by Bo Brennan
“She killed herself. She didn't have to. She chose to. You want someone to blame for her death? Blame the twisted bastard who raped her.” He leant forward on the desk, till they were almost nose to nose. “You want justice? Keep your head down and do your job properly.”
He saw the flash of rage in her eyes. “You total fuc –”
“That's enough, India,” Len Firman bellowed, leaping from his seat and standing over her. “Enough!”
Colt straightened up as she leant back in her chair still eyeballing him. There was something in there after all, something fierce. He glanced at Len who was pacing behind her, judging by his reaction he not only saw it, he knew it.
“Veronica,” Len said. “How the hell do we get justice for Sharon Cutler?”
“This isn't usual circumstances,” she said. “As all the victims were drugged I would argue the DVD be admissible as victim testimony. I can't see any reason the suicide couldn't be treated as an aggravating factor. Make no doubt, by hook or by crook; I'll get it in there.”
“That sounds like a good note to end on,” Len said, his face looking drawn. “Let’s reconvene here at 0800 hours. Let off some steam tonight, there’s a long day ahead tomorrow.”
Colt should’ve realised the toll this case would take on Len. His eldest daughter was the same age as the latest victim, and a proper daddy’s girl too. Colt had grown up with her.
Boxing up the papers he was taking back to his hotel for this evening’s spot of light reading, he found his memories of Felicity Firman a light-hearted distraction. He smiled at the recollection of their first kiss behind the conker tree in his parents’ garden one hazy summer’s day a lifetime ago. They couldn't have been any older than six at the time.
Colt’s smile faded when he reached the door and something under the table caught his eye. His knees creaked with displeasure when he knelt and blindly reached for it, grasping it in his fist. Sitting back on his haunches he unfurled his fingers and stared at his open palm. Something deep inside him stung. In his hand sat India Kane's pencil, snapped clean in half.
Chapter 9
Park Gate, Southampton.
The address had alluded to an unoriginal dwelling, but this was seriously wrong. Colt cursed himself, blaming tiredness for overruling common sense when the satnav told him to take the left fork down the dirt track, and like a total moron he did.
It looked like the simple idea of quietly leaving his peace-offering was rapidly going out of the window. He flicked the full beam and eyed the ghostly bare trees lining the route. There was no room to turn and get the hell out of there, and he couldn't risk reversing – he'd fuck the car under carriage for sure.
Slowly, he navigated the deep potholes, wincing each time the bottom of the car scraped against the ground. The track had to lead somewhere. Considering how close to the water he was – he hoped a turning circle, and not straight off a jetty. Just as the lane became narrower still, he dipped his head, blinded by oncoming headlights as a vehicle sped up the track. It screeched to a halt inches from his front bumper. Colt sure as hell wasn't backing up; whoever was behind the wheel obviously knew the road well.
He climbed from his Lexus and approached the vehicle, a people carrier liveried with taxi signs. The driver was a little more cooperative when Colt produced his warrant card. Couldn't shut the idiot up then, gave him everything except her inside leg measurement. In fact he'd given him far more information than he could ever want to know.
Frowning, he put the cabbie’s card with the scribbled note on it in his wallet, and watched the driver mount the bank to his right and manoeuver past him. If the cabbie was to be believed there was definitely a dwelling another five-hundred yards or so down. As to whether the woman who lived there was the one he was looking for remained to be seen.
Emerging from the trees, a distant outside lantern glowed like a beacon, guiding him in, welcoming him. He pulled up next to the battered old Grand Vitara – there was nothing grand about the gaffer tape holding the roof together – and parked on the vast hard standing to one side of the rickety old houseboat.
Quietly he climbed the wooden steps to the deck, and bent to leave the small gift bag he’d bought from the all night supermarket at the front door. Then he heard a click, and froze as the cold hard steel of a gun dug into the base of his skull.
Artificial light was scarce around these parts; she’d seen the full beam coming through the trees as she stepped from the shower. Occasionally, the odd randy couple – seeking a secluded place for a quick bunk up – would ignore the ‘Private Property’ signs posted along the track and venture down to the clearing. They soon beat a hasty retreat when they found themselves in her garden. But not this one. This one was alone and heading right for her door.
“Stand up slowly,” she said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
As the intruder cautiously stood, she kept the gun trained on his head, her finger steady on the trigger. He was a monster of a man. If he gave her any trouble she wouldn’t think twice about popping him. She had a shovel round the back; no one would come searching for a missing burglar down here.
“Put your hands on your head and turn around slowly,” she said, taking a step backwards, maintaining her aim and keeping the gun from his reach.
He did as she said and India frowned. DCI Colt, hands on head, stood staring at her over the double barrels of the shotgun; a trickle of sweat ran down his temple despite the cold December air. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said, engaging the safety and lowering the gun.
He stood silently as she snapped the barrels and removed a shell from each chamber, sliding them into her dressing gown pocket. He said nothing at all, just wobbled his head a bit when she pushed open the door, and said, “It’s freezing out here, you want a coffee?”
Heavy footed, he trudged silently inside. The bitter aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the burning scent of hardwood emanating from the wood burning stove, its hypnotic glow dominated the impressive open plan living space. AJ Colt slumped into one of the sofas end on to the fire, shivering with cold. Possibly even shock.
He flinched as her damp hair brushed against his shoulder when she handed him the steaming mug. The delicate scent of vanilla filled his senses, causing an unexpected shudder as goose bumps raced across his skin. He was definitely in shock. The woman unnerved him.
“I know Firman said we're yours twenty-four seven, but this is taking the piss.” She dropped into the sofa opposite and drew her bare legs up underneath her.
“Interesting place you have here,” he said, casually looking around. Attempting cool, instead of I almost just shit myself. The outside didn't do it justice, looked a bit shabby. More like a ship wreck than a houseboat. The inside was pretty smart. His eyes fell on the gun cabinet bolted to the wall and he gulped at his coffee.
“Cut the crap,” she snapped. “What the fuck do you want?”
He peered at her, remembered how she braced herself on the table earlier, not sure if she was preparing or preventing a lunge for his throat, and remembered she didn’t do small talk.
“I wanted to check you were ok,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, a sneeze on its way.
She stared at him with cold eyes. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“Sharon Cutler’s keeping me awake too,” he said.
India raised a brow. “I'm not surprised.”
“Bit harsh,” he muttered, swilling the dregs of his coffee in the bottom of his mug and rubbing his nose like he'd just done a line of coke.
“How’d you know where I live?”
“Your file.”
“Make good reading, does it?”
“I haven't read it all yet.”
“What's in the bag?” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“A peace-offering.” He smiled as he held it out to her. She didn’t smile back. In fact India Kane didn’t do much smiling at all. She peered into the bag and let out a small noise – which could easily have been
mistaken for a chuckle – as she pulled out the bumper pack of pencils.
“Thanks,” she said. “I get through a lot of these.”
Colt laughed out loud when she inspected the pencils as though they were the world’s finest diamonds. When she glanced his way he realised that she wasn’t taking the piss – the woman was genuinely enamoured by a couple of quid’s worth of stationery.
“I’m glad we’re all right,” he said, preparing to stand. “I'm guessing you probably want me to piss off now so you can get some sleep.”
She shrugged. “You’re company.”
Colt tugged at his bottom lip, not sure if it was an invitation to stay or not. Whatever it was, the opportunity to learn more about a member of his team – was an opportunity not to be missed. “If it’s company you want, I'm your man. If you expect half decent company, you'd better fill this up.” He grinned and held out his empty mug, hoping he’d called it right.
Chapter 10
Friday 3rd December.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Colt had spotted his opportunity when Lee Sangrin threw a wobbly over someone using his naff Pompey Football mug, and casually enquired if there was anywhere locally he could have a quiet kick about before work. Sangrin took the bait. Now at 6 am he stood in the middle of a frosty field, freezing his arse off, with invisible frozen grass crunching underfoot.
“What's up, ball the wrong shape for you?” Lee said.
Cheeky bastard, he couldn't even see the sodding ball. It was pitch-black. “I thought you said this pitch was floodlit.”
“It will be when they open at half-six.”
Twat. Colt shook his head. The kid needed a few lessons in planning and forward thinking, at least he'd managed to get here on time. Colt nearly hadn't, woke with a start at five this morning, all warm and toasty under a faux fur throw on India Kane’s unashamedly comfy sofa. He'd got back to the hotel with just enough time for a quick shower, shave and change into sports clothes. Nice clean suit now hanging in the back of the car, thank god for hotel laundry.
“I see you've already rubbed the Ice Maiden up the wrong way,” Lee said, filling the silence.
“The who?” Colt rubbed his eyes, they were itchy as hell.
“India Kane,” Lee said. ‘The Ice Maiden.’ Colt laughed and his eyes started watering, it felt like he had grit under his lids. “No one’s cracked it yet, there’s been a book running for two years. You should chuck your name in the ring, mate.”
“What?” Colt cocked his jaw in the darkness. “Are you being serious?”
“You’ve got a better chance than the rest of us – you're the Shagmeister, dude. The pot’s massive; I reckon you could clean up.”
Colt tensed. He wasn’t sure what had riled him most – the fact someone was operating a betting book on bedding a female colleague, or the reuse of the tag a crappy tabloid had given him a couple of years ago when he got snapped leaving a club with a Page 3 wannabe. The following week she'd sold her story to the Sunday Supplement for twenty grand. Most of it was made up, he was pretty sure he'd passed out when they'd got back to his apartment. Still, could've been worse, she'd been overtly flattering about his size and prowess. People were still taking the piss now.
“See that,” Lee said.
Colt squinted in the darkness and hoped his eyes were deceiving him. “Are you giving me the middle finger, Lee?”
“See how bent it is? The Ice Maiden did that when I went for the pot, said if I touched her again she’d bite my fucking dick off.”
Colt smiled to himself. He was pretty sure that if Lee Sangrin had been creeping around on the deck of her funky little houseboat at stupid o’clock this morning, she'd have blown him away. He made a mental note to put a call into gun licensing, find out exactly what she was packing in that gun cabinet of hers. And another to find out who was behind the book.
“Hasn't stopped me trying to get in her knickers though,” Sangrin mused. “I bet she's an animal between the sheets.”
Colt dabbed at his eyes as the floodlights finally came on, the sudden brightness making them stream. Lee Sangrin was almost foaming at the mouth, the epitome of modern policing – all equal opportunities in the glossies, just the same dry rot festering underneath.
“We gonna do this then or what?” Colt said, shifting the ball between his feet. Personally, he couldn't give a shit. He’d met his goal: Lee Sangrin tucked away nicely in his box, a label reading 'young, dumb and full of cum' slapped firmly on the lid.
“India Kane's at the top of my list,” Sangrin chirped, going in for a tackle.
Colt dribbled the ball past him with ease. “What list?”
“Things to do before I die, mate.”
Chapter 11
He plucked the gloves from the box on the shelf, inhaled deeply and smiled. Snapped them on, raised his hands to his face and slowly turned them over, wiggling his fingers. Admiring them. The familiar smell and feel of the sterile black Latex gloves warmed him, brought immense power and pleasure in equal measure.
He took a seat at his workspace and inserted the smallest key on his bunch into the lock, one full twist and the top drawer of his desk glided effortlessly open. He removed the two black files containing sheets of pre-printed labels, along with the small black leather case containing his essential toolkit. If a job was worth doing – it had to be done right.
He opened the first file and momentarily stared at the freshly printed sheet. A single name and address detail, repeated in four rows of three, filled the page. Nostrils flaring, breathing deeply, he clenched and released his fists. He opened the small black case and smiled at the stainless steel tweezers and set square.
With a steady hand, he expertly tweezed the last label in the top row from the sheet, and used the set square to centre it on the envelope. If he wasn't suitably impressed already, he soon would be. “Who's the fucking daddy now, Detective Chief Inspector Meathead?”
He opened the second file and scanned the top sheet, marked 'Hampshire,' for her name and address detail. Their encounter had happened sooner than he'd expected, fate had intervened and brought her to him, right through his door.
It unnerved him to remove her label midway from the second row; two names were still present before hers. Now there was a gaping great hole in the middle of the page. He twitched, hated being out of sync. The sooner he could catch up the better.
Still, it had been an opportunity too good to miss, had felt good to throw caution to the wind. A little of what you fancy does you good. And god was she good. The girl sure knew how to party. Smiling he applied the label with skill. He stroked her name on the envelope, the memory of her still fresh from last night. The blood surged through his veins, his heart pounded in his ears and his whole body trembled with excitement. He'd broken all the rules with Martha, but man what a rush, he couldn't wait to share this experience. Show him just how much better he was. How much more he'd learned.
She’d been bloody marvellous, the extra few pounds she'd gained since their last encounter suited her. And she knew it too. Her regular treat had produced curves in all the right places, more to grab hold of. He liked that. Liked the way her body moved when he fucked her. His eyes flickered with the memory. Licking his lips he could still taste her. Well she definitely still can't taste me. The thought brought a smile to his face and he carefully placed the envelope addressed to her back in the draw before locking it again.
The heavy low rumble of the bin men outside had him glancing at his watch. Time to go. He needed to be back at Martha’s before 8 am if he was to make the morning post.
Chapter 12
“Where the hell is Sangrin?” Len Firman's voice reverberated around the main office like a fog horn.
Colt drummed his fingers on the table, unable to fathom how the moron got lost between the sports centre round the corner and here. Lucky little bastard probably got his leg over, the mere thought intensified his ill mood. It wasn’t just Len who was prim
ed for a foul day; Colt would have to change the entire order of the meeting. He looked at his watch, 8.22 am. Lacey was booked for two hours this morning, the terms of her contract stated one minute over and she got paid for the whole bloody day. Even if she started now, there was no way she'd be finished by ten. Lee needed to be in on her briefing, they were running on empty as it was.
Len stormed into the meeting, slamming the door behind him. “Start without him, Jim,” he snapped.
Colt nodded, stood at the incident room wall, pleased to see the rest of the team poised and ready for action. “This is what we know so far. The pictures on the right are our known victims. Lacey, could you pass these around, please.” He handed her the pile of documents he'd assembled last night before guilt induced insomnia got the better of him.
“Coming round now is a full in-depth profile of each known victim. Including where they work, where they play, hobbies, interests, home life, love life, family, friends and enemies. Physical attributes, even dress size and shoe size are there. Plus a full itinerary of their movements in the two weeks leading up to them receiving the DVD.”
“Why two weeks? I thought we didn't have a timeframe.” India was on the ball this morning. It was good to know she could function equally well on a few hours’ sleep, as she could the morning after a skin full of Tequila.
“The original investigators were able to ascertain that at least two of the victims, possibly a third,” he said, cautiously, “received their copy within two weeks of a pinpointed event.”
He pointed to a blown up video still from Victim 12, the last victim in Oxfordshire, the end of his first county spree. Almost three years old, and no closer to solved now than the day he'd first received the DVD. A bog standard towelling dressing gown, in a putrid shade of pink, hung from the back of the bedroom door. “That dressing gown was a Christmas present from the victim’s grandmother. She received her DVD on January 6th.”
