by Michael Kerr
“I was about to step out for a smoke,” Matt said, testing the water.
“Don’t even think about it,” Tom came back, his words loaded with unspoken threat.
Matt killed two birds with one stone. Instead of taking the lift, he walked past it, out through the fire door into the stairwell. Fired up a cigarette as he mounted the stairs. His leg was complaining. He ignored it, refused to limp, ground out the cigarette on a step and walked out into a corridor that had a higher grade of carpet than the one on his floor.
“Sit down and listen up,” Tom said as Matt strolled into his office.
Matt dropped into a chair. “Okay, shoot,” he said to the cop who was not only his boss, but one of his very few real friends.
Tom looked at his wristwatch. “In exactly two minutes, Grizzly Adams is going to march through the door. He wants to talk to you personally about this case.”
“You mean he’s seen the book and knows that his name is in it?”
“You got it.”
“Don’t expect me to bury it, Tom. If he tells me to mess with the facts, then I’ll go for broke and try to have him suspended, due to the fact that he is a suspect in a murder inquiry.”
“Easy. He wanted you on this case. And remember, he has the clout to put you back on the beat.”
“That wouldn’t happen. I could still put in for a medical and walk with a pension of sorts. I only know one way to get things done. You know that.”
Detective Chief Superintendent Clive Adams appeared at the door. He was in his late fifties but had a youthful, vigorous look. Could have been a game show host. He wore a dark grey, well-fitting suit with hand stitched lapels, and his tan was of the sun bed variety. Hadn’t he read the stuff on how too much time under them could give you skin cancer? Matt still couldn’t decide whether his thick, black hair was dyed or not.
“I’ll take it from here,” Clive said, addressing Tom as both of his subordinates got to their feet.
Tom nodded and left the office.
“Don’t stand on ceremony, Barnes,” Clive said. “Sit back down. This will only take a minute of my time.”
Matt retook his seat and watched the DCS stride around the desk and sit on Tom’s swivel chair.
“I’m a busy man,” Clive said, tenting his fingers together on the blotter. The nails were professionally manicured. It crossed Matt’s mind that Grizzly had enough time on his hands to have them regularly tended to, and spend hours building his tan, when not visiting overpriced whores and being available for fittings at a Savile Row tailors.
“So am I, sir,” Matt said.
“Then we won’t shadow box. You have an address book with my name in it. You need to eliminate me as a suspect. Right?”
Matt locked eyes with the man and nodded.
Clive withdrew a single sheet of folded paper from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pushed it across the desk to him.
“You’ll find details of where I was and who I was with on both of the dates that the murders took place. I would appreciate you being discreet. Anything you feel you need to ask me, ask it now. I want this case to move forward without any unnecessary delay.”
Matt opened up the sheet and saw that Adams had given a full account of his supposed whereabouts for a period of twenty-four hours either side of each murder. It gave times, places and names. On the evening that Marsha had been slain, he had been at a Masonic function in the company of – among others – the Assistant Police Commissioner.
“Well?” Clive said, his renowned temper hardly contained, augmenting his surname to merit the tag, Grizzly, in that he was large and prone to be fierce.
“We have video footage of Marsha Freeman with her...clients, sir. I would expect that you’ll be featured.”
Clive pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. When he let go, the skin was white and took a second or two to return to its former ‘Dale Winton’ bronze colour.
“I wanted you heading up this case because you have a proven record of clearing this sort of crime, Barnes,” he said. “Ray Preston once told me that you are the best there is at hunting head cases like this down. You will have already come to the conclusion that the killer is a maniac who targets prostitutes. The book and videos are an aside; a record kept by a slut who lacked the propriety expected of her.”
Matt wished that DCI Ray Preston was still heading up the unit. Ray had been a cop’s cop, who had earned the respect of all his men. He had been another casualty of the killer, Paul Sutton, who had abducted his teenage daughter, Laura, and murdered her. Years back, Ray had been the arresting officer who brought in Sutton’s stepfather, Ted Roberts, for rape. Roberts had served his time, but left prison with terminal cancer and died shortly afterwards. Something in Sutton’s brain fused, and he decided to declare war on everyone who had played any part in his stepfather being incarcerated.
Matt had eventually ended up in a shoot-out with Sutton, which the multiple killer did not survive. Shortly after that, Ray had put his papers in and retired. Matt knew that some things could not be got past. Ray and his wife had sold their house and moved away from the area, to no doubt try and start anew in surroundings that would not remind them of Laura every second of every day. Trouble was, in Matt’s opinion, you couldn’t run away from your own memories. Good or bad, they haunted you for the duration.
“The missing pages might have been taken by the killer, sir,” Matt said, emptying his mind of thoughts that were not pertinent to the here and now. “Any punters who are on film, but whose names are missing from the book, need to be chased down and interviewed. Another scenario is that if, for example, you had done the deed, then to remove a few pages and leave your own name in the book would be a clever way to shift the direction of the investigation.”
“And what scenario do you subscribe to, Barnes?”
“I keep an open mind, sir.”
“Bullshit! Talk straight. I’m not here to ask you to cover anything up that is relevant to the case. But like it or not, that book and these videos you mentioned are highly sensitive material. In the wrong hands they could cause chaos and instability. The public’s perception is important.”
Matt knew he was up on the moral high ground and could be blunt. He didn’t like Adams, and gave a response that could have been more measured. “As I told Tom Bartlett, I don’t do politics. My only concern is working the case and getting a result. I’m a street cop who doesn’t need you or any other suit from the top floor to tell me how to conduct an investigation. The only people apart from me who will see the tapes and have access to the address book are Tom and any of my team that I think need to. And as for what scenario I subscribe to; my instinct tells me that some maniac is on the warpath. He specifically targets redheaded prostitutes who remind him of someone who he hates with a vengeance. Maybe he flipped through the book, recognised the name of someone he knew and ripped a few pages out on the spur of the moment. I’d rather believe that it was someone known to Marsha who had done it, but I don’t think it was. Anyone who paid a grand a night to float his boat wouldn’t have bothered with the likes of Kelly Lindon. And the one thing that is definite, is that the same person killed both of them.”
Clive nodded. “Good. I prefer people to shoot from the hip. Don’t think that because I spend most of my time behind a desk, that I don’t keep a finger on the pulse, Barnes. You’re a driven man. You seem to like being out on the edge. I admire that, to a degree. Trouble is, men like you burn out quickly or self-destruct. I know where you’re coming from. I liken you to a Wild West gunslinger carrying memories that haunt him. Maybe if you could get beyond using the past as a blunt instrument to beat yourself up with, then you wouldn’t be the cop you are. You’re a junkie. You need conflict to feed off.”
They had come to some sort of understanding. Adams got up and left the office, and Matt realised that there was a lot more to the man than met the eye. He had come up through the ranks, playing a game that had taken him to a cushy
office at the top of the building. It crossed Matt’s mind that this was not a man who you would want as an enemy. And anyway, the tan stretched to the tips of his fingers, encompassing them. There was no telltale white strip that might have implied that he usually wore a large ring. Hopefully the video tapes would disclose some guy wearing the ring, but it was long shot.
Back in the squad room, Matt gave Errol the job of phoning the mortuary for any update he could get on Marsha’s autopsy, and to then confirm whether her father’s business trip at the time of the killing was on the level.
Pete cabled up the video camera to a monitor in Matt’s office, while Matt poured them both coffee and then closed the Venetian blinds at the large window that faced the squad room. He saw no need for anyone else to view what were in reality no less than pornographic home movies.
It took time, even though they fast forwarded to find a clear view of each punter’s hands. Not one of Marsha’s partners wore a ring that matched the imprint found on the victims.
“What does that tell us, boss?” Pete said, removing the last tape, switching the camera and monitor off and disconnecting the cables.
“That if the killer wears his ring to commit murder, then I don’t see him taking it off to make love.”
“So you don’t think we’ve just had the pleasure of seeing our boy on screen?”
“I think it highly unlikely. I’ve got the feeling we’re going through the motions. The only clue we have is the ring.”
“Why not feed it to the press? Someone out there will know if a friend, workmate or partner wears a bloody big ring with a wolf or some animal’s head on it.”
“We might do that, Pete, but not yet. I don’t want him to go to ground or feel in danger. We still have to run down some of Marsha’s contacts; ex-boyfriends and people who she worked with and for as a model. And I want to talk to her best friend, whoever that might be. All women have another female friend who they confide in. And when the funeral takes place, we need to be there. Maybe the killer will turn up wearing a black suit and a wolf head ring.”
“I’ll run down all her friends and acquaintances. I’ll team up with Marci and―”
“Take Errol.”
“Wouldn’t Marci be better to handle any girlfriends Marsha had?”
“Okay, I can see that. But we need to talk.”
“About what?” Pete said guardedly.
“You know what.”
“You mean Marci and me?”
“Yeah. I drew the short straw and got told to impress on you two that it’s against policy for...you know.”
“It doesn’t compromise how we work, boss.”
“That’s not how I or the DCI see it. One of you will be transferred out of SCU if you don’t cool it.”
“I don’t believe you’re saying this to me, boss. What about you and Beth Holder?”
“She isn’t on the team, Pete. Beth is a civilian, remember. She consults for various departments if the need arises and the case falls within her area of expertise.”
“You’re splitting hairs, boss.”
Matt didn’t like being the mouthpiece for Tom. This was an area that made him squirm inwardly. He was poking his nose into people’s personal lives. It would have been easier to deal with if Pete had a problem with drink or gambling. And his DS was right. He was splitting hairs. He had put procedure aside and gone off like a loose cannon on two occasions when Beth’s life had been at risk. That was why he knew he was right in knowing without the slightest doubt that given the circumstances, Pete or Marci would let their feelings for each other interfere with how they carried out their duty. It had been no big deal when his sergeant had been having a fling with one of the lab technicians in ballistics, which was not off limits, but this was.
“Pete, I don’t know how tight you are with Marci, and don’t want to go there,” Matt said. “But you know the policy. I didn’t just make it up. Everyone on the team knows that you two are an item. You should have kept it under wraps. I don’t want to be having this conversation, so go away and think it through. The worst that can happen is that Marci would have to move over to Vice or CID.”
Pete was angry. Not at Matt. He knew that his boss would have turned a blind eye if he could have done. He was angry for being less than discreet over his and Marci’s relationship. It had just somehow got serious between them. They had a history together, and had become closer than ever after Pete got himself shot and was lucky to survive it. The near fatal experience had focused him; matured him. He saw his single and carefree life as being shallow and without substance. The resulting shift in his character had caused him to see everything in a new light, including Marci. She had been there for him, visiting the hospital every day. One thing led to another. That’s what life is, he supposed, a chain reaction that was just a series of events unfolding. Some things you don’t plan. It was like a complex pattern of upright dominoes. Push the first one over and the rest fall one by one until the end of the line.
“Leave it with me, boss. I’ll sort it,” he said.
Matt nodded. “Good.” He knew that Pete was lying. At best, he and Marci would pretend to break off their relationship and go under deep cover. Bollocks, he thought. What the eye doesn’t see...
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beth saw Alec sitting at a booth in the corner of the bar. He was watching the pianist play a jazzed-up version of Try a Little Tenderness, and seemed to be mouthing the words under his breath. She recalled that it was an old Sinatra number that Matt had on vinyl. He had kept many of his late father’s collection of LPs and singles, and the ancient Dansette record player that was circa 1962. They had spent one evening at Matt’s place listening to the likes of Crosby, Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole and a dozen other crooners that had been Arthur Barnes’s staple aural diet.
“I saw him here in town at the Riviera, the Paramount and the Copa,” Alec said, standing up as Beth slid into the booth next to him.
“Who, the piano player?”
“No, Old Blue Eyes. Must have been a million years ago. Seems like another lifetime. You like him?”
“As a person or a singer?”
“Either.”
Beth shrugged. “He struck me as being a very complex kind of guy, with a lot of insecurity festering under the macho image he wore like a glove. And I never rated him as being the best at what he did. He was a legend in his own mind, but I’d rather listen to Michael Bublé.”
Alec grinned. “So why’d you come across the pond, Beth? You we’re distracted today and gave the impression that you’d rather be back in London.”
“It showed?”
“Like a clown at a funeral. You had a thousand yard stare and you were chewing the inside of your lip while I was up there imparting my new findings on the ever-changing environment and its link as a trigger to precipitate an increase of violent schizophrenia in the juvenile population.”
“Sorry, Alec. You’re right, I wasn’t focused on the seminar. But I’ll read your notes on―”
“This isn’t about you not paying attention, Beth. My little lecture was just an extrapolation of what we already know. I’d rather know what it is that has changed you from the upbeat and happy-go-lucky person I’ve known for so long, into the pensive young woman who is sitting next to me now.”
“It’s called life, Alec. It has ups and downs, peaks and troughs like waves at sea. I’m just in a trough at the moment.”
“So tell me about it. A problem shared is―”
“Still a problem.”
Alec caught the attention of a waitress, ordered another vodka martini for himself, and then looked to Beth.
“A JD on the rocks,” she said.
The waitress nodded imperceptibly and withdrew. Beth leant back against the soft leather of the seat and listened to the pianist playing a gentle arrangement of Mack the Knife. Alec meant well, and was a good friend. He was also a shrewd and highly gifted man; a world-renowned behavioural psychologist who even tutored
at the FBI academy at Quantico. Alec was in his seventies, hailed from Chicago and, when not working, could be found playing golf at his local club in Arlington Heights. He maintained that any weakness in the human psyche was amplified out on the course, and that golf rage was much more common than road rage, but did not result in such dire consequences. Alec saw the fairways, greens and sand traps as Petri dishes, where anger, frustration and despair were prevalent, breeding at a faster rate than any bacteria. He maintained that the true nature of most men was laid bare on a golf course.
“I’m in love, Alec. Does that explain why I might be a little more contemplative than usual?” Beth said after the drinks had been set down in front of them, and she had taken a large sip of the Jack Daniel’s.
“Who is the lucky son-of-a-gun? One of the shrinks at the nuthatch you’re affiliated to? Tell me it isn’t a patient, Beth.”
“Worse, a cop.”
“Some high-flying head of CID.”
“A murder cop. A DI who I’ve worked with on a couple of cases, and nearly ended up dead on both occasions.”
“Tell me about him. I’m fascinated.”
“There’s not a lot to tell, Alec. His name is Matt Barnes. He’s one of those hard-headed coppers on a mission, who lives and breathes whatever case he’s on. He has a knack of drawing serial killers to him and making it personal. Anyone close to him becomes fair game for a psycho who wants to hit back at him. I don’t know if I can spend the next twenty years being in the firing line of every monster who decides to go head-to-head with Matt.”
“That’s heavy shit, Beth.”
“Is that a profound and specialist assessment of my predicament?”
“Of course.”
“So what do you see as being the way to go?”
“Start at the beginning and tell me all there is to know about you two, and then I’ll be better able to give you my take on what might be the right road for you to go down. Although it will be very subjective on my part, and therefore probably of no help whatsoever.”
