Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  Blood Tears

  Michael J Malone

  Five Leaves Publications

  www.fiveleaves.co.uk

  Blood Tears

  by Michael J Malone

  Published in 2012 in paperback and ebook formats

  by Five Leaves Publications, PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW

  www.fiveleaves.co.uk

  © Michael J Malone, 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-907869-65-5

  Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England

  Cover design: Four Sheets Design and Print

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Derek Fyfe and John Hazlett for procedural insight. Any mistakes are my own.

  My writing friends – you know who you are – thank you for your support and encouragement. With special mention of Elizabeth at Cliff Cottage, for the twin gifts of time and space. You are a star.

  My family – especially my son, Sam. This is what I’m up to when you complain I’m not listening.

  I would like to dedicate this book to all the lost children. And the good people who guide them back.

  Prologue

  He closed the door, his hand trembling. Walking across the floor towards the desk, he removed all his clothes. He bent to retrieve the black costume from the floor, draped it on a perfumed hanger and hung it neatly in its place. His shoes were last. Ladies size 7. Black leather with a sensible heel, they were tucked under the chair. He massaged his toes, which had been stuffed into the neat fit. Blood stained one toe where the nail from the neighbouring pinkie had torn flesh.

  Apart from the desk and chair, the room was empty. The floor was paved in stone tiles and the windows covered with dark, patternless drapes. The walls, if the light had been strong enough, would have shown a similar lack of effort on the decorator's part. They were painted cream, and bare, save for the mirror above the desk. Above that hung a crucifix, Christ’s face distorted with pain and anguish for man’s sin.

  He sat before the mirror and, filling his lungs, flicked a switch. Lights framing the mirror blazed unkindly on to his face. He breathed again and closed his eyes. And again, he breathed, revelling in the speed of his pulse. So this is what it means to be alive, he thought. Every nerve in his body thrummed with electricity. This is what it means to belong.

  Muscles along his shoulders and down through his arms and legs relaxed as if bathed in liquid and heat. Had his eyes been open, he would have seen the slow spread of a smile stretch his lips.

  It had begun.

  An eye for an eye, the Bible said. A life for a life. But how many lives were enough, he considered, to replace the one lost? As many as it takes.

  Breathe slowly, he told himself. In for a count of nine. And out for a count of nine. The old man had fought well, for his age. Who would have thought? Realisation that his life was about to end would have lent him strength. But he had been no real contest. A quick blow to the solar plexus, tighten the garrotte and it was all but over.

  Stopping at the right time was crucial. Keeping him alive long enough; easing pressure on the stranglehold before he passed from unconsciousness into death was key.

  The old man barely stirred as the hoop of barbed wire was squeezed on to his head. The metal thorns slid into the pale flesh of his forehead as easily as communion wine slips down the throat.

  Reliving the moment when the man stirred and their eyes met forced a flood of blood into his groin. The sweet ache that encapsulated sin. But the ache was even more pronounced in his heightened state. And all the more difficult to ignore.

  Questions forced their way through the old man’s clenched teeth. His need to know who and why was such that it acted as an anaesthetic.

  ‘Who… are you?’ He groaned. ‘Why are you… doing this to me? Please… please… please don’t hurt… me… any more.’ Sweat diluted the colour of the blood on his forehead.

  ‘Hurt? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Yet.’

  Terror bloomed in the old man’s pupils, the iris all but swallowed in black, ‘Please… let me go… I can give you… money.’

  ‘Money? I don’t want your money. I want your pain. I want your repentance.’

  ‘For what?’ he used all his remaining energy to ask. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the avenging angel. I am he who will deliver you.’ He stifled a giggle. He’d rehearsed that part. It sounded even better out loud.

  Again the old man asked, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You have no idea, do you?’

  The old man coughed. Blood frothed from his mouth, ‘Whoever you are… I’m sorry… whatever I did… I’m sorry.’ Anguish coated every word.

  ‘Before you die, you at least deserve to know why.’ In truth, he wanted to delay the moment of completion.

  He bent forward and whispered in the man’s ear.

  He slid open the long, middle drawer under the desktop and pulled out two items, a white, featureless mask and a scalpel. He placed the mask over his face and regarded the eyes that looked back. They were brown and framed in long, black lashes that were the envy of any woman who saw them.

  But within them lay layers he could only guess at. The mask brought into play a distance between him and his actions. The mask could feel, while he could not. The mask could reason, while he dare not. The mask could mourn, while he should not.

  The eyes within the mask flared as he remembered the moment before the nails went in.

  ‘You… are… practising on me?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Yes… and you’re the most… deserving candidate.’

  Then came the score of a knife. Four six inch nails. A twist of the garrotte.

  And a last, withered exhalation.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered into the dead man’s ear, ‘there will be more.’

  Long fingers picked up the scalpel and aimed the point towards the mask. While one hand held the mask carefully in place, the other pressed finely honed steel against the lower, right eyelid, until blood welled on to the blade. Then, after placing the knife on the desktop, his right hand pressed the cheek of the mask so that blood slid on to its surface.

  As a single drop of blood glided down the white cheek of the mask, he considered the long dead, the newly deceased and those yet to die, and he enjoyed the tear.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Right, guys, the drinks are on me,’ I say as we pile into the bar at the end of the shift.

  ‘Woohoo!’ Ten voices: nine male, one female, chime in unison.

  ‘Colour me purple and roger me rotten,’ shouts Dave Harkness. ‘Put a note in your diary, guys ’n’ gal. DI Ray McBain is splashing the cash.’

  Hoots of laughter and various ribald comments follow.

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, DS Harkness,’ I say and punch him on the arm. Then I lower my voice to a stage whisper. ‘Meet me out the back later. I’ll bring the purple paint.’

  Everybody laughs. Laughter that’s out of scale with the humour of the joke but laden with pleasure and relief that another case has been successfully closed.

  ‘You wish,’ Harkness grins. ‘Mine’s a pint of 80 Shilling.’ He pats me on the shoulder and moves towards a collection of seats along the window. Several other orders are shouted at me as the rest of the crew joins Dave.

  I face the barman and allow the spread of a smile to heat my face. We had a good result this week. Some solid police work, and the bad guy is minus tie and shoelaces while he waits to go to court in the morning.

  ‘Give you a hand, sir?’

  DC Allessandra Rossi is standing beside me. Although she is tall for a woman the top of her head only reaches my chin. She’s slim in a black, tailored suit, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s got that Italian thing going, which wo
rks well among all of us pale Celts. Her brown eyes spark with intelligence, her lips are plump with promise… for the right man. I don’t do romance on the job. It complicates.

  ‘Thanks, Allessandra,’ I smile. ‘Seems like the men have forgotten their manners. Thank God you’re in the team. Bring a touch of class to the environment.’ And I’ve no idea how I’m going to remember what they all ordered.

  ‘What can I say?’ She digs her hands in her pockets. ‘A woman’s touch and all that.’ She grins and then looks away, but not before I catch a slight colouring to her cheeks. Then she looks me straight in the eye and says. ‘And it was 80 Shillings for everyone apart from Daryl. He wants a bottle of Budweiser.’ She offers a smile. ‘I’ll have a pint of Stella.’

  ‘Good memory, Rossi,’ I say. ‘… and a suggestion of more class with an order of Stella Artois.’

  She pushes a strand of hair behind an ear and picks up a couple of pints, raises her eyebrows. ‘Cheers,’ she offers.

  At the table with the team, drinks placed in front of everyone, I pretend to drink. My trick is to place my tongue over the mouth of the bottle so that little spills into my mouth. Some form of professional distance is to be maintained. It wouldn’t do for the boss to get pissed and make an arse of himself. I have one drink to their three. No-one notices, as long as I laugh at their jokes.

  My cheeks are aching from it.

  Maybe if I joined them on Planet Booze I would find them funny, but I have another form of celebration in mind tonight and too much alcohol will put a stop to anything happening there.

  I look around the characters placed at the table. Boss or not, these guys are the closest I have to friends. How sad is that? Need to get your life together, McBain. Don’t work so hard. Get somebody else’s life. Aye, right!

  Still, I’ve not done too badly. Cracked a couple of big profile cases, got pushed up the ladder. My work methods were questioned by some, but too bad. Results are all that matters. Get the bad guys and lock them up for a very long time.

  ‘What you smilin’ at, Ray?’ asked Daryl Drain. The last joke had evidently been so bad that nobody laughed.

  ‘Just thinkin’ what a bunch of tossers you lot are.’

  ‘Even me, sir?’ asks Allessandra. This brings a chorus of highly pitched ‘Oooo’s from the table’s other inhabitants.

  ‘Eh, apart from you, Allessandra. But only because I don’t know the female equivalent.’

  ‘I think the term applies equally to both genders, sir.’ Allessandra has trouble with my request that when the team is on their own they call me by my first name.

  ‘Okay, Tosser Rossi,’ I grin, ‘I stand corrected.’

  She grins back, prompting a memory of her first day with the team. The case, my first case as the boss, demanded more men. For once, we got somewhere. Asked for three. Got one. Allessandra Rossi. Newly out of uniform. Her face was scrubbed of artifice, her long, dark hair pulled back. A flash of red lipstick her one claim to femininity on the job.

  I introduced her to the team, explained who she was and partnered her with Dave Harkness, an experienced cop, but one who’d never gone far because of his habit of acting like the team comedian.

  ‘Any questions, Dave?’ I was prompted to ask by the thoughtful expression on his face. I should have known better.

  ‘Just one, sir.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Can I ask Detective Constable Rossi if she is vaginally or clitorally stimulated?’ Laughter bounced around the room. I was surprised that the guys knew what a clitoris was and as much as I like a wee bit of smut, Harkness’ joke was not in keeping with the force’s determination to make life more comfortable for our female colleagues.

  ‘Quieten down, guys. That’s enough. Harkness, any more of that and you’re on report.’ I quelled the laughter. Looking at Allessandra I was surprised to see her expression calm, her colouring normal.

  Just as the laughter died down and before anyone else could speak, ‘If I could answer Dave’s query, sir?’ she managed to place lots of emphasis on the word ‘query’. I nodded, wondering what she was about to do. She then took a step forward and looked pointedly at his groin.

  ‘Whatever it takes, Dave, a penis is required.’ A smile of commiseration. ‘Sorry, wee man.’ The laughter was even louder this time.

  Harkness laughed as loudly as anyone in the room. Since then the two of them have been the best of buddies.

  ‘Hey, big guy, fancy another beer?’ Daryl addresses me.

  ‘Aye.’ I hold up my bottle and grin. Then I look along the table at the team. I see Jim Peters hunched in his seat. Peters is renowned for being first out of the taxi and last into the pub.

  He positions himself last in the ‘whose round is it’ queue, hoping that by the time his turn comes back round everyone is too pissed to notice. He’s not getting away with it tonight.

  ‘Is it no' about time that Jim bought a drink?’ I look along the table.

  With a glare in my direction Jim stands up. He shrugs, attempting to appear good-natured.

  ‘Somebody follow him and make sure the fucker actually spends some money,’ I say. Raucous laughter along the table.

  Peters gives me a look from the bar. I wink and raise my bottle to him. Memo to me. Watch out for DS Peters. Ten years older than me and nursing an unhealthy dose of professional jealousy, I’m sure. Passed over for promotion several times, his file told me.

  Resents me, his body language shouts.

  I’m bored now. I could go to Theresa’s early. Though I’d better think of an excuse. Shouldn’t need one, I’m the boss. Besides, my presence after a certain point in the proceedings will only put a dampener on things.

  By this time Peters has carried over his round.

  Harkness smiles, ‘The bastard’s just spent twenty quid.’ A cheer goes round the table. Jim shrugs his shoulders, attempting to enter into the spirit of it. But anybody with a sober eye on them can see he’s gutted. Excellent. But, unfortunately it’s a lesson I doubt he’ll learn.

  I stand up, ‘Listen guys, sorry to break up the party, but some of us need our beauty sleep.’

  ‘Two years should be enough to do something about your cross-eyes then, Ray,’ Dave Harkness pipes up from the end of the table.

  I clamber across a row of limbs, ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Who is it tonight then, Ray?’ asks Daryl Drain. He and I have come up through the ranks together. I would trust him with my life. But not my wife, if I had one. ‘Would her name be Susan, Marie or Rosa?’

  ‘Or Roger?’ asked Peters, just loud enough for everyone to hear. I am aware of the gossip. People love to speculate, don’t they? If you’re not married and don’t have a live-in partner by a certain age, then your sexual orientation is up for discussion. I’m in my early thirties, well past the stage when I should have an indentation on my ring finger. Well past the stage when questions would be asked. And well past giving a fuck.

  I turn to Peters and pout, ‘Would it make a difference, Jim?’ I ruffle his hair. Everyone laughs at his obvious discomfort.

  ‘That’s sexual harassment, you know,’ he complains.

  ‘You wish,’ I answer and push the back of his head. He says nothing, merely raises his eyebrows as if he’s keen to stay in the humour of the moment, but he can’t quite get there.

  Chapter 2

  At least the owners are making an effort with the female toilets, thinks Allessandra as she fingers the small bowl of pink and purple pot pourri. Shame it doesn’t distract the eye from the cracked mirror and the rust-stained sink.

  After all this is a ‘polis’ pub, the landlord tells her. Handy for regional headquarters, and there are more and more lovely young ladies like her joining up all the time, he says, his jaw hanging open in a smile like the drawer from an open till. Maybe if he wanted to increase future profits, he should get in one of those kari-coki machines. And she could be his star turn.

  Aye, Allessandra had laughed, and said that’ll be the day
his profits fall lower than a tart’s knickers.

  He had begun to smile at what he thought was going to be a funny comment from a welcome punter. It froze half-formed on his face when the young lady in front of him didn’t match up to his internal picture of ladylike.

  While washing her hands Allessandra considers her face, slightly bent out of shape and given a sepia tint by the ancient mirror. She’d never be a contestant on Britain’s Next Top Model. Not that she wanted to be; she’d rather sit through one of her mother’s coffee mornings at St John’s Roman Catholic Church. She shudders at the thought. All those cupcakes and good intentions.

  The boys used to call her kipper lips because of the naturally bee-stung look she had. As a teenager she spent too many evenings in front of a mirror, practising how to speak while trying to pull her lips in. It didn’t work. Just made her look slightly demented. She was also too tall for the boys in her class, ten pounds too heavy and way too much was going on behind those eyes. Her dad told her that from the moment she pushed her way out of her mother’s womb there was a knowing look in her eyes. A look that often unnerved people. A look that Allessandra used to good effect. And boy, had she found the right job to do that.

  What a world of difference this was from being in uniform. No more standing on point. No more splitting up domestics. No more searching female shoplifters. If she had thought she would have become that intimate with the female half of the criminal world she would have taken a quick course in gynaecology.

  Her mother reacted to the news of her joining up as if Allessandra had spat in her Earl Grey. It was bad enough that she had squandered her university education in a series of meaningless, minimum-wage jobs, but to then choose to come into daily contact with some of the planet’s most undesirable people was more than her mother could stand. She had set off round the west of Scotland’s scone country, with the other, very nice, daughter, Sheila, in search of calm. And found nothing but a burgeoning ulcer and a particularly nice carrot cake at a bookshop/café up by Loch Lomond.