by J. S. Spicer
This at least was true. She knew it too; didn’t argue. Max fumbled around for something more comforting to say, but was spared by Stan Everson.
“We’re moving the body now,” he informed them, peeling off one of his latex gloves. “I hear you found the murder scene?”
“Yes, it’s further round the lake.” Max pointed to where he’d left a lone constable on guard.
Everson squinted and nodded. “OK, I’ll take some guys and process the scene.”
“Is it the same killer?”
Stan paused, assessing Lorraine shrewdly, before replying. “Yes.”
He nodded to Max, then made his way along the path, beckoning a couple of CSI’s to follow.
Max was surprised. Stan Everson didn’t like making snap judgements. Even when he was almost sure of something he would temper his opinion with caution. It was unheard of for him to be so definite at a crime scene. He would normally wait until he’d had a proper opportunity to examine the body in careful and minute detail, until he had all the samples analysed, the prints examined, every ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed. Max had to assume he was sure enough not to want to prolong Lorraine’s misery; better she deal with the awful truth right now.
They stood there in silence. Lorraine was staring at the boat, now empty, but the sad traces of Melissa Austen-Brown’s demise were still there to see.
Max’s next move should have been to go right after Everson, check out the scene of the murder for himself. But maybe that could wait. He should get Lorraine away from here.
“Let’s go back to those retirement flats,” he suggested gently. “Maybe we can find another witness.”
She ignored him. He looked around, hoping a solution would present itself. What he saw was the Chief bearing down on them.
Max steeled himself, ready to defend Lorraine, to take any heat Heritage was about to fling their way.
Frank Heritage stomped along the path and planted himself firmly in front of Lorraine. She dragged her gaze from the boat and unfolded her arms, trying to stand to attention, trying to re-focus on being a detective.
Heritage looked her up and down, ignoring Max, who hovered protectively at her side.
“How you holding up, Pope?” The voice was as gruff as ever, his tone though, surprisingly gentle.
Sensitivity wasn’t something the Chief was known for. Lorraine stared stupidly for a second before she stuttered a response.
“I.., I’m fine.”
No-one was convinced, not even Lorraine, but the Chief seemed satisfied. “Lyle’s interviewing the chap who hires out the boats. He got a good look at our guy.”
“What? He hired the boat? He didn’t steal it?”
With Trent’s murder the killer had been careful not to be seen. The crime had taken place in seclusion, in darkness, and the boat he’d used on that occasion had been stolen, certainly not hired. Why was it so different here?
“He’s getting bold,” said Heritage. “Which might give us a break.”
Max noted the concern on the Chief’s face.
“That’s a good thing, surely.”
“Not for her.” Heritage glanced at the body being carried towards a waiting van. “I think he wants us to catch him; or at least to try. This is a game of cat and mouse for this guy. Two victims, very different, no obvious connection. I’m trying not to say the two words that come to mind here, but I think we all know this isn’t over.”
With Heritage’s departure Lorraine regained her composure, partially. She shook off the reverie that had rooted her to the spot at the sight of Melissa’s body.
“OK, let’s check out the crime scene.” She headed in the direction Everson had taken. Max couldn’t stop her, just followed meekly, his head still full of what the Chief had said.
Those two words he didn’t want to say, what all of them now feared; serial killer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Carrie mourned the death of her latest diet as she bit into the doughnut. Max had brought them in; his way of trying to motivate the team. The witness at the lake had been able to provide a detailed description of their suspect. The resulting E-Fit image they’d produced was now being flung far and wide; the media, other police forces, their own officers on the streets. Someone should recognise the narrow, slack-lipped, dull-eyed face. Carrie herself had copied and scanned the picture into the police database. Now she was waiting for any possible matches.
Max and Lorraine had each taken one of the pictures of the suspect and left the station. With a likeness to work with it was worth re-canvassing the crime scenes again, as well as asking around at the retirement flats where Melissa Austen-Brown had reported the intruder.
The second victim had cranked things up a notch at Blackbridge Police Station. The horrific and cold-blooded murder of an old lady, enjoying a day at the park with her granddaughter, had galvanised everyone, pushing them to greater efforts.
As awful as it was, having a description of this guy was a real break. This was what really excited Carrie. Give her a picture, a fact, a tiny crumb of data, and she had a starting point, a thread she could reel in.
Another mouthful of doughnut and she broke through to the jam-filled centre. The office was busy as the late shift started drifting in and the day shift were settling in for some overtime. All hands on deck.
With the image of the murderer entered into the system there wasn’t much Carrie could do for now. Still she stayed. She wanted to be part of this, wanted to feel useful.
To pass the time she focussed on the victims. The killer had been specific in some respects. Everson had confirmed that Melissa Austen-Brown had been stabbed eleven times, the exact same amount of stab wounds as inflicted on Andrew Trent. That wasn’t a coincidence.
Then there was the way he’d deliberately moved the bodies, even though he’d killed them both in relative seclusion and could have just walked away. Why take the risk of moving the bodies at all? And what was with the boats?
If there were patterns there, then maybe, somewhere, somehow, there was a connection between these two victims. A successful young businessman and an elderly grandmother, living in different parts of town, with different backgrounds and interests. On the surface there was nothing, as if they’d been randomly selected. But nothing else about this guy seemed random, and then there was the intruder reported by the old lady. If that was really him, and he’d been scared off, then he’d gone after her for another try. He’d specifically targeted Melissa Austen-Brown.
Carrie polished off the jam doughnut and brushed the sugar from her fingertips and the front of her t-shirt. Flexing her fingers she set to work, hunched over her keyboard.
Andrew Trent was an open book, on the surface at least. A man in his twenties, he was all over social media. Most of what was posted there was useless, but having access to Facebook and Instagram also gave her hundreds of contacts. She knew there’d be plenty of people there who didn’t even really know him, but Carrie loved lists. If she had to she could dig into each and every person to see if any red flags sprang up.
Melissa Austen-Brown was another matter. The woman had no on-line presence. Carrie could dig into her finances, medical records, and all those official archives that told the tale of a woman who’d lived simply, modestly, never getting into trouble or debt, but they didn’t help identify why someone would want her dead.
The further she delved the less these two victims had in common; they didn’t know any of the same people, they weren’t distantly related, didn’t have the same doctor or dentist, or frequent any of the same places. They were poles apart.
Carrie leaned back, stretching her aching back and checked her watch; she was surprised by how late it was. Two and a half hours had slipped by as she’d immersed herself into the lives of the victims, and she had nothing at all to show for it.
Across the room the door was pushed open by Max Travers. She watched as he let Lorraine enter before him. Those two weren’t bristling with dislike for each other anymore
. Maybe it was just the case getting to them, or maybe not. Carrie ignored the green-eyed monster grumbling inside. She knew Lorraine had had a tough day. She tried to feel sorry for her, but that was hard. Lorraine had never been anything but polite, but there was no warmth. Not like Max. When Max walked into the room the temperature rose just a little, and Carrie’s mood lifted with it. She knew the first thing he’d want to know was if there were any potential hits against the E-Fit, so, wanting to have something to give him, she checked her other computer for results.
Even as Max made his way across the intervening space, Carrie was scrolling through the very short list of possible suspects. Stopping right beside her he placed a hand on her shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “How’s my favourite lady?”
Carrie’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart thumped in her chest. For once though it wasn’t Max who’d sent this thrill of excitement through her.
For a moment she couldn’t speak, she just stared dumbly at the words flickering on her screen.
“Carrie?”
When she found the wits to answer, Carrie turned, smiled.
“Got him!”
**
The news, like finding the witness at the lake, was bitter-sweet. The briefing room wasn’t big, but tonight it was packed. Even the Chief was there, standing with his back against the closed door, arms folded and his eyes fixed onto Max.
He wasn’t the only one. All eyes in the room were turned his way, either looking directly at Max or fixed onto the whiteboard behind him.
It didn’t take long for the room to settle. It may have been fuller than normal, but it was also quieter; the air charged with the hush of expectancy.
Max cleared his throat. “Felix Vine.” He jabbed a finger at the name written on the left-hand side of the board. “This is who we’re looking for in connection with the murder of Melissa Austen-Brown.” He moved his finger over to the right, where Melissa’s name was listed just underneath that of Andrew Trent. “We believe Vine is also responsible for killing Andrew Trent, though as yet there’s no connection between the victims.” He glanced once at the Chief, got a barely perceptible nod, and continued. “Both victims were stabbed eleven times. Both were killed in one place, then the body was moved. Boats were used both times. Trent was transported upriver and dumped under the Black Bridge. Ms Austen-Brown was set adrift on a rowing boat in the lake in the park. Luckily,” Max winced at his use of the word, he suspected luck had nothing to do with it. “The boat-hire guy at the park got a good look at Vine and gave us a good description. He’s since further identified him from a photograph.”
Max retrieved the printed out photo and stuck it to the top of the whiteboard with a magnet. From the picture stared out an unremarkable face; thin but jowly. Felix Vine looked quite ordinary, even a little tired, he hardly looked like a terrifying killer. But then the worst ones never did.
“Vine was already in the system. He’s wanted by Maidbury police for the murder of Karl Drummond.” Max indicated the third name written at the top of the list of victims. “Again, Drummond was stabbed exactly eleven times. Comparison of Maidbury’s pathology report with our own confirms the same kind of weapon was used; a seven inch blade, dimensions suggest some kind of survival knife, like those used by the army.”
“Why wasn’t there a nationwide alert out for this sicko?” Lyle’s voice cut through the room from where he perched at the back, just alongside Lorraine.
“Because that’s where the similarity in the murders ends.” Max saw Lyle itching to throw more questions at him. Their temporary truce at the park seemed to have evaporated. He raised a hand to halt any more interruptions. “Felix Vine and Karl Drummond worked together. They shared an office for three years, the same office where Vine killed him. The Maidbury police interviewed their colleagues. They got the impression Drummond bullied Vine, nothing serious according to other staff, but I guess it was enough. The working theory was that Vine eventually snapped. They’re obviously looking for him for murder, but he had no prior record, no history of violence. Given the nature of the attack he was deemed dangerous, but, I guess no-one really expected further victims.”
Lyle contented himself with a grunt of disgust. Max couldn’t blame him. If a man could violently stab a colleague to death then there’s every reason to believe he could kill again.
“We don’t know why he came to Blackbridge, or why he targeted these two victims. Drummond’s death was different, no boats, no water, and Felix knew him.”
“Maybe he knew the other victims too.” The suggestion came from one of the constables. Max shook his head but didn’t say what he was thinking, for Lorraine’s sake. If Melissa Austen-Brown had known her killer she’d have recognised him that night in the hallway outside her flat.
Instead he said, “We’re checking of course, but the information we have so far tells us he was born and grew up in Maidbury. Lived there all his life. His parents are both dead now. His father served in the army for several years; it’s possible that’s where Vine got the knife. No siblings. As far as we know he’d never set foot in Blackbridge until very recently.”
Heritage unfolded his arms and elbowed his way to the front.
“OK,” he addressed the room, prodding Max aside. “We know who this bastard is, we know what he looks like. Now we just have to find him. This guy’s name and face will be everywhere; TV, newspapers, Twitter, you name it. Somebody will have seen him, and I want him found.” He paused, glaring at the assembled faces as if challenging them. “And people, I want him found before he kills again.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
4am. He hadn’t been able to sleep. The little boy, tiny and wiry and bursting with vigour. Fearless too; soaring crazily on that slender strip of rope, then sitting cross-legged and chatting easily to Felix. Not a care, no filter to catch concern or doubt, or any of the cloudy emotions that crammed adulthood. Amongst the excited babble that had poured from his candy-crammed lips, Felix had caught some words of interest. Words he needed to verify; the enthusiasm of youth could muddle the facts. He’d checked on-line already, worked out all the possible timings, and now hid in shadow just down the street from the Doyles home.
Several lit windows confirmed what the boy had said. The Doyle family were going on holiday. There was a flight to the Spanish mainland leaving just after 7am. Felix gnawed on a finger nail as he watched silhouettes flit through the upstairs rooms. An urgency was squeezing his lungs; having the whole family pack up and leave the country wasn’t something he’d factored in. The temptation to rush in and stop them was almost overpowering. Almost.
But he caught himself, and with enormous effort managed to quell the need burning through him and held himself in check.
Once he was sure he’d steadied the swirling storm of disappointment he allowed himself to edge closer, careful to avoid the gateway. As before, he gained some height with the assistance of an overhanging tree branch. This time, covered by night, he only needed to be wary of making noise. One by one the interior lights were being extinguished, starting at the far top of the house he could follow their trail, across the landing, down the stairs, though the hallway.
The mother and son emerged onto the driveway, hovered next to the car, boot splayed open ready to receive the last few items. Through the darkness Felix heard small dings as the alarm was set. He pulled himself higher still, some of the eagerness rushing back. He hadn’t seen Bryan Doyle in over twenty five years. Suddenly the prospect was exciting.
The man that emerged was just what Felix had expected; well-groomed, well dressed, casual, yes, but the untucked shirt was obviously expensive, the slip on shoes high quality. Bryan Doyle wore the uniform to perfection, successful family man heading off on vacation. Yes, it was what he’d expected, but disappointment rose like sour bile. He couldn’t see a trace of the young boy Bryan had once been; the wildness was tamed. Hell, it was beaten down to the blandest conformity.
A wave of injustice threatened to unhing
e Felix. Bryan was so unremarkable. Successful and wealthy, perhaps, but unremarkable. When Felix thought how good he’d had it, his loving parents, dolling out love, and pocket money, and clothes and toys, all in abundant measures, and the ridiculous man probably didn’t appreciate any of it. How would he have fared with a father like Felix’s? How would Bryan Doyle have turned out if he’d been subjected to the hunger and beatings and unrelenting drudgery that Felix had endured beneath his own father’s hand.
Again the urges flared inside him. He could be over this section of fence in an instant; be on them before they knew what was happening.
This time the boy, Harry, stayed him. His petulant screeches cut through the peaceful neighbourhood. “TEDDY! I WANT TEDDY!”
He was straining back towards the house, his mother hanging onto one arm, shushing him, trying to calm him in a low, soothing voice. He took not a bit of notice.
“You don’t need Teddy, Harry. Come on, get in the car.” It was Bryan, already slamming the boot shut and heading for the driver’s door.
Harry was having none of it. The little monster had already picked up on his mother’s distress at his outburst; she was a flower ready to wilt in the force of his gale. Harry’s screech cranked up to an ear-shattering wail. His father began to bark angrily. Felix could sense the mother’s heightened anxiety levels even from several yards away.
“Give me the key, Bryan,” she hissed, keeping her own voice down even though on either side her son and husband were probably waking half the neighbourhood. He looked ready to argue but she scooped the bunch of keys from his hand and rushed back to the house. Bryan satisfied himself with manhandling the boy into the back of the car. Felix could hear his angry muttering as he fastened the lad’s seatbelt.
His wife moved like lightening. Letting herself in she threw on the hall light and deactivated the alarm. She was back with the teddy bear in moments, turning out the light and slamming the door behind her. Rushing to the car she threw the keys back to her husband and flung the bear to the boy in the backseat. Soon enough they were driving away. Felix stayed put, waiting until the engine became a distant purr, waiting still longer in case woken neighbours were twitching their curtains. He stared at the house; dark and empty. And silent now. He was encased in silence, and suddenly the Doyle’s holiday plans no longer bothered him. She hadn’t re-set the alarm!
