The Alice Murders

by James Arklie

  Kline thought for another minute, knowing he had to do what was right, but at the same time having to gamble on the support of his colleagues. Of Dave Barker and Pete Simpson.

  He carried on to the station, acknowledging he wasn’t living in some cop show where he would go off on his own. That didn’t happen in real life. In the real world, he gathered a couple people round him that he could trust with his life, told them what had been offered and they discussed a solution. His solution.

  Kline’s problem was there was only one outcome he wanted from that discussion, so he also needed a ballsy senior officer not afraid to make a decision.

  Kline walked into the open office space, raised his mobile to Dave Barker who leapt up from behind his desk and led the way to an interview room. Pete Simpson joined them. Kline opened the email and his mobile was passed between them.

  Dave waited until Pete had finished. He looked at Kline impatiently. ‘Please don’t tell me you want to go? That you’ve come to ask permission?’

  To Kline this was a no-brain cells needed to answer request. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And, let me guess, on your own.’

  Kline gave him a shrug that said, ‘obviously’. Dave Barker glanced at Pete. ‘The best I can do is offer to talk to the Assistant Commissioner.’

  Kline glanced at his watch. Ten-forty. They didn’t have time for that. There was an angry impatience in his voice. ‘Need or should?’

  Dave shook his head. ‘You know you’re talking bollocks, Joe. It won’t happen. I can’t let you take off on your own. I can’t put an officer into danger.’

  ‘You would if I was undercover.’

  ‘Not my department and even you know, before an officer goes undercover, you put in place back up and handler. You’re not trained, you’re a DI and not such a young one at that.’

  Kline started jabbing a frustrated finger at the ground between them. ‘Dave, this is all about me. First Evie, then Jenny. Next Artie, now Angie… I wandered back into his world. It’s like I reactivated him. Flicked an on-switch. Whatever the ALICE murders are about, they were never quite finished. This is the end-game.’

  Kline was looking to Pete for the promised support. None was offered.

  Dave ignored the finger. ‘And what, exactly, is this, Joe? We can’t trust either of these men. Their word is worth nothing. You meet at the rendezvous and the next thing I have is another officer sliced and diced and hanging from a tree.’

  Kline could feel this drifting away from him. ‘I have to go.’

  Dave was starting to get angry. ‘Have you started living on a different planet? You can’t, Joe. We don’t have time to put in place any kind of surveillance, tracking, back up or support. I need teams, at least one chopper___’

  Kline interrupted him. ‘You’re missing the point. We can’t do that anyway.’

  ‘If he’s in the van___’

  Pete finally joined in. ‘He won’t be in the van. That will be a nobody who will take Joe to another rendezvous. And then another and another. If he’s as clever as we think, there will be other cars as well, following the van, watching for surveillance.’

  Dave was still shaking his head. ‘You can’t go.’

  No, thought Kline, I’m going.

  ‘Shit Dave, if it makes you happy stick a tracking device up my arse, but they’ll find it in the first ten seconds.’

  Dave let out a long sigh and spoke with a slow, pedantic voice. ‘Procedure says, you go to the van, we swoop, make the arrest, interrogate and take it from there.’

  ‘And then what, we find Angie actually dead; pinned out on her balcony for real and we start all over?’ Kline looked to Pete again, got nothing.

  He said desperately, ‘He’s offering us Angie. We can’t leave her out there.’

  Dave was still adamant. ‘Angie in return for what? He hasn’t said what he wants.’

  ‘And if I don’t go, we’ll never know.’ Kline knew it sounded too trite.

  Pete spoke. ‘It’s you he wants, Joe. He’s already said that. She’s the bait. Neither of you will come back. He’s a psychopath. They make up lies for breakfast.’

  Thanks, Pete, thought Kline. ‘I don’t matter. Old cop, no future. We’ll never find him on our own. The investigation is going nowhere. This is a chance for me, us.’ There was an edge in Kline’s voice, imploring. ‘We are so near. What if he just disappears again?’

  Kline could taste the sharp tang of revenge in his mouth, buzzing in his head. One chance, face to face with Robert Brown, that’s all he wanted. Please God give me the chance.

  There was a momentary pause, then Dave’s hand chopped through the air between them. ‘You’ll be out there, on your own. By the book only. You can’t go.’ Chop. ‘End of.’ Chop.

  Kline looked down at the red light of the voice recorder on the edge of the table. Dave pressed the button to stop the recording. He marched from the room. Kline and Pete exchanged a glance and then both followed him into the small anteroom, away from the cameras.

  Dave rubbed at his short hair and let out a sigh. Eyes, heavy with worry, assessed Kline who noticed the purple creases beneath them, and his shoulders were down, bearing the burden of murder after murder with no results. He was ready to take risks. Dave also knew, the only way to stop Kline would be to shut him in a cell.

  Their eyes locked. ‘You sure about this?’

  Kline nodded emphatically. If this went wrong, he would be hung out to dry. Or, more likely, dead. Either way, a chance was being offered and he had to take it. ‘By the book’ would get them as far as that lane and no further.

  Dave sighed again, looked back into the room at the dead, red light of the recorder.

  ‘Okay, my arse is covered, so what are you going to do?’

  *

  Kline sat in his car in a lane just off Botley Road near the Ageas Bowl. It put a suitable distance between him and the arranged rendezvous at Lordshill Way and was easy access to the M27 or M3. Kline assumed one or other would be used by his abductors as the fast route out of Southampton.

  On the seat beside him was a police radio. His proposal to Dave was simple. Kline agreed with Dave that he would drive to the rendezvous as part of the snatch team. except he wouldn’t. He would drive to another position unknown to Dave. Basically, Kline would disobey orders and go AWOL. There were no hidden trackers because they knew there was no point. Kline was going out into the field and he was on his own.

  He looked down at Charlie. ‘Which suits us just fine, hey fella.’

  It was one minute to midnight when Kline listened to the words – ‘Go. Go. Go.’ The armed snatch team were being sent in.

  He pressed send on a prepared email that gave his new coordinates to Robert Brown, planted a kiss on Charlie’s head and stepped out of his car. He sat against the bonnet. Five minutes later a van advertising gardening services came round the corner, did a U-turn and slid to a halt beside him. The rear door popped open and Kline climbed into the dark interior. He could have been stepping into Hell. The van echoed as Kline slammed the door behind him.

  In the front was a male, cropped hair, white face, broad shouldered, not trying to conceal his identity. There was a swastika tattooed on his neck. On his thick, left forearm was a skull with fire burning in its eyes. Beneath it a single word – ‘Death’.

  He leaned across the back of the passenger seat and growled at Kline. ‘Strip. Everything. Bollock naked, buddy. Into the black bin-liner.’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Mobile.’

  Kline offered it and it was snatched from his fingers and flung out of the driver’s window into a ditch.

  Kline started stripping and Mr Death accelerated away down the lane, muttering into a mouthpiece taped to his chin. He kept checking Kline in his rear-view mirror until Kline held up the bin-liner.

  ‘Kneel up, hands and arms spread.’

  Kline did as he was told, baring all. Ashamed of nothing. Rejoicing in the knowledge that he’d been snatched, and he was
into the supply chain. Now it was a question of patience.

  Mr Death reached back for the bin-liner and it went out of the window as well. In it was a watch that Jenny had given to Kline when they married. If Kline ever came back, Mr. Death would be retracing these steps.

  About twenty minutes later they skidded to a halt down another country lane.

  Kline’s driver turned, his words sharp and brutal. ‘Out and wait.’

  Kline stared at the battered face. The usual rings, studs and more tattoos. The face suddenly laughed at Kline. ‘You really think you’re coming back to identify me? This is a one-way ticket, buddy.’

  Kline climbed out and took his naked dignity as far back into the shadows of a passing space as he could. The driver waved a lazy hand out of his side window. Kline thought he could hear him laughing.

  A minute later another van turned up. This time it was a builder’s van. A pony-tailed, heavily bearded male pushed open the back doors, reached for Kline and hauled him inside. Bare arms, big muscles, leather jerkin covered with sewn on badges. Kline recognised this team for what they were; Hell’s Angels. Hired to make deliveries without questions. Facilitators in human flesh for Robert Brown.

  This time they drove for what seemed like hours. Kline was given a dirty, white, painters overall to wear and a pair of old trainers. A black hood was pulled over his head. Kline was waiting for restraints of some kind, but they didn’t bother. There was no point. This was a game that he’d agreed to play of his own free will.

  When they eventually stopped, the hood was whipped off. Through the windscreen Kline could see the grey light of dawn, so guessed at a time between five and six am.

  The male in the back jerked a head at the open rear door. ‘Out.’

  Kline stepped down onto a grassy field just off another non-descript country lane. Parked in front of them was a motor home. Kline looked round trying to get some idea of where he was. In the distance, he thought he could see the sea. He opened his mouth but got a slow shake of the head. The driver jumped from the cab and handed Kline a bottle of water and a wrapped baguette.

  ‘If you want a piss, now’s the time.’

  Kline did and so did. If there was blood in it, the dim morning light wasn’t letting on. Away to the east the sky was growing orange with the rays of the rising sun. Kline wondered what shit Dave Barker may be facing for ‘losing’ him.

  Kline finished up and was led into the mobile home. In the back, one of the side panels of a long seat had been removed. It created a space the size of a coffin.

  ‘You’re going abroad, so keep very still and keep quiet if border patrols come sniffing.’

  Abroad? Kline had his first clue. Robert Brown hadn’t come home after all. This suggested Europe somewhere. A piece of information that was now no good to anyone.

  Kline looked into the bearded face of Mr. Muscles and dropped his voice. ‘You know if you wanted to go to the police and let them____’

  He looked at Kline as if he’d arrived from outer-space five minutes ago. Kline let out a short laugh and looked along the motor home. Up front in the driver and passenger seats were a male and a female. From the grey hair, Kline guessed in their sixties. Respectability was going to carry him concealed into Europe. Kline knelt down and then slid into his coffin. The panel was replaced and screwed on.

  They took Eurostar, Kline could tell from the announcements and the rhythm of the track beneath his stiff and aching body. He ate his baguette and drank his water. Then they were off the train and driving again. After an hour they stopped. Kline was released and given back some respectability in the form of underpants, blue polo and a pair of green shorts.

  He tried conversation. ‘Where are we? Where are we going?’

  His grey-haired driver’s answer was to drop the blinds on the windows and point to one of the seats. ‘Hood on and stretch out. One hour.’

  Sure enough, what Kline assumed was one hour later, the wheels suddenly scrunched onto gravel. They drove more slowly for a few minutes and pulled to a stop. ‘Leave the hood.’ Kline was ushered out with a jerk of the males grey-haired head.

  ‘End of the road, my friend.’

  Kline eased his body out and bent backwards to stretch out a stiff back. He stepped onto the gravel and was confronted with the magnificence of a French chateau bathed in the mid-morning sunshine. Stone steps swept up in front of him to a balustraded patio area and two huge wooden doors. One of the doors swung open and an old man stepped out.

  He looked up at the sun.

  He gazed down at Kline.

  He smiled.

  ‘You should take a good look at the sun and the sky, Joe. You never know, it may be your last time.’

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Day Sixty

  Robert Brown stood above Kline, dominating him, looking tanned and fit in pale blue slacks and a pink shirt, the sleeves of which were tucked back a couple of rolls. He waved Kline up the stone steps with a wide sweeping gesture. Behind him, Kline heard the motorhome pull away. Somewhere in the grounds round them, Kline heard the harsh bark of a pheasant. It faded away into the warm air and left them in silence, assessing one another.

  Robert Brown gestured again, smiling. ‘Come on in, Joe, you’ve come a long way and given up a lot for this moment.’ He spoke with the patience of an uncle enticing an uncertain nephew.

  Kline still didn’t move. What was he afraid of, a trap? Of course, it was a trap. Only one of them would be alive by the end of the day. Then Kline realised he was scared. There was a knot in his gut. To survive, he was going to have to be like the man above him. Kline searched for the warmth that had flooded through his mind and body like a drug, found it and hung on to it. Remember the seven traits of the psychopath, he told himself. And stay strong.

  Kline eased his way up the steps until he stood opposite Robert Brown. He looked into hazel eyes that seemed full of casual amusement. Kline realised it was confidence and power. I am a policeman, he told himself and I should want to do no more than arrest this man. But I want to kill him.

  Robert Brown held out a hand and smiled pleasantly. ‘Robert Brown.’

  Kline hesitated, then took it and shook, knowing his acceptance made him compliant and gave Brown the control he wanted. It was an easy grip, confident and warm. A surgeon’s grip on a scalpel.

  Kline replied calmly. ‘DI Joe Kline, brother in law of Evie Arnold, husband to Jenny Kline, colleague to Angie Tyler and Artie Knowleden.’

  Kline paused with a rollcall that could have carried on because the smile had widened. Kline had amused him. The face was tanned and lined in a handsome way. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled just the amount they should. His teeth were unnaturally white.

  Point one. Robert Brown was a vain man.

  Kline gave a half-smile. ‘You know, I should read you your rights and arrest you?’

  The smile became a laugh that flashed the white teeth. Robert Brown spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Shall we have breakfast first?’

  He stepped aside and waved Kline into the huge entrance hall. Kline looked round. If there were body-guard’s to protect Brown, there was no sign of them. Or was this man so confident that he didn’t bother with them?

  ‘This isn’t a run-of-the-mill arrest though, is it, Joe?’

  They crossed the hall to the right. From behind one of the two, curved sets of stairs that swept up to the next floor, a maid in dark uniform hurried with a tray on which there were three silver pots. They followed her and Kline smelt coffee.

  They entered another room of settees and chairs and a huge stone fireplace filled with flowers for the summer months. Large Arum lilies standing tall and proud, flouting bright yellow stamens.

  On the far side of this room Kline could see doors opening onto a patio and a table laid for two. Kline wanted to grab him, punch him, smash him to the ground, grind a boot into his face to kick away that smile and then march him to the nearest police st
ation.

  But he couldn’t. There were things to be done here. Kline had to let him have the control he wanted.

  Point two. Narcissistic. A calculated charm towards Kline that suited him. Manipulative, confident and conceited in his knowledge of total control of the situation. He has an agenda, thought Kline, let him have it, let him play it out. Let him sink into the comfort zone of his psychopathy. There will be an opportunity to strike.

  Kline sat beneath a large rectangular sun umbrella and looked down and over the manicured grounds. They sloped to woodland and fields of sunflowers beyond. Kline ate scrambled eggs, bacon, warm baguette and croissant and jam. If the word reality exists, then so must the word, surreality. Because that’s where he was.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Other than my home?’ Robert Brown had sat back, legs crossed. Elegantly, of course.

  ‘A private research facility. Sponsored fifty-fifty by my philanthropy and Government money.’

  ‘Studying?’

  ‘Cloning. Growing organs from stem cells.’ He gave Kline a half-smile and reached forward for his coffee. ‘I can carry out experiments that may be outside the law without anyone knowing. My team are good at it.’

  Point three. Self-absorption. What else should Kline expect? Showing a complete disregard for what is right and wrong; ignoring the moral codes that the rest of us follow.

  ‘We pass our results back to industry and to Universities. Share our brilliance, rather than keep it to ourselves.’

  Point four. A twisted sense of self-justification. It may be against the law, but it’s all right because we share it with others. This was moving too fast.

  Enough, thought Kline and asked, ‘Where’s Angie?’

  The hazel eyes narrowed and a small frown creased the perfect forehead. Surgery, wondered Kline before he went on. ‘And Bryony James, is she here?’

  Brown sipped his coffee and took a couple of breaths. ‘You worked out that I was self-taught as a surgeon.’ Kline didn’t answer. He changed the subject to get back control.