The Killer Inside (21 page)

Something lying on the floor caught her eye. It was a card with a bouquet of yellow roses on it. It wasn’t the picture that had drawn her attention but the number embossed in gold foil in the top right hand corner. It was the number eighty. She bent down and flipped it open. In spidery copperplate script she read the words: “To Ruby, wishing you many happy returns, love from Flo.”

Beside the card an envelope lay face down. She turned it over. There was the name in full: Ruby Owens, Flat 14, Grendon Gardens, Balsall Gate. She nodded slowly. Another identity theft: not of a student this time but of an old woman who was either dead or in a nursing home, with no relatives to care what happened to her few possessions. Evidently the checks done on potential visitors to Hewell Grange were not particularly rigorous: the date of birth would have given the imposter away if only it had been checked out. But with the prison service as overloaded as it was, such oversights were hardly surprising. Whoever was doing this, they were exploiting the flaws in the system to full advantage.

As Megan stood up she noticed a black cardboard box on the coffee table. On closer inspection it turned out to be a shoebox. A Nike shoebox. The mummified baby leapt into her mind’s eye and icy fingers clawed her belly. With shaking hands she lifted the lid. It was pure relief to see nothing but a jumble of paper. Then she noticed the scrawled note at the top of the pile. In pencil, on a scrap of lined, hole-punched paper, was her car registration number.

A sudden gust of air from the window made the sweat on her neck feel clammy. Her first instinct was to run out of the door, to get as far away from this place as possible. But this was it: this was what she had been looking for. This box must belong to the person who had been trying to scare her off. And that person was either the killer or someone closely connected. Was it Sonia? Or someone else? Somewhere in this pile of papers there had to be a clue to their identity.

She thought of taking the box away with her. But that was no good. If they came back and found it missing they would know someone was on their trail and would simply disappear. She had to search the box here and do it quickly. She ran across to the window and peered through the nets. No sign of anyone coming. Taking the box off the table she hunched herself up on the carpet so that she was hidden from view by the sofa. Then she began to take each sheet out, careful to lay them in order, face down, as she did so. She must put everything back exactly as she had found it.

The first few pieces were printouts from the internet. They looked like the sort of thing a student might use for researching an essay. A cold hand squeezed her heart as she scanned them. There was information about the apartheid regime in South Africa; a review of a biography of Nelson Mandela – the sort of thing an undergraduate in International Politics was highly likely to be studying. Her mind was reeling. Could she be mistaken? Could it be some other student?
Please, no, not her: not Elysha.

What she saw on the next printed sheet made her mouth go dry. The heading was: “The Effects of Strychnine on the Human Nervous System.” There were three sides of A4 all about the way the drug killed and the history of its use. Without pausing to read them in detail she whipped out the next sheet on the pile. She froze when she saw what it was: not a computer printout, but notepaper bearing the familiar logo of Heartland University. Underneath the logo was printed: Dr David Dunn, BA (Cantab), PhD. Warden, Linden House.
Elysha’s tutor
. Yesterday’s date was handwritten in blue ink along with a message: “Darling, sorry to hear that your mum is not well. Hope she is better soon. I’ll miss you heaps. Will take you for a romantic meal when you get back. Love you, x.”

She leaned back against the base of the sofa, her mouth so parched she could barely swallow. So David Dunn was involved in all this. And she had played right into his hands by going to Linden House and telling him what she knew. The note left little room for doubt: he was having a relationship with Elysha. So did he know about the murders? Was he party to the theft of the identities of Jodie Shepherd and Rebecca Jordan? It seemed barely credible: Dunn was a respected academic. Why would he want to get mixed up in something like this? She looked at the note again.
Sorry to hear that your mum is not well
… But Elysha’s mother had looked perfectly well a couple of hours ago. Had she lied to him? Needed an excuse to get out of the hall of residence and made up some story about Sonia being ill?

Megan glanced around the room. These must be Elysha’s things in the flat: her sleeping bag on the sofa; her
half-finished
meal in the kitchen. She closed her eyes then opened them again, not wanting to believe it. But the evidence was overwhelming. Thank God she had spent last night at Delva’s place: Elysha knew her car; probably knew which
house she lived in as well by now. She could have broken in; put strychnine in the coffee jar or the sugar bowl.

In her head she began rehearsing how she would break it to Dom. She could picture his face; the confusion in his eyes as he took it in. And she couldn’t bear it: couldn’t stomach the thought of taking him this news.

She went to moisten her lips but her tongue felt as stiff as a sponge left out in the sun. Another possibility had occurred to her, one that she wouldn’t allow to take shape: that Dom was somehow in on it: that he was behind it all.
No
, she thought.
It can’t be true. Why would he have told me about her if it was?
She felt stunned, paralysed. What the hell was she going to do?

The sudden ring of her mobile made her jump. Her bag was several feet away, hanging from the arm of one of the two wooden chairs that stood either side of a tiny dining table. Scrabbling inside it she managed to grab the phone just before the voicemail message cut in. It was a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Hello?’ Her voice echoed round the sparsely furnished room.

‘Dr Rhys? Hazel Gorman, Hewell Grange.’

‘Oh…’ Megan tried to get her brain back into gear. ‘What is it? Has something happened?’

‘It’s Lee Deacon. He’s given his prison officer the slip.’

‘What? He’s escaped?’

‘Yes. Apparently he asked to go to the toilet while they were in a café. He must have got out of the window. Anyway, the police are on their way to his mother’s house in Bordesley Green – I think that’s the place he’s most likely to make for. But I thought I’d better let you know that there’s no point you coming to Hewell Grange this evening. I’ll give you a call if and when we find him.’

As Megan put the phone back she thought she heard
something. She stopped dead, her hand still on the zipper of her bag. Was that the door? The net curtains swirled in a gust of air. They brushed against her face, pulling a strand of hair across her eyes. Still she didn’t move. She could hear nothing but the swish of the fabric against the window frame. There was no one there: she would be able to see anyone peering in through the nets. Perhaps the breeze had made the door rattle against the ironing board she had wedged against it: like everything else in this place it had obviously seen better days and was probably hanging on by a couple of screws. Whatever had made the noise, it was quiet now and she turned her attention back to the box. She must get the contents back in order, must leave everything exactly as she had found it.

She paused as she knelt beside the pile of papers. Would Lee Deacon’s escape be on the news? She hoped not. She must ring Hazel Gorman back and tell her to suppress it. Elysha mustn’t know that he’d done a runner. She had to be there tomorrow at visiting time: the only way to get hard evidence of her part in the murders was catching her with the strychnine on her.

As she got to her feet there was a sudden thud behind her, as if something heavy had fallen onto the carpet. She wheeled round to see a hooded figure wielding a baseball bat lurching towards her. The last thing she remembered was the taste of the carpet; its musty, sticky surface grazing her tongue as she slumped onto the floor.

As Megan started to come round the first thing she was aware of was her mouth. Her tongue felt too big; like it belonged to someone else. In her semi-conscious state she felt as if she was chewing on cream crackers, unable to swallow because there were too many in her mouth and nothing on them to help them down. It wasn’t until she opened her eyes that she realised what she could taste was some sort of paper. And her lips were clamped shut with what felt like parcel tape.

Panic kicked in as she tried to raise a hand to free them and found she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were tied with twine to the wooden dining chair her bag had been hanging from. Writhing against her bonds, she tried to shout. It came out as a muffled whimper. In a reflex action she started to swallow and gagged as the stuff in her mouth caught her epiglottis.

Then she saw a head rise from the sofa. A head whose hair and face were concealed by a black hoodie. The head gave way to a tall, slim body whose bottom half was clad in denim. The top was so baggy it was impossible to tell if her attacker was male or female. As the figure moved round the sofa Megan flinched. The right hand was wielding a
six-inch
-long kitchen knife.

‘Shout out and you’re dead.’ The voice was female. Young female. Megan froze as the blade made contact with her neck. In a swift movement the girl raised the knife, slitting the parcel tape near Megan’s left ear and ripping it off. The pain as it skinned her lips was intense but she didn’t
move. Grabbing her hair, the girl jerked Megan’s head back, pulling out whatever had been stuffed into her mouth. Four crumpled Starbucks serviettes fell onto the carpet

‘Who knows? Who have you told?’ The girl’s mouth was no more than an inch from her ear, her voice a rasping whisper. Her left hand still had a tight grip on Megan’s hair while the other pressed the flat of the blade against her throat. Afraid even to cough, Megan made a choking, retching sound as saliva returned to her mouth. Was this Elysha? It had to be. Should she pretend she didn’t know in the hope that the girl would let her go? Or use it to try to unnerve her: to play for time?

‘Talk!’ The point of the knife dug into the soft flesh between Megan’s chin and her windpipe.

‘Elysha.’ She gasped it out, her throat so dry and sore she could hardly speak.

‘How the fuck do you know my name?’ There was a change in the voice: a note of uncertainty; a chink in the armour. Megan reminded herself that this was a teenage girl who had probably never seen anyone die. Even if Elysha had planned it all herself and delivered the means of death, Carl Kelly and Patrick Ryan had despatched themselves. She had been involved in a clever game, a murderous fantasy. But now it was real. And Megan sensed that beneath the bravado she was terrified. She must use this fear; exploit it.

With some difficulty she swallowed, forcing down saliva to lubricate her throat. ‘I know a lot more about you than you realise.’ She paused, the effort of speech making her cough. ‘But if you think I’m going to shop you, you’re wrong. No one could blame you for killing those men: they didn’t deserve to live.’ Her voice died as she felt something shoot up her larynx. As she coughed again a fragment of serviette flew out of her mouth.

‘You think you can soften me up with that bollocks,’ the
girl sneered. ‘You don’t know the half of it. Those bastards stabbed my dad to death and threw my mum down the stairs when she was nine months pregnant.’

Megan could feel her breath on the side of her face. Dom had been right, then. Sonya had been expecting a baby. Was this the little boy in the shoebox? She winced as she opened her mouth again, congealing blood sticking her lips together. ‘So they killed him, too,’ she whispered, ‘Your baby brother?’

Her hair was yanked back hard. ‘You should fucking know! You took him!’ Now the knife was on the side of her neck, pressing so hard she could feel the blood pulsing against it.
Say something. Anything.
Her head was buzzing like a greenhouse full of flies.
Nobody’s coming to the rescue. You’re on your own
. ‘I didn’t take him,’ she whispered. ‘I …’

‘Yes you did!’ The girl spat the words out. ‘I heard you on the phone, talking about it when you came in for your fucking coffee! But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to make them take my Dad as well…’ She tailed off, the knife shaking so much Megan could feel it grazing her skin. ‘I wanted to run up to those bastards and shout: No! You can’t do that – he’s my father, leave him alone! But I couldn’t. I just had to stand there with that fucking buggy and watch while all the sickos came out of the woodwork to feast their greedy eyes.’

So that was her. The girl with the buggy walking past the graveyard. Probably the same buggy she had seen lying in the hall when she came in. But the baby? Where was that baby? In an instant it came to her: The rain cover would have hidden the fact that it was not a baby being pushed along but a doll: Elysha must have followed the convoy of cars to the mortuary; waited outside for her to come out.

‘Why, Elysha?’ It sounded lame, pathetic. But she had to
know if her guess was right. ‘Why did you leave that doll under my car?’

There was a long silence. When the girl spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I wanted you to feel the kind of pain I felt when I found my brother.’

‘
You
found him?’ Now it was all starting to make sense. ‘How? When?’

‘You really want to know?’ she snarled. ‘You really care? Oh, yeah, right!’

‘It might not seem that way, but yes, I do care.’ Megan licked her ragged lips, caught her breath as the saliva stung. ‘When I found him in that shoebox I couldn’t bear to think that no one knew who he was; who his mother was. I had to find out; had to try to give him a name…’

‘He has a name!’ Elysha’s voice was so loud the words pierced her eardrum.

Megan said nothing. Waiting. Hoping that if she didn’t ask the girl would offer it up and, in doing so, widen that chink in her armour.

‘His name is Ben.’ Silence for a few seconds, then it all came tumbling out, one sentence merging with the next: ‘I found him in the wardrobe when she was out and I was looking for the shoes, the ones she borrowed without asking and there he was, bundled up like fish chips and I couldn’t touch him, didn’t know what to do so I left him on the bed in the newspaper and when she saw him she was screaming, crying, till I made her tell me.’ Megan heard the click of the girl’s tongue against the insides of her mouth as she swallowed. When she spoke again her voice was low and full of menace: ‘I put him where I thought he’d be at peace: with his Dad: with
my
Dad. But you couldn’t let them be, could you?’

‘But they
will
be at peace, Elysha,’ Megan said, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘They’ll be buried together now – in
the same coffin.’ She paused. There was no response. But the pressure of the knife eased slightly. Now was the moment to play her trump card. If it failed, the words she was about to say would probably be the last she would ever utter. ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she began, ‘Something you don’t know: Moses wasn’t your real dad, Elysha. I know your father. He’s a lovely man and he’s desperate to meet you.’

For a long moment all Megan could hear was the swishing of the nets. Suddenly her head fell forward as Elysha loosened her grip on her hair. But this respite lasted only a second or two. Megan yelped as her head was yanked back again. This time the point of the knife was jabbing the skin above her jugular vein.

‘You lying bitch,’ the girl hissed. ‘You’d say anything to stay alive, wouldn’t you? What’s the plan? Play for time till the cops come? Have you told them? Have you?’ The last two words shot drops of spittle into Megan’s ear.

‘No,’ she gasped, ‘I haven’t told them.’ She was gambling everything on gaining the girl’s confidence. She had to persuade her that it was true. ‘If you think I’m lying about your father, just take a look in my bag. There’s a photograph in my purse: a photo of him with you.’

She felt Elysha’s weight shift. The chair wobbled as the girl squeezed round the back of it. Her left hand was still grasping Megan’s hair but the knife was gone. Megan heard the zipper on her handbag being pulled open. She heard the click of the popper that fastened her purse. She had put the photo in the clear plastic pocket opposite her credit cards. Elysha would see it as soon as she opened it up.

‘Who is he?’ The voice sounded higher, like a boy’s about to break. It made her sound even younger.

‘His name is Dominic Wilde.’ Megan hesitated, trying to judge how much to say. What she came out with was a
sanitised version of the truth: ‘He has a degree in English and he works as a counsellor.’

‘This could be anybody.’ The sneering tone had returned. ‘He could be some bloke who came to visit my mum in hospital and had his picture taken for a laugh.’

‘Look at the way they’re sitting, Elysha. He’s got one hand on your mum’s shoulder and the other on you. Do you think just anyone would do that?’

Silence again. Megan hardly dared breathe. She had to convince her; had to make her believe that there was a reason to keep her alive. The sudden trill of Megan’s phone made them both jump.
Christ, if only I could get to it!
Megan clenched her fists, the twine cutting into the skin where it pinioned her at the elbows. Suddenly it occurred to her: the one thing she could say to make Elysha pick it up: ‘That’s probably him,’ she urged. ‘I told him I was going to look for you. You should answer it. He doesn’t know anything about…’ She stopped as the ringing stopped. Too late. The voicemail must have cut in. Bitter tears stung her eyes. Who had it been? Delva? David Dunn? Or Jonathan, even? He would be here now, in Birmingham, collecting Elysha’s stillborn baby brother for a test that was now completely unnecessary. If she hadn’t decided to break things off he might have been with her now…

‘She’s driving at the moment – who is it?’

Megan caught her breath. She had answered it. Elysha had answered the phone.

‘Did you say Dominic? Dominic Wilde?’  

Adrenaline surged through Megan’s body. She closed her eyes tight, making a fervent, silent prayer:
Please, please don’t hang up; tell him who you are; listen to what he has to say.

‘Yes, this is Elysha, —Yes, she told me, but why should I believe her? Why should I believe either of you? —Well,
you say that, but you can’t be my real dad. If you were, you’d never have left me to deal with all this
shit
on my own. —No, I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to see you. —Just fuck off out of it and leave me alone!’

Megan felt as if she’d taken a second blow from the baseball bat. If Elysha had been her own child the pain could not be more acute, imaging Dominic’s anguish as his hopes and dreams were shattered.

There was a flash of silver as her phone flew across the room and smashed against the mantle piece. So that was it: her one chance gone. There was now no reason for Elysha to keep her alive.

‘Where does he live?’ The girl’s voice was gruff, as if she was fighting back tears. Megan sensed then that something had changed; that despite the angry words he had somehow got through to her.

‘He lives near here. In Balsall Gate.’ Megan had a fleeting fantasy of the two of them going to the prison to visit him; of seeing Dom reunited with his daughter. If she kept quiet about it no one need ever know that Elysha was the killer. What good would it do to turn her in? She had killed for a reason. For a very good reason. Could Megan be so sure she wouldn’t have done the same thing in those circumstances?
You can’t do that.
It was a fantasy. But she could use it.

‘Will you take me there?’

Megan bit her lip, wincing as her teeth grazed raw skin. She must say yes, must say whatever she had to. The only thing that mattered was getting out of this place alive. As her mouth formed the word there was a sudden yell from outside.

‘Ruby! You in there?’ It was a man’s voice: a voice that Megan didn’t recognise.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ The girl had the knife at her throat again.

‘I don’t know,’ Megan mumbled. ‘I haven’t told anyone, I swear to you.’ She felt the blade move away again. Elysha was in front of her now, crouching, looking at the window. Keeping her head down, she crept across the room to peer through the net curtains.

‘Jesus! What’s he doing here?’ The girl turned to Megan. ‘Keep your mouth shut, or you’re dead,’ she hissed. She darted into the hall, closing the lounge door behind her. Megan heard the man’s voice again, saying something she couldn’t quite make out. Elysha was saying something back: arguing with him, by the sound of it. Megan realised this was her chance. While they were talking she shuffled herself sideways so the chair she was tied to was facing the table. She was hoping against hope that Elysha had left the knife behind when she went to the door. But she hadn’t. Straining at the twine that held her arms, Megan cast about the room for something sharp, her eyes ranging over the mantelpiece, the sofa and the carpet. There was nothing. Then she remembered the nail scissors in her handbag. Shuffling a couple of inches closer to the table she managed to grasp the leather strap with her teeth. Pulling it towards her, she saw that it was still unzipped. She manoeuvred it with her mouth, tipping it over, spilling the contents onto the table. With her nose and chin she sifted through the junk until she located the scissors.
Thank God for those bloody prunes
, she thought.

All the time she could hear the voices in the hall getting louder. The man shouted an obscenity. Elysha shouted back: ‘Fuck off yourself, Lee!’

Megan gasped. It couldn’t be, could it? Lee Deacon? But of course: he had her address. It was on the visiting order. He must be so besotted with Elysha that he had given his jailer the slip to come and lay claim to her.
Christ
, she thought,
she’s got the knife – she’s going to kill him!
With a nudge of
her nose she knocked the scissors into her lap. She had just enough mobility in the lower part of her right arm to reach them. In a matter of seconds she had snipped through enough of the twine to release herself. As she ripped the remaining bonds from her legs she heard a roar from outside.