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.