Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2)

by Wendy Cartmell

  “You try, Douglas.”

  Ciaran climbed out of the car, opened the back door and yanked the lad off the seat and out of the vehicle. Anderson joined him, looking forward to seeing what Douglas would do. Pushing him up against the bodywork, Douglas got in the boy’s face and said, “Right, you little shit, you either tell me where you got the phone and then you can leave, or you can continue being a bloody idiot and spend a night in the cells.”

  “You can’t touch me, I’m a minor!” the boy spat.

  “Prove it. Show me some ID.”

  That made the boy pause before he said, “Ain’t got none on me.”

  “Well then, I’ll have to take you down the station and put you in a cell until I can verify who you are. Come on, get back in.”

  “Wait!”

  Ciaran paused and Anderson smiled, pleased with his young DC’s performance so far.

  “If I tell you what I know, I can go, yeah?”

  “Yeah. But don’t be spinning me any lies, or I’ll be back for you.”

  “Well, I got it off a friend, didn’t I? No bloody good anyway. Crappy old thing.”

  “And this friend’s name?”

  “Well, he’s not really a friend, like. It was Bobby, the homeless lad who hangs around near the local shops.”

  “I know him. And where did Bobby get it?”

  “Said he found it in the skip behind the newsagents.”

  “Did he have anything else for sale?”

  “Nah, just that. Look you won’t tell him it were me grassed him up, will ya?”

  Ciaran pulled the boy around.

  “I’ll think about it. Now bugger off.”

  The boy didn’t need telling twice and in an instant was around the corner and out of sight.

  “Good work, lad,” said Anderson, pleased Ciaran had elicited the information they needed. “Just one thing, why didn’t you get his name?”

  “No point, sir. I didn’t think we needed it and it was a bit of reverse psychology as well. All the time he thought he was anonymous, the more comfortable he’d be with giving me information. If I’d have pushed for his name and address, he could have become as stubborn as a donkey and I wouldn’t have got anything out of him.”

  Anderson liked the theory behind Ciaran’s actions. He would have done the same, but by instinct, rather than being able to explain it in terms of psychology. As they climbed back into the car Anderson radioed for a couple of uniforms to go and check out the contents of the skip. There might still be something hidden there and he was damn sure it wasn’t going to be him climbing in it to take a look. He also told them he wanted any CCTV footage, if there was any, from the newsagents.

  When they arrived back at the station, Anderson passed the phone to Holly.

  “What do you think? Can you get anything from it?”

  “Well I’ll be able to check if it was Sally’s phone,” she said. “But to be honest, guv, don’t hold your breath, it’s a pretty old model.”

  “Try your best,” he said.

  Holly looked askance. “Of course, guv. I never do anything other than my best.”

  Anderson didn’t trust himself to reply, afraid he’d put his foot in it again, so just nodded and wandered off to find Crane. He was sure his young analyst was slightly autistic. She was just so bloody clever and so literal.

  Boy

  Daddy reads to me. He says I’m old enough to hear the fairy tales he was so fond of when he was a boy. But he says they’re not the Disney versions, but the real ones. I don’t quite know what that means, but I don’t ask him. I always do as Daddy tells me.

  He has just read Little Red Riding Hood to me and now I’m supposed to go to sleep. But I’m finding it very difficult. I keep thinking of the story. Of Little Red Riding Hood being abducted by the Wolf and him then climbing into bed with her.

  I wonder what he did to her? I wonder how she would have felt? Would she have minded being abducted? The story doesn’t say. Would the Wolf have tied her up? Would it be like when Daddy used to tie me to a chair?

  I don’t know, but it’s making me feel funny inside again. It’s that feeling I used to get when I was little. I’m growing up now. Daddy says I’m too old to be tied to a chair anymore. So if I’m bad he makes me sit in the cupboard under the stairs. I have to stay there until he says I can come out. I could open the door myself. It’s not locked and there is a handle on the inside. But I never do. I like to be good. I like the feeling being good gives me.

  Daddy has left the book for me to read myself. So I reach for it and my torch. Making a little tent with the duvet over my head and putting the torch, on I start to read.

  What big teeth you’ve got… all the better to eat you with.

  Theresa

  Tim seemed distracted, walking around the house searching for his things and ignoring the cup of tea and the breakfast she’d laid out on the kitchen table.

  “Tim!” Theresa called, “don’t you want this breakfast?”

  “What?” he popped his head around the kitchen door.

  “Breakfast - do you want it?”

  “Too much on, got to get to the university, lots of catching up to do after being away.”

  Following him into the hallway, where he was putting on his coat, she said, “I’ll see you for dinner, then.”

  Tim froze, one arm in his coat and the other out. “Um, no, not tonight.”

  “Oh,” Theresa said. She was sure last night he’d said he’d be home at the normal time the following evening.

  “Yeah, I forgot about a visiting speaker tonight, something the Dean has arranged. You know what that means.”

  Theresa was only too aware of what it meant. Drinks, dinner and then finally a speech over coffee and brandy. The old boys’ club at its finest. It was so bloody unfair. Theresa’s breath hitched and she had to quickly pull herself together before Tim noticed.

  “Oh, anyone I know?” she asked, trying for nonchalance, but not quite making it and stuffing her hands in her dressing gown so their trembling wouldn’t give her away.

  “Doubt it. Don’t wait up,” he said and then he was out of the door as quickly as if a rabid dog were at his heels.

  No kiss. No, ‘have a nice day’. Nothing. She stood there, looking at the closed door, feeling foolish, undervalued and undermined. Any confidence she’d felt about being able to face the day seeped out of her eyes with her tears.

  Walking back into the kitchen, she looked at the meal of boiled eggs and toast laid out on the kitchen table and the thought of eating it alone made her feel nauseous. She couldn’t get over the unfeeling, dismissive way Tim had left the house. She grabbed a cup of coffee and turning her back on the pretty crockery and matching egg cups, went into the lounge to watch the television.

  By mid-morning she was upstairs tidying up. On Tim’s side of the bed she found briefing papers on the speaker he’d mentioned that morning. She knew Tim liked to be well prepared, always said that to appear knowledgeable to both the speaker and his colleagues, made him look good and placed him in good stead for any promotions, or interesting projects that might come along.

  Sitting on the bed, she began to leaf through them, quickly becoming absorbed. Dr Craig Juniper was a renowned speaker on forensic practices, which fitted into the broader scope of Tim’s subject, Criminology. On the one hand Teresa was glad Tim had left the information behind, for now they could have a discussion on the speech, maybe tomorrow. But on the other, she knew Tim would be concerned, thinking maybe he had lost the notes. What if he hadn’t read them yet?

  Picking up the phone resting on the bedside table, she rang Tim’s mobile, but it wasn’t answered. So she tried his secretary.

  “Hi Rose,” she said. “Theresa here. Look Tim’s left his notes here on the visiting speaker tonight. Can you let him know? I can bring them over for him if he needs them.”

  “Speaker?”

  “Yes, Dr Craig Juniper.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Y
es, Rose. What’s the matter?” Theresa could hear the rustling of paper and the clicking of a computer keyboard in the background.

  “Sorry, Theresa, but that’s next week.”

  “Oh,” Theresa stilled. She wanted to ask Rose if she was sure, but stopped the words before they flew out of her mouth. She knew Rose didn’t make errors. Instead she said, “No worries, then, I must have made a mistake. Don’t tell Tim I called, with you? Don’t want him thinking I was worrying unnecessarily.”

  “That’s okay…”

  Theresa replaced the telephone, cutting off Rose’s drivel and stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she sat in a chair. Lies. Tim’s words that morning had been lies. All lies. What the hell was going on? With her head swimming and fighting the desire to close her eyes and collapse to the floor, Theresa managed to fill a glass with water and open the back door. Tumbling out into the garden, she sat down on the edge of the paving slabs of the patio, sipping the water and looking at the expanse of Tim’s perfect lawn.

  After a while she came to a decision and fished her mobile out of the pocket of her jeans and quickly making the call before she could change her mind. She’d looked up the number in a fit of pique earlier and had programmed it into her mobile.

  “Aldershot Police Station.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone sounded gruff and not very pleasant and for a moment Theresa thought about cutting the call, but her desire to talk to someone about the awful suspicions she was having, was too great, so she stuttered, “I’d like to speak to someone dealing with the murder of Sally Smith.”

  After a few clicks, she heard, “DC Douglas.”

  “Um,” Theresa had no idea who DC Douglas was, so she repeated, “I’d like to speak to someone dealing with the murder of Sally Smith.”

  “I’m part of that team, ma’am, how can I help?”

  “I, um, I might have some information that could be important.”

  “Very well, could I firstly have your name?”

  “Theresa Dennison.”

  “Okay, Mrs Dennison…”

  DC Douglas waited, but Theresa was having trouble spitting out the foul words, which were sticking to the sides of her mouth like candy floss. Could she really do this? But then she thought of the dismissive way Tim had treated her that morning and the lies he’d told her.

  “Mrs Dennison?” DC Douglas prompted.

  “What? Oh, sorry, yes, I think my husband might have something to do with it.” Theresa tried to slow her speech down, but she was having trouble stopping the torrent of words now she was actually saying them out loud. “The murder. You see he was visiting the area the night she was killed and this morning he’s just lied to me about what’s happening tonight at the university and, you’ll never believe this, but he tried to strangle me once when we were having sex. So you see, he could have something to do with it. You do see don’t you?” Theresa increased her grip on the mobile.

  “Is there anything else?

  “What do you mean anything else? Isn’t that enough?”

  “I mean evidence, madam.”

  “Evidence?” Theresa was stunned into silence for a moment. She hadn’t thought about that. How stupid of her.

  “Yes, evidence,” he repeated.

  “Well, no. No, I suppose not.”

  “So it’s just a feeling then?”

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “What’s your husband’s name and what does he do?”

  “Tim… Professor Tim Dennison.”

  “Professor?”

  “Yes, in criminology.”

  “Really?” the young man sounded doubtful, as if he was thinking this was nothing but a crack-pot call.

  “Really,” Theresa said with more determination that she actually felt. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure there’s much we can do if all you have is a feeling. Perhaps if you think of anything else? Or if anything else happens? You could give us a call again then.”

  “You mean if anyone else is killed?” she spat.

  “Not at all, Mrs Dennison, please calm down.”

  “Look, don’t bother,” she said feeling humiliated, which made her angrier. “I’ll sort it out myself.”

  Theresa cut the call, threw the mobile onto the grass and then promptly burst into tears, feeling once more out manoeuvred by a man.

  Ciaran

  Ciaran Douglas looked at the telephone handset he’d just replaced and wondered about the woman who’d made the call. Should he draw it to Anderson’s attention? Or would the guv feel he was becoming as loopy as the woman he’d just been speaking to? But what if Mrs Dennison was right and something else did happen and he’d done nothing about it? He chewed absently on his finger nail before coming to a decision. Pushing his chair away from his desk, he stood and poked his head around Anderson’s door.

  “Guv, can I have a word?”

  “Mmm,” Anderson said through a mouthful of something or other. Whatever it was it must have had contained the chocolate which was sprinkled all over the front of his shirt and tie.

  “Um, with everyone?”

  Once again Anderson nodded, so Ciaran rounded up Holly and Crane and once they were all lounging around the table and looking at him expectantly, he recounted the conversation he’d just had with Mrs Dennison.

  “And?” asked Anderson

  “And I don’t know what to do, guv. So I thought it best to bring it to the team.”

  “Oh, so we can collectively get it wrong,” laughed Crane.

  As Ciaran’s face flamed Anderson said, “Ciaran, take no notice and, Crane, behave yourself.”

  “Sorry,” Crane said. “But joking apart, there’s not much we can do, is there?”

  “I could dig into his background,” offered Holly. “See if he’s got any previous and who knows what I might find out online.”

  Ciaran could have kissed her for taking his dilemma seriously, but the thought of kissing Holly, once more, brought the flush of embarrassment to his face that he was having to deal with rather more often than he’d like.

  “How likely is our choker to kill again?” asked Crane. “That’s the nub of it from what I can see.”

  “I might be able to help with that too,” said Holly, fishing a small tablet from one of the many voluminous pockets in her cargo pants. “May I, guv?”

  “Please do, Holly.”

  After a few swipes she read, “According to scientific evidence when the brain is deprived of oxygen, it induces a lucid, semi-hallucinogenic state called hypoxia. Now, it’s a condition in which the body as a whole, or a region of the body, is deprived of adequate oxygen supply. And when this is combined with orgasm, the rush is said to be no less powerful than cocaine, and this is the bit that is particularly telling; it’s highly addictive.”

  “Oh,” said Crane looking troubled.

  Ciaran could feel a palpable tension. It was as if their collective fear was filling the room, pushing out all the air from it and making his head swim. He realised Holly was still speaking.

  “Hallucinogenic states of mind brought about by chronic hypoxia may be similar to the hallucinations experienced by climbers at altitude and could be a reason why mountain climbing is said to be very addictive.”

  “So our choker is addicted to this hypoxia?” asked Anderson.

  “That’s what I think,” agreed Holly. “It seems the increased pleasure results in the body producing more endorphins as it approaches the state of asphyxia. Normal sex won’t be enough for him anymore. He’ll be craving the ultimate rush that only hypoxia can give him.”

  “What if that’s not what he’s becoming addicted to?”

  “Sorry?” asked Anderson.

  Crane continued, “What if the ultimate rush for him is killing the woman he’s choking?”

  Ciaran closed his eyes and wished very hard he could be somewhere, anywhere, other than at work trying to catch a sadistic murderer, who coul
d very well be unable to stop killing again. But when he opened them, he was still there. As was their killer. Ciaran could feel his malevolent presence, as though he was in the room with them.

  Watching them.

  Mocking them.

  Theresa

  That night, Tim didn’t get home until nearly midnight. Pretending to be asleep, Theresa lay as still as she could, eyes closed, listening to her husband undress, bang around in the bathroom and then slide into bed beside her. She could smell soap and toothpaste, but they couldn’t completely disguise the smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes emanating from his skin and hair. Hoping against hope that he wouldn’t turn and reach for her, she held her breath as he settled into his normal sleeping position, back towards her and covers pulled up to his neck.

  She soon heard his breathing become deep and regular as he fell into a sound sleep. He twitched once or twice and then stilled. She was safe. He didn’t want her tonight. She couldn’t imagine ever wanting to make love to him again. Not whilst the torturous thoughts were wheeling around in her brain. But then she couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Not since the neck incident she didn’t think. About six months ago. Had he gone off her because she wouldn’t stoop to his perverted level? But then again they hadn’t had sex much before that either. She didn’t know whether it was awful they had so little sex. Maybe it was what all couples did - gradually slip out of the habit? Was that what was normal? Who was to say what was normal?

  Sleep was further away than ever. Tim was oblivious to her twists and turns as she tried to get comfortable in the hope sleep would come. But the harder she chased it, the more awake she became. Glancing at the clock she saw it was 1.00am, so she decided to get up and make a hot drink. Perhaps some hot chocolate would do the trick. That and a boring book.