Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  “I don’t know, Anita,” Kirstie whispered. “I believe he’ll kill us soon, so we have to be brave and work together. If we do nothing, then we have no chance.”

  “But what can we do?

  “At some point, he’ll separate us. When he unlocks the cuffs, we have to attack him. You’ll need to give it everything you’ve got. Can you do that?”

  “Y...yes. I think so.”

  “Not good enough. You have every right to be petrified. But you have to channel that fear, convert it to anger. We might get one split second to act, and if you hesitate or hold back, then neither of us will leave this cellar alive.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Get in close to him, cling to him and try to bite his nose off, or sink your teeth into his throat. If you can’t get near his face, then grab his balls and crush them. Just be very brave and remember that we’ll be fighting for our lives.”

  Anita pursed her lips and nodded. Kirstie saw a steely look replace the expression of abject fear that had filled the teenager’s eyes. It was now two against one, and hopefully their captor would not expect a totally committed fight to the death, which was what Kirstie had in mind.

  “The more defenceless and frightened you act, the better, Anita. When he comes back, cry and beg him to let you go. We need to divert his attention.”

  Kirstie drew her knees up, allowing Anita to move up close to her, so that they could snuggle against each other to try and keep warm.

  He had left the light on, not for their benefit, but so that he could watch them through the peephole in the door. They discussed him at length, swapping their stories of how they came to be in his clutches. They bonded quickly, as victims of any tragedy will. It was as though the shared discomfort and common fear overcame diverse backgrounds and other usually incommensurable social differences. The nature of the beast was instinctive in believing that there was strength in numbers.

  The experiment was interesting and arousing. He now owned two women, who were naked, defenceless, and his to use in any way he saw fit. After thirty minutes he lost interest. They were huddled together, talking in hushed tones. Even with his ear pressed to the door he could not make out what they were saying. He went upstairs to make a pot of tea and some sandwiches. He would allow them some measure of comfort for a few hours, then kill one of them in front of the other. Having a captive audience to watch him at work would increase the buzz.

  After eating a ham and mustard sandwich and finishing a cup of tea, he took a loaded tray down, placed it on the bottom step and checked that his ‘girls’ were as he had left them. He then unlocked the door and retrieved the tray.

  “I hope you’re both hungry,” he said, unable to avoid noticing the sharp smell of vomit. It was a safe bet to assume that Anita had upchucked the mixed grill she had eaten earlier. He was a little disappointed not to have witnessed the performance of them both struggling across the floor to the plastic loo. It would have been hilarious to see two naked women hobble around, chained, linked together wrist to ankle. Maybe he should have installed a CCTV camera in the cellar, with a monitor and DVD recorder upstairs. It would’ve made for good viewing. It was something to think about for the future. It would negate the necessity to take Polaroids and make audio tapes. In fact he would go out and purchase the necessary equipment in the morning. He was under no pressure to act in haste. Kirstie and Anita would be good company for the time being. The cop, Barnes, had the other targets wrapped up in cotton wool, and so he might as well just relax and enjoy what he already had. He was running the show, and would reschedule as unfolding circumstances dictated. There was no reason to take unwarranted risks. He was in total control of the situation.

  Putting the tray down six feet from the bed, he then walked backwards to the open door. “Get it now,” he said. “Or I’ll assume that you’re not hungry or thirsty and take it away.”

  Kirstie made the first move, came down off the bed hands first and crawled towards the tray with Anita behind, holding on to Kirstie’s ankle with her hand so that the cuffs did not chafe their skin.

  He enjoyed the vision of the lowly, humbled creatures. He had all but taken their identities away from them. They were naked and helpless, shackled in strange surroundings and aware that the future could only hold more discomfort. But they obeyed him, because even when there was no glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, the spirit could not accept the premise of imminent death. ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope’ was a naive dictum. It just wasn’t true. Clinging to the expectation that they may be spared, or even saved at the eleventh hour however bleak the reality of a given situation, was a singularly human aspiration.

  After they had struggled back onto the bed with their bounty, he went through to the other room and brought a blanket back for them to share. “Here,” he said, throwing the folded blanket onto the foot of the bed. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

  Half an hour later, he returned. The drugged tea had rendered them both unconscious. He quickly unfastened the cuffs that held them together, lifted Anita up and carried her across to where he had placed a straight back chair with the seat removed.

  Anita felt her heart skip as she opened her eyes to see a pink landscape before her. As she recovered her senses, the pink took shape. It was a torso with a well-defined six-pack. There was no hair on the smooth chest that sported a gold hoop in one nipple, or on the stomach, or around the genitals. An aroused member was protruding towards her, only inches from her face. She tried to pull away, but could only tilt her head back a fraction. Looking down, the awful truth hit her. She was bound securely by silver duct tape to a chair, her ankles to its front legs, and her thighs to the frame, with her bottom hanging through where the seat should be. Her arms were also pinioned.

  “You know what to do, don’t you?” Paul said, moving forward a little and pushing himself against her half open mouth.

  A boiling rage began to build inside her, burning through the veils of terror that held her as effectively motionless as the wide swathes of tape. He had no fucking right to torment and torture her. Oh, yes, she knew what to do all right. She would force herself to take him into her mouth, then bite down and scythe her teeth through his dick. She knew without any doubt whatsoever it was the only slim chance she had of getting out of this nightmare alive. Maybe his priorities would change with the loss of his manhood, vast quantities of blood, and the shock that the separation would cause. With any luck he would run from the cellar screaming, to pass out and die from blood loss.

  All hopes were dashed as he raised the knife he had been holding loosely by his side, to press the cold tip of the blade against the lower lid of her right eye.

  He smiled at her. “Think on, little darlin’. If your teeth even graze me, I’ll push this in up to the hilt.”

  Kirstie opened her eyes and let them take their own time to focus. She felt paralysed, unable to move a muscle. The build-up of drugs in her system was taking its toll. It was like looking down a long, dark corridor, and at the end of it was Anita tied to a chair and being forced to fellate their jailer. She wanted to look away, but had to bear witness. The sight hardened her resolve to survive.

  Almost there, he disengaged and pulled the chair forward onto the floor, then went behind it, chuckling at the sight of her bare buttocks facing him through the open seat frame. He looked across to Kirstie and winked mischievously at her as he dropped to his knees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “WHAT the fuck are you doing?” Raymond Preston demanded. “Why haven’t you picked this freak up yet?”

  Tom had spilt his coffee as the chief superintendent burst into the office and spat the words at him. He stared hard at the chief, and his initial anger subsided as he saw the suffering that met him from the dark, haunted eyes. The usually dapper man looked as though he might break down in tears. There was a frailty to him that had not been present before. He had aged years in a matter of days.

  “You want coffee,
Ray?” Tom said.

  Ray’s mouth worked, he said nothing for long seconds, then nodded and slumped in a chair.

  It was early, still dark, and Tom was certain that his boss had not slept properly since Laura had been abducted, and certainly not since he had been led to her body.

  Ray took the mug. His hands shook, and the hot liquid sloshed violently; a storm in a coffee cup. If Tom had not had the foresight to only half fill it, then a substantial amount would no doubt be soaking the chief’s crumpled trousers.

  “We’re tightening the net, Ray,” Tom said. “He’s planned this for a long time, and he’s a cunning bastard. This isn’t some random killer we’re looking for. We know his identity, and what his agenda is. If he makes a play for any of the known targets, we’ll lift him.”

  “What else have you got?”

  “A good idea of the general area he’s operating from. His mother is being watched round-the-clock, and if she makes contact with him, it’s over.”

  “Do you think she knows where he is?”

  “No. Beth Holder reckons he will be too paranoid to trust anyone, including her.”

  “Does Beth have any idea why he hasn’t returned the Marshall woman yet?”

  “She believes that Kirstie may have developed some kind of relationship with him. There’s a chance she’s making all the right moves and postponing what Beth considers is inevitable. He won’t let her go, but must be getting his rocks off and feeling under no pressure to end it.”

  “She could already be dead.”

  “I know. He gave Matt Barnes a bell last night and threatened to kill her before morning. But he’s basically a lonely person. If Kirstie is bolstering his ego and making him feel good, then he might keep her around for a while.”

  Ray put the untouched coffee on the desktop and rubbed his hands together as though they were cold. “I’ll get back home to Glenda, Tom,” he said, standing and swaying slightly. He reeked of scotch, but was apparently sober. “She...we are never going to get past what happened to Laura. It isn’t like normal grief. Maybe If she’d died of some incurable illness, or even in an accident, then we might have been able to find some perspective. But what happened to her can’t be reconciled. I’ve always felt for the bereaved relations of murder victims, but I had no real idea what they had to go through. Glenda blames me, Tom. To her, Laura suffered and was taken from us as a direct result of my job. She doesn’t hate me, yet, but I think she’ll get there.”

  “It’s early days. Glenda will come to realise that there’s no way you can be responsible for the actions of a headcase.”

  Ray shrugged and headed for the door. “I need to see him, Tom. I have to look him in the eye. Then I’ll take early retirement.”

  Tom watched the small man walk out into the corridor. He went over to the door and was almost overwhelmed by the sight of his superior standing outside the lift with his head hung between his shoulders; a broken man. There was too much hurt and suffering in the world, and to see a formerly iron-willed and tenacious cop reduced to such depths of wretchedness was gut-wrenching.

  As the lift door slid open and Ray stepped inside, Tom went back into his office. The phone rang and saved him from maudlin thoughts.

  “Bartlett.”

  “It’s Matt. I’ve got Beth with me, and a bag of fresh doughnuts. You want to join us in my office for a working breakfast?”

  “On my way,” Tom said, in need of the distraction.

  “We need to rattle his cage a little more,” Matt said as Tom wiped sugar from his mouth with a paper serviette and washed the doughnut down with freshly brewed coffee.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “We know the general area he’s holed up in. I want a police helicopter up and covering it, and a lot of cars on the ground, high profile. We need to flush him out or pin him down.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “Better than sitting back and letting him dictate.”

  Tom looked to Beth. “Do you have any view on this?”

  “Yes, I think we have to work on his insecurity. He isn’t used to being under pressure. He needs to be contained and feel that we’re closing in.”

  Tom ran thick fingers through his thinning sandy hair. “He may run.”

  “That isn’t how he thinks,” Beth said. “He needs to be in control, and he won’t be easily dissuaded from the course he’s on. Any activity in the area might just buy a little time. He might go to earth for a while.”

  “Okay, I’ll jack it up. Anything else?”

  “I’d like to have his mother go on TV and ask him to turn himself in,” Matt said.

  Tom frowned. “Somehow I don’t see him listening to her.”

  “He won’t,” Beth said. “But he will be disconcerted by his mother turning against him and publicly denouncing him. This is a callous killing machine with one big weakness. He craves attention and affection. He almost certainly carried out the hit and run on his ex-girlfriend because she spurned him. His mother’s perceived disloyalty will no doubt cause him more emotional stress. We need to build on his belief that everybody is against him. Feed his paranoia.”

  “Everybody is against him,” Tom said, picking up another doughnut, tapping off the loose sugar and making to leave. “You two go see his mother and convince her to be public-spirited. I expect you can come up with a script for her, Beth. Something that will get his attention. I’ll see to the chopper and ground cover.”

  “We’ve also got the dog angle to work on,” Matt said. “Pete Deakin and the team are contacting every vet’s practise in the area.”

  “All we can do is push every button and hope that one of them rings his bell,” Tom said, demolishing over half the doughnut with one bite as he left Matt’s office.

  “I’m not going on television, and that’s final,” Shirley said as she paced up and down the lounge of the semi in Edmonton. “You have no right to ask me.”

  “Do you love your son, Shirley?” Beth said.

  “I love the good part of him that I know exists. I’m his mother, damn it. How can you ask me to condemn him publicly?”

  “He’s not well, Shirley. The hate that is motivating him could result in many more men, women and children being killed. It’s only a matter of time before he is found, and the police won’t take any chances with a man who has shown an appetite for committing cold-blooded murder. Do you want Paul to be gunned down?”

  Matt said nothing, just let Beth do her stuff. She was using all the right techniques, calling the woman by her Christian name to develop a relationship, talking in a softly modulated and calm voice, and appealing to her strong maternal instincts.

  Shirley lit a cigarette and inhaled three deep drags, expelling the smoke through her nostrils. Matt studied her. She was a bottle-blonde in her mid forties, but not wearing well. Deep vertical lines appeared above her thin lips as she sucked on the cigarette. And her hands could have belonged to a septuagenarian. Her back was a little bowed, and her small breasts sagged unfettered beneath a cream satin blouse. She wore a too-short black pencil skirt, and the tights beneath them were laddered down the right shin. On her neck was a large discoloured patch of skin; a love bite that looked like a bruise on overripe fruit.

  “What could I say that would change anything?” Shirley said after searching her conscience. “Paul is headstrong. He won’t listen to me.”

  “We’ll work out the best thing to say,” Beth said in a firm, confident voice. “Even if it changes nothing, at least you’ll have tried, Shirley.”

  “All right. When do you want me to do it?”

  “Now,” Matt said. “We’ll take you to the Yard and set it up. The sooner he sees you the better.”

  Beth spent over forty-five minutes running through the salient points she felt Shirley should get across in the taped plea that she was about to make.

  It went well. The final edited version of a mother appealing to her son was a teary and beseeching petition for him to contact the p
olice and turn himself in. Tom arranged for it to be broadcast on terrestrial, SKY, and even on radio news bulletins from one o’clock that afternoon.

  He went too far. All but his keen-edged knife blade and the naked girl bound to the chair dimmed and became blurry, almost nonexistent. He was floating in a euphoric state, apart from reality. As he burst inside her, the blade flashed and released her blood as it deeply slashed across the taut pale skin of her throat. The gargling, choking scream was a discordant yet pleasurable accompaniment to his orgasm. The flesh beneath him tensed and rippled with muscular spasms as he allowed the knife to plunge in and out of the jerking tissue. He was awash with the warm, metallic-smelling sanguinary liquid that escaped arteries and veins to bathe him in its rich crimson sheen.

  Kirstie screamed out in revulsion and despair as Anita was violated and torn asunder by the knife-wielding maniac. Hope leaked out of her with the same force as the looping blood that squirted from the dying girl’s neck. She heard the splash of it; saw the trails it made across the low ceiling, the walls and the floor. As the chair creaked under Anita’s death throes, the unholy killer arched his back and made a low keening sound as he used his free hand to smear himself with her vital fluid.

  He felt like a god, and began to laugh and couldn’t stop. The event had been spontaneous and rapturous. He had not intended to kill her, just fuck her. But sometimes things happened. This had been a true feast. The unrestrained barbarism had fed his base instincts on so many levels. And to have Kirstie watching his performance enriched it to a degree far beyond that of any other act he had thus far executed. She had now been privy to witness his awesome capabilities, and was no doubt duly impressed.

  As he walked over to her, she began to moan unintelligibly. This had been a lesson she would not forget. He climbed on top of her, already hard again with need. She did not resist him, just lay staring up through him as if in a stupor as he slipped and slid over, on and in her.