by Tim Ellis
‘The rack,’ he responded to her questioning look. ‘And on the rack is the very beautiful Constable Sarah Schofield who is about to pay the price for fluttering her eyelashes at a computer technician instead of paying close attention to her duties.’ As he had done with Jerry, he bent over and kissed Schofield on the lips while he squeezed her right breast.
‘Please . . .’ Schofield implored.
He smiled as he stood up. ‘Yes, I know you’re eager to begin, and we will – trust me. Also, feel free to scream as much as you want – no one can hear you beyond this place. It is sound-proof and self-contained. If I wanted to, I could remain here for months, but I ought to show glimpses of myself in other places. Not that I need an alibi, but one can never be too careful.’
Schofield was shaking with fear, and had already urinated on the floor.
He turned the crank that her wrists were tied to a quarter-turn, and then moved to the crank at her feet and did the same with that. ‘If I have a number one favourite among all my favourite torture devices, I suppose it has to be the rack. I can turn it as slow or as fast as I want. I can look in beautiful Sarah’s eyes as her joints are wrenched from the sockets, and eventually the limbs torn from her body . . .’
Constable Schofield screamed, and cried and pleaded: Please, I’ll do anything you want me to – anything at all. Please, just untie me . . . please don’t hurt me . . .’
‘What I want you to do is exactly what you are doing, my sweet Sarah – screaming, crying and pleading with me to let you go . . . You’ve given an old man an erection, and I thank you for that.’ He strode quickly to a stainless steel table, picked up a scalpel, returned and . . .
‘Don’t hurt her anymore,’ Jerry said to him. ‘Let her go and hurt me instead.’
He turned to face her. ‘I like you, Jerry Kowalski – I like you a lot. Under different circumstances I might have kept you alive, but . . . Well, you can see how things are. The only person who will be leaving this place alive is me, I’m afraid. He turned back to Sarah Schofield, dragged the scalpel diagonally across her hard flat stomach and the skin parted like a flower opening in the morning sunshine spewing out blood and the starched-white coils of her small intestine.
‘Oh God, no!’ Schofield screamed.
Voss turned each crank another quarter-turn.
He had his back to her, but Jerry could see from his movements and heavy breathing that he was masturbating, and she knew that soon – it would be her turn to please him.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Sergeant?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘It’s me – DI Tubman.’
‘Good morning, Sir. How are you?’
‘Never mind how I am. You should learn to answer your phone correctly.’
‘I’m sorry. In what way?’
‘Instead of “Hello” you should state your name.’
‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll remember that in the future. Did you call for any particular reason?’
‘Do you think I’m going to call you at one-thirty in the morning to discuss how you answer the phone?’
‘I have no idea, Sir. We’ve only been working together for a day, so I don’t . . .’
‘There’s been another murder.’
‘I see. And you want me to meet you at the crime scene?’
‘I’m surprised you’re a Sergeant, Sergeant.’
‘And me, Sir.’
‘Have you got your notebook and pencil to hand?’
‘For the address?’
‘That would be the idea.’
‘Just a minute, Sir.’
‘Don’t you sleep with your notebook?’
‘No, I sleep with my fiancée.’ He felt Jen’s hand on his leg in the dark, slithered out of bed and switched the bedside light on.
‘You’re a strange person, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Sir.’
‘So, have you got your notebook?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Glen Faba Road overlooking . . .’
‘. . . The Glen Faba lake.’
‘You know it?’
‘Very well, Sir. If you’d have said before – I didn’t really need my notebook. I’ve been there a few times fishing. It has a good stock of . . .’
‘At the end of the road, there’s a track that disappears into the woods apparently.’
‘Yes. My fiancée and I have walked in those woods . . .’
‘I expect you there in half an hour, Sergeant.’
‘You want me to break the law?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d have to speed to get there in half an hour.’
‘Half an hour. Don’t be late.’
‘I’m on my way, Sir.’
The line went dead.
Jen’s painted toes began tickling behind his left ear. ‘I seem to have a strange sensation, Monsieur.’
‘Sorry, Jen. I have to go. Another murder.’
‘I will have to call the emergency services then.’
He leaned over and kissed her. ‘I’m sure they’ll sort you out. Tubman wants me there in half an hour, and it’s a three-quarter of an hour journey.’
‘Be careful, Monsieur.’
‘I will.’
He got dressed quickly, switched the bedside light off and left.
***
After stepping out of the lift, they walked along the penthouse marble hallway into an enormous living room with a deep-pile beige carpet and looked out over the flickering lights of London.
‘TOMASIC?’ Kowalski shouted. ‘SCHOFIELD?’
Nobody answered.
‘Check all the rooms,’ the Chief said.
Parish strode towards the bedroom, which was also huge. How the rich live, he thought. He guessed that Voss’s bedroom was at least six times the size of the one he and Angie slept in.
The walk-in wardrobe stretched the whole width of the suite and could easily have accommodated a third-world country.
Apart from the bedroom being a tourist attraction on a par with the London Eye, there was no one in there. The floor was solid Italian marble. The walls dense concrete interspersed by glass windows and doors. The only variation on the theme was the walk-in wardrobe, which had dark-wood walls and doors – it was clearly a man’s wardrobe. There were no fluffy pinks, oranges or lemons. The overall impression that Parish had of Israel Voss was of a sombre individual – white shirts, dark suits, black and brown shoes and mostly red and blue ties. If pressed into giving an opinion he would have said that Voss was a man with no creative or artistic side. He was neat, orderly and practical. A man who enjoyed working with facts and figures; he was conventional with a need to feel secure and certain of his place in the universe; but most of all he was business-minded, finished what he started and took care of every detail – leaving nothing to chance. If his profile of Voss was nearly half-right, then he wasn’t optimistic about their chances of finding either Schofield or Jerry alive.
‘Anything?’ Kowalski asked, as he walked into the bedroom.
‘No. The wardrobe needs checking out properly. I can’t find any hidden doors or false walls, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.’
Kowalski was just about to step inside the wardrobe when his phone vibrated. He switched it to loudspeaker so that Parish could listen to the conversation as well. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, it’s Sergeant Lydiard.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a lot of people down here . . .’
A woman came on the phone: ‘Is that you, Kowalski?’
‘It depends on who’s asking?’
‘It’s Annie Wyatt. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Hi, Annie. I’m trying to find my wife.’
‘You’re a fucking train wreck looking for a place to happen, Kowalski – you always were. How come you’re carrying out an investigation in my area, and I’ve only just found out about it?�
��
‘Well . . .’
‘Don’t give me any crap excuses. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been warned about something like this already, haven’t you?’
‘I’ll release the lift. You can come up here and we’ll have a calm, quiet chat about inter-force cooperation.’
‘I should fucking arrest you, more like.’
‘If you were my wife, Annie, I’d be doing the same for you.’
‘Release the lift before I send in CO19.’
‘On its way down.’ He ended the call. ‘RICHARDS?’
Richard’s head appeared round the door. ‘Yes, Chief?’
‘Release the lift and send it to the ground floor.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you know this Annie Wyatt?’ Parish asked.
‘DCI at the Met – Serious Crimes Division.’
‘She obviously likes you.’
‘We have some history. I’m the one that got away.’
‘I think she just caught up with you.’
‘So it would seem.’
Parish had expected a fire-breathing dragon with putrid-green scales and red eyes to walk through the door. Instead, a petite woman in her mid-forties wearing a black trouser-suit and a crimson blouse appeared. She was attractive with shoulder-length wavy brown-hair, but her green eyes were cold and distant, and her lips were thin and undernourished.
‘Who are you?’ she aimed at him like a poison-tipped arrow.
He smiled and offered his hand. ‘DI Jed Parish . . .’
She ignored the hand. ‘Get out. Kowalski and I have shit to discuss.’
‘Okay.’
‘And shut the fucking door.’
There were a group of plain-clothed officers and blue-suited forensic people skulking about in the corridor – none of them gave him eye contact.
He would liked to have been a fly on the bedroom wall, but he’d just had his wings clipped. The door wasn’t soundproof and he could hear the two of them going at it hammer-and-tongue like a married couple, and then it went suspiciously quiet. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and Kowalski walked out. Behind the Chief, he could see DCI Wyatt adjusting her clothes.
‘I’m staying, but you and Richards are going.’
‘Are you sure, Chief?’
‘I had to compromise. It’ll be a jointly-run investigation, but we’ll be using her people.’
DCI Wyatt came out of the bedroom. ‘You lot,’ she pointed at the people lurking in the hallway. ‘Rip this place apart. Bernstein . . .’
‘Yes, Ma’am?’ a short female forensic officer said.
‘Get some of your people into the walk-in wardrobe in the bedroom,’ she said. ‘I want to know if there’s a false wall, ceiling or some-such in there.’
The woman nodded and a couple of people hurried through the living room and into the bedroom.
‘You’ll phone if . . . ?’ Parish said to Kowalski.
‘. . . When, you mean?’
‘Of course. Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
He walked towards the lift. ‘Come on, Richards.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘We’re going?’
‘Superfluous to requirements apparently. DCI Annie Wyatt is the big cheese now, and she’s using her own people. She and the Chief have history.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think she had – and still has from what I saw – a thing for him, so she’s letting him stay. I suppose because one of the women that’s missing is his wife.’
‘Oh! And we’re going?’
‘Yes.’
They headed for the lift.
Richards pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors closed. The key was still in the lock.
She took Parish’s wrist and turned it towards her so that she could see his watch.
‘Ow!’
‘Shush!’
‘What . . . ?’
‘Which part of “shush” don’t you understand?’
He stood there with Richards holding his wrist at an awkward angle, and staring at the second-hand moving on his watch.
The lift reached the lobby and the doors opened.
He went to walk out.
‘Where are you going?’ Richards said.
‘Out . . .’
‘No. We haven’t finished yet.’
‘Finished what?’
‘The survey.’
‘What survey?’
She pressed the button for the penthouse and the doors closed. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Watch?’
He held out his arm.
The doors opened on the penthouse suite.
People turned to stare at them.
Parish half-smiled.
The doors shut.
Richards turned the key and locked the lift in position.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Six seconds between floors.’
‘I’m glad we’ve established that. I was getting worried we’d never find out. Can we go home now?’
‘Except between the nineteenth floor and the penthouse suite.’
‘There’ll be a good reason for that, I’m sure.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’m not an architect.’
She opened the doors and shouted: ‘CHIEF.’
Kowalski appeared. ‘I thought you two had gone?’
‘So did I,’ Parish said.
Richards signalled with her hand for the Chief to come into the lift.
‘What is it, Richards?’ He whispered like a conspirator, as he stepped into the lift.
She shut the door. ‘I have a theory.’
Kowalski screwed up his face and threw Parish a look. ‘About?’
Parish shrugged. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you, Chief.’
‘What if there’s a whole floor that nobody knows anything about?’
‘A whole floor?’
‘Yes. There’s six seconds between floors – except between the nineteenth floor and the penthouse.’
‘How long is there between those two floors?’
‘Sixteen seconds.’
‘And you think there’s a missing floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Open the door.’
She did as he said.
He stepped out of the lift and shouted: ‘ANNIE!’
***
At the end of the Glen Faba road he put his lights on full-beam until he came upon a huddle of cars, tents and trucks. He parked up and climbed out of his DB7.
He could hear the night creatures in the woods objecting to the intrusion, and he was thankful for the cool air blowing in across the lake. It was certainly a lot fresher than it had been during the day. This was the second night he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep. Regardless of what DI Tubman said, after taking notes of the crime scene, he was going home to catch up on his sleep.
Di Heffernan and Doc Paine were already there, but Tubman hadn’t arrived yet. Stick checked his watch – thirty-seven minutes since Tubman’s phone call. Do as I say, not as I do crossed his mind.
After putting on the paper suit, overshoes, gloves and mask, he stepped into the tent.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, but he was distracted by the two bodies lying on the ground.
Di looked behind him. ‘Not got your new DI with you?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘You’ll be telling me next that you wish DI Blake was back.’
‘At least she didn’t call me childish names.’
Doc Paine turned sideways so that he had an uninterrupted view of the male and female corpses. ‘No doubt I’ll have to repeat myself when the Inspector arrives, but I’ll tell you now anyway.’
‘Did the hooded man kill the woman?’
‘We’ll begin at the beginning, shall we?’
‘Sorry, Doc.’
‘Between Di and myself we’ve established that it’s the same perpetrator – not least beca
use of the limp that is clearly visible in the dirt. The back doors of the car are open, which suggests the two were making love on the back seat. Also, the female’s bra is undone. The male victim is twenty-five year-old Ronnie Russell – he’s a woodworker at a firm called: Oakwood Joinery. The female victim is Natalie Webb, seventeen years old and still registered as a drama student at Ware College.
‘What about . . . ?’
‘Are you going to ask me questions? Or should I simply finish my report, so that you have all the answers?’
‘That seems like a good idea.’
‘Natalie’s panties are missing. Her throat was cut, which suggests that she refused to murder her boyfriend. This is reinforced by the fact that the male’s head has nearly been decapitated by the garrotte. The killer appears to have been the hooded-man not the woman, and the severity of the wound suggests that he was pretty angry. Also, as per the other male victims, his wrists were restrained, and the penis and testicles have been severed and left on the ground. Now you can ask me questions, Sergeant.’
He tried to think of at least one question to ask her, but he couldn’t. So he turned to Di. ‘What about the motorbike?’
‘Haven’t found any evidence of a motorbike yet.’
‘Don’t either of you have anything new for me?’
Doc Paine and Di looked at each other and then shook their heads.
‘Any news on the DNA analysis of the wounds, Doc?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And you have nothing for me, Di?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference how many times you ask me – I still have nothing. Oh, I have hairs, fibres and so forth, but other than comparative analysis between crime scenes, which is a bit of a redundant activity considering that we know it was the same perpetrator, we have nothing to match any of it to.’
‘We have four people dead, two psychologically-damaged survivors, and dozens of family members who want answers. Not to mention Chief Kowalski, the media and the tax-paying public. “I have nothing” doesn’t really cut it.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like DI Tubman. Where is he by the way? I though you said he’d be here soon.’
Stick checked his watch. It was now an hour and ten minutes since Tubman had called him. He found Tubman’s number in his phonebook and pressed “Call”.
