by Vince Vogel
“Where are they?” Jack seethed, his hand gripping the glass even tighter.
“I can’t help you on that, I’m afraid.”
“Fuck you, Harry.”
Jack got up and slammed the glass down on the table, making it clang. Standing up sharply, he headed for the door.
“You didn’t finish your forty year oak-aged scotch,” Dunn called after him.
“Throw in the bog,” Jack retorted before disappearing out the door.
16
On their way home, Lange and Jack put in a check on Nick Morrison. He was fifty-eight, lived in Essex and worked in an abattoir. Chickens, apparently. In 2010, he’d been sentenced to eighteen months for the possession of forty-six highly illegal firearms. Apparently, he’d been collecting them since the seventies, when it was easier to get hold of weapons in the U.K. In post-Dunblane 1996, when the amnesty had been called, it appeared old Nick had decided to keep the vast majority of his military grade guns. Eventually, though, the locals living in the woods near his farm began complaining about the loud bangs and gunfire they heard late at night. The police located the source to Morrison and duly raided the farm.
Was this reason to go after innocent teenagers eight years later?
No, Jack thought as he gazed at the streets passing by the car window. It would have been done much sooner, not simmered for so long. Probably when the police turned up to take his guns away.
Revelers walking under orange cones of light provided by streetlamps cluttered the cracked paving slabs. Tramps huddled in sleeping bags and shop windows. Graffiti stained buildings. Cracked walls. Boarded windows. Yesterday’s city.
Nick Morrison didn’t fit the profile Jack had of this man. He was too old, for a start. Too old to be so envious of frolicking adolescents. He was also married with two sons. Someone like him would start at home if he was to go on a murderous spree. Take out the family and then his enemies in the local village. He wouldn’t drive out to a random wood fifty miles from his home and shoot youngsters. He wouldn’t start killing randomly at such an old age. He’d have already stepped over the mark long ago.
No, the man who committed the atrocity tonight was in his late twenties or early thirties. He’d spent his teens and then his early to mid-twenties trying to hold back. Hold back his desire to kill. Or perhaps it’s been growing. Perhaps he’s killed before and now he’s showing us all who he is.
That sort of murderous desire wouldn’t come to fruition in a man of Morrison’s age. Not like this. When men that old explode into homicidal rage, they go on rampages that usually end in their suicide—either by their own hand or by cop. Think Thomas Hamilton, the man responsible for the Dunblane massacre, or Derrick Bird of the Cumbria shootings. They make a statement and use their own suicide as the full stop. We immediately have a who. Just not a why.
But with this guy, he had neither. No who or why. He didn’t want to be caught. This wasn’t a last hurrah. This was a man who wants to continue for as long as possible. Sure, he may go on a rampage once his identity is revealed. But until then, he’d keep killing like this. Random victims in random spots.
“We’re here, Sarge.”
Jack turned from the window and looked across the car. They were indeed stopped outside Jack’s semi-detached house. White paint in need of a touch up and a slate tile pitched roof, the guttering full of last autumn’s leaves.
“I’ll see you Monday,” Jack said as he got out of the car.
“See you then, Sarge. Always a pleasure.”
Jack smiled. Always a pleasure, he repeated to himself as he walked down the drive to his front door. George always said it and it always made Jack smile.
Inside the lounge, he found Jean curled up on the couch watching television. She smiled the moment he stepped through the door.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” he said as he came over to the couch and kissed her.
“I know. But I wanted to.”
She grabbed Jack and pulled him down on top of her so that he fell onto the couch. Maneuvering himself and making her giggle as he poked into her, he positioned himself so that he was behind her, the two of them on their sides, her body spooned within his. Once they were comfortable, they causally watched the television—some late night film—while he played with her curly red hair.
“The boy go up alright?” he asked.
“Yeah. He were dead knackered after his mate’s party.”
“How was that?”
“It were nice. I felt old, though. All those young mothers. I kept having to explain that I was a friend of his granddad’s. Then the cheeky little sod said I was your girlfriend.”
Jack grinned.
“But it was nice, though?”
“Yeah. Watchin’ them play pass-the-parcel and run around in their party clothes. Then Ty slipped over in the garden playing chase and got mud all up his good trousers.”
“Ugh!” Jack made a face and she smiled without turning to see it. “How terrible, the little brute,” he added.
“Yes. Well, apart from that, I got him out of there intact. But by then he was out of it. Yawned in the car all the way back. Fell asleep watching telly about twenty minutes after I got him home. I woke him and put him to bed at eight.”
They sat in silence for about ten minutes after that. Then Jack got up and made himself something to eat. Warmed up lamb jalfrezi he’d gotten the night before from the Indian takeaway. It was always nice in the microwave the next day.
Having heated up the bhajis and naan in the oven, he tucked into what was left of the jalfrezi and keema pilau at the kitchen table. Jean joined him, pouring herself a glass of white. Jack had already poured himself a scotch. He wanted to rid his palate of the taste of Dunn’s whiskey.
She sat watching him, smiling as he put it away.
“You know I always like watching you eat,” she remarked.
“So you’ve said before. I don’t get it. My mum used to say I ate like a pig.”
“You’ve a hearty appetite. I like watching the pleasure you get out of it.” She took a sip of her wine and seemed to sigh, her eyes going a little sad. “You’ve not had much of an appetite lately,” she added.
“Stuff on my mind.”
“Yes. Like you said.”
He placed his hand on top of hers and looked into her eyes.
“I’ve got some holiday soon,” he said. “Then we’ll go away, the three of us. I won’t have stuff on my mind then. Okay?”
All she could do was smile at him and sip her wine.
17
“Wake up, Jack.”
The voice was warped and distorted, but he knew it. Knew what it said and knew who it belonged to.
He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. There, standing at the end, was the one-armed, haggard figure of Jimmy. A revolver dangled in his hand. Jack could hear his wheezing breath. The sound filled the room.
“Get up,” Jimmy said.
It was muffled. The sound was more of a hiss than his natural voice. Like it was being spoken in a vacuum. None of the words articulated properly. Just a mere sound. But Jack knew what he said. Knew what he wanted.
He didn’t even remember getting out of bed, but at some point, he found himself following the six foot frame of Jimmy down the stairs of his house. They floated across the hallway and made it into the kitchen, Jimmy leading Jack all the way.
Jack never noticed the large frame of Lenny Beaumont sitting at the table until Jimmy pointed the gun at him. Lenny had a fierce look on his face. Aggrieved and in need of blood.
“Sit down.”
Jack was going to protest, but before he could, he found himself sitting in a chair opposite Lenny. The gun was now in the middle of the table. An old style revolver. He’d seen that exact one before. How could he forget it?
Jack sat frozen to the spot as Lenny reached his large paw across the table and picked up the gun.
“Put your head forward.”
Lenny raised the pistol and Jack pla
ced his forehead on the barrel. He closed his eyes and waited. Felt the tension in the moment. The seconds stretched out into innumerable thoughts. His whole life explained to him in the flicker of an eye. All of it summed up in this moment. The end just a series of stretched out seconds away. Or will it be an empty chamber and life?
Jack jumped as the light went on.
He was soaking wet. Lenny and Jimmy were gone. The kitchen empty. The gun nowhere to be seen. Turning around sharply in his chair, he saw Jean standing in the doorway with a worried look on her face.
“Bloody hell, Jack,” she said. “This is the fifth time this month.”
DAY TWO
18
“It’s bloody terrible,” Jean commented as she watched the news on the kitchen television.
“What’s terrible?” Tyler asked as he came into the kitchen.
The nine year old was dressed in his Arsenal pajamas. Scratching his head and yawning, he made his way to the table, where his granddad sat reading a newspaper.
“Eat your cereal,” Jack said, peeking from out of the paper and nodding at the bowl of corn flakes already set on the table.
“I only asked,” the boy complained, taking his seat.
Jean stood in a pink dressing gown in front of the fridge, watching the television that stood on top. Watching the report on the massacre at Boreham Wood. That was what they were already calling it. The Borehom Wood massacre.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” she asked Jack, glancing sideways at him.
Jack looked up from the paper at her. He then turned to Tyler, who was busy pouring on the milk.
“You know what we say on a Sunday, Ty?” Jack said to the boy.
“Yeah,” the latter replied, looking up from the corn flakes. “Why?”
“I think we need to remind Jean.”
“Ah!” the boy said before turning to face Jean, looking her straight in the eyes and saying, “No work talk on Sunday. Day of rest.”
He then turned his attention back to the cereal.
“Alright,” Jean exclaimed gently with a roll of her eyes before returning her attention to the television.
“So, Granddad,” Tyler said as he spooned frosties into his mouth, chewing and then continuing, “did Jean tell you where I’m goin’ on Wednesday?”
Jack glanced over his paper and gave a thoughtful face.
“Nope,” he finally admitted.
“RAF Duxford with the footy team.”
“To the plane museum?”
“Yeah, an’ to see an airshow. We’re goin’ up in a coach. The whole club. It’s gonna be awesome.”
“I have to admit I’m jealous,” Jack said with a smile.
“Do you think the Red Devils will be there like they were when you took me?”
“I don’t know. Look it up online.”
“Yeah.”
The boy grabbed his phone and Jack went back to the paper. While he read about the latest heavyweight boxing match that was coming up, the doorbell went. He immediately folded up the paper, placed it on the table and told the others he’d get it. Not that Jean had even turned from the telly or Tyler had taken his attention from the cereal he spooned into his mouth.
At the door, Jack found the pockmarked face of Jonny Cockburn. He let him in and they went to the kitchen. Having introduced the journalist to his family, Jack made him a coffee and the two went off into the lounge.
“That your boy?” Jonny asked once he sat on the couch, Jack opposite in his cracked-leather easy chair.
“Grandson.”
“I’ve got two boys myself,” Jonny went on in a deflated tone, as though the memory of such a fact were burdensome. “Not that I see them much. Since they hit sixteen, they don’t really have much time for their old man. I don’t blame them, though. I divorced their mum when Carl was ten and Philip was six. Since then I’ve paid maintenance, but not really been much of a presence. I guess I was never really cut out for fatherhood. Or being a husband at that.”
“It’s not something you come readily prepared for, Jonny. I can’t say I made much of a go at it either. Too busy looking after myself to recognize their needs.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
The room descended into an eerie, uncomfortable silence that appeared to weigh heavily on both men.
“So how was your prison visit last night?” Jack eventually inquired.
Jonny’s eyes brightened and he looked up from the floor.
“Before I get into Kline,” he began, “I’ll tell you the most important part.”
“Which is?”
“He gave me reason to believe that he’s in contact with a killer. Guy’s been sending Kline letters hinting at murders. Look.”
Jonny dug something out of his pocket and handed it to Jack. It was the crumpled note. The detective took it and quickly read.
“You know a lot of these are hollow brags,” Jack said, looking up from the letter after he’d finished it.
“Not this one. I checked it out last night. Googled ‘missing boys on parks’. Didn’t take long to find it. Three years ago in Derby, a ten-year-old boy named Graham Dyson disappeared after playing football with mates on the local park. He was last seen walking away holding his football. Two days later, his parents received a note from Graham. Written in his handwriting. It was titled ‘my last will and testament’. They were then contacted by the abductor a few days later and that was it. They heard no more and the case remains open.”
“Kidnap?”
“No. No demands were made. Just contact.”
“What type of contact?”
“The articles I read never had access to the exact wording.”
Jack rubbed his chin.
“Still could be a coincidence,” he said.
“Come on, Jack. How many missing boys have sent letters?”
“He could have read about the crime in the papers. Written about it to Kline in a way that suggested he was involved.”
“I get a feeling you don’t care,” Jonny burst out, snatching back the letter. “You’re just like that fucking warden last night. You use underfunding as an excuse.”
“It’s not that. I’m only saying that these things often turn out to be a load of guff. And being as it came from Kline, I’d have to say that it’s probably got something to do with him. I take it he wants to do some sort of deal?”
“Obviously, but still. Can’t you go and check it out? Go and see them up in Derby. Get an idea. You can keep the letter. See if it fits.”
Jack groaned, rolled his eyes and agreed.
“You’ve wrecked my Sunday,” he complained. “'Cos I’ll have to do it today. I’ll have no chance tomorrow as I’ve been sucked into this shooting.”
“You mean the massacre of Boreham Wood?”
Jack narrowed his eyes at the journalist.
“Yeah, that,” he said.
“Sounds like another nutter created in the crucible of this fair city.”
“It’s the concrete incubator, Jonny.”
The two men stared off into space for a moment. Considered the fact that the city was like a pressure cooker, forcing all the deviant behaviors to the top.
“How was the bastard?” Jack finally asked.
“You mean Kline?”
“Yeah.”
“Trying to make excuses for himself. Complained about how you went after him. Complained about the book I wrote about the case.”
“I remember when we arrested him,” Jack mentioned with a wry look on his face. “There were stories that he had a gun so we used armed response. He had it on him when we caught up with him. A little 9mm. He never even considered using it. He got straight down on his belly and informed the arrest team that it was in the back of his waistband. He actually screamed and cried when they cuffed his arms because he’d recently hurt one of them. This huge man who’d done evil things to those little old ladies was a fucking baby when we took him in. It summed him up. He was a coward from the
very beginning. Faced with real men, he wilted like the weed he always was.”
“He talked about you giving him a headache in the interview. About you playing dirty.”
“Yeah.” Jack grinned. “We hammered him with the recording we had of him bragging to Gabriella.”
“That’s the prostitute he was seeing?”
“He was hardly romantically involved with her. He might have thought that in his head—I might of had her make him think that—but in truth he paid for every one of their visits. Then came the interview. You know, I found out from a sister of his that the local kids used to tease him. Called him pissy pants because he always used to wet himself. So I happened to drop that in there. Kept asking Col if he smelled piss. Stuff like that. At first, he was a rock—as you’d expect. But after a couple of hours, he just caved in. Very little pressure. When I asked him later why he confessed so readily, he simply answered that he was hungry and tired and wanted it to stop. He told me that he’d been dropped on his head as a child. That his mother used to hit him around the head. It made it so he couldn’t concentrate and we were giving him a headache with all our questioning. Robert Kline was a fucking non-entity if ever one existed.”
The two men sat gazing at one another. They’d both been close to the case—Jack as the lead detective and Jonny as a reporter. It had been hard to listen to some of the harrowing tales of his surviving victims. The level of cowardice and cruelty in the man was awful.
“So you’ll check it out?” Jonny inquired after a while.
“Sure. Like I said, I’ll check the details on the system and then go see his folks this evening.”
“Cheers, Jack.”
They finished their coffees and Jack saw Jonny to the door. As he walked up the drive to his car, another man passed the journalist at the pavement, making his way toward the doorway that Jack stood in.
“Is this the residence of Jack Sheridan?” he asked.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m from Tate’s Solicitors. Are you Mr. Sheridan?”
“Yes. What would Tate Solicitors want with me?”
