Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (19 page)

Stark met the duty manager, Karen Stubbs, and she led them to a sun room at the rear of the building. As they walked, Stark noticed the walls were adorned with hundreds of portraits of loved ones and previous incarnations of the residents. Perhaps, this helped to combat isolation, or possibly helped in the war many would undoubtedly be waging with dementia. Whatever, it was a warming touch of humanity in a place that, if the media were to be believed, would usually be devoid of such qualities.

Karen introduced him to Ann Watkins. She sat in a high-backed, leather chair, tartan blanket draped over her legs. Stark recognised the eyes or rather the obvious inheritor's. A twinkle of mischief still glinted in these bright pools of intelligence. Time had robbed Ann Watkins of many physical traits but her mind had yet to be plundered.

“Well, at my age, a visit from the police cannot bring anything other than bad news, so out with it young man. What do you want?”

Stark liked her. Strong, defiant and no longer tolerant of niceties.

“Yes, you're right enough, Mrs Watkins, this is not good news. I need to talk to you about Sadie.”

The old woman's face dropped, her eyes moistened and she licked her lips, waiting for the follow-up.

“We have reason to believe she has been involved in several violent crimes and I'd like to know if you've seen her or heard from her recently?”

Ann Watkins looked out of the window of the sun room. Aptly, shafts of bright sunlight streamed through the windows, giving the room the warmth and glow the architect surely hoped for when drawing its plans. However, melancholy and regret chilled the air once Ann spoke.

“Oh, Sadie, Sadie. My poor, mixed-up, little girl. I haven't seen her for a couple of years. She always sends cards on birthdays and Christmas but otherwise, I have no contact with her.”

Somehow, this surprised Stark. On his way here, he convinced himself Sadie would be sure to keep in close touch with her mother. Now, standing in this room, in front of this frail old woman, he felt slightly foolish at having been so confident. Guilt gnawed at him. It felt as if he was re-opening a wound, which Ann Watkins only recently managed to staunch the bleeding from.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Watkins...”

“Why? What possible impact on your life would my lack of contact with my daughter have?” she snapped, a dark cloud abruptly enveloping her mood.

The guilt bit deeper into his flesh.

“None, I suppose, sorry for the glib remark. This cannot be easy for you. However, I could really do with your help. Is there anything in Sadie's background we should know about or that might help us to find her?”

Mrs Watkins smoothed the blanket and ran her hand through her white hair.

“Well, Inspector, my daughter has had problems all her life with controlling her temper. She seems to think she was chosen to right the ills of society. When someone crosses her or her loved ones, she feels a compunction to act.”

“Is she religious?”

“God, no! If you'll forgive the pun. She's not driven by any kind of religious belief. She's driven by something that lives inside her. A dark force that she cannot control. In her late teens, we tried to get a doctor involved but she refused to co-operate. Passed every test designed to assess her as schizophrenic or whatever. She is so clever. So very, very clever.”

Stark could feel her pain. This was something no parent would want to find out about their child. The burden of knowing but parental loyalty preventing her informing.

“What exactly has she been up to?”

“I don't think I need to burden you with details. At the moment she's only a suspect, we haven't proved anything for sure.”

The dark cloud whirled again.

“Don't dare patronise me, Inspector! I might be an old woman but I'm not one of those vegetables back there drooling in front of the TV! What has she been up to?”

Her eyes drilled through Stark with genuine anger.

“Ok, sorry, it's a couple of murders and a couple of mutilations. The victims appeared to have committed some form of societal faux pas, which she felt compelled to make an example of.”

“Just a bloody minute,” she fumed, “you're talking about that Citizen V character aren't you?”

He nodded.

Finally, the stress got to her and she dropped her chin to her chest, put her hands on her head and sobbed.

Stark immediately offered her a handkerchief, which she took sullenly. The light gone from her eyes.

“I know this must be incredibly hard to take, Mrs Watkins, but is there anyone she might turn to in her hour of need? Family, friends, ex-workmates?”

“She is alone in this world, Inspector. Her father died years ago. She married that good for nothing cop but I thought
he
was Citizen V?”

“So did we, but it turns out he might not have been. Sadie has disappeared and we need to find her. Are you sure there's nothing else?”

The old woman repeated her blanket smoothing and hair ruffle.

“There is one thing. I'm pretty sure she never sold my house after I moved in here. She rented it out - at least, that's what she told me she'd done. She paid for me to come here when I fell over once too often. Give me a piece of paper and I'll write it down for you. She might be there, tending the bones of poor old Bub.”

Stark looked at her with a deep frown of concern and handed over a page torn from his notebook.

“No, no, not what you think. Bub was her dog when she was a girl. We buried him in the back garden when he died. She loved that dog.”

Stark thanked her and left. As he got into his car, he couldn't help but think he'd not just spoiled her day but, more likely, what time she had left. The guilt feasted hungrily.

***

Katz drew up in front of the house with her usual haste and slammed to a halt.

It was a run-down estate. Years of neglect from residents and successive councils slowly eroding its fabric and the spirit of anyone living there. A couple of young lads on BMX bikes recognised them as cops and beat a hasty retreat, shouting some sort of obscenity in the process and baring their arses as they cycled away through the warren of alleyways and tower blocks.

The garden was unkempt and the gate missing in action - probably long since deployed as fuel on bonfire night. The house walls were daubed in graffiti. The windows were blacked out but remained intact. It looked like a crack den or some other form of repository for the chemically dependent.

“Right, I've arranged for back-up but, in the meantime, are you happy to go in?” asked Stark.

“Of course, sir. There are two of us and more on the way, we'll be fine.”

“Aye, can't help thinking about that farmhouse though. A couple of those guys were a lot more formidable opponents than us.”

“True, sir, but she had the drop on them, the element of surprise. We're ready for anything she might chuck at us, and we have nightsticks and pepper spray.”

Stark admired her guts, amongst other things.

“Ok, but let's put on the stab vests as a precaution and stay close.”

“Righto, sir.”

They donned their protective clothing and drew their nightsticks. There was no reason to suspect Watkins would have a firearm. She'd not used one so far; too messy, noisy and traceable. Stark also felt sure she needed the kindling of indignation to fuel her aggression. Well, he hoped that was the case. Unlike Katz, apprehension travelled through his bloodstream like an ice crystal; he actually shivered despite the mild air temperature.

The door appeared to be fortified. No lock pick or mini battering ram was going to get them through it. The windows were locked and nailed in place; scrapes and gouges in the frame indicating previous failed attempts by other interlopers to gain entry. Symbols in the corners of each pane indicated toughened glass and again, scratches and other marks on the glass suggested bricks being thwarted. No breaking, no entering. Totally understandable precautions in a place like this but not helpful to Stark and Katz. They would need to wait for back-up after all and call in some specialist help.

The glass-cutter did its work. A large panel came loose, allowing them access through the downstairs, living room window. A couple of big, burly cops were stationed in the back garden to prevent Watkins fleeing that way, but Stark was resigned to the idea that nobody was home.

The inside of the house was amazing. Every surface was brightly painted in white, sheets of clear plastic hung between the doorways and lined the floor. In one room, for all intents and purposes, Watkins had set up an operating theatre. An autoclave, rows of surgical implements and various other accessories adorned a couple of tables against one wall. Surgical robes and other protective clothing hung from a clothes rail.

Out in the back garden, a small area of ground looked well attended to in the midst of a sea of weeds and long grass. Doubtless, this was the resting place of Bub the dog.

They'd discovered her lair but the black widow herself was not in attendance. Stark had little doubt there would be no forensic evidence to work with here but it was still another piece in the jigsaw.

***

Despite the failure to locate Watkins, the case brought Stark temporary celebrity. However, he drew the line at the conceit of appearing in documentaries or on chat shows to discuss Welch and all the other prurience surrounding the case. It might well be the modern way, but he preferred to do his job and solve new crimes, rather than endlessly rake over an old one for the sake of entertainment. London provided plenty of opportunities to keep him gainfully employed.

Katz moved on. Seconded to the serious crimes department in Leeds, continuing her education and keeping on track for that early promotion. She was going to make a very good detective and Stark didn't doubt that sometime, in the not-too-distant future, their paths would cross again as equals. He was glad he hadn't done anything foolish like proposition her. Then again, this new, improved Adam Stark induced a touch of melancholy. Once upon a time, he'd have gone for it and hang the consequences. Once upon a time, he'd have been in with a genuine chance of having her proposition him. First man, new man, old man. Unhelpful thoughts which he gave short shrift to.

The weeks drifted on and soon there were other problems and stories occupying the headlines. Life has ever been thus.

32. Check Out

The handwriting on the envelope was immaculate. Every loop and flourish perfectly placed and legible. Stark didn't think he'd ever seen such an aesthetically pleasing script before. He picked the envelope up from the top of his in-tray and slid his finger under the flap. It peeled away smoothly rather than ripping asunder. He carefully pulled the letter out, giving it the due deference the sender deserved after making so much effort to present it so beautifully.

The note was just as neatly scribed as the envelope.

Dear DI Stark,

I'm sure you long since realised my secret identity, my evil twin perhaps? However, for the record, and the avoidance of doubt, I was the so-called Citizen V. My ex-husband is guilty of none of the mutilations or murders. All of those lessons were delivered by me and me alone.

There is a fire in my belly that grew impossible to resist. Since I was a young child I could not abide injustice and the derision of bullies. I needed to make a stand, to say to ordinary, decent people that they didn't have to put up with the relentless infringement of their right to a peaceful and productive life.

I made my stand and I was proud. I do not weep for Ernie Martin, Calvin Jacobs or Leo Corantelli. However, I let the fire of indignation become an inferno of rage and took personal revenge for a wrong done to me, rather than a wrong done to Society at large. I am not proud of that. It is time for me to extinguish the flame, before it burns completely out of control.

My ex-husband spoke highly of you and I liked how you handled yourself. I want you to have the satisfaction of resolving the outstanding matters in the case and give everyone closure. I feel that my lessons will hold more weight if I set the right example. By the same token, I will not allow you to cage me like an animal. I cannot bear the thought of being gawped at by the media and the intelligentsia; half of them desperate to flog me the other half desperate to 'understand' me.

Do not waste your time looking for that which cannot be found. Instead, be satisfied to have your answers and to have learned your own lessons.

Yours,

Dr. Sadie Watkins

A concerned citizen who took action

Stark sat down heavily in his chair, tossed the letter onto the desk in front of him and clasped his hands behind his head. He should have felt elation at finally confirming his and Katz's hunch about Watkins was spot on. Instead, he felt empty. The letter represented the final, unconventional act of the most unorthodox criminal he'd ever encountered. He felt sure they'd never find Sadie Watkins. The letter was not explicit but it looked like a suicide note of sorts; a final unburdening of guilt before avoiding any possibility of capture by taking her own life.

It was the beginning of the day but it felt like the end of an era. There was something unnervingly, personally profound about those last two lines. He stood, dropped the letter in an evidence bag, and headed for DCI Hargreaves office.

Stark had no idea what this would mean for Steve Welch. Once his lawyers saw this letter, an appeal would be launched. But, what he got off with, and what he still carried the can for, was in the lap of the gods of court.

As for Stark himself, it was time to face up to his own burdens and make some changes.

THANK YOU!

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