by Michael Kerr
“Carry your case, love?” He said.
She grinned. “It’s on wheels. You can pull it if you want. But I’ll need to see your ID first. I don’t think that you are a real porter.”
Beth let go of the case, put her arms around his neck and kissed him as if he was going off to war. It was more than a kiss. It was a physical proclamation of how much she had missed, and how deeply she loved him. He thought he would melt under the welcome onslaught. They were holding each other in an embrace that would have taken a crowbar to tear apart.
“Missed me, huh?” Matt said when they finally broke the clinch. “And don’t say, yeah, like toothache.”
“Yeah, like toothache,” she said. “What brings you out to Heathrow? I thought you would be up to your ears in the case.”
“I cut myself some slack. I’ve got time to take you home and grab a coffee. Then I’ll rush back to the fray.”
He made good time to Roehampton. They talked about New York and favourite places, and Beth couldn’t keep her hand off his thigh. On the way up to her top-floor apartment, she wanted to make-out in the moving lift. They somehow held off until they got inside the flat. Without any hesitation, they headed for the bedroom, to undress each other and couple without any preamble. It was an urgent, almost aggressive act; a need to be joined in intimacy after not only being apart, but having had doubt mess with their heads, if only fleetingly.
There was no hot water, and a cold shower in March was a less than attractive proposition. Beth switched the central heating boiler on and made coffee while Matt made a phone call.
“Everything in place, Pete?”
“Yeah, boss. Errol is in the boot of Villiers BMW, complete with a water bottle, one of those thin camp bed mattresses and a pillow. The panel between the boot and back seat has been loosened, so he won’t run out of air. I told him not to get too comfortable and fall asleep.”
“Where is Villiers, now?”
“At his office. He’s due to pick up the cash from the bank in an hour. We have the GPS Logger taped to Villiers back. He wasn’t a happy camper. You’d think after what we’ve seen him doing on film, taking his shirt off would be no big deal.”
“Who do we have with the scanner, to keep with Villiers?”
“Kenny. He has a hand-held scanner that looks like an oversized mobile phone. He calls it a Palm Pilot. It has a tracking screen.”
Matt was happy that Kenny was on loan from Computer Crime Section. He was a real asset. They had worked together on a number of occasions, and when it came to anything to do with modern technology, the guy was a wizard.
“I’m on my way in,” Matt said. “Call me if anything comes up.”
“Will I see you tonight?” Beth asked as he pocketed his phone.
“I doubt it. We have a rare bird to net. A serial killer-come-wannabe-extortionist. When he comes to the money, we’ll take him down.”
“Have you got time to run it past me?”
Matt summarised what the killer had done to Marsha Freeman and Kelly Lindon, and the likelihood that the burned corpse of a Jane Doe was also his work. He told Beth about Marsha’s known intent to blackmail punters, of the address book and missing pages, and of the more comprehensive details on flash drives, and the video record of her exploits with the rich, powerful and famous.
“All we have is an impression of an embossed ring in the flesh of Marsha and Kelly. We haven’t come across anyone that knew her who wears a ring that would match. We’re looking for a repeater who kills prostitutes with red hair, or a client who was being blackmailed and came up with this elaborate plan to throw us off his scent.”
“Which side of the fence are you leaning towards?” Beth said.
“I think we have a psychopath out there who has an agenda, and had never clapped eyes on his victims until he selected them for what they did and how they looked. There’s every chance that it’s the same guy who is bracing Villiers. Greed might lead to him being lifted a lot sooner than we could have hoped to find him.”
“You want to give me copies of everything?”
“Yeah, Beth. But I don’t want you officially involved. Whatever you come up with will be for me, and you stay anonymous. Deal?”
“It’s a deal if you don’t get to be a pen pal or start goading this one, Matt. I want you to promise me to keep him at arm’s length. No repeats of what we know can happen when you decide to get too personal with these flakes.”
“Is flake another of those specialist handles that you professional head doctors use to confuse us laymen?”
“Yes. And don’t try to evade the issue.”
“I’m not. I have no intention of ever getting that close to one of these...flakes again. I can promise you that I will not knowingly put myself up as a target.”
“Good. And remember, if this is one and the same person who is mixing and matching murder and blackmail, then he will not do what you expect him to. He may be suffering from a severe personality disorder. Take it as a given that he will be paranoid and extremely cunning. I doubt that he will go to the money.”
“Are you saying he doesn’t want the pay-off?”
“No. I’m saying that he won’t meet Villiers to collect it. And if he does, then he will kill him. It might be more about the power he holds over the man, rather than his money.”
“I’ll bear all that in mind,” Matt said, slipping his jacket on, then holding Beth for awhile. “I’m glad you’re back, Beth. I missed you like hell.”
Nigel entered the bank and was ushered into the manager’s office.
He unfolded the blue nylon holdall and placed the banded wads of money into it, as the manager, Charles Sanford, watched nervously, unaware of the reason for this highly unusual cash withdrawal being made by the MP, who was pale, tight-lipped and sweating profusely.
“Are you all right, Nigel?” Charles said.
“Fine. Fine, Charles. Let’s just be sure to keep this episode between us. Right?”
“I do not discuss customers’ transactions with anyone,” Charles replied sharply with a trace of pique to his voice.
As Nigel zipped-up the bag, the phone on the desk rang. Charles answered it and frowned. “It’s for you, Nigel,” he said, holding the receiver out for Nigel to take.
“Yes,” Nigel said into it.
“You got the money, Nige?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet. But I want you to know that I don’t trust you. I’m working on the premise that you have contacted the police, that you are probably wired, and that calls to and from your mobile are being monitored. So take the money home and think it over, Nige. I’m trying to save you a lot of unnecessary grief. The new rules are, that if you set me up, it will be you who pays the piper, not your family. I got to thinking that a selfish pig like you, who plays away from home, might not give a shit about his family if push comes to shove. So I’m going to let you stew for a day or two, maybe longer. Give you time to rethink your game plan and do this properly. Bear in mind that I am far from stupid. I won’t be trapped by any of the methods that I know the police can employ. If you want to survive this, then you had better believe that looking out for my interests is the only way to ensure your own.”
“But―”
“No buts, Nige. Take the money with you wherever you go. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
All they could do was keep Villiers under round-the-clock surveillance. He had withdrawn his cooperation. They would not now be able to track him with the GPS logger, that he had removed, and should he be contacted by phone, then any hacking would be illegal. He had let fear overcome any sense of civic duty.
“You do realise that by not assisting us, you are in effect aiding and abetting a criminal who is probably one and the same person responsible for at least three brutal murders, sir?” Matt said to the politician, who he now considered to be a spineless, selfish and contemptible bastard.
Nigel looked to Clive and Tom, who were also present, b
ut found no support in their hard expressions.
“What I realise, Inspector, is that he is aware of what you might do to trap him, and that if I am party to a failed attempt on your part to arrest him, then I would in all probability end up like the others,” Nigel said in defence of his decision.
“And if you manage to go it alone and actually meet with this animal, without our protection, then he is just as likely to kill you. This is a man who enjoys taking life. Do you really want to be led to a dark and isolated spot, not knowing what he will do, and with no lifeline? Think about it.”
Nigel’s shoulders slumped. The rotund little man seemed to physically shrink in front of them. He was out of his depth, and knew it. Matt had got through to him. Fear is a real attention-getter.
“I will not have anything attached to me,” he said, and by so doing intimated that he was willing to work with them, though purely out of self-preservation to protect his own skin.
Matt stifled a sigh of relief. “We need to tap your home, office and mobile phones. When the blackmailer contacts you, we’ll be ready to move.”
Nigel stood up, nodded to the three cops and slouched out of the office, an almost broken man, who had found himself in a position that he was ill-equipped to assimilate, or deal with.
“Do you trust him?” Tom said to Matt.
“I don’t trust anyone whose back is up against the wall, Tom. The man is confused and shit-scared. While we’ve been talking to him, the GPS logger has been sown into the bottom of the money bag, and Errol left a radio transmitter in his Bimmer. He might have a change of heart, but he isn’t going anywhere without us sat on his tail.”
He was in no hurry to part Villiers from his money. The thought of him having sleepless nights was enough for now. He drove home in time to make ready for his only appointment of the day. Ralph was a regular, who he had put in many hours of work on. He showered, readied his equipment and sat in the chair with a mug of coffee. He suddenly felt the need again; a growing necessity to take another harlot and feed off the suffering he would inflict. It was manageable for the moment, but would not lessen. The sensation was akin to a small nuisance dog nipping at his heels. It would worry at him until he turned and kicked it to death, to give him relief from its unwanted attention.
The door opened, and Ralph ducked to avoid cracking the top of his head as he strolled in. He was an ex-body builder who had been a runner-up once in a Mr. Universe competition. Now, at fifty, he still worked out and had not gone to flab. He was a doorman at the Flesh Pit; a night-club in Camberwell, and rarely had confrontations with the kids that frequented the place. No one with an ounce of sense would want to grapple with a six-foot-eight tall guy who had muscles growing on his muscles.
“Hi, Luke, how’s it hanging?” Ralph said.
Lucas grinned. He liked Ralph. There was no side to the man. What you saw was what you got. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block, but had a good body to work on, and always kept the sessions interesting by recounting stories of the days when he had been a stunt man in the movies and worked with a lot of big names. To hear about who was gay, who was screwing who, and all the idiosyncrasies of well-known stars, was a hoot. Ralph should have written a book. He knew things about Oliver Reed, Richard Harris and scores of others that would make for a best seller. And even if he exaggerated a tad about some of the actors and actresses who were now feeding the worms, they couldn’t very well sue him for libel.
With Ralph shirtless in the chair, Lucas began applying colour to the latest Celtic spiral design that graced the giant’s shoulder. He used a flat blue, overlapping each line of the colour to produce a solid, even hue with no ‘holidays’, which were uneven areas where the colour can lift out during healing, or where the tattoo artist has simply missed a section of skin. He worked for ninety minutes, and then sprayed, cleaned and applied pressure to the fresh work with a disposable towel to remove the small amount of blood and plasma excreted during the tattooing process.
“There you go, Ralph,” he said after taping a bandage over the site.
“Nice work, Luke,” Ralph said after having admired the ornate and elaborate improvised design that was now more illuminated with the addition of colour.
“Glad you like it,” Lucas said, removing the needle from the machine and depositing it in a waste bin, along with the colour cap and the gloves he had worn.
Ralph put his shirt and jacket back on, handed Lucas two fifty pound notes and clapped him on the back with enough force to make Lucas stagger forward. “You’re the best,” he said. “I’ll give you a bell and make another appointment in a week or two.”
“Always a pleasure, Ralph. And is it really true that Harrison Ford―?”
“I don’t make any of it up, Luke. I tell it as it is. I was there on the set of ‘Lost Ark’ when it happened. I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Ralph said before grinning and leaving the studio.
Lucas was about to lock up at four, when a skinny guy with a shaven head and a bunch of silver rings in each eyebrow came in. He wanted a spider tattooed on his dick. He did it, charged him fifty quid and sent him on his way. He didn’t even wonder why the bloke had wanted it done, or what significance it held. Over the six years he had been a tattoo artist, he had stuck his needles in almost every part of the human anatomy. But he approached it professionally. He would not do anything pornographic, or of a racist nature.
After having a shower, he made himself a ham sandwich and settled in front of the TV to watch an old black and white movie on video. It was Build my Gallows High, a murder story starring Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas. He had watched it a dozen times over the years. It was essentially about real people, who were all flawed. Even the character that Mitchum played, and who was trying to make things right, got killed. It was one of those gritty Yank noir thrillers, loaded with clichés and smart talk, but saved from mediocrity by having a downbeat ending. Everyone got what was coming to them.
By nine o’clock he was finding it hard to concentrate; was edgy and becoming angry for no good reason, other than that he wanted to hurt someone. He knew exactly where to go, and who to kill, and also realised that he was escalating. That was what brought about the downfall of most repeat killers. They didn’t pace themselves and let a reasonable amount of time pass between each strike. If he was to remain in complete control, then he should hold off and wait a month or so before lifting another. So why was he already going into the bedroom with the intention of taking a pair of brand new overalls from the bottom drawer of the dresser. After this one I’ll get a grip, he promised himself. He was missing Janice. Having her up in the loft had given him an outlet. Now that she was gone, he needed to fill the gap. Maybe he would bring another one home, but not for a while, it was too risky.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the van and heading in the direction of Wandsworth. There was a bitch there who worked from home. He had seen her ad and photo in a magazine, and checked her out. Even talked to her on the phone and red-flagged her as being worthy of his attention. He rang her as he drove.
“Hello, is this Pamela?”
“Yer, love.”
“I saw your ad in a magazine, and wondered if we could get together.”
“What mag’ would that be, love?”
“Eros.”
“When would yer like to drop by?”
“Now would be good for me.”
He let her give him the address, even though she had unknowingly given it to him months ago. He was no longer uptight and consumed by the need to punish someone. A thrilling sense of anticipation flushed all the fury from his veins. Within half an hour he would be placating a need that would not be denied. He recognised without any ambiguity that a dark side of him would always be prodding and urging, insisting that he continue to wage war on the sleazy whores who plied their unwholesome trade under cover of the same darkness that made them easy prey.
He parked the van three streets away, walked to the small terrace house and pressed the b
ell.
She opened the door wearing a pink negligee under a too-small robe loosely belted at the waist; her large breasts almost spilling out from the top of it. He took a quick breath. She was perfect. Her dark auburn hair reached her shoulders, and she was at least fifteen years older than him, much like his mother, in that she was a seasoned professional who had probably been spreading her legs for monetary gain since he was in nappies.
“Don’t stand on ceremony, love,” Pamela said. “Come on in, I ain’t gonna bite yer, unless that’s what stirs yer tea.”
He walked past her. Felt her left breast jiggle against his shoulder. She closed the door and locked it. Why were they so trusting? Did they believe that they would never be unfortunate enough to meet someone like him?
“Are you staying the night, or is this just a pit stop?” Beth said, closing the door behind him.
“I plan on waking up next to you in the morning, if you don’t have anything else planned,” Matt said. “I’ll even turn my mobile off.”
“No, leave it on. You’d be like a cat on hot bricks if you were incommunicado.”
“You mean a cat on a hot tin roof?”
“You know what I mean.”
He kissed her. Felt her tense slightly in his arms.
“What is it, Beth? You seem a little keyed-up.”
“I was going through the paperwork on this case earlier, and it brought back thoughts of Noon, and how he was here in my apartment, and what he planned on doing.”
They held each other for minutes without speaking.
“I’m sorry about New York,” Beth said, breaking the spell. “I needn’t have gone, but I was trying to come to terms with everything. Saving up my courage in case I had to make a hard decision.”
“Do you know what you want, Beth? Really know?”
“Yes. I came to the conclusion that I was afraid to be with you, but more afraid to be without you.”
