The Death Collector

by Neil White

  The details on the custody record were unfamiliar. Carl Jex – not a regular client. Joe flicked the pages and saw that he’d been arrested for voyeurism. Fifteen years old, his list of possessions amounted to a mobile phone, house keys, a bus ticket and some loose change.

  Joe thanked him and went over to the holding area. As he went in, the YOT worker looked up. She didn’t smile.

  ‘How long are we going to be?’ she said.

  Joe could hear the tiredness in her voice. ‘As long as it takes,’ he said. It was the only promise he could make.

  She sighed and swept her long hair back. She didn’t want to be there any more than Joe did.

  As Joe took his seat, he looked to the rear of the custody area. Two officers were loitering near the pigeonholes at the back, where the property bags and police station slippers were kept, just nylon slip-ons in red or blue. They looked like detectives – the suits gave them away – but they were dishevelled, as though they had also been dragged out of bed. The older of the two, beyond fifty and tall, seemed familiar. He had a good tan and hair that was dark and swept back, so that it looked too high and slick. The other man was shorter and greyer, wearing his years less well, in a light blue jacket and white shirt that strained at the buttons.

  Joe drank the coffee; he needed it. The day had been long, with a court appearance and a desk-full of correspondence. The one that lay ahead was unlikely to be any different. He couldn’t escape the impression that the two detectives were interested in him but doing their best not to give it away. They kept glancing at the holding cell and didn’t appear to be doing much else.

  ‘Do you know anything about this lad?’ Joe said.

  She looked up from her phone. ‘No. Not one of ours. His mother should be here really, not us.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ Joe said, as the door opened. A skinny kid with scruffy brown hair was escorted in by a white-shirted civilian gaoler. His eyes darted around as he came in, glancing through the glass wall towards the two suited men. Once they were alone, Joe said, ‘Hi. I’m Joe Parker, from Honeywells, and this is…⁠’

  ‘Susie, from the Youth Offending Team,’ she said.

  The young man kept his eyes on the two men in suits for a few seconds longer before turning to Joe. ‘I’m Carl.’ His voice was quiet and nervous.

  ‘So tell me your story, Carl,’ Joe said, as he rooted through his folder to find the sheets of paper he was obliged to fill out so that he could get paid for leaving his bed.

  Carl sat down and said nothing. His knees turned inwards and he looked down at his feet.

  ‘Don’t be ashamed of anything,’ Joe said, his voice low. ‘Whatever you were doing, I’ve heard worse.’

  Carl didn’t look like a typical criminal, casually dressed in a checked shirt, jeans and blue trainers, although Joe reminded himself that the boy had been arrested for voyeurism. Sex offenders were hard to spot, driven by whatever lurks deep inside rather than by the kicks given them by life, even more so when they were this young. Carl’s skin was pale, with a dark shadow on his top lip, his features awkward, part-man, part-boy.

  ‘If you’ve called me out, you’ve got to talk to me,’ Joe said.

  Carl leaned forward, his arms on his knees. He spoke quietly. ‘Is this room bugged?’ he said. ‘Why are we in here, in this room?’

  Joe looked around and then back towards the custody sergeant, who was reading a newspaper, just filling time between his regular checks on his prisoners. ‘They want you out quickly is my guess.’

  When Carl didn’t respond, Joe tried to stop his irritation building. He could do without this. It was too late.

  ‘Okay, I’ll humour you,’ Joe said. ‘Why do you think it might be bugged?’

  ‘Because they chose this room to put us in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘These places have interview rooms, but they’ve put us in here. Why?’

  Joe looked at his new client. He was used to dealing with people whose wires just didn’t connect right, but there was nothing about Carl that stood out. Just some kid, looking a bit tired and like he would rather be somewhere else.

  ‘Like I said, I get the impression they aren’t planning on keeping you long,’ Joe said. ‘So talk to me.’

  ‘Not in here, if you can’t guarantee there are no microphones,’ Carl said, his voice sulky.

  Joe looked out of the room. The sergeant had stopped reading and was talking in whispers to the two detectives who had been hanging around at the back of the suite. No one seemed particularly interested in the holding area.

  But he couldn’t offer Carl any guarantees. He had heard of cases where the interview rooms were miked up, to pick up on conversations between crooks waiting for interview. It couldn’t be used in court, but it might help to steer an investigation.

  Joe sighed. ‘Okay, I can’t promise there are no microphones.’

  ‘So we don’t talk until later.’

  ‘How can I advise you in your interview if you aren’t going to tell me anything?’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Carl said. ‘I was going to stay quiet anyway.’

  All of Joe’s fatigue rushed back at him. He could taste it in the staleness of his breath and feel it in the slow drag of his skin.

  ‘If you’re going to stay silent anyway and not tell me anything, why the hell have you dragged me out of bed?’

  ‘I needed someone from Honeywells to be here. I didn’t know it was going to be you. I’m sorry.’

  Joe frowned. ‘You could have just called the office if you wanted a chat.’

  ‘I was going to at some point, but…⁠’ He shrugged. ‘I can tell you all about it outside, but not in here.’

  ‘Why is it so bad in here?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ Carl said.

  Joe was too tired for games, but when he looked at Carl he saw a determination in his eyes that said that he wasn’t playing. Whatever was on his mind, he was deadly serious.

  And Joe couldn’t deny that he was curious to know what it was all about. He smiled wearily. ‘Okay, let’s get this done and get out of here.’

  Carl returned the smile. ‘Thank you.’

  Three

  It was the comedown he hated.

  The fire had maintained him through the night, kept loaded with coal to keep their heat and make it intimate, the flames casting moving shadows as they lay together. One last time.

  His head was against her breast, his arm across her, keeping her close. He remembered their times together, those nights in his car in secluded lanes, or reaching for her hand in quiet restaurants far away from home so that no one would see them. Their secret, close and intense.

  He opened his eyes and the scene had altered somehow. Gone was the warmth of before. The flames were dying down and the mood was different. Now, it felt empty.

  Things had changed. The police had been outside earlier and someone had been at his window. That changed everything. It could be the end. How did he feel about that? He searched his mind for that gentle flicker of fear, but there was nothing. Just an acceptance. He had always known it was coming. The end.

  He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at the fire. It kept him warm but it cheated him too. The heat would make her stiffen up too quickly, the rigor mortis setting in before the full rush of sunrise. All of a sudden she would feel alien and unreal against his skin.

  He clenched and unclenched his right hand. Once tight round her throat, it was now cramping from the effort. He’d held her hands high above her head, stretched out across the floor, because she hadn’t drunk anything. He’d relied on pure force, and it had made it different, not how he’d expected it. Normally they drift away before he takes them. This one hadn’t worked out that way. He had looked into her eyes as he squeezed, tried to see her final thoughts in them, and they’d been there. Confusion at first, then fear, before he saw what he had been chasing. Realisation: the knowledge of what she should have always known.
/>   No one leaves.

  He’d seen that truth reflected in her tears. Her final view of the world had been his face screwed up in effort, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, teeth gritted. If she’d mistaken that for passion she had been wrong. It was exertion, nothing more.

  But it wasn’t about her death. It never had been. He didn’t fantasise about killing anyone. This was no pursuit of a rush he had felt once but couldn’t recapture. As her skin puckered under the grip of his hand and he heard the fast rhythm of her heels on the wooden floorboards, the spittle landing on his cheeks as she fought, it was something else that gave him pleasure.

  For now though, all he had was the waiting.

  Her hair had fallen over her face, so he brushed it to one side, making it neat again. He looked at her. Where did all the excitement go? He had changed everything for her, brought some brightness into her routine. It had made her feel alive, so she said. So why end it, to finish up just the way she had started?

  The clothes were always the difficult part. Her weight was too much now, but still he had to do it.

  He reached for her blouse, flicking at the buttons before lifting her, gasping with exertion, pulling her blouse from one arm and then wrestling her so that he could do the same with the other until it dropped from her shoulders. Her bra came off next, before he lowered her gently back to the floor. Her skirt was easier, once he had undone the zip at the back, then her knickers.

  He lifted her blouse to his face and buried himself in it. It bore traces of her, the orange blossom and spicy ginger from her perfume mixed in with her own soft traces, something unique to her.

  It was important to know perfumes. Scents evoke memories and he needed to retain them. If he wanted to remind himself when he was out, he would go to the free samples, pick a small white strip and just wave it under his nose as he walked around.

  He put the blouse and skirt onto a hanger and zipped them into a suit carrier. When he needed them, the smells would come flooding out, taking him back to when she had been his for a moment.

  More music was needed.

  He thumbed through his record collection and selected a Sinatra album. He went through the same routine. The careful removal of the vinyl. The gentle wipe with the anti-static cloth. The click of the record player – an old Dansette in pale green with a matt grey turntable. And then the pause before the needle landed with a fizz. Only when the first notes crackled through the speaker did he go back to her.

  He moved her left knee so that it was over her right and closed her legs, preserving her modesty. He took off his shirt, his skin glowing red from the effort of lifting her and the warmth from the fire, and lay next to her. He kissed her gently on the shoulder. Her skin still had some warmth but she would lose it soon. He put his arm across her and rested his head on her breasts once more. He closed his eyes. For a short while he would still have her, before she was gone for ever.

  Four

  The first light of morning was still an hour away when Joe left the police station. Carl Jex was behind him, yawning, and Susie followed.

  Joe wondered whether he should just say goodbye and let the boy find his own way home. There wasn’t much criminal work to be had out of Carl Jex. He was too clean cut and Joe hated being relegated to a chauffeur once he was out of the station, but Carl was young.

  Susie said, ‘I’m going the opposite way.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll take him,’ Joe said, taking the hint that Susie thought she had done enough. He wanted his bed, but he had to admit that he was curious about Carl’s story.

  ‘Where do you need to be?’ he asked Carl, pressing the fob to unlock his car as Susie walked to her own. ‘I can take you there.’

  The police interview had been short, once it was obvious that Carl was going to stay quiet. He was released and told to return two weeks later, to allow someone to look at the evidence and decide there was no case.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Carl said.

  ‘You’re too young to walk, and let’s just say I’m still curious.’

  Carl paused, looking back at the station, and then said, ‘Okay, thank you. Can I go home?’

  Joe remembered his address. He didn’t know the street but he knew the area and it was the opposite way from his own home. His night had been long enough already, but the journey would give him a chance to find out more. He glanced towards the hills in the distance as he climbed into his car, the brooding shadows of Saddleworth Moor just silhouettes against the faintest glow of a lighter blue, the stars fading into the slow spread of daybreak.

  The moors made him shudder. Even on the sunniest days they seemed to drag the mood downwards. They were devoid of high vegetation, just a long spread of heather and moorland grass, sometimes undulating gently and at other times rising and falling in sheer drops. It was as though a dark grassy blanket of sour mood had been thrown over the Pennines, the long stretch of hills that divide the north, the bleakness broken only by the glimmer of reservoirs fashioned out of the valleys.

  Joe turned away. Even though he had lived in Manchester all of his life, the moors never failed to remind him of murdered children. They had been used as a burial ground by an evil couple, the shifting ground of peat and soil making sure that one poor boy remained unfound, left for ever under the rough grass, his family in a never-ending search for his body. Myra Hindley and Ian Brady had stained those moors.

  He didn’t want to think of murdered children. He had endured similar pain in his own life, when his sister, Ellie, was murdered sixteen years earlier. She was attacked on his eighteenth birthday as she took a shortcut from school along a wooded path. The pain never went away. Ellie’s death had defined Joe’s adult life and her shadow was always with him as he went about his day job knowing that what he did helped bad people, some of whom had done similar things to whoever had killed Ellie. Yet it was the career he had chosen.

  Ellie’s killer was still out there, and Joe looked for him constantly. Every time he went to the police station he hoped to see the face of the man who had taken her away. Joe had seen him, a skulking figure who had turned to follow Ellie as she headed down the path, and he had done nothing. It was this secret that tortured him and had driven him to become a lawyer. He dreamed of seeing the man again, never letting that glimpse leave his memory. He had promised himself, and Ellie, that when he found the man, he would kill him.

  Carl looked around before he got into the car, his eyes darting towards the murky corners of the car park.

  ‘You look nervous,’ Joe said, trying to shut away the brief memories of Ellie.

  Carl was about to say something, his mouth was open and the words almost formed, but then he shook his head. ‘It’s too early. I need to find out more.’

  ‘What about? I thought you wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘I do, but not here, and I’m tired.’

  Joe nodded. Carl was right. ‘Come and see me tomorrow, if you need to, after school.’

  ‘I will.’

  Carl stayed silent as Joe set off. The roads were quiet and, apart from the occasional wait at empty traffic lights, they were soon heading uphill and towards the small towns and villages that spread themselves along the foot of the Pennines, the last stop before the quick rise and the bleak plateau. Carl was constantly in motion, looking ahead and then behind through the car windows, only relaxing as they got further away from the police station.

  They passed a bowling alley. Carl pointed to a turning off the main road. ‘I was arrested a couple of streets further down there,’ he said.

  Joe looked to where Carl had pointed as he passed the junction, but saw just houses, nothing specific. He turned to him. ‘Curiosity is getting the better of me,’ he said. ‘At least give me a clue: what’s this all about?’

  ‘Just watching two people dance in front of the fire,’ Carl said.

  ‘Oh, come on, there’s more to this than just some cosy night in.’

  Carl paused, as if he was thinking of wh
at to say. He turned towards Joe and said, ‘Have you ever heard of Aidan Molloy?’

  Joe frowned. The name was familiar. ‘You’re going to have to help me out.’