Does this person want to be caught? she thought as she swigged another mouthful of beer. Taking out her phone she checked the signal and dialled. It rang longer than she anticipated.
‘Wicca? Do you know what time it is? What do you want?’ Tony’s voice sounded hostile but then she heard his giggle.
‘“When you’re down and troubled …”’ she began to sing.
‘Are you pissed?’
‘No! I need to talk to a friend and a colleague. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, they tell me. I’ve been thinking over a few things to do with the Sharpe case.’ She heard a groan.
‘It’s play time, Wicca. It’s time to relax, watch telly or drink beer.’
‘No telly, and I’m relaxed. Sitting in the garden with a beer. I need just five minutes, promise.’
‘Your time starts now!’
‘Ta! We have three bodies, right? Each found at different times but not killed in the order in which they were found, right? So, my thinking is, there comes a point when an act of surprise will work, when people will trust and let down their guard if they have one. However, once there’s an awareness that friends or acquaintances are going missing or dying, alarm bells will ring and trust will be withdrawn. Even though we don’t trust naturally, it’s encouraged within today’s society – it’s now firmly fixed in our DNA. Kids are told to trust certain people – priests, teachers, the police, doctors. Occasionally that trust is betrayed, with dire consequences at times, but it doesn’t stop the rest of us from trusting. We might be more conscious of this betrayal, but in times of what might be classed as an emergency, we trust. My question to you, my friend: do those linked in some way to this case stop trusting strangers or do they stop trusting friends knowing that the crimes are close to them?’
‘If I were in that circle of friends, it would be both. I’d trust neither, strangers nor friends, until the killer is caught. Now ask me one about sport.’
She chuckled.
‘Right, agreed, but if we see a smile on the face of friend or stranger, it disarms us, we drop our guard, particularly if we know them or we think we know them. When our backs are against a metaphorical wall, we need to find people on whom we can rely, and it’s then that we’re at our most vulnerable. People will turn to friends for support. Friends will turn to help friends and that could be their mistake. It was for Jennings and it may well have been for Groves. Tony, was Carla purely the bait to bring in the bigger fish? Is he or she picking them off one by one to instil a fear until the killer gets the person he truly wants?’
‘Suspended retribution? We believe there’s a strong possibility this is a vendetta. Vengeance may well be the motive considering some of the evidence but that could be a smoke screen. Open mind, isn’t that what’s drummed into us since basic training?’
‘In my mind, the killer is like the guy painting the floor. He’s started to paint, and realised he’ll have to wait for it to dry to finish and leave as he’s painted himself into the corner. He had all the time in the world at first to take, keep and kill. They went voluntarily as neither knew of the others’ deaths and now as the news breaks the room is getting tighter. He’s lost the luxury of their trust, their possible co-operation and the luxury of time.’
‘Right. If you say so. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Have another beer or two to take your mind off the case and put the paint brush away. Maybe Michael the magician will have developed a cunning plan.’
She chuckled. ‘Thanks, Tony, for listening to the ramblings of a mad woman.’
The sky had now become a uniform black and the occasional star glinted. Finishing the dregs from the bottle she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and stared into the darkness. She was tired but she knew the tumbling within her head would deny her the opportunity of sleep.
The booklet of photographs positioned on the table alongside three mobile phones was an anomaly. He had accurately placed and glued the images of the people taken in the pub the evening of the incident onto the separate pages. The writing below each was neat and orderly. He had slashed those early, grainy images of Sharpe, Jennings and Groves with a knife in the shape of a tick. Beneath, in a flowing hand, he had written the day and the date of death, underneath which was a small photograph of each before and during their dying moments. He had also written the words ‘Life is for living – just live it!’ However, on the first three, he had crossed out the words ‘live it’ and replaced them with the single one – ‘DIE!’ Below that was a description of the moments in which they died. He detailed their facial expression and noted anything they uttered. In the case of Jennings and Sharpe he noted the length of time from the incision to their final twitches. For Groves, he left the end time blank. He had needed to leave before death arrived and anyone else who needed to collect their car. ‘Shock’, ‘fear’, ‘surprise’, ‘hurt’ were but some of the descriptions. He always underlined the word ‘fear’ and wrote the word beneath each image.
His gloved hand turned to the next photograph, that of Bill Rodgers. Using scissors, he removed it to reveal the underlying page from which another face stared out. This face had only recently been added after careful consideration. He would be the next. He pasted Rodgers’s image onto the subsequent page. It was clear, he would worry the longest.
Placing two new craft handles on the table, he inserted two blades. He positioned the dull curve of the honed edge and the fine tip facing each other.
‘Eeny meeny miny moe …’ He let his finger move between the two blades until the rhyme ended. ‘You are out!’ On a narrow piece of tape, he wrote the name, ‘Bill’, before sticking it to the handle. He added what for him would be the penultimate victim before attaching that to the remaining weapon. A moment later he produced a third knife. It would be a spare in case a blade snapped. One had done, he recalled, when dispatching Sharpe.
Collecting the knives, he placed them in a shoe box. Returning to the book he flicked through to the last page, to a photograph of Debbie Sutch. Unlike the others the words written beneath were, ‘Goddess – Guardian Angels live forever!’ He brought a finger to his lips before returning it to touch Sutch’s mouth.
Chapter 18
The Merseyside Operational Command Centre based at Speke, had become a valuable modern resource for the Matrix teams. All were now housed under the one roof, a centre bristling with the necessary technology to fight today’s crime in such a large and diverse city. DCI Mason flicked through the slides on the interactive board that filled most of one wall of the conference room. Today it would be open to the press. The first cameras were in the process of being organised. Occasionally he paused to read some of the notes he had prepared. His Chief Constable was not happy, not happy at all. The murders of three people occurring at the same time, he was told, was very different from what was clearly seen by the public as the strategic murder of three innocent friends. The word ‘executed’ had been used during his last meeting with his Chief Constable and the Commissioner. The request for greater resourcing had been discussed, balanced against the progress made to date.
Within fifteen minutes he would be interviewed by the media and he had received a clear brief as to the level of information he should make available. He was pleased that the press would not be allowed questions at this stage. For him, this building seemed somewhat alien; he would feel ill at ease until he was out of the limelight and back at his own desk in the city centre.
Carlos Briggs’s world seemed to stand still when Nicola, sitting him down in the back room of the studio, informed him that Carla’s body had been discovered. It was obvious from his facial expression and the pallor of his skin just how hard it had hit him. The tears seemed to squirt from his eyes as the guttural noise erupted, at the same time producing huge, uncontrollable sobs. It was so distressing it also brought her to tears. He seemed to wither and fall into her, clinging like a drowning man to the smallest piece of floating wood, desperate, frightened and for that moment, inconsolable. She quietly told hi
m what she knew from the report she had received earlier from a DC Peet. He had introduced himself as Michael. His voice seemed controlled and reassuring but she sensed instantly he was the harbinger of bad news. He explained that he had the sorry task of informing her close friends of Carla’s death. The next of kin had been notified. A statement about her murder would follow and her name released. In her heart of hearts, Nicola had expected such news. She had thought Carla might just be broken enough to have accidentally taken her own life during a bout of heavy drinking. The breakup had, she understood, been more traumatic than she had ever disclosed. The evidence was there in the way she not only lived life to the full but possibly abused the new sense of freedom. She seemed hellbent on conveying to those around her that ‘Life was for living’. It suddenly seemed a false mantra.
Hearing the words ‘murder investigation’ dealt a huge blow. She seemed to momentarily float away from the phone conversation as if she were trying to put it all into a perspective she could comprehend fully.
‘Nicola, I’m going to text you a number. It’s a link to the Police Family Liaison Team. You and your staff have each other but you may also need some professional support during this traumatic time. Please, use it, it’s free. Don’t suffer alone. Don’t hesitate to call it.’
His final statement was powerful. She had assured him she would and thanked him. He closed by offering his personal condolences.
Brian had stopped crying and lifted his head from her chest. ‘I’m sorry, look, I’ve wet your uniform.’ Taking his face in her hands she turned it so they were eye to eye.
‘We need each other now, Carlos. We’re going to see her and hear her in our heads. She was a massive part of your life, and mine, and she was present in this very space. We must mourn her leaving us so soon, but we must remember her in the way she would want us to. That means her laugh, her energy and her mischief. I will have her saying written on the wall in your treatment room, a room she wanted you to use. Let’s say it together.’
‘“Life is for living – just live it!”’
They hugged again.
‘Maybe you should go home. I’ll cancel your clients for the day.’
Still living at home with his mother would make it difficult for him to grieve. He refused. He realised that he wanted to be where she once was and he felt as though she would always be with him.
‘Thanks, I’ll stay. You understand me more than my mum. Let’s brush ourselves down and begin the day again. I have clients, and what would Carla do? Live life!’ They both laughed, an inhibited and false laugh but one that was understandable.
He wandered into Carla’s treatment room and lay on the couch. His tears had released a torrent of emotions. He had not cried as much since his father died but this loss seemed even greater. She had been young and her life was cruelly stolen from her. It was the amalgam of emotions, sadness and anger, that helped him keep going.
Nicola’s thoughts immediately turned to Smith but she quickly dismissed any idea that he might be involved in Carla’s death. He was neither the type nor did she feel there was any justification, if ever one could justify killing. Her next thoughts turned to Bill Rodgers and there they lingered for longer than she liked.
The morning light suffused the room in colour. The sun collected the pattern from the upper-level stained-glass windows before delicately smudging it against the white wall. This natural phenomenon had the ability to change the mood of the room and as a designer of living space he found it stunning.
Craufurd Gaskell watched the traffic pass along Lord Street, two steady streams until the traffic lights brought a halt to the flow. From his vantage point he could observe the Atkinson Gallery Clock in one direction and the Cenotaph in the other. He was spoiled. The trees lining either side were freshly leaved and vivid green. As he saw their delicate sway he thought of Carla and the officer’s words in delivering his statement about three murders within his town. It looked the epitome of gentleness from this perspective, not the bosom of evil. Yes, it was now classed as part of Merseyside, but Southport had always enjoyed its own personal identity, a seaside town even though the sea was a stranger. It represented more retirement than amusement. The summer months were witness to its fair share of holiday makers but its neighbour Blackpool accommodated the majority.
Turning back to the room, he stared at the rug spread across the grey painted floorboards. He could see her. He closed his eyes in remembrance, recalling the moment he had spotted her sitting outside, opposite the apartment, looking forlorn and yet defiant. He had watched her for some time, not in a voyeuristic way; it was more fatherly, if anything. More like a guardian angel on high. Then he had seen the first spots of rain on the windows. He had gone down and brought her in just as the rain started to flush the street and pour from the protective glass canopies like miniature cascades.
On entering his apartment, she had demanded a drink before throwing cushions onto the floor and spreading herself on the rug, singing along to the song that was playing. He recalled that too as if it were yesterday – White Flag by Dido. He had laughed as she flicked her glass with her finger nail in time to the sound of the ringing triangle. She had then changed the lyric to ‘I will surrender’ before holding the glass for a refill, and looking even more upset until it was poured. He recalled that her hair was crunched in a clip. He had watched her hand move to release it. Her hair had fallen to her shoulders and she had flicked her head before unbuttoning her shirt. He opened his eyes quickly. The thought brought a cocktail of excitement, sadness and nausea. His mobile rang.
Bending to retrieve it from the table he glanced at the screen and immediately dropped the phone. Carla’s image, taken on that same evening, a picture he was not proud of taking, showed as it continued to ring. A huge flush of panic ran through him. It was as if the phone had been electrified and the shock had brought this surge of guilt. It stopped ringing.
Within minutes, Carlos Briggs received a similar call. He too looked at the screen before moving it away slightly to get a clearer perspective. He emitted a scream that caused all in the salon to stare. It showed the photograph that always appeared when Carla rang – the two of them laughing.
‘Are you okay, love?’ a woman waiting for her nails to be done asked. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’
Nicola moved from behind the workstation and immediately approached him, dragging the protective mask from her face. Carlos quickly turned the ringing phone towards her. On the illuminated screen could clearly read the name, Carla, and saw the image.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Snatching the phone, she answered it, the action instantly silencing the ringing. There was no one there. She grabbed her bag and removed her phone. Pausing she turned to look at Carlos. She had one missed call. It was from Carla and it had been received moments earlier. Her phone had been on mute whilst she worked.
Carlos had been warned by the police that this might happen. He took the phone back and slipped out the card he had been given. Even though he had been prepared, the sight of seeing the name appear still brought a sickening flush to his stomach. He knew now she was dead, and his upset turned to anger. He dialled the number April had given him.
It took eight minutes for the call to be connected to April’s phone. She listened, assured by the calm in Carlos’s voice. Noting the time and location, she thanked him, requesting he pass her number to Nicola. She asked them to contact her immediately should either receive another call. She informed the technical officer who had been working on tracking the phones. Again, there was nothing from live track to say Carla’s phone had been active.
April quickly moved through to the Incident Room. There was a lot of activity but there seemed little progress. A collection of photographs removed from the three missing phones had been accessed from the cloud. April had tried to grasp the mechanics but had given up, believing it to be too abstract for her to understand fully. The contents of the phones taken from Rodgers and Sutch had also been added to
the gallery. Those images containing one or more of the deceased had been collated and place and time had been configured. The decision to view all photographs for the year had also been taken. Although it meant trawling through a plethora of images, it provided a clearer picture of the group’s social interaction. She sat at a computer and played through a slide show of the last known meetings to include Jennings, Sharpe and Groves.
Each image had been allocated a unique reference number. She added one of the numbers to the pad if the shot contained anyone in the background who seemed to be taking an interest in the group. It was her hope that when they were assessed, facial recognition software might identify someone known to the police. She knew it to be a long shot but at this stage when lives mattered, she was grasping at straws and prepared to use all of the resources at her disposal.
Skeeter admired the police drone that was placed on the work bench. It was the size that impressed. ‘Bloody hell, Steve, I could get to Ibiza on that for my hols this summer!’
‘Firstly, it’s not a drone as such, it’s a hexicopter. Count the prop arms. It can stay airborne even with a number of the propellors damaged or stopped owing to battery failure, making it safe to fly above crowds, built-up and sensitive areas. Litigation being what it is, you don’t want this thing falling from a great height into crowds. It has multi-uses for crowd control, car chases, locating suspects and search and rescue. We use it to monitor concert crowds as it has the ability to work in both day and night situations. Not too happy in the rain, however, but we have a new one on test that will be! This one can lock onto, and follow, a subject using a number of clever, technical components. These three domes,’ he pointed to the concave cups positioned on the three stalks that sat on the top of the machine, ‘allow it to link to a number of satellites and is accurate to a centimetre. It knows where it is in the world at all times and so do I when it’s flying out of sight. Back here at our base, all of that information is logged in real time and analysed to enable me to guide it.’
Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) Page 13
