The police officer looked bored. “I will certainly pass the information on.” His eyes went to the bookcase, running along the titles.
Timothy knew just from looking at him that he would do no such thing. They’d lied to him. He was already working out how long it would take to get to Chester from Worcester. He knew the distance. Just over a hundred miles from his house to Lisa’s. The police could get there so much faster. Why were they so bloody stubborn? “Can’t you get someone to check on her?” he asked yet again. “Just knock on the door, then charge me with time wasting, with anything you like. Please.”
The police officer had seen plenty of people like Timothy in his time, bored old men with nothing to do but worry. The old man didn’t know that for every minute he was spending in the Burleigh house, the switchboard would be getting fourteen calls, all of them marked urgent.
“We really are very busy.”
“I appreciate that but please, just check on her.”
“I will pass the information on like I said. If you hear anything else, don’t hesitate to ring us on the non emergency number.”
“Non emergency? How is this not an emergency?”
“An old friend not ringing you does not constitute a priority, I’m afraid.”
“But I’ve explained already. She was one of the Gamesman’s victims. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course, and if he were still alive, the risk to her would be higher accordingly. But he’s not alive is he?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, he is still alive.”
“But you have no evidence of that?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
The police officer put his hand on the door, already beginning to turn it. “Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any further concerns. Good night, Sir.”
Timothy watched him go. Unbelievable. He had spent ten minutes on the phone trying to persuade someone to go to Lisa’s house and instead they’d sent an officer round to him the next morning. All night he’d waited, while they reassured him with every call that the matter was being dealt with, that they’d be in touch. Then he found out the truth when this one appeared on his doorstep, no one had gone to check. No one was going to check. Now there was no one else left to ask. He had to do it. He should have gone last night. He shouldn’t have relied on the police. He tried not to think of the time he’d lost waiting for them to get back to him. He shouldn’t have trusted them. He should have known better.
He walked through to the living room and picked up his glasses and car keys. His battered old Vauxhall Vectra was on the driveway and he climbed into it whilst glancing at his watch again.
He knew from the officer’s look that he hadn’t believed him. The first thing P.C Wilson had discussed was the rows of books on the shelf in the living room. Hunting Serial Killers. The Mind of the Murderer. Inside Evil. “Interesting collection.”
He knew what P.C Wilson thought. That he was an old kook obsessed with a theory that didn’t match up to reality. He had tried to reason with him but he’d failed. So much for the support of the boys in blue.
Once the representative of the law had gone, Timothy set off in his car, cursing himself for not going last night. He should have gone. She could be dead by now. Samuel could have taken her. He could already be gathering up Martha, finishing the game he started all those years ago.
He’d never forgive himself if he was too late. He tried to calm down, almost losing it on a bend. No point crashing on the way there. That would help no one. He tried to say to himself that she’d forgotten, that she’d gone out and got drunk or was staying over at someone’s house, some mundane reason why she hadn’t rung. But in all the years since the fire, she had never failed to ring him once a day. Some of the calls went on for a long time, her talking about her day, about the people she worked with, about everything and nothing. Other times only a few seconds long. Just “I’m fine,” and then gone.
But never had she forgotten. Something had to have happened.
He rubbed his eyes as he drove towards the motorway. Lisa. He thought about Lisa, about the life she’d led since the fire.
First she’d gone to hospital. He’d spoken to her a week later, when she was just beginning to calm down. He’d tried to speak to her sooner but she was in no fit state to talk. Wrapped in bandages, she was doped up on painkillers and it was a full seven days before he was allowed to sit by her bedside, his fingers gently laid on top of her hand on the blankets, not saying anything until he could get the words in the right order.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” she replied. That was just like her. She had been nearly burned alive and she was still her. She hadn’t changed. Or so he thought.
She had hardened, he found out later, developing a protective shell, shielding her from the past. By the time she left the hospital, the light in her eyes had dulled, not surprising given everything that had happened. She had seen children her age burn to death next to her, a sight that would never leave her for as long as she lived.
The home she was moved to was used to dealing with traumatised children. She was there for a year before a foster family was found. The Maitlands, a couple in Chester. Jonathan and Emily. A lovely couple by all accounts. His background check on them had brought up nothing. Two years after that she was adopted by them, in time for her sixteenth birthday. She was so excited when she rang Timothy to tell him, he could hardly get a word in edgeways.
She still rang him every day, a foible that the Maitlands were only to happy to oblige, despite the effect it had on their phone bill. She passed her GCSEs, four A stars amongst her glittering results. She passed her A-Levels too, doing well enough to go to Oxford to study chemistry. She decided not to go yet, wanting to spend some time outside of education. She had taken a voluntary post with Amnesty, moving out of her adoptive parents home and into her own. That was her most recent change. Since then, she had settled into a routine as far as he could tell, working in the local Amnesty office five days a week, helping with fundraising. She still rang him every night, occasionally during her lunch break, reassuring him again and again that she was fine for another twenty-four hours, resetting the clock once again.
He had tried not to think about what would happen when he was gone. He hoped that by then the risk of the Gamesman being capable of anything would be limited. He was probably already dead. Timothy knew he was being too cautious, but that didn’t stop him from worrying as he drove. She had her whole life ahead of her. His was already over. It had been over from the minute Samuel Lyons had lit the fire next to the cleaning cupboard, the chemicals inside turning the blaze into an inferno, preventing Timothy from returning to save the other three. He had tried but the fire brigade had held him back, strong arms that prevented him from running back inside. He had to hear them die, listen to their screams reaching fever pitch before fading into a silence that was not peaceful, it was black and dark and rotten in all the ways that silence should not be.
P.C Wilson had left at a little after nine in the morning. Timothy was in the car ten minutes after that. At quarter to noon, he pulled onto Acorn Lane. He had not stopped once and tiredness sucked at his strength. It had been a long time since he’d driven anything further than the local shops. He realised he had become complacent over the years. He should have practised more often, been better prepared for this eventuality. He should have moved to Chester, that way he could have kept a closer eye on her. But he hadn’t moved for one very important reason, his daughter lived in Worcester.
He didn’t write to Lisa beyond an annual birthday card. Sent on May twelfth, ready to arrive in time for her birthday on the fourteenth. The last one had been her twenty-first. She was an adult. Sophia, Janet, and Clare would never be adults. That jabbed at his heart every time he had written the card out. He should have been writing five. One for Lisa, one each for the three dead girls, and one for Martha, Martha the missing.
He stepped out of the car by Lisa’s house. He’d not seen it in person before, he only knew the address from her giving it to him during one of their phone calls.
The Maitlands. He could have called them to check on her. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Was his mind too blinkered by worry to think straight? He could have kicked himself. He should have rung them last night. Why hadn’t he? Idiot.
He pushed open her gate, his keen eyes noting that the white paint had peeled and needed redoing. Flecks of red, the previous colour, were showing through in a number of places.
He walked up the path and stopped at the door. The curtains were not drawn in the living room. The light was not on inside. Was she in? He rang the bell and counted to ten, hoping she would answer but feeling strangely certain that she wouldn’t.
Nothing. He tried again, holding down the bell for the count of fifteen. No answer. He looked around him before turning the handle. The door opened. “Hello,” he called out loudly into the house. “Lisa? Are you in?”
No answer. Not a sound. There was still a chance she wasn’t there, that she’d left the door unlocked. It looked like a safe area after all. But would she do that? After what had happened to her? After his warnings to always be on her guard?
The hallway was carpeted and his feet made no sound as he walked inside. He closed the door behind him before walking into the living room. She was a tidy person. The TV in the corner was turned off. The floor was spotless, the only thing on the coffee table was a remote control and a single coaster, the image a 1950s advert for Guinness.
The sofa didn’t look as if it had been sat on recently, the cushions perfectly level. The armchair looked like it was where she settled of an evening, in the corner, able to see the TV but more importantly where she could see both into the hallway and out of the window at anyone approaching the house. Behind the armchair was a photo in a frame, on the wall, low, as if she wanted to see it whenever she turned her head that way. It was her and Martha side by side in the Beeches garden, aged twelve. It couldn’t have been taken any more than three months before the fire.
It was a terraced house, the hallway turning right out of the living room. There was a staircase to one side and to the other a door that led into the dining room and then the kitchen.
The dining room was empty, the table was not. Brochures and guidebooks for castles and abbeys were laid out in a rainbow around one chair. Another bookcase, filled so heavily the shelves sagged in the middle. On the wall was a poster in a frame for a film Timothy had not heard of. The computer was switched off.
The kitchen was less tidy than the living room, crumbs on the surfaces, a loaf of bread with the end of the bag untied, the remains of a dinner in the sink, a single plate, knife, fork, mug, glass. “Lisa?” he called out again, reaching to try the back door. It was locked, the key sitting in the hole, ready to turn. He unlocked it and glanced outside. Just a small yard. Nothing there.
He opened the fridge. The milk was three days from expiring. She had been here recently at least. But then he knew that, he’d only spoken to her the day before yesterday.
He headed upstairs, calling out for her again. “Are you in, Lisa?”
Upstairs were two doors, one open, one closed. Through the open one he could see her bed, the duvet neat and tidy, the pillows in a straight line. “Lisa?” he called out, spinning around and taking hold of the handle of the closed door.
He pushed the door open, finding Lisa in the bath. Empty eye sockets stared up past the ceiling, her head tilted back. Her wrists were bound in front of her, her ankles also bound, bent awkwardly, as if he’d had to twist her body to fit her into the tub. The water was scummy, though not enough to conceal her nakedness.
He collapsed to the tiled floor, his head resting on the edge of the bed. Closing his eyes, he let out a long low wail of pain. He was too late. He had failed her.
Opening his eyes through his tears, he knew he had to ring the police. Samuel would already be on his way to Martha. He didn’t want to ring them. He didn’t want to leave her alone. He wanted to sit there and cry but he fought the need, getting to his feet. He took another glance at her, frowning as he noticed something sticking out from between her fingers. He had fixed his gaze there to avoid looking at her face, no face should look like that.
From between the middle and index finger a tiny plastic something jutted out. He didn’t need to look closer to know what it was.
That was all the proof he needed. If there had been any doubt, it was wiped out as he looked at the boardgame piece protruding into the air, as if it was put there just to taunt him. Samuel was alive. He was alive and Lisa was dead. He had failed her. The little white knight taunted him.
His legs felt weak and he had to hold onto the wall as he made his way back downstairs to the phone. He rang the police, the few seconds it took for him to dial was long enough for a wave of dizziness to wash over him, sending him spinning down into the blackness. He fainted, the voice of the switchboard operator bringing him to less than a minute later. He scrabbled for the phone, stuttering words into it.
He should have come as soon as he was suspicious. The fact that she was probably already dead by the time he missed her phone call didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that he had failed her. And if they didn’t hurry, Martha would be collected too. Would they find her in the tub with a gaming piece in her hand? Or did he have something else planned for her? He was finishing his game. Was he going to get to make his offering after all?
Poor Lisa. Up there with that blank expression on her face. They lied when they said the dead looked as if they were at peace. She didn’t look at peace. She looked in pain. How had he done it? Had he drowned her? Strangled her then put her in the tub? Why was she naked? Why take out her other eye?
Stop thinking, he told himself, turning to look at the photo on the wall. Lisa and Martha. Twelve years old. 2007. Lisa smiling in the photo, no idea she only had ten years left to live. A decade then gone, snuffed out like a candle. It wasn’t long enough. Timothy was sixty-two. It didn’t seem fair. Why had he warranted such a long life when that innocent girl in there had been so cruelly taken from the world at just twenty-one?
Outside the sound of sirens grew louder.