Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel

by J. S. Spicer

  It was a horrible thought, that anyone could be so out of touch with reality, with humanity, that they’d play such a macabre game, but as Max listened to his boss he thought it made a warped kind of sense.

  Gus didn’t move in his chair, except to bring his hands together, like a loose prayer. Max recognised the gesture. His father was in analytical mode.

  “I understand your logic, but this killer, as twisted as these acts are, he’s keeping it simple. Without exception, every one of his victims lived at number 11 Station Street. Jasmine didn’t.”

  “He’s not that rigid about it,” Heritage countered, folding his arms. Another gesture Max was familiar with. The Chief liked a challenge. Max began to think about ways to interrupt. If the old man and the Chief started some intellectual debate they could be here all night.

  “Look at Karl Drummond, the first victim. He was killed in the same way as the subsequent victims, but his body wasn’t staged like all the others. He was just stabbed and left where he dropped.”

  Gus gave a minute nod to accede the point.

  “True,” he said. “But, as you state, Karl was the very first victim. Someone like Vine, capable of doing these heinous things, doesn’t just wake up one day and start killing. These impulses, this sickness, must have been there already. Perhaps repressed, kept in check. But Karl Drummond must have done or said something which unleashed the beast within Felix Vine.” Gus rubbed the tips of his fingers together as he paused, looking around at the gathered faces. He had a captive audience, much to Max’s annoyance. “What if that first murder released all his previous inhibitions to kill? But, in his own perverse way, he still needed to find justification.”

  “But why people who’d lived in that house? He didn’t know them.” Heritage’s curiosity was aflame now.

  “From what we’ve heard from Doyle and from Jasmine, Vine had the time of his life that summer in 1989. It may perhaps, even, have been the happiest time of his life. I’d bet good money he discovered Karl Drummond lived at that address. Perhaps, in Vine’s mind, Karl Drummond had enjoyed the upbringing, the life, that he himself had been denied. If he identifies anyone who lived there with what he, himself, had lost out on, it might be what’s driving him to attack the former residents.”

  Max glanced at Carrie, wondering how she was handling all of this. She had Barney pulled close, her face a mask of unconvincing bravery. He wished his father would shut up. Max wasn’t above telling the old man to put a sock in it, but not in front of the Chief.

  Heritage unfolded his arms. “You might be right,” he conceded, Max caught Lorraine’s momentary surprise before she straightened out her expression again. “But,” Heritage went on, the brusqueness returning to his voice. “I don’t need to figure this bastard out. I just need to catch him. And I’m not risking anyone until he’s locked up.”

  Gus nodded his understanding, his hands settling back into his lap.

  “Put eyes on Jasmine,” Heritage instructed his detectives again, then headed for the door. Max hurried after to show him out.

  Outside the Chief turned to look Max full in the face, and the last rays of daylight showed the dark circles rampant beneath the boss’s eyes. “No more bodies, Max.”

  Then he walked away.

  Max returned inside, already organising his thoughts, planning the next moves. Heritage’s last words had unsettled him. It hadn’t been a barked order or a growled demand, it had sounded almost like pleading.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Once Heritage had left, the others wilted like flowers after a storm. Lorraine made her excuses only minutes after the Chief’s departure, politely taking her leave of Gus and giving Carrie an uncharacteristic hug. Squeezing past Max she managed to offer him a thin smile that did little to dispel the tension in her face.

  His father was the next to disappear, having been too long from his sanctuary he was drawn back to his study irrepressibly, quietly clicking the door into its frame.

  “Think I’ll have an early night, if you don’t mind,” Carrie said, getting up wearily from the sofa.

  “Of course. Let me know if you need anything, OK?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Carrie headed for the spare room, Barney trailing in her wake, his paws tip-tapping lightly up the staircase.

  The troops had scattered to the four winds.

  Max glanced at his watch, it was still early. He couldn’t blame Carrie for turning in. Sleep had been a rare commodity of late. Coupled with all the stress and emotional turmoil she was probably dead on her feet.

  After feeling so crowded suddenly the little sitting room was empty and dusty and depressing.

  He supposed he should get some kip too, but the prospect of his room, his bed, even his own company, wasn’t too appealing.

  Instead he tidied away the supper things, throwing out the last of the pizza and quickly rinsing out the plates and mugs in the kitchen sink.

  Returning to the living room he sat in the chair his father had recently vacated, not bothering to turn on a lamp even though darkness had fallen. In the quiet, that may just be the eye of the storm, he took the opportunity to call Jennifer; needing to hear her soft voice; hoping to forget about this horrible case for a while.

  There was a trace of surprise but she seemed glad he’d called.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you for days.”

  “Sorry, Jen. It just seems to get crazier.”

  “The news today, about that couple…”

  “Yeah, more of the crazy I was talking about.”

  “So, their deaths are connected to the case you’re working.”

  He hesitated, just for the merest fraction of a moment. Talking about the serial killer outside of the squad was a strict no-no. But this was Jennifer. She knew what it was to suffer at the hands of a lunatic; his hesitation was easily squashed.

  “I’m afraid so. Just between us, OK,” he added.

  “Wow, it really is bad isn’t it?” Her voice had a slight tremor, her natural empathy reaching him across the airwaves. “Look, Max, I do understand. I’d love to see you, but I know how it is.”

  Her patience and support just made him miss her more, and feel even guiltier for leaving it so long to call.

  “Look, I can’t promise I won’t get called away, but what are you up to right now? Maybe we could grab a quick drink, or something?”

  “Mmm?” She kept him hanging for a couple of seconds. “You know what? ‘Or something’ sounds pretty good!”

  “Be there in twenty.”

  Max slipped out of the house without a word to anyone. He had his mobile on him if he was needed. But right now he was putting Jennifer first. Who was he kidding? He was putting himself first!

  Max hadn’t intended to spend the night at Jennifer’s. But ending up in bed together had given him the release he’d been craving. The sex was frantic and feverish. Perhaps not his greatest performance, but it left him weak-kneed and satisfyingly exhausted. Lying in Jennifer’s arms afterwards he wouldn’t have been able to resist the lure of sleep even if he’d tried. Intention was shoved aside by instinct and primal need. His body took over, spinning him into a swarm of endorphins before finally crashing into oblivion.

  He rose early, if grudgingly, the next morning; reluctantly tearing himself from Jennifer, who was curled, naked and warm, beneath the duvet, and arrived back home to the melody of the dawn chorus. Craving his morning coffee fix he headed straight for the kitchen. He wasn’t that surprised to find the pot already simmering. But the sight of his father sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around a steaming mug of coffee, stopped him in his tracks.

  Gus Travers was an early riser but his habit was to take his morning cuppa out into the garden for a breath of air, or else withdraw to his study. Gus was a creature of habit. But this morning he loitered in the kitchen. The grim look etched into his features wasn’t lost on Max either. His first thought was of Carrie.

  “Is everything alright
?” It came out harsher than intended, concern scuffing the edges of his tone. “Is Carrie OK?”

  This query served only to deepen the frown lines tracking down Gus’s face.

  “So, now you’re worried about her?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I’m worried. Why do you think I asked her to stay with us?”

  “I don’t know, Max? Why did you? If you’re going to stay out all night and leave her unprotected.”

  All of the repair work done by Jennifer was quickly unravelling. Max and his father had maintained an uneasy truce for some time. The old man was really choosing the wrong moment to pick a fight.

  Trying to hold onto his patience he grabbed himself a mug and poured coffee, keeping his back steadfastly to his father whilst he did so. He could almost feel the laser-heat of disapproval from across the room.

  Coffee in hand he turned, leant against the counter. The fake nonchalance didn’t lesson the demanding gleam in Gus’s eyes.

  “She’s fine, Dad.” It took effort to keep his voice calm, light. “Just by being here she’s safe. The threat was about the Station Street house.”

  With a tut of disgust and scrape of chair legs, Gus got to his feet. “Rubbish!”

  Crossing the kitchen he topped off his own coffee, forcing Max aside to give him access to the brewing pot. “You can’t assume she’s safe just because she’s here,” he muttered quietly at Max’s side.

  “Dad…”

  Gus turned now, facing Max, only inches away. “Remember, he followed Lorraine that time?”

  Max clamped his mouth shut, paling slightly.

  “For all we know he could have tailed you too. He might know where you live.” Gus’s anger had settled into grave concern. Max realised he wasn’t so much mad at him as seriously worried about what could happen.

  Instead of rising to the bait that his father always seemed able to dangle before him, he reminded himself he was a Detective Inspector with a job to do.

  “I promise, I’m taking this threat very seriously.”

  Gus stared at his son, as if trying to see beyond the words, suspicious perhaps of empty assurances.

  Finally he gave a small nod, almost to himself, as if satisfied. “No more nights out, not while that girl upstairs needs you.”

  Gus, coffee in hand and scooping the newspaper from the table, withdrew to the garden, leaving Max with his thoughts.

  Had it been irresponsible of him to ask Carrie to stay? Was Gus right to be mad that he’d stayed out all night?

  He was still propped against the counter, his musings carving a deep crease in his forehead, when Carrie appeared in the doorway. Barney lurked behind; he at least was taking his guard duties seriously.

  “Morning.”

  One look at her trusting face, smiling at him above her fluffy dressing gown, made the taste of his coffee sour with guilt. Gus, damn him, was right. Max couldn’t be selfish, not right now, not with so much at stake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  He recognised her right away. She was on her knees, her back to him, head bowed, blonde hair falling forward. Even in such a submissive pose, he saw the rigidity in her straight spine, the strength infusing her form, shaping every curve and angle; a solid framework wrapped in grace and dignity. Felix watched from a safe distance. The binoculars brought him up close and personal. He could make out the seams of thread in her light cotton shirt, the faded patches on her jeans, see the tread pattern on the underside of her shoes. For once the day had brought some cloud cover; dull, muggy and weighted. Still, her hair glinted. He knew it was no longer the natural, sun-washed curls of her girlhood. Now it was dyed, tamed, straightened. Even so, the soft glow was warmly familiar. He pressed the binoculars hard against his eye sockets, feeling the ache of the pressure, but he didn’t want to miss a moment.

  As he watched, drinking in the sight of her, he silently congratulated his own cleverness. It hadn’t been too hard to find the grave, the one she knelt beside right at that moment. He’d been here a few times since his arrival in Blackbridge. The first time he’d spat on the gravestone; the name on it a stinging reminder of his own weakness. He’d considered doing worse, something destructive or defiling. But he’d resisted, used his brain and not just let impulses dictate his actions. Yes, he’d used his brain, his eyes, his good sense. He’d noted that weeds had been cleared, that the flowers were recent. The grave was well-tended. A few others were too, but most were overgrown and tired, so it was personal, individual attention, not some cemetery gardener. Somebody visited, and often, to care for the grave with love and enduring dedication.

  Now, he was rewarded. Finally, he’d found Jasmine.

  **

  True to their word, Lorraine and Max were darkening Jasmine Burke’s doorstep on Monday. They kept hammering on her front door long after it was obvious she wasn’t home. Faces appeared at the neighbouring windows, scandalised at the noise in their quiet neighbourhood. Max and Lorraine couldn’t have cared less about disturbing the peace of the neighbours. Where the hell was Jasmine? They peered through windows, tried all the contact numbers they had for her, and, finally, decided to break in. Max suggested it. A flat roof and slightly ajar upstairs window around the back were just begging for it. For once, Lorraine, usually so by-the-book, agreed without hesitation. They were losing ground too fast. Hell, they weren’t just losing ground, it was crumbling away beneath their feet. The possibility that Jasmine might be the next victim was the foremost fear for both of them, though neither said it out loud.

  Max took several layers of skin off his palms scrambling for a hold on the flat roof when the garden chair he’d hopped onto wobbled and fell away. He just about managed to haul himself up, ungainly, limbs flailing, his breath snorting with exertion. It wasn’t pretty. Mostly, he couldn’t care less; the priority was Jasmine Burke. A proud corner of his being though was grateful Lorraine went to wait by the front door and wasn’t watching.

  The window was easier. It was old fashioned, held ajar by a simple metal stay. He quickly prised is upward, releasing the window and pulling it wide. Clambering through he found himself in Jasmine’s bedroom. He noted the bed was slightly crumpled. Maybe that was a good sign? Maybe she’d just risen early today.

  Even as he hurried to let in Lorraine, his eyes were everywhere, ears pricked for any slight sound. The house quiet. Peaceful?

  Their first cursory examination was enough to allow a little breathing room; a modicum of relief. Max had feared another scene like the Steeles’ home, remembering the blood-soaked furniture and carpet. Here though, nothing was disturbed. The house was tidy, orderly and, thankfully, blood free.

  They split the house between them. Lorraine took downstairs, whilst Max searched the upper floor. Since they still had no clue where Jasmine might be, they had to make the most of this opportunity. Hopefully their search would yield some clue as to where she might have gone.

  Max heard Lorraine answer the front door at one point. Muffled voices carried upstairs to him. Peering out of the window he saw a patrol car. One of the neighbours must have reported their presence, perhaps seen Max’s unlawful entry through the back window. All he felt was gratitude that the patrols were doing their job, and that the neighbours were so vigilant. He realised he was clinging on to any small positive, real or imagined, rather than believe anything bad had happened. Felix Vine may be the murderer, but somehow the guilt was piling onto Max and his colleagues. Leaving Lorraine to handle the constables he made a concerted effort to shut out everyone and everything as he carefully searched each room.

  The wardrobe in the spare bedroom yielded treasure.

  In its base was a small chest, nestled amongst winter boots and running shoes. Inside the chest was an assortment of postcards, letters, photos, and, one small blue scrapbook. Max lifted it out with care and trembling anticipation. He handled the thing like it was spun glass, almost afraid it would evaporate in a puff of whimsy.

  In truth the small photo album was fairly rob
ust. The pictures inside protected beneath the clear sheets of film holding them in place. It was compact, with just a small number of pages, and even they weren’t all filled. Max opened it to the first page. The photograph was of four children standing in a garden. He easily picked out Felix. Adulthood had altered his features, but the sullen expression and guarded eyes were just the same as the more recent pictures he’d seen. He looked at the other children. Jasmine stood out, beaming from ear to ear, hands on hips, an unruly tumble of blonde curls bouncing on an invisible breeze. A tiny blonde boy lurked in her shadow, standing close but just behind her. That must be her little brother, Justin. The other boy in the photo was the tallest. A little smug, a little bored. This, then, would be Bryan Doyle.

  Max quickly leafed through the rest of the album. It didn’t take long. As scrapbooks went it was somewhat on the puny side. Somebody, Max suspected Felix himself, had scrawled in an untidy adolescent script their names and the dates the pictures were taken. Felix, Bryan and Jasmine appeared in all of the photographs. Justin cropped up a couple more times but wasn’t a constant fixture.

  Max took another look, taking a little more time, focusing on the locations. Felix had scrawled these down too, but not with any real details. It just said things like ‘in the garden’ or ‘at the park’. It wasn’t exactly a road map to their murderer’s mind, but it was something. Especially as, from what Max could see, all of the dump sites were represented in these photographs from Felix’s childhood. There was a picture where they were all giggling together under the bridge, another enjoying the boats in the parkland, one at the Swallows Estate, and of course the playground, spinning happily on the roundabout that Vine has so recently defiled.