Stark headed straight for the office. He screamed at every red light. He screamed at every green light when the car in front didn’t move off quickly enough. He didn’t wait at a pedestrian crossing. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He got to the road adjacent to the offices of SJPS, bumped the car half onto the pavement. He sprinted in, through the main door. Whilst closed for the weekend, some staff still worked, chasing the buck, looking for overtime. But most stayed away. The atmosphere was less intense. Jeans and trainers were the order of the day. It was almost pleasant.
Stark, however, was not in a pleasant mood. He gave the sole receptionist a curt acknowledgement, headed straight to his office. He met Jenny in the waiting room, presumably on her way out. She looked somewhat pale and bleary eyed. A sure sign of late-night drinking. He suspected he looked just as awful. His appearance was way down the pecking order.
“I tried to contact you…” she started.
Stark had never been happier seeing someone. “I need help,” he blurted. Clock was ticking. No time for inconsequentials. “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And good morning to you too. What precisely is it that you can’t do on your own? You’ve fucked something up?”
“Not quite. I need to check records, going back about five years. But I’m not sure if it’s as simple as typing in a name, or if it requires special access.”
Jenny seemed to consider. “You have aroused my interest. But then you’re good at that. Expand, please.”
Stark replied in a breathless rush.
“Let’s get to the office. It’s complicated. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re glad. I only came in to get my car keys. And here I am, assisting the new trainee in some nefarious scheme. You’re leading me down a dark path, Jonathan.”
Darker than you might think, he thought. He said nothing.
They passed through the disguised door, along the corridor, passing the basement entrance. As ever, it emanated a chill. Stark shivered. A place he had come to loath. The irony did not escape him – it could prove to be his sister’s salvation. Still, a mountain to climb. He suppressed a surge of panic.
They got to their shared office. He faced her.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “Apollo Letting. If I want to find out about contracts they’ve entered, with tenants, where do I go?”
She expressed bewilderment. “Apollo Letting? That’s part of the residential arm of the practice. What are you looking for, Jonathan?”
“Okay.” He got his thinking straight, which was difficult, given the circumstances. “About five years ago, Apollo had a contract with a woman called Karen Fleming. They effectively leased her home for four or five months. The basis of the deal was that they would find a tenant, collect rental, make sure everything was okay. Karen Fleming would have no idea who the tenant was. Only Apollo Letting, who would have entered into a separate sub-agreement with that tenant. On the face of it, Apollo is the tenant. The reality, they lease it on to a suitable candidate of their choosing. Therefore, somewhere, there will be a contract between Apollo and the tenant. Yes?”
She nodded, but the bewilderment didn’t go away. “You want to trace a particular tenant.”
“In one.”
“You know the next question.”
He blinked, wiped sweat from his eyes. He was scared, he was panicking, the alcohol from last night sat in his head like a stone. And his sister’s life depended on his actions. He swept away any thoughts that she might already be dead. His priority now was to keep moving, and pray for a break.
“Jenny. I’m not drunk. I’m not lying. I’m not mad. But I’m terrified.” He gave her a level stare. “This individual – this tenant – I believe, might be the serial killer we all know as The Surgeon.” He swallowed, found the next words hard to articulate without a shake in his voice. “I believe he’s kidnapped my sister.”
He let it sink in for five seconds. She frowned, cocked her head, as if to say What?
“You don’t need to believe me,” he continued. “But believe the sincerity in my voice. I need to find this man. And this fucking firm holds the key. Will you help me?”
“Your sister?”
“Yes. Will you help me, Jenny?”
She responded with a decisive nod of her head. She sat by her computer, spoke as her fingers rattled on the keyboards.
“Lucky I was here. The property department enjoy their secrets. Each section of the firm is like a little fiefdom. We’re supposed to be a team. But we’re always competing. Past records are password protected. Five years ago? There will be a copy somewhere.”
“You have this password?”
“I was working in property up until six months ago. The short answer – yes, I do.”
The screen on the computer changed to a menu. She drew the mouse to a section headed “Archive”, pressed. The screen changed again to further headings. She typed in ‘Apollo’ in the search box. Lists appeared – property addresses with the corresponding owner’s names.
“There’s hundreds,” said Stark.
“It’s a busy little side venture. Every time the rental comes in, the firm scoops up fifteen per cent. Easy money. You have a name?”
“I have the name of the owner. Karen Fleming.”
“Should be enough.” Again, the same routine, typing in the name in the search box. A copy of a document materialised. A duplicate of the paper version Stark had in his pocket. The lease between Karen Fleming and Apollo Letting.
“I need to find the tenant Apollo located.”
“Sure. There’ll be a sub-agreement.” She clicked a link above the document. Another page appeared. Another contract.
Stark gazed at the screen.
Before him, a name.
Gabriel Lamont.
He swallowed, composed himself.
“Anything else?”
She slid the mouse, clicked on an attachment. Again, the screen changed. Now, copies of ID. A bank statement, a passport. The photo in the passport was grainy, but clear enough. The man he saw in his dreams. The man who stalked and murdered a young woman, by drugging her, tying her to a bed, and firing a metal prod through her neck. The Surgeon. His dream was true. The validation gave him little comfort.
“It’s him,” he said.
Jenny turned to him, looked at him blankly.
“The man who’s taken your sister?”
“This man,” he breathed, “Gabriel Lamont. He’s The Surgeon.”
A silence fell. The gravity of his statement felt like a weight was pressed in the room. Jenny responded, and not for the first time, expressed bewilderment.
“How do you know this?”
“If I told you, you really would think me as mad. But I promise I’ll tell you. Can we get anything else? More on this guy?”
She twitched her shoulders in a gesture of doubt. “I’d be surprised. But I’ll cross-reference his name, and see what comes up.”
She typed it in – Gabriel Lamont.
A list came up. Addresses. Fifteen. Beside each address, a date, and beside each date, the constant name – Gabriel Lamont.
“Jesus,” muttered Stark. He studied the screen. “He’s had fifteen different addresses over the past five years. His first was Karen Fleming’s house. No wonder the bastard can’t be caught. He’s a fucking nomad. And this firm enabled it to happen.”
Jenny nodded. “Apollo Letting. In this particular case, it seems they didn’t find tenants for vacant houses. The other way round…”
“…they found vacant houses for one specific tenant,” finished Stark. “SJPS is connected.” He leaned closer, studied the last address on the list.
“That date is recent. Holm Farm Cottage, Eaglesham moors. That’s where he is. That’s where I’ll find him.” He pressed his finger on the screen to the same set of letters beside each of the fifteen entries.
“What’s that?”
Jenny squinted at the computer. “It’s the initials of the particular lawyer dealing with the case.” She paused, took a long breath. She spoke, a tremor in her voice –
“The same lawyer. I know who that is.”
“Who?”
“I can hardly believe it.” She looked at Stark, bewildered. “Lamont. It was her married name.”