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

by Wendy Cartmell

  Tim had come home a couple of evenings after work, found the house cold and dark, with no meal ready and had turned and walked straight back out again. She’d heard him from the sanctuary of her bed. She couldn’t blame Tim. But couldn’t warm to him either. She didn’t know how to get back to the place where she’d trusted him. Even if it turned out he wasn’t that awful killer, as she and the police suspected he was, then why had he really been in Aldershot, Portsmouth and Southampton?

  To her it still seemed extremely unlikely he was telling the truth when he said he was on university business. It had all combined to force a barrier between them. Life wasn’t some Star Trek adventure where a ray gun could pierce an invisible force field. If it was, then her ray gun was clearly out of juice.

  The phone rang on the bedside table. She nearly let it ring out, but at the last minute picked it up and managed to mumble some sort of greeting into the receiver.

  “Mrs Dennison?”

  It was the Crane bloke from the police, she recognised his voice. “Yes, what is it?” She couldn’t be bothered with social niceties.

  He went on to explain they’d had a breakthrough in the murder cases. They were no longer looking at Tim. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her. In fact the case had absolutely nothing to do with either of them.

  “Nothing?”

  “No, Mrs Dennison, nothing. So we won’t be bothering you again.”

  She was sure that implicit in those words was the instruction that she wasn’t to bother them again, either. She didn’t want to talk to Crane anymore, so she replaced the receiver. But she fumbled in the dim room and the phone ended up crashing to the floor, the dialling tone wailing. She left it where it was.

  She was stunned by Crane’s words. The murders weren’t anything to do with either of them. If that was the case, then what the hell had Tim been up to? The question pierced the dullness surrounding her. It was as if light had flooded into the bedroom and she could see clearly again.

  Struggling upright, she swung her legs off the bed and staggered into the bathroom, her feet stiff and unfeeling after many hours of lying down. Turning the power shower on full, she shed the clothes she’d been wearing for the last three days. Shivering, she stepped into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her.

  By the time Tim was due home, the house was in order. She’d let her standards slip over the past week, as she’d been spending more time in bed than out of it. She hadn’t had a tin of polish or a duster in her hand for ages. The house felt unloved. Uncared for. A reflection of herself. But she was determined to change.

  It was nearly 8pm by the time he walked through the front door. Being greeted by the smell of a rather good goulash and the sound of a nice bottle of red being uncorked, seemed to relax him. When he sat at the table she asked if he’d had a phone call from Crane as well and he nodded that he had, as he ate a forkful of food.

  As she picked at her own meal, she wondered aloud if she needed psychiatric help, as she had become so obsessed with him being the killer.

  “I’m sorry for not trusting you, Tim,” she said. “It was a horrible thing I did, thinking you were a murderer and I’m ashamed I contacted Aldershot police. There must be something wrong with me. I don’t know how I could treat my husband of twenty-five years that way.”

  She noticed Tim had gone rather pale and his hand was shaking as he reached for his wine glass.

  “Tim? What’s wrong?”

  She had to endure his close scrutiny for a while before he spoke. “I think it’s about time I con… told you what has been happening. It’s not right that you’re doubting your sanity. It’s true, I was away on the nights of the murders, but I hope you now understand it was only a co-incidence.”

  “Of course I do, Tim, I’ve just told you that. What do you mean by ‘it’s about time you confessed’? That’s what you were going to say wasn’t it? What do you have to confess to?” Theresa became aware she was screwing her napkin up, twisting and turning it in clawed fingers and threw it down onto the table.

  “I’m having an affair,” he said, looking at the table instead of her. “But not with a woman.”

  Tears were threatening now and she fought against them, lifting her glass to her lips to take a reviving mouthful.

  “With a man.”

  Suddenly Theresa seemed to be in a vacuum. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. She forgot to breathe. The glass slipped out of her hand. The bottom of it bounced on the table and gravity did the rest. She heard herself gasp for air and Tim choke as he tried to drink a glass of water. The clock ticked behind her and a car horn blared somewhere outside. Theresa felt disassociated from reality, from her feelings. It was as if she were floating above the table, watching, as her life shattered into as many pieces as the glass on the floor.

  “I think I better leave,” he said. “I’ll come along later in the week and collect some of my belongings. I really am sorry, Theresa. But it’s for the best that it’s out in the open. It’s no reflection on you, honestly. It’s me. All me.”

  She heard him move into the hall. His car keys rattled as he collected them from the dish and the fabric of his coat whispered as he shrugged into it. The sound of the door closing behind him was the softest of clicks. No slamming. No anger. No recriminations. No shouted arguments like in the romance novels she enjoyed. The silence surrounding her felt wrong. So she shouted into it, screaming out the years of her marriage. She picked up Tim’s wine glass and threw it against the wall. Jagged bits of glass and wine covered the floor and were soon joined by the new Habitat plates they’d been eating off. The Pyrex casserole dish containing the remains of the goulash proved harder to smash, but the contents of it sprayed satisfyingly around the walls.

  The anger left her as quickly as it had arrived and she sank to the floor crying for her marriage, her ruined life and the wasted years, oblivious to her cut feet and hands, her blood mingling with the pools of red wine.

  Holly

  “Sorry, guv, that’s the best I can do?”

  “Really?” Anderson asked Holly.

  “Honest. The only similar looking faces to our suspect are around Newcastle and Scotland, with one in the US and one in Australia. He’s obviously been very careful and doesn’t use his real photo on any social media.”

  “That’s buggered us then,” said Anderson, throwing his reading glasses onto his desk.

  “So, I reckon it’s back to my idea, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Only this time if I arrange meetings at a local pub, we’ll know if the bloke who turns up is the right one, because we know what he looks like. And he doesn’t know that we know, if you get my drift.”

  To Holly it seemed to make perfect sense. She wouldn’t be in danger and would be surrounded by coppers in the pub in plain clothes. “I don’t see how else we can find him. We have to set up a sting and draw him out.”

  “I reckon you’re right. Let me think on it and check with Grimes.”

  “Must we?” Holly could see her plan going down the drain again, along with her enthusiasm for the job. She could almost hear the death gurgles as it swirled around the plug hole.

  “It’s alright, Holly, I reckon we’ll get a green light this time, but you know I can’t miss out that step. Not if I want to keep my job. And you yours, by the way.”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “So, off you go and write up your plan and do a risk analysis…”

  “Oh no, guv, me?”

  Anderson put his glasses back on and looked at her over the top of them.

  “Okay, okay, I’m on it.”

  Holly slunk back to her desk. She hated paperwork, forms to fill in, requests to be made, search warrants applied for. All she wanted to do was to immerse herself in her computer programmes, searching and probing and doing the stuff she was best at. Mind you, at least she’d get a chance to be at the sharp end of policing for a change, rather than holed up in the office. Get out into the sunshine. No,
scrub that, step into the darkness of a smelly pub.

  “You alright, Hols, are you talking to yourself?”

  She looked up to find Ciaran grinning at her, his phone, as usual, glued to his hand. He took it everywhere with him now, scared to miss a call from Donna. That woman had him on a bloody string. Holly couldn’t understand the attraction. Who wanted a painted doll, a glorified waitress in the air, all white teeth and hair spray? No, her tastes ran to a more natural look, although she preferred her girlfriends to be more feminine than she herself was. She supposed straight people would class her as ‘the male’ in a lesbian couple, but that was only something conjured up by those who liked to put peoples in boxes. And Holly wasn’t a box kind of person.

  “Yeah, cool thanks, just mulling something over. You?”

  “Just waiting for Donna to call to say she’s landed. We’re going out for a meal tonight.”

  “Nice,” she said and turned back to her computer to start outlining her plan.

  Not being someone who waited for permission to put something into action, as soon as she’d realised there would be no luck with facial recognition on their killer, she’d put another profile up on S-Dates and had already had a couple of responses. So it was only a matter of agreeing a meeting, at a suitable place, with the two men who’d shown an interest in participating in the more adventurous kind of sex.

  It was raining hard the night of the sting, which they hoped wouldn’t put either of the two men they were waiting for, off. In the end Holly had only managed to get two of the men who had responded to her listing on S-Dates, to agree to meet. But two were better than none. She’d asked for photos, but neither man would send one, instead agreeing to meet towards the back of The Goose public house in Aldershot. The men would be wearing a trilby hat and her, well she would have on her ever present cargo pants and hoped each would find the other. Sitting where agreed and looking around, she saw no one was wearing a trilby á la Olly Murs, so she figured the first man still wasn’t there.

  Ciaran was at the bar, with Donna of all people. He’d said it was a chance meeting, but Holly hadn’t believed a word of it. Ciaran had then said it would make his presence seem more natural, a bloke out with his bird for a drink. Holly thought Crane was going to throw him out of the pub when he’d found out, but Anderson had calmed him down, pointing out it would do no one any good if they created a scene. At the very least it would ruin the whole operation. So Ciaran had been allowed to stay, as had Donna, who’d said if anyone had a right to be there at the arrest, she had. After all it was her best friend who had been killed. Holly thought that rather over the top, bearing in mind the woman was hardly ever home and had known very little about her so called best friend. But for once she’d managed to keep her mouth shut. There had been little point in inflaming the situation, otherwise the whole thing would have been cancelled and who knew when she’d get another chance to be involved in an undercover operation. And, besides, she was having too much fun.

  “You alright, Holly?” the voice in her ear made her jump. Bugger, she still hadn’t got used to the communications system.

  “Yes, thanks, Crane,” she mumbled into her wrist, feeling a bit stupid.

  “There’s a bloke on his way in, complete with hat.”

  She nodded, then realised she should have spoken and quickly said, “Okay.” She pulled out her mobile phone and played with it, so she would look like everyone else in the pub. “Does he look like our man?”

  “Not sure, couldn’t see him properly.”

  Before she could reply to Crane a man walked up to her. “Hey, Holly?”

  They’d decided to use her real name as it was sufficiently different and there would be less room for confusion. There were just too many Emily’s, Amber’s and Jessica’s around at the moment.

  “John?” she asked, standing. At his nod of agreement she said, “You’re not like I imagined you.”

  Upon hearing the code sentence, Ciaran and Crane appeared like Will-o’-the-wisps suddenly manifesting and each grabbed an arm.

  “Oy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” John struggled against them as his fellow drinkers turned to look.

  “Aldershot Police. Don’t say anything, just turn round and calmly walk out of the pub with us. Got it?”

  The menace was clear in Crane’s voice and he’d turned little old John from belligerent to bewildered in an instant. She couldn’t blame him. Crane would have scared the shit out of her too.

  John dramatically nodded his head in agreement and did as they asked. Holly sat down with a thump on her seat, not realising how rigid she’d been with nerves until it was over. Donna was watching her, eyes wide with excitement. But Holly wasn’t excited. John wasn’t the one they were looking for. Maybe the next one wouldn’t be either. What a disappointment that would turn out to be. But she had to remain positive, she berated herself.

  The gawkers had gone back to their drinks as Holly asked, “All okay?” into her wrist.

  “Fine, John has left. I don’t think he’ll be so quick to try and find a partner on the internet next time he’s feeling randy though,” said Crane, making Holly smile and feel better.

  She went back to fiddling with her phone as Ciaran returned to the bar and took up his place with Donna, whose eyes were still as wide as saucers and she was looking at Ciaran with a new respect. So that’s what this masquerade had been all about. The cunning fox. From the looks of her, Donna was practically eating out of Ciaran’s hand, smiling, laughing and touching his arm. Her adoration was clear. It looked like Ciaran had played a blinder.

  Walking over to them at the bar, Holly ordered a sparkling water.

  “You alright love?” the barman asked. “That was a strange stunt you lot pulled there.”

  “Yes, I’m fine thanks.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” said Holly, but she wasn’t able to meet his eye and shuffled the coins in her hand.

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “Um…”

  “Just a spot of police business,” Ciaran leaned over and flashed his badge.

  “I gathered that,” the barman said. “I just don’t want my customers spooked and leaving in droves.”

  “They won’t be. We’ll be discreet.”

  “Fair enough. That one’s on me, love,” he said to her and turned away to serve someone else.

  Ciaran grinned at Donna and puffed out his chest in importance, making Holly want to burst out laughing. But Donna was still in adoration mode and didn’t seem to mind Ciaran’s posturing.

  Holly didn’t have too much time to dwell on her colleague’s love life, as this time Anderson’s voice crackled in her ear.

  “Look sharp, another one is on the way.”

  “Thanks, guv,” Holly mumbled and returned to her seat once more looking at her phone. Although her head was slightly dipped towards the phone, she was looking over the top of it and noticed a straw hat with a black band around it bobbing over the heads of the other customers. The hat wove its way towards her and Holly steeled herself for another encounter.

  The man who walked up to her, removed his hat and shook the water off it. “Good idea, the hat, considering the weather,” he said and sat down in the chair opposite her without being asked. “I’m Darren,” he said, “and you must be Holly. Want a drink?”

  “I’ve already got one, thanks,” she said. “Um, you’re not like I imagined you to be.”

  “Really? Were you wanting a Greek God type? Sorry to disappoint, luv. Shall I leave now?”

  “Yes,” said Ciaran, who had moved up to stand behind Darren. “That would be a very good idea. Aldershot Police, now move.”

  Darren stumbled slightly as he rose and turned to look at Ciaran, the surprised look on his face worthy of any cartoon character and Holly had to laugh despite her disappointment. She gathered up her stuff and followed the two men out of The Goose. That was the end of that, she thought. Her deflation felt lik
e a blown up balloon, released without knotting it, as it huffed and puffed its way around the room before falling to the floor. But a more sobering thought was - how else were they going to find their killer?

  Boy

  Naturally, I’ve always been interested in the psychoanalysis of those who practise BDSM in one form or another. It’s a bit like, ‘doctor, heal thyself’, I suppose. Although the last thing I need is healing. The more I understand, the more I can come to terms with who I am and appreciate the needs of the others who I encounter from the BDSM community.

  There are a number of reasons commonly given for why a sadomasochist finds the practise of S&M enjoyable, and apparently the answer is largely dependent on the individual – no shit Sherlock.

  For some, taking on a role of compliance or helplessness offers a form of therapeutic escape from the stresses of life, from responsibility, or from guilt.

  For others, being under the power of a strong, controlling presence may evoke the feelings of safety and protection associated with childhood. They likewise may derive satisfaction from earning the approval of that figure. That’s me, don’t you think?

  But I’m changing as well. Perhaps I’m becoming more of a sadist. Sadists, it’s said, may enjoy the feeling of power and authority that comes from playing the dominant role, or receive pleasure vicariously through the suffering of the masochist. Now I can relate to that one. Thanks to Sally for bringing that side of me out! And some psychologist or other said a sadomasochistic relationship, as long as it is consensual, is not a psychological problem. So it’s official – I’m not mental, I’m just me.

  The other thing I was right about is BDSM can have addiction-like tendencies, with several features resembling those of drug addiction: craving, intoxication, tolerance and withdrawal. No wonder I can’t stop. Talking about Sally, she was the best. Numero Uno. Give that girl a gold medal. The others were good, but more of a silver and bronze medal if I’m honest. I’m still searching for another Sally. Someone who will take me to the heights of pleasure I’ve not reached since. I know it will happen.