Chapter 106 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 16
PAT
Snarling, I kick at her door, just to see the look of surprise on the pug-faced old bag. That excuse for a
chain wouldn’t keep me out. She shrieks and retreats, mming the door closed, then bolts behind it.
I’d like to kick the old bitch’s face in. Kick the door in, then her face, but I’ve bigger fish to fry. Banging
open Lily’s door, I charge inside…
The coffee table’s still there, but the fruit bowl’s gone. So’s the TV. A few curled-up chick-mags collect
dust in the rack, but a lot of the knick-knacks and clutter I sort-of remember are missing.
In the kitchen, the fridge is emptied. The trash can too. In the bedroom the slut-tmate used, stale-
smelling covers are tugged back from a mattress. But Lily’s room is almost stripped. The bed and
wardrobe have gone, leaving only a few dents on the carpet to show where they stood. A pair of
stained bedside cupboards remain, one with amp that must havee from a budget store on a bad
day.
Where is she?
Where is she?
mming open the drawer of one bedside table, I scrabble through packets of tissues, foil strips of
aspirin and ibuprofen and a couple of yellowed paperbacks… Looking for…
… for…
A phone book?
An address book…
Anything to tell me where she might be…
Nothing.
The other cupboards are no more use.
I try the kitchen. In one drawer: a mess of old takeaway menus and supermarket discount coupons.
The rest: nothing but some creased up lining paper.
Then I spot it: on the wall, a corkboard, pinned with scraps of paper, jotted phone numbers and
business cards: a 24-hour plumber, obviously home printed with one of those off-the-shelf cartoon
logos you can download from the inte. A carpenter. The card for a locksmith looks as though it’s
been taken down and repinned several times. A hairdresser. One for a nail salon with a scribbled note
in biro. Monday 16th. Ask for Gina. Another for Interflora. Mom 26th May.
But one item catches my eye: brand new, thick, high-quality card, with an embossed foil logo and a
expensive-looking satiny finish. When I pluck it off the board, it even smells slightly of leather.
It’s for a gym and some luxury spa ce out beyond the City.
It… doesn’t fit…
On an impulse, I check the website…
*****
KLEMPNER
I knew he’d turn up. In my gut, I knew it.
Got you, you cowardly little bastard…
He’s betrayed himself now. Until this, I had nothing before I could offer Stanton with any certainty
beyond my own gut feeling that I had their target. Now, at the very least, I’ve caught a stalker in the act.
He’s returned, as I was sure he would, staking out the apartment. But I was here first, waiting.
Getting careless…
Didn’t even close the door properly…
Suppressing the urge to grin, I drain thest of the water bottle I’ve been nursing for thest two hours,
get out of my car and follow…
… then pause…
Backtracking a few steps, four quick stabs of my knife into the tires ensure that Hoodie won’t be making
a quick getaway by that route. This time, I don’t suppress the grin. Instead, padding quietly to the door,
I let myself in. There’s no need even to force the lock. He’s saved me the trouble.
It’s no picture postcard inside, poorly maintained and long overdue for renovation. And with no air con,
it''s oppressively hot.
All the girl can afford, I suppose.
Three flights up and along a corridor: two doors face each other, one standing open.
I’d thought to go charging in, but on second thoughts…
Get a confession out of him?
Maybe…
Easing the door open, I step inside. A faded living space showing all the signs of a hasty evacuation,
Michael’s work, I assume. No one’s in sight, but from a door off to one side, I hear movement. Treading
softly across worn carpet, I follow the sound.
It’s the kitchen. He’s there, his back turned to me, rummaging through drawers and cupboards,
producing only the kind of discarded junk you might find in a garage sale.
“Something I can help you with?”
He spins, eyes narrowed, a cracked sticder clutched in one hand. And now I get my first really
good look at him.
Close up…
No hood…
Clear daylight…
Mousy hair. Average face. Eyes the thin blue of chipped china.
He’s nondescript to the point of being faceless.
No wonder I didn’t recognise you…
“Who the fuck are you?” he snaps.
And you still don’t recognise me…
“Landlord. What’s going on? Who are you?”
He rxes… “Oh…ndlord?” …looks at me hard for a second, as though trying to ce my face,
then, “Came looking for Marty, but she’s not here.” He gestures around the space. “Half the furniture’s
gone. Bedroom too. Looks like she’s done a moonlight flit.” He sniffs. “She owe you back-rent or
something?”
“Something,” I say. “So, who are you?”
“Boyfriend,” he shrugs. “That’s what I thought anyway. We were s’posed to meet up. She stood me up,
so I came looking for her.”
“I don’t think so. You’re no boyfriend.”
For a moment, he looks disconcerted, then he rubs the back of his neck. Gives me a sheepish grin.
“Okay, I lied. Sorry about that. Fact is, she owes me money too. I’ll not miss her, but I’ll kinda miss the
money if y’know what I mean. Any idea where I can find her?”
“No. And you’re still lying.”
He pauses, wheels turning behind his eyes. His mouth twists to a snarl. “You’re nondlord.”
I shrug, widen my eyes. “I lied too.”
“Who the fuck are you?” He stares at me, hard. As though puzzling my face.
You know we’ve met…
But where?
“You''d be better asking me why I''m here.”
“Okay, why are you here?” he sneers.
“I''vee for you, Patrick.” His sneer freezes… “Or should I call you Ricky? Which is it? Pat or Ricky?
Or does it just depend on whether you’re out to slice up some woman?”
He twitches one way, then the other, dithering. Then hurling theder at me, he darts off to one
side. But I was expecting it. Grabbing him by the wrist, I pull him up short, pping him across the
cheek. “Not so easy, is it? When it’s like this. You want more?” I p again, this time backhanding him,
so he staggers back. “You know how to hand it out. But can you take it?”
Twisting his arm up behind his back, I spin him around so both our faces are visible in the mottled wall
mirror, he watching me, and me, him.
“Feels good, does it?” I hiss into his ear. “Cutting up some woman that can''t defend herself. When
she’s screaming and crying and begging you to let her live?” He struggles, but I tighten my hold. “How
do you feel now?”
“What the fuck you talking about?” He snarls and squirms, then yelps as I jam the arm further upward.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the man who’s hunting a serial killer…”
He jolts. “What the…?”
“… And now, I’ve got you.”
Another jolt. Flushing, he splutters fake outrage. “You’ve got the wrong man. Whatever it is you want,
it’s not me you’re after.”
“Oh, I think it is. I’ve been watching you. In the park. In the Sapphire Club. I’ve been following you. You
stalked the girl. I stalked you.”
He’s still spluttering. “Sure, I fancied the little slut. That doesn’t mean I was going to hurt her.”
“No? What were you going to do? There’s only so many options when a man stalks a woman who’s not
interested in him. Who’s already told him she’s not interested. When he follows her home. Breaks into
her building. Breaks into her apartment.”
He rxes, going ck. “Okay! Okay… Look, I… Like you said, I broke in. But I’m a burr. Not a
murderer. Can’t we talk about this?”
“A burr? And what’s supposed to be in this dump that’s worth stealing? And you don’t stalk a woman
for…”
“She’s a hooker,” he spits. “And you''ve got nothing on me. Nothing!”
“Not true. I have your photo.” In the mirror, his jaw ckens… “… Or more correctly, the police have
your photo.”
His expression tightens again, head twisting back. “So? Proves nothing. I tried to hook up with a pro.
You think anyone cares? Some cheap whore from a joint like that.”
“They care. Maybe not usually, but this time the police are hunting the Surgeon. We both know it’s you.”
That ck-jawed expression again, then his face sets. “No, I’m not. You can''t prove I am. You can’t
prove anything. Worst you’ve got on me is following some cheap tart home.”
“You think? The forensic specialist tells me the killer got careless. He left DNA evidence behind. If
you''re not the Surgeon, you can prove it easily. So… give me a DNA sample and we''ll have you
knocked off the suspects list inside the day.”
His mouth opens in protest. “That’s not true. Borje’s reports said…” And he stalls as he realises his
mistake…
“Yes? You were saying? Borje’s reports?” Despite being able to see my reflection in the mirror, his eyes
nt back to me… “… I wondered if you’d read them. Wouldn’t be difficult to sneak a look, would it,
Ricky? Plenty of excuses for you to hang around the morgue when you deliver the corpses there.”
His reflected eyes dart left, then right. He twitches and shivers, but I’ve a good hold on him. He’s going
N?velDrama.Org: owner of this content.
nowhere. For good measure, I increase the pressure pushing his arm up his back. “Nothing to say? I
didn’t think so. That’s all the confirmation I nee…”
From out in the corridor, footsteps… Then a voice, female, nasal and reedy. “In there. He went in
there…” A pause, then the door ms open to frame a rat of a man wearing a grubby tee-shirt. He
gapes around the room, then at me and Hoodie. “What the hell’s going on here? Where’s my tenant?”
Hoodie struggles and squirms. I ignore him except to tighten my hold. “You’re thendlord?”
“Yes. Where is she?” says Rat-Face.
“Gone. She’s…”
“Gone? What d’you mean gone?”
“Gone as in left. Departed. Flown the nest.”
“And what about my rent?” He strides in, mouthing off. “And who the fuck are you two? I’m not having
any fighting here. This is a respectable premises.”
“Yes, I’m sure the cockroaches wipe their feet before theye in. Make yourself useful. Call the
police. Tell them I’ve someone here they’ll be interested to meet.”
Colour flushes up his neck. “Police? I’m not having police here…” Grabbing at my arm, he tugs. “Get
the fuck out of here, the pair of you…”
As Rattie pulls at me, Hoodie twists, tugs, then as I try to regain my hold, ducks and bites, sinking his
teeth into my hand. In sheer reflex, my fingers release, and he bolts.
Cursing as I lunge after him, “Close that fucking door before...” But Hoodie rams against thendlord,
bowling the useless shit to the floor. He’s free, but as he hurdles the fallen Rattie, I have my knife,
shing out, catching the back of his hand. Blood sshes over the wall, and he shrieks, then
clutching his injured hand, he’s out.
Rattie, still on the floor, wails panic, thrashing around, blocking my exit. Yanking him upright, I m him
against the wall, out of my way, but from outsidees a crash, followed by a frail scream. “I’ve got
her! Back off or I''ll open her up like a stuck pig.”
In the corridor, the door opposite is kicked open, a cheap chain dangling loose, trailing screws and
wood splinters, the room spilling the stink of unwashed body and stale urine.