Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  Being allowed to make the call had been a mixed blessing. At least they knew she was still alive. And yet the pain to hear the desperation in their voices was truly heartbreaking.

  “Why?” she asked him, somehow holding back the tears. “What have I done to you?”

  “Nothing, Kirstie.”

  “Then please tell me why I’m a...a prisoner.”

  He thought about it. “Very well,” he said after a long pause. “Your fine upstanding husband served as the foreman of a jury. He and the other eleven holier than thou wankers found my stepfather guilty of rape. He was sent to prison, and when they finally released him, he had terminal cancer. The people responsible have to pay. I lost someone I loved, therefore they must all lose someone they love.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. They were only doing their duty.”

  “Not many things make sense, Kirstie. I choose to believe in an eye for an eye. I have to put things right.”

  “And what you are doing to me is right?”

  “Yes. It’s cause and effect, no more or less. I believe that I have as much right to pass judgement and pass sentence as any court. It’s what I as an individual think that counts.”

  “If everybody thought that way, then civilisation would end. We’d be back in the dark ages, where chaos reigned.”

  “I like chaos. Now drop the subject. I let you speak to your family, and all I’m getting is flak.”

  “What’s your name...Please?” she said.

  “Paul,” he said.

  “Well, Paul, let me go. You don’t have to do this. Let me go for my daughter’s sake. She and I had no part in what happened.”

  She was correct in what she said, but had obviously not grasped his intent, which was to cause as much pain as possible to her husband.

  “I’ll consider it, after Christmas. Maybe I’ll let you see the New Year in with them, if you behave and keep me sweet.”

  After he left, Kirstie cried for a long time. There had been no compassion in her gaoler’s steely eyes. She was not stupid. She could identify him, and he would never believe that she would not describe him to the police. If she was to survive, then only her own actions would save her. She would try to develop a closer relationship with him; become a friend if possible, to weaken his resolve and confuse his emotions. And then she would use whatever means presented itself to maim or kill him.

  He dressed in warm clothing, wore a woolly ski cap, and drove a battered Volvo into town, leaving it in a car park off Bruton Lane and walking through Berkeley Square to the house on Charles Street, just up from the English Speaking Union.

  It was eight-thirty, and he knew that being a creature of habit, his intended victim would roll up in a cab before nine. He would be alone. And if the coast was clear when the live-in housekeeper unlocked the door, then the two of them were going to entertain an unexpected and most unwelcome visitor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LIONEL Garrick enjoyed two large snifters of cognac as he finished The Times crossword. He had been in his chambers all day, ensuring that his staff did not use the offices as a venue for a party. Four years previously he had returned after the Christmas break to find a pair of panties in his waste bin, and a suspicious tacky stain on the desk blotter. He did not consider himself curmudgeonly, but took exception to the top of his authentic Georgian desk being employed as a surface to copulate on. A used, black, ribbed condom floating in the toilet of his en suite bathroom had not only enraged him, but decided him to be present until everybody had left the offices on subsequent Christmas eves’.

  After relaxing in the wood-panelled smoking room of the Ellesmere Club, Lionel drained his glass, tossed the broadsheet onto the table at the side of his chair and rose to his feet at the precise moment that young Tomlinson popped his head around the door to announce that his cab had arrived.

  Lionel liked routine. He knew that in many ways he had what was termed a compulsive obsessive nature. Set procedures gave order and stability to his life. Maybe that was why at sixty-five he was a confirmed bachelor. The prospect of having to be flexible and cope with the unpredictable wants and needs of a wife and children had always sent shivers down his spine. He had a younger sister, Agatha, who lived in Bath and had both children and grandchildren, but their relationship was strained to the point where apart from birthday and Christmas cards, they only actually spoke two or three times a year, by phone. He had not seen her for over three years.

  Giving the cabby his address, Lionel promptly rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes. He was not tired, but liked to use the time to plan the evening ahead. He also found that feigning sleep saved being drawn into small talk by a driver who might think discussing the weather or other humdrum topics would elicit a larger tip.

  “We’re ‘ere, squire,” the cabby said, braking heavily at the kerb to rouse his fare.

  “Thank you,” Lionel said, waiting for the door to be opened before climbing out with his briefcase in one hand and a twenty pound note in the other, which he handed to the smiling cockney. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, squire. Merry Christmas.”

  “And the same to you,” Lionel said, walking across the pavement and climbing up the steps as the black cab pulled away.

  It was as Miriam Dooley opened the door and held her hand out to take his briefcase that Lionel’s orderly universe fell apart. A blow to the small of his back knocked him forward, to collide into Miriam and crash to the floor in a heap of flailing arms and legs.

  Paul quickly crossed the threshold, closed the door and turned to where the woman was climbing to her knees with her back to him. Without hesitation he sat on her, as if he were riding a pig. He reached over, hooked the forefinger and ring finger of his left hand into her nostrils and jerked her head back. And even as she drew breath to form a scream, he drew the blade of a knife across her throat, cutting deeply and severing her windpipe with the serrated steel. She bucked, and was now not like a pig, but a wild horse not yet trained to saddle; a bronco attempting to throw him off. With one eye on Garrick, he dismounted as the dying housekeeper’s face thudded onto the polished parquet flooring.

  Lionel was up on his knees, watching as blood pooled around Miriam’s head. He was too shocked to move or utter a sound. He just gasped and pressed his hands to his pounding chest. He suffered with angina, and the pain was like a band of steel tightening and compressing his heart. He could not take his eyes off the scene in front of him. Miriam’s grey skirt was up over her bottom, and her legs were shaking, toes drumming a tattoo on the wood. One shoe came off, and then she became still. He knew that she was dead.

  “On your fat stomach, Garrick,” Paul said. “Or you get the same as your hired help.”

  Lionel did as he was bid. Paul bound his wrists together behind his back with tape, then yanked the rotund little man up to his feet, to guide him through the nearest door, into what was a plush study. Two shelved walls were packed with musty-smelling books, and a chair upholstered in red wine-coloured leather was pulled back from a solid Jacobean style table of dark oak. Pushing the QC into the chair, he held up the dripping knife for him to see.

  Strange, Paul thought, how an insignificant looking old man could have such a keen mind, and be articulate enough to convince people to believe in circumstantial half truths. He stared into the plump rubicund face. The pale grey corneas of the man’s eyes were ringed with lighter halos; tufts of stiff hair sprouted from his large ears, and his fleshy snout was a patchwork of small worm like capillaries; a boozer’s nose. This trembling little turd was now his prisoner, to do with as he pleased. Without his powdered wig, black batwing gown and courtroom audience, he was a pathetic specimen of humanity, now bereft of his trappings and powers of persuasion.

  “Do you know who I am?” Paul said.

  “N...No. I think you must have made a mistake. I’m sure we can sort this out,” Lionel wheezed, trying to act composed, even though he could feel the sweat pumping out o
f every pore of his body.

  “Ah, mistaken identity. Is that the thrust of your argument? Of course not. You prosecute, so please don’t start trying to present a case for the defence.”

  “Who are you?” Lionel said.

  “The son of, or to be precise, the stepson of one Edward George Roberts, a man that you were more than a little responsible for sending to prison.”

  “I...I remember him. He raped a young girl, and―”

  The blade flashed and opened Lionel’s left cheek to the bone. His head snapped back and he cried out against the sudden, stinging pain.

  “You have no way of knowing whether he committed the crime or not. You twisted the facts to suit your own ends. And now it’s you who are on trial, with the full weight of my accusation against you. How do you plead?”

  “To what?” Lionel whimpered, pressing both hands to the gash on his face in an attempt to staunch the heavy flow of blood that seeped through his fingers.

  “To murder of course. Ted Roberts contracted cancer in prison and died shortly after his release.”

  “You can’t hold me responsible for that.”

  “I can do anything I like. I am not restricted by anything outside this room. I am your judge, jury and executioner. I’m sure you read about the cop’s daughter who was murdered, and the woman who has been abducted.”

  Lionel had always thought he may drop dead in the Central Criminal Courts, in the Ellesmere club, or perhaps in the comfort of his own bed, when his treacherous heart finally gave out on him. But he now knew that his demise would not be from natural causes. The maniac standing before him would be the instrument of his death. How could he bear it? He was petrified, and began to cry. His mind felt numb and confused. He was used to being in control and able to manipulate situations.

  “Think of me as an avenging angel,” Paul said. “I intend to eliminate the nearest and dearest to every person responsible. Had you been married, or had children, then it would have been one of them who paid the price for your sins. Being single has done you no favours. Are you queer?”

  Lionel had never thought of himself as gay. As a younger man he had visited high-class prostitutes. But, yes, he had used rent boys during the last decade, even bringing them back to the house when Miriam had been off duty or on holiday. Yes, he was a pederast on occasion. But not homosexual in the true sense of the word, surely.

  “I’ll take that pregnant pause as a yes, Lionel. And to put you out of your misery, I’ll get on with the business at hand. I find you guilty of the ruination of another man’s life, and a contributory factor to his premature death. Is there anything you wish to say to this court before I pass sentence?”

  “Please, no. You can’t do this,” Lionel said. “Let me pay you. I’m a wealthy man.”

  “Don’t be silly. If you had worked your balls off to get a conviction, and some cretin of a judge in a high court had handed out a fine or community service order to a murderer, what would you have thought?”

  “But this is...is different. You can walk away a rich man. You have no one to answer to.”

  “Exactly how much could you pay me to spare your life, Lionel?”

  A glimmer of hope. Maybe greed would overrule this psycho’s bloodlust. “I can raise over half a million pounds. And I have a flat in Kensington that I could sell.”

  Paul rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner, as though he was actually considering the offer. “A plea bargain of sorts, eh? Are you suggesting we negotiate a lesser charge that would attract a lighter sentence?”

  “Yes, yes, please, yes!” Lionel said, blood spraying out from his cut face as he frantically nodded his head like a felt dog on the parcel shelf of a speeding car on a rough road.

  “What charge shall we agree on?” Paul said. “Manslaughter? Unlawful killing? Or perhaps death occasioned as a result of your professional negligence?”

  Lionel swallowed hard. “For half a million pounds, I would prefer the case to be dismissed due to lack of evidence.”

  “I’m afraid that that is not within the jurisdiction of this court. Justice must be seen to be done. You more than most people will understand that. Let’s settle for gross and flagrant abuse of your office, amounting to misconduct that directly had a bearing on the imprisonment of an innocent man. I think that’s the best I can do under the circumstances.”

  Lionel relaxed a little. The lunatic was not so mad that he could resist instant wealth.

  Paul used almost all of the remaining duct tape to secure the diminutive barrister to the chair. He then knelt down, removed Lionel’s right shoe and pulled his sock off to bunch up and force into the man’s mouth, before firmly pressing the last strip of the tape over it, to spare the ears of neighbours and passers-by.

  Standing back, he relished the dawning fear that widened his prey’s eyes. “After much deliberation, I’ve decided to go with the original plan. I’m going to kill you, Garrick,” he said, grasping one of the lawyer’s pudgy, clammy hands, to then insert the point of the knife’s blade under the thumbnail and push hard.

  Lionel screamed against the sock and tape, but only managed to release a muffled grunt. The pain was excruciating. Worse than that of the stones that had formed in his gall bladder two years ago, to surreptitiously grow and cause agony that left him thrashing about on the floor crying, while Miriam summoned an ambulance.

  Paul sang an old Carpenters’ number: We’ve only just begun. This was mind-blowing: incomfuckingparable! He took his time, revelling in the labour of love that he was engaged in. No artist had experienced more pleasure in producing a masterpiece.

  Lionel eventually reached a plateau; where pain and sensibility became an abstract. His mind found a place to flee to, to close off all connections with the outside world; as submariners in their holed and sinking craft would slam bulkhead doors shut to keep the freezing ocean at bay.

  It was half an hour later when Paul finished up. He had been careful, but some blood had unavoidably spattered his clothes. No matter, it was night, and the dark stains would not show.

  Before leaving, he wrote a short note on a Post-it and adhered the slip of yellow paper to the tape that covered the corpse’s mouth. He then went over to the table, lifted the phone and called Scotland Yard, asking to be connected to the incident room dealing with the Kirstie Marshall abduction.

  “DC Harper.”

  The tired voice of someone who could probably think of a hundred things he would much rather be doing at this time on Christmas Eve.

  “Seasons greetings, DC Harper. Put me through to Detective Inspector Barnes, please,” Paul said.

  “And who shall I say is calling, sir?”

  “The man who is entertaining Kirstie for Christmas.”

  “Hold a second.”

  He smiled. They would be recording the call, tracing it and hoping that the nearest patrol car would be able to reach him, should he be fool enough to stay put long enough.

  “This is DI Barnes. Is that you, Paul?”

  “Yes, cop. I thought you might like to know that I’ve been busy again. I’ve got the Marshall woman tucked away to play with over the Christmas holiday, but felt the need to keep you plods on your toes. You should have implemented immediate protection for all the wankers who took part in the fiasco of my stepfather’s trial. Your remiss has just cost the prosecuting QC his life.”

  “You have nowhere to go, Paul. We know who you are. It’s only a matter of time before we track you down.”

  “Dream on, Barnes. You know who I was. And in future, watch your mouth, or you’ll be added to my list of people to kill. I saw the press conference, and you were out of order. Let’s conduct this game on a professional level.”

  “It isn’t a game, Paul. You’re a vicious little misfit. And your future is carved in stone. It consists of a padded cell or a bullet, if you don’t give it up now and release Kirstie Marshall.”

  “Temper, temper. There you go, badmouthing me again. I look forward to meeting you, on my t
erms.”

  Matt wanted to anger him, so that he would lose track of time and stay on the phone. But the line went dead.

  Paul hung up. Barnes was getting to him, annoying him as a persistent fly might, buzzing around your head and repeatedly landing, ignoring the hand that continually waved it away and tried to swat it from the air. Maybe he would find out just what made the cop tick and involve him far more than his current investigative role demanded. How would the brash detective like to be an even more integral part of the ongoing case? Going out into the hall, he stepped around the dead housekeeper and paused to reach down and pull her tights and voluminous panties down to reveal the two large white domes of her fat-engorged buttocks. He even parted her meaty thighs to disclose a surprisingly dense mass of greying pubic hair. This was just to bring a little titillation and humour to an otherwise mundane death scene. It would be a memorable sight for the plods to stumble on when they entered the house.

  Wiping his feet on the welcome mat to remove any blood, he opened the door, exited and closed it behind him, before removing and pocketing the latex gloves he had worn since entering the house.

  No nightingale sang as he made his way back through Berkeley Square. Only the less melodic but more uplifting sound of approaching sirens broke the silence of the night.

  Reaching home without incident, he parked the Volvo next to the crusher, then went across to Hannibal’s kennel to spend a minute or two fussing his faithful friend.

  Inside the house, he brewed coffee and popped the tape he had made of Garrick’s final whining, snorting unintelligible outcries into his midi-system’s cassette deck. It was not the eloquent closing speech that one would expect from an eminent QC. But then, to be fair, he had been gagged, and was in what must have been a great deal of physical discomfort.

  After a few minutes, he turned the noise off. It was repetitious to the point of boring him. He would have heard far more variance from a CD of whale song. However, the evening’s work had been arousing. His penis felt like a rod of hot iron in his trousers.