Prosper Snow Series

by Shaun Jeffrey

  As of yet, they were no closer to catching the burglar.

  When he realised he was biting his ragged fingernails, Prosper unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and popped it into his mouth.

  The police-issued Blackberry rang and Prosper pulled it out of his pocket. He wasn’t a great fan of technology and he still didn’t have the hang of everything the device could do.

  “Charlie Charlie One Three. We’ve had a report of a further development with regards to Operation Avalanche.”

  Prosper’s brow furrowed. “I was taken off that case.”

  “Well you’re being asked to attend as you were the initial Senior Investigation Officer.”

  “What’s the development?”

  “Another body.”

  Prosper licked his lips. He made a note of the details and disconnected the call. Mike was staring at him quizzically.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s been another murder.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Another murder? Jesus, that’s all I need.”

  He didn’t need to say any more for Prosper to know his feelings. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Prosper stared around the area where the body had been discovered, noting that it was only a mile or so away from where the corpse had been discovered the other day. But unlike the business area, this was residential.

  The buildings were terraced houses from the early 1900’s, the walls of which were streaked with grime. Many of the occupants were now standing behind the cordon erected by the attending officer, watching the real life drama unfolding on their doorstep. Some of the surrounding properties had been boarded up and most of the remaining residents were either Asian or students. Signs on some of the buildings advertised their ‘To Let’ status with big bold letters emphasising the buildings ability to cram four or five students underneath their roofs. Some local joker had inserted an ‘i’ into the middle of many of the signs.

  A warren of rubbish littered alleyways ran through the area like clogged arteries. Prosper stared along the one behind the victim, noting that people had discarded their old furniture and rubbish with abandon, displaying little respect for themselves or their environment.

  He stared down at the corpse of the man, who looked to be in his twenties. Both of his eyes had been punctured and by the looks of it, his body had been slashed repeatedly with a sharp blade. The rain had washed much of the blood away, but the splatters still stained the walls and floor. Some of the spots could be seen over ten feet away, which indicated the ferocity of the attack. Whoever perpetrated the crime must have been drenched in blood when they finished.

  So why hadn’t anyone noticed?

  Dark clouds gathered overhead, threatening further rain. This was a far cry from the heat wave twelve months ago when the Oracle conducted his killing spree. Prosper chewed the skin around his fingernails, drawing blood. The thought of another serial killer operating on his patch made his stomach coil itself in knots.

  “Messy isn’t it?”

  Prosper spun around, his jaw clenched when he saw the man who had usurped him from Operation Avalanche.

  “You again. Don’t tell me, you’re taking over the case?”

  “Very astute. Of course my offer still stands.”

  Prosper shook his head. “I don’t know who you are or who you work for, but I’m not interested in joining you.”

  “Then I’ll have to make you interested.” The man grinned, though the expression looked forced; he probably didn’t smile much by the looks of it.

  Prosper recalled that there had been no mention of the previous murder in the local newspapers. Whatever power the man had, it stretched a long way.

  “Well I’ll leave you to it.” Prosper didn’t wait for a response before he walked away, waving a bemused looking Mike to follow him.

  “So what’s that about?” Mike asked as he caught up to Prosper.

  Prosper shrugged. “We’re off the case.”

  “Again! Well it saves us the gory duty I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t be so fast to thank him just yet.”

  Mike frowned. “And why not?”

  “Because I don’t think he’s someone you would want to be indebted to.”

  When he arrived back at the station, Prosper perused the local evening newspaper for any mention of the murder, but didn’t find anything. Then he logged into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES2), a national database used to assist law enforcement organisations in their management of serious crimes.

  Something was going on and with the insinuation that the man had made about the Oracle case, Prosper wanted to find out all he could about him.

  He typed in details to see if he could discover the names of the deceased, or a nominal record created for the witnesses who discovered the bodies, but after ten minutes of searching, he came up empty. There was no record of any of it.

  Prosper leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together behind his head and chewed his lower lip. Did the man really know anything about events surrounding the Oracle case? Did he really know that Prosper had been blackmailed into helping a group of vigilante childhood friends who called themselves The Kult perform a copycat killing in the name of vengeance?

  He pictured the gruesome sick and twisted photographs the Oracle had sent to the police of his victims. Then he remembered seeing his friends butchered in the same way and bile filled his throat. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the sick feeling.

  If the truth came out, his life would be over. But who was this mysterious man who had taken over the case?

  And how the hell did he have the power to make two bodies virtually disappear?

  CHAPTER 3

  The man crouched in the dark alley, his eyes wide and alert as he stared towards the entrance some thirty feet away. About eight feet wide, the alley acted like a spine between two rows of residential properties. Light from an upstairs window to his left radiated down in an elongated oblong at his feet. Someone walked in front of the window creating a shadow puppet show.

  He inhaled sharply, the crisp air making his nostrils tingle. Light rain created a dot-to-dot pattern on the ground. He looked up, letting the rain splash his face. He relished in the feeling, the drops invigorating as they exploded on his skin, making him feel alive.

  A mournful siren wailed in the distance. The man cocked his head and listened until the sound petered away. After a moment, the light went off and darkness gathered around him.

  He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked on his haunches. Thoughts clattered through his head, a rambling mass of word associations.

  Siren

  Noise

  Shout

  Scream

  Pain

  He tried again.

  Siren

  Wail

  Children

  Noise

  Scream

  Terror

  Violence

  Kill

  His eyes snapped open and he unfurled himself and stood up straight, his knees cracking slightly. He stretched each leg, then rotated his shoulders, easing the strain out of them and loosening the joints.

  He headed towards the main road. As he approached, a car sped by and he paused. Its headlights left retinal scars. The man blinked rapidly, felt his pulse increase, the blood flowing through his veins so fast he felt momentarily light-headed and had to place his hand against the cold brickwork to steady himself. After a moment, his equilibrium returned and he continued walking, strutting like a peacock, his head bobbing backwards and forwards.

  He loved the night time. Loved the absence of light; the dark a cloak that he could wear with impunity. The air was full of fragrances: spices from someone’s kitchen, a freshly painted door and windows, rotting food in a dustbin. The man savoured every olfactory nuance.

  When he reached the end of the alley, he paused and leaned out. He stared left and then right. A figure approached from the left. Sounds of life echoed in the distance: tra
ffic navigating the city streets, a dog barking, someone shouting.

  “Got a light, mate?” The figure stood in front of him, shoulders hunched, collar of his jacket pulled up against the rain and chill. “Buddy, you okay?”

  The man nodded, lips parted in the semblance of a grin. Without warning, he kneed the stranger between the legs. The man’s breath exploded, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. The victim dropped into a crouch, groaning in agony.

  He didn’t hesitate. He lunged forwards, grabbed his victim’s head and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. The victim screamed. He pressed harder and harder until the man’s eyeballs popped. Gelatinous fluid spurted out, hitting him in the face.

  To stop the incessant screaming, the killer grabbed the man around the throat and squeezed. He felt the man’s Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his palms as though there was something alive within his neck. He squeezed harder; continued until the man slumped within his grasp, tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth.

  He let the victim fall to the floor and then he started kicking, each blow making the man’s body jerk as though he was still alive. Blood poured from the man’s wounds.

  Kick

  Blow

  Air

  Light

  Dark

  Skin

  Flay

  Mutilate

  Eventually, leg muscles on fire, the man stopped his assault and gulped deep breaths. Sweat coated his back. He tensed his muscles. Felt invincible. Godlike.

  He stared at the body lying on the pavement. Rain started pelting down, diluting the blood and creating a gory river that streamed along the gutter and disappeared down the drain.

  The man held his hands aloft, letting the rain cleanse him. Then he welcomed the night’s dark cloak and disappeared within its folds.

  CHAPTER 4

  Grey clouds scudded across the sky as Sam Rivers parked his black BMW 318i at the end of the road and stared at the hearse parked further along. Wreaths decorated the windows of the black car like a mobile florist shop, spelling out the word Daddy.

  Rivers glanced at his watch, 11.30 a.m.

  Less than a minute later, the black-clad mourners flocked out of the house like ravens and packed themselves into the waiting vehicles. He stared at a woman leading a boy and girl aged about ten out of the house. Tears streamed down their cheeks. Despite the cloud cover, sunglasses hid the woman’s eyes from view, strands of blonde hair protruding from beneath a black headscarf. The widow, he thought, admiring the tanned shapely legs visible below her black pencil skirt. He watched her usher the children into a car and then ducked down as they started the slow drive towards the church.

  When everyone had departed, Rivers exited his car, straightened his tie and locked the doors. Then he walked towards the large detached house with its immaculately mown front lawn, his heart thudding inside his chest.

  Walking up the drive, he saw his reflection in one of the curtained windows; his short brown hair neatly trimmed, clean-shaven jaw relaxed, eyes of the palest blue, posture unassuming. In an area like this no one took much notice of a man in a suit, and they wouldn’t think anything untoward unless they looked down and saw the Nike Free running shoes he wore that didn’t match his attire.

  At the front door, he rang the bell, heard it echo through the building; waited a moment, then rang the bell again. Satisfied no one was home, he walked around the side of the property, rolled up his sleeves, pulled on a pair of non-slip gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and ran towards the six foot wall; his lead foot hitting the brickwork and propelling him up without breaking stride, while he grabbed the top to pull himself up and vault over, utilising his years of training in Parkour. The physical discipline involved jumping and climbing moves, and was fast becoming popular as a sport. Basically it involved being able to move through the environment and overcoming any obstacles in your path as swiftly and effectively as possible.

  He landed in a crouch on the other side of the gate, the veins and tendons in his forearms standing proud. Around the rear there was a large trampoline near to a small copse of trees. Toys littered the lawn: two bicycles, one red and the other pink, left where they’d fallen on the grass. Also a football, basketball, a cricket bat, and a small wooden Wendy house lay where they’d been discarded.

  Rivers surveyed the scene. He had already ascertained from the online Google Earth map that there were sprawling fields at the rear of the property, meaning it wasn’t overlooked by neighbouring houses. That made his job easier. There was also a shed about six feet from the house.

  Google street view, a mapping service that allowed web and mobile phone users to see 360 degree views of towns and cities, had revealed a burglar alarm on the front of the property. If the widow was like most bereaved, she wouldn’t have bothered arming it on the way out, not when she had a funeral to attend. But he couldn’t take the risk. The patio doors at the rear of the property were solidly constructed, and they would no doubt have numerous locking levers, which would be a problem if he was trying to force it open. Peering inside, he noticed a simple sensor attached to the inside of the door that would break when the door opened, activating the alarm. Stepping back, he looked up and saw a bedroom window slightly ajar.

  Smiling to himself, he vaulted onto the roof of the shed, then stood on the edge, squatted down and swung his arms backwards before extending his legs like pistons and swinging his arms up in a cat leap. He lifted his legs in front of his body so that his feet struck the wall first, then he grabbed the window ledge. Using his upper body strength, he pulled himself up and slipped a hand inside the gap to release the stay that held it open. Then he hopped inside in a fluid motion and stood up straight, stretching his lithe muscular body.

  A large double bed occupied the middle of the room, either side of which sat a table with a lamp. Built in wardrobes occupied one wall, while a dressing table sat against another.

  With no time to lose, he withdrew a scrunched up drawstring backpack from his pocket and swung the rope strap over his head and shoulder so that the bag lay horizontally across his back, allowing him to slide it around to deposit things inside.

  He walked across to the dressing table. Makeup adorned the surface, along with a brush, a comb and a wooden jewellery box with numerous compartments. Rivers opened the box and rifled through the contents, selecting a pair of diamond earrings and a couple of gold rings that he dropped into his bag. The rest of the contents consisted of costume jewellery, a couple of pieces of which might be worth a few pounds, so he slipped them into the bag.

  Out on the landing, there were four doors, all of which were open. In between two of the doors sat a bookshelf. Rivers studied the titles, eyes widening when he spotted one particular tome. He slipped the book out and stared at the cover, which featured a skull with a rose through its mouth: Goldfinger by Ian Fleming. He opened it up and saw that it was a first edition published by Glidrose Productions in 1959 and with only a slight tear on the corner of the dust jacket, he knew it must be worth a few hundred pounds, so he put it into his backpack.

  After he had finished his search upstairs, he headed down to the hallway. A large mirror occupied the wall next to the front door, the frame on the left hand side was composed of frosted glass that allowed light to shine through. A coat rack was attached to the wall, underneath which sat a small table with an old fashioned black Bakelite telephone with a circular numbered dial. Rivers looked at it, but decided it was too big to carry.

  The air downstairs was heavy with the memory of cigarette smoke. Rivers hated the smell and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. As someone who kept his body in optimum shape, he frowned upon anyone who smoked. He slipped into the living room where the fragrance from bowls of potpourri on the coffee table competed against that of the cigarette butts in the ashtrays. Cups and glasses dotted the room, some still half full of tea, coffee or wine. Pride of place in the room sat a large 42-inch plasma screen television, underneath which there was a DVD recorder, a Sky digi
box and a Playstation 3. A long brown leather corner suite and two chairs provided seating, augmented with a few kitchen chairs for the guests.

  Family photographs graced the sideboard and a large canvas of the family hung on the back wall. The deceased, Trevor Harmand, was a stocky man with a neatly trimmed beard, black hair and beady eyes set within fleshy sockets. The son bore a similar look while the daughter luckily resembled the mother, who had striking green eyes, a blonde bob haircut, and an oval face. In the picture, she was wearing a flowery summer dress with a plunging neckline that displayed her ample cleavage.

  He walked across the room to examine a glass fronted display cabinet, his footsteps echoing on the laminate flooring. The thing he liked about ornaments in cabinets was that if he took something from the back, people never usually noticed as they rarely looked at them.

  He opened the cabinet and lifted out a dusty five-inch Satsuma porcelain enamelled figure of a Japanese man holding a fan. Turning it around, he admired it from all sides, pleased to see it was undamaged. Although not an antique expert, he knew enough, and despite its size, he knew the figure would fetch a tidy sum.

  Rivers reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a small ultraviolet torch that he shone over the figure, checking for an identifying mark inscribed by the owner. Unable to spot one, he pulled a piece of bubble wrap from the lining of his jacket and wrapped the figure to keep it secure before putting it in the backpack. Next he rummaged through the drawers below the cabinet, rifling through assorted papers and bills, none of which interested him.

  After shutting the cabinet, he started to investigate the rest of the house. From experience, he knew people hid money and valuables in all manner of places, from the freezer to tampon boxes, so he had a lot of searching to do, especially in such a large property.