Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Two

2

 

LONDON

 

Sam slipped the key out of his pocket and glanced both ways down the corridor, pausing for a moment in each direction to be sure there was no sign, no sound from the other doors. He did not want to be seen here if he could get away without.

The corridor was wide, carpeted straight down its length: old fashioned, red pattern, worn. Wooden veneers down the walls gave it an old world quality to match the floor. No motion or sound. Sam put the key into the lock and turned. He pushed the door open and went in, shutting it quietly behind.

“What are you doing here?” It was a woman’s voice, sharp with fear and anger.

Sam froze, instantly gauging her. In the first half second he banished the image of his sister Lucy sitting in that exact chair. The woman was twenty five plus or minus two, smooth face liberally covered in foundation; violet lips that quivered with hesitation at the same time as she demanded to know his identity; arched brows that frowned despite what looked like attraction in her eyes. Sam stepped forward, conscious of the desire she felt. It made her easier to deal with; weaker.

He smiled broadly and raised his eyebrows, careful to add a shadow of grief; dropping without a flinch into The Lie. “I’m so sorry.” He kept his voice light, a shade higher pitched than usual. “I’m Lucy’s brother. She gave me a key. I didn’t think anyone would be in.”

He cased the apartment with a rapid sweeping glance: modern living room filled with a slew of fads on more shelves than should have been there; bathroom; kitchen leading off the lounge; bedroom. Through the open doorway the bed was made.

Sam extended his hand, stalled, withdrew it slightly, then offered it again. The woman blossomed visibly at his shyness, taking his hand in her fingers.

“My name’s Cleo; a friend of Lucy’s. I live in the flat next door. I was just in here chilling out. My boyfriend’s got some mates round.” She chuckled, taking her hand back. “I’ve heard a bit about you.”

“Oh.” He let his head drop fifteen degrees. “Um, have you heard— Have you heard the news?”

The woman uncrossed her bare legs. “What news? About Lucy? What’s wrong?”

Sam glanced down at her knees, at the dip of her cleavage then into her eyes. “She was killed.” He creased his brow and let the tears he’d been building rise. He turned away. The tears started to dry. He narrowed his eyes.

“Oh my God. How did it happen?”

“She was murdered. By her boyfriend.” He paused to let her take it in.

“Jack? No. I can’t— I can’t believe it.”

He turned to face her. “Do you think I’m lying?”

The woman stared at him, startled for a moment, her eyes wider than they should have been. Confusion; then he realised he had let The Lie slip again. His expression was blank, black eyes watching her. He frowned quickly, let his mouth droop and lowered his chin. Her expression shifted a little, unsure.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“Jack?” He nodded. “Sure. I met him a few times. He’s really nice. I can’t believe he—”

“What’s his surname?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes...”

“Do you know where he lives? Where he works? What he does? Lucy didn’t tell me anything.”

The woman stepped back. “Hey, look—”

“Tell me!” 

That stare again. His expression was blank, eyes narrow. The Lie was slipping; he didn’t know why. All pretext was gone but he didn’t care.

“He’s an artist,” she said, sullen and defiant. “Does pictures for some magazine. I don’t know where he lives. Lucy liked to keep him to herself.”

Sam turned away, ignoring her as useless. He walked through to the bedroom.

“Hey!”

He checked quickly through Lucy’s drawers; the wardrobe. Lingerie, that he found distasteful, was draped over much of the furniture with boob tubes and dresses. There was a discarded magazine on the bed; nothing relevant.

“What are you doing?”

The bathroom and the kitchen were the same; nothing to lead him forward. He stopped abruptly in the corridor, backtracked to the bedroom and picked up the cheaply produced magazine off the bed. The cover showed a picture of a man and a woman sitting in front of a lake, only their backs visible. The woman had a hand cupped to the man’s ear, whispering a secret.

Sam shoved it in the woman’s face. “This sketch. It was drawn by Lucy’s boyfriend?”

She looked at it stupidly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Sam checked the bottom. The artist had signed his name.

Jack Catholic.

He shoved it in his pocket and turned to go. A bare arm snapped up to block his path, resting on the doorframe in front of him. “What’s going on here?”

He turned his head very slowly to look her directly in the eye. “Get out of the way.”

“If Lucy’s dead then why haven’t I heard anything on the news?”

Sam gripped her wrist and twisted, pushing her abruptly to the right. “It only happened last night.”

“Did you call the police?”

He stopped just short of the door. Quite uncharacteristically, he laughed. He looked back over his shoulder. “My sister has been murdered by a man who violated her trust and her love, a man I believe may still be alive and running free.” The woman’s brow creased but she remained silent. “I’m not going to leave this thing to police. Do you have any idea how many criminals slip through their net?

“Lucy’s boyfriend thinks he is safe,” continued Sam, “but he is not safe. I will find him and I will kill him.”

She put one hand on her hip, a sneer on her violet lips. “And what makes you think that you’re more able to track him down than the police?”

Sam turned away and walked out, the door wide open behind him.

Chain of Vengeance: Chpater Three - Part One

1

 

SOMERSET

 

Jack considered what his next move was as he made his way across a grazing field toward the road he’d seen.

It was a beautiful sunny spring morning. There were few clouds. The meadow was speckled in dandelions. He walked through the long forgotten grass, taking his time to give his clothes the chance to dry off in the sunshine, thinking about the fall from the bridge and the unconscious drift miles downstream. It was a riddle which gave no clues away in the question.

Did the police already know he had murdered Lucy? Did they know his name? Would they be waiting for him at his home to drag him away to a prison cell? Perhaps he had been kept alive only to answer for what he had done and be punished; or to allow his pursuers the gratification of revenge.

As he approached the raised up road he spotted the rectangular top of a red phone booth: another happenstance that defied probability. If he was lucky there would be a lay-by: an ideal spot to get cars to stop to hitch a ride and he had the funny feeling, before climbing up, that there would be. The only question was which way to go? Back to Bristol, to walk into a police station to answer for his crimes, or home, to London?

Standing over Lucy’s body, suicide had seemed his only option. Now, with perspective, he saw things differently. It was weak. It was an escape. He wasn’t going to try that again. He didn’t know what he was going to do but he wasn’t going to kill himself.

The phone booth was a welcome sight. He had already checked his wallet. What few notes he had were sodden but he had change enough for a call. As soon as he made out the booth in the distance he was gripped by the desire to call Dominic: his mother’s elderly brother: far more friend than uncle. Not to confide in him about what had happened – that was a horror Jack didn’t relish and didn’t want to accelerate – but so much had occurred. He wanted to hear a friendly voice saying welcoming words.

He reached the fence at the foot of the slope that climbed to the road. The phone booth was no longer visible but he knew it was approximately above him. Jack gripped the top rung of the fence in both hands, took a half step back then vaulted over, his legs tightly together, then he started climbing the slope on the other side, wondering if his photograph was already being shown on the news. If Dominic knew about Lucy already, the words he was hoping for would not be so welcoming. Without an explanation, Dominic would see the murder as abhorrent; but Jack wouldn’t blurt out excuses or beg for absolution. Lucy was the only one who could grant that and she was dead.

If his picture had been on the news then any driver that picked him up might recognise him. What would happen then? Would he fight to escape? Would he kill again?

No. No he wouldn’t. Never again. Whatever happened.

Jack paused for breath at the top of the bank. He’d judged right. The phone booth was close. The road was single carriageway – more minor than he’d thought at first. Traffic was light. He wondered what time it was. Too early to call Dominic?

He opened the door to the booth, filled the slot with change and then dialled the number.

The first ring came, teased out into something long and drawn. In the split second before the next, Jack’s brain invented and played back the entire content of what Dominic might say if he already knew about the crime. He imagined the condemnation and disgust.

It rang one more time then Dominic answered.

“Hello?”

“Dominic? It’s Jack.”

“Jack!”

“I didn’t get you out of bed did I?”

“At this hour?” Dominic laughed. “I’m an old man. I’ll be sleeping at ten o’clock in the morning on my death bed but not before.”

He didn’t seem to know anything. That was a relief, but it made Jack feel bad all the same because he had wanted to come clean. He didn’t want to conceal his deed, especially from his uncle.

“Jack, I’m glad you called. Where are you?”

He hesitated. “On holiday.” He said no more than that. He still didn’t know what he was going to do next.

“How’s Lucy?”

Jack lowered his head. His throat narrowed. “She’s fine.”

“Good. Good. A man’s been here asking for you.”

“What?”

“This morning. Asking questions.”

The first thing Jack thought of was the police. “Did he say who he was?”

“He’s been trying to get in touch with you for some time but couldn’t find out where you lived. You aren’t on the electoral register.”

“What did he want?” It couldn’t have anything to do with Lucy. That wasn’t possible.

“Jack. I don’t think we should talk about this on the phone.”

“Why not? What’s going on?”

“It’s not something you should hear about like this. We should be face to face.”

The pips went to say there was no more charge left for the call. Jack patted the outer surface of his pocket but he knew that was all the change he had owned.

“Dominic, tell me what’s going on. Who was he?”

“Come and see me when you get back to London.”

“Why won’t you tell me over the phone?”

“Make sure you come today. You need to hear this now.”

Jack started to ask why but the phone went dead. He looked at the receiver, at the empty little holes in the ear piece that no longer made a sound. He checked his pockets more thoroughly for change in vain hope.

Then he set the receiver down and went outside.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Nine

9

 

SOMERSET - ENGLAND

 

When he opened his eyes, all Jack Catholic could see was clear blue sky. It filled his field of view, top to bottom and left to right.

He was lying on his back, only the vaguest ache in his body and limbs; no agony of shattered bones or pulped muscles. He was damp and cold but only on his underside. His chest; the front of his arms and hips; his face: they were warm in the sun.

He tried to lift his hand but something pulled at his arm, sucking on the flesh like fly paper. He had to strain, then suddenly it came free. He held it up, bending at the elbow. His arm and hand were covered in mud, dry caked over by wet. Jack dropped it back down. It cracked against the mud that he was lying in. He lifted his head with difficulty. He was lying on a shallow muddy slope. The cold grey filth coated his clothes and body and hair. The river was less than a foot away.

It ached to hold his head up. Exhausted, he lowered it back down for a minute, rested, then raised it again. The river was wide and strong here; far wider than it should have been; maybe a couple of miles across. It wasn’t the river Avon. It had to be the Severn. He wasn’t anywhere near Bristol. The river must have carried him… how far? Miles at least.

Surely it wasn’t possible.

He remembered every moment of the fall; turning slowly over and over, the bridge becoming smaller above him as the river grew to fill his view below. He remembered it in slow-motion detail until he hit the water; then nothing; blank. Until now: hours after dawn.

 He should have been dead or close to it. The fall should have killed him. From that height it was like falling onto a road.

It knocked him out. He should have drowned. There was no way he could have been carried that many miles unconscious without breathing in water. The cold and damp alone should have killed him.

But it hadn’t.

He tilted his head back. High grass glistened just inside his field of vision. There were traffic noises far off but he couldn’t be sure of the direction.

Jack struggled, fighting against the suction of the mud, the vacuum he was creating beneath him as he forced himself to sit up. He managed to lift a few inches, turning; pushing his hands into it for purchase so that he could get a better view. Solid ground was twenty yards away past the reeds. If he tried to crawl or walk in that direction he might go under. He imagined slipping face first into the grey morass and shuddered.

The tall grass obscured most of the view but he was definitely away from any buildings or people he could call to for help. A little way downstream was an old jetty, made of logs rather than planks. Black ropes covered in weed hung from it into the river. Jack turned his body toward the water and squirmed, spreading his weight, tugging forward, slipping and losing, but pushing on; winning.

He reached the edge of the river and slipped in. The intense cold instantly banished the sleep from his eyes. Surfacing, he swam, the current moving him faster downstream than his arms and legs could. It almost carried him past the jetty. He only just managed to grab hold and he was still weak. Pulling himself up onto the platform took what was left of the wind out of him.

He knelt, dripping and waited grimly for his lungs to fill. The water ran off him, washing most of the mud away in dirty rivulets. After several minutes he got enough breath and strength back to move. He sat back on his heels and looked round.

There was no sign of Bristol or any kind of habitation in sight. The reeds on his side of the river obscured much of the view, but he could make out farmer’s fields beyond and perhaps three quarters of a mile away a raised up stretch of road, cars speeding along it, just glints of reflected light and colour. On the other side of the river were more fields; no particular landmarks to tell him where he was. Then upstream he caught a glimpse of something; far off. It was the southernmost suspension bridge that spanned the Severn: vast and white, reaching right across the gap. That gave him a rough idea of his location. He was right. He’d been carried miles and miles downstream.

It was a beautiful fragrant morning. For a little while he simply looked, the rasping becoming panting then normal breathing. Then the memory of what he had done to Lucy coursed into the front of his mind so hard that he physically jolted. He saw her body lying on the hearth, horrifically splayed. He felt the sharp crack against his palm as though he had just slapped her. He saw the blood; the dent in her skull. He felt the guilt. Then the things she had said came following: the secret words that had driven him to do it. The same anger came back with them. The muscles around his eyes and mouth twitched. Blood flushed into his limbs. The fingers of his right hand screwed into a fist.

All the moral lessons from his father as he was growing up and he still couldn’t help thinking that he had been right to do it. However abhorrent he had always known killing was, now that time had passed he could only be glad.

Did that make him a murderer?

He hadn’t meant for Lucy to die. The blow was an impulse thing, sparked by hurt. If not for that untied shoe and her falling against the fireplace, she would still be alive. But he had killed. There were no two ways about that. Of course he was a murderer.

He looked back up into the sky, into the sun.

He had survived the fall when he should have died. He had endured unconscious when he should have drowned. He was alive and free.

All of this pointed to one question.

What now?

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Eight

8

 

SAN FRANCISCO

 

“Have you heard the name Jack Catholic?” asked Molly, keeping her modulation fairly low.

The old man on the phone cleared his throat with a rattle. He didn’t come straight back with a response and Molly got the intuition, despite her history with him, that whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be a lie.

“Jack... Catholic? Is he a relative of your father’s?” His voice sounded like an old record of the tenor she remembered from when she was a girl, still living under his care. David Eden had worked for her father for twenty-five years from first successes to final plummet.

“You know he is, right? I talked to my mother. You approached her about him.”

“Molly...”

“I don’t know if you think you’re protecting me or... I don’t know what you’re doing. David... I’m curious; that’s all. My interest has been piqued. Who is he?”

“Molly, I’m glad you called; really. It broke my heart not being able to see you all these years. It’s been wonderful to catch up but... Some things... I think that some things should be left in the ground.”

“Like my father.”

Eden said no more.

“I’m sorry David,” said Molly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No; it does. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Molly, really. It doesn’t matter.” He paused. “I miss him as much as you do.”

In her study, Molly stared at the streetlight shimmer on the window blinds.

“Are you there?” asked David.

“Yes. I’m here,” she said.

“It’s getting late. It really is good talking to you. I’d like to meet sometime. For lunch?”

“Why are you trying to find Jack Catholic?” she asked.

“Molly...”

“He lives in England, doesn’t he? Why are you looking for him?”

“I don’t think we should be talking about this. Really.”

“David. I want to know.”

“Really.”

“My mother told me you rang her out of the blue, asking if she had an address. It must be important if you did that. I’ve never heard her say a nice word to or about you.”

Eden sighed. “Your mother and I weren’t plucked from the same tree. You shouldn’t believe everything she tells you. She’s never encouraged good relations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing at all. Look, I have to go now Molly. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what you want to hear.”

“David...”

He cut her off. “Let me give you some advice my dear. Please; allow me that for all the times I told you to brush your teeth and picked up after you. Hmmm?”

She suddenly felt the old affection for him come back and hated herself for pushing. She let him go on.

“Forget Jack Catholic,” he said. “I mean it. Knowing about him will only lead you to heartache.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Seven

7

BRISTOL

The police sirens were distinct now: no more than half a mile away, probably less. Sam figured he might have a slightly shorter time than that before one of the hotel guests emerged to check on him.

The lock on Lucy’s boot broke easily in less time than it would have taken to wish he’d picked up her car keys when he took the ones for her flat.

Inside: 1 tent, 2 roll-out mattresses, 1 unframed painting on card. Even outdoors now the light was low. It was the frustrating time between daylight and dark. He held the painting under the inbuilt light in the hatchback door: it was small and unfinished, one foot by two; a portrait in pastels. The shape of the head had been sketched in white, the hair quite thick for a man’s and blond; no more than one sitting’s work. The face showed no detail, the subject’s identity was a mystery, but Sam knew who it was supposed to be; he knew who created it. It was a self portrait of the man who had murdered his sister.

He lowered it slightly, considering other things, his thoughts almost blank. Then he felt something again in the back of his skull: instinct; premonition; something.

The man who killed his sister was still alive. He was still alive and he would be making his way back to London.

Absolutely no way he could know that fact; no way the bastard could have survived the leap off the bridge. Sam didn’t believe in presentiment or any kind of fantasy but he knew that Jack was alive. It didn’t matter how he knew. He knew.

A police car span round the corner at the top of the hill, lights flashing in the gloom, siren still blaring. It stopped too fast outside the hotel, wheels skidding into the pavement. The siren switched off but the lights remained flashing as the policemen got out. Sam was twenty yards away. They weren’t going to spot him but it was time to go. The two cops hurried up the steps of the hotel and in through the front door into the crowd that had assembled there.

Every extra day he remained in England, he risked arrest and prison; but his sister was dead; the man who had done it was free. He could not leave it like that.

Sam looked back at the self portrait, at the blank features that could have given him a perfect simulacrum of the face he was trying to find. He sneered. Then he lifted the picture and brought it down hard on his knee.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Six

6

LONDON – ENGLAND

The first thing Anna Thorpe saw near the top of page one was the name Sam Decker.

Seeing it made the muscles in her cheeks and round the edges of her mouth tighten. If not for him she could have been relaxing downstairs with Greg instead of wasting her evening going over old reports. A shallow vertical crease formed above the peak of her nose, kick-starting the beginning of a headache.

“Watchya doin’ Mummy?”

Anna inhaled, looking up at the ceiling through her eyelids and did her best not to let it out as a sigh. “I’m working. Why aren’t you in bed?” She couldn’t help smiling a little but she did try to hide it.

“Can’t sleep.” Billy came all the way into the study and put his little hand on her thigh then looked up at her with his Bambi eyes, lower lip pouting. “Can I stay in here with you till I get sleepy?” He was wearing his pyjamas at least, scratching his eye with a bent forefinger.

The study was small and pleasantly cluttered, decorated in a dark palate of browns, blacks and greens. Anna had the lights low, as always, the desk lamp and monitor the only sources of illumination. The sound of the television Greg was watching downstairs was just audible over the hum of the fans in the back of her PC.

“Let’s see,” said Anna, using her bemused mother voice. “How old are you?”

“Four and a half.”

“That’s right. And what time is it?”

Billy stared blankly.

Anna gave him the answer. “It’s after bedtime.”

“Oh.” The pout extended further over his chin. He lowered his head but continued looking up, making his eyes seem even bigger. “Can I stay up anyway? Just for a little while?”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “What would your father say?”

“Please!”

She knew she would regret being lenient all the time when he was older but it was so hard to say no. “Alright. As long as you promise not to disturb me while I’m trying to work.”

“Okay.”

“Good boy. Go and sit down.”

Billy trotted across and climbed onto the leather sofa. He made it on the second try. Anna turned back to the open file and flipped to the second page of Sam Decker’s investigation report.

There was an audit coming up and the files in front of her were cases that had shown some paperwork discrepancies in the pre-audit reviews her department was having to undertake. As one of the senior insurance investigators, she had been given the job of digging up any missing elements of the reports on these unusual claims. As luck (bad luck in this case) would have it, one of Sam’s cases topped the pile. It irritated her that it was him, he had been with the firm long enough not to be sloppy, but discrepancies had appeared apparently and because he was on leave she had to pick up the slack. There wouldn’t be time for him to do it when he returned.

“Mummy?”

“Yes sweetie?”

“Can you tell me about that one?”

Anna swivelled her chair to face the sofa. Billy was sitting cross legged, holding onto his toes. For the past month or two, he had developed the irritating/endearing habit of asking her to tell him about whatever case she was working on in lieu of a bedtime story. It was a distraction but it could be fun too and if it got him in bed without any fuss then it was probably worth the effort. Besides, with the amount of paperwork she had to bring home with her on a regular basis, she had to take her quality time where she could get it.

She flicked through the file. “It’s a strange one.”

“Goodie! Tell it like a story! ”

“Okay.” Anna settled down into her seat and scanned the page in front of her. “Once upon a time there was a woman who died.”

“How did she die?”

Anna lifted the corner of the page she was on and glanced at the cause of death. “It doesn’t matter. She died very peacefully and she didn’t mind because it was her time. Now everyone was very sad... but they weren’t as sad as they might have been. Do you know why?”

Billy’s voice was solemn and deliberate. “Because she had a viable life assurance policy?”

Anna laughed, throwing her head back. “My my! You have been paying attention, haven’t you?”

Billy nodded.

“Well that’s right. So although she had died, her husband got paid a lot of money by my company and everyone lived happily ever after.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Until the other day.”

Billy grinned leaning forward. He loved it when she put in her surprise twists. “What happened?”

“The other day the woman who had died rang up the insurance company!”

Billy’s eyes widened, more out of excitement than fear. “Was she a ghost?”

“No. She was alive and well and quite angry when we told her we had already paid her life assurance out. Her husband said he never got any money and that he had never told us she was dead.”

Billy scratched his head, trying to keep up. “Then who lied and said she was dead?”

“Somebody who wanted to make a lot of money illegally.” 

Billy giggled as though it were a joke. “So what happened in the end?”

“In the end?” Anna shrugged. “In the end I have to look into it and find out what went on, see if we can’t sort it all out, because the man who investigated originally confirmed everything was above board.”

“Oh.” Billy looked sad that it had ended.

“Now come on, let’s get you tucked in.”

“Tell me another one!”

“No. It’s time for bed.”

“Please!”

He was going to be a terror as a teen. “All right then, one more. Then you have to promise to get straight in bed.”

“I promise!”

Anna opened the next file in the stack and scanned down the front page. “Er… okay. Once upon a time a house burned down and everyone was very sad. But they weren’t as sad as they could have been. Do you know why?”

“Because their house had building and contents insurance?”

“Well done!” Billy clapped his hands. “But when Anna the insurance investigator looked into it she discovered that there was no record of the statement made by the fire brigade at the time of the accident. So she had to look at— Oh. That’s interesting.”

“What?”

“The address of this house… It’s on Chestnut Street.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s the road where your playgroup is. It’s funny though…” She flicked forward several pages then back to where she had been, forgetting she was talking to Billy and doing nothing more than thinking aloud. “I don’t remember any fire there. When was this?” She found the date. It was six months earlier. There definitely hadn’t been anything then. She looked at the house number. “Wait a minute.”

“What is it Mummy?”

“It says number thirteen. Thirteen Chestnut Street. There is no thirteen. Your friend Martin’s mum lives at fifteen. The builders didn’t make a thirteen because it was unlucky.”

“Is this young man bothering you?” Anna looked up. Her boyfriend Greg was in the doorway, sweater sleeves rolled up above the elbows, hair still damp from the shower he had taken after dinner, a sheen of moisture glistening in his goatee beard. “Are you okay? You’re looking funny.”

Anna beckoned him over. “I’m just going over some claims and I’m noticing a pattern of incongruities.” Greg put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “This house doesn’t exist but a policy has been set up and paid for and a claim made when it was supposed to have burned down.”

“But I thought your department investigated big claims. Why didn’t it show up that the house was never there when the claim was made?”

Anna checked the name of the investigating officer.

Sam Decker.

She looked back at the first file; the one with the dead woman who hadn’t really died.

Sam Decker again.

“Because there is something rotten going on here,” said Anna. “A pattern. And I’m starting to get a bad feeling what it is.”