by J. S. Spicer
Was Karl Drummond really the first victim?
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
“You’re doing the right thing.”
Jasmine Burke gave a slight nod, her gaze dropped to the coffee mug. Her hands were wrapped tightly around it. She hadn’t taken a sip yet.
They were back at her house. A small suitcase rested against the side of the sofa. She still didn’t want protection at home, but had finally agreed she might not be safe. Jasmine was going to stay with a friend, out of town, somewhere Felix couldn’t know about. A constable lurked near the doorway, waiting to escort her.
Lorraine sat opposite, legs crossed and hands folded across her knee. Max stood next to her, hovering restlessly. His reassuring words belied his impatience. Jasmine Burke had lost them time in his opinion.
“Before you go,” he continued. “Please just try to think back. Is there anything else you can think of, anything at all? Especially relating to those pictures in the album.”
He’d put a brief call into Carrie. She’d shared what she’d found so far about her analysis. It was interesting but didn’t feel much like progress. He was itching for a lead, something that would allow him to track, to find, Felix Vine. He couldn’t ignore Carrie’s fears about the first photograph though. If Vine had carefully staged the murder of Karl to reflect the kitchen scene, why start with the second picture in the album. The implication was unsettling.
“I told you.” Jasmine’s voice was hoarse. The past had brought tears, troubling feelings. “We hung out that summer. The pictures are just places we went. Nothing special happened in any of those places. Nothing special happened at all. At least, not until...”
“Your brother’s death?” Lorraine leaned forward, just slightly, as she spoke. Max took the hint. She was picking up on his irritation so took up the interview.
Finally the coffee cup found its way to her mouth. Max saw a tremor ripple through her tense fingers as she drank.
“That was an accident,” she told them, voice low with forced calm, practised control.
“But, it happened in the Doyle’s garden?”
Max noticed Jasmine was still having trouble making eye contact. Maybe just shaken up about the recent murders. Maybe buckling beneath the weight of old grief.
“We played there all the time,” she told Lorraine with a hopeless shrug. “We lived next door, but all we had was a tiny slabbed yard where mum hung her washing. No grass, no space to play. Mr and Mrs Doyle let us use their garden as if it was our own.”
“But they must have known when you came over to play?”
Half a shake of the head. “Not really. There was a gap in the fence. Justin and I just squeezed through as and when we pleased.”
“I see.” Lorraine was nodding, her face passive, softer than usual, coaxing. “I know it must be painful, thinking back to that time, but can you remember where Felix Vine was that day; the day your brother died?”
Jasmine’s eyes flashed with a shot of pain. Her gaze darted between the two detectives before plunging back towards the depths of her coffee.
“I don’t remember, I’m sorry. It was pretty chaotic.” She glanced at Lorraine from beneath still lowered lids. “I think Mrs Doyle was the one who found… who was first on the scene. By the time I arrived there was quite a gathering in the garden; my parents, the Doyles. Another neighbour whisked me out of there pretty quick.” She looked up, properly now, meeting Lorraine’s eye. “I was only a child.”
**
Outside, Max leaned against the car, resting his forearms on the warm roof. Lorraine paced a tight circle on the other side. Neither hurried to get inside. Where next? They needed a plan. As Lorraine sifted her thoughts, her feet, hands, whole being, was in constant, whirling motion. By contrast Max was still; their roles had reversed. He waited, patient now, watching Lorraine, his eyes fixed and intense as they followed her progress along the pavement.
When she finally stopped moving she slumped against her side of the car. “I can’t think, Max. My brain’s mush.”
He knew how she felt. Recent days had been a rollercoaster ride; they’d been shaken up and thrown about. Max’s stomach churned unpleasantly. Then he realised it was hunger. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was after 3pm.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he suggested. “We missed lunch. We’ll go to my place, refuel and take stock.” A cloud of doubt passed across Lorraine’s face. “Your car’s still there anyway,” he reasoned. “Jasmine’s safe, so are the others. Let’s hash this out so we can finally nail this bastard.”
“You’re right.” The cloud passed. She even gave a tired smile. “I could use a sandwich.”
**
Jennifer Kim was brimming with happiness. A week ago she’d been giving serious consideration to ending things with Max. She’d begun to feel hemmed in by the relationship, suffocated and craving air and space and freedom. She was glad they’d had that talk in the café the other morning. It seemed to have done the trick. Then with Max being so preoccupied with the case it had forced them to spend time apart. She’d had time to think about things.
She’d had time to miss him.
He’d arrived on her doorstep last night, looking tortured with fatigue but still very handsome in a crumpled, drained sort of way. Despite the exhaustion he’d pulled her close, tight to his body, kissed her hungrily. There’d been very little in the way of conversation. Last night they hadn’t needed words. She’d forgotten how exciting he could be; how deeply he could make her feel. For once she’d just allowed herself to be with him, to enjoy what they had. For once she hadn’t analysed every nuance, hadn’t picked away at their relationship like an itching scab.
That morning he’d dressed quietly, kissed her forehead, and left her enfolded in dishevelled sheets and the last traces of his masculine aroma. She’d drifted easily back into a contended sleep, only to wake an hour later feeling like a new woman.
After that she glided through her day, satisfied and with a new enthusiasm for everyone and everything around her.
She found it difficult to concentrate at work, her focus scattered. Her colleagues commented on it, making her feel foolish; like a giddy schoolgirl. She hadn’t been this foolish when she and Max first got together. But then her kidnapping ordeal was still a fresh, raw scar at that time. She began to realise how difficult it must have been for Max, having to tiptoe around her in those early months. He’d taken care of her. Jennifer was stronger now, she was only just realising it. She’d healed, perhaps not completely, but enough to be able to enjoy life again, to relish the possibilities it offered.
As she packed up her desk and grabbed her handbag Jennifer saw how she’d been so wrapped up in herself for so long; what was best for her, what she wanted from life, from a relationship. She’d set the pace, and he’d let her.
Now, with room to think about it, with the benefit of hindsight, she was beginning to realise she’d been very selfish. She’d come so close to finishing things with Max when he’d made noises about moving in with her. She was so lucky. He was smart, and handsome, and sexy as hell. On top of all that he treated her really well; considerate and patient. What more could she ask for.
By the time she’d left work and climbed into her car, all Jennifer could think about was seeing Max again. He’d probably be busy with the case though, and she didn’t want to bother him.
She wouldn’t call. If he didn’t answer his phone, or was too preoccupied to talk, it would only disappoint. But the compulsion to be close to him didn’t go away. As she drove she found she wasn’t headed towards home, instead she was making her way to Max’s.
She started concocting scenarios. It was doubtful he’d be there, but just maybe? She knew Carrie was staying with Max and Gus until the maniac killing people was caught. Perhaps Max would escort her back there after she finished work? Maybe he’d nip home for a shower, or a bite to eat. He wouldn’t really have free time until the case was over, but she’d take a chance, drive by,
and, if she was lucky, she might be able to snatch a few precious moments.
Turning into his road, excitement coursed through her as she spotted his car. It was like it was meant to be. Somehow she’d known, now was the right time to drop by. A sign that their fates were intertwined. Suddenly doubts about bothering him, fears he wouldn’t have time to spare, all evaporated.
This was right.
Jennifer parked up. Pulling her bag towards her she picked out her phone; should she call ahead?
No, she’d surprise him.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
She’d normally feel guilty about logging off at 5.30pm, but Carrie knew she’d start working again as soon as she got back to Max’s. He wasn’t picking her up for another half an hour, but she wasn’t travelling light. Her laptop, notes, the photo album belonging to Jasmine Burke, her analysis and comparison of the photos with the crime scenes, and the copy files from Maidbury, all had to be squeezed into two compact bags. It took some reshuffling and repacking to fit everything. She probably didn’t need it all, but Carrie was in the zone.
She felt she was compiling a comprehensive picture of Felix Vine’s activities. There was no mistaking the parallels between the killings and his childhood pictures. The only anomaly was that first photograph, the one in the garden.
Why hadn’t Felix Vine recreated the garden scene?
Carrie, for one, couldn’t ignore the implication of this. Everyone said Justin Burke’s death had been an accident. But that didn’t fit. Why skip it? For Carrie there was only one explanation that made sense. Vine didn’t need to put a body in the garden of Station Road, because he’d already killed there.
So he’d staged his first reconstruction with the kitchen scene for Karl Drummond’s murder. She didn’t fully understand why he did it. Was it out of love for those memories, or hatred of them? Either way it was twisted.
Carrie was determined to prove Vine had something to do with the death of Justin Burke. Her resolve had only hardened when her contact at Maidbury confirmed she was right about the scene of Karl Drummond’s murder. Colleagues mentioned that things in the kitchen had been moved, including the clock on the wall. Apparently Vine re-hung it in a different position just a couple of days before he stabbed Karl to death.
He was setting his stage.
After all this man had done, including to her own family, Carrie would work night and day to help build the case against him, for all those he’d killed. Whenever she felt tired or frustrated or downright hopeless, she thought of her parents, driven from their own home out of fear of this madman.
By ten to six Carrie was packed and ready. A trip to the ladies’ killed a few more moments, then she just had to wait.
Sitting with her bags clutched around her like a brooding hen, Carrie tapped her foot and checked her watch continually. Tiredness tugged at her edges; without her computer, her fact-finding mission, to stave it off, this inertia might get the better of her, dulling her wits and slowing her progress. At five past six she dialled Max. It was petty, checking to see where he was when he was only five minutes late, especially given how much he had on his plate. But Carrie had her own mission. Perhaps once she was set up again at Max’s house, she’d just work from there for the next few days, or until Vine was in custody.
With effort she stilled her tapping foot as the line connected. He picked up after two rings.
“Max, hi, sorry. Just wondered, you know, how long. It’s just my stuff’s all packed up and…”
Carrie liked Max. Carrie more than liked him. But she also knew him all too well. The confident, reassuring tone coming through her earpiece, telling her he was only fifteen minutes away, was bullshit. He’d forgotten, or lost track of the time, or something. She could tell he wasn’t in the car, it was too quiet. She briefly considered, not without a spark of jealousy, that he was holed up somewhere with his girlfriend, Jennifer. She tried to tell herself Max wouldn’t do such a thing, not at this stage of the investigation, not with everyone, herself included, wearing themselves to the bone to try and catch a break. She didn’t quite convince herself. Carrie didn’t doubt Max’s dedication, not for a moment, but acutely aware of his weaknesses she couldn’t entirely dispel the possibility.
“Look, don’t worry. I’ll get a taxi, it’ll probably be quicker.”
She listened to his weak objections and good intentions, but Carrie had work to do. Waiting around for Max was getting more irksome by the second. She knew it wasn’t really his fault; it was the case, it was Felix bloody Vine, he’d gotten under her skin, everybody’s skin.
“Really, honestly, Max, I’ll phone a taxi and go straight to your place. See you there later, OK?” His objections faded to pale mutterings. “Really, it’s absolutely fine. Yes, see you later. Yes, I’ll be careful. OK. Bye.”
His final foray into concern for her, something which would usually be touching, just ramped up her annoyance. She dialled for a taxi. Ten minutes. Perfect. They were a decent firm, she’d used them before. Ten minutes probably meant five, so she’d be ready and waiting.
Carrie gathered up her bags full of her laptop and files, and hurried from the station.
**
It had become a lottery. A game of chance. With the police rounding everyone up it made it tricky to get to his victims. Tricky, not impossible. The important thing now was not to get caught. He had a car again, which was very useful, he could cover so much more ground yet stay out of sight. His prey were scattered far and wide; eventually they’d return, back to their homes, their lives. The police couldn’t watch over them forever, they didn’t have the resources for that kind of thing. Sending people away, offering protection, it smacked of desperation. It narrowed Felix’s focus, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps he’d been too keen before now, rushing, his enthusiasm overflowing with his newfound freedom. His appetite, perhaps, had been his undoing. If he’d been more cautious, taken more time, maybe the others wouldn’t have fled in panic.
Still, two remained in Blackbridge. Felix would stay in town, lurk in the shadows, casting his web patiently, waiting for an unsuspecting fly to land within reach. He’d already been to the woods. The clearing he remembered was still there, a little overgrown, but that just helped with privacy. He’d stayed there for a while, relishing the silence, the isolation. The clearing was barely ten minutes from a busy road, but it was another world, one muffled by the weight of nature, air thick with bugs, ground knotted with deep roots. Felix had felt uplifted after his visit to the woodland clearing. It was so perfect, he knew, he just knew, that luck was on his side. The scene was set. He just needed a playmate to share it with.
He spent the day, back and forth, keeping his distance, but watching, waiting. Ready.
His chance, when it came, was so perfect. Felix almost laughed out loud, settled for a broad grin. There she stood, right out in the open, alone, exposed, vulnerable. Fruit, ripe and ready to pluck from the branch. There was a brief wobble of doubt. Old Felix, the cautious, fearful, timid Felix surfaced for a second. What if it was a trap? It looked too good to be true. What if police were surrounding the area, poised to pounce the moment he showed his face.
Felix dashed these doubts aside. He no longer listened to timid Felix. Besides, the police didn’t do such things. They wouldn’t risk a life like that. They had to follow procedures. They had to follow the rules. He didn’t.
Felix reached into the bag on the seat next to him. His hand found the handle of the knife, his fingers wrapped around it, enjoying the strength of it, feeling that strength flow into him.
He caught himself just in time, just before the flood of adrenalin washed away reason.
He’d made the decision to pace himself, to be patient, take the time to enjoy the fruits of his labours.
Reluctantly he released the knife, slipping his hand free of the bag. Instead he opened the glove compartment. Good old Bryan Doyle, he had a nice car, a big four-by-four, clean, smart, and well maintained. Doyle liked to
have the best things in life. The torch Felix extracted from the glove box was no cheap or lightweight affair; it was solid, hefty. Felix weighed it appreciatively in his hand for a moment or two. The grin was back.
Things were definitely going his way.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
As he disconnected the call, Max felt Lorraine’s eyes on him.
“You should fetch her, Max.”
“She said she’d get a taxi.”
The sigh and eye roll made him smile.
He and Lorraine had spent the last couple of hours at the house, thrashing through the facts, checking online maps, brainstorming various scenarios. They agreed Felix Vine was still in the area, somewhere close. He would want access to his victims and to the various dump sites he was using. Any disused or frequently empty premises were being systematically marked on a large printout spread across the coffee table, its corners held down by crumb-scattered plates and empty coffee mugs. With full stomachs and some semblance of a plan their moods had lifted. They would target the most obvious locations first, and simultaneously, coordinating officers across Blackbridge. If Vine was holed up in some empty warehouse or office block under renovation, he’d soon be flushed out.
This kind of thing was cat nip to Lorraine. She’d begun colour coordinating their map, each colour assigned to a different officer or team, with off-shoots in marker pen highlighting probable access points, escape routes, and dead-ends. Her project management skills had come steaming to the forefront and as soon as it was dark they planned to be back on the streets, looking under every rock, rattling every door, until Vine was in their hands.
