The Lover's Children novel Chapter 106

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, slamming 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-flatmate 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 a lamp that must have come from a budget store on a bad day.

Where is she?

Where is she?

Slamming 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 internet. 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 place 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 the last of the water bottle I’ve been nursing for the last 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 plastic colander 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…

He relaxes, going slack. “Okay! Okay… Look, I… Like you said, I broke in. But I’m a burglar. Not a murderer. Can’t we talk about this?”

“A burglar? 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 slackens… “… 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 slack-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 slant 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 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 slams 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 the landlord?”

“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 they come 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 the landlord, bowling the useless shit to the floor. He’s free, but as he hurdles the fallen Rattie, I have my knife, slashing out, catching the back of his hand. Blood splashes 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 slam him against the wall, out of my way, but from outside comes 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.