The Helper (25 page)

‘Not as far as I know. She seemed happy enough. Nothing was troubling her. I was the one who needed the emotional support.’

‘What about after she arrived here? She get on the wrong side of anyone?’

‘No. We went out, we shopped, we had fun. There was no trouble at any time.’

It’s the answer Doyle expected, and the answer he didn’t want. He hoped there would be someone else he could tag for this, or at least hang a question mark over their head. As it is,
it’s looking increasingly likely that Helena Colquitt is just the latest victim in a deadly sequence.

‘What about a key to the apartment? You or Helena ever give it out to anyone?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘What about you, Mrs, uhm . . .’

‘Serafinowicz. Maybe you should put it in your little notebook there. And don’t forget the z. But to answer your question, no, I do not give keys out to anyone but my
tenants.’

Which is also the response Doyle expected and feared. What confounds him is that the only sign of a struggle was in the bathroom. How does a complete stranger manage to talk his way into the
apartment of a beautiful girl who isn’t even properly dressed, and then get her into the bathroom without a fight of some kind? How the hell does he do that?

Doyle is starting to think that if there has been any satanic activity going on in this building, then maybe he should be looking upstairs for signs of it.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘Thank you. I’ll leave you alone now.’

Mrs Serafinowicz looks surprised. ‘That’s it? You have no more questions? The other cops asked a lot more than you did.’

Doyle has plenty more questions, but he knows he isn’t going to find the answers here.

‘I’m sure there’ll be other things we’ll need to ask at a later stage, but I’m done for now.’ He turns to Tabitha. ‘You got somewhere to go
tonight?’

It’s Mrs Serafinowicz who answers. ‘She’s staying here. I have a furnished apartment available on the second floor. She can move in there for as long as she wants.’

Doyle wants to smile appreciatively at her and maybe even pass a compliment, but he suspects she’ll find a way to use it against him. Like most people, she has appearances to maintain.

‘Thanks for the tea,’ he says, and leaves it at that.

When he exits the apartment he stands in the hallway alone for a while. Something is troubling him, and it takes a minute or two for him to figure out what it is.

Helena was running a bath for Tabitha, and there was a pizza on the way. That means Tabitha had every intention of returning to her apartment pretty soon. She said so herself:
I only
intended to stay for a few minutes.

So why did the killer take such a huge risk? Why did he choose that moment and that location and that method – drowning isn’t always the quickest or tidiest of deaths – to
murder a woman whose roommate could come back and disturb him at any second? Didn’t he care? Was he assuming that he could just as easily cope with overpowering and killing both of them?

It occurs to Doyle that this act seems a leap beyond anything the killer has done before in terms of daring. In fact it seems almost uncharacteristically rash.

Has the killer become more unhinged? Or is this simply his way of stepping up the game?

Whichever it is, there’s only one man who can give Doyle the answer.

Ten-thirty p.m. Doyle alone in the squadroom. Typing up his DD5 reports and wishing that life could be simple.

He wants to know how the fuck he ended up playing the stooge to that joker. That guy whose idea of fun is to tell Doyle whom he’s going to kill next, but in such a way that Doyle can never
grasp the true meaning. It makes Doyle feel like he’s in a comedy sketch – the unfortunate dimwit everyone laughs at for getting the simplest things so drastically wrong.

He also wants to know how the fuck he now finds himself almost wishing he hadn’t relinquished that role. Perhaps he was always meant to play the innocent fool. Doesn’t the guy you
feel sorry for always win out in the end?

The thing of it is, there’s too much he needs to know. It’s like being a child who has been told there is something very interesting in a box, but that he must never look inside it.
The temptation to open the box becomes overwhelming. Sooner or later you just know you’re gonna sneak a peek.

There are things going on in the killer’s life. In his mind. His patterns are changing. Doyle needs to know why. He needs to open the box.

He gets a further nudge in that direction when his cellphone squawks at him. Not a phone call, but a text message:

Well, well, thinks Doyle. The scumbag’s actually pleading with me.

Seconds later he hears the ring tone, almost immediately drowned out by the voice in his head:

Ignore it, you prick. You’ll regret it if you answer it. You’ll be right back in his pocket. Playing his stupid games and losing every time. Stick to your guns and kill the
fucking call.

Sound advice. For the sake of his own sanity, he knows he would do well to heed it.

But he’s never been good at doing what he’s told.

He answers the call a second before it goes to voicemail. Opens the box. And already he feels like Pandora, letting out all the evils of the world.

‘You better not be shitting me!’ he yells into the phone. ‘You give me one fucking clue, sneak one piece of bullshit information under the fence like you did last time, and
I’m gone. Permanently. You understand that, motherfucker?’

There is a moment’s silence, during which Doyle thinks to himself, This better be who I expected it to be.

‘And a good evening to you too, Detective,’ says the caller. ‘It’s nice to hear your calm, collected voice again. I’ve missed our little chats. So let me give you
some reassurance. You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m changing the rules.’

More changes. Not what Doyle wanted to hear.

‘What rules?’

‘The rules of the game. You’re right. I think I was a little unfair on you. The game was always a little one-sided. The outcome was never in doubt, given your limited capabilities.
And so I don’t blame you for walking away.’

Doyle refuses to rise to the insult, or to be seduced into feeling any gratitude for this conciliatory approach. Allowing emotions to govern his response is the most dangerous thing he can do
right now.

He says, ‘So you admit this is all just a game to you. What’s the problem? You got nobody else to play with? Nobody wants to be your friend anymore?’

‘To be frank, life was starting to become a little dull without you. You’re such a good sport, Cal. I missed you terribly. And I think you missed me too, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right, I was devastated. I was like a goldfish without a bicycle.’

‘You joke about it now, but admit it. You’ve been desperate for me to call, haven’t you?’

‘Is that what that was, going all silent on me? You trying to teach me a lesson of some kind?’

‘I was trying to show you that you need me too, Cal. I need you and you need me. We have a symbiotic relationship going here.’

‘Actually, I think of you more as a parasite. A tapeworm or a flea. The last thing I need is you sucking my blood the way you’ve been doing.’

‘Really? That’s the way you feel?’

‘That’s the way I feel.’

‘Then why did you answer this call?’

Doyle hesitates before he answers, and kicks himself for it. ‘Because of the text message. Because I wanted to know why you’ve suddenly decided to change tactics.’

‘Oh. Only that,’ says the voice, mocking in its disbelief. ‘Not because you realize that you and the rest of the boys in blue don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell
of stopping these killings without my help?’

‘Don’t underestimate us, asshole. We’re closer than you think.’

‘Of course you are. Well, in that case you won’t be needing my assistance. But just in case you change your mind, here’s how we’re going to do things from now on. Each
time another killing is planned, I’m going to give you the option, Cal. I’ll let you decide whether you want to hear my little hints or not. I won’t sneak anything in. I’ll
simply ask you for a yes or a no. Yes if you want my help. No if you don’t. It’s that simple. What do you think, Cal? Does that work for you?’

Doyle thinks, He’s doing this because without me he’s nothing. He needs my feedback. That’s what keeps him going. This isn’t a favor to me. He’s trying to save
himself. Without me, he’s going to pieces. That’s why he acted so rashly with Helena Colquitt.

‘You know what? I’m gonna have to think about it. Weigh up the pros and cons. Tell you what, give me a call sometime, and I’ll see if I feel like answering.’

The hesitation is on the other end of the line now, and for the first time Doyle feels like he can chalk up a minor victory. He is sure he can almost hear the clenching of fists and the gnashing
of teeth as the caller seethes over the possibility that his bluff is being called.

‘Don’t push it, Cal. Lives are at stake here. Innocent people could die because of the decisions you take tonight. Don’t treat this situation lightly. I’m offering you
the help you need to save those people. The question is, can you afford to turn it down?’

‘Don’t try to put this on me. Those people are dead because of one person – you. I’ve just come back from looking at one of your victims. She was young and she was
pretty. She had her whole life ahead of her. What did she ever do to you? What put her on your list of people who don’t deserve to live? What gives you the right to make those
decisions?’

A sigh. ‘You just don’t understand, do you, Cal? This whole thing. It’s not about hurting. It’s about helping. We all have to help each other. That’s what’ll
make the world a better place. Until you appreciate what’s really going on here, you’re not going to make any headway on this case. Look beyond the surface, Cal.’

‘You’re seriously fucked up, you know that? You enjoy killing, and you enjoy me failing to solve your clues. That’s it. Nothing deep. It’s just about you getting your
kicks in about the most perverted way possible.’

‘Well, you can stop the killing, Cal. I’m not saying you’re right about me, because you’re not, but whatever my motives are, you can stop the killing. I’m willing
to give you the information you need. Only you can decide whether you want it.’

‘Like I said, I’ll think about it.’

‘All right. But not for too long, Cal. I’ll be calling you again soon, and I’ll make my offer only once. Turn it down and you’re on your own. If you hadn’t been so
stubborn, maybe you could even have prevented tonight’s events. I was going to play you two tunes for this one. You want to know what they were?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Listen.’

Doyle thinks about hanging up, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He wants to know if he really would have had a chance of cracking this one.

The first piece of music is light-hearted and catchy, but sounds really dated. Doyle thinks he’s heard it before, but isn’t sure where. Maybe in a rerun of a very old TV show. It
fades out, to be replaced by an orchestral piece, grander and more sweeping, but still sounding like it’s from an old movie.

‘You know what they are?’ The caller sounds excited now. Even after he’s killed, he’s still finding a way to extract some entertainment value from it.

‘Not a clue.’

‘Jesus, Cal. You’ve just come from seeing the victim, and you still can’t put two and two together? Am I wasting my time here?’

‘Like you said, I’m a man of limited capabilities.’

‘All right, look. The first one, it’s from a show called
Bewitched
. You know the one? About the good-looking witch who works magic by twitching her nose?’

‘I’ve heard of it. A little before my time, though.’

‘Okay. So the witch, Samantha, has a baby. And the baby’s name is . . .’

‘I haven’t the faintest.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Cal. Work with me here. All right, try the other tune. A TV soap from the sixties. A family saga. Always started with a voiceover saying, “In color, the
continuing story of . . .” ’

‘The sixties? Just how old do you think I am?’

‘I know exactly how old you are, Cal, but that’s not the point. There are certain things ingrained in TV history. Besides, I’m not telling you about something that hasn’t
happened yet. All you have to do is put what I’ve just told you together with the crime scene you just visited, and you get . . .’

Doyle doesn’t answer. He doesn’t get this at all. He’s starting to think he’ll never be able to stop the killings, even with a shit-load of clues.

‘Lord, give me strength,’ says the voice. ‘It’s
Peyton
fucking
Place
, Cal. And the baby’s name was Tabitha. You get it now? You see how those two
things go together? Tabitha and Peyton. Tabitha Peyton. Clear now?’

No words come to Doyle. His brain is too busy dealing with what it’s just heard. Turning the words over and over while it examines them for something it may have missed. What did he say?
Did he say Tabitha Peyton? That can’t be right.

Or was it just another clue? Another example of his deviousness? He gives out the pointers to Tabitha so that I think she’s the intended victim, when in fact she’s just another link
in the chain to Helena. Yeah, that must be it. He would do such a thing, just like he did with Vasey.

‘Cal? You there, buddy?’

‘Uhm, yeah. It’s late. My brain’s slowing down. I think I get it. You’re saying that if I’d heard those two tunes, then maybe I could have kept Tabitha Peyton
alive.’

He tenses as he awaits the answer. The words that say something along the lines of,
What the fuck are you talking about? Not her, you dumbass. The roomie. Helena.

‘Exactly. Honest to God, Cal, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re cut out for this. Maybe I made a bad choice here.’

Exactly
.

He said,
Exactly
.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Doyle feels his hand begin to shake. He tries to keep a tremor from creeping into his voice too.