The Alice Murders

by James Arklie

  Kline drained his coffee. His brain had started buzzing as the caffeine accumulated in brain cells and started to compete with the jetlag for dominance. When Dave Barker had given him back the case, the question had been simple – ‘Who murdered Evie Arnold?’

  Then the question morphed into a more distressing and intriguing one – ‘Who was the serial killer who’d randomly murdered five women? The ALICE women.’

  Now they had a name and it had sucked in new information that had removed the randomness. Like an evolving virus, the DNA of the question had mutated into – ‘What is the reason Robert Brown strategically targeted, to a specific timeline, five carefully selected women, resident in different countries round the world?’

  Kline looked at Charlie and took a deep breath. ‘We have to stop this man, Charlie. We have to get some revenge for what he’s done to us. And to Artie. And Angie. And all the others.’ Kline felt the burden land on him. Heavy and smothering. Is this how Jesus felt when he walked along a dusty road and into Jerusalem for the last time? Overwhelmed with the enormity of what he faced. What he had to do.

  Kline put a kiss on his fingertips and placed it the top of Charlie’s head. ‘This is it, fella. All or nothing.’

  Kline rinsed his mug and his plate, dried them and put them away. It was the careful, orderly action, not of a single man, but of a man who may not be returning. Of a man who’d lost control and been forced into a corner.

  He could only think of one way to bring this to a conclusion. Dave Barker wasn’t going to like it, but that wasn’t the point. Kline reached across the table for his mobile and typed the message anyway.

  ‘What next?’

  He smiled at Charlie and tapped send.

  *

  Kline wandered into the office at seven pm. Despite the hour the whole station was buzzing with activity. There was a manhunt going on. Or make that manhunts. They were searching for two very dangerous men.

  Three officers were down. Assets had been drawn in from other forces. All and any hours were being worked. Volunteers had stepped forward. Dave Barker had done an interview that had gone out on the local and national news together with pictures and the warning not to approach either of these men. Sightings, past and present were coming in and it all took manpower. A lot of footslog that had to be done with care just in case that was a live sighting and they were there. Rapid response armed units were positioned in a ring round Southampton.

  Kline went and sat with Dave and insisted that his armed guard was released. There was no point to have highly trained firearms officers hanging round him at a time like this.

  Kline asked about results. Dave shook his head. ‘In a word, nothing.’ He pushed back in his chair the way he always did when he was stressed.

  Kline said. ‘He’s a clever bastard.’ Realised his mistake and corrected himself. ‘They are clever…’

  ‘Bastards.’ Dave spat the word out, finishing the sentence for Kline. He dry-washed his face with his hands and released a long breath full of exhausted carbon dioxide molecules which probably sank to the floor and straight into a deep sleep. Kline realised Dave would have been up since just after midnight. Nineteen hours straight.

  Dave let his chair fall down and blinked dry eyes. ‘No more emails, I assume?’ The harsh suspicion in the question told Kline he needed to be honest.

  Kline coughed gently into his hand. ‘I sent one.’

  Dave Barker’s energy was restored in a milli-second. ‘You did fucking what?’

  ‘That’s how he communicates. It makes him feel mysterious and smart. Allows him to write clever phrases.’ Kline was trying not to sound too defensive. Determined to turn this into a positive move.

  ‘For Chrissakes. When?’ He was snapping his fingers and waving Pete into the room.

  ‘An hour ago.’

  His eyes were locked on Kline’s. ‘Saying?’

  ‘What next?’

  Pete came in, Dave said, ‘You won’t guess what WonderBoy has gone and done.’

  Kline repeated his action to Pete. He took a few seconds to weigh it up, then dragged a spare chair alongside Kline’s. Kline read it as a show of solidarity.

  Pete shrugged it away. ‘We don’t have anything else, Dave. So, why not? Where’s the downside?’

  Dave’s mouth dropped open. ‘Where’s the…?’ He repeatedly jabbed his finger at the summer’s evening outside his window. ‘Because I have three officers down and don’t want a number four. There’s Audrey Waters, bloody Wales on my back over Alan Bleakley and running round out there, taking the piss are two…’

  The discussion went on for another fifteen minutes. They wanted to clone Kline’s mobile, then they wanted to put a tap on it, a GPS on him, his car, his life, then this and then that…

  Finally, Kline held up his hands and stood up. ‘Dave. I want to go and see Artie’s parents. If Robert Brown replies, I’ll let you know.’ Eyes raised to the ceiling told Kline he didn’t believe him, so Kline added, ‘I promise.’

  Kline went to see Artie’s Mum and Dad, plain old respectable John and Joan. They cried all over again and Kline cried with them. They talked about Artie, showed Kline old pictures of a skinny kid who’d stayed skinny. He was exactly like his father.

  John laughed. ‘Just grew taller which made him look skinnier.’ He looked Kline in the eye. ‘He was always unusual in the way he saw things.’ There was a look in his eye that was almost apologetic.

  ‘You didn’t mind he was…different?’

  Kline felt he’d been asked to put up with something he shouldn’t have to. ‘We grew to love him. That difference in his opinion, his attitudes, his mental strength, his sexuality, that’s what made him the person he was.’ Kline thought, then added, ‘Never apologise for him.’

  And that was the truth, once Kline had taken the time to understand what was inside. The battle that raged and the strength of will required to confront it. Respect flows towards people like that as fast as it runs away from people who have everything, never have to fight and piss it against a wall.

  Kline swallowed hard. He was going to miss him. That fledging relationship could have grown into something special. The innate guilt that resided in Kline wanted him to confess, to tell them that it was his fault. Thanks to his stupidity, Artie had become a sacrificial lamb.

  John leant forward and gripped Kline’s forearm. ‘You will get this man? These men. Won’t you?’

  Kline felt the burden land on him. The blanket was heavy and suffocating. ‘I promise.’

  Kline’s eyes were searched for the honesty in the answer, then, satisfied, John nodded gently, sighed and released Kline’s arm.

  Joan reminisced quietly into the intensity of the moment. ‘He always wanted something more, did Artie. He loved meeting people.’ Kline listened to the fragility in her voice.

  ‘He always said to me, Mum, I always find the positive in them and take something away to hold onto, but I always try to give them something in return.’ She smiled sadly.

  ‘He wanted to be liked and he worked so hard at it.’

  In the simmering, revengeful darkness that lurked at the back of Kline’s skull, a light tried to come on. Like a fluorescent light in a dark kitchen, the electric spark is there, but the gas in the tube won’t quite come to temperature.

  Flickety. Flickety. Flick, flick, flick.

  Then.

  Light.

  *

  Kline got to his car and checked his mobile for a reply to his email. Outside the sun was disappearing behind houses and buildings and highlighting jet trails being written in the sky by planes at forty-thousand feet. Nothing incoming at all. All part of the waiting game. All part of the game.

  Next, he called Pete and had another conversation full of negatives. They were still chasing down leads from the public; possible sightings, potential cars and vans, one call had offered up another name, Rudi Branch, but that had come to nothing, but the RB initials kept that interesting.

  Pete as
ked if there was a reply to the email. Kline gave him another negative.

  ‘Nothing, yet.’ He’s got us all waiting, Kline realised, demonstrating his control.

  Pete re-emphasised his support. ‘I’m with you on this, Joe. But if confrontation is the route you want go down, be careful. Christ knows what these two are capable of if we find and corner them.’

  At nine pm, Kline went to see Cassie at her house out in Fair Oak. Her husband, Tony, let him in, offered wine which Kline refused, topped up Cassie’s red wine and left them to it. Cassie had been relaxing in baggy joggers and tee-shirt. She led them through to the conservatory at the rear of the house. There was an open novel on the table. Cassie re-marked the page and placed it to one side.

  She waited for Kline, he smiled. ‘I assume you’ve been watching and following the news about Angie’s abduction and the murders.

  She sipped her wine and placed it on the table. Over her shoulder the sun had set and the horizon was an ochre fire. Nice, thought Kline, a west facing conservatory. Just like the one Jenny had wanted on the back of their house. Another retirement project that had never happened.

  Cassie twisted her glass. ‘I’ve got a meeting tomorrow with Dave Barker and Pete Simpson. Together with another profiler from the Met.’ She gave Kline a thin smile.

  ‘Guess they’re finally getting desperate.’

  Kline knew Cassie’s thinking, she was an ex-cop, who understood the panic that had set in. She wanted to be part of it, to get a resolution as quickly as possible. Everybody wanted to be a part of stopping the atrocities being created by these two individuals.

  Kline summarised the events of the last few days and discussed Robert Brown’s email trail. He also started to dig round the edges of the thought that had come to him when speaking to Artie’s mother. It was a fledgling, wispy thought that he couldn’t quite get into the context of the case.

  Cassie tried. ‘Robert Brown removed something from all of the bodies. The flowers were in return and to say sorry. I take something and leave something in return. A swap. The picture was explanation. He wanted to be understood as to why.’

  Kline gave let out a sour half-laugh. ‘Is there such a thing as an apologetic psychopath?’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘No. They don’t care about the consequences of their actions. It’s one of the moral differentiators from you and me.’

  Kline got to where he was going with this. ‘He’s taken something I want.’

  Angie frowned, then realised. ‘Jenny’s kidney?’ Her frowned deepened into concern.

  ‘Joe. It’s just that. You mustn’t build it into something more. You can’t go looking for some kind of revenge.’

  She kept her gaze firmly on Kline, analysing his face, then, ‘Do you have something he wants? Is that it? You think this is all about some kind of exchange?’

  Kline shook his head. ‘No idea, Cass. I can’t pin it down.’ The thought slithered in and then slipped away.

  Cassie’s voice was deep and intense. She had a message and she wanted him to hear it. ‘Joe. This all about the ALICE murders. It’s about catching a serial killer. Jenny is a side game. He’s created it to divert your attention away from the true focus.’ She looked away for a moment, searching for another way of saying it.

  She reached for a table lamp and switched it on. ‘It’s manipulation, Joe. He’s working you. Putting ideas and thoughts into your head. His intention will be to confuse and distract, but ultimately, it’s all about control.’ Kline felt her intensity increase.

  ‘Artie and Angie are all about control. It’s classic narcissism. He has to be in control. If he loses it, he will do anything to get it back. You took it away for a few days…’ She paused, taking care with her words, but Kline’s guilt got there before her.

  ‘And those nearest to me are made to suffer.’

  She nodded, understanding his guilt. ‘For now, he has control back and will be calm.’

  There was more Kline could have said to her. That Robert Brown had taken something a long time ago and Kline wanted it returned. That he’d slithered into and become part of a private secret that belonged to Jenny and Kline. Sitting there, ruining their lives. A grinning fat gargoyle of hate that Kline somehow had to eradicate.

  Kline took a breath, forced a smile and changed the angle of the discussion. He told Cassie about sending the email asking, ‘What next?’

  She shook her head at that. ‘Joe, goading him into a confrontation is not a good idea. It won’t derail his plans. Twenty years ago, he planned and executed the ALICE murders with meticulous precision. These events are another planned operation.’

  ‘You make him sound like someone from the military.’

  ‘Not sure about that, but he is the kind of person who will play games and never, ever, want to lose. If he does, he will react violently. He will sweep the pieces off a chess board or flip the scrabble board in anger. He will accuse an opponent of cheating or lying. He will make up stories about them to turn others against them.’

  Kline kept it in context. ‘Or lash out and murder.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cassie reached for her wine and sipped. She wasn’t using this as prop, he sensed it was calming her. Kline felt the strength in her gaze as it rested on him.

  ‘What I’m saying, Joe, is that you’ve allowed yourself to be drawn into a game, an arena if you like, where it’s you against him.’ She placed her wine on the table beside her and looked at Kline again with the worried eyes of a friend.

  ‘The best thing Dave Barker can do is pull you off this case.’

  Kline stirred as the fear of an outcome he hadn’t considered ran through him. ‘No way. Not until this is resolved.’

  ‘Joe, this man…. if you lose, you will die.’

  Kline swallowed, holding her eyes. ‘And if I win?’

  Cassie paused for a heartbeat, then she sat forward, elbows resting on knees, hands clasped in front of her. Kline could smell the wine on her breath. There was an edge of acknowledgement in her eyes. She understood.

  ‘Remember the gladiators in a Roman arena? The victor stood over the body of his opponent, foot on chest, sword raised high, listening to the baying of the crowd, waiting for the verdict from Caeser’s thumb. Down or up. Kill him or let him live.’

  Kline blinked under the intensity in her eyes. They flicked to and fro, searching for the strength in his. ‘What I’m saying, Joe, is men like this don’t make mistakes. If you get this man down, if you get one chance, don’t wait, don’t ask Caeser.’

  Cassie wouldn’t say it, because she couldn’t, but the words were already creeping like ghosts from the dark recesses of Kline’s brain and sliding into his conscious. It was another voice. A new voice.

  Kill him, Kline. Have your revenge.

  Kline allowed himself to crawl across the moral divide and into the moment. Inside him, a new light came on, illuminating the darkness and a warmth flooded his body.

  Because, after all, somewhere inside, lurks the psychopath.

  All you have to do is find it, shine a light on it, and release it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Day Fifty-Nine

  Kline left Cassie just after ten pm. The daylight had finally faded out of the summer’s evening and stars were appearing as darkness seeped across the sky.

  He headed straight back towards the station on West Quay. He felt the new strength and belief inside him and wanted to explore it, understand what it meant. Yet, he also sensed its fragility. Moral ambiguity needs time to embed itself and settle into its new home.

  Accelerating through Portswood his mobile pinged. He pulled into the side of the road, bounced onto the kerb and put on his hazard lights. He breathed in for the count of four and then let it out, long and slow. He couldn’t control Robert Brown, but he could control himself.

  He opened the email.

  ‘What next, Joe!

  What next!

  At least you’ve conceded who is in control here.

  Y
ou may have noticed that you’re still alive and so is Angie. What does that tell the detective in you? Well done, I need you both.

  And, of course, there is that elephant in the room. The Secret. The thing we are not allowed to talk about. Known only to me, to you and Jenny. Well, with Jenny gone, I won’t tell if you don’t.

  And here’s the rub; you have something I want. I have something you want. Probably two things, assuming you want Angie back alive. Or are there three things you want back? Hmmm?

  Wow! That means you want more from me, than I want from you. That’s going to take some negotiation, Joe. Puts me in a great position to get what I want.

  So, what is next?

  Why don’t we do this? At midnight there will be a black van parked in a passing space in a lane off Lordshill Way, past the primary school and near the brook. I’ll send you the GPS. Park behind the van, climb in the back, close the door and we’ll take it from there.

  Play the game, Joe and you will live and so will Angie. Go telling your colleagues and doing all sorts of tracking shit, I will kill you and Angie and let your secret out.

  I’ve got inside you, Joe, and I’m turning you. Or maybe I already have. Shut them out, Joe, the world and all those moral codes. They’re for normal people, not me and you. We’re better, Joe. Special. Above all that.

  Love has been the constant in both our lives, Joe.

  Maybe soon you will be able to tell me - what’s more intense, the love of a psychopath, or the love from a man who can’t let go?

  Or are they the same?

  Kline checked his watch again. Ten-fifteen. One hour and forty-five until the rendezvous. He had two options, go it alone now. Just disappear off the radar. Drive out there now, park up and wait. No one would know where he was, take his chances. They would find his car sometime next morning and by then it would all be over. One way or the other.