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

  The killer straightened, turned, and gently tugged at the curtains behind him. He gazed beyond the streetlamp that illuminated half his face – as if, from here, he could see the whole world.

  ‘What you failed to realise, Miss Sara,’ he continued, ‘is that anyone who can see into the past, can also see the future.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I didn’t kill those people for anything they had done. I killed them for the horrible crimes they would have committed ... if I had allowed them to live.’

  Sara felt her lips part in astonishment.

  The killer stared at her and spoke with absolute conviction.

  ‘Rachel Poole is alive for one reason only: because, a few hours ago, I killed the man who would have murdered her tonight.’

  ELEVEN

  The conference room in Aberystwyth’s police station was a large space on the first floor. Its west- facing wall is dominated by a wide, floor-to-ceiling arc of glass bricks, which diffused daylight through the room. Two days after meeting the killer, Sara sat with her back to the east wall, blinking past the silhouettes of CID officers, into the bright glare that overwhelmed her vision. Above her was a portrait of the Queen, and next to her were three whiteboards, on which a number of sketches, papers, and photos had been Blu-Tacked. The collage featured a CD Fit picture of the suspect, based on Sara’s description. She had spent all yesterday in the forensics department at police headquarters in Carmarthen, helping to put the identification photograph together. Surrounding it were shots of each of the murderer’s victims – including the fourth and most recent, whose body had been found only yesterday.

  Edmond Haney, a retired headmaster from Solihull, had been executed in his holiday caravan in Clarach. He was known to have visited the caravan park alone for the past four summers, and was described by the other holidaymakers as a pleasant man who enjoyed sunbathing on the beach, and had kept largely to himself. A strip of bedsheet had been tied around his throat after death. His genitals had been removed and, in a new twist, inserted into his mouth. Unsurprisingly to Sara, little Rachel Poole’s name had been inscribed under the symbol drawn on his skin.

  Sara and Jamie sat side-by-side in red-upholstered office chairs, with Ceri at the end of the front row. The CID men before them had been convened at Jamie’s request by Detective Chief Inspector Conroy, who was heading the investigation.

  ‘The offender,’ Sara said in deliberate tones, ‘is a white male in his middle twenties, who speaks with a soft American accent – probably from one of the south-eastern States. Behind me, you can see a Photofit, based on my description. It is accurate.’

  She gestured towards a blown-up photocopy of the Eye in the Pyramid next to her. ‘You know about this symbol, and my theories regarding the offender’s personal belief system. My encounter with him on Monday evening has proved those to be accurate: I am left with no doubt that he believes himself to be psychic. Furthermore, he is certain that, had he not killed his victims, they would have committed terrible crimes against the individuals whose names he recorded.’

  A few of the detectives glanced at one other. One young man frowned sceptically.

  ‘What has puzzled us are the ways in which he desecrated each of the bodies. We suspected they were messages of some sort, but couldn’t crack the code. Based on everything else we know now, his messages have become clear.

  ‘I am now convinced that the killer believes Navid Kapadia would have burned his children to death.’

  The detective who had frowned made eye contact with Sara. He shook his head in what he no doubt hoped was amused disbelief, but it looked to Sara like confusion. He was out of his depth.

  ‘We know that Mr Kapadia was experiencing considerable friction in his marriage,’ Sara continued, speaking directly to the young detective, ‘and that he had had intense arguments with his wife about whether to return to Pakistan. We also know he would occasionally strike her.’

  She used the tip of a pen like a pointer, and tapped on the second victim’s picture. ‘Dan Williams was a convicted rapist, and after death the offender severed his genitals. At one point, we had suspected that Carol Elliott – the woman whose name was found on a scrap of paper inside Mr Williams’ throat – had been raped by him. Now, we believe that the killer suspected she would have been, had he not prevented it.

  ‘Similarly, Aled Morgan used to work for Mrs Irene Davies, and engaged in petty theft to support his drug habit. The killer beat his body after death – we suspect this was a message that Aled would have beaten Mrs Davies, perhaps in a failed burglary.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jones,’ the sceptical detective interjected, ‘but, if you don’t mind my saying, it sounds a little far-fetched.’

  ‘I know,’ Sara said. She understood that this was a town where any murder was a rarity, and until recently, multiple murder non-existent. It was likely that none of these detectives had ever worked a case like this. Then again, this case would be unique for most Scotland Yard detectives.

  ‘Do you actually believe it?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I believe Aled would have beaten Mrs Davies to death? Who knows? Do I believe the offender thinks so? Definitely.’

  She paused and sipped from a coffee cup filled with water. The CID men muttered to each other. ‘Finally,’ Sara continued, ‘and most recently, we have Mr Haney. I know for a fact the killer thought he was about to murder five-year-old Rachel Poole, because he told me so. Mr Haney’s genitals were severed, and inserted into his mouth.’ She paused, and then added, ‘I’ll leave you to imagine why he might have done that.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Conroy cleared his throat, and said, ‘So you are not claiming that the offender is actually psychic?’

  ‘No, sir. I am saying the killer believes himself to be psychic. Whether any of what I have just described would actually have occurred is irrelevant. The point is, he thinks that he is performing a service to your local community – and my guess is, he’ll keep right on performing that service until you stop him.’

  Everyone fell silent as they pondered Sara’s words. From a cell downstairs, a single shout sounded.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Jones,’ said Conroy. ‘Now, gentlemen, I’d like to call upon Inspector Harding from Special Branch to bring us up to date on the hunt for the offender.’

  Jamie stood, and Sara wandered away from her chair, to the glass wall at the back of the room.

  ‘The offender,’ he said, ‘was known to have stayed in the Bryn Y Môr Guest House next to Constitution Hill on the night that Aled Morgan was murdered. The house-to-house teams have been unable to trace his whereabouts since that night ...’

  Eldon Carson lay on a blue vinyl exercise mat, eyes closed, his breathing regular, like a man asleep. Part of his consciousness was there, feeling the uneven floorboards on his back through the thin mat, but another, less-definable part of him was in Aberystwyth, listening to Jamie Harding talk about him.

  Since his night at the guest house, Carson had been constantly on the move, drifting from fields to barns. He had seldom ventured into public; his likeness was now too widely circulated. Until recently, it had been easy to live in such a peripatetic way. He was young and fit, and carried few possessions: spare clothing; a toothbrush; a razor; and handwritten notes about his targets. But he was getting tired, and this lifestyle had begun to feel like a punishing regimen.

  He had suspected that this day would come, and had taken steps to make it easier on himself – such as making the acquaintance of a loathsome form of life called Trevor Hughes. Hughes was a member of a so-called British Nationalist group known as Race Riot. This far-right fraternity, based in south-east London, had a very few die-hard followers in Mid Wales – Trevor Hughes being one of the most fervent, and most stupid.

  Carson had had no trouble convincing him that he was a member of a Georgia chapter of the Ku Klux Klan, on a White Power tour of Celtic Britain. After one beery evening discussing ludicrous racialist theories, Hughes had invited Carson to stay as his guest in h
is secluded bungalow, just off the road linking Clarach with Bow Street. For the last few nights, Carson had been sleeping on an exercise mat in Hughes’s spare room, amidst a collection of free-weights, and surrounded by Aryan-power posters, right-wing flags, and stacks of racist literature.

  Willing himself to view events as they happened was one of Eldon Carson’s less reliable skills. His clearest psychic impressions always came to him unbidden – as if he’d just happened to find the right frequency.

  This had occurred when he had first arrived in Aberystwyth, and observed Navid Kapadia buying a newspaper at WHSmith. That mundane moment had caused a rush of awe, like nausea, to swell in his belly and rise to his throat. His travels through Britain had been aimless, pointless, a journey through small towns, reading the petty angers of their inhabitants. Then, as he had approached Aberystwyth, he had felt a calming rightness about his direction. He had not understood why he was here until that moment in the newsagents. He was struck with a sickening force by an image of that man – the one so innocently buying a newspaper – dousing himself and his children in petrol, then waiting for his wife to open the door. That had been the moment his destiny had solidified.

  Yet, he had been horrified. He was not a killer! It had taken hours of shadowing Navid Kapadia, and being struck by wave after wave of horror emanating from the man’s future, for Carson to realise that everything he had instinctively believed about right and wrong, about justice itself, had been superseded by his dreadful gift.

  Later, when he saw Sara Jones, Carson had felt her strikingly familiar abilities buried – nascent, inert – deep within her. It was then that he had known that his new realisation would be understood by another. Understood and justified.

  Carson observed Sara now, gathering her things together as the meeting in Aberystwyth was officially wrapped up, and its participants dismissed. He shook himself awake, sat up on the mat, and rubbed his face with his hands. The room smelt of stale sweat. Without a warning knock, the door handle jerked downwards. Carson looked up sharply. On the back of the door was a poster, featuring a blocky drawing of an armoured knight on horseback, raising his sword into the air. Underneath, it read “Aryans Arise!”

  Trevor Hughes shoved open the door open and grinned. ‘Thought I heard you awake,’ he said. ‘Can I grab you a beer?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Carson said.

  ‘You’re getting old, mate,’ Hughes said, his round face smirking. He pulled the door shut as he retreated from the room.

  A few minutes later, Carson emerged from the bedroom. Hughes stood in the small landing at his front door, talking in low tones through a narrow crack, held by a security chain. To Carson’s surprise, the young man he spoke to was dark-skinned. He watched the man slip Trevor a folded wad of notes through the small gap in the door. Trevor accepted the money, and counted it carefully, twice. Then he reached into his jeans and withdraw a small clear bag of brown powder.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘piss off before someone sees you.’

  The man nodded nervously, and Trevor closed the door on him, and turned around. ‘Oh, hi, mate,’ he said to Carson. ‘Didn’t hear you back there.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Don’t think too badly of me, doing business with wogs. Round here, you take what customers you can get.’

  He gestured with the fist that clutched the banknotes. ‘I always charge ’em more than a white lad, anyhow. That one there, he’s really messed up.’ Trevor laughed, an ugly chortle. ‘Smack’s done him no favours at all.’

  He thrust the money into his pocket and picked up his tin of beer. ‘Once a week I take a run up to Liverpool to pick up stock,’ he volunteered conversationally. ‘This isn’t a big enough market for them to bring it down. But I know all the main dealers. Liverpool’s best, then Manchester.’ He narrowed his eyes speculatively. ‘Birmingham, if I’m in a hurry.’

  He smiled, and took a pull on his beer. Foam trickled down his chin.

  Carson stared at Hughes, feeling nothing but mute fury. After several seconds in which Carson simply stared at him in astonishment, Hughes began to look uncomfortable.

  ‘Hey ... what’s the matter, mate?’

  Carson gestured at a poster that proclaimed “White Pride Worldwide!”. ‘How can you be proud of yourself?’ he asked, his voice steady and quiet. ‘How can you feel so superior, when you’ve let yourself sink to this?’

  Hughes shook his head defensively. ‘Mate, I don’t take the stuff,’ he said. ‘I just sell it.’

  Carson swallowed hard, and fought to control his temper. Trevor Hughes was looking at him with hurt surprise. He had almost lost the plot, Carson realised, in his disgust for this man. He took a deep breath. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his jaw aching from the effort to control his words. ‘I guess so.’

  Trevor Hughes’ relief was visible as his muscles relaxed and his shoulders slumped forward. ‘Atta boy,’ he said. ‘Now, are you going to have a beer or aren’t you?’

  Sara and Ceri used the station’s back exit: past the cells, through the secure outdoor area, and into the car park.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what this villain thinks he’s killing for,’ Ceri said, ‘it all comes down to the same thing. Bodies.’

  She glanced up at the wall, behind which sat the conference room. ‘I just hope some of them took what you had to say on board.’

  ‘They weren’t hostile,’ Sara said, walking Ceri towards her car. ‘Just perplexed. They’re not sure what to try next. I’m sure Jamie will talk them through it.’

  Sara wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or whether Ceri had bristled at the mention of Jamie’s name.

  ‘Can I take you somewhere?’ Ceri asked.

  ‘I’m parked next to the cinema,’ Sara said. ‘It’s a nice day; I’ll walk.’

  Ceri nodded and unlocked her car, as Jamie appeared from around the front of the building. Beyond him, Constitution Hill could be seen in the distance. The white Camera Obscura gleamed in the noon sun, looking quaint and charming. ‘There you are,’ he said, approaching. ‘Did you sleep well last night?’

  Sara smiled. ‘Like a baby, thanks.’

  Yesterday, Jamie and Ceri had independently put pressure on the Detective Superintendent to authorise a constable to guard Sara’s house at nights. Sara had protested that she didn’t need such personal – and unwarranted – attention. Nonetheless, last evening, a young man in uniform had trudged up and down the muddy lane in the light rain, until Sara insisted that he come into the kitchen. She had shown him where the tea was, turned on the radio for him, and gone to bed.

  She had to admit, she had felt better for his presence, even though she knew that the killer did not mean to harm her. Instead, he had wanted to use her, to lead her into drawing the conclusions she had now drawn.

  ‘I was wondering when we could keep our date,’ Jamie said pointedly.

  Ceri raised her eyebrows slightly, but did not look at Sara. Sara knew that to explain what Jamie meant would do nothing except anger her, so she pretended not to notice. ‘I’m not sure,’ Sara said vaguely.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Sara,’ Ceri huffed, and got into her car. She did not acknowledge Jamie.

  Together, they watched Ceri’s panda car pull away.

  When she had turned into the steady traffic that sped along the Boulevard Saint-Brieuc, Jamie stared into the distance, towards Constitution Hill.

  ‘What’s wrong with right now?’ he asked.

  The village of Gefail was one single street, running through a valley, surrounded by hills dotted with sheep and fields full of cows. It branched away from the road that linked Aberystwyth with Machynlleth to the north-east. Two hundred years before, Gefail had been home to a few craftsmen, who had served local farmers and the nearby villages. Two blacksmiths had practised there, as had the area’s largest manufacturer of coffins.

  By the time Sara’s family moved in, the village had grown to eleven houses. A few were the homes of farmers, the rest housed professionals who practised in Aberystwyth. Mr
Rhodri Jones Senior had been a solicitor, and his family had lived in the largest, oldest house on the street. It had been built by the blacksmith who founded the village. Gefail meant ‘forge.’

  Sara stared out the window at the passing fields and houses, tingling with apprehension about this experiment. She realised, as perhaps Jamie did not, the unfair burden she was placing on him: he had to convince Sara that opening this emotional wound would unite them, yet she had no clear idea of what proof she required from him.

  When they turned off the main road onto the narrow street, Sara was startled to see that her favourite trees had disappeared. When she was a girl, the first hundred yards had been lined with old oaks, which had given the impression that they were standing sentinel to protect the village. Now, they had been chopped away to make room for new, two storey houses, each designed to be distinctive, and every one looking exactly the same.

  They passed the new white boxes, and rolled slowly to the older end of the street. To Sara it was like travelling back in time. ‘There, Jamie,’ she said finally, in a subdued voice, ‘that one.’

  When they pulled up in front of the ivy-covered red brick house, Sara began to tremble. The sun was gleaming off the white portico, and the fields just behind the conservatory were a dazzling emerald green, but the sight of her old home filled her with grey, queasy dread.

  And when they came back, it was in livid, excruciatingly painful, detail.

  TWELVE

  In its quiet way, Mid Wales accepts, or at least tolerates, a dizzying variety of alternate lifestyles. Anarchists, artists, Buddhists, druids, and pagans run to the Welsh hills, choose their rural patch of land, and go about their peripheral business undisturbed.

  In 1995, a commune for casualties of the rave scene set up stakes to the north-east of Gefail, in the picturesque Artists Valley. The four men and three women shared a single, remote cottage hidden in a wood, around the presence of their leader, twenty-eight-year-old Duncan Kraig. In the late 1980s, Kraig had been a pioneer DJ in Manchester’s clubs, at a time when acid house culture still relied on its namesake as drug of choice. Kraig never really fitted into the lovey-dovey scene that evolved with the craze for MDMA; his hues had always been darker, and were deepened by the handfuls of LSD he had continued to swallow.