The Sister(117)

A feeling of dread grew within him. The first acid pangs of indigestion assailed his stomach. He instinctively knew whatever it was the caller had in store for him was going to be bad.

The caller outlined the series of predicaments that faced him.

Kennedy recognised more than a grain of truth in the claims. The acid levels increased in line with his rising heartbeat as the caller delivered the events in sequence. Every word was a barb in a line of wire hooking in and tightening.

‘They’ll investigate you, Jack, you know that,’ the caller said.

His thoughts raced. His prospects diminished. Left with nowhere to go, he suddenly remembered Tanner’s report; someone had cloned his motorbike registration number, and he realised it was probably the caller who had done that, too.

Ten seconds of silence had passed. ‘Are you clear about where we are with all this, Jack?’

Face grim, he said nothing. I need time to think. He nodded, forgetting he was on the telephone.

‘I said, Jack, are you clear?’

Kennedy snapped the phone away from his ear. Stung by the sudden blast of the shout, he looked out through the window in the office partition, worried someone else might have heard it. He switched the phone to the other side of his head and wiggled a finger around inside his damaged ear, hoping to gain some relief for it.

You have to play for time.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

The line disconnected.





With no idea of the caller’s ultimate aim, Kennedy’s thought processes had reduced to going round in circles. In frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall, skinning his knuckles. He immediately regretted it as blood welled where skin had been. He didn’t hear Theresa knock on the door; he looked up, and she was just … there. Opening a drawer quickly, he put his bleeding hand inside, hoping she hadn’t seen it.

‘Coffee? Are you all right, John, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

He faked a smile. ‘Yes – coffee, that’ll be fine.’

As she left, Theresa wondered what she’d done to make him so obsessed with her and whether the haunted look in his eyes had something to do with it. If it did. Feeling bad enough already, she dismissed the thought. She hadn’t asked for any of it.

After she’d confided in Tanner, he said he’d report him. She wondered if he’d already done it. She’d have to check with him, but he wasn’t happy with how things had developed after they'd slept together. He said he wanted a couple of days to decide the best way forward. He hadn’t said, but she knew from the hurt look in his eyes he felt used.

She was desperate to make it up to him.





Chapter 102



2 April 2007, early evening.





The roadside cafe was bustling with people, when a man walked in. A few heads turned lazily towards him, alerted by the door’s opening.

The stranger’s eyes swept the interior of the room, scanning faces; nobody met his gaze, or lingered over his appearance for long. Rough and dishevelled looking, he wore a dirty blue boiler suit. His straw-coloured hair didn’t look natural, and he had a nose as crooked as a stovepipe revealing the many wars he’d come through, in and out of the ring. Not much over six feet tall and heavily built, he moved with an ease that belied his size and age.

On the far side of the room, no one noticed him at all.

At the counter, he paid for a coffee and picked up a local paper from the rack, tucking it under his arm. He glanced around the room. There wasn’t a completely vacant table anywhere, so he selected a table for two which was only half taken.

He pulled a chair back and sat down. A look of exasperation started on the current occupier’s face, but before he could object, the stranger’s molten eyes settled on him, and he thought better of it. Draining the rest of his cup, he left without a word.

‘Something I said?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. He stirred a sugar into the steaming black liquid and unfolded the newspaper.

He’d always taken an interest in the places he passed through. The sleepy towns where nothing much ever happened were the best. The residents were complacent and never expected anything to happen, because nothing ever did.

It was a policy of his never to strike twice in the same place. Not even in a neighbouring county unless you wanted to draw attention to yourself. Since the fight, he had no need of work. The breaking and entering here and there was just for fun. It wasn’t going to spark a manhunt, and that was the key. Hit a town. Blitz it and then move to the other end of the country and do the same. The police might catch on eventually, but by then, he’d be on to something else. There was always something else.

The games no longer held the same appeal, and he understood why many killers felt the need to taunt. It created a challenge, and he was bored.

Whoever had read the newspaper previously, must have dropped it and then put it back together in the wrong order. With the front page apparently missing, he leafed through the pages looking for it. It was there, but reversed, near to the back. He lifted the page out and turned it round.

The headline struck him.

Boy Missing – Police Appeal.

A five-year-old kid on his way to school that morning never arrived. Five years old!

What is it with people these days? He sipped the hot coffee. It scalded the oversensitive scar on his top lip. Gritting his teeth in anger, he blamed first the surgeons who hadn’t knitted the wound together properly, and then the headline for distracting him.