Page 50 of The Girl in the Grave
She tried to scream, but he rammed it into her mouth and under her nose. Already feeling faint and disorientated, her mind began to drift and everything turned black.
Sixty-Eight
Josh rang her back, but Beth’s phone kept on ringing. Next, he dialled his voicemail and his blood froze as if he’d been dunked into an ice bath.
‘Josh, I need you at mine now. Someone has been here. Th-there’s a f-f-fingernail and photograph. Please ring me back as soon as you get this; please, Josh. Hurry.’
Josh’s hands were shaking as he scrambled on his desk for his police radio.
‘Control, this is 1195; send a patrol IR over to Water’s Edge on Fell Road. This is urgent, I believe the occupant is in danger.’
‘Sarge, we already have one on its way,’ came the reply over the airwaves. ‘There was an abandoned treble nine call. Over twenty minutes ago now.’
‘I want as many patrols as possible sent immediately.’
‘Roger.’
Josh took his CS gas from his top drawer, then handcuffs and his baton that he hadn’t had cause to even think about using in at least eight years. Sam walked in, took one look at his face and did the same. She followed him out of the door as he raced down to the car park.
‘Josh, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Beth Adams, I think she’s being targeted by the killer.’
‘Do you want me to drive?’
He shook his head, grabbing a set of van keys off the board by the rear doors, and ran out into the car park.
Sixty-Nine
As he drove out of the gates and along the road, his heart was racing. This had been so bold and so brilliant it couldn’t have gone any better. It was broad daylight, so he couldn’t take her to her final resting place until the sun set. He could take her home, but he’d rather not have her in his house; if things got out of hand it would make an awful mess and that might blow his cover. He didn’t want to ruin it now he finally had her. He heard sirens coming along the quiet stretch of road from the distance and put his foot down. He needed to get away from here as quickly as possible without drawing attention to the fact that, as well as having an unconscious woman in the back seat, he was driving her car.
He’d made it a fair distance from the house before a police van came speeding towards him from the opposite direction. He held his breath, wondering if it was all over, but he slid past unnoticed. Taking the road into Bowness which would lead him down to the marina, he formed a plan; it wasn’t perfect, but it would buy him plenty of time to spend with her before it got dark.
As he drove past the florist’s he considered stopping off to buy her some flowers, then he realised it was too risky. It was a shame, though; another time, another place, he’d really like to get to know her more intimately. Woo her with flowers and fine wine, keep her locked up beside him. The two of them could have been so happy, but unfortunately for her he couldn’t do that. If he’d had a place he could keep her captive for more than a few hours and not get caught he would have. It wouldn’t work out, though, he knew. She’d battle her way out of it. He was just going to have to enjoy what precious time he had with her.
Seventy
Robert Hartshorn began to cough – that familiar painful, throaty, chesty cough that was killing him. Opening his eyes, he had to take a moment to get his bearings; someone was helping him to sit up. He got a whiff of the strong smell of disinfectant that permanently lingered in the air of the hospital wing of the prison and realised exactly where he was. He looked at the unconcerned nurse holding his frail arm. She placed the plastic mask of the nebuliser over his nose and mouth, telling him to just breathe. He stuck a thumb up at her, and she backed away from him. Life was cruel. He’d never smoked in his life yet here he was dying of lung cancer.
It hadn’t all been a waste, not at first when he’d been an excellent orthopaedic surgeon, cared for his patients and made a difference to their lives. He just wished he’d never met him. Before that day his own sick fantasies were nothing more than that: fantasies, not something he ever imagined he’d act out. Yes, he was a narcissist who’d enjoyed bullying his staff and making their lives a misery for his own pleasure. He’d thrived off belittling Beth, tearing shreds off her and then forcing her on rounds where he’d charm his patients until they were putty in his hands.
He’d been fascinated to discover several well-known killers had citedThe Collectoras the inspiration for their murders. Leonard Lake and Charles Ng had particularly made their mark on him. What had tied them and him together was that book. If that man hadn’t overheard him asking for it and then offered him a copy, they never would have forged their deadly friendship. He’d wanted to feel what it was like to kill someone, to take control of them. To have the power of life or death, and Beth had seemed like the perfect victim; she had no close family, friends that were used to going weeks without seeing her and she already looked up to and trusted him. If he’d had a place to keep her captive, he would have.
Doubt had begun to creep in, though, before the night of the party; even though he’d planned it all down to the last, minute detail he had almost backed out. Aware of how selfish he was being by depriving the world of a talented doctor, a tiny seed of guilt had been planted. Now after all these years of not seeing her that seed had grown. Some would say it was his conscience kicking in. But he wouldn’t.
As his breathing began to ease and the tightness in his chest became bearable, he knew what he had to do. The bitch had never replied to his letters; he didn’t think she bothered to read them. He’d never considered speaking to the police abouthimbefore, but he knew that he had to before it was too late. She was his to kill andhehad no right to take that one thing, the only thing from him.
He waved the nurse over. She looked at him and held up her hand to ask him to wait. He shook his head and beckoned her over again, this time more urgently. Sighing, she crossed the room towards him. Pulling down his mask, he croaked, ‘Get me a guard, I need to speak to someone.’
‘I will when Abby comes back off her break, I’m on my own.’
‘Where’s the guard who was watching this block?’
‘With Abby.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Phone someone and tell them it’s a matter of life or death.’
‘Whose life or death, Robert, how would you know?’
