The Helper (22 page)

She sniffs. ‘I . . . I wasn’t trying to say . . .’

‘It’s okay, really. I understand. I’ve been acting kinda weird and you’ve been looking for explanations. But it’s not a woman, okay? You’ve been watching too
many of these old movies.’

She nods. ‘All right. So what then?’

He chews on the inside of his cheek. What to tell her? He should just come clean, he thinks. Let her know exactly what’s been going on. She’s his wife. The woman he loves.
She’ll understand.

‘There’s stuff I haven’t been able to tell you. Something going on. Nobody knows. If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else.’

He watches her as she mulls it over. He can tell she’s not certain she wants to hear it.

‘I promise. What is it?’

‘You know that murder they brought me in on the other day?’

‘The bookstore girl? What about it?’

‘Turns out she’s not the only one. Did you hear about the cop shot in his apartment the other night? And then the psychologist being thrown out of his apartment window? They’re
connected. We got a serial killer on our hands, Rach.’

‘Oh my God. A serial killer? How do you know? No, wait, don’t answer that. I’m asking too many questions, I know. But, well, Jesus. A serial killer?’

‘Uh-huh. This isn’t common knowledge, Rach. You mustn’t tell anyone. It could hurt our chances of catching this guy.’

‘No, I swear.’ She wipes her eyes, drying them off. ‘And there was me thinking it was another woman. Christ, was I way off the mark. I’m sorry, Cal.’

She pulls him into her embrace. And while he hugs her he tells himself, You don’t deserve this hug. You don’t deserve this woman. So, okay, you told her about the killer. But the
phone calls? Your little helper friend? When did that creep into the conversation? Where was all that in your little confession?

Shame on you, Callum Doyle.

His ears should be burning.

The man who has just been the subject of discussion in the Doyle household is troubled.

He is in his living room, sitting bolt upright on a wooden chair, staring at the staircase. He does this each night, building himself up to the task ahead. It’s the reason he chooses a
straight-backed wooden chair. Because it’s not very comfortable and he can’t sit here too long. His lower back will begin to ache, even though he was told that such chairs are supposed
to be good for his posture. The pain will gnaw at him and it will gradually build and then he will have to stand up, and that will prompt him to carry out his task.

He hates having to do this, but he knows it’s necessary. It can’t be left. Not even a day. It wouldn’t be right.

So do it, goddamnit!

He pushes himself off the chair. Orders himself not to think about things as he marches upstairs, toward the bedroom door. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. You’ve done
this a million times. Just do it and get it over with.

He turns the doorknob and urges himself inside, snapping on the light before dark shapes can take on unwanted forms before his eyes.

He stands in the doorway, panting. His heart batters against his ribcage.

It’s okay. All okay. You can relax.

It’s a small room. Not much to see. A desk. A dresser. A closet.

And the bed, of course.

He steps across the room and stands at the side of the bed. He looks it up and down and he remembers.

The bed is empty now, but in his mind it is occupied. He is reminded of why he decided to help others. It’s a calling. There are people suffering out there, and they need him. Who else is
going to do it?

He sets to work. He strips off the covers and the sheets and the pillowcases and piles them on the floor. Then he goes over to the closet and opens it and takes a fresh set of bed linen down
from one of the shelves. He returns to the bed and makes it up again. He does this slowly, methodically and with great care. Edges tucked in neatly and tightly. All creases smoothed out. He walks
around the bed, checking and rechecking his handiwork. And when he is finally able to tear himself away, he picks up the old bed things and carries them out to the bathroom and dumps them in a
laundry hamper.

Tomorrow he will have to do it all over again. It’s never easy. Sometimes the stress of trying to get it right is unbearable. He can be in there for hours on some nights. It’s the
price you pay when you care about people so much.

But tonight, at least, it’s done.

And yet his unease continues.

He goes back downstairs and tries to treat himself to a more comfortable chair in front of the television. It normally does the trick. He gets lost in a program and he feels his tension slowly
dissipate to the point where he feels relaxed enough to go to bed. His own bed. Not the one in that room.

But tonight there is no respite. Something niggles. He can’t concentrate on the television, and that means he won’t sleep and tomorrow he’ll be grouchy as hell. And
that’s not right. It’s not fair. Not when you’re doing your best to help people.

He knows what the problem is. His mind keeps showing him images to remind him. Keeps stabbing a pointy little finger into his consciousness.
Look at this
, it says.
What are you
going to do about it?

It’s the nerdy looking guy. The one with the red hair and the glasses.

He was there outside Vasey’s apartment building, staring up at the broken window and talking to someone on his phone.

It should have meant nothing. The geek should have been just a passer-by. Someone who was just getting in or out of his car who heard a noise and happened to look up.

He would have been happy with that explanation. It would not have taken a shoehorn to fit an occurrence like that into his picture of what took place.

Except for one thing. Something that happened on the previous night.

Before helping out that drunk of a police sergeant, the killer had driven over to Vasey’s place. He wanted to finalize his plans. Work out precisely how he was going to help Vasey.

He’d parked up on Sixty-first Street and sat there for a while, staring up at the building. All was well until, just yards ahead of him, he noticed the driver of another car was doing
exactly the same thing. Craning his neck to look up at the building. At one point the guy got out of his car and stretched his arms.

He had red hair and glasses.

It was the same guy.

And this is what has him worried. What was the geek doing there, not once but twice? Why did he feel it necessary to watch Vasey’s apartment?

The guy doesn’t look remotely like a cop, but could he be one? Could the police be onto him so soon?

It’s a thought that makes him shudder. He won’t sleep tonight, and it’s all the fault of that four-eyed fuckwit. Doesn’t the prick know that there are people who are
desperate for help out there?

Perhaps not. But that’s not the point. Nothing must be allowed to obstruct the mission.

What makes it hard is that such people aren’t in need of his help. But if they’re in the way, they have to be removed. He’s already proved to himself that he’s capable of
doing that, with the doorman at Vasey’s building.

And if he could do it once, he can do it again.

It’s Friday evening. Doyle’s last conversation with his helper was on Tuesday evening. Vasey was killed on Tuesday night.

That’s three whole days. Of nothing.

Nothing doesn’t just mean lack of progress on the investigation. It also means no murders. Not a single person murdered in this city in the past three days – whether explicable or
not.

Nothing further on the calls to his cellphone either. They’ve stopped. Dead.

To Doyle it’s almost as though his refusal to take the helper’s calls has brought the killing spree to an end. As if the killer needs to feed off his little chats with Doyle in order
to have the fuel to carry out his mission.

He knows it can’t be that simple. The killer must be up to something. More murders will take place. He can feel it deep in his bones.

It’s not a comforting sensation.

It’s like knowing there’s a massive spider hidden in the room with you, just waiting to jump out when you least expect it.

His guess is that the swarthy bastard behind the counter isn’t genuinely Italian.

Italian-American, perhaps. He’d give him that much. A Mediterranean set of genes there somewhere, no doubt. But severely diluted over several generations. Long enough for him to have lost
that accent which sounds so affected it’s laughable.

The name, too, has to be fake. Peppe. Clearly he has adopted that moniker purely for the alliteration it lends to the name of this dump.
Peppe’s Pizza Piazza
. A nice ring to it,
sure, but a tad convenient, wouldn’t you say? But then the owner’s real name is probably something like Timothy, which wouldn’t quite conjure up the same romantic imagery of a
moonlit dinner overlooking canals with gondolas and bullet-riddled mafia victims floating by.

He’s willing to bet that the guy lays claim to a stupid surname too, again for the effect. Roni, perhaps.
Ciao. My name is-a Peppe Roni. Come in and-a taste-a my spicy
sausage.

And a piazza? Hardly. San Marco in Venice is a piazza. Navona in Rome is a piazza. This is more of a . . . well, a
room
, basically. Even the use of the word ‘restaurant’,
which also appears on the signage outside, is kind of stretching the definition to breaking point. Sure, there are a few small tables and some chairs here, but you’d hardly want to spend more
than the time it takes to wolf down a few slices in these surroundings. Peppe and the other pseudo-Italian who works here are probably wondering why their only sit-in customer is spending so much
time over his meal.

If only they knew.

The pizza must be damn good, though. It’s clearly what keeps this place going. Say what you like about the ambience, there’s a steady stream of people coming in for take-out orders.
They might not be willing to sit here for long, but they obviously crave the product.

He’s not really in a position to judge the quality of the pizza here. He decided long ago that he couldn’t really class himself as a pizza person, despite the alliteration. He would
much prefer a steak, medium rare, or perhaps some nice sea bass. Throw in a bottle of Chianti or Chardonnay and mood-enhancing music and lighting – heaven! Company or no.

And so his acquaintances – he can hardly call them friends – would puzzle over why he is now sitting in front of a fourteen-inch pie, heaped high with all kinds of meat toppings.

If only they knew.

He’s had one slice. It was bearable, but it took him ten minutes to get through it. But then he’s not very hungry. He never is when there’s work to be done.

He takes a sip from his glass of San Pellegrino and looks around. The man who calls himself Peppe (ha!) is handing change to a woman who, judging from her planetary-scale girth and acne-peppered
complexion, eats nothing but junk food. He watches as she waddles out of the building, and then he catches Peppe’s eye.

Peppe points across to his table. ‘Is-a good?’

In response, he smiles and raises his hand, the index finger and thumb joined together in a circle to signify approval. As he does so, it occurs to him that perhaps the gesture signifies
something different in Italy. Like maybe,
Suck my dick
. Not that this guy would know, impostor that he is.

He checks his watch. Seven p.m. precisely. Should be anytime . . .

A phone rings.

. . . now.

The phone is on the wall behind the counter, next to the cash register. Peppe plucks at the receiver and brings it to his ear with a flourish.

‘Good-a evening. Peppe’s Pizzas.’

Peppe listens for a moment, and then: ‘Ah, Miss Peyton. How are-a you this evening? . . . The usual? . . . Very good. And the time? Is it at eight o’clock? . . .
Excellente
.
We will-a see you then. Good-a-bye.’

Seated at his table, the man listens to all this and feels his heart rate accelerating with each word. He watches Peppe disappear behind the scenes to pass on the order, and presumes that he is
doing so to avoid having to reveal his lack of mastery of the Italian language.

He finds that his mouth is suddenly dry, and he takes a gulp of his mineral water. Feels the fizz of the bubbles in his gullet.

He waits for Peppe to saunter back into the room, then waves for his attention.

‘Excuse me. Could you box this up for me, please? I have to go now, but I really want to finish this later. Would that be okay?’

‘Sure. Is-a no problem.’

He watches while Peppe clears the table and transfers the remaining slices into one of their branded cardboard boxes. He knows what’s going through his head. Peppe is wondering how anyone
could take so long to eat just one slice, as if he detests the stuff, and then want to take the rest of it home, stone cold.

If only he knew.

A smile on his face, the killer pays his tab and leaves, carrying the pizza carton before him like he’s one of the wise men bearing gifts. As he goes through the door, he glances at his
watch again. Ten after seven. Just as he planned.

Excellente
.

For Tabitha Peyton, Friday night is usually pizza night. Usually, but not always. Hence the waiting around in Peppe’s. He had to be sure. But the visit also provided him
with his credentials for the next step of his mission.

He heads to his car first, parked up a block along from the pizza house here on Allen Street. He opens the trunk and takes out the other items he needs if he’s to be convincing. A
motorcycle helmet and a leather biker’s jacket. He swaps his own jacket for the leather. Doesn’t exactly make him a Hell’s Angel, but it ought to be enough.

He locks up the car, dodges through the two-way traffic, then walks around the block onto Orchard Street. He stops at a five-story tenement opposite the Blue Moon, once a similar tenement until
it had another three stories grafted on top when it was converted into a boutique hotel. He climbs the steep set of steps to the front entrance, then finds the buzzer labeled ‘T.
Peyton’. He smiles to himself. Nine times out of ten, if they put just an initial with no indication of gender, you just know it’s going to be a single woman. He thumbs the buzzer and
waits.