by Bo Brennan
For the first time in a long time her own mother invaded her thoughts. She'd have no idea if her daughter died tomorrow. Wouldn’t even care. India tapped the pocket of her trousers, felt the hard comforting outline of the Swiss Army knife, and let out a bitter chuckle. It wasn’t strictly true that her mother wouldn’t care. She would. She’d be delighted. It would make the bitch’s day.
“You all right?” Colt said, catching her off guard by returning so soon.
She should've guessed there'd be little queue for service around these parts in the winter months. India turned to face him and stared at the giant ball of neon pink candyfloss where his face should be.
“Take it then,” he said, securing his polystyrene cup in the holder. “Go on, you know you want to. Live a little.” She plucked the wooden stick supporting a spun sugar ball from his fingers. “I was going to get you a ninety-nine,” he said, fastening his seatbelt, “but apparently there's not much demand for ice-cream in December. That was the next best thing.”
“Where's yours?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I don't do sharing.”
“I don't eat that shit, I'm sweet enough already.” He grinned and gave her a wink.
Hampshire CID, Winchester.
As soon as they stepped foot into the incident room, Colt made a beeline for Dwyer. They huddled in the corner, while Dwyer – wearing his self-congratulatory expression that often accompanied an event as mundane as tying his shoelaces – shuffled some pictures.
India took her seat, fighting a losing battle to get the sticky pink stains from her fingers with a wet wipe. God only knows what that shit did to your insides. Admitting defeat, she peered at a forlorn looking Sangrin, sulking two chairs up, and visualised her mental league table for the Sergeant’s position next year. A big black mark loomed next to his name. She had it in the bag for sure now. “Sore arse?” she said.
“Sore foot.” He pouted and swivelled in his seat to rest a heavily bandaged trotter on the chair between them. “Wanna kiss it better?”
India recoiled in disgust, eyes narrowing at the pair of robust crutches leaning against the wall behind him. The big black mark in her head was quickly fading to grey.
“The perils of an early morning kick about with my mate over there,” he said, nodding towards Colt. “We really gel, you know, got a lot in common.”
India pursed her lips, she'd heard him creep from her place at five this morning, couldn't sleep knowing a virtual stranger was crashed out on her sofa. If she'd known he had a date with Sangrin she'd have got up and made him breakfast. Made him late.
“This really is great work, Tom,” Colt said enthusiastically from the incident room wall. She turned to look at him, trying to push the mental league table with Sangrin’s name now flashing in big fat neon lights from her mind. “Great work,” he said again, patting Dwyer on the shoulder.
Dwyer smugly took his seat as Colt pinned a blown up video still to the wall.
India stared at the picture: the diamante decorated heel of a bank busting killer stiletto protruded from under a bed. She knew those shoes. She'd coveted those shoes. She wilted in her seat as the real possibility of calling Sangrin Sir barged into her mind.
“Okay everybody, listen up,” Colt said, tapping the picture. “Victim 37, Katherine Darcy, bought those shoes on her credit card at the Gunwharf Quays retail outlet, on the 3rd of October. The first time they left the box was when she wore them to a colleague’s birthday party on the 22nd of October. Her DVD was received November 3rd, twelve days after the shoes left the box.”
“How do we know he didn't touch them?” Lee said. “He wouldn't be the first perv with a shoe fetish. In fact, which bloke doesn’t have the shoe thing going on?”
Tom frowned and glared at him. “Speak for yourself, sleaze.”
Colt raised his hand, he got where the kid was coming from. He was particularly partial to heels himself, especially on a long shapely pair of legs. “India completed a very thorough investigation,” he said, smiling her way. Hoping he’d proved his point.
Lee Sangrin shook his head with dismay. “Can't have been that thorough if she missed the shoes.”
“She didn't,” Vicky said, turning on him as though she were about to back-hand him. “I delivered them to the lab myself.”
“It reinforces that he's working inside a two week timescale,” Lacey said.
“But who is he, Lacey?” Colt asked, keen to get her profile delivered before he ended up paying for her next holiday to Barbados.
“A highly intelligent and very dangerous individual,” she said. “We must assume he is forensically or procedurally aware. He always wears gloves; no fingerprints have ever been left at the scene or on the accompanying DVDs. However, he does not use condoms which would suggest he’s unconcerned about DNA recovery.”
“If they don't know they've been raped until two weeks later, the rape kits are useless anyway. We've got no chance of getting his DNA,” Tom said, smoothing his brow. “Perhaps he knows that.”
“Possibly,” Colt said. “Or he may have offended previously and come to police attention pre 1995 – before the DNA database was established.”
“In which case we’d have his fingerprints on file,” Vicky said. “But no arrest since '95 means no DNA. Would explain why he’s meticulous with the gloves but doesn’t bother with condoms. Even if we did recover DNA we're not going to find him in the database, it's a vicious circle.”
“So to catch him,” Tom said, “we need him to either slip up and leave a print, or get pulled on something else.”
“It's a jigsaw, Detective,” Lacey said. “With every attack he provides another piece of the puzzle.” India sighed heavily, Colt looked her way. She was staring right through Lacey, completely oblivious to his eyes on her.
“What can you tell us about the attacks themselves?” Len enquired.
“On first glance it would seem like Necrophile tendencies because he has no desire to interact with his victims, but they don't signify any element of sexual need. The DVDs are more than his signature, they’re showcasing his talent. It's almost as though he is showing off, proving his sexual prowess – showing us he is a true man. And he's escalating, both in frequency and brutality. And as we heard this morning, there is a possibility that he also takes personal items from his victims as trophies.” She smiled straight at India.
“Will he progress to murder?” India said flatly
“Yes. It’s inevitable.”
A group sigh filled the air as Lacey continued. “The shortened periods of emotional cooling-off between attacks signifies he’s not getting what he needs.”
“And what does he need?” Colt said, frustration sharpening every word.
Her response was immediate. “Recognition.”
“What sort of recognition?” he pushed. “A tabloid headline for being a sadistic bastard?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, could feel the first twinges of a headache nipping at the base of his skull.
“Perhaps,” she replied. “Or he may need recognition from you, James.”
“From me?” he said.
“He’s purposefully showing you what he has done. Taunting you personally.”
“Yeah, what exactly is that bit all about, Doc?” For once Lee managed to wind it down instead of up. “Can we assume he knows Colt, or what?”
“Unfortunately not,” she said, shaking her head. “He could quite simply have seen him on the television and developed an obsession. Perhaps aspires to be like him, or prove he's better than him. Hero worships him even. Either way, James seems to be what he measures as a man.”
“Women want him, men want to be him,” Tom murmured, causing a ripple of light hearted amusement to lift the room while Colt remained tight lipped and grim faced.
“Victims,” India said. “Random or selected?”
“They’re far from random; he will stalk them for some time to enable the perfect moment to strike. Always women home alone, always detached or semi-detac
hed properties – never flats. But we have yet to establish his selection criteria, the victims appear to have nothing in common other than their age range of thirty-two to thirty-seven. And he's travelling, which is highly unusual. Serial sex offenders don't tend to travel very far to commit their crimes as they're usually in an excitable state. That’s a significant difference to similar investigations. Normally I’d be focusing you on geography and timings, but I suggest you focus on the victims here.”
Veronica held up a hand. “You must not rely on Dr Fox's opinion, in any way shape or form,” she said.
Lee threw his hands in the air. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Due to its subjectivity, Psychological Profile evidence is still a very controversial issue in criminal courts,” Veronica said sternly.
“Colin Stagg,” India said. “Balls up of the century; investigating officers and the CPS were duped by a flawed profile.”
Colt cleared his throat and wondered if Lacey had ever been involved in a case where all the investigating officers valued her skills. “Criminal Profiling is an added tool of our investigation, Lee,” he said, “not a route of investigation.”
Veronica smiled. “Proceed with caution, Dr Fox.”
“Thank you, Veronica,” she said, and brusquely passed round a neatly typed wad of papers. “This is my professional opinion of the man you are seeking. Due to the DVD evidence I’ve taken the liberty of adding a partial physical description.”
India thumbed the hefty document and flipped straight to the back page summary:
Age range 25-45
Single, at most in a casual heterosexual relationship for effect.
High probability of homosexual tendencies.
Sadist
Broken family, lacking a father figure.
5'11-6'1
Physically fit
Perfectionist
Creative
Meticulous planner
Exceptionally organized
Probably older of siblings.
Having scanned it, she looked at the clock. Great, not a lot to go on and a whole evening meeting predominantly wasted on this shit. And all the while their man was out there, probably with his next victim already in his sights. Thank fuck for the weekend.
Chapter 14
Saturday 4th December
He looked through his diary, back to back appointments all fucking day.
How on earth was he expected to beautify the endless stream of ugly buglies coming through his door, when all he was interested in was finding a lover who could match up to marvellous bloody Martha. She was consuming his thoughts, dampening his creative flair.
He'd reviewed his work carefully. Checked and rechecked his notes, re-examined the quantities and timescales. He had pinpointed two significant details: their love making was thirteen minutes longer, she'd shaved for him it would have been rude not to, and Martha was approximately thirty pounds heavier than any of the lovers he'd taken before her.
Arching his back he stretched and yawned, splayed his hands heavenwards. The alluring possibility of recreating his time with her had kept him up all night. Fuelled by euphoria, his fingers had relentlessly number crunched body mass calculations until he was sure he’d perfected his formula.
Strange how one encounter could yield such delicious new sexual pleasures when least expected. Erotic Asphyxiation had never been on his list of indulgences, found it plain weird how folks could get their rocks off choking the living shit out of each other. Never again would he knock something before he'd tried it. From this day forward he would embrace every new and exciting experience that presented itself, be a more experimental lover, more in tune with his conquests and what they wanted.
D.N.A.
The three little letters hit him like a steel freight train, sending panic coursing through his veins and jolting him bolt upright in his chair as his brain shifted into adrenaline fuelled overdrive. He wondered how long cum could survive outside his balls before it was useless. Surely useless only mattered if you wanted the swimmers to reproduce.
His jittery eyes darted left and right. Is spunk even DNA? He twisted his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. He had no idea. Those Yankee cop shows would nail him though; he'd left a piece of himself behind. Even DCI Meathead couldn't miss the glaringly obvious fact that sweet Martha wouldn't be douching anytime soon.
He pushed to his feet, started pacing.
He hadn't thought this through, got caught up in the rush that stupid fucking cunt with her fat shaved pussy had lured him into. Bitch must have thought she was so fucking clever setting out to trap him like that. The fucking whore had him running around like a dog. Even got him to deliver her family feast pizza, it was no fucking wonder he’d struggled to get her fat arse up the stairs.
He kicked the back of his chair sending it spinning across the tiled floor.
They were all the fucking same, whores and bitches out for whatever they could get. She was the sort that would have government suits round banging at your door for money in nine months’ time, expecting you to pay for the rest of your fucking life. At least a bona fide whore only made you pay for the ten minutes your dick was in it.
Burn her. Burn her now.
He gripped his head with both hands, fingers dug deep into his scalp. He could really do without all this spiteful, vengeful, woman scorned shit, especially today. He had at least ten hours of work to get through and he needed to sleep. If he didn't get at least seven hours a night he became noticeably cantankerous and that just wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all.
And . . . it’s Saturday.
Leigh Park was an arsehole of a place to get to at the best of times. He smacked his hand down hard on the diary and caught sight of his red faced reflection in the mirror. Leaning on the counter he stared at himself, breathing deep calming breaths.
What's the rush? It needn't be today. The only visitors she gets are her mum Sunday teatime and that sappy friend of hers on Wednesday night. As long as she's toast by 5 pm Sunday when mummy dearest visits, everything’s sweet.
He straightened up, rolled his head and slowly licked his fingers. Smiling, he used the saliva to smooth a few stray hairs back into place. Sweet. With a satisfied sigh he strolled to the door and turned the sign to open.
Chapter 15
India closed her eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet as the warm towel was wrapped around her head. The young Saturday assistant had given up trying to engage her in holiday conversations and idle chit chat months ago. The same couldn’t be said for her boss.
“India, darling, who is he?” Gino Spinelli said, beckoning her to his cutting chair.
She raised a brow and stared at him as she sat down. Gino was strikingly handsome, with a buff body to match. Such a waste. “It’s a haircut,” she said flatly. “What’s it gotta do with a man?”
“Darling, when a woman brings her appointment forward a week –it’s always a man,” he said, one hand on hip the other waving a comb around.
India rolled her eyes.
“Perhaps we should lose some of this length, women of a certain age need to go shorter.” She glowered at him in the mirror. “Okay . . . How about losing these bangs and going with a fringe,” he enthused. India slapped his hands away as he hooked up the sides and swept the hair across her forehead, exposing her jaw. “Relax!” He pouted, producing his infamous pet lip as he massaged her shoulders. “One day you will allow me to highlight that incredible bone structure of yours.”
“Not today,” she said, staring at his reflection. “I want my usual.”
“Okay, okay, Gino gets the message,” he said with the face of a petulant schoolboy. “Boring as usual it is.”
India let out an exasperated sigh as he minced about behind her with his colouring gloves and kit. Any onlookers over hearing their exchange would think it was time for her to take her business elsewhere, but she’d been coming to him for years, the whole family had. He was the best hairdresser for miles, had w
alls full of certificates and accolades to prove it. In fact Gino Spinelli was officially 'one of the girls,’ joining them on many a raucous night out. Some of the best nights out she'd ever had were when Gino picked the venue. Terri and Clare wouldn't agree, dancing till dawn with no hope of a man cracking onto them wasn't exactly their idea of fun.
Expertly applying the colour to the length of her tresses he kept the banter light. Gino always steered well clear of her work, allowing her a brief interlude with total relaxation. Her eyes darted to the pink, tear-stained reflection of a woman emerging from the torture chamber at the back of the salon. “Eyebrows?” India mouthed to him
“First time Brazilian,” he mouthed back. India winced. “Must've been like a busted horse hair mattress down there,” he said, shuddering with disgust.
India dropped her head, forcing his gloved hands to retreat as she laughed. When she looked back up, he stood behind her, arms crossed, wearing that ludicrous facial expression he'd mastered. With lips pursed in a puckered twist and one plucked-to-perfection eyebrow villainously arched, he said: “At least we don't need to worry about your hair down there for this new man of yours. Last week’s rip will see you through to February, darling.”
Colt sat outside the bland red-brick house positioned at the head of the cul-de-sac of identikit houses. Boring family saloons graced every drive. Behind every white garage door he envisaged virtually identical contents: an assortment of garden tools, the obligatory Flymo, a paddling pool, and the epitome of middle class suburbia – a top of the range gas BBQ. God, how he’d once longed for those things.
He'd started out cheerfully positive. Popped into the shops on the way and bought selection boxes for the oldest two, a fluffy bear for his new niece and a bottle of champagne and flowers for the proud parents. As he'd got closer trepidation sank in and he found himself hoping they wouldn't be home, but his brother’s polished people carrier occupied the drive. Colt bit the bullet and stepped from the car. He’d kept his distance too long.
