Chapter 1

From the California Tribune

July 21, 2003

FEARS MOUNT FOR TURTLE LAKE TEEN

Fears mount for a thirteen-year-old girl who disappeared from a party at Carlsbad’s Turtle Lake four days ago — Maya Hopkins reports.

What We Know

The missing girl was last seen at around midnight on July 17. She told friends she was leaving because she’d ‘had enough’. They offered to go with her but she told them to stay and have fun. That she would be fine on her own.

No one has seen or heard from her since.

Chilling . . .

Then yesterday, hikers made a grisly discovery: the word ‘LIAR’ on a tree trunk near the lake – scrawled in blood. Police are yet to confirm whether the blood is a match for the missing teen, though a source told the Tribune the development is ‘troubling’.

Latest

Investigators have now issued an AMBER Alert and are urging partygoers to call 911 if they have any information.
‘Someone will have seen something, even if they didn’t realize what it was at the time,’ Lieutenant Owen King told reporters. ‘People don’t just vanish into thin air. Nobody disappears without a trace.’

Yet there is still no trace of the missing girl.

********

NOW

It was a case that shocked the nation, rocked our town to its roots. Put it on the map for all the wrong reasons. As the details emerged, strangers hashed over the particulars waiting in line at supermarkets and Starbucks. Shook their heads at the horror of it all. At the terrible tragedy. On each of their faces, the same expressions of slacked-jawed disbelief. And perhaps a certain ghoulish delight too.

How could such a thing happen? they asked. Here in our neighbourhood? A neighbourhood like this?

It’s always the quiet ones, they said. Shows you can never really know anybody . . .

In time, of course, the conversation shifted. Obama was elected president. Michael Jackson suffered a cardiac arrest. The financial markets crashed. Izzy’s fate became just another true crime curiosity for people to puzzle over. They didn’t forget about her, but they did move on.

It’s different for me. I’m Izzy Jackman’s sister. I don’t get to forget or move on. Especially given my role in what happened to her. The
shameful part I played.

****

My iPhone rings as I’m rummaging in my handbag for a paracetamol. Shoulders hunched against the driving rain. Converse soaked; socks sodden. The water is cold between my toes. March already but still no sign of spring.

I should have brought an umbrella, should have drunk less last night. Could have at least knocked back a glass of water before I hit the hay. That would have been good, would have made a change.

Story of my life: should’ve, could’ve, would’ve . . .

When will I learn?

The phone trills again, a nail through my skull. I thought the point of vodka was it didn’t give you a hangover. Or maybe I’m just getting old. Less tolerant in more ways than one.

Knocking on thirty and already ancient.

Maybe if I drank less . . .

Should. Could. Won’t.

I bypass the pill packet, pull out the phone, check the screen.

It’s not often I get calls. Or make them.

Backlit, three words: No Caller ID.

A telemarketer, I expect.

I could have some fun here. Say I’ve got my hands full, don’t have time to speak. Unless do they perhaps know where I can get hold of some strong acid on the down-low? And a human size barrel?

Or how about requesting their home number so I can call them back at a more convenient time. Refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer, like that scene in Curb Your Enthusiasm. I do a pretty good Larry David impression. ‘Prett-ay, prett-ay good…’

Or perhaps just a sharp whistle down the line? Simple but effective. Though I’m not sure my thumping brain could take it today.

I answer.

‘Yes?’

Always braver in my head . . .

There’s a pause and a click as the line connects. The wail of a police siren in the background, different to the type you get on the limey side of the pond.

My physical response is immediate. A prickle down my spine. Hairs rising on my forearms.

Muscle memory. They say the mind forgets but the body never does.

‘Finn?’ says the voice on the other end.

Californian. Female. A faint lisp.

‘Finn Jackman?’

Finn?

Blood crashes in my ears, the sudden onslaught of waves. My grip tightens around the phone, fingers unconsciously searching for solidity. In my chest cavity, a hollowing.

Finn Jackman . . .

It’s been twenty years since I’ve heard that name.

Twenty years, I’ve been wearing a mask

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dr Vernon Sange, killer of twelve, lies on his bunk. His hands are interlaced behind his head, his film-star face white as butcher’s paper from being inside so long. On his chest, a portable CD player moves up and down in time with his measured breaths. The ‘Queen of the Night’ aria plays through his earbuds.

His eyes move around the room but his head stays still on its stalk. Every so often he flicks the tip of his tongue over his teeth, tapping the sharp point of his canine then drawing it back into his mouth.

He glances at the small table bolted to the floor. On it, a stack of Penguin Classics and fat history paperbacks are arranged alphabetically, each annotated with comments, quotes and corrections in Crayola felt-tip pen.

Dr Sange isn’t allowed ballpoints or pencils. He’s not allowed anything with a hard cover either.

The Daily Telegraph is on the table beside the books. It’s been quartered precisely. Seven pages in, a man’s name has been circled. The ink has bled through seven sheets.

There is no noise in here apart from Dr Sange’s slow, rhythmic breathing. His cell is the only one in the corridor. Six by nine by twelve feet. Windowless. The walls grey up to head height.

As Dr Sange’s thoughts coalesce, his pupils contract into pinhole points of black. His thumbs cruise his occipital bone.

‘The husband!’ he whispers, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

His lips curl into a smile. He’ll make the call tomorrow.

‘My move,’ he says.

Chapter 1

Interview Room 3, Scotland Yard, 12.02

My God, how can this be happening? the man thinks, brain spinning out, as the detectives bring him in for interrogation.

The male DS is wearing a waistcoat and pocket square. His face is young but his eyes are hard, not like the female. She looks much softer.

Good cop, bad cop, he thinks. But both are out to get me.

‘Have a seat,’ the female says, gesturing with her hand.

The man sits down, eyes skittering round the room.

There’s a white video camera mounted on the wall. A table set with three chairs, all bolted to the floor. A large black recorder tucked into a recess in the wall. And no window.

A low hum’s coming from the overhead fluorescent lighting, as though an insect’s trapped inside the dirty bulb. And there’s a lingering smell of cigarettes, despite the big ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door.

The room’s a grey box. A holding pen. A torture chamber for the claustrophobic. The man’s mouth is dry. It tastes stale; his tongue’s sticking to the inside of his cheeks. It’s cold in here but he’s sweating like mad. His armpits are damp, his shirt’s glued to his back.

There’s no way the detectives won’t have noticed and drawn a conclusion, he thinks. First impressions count, he knows that. He’s made his living out of it.

The male unwraps a cassette tape and puts it in the recorder. He clicks a button and the wheels begin to whir.

‘I must inform you this interview is being audio-recorded and may be used in evidence if your case is brought to court,’ he says, shuffling his notes on top of a pile of case files as he goes through the spiel. ‘My name is DS Silk. For the benefit of the tape, could you please state your full name and date of birth?’

The man’s voice cracks in his throat as he answers; he’s not used to sitting on this side of the table. He realises his nerves will be another strike against him. Language is easy to manipulate; he’s always been good at reading people and pushing his agenda. But controlling his body is different. Emotions ooze out of our skin. Even dogs can understand us, he thinks, remembering an incident not so long ago.

DS Silk is non-confrontational to start with, blatantly trying to lull him into a false sense of security.

Letting me dig a pit for myself, he thinks. Waiting to shove me in.

The detective rolls up his sleeves and leans forward, fists on the table. The female is watching the man closely.

They’re coming now, the questions he can’t answer: Where is she? What have you done with her?

Chapter 1

It happened at 17.27 on a Thursday evening in early autumn. The weather was unsettled and I was out and about for the first time in weeks.

‘The train now approaching Platform 1 is the northbound Thameslink service via King’s Cross St Pancras. Please remain behind the yellow line at all times for your safety.’

I stood well back. The edge of the platform has an allure I can’t trust.

People jostled for position as the engine tore down the line, fighting their way to the front before it had a chance to stop. Rush hour doesn’t bring out the best in anyone. We’ve all got places to be.

The doors hissed open. The crowd surged forward.

The carriage was jammed but I managed to spot a vacant rear-facing seat by the window and plonked myself down before someone else nabbed it. I inhaled deeply and focused on my breathing. It didn’t work; my chest was tight, the edges were closing in.

Embrace the suck and get a bloody grip, I thought. Today’s supposed to be special.

‘This train is ready to depart. Please stand clear of the doors. Mind the closing doors.’

There was a strong smell in the carriage, like steamy refuse or gone-off fruit. Wrinkling my nose I looked around, trying to get my bearings and ground myself. A coping strategy, my old therapist called it.

A guy standing in the aisle a few feet away was looking at me. He had a buzz-cut, pleats down his shirtsleeves so sharp you could have cut yourself on them, and a tie knotted tight. So, highly strung and clearly agitated, I thought, observing his twitching facial muscles and rapid blinking.

In the row adjacent to mine, a man with cystic acne, hollow cheeks and rotten teeth was swatting his arms and picking at his skin. All the physical characteristics and behavioural tells of a methamphetamine addict. He caught my eye then turned away quickly.

Narcotics aren’t my field, but I picked up a bit from Duncan when he moved to Vice, or SCD9 as it’s called these days. Most meth-heads have a criminal record. And the profile’s nearly always the same – paranoia, violence, insomnia, hallucinations. Though when they’re not high, users can actually be quite lucid.

Across from me, a lady in her late sixties wearing a small gold crucifix and a rosary bracelet was reading the Metro, biting her fingernails and jiggling her leg up and down. Nervous then. Or perhaps what she’s reading is making her uncomfortable, I thought, glancing at the headline at the top of the page spread open on her lap. Without thinking I gave her the once-over.

Crucifix. Rosary. So a Catholic – a believer in redemption and hell. Blouse buttoned all the way to the top. Handbag small and unbranded with stiff handles and a snap clasp. A person indifferent to status, someone closed off from those around her. And beige clothes, a neutral tone often linked to feelings of loneliness and isolation. I looked down. My jacket was the same colour.

This was a woman who shut herself off from the world. Possibly someone she’d trusted had let her down. Maybe she thought she was safer keeping herself to herself or perhaps she just didn’t like people.

We stopped at a signal point. I leaned against the wall of the carriage, resting my head on the window. There was a drill going behind my left eye, the beginning of a migraine. The cool glass was soothing.

Outside, the scene was as grey as the sky. High walls spray-painted with obscenities. Tunnels and metal bridge supports. Rail huts and lines of wires. All covered in a thick film of soot.

A freight train trundled past on the neighbouring tracks. A maroon-and-yellow locomotive pulling thirty corrugated metal containers tagged with graffiti. And at the back of the line, eight silver cylinders with the Shell logo printed on the side.

‘We apologise for the wait. We’ll be moving shortly.’

I yawned, opened the copy of the Metro I’d picked up at the station and began to flick through it.

Five pages in, there was an article about the anniversary of Samuel Catlin’s murder. An illustrated double-page spread with the photo of him in his school uniform that made all the papers when I was a kid.

There was also one of him waving goodbye to his parents with his baseball cap on back to front and a rucksack covered in dinosaur stickers. It had been taken as he walked to the bus stop, the first time he’d ever travelled to school on his own.

He was ten years old and he never made it home that night.

Parents’ Plea to Catch Son’s Killer

Twenty-five years ago today, Samuel Catlin, 10, was kidnapped and murdered on his way home from school. His body was later found on a canal towpath by Camden Lock in North London, his head resting on a folded anorak. Despite a massive national investigation and widespread interest in the case, the person responsible has never been caught.

Yesterday, his parents issued a renewed appeal to the public for help catching their son’s killer.

‘Samuel had this gorgeous blond hair and a smile that’d melt your heart. He wanted to be a helicopter pilot when he grew up. He loved chocolate-chip cookies and pancakes – anything sweet.

‘Our lives will never be the same without him. We won’t stop looking until we find who took him from us,’ said his mother, Anne, 59.

‘Someone out there knows something. They may think it’s too small to be significant but every detail matters. If you know anything at all, please contact the police. We need your help to catch Samuel’s killer so the person who did this to our son can finally be punished.’

Fighting back tears, Samuel’s father said the devastation his family felt was made all the worse because his child’s murderer had never been brought to justice.

Anyone with information is asked to call Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.

The woman opposite me shut her eyes and sighed. Her thumb was tap-tapping the handle of her bag. The corner of her mouth was twitching like she was trying not to cry. She’d been reading the Samuel Catlin article too.

She whispered something so quietly that if it weren’t for my ability to lip-read I may have missed it.

They never caught him.

She sighed again making the sign of the cross.

I sighed too. I shared her sentiments but I also knew from experience that unsolved child homicide cases always remain open. Perhaps the Catlins’ appeal will produce fresh evidence, I thought. Though given the amount of time that had passed it was pretty unlikely.

My eyes wandered again. The paper wasn’t holding my attention. I’d been reading the same line over and over, unable to concentrate. I’d slept the night before but it had been a cursed sleep: light and fitful and filled with nightmares so that when I’d woken in the morning it was as if I’d never slept at all. And it looked like I wasn’t the only one.

There was a guy across the aisle with bags under his eyes, felt-tip on his shirt cuffs and a white splotch on the shoulder of his pinstriped suit jacket. A father, then, with a new baby and a toddler at home; a little girl probably, given the glittery pink ink stain. And a formula-fed baby, judging by the chalky colour of the spit-up.

The woman next to him – blonde hair, little skirt, lots of cleavage – was applying lip gloss. The badly concealed shadows under her eyes told me she hadn’t had much sleep either but going by the smile hovering at the corners of her mouth and the love bite on her neck, it was for a different reason.

And what about the woman absently stroking her barely-there stomach and looking off into the middle distance? Well, she may not have been yawning just then but if I was right about her she’d know all about sleep deprivation in less than nine months’ time.

‘We will shortly be arriving at Kentish Town. Please ensure you take all personal belongings when departing the train.’

The Catholic woman opposite me folded up her newspaper and popped it in her bag, checking the seat for forgotten items before getting up and making her way to the doors.

I glanced at my watch as we emerged from a tunnel, shooting out into the semi-daylight.

17.27.

The air was warm, the train’s rhythm soothing. I was just closing my eyes, head against the glass, hugging my bag to my chest, when the train jolted. There was an ear-rupturing screech and the shriek of steel grinding on steel, as the engine fought to decelerate.

My eyes shot open. There, lying on their sides across the parallel track, were three cylindrical Shell containers – the word FLAMMABLE painted in red across the centre.