Plot reminder: In the previous chapter readers were introduced to the character of Vince Holloway, a teenage painter and decorator who had passed by the murderer as he'd made his getaway following the shooting. Jenny Kershaw, who features in the fourth segment of today's chapter, is Kubič's ex-wife. Miss Collins, who appears in the second, is a teacher at the local school. Two chapters ago, Heather Gilchrist received another letter from the murderer. Her assistant editor, George Shreeves, is trying to contact her.
The SAS, referenced in this chapter, is the crack special corps of the British army, comparable perhaps to the US Navy Seals.
~~~~~
George Shreeves recradled the office phone with a cheek-puffing exhale of relief that the call was finally over, reached then exasperatedly for his smartphone. He'd recently learnt how to add contacts to his home page, both Heather and his mother featuring as small circled photographs amongst the indispensable apps of his profession: word, camera, synonyms, google search.
An index finger jabbed impatiently at his boss's miniaturized visage...
Voice mail, Christ.
"Heather, where in hell's name are you? I feel like Captain Smith going down with the Titanic here. Been absolutely inundated with calls. Even had Le Figaro on the line! Can you imagine? Tomorrow morning they're going to be reading about our humble little town in the cafes of the Champs Elysees!" He was on his feet, phone cradled into crook of neck as he shrugged coat on. "Printer's just this minute called. Need a number within the next five minutes, Ken said. Guy's in complete meltdown. Your decision Heather, your decision. As high as you dare, I say. If we don't break our all-time circulation record today we never will. This is it Heather! Today's the day." His voice bounced as he hurried down the stairs to the exit. "Off out for the press call at the station. Going to be an absolute rugby scrum." The door slammed closed behind him, the cold morning air a welcome focusing slap around the face. "Wherever you are, just call would you please Heather? Better still, come into the office. Been madness this morning, hardly even started on today's copy. And Heather, please don't forget there's the editorial to think about. Today of all days, needs to be a killer."
It wasn't until he'd got a little further down the street that he reflected on the inopportune wording of that final sentence.
*
Miss Collins had given everybody a piece of paper, asked them to write something called a eulogy. The most moving ones, she'd said, would be read out at the memorial service. Danny couldn't think of how to start though, just gazed at the empty seat front centre. The physical fact of Sophie Markham's absence was an even harder emotional hit than his father's sombre-toned telephone call last night. It was like that kid who'd got run over in Year 7. One day he'd been there in his seat with his fancy pen that changed colours, the next day he wasn't. A snowfall that descends and then just melts away. Danny couldn't even remember his name.
Scanning the whole classroom, he pictured other classmates disappearing one by one from their seats, mysteriously teletransported away to wherever the hell it was you went to when you died. There would be other accidents, tragedies. Premature diseases. And even those who made it to old age would one day breathe their final breaths. The last of them would be a hundred perhaps. A hundred and five, a hundred and seven. Until finally the telepathic ray came for them too.
He understood now. Deeply, intensely, for the very first time.
He wasn't immortal. Nobody was.
I'm sorry you were the next, he wrote.
And that seemed all there was to say.
*
Reg hefted over another tin of paint, a small cloud of dust lifted up as he half dropped it to the floor. There was a pained groan as he straightened himself, a hand placed uselessly on lower back. He was getting too old for this. Twenty years ago, he'd been getting too old for this.
Vince was on the stepladder thin-brushing the top of the wall, his knees at Reg's eye-level. He envied the lad his youth. Not just the energy, the facility of movement, but the possibility of changing tracks, taking a less back-breaking course in life.
He'd hardly said a word that morning though. It seemed to have affected him, the news of that poor girl. Seemed to have affected everybody. Oh, there was no mistake about it now. This was real. Wasn't going away any time soon.
After wedging open the lid of the paint tin, Reg gave the contents a good stir, strained back once more as he poured a thick dollop into the roller tray. "What the hell is this colour anyway?" he asked, nose wrinkled in disgust. "'Spring fern' says on the tin. More like toothpaste green if you ask me."
Any other day, Vince might have enjoyed inventing some vile name to describe the unfortunate shade. Snot green. Baby vomit green. Curry diaherrea green. Not today though.
"That psycho guy," he asked. "You think it's true what people have been saying? You know, that he's a sort of human shadow. Sees everything and everyone but no-one sees him?"
Reg set his roller to work on the wall opposite, considered his response for a moment. "People'll believe in all kinds of rubbish lad. Some kind of comic book villain he isn't. Ex-SAS though I'd bet, something like that. I saw a documentary once. Those guys could sit in a tree outside your bedroom window for a whole week and you wouldn't have a clue they were there."
Vince grew silent once more. Pensive, his brush flick-flicking at the wall.
*
As Jenny Kershaw dipped her feet into the fizzing water, she let out a long, low groan. Dave's at-the-time unappreciated foot spa birthday present had over the last few days become something of a post-lunch ritual. Washing, tidying, shopping, cleaning, miscellaneous bureaucratic duties... She defied any career woman to claim they worked harder than she. They try keeping house and home for a five-year-old, a teenager and an adult male who seemed to believe that he existed in some nightmarish 1950s timewarp where it was still somehow socially and morally acceptable for him not to lift a bloody finger! A little early-afternoon time-out was the least she deserved. She would be back on her feet soon enough to collect Summer from primary school. Then Danny too, and she didn't care what he had to say about it. For any parent to allow their child to walk home alone in the current climate would be nothing short of a criminal dereliction of responsibility. The poor girl had been in Danny's own class, for heaven's sake.
The Lord alone knew how he was feeling. The boy was a closed book, just like his father. He'd inherited that same slavic stoicism, a quality which she'd found both incredibly attractive and intolerably frustrating at the same time. She could only hope that as Danny grew into manhood he would find some way of releasing them, all those dark brooding emotions squirming around inside. Not just bottle them up like his father. Not *hit* the bottle, no...
It was Joe who was behind it of course - Danny's obsession for checking that the doors were locked; every hour or so the same obsessive round. That morning as she'd gone to wake Summer up for school she'd found him in a sleeping bag on the floor beside his half-sister's bed, as if keeping guard. Then over breakfast there'd been his continued pleas that they all just up and leave, go and stay with Aunt Stefi in Birmingham for a while. Like Jenny herself would even contemplate willingly spending a single second of her life in the company her utter witch of an ex-sister-in-law! And anyway, what about Dave? As IT technician at Maddocs Agricultural Machinery it wasn't as if he could just go swanning off on indefinite leave. The place would go into meltdown without him.
No, no, no. The idea was simply untenable. In any case, it was her firm belief that in the face of any form of terrorism a community had to stand firm. If ordinary, decent people gave up on Ravensby, what hope was there left for the place?
The thought of her ex-husband suddenly reminded her: rescuing remote control from the side of the cushion, she tuned in just in time for the regional news. There was a new artist's sketch this time, that oversized nose replaced by a smaller, stubbier version. There were other differences too - the face more rounded, slightly younger-looking. Forties rather than fifties. The same man differently disguised? Difficult to say for sure, but possible, yes.
It must have been the boy to have provided the new description, she guessed. Nathan. Special needs case, Danny had told her. Could barely write his own name, a bit of a loner it seemed. Harmless though, even quite nice at times. He'd once helped Danny put the chain back on his bike when it had come off on his way home... Almost as much as the brutal murder of Catherine Butterfield and the clinical execution of Sophie Markham, it was this which turned Jenny's stomach. The way a fifteen-year-old boy had felt forced into committing an act of pure evil.
The father was in a stable condition, the newsreader was saying. This was some small blessing at least, though she didn't envy the psychologist who would have to pick the bones out of that one.
The report then turned to various panned sweeps of Cresswell Road. Randolph Underhill's former home seemed even more sinister now, the glassless first floor windows like the eye orbits of some shrunken, age-dirtied skull. The contrast with the pretty, well-maintained facade of the Markhams' house opposite was both striking and poignant. That age old struggle of good versus evil, a first-to-blink competition from across the road. The now boarded-up window where Sophie Markham had innocently stood the previous evening seemed a sad acceptance of defeat.
There was a close up then of the ad-hoc shrine which had appeared outside the Markhams' front gate. An untidy, tear-inducing clutter of flowers, written messages, cuddly toys and lighted candles. She would have to make a detour on her way to pick up Summer, Jenny decided, get some lilies from the florist's.
Though she'd never met the girl herself, the mother's was another of those familiar Ravensby faces, like Catherine Butterfield's, at whom she'd always nodded a polite hello whenever they'd passed on the street or in the school corridor on parents' evenings. It was impossible to imagine what she was going through. Impossible to even remotely glimpse that level of pain.
But now it was the familiar face of her ex-husband which filled the screen. The footage had obviously been taken earlier in the day, Joe squinting slightly against a sun which had now clouded over. Tired. Christ, she'd never seen him look so damn tired.
"If anyone yesterday still harboured doubts, the cold light of this morning will have washed those doubts away. Nobody should make any mistake about it - this town is under attack. A sustained, calculated attack."
He glanced towards the sky as if seeking intervention from some divinity he'd hitherto never believed in.
"Though we haven't yet received official confirmation, we are working on the assumption that a third letter has now been sent. For everyone's sake, most especially the recipient's own, we urge that person to present themselves to us immediately."
But his voice sounded hollow somehow. Lacking in conviction. Witness protection was all well and good, Jenny couldn't help thinking, but as the murder of Sophie Markham had so tragically proven, there would always be somebody who got left behind.
*
The message machine on the kitchen worktop beeped and flashed suddenly into life, the voice which had recorded the welcome message a bright, playful one.
"Hello, you've reached the home of Heather Gilchrist. I'm obviously out somewhere but my daughter Abigail might well be in and just can't be bothered picking up the phone. If it's her you're leaving a message for, please remember the strong possibility that I will hear this before she gets round to deleting it. I would therefore caution you against the use of foul language and/or sexual references. Thank you."
After the tone came a short hiss of background noise, this followed by the reedy-voiced anger of George Shreeves.
"So now your mobile's either dead or switched off, not sure which. Twenty minutes till deadline and I'm absolutely drowning here. Where in hell's name are you Heather?"
~~~~~
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