Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Read online

  ‘Okay,’ Sara said quietly. Although her mind was flooded with questions, she could think of none that Jamie Harding could answer.

  The phone line hissed. Sara could hear the quiet voices of police officers in the background. ‘Look,’ Jamie said, ‘I’ll be in touch, all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sara said.

  She was grappling with the urge to ask him when, when she realised the line had gone dead.

  The next day rolled by like dull scenery from a car window. Andy Turner’s session came and went, then Sara nodded sympathetically while not listening to a shopaholic who had to choose between her husband and another bracelet.

  Near the end of the afternoon, Emma knocked once and poked her head through the door, interrupting the day’s final session. Sara frowned; being interrupted during a client’s time was almost unheard of. She excused herself, and moved into the reception room, where Jamie Harding stood, looking pale and uncomfortable.

  Sara’s lips parted in surprise.

  ‘I’ll stay with Mr Bergson,’ Emma muttered, closing the door to Sara’s office behind her.

  ‘They found the boy,’ he said. ‘By the river, near the building site. Officers found him thrashing about; seems he’d taken an huge dose of painkillers, and washed it down with brandy.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sara murmured. People who tried to kill themselves that way assumed they would simply drift off to sleep forever. Often, the truth was more grisly: they slept for several hours, and then woke up in searing agony.

  ‘He passed away on the drive to the hospital.’ Jamie moved toward her and took her hand firmly in his. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me. I’d like you to talk to Vivian Loxley’s parents.’

  Sara blinked. ‘Why now? You didn’t need me last night.’

  He swallowed before continuing. ‘Because they found a piece of paper in his pocket, with two suicide notes on it ... his, and Vivian’s.

  Sara heard herself gasp.

  ‘That’s why there was no sign of struggle,’ Jamie Harding said. ‘She allowed him to him kill her.’

  He squeezed Sara’s hand more tightly. ‘Vivian Loxley wanted to die.’

  Paul’s suicide note had shown a fatalism common to those suffering fear and regret in the wake of a devastating mistake. Vivian’s note had been more pathetic. She had not wanted to live without Paul.

  At the parents’ home, Sara had done her professional best, but after the numb shock and tears, there was little to be said. When they left the grieving couple, Jamie offered to take Sara home ... unless she wanted to pick up some food and go back to his place in Brixton.

  Jamie lived in a large one-bedroom flat in an old, converted house. The decor was Spartan: white walls without pictures; limed floorboards; a leather sofa suite; and a laptop on the small kitchen table. It was the place of a bachelor who spent little time at home.

  They ate Thai food straight from the plastic containers. Jamie kept up a stream of small talk, but Sara answered on auto-pilot; she was not so easily distracted from Vivian Loxley’s tragedy. What had Paul Sullivan said to her that made her willing to give up her life? What power had he had over her? And from what demon had he obtained it?

  After Jamie had taken away the remains of their dinner, he sat down next to her and took her hand in his. ‘You’re still finding it hard, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘More than the other cases you’ve worked on?’

  ‘Much more. I knew her. She trusted me to help her ...’ Sara’s throat closed up and she choked on tears.

  He pulled a tissue from a nearby box and held it gently to her face. ‘You don’t have to say any more,’ he whispered.

  ‘I want to.’

  And she did want to. There was something about his concern, about the warmth of his gentle strength that sapped her dark, old emotions of some of their power. For the next several minutes, Sara told him the story of her parents’ murder.

  When she had finished, he said, ‘I’m sorry. If I’d known how painful this would be for you, I never would have got you involved.’

  ‘Then I’m lucky you didn’t know.’ She took his hand. ‘I’m glad I met you.’

  He sank back in the sofa. ‘It would have been nice to have met under other circumstances.’

  She smiled, and pulled his arm around her shoulder.

  They sat in silence while the sky outside grew dark.

  That was the first night they made love. Through the autumn and winter, into the New Year, their altered relationship had grown like a fragile new life – until the small death that brought it to a sad, silent end two months later.

  TEN

  Clarach was a small holiday community, located a couple of miles north of Aberystwyth. It boasted a beautiful stretch of beach, and stunning views up the coast, but the aesthetic was marred by clusters of caravans sitting haphazardly opposite the shoreline.

  It would have been a long walk to follow the roads from Clarach to Aberystwyth; the swiftest path was over the cliffs that separated the two centres. In places it was narrow, and the danger of slipping, of plummeting over the edge, made such a journey inadvisable at night. Nonetheless, Eldon Carson hiked up the steep, twisting path to the cliff-top as the last glow of the sun was vanishing behind the calm sea.

  Except for that red haze that clung to the horizon like a low cloud, the sky was a deep azure. Carson’s heart beat rapidly. The pounding was not the same as the thudding he got just before a killing – that was caused by a sickly excitement, and it had lessened each time, as Carson grew more certain of the rightness of his actions. No – tonight his racing pulse was the result of something different. It came from a strong sense of connection to another human being; something he was feeling for the first time in his life.

  Carson hiked along a flat ridge until he came to a patch of familiar ground: the path between Clarach and Aberystwyth led to Constitution Hill. He surveyed the scene with an air of melancholy, and thought about how, throughout his life, he had found it near impossible to relate to those around him. It was not for want of trying; he had genuinely wanted to fit in – but there had been no one who could understand him. No one who saw things the way he did.

  Carson had wandered far in order to find someone who could.

  Before making his descent into the town, Carson stood atop the hill where he had killed the Morgan boy, and looked out at the lights, the cars, the occasional pedestrians strolling the promenade, preparing himself for contact. First, he would visit that old white house, just to see that everything was in place.

  Then, he would wander through the town, and, at exactly the right moment, he would keep his appointment with Dr Sara Jones.

  On Monday evenings, the Drop-In Centre stayed open until nine o’clock. It was the one night that Sara made sure to be on duty, in case anyone wanted to speak to her personally. She was becoming popular with local hypochondriacs and the elderly, both realising that she offered a two-for-one chance: for them to detail their psychological problems and also obtain medical advice. Usually, she referred them to their GPs.

  It had been a busy evening, and Sara had escorted the last of her visitors down the stairs and out the door just after 9.15. She was late for a dinner date, and had left her briefcase, medical bag, and a few other odds and ends in the Centre, intending to retrieve them before heading home.

  Sara had met with her group of nurses and social workers at a tandoori restaurant on the pier, and they had questioned her about the murders. Although she had told no one of her involvement, Sara had been spotted by the press on the previous Wednesday, as she pushed through the crowd at the foot of Constitution Hill. Photos of her approaching the Cliff Railway, on her way to Aled Morgan’s murder scene, had appeared in several of the national papers, leading to lurid speculation about an occult dimension to the case. The caption under one tabloid photo had read, “The Devil’s Work? Welsh call Spook Shrink as body count grows.”

  Over dinner, she was preoccupied, not by the cas
e but by thoughts of Jamie. It felt strange to have admitted she loved him. Until she said the words, she had not consciously realised her emotions stretched that far. Despite her feelings, she had been serious when she rejected the idea of marriage. She had felt that accepting Jamie’s life would be denying her quest for her own. She felt she had betrayed her parents by not understanding their deaths, and had failed Rhodri by not preventing his descent into the savage life he kept hidden from the world.

  Yet, Jamie had tried to reconcile her needs with their love. She wanted desperately to believe his claim that accepting him would be enlisting an ally. Sara was not convinced, only hopeful, and it was with hope that she had agreed to his desire to see the house where the murders had happened. Perhaps, she thought, by observing how they related at that most terrible of spots, she would know whether they might have a future together.

  Such thoughts continued to swirl through Sara’s mind as she joined her friends for drinks at a nearby pub. She hoped she was better company than she thought.

  It was about 10.30 when she made her way, alone, down the promenade. The sky had dimmed to a deep indigo, and anything not illuminated by the streetlights was in silhouette. In the wake of the murders, most Aberystwyth women had stopped walking alone in the dark and, as she hurried along the pavement, Sara felt exposed, vulnerable.

  Her mind was foggy with lager and gin. She shouldn’t drive like this, she thought, and decided to make a cup of coffee and review paperwork at the Centre before heading on to Penweddig. That would give her time to sober up, and to get a grip on herself, and stop being frightened of shadows.

  She unlocked the door, secured it again behind her, and pulled herself up the dark staircase. Inside the large room, she switched on the overhead fluorescent lights, which gave the old upholstered chair and sofa, the Formica tables and the orange plastic chairs a harsh white glow. The Centre was so quiet she could hear the lights buzzing, and she flicked on a radio for comfort. Ella Fitzgerald was singing ‘The Starlit Hour’. Sara filled the kettle, and took her case notes out of her briefcase.

  Several minutes later, she paused from her work, suddenly alert without knowing why. Taking a mental inventory, she cocked her head ... it was a sound, barely audible under the music. She reached out and slowly switched off the radio.

  Downstairs ... the scratching of metal on metal. Someone was picking the lock.

  She sucked in a trembling breath and rose so fast the plastic chair toppled to the floor with a clatter. She cried out, and rushed to the phone, fumbling the receiver, punching in the number of the police station.

  ‘It’s Dr Jones at the Drop-In Centre on Marine Terrace,’ she gabbled, ‘please send a patrol car immediately, there’s an intruder –’

  Downstairs, the door’s cheap lock sprang open, and Sara dropped the phone. Groping for her medical bag, she dashed to the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. Very softly, someone was climbing the stairs. She could not control the sound of her terrified panting.

  She thought of the fire escape, outside the back window, but the footsteps were growing louder; there would never be time to struggle with the creaking wooden frame. Breathless, she hurried towards the lavatory at the back of the Centre. The rush of blood was loud in her ears, and the orange streetlight that filtered through the window threw an elongated shadow before her. She slipped into the small back room and rooted about in her medical bag for her syringe as the lights flickered on in the main room.

  ‘Please come out of there,’ called a voice. An American accent. Southern. ‘You don’t need to be frightened.’

  Sara hesitated, her mind whirring. He knew where she was, and there was no escape from this small room. She would not let him trap her; she would have to face him. Keeping her hand concealed in the bag, she edged into the main room.

  The man stood in the doorway. He was in his early-to-mid-twenties, with dark brown hair that looked as if it had once been short, but had grown without being trimmed. His complexion was dark, his expression brooding, and his eyes intelligent.

  ‘The Centre is closed now,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘I have called the police.’

  From nowhere, a warming calm took hold of her mind. It felt like a tranquilliser, pulsing down and dulling the adrenaline that had constricted her muscles. She did not understand her new emotions, but suddenly she felt safe. When the young man spoke again, his voice was soothing. ‘I haven’t come here to hurt you,’ he said.

  He inclined his head towards the centre of the room. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I think you already have,’ she answered slowly.

  He took a few more paces into the room, and stood, straight but relaxed. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You were almost right in so many of your assumptions. I want you to know the truth, Miss Sara. It’s crucial that you do.’

  Sara nodded calmly, hoping she could keep him talking until a constable arrived.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘what is the truth?’

  He smiled, as if he had read her thoughts. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d be stupid not to be.’

  ‘You reckon?’ He angled his head thoughtfully. ‘Answer me this: if I was inclined to, could I kill you, right now?’

  Sara pursed her lips, then said levelly, ‘You could try.’

  An abrupt guffaw. ‘You know I could. But you understand I don’t intend to, right?’

  Sara’s expression remained neutral, and she said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you’re curious, too. I haven’t come to hurt you, so you’re puzzled about what I do want. You’d hate to play my game ... but it’s the only way you’ll find out what’s what.’

  Stepping backwards, he added, ‘’Specially since I’m not hanging around ’til the cops come.’

  Abruptly, he turned his back. ‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘I got something to show you.’

  Then he was gone, skipping swiftly down the stairs. As he did, Sara found herself able to think clearly once more.

  This young man was the killer.

  Her mind filled with the image of Aled Morgan’s body slumped next to the pub on Constitution Hill – he had done that! All talk of wanting to tell her the truth was laughable in the light of that single, pathetic image. A combination of panic and anger churned inside her.

  She heard the door close downstairs as he left the building.

  There was no time left to wait for the police. What he’d said was true: if she didn’t follow, she’d lose him.

  And he had to be caught. She flung herself after him, feeling no fear. She believed what he said. He did not want to harm her. He expected her to play some other role in his game.

  Sara charged down the stairs two at a time, and wheeled out the door. Already, he was turning the corner, onto Terrace Road, leading away from the sea front.

  Sara chased him past darkened shop fronts until he turned left onto Cambrian Street. Gasping for breath, she skidded to a halt at the corner several seconds later, and scanned the street. Her prey was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, a police siren wailed. A pack of students, part of the small band who remain in Aber through the summer, were stumbling past, en route from one pub to the next.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Sara blurted. ‘I’m looking for a man – did you see a man?’

  One of the group – a beefy boy cultivating an unsuccessful moustache – sensed her distress with malicious glee. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he cried, spreading his arms wide, ‘I am the man you’re looking for!’

  ‘Yeah, in your dreams,’ another chortled, and fixed Sara with a blurry stare. ‘Actually, ma’am, he’s right over there,’ he said, pointing in several directions at once.

  ‘No, wait!’ chimed another, pointing up Terrace Road towards the train station. ‘He’s catching a train. I saw him.’

  ‘A bus,’ giggled a girl gamely. ‘Try the buses!’

  For a moment, Sara’s mind blanked, refusing to recognise drunken bravado
. Didn’t these people realise there was a killer on the loose? In frustration she threw herself down Cambrian Street. Halfway along, the killer was waiting calmly down a side turning. As soon as she noticed him, he turned and continued on his way at a brisk pace. She dashed after him, sweat dribbling down her cheeks.

  He led her into an affluent area not far from the hospital on the eastern fringe of town. Above them on Penglais Hill, the floodlit facade of the National Library glowed brightly. Everything around Sara seemed darker in contrast. At the front of a large gabled house, the killer stopped long enough to make eye contact. She saw him grin. He skipped around to the side of the house, and she followed, only to reach a dead-end patch of grass and an open bathroom window. There was nowhere else he could have gone. Without thinking, she jumped, and, balanced awkwardly on the sill, before landing a foot inside, on the toilet. The porcelain clanked and scraped as she lowered herself onto the ceramic-tiled floor.

  Except for Sara’s laboured breathing, the house was totally quiet – and very dark. She held her arms in front of her, and swam through shadows, poking her head into the silent living room, the large empty kitchen, and a child’s untidy play room. The only sound was her own panting, and the blood pulsing in her ears. Cautiously, she climbed the creaking stairs to the first floor. One bedroom door was open, at the end of the hall. By the orange flicker of a nightlight, she could make out a single bed – and, inside it, the small shape of a child under blankets.

  Her stomach churned. On the other side of the bed stood the killer.

  Sara threw herself forward, and skidded to a halt at the side of the bed. The killer did not move as she laid a hand on the child’s straight blonde hair.

  Her head was still warm.

  ‘I told you not to be frightened,’ whispered the killer. ‘This little girl’s okay.’

  He stooped down and stroked her head. His fingers brushed against Sara’s, and she flinched. ‘Her name,’ he added, ‘is Rachel Poole.’

  Sara withdrew her hand slowly from Rachel Poole’s hair.

  ‘I said you were nearly right in your assumptions ... but you hadn’t yet arrived at the truth. If you had, you would feel nothing now but relief – relief and joy.’