Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7)

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘That’s interesting. And one last thing; this may be equally important. Did you ever inform Geraldine’s husband? Did you tell him what you were doing or had done?’

  Drayton swallowed and took his time to reply. When he did, his nod was apologetic, the voice softer and less assured. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘And I’ll always regret it.’

  Bliss thought he knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. ‘Why’s that, Morris?’

  ‘Because I saw in his eyes that all I had done was reignite his imagination, his pain and his anger.’

  ‘What you told him affected him, then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it did. More than I could ever have imagined.’

  Thirty-Two

  The rickety stables stood within a huge swathe of Wiltshire land that had belonged to various members of the horseracing fraternity for almost one hundred and sixty years. For much of that time, local riders rented out the individual units, but as the care of racehorses developed and technological advances began to address their health and welfare, the original wooden stable area became obsolete and was left to stand as a monument to its creators – though not a memorial any of the dozen owners of the five-thousand-acre estate had ever thought to maintain. In its existing neglected condition, the structure built to house twenty horses sat abandoned in the foothills of a ridge far from humanity, no longer ridden or tended by ground staff. This made it ideal for keeping a man strung up, no matter how loud or how often he screamed.

  Earl Dobson was dying. There was no doubt about it any more. Weakened beyond all endurance by pain and misery, lack of food and water, and exposure to the elements and the hunger of creatures, he willed his body to tick away its final minutes like an unwound clock and stop dead. He was done weeping, done asking why him, done wondering why anybody.

  As for the horror, the sheer terror of the past few days, it had all fused together somehow, existing in his mind as someone else’s tall story. Someone else’s imagined torment. Someone else’s memory revealed as a dark nightmare. During rare moments of clarity he understood he would never see his family or friends again, nor his girlfriend or daughter. But he had long since accepted that as part of the overall deal. His suffering would eventually become their grief, and so the cycle went on.

  His mind in a whirl and conjuring all manner of things that could not possibly be, Dobson heard the growl of an engine working its way towards the stables. His stomach lurched, already anticipating the next stage of his humiliation; he had soiled himself on several occasions and now had to live with the foul odours of his own effluence coating his legs and feet.

  By now, the routine of his ordeal was familiar to him. A slight groan of brakes still a fair way off in the distance. Engine off. Door creaking open on uncertain hinges, then closed firmly. Repeated for a second door – collecting from the back seat, no doubt, the bag containing water, a solitary sandwich, and the tools wrapped in cloth. After a while, the sound of footsteps scratching their way across a gravel and stone courtyard directly outside the stable door. As they grew louder this time, he turned his head to witness the approach of his tormentor, determined not to show the merest hint of fear …

  … and knew today was the day he would die.

  For the first time, the man who had visited such outrage upon him, wore no sackcloth to mask his appearance. It meant only one thing. Dobson’s vision was hazy and blurred from dehydration and fever, so it wasn’t until the figure stood directly in front of him that the man’s features coalesced into a face he recognised.

  ‘You,’ he croaked in a dry whisper.

  The man said nothing. Instead he set down his backpack and slid a zip from one side to the other, opening up the large central section. This was the point at which he usually withdrew a bottle of water and a limp sandwich, followed by a cloth roll of various sharp tools and weapons.

  But not today.

  Today it was the axe alone, still smeared with dried blood and flecks of foul-smelling tissue.

  The axe, but no butane blowtorch.

  Dobson swallowed with difficulty.

  Today there would be no cauterising of flesh rent asunder by the axe.

  Today there would be nothing more than the chopping and cleaving of limbs.

  ‘Why?’ he asked with one of his final breaths.

  When no response came, he managed to utter two further syllables: ‘Thank you.’

  The man appeared to study him for a moment. He parted his lips as if to respond, but instead of speaking, he nodded once and raised the axe.

  Thirty-Three

  Bliss fell silent as they drove away from an area that had been so familiar to him for such a large part of his life. A Pink Floyd lyric popped into his head; it spoke of grass being greener, lights brighter, and friends surrounding in nights of wonder. Which was exactly how he remembered his youth. He wondered if life only seemed better in retrospect as you peered back at it through the prism of time, or if in fact it had been a better world entirely? When the time came for him to take his last sigh, would he reflect on the present time as his halcyon days? Or was a golden age any but the one you were living in? Bliss thought he would never know the answer, and it bothered him.

  Chandler must have sensed his low mood, cajoling him into discussing what they had learned from Morris Drayton, and how his information tied in with everything their case had thrown at them so far. Bliss admitted he was stumped, uncomfortably undecided. He had favoured Phil Walker as their prime suspect, but now the man was just another victim. If not for their alibis, either Andy Price or his son, Stephen, would be next up in the crosshairs; they fit the alternative theory perfectly. Either, or both – especially after Drayton had revealed his mistake of telling Andy Price about his efforts to reach out to the underworld. But to Bliss it still only worked if they carried out the ugly crimes themselves; the slicing revealed either a psychopathy characteristic of the old-time gangsters, or emotions stemming from injustice and loss. He saw nothing in between.

  ‘Everything points towards the Prices,’ he said. ‘Except that we know they were elsewhere when Tommy Harrison’s hand was dropped at Tower Hill, and I have a feeling we’ll eventually discover they have alibis for the other time windows as well.’

  ‘Which in itself would surely be a mark against them,’ Chandler said. ‘Nobody ever has an alibi for everything. Law of averages would be against it.’

  ‘True. So they may not be able to provide evidence or witnesses to the first two finds, but we know they didn’t drop the carrier bag off on Monday. Neither could they have removed the hand, because they were both in Manchester.’

  ‘Which brings us back to them employing somebody else to do it.’

  ‘Of course. But does it feel right to you? If it were me – if that had happened to my wife or mother, and then my daughter or sister spiralled into depression and addiction, and killed herself – I’d want to get hands-on with the bastards that caused it. I’d want them staring into my eyes while I hurt them, and I’d want to be inflicting all kinds of pain and misery on them myself, not farming it out to some mercenary.’

  Bliss felt Chandler’s eyes boring into him. He turned his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you hear yourself, Jimmy? Do you hear the raging psycho inside you trying desperately to get out?’

  He scoffed. ‘I don’t mean me. Not literally me. I mean if I am them. If I’m them, that’s how I’d want it to go down.’

  ‘If you say so. Only… it didn’t come across like that.’

  ‘I put myself in their shoes. That’s all.’

  He didn’t sound convincing, and in truth he wasn’t sure how much of what he’d said stemmed from the darkest regions of his own heart. The beating he had given the fellow cop who murdered his wife, Hazel, was in no way similar to these current attacks, but he remembered how he’d felt as he administered blow after blow; or rather, the lack o
f feeling. He had not rejoiced at the sound of bones breaking, but neither had it repulsed him. It lasted a few minutes at most, but a sense of detachment had consumed him throughout. As if he were looking at someone else exacting their revenge in the most primitive of ways. No empathy, no remorse. Both classic markers of a psychopathic mind.

  Chandler wasn’t about to let go of it. ‘Maybe you could do with a few sessions with your shrink,’ she said. ‘Iron out a few of those kinks you’ve built up lately.’

  ‘Oh, behave yourself, Pen. I’m fine and we need to concentrate on the case. Look, we’ve not focussed on the drop locations in a wider sense. Forget the historical connection for the time being, because I think that’s part of our man’s MO. It’s who he is and what he is, a preference is all, and the sites are irrelevant. Let’s start at the beginning. We have Ben Carlisle, whose slice of flesh was left ten or fifteen miles from where he lived and close to where he was taken. Then there’s Earl Dobson, whose flesh was found close to where he lived… no way of knowing where he was taken, but it’s fair to assume it was locally because he had no need to be out of the area at the time. Phil Walker’s hand couldn’t have been left much closer to his home.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘It’s a definite pattern – for those three victims. But when we look at Harrison, it changes. Lives in Theydon Bois but his hand is found by the Thames. Why the discrepancy?’

  Chandler drew her hands down her face and let out a soft groan. ‘You know what, Jimmy? I don’t have a bloody clue. My head aches, my stomach is growling, I’m not sleeping well, and my focus is definitely not what it ought to be at the moment.’

  ‘I hear you. This case has been gruelling. So, because Harrison doesn’t fit the pattern, for the moment let’s ignore where they lived and accept it has nothing to do with where their parts were found. In which case, we’re left with where they were taken, or where they are or were being held. Nobody is going to cart chunks of flesh around for too long. If we go by the first two, I’m willing to bet Tommy Harrison was in London when he was taken. If I’m right, then I say he’s still there.’

  ‘Okay. I’m hearing a nice neat theory. But again, even if we accept everything you say as true, how does it help?’

  Bliss was ready to counter her question. ‘To keep a person for any length of time requires solitude plus easy and fairly regular access. There must be hundreds of suitable places around us, and down in Wiltshire. In North Weald, you’ve got the whole of Epping Forest and plenty of open land and farmyards to choose from. But Tower Hill is a different matter entirely. It’s an anomaly. It may be nothing, but I don’t think we can afford to ignore it.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I’m going to have a word with DI Riseborough, ask if he can think of anywhere within a fifteen- to thirty-minute drive of Tower Hill that meets the conditions. I imagine it’d be damned hard to find somewhere out of earshot and out of sight anywhere nearby, but he may have one or two bright ideas. There was a time when I would’ve suggested the docklands, but you can’t move for hipsters and vegan cafes around there these days.’

  ‘And if he has no idea?’

  ‘Perhaps the Super will stump up some cash for a chopper and we can fly around and take a look for ourselves.’

  Chandler choked back a laugh behind her fist. ‘Yeah, good luck with that. But seriously, while I think it’s a fine idea to change our focus, we’d have to cast a wide net, boss.’

  Bliss agreed. It was hopeful at best, and he had never been a fan of hope.

  His mind itching for additional intelligence and consumed by the lack of progress, Bliss pulled off the motorway at Epping and found a parking bay on the high street. He had Chandler check the Daily Express website. Without a word, she handed over her smartphone to show him the result. He read the piece with mounting anger and resentment.

  ‘So it’s Max’s team,’ Chandler said. She gave a small nod. ‘You were right, it does at least narrow things down.’

  Having hoped to be wrong, Bliss now sighed, considering the implications. ‘Now all we have to do is manage the situation. I’ll need to speak to the boss when we get back. And Pete Conway, of course.’

  They had a bite to eat and a coffee at Subway, after which Bliss wandered back and forth along the pavement making a string of phone calls. The first of them lasted less than twenty seconds; Bliss asked one simple question, to which there was an equally direct response. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths afterwards. The answer was one he had anticipated, but hearing it came as a blow.

  Keeping his anger in check, he next spoke to Riseborough about intensifying the hunt for Harrison by searching for specific locations. The DI enthused over the positive move and said he’d pull in his team to thrash out some ideas. Bliss suggested an evening briefing for the JTFO senior team members – to take place in person rather than via videoconferencing. Having actively sought greater input, Riseborough was in no position to refuse.

  Next up was Superintendent Conway. Bliss first mentioned the briefing, to which Conway readily agreed. Bliss swallowed; the next part was going to be far more difficult. ‘Pete,’ he said, ‘some news on the leak. It came from Riseborough’s team. In fact, from Max himself.’

  ‘What? Are you positive?’

  ‘I know you two were friends, but yes, I’m certain.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With respect, I’d rather leave the details for the time being. I’ll explain when I see you. There’s an update in the Express online, so if Max contacts you about it, you need to go along with it. The article says we have yet to make a positive ID, so it contradicts the information I gave you about Phil Walker. That’s how I knew it was his team, because I gave the incorrect intel to him.’

  ‘Which he would have fed back to his team.’

  Bliss understood Conway’s desire to clutch at straws. The stench of betrayal was foul, and the DSI was bound to be taking the news badly. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Which was why I also put in play a way to narrow it down further. I’m sorry, Pete, but it’s definitely him.’

  His final call was to DS Bishop. Freddy Swift had yet to be located, something both men agreed was a major concern.

  Bliss made a rapid decision. ‘I don’t think we can hang around any longer, Bish. There’s every possibility Penny and I tipped him with our visit and he’s now on the run. I did give the job of pulling him in to Riseborough’s team, but I don’t want to wait. Apply for RIPA access to his phones. Let’s trace him and see what surfaces. ANPR on his vehicles, too.’

  The Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act governed covert surveillance, including access to all digital devices. Bliss accepted the need for the requirement – introduced at the start of the millennium – though he and his team understood how to manipulate the language required for authorisation. It was a game police authorities and their employees had to play, and Bliss always made sure his team knew the rules and how to take advantage of them.

  ‘You think Swift is our man, boss?’ Bishop asked.

  ‘As it happens, I don’t. But if it’s not him, then I think he may know who it is, because if he’s not running from us, he may be running from somebody else. By the way, did you rustle up that warrant I asked for?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Good man. In that case, would you call Harlow nick for me? Send a copy of the warrant to them and have a couple of uniforms meet me and Chandler there with it. We’re only ten or fifteen minutes away.’

  ‘On it now, boss.’

  Bliss thanked his sergeant. With his calls out of the way and actions implemented, he and Chandler got back on the road, heading into North Weald once again.

  Thirty-Four

  A locksmith from Chipping Ongar with a sour disposition and the delicate hands of a Swiss watchmaker picked the lock on Phil Walker’s front door rather than drilling it. Bliss had the two local
uniforms wait outside while he and Chandler conducted a search of the premises. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but Walker was the only single victim so far. With no family to question, if they were going to gather answers, they would do so inside the suspect’s flat.

  As the pair had noted the first time they’d tried reaching Walker, the man’s home bore none of the hallmarks of a successful businessman – from the outside. The interior, however, told a completely different story. It reeked of money and good taste. The fixtures and fittings were sleek and looked brand new. It was crisp and clean, everything in its place and positioned just so.

  Though not large, the kitchen was beautifully equipped. Bliss checked out the cabinets and noticed a sticker affixed inside one of the drawers. He knew the name; a high-end company whose expert joiners individually designed and built the units. The company was based in Devizes – where Earl Dobson lived. Bliss wondered if that was another fluke, deciding it most likely was. A bulky Smeg cooking range dominated the room, still with its showroom sparkle. It was impossible to tell if a single meal had been cooked on it.

  In the long narrow living room, Bliss admired the hi-fi system. Chandler must have noticed his eyes light up as he crouched down to run his appreciative gaze over the separate units. ‘You boys and your toys,’ she said, with a shake of her head.

  Bliss kept his focus. ‘Some toys. There’s not far short of ten grand’s worth here.’ He stood upright, knees cracking like pistol shots. A shelf adjacent to the hi-fi overflowed with books, albums, and CDs. ‘Hmm, our Mr Walker is a swing jazz man by the look of it. Big band stuff. Nice collection, too.’

  Moving on to the books, Bliss immediately noticed the assortment he had fully expected to find. Lined up in a group were a dozen or so hardback books on the subject of torture, including ancient, medieval and modern. Several philosophical studies of the topic stood out, while a few appeared to be more exploitative. Some of the glossy illustrations were extreme in nature, with beheadings and disembowelling seemingly popular subjects. Among the grotesquery, Bliss recognised portrayals of Dante’s Inferno. He wasn’t sure what the pieces said about Phil Walker’s state of mind, but given the work was so familiar, he also had to question his own psychological makeup.