by Shaun Hutson
Maybe…
He crossed to the VDU on his other desk and punched in a series of numbers, checking the number on Bryce's file. He pressed in the number, then Bryce's name, his face bathed in a green glow as first figures then images began to appear on the screen. From the two and a half million prints on file those of Mathew Bryce appeared on the screen. First those of the right thumb. Houghton pressed a button and the index finger patterns appeared. He paused and looked through the microscope again, this time at the print taken from Paula Wilson. Then back at the green image on the screen.
'Jesus,' he murmured, looking at the loops and composites on the VDU screen.
There was a hook on the crime print.
Matched by one on the suspect print.
A fork on the crime print, glowing on the screen.
Houghton checked against the one beneath the microscope.
Match.
He knew that he was searching for sixteen points of comparison before he could be sure of positive identification.
The clock on the wall ticked noisily in the silence as he continued his task. The red light on the phone console stopped flashing as whoever sought his attention tired of waiting.
Thirty minutes had passed from his initial inspection to the point where he now marked down another match.
He had fourteen marks of comparison.
It was enough to convince him.
Now it was his turn to reach for the phone.
He tried Gregson's office.
Nothing.
Then his home.
His wife said he wasn't back yet.
Houghton asked her to instruct Gregson to call him as soon as he could. Then he put down the phone and glanced once more at the fingerprints beneath the microscope.
SIXTY-THREE
It was the smell that alerted him.
Trevor Magee had passed the small entryway to Long's Court when he noticed it.
The rank odour of sweat and urine made him wince.
Long's Court was silent, a curious contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of the square just yards away. The smell, coming from the rear of a building, might easily have been the unpleasant odour given off by a dustbin in need of emptying. There were bins in the small yard behind the building, even a large wheeled skip which bore the name BIFF A. But it was, in fact, a bundle of dark clothing that looked as if it had been hurled against the far wall of the darkened yard. A bundle which, as he drew closer, he realised was a person.
From more than a few feet it was impossible to tell even the sex of the figure. Magee moved closer, inside the high stone walls of the yard, walls that effectively cut. it off from anyone who might be passing.
He moved into the impenetrable gloom of the yard, one hand slipping inside his left hand pocket. He was standing over the reeking individual now, peering close to get a look at the face.
It was a man. He was yet to reach his thirtieth birthday, Magee thought, but ravaged beyond his years. How long he'd been sleeping rough no one could tell. Magee looked closely at him, trying to focus on the face in the darkness, to pick out his features beneath the grime that covered his face like a second, darker skin.
The smell was almost unbearable; Magee could feel it clogging his nostrils.
He reached into his pocket and slowly pulled the knife free.
It was about eight inches long, double edged and as sharp as a razor.
Magee leant forward and touched the man's shoulder, simultaneously pushing the knife gently up beneath his chin so that the point was just touching flesh.
There was no movement.
'Wake up,' Magee whispered, as if trying to rouse a lover from slumber. His voice was gentle, cajoling. 'Come on, wake up.'
He shook the man more firmly, the knife still poised.
Magee could feel the beginnings of an erection pushing against his trousers. His breath was starting to come in low gasps.
'Wake up.'
The man opened his eyes and blinked myopically, trying to focus. He was suddenly aware of the coldness beneath his chin and his eyes widened in shocked realisation.
Magee smiled.
He drove the blade upwards with one powerful thrust, feeling it puncture skin, rip through muscle and crash into teeth. Gums were cut open and the knife scythed through the man's tongue, momentarily pinning it to the roof of his mouth before severing it. As the man opened his mouth to scream, part of his tongue fell into his lap. Blood gushed from the open orifice. Magee smiled broadly. He struck again, this time bringing the knife down into the top of the man's head, using all his strength to force it through bone that splintered and cracked with a strident shriek.
As Magee tugged it free a large lump of bone came away on the end of the knife. For fleeting seconds, a sticky mass of brain matter welled up through the hole.
The tramp had fallen forward onto his face, his body twitching madly, blood spreading out around his head. Magee ignored the crimson puddles and knelt beside the dying man again, this time rolling him over onto his back. He felt inside his own coat pocket and pulled out the corkscrew.
The tramp's eyes were closed but Magee used his thumb and forefinger to push back the lids. He drove the corkscrew forward, burying it in the man's right eye, shoving down hard on it, twisting it in the socket, ignoring the spouting vitreous liquid that erupted from the riven orb. He felt the point scrape bone and pulled back hard.
Most of the eye came away, torn from the socket. But the corkscrew had burst it like a corpulent balloon and its fluid ran down the tramp's face, clear liquid mingling with blood. Enough of the eye came free to please Magee, though, and he watched as it dangled on the optic nerve.
He rammed the corkscrew into the left eye and pulled again. This time the curled metal merely came away with jellied lumps of vitreous humour sticking to it. He tried again, uncaring that the tramp was motionless by now, the stench of excrement already beginning to permeate the air.
The corkscrew tore the flesh at the side of the man's nose before skewing into his eye again, gouging the torn sphere badly and tearing the lower eyelid. Magee shoved two fingers into the socket, scooping the eye out until it fell onto the concrete. He looked at it for a second then got to his feet and stamped on the eye, hearing it pop beneath his foot. He slipped the knife and the corkscrew back into his pocket and walked away, turning out of the yard and into St Martin's Street again. He walked unhurriedly to the bottom of it and peered down Orange Street.
A taxi was approaching, its yellow light on. Magee raised an arm to stop it, walking round to the driver's side.
The driver looked at him aghast.
'What the fuck happened to you?' he wanted to know.
'I want your cab,' said Magee, tugging at the door.
'Fuck off, I'll…'
The driver got no further.
Magee pulled the knife from his pocket and, with a blow combining demonic strength with effortless expertise, slashed open the taxi driver's throat.
Gouts of blood erupted from the wound and hit the windscreen with a loud splash.
The cabby made a squealing noise and clutched at the ragged edges of the wound as if trying to hold it together, to prevent the blood pouring through his hands.
Magee tore open the driver's door, grabbing the man by the shoulder, hauling him from the cab. He fell heavily oftto the road, his eyes bulging wide with fear as he felt his life-blood draining away. As he tried to breathe the chill night air filled the gaping hole in his neck. His body began to spasm.
Magee leapt into the driver's seat and pressed down on the accelerator, heading away from the scene of carnage, his own brow furrowed. He glanced into the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was following.
All he saw was the body of the taxi driver lying in the road, blood spreading out rapidly around him. There was blood all over the windows, too, and Magee had to wipe it away with the sleeve of his coat in order to see through the windscreen. The car was like a mobile abattoir.
He pu
t his foot on the accelerator and the taxi shot forward. He found himself struggling with the wheel, fighting to keep the vehicle under control. As he swung it into Charing Cross Road he nearly collided with another car. The driver sounded his horn furiously as the taxi sped on. Magee paid it little heed. Up ahead the traffic lights were on red but he didn't slow up. The taxi went hurtling across the junction with Cranbourn Street doing sixty.
Hunched over the wheel, Magee smiled.
He was relieved that no one was following him. He didn't want anyone trying to stop him.
Not yet.
SIXTY-FOUR
Detective Inspector Frank Gregson tapped agitatedly on the steering wheel as he looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.
He revved his engine.
Come on. Come on.
He sped away with them still on amber, narrowly avoiding a car coming the other way. The driver banged on his horn but Gregson drove on at speed, unconcerned by the accident he'd almost caused.
He'd spoken to Houghton less than ten minutes ago.
The DI had returned home and been greeted by Julie telling him that the Records Officer had called. Gregson had asked what it was about. Julie had only been able to tell him that it was urgent. Gregson had called immediately and Houghton had explained about the fingerprints and how he was sure he now had positive identification of at least one of the bodies. Gregson had hardly allowed him to finish speaking before telling him he'd be there as soon as he could.
Julie had asked him what was going on but he'd rushed out without telling her, mumbling only that it was important and that he didn't know when he'd be back.
Now he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and eased the Ford Scorpio past a car, cutting in ahead of the driver. Gregson glanced at the clock on the dashboard and estimated that he could be at New Scotland Yard in less than thirty minutes, traffic permitting.
Thirty minutes. It seemed like a fucking lifetime.
However, mingling with that frustration was a small feeling of triumph. He'd been right about Bryce. The copy-cat MO theory he'd come up with had born fruit. It should prove so for the first killer as well. He almost smiled to himself.
He had been proved right, but how could it be? The men he had suspected were in prison serving life sentences. No escapes had been reported.
What the fuck was going on?
'Lima 15, come in.'
The metallic voice that rattled out of his radio made him jump.
'Lima 15, do you read me? If you're there, pick it up, Frank.'
He recognised DI Finn's voice.
'Frank, for fuck's sake…'
Gregson snatched up the handset.
'Lima 15, I hear you,' he said. 'This better be good.'
'Where are you?' Finn wanted to know.
'On my way to see Houghton, he's identified one of the dead killers.'
'Jesus,' muttered Finn. There was a moment's silence, then the DI spoke again. 'Frank, you'd better tell Barclay to have one of his slabs ready.'
'Why?'
'We've got another one,' Finn told him flatly. 'A murder suicide. Just like the other two. The guy tried to torch himself.'
'What happened?' Gregson demanded, hardly slowing down as he drove.
Finn told him about the murders of the tramp and the taxi driver. 'He stole the cab, drove it up Charing Cross Road then aimed the fucking thing at the fountains outside Centre Point. The car blew up as soon as it hit the wall.'
'Shit,' hissed Gregson. 'What about the driver?'
'Well, like I said, he was obviously trying to kill himself. The thing is, when the car hit the wall, he went through the windscreen. He was thrown clear. They fished him out of the water. He's badly cut up from the broken glass but he's more or less in one piece.'
'Any ID on him?' Gregson wanted to know.
'Nothing. Not even a name tag in his fucking underwear. Just like the other two. The only difference is, this geezer doesn't look like burnt toast.'
'No ID at all?' Gregson repeated. 'Could he have dropped it in the car? You said he was thrown clear. He might have been carrying something, it might be lying around…'
Finn cut him short. 'The boys here have been over the area with a fine toothcomb, Frank. I'm telling you. There was no fucking ID. All he had on him was a couple of quid in small change.'
'Where are you now?' Gregson wanted to know.
'I'm still at the scene. We've closed the road off while the boys go over the area. The fire brigade have put out the blaze, thank Christ.'
'Meet me at the Yard in thirty minutes. Stuart, I want a full report on what happened, right?'
'Thirty minutes?'
'Yeah.'
'I'll see you there, over and out.'
The two-way went dead and Gregson replaced it, pressing his foot harder on the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the Scorpio.
Another twenty minutes, he thought, then perhaps at last they might have some answers.
SIXTY-FIVE
Why?
The word kept rolling around in his mind like a marble.
Why?
Jim Scott looked at his reflection in the mirror, studying his features.
Why did they need him for this job? He sighed. Plummer had insisted that he be involved.
Why? Why? Fucking why?
He slammed his hand down on the top of the dressing table, causing some of the bottles to topple over. An aftershave bottle spilled its contents and Scott inhaled the aroma momentarily before stepping back. He crossed to his bed and sat down. Outside the wind was blowing strongly again, wailing around the block of flats. He heard footsteps passing his door as someone made their way home. There was a thumping noise coming from above that was a record player. He got to his feet, staring up at the ceiling, wondering whether or not he should shout to the owner to turn the volume down.
Better still, go up there and tell him.
Scott finally decided to do neither. He wandered out into the kitchen and took a pint of milk from the fridge, supping straight from the bottle.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back into the bedroom.
Why?
Why did they want him on this particular job?
Why couldn't he get in touch with Carol?
Why hadn't she been in to work?
Why hadn't she called him?
Fucking why?
He slammed the milk bottle down on top of the bedside cabinet, pulling the drawer open.
He reached in and took out the Beretta, cradling it in his hand, working the slide. He held the piece up and sighted it, squeezing the trigger, allowing the hammer to fall on an empty chamber. Finally he lowered the weapon and dropped it onto the bed beside him, then fumbled in the drawer again for the box of ammunition.
He began feeding 9mm shells into the magazine.
***
She could hear him moving about in the sitting room. Carol Jackson rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, aware of the movement from the adjacent room and also of the perspiration that sheathed her body. She ran a finger through the glistening moisture, allowing her hand to trail lower, through her pubic hairs. She felt the wetness of Plummer's semen as it trickled from her. Carol sighed and reached for a tissue from the bedside table.
Plummer called through and asked if she wanted a drink. She called back that she didn't.
For some reason her thoughts turned to Scott. He must be wondering where she was by now. She hadn't been to work for two nights. Carol could imagine his state of mind.
Had he finally realised there was someone else?
If so, what was going through his mind?
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. If only she'd had the courage to tell him she wanted to end their relationship when the cracks had first started to appear. He would have been disappointed. Upset. Perhaps even angry. But now she feared what he might do.
Would he really try to kill her?
She wished she could co
nvince herself that what he'd said had merely been an idle threat. But she knew him too well. There was no avoiding the issue any more. Either he would find out she was seeing Plummer or she would have to tell him.
It was only a matter of time before the truth emerged.
And then?
She exhaled deeply.
Plummer would look after her, wouldn't he? After all, he was her lover.
Carol almost smiled.
Lover.
The word implied some kind of emotional bond and that, she knew, they didn't have. But he thought a lot of her; he seemed to want her around.
If she could move in with him.
The prospect of escaping her job and her flat suddenly seemed to lift her spirits and the threat of Scott was momentarily shrouded.
Move in.
He'd never mentioned it to her and she had not even thought about it until now, but therein lay her escape. Both from Scott and from her lifestyle. Carol sat up, resting her back against the padded headboard. She wasn't escaping. She was running, running from herself as much as her surroundings. She wanted to move in with Plummer, though. Even loveless comfort was preferable to what she had.
She called to Plummer to come back to bed but he didn't answer.
***
Twenty million pounds.
He concentrated on the figure, held it in his mind, savouring it as a wine expert savours a fine vintage.
Twenty million fucking pounds.
Hitch had arranged details of the job and Plummer felt safe enough with him dealing with it. He hated having to trust anyone, but Hitch was one of the few he did. Plummer poured himself another drink, pulled his monogrammed housecoat more tightly around him and paced the sitting room slowly, glancing around at the expensive furnishings and ornaments which filled the flat.
Carol called him again and he called back that he wouldn't be long. He told her to go to sleep.
Pain in the arse.
He smiled and sipped his drink, glancing across at the phone as he refilled his glass.
There had been no more calls since the informant had rung with the news of the cocaine shipment. Plummer licked his lips and frowned.
