Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel

by J. S. Spicer

  Katie hadn’t seen him since they’d left school the year before. She really wished she wasn’t wearing her frumpy summer dress, but she’d dressed for a day out with her gran, and hadn’t banked on running into the hottest guy from school.

  “Got a light?”

  For some reason she felt the need for props; with the coffee cooling next to Teddy’s elbow her itching fingers had sought out the packet of Marlboro Lights buried in her handbag.

  He glanced down at the cigarettes, then made eye contact, which he held for a couple of long seconds. Electricity jolted into Katie’s nerve-endings.

  “Think I’ll join you.”

  Teddy’s upper half retracted. In the few moments it took him to exit the back of the van and walk round to where she stood, Katie just about managed to compose herself.

  Her fingers still trembled a little though as she removed two cigarettes from the pack. Teddy slid a lighter from his back pocket and smiled down on her. His hand was rock-steady as he lit her cigarette.

  “Nice dress.”

  Katie blushed, giggled. “I’m here with my gran.”

  He looked around, eyebrows darting up curiously.

  “She’s over watching the ducks.”

  Katie had spotted Teddy Moses as soon as she and her grandmother entered the busy park. Almost immediately a plan had formed in her head. Neither she nor her grandmother particularly wanted to be there, it was her mother’s idea. Gran didn’t get out much, and she certainly didn’t like crowds, but mother had insisted some fresh air would do her good.

  On a hot day like this there were people everywhere. Kids sped about squealing and parents let them, outside in the wide open spaces it was safe for once to let them run free. Young couples were wrapped around each other, reclining on the grass. Then there were those walking their dogs, as well as amblers and joggers, and a healthy dose of teenagers who quickly formed into roaming packs.

  Her gran would quickly tire of this and insist on leaving. Normally, Katie would be right there with her, but today Teddy Moses was in the park.

  So she steered her old gran in the direction of the lake. It was perhaps a bit on the small side to call a lake, but was big for a pond too, so locals gladly gave it the grander title. There were several sheltered spots with convenient benches dotted around the water’s edge. Katie kept her gran going, despite the old lady’s increasing signs of weariness, until they were some way from the park entrance.

  At this point the suggestion of a bit of a sit down in the shade was not only welcome it was bordering on necessary. Katie sat with her for a few minutes, making small talk. She’d chosen a quiet spot; only a few people were around, and there were no noisy kids. Then she’d suggested getting them some cold drinks and headed for the refreshment van before her gran could give the matter too much thought.

  Now she was making eyes at Teddy, savouring the sweetness of the moment. His brown eyes, sultry behind a veil of smoke, watched her mouth as she slowly drew on her cigarette. Then his gaze lowered, unapologetically suggestive, travelling slowly down the length of her body.

  The electricity was back, but different, slower; a pulse now, not a jolt, building from her belly.

  Teddy’s eyes travelled back to her face. “So, how soon do you have to get back to granny?”

  Katie tried to play it cool, but couldn’t fight the smile spreading across her face. “No rush.”

  “I was about to take my break anyway,” he told her, dragging smoke deep into his lungs. He released it again slowly. “How’d you like to see inside my van?”

  She wished Katie would hurry up.

  It was quiet on the bench by the lake. The tree canopy kept the sun off her. But she was still hot and tired. She wanted to go home. Back to her small, but cool and comfortable, flat. Katie wouldn’t mind, she was sure. They’d had a pleasant time together, but Katie probably had better things to do than hang around with her grandmother all day. The dear girl would probably come back with cans of fizzy soda, sweating condensation from the fridge. But Melissa would rather be having a cup of tea in front of her telly.

  She rummaged through her handbag, eventually retrieving from it a small handkerchief. Dabbing at her moist brow she looked about her. The pathway around the lake’s edge was almost empty. A man strolled towards her; she was surprised at his wearing such a thick jacket in this heat. Then, wryly, thought he probably wondered the same of her in her cardigan. In the opposite direction a young couple were walking hand-in-hand. Even at a distance she could see the joy they felt in each other’s presence, swinging their joined hands happily, laughing together and oblivious to the rest of the world. She watched them until they disappeared around a corner. Above the trees a bright yellow kite fought valiantly to stay aloft. Despite frequent plummets from her view it kept reappearing, undeterred by the static air. Melissa couldn’t help but smile, imagining some relentless child beyond the trees compelling that small block of colour skyward.

  She’d forgotten about the approaching man until she felt the seat of the bench flex beneath her. Melissa turned to look at the individual seated next to her. There was something familiar about him. He was smiling, but she was sure she didn’t know him. He lifted one arm, draping it across the back of the bench, right behind her. Melissa experienced a flutter of alarm at his impertinence.

  Then she saw what was beneath his jacket, and that flutter began to beat with the wings of full-blown terror.

  She tried to struggle to her feet, but the arm behind her suddenly curled around her throat, holding her there.

  Fear made her limbs feel like water.

  “Whh...who are you?” she panted, trying to resist the panic threatening to swamp her.

  His smile widened. “We missed our appointment the other night, Melissa.”

  Now that grain of familiarity exploded into recognition. He was the intruder. The one she’d reported to the police.

  “What do you want? I don’t even know you.”

  The man pulled her close, pressed his lips to her ear. “I want your life,” he whispered. Then he reached for the knife.

  **

  It almost scared Max, how fast everything was organised, almost like it had been expected.

  Police and forensics teams had descended onto the scene in record time. Max felt like he was missing the party as he pulled up and saw how many of his colleagues had beat him to it.

  After a hurried consultation with one of the constables guarding the entrance, tape was lifted just long enough for him to drive under. Once through the park gates he pulled over and parked up next to a couple of patrol cars.

  Most of that day’s visitors had already been ushered into a car park, where they were being carefully categorised and sifted through, and then sent on their way. Anyone left inside the confines of the park was being systematically rounded up.

  Nothing was being left to chance. They’d tightened the net on this straight away.

  Getting out of the car, Max looked around. It was almost five o’clock, but on a day like today the park would have been packed. That could mean a lot of witnesses, but more likely just meant a lot of confusion and useless statements to trawl through. He spotted a refreshment van, closed up now, but the vendor might be worth talking to. A few feet away a girl in a summer dress was sitting on a bench, crying. A young man skulked nearby. The detective talking to them was Lyle Banks, good friend to Lorraine, smart mouth, and all-round pain in the arse. Noting Max’s arrival, Lyle gave the crying girl a pat on the shoulder and left her with a constable. Max already knew the body was up at the lake. Watching the other detective approach he pondered if he had time to dash up the trail leading to the water and escape the tedious banter with Lyle.

  The look on Lyle’s face stayed his feet. Lyle Banks’ standard expression was a lopsided sarcastic smirk, occasionally interrupted by wide-mouthed displays of amusement or squinting scowls of annoyance. This was a new face heading across the compacted ground; this was genuine concern.

 
So Max stood his ground. Stuffing his hands into his pockets he kept his own expression neutral, wondering what had rattled the unflappable Lyle Banks. In the heat Lyle had dispensed with his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He walked right up to Max, stopping mere inches away. Lyle’s odour washed over him but he resisted the urge to step back.

  “What’s up?”

  An odd question perhaps, given they were attending a crime scene with a dead body up at the lake, but Max was still fixating on Lyle; the guy was definitely out of sorts.

  Lyle tucked his notebook away, glanced almost nervously over his shoulder, then leaned in even closer, adding his coffee-laden breath to the assault on Max’s senses.

  “Looks like we’ve got another one.”

  There was really no mistaking what Lyle meant, but Max needed to clarify anyway. “Another murder? The same as Andrew Trent?”

  Lyle’s nod was curt; again he glanced over his shoulder at the young woman. “That’s the victim’s granddaughter,” he said, and Max saw something like pain trace across his face.

  “So this victim is older?”

  “Yes. Max, the victim’s name is Melissa Austen-Brown.”

  Hearing that name was like a kick in the gut. “Shit! The old lady who reported the intruder?”

  This time Lyle’s nod was slow, sad, meaningful.

  The implications of this crashed down and right away Max’s thoughts flew to Lorraine. She had drawn the short straw and interviewed the elderly woman. She’d had to assess if there was any connection to the case. She’d been the one to dismiss Melissa Austen-Brown’s fears as nothing more than the overreaction of a timid old lady, had decided there was no benefit in following up on the so-called intruder.

  Max found himself looking around, scouring the groups of officers and vehicles. “Is she here yet? Lorraine?”

  “No,” Lyle told him. “But she’s on her way.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Not yet.”

  Max stared at his shoes, coated with a thin veil of dust from the parched ground. This case had already shaken Lorraine, they’d needed a breakthrough. Instead, they had a disaster. The sound of a car interrupted Max’s examination of his feet. Looking up he groaned out loud. He recognised the car straightaway; it belonged to Chief Inspector Frank Heritage.

  He and Lyle looked at each other in surprise and alarm; Heritage didn’t usually attend crime scenes.

  “Any one of us would have made the same call,” Max muttered, wishing he sounded more convincing.

  Lyle immediately agreed. “Of course we would have, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is bad.”

  Max’s urge to flee had returned, and this time he gave in to it. “I need to get up to speed on this thing, Lyle,” he said, already edging away.

  Lyle understood. His sweaty face paled for a second and took on a stricken look, but he recovered quickly. “I’ll update the Chief.”

  Max hurried along the path. As the denseness of the park built around him he picked up his pace. Soon he was running, sprinting between columns of trees, hoping to God that it was all some horrible mistake, but he knew it wouldn’t be.

  At the lakeside there was a lot of activity; a team was retrieving the body. Max slowed to a quick walk and scanned the faces of those clustered at the waterside. He spotted Stan Everson and headed right for him. As he got closer the crowd thinned and he could see more. A small boat, the kind families and lovers liked to row across the smooth waters of the lake, had been pulled close to the bank. A couple more steps and Max saw the body.

  He should have been prepared. He’d been told who the victim was, and he’d seen what had been done to Andrew Trent, but it was still a shock. The run through the park hadn’t touched him, but the sight of the body in the boat had him breathing hard and made his knees shake. His eyes, his brain, focused on small, everyday details, not yet ready to absorb the awful injuries. Max noted the old-fashioned wooden buttons on her woollen cardigan; even on a hot day the old lady felt a chill. Her spectacles were perched crookedly on her nose. He saw a brown, leather handbag lying near her feet. Getting himself under control Max began to wonder if she’d been staged this way, like some horrible parody of a day-tripper out on the lake. He looked more carefully at the body, at the boat, then squeezed past a couple of forensic team investigators to get close to Everson.

  The older man looked round impatiently.

  “I know,” Max said quickly. “Just one question, Stan. From the amount of blood, she wasn’t killed in the boat was she?”

  “Definitely not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When tragedy struck people flocked to it. What was appalling was also compelling. That which horrified, also tantalised.

  The crowds expelled abruptly from the parkland milled about in the adjoining carpark long after they were free to leave. United by the excitement of the rumour of death they gravitated into lurking bands of speculation, spreading truth and conjecture with equal certainty.

  Felix didn’t mind the crowds. They hid him. He melted into their midst like smoke into fog. Outwardly he looked just the same when mixed amongst others; no-one would guess at the fires that fed his soul. Just an ordinary man, part of the herd, calmly eating sweets and watching events unfold.

  He was careful not to draw any unwanted attention. He didn’t lean against the smooth wooden stretch of fencing marking the boundary the public couldn’t cross. Many did; kids who really had no notion of what was so exciting, a few bleary-eyed souls who’d spent the afternoon drinking, and, worst of all, those solemn creatures full of ‘genuine’ concern.

  Blackbridge Park had proved a gift to Felix. It was over fifty percent woodland interspersed with open spaces, nature trails, kids’ play areas, and, of course, the lake. Even on a busy day like today the opportunity had been ripe and inviting. He’d parked on the road, about half a mile away. He hadn’t truly expected to get a chance to deal with the old woman, he was just watching, waiting. But all the pieces had fallen perfectly into place.

  The beauty of the place, aside from the aesthetic, was there were a million ways in and out. Most visitors followed the paths, the well-worn routes laid out for the benefit of fair weather strolls and family days out. But the treeline marched right up to the boundary edges, rubbing up against the surrounding pavements and roadways. The local authority saw no need to fence off the whole area; it was public land after all. So points of access, and escape, were plentiful and easy.

  This one had been better, more thrilling, than Andrew Trent. Whilst the young man had put up a satisfying fight, it had been dark, secluded, private. Here though, Felix had felt the sun beating on the back of his neck as he went to work. In the broad light of day the blood had gleamed. The old lady had managed little more than wide-eyed panic and some feeble cries. He’d quickly silenced her. Then he could concentrate on the job at hand. All the time, as he punctured her frail body with his blade, he could hear the distant sounds of life filling the park. So much of it, so close; children playing, dogs barking, voices raised in laughter. So many people close by, enjoying their day out, whilst Melissa Austen-Brown bled out at the side of the lake. The very exposure of the act made him light-headed with pleasure.

  Finding the boat was trickiest. They weren’t moored where they used to be. He’d begun to panic at one point, fearful he’d just have to leave her where he’d killed her. That didn’t feel right. She had to set sail in one of those little wooden boats, just like he remembered from his childhood.

  Finally he came upon them, further along the bank, but still there.

  He’d removed his blood-soaked jacket and washed his hands in the lake beforehand. But the guy hiring out the boats had looked at him with suspicion. The man had taken the cash without comment, but Felix felt the prickle of his gaze on him as he slowly rowed the boat away from the dock.

  In the end it had all worked out. He’d had plenty of time to go back to the car, hide his jacket in the boot and
clean up a bit more, before returning to the park, just in time to see the first waves of alarm swelling with the discovery of the body.

  Felix loitered behind curious on-lookers until he saw what he’d been waiting for. Another car, another detective, had arrived. He watched as the detective crossed to her colleagues, her blonde hair glinting in the soft sunlight. She had a purposeful stride, back straight, chin lifted.

  He smiled to himself. He’d like to see that poise crumble, once she was face to face with her own failure. But he had enough to satisfy him for now.

  Felix slipped away.

  **

  Max wished Lorraine would scream, or cry, or rant or hit something. She just stood there, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes locked onto the victim.

  “This wasn’t your fault.” He knew how hollow his words sounded, but for once she wasn’t his ex, she wasn’t his cold, bitchy colleague, she was just someone suffering, and he wanted to help.

  “It doesn’t mean she was even right about the intruder.”

  Lorraine looked at him, uncomprehending. “How can you say that?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “I just mean, let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Everything he said seemed to make it worse. Lorraine’s wide eyes boring into him were worse than a tirade of abuse.

  “Look, this guy followed you before. Maybe he followed you to interview this lady too. Maybe that’s why he targeted her, you know, to mess with us.”

  She shook her head. “Why would he do that? You’re over-complicating this, Max.”

  She was right. He knew she was right. The obvious truth here was that Melissa Austen-Brown had seen her killer that night at the retirement block. She’d called the police, for all the good that had done her.

  “It’s still not your fault, Lorraine.” He wasn’t willing to give up just yet. “With what you had to go on from her statement there was no way to find this guy. We had nothing.”