Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  “Never gonna happen Jesse. I’ve seen you naked, remember?”

  “Ouch.” Anders supressed a yawn and looked up to a camera in the corridor.

  “Come on, let’s wrap this up. Janice or Beth?”

  “Janice is just ugly. Beth. She’s prettier.” Anders gave a sigh and stepped into Beth’s room. She sat on the chair with her legs tucked under her, cradling a hot cup of coffee in her hands, steam rising from the dark liquid.

  “Oh, hi,” she said as Anders entered. She almost dropped her mug as the true questioning began.

  “So, Beth. Were you the one laughing and goading Mitch on as he killed his father, or were you the one screaming and hiding behind a shelf?”

  “What? You can’t accuse me of that!”

  “He’s punching well above his weight. See, I think you’re about, what, a seven? Attractive, but not enough to get the really good looking, rich guys. Mitch? He’s a five, on a good day when you’ve had too much to drink.”

  Beth shrank in her chair as Anders spoke.

  “But the thing about five’s or less. When a pretty girl eggs them on? They’ll do just about anything. Especially when they can rationalise it to themselves. And especially when there’s a cool five million involved. Nice coat.”

  “I want a lawyer,” she said. Anders ignored her.

  “Did you cheer him on or stand back and let him do it? I think you put him to it then stood back and watched the show. Not quite what you were expecting was it? There’s a lot of blood in a body. Smeared around the place, looks a lot more than it actually is. Then the insides start spilling out. It’s so much worse than you think.” Beth started to sob quietly, and Anders saw her emotions for what they were. Guilt.

  “I love films. Aaron, my boy. He loves Marvel films. They’re all PG-Thirteen, or Twelve-A as you say here. Lots of violence but no blood. Makes people think that getting shot or beaten up comes with no consequences, but it does. It’s horrible and sticky and gory and it just won’t wash off no matter how hard you scrub.” Beth subconsciously wiped her hands, the sleeves of her baggy jumper lifting up to reveal arms rubbed raw from scrubbing.

  “I want a lawyer!” she screamed. “I want a lawyer!” Anders stood up slowly and gazed at her coolly.

  “There’s one on the way. In the meantime I’m arresting you for the murder of James Smith. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?” Beth sobbed loudly, screaming in abject terror. Anders waited calmly until she had stopped her melodrama.

  “Do you understand?” she repeated, her voice hard in the sudden silence.

  Beth, snot dribbling from her nose, eyes puffy with tears, nodded her understanding, flinching as the door to the interrogation room slammed shut, leaving her alone.

  “Strike two. One more and we’re out,” said Anders as she left the room and made her way to the third interrogation.

  “This is messed up,” said Jesse. “All three of them?” Anders grimaced as she opened the thick metal door, typing in the code and giving the door a hefty shove.

  Janice looked up suddenly, startled from her reverie. She was about to protest until she saw the anger radiating from Anders as she glowered at Janice for what seemed like an age. Eventually she spoke, her voice filled with fury and scorn. She’d inhabited the darkness that had killed this woman’s husband. Re-enacted the scene countless times to piece together the evidence. She hated the three of them for that. She would see them pay and eventually let go of that hate, let the light shine and allow Smith to speak through her. She’d let his light banish the darkness from her, little whispers and tendrils of his death clinging to Anders for the rest of her life. She bore that burden gladly so the dead may rest.

  “You were married for thirty years. That’s a long time to hate someone.”

  “I loved him once.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. You stood by and goaded Mitch. Laughed and cheered as your son caved in the skull of his father and your husband. Mitch is guilty of the act. Beth of committing him to it. But you saw to it the deed was done.” Janice straightened her back and glared at Anders defiantly.

  “He spent more time in that damn store of his than with his own wife. He never cared one jot about me. Just his stupid trinkets. I cheered because he neglected his own family. For that, he deserved it.” Shaking her head at Janice, Anders left the room. There was nothing else to say.

  Chapter 12

  Anders woke to find herself curled up on the sofa in Abi’s office. Every muscle ached, scrunched as she was in the confined space. She’d managed a few hours’ sleep and groggily made to sit up, checking the time with a quick turn of the wrist. A voice made her startle and she shot up, hand reaching for a gun that was no longer there. Old habits died hard and she scowled at Mal as he stuck his head through the door, having seen her wake.

  “I’ve just seen the footage. Impressive,” he said, his smile cutting through her temper. He looked much refreshed and had even shaved, looking ten years younger and grinning like a cheeky school boy as Anders sat up and arched her back with a huge yawn, arms stretching to coax some blood into them.

  “Would have woken you, but you needed your beauty sleep,” she replied. Mal shrugged to show that he wasn’t bothered and beckoned her into the hub.

  “Come see the news. McDowell is extolling our virtues, telling the world that we will catch any entry to the competition before the day is through. Kinda likes the sound of his own voice.” Anders followed him through to the central hub where the team was assembled. Duncan voiced his approval at her work and Barry gave her a big grin.

  “Good work Anders,” he said. “Loved all that philosophy crap!” Jesse had the good grace to look sheepish as Anders glared at him and he held his hands up in apology.

  “I was just showing them the highlights!” he protested.

  “Shower. Need shower,” she said and Barry laughed.

  “There’s one in the back, by the training mats.” Anders thanked him and headed to where the shooting range was nestled alongside the gym area. Barry called after her, a mocking tone to his voice.

  “Those Eighty Second Airborne? Always thought of them as pussies.” Anders turned around, eyebrows raised in surprise. She gave him a slow look, taking in his massive torso and bulging arms.

  “Compensating for something there Barry? Heard something similar about the Twenty Two boys, strutting around playing soldiers.” He grinned back.

  “You really teach CQB at Quantico?” CQB stood for Close Quarters Combat and she’d spent several months teaching it to recruits as a favour to an old friend.

  “You wanna find out?” Helen, stepping from the lift just in time to hear the banter gave a loud cheer.

  “America versus Britain?” she called. “Screw that! Man versus woman!” Anders gave a light backwards jog, making “bring it on” motions with her hands and grinning broadly. Barry cricked his muscular neck and slapped his hands together.

  “Don’t want to hurt you little lady, but I will if you test me.” His tone was good natured as Anders goaded him.

  “You’ll try, but this little lady will kick your butt.” He followed her into the Training and Firearms room and walked to the mats set in one corner. Within moments, the entire team was cheering them on and placing bets. Lucy and Duncan supporting Barry, Jesse and Helen on Anders’ side. Ben stayed quiet, happy to watch whilst Abi and Mal whispered to each other, keeping their bets to themselves, but clearly placing them. As Barry stepped to the mats, Mal’s phone rang and he moved away to answer it.

  “We all in?” said Anders as she made a few stretches to loosen up her stiff muscles, keen to show that she didn’t want Barry to hold back. He smiled at her, the toughness that had made him part of the SAS coming through. He would be determined to win and wouldn’t accept a loss. Not easily anyway.

  “I’ll hold back a
little. Don’t want to hurt you too much.” He crouched low, hands raised in a defensive posture, waiting for Anders to make her move. Barry had been taught in the Fairbairn system of close combat and it was ruthlessly efficient. Anders knew that his strength and size would eventually win out if she adopted the same system that she had taught at Quantico so switched to her favoured Wing Chun and Silat combination. She liked to mix it up with Muay Thai, so would start with the Wing Chun then switch to Muay Thai or Silat to keep him off balance. Jesse cheered at the change in stance as Anders moved in to strike.

  Before they had chance to fight, Mal spoke loudly, cutting through the jovial atmosphere.

  “Sorry folks, we’ve got another entry in Manchester and one underway right now in Greenwich. Duncan, Anders, get over there. Barry, get a van, we’re moving out now.” Barry lowered his guard and gave Anders a rueful smile.

  “Wing Chun? No chance.” He winked at her and sprinted off at a brisk pace to get a van. Anders sniffed her armpits with a grimace.

  “Dammit. Never did get that shower.”

  The Interview

  Part 2

  “Tell me about this,” Cooper needled in his pithy tones. Anders stared at the picture and recalled seeing the image splashed across the news and every paper in America.

  “I was investigating a case and slipped up. I was tortured by the boy’s father before escaping and rescuing him and his sister.”

  “They live with you now?” Barrett spoke, clearly intrigued. Anders smiled at her and nodded.

  “They do.”

  “Even though you killed their father?” Cooper kept up with his aggressive questioning as Anders turned back to him, once again keeping her face and voice neutral.

  “He was their captor and abuser. It was their decision. They asked.”

  “But you tortured their father to death.” Anders’ eyes flashed briefly, but she controlled her emotions as they threatened to burst out.

  “I didn’t turn the other cheek if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean you tortured the man who whipped the skin from your back.”

  “I was exonerated.” Cooper laughed. A genuine emotion that made Anders hate him even more. Barrett and McDowell were quiet and she could see them scrutinising her closely. She’d expected some tough questions, but not to this extent.

  “This isn’t the Wild West. We don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour in Britain. You were cleared because of the public support that picture drummed up.”

  “You said that picture proved I was a killer.”

  “Pretty, semi-naked woman covered in blood saving a poor child. People see what they want to see. You let your fiancé die that night.” It was a statement of fact.

  “I did,” said Anders frankly. She’d never hidden from that despicable truth.

  “Makes the sympathy card easier to play, I guess.” Cooper was relentless and changed tack quickly, oblivious to the flash of anger that coloured Anders’ cheeks. “Santa Muerta. That’s what they called you in Mexico wasn’t it? You were only there for nine months. Didn’t take long to earn a moniker like that.”

  Anders was used to the technique having employed it in many interrogations and kept pace.

  “Kidnappings rose by seventy percent in twenty twelve, after I left. The records are in the public domain.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “I didn’t call myself Santa Muerta.” Cooper gave a patronising sigh.

  “Again, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “I followed the law as I have always done. I believe in it absolutely and without question. I’ve saved countless lives and upheld the American constitution as per my Oath.”

  “This isn’t America,” shot back Cooper.

  “No. This is the United Kingdom, with the oldest Parliament in the world. A law with over five hundred years of moral wrangling and debate behind it. The Peelian principles of an ethical police force are those that I’ve followed my whole career. I’d be honoured to uphold UK law with all of the diligence and care that my reference from the Director of the FBI states.” A tense silence settled across the room as Cooper glared at Anders. She kept her breathing steady and gave him a dispassionate gaze. McDowell grinned and laid his hands flat on the table in front of him. A conciliatory gesture.

  “You have to understand, Miss Anders, that we need to ask these difficult questions.” Anders was about to reply, when Cooper cut in once again.

  “Damn right we do, so let’s not stop here. You, Miss Anders, started off life as a man, so how can you, of all people, be expected to lead seasoned professionals?”

  Chapter 13

  Anders and Duncan sped through the streets in a patrol car, sirens blazing as Anders steered them through the traffic as quickly as she could. Duncan maintained a sullen silence and Anders grinned as he clutched his seat belt with one hand and kept the other on the dashboard to steady himself as she weaved around a stationary lorry, cutting the angle as close as she could.

  The alert had come through half an hour previously. A neighbour had heard screaming and called the local police, who’d contacted Mal’s team as soon as they arrived at the scene. A husband had taken a Samurai sword to his wife, trying to replicate James Clavell’s Shogun. Luckily, the police had arrived quickly and he had fled, leaving his injured wife behind.

  Coleraine Road was lined with old Victorian houses. High ceilings and large rooms with bay windows and front doors that could fit a large sofa through comfortably. Many had been converted to flats, the landlord turning the lower and upper floors into separate living areas to rent out. Spotted among the grand houses were the odd newer structures that had been erected after the Blitz. They were poorly designed, cheaply built and ill at ease next to their expensive neighbours. The Victorian houses themselves had seen their value sky rocket over the last few decades, so many of the owners had significantly less wealth than those who had bought the properties recently. Anders passed Aston Martin’s parked in the street next to old Ford Cortina’s.

  The street was on a steep slope and, half way up, Anders spied a squad of patrol cars parked against a tatty group of flats nestled between their more illustrious neighbours. Uniformed officers stood in the road and guided in an ambulance that had just arrived. Anders and Duncan stepped from the car and showed their Warrant Cards to the senior officer on site. He gave their rank a long stare before deciding that he was happy to relinquish control of the scene to the dour man and the attractive, but intense woman. He led them up to the flat where the crime had taken place. It was on the upper floor and they climbed the concrete steps clutched to one side of the building to get there. The senior officer, a balding man in his forties chatted amicably as they made their way up the staircase.

  “Marshall Johnson,” he said, giving them the details. “Goes at his wife with a damn sword.” He shook his head in disbelief. “People are going nuts over this website. What about you? Would you kill someone for five million?” Anders gave him a brutal gaze and he hurried up the stairs, keen to finish his escort duty.

  As they walked along the concrete balcony, Anders noted the dilapidated state of the building. Paint was peeling from every window, doors were worn thin and a sour whiff of urine hung in the stairwell. For such a wealthy area, this was a tiny pocket of misery. Screams could be heard from the end of the balcony and they picked up the pace. Arriving at the door to the last flat, Anders stepped over some blood that had pooled at the entrance. The interior was dark, the only natural light coming from the open door.

  Inside, Anders could see a long, rectangular room with a kitchen at the end, separated by a breakfast bar. In front of that were several old sofas, the material patchy and the cushions permanently depressed by years of use. The walls were full of shelves and books were scattered around the floor, piled in corners and stacked around the large, flat screen TV. On the sofa, a morbidly obese woman lay screaming as two paramedics worked to stabilise her before moving the poor victim down the s
tairwell. Dark hair was plastered to her face as blood gushed from a wound in her scalp. Her T-shirt was ripped, presumably by the sword and deep wounds could be seen under the material, covering her arms and stomach. She wailed at the pain and shock of her ordeal.

  “How’s she doing?” asked Anders. One of the paramedics, an achingly thin man in his early twenties, glanced around before returning back to the task of stemming the flow of blood. He had to shout to make himself heard above the screaming.

  “She’ll be ok if we can get her to sit still for a minute,” he replied as the woman screamed even louder at his touch. Anders checked the mail that had been left on the floor.

  “Jenny Johnson,” she muttered and moved into the house to let Duncan through. He turned his nose up in disgust at the dirt and grime. Blood had spattered the walls, thickly dark in the dim light and his eyes roved the scene, piecing together what had happened. Moving through the flat, Anders saw a picture of the husband, Marshall, on his wedding day. Oddly enough, he wasn’t with his wife, but with an older woman who looked like his mother. There were enough shared autosomal characteristics evident. She rested an arm protectively around him. He was lean and wiry with a buzz cut and piercing eyes that seemed on edge. Anders’ thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Duncan lost his temper.

  “Get that woman out of here and sedated!” he yelled. The paramedics gave him a wary look, but tried to lift the huge woman from the sofa, eliciting further shrieks of pain.

  “Belay that order,” snapped Anders, giving Duncan a challenging look as she did so. He scowled at her as she exercised her authority. “Get outside and organise the search. Check with the neighbours, see if they know anything.” He made to protest, but thought better of it. Turning sharply on his heels, he stepped over the blood in the doorway and left.

  Anders continued her search of the flat. Putting on some gloves, she picked up various books and sheets of papers lying around the cluttered room. Blocking out the screaming, she started piecing together a picture of Marshall. Bills with angry red lettered headings showed him to be in some considerable debt. Tax returns lying under a betting paper showed he made little from his self-employment. Some were dated from fifteen years ago. The fridge showed pizzas and pasta. One cupboard held three boxes of the same cereal. Pictures of Marshall as a child, same houses. Raised here.