As they drove away, Poole asked, ‘Do you really think the fingerprints are a coincidence?’
‘No,’ said Carlson. ‘I don’t. I think those two lads knew each other and knew each other well. I also think that’s got a lot to do with why they were killed. I’m going to call this date of birth into Jane and get her to hassle the techies. I want to find out who else they knew.’
‘Let’s hope they’re still alive,’ said Poole with feeling.
‘Ben, don’t even joke about it. The way this case is going so far, that may well turn out to be the case.’ Carlson rubbed his hand over his eyes for a moment before dialling Jane Lacey and giving her the new information.
Adam Waite flung the newspaper onto his mother’s kitchen table. It knocked over the salt cellar and he swore as he righted it, flung some salt over his left shoulder and wiped the rest up with a damp cloth.
‘Adam, what are you doing in there?’ his mother called from the sitting room. ‘Not making a mess, I hope?’
‘No, Mum. All’s good,’ he shouted back. He shook the paper and wiped up the salt which fell from it, flinging another pinch over his shoulder. He leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the table, wondering if the salt really would keep the devil away. The bastard seems to be getting closer, he thought, as he stared at the picture of Matt Phillips on the front page. He slid into a chair, his legs feeling empty and without the power to hold him upright. Hiding his face in both hands, he breathed deeply. First Stevo and now Matt. Why? What’s it all about? What the fuck is it all about? He wondered if he was next or if it was just some wild coincidence. Adam could not think of anything that he and his mates had done wrong. Except… but that was years ago. Wasn’t it?
Chapter Eighteen
21st January 2016
Abbey Hospital, Bristol, Somerset
‘Hey there.’ Torrie Jericho peeked her head around the door to see Lissa lying asleep on her bed. Briefly annoyed at herself for disturbing such a peaceful scene, she hesitated for a moment unsure what to do. In her hand she held a cup of tea a member of staff had thoughtfully provided for her and she decided to drink that whilst waiting to see if Lissa woke. If she didn’t wake after a few minutes then, Torrie told herself, she would leave her visit for another time. She walked into the room and sat in the chair, placing the cup on the nightstand. The view faced out on to the gardens, and Torrie saw the grass remained coated with a light layer of frost. Under shrubs, where the weak winter rays had not chased it away, the hoarfrost was thicker. Torrie sipped her tea and ate one of the two biscuits. It was a little soft but she munched on it anyway. Hearing the bedclothes behind her rustle, she turned to look at Lissa.
The peaceful scene she had seen was a farce. Lissa was lying on her back now, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers with tears streaming down her cheeks. Torrie hurried to her bedside and mopped the salty liquid away as it coursed down Lissa’s face to her neck. The tears had already dampened her nightshirt and Torrie made two mental notes: one to get the shirt changed and two to ask why, at nearly lunchtime, her client was not dressed in day clothes.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What’s all this?
Lissa opened her eyes and looked momentarily confused. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said backing away as far as she could without falling out the other side of the bed.
‘It is,’ replied Torrie. ‘Did you forget I was coming today? I thought I’d let you lie there, you looked so peaceful when I walked in. I should have looked more closely. I’m so sorry.’
Torrie stepped back, resuming her seat, to give Lissa some space. ‘You are perfectly safe. No one here will harm you, but tell me,’ she said, ‘what’s happening, Lissa. What made you cry today?’
‘I don’t want to be here,’ Lissa snapped. ‘It’s as simple as that. I’m not getting any better, so there’s no point. It’s just a waste of time and money.’
‘What makes you think you’re not improving?’ Torrie asked, although having spoken to the staff, she knew the answer already. Lissa was not engaging with any of the group therapy, despite promising both the hospital staff and her parents that she would make more of an effort.
‘We sit in that group, and everyone complains about the same things over and over again,’ Lissa hissed, her knuckles pale as she gripped the hospital bedsheets. ‘Dave the hippie is useless. I thought he was supposed to help us understand our problems better, but all he does is ask “What makes you say that?”. Then no one knows why, he can’t help, and we’re back at the beginning again. Just round and round in circles. It all seems so pointless.’
‘I see,’ said Torrie, raising her eyebrows at the outburst. She remained seated and uncrossed her legs. It was unusual for her to sit that way but she knew from her training that crossed anything could be perceived as defensiveness. ‘And is that what’s caused these tears?’ she continued in a smooth tone.
Lissa nodded. ‘Sitting in that group just makes me feel lost. Isolated. It makes me feel so alone and as if my problems are… well, totally unimportant.’
‘What other things are there about the group work that aren’t working for you? Everyone shares. No one is here to judge you. It’s a safe place to talk.’ Torrie heard the platitudes stream from her mouth but she was losing patience with them herself. She rose and walked to the window and its calm scenery. Group therapy, she knew, worked when the dynamics of the group worked. If one person dominated or was allowed to, it could impact the whole focus of the therapy. Torrie suspected Lissa’s crisis needed more individual work in a safe and supportive environment until she was capable of functioning on a daily basis. She looked at her client’s tear-streaked face but, on the periphery of her vision, she could see Lissa hiding the red scratches on her wrists. Damn, Torrie thought. They’re supposed to be watching for that. If Lissa was still suicidal then Torrie knew that a group was definitely not the right place for her.
‘I can’t talk about what happened to me in front of other people. I just can’t,’ Lissa pouted, continuing to twist the sheets in her fists.
‘Listen,’ Torrie said, sitting down again and squeezing Lissa’s hand. ‘I’ll talk to the consultant before I leave and I’ll get the group work cut down until you feel a bit stronger. How does that sound?’
Lissa nodded and a smile, something Torrie had not seen before, broke across her face.
‘Good,’ said Torrie. ‘Now, shall we get you out of this wet T-shirt? Then maybe you can show me around?’
‘Yes, of course. I can even show you the garden, if you like.’ Lissa giggled at Torrie’s surprised face. ‘That’s right, the garden. I’ve managed that step at least. I find it’s not the outdoors that scares me now – it’s being near people, certainly lots of people.’
‘How about being in the group?’ asked Torrie. She turned her back, to give her client some privacy, as Lissa slipped on dry clothing. But who was she kidding, she asked herself, knowing she needed a moment’s composure after the display of Lissa’s rapid mood swings. She cleared her throat. ‘How does it feel having a group of people near you?’
‘I don’t like it, but at least everyone is sitting down and mostly sitting still. No one gets close to me and if I get worried I can pull the chair back a bit. But I don’t like it.’
On hearing this, Torrie was even more determined to remove Lissa from the group setting. It was going to do her no good. None at all.
Torrie pushed the glass door to the garden wide open. The gust of warm air leaving the corridor froze and hung in the cold atmosphere as both women scuttled into the garden pulling gloves on and hats down closer to their ears.
A robin hopped higher into a nearby holly bush scattering shards of frosted dew onto the ground. Lissa hesitated for a moment, but took the arm Torrie offered, and they crunched their way across the frozen grass.
‘How are you getting on with the breathing exercises?’ Torrie asked. It was impossible to ignore how tightly Lissa was holding her arm. ‘Perhaps we could try some now?’
Li
ssa nodded and they turned to face each other. Torrie held out her hands, Lissa grasped them and Torrie winced. ‘Okay, relax. Use the full extent of your lungs,’ Torrie said. ‘Breathe in, hold, two, three, four. Full breath out – counting to eight. Hold for a moment and breathe in again – for eight.’
As Lissa’s grip on her hands lessened, Torrie smiled at her. ‘Shall we walk some more?’
‘Yes, okay,’ Lissa whispered, and they strolled to the gravel path which wound through the garden. They were alone in the space. No one else had ventured out to enjoy the crisp, sharp air.
‘What about the flashbacks?’ Torrie asked, raising her voice over the crunching of stones underfoot.
Lissa stiffened, her eyes darting around, searching for danger. She looked ready to run again.
‘Breathe,’ Torrie reminded her. ‘Breathe slowly, breathe deeply.’
Lissa stood and ran through the exercise once more. She hung her head and her light brown hair covered her face. Through the dull curtain came the words, ‘They’re coming back. Worse. Especially at night.’
‘Are you ready to talk about them?’ said Torrie, although she had already guessed what the response would be.
Lissa shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.
‘It will help. Don’t forget that. It will help you work the trauma out. The reason for teaching you the breathing exercises is to help you control the panic attacks on your own. They will improve your ability to self-regulate, to recognise the rise in anxiety, but it’s really all about getting some control of your life back. Talking about the returning memories is the next step.’
‘I do want some control back,’ muttered Lissa.
‘Good,’ Torrie said. ‘What about the memory card you found in Pamplona? How do you feel about looking at that?’
Lissa halted. Her grip on Torrie’s arm intensified as she kicked at the frosted gravel with her toe. ‘I can’t look at the photos yet,’ she said. ‘I looked for the card to put in the laptop but I wasn’t able to find it anywhere. I’ve no idea what’s happened to it. Maybe that’s a good thing.’ She looked around the garden, her head swivelling like a meerkat, seeking danger wherever it lurked.
‘Little steps,’ said Torrie. ‘Talking of which, shall we head back? You’re shivering and I’m getting cold too. Let’s head back to the warm and maybe a nice hot chocolate?’
‘Okay,’ said Lissa.
The women strode more briskly than Torrie would have liked. Lissa appeared far too keen to get back inside and it was not just the cold she was running from. Torrie decided to mention to staff and parents that Lissa needed to get out in the safe environs of the hospital garden every day.
Even if it were only for a few minutes each time, the sense of achievement, however small, would boost Lissa’s confidence and aid her recovery.
Chapter Nineteen
16th June 2018
Zega’s night club, Gippingford
Nick Jones collapsed against the fire door and slipped out into the cool night of early summer. Blinking rapidly to stop the alleyway swaying, he placed one hand against the wall to hold himself steady as he unzipped his flies. Mid-flow he became aware of someone standing close by, watching him. He zipped up as best he could and performed a wobbly pirouette.
‘What ya want?’ he slurred.
‘Oh, nothing much, a moment of your time,’ came the reply.
The voice was warm, pleasant and most importantly of all to Nick, nonthreatening. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘You are Nick Jones, of ninety-five Symington Road?’
Nick nodded vigorously, which he immediately regretted as the alley spun again, and he had to hold on to the large wheelie bin for support. He rested his aching head on his arm for a moment but removed it once the smell from the bin permeated his nostrils.
‘Tell me, Nicholas, have you been to a bull run in Spain?’
Nick nodded his assent a little less vigorously. ‘Been several times,’ he said.
‘Pamplona?’
‘Yep,’ he said.
‘In 2015?’ the person asked, stepping a little closer.
‘Yep,’ said Nick. ‘Good trip. Lots of fun. Lots of tarts.’
‘Were they all tarts, Nick?’
Nick swayed. He was confused and the person was very close now. They had a hand on his shoulder and they shoved him back against the wall. He convulsed as his spine hit the brickwork causing the breath to shoot out of his lungs. He slid to the ground gasping in pain. At first he did not notice he was sitting in a puddle of urine, but as soon as the dampness leached through his boxer shorts to his bum cheeks he struggled to stand. The hand was firm on his shoulder once more and his feet were kicked so that only his heels touched the ground. Yet again he tried to place the soles of his shoes on the ground, but their smooth surfaces slipped on the paving slabs and he was back where he started.
The person was leaning over him now, a mask pulled down over their face so all he saw were dark eyes. Angry eyes. Their hand released his shoulder and pinched his nose. He struggled again. Gasping for air in a mouth that was starting to fill with vomit. He couldn’t stop it. He retched and heard swearing as the nauseating cascade went over him and his assailant. He tried to stand again but was not fast enough. He was kneed to the side of the head and he was flat on the ground, with his attacker on his chest. His nose was squeezed and powder dumped into his mouth as he tried to breathe. He began to choke. The person on his chest sat back, their weight now resting on his midriff and stomach. Nick heard their laughter.
‘Oh, bless. Have you got a sore throat? I can help you with that.’
Nick’s eyes widened as a flash of metal was caught in the light from an exit sign behind the night club. He tensed himself to scream as the blade touched the side of his neck. Arterial blood shot from the wound and the scalpel slid down around the base of his Adam’s apple and up the other side. He didn’t feel the tug as his larynx was pulled from his neck, nor did he feel the blood flowing rapidly from his body. As the killer ran down the dark alleyway, Nick’s sightless eyes followed their route.
17th June 2018
Zega’s night club, Gippingford
DCI Carlson, covered head to toe in protective clothing, stared at the young man on the ground before him. He shook his head. Whilst no stranger to the horrors that one human could do to another, he’d not actually seen someone with their throat ripped out before.
He was pleased that his shoes were covered as, stepping nearer for a better look, he came close to a pool of vomit. He looked at it, noting the shape and when he glanced around, Kirsty Russell was watching him. He carefully stepped to one side and walked to where she was standing.
‘I’m so glad you didn’t tread in that one, Ronnie,’ she said.
He raised an eyebrow and she continued.
‘I think our killer was vomited on. Hence the unusual shape of the pool.’
‘Footwear impressions?’ said Carlson, ever hopeful.
‘Unlikely,’ she replied. She beckoned the photographer over and showed Carlson the image. ‘No impressions left but we might be able to work out a shoe size. Maybe an eight. Possibly a bit larger. We’ll have a better idea later.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlson, thinking that if they had an idea of shoe size it could give them an idea how tall their killer might be.
Whilst his mind was buzzing over possibilities, Dr Jervis Kilburn arrived.
‘You’re presenting me with some odd ones at the moment, Ronnie,’ he said. ‘Still I’d prefer this to another stabbing.’
Carlson nodded in agreement. Strange as these murders were, they were infinitely preferable to standing by the body of a teenager killed in a knife fight. He thought back to the night of finding his daughter’s body and bit back the wave of emotion which threatened to overwhelm him. All lives lost were a waste but there was something tragic about the death of someone who’d not had the chance to live yet.
‘How soon can you get the autopsy done?’ Carlson asked, forcing h
imself to focus on the present.
‘Well, Ronnie, since it’s you and it was an otherwise quiet night, shall we say two o’clock this afternoon?’
‘Good,’ said Carlson, peeling off his gloves and looking at his watch. ‘I’ll see you later, thanks.’
Carlson trudged towards the perimeter tape and signed out of the scene. His protective clothing was taken and bagged up by one of Kirsty’s CSIs and he headed towards his car deep in thought.
What did it all mean? he wondered. What was the relevance of the body parts which had been taken? He unlocked his car and sat behind the wheel, tapping his fingertips on the outer rim. Whoever they were, they were getting braver. From an abandoned house in a deserted street, to the victim’s home and now out in the open. It was an escalation and not one that Ronnie Carlson was happy with, as there were still very few clues to go on. The shoe though. That was good. That was helpful. He gave the steering wheel a satisfied thump, started the car and drove back to HQ.
18th June 2018
Gippingford Police HQ
DCI Carlson regarded the three photographs now pinned to the whiteboard. Three young men, each killed in a strange and brutal manner. He turned to face the room and picked up the email from Jervis Kilburn.
Carlson cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got an email from Dr Kilburn about the autopsy he did yesterday on victim three from the night club. He says, “The victim has been identified as Nick Jones, twenty-nine, and a resident of Gippingford. He was in generally good physical condition and kept himself fit. However, when I met with him yesterday, he was somewhat worse for wear. I found a powder around his nose and mouth and that I have sent away for toxicology, but whilst I am expecting that it will turn out to be ricin, exactly as we have found with the two other victims. I am extremely disturbed by the quantity found, however. If it is pure ricin, the killer left enough to kill an entire city. What was different about this victim was that a different part of the body was removed. The first as you know was castrated, the second was restrained and died from heart failure caused by dehydration and this one has had his throat cut out. The entire voice box, the larynx, has been removed. This meant that he bled out due to the operation. It is in fact quite possible, in surgery, to remove a larynx and the patient survive when the procedure is performed under the correct circumstances. That did not happen here and the victim died from his injuries.”’ Carlson laid the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him.
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