Dead Scared

JOESBURY LET OUT the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. For the love of … What part of you are not there to investigate was the woman struggling with? He leaned back, stretched, rubbed his eyes and read the paragraph again.

This isn’t date rape, remember, Sir. These four women, five including Bryony, didn’t go home with someone they met in a bar. They all believed someone came into their room at night, while they slept, and abused them. Most girls in college-type environments lock their rooms at night, which means someone gained entry through locked doors. Most women would wake up and scream the place down if a stranger started touching them in the middle of the night.

Except you, Lacey, Joesbury was thinking, as he walked to the window. A stranger touching you in the middle of the night is an entirely normal occurrence. Jesus, he needed to be off this case. No, he needed her off this case. He simply could not think straight when … and he was starting to feel like a caged animal in this hotel bedroom. He’d go for a walk except he knew where he’d end up. On the green outside the residential block of St John’s.

Instead, he turned back and looked at the blue file next to his laptop on the narrow hotel desk. He knew exactly who the four women were. Freya Robin, Donna Leather, Jayne Pearson and Danielle Brown. He was starting to recite their names – and those of all the others – in his sleep. He sighed again and went back to the report.

Christ, only Lacey Flint could be attacked by a rabid kestrel, find dead animals hanging from trees and be ordered off private land by a psychotic farmer all in one afternoon. When she finally finished rabbiting on about how she spent her leisure time, she went back to her previous point.

Seems to me there’s a pattern developing. Bad dreams, possible disappearances, recreational drug use, unproven sexual abuse and even rape, then death. I know you said I’m not investigating, Sir, but with the attempted suicides there are potentially twenty-nine cases of something very sinister going on here. Evi won’t give me names, some patient-confidentiality bollocks, but I found a few of them, including Danielle Brown, one of the possible rape victims, in newspaper archives. I know you can get the rest from CID files. It would be really helpful to know who they are. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands here. I can just sit at a computer and go through the facts. See if anything jumps out. I’m good at detail, did I mention that? Another thing that would be really useful is to track down Danielle Brown and go and talk to her. If she tells us her actions were influenced by online pressure, that’s a major step forward, isn’t it? I might just work on that tomorrow.

She wrote in a way she never spoke to him. Much less formal, even friendly. When they were face to face she was always guarded, as though measuring every word that came out of her mouth. Except when she lost her temper. When he’d first got to know her, he’d made a point of winding her up in a way that was completely unprofessional, just to get a reaction out of her that seemed real.

OK, here’s the really serious bit. I went to see Bryony Carter again today and I discovered something. She can’t talk but she can write. Only the odd word at a time because she doesn’t seem to have much control over her muscles. She told me someone was watching her. Which really doesn’t fit with Evi’s online bullying theory. For someone to be watching, it all sounds more focused and deliberate. She also said that she was scared and then wrote down the word Bell. Mean anything to you? Bryony’s GP is called Nick Bell and he was in her room (watching her?) the day I met him, but to be honest I can’t see it. He seems nice. No one else of that name at the university who seems likely. I’m going to go and see her again. I don’t want to push it, though, she’s in a very delicate condition.

OK, I think that’s all for today. I can barely keep my eyes open and there’s a young gentleman reclining on my pillow who is looking decidedly neglected. I’m talking about the teddy, by the way. I call him Joe, did I mention that? Blimey, I’m tired. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs … I’m really going now. Zzzzzz …

Joesbury stood up, crossed the room and let his head fall against the cool wood of the door. After five minutes he sighed and reached for the phone.

Cambridge, fifteen years earlier

‘NO ONE HAS to do this,’ said the young man who’d stolen the key and opened the door at the top of the church tower. He was tall and lean and at twenty-one his body was as close to perfect as the male form usually gets. His hair, grown longer since he’d left his strict boarding school behind, flew out around his head like a pagan crown. ‘I know we’ve talked, but until we got here, none of us knew how we’d feel. If anyone changes his mind, that’s OK.’

The first of his two companions to step on to the roof was wearing the navy, red and yellow scarf of one of the more famous Cambridge colleges. He shook his head. ‘I won’t change mine,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how much clearer it’s all been since we decided. Like a massive weight just gone.’ He turned to look back at the stairs. ‘I can’t go back down there,’ he said, and there was the gleam of tears in his eyes. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Got to, one way or another,’ said the third boy. Then he glanced anxiously at each of the other two. ‘Sorry,’ he said. His pupils were enormous in his pale face and seemed to have lost their ability to focus. His hands were shaking. He was smaller and thinner than his two companions, a boy bred for indoors.

The long-haired boy rested a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We deal with it how we can.’

‘So how do we do this?’ asked the third boy, speaking faster than seemed natural. ‘Hold hands and count to three?’

‘Let’s just go look,’ suggested the boy with long hair. ‘I want everyone to be sure.’

‘I’m sure,’ said the one wearing the Trinity scarf. ‘Thanks for being with me, guys. Whether you come with me all the way or you don’t, I couldn’t have made it this far without you. You’ve been good friends.’

He held out his arms and, in turn, the other two stepped into them. The hugs were brief, blokesy, little more than mutual back-patting.

Together they walked across the roof to the parapet. A yard or two away, the third boy held back. The first two either didn’t notice or pretended not to. They reached the stone edging and sat down on it. Not taking their eyes from each other, they swung their legs over the edge until two pairs of shoes were dangling.

‘Good luck, mate,’ said the first.

‘Love you, man,’ his companion replied.

A strangled scream from behind. The third boy was running at them, his mouth open, fists pumping. He reached them, sprang up on to the parapet and leaped.

Silence for three, maybe four seconds. Then a crunch. Silence again.

Both boys on the parapet had leaned forward to watch the moment of impact. Moving as one, they straightened up and turned to each other.

‘You know, Iestyn, even if he hadn’t, a bloody good push would have done it,’ said the long- haired boy.

The one wearing the Trinity scarf, Iestyn, shook his head. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Trust me, takes all the fun out of it.’

Still moving as one, they smiled, raised their right hands and slapped a noisy high five.