by A L Fraine
Damon raised his hands as Jon took a step towards him. “Please, I don’t think you should go in there. I really don’t.”
Stepping up to Damon, Jon pushed past him as a deep need to get up there filled him. “I need to see this,” he said and strode into the house and up the stairs. Following the trail of the attending SOCOs into the front bedroom, he was greeted with a nightmare from his past.
As he took in the scene he felt the blood drain from him, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. In that instant, he was back in his house in Nottingham five years ago looking at Charlotte.
In the centre of an otherwise bare spare room, the woman was strung up in a standing position. Handcuffs were on her wrists, pulling her arms out wide. Metal wire attached the cuffs to sturdy bolts drilled into the joists above the ceiling, holding the young woman up in an almost Christ-like pose. One of her legs hung loosely to the floor, her toes just brushing the carpet. A third set of cuffs and a wire had been attached to her left ankle, holding it up and bending her leg like a ballerina.
He’d dressed her up, too.
It was just like the Doll Killer, she had the tutu on as well. Everything was there.
Images of Charlotte flashed through his mind. He remembered finding her strung up, dead eyes staring at nothing, the horrific painted face the killer had given her.
Jon moved around to her front which faced the far window that looked out onto the street. Sure enough, her face was painted white, with bright red lips, red circles on her cheeks, and a red line that had been painted vertically above and below her eyes like a clown. The woman’s head hung limply, her strong red hair falling about her face.
“Holy shit,” Kate gasped as she entered the room.
Staring at the corpse, Jon could only see Charlotte. It was her, just as he remembered. It was happening again. The nightmare was back and all too real. He wished he could have saved her from this madman, and they could have lived together, maybe got married and had a family. He missed her so much. Reaching out, he went to touch her face one last time.
“Jon!” Kate called out.
He snapped out of it and Charlotte’s face was gone. Feeling weak, Jon stumbled back towards the wall, unable to pull his eyes away from the nightmare before him. Kate was instantly beside him, catching him.
“Hey, it’s okay. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
He let her guide him, her arm around his body as she walked him out onto the landing. There was a small bench beside the bannister where she sat him down. As he sat, the emotion of the moment suddenly caught up with him and he felt tears sting his eyes.
He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbed them. “Shit.”
“It’s okay,” Kate said, sat beside him.
“No, it’s not. It’s not okay. He knows. Somehow, this guy, he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“About my girlfriend, about what happened to her. How does he know? Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”
“It’s fine. I get it. I do.”
“I need to tell you…”
“You can, but later. We’ll get a drink tonight. We can talk then, okay?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” he replied, relieved that he’d be able to talk it through with her. He’d been thinking that he’d need to tell her about it, and this would be that chance. Looking up, he met her gaze and smiled. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay. Now, do you think you can hold it together and go back in there?”
Honestly, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he’d try. He needed to do this. People were relying on him.
“How is he?” Jon looked up to see his old friend looking down at them. He felt grateful he was here.
“He’s fine,” she replied.
“I’m okay, Damon. Seriously. It was just a shock,” Jon reassured him.
“If you need time, or need to step away from this…”
“No. No way. I want to see this through,” he said standing up. “I need to find this bastard.”
Damon nodded. “Alright then, but seriously, no one would think less of you if you couldn’t.”
“I know, but I need to do this. I need to face the memories,” he replied and steeled himself with a deep breath before walking back into the room. This time, he pushed the thoughts of Charlotte back into the deepest parts of his mind and did his best to view the scene as a detective.
“This is messed up,” Kate said as Jon slowly circled the corpse. Looking up, he noted the girl's right hand. The same two fingers were missing again, severed from just below the knuckle with a ragged cut. Jon grimaced at the now-familiar calling card that this killer left. He spotted the long cuts that had been made along the length of her forearms. He noted the dried blood that had run down her arms and body, before pooling on the floor beneath her.
“This is a message for me,” Jon said.
“For us,” Damon added.
“You’ve seen people killed like this before?” Kate asked.
“Not exactly the same,” Damon replied. “My last big case with Jon in the Nottingham Police was someone the press called the Doll Killer. He killed women, usually by strangulation, then washed them, dressed them, painted their faces, and strung them up. They all looked like this, like marionettes. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen at the time. And the last victim, the final victim, was Charlotte—Jon’s girlfriend.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kate said.
Jon nodded, preferring not to think about it too much. It was a long time ago, even though it often felt like only yesterday.
“Right, okay, so this Doll Killer, I’m guessing he didn’t cut fingers off, right?”
“No, he didn’t,” Jon replied. “He didn’t slash wrists either.”
“This guy though, he’s done his research. He clearly knows your history,” Damon said.
“No shit.”
“I’ve worked some cases in my time,” Sheridan said as she walked into the room. “But this one is something else.”
“Hey,” Kate said in greeting.
“Afternoon,” Jon said and pointed to the corpse. “Same but different, right?”
“Right,” Sheridan replied. “It’s the same killer, I’m sure of it. I know he’s dressed the scene up differently, but the details are the same. Same missing fingers, same method.”
“Who’s the girl? Kate asked.
“Emily Murphy,” Sheridan replied.
“What?” Jon said. “Fucking hell, really?”
“What?” Sheridan replied.
Damon hung his head and put his hands on his hips. “Of course.”
“Is someone going to explain?” Kate said.
“My girlfriend's name was Charlotte Murphy,” Jon said, shaking his head. He turned away and kicked the wall gently.
“Oh,” Kate replied.
“Her boyfriend, Morgan, is downstairs if you want to talk to him,” Sheridan said.
“I think we’ll have someone else take that statement,” Kate suggested.
Jon looked up at her and smiled, grateful that she was looking out for him. He wanted to find the killer, but talking to the boyfriend was not something he felt in any mood to do. In fact, right now, he just wanted to step away for a few hours and come back to it fresh tomorrow.
Turning, Jon looked through the window to the street beyond. The evening was drawing in and the lights from the police vehicles were casting a blue and red glow across the houses opposite. Taking in the view, Jon emptied his mind of the horror that was behind him and closed his eyes. He couldn’t let this killer get into his head. He needed to be stronger than him. He needed to see this through, find this sicko, and end this.
But not tonight. Tonight he needed some time. He needed to step away and get some distance from it all.
Kate stepped up beside him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired,” Jon replied.
“Do you still want to get that drink?”
“Is it still on offer?”
“Of course.”
“Then, yes. The sooner, the better.”
“How about now?”
22
“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Kate said. “We can just sit here in silence, knowing you’re with a friend. I don’t mind.”
They sat in the back of the pub on a sofa, their drinks on the table beside them.
Jon nodded as he thought back to that room and the poor girl who’d become the latest victim of this killer. A killer who clearly knew who was after him, and was letting them know he knew. The killer was taunting them, showing them how powerful he was, how superior he felt compared to them, and so far, he was right. They had no solid leads and seemed no closer to finding him than they had been three days ago.
It was all so frustrating, and it was not helped by his current state of mind. Everything was all tangled up in a chaotic mess up there. He couldn’t make much sense of anything, he needed to offload some of his baggage. He needed to talk.
“I want to talk about it,” Jon said. “I need to. I think I owe you that much.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Kate replied.
“Thanks, but I have to do this, for my own sake as much as anyone else’s.”
“It’s up to you. I’m happy to listen if it helps.”
“Thanks,” Jon replied with a weak smile.
Kate leaned in and put her hand on his. “Anytime.”
Jon nodded. “Damon was right. We’d been hunting this guy—Jimmy Sutton was his name—he’d been killing young women and turning them into marionettes, just like today's victim. The press dubbed him the Doll Killer, because of course they would. They have to have their cute names.”
“Always,” Kate agreed.
“He’d kill them, wash them, and then paint their faces like dolls. Then he’d dress them in tutus and dancer’s outfits with tall socks and stuff. Put their hair in bunches or pigtails. It was a whole routine for him. And once he was done, he’d string them up, posing them like dancers or dolls. It was the strangest case. In the end, he pleaded insanity, saying a doll in his house had told him to do it.”
“Wow,” Kate replied. “That’s messed up.”
“I know. We never found the doll he ranted about while in custody either.”
“So, how did he end up focusing on you?”
“I’d been on TV. We were running low on leads and needed to re-energise the case. So the victims' families clubbed together and put a reward out that would go to anyone who gave information that would directly lead to the killer's arrest. That’s when Sutton called me. He taunted me. So I turned it around on him and put the recording of his voice out on the news.”
“Clever.”
“I thought so. Anyway, Sutton’s mother heard it and recognised him. She confronted him, but he turned violent. She managed to barricade herself in the bathroom and call us, naming him and giving us his address before he got through the door. He killed her too, but we had him then. We knew who he was, but he also knew we were closing in on him. That’s when he turned his attention to me. He tracked me down and attacked Charlotte while I was at work. We caught him later that day, only for me to return home and find her. I’ll never forget what she looked like. Ever.”
Kate grabbed his hand and held it in hers. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You must miss her.”
He nodded. “Every day. I sometimes think about what could have been if things had turned out differently. But she’s gone, I’ve done my grieving. I miss her, but I couldn’t wallow in that grief. That’s not me.”
“I understand.”
“It’s not something that normally bothers me or takes up much mental space, apart from the occasional nightmare, but seeing that today was just too much.”
“I understand. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Thanks for listening to me,” Jon replied with a smile. “I really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” she replied.
She looked sad, Jon thought, and her eyes seemed to drift into the middle distance. “It kind of reminds me of what happened to me,” she said.
Jon nodded. “Devlin, right?”
She nodded.
“Your neighbour lived though.”
“Oh, yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about. My history with Devlin goes back even further than that.”
“Aaah?” Jon replied, and remembering what Nathan had said, that there was more to this Devlin thing than he was aware of.
“When I was sixteen, my Aunt Fiona was killed in Ireland, near Cork. Devlin did it. He took her to a stone circle in the countryside and killed her on the central plinth. Fiona and I were close, and being a stupid teenager I went looking for the killer because the Garda couldn’t track him down. I failed too, but while I was there, unknown to me at the time, I met Devlin when I visited the crime scene. Afterwards, he started sending me letters. At least one a year, taunting me and threatening me.”
“Shit, I had no idea.”
“Fiona’s death was why I joined the police. I wanted to find her killer. That, and my dad was in the Royal Ulster Constabulary.”
Jon nodded with a smile. “My dad was a uniformed officer too. Seems like we have that in common as well.”
Kate chuckled. “Yeah. So, cut to ten years later, I join the Murder Team as a detective. Nathan and I hunt down Wilson Hollins. The guy I told you about who killed his former school bully.”
“I remember, the guy who was sacrificed, right?”
“That’s the one. Our second big case was a guy called Solomon Lichwood. He was a photographer who kidnapped four models. He killed them in several derelict buildings in the county and took photos of them. The third case was Terry Sims, who was hunting that book I mentioned.”
“The one who was working for Abban, right?”
“That’s right. The thing was, all three cases were linked. There was, and maybe still is, a group of wealthy, corrupt men who organised all these killings, They got Wilson and Solomon to make sacrifices for their group.”
“So, they’re like a cult?”
“I think so. Abban was one of the wealthy guys. I don’t know what happened to the group, but they’ve been quiet for a while now. Maybe they’re gone for good, but I somehow doubt it.”
“Sounds like you’ve had it bad,” Jon said.
Kate smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I think we’ve both had some messed up shit happen to us.”
Jon nodded, feeling a strong sense of empathy towards her. She’d suffered at the hands of a determined psychopath and had a prolonged reign of terror perpetrated against her for years, and yet, here she was, still fighting, still working to stop the bad guys.
“You’ve done amazingly well, given the circumstances. Seriously. I’m beyond impressed. Not many could do what you’ve done.”
“You’re still here, too. Still fighting.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Charlotte’s death changed me, for sure. I knew what I had to do after that. I have to stop them. I have to hunt down these vicious killers and bring them to justice. It’s been my mission in life from that day to this.”
“A worthy fight, if ever there was one,” Kate said with a smile, squeezing his hand.
Jon smiled back and nodded, looking down at their interlocked hands. He enjoyed the warmth and softness and appreciated her care and attention. She knew what he’d been through, and could sympathise because she’d been through something similar.
He felt a connection that he’d not felt with anyone else since Charlotte. It was something he never thought he’d feel again and found it comforting. It was an amazing feeling of relief, warmth, and friendship… and maybe something more.
He wasn’t sure of that, but he hoped he’d found a good friend at the very least.
Without warning, Kate placed her hand on the side of his face as she leaned in. She lifted his head and kissed him on the lips. Shocked, Jon sat rooted to the spot for the fe
w seconds that it lasted, enjoying it, but also not entirely sure if he wasn’t just imagining things. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and yet, somehow it felt right.
She pulled away, looked him in the eye, and then glanced away. “Um, I’m sorry. I don’t know… I didn’t mean…”
“No, it’s fine, it’s…” he smiled at her and found her gaze again. A feeling of relief washed over him. He knew that at some level she must feel something like what he was feeling towards her. “It’s amazing, in fact.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, hesitant.
“Positive,” he replied, and this time, he kissed her.
23
Abban sat on the hard bench in the back of the van as it rattled along the road, bouncing over potholes and generally causing him a great deal of discomfort.
These last few weeks of the trial had been one humiliation after another as his life had been laid bare for all the world to see, and it wasn’t over yet. He still had the case in Ireland to look forward to, which no doubt would be just as bad.
Terry had played his part, taking the heat for many of the crimes that had been committed, but this Irish case might be different. He didn’t have a scapegoat in place this time, and he wondered how that might impact his chances.
Still, he was a wealthy man, and he would be sure to enlist the best solicitor that money could buy to represent him.
“Comfortable?” the officer in the back said to him with a sneer. It had not escaped Abban’s notice that he was sat on a cushion.
“Endlessly,” Abban replied, wishing he could knock that grin off the other man’s face.
Tyres screeched outside. The van swerved violently, then something hit it. Abban was thrown from the bench and slammed to the floor, his cuffed hands doing little to save him.
The vehicle tipped and landed on its side. Metal screeched, deafening in the enclosed space. A second later, it came to a rest and Abban slowly sat up.
He dare not believe what this might mean as he found his feet. At his feet, the uniformed officer lay on what had been the side of the van, his nose bleeding as his eyes wheeled around in confusion.
“What the…?” the officer said.
