by Rob Ashman
‘With what?’
He opened a file and read from the report. ‘Short red fibres were found on his shirt, consistent with material used in dress manufacturing.’
‘That’s a good start to the day.’
Frost breezed in.
‘Morning. I’ve done what I can with the screen dumps from the Trafford Centre.’ She had a clutch of grainy black and white images in her hand. ‘Not sure they tell us a hell of a lot though.’
‘Okay, let’s talk things through and see what we’ve got,’ said Kray, marshalling her crèche around her. ‘We have a white male aged anything between eighteen to thirty—’
‘Great name for a holiday company that, Roz,’ Tavener interrupted. The scowl shut him up, it was way too early for that kind of bollocks.
Kray continued, ‘that is according to Hayley. He is around five feet seven tall with a slim build. What do the pictures tell us?’
Frost fanned the screen shots across the table. ‘From what I can make out he has no tattoos on his hands and doesn’t wear rings. He was wearing a wrist watch and carrying a black rucksack. From the outline of the bag I’d say it was stuffed full. Probably his female gear. Other than that, his clothes are bog standard, they could be bought in a whole host of shops. There is, however, one detail which is a little out of the ordinary, there is a motif on the back of the baseball cap. I’ve enhanced it as much as I can but it’s still unclear.’ She lifted out one of the photographs and laid it on top of the others. ‘This is the best I could do. It’s a round circle with what looks like a bird’s head in it. No idea what that means, but it is something worth following up to see if we get a match.’
‘That’s good work.’ Kray stared at the blurry image. ‘The other thing we have to unravel is our suspect being a bit of a shape shifter, able to pass himself off convincingly as a woman. So, we have to presume he has feminine features and is a dab hand with the No.7 and a make-up brush.’
‘Bit more than a dab hand Roz, this guy fooled a bloke into thinking he was pulling an attractive woman. Christ, I struggle to achieve that on a night out,’ said Frost, immediately regretting giving away way too much information.
‘Okay, let me put it another way. Our suspect is an expert when it comes to transforming himself into the opposite sex.’
‘He could be a professional make-up artist. Maybe someone who works in a theatre group, or he could work at one of the drag clubs here in town,’ said Tavener.
‘That’s a good point. Let’s check them out. He is able to fool people up close, so he must be good.’
‘And on that point …’ Frost had been busy. ‘I went back over the CCTV images from the bar when he was with Joshua Wilson. There is one area where a guy is going to struggle to pass himself off as a woman: his Adam’s apple, it’s a dead giveaway.’ She rifled through the paper on the desk and pulled an image from the pack. ‘This is the best angle I could get, it’s not great because of the camera elevation but if you look carefully you can see a black line around his neck.’
‘He was wearing a choker,’ Tavener said.
‘Exactly,’ said Frost.
‘Do you think he could be gay or bisexual? I mean the chances are he snogged Joshua Wilson at some point during the night,’ mentioned Tavener.
‘Not sure. It doesn’t necessarily follow. To him it could be a case of the end justifies the means. Keeping Joshua interested had to be his number one priority otherwise all his efforts would come to nothing. He must have planted the lump hammer in the alleyway, then lured Joshua there. That takes planning. And the whole scenario around the death of Madeline Eve demonstrated meticulous attention to detail, so our guy is an organised killer. He could be married or in a steady relationship, holding down a respectable job and a home owner. This is basic profiling by the way – we need to draft in a specialist to help us,’ Kray said.
‘He also has a working knowledge of the effects of snake venom,’ said Tavener. ‘That could mean he owns a snake or he might import the venom?’
‘Get that one on the list. In order to own a venomous snake legally you have to comply with the Dangerous Wild Animals Act 1976. To do that you have to register with the local authority. It’s a big deal where the fire brigade, veterinary surgeons and the authority have to conduct a suitability assessment before they can grant the license. Not to mention it costs over three hundred pounds.’
‘How do you know all that, Roz?’
‘We had a case once where a man was refused a license to own a crocodile that he planned to keep in a kiddies’ swimming pool.’
‘Ha, what a knob, no wonder he was turned down. But why were you involved?’ Tavener laughed.
‘He punched the inspector in the face when it became clear it was going to be a no.’
The room fell silent, to be broken by Frost trying to stifle a giggle.
‘Anyway, enough of that. Let’s make enquires with the licensing people and see what we have on our patch. In the meantime, we need to understand what it takes to keep a snake like that.’
‘I will check out the exotic pet shops in the area, see if they know of anyone who owns one of these Russell’s Vipers?’
‘Also have a word with the Zoo, they might have links with any venomous snake societies. The killer is also able to get his hands on Suprane. I’ll make inquiries at the hospital, find out what that involves. You all know what to do?’ Kray waited for them to nod. ‘Good, let’s go do it.’
But Kray was not going to the hospital to talk about supplies of Suprane. She was going to see Jackson to make an unusual request.
Chapter 28
I think I must have been about thirteen when Sampson arrived. I can remember my father and a mate bringing the huge glass tank into the house and the banging and clanging coming from the basement as they assembled it.
My father knew nothing about snakes but thought it would be cool to own one. Actually, he thought it would be doubly cool to own one illegally. So, with a couple of hours training in snake husbandry, my father was the proud owner of one of the deadliest snakes on the planet.
I never saw Sampson arrive. All I knew was I got up one Sunday morning and there he was, coiled under the heat lamp in the tank. Looking after the snake was the only thing me and my father did together. He was an abusive fucker for ninety percent of the time but when it was just me, him and Sampson down in the basement, he behaved like a proper dad.
I feel the cool air pinching at my skin as I make my way naked down into the cellar, my left hand skimming against the plaster wall. I can hear the freezers hum, and the green glow of the LEDs illuminates the bottom of the stairs. Sampson tastes me in the air. I can see his tongue flicking against the scent. He is grumpy, he knows what’s coming.
The glow from the heat lamp is all the light I need. I glance up and can see the shadow board now complete with the lump hammer back in its rightful place. Good, it’s nearly time.
I pull the table out from the wall, position it in front of the tank and slide the top back to hear Sampson hissing his displeasure. On the table is everything I need. I arrange them in order as I’ve done a thousand times before. I have a three-foot-long aluminium rod with a hook on one end and a similar instrument which has a hand-operated grip. I place the glass jar down onto the table top and stretch a latex membrane across the mouth of the container. A thick elastic band holds it in place.
Sampson doesn’t like being handled. He darts his head forward as I ease the hook between his coils and lift him clear of the tank. With my other hand, I gently grab him behind his head with the calliper and lay him down on the bench.
I can feel his muscular body flex as he tries to escape my grasp. I run my fingers along his body. My thumb and forefingers clasp him just behind the head. I release the metal grip and lift him into the air. He is beautiful, with his flattened triangular head and blunt snout glowing yellow, orange and black.
I turn him to face me and I swear he always has the same look in his eyes. It’s a look
that says one day you will slip and I will have you. But I never slip, my father trained me well.
I pick up the jar and hold it in front of Sampson’s face. I move his head to and fro, bringing the glass just in range only to move it away at the last second. I can feel a surge of power as he fights against my grasp. The glass comes close and he jerks his head, but I take it away. His body tenses and strains. Then I bring the rim of the jar up to his mouth and he strikes. His long white fangs unfold from the roof of his mouth and the pale membrane pulls back to reveal his instruments of death. They plunge through the latex and a flood of yellow liquid coats the inside of the glass. I feel my own rush of blood and my cock stiffens. I pull Sampson back and he goes again. Slamming his fangs through the plastic, pumping venom into the jar. I massage the venom glands located just behind his eyes. Droplets of the golden nectar fall into the container. He is done.
A single milking delivers enough venom to kill five men. Just the right amount for what I have in mind. I lower Sampson into the tank and point his head away from me, releasing my grip. As the top slides back into position he slithers around protesting the inconvenience of this ritual until he is coiled back up in his favourite corner glowering at me through the glass.
One day you will slip and I will have you. It’s written all over his face.
I shove the bench back into place against the wall and take the container upstairs. My heart is pounding as I put it on the shelf in the fridge. That will keep it cool and fresh. Not long to go now. Almost time to play.
‘Carl Rampton!’ Jackson spat coffee onto his desk.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Kray replied, trying not to look at the morass of pens lying in front of her.
Jackson pulled a ball of tissues from his pocket and mopped up the spillage.
‘Why the hell do you want to visit Carl Rampton?’
‘If you wanted to get high around here he was the man to go to. He could lay his hands on anything. Suprane can be used as a recreational drug in the same way people do Nitrous Oxide. If anyone knows how to lay their hands on Suprane, it’s Carl Rampton.’
‘Okay I get that, but why you? Can’t you send one of the others?’
‘No, it has to be me.’
‘I don’t know Roz, you’ve barely got your feet back under the table and now you want to sit opposite Carl fucking Rampton. I say this is a bad idea.’
‘I know him.’
‘He might refuse, he might not want to talk to you. Have you thought of that?’
‘He can’t refuse to meet with me because this is police business,’ she lied. ‘He’ll talk to me, I know he will.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Garth prison.’
‘Okay if you’re sure. But you have to be very careful with this bastard, you have a prison officer in with you at all times. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes. So, can you make the request?’
‘Yes, I’ll email the GM and make a formal request. I know the prison governor, see if she can speed things up. I’ll keep you in the loop.’
‘Thank you.’
Kray left Jacko’s office with her mind not on the job. It was on that fucking clock.
Chapter 29
HMP Garth is a category B prison for adult males near Leyland. It houses around eight hundred inmates in six wings and holds the accolade for once putting out a contract on a police dog because of its success rate in finding drugs. Kray didn’t give a shit about any of that, all she knew was it housed Carl Rampton.
She weaved her way through the flood of pedestrians migrating across the car park on their weekly pilgrimage and parked up at the far end. She joined the mass of people and entered the front of the building under a huge sign that read ‘reception’.
There was something about jails that gave her the creeps. She could never put her finger on why. Maybe it was the high walls or the cells with barely enough room for one person, let alone two. Or maybe it was the air of desperation and fear that permeated the very fabric of the place. The waiting area was rammed full of women and kids, the noise made Kray wince as she pushed open the door. The smell of cheap perfume and stale crisps hung in the air.
She threaded her way to the desk and handed over a letter. Her hand was visibly shaking. The clock on the wall read 1.45pm. Visiting time commenced at 2pm.
The man gave the letter to a second guard. ‘Okay, ma’am if you would like to follow me, I’ll show you where you need to be.’ Fifty pairs of eyes followed her out, each one thinking the same thing - who the fuck is she?
The officer walked Kray through a set of double doors into a corridor with white washed walls and a grey floor. The soles of his boots squeaked against the polish as he walked. The walkway opened up into another waiting area with an airport style metal detector and a series of tables. A small group of prison guards were milling around awaiting the onslaught of visiting time. She placed her bag onto a tray along with her phone and removed her jacket. An officer waved her on and she stepped through the arch, collecting her things at the other side.
‘This way,’ the man said.
Her anxiety rocketed with every step. They made their way down a rabbit warren, through another two sets of doors that miraculously unlocked just as they approached and finally arrived at a small room. Inside was a table and two chairs. Kray took the one facing the door and unpacked her bag, removing a pen and notebook.
She sat with her hands in her lap spinning the gold band on her finger round and round. She felt sick. After several minutes she could hear the familiar squeak of rubber soles on shiny floor and her heart rate spiked.
‘In here,’ said the guard.
The gangly figure of Carl Rampton came around the corner.
‘You were the last person I was expecting to hear from, Detective Inspector.’ Rampton folded his lanky frame into the chair opposite and slouched back in his seat, his arms dangling down. He looked like an adult sitting in a playschool chair.
Kray tasted bile at the back of her throat. She forced it back and fixed him with a stare. He had lost weight since she had last seen him, with his hair sleeked back and a stubbled chin, he looked a lot healthier. But then, even with the proliferation of drugs in prison, he was probably shooting up only a fraction of what he did while he was on the outside.
‘I couldn’t say no, could I? Not with you having written such a nice letter to the Governor and everything.’ He held his long, tattooed arms out in a welcoming gesture.
Kray looked at the attending officer. ‘You can leave if you like.’
‘Of course you can my man, me and the Detective Inspector here are old friends. Looks like she just wants a friendly chat,’ said Rampton. He was still a cocky shit.
‘Can’t do that, protocol says this has to be a supervised interview.’ The officer was having none of it and stood in the corner.
‘So come on Roz, you gotta be pleased to see me. How long has it been now? Oh wait a minute I know the answer to that, it’s been nineteen weeks and three days exactly. Nineteen weeks and three days since I last saw you in court when the judge sent down.’
‘Yes that’s right.’
‘He sent me here for five and a half years, I’ll be out in under three if I keep my nose clean. Just think of that, Roz.’
Kray wanted to plunge the pen into his throat and rip the arteries from his neck.
‘I want to ask you some questions that relate to a current case.’
‘Why? So you can stitch me up with that one as well.’ His left eye twitched.
‘No, it relates to a new drug which we believe is being used in the Blackpool area.’
‘Oh, what is it?’
‘It’s called Suprane, have you heard of it?’
Rampton shook his head. ‘Suprane? Never heard of it. Why are you looking for it?’
‘Can’t tell you that. It’s an anaesthetic, are you sure you don’t know it?’
‘Yeah. I can tell you about Special K or Hippy Crack, I can tell you about a load of s
hit, but I’ve never heard of this Suprane stuff. Why do you want to know?’
‘Because we do.’
‘You gotta give me more than that for me to cooperate.’
‘That’s it. Have you heard of it?’
‘No, I’ve not fucking heard of it.’
Kray fell silent.
‘I’ve never heard of Suprane.’ Rampton leaned forward. ‘But you know that already. You’ve worked the streets long enough to know what’s on the market and what’s not.’
Kray held his gaze, her ring spinning furiously on her finger.
‘What the fuck is this about? Cos it sure as hell is not about some fucking new kind of high.’ His left eye spasmed and he dabbed it with his hand to keep it still.
Kray took a rasping intake of breath, sat back in her seat and started to cough. She hit her chest with her right hand and stood up. The guard moved forward as she coughed and barked, her shoulders rocking back and forth.
‘I’m okay,’ she croaked in between wheezing. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Would you like some water, ma’am?’
Kray nodded, bringing the coughing bout under control. The officer left the room. Kray sat back down, put her elbows on the table and stared into Rampton’s face.
‘Are you planning on finishing the job?’ Kray asked. The cough completely gone.
‘What?’
‘Are you planning on finishing what you started?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Because I’m telling you now, if that’s your game then you won’t be walking out of here in two years, three years, maybe not even five years’ time. Do you get my drift?’
‘No, I don’t get your drift. What are you on about?’
‘Oh I think you do. If you come anywhere near me or my house again I will have you back in court faster than you can say ‘parole denied’. Do you hear me?’
‘How the hell can I get close to you? It might have escaped your notice but I’m locked up in fucking prison.’ His eye spasmed again.
‘You got one of your boys to pay my house a visit.’
