Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(27)

Shelley Morden has donated ￡25

in memory of her dear friend, David Lamb.

Missing, but not forgotten.

The JustGiving page had been aiming to raise ￡2,750, but it had fallen short of its target by ￡900. Kate googled “Park Street” and saw that it was a road on the outskirts of Exeter. She then googled “Shelley Morden, Park Street.”

“Okay, this is better,” said Kate under her breath when the first search result came up from the electoral roll. Shelley Morden lived at 11 Park Street in Exeter with a Kevin James Morden, presumably her husband. Kate sat back, her eyes hurting from staring at the computer screen for so long. There was an old BT phone directory that had belonged to Myra on one of the shelves on the caravan park side of the office, and Kate picked it up and blew off the dust. “Let’s try the old-school way . . .”

Kate hadn’t used a phone book in years. She flicked through the pages to the M section, and there was a Kevin James Morden listed at the same address. Kate dialed the number.

After this breakthrough, she was disappointed to get a generic answerphone. Kate left a message explaining who she was and that she wanted to find out what had happened to David Lamb. She went to the little kitchen at the back of the office and made herself a cup of coffee and was about to go outside for some fresh air when her phone rang.

When Kate answered, she could hear children shouting in the background.

“Hello, it’s Shelley Morden,” said a harassed-sounding woman. “I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“Thank you for calling back,” said Kate.

“I knew David. I was the one who reported him going missing, but no one seemed that interested . . . I’m free tomorrow at two p.m. if you want to come over and talk,” she said. “I can tell you all about him.”





15


Hayden’s hands were cuffed to the wooden headboard of the bed, each ankle tied with thin rope to the bedposts. His body was rigid and jerking from side to side, trying to fight.

Tom was kneeling above Hayden, and his hands were wrapped tightly around the young man’s throat, gripping and squeezing.

“Yes, yes. Fight me,” he whispered, leaning closer to Hayden’s ear. “You can’t, can you? Because I’m in charge. I’m the bully, and I’ll win.” He gripped harder, pressing his thumbs down onto the boy’s Adam’s apple. This was the magic spot to press if you wanted to keep the eyes open, thought Tom, and he needed Hayden’s eyes to be open. It was coming. That powerful moment just before death, when darkness falls in their eyes.

Tom liked to throttle his victims whilst he raped them. The first few times it was play throttling, enough to instill fear and deprive the body of oxygen. But then he’d squeeze harder, bringing them to the edge of consciousness before reviving them.

The night had passed too quickly, and the sun had crept up on him. He’d only noticed when the light blazed through a chink in the curtain and a strip illuminated Hayden’s face, swollen and bruised. The whites of his eyes were crisscrossed with burst blood vessels.

Tom was shaking from the exertion, the sweat dripping off his chin, slick down his back. Hayden’s body was starting to shake and tremble in concert. Tom leaned forward, pushing down with all his weight. The bed creaked, and he gripped and squeezed, feeling the pain of the exertion in his fingers and wrists.

The moment was close.

Hayden’s eyes were wide and bulging, bloodshot. His pupils dilated. He gave a rattling moan, a passive sound at odds with his fear and the violence. Tom leaned close. Their faces were inches apart, and the tip of his nose touched Hayden’s. The sunlight seemed to dance in his eyes, reflecting a final burst of defiance, of life force, and then came the realization that death was here. All the tautness and resistance in Hayden’s body fell away. The light faded, and the darkness fell into his eyes, and the sunlight bounced off them, reflecting emptiness.

The house had been silent since he brought Hayden home. He hadn’t switched on any music or the TV, but as he sat back on his haunches and looked at the dead body, the silence was thick, like it had suddenly descended on the room.

Tom flexed his fingers to work away the stiffness in his joints. He was out of breath, but the air was fetid with death, and as he gulped it into his lungs, he felt his stomach turn and had to run to the bathroom, where he threw up.

He was shaking uncontrollably as he knelt on the cold tiles in front of the toilet. He always went into shock afterward, after the darkness fell in their eyes. The fear and elation and the release of tension made him sick. He stayed crouched on the floor for a few minutes, retching and coughing, and when he felt his stomach was empty, he got up and splashed his face with water in the sink. Avoiding the mirror, Tom went back into the bedroom.

Hayden was still. The color had drained from his creamy, soft skin; his muscles looked deflated; and his skin had a yellow hue. Tom moved to the window and threw it open. He had to let Hayden’s spirit free from the confines of the room.

Tom stood by the window for a few minutes, looking out into the bright sunshine, feeling the cool breeze on his naked body.

He went back to the bathroom, put the plug in the bath, and turned on the taps, adjusting the mix of water so that it was very hot. The steam rose, fogging up the air, and condensation began to form on the white tiles. A memory came back to him, still fresh and painful after so many years.