Saving Grace, page 12
‘Who are you?’ The ‘who’ doesn’t matter nearly as much as the ‘why’ does, because only with the ‘why’ can she work out a solution. She can’t think of any enemies, she’s always been such a homely girl, so nice to everyone. She isn’t the type of person who deliberately seeks out trouble, and she can’t think of any altercation that would bring her to this dire point in time.
Here’s what she knows.
She is tied up in some sort of underground basement. She thinks her captor may have killed somebody else before her, why else would he have the scent of a woman’s perfume clinging to his skin?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JENNIFER MACK
The sun bounces off the rain-slicked pavement making my eyes squint. The camera crew has arrived; this is national news now. They are hungry with their long black snaky cables trailing round their feet. A sea of North Face jackets, large eyes, sweaty faces, and bodies poised waiting to pounce on the action.
The other journalists push past me, banging into my shoulders in their scramble to the front of the queue. I am so out of my depth, and I feel like I won’t ever rise to the surface. I want to scream, tell them all to ‘fuck off’ this is my story, how dare they trespass, how dare they try to steal my words.
This is fast becoming a celebrity serial killer. Netflix is already rubbing its hands together eagerly waiting to green-light the inevitable docudrama.
‘They got there just in time,’ Phillip Underwood says, complete with his silver-fox hair and chiselled features. He is always camera ready.
Just in time…
Before she became one of them.
The police have cordoned off the red-brick building, several PCs stand in front of the yellow tape, arms crossed, expressionless. An ambulance sits waiting with its blue and red lights still flashing. A stretcher clatters as it comes out of the ambulance.
I scramble to get to the front, but all of the other hyenas make it near-on impossible. We are all after the same prey, ready to scavenge what there is to take. But if I want to survive them in this jungle, I’ll have to outsmart them all.
Sirens shatter the cool air; their piercing wail a declaration of survival. Nobody knows what state the victim is in; all we know is she’s alive and she’s the only person who will be able to talk. I look around and the circus is still in full swing. The chaos is focused on the red-brick building, there is a forensics team already inside and I wonder if they will find anything this time. To my left I see a man with his gaze fixed on me. He’s about my age, early thirties with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. His eyes are sunken, tired but restless. He’s wearing a suit that doesn’t hang right on him; it looks like he borrowed it just to be here and look the part. He holds a camera in his hand, he must be a reporter. There are so many faces I don’t recognise today. When I catch him staring at me, I expect him to quickly look away but he doesn’t.
What do you want?
He keeps a distance, but he shifts his footing, looking nervous, but his uncertainty doesn’t deter him from me being his prime focus. I’m not good in these situations, my head is telling me to ask him what he wants, but I also don’t want him to know he’s getting to me. What if… No, he can’t be. Would he be that brazen?
Why focus on me?
The flat. The photo. Thoughts rush through my mind thick and fast. There’s enough people here. There isn’t anything he can do. That’s not how he works, is it?
The murders were all premeditated. Planned. This is not how it will end, right here out in the open, none of it makes sense.
I’ve been on edge ever since the break-in, even if the police won’t call it that because there was no sign of forced entry. Apparently, items being moved around my flat is not admissible evidence that somebody was there. I decide not to show I am afraid; I keep my eyes fixed on him. His gaze travels over me, he makes no pretence he isn’t looking at me, no mistake. Something about the way he looks at me tells me he’s judging me. His dark eyes don’t boast admiration; if anything, it’s distaste. He doesn’t take me in the way Pete took me in; he looks like he’s chewing me up and wants to spit me out. So, what the fuck does he want?
It starts to rain and a sea of umbrellas start to pop up one by one. He doesn’t move. Nor do I. We are two wild dogs, neither willing to give in. No matter how hard my heart thuds in my chest that makes me feel like my ribcage is rattling, I will not be the one to turn away.
If he is the reason I was too scared to get up the other night to get myself a glass of water, then I must face the beast head-on. I won’t be the victim. There are enough of those right now. Before my thoughts have caught up with my movements, I put one foot in front of the other and make my way cleanly in his direction. My mouth is dry and I’m craving a drink, a proper drink, to help me deal with this situation with a little more gumption.
‘Do I know you?’ My voice is cutting, harsh.
He says nothing. His previous nervousness seems to have dissolved and is replaced with a new-found arrogance. His thin mouth curls into a slight smile and it unnerves me. I imagine him walking through my flat, his hands on my personal belongings.
‘I asked you a question,’ I repeat.
The crowd around me has blurred around the edges and all I can see is him. A nagging feeling tells me he’s dangerous and I need to be careful. It feels like a tight ball is kneading together in my stomach, my limbs frozen, my spine rigid. His head falls forward. Is he laughing?
Is this actually happening?
I can’t take my gaze off him. Like a lion stalking deer, it will take just one second of a lapse of concentration for something bad to happen. My heart is beating so fast I wonder if he can hear it.
Without thinking, I jab my finger into his shoulder.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
He looks at my hand and I quickly snatch it away. His calmness is more frightening than if he were to yell at me. Whether he is the one who came to my flat or not, whether he is the killer or not, none of this is okay.
‘There are police over there. All I have to do is scream and they will rush right over. You have been watching me and I want to know what the hell you want!’
He shakes his head before turning away to disperse into the crowd.
I close my eyes and try to regain the steady rhythm of my breathing, try to stop the feeling of dread and darkness swallowing me. I haven’t had an attack in a while, when my breath is so short, intense fear morphs through my body and a surging sensation of losing control results in the overwhelming feeling I am going to die. I move away from the crowd, the loud voices around me drift away and I can only hear muffled sounds. I walk and walk until I reach a park, and slowly the feeling starts to pass. I sit on a park bench, rest my head in my hands, and take deep, slow breaths, counting: one-two-three… one-two-three – there, that’s better.
The panic attacks began a week after I moved to Oxford. The reality of being away from home had hit and although beautiful, the stark contrast of my surroundings had shocked me in a way I didn’t expect. I’d spent so long planning my great escape from Cornwall that I didn’t expect to feel so… homesick. The first couple of weeks were all about making friends and navigating your way through an urban labyrinth to find your place. The next couple of weeks were about shaking off some of those people that you didn’t feel a connection with; for me that was most of them. But I couldn’t break away from all of the other students because I ran the risk of isolation. It is entirely possible to be lonely even when you’re surrounded by hundreds of people. At first, I thought something was really wrong with me, but I was too afraid to go to a doctor. It wasn’t until somebody called an ambulance after a particularly bad episode that I found out I was suffering from panic attacks. To relax, I began having a glass of wine at night, but before I knew it a glass turned into a bottle, then wine turned into liquor. I have always seen it as medicinal; people take antidepressants and you have to do what you need to do to get by, so as long as it’s under control, I know I can stop anytime I want to. My phone starts to buzz. It’s Jacob.
‘Where are you?’ he asks. I can tell he isn’t happy.
‘I…’ I pause. ‘I was at Redbrick Row.’
‘And what did you get?’
Nothing. I got fuck all.
‘The police have taken the victim to hospital.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jen!’
I swallow back the words I want to say. My name is JEN-NIF-ER!
‘Our paper is a sinking ship,’ Jacob hisses. ‘We aren’t getting the headlines we should be. I know we’re not The Daily Mail, The Times, but we are still journalists and we still need to report what is happening on our doorstep. Maybe… maybe this isn’t working out.’
When people say something isn’t working out, they mean you aren’t working out. It never means anything else. I am hanging by a thread. My education and all of those big dreams I have/had are slipping away from me. It suddenly occurs to me that if I can’t handle a small paper then how the hell will I ever reach greater heights?
‘There was a man… he was acting strange and I think he might know something about the Graces. Jacob, I know this sounds insane, but I have a hunch.’
‘Find out more and bring back something useful. This is your last chance, Jennifer. If you can’t close this out, the case will go back to Hayley. Find something and write the goddamn story.’
He hangs up.
I reach into my backpack and pull out my flask. I give it a little shake and a wave of relief washes over me; it’s not enough but it’s something. The only problem is it’s going to leave me wanting more.
Padstow is not a place that I come to often, but when I do visit, I wonder why I don’t come here more. It seems a little odd that Lilith Grain chose to stay here instead of Truro, but I suspect she’s mixing business with pleasure and making this into a mini holiday – maybe. The torrential rainfall from the past few days has finally waned and the clouds have broken up to uncover a brilliant azure sky. I sit outside a waterfront café perched high above Padstow harbour and sip Diet Coke from my glass. It tastes sickly sweet and flat. I crave an extra zest, that little extra something to cut through the sugar. A Range Rover snakes round the narrow bend in the road a little too fast. Somehow the car navigates its way into a space on the road that looks impossible for it to fit into, but with tiny slow movements it slips in. The door opens wide and a woman slides her body out rather than steps out. The woman wears a Barbour jacket that swamps her small frame and Hunter wellies. Dressed head to toe in dark colours, she looks polished and prepared for a long country hike. It takes me a few moments to realise it’s Lilith. I should’ve known, but out of her business attire she looks different. The car dwarfs her, she looks like a child standing next to it – I wonder if she has a booster seat installed so she can see over the steering wheel. She straightens up and makes her way toward the café. She recognises me straight away but skips the pleasantries.
‘Have you got a table for us?’ she asks.
‘Yep. I was just waiting here for you, getting a bit of fresh air.’
‘Hmmm. Hmm. It’s a nice day, not that cold either, quite pleasant actually.’ Her voice is as authoritative and loud as I remember it from London.
The menus are placed on our table, the choices are better suited to a restaurant than a café, with dishes like market fish of the day, beetroot-cured salmon, and home-made curried gnocchi. I’m not sure how good the food will taste without a glass of wine to accompany it, maybe I’ll just have a tipple, a small glass… yeah, that’ll be fine.
‘Another victim… but this one got away!’ Lilith says as she scans her eyes over the menu.
‘Do you know anything about her?’ I ask.
Lilith is wearing reading glasses which slide down her nose, but this only makes her look even more intimidating, like a stern head teacher or a barrister.
‘I’ll work with you, Jennifer. But only if you promise to follow the rules I set. Let me be clear, I don’t like reporters because what I’ve learned is they write junk to grab headlines. A serial killer is headline enough, wouldn’t you say? So, there is no need to make this into a gripping Hollywood drama… Reporting facts is your only job and if you deviate from that, this is over, kaput. We clear?’
I admire her honesty. It’s somewhat comforting to know where I stand with her and since she will get all the inside information, I’ll play this any damn way she wants.
‘Deal.’ I set my hands on the table and look directly into her eyes. ‘What changed your mind?’
‘About what?’
‘Working with me.’
‘You need this. There is a hunger in your eyes, I can see it. But this can go one of two ways; this will be the making of you or the breaking of you. Nobody ever challenges me like you did, so you clearly have passion. That’s why I decided to help. That and the police in this part of the country need somebody like me.’
‘I want to solve this case, give people the truth,’ I say with a surprising amount of conviction.
‘If I’m being honest, even from the time you walked into my office I was curious about you. Perhaps I was intrigued as to why you’d travel all the way to London to speak to me. You’ve clearly done your research and stalked my profile, haven’t you?’
‘Whatever’s published on social media becomes public knowledge.’
We are like two actors, each playing a role, but at the same time there is a raw honesty between us. I am confident our relationship won’t be plain sailing, but we both have the same drive, the same end goal.
‘Murder is fascinating, isn’t it?’ Lilith says.
I’m not sure if this is a test. I swallow a sip of water and lean back in the chair.
‘I want to know the whys and hows. Don’t we all?’
‘I read that they are no more intelligent than the average person,’ I say.
‘The fact is we all have primal instincts to kill. If our lives are in danger we would not hesitate to kill. We all have something that makes us tick; be it gambling, alcohol…’
I feel my cheeks burn. She can’t know. I’m just being paranoid.
‘But serial killers…’ I say. ‘They have to have a different drive.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Lilith’s gaze is fixed on me and for a moment I’m paralysed, taken in by her.
‘In my line of work, I’ve seen it all, but serial killers are quite rare. That’s why they always make such waves in the media. People are morbidly drawn to the violence of serial killers because for most of us, we don’t understand it. We are both appalled and curious, when you mix these two opposites together, they create the perfect recipe for fascination. As humans, we are naturally curious, and most of us have compassion, but serial killers…’
There is a faraway look in Lilith’s eyes. She, too, is fascinated. Or maybe there is something more that I’ve not quite caught onto.
‘Did you know some people are attracted to serial killers?’ Lilith’s voice is hushed, carefully orchestrated so other patrons of the café can’t hear her. ‘It’s known as hybristophilia, the thrill of being with a partner who is known to have committed an outrageous crime, such as rape or murder… or both!’
‘Like Fred and Rosemary West?’ I say.
‘Funny you should mention them as a comparison.’
‘Why?’ I look at Lilith, all those years of experience so telling in her tired eyes.
‘Because I think there are two killers working together.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THEN
It’s just before midday, my jacket isn’t thick enough and I hug my arms around my body, walking faster. The sea churns back and forth as if it cannot decide its mood, the sway of the waves unrhythmic and unpredictable. I’ve been up for hours, waiting for the first dribs of daylight to penetrate through the curtains and as it did, I headed to the beach. I haven’t had a proper sleep in days. I hate this, hate all the waiting. Insomnia first introduced itself to me when he came into my room, after he first touched me. I knew even then his gentleness was just an act, and I knew he was crossing over to a forbidden place where he had no right to be. This is likely why I don’t like men. Their brains are wired wrong, I’m sure of it. I don’t believe their primitive instincts have differed much from Palaeolithic times: what they want, they take. This is what confuses me about Grace. She is acting like a man and it’s fucking with my head. The build-up, the sex, the admiration, and then silence. Women aren’t supposed to act this way, they are supposed to be more linear, softer creatures. It has been one whole week since the last message – seven whole days, 168 hours filled with conflicting thoughts, insomnia, and doubt. I hate living this opaque existence. Is this why there are a gazillion love songs dedicated to confused broken hearts?
I left the flat with a fully charged phone battery, but further along my walk I have also lost the signal. There is something welcoming about this, blaming the signal for lack of contact rather than Grace just not bothering. Somehow, it gives me an opportunity to breathe. After a mile or so, I pause, feeling hot and clammy. My skin is damp from the sea and fine mist. I take a deep breath and focus my gaze on a seagull dive-bombing into the water for fish, taking what it needs, what it wants with no apology. Nature is black and white: eat or be eaten. It’s humans who have made things so complex. Animals hunt to survive, humans hunt for sport. Knowing I have taken a life goes beyond mere power, it was a necessary intoxicant. In one of my recent reads I came across a statement made by Carl Panzram: ‘I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them.’
This quote resonated with me. Let’s forget about his actual crimes for a moment, because I am no rapist, nor am I an arsonist (although I once started a school fire) but there is so much truth in these words. Take Imogen, for example. She was brought up in a place of privilege and walks through life with an offensive air of superiority that is the only thing holding her upright. Could she be reformed? Well… no. Even if you took away the wealth, the big house, and suddenly she was poor and destitute, she would simply play the victim. ‘Poor me,’ she’d cry as the passers-by dropped their change. She would never once resort to thinking about the way she has treated people in the same circumstance before her. Never once would she consider her place in the karmic wheel. Her social status would certainly change, but who she is, who she really is, won’t ever change. So, if you want to void such a personality, then the life tied to that personality must be voided as well. And let’s face it, some people are just better off dead. We euthanise animals who show aggression, yet the same cannot be said for people: such as grown men who sneak into little girls’ and boys’ bedrooms and put their goddamn hands where they don’t belong to steal their innocence. Somehow, they still live but we all know, deep down, that those people are better off dead.
