A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  His dear friend, the dark, hid him from prying eyes. He went around the side of the row of houses, walked along the asphalt path at the rear and entered the small garden. A light was on, and the curtains were closed. He stood with his back against the brick wall, then moved to the left and sneaked a look through the small gap at the side of the window. There was no turning back now. He could see her curled up on a chair. Her head was on her shoulder, eyes closed. This little piggy obviously did not get enough shuteye. And living in a brick house would not save her from this wolf. He might huff and puff later from his exertions, but not through trying to blow her maisonette down.

  The back door was locked, as was only to be expected. The kitchen window was open though; just an inch. Poor security. She should know better. Did she think that being a cop somehow made her immune? Wrong. He removed his cap and shades, pocketed them, and slipped a pair of latex gloves on.

  It was not easy. He had to stand on the wheely bin and be a contortionist to struggle through the narrow top window. Had she woken and come through to the kitchen as he was dangling half in and half out, then he would have been in serious trouble. But when he flipped himself down into a crouch next to the sink unit, his nerves began to settle. She was going to be so surprised to meet up with him again so soon. And he would get a lot of satisfaction out of letting her know that he had not been taken in by her scheming little act of entering his studio as a would-be punter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Matt had arrived at two-forty-five and had time to get a coffee from a vending machine before he took his place behind the glass window. The room had a single row of plastic contour chairs, and there was already four other official observers waiting for the star of the show to be wheeled-out and transferred onto the highly polished stainless steel table.

  Rita and her assistants entered the brightly lit and well-ventilated post-mortem theatre. Matt, two trainee pathologists, and a brace of slightly pale-faced looking CID officers – who had no prior experience of the procedure – stood up, as though they were in a courtroom that a judge had just entered.

  Rita turned on the overhead microphone, and a speaker in the observation room crackled.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “For the benefit of those of you who have not attended an autopsy before, I shall quickly explain the steps taken to date. Every suspicious death becomes the subject of an autopsy or post-mortem. In this case, we know that the subject has been murdered, and I visited and made the initial in situ examination at the scene. Since the body has arrived at the mortuary, I have noted its general condition. The weight, height, apparent age and signs of external injury have been duly recorded. A set procedure has been followed inspecting the body, starting at the head and neck, followed by the chest, the abdomen, upper and lower limbs and genitalia. The procedure is repeated for the back, and it is all photographed as it happens. Before being cleaned by the mortuary staff, the body has had swabs taken from several key sites. In all sexually-related crimes on women these include the vagina, rectum, breasts and mouth. Fingernail scrapings and/or clippings are taken at this time. Each individual wound is examined and photographed as a permanent record, including a scale to denote the size of the wound. At this point we are ready to begin the internal examination. Any questions so far, gentlemen?”

  “I see you are using a microphone. I assume that everything is recorded,” DC Nick Chandler said.

  “Correct, Officer. I subsequently make longhand notes when I know that the findings are likely to be part of a subsequent court case. I like to have a lot of hard copy to refer to. The underlying principles of forensic investigation were once summed up quite adequately by Rudyard Kipling when he penned: I keep six honest serving men (They taught me all I knew): Their names are What and Why and When, and How and Where and Who.

  “Autopsy simply means ‘seeing with one’s own eyes’. I am now going to begin the ‘cut’, or the slice and dice, as many of you may informally refer to it.”

  The body of Cheryl Smith was placed on the table. Dressed in their greens, Rita and her aides could have been surgeons about to operate and attempt to save life, not a team whose sole purpose was to determine what had caused life to be unnaturally terminated.

  Rita began by making an incision from behind the left ear, curving down to the sternum and back up to the right ear. She then opened up the body from the sternum to the groin. This initial incision enables the pathologist to dissect away the skin of the chest and neck quite easily, to expose the organs of the neck and the muscles and bones of the chest.

  Rita spent several minutes examining the neck and throat area, keeping up a running commentary. She then used a scalpel to cut through the breastbone, explaining to her audience that in people over thirty, the bones would be tougher and would have to be sawn through. With the internal organs exposed, Rita examined them before removal for further analysis.

  DC Nick Chandler swallowed rapidly and clenched his teeth. Matt gave the young cop another ten seconds, maximum, and began to count under his breath. He had only reached six when Nick bolted for the door. He did not return.

  Up until the opening of the skull, the other three observers held up well.

  Rita continued the initial incision across the vertex of the head, pulled the scalp forwards and backwards to reveal the bone, and started in with the circular saw. It was when she prised the dome off by means of a chisel-headed ‘key’ that the second officer lost all composure and beat a hasty retreat. Matt thought it fortuitous that the toilets were situated nearby. No doubt both the young detectives had lost their lunches.

  “I didn’t find anything to add to what we already know,” Rita said to Matt, later, after she had left her assistants to reconstruct the body by reversing the dissection process, whereby packing is inserted into the cavities from which organs have been removed for analysis, and the body is tightly stitched to prevent the escape of fluids. The aim is to provide relatives and undertakers with as aesthetically acceptable remains as is possible. “She had recently had intercourse. I recovered semen. And there was subcutaneous bruising to her left temple. I believe she was rendered unconscious by a blow, probably made by a fist, then transported to another site, but not to where she was found.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “There was no sign of a struggle in the bunker. I know it had been raked, but the body had been dumped there. If he had mutilated or strangled her in that sand, then there would have been evidence of movement beneath the body. There wasn’t. You are looking for another two scenes. One where he abducted her, and a second where he burned her with cigarettes and raped and murdered her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, Matt. Her hands had been bound behind her. I couldn’t detect any trace evidence under her fingernails. Maybe some of the other samples we’ve taken might shed some more light.”

  “Thanks, Rita. Give me a call if anything significant comes back.”

  “I will. How’s Beth?”

  “Fine.”

  “When are you two going to buy that house you were talking about?”

  Matt shrugged. “It’s on a back burner at the moment. We lost the one that Beth had her heart set on.”

  “You need to get on with it. House prices are like rockets, they go up fast.”

  Matt grinned and left the pathologist to her bookwork. He was in the car park when his mobile came to life.

  “Yeah, Pete,” he said.

  “We may have a witness to Cheryl Smith’s abduction, boss.”

  “Who?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  “I thought she was married.”

  “She was. But she was screwing her boss. A guy by the name of James Judd was found badly injured by uniforms at a lovers’ lane in Cranford. I checked him out, and Judd owns a carpet warehouse, and it was common knowledge that he and Cheryl were getting it on.”

  “Did he give a description of his attacker?”

  “Not yet, b
oss. He’s in a coma. Looks like his head was used as a football. I imagine the doer left him for dead.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Out at Ashford General Hospital.”

  “Will he make it?”

  “They won’t go into detail. Just said he was in a critical condition.”

  “Okay, Pete. We know where Cheryl was lifted from, and where she was dumped. Let’s find out where he stopped in between to work on her. It will no doubt be on a route between Cranford and the golf course at Ashford.”

  “I’ve already sent Dave and Errol out on that.”

  “What about the team doing the rounds of tattoo parlours?”

  “Nothing yet. All these ink pushers are doing Celtic stuff similar to what we have from the body at Grove Park. And we just got a positive ID on that.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Dental records confirm that her name was Janice Clayton. She was a nineteen year old pro who worked mainly in the Greenwich area and frequented a lot of dockside pubs.”

  “South of the river again. We need to come up with a short list of all tattoo artists in the area who are male and between twenty and forty-five. Then do full backgrounds on them. It should highlight any who have a history of mental illness, or a criminal record for violence or sex offences.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  “And I’m calling it a day. Rank has its privileges. Give me a bell if anything breaks.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “That’s on a need to know basis, Pete, and you don’t need to know.”

  He pressed the intercom button three times. Two short and one long push. It was their code.

  “Who is it?” Her voice sounded tinny through the speaker.

  “You know who it is.”

  “Are you that salesman who keeps pestering me to buy a new-fangled vacuum cleaner?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m from the Independent Complaints Commission. We understand that you are being harassed by a serving officer who has a fixation about you.”

  “The ICC, eh? Well you’d better come up. And have your ID ready to show me. I don’t open my door to any Tom, Dick or Harry.”

  There was another buzz, then a click as the lock disengaged. Matt took the stairs up to the top floor. He chose to walk at every given opportunity. The thigh and calve muscles of his left leg were still marginally less developed than those of the right. He had bought an exercise bike, but only ridden it twice, not able to get to grips with pedalling nowhere in a hurry. He had considered – for all of ten seconds – getting a real bicycle, but quickly dismissed the idea. He did not have the time or the inclination to give up the comfort and convenience of his Discovery for a hard saddle. He’d read somewhere that sitting on them could have the same effect as tight underpants.

  At the top of the stairs, he chose to believe that his lungs were appreciative of a few days without tar and nicotine being drawn into them. He allowed himself to think that he was not quite as out of breath as he would normally have been. Didn’t help a lot. He still wanted to smoke.

  Beth put her eye to the peephole when he rapped on the door.

  “You aren’t from the ICC,” she said. “You’re the cop who won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I have a warrant to search your apartment, Ms. Holder. Just open the door and let’s get this over with as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

  “I suppose you’ll want to strip search me as well. Right?”

  “All part of the job, ma’am. Somebody has to do it.”

  “Is that why they call you an inspector?”

  Matt grinned. “Yeah. My job is to examine and scrutinise anything I consider to be of a suspicious nature.”

  “I have absolutely nothing to hide, Inspector.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Now open the door before I have to force entry.”

  “Mmmm, that sounds masterful. Do you get off on people resisting?”

  “Not particularly. But if you don’t open up, I’ll go next door and see if Mrs. Kominsky would like to entertain me for the night.”

  “Pervert. She’s almost eighty.”

  “That’s just a number. There’s probably a twenty-year-old nymphomaniac lurking behind those wrinkles and blue-rinsed hair. I could be the answer to her wildest dreams.”

  Beth pulled the door open, grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him inside. “Get in here, Barnes. Mrs. K will just have to make do with a mug of hot cocoa and a Barbara Cartland novel.”

  Matt took her in his arms and held her against him. She found his mouth with her lips. Felt the hardness form against her stomach as he dropped his hands to her bottom and pulled her up tight to him.

  Beth drew back and smiled. “You want a JD? Or would you rather skip the foreplay and get straight to it?”

  “A JD on the rocks would be a great appetiser. And I need a shower. I spent this afternoon at the mortuary watching Rita do a cut on the woman who was dumped at the golf course.”

  “Any new leads?”

  “She was snatched out of a parked car. Apparently from the arms of the guy who was with her. He was seriously injured and might not make it, but if he does, we could just have ourselves a witness. The killer is taking risks. It’s as though he wants to be out on the edge; needs the danger to get his juices flowing.”

  Beth went into the kitchen, poured a white wine and soda for her and two fingers of Jack Daniel’s over ice for Matt. Like the other cases she had worked with him, this one seemed to be racing to an inevitable climax. She knew that Matt and the psychopath killer would come face-to-face, and that intuitive knowledge made her stomach churn. She took her time replacing the bottles of wine and soda water in the fridge. A sense of fear was now escalating. She drew deep breaths until she was a little lightheaded. Matt could not always come out on top. Being almost killed had in no way reduced his appetite for the ultimate confrontation. She knew that he did not have a death wish, but also recognised the powerful desire he harboured to come up against and defeat the worst of humanity. He had promised not to ever let it become personal again, but she believed that he was as powerless to stop as a runaway train. Matt Barnes had a full head of steam up, and was engaged in a relentless pursuit.

  Beth forced the smile back on her face as Matt’s arms encircled her from behind. She closed the fridge door and twisted round to face him. He had put a few pounds back on over the last few months. His face was not as gaunt as it had been. All she could see in his eyes was a statement of his love for her. How would it be if she never saw him again? If he was taken from her by some maniac...maybe the one he was currently hunting for? Fuck! Did loving someone so much always have to be so painful?

  “Just remember what you promised” she said in a whisper, breaking away to pick up the glasses. “Don’t put strangers and crackpots before what we have together.”

  Matt took the tumbler from her slightly trembling hand. “Is crackpot another technical term that you professionals use?”

  “I’m being serious, Matt. You’re mindset is geared to getting up close and personal with homicidal bloody maniacs. You aren’t a team player at heart. I just want you to know that I’ll be totally pissed-off if you get yourself killed for being too dumb to know when to back-off. You’re no good to me or anyone else in a box.”

  Matt took a long swallow of the sour mash whisky. A small part of him did not like to be told how to do his job. He felt his face set. Knew that a flare of something approaching anger had radiated from his eyes. He dropped his head and exhaled. Beth was right, of course. She could read him. But he could use restraint. The proof of that was his giving up – so far – smoking. He loved her to bits. Needed to be with her, and had realised when she had taken time out in New York that without her he was not whole anymore.

  “We’ve had this discussion,” he said, raising his head to make eye contact. “I will not take any action that might rob us of a future together. I love you more than that, Beth. Have a little faith in my be
ing too selfish to not have you to wake up to for the rest of my life.”

  “Just make sure it’s a long life, then,” Beth said. “Now let’s go get that shower and see to your little problem.”

  “It isn’t a problem,” Matt said. “And even if it was, I resent it being referred to as a little one.”

  Beth reached down and fondled him. “Okay, Big Boy, go and get undressed. I need more than just a stiff drink tonight.”

  “Then you’d better get on top of the situation. I want to lay back and watch you do all the work.”

  They couldn’t wait. Coupled noisily in the shower. Dried each other with soft, fluffy towels, then went through to the bedroom. Beth swung a leg over Matt’s hips and slipped down onto his once more firm member. For awhile all thoughts and fears of violent death were annulled as they became lost in the moment.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Carrie came fully awake and sat up. Something had startled her. Could have just been a car backfiring, so why did she have goose bumps on her arms and feel so uneasy? She was used to being in the house by herself. And she wasn’t the nervous type. If her inbuilt cop’s radar was pinging so loud, then she was not about to ignore it. She had the sense of a presence: felt it as though pressure waves were emanating from it and bouncing off her.

  She had been burgled shortly after throwing Frank out. Came home to find the place trashed. That had given her the idea of having a safe room; a place within the house that she would be secure in. Maybe it was overreaction, but she saw the results of violent crime every day and was not about to become a victim of it. Her bathroom was a miniature Fort Knox; an impenetrable room with a reinforced metal door and two dead bolts. The small window was double glazed, locked, and had a barred grill bolted into the lintel and sill. She also kept a charged-up mobile phone in the wall cabinet. Any threat, and all she had to do was make it to the bathroom, lock herself in and phone for help.