Page 70 of Dropping Like Flies

I lifted my phone reluctantly to my ear, making no effort to hide my weariness as I answered it. “DCI Weaver.” If they wanted me on my A game, they needed to call at a respectable hour.

“Ben?”

The edge of panic in the unfamiliar voice had me sitting up straighter. “Yeah. Who is this?”

“Oh, thank God! I didn’t know if I’d be able to wake you. It’s Flynn. We met the other night.”

“I remember.” He sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. “Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s Griff. He has him. I didn’t know what to do. I managed to get away, but Griff’s still there.”

A buzzing started up in my ears. “Who has him?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s him. I think it’s Satanic Romeo.”

“How? Why? What happened?” Panic had me spitting out questions like they were machine-gun bullets.

“I’m going to go back and help him. I shouldn’t have run.”

“No! Don’t do that. Find a hiding place and call the police. If you’ve seen his face, he’ll want to get you out of the picture.”

“Yeah… of course. I’m not thinking straight. I’m just… you know, worried about what he’s going to do to Griff.”

He wasn’t the only one, but someone needed to stay calm. Although calm was probably overstating it, my heart thrashing in my chest. “Call the police,” I reiterated. “Tell them what you’ve just told me.”

“I will. You’ll come, though, won’t you? I’m worried they won’t get here in time, but I know how much he means to you. If something happens to him, it’ll be my fault and I won’t be able to live with myself.”

Hot on the heels of Dougie’s suicide, the words hit hard. “Yeah, I’ll come.” I was already starting the engine. “I just need an address.”

“8 Macklin Street. Shepherd’s Bush.” It was all Flynn said before the line went dead, presumably so he could do as I’d said and call the police. It was tempting to call it in myself, but it would waste valuable seconds and it didn’t need both of us doing it. Hopefully, Flynn would have enough wherewithal to use my name to get people to sit up and take notice.

Driving slowly went out the window as I got back on the road. I rued the people who apparently set off to work at the crack of dawn, the roads filling up. My destination was only about ten minutes away, but it felt like a million. I searched for the connection Griff and I both shared while I drove. It wasn’t there. What did that mean? That he was already dead? If he was, I’d kill Satanic Romeo with my bare hands, and I didn’t care how long I went to prison for. What was the point of being free if I’d reunited with Griff, only for him to be snatched away?

The house was quiet when I drew up outside it with no sign of the police, Flynn’s presumption that I’d get here quicker proved correct. I took a few moments to look up and down the street after exiting the car, half expecting Flynn to appear. He didn’t, and the rest of the street was empty of anything save birds and one lone tabby cat who couldn’t have looked less interested. Flynn had presumably found a hiding place farther afield, which was sensible.

I turned my attention to the house, the front door ajar. I might have found it strange, but that had always been a calling card of Satanic Romeo. Some of the victims wouldn’t have been found as quickly as they had if it wasn’t for his habit of leaving the door open. Did that mean he’d been and gone? What did that mean for Griff?

Fear constricted my throat as I unlatched the gate and made my way down the path to the open door. The sensible thing would be to wait for reinforcements. I didn’t like the idea of being sensible, though. What if Griff was still alive and I could save him? What if the time I spent standing here thinking about it was the difference between him living and dying? I just couldn’t take the risk.

The urge to shout his name was immense as I curled my fingers around the door handle. It would be a rookie error. I needed to think like a police officer, not a lover, to pretend that it wasn’t Griff in there, but a normal call. Just a report of a disturbance that needed investigating with cold, calm logic.

The door opened into a carpeted hallway, my pale face reflected back at me from a large mirror mounted on the wall as I stepped inside. No sound. I forced myself to sniff the air. You could smell blood at a crime scene, the cloying metallic scent unmistakable. Nothing. Something eased in my chest, but it only lasted a second before doubt kicked in. How long did it take for blood to smell? There was usually a delay before I arrived at a crime scene. What degree of oxidation did it need?

Leaving the front door open for the police that would come in my wake, I took a few steps down the hallway, treading carefully so I didn’t make a noise. Blood roared in my ears as I reached an open door. A living room. Empty. I moved on. Kitchen. Same result. I knew where to go, though, didn’t I? The bedroom. It was always the bedroom. Satanic Romeo was a creature of habit and had never deviated from that.

The first stair creaked as I stepped on it and I stilled, cringing inwardly. The pause forced me to take stock. I was about to head upstairs into the unknown without a weapon. I backtracked to the kitchen, pulling the drawers open until I found a knife. It wasn’t the most impressive specimen. No doubt Satanic Romeo’s was bigger, but it was better than nothing. Holding it in front of me, I returned to the stairs.

I chose a different spot on the first stair this time, the universe doing me a favor and letting my tread be silent. There were no more surprise creaks as I made my way up the stairs. At the top lay an open door. A small bathroom. Just as empty as the downstairs rooms had been. Two other doors. Both closed. Would I find Griff behind one of them?

Steeling myself for what I might find, I pushed the first one open. A guest bedroom, by the looks of it. Empty. Perhaps the entire house was empty. A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened at the idea of me creeping around an empty house as quiet as a church mouse. Better that than going in all guns blazing. I came to a stop in front of the last door. If there was someone in the house, there was only one more place they could be. I pressed my ear to it and listened. Nothing. No voices. No footsteps.

Heart in my throat, I pushed it open. No blood. No symbols on the wall. Relief almost had my legs giving way beneath me. It was short-lived, though, as a shrouded lump on the bed grabbed my attention. Rushing forward, I pulled at it, unraveling the duvet to find… pillows. I might have laughed, but there wasn’t time, the baseball bat already connecting with my skull, the closet door where someone had been lying in wait still open.

The blow was hard.

Extremely hard.

Hard enough to crack a skull.

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