Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  Maybe he was being too hard on her. She’d just been abducted, drugged, bitten to the bone by Hannibal, and was obviously cold, feeling ill, and was disconcerted and a little scared of what might be going to happen. He was in a good mood, and would not let her dispel it with her grumpy demeanour.

  “I want you to relax, Kirstie,” he said, setting the bowl down next to her, along with a bar of scented soap, a flannel and towel. He then drew his knife. “I’m going to free your hands and feet, and you can clean yourself up. You need to be aware that if you behave, we’ll get along just fine. But do anything silly, and Mr. Knife here will cut off your pretty little nose, and Hannibal will get an unexpected treat. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. He was obviously crazy. The madness seemed to dance in his eyes. She had to deal with this nightmare one second at a time. Somehow gain his trust and hope that she would be spared until she was found, or could affect an escape.

  “Don’t fucking nod at me. Talk to me,” he said. “I’m not one of those mad bastards who doesn’t want to interact, or who treats his captives as objects.”

  “I...I understand,” she said. “I won’t do anything silly.”

  “That’s better,” he said and sliced through the duct tape that held her ankles together, then leaned over her and released her wrists. “Now, take all your clothes off. There’s no need for false modesty. There’s only you and me here, and we’re going to be on very intimate terms. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No,” she lied. “But why me?”

  “Suffice to know that it isn’t personal, Kirstie. I may tell you, later. For now, just do what you’re told and you’ll live to see another Christmas. Now strip.”

  She didn’t feel embarrassed. She likened being naked in front of him to being in the presence of a gynaecologist. He could have been an asexual object, had the bulge at the crotch of his jeans not grown in magnitude.

  For his part, he liked what he saw. Her breasts were bigger than he had expected; full and tipped by large nipples. Her figure was pleasing, and the thick auburn bush at the fork of her shapely legs was tantalising, full of hidden promise.

  “Wash,” he said. “I’ll go and get some antiseptic and bandage for that bite. I don’t want you to get blood poisoning.”

  She watched him as he left. The door opened, then closed, and the sound of a bolt being pushed home made her skin tighten and her stomach roll.

  He had not made any attempt to hide his face. Commonsense decreed that she would not leave this cellar alive. He was unconcerned that she would recognise him.

  She washed mechanically, unable to stop sobbing as she thought of Faye and Dennis, who would be frantic with worry and unable to understand why she was missing. She had to be tough, to somehow keep body, mind and soul together and come up with a plan to live. She had never been negative, and her spirit was strong. Now was a time to focus on the position she was in and use all her resources. This psycho was not aware of who he was dealing with. She had attended karate classes for six years, before having Faye. She might be rusty, but still knew how to defend herself, and was capable of inflicting serious physical damage. There would be a moment when she would be able to surprise and subdue him: one chance to turn things around. He would drop his guard at some point, and pay the price. All she had to do was pick that moment, recognise it as such and take full advantage. Anger began to push aside the fear. How dare an animal like this just take someone against their will, to use and abuse as he saw fit?

  After a while he returned with a bottle of iodine, some lint and a roll of bandage.

  “Here,” he said. “See to your leg.”

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the items.

  “You’re welcome. I’m going to bed now. I’ll leave the light on down here. There’s a bucket in the corner, and a jug of fresh water. I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and Kirstie, if you get it into your pretty little head to try anything stupid, remember that it doesn’t have to be just you who suffers. I know where you live, and could snatch Faye.”

  “Please, don’t harm my daughter,” she begged.

  “I have no intention to. If I do, it will be because you do something to upset me. Think very hard before you act. You’re on trust. You should appreciate that I’m not tying you up or gagging you. There is no way out of this cellar, and you’re in the country, in a location where no one would hear you, should you be foolish enough to start screaming.”

  He left her alone. She dressed her leg, and then sipped some of the water from the jug before stretching out on the mattress. It was damp, and the dark stains on it made her think that she was not the first person to have been imprisoned by him. She pulled the thin blanket up over herself and used the pain in her leg and the threat against Faye to fuel her anger.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE next day.

  The overall mood in Tom’s office was sombre. They sipped coffee and bounced theories off each other. Beth looked out of the window and watched a flock of pigeons wheel in an ice-blue sky. Was it random flight? Or could their movement have purpose? Grazing animals herded together in all parts of the world where they were predated on, as did fish in the oceans, forming glittering, tightly-packed shoals. There was protection in numbers. It confused an enemy that preferred the weak and unwary, or those that wandered too far afield, or became stragglers, separate from the pack.

  Tom said, “Are you wool-gathering, Beth?”

  “No. I’m just trying to find some creative insight, due to the fact that the squad haven’t found anything to link the chief or Eddie Foley to Kirstie Marshall.”

  “You think it’s unrelated?”

  “I’m undecided. Without a connection, there is no reason to assume that the same unknown subject took a thirty-seven-year-old woman. If it was Foley who murdered Laura because her father was partly responsible for him going down, then I can’t work the Marshall woman into the equation.”

  “I believe these are separate crimes,” Matt said. “We have no forensic to tie them together. Laura Preston was lifted by someone in a white Transit van. The only vehicle seen at about the time and at the place where Kirstie Marshall dropped out of sight, was a red Sierra.”

  “If it was the same guy, what chance has Kirstie got?” Tom asked Beth.

  “None whatsoever. Whoever killed the girl is sexually motivated. The autopsy report points to her being raped as she bled out. He also gets off on taking photographs, mutilating and tape-recording. He’s a hands-on psychopath, emotionally unstable and obviously capable of abnormal behaviour. Even when they’re dead, he wants more from them. That’s why Laura was posed. He returned her for the shock effect it would have.”

  “So, with nothing else to go on, let’s suppose that this is the same offender,” Tom said.

  Beth frowned and tented her fingers together. “That doesn’t really help,” she said. “I can’t develop a profile from one crime. If Kirstie Marshall’s body turns up, or her husband is sent a photo or a tape...or a piece of her, then I can look at the signature aspects of the crime. If it was a one-off revenge slaying, then we can only hope that Foley is the person responsible and pick him up. Have you got an officer at Marshall’s house?”

  “Yes. All incoming mail will be vetted. I don’t want the husband or daughter to open a jiffy bag and find an ear, finger, or any other part of Kirstie inside it. And there’s a car in the street. I want two of the team there at all times, in case he decides to make a personal drop again.”

  Matt and Beth had a quick lunch at Bonhomie, a little bistro only a five minute walk from the Yard.

  “Are you going to stay at my place tonight?” Beth said.

  “Yeah. I’ll give you a call if I’m going to be late. What have you got on for the rest of the day?”

  “I’m on an assessment board at the hospital this afternoon.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “A young guy who killed his parents and sister. He believes his twin brother force
d him to do it. Trouble is, he hasn’t got a brother.”

  “You spend a lot of time in the Twilight Zone.”

  “I know. It’s fascinating.”

  “I could do without all the fruitcakes we seem to get nowadays. I might go back to baby-sitting CPS witnesses full time.”

  “You aren’t ready for that yet. Believe me. You might never be.”

  He hated to admit it, but she was right. He still had nightmares and woke up in cold sweats. The early morning attack on the safe house at Finchley had scarred his psyche forever. Not because he had been seriously wounded, but because the team with him had all been shot dead. A part of him still suffered survivors’ guilt. Why had he lived, when everybody else – including the witness they had been protecting and the couple next door – had died?: the husband that day, and the wife later, but at the hands of the same killer. He didn’t have any answers, because there weren’t any bloody answers. On one hand, he embraced the unfolding mystery that was life, but on the other, wished there was more order and predictability. All the big issues were without resolution. Maybe if he’d found religion, he wouldn’t need answers, he’d have blind faith to sustain him against all adversity and help him through the aftermath of pointless, mindless acts. Problem with that was, in his book, the idea of there being God was less credible than the moon being a ball of Edam. Life was only at its most special if death struck near home, where the heart is. You couldn’t take the full weight of strangers’ ill fate on your shoulders, however broad they were. So why did a part of him hold on to unfounded guilt?

  Back outside the bistro, they paused on the pavement, held each other, kissed, and then went their separate ways.

  Once more in the squad room, Matt collated everything that was coming in. Foley was their only suspect, and still nowhere to be found. His service record was immaculate, up until the assault that finished his career. He had been a good cop – on paper – with a high arrest rate/conviction ratio. He built a good case and made it stick. It was only now that officers who had worked with him were coming out of the woodwork to offer up stories that individually could have been regarded as petty, but lumped together showed him for what he was. He came across as an intemperate character, quick to use his fists, and slow to make friends. He was a solitary man, who not one ex-colleague had a good word for.

  The flat that Foley had lived in after leaving prison was in itself a testament to his character. In the living room was an old TV, an occasional table with a cigarette-burned top, a ripped and aged easy chair, and a threadbare carpet, its pattern now faded. The small kitchenette was littered with empty take away cartons, a small fridge with just a container of sour milk inside, and a microwave oven and kettle. Just one knife, fork and a tea-tarnished spoon was found in the sink, and a cracked mug was adhered firmly to the chipped Formica countertop. The toilet had not been flushed, and the bedroom stank of sweat, booze and stale tobacco smoke. If the bedding had ever been changed, then it wasn’t obvious.

  Beth had gone to inspect the deserted flat with Matt and Pete. She came away with the view that Foley was a lonely man stewing in a private world of anger and frustration. She believed he would be capable of taking extreme action to relieve the internal pressures that must be eating at him. But the way he chose to live was not conclusive proof that he was a killer. There was no paperwork in the flat, or any personal trappings. He had just upped and left. Why? The landlord said that he hardly ever saw him, was paid in advance, and that Foley made it quite clear he didn’t want to chitchat. The other tenants were of the same view. The man was not a social animal.

  Matt leaned back in his chair and turned his head from side to side, trying to loosen muscles that were bunching at the nape of his neck.

  “You want a coffee, boss?” Pete said.

  “Yeah,” he said, standing up and stretching, then massaging his aching leg. “Where would you go to ground, Pete, if you were an ex-cop who knew he was being hunted?”

  “If I had nothing to hide, I’d phone, or come in and clear it up. If I was guilty, then I’d change my appearance and find somewhere remote, where I’d feel safe.”

  “Yeah, but where?”

  “Search me. He might be living rough. Or maybe the best place to hide is among people. He’d just be one of the faceless masses if he was renting a room in a shit area where everybody minded their own business. And he could always join the ranks of itinerants, dossing in shelters or under cardboard. They don’t show up on the radar.”

  “Doesn’t fit. Not if he’s the killer. He has to have privacy. The Polaroid of the chief’s daughter was taken in a cellar.”

  They walked over to the wall and studied an 8x10 of the girl that was taped to a whiteboard. She was definitely in a cellar. No doubt whatsoever.

  “You’re right,” Pete said. “Could be an abandoned property. There are thousands boarded up and waiting to be demolished.”

  “The bastard might not have even taken the Marshall woman to the same location,” Matt said. “He knows every move we’ll make. Christ, he’s a veteran who’s investigated scores of murders over the years. He’ll know where to get his hands on false ID and all the paperwork he would need to become somebody else.”

  “He might leave the country, boss.”

  “It’s a possibility. Get on the phone to Kenny Ruskin in Computer Crime Section. He can arrange for a photo of Foley to be digitally altered. I want a few worked-up with changes of appearance that he might make. We need copies distributed to airports and ferry terminals.”

  While Pete made the call, Matt went back to his seat and listened to the tape again, wearing headphones. He fast forwarded past the prolonged period of screaming, eyes closed as he stopped the cassette player and pressed play. The girl pleaded for her assailant not to kill her. Matt could hear the hollowness of her voice in the almost empty chamber. There was no carpet, curtains or furnishings to absorb and soften the sounds. “NOOO!” Matt stiffened as Laura’s exclamation of shock and pain echoed through the stereo headphones, causing him to bite his bottom lip. This was the captured moment when the knife had been drawn across her throat. Fuck! He could actually hear background liquid sounds as the psycho talked, followed by grunting and heavy breathing as he raped the dying teenager. Concentrate on the voice. It was disguised, and the pseudo northern accent was bogus. A phonetist had broken it down, studied its component parts, structure and vocal nuances. The same expert had been given old tapes that Foley had made while interviewing suspects. The comparison results were inconclusive. Even heavily disguised, there should have been more congruence on the charts that were produced. Foley was either very clever, or innocent.

  “Kenny will get one of the geeks who specialises in this sort of thing to play around with a photo of Foley,” Pete said as Matt removed the headphones and tossed them onto the desktop. “He’ll produce some shots of him with different hairstyles, beards, moustaches, glasses and stuff.”

  “I hope to Christ it is him. If not, we’re pissing in the wind,” Matt said, getting up and going over to the ever-bubbling coffeemaker for a refill. “If it’s somebody with a more sinister purpose or goal, we might be in for the long haul.”

  “It has to be Foley, boss. Everything points to him.”

  “Don’t lose sight of the fact he was a cop. He would know that he would be a prime suspect. It’s too pat.”

  “But he’s the only game in town.”

  “I know. We have to find him. Check his mother’s bungalow in Romford. See if the place has a cellar.”

  “You mean I have to face her and the cats again?”

  “There’ll be records, building plans. If you’re lucky, you won’t need to go back for more tea and lack of sympathy. On second thoughts, get Marci or one of the others to do it. We’ll go and see his ex again.”

  “What else do you expect her to be able to tell us?”

  “I don’t know. But she knows a side of him that we don’t. I think she can give us more.”

  They to
ok a pool Mondeo. Pete drove, and when they reached the flats at Wanstead, Matt was relieved to find that one of the lifts was now operating. It jerkily rumbled its way up to the tenth floor, and he lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils to nullify the strong smell of stale piss.

  “We get to visit exotic places and meet such interesting people,” Pete observed as he took in the graffiti that had been sprayed on the dull metal walls of the lift. Among the expected childish images of genitalia and poor drawings of sex acts, were a few gems. One exclaimed: ‘For fuck’s sake beam me up, Scotty!’ Beneath it was a riposte: ‘This is life, Jim, but not as I want to know it’.

  The lift groaned to a shuddering halt, and as the door slid back, Pete made the decision to take the stairs down when they left. He had a picture in his mind of rusted cables snapping, and his last moments spent waiting to be converted to a pile of raw meat and broken bones as the lift hurtled to its destruction in the basement of the high-rise.

  “You two!” Maureen Foley said, opening the door and scowling. “What brings you up ‘ere again? Are you after a freebie?”

  “Be nice, Maureen, or I’ll have a word with a pal in vice,” Matt said. “You’ll spend so much time in the back of a van and sitting in holding cells that your money pit will heal up like a pierced ear with no ring in it.”

  “Okay, comedian, I get the message. What do you want?”

  “Just a chat. Let’s go inside. Maybe you could make us coffee,” Matt said, walking in uninvited with Pete following, thinking that a freebie with Maureen wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend some time on a winter’s day.

  They settled at the small table in the kitchen, and Maureen made instant coffee. Her dark-rooted blonde hair was loose, framing her face. And she wore a kimono-style robe that clung to her body. It was impossible not to stare at where the sheer material seemed to be nipped between her buttocks. When she turned to face them with a mug in each hand, Pete saw a glimpse of thigh through the slit of the garment. He was glad to be sitting down. His state of arousal would have been obvious, had he been standing up.