandered out into the street in a daze, wondering what Brad and Derek Moorcroft were making of this one. It had started raining and I ducked into the doorway of a closed shop to call Brad again. His team had also got as far as the Federal Jackdaws, but had no other leads. He was as incredulous as I was.

  ‘We’re looking for an expert on this Indie band,’ he said, ‘to see if they have any connection to any London bridges.’

  ‘It seems so obscure,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but hasn’t that been the theme of this case?’

  It started to rain harder. I didn’t have an umbrella and the underground station was a few streets away. ‘There’s more bad news, I’m afraid…with William Jones,’ he said. I waited. ‘Apparently, he was in his flat all yesterday evening and didn’t use either his mobile phone or his landline.’

  ‘Are you saying the call I had last night wasn’t from him?’

  ‘The call was made from a coin-box near Waterloo station, but it wasn’t him. But,’ he emphasised the word, ‘it could have been his voice.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We’ve got specialised spectrographic software that picks up unique features of a person’s speech. Things like pitch, tone, cadence and vibrations in the larynx. It’s not a hundred per cent accurate, but the voice analyst says it’s close enough to identify Jones as our caller - only the voice was slightly distorted this time, as though it was played from a tape-recorder.’

  ‘So, it was William Jones’ voice…recorded beforehand, you mean?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘He’s one step ahead of us every single time. Can’t you just arrest him, on the basis of a voice-match?’

  ‘Nothing happened at Kew, remember. The previous messages you got were in text. We can’t attach his voice to those.’

  I drifted out from the doorway, not caring now that I was getting soaked.

  ‘But the two phone calls I had were threats. He called me, threatening to kill someone.’

  ‘No. He didn’t. He left a few words, that’s all. A cryptic clue. No mention of killing anyo
ne.’

  I moaned.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said.

  Why did I always hate it when he said that?

  ‘It looks like the killer was on to us at Kew Bridge.’

  ‘Really? How do you know?’

  ‘Forensics checked out the boat that drifted towards us. It looked empty, but, as well as grit, debris and sand, they picked up two hairs in the bottom, deliberately left for us, it would seem.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You remember giving us DNA samples, early on, so we could screen you out of any evidence we found at the crime scenes?’ I held my breath. ‘Well…the hairs we found in the boat…’ There was a silence and I thought I’d lost the line.

  I squeezed the phone. ‘What? What about them?’

  ‘They’re… yours, I’m afraid.’ As he spoke, my arm went limp and my bag fell to the pavement. I swore. I couldn’t trust my legs to continue walking, to hold me upright. I staggered inside the next doorway and rested my head against the wet brick. My own hair. How up-close-and-personal can you get? Left where the body was supposed to be. My bag was soaking wet. My head was spinning. I let the wall take the weight of my whole body. I could feel myself sinking down onto the soggy doormat.

  ‘Juliet…are you okay?’

  I was crouched in a ball. ‘Not really…’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not a suspect again.’

  I rallied suddenly. ‘I should think not!’

  ‘We’re more concerned about what it means.’

  ‘How on earth did the killer get hold of my hair?’ I cried. A van roared past, sending a cascade of water on to the kerb.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Holistica. On foot.’

  ‘Is one of our officers tailing you?’

  I glanced up and found the blue Astra waiting at the kerb. ‘Penny’s right here.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you don’t lose her.’

  ‘I’m going home,’ I said, forcing myself to my feet. I was tempted to hail a lift from the WPC, but knew that was against the rules, so I broke into a jog until I got to the underground.

  The flat felt cold and unwelcoming when I got back. Dark and hostile, like a place I barely knew. I ran into every room with clenched fists checking for an intruder. I looked in the wardrobes, under the bed, behind the doors. Nothing, but still I didn’t feel safe.