Stark’s mobile buzzed. It was McGuigan.
“I checked the victims of the Willow killings. Everyone. Including the survivors, Jonathan.” Silence followed, which conveyed more than any words. Then he spoke, quietly. “You never told me you’d got shot.”
“I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think it relevant,” Stark replied. “It’s not relevant.”
“You worked together. You were there when Willow killed her.”
“Now you know. But it was coincidence.”
“I’m not entirely sure I believe in coincidences.”
“Did you get her name?” asked Stark.
“Cynthia Lamont. A legal trainee. Gunshot to the head. She never stood a chance.”
And yet I did, thought Stark.
“I have other information,” continued McGuigan. “I have the name of her mother.”
“It’s Winnifred Marshall,” said Stark. “Senior partner of SJPS, and head of property.”
Another silence, indicating the affirmative. Stark spoke.
“I found information about Apollo. The tenant Mrs Fleming had in her house is called Gabriel Lamont. If you check, no doubt you’ll find that Lamont was Winifred’s married name. She got divorced eight years ago, and reverted back to her maiden name – Marshall.” He regarded Jenny, who had supplied this information. No matter how discreet a person was, the past always seeped out, then seized upon, and served up in juicy morsels. The fact that Winnifred Marshall was divorced was common knowledge. Just another part of the rumour and gossip machine. Jenny knew. The entire office knew.
Stark imagined McGuigan’s wise old head nodding as he absorbed this information.
“Brother, sister, mother,” said McGuigan.
“Probably.”
“We have a name, at last.” McGuigan spoke in a hushed voice. “Gabriel Lamont. His sister was killed. He’s been trying to… what? Resurrect her? Recreate her? I dare say he dresses his victims in the same way as his sister dressed that day. He’s trying to turn back time, in his weird psychopathic way. And his mother…”
“Maybe she knew all the time. Or maybe she was trying simply to help her son find a home. I don’t know, Chief Inspector. That’s your job. I’ve got to get my sister, if I still have time.”
Another silence, then – “What have you found, Jonathan?”
“You can’t help.”
Stark sensed the sudden urgency in McGuigan’s voice.
“If you have an address, you need to give it to me. This man is dangerous. You’ve done well, up until now. But it stops. You let me take over. Give me the address, Jonathan.”
“And then? An army of cops descend. What then? What about my sister? What will he do, confronted like that. How does a man like that react? Let me tell you. He kills. He kills the whole world, because he wants the whole world to burn. Like Archie Willow, who wanted nothing more than to bring down as much death as he could before the end.” His voice took a harsh edge. “If we do it your way, my sister will die. Sure as fate. If I go, on my own, I reckon she has a chance.”
McGuigan responded, his voice flat. “He’ll kill you. Your sister will die. What will that achieve? Give me the damned address, Jonathan.”
“Goodbye, Chief Inspector. Thanks for believing.”
He hung up.
He faced Jenny. She was sitting at her computer, back stiff, face pinched and wan. He leant down, kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you. Really.”
“You’re going to him. You’re not telling the police.”
“To save my sister. If I don’t call you in two hours, ask for Chief Inspector Harry McGuigan. He’s a good man. Tell him what we found. Give him the address.”
Her eyes welled up. Her bottom lip trembled. She looked away. “You’ll die,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Promise me you won’t call the police. Not right away. I need that time.”
She nodded, said nothing.
“Thank you, Jenny.”
He left the offices of SJPS, to his car, on his journey to the devil’s lair.