Private Oz (Private 7)

A few pages on she saw a crude drawing of a nursery. On the following pages, names. A long list, two columns to a page. At the top of the left column, Julie had written “GIRLS”. Topping the right column was the word “BOYS”. Under these headings were dozens of names, alphabetized, some crossed out and written over, many misspelled.

A set of double pages from the scrapbook had separated from the rest. She saw familiar names. One sai

d: “WHORE NUMBER THREE. ELSPETH LAMPARD,” the other: “WHORE NUMBER FOUR. YASMIN TRENT.” Beneath this, details of the murders from Julie O’Connor’s perspective.

With great care, she leafed through, then stopped suddenly.

On the brightly lit counter lay another double page that had slipped away from the others. She could see three words: “WHORE NUMBER FIVE.” Next to that a deep brown scorch mark.

Chapter 122

JULIE WALKED FROM the train station, south along Seymour Avenue and then right into Sebastian Road. She followed this route six days a week, but always early each morning – this way at 7 am – retracing her steps to the station twelve hours later. Today was different. She was walking toward SupaMart at 10.10 pm and she looked like a middle-aged, mustachioed man.

The street was quiet, a residential haven basking in a balmy summer’s evening. Ahead, Julie could see the SUPAMART sign lit up above the front window of the store.

She strode straight past the entrance, the rectangle of glass fronting the shop, then down a broad alleyway toward the parking lot at the rear. Hanging a left, she found the darkened doorway into the back of SupaMart. The door was bolted and padlocked.

Julie slotted a key into the padlock, turned it, found a second key for the lower Yale, twisted that, pushed, and the door swung inwards.

She was in a corridor, flicked on the light and a florescent strip spattered into life. Concrete floor, concrete walls, concrete ceiling. She pulled the door closed, took three paces along the passage, stopped at another door bearing a sign: STOREROOM 1.

It was unlocked, the light on. It was filled with stock for the shelves in the store. At 6 am tomorrow, a three-person team would arrive to take the goods out onto the shop floor. Later tomorrow, a truck would arrive to replenish this stock. It was a cycle, a rhythm.

There was a concealed cupboard at the back of the third shelf up from the floor. She had spotted it weeks ago when she was sent to the storeroom to get some detergent. She yanked on the handle. Inside, a few items she’d put there two days ago – clothes, a sleeping bag, a thermos, some basic toiletries.

Julie gathered the things up, unfurled the sleeping bag on to the floor and lay on it. She was used to sleeping rough. After walking out on her evil mother, she’d lived on the streets for four years. She’d been raped twice, had her skull fractured as she slept in a park and almost died on the operating table. No, unlike the stupid, soft bitches she delighted in killing, she knew Julie Ann O’Connor was as tough as iron.

She leaned back against the wall and pulled out her notebook. At the top of a double page close to the back, a name. Beneath this an address followed by a list of people – the woman’s family and friends. Then a collection of phone numbers. Last, some notes, a set of things she thought might one day be useful information about the woman she’d targeted: “Favorite restaurants”, “Gym address, number”, “Habits.”

Under “Habits”, she’d written: ‘This whore likes to run. She runs and she runs … silly bitch. She runs around Parsley Bay, a couple of miles from her house. Always the same time – early riser, this babe … 6 am. Easy!”

Chapter 123

I LEFT JUSTINE to look after everyone. An ambulance was on its way.

I walked out into the hot night. I’d seen someone run from the driveway as we’d pulled up no more than six or seven minutes ago. There might still be a chance of finding him.

I headed off in the direction the man had run and started to jog along the tree-lined road. I stopped at the end of the street. “This is ridiculous,” I said to myself, glanced up and saw a young couple just a dozen yards away. The woman looked distressed. Her partner was on his phone. He looked agitated. I walked over to them slowly. The man turned off his cell.

“What’s up?” I asked gently and looked with concern at the woman. She was rubbing her left arm and had a bruise to her right cheek.

“Some madman with a baseball bat came charging along the road toward us. I’ve just called the cops.”

“He hit you?”

She shook her head, the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks.

“Just barged her out of the way,” the guy spat. “She smacked her head on the wall … there.” He pointed to his left. “Bastard … if I ever get my …”

“Which way did he go?”

The man gave an odd look. “That way … Tyson Road …”

I sped off without another word.

There was no one about. I dashed past neat suburban homes, white fences, flowerbeds, gate posts. To my right, an unbroken line of cars stood tucked into the curb. Then I stopped abruptly.

Ahead lay a small patch of grass, a kids’ playground, the swings motionless, the slide empty in the moonlight. I could just make out a large shape sitting on a park bench.