Cry for Help Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Chapter One - Sunday 7th August

  Chapter Two - Sunday 7th August

  Chapter Three - Sunday 7th August

  Chapter Four - Sunday 7th August

  Chapter Five - Sunday 7th August

  Chapter Six - Friday 19th August

  Chapter Seven - Monday 22nd August

  Chapter Eight - Tuesday 23rd August

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine - Sunday 28th August

  Chapter Ten - Monday 29th August

  Chapter Eleven - Wednesday 31st August

  Chapter Twelve - Thursday 1st September

  Chapter Thirteen - Thursday 1st September

  Chapter Fourteen - Thursday 1st September

  Chapter Fifteen - Thursday 1st September

  Part Three

  Chapter Sixteen - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Seventeen - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Eighteen - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Nineteen - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Twenty - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Twenty-one - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Twenty-two - Friday 2nd September

  Chapter Twenty-three - Friday 2nd September

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-four - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Twenty-five - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Twenty-six - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Twenty-seven - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Twenty-eight - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Twenty-nine - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-one - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-two - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-three - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-four - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-five - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-six - Saturday 3rd September

  Chapter Thirty-seven - Sunday 4th September

  Epilogue

  Also by Steve Mosby

  The Third Person

  The Cutting Crew

  The 50 /50 Killer

  Cry for Help

  STEVE MOSBY

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion Books,

  an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Steve Mosby 2008

  The moral right of Steve Mosby to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the

  prior permission of both the copyright owner and

  the above publisher of this book.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and

  any resemblance to actual persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 4091 0565 7

  Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,

  Lymington, Hants

  Printed in Great Britain at Mackays of Chatham plc,

  Chatham, Kent

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that

  are natural, renewable and recyclable products and

  made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

  and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to

  the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  For Lynn

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to my agent, Carolyn Whitaker, and to everyone at Orion who helped with this book and the others, especially Jon Wood, Genevieve Pegg and Jade Chandler, who all have infinite patience. More personal thanks go to the usual people: Ang, J, Keleigh, Rich, Neil, Helen, Gillian, Roger, Ben, Megan, Cass and Mark. To Mum, Dad, John and Roy. Extra thanks this time to Becki and Rainy, and extra special thanks to Emma Lindley. Most of all, thanks to Lynn, for putting up with me during the long work on this one, and for being wonderful.

  Prologue

  ‘Get out of the way!’

  Roger Ellis didn’t stop running as he collided with the group of drunk kids. His shoulder caught the nearest, knocking him into his friends. One of them shouted something, but Roger was away by then, already dodging around the next bunch.

  It was chucking-out time in the city and the pavements were crammed with people. Girls in tiny dresses were shivering and stumbling, hugging themselves as they tapped awkwardly along; lads were remonstrating with bouncers, or each other, or else leaning into taxis and haggling over prices. The ground was painted in cast-off, primary-coloured neon from the club overhangs, and the subdued thump of music from inside was punctuated by regular bellowing and cat-calls from across the street.

  Roger had been a part of all this until a few minutes ago. Now it was all simply an obstacle.

  He angled between another two groups as he rounded a corner - then smacked head first into a young guy in a white T-shirt, sending him sprawling against a railing. Roger stopped for a second, dazed, and saw a girl wide-eyed with shock—

  ‘Hey!’

  —and then he was running again, avoiding the man’s friends as they stepped towards him from one side, and slipping past the outstretched paw of a bouncer who tried to grab him. Feet began pounding after him. But Roger was always going to be faster, and the sounds of the pursuit quickly faded away behind, until all he could hear was the sound of his own shoes, slapping hard against the pavement.

  Ten years ago, at the age of nineteen, Roger had been one of the top young decathletes in the country. He didn’t compete anymore, but he trained teenagers who did. Nobody was going to catch him - especially not someone reeling with drink.

  He sped up: his legs stretched out and the streets flashed past, the night air roaring in his ears above the steady thump of his heartbeat. At this time of night it was quicker to run than fight his way to a taxi that would, in turn, have to fight its way out through the streets.

  But as fast as Roger could run, it wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew it was something, and he had a terrible feeling he was already too late.

  He took another corner, heading away from the centre, and ran out into the criss-cross of junctions where the ring road scarred the edge of the city. Headlights blinded him; he heard tyres screech, a horn blaring. Someone shouted. Roger ignored it, concentrating on the street bobbing up and down towards him. Left into the industrial estate. The footpath at the end was a fairly dubious shortcut in the dark, but he took it anyway.

  The whole time, his mind kept coming back to something Karli had said a couple of weeks ago.

  You never really talk to anyone on the phone.

  And the conversation had actually been about her - his ex-girlfriend, Alison. Roger had mentioned he hadn’t spoken to her for a while, trying to make Karli jealous for some petty reason he now couldn’t recall. But she hadn’t taken the bait. Instead, she’d told him that: you never really talk to anyone on the phone, anyway
. At first, Roger had thought she meant him specifically - criticising his manners - but she meant in general.

  It sounds like them, she explained. But it isn’t. It’s just a computer interpreting information and doing an impression of their voice.

  She’d sounded disappointed - as though reflecting that you didn’t even get a real person lying to you and letting you down. So perhaps she’d taken the bait after all, and was just more intelligent than him. Whatever her reasoning, Roger had shut up about Alison.

  Now, running down the footpath, he thought again about the phone call he’d just received. The number that appeared on the display had been Alison’s home number, and when he’d answered it he’d heard an approximation of her voice. But it wasn’t her. The person he remembered was full of enthusiasm and laughter and hope; the voice on the phone had been flat and lifeless. Help me. There wasn’t any fear there. It sounded like she was huddled up in the corner of an empty room, whispering the words to keep ghosts away, but knowing there was nobody in the world who could hear her anymore.

  Help me.

  Then a pause, filled with a sound like rushing wind.

  Help me.

  No matter what he said, she simply kept repeating it. A few seconds later, Roger had hung up and started running.

  At 3.15 a.m., he jogged to a stop outside Alison’s house, then leaned down on his knees and took deep, professional breaths.

  Like all the buildings on the street, hers was dark and silent. This was a quiet residential area, just outside the centre. Nobody was up at this time. Cars in shadowed driveways had been draped with dark cloth for the night, and the houses behind slept along with their owners. The only sound was the lonely hum of the streetlights. After he’d caught his breath, Roger looked up to see a solitary moth fluttering soundlessly against the nearest. It felt like the only other living thing for miles.

  He walked up the short path to her house and was about to knock, but hesitated. Suddenly he felt unsure about being here. Thinking back, he could no longer explain the effect the phone call had on him, beyond that it had made his hairs stand on end. It reminded him of those tapes of static you heard on ghost documentaries, where the random, scratchy noise suddenly created an old man’s laugh. Help me, she’d told him, but from her tone of voice it was already too late.

  A breeze picked up. Behind him, hedges rustled.

  Roger shivered. Then knocked.

  The door moved away from his knuckles. Open a notch, it creaked back now to reveal a sliver of night-time kitchen. He listened.

  Heard …

  Something.

  Roger pushed the door wider and stepped inside, and the sound resolved itself. It was the buzz of flies, moving through the kitchen, whining towards him and then away. He flicked on the light and saw what they were interested in. The room was filthy. A few old plates rested on the counter, pasta sauce dried and cracked on them like old skin, and small white dots of mould peppering the creases. Another plate edged out of the full sink like a pale fin. There was a web of mist on the water around it.

  Jesus, the smell …

  ‘Alison?’

  The dark house soaked up the sound and gave nothing back.

  He went through to the living room and searched quickly for the light switch. The dark felt too ominous, as though someone might be standing in a corner, watching him. The lounge, at least, was empty. And cleaner than the kitchen, too.

  But too cold, he realised. Like the heating hadn’t been on in days.

  The wooden staircase was built into the edge of the living room, and he moved up it cautiously, keeping an eye on the gloomy landing above. Shivering slightly, he recognised the same adrenalin that he used to get before races. Again, he was sure that something was wrong. Alison had called him from here, but you could tell an empty house when you walked into one, and this place seemed more than empty. It felt abandoned.

  On the landing, the smell hit him properly. He pushed her bedroom door open.

  Roger stared at the bed in shock, his mind refusing to accept what he was seeing. It couldn’t be. The thing that was lying there … it looked like Alison - but that was impossible because …

  His mobile started ringing.

  For a few numb seconds, he let it. Then he took it out of his jacket pocket, the screen glowing a soft green in the bedroom. Finally, he glanced down.

  The Caller ID on the screen said:

  [Alison Mobile]

  Shaking now, Roger pressed the button and then held the phone to his ear, staring firmly at the object on the bed, which he knew deep down was his ex-girlfriend. For a moment, all he could hear through the phone was the rushing sound.

  And then, in that same flat voice, Alison said, ‘Help me.’

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Sunday 7th August

  I met Tori by magic two years ago.

  It was on an otherwise average night at Edward’s Bar in the city centre. It was one of those places where they don’t serve pints, only bottles, shots or cocktails, all at prices that make you feel you should be somewhere better. There was bar space for about five people, assuming they hunched their shoulders. If you actually wanted to sit with your drink, you had the choice of perching on stools with supermodel legs, or else hunkering down on fat leather settees round shin-high coffee tables. That was if you got in early. Otherwise you had to stand, and ignore the sensation of your shoes slowly sticking to the tiles.

  Everything was a misfire. When he had started the place, the manager - who was called George, not Edward, which is exactly what I mean - had hoped for a slightly better-groomed clientele. The customers liked to think they were posh and trendy, but if anyone genuinely well-heeled had ventured inside they’d probably have been robbed in the toilets by someone who would have gone back and finished their drink afterwards.

  George persevered. A friend introduced him to me and Rob, and George decided that a couple of roving amateur magicians might add a touch of class. Not a bad idea in itself. Unfortunately, it was another slight misfire, because he got us.

  Rob and I would work the room separately. Rob did a fairly impressive mentalism routine, whereas I concentrated more on sleight-of-hand: close-up stuff, most of the time with cards. We weren’t classy, not by any stretch of the imagination: the best you could say was we started off well. By the end of the evening, I was usually more drunk than the punters, telling them secrets that the Magic Circle would have frowned upon, while Rob would be staring into some girl’s eyes, attempting to guess a phone number off her.

  We made beer money. And, one night, I met Tori.

  The secret to handling a group of drunken strangers is picking out the leaders and winning them over. So I didn’t notice her straight away. I targeted a couple of her friends instead, as they seemed to be the ones holding court at the table.

  The most vocal, a guy called Choc, was a small black man in his late thirties, wearing an unironed shirt, cheap suit trousers and old, white trainers. His hair and beard were bobbled to the same short length, and from both his manner and his breath I guessed he’d been drinking for a while: possibly several days. Sitting beside him, Cardo was taller, rangier and in his early twenties, dressed in baggy sports gear and a baseball cap that hid most of his face. In contrast to Choc, he was slouched and uncommunicative: more interested in his mobile than the people beside him. But I did a trick - bare hands, sleeves rolled up, coin produced from behind his ear - and he broke into a sheepish grin, like a teenager whose cool had slipped.

  Aside from those two, the rest of the table was a weird mixture. It felt like a gathering of strangers who’d all, if they were honest, probably rather be somewhere else. As I worked through my routines, I slowly figured out the glue between them all was the girl on one end.

  I perched on the arm of the settee across from her.

  ‘Hi there. What’s your name?’

  ‘Tori.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Tori. I’m Dave.’

  She was
small and self-contained, wearing her long brown hair tied back, and dressed in a flimsy, pale-blue shirt. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a silver cross on a necklace that I would later learn belonged to her sister, who’d died four years ago. Her face was pretty without being beautiful, but there was something about her that caught my attention as soon as I sat down there. Throughout the earlier part of my routine she’d been quiet, mostly just sitting back and smiling to herself, as though content to enjoy the evening from a distance, comfortable in her own thoughts.

  I didn’t know it properly then, but this was the truth about Tori. Most people, by their mid twenties have usually been messed around with, and they’ve hardened themselves up as a result. They take longer to trust someone: to relax the protective shell they’ve formed. Tori wasn’t like that; she offered everything about herself without any kind of guard. That’s a rare thing.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I want you to tell me when to stop.’

  I held a pack of cards face-down, then riffled slowly down the edge.

  ‘Stop.’

  I did: not quite halfway down. I cut the deck at that point and, turning my head away, held it up for everyone at the table to see.

  ‘That’s the card you cut to. I have no idea what it is, but I want you to remember it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I put the deck back together, then handed it to her.

  ‘Have a look through, and make sure the cards are all different, so you know I’m not cheating.’