David Jackson - The Helper

She spoke with Doyle about it an hour ago. This was after she’d phoned Mrs Serafinowicz. She stuck to the story. Told Bridget she was fine, there was nothing to worry about, she just needed to get away from that building for a day or two, blah, blah, blah. Then, when Doyle called, she said what she really thought. Took the phone into the bedroom and let rip. Told him this wasn’t working. That it was like being cooped up in a mental asylum, and that she would sooner take her chances with a homicidal maniac than go stir-crazy with this nut-job.

Doyle calmed her down, as she knew he would. He has a gift for that. He only has to open his mouth for her to feel instantly more secure, more serene.

Unlike the freak who’s sitting across from her at the table right now, staring at her while she skim-reads a magazine article on the success of Microsoft. Yes, he has a gift too, she thinks. The gift of turning me into a fucking nervous wreck.

Why couldn’t Doyle stay with me? If he’s so worried about my safety, why didn’t he abandon whatever personal plans he had last night, and spend the night with me? If he had stayed. . If he had held me in his arms. .

‘Is there anything I can do, you know, to make you happy?’

She wants to keep staring at the magazine. Pretend she didn’t hear that. If this is his idea of coming on to her. .

‘What?’ she says. ‘What was that?’

Directly challenged like this, he suddenly looks like he wished he hadn’t said anything.

‘What I mean is. . What I’m trying to say is. . If there’s anything. . that I can do. You know?’

She closes the magazine. Which is crap, anyway. Written by geeks to be read by other geeks.

‘Actually, yes. There is something you can do for me. You can make me happy in bed.’

He flushes the color of his hair. His head is like a tomato with spectacles.

‘What? I, uhm. . What?’

‘The sheets, Gonzo. They need changing. If I have to stay here another night, then it has to be with clean sheets. Do you have any?’

Gonzo looks around him, as if he is thinking they ought to be in plain sight.

‘I, uh, no. I don’t think so.’

‘Is there a laundry room in this place?’

‘Sure. In the basement.’

‘Okay, good. We’re getting somewhere. Then what you need to do is strip the sheets from the bed, take them down to the laundry room, and get them clean and dry.’

He looks at her as though the notion is an alien concept to him.

‘I. . I can’t do that.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t do it? How hard can it be? You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Please tell me these sheets have been cleaned at some point since you bought them.’

‘No. I mean yes, they have been cleaned. But I can’t. Not now. Detective Doyle said that we can’t leave the apartment. I have to be with you, at all times.’

‘He meant the apartment building , Gonzo. I’m not asking you to head across to New Jersey. Just the basement. For half an hour. Okay?’

He scratches his head. ‘I don’t know. I think I should give Detective Doyle a call first.’

She loses it then. ‘Jesus Christ, Gonzo. Will you just go wash the fucking sheets before I throw the whole bed out of the fucking window?’

Gonzo stands slowly, uncertainly. ‘Last night Detective Doyle called you a lady. Ladies don’t talk like that.’

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I should have said please. Now please go wash the fucking sheets. Okay?’

Doyle’s shift won’t start until four in the afternoon. Which is killing him. Wandering around the apartment like this, trying to find chores to occupy his mind, trying not to get in Rachel’s way, is just not working. He finds he’s constantly checking his cellphone to make sure he hasn’t missed a call. He feels like a man whose wife is about to give birth.

He needs the distraction of work. He will be kept busy in the aftermath of the Helena Colquitt killing. He will follow the procedure, the routine. He will talk to the people he is supposed to talk to, put the questions he is supposed to ask, write the reports he is meant to write.

All of which will be hard given that he suspects none of it is worth jack shit.

What will keep him going on this seemingly fruitless task is the possibility that somewhere, buried deep perhaps, is a clue to the unraveling of these apparently random killings. Okay, Helena wasn’t the intended victim. But the killer thought she was. So why? Why did he think that? And why target Tabitha anyway? What links her to the other victims?

And the more important question right now: do any of those victims provide pointers to the next one?

He believes the killer when he says that he isn’t going after Doyle’s family. For one thing, the man hasn’t lied to him once so far. He’s provided Doyle with uncertainty, ambiguity, clues which are open to interpretation. But no downright lies. And deep down, Doyle knows that his own family doesn’t fit the pattern of killings. He has no idea what that pattern is, but for some reason he knows that Rachel and Amy aren’t part of it.

So how does he know that? What is he missing?

Laden with a plastic basket containing a mountain of washing that threatens to landslide and bury him at any moment, Gonzo has to wrestle with the basement door to get it to open. He snakes his arm round the door jamb, feathers it up and down the rough wall in search of the light switch. He finds it, clicks it on.

Nothing. The bulb must be dead.

He exhales. Steps gingerly through the doorway. Tries to make his feeble eyes gain mastery over the dimness in here.

The blow to the side of his head sends him reeling across the room. He bounces off the wall, hears his glasses clatter to the floor. He puts his hands up to fend off his attacker, but it’s a pathetic defense. Another cruise missile pilots its way between his hands and zeros in on his cheek. When it slams home, it feels as though it detaches his head from his shoulders, leaving his body to crumple to the floor. His gargantuan brain, capable of composing complex pieces of software without going anywhere near a computer, scurries for the panic button and allows his survival instincts to take the helm. He tries to push himself up from the floor, because that’s the only message he’s getting.

And then something soft and warm is pulled over his head. Musty cloth presses tightly against his mouth and nose. He tries to suck oxygen through the weave, but it won’t come quickly enough. The claustrophobia and the pain make him want to vomit, but he swallows it back, knowing that he could drown in his own sick. He feels an asthma attack coming on. He’s going to die. He knows he is going to die.

Everything turns to black.

She had hoped for at least an hour of peace and solitude, maybe even longer given the amount of washing she made him take downstairs — Jesus, does he actually wear those clothes? An hour without the staring, without the randomness. Time to reflect. To think about Helena, her parents, her life. To decide what to do with her future when she gets out of this damned city.

So when there’s a rap on the door barely ten minutes after Gonzo left the apartment, she is not amused. Can’t he even manage a simple task like-

Oh.

She doesn’t recognize the man standing there in the hallway when she opens the door. But he’s tall, he’s good-looking and he’s holding up a leather wallet containing a police badge.

‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Didn’t Detective Doyle tell you not to open the door to anyone?’

‘I. . I’m sorry. I thought it was. . Who are you, exactly?’

‘Detective Todd Morton. I work with Cal Doyle in the Eighth Precinct. He sent me to get you. We don’t have much time.’