A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  “That’s it for now,” he said, taping a bandage over the site. “We’ll get back to it in a couple of days.”

  Julie felt her muscles relax. They might have been jelly, though the ordeal had not been as bad as she had expected it to be. The pain of the needle was how she imagined being flicked repeatedly with a rubber band would feel.

  “Why me?” she risked asking.

  “Because you were in the right place at the right time, depending on whose viewpoint you look at it from. And you have young, supple skin. Bear in mind that whatever I do is not personal. I have not singled you out because of who you are, but because of what you are; a female who can cater to certain needs.”

  “Don’t you care how I feel about having my life stolen from me?”

  “What life, Julie Spencer? I doubt that you had a worthwhile future to look forward to. You are like millions of other insignificant human ants that do not possess the intelligence or talent to be worthy individuals. What would you aspire to? Tell me.”

  Julie wanted to defend herself, but found more than a little truth in what he had said. She could not put a lot of value on her existence in measurable terms. No one would ever name roads or airports after her, or write books about her, or honour her name for some great deed or important work she had done. She had achieved nothing of note in her twenty-four years, and had no reason to believe that she would ever have her fifteen minutes of fame. But she asked, “Who set you up as a judge of what and who is or is not important?”

  “Enough,” he said, blindfolding her again, and stuffing a wad of cotton wool in her mouth and taping it in place. “Your opinion is irrelevant. I would have thought it in your best interests to keep me in a genial mood. Being adversarial is asking for trouble.”

  He led her back out, down the hall and up the stairs. Placed her hands on the cold metal rungs of the loft ladder, and followed her up. He knew that she was too fearful to act against him. What point would there be in lashing out with bare feet at an invisible enemy. Her desperation was tempered by enough commonsense to realise that any hostile act might easily be her last. Still, he kept close to her, not leaving enough space between them for her to manoeuvre. His face was against her bottom, and he could smell perspiration and the unmistakable scent of woman. She would need to shower soon, under close supervision, and when the fresh tattoo work had begun to heal.

  With her chained to the iron ring, he removed the blindfold, turned her onto her stomach and pulled her right arm up behind her. Pain of a magnitude that almost, but not quite, robbed her of consciousness followed. A tearing agony sending white hot tendrils to shoot up to her shoulder and beyond. It would have been no surprise to her if some razor-toothed animal had started to feed on her hand, biting to the bone with chisel-sharp incisors.

  He gripped the back of her head with his left hand and twisted it to the side so that she could see the fingernail held between the jaws of the pliers. The horny, varnished covering was now separate from the tip of her middle finger. Bright cherry-red tissue was still attached to it, and teardrops of blood dripped from it onto the black plastic that she lay on, to roll away from her; crimson pearls on the non porous and oil slick surface.

  Through the screams that were trapped in her brain with no outlet, Julie heard his voice. It penetrated the fog of her suffering. Each word was etched into her psyche.

  “Do not ever question what I do, you stupid, ignorant cunt. If you even look at me the wrong way, then I might blind you. You’ve heard the old saying; ‘if you haven’t anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all’, haven’t you?”

  She snapped her head up and down. He had to be obeyed. Her tolerance to pain was not high enough to risk further torture. And she knew that he was not making idle threats.

  “Then be very careful,” he continued. “Think before you open your mouth, and censor anything that might cause offence. All I want to hear are uplifting and positive comments. I don’t like to have people around me who give off negative vibes. There is absolutely no point in you wallowing in self-pity. You are on a journey, and this is just one step along the way. Try to savour every second of your time here with me. Consider it a learning curve; one that will elevate your pathetic life to a new level.”

  He went down to the bathroom, placed the fingernail on the wash hand basin between the taps and took a bottle of antiseptic and some lint and a box of elastoplasts from the mirrored cabinet on the wall.

  She had learned her lesson, of that he was sure. Having a nail yanked from its bed was a real attention-getter. Though he would have been able to contain the pain and use the power of thought to control it. The fortitude he had built up to overcome any form of discomfort was as strong and resilient as the finest tempered sword blade ever produced in Toledo. He would give her a demonstration. Let her be amazed and in awe of him.

  Back in the loft, he removed the blindfold and gave her time to wipe the tears from her eyes with her undamaged hand.

  “Watch this, bitch,” he said, pushing the slightly open jaws of the pliers over the rim of the nail on the little finger of his left hand. He ensured he had a firm grip, and then used his power to mentally withdraw from the loft. Envisioned a chalk-white pyramid that seemed to grow from golden desert sand. He mind-walked through a portal in its sloping side, to travel along a dark and narrow tunnel that angled down into the bowels of the earth. In the burial chamber at the centre of the polygonal structure, he stood in the dank resting place of a long dead pharaoh, to even take the time to invent the smell of damp plaster, and to see the splendid trappings that were to supposedly accompany the mummified ruler into the next life.

  Julie cradled her throbbing hand and looked on in horror as the man who called himself Wolf sat cross-legged in full lotus position in front of her and made as if to remove one of his own fingernails with the ugly, black pair of pliers. His eyes became dreamy, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. He was completely out of his tree; she knew it.

  With smooth, even pressure, Lucas withdrew the nail from its moorings.

  Julie gasped at the sight of it becoming detached. Blood surged from the raw flesh, to dribble down and patter on the plastic.

  Lucas was in two places at once. He was fully aware of being in the loft, but saw it from the ethereal seclusion of the burial chamber he had constructed. It was as if he was two separate individuals. His personality was split, yet each aspect of it was aware of the other’s presence. He felt no pain, and allowed himself to be one again.

  “That was just a display of mind over matter,” he said to his cerebrally inferior prisoner, leaning forward to rip away the tape from her mouth and hook out the saliva-soaked cotton wool. “It would do you no harm to learn how to control your emotions, and be more able to manage the physical stimuli that evokes pain, hunger and all other reactions to organs and tissue. Sadly, the art of it would take you years to master, if ever. But every journey starts with the first step. Right?”

  “Y...Yes, Wolf,” Julie gasped, wanting to cry, hardly able to contend with the deep, ferocious throbbing that matched her pulse rate.

  He applied the antiseptic to both of their raw finger ends, and taped lint over them.

  Julie grunted as the iodine seeped into the wound to stain the pink flesh a brownish yellow.

  “There. All better,” he said. “We can just put this little episode behind us and start afresh. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds good, Wolf,” she said.

  “That’s my girl. I think we deserve a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. Just stay as sweet as you are, and I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

  When he left, Julie broke down and sobbed her heart out. He was the most evil person she had ever met, and yet she now relied on him for her very existence. Without him to bring her food and water, she would die. And yet a part of her already felt girded against the moment when he would kill her. She was no more than human chattel, bound to absolute obedience, a helpless victim unde
r his influence to be used and dispensed with at will. She was a sex slave and much more. No plantation Negro had faced greater fear or hardship than she was having to bear. She would gladly have traded places with some cotton-picking black girl of the Deep South, who may have been bedded by an overzealous landowner, and even been subjected to the odd thrashing, but would not have spent every waking second staring mutilation and death in the face. This was a madman who had snatched her away from the safety of her previous life. He was the manifestation of the devil to her; a somehow unearthly demon who preyed on mere mortals for the sport of it.

  Lucas was relaxed and feeling in total control of the situation. Life was a giant Christmas tree, and he was the boy under the twinkling fairy lights and glittering decorations, rummaging through brightly wrapped parcels that hid his gifts from view. He could open any that he chose to. What more riches could anyone possess than the freedom he had to own whatever took his fancy? He was a gourmet, and the world was his oyster.

  He decided to have a picnic up in the loft with the current love of his life. Then maybe get her to sit on him and expend a few calories earning her keep. After that he would have a shower before driving out of the area to phone the cop, Barnes, and play mind games with the plod who had intercepted his money. Maybe he would also contact another of the wankers listed on the dead whore’s diary pages. It would be fun to jerk another high profile dickhead around. There was so much to keep him constructively occupied. Sometimes there were just not enough hours in the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Waiting in the darkness. This was to be nothing short of an execution, and hopefully a double one. There was no way he could put what had happened down to experience and get past it. Sometimes an eye for an eye was the only answer. Yes, he was vindictive. Always had been. Just because he was gay and very effeminate in his demeanour, did not mean that he could be treated like dirt by anyone. Everyone had a limit, and his had been well and truly reached. Westin had ordered his hoodlum – Mr. Fixit – to humiliate and visit grievous bodily harm on him. He was just an incidental to them; a nonentity that they believed would suffer in silence, under threat of more pain. That was how men like Westin operated. They took what they wanted, and had the money and power to get away with anything. But what Westin had not known was, that Lance had what his mother had always described as an extremely worrying state of mind, in that he could not get past any act in word or deed that he considered unforgivable. He needed closure and had to retaliate. He found the world and the attendant stress that went hand-in-hand with everyday life almost impossible to cope with. Conflict was not a state that he could incorporate and live with. He needed nicety and beauty and softly spoken compassionate people around him. Even the large amounts of valium he took could not suppress the anxiety that manifested by way of a mood shift that was of Jeckyll and Hyde proportions. Westin and the lugubrious Arnold Chase had turned his world upside down, and fractured not only his fingers, but his finely balanced mind.

  After seeking out and enduring medical treatment on his hand and punctured testicle, Lance had approached a friend with dubious connections and procured a shiny, nickel-plated Browning Hi-Power handgun and a box of ammunition. He would not, could not allow the offence against him go unpunished. And now he was in place, ten days after Chase’s visit. He had kept watch on the granite edifice and knew the pattern of the mogul’s movements.

  It was five-thirty p.m. on the dot when a top of the range Mercedes came up the ramp from the underground car park and stopped to wait for a break in the traffic.

  Lance took a deep breath and rushed forward. It all happened in less than ten seconds.

  Chase caught the movement from the corner of his eye; saw the photographer approaching, brandishing a gun, and reached under his jacket to draw the illegally owned pistol that nestled in a calfskin shoulder holster beneath his left armpit.

  With the muzzle of the gun only two inches away from the driver’s window, Lance pulled the trigger three times. The toughened glass was not made to a specification that would repel bullets. Chase was jerked sideways in his seat, to be held upright by the seat belt with blood blossoming from a hole in his forehead and one in his left cheek. The third slug had missed, blown out the passenger window and – after narrowly missing a pedestrian, who felt the draught of the hot lead drilling the air next to his right ear – buried itself in the solid teak entrance door of a solicitors’ offices.

  Westin acted without hesitation. He shunted sideways, opened the rear door and rolled out of the car. But even as he climbed to his feet, ready to run, Lance had rounded the bonnet and started shooting. The first shot entered his back and passed through his left lung, blowing him face down on the pavement.

  “Your fucking money won’t help you now, Westin,” Lance said, walking up to him and emptying the mag into the back of his quarry’s head.

  It was over. Lance was immediately emotionally drained. He dropped the gun and just walked away. Headed for the nearest tube station. Maybe he had overreacted, but who gave a shit. Both of them had deserved exactly what they had just received. In fact it had been too quick. They had not suffered enough. What the hell! He just wanted to go home now and have a cup of camomile tea to calm his frayed nerves.

  Matt got the call at seven o’ clock from an oppo in CID. DI Paul Moreton had at one time been a member of the same ARU – Armed Response Unit – team as Matt, and they still met up for the occasional pint.

  “I hear you were questioning Colin Westin,” Paul said.

  “You heard right. Why? What interest is he to you?”

  “As of now he’s top of my current workload. I take it you haven’t heard the latest, eh?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “He was being driven from his HQ, and both he and his driver got hit.”

  “As in, by another car?”

  “No. As in by bullets. Some guy just stepped up and offed them. The driver, a Yank with a murky past, took two in the head. But Westin was the main target. He tried to leg it, but got a lung blown out, followed by enough lead in his skull to cover a church roof.”

  “You always exaggerate. Did you collar the shooter?”

  “Not yet. A passer-by saw a skinny guy drop the gun and walk away. Said he seemed as calm as a millpond. And that he had a slight limp and one of his hands was bandaged up. Can you believe that that’s all the witness can recall?”

  “Yeah, Paul. Witnesses are by and large unreliable or just don’t take in details. He will have taken more notice of the vics.”

  “It was a woman. And get this, she’s a court usher. You’d think she would be more ‘with it’ than the average civvie.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “No. That’s why I gave you a bell. I thought you might have some background that would help.”

  “We interviewed Westin over his association with a prostitute who was trying to blackmail him. She wound up strangled.”

  “The ex-model...Marsha Freeman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was a stunner.”

  “Not when I saw her.”

  “I can imagine. We’ll have to get together for a pint, Matt.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do it soon,” Matt said with no real enthusiasm. His life was now too full to include sessions in one of the less than savoury pubs that cops for some reason gravitated to. With the case, and Beth, his time was spoken for.

  When the next call came, Pete picked up.

  “SCU. DS Deakin.”

  “Put Barnes on.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “The big bad wolf. Make it quick, plod, or I’ll hang up.”

  Matt was at his desk. Pete waved his hand to attract his attention.

  “What?” Matt mouthed.

  “It’s him,” Pete said, cupping the receiver with his hand.

  Matt’s stomach lurched. He had no choice. It didn’t matter that he did not want any personal contact with the killer, or that he had not actively sought to
bring attention to himself. Tom was right, you had to deal with what was, and use any means available.

  Matt picked up the phone on the desk next to Pete, and nodded. Pete put the call through and immediately set the wheels in motion to trace it.

  “Barnes,” Matt said. “What do you want, to give yourself up and take your medicine like a good boy?”

  “That’s very funny, Barnes. I wouldn’t want to make it that easy for you. You’ll have to earn all that taxpayers’ money you take every month under false pretences.”

  “So spit it out. What hare-brained plan have you dreamed up?”

  “To collect my money. But before I give you details of how it will go down, you need to know that if it goes wrong again, a young woman in my...care will suffer a great deal as a consequence. Check out this name and address, cop. You’ll find that she has dropped out of circulation. You fuck with me again, and I’ll send you her eyes.”

  Matt jotted down the details he was given, even though the call was being taped.

  “I’ll get back to you,” Lucas said, then hung up.

  “Waterloo Station,” Pete said. “We’re on it.”

  Matt could not sum up any optimism. The killer would already be mingling with commuters, on his way out to the street. He would not have left prints on the phone, or be recognisable on CCTV tapes.

  He almost lit a cigarette, but instead, crushed and threw it across the office. A small shower of dried tobacco flakes rained down.

  “Feel better?” Pete said.

  “No. This bastard is in his element. He’s not interested in the cash. He’s declared war on us...or on me. I sometimes feel as if I’m walking round with a fucking target pinned to my chest.”