‘Ms Lochlan,’ called DeCosta from the ticket desk. ‘We need to get you boarded, right now.’
Ashley smiled coyly at Wolf and turned away.
‘Later, Fawkes,’ she called back casually.
‘Later, Lochlan.’
DeCosta closed the gate once she was on board and requested that the control tower give the plane priority take-off. Wolf thanked him for his help and asked to remain behind. He would be able to negotiate customs himself. His own passport was sitting stiffly in his inside jacket pocket. He was not even sure why he had picked it up. It had only made it harder to refuse Ashley when she had inevitably asked him to run away with her, to escape the mess that awaited him back in London while he still could.
He watched longingly as Ashley’s plane took its position on the runway, roared down the asphalt and then ascended into the colourful evening sky, away from danger, away from him.
CHAPTER 30
Saturday 12 July 2014
2.40 a.m.
Police Constable Dean Harris was sitting in his usual uncomfortable armchair beside the window in the grand but unwelcoming living room. He was reading by the light of an expensive-looking table lamp that he had balanced precariously on the windowsill and was ignoring the muted television altogether. He had only put it on to provide himself with a bit of company to help him through another lonely night in the unfamiliar house.
The other constables in his unit had all been incredibly jealous to learn of his involvement in the Ragdoll case. They were still at a stage in their careers where they kept count of the number of dead bodies that they had seen, and ‘Welshie’ was their hero, being the only member of the group to have actually tasered someone.
Dean acted aloof about his posting but had been secretly proud. He told his family, of course, knowing that the news would spread like a virus, embellishing the importance of his role and inventing a job title for himself that he could no longer remember. What he had not anticipated was spending two lonely weeks guarding a little girl who just so happened to share a name with the killer’s actual target.
The Lochlan family had all but ignored him as they carried on with their inconvenienced lives. They had tolerated his presence in their home and were naturally on edge, refusing to let little Ashley even go to the bathroom alone, though they knew, just as he did, that their nine-year-old daughter had no attachment whatsoever to this serial killer or anybody else involved. But at least he was not the only one. There were probably dozens of Ashley Danielle Lochlans all over the country reluctantly sharing their homes with equally reluctant police officers.
Dean was distracted from his book when there was a loud creak from upstairs followed by a whirring sound. He returned to his page but had lost his place. Over the past fortnight he had come to recognise all of the large old house’s idiosyncrasies. That particular sound had been the heating kicking in automatically as the temperature dropped in the dead of night.
He yawned loudly and checked his watch. The graveyard shifts were always the hardest. Although he had adjusted to the pattern and managed seven hours of sleep during the day, he could feel himself getting tired. Six o’clock in the morning felt a long way away.
He removed his glasses and rubbed his sore eyes. When he opened them again, the room looked much brighter, throwing ominous shadows across the walls that flickered and changed position in time with the erratic television programme. It took him a moment to realise that something had triggered the powerful security light in the front garden.
Dean got up and peered out through the tall window. The timed sprinkler system had clearly tripped the motion sensor as the spinning jets performed their synchronised routine for their one-person audience. The beautifully landscaped garden was otherwise empty, so he sat back down to stare at the silent screen, watching the nonsensical pictures cut back and forth enthusiastically, as if anybody cared at that time in the morning.
Twenty seconds after the sprinklers shut off, the bright light went out and the room seemed darker than ever. Dean relaxed into the hard chair and rested his eyes, which stung when he closed them. Suddenly his eyelids were glowing fleshy orange, and he opened his eyes to be blinded by a white light that was flooding the room from outside. He stumbled across to the next window and looked out to discover that the security light was now pointed back at the house, casting the rest of the garden into darkness.
There was a violent bang at the back door. With his heart racing, Dean grabbed his tactical vest off the back of the chair. Slowly, he stepped out into the hallway, which was filled with the eerie light, and shuffled towards the door, distracted by the spots flashing before his dazzled eyes. He remembered too late that he’d removed his own pristine taser hours earlier to get comfortable and had left it against the chair leg in the other room. He pulled on his vest as he passed between the rows of despondent-looking portraits, gripping his extendable baton above his head, ready to strike.
The security light went out behind him.
Dean was plunged into darkness. He held his breath. He could hear something approaching along the corridor and swung wildly in panic, hitting nothing but air and the wood-panelled wall. Before he could strike again, something solid connected with his forehead, and he fell in the blackness.
He had no idea whether he had been unconscious or not when he reached for his Airwaves radio and pushed the panic button, which would transmit everything he said over an open channel. The green glow emitting from the tiny screen reflected off the shiny walls, guiding Dean as he staggered back to his feet and towards the light switch.
‘Met control, send more units,’ he slurred before losing balance and dropping the radio onto the floor.
He slumped against the light switch. Above his head, the mini-chandelier came to life, revealing a set of muddy footprints leading down the hallway and ascending the stairs towards Ashley’s bedroom. Dean snatched the baton off the floor and stumbled up the staircase to the landing, where the rapidly fading boot prints turned sharply towards the girl’s elaborately decorated door.