Harper’s Apartment
December 2, 11.25 p.m.
The back stairway was painted dark green and echoed to the smallest sound. Harper sprinted down the stairs, jumping the flights of steps in one leap, his footfalls rebounding off the walls and climbing high into the building. He already had his cell phone in his hand and at the bottom of the steps he called Denise. He stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the phone ringing and ringing. ‘Please pick up, damn you. Pick up!’
No one did. Harper looked up the street. How was he going to get to Denise’s in time? He could get a cab, take a car, but the subway would be the quickest of all. It was a few stops. He tried to calculate quickly and was caught in a moment of indecision. Then he darted towards the subway, a look of panic etched across his face.
All the time he intoned her name like a prayer. Denise. Denise. Denise. Perhaps Denise didn’t know yet. Perhaps Sebastian hadn’t managed to get to her. God help her! As he ran towards the subway, he called Eddie.
‘No time for talking, Eddie. Sebastian’s gone for Denise. Get a patrol to her apartment fast.’ He knew Eddie would be on to the duty supervisor immediately.
He headed down into the subway and stood on the train, staring straight ahead and shaking in the bold yellow lights. There was nothing worse than fearing for someone you cared for, when your mind could hardly dare to admit that they were only in danger because of you. His shirt was drenched in sweat.
He was trying to think. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe Sebastian had made a mistake. Maybe, he should’ve seen this coming. Maybe, maybe, maybe, ran through his head with the rhythm of the train.
He couldn’t believe how slow the journey was. He couldn’t believe he was so impotent. He just tensed and tried to remain focused. She needed him focused. She needed him, period. A busker got on at the next station, carrying a guitar. He stood in the middle of the train and strummed and sang. Some John Lennon number about peace.
The doors seemed to remain open an interminable length of time and then drew together like drapes drawn by a geriatric. Thinking of the killer alone with Denise Levene, her pale skin, her gentle blue eyes, Harper strained to keep the anger and fear from boiling over.
The train finally drew into Denise’s station. Tom called out: ‘Police! Move!’ and started to shove people out of the way as he pushed his way up towards the street.
It wasn’t so busy that he couldn’t get anywhere, but he came up against more and more crowds. He was drowning in a sea of people. It felt like a lifetime before he made it above ground again and ran towards Denise’s apartment. As he turned into her street, he saw the blue and red lights flashing.
He raced to the building, through the doors, and up the stairs. In her corridor, there were cops all over. The rumble of distant voices on the shortwave, the hush of whispered conversations.
Harper burst into the apartment. ‘Where is she? Where is she?’ No one answered. Their eyes twitched and lowered. He’d seen that look so many times before. It was only ever used on the bereaved. God, please don’t let her be dead! Tom walked through the door into the bathroom, where he could see the backs of a group of broad-shouldered officers and detectives.
A uniformed officer turned, looked at him dead on and shook his head.
‘We got here too late,’ he said.
Tom felt as though he was falling down a black hole. His head was clouding over. He stumbled a few steps and looked at what the team was examining.
There was no body. No Denise. The shower cubicle was splattered and splashed with blood and Denise was gone. The monster had her.