Soul to Take

by Clare Revell

  “Mr. Vixen, its DS Ellery from TVP.” He put the call on speaker.

  “How did you get this number?” Farrell demanded. “It’s my personal one.”

  “From the art gallery, very helpful girl by the name of Bessie,” Zander replied. “I understand you’re on leave, and I’m very sorry for your loss. However, I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important.”

  “Very well. I can spare you a few minutes. How can I help you?”

  “I understand that DC York and DC Lexington came to see you yesterday. Can you tell me what that was in connection with?”

  “We had another painting go missing, and I called Izzy because—”

  Zander cut off the irritating silky tone. The bloke had some nerve. “I’m sorry, maybe I misunderstood you there. You called DC York even though you knew she’s no longer handling the stolen paintings case, and the PIN against you was still in effect.” Zander looked at DI Holmes and shook his head.

  “Actually, it isn’t,” Farrell said condescendingly. “The charges were groundless, and the PIN was rescinded a couple of days ago.”

  “Who by?”

  “Isabel had spoken to a high-ranking officer and did it herself. Anyway, she and the other officer took my statement regarding the theft and they left shortly afterwards.”

  Zander scrawled on a sheet of paper and shoved it across to DI Holmes. He’s lying. Isabel left before the statement was taken. Austin did it alone. The girl in the gallery told us that just now.

  He turned his attention back to the phone call. “Can you tell me what time that was?”

  “Around lunch time. They said they were going to grab a bite to eat on the way back to the station.”

  “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”

  “Is Izzy all right? She looked a little pale yesterday.”

  “She’s fine,” Zander said. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. I have to go. My flight is about to board.” The line went dead.

  Zander put the handset down. “I don’t believe a word of what he just said. But there’s no proof.”

  “Let me give Niamh a call and see which judge signed the court order. We can take it from there. But I agree. There is no way Isabel would do it herself.”

  “At least not voluntarily,” Zander commented quietly.

  ~*~

  Isabel shivered as Farrell put the phone down on the table beside him. Her hand and arm ached from where it was handcuffed to a pipe above her head. “Flight?”

  “I’m attending a family funeral in Ireland. They go on for over a week, you know,” he put on a fake Irish accent. “And the cops you work with have no idea it’s me. And I left you so many clues. Not sure they even know you’re missing.”

  “They’ll work it out.”

  Farrell turned his attention back to the easel in front of him and picked up the paintbrush. “You think so? All the information has been there all along. Right from the beginning. You knew you were the key. All those girls looked like you, were going to the same convention at the end of the month. The same one that you prattled on and on about.” He smirked. “I picked those girls so carefully. You were right about that, as well. The way their punishment only loosely fit the crime, sometimes a tenuous link. But they all cried at the end. Begged for their lives. Not that it worked. I mean they broke at least one of the commandments and had to pay for their sins.”

  Isabel frowned. “How was I the connection? I didn’t know them all. And I’d only spoken to a couple of them for a few seconds.”

  “You didn’t have to know them,” he yelled. “It was all your fault.”

  She swallowed. “What did I do to you that was so bad that you had to kill ten innocent women?”

  “Ten?” He scowled. “I thought it was eleven. Or is poor George still claiming responsibility for your gran? Only she really wasn’t any relation to you at all, was she? Poor Izzy has no one who loves her. No family. No one to miss her.”

  She bit her lip. “This won’t work, Farrell. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not caving or doing what you want.”

  “Oh, I’m not playing games.” He dabbed at the easel with a paintbrush. “You’ve sinned and have to pay the penalty. The wages of sin is death. Isn’t that right?”

  “Romans 6:23,” Isabel shot back.

  “Dreadful grammar though. It should be the wages of sin are death, not is death.”

  She shifted position slightly, trying to massage her wrist and numb hand. “The verse goes on to say—”

  He cut her off. “Yes. Confession. You confess and God forgives. Somewhere in John, I believe?”

  “1 John,” Isabel corrected. “1 John 1:9 actually.”

  “Yes, yes.” His tone took on the slightly irritated I-need-you-to-shut-up timbre she knew all too well. “You confess, He forgives you, and then you die, here, at my feet. Earthly justice has to be done. An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.”

  “Exodus 21:24. But if you read the comparable section in the Sermon on the Mount…”

  “Don’t speak while the teacher is speaking.”

  Isabel zipped her mouth closed and glared at him.

  He held up a hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of Leviticus 24:20. Just as he injured the other person the same must be inflicted on him. And in Deuteronomy 19:21 you must show no pity.”

  “Well, that doesn’t work in the Slayer murders,” she muttered. “He wouldn’t know pity or mercy if it hit him in the face. Plus which, the MO was the same for all the murders, regardless of what commandment he thought they’d broken.” She shifted position again. “Besides, in Matthew 5, it says turn the other cheek.”

  Farrell laughed. “So I could slap you twice and you’d do nothing. If I want your shirt, you’d give me your coat as well. And you’d walk two miles rather than one. No wonder you Christians are a weak, pitiable people.”

  She shook her head. “Actually, it’s the complete opposite. It takes great strength of character and great faith not to lash out and retaliate.” She moved her arm and struggled to her feet, gasping as she put weight on her damaged ankle. However, the pain in her leg would maybe be compensated by no cramp in her arm as it was no longer above her head.

  Farrell tilted his head, his eyes narrowed in hate as he watched her. “So I could kill you now, and you’d just let me.”

  “Let me think about that one for a moment.” Isabel closed her eyes as if thinking. In reality she was just taking a moment out, to try and find a way to talk him around, into letting her out of here. She shifted her weight. Her dead arm sprang to life with excruciating pins and needles. “What are you doing anyway?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “Really?” Isabel didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I thought you were running a marathon.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Izzy. Didn’t your mother teach you that asking a stupid question only begets a stupid answer? I am putting the final touches to the last painting. The same way I added to all the others.”

  She frowned. “Was it you all along?”

  “Was what me?”

  “Let’s just be honest with each other now. The time for games is over. I mean, you’re going to kill me, right? So, who will I tell, aside from God, Who will already know it was you?”

  “You have a point.” Farrell studied the painting with a thoughtful expression. He added a little more paint to the brush, did a few strokes, and then laid the brush down. He turned the painting to face Isabel. “Tell me, what do you think?”

  She shivered. The painting was Lost Love. But the figure in the water had been altered to show her new hair style and colour. Farrell’s face now appeared behind her. “It’s different.”

  He scowled. “You ruined it by changing your hair.”

  “Did you steal the paintings?”

  He snorted derisively. “I removed them from my gallery and then repor
ted them missing. It’s hardly the same thing.”

  “So was it you all this time?” Curiosity piqued, she had to know whether he was the brains or just the lackey. Were there two of them or just one?

  “Izzy, if you want to know if I’m the Slayer, try asking directly rather than beating around the bush.”

  Irritated now, but trying not to show it, Isabel stared straight at Farrell. “OK. Are you the Slayer?”

  He moved over to her and ran a hand down her cheek, laughing as she slapped it away. “Yes, Izzy. But it wasn’t just me. I had some help.”

  “Really? Who?”

  He laughed. “You don’t seriously expect me to give away all my secrets, do you? Where’s the fun in that?” He moved to a closet and pulled out a long, white towelling robe. “The last one. In a way I shall miss this. It took some planning. So much time invested in enacting the perfect crime, the perfect murder. The perfect revenge.”

  “Why?” she asked. Her stomach turned and she was glad she hadn’t eaten in some hours or she’d be throwing up again.

  “Because of this!” He pointed to the painting in the middle of the room. “Lost Love. You left me, Izzy. I loved you. You tossed all that aside and walked away. I will never forgive you for that.”

  Isabel shifted position again, her ankle sending shards of pain up her leg. “You know why. Do you really need to keep me chained here?”

  “You might run away again.” Farrell frowned. “I can’t have that.”

  “Hah!” she retorted. “I can barely stand. I’ve torn something in my ankle. I won’t be running anywhere for a long time.”

  He studied her long and hard, making her decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Do you want me to beg?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He fetched a stool. “Have a seat.”

  She sat, thankful to be off her ankle. “Thank you.”

  He knelt at her feet and gently raised her foot, taking off her trainer and sock. He ran a hand over the swollen joint, eliciting a groan of pain. “It is rather swollen.”

  “Just a tad.”

  His fingers alternately rubbed then prodded the ankle, sending waves of pain radiating though her. “Why did you leave me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know why I left. The same reason I asked for the PIN. But you’ve been planning this for months. The towels and lingerie were bought in March. Long before I broke up with you.”

  He slammed her ankle against the leg of the stool.

  She screamed and gasped in agony.

  “You never loved me,” Farrell hissed. “The first time you told me we were through, I knew you didn’t love me—not how I wanted to be loved. I never came first in your life. You were so self-righteous, always spouting off about God and love, yet you never loved me. You’re not as perfect as you think you are. You broke all the commandments, Izzy. The same as them, the same as me, yet you acted as though you didn’t. They had to pay and so do you. It’s a shame you had to ruin it by doing this to your hair.”

  “That would be the point of doing it.”

  He slapped her cheek with the back of his hand, slamming her head into the wall so hard she saw stars. Her eyes watered.

  “Well?” Farrell demanded. “What’s your next move or smart comment going to be?”

  She sucked in a deep breath, prayers ascending heavenward as she slowly turned her head to offer him her other cheek.

  Farrell swore, rose to his feet and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Isabel sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Would they find her in time or was this really how things would end?

  ~*~

  Zander sat at his desk. He wanted to be out doing things, not sitting here being useless.

  A uniformed officer came over to the desk. “Sarge, this just got delivered to the front desk for you. It’s marked urgent.”

  Zander reached out. “Thank you.” His heart stopped at the sight of the brown A5 envelope. “Who delivered it?”

  “A courier. He’s being fingerprinted now. DI Holmes left a standing instruction.”

  Zander nodded. “Good.” He glanced over at Will as the uniformed officer left. “Get down there now and get a description from him or his company as to who sent this.”

  Will nodded and ran from the room.

  Zander tugged a pair of gloves from the box on his desk. “Guv!” he yelled.

  DI Holmes opened his office door. “What is it?”

  Zander waved the envelope at him. “Mail. Only this time it’s addressed to me, but it’s the Slayer’s handwriting.”

  “Open it carefully.” DI Holmes grabbed two evidence bags and crossed the short distance to Zander’s desk.

  Breath coming in gasps, his heart pounding and stomach clenching, Zander opened the envelope. “OK. The postcard shows a white house on a road junction. No road name.” He turned it over and frowned. “OK. This makes no sense whatsoever. What in the world is IC1?”

  I am the Lord your God. Thou shalt not get caught. IC1

  16

  Zander read the card again as he slid it into an evidence bag. “I am the Lord your God. Thou shalt not get caught. I.C.1.”

  DI Holmes took the card. He flipped it over and studied the photograph. “I’ve seen that house somewhere before.” He leaned across Isabel’s desk and worked the mouse for a moment. “Here you go.” He enlarged the photo and held the postcard against the screen. “Perfect match.”

  “Where’s that from?” Zander asked. “And what’s it doing on Isabel’s computer?”

  “It was amongst the images on your destroyed phone we found in your burned-out car. We couldn’t retrieve much information, but your photos survived intact.”

  “I never took that photo. Let me see.” Zander dropped into Isabel’s chair and slowly clicked through all the photos. He peered at the screen. “The date stamp is early in May. It fits the lighting and they were all taken on the same day. But they weren’t taken in the order of the murders.”

  “Oh?” DI Holmes asked.

  Zander pointed. “That is murder site number one, but photo number five.” He glanced up. “Has anyone plotted these on a map? Get an idea of the distances? It might tell us where this one is in relation to the others. Presumably he’d have started taking photos close to home or ended up there.”

  DI Holmes clicked his fingers. “Jason, go and find a fresh map and do that. Make sure that you number each pin according to the order the photos were taken.”

  “Guv,” Jason responded.

  Zander turned his attention back to the postcard, the penny dropping as to the code on the postcard. “Of course. But… How did he know about this commandment? He’s even called it IC1. Isabel’s first commandment. How would he even know that unless he’d been in this squad room and seen the board? Those are Isabel’s made up joke commandments. No one knows about them bar us.”

  DS Philips rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you saying it’s one of us?”

  “I’m saying, the Slayer is a cop or has someone working with him who’s a cop. My source inside said he knew who it was. He mentioned the Guv by name and said there was someone higher up the chain of command as well.”

  DI Holmes raised an eyebrow. “So that’s why you’ve been keeping files from me and keeping me in the dark about things?”

  Zander nodded. “Yeah, sorry. We just have no idea who we can trust.”

  “Isabel said exactly the same thing. It’s fine. So what is the real reason that DS Painter is in Margate? You can’t tell me it’s for a composite sketch.”

  “He went to ask Gramps to ID some photos. He isn’t at Grace’s. He’s at the parental’s farm in Margate. We think he saw the bloke who killed Lexi and therefore can ID the Slayer.” He looked at the postcard again. There was something written in small print in the corner of it. It looked familiar. He moved over to the incident board and picked up a pen. Slowly he drew an eleventh row and extended the columns into it.

  Then he cha
nged pens. Isabel York he wrote in the first space. Police Officer went into the second. He left the third blank, adding Thou shalt not get caught, I.C.1 into the column for the commandments.

  ~*~

  Isabel looked at the towelling dress. It was now lying on the back of a chair. “Did you make it?” she asked.

  Farrell shook his head. He’d finally come back into the room, having left her alone for around quarter of an hour. “No. Cynthia did.”

  She angled her head and studied him. “Cynthia as in the non-existent wife of Chief Superintendent Clydesdale? Or a different one? And speaking of the Chief Super, why was he here earlier?”

  “Just being neighbourly. And Cynthia is my mother. Lovely woman, you met her when you arrived. She opened the door.”

  Isabel frowned. The woman who’d let her into the house didn’t look old enough to be his mother.

  Farrell raised an eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinking. Technically she’s my stepmother. She’s two years older than me. What can I say? Stepmother by name, sister by nature. She does a very good Izzy impression as well…with a wig, of course.”

  Isabel jerked upright. “What?”

  “The bank. When did you discover all your money had gone?”

  “Not soon enough,” she replied. “What I’d like to know is why you did it?”

  “You owed me.”

  “How?” Isabel demanded. To the best of her knowledge, she didn’t owe him a penny.

  He tapped his fingers on his thigh. “Dinners, dates, all the flowers and expensive trips. The dresses I bought you. You owed me for all of it. I don’t have money to waste on you when you treat me like that.”

  “So this is just some petty revenge?” she wondered aloud. “Some spur of the moment thing?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She rubbed her wrist. What she’d give for a hair grip right now to pick the lock with. But her now really short hair didn’t require them.

  “It took months of planning.”

  She decided to stroke his ego. The more she kept him talking, the longer it put off her death and gave Zander time to realise she was missing and hopefully find her. “Very clever planning. I bet it took a while to work everything out. Tell me something. The dresses. Where did you get the idea?”