Terror 404 (Amy Lane Mysteries) Read online

  Terror 404

  Title Page

  Chapter 1: The Sea’s Sway

  Chapter 2: The Escaped Crusader

  Chapter 3: Fear the Reaper

  Chapter 4: Girl Offline

  Chapter 5: By the Book

  Chapter 6: The Art of Death

  Chapter 7: Run for Mother

  Chapter 8: Personal Question

  Chapter 9: Evidence of Absence

  Chapter 10: Bar Room Brawler

  Chapter 11: Collective Memory

  Chapter 12: The Past is Her Story

  Chapter 13: Friends in Unlikely Places

  Chapter 14: A Family Affair

  Chapter 15: Supermassive Black Hole

  Chapter 16: The Drop

  Chapter 17: Under Pressure

  Chapter 18: Lifeline

  Chapter 19: Friends Like These

  Chapter 20: Nevermore

  Chapter 21: The Cuckoo’s Nest

  Chapter 22: Gather Ye Daffodils

  Chapter 23: No Smoke Without Fire

  Chapter 24: Deputy Sheriff

  Chapter 25: Background Check

  Chapter 26: Poison Pen

  Chapter 27: Secret Handshake

  Chapter 28: The Pyre of Ambition

  Chapter 29: Shifting Sands

  Chapter 30: You Can Still Be Free

  Chapter 31: Song for the Lovers

  Chapter 32: The Devil’s Due

  Chapter 33: We All Fall Down

  Chapter 34: One Step Closer

  Chapter 35: The Space Between

  Chapter 36: A Matter of Trust

  Chapter 37: None So Blind

  Chapter 38: Follow the Rabbit

  Chapter 39: Trade in Lunacy

  Chapter 40: To Whom It May Concern

  Chapter 41: Exodus

  Chapter 42: Celestial Navigation

  Chapter 43: Here Lies Justice

  Chapter 44: Chess Master

  Chapter 45: Biohazarding

  Chapter 46: Generation X

  Chapter 47: The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

  Chapter 48: Road Trip

  Chapter 49: Knock Knock

  Chapter 50: Man Overboard

  Chapter 51: Amy Lane vs The Sea

  Chapter 52: The sea will give up her dead

  Chapter 52: Sunset, Sunrise

  Chapter 54: Lamp in the Window

  Terror 404

  Terror 404

  Book 4 in The Amy Lane Mysteries series

  by

  Rosie Claverton

  Terror 404 © Rosie Claverton

  ISBN 978-0-9933815-3-9

  eISBN 978-0-9933815-4-6

  Published in 2017 by Crime Scene Books

  The right of Rosie Claverton to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP record of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book 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 written permission of the copyright holder.

  Book design by Clockwork Graphic Design

  Cover design George Foster Covers

  Printed in the UK by Marston Book Services Ltd

  Dedication

  For Emily

  If you cry, the ink will run – and then it will settle into

  something you made with your tears,

  not in spite of them.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my editor Deb Nemeth for providing the ever-climbing scaffold for my writing tree – you have made me the writer I am today. Many thanks to Sarah Williams and the team at Crime Scene Books for giving me and The Amy Lane Mysteries a home.

  The main research contribution to this novel is from the

  Royal College of Psychiatrists, without whom I would not have a medical career.

  Thank you for my education, even if this isn’t quite what you

  thought I would do with it.

  And thank you to my family: my husband Huw and my daughter Faith, who encourage me every day – mostly by blowing raspberries.

  Chapter 1: The Sea’s Sway

  When everything was too fast, too intense, too crowded with worry, her only respite was the sea. Its calming blue or its stormy grey or the white horses riding over it - she could watch and find a tiny space inside her that was still tranquil.

  Emma Mason sat cross-legged on the damp grass, looking out through the clear plastic fence. She had been disappointed it wasn’t cool glass, to calm the hot turbulence inside her head, but it couldn’t be glass, could it? Not here. Too risky.

  Three months. She had been imprisoned here for three months. No, not imprisoned - what was that word they used? Detained. She had been detained, because she had a mental disorder and she posed a high risk to herself. There was that word again: risk. It permeated the very atmosphere of the rooms, the breath of the staff, the wary glances between patients.

  It was the kind of prison that lied. It showed you bright, open spaces, good food, the garden overlooking the sea - and it tried to convince you that you were free. Merely resting here a while.

  But she felt trapped and itchy. They wouldn’t give her paper to write down all the things she needed to remember. They wouldn’t let her spend two hours in the shower, making sure every inch of her skin was given equal attention. They wouldn’t let her fold her clothes and order them how she chose on the shelves. They wouldn’t let her abate the storm, even if only for a few moments.

  As the days had eked out into weeks and expanded into months, Emma’s concerns had grown. The nurses knew nothing about her and the doctor only pushed his cocktail of pills on her. The therapist wanted to talk about her mother and her father and her brother, even though Emma never said a word. She was overwhelmed, consumed by the idea that this was a hospital that didn’t actually want her to get better.

  Was she finally losing her mind, turning into one of those conspiracy people from the internet, the kind her brother Max made mocking documentaries about? Or was she merely being realistic? Her mother was paying a small fortune for her stay at this “elite establishment”, which made it sound like a yoga retreat or wellness spa rather than an asylum with fake white smiles. Why would the staff here want her to get well? She was making them a ton of money by staying ill.

  She had only two saving graces in this place. Max, returned from his exotic travels and somehow turned human by them, wanted to give her gifts of sweet treats. Perhaps to make up for years of little brother bullying, doing anything and everything to get their father’s attention. Now it was too late for either of them to gain his approval.

  The gifts made the hours more bearable, though between them and the drugs, she was increasing in size like a balloon waiting to burst. She tried to give them away, but most people here were suspicious. Emma could understand their fears. This place was supposedly designed to soothe them, but it made Emma feel watched, scrutinised.

  She had one other saviour. Little Amy, as she called her inside her head, had only been with her six weeks but Emma knew her immediately as a kindred spirit. Her struggles were all on the inside, not on display like some of the others, but she didn’t deserve this place either. She had arrived with an escort of police officers, but someone so slight, so pale, couldn’t possibly be a criminal.

  Amy didn’t like to leave her room. Amy didn’t leave her room at all, in fact, so Emma couldn’t show her the distant sea and explain how much it helped her. More than the drugs, more than
the therapists, more even than the conversations they shared - such as they were.

  “Time for bed, Emma.”

  The nurse touched her arm before she could react. Emma cried out and jumped to her feet, her arm stinging with the brush through her cardigan. She fought it for a moment, trying to remember all those things the therapist said, but the urge was too great.

  She touched her other arm in the same place, evening out the sensation, but then her left leg flared, demanding its own attention. Your father is dead. What will happen to your mother? Pay attention to the details. Make it right and God will spare her.

  She touched her legs, one after the other, and then her cheeks, one-two. The nurse - Miriam, that was her name - tried to distract her, and Emma’s hand slipped, brushing her chin instead.

  Start again. Arm, arm, leg -

  “Stop, Emma. Come inside.”

  - leg, cheek -

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  My mother will die. Everyone will die. I can prevent it. I can make it right.

  She’d lost the pattern again. She hadn’t even managed it once, let alone completed the holy three sets. She felt the anxiety rise in her, the flutter in her chest that meant she was losing control. She had to get back to her room, finish the job. Ward off Death for another day.

  She sped past the nurse, dodging left and right to avoid the other patients and staff, allowing no one to touch her. She had to get back to her room. Her skin was burning all over, screaming out the pattern, begging her for symmetry and alignment.

  Emma didn’t see her. She collided straight into her, almost knocking her over in the bedroom corridor. The ghost of a woman, already starting her night of pacing, with her grey hair in disarray and her rictus smile without teeth.

  “Let go of me, demon!”

  But it was Ffion gripping Emma’s arms, over the points of their burning, shaking her in desperation, in fear. Emma tried to protest her innocence, but she couldn’t find the words, the right words. What could she say to make it better, apologise, undo her mistake?

  “Demon! DEMON!”

  Ffion’s bellowing drew the nurses, who carefully pulled them apart without much force at all. Emma watched her eyes, how they rolled in her head, how she was getting worse every day, her shouting louder, her words about demons more frantic and terrified. Ffion had been here for months - was this what happened to people who stayed here?

  Ffion continued her pacing as if nothing had happened and Emma retreated to her room, shrugging off their hands, their comfort. So many touches that she couldn’t possibly keep track. How could she make it right? How could she undo?

  She couldn’t. It was hopeless. She couldn’t do this alone. She couldn’t do this with other people. She felt like she had only one friend in the entire world, but how could she say all these things and make herself understood? She never seemed to have the words.

  But if she gave up, she would stay here forever. She had to try - for her family, for herself. To appease the God who had taken her father and would surely come for her mother. To avoid the demons that haunted Ffion, and might yet come for her.

  For that, she needed an ally.

  She carefully wrote a note on a paper towel with a stolen pen. The words smudged and the letters were uneven, but the twenty-third attempt was passable. She folded and refolded it a number of times, aligning the edges perfectly, before she crept out into the corridor and pushed her note under Amy’s door.

  Returning to her bed, she pushed open her window, wrapped herself in her blanket, and waited. Only a few minutes later she heard the answering sound of a window opening.

  “Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  Amy’s voice was soft, rasping, as if her mouth was too dry and her words barely formed by it. Emma took a few moments, a few minutes, to find the right words. To tell Amy exactly what had happened in the corridor, how she felt. However, the spectre of the ward round tomorrow filled her head and she could talk of nothing else.

  “Max thinks I’m getting worse.” She paused, took a breath. “He thinks I stutter more. It’s only with him, though, and the nurses. I don’t stutter with you.”

  It was true - Amy’s silence, through the window, allowed her space to think and form her words. At first, Amy had tried to ask her things, but Emma was derailed by questions and prone to panic when confronted with them. Now Amy just listened.

  “I’ve lived with my little rituals for a long time. I don’t know why they’ve shut me away now. I felt a bit strange that day, that’s all - but I can’t describe it, not to them.”

  From what Emma could remember, she’d broken down in her brother’s car and panicked in the street, calling out a torrent of things that made no sense. The psychiatrist called it psychosis. Emma feared it was a worn-out brain finally reaching its breaking point.

  She could hear crying through the wall. Ffion’s bitter tears, the ones that begged for a mercy that never came. Emma knew that all too well. So she listened - to Amy’s silence, Ffion’s tears, and the gentle movement of the sea against the shore.

  And willed her mind not to break.

  Chapter 2: The Escaped Crusader

  Bradley Thompson got in from work at seven o’clock, reheated leftover spaghetti bolognese, and watched an hour of mindless television. He took a brief shower, sluicing away a day’s worth of grime and grease from the garage, before dressing all in black and stuffing his balaclava in his pocket. He left behind the knife, because it was a distraction - when a man had a weapon, he forgot how to use his body to fight. Using the back door, he stepped out into the night and started walking.

  The secret to living a lie was to live it completely. As soon as his sister had dropped him off on the outskirts of Bristol, he no longer had a sister. Jason Carr was dead - and Bradley Thompson was born.

  With fake ID and a wad of cash, he floated around Bristol’s hostels until he found a garage willing to take on a mechanic with no questions asked - and none answered. The boss found him a place to rent, owned by a mate who didn’t mind the lack of references, and the boys at the garage welcomed “Taffy Lee” into their small business of dodgy car fixing.

  From experience he could no longer name, Bradley knew his way around a stolen motor and cash in hand suited him just fine. For a couple of weeks, he kept his head down and fixed up the cars, silent and avoidant until the others left him alone with his work. When a big guy with a shaved head and tats didn’t want to talk, you didn’t push him.

  Yet it wasn’t enough any more, a nine-to-five and a place of his own. One time, he would’ve given anything for a fresh start, like the one gifted to him. The man he had once been had dreamed of that, between prison and Amy -

  He couldn’t think of her. That one piece of his past was not so easily forgotten. If he started down that road, he would up and leave, run back to Cardiff and his former life as assistant to an elite hacker. Find her, protect her - and end up in prison for helping her. She had arranged all this to keep him safe. He would not let her down.

  Except he was already putting that safety in jeopardy. Walking towards Clifton Down, he was looking for trouble. If he were caught, the police would soon rip through his false identity and he would be back in jail.

  But he couldn’t leave it alone. Night after night, he had entered the dark parts of the city, stopping muggings, protecting the homeless. This latest crime seemed made for him: a spate of rapes over The Downs, the perp unknown and making the police look like idiots. Bradley Thompson wouldn’t know anything about how to hunt down a rapist, but Jason had not forgotten, could not forget. Was he supposed to just sit at home and do nothing?

  That’s what she would want him to do. But Jason’s strengths were in his ability to sniff out the streets and break heads. He wanted to be something more than that, but that was the truth of him. Denying it was futile - even under a different name and in a different city, he couldn’t unmake himself.

  After an hour’s walk
across the city, Jason reached the edge of Clifton Down. The green space was part of one of the most affluent areas in Bristol, which was probably why the sexual assaults had caused such panic and raised so much media attention. Jason relied on the press for most of his information these days, no direct link to the police to guide his investigating.

  He missed them, his friends with the police - and he never thought he’d say that. Ex-cons didn’t have friends who were coppers, men who’d watch his back, cared about his fate. He had no idea what that friendship had cost them, as they’d turned a blind eye to his flight. He wanted to know, but then again he didn’t. He had enough guilt to carry.

  As he’d done every night this week, he started jogging along the most obvious paths, keeping an eye out for a likely suspect. He wasn’t used to running, out of the habit since the prison treadmill, but this week of jogging had given him some stamina for the hours ahead. Despite the assaults, he wasn’t alone, though the huddles of women gave him the eye when he passed them.

  The crowds thinned as the night drew in, until it was only Jason jogging the paths and only rarely spotting another loner. This was the prime time for the attacker to strike, his hunting ground ripe when his prey were scattered. Where was he hiding? Could Jason find him before another girl met with him?

  Jason ran for another thirty, forty, sixty minutes before deciding he’d better call it a night. He was the only one on the paths now and that made him look guilty, skulking around the park at night.

  Then he saw her. A lone woman with her head down, jogging ahead of him with bulky headphones covering her ears. And behind her, about fifty feet away, an anonymous man running in black.

  Jason increased his speed, putting on a sprint to cover the hundred yards between them. The man reached for the woman’s shoulder - and Jason collided with him, knocking him off the path and rolling him down into a ditch.