The Surgeon, page 25
Stark, however, was not in a pleasant mood. He gave the sole receptionist a curt acknowledgement, headed straight to his office. He met Jenny in the waiting room, presumably on her way out. She looked somewhat pale and bleary eyed. A sure sign of late-night drinking. He suspected he looked just as awful. His appearance was way down the pecking order.
“I tried to contact you…” she started.
Stark had never been happier seeing someone. “I need help,” he blurted. Clock was ticking. No time for inconsequentials. “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And good morning to you too. What precisely is it that you can’t do on your own? You’ve fucked something up?”
“Not quite. I need to check records, going back about five years. But I’m not sure if it’s as simple as typing in a name, or if it requires special access.”
Jenny seemed to consider. “You have aroused my interest. But then you’re good at that. Expand, please.”
Stark replied in a breathless rush.
“Let’s get to the office. It’s complicated. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re glad. I only came in to get my car keys. And here I am, assisting the new trainee in some nefarious scheme. You’re leading me down a dark path, Jonathan.”
Darker than you might think, he thought. He said nothing.
They passed through the disguised door, along the corridor, passing the basement entrance. As ever, it emanated a chill. Stark shivered. A place he had come to loath. The irony did not escape him – it could prove to be his sister’s salvation. Still, a mountain to climb. He suppressed a surge of panic.
They got to their shared office. He faced her.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “Apollo Letting. If I want to find out about contracts they’ve entered, with tenants, where do I go?”
She expressed bewilderment. “Apollo Letting? That’s part of the residential arm of the practice. What are you looking for, Jonathan?”
“Okay.” He got his thinking straight, which was difficult, given the circumstances. “About five years ago, Apollo had a contract with a woman called Karen Fleming. They effectively leased her home for four or five months. The basis of the deal was that they would find a tenant, collect rental, make sure everything was okay. Karen Fleming would have no idea who the tenant was. Only Apollo Letting, who would have entered into a separate sub-agreement with that tenant. On the face of it, Apollo is the tenant. The reality, they lease it on to a suitable candidate of their choosing. Therefore, somewhere, there will be a contract between Apollo and the tenant. Yes?”
She nodded, but the bewilderment didn’t go away. “You want to trace a particular tenant.”
“In one.”
“You know the next question.”
He blinked, wiped sweat from his eyes. He was scared, he was panicking, the alcohol from last night sat in his head like a stone. And his sister’s life depended on his actions. He swept away any thoughts that she might already be dead. His priority now was to keep moving, and pray for a break.
“Jenny. I’m not drunk. I’m not lying. I’m not mad. But I’m terrified.” He gave her a level stare. “This individual – this tenant – I believe, might be the serial killer we all know as The Surgeon.” He swallowed, found the next words hard to articulate without a shake in his voice. “I believe he’s kidnapped my sister.”
He let it sink in for five seconds. She frowned, cocked her head, as if to say What?
“You don’t need to believe me,” he continued. “But believe the sincerity in my voice. I need to find this man. And this fucking firm holds the key. Will you help me?”
“Your sister?”
“Yes. Will you help me, Jenny?”
She responded with a decisive nod of her head. She sat by her computer, spoke as her fingers rattled on the keyboards.
“Lucky I was here. The property department enjoy their secrets. Each section of the firm is like a little fiefdom. We’re supposed to be a team. But we’re always competing. Past records are password protected. Five years ago? There will be a copy somewhere.”
“You have this password?”
“I was working in property up until six months ago. The short answer – yes, I do.”
The screen on the computer changed to a menu. She drew the mouse to a section headed “Archive”, pressed. The screen changed again to further headings. She typed in ‘Apollo’ in the search box. Lists appeared – property addresses with the corresponding owner’s names.
“There’s hundreds,” said Stark.
“It’s a busy little side venture. Every time the rental comes in, the firm scoops up fifteen per cent. Easy money. You have a name?”
“I have the name of the owner. Karen Fleming.”
“Should be enough.” Again, the same routine, typing in the name in the search box. A copy of a document materialised. A duplicate of the paper version Stark had in his pocket. The lease between Karen Fleming and Apollo Letting.
“I need to find the tenant Apollo located.”
“Sure. There’ll be a sub-agreement.” She clicked a link above the document. Another page appeared. Another contract.
Stark gazed at the screen.
Before him, a name.
Gabriel Lamont.
He swallowed, composed himself.
“Anything else?”
She slid the mouse, clicked on an attachment. Again, the screen changed. Now, copies of ID. A bank statement, a passport. The photo in the passport was grainy, but clear enough. The man he saw in his dreams. The man who stalked and murdered a young woman, by drugging her, tying her to a bed, and firing a metal prod through her neck. The Surgeon. His dream was true. The validation gave him little comfort.
“It’s him,” he said.
Jenny turned to him, looked at him blankly.
“The man who’s taken your sister?”
“This man,” he breathed, “Gabriel Lamont. He’s The Surgeon.”
A silence fell. The gravity of his statement felt like a weight was pressed in the room. Jenny responded, and not for the first time, expressed bewilderment.
“How do you know this?”
“If I told you, you really would think me as mad. But I promise I’ll tell you. Can we get anything else? More on this guy?”
She twitched her shoulders in a gesture of doubt. “I’d be surprised. But I’ll cross-reference his name, and see what comes up.”
She typed it in – Gabriel Lamont.
A list came up. Addresses. Fifteen. Beside each address, a date, and beside each date, the constant name – Gabriel Lamont.
“Jesus,” muttered Stark. He studied the screen. “He’s had fifteen different addresses over the past five years. His first was Karen Fleming’s house. No wonder the bastard can’t be caught. He’s a fucking nomad. And this firm enabled it to happen.”
Jenny nodded. “Apollo Letting. In this particular case, it seems they didn’t find tenants for vacant houses. The other way round…”
“…they found vacant houses for one specific tenant,” finished Stark. “SJPS is connected.” He leaned closer, studied the last address on the list.
“That date is recent. Holm Farm Cottage, Eaglesham moors. That’s where he is. That’s where I’ll find him.” He pressed his finger on the screen to the same set of letters beside each of the fifteen entries.
“What’s that?”
Jenny squinted at the computer. “It’s the initials of the particular lawyer dealing with the case.” She paused, took a long breath. She spoke, a tremor in her voice –
“The same lawyer. I know who that is.”
“Who?”
“I can hardly believe it.” She looked at Stark, bewildered. “Lamont. It was her married name.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Stark’s mobile buzzed. It was McGuigan.
“I checked the victims of the Willow killings. Everyone. Including the survivors, Jonathan.” Silence followed, which conveyed more than any words. Then he spoke, quietly. “You never told me you’d got shot.”
“I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think it relevant,” Stark replied. “It’s not relevant.”
“You worked together. You were there when Willow killed her.”
“Now you know. But it was coincidence.”
“I’m not entirely sure I believe in coincidences.”
“Did you get her name?” asked Stark.
“Cynthia Lamont. A legal trainee. Gunshot to the head. She never stood a chance.”
And yet I did, thought Stark.
“I have other information,” continued McGuigan. “I have the name of her mother.”
“It’s Winnifred Marshall,” said Stark. “Senior partner of SJPS, and head of property.”
Another silence, indicating the affirmative. Stark spoke.
“I found information about Apollo. The tenant Mrs Fleming had in her house is called Gabriel Lamont. If you check, no doubt you’ll find that Lamont was Winifred’s married name. She got divorced eight years ago, and reverted back to her maiden name – Marshall.” He regarded Jenny, who had supplied this information. No matter how discreet a person was, the past always seeped out, then seized upon, and served up in juicy morsels. The fact that Winnifred Marshall was divorced was common knowledge. Just another part of the rumour and gossip machine. Jenny knew. The entire office knew.
Stark imagined McGuigan’s wise old head nodding as he absorbed this information.
“Brother, sister, mother,” said McGuigan.
“Probably.”
“We have a name, at last.” McGuigan spoke in a hushed voice. “Gabriel Lamont. His sister was killed. He’s been trying to… what? Resurrect her? Recreate her? I dare say he dresses his victims in the same way as his sister dressed that day. He’s trying to turn back time, in his weird psychopathic way. And his mother…”
“Maybe she knew all the time. Or maybe she was trying simply to help her son find a home. I don’t know, Chief Inspector. That’s your job. I’ve got to get my sister, if I still have time.”
Another silence, then – “What have you found, Jonathan?”
“You can’t help.”
Stark sensed the sudden urgency in McGuigan’s voice.
“If you have an address, you need to give it to me. This man is dangerous. You’ve done well, up until now. But it stops. You let me take over. Give me the address, Jonathan.”
“And then? An army of cops descend. What then? What about my sister? What will he do, confronted like that. How does a man like that react? Let me tell you. He kills. He kills the whole world, because he wants the whole world to burn. Like Archie Willow, who wanted nothing more than to bring down as much death as he could before the end.” His voice took a harsh edge. “If we do it your way, my sister will die. Sure as fate. If I go, on my own, I reckon she has a chance.”
McGuigan responded, his voice flat. “He’ll kill you. Your sister will die. What will that achieve? Give me the damned address, Jonathan.”
“Goodbye, Chief Inspector. Thanks for believing.”
He hung up.
He faced Jenny. She was sitting at her computer, back stiff, face pinched and wan. He leant down, kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you. Really.”
“You’re going to him. You’re not telling the police.”
“To save my sister. If I don’t call you in two hours, ask for Chief Inspector Harry McGuigan. He’s a good man. Tell him what we found. Give him the address.”
Her eyes welled up. Her bottom lip trembled. She looked away. “You’ll die,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Promise me you won’t call the police. Not right away. I need that time.”
She nodded, said nothing.
“Thank you, Jenny.”
He left the offices of SJPS, to his car, on his journey to the devil’s lair.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
McGuigan cursed, and showing some restraint, refrained from flinging his mobile against his office wall. It didn’t stop him from pounding his fist on the office desk. He stood, marched into the main hub.
“Okay, people, we have a development!” The general noise reduced to a low buzz. McGuigan clenched his teeth in frustration. His patience was being tested. “Shut the fuck up. Please!” The noise stopped. He had their attention. He noted Kenny Dawson was in the room, presumably returned from the hospital.
“I have a name. Gabriel Lamont. A person of interest. Get me as much information as you can on that name. Anything at all. I don’t care how insignificant. This is our new focus.”
He looked about. Lots of puzzled expressions, but no one argued. He was in no mood to be crossed, and they knew it. He went over to Dawson.
“We’re going on a visit.”
He had an address for Winnifred Marshall. The search instigated in the offices of SJPS had allowed the police to get details of each member of staff, including the partners. Dawson called it up, logged it into the satnav.
22 Lillybank Oval, Bothwell. A plush village on the outskirts of Glasgow – where hundred-year-old houses jostled with sprawling new-builds. A haven for footballers and medical consultants. And lawyers.
Bothwell was thirteen miles from the station. The quickest route was via the motorway, and, with light traffic, could take less than fifteen minutes. The car was unmarked. McGuigan stuck a siren on the roof, and told Dawson to press his foot hard on the pedal.
“I want speed of light,” he said. “Faster, if possible.”
“And why are we doing this, sir?”
McGuigan’s response was curt. “I’m trying to save lives.” He would explain later. His mind whirled. He was functioning on adrenaline. He was anxious and unsure. Perhaps the whole theory was wrong. But it didn’t sound wrong. Mother and son. Son killing young women to resurrect the memory of his murdered sister. Mother condoning and enabling her psychopathic son in his quest. And if the theory was right, and if Jonathan Stark had an address, what then? Stark was heading to his doom. He sat in silence, as the world rushed by. He was in no mood to explain, because what had happened in the last few hours was beyond explanation.
They arrived at Winnifred’s house – a detached bungalow of red brick, enclosed by a low sandstone wall, upon which hung wicker baskets bright with flowers. In the driveway, a black BMW 3 Series.
“Looks like someone’s home,” remarked Dawson.
McGuigan said nothing. They got out. McGuigan rang the doorbell. The front door was solid wood, impossible to determine activity from the interior. He rang again. Nothing.
“Dead end,” said Dawson.
“Really?”
McGuigan turned the handle, pushed. The door opened. “There’s a surprise,” he muttered.
Dawson’s long solemn face suddenly blinked with startlement.
“Sir, we don’t have a warrant.”
“Very true, Kenny. You can see I’m concerned. Either you’re coming, or you’re staying.”
The bemusement didn’t leave Dawson’s face, as he followed his boss into the house.
The hall was bright and spacious. Clean white walls. High ceiling. The floor oak hardwood. Impossible to mask the sound of footsteps. McGuigan wasn’t trying, because he didn’t care. Glass doors on either side. McGuigan went through into a large living room, stretching from the front of the house to the back. It was tidy and furnished to an almost clinical precision. On one wall, in a gilded silver frame, a large portrait of a young woman. The same woman killed by Archie Willow during his rampage of murder five years ago. Cynthia Lamont.
Sitting on a leather sofa, smoking, dressed in a simple black dress, was Winnifred Marshall. Dressed for mourning, thought McGuigan. On the coffee table before her was an open packet of cigarettes, a circular stone ashtray, an empty glass and an empty plastic bottle.
She regarded the two men, face pale as marble, devoid of expression.
McGuigan sat on a chair opposite. Dawson stood to one side.
“It’s a hard habit to kick,” he said.
Her mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “I’ve smoked since I was sixteen. I have no intention of stopping now. Why should I stop something I enjoy, Chief Inspector.”
He switched his attention to the picture on the wall.
“Your daughter?”
She took a deep draw, smoke streaming back out through her nostrils, coiling round her like serpents’ tails.
She looked at the picture.
“It’s not perfect. But we’ll get there.”
“We?”
“My daughter was murdered, Chief Inspector. When I had to identify her, half her face was missing. In a second, her life was taken, her beauty destroyed. Death and destruction. The two fundamental elements of evil, yes?”
He felt a small tingle of victory. The first part of the theory had proved correct. Mother, daughter. He was almost tempted to ask for a cigarette, such was the sudden intensity of his craving. He pushed it to one side.
“Perhaps,” he said. He gave her a level stare. “There’s insanity. A man can do a bad thing, which, to his mind, isn’t bad at all, because his mind is unbalanced. Wouldn’t you agree?” He paused, said, “Your son needs help.”
Another deep drag. She tilted her head back, gave him a heavy-lidded stare. There, thought McGuigan, sits the real monster.
“Bad?” she replied. “What’s bad? There are different versions of bad. My son isn’t evil.” She held his gaze. “Nor is he insane. He is… gifted. Gifted people are always shunned and misunderstood, in the beginning. But then their light shines through, and people, in time, start to understand. He is an angel, Chief Inspector.”
“An angel?” he said softly. “Some might disagree. Where is your son now, Winnifred?”
She didn’t respond.
He nodded, slowly. “It started with Bronson Chapel. Things began to tear at the seams when he saw your son leaving the house of Evelyn Stephens. But then, when we produced the photofit to the media, how you must have wondered. Did you think you were lucky, that we should get it so wrong? Did it give your son’s great scheme the endorsement it needed? Perhaps he thought, truly, it was a task he was chosen to do. That maybe God, in his strange fashion, had spoken. Or maybe it got you more worried. That trouble loomed on the horizon.”
