Stalker

Chapter Forty-Five

Fifteen minutes later, the unmarked police car sped onto the Cranberry estate and continued around the ring road. Matt turned right into Bushmead Close and then drew to an abrupt halt outside the block of flats at the far end. They jumped out, crossed to the entrance of the block and ran up the first flight of metal stairs. The place was deserted.

‘I wonder if John made a mistake with the number of the flat?’ Matt said as they continued round the landing and to the second flight of stairs. ‘The only flat that seems to be occupied in this block is that one on the ground floor. Thirty-five is at the top.’

‘Let’s try thirty-five first, then take a look at the others,’ Beth said, glancing up and down the stairwell for any sign of life. There was nothing and it was very disappointing.

Reaching the top, they crossed the landing to Flat 35.

‘That tape over the bell looks like it’s been there for ages,’ Beth said. She lifted the small metal doorknocker and rapped twice, the metallic twang echoing eerily into the emptiness. They waited.

‘There’s no one living here,’ Matt said, taking a step back.

Beth rapped the doorknocker again, then tried to peer through the letterbox but something on the inside was stopping it from opening. ‘I think you’re right, although it’s not like John to be wrong. Stay here and I’ll go down and see who’s living in that flat on the ground floor.’

‘Shout if you need any help,’ Matt called after her.

Beth retraced her steps down the two flights of stairs to Flat 1. Faded curtains and grubby nets hung at the windows, making the flat look as abandoned as most of the others, apart from what sounded like a radio coming from inside. She pressed the bell, a dog barked, and then a male voice shouted, ‘Hold ya horses, I’m coming!’ Beth took a step back.

It was a minute or so before bolts could be heard sliding and then the door was opened by a man Beth guessed to be in his eighties. Unkempt with thick stubble covering his double chin, his shirt and baggy trousers held up by braces were food stained.

‘What d’ya want?’ he demanded. ‘I told that last social worker I’m not moving. It’s me home and I’m not leaving it.’ A mixed-breed dog, badly overweight and as old as its owner waddled to his side.

‘I’m not from the social services,’ Beth said, as she showed him her identity card. ‘I wanted to ask you about your neighbours upstairs.’

‘What neighbours? I ain’t got none. There’s no one left here but me. They’ve all been re-homed like stray dogs and cats.’

‘Is there no one living in Flat 35 on the top floor?’ Beth asked.

‘Oh, that lot. Yeah, sort of, but they don’t live there proper. They’re squatting. I keep out of their way. They’re a bad lot.’

‘Who’s using the flat? Do you know?’

‘Lads. Three of ’em. I’ve watched ’em come and go from behind me curtains but I don’t have anything to do with ’em.’

So John was right! Beth thought. ‘When was the last time you saw them?’

‘This morning. Nah, later. About an hour ago. They went out in one of those white vans workmen use. But don’t tell them I told you. I don’t want no trouble.’

‘I won’t. That’s helpful, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘But what have you got against being re-housed? I’m sure it would be a lot nicer than living here.’

His eyes narrowed, suggesting that never in a million years would she have understood. ‘Goodbye then,’ he said gruffly, and closed the door.

Beth returned upstairs.

‘It’s the right flat. Three lads have been using it,’ she said as she reached the top step. ‘The old boy below said they’ve been squatting. They were here earlier but he says they all left an hour ago. Do you think that door would give if you leant on it hard? It looks pretty flimsy.’

Matt pressed his shoulder against the door and gave it a good shove. It moved and creaked but it didn’t give. He tried again with the same result. ‘Pretend you haven’t seen this,’ he said, and took a bank card from his wallet.

Beth watched with interest as he inserted the card at an angle into the crack in the door and then ran it up to the lock. On the second attempt the lock opened.

‘Now I am impressed!’ she said. ‘Where did you learn that?’

‘Mate at school. His dad was a burglar; it was his party trick.’

‘Illegal but useful.’

Matt pushed the door wide open. ‘Bloody hell, it’s dark in there,’ he said, going in first. ‘And it stinks!’ He squinted towards the small bare light bulb at the far end of the hall and giving hardly any light at all.

‘Why would squatters paint all the walls, floor and ceiling black?’ Beth asked, looking around.

‘Cover the dirt?’

She pushed the front door to so she could see what had been stopping the letterbox from opening and started.

‘Shit! Those scared me.’ Halloween masks hung from hooks on the wall behind the door.

‘They weren’t expecting any mail for sure,’ Matt said, bending to examine the piece of wood nailed over the letter box.

Now the door was shut the hall was even darker. Beth took a few steps and tentatively opened the first door on the left. It led into a small kitchen – relatively normal-looking after the hall. Some natural light struggled in through the grimy window above a filthy sink. The small Formica table and all the work surfaces were covered with empty pizza and sandwich boxes, bottles and crushed beer cans. Matt followed her in and their shoes stuck to the gunge as they crossed the vinyl floor and began opening and closing the cupboard doors, all the time listening out for any sign the occupants might be returning.

‘That accounts for some of the smell,’ Beth said, referring to the takeaway containers overflowing with stale ash. A partially smoked joint of crack cocaine lay beside one of the cartons.

‘At least one of them is a registered drug user on the needle exchange programme,’ Matt said, examining a chemist bag containing boxes of new needles and syringes.

They quickly checked the other cupboards, but apart from some old chipped mugs and cracked plates they were empty. Leaving the kitchen they went into the next room, the bathroom.

‘Typical squatters,’ Beth said, grimacing, ‘used a lot but never cleaned.’ It was disgusting and with nothing of interest they came out.

They paused in the hall and listened again for any sound coming from outside suggesting someone might be returning. They didn’t want to be caught off guard. Beth crossed the hall, where she opened one of the two doors on the other side. A haze of drug-laden smoke greeted them from a recent joint. The room had clearly been a bedroom once. A wardrobe with a door hanging off was against one wall and two badly stained mattresses were in the centre of the floor. Between them was a plate overflowing with ash, matches, silver foil, and the ends of more joints. Dozens of plastic bags and bin liners overflowing with rubbish were propped against the walls. Ripped floral curtains hung at the grimy window.

‘They’ve been using this flat for some time then,’ Matt said, crossing to what was left of the wardrobe. A pile of clothes lay in the bottom. ‘Well! What do you know!’ he said, holding up a Watching You T-shirt. ‘We’ll take this with us.’

With nothing else in the room they returned to the hall. Another quick listen to make sure no one was approaching and then to the other door on the right, the only room they hadn’t been in.

‘We’ll check this room then report back to the station,’ Beth said, trying the handle.

‘It’s bolted top and bottom,’ Matt said, spotting the metal bolts in the dim light. ‘What have they got in here, a horse?’

He slid both bolts and eased open the door. His hand shot to his mouth. ‘Jesus! This is where the smell’s coming from. It’s like dead dog.’

The room was even darker than the hall and lit by a low-wattage candle bulb on the wall behind a computer. The desktop computer was standing on an old table with a single chair in front of it. Matt made his way towards it. The rest of the room remained in a thick, cloying darkness.

Beth took out her phone and using the torch, shone it around the walls. Like the hall they were all painted black. What had once been the window had been boarded over and painted black too. She moved the beam slowly around the ceiling. ‘It looks like Halloween in here with those model bats and giant spiders hanging from that netting.’

‘Part of their online game, I suppose,’ Matt said, glancing up from starting the computer.

‘But where’s that smell coming from?’ Beth said. ‘It’s not drugs.’

‘Dead rats?’ Matt suggested.

She lowered the beam and ran it across the floor. There was no rubbish in here as there had been in the other rooms but models of ghoulish creatures – some very realistic. John had said they were playing a sadistic interactive game, and their evil intent was obvious from the way they’d decorated the room. The putrid smell added to the atmosphere and Beth thought it wouldn’t take much to believe you were in hell.

The light from her phone fell on some tombstones presumably stolen from a cemetery, then to what looked like the entrance to a cave. A model gremlin, teeth bared and ready to bite, sat on a rock as though guarding the entrance. She flicked her torch around as Matt concentrated on the computer. A mound covered by what looked like an old brown blanket lay ahead of her and as she approached the smell grew stronger.

‘The smell is coming from whatever is under that blanket,’ she said and shuddered. What dead and mutilated animal had played a part in their sadistic games?

Bracing herself for what she would find, Beth tentatively lifted a corner. The smell intensified but it was impossible to make out what she was looking at. Shining her phone directly onto the object she pulled off the rest of the blanket. The full force of the smell hit her.

‘Jesus! Matt, quick! Come here. It’s a person. Call an ambulance.’ She dropped to her knees and looked closer. Matt rushed over, taking out his phone as he came. ‘I think it’s Derek Flint,’ she said. With his face bloody and swollen and tape covering his mouth he was virtually unidentifiable; only his glasses were familiar. ‘My God!’ Beth gasped. ‘What did they do to him?’

‘He’s dead,’ Matt said joining her, and confirmed the address over the phone with the emergency services. ‘We’re too late.’

But as Beth looked, her fingers on his neck feeling for a pulse, she saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye. ‘No, he’s still alive!’

She began peeling the tape from his mouth. He groaned but his swollen eyes remained closed. ‘Derek, it’s Beth Mayes. Stay with us, an ambulance is on its way.’

Matt untied the cord cutting into his ankles and wrists and as he did dead skin fell away. ‘Jesus! How on earth is he still alive?’

Beth stayed kneeling beside him, trying to avoid breathing in the foul smell; a combination of faeces, urine, vomit and rotting flesh. The only time she’d ever smelt anything similar was when she’d been called to the flat of an elderly woman who’d been dead for a week at the height of summer. The acrid smell had been overpowering and had lodged in her throat and nose and stayed with her for days after.

Derek’s lips began moving as if he was trying to talk.

‘It’s all right, Derek. Lie still, we know what’s been going on,’ Beth reassured him. ‘The ambulance is coming.’ She tried not to retch but the smell was gut-wrenching. He surely wouldn’t make it, but his lips were moving again. She put her ear as close to his mouth as she dared.

‘What day is it?’ he mumbled.

‘Monday.’

He coughed and groaned, his claw-like hand reaching up. He was trying to tell her something.

‘What is it, Derek?’

‘Ashfield School. Nicole.’ He paused and fought for breath. ‘They’re going to rape her. Stop them.’

‘When?’

‘Today. Now.’ And he lapsed again into unconsciousness.

‘I’m onto it,’ Matt said, bringing his phone again to his ear.