Conway stood and walked across to the board. ‘How so?’ he asked, studying the details closely.
‘No gangland criminal, no matter how outrageous they are, is going to stage the exhibits the way these two were.’
‘That seems a reasonable assessment.’
‘Coming back to the figures carved out of them – in my opinion, they are a crucial component. There’s a relevance there, but we also have to ask ourselves if our victims’ identities are significant, as well. What if they were neither homeless nor chosen at random? What if they were targeted family men? Which brings us full circle to why we’ve had no reports of hospitalisation or men being reported missing.’
This elicited a range of audible sighs from inside the room. ‘That’s an awful lot for us to take on board, Inspector,’ Conway said, coming back to the table. ‘All ifs, buts and maybes.’
Bliss nodded, casting a glance around the room. ‘Which is precisely what my team and I are still working with more than a week later. And from what I’m seeing here, it’s all you’ll have by next weekend as well. With no obvious way of tracing our victims, we’re reduced to waiting for something else to happen.’
‘Such as?’ DI Paston leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
‘Either another scrap is left from a different body, or we receive additional pieces from the same two victims. If one of them provides us with another carving, it may make sense of the previous two. Or somebody reports their husband, boyfriend, son, brother or mate missing. Or somebody walks into A&E and offers up a bloody body to be sewn up.’ Bliss let out a breath and hiked his shoulders. ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘Please do. I’ll be happy to buy the first round if you can prove it.’
The female detective who had spoken previously shuffled in her seat and offered up a sigh of resignation. ‘To be fair to us, and as the boss has already made clear, we’ve been working this for a few hours, compared to your many days. And to be fair to you, the picture you just painted doesn’t seem to have any faults.’
‘Look, I share your sense of disappointment,’ Bliss told her. ‘I’ve lived with it longer than I care to admit. My only suggestion right now is to look harder at these carvings. After all, other than the locations where they were dropped – plus the obvious fact that we’re dealing with two different vics – the next major difference between the finds is those two engraved markings.’
‘And do you have any other thoughts on those, Inspector?’
Bliss rubbed the pad of his left thumb across a tiny scar on his forehead. ‘I do, but they’re not positive ones,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to hear them?’
‘Let’s have it.’ Superintendent Conway leaned towards him. ‘That’s what you’re here for.’
‘Okay. Let me make it clear to you all that the moment I saw those figures carved out of the flesh found in Peterborough, my immediate thought was to wonder if this was the first of many such finds. A chunk of flesh without the carving tells a different story. With it, we’re talking about intent, above and beyond the mutilation itself. It also occurred to me from the moment I saw what had been done that we might have to wait for further finds to show up before we’d be able to make any progress. Of course, at the time I was thinking of our next find and assuming it would be from the same victim. Now I’ve had time to reflect on today’s discovery, and the additional confusion it’s caused, I have to say that in my view we may not get anywhere until there’s a third find. Maybe even a fourth.’
A ripple of disquiet spread throughout the room. Bliss held up a hand and raised his voice above the clamour. ‘Listen, I’m not suggesting we pull back on the reins, or that we don’t put everything into this that we possibly can. But I’ve been here before, and I’m seeing the exact same frustrating lack of worthwhile evidence or information. You asked what I think, so I’ll tell you. Whoever’s behind this is playing a game. He wants our interest, but he also wants to string it out. There will be another bag left for us, and it wouldn’t surprise me if what we found inside that one was worse still. Either way, there will be a string of carved figures, because that is our man’s real focal point. Perhaps adding the next engraving to those we already have will trigger a spark in somebody’s head. And, like I say, it may require a fourth or more for it all to make sense.’
‘That’s a somewhat dispiriting notion,’ Conway said. His face was a study in anxiety, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline. He didn’t appear to know what to do with his hands.
Bliss nodded. ‘I agree, sir. But when you slot all the pieces together, it’s what we’re left with. The carvings are the key, and because the ones we have so far don’t make any sense, my instinct says there are more to come.’
Seven
The barn was a wreck, dilapidated by age and decades of neglect. For every half-intact board remaining, another was either absent or perished beyond saving. The surviving planks hung perilously, often by a single rusty nail. Buckled and bleached, most leaned to one side or the other. Parts of the roof offered colander-like protection from the elements, rods of bright light spearing through minor fissures; others were missing entirely, having blown away or collapsed. In a number of repaired areas, corrugated tin strips rattled and emitted mournful groans each time the barn shifted on its weak foundations. One vicious squall and the structure would no longer be standing.
The man lashed to the X-shaped crucifix positioned in the centre of the barn was beyond caring about his exposure, and longed for the storm to come and take him with it. His mind had shut down in protest against the vermin crawling all over him, satiating their hunger by consuming him little by little. Nutritional deprivation and thirst had left him weak and helpless, his flesh toasted from the sun whose light and burning heat streamed in through the jagged openings in the shattered roof. All of this misery he was able to withstand – not that he had any alternative – but every time he heard the approach of the vehicle bumping over the dirt track towards the barn, his entire body began to tremble until convulsions set in.
With the masked man came sustenance. A sandwich of some description. Fresh water. It wasn’t a lot, but it kept him alive. And though he no longer wanted to live, baser instincts kicked in when food and drink was offered. He rationalised his capitulation by telling himself if he did not slake his hunger and thirst willingly, the masked man would surely force it down him. But there was no comfort at all in knowing that the prolonging of his existence also extended his capacity to be tortured.
The slow and deliberate slicing of his flesh with a variety of sharp objects flushed his system with adrenaline, yet its numbing effects lasted mere moments before raw nerve endings reacted, sending massive surges of pain ripping through his weakening body. His torturer had initially begun with minor cuts and lacerations, before moving on to the meat packed around the waistline, pinching bountiful love handles between the fingers of his left hand and using the right to carve off three-inch slabs. Buttocks and thighs came next, the masked man continuing to seek the chunkier areas of flesh.
All of which was horrifying beyond belief. Yet what followed each slice was infinitely worse. The man’s blowtorch spat blue flame, and as its heat cauterised the bloody wounds, the same exposed nerve endings erupted in the excruciating grip of utmost agony. As the flame seared him, he smelled the vile stench of his own skin roasting. He heard his blood bubbling and popping as it turned black and hard. He had often pleaded with the man in the raggedy mask to get it over with, to end the torture, but this only seemed to fuel his tormentor’s lust for inflicting pain.
During those moments when he was entirely alone in the barn, with not even a passing fox taking an interest in him, he hallucinated. Colours altered – at first the world became monochrome and two-dimensional, then brightly garish. People from his past dropped by to pass the time of day with him, and at one point the soil beneath his feet began to shift before erupting; myriad creatures
emerged from the bowels of the earth to prod and poke at him, swarming all over his flailing body. None of it daunted him nearly as much as the hooded man, though. For when he came, he brought all kinds of real agony and misery along with him.
As the memories of previously endured horrors galvanised his torment, he suddenly jerked his head up as far as it would strain on tendons weakened through lack of use. An engine. A vehicle approaching. He steeled himself for what was to come, braced against the vicious brutality about to be inflicted upon him. But the moment he tried to make a steel trap of his jaw, determined not to play the masked man’s game this time around, fresh floods of tears streamed down his cheeks. Snot bubbled from his nose, thick mucus leaking from each nostril to mix with his salty, hot tears. Were it not for the dehydration, his bladder would surely have voided itself.
What was it going to be this time, he wondered? His fevered mind could scarcely bear the uncertainty as the engine died. Moments later the man appeared inside the barn, his backpack of nightmares hanging easily over one shoulder.
For the steady and patient slicing, the man used one of three different knives he kept wrapped in a roll of cloth from which he’d also fashioned the ugly mask. For broader sections requiring greater depth, a cleaver had been his weapon of choice; the production of an axe this time caused the crucified man’s eyes to bulge and strain, his body lurching into spasm. But his binds allowed only small, ineffective movements. The masked man had been efficient.
Approaching with the same sense of unhurried ease as he had on each previous occasion, his tormentor first untied the thick cord from around his left wrist before sliding it up onto the forearm and retying, pulling it tighter until it became a tourniquet. The tortured man’s hand lay against the sturdy wooden post to which it was tethered, fingers splayed, and as his peripheral vision caught sight of it he knew what was going to happen next. Without word or pause or emotion, the man swung the axe hard. Its sharpened steel edge chopped deep into the left arm at the wrist, where the harsh binding cord had already eaten into the flesh. The axe initially withdrew with difficulty, before falling again. After a third and final blow, the hand came away as the blade retracted. Blood spurted from the vast open wound. The masked man picked up his prize and placed it inside a white carrier bag, together with the scraps of tissue and bone that had fallen into the dust.
He was without a care in the world, or so it seemed; indifferent to both his grotesque actions and the terror and agony being exacted.
Gasping as he attempted to suck in air and cry out at the same time, the victim glanced sidelong at a wrist gushing blood, the jagged ulna and radius spearing skywards like driftwood caught on a beach. The cloth wedged between his teeth and fastened behind his neck dulled the mighty roar of suffering, but the electric sluice of razor-sharp pain ripped through his bloodstream and caused a writhing twist of panic to spear vertically along his spinal cord. He yelled to no effect, wept as if fountains had erupted from both eyes, gagged on harsh breaths behind a cloth that was damp with sputum. His tiny world collapsed deeper into itself, and pinpoints of light danced like a cloud of fireflies around his head.
‘No more,’ he gasped; a faint whisper. ‘No more.’
The masked man ignored him. He returned to his toolkit, and took out the butane blowtorch.
Eight
On Monday morning, Bliss had Chandler collect him from home. She was dressed in her usual style – halfway between formal and casual, but tasteful and appropriate for the weather. She wore her hair differently every day; today’s choice was a single braid, which meant she’d risen early and had time to spend on her appearance. Astonished at being asked to chauffeur him around for the day, his DS was not slow in relaying her shock the moment he slid into the passenger seat of her Ford Focus.
‘You have a perfectly adequate pool car sitting right outside your house,’ Chandler said, jabbing a finger towards the grey Mondeo parked up on his narrow driveway.
The last vehicle he’d owned had been written off by his insurers following a chase incident; it was the second such car he’d destroyed in the same year. Given the quotes he’d obtained for insuring another car, he had decided to stick with pool cars for the foreseeable future, though he intensely disliked having to share with others. This was his third Mondeo, and he’d managed to secure this one on a semipermanent basis.
‘Just get us to HQ and stop being such a harpy,’ Bliss said, dismissing the half-hearted complaint with a flap of his hand. ‘I put in a lot of miles over the weekend. I ache like a bugger, and I need a break from driving.’
‘Even at the risk of having to endure mine?’
‘Evidently so.’
Chandler rolled her eyes and groaned. ‘Well, you’re in a pleasant mood, I see. What’s up – did it not go well with Molly?’
‘No, my trip went swimmingly. She’s loving life, and it shows. I’d say she’s blossoming into a fine young woman, and I could not be more pleased about that if I tried.’
‘That’s lovely to hear. So she obviously settled in with her foster parents all right?’
‘Better than we ever imagined. They want to adopt.’
‘Molly?’
‘No, me. They finally realised the one thing lacking in their life was a curmudgeonly geriatric. Yes, of course Molly. Why say it like that?’
‘No reason. She’s just… troubled, is all.’
‘Which is something her foster parents see beyond. Anyhow, she’s a different kid to the one who gave us all that grief. Like I said, she’s becoming a stable young lady, and a very pleasant one as well.’
‘So what’s with the attitude this morning?’
Bliss drew in a deep breath and told his partner about the rest of his weekend, including how on Sunday he and Superintendent Conway had continued to draw blanks. With no additional information coming through from either the scene or the investigation team, they had decided there was little point in Bliss hanging around after lunch.
‘I’m knackered,’ he explained. ‘Too much driving, too much yomping up and down hillsides, too much lousy police station coffee.’
‘Did your friend at least treat you to dinner on Saturday night?’
‘No. He had to get home to his family – and I’d hardly describe him as a friend. He fobbed me off with a female DS who’d spoken up at the briefing. Or fobbed her off with me, more like. I’m not quite sure how she felt having to give up her Saturday night for me, but at least she got a free meal out of it.’
‘Was she working with you yesterday as well?’
‘She was. Came across well, actually. Quite a laugh – in your face, a bit hard to read at times, but knew her job and stayed tight-lipped when she had nothing to add. You might consider taking a leaf out of her book on that score, Pen.’
Chandler gave him two fingers and threw in a blown raspberry for good measure. ‘Don’t call me Pen. So, the upshot is you spent your weekend off working and it took our own case no further? You’d think that would be impossible with a whole new crime scene and fresh evidence.’
Nodding, Bliss said, ‘My thoughts precisely. Except it isn’t really a crime scene, although of course they treated it as such – same as we did with our own discovery. Still, whoever did this came and went at two sites without being observed, leaving no trace of themselves, and no evidence other than what they wanted us to find.’
‘They always leave some kind of trace, boss. And take it away with them.’
‘Yes, thank you, Penny. I’m well aware of Locard’s principle. What I’m saying is that we’ve turned up nothing obvious. Nothing to point us in a particular direction.’
‘I suppose if the second find does anything, it at least confirms our own impression: the carvings are a crucial element. Even though we’ve not been able to decipher their meaning so far.’
‘If there’s a connection between our victims, I’m baffled as to wha
t it could be.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
Chandler took the first junction moments after crossing the river, and at the roundabout hung a left onto Thorpe Wood road. As they approached the station, she asked if his time in Swindon had given him any novel ideas regarding how to handle their own case.
‘Nothing at all,’ he answered. ‘It’s frustrating – but today I’m expecting Conway to officially approve a joint task force.’
She glanced across at him. ‘I hope you insisted on us running it.’
Bliss smiled, delighted by her eagerness. ‘I didn’t have to. Conway approached me with the idea. He figures an ex-SOCA colleague won’t leave him out in the cold, so it made a lot of sense for him to step back and push us forward at the same time.’
Chandler snorted. ‘Yeah, but that’s him. Will his boss feel the same way?’
‘Pete thinks he’ll go for it. As he said at the time, this is a case we’re bound to get exasperated with, but it’s also one we’ll work our nuts off to resolve. The brass will see it differently: a troubling case consuming budget and time and lingering like a stain on their records.’
‘When you put it like that, why would we want it?’
‘We already have it – our own operation, at least. Pete says he’ll attempt to ease it through by implying that half the resources equals half the costs and sharing the stain around. We will lead, but it’ll be a joint op. In reality, not just in theory.’
Chandler nodded, accepting the logic. Bliss knew she would be keen to make progress on an investigation that was rapidly running out of steam. Their team was most effective when it had momentum, and being stalled was beginning to wear on them all. She was also experienced with joint task force operations, especially when the Thorpe Wood Major Crimes unit was in charge.
Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7) Page 5
