The Lover's Children

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, 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…

***** Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

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…

“Landlord. What’s going on? Who are you?”

He relaxes… “Oh… landlord?” …looks at me hard for a second, as though trying to place 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 no landlord.”

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've come 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 the colander at me, he darts off to one

side. But I was expecting it. Grabbing him by the wrist, I pull him up short, slapping him across the

cheek. “Not so easy, is it? When it’s like this. You want more?” I slap 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 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.