Chapter 88
Chapter 88
Graham Armstrong breathed a sigh of relief and closed his laptop. The computer’s memory and hard drive had been wiped clean, providing him with a measure of reassurance, but there was still work to do. Secreted in a false bottom in his wardrobe, he had an external hard drive, which he’d used to back up his recordings. This would also need to be destroyed before he could count himself as totally safe.
He’d woken this morning in a state of high anxiety, after a fitful night’s sleep. It had been over a day since the outing of Dave Reynolds in the Southampton Evening News and Armstrong was still reeling from it, terrified of the potential consequences. The breaking scandal explained why Reynolds had missed a scheduled Zoom meet, but little else, as the police officer had proved impossible to raise, despite several attempts to contact him. This morning, seized by panic once more, Graham Armstrong had checked his burner phone straightaway, anxious for news. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t, dropping the device as if scalded. On it was a text message from another member of their fraternity. This in itself was bad enough, the protocol being to keep communication to a minimum, the phone being primarily for voice calls only. But worse still was the content, his correspondent asking him if he’d heard that Dave Reynolds had been arrested and questioned in connection with missing teenager Naomi Watson.
The news knocked Graham Armstrong for six. Now he knew why Reynolds hadn’t attended their meet, but this knowledge made him feel worse, not better. Was Reynolds still being questioned? Had he confessed to anything? Armstrong found that idea hard to credit, but how could you tell for sure? With his back against the wall, faced with losing his job, his reputation, his family, who knows what – or who – Reynolds might offer up.
Crossing the room, Armstrong opened the door to his wardrobe and dropped down onto his knees. He knew this amateur secret hiding place was sufficient to fool his mother, who barely set foot in his room anyway, but it wouldn’t take a police search team long to discover it. Teasing his fingers into the small holes he’d made in each corner, he lifted the bottom clean off to reveal a dusty space beneath. Tossing the wooden board aside, Armstrong reached down into the void, pulling out the heavy hard drive.
Straightening up, he began ferreting around on top of the cupboard. He didn’t possess the technology or know-how to wipe a hard drive, so he’d have to do this the old-school way. Impatiently, he groped the top of the wardrobe before his fingers alighted on the old hammer he’d left up there. He always kept it close by, just in case the neighbours worked out who he really was or some have-a-go vigilantes tracked him to his new address. He was glad of it now, enjoying the weight in his hand. Crossing to the bed, he pulled the pillow into the centre of the duvet, placing the hard drive on it. Slowly, he lowered the head of the hammer, placing it in the centre of the drive, taking aim. Then he carefully raised his weapon, before slamming it down with all his might.
The effect was electrifying, a huge crash seeming to echo through the house. Armstrong stared at the hammer, stupefied, wondering if he had suddenly metamorphosed into Thor. But then loud thumping on the stairs brought him to his senses. He could hear shouting, footsteps getting louder, and now to his horror he realized the source of the almighty crash. Their front door had just been kicked in.
Even now, he could hear his mother wailing, brutish police officers hollering to each other as they stormed the premises. Armstrong was frozen, terrified, barely able to react, before the door burst open. Turning, Armstrong raised his hammer once more, determined to destroy this one last piece of evidence. Bellowing, he swung it down with all his might … but before he could connect, he found himself flying sideways, tackled by one of the intruders. He crashed to the ground, skidding into the far corner, his head striking the skirting board hard. Dazed, he was powerless to resist, dragged to his feet, his face pressed against the peeling wallpaper as he was aggressively cuffed. Satisfied, the officer now spun him round in order to pat him down, but Armstrong had nothing dangerous or incriminating on him. No, the really damning evidence, the one item that would surely ensure his ruin, was firmly clutched in the hand of the lead search officer, whose expression was one of pure triumph.