Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  Likes routine, finds comfort in the familiar, limited expansion and outlook. Lives through these books but unwilling to do anything for himself. Mummy’s boy. Finally, Anders made her way back to the sofa and crouched down so that she could look at the miserable woman. Her bleeding had been staunched and one paramedic was bandaging her head and the other putting gauze around a deep cut on her arm.

  “Mrs Johnson,” she said. “I’m Assistant Chief Constable Anders. I’m here to find your husband and make sure he pays for what he did to you.” She burst into fresh tears, throwing her head back and knocking the young paramedic aside, causing her to scream in fresh pain as her wound jerked open.

  “Mrs Johnson, I need you to be very calm for me. This will be over soon and then we can get you to hospital and make sure you’re well cared for. Do you have any children? Anyone we can call to come and be with you.” She sniffed loudly, streams of snot dribbling from her nose. Her voice, when she spoke, was raw and scratched, her vocal chords shredded from her screaming.

  “No. There’s no one.” Anders placed a gentle hand on Jenny’s and gripped it tightly.

  “I need you to answer one question for me and then I’ll make sure you’re looked after by these kind men. You’ve been very brave. Where does Marshall’s mother live? Is it around here?”

  Duncan was banging on the door next to the stairwell when Anders hurried from the flat and called out to him.

  “Next street along. Number ninety nine. His mother’s place. I’ll bet we’ll find him there, hoping this will all blow over.” She took the steps two at a time and could hear Duncan pounding after her, tie flying behind as he sprinted after her. Anders had started the car by the time he caught up and, panting heavily, hurried to buckle his seatbelt as she swung the car round and sped down the hill, leaving behind an array of bemused police officers trying to fathom where they were going.

  “I’ll pull up a few houses down,” she said, using the handbrake to swerve round the corner at the bottom of the hill and then starting back up the next street in third gear. Duncan, despite himself, was impressed.

  “Shouldn’t we be calling this in, get those officers to back us up,” he asked as the houses flew past at great speed.

  “I’ll call it in when we’ve stopped. I want a few minutes before we spook Marshall away.” Skidding to a halt half way up the hill, Duncan scrabbled to the boot and pulled out a stab vest and a belt with speedcuffs, CS spray and an ASP baton that would extend out at the click of a button. Anders relayed their position to Jesse and he started to coordinate a cordon around the area in case Marshall did escape. Duncan threw a set of gear to Anders and she pulled the heavy vest over her head and pulled the side straps tight before buckling the belt up. It was slightly too big for her tiny waist and hung loose.

  The street was virtually identical to the last one they were on. Victorian houses lined the sides and, again, the pattern was interrupted by the odd council house that had sprung up in the gaping holes left by the Blitz. The Ninety Ninth house was smaller than its two neighbours, as if they had dominated it into submission. Where they proudly displayed their pale bricks and bay windows, this house had wooden slats over the newer bricks and small windows covered in a semi permeable membrane of filth that allowed little light into its murky interior. The front door had iron bars over its front and looked incongruous in the neighbourhood.

  A side path led to the back and Anders nodded for Duncan to take it. He signalled his agreement and slunk down the path, ducking below a round window on the side, while Anders strode up to the front door and rang the bell. Mack the Knife sounded from the ringer and she heard an argument seeping through the thin wooden door. She saw the eyehole darken as the owner peered outside so she held up her warrant card.

  “This is Assistant Chief Constable Anders from the NCA ma’am. Please open the door.”

  “What do you want?” The voice was old and distrustful. Anders imagined a frail woman on the other side, stooped with age.

  “I’m here to ask a few questions about your son. He’s attacked his wife with a sword.”

  “No he didn’t,” came the swift reply. “She’s making it up. Always took him for granted she did.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to insist that you open the door. Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, I have the power to gain entry and search your premises. I wish to enter the property and discuss with you the whereabouts of your son before he hurts anyone else.” There was a long pause and Anders could almost hear the woman thinking.

  “Fine,” she said. Chains were unbuckled and locks unlocked as Miss Johnson made sure to take her time opening the door, acting older and more frail than she really was. She glowered at Anders before unlocking the steel gate across the entrance. Suddenly, Anders heard a shout followed by a scream from behind the house. Without thought, Anders barrelled past the old woman and sprinted through the house, unclipping her ASP as she ran. A narrow hallway led to the kitchen at the back, all immaculately maintained; a clean interior despite the grimy exterior. Anders kept moving forward, saw a door leading to the back and burst from the house into the garden.

  Duncan was on the floor, blood pouring from a wound in his arm as he tried to raise his other to ward off the killing blow that was coming. Marshall stood over him, wielding his Samurai sword and screaming incoherently. Anders could see the rage in his eyes and knew he’d lost his grip on reason.

  “Hey!” she yelled and he looked up, sword poised in mid-air. She used that moment to extend her baton, thrusting it outwards with a satisfying snick. The noise spurred him to action and he ran at her, closing the gap fast. Anders waited a brief second, letting him move closer. With lightning speed, she stepped into his swing and ducked so the sword swung behind her. As she moved, Anders swung her own weapon.

  Her training in America had given her a very different approach to violent confrontation. Living in a country where it was your legal right to be armed gave a different starting point. Suicide by cop was not a term used in Britain where knives were more likely to be used and police, as a rule, were not armed with handguns. When being trained in the use of a baton, officers were given sweet spots that they could hit. The back of the leg for instance. They were also shown areas to avoid if at all possible. Skulls and joints were off limits unless in the most dire of circumstance.

  Anders’ swing cracked his knee cap and Marshall stumbled with a cry of pain, his leg giving way beneath him. She swung again, a backhanded blow, whippet fast, that smashed his elbow joint to a pulp and caused him to drop his sword, the wickedly curved blade spinning away wildly. He gave another snarl of pain but managed to stay upright. He glared at her in rage and fury, his voice shrieking hoarse as he screamed.

  “You fucking b…” Anders’ baton clubbed the side of his head with a crunching blow and his eyes rolled upwards as he collapsed to the floor, his legs buckling under him as he hit the ground with a meaty thump.

  “Dammit,” muttered Anders, her heart beating calmly in her chest. “There’ll be a complaint about that.”

  The Interview

  Part 3

  Anders gazed at him coolly. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm yet laced with steel.

  “I’ve led squads of men to battle and ran the lead team on serial killers in the most prestigious office of the FBI. I believe that question has already been answered.”

  “You don’t look like a man.” It was a statement and a challenging one at that.

  “I’m not. That’s the point of gender reassignment surgery.”

  “You sound like a woman. Thought you’d look and sound like those drag queen hookers at Soho.”

  “You have my picture on file. It’s right in front of you. You know what I look like.” Cooper held his hands out in a gesture meant to placate yet was anything but.

  “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  “I was lucky enough to know what I was from an early age. There are hormone blockers you can take to inhibit the
effects of testosterone.” Cooper smiled at that.

  “So you chemically castrated yourself and then your parents kicked you out.” Anders frowned, curious as to how he knew, but quickly shut down her emotions. She’d suffered worse and had changed far too long ago to let him bother her.

  “They did, yes.”

  “You had your op at eighteen. How did you pay for that?”

  “I worked hard, got my diplomas and paid with the money I earned at that time.”

  “Touching. How did you pay for the op?”

  “Hard work and grit. I also came into a little money.”

  “From a notorious crime lord who you then arrested ten years later.” Anders chuckled.

  “Would that my life were so interesting,” she replied. “It’s a little more mundane than that. Death in the family.”

  “The same family that disowned you.”

  “Not all of them.” Cooper leaned back in his chair and gazed at her, his eyes roving her slender frame with distaste.

  “So, you’re a transsexual who does all the manly things like join the army and excel at CQB. It doesn’t fit.” Anders shrugged.

  “As I said, I knew what I was from an early age. I also realised that I’d have to excel at everything I did so that what I was wouldn’t matter.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t matter to me?”

  “I’m here aren’t I?”

  “As a transsexual, how can you be relied upon to be stable in this pressured environment? Aren’t you too busy mincing around, pretending to be a woman?”

  “I had two years of psychological analysis before making the transition. Judging by this conversation, I’m the most rational and stable person in this room.” She saw Barrett supress a smile at that.

  “Your parents must be proud of their fag son?” Anders stilled suddenly and the atmosphere thickened. Cooper had gone too far. Barrett quickly stepped in and banged her fist on the table.

  “I like this one! She has fire!” McDowell grinned suddenly and stood up, striding to a drinks cabinet sat flush against the wall.

  “I agree! Cooper?” All eyes turned to Cooper, whose demeanour suddenly changed. His patronising attitude vanished and he looked a different person as he clapped his hands suddenly and stood up, shooting round the table to offer his hand to Anders. Nonplussed she leaned back slightly, unsure of his change.

  “I’m so very sorry,” he said. “We had to be sure.” McDowell poured some brandy into the crystal glasses and handed them out.

  “Cooper loves his job Miss Anders, but he plays the role of arsehole a little too well for my liking.” He raised his glass and offered a toast. “To Assistant Chief Constable Anders.” As they drank their brandy, Anders eyed them all over the rim of her glass.

  Mad, she thought. They’re all mad.

  Chapter 14

  Gordon’s Wine Bar was tucked away in the street behind Charing Cross and Embankment. Its entrance was a small archway that led underground and, despite the seemingly hidden entrance, the bar was always full. It sold wine in all its variants, Coca Cola and very little else. Low, stone archways forced everyone to crouch and the space was dimly lit, large kegs making up the majority of tables. It felt like some old throw back to the years of Jack the Ripper and horse drawn carriages and Anders loved it.

  A ten minute walk from Scotland Yard, Mal had taken the team there to celebrate Duncan’s release from hospital. He’d lost a lot of blood from his wound and had spent the night under observation. He still looked groggy but tucked into his wine with enthusiasm. They’d taken over a section at the back of the bar and were raucous company. Despite having no leads on the whereabouts of Buckland, they’d had several successes stopping those who would enter his depraved competition and they’d decided to bond over wine and food.

  Abi and Helen were seated with their backs to the wall and sniggered as they shared a bottle of Riesling. Anders was surprised that Abi enjoyed Helen’s filthy stories so much and smiled to see Abi throw her head back and laugh at Helen’s latest sexual exploit. Duncan had thawed slightly towards Anders and even offered to buy her a drink. She sat between Mal and Barry and they dwarfed her completely, making her feel like some kind of midget. They were listening intently as Duncan told of how Anders had rescued her.

  “I’m telling you Barry,” he said, sloshing some wine over his white bandages and staining them red as if blood had seeped through the stitches. “She moved like lightning. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast, that guy never knew what hit him. Two seconds, three hits.” He waved his glass around to emphasise a point and Jesse guided the glass back to the table by grabbing hold of his arm.

  “Easy there soldier. Wine in mouth not on table.” Barry gave a throaty chuckle and clapped a meaty paw on Anders’ shoulder.

  “We’ll see little one. Speed isn’t everything. It’s about reading the situation, anticipating the moves, speed of mind, not just body.” Jesse chuckled and put an arm around an increasingly drunken looking Ben, his mop of curls seeming to get wilder with every glass of wine.

  “If it’s about speed of thought, then you’re stuffed mate! My money’s on Ben here!”

  “Is it bollocks!” cried Barry and winked mischievously at Ben. Helen grinned at Barry and joined in.

  “That’s a proper swear word there Anders. None of your American nonsense. Goddammit!” she cried banging her fist on the table and imitating an American accent. “You goddamn assholes!” Abi laughed again as Jesse spoke.

  “She’s right Anders. Americans have no imagination when it comes to swearing. I know. I lived there for ten years.” Anders held up her hands in acknowledgement.

  “I will admit, it is much more fun to swear using the Queen’s English. There’s nowhere else I can call Jesse a dodgy, gormless git.”

  “Or a wanker!”

  “Tosspot!”

  “Prat, pillock and plonker!” Ben had shouted the last and everyone turned to him with a smile and a laugh, making him blush with the attention. Lucy sat next to him and she drank quietly from her glass, not engaging in the conversation.

  “Well bugger me,” said Jesse, giving Ben a look of delight. “You have to drink some more wine for that.” He poured a large amount of wine into Ben’s glass as he protested the large serving with imaginative use of the Queen’s vernacular.

  “Piss off you bell end!”

  “More British swearing! I’d say Ben was on a roll.” Helen looked on like a proud mother.

  “I taught him everything he knows,” she said with satisfaction. Abi leaned forward.

  “Not everything, I hope.” Helen slapped her arm and grinned. She caught Anders’ eye and indicated the table behind her. There sat a group of lads and they were clearly deciding who would go up and offer Anders a drink. They were a little intimidated by the man mountain Barry and the no slouch in the brick house department Mal. Anders sighed at Helen.

  “That’s enough of that you,” she said. Lucy took the opportunity to speak for the first time. It cut a swathe across the banter and stopped it dead.

  “Can you actually have sex?” she asked. All eyes turned to Anders, the atmosphere suddenly turning cold. Anders sipped from her glass as she eyed Lucy coolly, debating how to handle it. The usual, she thought. Directly. Mal went to speak, but she lay a placating hand on his forearm.

  “It’s fine. I’m always happy to answer any questions you may have. How else can we lose the stigma? I’m functional down there, so yes, I can have sex.” Lucy sniffed.

  “Shallow though, isn’t it? Down there?” Anders grinned, determined to play this lightly.

  “The results vary, but I’m satisfied with what I have. I’ve never had any issues.”

  “That’s because you’ve not met someone like me.” This from Barry. He gave a wink to show he was on her side and she appraised him openly before shaking her head in sorrow.

  “Sorry Barry. From what I hear, it’ll be like rattling a stick in a bucket.” He guffawed with laughter and the
group joined in, the tension broken.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?” Helen slurred her words as she spoke, leaning on the table and soaking her sleeves in some spilled Riesling.

  “Of course,” said Anders, happy to do so.

  “You don’t look like a transsexual. You don’t sound like one either. You’re a stunner. How are you so different than the ones we immediately think of? We only know you weren’t born a woman because we read your file before you joined us, otherwise we wouldn’t have known.” Anders shrugged, brushing aside the complement as they always made her feel uneasy.

  “There are many transgender women who are more attractive. There’s a scale, just like there is with all people. You have attractive men, like Ben and then less attractive men, like Jesse here.” Ben blushed as Jesse bristled with mock indignation. “I knew what I was from a very early age. I managed to get some hormone blockers that stopped my testes producing testosterone. It stopped any secondary sexual characteristics before I could undergo surgery.”

  “That’s vaginoplasty right?”

  “Vagino-what-now?” asked Barry. Anders turned to him and gave a devilish grin.

  “They slice your penis open and scoop out the flesh…” He held his hands up in horror, his tattoos seeming to recoil in fright as well. Mal laughed at his discomfort.

  “It’s body mutilation is what it is,” said Lucy sourly. She’d put down her glass and stared at Anders with open hostility. “It’s not gender correction. It’s a pure fantasy of overly passionate autogynephilia. You’re attracted to the thought of yourself as a woman and need to be treated psychotherapeutically as you would any mental illness.”