Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Page 4

  Sara enjoyed the order she had so far imposed on the house. She had hopes for this kitchen, especially. So far, it had a new slate floor, and all the walls had been re-plastered. The aboriginal paintings from her Harley Street office sat on the floor, leaning against the unpainted, putty-coloured walls. The paintings’ bright colours and modern, expensive frames made a strange contrast to the bare plaster, the old, splintered wood, and the cobwebs that seemed to grow in the corners no matter how many times Sara brushed them away. Unopened boxes filled with plates and kitchen gadgets were piled in front of almost every cabinet.

  Sara leaned forward onto the table opposite Jamie. ‘What have you got to show me?’

  He typed his pass code into an iPad, and tapped the ‘Photos’ icon. ‘We’ve kept this out of the newspapers,’ he said, ‘to weed out bogus confessions.’

  Jamie pushed the tablet towards her, and swiped back and forth between two photos. Each showed in close-up a neatly rendered drawing of a symbol: an equilateral triangle, with its base missing. The bottom side had been replaced by two semi-circles, each seeming to hang from one of the sides of the triangle. Inside this unusual glyph stared a single eye, and radiating from it was a series of lines.

  ‘Where were these found?’ Sara asked.

  ‘The first was drawn in chalk on the pavement of Mr Kapadia’s house. It didn’t appear until two days after his murder. The second was drawn in biro straight onto Mr Williams’ skin.’

  ‘His skin?’

  ‘His stomach, to be precise. What can you tell me about the symbol?’

  Sara looked at one of the photos and shrugged. ‘It’s the All-Seeing Eye ... a common enough mystical motif. To some, it represents the omnipresent nature of God, but it can also signify spiritual knowledge or abilities: the ‘third eye’ of an enlightened individual.’

  Jamie nodded, scratching notes into a small booklet. ‘What about the pyramid?’

  ‘It’s a sign of durability. It can illustrate the unchanging nature of God’s protection, or the age-old wisdom possessed by the elect.’

  ‘You said this thing is common?’

  ‘Quite common. Freemasons in the late eighteenth century were especially taken with it – that’s why you’ll find it on the back of every American dollar bill.’

  Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting.’

  Sara tapped her Mont Blanc fountain pen on the edge of the iPad. ‘What makes this one unusual is the bottom of the pyramid,’ she said. ‘There are semi-circles where the base should be. My guess is, they have special significance for the killer.’

  Jamie nodded. ‘We found things written under the symbols. Look at the next four photos.’

  Sara swiped. Two of the next photographs displayed the pyramids from a wider angle, and words were now visible under each symbol. The other two photos were close-ups of the writing itself. In one photo – the words rendered in chalk on pavement – Sara read:

  Jamila

  Yusuf

  In the second – ink applied neatly to flesh – only one name was inscribed:

  Carol Ann Elliott

  ‘In Mr Kapadia’s case,’ Jamie said, ‘the names are of his children. Carol Elliott is a woman Mr Williams didn’t even know. She’s nineteen years old, lives with her parents, and works at a Spar shop in Aberystwyth. Her only connections to the victim are that she lives a half-mile from his house, and he used to purchase cigarettes at the shop.’

  Sara stared pensively at the names. ‘Could they be the killer’s next targets?’ she asked.

  Jamie nodded ‘We’ve got to assume that. He may be leading us on an Easter egg hunt from one victim to the next, daring us to protect them.’ He sucked thoughtfully on his upper lip and added, ‘It’s interesting that he included Carol Elliott’s middle name – she never uses it.’

  ‘So why did he put it there?’

  ‘Because there are two other Carol Elliotts in Aberystwyth, but she’s the only one with the middle name Ann. He was concerned that we find the right woman.’

  Jamie dug out some papers from his briefcase and slid them towards Sara. ‘We’ve drawn up a contingency plan for each of the potential victims, so that everyone agrees on how to deal with them. These are now posted in the control room of every station in the area.’

  Sara cast her eye swiftly over the documents. ‘I see you’ve re-housed the Kapadias, but not Carol Elliott.’

  ‘Her parents refused to let her leave. We’ve alarmed their home, and we’re keeping it under surveillance.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, I’m not convinced that they are intended victims. Why would he have chosen them? Why select the family of his first victim, and a complete stranger to the next? The combination doesn’t add up.’

  Sara glanced at one of the photos of the symbol. ‘Quite possibly, it’s got something to do with this. Whatever this Eye in the Pyramid means to him, it’s what links all these people.’

  Jamie reached across the table and pulled away his iPad. ‘Then you know why I volunteered for this job. There aren’t many people in the country who’ve dealt with cases like this. If he is on some sort of mission, then his personal safety isn’t important to him. He’s willing to take chances, and he’ll keep killing until we stop him.’

  Jamie’s pale green eyes seemed to cut into Sara. ‘I’ve got to understand what this man is thinking, what he’s trying to achieve. This investigation needs both of us.’

  Sara nodded, and they sat in silence for several seconds. Jamie took a deep breath, then bit his lip, as if trying to hold back a torrent of words that were trying to escape. Abruptly, he stood up. ‘I’ll go now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

  He slid the iPad into his briefcase. ‘I’ll email you copies of the photos. Just let me know what you think.’

  Sara looked into his eyes, sighed, and accepted the envelope. It felt heavy in her hand, as if it carried the entire weight of her past.

  Thirty minutes later, the aroma of coffee had been overpowered by sharp fumes from a freshly opened tin of paint. Sara had changed into her oldest clothes, moved the aboriginal paintings, and shoved the pine kitchen table to the far end of the room.

  She had always planned to decorate her new farmhouse by herself. After two months’ worth of builders, the thought of opening her doors to decorators had been unbearable. The work had not been on tonight’s agenda, but Sara found herself pouring a dollop of honey-yellow paint into a tray. It plopped out in a wobbling mound, into which she eased a roller, levelling it out across the tray’s shiny black plastic. At random, she selected a space on the longest wall, and began to cover it with a strip of bright colour. Paint leapt onto her sleeve and sprayed droplets into her eyes.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be non-drip,’ she muttered to no one.

  The sound of her own voice intensified her sense of being alone, which had curled around as soon as the rear lights of Jamie’s car had disappeared down the lane. Sara was sharply aware that the nearest house was half a mile away. It was silly to be frightened, but she couldn’t help it. The murders were fresh in everyone’s mind, and most single women in the area felt like this now, even without being exposed to crime scene photos. At least physical activity kept her from jumping at every noise she heard.

  And yet, she reflected, it would take more than a spot of decorating to make sense of the major new complication that had entered her life, inconveniently, at a time when she had only just begun to enjoy herself again. For months, she had carried with her a numb feeling, punctuated by the image of a living, vibrant baby girl – the child she would never know. It was only in the calm of Wales that Sara had been able to think of the daughter she had never named, and feel no emotion stronger than fond melancholy.

  Sara held the roller over the tray and allowed some droplets to fall. She wondered what might have happened between her and Jamie if she hadn’t fled London. What kind of intimate détente might have been possible? For a moment, she felt a pang of pity for her ex-lover: Jamie still belie
ved she had run away to Wales because of him. Of course, their affair, and the small demise it had left in its wake, had been the melancholy background to her decision. But Jamie himself had little to do with Sara’s actual flight. The dark catalyst for that impulsive move had been her brother, Rhodri.

  Sara began to roll paint onto the wall with grim concentration. She did not want to relive the day, last winter, when Rhodri had rung her mobile, demanding to see her immediately. But, as on so many other occasions, Sara found the memory hard to suppress.

  A medical emergency – that’s what he had told her. There was a medical emergency and she needed to come right away.

  Rhodri Jones was Chief Executive Officer of Thorndike Aerospace, a growing sub-contractor to the defence industry. He divided his time between his offices in Surrey and his four-storey house in Islington. He had rung from there; she had taken a taxi from Harley Street, clutching her scuffed medical bag with white knuckles, and hoping it was nothing serious.

  The black cab pulled to the kerb of the Islington square. She handed the driver twenty pounds and told him to keep the change. She stabbed at the buzzer on the panel next to the glossy black door, but did not wait for a response; she unlocked the door with a key that Rhodri had given her long ago.

  She met him in the foyer, the neck of his shirt unbuttoned, a tie hanging loosely around his neck. His freshly combed hair was still wet, as if he had recently emerged from the shower.

  ‘Rhoddo, what’s wrong?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Oh, bit of a problem,’ he mumbled, leading her into the ornately decorated flat. ‘I just need a bit of assistance ...’

  The sting of cigarette smoke assailed Sara’s nostrils as she entered the room. Standing at the window, looking out onto the street through lace curtains, was a woman in her early twenties. Her cigarette dangled loosely from her lips, and she wore nothing but a black brassiere and a short leather shirt. One arm was cradled in a makeshift sling, fashioned from a hastily torn bed sheet.

  A wave of nausea passed through Sara. ‘Oh, God, Rhodri.’

  The woman turned around, and looked at Sara with dull eyes. Tears had carved a trail through her make-up. The flesh-toned paint could not disguise the bruise that was forming on her right cheek. Registering the look of anger and pity on Sara’s face, her expression hardened. Removing the cigarette from her lips, she spoke with dull sarcasm.

  ‘I had a small mishap.’

  ‘Looks like you did,’ Sara replied, just as flatly.

  Rhodri pretended not to hear, and wandered to the gilt-framed mirror above his mantle. He began to knot his tie, ignoring Sara’s fiery gaze. Her stomach was tight with rage. Once, Sara had assumed that the blurring of sex and punishment was a perversion limited to a small group of ex-public schoolboys – a childhood of abuse, calcified into adult vice. Certainly, she had not imagined that her brother would ever engage in such practices. For that matter, nor had any of the defence ministers, sheikhs, or leaders of military juntas with whom he rubbed shoulders twigged his darker, more libertine tastes. He paid his professional victims well to keep his private pleasures private.

  As her brother finished with his tie, Sara spoke in a low, barely controlled voice. ‘Rhodri, we need to talk.’

  Rhodri nodded and gently pulled his jacket from the sofa. He inclined his head towards the double doors that led to the dining room. Sara drew an unsteady breath and followed.

  He closed the doors behind them and leaned for support on a rosewood chair. ‘I know you’re angry,’ he began.

  ‘Angry? Angry doesn’t begin to describe my reaction to this.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. What happened here was inexcusable.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘That’s too easy, Rhodri. You can’t just say sorry and make it go away.’

  ‘Sara,’ he said, his tone imploring, ‘it was a game, that’s all ... it got out of hand.’

  ‘A game?’ Sara gasped. ‘You’ve hurt her!’

  Rhodri nodded contritely, and Sara noticed he was trembling. She hoped, with righteous malice, that he was feeling genuine remorse, a sliver of pain that might stop him gliding over the upset he had caused.

  He shook his head in self-recrimination. ‘I’ve already asked her forgiveness, which she has granted me. She’s more understanding than I have a right to expect, and so are you. I think she may have a broken arm. I was hoping you might –’

  Abruptly, Sara cut him off. ‘No, Rhodri. I will not bandage her.’

  ‘Sara,’ he whispered desperately, ‘she needs attention!’

  ‘I agree she does – but I won’t be part of this, Rhodri. You’ve got to face up to what you’ve done. We’ll take her to the Whittington’s A&E.’

  ‘No!’ her brother barked. ‘They’ll call the police.’

  His face registered genuine fear, and Sara could not help feeling a stab of guilt for refusing him. But she could not give in; this was for his own good. ‘Then I suggest you ring your solicitor,’ she said.

  ‘Sara, please ...’ he said, his voice wavering.

  Suddenly, he choked on a sob, and tears welled in his eyes. His face contorted, and he began to weep fulsomely.

  ‘Oh, Rhodri ... you need help.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ve got to talk to somebody. A professional.’ She reached out and grasped his arm. ‘I can arrange it,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure Dr Shapiro would see you.’

  ‘Oh, Sara,’ Rhodri sobbed, ‘I ... I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go now.’

  She stared at him blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘My driver’s waiting outside. I have a meeting in thirty minutes, in Hampshire. I’m going to be late as it is.’

  He wriggled into his cashmere jacket and tugged at the French cuffs of his shirt. Tears were still wet on his face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated, his voice husky.

  Sara shook her head in bemusement as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief and backed into the hallway. She listened to his shoes rap against the mosaic-tiled floor, and heard the door open and close behind him. She stood for a moment – frozen, blinking – and choked back tears of her own. Why had Rhodri called her to sort this out? Why had he thought she would be such a ready accessory to his crimes? Because her older brother knew he was all she had. Because their awful past had made each of them what they had become.

  For twenty years, Sara Jones had been seeking answers, and was no closer to finding them than she had ever been. What had she done all this for? So that she could patch up Rhodri’s playmates? Is this what fate had intended for her?

  If it was, then fate could go to hell.

  She composed herself, and strode dutifully back into the sitting room. The woman had lit another cigarette, and fresh tears glistened on her face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said gently.

  ‘Yeah,’ the woman whispered. ‘He just got excited.’ Her expression slackened. ‘I’m getting out of this business anyway,’ she added.

  ‘You should,’ Sara said, and opened her medical bag.

  Sara placed the paint roller back in its tray and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. She winced; recalling that final, decisive afternoon with Rhodri always caused bile to rise in her stomach. She remembered leaving Rhodri’s house feeling so utterly complicit, and loathing herself as much as her brother. Rhodri always managed to weaken her resolve with his combination of contrition and naïveté.

  It was his naïveté that affected her the most. Although a successful businessman, Rhodri was as innocent as a child. Her brother did not always understand the consequences of his actions. Even in their teenage years, it had been Sara, two years Rhodri’s junior, who took the responsible decisions on their behalf, and cajoled her brother into doing what was best for him.

  But was being childlike – or perhaps childish – an excuse? Did Rhodri’s lack of awareness permit Sara to witness what he did and still love him? Or did her softness make her as guilty as he was? Sara had never come up with an answer, only a r
estless suspicion that the question itself indicated something wrong with her life.

  After she had bandaged up Rhodri’s victim, Sara had telephoned Ceri Lloyd. Although there was only eight years’ difference in their ages – Sara was thirty-four, Ceri forty-two – her older friend had always been a surrogate mother. Unmarried, with no siblings and two healthy parents, Ceri had a wealth of concern to spare, which she lavished on her job, her passion for local politics, and Sara Jones.

  ‘I’m just not happy here any more,’ Sara had said. ‘London is awful. My patients don’t need me, the police work is unpleasant, and I don’t know why I’m suffering through any of it.’

  There was a few seconds silence, before Sara surprised herself by adding, ‘In fact, I’m thinking of moving back home to Wales.’

  ‘Sara – that’s wonderful!’ Ceri had cried, immediately adding, ‘You’ll come and live with me, of course.’

  ‘What?’ Sara gasped. She could not imagine living in a house filled with country music and stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘You know I’ve more room than I need,’ Ceri continued. ‘You can have an entire side of the house to yourself ...’

  ‘Ceri, hang on a minute! I was just thinking out loud.’

  Her friend pressed on, unstoppable now, ‘You’d rather live on your own? Then I know a perfect farmhouse for you. I’m sure you could get it for a song – it’s been on the market for a year ...’

  That night, Sara had not been able to sleep for thinking about the possibilities. If she couldn’t change Rhodri, at least she could distance herself from him. If she couldn’t close the emotional gap between herself and Jamie in the shadow of their mutual loss, at least she could widen it with physical separation.